From the high towers of the Red Keep, the wind blew in from Blackwater Bay, carrying the briny tang of salt mixed with the characteristic stench of King's Landing.
Tyrion Lannister stood by the window, his stunted frame nearly swallowed by the massive window frame.
He did not look out at the sprawling red tiles and alleys of King's Landing; instead, his heavy gaze fell upon the royal training grounds below.
The sun baked the stone slabs of the yard, and dust kicked up with every footstep.
In the center of the yard, a humanoid colossus was "sparring" with a young squire.
To call it sparring was an understatement; it was a slaughter.
Gregor Clegane, known as the Mountain, swung his wooden practice sword with a brute force that cracked the air like a gale, heavy as a collapsing mountain.
The squire was barely fifteen or sixteen, his armor brand new and his face youthful; he could only dodge frantically, barely blocking with his oak shield as he retreated step by step, his arm numbing with every impact and his face turning deathly pale.
The most terrifying monster in this castle, the Lannisters' most vicious mad dog, had been recalled from the front lines of The Riverlands by a single transfer order. Now, like a tethered, raging bull trapped within the courtyards of King's Landing, he had become a piece... for sale, yet a dead piece that could lose control at any moment.
Tyrion watched, his mismatched eyes devoid of emotion, filled only with cold calculation.
Footsteps as light as a ghost's approached, nearly blending with the sound of the wind in the corridor.
Petyr Baelish stood silently half a step behind him, like an elegant shadow.
He wore a well-tailored velvet doublet of deep purple, almost black, with a silver mockingbird pin shimmering at his collar. A faint, inscrutable smile played on his lips as his gaze also fell upon the lopsided "practice" in the yard.
"Lord Tyrion," Baelish said in a soft tone, as if discussing dessert, yet beneath every syllable lay a sharp probe, "using guest right to bind that dragon's talons... it was a clever move."
"Offering bread and salt at Raventree Hall in the name of House Rykker, turning ancient laws and honor into a cage. However," he tilted his head slightly, his gaze drifting over Tyrion's profile, "we don't just want to bind him. We want a negotiation, a delay—we want him to sit down."
"But he commands a vast army, giant dragons, and that powerful Fleet; his strength is many times our own. If it were you, would you abandon your advantage to negotiate politely with a weakling?"
He shook his head gently, a hint of playful sighing in his voice. "If I held such power, facing my enemies, I would only use dragonfire to burn my way through, incinerating every obstacle until I sat upon the iron throne."
"Rules? Those are things only the weak need to follow."
Tyrion did not turn around, his eyes still fixed on the scene below.
The Mountain seemed to have lost patience with the squire's monkey-like dodging; with a low growl, his assault grew even more frenzied.
"I never dared to guarantee anything, Lord Petyr."
Tyrion's voice was flat, carrying the slight rasp of wine. "The strong never heed the pleas of the weak."
"Begging, logic, even ancient laws often seem laughably pale in the face of absolute power. Therefore," he paused, finally withdrawing his gaze and turning to face the Master of Coin, his lips curling into a smile devoid of warmth, "the fragile cage of guest right alone is not enough."
"We also need a bait he cannot refuse—a bait that can drag him from the sea, from the back of a dragon, and into the rules we have set."
Petyr's thin eyebrows twitched imperceptibly as he waited for him to continue.
"So, I wrote to my father, Lord Tywin," Tyrion went on, his tone as light as if he were discussing the weather, "requesting that he recall our dear Ser Gregor from The Riverlands."
"I believe Father will understand the value of this move."
Baelish's gaze returned to the training grounds, as if watching a bloody play about to begin.
"The Mountain? A fine bait indeed."
"Hatred is always the thing best at blinding eyes, whether it be the avenger or... the one being avenged." His voice betrayed neither praise nor any other emotion.
As if to prove his words, at that moment, a deafening, inhuman roar erupted from the training grounds.
The Mountain was completely enraged by the squire's stalling and dodging, his remaining sanity swallowed by fury.
He gripped the heavy wooden practice sword with both hands, abandoning technique and pouring all his inhuman brute strength into it. Like a giant axe splitting a mountain, it crashed down!
"Crack! Crash—!"
The wooden sword struck the center of the oak shield the squire had hastily raised! The sturdy shield exploded instantly as if hit by a battering ram! Shards of wood, leather, and iron hoops flew in all directions!
