A Message from the Author:

So, what now?

Well, as I said back at the end of chapter 92, the story of A COAT OF GOLD is definitely not over. This tale continues in THE SUNSET KINGDOMS, which is (unfortunately for those of you who don't like longfic) even longer than this fic. If you continue with the story, please don't forget to follow again and to favourite if you like it.

Below is an excerpt from the sequel. This is the fourth chapter (Tyrion I) in THE SUNSET KINGDOMS, following on from Tyrion XIII in A COAT OF GOLD.

TYRION

He awoke to darkness and the sound of his own ragged breathing. There was a hammering in the back of his head, insistent and loud, a thunderous heartbeat thumping out of control. He blinked twice to adjust his eyes to the gloom. Bed, chair and dresser were vague grey shapes, and against the rough outline of the walls their shadows were even vaguer. It seemed that they were leering at him. One of the shadows had the shape of his father, glaring down at him with a hooded glare and malicious intention.

Go away, Father, Tyrion Lannister thought, you're dead. Go back to hell.

The hammering rose in his head, louder and louder still, short and angry, a heartbeat giving way to thunder. It was a long time before he finally realised that it was real, and not the sound of his own imagination, but the sound of something, someone, knocking at his door. Well, at least they had the courtesy to wait outside. That was more than he had expected.

Surely the knocker could at least wait until he had dressed himself. He chose a doublet that might have been red and might have been purple (it was impossible to tell in all this darkness), and woollen grey hose without decoration. Over that, he donned a weather-beaten black cloak, clasped at his throat by two golden lions. Once a Lannister, always a Lannister.

Only then, when he was quite ready, did he move to the door and open it to the Dornishman in the doorway.

"My apologies for disturbing your rest, little man," said Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell, with a tone that suggested anything but. "I know that sleep is particularly important to people of your stature."

The jibes come early this morn. Tyrion smiled wryly at him. "And yet, knowing this, you disturb me from it all the same."

The prince smiled back. "Was it a pleasant dream?" he asked.

"Not particularly."

"A nightmare, then?"

"No," Tyrion lied. "It was..."

Oberyn smirked and extended a hand to pull him forcefully through the doorway, closing the door behind them both with a gentle click. "Somewhere in between?" the Dornishman said. "I find that dreams that are neither intensely sexual nor incredibly terrifying... are often not worth dreaming about."

"I have no control over how I dream."

Prince Oberyn shook his head. "Of course you do. They are your dreams, after all."

Hmm… would that I could do the same in real life… It was only once he was out in the corridor that he noticed that his guards were gone, and that Oberyn was alone. I could run away if I managed to incapacitate him, he thought foolishly. A stupid thought, of course. He had no way of fending off a full-grown man, especially not the Red Viper, and the guards on the gates of the keep would quickly stamp out any hopes he had of fleeing. He followed Oberyn steadily down the corridor and out onto the walkway that went around the courtyard. King Joffrey's stone statue still stood resolute in the yard below, speckled with birdshit of every colour, but dragon banners, in King Aegon's personal livery of black and gold, had covered all of the walls. Pale white frost blanketed the winter roses and the lemon trees, and made them look like porcelain. The sun spilled out over the gardens like a great pot of yellow-gold honey.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked.

From ahead of him came the Dornishman's mocking voice. "I am not taking you anywhere, my little lordly friend. You are following."

Tyrion hastened his pace to catch up with Prince Oberyn's longer strides. "Naturally. I am your captive."

"Have you tried escaping yet?"

"No."

"Then how do you know that you are our captive?"

He shrugged. "I suppose that I do not. But I will not risk my head on some foolhardy escape that is unlikely to work."

For the first time that morning, Oberyn's dark eyes met Tyrion's own mismatched ones. There was sadness in them, and a sense of tiredness. "We do not take people's heads for those sorts of crimes," the Dornishman said quietly.

Trystane, he recalled, and Ellaria Sand as well. Between them, the High Sparrow and his sister had turned any chances of a peaceful future between Dorne and Casterly Rock for the next hundred years into a bitter memory of what might have been. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

"Perhaps you are." Oberyn smiled sadly at him. "But that will not change anything."

