Tyrion - 8 Years
Jaime/Cersei - 15 years
281 AC
The Courtyard of Casterly Rock that led to the main gate towards Lannisport, echoed with the delighted squeals of children as Tyrion manipulated his puppets with practiced skill. The small audience, consisting of various Lannister cousins and household children, sat cross-legged on the floor before him, their faces upturned in wonder.
"Tyrion, Tyrion, tell us the story again," Joy Hill insisted, her small face scrunched with determination. Gerion's bastard daughter of five years bounced on her knees, golden curls flying as she tugged at Tyrion's sleeve.
"Mwahahaha! Of course, my dear gremlins." Tyrion's voice dropped to a theatrical whisper as he brought a puppet with a clever face and a tiny golden crown into view. "So Lann the Clever, with the use of his ring of invisibility, crept into..."
From her vantage point near the stone archway, Cersei Lannister watched the scene with undisguised contempt. It had been four moons since her father had dragged her from King's Landing, four interminable moons of watching her plans crumble to dust. Her lips curled into a sneer as she observed her dwarf brother entertaining the children with his ridiculous puppets.
The worst part was that she couldn't even blame anyone but herself. She had orchestrated Jaime's appointment to the Kingsguard, certain it would keep them together in the Red Keep. How could she have known that Father would react by resigning as Hand of the King? The very thought of it made her blood boil. Tywin Lannister, the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms, had simply... walked away.
Thankfully, her father hadn't discovered her role in the scheme. She'd been careful to use intermediaries, to leave no trail that could lead back to her. But the separation from Jaime was torture. She received his letters, of course, but they were monitored by Father's agents before reaching her hands, stripped of any personal content.
And now she was stuck here, in this dreary mountain, watching her hateful little brother play with puppets while her dreams of a royal marriage lay in ruins. Prince Rhaegar remained happily married to Elia Martell instead, and Cersei had been forced to endure the humiliation of staying at Casterly Rock, as father determined a suitable match for her.
"Then Lann stole all the gold!" Tyrion's voice rose dramatically as his puppet made a grand gesture, the children gasping in delight. "And when the Casterlys woke up, they found their treasure gone and their home occupied by a clever young man with hair as golden as the sun!"
The children erupted in applause, Joy Hill clapping with particular enthusiasm. Tyrion bowed with a flourish, his mismatched eyes twinkling with genuine pleasure at their reaction.
Cersei turned away in disgust. The monster seemed to grow more comfortable in his skin with each passing day. She had heard whispers about his accomplishments in the forge, how he had impressed even the most skeptical of the master smiths. Father, damn him, had even granted the Imp permission to continue his training with Uncle Tygett.
"The story isn't over yet," Tyrion announced, his voice carrying across the hall. "For you see, Lann the Clever didn't just take the gold. He took something far more valuable."
"What?" piped up a young Lannister cousin whose name Cersei couldn't be bothered to remember.
"The castle itself!" Tyrion declared, making his puppet dance triumphantly. "For a Lannister always pays his debts, but he's even better at collecting them!"
The children laughed, and Cersei felt a surge of irritation so intense it made her teeth ache. How dare he enjoy himself while she suffered? How dare he thrive in her misery?
She swept from the hall, her crimson skirts swirling around her ankles. The corridors of Casterly Rock stretched before her, cold and empty despite the summer heat outside. Her father had been different since their return, colder and more distant than ever. He spent hours locked in his solar, writing letters and receiving messengers. Planning his revenge against the king, no doubt.
But what of her? What plans did Tywin Lannister have for his only daughter now that her marriage prospects had been ruined? Would he ship her off to some minor lordling to secure an alliance? The thought made her stomach clench with rage.
She needed to speak with Jaime. She needed to find a way back to King's Landing, to be near him again. They were two halves of the same whole, separated by their father's pride and the king's madness.
Cersei's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. She turned to see her uncle Kevan walking toward her, his face set in its usual serious expression.
