A Requiem of Ash and Stars

CHAPTER 14: THRONES OF DUST AND DESPERATION

Tyrion Lannister stood on a balcony overlooking the city of King's Landing, letting the hot winds buffet his face and ruffle his collar. He held a small goblet of watered wine in one hand, frowning as he noted the condition of the streets below. Overcrowded, filthy, tense. The capital stank of desperation. The last few weeks had seen a sharp rise in poverty, unrest, and violence; the war emptied the royal coffers, King Joffrey's cruelty festered daily, and new rumors of chaos abroad only magnified the madness. Tyrion tried to play the peacemaker, the calm voice in a city devouring itself, but every day brought fresh calamities. If it wasn't Cersei's extravagances, it was Joffrey's cruelty. If not Joffrey, then the smallfolk's anger. If not the smallfolk, then Littlefinger's sly manipulations. Tyrion often wondered whether the Seven had abandoned King's Landing entirely.

He took a sip from his goblet, grimacing at the cheap vintage. Once, he would have demanded better, but the Crown's debts were so mountainous that Tyrion forced himself to accept sacrifices. The city's cellars lacked even the modest luxuries now. He set the goblet on a narrow stone ledge. From here, he could see a corner of the Red Keep's walls, the distant sprawl of slums, and the trickle of the Blackwater Rush shimmering in the sun. He folded his hands behind his back, reflection in his mind turning to that ephemeral idea of "keeping order." It had become his day-to-day struggle—a Sisyphean task.

He turned, stepping back into the corridors of the Tower of the Hand. For the moment, the tower served as his personal domain, courtesy of his father naming him Hand of the King in absentia. Tywin Lannister still waged war beyond the city's horizon, leaving Tyrion to juggle the capital's crises. With each step, Tyrion's short legs carried him past guards wearing the royal livery. He hardly trusted them. Too many took coin from any bidder. Gold Cloaks had devolved into near-mercenaries, corruption rife among their ranks. With finances so strained, they seized bribes to feed families or indulge greed. Tyrion scowled at the thought. The city needed real law and leadership, but Joffrey offered neither.

He reached the hallway outside his office. Two Lannister guards stood there, scowling as if offended that a dwarf commanded them. Tyrion only offered them a curt nod, ignoring their barely disguised contempt. He pushed open the door and slipped inside. This chamber was cluttered with documents, ledgers, half-written letters, and a mountainous schedule of upcoming tasks. The smell of wax and ink hung in the stale air. Books lay piled on a side table, open to pages enumerating the realm's debts. One glance made Tyrion's stomach lurch. The Crown owed sums so vast that even the Iron Bank of Braavos threatened to call in the debt. Meanwhile, Cersei continued to spend lavishly, renovating halls or hosting pointless feasts to stroke her ego.

He settled behind a wide wooden desk, rubbing his eyes. The day was only half-gone, and already he felt the weight of a hundred problems. He tried not to think about Joffrey, but he could hardly forget how that boy-king savored cruelty. Tyrion had glimpsed the results: a mass of fresh graves where Joffrey had "cleaned up" supposed bastard children of Robert, public flogging or beheading of minor offenders, punishing the smallfolk with draconian taxes for "disloyalty." The city boiled with resentment, but Joffrey seemed to relish it. Tyrion had no illusions about how precarious their situation was. If a riot broke out, or if any outside force threatened King's Landing, the entire structure might collapse.

A soft knock at the door. He sighed, rubbing his temple. "Come in," he said.

Bronn entered first, sharp eyes scanning for threats, then stepped aside to admit Shae. She glided in, wearing a loose shift and a faint smile, though worry crinkled her brow. Tyrion felt a flutter of relief to see them both. Bronn, for all his mercenary cynicism, was the only guard Tyrion truly trusted—bought loyalty might be ephemeral, but with Bronn, at least the transaction was honest. Shae was his lover, a bright spot in these dismal times, though Tyrion feared for her safety if Cersei learned of her. She was not just a bed companion: she offered emotional warmth that Tyrion desperately needed.

Shae came around the desk, lightly touching Tyrion's shoulder. "You look exhausted, my lion," she murmured, though her smile was subdued. "Come, rest. It's so stifling in here."

