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[Look To The Stars] Chapter 21: The Gathering Storm
🕑 Added 2025-07-16 02:08:59 +0000 UTCDisclaimer: This is a work of fiction and all rights for character, plots and settings belong to GRRM and George Lucas/Disney. I have no ownership.
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Year 298 AC/7 ABY
Winterfell, The North
The feast hall thrummed with Northern voices, rough as winter bark and twice as honest. Ned Stark moved between the trestle tables, accepting greetings from lords who'd ridden through snow and sleet to answer his summons. Roasted meat mingled with wet wool and woodsmoke—that particular Northern gathering smell. Earthy. Unpretentious. Real.
"Lord Stark!" Robett Glover raised his horn, cheeks already flushed. "My wife sends her regards. Says if you've called us here to announce another royal visit, she'll bar the gates of Deepwood Motte herself."
Ned managed a wry smile. "No royal visits, Robett. Though what I have to say may be less welcome."
"Less welcome than feeding half the realm on our winter stores?" Lord Cerwyn's dry observation drew chuckles. "Hard to imagine."
The Greatjon's boom cut through: "Let them come again! My boy needs practice with his sword arm." His massive hand nearly drove Smalljon's face into his trencher.
These men had answered without question, riding hard roads in harsh weather. They deserved this brief respite before he laid new burdens on their shoulders.
Lady Maege Mormont attacked a joint of mutton with enthusiasm. "You're brooding again, Stark. Makes the meat taste sour."
"My apologies, Lady Maege. I'll try to brood more quietly."
"Bah." She waved the bone. "Save it for after you've told us why we're here. Bad news goes down easier on a full stomach."
At the far end, Lord Wyman Manderly held court with minor lords from the White Knife region. The massive Lord of White Harbor had arrived that morning in a litter requiring six bearers. Yet his eyes found Ned's across the crowd, sharp as steel, and he inclined his head.
"Father." Robb materialized at his elbow. "Lord Hornwood has arrived. That's the last of them."
Twenty-three lords or their representatives. The North's strength under one roof. Time to test it.
Ned took the dais. His presence alone drew focus—conversations dying to crackling hearth fires and occasional horn-clinks. When snow-silence had settled, he spoke.
"My lords, my ladies. You honor Winterfell with your presence."
"Get on with it, Ned!" The Greatjon's bellow. "We didn't ride through sleet for pleasantries!"
Agreement rippled through the hall. These weren't men for flowery speeches. They were wolves who smelled trouble on the wind.
"Very well. Five days past, I received word from King's Landing. The crown has seen fit to triple our tax burden, effective immediately."
The explosion nearly shook the rafters. Lord Glover shot upright, face purple: "Triple? TRIPLE? My people are already eating bark soup!"
"After the fortune we spent hosting them!" Cerwyn's mild voice cracked with unprecedented fury.
"Southron pricks!" came from the back. "Bleeding us dry while they feast on Arbor gold!"
Ned watched proud faces twist with rage. When the roar dimmed to angry muttering, he raised a hand.
"The decree comes from Lord Tywin Lannister, the new Hand."
Lady Mormont spat. "Of course. The lion shows his claws."
"But why?" Lord Hornwood stood slowly, troubled. "What cause does the crown give? Surely His Grace—"
"His Grace has been...distracted. Lord Tywin cites military necessity. Preparation against Targaryen threats from across the Narrow Sea."
The Greatjon's ugly laugh: "Targaryen threats? The beggar king's dead, and his sister's a missing child!"
"The timing is... curious." Lord Manderly wheezed each word like a merchant counting coins. "His Grace visits. Lord Stark refuses the Handship. His Grace departs. Taxes triple." His small eyes glittered. "One might almost think it punishment."
The thought took root in their faces, not just insult, but deliberate retaliation.
"There's more. While His Grace visited, an assassin attempted to murder my daughter Sansa in her own quarters."
Swords scraped from sheaths. Curses that would make a septon faint. The Greatjon drowned them all: "WHO? Give us a name! We'll drag the bastard by his entrails!"
"The assassin is dead. But he carried Valyrian steel. No common cutthroat's blade."
The implications hung heavy. Valyrian steel meant wealth. Nobility. Someone powerful wanted his daughter dead.
"You think the crown..." Cerwyn couldn't finish.
"I think many things. But thinking and knowing are different beasts. What I know—the North faces threats from without and within. We must be ready."
"Ready?" Glover's skepticism dripped. "How? When the crown bleeds us white? My people need every copper for winter stores, not southern wars!"
