Clandestine. 》 Tyrion Lannister 《

Remorse

“Jon, can we talk please?”

He looked up from the table top to see Galena poking her head into his chamber room. He knew he would be seeing her, but he was expecting her sooner than later. He was stunned by her sweet voice, given what he revealed to her, and he wasn't sure why it had taken her so long to come storming after him. Except, she didn't come storming after him. She came peacefully. She waited until the next day, giving herself time to calm down. He, however, couldn't. He could barely sleep, and when he did, he suffered all night. His dreams replayed the scene over and over again in his head, forcing him to rewatch the color drain from her face, the glass shatter at her feet, and the instant need to bring up his lunch as soon as the words left his mouth.

He rolled up the parchment he was skimming through and held it tightly in his hand, smiled at her and pushed his chair away from the table. “Of course.”

He gestured to the seat across from his as he stood up, taking note of her attire. She no longer wore a frilly dress like she had yesterday, instead she wore trousers and a long sleeve shirt. He had to admit that these were a lot more flattering than the ones she wore in Winterfell. Of course, Catelyn made sure she barely had access to anything but dresses. The Lady Stark hated the reality of Galena’s desires to run and fight with the boys. Maybe, he thought, if he hadn't given his cousin his too small clothes, his stepmother wouldn't have despised him as much; maybe she wouldn't have despised either of them as much.

He looked Galena up and down, pushing the woman who was never very kind to him out of his mind. He started to ask why she wasn't in a dress, but he was already aware of her answer. He started to smile, and almost laughed, but shoved away the niceties and readied himself for an argument.

“I assume you know why I'm here?” she asked as she sat.

He nodded with a scowl on his face, though it wasn't aimed at her. The familiar pang of guilt had returned, and so did the churning of his stomach. He walked across the room and returned with two mugs of ale, placing one in front of her before he sat down. “I do.”

Galena tilted her head at him. “You were expecting me.” She took a sip of the ale, and the corners of her lips turned into a soft smile. “Is this from home?”

He smirked at her, the corner of his mouth hiding beneath his beard. “An apology,” he shrugged.

She narrowed her eyes at him and then stared at the golden nectar before her. “For?”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “You know why.” He tapped the rolled up parchment on the table. He needed something to do. He needed a distraction from his conscience. “You're here for the exact same reason, so you might as well get on with it.”

“I am not marrying the person you've chosen for me. And before you say anything,” she said calmly as she held her hand up in front of his face, stopping him from interrupting her, “I know you've already spoken to someone about it, and I know he's expecting to meet me soon. You'd better cancel it. Tell him I have Greyscale or something.”

He laughed and his eyes watered as he choked on his ale. Her ability to crack jokes at the most absurd times was one of the many things he loved about her, and one of the many things he missed.

"I'll be sure to tell him,” he managed to croak out between coughs.

“Listen to me, Jon!” she yelled, slamming her open palm against the table. “I said-" She paused, pulled her lips inward and wrinkled her forehead as she came to the realization that he was laughing. “Wait. What?”

He folded his hands on the table, letting the scroll lay in front of him, and failed to hold back a smile. “You're right, I did have someone in mind, but I haven't made any plans yet. I haven't spoken with anyone about it.” He reached forward and took her hand in his, and lightly tapped them against the table. “That being said, I know about your plan.”

“My-my plan?” she stammered. She took a long drink of her ale, just to hide her face behind the gigantic rim of the mug.

He stood up and walked to her side of the table, and when he stopped behind her, he placed one hand on the table beside her, and leaned in close. “Lord Tyrion and Daenerys are rather good friends," he said in a hushed voice, "and they talk all the time. He told her everything.”

She inhaled sharply, and when she released the breath from her nose, it came out in small shaky bursts.

He didn't mean to drudge up whatever emotions he had manage to, and he wasn't sure what they were. Was she angry with him? Or sad? Or frightened? Did she want revenge against the queen for exposing her? Or maybe she wanted to wound a certain man she loved for running his mouth? Whatever it was, he intended to cut it off at the pass.

He picked the parchment up from the table and playfully tapped it against her head with each word that came out of his mouth, “Your betrothed told on me.” He squatted beside her and smiled as he stared up at her.

She strangled her mug and stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him. The confusion and betrayal radiated from her. He thought, if it were just a little quieter in his chamber, that he could hear her blood quickening like a stream turning into a river. He pictured scalding bubbles that popped continuously like those in a pot of water over a roaring flame.

“And she told you?” Her voice was strained as she tried her best not to reveal her disappointment.

He rested his hand on her forearm and squeezed gently. She thought of Daenerys as a friend, as family, and he understood that the very thought of the queen running to him and revealing her sneaky scheme must have hurt her in ways unimaginable. “No,” he said firmly. “Varys did.”

The hardened glower on her face melted like ice beneath the flame of a dragon, and her shoulders, that were, just moments ago, as rigid as a tree, loosened like the lips of The Spider.

“You're not going to fight about it?” she asked as she shoved the mug away from her. She wouldn't drink his bribes.

He chuckled. “What did you expect, Lena?” He walked across the room to Longclaw and gingerly unsheathed it. “A sword fight?” He spun around like a dancer, briefly invoking the memory of Arya, and pointed his weapon to the ceiling, once again admiring the beauty and strength of it.

She shrugged one shoulder. “I don't know.”

He turned his attention back to her. “Did you think I didn't notice your choice in clothing?” The end of Longclaw pointed at her in place of his finger as he neared her. “I know why you wore those things here.”

“You do?” she asked dumbly.

He tilted his head at her and set his sword on the table in front of them. “You once told me that you could only fight when you wore trousers, that you felt braver and stronger when you wore them. How can you defend yourself when you're wearing a tent?” He raised an eyebrow at her and gave her a quick smile. "I believe those are the words you said to me, anyway."

She held her head high; higher than it had been the whole time she had been in Dragonstone, and snickered through her nose as a grin stretched across her face. “You remember that?”

“Most of my memories involve you, so yes, naturally I remember.” He sat beside her and wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her body closer to his. His heart soared when she didn't shy away, giving him hope that they could return to the way they used to be.

“And so, you're not going to fight it?” she asked in a childlike manner as she settled into his half hug. “You're not angry?”

“Oh,” he chuckled lowly as he released her from his grip, and folded his hands on the table, “I was furious! When I went to Daenerys to confront her about it, she had Jorah escort me out...quite forcefully.” He reached forward, picked up the parchment, and held it in front if her. “But not before she gave me this.”

She side glanced at him with apprehension and then at the paper he held before her. When he realized that she wasn't going to take it from him, he wiggled it at her, causing her to flinch. It was as if she expected it to turn into a dagger, and that he was going to plunge it deep into her throat.

“Lena, I feel nothing but remorse, and I promise you there's no trickery here.” He rose from his seat and unrolled the parchment. He positioned it in front of her, where he was sure she would see exactly what was written, and tapped his finger against it. “Read it.”