He let out a weary laugh. "Rest? A pleasant idea, my sweet, but the realm doesn't allow me that luxury." He gestured at the papers strewn about. "I have a hundred new crises. The city's anger grows. Joffrey's idiocy worsens. Cersei's spending spree bleeds the treasury. My father's waging war abroad. Meanwhile, we have rumors of the Stark boy capturing Jaime. Hardly a moment to breathe."

Shae pouted, massaging Tyrion's shoulders gently. "You're so tense. Maybe just a moment to lie down?"

He closed his eyes briefly, enjoying her touch. "Mm, don't tempt me. Because if I lie down, I might never get up."

Bronn gave a sardonic grin, leaning against a wall. "Think of it this way, halfman: if you die of stress, you won't see tomorrow's headache. But then you'll forfeit all the fun of being Hand."

Tyrion snorted. "If that's your attempt at comfort, Bronn, try again." He rubbed his forehead. "But I appreciate the humor. Now, what news do you bring?"

Bronn shrugged. "Street fights keep flaring up near Flea Bottom. Gold Cloaks are worthless. Commoners starve; the Crown taxes them even more. Some blame the queen for throwing them out of castle service. She replaced half the old staff with her own picks—most incompetent. Everyone's upset. Then there's the corruption: any guard with half a uniform takes bribes from thieves or lords. It's a cesspit."

Tyrion nodded grimly. "I guessed as much. Any chance we can quell these tensions?"

Bronn snickered. "You'd have to dethrone Joffrey to start. Or muzzle him at least. He's the biggest source of fear and rage, cutting off tongues, beating the poor, raising taxes for more parties. The city can't stand him."

Tyrion set his jaw. "I know. But dethroning him isn't exactly feasible. And if father returns, he'll defend Joffrey as the future of House Lannister. Meanwhile, Mother indulges him. She sees him as the rightful king, ignoring the madness he sows."

Shae's hands paused on Tyrion's shoulders. "Can't you do something, my clever lion? Trick him or bribe him to behave? Or talk sense into your sister?"

Tyrion barked a humorless laugh. "Talk sense into my sister? Easier to talk sense into a rabid dog. She's too busy mourning Jaime's capture, blaming everyone except herself. She stands by Joffrey no matter the cost. And Littlefinger—he whispers in Joffrey's ear, fueling ambition, sowing chaos, presumably building a ladder for his own climb. Pycelle is little more than a spineless toady. Varys, ironically, might be the only one with a shred of genuine concern for the realm."

He leaned back, letting Shae step away to perch on the desk's edge. He regarded the two of them. "I might trust you more than the entire small council combined. That's how dire things are."

Bronn smirked. "I charge extra for trust, you know."

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Then I'll consider it a major expense in this bankrupt monarchy. Now, we're about to have a small council meeting soon. Undoubtedly, Cersei will rant about Jaime and blame me for not conjuring an army from thin air. We can't reveal how empty the coffers are, or the city might panic further. I only hope we can keep Littlefinger's manipulations from toppling everything. Varys might help, but he has his own agenda."

He rubbed his face, the weight of it all pressing on him. "Sometimes I wish I'd stayed in a brothel far from King's Landing. Let father or Cersei manage this nightmare. But I suppose it's too late."

Shae patted his cheek, sympathy in her eyes. "You're the only sane one here, Tyrion. Don't give up. We need you."

Before Tyrion could respond, a muffled voice outside called, "My lord, they're waiting for you in the council chambers."

Tyrion sighed, sliding off his chair. "Duty calls. Bronn, stay close. Shae, keep safe here if you can. I'll see if I can hurry back." He paused, giving Shae's hand a quick squeeze, drawing courage from her warmth. Then he nodded to Bronn, who opened the door. Together, they headed out. Tyrion mentally braced for the swirl of conflicts waiting in that chamber.

They crossed the keep's corridors, passing tapestries that Cersei had had refurbished with coin they didn't have. Tyrion's mood soured further. Everywhere he looked, the veneer of power masked rot beneath. By the time they reached the small council's antechamber, Tyrion already heard voices raised in anger. He took a steadying breath and entered.

He was last to arrive. Around the long table sat Cersei, glowering with red-rimmed eyes; Littlefinger, sporting his usual sly grin; Pycelle, half-dozing until any chance to parrot the queen's line; and Varys, hands folded in a posture of mild curiosity. An empty seat waited for Tyrion near the table's head. Joffrey was not present—thank the gods. He rarely attended council sessions, preferring to amuse himself with cruelty in the yard or in dark dungeons.