"Aye!" Others joined. "Let them fight their own battles!"
"The North remembers its own!"
"Fuck the crown!"
When fury crested, Ned continued: "I share your anger. Which is why, in two weeks, I ride for King's Landing."
The statement dropped like stone in still water. Manderly's eyes narrowed. Lady Mormont set down her horn with deliberate care.
"You swore you'd not take the Handship."
"And I won't. I go to speak with Robert directly. To make him see reason. The North has bled enough for southern games."
"And if he won't see reason?" Hornwood asked quietly.
"Then we prepare for whatever comes. But first—" The gravity in his voice froze even the servants mid-motion. "First, I must tell you what I saw at Castle Black. What threatens us from the true North."
"During my visit, Lord Commander Mormont told me of wildlings massing beyond the Wall. Not hundreds. Thousands."
The Greatjon's fist made cups jump. "Give me leave! We'll paint the snow red!"
"How many thousands?" Karstark's sharp query. "How close?"
"Too many and too close. Mance Rayder leads them. The deserter they call King-Beyond-the-Wall."
"A deserter king leading savages," Mormont's humorless laugh, "while the crown bleeds us for southern wars."
"They'll break on the Wall like waves on stone," Umber declared, uncertainty creeping into bluster. "Won't they?"
"The Night's Watch has fewer than a thousand men. Most of them thieves and rapers. Against ten thousand wildlings? Twenty? More?"
Ned could see the calculations going through their head, the Wall's strength against those numbers, the Watch's weakness, their own holdings' distance.
"If the Wall falls..." Hornwood didn't need to finish.
"The Wall won't fall," Glover insisted, knuckles white. "Eight thousand years it's stood."
"Aye, with proper manning." Young Cerwyn had gone pale. "My grandfather said the Watch had five times their current number."
"There's more." Ned kept his voice steady. "I stood with the Lord Commander and watched a corpse rise from the dead. Waymar Royce, third son of Bronze Yohn, dead for three moons—yet he moved. Attacked. Would have killed Mormont if I hadn't taken his head with Ice."
Men who'd faced ironborn reavers stared as if he'd grown a second head.
"Lord Stark," Cerwyn ventured, "surely there's some explanation..."
"The explanation is that the dead walk beyond the Wall. The Night's Watch has lost contact with many rangings. Wildling villages stand empty. And now the dead rise with blue eyes and strength beyond mortal men."
"Grumkins and snarks," someone muttered without conviction.
"I thought the same. Until I saw it myself. Until I took that thing's head and watched the blue fade from its eyes."
Rickard Karstark leaned forward. "You're serious. You truly saw this."
"I did. And I'll take the body to Bronze Yohn as proof. Let the Vale see. Let them all see."
"But... the Others..." Hornwood trembled. "They're legends. Stories to frighten children."
"As are men who move objects without touching them. Yet such men exist. I've seen that too."
The reference to Luke Skywalker sent ripples through the hall. Despite Ned's attempts at secrecy, rumors had spread, his children training with the mysterious southerner, strange lights in the godswood, impossible feats whispered by servants.
"My lord," Glover stood slowly, "these are dark tidings. If what you say is true—"
"It is true."
"Then we face enemies on all sides. The crown bleeds our coffers while the Long Night rises again." He looked around, meeting fellow lords' eyes. "What would you have us do?"
The fulcrum moment. The North's future balanced on his next words.
"Prepare. Double garrison training. Ensure every able-bodied man knows which end of a spear is sharp. Stock granaries and armories both. Send your best men to the Wall. Not criminals and cast-offs, but true warriors who can train others. They needn't take the oath, but they can help."
"About the wildling army—they flee south in numbers we've never seen. Not to raid or plunder, but to escape."
Greatjon slammed the table again. "Let them freeze where they belong!"
"The dead are rising. An army that grows with every fallen man, woman, and child."
"Then we man the Wall higher!" Karstark snarled. "Double the watch! Triple it!"
"And when the dead have consumed every living soul beyond the Wall? When they've added thousands of wildlings to their ranks?"
The question hung like morning frost. Glover shifted uncomfortably. "You're not suggesting…"
"I'm suggesting we think like warriors, not fools drunk on old hatreds. If we must face an army of the dead, would you rather fight them alone?"
"You would have us break bread with wildlings?" Mormont's voice cracked like a whip. "My husband died to their axes!"
"And how many wildlings have died to ours? This enemy cares nothing for our feuds. The dead don't distinguish between those north or south of the wall."
