"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 me from the picture—Father adores Jaime, Jaime adores Cersei. Small wonder they despise me. My existence spoils their harmony."
He paused, then laughed again. "Pity the Lannister giant survived."
Gawen scowled. "Master Giant, remember to bring guards next time you leave your bed."
Tyrion chuckled. "When I can walk, I'll choose my own men. 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 me in milk of the poppy. Only when I heard your voice did I wake."
Gawen sighed. "I underestimated you, Tyrion. Forgive me. The truth can be cruel, and this is not the moment for it. You must heal."
Tyrion grinned. "I thought you'd protect Cersei."
Gawen shrugged. "To hide such things only leaves men 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? Jaime is away. Who else could I turn to?"
Tyrion smirked. "A shame indeed."
Then, serious again: "What should I do? You must have thought of something."
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' mercy," 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 me."
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 came, you still lay insensible. Yet you whispered a woman's name over and over. Even wounded, a lion does not forget his pleasures."
Tyrion frowned—he half remembered.
"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 men to find her anyway. They scoured every brothel, but no trace of this Tysa."
Tyrion froze. The dream came rushing back.
Gawen noted his pallor. "You're awake now. I won't run errands for you. Rest, Tyrion. Not the time to flaunt your roar."
Tysa… Memories 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 merry. Your face says otherwise."
"For a time 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 name, stranger arms."
Tyrion snarled. "Gawen Crabb, for once I hate clever men!"
The Red Keep, the Throne Room.
The Iron Throne loomed—a black hulk of jagged blades, cruel spikes, twisted steel. Forged, they said, from a thousand swords melted by Balerion's fire, hammered 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 mere 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 homes… killed my cattle for sport… chased my child with spears until he fell, then skewered him as a game… killed babes in their mothers' arms…"
The knight's face was grave. "They showed no mercy."
Varys clucked. "Oh, dreadful! How can men be so cruel?"
Ned leaned forward. "What proof they were Lannister men? 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 men 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 name, I demand blood for blood. Whoever broke the peace of the Reach—be they Lannister or no—I call for justice."
.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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