The third chapter is here. Thank you for reading my story up until now and special thanks to my two reviewers. Especially to ThatOneGuy who really left a great, constructive review. Since I couldn't answer in private, I will give my thanks here and hope you'll read it. I will not answer your questions. Like I said, I want to reveal the plot as the story progresses. One thing I will say though, yes, this is a Targaryen restoration story...of sorts. It's not exactly what you expect, it will happen, in a way, but in quite an unexpected way. I am going for what was supposed to be a bittersweet ending and I want to delve into the characters, their motivations, their hearts, but also the political, social side of things. These are the things I like and I want to write what I like. I am trying to use and repair the plot points we were left with from the show, but at the same time integrate them in the canon lore. So you will get houses, great houses that have not been mentioned in the show, some epic characters, plot points and locations, the show ignored as well. As you might have guessed, I'm a Velaryon fan and I love their backstory, lore and legends and will use them... a lot. Also, I will delve as deep as I can in the subject of Bran...who isn't Bran.
And yes, I will use the same format GRRM used. One character at a time. I really want to make this seem legit, like a copy, a less than perfect copy of the great master procrastinator's magic, but still.
Like I said, this is my take on fixing season 8. I'm doing it because I need to do it and I wish I'd see more fanfiction like this, just to sate this need of righting the injustices the show left us with.
Here goes...
Tyrion
He walked as quickly as his stumpy legs let him, through the lush gardens of the Red Keep. The air was balmy and smelled of flowers and beauty, but his belly was contorting with anxiety and his forehead was dotted with sweat.
It screamed again. He could hear it wherever he went. He stopped his ears with two fingers and ran. Finally he turned a corner and the sound seemed to be blocked by the heavy wall of the keep. He could still hear it, shrill and angry and booming, like no other sound could, but it was the best he could do.
He took a few breaths, his aged heart fluttering like a scared bird in his chest.
I'm too old for this. I've been too old for this for a while now.
If he took the corner over there, around the potted rose bushes and found the stairs towards the shore, it would be better and hopefully nothing would see him. He looked up and around himself, to every branch, in every corner or crevasse. Good. Nothing.
He shot towards the roses, ducked, turned and finally found the stair. It took a long time to descend it, but as he expected it was well hidden. Nothing was here to see him. He felt the refreshing cold sea air and smiled.
There he was.
A young man, slender and tall awaited just around a large rock. The sea was cracking waves just behind him, but he stood unperturbed.
"My Lord!" The man bowed to him.
He was wearing a deep, dark green tunic and brown trousers. His hair was brown and his eyes dark and he smiled at him with worry in his face.
He walked carefully around the jagged cliffs. Avoiding a tumble in the small pool formed there among rocks, was preferable.
He extended a hand just as he reached the man. The man clasped the proffered hand and he could feel the small object in his palm. His fingers clenched quickly around it and he shoved it in his tunic.
"Tell him to stop." Tyrion addressed the young man. The young man's eyes got large and he looked around across the sea.
"He has mustered an army. He means revenge."
"They will all be killed. They stand no chance. Trust me. I'm with the King day and night. I know. He has covered everything. He may even hear us now, as we speak."
The young man looked around apprehensively.
"Will it survive?"
"He will. I'll make sure of it." Tyrion assured the man and at the expression of distrust on his face, he continued. "I can understand you don't trust me, but you have time now. Walk around the town, talk to people, watch the forces and make your own impression. Three houses have just been wiped off the face of the Earth. Well... Except one, of which you and your father belong, more or less, and if you don't want the same fate your kin had, have patience and let me deal with this."
"They deserved a proper burning and burial. You pledged to carry them out!" The young man all but hissed.
"I know. Only Monterys's wife left for some reason. I don't know why. I don't know where she is right now and I mean to find out. As for the dead... I'll try taking care of that. Hm? Now go. Move. Walk the city and convince yourself and then return to your stupid, stubborn father and put some sense into him. Here, take this." He shoved a tiny scroll in the man's hand and with no more words, he turned on his heels and ran back up the stairs.
"B-but what about the...key?" the young man spoke loudly, trying to cover the booming waves. Tyrion sighed, stopped and turned towards him.
"I have it. I'll use it, as it was decided. I'll do it myself." he hissed and patted his tunic with his stumpy hand. "Now shut up. If any flying thing hears us, there won't be a you or me."
He walked away, swifter than before, hoping no other idiotic questions came to the young man's mind.
