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Chapter Text

Tyrion

It was only a matter of time before Sansa Stark fell victim to either the Old Lion or the Cruel Lion.

She was no longer the king’s betrothed, meaning Joffrey wouldn’t even pretend to believe that the girl was useful for anything but target practice.

She was no longer the king’s betrothed, meaning Tywin would be auctioning her off like a broodmare to the highest bidder. No – scratch that – Tywin would make Sansa marry a Lannister. At sword point, if necessary. He’d make said Lannister bed the girl as many times as it took to put a child in her only recently flowered womb. Childbirth may very likely kill her. If not, then the sheer insult of being married to and raped by a Lannister would likely break the girl in a way Ser Boros’ fists and Ser Meryn’s sword never would.

If she survived both the childbed and the indignity of siring lion cubs who would invade her home the moment Robb Stark made one misstep in this war and lost his head, then the Old Lion would do for her. Oh, it would be passed off as a bad case of grippe, or an unfortunate tumble over the railing of one of the western-facing balconies of Casterly Rock, but Tyrion knew it would be no accident. Once two pups were pulled from her loins, she’d be a dead woman walking.

If she lasted that long.

Tyrion, certain he knew Sansa Stark’s fate better than any of those charlatans who divined fortunes from tea leaves, had only one thing left to consider: what lucky lion would be forcing himself onto and into Sansa Stark’s nubile body before the next turn of the moon?

The Old Lion himself? Well, certainly he was the only person he’d trust to do the job right, but he must also know the North would never accept him as their warden, nor would anyone believe that Sansa – without a father or brother there to negotiate the terms of the match – would willingly marry the man old enough to be her grandfather and known for his callousness, besides. Regardless, Tyrion couldn’t imagine his father wanted to be married again, and certainly not to some little girl he likely saw as either a simpering fool or a withering flower, if not both.

Then… could it be Lancel was the man for the job? If he hadn’t gone and gotten himself hurt during the battle, he would be the obvious candidate, and it would be the best thing for Sansa even if not House Lannister. But apparently that ulcerated wound had robbed Lancel of more than some of the flesh in his shield arm. What turned out to be a near death experience sapped him of his overall vitality. These days Lancel looked more like a ghost than a man, and he often had this faraway look in his green eyes even when someone was speaking to him. Suffice it to say, Kevan had implied that Lancel would be unable to consummate a marriage, when Tyrion inquired earlier today. Besides, Lancel had always been a bit of a pushover. No matter how much Tywin underestimated Sansa’s intelligence or capacity to play the game, he wouldn’t risk Lancel falling victim to her feminine wiles and subsequently being used in a way that hurt their great house.

No doubt their father would do a backflip to give Sansa to Jaime, and despite his penchant for pushing young boys out of tower windows, Tyrion liked to think his brother would be gentle with any bride of his, if not overly warm. Then again, Tyrion hadn’t seen his brother in over a year – who knew how bitter he’d be toward anyone named ‘Stark’ after spending so much time in Robb Stark’s war camp? Not only that, but Jaime would need to make it back to the capital and agree to give up the White Cloak (or go along with the marriage to Sansa even after Joffrey and Tywin ripped it from his back). No… Tywin would not be waiting for his golden son to return. Every day that Sansa remained unwed was a day she could be conceiving little lion cubs.

There were a few other options Tyrion considered briefly, if only for the sake of being thorough.

Cousin Tyrek had never been recovered after the riots, and at this point Tyrion doubted he ever would.

Cousin Addam – the son Father never had – would be ideal if only his surname was Lannister.

Cousin Daven would also be ideal – if only he weren’t needed to defend Lannisport and Casterly Rock from that pesky army of wolves and trout.

Through the process of elimination, Tyrion realized he was down to one last candidate.

Tommen.

Except… Well, assuming Father had the patience to wait five-plus years for Tommen to be physically capable of consummating a marriage, and do so without pissing off the Faith, Tommen wasn’t a bad option. Presumably, with Father staying in the capital for the foreseeable future, Tommen would be tutored by either Tywin or Kevan so that, by the time the marriage was validated, he wouldn’t be so very… soft.

Oh, who am I kidding? That boy doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. Sansa Stark would walk all over him, and he’d have nothing to say about it but ‘thank you, my dear lady’.

And, Tyrion belatedly realized, despite virtually the entire realm knowing otherwise, Tommen was a Baratheon, not a Lannister – that was the only name he could give Sansa and any children they had. He’d likely be moving to Storm’s End when he came of age, assuming Stannis’ remaining garrison surrendered or starved to death before then. He could sire Winterfell’s heirs, but never actually live in the North, paving the way for his half Lan-- his half Baratheon, half Stark son to be accepted by those prideful people.

Having exhausted all the likely suspects, Tyrion was about to try to remember what young men in the Lannisport branch of their family were unwed when he realized there was one candidate that he’d yet to consider…

A man named Lannister.

A man whom, unlike Tywin and Jaime, the Northerners and their Riverlands allies had no reason to hate (well, beyond his name).

A man whom even Tywin would admit was not so easily fooled. (Not since he was fourteen, at least.)

A man whom Tywin would assume to be more than willing to bed pretty young Sansa Stark.

A man whom Tywin would not mourn if he should happen to meet his end at the sword of a particularly irate Northman, or at the table knife of his wife, should she ever learn to use her claws in a less passive way.

Fuck…

Tyrion groaned, running a hand down his face and forgetting that half his nose was missing, and the flesh and cartilage left behind was rather tender.

“Fuck,” he cursed – this time aloud.

He’d honestly rather let Ser Gregor bugger him dry than take on the mantle of responsibility that came with Sansa Stark’s hand. The largest kingdom in the realm, filled with the most proud, stubborn men Tyrion had ever had the misfortune of meeting. Men who took particular pride in not forgetting things.

Things like, oh, House Lannister’s invasion of Lady Stark’s homeland, or that time that Joffrey cut off Ned Stark’s head… You know, things like that.

Nor was he entirely thrilled by the prospect of bedding the girl. Could he rise to the occasion? He had to assume so, given his lecherous eyes had noticed the girl filling out quite nicely since she had her first blood. But there was no way in all seven hells that Sansa Stark wanted him. Not his body, not his mind, not his name, not his coin. In fact, she very likely despised the very air he breathed, even if only for sharing blood with Joffrey and Cersei. Thus, it stood to reason she’d never willingly let him in her bed. Which further stood to reason that Tyrion could only do so by… forcing himself on her. Perhaps she’d lie back, spread her legs, and only her muffled whimpers would announce her protest. Or perhaps she’d fight him, and he’d have to overpower her, hold her wrists above her head, pry her legs open, and position himself all at once. Not only was he incapable of doing that, he was incapable of doing that!

And, last but not least, there was Shae. Gods, Tyrion knew he was a fool for falling in love with a whore again, but he couldn’t help it. He loved the frustrating woman and didn’t want to hurt her, which he would do by marrying another woman. And if he had the nerve to then sleep with said woman, who Shae happened to be quite fond of, he suspected his wife and her handmaid would conspire to unman him, in which case he prayed they’d kill him, too.

Tyrion leaned back in his seat, letting out bitter laughter when he realized that two people would be happy about his marriage to Sansa Stark. Two people Tyrion would sooner piss on than make happy.

Cersei and Joffrey.

Actually, if Cersei had even a speck of compassion in her, she might actually harbor some sympathy for Sansa over the whole thing – that was how disgusted she was by Tyrion’s mere existence. Joffrey, on the other hand, would think binding her to the demon monkey a fitting punishment for the traitor’s sister. Though perhaps he’d think Sansa too fine a prize for the likes of Tyrion? Eh, Tyrion wouldn’t bet on it – Joffrey hated the girl as much as Cersei hated Tyrion, for reasons Tyrion would never know.

Gods, if Father even floated the idea of wedding them past Joffrey, the king would latch on like a starving dog to a marrow bone. The idea of making the Stark traitor marry some ugly sod who was so far beneath her—

Hold on…

Back up…

Could it work?

Well, nothing to do but try…

<<<<>>>> 

“…I mean it, truly. It’s rare that we agree on something, nephew, but about that simpering girl you are right. I was tempted to stab my fork into my eye, just for entertainment.”

Joffrey grinned, “I’d think it more entertaining to stab your fork in her eye.”

Of course you would.

“Aye, but then I’d still have to see her,” Tyrion scoffed, “Gods, does she always tremble like a leaf? Does she always wear the expression of a rabbit caught in a snare? Trying to talk to her about the weather is like juggling fine porcelain.”

Joffrey let out a snort, “She’s always been insipid.”

Tyrion waved a hand as they continued their stroll. They’d happened to bump into each other outside the throne room, and Tyrion had happened to be headed to Maegor’s himself, to speak to his sister about his luncheon with Sansa Stark – one that Joffrey would never know Tywin hadn’t arranged so that he could take the girl’s measure. “Ah, well. Hopefully she’ll be married off soon and neither of us will have to suffer her presence.”

Joffrey slowed his pace just enough for Tyrion to notice. “Oh?” he asked, his voice squeaking.

“Mm,” Tyrion affirmed, “As soon as your grandfather can find someone of fitting station. They may be traitors, but they’re still Starks,” Tyrion imitated his father’s husky baritone.

“Hmpf, I’d sooner attaint House Stark altogether, but Grandfather said it won’t do any good since none in the North will uphold the decree – bloody savages,” he sneered.

“Well I suppose you could always… No, never mind.”

“What?”

“A silly, fleeting notion. Forget I said anything, your grace.”

Joffrey stopped walking and turned to face him. The sers who were behind them, which included Bronn, stopped instantly.

“I command you to tell me what you were thinking,” Joffrey spoke in his kingly voice.

Tyrion was more than qualified to be a mummer. He forced himself to look chagrined, remorseful, and last of all obedient before huffing out, “Look, I only was thinking there are other ways to attaint a person, even if not an entire house.”

That stumped Joffrey for a few moments before he grinned like the maniac he was, “I could sell her to a whorehouse! One of the underground ones I’ve heard of.”

Tyrion fought not to react with horror or disgust, instead shrugging, “You could – but then any man might steal her away for her claim. Some Northern sympathizer.”

Joffrey nodded, his cheeks darkening a bit, “Of course. It was only a thought. What did you have in mind, Uncle?”

“Well,” Tyrion shrugged again, “You could negate the power of her name by giving her a new one.”

“A bastard name, hm!?” Joffrey smiled again.

Gods, this boy is dense.

“I meant… by giving her a man’s name.” Realizing Joffrey might think he meant to rename Sansa as Samuel, he quickly added, “A man’s surname. Wed her to someone lowborn, with no armies, no allies. Marry her to some nobody – it will shame her. Though, do make sure the man isn’t in the pockets of… anyone outside the family. Anyone like the Tyrells or Martells or Tullys, for instance.”

Joffrey snorted, “My dog would’ve been perfect if he’d not turned craven. Sansa was terrified of him. Oh, to think of how she’d tremble when my dog mounted her…”

Tyrion maintained his composure, “A sound choice, though as you said the man was craven – his first taste of battle and he tucked tail, while braver men bled on that beach for hours before relief arrived.”

Joffrey nodded dismissively, “Aye, they were very brave. Still, it would be a sight to see – what that ugly dog would do to that wolf-bitch.”

“Well,” Tyrion chuckled – here goes nothing – “I’d lend you my dog for the task,” he casually pointed toward Bronn with his thumb, “even if he isn’t quite as ugly as the Hound, but that would be too far even for a traitor. ‘Clegane’ is a noble name, even if a lowly one.”

Joffrey frowned, turning to face Bronn, “You’re the sellsword who dared to threaten Ser Meryn when he was doing the king’s work in punishing the traitor bitch.”

Bronn shrugged, “Technically, it were your uncle who threatened your man. I was just there to see his will done. I may be a dog, but I’m a loyal one.”

Gods, I could kiss him for that improvisation right now!!

Joffrey didn’t remove his gaze from Bronn, “That accent… where do you hail from, Ser?”

“Flea Bottom, yer grace,” Bronn spoke proudly – as if he was so ignorant that he didn’t realize he’d been birthed in the worst slums on the entire continent.

“You don’t say…” Joffrey mumbled, and Tyrion could see those tiny cogs turning, even if slower than sap dripping out of a maple, “Though I must question your loyalty, if you’d listen to your… employer,” he gestured at Tyrion, “Over your king.”

“Ah,” Bronn smiled, “You see, yer grace, I was under the impression from your uncle, who was under the impression from his father, that you were still needin’ a regent, and that such was he,” Bronn pointed toward Tyrion, “Meaning I thought I was listnin’ to my king, for all intents and purposes.”

Tyrion cleared his throat, “Bronn speaks true. My father had been under the impression that your mother was still acting as your regent.”

That had Joffrey fuming, “Why would he think that?”

“Your mother told him via letter, I suppose,” Tyrion shrugged, “No matter. He sent me to act not just as Hand but as Regent. While I couldn’t care less about Lady Sansa personally, I certainly know we don’t want her dead! Nor even… permanently damaged. Not until your uncle, the Lord Commander, is returned to us. Not while Robb Stark is unlikely to keep his head much longer and the chit will have the sole claim on Winterfell.”

Joffrey’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, “I won’t give the bitch Winterfell. I’d sooner raze the entire place and take a piss on the rubble.”

Tyrion laughed heartily, though it wasn’t particularly funny (or creative), “Why be wasteful?” he held up his hands, “Her son – no matter who he is sired by – is a tool we can use to claim the Starks’ beloved home right out from under them. You wish for vengeance against Robb Stark and his meddlesome father? Then plant in Winterfell the son of some lowborn cur who, by virtue of his father, will be ever-loyal to House Lannister.”

