Chapter Text
Westeros went through phases with them over the years. Anyone trying to maintain the Iron Throne was always in touch, but from there it was a bit of fun to follow the numbers across centuries of rebellion and peace in which people seemed convinced about always warring for some grander purpose given to them by others. Supposed betters. Some, admittedly, genuine leaders believe it or not. He was raised by a refugee from those lands moving on to her second marriage with a man who hadn't brought him into this world, but should have for all it mattered. It was the Nestoris of Braavos name that he carried forward, not who his mother was when bound to the western continent’s politics or her first marriage.
He was fascinated by those lands as a result, but quite content to watch its happenings from Essos for the most part. This was his life and these people his own. As he grew older and his arms thick from training as a water dancer, awaitng the day someone would be dumb enough to come for the free people here and their Iron Bank, his father had maintained his seat, but by twenty and five most of his youthfulness had given away to an old soul which quickly had Nastur pulling away from duties passed onto his competent heir until complete retirement.
Because Nastur Nestoris had been well past any longing or hopes for a blood heir by the time Ty came into his life, he'd been prepared to complete his duties to the Iron Bank, Braavos, and the other Free Cities for as long as he could remember. Certainly as a very small child he had the same memories as every Braavosi child, a thousand of them running around wearing the large decorated keys celebrating where they came from and what was built together. By the time he'd turned ten the real work began with knowing how heirship worked and that if there had been twenty-three original shareholders, then there were still twenty-three decision makers in this city.
Nastur was one of them.
Now approaching his fortieth year, many moons ahead though it was, he was one of them a decade after his father's passing. It meant long days of solving problems and balancing books with twenty-two others only he could identify; individuals even a Faceless Man couldn't imitate. Their ancestors learned that one the hard way and now they took precautions, but the organization also learned a valuable lesson and now paid their dues appropriately every collection period, so perhaps it was fate.
The Original Twenty-Three in their infamous wisdom made themselves an odd number to avoid stalemates, but somewhat unfortunately in his youth Tycho was ambitious to play his part in bettering Braavos. He said it now, somewhat enviously of the deliberative part his father played at the table during his time, after being elected to the highest regarded position of Tie-Breaker by his peers at the unbelievably young age of thirty. No one seemed ready to try offing him yet, either for a decision he made, or because they thought themselves the better option; that was promising.
Of course the parts at the table they all wound up playing were ceremonial references at best. The Head was whoever spoke for whatever majority formed on an issue, The Tail whoever spoke for the minority, and Scuffs were any withheld voting parties of their numbers. Parts wound up played no matter where they were in the world; heirs well prepared to take over should one key fall from one hand to the next and seats reorganized.
If he fell, for now, his key defected to his aunt. She wasn't happy about it. Tycho Nestoris didn't plan to go anywhere in the near future.
There was one force of Westeros which had always eluded and fascinated both his institution and Ty in equal measure. It seemed a legendary might of eight thousand years which could not be bullied or bought. Oh, they did business, but were the only power which held the Iron Bank and Braavos in their debt.
House Stark of Winterfell.
Naturally there was chaos at the table after Ned Stark was beheaded and the North’s independence declared. The debate over who to back was vigorous. The Iron Throne was traditional, but the Lannisters and Baratheons were broke with nothing to show for their new dynasty. The Beggar King had just sold his sister to the Dothraki, but getting them across the sea would take more than that mad brat could muster all at the table were sure.
The Starks didn't engage with the banks traditionally, however they were the strict suppliers of his city's winter time supplies. A fun fact known only by a few at this table, but they were all looking at him meaningfully for a plan.
Because the last time a Stark hadn't been in Winterfell, it went to a Bolton, and those selfish bastards left the Free Cities to fall. Tycho would be damned to hell first. These were his cities and his people.
“The Young Wolf will be a marching target,” He noted. “But his sister is in a most unique position. Held hostage by those in our debt.”
“The Starks on the Iron Throne…” Born to a Khal, Mordo mostly saw lost profit after committing himself to the enterprise which took him and his bad leg bestowed at birth in, and Ty could appreciate the Head’s perspective. Along with the fourteen seats rallied behind him wanting to put any other house on the throne, because all they could see was a complete loss of revenue from the western continent.
“I'm not truly suggesting that we put any Stark on that seat of power, although I think they will be more open to putting the Capital into debt,” He confessed, “Compared to their precious North.”
