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The ship cut through the restless waves, its prow rising and falling like a blade slashing the sea. Overhead, gulls wheeled and screamed, their cries carried far by the salt wind.
The banner of House Redwyne fluttered proudly from the mast—a cluster of dark purple grapes on a blue field, the emblem of Arbor's famed wines. The sigil danced in the spray, a reminder that Paxter Redwyne's wealth flowed not from conquest, but from vineyards and trade.
Tyrion Lannister leaned against the railing of the Queen Arbor, one of the fleet's grandest flagships. In his hand he clutched a skewer of grilled shrimp, glistening with oil and spiced with Arbor's pepper sauce. The aroma was sweet, numbing, and mouthwatering—but his stomach rebelled at the very thought of eating.
The sea had not been kind to him. Each pitch and roll left him queasy, his short legs unsteady, his mind heavy with exhaustion. Nights brought little sleep, only the constant groaning of timber and the slosh of water against the hull.
He sighed. The food Paxter had pressed upon him was a kindness he could not refuse, yet a kindness wasted.
This mission to the Reach had nearly broken him.
To persuade the Redwyne fleet to sail north, he had bargained away twenty years of tax exemptions on Arbor wine—a fortune in lost revenue—along with arranging a marriage pact between Lancel Lannister and young Desmera Redwyne. Neither his father nor his uncle Kevan would forgive that easily.
But that was only half the struggle.
Securing soldiers from Oldtown had been worse.
Lord Leyton Hightower had hidden in his tower, unseen, like some hermit-mage, leaving Tyrion to deal with his heir, Baelor—mockingly nicknamed the Blessed. Polite, courteous, and generous with feasts, Baelor had kept Tyrion drowning in wine and dancers, but at the mere mention of raising banners he would smile, change the subject, and pour another cup.
For weeks, Tyrion's silver tongue had struck against stone. He had been a guest and a prisoner both, trapped in the Hightower's hospitality.
Only when Stannis Baratheon swept through the Reach—burning fields near Highgarden, raiding the lands of Cider Hall, and even threatening Honeyholt of House Beesbury, sworn vassals of the Hightowers—did Baelor finally act.
In less than a fortnight, the man had raised two thousand cavalry, three thousand foot, and five thousand militia. He handed them not to Tyrion, but to Randyll Tarly, who had marched from Horn Hill with a thousand of his own men.
Still, the mission was technically a success. Tyrion had secured both fleet and soldiers without surrendering half so much as he'd feared. The only demand from Oldtown had been a purse of golden dragons—a price Tyrion considered insulting, though he paid it without a word.
There would be scolding enough when he returned. His father would frown, his sister would sneer, and the Queen of Thorns would surely sharpen her tongue for him. Tyrion Lannister, mocked, resented, yet still standing.
He rubbed his brow and muttered bitterly, "Perhaps this is the world's judgment of me."
The thought had no sooner passed than—
Flap. Flap. Flap.
A blur of white wings darted before his eyes. His hand jerked, his skewer vanished, and a sharp beak raked his cheek. Pain stung and tears pricked his eyes as he staggered back.
"Seven hells!"
Blood warmed his face. A gull wheeled away, triumphant.
From the captain's cabin, a smooth voice chuckled.
"Lord Lannister, standing on deck with food in hand is unwise. Seagulls are winged bandits. Unlike Ironborn, they steal not your gold or your daughters, but your supper."
Paxter Redwyne emerged, goblet in hand. His shoulders sagged beneath loose green ringmail, his balding head fringed with orange wisps, and his pale eyes glimmered with restrained amusement.
Tyrion wiped his cheek and growled, "That beast deserves a White Walker."
Yet he managed a crooked smile. "When I was a boy, I dreamt of sailing the Seven Kingdoms. Had I done so, perhaps I'd have learned not to dangle shrimp before thieves with wings."
"Wisdom comes late to us all," Paxter replied, raising his goblet. "The maester can tend your wound. And afterward, join us again. Wine dulls pain better than bandages."
With that, he returned to the cabin, shoulders shaking faintly with laughter.
Tyrion lingered, gazing toward the distant outline of King's Landing. The city grew clearer with each swell, its towers rising like jagged teeth. He turned at last and shuffled belowdecks, every step heavy.
---
King's Landing
The harbor seethed with life. Word of victory had drawn half the city to the docks. Fishermen, washerwomen, ragged children, merchants in fur, even hedge knights—crowds pressed shoulder to shoulder, shouting for a glimpse of the Redwyne fleet.
