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Chapter 73 (Forgiving A Brother), Chapter 74 (Wings Over Highgarden), Chapter 75 (The Fall of Casterly Rock), Chapter 76 (A Sister's Madness), Chapter 77 (Pride Before Fire), Chapter 78 (Daenerys, The Dragon Queen), Chapter 79 (Wine, Fire and Madness), Chapter 80 (The False Dragon), and Chapter 81 (The Lion's Fall) are already available for Patrons.
Tyrion reached for the wine pitcher but stopped mid-motion when he caught sight of his father's face. Where there should have been stern disapproval or calculated anger, there was something else – something he'd never seen before. Uncertainty.
"Well, this is novel," Tyrion mused, completing his reach for the pitcher. "The great Tywin Lannister, looking as lost as a septon in a brothel. Though I suppose watching thirty thousand men turn to ash would shake anyone's faith in conventional warfare."
"What do you think of our situation?" Tywin asked, his voice unnaturally quiet.
Tyrion almost laughed. After decades of dismissing his opinions, after years of barely concealed contempt, now his father wanted his counsel? The wine suddenly tasted bitter in his mouth.
"Before I share my inevitably disappointing insights," Tyrion said, "has anyone seen Jaime?"
Tywin's frown deepened if that was even possible. "No sign. He's dead."
The words hit Tyrion like a fist, but something nagged at his wine-addled mind. Jaime's warning the night before the battle, his unusual insistence that he should run if something goes wrong...
"Curious thing," Tyrion said slowly, swirling his wine. "The night before our army was turned into the world's largest roast, Jaime seemed... concerned. Almost as if he knew what was coming. Strange, wouldn't you say?"
"If you're implying your brother was a traitor—"
"Oh, not at all," Tyrion interrupted. "I'm merely pointing out that somehow, the greatest swordsman in Westeros vanished right before a dragon appeared. Either he's the luckiest man alive, or..." He left the thought hanging.
"Or what?" Tywin's voice was dangerous.
"Or he knew better than to stay and become roasted lion." Tyrion emptied his cup. "Which brings us to our current predicament. Thirty thousand men, Father. Thirty thousand men who discovered that steel plate becomes a rather effective cooking vessel when exposed to dragonfire."
"We still have—"
"Ten thousand terrified men who watched their comrades melt inside their armor?" Tyrion suggested. "Yes, I'm sure they're eager to try their luck against the dragon again. Tell me, what's our brilliant strategy? Shoot more arrows at the beast? Perhaps we could try asking it nicely to stop burning our army?"
"The Lions of Lannister do not surrender," Tywin declared, though the words sounded hollow even to Tyrion's ears.
"No, they just burn like everyone else." Tyrion's voice took on an unusual seriousness. "Father, for once in your life, listen to your disappointing dwarf son. We've lost. Not just the battle – the war. The game. Everything."
"There are still options—"
"Are there?" Tyrion stood, wobbling slightly. "Let's examine these options, shall we? We can fight and die. We can run and eventually die when the dragon catches us. Or we can surrender and possibly live. I know mathematics isn't as noble as warfare, but even you must see which option offers the best odds of survival."
"You would have us kneel to this boy?" Tywin's disgust was palpable.
"I would have us live," Tyrion countered. "Novel concept, I know. But consider this – dead men can't plot revenge. Dead men can't rebuild. Dead men can't do anything except feed the crows, and I'd rather not become bird food just yet."
"Our name—"
"Our name will mean nothing if we're all dead!" Tyrion slammed his cup down. "Gods, Father, is your pride worth more than your life? Than your legacy? Than your precious family name? Because I assure you, that dragon cares nothing for the Lannister reputation."
Tywin's jaw clenched. "The boy will want our heads."
"Possibly," Tyrion agreed. "Though I'd wager he'd prefer our gold and our submission. Dead lords don't pay taxes, after all. And if recent events have taught us anything, it's that dragons are remarkably effective tax collectors."
"You suggest we simply surrender? After everything?"
"I suggest we adapt," Tyrion said. "Like our sigil – the lion that knows when to retreat lives to hunt another day. Though in this case, perhaps we should consider becoming house cats instead of lions. Less majestic, certainly, but significantly less likely to be turned into kindling."
