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Chapter 19 - The King of the rock 3

-Rhaella-

The Dowager Queen had envisioned many scenarios when she stepped into the throne room of her family's ancestral castle.

The sight of Stannis Baratheon leading an army sent by the Usurper to annihilate her, her children, and any loyalists to her House had crossed her mind.

Even the possibility of Robert Baratheon himself her son's murderer coming to finish what he started, after her husband had been slain by his own Kingsguard, seemed plausible.

But the youngest son of Tywin Lannister, flanked by a small retinue, offering to help her escape before the Royal Fleet arrived?

That was not among her imaginings.

"I beg your pardon?" Queen Rhaella Targaryen asked, aghast. Her hand, trembling slightly, rested on her heavily pregnant stomach, which had been troubling her more than usual today.

"You are not safe here, Your Grace," Tyrion Lannister repeated, his tone urgent and measured. His sharp green eyes flicked subtly toward the Targaryen guards stationed around the room. "The garrison is no longer loyal to you, and the Royal Fleet will reach Dragonstone within days. If you don't leave now, neither you nor your son will survive."

Rhaella's expression hardened as she brushed a lock of silvery-white hair from her face, her violet eyes narrowing. Seated upon the hard black stone throne of her ancestors, she exuded the authority of a queen. Her silver crown glinted in the candlelight as she cast a sweeping glance across the room.

There were fewer guards than she remembered.

Far fewer than when she first arrived.

She had assumed they had been repositioned to fortify the outer walls in preparation for a siege. But now that Tyrion had spoken, the nervous shuffling of the men in the room filled her with unease. A cold wave of realization swept through her.

"Be that as it may…" she said at last, her voice steady despite the fear clawing at her chest. Decades of masking her emotions an unfortunate skill honed during her marriage to her sadistic older brother served her well.

"Dragonstone is the ancestral seat of House Targaryen. It has withstood countless sieges and will endure again if necessary." Her words rang with imperious finality, though Tyrion's grimace made it clear he found her defiance misguided. "I am the last of my bloodline. I will not abandon my home to be pillaged by the Usurper's dogs."

Tyrion's shoulders slumped, the weight of her resolve evident in his defeated posture. He opened his mouth as if to argue further, but before he could, Rhaella gasped.

Pain.

A sharp, searing pain tore through her, forcing her to hunch over on the throne. Her hand clutched her belly as another wave of agony wracked her body.

"Your Grace!" Tyrion exclaimed, stepping forward, alarmed.

Rhaella fought to maintain composure, but the intensity was unbearable.

"Guards!" she called, her voice strained and frantic. With unsteady legs, she rose from the throne, gripping the armrests for support. "Take me to the midwives! At once!"

-tyrion-

Rhaella's labor has created an opportunity for me.

As she's carried off to the birthing chamber, I watch the guards. Their faces betray them. Even without my knowledge of this world's history or its inevitable future I can see it plainly. Hunger and desperation have eroded their loyalty.

These men may once have been devoted to House Targaryen, but with supplies dwindling and their stomachs empty, allegiance holds little meaning. Hunger is a dangerous thing.

"Prepare yourselves," I murmur to my men. They nod silently, hands tightening around the hilts of their swords. There are ten of us enough, if we move quickly. "We strike once the child is born."

The Dowager Queen refuses to abandon her home, clinging to duty above all else. But when her loyal guards turn traitor and take her and her children hostage as bargaining chips, I suspect her resolve will falter.

I mark the direction where Rhaella is taken and wait, the tension in the throne room thick and oppressive. The guards watching over us make no effort to conceal their animosity. I don't miss the way their hands hover near their blades, as though daring me to act.

They think I'll steal their leverage, their "meal ticket." They're not entirely wrong.

The minutes crawl by, broken only by Rhaella's cries from above as she labors to bring her child into the world. Outside, the storm howls louder, battering the castle with wind and rain.

An hour passes. Then, at last, a newborn's wail pierces the air.

"…Now."

My command is quiet, but it cuts through the tension like a blade.

In a blur of steel and fury, my men and I strike. The guards react too slowly, and we cut them down before they can raise an alarm. The clang of swords and the cries of dying men echo through the chamber.

When the last guard falls, I wipe the blood from my blade, hearing commotion from the floors above. Screams, the clash of steel, and Rhaella's voice pleading, terrified reach my ears.

"To the Queen!" I shout.

We charge through the darkened halls of Dragonstone, cutting down anyone who bars our path. The sounds of battle grow louder, and so do Rhaella's frantic cries.

At last, we burst into the birthing room.

The sight before us is chaos.

Rhaella stands against the back wall, trembling with exhaustion, her bloodstained dress pooling at her feet. Her newborn daughter is clutched tightly to her chest, while tears streak her pale face.

Before her, six armed soldiers form a semi-circle, their weapons drawn. A seventh holds a blade to the neck of a small, white-haired boy….Viserys. The fear and confusion in his violet eyes mirror his mother's as she begs the men not to harm him.

