"Viserys told me that Targaryen dragons are usually named for the gods of ancient Valyria… Visenya's was Vhagar, Rhaenys's was Meraxes, and Aegon himself rode the Black Dread—Balerion."
"They say Vhagar's breath could melt a knight's plate… Meraxes could swallow horse and rider whole… and Balerion's fire was black as his scales, his wings could cast a shadow over an entire town."
Daenerys pointed to the hatchling with glossy black scales streaked in red. "My handmaids say this one is Balerion reborn."
Her gaze softened as it moved over the three feeding dragons. "But… I don't want them to be reborn legends."
After a quiet beat, she said, "They're my children—born of my own blood. I'll name them for the kin the gods stole from me."
Gawen felt her grief and longing and drew her a little closer.
Daenerys touched the white-and-gold hatchling. "Viserys was cruel and weak, but he was still my brother. This one is Viserion."
She indicated the bronze-and-green one. "Brief as it was, Jon let me feel what true kinship means. This one is Jons."
Then she pointed to the black-and-red, larger than the other two. "Last night I dreamed of brave Rhaegar in black armor, fire burning in the narrow slits of his helm. This one is Rhaego."
She lifted her chin to Gawen. "Do you like the names I chose?"
He lowered his eyes to her and nodded lightly. "Dany, your family hasn't left you."
She leaned in, arms looping about his neck. "My knight…"
Hiss, hiss, hiss—heat barely begun was broken by a chorus of dragon-squeals.
They parted. Gawen cocked a brow and glanced at the trio, and they immediately went back to their meat.
Daenerys couldn't help but laugh. "So they only behave with you watching."
She arched one eyebrow to match his. "Take me to bed."
"As you command, my princess."
The Red Keep, Maegor's Holdfast.
"Out!"
A golden cup came whistling past as Cersei Lannister's fury broke like a storm. The Imp barely ducked in time.
"Now, now—we are brother and sister—"
Seeing her reach for the wine flagon, Tyrion Lannister turned about and limped out at a trot.
Outside the doors of Maegor's Holdfast, Tyrion was still panting, swiping theatrically at his brow.
"My sister is far too gentle."
His page, Podrick Payne, handed up a clean towel. At Tyrion's other side, his captain of guards quipped, "My lord, she was even warmer than last time."
This captain—Bronn—was a hard-handed swordsman Podrick had sniffed out for him (see Ch. 179).
The first time they met, Bronn had been a scarecrow of tangled hair and scruff, a free-rider in a faded blue cloak, lean as a starved wolf and wearing the lascivious grin of a man who'd just glimpsed golden dragons. Tyrion liked him at once—for that greedy smile.
Bronn's talent soon earned Tyrion's trust. Promoted to captain of his guards, he'd received a Lannister cloak as a gift the day he took command—deep crimson, with the golden hand device.
Today Bronn's hair was combed, his beard newly shaved. He wore a black officer's cuirass of the Gold Cloaks, a Lannister cloak draped from his shoulders.
Tyrion pinched his chin, eyeing him up and down. "Bronn, dressed so… I hear they like it?"
Bronn spread his hands and grinned. "My lord, never fails."
"Why, then," Tyrion said gravely, "does your happy smile always make me fear you'll sell me out?"
Bronn laid a hand to his chest with elegant mockery. "My loyalty is yours alone, my lord."
His eyes, however, were on the coin purse at Tyrion's belt.
Tyrion chuckled and patted the pouch. "That puts me at ease."
They set off, Podrick and Bronn flanking him.
As they walked, Bronn murmured, "I hear your lady mother—the Queen Regent—has your handsome cousin courting half the sellswords in King's Landing."
"She's forever at her little games. It's what my clever sister enjoys."
Tyrion halted and looked back toward Maegor's, sighing. "Too many burdens on those fair white shoulders. As her favorite brother, I'm bound to lighten them."
Silence followed. Podrick peeked up timidly at his lord's solemn face. "My lord, though… the Queen Regent doesn't seem… to understand you yet, I think… someday she'll feel your… kindness."
Tyrion and Bronn traded a look, lips pressed thin.
Tyrion cleared his throat, hands clasped behind him. "You're right, Pod. My gentle sister will recognize my loving heart, sooner or later."
Bronn turned away and snorted a laugh.
Tyrion patted his page's thigh, pleased. Then they walked on.
"Bronn," he said, "the gentle Queen Regent is very cross today. Even the gods can't guess her next step. Put eyes on her."
"With pleasure, my lord," Bronn said, wicked smile in place.
Tyrion raked fingers through his hair. The enemy would be at the gates soon enough. He'd moved too fast to seize the City Watch—fast enough that even with his pretty cousin as cover, Cersei had scented something amiss.
He smiled anyway. Too late now. Ser Jaselyn Bywater already commanded most of the Gold Cloaks for him (Ch. 185).