"Your brother would never suggest such cowardice."
"My brother," Tyrion said pointedly, "apparently had enough sense to avoid this entire situation. Speaking of which, isn't it interesting how he vanished right before the dragon appeared? Almost as if someone warned him..."
Tywin's eyes narrowed. "What are you implying?"
"I'm implying that perhaps Jaime saw which way the wind was blowing – or more accurately, which way the fire was spreading – and made a strategic withdrawal. The question is, why didn't he tell us?"
"Jaime would never betray—"
"Betray what, exactly?" Tyrion interrupted. "The family? By trying to save it from its own stubborn pride? The realm? By supporting its rightful king? Or perhaps he betrayed your expectations of dying gloriously for a lost cause?"
Tywin stood so suddenly his chair toppled backward. "You dare—"
"Yes, I dare!" Tyrion shouted back. "Because someone has to! Someone has to tell you that your precious pride is going to get us all killed! You want to die for the family name? Fine! But don't drag the rest of us into your pyre!"
A long silence followed, broken only by the distant sounds of men preparing for a battle they couldn't win.
"What would you have me do?" Tywin finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Survive," Tyrion replied simply. "Bend the knee. Offer the boy our wealth, our support, our expertise in running a kingdom. Be the pragmatic lord you've always claimed to be. The Targaryens allowed the Lannisters to keep Casterly Rock after Aegon's Conquest – history could repeat itself."
"And if he demands our heads?"
"Then we die anyway, but at least we die having tried something other than suicide by dragon." Tyrion reached for the pitcher again. "Besides, I've always wanted to see a dragon up close. Preferably without being on fire."
Tywin stared at his son for a long moment. "You truly believe this is our only option?"
"I believe it's our best option," Tyrion corrected. "The others all end with us joining the countless others who discovered that pride burns rather well."
"And what of your nephew? The king?"
"Joffrey?" Tyrion laughed bitterly. "The boy who thinks he can defeat a dragon with crossbow bolts? Perhaps we should let him try. It would solve several problems at once."
"He is your king."
"He is a fool who will get us all killed," Tyrion countered. "And between a fool with a crown and a man with a dragon, I know which one I'd rather serve."
Tywin's face remained impassive, but something in his eyes had changed. "Write to the boy," he said finally. "But remember – a Lannister—"
"Always pays his debts," Tyrion finished. "Yes, and right now we're in debt to reality. The question is, will we pay with our lives or our pride?"
As Tyrion reached for parchment and ink, he couldn't help but wonder where Jaime was, and what he knew. But those were questions for another time – assuming they lived long enough to ask them.
"Oh, and Father?" Tyrion dipped his quill in ink. "Next time someone warns us about dragons, perhaps we should listen. It might save us from having to write embarrassing surrender letters."
Tywin's glare could have melted steel, but for once, it didn't bother Tyrion. After all, compared to dragonfire, his father's disapproval seemed rather mild.
"There's another matter," Tywin said, his voice grave after a long moment of silence. "If this boy is truly Rhaegar's son with the Stark girl..."
"Ah yes, that small detail." Tyrion grimaced. "I was hoping we could pretend that particular bit of family history didn't exist. Rather like how we pretend Cersei is sane."
"He'll want vengeance for his siblings."
"You mean the children we had brutally murdered?" Tyrion took another long drink. "Yes, I imagine that might come up in negotiations. 'Dear Dragon King, please don't burn us alive, we only killed your baby brother and sister.' Not my most persuasive writing, I must admit."
"This isn't a joke, Tyrion."
"No, it's a tragedy. One we wrote ourselves." Tyrion sighed. "And knowing our dear Cersei, she's probably making it worse as we speak. Ten dragons says she's either trying to burn King's Landing down or claiming she's the real dragon queen."
A soldier burst into the room, breathless and wide-eyed. "My lords! The army of Storm's End approaches Harrenhal!"
"Wonderful," Tyrion drawled. "More guests for our funeral pyre."
"The Golden Company rides with them, my lord."
Tyrion choked on his wine. "I'm sorry, what? The Golden Company? The famously expensive sellsword company that never breaks a contract and hasn't set foot in Westeros in decades? That Golden Company?"
