79 The Crown VS Tywin Lannister

"And tell me Lord Cerwyn, what happened after your father refused to pledge to a false King." Whereas most who conducted trials would stay in their chairs, droning on endlessly, Petyr Baelish had a certain style about him. Dashing about the well of the court, asking animated questions and making wild, sweeping gestures with his hands. One couldn't help but be riveted by it. "After he refused to betray House Stark of Winterfell?"

From the witness stand, Lord Cley Cerwyn glared murderously at the defendant before the tribunal. "He ordered my father to be burned alive. And then watched with pleasure as he screamed his death in the flames." Cerwyn was the last Northern Lord - excluding Robb Stark - left in King's Landing, the others long since heading back to the Imperial Army headquarters and Moat Cailin. But he remained, insisting to give testimony against the man that murdered his father.

The Emperor and Empress oversaw the trial today, and it was clear to the maze of onlookers as to why. Viserys Targaryen had always dreamed of how he would return to the Red Keep. Such dreams had been at the head of a Dothraki horde or a Northern army, but reality found him in chains in front of a tribunal that included his sister and Jon Snow. He couldn't decide which was more humiliating.

"And who had given the order for this burning?"

"It was Ramsay! That traitor!" Viserys' screech echoed through the hall. He was normally silent, but sometimes erupted.

Jon slammed his fist against the arm of the Dragonwolf Throne. "The prisoner will keep silent unless called on to speak!"

"You give me no orders, bastard! Northern cunt! Pimp!" It was obvious that all sanity had left him. 'When a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin.' Daenerys' had landed on greatness. Viserys' on madness, only here it came off to all as pathetic.

Dany had enough. "Guards, restrain the prisoner." The Unsullied gladly obeyed their Mhysa. "One more word and you will be gagged." That seemed to calm things. "Answer the question, Lord Cerwyn."

"Of course, your Highness. It was the Mad Prince."

"The record will reflect that the witness identified the prisoner as the one that committed the crime," Littlefinger stated smugly.

"I've heard enough." Eyes shifted to the Empress. "I feel that enough evidence has been presented to head to verdict." She glanced at Jon. "Do you concur, your Majesty?"

Jon nodded. "Aye, I do." It was a foregone conclusion. "As Emperor, I vote guilty."

"As Empress, I vote guilty." Eight years before, she had looked up at him with eyes full of fear, hoping not to wake the dragon. Now, the position was inverted. Daenerys, her husband and the true Targaryen ruler by her side - sharing the throne of Westeros between them - stared down at her brother. "Viserys Blackfyre, the Imperial Court finds you guilty of murder and treason…"

"You cannot kill the dragon, bastard's slut!" he hissed, struggling against the grip of the guards.

"...and sentence you to die."

Hand on his sword, Ser Jorah advanced to carry out the sentence - just as he or Grey Worm had done for countless traitors and war criminals. All justified. All deaths that neither lost sleep over… "Stop." He stilled, turning his head to see the Emperor rise. "I must do the deed."

Daenerys, face allowing her concern to show. "Jon…"

"It has to be me." Grasping her hand, kissing it, he left her to walk down to the well of the throne room. "He is my kin. If I am to condemn him to death, then I must be the one to swing the sword." Dany retook her seat, hands plopping in her lap and watching her husband. So honorable, even if it kills him inside. 'But would he be the man I love without his honor?' She knew the answer.

Stepping gingerly, boots clicking along the fine marble tile, Jon said nothing as the guards dragged a squirming Viserys to a block of wood - brought up specifically for this moment. He was forced upon it, the Mad Prince screaming in pain as one grabbed his disfigured hand to force it down. Teeth gritted, his gaze met Jon's. "Any last words to say, uncle?"

"You are no kin of mine."

Drawing Longclaw from its scabbard, Jon looked down on Viserys. Dany's insane, incompetent brother. His uncle. Looking into his eyes, seeing the dark indigo sparkling with a fiery madness that he had so prayed that would never grace Dany's, Jon felt nothing but contempt for this husk of a man. A disgrace to House Targaryen. "Viserys," he said, denying him any honor from a name. "In the name of Daenerys of House Targaryen, first of her name, Empress of the Targaryen Empire, I sentence thee to die."

Pure hate gazed back at him. In that one moment, Jon knew what his grandfather Rickard Stark saw as the Mad King sentenced him to die. "You may kill me, but you will always be a bastard."

Atop the throne, Daenerys never hated her brother more than this moment. "Kill him," she commanded, lips quivering with dragonfire.