Roose Bolton leaned forward, pale eyes glittering. "You propose an alliance with savages?"
"I propose survival. The Night's Watch held for eight thousand years, but was it raised to hold back wildlings? Can a thousand men hold against creatures that don't tire, don't eat, don't fear?"
Lords exchanged uneasy glances. Even the Greatjon had fallen silent, massive hands clenched.
"Think on it. Every wildling that falls beyond the Wall rises as our enemy. Every one we allow through—properly managed, properly watched—is one less corpse in the future."
Finally, Manderly wheezed: "And where would these wildlings go? Who feeds them? Watches them?"
"Questions we must answer. But better than 'how do we fight a hundred thousand corpses?'"
"And the taxes?" Mormont asked bluntly.
"Pay what you can without starving. Document what you cannot. When I speak with Robert, I'll have full accounting of the crown's demands and the North's capabilities."
"And if the king won't listen?" Bolton's soft question carried to every ear.
Ned met the pale lord's gaze. "Then the North will do what it has always done. We endure. We prepare. And we protect our own."
Discussion erupted—some arguing immediate action, others counseling patience. Ned let them work through shock and anger. These were his bannermen, but also practical men who understood winter made every decision about survival.
Manderly struggled upright, face red with effort. Two knights rushed to assist. Once standing, he made his ponderous way toward the dais, the crowd parting.
"Lord Stark," he wheezed after climbing the steps, sweat beading despite the chill. "A word, if you please."
Ned gestured to a quieter corner. Manderly leaned heavily on a carved pillar before speaking.
"My lord, I've had... interesting visitors in White Harbor. Merchants from across the Narrow Sea speak of movements in the Free Cities. Sellsword companies gathering. Ships purchased in lots." His small eyes glittered. "The Golden Company has broken its contract with Myr."
"The Golden Company never breaks contracts."
"Just so." Manderly's chins wobbled. "Yet they have. One wonders what could prompt such unprecedented action."
"You think the Targaryen girl…"
"I think many things. But I know this—threats gather from all directions. Ice from the North. Fire from the East. Gold from the South." He leaned closer, voice dropping. "The mermen of White Harbor stand with you, Lord Stark. Against all enemies... living or dead."
The emphasis sent chills down Ned's spine. Manderly knew. Somehow, the clever lord had pieced together more than revealed.
"Your loyalty honors me, Lord Wyman."
"Loyalty?" His wet, bubbling laugh. "Call it practicality. When winter comes and the dead walk, a man wants Stark steel between him and darkness. Not Lannister gold."
Commotion near the main doors as Maester Luwin hurried through, chain singing urgently. His normally composed face showed clear distress.
"My lord. A raven from the Wall. Most urgent."
Ned read quickly, blood growing colder with each word.
"What is it?" Robb had appeared, reading his father's expression.
"Three rangers found dead beyond the Wall. When they brought the bodies back..." He looked up. "All three rose in the night. It took fire to stop them. Complete destruction of the corpses."
"My lords! Fresh word from the Wall, the dead rise in numbers now. Lord Commander Mormont begs immediate aid. Men, weapons, and most importantly, fire. Pitch, oil, anything that burns. The enemy cares nothing for steel."
"Gods preserve us," someone whispered.
"The gods help those who help themselves. Lord Umber, your lands are closest. Can you spare men and supplies?"
The Greatjon stood, bluster replaced by grim determination. "Aye. A hundred men and whatever pitch we can gather. Within the week."
"House Mormont will match that number," Maege declared. "Bear Island knows its duty."
One by one, lords pledged support. Even those who'd grumbled about taxes now offered what they could. The threat of walking dead clarified priorities.
Lord Bolton approached the dais. "My lord, there's another matter. These rumors about your children, about the stranger who trains them..."
Conversations died mid-word. Tankards paused halfway to lips.
"What of it?" Robb stepped forward before Ned could respond.
"Some say it's sorcery. That this Luke Skywalker has bewitched you and your siblings, teaches unnatural arts." Roose shifted in faux concern. "I don't hold with such talk, but others wonder if you invite darkness into Winterfell while warning of darkness beyond the Wall."
Robb's hand extended. The pewter vessel trembled, wood groaning beneath. The mug scraped across oak grain—slow, then faster, lifting into empty air.
Lords scrambled. Benches toppled. Mormont's hand flew to her sword while the Greatjon knocked over his ale, amber spreading across wood. Someone's breath caught—sharp, wet in the sudden quiet.