The soldier nodded as Tywin demanded, "Are they here to fight us?"
"No, my lord. Lord Renly Baratheon requests a parley. He... he wishes to discuss an alliance against the Targaryen force."
Tyrion watched the hope spark in his father's eyes and felt his heart sink. "Oh, for fuck's sake," he muttered.
"An alliance..." Tywin mused.
"Father, no. No, no, no." Tyrion stood up so quickly he knocked over his cup. "Please tell me you're not actually considering this suicide pact?"
"Combined with Storm's End and the Golden Company—"
"We'd have even more men to feed to the dragon!" Tyrion threw his hands up. "Wonderful plan! Maybe if we stack enough corpses, we can build a wall high enough to reach it!"
"It would give us the numbers—"
"Numbers?" Tyrion laughed hysterically. "Numbers? Did you miss the part where thirty thousand of our men became instant charcoal? Unless the Golden Company is hiding another dragon in their pocket, more men just means more screaming!"
"The Golden Company has fought Targaryens before—"
"Yes, and how did that work out for them? Oh right, they lost! That's why they're in exile!" Tyrion grabbed the wine pitcher directly. "Besides, have you considered why Renly bloody Baratheon has the Golden Company? The most expensive sellsword company in the world, traditionally loyal to the Blackfyres, just happened to show up with the younger Baratheon brother?"
"Your point?"
"My point is that we're about to walk into another trap, but instead of just dying, we'll be paying for the privilege!" Tyrion took a long drink straight from the pitcher. "But please, by all means, let's ally with the suspicious army that appeared out of nowhere. I'm sure they have our best interests at heart."
"It's our best chance—"
"Our best chance was surrendering five minutes ago, before you got that look in your eye that says you're about to do something monumentally stupid." Tyrion slumped back in his chair. "You know what? Fine. Go ahead. Make your alliance. But when the dragon comes, I'll be in the deepest wine cellar I can find, drinking myself into a state where being burned alive might actually seem amusing."
The soldier shifted uncomfortably. "Should I... should I tell Lord Renly you'll meet with him?"
"Yes," Tywin said just as Tyrion shouted "No!"
"Splendid," Tyrion muttered. "When the maesters write about this, they can title it 'The War of Two Kings and One Overly Optimistic Alliance Against a Bloody Dragon.' Though I suppose that's a bit long for the history books."
Tywin strode toward the door, his purpose renewed.
"Father?" Tyrion called after him. "When we're all burning, remember – I told you so. I want that on whatever's left of my corpse. 'Here lies Tyrion Lannister. He told them so.'"
But Tywin was already gone, leaving Tyrion alone with his wine and his dark thoughts.
"Well," he said to the empty room, "at least we'll die with style. The Golden Company's armor is quite shiny. We'll make a very pretty inferno."
Later
The hooves of a hundred horses thundered across the muddy ground, their riders a sea of crimson and gold. At the head of this procession rode Tywin Lannister, his face set in its usual stern mask, flanked by his brother Kevan and his diminutive son, Tyrion. The Hound, Sandor Clegane, Joffrey "Baratheon" brought up the rear, his scarred face twisted in a permanent scowl.
As they approached the clearing near Harrenhal, Tyrion couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding. He'd argued against this meeting, but as usual, his counsel had fallen on deaf ears. Now here they were, riding towards what he was certain would be their doom, dressed up in their finest like pigs for the slaughter.
"Grandfather," Joffrey called out, his voice grating as always, "why must we meet them here? They should come to us at Harrenhal. We are the crown!"
Tyrion, riding beside his uncle Kevan, rolled his eyes. "Because, dear nephew, when someone brings elephants to a negotiation, they generally get to pick the meeting place."
The Hound, who rode slightly behind them, let out a grunt that might have been a laugh.
Tywin shot him a withering glare. "Enough, Tyrion. This is no time for your jests."
"On the contrary, Father," Tyrion replied with a sardonic smile. "I find impending doom brings out my best material."