Before him, Jon found himself transported back in time. To when the oafish coward Janos Slynt was placed before him, before Longclaw's blade. Jon hadn't wanted to kill him, simply wanting the coward to be banished from his sight in disgust. But Viserys. The embodiment of what drove his family to near extinction - what drove Daenerys into hiding and near assassination on multiple occasions - Jon felt the same hate towards him reflected back.

In an instant, a flash of Valyrian steel cut through the air to clunk against wood below. Head rolling across the stone floor, Jon stood there before the decapitated body of his uncle. Breathing heavily, the magnitude of what was done coming to him. He wordlessly handed Longclaw to Ollie before striding back to the throne.

"May the record state that the sentence was carried out by His Majesty." Littlefinger was nothing but thorough.

As Ollie wiped his uncle's blood off Longclaw, Jon took his seat on the Dragonwolf Throne. He felt heavy, the weight of it all falling upon him. 'My uncle.' He killed his own uncle. It was his responsibility - "He who passes the sentence must swing the sword" - and gods the cunt deserved it, but… The killing just never stopped. All he had done was kill. From no names to his own kin.

"I'm good at fighting, but I hate doing it."

But he had enjoyed it for the slightest moment. Enjoyed slicing Viserys' head off… Jon felt disgusted with himself, and weary with it all.

Soft fingers squeezing his hand brought Jon out of his brooding. Glancing to his right, Daenerys watched him intently. Her mouth was curled in a queenly glower, but her eyes sparkled with concern. With love. It was like energy filled him, his skin doused in fire after hours in a frozen lake. "Lord Baelish," he finally said. "Who is next?"

Littlefinger peered at the list in front of him. A ghost of a grin formed. "Tywin Lannister, your Majesty."

Jon fought a groan. "We will begin his trial in the morning." Daenerys caught his irritation and stress, speaking up. Someone that important needed a whole day to himself. "The court is adjourned till tomorrow." The page smacked his staff on the floor, all rising as the Emperor and Empress made their way out.

"The north will rest easy tonight now that Viserys is no more." From what Tyrion had heard from Ser Jorah, the middle child of the Mad King was a stupider chip off the old block - a 'right cunt' if you asked any objective northerner. "Cley Cerwyn will undoubtedly spread the word faster than ravens." He was leaving tonight for Moat Cailin, with his men, King's Landing's stocks of wildfire, and the Queenshield's men bound for the Wall.

Varys followed by his side, both behind their monarchs. "My worry is more on those not in the dungeons. Lady Sansa thinks that there are many Lannister agents still remaining, and my little birds seem to concur. Littlefinger is investigating, but I'd like to do some digging on my own."

"Do it," Dany stated, distracted. The Emperor said nothing.

"And the court painter applicant is here," Tyrion cut in with some calm news as they entered the inner solar. "I think you'll like your portraits."

Entering, Jon immediately went to before the fireplace. It was empty on this cool day in the capitol, but Jon stared at it nonetheless. Hunched over, he braced his arms atop the bannister, sagging from the weight of it all.

All noticed by Daenerys, her husband close to the breaking point. "This will be continued later." Her tone left no room to counter. When Varys and Tyrion failed to obey her command immediately, her tone rose. "Leave, now!" The Hand and Master of Whisperers left with all haste, knowing it was wise not to displease the Mother of Dragons.

Sighing, Tyrion rolled the kinks out of his neck. "We saw two forms of Fire and Blood today, my cockless friend. One a pathetic imitation of his more infamous father…"

"...And the other most vicious only when her husband or children are hurt." In all his years advising Kings, from the vicious, to the idiots, to the vicious idiots, Varys had never seen anything like it. "Our Empress' heart has survived everything thrown at it, largely due to our Emperor."

"And someone who literally died from betrayal has stayed true to himself. Two kind souls, not deserving of any of this." Childless himself, the Imp often saw the two majesties as sort of paternal manner. When they were pained, he was pained. "Such a shame, Varys, what is happening to their Majesties." They proceeded down the hallway, down the row of statues of past Targaryen Kings, restored to their rightful place. "All they have is the best of intentions, and yet they are driven to madness by those with the worst." Oh did he know about those with the worst of intentions.

"Only those that do not truly wish to rule prove to be good at it." Varys reflected on the first time he entered these halls, during the final years of Aegon V's rule. "Aemon Targaryen truly desired to forego the throne, and he did. Perhaps the pain of the last decades would not have happened had he accepted his birthright?"

"And yet we wouldn't have had Emperor Jon and Empress Daenerys." Tyrion chuckled. "We are truly living in momentous times, Varys. Even without an army of dead men marching south to wipe us all out, change is in the air."

