Chapter 71 — Kinslayer
Jaime stood over his father's corpse, his face dark as storm clouds.
Tywin Lannister was undeniably dead—cold, stiff, and beyond saving.
Jaime clenched his jaw so hard his teeth almost ground together, then turned sharply and strode out of the chamber.
Grand Maester Pycelle remained bent over the body, inspecting it with trembling caution, carefully confirming the cause of death.
Lord Mace Tyrell stared in shock, lips quivering, as if he couldn't even form words.
Varys, however, did not react the way the others did.
He glanced once at Tywin's corpse—whose death was identical to Joffrey's—then looked at Cersei, still collapsed beside the bed, sobbing uncontrollably.
His face was blank.
Expressionless, he turned and left the room as well.
---
Less than fifteen minutes later, the Gold Cloaks responsible for Tyrion's arrest returned with grim news.
"Tyrion Lannister's residence is empty," the captain reported. "No one remains. We searched thoroughly—he's gone. Most of his valuable possessions were already moved out."
And Tyrion wasn't the only one missing.
Tywin's cupbearer had also vanished.
Pycelle had already examined the wine cup from which Tywin drank—
and confirmed it contained traces of the poison:
The Strangler.
Cersei's eyes turned into blades.
"Tyrion…" she hissed, each word trembling with hatred. "You killed Mother. You killed my son. And now you've killed Father too."
She rose abruptly, rage radiating from her like heat off a forge.
"I will find you," she swore through clenched teeth, "and I will tear you apart with my own hands."
Then she snapped her head toward the Gold Cloaks.
"Seal every dock. Every gate. Every road out of King's Landing."
Her voice cracked like a whip.
"Search the entire city. Tyrion does not escape!"
---
Tywin's death spread through King's Landing like wildfire.
So did the rumor that followed it—
the name everyone spat with fear and disgust:
Tyrion Lannister — kinslayer.
The lords of the capital were shaken to the bone.
If he could murder a king…
and then murder his own father…
what wouldn't he do?
---
Meanwhile—
After spending the night in a riverside town, the two carriages rolled out at dawn the next morning.
They followed the wide river, continuing southeast.
Ever since waking from the humiliation of being drunk into unconsciousness by a dragon, Tyrion had been on edge.
Drogon didn't bother him for more drinking.
In truth, Drogon rarely drank now—he only occasionally touched fermented mare's milk, and almost never the firewine.
But Tyrion didn't know that.
After that disaster, he was so terrified the little beast would drag him into another "toast" that he didn't even dare touch his beloved red wine again.
During the day, he read with Shireen—discussing books, trading opinions, sometimes arguing over interpretations.
At night, he returned to Shae and began living again, as if his old world had truly died and a new one had started.
He had no idea…
that while he traveled peacefully down quiet roads—
a new title had been branded onto him back in King's Landing.
Not only a kingslayer.
But now, in the eyes of the realm…
a father-killer.
And the most wanted man in Westeros.
---
The entire group's food supply was basically covered by Drogon alone.
At first, the guards and coachmen had assumed this escort mission would be miserable—long roads, bland rations, constant tension.
Instead, they not only witnessed a living dragon, but also ate so well every single day that their mouths practically gleamed with grease. At this point, they were secretly hoping the trip would take longer before reaching its destination.
Watching Shireen sit inside the carriage, listening attentively as Tyrion seriously explained the fundamentals of governance, Drogon found himself wondering—
Before long, would Dragon-Mother end up with another female advisor, in addition to Missandei?
---
"What's going on?"
Tyrion paused mid-explanation, suddenly frowning.
The carriage had started shaking more violently—this wasn't normal road-bumping. Even the cup of water on the table trembled, its surface rippling with tight, frantic rings.
Drogon also sensed something wrong.
He flung aside the curtain, darted out through the window, and took to the sky. Tyrion pushed open the carriage door and climbed out after him.
Outside, the guards were already in chaos.
Their warhorses stamped restlessly, snorting and tossing their heads. In the distance, a thick wall of dust rolled down the road—mixed inside it were the shrill cries of horses and the harsh barking of human voices.
There were at least several hundred riders.
