TYRION

The winds of the Narrow Sea spread the intense fragrance from the gardens swimming in lilacs throughout the whole palace, bringing the sweet scent of summer along. The last rays of sunshine toned the clouds that ruled over the sky, painting them a vibrant maroon color. For the first time in such a long time, Tyrion embraced the lifeful, little details the day brought along, allowing himself to give in to the comfort, embracing the peace all around him. For the first time in such a long time, there were no certain wars in his near future, no thrones to win, no enemy strategies to predict, no cities to conquer, no armies marching towards the walls of this city... or any other city for that matter. There was only here and now. And it was magical. 

“Are you lost?” a voice distracted him from the breathtaking view of the sunset over Blackwater Bay. He needed not turn around to know the Warden of the North was standing beside him. 

“Jon Snow… I was hoping you’d show. Tomorrow is a big day for the Kingdoms. The Warden of the North should be present.” 

“I came to take Bran back home. On the morrow the kingdoms will have their new King or Queen. No reason for him to stay here any longer.” Tyrion glanced over Jon’s armor wondering if its weight could crush someone as little as him, yet the young man showed no signs of it weighing him down whatsoever.

Nodding, the imp changed the subject. “How is Sansa?  How did she take stepping down for her brother?”

“She is okay… Slowly adjusting to the lack of a crown upon her head.” He smiled wistfully, staring in the infinity of blue in front of him. “In truth, I think she was happy to be stepping down.”

“Can’t say I blame her, you northerners are... a peculiar lot.” the dwarf’s joke failed to retain the smile upon Jon’s face.

“I heard your westerners did not welcome you too well.”

“Uh well, eventually they got around the whole killed-the-Head-of-House-Lannister-Lord-of-Casterly-Rock-Warden-of-the-West-Hand-of-the-King-and-Protector-of-the-Realm thing. Required just a bit of time I suppose.” he smiled a sarcastic smile whilst his thoughts flew off to the inevitable question none of them dared asking.

“Hmm, time… sure.” Jon nodded his head as if he willingly bought the lie he was just offered. “Have you heard anything about her?” and there it was. 

Tyrion sighed as the sun dove into the sea, disappearing from the red sky, and turned his gaze over the man next to him, analyzing his expression. “She told no soul where she was headed and no one has heard anything from the Dragon Queen since. Last rumours were... she flew Drogon off to the Shadowlands where it is believed that spellsingers, warlocks, and aeromancers practice their arts openly, while the shadowbinders and bloodmages work terrible sorceries in the black of night. However, I learnt long ago not to trust rumours. What could Daenerys possibly hope to find in those lands anyway?”

“Herself...” Jon’s words confused the imp even worse as he tried to explain everything that happened that day… that same day the King dared tasting elusive, beastly power, imprisoning his soul into eternal agony. 

Finally, Tyrion was able to put an image to the fear the Mother of Dragons stroke inside him. Daenerys Targaryen aflame, burning yet rising, a girl yet a dragon, mesmerizing yet deadly, improbable yet real. He always sensed there was something deep within her that terrified him and now he knew exactly what that was, or rather… who that was.

“So we woke the dragon?” Tyrion asked as he was drawing the final conclusions of the freshly received information.

“Aye, we all woke the dragon...” nodding, Jon Snow confirmed his fears. 

“Do you think she will ever come back?” the question seemed to have ripped Jon’s chest right open. 

“She has no reason to.” he answered, failing to conceal the pain. He loves her and he probably always will.

The imp developed his sense of humor as a child, as a defense mechanism, a distraction from the unbearable childhood of a dwarf. Later, he found another way of dealing with sadness… drinking. However, as there was no drink in sight, he resorted to the second best thing. “Perhaps we should start a war, I’d wager that will bring her back.” 

Three full moons had passed since Tyrion left King’s Landing to return to Casterly Rock where his titles and lands were restored. Not to his surprise, he was voted the Warden of the West. Of course, his wealth played a big part in the elections. He had the means to repair what the Dornish armies had broken and his people were quick to forgive Tywin’s killer as long as it meant they got their homes back. People are simple. His duty as the Warden of the West included participating in the elections of the new King or Queen. So he found himself in King’s Landing yet again.