"Your father wishes to speak with you later," he said, his voice carrying the flat, matter-of-fact tone he always used when delivering messages from Tywin.
Cersei straightened her spine, composing her features into a mask of calm indifference. "About what?"
"The Great Tourney at Harrenhal," Kevan replied, his eyes revealing nothing. "It begins in a moon's turn."
A spark of hope ignited in Cersei's chest. Harrenhal! The greatest tourney in living memory, where Jaime would be officially inducted into the Kingsguard. She had been dreaming of this moment, imagining how she would watch as her twin took his vows, how they might find a way to be together afterward.
"And?" she prompted, unable to keep the eagerness from her voice.
"Your father has decided that no Lannister will attend," Kevan said, each word falling like a stone. "Not you, not I, not any member of our house."
Cersei's face drained of color. "What? But Jaime will be there! He'll be sworn in before the entire realm!"
"Precisely why your father has forbidden our presence," Kevan replied, his voice softening slightly at her distress. "He will not provide the king with the satisfaction of seeing House Lannister witness this... humiliation."
"This is about his pride," Cersei spat, her voice rising. "His wounded pride, not Jaime's honor!"
Kevan's expression hardened. "Careful, niece. Your father's decisions are not to be questioned."
Cersei turned away, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. The injustice of it burned through her like wildfire. How dare her father deny her this? How dare he keep her from Jaime when they had already been separated for so long?
"I will speak with him myself," she declared, striding past her uncle toward Tywin's solar.
"Cersei, wait—" Kevan called after her, but she was already gone, her crimson skirts billowing behind her like a banner of war.
She found her father in his solar, seated behind his massive oak desk. He did not look up as she entered, his quill scratching methodically across parchment. The room was filled with the scent of ink and the faint aroma of cedar from the polished wood.
"Father," she began, her voice carefully controlled despite the rage simmering beneath the surface. "Uncle Kevan tells me you've forbidden our attendance at Harrenhal."
Tywin continued writing for a moment longer before setting down his quill and looking up at her. His pale green eyes were cold, assessing.
"I have," he said simply.
"But Jaime will be there," Cersei protested, taking a step closer to the desk. "He'll be sworn into the Kingsguard. How can you deny us the chance to witness this honor?"
"Honor?" Tywin's voice was soft, but the word cut like a blade. "Is that what you call it when the king steals my heir?"
Cersei flinched at the mention of Jaime, but pressed on. "Jaime made his choice. He wanted to serve the realm."
"Jaime was manipulated," Tywin corrected, his voice hardening. "By the king, by his own foolish pride, and perhaps by others who should have known better." His eyes fixed on hers with unsettling intensity.
Cersei felt a chill run down her spine. Did he suspect her role in Jaime's appointment? She forced herself to maintain eye contact, not allowing her fear to show.
"Regardless," she said, " We should be there to support him."
"Support him?" Tywin rose from his chair, his tall frame looming over her. "House Lannister will not legitimize this farce by our presence. The king will not have the satisfaction of seeing us accept this insult."
He moved to the window, looking out over the Sunset Sea. "The tourney is a trap, Cersei. Aerys means to humiliate me further, to parade my son in his white cloak before the entire realm while I stand by and do nothing."
Cersei's heart sank. She had hoped to reason with her father, to make him see that Jaime needed them there. But his mind was made up, his pride wounded beyond repair.
"So we are to hide here like frightened children?" she asked, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.
"We are to show strength," Tywin corrected, turning to face her. "We are to remind the realm that House Lannister does not need the Iron Throne's approval to remain powerful."
He returned to his desk, his movements deliberate and controlled. "You will remain at Casterly Rock, as will all members of our house. That is my final word on the matter."
Cersei stood frozen, her mind racing. There had to be a way. She couldn't bear the thought of missing Jaime's induction, of being separated from him for even longer.