As they crested a small hill, the full sight before them came into view. A kilometer away, the banners of House Baratheon fluttered in the breeze, a sea of gold and black that seemed to stretch to the horizon. Beside them, the Golden Company's standard stood proud, its skull-adorned poles a stark contrast to the Baratheon stags.
But it was what stood in the foreground that drew everyone's attention. Ten massive elephants, each adorned with gleaming armor and bearing small towers on their backs, stood in a line like sentinels guarding the approach.
"Seven hells," the Hound growled, his voice a mix of awe and disbelief. "Are those fucking elephants?"
"How very observant of you, Clegane," Tyrion drawled. "And here I thought they were just overgrown dogs with peculiar noses."
Kevan Lannister's eyes lit up at the sight. "With these forces combined, the Targaryen boy doesn't stand a chance. We'll crush him and his dragon beneath our heel."
Tyrion couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Yes, because nothing says 'dragon-slayer' quite like a lumbering beast that's equally flammable. I'm sure the boy and his fire-breathing monster will be quaking in their boots."
"Your negativity is not helpful, Tyrion," Tywin snapped.
"Neither is false hope, Father," Tyrion retorted. "But by all means, let's pin our survival on the strategic genius of Renly Baratheon and his circus act."
Renly Baratheon stood waiting with his small group. The Knight of Flowers, Loras Tyrell, stood at his right, resplendent in green-enameled armor. On Renly's left was a tall man with a thick red beard, his bearing military and his eyes sharp. Beside him stood a youth with blue-dyed hair and expensive clothing, who carried himself with an almost royal bearing.
"Lord Tywin!" Renly called out cheerfully, as if they were meeting at a tournament rather than plotting war. "How kind of you to join us on this fine morning."
"Lord Renly," Tywin replied coldly, dismounting his horse. "I see you've brought interesting companions."
"Ah, yes," Renly smiled. "You know Ser Loras, of course. And may I present Lord Jon," he gestured to the red-bearded man, "and young Griff," indicating the blue-haired youth.
"Charming," Tyrion said, sliding off his horse with considerably less grace than his father. "And do all your sellsword captains dye their hair blue, or is that a special touch?"
The youth – Griff – stiffened slightly, but the red-bearded man placed a warning hand on his shoulder.
"The Golden Company brings more than unusual hair to this alliance," the man called Jon said, his voice carrying a hint of barely contained hostility. "Ten thousand men, war elephants, and generations of experience."
"Yes, experience in losing to dragons, as I recall," Tyrion couldn't help but point out. "Though I suppose practice makes perfect."
"The Golden Company," Joffrey spoke up, his voice dripping with disdain. "Sellswords who broke their contract with the Targaryen boy? How can we trust them not to break faith with us as well?"
Tyrion closed his eyes in exasperation. Leave it to Joffrey to insult their potential allies within the first minute of meeting them.
The red-bearded lord's face darkened, but the blue-haired youth spoke first, his voice controlled yet carrying an edge. "The Golden Company's word is gold, Your Grace. We had no contract with the Targaryen. We simply chose not to accept his offer."
"My lord," Kevan interrupted before Tyrion and Joffrey could further antagonize their potential allies, "perhaps we should discuss strategy rather than history."
"An excellent suggestion," Renly beamed. "We have much to discuss. The Targaryen boy may have a dragon, but we have numbers, experience, and now..." he gestured to the elephants, "some surprises of our own."
"Wonderful," Tyrion said. "We can surprise the dragon with how quickly we burn."
"Your son seems less than enthusiastic about our alliance," the red-bearded man observed.
"My son," Tywin said coldly, "drinks too much and talks too much."
"And thinks too much," Tyrion added. "A terrible combination, I admit. But since we're all here to contemplate creative ways to die, I might as well point out the obvious – why exactly does the Golden Company support your claim, Lord Renly?"
A flash of something – worry? fear? – crossed Renly's face before his smile returned. "Gold, of course. What else motivates sellswords?"
"The Golden Company has refused more gold than the entire Reach could provide to fight for less dangerous causes," Tyrion pressed. "Yet here they are, ready to face a dragon. Curious, wouldn't you say?"
"You question our honor?" the blue-haired youth demanded, speaking for the first time. His voice carried an odd accent, though Tyrion couldn't quite place it.