The mug floated steady, rotating lazily between table and Robb's palm. Torchlight caught pewter, throwing dancing shadows across stunned faces.
"Seven hells!" The Greatjon's roar shattered silence.
"Sorcery!" Karstark backed against the wall, knocking a shield. It clattered against stone, sharp as breaking bones.
"Enough!" Ned's command rang off vaulted ceiling. Men froze mid-motion. "Sit down. All of you."
The mug settled into Robb's grip with a soft thunk. He sipped, throat working. When he lowered it, his eyes swept the hall—calm, steady, nothing like the boy who'd once begged for stories.
"And what do you think, Lord Bolton?"
Roose hadn't moved. Hadn't blinked. Pale eyes tracked from mug to face, calculating. "An interesting demonstration. I think desperate times call for desperate measures. But others may not be so understanding."
"I appreciate your candor, my lord. And your discretion..."
Roose gave Robb one last look before withdrawing, leaving Ned to contemplate yet another threat. Not from ice or gold, but from fear itself. The same fear that once burned witches and hunted the children of the forest to near extinction.
"How is this even possible?" Glover's knuckles white against table edge.
Ned's jaw tightened. He caught Robb's eye—warning sharp as winter wind—before facing the assembled lords. "My children are gifted." Words fell like stones into still water, each measured, final. The tone that had ended a thousand arguments in this very hall.
No one dared speak.
The feast dissolved into murmured farewells and scraping benches. Lords filed out with sideways glances, whispers dying at the threshold. Fear hung like smoke, but beneath…beneath Ned saw it in their inclined heads, the new distance in their bows. Respect.
When the last torch-bearer vanished, Ned rounded on his son. "That was foolish."
"Was it?" Robb didn't flinch, hands easy on the table. "Jon and I discussed this. The truth would surface eventually. Better to control when and how."
"You discussed—" Ned bit off the words, exhaling through his nose. The deed was done.
"You saw their faces. They're afraid, yes. But they'll follow me now. Not just because I'm your son."
The boy was right. Ned had seen it in Bolton's calculating gaze, in Greatjon's grudging nod. Power commanded its own loyalty, especially power that could stop arrows midair as easily as float ale.
"You've made yourself a target."
"I've made myself memorable." Robb's mouth curved into not quite a smile. "When you ride south, they'll remember that the Starks still lead them."
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Kingslanding, The Crownlands
Tyrion walked through the White Sword Tower's narrow corridors, as the smell of leather oil and steel polish permeated the air—a warrior's perfume that made his stunted legs ache with phantom memories of battles he'd never fight.
He found Jaime in the common room, alone save for the portraits of dead heroes staring down from the walls. His brother sat slouched in a chair, golden hair catching the afternoon light as he studied a half-empty wine cup with the intensity of a man reading prophecy in the dregs.
"Drinking alone?" Tyrion maneuvered his chair closer, wood scraping against stone. "How unlike you. Why aren't you challenging Ser Barristan again instead?"
Jaime's green eyes flicked up, a smile ghosting across his lips. "The old man's on duty. Someone has to guard our beloved king while he samples the Street of Silk's finest establishments."
"Ah yes, the noble duty of standing outside a whorehouse." Tyrion reached for the wine pitcher, pleased to find it within reach. "Tell me, do you avert your eyes when the royal member makes its appearance, or is that considered part of the sacred vows?"
"We swear to keep the king's secrets." Jaime's smile turned sardonic. "Though I doubt anyone considers Robert's cock much of a secret anymore. Half of King's Landing has seen it by now."
Tyrion poured himself a generous measure, the wine dark as old blood in the dim light. "Speaking of secrets, I had the most illuminating conversation with our Master of Coin during the tourney."
"Littlefinger?" Jaime's posture shifted, subtle tension creeping into his shoulders. "What pearls of wisdom did Lord Baelish share? New ways to squeeze gold from stones?"
"New ways to squeeze gold from the North, actually." Tyrion watched his brother's face carefully. "Triple taxes on grain shipments. Curious timing, wouldn't you say? Just as Lord Stark discovers increased wildlings attacks."
Jaime shrugged, but the gesture seemed forced. "The realm needs gold. Father's made that abundantly clear since taking office."
"Father approved it, yes. But the proposal came from our sweet sister." Tyrion swirled his wine, letting the words settle between them like silt in disturbed water. "Cersei's developed quite the interest in Northern economics, it seems."
Something flickered in Jaime's eyes—there and gone like a candle in wind. "Cersei concerns herself with many things. She is the queen."
