Tyrion Lannister lay back, his small frame dwarfed by the large bed, as Shae straddled him. Her gaze met his, teasing yet tender, and for a fleeting moment, the world beyond the room—the treacherous politics, the armies, the Small Council's plots—did not exist. He felt the warmth of her body, soft and alive, a stark contrast to the chill of disdain he so often encountered in the Red Keep.
He was just Tyrion, despised by his own family, a man burdened with ridicule and humiliation. Only days ago, he had returned to King's Landing with a treaty so humiliating that the ministers of the Small Council could barely hide their scorn. And now here he was, entangled with a prostitute, a girl who seemed to care little for titles or power. The thought made him smirk, bitterly, and yet, strangely, it felt… right.
"My lord," Shae whispered, brushing her lips against his nose, playful and soft. "I heard you're leaving again. Is it true?"
Tyrion arched a brow, intrigued. "Leaving? Where?"
"To the Reach," she replied, tracing lazy circles over his chest with one delicate finger. "The guard in the kitchen mentioned it. When I washed vegetables this morning, they spoke of Ser Loras and the armies moving… and how you would be leaving for the Westerlands before returning to the Reach."
Seven hells! Tyrion thought grimly. A decision made at the Small Council yesterday had already spread across the Red Keep. Even the kitchen help knew of it.
He sighed, brushing her hair back and stroking her shoulders. "Not Varys, then?"
"Of course not," Shae teased, eyes sparkling. "I have my ways, My Lord. The Red Keep has ears everywhere."
Tyrion rolled his eyes, though a small smile tugged at his lips. He had little choice but to explain. "Stannis's army crossed the mountains and gathered at Summerhall, capturing Longtable and Bitterbridge. Ser Loras and his twenty thousand men are stuck on the Rose Road. The Dragonstone fleet now controls Blackwater Bay. The Marches are either on the brink of war or in complete chaos. The Golden Road, via Lannisport, is our only route back to the Reach."
Shae pouted, a soft frown forming on her otherwise impish face. "And you must leave?"
"Yes," Tyrion said quietly, his hand brushing hers. "I must. But not just for the Reach. I need to take you away from here, to Lannisport. It will be safer there, away from the eyes that watch me constantly in King's Landing."
Shae's eyes glimmered with worry. "I don't want to leave. Lannisport without you… it would be like a prison. Please, my Lion, can I stay? Wait for you here?"
Tyrion felt a pang of guilt. Leaving her behind was dangerous, but bringing her along now would place her in even greater peril. He kissed her forehead softly. "Alright. But stay cautious. And trust me, I will return."
The day dawned cold and pale, the sky a milky hue as he stirred from a troubled sleep. The vision of Shae's pleading eyes lingered, but so did the shadow of his father, Tywin Lannister, and the commands he had received.
"I need you to represent House Lannister, Tyrion," Tywin's voice echoed in his mind. "Represent the King. Represent me. Persuade the Hightowers to muster ten thousand men under Randyll Tarly to drive back the Storm's End forces near Highgarden. Ensure their fleet sails to Blackwater Bay immediately. Return with them. Delay is costly."
Tyrion shivered, recalling the burden. With a quiet groan, he roused Podrick. "Prepare. We leave now. And call Bronn for me."
"Yes, my lord," came the sleepy reply. Podrick rubbed his eyes, hurriedly dressing and leaving to carry out his duties.
---
Essos, Astapor.
A riot had erupted. Or rather, it had been orchestrated. Daenerys Targaryen, the Stormborn, the Unburnt, Khal Drogo's Khalissi, had traded a dragon and some goods for eight thousand Unsullied warriors. Within hours, Astapor had been bathed in blood.
Alysane Mormont, clever and vigilant, had hidden during the chaos, waiting for an opportune moment to move. The streets were littered with fear-stricken citizens and smoldering wreckage, yet she managed to find Jorah Mormont, her cousin, maintaining order amidst the panic.
Jorah, the Great Bear, immediately recognized her. His eyes, sharp and calculating, flashed with both surprise and a barely contained wrath. He did not want to engage with his kin now, not until Daenerys had secured her claim and power.
"Alysane, you shouldn't be here," he said sternly, handing over a money pouch. "Take this. Return to White Harbor at once."
Alysane's green eyes flashed. "You abandoned Bear Island, let House Mormont become the laughingstock of the North, and now act as a loyal dog to a foreign queen?"
"I know!" Jorah groaned, covering his forehead. "I know, but my loyalty now lies with her. I cannot undo the past."
She scoffed. "The North is at war. The Iron Throne's allies—Lannister, Baratheon, Tyrell, Martell—are all enemies. Robb Stark needs all the allies he can get. You should return now, before it's too late."
Jorah's expression darkened. "To be pardoned for my past crimes? For betraying my King?"
"Your crimes as a slave trader," Alysane snapped.
He froze, shock overtaking him. "Explain," he demanded.
Her explanation was swift, precise. She recounted all she knew: the death of Robert Baratheon, the victories of Robb Stark, the neutrality of the Riverlands, the treacheries of Tyrell, Lannister, and Martell. Each word sank into Jorah's mind like a hammer, reshaping the future he had imagined for himself.
Footsteps approached, deliberate and disciplined. The Unsullied surrounded the inn. Beworth, the large and imposing man, led the formation, with Astapor, the white-bearded elder, close behind. In their center, Daenerys appeared. Silver-gold hair, violet eyes, fair skin, and the aura of a queen. Behind her, the young Missandei, and the three bloodriders—Jhoggo, Aggo, and Rakharo—armed and alert. The tavern became a cage.
Alysane brandished her sword. "Jorah Mormont! Are you planning kinslaying?"
Jorah remained calm. He stepped forward, eyes lowered in submission, aware that one wrong move could mean death.
"I am Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms," Daenerys announced, her voice calm but commanding. "I pardon Jorah Mormont for his crimes. Are you satisfied?"
Alysane's frown deepened. "I care not for queens or foreign titles. The North answers only to Winterfell."
"Blasphemy!" shouted some of Daenerys's entourage, weapons drawn.
Jorah knelt. "Please allow me to speak." Daenerys inclined her head.
"I did wrong to meet my kin without your consent. I sought to reconcile my family. But my duty is to you, my queen. Today, I pledge my loyalty wholly. If House Stark can become your ally, it will serve us both."
Daenerys considered his words, her expression unreadable. Alysane's green eyes narrowed, unconvinced but attentive. The Unsullied waited, silent as stone, their loyalty absolute.
Jorah's words hung in the air, a bridge between Westeros and Essos, between loyalty and betrayal, between the fire of dragons and the cold steel of honor.
---
The chapter concludes on this tense, uncertain note—alliances teetering, loyalties tested, and the fates of kings, queens, and pawns alike hanging in fragile balance.
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