"Oh, not at all. I question everything else, but the Golden Company's honor is well known. They never break a contract." Tyrion smiled. "Which makes me wonder what exactly their contract says."
The Hound snorted. "Does it matter? Steel is steel, and gold is gold."
"And fire is fire," Tyrion countered. "But please, don't let me interrupt this lovely alliance forming. I'm sure the dragon will be very impressed by our numbers before it turns us all to ash."
"Your son's cowardice is noting," the red-bearded man said to Tywin, "but we have plans to deal with the dragon."
"Cowardice?" Tyrion laughed. "I saw what happened to thirty thousand men. Forgive me if I'm not eager to join them in becoming the world's largest collective roast."
"Enough," Tywin commanded. "Lord Renly, you mentioned plans?"
As Renly began explaining their strategy, Tyrion studied the strange group before them. The red-bearded man – Lord Jon – kept his hand near his sword and his eyes on the blue-haired youth. The youth himself stood with an almost practiced nobility, as if he was used to being the center of attention. Something wasn't right here, but Tyrion couldn't quite piece it together.
"Did you notice our blue-haired friend?" he murmured.
"Aye," the Hound growled softly. "Stands like a king, that one. And the old lord hovers over him like a septa with her favorite maiden."
"More like a knight with his prince," Tyrion corrected quietly. "Tell me, what sellsword company has never broken a contract, bears deep hatred for dragons, and might have reason to support a blue-haired youth who carries himself like royalty?"
The Hound's burned face twisted in understanding. "Fuck me," he muttered. "Blackfyres?"
"Keep that thought to yourself," Tyrion warned. "Though it does make one wonder whose side our new allies are truly on."
"Three armies," Renly said, grabbing Tyrion and the Hound's attention, "attacking from different directions. The dragon can't be everywhere at once."
"No," Tyrion agreed, "but it doesn't need to be. It just needs to be wherever it decides to burn first. Tell me, which army volunteers to be the initial target?"
"Your negativity serves no purpose," the blue-haired youth snapped.
"On the contrary, my loud and colorful friend, it serves the very important purpose of pointing out how many ways we can die." Tyrion smiled sweetly. "Would you prefer I list them alphabetically or by level of agony?"
The Hound laughed darkly. "The dwarf has a point. We're all just waiting to burn."
"Then why are you here?" Lord Jon demanded.
"Because unlike some, I follow orders," the Hound growled. "Even stupid ones." he added quietly to himself, knowing when to speak loudly and when to keep it to himself.
"My lords," Kevan interrupted again, "perhaps we should focus on the details of our alliance?"
"Yes," Tywin said. "Terms must be discussed."
As they began negotiating, Tyrion watched the interplay between the red-bearded man and the blue-haired youth.
"I don't suppose," Tyrion said suddenly, "anyone finds it odd that the Golden Company, historically supporters of the Blackfyres, shows up just as a Targaryen returns to Westeros?"
The red-bearded man's hand tightened on his sword, and the blue-haired youth's eyes flashed with something that might have been panic.
"The Golden Company goes where the gold is," Renly said smoothly. "Nothing more."
"Of course," Tyrion agreed pleasantly. "Just like young men with unusually colored hair randomly appear with sellsword companies. Completely normal."
"Your son will hold his tongue," Lord Jon warned, "or lose it."
"Oh, I'm sure it won't matter either way," Tyrion sighed. "Dragons aren't particularly interested in clever conversation before they burn you alive."
The negotiations dragged on, with Tywin and Renly haggling over troop deployments and battle strategies. All the while, Tyrion watched and listened, filing away every scrap of information, every subtle glance and unguarded comment.
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the clearing, Tyrion found himself standing near one of the armored elephants. He gazed up at the massive beast, marveling at its size and the intricate designs etched into its armor.
"Impressive, aren't they?" a voice said from behind him.
Tyrion turned to find the blue-haired youth standing there, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Oh yes," Tyrion replied dryly. "Nothing says 'we're ready for war' quite like bringing circus animals to a dragon fight."
The youth's smile widened. "You'd be surprised at their effectiveness in battle."
"I'm sure I would be," Tyrion said. "Just as I'm sure I'd be surprised to learn the true identities of you and your red-bearded friend. Care to enlighten me?"