Joffrey leaned back, his eyes moving as if he was reading Tyrion’s words on a page. Then…

“He must be someone she is frightened of. I won’t have her enjoying her marriage; she doesn’t deserve to.”

Tyrion snorted, “Oh, now I really wish I could offer you Ser Bronn’s services. Sansa’s absolutely terrified of the scoundrel, ever since… well, ever since the time I had to ask Ser Bronn to silence the girl when she flew off in a fit of hysterics.”

“Silence her?” Joffrey asked, his excitement once again piqued.

“Nothing like your men did,” Bronn spoke laconically, “Just a backhand to the cheek. Girl ought to be thankful I only used half-force; instead she cried like a cheated wench.”

“I did tell you slapping her wouldn’t work,” Tyrion insisted.

“And I did tell you I never could stand hysterical women. Girl’s lucky I didn’t teach her the same lesson the last one got…”

(Bronn deserved all the gold under Casterly Rock, as far as Tyrion was concerned.)

“What other girl? What lesson?” Joffrey asked, all but foaming at the mouth.

“Some mouthy bitch forgot her place; thought she could try to take advantage of my better nature. She found out the hard way that I don’t got one. Let’s just say I showed her who’s top dog.”

Joffrey grinned, “The mouthy ones are the worst. They think we actually want to hear them talk!”

“Exactly!” Bronn raised his hands for emphasis, “Only one use for a woman’s mouth, ya ask me.”

Joffrey chuckled, “Then it’s settled.”

Tyrion lifted his brows innocently, “What’s settled, nephew?”

“This Ser Bronn of… what’s your name, Ser?”

“Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, your grace.”

“Hm, like the river. Anyway, this Ser Bronn shall be wed to Sansa Stark.”

“Whoa,” Tyrion held his hands out, palms facing Joffrey, “I said a lowborn, not a… a… well, with all due respect to Ser Bronn, not a common sellsword who can’t even read.”

“Why not?” Joffrey scoffed.

Tyrion sighed loudly, “Do you honestly think your grandfather – or your mother for that matter – will allow it?”

“I am the king, not them!” Joffrey cried.

“Of course, only I’m not certain they see it that way…”

Joffrey’s nostrils flared, his green eyes blazed, “Then perhaps I shall make them see. Perhaps it’s time I did something of my own initiative. And when they see how clever it is, how it will give us vengeance against our enemies and a strong grip on the North, they’ll stop treating me like I’m some suckling brat!”

Tyrion shook his head, “My father will not like this at all, nephew. And now I regret even mentioning the idea to you – if he thinks the idea came from me, he will never accept it, much less praise it. I could stumble across a silver mine right here in King’s Landing and he’d only complain that it’s not gold!”

“Then I simply won’t tell him it was your idea. And it wasn’t, anyway,” Joffrey crossed his arms, “You thought Ser Bronn too low even for that wolf bitch. I’m the one who realized how perfect he is!”

Tyrion made a sigh of surrender, “You are my king – I cannot stop you. But for the record, I did advise against—”

“Yes, yes. You advised against it,” Joffrey turned to face Ser Osmund, “Go fetch the Stark bitch from her chambers and bring her to the castle sept. and you,” he faced Bronn, “Do you have a cloak with your sigil?”

“Don’t got a noble house, as the little lord told you, but I took a personal crest after the battle, when I got me title,” Bronn turned around and pointed at his back.

“What the fuck is that?” Joffrey asked.

“A chain covered in green flame on a field of smoke. To commemorate the night you saved the city, your grace. I was the one who shot the flaming arrows, you know. Your grandfather himself knighted me for it. All while this one,” he hooked his thumb toward Tyrion, “was busy misplacing his nose.”

Joffrey cackled at that. Tyrion refrained from glaring at Bronn, though later he’d tell the sellsword that he had taken things just a smidge too far.

“Good enough. Then come, let us go the sept so you can await your bride,” Joffrey turned to sneer at Tyrion, “No need to join us, Uncle, since you think my idea is so horrible.”

“Very well,” he lamented before bowing and turning to walk away, head hung and steps humble.

He’d like to go warn Sansa that he had a plan, and that Bronn was not going to hurt her, but Ser Osmund would find that suspicious after the conversation he’d just witnessed.

Sorry Sansa… please be strong. Bronn will explain it all in time.

Chapter Text

Sansa

Sansa had the strangest feeling that she was dreaming.

Surely, this must be a jape. All of it. Any moment now, Joffrey would burst through the door (probably with some of his flunkies, there for the entertainment) and laugh in Sansa’s face. Pointing. Cackling. With a dozen red faces pointing and cackling with him.

She only didn’t know what cruelty, precisely, he would reveal. She could imagine him, too winded from laughing to get the words out smoothly, saying, “Did you really think I’d let you off that easily? Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl! Even a sellsword is too good for you! No, here’s your real groom…” Then he’d have someone lead a pig into the room. A pig with a small cape around its neck. He’d have Ser Meryn drag her to the sept to repeat the ceremony with the pig, down to the kiss.

But she could just as easily imagine the opposite happening. Joffrey coming in and saying, “Gotcha! Much as a traitor’s sister is a fine match for a lowly, foul-mouthed sellsword, Mother said I’m not to waste you. My grandfather’s recently arrived. He’s a widower, you know. He said it wasn’t enough to spill Stark blood on the battlefield, he’d like to spill some on the mattress.” Sansa shivered to think of that dour, intimidating man taking her as a bride. He’d be so cruel, so careless with her maidenly body, she just knew it. Though Joffrey seemed almost reverent of his powerful grandfather, and despised Sansa. He would more likely view his grandfather as too good for the traitor’s sister. If anything, he’d give Sansa to… she stifled a gasp… to the imp, his deformed uncle, a known lecher and drunk. And yes, Lord Tyrion had protected Sansa to some degree, even risking the king’s wrath to do so – and this sellsword protected me, too, that day – but he was still a Lannister. He protected Sansa because she was collateral against her family’s treatment of Ser Jaime Lannister, their war prisoner. That was all. She’d heard he was a drunk and a deviant and clearly he was cruel – using wildfire to burn all of honorable Stannis Baratheon’s brave men. Even the smallfolk of the city hated him, as evidenced by their words and actions during the riot. They were hungry and blamed Tyrion Lannister for it; they must know something Sansa didn’t. Perhaps Tyrion was hoarding all the food in some secret storage rooms or silos so his wretched family would never go hungry even if the people around them starved.

It didn’t help that he was even uglier than he’d been before the battle. One could see right into his skull through the holes where his nose used to be. It was… rather hard to look at.

And, worst of all, he was a Lannister. Sansa would rather marry the pig. She’d even rather be bedded by the pig, if such a thing was possible.

Regardless, she didn’t know what to do now, as she stood in her bedchamber with the sellsword who had draped a cloak over her shoulders in the castle sept a few moments ago, with only the king and some of his Kingsguard as witnesses, and very much at the king’s prompting. At least the sellsword – Ser Bronn of the Blackwater – had been knighted. Then again, Ser Meryn and Ser Boros and the late Ser Mandon were also knights. And Bronn had been knighted by the old lion himself – surely that meant the man had done some favor for the Lannisters beyond fighting in the battle. Perhaps he’d done some foul, dishonorable deed for them and, to pay his debt, the old lion was giving Sansa to him.

I’m supposed to go to Willas Tyrell, future Warden of the Reach, who is handsome, with kind eyes and a sharp mind. I was supposed to go live in Highgarden, where the air smells like roses and hay, not fish and filth.

I was supposed to be free from this cage, no longer a mouse stuck under the lion’s paw.

“Listen,” the sellsword, Bronn, reached for the back of Sansa’s head and – despite her peep of protest – pulled her against him. His neck smelled like leather and sweat, and his bristly stubble was rough against her nose, which she crinkled in distaste even knowing worse was to come.

She felt his head turn until his mouth was right against her ear.

“I’ll explain it all in detail when time ain’t of the essence, but we done this to protect you, alright? They was gonna marry you to the imp, and Tyrion knew you wouldn’t want that – prolly even less than he did. Sorry, but I was the best he could come up with on short notice.”

Sansa, shocked, pushed herself away – or the man let her – and stared up at him. Of late, she rarely had to look up at a man, but the sellsword was tall and wiry, with gaunt cheeks to match his slim build. Combined with his dark hair, sharp nose, and grey-green eyes – one of which seemed smaller than the other – he looked cruel and dangerous, but also earnest. She blinked at him, wondering if it could be true. Well, she knew anything could be true, but why wouldn’t Lord Tyrion want to marry her?

Because you’re a Stark – his enemy, the answer came instantly, and she felt her cheeks flush in indignation. How dare he not want to marry her?! She knew her worth. Eldest daughter of the Warden of the North, with kings’ blood in her veins, and one of the oldest – if not the oldest – names in all of Westeros! She was also pretty and tall and slender and had a lovely singing voice and could embroider circles around any lady in this city! But he would refuse her all because she was a Stark?! Was he truly no better than Joffrey, who looked at her and saw nothing but a traitor?

The sellsword lifted a brow and spoke in a quiet voice that no one outside the room would hear, “Here I figgered I might deserve a bit a’gratitude for my valiant effort…”

“The word is ‘figured’,” she hissed, “and why should I feel gratitude? Lord Tyrion was so appalled by the notion of marrying me that he instead gave me to you – no offense, Ser, but you must realize this is quite the uneven match – and thought I’d be grateful? Did you two have a good laugh about it? I’m sure the king found it hilarious. Did you promise you’d—” she snapped her lips shut as all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place and she could see how it all unfolded. Joffrey and his twisted little uncle conspired to wed Sansa to some lowborn man (or was he a mere commoner?!) to shame her, to turn her into a laughingstock throughout the entire Seven Kingdoms. But where that might be enough entertainment for Lord Tyrion, Joffrey would take it further, wouldn’t he? He’d want her to suffer more than humiliation, and he chose this cutthroat to do it.

Her face must have revealed her fear, for at the same moment she went to take a step back, the sellsword stepped forward, grabbing both her arms and pulling her against him again. Cruel, thin lips were pressed to the shell of her ear as he spoke quickly, “I ain’t gonna hurt ya, girl, but the king thinks I will. How else ya think the imp convinced him to marry you to me? That little blond cunt was chomping at the bit for the chance to tie you to some lowly scoundrel. Woulda been the Hound if the big fucker didn’t run off, and while he got noble blood, I like to think I’m the better catch. But the imp’s brain is as big as his mouth, and he knew just how to play the little shit so he’d give ya to someone who don’t answer to the king, but that the king thinks does. I ain’t gonna hurt ya, but the king needs to think I do, else he might take matters into his own delicate little hands, ya understand? Now, as soon as the old lion finds out he’ll be dragging us back to the septon to undo what his grandson did, but if there’s blood on these sheets and no maidenhead ‘tween yer legs, that’ll be a lot harder to do. So, which is it, girl? You want me? I ain’t got riches or lands or a fancy name – though I’m on my way to getting two, and I figger you just gave me the third – but I don’t get off on hurtin’ women, never have. And I got a reputation for bein’ a greedy motherfucker, so if anyone else tries to get fresh with you, it would be perfectly in character for me to introduce ‘im to my two favorite ladies. And ‘fore you get jealous, know that I’m talking about Slim Sally and Lucky Lucy,” he briefly patted something on the front of his belt – likely a dagger – then something on his hip – likely a sword, “Anyway, what was I sayin’? Oh, yeah… so you can stick with me, or take your chances on the lion annulling this here marriage and giving you to his son, or his own self, depending on how pissed he is at his son.”

Sansa swallowed, “How do you know he’ll marry me off again?”

“Hmm, s’pose I don’t, but the little lord seemed mighty convinced it was only a matter of time.”

Only a matter of time. But how much time? Enough time for Lady Tyrell to get me out of the city so I can go marry Lord Willas? How long will that take to plan? What if it doesn’t work? What if we’re caught? The Tyrells would be considered traitors, and I’d be considered even more of a traitor than I am by virtue of my Stark blood.

All at once she realized what should have been obvious…

The Tyrells will never risk that, not when they are so close to having Margaery as Queen Consort. The only way they’d wed me to Willas would be with the permission of the king, and his grandfather. And Joffrey would never let me go to Highgarden to be happy with handsome, kind, smart, Willas Tyrell. He wants me here, always, where he can degrade and mock me, maybe even beat me again.

Later, she would tell herself that it was self-preservation that drove her to do what she did, but it wasn’t so strategic as that. It was resentment, loathing; a compulsion to do the opposite of what the Lannisters wanted of her. Joffrey wanted her married to someone who’d be cruel to her. This sellsword – Ser Bronn – had never been cruel in their few interactions. He never so much as looked at her in a way that made her feel like a piece of meat to a hungry dog. And he was giving her his word now – for however much that might be worth – that he wouldn’t hurt her.

And Tywin Lannister wanted her wed into his own family. So far as she knew, Ser Bronn was of no relation to House Lannister.

And Cersei? Well, Sansa had no idea what sort of groom she’d want for Sansa, except that it would be someone who answered to the queen, or at least her father or son. Not her dwarf brother, as Ser Bronn clearly did.

Thus, it was with a rush of thrill and power at the notion that this was a way to strike back against the Lannisters without actually committing treason (had King Joffrey himself not given her away to Ser Bronn?) that she brought her lips to the sellsword’s. Bronn’s, you ninny, stop calling him ‘the sellsword’! She had little experience in the art of kissing, but she figured the man wouldn’t expect a girl her age to be proficient, and maybe she didn’t care. Not caring was quite unlike her, but she was so elated to have this rare opportunity to win one against the family who’d beaten her down at every turn, that she could think of nothing else.