"What about Tyrion?" she asked suddenly, a desperate plan forming in her mind. "Surely he would want to see his brother honored."
Tywin's expression darkened. "Tyrion will remain here as well. The last thing I need is for the realm to see my dwarf son alongside my dishonored heir."
Cersei nodded slowly, pretending to accept his decision. But inside, a new plan was taking shape. If her father refused to let her attend openly, perhaps she could find another way.
"Very well, Father," she said, her voice subdued. "As you wish."
Tywin studied her face for a long moment, as if searching for signs of deception. Finding none, he nodded curtly and returned to his correspondence.
Cersei left the solar, her mind already working through the details. She would need help, someone who could arrange for her to travel to Harrenhal discreetly. Someone who owed her a favor, or who could be persuaded with gold.
As she walked through the corridors of Casterly Rock, her thoughts turned to Tyrion. The Imp had grown bolder in recent months, more confident in his abilities. Perhaps he could be useful to her plan. After all, he had always been fond of Jaime, despite everything.
She found him in the library, surrounded by scrolls and books. He looked up as she entered, his mismatched eyes widening in surprise at her presence.
"Sister," he greeted her, his voice carrying that infuriating note of amusement it always did. "To what do I owe this rare pleasure?"
Cersei closed the door behind her, checking to ensure they were alone. "I need your help," she said without preamble.
Tyrion raised an eyebrow, setting down the book he had been reading. "My help? I must be dreaming."
"This is serious," Cersei hissed, moving closer. "Father has forbidden any Lannister from attending the Great Tourney at Harrenhal."
"Ah," Tyrion nodded, understanding dawning on his face. "Because of Jaime's induction into the Kingsguard. Yes, I heard."
"Don't you want to be there?" Cersei demanded. "Don't you want to see our brother honored?"
Tyrion's expression grew thoughtful. "I would, actually. Though I suspect our motivations differ somewhat."
Cersei ignored the implication. "I'm going to Harrenhal, with or without Father's permission. And I need your help to arrange it."
Tyrion laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "You want me to help you defy our father? The man who would have me cleaning cisterns if I displeased him?"
"I have gold," Cersei said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Enough to pay for whatever arrangements need to be made."
Tyrion studied her face, his head tilted to one side. "And why would I help you, dear sister? You've never shown me anything but contempt."
"Because you love Jaime," Cersei replied simply. " And…" a grimace crossed her face. "I'll owe you any one favour to be called in whenever you so wish."
A flicker of surprise crossed Tyrion's face before an amused grin appeared on his face. "I'm amazed by your generosity dear sister."
"Will you help me or not?" Cersei demanded, growing impatient.
A low chuckle escaped his lips as he rose from his chair. "Come with me," he said, gesturing for her to follow.
Cersei hesitated, suspicion clouding her features. "Where?"
"Trust me or don't. That's up to you."
With a frustrated sigh, she followed as he led her through the winding corridors of Casterly Rock to a small alcove tucked away behind the main library. Few servants ventured here, and the maesters rarely disturbed the ancient scrolls stored in this forgotten corner.
Tyrion ran his fingers along the shelves until he found what he sought, a leather tube containing a detailed map of Westeros. With careful movements, he unrolled the parchment across a nearby table, using small stone weights to hold down the corners.
"Here," he said, pointing to a location on the map. "Is where we are."
Cersei leaned forward, her golden hair falling around her face as she examined the intricate details of Casterly Rock and its surrounding lands. The map was exquisitely rendered, showing every castle, village, and road in the Seven Kingdoms.
"If you wish to reach Harrenhal," Tyrion continued, tracing a route with his finger, "you would need to travel through the Westerlands, cross into the Riverlands at the Golden Tooth, head east through Riverrun, then southeast toward the Gods Eye where Harrenhal is located."
His finger moved along the route, stopping at various points where the terrain grew difficult or where Tywin's men were most likely to be stationed. "The entire journey would take approximately ten to fourteen days, assuming favorable weather and no delays."
