𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 115: 𝕷𝖔𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝕰𝖓𝖉𝖘.
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Vlad walked through the underground chambers of the laboratory as various electrical discharges generated by the coils intermittently illuminated the stone corridors. Most of the clan members looked up as he passed, some greeting him with a nod, while the project leaders handed him notes before returning to their work.
One of the Tremere handed him several reports on research into new materials, and one of the human apprentices approached him to obtain his signature on the authorizations for using live specimens in certain experiments.
Vlad reviewed the matters brought to his attention as he walked, although the laboratory had long since ceased to depend on him alone, since the clan's structure allowed dozens of projects to progress simultaneously without constant supervision. This made Clan Tremere the only magical research organization in the known world.
As he headed toward the deeper sections of the complex, he passed the rooms reinforced with glass. The enormous wolf cub remained asleep, oblivious to the activity in the laboratory, while the lizard-lion continued devouring its meat without raising its head.
Only the last creature truly reacted to his presence. The Drake Hound, as it had been named, raised its head as soon as Vlad appeared in front of the glass and watched him while wagging its tail against the stone. The creature continued watching him until Vlad moved toward the private chambers at the far end of the complex.
His personal laboratory was smaller than the main rooms, but also much quieter and more orderly. The shelves were filled with books and research notes, while the tables held instruments and documents containing anatomical and magical annotations.
At the center of the room stood the main object of his research.
An enormous petrified dragon egg.
The dark shell was covered in runes and surrounded by matrices carved into metal, forming a magical circle connected to the rest of the laboratory.
The egg had belonged to a very wealthy nobleman from Volantis, and Belkaro, his progeny and contact within the Iron Bank, had acquired it through several intermediaries some years earlier. Unlike the previous ones, Vlad had not rushed to hatch it.
Vlad had used his ancient book of Valyrian magic to hatch his dragons, following the instructions and adjusting the amount of magic he infused into the eggs.
Even so, it had been the ritual that caused the eggs to hatch, and the archaic ritual offered very little in the way of explanations about cause and effect. Therefore, after developing his own magical system, he felt compelled to understand how those effects were produced.
Vlad had created those runes to preserve the egg under the precise conditions required for its development, attempting to replicate the effects of the ancient Valyrian ritual.
At least in theory.
For although Vlad's magic was considerably more stable than traditional forms of sorcery, it still had clearly defined limitations.
Magic depended in part on understanding the phenomenon and being able to imagine it coherently. Simply wishing for an effect was not enough, since the clearer the mental image, the more stable and effective the result became.
In fact, if you understood the mechanism underlying the effect you wanted to produce, you could simply "wish" for it to happen, and magic would take care of the rest. But that was where the limitation lay: you had to know it was possible.
Phenomena such as fire, electricity, becoming faster or stronger, and even certain spatial phenomena could be conceptualized with great ease, after which magic bridged the gap between intention and execution. Vlad did not need to know every physical principle governing a lightning bolt, only to understand it well enough to know that it was logically feasible, and magic would do the rest.
Valyrian rituals operated differently. They were based on symbolism and sacrifice, not on a clear understanding of causality. Although Vlad understood equivalent exchange and could dispense with human sacrifices in his own rituals, he still knew nothing of the rules governing many ancient magical rituals.
Nor could he discover them through human sacrifice. Not for ethical reasons; that rarely stopped him if he considered something worthwhile, but there were so many variables that he would need thousands of sacrifices to obtain even a tiny amount of data.
For now, he was trying to incubate the egg using his runes and his own magical essence.
That was one of the reasons why the primitive magic of this world irritated him so much. Not because it was more powerful; in reality, it was far more unstable and required absurd quantities of sacrifices or energy to achieve effects that Vlad could reproduce with his runes almost effortlessly.
Even so, there were things those fanatics could accomplish that Vlad still could not.
