80 The She-Viper

"Lord Hand, it is an honor…"

Tyrion waved off the obsequious, sandy-haired major domo. "I know, I know. My presence brings glorious tidings to this simple establishment, yes, yes. I've heard the same in whorehouses from Winterfell to Meereen." The trite fawning got old quickly. "I am here for two of your current patrons."

"I am sorry," the blonde said, furrowing his brows. "But Lord Petyr Baelish prides himself on granting his clients confidentiality…"

"You seem to be continuing to talk, which I don't like." Normally Tyrion would be more politic about it, but Littlefinger's subordinates were just as oily as he was. 'If he wasn't so busy, he'd probably be here peeping on everyone.' It irritated him. "See this man?" He pointed behind to Grey Worm. "He is Unsullied. They stood against the Golden Company and ten thousand knights at Highgarden and didn't bat an inch. You do not want to get in the way of them." Grey worm took that moment to narrow his eyes at the functionary.

He gulped. "But of course. They are in the red room… only for the most honored of guests." He scurried off, knowing Tyrion could find his way.

The two men proceeded through the brothel, which was quite busy - through good kings, idiot kings, vicious kings, and vicious idiot kings, flesh peddlers could always count on business. "There were only five thousand horse at Highgarden," Grey Worm corrected. "And they fought hoplites."

"Hyperbole, my dear Grey Worm. You have to stop taking things so literally." Tyrion droled. A masculine growl, followed by a feminine giggle, left one of the rooms they passed. "You know, there's no need for you to be here. I could have brought Jorah, or literally anyone else." The fact that Grey Worm insisted to come here puzzled Tyrion to no end.

The Unsullied commander glowered. "Mountain kill Empress Daenerys family. She want champion, so I get her champion myself." He had volunteered, but the Empress denied, not about to risk Missandei's man beyond what was necessary. "Besides, I not tempted."

"That's cause you have a woman back at the keep that could put most of these to shame." Tyrion became aware of Grey Worm's glare directed to him. "What? It's a compliment."

Nestled in the back of Littlefinger's brothel, Tyrion had experience with the Red Room. He had visited it himself during the years prior to King Robert's visit to Winterfell, and it had been where he rewarded Podrick for his faithful service - proving he had a magic cock. Littlefinger only rented it out to the highest paying clients… and the person he wished to see was certainly the highest paying of all of them. Pushing the curtains back, he could already hear the multiple girlish giggles… along with a throaty, seductive laugh of a lady.

"Interrupting something?" the Imp finally said, arms crossed and a smirk on his face. Two women, a blonde and redhead - both pale as chalk - shot up. From the shy and modest expressions, they were clearly new acquisitions by Baelish. "Don't worry, I'll only be a moment."

A groan left the lips of the previously happy man. "Go," Bronn of the Blackwater groaned. "But I'll expect you two back." The girls frittered away, covering their nakedness. Upon the large bed rested a shirtless Ser Bronn, as well as a rumpled but otherwise clothed Tyene Martell. 'Just like her father,' Tyrion thought, amused. "For someone as… notorious as you, Tyrion, why must you interrupt my good times?"

Tyrion couldn't help but chuckle. "Well, well. Ser Bronn, your betrothed is making a Martell out of you yet." His chuckles continued at the obscene gesture Bronn threw his way. "Though, a true Martell would have men as well as women in his bed."

"There's still time," Tyene grinned, earning an eye roll from the former sellsword.

"I'll stick to the ladies, thank you." Bronn lightly thumped Tyene on the arm, knowing that she could take it. "Preferably this lady."

Tyene made a kissy face at him, and winked at Tyrion while Bronn wasn't looking. "So, what brings you here that couldn't wait for me to finish, Lord Hand?"

Clearing his throat, the Hand to the Empress pulled a up stool and took a seat upon it. Bronn grumbled something about it taking too long, Tyene silencing him with a punch to the shoulder. "As you know, my father has called for a trial by combat to determine his guilt."

Her feline satisfaction changed to a snarl. "If you wish for my sympathies for your father's plight, you've come to the wrong person." Tywin Lannister had the unenviable distinction of topping the murder of Elia Martell in the eyes of Dornish hate. "Frankly, I'm shocked Her Majesty allowed this to happen."