For a moment, something flashed in the youth's eyes – pride, perhaps, or defiance. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.
"All in good time, Lord Tyrion," he said smoothly. "For now, let's just say we're here to restore balance to the realm."
"Balance," Tyrion repeated. "How very noble. And vague. You'll forgive me if I don't find that particularly reassuring."
The youth shrugged. "Reassurance isn't what we're offering. Victory is."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Tyrion to ponder his words. As he watched the youth rejoin the red-bearded man, a chill ran down Tyrion's spine.
"Dragons, elephants, and mysterious blue-haired youths," Tyrion muttered to himself. "If we survive this, it'll make one hell of a story. Assuming, of course, there's anyone left to tell it."
Later
"A hundred scorpions," Lord Jon stated, pointing to several locations on the map spread before them. "Positioned here, here, and along these ridges. The dragon will have to dodge a storm of bolts if it wants to get close."
"A hundred scorpions," Tyrion whispered to the Hound. "A hundred ways to miss a dragon."
The Hound snorted, rolling his eyes. "Aye, and a hundred ways to shit ourselves before we even get a chance to fire. Maybe we should just throw you at the dragon, Imp. You're about as useful as these scorpions, but at least you'd make a funnier projectile."
Tywin's jaw clenched as he studied the map. "And your numbers? How many men does the Golden Company bring?"
"Ten thousand of the finest soldiers in the world," the blue-haired youth answered proudly. "Each man worth three of any other army's."
"Yet somehow still flammable," Tyrion murmured, earning a quiet snort from the Hound.
"Combined with Storm's End's forces and what remains of the Lannister army," Renly calculated, "we'll have thirty-five thousand men."
"Not enough," Tywin said flatly. "Where are the armies of Highgarden? The Reach could provide sixty thousand men alone."
Loras Tyrell stepped forward, his armor gleaming. "I've sent ravens to my grandmother and father. The Tyrell army will march soon—"
"How soon?" Tywin demanded.
"My father assured me—"
"Assurances are not soldiers," Tywin cut him off. "We need the Reach's forces now, not promises."
Renly smiled, though there was something sharp behind his easy charm. "Speaking of forces, where are the other kingdoms in this conflict? Surely the great Lord Tywin has secured more allies?"
The muscle in Tywin's jaw twitched. "The Riverlands has declared for the Targaryen boy," he ground out. "As has the North."
"And Dorne?" Lord Jon asked, though something in his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"Dorne stands with the dragon," Tywin admitted, his voice filled with barely contained rage.
"And the Vale?" Renly pressed, clearly enjoying Tywin's discomfort.
"Has yet to answer our ravens."
"They're too busy watching their falcons fly," Tyrion whispered to the Hound. "Much safer than watching dragons fly."
"The Vale's isolation will be their undoing," Tywin declared. "When the dragon is dealt with—"
"When?" Tyrion couldn't help himself. "Don't you mean if? Or are we pretending the last battle never happened?"
"Your son speaks wisdom, however irritatingly he delivers it," Lord Jon said. "We cannot afford to underestimate the dragon."
"Which is why we need the Reach," Tywin insisted, turning back to Loras. "Send another raven. Tell them—"
"Tell them what?" Tyrion interrupted again. "Please come die with us? We have excellent wine and premium seats to watch the world burn?"
"The Reach will come," Loras insisted, though uncertainty flickered across his young face. "House Tyrell has always—"
"Always backed the winning side," Tyrion finished. "Though I suppose that doesn't help us much here, does it?"
Renly clapped his hands together. "Well! While we wait for the Reach's forces, we should discuss battle formations. The elephants will need specific positioning to be most effective."
"Yes," Tyrion muttered to the Hound, "let's bunch up all our forces. Make it easier for the dragon to burn us all at once."
"Better than dying sober in a wine cellar," the Hound replied.
"Is it though?"
Night - Later
The three riders lagged behind the main party returning to Harrenhal, their horses moving at a leisurely pace that matched Tyrion's gloomy mood.
