King's Landing is cool with the spring air. The sun is shining, the streets are clean and glittering as they always are after a light, spring air.
In the distance you can see an old-ish looking woman and a young man are approaching the Red Keep. The woman isn't old, not really, she is actually in her late twenties, she has the look of the Westerlands about her, hair the color of straw, eyes of grey-green that, in another life, might have twinkled. Yet this young woman's hair is streaked with grey, her eyes a bit cloudy, a somewhat sad look to them. Her back is hunched slightly and she walks with a life, her whole demeanor tells of some sad, horrible thing happening to her, but you only know this after you give her the courtesy of calling her "Grandmother," she might smile or frown, and say, "Fie, fie, I could hardly be your grandmother lad, for I am nine-and-twenty." Then you'll look, and blink twice quickly, and say, "But lady, you've so many grey hairs!" unaware that you're insulting her. But she might laugh this time or look at you very gravely, replying, "My hair started to grey when I was four-and-ten, something very unpleasant happened to me, I'd rather not speak of it." Then she'd turn away, and you would stand there, feeling quite stupid, perhaps berating yourself for being so rude.
The boy on her arm, however, is rather beautiful. He stands tall and straight, his eyes bright, they could be emeralds set in place of his irises, his hair was such a light blonde that in the brilliant light, he could have been a Targaryen, his skin was ivory, flushed red now in excitement, mixed slightly with fear.
They made their way to the front of the Red Keep.
Tyrion Lannister was standing at the front of the Red Keep, scrolls with sketches drawn on then lifted to his forehead, shading his eyes from the midday sun beating down on him. The sacking of King's Landing, with Daenerys atop Drogon, Tyrion atop Viserion, and Aegon atop Rhaegal had went swimmingly, however, Cersei's refusal to be reasonable and give up the castle had resulted in the necessity of releasing some dragon fire, and well, certain areas of the Red Keep had been in need of rebuilding. Daenerys and her husband Aegon wanted to rebuild the Keep to the glory it had had when her father and his grandfather had ruled. And who better to supervise it rebuilding than their own Hand?
So Tyrion was standing on the edge of the area that would, in time-hopefully, be the new and improved tower of the Hand, when, feeling eyes on him, looked about to see who it was. In the distance he saw them, walking towards him slowly. Shading himself, he narrowed his eyes. The woman was smiling a smile that instantly turned her back to a girl of four-and-ten, a smile so glorious Tyrion felt his heart skip a beat.
Tyrion gasped, he had wondered for so long about what his moment might be like, of all the possible things he could possibly say if he were lucky enough to be living this moment. In the end, he had only been able to gasp a single word.
"Tysha."