Tyrion chafed and Grey Worm scowled at the criticism of Daenerys, but they let it go. Their Empress was not Joffrey… or even Robert. She didn't punish someone for criticism or hateful words. "Regardless, their Majesties need their champion."

"No. Not just no, fuck no!" Bronn was adamant. "I am not fighting the fucking Mountain. I fought for you once, Tyrion, cause I could beat any of those pansy ass Vale fuckers with my eyes closed, but that hulking asshole… I just got my lady and my castle. I'm not doing it."

"Her Majesty not ask for you, Ser Bronn." Grey Worm cut to the heart of the matter. "She ask for you, Lady Martell."

For once, both currently resting in the large bed were shocked speechless. "M… me?" Tyene finally sputtered.

"Is this a fucking joke?" Bronn blinked, trying to process this.

"Empress Daenerys never joke," Grey Worm said, flatly.

"Well…" Tyrion shrugged. Grey Worm and his complete loyalty. "Not about something like this, anyway."

Bronn erupted out of the bed, face red with rage. "She's not fuckin' doing it!"

"Easy, Bronn." Tyrion held up his hands. "It isn't me asking, it is Her Majesty."

"I don't care of the Lord of Light and all the Old Gods fucking descended from snow white horses that shit gold to ask her, she isn't…!"

"I accept."

Three pairs of eyes swiveled to her. Grey Worm was emotionless, Tyrion's was quizzical as he hadn't thought she'd actually accept, while Bronn was completely incredulous - and tinted with fear. "That was quick," Tyrion stated after a long silence.

The lady leaned forward, fire in her eyes. It would be my privilege to avenge my aunt and cousins. Their death is a blight in the history of Dorne, one needed to be rectified." She laughed… sinisterly. There was no doubt she was a viper of Sunspear. "And killing him will only ensure Tywin Lannister's death as well. Dorne will celebrate when I emerge victorious."

Desperation in his voice, Bronn reached out and grabbed her hands. "Please… love. Don't do this." Tyrion stared at his longtime friend. Never had he seen the former sellsword so… vulnerable. "I don't want to lose you to that… that…"

Tyene silenced him with a kiss. "I survived the damn Army of the Dead. I can survive Gregor Clegane. Besides," she grinned. "My father taught me a thing or two. Now." Tyene looked at Tyrion and Grey Worm. "If you'll excuse me, the Lady of Sunspear wishes to enjoy the pleasures of this world with her betrothed."

Leaving the couple to argue… or not argue, Tyrion and Grey Worm ducked through the curtian just as the girls returned. "Let this be a lesson about the Dornish. They like to fight and fuck, only." Grey Worm merely grunted.

Sitting in front of the vanity table, Daenerys enjoyed the airy solitude of the Imperial chambers. Moonlight shone through the gossamer curtains, adding to the low firelight that shone against her silky locks. It was let out of her usual braid. Flowing free as she brushed it, just as Jon liked - how only Jon could truly see her with her guard down. How only he was entrusted with it.

Within her womb, the little one was rolling softly. Growing ever larger. Dany reached down with her free hand, stroking the bump underneath her nightgown. "Soon, my little dragonwolf. Three more moonturns." The baby within her kicked in response, filling Dany with warmth. Pure happiness filled her. 'How did I deserve such good fortune?' Such a wonderful life?

Two arms wrapped around her from behind… and she stiffened. Jerked in her seat from terror. "Hey, hey my love." Jon tilted her head back, looking into the violet eyes. "It's me."

Nightmare still haunting her occasionally, it was only the proof of Jon looking into her that calmed Dany down. "Oh Jon…" Fingers weaving into his raven locks, she brought him in for a kiss. "I love you."

"I love you too." He peered quizzically at his wife. "What's wrong? Why are you so tense, my dragon?" Without urging, he rested his hands on her shoulder, kneading gently.

Daenerys' head lolled back, a moan leaving her lips. "Oh gods… you have magic hands, Jon." Hot on her skin, his fingers worked out knots and kinks she never knew she had. "You are perfect."

Before, he would have just shot it down. Now, the Emperor merely smiled. "I'm glad you think so. Now tell me what's wrong."