The young man stood there with the scroll in his hand for a moment, and then slowly slipped around the jagged rock and into the dinghy bobbing around on the waves.
The dwarf sprang back up the stairs. He had to see the creature with his own eyes. Make sure it wasn't somehow hurt. This was the seventh moon since it had been locked and he had delayed checking on it long enough.
As he reached the terrace he stopped and leaned against the rough wall of the Keep. The idea of going there and facing that thing made him sick to his stomach. The very road there and the idea of getting in, terrified him. It had finally shut up, at least for a while.
Why am I always doing this? For what?
He should have stopped years ago. It never ended well. He ran from one master to another, having no master in truth, still by himself, with himself. Among everyone and yet alone. Working for everyone and for no one. Serving everyone, no one, but not himself either.
How many times he had decided that he would just run to the Free Cities, with no ulterior motive or under the spell of some grand scheme? Just to live in anonymity, by himself. To drink, to sleep, to laugh, to read, to write, to buy a woman now and then, and just die.
So many times he had planned to do it. The closest he got was when he ran with Varys, but then, yet again, he had been dragged in the absolute peak of insanity that had been his life. Or was the absolute peak now? Considering the fact that they were sitting on the proverbial and quite substantial wildfire keg, this indeed could grow to higher peaks of desolation than the Great War.
He resolved to follow his plan, but as it was still early, kill some time and gather some courage in the tavern. Or maybe in his chambers? No, he needed people to distract him.
I should have brought that stubborn boy along with me among the common people. Aurane has spawned a bigger idiot than himself, if that was even possible.
When it felt like he could act as inconspicuous as possible, he left the safety of the wall and walked calmly through the castle. Everybody knew him. Small, lumbering, yet easiest to spot. He had to take a guard with him. That way it will just look like he goes about his business, like any other day. Hidden in plain sight.
He needed Lorne, his personal and favorite guard. A silent, frowning youth who kept secrets. Tyrion knew that the young man's loyalties were in the Reach, so he felt relaxed in his company.
Lorne was aware that Tyrion worked in his own interests and Tyrion was aware that Lorne was a tendril of the rebellion, sent as a squire in the Red Keep to watch and report back on him. They never spoke of what the other was doing and an odd, silent understanding thrived between them, which pleased both.
And he soon found him, guarding the entrance to the hallway that led to the Throne Room. The young man bowed, his pitch black armour clinking softly. Tyrion nodded at him and gestured Lorne to follow him.
"Come. We have work to do." He said as he walked on in front of him.
"Of course, my lord!" the boy's voice soon answered from behind.
Most parts of the Red Keep had been redone, but the Throne Room not so much. It had no new dais or a throne to sit upon it, but Bran The Cripple had kept what was once the Iron Throne, now a shapeless monstrosity that covered the main part of the hall and sent thin fingers of melted iron all over the floor. There were so many veins of iron, that the very act of walking from one side of the room to the other annoyed Tyrion, lest he tripped on one and fell in a heap in front of everyone.
The whole thing looked like a gigantic, rotting octopus, or a mangled, old tree, sending dark, silvery roots to the farthest corners of the hall. It was even more hideous and sinister than before, but he was quite certain that it still lingered there as a reminder for all to see and act accordingly. The fact that most council meetings were held there, among the slithering iron, only further strengthened this thought.
He took a deep breath in as soon as he exited the Keep. There was something about that place. Something dark and repulsive. The farther he walked away from it, the better he felt. The main reason why he preferred spending his days in taverns and brothels.
Nothing had changed really. So long ago, before Bran The Broken, he escaped among the common people for the same reason. Times were alike, yet so different. This king could see whatever the dwarf did, had he chosen. Tyrion had earned the king's trust and that was an immense victory, considering the... odd nature of this king.
He had believed in him. He had believed in all, at first, before they proved that each, without exception, were flawed and unfit to rule this tortured, pillaged, bloodied land. This time, though, it was something that, by some queer magic, no one even thought or foresaw and many still didn't see, after so many years. This time it was all his fault. Not for the first time, he made a shit choice and he still wondered how and why everyone listened to him, the imp, the monster, the traitor, the kinslayer, the most hated creature in all of Westeros.
He coughed and spat phlegm on the stairs of the Keep as he and Lorne were descending.