Tyrion hesitated about the next words he meant to speak, but he spoke them all the same. "I know it means little... but this was never my work. I never meant for..."

"That does not change things, Lord Imp. It still happened, regardless of the person who gave the order... nevertheless, I am not here to pursue vengeance, and especially not against you. If I wanted you dead, I would have sentenced you at your trial."

"That was a long time ago."

"And still the verdict stands," said Oberyn. "I have no way of going back and changing the past with my actions... so I will work to change the future instead. To make a better future."

Would he have killed me, then? If he had known? "A better future," Tyrion muttered hollowly.

Oberyn glanced out over the city, watching the sun as it rose above the city. "Aye, a better future," he repeated. "One where infant children are not murdered in their beds. One where the rape and murder of women and children is frowned upon by society. As I said, a better future... but..."

The Dornishman stopped abruptly and turned to Tyrion, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "A new order cannot truly be created without destroying the old one first," he said. "And there are still remnants of the old order in these Seven Kingdoms. For example, when we came to this city, the High Septon refused to crown my nephew. He said that he was King Tommen's man, now and always. Rather than kill him in the middle of his sept - thereby angering the Most Devout - we chose the cautious path, and instead had him smothered at night."

Tyrion smiled. He would have done no differently himself. A man after mine own heart, Prince Oberyn…

"When creating a new order, one rarely has time for honour." The Dornishman stopped to glance through the archway into the courtyard below. A swarm of courtiers were spilling out into the gardens, wrapped up like brightly coloured sheep in their woollen cloaks and mantles. Tyrion saw men of the Golden Company and their squires, lords and ladies of the Crownlands and beyond; he even recognised a few of the courtiers from the days when House Lannister had still ruled in the capital. Perhaps this place has not changed so much after all. Perhaps I am the one who has changed.

"Old fools will tell you that behaving honourably is the most important part of a knight's vow," Oberyn said. "I beg to differ. Knights fight wars. In war, honour does not really matter. Honour has little place in life as a whole, I find."

"Aye," said Tyrion. He could not disagree with that either.

The king's chambers were on the seaward side of the castle, instead of up in Maegor's Holdfast as they had been back in the days of the Lannister rule. They were more spacious than the old royal apartments and instead of a view over the spiked moat of Maegor's Holdfast, you could see out to Blackwater Bay from the balcony.

They arrived as the King's Hand was leaving. Jon Connington was a tall man (not that it made any difference to Tyrion) who seemed to be perpetually angry. The red stubble on his jaw was fast turning to grey, though the hair on his head was red as ever.

"Lord Connington!" Oberyn Martell said overenthusiastically. "Is it not a fine morning?"

Connington looked a little suspicious of that. "I suppose that it is." He shot Tyrion a harsh glare, and nodded tersely at the prince. "Especially considering that it is winter."

"You rise early, Lord Connington," said Prince Oberyn. He sounded slightly disappointed. "I was certain that I would be the first to call upon the king this morning... alas, I shall have to wake up even earlier next time."

Connington did not seem in the mood for any sort of jest. "There is still no word from your brother," he said.

Prince Oberyn cracked a big, white-toothed smile. "Doran likes to take his time, especially with his letters," he explained. "He told me 'Oberyn, there is nothing as dangerous as a misspelled word.' I suggested a sword through the bowels; he replied 'a sword through the bowels can kill one man, a letter sent to the enemy or a misunderstood battle plan can kill ten thousand.' Ever since then I have taken great care around envelopes. You never know when they will strike..."

He clapped his hands suddenly and loudly, then pushed his way past Jon Connington and towards the door. "Why have you brought the Imp with you?" the Hand asked as they were leaving.

"Lord Tyrion's little legs must be tired, cramped up in that dark cell," Oberyn explained. "I thought he might need a walk." Then he grabbed Tyrion by the shoulder and half-hauled him up the steps, stopping to give a lazy wave to Connington as he went.

"Lord Tyrion is not a slave," he told the Dornishman. "Lord Tyrion will do as he pleases."

Oberyn gave him a wry little smile. "Come," he said, pushing his way through and leaving Tyrion outside the king's chambers.

You could at least hold the door for me, the dwarf thought. I only have small arms.

