Chapter 35 – Tyrion
"Looks like they don't give much credit to a former Hand of the King," the lean warrior said with a teasing grin toward the scar-faced dwarf.
"I wasn't just a former Hand," Tyrion Lannister shot back. "I also saved every last one of their miserable lives. If they don't remember that, surely you, former Commander of the City Watch, might be willing to help me? After all, you made a tidy fortune while in office—Ser Bronn."
Tyrion deliberately emphasized the word Ser.
"You know me," Bronn replied lazily, flicking the wooden ornament hanging from his belt—an expensive trinket he'd bought after being knighted, the sort nobles liked to show off. "I spend money as fast as I earn it. No amount ever stays in my pocket."
Tyrion had never truly intended to ask Bronn for coin. Extracting gold from a mercenary who worshipped money was harder than bedding a whore for free.
He poured himself a cup of red wine and took a long drink, sinking into his chair as he pondered which noble house he should beg from next.
During the Battle of the Blackwater, he had held the city to the very last moment—until his father, Lord Tywin, arrived with reinforcements. He had nearly been cleaved in two for it. Yet when he awoke, he found himself discarded in a dark, damp room to recover.
Not only did his father fail to commend him, Tywin stripped him of the office of Hand.
Enraged, Tyrion demanded his inheritance of Casterly Rock. Tywin refused outright and instead humiliated him—calling him the shame of House Lannister and declaring that if there were any doubt Tyrion was his son, he would have fed him to the wolves long ago.
Tyrion had known since childhood that he would never match Jaime's height, beauty, or martial prowess.
Cersei was beautiful, seductive, a perfect tool for alliances with great houses. As a dwarf, Tyrion had only his mind. He read obsessively, traveled widely, and sharpened his wit, hoping that one day he might prove he was more than the family disgrace.
At last, fate had given him that chance.
As Hand of the King, he had worked tirelessly, keeping King's Landing running smoothly. When Stannis Baratheon launched his mad assault, Tyrion stood atop the walls, commanding the defense, rallying the men—until he fell gravely wounded.
Yet all his efforts earned him nothing. Tywin erased his achievements as if they had never existed, casting him aside like refuse.
Being Hand had given Tyrion a taste of power—and shown him that everything he had learned in life had value. Though Tywin's appointment of him as Master of Coin was clearly meant to humiliate him, Tyrion accepted. He intended to excel, to force his way back into the center of power.
But after days of running about King's Landing, wearing out his tongue, invoking the Lannister name and his former title…
Not a single copper.
All he'd received were sneers and mockery.
As Tyrion sat alone, drowning his bitterness in wine, Varys entered the room, hands tucked calmly into his sleeves.
"With your wedding approaching, my lord," Varys said mildly, "why drown yourself in sorrow?"
Bronn, seeing Varys arrive, discreetly excused himself and left the room.
"What lord am I?" Tyrion scoffed, swirling his wine, eyes already glazed. "I'm nothing more than a beggar going door to door, cup in hand."
"And how fares the collection of funds for His Grace's wedding?" Varys asked gently.
"Not a single copper," Tyrion smacked his lips, sounding almost indifferent. "If my dear nephew were to see how shabby his wedding will be, he'd probably hate his uncle even more."
"Highgarden has always been fertile," Varys said mildly. "I doubt the Queen of Thorns would care to see her granddaughter's wedding reduced to such meagerness."
"The Queen of Thorns!" Tyrion straightened abruptly, gripping his wine cup. His green-and-black eyes shifted as realization struck. How had he forgotten her?
"My thanks, Lord Varys," Tyrion said, hope flaring anew.
"I am no lord," Varys replied leisurely.
Though he held a seat on the small council and served as the ever-smiling master of whisperers, Varys possessed no title at all.
Tyrion fell silent, lowering his gaze as he considered how one might persuade the sharp-witted, iron-handed Queen of Thorns.
"And what do you intend to do about Shae?" Varys asked, turning to the matter at hand.
At the mention of her name, Tyrion's brow furrowed deeply. "I was hoping you might find a way to send her out of King's Landing. She's in great danger here. If my father or my sister discovers her, she'll likely end up hanging from a noose."
Much as Tyrion loathed the thought of losing her, her life mattered more than his comfort.
"And if she refuses to leave?" Varys pressed.
Tyrion froze for a moment, then sighed. "I don't know what I'd do."
Varys had hoped Tyrion might offer a solution, but it seemed they shared the same plan—and according to the mysterious informant, that plan would end badly.
Shae's presence endangered not only herself but Tyrion as well. With no better alternative, Varys resolved to have his little birds watch her closely and, at the first sign of trouble, remove her by force if necessary.
"Do you recall what I mentioned some time ago about Daenerys Targaryen?" Varys asked, smoothly shifting the topic.
Tyrion frowned, unsure why Varys had returned to that distant Targaryen girl. After a moment's thought, he replied casually, "You said she hatched three dragons."
"Yes. My little birds have just brought news: those three dragons have breathed fire—burning more than fifty Qartheen warriors who attempted to invade her estate. The Qartheen nobility and merchant princes were forced to let her depart unharmed."
"They breathe fire already?" Tyrion exclaimed, stunned. "And killed that many men? I distinctly recall you saying they'd only just hatched."
"They have indeed hatched only recently," Varys said. "Their growth has exceeded all expectations—but the reports are quite reliable."
Aegon the Conqueror had forged the Iron Throne with three dragons, using fire and steel to subdue the Seven Kingdoms. House Targaryen ruled for nearly three centuries as a result.
Tyrion remembered that those dragons had only become truly fearsome once fully grown. Fifty dead men was nothing compared to the carnage of open war, yet for creatures only days old to decide the outcome of a battle…
It defied reason.
"Have you told my father?" Tyrion asked after a pause.
"I only just received the news and haven't yet informed Lord Tywin," Varys replied. "What do you think her strength amounts to now that she has dragons?"
"Dragons alone won't win her the Iron Throne," Tyrion said dismissively.
"Perhaps not," Varys replied. "But I've also heard she now commands more than eight thousand Unsullied—trained soldiers of exceptional discipline. She has freed Astapor and is preparing to march on Yunkai to liberate its slaves as well."
"The Unsullied?" Tyrion frowned. "I can't say I know much about them."
Varys glanced downward at himself and raised an eyebrow. "Men much like me—unfortunate souls."
"Effective fighters?" Tyrion asked, understanding at once.
"No worse than the City Watch," Varys replied honestly. "And in some respects, far better."