Vlad had studied the resurrections performed by the red priests firsthand, but he still did not understand how they worked. Neither did they. They simply worked because the priests were psychically connected to the enormous magical source that was the Red God, and because they genuinely believed their god should be capable of bringing the dead back to life.
It was exasperating that this completely bypassed the conceptualization process Vlad needed to structure a magical phenomenon.
However, when they attempted something much simpler, such as conjuring fire using that same source of power, the results varied considerably from one priest to another.
Still, he knew that with experimentation and time, "resurrection" was not beyond his reach. Of course, he would never share that knowledge beyond his innermost circle, but it was reassuring to know that he would eventually find an explanation.
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[Stone Sept, Riverlands]
Following the War of the Five Kings, Stone Sept remained one of the few cities in the Riverlands that retained some semblance of normality. Located south of Harrenhal, beside one of the most important trading crossings on the Trident, its streets were still filled with travelers and merchants looking for food, wine, or somewhere to sleep.
The taverns and brothels remained open even as other regions burned, and the establishment where Tyrion had been living for the past few months was the largest in the city, as well as one of the most expensive.
In his eyes, everything there was far too clean compared to the brothels he was used to. The sheets were changed every day, the rooms smelled of incense and perfume, and the armed men guarding the entrances made sure no customer disrespected the girls. Tyrion had seen one of those guards break the hand of a drunk who had tried to get fresh with one of them before kicking him out into the street.
It did not take a genius to understand that this place enjoyed the protection of someone powerful, someone no one in the city dared to contradict.
Throughout those months, Tyrion had done everything he could to avoid thinking too much. He drank from the moment he woke up until he could barely remain conscious, slept among empty bottles, and sought any distraction that would help him pass the hours without having to face his own memories.
Because sooner or later, he always ended up thinking about Shae.
He still longed to hear her voice or feel her skin again, but those memories inevitably led him back to the silver chain he had found around her neck. And the worst part was not even remembering her betrayal, but not knowing what hurt him more: the hatred he felt toward her or the guilt of having killed her with his own hands.
Then there was his father.
Tywin Lannister had spent Tyrion's entire childhood despising him and reminding him that he would never live up to the name he carried. Tyrion could still vividly recall the crossbow in his hands and his father sitting on the privy, looking at him as though even then he were still judging him and finding him wanting.
That was what he found hardest to accept: that after a lifetime of humiliation, some part of him still wanted to make his father proud. A rotten, desperate part of himself that would have given anything to grow up with his family's affection.
That was why he drank. When wine was not enough, he sought prostitutes to spend the night with, and if any of them tried to get too close or asked questions he did not want to answer, he ended up driving them away with shouts or smashing the first thing he could lay his hands on.
Sometimes, in those moments, he thought he saw her.
She was a petite girl with blond hair, dressed in simple linen clothes and an old apron stained with flour. He saw her watching him from some corner of the room, wearing a sad expression that vanished as soon as he tried to look directly at her.
Tyrion preferred not to think about what it meant. He simply poured himself another drink and tried to forget the other life he had ruined for love.
That was how the past few months had gone, between drunken binges and nights he barely remembered, while he waited for the person who had taken him out of King's Landing to finally decide what to do with him.
He had several theories about who his savior might be and what their intentions could be. Dorne still seemed the most likely possibility to him: perhaps someone wanted to avenge the deaths of Elia Martell and her children through Tywin Lannister's son.
That morning, however, someone decided to interrupt his routine. They woke him by throwing a jug of water over him and then forced him to bathe, shave, and put on clean clothes. Several guards escorted him through the corridors to the building's top floor, where Madam Laila was waiting for him in front of a large, dark wooden door.
Tyrion looked at the door and let out a tired laugh. It seemed his vacation was finally over.
Once inside, he surveyed the room. It was spacious and furnished with wooden furniture, carpets, and several paintings. Behind the desk stood a pair of bookshelves filled with books, while a translucent crystal the size of a fist rested on a table, held in place by a bronze stand.