Bronn seemed shocked at first, then began kissing her back, taking the lead in what was a fairly simple act, and one that came quite naturally. Their lips parted so their tongues could dance and it shouldn’t be anything but disgusting, yet for some reason it made her tingle between the legs, much like Ser Loras’ smiles and shoulders did.

The room seemed to be getting too warm, and Sansa felt a bit dazed when Bronn began hungrily kissing her neck while his hands held her waist. She could feel that the tips of his fingers met on her back, just as his thumbs met on her tummy, and the realization made her tingle some more. Or maybe it was the pleasant tickly feeling of his lips and tongue on her neck that caused such a reaction; apparently her skin was quite sensitive there. And maybe the feeling of warmth between her legs was due to the warmth in the room, but it seemed that the knight’s ministrations were equally to blame.

When did I start panting like a winded dog? And why don’t I care that I’m about to give my maiden’s gift to this common rogue? Why am I not mourning what will never be with Lord Willas, or any number of handsome, refined, fair-haired lords in this realm? Why is the smell of his unperfumed sweat not making my stomach ill? Why is the scratch of his beard an almost pleasant sensation? Why does my woman’s place feel as hot and damp as a swamp? Why is it his hands are going to my neckline, but I’m not afraid?

She let out a shriek when her body was suddenly jostled in time with a tearing sound. Mouth agape, she looked down to find the bodice of her dress had been ripped down the middle, revealing her corset and shift underneath. Slowly, she craned her neck back up to meet Ser Bronn’s gaze.

He shrugged, “Need to be convincing.”

Sansa nodded, understanding he meant to leave some evidence that he treated her roughly during their bedding, if only to satisfy the king and any others who didn’t think Sansa Stark deserved a gentle touch.

“And,” Bronn grinned so widely and crookedly that it was a bit startling, “I wanted to do it, anyway.”

She smiled back, blushing to realize that this man, who was not lordly but certainly worldly, wanted her. The notion was as flattering as Joffrey’s smiles had once been, but more genuine, she hoped.

Bronn’s left hand came up to her cheek, “You’re a pretty girl,” he spoke quietly, “and there are plenty of things I’ll teach ya, if ya let me. But we need to be rid of that pesky bit of flesh ‘fore the king gets bored.”

The nervousness she’d been successfully avoiding flared within her belly, and she took a deep breath as she nodded. Bronn gave her a smaller smile, but something in it was terribly warm and endearing. Or, perhaps, she was seeing what she wanted to see. He kissed her again, more gently than before, and it served to quell her nerves somewhat, but not entirely. Her body wanted what it wanted, but her mind was beginning to wonder if she’d made the right choice just when she felt herself go airborne for a moment, only to land on her back on her feather mattress. Quicker than such a tall man ought to move, Bronn was above her, kissing her neck some more while his firm thigh was nestled between her legs, pressed tight to her woman’s place. She blinked up at her bed canopy, marveling at the feeling that shook every thought out of her head. Her brain didn’t even seem to be in control of her body anymore. Her hips had taken control of the situation, moving up and down to rub her center against Ser Bronn’s hard thigh.

“That’s a good girl,” he whispered in her ear, “bet yer wishin’ that was my cock, huh?”

She had been wishing that, but didn’t know how this veritable stranger would know, and was not going to admit something so debauched, though she supposed her continued humping of his leg was answer enough.

“You and me both, darlin’. But I figger it might not be as fun as yer imag’nin, the first time at least. So how about we take care of you first?”

She didn’t know what ‘take care of’ meant, but her head nodded of its own volition, and in the next heartbeat Ser Bronn was pulling her dress off the rest of the way, then her underskirt, then her smallclothes, leaving her in only stockings and shift. Embarrassment and self-consciousness made her entire body blush but then Bronn’s warm, rough fingers were pressed to the specific place that’d felt good when rubbing against his thigh, and there was officially no room in her brain for anything but pleasure. Even Bronn’s words, which he groaned into her neck, sounded distant. “That’s it, girl. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with this, ya hear? Damn but you’re wet. Lucy ain’t the only one who’s lucky.”

Sansa couldn’t remember which weapon was Lucy, but figured she had a fifty-fifty chance of being right. Breathless from pleasure, her dry tongue managed to say, “Lucy’s digging into my hip.”

“Oh that ain’t Lucy. That’s Lil’ Bronn, though don’t let the name fool ya.”

That made no sense, but she really didn’t care. The pleasure seemed to be building up to something that couldn’t possibly be sustainable, but that she was desperate to reach – a mountain she needed to climb to the apex, even if only for the entire thing to collapse under her in a rush of rocks and loose dirt.

“That’s it, girl,” Bronn goaded her, as if he knew she was trying to reach that apex, but how could he know? Was this man a mind-reader? Oh, who cares?! We’re so close now! We? Yes! You and me! her woman’s place shouted… and kept shouting, though not with any discernible message, just a repeated acknowledgement that this felt better than anything Sansa had ever felt, and if she could just get a little farther it would feel even—

“Oh, gah,” was what came out of her mouth before it was hastily covered by Bronn’s right hand, while his left never stopped moving rapidly against her woman’s place. Was she screaming against his hand? How mortifying. Or not. Who could tell? Gods was she warm. Her entire body was damp and hot, and as Bronn mumbled pleased curses in her ear, she realized that she was downright slippery between the legs. She’d felt slippery down there before, but nothing like this. Was something wrong? Had she gotten her moon-tide? But no, she’d have felt cramps and her breasts would’ve been swollen and she’d have had annoying pimples sprout near her hairline.

All at once it became too much, and she clamped a hand around Bronn’s wrist. His fingers left her tender spot, thank the Seven, but only to slide down to her sacred place. She flinched in panic but Bronn was quick and clever and it seemed she only knew after the fact that he had penetrated her with a long finger. She could feel his other fingers, curled in a fist, against her opening, and knew his finger was as far inside her as it could go. A melancholy swept over her to know a piece that she’d been born with was gone, and yet she swelled with pride and arousal to know she’d given it not to Tyrion or Tywin Lannister, not to Joffrey, not to some lackey beholden to the queen. As she so often did, she fantasized about saying all the things she routinely swallowed. She fantasized about Joffrey calling her to court, intent on embarrassing her in front of dozens of noblemen and women.

“You could’ve been wed to me, the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Instead were wedded and bedded by an illiterate sellsword with no name and no landholdings. What do you think of that, hm?”

“I’m thrilled to have given my maiden’s gift to a more deserving man.”

“A… WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

“I said, I’d have sooner given my maidenhead to an illiterate sellsword or even a wild pig than to you.”

Maybe she was even glad to not have given it to Lord Willas. What did he know of her suffering? What did he know of the war, of the Battle of the Blackwater, of the pain of losing a father, two brothers, a sister? Maybe Bronn the sellsword was more worthy. He had put his life on the line, whether for king or coin (who was she kidding; it was the latter). And he had been there, that day in the courtyard, when Ser Meryn ripped Sansa’s dress and smacked her thighs with his sword. Lord Tyrion had told Bronn to kill Ser Meryn the next time he spoke, and Bronn had looked not just able but willing to obey that command.

A second finger slipped in, and she felt the stretching and mild pain she’d expected with the first finger – or that she would’ve expected if she’d had time to think about it – but she also felt a pleasant pressure. The part of her that had experienced such euphoria moments ago was throbbing again, as if connected to some part inside her tunnel that Ser Bronn was stroking. This time she wasn’t slowly climbing the mountain but racing toward the summit almost faster than she wanted to. It was something to be savored, like a lemon cake, but she was scarfing it down.

She wasn’t sure why, but she turned her eyes to the left, and met Bronn’s. He was watching her so intensely, with a look of something like awe, or maybe… desire? Their eyes locked. His were the color of the air before a summer thunderstorm – green-tinged grey. Hers she knew were often compared to a tranquil, cloudless sky – the kind that comes after the storm has washed everything clean.

His hand slipped away from her mouth and his lips immediately replaced it, but at the same moment her own lips were parting to suck in a breath as the pleasure reached its fuzzy-but-glorious apex again. It felt like she sucked the air right out of his lungs, but then his lips closed around her lower one, nibbling and pulling. His fingers kept rubbing her on the inside until she grabbed his wrist a second time.

She melted into the pillow, boneless, and couldn’t be bothered to blush as she heard the wet sound of Bronn bringing his fingers away, then the rough sound of him wiping them on her bedcover. Through half-closed eyes she watched him stand and hurriedly remove his clothes, starting with the belt that held Sally and Lucy. Was it because Ser Bronn must rest his hands on them a hundred times a day that she felt jealous of the inanimate objects that he cared for enough to name?

He was down to smallclothes before she knew it, and his eyes had never left her face, but hers left his then. He was as compact, as lean and hard, as she’d suspected. Thin but not scrawny, with not a lick of fat to be found. His clavicles were prominent, his arms long and tan, the forearms covered in fine dark hair. His nipples were brown, unlike hers, which were blush-pink. His were centered on breast muscles that were covered in sparse, curly dark hair that faded into a faint trail down his belly, only looking thicker lower on his belly. She could see his ribs and rib muscles on either side of his torso, and a deep trench bisected him vertically from sternum to navel, forming a narrow valley between hard, tight abdominal muscles. His lower belly was flat in the middle but indented on each side along his hipbones.

During her appraisal she spied a few scars, one near the end of his collarbone on the left side, another just above his left hip, and the longest by far, running diagonally down and around his side from just beneath his right armpit, presumably disappearing somewhere on the back side of his ribs. There were also a couple places on each forearm where hair didn’t grow and the skin looked paler than elsewhere, and Sansa thought they might be burn marks from hot embers. He probably was used to tending his own fires; so far as she knew, he employed no servants. He employs no servants because he is a servant. A hired sword. I married a hired sword. Oh no, what will Mother think when she hears this? I pray she never does, nor Robb.

“None of that now, girl,” Bronn spoke knowingly as he bent at the hip to lean his hands on the bed. It made him look predatory, and yet she was not afraid. How could she be afraid of the man who gave her such pleasure? All Joffrey had ever given her was pain.

“Guess I gotta kiss you some more, hm?”

She nodded. She liked the way he kissed and – even more – the way his kisses made her body feel warm and her head feel light.

He climbed over her slowly, “So it’s one less thing for ya to worry ‘bout, I ain’t gonna spill in ya.”

“Spill?”

Bronn chuckled lightly, “Eh, how’d you highborns say it? Plant my seed in your field?”

“Oh,” she blushed, “But… mustn’t you… do that… to consummate our marriage?”

His grin slanted up to the right side of his face. He still looked like a rogue, but it suited him, “Nah, you just need to sheath my sword in that sweet lil’ cunny. I can put my seed on your belly, and I will, ‘cause I think you’re a bit young to be whelping.”

“I’m not a dog,” she frowned indignantly.

Bronn snorted, “No, you’re a wolf.”

“And if you put… it… in my belly, won’t that… eh… seed my field?” her cheeks flushed so much it felt like she had sunburn.

“On your belly. Meanin’, on the outside. But if the king or anyone else asks, tell ‘em I put it inside ya. You know ‘cause you could feel it drip out later, after ya stood up.”

“Oh!” she peeped. Did the man not hear himself?!

“Settle down, girl. You want me losin’ my head for not followin’ the brat’s orders?” he lifted a brow.

She sighed, “I suppose not. I’d be a widow, and then the Lannisters would marry me off to someone even worse.”

Bronn chuckled, “Thanks.”

“Oh… I meant… and it would be terrible if you lost your head, too.”

Bronn rolled his eyes, “You’re lucky I like a challenge, darlin’.” With that he dove down and nipped at her neck so quickly she burst out a giggle, then smothered it with her hand. He kept at it, nipping and nibbling and nuzzling her neck like an eager puppy, and Sansa laughed behind her hand, and realized she hadn’t laughed in… months? Certainly not this glad laughter. Perhaps some delirious laughter, or fake laughter done to placate one of her hosts.

But even as it amused her it also re-lit the fire that burned in the core of her. The one that felt like emptiness and achiness and want.

“Gonna make a woman of ya now,” Bronn mumbled against her jaw, and she felt and half-saw him untying his smallclothes with one hand, then lowering them, then pivoting to lay between her legs completely, and she felt it stroke against her wet flesh, making her flinch when it touched her nub with a bit too much pressure, but she couldn’t see what it looked like because Bronn stayed close, hovered over her with only one forearm holding up his weight.

“It won’t hurt our cause if ya scream some,” Bronn whispered, and Sansa was about to ask what he meant when multiple things happened at the same moment:

Her ears picked up the sound of the metal latch of her door clicking.

Her woman’s place felt searingly full; she sucked in a gasp of air at the sharp pain of it.

Bronn pushed back onto his knees, bringing her with him with a hand clenched in the front of her shift, then slapped her cheek, backhanded, and growled, “I told ya to keep yer yap shut!” and dropped her back to the bed.

She might’ve been terrified of her husband, if not that someone much more terrifying walked into the room.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

Something’s gonna pop.

His father’s face was making the crimson of their family crest look rather muted, and his eyes were the same terrifying shade of green that the Blackwater had been during the battle. Veins Tyrion didn’t know the human head to possess were protruding under the golden hide of his father’s shaved scalp, while his golden whisker-covered jaws were bulging with every clench of the jaw. Tyrion suspected it wasn’t all that was being clenched; his father wouldn’t be able to move his bowels for a month.

As time slipped by with none of the three of them uttering a word, Father’s face reaching an even deeper shade of red, Tyrion’s unease grew until he realized that he’d be the one needing the privy soon. Truly, if an actual lion sauntered into the Hand’s office, Tyrion thought he’d be safer with the beast than with his father. A real lion’s mercy could, presumably, be bought with food, after all.

