"𝑊𝑜𝑙𝑓'𝑠 𝐵𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑," their father always called it. Could make a man or woman wild in a sense, unpredictable, and powerful. And when a violet-eyed twin born to the Lord Eddard Stark, all knew that the boy would have it. And he did.
Beside his...
TYRION, BEING THE SECOND BORN AND LEAST FAVORED OF THE OLD LION'S CHILDREN, WAS USED TO WAITING. He was also used to being the one thrown under the wagon, figuratively speaking. Though he's sure that the Lord Tywin wouldn't think twice to trip him up if the two happened to walk by a moving wagon.
He fidgeted with his hands, twisting and turning the golden ring of a lion's head around his finger so many times that he would have lost count if he had bothered to even start. Podrick stood behind him, almost half-asleep as he held the banners of a stag and a lion sharing a field of crimson and gold, though all knew that the stag held no true share in anything to do with the crown of Westeros.
"How many Dornishmen does it take to fuck a goat?"
"Please don't.."
Tyrion sighed heavily as Bronn only shrugged, picking at his nails as he sat agaisnt one of the trees lined up for nearly a mile to the gate of the Capital.
"You said your father wanted you to greet the Dornish?"
"Yes."
"And you know how the Dornish are? They like fighting. And the only thing they like more than fighting is fucking. Fighting and fucking, fucking and fighting: the Dornish way of life."
Bronn remarked as he stood up, casually cracking his knuckles as he stretched his back. Tyrion rolled his eyes as he kept them pointed down the road, waiting for them. But Bronn only continued.
"Blood feuds tend to be a part of that, as well."
"Oh?"
Tyrion remarked, glancing at Bronn as he nodded.
"Aye. Everybody likes their good share of revenge. But the Dornish? Well...you now understand why your daddy sent you here to greet them instead of himself."
Of course, he thought to himself as he closed his eyes, sighing heavily. Of course, of course, of course, he berated himself. Tyrion knew full well why the Old Lion would throw him under the wagon here, especially seeing as how it would not only be a few of the leading Dornish Houses arriving for the wedding of Joffrey Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell, but more specifically, House Martell.
"Now you're gettin' it."
Bronn smiled, his hand casually but readily resting upon the pommel of his now fine castle-forged steel blade, granted by Tyrion when he was the Lord Hand. But Lord Hand he was no more. Now, he was a herald. A godsdamned shield to take the first blow.