The king's rooms were airy and bright, the windows hung with flapping silken curtains instead of shutters. The floor was pale cream flagstones, with a mosaic pattern of nothing in particular. King Aegon was over by the window, sitting beneath a tapestry of a snarling dragon and staring out over the city.

"Enjoying the view, nephew?" asked Oberyn.

The king stood up. "Uncle," he said curtly, and nodded to the dwarf. "Lord Tyrion." Then he turned away once more to glance over the city.

Prince Oberyn smirked at Tyrion. "Ah, there is nothing quite like a good window," he said, approaching the king. "How… fascinating." He placed a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "I brought Lord Tyrion, as you requested."

King Aegon swivelled round and smiled. "My lord," he said. "I trust you have found your chambers comfortable?"

"'Comfortable' would not be the word that I would use to describe them, Your Grace. But I have been kept in... ah… sufficient accommodations."

The king seemed unfazed by that. "Good," he said with a smile. "Well, that is encouraging, I suppose." He glanced at Oberyn. "Nuncle, you can leave us now."

The Dornishman's lips twitched in good humour. "I am somewhat hesitant to do so, nephew. After all, little Lord Tyrion has a habit of killing kings."

Tyrion held up his hands, feigning shame. "I tend to stick to no more than one regicide a year, Your Grace."

Aegon laughed, and gestured Tyrion towards a table in the corner of the room. Cyvasse. Of course. "I have heard that you are quite the player," he said, then looked back to Oberyn. "See, nuncle. There you are. You need not worry about me. If Lord Tyrion should turn rabid, I think I will be able to defend myself."

Prince Oberyn bowed as he went, wearing a sly smile. "Very well, nephew. Should the dwarf kill you, I declare myself innocent in all of the proceedings."

When he was gone, the king took his seat opposite Tyrion and began to arrange his pieces in the starting formation. "I'm afraid I don't have any wine," he sighed, biting back a smirk. "What sort of king am I when I do not even have wine, hmm?"

"I fear that my sister took all of it with her when she went back to Casterly Rock," Tyrion jested. "She does have a certain fondness for it?"

"Don't we all?" the king said. There were smile lines on his face, but his brow was lined with concentration as he watched the cyvasse board. This one knows his tactics, Tyrion realised, but more than that, he knows his politics. It worried him, having all these new faces in King's Landing. He picked up one of the onyx elephants between his stubby fingers and began to whistle a merry tune.

The king glanced up from his board. "It seems your side has the first move, Lord Tyrion," he said.

"How very… uh… gracious of you, Your Grace." He twiddled his thumbs a little as he pushed an crossbowman forward two spaces. "I always do appreciate any advantage that I am given."

King Aegon smiled. "Well, we have to take the opportunities that are offered to us." He glanced down at the cyvasse board. "Not the most unexpected of moves, I must say. I had heard that you were something of a risk-taker."

"I like to keep my best tricks until the end of the game, Your Grace," he said.

"Would you care to tell me any of those tricks?" the king asked.

"Now, that would be cheating, Your Grace."

"Ah, but I do always appreciate any opportunities I am given," said Aegon, raising his eyebrows in a slightly mocking fashion. The king's light horse advanced two spaces ahead and one to the left. Tyrion countered his move.

"I do love this game," Aegon said with a sigh of relief, stretching his arms out to the side. "I always have, ever since I was… well, ever since I can remember." He pushed a piece forward and looked up at Tyrion. "But I daresay you have many more years' experience at it than I do."

Tyrion picked up one of the elephants and traced its movements in the air experimentally. "It was my uncle Gerion who taught it to me," he explained. "My favourite uncle and by far the most interesting of them. He had been to Volantis and Lorath and even all the way to the Isles of Ibben. Adventure has always been my dream." He allowed himself to smile as he moved the piece forward. "Of course, dwarves often have many adventures that you might see as nothing out of the ordinary. High shelves, for example, present a rather intriguing challenge. As did the stairs in some of the towers at Casterly Rock."

The king looked up and his friendly demeanour was gone. "Your nephew is at Casterly Rock," he said. "And your sister."

