TYRION

The small council chamber was completely empty. There, at the head of the long wooden table was only him, slouching in the seat, and a jug of wine right in front of him. He could feel it staring back… calling… tempting him, could even feel the sweetness on his tongue without tasting it. Resisting the urge to reach its bottom in only a few sips, proved more challenging than he wished to admit. Lately, the alcohol was his only friend and giving it up was not easy. After a good time spent wrestling against insatiable cravings, consciousness won. The well-being of a whole realm was in his hands after all and when drunk, those hands were useless.

Few days passed since the King‘s eyes drowned into the whiteness he considered an amenity, a comfort. He sank so deep, that Tyrion feared they had lost the King in the abyssal mind of another for good. Since this was not Bran’s first attempt, Tyrion assumed the King had yet again, dared taking control of the roaring beast that to this day, made his skin crawl. And if you were lucky enough to survive the first attempt, the chances of surviving another equaled those of the sun rising west and setting east. Where was he? Stuck between the mind of a human and that of a dragon? Where do you go when you can’t find your way back to your own body? How was his human heart still beating if the fire within the beast was his executioner? For a second he wished the drink in front of him had all the answers so he could justifiably chug it all, drowning his blood into alcohol.

For most of the Six Kingdoms the King was dead and grieving news had a way of spreading faster than a contagious yawn. Not that it would change the popular opinion, but the Hand insisted their King would return. However not a soul believed those words when his tone spoke louder. Why should they, if he himself did not? 

Often, Tyrion would recall his King’s last words. She is alive. How? When? How long? Did Jon Snow lie about killing her? If she was alive, how was he still breathing? How hasn’t she taken her revenge yet? Knowing Daenerys Targaryen, he would be the first person she would visit, bringing fire and blood along with her. Tyrion liked to think he knew the Dragon Queen well enough to guess her impulses, although he had been proven wrong before… very wrong… ‘thousands of innocents burned’ wrong. 

And Jon is with her? Tyrion assumed Jon’s name was right under his own on Dany’s revenge list. No, it could not be true. “Right?” he asked, but the wine did not reply, instead it retained its glassiness, looking as delicious as ever. Only after reaching the bottom of his first jug, the wine would normally reply. Each time, it would agree with the calming lies he fed himself with. But as soon as it proved useless when sober, the door opened and his old friend was standing tall in the frame of it. 

The Lord of Highgarden and master of coin walked in, dressed in a brand new set of armor suited for a Lord. Judging by the silk tunic displaying a flower under the chainmail that jingled every time he moved, Bronn had decided to keep the symbol of House Tyrell. Suppose they deserved that much. Had the old Bronn stood in front of him, wearing a flower, Tyrion would no doubt, either gag or burst into laughter. But this Bronn was different, he looked a Lord as much as he behaved a Lord. His beard and hair cut accordingly, his gracious movement reminded Tyrion of his father, his sword shining clean all the way up to its silver curled hilt, even his scent was better. 

“Drinkin’ yourself to the grave, are ya?” his finger pointed at Tyrion’s torturer of the past hour. At least he still spoke the same. Following the imp’s gesture, he sat in the chair at the side of the table. 

“We don’t have much time for silly jokes and pointless conversations, do we, my old friend? You are here…” the dwarf settled his elbow on the arm of his chair, resting his head in his palm, waving the other hand in the air as if portraying a story he already knew the ending of. “...which means… they took Highgarden already, did they not?... How many?”

“Too many to count whilst running away… They will be here within a fortnight, I can tell you that much.” 

Reaching for the full jug, Tyrion nodded his head, filling a cup of red wine for his friend. Someone should enjoy it. Before handing it over, he sniffed it deep, drinking it in by inhaling it, then spoke “Think we stand a chance?” But his friend remained silent, sipping his wine. The contempt and hopelessness on his face though, answered better than any words ever could. 

The dwarf squinted his eyes curiously “So… how come you haven’t changed allegiance yet? Or perhaps that’s why you are here? … to murder me? You surely know, I cannot double whatever it is they offered you this time. You are the master of coin after all.” 

“Aye, had they offered, take my word, I would have brought the crossbow for this occasion. There is something poetic about killing you with it, ey? Wouldn’t ya agree?” 

The imp chuckled “It’s good to know some things never change, my friend.”

Soon, the war will be upon King’s Landing and this city is nowhere near prepared for what is coming. Both, the Hand and the Lord next to him knew this. Kingless, wallless, armless, shipless, the fortress had never been more vulnerable or pregnable. Yes, the walls were slowly closing the circle, but the huge holes made for one useless assembly during an invasion. And yes, the gold cloaks, together with the royal fleet were mostly back from their dragon hunt, but even so, there were nowhere near enough to face a Dornish army of at least few thousand. 

As the days went by so did the peace, ruling inside their pointless walls. And as the meetings of the Six Kingdoms went by so did the participants, starting with the absence of the Dornish Prince. The Hand pictured him lying dead or captured somewhere below the land he ruled. And the rest of the members shared this opinion, each fearing they might be next. All that led to, was empty seats during the meetings and possibly continuing with changed alliances. Each day, the halls leading to the throne room were filled with more people waiting to have their questions answered by the Hand of the dead King. It was the first time Tyrion sat on the throne sober and of course, wished he was not. Why would they ever think he could lead a Kingdom, nevermind six? And his friend, who once fought on the opposite side of the Blackwater Bay seemed to agree.

Once, after the council meeting, whilst Tyrion was drowning his sorrows, Davos Seaworth approached him with only one goal. “Where is the man who set our whole fleet aflame? Where is the man who defeated his enemies before the battle even began, the man who beat the unbeatable?” He grabbed the drink off the imp’s hand, lowering his tone. “You saved the whole realm once before, why not again?” 

“And where did that get me? Awaiting execution as I recall. Perhaps the realm doesn’t deserve saving.” Drunk enough, he let the reasonable thought of whether he meant that or not, simply fade away.

“Really? Then why ring the bells?”

It was the very next day when the dwarf woke up sober for the first time in a while. In fact, he woke up sober every day since. However, all that did was worsen his constant mood and patience. The more he sat down, rethinking strategies, the more he missed and craved the wine, the less focused he was. His time was running out and sure enough, the grieving news came exactly after a fortnight, just like the Lord of Highgarden predicted. Only, instead of King’s Landing, the Dornish army hit a lot closer to home. His home. 

>> Chapter 29: YARA