289 AC - Westerlands Woods, near Casterly Rock
"My name is Tysha, milord."
The name struck Tyrion's chest like a physical blow.
Not a muscle in his face moved; the mask of gentle concern remained perfectly intact, the soft eyes, the patient, disarming smile. But behind the facade, his mind fractured. A cascade of phantom memories rushed forward, sharp and unbidden: a girl saved from brigands, a secret wedding in a lonely sept by a drunk septon, and a pile of silver coins on a unmoving woman as Tywin Lannister looked on from above.
Ah, he thought, a cold thrill running down his spine. So this is the legendary Tysha.
The name carried no weight of personal history, the events it referenced had not happened to him, would never happen to him if he could help it. But in another life, this girl had been the fulcrum. The exact axis upon which a different Tyrion's entire world had pivoted. That version of him had loved her, had lost her in the most brutal way imaginable, and the bitter ash of that trauma had influenced every decision he ever made afterwards. And here she was, standing right in front of him.
This Tysha knew none of that. She was simply a girl on a road, her father dead, her world shattered, looking at a dwarf with desperate hope.
"My father is a crofter," she continued, her voice gaining strength through sheer force of need. The words tumbled out in a rush, broken by the sobs that had been building behind them. "I was traveling to Lannisport. My father has a cousin there. A weaver. He said he could find me work. I was walking when the men came from the trees, and then they — " She broke off, her body convulsing with a sob that shook her entire frame. The tears came in earnest now, streaming down her dirt-streaked face, and she pressed her hands against her mouth in an attempt to contain the sound of her grief.
Tyrion's eyes softened with a sympathy. He reached out and gently placed his hand on her arm.
"Don't you worry, Tysha," he said. "I assure you, no more harm will come to you. You're safe now."
The girl looked at him through the curtain of her tears, and something in his face, the steadiness of his gaze, the absolute conviction in his voice, reached her. Her sobbing slowed. The rigid tension in her shoulders eased by a fraction, and she drew a shuddering breath.
"Thank you, milord," she whispered.
Tyrion remained crouched before her, his hand on her arm, saying nothing.
The sound of Jaime's return broke the spell.The young knight stepped out from the treeline, his golden hair disheveled and his fine tunic torn at the shoulder where a stray branch had snagged him. He was breathing heavily, a wide, unrepentant grin splitting his face as he casually wiped a fresh coat of blood from his blade with a rag.
"They won't trouble anyone again," Jaime said, driving the sword back into its scabbard with a sharp, fluid click.
His eyes swept over the grim tableau of corpses on the road — the cudgel-wielder, the thin man, the pimpled runner with the fatal dent in his skull, and the lone, shivering survivor still cowering against the roots of a nearby tree. Finally, his gaze settled on Tyrion and the girl.
"And what are we to do now, brother?" Jaime asked, tossing the bloody cloth aside and nonchalantly wiping a stray smear of crimson from his wrist.
Tyrion rose to his feet. He didn't offer Jaime and answer immediately. He offered his hand to Tysha, and after a moment's hesitation, she took it. Her grip was cold and trembling, but she allowed him to help her stand. She was taller than him by a head, and she looked down at the dwarf with an expression that mingled gratitude and bewilderment in equal measure.
"Tysha" he announced, gesturing towards the girl, "as this delightful young lady has told me her name is, shall come to Casterly Rock with us, and stay the night. Warm food, clean bath. In the morning, we shall find this uncle of yours.
"That is too much, milord," Tysha said, pulling her arm back with a jerky motion. The words tumbled out fast, tripping over each other in her haste to escape. "Please, I shall be on my way. I cannot impose—"
Tyrion clapped his hands together, cutting her off with a bright, energetic laugh. "Worry not, Tysha, for I must insist! It is our duty to ensure you get back safely, and you are in no state to walk to Lannisport alone.
Just look at you," he added, his tone softening with a touch of dry amusement as he gestured toward her. "A torn dress, a bruised collarbone, and shaking like a leaf in a gale. You'd arrive at your uncle's door looking like something the sea spat up. No, we simply can't have that."
Tyrion turned to Jaime with a flourish, his hand sweeping outward in a grand, theatrical gesture. "Isn't that right, dear brother? A gallant knight such as yourself couldn't possibly abandon an innocent maiden to the wilderness, not after you've so valiantly vanquished her tormentors. The very honor of the Kingsguard demands it, I should think."
