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fandomweekly2025-03-10 12:11 pm
m_findlow) wrote in fandomweekly2025-03-10 12:11 pm
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[#251] REBUILDING (GAME OF THRONES)
Theme Prompt: #251- Royalty
Title: Rebuilding
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Rating/Warnings: M (language). Spoilers for all seasons.
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1,000 words
Summary: Tyrion is busy ensuring that the reconstruction of King’s Landing is carried out just as intended.
‘No, no, no,’ Tyrion said, trying to usher past a half dozen stonemasons to get to the one that was purportedly in charge. He couldn't even be sure that they heard him over the clanking of metal tools on the deep red sandstone, fashioning it into precise pieces for assembly and adding flourishes to the edges as was the hallmark of their trade. ‘It must be exactly the same,’ he reiterated. ‘Exactly.’
He reached for the plans which had been rolled up and discarded in the corner, unfurling them on the nearest workbench and pointing emphatically at the architectural drawings. ‘See here? The staircase must curve from the right upwards towards the top of the tower.’ He gestured at the plans again, indicating the vertical cross section illustrations.
The head mason, a man who was nearly as tall as the once infamous Gregor “The Mountain” Clegane, though as thin and wiry as a beanstalk, stroked at the long braided beard hanging from his chin, consulting the drawings as if seeing them for the first time. ‘But it don’t make sense to go right, my Lord Hand,’ he finally replied, trying to instil some small amount of deference in his tone. The common folk, even though skilled in their crafts, had seen first hand the price to be paid for defying those in power, and were not keen to experience it again any time soon. ‘We has always fashioned tower stairs going up from the left. Ain’t natural to make people climb stairs counter-clockwise.’
Tyrion pondered whether the common folk even believed in such an immutable law, given as how few owned a clock, nor could tell time other than by the approximate position of the sun in the sky. Clocks were the works of the great Maesters of Oldtown, fashioned to measure the passing of a day in hours and minutes, perfectly divided to coincide with the passage of time. Tyrion had a fascination for timepieces and the marking of time so accurately, though it was not a view shared by most of his peers, for whom setting a time to commence Small Council gatherings was seen as something akin to wizardry. When they already measured progress in terms of days, weeks, months and years, why not also measure progress on lesser matters in hours? Not every task was so grand as rebuilding the Red Keep, nor the deadline for such works so imprecise.
‘King Brandon has requested that every last detail be precisely remade as it was,’ Tyrion replied. ‘If we do not embrace our great history then we are doomed to repeat it. It is upon us to see the King’s will be done.’
The mason bowed his head. ‘It will be done, my Lord.’
Tyrion nodded back, and then made a gesture with his hand to the rest of them, indicating the direction the stones were to be laid, just as a reminder, before wandering away to check on the progress being made elsewhere. As he passed through hallways propped by wooden supports, other areas cordoned off as new tiles were being laid, a tall figure fell into step alongside him. ‘Well, if it isn’t my favourite Master of Coin,’ he remarked.
‘And my least favourite spender of coin,’ Bronn replied.
‘Tut,’ Tyrion chided. ‘We have brought vast employment to the people. Who knew that reconstruction could be such an economic boon. Besides, we have vastly more coin than you make out. Much more since we ceased paying armies to protect the borders from Unsullied and vengeful dragons.’ No one had seen hide nor scale of Drogon since he took his Queen’s body and flew away, and everyone, Tyrion included, was much relieved by that. ‘Not to mention a very substantial loan from Casterly Rock,’ he added.
Bronn snorted. ‘Aye, you and all your bloody Lannister gold, loaned at extortionate rates.’
‘No more than the Bank of Braavos would have included in their terms, I assure you, else why would you have accepted it?’
Bronn paused their walk as they passed by an open terrace, able to see towers slowly rising from where there had just months ago been nothing but rubble. ‘Let me ask you this, then. Why not just go back to Casterly Rock as the only surviving Lannister of any importance and simply enjoy your gold? Why spend all your days doing this?’
‘The King’s bidding?’ Tyrion mused. ‘Why not simply ask me why I did not put myself forth for the crown?’
‘That too.’
‘If life has taught me anything, dear Sir Bronn of the ne'er do well, to sit upon the throne and rule is to wear the trappings, to speak the elegant words and to hold the appearance of power over all things. The only power wielded is that of fear. To counsel a king, or a queen, and to employ the hands that create tangible things that help the people to live and to prosper, that is the true power behind the throne.’ Tyrion truly believed that. He had stood at the side of terrible kings and queens, unable to do more than influence the greater politics, but it was in the small things that he saw the difference it made to the people that lived under their rule.
‘All a whole lot of fancy words that simply mean we do all the bloody work and they get all the bloody glory. If that’s power I should go back to being a sellsword and you should go back to being a fancy rich fucker lord.’ Bronn sighed. ‘Oh, to go back to the days when the only people who wanted our money were the Fleabottom whores.’
Tyrion considered life before the destruction of King's Landing, before Daenerys Stormborn, before Whitewalkers and Cersei and Joffrey and even Robert Baratheon. Back to a world before he had grown up, where drinking and whores were indeed all he had to spend money on. ‘I would not wish that upon even my worst enemy.’
