At last daylight faded, and Tyrion stirred. The cellar had been entered several times, but his crate had been left untouched. He clambered down, wrapped in a large fur against the cold, then cautiously poked his head around the door. The corridor was deserted, lit only by the occasional torch and littered with more crates and loot, but there was sufficient muffled noise to show the fortress was far from empty.
Tyrion scuttled from corner to corner, heart racing at the possibility of discovery. Squeals of pain and low grunts came from a side room. The door was ajar and he chanced a glance inside. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again, unsure that his eyes were not deceiving him. The wine he'd found hadn't been that strong, and so he had to admit that he was looking at was no fever dream.
Three marauders were forcing themselves onto a fourth, who seemed to be enjoying himself. Another was slicing his chest with a knife, shuddering with what seemed to be ecstasy. Yet another was in a complicated position with a Wildling woman, a short spear, the severed head of a horse, and several ropes. There was not a stitch of clothing between all of them. Empty bottles and jugs littered the floor and pungent smoke from enormous and suggestively-shaped candles reached Tyrion's nose.
Something struck Tyrion as utterly bizarre as he pulled back into the dark corridor. Here he was in the heart of the Wolf's stolen fortress, and yet it hosted scenes that would be the pride of any Essosi bordello. Was the barbarian such a hypocrite, to deride the supposed softness of the southerners and yet indulge in them? Or was he unaware of it, and his control over his forces so weak?
Tyrion continued for some time in the bowels of the fortress, ominous creaking and rumbling bringing him to believe he was near the towers, but then the corridor ended in a dank stairway that continued downwards.
Once the stairs ended, Tyrion found himself in a long stone hallway, even darker than the previous one. He set out and encountered no one for some time, but a scraping noise ahead alerted Tyrion to another pair of marauders approaching. He pulled back into a doorway, trusting the shadows to hide him. As they passed a torch he saw that they were holding a wicker basket full of foodstuffs and jugs. From their swaying walks they had liberally sampled the jugs themselves.
Tyrion's amazement only grew. The Wolf's marauders probably took pride in being undisciplined, but surely even they should realize that to be this drunk during a siege was insane?
The drunkards passed his hiding place. Tyrion was about to resign himself to staying until night fell when the sounds of voices raised in anger reached him. He peeked out again at the circle of torchlight to his right.
A trio of marauders were confronting the drunkards. Though all five were of similar sizes and breadth, the newcomers seemed far more warlike, skulls and bones decorating their armor. The argument escalated and swiftly came to blows. Tyrion tried the door behind him, but it was locked. He left the alcove as silently as he could and headed back the way he came. He entered the first door he came across, which was surrounded by more crates and rough sacking, thinking he would hide here and leave once the fight outside was over.
Tyrion looked around. The place reeked worse than Qyburn's laboratory in King's Landing, the smell of rotten eggs permeating the room. Great bags of sulfur spilled their contents to the floor, heaps of charcoal reached to the ceiling, and what looked like a pile of bird droppings stood on a mat in a corner. The room was lit by torches and the glow of a vast furnace that took up the far wall, the door large enough to roast a sheep whole, but there were no flames near the alchemical supplies.
Large stone slabs lined the walls, benches perhaps, cluttered with tools and other instruments that looked more at home in an apothecary's dispensary. Near one was an anvil set on the ground so low that an ordinary man would have had to kneel to use it. Wooden cupboards and shelves filled up most of the remaining space.
A noise came from outside. Tyrion looked around wildly and threw himself inside an open cupboard, pulling the door closed.
The door opened and closed, and someone entered with a curious scraping sound. Tyrion squeezed himself further inside the cupboard. There was a gap between the boards, and he pressed his eye to it. He nearly fell out in surprise.
The newcomer was a man as stunted as he but considerably broader, wearing what seemed to be armor made of polished stone blocks over a thick leather apron. His face was almost invisible, framed by an extravagantly tall helmet and equally luxurious beard, such as the Wolf or Shagga wore, threaded through metal tubes. His boots were a light grey and seemed armored, the ankles not bending at all. The dwarf grumbled darkly to himself, reaching around to grab vicious-looking implements, then disappeared from Tyrion's field of vision.
Without warning, the cupboard opened and Tyrion was face-to-belly with the dwarf. The dwarf uttered a squawk of surprise, then another as Tyrion hurled himself bodily into him. Tyrion's head erupted with pain as his skull met the stone blocks, as the cupboard shook and toppled over.
