GOT: The Great — Chapter 161 - Love Even in Death

Tyrion was in bed with Shae when the first crash came.

Shae's body went rigid. Her thighs clamped around his waist. He stopped, stayed still, and listened.

The second crash followed right behind it.

Tyrion closed his eyes. He ran through it quickly: even spacing, concentrated impact. Trebuchets. Had to be.

He'd fought in battles. He knew this sound. On the Blackwater, at the Trident, stone shot hitting walls made exactly this noise, like a giant hammering the earth.

Shae's fingers slid into his hair and tugged. "Tyrion?"

"Someone's attacking the city."

"So?" she said. "You told me you'd take me like the world was ending. Well. Here we are."

Tyrion kept going. A few seconds of trembling later, he said, "I have to get up."

He pushed the blankets aside and sat up. In the dark he fumbled for his trousers, pulled them on, grabbed a coat.

Shae lit the oil lamp. The flame jumped and steadied, throwing light across the room.

"Where are you going?"

"The council chamber." He stomped into his boots. "Lying in bed waiting to die is worse than going to see what's happening."

He pulled the door open. Shae called "Be careful" at his back. He waved a hand without turning around.

The corridor torches were swaying. Every servant he passed wore the same look, eyes stretched wide, faces pale, barely holding it together.

He grabbed one by the arm. "Who's attacking the city?"

"I — I don't know, my lord. They say ships. A lot of ships."

Tyrion let him go and moved faster.

His short legs worked double-time on the stone steps. Two turns, and the council chamber doors were already open, voices spilling out into the hall.

"...your sworn sword came back with her father's army to attack Storm's End."

Daenerys Targaryen's voice.

Tyrion stopped in the doorway, caught his breath, and stepped inside.

"How would I know?" Sansa said. "You approved Brienne going back to Tarth."

The hall was blazing with light.

Daenerys sat in the high seat, wrapped in a deep blue gown, hair pulled back, no paint on her face. Those violet eyes were cold as winter ice.

Missandei stood behind her, hands folded, expression blank.

Scarlett sat at Daenerys's right, her belly pressing against the table's edge, one hand resting over her abdomen, brow tight.

Sansa stood on the other side of the table, red hair loose, face drained of color.

Wodevar Tamad was there too.

The spymaster stood by the window, one hand clasped behind his back, the other holding a letter. The lines on his face looked like they'd been cut with a knife.

Tyrion walked to the table and let his gaze move over all of them. "Seems the trebuchets have robbed everyone of their beauty sleep."

Nobody laughed.

Wodevar said, "Lord Tyrion. Lady Sansa's sworn sword, Brienne of Tarth — her father raised troops and marched the moment she returned home. Do you see a connection?"

"You think Brienne talked her father into attacking Storm's End?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow.

"I don't know," Wodevar said. "What I do know is that she carried word back to Tarth — that we have only 3,000 Unsullied in the northern Stormlands. And her father marched immediately after her return. If that isn't betrayal, what is?"

"I don't know. Maybe she's just loose-lipped. Talking with her father, a couple cups of wine, and things that shouldn't be said just come out. I've done it a hundred times."

Wodevar's mouth curved into something cold. "Loose lips or betrayal, the result is the same."

"It isn't." Tyrion's voice dropped. "A traitor has malice behind it. If you can't tell the difference, someone else should be sitting in your chair."

Missandei spoke quietly. "Lord Tyrion is right. During Brienne's time at Storm's End, she never once behaved suspiciously."

Scarlett touched her belly. Her voice was a little weak, but her tone didn't waver.

"Before she left, she told me she wanted to hold the baby when it came. A traitor doesn't ask to hold the enemy's child."

Sansa pressed her lips together, fingers twisted in the fabric of her skirt.

"Say something." Daenerys's voice was quiet, but the weight of it pressed down on the room like a stone. "Brienne is your sworn sword. Your person. This happened on your watch. What are you going to do about it?"

Sansa raised her head. Those blue eyes held no anger. No guilt either.

Just that calm Tyrion recognized, the kind she'd built for herself in King's Landing, layer by layer, until she could bury everything and show nothing.

"Tomorrow, I'll speak with Brienne and get to the bottom of it."

She turned and walked toward the door.

Daenerys watched her go. Then her voice rose: "Khal Drogo will be back soon. You'd better think carefully about how you're going to explain this to him."

Sansa's steps faltered for just a moment. She didn't look back. She kept walking.

Rakharo came striding in from the corridor, passing Sansa so close that the wind of it lifted a strand of her hair.

His face was sheened with sweat. "Khaleesi."

Daenerys straightened. "Where is Drogo?"

Rakharo glanced at her. His lips moved.

"Khal Drogo did not return to Storm's End."

"Where did he go?"

"The Reach," Rakharo said. "Jaqho is surrounded there, three houses, a coalition. When Khal Drogo received word, he took the Dothraki riders north from the southern Stormlands, crossed the Red Mountains, and rode to reinforce him."

"So he's not coming." Daenerys's voice was barely above a murmur.

"He will come back when the fighting is done. But, no one knows how long that will take."

Tyrion didn't speak Dothraki. He pressed forward. "What are you saying?"

Daenerys translated into the Common Tongue: "Drogo has gone to the Reach. He won't be coming back. Not for now."

Outside, a new round of crashes rolled in. Stone shot against the walls, one muffled boom after another.

Daenerys stood up.

"We're trapped. A thousand Unsullied inside the walls, at least ten thousand outside. Drogo isn't here. The dragons aren't here."

She drew a slow breath. "We need reinforcements."

Tyrion looked at her. "What about the other strongholds in the northern Stormlands? Copper Gate, the Stone Bridge on the Wendwater, Grasshall, Fallwood, there are still 2,000 Unsullied garrisoned across those positions. They don't know we're under siege."

"They'll be under siege soon enough," Wodevar said. "If Lord Selwyn dared to march on Storm's End, he's already moved to seal off the outer strongholds."

"Not necessarily." Tyrion shook his head. "Tarth doesn't have the numbers for that. Those other towns may not be surrounded yet. If we can get word to the Unsullied at those positions, they can march to lift the siege."

Daenerys turned to Rakharo.

"Can you break through?"

Rakharo didn't hesitate. "Yes."

Daenerys walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside. Outside, the sky was still dark, but a thin line of gray-white had begun to bleed along the eastern horizon.

"Find Jhogo and Quaro," she said. "The three of you go together."

Rakharo nodded and turned to leave. He was almost through the door when Daenerys called after him.

"Rakharo."

He stopped. Turned his face slightly.

"Come back alive."

The corner of Rakharo's mouth moved, just barely. He said nothing. Then he was gone, long strides swallowed by the corridor.

Tyrion moved to the window and looked out at the dark.

The torches outside the walls had merged into a single unbroken line, running from the coastline all the way north to the high ground.

Tarth's army was sealing Storm's End into an iron barrel. But the barrel wasn't closed yet. There was still a gap.

Rakharo still had a chance.

"Do you think he can break through?" Daenerys stood behind him, her voice low.

"He's Dothraki," Tyrion said. "Dothraki spend their whole lives on horseback. If those three can't get through, no one in this world can."

➤ Next: Hostage Exchange — Words Unspoken