NOTES: This is a story based on the Game of Thrones books and TV series, but be warned, it's a very AU (Alternate Universe) story. If you're someone who doesn't enjoy a story that deviates a lot from canon, where certain characters may act out of character, or if you're not a fan of romance with a good amount of fluff, and a story that ultimately has a happy ending, then this may not be the right story for you.

KING 'S LANDING

The biting wind seemed to mock Tyrion Lannister as it tore at his cloak, tugging at the fine furs like the grasping hands of a beggar. He stood at the edge of King's Landing, the great city gates yawning open behind him, and watched as the Lannister troops moved with grim efficiency, preparing for their departure. The clang of steel and the barked commands of officers echoed in the cold morning air, but none of it could drown the unease gnawing at Tyrion's gut. He reeked of stale wine and the faint, lingering ghost o Marei 's perfume—a bitter reminder of his descent into despair the night before. He had sought solace in her embrace, but even the fleeting warmth of her touch had done little to ease the weight pressing on his soul.

Podrick Payne, his ever-loyal squire, stood silently at his side. The boy's quiet presence was a rare comfort, a small, steady flame against the encroaching shadows. Podrick had seen Tyrion at his lowest—seen the grief that had etched harsh lines into his face, heard the curses he had hurled at an unjust world, at his family, at the gods themselves. Yet the boy had never flinched, never wavered, offering no empty platitudes but instead a quiet, grounding loyalty that Tyrion had come to rely on more than he cared to admit.

"It seems a paltry force to leave guarding the capital, Lord Addam," Tyrion remarked, his voice rough from too much wine and too little sleep.

Lord Addam Marbrand turned to face him, his expression as grim as the cold wind cutting through the air. He, too, bore the weight of sleepless nights and hard choices. "Five thousand men are hardly enough to defend King's Landing, my lord Hand," he said, his tone heavy. "I would have preferred to leave twice that number, but these are Lord Tywin's orders." His gaze swept over the soldiers assembling to march, a flicker of doubt crossing his face.

Tyrion followed his gaze, watching the sea of crimson cloaks and polished steel. His mismatched eyes narrowed as he considered the implications. He knew exactly what his father was doing. Tywin Lannister, ever the pragmatist, was sacrificing King's Landing to appease the dragons. It was not merely a tactical retreat but a calculated surrender—yielding control, not out of weakness, but as a bitter concession to a power even he could not outmaneuver. A silent offering, his pride set aside in favor of survival. Tywin was paving the way for the return of House Targaryen—not as a bloody coup, but as a quiet acknowledgment of Valyria's undeniable dominance.

Viserys. The name echoed in Tyrion's mind, a ghost from the past. Rhaegar's younger brother, vanished after the Sack of King's Landing. Tyrion suspected the boy, presumed dead by most, was still alive. Hidden, protected, likely by Valyrian hands. And now, with the dragons' return, Viserys would rise as their puppet king—a Targaryen seated on the Iron Throne, yet ruling beneath the long shadow of Valyria.

A bitter smile twisted Tyrion's lips. A sacrificial lamb. That's what he was. Left behind to appease the dragons, to give his father time to broker a deal, to ensure the Lannisters maintained their hold on the Westerlands, even if it meant bending the knee to a Targaryen king. The injustice of it all burned in his gut, a sour taste of resentment that even the strongest wine couldn't wash away.

The clatter of hooves and the rumble of wheels announced the arrival of the royal party. Joffrey, perched atop his white stallion, a preening peacock in gleaming golden armor, looked every bit the arrogant king he imagined himself to be. Beside him, Cersei, regal and cold in crimson and gold, rode her palfrey with an air of disdain that could curdle milk. Her green eyes, sharp as daggers, fixed on Tyrion.

He watched them approach, a sardonic smile twisting his lips. He had spent countless hours in recent days trying to convince Joffrey to leave—a task as futile as teaching a drunken bear to dance without mauling you. The boy had raged, threatened, stamped his feet like a spoiled child, and even drawn his sword on him in a pathetic display of impotent fury.

Surprisingly, it was Grand Maester Pycelle who had finally managed to subdue the little tyrant. Tyrion suspected his father, Lord Tywin, had sent word ahead to the Maester, instructing him to ensure Joffrey's retreat. Pycelle had taken the boy to the dragon skulls beneath the Red Keep and whispered tales of Rhaenyra Targaryen's gruesome demise in the Dance of the Dragons—torn apart and devoured by her brother's dragón

"Imagine," Pycelle had croaked, his voice raspy with age yet laced with disturbingly vivid imagery, "hundreds of dragons, Your Grace. Not just one. Hundreds… perhaps even thousands. Each breathing fire hotter than the fiercest wildfire."

The terror in Joffrey's eyes had been a sight to behold, a flicker of fear that, for the first time, cracked the boy king's arrogant facade.

