Chapter 2.

The ocean voyage was uneventful. Between the grief of the past , fear of the future and sheer force of habit, Tyrion stayed drunk for nearly the entire voyage.

When he disembarked at Braavos, he wasn't completely sober, but he was capable of walking a straight line.

Later, he blamed the wine fumes in his head for not noticing the assassins.

Although it wasn't as pronounced as her other hatreds, Cercei had a profound distrust of foreigners. So, the killers that she sent after her brother were men of Westeros, arriving ahead on a faster ship.

If she had simply sent money and instructions to hire local thugs, our tale would have ended here. Tyrion would have bled out in the street a mile from the piers and no passerby would have cared.

But, like all lands, there are unwritten rules that are as ironclad as any law set forth by Lord or King. The lifeblood of Braavos was trade and only a fool would attack a ship that had just docked. Both the Ship's crew and dockworkers would be on hand to unload and anything that was taken was less pay for them.

Ser Donal Gorefield saw the Imp striding towards the gangplank and grinned. As he drew his sword, he pictured the lands that the Queen had promis-

"BANDITS! BANDITS! BANDITS ON THE DOCK!"

Ser Donal didn't see who yelled the first warning. Not that it mattered. Within moments, the cry was taken up by a dozen voices and him and his four accomplices were surrounded. Grim-faced men hefted clubs and axes and waited for somebody to be stupid enough to make the first move.

Which, unfortunately, was Egbert, Donal's younger brother. Before his sibling could protest that they weren't bandits, Egbert rushed the nearest man in a panic. What followed was bloody, brutal and over very, very quickly.

The ship's Captain nodded in satisfaction as the corpses were kicked into the ocean for the crabs to feast on. "The lads did well in protecting the cargo. I'll have a cask or two of wine opened for them once they're done unloading." He cocked an eye at his passenger, who'd been a decent sort for a Lord. "Will you be joining us?"

A suddenly sober Tyrion looked at the bloodstains on the dock and shook his head. "I believe that I've had my fill for a while."

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Setting up a new place to live took more time and far more money than Tyrion expected. But, after a few days, everything was settled enough for him to go looking for Ser Dellyne Martel.

Braavos had what were known as Training Halls, which were a combination of a tavern, an armory and a brothel. A fellow could work up an appetite with a few matches, cool down with a meal and a few ales and finish off the day with a woman.

Very sensible, Tyrion decided.

Ser Dellyne was a younger, more newly-minted version of Prince Oberyn. He had the same dark hair, worn long. The same features, sharper and clean-shaven.

But, even if didn't resemble Oberyn physically, Dellyne's personality would have marked him as a blood relative. He had the same lazy blend of elegance and arrogance. The same sense that he was perpetually amused by the world around him.

That amusement increased as he took in the sight of the dwarf in front of him, offering a scroll with his cousin's seal upon it.

Dellyne cracked it open and rapidly read through it. A murdered King, struck down at his own wedding. Old hatreds pitting father against son, brother against sister. A Little Lion using trickery to triumph over a Mountain.

This would make a sensational ballad. Already, he could hear the tune in his head.

Still, business first. He looked at the little lord, who had ordered a pitcher of wine and was already on his third cup, and asked simply, "Now what?"

Tyrion set the goblet down and frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I do not mind bodyguarding. It is a simple enough task and it gives me time to work on my music. So, I will watch your back." Dellyne fixed Tyrion with a direct glance as he continued, "But, my cousin has made it clear that you will receive no help from your family. What will you do and more importantly, what will you pay me with once your wealth runs out?

Despite never having to earn a living in his entire life, Tyrion didn't look worried. Instead, he replied, "Oh, I have a few ideas."

No doubt about that. There was a ruthless intelligence in his eyes. This was a man who would change the world.

If the world didn't kill him first.

"Done! I will watch your back." Dellyne drained his own glass and gestured for his new employer to refill it.

"Excellent." Tyrion took the opportunity to top off his own drink. "By the way, your cousin told me that you are also estranged from your father. Do you mind if I ask why?"

"It is no secret. Since I was a boy, I have loved music. My fondest wish is to be famous not as a great lord or great warrior, but as a great bard." Dellyne shrugged. "My father saw it as an unworthy occupation for a man of noble blood."

"Also, I fucked both of his mistresses."

Dellyne timed that last bit perfectly and it caught Tyrion in the middle of taking a sip of wine. He literally woofed into his goblet and got a mouthful all over the tabletop.

After a few moments of laughing and coughing, Tyrion got himself under enough control to sputter out, "Separately? Or, together at the same time?"

"Together at the same time." Dellyne smiled in fond memory. "And, before you ask, yes, I did write a song about it. That was the final straw for my father."

Tyrion held his wine up in a toast. "To fathers!"

"To fathers!"

They drank and a new partnership was born.

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The next order of business was to go to the district of Braavos where books and maps were made, traded and sold. This was done by scriveners, who laboriously copied each one by hand. Sometimes it was on commission, sometimes it was ahead of time in the hopes that it would find a buyer.

Bartel had the most solid reputation for honesty and Tyrion introduced himself to the man and his three sons.

Maps had always fascinated Tyrion, mostly due to a not so unconscious wish to be elsewhere, and he had spent his entire life collecting them. During his brief tenure as Hand, he had taken the opportunity to ransack the city for the best ones.

Whether you're a Braavosi Captain or a Norvoshi Caravan Leader, an accurate map is worth a fair amount of gold. Tyrion gave Bartel an inventory of what he had and, in turn, the scrivener would tell customers of what was available. For every copy that was made, Tyrion would get a cut.

