Chapter 1603: 19
Chapter 19: The Last of ThemNotes:
I decided to simple things up. There's lot a buzz in the comments and while I love reading all of it and even enjoy the rant, I just don't want to create false expectations.
This story was meant to be even simpler than any of my other fics. Somehow it ended up being my fic with the highest number of bookmarks and subscribers.
Thank you, btw.
So enjoy!
Chapter Text
19.
The Last of Them
Red Keep
Missandei glanced briefly at Lord Varys standing in front of the opened windows, looking out in the direction where his friend Lord Tyrion's trial was taking place right now. From her place at Daenerys' desk, where she held open a book on Westerosi lore, Missandei could hear his breathing hitch. Lord Varys' supposedly sharp mind intrigued her. Especially since he was always stealthy like a shadow slithering around in the dark, eager to pounce upon the incautious wanderer. Grey Worm thought he was not to be trusted and she was beginning to think so. Daenerys had tasked her with the chore of keeping him busy and overseen. Both had been instructed to remain in that chamber for the duration of the trials.
She shut her book and slowly looked up.
"May I ask you a question, my Lord?" Missandei inquired softly.
The sudden sound of her voice diverted his attention for the first time in hours. Surely he must've been thirsty for conversation, as his eyes widened and looked at her curiously.
"Why did you choose to come under the service of the Queen after having participated in the usurper's scheme to assassinate her?"
Far from being shocked by such an open display of distrust, Varys merely pursed his lips and slightly frowned.
"A man can only choose his allegiances at the time, my Lady," he answered nonchalantly. "You were loyal to a master until Daenerys gave you the option to follow her. Wasn't so?"
Missandei's brow creased into a frown.
"I had no choice when I served my Master," she said flatly.
"And was it different when Daenerys asked you to accompany her? What other choice had you but to follow the one person who was giving you the choice?" His eyes wandered out briefly before turning back on her. "Do not get me wrong, my Lady. I think you have made the best decision. But just as the river flows with the current, our course of action is always shaped by the circumstances we find ourselves in." His countenance suddenly became very stern. "There is always a choice, Missandei. Even between living and dying. Especially between living and dying."
She was about to argue when they heard a thundering sound against the chamber doors. Missandei immediately jumped to her feet and grasped the dagger Grey Worm had given her and taught her to use. If it was one of his ruses to escape into the shadows then she would have no choice but to cripple him.
Missandei moved in the direction of the doors. Varys' warning came out suddenly, urging her not to get close. She ignored him and headed for the entrance.
The last thing she remembers is hearing a high-pitched scream and a cry for help.
***
Dragonpit.
"Does that bloody fool of a man forget that his own offspring brought an end to the trial by combat by listening to the crazed Septon?" Lady Olenna recalled, her voice tainted with indignation.
"Her Grace must not be swayed into let them escape unpunished and alive," Lord Redwyne upheld as well, "His request shall be dismissed!"
"He is the murderer of your father. An oathbreaker. A man who dishonored all that is good," said another voice. Daenerys couldn't place the source of it. The courtiers continued spieling but she heard none of it. The sounds of a rambunctious crowd dipped to a static murmur, drowned out by the growing pulsing of her temples. Dany's gaze was on the distant sight of Jon walking away from her.
From everything.
This is how it ought to be.
Flee.
Leave me.
It is unavoidable. It is meant to be.
Was it too soon? Her grieving heart crossed her good reason and mocked her colossal effort to achieve exactly this result. Daenerys fell into the realization of her reckless behavior: risk it all to put Jon on the same edge that forced him to see her with eyes that see no redemption for her, same eyes with which he saw her that last time as he plunged his dagger into her heart, deep and clean, caring enough to give her sure and quick death, like a slaughtered animal.
Nothing worse than a bruised pride. A broken ego. The total destruction of who one until there is only ashes and rubble on the ground. That's exactly what he does with her, every time. Yesterday and today. In another life and in this one.
"This council will accompany Her Grace's decision, whatever that is," said another willing member of her council.
She whirled around and looked at them but didn't recognize any of the so-called members of her Council. She didn't even know the ones she knew her names. Strangers. Ghosts of another life.
Or was she that ghost? Prowling, and alienated from those around her.
"I'll make a decision after Tyrion Lannister's trial," Dany decided, her voice dropping to a whisper.
A spokesman proceeded to list Tyrion's crimes, including the murders of his father (kinslaying) and that of his mistress, the prostitute. Even for desertion and escape. Daenerys was unforgiving.
When it came to listing the most heinous crime, that of the violation of his wife, Daenerys, who watched him from the box with an unvexed expression, saw a flounder in his long face, heavy with grief and shame.
Her eyes stared up at the sky as she sucked in a furious gasp of air.
