Tyrion could not remember the last time he felt so trapped. The ancient walls of Harrenhal loomed above him like a giant's cage, its melted stone towers a testament to what dragons could do to even the mightiest of fortresses. He took another long drink from his wine cup, savoring the Dornish red. If I'm to be roasted alive, he mused, I might as well have a proper vintage in my belly.
"My lord," Pod's quiet voice came from behind him. "The horses are ready, just as you asked. Hidden in the stables near the Hunter's Gate."
"Good lad," Tyrion muttered, not turning from his position at the window.
The great hall below was filled with the sounds of argument, the voices of his father, Renly Baratheon, and Harry Strickland of the Golden Company rising up like angry wasps. Tyrion could barely make out their words, but he didn't need to – he'd heard enough of their bickering in the war council.
"Seven hells, what I wouldn't give for an hour with a woman right now," he muttered, remembering the last whore his father had driven out. The poor girl's screams as she was whipped through the streets still haunted him. Another brilliant move by the great Tywin Lannister – driving away any chance his men had of dying happy.
The Hound's gravelly voice interrupted his thoughts. "Your father wants you in the council chamber. Again."
Tyrion turned, raising an eyebrow at Sandor Clegane. "And here I was, just about to jump from the window. Such terrible timing."
"Might be safer than what's coming," the Hound growled, his burned face twitching.
"My dear Clegane, when did you become such an optimist?" Tyrion waddled toward the door, gesturing for Pod to follow. "Come, Pod. Let's go watch the lions and stags try to outroar each other while death circles overhead."
The council chamber was thick with tension when they arrived. Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the table, his face as stern as ever, while Renly Baratheon paced the room in his green velvet doublet, looking more like he was attending a feast than planning for war. Harry Strickland, the captain-general of the Golden Company, stood examining a map, his golden rings glinting in the torchlight. And then there was Joffrey, looking thoroughly pleased with himself for being included.
"Ah, the family's all here," Tyrion announced, climbing onto his chair. "Shall we continue arguing about who gets to sit on the pointy chair after we somehow manage not to die?"
"When I'm king—" Renly began for what felt like the hundredth time.
"You mean when my grandson—" Tywin cut in icily.
Tyrion took a long drink from his wine cup. "Perhaps we should first focus on not becoming dragon food before deciding who gets to sit on that uncomfortable chair?"
"Uncle, you dare question my right to—" Joffrey's shrill voice pierced the air.
"Question it? My dear nephew, I'm merely suggesting that being alive might be a prerequisite for kingship."
Tywin shot him a withering glare. "If you have nothing useful to contribute—"
"Oh, but I do, father. While you're all squabbling over a throne we don't possess, might I remind you that fighting a dragon didn't fare so well last time."
Harry Strickland shifted uncomfortably. "The Golden Company has faced worse—"
"Worse than a dragon?" Tyrion laughed mirthlessly. "Do tell. Did you perhaps fight a kraken? Or maybe dance with giants beyond the Wall?"
"Our elephants—" Strickland started.
"Ah yes, the elephants. I'm sure they'll be very impressive as they run away screaming. Dragons aren't particularly known for their fear of large mammals, you see."
Renly stood up, his fine clothes rustling. "We have forty-five thousand men—"
"All of whom are equally flammable," Tyrion interjected. "Fascinating how that works."
"Enough!" Tywin slammed his hand on the table. "The boy must have weaknesses. No one is invincible."
Joffrey perked up. "We could use scorpions—"
"Because hitting a moving target in the sky with a glorified crossbow has such promising odds," Tyrion muttered into his cup.
"The Crown will not bend to a bastard pretender," Tywin declared.
"No, we'll just break instead. Much more dignified." Tyrion signaled for more wine. "Has anyone considered the radical notion of, oh, I don't know... negotiating?"
The look of disgust on his father's face could have curdled milk. "A Lannister does not—"
"—negotiate, yes, yes. We pay our debts, hear us roar, and apparently burn just as well as anyone else." He said, yet he felt like he was talking to no one since no one here seemed to listen to him. Since when are people so eager to die?
Tyrion watched as his father's piercing gaze fixed on Loras Tyrell. The Knight of Flowers seemed to wilt slightly under that stare, like a rose in winter.
"Where are the Tyrell forces, Ser Loras?" Tywin's voice could have frozen the seven hells. "Your father promised forty thousand men."
