CHAPTER VI
300 AFTER CONQUEST
JAIME
The ride was dreadfully silent from King's Landing to the beginnings of Dorne. It was quite a ride, really. A tricky one at that. They had to avoid the Riverlands, that war-torn country, but the Stormlands were in shambles as well since Stannis Baratheon had long since abandoned it and Renly was dead. So many players chipped away, knocked down, put back in the box, Jaime thought as he thought about all those he himself lost. The men he's killed with his hands — hand.
And now he felt like killing one more.
"Cat got your tongue?"
He said relatively crudly towards the mute executioner, the same that had beheaded the even quieter wolf, the Quiet Wolf. Ser Ilyn of course could not say a word back in response, even if he wanted to. The Mad King had made sure of that long ago. Elia..the Princess, Jaime remembered sharply and shook his head. The constant talking to himself on this journey has brought up so many things he wished to be done with.
"That's alright, ser. Everyone is afraid to speak directly the mighty Jaime Lannister.."
The Kingslayer had trailed off, the chuckle that followed his words soon dying as did the already faint smile as well. Kingslayer. Kingslayer. Kingslayer.
"I don't suppose you hate me for killing him, too, do you?"
He now asked aloud, genuinely curious now also but sounding as though he needed the assurance. Jaime didn't like that fact, but he knew that if someone was to accept what he did was right then that would be enough for him.
"I mean, the man had —the monster— had your tongue removed with hot pincers for making a small slight towards him. It was about my father if I remember it right, yes?"
Jaime asked.
"Something along the lines of, "The King shits and the Hand wipes"? My father was Hand in those days, and a good one at that. Everyone knows it was Tywin Lannister who ruled the Seven Kingdoms."
He continued to talk, pausing though to wait for a response he knew wasnt coming. But the pause became too pregnant, and so he continued in a gloomy sort of way.
"I suppose it doesn't matter now. Nobody really rules the Seven Kingdoms, now. Not Aerys, not Joffery..not even my father."
His horse huffed a bit, and Jaime squinted at the bright Dornish sun peering down on the two "political" envoys of the Crown. The ears of the beast were starting to annoy him after so many weeks of riding. Huffing to himself, Jaime shook his head with frustration.
"Is this how it sounds in your head all the time?"
The King's Justice said nothing.
"Just a constant back and forth talk with yourself with nobody to answer?"
Jaime scoffed with a brooding type of smile, annoyed and fascinated by the audacity of it.
"It must make you pretty self-aware, eh? Tell me, do you ever—"
Ser Ilyn turned his head towards Jaime, a slight narrowing of his eyes told Jaime to just shut up and keep riding, which the Kingslayer did do, with annoyance. But of course, Jaime Lannister just couldn't keep his mouth shut for long.
"You ever wonder about legacy, Ser?"
Jaime asked, though his words weren't made out of spite or anything of the sort, but it was a genuine question he knew he wouldn't get an answer to. Jaime found himself talking to himself about himself through an executioner, an angel of death.
"I mean, legacy is probably the greatest thing a man can leave behind when he is gone, right? You could build castles as tall as the clouds, but some day, those castles and towers will crumble and burn to the ground, dust and dusted away with time. But a name? Surely a name will live forever."
And again, Payne stayed silent. But this time, however, the man did look at Jaime. For maybe the first time in the last few hours, the man looked him in the eyes. From what Jaime could see, the man's eyes did not lie like his own did many times over. The dark eyes of Ser Ilyn Payne, the King's Justice, did not lie. They saw right through him.
"I don't doubt your name will live on, Ser. Not even a little bit. "Ser Ilyn Payne, the man who put down the Quiet Wolf himself." Quite noteworthy, Ser. Quite noteworthy indeed.."