"Well, what are you saying?" Cersei demanded, her patience visibly fraying. Her fingers drummed against the table's edge, nails clicking against the polished wood.
Tyrion sighed, rolling up the map with deliberate slowness. "I am saying, dearest sister of mine, that your desire is quite frankly impossible for me to fulfill. As tempting as it is to see Jaime and go to the Tourney, the risks and chances of failure are far too high."
Cersei's face flushed crimson, her eyes narrowing to emerald slits. "You're lying," she hissed. "You just don't want to help me. You've always been jealous of Jaime and me."
"On the contrary," Tyrion replied, his voice maddeningly calm. "I would love nothing more than to witness our brother's induction. But even I am not foolish enough to cross Father on this matter."
"You're a coward," Cersei spat, her voice rising to a dangerous pitch. "A sniveling, twisted little coward who hides behind books and forges while the real Lannisters face the world."
She tried to slap him. But Tyrion simply stepped back and avoided her wild swing. She stood huffing, fists clenched, her knuckles white with rage. "Damn you, you miserable imp, I don't need your help. I'll find my own way to Harrenhal, with or without you."
She then turned on her heel and stormed from the alcove. The door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the ancient scrolls on their shelves.
Tyrion laughed softly at her departure. Frankly, the idea was tempting. Forgetting Cersei's involvement entirely, the prospect of seeing Jaime honored before the realm held genuine appeal.
With his abilities, he could have carved a passage through the mountain's stone with little effort in a matter of days. Two horses, supplies, disguises, and they would have been on their way to Harrenhal through the Golden Tooth. A week-long journey at most if he employed his magical abilities to lighten their burden.
They could be gone before anyone noticed, leaving Tywin to discover their absence when it was too late to pursue them.
But the truth of the matter was that his father would not simply accept their disappearance. Or more specifically, Tywin would not accept Cersei's disappearance. Unlike Tyrion, who could slip away unnoticed for a few days at a time, with Tywin least bothered, Cersei's absence would be noticed immediately. She was constantly monitored by her ladies and guards, and the entire castle for fall into a frenzy.
Tywin Lannister would not rest until he discovered how his children had escaped. The Lord of Casterly Rock would tear the fortress apart stone by stone if necessary, and woe betide anyone who had seen or spoken to the escapees. Every servant, every guard, every merchant who had spoken to either of them in the past few moons would be questioned. Tortured, if necessary. Blood would be spilled freely, and the innocent would suffer alongside the guilty.
That was the nature of his father's justice. It was indiscriminate, absolute, and terrible to behold. Tyrion would not be responsible for such carnage, not even to see Jaime honored.
The Tourney of Harrenhal, the most legendary gathering in living memory, would unfold without a single Lannister present. Without him.
It was a bitter pill to swallow. In that vast, ruined castle, history would be made. Rhaegar Targaryen would crown Lyanna Stark as queen of love and beauty, setting in motion the chain of events that would lead to Robert's Rebellion. Brandon Stark would ride to King's Landing demanding justice. The Mad King would burn Lord Rickard alive while his son strangled himself trying to save him.
All of it would happen while House Lannister sat in self-imposed exile at Casterly Rock.
Tyrion could change it all. With his powers, he could slip into the tourney unnoticed. He could whisper in Rhaegar's ear, warn him of the consequences of his actions. He could prevent the crown of blue winter roses from ever being placed in Lyanna's lap. He could save thousands of lives, reshape the future of Westeros before the first drop of blood was spilled.
But at what cost?
Power was a delicate thing. His magical abilities were formidable, yes, but they were personal. He could bend stone to his will, forge weapons of impossible quality, and crush skulls with a single blow. Yet these were the powers of an individual, not a lord.
