#i added two more songs after the new chapter golden boy fits so damn well

[whoistrash]

So. I think this is a perfect moment to share my playlist for @fordtato's Jersey Boy. This fanfiction is a masterpiece and deserves a read without a doubt. Don't be shy. Go read it. And listen to this playlist when you're done.

[faiseuse-d-histoires]

A Dance of Shadows, chapter 5

Here it is! I hope you enjoy!

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18961603/chapters/45488338

                                                      Tyrion I

The wave was hard, this year, Tyrion thought with an amused smile.

Colors, everywhere. Crimson red, vivid green, bright blue, golden orange and soft pink. Purple, also. Flashing on the ceiling, on the floor, on the walls. Fabrics of silks from Lys, moving graciously, carrying these colors triumphally, giving them life and flow. A chaos of colors to make people forget about the holes that were still showing on the walls.

No grey, surprisingly. The king hadn’t wanted it, despite Tyrion’s protests about the utility to remember people of his family. The color seemed to displease him now, somehow.

Well, actually, grey wasn’t such a happy color. Tyrion hadn’t really liked it, but still diplomacy would have been better with it. With these Northerners who somehow found their way to the party and were sulking in a corner, ignoring the joy and lust radiating from every pore of the newly repaired castle. They were almost as broody as the only two members of the faith that deigned to join it. It had been difficult to convince them, but they did anyway. These stubborn men who were quite offended by their king’s choice of faith.

Dornishmen were the absentee of the feast, sadly. And that absence quite unnerved Tyrion. At least, they were some Dornishwomen… if it could appease him (surprisingly, it didn’t).

What could they be plotting? He wondered. News were hard to get, these days, and the king’s attentions were more in the north than in the south.

Still, wine was flowing from fountains. Boys were jumping in it, while some men chose to bath instead.

Girls giggled, euphoric from all the festivities. Women dancing, with their nipples bouncing as they moved. No ladies, these ones, no. But entertainers. Some whores. And the ladies, with a bit more clothes, judging them from afar as their husbands goggled them.

What a sight he liked to have in the afternoon.

Yes, today was a good day, Tyrion thought. Today was a day he prepared himself. A day to make illusions, and perhaps miracles.

“Cunts. Cunts everywhere.” Said a rough voice on his right.

Tyrion smiled, inhalating the smell of wine warmed by the sun, sweat and spices.

“Without it, there wouldn’t be any man. It’s a pleasant spectacle to behold.”

Bronn shrugged, a nonchalant smirk on his lips.

“Well, I can get used to it.”

“Don’t you have a lady wife to contend?”

“She said she didn’t want to go. She had other affairs to contend,” Bronn said. “That makes more for me.”

Tyrion smirked.

“Beware of them, my friend,” he said. “Some of them may be more dangerous than you think.”

“That makes the matter more exciting, don’t you think?” Bronn retorted with a smirk, leaving to take one glass of wine.

And maybe one other person as he came too, Tyrion supposed.

Where was the king now? In his chambers? He wondered.

People needed to see him. People needed to hear him. The most important person in the realm could not stay in his chambers with his eyes returned without people wondering if he was still fit to rule.

Tyrion hoped he was present enough. Words would soon spread about him dying.

He looked for the king with worried eyes, and moved, until his sight greeted him.

He was here, on his wheelchair, listening to a minstrel’s songs, just near the entrance.

Good, that was good, he thought.

Aerand Flowers. According to him, son of a long-lost princess and a wildling gone too far south. His features were as delicate as those of a woman, and his eyes as soft as a doe. His hair was blond and shiny, and somehow it made him remember young Lancel Lannister when he was only a little squire at Robert’s orders.

And now, he was singing and playing about the events of one year ago with a soft voice, as if telling a secret to those who cared to listen. And that damn bastard could very much do that! Young girls were already on their knees, staring at him adoringly as he continued his song.

… White as snow his fur was

But no true Wolf he was

With blood tears fate was settled

With fire all was meddled

He only heard the dragon’s roars

And its folly made his heart soar

O pray, O Mother

For his cry to reach its armor

“This song is inexact.” The king said, with suddenly a melancholic voice. “Northerners pray the old gods. Not the news.”

“You don’t seem to include yourself in it, your Majesty.” Tyrion remarked.

“I do not. Not anymore. I cannot really include in anything, now.”