His voice trailed off at that, leaving with the wind as it blew by. He hadn't thought about Ned Stark in a long time, in the few weeks they've been on the road. Ned Stark, Jaime thought. Judge and jury, yet not the executioner. No, of course Ned Stark never swung the sword in King's Landing. Sure, him and his belief in the Old Gods thought it just and righteous for the man who passes the sentence to carry it out also, but he never swung it in King's Landing. The Sacking, Jaime remembered then, continuing to ride with his thoughts of the past. His past.
During the Sacking of King's Landing, the Lord Eddard had arrived too late, only to see his father destroying much of the city and inflicting horror to its people. But of course, the man arrived to see Jaime sitting upon the Iron Throne, the Mad King dead below it's steps. "Kingslayer," the man uttered. It was a word that would forever haunt him, even in that moment so far separated from that time by land and by time itself.
But now, the land he was in was but a land that held more failures that he seemed to keep dragging behind him. Elia, Jaime thought. Elia Martell of Dorne, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms.
《¤¤¤》
The campfire crackled in front of the lion and the mute. Across the flickering flames, the glare from which reflected from the greatsword of the mute, shining like something elegant and refined. Jaime really never before saw the irony of how a sword, a tool of war and death, could be so beautiful. Of course it wasn't the sword that beheaded the Quiet Wolf, but it had removed many others since that time. Jaime had felt the pressure of its weight against a blade of his own, the one his sister had "kindly" gifted him when he gave away the Valyrian sword to another.
I gave it to her because she deserved it, Jaime remembered Brienne's eyes, then. The sharpness of the sapphire blues that shined in the light of the sun, and glowing of the moon. The more he thought about Cersei, the more her face, her body and all morphed into Brienne. It scared Jaime, really. It wasn't frightening that the thoughts of his heart was bow placed on a different woman, it was the fear that Cersei would somehow know.
The sliding of a whetstone against the greatsword made Jaime glance up at Ser Ilyn, seeing the man sliding the whetstone gently across the long blade in a practiced manner. He knows his craft better than I, Jaime thought bitterly, suddenly, looking down to where his hand— his real hand— should be. But it wasn't there. It never would be again. A golden hand may look pretty in the sun like sapphire eyes or a glistening sword, but it would never be the same like them.
"Come on."
Jaime stood up sharply then, stretching a little bit as he looked down at the silent executioner.
"Get up. Let's practice again."
Ser Ilyn almost seemed to ignore Jaime, continuing to sharpen his blade as he leaned against a rock in the ruins of which they lay camp. Jaime huffed, picking up his sword scabbard and drew the blade, twirling the blade awkwardly but in a manner in which that it scrapped the ground, kicking up sand and sending it toward the King's Justice to irritate.
"Anyone ever tell you you're a pain in the arse?"
Still, nothing but the continual grinding of the whetstone.
"I guess the cat really got your—"
Jaime turned away with a smirk, an annoyed one, just for a split second. But in the next, his word were cut off as sand was thrown back at him, getting in his eyes, face and mouth as he sputtered suddenly. And another second later, he felt a hard fist smash against his head, sending him tumbling to the ground in a heap.
Coughing and spitting sand, Jaime tried and failed to blink away the cruel sand, but to no avail. His head was pounding now, his mind spinning as he felt lost, feeling weak as though he were a babe without its mother for the first time. And then, water soon splashed all over his face, making him cough and snort as the sand was now beginning to wash out.
Coughing and wheezing, Jaime sat up suddenly, kneeling with his sword still in hand, he blinked away the water and what remained to the sand, only to see the mute standing above him with his sword in hand, several grunts escaping his mouth. He's laughing at me!- Jaime realized in an instant. And that pissed him off.
"Oh, you little—"
But he had zero time to say anything more as the next thing he knew, he was rolling out of the way of a sword strick as Ser Ilyn, with a surprising speed, lifted his greatsword and brought it down, slaying sand and grass as Jaime found his footing, head still pounding, vision still blurry.
"Good of you to strick a man when his back is turned."
