The Shy Maid drifted south under a sky that slowly lost its blue. Tyrion sat on the coil of rope, wringing the last water from his tunic, his mismatched eyes narrowed against the glare.
The river had turned restless; the banks grew thicker with reeds, and the air carried a damp weight that clung to the skin.
Griff had returned to his silent watch at the prow, scarred face set like stone. Young Griff sheathed his practice blade and helped Duck haul the big man back aboard, the pair trading easy japes as if the dwarf had not just been tossed like a sack of grain.
Tyrion squeezed out another stream of river water and muttered, "Next time I'll save my applause for the fish."
Duck barked a laugh.
"You'd do well to mind that tongue of yours, Hugor. Griff's tossed bigger men for less."
"Bigger men have better balance," Tyrion shot back, climbing to his feet with as much dignity as dripping clothes allowed.
His short legs ached from the cold plunge, but he forced a crooked grin.
"Still, a fine lesson. Even a hedge knight can learn when to shut his mouth."
Young Griff watched the exchange without smiling.
His eyes were steady beneath the fading blue hair, posture straight even after the bout. There was no mockery in his gaze, only that quiet calculation, as if he weighed every word, every reaction, the way a boy raised for more than river trade might.
By midday the sun had vanished behind a low haze. The Rhoyne widened, its green waters turning sluggish and gray.
Mist began to rise from the surface, thin at first, then thicker, curling around the hull like pale fingers.
Ysilla muttered prayers to Mother Rhoyne as she coiled rope.
"This is no common fog. Garin's curse lies heavy here. The Sorrows remember their dead."
Yandry nodded, poling the boat with slow, careful strokes.
"The ruins of Chroyane are close. Best we keep to the current and speak softly."
Haldon Halfmaester closed his book with a snap.
"Superstition. Fog is fog. Stone men are the real danger, those poor bastards with greyscale who linger in the ruins."
Septa Lemore touched the crystal at her throat.
"The Mother shows mercy even to the afflicted. We should pray for their souls."
Tyrion leaned against the cabin wall, arms crossed, trying to ignore the chill still seeping into his bones.
"Mercy for men turning to stone? I'd sooner pray for a fresh wineskin."
He glanced sidelong at Young Griff. "What say you, lad? Ever faced a curse in your travels?"
The boy met his eyes calmly.
"Curses are for songs. A man faces what the river brings."
His voice carried that same even tone, edged with the quiet pride Tyrion had noticed before, the bearing of someone who expected the world to yield, not the other way around.
Griff's head turned sharply. "Enough talk. Keep your eyes on the water, all of you."
The fog thickened as the afternoon wore on.
It swallowed the banks until the Shy Maid seemed to float through a world of gray wool. Strange shapes loomed in the mist, half-seen ruins of old palaces, broken columns rising like drowned fingers.
The air grew colder, carrying the faint rot of stagnant water and something sweeter, almost sickly.
Tyrion shivered and rubbed his arms.
The tales said this was a cursed place, full of ghosts and stone men who did not know they were dead.
Lovely, he thought. Just the sort of road I would choose.
He glanced up at the fog-shrouded ruins.
"If the dead mean to greet us," he muttered under his breath, "I'd sooner they did it with wine than claws."
A low, mournful sound echoed through the mist, not quite a voice, not quite the wind. Ysilla made the sign of the river again. Duck gripped his sword tighter, grin fading.
"Lights ahead," Haldon said quietly, pointing.
Faint yellow glows flickered high in the fog, torches or lanterns on what might have been a bridge. The Bridge of Dream, Tyrion recalled from old tales, or whatever name the river folk gave the broken span where stone men gathered.
Griff's voice cut through the hush, hard and low.
"Young Griff, belowdecks. Now."
The boy straightened, blade still at his side.
"I will not hide like a child."
"You will do as you're told," Griff snapped, protective fire flashing in his eyes for the briefest moment before his face closed again.
Tyrion watched the exchange, water still dripping from his sleeves. Griff's tone had changed in an instant, steel beneath the words.
A hard man, Tyrion thought. And harder where the boy is concerned.
The Shy Maid drifted closer. The lights grew brighter, swaying above them. Shapes moved on the ruined bridge, hunched figures, gray and slow.
The first stone man dropped onto the deck with a wet thud.
Gray flesh cracking as it landed. Its eyes were milky white, patches of stone covering half its face and one arm. It let out a low, gurgling moan and lunged toward Young Griff.
"Behind me!" Griff roared, drawing his sword in one smooth motion.
Chaos erupted. More stone men scrambled over the rails, hunched, slow, but relentless, their flesh half-turned to rock. The fog swallowed sound, making every scrape of stone on wood echo unnaturally.
Duck charged with a bellow, his heavy blade smashing into the nearest creature's shoulder. Haldon snatched a pole and jabbed it hard into another's chest, trying to push it back overboard.
Yandry and Ysilla fought with boathooks, faces grim.