"You know," Tyrion said, breaking the silence, "I always imagined I'd die in my own bed, at the age of eighty, with a belly full of wine and a girl's mouth around my—"
"We know," the Hound cut him off. "You've told that story before."
"Yes, well, now it seems I'll die in a field somewhere, probably sober, which is truly the greatest tragedy of all." Tyrion took a drink from his wine skin. "At least I'm working on preventing that last part."
Pod, still pale and jumpy since the battle, flinched at every sound. "My lord, do you really think the scorpions will work?"
"Oh yes, absolutely. I'm sure the dragon will be very impressed by our determination as it burns them all to ash. Perhaps it will even pause to admire our initiative before it roasts us."
"There's always another way," the Hound growled, his eyes scanning the horizon. "Smart dog knows when to leave a burning house."
Pod's forehead wrinkled in confusion. "What do you mean, ser?"
"Not a ser," the Hound corrected automatically. "And what I mean is, when a bigger dog comes into the yard, smart dogs know whether to fight or run. Loyal dogs might die for their master, but dead dogs don't eat."
"Careful, Clegane," Tyrion warned, though his tone was more intrigued than threatening. "That sounds dangerously close to treason."
"Wasn't saying anything about treason," the Hound shrugged. "Just talking about dogs. But you can always stay here, little lord. See how you like it when the fire comes. One taste was enough for me." He touched the scarred side of his face reflexively.
Tyrion studied the burned man thoughtfully. "And what exactly does a smart dog do in this situation?"
"Smart dog makes sure he has a fast horse." The Hound's eyes met Tyrion's. "And knows which direction to run when the time comes."
"My lord?"
Tyrion sighed. "Pod, my faithful squire, I need you to do something for me. Quietly. Very quietly."
"Of course, my lord."
"Make sure three horses are always ready. Good ones, not the old nags they give to messengers. Keep them fed, rested, and saddled."
"Three horses?" Pod asked.
"Unless you'd prefer to stay and get a closer look at the dragon?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow.
Pod paled even further. "Three horses. Yes, my lord. Right away, my lord."
"Not right away," the Hound corrected. "Subtle-like. Don't want people asking questions about why you're preparing horses in the middle of the night."
"Oh. Right." Pod nodded vigorously. "Subtle. I can be subtle."
Tyrion and the Hound exchanged looks.
"We're going to die," the Hound stated flatly.
"Now, now," Tyrion said, "have some faith in Pod. He's very good at... at..." He struggled to find something. "Well, he's very loyal."
"Loyal dogs," the Hound reminded him, "end up dead dogs."
"My lord," Pod interrupted, his voice shaking slightly, "when you say be ready... how ready should I be?"
"Let's just say, Pod, that if you hear screaming and see a large shadow passing overhead, it might be a good time to remember where you parked those horses."
"And if anyone asks," the Hound added, "you're just making sure the horses are ready for a hunting trip."
"A hunting trip?" Pod looked confused again. "But who would believe we're going hunting with a drag—"
"Pod," Tyrion interrupted, "when someone gives you a good excuse, you don't point out its flaws. You just nod and look stupid. Which, I must say, you do exceptionally well."
"Thank you, my lord!" Pod beamed, then frowned. "Wait..."
The Hound actually chuckled, a sound like rocks in a grinder. "Maybe we should just steal the elephants instead. Might be slower, but at least the boy would fit right in."
"Ah yes, because nothing says 'subtle escape' like an armored elephant," Tyrion rolled his eyes. "We might as well send the dragon a dinner invitation."
They rode in silence for a moment before Pod spoke again. "My lord? Should I pack your books?"
"Pod, if you see a dragon coming, I want you to forget every book, every coin, and every possession. Just run. Run like my father just offered to marry you to my sister."
The Hound snorted. "Now that's something scarier than a dragon."
As Harrenhal's dark towers came into view, Tyrion took another long drink. "You know what's truly tragic? This might be the most sensible conversation I've had all week."
"That's because you usually talk to lords and knights," the Hound said. "Give me a dog's honest fear over a knight's false courage any day."
"To dogs then," Tyrion raised his wine skin. "May we be smart enough to run when the time comes."
"And fast enough," Pod added quietly.
"Seven hells," the Hound muttered, "we really are going to die."
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