Heavy, Lies the Crown

A/N: Bang, bang. Don't get comfortable. Hope your ready for some surprises!

Chapter 10-Rise, Rise

oOoOoOo

"There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea."

~T.S. Eliot

oOoOoOo

Daenerys Targaryen

The winds of the sea were unlike anything she had ever experienced before. Ser Jorah had told her long ago of the lecherous ocean, its vindictive ways against men, the pink ants in their wooden hills that slid across her back. His words could never have prepared her for the real thing. He said the Great Blue would jerk, she would shiver, she would at times raise up on her haunches, throwing ships and water beasts alike about on her skin with tempests that raged for days, waves leagues and leagues high. So far in their journey they hadn't encountered that much from the Blue; Daenerys supposed the gods were smiling on her return to her homeland. The winds were just cold. Cold, but favorable. A lack of doldrums as well, which Jorah had told her had often led to the deaths of men in stillness on the water, away from home and hearth.

Through their trip across the Narrow Sea (and how very narrow it was not), she mostly sat above on deck, quietly observing her men as they tended to her ship, the flagship, recognizable to the entire shiphorde by the large white dragon emblazoned upon the side. Per advice from Petyr, she had assigned Lannister men to each of the ships in the fleet, as she agreed with him that the Free Folk from Essos, slaves, sellswords, men with nothing but their name and their dreams as the sun slept, would be ill-equipped to run ships on their own. She would often talk to them, Lannister and Free Folk alike, thanking them for their service in her name, reminding the Essosi of the foreign land that awaited them. A place of plenty and promise, with four different seasons. The men loved to hear her speak of Westeros, though she herself had never stepped foot on its soil in her life, and Ser Barristan noted that it bolstered their confidence, made them burn with the conviction of the Dragon Queen as if her very fire had been lit in all of their hearts.

Her Council convened often below deck, behind wooden partitions that kept their knowledge from her fighting men. Many times she found herself with the company of a particular counselor alone; Lord Baelish sought her out at every passing opportunity to talk with her of their conquest, of the sea, of her father Aerys and of the Targaryen line. His stories and knowledge quickly became treasures to her. When he spoke, her mind took her far away, across the sea and back again, witnessing the visceral ebb and flow of history with her inner eye. Petry was a talker, and a very good one at that, but he, like all men, only had his fair share of steam. In the infrequent stretches of his silence, she filled his ears with her past, telling him of her time as khaleesi, at the slave-cities. A gleam, a silvery respect she found she came to crave, would overtake his eyes when she regaled him with her life. And so quickly it would fade when she spoke of her Children.

Her Children, her Dragons, flew alongside the ships by day, and by night they rested each aboard three ships that had been set aside for that very purpose. Daenerys watched them fly effortlessly through the winds of the sea, cutting through them with a grace she was sure even the gods were in awe to see. Drogon was the largest, almost as big as the ship he took refuge on, followed in size by Viserion and then Rhaegal. Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan frequently reminded her of their nature. 'Their unwillingness will only grow with their proportions.' Petyr never voiced it, but she knew he mistrusted them too. She found it hard to place these warnings correctly in her mind; she loved them so dearly. Loved them as if they had come from her own womb, placed there by Balerion himself. They were hers. She couldn't fathom them ever outgrowing their Mother.

They wouldn't.

It was a clear morning when Lord Baelish came to her presently, his handsome bird's face full of pride. He took a seat by her side and laid a hand softly on her shoulder, ignoring the looks of warning from Ser Jorah and of disdain from Ser Barristan. It almost made her think twice when the touch elicited a strange sensation in her that quickly flooded her body, warming her and cooling her simultaneously. But, for some reason, she had no second thought; there was only a faint warmth. A smile danced across her face.

"We're a day's sail out, Your Grace," he informed her, voice bright and reassuring like the morning sun. "We will land where the Wall meets the Sea, where ice and water collide." He paused, hawklike eyes roaming her face. When he continued, he seemed satisfied. "It will not be an easy arrival, I'm afraid. It will be cold, fiercely so. Your men will have never had something bite them like the Northern frost. They will adapt, however. The furs and coats in our supply will keep them warm."

She couldn't help it; her gratefulness shone along her features plainly like a radiant portrait painted simplistically. Without his help, she would never have set sail on the Narrow Sea, let alone set foot upon the land of her birthright. Ser Jorah spoke of him as if he were a rat; to her, he was the noblest rat that ever scuttled the earth. She didn't know there could be men like him in Westeros. Some unscrupulous part of her wanted to disbelieve him, to distrust him, but she quashed it. Petyr was a good man. He had to be a good man.