Political power was a different beast entirely. It grew slowly, cultivated through alliances, marriages, and the careful manipulation of perception. It required patience, strategy, and above all, time. Tywin Lannister had spent decades building his influence, weaving a web of loyalty and fear that stretched across the Seven Kingdoms.
Tyrion was but a child of eight, a dwarf with no inheritance, no allies beyond a chosen few in his family, and whatever allies he had cultivated in his short life. If he were to reveal the full extent of his abilities now, he would be seen as a monster, a freak of nature to be feared rather than respected. Forget the fact that no one could harm him, his life would simply become far more difficult if he revealed his abilities at this stage. Furthermore, to change the series of events in canon so drastically at this point would make predicting the future very difficult.
He could, of course, break off entirely and become independent, but that had held significant cons.
No, he needed to build his power base first. He needed gold, alliances, and a reputation that would make men listen when he spoke. Only then could he begin to reshape the course of history.
The rebellion would come. But he knew that he would be able to position himself to take advantage of the coming days, he just had to be patient.
With a sigh, Tyrion rolled up the map and returned it to its tube. He would send a gift to Jaime instead, something crafted with his own hands that would remind his brother of home
_______________________________________________
One Moon later
The training yard of Casterly Rock echoed with the clash of steel and the grunts of exertion as men and boys practiced their craft.
In the center of the yard stood Tyrion Lannister, in his two hands, he held a blunted tourney sword. Opposite him loomed Sandor Clegane, a boy of thirteen years who already stood taller than some grown men, his face a mask of fury and pain.
"Come at me, Sandor," Tyrion taunted, his voice carrying across the yard. He laughed as he easily parried a vicious slash from the taller boy's sword, the impact sending a shock through the smaller combatant's arms that he absorbed with practiced ease.
Sandor's breath came in ragged gasps, his one good eye narrowed with hatred and frustration. The burned side of his face glistened with fresh blood from where he had reopened one of his scars in his fury. He had been at Casterly Rock for two moons now, brought into the Lannister household after his brother Gregor had claimed their family's lands."
"Fucking dwarf," Sandor growled, his voice a rasping whisper. Sandor's scarred face twisted into a snarl, the burned side pulling his features into a grotesque mask. He charged forward, his massive frame casting a shadow that engulfed Tyrion completely. The boy moved with the reckless fury of someone who had nothing left to lose, his strikes powerful enough to shatter bone despite his youth.
Tyrion sidestepped with the grace of a seasoned warrior, using his opponent's momentum against him. As Sandor stumbled past, Tyrion delivered a sharp tap to his back with the flat of his practice blade.
"Dead," Tyrion announced with a grin.
"Is that all you've got Sandor? You'll never best your brother at this rate."
The mention of Gregor sent a visible tremor through Sandor's massive frame. His next attack came with redoubled fury, each swing meant to kill rather than merely wound.
Sandor's attacks grew more desperate, more wild. He fought as if every swing might be his last chance to prove himself, to escape the shadow of his monstrous brother. Tyrion, by contrast, moved with economical precision, his sword finding openings that others would have missed.
"Your footwork is sloppy," Tyrion called out, dancing away from another vicious swing. "You're too eager to end things quickly."
Sandor's only response was a guttural roar as he charged forward, abandoning technique for pure rage. The crowd of onlookers stepped back, creating a wider circle as the combat grew more dangerous.
Tyrion ducked beneath a wild swing that would have taken his head from his shoulders. As Sandor overextended, the dwarf struck with his sword, the flat of the weapon connecting with the back of the boy's knee. Sandor crashed to the ground with a howl of pain and fury.
"Yield," Tyrion demanded, his hammer poised to strike.
"Fuck you," Sandor spat, struggling to rise despite the pain radiating through his leg.
Tyrion sighed and stepped back, lowering his weapon."You fight with rage," Tyrion said quietly, so only Sandor could hear. "But rage is a fire that burns both ways. Control it, or it will consume you."
