GOT: The Great — Chapter 156 - Tyrion's Apology — Words Unspoken

Tyrion crouched at the corridor's corner, back pressed against cold stone, his two short legs curled up in front of him. Like a toad stuffed into a crack in the wall.

He'd been waiting the better part of the day. Knees aching, backside numb, neck stiff. At one point he'd given up holding it, waddled to the stone trough at the end of the corridor to relieve himself, then waddled back and crouched down again.

The whole business made him feel like a pervert. A dwarf lurking in a corridor, waiting for an old man to come home, say it out loud and it didn't sound like something a decent person would do.

But he had no other options. Barristan Selmy's daily routine ran more precisely than the bell towers of King's Landing: stand guard at Daenerys's door each morning, then go practice swords, eat at midday, stand guard again through the afternoon, return to his room after dark.

Tyrion had mapped every step of it.

This corridor was the only path back to Barristan's room.

Storm's End's corridors were long and dark, torches set into the stone walls every dozen paces, their flames knocked sideways by the sea wind. The light stretched Tyrion's shadow into something that looked like a hunched giant.

Then footsteps.

Steady. Even. Unhurried. The gait of a man who had marched to war more times than he could count.

Tyrion stood, brushed the dust from his hem. He'd crouched too long, both legs had gone to pins and needles. He braced against the wall and waited for the feeling to pass.

Barristan came around the corner. He saw Tyrion and his stride hitched, just for a moment, then he kept walking.

"Ser Barristan." Tyrion let his arms hang at his sides, posture as humble as he could manage.

A Lannister crouching in a corridor to ambush someone, the scene was absurd enough already. No need to make it worse.

Though when had absurdity ever stopped him?

Barristan stopped in front of him and looked down.

The torchlight fell across that old face. The lines were deeper than the last time Tyrion had seen him, carved a little further into the skin. But those eyes were the same, bright as a sword-point fresh from the forge.

"Lord Tyrion." Barristan's voice carried no inflection at all. "A corridor is no place for conversation."

Tyrion gave a rueful smile. It didn't improve his face. The scars bunched together like a wrung-out rag.

"You're always with Daenerys. I've never had a chance to speak with you alone. Every time I try to get close, there are Unsullied or Dothraki between us. I was starting to feel like an assassin."

Barristan didn't deny it. "The duty of the Queensguard."

"I know," Tyrion said. "Which is why I had no choice but to come here and wait. I've been crouching for the better part of the day. My knees are nearly shattered. If you send me away now, I will absolutely cry at your door."

Barristan turned and pushed open the door to his room.

"Come in."

Barristan's room was on the third floor of Storm's End's eastern tower, once the bedchamber of some Baratheon bastard or other.

A narrow bed against the wall, white linen sheets, a single pillow.

Beside it, an iron chest with the Selmy family crest worked into the lid, three yellow stalks of wheat.

In the corner stood his spare white cloak and plate armor. The plates had been polished until they caught the firelight and threw it back.

On the table, a wine cup and a jug. The cup was ceramic, chipped at the rim. The jug was copper, dented on one side.

"Sit." Barristan walked to the table, turned the wine cup right-side up, and found a second cup somewhere. "Not many chairs. Take the bed."

Tyrion looked at the narrow bed and sat. The planks were hard. The bedding was thin as parchment.

"Is this how the Kingsguard live?" he said. "Or do you sleep on a plank bed to punish yourself? If so, your sins must be considerable."

Barristan didn't take the bait.

He poured two cups and handed one to Tyrion.

"You didn't come here to discuss the mattress."

Tyrion took the cup. Didn't drink.

"The day Joffrey dismissed you..."

"I wasn't there. I was in the Riverlands, fighting Robb Stark with the hill clans."

"That matter — I want to apologize. On Joffrey's behalf."

"You didn't do it."

Tyrion drew a slow breath. "I know I didn't. But Joffrey has Lannister blood. So does Cersei. From start to finish, the Lannisters cannot wash their hands of it."

"They wanted to clear the way for the Hound. They wanted my brother Jaime as Lord Commander."

Those mismatched eyes of his held something that didn't often live there, sincerity, plain and unguarded. "I am ashamed of them, Ser. I mean that."

The room was quiet for a moment.

Tyrion shifted. "You went to Essos afterward. Found Queen Daenerys."

"Yes," Barristan said. "Her Grace took me in."

Tyrion exhaled. "I only want to understand — why. Why her? Why, at your age, start over?"

"You could have found an estate in one of the Free Cities. Raised horses. Grown flowers. Lived out the rest of your days in peace."

"I have spent my whole life fighting for other men," Barristan said. "For Aerys — a madman. For Robert, a drunkard. For Joffrey, a cruel little beast. Every time, I told myself: I swore an oath. I must keep it."

"But the moment Joffrey drove me from the Kingsguard and I stood in the streets of King's Landing, the film over my eyes finally fell away. I understood that I had to find a true king. And give my life for her."

He said it quietly. No fire in it, no self-pity. Just a fact he had long since made peace with.

Tyrion hopped down from the bed.

"Do you know who advised Joffrey to dismiss you?"

Barristan looked at him.

"Varys," Tyrion said. "You thought I'd say Cersei? Cersei wanted you gone, yes, but she wasn't the one who put the idea in his ear. It was the Spider. The eunuch."

He tapped the tabletop with one stubby finger. "Someone had to answer for Robert's death. Joffrey needed someone to punish. Varys handed him you."

Barristan lifted his cup and took a slow sip. Swallowed it down.

"I have always felt I owed you something," Tyrion said. "Every stupid thing Joffrey did. Every vicious thing Cersei did. In the end, it all gets tallied against the Lannisters."

Barristan smiled. The corner of his mouth twitched, but it was there.

"You don't need to apologize for them. You are not the same as them."

Tyrion heard it clearly. Not courtesy. Truth.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Nothing came out. He turned and walked to the door, pulled it open.

The light from the doorway spilled into the corridor.

He looked back at Barristan.

"One last question, Ser."

Barristan waited.

"Do you hate us?" Tyrion asked. "The Lannisters?"

Barristan was silent for a long time. The flame trembled on the wick, throwing his shadow against the wall behind him, swelling and shrinking, swelling and shrinking, like something that couldn't find rest.

"I did," he said. "The day I left King's Landing, I hated Joffrey. Hated Cersei. I killed the two gold cloaks they sent to take my life. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to put a torch to the whole city."

"But that was a long time ago." Barristan's voice was even. "I don't hate anymore. Lord Tyrion, go home. I have an early watch tomorrow."

Tyrion stood in the doorway.

"Good night, Ser."

He turned and walked away, his short legs carrying him down the corridor one step at a time. His shadow stretched out behind him, longer and longer, until the corridor's turning swallowed it whole.

Barristan closed the door. He poured what was left in the jug into his cup and drank it in one go.

He lifted the white cloak from his shoulders and laid it over the head of the bed. Then he removed his armor piece by piece, stacking each part in the corner in the order he'd put it on.

He lay down. Closed his eyes.

The planks of the narrow bed gave a soft creak beneath him.

➤ Next: The Sole Daughter of Tarth