Jaime raised a single golden eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching with a suppressed laugh. He recognized his brother's game instantly. Playing along with the ease of a lifetime's practice, he drew himself up to his full, imposing height and executed a flawless, overly dramatic bow.
"Of course not," Jaime said, his voice dripping with exaggerated solemnity. "The code of chivalry is absolute on the matter. Rescued maidens must be escorted to safety by their champions. To do otherwise would be practically illegal."
Tyrion turned back to Tysha, his smile widening. "You see, milady? The most formidable knight in the realm, Ser Jaime Lannister himself, shall ensure your passage is secure. You will be traveling under the personal protection of the Kingslayer - the Savior of King's Landing, no less. I daresay not a single brigand in the Westerlands is foolish enough to cross him."
Tysha's mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Her dark eyes, still red-rimmed and swollen from weeping, went impossibly wide as her gaze darted between the dwarf and the golden knight.
"Jaime Lannister," she finally whispered, the words choking in her throat. "The... the Kingslayer?"
Tyrion threw his head back and laughed, a rich, booming sound that echoed off the treeline, startling a flock of starlings into the sky. His mismatched eyes danced with unvarnished mischief.
"Oh," he gasped, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. "It seems I've entirely forgotten my manners. How terribly boorish of me."
He gave his tunic a sharp, fastidious pat, brushed a stray leaf from his sleeve, and offered her a crisp, low bow.
"Tyrion of House Lannister, at your service, my lady. Son to Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West. I am a man of many varied talents—though I must confess, none of them include impressing my father."
Tysha stood frozen, her eyes moving between the two brothers in a dazed, unblinking stare. Everyone in the Westerlands knew the Lannisters. They were the Lords of the Rock, the masters of gold, the golden lions whose sigil adorned every single coin that had ever passed through her father's calloused hands. But the Lannisters were distant, mythic figures, names whispered in taverns and market squares, as remote from her daily life as the stars in the sky.
And now, two of them were standing right in front of her. Not just any Lannisters, either, but the sons of Tywin Lannister himself.
"Lannister," she repeated. The word came out faint, almost reverent. Her gaze moved from Tyrion to Jaime and back again, and the bewilderment on her face deepened into something close to awe. "You're — you're the lords of Casterly Rock."
Tyrion chuckled. "Our lordly father is the lord. We're merely his disappointments." He glanced at Jaime, who snorted into his sleeve.
A burning flush climbed from Tysha's throat to her cheeks in a sudden wave of scarlet. Stricken with panic, she scrambled to curtsy, her legs nearly buckling beneath her. One hand clutched the torn fabric of her dress while the other slapped against the rough bark of the oak to keep herself from collapsing entirely.
"My lords, I beg your forgiveness!" she stammered, her voice cracking. "I didn't—I didn't know. Please, I meant no disrespect—"
Tyrion stepped forward quickly, his hands catching her gently by the shoulders to halt her descent.
"You owe us no apologies, Tysha," he said, his tone striking a commanding gravity. You were set upon by bandits on a road that falls under our family's protection. The failure is ours, not yours. The very least we can do is ensure you reach your destination safely."
Tysha flushed and said nothing, keeping her eyes faced downwards.
Tom, the thin brigand who had surrendered, pressed himself even flatter against the oak trunk at the mention of the Lannister name. His face turned the color of curdled milk, his mouth gaping in a silent O of horror. He had robbed folk on this road before, small merchants, traveling tinkers, the occasional farmer with a purse full of coppers - but he had never, in his worst nightmares, imagined he would cross the family that owned the very ground beneath his boots.
"Can you walk, my lady?" Tyrion asked.
"I can, milord," Tysha said. Her voice was steadier now. "I... thank you. Both of you. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't—"
"You don't need to know," Tyrion interrupted gently. "What matters is what did happen. You are alive, you are safe, and you are about to have a proper meal. I intend to see you fed from the Rock's own kitchens, given a decent cup of wine, and treated withexact hospitality House Lannister owes its guests."
He offered her his arm with a courtly flourish.
The gesture was entirely absurd. It was the kind of escort a lord extended to a high-born lady at a feast or a tourney, presented here on a muddy coastal road beside three fresh corpses. Yet there he stood, a noble dwarf offering his arm to a crofter's daughter whose dress was shredded and whose face was caked in dirt and tears.
