LOWLIFE || Ser Bronn

one

    IT TOOK ALL HER STRENGTH not to march right into Tywin Lannister's tent and order that he send men to the Eyrie after her father. She'd been cooped up amongst the war tents for a week now and no action had been taken to recover her father, even though his capture was what started a war in the first place. She was pacing so heavily each step sent a jarring shock snaking through the bones in her leg, fury bubbled like acid at the back of her throat. Thankfully she took after Tyrion in the ability to think with her head and not her heart, and she knew Tywin would never actively take steps toward ensuring the safe return of his youngest son, and certainly giving him a raw and profanity-laced piece of her mind wouldn't help his situation – or hers. 

   He'd only barely agreed for her to accompany the troops in the first place, her desperation and determination to help find her father was unbudging. She had made every promise to help sharpen swords, clean armoury, cook, clean and nurse wounds until Tywin simply grew fed up with her negotiating.

   She no longer cared for her reputation or status within the Lannister family, she accepted long ago that certain members of her family, while blood, would never be family, despite Tyrion legitimising her on her fifth name day.

   Tywin would forever resent her – a mixture of loathing for father, the fact that she was the living breathing evidence of his son's crude activities and the shame she brought to the great Lannister house by being a bastard – but he carried a certain appreciation for her sharp mind, growing up surrounded by politics and liars instead of dolls and skipping stones had meant the games she'd played since tender ages were the game of thrones. Now matured, she knew how to understand and manipulate the game itself. She also possessed the rare gift of knowing when to keep her mouth shut, a quality that didn't belong to any of his children, and even the icy Tywin had to hold a level of begrudging respect on that account.

   But neither wits nor deceits could help her now, none of it mattered if she was powerless to help the person she loved most. 

   Lydiah halted her relentless pacing and slowly pinched her eyes shut, saying a prayer to the god's that she didn't believe in, that her fathers cunning and words spun with gold would be enough to bring him home to her. 

   Rumours of his demise had been circling, but until she saw his small frame lying motionless on a table with two stone blue eyes she would not give up hope.

   "Please," she begged, the word carried on a breath was less than a whisper but her heart screamed it so loudly it echoed in the grey valley's of the Eyrie, and ricocheted off the Wall of ice in the north, and haunted the mines of Casterly Rock. 

   "My lady," a voice spoke from outside her tent and she opened the heavy red fabric with a rustle, a glare already settled in her eyes for whoever had disturbed her.

   "Lord Tyrion, your father, has just entered the camp and has joined Lord Tywin in his tent. They sent me at once to inform you, M'lady." the squire stuttered out his information in a haphazardly in the hopes her cold blue eyed gaze would be lifted.