Loras shifted uncomfortably, his usually pristine armor suddenly seeming too tight. "The ravens should arrive soon with news of—"
"Ravens!" Tyrion interrupted with a laugh. "How wonderful. Perhaps we can train them to attack the dragon. Though I must say, birds against dragon seems like a rather one-sided battle. Rather like our current situation, come to think of it."
"Watch your tongue, Imp," Joffrey sneered.
"Why? Is it about to catch fire? Because that seems to be the direction we're all headed." Tyrion took another long drink. "Though I must say, the ravens' arrival might be the most exciting part of our day. Will they bring news of our imminent doom, or perhaps just a lovely poem about it?"
Loras's face flushed red. Tyrion noted how the young knight's eyes kept darting to Renly, as if seeking support. Oh, you poor fool, Tyrion thought. Your family has already chosen the winning side, haven't they?
"The Reach has always been loyal to—" Loras began.
"To whoever has the biggest stick?" Tyrion suggested. "Or in this case, the biggest dragon? Come now, Ser Loras, let's not pretend your dear grandmother hasn't already done the math. The Queen of Thorns didn't earn her reputation by backing losing horses... or burning dragons, as the case may be."
"How dare you suggest—" Renly started.
"I suggest many things, Lord Renly. Like perhaps we should all relocate to King's Landing? The city's walls are higher, and my sweet sister is there. She might prove useful."
"How?" Harry Strickland demanded.
"Well, if nothing else, she might irritate the dragon to death. She does have a particular talent for making bad situations worse. Though I suppose that's a family trait." He gestured around the table. "Present company included."
Tywin's jaw clenched. "We have the numbers—"
"To make a very impressive pyre, yes." Tyrion nodded sagely. "Though I must say, father, your arithmetic seems a bit off. One dragon plus zero Tyrell army equals... what was that word again? Ah yes. Doom."
"We still have the Golden Company," Joffrey declared proudly. "Their elephants will crush any dragon!"
Tyrion stared at his nephew for a long moment. "Yes, because elephants are known for their excellent dragon-fighting capabilities. Tell me, nephew, do these elephants perhaps fly? No? Then I fear they'll make for rather expensive dragon snacks."
"The boy must have weaknesses," Tywin insisted.
"Oh, certainly. Perhaps he's allergic to fire? No, wait, that's us." Tyrion turned to Loras. "Ser Loras, when exactly did your grandmother send her reply to the Targaryen boy? Was it before or after she saw his dragon? I'm merely curious about the timing of our impending abandonment."
Loras's face went pale. Renly looked at his knight with growing suspicion.
"I... I don't know what you mean," Loras stammered.
"Of course you don't. And I'm secretly a giant." Tyrion smiled sweetly. "Though speaking of giants, has anyone considered that we're sitting in the one castle famous for being melted by dragons? The irony is rather delicious, don't you think?"
"Enough!" Tywin roared. "We will hold Harrenhal—"
"Like butter holds its shape in summer?" Tyrion suggested. "Father, I know you're fond of your lions, but even they must occasionally admit when they're outmatched by a dragon."
Joffrey stood up, his crown slightly askew. "I command the dragon to die!"
There was a moment of absolute silence before Tyrion burst out laughing. "Oh, brilliant! Why didn't we think of that sooner? Quick, someone write that down. 'King Joffrey's Master Strategy: Command Dragon to Die.' I'm sure that will work splendidly."
"You mock your king?" Joffrey's face turned purple.
"No, Your Grace, I mock someone who thinks royal commands affect dragons. There's a subtle difference." Tyrion turned to his father. "Shall I send a raven to Cersei informing her we'll be joining her soon? I'm sure she'll be thrilled to see us all. Almost as thrilled as she'll be to see a dragon."
The meeting devolved into more arguing, with Renly now eyeing Loras suspiciously, Tywin glaring at everyone, and Joffrey continuing to spout increasingly ridiculous suggestions about dragon-killing. Through it all, Tyrion kept drinking, wondering if perhaps being drunk would make being burned alive less uncomfortable.
At least, he thought, when the histories are written, they can say the Lannisters died as they lived – spectacularly badly at dealing with dragons.
Tyrion slid off his chair. "If anyone needs me, I'll be doing something productive. Like drinking until I can't remember we're all doomed."
As he waddled toward the door, he heard Joffrey's voice: "Grandfather, we could poison the dragon's food—"
Tyrion paused. "Fascinating strategy, nephew. Tell me, how exactly do you plan to serve dinner to a dragon? Should we set up a nice table with proper cutlery?"