She almost hated the way her voice sounded like a kitten's purr. "And what then, my good Lord Baelish? You'll forgive me if I don't think the cold of the North will stop my descent."

She almost hated more the way his soft laugh made her stomach quiver and her hands clench like two stones trying to relieve some insidious pressure.

"No, Your Grace, I don't think the North will stop you. I don't think the South will stop you. In fact," he leaned in, dazzling teeth on display. "I don't think even the gods themselves could stop you."

The light blush told him she didn't think any endorsement from the gods could quite match his.

"We will meet Stannis Baratheon at the Wall," he stated, mouth upturned in distaste. "He has a quarter of your men; they will be, I'm happy to tell, your easiest match in the Seven Kingdoms. It's fit that the road should have its smallest stumbling block right at the gate."

Ser Jorah stepped forward from off to her side. "He has a good number of men; we should not dismiss him so easily, Khaleesi."

She looked her most trusted advisor up and down once, taking in his pleading hazel eyes, his hulking form. The two aspects of his person clashed in a bizarre manner. Like might and meekness boiled together. Gods, how it was unsettling.

Her advisor's counsel usually made her think, made her dwell. At this moment, she found it rather irksome.

"He will fall, just like the rest," she bit out in a much harsher tone than she had intended. "Whether or not it's an easy fall or one I have to remove his legs to make happen is of none of my concern."

That hurt, that flinching pain that first visited his face the night of Petyr's arrival lightly passed over his face again, and remorse stuck her in the back of the neck like a gang of angry hornets. Of late, his attachment to her had become almost unbearable. He would whisper to her when he thought no one was watching, visit her when the night was quietest. The majority of the time, it flattered her, but she felt now that it was becoming a barrier between them. The exiled Lord of Bear Island's affections never waned, only waxed. At one time, she might have returned his sentiment, might have thought it possible to love him. But then Petyr came, on a fleet of magnificent ships with her salvation and a handsome face. Everything had become a tumult since.

She said nothing, however. Betrayed not an inkling of her regret or her disquiet. She was a Queen; her words were final. Even if they left the pot of honey a little sour.

"She's right, Jorah," broke in Ser Barristan. "He will meet the sword, and the manner in which he does should bother us little. What we should be worried about, Your Grace, is our path. I suggest we march a straight swath into the heart of Westeros. Bypass Winterfell; latest reports suggest it is held by twenty men, led by Theon Greyjoy, son of the Usurper Balon."

Usurper's Dogs. All of them. She grit her teeth and rose like a flame doused in oil from her chair.

"I will take Greyjoy," she hissed. "I will remove his head and fling it all the way to the Iron Islands. They will know the might of the Dragon Queen."

"You will, my Grace," came Petyr's voice, both sharp as a knife and affectionate as a lover. "Believe us; there is no one more fit to sit the Iron Throne than you."

"I will melt it." Her voice shook with the molten depths of her passion. "The Iron Throne will no longer be a symbol of oppression. It will be forged into something new, something respectable."

She witnessed the shock that appeared in the faces of Sers Barristan and Jorah, and the pure delight that lit Petyr's. She beamed at him; his approval fueled her more than he could understand. He was the Bird of Prey that she would ride to soaring heights. Her bird, she thought with joyous delirium.

"I-I want to speak to Petyr. Alone," she breathed. Her usage of his first name, her throaty beckon, the room thickly rode them into silence. Her Queenhood had departed her. She didn't care; Petyr looked so alive.

Ser Jorah transformed into a thing of fear, of uncertainty. He took a step toward her. "Your Grace, I think-,"

"Now."

She didn't glance away from Petyr's brilliant face. Violet eyes sparked on grey. The noises of the room clearing quickly dissipated; she stepped forward.

Her mind was vacant. Nothing moved; the sounds of their breathing were a symphony reverberating in her ears. She grabbed his face with both of her slender hands, the magnitude of every action, every consequence, gone, disappeared. Her lips crashed down onto his.