"You wouldn't learn otherwise to watch your back," The knight's voice might've replied if he but had one. But now the man's voice was that of grunts and the whistling of steel cutting through the air as it clashed with his own. Many times had he had the King's Justice practice swordplay with him. Bronn was an okay teacher, helping him get the basics back. But the man talked. Most recent Jaime heard a squire pointing and laughing at him with his friends in the courtyards of the Red Keep, knowing of his loss of sword skill and balance. He wasn't the legendary Kingslayer anymore. He was worse than a squire, it felt.
The benefit of training with a mute that could not read nor write, however, was the fact the mute could share no details of the training.
"Your rather— strong, Ser.."
Jaime grunted, deflecting a fast blow as he continued to fight on through the ruins of whatever castle or holdfast that once stood there. Under the Dornish moon, their battlefield was shone clearly, but danger still lurked about. What Jaime found fighting Ilyn Payne was that the man did not play fair, and neither did Jaime. Constantly on the defensive, Jaime kept backing up, finding things to throw at the man to make him back off, but nothing ever seemed to, so Jaime held his ground with one hand and a fierce determination.
But despite his efforts, despite the fact that he was using his anger and frustration for Cersei, for those young idiot squires who laughed at him, his father, his brother, the whole bloody world, Jaime was once more knocked off his feet by Ser Ilyn, ending their duel.
"Damn it!"
Jaime picked up his sword and threw it hard against a crumbling stone wall, chipping rock from it as the sword rattled on the ground. Panting, Jaime fell back to the ground, looking up into the sky and stars, hand up on his face in exhaustion. Exhaustion physically and mentally there also.
"I can't fucking compete! You remember me, Ser?"
Jaime yelled, eyes still closed as he shouted at the sky.
"Do you remember how they cheered? I'm Jaime fucking Lannister! Do you remember their love and their scorn!?"
Sitting up, Jaime glared at Ser Ilyn, who stood idle, resting his palms calmly on his standing greatsword, relaxed, his breath under control, unlike Jaime's.
"Jaime Lannister, the Lion of Lannister, Kingsguard to four kings, all bastards in their own right.."
He didn't really even care what he said anymore. Moving with weak arms and legs, Jaime picked up his sword and slumped against the stone wall, looking up at the sky with watery eyes.
"Guess the cat has long since been out of the bag, eh? The truth of it all. And the truth is, I fucked my sister, Ser. I fucked her more times than I can count, more times than I wish to remember. And all that time I thought, "the Targaryens did the same for three-hundred years, I can do the same." To think that I once believed that I, the prodigal son of Tywin Lannister, could stand with the Targaryens of old— gods in their own right."
Clenching his fist tightly, Jaime closed his eyes once again, shaking his head.
"And you want to know something funny, Ser?"
Jaime asked and did not wait before giving the answer.
"What's funny is that even through all of it, after all the shit I would've done for Cersei, what I have done for her, I still loved her. She had me once kill a servant girl in Casterly Rock for looking at her the wrong way. She had me kill an assassin for failing in his mission. She had me push the Stark boy from the window of a tower in Winterfell after the boy caught us."
Opening his eyes, Jaime laughed bitterly, shaking his head.
"Notice how I said "had" instead of "made"? Cersei didn't make me do anything, everything I did, I did because I loved her and wanted her and only her. Only Cersei... Only my sister... The morning of her wedding to King Robert, she had me lie with her with part of my armor still on, still stained with the blood of the previous king."
He scoffed, glancing at the unmoving man of silence.
"Truth is, I would've killed Robert had Cersei but asked the question. Slew him in his sleep with a knife, kill him on his chamber pot with a sword, or torn through his fat chest with a lance at a tourney. I've done much for that woman, and what have I got to show for it after all these years?"
Jaime raised a brow and a hand of gold, shaking his head with scorn.
"I've gained nothing... Nothing but scorn and malice and hate.."