Half-stunned, Tyrion rolled desperately to the side, but the heavy wood fell on his shoulder. Weapons, bags of colored powder and other exotic equipment crashed to the ground. The cupboard rose up as the dwarf lifted it with a single hand, vociferating what were probably curses.
Tyrion grabbed the first weapon at hand, a twisted knife with a handle showing a bull with a man's head. The dwarf actually snorted at the sight, his bulbous nose quivering, and spread his arms wide, his hands empty. An unmistakeable challenge.
Tyrion felt his stomach knot itself. The dwarf could tell Tyrion had no chance, but maybe, if he could distract his foe long enough...
Tyrion rushed forward, knife held in both fists, the dwarf making no move to dodge. The blade nearly jumped from Tyrion's hands as it scraped harmlessly off the stone blocks. The dwarf chuckled cruelly, and punched Tyrion in the cheek.
Tyrion fell to the floor, his head ringing from the force of the blow, his hand wrapping instinctively around a wooden stool, the other still clutching the knife. It had not seemed particularly forceful, but the little monster was far stronger than he looked. An incongruous thought popped into Tyrion's mind as he stood up. Was this stunted freak the basis for the Wolf's belief that Tyrion had the makings of a warrior?
The dwarf now headed to a strange object near the wall. It resembled a crossbow whose stock had been outfitted with evil-looking blades, but with a metal trumpet in place of the bow and string. It was undeniably a weapon, from the way the dwarf was pointing it at him.
The stool was still in Tyrion's hand. He hurled it with all his might.
The weapon emitted a flash and a boom like thunder, just as the stool crashed into it. There was the echo of something shattering, but Tyrion paid it no heed, already running towards the dwarf, who was fiddling with the weapon.
Tyrion grasped the knife and thrust desperately into the only opening he could see in the armor. The dwarf screamed as the blade plunged into his eye, shoving Tyrion back.
The dwarf grabbed the weapon and held it by the trumpet, clearly intending to impale Tyrion's head on the stock's blades. Tyrion scrambled up as the stock crashed onto the flagstone.
Without conscious thought on his part, feeling as though the world moved slowly as a dream, Tyrion stepped up, planting a foot on the dwarf's weapon, one hand gripping the ornate helmet, the other grabbing the dagger protruding from the dwarf's eyesocket and pulled, just enough to free it and stab it into the remaining eye glaring hatefully at him.
The dwarf screamed even louder, bringing both hands up to his face as Tyrion stumbled backwards, still gripping the blood-slicked knife, the world now moving too fast. Blood flowing from the empty sockets, the dwarf thrashed and raged, hurling any object his hands fell on at random. Moving as silently as he could, Tyrion picked up a broken cupboard door and held it before him as an improvised shield.
The dwarf's movements slowed, but his hands burst into flame. As he chanted in an unknown tongue, waving his hands in a complex pattern, the flames grew until they reached the ceiling.
Tyrion hurled the useless protection onto the pile of debris. The dwarf instantly turned to the source of the sound, pointing both hands at it. The pillar of fire surged forward, engulfing the broken cupboard and its contents. Tiny boxes exploded and satchels burned in many colors, other exotic powders making popping sounds. With the dwarf sorcerer's back turned to him, Tyrion seized his chance.
He tiptoed forward, and while the dwarf was still standing with arms outstretched, jumped on his back, clamping one arm around his neck despite the furious heat, the hand gripping the dwarf's beard, the other hand still holding the knife.
The dwarf immediately struggled, Tyrion striking madly with the knife until at last he felt it sink into something soft. He felt a primal urge in himself to lengthen the process, to make the dwarf suffer and squeal.
He loosed his grip on the dwarf's hair to push the blade deeper, even after the gurgling stopped and the dwarf's hands stopped burning, the body collapsing facedown. The knife Tyrion had plunged into the dwarf's throat snapped in half from the impact.
Tyrion sagged to the ground and remained there for a long time, unable to move until his ragged breath returned to normal and the spots faded from his vision. His gaze wandered around the room, seeing a circular area of chipped stone on the wall wider than a shield that had not been there before. If the dwarf's weapon had struck true, Tyrion would certainly not be standing to tell of it.
Tyrion rolled the corpse over with no small effort and pulled the dwarf's helmet off his head.
It was a loathsome and cruel face, a pair of tusks curving outward from the lower jaw. Were it not for that, he thought it bore a striking resemblance to certain Essosi.