“You are the King.”

“I am a lot of things.” He said. “That doesn’t mean I’m in anything.”

… For when barbarians rode to the city

Mothers could not keep their babies

And the dragon laughed, and laughed,

As his fire burned all their bodies

Wolfs could not prevent it to spread

Neither could lions and krakens

Till it left only fear and dread

Joy for the queen who listens

Young Bran chuckled a bit. A surprising sound from someone with so few expressions these days, Tyrion thought.

But then, another thought came to him, frightening.

“What about Drogon?”

The king said nothing, just smiled lightly. But not with the eyes. Never with the eyes.

… And the she-wolf, she howled, and howled,

To the moon and back they followed her lead

In the North she would remain until she was old

And in the South, he would reign with ease

Such was the pact with other animals they made

For no dragon would come to miss

And no winter would make it cease

As one, but far from each other they would reign

Such were set the fates of these sovereigns.

“Sansa always loved songs. But I don’t think she would like this one.” Bran the Broken said.

“Why?” Tyrion mused. “Is it because of the ‘howling’ thing?”

“It would remind her of what she lost.”

“But also what she gained in return.”

Smile, wanted to say Tyrion. Show me something. Anything.

You’re human, aren’t you?

Bran Stark smiled a little, but it did not reach his eyes.

“You remember the girl she was. But not the woman she is now.”

“Perhaps.”

Was there any songs at little Queen Sansa’s court? He wondered.

Well, she was not THAT little. She was a woman grown. With full breasts, although slender silhouette. Eyes like ice, but mouth like a button of rose. And rich auburn hair, like the colors of a weirwood tree in winter.

He had almost loved her, once. Not that she would ever had him. Even with a kiss on her hand, he could not have a blush out of her.

No, Sansa Stark was no woman for him, even if sometimes, he could imagine it.

“Ironic, doesn’t it seem?” The king continued. “That such a song would sing things that in fact are flitting and feeble.’

“I don’t know, your Grace.”

He had no answers for that. At least, no answer that would satisfy him.

“There are things that allude me.” The young King said, suddenly tense. “I must try to see this.”

Tyrion’s eyes widened even more as he looked from right to left.

Everyone. Almost everyone had their eyes on them. On the power in place.

If it failed, they would be screwed. It could lead to civil war.

“Do not leave us yet, young King,” He pleaded.

Do not leave me with those memories, he wanted to say. Do not leave me with them.

“I’m not young.” The king answered, with his monotone voice. “I have no age.”

Tyrion had grown attached to that boy. At least, to the body of this boy, and the stories that lived in him. Even now, it still fascinated him in the darkest of nights, when after a rough day, both King and Hand could talk more freely.

The man inside it, he wasn’t quite sure he would ever totally know him. He was a conundrum, a mystery. And yet, Tyrion almost feared what he would find behind all of this.

As should be every great monarch, he began to think.

But then, he remembered, and he took another goblet of wine.

“I’m South. Sansa is North. Arya is West. But who is east?” The young king mused.

“Jon Snow is north too, your Grace.” Tyrion added. “He is your family.”

He smiled.

“Jon is gone.”

Gone? What could he mean by that?

“Gone?” “Is he….”

“Kill the boy,” Bran suddenly said. “Kill the boy, and let the man be born”

Tyrion didn’t say anything, for he knew it would be useless. The shock had already dulled his senses. The answer to his questions would come in time anyway. But it won’t always erase the feeling of strangeness that came each time the young king spoke without context explaining it. Nobody could see what he saw. And this fact made him a terrific mystery.

“This is what Aemon Targaryen, from the Night’s Watch, said to Jon Snow,” Bran the Broken uttered, staring at the feast ahead them. “But he didn’t. I did. And Brandon Stark is no more, now.”

“You are Bran Stark. You are the king.”

He smiled, but said no more. Silence came once again between them. Until the song was heard once again, this time talking about a prophecy, and a sacrifice made with love and fire.

Tyrion wanted to laugh bitterly at the irony.

“They are talking about kings and queens.” He said, just to fill the void. “And heroes. I’ve never been one. And it seems to me we’re all out of heroes, now.”

This world doesn’t need them anymore, he thought.

“Heroes aren’t necessarily fighters.” The king uttered at last. “They are people who follow their destiny”

That speech reminded him of someone.

Someone prettier, someone real.

