The nightmarish scope of this particular chapter - and the three after it - is the primary reason for my extended sabbatical. I only hope it's been worth the wait :)
Chapter Twenty-One
Brothers & Sisters
The Hand of the Queen waddled across the middle ward, cursing his own genius with every step. It had been his idea to base the dragon queen's headquarters at Harrenhal: the place was a melted monument to the devastation of dragonpower, and every glance around the place carried the subtle threat of just what Daenerys could do. But he'd forgotten that the place was huge beyond all logic, and his twisted legs hadn't stopped aching since they passed the gates.
He sent his squire ahead to ready his bath, and dumped his rod and his dragon-saddle in the armoury. It wouldn't do to turn up at another Small Council meeting reeking of soot and sweat, after all. He thanked any gods that were listening for the discipline of the crowd, which parted at his approach. He didn't fancy shouting his excuses in three different languages.
Queen Daenerys had brought an army of exotics to the Riverlands. Squadrons of Unsullied drilled in the courtyards and fields, shouting instructions in the Ghiscari-flavoured Valyrian of the slave cities. Dothraki warriors strutted through the wards seeking wine and violence. Here and there a head of red-black hair bobbed through the crowd, marking some Meereenese loyalist who'd joined the Mhysa's ranks. And the rest were Westerosi, drawn by awe, or terror, or a dormant loyalty to the dragonlords.
Or by money. Tyrion and Ser Barristan advised the Queen to hire every tradesman within a day's ride of Harrenhal to help make the place habitable. With the wealth of Slaver's Bay, she bought out every alewife's stores to slake her army's thirst; every forester's stockpile to feed the furnaces beneath the bathhouse and the castle kitchens; every mason's labour to rebuild the sept and fix the upper floors of the ruined towers.
The ancient fortress housed hundreds within its walls, but it was merely the centre of a vast camp. Each night, when he retired to his rooms high in the Kingspyre Tower, Tyrion could see campfires peppering the landscape for miles around. The tents nearest the castle had been erected in straight lines, with clear delineations according to commanders and regiments; beyond the ordered ranks of the Unsullied and the Free Companies lay a chaotic sprawl of marquees and tents fanning out along the shores of the God's Eye. Tyrion had seen enough to know that this was where the true business of war took place: journeymen, gambling dens, healers, whores.
And a surprising number of preachers, too. The septons and sparrows alike lauded the return of a godly ruler to cleanse the debauchery of the Usurper and his wanton queen. The red priests were even more generous in their praise. Some called the dragons a gift from the Lord of Light; others went still further and claimed that Daenerys was their saviour come again: Azor Ahai reborn, in accordance with ancient prophecy. Tyrion didn't remember the cult of R'hllor as being particularly popular when he left Westeros: the sole red priest of his acquaintance had been seen as a novelty rather than a prophet, but the crowds around the nightfires proved the Red God's influence was waxing in the Seven Kingdoms. Thoros of Myr himself appeared before the Queen soon after the invasion, at the head of a band of outlaws eager to swear their swords to her.
Thoros had been acceptable to the young queen, even in his newfound piety, but she and the Small Council were more cynical of the hardened preachers. Tyrion's old companion Moqorro had reappeared in Meereen, and he claimed credit for the favourable winds that had sped them to Westeros when the battle was won.
With the Yunkai'i camp still gripped by the Pale Mare, Daenerys Stormborn had reappeared out of the Dothraki Sea with a khalasar 35,000-strong. The Yunkai'i were wiped out before the gates of Meereen even as the Iron Fleet pinned the navies of Slaver's Bay in to slaughter and surrender. The sellsword companies who'd once betrayed the young queen were spared, saved for a slower, more painful fate that was the price of treason. And as Brown Ben Plumm was condemned, Tyrion Lannister had stepped forward. "I'm afraid I must object to that, Your Grace," he'd said, the rounded tones of the Common Tongue of Westeros ringing in the throne room. "You see, I have a contract with this man, signed in blood."
Somehow, here he was now: Hand of the Queen, master of dragons, conqueror.
Oh yes, Tyrion the warlord. Even as the Dothraki vanguard sacked Saltpans, it was Tyrion's ships that blockaded Gulltown while their admiral rode to the Eyrie to treat with the Lord Protector of the Vale. He'd even glimpsed poor shaking Robert Arryn, who was even more feeble than when his mother fled King's Landing. Littlefinger was due at Harrenhal any day, with his silver tongue and golden touch. Tyrion looked forward to the challenge.
And in his short time in the Vale he'd heard a curious story from a slatternly lesser Royce. She spoke of Littlefinger's bastard daughter, a beauty with blue eyes and auburn hair, who'd appeared suddenly one day and vanished just as abruptly. For Tyrion hadn't forgotten his child-bride on his sojourn in the East. She'd made it clear enough that she had no love for him, but he doubted she had the resources or the imagination to poison Joffrey and frame him for it. If the Royce girl told it true, and Petyr Baelish had been the one to take her from King's Landing, did that mean he helped kill Joff, or was that someone else's plot altogether? Whoever was responsible, Tyrion wanted revenge.
The tales about his sister were stranger still. Gregor Clegane, restored to life by necromancy, killed Tommen and disappeared. Cersei hadn't been seen since. He would have dismissed it as fanciful rambling, but the same story was everywhere. No rumour had yet reached him of his sister or the beast. She was always wilful, but this? With some satisfaction, Tyrion supposed the loss of their father had hit Cersei hard.
Jaime was went missing too for a time. He'd last been seen at Lannisport, and for a brief while Tyrion had feared that he'd been killed in Victarion's attack. But then a raven arrived: none other than the Hound was playing host to both Jaime and Sansa, and they were both safe.
So when a man in golden armour dismounted in front of him and said, "Brother," Tyrion's heart leapt. He marked the lean features, the golden hand and the absence of a sword-belt, and smiled.
"Guards! Arrest this man." He expected they'd have the good sense to overpower his wounded companion while they were at it. He scratched his nose, and continued to the bathhouse, hoping his squire would remember to bring the lavender soap this time.
The endless, uneven stair was torture to his stunted legs in the flickering candlelight, but as Tyrion paused outside the cell to catch his breath, he found himself assailed by a bored yell of defiance, muffled through the heavy door.
"If you've come for another round with the cripple, don't forget to bind my feet this time. Give yourself a sporting chance, man."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow at the guard, who unlocked the door and swung it inwards. The gust of night air blasted Tyrion's candle into darkness and with useless night-eyes he stepped gingerly into the freezing breeze.
Jaime was confined to a small chamber high on the north side of the Wailing Tower, where most of the outer wall had been melted away by dragonfire. What remained of the cracked and melted masonry offered scant protection from the elements. My very own Sky Cell, thought Tyrion, stepping over a patch of snow.
"You should get some snow on that black eye."
"Funny, I just can't seem to get hold of any." Jaime rattled his chains.
They kept rattling, and it pleased Tyrion to realise that Jaime was shivering. My brave, handsome, noble brother. "The Queen says I can't kill you."
"No? Waiting for the wind to blow me off this blasted tower?"
"I'm moving you a few floors down. Guard?"
The sentry came to Tyrion's side as he unlocked the manacles. Jaime struggled to his feet, slipping on the icy flagstones. "You've been a busy little man since I last saw you," said Jaime.
"Oh yes," said Tyrion. "You'll have to catch me up on all you've been up to, while I was away."
"I killed Cersei."
Tyrion stopped dead on the stairs.
"It's true," he continued nonchalantly. "I buried her alongside the dead of House Clegane. The Mountain is dead, too, in case you were wondering."
His head was swimming. "Kingslayer and Kinslayer," he managed finally.
"How droll," said Jaime coldly. "If only I'd thought of that myself."
A few flights down, Jaime's new quarters were basic but at least structurally sound. He sat heavily on the wooden bed, cradling his golden hand. Tyrion opted not to dismiss the guard.
"Others take you, Tyrion," growled Jaime. "Look at us. The Lannister boys, kinslayers both."
The thrum of the crossbow, the thud of bare skin against the privy. "Why did you come here?"
"To find out if family means anything to you."
Tyrion let out a short, barking laugh. "Then I hope you have your answer, brother. You're accused of treason and regicide, and the Queen wants you to stand trial."
The sitting-room adjoining his chamber was cluttered with books of dragonlore and histories of the Free Cities; with a pang, Tyrion realised that Sansa was the first visitor he'd received here. It was dark, and her clothes were stained from days of travelling, but it did not escape his notice that she'd arrived wearing the Stark colours.
"You've grown up," he observed, pointlessly. This creature, my lady wife. Gods be good.
"You look well," she said softly.
He'd expected this meeting to be far more awkward; her reserve was still there, but it was underpinned by a steely composure that was quite unlike the jittery, nervous girl he'd known over a year ago. The Hound, however, hadn't changed. Behind Sansa's shoulder, his stare was as insolent as ever. If I got to kill my brother, I should think I'd be more cheerful. But the queen had spoken, and Tyrion had to admit that her hatred for Jaime was as legitimate as Tyrion's. She wanted him alive for now.
Tyrion sighed. "You and I will need to have a serious conversation, but it's late. I imagine you've been riding all day. There will be chambers ready for you when you've eaten and bathed."
"Thank you, my lord. I'm sure you'll send for me in due course."
He smiled. He tried to picture her in the Vale, but had trouble believing anyone would take her for Littlefinger's bastard. She was softly-spoken and gently-bred in a way that came from years of training - the very picture of a high lady, born to be married off to some unimaginative high lord. My wife. There was a pang of regret from some old, forgotten place where he still wished he was whole and handsome, a normal heir to Casterly Rock. But then his gaze fell on Maester Barth's compendium on the training of dragons and he remembered that not all dreams can come true.
"There are quarters for you as well, Clegane," said Tyrion stiffly. "You're dismissed for the evening."
"I'm dismissed when the lady says so," he growled, and followed the girl out the door.
Tyrion smirked. This streak of gallantry was quite unexpected, and he had to wonder if war had somehow tamed the Hound after all.