Reliable ally, that Gawen. In return, Tyrion must make haste to pay his royal nephew a visit.
Thinking of Gawen, a pinch of regret: he should have asked for more tips on how to soothe Cersei.
Cautious, always, before a lioness's fury.
Not only from temperament and knowing Cersei, but from a former Hand's costly lesson.
Dear sister—Tyrion was no Eddard Stark.
He hummed a merry little King's Landing tune as his mood lifted.
Bronn's smile sharpened. "My lord, one thing more—your pet has returned."
Tyrion's face froze. Pain colored his voice. "The Lady Tanda again?"
Lady Tanda Stokeworth, mistress of Stokeworth in the Crownlands, had two daughters: the elder, Falyse (thirty-five, already wed), and the younger, Lollys (thirty-three, unwed).
"Another dinner invitation," Bronn reported. "A hind leg roasted, two geese with mulberry sauce, and—"
"—and her younger daughter," Tyrion finished, clawing at his hair.
Ever since he'd become Hand, to counter the Baratheon brothers' blockade he'd fixed his eye on Stokeworth, like Rosby close to the city's north. Its lady was—alas—Lady Tanda.
The audience had gone pleasantly enough. The aftermath… less so. Pies, boar, and rich cream soups besieged him in turn, all in the service of wedding off Lady Tanda's younger child.
As for poor Lollys… once a man sees a mountain… best not speak of it.
Tyrion gazed into the sky and groaned. "I give too much for this kingdom…"
Bronn sobered. "Without Stokeworth, King's Landing would fare ill just now."
Tyrion heard the mischief under the respect.
He eyed Bronn. "Do you want a castle?"
Bronn's eyes lit. His grin went servile and sly. "Name your will, wise and noble Hand."
Tyrion bared his teeth. "Lady Tanda's Stokeworth."
The Tower of the Hand, the Hand's solar.
Varys folded his hands and bowed. "Good day, Lord Hand."
Tyrion beamed. "Varys, tell me you bring nothing unsettling. The lioness's roar is quite enough to rob my rest."
Smiling, Varys drew a letter from his sleeve and offered it.
Tyrion read as he spoke to himself. "News of Stannis's kingship…"
Backed by storm lords and Reachlords, Renly Baratheon loomed large—but Tyrion rated his threat beneath Stannis Baratheon. Where Renly loved pageantry, Stannis was hard and pitiless—and seasoned in war. The royal fleet could appear under the city walls any day.
No matter how much gold Tyrion tossed at fishermen to nose about Dragonstone, none returned. Even Varys's little birds near Stannis had gone silent.
His darkest fear was the brothers joining hands—Stannis by sea, Renly by land—and Joffrey's head on a spear soon after. His own beside it.
The image had plagued him—until the raven came, proclaiming Stannis king.
He'd raised a cup on the spot. He'd have danced for Cersei.
Two Baratheons crowned. Should either be first to strike at the city, win or lose, the other would pluck the fruit—and the Lannisters would gain the one thing they needed most: time. Gods bless.
He looked up. "Lord Varys, isn't this news forty years old?"
A delicate smile. "Pray read on, my lord Hand…"
Tyrion dipped his gaze again.
After a while he laid the letter down, frowning. "The Crab Claw Peninsula in the Crownlands supports Stannis as the lawful king?"
He peered at Varys. "Lawful king… the phrasing is familiar, Lord Varys."
Varys shrugged. "My little birds say the tale's source is Dragonstone."
Tyrion's eyes danced. He laughed and sank back, comfortable. "So Stannis likes this sort of game as well? In his boots I'd have forged something more convincing. For example…"
He tapped his chin. "'Stannis Baratheon and Robb Stark meet at the finest brothel in King's Landing to plan the fall of the Red Keep'—that would frighten off every last patron."
"Or"—his grin widened—"'I shall go to my knees and lick Renly's boots.' Now that would give me pause."
Varys shook his head, then sighed. "My little birds tell me that on the way to Siren's Port, Lord Gawen's Mermaid—deck strewn with marsh marigolds—put in at Dragonstone for a time."
"A time?"
"About half a day."
Tyrion's eyes narrowed. He leaned in. "And what else?"
Varys's smile faded; his voice dropped. "Lord Gawen suddenly sailed from his demesne with six ships. He has not returned."
Tyrion stared, then asked low, "Do you think Lord Gawen has betrayed the Red Keep?"
Varys shook his head at once, hands rising. "Impossible, my lord Hand. Not even the Others would swallow such a tale."
He added, uneasy, "I'd sooner believe he bent the knee to Renly than to Stannis. The first might fool a number of folk."
Tyrion studied the spymaster's worried face and grinned. "I'm fond of your theory. In fact, I suspect half the city is quietly scheming the prettiest way to submit to Renly and his hundred thousand."
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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