Not that there was any food on offer, though it was past time they all broke their fast. Tyrion’s stomach might’ve been rumbling if it weren’t busy sloshing around its own acid as its owner wondered whether the Great Lion would finally put down the disfigured cub he’d had the misfortune of siring.

And just as Tyrion felt the tension in the room was so untenable he’d rather take a running leap through the window, the lion’s maw opened and six words came out, each sounding as sharply painful as a stab wound. “How. Did. You. Let. This. Happen?” Father said, slow and deadly, with his gaze set on his desk’s surface as if Tywin was too disgusted with his child to suffer looking at him. (That would be nothing new, but Tyrion did wonder if it was just his imagination that the oakwood desktop seemed to bow.)

Nonetheless, now was the time for self-preservation, so Tyrion could not give into the desire to crumple, to lay down and beg for mercy, nor to do anything that would make him look guilty. He swallowed, licked his lips, and prepared to tell the lie he’d been practicing since this time yesterday… Except, when he looked up, Tywin’s hellfire gaze was not on the demon monkey, but on the golden lioness.

There was precisely one man in the known world who would could make Cersei Lannister shrink and shiver and stutter, and she did all three then, “Father, I had no idea he was—”

“WHY NOT!?” the lion roared. Tyrion almost wanted to reach for his sister’s hand – strength in numbers and all that – but knew that even in these circumstances, Cersei would smack him away. And anyway, it seemed that she was the disappointing progeny that the lion was going to drown, and Tyrion didn’t want to get pulled down with her as she struggled to stay afloat.

(And yes, he knew he was using too many metaphors – wildfire, lions, drowning – but his brain was spinning like a top at the moment. Oh, there’s one more.)

“Father—” Cersei tried again.

“Any other day you’re so far up your son’s arse it would take a bloody surgeon to extract you, and yesterday you just so happened to be indisposed all day?!”

Because she was busy paying Osney Kettleblack for whatever evil services he most recently rendered.

“Father, I—”

“How the fuck were none of us informed?” Tywin flicked his eyes to Tyrion, lest his son get too comfortable, “And you… that sellsword is your man, is he not? Why did he not come to you? Did he truly think you’d approve? Or that I would, for that matter?”

Tyrion straightened his spine and cleared his throat, “I spoke to him briefly this morning after my nephew’s… announcement. He said he wasn’t given much of a choice. Simply put, be executed then and there as a traitor to his king or follow the king’s orders and wed Sansa Stark.”

Tywin rose from his throne – er, chair – and walked to the sideboard. While his children watched on and salivated, he poured and downed a goblet of rich red wine, then turned around, clutching the goblet as if hoping the metal would give.

“And the blood on the bedlinen that Joffrey so crassly waved for all to see?”

Tyrion cringed but figured it wouldn’t hurt his cause to look disgusted, though at this point he could do without another source of nausea. “Her… maiden’s blood. And like covering her with his cloak minutes earlier, Bronn was given little choice in the matter. Well, I suppose he could’ve cut his own or the girl’s foot, but he couldn’t put it past our wise king to have Pycelle inspect Lady Sansa. And aye, I suppose he could’ve used…” Tyrion clenched his jaw, “something other than his manhood to do the deed, but the result would be the same, would it not? Would anyone think a sellsword too honorable to deflower a pretty girl when the king didn’t just permit it, but ordered it? My nephew was rather insistent after all…” at least this much is true, “that if Ser Bronn didn’t do as commanded, he’d have Ser Meryn bed Lady Sansa with the blade end of his sword… after cutting off Bronn’s manhood and using it to consummate the marriage.”

“My son would never do that!” Cersei hurriedly spat.

“No?” their father snorted, “so all of court is misremembering the day Joffrey had Ser Meryn and Ser Boros strip the girl half-naked and beat her with their swords?”

Cersei’s cheeks darkened and her teeth clenched together, “Joffrey was upset that day. He’d just learned that Robb Stark had won a battle and—”

“No more upset than I – the man who lost said battle – and yet I didn’t drag some highborn girl to the center of camp to have her abused and humiliated.”

No, you’d have found some lowborn girl for the job.

“It makes no matter,” Cersei lifted her chin, “We shall simply have the marriage annulled.”

“On what grounds?” Tywin growled, “The king himself announced the marriage this morning, waved the bedcover quite proudly, congratulated Ser Bronn Blackwater and his wife…” Tywin’s jaw worked back and forth, while Tyrion cringed again, though for different reasons this time. Bronn’s name wasn’t Blackwater. He chose to go by ‘Ser Bronn of the Blackwater’, since his knighting ceremony. There was no House Blackwater, such as it was, nor a family named Blackwater, nor a castle or even a plot of land belonging to Bronn.

“Then we make the Stark girl a widow,” Cersei suggested, her voice low.

Tyrion was ashamed to admit he hadn’t thought of that possibility. Shit. Bronn just did me one helluva favor, and here it may very well cost his head. Shit… Shit!

But to his surprise, Father only strode back to his desk and sunk heavily into the chair, looking more weary than angry, “That would be far too obvious.”

“Why?” Cersei asked. “He’s a sellsword. Send him on some mission or another, then make sure he never comes back,” she gave a small but very self-pleased smile.

Father’s eyes widened in wonderment Tyrion quickly realized was feigned, “Why, that never occurred to me! What a brilliant idea! Here I was thinking I’d have to stab the man myself, right in the middle of the throne room, but you mean we could make it look like some accident, or the risk of his very profession?!”

Cersei shrunk again. If not for the fear that he might yet lose his head, Tyrion’s cock might’ve swelled proportionally. Seeing his bitch of a sister, who more than likely paid Ser Mandon to kill Tyrion during the battle, looking so small… Well, he wouldn’t dwell on the fact that it was a rather arousing sight. Maybe I am as demented as everyone thinks, but if ‘everyone’ had to live as Cersei’s deformed little brother, not to mention Tywin’s deformed offspring, they’d be demented, too.

Father’s look of artificial surprise became a condescending sneer in the time it took Tyrion to blink, “If the girl becomes a widow under any circumstances, then becomes a Lannister the moment the mourning period is over, it will be quite obvious that we were behind his death.”

“Who said anything about her becoming a Lannister?” Cersei asked, confused.

Tyrion rubbed at his forehead. He knew his sister could be clever at times, but never quite as clever as she thought she was.

Their father rolled his eyes, “The Stark line is down to two, daughter, and one of them is presently engaged in a rather deadly venture: war.”

“You… you mean to marry the traitor into our family?”

“To see a Lannister man as the next Warden of the North and possibly of the Trident? Why wouldn’t I?”

Cersei’s face became uncharacteristically flushed, “Jaime will not forsake his vows. You cannot make him marry.”

Tywin cocked his head, “Who said anything about Jaime?”

Cersei snorted, “Since the battle, Lancel is more liable to piss on his bride in fright than to bed her. Tommen is far too young to marry, and I’d not let you give both my sons to the daughters of trait—”

“Careful, daughter: the Tyrells are our allies…”

Cersei rolled her eyes, “And I know you’d never give Tyrion such a boon as the largest kingdom in the realm, with as much certainty as I know that you’d never insult my late mother by taking another wife.”

Tywin leaned back in his chair, sighing in what sounded like disappointment, “As a matter of fact, I was planning on giving the girl to your brother. That brother,” he pointed lazily at Tyrion, as if it’d be too much of an honor for Tyrion’s name to be on the Great Lion’s tongue.

Cersei scoffed, “Whyever for?”

“Because it had come to my attention very recently that the Tyrell ladies have been courting Sansa for the heir, Willas.”

“After turning down your offer of my hand to the same…” Cersei spoke with no small amount of insult, though Tyrion remembered her reaction to the mere mention of the offer Father had proposed to Lord Mace. Tyrion had thought his sister more likely to flee the capital and the throne – er, children – she loved so much, if it was her only way to get out of marrying “the cripple”. If walking with a limp made a man a cripple, Tyrion shivered to wonder what she thought of his stunted body and missing nose. Well, actually, I know precisely what she thinks of me. If she were to call me a cripple, I’d consider it a compliment.

“No doubt they’ve had their eyes on the Stark girl since arriving in the capital,” Father continued, “No surprise, since word would’ve just reached them of the deaths of Bran and Rickon Stark.”

Cersei shook her head, “Do they forget the girl belongs to House Lannister?”

“I think you mean House Baratheon,” Tyrion mumbled.

He was ignored.

“It matters not,” Father sighed, “They have the leverage to pressure us into giving them the girl for Willas.”

“They do not!” Cersei insisted assuredly.

“They do too,” Father returned flatly, “Or are you forgetting how low the food stores were before their arrival?”

“We have the gold to purchase—”

“You mean I have the gold to purchase food from the Reach. And I do, indeed, but the Tyrells could also inflate the prices to the point where I’d have to choose between bankruptcy and starvation. Hells, they could effectively siege us without sending a single soldier north or east of Bitterbridge. Stannis Baratheon’s men survived on belt leather and roast cat. Could you, daughter?”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed, “You seem to forget we sit on the east coast of Westeros. We can procure all we need from the Free Cities.”

“You seem to forget that the Tyrells control the largest and most formidable fleet in the realm… and that our docks were quite thoroughly destroyed. Besides, it’s not just us we need to feed, but the city, or else the smallfolk would do the Tyrells’ job for them – a few hundred thousand ought to be able to take a castle the size of the Red Keep in under an hour, I’d imagine.”

“What’s your point?” Cersei huffed.

Tywin lifted an eyebrow, “My point is that the Stark girl would not have been unwed past the morrow. My point is that we cannot afford for her to be unwed for any length of time. Even if something tragic happened to her husband, we’d need to honor the mourning period to prevent any accusations of foul play, given the scrutiny the Faith has put on us thanks to Stannis Baratheon’s filthy lies. But the Tyrells might just be willing to risk a small scandal – beloved as they are by the Faith and the masses – by having Willas propose to the Stark girl before the year is out. After all, they could bring Willas here and concoct some tale of true love to appease the harshest would-be critics. I highly doubt anyone would believe the same of us – or do you think anyone alive is stupid enough to think Sansa Stark would willingly marry any Lannister?”

Cersei gave a small snort, “You almost sound as if you think this sellsword did us a favor, Father. Meaning my son did us a favor.”

Father snorted, “Hardly. As I said, I had every intention of moving swiftly to secure the girl to one of us. The sellsword is not one of us. Not a Lannister, nor even a vassal. I don’t trust him not to scheme against us. I don’t trust that various players won’t emerge from the woodwork offering him whatever they think he wants, simply because they wish to endear themselves with his wife.”

“If I may,” Tyrion interjected, having to clear his throat to get the words out, “Bronn and I have something of an understanding: if ever someone offers him coin to betray me, he’s to give me the chance to beat the offer.”

“And if they offer him more than coin?”

“What, lands?” Tyrion shrugged, “Then beat the offer. The Crag comes to mind. Did the Westerlings not betray you the moment Lady Jeyne wed the traitor king?”

Father made no visible reaction to that beyond a clenching of his jaw.

Silence blanketed them for several long moments, and Cersei and Tyrion knew better than to be the first to break it.

Eventually Father leaned his elbows on his desk, his eyes busy with thought, “The sellsword can keep his bride for now, but he will answer to me from now on, not you. And he’d damned well better not misuse the asset we’re allowing him to borrow.”

Tyrion nodded, “I don’t believe he’s the type. A bit of a rogue, I admit, but I’ve never heard anything that makes me think he shares the same… preferences… as our beloved king.”

“Joffrey doesn’t—”

“Enough,” Father spat, “Joffrey admitted to me that he gave the girl to the sellsword because the man would keep her in line and teach her some humility.”

It wasn’t phrased as a question, yet Tyrion knew it was and – even more – knew his answer must be perfect. He couldn’t admit that Bronn, despite his mischievous demeanor and admitted selfishness, had a soft spot for weak, helpless, or broken things because then Tywin would wonder whether he’d be at risk of being swayed into some treachery by Sansa Stark. But nor could he support Joffrey’s assertion; Tywin would then fear the opposite – that Bronn was going to “misuse the asset”. With a sigh, Tyrion gave what was hopefully a neutral enough answer, “Our king has seen Bronn’s prowess with a sword, I’d wager, and has observed the fact that the man is rather… unpolished. It would seem he equates such characteristics with a cruel disposition. Odd that Joffrey of all people doesn’t realize that even the most regal of men, with the poorest of sword skills, can be monsters.”

“My son isn’t—”

“Enough!” Father growled, then turned to face Tyrion, “Send the sellsword to me.”

At first, Tyrion only nodded dumbly. When Tywin held his gaze, he realized it was a dismissal.

He was as eager to leave his father’s presence as ever, but he slowed his pace so that, just before he pulled the door closed behind him, he could hear the lion’s next words, “This reeks of you, Cersei.”

“What?! Father, why—”

Tyrion could hear no more, but it was enough to shock him down to his big toe.

Father thinks Cersei had Joffrey do this?!

But why? Why would he think Cersei wants to see Sansa Stark wed to some lowly, landless knight? Well, besides the fact that Cersei despises Sansa and would gladly have her house attainted if she had the authority to do so.

He thought back on his sister’s recent words during the meeting, and realized he already had his answer…

Cersei looked horrified when she thought Father meant to marry Sansa to Jaime.

And she looked insulted when she learned the Tyrells have designs on the girl for Lord Willas.

Or did she already know the latter, and fear the former? If so, she might have taken action to make Sansa unattainable for the kingslayer and the cripple both, while choosing someone whose loyalty she could potentially buy the same way she bought cousin Lancel’s loyalty, and Ser Osney’s loyalty, and Moonboy’s for all I know.