She almost moaned in sheer delight as her Bird of Prey kissed her back, hands coming to wrap around her back and caress the skin exposed by her silver dress. Their lips clashed, tore at one another, as if they were fighting her war right there in their heady embrace. Ecstasy claimed her; his lips, the tickle of his beard against her unblemished Targaryen skin, the feel of his hands as they danced across her neck, her shoulders. All of it made her mission fall away from her mind as if it were dust in the breeze. She gasped into his mouth as he nibbled her lower lip, her hand flying to the nape of his neck, trying to bring him closer, wanting nothing but his touch, his admiration, his affection.

She opened her mouth for his marauding tongue, letting him fully taste her, explore her. Petyr's hands cupped her backside, pulling her to him with a strength she found exhilarating. A hand of her own came up between them, reaching for the clasp of his cloak, the bliss making her fingers tremble, and she yelped softly as their mouths broke contact.

"Your Grace…" he whispered, leaning his forehead against hers. She noticed for the first time how much older he was than her. His age screamed fatherhood, middle of the road. She was suddenly struck with the realization that she relished it unbelievably.

"Please, Petyr, I believe you can call me Daenerys now," she ventured with a voice so burdened with passion it almost suffocated them both.

His hand came up to grasp the one of hers trying to undo the clasp at his neck.

"Daenerys," he repeated, tasting her name on his tongue, reveling in it. A wetness pooled between her legs at the way it rolled off his lips."Gods, Daenerys. We mustn't. Despite how badly I want this. The time is not right, my beautiful Dragon Queen."

His words thrust her jarringly to the present. She kissed Petyr. Petyr. Her bird. Just how had she come to desire him so badly in the short weeks he had been in her service? Maybe it was because she needed something. Needed comfort. The image of Jorah burned like a flaming arrow in her mind for a second, then departed. She looked at Petyr, drinking him in, eyes tracing every angle of his regal face. Reason couldn't help her. She was at the whim of this need for him, this yearning. His brilliance, his esteem. It was a poison she wanted to die from for the rest of her days.

"I won't wait much longer, Petyr. You are mine, remember?"

He shivered slightly in her embrace, eyes igniting.

"How could I ever forget?"

He kissed her once more, softly, a promise, before pulling away. He straightened himself, readjusted his cloak. When he finished, he brought two fingers up to take her chin.

"Soon, my beautiful Dragonness. Soon."

And then he turned and walked out of her cabin, leaving her breathless.

He was agony. Never had a man, never had anyone brought such feelings out of her, let alone these that threatened to consume her. A hand absentmindedly found her lips, tracing them lightly, pondering the feel of lips that urgently pressed against hers just moments before. It wasn't love, wasn't demure. It was far more primal. Wanton.

Gods, how I know I adore it.

A knock at the door flung her from her enraptured mind.

"Come in," she allowed, vexed. The last thing she wanted now anyone that wasn't her most recent Small Council appointee. Her violet eyes narrowed as the Brigmaster, a large and sweaty boor, pushed the door open and strode in.

He bowed low. "Your, Grace."

"Is there something I can do for you, Lemont?" He was a former Lannister man. She didn't trust her new, rather rough-mannered folk to care for prisoners well, though she had only one. Captives were an unfortunate necessity. She really misliked chains.

"Your Grace, I beg pardon, but your prisoner, Gerion Lannister, wishes to speak with you."

She raised her brows. What business had he with her? She knew nothing of this lackluster lion, other than his background and last known activities. Jorah told her that he was the youngest brother of Lord Tywin Lannister, the richest man in the Seven Kingdom's and the father of the man who slew her father. Her advisor described him as reckless, a joker, a man with little to fear and a lot to gain. Cunning, just like his eldest brother, and not half as bloodthirsty.

If anything, it would be a nice change of pace. "Send him in," she dictated, and the man scurried off in response. Within minutes he returned, leading the long-haired Lannister into her chambers.

She sat in silence, awaiting his courtesies. A moment passed. Nothing came. She quickly realized he would not bow. Defiant and most definitely reckless.

The Brigmaster sent him careening to his knees with a well-placed kick to his back. "You will bow before the Queen!" he cried indignantly, and Gerion looked back at him and spat at his feet. Infuriated, Lemont raised a hand to strike him.

"You wretched son of a-!"

"No!" interjected Daenerys, all but leaping from her chair. "Leave him be. I will not have my prisoners treated like they are in the Seven Kingdoms. Like dogs."

Lemont's hand stilled mid-swing, his face ballooning in utter bewilderment. The dumb look remained on his face another moment, before he quickly straightened himself.

"My apologies, Your Grace. I meant no offense."