Young Griff did not retreat below deck. He raised his practice blade, now very real in purpose and met the attack with clean, disciplined strokes.
He was fast and precise, sidestepping a grasping hand and slashing across a stone-encrusted thigh.
Tyrion pressed himself against the cabin wall, heart pounding, his short stature suddenly a curse and a blessing.
He grabbed a loose length of rope and whipped it at the legs of the nearest stone man, tangling it just enough for Duck to finish the creature with a downward chop.
In the middle of the frenzy, Griff fought like a man possessed. His strikes were economical, deadly, the product of years commanding armies rather than mere sellsword brawls.
He guarded Young Griff's flank with ferocious focus, cutting down two stone men in quick succession.
Not a sellsword, Tyrion thought, watching through the chaos. Not just that. There was something in the way the man fought, the way he commanded, even in silence. Not the swagger of a free rider, nor the reckless fury of a hedge knight.
Discipline. Authority. Habit. A man who had once given orders… and expected them obeyed.
A memory clicked, old court gossip from his days as Hand, tales of the exiled lord who had been Rhaegar's closest friend, the one who had failed at the Battle of the Bells and fled into exile.
Griffin's Roost. Jon Connington.
Tyrion spat river water and blood and almost laughed.
Gods be good, what have you dropped me into, Varys?
The name settled in Tyrion's mind like a stone sinking in the Rhoyne. It fit too perfectly. The proud bearing. The burning loyalty.
Another stone man lunged, and the thought was gone as quickly as it came.
He dodged awkwardly, slipped on the wet deck, and rolled. Before the creature could grab him, Young Griff stepped in, driving his blade into the thing's neck with surprising strength.
The boy pulled Tyrion upright with his free hand, purple eyes flashing.
"You fight poorly for a hedge knight," Young Griff said, breathing hard but voice steady.
"I fight cleverly for a dwarf," Tyrion gasped, flashing a crooked grin. "My thanks."
The boy gave a small nod, composed even now. Griff spun toward them, face thunderous.
"Below deck with Lemore. Now!" he snarled at Young Griff.
The boy's purple eyes flashed beneath the damp blue hair. "I will not hide like a child while the rest of you fight."
Griff snarled, his scarred face hard.
Suddenly three stone men dropped from the ruined bridge above. The first landed heavily on the cabin roof with a crack that made the Shy Maid rock.
It roared a word in a tongue Tyrion did not know. The second crashed down near the tiller; Duck swung his pole with a shout and knocked it screaming into the river.
The third stone man landed behind Young Griff, gray flesh cracking, one leg broken but still reaching with stone-encrusted hands.
Tyrion moved without thinking.
He slammed his small shoulder into the boy, knocking him aside, then thrust a burning torch into the creature's face. The stone man howled and ripped the torch away, hurling it into the water. Before Tyrion could dodge, the creature grabbed him with inhuman strength.
They tumbled over the rail together.
The Rhoyne closed over Tyrion's head, cold, green, and merciless. The stone man's grip dragged him deeper, gray fingers like iron.
Water filled his lungs. Darkness pressed in.
Strong hands suddenly seized him. Griff had dived in after him. The older man fought the current and the dying stone man, hauling Tyrion back to the surface and then aboard the boat with raw strength.
Tyrion coughed violently, spitting river water, as Lemore and Haldon helped pull him onto the deck.
Griff climbed up after him, soaked through, his red-dyed beard dripping. His face was dark with anger.
"You bloody fool," Griff said.
Tyrion rolled onto his side, hacking up more water. "I've been called worse," he managed hoarsely. "Usually by men who hadn't just saved my life."
"You almost drowned," Griff said. "And nearly dragged the boy down with you." His eyes flicked toward Young Griff.
Tyrion followed the look, still coughing. "Then it's well you jumped in after me."
Griff's eyes were cold. "Next time, I may not."
Tyrion followed the look, still coughing. "Then I suppose you have my thanks twice over."
"What you'll keep is your distance. From the boy. From the rail. From trouble, if you've any sense at all."
Tyrion pushed himself up on one elbow, water streaming from his sleeve. "Alas," he said, voice rough, "sense has never been my strong suit."
Duck barked a laugh behind them, but it died quickly when Griff's gaze snapped his way.
"Below decks," Griff said. "All of you. We're not clear yet."
Young Griff lingered a moment, looking down at Tyrion. "You should not have done that," he said.
"Nor should you have been standing there," Tyrion replied. "We are both full of poor decisions."
The boy's mouth tightened, as if unsure whether that was meant as jest. Then he turned and went.
Griff remained a heartbeat longer. "Stay out of my way, dwarf," he said. "Or the river can have you."
He turned without waiting for a reply.
Griff remained a moment more, staring down at Tyrion with those hard, assessing eyes.
Then he turned away.
The Shy Maid drifted onward, the fog slowly thinning behind them. The immediate danger had passed.