GOT: The Great — Chapter 301 - Reckoning

Tyrion stood in the center of the Throne Room, tilting that oversized head of his as his gaze swept from Daenerys to Drogo, then settled on Lady Stoneheart's face.

More precisely, on the gray mask covering half of it.

"Lady Catelyn Stark?" His tone carried that particular mockery of his — the kind that made you want to hit him but left you with no good angle. "All of Westeros is saying you came back from the dead. That you're hunting the Lannisters for revenge."

"I heard it caused quite a panic in Casterly Rock." He glanced at Jorah. "Enough that Jorah Mormont walked right through your walls."

Jorah said, "I used the sewers. Before we set out, Khal Drogo told me the sewers were the weak point in Casterly Rock's defenses."

"Did I let that slip when I was drunk?" Tyrion wondered aloud. "No matter. It's done."

He took a few steps, closing the distance to Lady Stoneheart. "I've seen the dead walk before. But those were wights."

"I don't believe a person can truly come back to life. Either you're an impostor, or you never actually died at the Twins that day. You ran — like Brynden Tully, hiding in the marshes until it was safe to surface again."

"Why not take off your mask, Lady Stark? Let everyone see what you are."

The eyes beneath the mask fixed on Tyrion. Unblinking. "Don't think you can make me tear open those wounds again. I will not let the Lannisters humiliate me once more."

"Oh?" Tyrion tilted his head. "I spent a good many days in Lady Catelyn Stark's company. Once as a guest at Winterfell. Once as her prisoner, with a knife pressed to my chest, nearly thrown through the Moon Door of the Eyrie."

"Neither time was what you'd call pleasant. But I know her voice. I know it very well. And your voice is nothing like hers. You are not Lady Stark."

Lady Stoneheart went quiet.

Melisandre stepped out of the shadows along the side of the Throne Room. Sunlight caught the ruby at her throat. She crossed to Lady Stoneheart's side and laid a hand on her shoulder, long fingers settling with care.

"Let those who worship false gods witness the power of the Lord of Light."

Catelyn raised her hand. Her fingers found the edge of the mask.

That hand was nearly all bone, the skin ashen. She hesitated for a moment. Then she pulled it away.

The Throne Room went absolutely still.

Gray-white skin stretched taut over the cheekbones. From the corners of her eyes down to her jaw, strips of torn flesh hung loose. A dark red scar ran in a horizontal line across her throat, and when she opened her mouth, a raw hiss of air crawled up from somewhere deep inside her.

Tyrion Lannister froze.

He had seen the dead before. Sailors burned to charcoal by wildfire on the Blackwater Rush. Guards with half their faces cut away in the alleys of King's Landing. But he had never seen a dead woman standing in front of him, those ash-white eyes fixed on his face, not blinking once.

Sansa buried her face in both hands. She bit down on her own fingers. Her shoulders shook, then her whole body, and tears seeped through the gaps between her fingers and dripped onto the skirt across her knees, soaking into small dark stains.

Catelyn closed her hand around her own throat.

"The time has come to make the Lannister family answer."

Daenerys spoke quietly at Drogo's side. "I have waited a long time for this day."

Drogo tipped his chin toward Grey Worm. "Bring them in."

Grey Worm turned and walked out. The measured tread of the Unsullied echoed down the corridor. A moment later, the prisoners were marched inside.

Jaime Lannister came first. His golden hair was dirty and matted against his forehead, his beard grown out, a fresh scab at the corner of his mouth. His left hand was shackled, the chain running to the fist of an Unsullied soldier behind him.

He walked in and took in the room in a single sweep, Drogo on the Iron Throne, Daenerys, Tyrion. His stride hitched for just an instant.

Cersei came in behind him. Her hair had grown back. No powder, no paint. Her lips were cracked and her eyes were lined with fine wrinkles she'd never had before.

She wore a rough sackcloth tunic, the neckline hanging loose.

Her back was straight. Her chin was up. She walked like a woman entering her own coronation, not a judgment hall.

Tommen came in behind Cersei. Plain wool coat, cuffs frayed and coming apart at the seams, hair in disarray. His eyes were red. He had been crying.

When he spotted Tyrion, his lips moved slightly, the shape of the word uncle, but no sound came out.

He was thinner than before, his jaw sharper. An Unsullied soldier shoved him one step forward.

Walking last was a young woman with an infant in her arms.

A daughter of House Frey. The baby had only just been born, golden curls, green eyes. Lannister eyes. Jaime's son, born of this woman.

Tyrion looked at Jaime.

Jaime's gaze slid away. He turned his head aside.

Tyrion didn't follow it. He walked over and pulled Tommen into his arms.

Tommen pressed his face into his uncle's shoulder. His shoulders started shaking, then his whole body, but he didn't make a sound.

Tyrion's hand rested on the back of Tommen's head, fingers working through the tangled golden hair.

The Frey woman stood a few paces off, holding hers and Jaime's son, watching the two of them.

Drogo rose from the Iron Throne. He came down two steps and rested his hand on his sword hilt, his gaze moving across the line of prisoners.

"Tyrion. You sent Sansa to me from King's Landing. At Storm's End I made you a promise — one member of your family, spared. That time is now."

Tyrion slowly let go of Tommen.

He looked at Jaime. Then at Tommen. Jaime finally turned his head and met his brother's eyes.

The two of them stood a few paces apart, staring at each other across the wreckage of their entire family.

Tyrion looked up at Tommen. Tommen looked down, his eyes full of tears, fighting to hold them in.

The Frey woman pulled the infant a little tighter.

"Choose Tommen." Cersei's voice cut through the room. Not a plea. A command. "Tyrion, choose Tommen." She looked at him, then turned to Jaime. "Tommen is our child. Jaime, tell him."

Jaime said nothing. He looked at Tyrion. His lips pressed into a flat line.

Then the Frey woman spoke, her voice high and thin, edged with a frantic urgency. "This child is the rightful heir to Casterly Rock." She lifted the infant slightly higher.

No one looked at her. Tyrion didn't even glance her way.

He turned to face Drogo, sweat running down that scar-split face. "This is too cruel. Can we change the terms? Let me choose which Lannister dies instead."

Drogo made a short, scornful sound.

"What do you think? I'll count to ten. You don't choose, I kill them all."

"One." Drogo started counting.

"Two."

Cersei's breathing came faster and faster. She stared at Tyrion, her lips moving, silently, over and over, the same words.

"Three."

Jaime looked down. "Let Tommen live, Tyrion."

"Four."

"Five."

"Six."

Sweat broke across Tyrion's forehead. His fingers convulsed at his sides, curling and uncurling. He looked at Jaime. He looked at Tommen.

"Seven."

"Eight."

"Nine."

The air in the Throne Room felt like it had been pulled out entirely. No one breathed. No one moved. The torchflames burned straight and tall, perfectly still, even the flickering had stopped.