Author's Note:
Hey guys, I know it's been a while, but im back and hopefully to stay. It's been a battle getting myself to sit down and write lately. My drive for the story somewhere along the way had hit a roadblock, but im going to try my best to push through and bring the story to completion. I promise I won't rush things just to get it over with.
One way of helping my writer's block is im actually rebooting my Walking Dead fic; I scrubbed the old chapters and im starting over fresh. While that may seem counterintuitive, writing multiple things actually helps keep the juices flowing for me and keeps me going, so hopefully that story turns out good along with the rest of this one.
The Walking Dead fic will have a lighter tone to it since it isn't a medieval political story, but im also going to try my best to emulate the show itself in atmosphere, so I hope y'all give that one a try as well!
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[The Crownlands, King's Landing, 5th moon, 299AC]
The Red Keep was quiet when Tyrion woke.
That was never a good sign.
The Red Keep and silence were never a good combination.
Tyrion lay still for a moment, staring up at the canopy above his bed.
Then he sighed.
"Bronn."
A grunt came from near the door. "Aye?"
"Is anyone dead?"
"Not that I've been told."
"That is a poor answer."
"It's the one I have."
Tyrion pushed himself up. "Has anyone important been captured, defeated, poisoned, betrayed, or married?"
Bronn scratched his jaw. "Might be easier if I find you breakfast first."
"Seven save me. It's worse than I feared."
By the time Tyrion reached the small council chamber, Cersei was already there.
That was the next bad sign.
His sister liked making people wait. It reminded them that she could. Today, she stood beside the table with both hands flat upon the wood, golden hair braided tightly, green eyes sharp and sleepless. Pycelle sat hunched in his chair, tugging at his beard as if answers might fall out of it, the old fool.
Littlefinger looked well rested, which meant he had either slept through catastrophe or helped arrange it. Janos Slynt wore his usual expression, the one that suggested he smelled something foul and suspected it was everyone else.
Varys stood by the window in soft lavender robes.
He looked troubled.
That, too, was never a good sign.
"My lords," Tyrion said, climbing into his chair. "Sister. Spider. Lord Slynt. Grand Maester. What fresh misery has decided to join us for breakfast?"
Cersei did not smile. "A raven came before dawn."
"Ravens do that. It's one of their more irritating habits."
Pycelle's hands trembled as he unfolded the parchment. "It came from the Riverlands, my lord. The seal was damaged, but the writing appears authentic."
"Appears?"
Varys spoke gently. "The message passed through several hands before reaching us. That alone tells us something, I fear."
Tyrion looked at him. "Does it?"
"Oh yes. When ravens fly directly, news tends to be tidy. When they limp through frightened castles and borrowed hands, news often smells of smoke."
Cersei snapped, "Enough with your word games, read it."
Pycelle swallowed.
"Lord Tywin Lannister has been taken prisoner following the destruction of his host near the western approaches of the Riverlands. Ser Kevan Lannister is dead. Lord Leo Lefford is dead. Lord Roland Crakehall's sons are reported slain. Lord Tywin is held under guard by the northern and riverlord forces."
The chamber went still.
Tyrion heard the wind press faintly against the shutters. Somewhere outside, a gull cried over Blackwater Bay.
Cersei laughed once.
It was a terrible sound.
"No."
Pycelle bowed his head. "Your Grace-"
"No," she said again. "Father is not taken prisoner by northmen and riverlords. Father does not lose his army to green boys, bastards, and trout. Read it again."
"I have read it three times."
"Then read it correctly."
Tyrion reached for the parchment.
Pycelle hesitated.
Tyrion held out his hand. "Unless you mean to eat it, give it here."
The old maester passed it over.
The writing was cramped. Hurried. Several words smeared. But the meaning remained clear enough.
Tyrion read it twice, though once would have been sufficient.
"Well," he said at last, "that is unfortunate."
Cersei turned on him. "Unfortunate?"
"I was considering ghastly, disastrous, ruinous, and deeply inconvenient, but I thought I would begin modestly and let the day worsen from there."
"You think this is funny?"
"No. I think if I do not speak, I may have to think about it."
That silenced her, briefly.
Littlefinger leaned back in his chair. "There are rumors in the city already. Nothing this specific, but enough. The gold cloaks heard talk near the harbor. Merchants from Maidenpool. A singer from Darry. Two men claiming that Lord Tywin bent the knee to the Wolf King, though I assume that part is invention."