In front of them the intricate, snaking streets of King's Landing opened, flanked from place to place by long, pitch black banners displaying Bran's flying, clawed crow. The crow wasn't crowned, as most king's would have had it. It was flying on a black field, its body contoured by white accents and carrying a spiky crown in long, gnarly talons. All expected the king to fly the Stark wolf. He hadn't.
"We're going to the Old Inn on Eel Alley. We need to talk before doing what we must do."
"Of course, My Lord!"
They walked for a long time, among winding streets, through the Fishmonger's square, up the Muddy Way and lost themselves among the hidden, shady alleys of the Steel quarter that laid at the foot of Visenya's hill.
There, a tiny path snaked up the hill, between brambles and trees and they took it on foot, climbing it with heavy breaths and sweat pouring down their foreheads. Even Lorne was having trouble, while Tyrion had to stop a few times to catch his all but lost breath. They had been in plain sight all the way here and that was good. People should know he was here.
In the place of Baelor's Sept, stood the Temple of Red Roses, named so in the memory of the Tyrells, at the behest of Queen Sansa, who had held affections for Lady Margaery and had been deeply upset by her demise.
It was an odd sept and not quite a sept. It housed all the gods and beliefs that the people of Westeros had encountered. All, from the Red God, to the Drowned God, the Old Gods and many others, had a place, prelates and at least a few worshipers. It rose to the skies in columns, arches and domes, over the rest of the buildings, guarding its memorials and graves, while balancing on the side of a cliff that had split Visenya's Hill in two, formed there during Cersei's conflagration. It had been a challenging building and many maesters and architects had poured over its plans, over and over, through failures and victories, until the right balance of the structure had been found.
Parts of it had toppled over or crushed, men had died, but after 7 years, it had been perfected. It was an impressive building and even though Tyrion lacked any trace of reverence towards the gods, he did find solace within its shaded walls. It did bring a hefty stream of funds, being one of the centers of worships visited by the faithful from all corners of the world.
That side of the Hill was the tallest and it had protected the Old Inn quite well from Cersei's wrath, though it had killed the old crone who was the Inkeeper. She had died of fear, her old heart cracking up, much like the sept of Baelor and Visenya's Hill, but the inn still stood and Tyrion was thankful to all the gods present in the new sept. It was a miracle not only that it still stood, but especially that it was just as good of a safe haven as it used to be.
They entered the inn and he sighed in contentment at the coolness inside. He needed drink and some food. A lot of food.
As soon as his eyes got accustomed to the gloom he looked around carefully. The wide, airy hall was almost empty. This was no time for drink for the common folk, as he expected. Most worked now.
The inn was now managed by the old crone's son, almost as ancient and bitter as his mother.
They took a table close to the back exit, in case something or someone unexpected happened in. Just next to their table three other men sat and ate and further away a lone, old woman chewed sourleaf and stared in the distance. The three at the table were talking things they shouldn't have and quite loudly. This happened often all over the city and this is what he would have wanted Aurane's son to witness. Of course, the main talk now revolved about the creature that had been residing inside the city's walls for months. People were afraid and fairly so.
"There. Are you hungry?" He asked as they finally sat. He unclasped his cloak and threw it across the back of his chair.
"Yes, my lord. I'd care for some food." The young man never refused anything, which was quite amusing for Tyrion. Treating him with food and drink like an equal, had also bought his trust. Tyrion knew that the boy was fatherless and he found nothing wrong in using that in his interest. He meant to look good in the eyes of the lords of the Reach and especially in those of the bastard in Highgarden, who as in the past, still held power over the rest of the Six Kingdoms, and even the Seventh, with their plentiful lands and granaries.
"And some wine, too?"
"I try not to drink during duty, my lord, but I won't refuse a couple of glasses..."
Tyrion laughed.
"You're a good lad."
He called for a large plate of sausages, various cheeses and bread, all of which he shared with Lorne. Simple, rustic, but delicious food. The kind you would find in the countryside, when out through the land for an adventure. They feasted and drank the house wine, a sour, tongue curling thing and spoke of ordinary things.
He was sitting back in his chair, his belly full and his thoughts pleasantly fuzzy, as more people started pouring in with the sun setting, He sensed the time to instruct Lorne was fast approaching. The more people inside and the louder and bawdier the atmosphere, the better could his conversation pass unheard.
A minstrel had even found a place to strum his strings and sing his ditties and with the wine warming the dwarf's belly and calming his nerves, he decided the moment had come.
