"AND DO I HAVE YOUR LOYALTY JON SNOW?"
"YOU ALWAYS HAD IT, PRINCESS"
A VIPER HEADS NORTH
AND FINDS HERSELF
DRAWN TO A CROW
GAME OF THRONES S1-S8 AU
JON SNOW X OC
#3 martell (nov. 2020)
#2 Martell (dec...
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WOLF AT YOUR DOOR
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TYRION LANNISTER
CASTERLY ROCK was a sword hanging over his head, looming over him until someone cut the final cord. He had taken the Princess's advice, at least partially. The Kingsroad was unavoidable these days, as was the Riverlands themselves.
A dwarf dressed in the red and gold of Lannister garb would draw attention. But a dwarf in northern clothes with a plainer disposition would go unnoticed.
And so he had become Lann, the traveling mummer from the Free Cities until he had reached the Inn of the Kneeling Man. There he'd been pushed and shoved and japed at until he flashed the gold his family was known for.
Yoren laughed and corroborated his disguise, claiming that the Lord Commander had deemed him too short to join the Watch, although he made for a great jester.
Tyrion had laughed through gritted teeth, his mismatched eyes searching for Catelyn Stark, but not finding her. Perhaps she had already come through here, with her Northmen and her accusations, stoking a fire that needed to be put out.
His luck ran out the day he left. Yoren had gone after supper, and Tyrion's current companion was a sell-sword named Bronn, who he was certain was only spending time with him due to the gold in his pockets.
It had been the next morning when Tyrion decided to head in the direction of Casterly Rock, dread forming a knot in the pit of his stomach at the thought of having to face his father. Tyrion had asked Bronn to join him, to which the sell-sword merely shrugged.
And that had been when the Master of Arms of Winterfell had shown up, whiskers long and sad but his back proud and stiff.
Tyrion's breath grew quick and he spun on his heel, hoping his presence would go unnoticed. His plan fell apart when he tried to mount his horse, his foot cramping as it stuck itself in the stirrup. The pain shot through his legs and he let out a pained groan, collapsing to the ground, landing face-first in the muddy ground beneath him, tasting blood on his lips and swallowing dirt down his throat.
It dried out whatever moisture he had, and Tyrion found himself wishing for another cup of wine, but he kept his head shoved into the ground, one eye open to catch a glimpse of Ser Rodrik's movements. Tyrion found himself staring at a pair of well-worn boots instead.
