Tyrion Lannister was dreaming.
In the dream he lay in his favorite brothel in Casterly Rock, a woman on either side of him, both looking at him like he was the greatest man who had ever lived.
"Lord Tyrion," one of them purred against his ear, "you're magnificent. My lion."
The other ran a finger down his chest. "The strongest, cleverest man I've ever known."
Tyrion laughed, loud and pleased with himself, ready to enjoy the moment. Then a strange, acrid smell drifted into his nose.
"Hey, sweetheart," he muttered, "you smell like burnt clams."
A sharp slap cracked across his face.
He jolted awake with a shout. "I'm not paying you a single copper, you hear me? Not one!"
The words died in his throat.
There were no beautiful women. Only a filthy little girl squatting in front of him, staring at him with bright, serious eyes.
Lily.
Tyrion blinked hard, reality slamming back into place. The cellar. The children. The chains that weren't there anymore but the memory still was.
He cleared his throat, trying to sound dignified. "I was having a very strange dream. Something about a farmer selling me wormy apples and then hitting me for no reason."
Lily didn't smile. She simply pointed at the ceiling.
"Fire," she said.
Tyrion followed her finger.
Smoke was pouring through the gaps between the wooden beams and stone above them. Thick, gray, choking smoke rolling across the ceiling like dirty water. Orange light flickered between the cracks. The smell of burning wood and cloth filled the air.
"Fuck."
He scrambled to his feet so fast he nearly fell over. The cellar was small, maybe the size of a modest bedroom. Rough stone walls, damp and cold. A few broken crates in one corner. A bucket of old piss that had already been used once tonight. A cluster of children huddled against the far wall, eyes wide with terror as the smoke thickened above their heads.
Tyrion ran to the iron door and hammered on it with both fists.
"Open the door! You're going to cook us alive in here!"
No answer.
He slammed harder. "You can't sell dead children, you stupid bastards! Open the fucking door!"
Footsteps. Heavy, hurried, coming closer.
The door yanked open. A blast of hot smoke and orange light poured in. A man stood there in a dark blue doublet, face streaked with soot, hair singed on one side. Blood soaked the side of his coat and ran down his leg.
Balman Byrch.
"Out!" Balman rasped. "All of you, get out now!"
He staggered backward, one hand pressed hard against the wound in his lower back. Blood welled between his fingers.
Tyrion hesitated for half a second, then looked back at the children still pressed against the wall.
"You first!" he barked at them. "Go! Run! Don't look back!"
The oldest boy grabbed the smallest girl and bolted. The others followed in a stumbling rush, coughing as they passed through the smoke.
Tyrion waited until the last child was through, then turned to Balman. The big knight was sliding down the wall, face gray.
"Get up, you fat bastard," Tyrion snapped, grabbing his arm. "Come on!"
Balman was too heavy. Tyrion couldn't budge him more than a few inches.
"Help me, you little shits!" he shouted at the children who had stopped in the corridor. "Grab him! Both sides!"
Two of the older boys ran back. Together they hauled Balman upright, one under each arm. The man groaned but stayed on his feet.
They moved as fast as they could. The corridor was filling with smoke. Firelight danced at the far end. Heat pressed against their backs like a living thing.
They were almost to the main hall when soldiers appeared.
Ten men in Stokeworth livery, spears lowered, blocking the way. The leader was the skinny guard from the cellar earlier, face grim under the soot.
Tyrion raised both hands. "Easy, lads. Your lord's right here. Balman Byrch. He's hurt. Let us through."
The spears didn't move.
The skinny man stepped forward. "Our lady is Falyse Stokeworth. Not this fat traitor."
Balman pushed the boys away and stood on his own, swaying. Blood ran down his leg in a steady stream.
"Get out of my way," he said hoarsely. "I'm taking these children out of here."
"You killed Lady Falyse," the skinny man said. "We heard you say it. You murdered your own wife and set the castle on fire."
Balman gave a bloody, broken smile. "That's right. I killed her. So now I'm the lord of Stokeworth. And I'm telling you to move."
The skinny man looked at his men, then back at Balman.
"Kill them both," he said. "The dwarf and this traitor. Say they died in the fire trying to escape. We'll be heroes."
The spears came up.
Tyrion grabbed Balman's fallen sword. It was far too long for him. The tip dragged on the stone. He could barely lift it.
"Come on then," he snarled at the soldiers, voice cracking. "I'm Tyrion fucking Lannister. I burned half of Stannis's fleet at the Blackwater. Try me."
The men hesitated for half a second.
Then a sword flew out of the smoke and fire at the end of the corridor.
It spun once, end over end, and buried itself to the hilt in the skinny guard's throat.
The man dropped without a sound.
From the flames stepped Vito Corleone.
Smoke curled around his boots. His dark coat was streaked with soot. The black hand sigil on his cloak seemed to shift in the firelight. In his hand he held another sword—Lady Forlorn, its rippling Valyrian steel dark with blood.
He walked forward slowly, calm as if he were strolling through a garden.
The remaining soldiers froze.
Corleone stopped in front of the dead guard, pulled his sword free with a wet sound, and flicked the blood off the blade.
Then he looked at the rest of them.
"The Black Hand," he said quietly, "sends its regards."