Misseli sighed, “The Baratheons of the Crownlands are finished. Broke and otherwise completely subsumed by House Lannister.”
“Reports are that the mountains have lost their shine,” A quieter seat at the table offered up.
Tycho knew better from his aunt's surprisingly lasting spies in Kevan Lannister’s house, “Rumor only. The Old Lion will be challenged only after death, directly at least, but he does need allies to keep the kingdom moving and they prefer him with weaknesses.”
“If he's lost control of his daughter's prodigy, then the lions and stags are finished,” Misseli repeated, looking at him pointedly, the Tail greatly concerned with a backing of six seats behind her insisted on this. Most of them knew their weakness, he knew what she was really demanding. “Who do we put in place instead?”
“I think it is apparent that our answers likely lie in King's Landing,” Tycho noted for the room. “The imprisoned Stark is most likely to ally themselves with the Iron Bank and we need to observe the Crown's ability to produce repayment either way given their ruler's passing.”
“Three of us at this table have enough Westerosi knowledge to make that determination,” Lady Nymeria put in from her firm place among the majority, who were fed up with losing money from the Iron Throne since the Rebellion. “May I?”
Ty scoffed at one of the friendliest voices at the table, “Not if you were the last of us.” She might have inherited the key from her mother, but everyone knew her prince of a father proudly claimed her on that continent too, “You are off the table given your families histories. Lady Eilowyn?” He wanted to acknowledge the other woman, because she also regarded her mother, “Your roots go deep.”
“My mother does have standing and I know she considers me her own as much as my brothers,” A small and delicate woman offered, but ended the comment with a put out sigh. Silver blonde hair from her father moved as Lys’ Loveliest Lady shook it out, “However, I don't relish much returning to bastard status when the year's first Festival of Mummers approaches in just one moon.”
No one would know she was her mother's bastard, unless she told them. No one would want to offend one of their representatives.
The latter was a legitimate argument. They were all duty bound to look into and after the bank's interests, however few of them didn't engage in another form of profession outside of this role. Since True Twenty-Three status wasn't known outside of this room in the bank, all of them had other obligations and she came up from Lys three times a year to plan their three largest festivals with the Sea Lord. As soon as they all left these quarters, so many meetings now took place here, no one even suspected who the True Twenty-Three were, if they even believed such a thing existed.
“Fair enough… I expect everyone to enjoy the festival in my absence,” Tycho decided.
Other issues were argued and finalized before their next meeting adjourned, then another planned for six moons hence with two Essosi members assigned to investigate Stannis Baratheon, when he inevitably showed up, and Daenerys Stormborn. Nymeria confessed when Head Mordo invited her to stay with him for the small meeting, alongside Uncle Vresco, another key holder everyone knew was his stand in upon travel, that she had been summoned home by her father as Stannis was predicted to lay siege to the Capitol. Tail Misseli asked those with assignments to stay as well, so they all made plans to remain in touch with the Iron Bank using ravens until each returned by the Unmasking with answers. Meaning he needed to name an interim Tie-Breaker and he did ask Lord Vresco as he always had.
Leaving the bank with his uncle by law, he was relieved as the sun set to go home and prepare. All afternoon had been informing his personal fleet of three vessels they would set sail for Westeros at dawn, while not trying to wrangle those baboons who dared call themselves Keyholders, scrapping over every little thing. He needed everything ready to go by dawn and a stiff drink.
“Aunt Chelle will ask ‘why you’.” Lord Vresco Antaryon of Braavos predicted, “With what should I reply?”
“Alternatives were a Martell without name or title,” He offered, “Or a Oakheart of the same.”
“If they found out…” The second son didn't finish. “You think that will satisfy her?”
“I think satisfying her is supposed to be your lot in life, Uncle,” He teased, enjoying the salty smell of the lagoon that would soon be departed. “Not mine.”
His uncle laughed heartily, “Fair enough.” They walked in silence for a moment, before the man, dark of hair and beginning to silver at the front, just starting to gather a gut from age despite still swinging a mean sword if it was called for, scrutinized his nephew. “You might consider finding an heir for yourself, if not for her, your mother, or that key.”
Sea green eyes that at different times had been proclaimed by those closest to him to be green, blue, and grey depending on his mood, rolled as Tycho considered the encouragement. “Is it so wrong to want what my parents found? What you have with my aunt?”
