The eastern coast of Westeros stretched beneath the autumn sky, where the vast Kingswood ran for hundreds of leagues, facing King's Landing across the Blackwater Rush. Few ventured into these ancient woods; since the days of Aegon the Conqueror, they had remained the private hunting grounds of the Targaryen kings, and now the Baratheons who followed.
On this day, the Kingswood welcomed two guests of considerable importance:
Prince Joffrey Baratheon, young heir to the Iron Throne, who had inherited his mother's famed golden beauty, that "Light of the West" which all the realm spoke of.
And the clever dwarf—Tyrion Lannister, called "The Imp" behind his back and often to his face.
Though they called it a hunt, their intentions clearly lay elsewhere. After allowing the accompanying hunting party and guards to fan out into the greenwood, the two unlikely companions set off alone, gradually disappearing into the shadowed depths of the forest.
The Kingswood was a paradise for trees, their ancient roots stretching back to the Age of Heroes. The deeper they ventured, the thicker and more numerous the gnarled roots became, breaking through the loamy soil like the fingers of buried giants.
"The Imp," with his stunted legs, weaved between these obstacles with increasing difficulty, his pace slowing until he finally stopped, a look of surrender on his mismatched features.
"Have mercy, Your Royal Highness. The Kingswood is not made for easy passage, especially for your uncle who was fashioned by the gods with less timber than most." Tyrion's voice carried its familiar sardonic edge.
Joffrey turned and stood still, smoothing the slightly disheveled golden curls at his ear with slender fingers. In the dappled shade of the trees, the two stood face to face.
Tyrion could not help but wonder if he was caught in some strange dream. That Prince Joffrey—cruel, petulant Joffrey—would invite "The Imp" for a private conversation seemed as likely as snow falling in Dorne.
Most strangely of all, Joffrey wasn't looking at him with the usual disgust reserved for his embarrassing dwarf uncle. Rather, he looked upon him as one might regard an equal—a person, normal and whole.
Tyrion would have given all the gold in Casterly Rock to be seen thus by others.
"Speak your secrets here, then," Tyrion said. "A secluded corner of the Kingswood is as good a place as any for murder, perfectly discreet." His tone betrayed his suspicion. Was this another of the prince's cruel jests?
His mismatched eyes—one green as wildfire, one black as midnight—stared intently at Joffrey's pale face, searching for the familiar sneer.
Joffrey lowered his gaze to his dwarf uncle, who stood more than a head shorter than him, and sighed softly.
Tyrion, Tyrion.
First meeting, from now on, I am Joffrey.
He felt a strange mixture of excitement and apprehension at having inexplicably transmigrated into this world of "A Song of Ice and Fire." According to the story he knew, in just two years, "he"—Joffrey—would be poisoned to death at his own wedding feast.
To avoid such a fate, he had to act immediately and unite all forces that could be gathered to his cause.
"We've always been good friends, haven't we, Uncle Tyrion?" he asked, his voice unexpectedly free of its usual venom.
Tyrion almost burst out laughing.
"Ha! You win, dear nephew, you win! That's undoubtedly the funniest jest I've heard since crossing the Trident!"
Here, away from prying eyes, Joffrey finally didn't have to maintain the façade of an idiot prince.
"Look around us," Joffrey said, gesturing to the ancient trees. "Perfect for a heart-to-heart between friends. No ever-present spies lurking in the Red Keep's walls, no secret passages running beneath our feet, and no weirwood trees with their watching faces."
Secret passages in the Red Keep? Tyrion's mind seized upon this fragment of information.
Could this be part of the Spider's web of whispers?
How did the boy know of such things?
Tyrion was bewildered. How could Joffrey suddenly seem like a true heir to the kingdom? It was as though the Stranger had taken the cruel boy and replaced him with... something else.
Were the gods in their heavens blind to have allowed such a miracle?
