The deep red and sweet Dornish wine on the tongue did little to soften Tyrion's thoughts. The Hand's solar he has been sitting in for hours did nothing either to calm his thoughts, anything related to his father had never given him the comfort that the sweet words of whores beneath him always did. Dust motes danced lazily in the faint light of morning sun, surrounding the oaken chair of Tywin Lannister's, the same chair his father had occupied for many years he has worked in King's Landing, dispensing the cruelest kind of judgment and terror into one.
Tyrion swirled the wine, watching the ripples in his goblet, catching the light of sun and giving back a bloody shine. War again, always war, the realm seem looking to tear Lannister's apart whether it be Stark, Baratheon, or the silent vipers of Dorne they only seemed to be ready to spill more. Yet none of that chilled him so deeply as the name now crawling across the land, Targaryen. A Targaryen with a fucking dragon.
The scrape of wood on stone, broke the silence of the room. Tywin finally arrived filling the room with just his presence and his face expressionless as if carved from stone, as always. He comes in wearing his thick golden greatcloak.
Tyrion forces a thin and sharp smile and begins in his sarcastic tone. "Glad you could arrive early, Father," he drawls, lifting his cup in a mock salute.
Tywin did not give him a word of explanation, or even an action of acknowledgement. He unfastens his gold woven greatcloak clasped by a gold miniature lionesses on his armour, and hangs it with practiced precision on the back of a high-backed chair, and sits down. He begins with dealings of his son, not interested in talking and seeing his face more than necessary. "What do you make of the Targaryen boy?"
Tyrion does not mince his words, the wine in addition loosening his tongue just enough. "We're fucked, Father."
Tywin's mouth twitched, a faint ripple on his face not turning into smirk but a quiet disapproval that had haunted Tyrion since childhood. "I called you here, to hear your plans," Tywin said, his voice clipped and precise. "Not for your tavern tongue."
"Plans?" Tyrion echoes, draining the goblet in a single swallow. The sweetness now gone, leaving only the aftertaste of burning throat. "So the mighty Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of- gods, I need another swing of that, thinks that his imp son might save his golden legacy?"
Tywin ignores the barb as he usually did when talking to foolish, ignorant and people lesser than him. He reached for the empty goblet of his son, pouring him the Dornish wine himself. "You are a Lannister, and as much as I hate you" he starts, his eyes never leaving his face. "I will not have my kin die by the hands of our enemies, not while I still draw breath."
"Comforting," Tyrion mutters, setting down the cup with a small clatter. "So if the dragons or the Dornish don't kill me, Cersei or that sweet golden whelp of his might finish the work."
Tywin's turns to silence again, not interested in all his talks which never seemed to end. "Your words grows tedious. Tell me if something you have useful to talk about, boy."
Tyrion sits straight, his mismatched eyes, one green and other black, showing confidence with his cold and hardened plans. "Have you thought of the Faceless Men? The Targaryen threat could be snuffed like a candle, a wet finger on a flame and no allies or dragon of his would be useful after that. Gold buys silence, and Lannisters still shit gold, do we not?"
A small curve of smile touches Tywin's mouth, not in amusement, but in a grudging recognition. "You are truly my son," he said, the words sounding barely above a whisper.
Tyrion tilts his head, his smile sharpening to a predatory grin. "You've already sent someone, I believe."
Tywin does not deny it. "Kevan has sailed for Braavos a three night past. But I'll not place our hope on the knives in the dark and beliefs of a thousand-year-old cult. Tell me something else, something that may strengthen our hold on realm in that action too."
Tyrion swirls his wine in the goblet, watching his reflection in the deep red. "Do we know who this boy is? From what hole has he crawled from?"
"Varys claims, he is looking for it to," Tywin says, tired of the wait from the Master of Whispers. "And I trust him as much as one trusts a viper not to strike the hand that feeds it."
Tyrion nods slowly. "Vipers do what they are born for, and Varys is now serving his third king with the same devotion, he did to any. It is rather impressive, in a truly revolting way."
