The Arbor Queen cut through the churning salt-water with a predatory grace, her three massive burgundy sails belly-full of the autumn wind. Above, seagulls soared in the pale blue sky, their piercing cries trailing behind them like ribbons of sound. High on the mast, the banner of House Redwyne, a cluster of dark purple grapes on a field of blue fluttered defiantly, a symbol of the wealth and naval might that had just saved the capital.
Tyrion Lannister stood on the polished teak deck, clutching a skewer of grilled shrimp slathered in a spicy, aromatic glaze. The scent was a heady mix of sweetness and fire, but his stomach, currently doing a slow, rhythmic dance with the waves, wanted nothing to do with it. His tenure as Master of Coin had taught him many things, but it had never provided a cure for seasickness.
His mission to the Reach had been a grueling exercise in frustration and expensive compromise. Just to coax the Redwyne fleet out of the Arbor, Tyrion had been forced to sign away twenty years of tax-exempt status for Arbor wine, a move that would leave a gaping hole in the Crown's future ledgers. Even more bitter was the marriage contract he'd hammered out: Lancel Lannister, his cousin who was still recovering from a gut-wound at the Blackwater, was now betrothed to Desmera Redwyne.
Then there was Oldtown.
Lord Leyton Hightower, the "Old Man of the Tower," had refused to show his face, remaining locked away in his high spire with his books and his telescopes. His heir, "Baelor the Blessed," had been the model of chivalrous hospitality - banquets, singers, and fine silks but he had been as immovable as the stone walls of his city. Whenever Tyrion brought up the necessity of Hightower spears, Baelor would smile, offer another cup of wine, and change the subject to the latest Dornish poetry.
It wasn't until Stannis Baratheon's forces began raiding the lands around Cider Hall and Cider City, with the "Fiery Heart" banners looming over Honeycomb City, the seat of the Beesburys and a Hightower vassal that the "Blessed" heir finally saw the logic in steel. In a frantic fortnight, two thousand cavalry and eight thousand infantry had been assembled and handed over to a Tarly contingent for the march north.
Tyrion's task was technically complete, but the cost had been his dignity. The Hightowers had symbolically asked for a few thousand gold dragons as "reimbursement," a demand so petty it felt like a slap in the face.
I survived the mud of the Crossing just to be bled dry by the wine-merchants and the librarians, Tyrion thought, sighing as he leaned against the railing.
Flap. Flap. Flap.
A sudden blur of white feathers darted past his head. Before he could react, he felt the skewer snatched from his hand and a sharp, stinging pain across his cheek.
"Seven Hells!" Tyrion barked, covering his face as a massive seagull banked away, the shrimp dangling from its beak.
"Lord Lannister, you really shouldn't stand on the deck with food in your hand," Paxter Redwyne said, leaning against the cabin door. The Lord of the Arbor was a slender man with drooping shoulders and a bald head ringed by wisps of orange hair. He wore a suit of loose-fitting green ringmail that looked more decorative than defensive. "Seagulls are the bandits of the sky. They don't care for gold or high-born names; they only care for what's in your palm."
Paxter took a sip from his goblet, a smirk playing on his lips. He looked like a man who was very close to laughing at a dwarf's expense.
"That beast deserves a visit from a White Walker," Tyrion muttered, wiping a smear of blood from his cheek. He forced a polite smile. "My apologies, Lord Paxter. I spent my childhood in a library, not on a deck. If I'd travelled more, I'd have known to guard my lunch more carefully."
"No harm done. Go find Maester Jed; he'll clean that scratch. Then join us for the final toast. We're almost home."
King's Landing from the harbor was a magnificent, stinking monument to Lannister power.
The docks were a sea of people, their cheers rising above the sound of the surf. The Golden Cloaks were out in force, their black short-sticks held high as they kept the unruly crowd back from the main thoroughfare.
Tywin Lannister sat atop a magnificent chestnut stallion, his black-and-gold robe shimmering in the sun. He looked as immovable as a mountain. Beside him, Cersei stood on a raised dais, her silver silk gown catching the light, showcasing a figure that betrayed nothing of her age or the three children she had borne.
Tyrion watched them from the shadows of the Arbor Queen's gangplank, his face half-wrapped in a linen bandage. He was an invisible man at his own victory parade. He saw Mace Tyrell, the "Lord Puff Fish" beaming with pride, oblivious to the fact that Tywin was currently peeling away his most powerful vassals with gold and marriage promises.
"You've worked hard, Paxter," Tywin's voice boomed as the Arbor Lord knelt before him. "I have informed the King of your valor. You shall be named Admiral of the Blackwater. As long as I am Hand, that title is yours."
The crowd roared. The blockade was broken. Food would flow again.
Tyrion slipped through the crowd, pulling his hood low. He spotted a familiar face near a crate of salted cod: Bronn. The sellsword-turned-knight was winking at him, a mischievous glint in his black eyes.
A few minutes later, they were tucked into a dark corner of a harbor-side tavern. Tyrion tossed a handful of silver to Podrick and sent the boy for wine.
"You look like a nobleman now, Bronn," Tyrion teased, eyeing the man's new deerskin vest and silk robe. "Status suits you."
"Status is expensive, Lord Tyrion," Bronn replied, his smile fading. He leaned in close. "The mission is botched. Your little bird has been seen."
Tyrion's heart went cold. "Shae? I told you to keep her in the manse on Silk Street. How could Cersei find her?"
"She's too restless," Bronn spat, his irritation clear. "She used her old connections as a maid to sneak back into the Red Keep. She begged my wife to let her stay there. And then, the little fool tried to get herself a spot as a singer for the Royal Wedding."
Bronn drained his cup. "She brought some tavern singer to practice with, but the man was a fraud. Cersei had him hanged, my wife was questioned, and Shae... well, she's been named. Someone helped her, Tyrion. Someone with big ears and a bald head, maybe."
"Varys," Tyrion whispered.
"I don't care who it was," Bronn said, standing up and patting Tyrion's shoulder. "The job is too hot for me now. I'm a Lord of Stokeworth or will be soon. I don't risk my neck for camp followers anymore. You're on your own with this one, my friend."
Bronn walked out without looking back.
Tyrion sat in the gloom, the sound of the victory cheers outside feeling like a funeral dirge. He had brought the fleet. He had saved the city. But as he looked at the blood-stained bandage on his hand, he realized the lions in the Keep were far more dangerous than the seagulls on the bay.
[Narrative Shift: The King's Landing Plot deepens.]
[Status: Shae's identity compromised.]
[Global Event: Blackwater Blockade lifted.]
Drop Some Power Stones Plz.
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