"It's time we discuss something, nephew," Tyrion began our conversation that morning. After breakfast he looked focused and serious. One glance at his face told me he was about to offer me something. Although, no—more likely demand.
Westeros is the kind of world where absolutely everyone, from the most ordinary peasant or craftsman to the greatest of lords, never forgets to demand something from those who can give it to them. That's why Tyrion didn't stand out—he was, as they say, a typical son of his world and his age.
"You know how much I adore my relatives and how I can talk with them for hours."
"Better tell me what your plans are for Casterly Rock," he said, refusing to play along and getting straight to the point.
His squire, Podrick Payne, walked ten paces behind us together with Balon Swann and Herald. Podrick had grown up over this time and no longer looked so timid and taciturn. Right now he was animatedly recounting the latest hunt, during which Bronn of the Blackwater had brought down a massive stag.
From time to time we passed other people strolling through the gardens. The men bowed, the ladies dipped into curtsies. By now I was thoroughly used to it and, unlike in the first weeks, reacted with complete calm.
"Casterly Rock?" Damn it—Tyrion had clearly realized just how important he'd become to the Crown and was now demanding his reward for uncovering Littlefinger's schemes.
"You understand perfectly well. Don't pretend otherwise," he said, frowning.
"And what exactly do you want to hear from me, Tyrion?" I asked in return. "This isn't a simple question with an easy answer. You want the Rock? How do you imagine that working? What am I supposed to tell Grandfather and Cersei? And don't forget Jaime—your father dreams of the day the elder son, not the younger, inherits our house."
"Jaime doesn't give a shit about the Rock. He told me so himself." Tyrion looked up at me and knitted his brows with determination. "Tywin isn't eternal. And Cersei—we'll come up with something."
"Let's just do without any… excesses, all right?"
"That's not what you think!" he glanced around and lowered his voice. "I would never kill my kin. Never, under any circumstances! Remember that, nephew."
"All right." It took a real effort not to laugh. Funny thing—we never really know what we're capable of until we're backed into a corner. "Let's think rationally. Here's the situation: you have Sansa, and with her you can claim the entire North and Winterfell! Doesn't that prospect inspire you?"
"Joffrey, when we were there, you spent the whole journey wrapped in furs and hiding under Cersei's skirts. You never understood how cold it could be there. I hacked my way through frost and blizzards, fought monsters and wildlings, went months without touching a woman, and saw the faces of the gods in the heavens! And once I decided to take a piss there and nearly froze my dick off… You think that's funny?"
"Stop bullshitting. Ever thought about writing books? And by the way, you shouldn't have pissed off the Wall. Then you wouldn't have had a frozen-dick problem."
"How did you guess?" He fixed me with a puzzled stare from his mismatched eyes.
"What's there to guess? You don't need to be a genius to know you'd never miss a chance like that."
"That's exactly how it was," he said, smiling as he sank into cheerful, carefree memories. "Now do you understand why there's nothing for me in the North? I'm not made for it, and it's not made for me."
"And what about your future children with Sansa? What will you leave them as an inheritance?"
"Oh, gods," he threw his hands up theatrically, heavy rings glinting on his fingers. "I used to fuck everything that moved. And now everything's different, and I've turned into the ultimate henpecked husband… and on top of that I'm supposed to think about children."
"Then think about it. But the Rock and Winterfell in the same hands—that's too much, you have to admit. Choose one."
"Fine. Though there's a problem," he conceded reluctantly. "My heart belongs to the Rock, but Sansa loves the North. Still, this conversation isn't over. Think about it—you're unlikely to find anyone better than me for the Rock."
"I see modesty won't kill you. I could name nearly a dozen candidates off the top of my head instead of you, but let's talk about something else. What do you think about the dragon?"
In truth, I already knew what he thought—Tyrion was utterly fascinated by dragons and everything connected to them. That was why, on the very first day he learned I'd brought back an egg, he came to my chambers and spent more than an hour holding it on his lap. At the time, his face wore a strange, dreamy expression.
"And what am I supposed to think?"
"For example, how to help it hatch. Want to take part in that?"
"You even ask?! I'd go north again if I had to, but I wouldn't miss something like this!"
"Excellent. Then dig through the library and find out how the Targaryens treated their living toys."
"Fuck! I can't believe you caught me by my word again. Joff, how do you do it?" He sighed and spat far to the side. "Still, I'm ready to reek of book dust, earn hemorrhoids, and find at least something."
"That's the spirit! Go find it."
(End of Chapter)
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