Tyrion had known that Westerosi blood would have to be spilled in this war. He had even come to terms with the fact that some of the men dying would undoubtedly be men he had known during his time in Westeros. However, no amount of preparation could prepare him to see men and wagons bearing the lion of House Lannister burning beneath his Queen's dragon.
Tyrion had been by Daenerys' side while she delivered her ultimatum to the Lannister and Tarly forces. He had watched with mute horror as she announced her intention to execute Randyll and Dickon Tarly for refusing to bend the knee, and his horror had only grown when she carried that sentence out. What was it that Northerners liked to say? He who passes the sentence should swing the sword? At least she had that, perhaps the Northmen would respect her for it when this was all over.
The enemy soldiers looked at him as a traitor, and Lord Tarly had minced no words about Tyrion's own loyalties. To them, he was a traitor, the man responsible for bringing the Dragon Queen and her savages to their shores. To be fair, that honor belonged to Yara and Theon Greyjoy—Tyrion had just advised her every move since.
The Tarly's executions, and the ambush of the Goldroad, both were hours ago now. Tyrion was no longer standing in grass that came up to his shins, enduring the miserable stench of sweat and burned human flesh. He was back at Dragonstone now, the ancestral castle Daenerys presently made her headquarters. He could feel the chill seeping through his breaches from the smooth stone steps he sat upon. Varys was sitting next to him, dressed equally as nobly as Tyrion but giving no indication that he was uncomfortable with the cold stone they sat on.
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap came the striking of the scroll in Varys' hand against the black stone steps beneath them. His friend had been idly tapping the paper whenever a lull crept over their conversation, as it seemed had just occurred. The rhythmless noise stirred Tyrion from his recollection of the battle, and his face creased with a dark frown. "All rulers demand that people bend the knee."
The silence was broken, and Varys turned to face him. The tapping was gone now, and he was waiting to hear what else Tyrion would say. "It's how they're rulers," as he spoke Tyrion gave a flourish of his hand to imply such a connection should have been obvious. He took a long sip from the polished wineglass in his hand, savoring the brief respite the sweet sticky wine offered him. "She gave Lord Tarly a choice, after all they raised arms against her. What other choice did she have?" Mentally Tyrion recoiled at the words coming out of his mouth. The argument he made was weak, not the typical rhetoric he was known for. Was he suspending his better judgement for Daenerys, or was he losing his touch?
"Ignore their objections and send them to the Wall? Imprison them? Not burn him alive, beside his son?" Varys voice was dripping with annoyance, a hair away from ire.
"I am the Queen's hand, not her head. I can only advise her on what I feel is wise, I can't make her decisions for her." Despite his internal misgivings, Tyrion's face pinched up in indignation at Varys' prodding. Of all the injustices in Westeros, or even all Daenerys' unwise decisions, this was hardly the worst. The Tarlys had been enemy combatants, and had refused to lay down their allegiances.
"That's what I used to tell myself about her father. I found the traitors, but I wasn't the one burning them alive. I was only a purveyor of information." Varys paused, and reached for his own polished wineglass sitting on the steps behind him. With practiced grace, he poured more of the wine. Though he filled the glass almost to its brim, not a drop spilled over nor splashed out. "It's what I told myself when I watched them beg for mercy, I'm not the one doing it. When the pitch of their screams rose higher, I'm not the one doing it. When their hair caught fire, and the smell of burning flesh filled the throne room, I'm not the one doing it." The subtle bass of Varys voice reverberated softly in Dragonstone's throne room, alongside the clinking of silver wineglasses against the stone steps.
Tyrion's frown grew darker, and he averted his eyes from Varys while draining his wineglass. Finally he looked back, a righteous expression on his face. "She's not her father."
"Mmmm," Varys hummed, the sound so soft it could've meant agreement, or simply contemplation. "And she never will be." The words were spoken hollowly, and with a hint of regret, only for Varys to follow up seconds later. "With the right counsel, I mean." Tyrion just shot him a dubious look. He didn't want to commit the energy it would take to decipher what Varys meant, and he was slightly annoyed by the implication that his counsel thus far had been subpar. "You need to find a way to make her listen."
He considered pressing the point, reminding Varys that he'd known Daenerys, and her brother before her, far longer than Tyrion. Rebuffing the implications that this was his fault, but he didn't, instead he turned his eyes back to the scroll in Varys' hand. "Who's that for?"
Varys snorted an amused, breathy sound. He had clearly caught Tyrion's not-so-subtle change of subject. He glanced at the seal once more, as if to 'remind' himself who it was to. "Jon Snow," he replied curtly.
"Did you read it?" Tyrion said. He hoped this would lead to something far more interesting than his inability to quell their Queen's temper.
Varys recoiled ever so slightly, tilting his head and re-emphasizing his previous statement. "It's a sealed scroll for the King in the North."
