Chapitre 525: Chapter 526: The Lion
Even as Viserion carried him soaring into the night sky, Tyrion Lannister still couldn't believe any of this was real.
Caesar hadn't lied—could it be true that Targaryen blood flowed in his veins?
He had heard the rumors before: whispers of how King Aerys, the Mad King, had been infatuated with his mother.
It was said that on the day of Tywin Lannister's wedding, Aerys openly lamented the abolishment of the First Night custom, calling it a grave loss.
Some even claimed that Tywin's eventual fallout with the Mad King stemmed from this very incident.
But these were mere speculations—fleeting, unprovable tales with no concrete evidence to support the notion that Aerys had been involved with Tywin's wife.
Yet now, Tyrion realized that he himself was that evidence.
He was the bloodline of the Mad King.
At that moment, Tyrion wasn't sure if he should laugh, cry, or simply feel relieved that he wasn't truly a kinslayer.
Perhaps this revelation also explained why, from a young age, he had harbored an almost obsessive fascination with dragons.
He remembered his first visit to King's Landing to attend his sister Cersei's wedding to King Robert. Back then, his sole desire had been to see the dragon skulls that adorned the throne room.
But to his disappointment, the new king had replaced the dragon heads with elaborate murals.
Unwilling to give up, Tyrion had scoured the dank passageways beneath the castle until he found them—the ancient skulls. He had stood there for hours, holding a torch, marveling at the glossy black bones, imagining the beasts unfurling their wings, soaring through the skies, and spewing torrents of fire.
He even dreamed of riding one himself.
In those fantasies, he wasn't a stunted, twisted dwarf but a lord of the skies, towering over the entire world.
And now, improbably, impossibly, that dream had become real.
Even though he was flying toward a terrifying enemy, Tyrion felt no fear.
In fact, he felt grateful that he had the chance to live his childhood dream before his death.
To die as a dragonrider, defending King's Landing—what more could a man ask for?
Perhaps, centuries from now, bards would still sing his name.
The thought made his chest burn with pride, as though a fire raged within, ready to erupt and consume everything.
Standing on Viserion's back, Tyrion raised his dragonglass spear high and roared:
"Charge, Viserion! Charge!"
The golden dragon heard his command and beat its wings furiously, surging forward.
The sudden acceleration sent Tyrion tumbling backward. He barely managed to cling to the dragon's ridged scales, narrowly avoiding becoming the first dragonrider to plummet to his death.
"The Targaryens were smarter—they used saddles!" he grumbled, flattening himself against the dragon's back and holding on for dear life.
Ahead, the ice dragon had reached the skies above the Tower of the Hand. It roared, unleashing a stream of icy blue breath onto the ancient structure.
Boom!
The tower, which had withstood over two centuries of storms and sieges, groaned under the assault.
A moment later, it collapsed with a deafening crash, its upper half frozen solid and shattering into massive chunks of ice that rained down onto the city below.
Amid the chaos, Viserion struck.
"Go for its wings!" Tyrion commanded.
Somehow, despite their new bond, an unspoken understanding had formed between rider and dragon. Viserion lunged at the ice dragon, sinking its jaws into the fragile, crystalline membrane of its left wing.
Crack! Crack!
The ice dragon's translucent wing splintered under the assault, jagged fractures spreading like spiderwebs.
But the attack enraged the ice dragon.
It twisted its serpentine neck and exhaled a chilling blast of icy breath straight at the golden dragon.
Hiss!
Even shielded behind Viserion, Tyrion felt the numbing cold seep through his layers of wool and fur. His body stiffened, frost creeping into his bones.
Viserion retaliated with a jet of flame, the golden fire colliding with the ice dragon's frosty breath. The clash sent shards of steam and frost exploding outward, drenching the battlefield below in alternating waves of blistering heat and bone-chilling cold.
The ice and the fire were like two water guns of distinct colors, colliding violently in mid-air.
"Fall back! Spread out!" shouted Ser Noah Rowan, waving his sword to scatter the troops.
Against dragons, even undead ones, human soldiers were nearly powerless. Their swords and spears were laughably inadequate, no better than toothpicks.
The only weapons capable of harming such beasts were the ballistae mounted on the walls—but with Viserion and the ice dragon locked in combat, firing was too risky.
The soldiers could only focus on battling the wights spawned by the ice dragon's attacks.
Meanwhile, high in the sky, Tyrion clung desperately to Viserion's back as the dragon twisted and bucked in its fight with the ice dragon. He felt as though his bones might snap from the strain.
At least I skipped dinner, he thought grimly. Vomiting on the dragon's back would be an all-time low.