"You dare mock your king?" Joffrey's face turned red.
"Pod!" he called out to his squire, ignoring the stupid child, who appeared instantly. "Make sure our... contingency plans are in order."
Pod nodded discreetly, understanding the reference to their escape preparations.
Later that evening, Tyrion found himself in his chambers with Sandor Clegane, who looked even more dour than usual.
"The little shit wants to send men to hunt the dragon while it sleeps," Sandor growled.
Tyrion nearly choked on his wine. "Wonderful. I assume he's volunteering to lead this brilliant expedition?"
"Says he'll reward whoever brings him the beast's head."
"Ah, yes, because dragons are known for their deep sleeping habits and their tendency to leave their heads unguarded." Tyrion refilled both their cups. "Tell me, Clegane, how do you feel about impromptu travel plans?"
Sandor's scarred face twitched. "Better than being roasted alive."
"My thoughts exactly. Though I must say, the irony of my father allying with Renly Baratheon isn't lost on me. The same man who's been plotting against my sweet sister and nephew for years." Tyrion chuckled darkly. "We're truly scraping the bottom of the barrel for allies."
"Saw the Golden Company training today," Sandor grunted. "Preparing to fight a dragon with fucking spears."
"Perhaps they plan to tickle it into submission." Tyrion sighed. "You know what the truly amusing part is? My father actually believes we can win this. The great Tywin Lannister, finally outsmarted by his own pride."
Later
Tyrion sat in his chambers, swirling wine in his cup as he stared out the window into the dark night. His thoughts drifted to his brother.
"Where in seven hells are you, Jaime?" he muttered to himself. For a moment, he considered the possibility that his brother had returned to Cersei in King's Landing, but dismissed it almost immediately. "Ten years without running back to her... you wouldn't start now."
The sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts. Looking up, he saw Pod hovering nervously in the doorway.
"Has something happened?" Tyrion asked, noting his squire's anxious expression.
"My lord," Pod shifted from foot to foot, "the Golden Company... they've brought women to the castle. Many women. They're in the old storage building, the three-story one near the eastern wall."
Tyrion's eyebrows shot up. "Are they now? And why, dear Pod, didn't you lead with this excellent information?"
"I... I thought you might want to know, my lord."
"Pod, you wonderful boy," Tyrion drained his cup and stood up. "Lead the way. This evening just became significantly more promising."
They made their way through the darkened corridors of Harrenhal, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the melted stone walls. As they approached the building, the sounds of laughter, music, and raucous singing grew louder.
"Listen to that," Tyrion mused as they walked. "The sweet sound of soldiers spending their coin before they become dragon food."
The three-story building stood slightly apart from the main castle, its windows glowing with warm light. Through the open doors, Tyrion could see Golden Company soldiers in various states of inebriation, many with women in their laps or hanging on their arms.
"Well, well," Tyrion smiled, watching the scene before him. "At least someone's making the most of our final days. Though I must say, it's rather thoughtful of them to arrange such entertainment. It would be terribly rude of me not to partake."
He could see several officers throwing coins around, boasting about their battles and victories, while others were engaged in drinking contests. The air was thick with the smell of wine, perfume, and smoke from the hearths.
"Shall we join the festivities, Pod?" Tyrion grinned, already moving toward the entrance. "After all, if we're going to die horribly, we might as well do so with smiles on our faces and empty purses."
The warmth and noise washed over them as they stepped inside, and Tyrion felt his spirits lifting for the first time in days. At least here, he could forget about dragons, his father's delusions, and Joffrey's idiocy for a few blessed hours.
"I must say, Pod, your timing is impeccable. Another hour listening to my father and nephew's delusions about victory might have driven me to jump from the highest tower."
"That wouldn't be very high, my lord," Pod said with unusual boldness. "Most of the towers are melted."
Tyrion barked out a laugh. "Pod, you're developing a sense of humor! Perhaps the threat of death brings out the best in us all."
As they entered the building, the familiar scents of wine, perfume, and desperation filled the air. Golden Company soldiers were scattered throughout, some already deep in their cups, others negotiating prices with the women.
"Look at that," Tyrion gestured to a particularly rowdy group. "Fifteen thousand men of the finest sellsword company in Essos, preparing for battle the only way they know how – by emptying their purses before they're roasted alive."