As for Jon Snow, in the three moon period he managed to restore the peace between the northerners and the Free Folk, returning White Harbor to its rightful house and offering  rather promising lands to the wildlings, overlooking the Long Lake and conveniently located near the King’s Road. Men of the Night’s Watch were sent to help the wildlings build their new homes. Since he had released his khalasar, the dolthraki screamers had not much of a choice but to respect their former khal and the new rules of the Eight Kingdoms as Essos was one of them.

The Dornish voted their own new leader, perhaps of a lesser house, but her honor was well known amongst her people. 

The Stormlands remained under Lord Gendry Baratheon’s leadership, who happily accepted the generous peace offering from the Lady of the Iron Islands, Yara Greyjoy. His wedding to the daughter of Meldred Merlyn, Lord of House Merlyn from the Great Wyk Island, holding fealty to House Greyjoy, was the first official celebration event between the new Kingdoms. The list of guests included Lords and Ladies from all of the Kingdoms, making for a wedding as royal as that of King Joffrey. 

As far as the Kingdoms were concerned, House Targaryen ceased to exist with its last true member disappearing into the world. Her last appearance was the day she closed the door behind her, adding just another “what if” regret on Jon Snow’s list. Rumours were circling around of course, however, no one had seen or heard from Daenerys Targaryen since. 

The eight advisors of the future King or Queen had already been elected and decided to be referred to as “The Council”. King’s Landing was rebuilding its walls, houses, ships, armies, roads, laws, rules, even the Great Sept of Baelor… All it was missing was a King or a Queen. But not for long.

Only a heartbeat after opening the windows of the dark king’s chamber, the imp regretted letting the last light of the day through. His heart filled with aching pityness for the boy sitting in the King’s chair, who was but a shadow of who he used to be. Now and again, his wide open eyes would water, lost in a pool of whiteness, trickling tired teardrops down his lifeless pale face. His cheeks were drained, making the shape of his skull easily readable, his arms light as a feather did not move an inch. Bran was not only broken, but lost as well. Tyrion could only imagine how Jon felt at that moment, holding his brother’s cold hand. 

As he never did well with sadness, Tyrion rather focused on the view through the window until he heard a distasteful, rupturing sound… a sound every fighter knew well, a sound that often dominated the battlefields, a sound that slashed his face in half. Fearing to turn around, his mind tried making sense of the sounds that followed. Drops. Heavy drops slowly dripping on the floor. When he finally turned around, the sight confirmed the truth. Longclaw was pierced through the King’s chest, dripping bloody drops from the tip, painting the floor in red. The King seemed to not have even noticed when the sword entered his heart, as if stabbing a corpse. The puddle of blood reached Jon’s knees, yet he did not move an inch, his face buried in his brother’s lap. As soon as he snapped out of the shock, Tyrion walked to Jon and placed his hand over his shoulder. “You freed him.” Terrible, yet necessary. A decision only few were brave enough to make, the imp reflected. A decision of a King.

The bells sang twice the next day. Once for a fall of a King and once for a rise of a King. Who would have thought that all they had to do to choose the right ruler for the people, was to ask the people? Seems his brooding friend needs to prolong his stay in this city after all. 

“The Imp’s delight” Tyrion raised his cup of fresh wine straight out of his long desired private vinery. “...my pride and joy... A toast to the new King of the Kingdoms, Aegon… fucking… Targaryen. Cheers.” Laughter echoed through the hall and the music continued playing. “How would the King fancy a joke? Hm?” 

In the years to come, Tyrion would never find out what made Jon change his mind, but that day, the imp swore he saw pride on Jon’s face when the crown was laid over his head.
“Tell your joke, my friend.” 

Tyrion smiled bravely. Each time he tried telling this joke, a war interrupted it. Let’s try this one more time. “I once walked into a brothel with a honeycomb and a jackass. The madame says: What can we do for you? To what, I answer: I need a woman to lay with, for mine has left me. The madame asks: Whatever for? And what’s with the honeycomb and the mule? - My woman found a genie in a bottle, and he granted her three wishes. The first was a house fit for a queen, so he gave her this damn honeycomb. The second was that she has the nicest ass in all the lands, so he gave her this damn donkey… The madame then asks: And what about the third wish? - Well… she asked the genie to make my cock hang down past my knee. The madame says: Well… that one’s not so bad eh?” The imp halted, teasing his audience before inhaling deeply, and finally completing his joke. “Not so bad!? I used to be six foot three!” 

THE END