The boy didn't even have time to react; he only let out a short, terrified scream.
Behind the shattered shield, the sword's momentum was not spent, carrying a terrifying force as it smashed heavily into his unprotected shoulder and neck!
"Crunch!"
The dull sound of shattering bone was piercing, drowning out the sound of wood splinters hitting the ground.
Blood surged from the gaps in his armor and his mouth and nose, tracing a striking red arc in the sunlight before splashing onto the yellow sand and quickly spreading into a dark red pool.
The boy's scream was cut short as he slumped like a rag doll, his body twitching in agony, a wheezing sound coming from his throat.
One shoulder collapsed at a grotesque angle, the bones already pulverized.
Tyrion's brow furrowed sharply, the cynical expression on his face replaced for a fleeting second by a look of disgust, gone as quickly as an illusion.
He picked up his wine cup and took a heavy gulp, but even the tartness of the wine could not suppress the nausea in his throat.
Petyr Baelish sighed softly—a sigh that held little sympathy and sounded more like a polite disparagement of crudeness. His tone was flat, almost cruel.
"Our Ser Gregor is truly... as barbaric as ever. No sense of aesthetics, only destruction."
"Barbaric?" Tyrion finally turned fully to face the Master of Coin, a cold light flashing in his eyes. "No, Lord Petyr, you are being too kind."
"He is not barbaric; he is a butcher. He is the butcher who personally murdered Princess Elia Martell in the Red Keep. He is the butcher who smashed the infant Prince Aegon's head against a wall."
He paused, his voice dropping lower with a suppressed sharpness. "Though only the gods and demons know how that little Aegon survived that slaughter, and how he miraculously obtained dragons and that terrifying Fleet... but now, he comes across the sea under the banner of avenging his mother and himself."
"I fear he wants more than just a few cities or the iron throne. He wants a blood debt; he wants the life of every person involved in that slaughter. He wants Lannister blood."
He took a step forward, looking up at Petyr, a look of mingled calculation and coldness appearing on his face.
"Since he wants a blood debt, revenge, and justice... then we shall personally serve this most direct and undeniable blood debt to him."
"Washed clean, properly packaged, and placed on a platter he cannot refuse to take."
"I plan to hold a public trial at Raventree Hall, a neutral ground protected by guest right."
"The subject of the trial will be Gregor Clegane, charged with the murders of Princess Elia Martell and her children, as well as the countless atrocities he committed in The Riverlands."
"Furthermore, in the name of King Joffrey I and the Small Council, we shall formally invite Prince Aegon Targaryen to Raventree Hall to preside over this... just trial."
Tyrion's lips twisted into a smirk. "Can he refuse? As long as he wishes to maintain his banner of righteous vengeance, as long as he wishes to win over the hearts of the lords and commoners who value honor and law, he cannot."
"He must come; he must step into the cage we have prepared for him."
"As soon as he sets foot in Raventree Hall and eats the bread and salt of House Rykker, he is temporarily bound by ancient law."
"And the trial process, the gathering of evidence, the debates over sentencing... can be dragged out for a long, long time."
Petyr listened quietly, his fingers unconsciously tracing the mockingbird pin at his collar. Light flickered in his narrow eyes as he rapidly calculated every detail and possibility of the plan.
"A public trial... offering the Mountain as a sacrifice. Interesting, and very bold. The risk is also extremely high; if it spirals out of control, Raventree Hall could become a second Harrenhal."
"But... the potential gains are equally staggering. This is indeed a bait that Aegon Targaryen would find hard to refuse. Only, who will preside over this trial? Who will deal with him?"
"That is exactly what we are to discuss next at the Small Council."
Tyrion turned away, no longer looking at the squire being carried off by guards, life or death uncertain, nor at the Mountain, who was panting like a victorious bull in the yard.
"The meeting should be starting. Let us go and see how my dear sister appreciates this plan."
The two of them entered the council chamber in the wing of the Throne Room, one after the other.
The long table was covered in deep green velvet, and the steady candlelight reflected off the massive tapestry of the Lannister golden lion on the wall.
The atmosphere was heavier than usual.
Cersei Lannister was already seated at the head of the table, in the chair that belonged to the King, which Joffrey rarely occupied.
She was dressed in a deep red gown, her golden hair meticulously styled into a complex bun, adorned only with simple gold jewelry.