A buxom woman with fiery red hair approached them. "Well, if it isn't the famous Tyrion Lannister," she purred. "I've heard such interesting things about you."
"All lies, I assure you," Tyrion smiled. "I'm far more interesting in person. Pod, why don't you—" He turned to find his squire had already been dragged away by two giggling women. "Well, well. The boy learns quickly."
The redhead, who introduced herself as Ros, led Tyrion to a quieter corner. "Wine?" she offered.
"My dear, at this point, wine is less a preference and more a necessity." He accepted the cup. "Tell me, what brings a Northern girl like yourself this far south?"
"How did you know I was Northern?"
"Besides the accent? The way you haven't broken into a sweat in this hellish heat like these Essosi women." He gestured around. "That, and I make it my business to know things. Speaking of knowing things..." He leaned closer. "What interesting conversations have you overheard from our golden friends?"
Ros smiled knowingly. "Information costs extra, my lord."
"My dear, information is the only currency worth anything these days. Gold won't matter much when we're all ash, will it?"
Before she could respond, a commotion broke out near the entrance. Harry Strickland had arrived with several of his officers, all of them already deep in their cups.
"To victory!" one shouted.
"To the death of dragons!" another added.
Tyrion couldn't help himself. "To delusions of grandeur!" he called out, raising his cup.
Strickland turned, his face flushed with wine. "Something amusing, Lannister?"
"Oh, many things. The way you all pretend we're not doomed. The fact that my nephew thinks he can order a dragon to die. The remarkable similarity between an elephant and a very large roast waiting to happen. Take your pick."
Several of the officers bristled, but Strickland laughed. "You have a sharp tongue, dwarf."
"Better than having a burned one. Tell me, Captain, in all your years of fighting, how many dragons have you faced?"
"The Golden Company fears nothing."
"Ah, so the answer is none. Fascinating how the most confidence comes from those with the least experience." Tyrion turned back to Ros. "Now, where were we? Ah yes, you were about to tell me all the interesting things you've heard."
A massive crash from upstairs interrupted them – apparently, someone had decided furniture made excellent projectiles. Tyrion sighed. "The last nights of condemned men are always so predictable. Wine, women, and property damage."
"You really think we're all going to die?" Ros asked quietly.
"My dear, I think we're all going to die spectacularly. The only question is whether we do so with some dignity or..." he gestured to where two sellswords were now wrestling over a chicken leg, "...like that. If I were you, I think I would leave this place as soon as possible."
"I think I will do that." Ros mumbled to herself, not caring if Tyrion heard her.
Pod appeared suddenly at his side, looking flustered. "My lord, there's... there's something you should know."
"Pod, unless it's about a secret dragon-killing weapon or a magical door to safety, I suggest you return to your new friends and—"
"It's about your brother, my lord."
Tyrion's amusement vanished. "What about Jaime?"
Pod leaned in close, whispering something in Tyrion's ear. The dwarf's eyes widened slightly.
"Well," he said after a moment, "that is... interesting. Ros, my dear, I'm afraid we'll have to continue this another time. Pod, I believe we need some air."
As they made their way out of the building, Tyrion's mind raced. Behind them, the sounds of drunken revelry continued, but it now seemed distant, almost surreal.
"Are you certain about this?" he asked Pod once they were alone in the courtyard.
"Yes, my lord. The... the girls were talking about it."
After searching around for a minute or two, the two of them found who they were looking for.
"Well, this is a sight I never thought I'd see," Tyrion muttered to Pod as they watched Jaime move from one whore to another, asking questions rather than seeking pleasure. "My brother, the famous Kingslayer, prowling a brothel like a septon in search of sinners."
They stood in the shadows of the crowded room, watching as Jaime, wearing normal clothes and a hoodie hiding his golden hair, leaned close to a dark-haired woman.
"Have you seen a dwarf?" they heard him ask. "Sharp tongue, sharper wit, probably insulting someone important as we speak?"
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Tyrion sighed, then raised his voice. "Brother, if you wanted to find a dwarf with devastating charm, you need only have followed the trail of offended nobles and empty wine bottles."
Jaime whirled around, his hand instinctively going to his sword before his face broke into a genuine smile. "Tyrion!"
"The very same. Though I must say, dear brother, this is hardly your usual haunt. Did you perhaps get lost on your way to disappointing our father?"
Instead of responding with his usual wit, Jaime grabbed Tyrion's arm with surprising urgency. "We need to talk. Somewhere private."