"No doubt they are worrying over me this very moment. I do hope that you do not mean to hold me to ransom, Your Grace. I fear that my sweet sister would not spend any more than a copper star for my return." Which is fair; it is no more than I would ever spend on her.

Aegon's purple eyes flashed a little. "Adventure is your dream, you say?"

Tyrion drummed his fingers against the tabletop and began to whistle. "It is, Your Grace," he said.

"Would you consider this an adventure, then? Being in King's Landing, I mean."

"A curious question." He cocked his head to one side. "Would you understand my meaning if I told you that I love and despise this place in equal measure?"

Aegon squinted a little. "So you are… indifferent, then."

"No, Your Grace," Tyrion said, realising that it was his move again. "When you first arrived in King's Landing, I daresay you noticed the smell?" He moved his trebuchet a single space to the left. "Treachery, poverty and… well… shit, if you'll pardon my language. But… after a while, one ceases to notice the smell. It no longer smells of shit. It just smells of King's Landing. It even smells of home to some people."

Aegon made his move. "Carry on," he said.

"After a while, you decide to leave King's Landing for a while. Strange as it sounds, you begin to miss the smells of blood and piss and death in the mornings, so you decide to return to your beloved city, and-

"You find that it smells of shit all over again," Aegon said bluntly. "And so the cycle continues."

"And so the cycle continues," Tyrion agreed.

It was not long before he won the game. King Aegon was not a bad player, truthfully, but he was rash with his moves, and easily distracted by Tyrion's whistling. When it was over, the king sat back in his chair and mouthed a curse.

"Well, that was a rather amusing game." Tyrion said.

Aegon did not seem to have enjoyed it nearly so much. His mouth was set in a firm line. Could this be a hint of the Targaryen anger? Tyrion mused. The king stood up from the table and went out to the balcony, glaring down over the city below. "Come look, Lord Tyrion," he said.

Somewhat anxiously, he waddled to the balcony, half-fearing that Aegon would pick him up and throw him over the edge. There would be little that he could do if it came to that; Aegon stood nearly twice as tall as he did, and he looked strong as well as quick. This is a fight you will not win, dwarf, Tyrion told himself as he peered down over the edge.

"What do you think of it?" Aegon asked.

Tyrion shrugged and looked out across the city below. "Very nice," he said. The parts of it that my sister did not burn, at least. Then he began to notice the little things more closely, and all of a sudden he could smell bread baking instead of shit stinking. The waves lapped gently against the coast instead of battering the walls mercilessly. Was it his imagination, or did everything seem so much happier now than when he had ruled?

Aegon pointed to the walls of the city, below the keep. "Red walls," he said, "built on black soil. Red and black, my lord. This is a Targaryen place through and through."

"So it is," said Tyrion, feeling more than a little uneasy.

"Just as Casterly Rock is a Lannister place." Aegon turned to him with a smile. "With your help… I could make you one of the greatest lords in this kingdom."

Tyrion gave a small bitter laugh. "You think I can convince Casterly Rock to surrender by the power of my authority. My uncle will not recognise me as its lord, nor my sister, nor even my nephew. I am just a dwarf, Your Grace, and I fear you'll find nothing hidden within my heart but my own special kind of evil."

"You are your father's eldest son, if Ser Jaime is dead. Even if he lives, he is of your nephew's Kingsguard, and thus you are your father's heir, by all the laws of the realm."

"By the laws of your realm. My sister plays by very different rules. And if you think that Cersei will ransom me-

"You've already told me that she won't. But if you ride with me when we take Casterly Rock, she'll have no choice but to bend the knee to you."

And how I'd love to see that, Tyrion thought. Sadly – or perhaps fortunately, depending on how you looked at it - that was impossible. "Casterly Rock is the strongest castle in the Seven Kingdoms, Your Grace. The walls of the ringfort are twenty feet thick, not that it matters. The castle is a mountain in every sense of the world, built of the sheerest red rock, too steep for climbers to climb. They would die of thirst before they reached the top. The Lion's Mouth has four gates, each ten feet thick and made of cold-rod steel, and the cellars of the castle have enough food to withstand ten, even twenty years of siege. Even if by some miracle of luck – or by sheer military skill; I have no idea – you manage to fight your way to the gates with all of Westeros at your back, my family will hold out for far longer than your army can be motivated to keep up the siege."