And what do you think he got?- he asked himself after his words. The question really popped out of nowhere, and Jaime glanced at Ser Ilyn, looking at him now differently in a way. How many years had the man lived in constant despair? Years of people spitting at him in person and behind his back, staining his name. Sure, he's killed, as every man must at one point or another in their lives. But he executed men. So have I. Looking back to Ser Ilyn Payne, Jaime saw so many memories flash in his eyes in that moment. Moments that had nothing to do with the man before him, but the man Jaime was in the past.
"I already asked what you thought about legacy and didn't get a clear answer. So I'll ask something else: do you believe in forgiveness?"
At that, the silent Justice broke his silence with a grunt and a small hint of a smile, a creepy sort of smile, seemingly the first one the man had given in all his life. Jaime smiled also, shaking his head as he stood back up to his feet.
"Thank you, Ser. For listening... Then again, I suppose you don't really have a choice, hu—"
The smile died fast when Jaime felt cold steep be pressed against the side of his neck, the sound of footsteps approaching behind as he saw figures also approach Payne. Eyes wide, heartbeat suddenly spiking, Jaime closed his eyes and held his breath.
"Get it over with."
CERSEI
The gardens were nice and calmly that evening, but the Queen was not. Once more Arbor Gold flowed strong, stinging and stabbing deeper and deeper every time that she drank. With all her sight blurry, with the drunkenness taking over her mind, Cersei Lannister could not give a fuck about manners or secrets of any kind. And that would be the case that night as well.
Queen Margaery Tyrell felt she had the audacity to approach her, it seemed. The evening by the quiet Blackwater was lit merely by candles and torches, the latter off in the distance, their warmth and comfort far away. Slowly dragging her eyes to the approaching figure, Cersei put on a glare.
"Mother."
She's so much of me, Cersei thought silently. Cersei had learned the craft of being vindictive, a cunning and crude person aiming to take power in any way possible. Margaery too learned the craft well.
"Or is it "sister"? I am sorry, I'm still having trouble deciding which it is."
"It is "Your Grace".."
Cersei spoke, her words mangled into a drunken slur, her breath so strong of wine that one could become drunk just being near her. Margaery simply smiled.
"Not anymore, I'm afraid. But do not think of it as a bad thing, Mother. Close to twenty years bearing a crown on your head must've left you quite tired. I believe it would be good for you to rest."
"Rest?"
Cersei chuckled, shaking her head.
"Oh, darling Margaery. The flower of Highgarden... Sit."
Margaery did not do as she was told, then— commanded. She defies me at every point, Cersei's thoughts were dark, black and horrid. The things she would do. Oh how it will be sweet, the vengeance.
"I. Said. Sit."
Her violent green eyes of a lioness narrowed into sharpened points, boring their blades deep into Margaery's pretty blues that she pretends so often are innocent. But eyes cannot be innocent. They are windows to look into the soul. And Cersei knew that both of their souls were blackened.
Raising her chin and chest higher, a way of sizing her up, Margaery did now as she was told, and sat down across the small round table across from Cersei. Slut, Cersei almost remarked, her eyes trailing down Margaery's chest, her green dress so scantily open for all eyes of black to see. Slowly trailing her eyes back to hers, the Lioness nodded, smirking and slowly raising her glass of wine.
"Such a beautiful flower, darling... A shame a great beast had to go on and..ruin the pettles."
"Mothe—"
"I am not your fucking mother."
Cersei slammed her glass down hard on the table, the glass of the cup shattering, cutting her fingers silently, the red stains on the table cloth a mix of wine, water and blood. Clearing her throat, Cersei leaned back in her seat, relaxed. Calculated.
"Oh, you try and pretend you're so perfect. "The Pretty Queen," or perhaps you aim to be something along the lines of..say.."The Realm's Delight"? Yes, that would sound so pretty. "Margaery Tyrell, the Realm's Delight.""