Tyrion, while contending with the many stairs that led him to ground level of the Tower of the Hand, almost forgot that it’d been he who orchestrated the whole thing. It seemed so obvious that Cersei was the one with motive. No doubt, Tywin would never suspect Tyrion of doing anything to diminish his chance to have a beautiful, highborn bride with a claim on two kingdoms, and a close blood tie to a third.

Except I did just that.

For Shae.

For a whore.

His feet stopped on the third-to-last step, and he realized he was now nauseated for a different reason.

He could’ve had one of the most beautiful girls in the realm as his bride, one with a pedigree that was somehow even more arousing than her firm young teats and rose petal mouth.

I’ve always coveted Casterly Rock… to be warden of a small but wealthy kingdom, so why didn’t I covet Winterfell? Riverrun?

I’ve always coveted a sweet, pretty wife who would love me for me, or at least learn to, in time.

He could’ve treated her well, used his name and wealth to protect her, used his humor and affection to disarm her, and eventually used his experience to teach her pleasure until she understood that a man need not come in a tall, handsome package to be her fairytale knight.

He could’ve been the Warden of the North, if Robb Stark perished before this war was through. He could’ve sired the next Warden of the North, mixed his blood in with that venerated line that was so old it might very well belong to the first of the First Men, for all anyone knew.

But he hadn’t done any of that. He’d thrown it all away because of a whore who he’d taken as his lover.

And yes, he’d also been opposed to taking a bride who wouldn’t marry him unless it forced upon her, but thinking on it now, he knew that had been the secondary motive.

He flushed from head to toe as he realized just how right his father was to not trust him when it came to their family legacy. All that his father had done to Tysha was done to teach Tyrion a lesson. And how did Tyrion honor her? By doing the same damned thing to another young woman, another whore. He’d endangered Shae by bringing her to King’s Landing against his father’s direct orders. He knew it now and knew it then, and yet couldn’t deny himself Shae’s company any more than he could deny her pleas to come with him.

And he’d just endangered her even more. Because if Tywin ever found out that Tyrion was to blame for Joffrey’s actions yesterday afternoon, and that Tyrion’s motive was to remain faithful to his lover – a whore – then the things the lion would do to the whore would be worse than what Tysha had suffered. Degrading as Tysha’s punishment had been, there were much worse experiences in terms of pain. The things done in the bowels of a dungeon to suspects of high crimes. The things done that are so heinous they’ll make a man (or woman) pray for death, and mean it.

Tyrion resumed his strides, hurrying out to the middle bailey, knowing only two things with any certainty: he had to get Shae out of the city, and he had to ensure he’d never be suspected of his true plot in all this.

Chapter Text

Bronn

He didn’t much appreciate all the interruptions.

Wasn’t it some custom of the bloody nobles to give newlyweds a week of privacy?

He hadn’t even gotten a day.

The little cunt stain of a king and his knights strolled through the door before Bronn had even gotten his nut off but after he’d gotten his prick wet. It’s like that blond twat knew just when to make his presence known to maximize Bronn’s torture, though he supposed it would’ve been worse to have been interrupted right before dropping his load.

Regardless, he knew he ought to be thankful; a half heartbeat sooner and the girl would’ve still been a virgin. Serves me right for being a show-off, making the girl peak on my fingers instead of getting right down to business.

He’d already told the girl how they needed to play it, though hadn’t gone into specifics, so he was plum proud of how she trembled on the mattress when the king strutted right up to the bed, barely passing a glance to Bronn who was stuffing his stiffy back into his smallclothes, apologizing to poor Lil Bronn, who didn’t understand that there were more pressing matters. Like, of the life-or-death variety.

Soon enough it was clear the girl was trembling for good reason. The king ordered the fat one whose name rhymed with cunt to yank the girl out of the bed. He did, roughly shoving her toward the tall one, who held her by her bare arms but was good enough not to let his hands drift to the places her shift did a shite job of hiding.

The king found the blood right where Bronn had wiped his fingers earlier, but the satisfaction in his face was restrained, “Why haven’t I heard her screaming? You wouldn’t be going easy on her, would you?”

Bronn shrugged, forcing himself to look as ambivalent as ever, “Might be you like it when they screech in your ear, but I don’t. To each ‘is own, yer grace.”

Joffrey hummed and walked toward Sansa, grabbing her ‘round the chin and prying her head up from where she was hanging it in either fear or shame – whether of the genuine or feigned variety Bronn couldn’t quite tell.

“Is that true?” Joffrey asked.

She gave a shaky nod, “He… he said if I made a peep, he’d… do things to me.”

Joffrey smiled and stroked his hand into her hair. Was enough to make Lil Bronn get the message that now wasn’t the time for his nonsense.

“What things?” the king asked sleazily, and Bronn thought that Lil Lil Joffrey was probably inflating just as Bronn’s member was wilting.

Sansa shook her head, “Please, your grace. Please don’t make me stay here with him! He hurt me! Please!”

“But he’s your husband, Sansa. You want to be a good, dutiful wife, don’t you?”

She squeezed her eyes shut and reluctantly nodded.

Joffrey’s smile widened into something that looked a bit too manic for Bronn’s liking, “For instance, if your husband ordered you to drop to your knees right here and suck my cock… you’d do it, wouldn’t you?”

Sansa’s words came out breathy with fear (definitely of the genuine variety), “Please, your grace; it’s not fitting.”

“No, I suppose it isn’t fitting,” the boy’s fist tightened in Sansa’s hair, “You don’t deserve to suck a king’s cock. And my sweet Margaery might be jealous if she found out, hm? I suppose I could have you suck Ser Osmund’s cock instead. Or Ser Boros’. Or both at the same time.”

Bronn didn’t let it show that he was sweating, panic building as he realized he might have to watch his wife, the girl Tyrion told him to protect, being violated by at least two men, while he stood there doing nothing. He couldn’t intervene, even with some form of reverse logic like what Tyrion used on this walking fart, because if the king even suspected that Bronn wasn’t reveling in Sansa’s suffering, he’d probably kill Bronn and have his men do to the girl what Bronn hadn’t.

Nor could he go for his sword and cut them down. Well, he could, actually – easier than most would think – but he’d be stuck after that. No doubt that wily old lion had eyes on the holdfast; if Bronn and Sansa tried to flee, they’d be seen and stopped, then tried for regicide. He’d lose his head, sure as shite, and she’d wish to be so lucky.

So, he did nothing. He just stood three paces from the king, arms crossed casually, a look of mild amusement on his face as if to convey that it wasn’t really his thing, but he’d watch out of curiosity, if the opportunity presented itself.

Thank the buggering gods, whatever Joffrey was looking for in her eyes, he found. Fear, Bronn would guess. With the hand still buried in her hair, he shoved her away and began walking toward the door, “Perhaps on the morrow. Or the day after. Or the day after that. I’m sure that, in the meantime, Ser Bronn won’t let you get too comfortable. Will he?”

Bronn met Joffrey’s eyes and shrugged, “What my king commands.”

“Good man,” Joffrey gave him a proud smile, as if a middle-aged sellsword needed the approval of little twats who were too afraid to fight other men so instead bullied poor, friendless little girls.

And yet, Bronn could admit the boy did have a certain intelligence in that he knew it would be worse for Sansa to spend the next days or weeks waiting for the assault to come than to suffer it here and now. What was sucking a cock to a girl who had been whipped by a sword, punched in the belly, and stood there helpless while her dear ol’ da was decapitated; who later had to pretend to be completely unaffected by the news that her baby brothers had been savagely murdered?

It was strange to think it of someone who’d trembled like a leaf when Bronn put his cloak on her shoulders not more than an hour ago, but Bronn suspected that if Joffrey had followed through on his threat, the girl would look just as she did after watching the king walk out of her room: like a fucking statue of herself.

Suffice it to say, the mood had been ruined, but the girl relaxed again after he held her for a while, and they ended up falling asleep like that. More pleasant than Bronn had expected it to be, except that he woke with his cock so stiff it hurt and didn’t get a chance to slip it into his bride or even his own blood hand before there was pounding on the door. One of the sers came in and yanked the stained bedcover off them. He told them to be at court that morning. Then he left.

They said not a word during the walk to the throne room all the way on the bloody other side of the keep. The girl held his arm, which earned them a few double-takes and frowns, especially after they entered the grand building where the king had, apparently, called for a full assembly.

One of his highness’ first orders of business was to announce that Ser Bronn Blackwater had wed Lady Sansa Stark the prior afternoon, as further reward for his heroics during the recent battle. He had Ser Osmund shake the bedsheet out, and many gasped even though Bronn doubted they could see the smear of blood, diluted by cunt milk, from their vantage points. Tyrion, that clever little bugger, gasped the loudest of anyone. The queen’s eyes were wide and disbelieving. The old lion’s face was redder than an apple. The young Tyrell bitch was blinking far too much. The ancient Tyrell bitch wasn’t blinking at all. Might be dead, come to think of it, but her body’d petrified so long ago that it stayed upright.

No doubt the old lion was trying to see a way to reverse his grandson’s action, but the king pissed on such hopes with his next words, “Lady Sansa is a woman wedded and bedded. I even honored her by serving as the witness to the bedding. I stood beyond their door and listened while she moaned like a dockside whore… or perhaps a bitch in heat.”

More people made sounds of disapproval than dared before the old lion was here to rein in his grandson, but it was still a rather scant few – not enough to discourage the king who grinned as he held Sansa’s eyes, “I wish the couple a very long and very fruitful marriage.”

Anyone with half a brain would know what the king really meant – that he didn’t want Sansa to get out of what he considered a prison sentence early due to, oh, her husband taking a sword to the back, and that he hoped she’d be eternally pregnant with children Bronn would rape into her the moment the previous one’d been popped out.

Bronn bowed deeply, “You honor us, your grace.”

They returned to what had been Sansa’s room in Maegor’s, only to be told by a maid that their belongings had been moved to a small apartment.

Receiving room; dining chamber that could seat eight; a bigger bedchamber and bigger bed; two small bedrooms that were obviously meant to be used for children. It was sure as shite the nicest place Bronn had ever called home.

They sat on opposite settees in the receiving room, both needing to take a moment to just breathe. Bronn wondered if it was too soon to tell the girl what he had in mind – loosely formed as his plan may be. So far, he’d only told her that he was not going to hurt her and that, in fact, he’d married her to protect her.

They’d hardly had a chance to relax when there was a knock on the door.

It ended up being Tyrion this time, there to establish that he, in fact, went straight to find his man after learning what he had at court. He then excused himself after giving Sansa little more than a pained looking smile, saying he was due to meet with his sister and father. He japed about how it would be more painful than losing his nose, then he was off, leaving Bronn alone with his wife again.

He hadn’t known what to say to the girl. Only knew not to leave her side, since it was only a matter of time before the old lion came roaring and he thought his presence gave the girl just a touch more confidence. Enough that she might not unravel and tell the intimidating man the entire, damning truth.

As it turned out, she wasn’t waiting for him to speak. A fair bit of time passed while Bronn tried out a few different sets of words in his head only to find them all lacking, then she was crossing the space between them and sitting next to him on the settee, asking with a blush if they could do more of “that thing” they’d done last night, or if couples only did such things after dark. Knowing it couldn’t hurt their cause if she relaxed a bit, and since his stones were damn near aching after being robbed of his climax by the bloody buggering king, he agreed.

And for the second time in less than a day, only one of them got off and it weren’t him.

He was so bloody aggravated that he didn’t care whether his beard was glistening from his little wife’s cunt when he yanked open the door after sending Sansa into the bedchamber, telling her to muss up the sheets and cry if she could, because he was sure it was the old lion or the queen bitch. Or the king bitch, he supposed. Regardless, no one who’d be happy to learn that Bronn had done nothing but act like a well-paid man-whore for the traitor’s sister.

As it turned out, it was only Tyrion – again – this time there to impart a very important piece of information to Bronn and to send him to the Tower of the Hand, where the lion was awaiting him.

Bronn demanded more gold.

Tyrion scowled at him but quickly agreed to have Pod deliver the sum at his next discreet opportunity. Then he suggested that Bronn freshen up before going to meet with his father, casting him a disgusted look as he did.

Now Bronn, face and hands freshly washed, teeth freshly scrubbed, sat across from the old lion, wondering how good his odds were of walking out of here alive with two arms, two legs, one head, one cock, and two nuts. Ideally, he’d keep all his fingers and toes, his ears and his nose, but he might have to make some concessions.

He reiterated the story that Tyrion and he had previously agreed to, with one critical difference: when asked if Joffrey gave any hint that the idea to marry Bronn and Sansa wasn’t his alone, he acted evasive for a bit before eventually surrendering to the onslaught of the old lion’s glare and admitting that Joffrey had at some point mumbled something about a “she” who would be “so proud” of him.

The old lion had nothing to say to that, but his red face and bulging veins said enough. Bronn almost felt bad for the old bastard, until he remembered how rich he was.

The rest of the meeting was half interrogation, half threat…

“I suppose you think you’ve stumbled upon a hidden treasure. I suppose you see yourself sitting at the high table of Winterfell, being m’lorded all day.”

“Not sure Robb Stark would like that none,” Bronn shrugged.

The Hand’s right eye twitched, “I was referring to a possible future scenario in which Robb Stark is dead. Not an unlikely prospect for a man at war.”

“Even less so for a man at war against you.”

He thought that would earn him a snort or smirk, but the lion’s face was inscrutable.

Bronn let out a long sigh, “If Robb Stark dies, I’m fairly certain Winterfell is the last place I’d be safe. That is, assuming I could somehow convince a few thousand men to help me take it from the squids. I would imagine lots of Northerners wouldn’t mind callin’ themselves king, which they’d reckon they could do by marryin’ a queen, if only they got her husband out of the way.”

“A queen’s husband is a prince consort, not a king.”