"Now? But I just arrived, and these lovely ladies—"
"Now, Tyrion." The serious tone in Jaime's voice caught his attention.
As Jaime practically dragged him toward the door, Tyrion called back, "Pod, my sincerest apologies to the ladies! Perhaps another time, when my brother isn't being so dramatically mysterious!"
Once outside, Jaime led them around the building to a secluded corner, constantly checking over his shoulder.
"Well?" Tyrion asked, straightening his doublet. "Are you going to tell me where you've been since that spectacular defeat at Snake's Pass? Father's been absolutely charming about your disappearance, by the way."
"We need to leave Harrenhal. Tonight."
Tyrion blinked. "I'm sorry, did you say 'we'? And while I've been planning my own exit strategy, I'm curious about your sudden urgency. Has father's disappointment finally become too much to bear?"
"The King has agreed to spare your life, but we need to go now."
"The King?" Tyrion's eyes narrowed. "Funny thing about kings these days – they seem to be multiplying like rabbits. Which one are we talking about? Our beloved nephew, the perpetually angry one? Lord Renly, the self-proclaimed fashion icon of warfare? Or perhaps—" He stopped, studying his brother's face. "Ah. The one with the rather large, scaly pet."
Jaime's silence was answer enough.
"Well, well," Tyrion mused, taking a pull from his wine skin. "The mighty Kingslayer, throwing his lot in with a Targaryen. The irony is absolutely delicious. Tell me, brother, does this sudden change of allegiance have anything to do with where you've been these past weeks?"
"I'll explain everything once we're away from here."
"Oh, I'm sure you will. Though I must admit, I'm rather impressed. Here I thought I was being clever preparing my own escape, and you've managed to out-maneuver us all." Tyrion turned to Pod, who had been hovering nervously nearby. "Pod, be a good lad and find our friend the Hound. Tell him our timeline has moved up considerably."
"Yes, my lord." Pod disappeared into the darkness.
"The Hound?" Jaime raised an eyebrow.
"Oh yes. He's surprisingly amenable to the idea of not being burned alive. Can't imagine why." Tyrion studied his brother. "So, the Targaryen boy – our new king, apparently – he's agreed to spare me? How generous. And what exactly did you have to promise in return?"
"Tyrion—"
"No, no, I'm genuinely curious. What's the going rate for a dwarf's life these days? Though I suppose helping take Casterly Rock might have earned you some goodwill."
Jaime's shocked expression made Tyrion laugh. "Oh, come now, brother. You disappear, Casterly Rock falls with suspicious ease, and now you're here arranging my escape with the blessing of our dragon-riding conqueror? I may be a dwarf, but I'm not stupid."
"You always were the clever one."
"And you were always terrible at keeping secrets. Remember when you tried to convince father it was you who released all the horses from the stables?"
"We were children then."
"And now we're traitors. My, how we've grown." Tyrion took another drink. "Tell me, does our dear sister know about your change of heart?"
"Cersei doesn't know anything."
"Well, that's hardly news, is it?" Tyrion chuckled. "Though I must say, father's face when he learns about this will almost make being burned alive worth it. Almost."
The sound of heavy footsteps announced the Hound's arrival with Pod. Sandor looked between the brothers, his scarred face unreadable.
"So, we're leaving then?" he growled.
"It appears my brother has arranged us safe passage with our new scaly overlord," Tyrion explained. "Assuming, of course, we leave before father realizes his golden son has tarnished the family name even more thoroughly than his dwarf son ever managed."
"Fuck the family name," Sandor spat. "Where are these horses?"
"The stables near the east gate," Jaime said. "I've arranged for the guards to be... distracted."
"More treachery?" Tyrion grinned. "Brother, I'm so proud."
"We need to hurry," Jaime insisted. "The Targaryen forces—"
"Yes, yes, our imminent doom approaches. Though I must say, it's rather nice to be on the right side of the doom for once." Tyrion turned to Pod. "Get our bags. You know where they are."
As Pod rushed off, Tyrion looked up at his brother. "I assume you'll explain everything once we're safely away? Including how you went from Kingslayer to Dragon's friend?"
"I will."
"At least tell me there's wine where we're going?"
"The Dornish have the best wines in Westeros," Jaime smiled.
"Dorne? Oh, perfect. From freezing our arses off in Harrenhal to burning them off in Dorne. At least we'll die warm." Tyrion paused. "The king is there, isn't he? In Dorne?"