Cersei turned on Tyrion the moment he stepped in. "You're late," she snapped. "Why must you always strut in last, making yourself the center of attention?"

Tyrion offered a mock bow. "Apologies, dear sister. I was busy attempting to salvage what's left of this city's finances." He hopped up onto his seat, ignoring her glare. "So, what's today's catastrophe?"

Cersei slammed a fist on the table. "Jaime is captured, that's the catastrophe! Father is off fighting, but you're here, apparently failing to do anything to rescue my brother. Instead you waste time fumbling with taxes."

Tyrion felt a surge of annoyance. "And what do you propose I do, my lady? March across the realm alone? We have no large force near the Trident. Our best armies are under Tywin's command in the field. You could dispatch your beloved gold cloaks, but half of them can't even quell city riots, let alone free Jaime from the Stark boy's camp."

She scowled. "Then find a way! If you had been more attentive, perhaps we wouldn't be losing this war."

Tyrion snorted. "We're losing because Joffrey provoked half the realm into rebellion with his brutal antics—executing Ned Stark's men, attacking the smallfolk, refusing any compromise. Need I list all the ways we've alienated potential allies? Or mention how you let him do it?"

Cersei's face flushed, but she turned her fury at the rest of the council. "This war is not my fault alone. Pycelle, you've been no help. You just nod your head and drool. Varys, you claim to have little birds, but none warned us of the Stark ambush capturing Jaime. Littlefinger—" She rounded on him, "You whisper advice to Joffrey, sowing confusion. All of you are to blame!"

Littlefinger merely offered a disarming chuckle. "Oh, my queen, we all do our best. War is a messy business. And your nephew… well, it's tough to manage his passions. My sole role is to keep finances afloat, which grows more difficult daily."

Pycelle flinched. "Your Grace, I—ah—did what was best for the realm. We must trust in King Joffrey's wisdom."

Varys blinked mildly. "I serve the realm, my queen. But I can only pass along the whispers I gather. If your dear son chooses to disregard them, that's not my doing."

Cersei fumed, slamming her palm on the table. Tyrion let a smirk flicker, though inside he seethed at how fruitless these squabbles were. She was so bent on blaming anyone else that she refused to see her own role in the fiasco. Meanwhile, the city starved and the Crown sank deeper into debt. Tyrion cleared his throat, seeking to steer the conversation. "Perhaps we should address urgent matters—like the Crown's finances. We owe monstrous sums to the Iron Bank and others. If we don't pay soon, the Bank may fund our enemies."

Cersei spat, "Spare me your financial lectures. Jaime is rotting in a Stark camp, and you talk of coin?"

Tyrion opened his mouth to retort, but just then, a raven rapped against the chamber's narrow window. Everyone turned, startled. Varys rose, gliding over to collect the message from the bird's leg. He unrolled the parchment, scanning it with wide eyes. Tyrion noticed Varys's carefully staged reaction—an actor's flair. Something big was in that letter.

Cersei bristled. "Well? What does it say?"

Varys put on a display of shock, letting out a staged gasp. "My… it appears we have news from across the Narrow Sea. The entirety of Essos, or so the rumors claim, has been subjugated under a single conqueror. This conqueror is said to have liberated slaves, forged alliances in Braavos, Qarth, Yunkai, Astapor… so many cities. And now, rumor says this conqueror announces a rightful claim to the Iron Throne, naming himself… Jaehaerys Targaryen, the trueborn son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen."

The council room erupted in pandemonium. Cersei's face blanched, then twisted with rage. Littlefinger's eyes glittered with interest. Pycelle trembled, mouth agape. Tyrion felt his heart skip a beat. Targaryen? Stark? He tried to keep his expression neutral. If Jon Snow was the rumored bastard nephew of Ned Stark, how had he become Jaehaerys Targaryen, rightful heir to the throne? Tyrion's mind reeled at the implications. A sense of awe, confusion, and a flicker of excitement. This changed everything.

Before Tyrion could speak, Cersei stood, nearly toppling her chair. "Impossible! Another Targaryen claimant? And from the Stark line? Lies and fables. We'll crush them as we crushed any foe. Jaime may be captive, but we still have resources."

Littlefinger gave a smooth grin, arching an eyebrow. "Perhaps these rumors are overblown. Or perhaps not. If the entire Essos is allied behind a Targaryen, that is quite a force indeed. Our position grows precarious."