Tysha looked at his proffered arm, then up at his face, and a bubble of hysterical laughter rose in her throat. She bit it back, pressing her lips together, and found his eyes. They were warm, and entirely devoid of the lust she had grown to fear.
Silently, she slipped her hand through his arm, and together they began their journey down the coastal road toward Casterly Rock. Behind them, Tom the brigand scrambled to his feet and followed at a cautious distance, his hands bound tightly with a strip of leather torn from a dead man's jerkin.
The road stretched out before them, the last light of the setting sun staining the coastal stones in shades of copper and gold. The steady, rhythmic crash of the waves below filled the long spaces between their footsteps. As they walked, Tyrion asked the occasional question—gentle, unobtrusive things. Where was her father's farm? How long had she been traveling? Did she know anyone else in Lannisport?
Tysha answered haltingly, her voice still raw. The words came in fragments that she assembled with visible effort. The farm was near Sarsfield, she told him. She had been on the road for three days. The cousin in Lannisport was her father's brother-in-law, a man named Harlan Tanner who kept a shop on the Street of Looms. She had only met him twice and could barely recall his face.
A few paces ahead, Jaime walked in silence, giving them the illusion of privacy. His sword was sheathed, his hands were clasped behind his back, and he moved with a casual, easy gait.
When they rounded the final bend, Casterly Rock rose to meet them. The massive stone fortress dominated the coastline like a colossus, its high windows and narrow arrow slits catching the dying sunset in sharp pinpricks of orange light. At its base yawned the Lion's Mouth, the cavernous entrance wide enough to swallow a column of riders whole, where the great stone stairway began its climb up the rock face in steps broad enough for twenty men to walk abreast.
At the base of the stairs, an enormous figure waited.
He stood in grey armor etched with lines of silver, meticulously fitted to a frame of uncommon size, nearly seven feet of muscle and bone encased in steel that bore the scars of long, hard use. His helm was fashioned in the shape of a snarling hound, the iron jaws pulled back to reveal a dark visor. The overall effect was one of barely contained ferocity.
The moment Tysha saw him, her hand flew to Tyrion's shoulder, her fingers digging into his tunic in terror. The color the mead had restored to her cheeks vanished in an instant.
As the hound-shaped helm turned toward them, the dark visor reflecting nothing, she pressed herself tightly against Tyrion's side as though she could somehow hide behind his small frame.
"Sandor," Tyrion exclaimed, his voice carrying a delighted tone. He raised his free hand in greeting."You missed a rather tedious bit of excitement on the road. Six armed men, and a maiden in distress.
A heavy sigh rattled within the helm, a long, slow exhalation carrying the weary weight of a man who had heard this exact tone from the dwarf before and knew precisely what followed it. The visor shifted from Tysha to Tyrion. When the voice emerged from behind the snarling iron jaws, it was flat, gravelly, and entirely devoid of deference.
"What the fuck have you done now."
Jaime's eyebrow rose. The casual profanity, the utter absence of honorifics, and the unmistakable tone of exasperated familiarity were hardly what anyone would expect from a guard addressing his lord's son.
Tyrion roared with laughed. The sound erupted from his chest with unfeigned delight, bouncing off the high stone walls of the Lion's Mouth and echoing into the cavern beyond. He clapped his hands together, the sharp crack cutting through the evening air.
"And that is exactly why I keep you around," he said, wiping the corner of his eye. "The absolute lack of respect. It's refreshing, Sandor. Every other soul in this fortress calls me 'my lord' and looks at me as if I might bite. You just ask me what the fuck I've done. It's delightful."
Sandor said nothing. The hound helm remained fixed on Tyrion, the dark visor revealing nothing of the man behind it, though his massive shoulders shifted in a faint shrug.
"Now," Tyrion continued, his laughter subsiding into a warm grin, "I'll tell you the details later. There are bodies on the road that need collecting, a bandit that needs to be sent to the Wall, and a great deal of explaining to do that I'm not in the mood for at the moment."
He turned to Tysha, who still clung to his shoulder with white-knuckled intensity, her dark eyes fixed on the hound-shaped helm with undisguised terror.
"For now, please take this young lady to a guest room. She has suffered terribly, and she needs rest, food, and a bath, in whatever order she prefers."