“No, no.” He agreed with his nephew, pulling his Braavosi purple cloak closer around him in the evening wind, “We are a free people and only marry for love. All we want is for you to find your match, nephew.”
“I know, Uncle.” Wishing to discuss anything else, Tycho changed the subject, “Besides, I'm sure I can borrow one of your brood of seven for an heir.”
The shorter man snorted curtly, “I reckon not one of them is going to mature enough at this point. We may both be fucked.”
“They are a spirited bunc-”
“Spoiled little shits, the lot!” Vresco loved his wife and children more than anything, but had to admit, “And we did it! Elle and I are staring in the looking glass with regrets aplenty! And now it's too late.”
“Plenty of brats grow into remarkable adults,” He noted, taking a single step up the stairs to the apartment in the city he maintained, unsure where this was even coming from. “And they are all so young.”
His uncle looked his age for a moment, “I'm not so sure, Ty. And it bothers me.”
“I don't-”
“It doesn't matter.”
Bidding safe travels, the less active Key Holder wandered off toward the larger homes built in this district, but further back from the lagoon view he paid handsomely for. Unsure how to help his uncle's plight, Tycho Nestoris moved upstairs and disrobed down to his small clothes in his bedchamber. It wasn't a large place, with a solar and one guest bedchamber, but it was just him and the excellent view. He stared out at the Titan for a long time with wine, admiring the sight’s beauty and the feeling of being home.
Sentimentality would soon fade with a trip across the Narrow Sea.
His travel trunks were packed and the field crew had all confirmed to arrive in the morning for departure after he sent summons with a few boys running around the bank. There were orphans all over the place around their establishment, letting those children in need earn easy coin by delivering messages. It developed their knowledge of the city and gave Keyholders messengers within the same.
Several glasses in and, honestly, about to go to sleep until roused for the departure, the last thing he was expecting was a knock on the bloody front door. Who would be showing up here so late? Tycho had a valyrian steel knife gifted to him by Nastur when he became a man on that first trip to Lys at ten and five tucked up his sleep shirt sleeve, the pants also thrown on quickly so he could answer.
Seeing his aunt, he rolled his eyes and waved her inside.
Grey and hazel eyes studied the dark charcoal dyed silk set leaving much of his chest exposed, but he didn't hide removing the blade from his fittng sleeve that bloomed only at the wrist, “To what do I owe the pleasure, Aunt Elle?”
“Shut the door, Ty. We need to talk.”
He did as he was told and shrugged. “About?”
She was still studying him, “You are the most defensible man, I might even argue, in this world. The most studied to be so water dancer in your year. All these years earning those muscles, it seems such a shame to waste them.”
“Show me a woman worth defending.”
She knew he meant individually after all these years. Her husband would attest to his defense of every woman in Braavos with his decisions everyday. As if they were still Anne, come again. “Your expectations are aloft to the stars.”
“True.”
“I've wanted to say this for years.” Cyrelle confessed, “You are your fathers’ son!”
Now, he stared at her.
“Stannis Baratheon will lay siege to King's Landing at any moment,” She swore to what everyone else waited to see with baited breath, “But when he's repelled by the Great Lion… You need to understand who you are dealing with, nephew.”
“He will never know-”
“Oh, but he will, my boy. All men must die and he will know.”
“Pardon?”
She smiled sadly, sitting on the bench in his solar and drinking deeply from his abandoned glass of wine, “If it hadn't been for that storm… I wish your mother was here, she was better with this sort of thing. You made the most sense to go, but do not actually know why.”
“Why then?” He wanted to know. He'd always wanted to know. But the identity of his father was the one thing kept from him and suddenly it seemed in reach.
“I don't know if you will ever fully understand what your mother was trying to do when she had you, but there are days all I know for certain is that she succeeded. You got very little of her at the end of it all.”
“Please just explain.”
“There are certain potions a woman can consume, so multiple fathers possibly could come together to create a shared child in her womb.”
“Are you saying I have multiple fathers?”
“Two.” She clarified, “My sister's plot was scandalous by the Seven Kingdoms’ standards at large, but she was no Khaleesi.”
“Who?”
“Wrong question. First, you must understand why.” She took off her purple cloak, throwing it over the nearest table and placed her kicked off shoes tucked neatly under it, “I'll stay the night and see you off.”
