Tyrion pressed his hand against the door and pushed. The wood yielded without resistance, swinging inward on hinges that creaked softly, and the light from the corridor spilled into the chamber beyond.
She was there. Huddled against the far wall with her back pressed to the stone, her arms wrapped around both children in a vice like grip. Princess Elia Martell's dark eyes were wide and luminous in the dimness, her lips pressed into a thin line, her body curved protectively around the small forms she held.
Rhaenys, no older than six, was buried against her mother's chest, one small hand clutching the scruff of a black cat that had wedged itself between them. The girl's face was a mirror of Elia's , the same olive skin, the same dark hair, the same delicate features, but her eyes were violet, large and terrified as they peered out from beneath her mother's arm. The cat hissed at the intruders, its back arched, its tail bristling.
Aegon lay sleeping in the crook of Elia's other arm, his silver hair damp against his brow, his small chest rising and falling with the oblivious rhythm of an infant. He was perhaps a year old, his face round and peaceful, his thumb pressed against his lower lip.
Who are you?" Elia's voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the sharp edge of a woman who had spent months steeling herself for this moment. Her Dornish accent thickened with fear. "My brothers and my husband will pay handsomely for our safe return. Name your price."
She had heard the commotion in the corridor, the clash of steel, the roar, the wet sounds that followed. She had pressed herself against this wall and held her children and waited, because there was nothing else to do, because the door was the only exit and the window opened onto a drop that would kill them all. The sight that greeted her now was the stuff of nightmares made flesh.
The taller one was enormous, a boy built like a man, his face half-ruined by burns that pulled his features into something grotesque. Blood spattered his steel-grey armor in dark constellations, and more of it dripped from the sword at his hip. He stood with the loose, dangerous posture of someone who had just killed and was prepared to do so again.
The smaller one was a child in golden armor, a warhammer resting on his shoulder that was larger than his own torso, rubies gleaming along its head like drops of frozen blood. The helm concealed his face, and the combination of his diminutive stature and the grotesque weapon created an image so incongruous that Elia's mind struggled to reconcile it.
"Worry not, Your Grace." The voice that came from behind the golden helm was calm, measured, almost gentle. The dwarf , for that was what he was, Elia realized with a start, reached up with his free hand and removed the helm.
The face that emerged was not what she expected. It was a child's face, perhaps nine or ten years old, with a shock of blond hair and green eyes that regarded her with an unsettling steadiness. The features were fine, almost handsome, marred only by a jaw that was slightly too large for the rest of him and the faint beginnings of a beard that had no business growing on one so young.
"Who are you?" Elia whispered again, her voice cracking on the second word. The infant in her arms stirred but did not wake.
Tyrion Lannister inclined his head in a gesture that was almost courtly. "Tyrion Lannister, Your Grace. At your service."
The name landed like a stone dropped into still water. Lannister.
Elia's arms tightened around her children. " Tyrion Lannister," she repeated, the word tasting like ash. "You're a boy. I saw you as a babe."
"I remember your grace," Tyrion acknowledged. "But as you can must likely tell, I am no mere boy."
The scarred giant behind him shifted his weight, his hand still resting on his sword hilt. His gaze was fixed on the doorway, on the corridor beyond where the bodies of two men lay cooling on the stone. He said nothing, but his presence filled the room like smoke.
"We must leave immediately, Your Grace," Tyrion continued, his tone brooking no argument. "The sack has begun, and there are those in my father's host who will not hesitate to finish what those two started." He gestured toward the door with his warhammer. "Your safety, and the safety of your children, depends on your cooperation."
Elia's eyes darted between the dwarf and the scarred giant, her mind racing.
"My son is the heir to the Iron Throne," she said, her chin lifting with defiant pride despite the fear that coursed through her veins. "None would dare harm a Targaryen prince within these walls."
Tyrion's expression remained unchanged, but something in his eyes softened with what might have been pity. "Your Grace. Prince Rhaegar fell at the Trident. Robert Baratheon's warhammer crushed his chest."
The words hit Elia like a physical blow. Her arms tightened around her children, her body swaying slightly as if the ground beneath her had shifted.