Sandor's gaze moved to the girl. The hound helm tilted slightly — a fractional adjustment that might have been assessment or might have been nothing at all. Tysha flinched under the scrutiny, her grip on Tyrion's shoulder tightening.
"Milord," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I don't — he's — "
Tyrion turned to her and gave her a warm smile.
"Worry not, my lady," Tyrion reassured her, offering a gentle smile. "You are safe now. Sandor looks like something from a child's nightmare, but he's actually quite gentle. With the right people. And you, I suspect, are very much the right people." He patted her hand where it gripped his shoulder. "He will take you to a room where you can finally rest. I shall come see you in the morning, and we will sort out the rest of your journey. You have my word."
Tysha looked at him. The fear in her eyes did not vanish,but it receded slightly. She released his shoulder, her fingers uncurling slowly, and gave a silent nod.
Sandor turned without a word and began the climb up the great stone stairway. Tysha hesitated. Standing at the base of the steps in her torn dress, her face marked by dirt and the dried salt of tears, she stared up at the giant's retreating back as if he were a sheer cliff she was being forced to scale. She cast one last glance back at Tyrion - quick, searching, and vulnerable
Tyrion gave her a small, encouraging nod, his mismatched eyes warm in the fading light.
Reassured, she turned and followed Sandor. Every few steps she glanced back over her shoulder, and each time she found Tyrion still standing at the foot of the stairs, watching her with that same steady patience. The sight seemed to ground her. Her steps grew more certain, her shoulders straightening by a fraction.
Tyrion watched until the shadows of the upper keep swallowed them both. Only then did he turn to Jaime, who had been observing the entire exchange with his arms crossed and a golden eyebrow raised in amused skepticism.
"A crofter's daughter," Jaime said.
"A crofter's daughter."
"You're bringing a crofter's daughter into Casterly Rock."
Jaime closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a massive headache coming on. "Father is going to have a fit," he warned.
"Father isn't here," Tyrion said, uncorking his flask. "He's in King's Landing, counting his gold and plotting the ruin of whichever poor lord has most recently slighted him." He took a long, savoring pull of the mead before offering the flask to his brother.
Jaime accepted it without hesitation, taking a deep swig before handing it back. "And what, exactly, are you planning to do with her?"
"I'm going to help her," Tyrion said. He spoke simply, stripping away the irony and deflection that usually armored his words. "She was set upon by brigands on the road to Lannisport. She claims to have a cousin there, but even if the man exists, there's no guarantee he'll take in a girl with no coin and fewer prospects. She needs a safe place to recover. Surely the Rock can spare a room for a night or two."
Jaime studied his brother's face. He was used to Tyrion throwing himself into fleeting obsessions, devouring books, researching architecture, or drowning in whatever erratic scheme caught his brilliant mind. But this was different.
"What is it about this girl, Tyrion?" Jaime asked. He kept his tone light, but the underlying curiosity was sharp. "It's an uncommon amount of charity, even for you. I absolute loathe to quote Father, but do remember where you sleep. Lannisters don't play host to smallfolk at Casterly Rock. Bandits or no bandits."
Tyrion grinned. He spread his hands, palms up, in a gesture of exaggerated innocence. "Perhaps I'm the monster my sister says I am, and I'm luring her into my lair for nefarious purposes. The world may never know."
Jaime's mouth twitched. "Tyrion."
"You know, Jaime," Tyrion continued, his tone shifting from playful to something quieter, more reflective, "I've always felt the divide between the smallfolk and us is a mere accident of birth. We were lucky to be born into a great house, nothing more. Blood doesn't dictate a man's wits or his capability; resources and training do. And I have always had a soft spot for those hurt by things beyond their control."
Jaime snorted, shaking his head. "I'll take your word for it."
"Or perhaps I'll make her my assistant," Tyrion continued, the quick, sharp grin returning to his face. "I could use the help. The orders are piling up. Someone to organize the commissions, track the materials, manage the correspondence with lords who keep sending ravens demanding their steel three moons early. A steady hand, someone who isn't afraid of hard work." He shrugged, the gesture deliberately casual, though his eyes remained sharp. "She's literate. I asked. Her father taught her. How many crofter's daughters in the West can read and write?"
Jaime laughed despite himself. He took another pull from his flask, letting the warm, honeyed sweetness of the mead linger on his tongue before handing it back to his brother.