"So. This is what happens tonight." Tyrion bent over the small, round table towards Lorne. "Come closer. Move your chair here." He gestured to the young man's chair. His height, or lack thereof, made the whole process of closing the space between them, humorous and difficult.
Lorne, his pale cheeks flushed with the sour wine, dragged himself closer to Tyrion's chair.
"We need to go to the Dragonpit." It was all he needed to say for the boy's eyes to grow wide and his alcohol induced mellowness to dissipate.
"My lord... I..." He stammered, drank more wine and straightened his back, his eyes darting around in suspicion at their surroundings.
"I suggest you stop drinking. You need a clear head."
"What will we do there?" He asked after swallowing thickly.
"You've been reporting back to your liege lords and ladies for months. Did you not presume that being in this position would imply dangerous situations?"
His eyes widened again and he opened his mouth, gaping and visibly rummaging through his mind for a good defense.
"No need to justify yourself." He waved him away with a gnarled hand. "It is an unspoken truth between us and I like to keep it that way. A hand washes the other. As for your question... We need to see the condition of the creature. It has been captive for months. I don't know why our king does it, what his intentions are, but I mean to make sure that the dragon is in at least acceptable health. Such creature doesn't deserve captivity and neither does it do well in captivity. Also, I need to gauge the captivity conditions, for possible, future endeavours."
Lorne swallowed again and looked around again.
"Would you say you know the intentions the king has with the dragon?" he whispered and Tyrion didn't know how to answer. He had suspicions, some stronger than others, but he wasn't sure Lorne's masters should know of them.
"I just said I do not know, didn't I?" He smiled.
Lorne nodded and took a deep breath in.
"Good. Well, how do we go about accomplishing this task, my lord?"
"We would normally need meat. I would say that considering how big it is now, a whole flock of sheep would probably please it. Us herding sheep through town would look quite suspicious, so it is out of the question. We'll just have to base ourselves on Drogon's fond memory of me."
"Right..." Lorne looked even more worried. "And how do we get there unseen?"
"There are less nocturnal creatures than diurnal. We need to be on the lookout for owls, of course, but unless one is deliberately set upon a goal by the king and he uses it to oversee, most hunt through the woods at night or call from the rooftops. We'll take the further West entrance and we'll leave everything on the table untouched so that it will look as if we'll be back."
He was known for going out through the town almost every night, but he needed to make sure people believed he was here, farthest from the Dragonpit and he never left, until dawn.
They slipped quietly away from their table and melted among the groups of people crowding the entire inn. The back door was opened and people were everywhere there too, in the door, outside, down the narrow alley, screaming, laughing, having fights or spilling their sick on the shinny cobblestone.
Lovely.
It was a good night. If he didn't have this mindless task to perform, he would have stayed at the inn until dawn in truth. He fed off this energy. The youth, the crowds, the noise, the insanity, electrified him, made him feel alive, helped him forget.
The further he walked from the noise of the inn, the heavier reality set in. As of yet, he had no real plan and chose no side. He just wanted to stop this and for some insane reason, he thought he could.
As the years passed and as he got to know the king more and more, he realised that his decision to enthrone him was probably the worst he ever took. A Targaryen dynasty wouldn't have been better, but at least probably, somehow, if they had put Rhaegar's true son on the throne, a fairly reasonable and, most of all, easily influenced man, there would have still been freedom. And anyway, what power did a few wild horsemen and the remaining Unsullied had? Why had they been afraid of them? They were way fewer than the Westerosi men and the Westerosi men would have supported their Westerosi king and would have easily overpowered the foreign army.
No one forced you, you bleating, stumpy idiot.
Yet, Jon never wanted the throne, never wanted anything to do with his father's legacy...
You persuaded him to kill the love of his life, his own blood, you could have persuaded him to wear the cursed crown.
The best story. Bah. He almost laughed to himself.
Everything was boiling now and he had to somehow lower the fires.
There was little freedom now and outside the capital, the realm was falling apart. The rebellion of the houses in the Reach allied with the ones in Dragon's Bay and led by the Tyrells had been threatening to explode for years. The famine and disease and drought were the tipping points and the Tyrells held power over the most fertile parts of the Realm. They had been withholding resources for years, pressuring the king, who in turn wanted to drain them dry. They were justified in opposing the king.