'He's not giving up.' "I'm just worried about Tyene… fighting the Mountain." It was only a half lie - she did worry about that, but didn't want to burden Jon with mere nightmares. He truly didn't deserve it, and they were all worried about the Long Night, looming above like an evil shroud.

"She's a strong fighter, you said so yourself." He moved his hands to her upper back, caressing and working the pale skin. "But if you're that worried, why did you name her as your champion."

It was hard to think straight with Jon's magic hands on her. "Because…" she finally said. "She's the only one besides the Hound who truly despises Gregor Clegane on a personal level, and the Hound does not hold the key to Dorne in his hands. The key to eliminating any further discontent in the Seven Kingdoms."

The Emperor chuckled. "This is why you are the Empress… because you are brilliant." Daenerys smiled, pulling him down for another kiss.

Minutes later, the two were upon the bed, Dany holding her husband's head between her breasts in a comforting embrace. Jon closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of her soft skin and rhythmic breathing against his head. "I think we should come up with names, my dragon."

A wistful smile spread across Dany's lips, falling more in love with her husband than she had been a mere five minutes before. "I believe that is a good idea, my wolf." Her hand lazilly breezed down his shoulder. "I think, if our child is a boy, he should have a northern name."

"And a girl should have a Targaryen name." He was still a northerner, but Jon wanted to honor Dany's Valyrian ancestry - his ancestry. "Perhaps Rhaella, for your mother."

"We already have one child named Rhaella, Jon."

"True." He furrowed his brows, thinking. "I like Alyssa, or Saera…"

It just seemed right to her. "Saera is beautiful. That's the one." Feeling a need to be even closer to him, Dany reached out for his shoulders, urging him up. Jon compiled without hesitation, nestling her head against his bare chest. "Mmmm… and what if our baby is a boy?"

He kissed the crown of her head, resting his hand on her swollen midsection. "I've always liked the name Benjen."

"After your uncle?" At Jon's nod, she smiled. "Prince Benjen Targaryen. Ben Targaryen." It rolled off the tongue. "I like that." Daenerys snuggled into the hard planes of his chest. "How did I get so lucky, Jon? I was never meant for this." Sold like a broodmare… under the control of Viserys. At best, she would be in the position her mother was in during the last years of her life - not this… bliss.

"You're Daenerys Stormborn, my love." He looked into her eyes. "You make the once impossible happen."

Leaning up, Dany pressed their lips together in a sweet kiss, arms looping around Jon's neck. "Gods, you make me so happy, my dragonwolf." It was now he that resumed the kiss.

As always between them, the kiss grew heated. The stress within him fueling an inner dragonfire, and her pregnancy making her insatiable, the two dragons found themselves combusting into an inferno. "Fuck, Dany," Jon gasped, feeling her soft hands clawing at his back and wrapping around his length.

"Make love to me, Jon." The desire threatened to consume her. They had made love in the morning and twice the previous night - cries of pleasure a veritable typhoon within the Red Keep - but it was not enough. He could never be enough. "Attend to your Empress."

He did not disappoint.

Trumpets blared, heralding the thousands that crowded on the cliffside of the Red Keep to watch the coming show. Smallfolk pushed and shoved to get a glimpse of what would be the entertainment of the century: the infamous Gregor "The Mountain" Clegane fighting Tyene Martell, Sand Snake and Lady of Dorne. It turned itself into a veritable street fair, peddlers selling all manners of commemorative trinkets, food stands selling spiced wine, skewered pork, and roasted apples, and musicians plying their trade through witty, scathing ballads to the 'Vicious Idiot Joffrey' and whomever graced his small council. A grand old time for all.

Whatever highborn lords and ladies within King's Landing were seated in rows closely overlooking the courtyard, where the fighting would be. The biggest Dothraki screamers the Imperial Army had lined the makeshift arena, ready to put the Mountain down if he went berserk, a tight cluster of a dozen Unsullied ringing the Imperial box lined with the three-headed dragon and direwolf banners. The Emperor's direwolf, yawning in the heat, rested under the shade of the raised awning. No chances were being taken.

"You do not have to do this." In spite of nearly two weeks of yelling, passive-aggressive silent treatments, and raw, animalistic fucking, Bronn still tried to convince Tyene to back out. "I am sure their Majesties can find someone else."

