Tyrion Lannister had to say something. The Dragon Council was in session, everyone was around: Ellaria Sand, Lady Olenna, Yara Greyjoy and Varys discussing battle strategies in earnest. Theon was not here, now that Yara was Lady of the Iron Islands.
Daenerys seemed eager to march to the Crownlands. “We have to strike fear into the heart of Cersei Lannister. The longer she sits on the Iron Throne, the worse things will get. Innocents are dying under her rule. The people need justice.”
Tell that to Harrag, Tyrion wanted to say, but thought better of it. The more he heard her, the lesser certain he felt about the future. Daenerys would win the war, certainly – the odds were too much in her favour to fail. Attacking King’s Landing before Cersei had time to consolidate her feeble excuse of an empire was crucial. It was why Tyrion agreed with Dany when she ended the council with sending Lady Olenna and Ellaria Sand back to Highgarden and Dorne, to prepare to march from the south.
Funnily, the war worried Tyrion the least. He was eager to see Cersei’s horrified countenance when the Red Keep burned brighter than the Sept of Baelor. What worried him was what came after. She made an example out of the ironborn for simply defying her, and by the looks of it, she feels nothing? Tyrion was her Hand, it was his job to give sound counsel, but would she heed it? Was the promise of Varys about Daenerys true, or a cruel jape he could not laugh at without enough wine in his belly?
“We will march from Pyke to King’s Landing as soon as we are ready,” Daenerys said, bringing Tyrion back to reality. Varys was staring at him intently, hinting at Tyrion to say something. He knew exactly what that was.
“If we are to attack from the north,” Tyrion pointed out, “the way from Pyke to King’s Landing is tricky, Your Grace. Anchoring around the Riverlands is a risk with Freys fighting. If they slit throats at weddings, I would not want to see what they offer in combat. That leaves us options to ship to Barrowton or Flint’s Finger, both of which are in the north and held by Ramsay Bolton. Both grim choices.”
“Ramsay Bolton is dead,” Varys said, although Tyrion already knew that. He wanted Varys to say that, and what he said next. “He was defeated by the Starks, who have now crowned a bastard as their king.”
“A bastard king?” said Daenerys. “Very well. I shall soon put this pretender to heel.”
“We would all enjoy that, not less your ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror,” Tyrion said hastily, hoping it was not too late to change her mind. “All he wished to do was bring pretenders to heel. Dorne was the only kingdom he failed to capture, though. The Dornish did not bend the knee, the story goes, and when they tried to take it by force, they also killed a dragon.
“The Bastard of Winterfell is a bastard, but he does unify the North. Perhaps we should offer terms of alliance than terms of peace. Let’s save that dragonfire for tastier targets, like my sweet sister.”
“The Imp is right,” Yara said coarsely. “Harrag was no royalty but burning him alive was foolish. Waging wars with the Great Houses will win you more foes than wars.”
‘The Imp’ is right. The Imp also made you say that for me, so thank you for that. Tyrion’s suggestion coupled with Yara’s accusation seemed to alarm their queen, but to her credit, she kept her cool well. “Blood needs to be shed for peace,” she said, “…but I understand what you mean. What do you propose?”
Alliances were best made with weddings, Tyrion tried to hint, but Daenerys refuted the idea of marrying a man she did not know. She did agree to send Winterfell a raven. It was fair to dissuade marriage, Tyrion thought, since no one in the room knew what the once seventeen-year-old Jon Snow, a man who once thought the Night’s Watch would give him glory, had become.
*
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