"We chose wisely in who to follow, at least at the end. They share the same gentle heart and moral compass, placing them above we schemers and sadists."

It was the truth, Tyrion knew. Few came to power without selling their souls to despair or madness. "They did, and they check their worst impulses. Daenerys protects Jon from indecisive brooding, and Jon tempers the Targaryen ruthlessness in Daenerys. I am a lucky man to be in their confidence, and fear for those who would get in their way."

The normally emotionless eunuch looked down at the Imp with a ghost of a smile. "I now know the meaning of the words in the fire long ago. 'You will die in a foreign land, my son,'" he recited, burned in his memory. "'But rejoice, for you will do so gladly, in a land called Empire.' The voice was right, Tyrion. We've been lucky, but it is fortitude that nurtures such luck." Varys disappeared down a dark corridor, leaving Tyrion mystified at the cryptic statement.

As soon as the doors were closed, Daenerys threw her arms around Jon and pulled his head to her shoulder. "Oh Jon." She rubbed his back, feeling the heat of unshed tears. "You did right. You did right," she murmured over and over into his ear.

"I… I enjoyed killing him." Jon's voice was hoarse. "He was my uncle and I enjoyed slicing his head off."

"Viserys brought it on himself. I showed him mercy even when he threatened our twins, and yet he allied with a sadist in order to rape and massacre his way to the Iron Throne."

"He was still my family." Jon could just picture it. His grandfather murdering his other grandfather, raping his grandmother… "I fear I'm becoming the Mad King."

Horror gripped Dany's expression. "What, oh gods, no!" She kissed him, endlessly, fighting to get her message across. "You are a good man. Why would you even think that?!"

"It is in my blood… the madness."

"You are not mad. You are nothing like him." She gazed into his eyes, willing the thoughts of the terrible, evil past away. So beaten down for being a bastard, it only now occurred to him that he was truly a dragon. "If we look back, we are lost."

Jon's eyes still held an infinite weariness. "You know what they say. The coin flips…"

"And one half is greatness, Jon. That is you." Hands on his cheeks, she gazed into his weary grey eyes. "We don't fight for power. For a meaningless throne. We fight for our people, so that they may live in a better world than the shit one they've always known. So that the wheel never crushes them, nor that they may never know chains." Her hand traced his scar over his shirt. "You took a knife in the heart for your people. You are a good man, a good emperor." Dany took his hand and put it over her heart. "My emperor."

He leaned in for another kiss, quenching the emptiness of his soul with Daenerys. "Promise me, Dany. If I become mad…"

"You won't."

"Promise you'll take Saracen and do the deed." Tears pricked in Dany's eyes. "Please…" His words trailed off as they just stood there, swaying softly.

Gently, Dany pulled her husband towards their outer solar. 'Perhaps looking at the portraits would cleanse his mind?'

The artist had arranged two large canvasses - nearly reaching the ceiling - with drapes covering them. He was the same one from Meereen that Jon had so admired, and spent his time in White Harbor during the final stage of the Emperor's War honing his craft with images of the north. Now, he pushed for something far grander. "Your Majesties, I hope all is to your liking."

Daenerys gasped as the drape fell from the canvas, exposing the painting to light once again. "My gods…" The artist had truly created a masterpiece. Jon was posed in his battle armor as a decisive conqueror, black cloak with a red tinge draped over him in a billowing mass - the paint was so fine, she could even pick out the strands of fur on the cloak. One hand extended out to touch the top of a northern helmet behind him, the other gripping the hilt of Longlaw tied to his belt. What captured Dany the most was the expression. She looked with awe at Jon's brooding face peering out, with warmer touches of red reserved only for the full lips and cheeks. His grey eyes shined with an emotion of strength, one she fell in love with. "It looks just like you, my love." Everyone would know what the great Jon Targaryen looked like in his prime. The man who had won the heart of the Mother of Dragons.

Jon didn't hear her. Too transfixed by Dany's portrait. Crown atop her braided head, she stood only feet away from the Iron Throne itself. One hand extended out, palm open in a gesture of grand altruism. The other rested on the pleats of her black battledress. Draped over her shoulders was a blood crimson royal robe, combining with the dress as the colors of House Targaryen. Silver jewels graced Dany's form - colored the same as her hair - but the one that stood out to Jon was the chain draped across her chest. The clasp was a direwolf's head. The sigil of House Stark. And set in her face were her violet eyes. The artist had captured the contrast of her, the pale colors set in a hard edge of a strong ruler, while the eyes radiated warmth. Love. Caring. The same gaze Dany gave him, one that could melt him in his most brooding.