Title: Rebuilding
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Rating/Warnings: M (language). Spoilers for all seasons.
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1,000 words
Summary: Tyrion is busy ensuring that the reconstruction of King’s Landing is carried out just as intended.
‘No, no, no,’ Tyrion said, trying to usher past a half dozen stonemasons to get to the one that was purportedly in charge. He couldn't even be sure that they heard him over the clanking of metal tools on the deep red sandstone, fashioning it into precise pieces for assembly and adding flourishes to the edges as was the hallmark of their trade. ‘It must be exactly the same,’ he reiterated. ‘Exactly.’
He reached for the plans which had been rolled up and discarded in the corner, unfurling them on the nearest workbench and pointing emphatically at the architectural drawings. ‘See here? The staircase must curve from the right upwards towards the top of the tower.’ He gestured at the plans again, indicating the vertical cross section illustrations.
The head mason, a man who was nearly as tall as the once infamous Gregor “The Mountain” Clegane, though as thin and wiry as a beanstalk, stroked at the long braided beard hanging from his chin, consulting the drawings as if seeing them for the first time. ‘But it don’t make sense to go right, my Lord Hand,’ he finally replied, trying to instil some small amount of deference in his tone. The common folk, even though skilled in their crafts, had seen first hand the price to be paid for defying those in power, and were not keen to experience it again any time soon. ‘We has always fashioned tower stairs going up from the left. Ain’t natural to make people climb stairs counter-clockwise.’
Tyrion pondered whether the common folk even believed in such an immutable law, given as how few owned a clock, nor could tell time other than by the approximate position of the sun in the sky. Clocks were the works of the great Maesters of Oldtown, fashioned to measure the passing of a day in hours and minutes, perfectly divided to coincide with the passage of time. Tyrion had a fascination for timepieces and the marking of time so accurately, though it was not a view shared by most of his peers, for whom setting a time to commence Small Council gatherings was seen as something akin to wizardry. When they already measured progress in terms of days, weeks, months and years, why not also measure progress on lesser matters in hours? Not every task was so grand as rebuilding the Red Keep, nor the deadline for such works so imprecise.
‘King Brandon has requested that every last detail be precisely remade as it was,’ Tyrion replied. ‘If we do not embrace our great history then we are doomed to repeat it. It is upon us to see the King’s will be done.’
The mason bowed his head. ‘It will be done, my Lord.’
Tyrion nodded back, and then made a gesture with his hand to the rest of them, indicating the direction the stones were to be laid, just as a reminder, before wandering away to check on the progress being made elsewhere. As he passed through hallways propped by wooden supports, other areas cordoned off as new tiles were being laid, a tall figure fell into step alongside him. ‘Well, if it isn’t my favourite Master of Coin,’ he remarked.
‘And my least favourite spender of coin,’ Bronn replied.
‘Tut,’ Tyrion chided. ‘We have brought vast employment to the people. Who knew that reconstruction could be such an economic boon. Besides, we have vastly more coin than you make out. Much more since we ceased paying armies to protect the borders from Unsullied and vengeful dragons.’ No one had seen hide nor scale of Drogon since he took his Queen’s body and flew away, and everyone, Tyrion included, was much relieved by that. ‘Not to mention a very substantial loan from Casterly Rock,’ he added.
Bronn snorted. ‘Aye, you and all your bloody Lannister gold, loaned at extortionate rates.’
‘No more than the Bank of Braavos would have included in their terms, I assure you, else why would you have accepted it?’
Bronn paused their walk as they passed by an open terrace, able to see towers slowly rising from where there had just months ago been nothing but rubble. ‘Let me ask you this, then. Why not just go back to Casterly Rock as the only surviving Lannister of any importance and simply enjoy your gold? Why spend all your days doing this?’
‘The King’s bidding?’ Tyrion mused. ‘Why not simply ask me why I did not put myself forth for the crown?’
‘That too.’
‘If life has taught me anything, dear Sir Bronn of the ne'er do well, to sit upon the throne and rule is to wear the trappings, to speak the elegant words and to hold the appearance of power over all things. The only power wielded is that of fear. To counsel a king, or a queen, and to employ the hands that create tangible things that help the people to live and to prosper, that is the true power behind the throne.’ Tyrion truly believed that. He had stood at the side of terrible kings and queens, unable to do more than influence the greater politics, but it was in the small things that he saw the difference it made to the people that lived under their rule.
‘All a whole lot of fancy words that simply mean we do all the bloody work and they get all the bloody glory. If that’s power I should go back to being a sellsword and you should go back to being a fancy rich fucker lord.’ Bronn sighed. ‘Oh, to go back to the days when the only people who wanted our money were the Fleabottom whores.’
Tyrion considered life before the destruction of King's Landing, before Daenerys Stormborn, before Whitewalkers and Cersei and Joffrey and even Robert Baratheon. Back to a world before he had grown up, where drinking and whores were indeed all he had to spend money on. ‘I would not wish that upon even my worst enemy.’
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