4 – Tyrion

Tyrion Lannister tried to think of something worse than being seasick in a crate, but nothing came to mind. The ship bucked and rolled and heaved, and his stomach followed suit.

This was a miserable voyage. Leaving aside the reasons for it, which were disheartening enough in their own right, the method of his flight from King's Landing was proving to be one of the most unpleasant things he had endured, and that was saying something.

His nephew had been murdered, and Tyrion had been unjustly blamed and tried for the crime. He was surprised by Cersei's vehemence about his supposed guilt, but not that she had decided to blame him or that their father had used the trial to his own advantage. Jaime's visit had cheered him, despite his older brother initially doubting his innocence and refusing to break him out. It was disappointing enough that Bronn wouldn't stand as his champion, but watching Oberyn Martell throw away his victory for the sake of avenging his sister Elia had dashed his last hope. The younger Prince of Dorne had doomed them both. Tyrion had heard that the Red Viper drenched his spear blades in manticore venom, so all Oberyn had needed to do was slash the Mountain a few times – which he had done – and then stay out of range while the large man succumbed to his poisoned wounds. If only his champion had stayed at a safe distance, the Mountain may have confessed and Tyrion would have been freed, but, not for the first time, the gods had declined to save him.

The lid to his crate came off and he was worried, but it was only Varys. Then again, Tyrion remembered the last time he had seen Varys interacting with a man in a crate. Granted, that had been the sorcerer who had cut the Spider, but he couldn't forget how filthy and terrified the crated man had looked. Or the fact that the man's mouth had been sewn shut.

The eunuch smiled his soft smile down at Tyrion.

"If you have come to apologize for my accommodations, don't bother. Just give me some water and a pot to be sick in."

"Oh, I've found something much better than that."

Tyrion shook his head. At the moment, he couldn't think of anything better than being sick into a pot instead of all over himself. Unlike the lid and sides of his crate, the bottom did not have holes cut into it, so he was sitting in his own filth, and his boots and bottom were soaked. The stench was less than pleasant.

Varys turned around and spoke to someone Tyrion couldn't see. "Please, my dear. We mean you no harm."

A girl's voice answered him, sounding hard and angry, but vaguely petulant as well. "It wouldn't matter if you did. I can take care of myself."

Varys chuckled. "I have no doubt of that, my lady. I pride myself on knowing what is going on in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond, but sadly, even I had given you up for dead. I must say, finding you alive is quite a welcome surprise."

"Why? Do you want to ransom me too?" There was no fear in her voice. If anything, it was a challenge.

Tyrion stood up, curious to see who this girl was. At a glance, he took in her grey eyes and brown hair, both so familiar. He had only seen her once, at a banquet in Winterfell. He had been somewhat drunk at the time, and she had been a child, throwing food at her older sister to embarrass her. Her hair was shorter now, she wore filthy boy's clothes, and she had lost some baby fat, but she was unmistakably the same girl. Where Sansa favored the Tullys, Arya was all Stark. "Arya?"

She looked at him, proud but wary. "How do you know me?

Varys chuckled. "Forgive my manners. Arya Stark, may I introduce you to Tyrion Lannister."

Tyrion was acutely aware of the fact that he was covered in his own sick and filth, that he stank, and that he was still standing in a crate. Hardly the best way to be introduced to one's sister-in-law. "Varys, would you be so kind as to help me out of this crate? Now that we are at sea, I believe it is safe enough."

"Agreed." Mercifully, Varys didn't elect to bodily lift him from the crate. The eunuch found him a pair of step stools, placing one inside and one outside of the crate, and offering a steadying hand to help him over the edge.

Arya's expression never changed as she watched him climb out. "Is it true you killed Joffrey?"

He shook his head. It seemed no one wanted to ask him anything else, lately. "No, it isn't, but I'm glad someone did. He was a terrible king. What he did to your father and sister was shameful."