Madam Laila entered with him.
Tyrion had known her since his first night at the establishment, when she had personally explained the terms of his stay: someone had paid in advance, he could enjoy the establishment's services free of charge, and he was free to leave whenever he wished, provided he respected the rules while under its roof.
Laila must have been a beautiful woman in her youth. Although the wrinkles around her eyes and the lines on her face revealed the passage of time, she still retained an elegant presence. She wore a simple dark dress and waited beside the desk with her hands clasped in front of her stomach.
However, Tyrion soon noticed the other woman in the room.
The young woman sat behind the desk, her black hair falling straight over her shoulders and her lips painted crimson. Intricate tattoos ran down both her arms before disappearing beneath the sleeves of her dark dress. Her eyes, an intense red, were unlike anything Tyrion had ever seen.
She was beautiful, although in a way he found difficult to associate with the ladies he had known at the courts of Westeros. There was something about her that reminded him of the lion his father had once brought to Casterly Rock and kept caged for several days.
An open book lay on the desk, and the young woman seemed far more interested in its pages than in the newcomer. She continued reading as Tyrion approached the chair opposite her, turned a page, read for a few more seconds, and finally closed the volume.
Only then did she look up.
Tyrion glanced first at Laila, who remained standing beside the desk, and then at the young woman seated across from him.
Lena closed the book and handed it to Laila without taking her eyes off Tyrion.
—Your accounts appear to be in order. I'm glad to see your establishment is still running so efficiently. —Lena remarked, waiting for Laila to take the book from her hands. —Putting you in charge of the girls was the right decision.
Laila's expression softened, and her shoulders relaxed.
—Thank you, my lady. —she replied, keeping her eyes on Lena.
Lena gestured toward the door.
—You may leave us. —she added, turning her attention back to Tyrion.
Laila took the book and quickly left the room. Tyrion had the impression that she wanted to be in that room even less than he did.
Tyrion studied the young woman on the other side of the desk, waiting for an explanation. He could have spent that morning drinking wine and going to bed with some whore, which would at least have been more pleasant.
At last, Lena rested an arm on the desk and fixed her gaze on Tyrion.
—For someone so well known for frequenting prostitutes, you don't know how to treat them. —Lena remarked coldly.
Tyrion felt a brief pang in his chest. He was not so oblivious that he had failed to realize that, although he still enjoyed the services of prostitutes, their presence beyond the sexual act brought back memories he wanted to keep buried deep in his mind. As a result, he was rarely particularly subtle when shouting at them to leave.
—Whores can't be trusted. —Tyrion replied with a shrug.
A disdainful smile appeared on Lena's lips. Over the years, she had known far too many men like him.
Men who sought out women when they felt lonely and blamed them when they discovered that they could not fill the emptiness inside them. Tyrion Lannister was no different.
—Fortunately for you, that will no longer be a problem. —Lena replied calmly.
Tyrion frowned slightly.
—What is that supposed to mean?—he asked, keeping his gaze fixed on Lena.
—Your free stay at this establishment has come to an end. —Lena explained in a neutral voice.
Her manner of speaking was unpleasantly familiar to him, evoking the same feeling of being examined and judged that he experienced with his father whenever the man deigned to address him.
—Bad news is easier to accept when delivered by a beautiful woman. —Tyrion remarked, giving her an ironic smile. —Although I would at least like to know whom I'm addressing.
Lena enjoyed few luxuries in her life, and seeing people's reactions when they heard her lord's name was one of them.
—Lena Drakul. —she replied with a charming smile.
Tyrion's eyes widened, his surprise and fear entirely genuine.
—Drakul? As in Vlad Drakul?—Tyrion repeated.
The Lasombra clan matriarch's smile grew even wider.
—Exactly. —Lena confirmed, watching Tyrion's reaction without looking away.
Tyrion let out a short, incredulous laugh, although part of him was already beginning to put the pieces together.
