Chapter 525: The Dwarf and the Crippled Dragon

Tyrion Lannister dragged his exhausted body home, only to see Shae leaning on the balcony. She wore the silver gown he had gifted her, and the moonlight graced her hair, illuminating her skin like polished jade.

This is the woman I'm about to marry, Tyrion thought.

Even now, he couldn't quite believe he was marrying a courtesan.

But life was unpredictable; mortals could never truly know what tomorrow would bring.

And to be fair, Tyrion didn't mind marrying Shae.

In this cold, dark city, she was his only source of warmth and light.

"Stop staring. It's not coming back tonight."

Hearing her fiancé's voice, Shae turned with a coy smile.

"What's not coming back?"

"What else?" Tyrion replied. "The sun you've been yearning for."

Shae sighed, her smile fading into a worried expression.

"So it's true—the legends, I mean. After a long summer, the stars weep blood, and an icy darkness falls upon the world…"

"That's just the prophecy those R'hllor fanatics keep preaching," Tyrion said dismissively. "You actually believe that nonsense?"

Shae blinked.

"Why wouldn't I? The Long Night has come. And according to the prophecy, a hero blessed by the gods will draw a flaming sword from the fire and lead humanity to victory over the White Walkers, banishing the darkness. Tyrion, that hero is King Caesar, isn't it?"

"Everyone seems to think so," Tyrion shrugged. "Pity they don't know Caesar severed ties with the Red God long ago."

Seeing her eyes widen in shock, Tyrion raised a finger to his lips.

"Shh—keep that to yourself."

Shae nodded but then asked anxiously:

"If that's true, what about the White Walkers? Who will lead us out of the Long Night?"

"Why, His Majesty Caesar, of course." Tyrion said it as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"But… but hasn't he already been forsaken by the gods?"

"If the gods were truly omnipotent, this world wouldn't be so full of suffering and injustice," Tyrion scoffed. "Besides, this world has more gods than blades of grass. Northerners worship the Old Gods; Southerners follow the Seven. That Long Night prophecy you mentioned comes from the followers of R'hllor, the Red God. The Rhoynar pray to turtle gods in their rivers. Slaver's Bay serves the Ghiscari gods. Farther east, you've got the Black Goat, the Lion of Night, and countless others.

And who's to say the White Walkers don't have gods of their own?

Now imagine this: if different people are praying for different outcomes to their gods, wouldn't the gods just end up fighting each other first? Whoever wins gets to decide whose wishes come true."

Shae gave him a peculiar look.

"When you put it like that, I feel embarrassed to pray at all."

"Pray if you want to." Tyrion's tone was casual. "Just don't set your expectations too high. Disappointment can be… unpleasant."

"I never realized you were such a pessimist."

Tyrion shook his head.

"No, no. I'm not a pessimist. I'm just pessimistic about the gods. When it comes to this war, I'm confident humanity will win. Not because of divine intervention, but through our own strength—if the gods ever cared about us at all."

Shae fell silent, her expression complex as she stared at her fiancé, as though seeing him in a new light.

Tyrion, however, reverted to his usual cheeky grin.

"Why are you looking at me like that? Were you scared? Or are you realizing that the man you're about to marry is just that brilliant and heroic?"

Shae burst into laughter, but before she could respond, a low, mournful horn echoed through the night.

Wooooo—

The sound reverberated through the air, clawing at their ears and stirring unease deep within.

"What's happening?" Shae cried.

"That's the city's warning horn," Tyrion explained. "It means King's Landing is under attack!"

"King's Landing? Under attack? By whom? The White Walkers? But didn't Caesar gather his army and fortify the Neck? How… unless the defense has already fallen?"

"Stop overthinking!" Tyrion snapped. "Stay here. Don't go anywhere. I'll go find out."

He strode out, shouting for his squire:

"Pod! Ready my horse and armor!"

Shae stood frozen, her face pale as a ghost. After a moment, she ran after him, grabbing his arm.

"Promise me you'll come back safely!"

Tyrion leaned in, kissed her deeply, and offered a reassuring grin.

"Of course I will. Even if there's an enemy, they're hardly going to send a dwarf to the frontlines."

With that, he gathered his guards and disappeared into the darkness.

---

When Tyrion reached the Red Keep, he found Noah Rowan, commander of the City Watch, just as confused as he was.