The helmet felt strangely light in his hands, despite being made of metal. Only one or two of those he had seen onboard the Wolf's ship had been so light, though of completely different shape.
Tyrion was still holding the helmet when the realization came to him that he was once again going to do something foolish and brave in equal measure, along the lines of unchaining a pair of waking dragons.
Tyrion tugged at the dwarf's armor, pushing and pulling the arms into position until he had removed the hauberk and apron. The skin underneath was even more unpleasant to look at, bulging muscle covered by pale and hairless skin with twitching runes carved upon it.
Having removed the upper clothes, Tyrion turned to the trousers. But as he was about to remove the boots, the sight gave him pause.
What he had taken for grey boots were the dwarf's bare feet, undeniably made of stone. Could the Wolf's forces be contaminated by greyscale? If so, it was a new form of the disease, for these might have belonged to a statue, rather than the flaking, brittle disfigurement he knew of. But it was still something to cling to, many sieges having been ended by plague and affliction.
Abandoning the idea of taking the trousers for fear of contracting the disease, Tyrion continued his grisly work. The stone armor he could barely lift, let alone wear, but the apron underneath could hide him. However, that would only do from the back, he also had to hide his face.
Shifting through the clutter he found an unbroken pot of a sticky paste. It took some time, but he was able to cut through the dwarf's beard with another bull's-head knife lying in the wreckage, gluing each strand to a long strip of leather. The dwarf's face was even uglier without it, and the darkly comedic thought occurred to Tyrion that this might explain the Wolf's strange request about his shaving.
His disguise complete, now all that remained was to dispose of the corpse. He looked thoughtfully at the massive furnace, the doors set low enough for the dwarf to use.
After a long time and great effort, cursing and puffing the entire way, Tyrion managed to drag the body over to the furnace. He opened the doors wide, and a wave of heat washed over him, drenching him in sweat.
He turned to haul the body up, and something glinted off the firelight in the pile of debris.
Tyrion went over to the pile of wreckage. What had caught his eye was a shirt of chainmail. But as he picked it up, thinking to add it to his disguise, he realized it too was far lighter that any he had ever seen or held.
Hoisting the corpse up, he shoved it inside, recoiling from the heat. A long pole helped him shove the body all the way inside. The doors made a satisfyingly final clang as they shut, though they did nothing to prevent the smell of burning meat and bone.
Now came the difficult part. There had been no hint of noise from outside, perhaps the dwarf's laboratory was off-limits to the soldiery.
Strapping the apron over the chainmail to bulk himself up, tying the false beard around his chin and the helmet on his head, Tyrion took a deep breath and stepped into the corridor.
Tyrion looked out. The armor was not nearly as heavy as it looked, but he still could do no more than move about in it, and certainly had no hope of fighting or outrunning any foe. He had to hope it would hold proof against their weapons.
He forced himself to keep walking calmly down the badly-lit corridor where the intermittent torchlight might help to disguise the fact that he was not as bulky as the armor's previous occupant. The five marauders were long gone, but there remained a pool of wine that showed the fight had not been without damage.
A pair of marauders approached at a leisurely pace, but even as Tyrion made to grasp his knife, he saw them flatten themselves against the wall to let him by unchallenged. Clearly the dwarf had been a figure of some importance in the Wolf's warband. Tyrion passed them without acknowledging them.
Several times during his trek he thought he heard a heavy step behind him, but every time he stopped it died away shortly after. Of course there was nothing to be gained from a confrontation, and so Tyrion continued on.
At last he reached a courtyard where dozens of marauders and what looked like Wildlings were brawling in the torchlight, under the supervision of one of the plate-armored giants. Fortunately the barbarians' attention seemed entirely turned towards their men, calling out encouragement or insults, and Tyrion crossed the muddy ground as swiftly as he dared.
Behind the brawlers was a hulk of a ship under construction in a wooden cradle, and near it a raised platform bearing a deformed lump of iron, set underneath a glowing shape in the air that occasionally discharged colored lightning. Tyrion forced himself to keep moving, leaving the unanswered questions for later, like what the glow was, what the Iron Throne was doing beneath it, or why several marauders appeared to be sleeping on the ground near it.
He crossed the courtyard without incident and opened the door on the opposite side. Then he felt an immense pressure on his shoulders and felt himself being lifted off the ground as though in the talons of a monstrous eagle.