Varys made a show of diffidence. "Who can say if the realm will believe such a claim, but the size of this reported army is staggering. Freed slaves, mercenary companies, even dragons rumored, though unconfirmed. If it arrives in Westeros, Joffrey's reign might be tested from across the sea as well as from the Starks in the north."

Cersei spat curses, flinging the parchment aside. "Enough. This is nonsense. We have real problems now. Tyrion, do something about these rumors. Discredit them, or quell talk. Meanwhile, we focus on our war with the North. This Targaryen fool can be dealt with later."

Tyrion let out a breath, ignoring the swirl of tension. He was barely paying attention to Cersei's rant. Something about the name Jaehaerys Targaryen, a man from the Stark line. Could it be Ned's rumored bastard, Jon Snow, somehow revealed as a Targaryen? The entire notion shook Tyrion's memory of the quiet, brooding boy at Winterfell. If that boy had indeed conquered Essos, the realm faced an unimaginable shift. Tyrion's thoughts spun.

He offered a half-bow to Cersei. "I shall do what I can, dear sister. Meanwhile, if you'll excuse me, there's a matter I must attend. The realm's finances, you understand." He needed a plausible reason to exit. She gave him a searing glare but waved him off.

He slipped out, ignoring the continuing shouts as Pycelle tried to placate Cersei, and Littlefinger murmured sly suggestions into Joffrey's vacant seat. Varys met Tyrion's gaze in passing, arching a brow as if to say, "We'll speak later." Tyrion nodded. Another time. Right now, he had a different plan forming.

He descended winding staircases into the bowels of the Red Keep, following a route to the dungeons. Usually, he avoided that dismal place, but he recalled a rumor that Eddard Stark was still alive down there, locked in a cell, awaiting some grim outcome. If this letter about a Targaryen claimant were true, perhaps Ned might shed light on what in the Seven Hells was happening. Tyrion doubted Ned would be forthcoming, but time was short.

Torchlight flickered along the damp corridor of the dungeon's lowest level. The smell of mold and filth clung to the air. Guards lazed about, half asleep or playing dice on a barrel. They straightened at Tyrion's approach, though their leers said they had little respect for a dwarf. He gave them each a silver stag. "Eddard Stark's cell. I want a word."

One guard spat, "He's to be executed by the King's command, no visitors unless—"

Tyrion's mouth tightened. He held up two gold coins. "I believe the King also commands you to follow my instructions as Hand, yes? Let me in." The guard's eyes flicked greedily, then he pocketed the coins, stepping aside with a mumbled apology.

Tyrion advanced, Bronn trailing behind, careful not to let these untrustworthy guards hinder them. They reached a heavy iron door. The guard fumbled a key, opened it with a creak. Inside, the darkness reeked of stale air and despair. Tyrion motioned for Bronn to wait outside. Then, summoning his courage, he stepped in alone, letting the door clang shut.

The cell was cramped, walls dripping moisture. A single torch sputtered. Eddard Stark sat against the far wall, manacles on his wrists, his hair unkempt, face gaunt from captivity. He looked up slowly as Tyrion approached, weariness and faint hostility in his gaze. Tyrion halted a few paces away, arms folded.

Lord Stark's lips curved in a bitter line. "Lannister scum come to gloat? You or your sister?"

Tyrion exhaled. "Believe me, I'm no friend of her cruelty. I came for… information, and perhaps to see if there's any path that spares more blood. I'm not here to mock you."

Ned studied him in silence, seemingly unimpressed. Tyrion pressed on. "I heard rumors that a Targaryen claims dominion over Essos, calling himself Jaehaerys, alleging lineage from Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. Do you know anything about that?"

Eddard's face flickered with the barest hint of shock, but he masked it quickly. "I know no such man," he muttered.

Tyrion's sharp gaze caught the slip. So Ned recognized the name, or at least suspected something. "Be honest, Lord Stark. The realm stirs with talk of your nephew, or so rumors say. A boy once called…Jon Snow? Has he truly become this Targaryen figure? Freed Slaver's Bay, allied with Braavos? Word is, he's unstoppable now."

Ned's jaw worked. "Jon is… gone from the North. I've not heard from him." Then bitterness twisted his features. "If he has become that which is claimed, maybe the realm will find a better king than Joffrey."

Tyrion tilted his head. "You say that, but do you truly believe it? If he truly is Targaryen, wouldn't that threaten the entire realm with renewed war?"