"Ser Tyrion, the horn was sounded by the Steel Gate garrison. They reported an attack of some sort—frost magic, they said—but they found no visible intruder."

"Frost magic?" Tyrion asked.

"Something that froze men solid, like statues," Noah said grimly. "It's probably some kind of sorcery. The enemy is likely using the darkness to hide their movements."

"Why the Steel Gate?" Tyrion wondered aloud.

Among King's Landing's seven gates, the Steel Gate was the least significant, situated on the northeast wall, connecting to Rosby.

If the White Walkers had breached the Neck, they'd logically storm through the God's Gate. If the attackers came by sea, the Mud Gate near the harbor would be their first target…

Before Tyrion could finish his thoughts, a series of chaotic reports began pouring in:

"My lord, the enemy seems to be White Walkers! Our frozen comrades have turned into wights and are attacking us!"

"The enemy is airborne! The attacks are coming from above!"

"My lord, there's a dragon! The enemy is a dragon!"

---

"Dragon?" Noah Rowan cursed. "Are you sure you're not seeing things? Why would a dragon attack King's Landing?"

Even the soldiers delivering the reports hesitated. After all, it was pitch dark, and mistakes could happen.

But dragons attacking King's Landing seemed preposterous—every dragon in existence belonged to the Caesars. Dragons are the patron saint of King's Landing and the key force for humans to fight against the White Walkers.

And dragons breathed fire.

"Send scouts!" Noah ordered.

Before long, the answer revealed itself.

ROAR!

A thunderous roar echoed above the Red Keep. Tyrion shivered as a wave of cold washed over him, biting to his very bones.

"It really is a dragon…" he muttered, staring up at the crystalline creature soaring overhead. "An ice dragon."

Whoosh!

From its maw erupted a stream of ghostly blue breath, flowing like liquid fire. When it passed over the ramparts, stone walls were encased in glimmering frost, and soldiers froze solid, turned into grotesque ice sculptures.

Moments later, those sculptures moved.

Rigid, twisted, and mindless, they rose as wights.

"My lord, get off the walls! Take shelter in Maegor's Holdfast!" Noah shouted at Tyrion, pulling him back to reality.

Tyrion didn't argue. He sprinted toward the keep, cursing his short legs as he went.

Behind him, the commanding officers bellowed orders:

"Load the ballistae! Aim for the dragon!"

Tyrion glanced back at the pitch-black sky. His stomach sank.

How could they aim at a target they couldn't even see?

Even if the dragon flew close enough to be illuminated, it would already be too late.

"Get moving, my lord!" Podrick urged, dragging Tyrion along just as another deafening roar shook the heavens.

In this situation, what could a dwarf like Tyrion possibly do?

As he passed Maegor's Holdfast, he saw Melisandre standing in the open courtyard, encircled by a ring of fire. Her lips moved in a steady chant, her crimson robe flickering in the fiery glow.

Tyrion paused, confused by what the Red Priestess was doing.

Suddenly, the ring of fire erupted into a brilliant light, blazing like a massive beacon and banishing the oppressive darkness that had blanketed the Red Keep.

The glow also illuminated the skies, revealing the ice dragon circling overhead.

For the first time, the defenders of King's Landing saw their enemy clearly. The ice dragon wasn't massive—not as large as Caesar's white dragon—but it was comparable in size to Queen Daenerys's black dragon, Drogon.

The city's defenders wasted no time. On the walls, the ballista crews swiftly adjusted their aim and loosed their bolts.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

Dozens of enormous bolts streaked through the air in unison.

Most missed their mark, but three struck true, piercing the ice dragon's underbelly.

Yet instead of falling, the ice dragon only grew more furious. Its translucent wings beat harder, shimmering with icy brilliance. Its glowing blue eyes burned with rage as it unleashed a thunderous roar and swooped downward in a terrifying dive.

This time, its target was clear—Melisandre in front of Maegor's Holdfast.

The ice dragon knew its greatest threat. Or perhaps it wasn't the dragon itself, but the rider on its back who understood the danger.

From his position, Tyrion could finally see the figure atop the dragon. For reasons he couldn't explain, the silhouette felt eerily familiar.

For a moment, he froze in place, staring up at the looming beast.

"Run, my lord!" shouted Podrick, his ever-loyal squire. At the last second, Podrick yanked Tyrion off his feet and dragged him into Maegor's Holdfast.

Boom!