Bran, or what was left of him, had a good plan, on paper. It seemed so wonderful the first years. They would all work together for one, single goal, centralizing all the resources and work force and making them available to all. All people were equal, all had access to the same foods and goods, all had a roof over their heads and a source of income. King's Landing had become a religious center and everyone had free access to whatever faith attracted them most. New schools were built all over the Realm and children of all walks of life had access to reading and writing, brothels were taxed and regulated and so was each and every trade.
No one worked for themselves, or to sell, or to gain power over others and use them as slaves, they all worked for each other and in the interest of the greater good of the realm. No one used any one, no one owned anything. Except for the leaders.
Dissidents weren't killed, as before, but locked and reeducated, made good again. It was good. At least they didn't die and had their heads on spikes on the city walls. But then it started to hit closer, as members of noble houses were locked and even some distant Lannister cousins found their way in these places.
It wouldn't have been a problem if the process of reeducation was somehow...benign. But it wasn't.
People were whispering, telling nightmarish tales of what went on in these prisons and he himself saw how the survivors looked. Unrecognisable, dead inside, husks of men in truth.
The king's birds oversaw everything, but the people themselves spied and snitched on each other. Brother sold brother and son sold father.
A cool, salty wind whirled around them and blew Tyrion's hood off his head. He quickly pulled it back on.
They had arrived. Silence, darkness and the night wind were their only witnesses, just as he had hoped.
"It always scared me." Lorne's whispered words sounded loud in the echoing silence of the narrow street that snaked behind the Dragonpit.
"Indeed..." he whispered back.
The king had rebuilt the Dragonpit too. It was one of the things that everyone found admirable. He rebuilt the entire city and added to it, bettered it, made it more glorious. Everything, from the arched, gold and obsidian main gates, to the overwhelmingly large Dragonpit, was made to awe and overpower.
Few dared talk about how many lives were sacrificed for the building of the immense Dragonpit dome, or that those lives belonged to the dissidents and rebels of all walks of life, who somehow questioned the king.
"Follow me." Tyrion spoke with confidence. It was all he had left, confidence. It had always been the only thing he really, truly had that belonged only to him. Tyrion, the Confident Dwarf. He chuckled to himself.
"My Lord? Is everything okay?"
The dwarf's chuckle obviously made the boy uneasy.
"Nothing. Reminiscing. Now, shush." He whispered harshly and sank into the shadows around the smooth, dark wall of the Dragonpit, Lorne following close behind.
Just like the gates and walls of the city, the construction itself was decorated with thin dragonglass shards that looked like slick scale, as if the whole thing had been covered in dragon skin.
Dragonstone would always bear a deep wound where its mountains and caves of dragonglass had once been.
Tyrion ran his opened palm across the incredibly smooth surface, trying to find what he was looking for - one of the great vents that helped air move and blow through the massive dome.
He had seen them and measured them many times and he knew that he could walk quite well through one, while a full sized man would have to crawl.
He heard sounds coming from the darkness behind them. Creaks and scrapes accentuated the silence, or the silence accentuated them. Or maybe he was hallucinating?
Both he and Lorne looked behind them, but the narrow street was empty. Tyrion took a deep breath in and purposefully walked towards the gaping, dark maw opening in the wall and serving as a vent.
"You still want to come? There's no turning back once you enter."
The boy hesitated and looked back at him wide eyed.
"Yes. If I can fit."
"You can. On your hands and knees."
"Of course." said Lorne and walked behind him, waiting for his turn to walk in.
"Inside you'll probably have to wait behind. He doesn't know you."
"My Lord Lannister, I wouldn't have it any other way." Lorne's words were tinged with an odd, slightly hysterical humour. Tyrion felt like laughing to himself too.
The vent was narrow and slippery. It had been well polished and it's corners were round, more like a wormhole snaking inside earth, than a vent through a building. Such an odd construction, much like everything the king had built. The Dragonpit had no corners. It was a dome with ellipsoidal vents. Everything round, for a reason he couldn't understand.
Like a dragon's egg cut in half.
They had some trouble navigating the vent, but luckily it was straight, it crossed no other vents and the silence was still there with them, accompanying them. After some time, they found the end and Tyrion breathed out in relief and anxiety.
Drogon had been silent all evening as he always was when night came. Memories from another life returned to him and he remembered all three dragons slumbering at night, coiled around each other, their bodies indistinguishable from each other, like molten, dark jewels.
In front of him the same view opened, but this time only one dragon lay sleeping, coiled within itself in a corner of the Dragonpit, occupying a large part of it.