"Father is dead?" Rhaenys's small voice emerged from beneath her mother's arm, trembling with confusion.
Tyrion crouched to the girl's eye level, his golden armor creaking with the movement. "I'm afraid so, Princess. But you and your brother must be brave now. We need to get you to safety."
Elia's world narrowed to the small faces of her children. Rhaegar was dead. The father of her children, the man who had left her to chase his prophecy, was gone. The realization settled over her like a shroud, but she pushed the grief aside. There would be time for mourning later, if they survived.
She looked at the Lannister boy, studying him with new eyes. His face showed no cruelty, no malice, only a grim determination that seemed far too old for one so young.
"We are under your care then, Ser Tyrion," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
Tyrion nodded, rising to his feet. "Very well, Your Grace. Please do not be alarmed by what happens next." He extended his small hand toward her. "Grasp my hand."
Elia hesitated only briefly before freeing one hand from around her children to take his. The dwarf's grip was surprisingly strong, his skin warm against hers.
He closed his eyes, and Elia felt a strange vibration pass through the stone floor beneath them. The ground seemed to liquefy, and to her shock, they began to sink into the solid rock. Sandor grabbed the princess's other hand as they descended into darkness, the stone flowing around them like water.
Rhaenys screamed, the sound echoing strangely in the confined space as they were carried through the earth. The black cat in her arms hissed and clawed at the darkness, its eyes wide with terror.
"Do not panic, Your Grace," Tyrion's voice came from the darkness, calm and steady. "We travel safely through the stone."
Elia clutched her children tighter, feeling Aegon stir against her breast. The sensation was unlike anything she had ever experienced, moving through solid rock as if it were air, yet somehow still breathing, still alive. The darkness was absolute, pressing against her eyes like a physical weight.
"Mother, I'm scared," Rhaenys whispered, her small body trembling against Elia's side.
"Hush, little one," Elia murmured, though fear gripped her own heart. "Be brave for your brother."
After what seemed an eternity, light appeared ahead, a growing circle of brightness that expanded as they approached. With a suddenness that left her breathless, they emerged from the stone into a small cove hidden from the sea by towering cliffs. The afternoon sun blinded her momentarily after the complete darkness.
Sandor released her hand, his massive form casting a long shadow across the rocky beach. He immediately moved to the water's edge, scanning the horizon for threats.
Tyrion helped Elia to her feet, his small hands surprisingly steady. "There," he said, pointing to a small fishing vessel that bobbed gently in the shallow water. "These are trusted men who will take you to Dorne. Your deaths will be faked, the world will believe you perished in the sack of King's Landing."
Elia looked at the boat, then back at the dwarf. "Why?" she asked simply. "Why would a Lannister save Targaryens?"
Tyrion's smile was sad. "Because children should not pay for the sins of their fathers, Your Grace.
He gestured to the boat, where two sailors waited, their faces weathered by years at sea. "They will take you to Sunspear. Inform your brother of what has occurred, but he would concur with me in that you should lay low. Your deaths being faked is the greatest blessing you could have currently, and trust me that Rbbert Baratheon, and my father will stop at nothing to end your line should they learn you live.
Elia nodded, her mind already calculating the implications. If the world believed them dead, her children would be safe from Robert's wrath. They could grow up in Dorne, far from the game of thrones that had cost them their father.
Until Aegon grew old enough to claim his birthright.
"Come, Rhaenys," she said, adjusting Aegon in her arms. "We're going home."
The girl clutched her cat tighter, her violet eyes still wide with fear. "Will the bad men find us?"
"No, sweetling," Elia replied, though she couldn't be certain. "We'll be safe now."
As they waded toward the boat, Elia turned back to the dwarf. "Will you not come with us, Ser Tyrion? Your father will not forgive this act of mercy."
Tyrion shook his head. "My place is here, Your Grace. I have other work to do before this day is done."
Sandor approached, his scarred face unreadable. "The boat's sound," he said gruffly. "They'll have you in Dorne within a fortnight if the winds favor them."
Elia studied the giant boy, noting the blood that still stained his armor. "You killed for us," she said quietly. "Why?"