"Where are you going with this?" Tywin demands, tired of his son's not-stopping talk.
Tyrion looks up, his mismatched eyes gleaming with edge that his father never thought of it. "What if we turn the realm itself against him, Father? Not with steel, but with words and fear."
Tywin leans forward, the oak chair groaning under his weight, "Speak plainly."
"What if we spread word he's no Targaryen at all?" Tyrion starts softly, his voice dropping to a conspirator's murmur. "Name him a Blackfyre instead. He wields the said sword too, which was last in hands of Blackyres too, if the Hound and Ser Loras words are to be believed. That name alone makes lords angry amongst themselves. Let the smallfolk believe he is a child born of the traitors and false blood that bled the realm years ago. No men would rally behind such pretender, and no lord would rise his banner for him. By Gods blessing he may get poisoned before he ever walks to battlefield."
For a long moment, the only sound was the movement of servant from outside the solar. Then Tywin leans back, tapping his finger on the oak desk. The flicker of approval catching his pale eyes. "That might serve," he admits grudgingly. "We have no proof, but proof is a luxury many cannot afford during the war across a realm. Rumour will do the work for us."
Tyrion smirked. "At the very least one lion knows the power of a whisper."
"And a fool," Tywin starts a moment later, his voice cutting his son's new confidence "knows not when to hold his tongue."
Tyrion's smile falters at that, his mask of pride momentarily slipping. "Does this make me worthy of Casterly Rock, then?"
Tywin's face hardens hearing his word. "No. Tommen will inherit Casterly Rock after he fosters under Kevan, or if he wishes to squire to Jamie. You, on the other hand, will wed Arianne Martell. Dorne will be brought into the fold, with or without their consent."
Tyrion stares at him, feeling the familiar chill of his father's indifference settle in his heart, that he faced in his childhood. "I'm to be your leash on Dorne, then?"
"You are to be useful," Tywin replies, without any heat or anger, just cold fact. "And remain alive. That should suffice."
Tyrion raises his cup again, grinning after remembering something. "At the very least I've heard the princess has tits of size that seem wort-"
"Enough." Tywin's voice cracked like a whip of iron. "You can leave now and try not to sully name of House Lannister by burying yourself deep in whores from Flea Bottom."
Tyrion stands up hearing his words, bowing low and leaves with solar, closing it doors with harsh sound. Walking in the direction where his father has said not to.
Far across the Narrow Sea, in the dawn over the high dunes of Essos. The desert wind snapped at the thousands of banners of the Golden Company. Within a tent made with woven silks and maps filling the inside with Aegon Targaryen, Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Connington and Jorah Mormont sitting around them. A messenger knelt before them, his head bowed. "Your Graces, a message arrived from our spies in Westeros."
Jorah Mormont takes the scroll and hands it to Daenerys, who breaks the seal and reads aloud. "A Targaryen rallies the lords of Westeros under the banner of red dragon. He names himself Aemon."
Aegon's jaw clench, at that. "Lies," he hissed, the word spitting from his mouth like venom. "An usurper! No pretender dares take what is mine."
Daenerys's eyes flash with fire too, anger rising high in her blood. Soon she tries to calm herself with another possiblity. "Do we know his parentage, Ser?"
"We do not, Your Grace," answers the messenger. "Only that he gathers strength in the Narrow Sea and Vale, and that his name spreads fast in Westeros."
Aegon rises from his seat, crossing the space between them in quick strides. He takes her hand and presses them to his lips. The light in the tent making his hair and eyes shine, an intimate heat of youthful craving burning behind both their eyes.
"It doesn't matter, my queen" he murmurs, his gaze fixed on her lips. "No usurper will remain standing before fire and blood."
Daenerys meet his gaze, and for an instant, she dreams herself standing on a ship and seeing, not three but four dragons, the red one dwarfing her dragons and eyeing her children as mere food.