Her mistake has been sparing the lives of her enemies because they were the kin and loved ones of her allies.
Never again, she told herself.
Her hands gripped tightly on either side of the armrests of her chair. An idea was boiling in her mind, obfuscated with violent and unbridled emotions.
"I have made my decision," Daenerys announced.
***
He didn't return to the Red Keep. Jon knew better he should have but the force of an impulse drove him to trot across the city escorted by his men, straight to the port where his ships had been moored.
The south be damned. Bloody people.
An unrelenting surge of raw emotion ran through him and he had only the quick movement of his steps and the twirl of his fingers to let off some of the tension.
It was not in itself what he had just witnessed — the kind of horror that aroused either euphoria or rejection in those who also bear it, but something else. Something he could not quietly put into words or conjure up in his mind.
He was full of fury and exalted at the same time. His mind was dominated by another force unknown to him, it wasn't even the familiar bond that linked him to Ghost — who was most likely lost somewhere in or around Winterfell.
No. This felt close. Too close and hot.
For a moment Jon remembered looking into the green dragon's eyes, foolishly believing that it was looking back at him. Absurd ideas of a crazed mind, he told himself.
Stung by the futility of his journey and his efforts, Jon came to a halt. He looked up to the heavens where the clear blue sky eyed him back, with an almost mocking gleaming.
This would all have to end.
Soon.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a sight that siphoned his attention. Near him by the market stalls, a young man walked carrying heavy bags, his face almost completely covered by the soot and grime. Jon had never seen him and yet his face… was strangely familiar.
"Your Grace—" one of his men tried to bring him back. But suddenly his words changed, the sound of his voice became hoarse and gruff, and around him, there was no light but shadows, undulating lights from the flames of torches that barely illuminated the vast dark space around him. "Your Grace, this is—"
"I'm Gendry, Your Grace," the man said; the one he didn't know and yet kept a memory of him from somewhere. "I am the son of Robert Baratheon. Bastard son."
Gendy. Jon came back to himself. Arya's friend. Was it the same one?
Jon did nothing but watch him go down a narrow path downhill, towards the most desolate parts of the city.
***
Arya was dozing when she heard the distinct sound of movement on the deck. All of her senses awakened. Sailors shouted orders and someone cried out that it was time to set sail. Was Jon finally sending her home? Before she could ponder the thought, the door to her cabin creaked open and Jon walked through it, taking a few steps inside her before flopping down next to her bed, on a stool.
"We're going home. You were right. We don't need allies," Jon said.
His words made Arya frown. She pushed forward, drawing her knees to her chest and looking at her brother sharply.
"I never said that," she denied.
This time it was Jon who looked at her in confusion.
"Of course you did. Under the Heart Tree, do you remember?"
They had many conversations there lately but in none of them had Arya said exactly that.
Of course, they needed allies.
"Jon, did you hit your head?"
Jon rubbed his face and hair, looking exhausted. What exactly had happened? Arya wondered.
Jon blinked his mind off for a moment and leaned back. His tired, tortured face made a needle of guilt finally sew up her insides. This was too much for him alone, and she had only put more weight on his shoulders.
"I just don't know what I'm doing anymore, little sister," he admitted, not returning to the previous topic. His gaze was lost in the wooden walls of her cabin. "I wish I could do it all over again and do it better, but I only have this. And I don't know what else to do."
"Jon," she leaned in and put a hand on his knee, squeezing it. Her eyes looked into his with sincere regret and sympathy, "Is there a way to make this right? To make amends with the Dragon Queen?"
Jon let out a snort followed by an unamused laugh.
"From your reaction, I take that your proposal was blown off, right?" she asked with a treacherous lip lifted. "Come on, brother. This woman has freed thousands of slaves in the East. Surely convincing her to save the continent and the world shouldn't cost that much."
"I tried, Arya. And it's not just Daenerys, by the way. She…" he paused, remembering her wary, suspicious looks and the glimpses of something else he couldn't quite figure out. A certain fondness, maybe. But why? They hadn't even known each other for more than a week time. They were bonded by blood, but she didn't know it. Could she sense it perhaps? Nonsense!
There was far more to it than they both would let it show.
"She's fire you know? Literally. She can be a protective and destructive force at once. I understand that now. Even if I had succeeded in convincing her to accept my proposal, we would still have to deal with the North. Just as she'd have to respond to those Southern snobs. This is simply a gap we can't bridge. We are on our own. We must accept it."
Arya cocked her head and looked at him in disbelief. Seeing Jon so defeated she felt like a stab in the gut, phantom pain that her body remembered very well by the way.
Clenching her jaw she accepted that the only way to remedy things would be to do it her way.
They couldn't get back to Winterfell without the numbers. They couldn't have Jon's authority questioned again by Sansa, who was dangerously close and influenced by Baelish.