It had been so sudden. He expected something - a wall, some columns at least, before seeing Drogon himself.
Columns. How did the grand dome stand without anything supporting it? It was unnatural.
Lorne's shaky breath pulled him from his own shock. He turned towards the boy. His face was devoid of blood and he was staring, no, gaping at the sleeping dragon. In truth, the Dragonpit was impressive and even frightening, but what lay inside it, the dragon itself, was even more so.
He had grown even larger, if that was possible. Tyrion was quite sure that he was indeed now the size of Balerion The Dread. Even wrapped in a monstrous ball, he was huge. How big was he standing? The king had brought him at night, so that the people wouldn't panic. Only few drunkards saw him and no one really payed them mind. Of course, since then every one found out. Drogon roared and screamed for freedom every day and a few commoners even rioted due to the hellish sounds.
What had he got himself into?
"You stay here. Hide in the vent." He spoke in Lorne's ear as quietly as possible, at which he nodded a little bit too eagerly and stumbled back into the hole.
Tyrion felt completely exposed. There was no place to hide from the dragon. He looked around and noted each vent. There were many and those were the only places with potential of protecting him from fire. But he was small and stumpy and slow. He stood no chance, who was he fooling? Why was he suicidal? Fuck the realm and its ungrateful people who sold each other for bread.
He walked. The first step was the hardest. He had done this before with Rhaegal and Vyserion in Mereen, but they were babies compared to Drogon now and they were awake, aware of him. Also, they weren't Drogon...
Piles, no, mountains of charred leftovers rose close to the creature and another mountain, this one made of dragon dung, lay on the other side of the room.
The stench was abominable. The burned carcasses stank, the dung stank and the air itself was so putrid and stagnating, it made Tyrion's eyes water. Such an enormous creature ate and defecated according to its size and no amount of vents would be enough. Someone should have cleaned, but obviously no one had the courage. He didn't have the courage to be here either, he just relied on the stubborn thought that Drogon knew him well, though most likely he also knew of his betrayal.
Jon stabbed Daenerys in front of Drogon and he walked out unscathed.
Jon has the "required" blood. You don't.
He didn't want to think about Jon. He would rather go see if Drogon was in acceptable health.
A soft rumbling snore came from the dragon and his large chest moved slowly with every breath. Tyrion tried matching his steps with the dragon's breath.
The beast was so big, that he could faintly hear its heart beating. A terribly slow and steady rhythm, doom, doom, with an eternity between each low drumming.
At a first glance the dragon looked fine, healthy. The dome was quite dark, the few torches on its sides, not making a very big difference, but the dragon had all his horns intact, the scales looked healthy and shinny, though only awake and moving he could tell for sure. He looked to his right at the immense door through which the king brought Drogon in. It was operated by numerous, gigantic, bronze pulleys that he could spot from here, shinning through the darkness. He noted the machinery and memorized it for future reference.
As he approached the animal, the air got hotter, making his breath more laboured and sweat beading on his forehead. He remembered how hot these creatures were, the complete opposite of what they were supposed to be - cold blooded reptiles. This dome was a furnace, that likely slowly killed Drogon.
Is this what the king wanted?
Fear, terror, awe and a strange tenderness overwhelmed Tyrion. He always loved dragons. He didn't deserve this and he would try all in his power to right this injustice.
In the awe and lull of his admiration, Tyrion didn't feel the change in the dragon's breath, nor its soft stirring, so when the cinder-red eye opened, his breath stopped and on his tongue, he tasted the fear that cut through his chest.
Its head the size of a small ship and its eyes bigger than Tyrion's head, Drogon awoke, uncurled its long neck and looked down at the dwarf.
The world stood still for Tyrion. It was fear, yes, but underneath it was regret and hate, but even now, facing probable death, he tried ignoring those feelings.
"Drogon... do you remember me?"
He spoke slowly and lowered his head in feint submission. The dragon was not a simple beast. Of that he was certain.
A throaty, quiet "hgrrrrrrrrrrrr" that sent vibrations through Tyrion's chest, was the answer and the dragon sniffed the air towards the dwarf.
"I just want to see if you are healthy." His voice was shaky, weak.
The dragon stood and closed the space between them with just one step and then he proceeded to roar.
He had never been on the receiving end of a roar from such a humongous creature and for a few second he was certain that dragon fire had finally been released on him. The sound engulfed him, swallowed him and the scorching hot breath blew him off his feet, sending him skidding on his back, across the shinny floor. When he opened his eyes he was surprised that he wasn't burning, though his back felt as if it had cracked with the impact.