"I aim to be pius and good, my Lady. To be just and well; a good queen."
More slights.
"Pius?"
Cersei chuckles, shaking her head, almost laughing at how the mask of innocents the Tyrell puts up is breaking.
"Let's speak the honest truth here, sweet Margaery. You are not pius."
"Neither are—"
"Neither am I."
Cersei cuts her off, shaking her head with a drunken grin.
"Oh, keep acting. I do love the mummer's farce. You and I and all women in the world try things out. Roll around from bed to bed before becoming settled. Though...I have heard that you are still rolling around...so pius."
"And where have you heard such a farce?"
"Men are so easy to control, darling Margaery."
Cersei grinned.
"Men think with their cocks, not with their brains. Words meant to be hushed spill so easily over linen sheets, dear. I know where you've been going after the nights with my son."
"How dare you presume to spy on me, you treacherous snake!?"
"And now the truth is out and I didn't even have to try."
Cersei grinned even wider, chuckling now as the realization dawned on Margaery now. Staring in shock, Margaery was now tense and silent, afraid and worried now. Cersei merely leaned forward.
"I know you know things about me. I know that you know that I fuck my own brother. I know you know that I had my husband Robert killed on his stupid hunt. You know things about me, dear. But I know things about you as well."
Bloody fingers now pressed on the table, Cersei leaned forward more and slowly rose to her feet in a surprising manner, slow and calculated, and one could be forgiven to think she was sober in that moment. Glaring down with eyes of evil at the joy of Highgarden, Cersei grinned.
"Sleep well, pretty flower. We have a busy day tomorrow."
MARGAERY
"I don't quite see the point in you dragging me out of bed when the moon still settles the sky.."
Loras groaned, tired from sleep and sudden waking from it shown clear on his face and in his hair. Margaery was in a clear panic, sweat dripping from her hair and face in fright. She paced back and forth, back and forth around her brother's bed chambers, trying to gain control over herself, but it was all too much.
"How did she know? How? How?"
She kept muttering, ranting almost as though she was mad. I was careful. I was so gods damned careful! The truth was, Tommen, sweet Tommen, was not enough for her. No one ever would be after him, Margaery knew deep down.
"H-How did who know what?"
Loras groaned again, rubbing his eyes, not really even listening to his sister's fright nor panic.
"Loras, I need you to wake up, right now."
Loras, standing half dressed and with his eyes slowly closing again, suddenly lurched up straight as Margaery smacked him hard across the face, angery and scared.
"Wake up!"
"What the bloody hell are you doing!? What was that for!?"
"She didn't fucking know until I fucking told her!"
She shouted so loud, hurting her own ears as she panted heavily, continuing her mad pace.
"Told wh—"
"The Red Queen."
It was as if a bell had chimed in Lora's mind, sounding for battle. Sounding for death. His eyes too turned to panic, a slow, creeping panic that was soon to burst any second.
"What?"
He asked quietly, voice uneven and unsure as Margaery tried to catch her breath.
"She knows, Loras. She knows about what I've been doing, and she knows what you've been doing, brother. Olyvar, the other men, everyone that you and I have ever even..ughh! She shouldn't have known! She—"
Margaery stopped her words in her tracks, the room turning bone chilling cold, a pin could drop and one could hear it from a mile away.
"Sparrows."
She whispered, breathing slow and quietly as though to try and avoid them hearing her. Loras shook his head.
"No. No, no, there is no way she has those fucking lunatics here in the city. And if those..those rats are in the streets, it's only a matter of time before they seep their way into the Red Keep."
Everyone knew who the Sparrows were. They were of the Seven, the closest a man could get to them, at least. One so devoted all human material becomes dull to them, meaningless. They exist for the gods and for them alone. King Maegor the Cruel had started a war with the Faith, when they had a standing army and all. But in the times after the slaughter of the majority of the Faith's leadership and military, the disarming of those that remained, they became the Sparrows of the Faith, carrying justice on wicked wings of black.