She did not mock or question Tyrion as he entered, as she usually did. She simply sat motionless, her back straight, her hands clasped on the table, her emerald eyes like frozen deep pools, pinned coldly onto Tyrion.
That gaze held a bone-chilling coldness sharper than any insult, as if she intended to pierce and freeze his stunted body through.
Varys sat quietly to one side, like a fat, harmless ghost, with that permanent, slightly worried, gentle smile on his face. Grand Maester Pycelle looked down, seemingly studying the honey stains on his beard.
The other Small Council members sat in their places, eyes cast down, focused inward.
Tyrion ignored the cold stares and, with a steady pace that belied his height, walked to his seat below Cersei's left hand, pulling out a heavy oak chair to sit.
The chair seemed far too large for him.
No sooner had he settled in than Cersei spoke first.
Her voice was as cold and hard as iron, devoid of any warmth, each word like an icy bead striking stone:
"Dwarf."
She used no titles, addressing him directly by the name she detested most.
"How is your plan progressing? How do you intend to stop that wild dragon, who appeared out of nowhere, from approaching King's Landing?"
She leaned forward slightly, her emerald eyes locking onto Tyrion. "Or are your little tricks merely as laughable as a child's toys in the face of a true dragon?"
Tyrion looked up, meeting his sister's icy gaze. His tone was calm, even carrying a hint of business-like boredom. "The location has been set, Your Grace."
"Raventree Hall. Lord Leyne has agreed to provide bread and salt for both parties, guaranteeing the negotiations with his family honor and the neutrality of his lands."
"According to the ancient and sacred guest right of Westeros, as long as the man calling himself Aegon Targaryen enters Raventree Hall and accepts hospitality, he cannot use dragonfire or that legendary thunder on those lands, nor can he wantonly slaughter the hosts and their guarantors."
"Otherwise, he would be betraying the gods and trampling the most ancient laws, leaving an infamous legacy and losing the potential support of all nobles and the observation of the commoners."
"Not enough!" Cersei interrupted sharply, her fingers tightening on the armrest until her knuckles turned white. "He has a dragon! A giant dragon! Dwarf! The fire those beasts spit can melt stone!"
"Do you think ancient laws, a bit of bread, and salt can bind a dragon eager for revenge? He could completely ignore Raventree Hall and fly directly over King's Landing, turning the Red Keep into a sea of fire! Just like his ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror! In his eyes, your guest right might not even be worth as much as dragon dung!"
Her voice rose with excitement, echoing in the council chamber.
There was even a hint of fear mixed in, though she would never admit it.
"That is why I have prepared a second bait, one he absolutely cannot ignore," Tyrion said slowly, his tone still steady as if stating an established fact. "Gregor Clegane. I have already written to Father to recall him from The Riverlands."
"We will formally invite Aegon Targaryen to Raventree Hall in the name of judging his war crimes—specifically the murderous atrocities committed within the Red Keep against Princess Elia Martell and her children after the battle at the Trident. He will come as the aggrieved party to witness or even preside over this just trial."
"This is his blood feud, the most prominent mark on his banner of vengeance. As long as he flies the flag of avenging his mother, as long as he wants to maintain the image of justice returning, he will surely come to Raventree Hall to see the Mountain judged with his own eyes."
He looked around at the various expressions of the ministers present, finally letting his gaze fall back on Cersei's ashen face, throwing out the most crucial and lethal point:
"However, the bait of a trial and the constraints of guest right are not enough. To truly stall him, to tether him firmly to Raventree Hall and buy King's Landing the vital time to gather armies, consolidate defenses, and contact allies..."
"...we must send someone of sufficiently noble status, someone who can represent the crown, conduct equal negotiations with him, skillfully maneuver through the talks, and delay the time indefinitely. This person must remain at Raventree Hall."
Cersei's brow shot up, her emerald eyes instantly exploding with fury. She squeezed the words through her teeth: "What are you trying to say, Dwarf? Speak clearly!"
Tyrion met her murderous gaze and gave a soft sigh. There was a hint of helplessness in that sigh, but his eyes were calm to the point of cruelty.
"I am saying, Your Grace, that this person must be you."
"Bang!"
Cersei slammed her palm onto the heavy oak table, making the candlelight flicker wildly. Her golden hair trembled with extreme rage, her beautiful face contorted, and her voice was so shrill it nearly pierced their eardrums:
"Tyrion! You're mad! You want to send me to feed a dragon! You want to use that wild dragon's hand to kill me! Just as you've always wanted to do! You wicked, deformed monster!"