"No, the King's Camp is somewhere else, much nearer but I'm sure you will like it."
"Well then, brother, lead on. I can't wait to meet the man who managed to make the mighty Kingslayer switch sides. Though I do hope he has a sense of humor. I'd hate to have survived father only to be roasted for making dragon jokes."
As they made their way toward the stables, keeping to the shadows, Tyrion couldn't help but laugh softly.
"Something funny?" Sandor asked.
"Just thinking about father's face when he realizes both his sons betrayed him on the same night. Though technically, I was planning to betray him first. Do you think that counts for something?"
"Aye, it counts for shit," Sandor snorted, scratching his beard. "First one to stab their father in the back gets a pat on the head and cheese cake. That how it works in your fancy houses? Because in my experience, the first traitor just dies first."
"You haven't changed at all, have you?" Jaime said fondly.
"On the contrary, dear brother. I've changed quite a bit. For one thing, I'm about to become a traitor. Though apparently, it runs in the family."
After walking through the castle, they soon found the stables. The lanterns hanging from the side of the stable were the only lights in the place. Tyrion watched as Jaime and Pod prepared the horses. The Hound stood guard at the entrance, his hand resting on his sword hilt.
"So," Tyrion said quietly, "are you going to tell me how you managed to arrange this little escape? I assume it wasn't just your charming personality that convinced a Targaryen to spare the sons of Tywin Lannister."
Jaime checked the saddle straps before answering. "This started a year ago during the Tourney of Highgarden."
"The same one my brother was killed." The hound growled, not looking like he cared that his brother was dead.
"The same." Jaime reaffirmed.
"Wait, you have been allies with this King for a year and you haven't told me." Tyrion asked, sounding hurt.
"Tyrion...my King was not ready for this war, and we needed more time. I didn't want...to risk it." Jaime said, knowing it wasn't really a good excuse.
Tyrion frowned, knowing his brother was not telling him the whole reason. 'You thought I would use your treason against you, tell father, and then hope that he would give me Casterly Rock.' Tyrion almost wanted to say, but they were still in Harrenhal and needed to leave, so he decided to wait for later.
"The king... Jaehaerys... he offered me a chance to atone. Help him take the throne, help protect his family this time, and he'd spare those worth sparing." Jaime turned to his brother. "You were the first name I negotiated for."
"I'm touched," Tyrion said dryly. "Though I'm curious why you think I'm worth sparing."
"Because you're nothing like father. You never were." Jaime lowered his voice further. "There are Dornish spies throughout Harrenhal. They've been watching you, reporting back. They know you've been trying to convince father to surrender, trying to prevent more bloodshed."
"Spying on me? How rude. Though I suppose I should be flattered they found me interesting enough to watch." Tyrion paused. "These spies wouldn't happen to include any of our lovely entertainment this evening?"
Jaime nodded. "Some. They're the ones who told me where to find you."
"Well, that explains why they seemed so interested in my conversation rather than my coin." Tyrion sighed. "So what's the plan? I assume we're not just riding out the front gate."
"In about an hour, there will be a distraction at the western wall. The guards there will be called to help. We ride east, where Dornish scouts are waiting." Jaime hesitated.
The Hound suddenly tensed. "Someone's coming."
They fell silent as footsteps approached, but it was only Pod returning with the last of their supplies.
"The guards at the east gate are drinking wine," Pod reported. "Strong wine."
"Courtesy of our Dornish friends, no doubt," Tyrion mused. "Very thoughtful of them."
"We need to move soon," Jaime said, helping Tyrion onto his horse. "Once the distraction starts, we'll only have a short window."
"And what exactly is this distraction?"
"You'll know it when you hear it." Jaime mounted his own horse. "The king has... creative methods."
"Wonderful. More surprises." Tyrion adjusted himself in the saddle. "Tell me, brother, does our new king know about your...former relationship with our sweet sister?"
Jaime's face hardened. "Yes. He knows everything."
"Everything? And he still trusted you?"
"He's not The Mad King, Tyrion. He's something different."
"Well, he'd have to be, to make the mighty Kingslayer believe in a better future." Tyrion studied his brother's face. "You really believe in him, don't you?"
Before Jaime could answer, a massive explosion rocked the western side of Harrenhal. Shouts and screams filled the air as guards began running toward the commotion.
"That would be our signal," Jaime said, spurring his horse forward. "Stay close and follow me."