Sandor's good eye met hers without flinching. "The dwarf asked me to. That's enough."
As the sailors helped them aboard, Elia took one last look at the two unlikely saviors standing on the rocky shore, the dwarf in golden armor and the scarred giant beside him.
"Thank you," she said simply, knowing the words were inadequate for what they had done.
Tyrion reached into a small pouch at his belt and withdrew three intricately carved wooden figurines. He held them out to Elia, his small fingers dwarfed by the craftsmanship.
"For your children for the journey," he said. "Something to occupy their minds during the voyage."
The princess accepted the gifts with careful hands, examining each piece with wonder. The first was a lion, its mane carved in such detail that each strand seemed to flow in an invisible wind. The second was a dragon, wings spread as if in flight, scales etched with impossible precision. The third was a wolf, its snout raised in a silent howl, eyes that seemed to follow her own.
"These are extraordinary," Elia whispered, turning the wolf in her fingers. "I've never seen such craftsmanship."
Tyrion's lips curved into a smile. "I have many talents, Your Grace."
Elia looked up, her dark eyes searching his face. She reached out, grasping his hand once more. "Why did you send me the necklace?" she asked, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "The pendant you had delivered to me in King's Landing, months ago. What was its purpose?"
Tyrion smiled softly, his mismatched eyes meeting hers without guile. "It is a gift, Your Grace. Nothing more."
The lie hung between them, delicate as a spider's web. Elia knew there was more to it, she had felt the pendant grow warm against her skin at strange moments. She had seen with her own eyes magic. Actual magic where they had moved through the earth to get to safety.
But the dwarf's face revealed nothing, and she had no time to press further.
The sailors helped her and the children into the small boat, Rhaenys clutching her cat while Aegon slept peacefully in his mother's arms. Elia settled on a small bench, arranging her children around her as the vessel began to pull away from shore.
Tyrion watched as they drifted into the open sea, his small figure growing smaller against the rocky coastline. What he had told Elia was the truth, at least in part. In the end, he didn't care who sat upon the Iron Throne, Robert Baratheon, Aegon Targaryen, or any other claimant who might arise. The game of thrones was merely a distraction from the true threats that loomed beyond the Wall.
But he had wanted to see if he could truly change the course of history. Could he prevent the propagation of tragedy, alter the fates that had been written in blood and fire? This small act, this single deviation from the path of destruction, proved that the future was not set in stone. The stone itself had bent to his will, and so too might the future.
Tyrion closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"Come, Sandor," he said, turning to the scarred giant beside him. "We have work to do."
They plunged back into the earth. Tyrion guided them through the rock, their passage swift and silent through the heart of the mountain.
They emerged in the lower levels of Maegor's Holdfast, the sounds of the sack now distant but unmistakable. The corridors were empty, the guards having fled to more defensible positions or joined in the looting. No one had come to check on Gregor and Amory's work, the princess and her children had been forgotten in the chaos of the Lannister assault.
Tyrion closed his eyes, extending his awareness through the stone. He felt Jaime's presence in the throne room, sensed the stillness of Aerys's body beside the Iron Throne. The Mad King was dead, slain by his own Kingsguard. The irony was not lost on Tyrion - Aerys had feared betrayal from all sides, and in the end, it had been the one man sworn to protect him who had ended his reign of terror.
"So he did it," Tyrion murmured, opening his eyes. "Jaime killed Rossart and Aerys. Good." He nodded to himself, satisfied. "Then the next series of plans can take place."
Sandor shifted his weight, his massive frame casting a long shadow in the dim corridor. "What now, little Lord?"
Tyrion turned to him, his expression hardening. "Sandor, I will be placing four vessels of wildfire in the building, which will blast in the coming hour. Everyone will assume the royal family is dead." He gestured to the corridor where Gregor and Amory's bodies lay. "And my father will assume your brother and Lorch died alongside them."
Sandor's scarred face remained impassive, but his good eye gleamed with understanding. "Clever. They'll think the Mountain failed in his task and perished in the explosion."
