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m_findlowTitle: Ashes to ashes
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Characters: Tyrion
Author: m_findlow
Rating: M
Length: 1,000 words
Content notes: Spoilers for Season 8.
Author notes: Written for Challenge 229 - Optimism at![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fandomweekly
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Characters: Tyrion
Author: m_findlow
Rating: M
Length: 1,000 words
Content notes: Spoilers for Season 8.
Author notes: Written for Challenge 229 - Optimism at
fandomweeklySummary: Tyrion has always seen the good in the world, but now events have left his beliefs in tatters.
Powdery white ash fluttered down from the sky like a dusting of the purest white snow. It might have been beautiful but for the way that the flakes caught on Tyrion's lips, finding their way into his mouth, leaving behind the bitter taste of death and destruction. It was the ash of a hundred market stalls, a thousand taverns, a hundred thousand homes, and a million innocent lives. Those who had thought themselves safe inside the city’s walls against the oncoming army quickly realised that the walls were now keeping them from escape. One way or another, they came to understand that they were going to die here. King’s Landing, once the home of all the kings and queens was nothing more than a smoking rubble, razed to the ground. All because of two people too proud to bend.
Tyrion's boots moved through the growing piles of greying ash, smoke still choking the air with its sulfuric poison. Though he had never ridden atop a dragon, nor spoke more than a few basic words of High Valyrian, he felt himself no less to blame for the destruction that had brought a city to complete ruin. All throughout his life he’d been the benefactor of privilege thanks to his name. Despite the inherent trappings, life was still hard. No dwarf could live an easy life, even one with a lion’s crest and more gold than all the other houses in the realm put together. Yet never once had he despaired at his lot in life. There was always another flagon of wine, another plate of crispy bacon, another whore to tickle his fancy. His tastes had grown more refined as he aged, and it was no longer food and drink that gave him cause to rejoice in life, but the safe and stable rule of an incompetent but likeable king.
Then it had all begun to unravel. Wheels were turning, allegiances shifting, and the balance of power began to tip. It should have been to his liking that his own family came to rule, yet it was marred by greed and tyranny. Still, Tyrion did not give up hope. His nephew was a terrible prince and a worse king, but Tyrion did all he could to foster the boy, to give him outlets for his vicious tendencies and to protect those closest to him who had no other choice but to suffer at his cruelty. Seeing the boy king murdered at his own wedding came as fortuitous, sealing Tyrion's faith that all in the world that was good was not lost. His younger nephew and successor was a good boy, wont to kindness and curiosity. Yet such benevolence was undermined by the power lust of his own mother, Tyrion’s selfish sister.
On and on it went, the Lannister curse striking down the good and the wicked, yet sparing Tyrion himself. His purpose was clear: to find the true heir to the throne and to bring peace and prosperity back to the world. Though the journey had been arduous and not without peril, he had found his Queen, the one woman who was due the throne by bloodright and who gave freedom and a voice to those most downtrodden. No one was more fitting to wear the crown than Daenerys Targaryen, last of her house, and the woman Tyrion had pledged his life and loyalty to. He knew, deep within himself, that their cause was true and that no amount of war or struggle could contain them. He had brought together not an army, but a league of valiant allies to her, convincing them each that his bright vision of the future was worth fighting for. The realm could be whole and happy once more, just as it should be.
His foot caught on something, causing him to trip and fall forward into the ashen rubble. He spat violently out the wretched taste of death and inhumanity, pushing himself up slightly only to realise that what had broken his stride was the curled up bones of some small child, barely any larger than he himself. He doubled over and vomited at the sight of it, adding a paltry splattering of bile to the foetid remains.
Murderer, he pronounced himself, wiping a filthy sleeve across his mouth, doing little to remove the vile aftertaste. This was his doing; all of it. Every life lost was a life on his conscience. Some he had probably known, some he had probably seen and quickly forgotten as they petitioned at court, and some he had no doubt shared an ale with, or a whore. What, he wondered, would they think of his great vision for the future now? Not that it probably mattered. What did the dead care about the future?
Weak sunshine broke through the clouds of dust and smoke and Tyrion raised his head skywards, seeing a blood red orb in the sky, burning amongst the falling ash. Gone were the azure blue skies he remembered, and the warm feeling of bright white sunshine. It made him want to cry. What a stupid, nearsighted creature he’d been, thinking that the world was entitled to kindness and peace. The world was burning and deservedly so. Every ounce of optimism he’d felt that things would be better under Targaryen rule were shattered.