The first person to truly show that to him. To give him a home. To prove him not merely a bastard named Snow… or a madman named Targaryen. Perhaps she would be his salvation from a horrible fate, and he hers.

Smiling at his reaction, Dany turned to the artist. "I believe the Emperor approves. If you can produce more like these, then you shall be the official painter of the court."

The Meereenese artist bowed low, gratefully. "Thank you, Mhysa. It is the honor of a lifetime."

Soon, they were alone. Dany looked once more at her portrait. "I do look pretty good there, don't I?" Jon didn't answer, merely enveloping her in his arms. She returned his embrace, looking up. "Jon…"

"I love you, Dany. You gave me a home."

His words of affection, of love, they melted her. This perfect man, one of kindness, honor, bravery, and strength, devoted to her more than even her dragons. So perfect, only for the world to use every opportunity to destroy him. 'He'd literally take a knife for his people.' If he had to die for her, he would in an instant. It broke her heart to think about, but at least she could give him the love he deserved. "You gave me a home as well, my love." Dany kissed him, deeply.

Fist hovering barely an inch from the wood of the door, Jaime Lannister hesitated. A man that rarely hesitated. Trained by the Sword of the Morning and Barristan the Bold, he was used to making bullheaded, aggressive decisions. 'Perhaps that is what got me in hot water?' But this was not out of turning over a new leaf. Jaime just didn't know what he would say… simply standing there out of fear.

All was set for the Night's Watch Detachment of the Imperial Army to march out. Ghiscari volunteers, the Brotherhood Without Banners, the Fiery Hand irregulars that Kinvara had brought from Essos, and the remnants of the City Watch of King's Landing. Five thousand men ready to defend Castle Black, all under his command. Jaime figured he'd be afraid of the dead men, for the image of the snarling corpse in the dragonpit - generally with Cersei's face - haunted his very dreams, but he wasn't at the moment. Instead, fearful of a crippled boy. The one he was here to see.

As he was about to knock, the door opened. Jaime was face to face with Littlefinger. The Master of Laws nodded at him, smiling. "Lord Lannister."

Jaime scowled. "Lord Baelish." The oily, two-bit aristocrat slid past him toward whatever hole he dug for himself in the palace. Now it was only two within the room. Jaime bowed reverently to its occupant. "Lord Stark, may I have permission to enter?"

From his wheelchair, Bran peered out to him. "Of course, Lord Lannister. Please enter." Jaime complied with the invitation, closing the door behind him. He held a gaze on Jaime, one of infinite knowledge and wisdom. Wisdom to last thousands of lifetimes. "I am not Lord Stark, though. That honor belongs to my brother. You may call me Bran, though only half of me bares that name."

"Alright… Bran," Jaime replied hesitantly, sitting down. Not able to parse that statement for its true meaning. The boy had a dagger rested upon his lap, fingers occasionally fiddling with it - the only source of actual humanity Jaime could see. "Where'd you get that?" he asked, recognizing Valyrian steel anywhere.

Bran looked up at him, placid. "Lord Baelish wanted me to have it, as a gift."

He furrowed his brows. "Give away a Valyrian steel dagger?" Even Littlefinger wouldn't give away something so valuable…

"It was the blade that nearly killed me." Bran's voice was flippant as well as emotionless, as if he spoke of a fond childhood memory rather than his near assassination. "While I was asleep in my bed. Only mother and Summer kept me alive… a dagger supposedly owned by Tyrion Lannister." He looked at Jaime. "Why would he seek my death, Ser Jaime?"

There was no accusation in Bran's voice, but Jaime felt it all the same. "You didn't tell them." He stared at Bran, trying to see if any emotion flickered in the boy's eyes. "You knew it was me in the tower, and yet you said nothing."

No emotion was forthcoming. "My brother Robb already wanted you dead. I don't even think Sansa or Daenerys would stand in the way of your death or imprisonment if I told them the truth."

"Don't you want justice, Bran?" He didn't want to die, but Jaime just couldn't let it go. Couldn't let go of the guilt that started the whole war and chaos. "For your legs. For your family? I caused this entire war… just for…"

"Just for a woman who you loved, but who truly didn't reciprocate?" As always, Bran knew everything. "You weren't the cause of the war, Ser Jaime. Events were in play long before that."

Golden eyes widened. 'Jon Arryn?' So he was poisoned after all. In the end, it still didn't matter. "I deserve your hate. Deserve the Emperor's justice."

"What good would that do?" Bran looked out the window. "Just because you are here means you aren't your sister. Without your actions, I would never have been what I am. Out of the tragedy came the Dawn… so it seems I have to thank you."