"Precisely," Tyrion agreed. "You need to go rejoin the men in the sack, and make your way to the throne room just after Ned Stark, where you will reveal that there are barrels of wildfire under the entirety of the Red Keep."
The scarred boy nodded, though confusion flickered across his features. "And you?" he asked.
"I'll be making my way back to Casterly Rock," Tyrion replied.
Sandor hesitated, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. "You're leaving me to face your father's wrath alone?"
Tyrion's smile was cold. "You'll be a hero, Sandor. The man who discovered the Mad King's plot to burn the city. Ned Stark will vouch for you, and my father will have no choice but to acknowledge your service." He placed a small hand on the giant's arm. "Trust me. This is the safest path for both of us."
They clasped arms, the dwarf's small hand disappearing in Sandor's massive grip. "Good luck, Sandor."
Sandor grunted, his scarred face unreadable. He walked over to his brother's body and delivered one final kick to the lifeless form, the sound of steel meeting steel echoing through the corridor. He spat on Gregor's corpse.
"Fucking cunt." Sandor muttered.
Tyrion watched the exchange without comment, understanding that this was Sandor's way of closing a chapter that had defined his life. The Mountain had haunted the boy's dreams for years, and now that shadow was lifted.
"Come," Tyrion said, reaching for Sandor's arm. "We need to move."
The stone parted before them, swallowing them whole as they descended into the earth. Tyrion guided them until they reached an empty district of the city where the sounds of the sack could be heard clearly in the distance.
They emerged in a deserted alley, the buildings around them showing signs of recent abandonment. The streets were empty, the residents having fled to safer quarters as the Lannister host descended upon the capital.
Tyrion released Sandor's arm and knelt, pressing his small hands against the cobblestones. The stone responded to his will, flowing and shifting until a perfect circular opening appeared in the ground. Through it, the dark waters of the sewers were visible.
"This leads directly to the barrels," Tyrion explained, rising to his feet. "When the time comes, you can show Ned Stark and the others where the Mad King planned to burn the city."
Sandor peered into the opening below. "And they'll believe me?
He placed a hand on Sandor's arm once more, and they descended back into the earth. This time, their passage was brief, ending at the base of the Red Keep's outer walls. They emerged from the stone into a small courtyard where the sounds of battle were unmistakably close, the clash of steel, the screams of the dying, and the triumphant shouts of Lannister soldiers.
The sack was in full force. From their position, they could see the chaos spreading through the city uncontrolled houses burning, women and children fleeing through smoke-filled streets, soldiers dragging captives and loot alike through the rubble.
Tyrion's expression darkened as he watched the destruction. "Remember what you've seen today, Sandor. The Mad King's plan, the wildfire, all of it. When the time comes, you must speak the truth."
Sandor nodded, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. "And what of you, Little Lord? Where will you go?"
Tyrion grinned with a twinkle in his eye. "Well I'm off to Casterly Rock. Can't be seen missing for too long."
He raised his hand in farewell, then slipped back into the stone, disappearing from view as if he had never been there. Sandor stood alone in the courtyard, the sounds of the sack surrounding him, the weight of his brother's death still fresh in his mind.
For a moment, he simply stood there, breathing in the smoke-filled air, feeling the strange lightness that had replaced the constant fear he had carried for so long. Then he drew his sword and moved toward the sounds of battle, ready to play his part in the drama that was unfolding.
x__________________________________x
Tyrion re-emerged from the earth on a hill overlooking King's Landing, his small frame perched on a rocky outcropping that offered an unobstructed view of the city below. Smoke poured from a dozen quarters, black columns rising into the afternoon sky and merging into a single dark canopy that blotted out the sun.
From this distance, the people of King's Landing looked like ants scurrying through a burning maze. The Lannister soldiers moved with methodical brutality through the streets, their crimson cloaks bright against the smoke and rubble.
He could hear it from here — the screaming, the clash of steel, the crackle of burning thatch. A woman's voice rose above the rest, thin and desperate, calling a name that was swallowed by the chaos before Tyrion could make it out. Somewhere near the Street of Steel, a building collapsed in on itself, sending a plume of dust and ash billowing skyward. The Lannister lion flew over the Mud Gate, and beneath it, a company of Tywin's men were dragging a chest of silver from a merchant's house while the merchant himself lay face-down in the gutter, his blood running in a slow rivulet toward the drain.