"I take none, Lemont. If you will, I ask you please leave me and Ser Lannister here." Lemont opened his mouth in protest, but she quickly cut him off. They always had the best intentions. "I will be quite safe, Lemont. If I am harmed, the least of his worries will be my Dragons. You may wait outside the door."

Lemont looked from her, down to Gerion, and back again, before nodding. He bared his teeth at the Lannister, who showed his right back and then crossed his eyes and thrust out his tongue. Daenerys had to bite her tongue to suppress the giggle that climbed her throat. His theatrics had already made this unexpected little visit worthwhile.

When Lemont had shut the door, she sat back down and gazed at him.

"You wished to see me?" she questioned blandly.

He scoffed. "I expected counsel with the Dragon Queen to be a bit more…scaly. Though, a dragon would be a welcome sight over the blank walls of the brig. Probably would smell better, too."

"I would guard your tongue, Ser Gerion, lest you end up seeing the mouths of my Dragons before their scales."

"I expect their jaws might be more comfortable than my current board."

She shut her eyes in frustration. Insolence was not something she looked fondly upon, and he was already presenting her with armfuls of it. She rubbed the bridge of her nose.

"Tell me what you wanted, or I will have your tongue," she ground out.

His sharp features filled with mirth. "There's no rush, Dragon Queen. We have all the time in the world out here at sea. And water. Alas, I feel compelled to get to business, for the sake of my youth." She fought down another giggle, forcing her face to stay impassive. It couldn't be avoided; she could see clearly he was a born entertainer. He went on. "What have you done with Brightroar?"

She frowned. "What I do with the property of prisoners is my business alone. You will not be privy to-,"

"Please. I will not simper before you. I only wish to know that it is still in one piece."

She looked him hardly in the face, analyzing the crags of his visage, the green eyes that screamed 'Lannister', as ifhe were flying the sigil from the whites of them.

"I spent my life scouring the earth for that bloody thing," he continued. She noted it was the first time his voice had held a tone that wasn't mocking. The passion almost rattled her. "It means more than the largest castle and the biggest tits to this old man."

She blushed furiously at his crass words. "Ser Gerion, you will not speak in such a way before a Queen. Have you no civility?"

"And pray tell, Dragon Queen, what have you? A couple ships and a flock of savages? A wayward knight who yanks himself at night to your image and a rat from the sewers of the Red Keep?"

"You bastard!" she shrieked, her chair forgotten and bare behind her. The curse rolled odd off her tongue, the choice word decidedly unbecoming of a Queen. She raised a lone lean finger at him. "How dare you speak in such a way to the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!"

"You're not my Queen," he dared. His throat was an iron pipe, and his vociferation was like a toxic dart that almost made her flinch. His chains began to tremble audibly as his hands did, the metal moving in accordance with his fervor. No longer was he on his knees; drawn up before her, he looked like a wraith of righteousness, a blaze. "You're nothing. You're no one's Queen but the fools that will die along with you when my brother takes your head."

Daenerys shook with all the fire that raged in her Dragon's bellies.

"You will die for your words, Lannister. Perhaps not today, or even in the next moon. But when I've crushed your brother, when I've burnt your spectacular House to the ground, I will feed you to the biggest of my Children. And I will laugh as Drogon rips you in two."

"And I will shit in his mouth."

"LEMONT!" she bellowed, turning from the bastard before her. She would suffer no more of his gall. The door flung open and the Brigmaster hurried in, out of breath. He bowed.

"Your G-,"

"Get him out of here," she ordered, seething.

Lemont nodded at once, grabbing a hold of Gerion brusquely and yanking him to his feet. He began to pull the man out, away from his obviously distressed Queen, when Gerion fought him for a moment. The Lannister threw his head over his shoulder in her direction.

"Listen to me, Beggar Queen! Listen well, for I'll only say it once!" Lemont growled, tugging at his chains with renewed strength at his display of impudence. Gerion looked like a madman, spittle flying from his widely stretched mouth.

"There are no more Targaryens. You, bitch, are no Targaryen! Your children, if any wretch is ever born to you, will be no Targaryen! THE LAST OF THE TARGARYENS DIED WITH MY NEPHEW'S SWORD IN HIS BACK!"

She gasped, and he guffawed, the noise echoing through the small cabin for a long while even after he had been forcibly removed.