"Indeed she is." Tyrion leaned back, his chair creaking. "Though one wonders why she'd target the Starks specifically. Unless, of course, there's some... tension there I'm unaware of?"
"Tension?" Jaime's laugh rang hollow in the stone chamber. "When is there not tension where Cersei's concerned? She collects grudges like other women collect jewels."
"True enough." Tyrion studied the wine's surface, seeing his distorted reflection staring back. "Still, targeting Lord Stark's family seems particularly vindictive. Especially after that unfortunate business with the assassin."
Jaime went very still. "What assassin?"
"Oh, didn't you hear? Someone tried to murder sweet Sansa Stark. Valyrian steel dagger, no less." Tyrion kept his tone conversational, but his eyes never left his brother's face. "The Starks have been remarkably quiet about it. Almost as if they suspect someone... close to the crown."
"That's ridiculous." Jaime stood abruptly, the chair scraping against stone. "Why would anyone connected to Robert want to harm the Stark girl?"
"I never said connected to Robert." Tyrion tilted his head, watching his brother pace like a caged lion. "Interesting that your mind went there, though."
Jaime whirled, and for a moment Tyrion saw something dangerous flash in those green eyes—the Kingslayer rather than the golden brother. "What are you implying?"
"I'm not implying anything." Tyrion spread his hands, the picture of innocence. "I'm simply curious why our sister suddenly develops an interest in Northern taxation at the same time someone tries to kill Ned Stark's daughter. Call it the suspicious mind of a twisted little monkey."
"Don't." Jaime's voice dropped low, warning threading through the single word.
"Don't what? Don't wonder why you leap to Cersei's defense before I've even accused her of anything?" Tyrion set down his cup with deliberate care. "Don't notice how you and our dear sister have been spending rather a lot of time together?"
"I am a Kingsguard and we're family." The words came out clipped, defensive. "Of course we spend time together."
"Family." Tyrion tasted the word like wine gone to vinegar. "Yes, we Lannisters do prize family loyalty. Though some might say we take it to... unusual extremes."
"Enough!" Jaime's fist slammed into the table, wine cups jumping. "You know nothing. You sit there with your books and your clever words, thinking you understand everything, but you know nothing about—"
He cut himself off, jaw clenching so hard Tyrion could see the muscles jump beneath golden stubble.
"About what, Jaime?" Tyrion's voice gentled, seeing real pain beneath his brother's rage. "What don't I understand?"
For a heartbeat, Jaime's mask slipped. Tyrion saw exhaustion there, and something that might have been guilt, before the familiar sardonic smile snapped back into place like armor.
"About the burdens of actually serving the realm instead of merely drinking your way through it." Jaime moved toward the door with long strides. "If you'll excuse me, I have duties to attend."
"Jaime—"
"Leave it alone, Tyrion." His brother paused at the threshold, not looking back. "For once in your life, just leave it alone."
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the portraits on the walls. Tyrion sat in the sudden silence, wine forgotten, as pieces clicked together in his mind like a maester's puzzle box. Cersei's vindictiveness toward the Starks. Jaime's explosive defensiveness. Littlefinger's sly implications about unnatural family loyalty.
"Seven hells," he muttered to the empty room. The portraits of dead Kingsguard stared down at him, their painted eyes holding centuries of secrets.
The door burst open again, and Tyrion looked up to see Podrick's anxious face. His squire stood panting in the doorway, sweat beading on his forehead despite the tower's chill.
"M'lord," Pod gasped. "I found someone. Like you asked."
Behind him lounged a man who seemed assembled from spare parts—long limbs, sharp features, and clothes that had seen better decades. He wore confidence like armor, despite looking like he'd been dragged through Flea Bottom backwards.
"Well, well." The stranger's voice carried the distinctive lilt of the city's gutters. "Podrick here says you're looking for someone with particular skills. Lucky for you, I happen to be particularly skilled."
Tyrion studied the newcomer, noting the way he'd positioned himself to keep both exits in view, the casual hand resting near what was likely a concealed blade. A survivor, then. Perfect.
"And you are?"
"Bronn." No surname, no titles. Just Bronn, like a challenge. "Late of wherever the gold flows freely."
"A sellsword?"
"Among other things." Bronn's grin revealed teeth too white for a man of his apparent station. "I sell lots of things. Swords, secrets, silence. Whatever pays best."
Despite himself, Tyrion found his lips quirking upward. "An honest dishonest man. How refreshing. Tell me, Bronn of wherever-gold-flows, what do you know about Lord Petyr Baelish?"