"And yet there is still a way in," the king said, a smile creeping onto his lips. "You speak often of your family."

"Not always in a favourable light, mind."

The king smiled at him. Tyrion could see the Targaryen purple in his eyes, clear as day. The blood of the dragonlords. "You forget one very important thing, my lord Tyrion," he said. "I have a family too."

Oh, Tyrion Lannister thought. "You mean to treat with your aunt Daenerys?"

Aegon shrugged. "It seems the wisest course."

"A king must be wise," said Tyrion, "but if I may advise Your Grace in some capacity… you seem to forget that Her Grace desires this Iron Throne just as you do." I'll wager that she desires it more, in fact. News of Daenerys Targaryen had never been far from his ears when he had reigned as Hand, but Aegon had made his appearance on the shores of Westeros almost overnight, and he had taken Storm's End within a week, and King's Landing less than three months after. His advance had come so suddenly that even his supporters doubted his legitimacy, thought it too good to be true. Prince Rhaegar's son died during the Sack, they thought. Yet now that he stands before them, they want for another.

"I don't suppose you have seen Lord Varys this morning?" the king asked.

That was unusual. Varys was usually the first person Tyrion saw whenever he woke, occasionally finding that the eunuch had slipped inside his own rooms during the night and seated himself at the foot of his bed, to no great surprise and some considerable horror. "No," he said. "…and if we are playing a game of assumptions, then I must presume that you have ordered Lord Varys to Dragonstone?"

"Aye," said Aegon. "So I have. And my lord uncle Oberyn will meet him along the way, before sailing to Dorne."

Two dragons and a viper, Tyrion thought. 'The game never ends', the eunuch told me. I do hate how he has a tendency to be right.

"Why are you telling me this?"

The king shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. "Some of my advisors were opposed to it… but… Lord Varys and Prince Oberyn convinced me that you would be useful."

"Another thing I must thank my dear friends for."

"You should. Half of them wanted me to chop off your head and send it to your sister in a box."

Knowing Cersei, she'd likely have it gilded. "Then I am glad that you listened to wise counsel, Your Grace. I have been told of my usefulness… though I fear that in this situation-"

"You were Hand of the King."

Tyrion nodded. "Hmm, I do seem to recall my tenure."

The king gave him a scathing look that suggested he was not in the mood for japes. How very dull. The way I see it, King's Landing is the biggest joke in all Seven Kingdoms. "As Hand, you held a great measure of authority over the lords of the Crownlands, across all of Westeros, if truth be told."

"I am the most powerful dwarf to live, I suppose."

"And the rightful lord of Casterly Rock, the way I see it." Aegon's lips twisted into a small smile. "Some of my allies might see you as a traitor, but I see you as the man who opened the gates of King's Landing to his rightful king. And the first Westerlord to come over to my cause… if you do as I ask." He paused a moment. "Doubtless you have debts to pay to your nephew as well. But I pay my debts, Lord Tyrion, just as you do."

The dwarf lord bit his lip. Casterly Rock, all of it. "What would you have me do?"

"The Stormlands are divided in their loyalty. Some of the lords would have me as their king, others have declared their fealty for Tommen… and a couple remain fervent in their support for Stannis. We shall have to deal with the latter sort later, but those who are loyal to your nephew might be converted to our side…"

"…If a representative of House Lannister was on hand to encourage them to lay down their arms and surrender." A sound plan; the boy knows what he is doing.

"What of my nephew? And my niece? Most of my family are vicious bastards, but… I confess that I am rather fond of them."

"No harm will come to them - so long as they surrender."

"You might have trouble convincing House Lannister to kneel, even if their king does so before all the realm."

King Aegon nodded, either thoughtfully or with feigned thoughtfulness. "That is a matter for another time," he said. "So what say you, Lord Tyrion? I think you know full well what your prize will be."

"My rights," Tyrion said. "My debts." He took King Aegon's hand. "And a way to shit on my father's legacy. What more can a dwarf ever want?"

Thanks for reading, guys. Hope you enjoyed it.