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"It's your nameday again. What do you want, little guy?"
"I want a dragon, Uncle."
"Haha, other than that. Dragons have been extinct for a long time..."
On a large, soft bed, Tyrion's body jerked. He had been dreaming. Perhaps because he was so far from home, he found himself dreaming of Casterly Rock.
He was back in his childhood. His uncle had asked him what gift he wanted, and Tyrion had said he wanted a dragon.
When he was told they were extinct, he had cried for days.
Tyrion looked toward the window. The sea breeze billowed the blue curtains, bringing in a draft of cool air. The Free Cities were much hotter than Westeros.
He walked to the window and looked out at the "Palace of the Nine Towers" nearby. It was the manse the magisters of Pentos had built for the Dothraki horse lord, Khal Drogo.
To curry favor with those savages, the Pentoshi had really gone out of their way.
But that was all in the past. Drogo was dead. The palace sat empty, but at least the people of Pentos didn't have to sleep with one eye open, fearing a Dothraki raid.
Just like him. He no longer had to worry about the line of succession for Casterly Rock, because Casterly Rock had been taken.
Tyrion still couldn't wrap his head around it. Just a year ago, Jon Snow was standing in front of him, a green boy getting lectured by a dwarf.
He had been childish, sensitive, insecure, and impulsive. And now, a year later, he was the man turning the realm upside down, a storm incarnate.
When Tyrion had woken up from his coma after the attack on the battlefield, Joffrey was dead, and King's Landing had changed hands.
The "Lion and Rose Alliance" he had watched Littlefinger stitch together had fallen apart.
The Lannisters were in a very bad spot.
At the time, Tyrion hadn't been too worried. He knew how treacherous the Golden Tooth was—better than most, in fact.
And he had the unshakable belief that "Casterly Rock never falls." When he heard his father—who hated his guts—had fled back to the West, he had actually relaxed.
He figured Stannis couldn't crack the West. They'd fight a skirmish or two, then sit down and talk peace.
So, taking Varys's advice, Tyrion had fled King's Landing to ride out the storm. He planned to return once the Lannisters and the new King cut a deal.
After all, the road back to the West was blocked by the chaotic Riverlands and the hungry armies of the North.
But when news hit that Jon was marching on the West, Tyrion's heart had skipped a beat. He couldn't imagine how Jon would breach the Golden Tooth, but the anxiety was there.
And sure enough, his anxiety had become reality.
"Intercepting rain with Wildfire?"
Tyrion looked up at the sky, feeling a bitter sense of irony. He was the one who first used Wildfire in this war. But Jon Snow used it with a level of mastery—and imagination—that put him to shame.
Suddenly, Tyrion spotted a man with blue hair entering the manse below.
A Tyroshi? In Tyrion's experience, only Tyroshi liked dyeing their hair such ridiculous colors.
But he quickly dismissed the thought. The blue-haired man moved with a quiet, understated grace. Tyroshi were loud and brash; they prided themselves on their volume.
Looks more like a knight, Tyrion thought.
His stomach rumbled right on cue, followed by a knock at the door.
Tyrion opened it to reveal a massive, brown-skinned brute. The man was over seven feet tall—bigger even than Jaime in Tyrion's memory. He was built like a brick wall, with a bare chest covered in curly hair.
He was easily three times Tyrion's width.
"Lord Belwas." Tyrion forced a smile. Pity he's a eunuch, he thought.
Strong Belwas was the master of this particular wing of the estate—a pit fighter Illyrio had bought from the fighting pits of Meereen. He doubled as Illyrio's bodyguard.
"Magister Illyrio wants you."
"Oh? Is it a feast? I'm in."
"No. Just you."
Belwas's Common Tongue was rough, so he kept his sentences short.
"Alright." Tyrion shrugged.
Another gust of wind blew in, slamming the window shut with a loud bang.
In that instant, Tyrion broke out in a cold sweat. His mind raced, connecting the dots. Illyrio is going to kill me!
It was the only logical conclusion.
He didn't believe for a second that Varys had saved him out of the kindness of his heart. If King's Landing had held, Tyrion would have been a hero, and Varys could have cashed in on that favor.