But that only made his already precarious situation seem even worse, because if the Lord Impaler had gone to the trouble of keeping him alive and lodging him in one of his establishments for so long, it was difficult to believe he expected nothing in return.
Tyrion had the unpleasant feeling that he was being fattened up like a pig for the slaughter.
Tyrion's mind raced as he searched for a way out of the situation, preferably unscathed. But, as so often happened to his misfortune, his mouth was quicker than his mind.
—And why would the most dangerous man in the world take an interest in me?—Tyrion pressed, almost cursing himself for speaking without thinking.
Lena, on the other side of the desk, took pleasure in watching the wretched little man suffer, but business came first, so she suppressed a smile that threatened to escape her lips.
—My lord considered it advisable to get you out of King's Landing, but the wine, food, and women were paid for by me. —Lena explained, folding her hands on the desk. —A token of gratitude for services rendered.
—And what services were those?—Tyrion asked, studying Lena's expression.
Lena remained silent for a few moments, but the smile she gave him afterward sent a chill down the Rock's dwarf's spine.
—You killed Tywin Lannister. —Lena replied, staring directly at him.
Tyrion nearly shuddered when she said it aloud, and he hated himself for it.
What did it matter now whether he had killed his father or not? He had repaid him many times over for everything he had suffered at his hands since childhood, yet hearing those words spoken so frankly still made him uncomfortable.
And who would have thought it? His personal act of defiance had ended up helping the conquest plans of one of the most dangerous men in the world. It was clear that fate had a particularly unpleasant and sordid sense of humor.
—My lord had no plans for you. —the woman explained before continuing. —But I thought that, given your history, you might prove useful to me in some way.
Tyrion let out a brief, humorless laugh.
—I'm trying to stay away from situations that might end with my head on a spike, my lady. —he replied with false courtesy. —Though I appreciate your hospitality.
But Lena did not seem amused.
—I'm not sure you can afford the luxury of refusing me. —she said with a charming smile that never reached her eyes.
Tyrion did not respond.
—You have no money. —Lena continued calmly. —Your ancestral home is now the seat of my lord's power, and I doubt you can afford to keep staying here once you are no longer my guest.
Tyrion found it strange that Lena had gone to so much trouble for him. Perhaps she had made some mistake at court and was now trying to rectify it by handing him over to her lord or using him against the Lannisters somehow. After all, few things could be more humiliating for his family than seeing one of its members turned into a tool for the Impaler's plans.
—And I suppose this is the part where you offer me a generous sum of money to solve your problem. —Tyrion said, watching Lena to see how she reacted.
Lena gave a brief laugh. She had no intention of hiring the dwarf. Over the past few months, he had treated the girls at the brothel rather unpleasantly, and she intended to return the favor.
—Not particularly. —Lena replied disdainfully. —But if you successfully carry out the task I intend to give you, you might receive a handsome sum of money, if I'm feeling generous.
Money.
Years ago, that would barely have interested him, but the problem was that he did not have a single coin to his name, nowhere to go, and no clear way to support himself. Even so, Tyrion could also be incredibly petty, and at that moment, all he wanted was to contradict the young woman sitting in front of him.
—You know what? The truth is, I'm not for sale. —Tyrion replied, slowly shaking his head.
Lena's smile did not disappear. In fact, she seemed even more pleased by his refusal.
—It's not as though you have a choice. —she replied, keeping her gaze fixed on him.
Tyrion held her eyes for several seconds, trying to determine what it was about this woman that made him so uncomfortable. It was not just her beauty or the tattoos covering her arms, formed from symbols whose meaning he did not know. Lena barely blinked, remained completely motionless, and since he had entered the room, Tyrion was not sure he had seen her breathe even once.
But despite all that, his mouth once again got ahead of his better judgment.
—So what?—he asked petulantly. —Are you telling me I'm obligated to work for you?—
Lena stood beside the desk, placed her hands on its surface, and leaned toward him.
