Chapter 244: Malice

Under the harsh midday sun, Blackwater River smoldered with the scorched remains of sunken ships. Tendrils of black smoke and wisps of white ash rose from funeral pyres, blending into a choking haze that hung heavy in the air.

Ser Kevan Lannister, weary from travel and defeat, rode into the war-torn city of King's Landing.

The stench of death permeated the streets. Silent Sisters stripped bodies of their clothes, dragging the corpses toward pyres while tossing weapons and armor onto a tall wagon nearby.

"Did Stannis break through?" Kevan asked his son, Lancel Lannister.

"No," Lancel replied.

"Then why are there so many dead inside the city?"

"Rebellion," Lancel explained grimly. "A revolt among the commoners—tens of thousands. We nearly deployed every available man to subdue it. Luckily, Tyrion's wildfire scheme destroyed Stannis' fleet; otherwise, the city might've fallen."

Kevan sighed. "Tell me exactly what happened."

As Lancel recounted the events, they reached the gates of the Red Keep.

"Father, the king is hosting a feast in the throne room to celebrate the victory. Will you attend?"

The last thing Kevan wanted was a victory feast. He had just suffered a crushing defeat at Stormlands, and celebrations seemed inappropriate with the Northmen still posing a threat and Caesar gathering strength to the south. A true victory felt distant.

Still, after a moment's thought, he nodded. "I'll change, then attend."

When Kevan entered the throne room in fresh attire, he was greeted by a scene of music and laughter. Nobles, richly dressed, danced in pairs, while young King Tommen, seated near the Iron Throne, wore a heavy gold crown and clumsily gnawed at a roasted chicken leg.

Queen Cersei, resplendent in a crimson gown with golden patterns, held a glass of wine and laughed with the High Septon. Noticing her uncle, Cersei's lips curled into a sly smile.

"Uncle," she called, her voice laced with mockery. "I heard you came back from Stormlands defeated. But don't worry—under King Tommen's leadership, we've achieved a great victory!"

Tommen, his cheeks bulging with food, managed to raise the drumstick and mumble, "Bigtree(Victory)!"

"Congratulations, Your Grace," Kevan replied, offering a formal bow. He scanned the hall but saw no sign of his nephew. "Where is Tyrion?"

"He's dying," Cersei replied, barely concealing a smile.

Kevan felt a cold twist in his chest. "Dying? Was he wounded?"

"Oh, gravely," Cersei answered, sipping her wine with delight. "The Grand Maester believes he won't last much longer."

"Where is he? Take me to him," Kevan demanded, his tone cold.

"Ser Kevan, I'll take you," offered Bronn, stepping forward.

Kevan nodded, following Bronn out of the hall. As they walked, Bronn leaned in to whisper, "The queen refused to let Grand Maester Pycelle tend to him. She wants him dead."

Kevan eyed Bronn, assessing him anew. "You were Tyrion's sellsword, weren't you?"

"A knight now," Bronn said proudly, puffing up his chest.

"Congratulations," Kevan replied coolly, lapsing into silence as they reached a secluded chamber on the Red Keep's edge.

The stench of blood and decay struck him as he opened the door. On a rough bed lay Tyrion, his face covered in bloodstained bandages, a grotesque gash where his nose had once been.

Kevan was livid. "They left my nephew here to die like an animal!"

Bronn shrugged, as if to say it was hardly a surprise.

"Please, you must help him," said a young boy—the squire, Podrick, Kevan recalled.

"Fetch The Grand Maester," Kevan ordered. "Tell him I sent for him. If he refuses, have the guards bring him by force."

Podrick nodded and ran out.

...

In his fevered dreams, Tyrion floated in darkness, surrounded by blood, fire, and screams. He stumbled through it, lost, with nowhere to escape.

No! I don't want to die!

He reached out, and suddenly a familiar hand pulled him from the abyss, bringing him into the light.

"Tysha?" he choked out, his voice breaking with disbelief. His wife, the one woman he had truly loved.

She smiled at him, singing a tune soft and sweet, a balm to his pain and sorrow.

"Lies!" he shouted, anger flaring. "You were a gift from Jaime! My whore-wife, bought and paid for!"

But her song grew fainter, slipping away like a fading dream.

"No! Don't go!" Panic surged in him as he reached out—

He awoke abruptly in a cold, empty room. Blinking, he saw his squire, Podrick, watching him with relief.

"Ser, you're awake!"

Tyrion's voice rasped. "Where am I? Did we win?"

"We did, my lord! But you were badly injured."

Tyrion sighed in relief, but his confusion returned. "Why am I in this place?"

Podrick hesitated, then recounted what had happened.

"Cersei… she left me here to die?" The bitterness in Tyrion's voice was thick.

It shouldn't have surprised him—he knew his sister hated him. But her willingness to let him die still stung.

"Go tell Uncle Kevan I'm awake," Tyrion rasped.

Not long after, Kevan Lannister entered.

"How are you feeling?" Kevan asked, a note of concern in his voice.

"Terrible," Tyrion replied. "The very people I risked my life to protect want me dead."

Kevan sighed, choosing not to defend Cersei's actions. "You're the hero of Blackwater, Tyrion. People will remember your courage."

Tyrion let out a hollow laugh. "Uncle, you're too kind. People will remember this as the king's victory; no one will cheer a dwarf."

"Your father and I both understand the truth of it," Kevan said, trying to reassure him.

"Speaking of Father—why did you return so soon?"

Kevan's expression turned grim. "I was ambushed by Reach cavalry en route. I had no choice but to turn back. We've lost Stormlands."

"Storm's End will hold," Tyrion replied. "It's a fortress. It'll slow down Caesar and the Reach."

Kevan's gaze flickered, but he said nothing.

"Is Father still at Harrenhal, facing down the North?"

"Yes."

"I sense he's waiting for something." Tyrion studied his uncle. "Do you know his plans?"

"He's waiting, yes," Kevan said carefully. "When a lion hunts, it waits for the right wind to mask its scent, lest the prey catch on. Your father is waiting for that wind."

Tyrion mulled this over, nodding slowly. "So he has plans for the North… and the South as well?"

"Indeed. But don't concern yourself with it. Focus on recovering."

Tyrion sighed and nodded. "Very well."

Kevan leaned down, briefly pressing his lips to the bandages on Tyrion's forehead before turning to leave.

At the door, he paused, hearing Tyrion's voice behind him.

"Uncle, has Myrcella arrived safely in Dorne?"

"She has," Kevan replied. "The Martells welcomed her warmly. She's become quite close with Princess Arianne."

"Good." Tyrion allowed himself a small smile, then closed his eyes and drifted into sleep.

(End of Chapter)