She arched an eyebrow at him, seeming to measure his words before she spoke again. "What about my mother and brother. Did Joffrey have anything to do with that?"

Tyrion shook his head again, wondering how the girl would feel if she knew that Tywin had supported Walder Frey, and that Tywin was now dead by his younger son's hand. She would probably thank him. More likely than not, the Stark children were the only ones who would. "No. Although afterwards he did want to serve Robb's head to Sansa at his wedding feast. I protested such an insult to my wife, and the Small Council was able to persuade him to abandon the plan."

Arya cocked her head slightly in curiosity, showing her age yet managing to maintain the haughty air which she seemed so intent on projecting. "Your wife?"

Ah. So she didn't know about that. "Yes. Sansa and I were married some time ago at my father's behest. He claimed it was to cement a loyalty between our families… but in truth, it was to prevent Loras Tyrell and your sister from marrying, which would have established an alliance between Highgarden and the North. Our marriage has been… amicable thus far, although my incarceration for Joffrey's murder has severely limited any recent opportunities for time alone. As I understand it, she fled King's Landing shortly after Joffrey's death, and I am unaware of her present whereabouts. My turn." He narrowed his eyes at her. "Why are you going to Braavos?"

Her mouth twisted to one side as she thought about her answer. "To learn to be a faceless man."

"That is a difficult aspiration to achieve." Varys went to tuck his hands into the ends of his sleeves, but a quick sniff confirmed that some filth had transferred to his hands from Tyrion's clothes. There was a small basin of washwater nearby, and he dabbled his hands in it, wiping them on a small cloth afterwards.

"You mean for a girl," she spat, a hand going to the slim sword tucked into her belt.

Varys smiled indulgently. "I mean for anyone." He glanced out the porthole, his pleasant, patient expression never wavering. Tyrion knew the Spider fairly well, and it seemed that Varys was enjoying this repartee. "We are almost in port. What do you intend to do once we reach our destination? Do you have money? Do you speak the language?"

She looked impatient. "It's a port city that does business with the Seven Kingdoms. I'm sure some people will speak the common tongue, and I can always ask the sailors."

"My lady…"

"I'm not a lady." She whipped her sword out and leveled it at him.

Tyrion held his hands up in token of surrender. "As you will. Lord Varys and I merely wish to help you if we can. Would you be willing to let us try?"

Arya's eyes flicked from one man to the other. "You have three days. Find somewhere we can stay. If you can find a ship that will take us to White Harbor or Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, I'll stay with you." She lowered her blade slightly.

Tyrion shook his head, smiling as he began to understand.

Of course. The Wall. Jon Snow, her half-brother, the only member of her scattered family whom she knew for certain that she would be able to find. He doubted Varys' willingness to return to Westeros, especially considering the fact that the eunuch hadn't planned on accompanying him in the first place, but if Arya was alive and half as fierce and bright as she seemed, and they could get her into the North safely, the northern lords would no doubt show them gratitude… perhaps even protection. "We'll get you to Jon. I haven't seen him for a while, but I did travel with him when he first got to the Wall, and I stayed on for nearly a month."

She put the sword away, and for a moment looked like nothing more than a lost little girl. "How was he?"

He smiled. "Cold. He made some friends. The master at arms there is a particularly nasty fellow, but the Lord Commander is a good man."

She nodded, thinking it over. "You were in a crate because people think you killed Joffrey."

He lifted his too-short arms over his head, both hearing and feeling a satisfying pull of muscle and sinew as his back stretched. "Yes. Not the most pleasant way to travel, but better than letting Ilyn Payne cut my head off."

She offered him the beginnings of a smile. "I'm glad Joffrey is dead."

He smiled back, pleased that no pretense was required for the time being. "As am I, but people who spent less time with him than we did may mistake our relief at his passing for complicity in the act, so it would be wise if we kept such thoughts to ourselves."

Arya gave another nod, a pensive look passing over her face. "Do you know who killed him?"

