"Seems they don't have much respect for you, the former Hand," the lean warrior teased the scarred man.
"I'm more than just a former Hand—I saved all their lives! They've forgotten my good deeds. And you, former Commander of the City Watch, aren't going to help me either? You made quite a fortune during your tenure, my Lord Bronn!" The Imp, Tyrion, emphasized Bronn's title at the end.
"Don't you know me yet? Money comes and goes. I can't hold onto a single copper." Bronn fiddled with the wooden trinket hanging from his belt, a luxury item he'd bought after being knighted—the kind nobles liked to flaunt.
Tyrion hadn't truly expected Bronn to give him money. Trying to squeeze coins from this crude mercenary, who cared only for coin, was harder than getting a whore to work for free.
He poured himself a glass of red wine, took a sip, and settled into his chair to ponder his next target for financial assistance.
He had held out to the last moment during the Battle of King's Landing, until his father, Lord Tywin, arrived with reinforcements. He'd nearly been split in two during the fight. Yet when he awoke, he found himself dumped in a dark, damp room to recover.
Instead of commending his achievements, his father dismissed him from his post as Hand of the King. In a fit of anger, he demanded his inheritance of Casterly Rock, but Tywin not only refused but also thoroughly humiliated him, calling him the shame of House Lannister and declaring that he would have fed him to the wolves long ago if he could only prove Tyrion wasn't his own son.
From childhood, Tyrion knew he would never be as tall or handsome as his brother Jaime, nor would he ever possess his brother's martial prowess.
His sister Cersei was beautiful and alluring, a valuable pawn in alliances with other great houses. As a dwarf, he had no choice but to bury himself in his studies, expanding his knowledge and broadening his horizons in the hope of one day proving his worth and dispelling the stigma of being a Lannister disgrace.
Heaven finally granted him an opportunity. During his tenure as Hand of the King, he managed King's Landing with meticulous care and efficiency. When Stannis launched his frenzied siege, Tyrion stood on the city walls, personally directing the defense and rallying the troops until he was gravely wounded and collapsed.
Yet all his efforts went unacknowledged by his father, Tywin, who erased his contributions and treated him as if he were less than a weed.
Serving as Hand of the King allowed him to finally apply his lifelong learning and taste the intoxicating power of command. Though his father's appointment as Master of Coin was clearly meant to make his life difficult, Tyrion accepted the position, determined to excel in the role and use it as a stepping stone back into the power center of King's Landing.
He hadn't expected that after days of exhausting travel, wearing out his voice, and using the banner of House Lannister and his former position as Hand of the King, he wouldn't have raised a single copper. Instead, he'd faced nothing but ridicule and mockery.
As he sat drinking his bitter wine, Varys entered unhurriedly, hands tucked into his sleeves.
"My lord, why are you drinking alone on the eve of your wedding?"
Seeing Varys, Bronn instinctively stepped out of the room.
"What lord am I? Just a pitiful beggar begging for alms!" Tyrion slurred, swirling his wine glass, his eyes slightly glazed.
"How goes the fundraising for the King's wedding?" Varys continued.
"Not a single copper. If my nephew sees how meager his wedding will be, he'll hate his uncle even more!" Tyrion smacked his lips, feigning indifference.
"Highgarden has always been abundant. I doubt the Queen of Thorns would want her granddaughter's wedding to be so modest," Varys reminded him.
"The Queen of Thorns!" Tyrion straightened up, gripping his wine glass. His green and black eyes swirled. *How could I have forgotten her?*
"Thank you for the reminder, Lord Varys," Tyrion said, his eyes lighting up with sudden hope.
"I am no lord," Varys replied languidly.
Though Varys held a seat on the King's Council as the master of whispers, he held no noble title.
Tyrion remained silent, lowering his eyes to consider how to persuade the shrewd and formidable Queen of Thorns.
"How do you plan to deal with Shae?" Varys cut to the chase.
At the mention of Shae, Tyrion's brow furrowed deeply. "You must have a way to get her out of King's Landing. She's in grave danger here. If my father or sister discover her, she'll likely be hanged."
Though Tyrion hated to part with Shae, he knew he had to send her away to save her life.
"What if she refuses to leave?" Varys pressed.
Tyrion paused, then sighed helplessly. "I don't know what to do."
Varys had hoped to hear Tyrion's plan, only to find they shared the same predicament. Yet according to the mysterious informant, neither of their approaches would work.
Varys knew that Shae's existence not only put her in danger but would also implicate Tyrion if discovered. With no easy solution, he could only send people to keep a close watch on Shae's movements and forcibly remove her at the first sign of trouble.
"Do you remember Daenerys, the girl I mentioned to you earlier, my lord?" Varys asked, changing the subject.
Tyrion wondered why Varys was bringing up that Targaryen girl so far away. After a moment's thought, he replied casually, "You mentioned she hatched three dragons, didn't you?"
"Yes, my little birds just sent word. Those three dragons spewed flames and burned to death over fifty Qarthian warriors who invaded their estate, forcing the Qarth royal family and the Great Masters to let them leave unharmed."
"Her dragons can already breathe fire? And killed so many? I thought you said they were born not long ago," Tyrion said, surprised and suspicious.
"Those three young dragons were indeed born recently. I didn't expect them to grow so quickly either, but that's the truth," Varys confirmed.
Aegon I, with the help of three dragons, launched the Conquest. Through dragonfire and a thousand swords, he forged the Iron Throne, and the Targaryen dynasty ruled the Seven Kingdoms for nearly three hundred years.
Tyrion remembered that the three dragons had only become truly formidable after they grew to full size. While burning fifty-odd warriors couldn't compare to a full-scale battlefield, dragon growth still took time. These creatures had only been born a few days ago, yet they could already determine the outcome of small battles—a feat that completely surpassed Tyrion's imagination.
"Have you told my father about this?" Tyrion asked after a moment's thought.
"I've only just received the news myself and haven't had a chance to inform his lordship yet. What do you think Daenerys's strength will be now that she has dragons?"
"Dragons alone won't win her the Iron Throne," Tyrion said dismissively.
"I also heard she has over eight thousand well-trained Unsullied and has already freed the slaves in Astapor, one of the three cities in Slaver's Bay. She's now preparing to march on Yunkai and liberate its slaves."
"What are the Unsullied?" Tyrion asked. Though well-read, he knew little of foreign lands thousands of miles away.
Varys glanced down at himself and raised an eyebrow. "Fellow wretches like myself."
"Are they formidable?" Tyrion understood Varys's meaning.
"No less formidable than the King's Landing garrison, and in some ways, even more so," Varys replied honestly.
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