And then she wept.

oOoOoOo

Tyrion Lannister

Tyrion woke with a groan. Sunlight danced on his eyelids. Eyes still shut, he rolled over languidly and then sat up, reaching for the water jug he placed beside his bed every night. He instantly recoiled when his little hand rebounded off something hard and knobby. His eyes flew open.

It was Bronn's knee. He looked up in bewilderment at the man, who he found asleep in the chair next to his cot. Then he realized they were moving. The caravans had started up again sometime in the night. Not on his orders.

"Bronn!" he hissed, grabbing the man's knee and shaking it. "Bronn! Wake up!"

"Those tits are worth far less than three gold dragons."

Tyrion screwed up his face at the captain of his guard. The dolt was deeply asleep! At least, Tyrion hoped so. His tits were definitely worth more that three gold dragons.

"Bronn!" he repeated loudly, slapping the man's knee. The former sellsword jerked awake, head on a swivel, his hand flying to the pommel of his sword. "I swear Ser Bronn, your recent knighthood has made you deaf to anything that isn't someone verbally sucking your cock."

"Well, good morning to you too, Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion rolled his eyes, and then quickly sat up. "Why are we moving? Who ordered this? And also, why are you taking a rather… unsettling nap beside me in my private sleeping carriage?!"

Bronn held up a hand to the barrage of questions. "Gods, slow down, little man! Last time I heard you talk that fast you were facing a sure death in the Eyrie!"

"Why-are-we-mooooovingggg?" he enunciated slowly and mockingly, crossing his eyes as he did so.

"Gods, as if I thought you couldn't get any uglier."

"Oh, do shut up. And answer my question."

"I ordered it, of course!" Bronn responded cheerfully, as if speaking of the weather.

Tyrion's hands flew up. "You WHAT?!"

Bronn laughed smoothly. "You forget, Lord Imp, that I know my way around the country. We were a night's ride from Riverrun. In fact," he paused looking at the closed flap of the carriage. "We should just be getting there now!"

"Getting…to…" Tyrion repeated slowly, his sharp mind working the night's dust off. "By the gods, the time has come! Seven hells!"

Forgetting all about his captain's semi-mutinous actions, he leapt from the bed, grabbing a cloak from a hang-spot nearby and draping it over himself. He grabbed the water jug, took a deep swig, and then poured the liquid over his hand before running it through his hair, flattening it. Bronn stared at him in bafflement. Tyrion huffed.

"What? Never seen a man make himself presentable? Though, I suppose you've never so much as washed your arse a day in your life."

Bronn rolled his eyes then, and Tyrion looped a belt around his waist. He grabbed a dagger off his bedside table, gazed at it a moment, before affixing it to the belt. He would need to appear strong, if at all possible for him. The dagger wouldn't do it all on its own, but it would certainly lend a hand. Starks loved their blades.

Tyrion jerked forward as the carriage suddenly rolled to a halt. He looked over himself, ensuring everything was proper, before he turned to Bronn.

"I need you to be prepared today," he said, voice grave. "If any of this goes sour, we will need to leave quickly. Everything must be ready for an immediate and abrupt departure, if necessary."

Bronn nodded solemnly, and then clasped his short friend on the shoulder.

"Good luck."

"I wish I needed it."

They both grinned, and then jumped as the flap to the carriage was thrown open without pretense. A nervous-looking man stuck his head in.

"Lord Tyrion! A raven came! Daenerys Targaryen is at the Wall, engaged with Stannis Baratheon!"

The news hit him like a cold bucket of water to the face. Time was running out. He squeezed shut his eyes as the ponderousness of the situation was understood by him truly for the first time.

If I fail, we all die. Funny how I always find myself in this position.

With a last nod to Bronn, he moved toward the messenger, who retreated as the dwarf jumped down from the back of his ride.

The sight that met his slightly watering eyes was breathtaking.

The Stark encampment was massive. It stretched on for what seemed miles around the castle of Riverrun, encircling it like a coat of many colors. Direwolves seemed to growl at him from every high-flung Stark banner that twitched in the morning breeze, and he let his vision roam over the entirety of it all in admiration of its sheer size. He saw other sigils too, those of Umber and Karstark and the like. But his eyes would never forget the salience of the direwolf in that early sun.

A commotion some yards from him drew his attention. A Tully host had come to meet the caravan, armed and in full battle dress. Tyrion grit his teeth. Though they had come waving a banner of peace, he knew the Starks would take no chances.

Tully and Lannister began to exchange words, and Tyrion decided to make his presence known before anything turned irreparably ugly.