And that justice was coming to them.
"Brother, listen to me. Cersei Lannister already has them. Those rumors were all true, the ones Grandmother warned us about early. And you can be damned sure that they will question you."
"And what about you?"
"I am the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. What right do they have to judge a royal?"
"They are the judges for the gods, Sis. That's their authority... Fuck, I—"
"We need to be prepared for the wars to come."
Margaery took her brother's hand quickly, moving to sit both him and herself down in separate chairs, still holding his hand tightly, refusing to let go of him. If she and her brother were to go down, she wouldn't let it happen without a fight.
"We need to start preparing."
"Preparing? How? For what?"
Margaery, with one hand, took a piece of parchment, dipping a quill into a vile of ink and began to write.
"We need to prepare our troops."
"Troops? What are you going to do, kill them all?"
"Perhaps."
She shrugged, writing fiercely and quick, thinking of the words quickly before pausing to breath for a second, looking back at Loras.
"We need to prepare for the questioning. We won't have soldiers in time before then, so our stories must be made of iron, do you understand?"
Loras looked down to her paper, reading the name on the letter as he stared for a long time.
"Do you understand?"
Margaery repeated, frustrated and angry, but Loras nodded nonetheless.
"Y-Yes.."
"Good."
Turning back to the would-be letter, she stared at the name now too, fear and hope swelling in her heart.
"We have to be prepared to go to war."
To end this game once and for all, Margaery thought as she began to write once more.
TYRION
"Checkmate."
The Imp said once again, the fifth time that day. The board in front of him on the deck was his battlefield, a place he could sharpen his mind once more. This is my place, Tyrion thought. It wasn't playing with swords or riding tall white horses, no. It was simply playing chess, and winning. And winning is what he was doing a lot now.
"Damn it.."
The Young Griff muttered under his breath, which caused Tyrion to smirk. The boy had a temper. One that was in dear need of being tempered.
"Say again, Sire?"
"I said, "damn it." And now I'm saying damn you."
"Apologies, Your Grace."
Rolling his eyes, the young lad with blue hair and blackish eyes began to reset the pieces on the board, black and white, from King and Queen, to Knights and Pawns. Once the pieces were all set up in the correct manner, Young Griff paused, looking up at Tyrion has if to gain assurance that it was done right, to which Tyrion shrugged, chuckling.
"We've played half a hundred times already, Your Grace. One should think you know very well the order they go in."
"Yeah, but you're winning every single time. So you're making me think that you've told me to set up these pieces and Pawns the wrong way so that the benifit falls to you and you win."
Young Griff huffed, shaking his head with frustration, which only made the Imp chuckle louder.
"Oh, the bliss of youth and ignorance.."
"Excuse me?"
Young Griff stated sharply, to which Tyrion frowned, shaking his head.
"Just poking jabs at you, young king. Wait until you meet the Dragon Queen and her court. Better yet, King's Landing. And I should tell you in all honesty, little pokes of fun won't be the only jabs that they'll send towards you, boy."
The young man, though frustrated, remained silent, seemingly contemplating the words of the Imp. Tyrion was right, he knew. And Tyrion liked being right. Such a grand gift to be always right.
"Join me in another game, Young Griff. Your master Varys wanted me to teach you something, so we begin our lesson again."
"And what is the lesson you're teaching me here? And he's not my maste—"
"I'm teaching you how to lose and how to deal with it."
Tyrion cut him off once more, nodding to the board as he looked along the many pieces.
"So... Let us begin."
Moving ahead a Pawn in 'e' up two spaces, Tyrion began the game once more. Dark eyes staring intensely on the board, Young Griff did not spare the Lannister a glance at all, too focused on the board. And so, Tyrion decided to have some more fun, perhaps get a greater measure of the man.
"So, I shall call this lesson: "Lessons of Losing," by Tyrion, son of Ty..."