Ned's eyes flared. "The realm is already at war. And Joffrey's monstrous ways overshadow any threat from across the sea." He gave Tyrion a hard stare. "If you came for answers, I have none to give. Nor do I trust you."

Tyrion half-smiled. "I expected no less. However, let me offer this: your execution is imminent if Joffrey has his way. Cersei might not be able to stop him. So if there's anything you wish to see done for your daughters—if they remain in the city—tell me. I might help."

Ned scowled. "Sansa is a naive prisoner, Arya was rumored to vanish… all my family is lost. I can't trust a Lannister for help." He paused, a flicker of something in his eyes. "Though I hear you're not as cruel as your sister, nor as mad as your nephew. Perhaps you have a conscience after all. But it's too late for me."

Tyrion sighed. "Maybe. Joffrey's mind is set on blood. Still, if I can, I'd prefer to see you ransomed or freed. The realm needs fewer tragedies." He cleared his throat. "As for Jon, or Jaehaerys, or whoever he is, I'd like to know if his claim is real. If the war in Essos might spill here. Because the city can't withstand another cataclysm. The people starve already."

Ned closed his eyes, lips pressed tight. "You want me to break some secret? Sorry. I hold no illusions about living. Joffrey is savage. If he demands my head, I won't grovel for it. If Jon truly conquered half a continent, good for him. Maybe that's the realm's only hope against your vile brood."

Tyrion's shoulders sagged. He recognized that Ned would divulge nothing more. This man was as unyielding as stone. "I see. Then I suppose I can do nothing. I only hope to keep Sansa or Arya from the worst."

Ned's voice caught. "If you have the power to shield them… do so. That's all I ask."

Just then, footsteps clattered outside. The iron door swung open. A pair of gold cloaks, faces grim, marched in. One said, "By King Joffrey's command, Lord Stark is to be brought to the courtyard at once for sentencing."

Tyrion's heart lurched. "Sentencing? That's sudden. The small council hasn't—"

The guard cut him off. "It's direct from the King. We only obey." They yanked Ned upright. Ned winced, trying to straighten.

Tyrion glowered. This was it. If Joffrey had decided to kill Ned, no council or reason would stop him. The realm's fracturing would intensify. House Stark's rage would be boundless. The city might face a Northern siege. And if the rumors of a Targaryen across the sea were true, a new wave of conflict beckoned.

Ned turned one final look to Tyrion. There was no plea in his eyes, only resignation. Tyrion felt a sting of regret. "I'll do what I can," Tyrion whispered. "Though it may not matter."

Ned said nothing, letting the guards drag him away. The door slammed shut, leaving Tyrion alone in the gloom. He stood there, mind racing. This was madness. If Joffrey executed Ned, the war would escalate beyond measure. The people might riot further, the North and Riverlands would never forgive. And if this rumored Targaryen—Jon—emerged in full force, House Lannister might be overwhelmed from multiple fronts.

He clenched his fists, thinking: Must everything crumble around us? Then, with a heavy heart, he left the cell, resigned to the knowledge that time was short and his options few. The corridor's torchlight flickered ominously, as though reflecting the city's fragile state. Tyrion grit his teeth, preparing to challenge Joffrey or Cersei if possible. But he feared it was already too late to save Ned from the block.

Outside, the dungeons felt colder than usual. Tyrion's breath came shallow. The city roiled with tension. War hammered at every gate. And far across the sea, a rumored Targaryen-Stark heir commanded unstoppable armies. If that was truly Jon Snow, Tyrion thought, the realm might soon face a shift beyond all reckoning. Yet Joffrey marched toward his own brand of catastrophe, ignoring every warning sign.

Tyrion ascended the steps to the upper halls, uncertain how he might salvage the situation. He only knew the realm teetered on the brink of a new age, one overshadowed by cruelty in the capital, war in the provinces, and a conquest in Essos that no one had foreseen. And in the midst of it all, one proud man—Ned Stark—was about to die for his honor, an honor that might be meaningless under a king who reveled in chaos.

Tyrion Lannister continued forward, boots echoing on worn stones, swallowing a surge of dread. Tomorrow might see Ned Stark's head roll. The next day might see the city in flames. And beyond, the unstoppable tide of secrets would reshape the realm. He prayed for cunning enough to survive, and for the realm's sake, that was the best he could do.