"Father would bite out his own tongue first," Cersei said.
"Likely," Tyrion said. "Though I would pay to see who dared ask."
Varys moved closer to the table. "May I see the seal?"
Cersei glared at him. "Why?"
"To know whether we are grieving a hard fact or mere rumor, Your Grace. I find the distinction useful."
Tyrion watched Varys take the parchment. The eunuch's face changed little as he inspected the wax, the hand, the creases, even the slight burn along one edge.
Varys' face was enough for all of them to realize it was genuine.
"Father does not lose wars," Cersei said, absentmindedly now.
Tyrion looked at her.
"He lost Jaime."
Cersei's face went pale with rage. For one wild instant, Tyrion thought she might strike him in front of the council. She did not.
Jaime had been dead for months now. Killed by Alaric Stark at the Battle of the Three Camps. The realm still whispered about it. The Golden Lion was cut down by the Wolf of Winterfell. Some songs already lied about the details. Songs always did. Tyrion hated them all.
Cersei looked away first.
"Ser Stafford is still gathering men," Pycelle said, desperate to put something back together. "The West is not defenseless. Lannister banners still fly near Lannisport. Once word reaches him, he will act."
Tyrion looked at the map spread upon the council table.
Jaime was long dead.
His lord-father was now captured.
Uncle Kevan, too, now lies dead.
And now all hope is placed in Ser Stafford Lannister.
He wanted to laugh.
Cersei seized on Pycelle's words. "Yes. Stafford will march. The West still has men. The Rock still stands. Lannisport still stands. Father will be ransomed, or exchanged, or freed when the northern boy overreaches. We have faced worse."
"No," Tyrion said.
Every eye turned to him.
He rubbed two fingers against his temple. "We have not faced worse. We have faced many challenges, yes, but nothing this existential. Robert was drunk and careless. Ned Stark was honorable and slow, yet had his more decisive nephew to save him. Renly was ambitious and untested. Stannis is dangerous, but isolated. Then we arrive at Alaric Stark, who has killed Jaime, captured Father, shattered our field army in the Riverlands, taken the Golden Tooth, and is now inside the Westerlands with wolves, soldiers, and enough patience to strip the mines one by one."
Cersei's voice lowered. "Choose your next words carefully."
"I am choosing all of them carefully, dear sister."
Janos Slynt snorted. "We still hold King's Landing, do we not?"
Tyrion turned his head slowly. "Yes, Lord Slynt. We still control a hungry city, ruled by a frightened and frankly deranged king, with an empty treasury, and a throne whose friends are dying faster than we can replace them. You have a gift for comfort, truly."
Littlefinger smiled faintly.
Cersei saw it. "Do you find this amusing, Lord Baelish?"
"Not amusing, Your Grace. Profitable situations often appear in trying times as such."
Tyrion almost admired the nerve.
Almost, of course.
Cersei soon stormed out after ordering Pycelle to send ravens to Casterly Rock, Lannisport, Highgarden, and every loyal lord who still had a raven to spare. Janos went to shout at the gold cloaks. Littlefinger vanished with the soft-footed ease of a man whose escape routes were all paved in coin.
Tyrion remained.
So did Varys.
The eunuch folded his hands into his sleeves.
"A grave morning, my lord."
"A grave morning would imply something has been buried. This feels more like the grave is being dug beneath our feet," he muttered grimly
Varys gave a sad little smile. "You have a talent for unpleasant accuracy."
"I inherited it from my father. Along with contempt and bad legs."
"Lord Tywin is not easily beaten."
"No. That is precisely why everyone is so frightened."
Varys tilted his head. "Everyone?"
"You most of all, perhaps."
"My lord wounds me."
"Not deeply enough to leave a mark."
Varys looked toward the map. His eyes lingered not on the Westerlands but farther south, then east, across the narrow sea that was not drawn in proper detail on this map.
"Kingdoms are curious things," he said. "Men spend centuries pretending they are permanent, then one bad year teaches them they were arrangements all along."
Tyrion frowned. "That sounds dangerously close to wisdom."
"Forgive me. I shall try to be less useful."
"You said arrangements. Not kingdoms."
"A kingdom is only a story enough men agree to defend. The Iron Throne has been the largest story in Westeros for nearly three hundred years. But stories weaken when too many men stop believing in their power."
Tyrion looked at him. "The Vale has already stopped believing."