“Alright. That, then.”

Tywin Lannister raised a pale brow, “And you – a man motivated by gold – would pass up that opportunity? To be a prince consort even if to a queen of only one kingdom?”

“Funny thing about gold; can’t spend it if you’re dead.”

“Yet surely you knew that getting on my bad side is a good way to expedite one’s death. And surely you knew that marrying Lady Sansa would put you on my bad side.”

“Should I take that to mean I was previously on your good side?” Bronn grinned.

The lord was unamused, “Well?”

Bronn relaxed his lips, “An even better way to expedite my death woulda been to refuse the king when he ordered me to put my cloak over the girl’s back and my you-know-what in her you-know-where. Ya gotta fight the battle you’re in, not the one comin’ next, m’lord.”

The old lion hummed, “Then you have no plans to leverage your drastically improved station?”

“My station?”

The lion rolled his eyes, “Your name is ‘Stark’ now. Highborn ladies don’t take their husband’s name when they marry beneath themselves.”

“Not sure the king knows that. Also, not sure he knows that ‘Blackwater’ ain’t my name.”

“And what is your name? Waters, I supposed?” the man clenched his teeth for that one.

“Might be, for all I know. Only ever had the one name. Now, how ‘bout we cut through the crap here, m’lord? You worry that I’m gonna make off with something that belongs to you. But seems to me this is the only place where I might not have to sleep with one eye open ‘cause some cunt or another wants me outta the way, and knows I got no army or so much as a pair of lovin’ brothers might avenge me. But you won’t let that happen, will ya? ‘Cause I know you don’t really care about the Stark girl. Oh, I bet you figgered you’d marry her to one of yer kin to be sure your blood rules Winterfell should Robb Stark lose more’n the war. But what’s blood got to do with it? No, what yer after is someone you can control. Well?” Bronn outspread his arms, “May I introduce you to Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. Er, Ser Bronn Stark of the Blackwater – is that right?” Bronn shrugged and lowered his arms, “Either way, not interested in yer poly-tics. Not even a little bit. Not interested in nothin’ but gold, which you got more of than anyone. And might be no name’s better than havin’ your name, if I’m ever to go to Winterfell with my wife – on your orders, of course.”

The old lion appraised him closely, then spoke slowly, “You sound as if you’re glad to be wed to Lady Sansa, when earlier you insisted it was done under extreme duress.”

“What can I say?” Bronn smiled indolently, “I go with the flow. But, moreover, I ain’t stupid. You want this marriage to go away, well, your only option is to have me go away. So, it seems to me my best chance of keepin’ me head is to prove to be of some use to ya. So, Lord Hand? How may I serve?”

The man drummed his long fingers on the table then nodded one time, “You strike me as a man who is not without charms. Use them to gain the girl’s trust. And if the king ever gives you a command you know I wouldn’t approve, such as one that would damage the asset we have in common, you are to disobey him and come to me immediately.”

“Easier said than done when his commands tend to be backed up by a pair’a longswords.”

Tywin’s lips smirked rather deviously even as his eyes remained at stoic as ever, “If you can’t handle two of the Kingsguard, then my son has grossly overstated your abilities.”

“Oh, I know I can handle two of the white cloaks, maybe even three if the big’un ain’t one of ‘em, but seems to me killin’ a Kingsguard is a capital offense.”

“For which you will not be punished. As I said, you come to me first. Not my son. Not the queen mother.”

“Fine. Anything else?”

“It should go without saying that the girl should be a mother sooner rather than later.”

Bronn sucked on his teeth, “That’ll be no hardship on my part, but dontcha think she’s a little young? She’s an asset, as you said. An asset that’s as liable to die in childbed if her hips ain’t wide enough as she is to die at the hands of a particular… fine young man.”

“It’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

“Fine,” Bronn shrugged, “As I said – no skin off my arse. But I got one request of me own to make. I want ya to move us outta Maegor’s. It’s too easy for that fine young man to… drop in unannounced.”

“There aren’t many other options. I won’t have her in the Maidenvault.”

Because the Tyrells occupy the whole damned building.

“Fittin’, since she ain’t a maiden no more,” Bronn smiled (the old lion didn’t share his amusement), “So? Put us up in a manse.”

“I’m to pay your rent?” the man asked facetiously, “And no – the girl will not live beyond the walls of the Red Keep, convenient as it may be for you.”

Bronn rolled his eyes, “I ain’t tryna run away with the girl, just t’keep her safe.”

“And she’s safer here.”

Bronn snorted, “You might be singin’ a different tune if you’d heard what he said to her last night. Might be singin’ a different tune if you’d seen the things he done to her before you got here. But go ahead, pretend you don’t have no concerns.”

Tywin sneered, “I’ve had men thrown in the dungeons for less than you’re saying to me now.”

“I believe it, only I think you know I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ just for the sake of sayin’ it. I mean to warn you that it’ll be infinitely harder for me to keep our asset safe if we’re under the same roof as certain parties.”

The old lion growled then spat, “Fine. There are a number of unused floors in this tower. I’ll have the steward see an apartment set up for you.”

Bronn tipped his head, “Much obliged. Ya got my thanks, m’lord.”

“Save it; I only want your loyalty.”

“Well, ya got that, too,” Bronn smiled. How easy it is to lie to horrible people. Fun, too.

“Perhaps,” the man spoke flatly, “Time will tell. I understand you have an arrangement with my son: if ever someone tries to buy your loyalty away from him, you’re to give him the chance to beat the offer.”

“You want me to give you my word to do the same?”

The man gave a smile that did not meet his eyes, and clearly wasn’t meant to, “Not quite. I’d rather not set myself up to be extorted every time you’re stricken by a bout of greed. No, I won’t give you a raise every time someone tries to use you to betray me. Consider the continued possession of your head reward enough. If you should ever betray me, you will regret it for every remaining, excruciating day of your life… of which there will be many before I tire of toying with my prey.”

Bronn forced himself to give a smile, “Well, I s’pose that’s one way to pay a debt.”

“Indeed. And it’s a debt I will pay to your wife and any children you have by then, too.” He jerked his chin toward the door behind Bronn, “You may go.”

He did, after taking a moment to let the man’s parting words settle in, and realizing that there was no lie in them, nor even exaggeration.

It wasn’t a pleasant realization, but nor did Bronn let it rattle him. The old lion wasn’t going to live forever, and anyone with half a brain could see that whatever legacy he meant to leave behind was nothing but a fantasy. That family would be ripping each other to shreds within weeks of the lion’s demise, if the rest of the realm didn’t do them the favor.

And Bronn was sure that anything that was bad for the lions was good for the wolves.

And he’d just gotten himself a wolf.

He smiled to himself as he returned to Maegor’s to share the good news with his bride that they wouldn’t spend another night under the same roof as her tormentor. The old lion might be a walking shiver, but he wouldn’t touch a hair on Sansa’s head unless she damned well deserved it.

His smile widened. Might be she’d be so grateful to her new husband that she wouldn’t balk at him holding those pretty little feet up to his shoulders while he finally let Lil Bronn have his moment.

(It wouldn't be a very long moment, but Lil Bronn could always rally for a second sortie.)

“Fool. Over my dead body will he rule the North, but I suppose he’ll keep the girl out of Tyrell hands for now.”

[Whistles innocently]

Chapter Text

Bronn

Bronn was not a man accustomed to rushing, made it harder to look like he didn’t care, but he had to continually command his legs not to run back to Maegor’s from the Tower of the Hand. He realized only when he left the old lion’s presence that the cunty little lion might’ve taken advantage of Bronn’s absence to toy with his favorite prey.

But when he swung in the door to the receiving room he realized the king would’ve had his hands full.

“You need to talk to him!” the dark-haired whore spat, her eyes backlit by fury, her tiny hands curled into fists.

Bronn looked around, “Who’s him? And where’s the girl?”

“The girl?” Shae raised her brows, “She is your wife, and you call her ‘the girl’?”

“Fine,” he growled, “Where is my dear lady wife?”

“I know you two schemed something,” Shae’s eyes narrowed, then she unceremoniously lifted her skirt and pulled a tiny dagger from a band around her thigh, “I hope you know how close you came to being unmanned…”

Bronn held his hands up. He wasn’t really afraid, because he knew he could disarm her easily, but he knew that it only pissed women off to realize they weren’t capable of killing him, should the spirit move them to.

“…I asked my lady if you hurt her, and she said quite the opp—”

In one quick move he had one hand around the wrist that held the dagger, the other pressed to her mouth, “Would ya keep it down? Ow!” he released her mouth so he could grasp his shin. Bitch got him hard, right on the bone.

But all she did was scoff and yank back her hand until he released it. She put the dagger back in its home (lucky bugger) and sighed, “But she told me that I’m the only one who can know how… generous you’ve been.”

Bronn smirked, “Generous, huh?”

Shae rolled her eyes, “But I also know that, of all the greasy-haired sellswords—”

“Hey!”

“…in this foul city, the king didn’t pick you by random. It was him, wasn’t it?”

She was smart enough not to name ‘him’, and smart enough to know to look for the answer in Bronn’s eyes instead of on his tongue. He felt a touch guilty, though wasn’t sure why, when her face dropped.

“This is why he told me to leave,” she said, voice as sad as a wet kitten’s mewl.

“What?”

In an instant, her fury was back, “As if he can order me around! I won’t leave the continent just because some man tells me to. But it seemed far too coincidental that Lady Sansa made an honest man out of you—”

“Ha, ha.”

“—and the next day he tried to throw me away like an old sock.”

Bronn didn’t know anything about that, so he just shrugged.

Shae lifted her chin, “But it makes sense, now.”

And he knew she was smart enough to put it all together. Tyrion played matchmaker with Bronn and Sansa so his father wouldn’t do the same with him and Sansa, then realized that Shae would be the one to suffer the lion’s wrath should the truth ever out.

(Though, Bronn supposed he wouldn’t be left unscathed, either. He took some shallow comfort in knowing that he and Shae would have each other’s company in the dungeons.)

She let out a deep breath as she began walking toward the door, “She’s with the Tyrell ladies in the garden. I’d have gone with her but she wanted me to stay here to tell you her whereabouts so you wouldn’t worry. Poor thing. I feel sorry for her if she thinks she’s lucked out to have you.”

“Could say the same of you,” he responded wryly.

“Except he’s rich.”

“I’ll tell him you said so.”

“Good,” she jutted her chin, “Tell him I’m a greedy woman, and that I refuse to deprive myself of his gold. I don’t want a bag’s worth, I want a lifetime supply.”

Bronn smiled faintly, “I will. But you know he ain’t wrong, dontcha? You stay here and your lifetime supply might not be all that much.”

“I don’t run like some coward.”

“Ain’t cowardly, it’s smart.”

“Well, then I don’t run like some… smart person.”

Bronn snorted, “I see that.”

She rolled her eyes and finished her walk to the door, turning to face him as he did the same, “You better stay generous. It’d be a shame to waste a perfectly good cock,” she patted the thigh on which her dagger was nestled.

“She said it was perfect, huh?” he grinned.

She rolled her eyes again, “She’s got nothing to compare it to.”

With that, Tyrion’s lover was gone.

And so was his wife, still.

Which meant Bronn was alone.

He ran to the bedroom already unlacing the tie in his waistband, and he swore that Lil Bron had his own lil heart because it was pulsing like a drum. He grabbed one of Sansa’s handkerchiefs – he’d ask for forgiveness later – and gave himself four good pumps before there was knocking on the far door.

“Fuck!” he growled. He stopped pumping but refused to call out to whoever his visitor was.

Until they knocked two more times.

“Just a bloody minute,” he called out while wrangling Lil Bronn back into his linen cage, tying the drawstring like it was a pair of bloody manacles. “I know,” he tried to soothe his angry cock, though it was largely ineffective. He marched to the door and ripped it open, only to find Podrick fucking Payne about to knock again. The kid jumped back a step and it took him a few moments to lower his knocking fist and hold up the other, which was clutched around a cloth bag that jingled as it moved. Bronn grabbed it, not recognizing the man who felt disappointed to be holding a bag heavy with silver instead of a cock heavy with blood, only knowing he was a horny old fucker.

“That it?” he asked.

“Why was Shae—” Pod began asking.

Bronn closed the door in the kid’s face and returned to the bedroom, Lil Bronn – who’d gone half-limp upon seeing Pod’s pimpled face – rallying like a champ. But first Bronn figured he should find a hiding spot for his coins, then he felt panicky that all the rest of his money was still hidden in his old chambers. He had to assume the Hand or the queen had the place searched for any sign that Bronn was working for any of their enemies – namely, anyone not named ‘Lannister’. He hoped whoever did the search had the decency to not make off with any of his hard-earned money, but since he knew the amount down to the halfpenny, he’d have Tyrion reimburse him if it came to that. Actually, he might have Tyrion reimburse him even if every last coin was accounted for.

He began feeling around the wall for a loose stone when he remembered that he’d be moving out of this room – hopefully by the end of the day. So, he settled for the chest that held his few earthly possessions that weren’t made of metal, burying the coins in the folds of one of his tunics, then sliding the chest back under the bed and throwing himself atop it. With a smile, he repeated the process of untying himself, so pleased with his turn of luck that he was tempted to draw out the experience, especially since a garden luncheon with the ladies Tyrell couldn’t possibly be a quick affair, but Lil Bronn convinced him otherwise. At the way things had been going since last night, he might have only the slimmest window of opportunity before the next inter—

[Knock, knock knock].

“Alright, what the fuck?” Bronn asked aloud – feeling more disbelief than frustration this time. Had he been cursed? Was this the price to pay for having a bride the caliber of Sansa fucking Stark? Had he, in some past life, made a deal with some sorcerer that in his next life he’d be given the most desirable woman in all the known realm (not to mention wicked sword skills, a nice long dick, and a good chunk of Tyrion Lannister’s gold) if only he’d give up every future orgasm he might’ve ever had?