The five guards' faces turned pale one after another.
They'd thought they'd been lucky so far—
only to run into the one group they least wanted to see.
Tyrion's expression changed sharply as well. He immediately ordered Shae and Shireen back into the carriage.
---
The riders surged closer.
Instead of attacking immediately, they split into two lines and circled the pair of luxurious carriages like wolves closing around prey.
One man rode out from the center.
His braid shone with oil, his skin was bronzed, and his almond-shaped eyes were sharp. His body was powerful, hard muscle without a trace of fat—clearly someone important, likely wanting to see what kind of people could afford such fine carriages.
Drogon recognized them instantly.
A Dothraki khalasar.
He hovered up above the carriage, wings beating slowly, watching the raiders with cold, predatory calm.
---
Captain Alvin, the leader of the escort, hadn't expected Dothraki to cross the wide river and raid on this side.
Seeing their khal, he forced himself forward, hoping they could buy their way out with ransom before things turned bloody.
But just as Alvin opened his mouth—
he froze.
Because the khal's gaze wasn't even on him.
It was tilted upward… toward the sky behind him.
Alvin turned, and his stomach tightened.
The small black dragon that had been traveling with the little girl was now hovering above the carriages, wings fluttering lazily—like he owned the air itself.
The Dothraki warriors also saw him.
A ripple of alarm spread through the riders.
Then another man rode out—his posture and presence different. He came to the khal's side, leaned in, and spoke in a low voice while glancing at Drogon.
Alvin understood a little Dothraki.
He caught fragments—
something about a dragon god, and… offspring.
"Dragon god?"
Alvin stared at Drogon in disbelief. The little dragon was indeed unusually strong—but "dragon god" felt like an exaggeration.
---
But Khal Rogo clearly saw something different.
This dragon looked extremely similar to the one that frequently appeared across the Dothraki Sea, casually buying roasted meat with gold—except it was far smaller, barely bigger than a newborn.
Rogo and his bloodriders both suspected the same thing:
Could this little black dragon be the offspring of the dragon-god the grasslands worshipped?
Whether the connection was real or not, Rogo had no intention of touching these two carriages.
If doing so angered the dragon god…
his entire khalasar would not survive the consequences.
---
Rogo backed up several steps and shouted an order over his shoulder.
Immediately, more than ten Dothraki warriors dismounted. They pulled bundles and wineskins from their saddles, then walked past Alvin without even sparing him a glance.
They stopped about three meters from Drogon.
And placed the items carefully on the ground.
Alvin and the guards stared, dumbfounded.
Before they could even offer ransom—
the Dothraki were presenting food and fermented mare's milk as tribute to the little black dragon.
Tyrion, despite knowing Drogon could grow larger, still felt uneasy. There were simply too many riders; even if Drogon transformed, could he really protect everyone at once?
Yet what happened next stunned him even more.
Not only did the riders not attack—
they gave them food and drink.
Inside the carriage, Shireen and Shae had heard nothing for a long time. Curious, they lifted the curtain slightly…
and saw the Dothraki offering tribute.
Shireen wasn't frightened at all.
The moment she saw the riders, she guessed they came from the grasslands across the river—only a few dozen kilometers away. She knew Drogon often went there to buy roasted meat.
---
Drogon looked down at the pile of supplies—already stacked like a small hill.
Satisfied.
Then he turned his head and nodded lightly toward Shireen, who was peeking out.
Shireen immediately understood.
She returned to her carriage and brought out Drogon's backpack.
Drogon raised three claws.
Shireen pulled out three golden coins, then—without the slightest fear—walked directly up to Khal Rogo's horse to offer them.
---
The moment Rogo saw the backpack, his eyes narrowed.
It looked… familiar.
His bloodrider murmured something, and realization struck him:
That might be the dragon god's pack.
Looking closer, he saw it clearly—
a tiny bell, identical to those on his own braid.
A khal earns bells by defeating powerful enemies: the more bells, the more fearsome the victories.
Rogo didn't know the truth.
Ever since the bag became Drogon's personal pack, Irri had stitched a bell onto it—recording Drogon's honor from killing the Undying.