Faced with his sister's volcanic fury and insults, Tyrion didn't even twitch an eyebrow. His tone became even colder, his logic clear to the point of ruthlessness:
"I have never had such an intention, Your Grace. On the contrary, ensuring your safety is one of the most important prerequisites of this plan."
"Our goal has never been to actually reach an agreement with him, but to delay. We need to pin that Targaryen, who holds dragons and an invincible Fleet, firmly to Raventree Hall so he has no time for anything else."
"The trial can be delayed for months on end due to the need for further evidence verification, procedural disputes, the absence of key witnesses, and so on."
"Negotiations can be an endless, fruitless tug-of-war centered on reparations, territories, titles, and even the future legitimacy of the Seven Kingdoms."
He leaned forward slightly, looking into Cersei's eyes, speaking each word with absolute clarity:
"But all this drama of delay requires someone of equal status to sit at Raventree Hall—someone he is forced to take seriously, someone for whom he must at least maintain the appearance of negotiating etiquette."
"He is a descendant of the Dragonlords, a claimant to the throne. And you are the current Queen Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, the mother of the King, and the representative of House Lannister in King's Landing."
"Only your status can barely match his. Only your authority can represent the crown in making promises and concessions, even if they are false. And only you have the prestige and skill to keep him steady at Raventree Hall, making him believe we truly have the sincerity to negotiate, thus keeping him at that table instead of riding his dragon straight here to burn us."
"I won't go!" Cersei roared again, her chest heaving violently. "I will never go! I will not set foot in that Dragon's Den! Let that bastard and his monster wait on the sea! Let Father's Great Army crush them!"
Tyrion spread his hands slightly, a posture of self-deprecating sorrow, but also the coldness of laying all choices bare:
"Then who else, Your Grace? Who should be sent? Should I go?"
He pointed to his short stature, a bitter and sarcastic smile appearing on his face.
"A Dwarf standing before a prince who claims to be a true dragon reborn, holding dragons and an invincible Fleet—how is that an equal match? He would only see it as the most extreme insult, a total contempt for him from the Lannister and Baratheon crown."
"The negotiations would break down before they even began. He would turn and leave without hesitation, and then, dragonfire would descend upon King's Landing."
His gaze was as sharp as a dagger, piercing Cersei's softest spot. His voice was very soft, yet more lethal than a roar:
"Or perhaps, do you want our King, your beloved son His Majesty Joffrey, to personally go to Raventree Hall in his royal dignity to face that vengeful dragon and bear the risk of being torn apart on the spot if negotiations fail?"
Cersei froze abruptly.
It was as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over her head. All her rage, resistance, and fear were, in this moment, frozen into bone-chilling cold and... a suffocating powerlessness by Tyrion's casual words.
Joffrey. Her son. Her baby. Her everything. She could never let Joffrey take even the slightest risk, not even one in ten thousand.
Tyrion, this demon, had precisely pinched her only and greatest weakness.
She opened her mouth, her crimson lips trembling. She wanted to scream, to curse, to tear apart the hateful Dwarf brother before her... but all the words were stuck in her throat, not a single one coming out.
Because she knew Tyrion was right—cruelly and correctly so.
Everyone present, including Varys in the shadows, Pycelle with his head bowed, and the other ministers, knew in their hearts: this was the only choice.
The only one with sufficient status who could also bear the risk of sacrifice to stall Aegon was her, Cersei Lannister, Queen Mother of the Seven Kingdoms.
A deathly silence fell over the council chamber, save for Cersei's heavy, suppressed breathing and the occasional crackle of the candlelight.
After a long time, as if a century had passed, Cersei finally squeezed the words through her teeth, her voice raspy and dry, filled with deep-seated hatred and an inevitable surrender:
"...I... will go."
She stared fixedly at Tyrion, a mad fire burning in her emerald eyes, as if she wanted to burn his soul to ashes:
"But you remember this, Dwarf. Remember it well."
"If even the slightest mishap befalls me at Raventree Hall, if I so much as scratch my skin or lose a single hair, I swear by the name of Lannister, you will die a most miserable death! I will make you regret ever being born! I swear it!"
Tyrion bowed slightly, his movements impeccably standard, a hint of a polite sneer on his face:
"I have no doubt of that, and I shall wait and see, Your Grace."
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