As they rode through the chaos, Tyrion couldn't help but laugh. "Creative methods indeed! Though I do hope our new king doesn't make a habit of blowing things up. We've had quite enough of that in this family's history, wouldn't you say?"
They galloped through the east gate, past the guards who were too drunk or distracted to stop them. As they rode into the darkness, Tyrion glanced back at the fortress, where flames now lit up the western sky.
"You know, brother," he called to Jaime, "when I imagined deserting tonight, I didn't think it would involve quite so much theatrical flair. Though I suppose we are riding toward dragons – we should get used to dramatic exits."
"Less talking, more riding," the Hound growled from behind them.
"Oh, very well," Tyrion sighed. "But you all must admit, this is much more exciting than sitting around waiting for father to get us all killed."
Tomorrow
The torches cast long shadows across Harrenhal's great hall as Tywin Lannister strode in, his crimson cloak sweeping behind him. The assembled commanders stood at his entrance – Kevan; Renly Baratheon, looking less composed than usual; and Harry Strickland, the Golden Company's captain, who seemed to be arguing with Renly in hushed tones.
"Where is Ser Loras?" Tywin asked, noting the Knight of Flowers' absence beside his lover.
Renly's jaw tightened. "I...He is with the squires, he wanted to train them."
"How convenient," Tywin replied coldly, his green eyes flecked with gold surveying the room. Something else was amiss. "Where is my son?"
The commanders exchanged glances, but no one spoke.
"I asked a question," Tywin's voice cut through the silence like Valyrian steel. "Where is Tyrion?"
A minute later, a young soldier rushed forward, his face flushed. "My lord, we've searched the castle. Lord Tyrion's chambers are empty. His squire is missing too, and..." he hesitated.
"Speak."
"The Hound is gone as well. And four horses from the eastern stables."
Tywin's face remained impassive, but his knuckles whitened as he gripped the back of a chair.
"My lord," Kevan started, "perhaps—"
The horns cut through the air – three long, mournful blasts that echoed off Harrenhal's ancient stones. The blood drained from Harry Strickland's face.
"Dragon," someone whispered.
"We have forty-five thousand men," Renly declared, though his voice lacked its usual confidence. "And the Golden Company's elephants. One dragon cannot—"
"One dragon burned thirty thousand of my best men at Snake's Pass," Tywin cut in sharply. "Or have you forgotten?"
"That was in the open field," Strickland argued. "Harrenhal's walls—"
"Harrenhal's walls were melted by dragons once before," Kevan reminded them quietly.
A servant burst into the hall, trembling. "My lords! From the northern battlements... you need to see..."
They followed him to the closest window. In the morning light, they could see soldiers – thousands of them, spreading across the horizon.
"The Northern army," Kevan breathed. "But how...?"
"Impossible," Renly shook his head. "They couldn't have crossed the Twins without us knowing. Walder Frey would never—"
Another horn blast, this one different, deeper, more primal. It came from the north, and as they watched, a massive shadow passed over the army.
"To arms!" Tywin's voice rang through the hall with cold authority. "Strickland, get your elephants in position along the eastern wall. They'll try to breach there first."
"The elephants will panic when they see the dragon," Strickland protested.
"Then kill them yourself if they try to flee," Tywin snapped. "Kevan, take five thousand men to reinforce the northern gates. Renly, your men will hold the western approach."
"And what of the dragon?" Renly demanded. "What's to stop it from burning us all where we stand?"
"The scorpions," Tywin turned to a captain. "Man every scorpion we have. Double the crews, triple the bolts. If that beast come within range, I want the sky black with arrows. I will not have House Lannister's legacy end in this gods-forsaken castle. Not like this." He turned to address the assembled commanders. "Any man who retreats without my command will be executed. Any officer who shows cowardice will watch his family die before joining them. Am I understood?"
The commanders nodded grimly.
"Gods be good," someone whispered.
Tywin turned, his eyes reflecting the torchlight like molten gold, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried more menace than any shout. "The gods abandoned this castle long ago. They abandoned it when Harren and all his line burned. They abandoned it when the Dragons first melted these very stones." He stepped forward, each word precise and deadly. "But I am not the gods. I am Tywin Lannister. And I say we will paint these black walls red – with our blood or theirs. Every man here will fight until his last breath, or I will personally ensure that breath is spent watching everything he loves burn. The dragon it's coming to end House Lannister?" A cold, terrible smile crossed his face. "Then the dragon will hear us ROAR."
"To arms! For House Lannister!"