—What I'm telling you is that you belong to me, body and soul. —she declared, never taking her eyes off Tyrion. —I brought you here to help me achieve my goals, you've eaten at my table, and I've saved your life. You belong to me three times over.
Tyrion was about to reply, but Lena continued speaking before he could.
—You will have the privilege of serving my lord's cause, and while you do so, you will be under my responsibility. —she continued with the same firmness. —That makes you my property. You will do as I order.
Tyrion had known plenty of men who confused devotion with the right to impose their will on others. This woman seemed to take that idea even further, to the point of believing that saving his life gave her absolute authority over him.
But Tyrion, as one might expect, wanted the last word.
—I'll do whatever I see fit. —he retorted disdainfully.
Lena stopped smiling.
—Do you think I'm playing games?—she asked, her gaze hardening.
Something changed in the room. Tyrion could not identify what it was, but the hair on his arms stood on end, and an inexplicable fear took hold of him. Lena was still leaning over the desk, wearing the same expression and speaking in the same tone of voice, yet her presence made him want to run for his life.
—Listen carefully, little man. —Lena warned him, digging her fingers into the edge of the desk. —You have no gold, no name, and you're still alive only because we allow it.
The creaking of the wood interrupted Tyrion's thoughts. Lena's fingers had dug into the edge of the desk, and the surface was beginning to crack under the pressure. Tyrion watched the marks her hands were leaving, unable to reconcile that strength with the appearance of the woman in front of him.
—So listen carefully. —Lena continued without loosening her grip. —I will not allow you to disobey me.
Lena straightened without taking her eyes off him. Her red eyes gleamed unnaturally as she spoke again.
—I swear by all the blood flowing through my veins. —she declared sharply. —If you go against my wishes, the rest of your miserable life will be an unbroken chain of misfortunes. I will make you my target. You will never again know a woman's caress, a moment's rest, or a peaceful night. And I swear by the old gods and the new: if you harm my master, I will gut you and leap into your entrails like a little girl playing in a puddle.
Tyrion remained silent. He had heard threats for much of his life, and he knew that some people did not need to shout to make their point clear. However, he had never seen anyone crack wood with their bare hands.
Lena's argument was therefore particularly convincing.
He did not know who Lena was or what kind of power she possessed, but he could no longer attribute his unease to her tattoos, her gaze, or her strange mannerisms. Her threat had a basis he could see with his own eyes, and he could find no reason to believe that the woman would stop at destroying the wood and spare his neck.
He had entered that conversation convinced he could refuse the proposal and leave, perhaps with some clever retort to avoid walking out with his pride too badly bruised. But now, with no money, no position to return to, and a woman in front of him who could kill him with her bare hands, his chances of imposing his own terms were slim.
Tyrion did not answer. For once, he could not think of a single witty remark worth the risk of making.
It was obvious that this was not an offer he could refuse.
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Hey, everyone! Thanks for being here for another week.
This chapter is meant to clarify what happened to Tyrion. We saved his life at the end of the Purple Wedding, but I don't want him to become one of Vlad's trusted men, a vampire progeny, or, above all, his advisor. At least, not yet.
Watching the series, you eventually realise that Tyrion, despite being portrayed as one of the smartest characters, doesn't always make particularly intelligent decisions.
As you may have noticed, this chapter is considerably longer than usual. This is one of my attempts to write longer chapters, meaning over 4,000 words, and build scenes around dialogue.
Normally, my approach to a scene involves a lengthy narrative passage that establishes the situation, followed by a key dialogue scene that serves an important purpose in the chapter. Here, I'm trying to experiment with scenes built around dialogue that don't necessarily have to be important to the plot. They can simply help bring the scene or the world to life, without necessarily conveying anything particularly significant, or perhaps doing so in a more subtle way.
So I'm experimenting with this approach, so to speak, by writing longer dialogues and conversations that don't necessarily have to get straight to the point.
Let me know what you think!