“Fine, just-”
“I am, I am. Let's go to my room,” It was late and she'd largely finished raising her children. The maester confirmed she'd finally made it to Cronehood just that morning.
Despite her husband's crisis over it, soon enough adulthood would kick their spawn in the teeth as it did all, then they would each rise to the occasion. For now they were still all young.
A bed was overdue to her at this hour, so she took it with a refilled glass, staring out at the Titan. “You know the story of how your grandmother destroyed our lives. Being born Rohanne and Cyrelle Tarbeck, daugthers of Ellyn Reyne, was not someone to be in 261 to hear it told by those fating us for the Silent Sisters without tongues.”
He knew all that. Ellyn Reyne, then Tarbeck, had damned both houses foolishly. Her daughters tried to convince her right up until the night before Tywin Lannister arrived, then managed to escape somehow. That's where his knowledge stopped though, because it involved his father and they hadn't wanted him to know. Realizing he was created with a sort of magic that would get him put to death if anyone in Westeros found out certainly explained why.
“Your mother had this daring idea at seventeen that she is going to broker peace between us and Tywin Lannister,” Cyrelle thought of her Vresco and Anne's Nastur. Of staring up at her audacious and cunning big sister with a heart of gold at that party as a small girl. “You will never bear the burden of marital citizenship as we did living there, but… Duty is a great weight women endure more brutally than men, even when both can be abused. Wars are stopped by unions all the time, sometimes two lives are still lost.”
“I know. You've told me.”
“She had a brilliant plan. We were at a feast in Casterly Rock when she saw them together and realized the young knights were paramours.”
“Paramours? The Great Lion?” He was still confused, “And who?”
“She offered to marry the knight of their pair; proof that our offer wasn't further plotting by the bitch. Our mother was baiting so openly that your mother was desperate to make sure Tywin knew we were not at peace with a brutal death just yet.”
He chuckled, despite the lacking answer, realizing that she wanted him to ask the right questions, “And how did you do that?”
“I was married off to a fifth son from House Lannister of Lannisport, but he was off to die at war before I flowered here in Braavos.” Meeting his gaze, Elle sought to remind her ever logical nephew, “It wasn't really about me. Your mother offered Tywin his heart's utmost desire.”
“Which was?”
“A child with Ser Brynden Tully.”
“The Blackfish?” Coiled tight in a corner chair, he couldn't swallow the facts right away. “And Tywin Lannister?”
“You wanted to know.”
“He would have murdered his own son?”
She laughed in his face most unkindly, “Darling, how do you think we got out? Tywin sent your father ahead and he smuggled the three of us north to White Harbor. Nastur was looking for an heir and Lord Stark recommended you.”
“Why would they be in opposition, if…”
She studied long and sturdy nails, not perfectly uniform, but shapely and strong, “Your father sent a raven. Two words, ‘He's out.’” The same hands curled into fists, “Tywin never got it.”
The women in his family survived much to make it here and he thought no less of her as that strong voice cracked, “I'm told he b-begged for you. Offered to forgive the debt, make me the next Lady L-Lannister; he hadn't married Jo yet. All he wanted was his boy… Brynden’s boy.”
“She was that far gone?”
Cyrelle Antaryon scoffed, “Ellyn Reyne was obsessed with being a Lannister. She thought her children and being a Tarbeck were beneath her.” He still looked unsure, so she decided only the entire truth would do. No one would argue he wasn't old enough to handle it. “I'm told my mother mutilated another toddler after putting them in a little red and gold lion outfit Tywin had made for you to tease the Blackfish. Sent him the body.” She knew, “That's when he put an end to them all, but to this day I'm told he's never faced your father again after his perceived failure. Some say that song is all that can soothe him since, but no one knows why in all of Westeros except Brynden.”
Silence reigned as he processed that information. Catelyn Tully was currently at her son's side through the Young Wolf’s battles, but one of his fathers had declared for this King in the North and the other was grandfather to the Iron Throne’s holder. Maybe a bastard of the Reach would be better.
“No, you need to do this. If you need anything, then you can ask it of them.” She assured, strawberry blonde hair had long faded to white and was pinned tight to come here, but grey and hazel eyes sparkled, “You are Tycho Nestoris, Tie-Breaker for the True Keyholders of Braavos’ Iron Bank and Son of the Free Cities. If Tycho Tully can be of any use to you however, we are not above the masks some of your patrons find so useful.”
