Chapter 380: Slipping Away

"We're Fucked."

Tyrion Lannister sat atop a sandy dune, a defeated expression on his face.

The news of the Dornish Sea battle had left him utterly stunned.

No matter how he turned it over in his mind, he couldn't fathom how the powerful Arbor Fleet had been defeated so decisively by the fledgling Stormlands Navy.

And it wasn't just a defeat—it was an absolute deviation.

"They're the ones fucked. What's that got to do with us?" Bronn replied lazily, lying on his back, one leg crossed and swinging idly in the air.

"You wouldn't understand even if I explained it," Tyrion muttered. "Not that you'd care."

"You're right—I don't care. I'm a sellsword. I do the job, take the coin, and walk away when the gold runs dry."

"You're a knight now," Tyrion reminded him.

"Sellsword, knight—what's the difference, really?"

Tyrion sighed in resignation. "Fair enough. For someone like you, there probably isn't any difference."

Dusting the sand off his clothes, Tyrion stood and stretched his stubby legs.

The sun hung low on the horizon, its fading rays painting the western sky the color of a bleeding wound.

To the north, Yronwood Castle stood steadfast, its bloodstained walls glinting with a strange purplish hue under the dying light.

"With Storm's End providing support, the Martell army has no chance of taking this castle," Tyrion said, the smell of alcohol on his breath. "We'll have to revise our strategy."

"Planning an escape, are we?" Bronn asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

Tyrion rubbed his nose, neither confirming nor denying it. "I'm going to see Princess Arianne."

"Can't let go of that Dornish woman, can you?" Bronn teased. "Forget it. She doesn't like you, and she's nothing but trouble right now."

"My life has never been short on trouble," Tyrion quipped as he began trudging down the dune.

---

He made his way to the main tent of the Martell army's encampment.

After a brief announcement, the guards allowed him inside.

The air inside was perfumed with incense, masking the stench of blood that permeated the camp.

Princess Arianne Martell lay languidly on a woolen rug, wearing only a thin, sleeveless silk dress. Her voluptuous figure was on full display, her dark lashes fluttering over half-lidded eyes that radiated both laziness and allure.

"Your Highness," Tyrion greeted her with a respectful bow.

"Tyrion, care for some wine?"

"No, thank you. I've already had my share," Tyrion replied as he settled onto a low stool, his eyes fixed on the alluring princess before him.

But behind the beauty, Tyrion saw something else—a tragic figure.

"Your Highness," Tyrion began cautiously, "our situation is dire. Therefore—"

"You want to run?" Arianne suddenly snapped her eyes open, her gaze sharp as a blade.

"Of course not," Tyrion said quickly, cursing her quick temper internally. "I only think that the siege of Yronwood Castle is futile. It would be wiser to retreat."

"Retreat?" Arianne rose from the rug, her bare feet padding across the floor as she stopped before him, looking down with disdain. "Have you forgotten your promise? To help me destroy the traitors? Or have you decided you don't want to marry me anymore?"

Her perfume, mingled with the scent of wine, filled Tyrion's nostrils, making him rub his nose awkwardly.

"Of course I want to marry you," he said earnestly. "That's exactly why I'm advising you to withdraw. The defeat of the Arbor Fleet has changed the situation far more than you realize."

"Go on, then. Enlighten me," Arianne said, her expression unreadable.

Tyrion leaned back slightly, craning his neck to meet her gaze. "First of all, the Stormlands Navy now controls the Dornish Sea. If they can deliver supplies to Yronwood Castle this time, they can just as easily send soldiers next time. If Caesar is determined to support House Yronwood, we'll never take the castle.

"More importantly, without the Arbor Fleet to guard it, the Stormlands Navy can sail freely up the Greenblood River, cutting off Dornish trade in the east. Don't forget how Daeron I conquered Dorne all those years ago—by seizing control of the Greenblood.

"Dorne is far weaker now than it was then. If Caesar employs the same strategy, the region will splinter and fall."

Arianne fell silent, her face unreadable as she absorbed his words.

After a long pause, she finally spoke. "The Lannisters won't want to see Dorne fall into Caesar's hands either. So, you should send real support—grain, soldiers—not just… yourself."

Her last words dripped with disdain.

"Your Highness, that cuts me to the core," Tyrion said, clutching his chest in mock anguish. "But you should know, the dwarf before you is the same man who obliterated Stannis Baratheon's fleet at Blackwater Bay."

"Then do the same to the Stormlands Navy," Arianne challenged, leaning down to give him a teasing glimpse of her curves. "If you succeed, I'll let you enjoy Dornish hospitality… in advance."

Tyrion's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on her, unable to look away.

"Tempting as that is," he admitted, "the same trick won't work twice. Besides, the caches of wildfire amassed by the Mad King are all gone. Even if I wanted to repeat the Battle of Blackwater Bay, I couldn't."

"Then make King's Landing send aid!"

"I'll write a letter," Tyrion promised.

An awkward silence fell between them.

After a moment, Arianne asked bitterly, "King's Landing won't support House Martell, will they?"

Tyrion knew what he was supposed to say. The Lannisters needed the Martells to keep Caesar occupied in the south. But as he opened his mouth, he found himself unable to lie.

I'll never be as cold-blooded as my father, he thought. He couldn't tell if this realization made him feel relieved or disappointed.

"If I were you," Tyrion said sincerely, "I'd try to make peace with Storm's End."

"You want me to surrender to Caesar?"

"If you see it that way…"

Arianne suddenly burst into laughter, loud and unrestrained.

When she finally stopped, her expression hardened, and her voice rang with steel:

"Have you forgotten the words of House Martell? Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. I will never bow to Caesar!"

Tyrion sighed. "Very well. I'll return to King's Landing and do my best to secure reinforcements for you."

Arianne said nothing, her expression unreadable. She turned away and reclined on her rug, picking up her wine and drinking as if Tyrion had already left.

He gave her a slight bow before stepping out of the tent.

Outside, Bronn was waiting. Seeing Tyrion's grim face, he whistled and asked, "So? Did you charm the Dornish princess?"

"Shut up," Tyrion muttered, brushing past him.

Bronn followed with a smirk. "What now? We heading back to Sunspear?"

"No," Tyrion replied. "We're going to the port at Sunspear to catch a ship back to King's Landing."

"Running back home, are we?"

"Exactly." Tyrion's lips pressed into a thin line. "But there's one last thing I need to do first."

(End of Chapter)