Tyene took deep breaths, cracking her knuckles and rolling her neck. "No. I do this for my family. For my father, mother, and sisters. And cousins that I never will meet."

Bronn furrowed his brows. "How do you think they'll feel if the Mountain chops you in half?"

She leaned forward and kissed him. "I do not intend to die today."

"Hey, snake bitch." Head turning, Tyene found the scarred visage of Sandor Clegane, arms crossed over his chest. "I need a word," he demanded gruffly.

Bronn narrowed his eyes at him. "I'd be careful of what you say to her…"

"Leave it." Tyene silenced her betrothed with a finger to the lips. "What do you want, Hound?"

The former kingsguard turned reluctant-brotherhood mercenary stepped forward, an ugly sneer on his face. "So the fuckin' Empress picked you over me, eh? Cunts sticking together or something like that?"

Tyene simply met his gaze. "And you speak of your monarch in such a manner?"

"What? She's a she, so she's got a fuckin' cunt." He laughed dryly at his own joke.

"So why are you here in front of me, Clegane? Angry that I stole your chance to send your brother to the deepest hell?"

Clegane snorted. "Aye, but I don't care. I would have killed that motherfucker had that asshole Dondarrion hadn't snuck in a blow." Reaching to his belt, Sandor pulled out a small hunting knife, laying to rest Bronn's fears of attack when he took it by the blade. "Here's my knife. When you kill him, use this blade." He laughed… a genuine laugh, though from him it seemed more a half-snarl. "The only thing that would piss Gregor off more than me killin' him is a pretty little girl doing the deed with my childhood blade."

Sharing a wry look with Bronn, Tyene grinned at the Hound and took the blade. It was as small as one of hers, only the steel thicker. "This will do quite nicely."

The trumpets blared once more, this time in short, stucco bursts. "Presenting," Missandei announced, "Their Majesties Emperor Jon and Empress Daenerys, first of their names of Houses Targaryen and Stark." Through the doorway of the outer walls of the Red Keep, Jon and Dany exited arm in arm, clad in a simple grey gambeson and red dress respectively. The crowd went wild, cheering their names in a scene reminiscent of the people of New Valyria years before. In spite of the somber nature of the day, the monarchs smiled and waved to their people.

Each sat upon their mobile thrones, the rest of the highborns and dignitaries seating as well. "Bring out the prisoner," announced Sansa. To jeers and boos from the crowd, Tywin was led out by Grey Worm and other Unsullied, hobbling on his prosthetic to the prisoner's stand.

Tyrion watched with a grimace. A conflict of whether to hate the man who had made his childhood a living hell or grieve for the man that gave him life. "Are you sure you wish to do this, father?"

"You are no son of mine," was the curt reply. And that was that.

"In the sight of the gods," Sansa stated, speaking for the crown - in Tyrion's stead, out of mercy for the poor soul - "We gather to judge the guilt of Tywin Lannister for the crimes of murder, high treason, and black magic. For the prisoner, his champion, Gregor of House Clegane."

Led forth by the largest Dothraki that most had ever seen - even then towered by the champion - the Mountain's chains were struck from his arms. He had been plucked from the dungeon for this, and he flexed his fingers with newfound freedom. Draped in armor, he made for his massive sword. Eyes sought out his brother with a hateful glare. Sandor responded with a middle finger that earned the roaring approval of the crowd.

"And for the crown, Tyene of House Martell. She-Viper of Sunspear and Lady of Dorne." Dropping a savage kiss on Brone's lips, Tyene advanced into the light. She dressed in the traditional costume of a Martell Warrior - head wrapped, golden tunic and trousers clasped tightly to her waist, and tall boots of the finest leather. Entering with style, Tyene cartwheeled into the courtyard, leaping into the air and landing on one foot - blades drawn, one her skinny dagger for which she fought in battle after battle, the other the hunting knife provided by the Hound. She was clearly the crowd's favorite, judging from the wild screams coming from the smallfolk.

"Let the trial by combat begin!"