Dellyne was impressed. The operation was simple, straightforward, benefited everyone involved and left Tyrion open to pursue other interests. For a man with little experience in creating profit, he was certainly off to a good beginning.

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The next night, at dinner, Tyrion actually found himself to be feeling cheerful. Less than a fortnight in Braavos and he had a roof over his head, a sword at his side and gold coming in the door. Not bad.

The same could not be said of the fish that he was eating. Too salty. There was a nearby tavern and a wench brought over their meals. The innkeeper always put too much salt in the food to encourage more drinking.

Now that Tyrion knew that he wouldn't be facing poverty, the next thing to do would be to hire a cook.

A furor from the kitchen interrupted his musings. Dellyne had just went in to get some fruit and it didn't take a huge leap of logic to realize that intruders had come in through the back door.

Well justified paranoia meant that weapons were always handy and both an ax and a loaded crossbow were nearby. But, Tyrion barely had time to get out of his chair before the door crashed open and a sword-wielding bullyboy burst in.

With a quick motion, Tyrion pulled his dagger and threw it.

And, missed the hired killer completely.

In quick succession, the carving knife, both eating knives, the wine pitcher and the serving tray were also thrown with varied degrees of skill.

Infuriated by the onslaught, the sellsword brought the blade down in an arc that would have split the Imp from neck to crotch. However, in his anger and lack of experience in fighting someone so small, he missed as Tyrion took a leaping step towards him, stepping inside the cut.

A second afterwards, he shrieked to high heaven as he took a serving fork to the balls. As he folded up in agony, the rest of him conveniently came down to Tyrion's level. The killer's shriek broke off to a gurgle as his throat was torn open.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, two of the hired killers lay dead while Dellyne held off the other three. He was in a good position, back against the wall, but he'd taken a wound to his leg and it was slowing him.

The one on the right collapsed forward with a bolt in his back. Behind the remaining two, Tyrion threw down the crossbow and struggled to pull the ax from his belt.

Two abruptly became one. Distracted by the attack coming from the rear, the man on the left let his guard waver and took a blade in his heart.

The remaining sellword cursed, wheeled and charged Tyrion. With the bodyguard's leg sliced up, he could kill the dwarf in passing and outdistance the other man out of the other door.

For Tyrion, it was like a dream. Or nightmare. He saw the sword thrust coming, his mind was working at lightning speed and his body was working at a snail's pace. The ax barely came up in time and the sword went into his shoulder instead of his guts.

A second stab never came. Dellyne threw his dagger with greater accurracy than Tyrion had and the blade nailed their final opponent in the neck.

Oddly, it didn't look to be painful. As the killer collapsed to his knees, one hand reached up to pluck at the dagger and he seemed more puzzled than anything else. Then, the light faded from his eyes and he collapsed on his side.

As he bound up their wounds, Tyrion asked the other man if he was going to make a song out of this as well.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because", Tyrion said with deadpan humor, "At the moment, I'm damned if I can think of a word that rhymes with "kitchen'".

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Dellyne took his wound with good humor, regarding it as a normal cost of business. However, he warned Tyrion that they would have to hire more guards. Partially because his leg needed to recover and partially in anticipation of future attacks.

Hopefully, business at the scrivener's was good. They needed the money.

When they arrived to check on things, bizarrely, the problem was that business was too good.

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Bartel ran a hand over his balding scalp and looked flustered. "We simply can't keep up with demand. One map alone has a request for eight copies. Eight! Probably be twice as many before the week is out and that's to say nothing of the other commissions." He sighed. "Your taste in books and maps is superb, my lord. A week ago, I would not have considered that to be a problem."

"Can you not get help from some of the other shops?", Dellyne asked.

"I'm not sending my customers to other shops. Besides, they all have their own work to do."

"I understand. And, turning away business is even worse." Tyrion headed for the door, signaling that the impromptu meeting was over. "I have a few thoughts on how to solve this and I'll speak to again in a few days. For now, begin completing the first orders."

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In truth, Tyrion had no idea on what to do next.

However, whatever else you could say about his father, he was a capable leader. One of the things that Tywin had always demonstrated was that, when things were uncertain, that was when you had to display the most certainty.

Sitting at the remains of another disappointing dinner and toying with his wine goblet, Tyrion racked his brains. Some of the wine had spilled and, absently, he used the base of the metal cup to make patterns on the tablecloth.

Put it in the wine puddle, press down on an unmarked section. Put it in the wine puddle, press down on an unmarked section. Now, there was a set of red circles on the white tablecloth.

Inspiration struck. Many people later remarked that it was only fitting that wine would be the catalyst for one of the Little Lion's ideas.

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A few days later, Bartel and his sons were busy working on a blocky contraption while Tyrion explained things to an interested Dellyne.

A copper engraving had been made of a map. Wood had been considered, but metal can show more fine detail and Tyrion had decided that it was worth the extra cost. A wine press, ironically, had been modified while the engraving was being made.

Numerous minute adjustments and fine-tunings had to occur with regards to ink and paper and pressure. But, Bartel had been a fountain of knowledge on those subjects and progress had been rapid.

One of the sons, Alester, turned the crank. Down went the plate. Up it went again and, in seconds, the paper was peeled off of the engraving and hung up to dry. A perfect copy.

Bartel had also been knowledgeable of the subject of sales. Now that they could print maps quicker and more easily, they could lower the price and still achieve larger profits.

"A lower price will mean more customers," the shopkeeper said earnestly.

"Then, by all means, make it so."

Many of Tyrion's deeds (Or misdeeds, depending on one's point of view) would make it into song and legend. This one never did. However, in the centuries to come, this achievement would change the world more than any King or God.