"Yes. King Harrold Arryn now sits where lords once sat, and the mountains once again rule themselves."
"The North followed Alaric. The Riverlands may follow the Tullys. The West may soon have no army left to follow anyone."
"Just so."
Tyrion studied him more closely. "You sound less troubled by that than you ought to be."
Varys smiled.
There it was again.
The careful nothing.
"My lord, I am troubled by suffering. By hungry children. By cities sacked. By kings who think crowns make them gods. As for banners changing shape, I have seen cloth altered by clever fingers before."
"Have you?"
"Oh yes. Black cloth can be dyed red. Red cloth can be cut and sewn anew. A dragon remains a dragon to most men if it has wings enough and fire behind it."
Tyrion stared at him.
Varys looked mildly embarrassed, as if he had said something only half on purpose.
"An odd metaphor," Tyrion said.
"The day invites oddness."
Before Tyrion could answer, a servant entered with word that another raven had arrived.
This one came from the west.
For a moment, the Red Keep breathed again.
Stafford had marched.
That was the substance of it. Ser Stafford Lannister had gathered his host near Lannisport and begun moving east to confront Stark raiders. His army was said to number more than ten thousand men, perhaps twelve. He had banners from Crakehall, Brax, Jast, Vikary, and other western houses. His purpose was clear.
Drive the wolves out.
Cersei returned for that news.
She read the letter herself and smiled for the first time all day.
"Good," she said. "Good. You see? The West has not forgotten how to fight."
Pycelle looked almost restored. "Ser Stafford will know the land well. With the strength gathered near Lannisport, he may cut Stark off from the Golden Tooth and force him to battle."
Tyrion thought of Stafford.
Kind Stafford.
Pleasant Stafford.
Stafford, who laughed too loudly, drank too much, and thought war a matter of courage, banners, and being seen to do the proper thing.
He looked at Varys.
The eunuch said nothing.
Later, he found Cersei in the Queen's Ballroom, standing alone beneath painted singers and cracked gold leaf. She had dismissed her ladies. That worried him. Cersei, alone with her thoughts, was often worse than Cersei surrounded by flatterers.
"You should eat," Tyrion said.
"You should leave," she spat
"I considered it. Then I remembered the city is full of people who dislike me, and the castle is full of family, which is worse in my experience."
She did not turn around.
"Father will not remain a prisoner."
"No, knowing him likely not."
"You agree then?"
"I agree that Father will attempt to cease being one, whether he achieves his aim is another matter."
Cersei turned then. "You enjoy making everything ugly. How fitting, you little beast."
"I have found ugliness does not vanish because we refuse to see it for what it is."
"You think I do not know what this means?" she said, and her voice cracked just enough to make the anger seem less rehearsed. "Jaime is dead. Father is taken. Uncle Kevan is also dead. We have enemies on every side. The Vale crowns a boy, naming him king. The North has crowned a wolf. Stannis sits at Dragonstone waiting like a crab in a black shell. And now you come to me with clever little words as if I am too stupid to see the knife."
Tyrion was quiet for a moment.
"No," he said. "I think you see the knife. I think you keep hoping it will strike someone else."
Her face tightened.
"That was not meant to be cruel," he added.
"Then you failed."
"I often do."
She looked away again.
"Father always knew what came next," Cersei said.
Tyrion leaned on the wall. "Father always made certain no one else had the chance to know first."
"And now?"
"Now the board has removed him."
She turned sharply. "Do not speak of him as if he were dead."
"I did not."
"You thought it."
"I think many things. Most are unwise to say aloud."
Cersei folded her arms as if cold.
"What do we do if Stafford fails?"
"We survive the next hour. Then the next. Then we see who is still willing to answer our ravens."
"That is no plan."
He simply shrugged and walked away, not wishing to speak of this any longer.
Before evening, the third raven came.
Not to the throne room or rookery.
But directly to the council chamber.
Tyrion was there when Pycelle entered, breathless and grey-faced, clutching the message with an unfounded strength. Varys followed behind him. Littlefinger appeared moments later, because of course he did. Janos Slynt came last, sweating through his cloak.
Cersei snatched the parchment.
The room waited.
Her hand lowered.
Tyrion knew before she spoke.
"Oxcross," she said.
No one moved.
"What of it?" Tyrion asked.
Cersei's eyes found his.
For once, there was no anger in them.
Only disbelief.
"Stafford is dead."
Pycelle made a soft choking sound.