Someone dead.

“You’re thinking of her, right?”

Tyrion lowered his head, but he couldn’t say anything. He was no little boy, though how little he was.

“You’re always thinking of her when there is a party.”

“She’s gone.”

“I know.”

And she was a tyrant, he wanted to add. She was a criminal, a madwoman. She destroyed King’s Landing, mass-murdered half of its inhabitants

And yet, he couldn’t help but miss her. To miss the girl he met. That girl who made miracles happen. That girl who wanted a better world.

‘Ask me again in ten years,” he said to Jon Snow. If he had the opportunity, he would do it again. He would betray her once again, for the death of the innocent ones. And for the death of his siblings. He could still see in his mind their bodies, intertwined in agony under all the ruins they made.

She didn’t kill them herself, the bricks did. Cersei died, trapped in that castle as she had always been, where only one truly loved her, and was loved by her. Jaime died, trying to save her, even if he already knew she was beyond saving. A true fool.

And yet… When he saw their bodies, it was like a cloud of ashes had enveloped his heart. Rage, full rage consumed him as he hit the floor on and on with that stone he had found. Only dust came of it, and his despair consumed his soul, ripped it apart, until it left a dark hole on his chest, a shadow of his former self.

Cersei, the sister who had always hated him, always glared at him. Her eyes could not open up now.

Jaime. Jaime. Just by thinking of his name, pain still took its hold on him. Who would share his delusions now? With who could laugh with him? Who would fight for him? Save him? Bronn was good company. He could laugh with him. He could almost consider him as a friend. But still, Bronn had the heart of a mercenary: gold could sway him.

Jaime… Their bonds had been almost unbreakable: the golden lion and his brother the crippled cub.

But then, he remembered what he swore himself to forget as he said his last goodbye to him. An image, that he had forced himself each night to forget, for remembering would taint even more the memories he had of his brother.

Brown hair and green eyes, with sparkles of gold around the pupil. A warm smile…

A smile that was disfigured in a painful rictus when he took her, after so many others…

“You keep being distracted, Hand.”

“I’m sorry, your Grace, I…”

“Where do whores go?” Bran suddenly said. “You never found out the answer to that question.”

Tyrion froze. What? How could he know about it?

“What was her name, again?”

“Tysha”, Tyrion said, almost in a whisper.

No… just the ghost of her name on his lips was enough. He could not crumble now. Now after surviving so much…

“I believe I can.” Bran said, gesturing for his guard to come closer. “But do you really want the answer that will be coming?”

Drink. It was all he could do, now. Drink to forget. Drink to laugh, play, and drink some more.

Then, when he looked back at his king, he was already gone. His eyes were white as a sheet of paper, and that void distressed him. What if people saw?

But then, just as it started, it stopped. The king was here with him at last. And demanding to speak, ordering his guards just by the look in his eyes to silence

“The Iron Islands broke their fealty treaty.” He said with a clear and strong voice. “I believe we are in for a war, now.”

Then, he left, and Tyrion found himself alone in that room full of strangers with familiar faces. And the impression that a pot of wildfire had been dropped in the room.

How could he know that?

Oh, yeah. He was the three-eyed raven.

People looked at him, shock in their eyes. Discussion stopped, music rang one last note as silence filled slowly the room.

This king was not a leader with inspiring speech, at the right place, at the right moment. Truth was his speech, but truth was not always what people wanted to hear. Especially in a feast which celebrated his first year into kingship.

News were bad. With Dorne’s uncertainty and now this, it would never be the same.

So much for a good day.

The king was slowly losing consciousness of this reality. People had certainly seen it now. People will spread the word.

No pretty songs could ever hide it.

He could only pray for it not to become one in the following days.

*Bloopers and added scenes*

No grey, surprisingly. The king hadn’t wanted it, despite Tyrion’s protests about the utility to remember people of his family. The color seemed to displease him now, somehow.

Earlier in the morning…

“What happened to the grey color?” Sam said.

“It turned to black. Black as my soul.” The king retorted, out of nowhere.

.

“Cunts. Cunts everywhere.”

“I hope you don’t count me in it.”

They stared at each other. Then laughed.

.

“… The Northerners pray for the old golds.”

“… “

“…”

“golds? I believe it’s my family’s favorite prayer you’re talking about. “Good ol’ gold, come to mee!!”