"STOP!" I bellow.

Without hesitation, I lunge, cutting down two of the traitors in a single sweep. My men follow, slashing through the others with ruthless efficiency. The soldier holding Viserys falls before he can react, one of my men driving a blade through his back.

The last of the guards crumples to the floor, and the room falls silent but for the Queen's ragged breathing.

Rhaella's knees buckle, and I step forward to steady her as Viserys runs into her arms. She clutches both her children close, tears of relief mingling with the grief and terror etched into her features.

"M-My thanks," she stammers, her voice weak, shaking. "For saving us."

Her strength is failing. Only a mother's desperate will keeps her upright. Her violet eyes meet mine, filled with a mixture of gratitude and despair.

"If your offer… is still available…" She swallows hard, clutching her newborn protectively. "I… I accept it. For my children and… for myself…"

I nod, sliding an arm under hers to support her as we leave the bloodstained room. My men fall into formation around us as we make our way through the castle, stepping over the bodies of traitorous guards.

-Rhaella-

The sensation of being gently rocked back and forth, accompanied by the salty tang of the air and the groaning creak of wood, reached her senses even before she was fully awake. Rhaella Targaryen didn't need to open her eyes to know she was no longer on Dragonstone.

A ship.

For a brief moment, she allowed herself to drift back toward sleep, lulled by the rhythmic crashing of the waves outside. But just as she began to surrender to rest, the events of the past hours crashed into her mind like a tidal wave.

Her violet eyes snapped open, wide with panic. She bolted upright, the thin sheet sliding down to her waist, revealing the bloodstained gown she still wore. Her breathing quickened, and her hands instinctively went to her stomach before darting to search the small cabin.

Her children. Where were her children?

"Calm yourself, my lady," came a calm, soothing voice from the doorway.

Rhaella's head whipped toward the sound. There stood Tyrion Lannister, his arms crossed casually as he leaned against the frame, a faint smile playing on his lips. He inclined his head toward the bed beside hers. "Your son and daughter are safe and sound."

Blinking rapidly, her heart still racing, Rhaella followed his gaze. Her shoulders sagged with relief at the sight of two small figures curled together on the narrow bed. Viserys slept with an arm wrapped protectively around his newborn sister, Daenerys, who let out soft coos in her sleep, her tiny mouth moving as if nursing in her dreams.

"My children…" she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. Tears welled in her eyes as she reached out, her fingers brushing gently against their soft, white hair.

Her heart swelled with something she hadn't felt in so long hope.

"What… How can I repay you for this kindness?" she murmured, her gaze never leaving her children. Her voice was thick with emotion, and she spoke as if afraid the moment might vanish if she looked away. "House Lannister has no love for House Targaryen, and yet… you risked everything to save us."

Finally, she turned her head to look at him, confusion etched into her delicate features. "Why?"

It was the question that haunted her. Why would the son of Tywin Lannister, the man who betrayed her family and threw his lot in with the Usurper, turn against his House and his King to protect her and her children?

Tyrion's smirk softened into something almost wistful. "Because," he said with a hint of amusement that only he seemed to understand, "I'm not the kind of man to let children die."

His words struck her like a blow, not for their content, but for the sincerity behind them.

"…What becomes of us now?" she asked after a long silence, her violet eyes locking with his emerald ones. There was a weight between them now a debt that could not be ignored. If Tyrion chose to call it in, honor would demand she comply, no matter the cost.

But for her children, Rhaella would do anything.

"Now?" Tyrion repeated, his gaze briefly flicking to her torn and bloodied dress, the telltale wetness spreading across the fabric over her breasts. Her cheeks flushed with mortification as she pulled the sheet higher, trying in vain to maintain her dignity.

"Now, I bring you to Dorne," Tyrion said, his smirk returning with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "Elia and your grandchildren are waiting for you there. The Martells have agreed to hide you and your children from Robert."

Rhaella's breath hitched. She stared at him, her mind racing.

Elia was alive?

For so long, Rhaella had believed her daughter-in-law perished when King's Landing fell. She'd been certain Elia would have been killed by Lannister soldiers, her children butchered alongside her.

Yet here was Tyrion, claiming otherwise.

As Rhaella studied the small, knowing smirk on his lips, understanding dawned. Elia and her grandchildren had survived because of him—just as she and her own children had.

The weight of her gratitude deepened, and she knew, now more than ever, that she owed this man far more than she could ever repay.

-tyrion-

[Feats Achieved: save Rhaella targaryen (rare) 300 credit, save viserys targaryen (rare) 300 credit, save daenerys targaryen (rare) 300 credit, 900 credits total]

As he laid on his bed he only nodded…good.

