Tyrosh, South Port Docks
Clang. Thud. Docked!
Tyrion Lannister emerged from the captain's daughter's cabin, squinting against the harsh morning sun and nursing a headache that tasted of cheap rum and questionable decisions. Before him lay the South Port of Tyrosh, a sprawling network of stone and timber currently undergoing a frantic reconstruction.
Charred skeletons of warehouses still marred the skyline, grim reminders of the dragon-fire and oil-burns that had taken the city. Yet, as Tyrion watched the laborers hauling stone, he noticed something alien to the Free Cities: they were smiling. There were no whips cracking over their shoulders, only overseers with ledgers and heavy purses of coin.
"So, this is the 'New Order'," Tyrion muttered, adjusting his stained tunic.
He followed the flow of passengers toward a series of fortified checkpoints. Guarding the three main arteries into the city were soldiers in purple cloaks and tiger-faced helms. They stood with a discipline that made the Gold Cloaks of King's Landing look like a drunken rabble.
"Tyrosh's version of the City Watch," Tyrion sighed. "I hope they're cheaper to bribe than the ones back home. Though, at the moment, I couldn't bribe a blind beggar."
Having officially severed ties with House Lannister, Tyrion was no longer the richest dwarf in the world. He had traded his last significant asset—a priceless pearl necklace—for a night with the captain's daughter, Acacia. Now, his purse held only a few silver stags. If the Aegon ruling this city wasn't the same solemn boy he'd shared a cold night with at the Wall, Tyrion would likely find himself starving in a gutter by nightfall. Without the shadow of Casterly Rock to make him tall, he was just another halfman in a world that loathed cripples.
"Better to be a free dwarf in Tyrosh than a dead lion in the Rock," he whispered, recalling his father's final, biting insults. Tywin had called him a curse; Tyrion intended to become a reckoning.
The Gateway of Merit
The line moved slowly. Tyrion watched as a Summer Isles elder, his skin like polished obsidian and his head shaved close, processed the travelers. When Tyrion finally reached the desk, the man didn't even look up from his ledger.
"Name, origin, and purpose of visit?" the elder asked in perfect, rhythmic Common Tongue.
Tyrion blinked. "You speak the tongue of the Westeros?"
"This checkpoint is specifically for Common Tongue travelers," the elder said, finally looking up. His eyes were sharp, missing nothing. "I was a tutor to the Magisters before the Prince broke my chains. I've heard every lie from Lannisport to White Harbor. Try a new one."
"Tyrion... Lant," Tyrion lied smoothly, using his newly minted alias. "From King's Landing. I'm here to apply for a position in the Royal Accounting office. I heard Prince Aegon is looking for men who can count better than they can kill."
Jon's decree of "Merit Above All" had sent shockwaves across the Narrow Sea. By inviting dispossessed lords and clever commoners to compete for office regardless of birth, he was building an administration fueled by ambition rather than heritage.
The elder studied Tyrion for a long moment, noting the fine cut of his travel-worn clothes and his practiced eloquence. "You're overqualified for a clerk, 'Master Lant.' Take this: Pass 130. Enter through Channel One for Westerosi applicants. The more tests you pass, the closer you get to the Purple Palace. Don't waste the Prince's time."
Tyrion took the wooden pass, his fingers brushing against his last silver stag. He had survived the Wall and the politics of the capital; how hard could an accounting exam be?
The Shadow and the Sellsword
"Fancy meeting you here, Halfman. Or should I say, Lord Lannister?"
A low, rasping voice behind him made Tyrion's skin crawl. He spun around to find a man leaning against the wooden railing of the transit corridor. The stranger was around thirty, with a scruffy beard and a face that suggested he'd sold his mother for a flagon of ale and regretted only the price. He wore well-worn boiled leather and a sellsword's longblade at his hip.
"I'm afraid you have the wrong dwarf," Tyrion said, his eyes darting toward the patrolling City Watch.
"Do I?" The man grinned, showing yellowed teeth. "There's a bounty on a certain Imp's head in the King's Landing black markets. A thousand gold dragons for the head. Another thousand for the man delivered alive to the Queen. That's a lot of wine, even for me."
Tyrion felt the cold hand of dread. "My sister and brother always were competitive. Cersei wants me dead for a prophecy she barely understands, and Jaime... well, Jaime probably just wants me home for dinner."
The mercenary laughed, but there was no malice in it. "I'm not interested in the bounty. If I tried to collect, the 'Chainbreakers' would have my guts for garters before I cleared the harbor. This Aegon doesn't take kindly to bounty hunters."
"Then why stop me?"
"Curiosity," the man said, pushing off the railing. "I saw your 'Acacia' this morning. Lovely girl. She was showing off a pearl necklace with a lion-head clasp. I've seen enough Lannister gold to recognize the craft. You're either the Imp or the luckiest thief in Essos."
Tyrion relaxed slightly. "I'm the Imp. And you are?"
"Bronn," the man said, offering a mock-noble bow. "A knight of fortune, recently arrived from Dorne. I figured a man who walks away from the Rock must have a damn good reason—or a damn good plan. And since I'm looking for employment that doesn't involve dying for a lord who hates me, I thought we might have common ground."
Tyrion stared at him. The name rang a bell—a faint echo from a story Jon had told him once, or perhaps a fragment of a dream from the Wall.
"Bronn," Tyrion repeated, a slow, cunning smile spreading across his face. "I've heard stories of your luck, sellsword. It seems we're both looking for a Dragon to hide behind. Shall we see if our Prince has any use for a Black Lion and a hungry blade?"
"Lead the way, my Lord," Bronn smirked. "But you're paying for the first round. Assuming you haven't given your last coin to the captain's daughter."