"I'll leave you to whatever scheme you've concocted, Tyrion," Jaime said, his tone turning more serious. "But for the record, I think this is a terrible idea. Keep it quiet. For the love of the Seven, do not go falling in love with her. Father would have you both executed."
Tyrion chuckled. "Jaime, my dear, sweet, tragically romantic brother. I am Tyrion Lannister. I don't fall in love. I fall into trouble, into casks of mead and into beds that are entirely too large for me. Besides, I'm not planning to announce her presence with trumpets. She'll be in the guest quarters and she'll eat with the servants. She'll be invisible to anyone who doesn't specifically go looking for her—and the only people who might are you, me, and Sandor. I trust the three of us can keep a secret."
"The Hound doesn't talk to anyone," Jaime observed. "That's practically his defining characteristic. The man communicates in grunts and glares."
"Precisely. Sandor's ideal for this sort of operation. Silent, terrifying, and entirely loyal to the person who pays him."
"And who pays him?"
"I do. With mead, mostly. The man has developed a taste for it that borders on the religious." Tyrion corked the flask and hooked it back to his belt. "Speaking of which, I brewed a new batch last week. A stout this time. Dark as a Dornishman's heart but with rich sweetness. You should try it."
"I'd rather try the mead again."
"Philistine."
"Milord."
A thin, shaking voice broke through their banter.
Tom stood at the edge of the road, his bound hands held out before him like a desperate offering, his rat-like face pale. He had been standing there for the better part of a quarter-hour, silently watching the easy rapport between the Lannister brothers.
Tyrion turned, regarding the thin man with an expression of mild surprise. "Ah," he said. "I almost forgot about you."
Tom's bound hands trembled. He opened his mouth to beg, but Tyrion had already raised two fingers to his lips and let loose a sharp, piercing whistle.
The guards at the entrance to the Lion's Mouth straightened at the sound. The senior of the two, a broad-shouldered man with a jaw like an anvil, stepped forward.
"Take this man to the cells," Tyrion said, gesturing toward Tom with a casual flick of his wrist. "And notify the Night's Watch recruiter that we have a fresh volunteer for him. Tell him the man surrendered willingly and was granted mercy."
The guard nodded sharply, his face professionally blank. He crossed the distance to Tom in three long strides, seized the thin man's bound wrists in one meaty hand, and marched him toward the stone stairway. Tom went without resistance, his legs moving in shuffling, defeated steps until the shadows claimed him.
As Jaime watched the man be taken away, and turned around
"Now," Jaime began to ask, "about that —"
Tyrion moved with the deceptive quickness, closing the distance between them in two quick steps, and brought his hand down on Jaime's lower back with a sharp, stinging clap that cracked through the evening air like a whip.
Jaime jumped. The force of the blow sent a jolt of pain radiating through the knight's lower spine and into his hips. He lurched forward, a high pitched squeak emerging unbidden from his mouth. His hand flying to the burning spot, and turned to his brother in outraged indignation.
"You fucking little—"
But Tyrion was already gone. The dwarf had darted past him with the agility of a cat, his short legs pumping, his golden beard streaming behind him like a banner. He reached the base of the stairway in seconds and began ascending at a pace that would have exhausted a man twice his height, taking the steps two at a time.
"See you later, brother!" Tyrion called over his shoulder, mocking him. "That was a delightful imitation of a pig you just did. And please try not to brood! It wrinkles your face!"
Jaime stood at the foot of the stairway, one hand still pressed against the small of his back, his golden hair disheveled by the wind.
"He's going to be insufferable," Jaime muttered to the empty air. "He'll bring it up at every feast for the next ten years. 'Remember the time the great Ser Jaime squealed like a girl"
He rubbed his back with a faint grimace, straightened his tunic with a sharp tug, and started up the stone stairway at a far more dignified pace.
___________
Tyrion pressed his palm flat against the corridor wall, felt the familiar magical warmth pulse beneath his fingers, and stepped forward. The stone parted seamlessly around him. When he emerged on the other side, he was in the corridor that housed Tysha's chambers, his boots settled onto the flagstones with a soft click. He casually brushed a fine dusting of powdered rock from his sleeves.