He had to shake his head. "Sadly, I do not. However, I know who had the most to gain from his death, and the most cause to wish him dead. Your sister, Sansa, had more cause than almost anyone in the Seven Kingdoms to wish my repugnant nephew ill, and she disappeared from the capital shortly after he died."

Her earlier composure had all but disappeared, and now Arya Stark seemed no more than she was: a young girl who was fiercely loyal to her family and who had seen far too much horror for one so young. She shook her head, trembling with either fear or indignant rage, "Sansa couldn't have-"

Tyrion smiled again, and risked laying a hand on her arm. "Yes, I know. Despite the evidence pointing to her guilt, I sincerely doubt that your dear sister is capable of murder. That is not to say, of course, that a circumstance will never arise where she would be capable of it, but for the time being, she is no murderer."

"Of course," Varys put in, "Lady Sansa was far from the only one who would have benefitted from his death. Young Tommen Baratheon will no doubt be crowned king before too long, but he has always seemed a sweet child, and I sincerely doubt that poisoning his elder brother, cruel though Joffrey may have been to him, would have ever occurred to the lad."

Tyrion shared a look with him, silently asking the eunuch how far the young Stark should be taken into their confidence. Varys merely gave a soft smile and inclined his head. Tyrion sighed. It seemed that his savior wished that nothing be kept from Arya Stark. They already knew that the girl was bold, and she must be both clever and strong to have survived so long on her own after escaping King's Landing. There was no doubt in his mind that she had every possibility of being useful. After all, she was a Stark – a living, breathing standard for the houses of the North to rally behind – and Tyrion had to admit, he was curious to see just how clever the girl truly was.

"That leaves, of course, Joffrey's poor widow."

Tyrion unbuckled his soiled wool jerkin and peeled himself out of it. As he had only been given one change of clothes after his arrest, it was the same garment he had worn during his captivity and at his own farce of a trial… and now it was covered in sick. The linen doublet beneath it was only in slightly better shape, having been stained with sweat and grime from sleeping on the floor of his cell. Still, he judged that being somewhat undressed was better than smelling of vomit and shit. At the moment, however, there was nothing to be done about his trousers.

Arya let out a humorless breath. "She's lucky his last day was also their wedding day. I'd take a lifetime in the Seven Hells over being married to him."

Varys regarded her carefully. "Indeed, but Lady Margaery seemed just as surprised and distraught as the rest of us when His Grace began to choke."

"So who do you think did it?"

Varys gave his best innocent shrug. "I wouldn't dare speculate, my lady."

She narrowed her eyes at him, studying him carefully for nearly a minute before she spoke. "Yes you would. You have been already, so why stop now unless there's something you don't want to tell me?"

The eunuch smiled. "Our young friend is very perceptive, isn't she? Well, I should think that the most likely culprit was someone who wanted to spare Lady Margaery from a lengthy marriage to His Grace, but who did not wish the lady herself any ill. The only person I can think of who has such a vested interest in Lady Margaery's safety and position is her grandmother, the Queen of Thorns. A formidable woman, and one who, I daresay, is capable of anything in the course of protecting her family and advancing their standing."

Tyrion gave him a surprised look and gestured for Varys to move aside so he could cleanse his hands and face with the washwater. "I assume that you were you planning on telling me this?"

"Not until we reached Essos… or you stopped drinking long enough to listen, whichever happened first. You may recall how concerned Lady Olenna was with your wife's happiness at the wedding, and the almost motherly way in which she fussed with Lady Sansa's hair, as well as the necklace which was found to be missing a jewel after the feast. A jewel which contained, as it happened, the very poison which had been mixed into His Grace's wine." Varys frowned. "You wouldn't happen to know where your wife got that necklace?"

Tyrion paused in cleaning his hands. "I believe she said that it was a gift from Ser Dontos, in gratitude for preventing Joffrey from executing him on His Grace's nameday."