A sudden, piercing whistle snapped him out of his thoughts.
Whoosh!
A spear of ice streaked past his face, so close that its frigid aura seemed to freeze his very blood.
"Missed me!" Tyrion yelled, more out of instinct than courage, taunting the ice dragon's rider.
The response came swiftly. The rider conjured another spear, its crystalline tip glowing with deadly blue light.
"Oh, gods, no," Tyrion muttered, dread pooling in his stomach.
He glanced at his own dragonglass spear. His aim was abysmal—no better than a child's.
How high can a dwarf's martial skills be?
But retreat wasn't an option. He had known that from the moment he took to the skies.
A memory of Shae's worried face flitted through his mind, but deep down, he had already resolved to die a hero.
If I can't earn respect in life, perhaps I'll earn it in death, he thought.
With a defiant cry, Tyrion stood atop Viserion's back, gripping the spear tightly. He didn't throw it—he didn't trust his aim.
Moreover, unlike the White Walkers who can condense ice spears from the wind and snow, this dragon crystal spear is his only weapon.
Instead, he charged.
Ignoring the rider, he targeted the real threat: the ice dragon.
He knew the dragon was the true danger to King's Landing. If he could kill it, the rider wouldn't matter.
Moreover, slaying a dragon is an irresistible temptation for anyone.
Tyrion had heard countless tales of "Mirror Shield" Savin's dragon-slaying exploits since he was a child, and today, he too ignited the same ambition!
Unfortunately, he underestimated the difficulty of dragon-slaying and overestimated his own martial prowess.
Killing a dragon was no simple feat, especially for a dwarf. His spear glanced off the ice dragon's scales, leaving nothing but a shallow scratch.
Meanwhile, the rider's ice spear found its mark, piercing Viserion's side. The golden dragon shrieked in agony, its cry reverberating through the night.
I failed, Tyrion thought, despair washing over him.
But at this moment, he suddenly felt a scorching heat coming from the dragon crystal spear, running along his arm and reaching his whole body.
A very magnetic voice sounded in his ears, chanting a spell that he couldn't understand at all.
"Melisandre?" he murmured, glancing downward. In the distance, he saw the Red Priestess, her fiery aura blazing as she worked her magic.
In an instant, Tyrion Lannister felt his body surge with explosive power. An unprecedented strength coursed through him, making him feel as if he stood atop the world itself.
"Roar!"
Viserion let out another thunderous roar, but it was clear that he was losing the struggle. The golden dragon's entire body was pinned beneath the ice dragon, struggling against its crushing weight.
Amid the chaos, Tyrion managed to cling tightly to Viserion's scales. Moving with a nimbleness he didn't know he possessed, he climbed up the dragon's neck and leaped onto the ice dragon's left wing.
In just a few breaths, he scrambled like a cunning little monkey, vaulting onto the ice dragon's massive head.
The ice dragon's rider, sensing the danger, moved quickly. A spear of ice formed in his grasp, its jagged tip gleaming with cold menace as he hurled it straight at Tyrion.
But Tyrion ignored the threat behind him. His focus was singular, his gaze locked on one vulnerable target—
The ice dragon's eye.
He knew it was the weakest point. Even the great dragon Meraxes had fallen to a well-aimed shot through the eye, brought down at the Hellholt by a Dornish ballista.
Today, Tyrion had no ballista—only a dragonglass spear and the fleeting hope of a miracle.
Fueled by the Red Priestess's sorcery and his own desperate courage, he thrust the spear forward with all his might, aiming for the ice dragon's left eye.
Thud!
"Die, you bastard!" Tyrion roared.
He felt the spear sink deep into the dragon's eye socket, so deeply that it must have pierced the brain.
Not satisfied, Tyrion gripped the shaft tightly and twisted it, channeling every ounce of his strength into the motion.
"Roaaarrr!!!"
The ice dragon's pained howl echoed across the battlefield, a deafening cry filled with anguish and finality.
Tyrion could feel it—death was coming for the beast.
He closed his eyes, bracing himself for the icy spear he knew would follow from the dragon's rider.
If he were to die as a "dragon-slaying hero," then so be it.
But the sharp, freezing agony he expected never came. Instead, all he felt was the sensation of tumbling through the air.
In King's Landing, the defenders on the Red Keep's walls were riveted by the battle above. The ice dragon's final, gut-wrenching shriek reverberated through the darkness.
By torchlight, they saw the two dragons—gold and ice—locked in combat as they plummeted from the skies.
Boom!