Jaime blinked. "What? Why would it be you who…"

Bran cut him off. "I'm not sure yet, Ser Jaime. But I know that we both have our parts to play. Parts so vital that they hold the future of the living in their hands."

"I don't deserve it." A lifetime of running away from his decisions. Of welding himself to a woman he loved, allowing it to give him meaning… all of it came crashing down as he journeyed with Brienne, losing his hand and all his walls. Reevaluating his life as his son destroyed everything good and just in the Seven Kingdoms. Time to atone for his misdeeds, only for the victim of his greatest misdeed to forgive him just like that. "I deserve to suffer for my past sins."

"'If I look back, I am lost.'" There was a terse silence. "The past is behind us. All that remains is the future, a future that will not exist unless we play our parts."

"How would I…"

"When the time is right," Bran smiled, "You will find out."

Excusing the witness from the stand, Littlefinger looked at the Emperor and Empress, then at the watching packed audience, and then back to his monarchs. "And so it is shown, your majesties, the prisoner gave the order for Gregor Clegane to rape and murder Elia Martell and her children with Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. A direct assault upon the Imperial family itself." He spread his hands wide, theatrical gestures that the crowd ate up. "All for the claims of a usurper!"

Tywin Lannister watched from the prisoner's perch. Hands gripping the lip, he strained himself to stand upright with the flimsy prosthetic attached weakly to his stump. The epitome of a fallen man, but no ordinary prisoner. Even in pain and with legacy toppled, he was still a lion. Still a lord.

Fire made flesh, the look in Jon's eyes could melt Valyrian steel. "Is this the last witness, Lord Baelish?" he ground out through clenched teeth. The charges for Tywin Lannister were long and the evidence ironclad. Hours of testimony ranging from the burning of Dorne, the carrying out of Joffrey's reign of terror, the war crimes during the War of the Four Kings - Arya being a star witness in this regard - and the murder of the Targaryen children had left many exhausted and hateful. Leaving Jon boiling with rage that would have overheated even Balerion.

"Yes, your Majesty," Baelish replied. "The Crown rests its case."

"I believe we may proceed to verdict," Jon told his wife.

Unlike her husband, Daenerys was pure ice. Channeling her adoptive house. "Do you have anything to say for yourself, Lord Lannister?"

Glaring back, Tywin did not give the Targaryens an inch. "Nothing that would change your minds."

"Nothing could change Joffrey's mind," the Empress shot back. "Give us some modicum of regret, and we may accede to your son's proposal." Tyrion had tried to broker a deal, to send him to the wall rather than this. Tywin refused, but the Imp was in the throne room nonetheless. Heartbreak on his face.

"I know I will never get a fair trial from the likes of you," Tywin thundered. "I saw the madness of your father, your grandfather - my once friend - and there are no regrets within me that I tried to rid the world of House Targaryen and the death and destruction it caused. Of the Mad King reborn in the two in front of me."

Where once it would have crippled him inside, sent him to a brooding isolation, Jon sat with steel. "You served the Mad King reborn. The King that you sat next to at the dragonpit only months ago." Refusing to budge. "You don't deserve a fair trial, but House Targaryen gives you one nonetheless."

"Murdering my niece and nephew," hissed Daenerys. "Assisting Joffrey in the enslavement of millions. Nearly murdering my own children. The death and destruction of the last few decades rests on your feet, Tywin Lannister. There is nothing before us that precludes the finding of your guilt."

In one moment, the pain and rage of weeks in the dungeons evaporated from him. The fear of a red demon leaving. Tywin looked the epitome of the man that destroyed the Reynes - that made Dorne howl. "Oh, there is, my Empress. If I am to be guilty, then let the gods decide my fate."

"Father, please," Tyrion pleaded. He had already lost his sister to complete madness - a nephew to its fires and a niece as collateral damage. Tywin may have hated him, but he was still his father. "Confess and take the black. Please."

"Shut your mouth, demonspawn," Tywin thundered. "I will not have you decide my fate as you decided your mother's." Tyrion hung his head, defeated. The former Lord of Casterly Rock locked eyes with Daenerys, mutual hate reflected in both. "The gods will be my judge. I demand a trial by combat, with Ser Gregor Clegane as my champion!"

The hall watched in silence as the Empress sat, normally warm and kind eyes blazing fire and blood. Trials by combat were an ancient rite, but each time they had been requested the Emperor denied them with the Empress silent. Now, the ball was in Dany's court…

"Very well. It shall be granted." Uproar.