Tyrion closed his eyes and pressed his palms flat against the stone of the hill.
The sensation was immediate and overwhelming. Through the rock, through the soil, through the foundations of King's Landing itself, a web of stone and earth that pulsed with the footsteps of thousands, with the weight of buildings, with the hidden currents of water that ran beneath the streets. He felt the Red Keep above the Aegon's High Hill, felt the throne room where the Iron Throne sat in its twisted majesty, felt the bodies cooling in the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast where Gregor and Amory lay in their own blood.
And he felt them moving.
Ned Stark and his men were running. The northern lord moved with a grim purpose. He had ridden from the Trident without rest, his boots striking the stone of the keep's lower levels. Twenty men with him, perhaps fewer now, the fighting had thinned their numbers. They climbed stairs and passed through corridors, cutting down the scattered Lannister soldiers who had penetrated the inner keep, and with each step they drew closer to the throne room.
Jaime sat upon the Iron Throne.
Tyrion felt his brother's weight on the ancient blades, felt the stillness of him, the deliberate calm that Jaime wore like armor. The young knight had not moved from that seat since he had killed the king. He sat with his sword across his lap and his white cloak stained with blood, and he waited.
Behind Ned's company, moving with more caution, came Sandor. The scarred boy had found his way into the keep through a postern gate left unguarded, and now he climbed the same stairs that the northerners had taken, keeping a careful distance, his hand on his sword hilt.
Ned reached the throne room first.
Tyrion saw it through the stone, felt the vibration of the great doors swinging open, felt the footsteps falter as the northern lord took in the scene before him. The body of King Aerys lay at the foot of the Iron Throne, his throat opened from ear to ear, his blood pooling across the stone in a dark lake that had already begun to thicken. The king's face was frozen in an expression of surprise.
And above the corpse, seated on the throne that had been forged in dragonfire, sat Jaime Lannister.
The young knight looked up as the doors opened. His face was pale beneath the blood spatter, his green eyes bright and unreadable. He did not rise. He sat with one leg crossed over the other and his sword resting across his knees, and he regarded the northern lord with an expression of bland amusement.
"Lord Stark," Jaime said. His voice carried through the throne room and through the stone beneath it, and Tyrion heard it as clearly as if he stood in the room himself.
Ned's hand went to Ice. His men fanned out behind him, their northern faces hard beneath their helms, their eyes fixed on the Kingsguard who sat upon the throne he had no right to occupy.
"Ser Jaime." Ned's voice was flat, stripped of warmth. "You sit upon the Iron Throne."
"I was keeping it warm." Jaime's lips curved into something that was almost a smile. "Someone had to. The king is dead."
"I can see that." Ned's gaze dropped to the body at the foot of the throne, then returned to Jaime's face. "You killed him."
"I did."
"The Kingsguard does not kill the king it is sworn to protect."
Jaime's smile did not reach his eyes. "The Kingsguard protects the king from his enemies, Lord Stark. It says nothing about protecting him from himself."
The silence that followed was thick enough to cut. Ned's jaw worked beneath his beard, his grey eyes searching Jaime's face for something — remorse, perhaps, or justification. He found neither.
"You broke your vow," Ned said.
Sandor entered the throne room.
Tyrion felt the scarred boy's footsteps slow as he crossed the threshold, felt the moment when Sandor took in the scene, the dead king, the living Kingsguard, the northern lord with his hand on his sword. Sandor's heart rate spiked, then steadied.
"My lords." Sandor's voice was rough, stripped of its usual growl, and it carried through the throne room with surprising clarity. He stepped forward, his massive frame drawing the attention of every man present. Blood still darkened his armor, and his scarred face was set in an expression of grim urgency.
Ned turned. "Who are you?"
"Sandor Clegane, my lord. I served with Lord Tywin's host." The lie came smoothly. "I was in the lower levels of the keep when I found something."
