Tyrion had no interest in altering the original furnishings of the Tower of the Hand. The only noticeable difference was the sheer number of books—nearly three times more than before. He stood proudly before the map of the Seven Kingdoms, his sharp eyes flicking back and forth between the markings for "King's Landing" and "Casterly Rock."
Suddenly, the scent of body odor wafted into his nostrils, interrupting his thoughts. Without turning around, he said, "Look at us now. Only my father and I still stand in all of Westeros. Even 500 years from now, I believe someone will remember our names."
When Shae didn't respond, Tyrion jumped down from his chair, turning to face her. "Don't worry," he said, his tone surprisingly calm, "I'll make sure you're well taken care of. I'll place you somewhere safe and give you enough gold to live comfortably for the rest of your days."
At his words, Shae crouched down, her voice trembling. "My lion, I... I can't live without you."
Tyrion wasn't in the mood to decipher the sincerity of her plea. He pushed her roughly to the floor. The carpets from Myr softened the impact, making it neither cold nor uncomfortable. He tore off her clothes with little care, exposing her body to the cool air of the chamber. The room in the Tower of the Hand soon filled with an unmistakable, heated tension.
Ten minutes later, Tyrion rose from the floor, leaving Shae behind as he strode toward the door. Outside, Lord Slynt stood waiting, flanked by a group of Gold Cloaks. Tyrion had a sense of what was coming, and, with his usual wry humor, he smirked.
"Thank you, my lord, for allowing me to finish the final act of my life. I'll be sure to sing your praises to the God of Breasts and the God of Wine."
Lord Slynt, unable to comprehend Tyrion's carefree attitude, gave a curt wave. His men moved forward, placing a sword at Tyrion's neck.
But Tyrion, unbothered, gazed up at the sky. "Ah, what a beautiful day to close your eyes."
The Gold Cloaks tied him up, preparing to deliver him to the Targaryen army stationed outside the city. As they led him away, Tyrion glanced back at Stirling and teased, "Really, Lord Slynt, do you think all this is necessary for a dwarf?"
Slynt, without missing a beat, replied, "Just trying to appear more sincere."
Tyrion chuckled at the butcher's son's bluntness, but said nothing more as the Gold Cloaks escorted him to the River Gate.
Outside the city, Hoyt, who was leading the siege, noticed the gates opening. Suspicious, he sent someone to investigate. As an astute and informed strategist, he had already caught wind of Slynt' movements but had chosen not to intervene. It wasn't that he didn't want to; it was simply that his prized intelligence had lost its value. There was no one left loyal enough to sell to the Lannisters—Robert was dead, and the realm had shifted.
Yet even in these chaotic times, Varys, ever the schemer, saw an opportunity. The usurper had lost his throne, but the game wasn't over. Blackfyre still had a chance. Varys had served Aerys, Robert, and now Viserys. He was just another ornament on the Iron Throne, always adapting to the winds of power. In his mind, the tides could still be turned.
Soon, he thought, the players would all meet outside the walls—Connington, now besieging King's Landing, was waiting. The dance was far from over.
"Ser Connington, Tyrion has been captured," a messenger reported. "The man who claims to be the captain of the guard says he wants to surrender to us."
Connington nodded, his expression calm despite already receiving the news from Varys, the Spider, the night before. This was no ordinary surrender. Not only would he assist Viserys in retaking King's Landing, but he would also get the chance to confront Varys, who had ties to the Blackfyre. It was time to question him.
Suddenly, a high-pitched dragon roar echoed from the distance. Connington, peering through his binoculars, saw the yellow dragon flying toward him. Viserys had arrived.
"I'll need to greet the Your Grace first," Connington murmured, moving with purpose.
...
"Surrender?" Viserys raised an eyebrow when Connington delivered the news. "Tyrion's surrendering?"
At first, he was surprised, but then a smirk tugged at his lips. It made sense. King's Landing wasn't Casterly Rock, after all. The Lannisters' ancestral seat was a fortress they'd held for centuries, but the capital? It was a den of divided loyalties. Tyrion couldn't possibly unite the city's factions. The little devil had always been skilled at making deals—but now, he was the deal.
"What? Surrendered?" Tysha, who had overheard the conversation, felt her legs give way beneath her. Her mind raced, and she understood the grim reality. Her value lay in Tyrion, and Tyrion's value lay in King's Landing. Now that he had lost control of the city, Tyrion wouldn't escape death. The thought made her eyes well up with tears.
"Your Grace," she cried, falling to her knees before Viserys. "Please, let me see him. Just once—let me see him. I would be content to die afterward."
Connington looked puzzled by her reaction, but Viserys offered him a brief explanation. Connington sighed, feeling a rare flicker of sympathy—for both Tyrion and Tysha.
On the other side of the battlefield, Tyrion was stunned when he heard Viserys had brought Tysha to him. Given that Tyrion was already in custody, Viserys saw no need to restore her appearance through magic. But to everyone's surprise, Tyrion recognized her at first glance, even though her face had changed with age.
"Tyrion," Tysha said, her voice shaking as tears streamed down her cheeks. "Do you remember me?"
Tyrion stood frozen. "You... you're really Tysha?" His voice faltered in disbelief. How could it be her? How could she still look the same after more than ten years?
His eyes darted from the lines on his own face to the hollows in his cheeks. Yet there she stood, unchanged in his eyes, just as he remembered her.
"We have no servants in our little house. I am your servant," Tysha whispered, reciting the words that only the two of them knew. The moment she spoke them, Tyrion's hesitation melted away. He staggered toward her, arms open.
Tysha rushed forward, and after over a decade of separation, the two miserable lovers embraced, holding each other tightly. They kissed with the kind of passion that had been frozen in time, until Viserys made his entrance.
"Viserys, Your Grace," Tyrion said, breaking the kiss but still holding Tysha close. "The Seven Gods bless you!" To everyone's surprise, the gratitude in Tyrion's voice was genuine, as if some deep emotion had finally found its release.
"For whatever reason," Viserys continued, "Jaime wanted me to tell you that Lady Tysha was never a prostitute and that she truly loved you."
"Tysha..." Tyrion whispered, his gaze never leaving her. Tears glistened on his face, and even in his ugliness, he seemed transformed by the moment.
Varys and Slynt stood to the side, bewildered by the scene before them. It was as if they'd brought Tyrion here to pledge allegiance, but instead, it looked like they had arranged a lovers' reunion.
Viserys shot a look at Connington. "Go calm Lord Slynt and Varys," he ordered.
After the pair left, Viserys had a private conversation with Tyrion and Tysha, who had also been present. The room was thick with tension, but Tyrion's focus remained on Tysha.
"Aren't you going to ask about Casterly Rock?" Viserys inquired.
"Casterly Rock? My father?" Tyrion scoffed. "If you manage to kill him, I'll be happier than you could imagine."
That was so very Tyrion. Even as he spoke, his eyes never strayed from Tysha's face.
"Your Grace," Tyrion said quietly, his voice solemn now. "I am ready to die whenever you see fit."