The Red Keep, Maester's Tower.
Grand Maester Pycelle beamed obsequiously. "Lord Gawen, this old maester awaits your command."
Gawen smiled faintly. "Grand Maester Pycelle, these past days must have kept you busy."
At the words, Pycelle's face clouded with worry. "So many grievously wounded… I do what I can. Ah, may the gods be merciful."
Gawen's brow lifted. "So there may yet be deaths?"
Pycelle sighed. "The wounds are too severe. None can promise they will all awaken. If they wake, so much the better. If not… they may never rise again. We can only pray for mercy."
He shook his head sadly.
Gawen's brown eyes sharpened. "Among those who may never wake, you mean to include Tyrion Lannister."
Pycelle stiffened.
A look of hesitation crossed his face. "Lord Gawen… do you mean…?"
Old fox.
Gawen stepped closer, seized him by the shoulder, and pressed him back into a chair.
"Grand Maester, you are not being frank."
He gestured toward the quills and parchment. "So soon after your last misdeed, and already another? Write it all down. If you conceal or lie, you know the cost."
"My lord, I—"
Pycelle faltered beneath his gaze, his age-spotted hands trembling as he lifted the quill.
After a few lines he burst into tears. "Lord Gawen, I cannot betray Queen Cersei!"
The sight of a dagger silenced him at once.
"Do you mean to lay the blame upon the queen herself?"
"No—no! I speak truth! To help the Imp recover, she hinted he should be kept asleep—asleep forever, if possible. That was her meaning, I swear!"
Gawen pulled a chair opposite and sat. "A hint is not a command. No stain must touch her name."
Outwardly Pycelle quailed like any frightened elder, but in his heart he seethed. Isn't Gawen Stark's man? Or is he Cersei's creature? Or serving some other master hidden deeper still? A Targaryen…?
"Then how should I write it?" he asked meekly.
"Simply the truth: that you sought to kill Tyrion Lannister."
"I was forced… I am a healer, my lord, not a murderer. I would never—"
A flash of steel. Half his white beard fell to the floor.
"Test my patience again," Gawen said coldly.
The stench of urine filled the chamber.
"Now do you know how to write it?"
Pycelle despaired. He saw death in the young lord's eyes. I am a councillor of the realm—yet he does not fear to kill me!
Choking, he whispered, "My lord, I am your loyal servant now. Forgive my folly—I will write!"
So he scribbled, weeping, until Gawen rapped the table and made him start anew.
"Rewrite. You and Tyrion have no quarrel."
…
"Rewrite. Do not slander Ser Jaime."
…
"Rewrite."
Again and again.
At last, Gawen tapped the table. "You know Lord Tywin has little love for his dwarf son."
At that, Pycelle wrote what was required. Only then did Gawen's face soften.
"Well done. You have bought yourself another road."
The old man forced a smile of thanks.
Gawen rolled the parchment. "This is our secret. The Hand has no interest in such things."
Pycelle blinked, then dropped to his knees, wailing. "My lord, do not send me to the Wall! I beg you, spare me!"
Gawen ignored the stench, lifted him up himself. "You must still serve the Lannisters. To defy the queen would be cruel. Sit your chair at the council. I will not strip it from you."
Tears of relief welled in Pycelle's eyes. "Thank you, Lord Gawen. Ever shall I obey."
"There is one more matter."
He tensed. "Command me."
Gawen's lips curved faintly. His hand tightened on the old man's shoulder.
"I thought we were of one mind. Yet your deceit disappointed me. That was your mistake."
Terror glinted in Pycelle's gaze. "I will never again! By the gods, I swear it!"
Gawen nodded. "Good. This time, you may choose."
"Ch-choose what, my lord?"
"By sunrise tomorrow," Gawen said evenly. "A finger, an ear—whichever you wish. Deliver it to me."
Horror struck him. "No! I—"
"Or I shall choose for you."
Pycelle collapsed to the floor like jelly.
"Trust is the price of fellowship," Gawen said coldly. "Without it, you cannot sit that council seat."
"I am a councillor already!" he burst out.
Gawen only watched him in silence until the old man broke again into sobbing pleas.
At last, Pycelle stretched forth a trembling finger. "I will cut it off now—please, spare my life!"
Gawen's voice was flat. "Next time, you will have no choice."
"I swear, there will be no next time!"
Gawen sheathed his sword, patted him once. "So many wounded… and you hurt yourself in their care. Truly, Grand Maester, the realm thanks you. Do not fail me again."
He left without another glance.
Tyrion dreamt he had no mouth, smooth skin sealing his teeth. Terrified, he ran, fearing he was dead. No, I live. I am a lion!
He woke in darkness, fevered, weak, every movement pain. A featherbed beneath, a canopy above. Where am I? Why here? His memory blurred.
A sword—my face— Then nothing.
In his dream he dwelt in a crooked seaside cottage, warm despite cracked walls and dirt floor. He laughed too easily, forgot to feed the fire, and she mocked him for it.
"My Tyrion, I thought you could do anything."
"That's a servant's work," he said sheepishly.
"We have no servants."
"You have me. I am your servant."
"Lazy servant! In Casterly Rock, how do they treat the lazy?"
"They are kissed."
She laughed. "They're beaten, I'll wager!"
He drew close. "No—they're kissed. On fingers, one by one… on the wrist, the elbow, the ear… the cheek, the nose, the brow, the lips…"
They lay together in sunlight, she sang, he adored her. At night she whispered, I love your lips, your voice, your words, your hands.
"My face?" he asked bitterly.
Her laughter bloomed. "Yes, even your face."
Her name was Tysa.
Rage seared him. Lies! Bought by Jaime, given to me for coin—my whore wife!
Her face melted away into tears, yet still her faint voice called his name.
The dream shattered.
"Why does he weep so?"
Tyrion stirred at the sound.
"Perhaps he dreams," Pycelle said softly.
That mocking tone—Gawen.
"Why do you cry, Imp? Do you fear you'll become one of Varys's eunuchs?"
Yes, unmistakably Gawen.
Tysa! Catch her—don't let her go! His lips trembled. Tysa… Tysa…
Gawen bent close. His eyes flickered. "He keeps repeating this name. Pycelle, who is she?"
"A whore, perhaps," the maester muttered.
No—my wife! Tyrion's eyes flew open.
A week later.
He hurled the mirror aside. "Beautiful!"
He raised a cup in his bandaged hand, drank deep. "Now I am the true Imp. My father will adore me for this."
Gawen sat laughing at his bedside. "An unexpected gift. Perhaps Lord Tywin will even kiss you. Ser Jaime will turn green."
Tyrion chuckled, then gasped at the pain—yet grinned still.
"Dreams are wondrous things," he said after a sip. "I dreamt of blue monsters besieging Casterly Rock, corpses everywhere. Alone, the valiant Imp strode through. Alone!"
"The monsters quailed before me, parted the way. I saved the Rock!"
Gawen teased, "And then devoured them whole?"
"Hah! The details matter not. I was hailed as savior. Poets sang of me. Jaime knighted me with a golden sword. Even Father smiled. Women flocked to me—they called me the Lannister giant."
His smile turned sly.
"And my dear sister tried to seduce me. She used every wile, but the Imp was unmoved. Even in dreams, the sight of her fawning stirred me… deliciously, ha!"
Gawen's lips quirked. "A fine dream indeed. May it come true."
.
.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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