"So, my dear friend," Tyrion said, emphasizing the unfamiliar word, "what exactly do you wish to discuss in this most secluded of venues?"
Joffrey was silent for several heartbeats, a touch of what appeared to be genuine confusion crossing his face.
Then he shook his head and sighed deeply.
"It's like awakening from a dream, though in truth, I've awakened into one. Even now, I scarcely believe what I've seen."
"I've witnessed scenes I had never beheld before. Betrayal, war, weddings, death—familiar faces and strange ones, all dancing before my eyes like players in a mummer's show."
"Of course, you were there too, Uncle Tyrion."
He stared into Tyrion's eyes, his face a mask of earnestness that the dwarf had never seen there before.
"Perhaps it's a gift from the Seven, or some other power I cannot name. The fact remains—I have seen the future."
A breeze whispered through the canopy above, and the rustling leaves seemed to laugh alongside Tyrion at this preposterous claim.
Did you see who your real father is? Tyrion thought darkly. No, that's too malicious, even for me.
"I see," Tyrion said carefully. "I'd like to believe that, but friends should be honest with each other, should they not?"
His mockery was thinly veiled, but Joffrey seemed unconcerned by it.
He returned a smile of his own, one that didn't match the boy Tyrion knew. "Friend, were I in your position, I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss what I say."
Joffrey's expression grew distant, as though he were peering through a window into another world. "I truly wish it were nothing more than a vain dream."
"The future is terrifying beyond measure. Truth is always cruel, power is as dangerous as it is alluring, and secrets, conspiracies, and murder are as common as bread."
"But I have grown because of what I've seen."
Tyrion remained silent, content for the moment to see where this peculiar conversation might lead.
Joffrey decided to offer something more substantial. "I saw it as clear as I see you now. The Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, is about to die, and my father will ride north to Winterfell to invite Lord Eddard Stark to succeed him."
Tyrion's expression flickered momentarily. "Indeed? A fascinating tale, though I'd advise against letting Lord Jon hear such predictions."
"I've seen that Varys, the Master of Whisperers, plots to restore the Targaryen dynasty—or perhaps the Blackfyres. Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, covets the Iron Throne and schemes to plunge the realm into war."
"They're certainly not men to be trusted lightly," Tyrion replied, "but such accusations require more than dreams as evidence, wouldn't you agree?"
"A red comet will appear in the sky within a few months," Joffrey continued, undeterred. "Its light will rival both sun and moon."
"I shall await this marvel with bated breath."
"Winter is coming."
"The end of the world, is it?" Tyrion's tone was light. "I'd truly like to witness such a spectacle."
As expected, Tyrion showed not the slightest inclination to believe him, stubborn as the stone of Casterly Rock. Though reluctant, Joffrey knew the time had come to play his strongest card.
"Tysha."
The sardonic smile on Tyrion's face froze instantly.
He had never imagined hearing that name from Joffrey's lips.
The carefully constructed defenses around his heart crumbled like a castle built on sand.
Painful memories that he dared not contemplate even in his cups came rushing forth, piercing his mind like Valyrian steel.
Tysha. Gods, Tysha.
My first woman, my true love, my bride... a whore bought and paid for by Jaime.
A whore. A lying whore.
Lord Tywin gave the order, and the Lannister guardsmen formed their line—first ten, then a hundred. And Tyrion went last.
From that day forth, after being forced to witness and participate in his wife's "profession," Tyrion had abandoned all hope of winning a woman's genuine love.
Joffrey lowered his voice, taking care not to further provoke the dwarf whose temper was as legendary as his wit.
"Tysha... she was good and true. Frankly, I pity you, Uncle. Such a tragedy is beyond comprehension. Pitiful. Regrettable. Heartbreaking."
"Stop." The word was quiet but sharp as a blade.
"One hundred silver stags, and one gold dragon."
The price for a common soldier to patronize a whore was one silver stag—more than the market rate. Yet the Lannisters were not common men; Lord Tywin had given Tysha a whole gold dragon for Tyrion's final turn.