"Littlefinger?" Bronn scratched his stubbled jaw. "Runs the best brothels in the city. Clean girls, decent wine, and he doesn't water it down as much as the others. Also happens to be the second most dangerous man in King's Landing."
"Second?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Who's the first?"
"Whoever's paying me." Bronn's grin widened. "See? Particularly skilled."
Tyrion laughed despite the day's tensions. "I think we'll get along splendidly. How do you feel about spending time in Lord Baelish's establishments?"
"Depends. Am I sampling the wares or just watching?"
"Watching. Listening. Remembering." Tyrion reached for his purse, letting gold coins spill onto the table with a satisfying clink. "Lord Baelish has many friends who whisper many things. I'd like to know what they're whispering about."
Bronn's eyes tracked the gold with the focus of a hawk spotting prey. "Spying on the Master of Coin. That's the kind of job that could get a man a second smile across his throat."
"Hence the generous compensation." Tyrion added more coins to the pile. "There's thrice this waiting when you bring me something useful."
"Define useful."
"Anything about the North. About House Stark. About..." Tyrion hesitated, then plunged ahead. "About my family. Particularly my sister."
Bronn's expression sharpened. "Spying on the queen? That's not just dangerous, that's suicidal."
"I'm not asking you to spy on her directly. Just... listen for her name in Littlefinger's establishments. See who mentions her, and in what context." Tyrion met the sellsword's calculating gaze. "Can you do that without getting yourself killed?"
"I've survived this long in King's Landing." Bronn scooped up the coins with practiced efficiency. "Though I'll want hazard pay if this gets more complicated than brothel gossip."
"Naturally. A Lannister always pays his debts."
"So I've heard." Bronn pocketed the gold, then fixed Tyrion with a look that was suddenly serious. "One thing, though. I don't work for men who lie to me. You want me risking my neck, I need to know what I'm really looking for."
Tyrion considered the man before him—rough, dangerous, but oddly straightforward. "Someone tried to kill a Stark girl with a Valyrian steel dagger. I want to know if Littlefinger was involved, and if so, on whose behalf."
"And if the answer's one you don't like?"
"Then I'll pay you double to forget you ever heard it." Tyrion's smile held no warmth. "Can you do that?"
Bronn studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "I can do that. When do I start?"
"Tonight. The tourney's brought many lords and merchants in the realm to King's Landing. Littlefinger's establishments will be overflowing with loose tongues and looser morals."
"My favorite kind of evening." Bronn sketched a mocking bow. "Pleasure doing business with you, Lord Tyrion. Pod knows where to find me when you need results."
He sauntered out, whistling a tavern song that would have made a septon blush. Podrick lingered, shifting nervously from foot to foot.
"Did I do well, m'lord?"
"Brilliantly, Pod." Tyrion reached for the wine again, needing its comfort after the day's revelations. "Though you might want to avoid mentioning this arrangement to anyone. Particularly anyone named Lannister."
"Yes, m'lord." Podrick bobbed his head. "Will there be anything else?"
"No, I think I'll sit here and contemplate how many ways this could go horribly wrong." Tyrion waved him off. "Go get yourself something to eat. You've earned it."
Alone again with the portraits and shadows, Tyrion drained his cup in one long swallow. Somewhere in the city, Bronn was already beginning his hunt. Somewhere in the castle, Jaime nursed wounds Tyrion had barely begun to understand. And somewhere, Cersei schemed with a vindictiveness that might have already cost one Stark girl her life.
"A Lannister always pays his debts," he murmured to the empty room.
The painted eyes of dead heroes offered no answers, only the weight of their eternal judgment. Tyrion poured another cup and settled in to wait, wondering if he'd just set in motion something that would save his family or destroy it.
Perhaps both.
Comments
Full Horizon
My boy just tired of hearing Robert private (or public) time with his side piece lol. I mean imagine being in love(?) with your sister but she is married to a guy who’s banging everything around lol
Winter
Is he having second thoughts
Winter
Everythings gone to shit but the lannisters are about to go off on eachother but what made jamie start thinking he never cares unless its about cersei ?
Bedivere
Ha! Suck it Bolton! I always hated that little weasel.....and speaking of deplorable scheming mustelids I am eagerly anticipating the hopefully inevitable meeting of our favorite Jedi and the ever smug master of coin.
Full Horizon
❤️
Star445
Roose and Ramsey
Hiliwan
Tftc 👍
IS6A6E
Something needs to be done about Roose. But I’m happy for the new chapter.