The Golden Cloaks lined the pier, staves in hand, holding back the tide of bodies.
At the head of the procession waited the King's Hand himself. Tywin Lannister sat upon a black horse, his black robe embroidered with gold thread, the heavy chain of office bright against his chest.
Beside him, the Queen Mother glittered in silver silk that hugged her waist and breasts with practiced cruelty. Jewels sparkled in her hair, a golden circlet crowned her head, and her smile gleamed as sweet as poison.
Cersei loathed this spectacle. To stand here, breathing the stench of fish and sweat, waiting for a merchant lord—humiliating. Yet her father's words had cut like iron:
"The Arbor fleet is worth your smile, even if Paxter Redwyne is not. The victory must be seen, the people inspired, and House Tyrell appeased. Stand tall, daughter, and let them see beauty and strength."
And so she stood, radiant, every inch the Queen, while inwardly seething.
The Queen Arbor loomed into port, sails furled, gilded oars dipping into the water. Cheers erupted as its gangplank thudded into place. Paxter Redwyne descended with his captains, bowing low as children screamed with delight.
The smallfolk loved the Redwynes. Twice they had saved King's Landing: first with food during the famine, and now with ships that had driven Stannis's blockade from Blackwater Bay. To them, Arbor wine was life itself.
Even Tywin allowed himself a thin smile.
Dismounting, he strode forward and clasped Paxter's hands. "You have done well, Lord Redwyne. I have spoken of your service to His Grace. If there are no… unforeseen circumstances, you shall be named Commander of the Royal Fleet."
His tone hardened. "And while I am Hand, there will be no unforeseen circumstances."
Paxter's face shone with delight. "House Redwyne lives to serve the Crown, unto death if need be."
Nearby, Mace Tyrell puffed out his chest, preening at his vassal's triumph, blind to Tywin's true aim—winning loyalty away from Highgarden.
Nobles pressed close, showering praise. Cersei glowed in the center, drawing every gaze. For a moment, the city's misery seemed far away.
Almost.
---
Tyrion trailed behind Paxter, his cheek swathed in bandages, looking half an invisible man. His mismatched eyes scanned the crowd—until he caught a familiar wink.
Bronn.
The sellsword-turned-knight leaned against a post, dressed finer than Tyrion had ever seen him: yellow silk, leather vest, new boots, even deerskin gloves tucked at his belt.
"You look more lordly than I ever have," Tyrion muttered when they met.
Bronn smirked, striking a mock noble pose. "My lord, it warms my heart to see you alive." He tugged at his cloak. "Deerskin, soft as a maiden's touch. Go on, feel it."
"Later," Tyrion said dryly. "You didn't drag me here only to flaunt your wardrobe."
Bronn's grin faded. With a glance at Podrick, he pulled Tyrion toward a tavern.
Inside, in a dim corner, Tyrion dismissed his squire with coin. Podrick went reluctantly, and Tyrion poured wine for them both.
"Well," he said, "out with it."
Bronn's black eyes were sharp. "The mission failed. Your little dove has drawn the Queen's eye."
"Shae?" Tyrion's heart lurched. "I left her safe in Silk Street. You and Chella's men—"
"She wasn't content," Bronn interrupted bitterly. "Slipped back to the Red Keep, begged my wife for shelter. Someone helped her—don't ask me who. Maybe Varys."
Tyrion swore softly.
Bronn drained his cup. "Worse, she brought a singer, wanted to perform at the royal wedding. Fool girl. The Queen had the singer hanged, scolded my wife, and learned Shae's name. All of it undone."
Tyrion sat in silence, the world tilting. His love, exposed. His father would know soon, if not already.
Bronn leaned close, voice like iron. "She isn't your canary, Tyrion. She wants silk gowns, jewels, the life of a lady. You're clever enough to see that."
"I love her," Tyrion whispered.
Bronn snorted. "Then you should've chained her to her bed." He pushed back his chair. "I've warned you. I'm done. I'm a knight now, not a guard for whores. Find another fool."
He clasped Tyrion's shoulder, then left.
Alone, Tyrion stared into his cup. Outside, the harbor still roared with cheers for victory, but inside him there was only silence…
At length he rose, summoned Podrick, and stepped back into the sunlight of King's Landing—home, yet more perilous than ever.
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