"Good morrow!" he shouted pleasantly, making his way over to the host. "I trust you already know who I am; it is hard to mistake me. But may I ask who I have the honor to receive?"

A great brute of a man swung down from his steed. Tyrion instantly recognized him as the Blackfish. Catelyn Tully's uncle, Brynden.

"I would have the honor of taking your head, monstrous little beast," the man roared, taking a step toward him.

Tyrion clicked his tongue. "Tisk, tisk, Ser Brynden. I come with no ill-will."

"Then you'd better inform me as to why you show your hideous face here, before I send you back to where you belong: the Seven Hells."

Tyrion chuckled good-naturedly. "You wound me, Blackfish. As a man most unhandsome yourself, you know we lot should stick together!"

The Blackfish growled at Tyrion's attempt at jocundity. "Speak, Imp! Don't make me do anything you wouldn't enjoy."

"Business first, as always. Never change, you Tullys."

Brynden bared his teeth in warning. Tyrion put up his hands.

"Alright, alright! I have traveled very far from the Capitol, forgive me for the well-needed jest. However, what I say next is far from humorous; I wish to parlay with the Starks."

Everything when quiet. And then the Tully host roared with merriment, led by the Blackfish's harsh bark of a laugh.

"Parlay? With the Starks? I thought you said you were done with humor!"

Tyrion tightened his lips in impatience. "I do not jape, Ser Brynden. I come with an offer."

That seemed to have successfully gotten the large man's attention.

"An offer?" he repeated with bemusement. "You come with an offer? To the party which you beheaded the Lord of?"

"I did not behead him," bit out Tyrion. "I would never even dream of it. You have Joffrey Baratheon to thank for that. Or rather, his corpse."

Brynden Tully took another momentous step toward him. His voice was low, reckoning. "You'd better turn back around and leave. Now. Before I cut your throat. And I don't want to do that; I'd hurt my back stooping that low."

Tyrion's hand moved unconsciously to the dagger at his side. The air bloated with malevolence. No one moved.

Then a third voice rang out from behind the Blackfish.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Edmure Tully. He rode out on his mount to the spot just beside Brynden. Tyrion noticed he looked pale, drawn in. His sickness was existent, it seemed.

"Lord Edmure, how wonderful of you to join us," cried Tyrion. Edmure looked down at him, face quickly filling with unabated disgust at recognition of the Imp.

"You," he uttered quietly.

"Yes, me. You Tullys aren't ones for words, are you?"

With a bit of undisguised effort, Edmure climbed down from his horse.

"Why do you come here, Imp?" he questioned weakly. He then broke into a fit of coughs, hand clutching at his throat.

"Unwell, are we, Lord Edmure?"

Edmure Tully ignored the venture, repeated his inquiry. "Why are you here?"

Tyrion knew the moment had arrived. He drew a deep breath and exhaled, choosing his words carefully.

"Lord Tully, I don't come to insult or distract. In fact, I wouldn't be here at all if it weren't for the gravest of matters."

Tully just stared at him. Tyrion took it as an urge to continue.

"Thankfully, someone who listens." Brynden snapped his teeth. Tyrion paid him no heed. "There is a war coming. Much worse than the one we fight over an iron chair. It comes in the form of Daenerys Targaryen, the last of her name. She is at the Wall as we speak, subduing Stannis Baratheon with one-hundred and twenty-thousand men. In no time, she will be marching through our lands, a foreign woman with the foolish notion of a claim to the throne. She has dragons. Three of them. I come on behalf of reason. On behalf of necessity. I come," he paused, letting the air grow tense and fraught with anticipation. "To propose peace."

For awhile, nothing so much as breathed. And then the Blackfish roared with laughter, the host joined him, and Edmure fell into another hacking fit. Tyrion blanched; would they really toss him aside so easily? Did they not have spies, reporters?

Edmure silenced them all with a raised hand when he recovered. He gazed at Tyrion, Tully blue eyes both fearful and uncertain.

"You speak truth, Imp?"

Tyrion nodded solemnly. "I'm afraid so."

Edmure swore, turning his back to Tyrion and beginning to pace. He did so for several drawn-out moments, before he whirled around with a surprising agility.

"On the pain of death, Imp, do you swear to not so much as lift a finger in any sort of aggressive manner in my home?"

"I do," replied Tyrion, trying to put as much sincerity into his voice as possible.

"Then it seems we will parlay."