Another knock on the door earned an eye roll. “Goodnight, Aunt Elle.”
“I'll see you at the docks, darling.”
Jerking the door open, Tycho softened at the sight of a ten year old maiden, plain brown hair and features belying quick feet and an excellent memory for relay which earned the laughing faces stitched across her charcoal dress, “Good evening, Myrrah.”
“Apologies, Lord Nestoris. The Sea Lord has requested your presence on the barge before you depart at dawn.”
“Run back to Lord Antaryon. Tell him I'm changing, then on the way.”
“Of course.”
She did exactly as bid and he quickly went to his bed chambers throwing his sleep clothes back into that open trunk and grabbing his departure clothes. Well fitting black trousers were tied off, then paired with a Braavosi purple tunic, tight fitting around the chest and waist as he preferred, sleeves a matching color were much the same until flaring at the bottom this time more broadly than his sleep tunics. It was a popular fashion choice of most strategic water dancers, who much preferred to shield their hands from warning opponents off in a fight. After years of practice it was no trouble to tie the fitted wrists off himself.
Known mostly for his place as a prominent Keyholder and for his influence at the bank, Tycho had in fact trained as a water dancer renowned for defensive tacticianing. He had even served as the Tytan of the Titan for a term, which was probably the second thing most regarded him for in his lifetime. Going to duel at the Moon Pool most nights was just maintenance.
A black leather doublet double branded with inverted triangles having offered hands at the joining on both sides was thrown over the tunic, then his thicker purple cloak with fox fur was another layer yet, while his day cloak was tucked into the trunk to beat him to the docks. If Braavos’ Sea Lord wanted a word, then it was going to mean going straight to the docks in the morning, so he grabbed his sword to go armed as he always did outside home; a dagger alone would not do. Watching, hearing, and feeling as steel clashed with his movement south around the Purple Harbor looking for their fearless leader’s pleasure barge making its nightly rounds, Tycho fought not to think about the valyrian steel sword on his waist.
It wasn't a tacky golden monstrosity decorated in bloody illusions of scarlet, in fact even the hilt was mostly valyrian steel only broken up by golden ridges perfectly placed for maximum grip, then only decorated by the black dragonsteel lion roaring as the blade began. Not hearing Nastur’s voice saying that it would forge his way home, whether he needed to defend or return, could never make him sentimental. Never a familial link he'd be allowed to acknowledge on pain of death, he had the ancestral greatsword of House Lannister at his side, even unsure what to do with the knowledge at this moment.
Luckily, Ferrego hadn't started rounds yet it was so early in the night, so he just boarded the barge. Courtesans danced around him kindly without flirtation or interruption to their rhythm after all these years. He wasn't opposed to paid company every few months, always careful to pay enough avoiding bastards wasn't a problem.
Exhibition, however, did nothing for him. This was not his preferred meeting spot. Rarely did preferences work out anyway.
Every cushion was overstuffed as he got past the rowers and back toward Lord Antaryon's station onboard. Mercifully no one was attending the older man of sixty and some years yet, so he just touched the Sea Lord’s signet ring to his forehead before taking a seat reclining in the large nest to his right. It wasn't uncomfortable and he'd done this many times with his uncle's older brother.
Ferrego Antaryon served as Sea Lord since he was fifty and three. An average sized man, he was farther along in his gut compared to Vresco, plus more silver to his hair. Long hair was pulled over his shoulder so they could better converse, the older man shifting closer in his cloudy blue tunic that was untied beneath an unfastened doublet.
“Cyrelle entered the final stage. Did they tell you?”
“Is that why they're both so…” He trailed off unsure how to even describe his aunt and uncle this evening.
Ferrego snorted, “That's it. They'll adjust before you return.”
He nodded solemnly.
“Do you wish to discuss it?”
Looking up at the wise Sea Lord, Tycho rolled his eyes to realize all the adults in his life had known. “Why not tell me before?”
“Despite curiosity,” Ferrego shrugged, “You've never moved to face it before. Any knowledge could be useful.”
“The Blackfish is legendary,” Even across the Narrow Sea no on would dare to cross the most famed trickster of their generation on the battlefield, “But I've never-”
Brown eyes appraised him, “You'll find Tywin first, I'm sure. All you need to know about Brynden is that he loved you and wanted to protect you more than anything.”
