The throbbing of his head woke him, evoking the need to vomit. Laying on his stomach, he gagged but nothing came out. Judging by the look of his pillow, he emptied his belly all over it during the night. He squinted his eyes in hopes to reduce the pain the sunlight induced, but he failed at that as well. The bed shook and he turned his hangovered head to the stranger sleeping beside him. A whore. Lately, Tyrion was back to his old habits. Maybe it was this place, King’s Landing brought this side out of him. Of course, there was another reason as well. If anyone had reasons to get drunk, it was him. Besides, that’s what Tyrion does. He drinks and he knows things. Well… he drinks.
Lifting himself up using his arms, he sat at the edge of the bed, his legs swinging. The sun was already well up in the sky, higher than a Hand of the King should wake up to. But then again, few years back when he was his nephew’s Hand, the mornings resembled today’s. Realizing he had already missed the morning council meeting, he grabbed the cup off the nightstand, clumsily dipping his fingertips in the red tasty wine and swallowing the last sips. No reason to start the day sober.
With one sudden jump he landed his feet on the floor and quickly regretted it the second the room started spinning. Lurching, he pulled the leathered bottoms up and threw a light shirt over his shoulder. Clumsily, he walked to the window, closing the drapes in hopes of easing the throbbing. He turned to look at the stranger in his bed, trying his best to remember her name. He couldn’t. Long light-blonde curls covered her face. The color might have been a bit off, but the braids were all there to make Tyrion gag once more. He shook his head in hopes of pushing the disturbing thought out and staggered, leaving two golden dragons next to the empty cup before he left. The door opened again when a hand dove inside the room to grab the full jug of wine.
An empty throne room welcomed him with its doors opened wide. The dome amplified the echo his footsteps generated, as its narrow, prismatic windows threw playful shadows over the glistening floor. Feeding his drunk mind, the room created a peaceful delusion, a haze where mistakes weren’t a thing. So quiet. Where was everyone? Sober, even in the King’s absence, the Hand wished not to sit on the throne. Perhaps it lacked the mightiness of the old one, but the new throne had its perks. For one, the King bore no scars or cuts. Drunk however, Tyrion wiggled his butt, moving deeper on the seat, his legs once again swinging. As soon as he thought himself comfortable enough, he chugged the wine as if it were water and let the alcohol wash away the guilty thoughts and prevail his mind, drifting deeper into this beautiful haze.
Drinking was his way of forgetting. Yes, it was a temporary solution seeing as how it all came back as soon as he would sober up, but of course, that in no way meant, he couldn’t get drunk again. And so he did.
Sansa Stark was losing the war and it was all because of him. Because of his mistakes. He thought himself clever enough to outsmart the Free Folk. And yet again, he made a mistake that cost those on the receiving end of his advice gravely. Lately, he was wondering why people still had any faith in his wits. Didn’t his wrong counseling of Daenerys Targaryen teach them anything? He was not the clever little imp anymore. Not since he released the bolt that ended his father’s story on the shitter. Or maybe not since he met the Dragon Queen. Maybe the fear she struck into him prevented his boldness, his courage. Prevented him of using fire and blood in hopes not to lose her to it, her and the millions of people who would parish into the wind like ash. His only goal became to achieve her goals with less fire, less blood, less reasons to feed the dragon. Funny how that turned out. The man who once turned the waters of The Narrow Sea a burning-bright green color, sending his enemies up in the wildfire’s flames ended up relying on a bunch of bells. Pathetic.
So he drank. Drank in the mornings, drank in the evenings, drank whenever and wherever. Why wouldn’t he? He rarely drank when he was the Hand of the Dragon Queen and how did that turn out?
A loud horn woke him. He must have drifted off to sleep again, slipping down in the seat, drooling over his shoulder. Walking out, he chuckled, wondering if anyone had ever done that on a throne.
People were running back and forth to the docks, some carried water, some carried stretchers, some medicine. Did he sleep through war? Just as well, he thought. The smell of burnt flesh drew him back in time when ash covered the streets of King’s Landing. Cries of agony joined the songs of the seagulls composing a tragic, yet beautiful piece. A burnt golden cloak tangled around his foot, nearly leveling him to the ground. As he got closer, the previous beautiful composition turned into noise, screaming and panic. The galleys were docked, pulling on the thick ropes as the waves commanded, whilst the dead, the burnt and the soon-to-be dead were carried over as if what was awaiting at the other end of the wooden bridges would mean life or death. Of course, for many, it was too late. Tyrion had never seen so many people beg for death before.
The burnt smell deepened as one body was carried towards him. Is he dead? Black crust covered the melted skin of his arm, shoulder and half his face. The eyes were shut… well the one Tyrion could identify as an eye. Suddenly, a hand grabbed his arm, pulling him closer, drowning him in the smell of death. Gagging, Tyrion nearly stumbled over him when he noticed the opened eye. It was as if a thick smoke swallowed all its colors. Digging his burnt fingertips into Tyrion’s skin, the blind man yelled “He is coming! The beast is coming!” When the grip around his arm weakened, Tyrion knew, the white eye shut never to be opened again.
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