Because, if so, he was going to find that sorcerer and shove Slim Sally where the sun don’t shine.

With an annoyed huff, and once again laced-up trousers, he walked to the other room and opened the door. A lad was standing there, with another hanging back by to the opposite wall. The closer one bowed quickly then said, “Lord Lannister’s steward says your new chambers are ready, Lord Stark. We’re to help you move your belongings, if it please you.”

Pretty bride… bag of silver… Lord Stark… pair of servants to do my bidding… Why is it so tempting to trade it all for five damned minutes to myself!?

That’s Lil Bronn talking, the horny fucker. Don’t listen to him.

Alright, I won’t. But he’s not wrong…

…

All their possessions had been moved to their new apartment by himself and the lads and Bronn was just sitting down on the edge of the mattress in the old apartment they’d had for all of one night and one day, wondering whether he’d have enough time to finish what he’d started thrice since this morning, when he heard the main door open, and his little wife call out, “Bronn?!” a few moments later.

He hurried out to the receiving room, “Our stuff ain’t been stolen. We’re movin’ in with the Old Lion.”

She looked horrified.

“I mean, not into his apartments – I’d sooner rent a house in one o’ the seven hells – I mean into the Tower of the Hand.”

It took her a moment to summon the pleased expression he’d been expecting from the outset, and then she was beaming at him, “You mean… we won’t be living in the same building as…?”

“Nope,” Bronn grinned back, and a moment later he was catching a little red bird that came flying at him. Girl was tall for her age, even if slim, so the force of it sent him back into the doorframe. He didn’t complain, just hugged her back, his chest filled with that pesky prideful feeling that usually came only after he killed some cunt or earned himself a nice bit of coin.

“Did you ask him to do that, for me? Oh, that was so good of you!” she squeezed him tighter.

Bronn shrugged and tried to make his lips straighten but it wasn’t working. At least she wasn’t seeing his expression, her face buried in his neck as it was, because he was sure he looked like a pig in shit.

He cleared his throat of anything that might sound like gladness or pride, “Anyway, we can head over there right now if you want.”

She pulled back to look up at him, “You waited to escort me there yourself instead of just leaving word with a servant?”

He shrugged again, “Ain’t a big deal.”

Her lips on his said she disagreed. Hungry little birdy was trying to eat him alive, starting with his lips and tongue, and he wondered if there could be a sweeter death.

“Husband?” she asked as she pulled away again.

“Hmm?” he asked as he followed her lips. He never made it there before hers were talking again.

“You know… that thing you did… this morning?”

He could hardly remember what day it was, nor what time; all blood had drained from his head down to his cock, and he only had a vague notion that he’d done a lot today.

He gave a noncommittal grunt and dove back in only to be pushed away by his wife, who was apparently in league with that sorcerer who had put a curse on Bronn’s favorite body part. Oh, she was gonna get it, too – only it wouldn’t be Slim Sally going where the sun don’t shine, but Big Bronn (his cock was due for a promotion, he decided).

“It… eh…” she blushed furiously on top of her already flushed face, “it involved… your… mouth,” she averted her eyes by the end.

“Oh,” Bronn said, bracing himself to not scream if she asked him to do it again. He’d do it all damned night long, and gladly, but right now Big Bronn needed some fucking contact or he was gonna explode – and not in the fun way. “Yeah, I remember,” he added in a flat voice that he hoped would discourage her from asking him to eat her twat.

“Well… Can’t… I mean… when the king said he’d make me do… something… Is it something that… that I could do to you? Is it something wives do… for their husbands? Or would that be… improper?”

Poor girl was gonna die of humiliation, and Bronn was gonna die of penile engorgement, because fuck me, Sansa Stark is asking if she can suck my cock.

He demurred only twice (and considered it a compliment) before letting Sansa go to her knees, timidly looking up at him as if to make sure he was ready for her mouth to be on his cock.

And some hell was most definitely making up a room for him, but dammit if he didn’t give his teenage bride instructions for sucking his cock while stroking it with her hand. On another occasion he’d teach her the more artistic aspects of a blowjob, most of which involved her tongue, or a spit-coated finger, or her palm on his sack, or both of them being horizontal so he could get off as much from his oral ministrations as hers, but who knew when the next knock would come? So, Bronn gently guided her head even though she pulled away to shoot him a glare and say, “Do not muss my braid” (which, for inexplicable reasons, made his balls pull up so tight he had to use his free hand to push righty down). All told, it hadn’t lasted that long, nor been anything compared to what a seasoned whore could do, and yet the pleasure that shot through him was almost painful in its intensity. A bloody lovely pain, that had him reaching for the bedpost and going cross-eyed and saying things he’d regret later. He might’ve told Sansa that his cock was hers, just like the rest of him, or that she was the prettiest little thing he’d ever seen, or that as soon as they were in their new digs he was going to lick that pretty little pussy all night so her screams would keep that grumpy old lion from his beauty sleep, cause the bastard deserved as much.

He ended up collapsing on the mattress, balls out and ready to sleep for an eternity.

He didn’t even get a minute before his wife was hovering over him, all, “Husband? Can’t you wait to nap until we’re in our new apartment?”

He opened one eye to glare at her, “No,” then closed the eye.

“Was that… stuff… your seed?”

He grunted, “What else would it be?”

“Was I supposed to spit it out?”

“No.” Fuck me, all seven of the hells are making a place for me.

“And what I did… it was alright?”

“If it weren’t, the seed wouldn’t have come. Now let a man rest!” he barked without opening his eyes.

She was quiet for a few moments, then he felt her lift and drop his cock, the poor tuckered out thing, “It isn’t horrible to look at when it’s erect, but this is… rather frightening. Like some subterranean monster that has a mouth but no eyes. Is it supposed to have so much extra skin? Is that just because you’re old?”

Bronn opened his eyes, and sighed at the canopy, “Thanks.”

“Oh! I mean… well… it’s just that I’ve seen an old woman’s belly compared to a young woman’s belly… Same for a lady’s bosom.”

“I’m not old!” he defended whinily.

“Well… I suppose I just meant… Oh never mind!”

Bronn sat up and began shimmying his pants up his thighs, “And yes, this is what they all look like. ‘Cept some ain’t even half the length of this one, so you might want to show some respect, else this one-eyed monster is gonna get ya.”

She pursed her lips together, “I didn’t mean to offend.”

At first he thought she looked ashamed, then he realized she was trying to hold in a fit of the giggles.

“Oi, you think this is funny, do ya?”

She shook her head and pressed her lips together so hard the skin around them went white.

“That’s it!” he grabbed her by the waist and twisted until she was underneath him, then began tickling.

After realizing she could not escape him, nor talk him into releasing her, she tickled him back. Her nails got him a few times, but he kinda liked it. Kinda liked how tickling turned into caressing and laughing turned into kissing.

And next thing he knew he was rucking up her skirts and she was unlacing his trousers and Big Bronn was, as always, ready for the second sortie. Rubbing his tip between her folds he found her as wet and slick as a puddle of lamp oil. All from sucking my dick. Fuck, this is a dream I’m gonna wake from, ain’t it?

He forgot to be gentle, but it wasn’t his fault she was so slippery that he slid in to the hilt on the first try! A quiet hiss and her nails sunk into the skin on the back of his ribs reminded him he wasn’t with a whore. He gave her an apologetic smile and kept his hips still, “Sorry. Guess… guess you’re still more maiden than not.”

She shook her head, putting on a brave face, “It isn’t too horrible.”

He snorted. That Sansa didn’t hear the way her words sounded was a better testimony to her innocence than her constant blushing and tight quim. Bronn lowered himself to his elbows, hovering close, “Better?”

She nodded, though her eyes still looked furtive, as if she feared the inevitable moment his hips would move. He knew anticipation was worse than the thing itself (or better, in some contexts), so he moved ever so gently, a rocking motion more than a game of hide-the-sausage. Well, his sausage was already hidden, but he figured pulling it out and sliding it in again was too much for her yet. So he just rolled his hips, gently as one would handle a baby bunny, and only belated realized his left hand’s thumb was smoothing the hair at her temple.

“Can I…” she trailed off.

“What, darlin’?” he moved the thumb to her cheekbone. Wasn’t sure why.

“Am I allowed to move? I mean, to reposition myself, or…?”

His heart did a cartwheel thinking she wanted to roll to her belly, arse high and white and proud, but after he told her to move however she wanted and that she never needed to ask him, all she did was lift her legs and twine them around his hips.

He’d never told anyone, and hadn’t even thought on it too closely, but Bronn had always loved the feeling of a woman’s legs wrapped around him. He supposed it made him feel welcome in her cunny. But when Sansa Stark’s long legs didn’t just drape over the back of his thighs but cross calf over shin, caging him in place, he almost nutted – instead settling for burying his teeth into the meat of his right hand.

“Oh! This is much better,” his wife peeped.

He was done for.

He abandoned gentle; forgot the meaning of the word. He pulled back as far as her legs allowed and pushed forward again.

And again.

And again.

Each time he realized her legs were relaxing to allow his retreat, then flexing to pull him forward again.

His shy little wife who’d been beaten down so hard and for so long was making him dick the daylights out of her. Might as well put a bit in his mouth and a whip in her hand, woulda been the same difference.

Some whores were better than others at making a man forget the transactional nature of the encounter, but never could Bronn lose himself in the fantasy that he was being used like some stud, a sex slave to some beauty in Lys or Meereen. But now? With no coins being passed from his hand to hers, he felt positively wild with the notion that Lady Sansa Stark was using him for her pleasure.

(He’d gladly wear nothing but a collar and a loin cloth so long as his mistress kept treating him this way.)

(And would it be weird to give her a riding crop to use exclusively in the bedchamber?)

“What d’ya need, girl?” he croaked out through his own overwhelming pleasure as he realized his musings had him close to winning the race.

Part of him wanted to hear her say ‘harder’, but she only panted, “It’s… it’s good but… not enough.”

Seemed like her polite way of ordering him to go faster, but then he realized that, by the way her legs were really pulling him tight against her, it was a different type of stimulation she needed.

He pushed up to sit on his heels, chuckling silently when her legs barely released him enough for that. Pulling his hips back ever so slightly, he made room for his thumb to land on her nub, not quite dead center but slightly to the right. He’d noticed she responded better to his tongue on that side, and marveled at how such a tiny little thing as a lady’s nub could be so damned picky. Still, as soon as his thumb found the right pressure and speed he was rewarded with the sight of Sansa’s eyes going wide as her jaw fell slack. He might be serving her like a slave, but she seemed to think he had some god-like powers for the amount of awe he found in her pleasure-stricken mien.

“OH!” she sighed in the sort of deep and airy way that Bronn might moan when taking a much-needed piss. She went boneless for a moment, then curled herself up to take in the same view Bronn was presently enjoying. It meant the loss of her legs ‘round his hips but also meant her legs spreading open as she used a hand on the back of each knee to pull herself forward. Limber young thing was bent nearly in half, and the sight sent a pulse of warmth through Bronn’s dick up into his belly. She was watching him fuck her with all the concentration of a baby seeing a duck for the first time.

Though it was helping him stave off his release, the room felt hotter than the seventh hell, so Bronn grabbed the back collar of his shirt and yanked it off. He returned his thump to her nub because he wasn’t going to last much longer. Not when Big Bronn looked like he’d been churning butter, what with all the cream coating him.

“Fuck,” he growled. He’d always been effusive when busting a nut – as evidenced by not even an hour ago when he’d all but made a love confession to his wife of one whole day – and there was no holding back the words that wanted to vacate him with the same urgency as his seed. “You gonna get off on my dick? Hm? Look at that hungry lil snatch, tryna eat me alive. I got somethin’ for ya, you greedy thing you…” his thumb worked faster as his belly began clenching, those low muscles spasming so tight he thought he might strain them. But when he looked up and found Sansa’s face was no longer on her husband’s cock as it stuffed her to the brim, but on those low muscles contracting of their own volition, Bronn was catapulted straight up to the apex of the mountain. Or maybe it was the sound his wife made when she reached the summit moments before him, even though she smothered it with both hands.

Whatever it was, it wrecked him.

He pulled out with not a heartbeat to spare and wanked off with his tip pressed against her nub so he wouldn’t ruin her climax more than he already had by pulling out right when her inner muscles had started scrabbling on his cock. Hot seed spewed out in little waves against her pink skin. Lovely as the sight was, he mourned the waste of his perfectly good seed in a way he never had with a whore. Still, no matter what he said to Tywin Lannister, he wouldn’t be forcing the girl to bear children so young. Bad enough everything else she’d endured to-date, including her swordpoint wedding to a ruffian like him.

Only when it started to tickle, he stopped moving and let go of his prick, huffing and puffing as he let his weight droop while still keeping his arse on his heels.

Forcing his breaths to come slow and deep, his eyes drifted to the mess that was his wife’s ordinarily neat and prim cunt. Her nub was still swollen, as were her inner lips. More red than pink, the skin was slick and slimy, her auburn curls wet and matted. And in the midst of it all, her seam was coated in his viscous spend, a small trickle of it on a slow journey down to her cute-as-a-button arsehole.

As if she could read his mind (or see the lascivious thoughts through his eyes), his wife sighed. He looked up in time to catch her giving him a disappointed frown, “You were supposed to put it on my belly.”

He shrugged drowsily, “Next time. By the time we get to our new digs and I get some food in me belly, Big Bronn’ll be raring to go again.”

“Big Bronn?” she lifted a brow, “He was Little Bronn yesterday.”

He shrugged again, “Thought Big Bronn was a better fit.”