Cersei continued, voice flat. "Lord Roland Crakehall has been captured. The host was destroyed, with survivors scattered or taken. Stark now holds the field."
Littlefinger stopped smiling.
Janos muttered, "Seven hells."
Pycelle sank into a chair. "No. No, there must be some error. A second host does not vanish in a week. It is not possible."
Tyrion took the message from Cersei's hand.
She let him.
The letter was short. Brutally short.
No poetry. No insult. No northern boasting.
Stafford is dead.
The West is lost.
The western host shattered.
Tyrion walked to the map.
No one stopped him.
He set the parchment down and began moving pieces.
Jaime was already gone.
Tywin removed.
Kevan removed.
Stafford removed.
The western host was removed.
The Golden Tooth was lost.
The West itself is now lost.
The northern wolf marker remained inside the Westerlands like a dagger set gently on a table.
Tyrion stared.
"The West is naked," he said.
Cersei sat down slowly.
She did not rage.
She did not scream.
She looked smaller than Tyrion had ever seen her.
"Father isn't coming," she whispered.
Varys lowered his eyes.
Littlefinger watched everything, his face gone blank in that dangerous way of his.
Tyrion looked from one to the other.
"Well, what of Highgarden?" he asked.
Littlefinger spread his hands. "Silent."
"Dorne?"
"Silent."
"Dragonstone?"
Varys answered. "Stannis gathers ships."
Of course he did.
Tyrion closed his eyes briefly.
The Iron Throne still sat beneath them.
But how much of the realm still belonged to it?
Late that night, a Pentoshi merchant was brought before them.
That was Cersei's doing. She wanted news. Any news. From anywhere.
The merchant was fat, perfumed, and terrified. He brought reports of trade disruptions, sellsword prices, Volantene politics, and rumors from Qarth.
Tyrion listened with half an ear until the man mentioned dragons.
Pycelle scoffed. "Sailors' nonsense."
The merchant bowed repeatedly. "Of course, Grand Maester, of course. Sailors speak many lies. But they say a silver queen crossed the Red Waste and entered Qarth with three small dragons at her breast. They call her Mother of Dragons, though I am sure it is only some mummer's trick, yes, some eastern trick."
Tyrion snorted. "The next ship will tell us Valyria has risen from the sea and requests payment of old debts."
Littlefinger smiled faintly. "Let us hope not. I imagine the interest would be ruinous."
Only Varys did not laugh.
"What color were they?" the eunuch asked.
The merchant blinked. "My lord?"
"The dragons."
Everyone looked at Varys.
He smiled gently. "If we are to enjoy a sailor's tale, we may as well enjoy it properly."
The merchant swallowed. "One black, they say. One green. One cream and gold. Or red and silver. The tellings differ."
"And the girl?"
"Daenerys Targaryen, they say. Daughter of the Mad King. Wife to some dead horselord. They say Viserys Targaryen is dead, too."
That drew a small reaction from Varys.
Tiny.
Almost nothing.
Tyrion saw it.
Cersei waved a hand in disgust. "Enough. I have real enemies without chasing girl-queens and lizards across the sea."
"Quite so, Your Grace," Varys murmured.
But his eyes were far away.
After the merchant was dismissed, Tyrion lingered near the doorway and watched Varys speak quietly to one of his little birds. The child vanished down a servants' passage with bare feet and quick eyes. A second followed. Then a third.
"Your little birds seem restless."
"The city is restless. Children reflect the air around them."
"Do they?"
"Sometimes."
Tyrion looked toward the corridor where the children had vanished. "You asked about the dragons."
"I enjoy complete stories."
"No. You enjoy useful ones."
Varys's smile thinned.
For a heartbeat, Tyrion thought of the black dragon metaphor from earlier. Cloth dyed red. Names returning. Blood mattered only if enough people believed it did.
"What are you truly waiting for?" Tyrion asked.
Varys folded his hands.
"The same thing as everyone, my lord."
"And what is that?"
"A future that has not yet been decided."
The eunuch bowed and left him there.
Tyrion did not sleep.
Near dawn, he climbed one of the walls overlooking the city. Bronn came with him and complained most of the way.
Tyrion thought of his father in chains.
Jaime lying dead in mud and steel.
Cersei whispering that Father was not coming.
He gripped the cold stone with both hands.
The War was not ending, not in the slightest.
That would have been too simple.
The Seven Kingdoms were officially dying.