The passage was empty, illuminated only by torches burning low in iron sconces. This wing housed the Rock's guest quarters - modest but well-appointed rooms that had played host to everything from wealthy merchants to minor lords. At the far end stood Tysha's door, tightly shut, with a sliver of warm candlelight bleeding out from beneath the threshold.
Tyrion extended his awareness through the floor, reading the subtle vibrations of the stone. The girl had finally succumbed to exhaustion. The raw shock of the ambush, followed by the sheer whiplash of being escorted into the most famous castle in the Westerlands by a dwarf and a legendary knight, had taken its toll. Her body had claimed the rest it demanded.
He turned away from the door toward Sandor Clegane. The big man leaned against the masonry three paces away, arms crossed over his massive chest, his face exposed to the torchlight without the shield of his hound helm.
The ruin Gregor had inflicted when Sandor was a boy of seven would always be there, a stark landscape of melted, knotted flesh running from temple to jaw, pulling the corner of his mouth into a permanent half-snarl. Yet the angry, weeping inflammation that had plagued Sandor for a decade was gone. The tissue was pale now, the edges of the old burns clean, sealed, and quiet.
Tyrion's healing draught had done that. The first successful batch brewed in the depths of his workshop, months after the grimoire had gifted him Bugman's Legacy, had been used to soothe the worst of those agony-ridden scars.
Their bond had been forged in the blood of King's Landing, where a scarred boy had stood beside Tyrion to strike down his own brother during the chaos of the sack. That blood-debt was one Sandor would carry to his grave, and in the years since, he had become Tyrion's sworn shield, and the sole living soul who knew the true depth of the Lannister dwarf's capabilities.
Tyrion reached to his belt, unhooked a heavy flask, and tossed it through the air. Sandor's hand snapped up, catching it effortlessly, and he yanked the cork free with his teeth.
"What's with the girl," Sandor asked, his voice low and gravelly.
Tyrion leaned against the opposite wall, mirroring the larger man's posture. "She is an interesting project," he grinned.
"If this is one of your bloody schemes again," Sandor muttered. Sandor had been dragged through enough of Tyrion's adventures to develop legitimate trauma.
The list was long. There was the time Tyrion had woken Sandor in the early hours of the morning Tyrion had woken him to test an experimental batch of ale that proved potent enough to fell an ox; Sandor had spent the following day retching into the Sunset Sea while Tyrion sat beside him on the deck, taking meticulous notes on his symptoms.
There had been the expedition into the deep, abandoned mine shafts beneath the Rock, where Sandor had spent three days crouching through suffocating tunnels barely wide enough for his shoulders while Tyrion, who fit with room to spare, chattered cheerfully about geological strata and load-bearing columns.
Most recently, there was the drinking bout that had ended with both of them passed out on the Lannisport beach, half-submerged in the rising tide, their pockets picked clean by seagulls. Sandor had awoken to a crab pinching his earlobe, entirely disoriented and hugging Tyrion's side for warmth. Tyrion had never let him live it down.
"This is no scheme," Tyrion insisted, pressing a hand to his chest in wounded innocence. "This is charity, Sandor. Pure, unadulterated, saintly charity. A maiden in distress, rescued from the clutches of brigands and brought to the safety of a noble house. What could be more straightforward?"
Sandor sighed and took a long, deep swig of the mead. The liquid disappeared down his throat in steady swallows, his scarred jaw working around the pull. When he lowered the flask, his dark eyes fixed on Tyrion with weary resignation.
He'd learned, over the years of following Tyrion Lannister through every harebrained scheme and midnight expedition the dwarf's restless mind could conceive, that resistance was not only futile but actively counterproductive. Arguing with the dwarf was a form of self flagellation; the more you pushed back, the more elaborate the scheme became. The more you protested, the more enthusiastically Tyrion would explain, in excruciating detail, exactly why you were wrong and he was right, until your objections crumbled beneath the weight of his relentless, grinning logic.
Better to drink the mead and let the little monster have his way. At least the mead was excellent.
Besides, Sandor thought as he wiped his mouth, he'd take the mad little shit over the rest of them lordly ponces any day.
Better the devil you know than the devil you don't.
x____________________x
Hope you enjoyed the chapter!
I have posted a picture of Tyrion on my for you guys to view for free if you're interested. (linktr. ee/DarkeBones.)
If you want to read TWO chapters ahead of my public release please see:
linktr. ee/DarkeBones.