He stood groaning on his hands and knees and looked at Drogon. The dragon rose in full glory, neck arched, wings opened as much as the dome permitted and flaming eyes hypnotizing Tyrion. His back legs were chained. He could now see it clearly. Huge cuffs kept him in place and chains the size of tree trunks winded behind him through the darkness. There were wounds around its ankles, where the cuffs cut through scale and hide.
"I'm sorry... I had too..." He whispered as if an actual, sentient being stood before him. And maybe it did. "I'm trying to make it better..."
Drogon's guttural growl was rising higher and higher and a warm glow was climbing up his throat, visible through the skin, pulsating and lighting its way up his neck.
That's it. I'm going to die.
The immense head lowered to his level, the heat of a thousand furnaces radiating on his face and he looked. He couldn't look away. He looked at the large maw, teeth as big as longswords slightly opened in a grin, as fire gained momentum in his throat, building to the all consuming blaze he knew so well.
"I just want to make it better! HELP ME MAKE IT BETTER!" He yelled as loud as his dwarf lungs could and his entire body shook, sweat dripping down his face and underneath his clothes.
He stood. There was no other way. His back hurt and was stiff, but he knew the dragon respected courage. Fear was what stirred the dragon, what made him attack and burn. Courage, respect and fearless submission is what the dragon answered well too.
Drogon looked at him still, the fire gurgling and building in his throat relentlessly, though he could tell that he had bought some time for himself.
The cinder eyes broke the contact and moved to Tyrion's right and soon the whole head followed. He had seen something and Tyrion followed the dragon's stare.
In the back, in the shadows broke only by the light of torches, there was movement. He saw a man, tall and slim and another, his guard, Lorne, behind him pulling him back into the vents. Aurane's son. Aurane Water's son had followed them here.
"GET BACK! GET BACK NOW!" He yelled at the two idiots. Aurane's young son was frozen to the spot, hearing and seeing nothing but the dragon. Lorne was pulling him with all his might, but he fought back impressively well.
The rumbling grew and Tyrion knew that Drogon couldn't hold it back longer.
"NOOOOW!" He yelled again. Lorne looked at him for a moment and then leaped back into the vent just as the blinding blaze poured forth and swallowed Aurane's son whole.
Tyrion jumped back too, the hem of his cloak catching fire and his beard crackling in the blaze.
Screams he had hopped to never hear again filled the dome. Man was capable of incredibly strong sounds when met with the pain of fire.
He slapped his face with his palms and then his cloak, putting down the dancing flames as the screams slowly died away.
No, no, no, no...
He frantically looked towards where the boy had been. A fire was burning over a small, dark shape. He wasn't struggling or screaming anymore. It had been so fast. Drogon had been holding in his fires long enough for them to build to an obliterating force.
The dragon looked at him and he looked back. For a few seconds he saw the burning eyes replaced by opaque white and he knew what was happening.
Still and fixing him with a white stare that wasn't his, the dragon looked as if it was going to speak, but it didn't.
It shook its head once, twice, the white eyes coming and going, fire eyes struggling to return. It roared and trashed, wings flapping, feet thudding with thunderous force, making the dome vibrate.
The scream that came next was so loud it deafened Tyrion and he quickly stopped his ears and screamed with pain along with the dragon. His head was going to explode. He had to leave.
He stepped back quickly, just as Drogon lit its fires again, burning everything, roaring, screaming and hitting the walls with its tail. The sound of something crumbling told him the bone mountain had been smashed and he all but flew into a vent.
When he came out the other side, fresh, crisp air hitting his face, he fell on his knees and retched until there was nothing to retch anymore. His wholesome, rustic dinner was spilled on the cobblestone.
Lorne came running up the hill to him just as he was standing up from his sick.
"My Lord! Are you good?" He was panting and shaking, his face the colour of wax.
"Why didn't you stop him?" was all Tyrion could muster between laboured breaths.
"I couldn't! He had been following us. He just appeared behind me!"
"Damn it all... " He yelled and ripped his half burned cloak off his back and threw it in a close by gutter.
Drogon was still screaming from the darkness.
Hoot hoot. An owl called from the tree across the street. It had large, white eyes that it kept fixed on the dwarf.
Tyrion smiled bitterly, stood straight on his feet and made a proper curtsy at the damned bird.