Snarling, the Mountain brought his sword down with all the force he could… only to pulverize the sandstone beneath. Tyene leapt out of the way, somersaulting to Clegane's right, lashing out with her dagger in a crouch. The sharp metal pierced thin chain mail, spilling blood from bulky thigh muscle. The Mountain let out a hiss, swiping back with his thick arm and knocking Tyene to the ground.

Tywin grinned softly, watching the action. He didn't care if he lived, only if his living managed to one up the Targaryens one last time.

Biting back a gasp, Daenerys could breathe again when Tyene managed to roll out of the way from another downward slice by the Mountain's sword. She hurled herself upright, ignoring the aching bruise on her breast. Lashing out with her dagger, she stabbed through the join between breastplates. Clegane gasped out again with pain, gasp turning to a growl as he charged…

Only for Tyene to dance out of the way. "You know what you did to my family, motherfucker," she shouted, each word dripping with her exotic accent. "You raped my Aunt Elia. You murdered her!" Another lunge. "You killed her children!" Might as well toy with him, annoy him to the point of blind rage. Besides, this was fun.

"Fuck, you!" Ser Gregor lashed out with his sword, only for Tyene to slash across his wrist with the hunting knife. Howling in pain, Clegane dropped the sword, the knife then slicing through the straps of his breastplate - an expert blow that didn't cause damage but sent one plate clattering to the ground.

"Admit it, you fucker! Admit what you did!" Before she could continue, a mailed fist slammed into her gut, knocking the wind out of Tyene and sending her dagger to the ground next to his breastplate. But the Vipers of Sunspear were resilient. A left hook barely missed her face. But the hunting knife to the gut didn't.

Sharp blade slicing through skin, flesh, and organs, the serrated steel ripping jagged edges through the Mountain's body, the beast of a man stared at the bloody weapon with wide eyes. Recognition dawning on him through the pain. He swiveled to his brother, who wore a massive grin on his face. "Enjoy hells, cocksucking mother of shit!" he laughed.

Blood spurting from the massive open wound, Gregor Clegane knew his time was up… but he could still take the Martell bitch with him. Vision clouded with the red of pure rage - the knowledge that his shit of a brother's childhood blade was the cause of his death infuriating him more than he had ever been - he lunged suddenly for Tyene. The She-Viper, preening to the crowd, only just managed to turn around before Clegane was on her. The crowd let out a collective gasp while Bronn was close to tears. Dany squeezing Jon's hand in fear.

"I raped your aunt!" he snarled, punching her repeatedly in her stomach. "I murdered her! I killed her children!" Hands closed around her throat. "And now I killed her niece!"

Close to blacking out, a moment of clarity broke through the sudden pain when Tyene's flailing hands grasped around something she had dropped. Dagger gripped tightly, she brought it with all her strength against Ser Gregor's skull, piercing it to the hilt. The Mountain collapsed atop Tyene, body slack, while the She-Viper collapsed upon the ground as well.

Immediately, Bronn was racing onto the courtyard, dozens of nobles on their feet and Jon gritting his teeth from the pain of Dany's squeeze. Kneeling by his betrothed, Bronn grasped her hand, feeling for a pulse. After interminable seconds, the onlookers watched as Bronn sighed in relief, falling upon the ground. "She's alive!" He laughed, willing himself not to cry.

Raucous cheers broke out, the Empress smiling at the Emperor, all overjoyed except one - the prisoner, steeling himself.

Rising, looking out among the crowd, Daenerys gestured to the prisoner. "Before all who shall bear witness, the gods have provided their verdict to join with ours. Tywin of House Lannister has been found guilty of the crimes of murder, high treason, and black magic. I, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Empress of the Targaryen Empire and Co-Protector of the Pax Targaryana, sentence thee to die." Black violet sent nothing but contempt Tywin's way. "I shall give you a choice. Do you choose the blade, or fire?" The crowd went wild, screaming for their favorite choice. Based on the tenor of the smallfolk, a vast majority favored dragonfire. Above, Balerion screeched, his roar booming across the city.

Whatever hate Dany had for him was reflected right back. "I will not die as I saw your father send countless innocents to. I will die as a true Lord of the Westerlands. By cold, hard Valyrian steel!"

Silence reigning for a moment, the crowd roared. "Bring his head! Bring his head! Bring his head!" There was no doubt where their sympathies resided - with their Emperor and Empress, savoirs of the realm, providers of bread and peace.

