Tyrosh, South Port Trade District, Administrative Building
"Why don't we just march up to the palace, announce who you are, and get ushered into the high hall with a flagon of wine?" Bronn asked, chewing on a piece of dried beef provided by the staff.
Tyrion glanced at the long, winding queue. "This is Tyrosh, Bronn. Beyond the Westerosi travelers, who here knows the face of a Lannister? If we cause a scene and get tossed out into the harbor, your 'Black Lion' dreams will sink with us. I prefer to let my wits open the door."
"Suit yourself," Bronn shrugged. "But if they fail you, I'm tying you up and taking you to King's Landing. A live Imp is worth a lot of wine, and honestly, dead ones are harder to carry."
Tyrion rolled his eyes. He was beginning to understand Bronn's specific brand of mercenary humor—it was a jagged, honest thing that lacked the oily pretense of the capital.
They were in the grand foyer of a requisitioned trade building. Two long timber fences funneled the crowd into separate streams. On the left, applicants ascended the stairs with looks of dawning hope; on the right, they shuffled out the door, heads bowed in dejection. Purple-cloaked City Watchmen stood at every corner, their tiger-helms gleaming.
"Look at their wrists," Tyrion whispered, pointing to a group of men in line. "Not shackles... metal bands. No chains."
"Identity markers, likely," Bronn grunted, noticing most were freedmen, lean and weathered.
Tyrion stopped a passing guard—a man with the rough accent of King's Landing. "A question, friend. Those men with the steel cuffs—is that the new fashion in Tyrosh?"
The guard looked at the men with a flicker of pride. "They call themselves the 'Sons of Aegon.' They've pledged their labor and their lives to the Prince's cause. They aren't slaves, traveler. They're the foundation."
"The Prince?" Tyrion asked. "Has he been crowned king, then?"
"Aegon says a true king is recognized by the people, not by a title he gives himself," the guard replied. "He pursues strength and character, not hollow names."
"MY STRENGTH IS UNMATCHED! HOW DARE YOU REFUSE ME!"
A roar erupted from the front of the line, followed by the sound of splintering wood and clashing steel.
"Oho! Entertainment!" Bronn shouted, leaning over the fence. The guard hurried toward the disturbance, leaving Tyrion with a dozen unanswered questions.
"Who is it, Bronn? An old friend?"
"By the voice? That's 'Savage Bear' Sam Flower," Bronn said, a smirk playing on his lips. "Strong as a mountain, dim as a gutter. Someone likely goaded him into this. He doesn't have the wits to riot on his own."
CRACK—BOOM!
A localized clap of thunder shook the hall. Tyrion and Bronn watched as a flash of violet light illuminated the testing area. A moment later, a smell drifted through the air—the acrid, unmistakable scent of charred meat and ozone.
"Are they having a roast in there?" Bronn asked, his expression turning serious.
"Drag this one out to cool off," a cold voice commanded. Two City Watchmen dragged the 'Savage Bear' out like a slaughtered ox. The man's armor was blackened, and smoke rose from his singed beard.
"Bronn," Tyrion swallowed hard. "Could you have taken him?"
"Taken him? Sure," Bronn said, eyes fixed on the smoke. "With a crossbow, from a roof, while he was sleeping. In a fair fight? No. And whatever hit him was definitely not a sword."
The Three Kingdoms Test
"Number 130! Tyrion Lant!"
Tyrion stepped into the cordoned-off testing zone. He was gestured toward a solitary chair facing a long table. Behind the table sat three examiners: an elderly Maester in grey robes, a young man in a travel-stained cloak, and a girl in white.
Tyrion noted the scorch marks on the floor beside his chair. The air still held the metallic tang of the 'Savage Bear's' defeat.
"Tyrion Lant? From King's Landing?" the Maester asked, checking a ledger.
"That is the name," Tyrion replied.
"Aegon requires two types of talent: those who can lead armies, and those who can build nations. Which are you?"
"I have little use for a sword, but I am told my mind is a sharp enough blade. I would offer my services as a strategist—a counselor for the Round Table."
The Maester raised an eyebrow. "Bold. Let's see if your reach exceeds your grasp." He rummaged through a pile of dossiers. "Ah. Here. Aegon's personal selection. He calls this the 'Eastern Riddle.'"
The guards brought over a low table—thoughtfully sized for Tyrion's stature—and unrolled a large sheet of high-quality parchment.
It was a map of three fictional nations, titled Wei, Shu, and Wu. It detailed mountains, river systems, troop concentrations, and the personality traits of each monarch.
"You have one-quarter of an hour," the Maester said. "The objective is unification. Tell us how you proceed."
Tyrion's eyes scanned the map. His mind, sharpened by a lifetime of reading forbidden scrolls and histories, raced through the variables. He saw the "Shu" nation—mountainous and easily defended but resource-poor. He saw "Wu"—protected by a massive river but stagnating. And then he saw the "Wei" in the north—vast, populous, and strategically aggressive.
He took the quill and began to write.
"First, secure the northern heartland of 'Wei' through agricultural reform to ensure an infinite supply of grain. Then, feign a massive naval invasion of 'Wu' to pin their fleet. While they are distracted, send a specialized mountain corps through the 'Shu' passes. Their king is a man of paper courage; a single shadow over his palace will force a surrender without a drop of blood wasted..."
The three examiners leaned in, watching the dwarf's hand move with frantic, precise energy. The Maester began to nod, a look of genuine surprise crossing his withered face.
"It seems," Bronn whispered from the fence, "the Halfman might actually know what he's doing."