The dungeons stink of rotting hay, stale water and old bones. It's airless, damp corridors barely lit and uneven cobbles underfoot. If this is what the free are allowed to walk on, you dread to think what lurks behind bars.

Stepping gingerly into the cell, you squint through the darkness. It's as grim as expected, light limited and air dead. Your gaze falls to the reason you journeyed to Kings Landing. Huddled and chained in the corner is Tyrion. He's the same as he always has been, but he has a look to him that you don't recognise. Exchanging letters does little for the mind's eye, so to see that Lannister pride dwindling and his face gaunt, it's like you're seeing him for the first time again.

Tyrion's hardened gaze softens with recognition when his tired eyes see who's come calling. But it's short lived, the cogs in his head turning and then his eyes narrow. "No," his voice is hoarse from lack of use and dehydration, tone firm. "Don't you dare. I may have begged the Gods for a warrior to fight for me and I will accept any fool but you."