It's been a while, hasn't it? *Laughs nervously*
This fanfic is going to be a summer project, with this chapter being a taste for what is to come. I'm also working on a new project, co-writing it with a close friend of min (currently 40,000 words or so). Whenever I get writer's block on that, I will continue on with this. This will get completed, but I will say in advance, chapters will be uploaded when they are completed. I may upload 3 chapters in a week, or 3 chapters in 3 months...or longer. And for that, I apologize.
The tone will be humourous in places, serious in others. But overall, relatively light-hearted. I've taken liberty with the books and the tv series, drawing from both, bringing characters back from the dead... so I guess a SPOILER WARNING is needed. Read on at your own doom.
To say this has been brewing for quite a while would be an understatement. Enjoy! (Oh, and this is relatively raw, I'm still working on the polishing).
-...-
Chapter One – The Countdown
Tyrion
The binds were tight, and unforgiving against his mouth and wrists; a piece of cloth was wrapped tightly around his eyes, chaffing against his scar. He wriggled uncomfortably, bound as he was, his legs cramping from the effort of standing for…. hours? Or was it days?
Annoyance clouded his thoughts, as he struggled to remember his actions leading up to waking only moments ago. He had spent the night alone, as Shae was occupied with the Lady Sansa's needs. He had drunk wine, more perhaps than he should have, but none more than usual. He could handle his wine. But nonetheless, he could remember nothing more, as if a veil had been cast over the night, obscuring his view. Like the cloth was obscuring it right now. He hated being in total darkness. He tried to work the cloth away from his face, and was rewarded- briefly- with a glimpse of daylight.
Suddenly, the bind loosened, freeing his arms and legs. Tyrion tore the cloth away from his face eagerly, wincing as it bit at the tender flesh around his scar. The sunlight was- for a moment- blinding, and he squinted, trying to determine if he was in any immediate danger.
He was not alone. That was much was evident from the company he shared, who mimicked his movements, some squinting as a babe would seeing the sun for the first time.
He saw Cersei, resplendent as always in her finery and jewellery, her hair the colour of gold. Her face as beautiful as ever; a visitor from the free cities had once honoured her as "the face that could steal a realm's heart, lift the soul of any man, a face that could bring happiness to any and all who glance upon it."He recalled the line bitterly.
Jaime stood diligently a few yards away from her, glad in his king's guard armour, though bereft of his sword. Tyrion eyed Jaime warily, as he tried to avoid Cersei's stare, sharp as daggers.
He realised with a start that there were quite a number of people at his sides, curved as if to form a circle, though his view was blocked by a drinking horn of immense size; a cornucopia- he recalled the name from a tattered book he had found in Casterly Rock's library after an otherwise wasted day doing his meagre duties. The horn was on its side, its contents spilling out onto the grass. But it was not wheat, or grain or fruit that it contained…. But weapons of every shape and size. All no doubt deadly in the right hands.
He looked beyond the line of people who stood awkwardly at his sides, beyond to the walls of Winterfell . It's highest towers were barely visible in the bank of fog which was gradually rolling in from the West. Amongst them was the tower that Stark boy had fallen from, where Cersei and Jaime had committed their vile crime.
To his back was the great Wall, though without its omnipresent blanket of snow and ice. There was dew coated grass at his feet, though he knew that the ground around Winterfell – and the Wall further North- was barren, adorned with shrubs and brittle grass. Tyrion frowned in confusion.
Everyone was stood deathly still, as if they couldn't quite believe what their eyes were seeing. Tyrion felt several eyes glance over him, pause for a second, then move on.
He too search the ranks; there was the crippled Stark boy –name of Brandon, Tyrion recalled – being held in place by a steel ring around his waist, his legs useless and limp under him.
Then he saw a tall woman gasp, her hand going for the empty scabbard strapped at her side. As a result of their proximity he could hear the doubt in her voice, "Warlocks. Only warlocks would produce such madness." Tyrion followed her gaze, to Renly Baratheon, who was very much alive, and staring blankly at Margaery Tyrell.
By her side, was a crow of the Night's watch who he vaguely remembered from his brief trip to the Wall. Next to him stood Jon Snow, who he recognised immediately, despite his thick beard and shoulder length hair. The bastard of Winterfell's brow was low over his brooding eyes, a stark contrast to the crow next to him, who seemed to be in awe of his surroundings.
He made a mental note of those he would recognise anywhere, The Hound, Sansa, Stannis Baratheon- who stood ram rod straight, radiating a sense of tenacious pride (as always)- Varys, Pycelle… his eyes travelled further around the circle…Joffrey? The current King of Westeros looked close to hysterical, his eyes brimming with tears, hands wringing, limbs shaking.
The first to garner everyone's attention was a silver-haired man – a Targaryen? Impossible- who made a start when he saw the Lannister crest on Jaime's silks. "Usurpers! I AM THE BLOOD OF THE DRAGON AND I WILL BURN YOU, BURN ALL OF YOU! I WILL BURN YOU IN FIRE AND BLOOD! FIRE AND BLOOD!"
The man's frenzied eyes darted to Joffrey, to Cersei, to Tyrion then back to Jaime. Jaime laughed and turned to Cersei, "Seems the Beggar Prince is like his father, completely mad." He sneered cruelly.