He trailed of at that for a moment, his words dying in the gentle breeze as they continued along to soft waters of the Summer Sea.
"..son of a..bitch. Yes, that sounds about right. Anyway, I happen to be an excellent judge of what both winners and losers look like and how they deal with it."
"Oh yeah?"
The young king asked, eyes still focused on the board as he moved his first Pawn to match Tyrions in the middle.
"Oh yeah. I've been a winner most of my life, young lad. I grew up the son of the richest cunt to ever walk the lands of Westeros. But I've also been a loser most of my life, also. Being a dwarf son to the richest cunt alive made me both a winner and a loser. Whenever I won.."
He began his trap, a simple starter trap to anyone who's played before. But Young Griff has not. So Tyrion shifted his Queen to 'h', placing it on the fifth square on the board as he continued talking.
"..whenever I won, I fucked. I fucked and I drank and I fucked some more. Truth be told, I fucked anyways, win or lose, no matter."
"And now you've no one to fuck."
"No, I don't suppose so. I don't think your other master, a former Hand himself, would fancy a dwarf."
"You're ridiculous."
"And you're distracted. It's your turn."
Huffing with frustration, Aegon Targaryen, son of the Silver Prince, made his move. And it was a wrong move. A move Tyrion knew was going to happen. The boy wasn't stupid. But he didn't recognize his mistake moving his Knight to protect his Pawn. A wise ruler would never open his flanks to save a mere Pawn.
Tyrion smirked.
"Anyways. I have been a winner and loser, and my reactions were to fuck, fuck and fuck. Others sometimes have the same reactions. Some like violence after a loss, others like to throw a feast for their victories. While some, the rare few, the best of Man, are humble and kind, gentle and understanding in both victory and defeat."
He shifted one of his Maester's to 'c' square four, two below the King's Knight so valiantly trying to defend a mere Pawn.
"We should all aspire to be such men, Young Griff."
"What good is being so humble if you are dead?"
The lad asked, shaking his head, eyes focused on the board still, thinking, but his thoughts were jumbled. He's trapped in the game, Tyrion knew then. The game of trying to keep his men alive. Tyrion learned very quickly that the best way to win that game was to not play it, or to not simply think of them as men, or people. But here laid before him a prince, a would-be King of the Seven Kingdoms, thinking of mere chess pieces as people.
You're better off letting those things go, Tyrion wanted to say. Those morals. The useless words the wetnurses and Septons teach us, let them go. But alas, Aegon could not, moving his second Knight away from his King's flank, moving to attack Tyrion's Queen at 'f' the sixth square. But the exposure was what Tyrion planned all along, moving his Queen to 'f' square seven, blocking his King, winning.
"Your question; what good is being humble if you are dead?"
Tyrion repeated with a grin, watching as the lad's eyes widened so greatly, his face burning red instantly and so hot he figured his ears were letting out steam like a kettle.
"There is no good in being humble. You're dead."
"DAMN IT!"
In such sharp and sudden fashion, Aegon flung up to his feet, quickly kicking the chess board hard as Tyrion watched it and the many pieces sale across the boat deck, smacking agaisnt the other side, the many pieces scattering as the would-be King stormed off in a rage, leaving Tyrion behind chuckling.
"Now I can see where he gets it from."
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A/N
And would you look at that, a real chapter for once that's actually sort of long and has some footing to it. I am really sorry guys with how late I am on these updates with the chapters and this story, I've just been going through a lot lately and have a lot on my plate to deal with right now. But I hope this new chapter kind of makes up for it, even if it's just a little bit.
So I think— think anyways— that this arc for the Lannisters and Tyrells will either last 1 or 2 more chapters before returning to the main focus, which is Ben and Jon in the North and Daenerys in the East. So yeah. Thats the plan.
I really hope you all like this chapter and except the apology on my behalf. Thanks guys!