The massive bodies slammed into the ground south of the Tower of the Hand, obliterating buildings and tearing through the southern walls of the Red Keep.
The earth shuddered violently under the impact. Dust, debris, and swirling snow shot into the air, forming an impenetrable fog that hung over the battlefield.
The two dragons tumbled together, rolling past the shattered walls until they came to rest on the jagged rocks of the seaside cliffs.
Tyrion slowly regained consciousness, his head pounding, his body aching in ways he didn't think possible.
The surge of power that had once coursed through him was now gone, drained as if by an unseen tide. In its absence, the freezing cold began to creep in, seeping into his very bones.
He struggled to lift his head, his neck stiff and uncooperative, and turned to his left.
He turned his stiff neck with difficulty and looked to the left, where he saw the ice dragon lying among the rubble, its huge head drooping weakly, a dragon crystal spear stuck in its left eye socket—
That was his masterpiece!
Looking at the ice dragon's colorless eyes, Tyrion felt a strong sense of pride and honor.
I really slayed A Dragon!
My spear.
My kill.
His gaze shifted to Viserion, who lay crumpled nearby. The golden dragon was grievously wounded, its body covered in gashes and frostbite. The worst injury was a deep, jagged tear in its belly, dangerously close to spilling its entrails.
But at least Viserion was alive.
For a moment, Tyrion dared to believe that this victory had been too perfect.
Then he saw the figure approaching through the snowstorm—the ice dragon's rider.
No… no… no…
Tyrion's heart sank as he watched the wight step closer, its icy spear in hand.
It's over. Tyrion felt his heart sink as he watched the White Walker approaching him with a spear in hand.
"Viserion!" he called to his mount. "Save me!"
Unfortunately, the golden dragon was too badly injured to move.
"Melisandre!" he shouted, hoping for another miracle from the Red Priestess. "Do something!"
If he could become as strong as he was just now, he would be confident that he could have a duel with this White Walker.
Unfortunately, he didn't feel that warmth again.
"Ser Noah! Podrick! Somebody!" Tyrion shouted, his voice cracking.
But the guards and his squire were still too far away, struggling to reach him through the rubble and snow.
"Gods save me..." Tyrion felt more pious than ever.
But it seems that even the gods seemed silent.
The White Walker—tall, pale, and silent—strode toward him with the deliberate steps of a predator savoring its prey.
"Damn it all!" Tyrion snarled. Gritting his teeth, he reached down and yanked the dragonglass spear from the ice dragon's eye.
He held the weapon aloft, its shaft heavy in his hands, and turned to face his enemy.
At half the height of the wight and barely able to stand straight, Tyrion charged forward with all the courage of a lion.
With an indomitable momentum.
It's a pity that he is too short, less than half the height of a White Walker.
He was so weak that he staggered after just a few steps and almost fell.
"Ah!!!" Tyrion roared madly, as if he wanted to roar out all the fear in his heart.
Then he closed his eyes.
At least I'll die on my feet, he thought.
The killing blow never came.
Instead, he heard a soft, brittle sound—crack.
Tyrion opened his eyes in shock.
The dragonglass spear in his hands had pierced the wight's stomach, skewering it clean through.
The ice spear in the wight's hands faltered, the glowing tip stopping mere inches from Tyrion's face.
What… just happened? Tyrion wondered, staring dumbfounded at the wight.
The creature took a shaky step back, dropping to its knees. It looked at Tyrion with a complicated eyes.
A look that Tyrion found all too familiar.
Tyrion's breath hitched in his throat. His trembling hands reached out, pulling the wight's icy helm from its head.
Beneath it was a face he knew all too well.
"Jaime?" Tyrion's voice was barely a whisper, trembling with horror. "How… how is this possible?"
The wight's lips curled into a faint smile.
"Little brother," Jaime said weakly. "I always knew… you'd be the hero. Smarter… braver… better than me. I… I only ever made mistakes…"
"No," Tyrion stammered, tears freezing on his cheeks. "No, it's not true! You were always—"
But Jaime's body began to disintegrate, his form unraveling into icy mist.
"Little brother…" Jaime's voice faded, echoing on the wind. "You… you are the true… Lion of Lannister…"
The last of Jaime melted into nothingness, leaving only a puddle of icy water on the frozen ground.
Tyrion dropped to his knees, shaking violently. His spear clattered to the ground, forgotten.
The cheers of soldiers erupted in the distance. They had found the ice dragon's corpse and were celebrating the city's salvation.
But Tyrion felt no joy.
No pride.
No triumph.
All he felt was the unrelenting, suffocating chill of winter.
(End of Chapter)
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone