Chapter 79
TYRION LANNISTER
Tyrion's mind was numb as his steps carried him towards the father's chambers, for he did not know what to think of the situation he was in. Here he was walking towards the room of the man who had ruined his life, a man who was on his deathbed and might not live long enough to see the morrow.
He should be rejoicing, dancing at his fate, yet no laugh burst out of his lips, just as no tears gathered in his eyes for his dying father—and that was also what the man in the room was to him.
Cold. Distant. Cruel.
Father.
Both Lannister and Royal guards guarded the room and opened the doors for him, and as he entered the chambers, the smell hit him first. It was the smell of medicine and death, and the room was illuminated with a dozen torches as Qyburn and his men tended to the old and dying Lion of the Rock, who, despite facing his death, sat straight upon the bed.
Defiant as he was, this was not the same man who had come to the capital, for now his face had thinned and the skin under his eyes lagged, as various tubes prodded at his arms.
"You are finally here," and the Lion's roar had become a whisper, as those green orbs turned towards him, and for the first time in his life, he saw in those eyes a hint of frailty and regret.
"I am," and he would not have come if not for the summons. And even then, a part of him had wanted to ignore it, yet his feet had refused to listen to his heart, and now here he stood in front of his father.
"Leave us," ordered the Old dying Lion of the West as he gazed at the King's Master of Whispers.
"My lord, we must stay here so that we may care for...." Qyburn tried to explain, but the Lion still had enough in him to roar back.
"I will be dead tomorrow, whether you and your men stay here or not." his father's words made him still, and he seemed to have accepted his fate.
"So, leave me and let me talk with my son in peace," his son said.
Son.
There was a time when Tyrion had desired nothing more than to hear those words from his mouth. This little acknowledgement, yet that time was now long gone.
"As you wish, my lord," and who was Qyburn to refuse a dying man, and so he and his men left the room one by one until only the pair of father and son remained in the room, as the Old Lion gazed at him.
"I thought you would have had a laugh by now," and even death had not made him any less callous.
"At least, you have not become completely heartless," and with that, he motioned for him to come closer.
"Come sit," and for some reason, Tyrion followed his words as he walked forward and plopped down on the chair placed beside him, as the Lord of the West gazed at him intensely for a few seconds, before he asked him a question.
"Do you think it was the boy King who tried to kill me?" he asked, and Tyrion had wondered that very thing for many hours and could only reach one answer.
"No," he told him the truth, and he spoke so not because Cregan had given him his word that he had no part in it, but also because it did not make sense.
If Cregan had truly wanted to kill him, he would have done so far from the capital. He would not have tried to kill him right here in his own castle, no matter how enraged he may have been at Jamie's betrayal.
"You are right," and his father's words made him frown as the Old Lion turned towards the door.
"The boy has too much sense to make such a lousy plan. And even if he was blinded by rage at Jamie's betrayal, he does not seem the kind to ignore his advisors," and even on his deathbed, the Old Lion's mind read politics as if second nature.
But what else could he expect from the man who had served the Mad King for a decade and a half? And what could he say to that? Silence once more reigned over the room until Tywin Lannister turned towards him once more.
"All my life I thought of you as nothing more than a man-whore, yet you have proven me wrong in the last five years, rising through the court on your own to become the second most powerful man in the realm," and to hear him praise him now felt hollow and insulting as Tyrion's fists balled up.
He wanted to scream and rage, yet held himself back because of the Stranger that awaited him, but that did not mean that he had to suffer this.
"What do you want?" he asked coldly, for he had tried to find it in his heart to forgive him, but he couldn't. The man had done some truly heinous things to his family, to his wife, and Tyrion could not forgive him for that, even if he tried.
"I want you to save my legacy," and the words shook him to his core, for he should have guessed.
"I know it is cruel of me to ask that of you, when I so vehemently denied you that very legacy, but the Gods do work in mysterious ways, for they have left me no choice but to grovel at your feet to save all that I have dedicated my life to build," and at least he had the conscience to know that it was wrong of him to ask that of him. To burden him with that.
"I had long given up on the thought of Jaimie growing up, but I had never expected him to be such a fool," and there was clear regret in his tone at the mention of his brother.
"Why me?" Tyrion asked, for he had gone to such a length to deny him this.
"You have Uncle Kevan and Aunt Genna," yet he had asked him this favor.
"Kevan is old, and as good a head as Genna may have, she is a woman," he whispered, and that may be true.
"But more than that, neither of them is you," he added as he looked him in the eye.
"You are the only Lannister apart from me who knows what it means to build a legacy," and to think that they would be alike in that way.
"You hate me just as I hated my own father. But you must look beyond that hate, not for me. But for House Lannister," and Tyrion grit his teeth and gazed at the ground.
"House Lannister means nothing..."
"You are a Lannister," the Old Lion thundered, as his head snapped up.
"Same as me. Same as your brother and sister, and no matter how much you may hate me and your brother, that name must carry on, for otherwise that boy King of yours will swallow us whole," and when he did not answer, the man continued.
"If not for me, then do it for the mother who died giving birth to you," and Tyrion wanted to deny him, wanted to scream at him, but the man was right.
The Lannister legacy went beyond just Tywin Lannister, and it would need to be guarded.
"I will see what I can do," and with those words, Tyrion made to leave when his father called back for him.
"She was not suitable for you," he called out, as his feet stopped, his heart twisted in agony, and he had the gall to mention her again.
"Not then and not now. You are the King's closest advisor, and could have married any Lady you desired, yet you chose her. Why?" and the answer was rather simple.
"Because I did not choose her, not really. She chose me..."
.
.
.
And with that, he departed, and in the morning, the Bell rang, and the herald announced the passing of the Old Lion of the West.
0000
DAENERYS TARGARYEN
"Euron Greyjoy," she gasped at the mention of the name, as Ser Jorah nodded in near equal apprehension.
"Yes, my Khaleesi," and in the past few moons their cause had suffered one setback after another, for first the magisters had broken their contracts. The merchants had followed soon after, and now even mercenary companies were abandoning them one after another, much to the dismay of Illyrio and his friends.
The whole ordeal had been a blessing for her, given that much of the talk about her marriage with her supposed nephew had vanished and had been replaced with discussions about how to overcome this major setback.
It eased the scrutiny around her manse and life, yet it seemed that she had rejoiced too early.
"It makes sense. Illyrio and the Golden Company do not have the ships to move the army across the Sea, and the only person who might consider lending them their aid is Euron Greyjoy," but that would come at a price.
Herself.
"What of the other pirates?" she asked as she paced in her room, as Ser Jorah shook his head.
"No pirate is fool enough to go against the Iron Bank," and it was not the King on the Iron Throne who had decimated their plans and plots. Still, the Iron Bank, and she had been told that one should never underestimate their power, and she was beginning to understand just why.
"As long as the Iron Bank maintains this stance against Illyrio and his friends, no magister, merchant, or pirate will join his cause," for no one wanted to anger the Iron Bank. Yet, it made her wonder just how exactly Cregan Stark had convinced the Bank to support him.
"Greyjoy is set to arrive here in Essos in a few days," and her heart sank at those words as she stopped and looked up at the man from the North, who appeared equally worried.
"And we all know the price he will demand for those ships," for he had demanded it before as well, and while Illyrio had denied it before, she feared that he would accept the demand in his desperation now.
"You," Ser Jorah did not lie to her, as Daenerys felt her word still, for rumors about his infamy and cruelty were known all over Essos, and she had already let Illyrio and Varys sell her once, and would dare not let it happen again.
"I can't," she gasped as she settled down on the sofa, her body beginning to tremble in rage, fear, and desperation.
"I won't be sold again," she retorted, as she gazed up at Ser Jorah.
"You could deny them," and she scoffed.
"Illyrio and the rest of his friends are not my friends. They are my jailors and captors. I am but a pawn in this entire game," and she was tired of being that.
A weak and helpless pawn.
Even he, Ser Jorah, loyal and in love with him as he was now, had once been Varys's man.
"They will not care about what I say or feel," she told him in desperation. No one cared about what she desired or wanted.
No one.
"We could try and run," he offered, and she laughed, for where would they go?
But there was one option. One.
"The Preacher," she whispered as her mind whirled with plans and plots.
"Has he tried to make contact again?" and Ser Jorah nodded.
"He has," he answered with a frown.
"You are not thinking of accepting his offer, are you?" and of course, he would desire that she reject that offer and choose him. And perhaps it was not entirely a bad idea, but Daeneyrs was done being sold and taken for granted.
"Not in its current form, no," she whispered as he rose up and walked towards the window.
"But if this King of his is indeed sincere in making peace, then I would much rather sell myself and my claim on my own terms rather than doing so on the whims of men whose loyalty I can no longer trust," and so she gave the command.
"Arrange a meeting with the Priest. Tell him that I wish to offer terms...."
.
.
.
Miles and a Sea away, in the castle of Winterfell, the King Beyond the Wall sat against a Stark, though this Stark was not a Stark of Winterfell, even though he ruled over its Halls.
He was a Stark of Moat Cailin, and the first of his line.
"So, you are the King's brother," Mance Rayder asked, and the once timid and nervous boy had come into his own, and had shed both the naivety and troubles of his youth to grow into a long and large imposing young man.
"Half-brother," he answered, though no longer with the shame and nervousness which had once laced his tone.
"Half, full, such titles don't matter. You come from the same seed, so you are brothers," Mance announced, as he gulped down the Southern Wine, and it was the one thing he missed most beyond the Wall.
"Is that why you didn't go to your sister's wedding up in the south?" he asked, and the young man frowned at the question.
"No," he answered nonetheless.
"Then why is it that you sit here while the rest of your kin are up in the South dancing and feasting over your sister's marriage," and there was taunt in that tone, and the young Lord was smart enough to see it, even though he did not react.
"I volunteered to stay behind," he answered, and that was the truth of it.
"For it is said that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell," and the King beyond the wall scoffed at those words.
"Seems like horseshit to me," he dared, as the young Lord's nostrils flared, but it was not he who reacted, but the direwolf lingering in the room, which growled as Mance Rayder's eyes narrowed at its pale fur and red eyes.
"A white direwolf with red eyes," he whispered before his head snapped towards the young Lord in surprise, as he suddenly broke into a laugh.
"You are the one Ygritte mentioned..." and the young Lord's face shifted in an instant as Mance Rayder continued to laugh.
"What?" he asked, and the older man eeked out in between his laughs.
"You have no idea about the trouble coming your way, Jon Stark. No idea at all..."
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