As they drew nearer, Cersei dismounted, her gaze never leaving Tyrion. She moved toward him, every step a calculated display of Lannister authority. "You look like a whoremonger who's spent the night in a gutter, brother," she said, her voice dripping with contempt. "Hardly befitting the Hand of the King."

Tyrion met her gaze unflinchingly, allowing a sliver of his usual smirk to surface. "And you, dear sister," he replied, his tone laced with sarcastic amusement, "look remarkably serene for a queen abandoning her capital"

Cersei's eyes narrowed, a flash of anger sparking in their emerald depths. "How dare you speak to me in such a manner!" she hissed. "This is only temporary. We will return. And when we do, those who mocked us will pay the price."

"Only temporary?" Tyrion laughed, the sound sharp and bitter. "By the seven, my sister is even more foolish than I thought possible," he thought. Then he looked at Joffrey who stood nearby, fidgeting with the reins of his stallion, his earlier terror replaced by a petulant boredom. "And you, Your Grace," Tyrion continued, turning his sardonic gaze on his nephew, "should perhaps spend less time admiring your armor and more time contemplating the fact that you're about to become a king without a kingdom."

Joffrey's eyes narrowed, a flicker of the fear he'd shown the previous day resurfacing. He tugged at his reins, casting furtive glances at the sky, as though expecting dragons to descend at any moment. "They wouldn't dare touch me," he muttered. "I'm the king. They will fear me." But his bravado was thin, a hollow echo of shattered confidence. The anxious glances he continued to cast upwards betrayed his true feelings.

Tyrion observed this with a keen eye. "The boy is truly afraid", he thought. "The cracks are showing".

He leaned closer, his smile as venomous as he could manage. " "Are you quite certain of that, Your Grace? Or do you still feel the ghost of Rhaenyra's breath burning down your neck?"

As Tyrion spoke her name, the air grew perceptibly colder. Joffrey flushed crimson, a flicker of something like panic in his eyes. He swore he could almost hear the faintest whisper of a woman's laughter, cruel and chilling, carried on the wind.

Cersei took a step closer, placing herself between Tyrion and Joffrey, her voice edged with a warning. "Enough, Tyrion," she warned. "You've had your fun. Father has given his orders. We leave for Casterly Rock. And you," she added, her gaze like ice, "remain here. As Hand."

Tyrion's gaze hardened. "Father's orders," he echoed, his voice low and steady. The words tasted like bile. He looked at Cersei, his eyes reflecting a bitterness he no longer bothered to conceal. "You're fools. Both of you. Blinded by pride, consumed by a lust for power that will be your undoing. You think those dragons care for your titles? For your golden lions?" He shook his head, a mirthless chuckle escaping his lips. "They're playing a different game. A game of fire and blood. And you… you're nothing but pawns."

Then, something shifted in his mismatched eyes, a flicker of curiosity replacing the bitterness. He surveyed the royal entourage, noting a conspicuous absence.

"Where is your pet dog, nephew?" Tyrion asked, directing his gaze at Joffrey. "One would think the Hound would be eager to escort his beloved king on this... strategic retreat."

Joffrey did not respond, but Cersei's lips curled into a sneer, her eyes flashing with disdain. "He's gone," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Vanished this morning. Likely off chasing whores or drowning his sorrows in some tavern." She paused, a hint of malice twisting her features. "Good riddance, I say. A brute like that has no place guarding a king. Lord Addam will ensure Joffrey's safety."

Tyrion's gaze narrowed, a suspicion forming in his mind. The Hound, gone without a word? After the dragons… it seemed… convenient. He felt a spark of an idea ignite within him. Perhaps Clegane, much like Littlefinger, had seen the writing on the wall and chosen to desert before the flames consumed them all. Or maybe, a more intriguing thought, he'd fled not out of fear, but conviction.

"Lord Addam," Tyrion said, turning his attention to the lord, his voice kind, a sharp contrast to the sarcasm he had wielded moments before. "Ensure my nephew reaches Casterly Rock safely. It would be… unfortunate if, let's say, he were to fall victim to an accident along the way. A broken wheel, perhaps? Or a Valyrian dragon in a foul mood that just happened to lose its way."

He turned back to Cersei, his gaze piercing. "Farewell, sister," he said, his voice low and steady. "Enjoy your stay at Casterly Rock. Perhaps you can amuse yourselves by recounting tales of your glorious reign. Though I'd advise against mentioning dragons. It tends to… unsettle the boy king, doesn't it?"

With a final, mocking bow, Tyrion turned and walked away. He didn't look back, but he could feel Cersei's gaze burning into his back. The taste of ashes and wine lingered in his mouth, but he pressed on. He paused, gesturing to Podrick. "Come, Pod," he said, forcing a lightness into his tone, "let us return to the red keeo. We have a city to… prepare. For a new king. And his dragons."