"Haha… hiss… I almost hate to wake. Rare is the dream where our family is so full of love…"
Tyrion's tone carried biting mockery. "But it needn't be in dreams. Remove from the picture—Father adores Jai, Jai adores Cersei. Small wonder they despise . My existence spoils their harmony."
He paused, then laughed again. "Pity the Lannister giant survived."
Gawen scowled. "Master Giant, rember to bring guards next ti you leave your bed."
Tyrion chuckled. "When I can walk, I'll choose my own n. I value my life too much to wager it again."
Gawen smiled faintly, refilled his cup.
Tyrion drank deep, then spoke with uncharacteristic gravity. "Thank you, Gawen. I owe you my life."
Gawen blinked, puzzled. "Shouldn't you be thanking the old maester?"
"My dear sister has such fortune…" Tyrion muttered. Then louder: "My lord, my brother wields a sword, but I have my head. Damn Pycelle—he near drowned in milk of the poppy. Only when I heard your voice did I wake."
Gawen sighed. "I underestimated you, Tyrion. Forgive . The truth can be cruel, and this is not the mont for it. You must heal."
Tyrion grinned. "I thought you'd protect Cersei."
Gawen shrugged. "To hide such things only leaves n defenseless. We're friends. I'd rather not see you tended by Silent Sisters."
"Ha… hiss… ha…"
After his laughter died, Tyrion asked, "Aren't you afraid of the lioness's roar? If Cersei learns who thwarted her, she won't forgive easily."
Gawen spread his hands. "Do I have a choice? Jai is away. Who else could I turn to?"
Tyrion smirked. "A sha indeed."
Then, serious again: "What should I do? You must have thought of sothing."
Gawen nodded slowly. "The healer, injured while tending a fevered patient—hardly rare. The Imp stirred, sensed danger, awoke, and in his struggle the Grand Maester lost a finger. Too much commotion—he was forced to stop."
"My sweet sister…" Tyrion mused, then frowned. "Pycelle lost a finger?"
"By the gods' rcy," Gawen replied.
Tyrion grinned. "Then I thank the gods indeed."
After a thoughtful silence, he asked, "Won't Pycelle tell?"
Gawen shook his head. "You are a Lannister. Pycelle fears Lord Tywin far more than you. Our queen gave no direct command—he acted in 'zeal.' He will defend her with his life."
Tyrion drank. "For your good, her good, everyone's good. Then I must forget it."
He sneered. "So vivid, though. My head is large, but I'll play the dutiful brother. Hard indeed."
Gawen leaned back. "Wise choice. Unless Lord Tywin himself takes your side."
"My father? I'd sooner believe a White Walker kissed ."
Though he jested, Gawen heard the smothered rage.
The room grew heavy.
At last Gawen smiled. "You are a lion, Tyrion."
Tyrion blinked at him.
"When I ca, you still lay insensible. Yet you whispered a woman's na over and over. Even wounded, a lion does not forget his pleasures."
Tyrion frowned—he half rembered.
"I thought to fetch her," Gawen continued lightly, "to aid your recovery. But Pycelle said that with such wounds, even beauty could not rouse you—only leave you roaring."
"You wanted to see the scene yourself, didn't you?" Tyrion growled.
Gawen smirked. "I sent n to find her anyway. They scoured every brothel, but no trace of this Tysa."
Tyrion froze. The dream ca rushing back.
Gawen noted his pallor. "You're awake now. I won't run errands for you. Rest, Tyrion. Not the ti to flaunt your roar."
Tysa… mories he buried long ago surged. Their first fumbling touch, her trembling form…
Tyrion's voice was bitter. "Don't search. She was my wife."
Gawen started. "Wife? You were wed?"
He nodded faintly. "A drunken septon, pigs as witnesses, bones for a feast… we tumbled laughing to bed."
Gawen frowned. "Sounds rry. Your face says otherwise."
"For a ti it was… Lady Tysa."
Gawen poured him more wine. "What happened? You never spoke of her."
Tyrion drained half the cup. "She was of House Silverfist. Their sigil—one hundred and one coins upon a bloodied sheet. Our marriage was brief… a dwarf's justice, perhaps."
"House Silverfist…" Gawen murmured. "A silver coin? Strange na, stranger arms."
Tyrion snarled. "Gawen Crabb, for once I hate clever n!"
The Red Keep, the Throne Room.
The Iron Throne lood—a black hulk of jagged blades, cruel spikes, twisted steel. Forged, they said, from a thousand swords lted by Balerion's fire, hamred for fifty-nine days. Its edges could cut flesh.
Lord Eddard Stark sat upon it, white linen tunic beneath a black wool cloak, the silver Hand's brooch at his throat.
Petitioners crowded the hall: knights, ladies, and ragged peasants. Gold cloaks and grey stood guard.
The chair was hard, sharp. Robert had warned him—this was no seat of ease.
Damn Aegon the Proud… and damn Robert's hunting. Had he stayed, I'd not sit here in his place.
…
Below, Varys whispered, "Are you certain they are no re brigands?"
A group of villagers knelt, rags torn, faces bloodied with terror.
The knight who led them snorted. "Brigands? Aye. But brigands of House Lannister."
The hall hushed. All listened.
The knight accused, the villagers bore witness: a village on the Reach's northwestern border had been burned, slaughtered.
He pointed at the survivors. "Only these remain. The rest all dead."
Ned commanded, "Rise."
Wolves of the North did not trust words spoken on bended knee.
The peasants staggered up, one with aid.
"They burned our hos… killed my cattle for sport… chased my child with spears until he fell, then skewered him as a ga… killed babes in their mothers' arms…"
The knight's face was grave. "They showed no rcy."
Varys clucked. "Oh, dreadful! How can n be so cruel?"
Ned leaned forward. "What proof they were Lannister n? Did they wear red cloaks, a lion banner?"
The villagers shook their heads.
"They rode fine destriers, clad in mail and plate, with steel lances and swords," the knight replied. He pointed to one peasant.
"My lord," the man said, "I worked stables all my life. Those horses were trained for war, none fit for plow. I swear it before the gods."
Pycelle quavered, "Such mounts might be stolen."
Ned ignored him. "How many?"
"Many."
"At least a hundred," the knight said firmly.
Ned asked, "And their armor? Any sigils?"
"Plain harness… but they cried again and again: Vengeance for the Mountain! None but his n called Ser Gregor so."
A stir swept the hall. Murmurs rose.
Pycelle rattled his chain. "Others might mimic such cries."
Varys nodded. "Indeed. The Hand must have proof."
Then Lord Mace Tyrell rose, golden rose upon his chest gleaming. All eyes turned.
His voice rang cold: "Your doubts matter not. Lord Stark, by the king's na, I demand blood for blood. Whoever broke the peace of the Reach—be they Lannister or no—I call for justice."
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Fla — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
📯 Lords and Ladies of the Realm, heed the call! 📯
The saga burns ever brighter—30 chapters ahead now await, available only to those who swear their loyalty on Patreon. 🐉❄️🔥
Walk among dragons, defy the cold, and stake your claim in a world where crowns are won with fire and fury.
🔗 Claim your place: /DrManhattanEN
👤 Known on Patreon as: DrManhattanEN
Your loyalty feeds the fla. And fire rembers.
Reviews
All reviews (0)