Jaime's head turned. His eyes, which had been fixed on Ned, now moved to the scarred boy. Something flickered in them — recognition, perhaps, or suspicion.
"Speak," Ned commanded.
Sandor's good eye met the northern lord's gaze without flinching. "Barrels, my lord. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds. Clay jars filled with green liquid, They're beneath the keep. Beneath the city. In the tunnels under the streets, under the sept, under the Dragonpit. Everywhere."
The words landed in the silence like stones dropped into a well.
Ned's face went pale. The color drained from his weathered features, leaving his skin the grey of winter sky, and his hand tightened on Ice's hilt until the leather creaked. He looked at Jaime.
Jaime's face had changed. The mask of careless arrogance had cracked, and beneath it was something raw and exposed — the face of a young man who had killed his king and now understood, with sudden and terrible clarity, that the act had been necessary beyond any doubt. His lips parted, but no sound came out. The blood had left his cheeks, and his green eyes were wide and bright.
"Wildfire," Jaime whispered. The word hung in the air between them, small and terrible.
"Wildfire," Sandor confirmed. "Enough to turn King's Landing to ash. The pyromancers placed it there on the king's orders. I found their maps. Their diagrams. It was all laid out — the entire city was to burn if the keep fell."
Ned turned back to Jaime. The northern lord's expression had transformed. The cold judgment was still there, the rigid sense of honor that would not allow him to forgive an oathbreaker, but beneath it now was something else — the dawning recognition that the man before him had not merely killed a king but had prevented a slaughter of unimaginable scale.
"You knew," Ned said. It was not a question.
"I knew about Rossart," Jaime replied, his voice hoarse. "I didn't know about the rest. Not the scale of it. The king told me to bring him Rossart. He was going to give the order to burn the city. I killed Rossart first, then I came back here and killed the king."
The throne room held its breath. Ned's men had drawn closer, their swords half-raised, their eyes moving between their lord and the knight on the throne. Sandor stood with his arms at his sides, his scarred face expressionless, playing his part. He understood that a single misstep could cost him everything, the careful deception he and Tyrion had conducted.
Tyrion felt it all through the stone — the tension in Ned's shoulders, the hammering of Jaime's heart, the controlled stillness of Sandor's breathing. He felt the moment when the northern lord's hand loosened on Ice's hilt.
"Show me," Ned said to Sandor. "Show me these maps. These barrels."
"I can take you to them, my lord. The entrance is—"
"Boom," whispered Tyrion
The explosion came from Maegor's Holdfast.
Tyrion felt it before he heard it — a deep, resonant pulse that traveled through the stone of the hill and up through his palms, a vibration that started in the earth and climbed his arms and settled in his chest like a second heartbeat. Then the sound reached him, a low, rolling boom that built from a rumble into a roar, and the hill beneath him trembled.
On the distant silhouette of the Red Keep, a section of Maegor's Holdfast erupted. Green fire tore through stone and timber, shooting skyward in a column that turned the smoke above it to emerald. The explosion was contained — Tyrion had seen to that, had shaped the stone around the four vessels with meticulous care, directing the force upward and inward rather than outward, ensuring that the fire would consume only the holdfast and not spread to the rest of the keep or the city below. But from this distance, the effect was spectacular. The green flame climbed two hundred feet into the air, a writhing serpent of incandescent destruction that painted the clouds above in lurid shades of jade and gold.
The sound reached the throne room a heartbeat later.
Tyrion felt the shockwave pass through the stone of the keep, felt the men inside flinch and stagger, felt the windows rattle in their frames. Through the earth, he sensed Ned Stark's hand fly to his sword, sensed Jaime lurch forward on the Iron Throne, sensed Sandor's heartbeat spike and then steady as the scarred boy remembered his role.
"By the Old Gods," one of Ned's men breathed.
The throne room fell silent. The green light from the explosion pulsed through the high windows, casting the faces of the men in unearthly shades. Ned's grey eyes had gone wide, his mouth slightly open, his northern composure cracked by the sheer scale of what he had just witnessed.