The ice dragon's attack struck with cataclysmic force, sending shockwaves through the ground. Tyrion felt as though his body had been hurled into a maelstrom of frost and wind. His limbs went numb, his chest tightened, and for a horrifying moment, he thought he would die frozen.

Then warmth blossomed in his chest, spreading outward and melting the icy grip of death.

"Feeling better, Lord Tyrion?"

Tyrion opened his eyes to see Melisandre's hand resting over his chest. The warmth was radiating from her touch.

"Lady Melisandre… thank you for saving me."

"I saved you to save others," she replied cryptically.

Tyrion frowned, puzzled by her words, but before he could question her further, another dragon's roar echoed through the sky.

"Viserion! It's Viserion!"

The cheers of the soldiers outside confirmed what Tyrion had just heard. The golden dragon, Viserion, had arrived.

Among Caesar's dragons, the four younglings had little combat ability. Of the remaining four, three were at the Neck with the King. Only Viserion, still recovering from its injuries, had been left behind in King's Landing.

Tyrion rushed outside, his spirits lifting with newfound hope. Looking up, he saw bursts of flame illuminating the night sky. The golden dragon and the ice dragon clashed, their silhouettes locked in a deadly dance above the city.

"Can Viserion win?" Tyrion muttered anxiously. The golden dragon was still injured, and it lacked a rider.

"Lord Tyrion, get down!" Podrick's warning came just in time. Once again, he pulled his master to safety.

An enormous figure plummeted from the sky, crashing into the courtyard in front of Maegor's Holdfast. The impact sent debris and smoke billowing in all directions.

"Gods, why does everything always come straight at me?" Tyrion coughed, waving away the dust.

As the smoke cleared, he saw Viserion lying sprawled on the ground, its golden scales marred by blood and its wings hanging limp. A deep gash ran across its neck, molten gold-like blood pouring out in streams.

"Hey… are you okay?" Tyrion asked cautiously, taking a step closer.

The golden dragon turned its massive head to glare at him, its crimson eyes blazing with fury. Deep within its throat, flames churned, ready to erupt.

Tyrion's heart pounded in terror. He could feel the suffocating heat of the dragon's breath, smell the metallic tang of blood mixed with ash. He didn't dare move.

Above them, the ice dragon continued its rampage, scattering fire and frost in equal measure. The air rang with screams and the haunting cries of wights.

Tyrion took a shaky breath and forced himself to speak:

"Viserion, uh… madam? Your enemy is up there, not me…"

Amazingly, the golden dragon turned its gaze skyward. Its eyes locked on the ice dragon, but it made no move to rise. It was clearly too injured—and afraid—to fight.

"Dragons without riders lack the will to fight," Melisandre's voice rang out behind him.

Tyrion turned and shrugged helplessly.

"Well, where are we supposed to find a dragonrider now? Caesar's children are barely old enough to crawl."

Melisandre's piercing gaze bore into him.

"Lord Tyrion, you could try."

"Me?" Tyrion blinked. "You're joking, right?"

"Do I look like I'm joking at a time like this?" Melisandre replied sharply. "You are the only one in this city who can do it. Go."

Before Tyrion could protest, she handed him a long black spear. It was made of dragonglass.

As he held the weapon, a memory surfaced—Caesar's words to him in Sunspear. You're not Tywin's son.

Tyrion had always dismissed it as provocation. Yes, he had killed his father, but he had never truly believed he wasn't a Lannister.

"Go, Lord Tyrion," Melisandre urged again. "The entire city is counting on you."

Tyrion didn't know what possessed him to move. Perhaps it was the commanding tone of the Red Priestess. Perhaps it was the desperation in the air.

Before he realized what he was doing, he stood before Viserion.

The dragon's fiery breath warmed his face as he looked into its hellish red eyes.

What am I doing? Tyrion's mind screamed.

But his body kept moving.

"Down!" he commanded, his voice trembling but firm.

Viserion roared, flames rising in its throat.

"Down!" Tyrion shouted again, louder this time.

I'm insane.

Then, to his shock, the golden dragon lowered itself, folding its wings and allowing him to climb onto its back.

Tyrion scrambled up, clutching the heated scales. As he settled in, a wild, incredulous laugh escaped his lips.

"Viserion!" he cried. "I'm a misshapen dwarf, and you're a half-crippled dragon. We're a match made in the Seven Hells!"

Raising the dragonglass spear high, he roared:

"Now, let's save this city!"

(End of Chapter)