The streets of King’s Landing groaned with the weight of scaffolds and stone, the air thick with dust and the faint tang of ash. Tyrion moved through the chaos with his uneven gait, mismatched eyes scanning the ruins as masons shouted and carts rattled past. Strange how the city rebuilds faster than its people, he thought, fingers brushing the jagged scar across his face as if to remind himself of what remained broken.

He paused when his gaze caught a figure among the crowd — familiar, yet blurred by time and memory. His lips curled into a sardonic half‑smile, though his chest tightened with unease. “Well,” he said, voice sharp and edged with irony, “either the gods have a cruel sense of humor, or I’ve drunk myself into seeing ghosts.”

The moment hung heavy, his mind racing between recognition and doubt, as the city’s rebirth pressed on around them.