If King's Landing fell but the Rock stood, Tyrion was still a valuable trade chip.
But now? King's Landing was gone. The West was gone. Casterly Rock was gone. House Lannister had no foothold left in Westeros.
Tyrion was useless. Or rather, his only use was as a head in a bag to present to Stannis for a reward.
Despite the terror gripping him, Tyrion followed Belwas without showing a crack in his armor.
"Lord Belwas, what's cooking in the kitchens today?"
"Don't know."
"Do they have wine?"
"Probably."
"Good. Make sure I get plenty. I have a low tolerance for pain."
Belwas glanced back at the dwarf, confused.
They walked through the corridors and arrived at Illyrio's solar. The blue-haired man Tyrion had seen earlier was there.
"Griff, this is Tyrion. Tyrion Lannister," Illyrio introduced him. The Magister was morbidly obese, his yellow forked beard hiding his mouth.
He looked like he had to grease his hips just to squeeze into his massive chair.
In comparison, the blue-haired man looked fit and hard. He smelled of leather and steel—definitely a mercenary.
Griff? Tyrion racked his brain. He didn't recall a "Griff" of any importance in the Seven Kingdoms. Still, he played along.
"Hey, Ser Griff. You've got some broad shoulders. Do me a favor and make it quick, will you?"
The man named Griff looked at Illyrio, clearly missing the point.
Illyrio was equally confused. Seeing their blank stares, Tyrion finally asked, "Uh... aren't you going to kill me? Or hand me over to Stannis?"
Illyrio glanced at Griff and burst out laughing. "Ah, Lord Tyrion, why would we do that? Varys sent you to me as a friend."
A friend? Tyrion thought. If he were really a friend, he wouldn't have given Jon the map to the secret tunnels.
Still, he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"The Gods are merciful. To think I still have friends in a time like this."
Tyrion waddled over to a chair and climbed up, making himself comfortable.
He knew the game. If they weren't killing him, they wanted something from him. As long as he had value, he could relax.
"Here is the situation, Tyrion. I need you to accompany Ser Griff here to Slaver's Bay," Illyrio said, flashing a smile of yellow teeth.
"Illyrio," the man named Griff interrupted, "didn't Varys say we should dispose of him? Why are you..."
"To keep a leash on that rapidly rising White Wolf," Illyrio said, popping a cube of cheese into his mouth.
Illyrio didn't reveal the whole plan to Tyrion. He simply asked him if he wanted to retake Casterly Rock.
The offer was simple: Join them. If they succeeded in overthrowing Stannis, they would give Tyrion an army to march back West and reclaim his birthright.
"I've looked into this Jon Snow," the blue-haired man said. "He is not a simple character. Since we have decided to cooperate with him, we shouldn't be plotting against him like this."
Griff seemed to think that since their grand plan hadn't even started yet, stabbing a potential ally in the back was bad form.
---
"Oh, my dear Lord Griff, don't you think fate is clever? His name is Jon, too."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
The wind from the window ruffled Griff's blue hair, revealing the red roots underneath.
His name wasn't Griff. He was Jon Connington, the exiled Lord of Griffin's Roost.
"Fine, fine. Let's just let our little friend live a while longer. As you said, even though the prospects are good, we have a lot of fighting to do before we reclaim what is ours. You know as well as I do, if not for that White Wolf, Tyrion here might have actually held King's Landing. Keep him. He's useful. Plus, the little man has a silver tongue. He can help convince the Dragon Queen."
At the mention of the Dragon Queen, a strange look crossed Illyrio's face.
Once upon a time, he had fantasized about bedding her. She was a trueborn Targaryen, after all.
A year ago, she was just a bargaining chip for the "Beggar King" Viserys. Now, she was setting the world on fire in Slaver's Bay. It was unbelievable.
And this Jon Snow was the same. A year ago, a bastard. Today, the Lord of Casterly Rock and a high lord of the realm.
The world had gone mad.
But then Illyrio thought of "The Boy."
If those two could rise so high, then surely, the idea of his boy sitting on the Iron Throne wasn't such a fantasy after all.
To ensure that child sat on that throne, Illyrio was prepared to move heaven and earth.