"Shut your mouth." Tyrion's expression grew more ferocious with each word.
Joffrey could not help but be affected by the raw emotion before him.
In truth, he took no pleasure in tearing open Tyrion's old wounds. But opportunity across the Narrow Sea was as fleeting as summer snow, and he needed to secure Tyrion's alliance without delay.
Since Tyrion refused to lower his guard, poor Tysha's ghost would have to be disturbed.
Seeing his chance, Joffrey pressed on. "While the past cannot be changed, know this—for an ordinary farm girl to inspire you to commit patricide some years hence, I believe she might find some small comfort in that."
Tyrion, nearly overwhelmed by painful memories, suddenly froze as though struck. Through the darkness of his thoughts, a strange light began to glimmer.
"Farm girl? You claim Tysha was not... a whore?"
The bonds between father and son are sacred indeed, Joffrey thought sardonically.
"Uncle Jaime admitted it himself. She was as pure as fresh-fallen snow."
Jaime? Tyrion's mind reeled. For several heartbeats, he stood stunned, and then his eyes darkened once more.
Joffrey could see the war within those mismatched eyes—pain, doubt, relief, hatred, and countless other emotions too complex to name.
What would Tyrion do with this truth? Hate Jaime? Commit patricide as foretold? Endure and plot his revenge?
Joffrey could not be certain, but he had prepared for any outcome.
"I am sorry, truly. But this is the truth of it. Ask Uncle Jaime yourself, if you doubt me. Ask him, and watch his face carefully when you do."
Joffrey spoke with all the sincerity he could muster.
"I don't wish to harm you, nor will I ever do so."
"We can be true friends, Tyrion, helping each other when all others would see us fall."
He meant every word. Learning the truth about Tysha would forever sever Tyrion's bonds with House Lannister.
Such a Tyrion would surely become his most loyal and valuable ally.
The wind whispered through the trees for what seemed an eternity...
Yet Tyrion did not erupt in rage as Joffrey had half-expected.
He asked only: "How fares Tysha now? Where might I find her?"
His voice was weary and parched, like a man lost in the deserts of Dorne, yet his face shone with desperate hope.
But Joffrey could offer little solace.
"I saw only your conversation about her. Even Grandfather doesn't know her whereabouts. He didn't kill her, merely drove her away."
"Where does a branded whore go?" A question that had troubled countless readers and watchers of this tale.
Perhaps to Braavos. Perhaps somewhere in King's Landing itself. Perhaps living quietly in some forgotten corner of the world. Perhaps...
Joffrey could only try to comfort him with a promise.
"Take heart, Tyrion."
"When I am king, I shall command the resources of the entire realm to aid your search. Tysha must still draw breath somewhere, and we shall find her!"
"There is hope yet!"
Time and hope, Joffrey knew, could heal almost any wound, provided it didn't prove immediately fatal.
Tyrion struggled to compose himself. Even before Joffrey, he was loath to reveal such weakness.
He buried the tempest in his heart beneath a carefully constructed mask.
Yes, he thought. There is still hope.
I cannot surrender now! Tysha, my Tysha, may still be waiting.
I must become a better man than I have been.
Gradually, the memories of twenty years of mockery—the stares, the whispers, the cruelties both great and small that had been heaped upon him for the crime of being born a dwarf—rose in his mind like bile.
Tyrion resolved then that he would no longer bend to the world's scorn.
I may be born a dwarf, misshapen and uncomely! Though cursed and abandoned by the gods themselves, I shall never yield!
Let them all witness what becomes of Tyrion Lannister.
I shall thrive and watch as my lord father's body is committed to the ground, and I shall shed not a single tear.
Let them all bear witness as I speak the seven vows with Tysha in the Great Sept of Baelor, blessed by the High Septon himself!
I shall stand in the light, for all to see.
And Casterly Rock shall be MINE at last!