Sandor's hand tightened on his practice sword, the leather grip creaking under his grip. For a moment, it seemed he might strike again, but then his shoulders slumped. The fight drained from him like water through cupped hands.
"What do you know of psin?" he muttered, turning away.
Tyrion watched as the boy trudged toward the water barrel, his movements heavy with exhaustion and something deeper, a wound that had nothing to do with swords or scars.
Ser Benedict Broom, the Master of Arms, approached Tyrion with a bemused expression. The veteran knight had seen countless warriors pass through his training yard, but never a pairing quite like this.
"You've managed to somewhat tame the boy," he observed, nodding toward Sandor. "Two moons ago, I thought he'd kill someone before the year was out."
"Not tamed," Tyrion corrected, his eyes following Sandor's retreating form. "Just given him a different target for his anger."
In truth, Tyrion knew who Sandor Clegane was, the anger that fueled his existence. The fearsome warrior that he would grow into. And Tyrion wanted that loyalty for himself.
The story of Sandor's scar was whispered throughout the castle, how the Mountain had held his face in a brazier when Sandor was but seven years old, punishing him for daring to play with one of Gregor's toys. The Mountain had laughed as his brother screamed, the smell of burning flesh filling their chambers while their father did nothing.
"Another round?" Ser Benedict asked, gesturing toward the yard where other men awaited partners.
Tyrion shook his head. "I think I'll check on our young friend."
He found Sandor sitting in the shadow of the armory, his back against the cold stone wall. The boy had pulled his hair forward to cover his burned cheek, a habit Tyrion had noticed whenever Sandor felt vulnerable.
"Here," Tyrion said, offering a wineskin. "Watered wine. Better than that piss they serve the recruits."
Sandor eyed him suspiciously before accepting the offering. He took a long pull, his throat working as he swallowed.
"Why do you bother?" he asked finally, his voice rough.
Tyrion settled beside him, their shoulders nearly touching despite the height difference. "Because I know what it's like to be seen as something less than human."
Sandor snorted. "You're a Lannister. The son of the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms."
"And a dwarf," Tyrion reminded him. "A monster, a freak, an abomination. I've been called all those things and worse by my own father."
For a long moment, Sandor said nothing. The silence between them was not uncomfortable but contemplative, two outsiders finding unexpected common ground in their shared experience of being marked by the world.
"Your brother," Tyrion ventured carefully. "Gregor. He's the true monster, not you."
Sandor's hand clenched into a fist, his knuckles whitening. "He'll kill me someday. When I'm big enough to be a threat."
"Perhaps," Tyrion acknowledged. "Or perhaps you'll kill him first."
The words hung in the air between them, dangerous and forbidden. Patricide and fratricide were the gravest of sins in the eyes of gods and men alike. Yet both knew that Gregor Clegane was beyond redemption, a creature of pure cruelty who would continue to inflict suffering until someone stopped him.
Sandor turned to look at Tyrion, really look at him for perhaps the first time. The burned side of his face was fully visible now, the ruined flesh a testament to the horror he had endured.
"Why are you helping me?" he asked, genuine confusion in his voice.
Tyrion considered the question. The truth was complicated, part strategic calculation, part genuine empathy.
"Because everyone deserves a chance," he said finally. "Even those this world has marked as monsters."
He rose to his feet, dusting off his breeches. "Besides, you're useful to me. A warrior of your skill, trained properly, could be invaluable to House Lannister."
Sandor's expression hardened. "So I'm just a tool to you after all."
"Everyone is a tool to someone," Tyrion replied with a shrug. "The difference is whether you're wielded with care or discarded when you break."
He extended his hand to Sandor, an offer of partnership rather than pity. After a moment's hesitation, the scarred boy took it, allowing Tyrion to pull him to his feet.
"Tomorrow," Tyrion said, "we'll work on your footwork. You leave your left side open when you overextend."
