Tyrek Lannister
With each passing day, his abilities grew. He was already stronger than most of his peers—and even stronger than some knights.
Then suddenly the riot erupted in King's Landing, and the crowd went mad.
That day they had all gathered to see Princess Myrcella off to Dorne. He had been guarding the king and his betrothed, Sansa Stark, and together with Sandor Clegane—the Hound—Lancel, Tyrion, and others, he rode in the royal retinue.
He remembered clearly how, after Joff's foolish outburst, the rabble turned feral in an instant. The entire mass became a single enormous wave that surged toward them, like the storm waves that crashed against Casterly Rock. Only his home could not be harmed by the elements—but people could.
There was shouting everywhere, curses, the groans of the wounded. The Kingsguard were the first to draw their swords, and without hesitation he followed suit, cleaving through the collarbone of one defenseless beggar.
The man began to fall backward, and Tyrek would long remember his expression—a mixture of astonishment and something like childish resentment.
Then a short but savage clash washed away all colors and smells, and he gave himself wholly to the fight, working his sword without pause. The guards surrounded the king, striving to get him out of the city and back to the Red Keep as quickly as possible, while he—so it happened—remained behind to cover their retreat.
His horse, Lord, bared its teeth and whinnied loudly. Dozens of hands tried to drag him from the saddle, and he managed to hack off a couple of the most brazen. Out of the corner of his eye, farther up the street, he saw Sandor Clegane snarling and hewing through the poor wretches left and right. With each swing of his massive sword, he left behind either a corpse or a cripple who would not survive long. Spattered with blood, clad in iron like a walking tower, the Hound inspired terror by his mere presence. He moved at the vanguard of their group, carving a path forward.
The wounded tried to crawl away, and blood trickled in thin streams across the dusty cobblestones.
In the next instant, someone crept up behind him and yanked hard at his leg. He managed to slash backward with his sword, saw a man's face burst into red, and then, unable to keep his balance, crashed onto the stone pavement.
For a moment he glimpsed scraps of refuse, bits of garbage, and someone's unwashed feet in sandals. He did not drop his sword, but pain shot through his entire right arm—the one with which he had tried to break his fall. The last thing the Lannister saw was a huge, bearded man, spittle flying, raising a staff above his head.
The staff described a magnificent arc—one Tyrek had no chance to block—and struck him in the back of the head with such force that even his helmet did little to help.
Darkness swallowed his consciousness…
***
He awoke tied to some kind of post. Everything around him swayed, and the Lannister immediately understood he was aboard a ship in the open sea. Through a crack in the ceiling fell a narrow beam of light, sharp as a blade. The air smelled of salted fish and urine. Above, on deck, rough voices carried; someone laughed.
Tyrek had always suffered badly from seasickness. After some time, with the relentless rolling of the waves, his headache worsened, and he vomited bile. His skull felt as though it were splitting apart, as if some malicious drummer had taken up residence inside it, beating ceaselessly on his instrument.
He remained in that hold for more than a day. Twice a man came to him and brought a mug of water, which Tyrek drank greedily to the last drop. To every question—where he was, what was happening, where they were sailing—the man only shook his head. Once, when Tyrek grew especially insistent, he even struck him across the face. After that, the Lannister understood he would get no answers here.
During all that time, no one untied him, and Tyrek had to struggle considerably before he managed to relieve himself not in his breeches but onto the damp, uneven boards of the floor.
At night, the ship's rats crept from their holes. They showed no fear and scurried everywhere. At some point, exhausted from fighting off sleep, he drifted into slumber—only to wake when something's nose was sniffing at his ear. It seemed to him the rats might gnaw his face off, and he cried out…
The voyage ended when he realized the noise around him had grown louder—they had most likely entered a harbor. At any rate, he could distinguish a vague murmur of voices and hear a boatswain on another vessel piping commands through his whistle.
It did not sound like a very busy place; rather, it resembled docks before some castle or small town.
Before they reached the port, the same silent man descended to him, gagged him, and even pulled some kind of hood over his head.
Judging by the sounds, several hours passed. Night fell, and the faint clamor beyond the hull finally died away. Only then did several men come down, untie him from the post, and haul him roughly to his feet.
"Don't even think about struggling, Lannister," a low voice muttered near his ear. "If you twitch, I'll introduce your liver to my knife. Understand, you bastard?"
Tyrek nodded silently to show he understood. If he had entertained any thoughts of escape, those words convinced him not to rush. He wanted very much to live. And besides, if they had not killed him outright, then they needed him for something. Which meant there was still a chance.
(End of Chapter)
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