"I AM NOT THE BEGGAR PRINCE- I AM A TARGARYEN, BLOOD OF OLD VALYRIA! BOW TO ME USURPER SCUM! BOW TO ME!"
Another raised their voice to be heard, though it was tentative and heavy with emotion, "Brother?"
Tyrion searched for the owner, and found it. It belonged to a woman, with platinum hair and startling violet eyes that shone even from this distance. His eyes flitted between the man and woman – he noticed the woman was younger than she initially looked. Perhaps 16, 17. The man slightly older, 23, or 24 by Tyrion's guess.
Both had the characteristic features of a pure-blood Targaryen. He glanced back at the woman-girl.
That would be Daenerys Targaryen, he thought. He looked at the older man again, Viserys?
He had it on good authority that Viserys had died some years ago, yet hear he stood, missing his vaunted golden crown.
Tyrion noticed others had now turned their attention to the two Targaryens, lingering particularly on the girl. The man seemed to notice this and he shook with an incomprehensible anger.
"I AM VISERYS TARGARYEN, RIGHTFUL HEIR TO THE IRON THRONE-"
Jaime dismissed him with a wave of his hand. The man made to move forward- then stopped. He looked at his feet, then shifted his weight tentatively.
"It clicked, moved."
The man's voice was quiet at first, but it grew louder with every word. "It's a trap!"
The boy is smarter than he looks, Tyrion noted.
"They've trapped us! We can't move! We're trapped!"
For a moment, no one seemed to belief him, but then all eyes were on the ground at their feet. Tracing the subtle outline of a square raised less than an inch above the ground around it. Tyrion's mind jumped to magic, or wildfire. There were gasps, mutterings of disbelief, a couple looked at their allies and spoke a few words. In a matter of seconds, the area descended into chaos.
Tyrion, preoccupied with other matters, raised his voice above the cacophony of protests, "And just who is 'they'?"
The man looked at him, and then laughed hysterically. "The Seven."
Tyrion was about to make a snide remark, when a metallic screech filled the air, like a thousand swords clashing in the midst of battle. Silence reigned then, the only communication happening in the shocked creases, the open mouths of those that stood in the fog and waited desperately for answers.
"Welcome, people of Panem, to the 400th Annual Hunger Games!"
The disembodied voice boomed into the air, louder than it was possible. Amplified beyond any human capability. Tyrion frowned, a foreboding sense of dread crept over him as he looked for the source of the noise, wary that others too were glancing from side to side in confusion.
"Watch these tributes fight to death, to determine who amongst them is worthy of being the last one standing. The prize up for grabs is the sanctified Iron Throne of Westeros, and the right to declare themselves King- or Queen- of the Seven Kingdoms!-"
There was rapturous applause. Tyrion felt ill, and he knew it had little to do with the last dregs of wine that sat awkwardly in his stomach. "- Well, it looks like the Game-Makers are ready, but are you, Panem, ready for what is sure to be the best Hunger Games Ever?!" There were cheers, and excited calls for blood and death. "And one last thing tributes…. May the Odds be Ever in your Favour!"
There was a burst of an anthem, and then silence.
"You expect us to kill each other!?" A thin man that Tyrion could not place yelled into the sky, splintering everyone's thoughts.
Cersei was uncharacteristically quiet, absent of her trademark witty comments. Her silver tongue apparently cut out. She turned her piercing eyes to Joffrey, who whimpered under the weight of his mother's glare.
The metallic noise returned, along with the voice of the harbinger;
"10"
"9"
"8"
Panic set in, as they waited for what waited for them at the end of the count down.
"7"
"6"
"5"
"4"
"3"
Looks were exchanged.
"2"
"1"
…..
And then, for a moment, there was nothing…
And then, all eyes turned to Joffrey.
But Tyrion also noticed the actions of one Targaryen – the younger (his mind whispered, Daenerys , like a nightmare brought to life. How many council meetings had been occupied with discussions with what to do with this last Targaryen, the last thorn in the Lannister's side?) She gestured to a previously unseen brute and spoke a couple words in a guttural language that Tyrion did not understand. With but a handful of words, the hulking barbarian lumbered over to the silver-haired man and snapped his body like a twig. He slumped, lifeless, in the man's fists. That first death was the catalyst, the spark that erupted into a firestorm within a heartbeat.
Then there was a rush of movement, Tyrion couldn't tell who reached him first. Or who grabbed what at the Cornucopia, only that a great many people scrambled like beggars for the boy king. There was glints of metal being raised above heads, as for one moment all the tributes were united in one goal – to kill Joffrey.
Those that had not moved took the chance to get away from the devastation, away from the inevitable blood bath. Tyrion thought of running to grab a weapon, but thought better of it as the barbarian walked towards the diminishing pile and pocketed what he could.
"Tyrion-" He turned his head to the source of the noise. "Run." Cersei looked him in the eye and inclined her head slightly.
He knew it wasn't a threat, merely a piece of advice. A truth. The only way he was going to survive was to get away, and quickly.
He took one last look at the carnage, then ran – as fast as his stunted legs could carry him.