Jaime stared at the windows. The green light played across his bloodied face, and for a moment the young knight looked like nothing more than a boy — a frightened, exhausted boy. His hand had found the arm of the Iron Throne, and his fingers gripped the twisted metal so tightly that the edges cut into his palm.
"That was the holdfast," Ned said. His voice was steady, but beneath it ran a current of something that might have been awe. "The royal apartments."
"The princess," Jaime whispered. "The children."
Sandor said nothing. He stood with his arms at his sides and his scarred face turned toward the windows, and he watched the green fire climb the sky with a blank expression.
Tyrion felt the realization settle over the men in the throne room like a physical weight. He felt Ned's thoughts turning — the princess dead, the children dead, the royal line extinguished in a blaze of the Mad King's own making. He felt Jaime's horror curdle into something harder, something that would become the foundation of the story the young knight would tell for the rest of his life: I killed Aerys to stop this. I killed him to save the city.
The pieces were falling into place.
Tyrion opened his eyes. The hill beneath him was warm from the afternoon sun, and the wind carried the smell of smoke and burning from the city below. The green column above Maegor's Holdfast was already beginning to fade, the wildfire consuming itself in the contained space he had prepared for it. In another hour, nothing would remain of that section of the keep but blackened stone and ash — and the world would believe that Princess Elia and her children had died there, burned to nothing by the Mad King's final madness.
He smiled.
Everything had gone exactly to plan.
The princess and her children were safely aboard a fishing vessel, sailing south toward Dorne and obscurity. The Mountain was dead, slain by the brother he had tortured. The wildfire caches would be discovered by Ned Stark and his men, and the truth of Aerys's plot would become known to the realm. Jaime's name would not be tarnished — not entirely, not when the scale of what he had prevented became clear. Sandor would be hailed as the man who had uncovered the conspiracy, his place in the new order secured.
And Tyrion Lannister sat on a hill overlooking a burning city, invisible to the world, his hands still warm from the stone that had carried him through the earth and back again.
He rose to his feet, brushing dust from his golden armor. The rubies in his warhammer caught the fading light of the green fire.
And his vision darkened as the sound of dice began rolling in his head.
[Rolling Perk]
[The Heart of Khazad-dûm - The Lord of the Rings]
[In the dark heart of the Misty Mountains, the Dwarves of Durin's Folk dug deeper than any other, driven by the desire for a metal beyond price - Mithril. It was a substance lighter than leather yet harder than tempered steel, its beauty like polished silver that never tarnished. This blessing carves out a fracture in reality, granting you personal dominion over a pristine vein of this legendary ore.
You are granted access to a private, pocket-dimension containing a rich, unmined section of the Mines of Moria, untouched by the Balrog's malice. At any time, you can open a gateway to step into this subterranean sanctuary to harvest the precious metal at your own pace.
Alternatively, you may choose to anchor this pocket dimension to a physical location in the mortal world, such as the basement of a keep, the depths of a cavern, or the foundations of your workshop.
However, once the mine is anchored to to the physical world, the bond becomes permanent and cannot be undone.]
Tyrion's grin widened as the words materialized in his mind. And he accepted with a mental nudge.
Mithril. The legendary metal of the dwarves, a substance of such value and power that it had driven kingdoms to war in ages past.
He closed his eyes, reaching out with his consciousness beyond the stone beneath his feet. There, a shimmering doorway in the void, a fracture in reality that responded to his will.
With a thought, he opened it.
The air before him rippled like water, and through the distortion, Tyrion glimpsed a cavern of impossible scale. Great pillars of stone soared upward into darkness, carved with runes and figures that spoke of ancient craftsmanship. Lanterns of blue flame cast an ethereal glow across the expanse, illuminating veins of silver that ran through the rock like frozen lightning.
The Mines of Moria. Untouched by the Balrog's corruption, pristine and waiting.
Tyrion stepped through the gateway, his small boots crunching on stone dust that had lain undisturbed for millennia. The air was cool and dry, carrying the faint scent of metal and stone. He ran his fingers along a wall, feeling the texture of the mithril vein beneath the surface - silver that gleamed with an inner light, promising strength beyond steel at a fraction of the weight.
"This," he whispered to himself, "changes everything."
x____________X
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