Sandor nodded, a flicker of something that might have been gratitude crossing his ruined features. "Tomorrow," he agreed.
Tyrion watched as Sandor walked away and turned to leave the training yard to go to his chambers to wash up.
As he made his way through the winding corridors of Casterly Rock, his mind was thinking about his new project, he was experimenting with a new alloy to forge higher quality steel. Currently, he was limited by the lack of extraordinary metals available to him, metals such as Adamantine, Mithril, or Uru were unavailable to him, and he had to make do with mundane iron ore.
Frustratingly, Valyrian Steel was incredibly rare, and as of yet, he hadn't even had the opportunity to touch a single weapon, or even a trinket built from the metal. The limitations chafed at him like an ill-fitting collar. In the depths of Casterly Rock, where the mountain's heart beat with gold rather than blood, he found himself surrounded by wealth yet starved for true materials of power.
The sound of running footsteps interrupted his thoughts. A small figure rounded the corner at full speed, nearly bowling him over as Tyrion neatly sidestepped the charging boy.
"Tyrion!" Tion Frey, Genna's youngest boy, skidded to a halt before him, his face flushed with excitement. The boy's chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath.
"Did you hear?" Tion gasped, his eyes wide with the thrill of being the bearer of important news. "Prince Rhaegar crowned Lyanna Stark as the Queen of Love and Beauty!"
Tyrion's face arranged itself into an expression of appropriate shock, his eyebrows rising and his mouth falling open slightly. "He did what?"
"At Harrenhal!" Tion continued, bouncing on his heels with the energy of youth. "They say Princess Elia was right there, watching! And Lord Robert Baratheon was furious! They say he nearly attacked the prince right there in the lists!"
The boy's words tumbled out in an excited torrent, each detail more scandalous than the last. "Mother says it's the greatest insult in living memory! A married prince crowning another woman before his own wife!"
Tyrion nodded, making appropriate sounds of astonishment, but his mind was already racing ahead.
And it begins, he thought. The first domino had fallen. Rhaegar's foolish gesture had set in motion the events that would lead to rebellion, to war, to the deaths of thousands.
"Thank you for telling me, Tion," he said gently.
Tion beamed with pride at the compliment, his chest swelling visibly, and he scampered away, no doubt to spread his news to other unsuspecting ears, Tyrion continued toward his chambers. The stone walls seemed to whisper to him, carrying rumors and secrets through their ancient veins.
The news from Harrenhal changed everything. The rebellion would begin within the year, if Tyrion's knowledge of history held true.
Rhaegar would kidnap Lyanna Stark in the coming weeks. Brandon Stark would then ride to King's Landing, demanding Rhaegar's head for the perceived kidnapping of his sister. Aerys would respond with fire and blood, executing both Stark and his father in the most horrific manner possible.
Then Robert Baratheon would raise his banners, joined by Eddard Stark and Jon Arryn. The realm would tear itself apart in civil war.
And House Lannister would wait, watching from the sidelines, until the decisive moment when Tywin would order his troops to sack King's Landing.
Tyrion smiled as he fastened his tunic. The game was afoot.
_______________________
Initially I had considered that Tyrion could go to Harrenhal, and it seemed like a good idea at the time, but the logistics of it, and the difficulty of trying to reach the Tourney was practically impossible without Tyrion going at it solo, and currently he doesn't have the abilities, resources, or feasible excuse to casually go missing for two weeks.
There's a map of Westeros on my Patreon, which you guys may be interested in having. a look at to visualise Westeros.
Tyrion will make a move in the coming arc, but Harrenhal is going to be skipped! Sorry for the change for those who may have been looking forward to it, but I'm sure you'll still enjoy the developments in the coming chapters!
I have posted a picture of Tyrion on my Patreon for you guys to view for free if you're interested. (linktr. ee/DarkeBones.)
If you want to read TWO chapters ahead of my public release please see:
linktr. ee/DarkeBones.