Two columns of knights rode in with banners raised high, clad in black iron armor that radiated cold menace—like Death itself.
Behind them rolled a prison wagon.
Inside the iron cage sat a prisoner in white. Tyrion "the Imp" Lannister hung his head, his hair a tangled mess spilling down, looking as if he'd fainted.
Outside the wagon stood an executioner. He wore a black tunic that exposed one shoulder and half a chest matted with dark hair. Thick oxhide bracers covered his wrists. In his hands was a knight's longsword, its blade honed bright as snow.
At the tail of the procession came the smallfolk of King's Landing, swarming after it in a frenzy—more than a thousand of them, a long serpent of bodies stretching farther than the eye could see.
The line finally halted on a leveled patch of wasteland. The king's justiciar swung down from his horse and proclaimed the royal order.
Then the guards opened the cage, dragged Tyrion forward, forced him to his knees, yanked his hair back, and bared his neck.
The executioner stepped in front of him with a massive two-handed sword.
His face was gaunt and exhausted, his expression dead-cold. Pockmarks scarred his skin. His eyes were deep-set, his cheeks hollow. Tyrion recognized him at once.
Ser Ilyn Payne.
Once captain of Lord Tywin's guards when Tywin served as Hand. Someone had informed on him—claimed he'd said "Lord Tywin is the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms"—and King Aerys had taken his tongue. Payne could never speak again.
Tyrion didn't even have time to beg this familiar face—
Payne roared soundlessly, a flash of white steel cut the air, and blood burst like a spray.
A head spun up into the sky. Tyrion saw his own headless body on the ground, blood erupting in a furious fountain…
"Aah!"
"Help!"
…
Tyrion Lannister jolted awake.
Sensation flooded back into his limbs. The noise around him poured into his mind again. A clear wind brushed his face, warm and damp.
After a long moment, he opened his eyes. Morning sunlight lay across his cheeks—and he suddenly realized his lower half was wet.
"Seven hells… that dream was terrifying. I pissed myself!"
Three days ago he'd been a highborn son of House Lannister—brother to the Queen, a lordling of the Westerlands.
Now he was a criminal in a cage.
So this is what it means, he thought bitterly, to sit at home and have disaster fall out of the sky.
"Want to eat?" A thick-fingered, fat attendant held up a tray of boiled beans. He was the man assigned to watch Tyrion.
Tyrion's belly was gnawing at itself, but pride made his tongue stubborn.
"A roast leg of lamb would be splendid."
Curled in the filthiest corner of the wagon, he continued, as if reciting a menu:
"Perhaps a dish of peas with onions. Fresh buttered bread. A cup of warmed wine. If that's inconvenient, ale will do—I'm not a picky man."
"You still think you're some highborn lord?" The fat man shoved the tray forward. "Eat or don't."
He was huge and stupid, with brown rotten teeth, tiny eyes, and scars covering half his face—disgusting beyond measure.
Gods, Tyrion thought, I really am hated. Even my jailer has to be this ugly.
But he was starving. He reached for the tray.
The fat man giggled and pulled it away. "Look—here!"
He moved it just out of Tyrion's reach.
Tyrion forced himself up. Every joint screamed. He stretched his short arms through the bars.
"We have to play this idiotic game every meal? Is that fun?"
The fat man took a few steps back, grinning with his rotten teeth. "Dwarf. Over here."
"Want to eat? Come on—stretch those arms!"
Tyrion couldn't reach. His arms were too short.
"Fuck it. I'm not hungry."
"Well, that's that, then." The fat man muttered—and deliberately tipped the tray.
The boiled beans spilled in a wet slap all over the ground. He burst into laughter.
Tyrion's rage flared hot and bright.
"You dog-fed piece of shit, I hope you—ow!"
He didn't finish. The fat man jabbed him in the ribs through the bars with a scabbard.
"Watch your mouth."
"I take it back," Tyrion wheezed, collapsing into the wagon. "I'll gut you myself. I swear it."
The fat man ran off, laughing.
Tyrion lay there, hollow and shaking, grief spreading through him like poison.
Why is this world so cruel to me?
"Want to eat?"
"You're really going to—" Tyrion began to snarl, then stopped.
The smell of roast lamb hit his nose.
Domeric stood in front of the cage, holding a freshly roasted lamb leg, spices dusted across the glistening meat, juices sizzling.
"You're not going to play that stupid game too, are you?"
"No." Domeric shrugged. "I'm a decent man."
Tyrion thrust out both short hands, snatched the lamb leg, and started devouring it, not even caring that it was hot. He was that hungry.
When he'd stripped it clean, Domeric handed him a cup of wine.
Tyrion drained it in one long swallow and patted his swollen belly.
"You're a good man."
"In my world, that isn't a compliment," Domeric said flatly. He had no interest in being handed a "good man" badge.
"Lord Tyrion," Domeric went on, "do you know we're less than half a day from King's Landing?"
"Is that so?" Tyrion answered, trying to sound casual. "Good. We've been eating mud and sleeping under rain for near a month. Seven hells—Winterfell really is far from King's Landing."
"It's good for us. For you… it may not be."
Domeric exhaled, slow and heavy.
"Do you understand what's waiting for you?"
"A trial," Tyrion said. "Isn't it?"
"Yes."
"And I trust the trial will be just. It will clear my name." Tyrion's voice hardened, as if he could hammer truth into reality by force.
"You say that without hesitation," Domeric replied, "but your eyes betray you."
His tone dropped into something darker.
"You've already realized who really killed Lady Darry—your dear nephew, Joffrey Baratheon. Only a vicious little idiot like him would do something like that.
And Queen Cersei will throw you to the wolves to save her son.
House Darry needs an answer. The realm's law needs an answer. And you… you're heavy enough to satisfy both.
More tragic still—you've also realized your father, Lord Tywin, may not stand with you.
It's almost poetic. You did nothing—yet everyone abandons you and labels you guilty."
Domeric's gaze cut like a blade, as though he meant to peel Tyrion open and read what was written inside.
Tyrion met it without flinching.
"I didn't expect a Bolton to read people so well," he said. "But you're wrong about one thing, Ser Domeric."
His pupils tightened. It was as if the last strength drained out of him. His throat caught, and his voice turned raw.
"You don't understand."
He swallowed hard.
"Being a dwarf… is the greatest crime of all."
-
-
-
-
GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT
🏰🩸 GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT 🩸🏰
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
📢 DARK SECRETS RISE IN THE NORTH! 📢
Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort has 30 chapters ahead available on Patreon! 🐺🩸
Beneath the Dreadfort, old horrors stir.
Power, bloodlines, betrayal, northern cruelty, and buried secrets wait beneath one of the most feared castles in Westeros.
❄️ The North remembers.🏰 The Dreadfort hides.🩸 And some secrets should have stayed buried.
Uncover what lies beneath before anyone else does.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
🛑 ALSO AVAILABLE ON PATREON:
🌃 Cyberpunk: Dogtown Legend🔥 Cyberpunk: The Relentless👩👦 Cyberpunk: Lucy Adopted Me and I Got a System🧠 My Cyberpunk 2077 Simulator🤖 My Girlfriend's a Cyberpsycho—Who Knew?🛡️ Star Wars: The Rise of Mandalore🌌 Star Wars: Relics of the Past⚡ The Rebirth of Harry Potter🌹 R18: Reincarnated in Her World
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
🔗 Patreon: www.patreon.com/c/MrMagnus👤 Patreon Name: SrMagnus🐦 X / Twitter: https://x.com/SrMagnusBook
⚠️ The novel with the most Power Stones gets more chapters first!
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━