She barely parted her lips to let him know what she had in mind when the muffled sound of bells tolling interrupted her, first in the distance and then closer, from the towers near the Port.
And that could never mean anything good.
***
Dragonpit
"Of course, it's not conventional but it's not unusual either. I mean, we're talking about the worst kind of criminals, who have affront their own blood and the integrity of the vast majority of the great Houses of Westeros."
"Jaime Lannister and his brother Tyrion are the last of the Lannisters. The name of a Great House will disappear with them. Because of course, that aberration growing in Cersei's womb—" Lord Redwyne stalled midway through his words, realization dawning on his pale face as it did on the others present.
Of course, Dany thought disinterestedly. His affront was towards Cersei's child but might as well have been referring to her.
"I agree. The duel must go ahead. A Lannister will fall today, fate is written," another Lord sentenced, a winter-aged man whose countenance was serious and whose words and speech was sparse as his participation on other matters.
Daenerys nodded at Grey Worm, indicating that they should proceed.
Tyrion and Jaime would fight to the death against each other in that arena. Not for the accursed right invoked by that wretched man, but as a last act of mercy on her part. The survivor — she hoped there would be none — would spend the rest of his days contemplating the desolate nothingness in exile on the Wall. Another display of her infinite mercy and grace, as Lord Redwyne put it, trying to amend his previous blunder.
Let them destroy each other, just as they destroyed me — let it be shown whether Tyrion valued his life or his brother's more.
A fit of murmurs and hushed voices rose and a tingling sensation spread across her back and neck: it told her that while playing the always pleasing people, her Council was still on the lookout for a more visceral reaction from her. On the waiting for any sign that suggested madness and insanity. After all, her actions today could well be those of her father, she acknowledged.
Dany knew better than to show too much emotion in front of the wrong people, and that was right here, in front of all these sycophants and suitors whispering behind her back. But why expect it to be any different? She was no longer the silly, naïve girl who had come convinced that she would find allies willing to support and believe in her cause. Her mind held the experiences of a mature woman, deep in her autumnal years, seasoned with adventures and expeditions across the far-flung parts of the Known and Unknown World.
Once, in another life perhaps, she had found her peace and moved on without feeling the need to feed her hunger for revenge — leaving it to die in a drought of resignation.
But the corpse of that desire returned like those dead that stalked the far north, soullessly and furiously seeking to satiate what was insatiable.
The combat started and the two last of them came face to face.
Jaime with a simple short sword, alien to him, and stripped of the golden hand which was a proud symbol of his recovered strength after losing his sword hand, both figuratively and literally, she learned, for the golden object was designed in such manner that helped him with his new learned skills. Tyrion, on the other hand, was provided with a shield, the smallest they could lay their hands on, and an ax, which Grey Worm said he preferred to a short sword or dagger.
Daenerys would not take from them the right to choose the weapon in their hands with which they would take each other's lives.
The two were then advanced, and placed opposite to each other; their weapons clashed initially a bit silly without hurt to either.
After the initial dubitation and consternation, they both stumbled upon the reality of their circumstances. They immediately leaped forward for the chance of the first clean blow.
They both acted as true opponents, replacing hesitation with desperation; but Jaime was, at the first onset, wounded in the thigh, which surprised all those who had put their faith — and gold, of that Dany had no doubt — in a quick and easy killing for the older Lannister. Notwithstanding this, he attack so desperately that his dwarf brother pointed to where he had the advantage: at the bottom.
And having knocked his brother to the ground, Tyrion stood a few feet away contemplating in another moment of hesitation.
There was an exchange of words between the two that was inaudible to those sitting in the box.
Dany stretched forward trying to watch and capture some bits but only managed to witness the moment when Tyrion threw his weapons to the ground and dropped to his knees, his face soaked in grime and tears.
He'd chosen death rather than end his brother's life.
He really had, Daenerys thought. Again.
So that was...it really was. The kind of love so powerful that it was unable of acting, not even standing on the edge of the precipice.
Not the kind she had never known, nor would ever know, she thought.
As Jaime Lannister struggled to his feet and shuffled towards Tyrion, the seconds dragged along, making the moment a true agony.
The blade of his sword came to rest on the shoulder of a surrendered Tyrion, rather a moment of silent contemplation between the two before delivering the final blow.
But the startle did not come from the swing of the sword that would have ended her former hand. No. But from the bells that thundered like a peal of thunder in the sky, bursting into the Dragonpit like an intruder breaking into a room. Indeed, that very thing happened, as Lord Varys appeared through the entrance of the box, pushing aside the Unsullied soldiers and crying out in a broken voice the unspeakable and unimaginable.
"Cersei escaped," said the spider, whose bloodstained attire hinted that something worse existed to be let known, "And her aiders took Missandei."
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