Varys made a thoughtful noise. "As I recall, before he was made into the king's fool, Ser Dontos was set to fight a freerider in Lord Baelish's service, and it was no secret that Lady Sansa convinced Joffrey to spare Ser Dontos' life. One of my little birds told me that Littlefinger had just such a necklace made some weeks before the wedding, but I thought nothing of it at the time. However, upon reflection, the pieces seem to be falling into place. The Strangler is a fast-acting poison and Joffrey had quite a bit of wine during the feast with no ill effects. It wasn't until after he ate the wedding pie that he sickened. If you recall, His Grace's goblet was only left unattended when Joffrey so heroically cut the pigeon pie with his sword, so how do you suppose the poison found its way into his wine?"

Tyrion frowned, trying to recall the exact details of what had happened at that point of the feast. "Sansa was at the opposite end of the dais when the pie was cut, and all eyes were on His Grace. No one was watching the grandmother of the bride, and the goblet was within Lady Olenna's reach." Tyrion shook his head. With everything else which had been going on, he had forgotten. "I had fetched His Grace's goblet and filled it with some wine before the pie was brought out. Afterwards, when His Grace insisted that I stay to act as his cupbearer, I fetched his goblet again. There was a bit more wine in it than there had been before, and I thought nothing of it at the time, assuming that some servant or other had poured more wine into it. However, when I went to pick it up, Lady Olenna gave me an odd sort of look."

Varys nodded. "Yes, I noticed that as well. I didn't know what to make of it at the time, but as I have had ample time since then to think about the events of that afternoon, I have come to the conclusion that there might have been some significance to how intently the Queen of Thorns was watching you as you carried the wine back to Joffrey."

He tried, and failed, to not feel betrayed. "How long have you suspected this?"

"I had my suspicions, the same as anyone, when Joffrey died, but no proof. I still have no proof, and certainly nothing with enough weight to alter the course of a rigged trial or stop Cersei from blaming you for her darling boy's death. All I have, my lord, are the songs of little birds, songs which indicated that Littlefinger and Olenna Tyrell had some sort of alliance. Littlefinger had the necklace made, Ser Dontos gave it to your lady wife, so it stands to reason that at some point, Ser Dontos entered Littlefinger's service, because how else would he have gotten a necklace of the exact same description. Thanks to your keen observations, I can safely assume that at the wedding, Lady Olenna must have taken one of the poisoned jewels from the necklace and placed it in His Grace's wine cup whilst everyone was distracted by the pie. It is no secret that Lady Sansa was seen fleeing towards the docks of King's Landing in the company of a man in motley, and Lord Baelish's ship had been in the harbor for a few days, but by nightfall that day, it had sailed off. It was brought to my attention some time ago that Lord Baelish was preoccupied with travel arrangements. When he was making ready to set out for the Eyrie, he purchased two feather beds for the cabin of his ship, and as my wise and dearly departed confidant was kind enough to explain, there are very few people in the Seven Kingdoms whose comfort Littlefinger would care enough about to warrant such an expense."

"And Sansa is one of the few." Tyrion slowly dried his hands on the small cloth, shaking his head. "The sequence of events seems quite clear. According to your theory, both she and Ser Dontos were mere pawns in this scheme. After using my wife to bring to poison to the feast, Lady Olenna did the deed and then Littlefinger guaranteed Sansa's escape, which incidentally served to make her seem all the more guilty. It seems you have assembled a compelling, if circumstantial, case against Littlefinger and the Queen of Thorns. Well, had they not happily let the blame fall on me, I would be tempted to congratulate them for a job well done."

Tyrion realized that the Stark girl had been quiet for some time. Tyrion looked around the cabin, finding, to his horror, that Arya was nowhere to be seen. He and Varys had been so caught up in untangling political intrigues that they hadn't thought to keep an eye on her, and while they were so occupied, the girl had slipped away.