Tyrion just took another sip from his wine glass, making no indication that he planned to acknowledge Varys' lie as anything else. "What's it say?"
"Nothing good," Varys answered. He curled his upper lip in momentary frustration, and turned to face out into the throne room as Tyrion had earlier. After a moment of somber silence staring out into the throne room, Varys rocked himself onto his feet. He subtly extended a hand with the palm facing upward towards Tyrion, offering the smaller man help in rising to his feet. "We should be on then."
Tyrion, never one to turn down help, took Varys' hand in his own and slowly rose. "On to where exactly?" Tyrion questioned, inquisitively looking up at his friend. "What was inside the scroll?"
Before answering, Varys began navigating his way through the throne room with Tyrion in tow. The Master of Whisperers was wearing a thick robe, so dark that Tyrion couldn't tell if it was navy or black. It was trimmed with a pale, muted blue strip of fabric, and the whole thing gave Varys his normal air of sophistication. "Jon Snow's brother and youngest sister have returned to Winterfell. The former claims to have seen the Others marching towards Eastwatch."
Tyrion blinked a few times, tilting his head in confusion despite being out of Varys' sight. "Brandon Stark or Rickon Stark? Which brother?" As far as Tyrion had known, all three true-born sons of Ned Stark had been killed, though he'd only seen confirmation that Robb Stark was truly dead.
"Brandon, though he's not calling himself that—he's referred to himself here as the 'Three Eyed Raven', and is calling Sansa Lady of Winterfell," Varys replied.
Tyrion let out a low, sarcastic whistle shaking his head with a slight smile. "I see she was able to become Lady of Winterfell on her own, without my father forcing her into another marriage."
"You certainly helped her ensure that wouldn't be the case," Varys added, his voice dry but lined with self-amusement.
Tyrion shot him a wounded look, curling his lip in distaste before giving a slight laugh. "This is the same Brandon Stark that's unable to walk?"
Varys just nodded, not adding anything further to the discussion for now. The pair crossed through a final doorway and were suddenly in the presence of Daenerys, Jon, Ser Jorah Mormont and Ser Davos Seaworth, all seated around the table fashioned to double as a map of Westeros. They were all no doubt discussing how to go about the business of deposing his older sister from the Iron Throne.
"Your grace," Varys said to Daenerys with a slight bow. Tyrion echoed the words moments later. Without another word, Varys moved towards Jon with the scroll—seal seemingly unbroken—extended before him. Tyrion, meanwhile, moved to his place at the Queen's right hand side. Absentmindedly he began straightening his Hand pin. It was a nervous habit he'd had since he served as Joffrey's interim Hand.
Jon and Varys had exchanged hushed words, but now Jon was staring slack-jawed at the scroll stretched between his hands. Varys wore a practiced expression of surprise as Jon retold the scroll's contents. The King in the North shook his head in disbelief, his eyes staring past the scroll, unfocused.
"Well, what does it say?" Dany injected, breaking the silence. She was staring at Jon with the same intensity she'd had since his arrival. Until now she hadn't been forced to interact with many people actually from Westeros. Only now was she beginning to see the ungainly task that ruling Westeros and its Seven Kingdoms would be.
"Bran and Arya have returned to Winterfell…" Jon replied. His voice was distant, and his eyes were still absently staring at the table. "I thought Arya was dead… I thought Bran was dead."
"I'm happy for you." There was an attempt at empathy in Dany's voice, and Tyrion could tell some of the initial ice that had formed between the two was melting. "You don't look happy…" she added half a minute later, upon seeing the disheartened look on Jon's face.
"Bran saw the Night King and his army marching towards Eastwatch. If they make it past the wall…" Jon shook his head, "I need to go home."
"The wall has kept them out for thousands of years, presumably…" Varys interjected. Tyrion still wasn't certain whether his friend believed in the threat behind the wall. To be fair, Tyrion wasn't certain how much he believed the threat beyond the wall. Jon's urgency to access Dragonstone's dragon glass veins had helped towards convincing him.
"You said you don't have enough men," Dany added. She had since caved to Jon snow that she believed in his threat, but it was apparent even now that she considered Cersei a far larger threat.
"We'll fight with the men we have…. unless you'll join us?" There was a resignation in Jon's voice, more of that desperate urgency Tyrion had seen before. This wasn't the behavior of a man startled by his own shadow. Jon Snow had undoubtedly seen things during his time on the Wall. The only question Tyrion had was the scale of the threat.
"And give the country to Cersei? As soon as I march away, she marches in," Dany answered with annoyance. She'd given the same reply to Jon each time that her asked for her support prior. Something sparked inside Tyrion though, and he felt words forming in his mind even before Dany was done speaking.
