Tyrion Lannister.
The name snapped Lynn's exhausted nerves back to attention.
He folded the letter. Watched the short figure enter his study.
"Apologies for the early intrusion."
Tyrion bowed. Flawless etiquette.
His mismatched eyes—one green, one black—studied the room with interest.
"I heard Littlefinger had terrible taste. Seems the rumors were true."
He pointed at a gaudy oil painting of maidens picking flowers.
"Burn it. Hang a map of King's Landing. Or a few Valyrian steel swords. Anything's better than that."
Lynn gestured for him to sit. Poured him wine.
"You made quite a profit off Lord Baelish."
Tyrion took the cup. Drained it in one gulp.
"So you're here to collect his debts?"
"Collect?"
Tyrion gave a short laugh.
"I'd rather you strip him of his last pair of breeches."
He set the cup down hard. His smile vanished.
"I'm not here to drink, Ser Lynn."
"I'm here to buy an answer."
Tyrion's gaze sharpened.
"I'm certain you possess some form of prophecy. And that you know things that have already happened."
"I don't care how you know."
"I only want to ask one thing."
His voice cracked with bitterness.
"My... my first wife. Tysha."
The name drained all his courage.
"That incident... was it arranged by my father?"
The study fell into deathly silence.
Outside, a raven cawed. Harsh. Grating.
Lynn looked at the man before him.
Brilliant mind. Family disgrace. A Lannister who wore a jester's mask for the world.
In his mismatched eyes—hope. Fear. And a desperate, dust-covered plea.
He wants me to say it was an accident.
He wants to believe his cold father wasn't that cruel.
"No."
Two words.
They shattered Tyrion's last defense.
Tyrion's body lurched. Nearly fell from his chair.
Blood drained from his face.
The light in his eyes dimmed.
"It was... him..."
He muttered. Repeating a nightmare he'd always suspected but refused to believe.
"Your father—Duke Tywin—believed marrying a common stonemason's daughter shamed the Lannister name."
Lynn's voice was flat. No emotion.
"So..."
Tyrion roared. Like a wounded beast.
He shot to his feet. Swept the wine cup off the table.
It hit the floor. Didn't shatter. Just spun into the corner.
Red wine pooled on the floor. Like blood.
"Haha... HAHAHA..."
Tyrion laughed. Hoarse. Shrill. Worse than crying.
"My father... my great father..."
"And my brave brother..."
His body trembled violently. Tears and snot streaked his twisted face.
"Jaime told me she was a whore. That I'd hired her. That it was all a joke."
"I believed him... I believed him..."
"I watched her... watched those guards... one after another..."
"I was last."
"I gave her a gold dragon. Because Lannisters are better than other men. A Lannister always pays his debts..."
He crouched. Clutched his head. Curled into a ball.
All of Westeros thought him the Imp of Casterly Rock.
But who knew?
Inside this "demon" lived a boy murdered by his father and brother.
Tywin Lannister's children.
Cersei hated Tywin.
Jaime feared Tywin.
Only Tyrion—
—the son Tywin despised most, wanted dead most—
—worshipped him.
How absurd.
How tragic.
Lynn didn't comfort him.
Just watched.
Let Tyrion purge the pain and despair he'd buried for years.
Finally.
The sobbing stopped.
Tyrion raised his head. His tear-streaked face was hollow. No mockery. No pain.
Just emptiness.
"Thank you."
His voice was quiet.
"Thank you for telling me the truth."
"Even though it's uglier than I imagined."
He stumbled to his feet. Picked up the fallen cup. Poured himself more wine.
"To ugly truths."
He drained it. The liquor burned his throat.
But it was nothing compared to the fire in his heart.
"They don't love you, Tyrion."
Lynn finally spoke.
"To your father, you've been a stain since birth."
"To your sister, you're the murderer who killed your mother."
"To your brother, you're a coward who needs protection."
"But so what?"
Lynn stepped closer. Looked down at him.
"A man's value isn't determined by his birth or his name."
"The Lannister name is your glory. And your chains."
"If they don't love you—why live like a dog for that name?"
Tyrion looked up. A faint light rekindled in his mismatched eyes.
"I'm going to Essos."
Lynn said.
"That vast eastern continent."
"No Seven Kingdoms. No Iron Throne. No Lannisters."
"There, people only care about gold and steel."
"Whether your name is Tyrion or Lynn doesn't matter."
"What matters is how much value you create. How much power you wield."
"Come with me, Tyrion."
Lynn extended his hand.
"Leave this cage that disgusts you."
"Go to a new world. Use your mind to build the kingdom you want."
Tyrion stared at Lynn's outstretched hand.
Then at his own short, twisted fingers.
He smiled. Genuinely.
"Essos?"
"Sounds nice."
"Are the brothels there more interesting than King's Landing's?"
He didn't take Lynn's hand.
Instead, he drained his cup.
Walked to the window. Watched the rising sun.
Golden light painted King's Landing in false glory.
"I'm tired of this place."
Tyrion's voice was soft.
"Tired of looking up and seeing my father's disappointed face."
"Tired of breathing in my sister's fake perfume."
"Tired of everything in this city."
"I think my family would be thrilled to see me leave."
He turned. Looked at Lynn.
His eyes sparkled with something new.
Rebirth.
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