Tyrion sat alone in his room in the tower of the hand. From his table he could just see moon creeping over the castle walls as it made its way up into the sky. He thought it must be somewhere between the hour of the eel and the ghost. His dinner tray laid beside him still full of food he'd only picked at. The castle food wasn't near as good as the stuff down at Tess's. He couldn't remember the last time he'd taken his supper in his room, the inn had become almost a second home to him. But tonight no one was eating there, Tess had closed her doors and the only people allowed in were her, Elle, Gilly and Sam. The word had been sent a few hours earlier, Gilly's waters had broken. Young Jon or, as yet unnamed girl was making their way into the world. Thinking of a new little one named Jon put Tyrion in mind of the man who the child would take his name from. He'd always liked Jon Snow. He remembered when he'd first met him, all dark hair and somber features a true boy of the North. Tyrion had felt kinship with the bastard born boy right away. All dwarves are bastards in their fathers eyes, he'd told him. He wasn't completely sure it was true of all dwarves, but it was certainly true of him. His father may have unwillingly agreed to legitimize him at birth, but it hadn't kept him from being the object of his fathers scorn for the entirety of his life. Right up until the moment I killed him, Tyrion thought. He wondered how Jon Snow was fairing up North of the Wall. If he'd met any man who seemed all together suited it to that life, it would be Jon. Maybe he would ask Sansa if she had any news of him in his next letter.
His eyes drifted to the last letter he'd received from Sansa lying a few feet away from him on the table. He could see her small precise handwriting. A proper lady through and through, down to her penmanship. What a strange and wild journey the two of them had taken together, he thought. When his father had forced him to marry her, still a child no less, he thought the day would never come when she could possibly stop hating him. And when she'd been spirited away, well, at the time his mind was mostly occupied with his own plights, but in the rare moments he did think of her he'd hoped she was safe, and happy, somewhere evil men couldn't hurt her. Alas his hopes had been in vain, his poor sweet little bride had endured more than she ever cared to speak of. She was a different person the next time he saw her, she was a woman, hardened and shaped by the cruelty of the world. And then something strangely wonderful happened. In the Battle of the Long Night, when the two of them had sat helpless waiting to know if their fate was life or death, she'd taken his hand in hers, and told him that he had been the best of the men to who, she had belonged. There in that darkness, hand in hand, not knowing if they would see the dawn, they had finally understood each other truly, and when the dawn came they emerged as allies, and friends.
From a political standpoint it was a great advantage for the Hand of the King to have a close and personal friendship with the beautiful stoic Queen of the North. She kept him apprised of the goings on in her Kingdom and he kept her apprised of the welfare and rule of her brother Brandon. But more than that, Tyrion felt a sort of pride in the fact that he and Sansa had survived. They had both watched so many others fall, ones they loved and hated, some of whom died by their own hands. Yet they survived, and they thrived. It was a bond that he knew would not be easily broken.
The door of Tyrion's room burst open making him jump. Bronn sidled into the room as if it were his own.
"What sort of wine do you have in here?" He asked, picking up the jug on the table and sniffing it, "I've been combing this castle for something decent and it occurred to me. You're the only one in this whole fucking place with a nose for the good stuff, and you might just be squirreling it away for yourself."
He poured himself a glass from the jug on Tyrion's table and sat down opposite him, leaning back and putting his boots up on the table as he did.
"Any word from down the hill yet?" He asked.
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From the Ashes (ASOIAF) (Sandor Clegane x OC)
FanfictionTessalynda Merryweather was never a proper lady. She fled her father's house at a young age in search of adventure, she has come back to Kings Landing only to unexpectedly meet a tall mysterious dark stranger who by all accounts shouldn't be alive...