Daenerys nodded. "And it shall be." She turned to Jon. "Shall you do the honors, your Majesty?"

Jon nodded. "As my Empress commands." Rising, he stepped slowly down the stairs to where Tywin was being manhandled by Grey Worm. A block had been strategically placed near the lip of the courtyard, overlooking the calm sea. Unlike Viserys' nearly a month before, Tywin went with a stoic dignity. "Do you wish to entertain any mercy, Lord Tywin?"

"I will not beg for my life, Targaryen." He closed his eyes. "I've seen too many beg your grandfather for mercy from the flames."

The memory of the Mad King didn't hurt Jon. He was nothing like Areys, and neither was Daenerys. "I don't expect you to, Lannister," the Emperor replied. "You are smart, and know pleas from you are outweighed by the screams of my brother and sister." Drawing Longclaw, not one shred of remorse or apprehension within him, Jon felt the same deathly calm as Ned Stark had on the day he executed the Night's Watch deserter.

"He who passes the sentence must swing the sword."

"I, Jon Imperator of House Targaryen and Stark" he began, the image of his father flashing before his mind - both Rhaegar and Ned. "First of my name, Emperor of the Targaryen Empire and Co-Protector of the Pax Targaryana, carry out your sentence of death."

The former Lord of Casterly Rock snorted. "Be quick about it, dragonspawn. I haven't got all damn day." And with those last words, the flash of Valyrian steel brought the long and eventful life of Tywin Lannister to an end.

Atop the world, life found itself in a constant struggle for existence. Cut off from the rest of Westeros by churning seas and a wall of ice and magic. Climate harsh and unforgiving, the constant gusts of snow and ice left only the hardiest life eeking out their meagre living. Until now.

Life in this hellscape was on its last legs. Extinguished by the grip of a supernatural force. A force, driven by fortitude and rage, determined to deliver the same hand of death to the entirety of the known world. From Last Hearth to Naath, Casterly Rock to Qarth, all would fall to the Night King if he had his way… but there was still one last summit to climb. One last objective to meet before he could finally exert his revenge on the world.

Walking quietly into the bowels of a cavern of ice and rock, two skeleton drones stepped out of his way - leaving a makeshift door of ice. There was no infrastructure in the land of always winter. No castles or walls or prisons, no real need of them, but when the need arose the Night King made due. Hand closing around the latch, he pushed it open against the groan of newly fallen snow from within.

Breath instantly condensing as it left his lungs, the tiny figure looked up as the door to his 'cell' opened. But instead of being the normal corpse guard, holding what meagre meal that an army of dead men and ice demons would be able to provide, Chieftain Zilas of the Children of the Forest found himself face to face with the Night King. His brainchild.

His creation.

"What are you doing here?" the former chieftain spat. The Night King said nothing. Face set in a malevolent glare, he walked slowly to a ice-covered boulder and sat. Arms crossing. Zilas chafed at the silence. "What do you want, demon?"

Lips were unmoving. Not a sound left the Night King… not any audible one in any case. 'You know what I want.' This wasn't the first time he spoke to his one prisoner. The only living thing that came into his clutches that did not end up being turned into a foot soldier in his army. Both understood each other - their wants and desires.

Zilas scoffed. "As if I would help you." He took a simple wooden drinking cup, salvaged from Hardhome, and threw it at the Night King. "You are nothing but a demon!"

'You created me,' was the simple response. 'Perhaps that makes you the true demon.'

The last of the Children of the Forest hung his head in shame. "Perhaps it does." A pair of black eyes narrowed at the Night King. "You will not break me, Marden. You lust… you thirst to break everything that stands in your way, but you will not break me." He grabbed a clump of snow and hurled it into the icy face. "I will never help you!"

Emotionless - just as Zilas had intended him to be - the Night King merely tilted his head. 'We shall see, old friend. We shall see.'

His slaves shutting the makeshift door behind him, Marden Stark began to ascend up the frozen path. Feet kicked up drifts of snow in his wake. He stopped. Rage coursing through him, with a psionic scream he slammed his fist against the ice wall - leaving cracks that etched several yards in every direction.

He would reach his goal. By the old gods themselves, he would have what was his.