Chapter 579

"Seven save me, you run faster than a hound catching the scent of fresh meat!"

Had anyone else shouted that in public, Aegor might have taken offense. But coming from him…

"I only ran so fast because I missed you," Aegor shot back with a wry smile, accepting the less-than-flattering comparison. "And I see your talent for insults is as sharp as ever. That’s a relief." He let out a small chuckle before adding, "At least now there are fewer people left who'd dare hold a grudge against you for it, isn’t that right, Master of Coin?"

By way of revenge, Aegor pulled the dwarf into a tight bear hug, crushing him against his breastplate until Tyrion was gasping for breath, his feet dangling off the ground. Only then did he let him go.

"Gods, I take it back! I take it back!" Tyrion wheezed, clutching his chest while frantically waving a hand in surrender. "Just—no more of that! But you owe me an explanation. How in the seven hells did you convince the North to support the dragon queen and cross half the Riverlands in just a matter of days?"

Tyrion’s shock was genuine.

Over a week ago, he had received Aegor’s Declaration of Conquest along with a private letter sent from the Twins. At the time, knowing his old acquaintance was still hundreds of miles away with an entire undecided region between them, Tyrion had taken his time. He had lingered in Lannisport, wrapping up business affairs before setting out in a comfortable carriage, assuming he would have several days to kill upon reaching Golden Tooth.

Then, upon arrival, he was stunned to learn that Aegor had already reached the castle a full day ahead of him—with his entire army encamped outside its gates, awaiting negotiations.

Marching from the Twins to the doorstep of the Westerlands in just eight days?

Tyrion knew the Riverlords weren’t the most formidable warriors, but this? This was madness. Had Aegor not publicly declared his marching orders in advance, Golden Tooth’s garrison would have had no idea they were coming until they were already within bowshot.

"No problem," Aegor agreed cheerfully. "We have an entire day to talk. And besides, I’m just as curious about your achievements—the founder of Westeros' first great bank." He gestured toward the command tent. "Shall we, Master of Coin?"

Tyrion, accompanied by two of his personal guards, followed Aegor toward the heart of the encampment. As they walked, he casually examined the army’s composition, taking note of the banners, numbers, and general morale.

By the time they reached the command tent, he had already formed several theories.

Leaving the rest of the delegation outside, the two men entered alone—what looked like an old reunion was, in truth, a secret negotiation between the Queen’s army and the Westerlands.
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They hadn’t seen each other in years—not since King’s Landing.

Each had a wealth of stories to share, and it took some time before their mutual curiosity was satisfied.

Eventually, Tyrion leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and steered the conversation toward the true purpose of their meeting.

"Your Declaration of Conquest has spread through Lannisport," he said with a knowing smirk. "Most of the nobles and officials saw it as nothing more than bravado—posturing meant to scare them into submission."

Tyrion’s smile widened. "But now that they know you carved a path through the Riverlands in just a week, I doubt they’ll be dismissing you so lightly. Since the queen sent you instead of flying in on dragonback, I assume she’s given you a list of terms for our surrender?"

He tapped his fingers against the table. "Come now, Aegor—no need for games between us. Just tell me the conditions outright so I can bring them back to my father and uncle."

Aegor met his gaze with an amused glint but didn’t immediately respond.

Instead, he sat in silence, staring at Tyrion—long enough that the dwarf shifted uncomfortably and scratched at his scalp.

It was only after a few seconds of tense quiet that Aegor finally spoke:

"Tyrion, you know, back in King’s Landing, when we worked together on the Night’s Watch bonds and the industrial district project… that was the happiest I’ve been since coming to Westeros."

Seven hells… Tyrion groaned, rubbing his temples.

They had already spent an hour reminiscing. Hadn’t they bonded enough?

The Targaryen restoration was imminent. The Westerlands faced an unprecedented crisis. And here Aegor was, wasting time on sentimentality.

"Of course, we were happy," Tyrion said dryly. "We had no burdens, no real consequences—just ambition and opportunity. We were free to build something meaningful." He sighed, a trace of melancholy creeping into his voice. "But now? I’m the founder of the Lannister Bank and a key advisor to my father. You’re the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and the queen’s right hand. We’ve both got responsibilities now. There’s no going back."

"Responsibilities?" Aegor’s lips curled into a smirk. "Tyrion, that doesn’t sound like you. Are you really content being just the founder of a bank? Just another cog in Tywin Lannister’s grand design?"

Tyrion rolled his eyes.

Yes, once upon a time, he had been a cynical, roguish drunkard, drifting through life with no greater ambition than to drink, fornicate, and mock the world.

But that was when he had nothing.

Now?

Now he had status. Now he had power. Now he had purpose.

"Mock me all you like," Tyrion scoffed, "but if I can live to be eighty, drunk on the finest wine, and die in a young girl’s arms, I’ll call this life a success." He leaned back in his chair. "But if you think there’s something more I should be doing, do enlighten me—what else is there?"

Aegor exhaled sharply—a half-laugh, half-scoff—before his expression turned serious.

"Far more, my friend. Have you ever heard the saying—'A man dies twice. First, when he takes his last breath. And second, when his name is spoken for the last time'?"

Tyrion frowned.

"We’re all mortal, Tyrion. We can’t escape the first death. But the second? That’s where we fight for eternity. Do you really think being the founder of a bank will make you immortal? Will your name be remembered for centuries?"

Aegor leaned forward, eyes alight with intensity.

"We should be aiming for something far greater."

Tyrion gave him a skeptical look, memories flashing through his mind—memories of their first meeting, when Aegor had claimed to be an adventurer from "Sina," part of a grand voyage to prove the world was round, hailing from a land of wonders and unfathomable technology.

At the time, he had thought the man mad.

And yet…

With each scheme, each gambit, each impossible feat—Aegor had proven himself more and more dangerously capable.

Tyrion drummed his fingers on his thigh before sighing in exasperation.

"You really are a devil—you always know just how to reel me in," he muttered. "Fine, I’ll bite. Tell me—what grand dream are you proposing this time?"

Aegor grinned, raised his arm, and gestured dramatically.

"We build an empire greater than any before."

"We expand the Lannister Bank—no, the Westerosi Bank—no, a global banking system."

"We extend our reach across the known world, wielding financial and military dominance in every land."

"And we carve our names into history—etched into every chronicle, every ledger, every classroom for all eternity."

He sat back, letting the words settle.

Tyrion exhaled, rubbing his temples again.

"Gods be good…"

For all his skepticism, he was intrigued.

"*You really don’t