"Perhaps not," Tyrion chimed in. The words stopped the others in their place, and brought all eyes—even those of the silent Ser Davos—on him. "Cersei thinks the Others are nothing but a story made up by wet nurses to frighten children. What if we prove her wrong?"
"I don't think she'll come see dead at my invitation…" Jon piped in, his voice betraying his confusion.
"You're not wrong, but I may know someone who might," Tyrion's voice was resigned, despite the hope it offered their situation.
Dany was looking down on him now, her white-blonde hair falling across one shoulder as she tilted her head in confusion. "And who would that be?"
"My brother Jaime." Tyrion's voice was tired, and softer than it had been earlier. He shifted in place. His hands had picked up one of the table pieces that indicated part of their army, and unconsciously began spinning it in one hand. "The only person in all the Seven Kingdoms that Cersei listens to is Jaime, and Jaime might listen to me. He's done his wrongs," Tyrion offered, his eyes glancing down so as not to pick up on any sharp looks that might be directed his way, "but he's an honorable man, and he loves his family. The Army of the Dead threatens that family. If I could arrange a meeting with him, I could possibly convince him to venture beyond the Wall and see for himself that the Others are real."
"You want me to trust the Kingslayer? And what if he does come, and as soon as one of us turns our back to him, he drives a sword through them—the same way he did my father." Daenerys' eyes were hard, but her face wasn't angry. She wasn't her father, and he could guide her.
"I understand, your grace. But I trust Jaime, whole heartedly. He is our only shot at convincing Cersei that the threat is real." Tyrion's voice was calm and conciliatory, pleading with Daenerys to quell her rage for the sake of the realm.
He could see her green eyes soften, and her face relax from the stony mask it had so suddenly donned. "Fine, and how would you go about getting to King's Landing?"
For this, Tyrion just turned is head to the side and stared at the quiet Ser Davos. Following his gaze, Jon turned as well—with Daenerys, Varys, and Jorah all following suit. Ser Davos shifted in place, but otherwise gave no signal that he might be uncomfortable with the sudden attention thrown his way.
"I can smuggle you in… but if the Gold Cloaks were to recognize you, I'm warning you I'm not a fighter," Davos said, knowing exactly what Tyrion was implying.
Dany seemed satisfied by this, but Lord Varys interjected another question. "And how do you expect to show your brother the Army of the Dead, my lord?"
"I'll take him," this was the first word from Ser Jorah since Varys and Tyrion had entered the war room. "Khaleesi, you commanded me to find a cure to grey scale so that I could serve you once more. I did, allow me to serve you. I will escort the Kingslayer beyond the wall."
"Ser Jaime," Tyrion corrected his former traveling companion. "If we're going to ask him to risk his life to convince Cersei to help us, you may as well not insult him while he's doing it." Jorah said nothing.
Daenerys looked torn at the idea, but Jon rejoined the conversation before she had to voice her concerns. "The freefolk'll help us."
"They won't follow Ser Jorah…" Davos interjected, reminding Jon who Ser Jorah's father had been.
"They won't have to," Jon replied. His posture was firm and confident, and though his face had the same long and forlorn expression that Tyrion had seen on countless Starks, he wasn't at all unsure about his idea.
"You can't lead a raid behind the wall!" Ser Davos argued, "You're not in the Night's Watch anymore, you're the King in the North."
"I'm the only one here who's fought them, I'm the only one here who knows them." Jon's mind was already made up, and there was no arguing that Davos could do to convince him otherwise.
"I haven't given you permission to leave." Dany's face and voice both reminded Tyrion of a child desperately grasping at straws to stop something horrible. She couldn't voice her real concern or care for Jon's well-being, as that would betray the icy pressure she was bearing down on him with to bend the knee. She also couldn't let him go on what could very well be a suicide mission without some attempt to stop him.
"With respect, your grace, I don't need your permission; I am a king. I came here, knowing you could have your men behead me, or your dragons burn me alive. I put my trust in you, a stranger, because I knew it was the best hope for my people. For all our people. Now I'm asking you to trust in a stranger, because it's our best chance." Jon's speech was compelling, and well spoken, Tyrion had to admit. Though he lacked anything in the way of noble birth lines, and much of the training or poise that leadership required, Jon Snow had the conviction. That was for sure.
Dany glanced to Tyrion, silently asking her Hand's opinion on the matter. The look on her face brought sadness to Tyrion's heart. At almost all times, Daenerys kept this stony facade in place. She wanted those around her to think of her as unshakable, but she wasn't. There was worry and sadness etched into the lines on her face, but Tyrion knew how to separate want from duty, and Dany knew how to follow Tyrion's advice. He gave her a subtle nod, and watched her echo that nod to Jon. So it would be, the King in the North would lead an expedition beyond the wall, with Ser Jorah, the wildlings, and his brother—assuming Tyrion could convince him.