Chapter 117: The Tree That Waits

Tyrion paused, his face shadowed with a mix of frustration and uncertainty. "Ah, yes. The Greyjoy escape..." His voice was low, and for a moment, the witty mask slipped. "It was... unexpected. The jailer, as Father later discovered, seems to have been bribed—most likely by Euron. The jailer helped the prisoner escape, but left no loose ends. He was found dead, key missing, and a route opened through the sea gates."

Damian nodded, understanding the depths of treachery at play. "And what did Lord Tywin do?"

Tyrion's lips tightened. "Father was furious. Every guard who failed their duty that night was sent to the lowest mines, a punishment worse than death for many. Casterly Rock may be strong, but treachery has a way of seeping through even the thickest walls."

They moved on, eventually coming to the Lion's Mouth, the main entry to Casterly Rock. Below, the sea gates opened into caverns large enough for galleys to sail in and dock under the fortress itself. The Lannisters had their own docks, shipyards, and wharves nestled within the rock, protected from any threat. But most of the fleet used to be layed anchored at Lannisport, the nearby port city. 

From time to time, Damian could hear the distant rumble of thunder, but it wasn't the sky—it was the sound of the sea crashing below the Rock, deep in its hidden heart.

Tyrion led Damian into the Golden Gallery, a treasure trove of Lannister wealth. Gilded walls glittered in the lamplight, and the room seemed to shine with the riches amassed over centuries. Damian had the urge to stuff everything here into his space world but he couldn't as he had no ownership of it. 

Nearby, they passed the Hall of Heroes, where statues stood in silent vigil over the tombs of Lannisters who had died valiantly. Suits of armor, worn by the Lannisters of old, lined the walls, glimmering in the torchlight.

Their final stop was the Stone Garden, hidden deep within the Rock. It was the Lannisters' own godswood, though unlike the open groves of the North, this one was in a cave. In the center stood a twisted weirwood, its roots snaking through the stone, choking out all other life. 

"Not much of a godswood compared to what you're used to, is it?" Tyrion remarked, a touch of irony in his voice as he observed Damian's silent study of the weirwood.

"It seems no one comes here," Damian said quietly, his gaze drifting to the dust settled on the floor, where only their footprints disturbed its long undisturbed surface. His hand rested on the bark of the weirwood, rough and gnarled. Something felt different—off. The tree was barely clinging to life. It wasn't just the lack of sunlight or nourishment; no, it was something deeper.

Damian closed his eyes briefly, feeling the faint flow of magic through the bark and into his hand. The sensation was unlike anything he'd felt at the godswood in Winterfell. That weirwood, ancient and strong, had felt like a noble elder watching over his people. This one, though... This one felt lonely. The magic that pulsed through it was weak, and there was a deep sadness that resonated within its twisted form, like an old man abandoned by time, awaiting nothing. The feeling confused Damian—how could a tree, even one as old and magical as this, feel such profound sorrow? Was this feeling real or just his imagination?

"Yes," Tyrion said, breaking the silence, "almost every person here is a believer in the Seven. The Stone Garden is more of a relic than a place of worship now."

Damian's hand lingered on the bark a moment longer. "It's not just forgotten, Tyrion. It's… lonely," he said, almost to himself. His words carried a weight he hadn't expected, as though he had shared something the tree had whispered to him.

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, intrigued but not quite understanding. "Lonely, you say? Strange words for a tree. But I suppose even the old gods have been forgotten in places like this."

Damian glanced at Tyrion, then back at the weirwood. "It's not the gods, it's the tree itself. It feels… abandoned."

Tyrion's expression softened, his sharp mind always ready to pick apart such mysteries. "Perhaps it has been abandoned. This is no godswood like Winterfell. Here, it's little more than a curiosity, a relic of a time long gone." He gestured around the cave, taking in the roots that had filled every crevice. "But even relics have their uses, don't they?"

Damian gave a faint nod. "Yes. But some relics are more than just remnants of the past. They remember."

Tyrion tilted his head, wondering if Damian had gone senile or was jesting with him. "And what does this one remember, I wonder?"

Damian didn't answer. He didn't know for certain, but he couldn't shake the feeling that this weirwood, this sad, twisted tree, was waiting for something—or someone—to remember it.

Tyrion's eyes narrowed, a hint of skepticism mixed with curiosity. He wasn't sure if Damian was playing at something or if the northern lord truly believed the tree held memories. Still, Tyrion couldn't resist the lure of mystery.

"You northerners always did have a strange way of looking at things," Tyrion remarked with a wry smile. "A tree that remembers… If this weirwood could speak, what would it say, I wonder? Tales of old kings and forgotten wars? Or simply the sound of wind whistling through stone for centuries?"

Damian stayed quiet for a moment, still feeling the faint pulse of magic beneath his hand. He couldn't explain it—not in any way that would make sense to Tyrion. The southerners didn't understand the weirwoods, not like the people of the North did. And even in the North, most only whispered about the trees in reverence, not fully grasping their depth.

"It's more than that," Damian finally said, voice low. "This weirwood... it's been here longer than Casterly Rock. Longer than the Lannisters. It remembers a time when this land was wild, untamed. But now, buried deep inside a mountain of stone, surrounded by those who don't hear it, it waits. Forgotten."

Tyrion studied Damian, his usual smirk fading. For once, the imp had no clever retort. "You truly believe it remembers, don't you?"

"I do," Damian replied quietly, his hand sliding from the bark of the weirwood. "But whatever it remembers, it's not for me to know. It's just... waiting." 

But the truth was, even he didn't fully understand the feeling gnawing at him. From what he had learned, the weirwoods saw everything—the past, the present, the future. They were timeless, connected to all moments at once. So why did this one feel as though it were waiting for something? For someone?

Tyrion couldn't help but think it was some kind of jest, a northern lord understanding trees. Yet, for some reason, the urge to laugh or scoff at Damian didn't come. Was it the serious expression on Damian's face? Or was it the faint whisper of belief that had wormed its way into Tyrion's mind, uninvited?

Tyrion's eyes flickered with a momentary seriousness as he glanced at the gnarled tree. The twisted roots and tangled branches looked more like claws than anything natural. Shadows danced across its pale wood, making it seem alive, watching. "Waiting for what, I wonder?"

Damian shook his head, the strange feeling still lingering. "I don't know. Maybe the Old Gods. Maybe something else entirely. But it's waiting."

Tyrion gave a wry laugh, though it lacked his usual edge. "Well, let it wait then. The Lannisters have little use for old gods or silent trees. Stone and gold, those are the gods that rule here."

As they began to walk away from the Stone Garden, Damian cast one last glance at the weirwood. The feeling of abandonment, of loneliness, still tugged at him. It was as though the tree had been forgotten by time itself, yet it persisted, as if clinging to some faint hope.

Tyrion walked beside him, but his usual banter was absent. He too had fallen quiet. As they left the cave, the shadows of the weirwood seemed to stretch after them, twisting across the ground in eerie shapes. Just before they turned the corner, Tyrion cast one last look back at the tree, his brow furrowed in thought. For all his cynicism, a flicker of unease had crept into his mind. Why would he feel such a thing?

Whatever Damian had sensed in the weirwood, it had stirred something in the depths of Casterly Rock, something that even Tyrion, for all his wit and sharp tongue, couldn't dismiss. Perhaps, he mused, as they continued on their way, some relics did remember more than anyone cared to admit. And perhaps they waited for more than just the passage of time.