It had been true what they’d said about the House of the Dragon. They were beholden to some ancestral madness that afflicted each of them in its own way. And this was just the beginning. Now that he’d given her the keys to the city and the realm, she would spread her brand of subjugated loyalty to all corners of the Seven Kingdoms, bringing the people to heel or to suffer and burn as had the innocent subjects of King's Landing. There was no hope for anything less than tyrannical rule. Perhaps that was the Lannister curse, finally come to claim him for its own , not by terrible death, but by inflicting terrible life.
Powdery white ash fluttered down from the sky like a dusting of the purest white snow. It might have been beautiful but for the way that the flakes caught on Tyrion's lips, finding their way into his mouth, leaving behind the bitter taste of death and destruction. It was the ash of a hundred market stalls, a thousand taverns, a hundred thousand homes, and a million innocent lives. Those who had thought themselves safe inside the city’s walls against the oncoming army quickly realised that the walls were now keeping them from escape. One way or another, they came to understand that they were going to die here. King’s Landing, once the home of all the kings and queens was nothing more than a smoking rubble, razed to the ground. All because of two people too proud to bend.
Tyrion's boots moved through the growing piles of greying ash, smoke still choking the air with its sulfuric poison. Though he had never ridden atop a dragon, nor spoke more than a few basic words of High Valyrian, he felt himself no less to blame for the destruction that had brought a city to complete ruin. All throughout his life he’d been the benefactor of privilege thanks to his name. Despite the inherent trappings, life was still hard. No dwarf could live an easy life, even one with a lion’s crest and more gold than all the other houses in the realm put together. Yet never once had he despaired at his lot in life. There was always another flagon of wine, another plate of crispy bacon, another whore to tickle his fancy. His tastes had grown more refined as he aged, and it was no longer food and drink that gave him cause to rejoice in life, but the safe and stable rule of an incompetent but likeable king.
Then it had all begun to unravel. Wheels were turning, allegiances shifting, and the balance of power began to tip. It should have been to his liking that his own family came to rule, yet it was marred by greed and tyranny. Still, Tyrion did not give up hope. His nephew was a terrible prince and a worse king, but Tyrion did all he could to foster the boy, to give him outlets for his vicious tendencies and to protect those closest to him who had no other choice but to suffer at his cruelty. Seeing the boy king murdered at his own wedding came as fortuitous, sealing Tyrion's faith that all in the world that was good was not lost. His younger nephew and successor was a good boy, wont to kindness and curiosity. Yet such benevolence was undermined by the power lust of his own mother, Tyrion’s selfish sister.
On and on it went, the Lannister curse striking down the good and the wicked, yet sparing Tyrion himself. His purpose was clear: to find the true heir to the throne and to bring peace and prosperity back to the world. Though the journey had been arduous and not without peril, he had found his Queen, the one woman who was due the throne by bloodright and who gave freedom and a voice to those most downtrodden. No one was more fitting to wear the crown than Daenerys Targaryen, last of her house, and the woman Tyrion had pledged his life and loyalty to. He knew, deep within himself, that their cause was true and that no amount of war or struggle could contain them. He had brought together not an army, but a league of valiant allies to her, convincing them each that his bright vision of the future was worth fighting for. The realm could be whole and happy once more, just as it should be.
His foot caught on something, causing him to trip and fall forward into the ashen rubble. He spat violently out the wretched taste of death and inhumanity, pushing himself up slightly only to realise that what had broken his stride was the curled up bones of some small child, barely any larger than he himself. He doubled over and vomited at the sight of it, adding a paltry splattering of bile to the foetid remains.
Murderer, he pronounced himself, wiping a filthy sleeve across his mouth, doing little to remove the vile aftertaste. This was his doing; all of it. Every life lost was a life on his conscience. Some he had probably known, some he had probably seen and quickly forgotten as they petitioned at court, and some he had no doubt shared an ale with, or a whore. What, he wondered, would they think of his great vision for the future now? Not that it probably mattered. What did the dead care about the future?
Weak sunshine broke through the clouds of dust and smoke and Tyrion raised his head skywards, seeing a blood red orb in the sky, burning amongst the falling ash. Gone were the azure blue skies he remembered, and the warm feeling of bright white sunshine. It made him want to cry. What a stupid, nearsighted creature he’d been, thinking that the world was entitled to kindness and peace. The world was burning and deservedly so. Every ounce of optimism he’d felt that things would be better under Targaryen rule were shattered.
It had been true what they’d said about the House of the Dragon. They were beholden to some ancestral madness that afflicted each of them in its own way. And this was just the beginning. Now that he’d given her the keys to the city and the realm, she would spread her brand of subjugated loyalty to all corners of the Seven Kingdoms, bringing the people to heel or to suffer and burn as had the innocent subjects of King's Landing. There was no hope for anything less than tyrannical rule. Perhaps that was the Lannister curse, finally come to claim him for its own , not by terrible death, but by inflicting terrible life.