-Elia-

Eila, the beautiful Princess of Dorne, stood amidst her family with a strange mix of excitement and trepidation coursing through her. The salty air of Sunspear's port tickled her senses, a welcome contrast to the stuffy atmosphere of King's Landing. Her fingers absently brushed back a curl from her face, the black ringlets cascading over her shoulders like silk. She glanced down at her flowing, tan Dornish dress, the light fabric clinging to her olive-toned skin, a comforting reminder of home.

Dornish silks had always been her favorite, their airy texture perfect for the southern heat. The thought of being back in them brought a faint smile to her lips. But her gratitude ran far deeper than the simple joy of familiar comforts. Tyrion Lannister the golden-haired had given her this moment, this chance to return home. And more than that, he had risked everything to save her and her family.

To think he had braved the horrors of King's Landing's sacking, struck down the Mountain himself, and defied his father's wrath not once but twice was enough to leave her in awe. He had not only saved her but also Queen Rhaella and her children. How could she ever repay such selfless acts of courage?

Her thoughts scattered when she saw him step off his ship. Tyrion's golden locks glimmered in the sunlight, and his emerald-green eyes locked onto hers across the bustling dock. Her breath caught in her throat. He was dressed simply in a finely tailored red shirt and black pants, yet he carried himself with the poise of a knight who had faced countless battles.

Her hand lifted instinctively to her lips as a memory surfaced, unbidden yet vivid. The kiss. The one she had given him before leaving his side, and the one he had returned with an intensity that had lingered in her very soul. What was meant to be a fleeting moment had turned into something far more potent. The memory sent a tingle down her spine, a warmth that she dared not name.

At her side, her elder brother, Doran, confined to his wheelchair, broke the silence with his measured, stately tone. "Welcome to Sunspear, Ser Tyrion, son of Tywin," he said, bowing his head slightly. His sharp eyes flicked to the figures behind Tyrion, his men standing protectively at his back. "You and your guests are safe here in Dorne. No harm shall come to you or them under my protection. You have my word."

Tyrion inclined his head respectfully, his shoulders relaxing as he acknowledged the Prince's hospitality.

Doran continued, his voice warm yet formal. "Come. Let us lead you out of the heat. I imagine your journey has been long, and you must be in need of food, drink, and rest before you decide on your next steps."

But Tyrion's response, though polite, was firm. "I thank you for your generosity, my lord, but my men and I must return to Casterly Rock without delay. My father is unaware of this visit, and I would prefer to keep it that way."

Elia's heart sank at his words, though she masked her disappointment. Doran, ever the gracious host, did not press the matter. "At the very least, allow us to provide you with provisions for your journey," he offered.

Tyrion nodded in agreement, and the two men exchanged pleasantries as supplies were brought aboard. Elia watched quietly, her heart heavy as Tyrion's ship prepared to depart.

Nearby, Queen Rhaella, frail but regal, leaned lightly on Elia for support. The older woman's gratitude mirrored her own, though there was a wistful sadness in her gaze as she watched Tyrion board his vessel.

As the ship set sail, Elia stood at the edge of the dock, her eyes fixed on the receding figure of the man who had done so much for her and her family. The words to express her gratitude eluded her, but she vowed silently to herself that she would find a way to repay him. For now, she could only watch, the breeze carrying with it the faintest scent of the sea and the bittersweet ache of longing.

-tyrion-

As the ship sailed steadily toward Casterly Rock, Tyrion couldn't help but reflect on the ripple effects of his actions. A simple decision to save the Targaryen Queen and her children had shifted the fate of her and her children, including her her daughter-in-law and grandchildren destiny which was something he expected but it also made some changes outside of his control. His conversation with Lord Doran lingered in his mind. The Prince of Dorne had shared an intriguing piece of information Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, were across the Narrow Sea, guarding Lyanna Stark and her son, Jaehaerys.

No Jon Snow this time around, he mused.

He wasn't entirely sure why Doran had divulged such sensitive information, but he could guess. By rescuing both Elia Martell and her children and Rhaella Targaryen with hers, Tyrion had painted himself as a potential ally to Dorne. Trust was not something freely given in Westeros, but perhaps he had earned a sliver of it.

As the ship cut through the waves, Tyrion turned his thoughts to his abilities, particularly the skill he had been testing recently Doppelgänger. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a deck of cards. He had a mind to create another clone to amuse himself with a quick game, but the moment he attempted it, a sharp, splitting headache wracked his mind.

"Fuck," he muttered, wincing as he leaned against the cabin wall. Pain flared behind his eyes, the kind that made him wonder if wine might actually help for once.

[System Notice: Your current skill, Doppelgänger, can only create one clone at this time. Would you like to undertake an upgrade quest to improve this skill?]

The words floated before him, faintly glowing, as if mocking his misery. His lips curled into a wry smile as he read the details.

Upgrade Quest

Objective: Your clone must defeat 15 enemies. (Progress: 0/15)

Reward: Unlock the ability to summon 5 additional clones.

"Well, that's bloody convenient," he muttered, dismissing the glowing notification with a wave of his hand.

The ship rocked gently as the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and crimson.

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