“It's been almost forty years. Certainly he could have found the Old Lion.”
“Don't let his age fool you, boy. Tywin can't just be outdone, especially when he feels the shame of failure.”
“How do you know them?”
“I was a young Captain for my father once. Sailed west often enough, thoughts of bringing freedom to Westeros as we all did.” He smiled at the young man, then realized he now thought of that age as youthful. His blond hair was thick and wavy, heavily highlighted by strawberry-blond and true auburn, one pesky curl always fell from his widow’s peak down the center of his forehead making him look like a flame. It was only worse when he grew out that deep auburn beard and looked like a handsome blend of the two in their youth when Ferrego knew them. “Perhaps that was another's destiny, not mine. You'll find whatever is meant in Westeros. Worry does nothing to press your advantage.”
That much was true. They spoke of other things for the rest of the night. Braavos and what was needed before winter set in. The aging Sea Lord predicted that he wouldn't make it past the next winter, which made it even more imperative that their city be well prepared to endure it. For that to come to fruition, a Stark had to be returned to Winterfell.
If they helped his sisters, Robb Stark went home. Or if the sisters cooperated, then their claim would save the North, if the Young Wolf fell.
This was his mission.
Hours later, as their head finished with him, Ty used one of the many stops around the harbor to allow new arrivals, so he could slip off at the Moon Pool. Entirely too close to dawn for him to go home and wake his aunt rudely, he decided to just kill time here. It was one of the only spots in the city still awake besides barges such as Ferrego’s covered in laughing faces.
“Tyr Tytan!!”
It rang out from at least twenty of the water dancers clashing around him upon approach and Tycho just waved broadly to recognize all. A couple commanders as seasoned as him volunteered to lose for the sake of a chance at not. Though they failed to disarm him, he also took on, then gave advice to, a couple of the green boys just looking to endure their required term in the Titan between sixteen and twenty-one.
None of them would even be looked at by a Braavosi maiden seriously until they managed it. Those were the unspoken rules.
All those he spoke to seemed fond enough of Tok Tytan, who was just beginning his five year tenure with one completed. Confidence in him was more than half the battle.
After spending some time with the young men, recalling when he'd faced that first round himself before being named Tytan of the Titan and signing up for round two. He didn't envy them enough for a trip backward.
Watching his ships prepared and loaded by his aunt in the earliest light of pre-dawn meant that he really could have left the other tytans to go help. He waited with them until all their fighters did truly begin breaking up with the sun’s first peak over that horizon. Slowly, he moved from his closest friends, Tor and Tar Tytan. Both went by those names exclusively after forsaking their noble names within the city to be lifers within the Titan. One was a third son and one a fourth, so it hadn't been likely impactful anyway.
They were the only two in the city he'd told the truth to, who didn't already know it. Neither envied his lot, but wished him luck.
Hugging his aunt and boarding that vessel, there was no grand departure to see him off, although his uncle, aunt, Sea Lord, and friends all waved before making their way to work, his little cousins running to go play after doing the same. Not a man of faith necessarily, number and probability having always led his thinking, Tycho still offered a sort of prayer. A thought that if the spirit of his late mother thought to guide him on this journey, then she'd do better staying here to guard all they were leaving behind.
Losing sight of the shore he stayed on deck until he passed under the Titan. It was obviously Tar and Tor who told them every single time that he was leaving, because the boys above always knew. Even when he'd tried to disguise his ships to avoid this tradition.
The great mechanitions of the Titan had to be kept operational no matter how many centuries would pass before someone else would be that stupid. The Sparkle Sand tossed on Tytans leaving or coming home as a celebration was the most fun they got to have and certainly better than anything else that would come from those thighs. Arriving at the Capitol covered in purple and blue shine was largely unappealing though.
As soon as Braavos faded from sight he went to his chambers, leaving his captain laughing and pointing from under a shelter with his crew, like his precious ship wasn't covered in the horseshit too. The doublet would be spared with a wet rag, but Tycho just pulled the entire tunic and trouser combination away to be stuffed in a garment bag until a proper washing could be arranged. Down to his small clothes, grabbing a vial of dreamless sleep from his trunk, he downed the contents and collapsed onto bed praying he wouldn't wake until they reached King's Landing.