In all earnestness she said, “I don’t think it’s that big or else it would have hurt more, no?”

Bronn sighed deeply, “Girl, you’re lucky I ain’t sensitive.”

“Oh!” she blushed, “Well, of course it hurt some… and I’m certain it isn’t little…”

Bronn rolled his eyes and decided to not listen to his wife’s attempts at flattery.

Chapter Text

Sansa

She couldn’t stop trembling, and she resented Joffrey and his Lannister kin for a whole new reason.

She should be mourning her mother and brother.

Instead, she couldn’t stop fretting over what their deaths meant for her. The last Stark. The only living person with a claim on Winterfell and the continent’s largest kingdom. All that was left of an 8,000-year-old bloodline.

With three brothers she’d never expected the preservation of her family’s legacy, a legacy that was tightly woven into virtually every aspect of the North’s history, would fall to her. The least Northron of her siblings.

The least brave.

The least clever.

The least wolfish.

The blood in her veins suddenly felt like a burden, a duty, for which she was ill-equipped.

She felt like a failure.

Because what could she do, to protect that blood, should Joffrey realize how easily he could commit the ultimate act of cruelty toward the Stark family he hated so? All he’d have to do is spill her blood on the throne room floor, and the ‘Stark’ name would never be said in Westeros again except in the past tense – and only then for a few generations until little children would think the Kings of Winter were creations of fairy tales.

At once she felt like the key to her house’s preservation and the key to its annihilation.

Even she wasn’t naïve enough to think that Joffrey would let her be the former instead of the latter.

“They’re going to kill me,” she whispered to her husband. He was lying in bed with her – or rather, on the bed with her. Her maid had helped her into a nightgown hours ago, back when Sansa knew only shock and grief, but her husband had never taken off his clothing, including his leather armor. It couldn’t be comfortable, but she knew he would not leave himself vulnerable after the news shared today.

Who am I kidding? He is vulnerable. One man versus however many Joffrey or his mother or grandfather send. Or perhaps the Tyrells will think I’m worth the risk now – unlike Joffrey they have no personal motive to end House Stark if they could instead profit from its continuation – but only if they can be rid of my husband to make room for Willas by my side.

I have doomed him.

Must be a Stark curse that I passed to him the moment I gave him my maiden’s gift.

“I won’t let them,” he whispered back, his arm tightening around her, his strong fingers digging into her shoulder in a way that was as painful as it was reassuring.

“Or they’re going to kill you so one of them can claim the North through me.”

“Won’t let ‘em do that, either.”

“They’ll outnumber you.”

“Might be a fair fight then.”

She couldn’t find it in her to be amused, “They’ll be ruthless.”

“I’ll fight dirty.”

She knew he’d have a response for every piece of logic she presented, so she sighed instead, “If it’s me they come for, don’t fight. No sense in both of us dying.”

Bronn hummed into her hair, a feeling she’d come to cherish, “I knew I’d grown on you.”

She smiled even though her eyes were filled with tears and her heart was filled with dread, “No. I just don’t want to give them double the satisfaction. Besides, I plan to yell at the top of my lungs, for the whole city to hear, that Joffrey is a moron and Cersei is getting fat. You need to live so you can see the looks on their faces.”

“Fine, only so I can tell you about it in the afterlife.”

She took a deep breath, “You think we’re going to the same place?”

“Ouch.”

“I meant because you believe in the Seven, and I worship the Old Gods.”

“Do I have time to convert?”

She smiled sadly, “The Old Gods don’t have ears this far south. And if they do, then they don’t have hearts.”

“Sansa…”

She let out a delirious bit of laughter, “Or maybe they just have a strange sense of humor. I’ve prayed so many times to be returned to Winterfell. Perhaps my bones will be on their way there this time tomorrow.”

“Don’t talk like that, Sansa.”

“You have such a dark sense of humor, husband; could you really be so disturbed by mine?”

Bronn took a deep breath, in and out, through his nose, “Like it when you’re bright and sweet. Let me be the dark one, hm?”

She nodded, “If we live to see the dawn, I will.”

She didn’t remember falling asleep, only knew she hadn’t meant to, but when she woke, the room was filled with sunshine, and her husband was sitting in the armchair, eyes drooping as they watched her enjoy what he’d denied himself all night.

Sansa rose and approached him, then took his hand and led him back to their bed. “Go to sleep,” she spoke softly, and for a moment she heard her mother’s voice in her own. She cleared her throat and smiled, “I promise to wake you if anyone comes to kill us.”

Bronn let out a breathy chuckle, pressed a kiss to her forehead, then let himself fall onto the bed, asleep before he hit the mattress.

<<<<<>>>>> 

Sansa stood in their bedchamber, watching her husband splash cold water on his face and neck, mumbling all the while as the last of his rage seemed to ebb out of him through his muttered words.

She knew she should feel deliriously happy about what happened today, or terrified about what may come on the morrow if Lord Lannister couldn’t make his daughter see sense, but she only felt a tremendous swell of something like love as she watched Bronn now, and as she recalled the way he’d looked earlier.

Her husband was a man prone to making wry jokes and plastering on a dangerous smile in response to someone belittling him or insulting him. Offense was answered with a sharp quip rather than a heavy fist. Even in the training yard it seemed his insults were more wounding than his blows, which was saying something because her husband was quite impressive with his sword (which she’d never tell him again – he hadn’t let her live that down for a fortnight).

Yet this afternoon, after Joffrey breathed his last breath (well, technically he hadn’t been breathing for some time already), and three Kingsguard approached to take Sansa into custody in accordance with the queen’s screeched orders, Bronn did not look like anything but the deadliest of warriors. As fatal as the noose, as solemn as the hangman. He’d practically thrown Sansa into the arms of Lord Tyrion’s squire, the shy Podrick Payne, and drawn both Lucy and Sally. She couldn’t see Bronn’s face from her vantage point except in partial profile, as his head was half-turned toward the guard he seemed to view as the greatest threat. The corner of his mouth wasn’t curved upward, nor were his lips twitching in amusement. His eye wasn’t crinkled at the corner. But it wasn’t his visage but his voice that sent a shiver down her spine.

“Take one more step, I’ll fuckin’ kill ya.”

It hadn’t sounded boastful or even angry. It was not posturing, Sansa knew, but a statement of fact.

And somehow, all three men knew it, too. Perhaps to appear in compliance with the queen’s orders, they didn’t retreat or sheath their weapons, but nor did they make any indication of an advance.

It was Ser Jaime who broke the tense moment, appearing long enough to tell his fellow white cloaks to stand down, unless they wanted to die of a potent mixture of shame and blood loss. His eyes passed briefly over Sansa as he told Bronn to bring her to the Tower. Then the Kingslayer was hurrying back to his sister’s side, helping to pry her sobbing body away from Joffrey’s motionless one. The queen turned, slapped his face, then threw herself into his arms. Bronn turned, grabbed Sansa by the arm, and led her back to their apartment without a word. He stepped into the bedchamber, barred the door, and headed straight for the basin of water, obviously trying to cool his temper by cooling his skin.

She watched as he patted himself half-heartedly with a drying cloth that he threw down roughly before closing the space between them. With barely a hand’s width between them, he asked in a whisper, “Did you?”

She shook her head slowly, regretfully, shamefully. She wasn’t mad at him for wondering, only mad that she couldn’t nod. She’d like to take credit for this most glorious deed; maybe Bronn would be proud of her. Maybe all her family would see her and be proud, too.

She heard his sigh of relief then, and his eyes closed for only a moment before opening and looking at hers, curious-like. It wasn’t often she’d look as she did then unless it was after receiving his kisses (or giving him hers), but she knew he’d recognize it.

Hunger.

Want.

Need.

“Fuck,” he muttered, then his lips crashed against hers.

From the outset they were both panting more than kissing. His blood was still up from facing the knights who tried to capture his wife; her blood was still up from watching him face them.

Brave. Gentle. Strong. Don’t you see, Father? I found the man you meant for me. Though he’s also got a sense of humor I doubt you’d appreciate, no more than you’d appreciate the things he can do with his fingers, his tongue, his…

“Bronn,” she breathed, “please.” After months of marriage, it was the closest she could come to telling him she was ready, only it normally came after many minutes of kisses and caresses.

His response was two-fold: his throat growled and his hands lifted. To aid the latter she jumped at the same moment, wrapped her legs around his hips as best she could in her skirts, and held on tight while he walked them to the narrow table that was purely decorative, set against the wall between the two windows. The bronze vase was knocked to the ground – probably dented – to make room for her arse. Bronn rested her on the tabletop, which was conveniently groin-height for him, while his hands rummaged through what felt like infinite layers of skirts until he found her smallclothes, which he promptly untied and ripped away. She took the opportunity to return the favor, untying his breeches and smallclothes and giving Lil’ Bronn (she refused to swell her husband’s already swelled head by calling it Big Bronn) a squeeze before letting the fabric fall down Bronn’s narrow hips. Her hand grasped his newly bared length, found it as hot as always and slightly damp from his sweat. She loved how she could wrap her long fingers around it and squeeze so hard. She loved to move the silky skin up and down the hard rod it enveloped. She loved to ghost her fingers over the tip, or down the ridge that ran along the underside, or even his hair-covered bollocks. Bronn’s entire body would twitch when she offered those feather-light touches, and the thing that already seemed impossibly hard only got harder.

She had no real basis for comparison, but she thought her husband had nothing to be ashamed of in terms of his… manhood. It was as long and straight as the rest of him, even if also as lean. She didn’t mind the latter; some chubby appendage would just look silly on his lithe frame.

And this was her favorite thing of all: grasping him firmly while he worshipped her with hungry nips and kisses on her neck and breasts and jaw; teasing and stroking until he was all but begging to get inside her; and finally, lining his tip up with her opening and feeling the gradual stretch of his penetration.

Only it was not so gradual today, and nor had she teased him much at all. As soon as his and her unders were out of the way she grabbed that lovely cock, put it right where it belonged, and held it steady while Bronn pushed his way inside her. Today she was very quickly forced to pull her hand away as Bronn entered with one sharp thrust. His palms were already on her hips, fingertips digging into the flesh of her arse, and he was pounding away. She and the table were being bumped into the wall over and over and over and over and over… and she was crying out from the tantalizing pleasure of being tapped so deeply, taken so possessively, wanted so desperately. She cried his name, might’ve even cursed, loudly enough to drown out whatever words he was grunting into her neck, though by now she knew the gist from many previous couplings.

Fuck, I love this cunt.

Gods yer fuckin’ tight; squeezin’ me like a damned vice, arntcha?

Go on darlin’, scream my name.

That’s right, girl; you love this dick, dontcha? Fuck, Big Bronn loves you, too.

Such words usually came out only when both of them were approaching the moment of rapture, or when she’d already found hers and Bronn was following on her heels.

Only, as the volume of his voice raised just enough for her to hear, she realized his words were less vulgar than usual, though almost alarming in their possessiveness...

“Yer mine girl, ya hear? Ain’t no one takin’ my lil’ woman from me. I’m a fuckin’ slave for ya; ya happy now? Nothin’s gettin’ between us. Not some poxy White-Cloak. Not some poxy king. Not that spoiled brat of a queen.”

She wasn’t sure he knew what he was saying or meant to say it. It seemed the fury still poisoning his blood simply needed out, and so she didn’t let herself feel disturbed. She just closed her eyes, head and back leaning against the wall, and enjoyed the feeling of being tickled so deeply.

Until rough fingers grasped her chin, angled her head down.

“Ya heard me?” Bronn asked, his pupils wide, seeing everything.

She nodded.

Without releasing her chin he brought his lips to hers, wet and firm, pressing her head to the wall tightly while his left hand held her thigh up on his hip.

“I need to know…” he grunted. Before she could ask what he needed to know, he was letting out a fluttery breath, the noise she knew to associate with his peaks. For the first time in their marriage, he had finished inside her.

The act seemed to drain him, as he leaned against her. She wrapped her legs around his middle, holding him inside her, and wrapped her arms around his ribs, holding him upright.

“It’s alright,” she whispered in his ear when she felt him become lax in her arms. He had held her together enough times in their relatively short marriage that it was only fair that she return the favor. “It’s alright,” she repeated, as something warm and wet tickled her neck suspiciously close to where her husband’s face was buried.

She understood, instinctively, what it meant. Just as she had when the Hound held a knife to her throat, hovering over her as if he meant to take her, but instead filling her palm with his tears…

Even the strongest, hardest looking men were not infallible.

The flames reduced the Hound to a crying babe. Fire was the only thing he feared, and he had to face it that night, over and over and over until he couldn’t face it again.

And it was the thought of losing me that scared Bronn today. He might’ve faced those men as bravely as the Hound surely fought on the beach, but once alone in my arms, he showed me his weakness.

Me . I’m his weakness.

I wasn’t supposed to be, but I became just that.

But just because I’m his weakness, doesn’t mean I’ll make him weak. It’s the two of us now. The two of us against the world. The man born without a family, and the girl who lost all of hers one-by-one and two-by-two. The gods put us together, and here we are. Still standing, while the lions are beginning to fall. The kingslayer, maimed. The king, dead. The queen mother, hysterical. The dwarf, in chains. The hand, finding it impossible to hold everything together. All while the roses snake their vines around the city and court.

The lions will unravel. The pride will turn against itself.

And we’ll be the ones left standing.

But we can’t just switch from one gaoler to another…

An idea hatched, but her husband still needed soothing.

She cooed, “It’s alright. I’m here. We’re here.”

She moved her hands to his neck, pushing gently until he relented, separating his face from where it’d been hiding in her hair. She held his cheeks and stared into his shimmering eyes until finally they lifted and met her gaze.

She smiled, let him get a good look at it, then brought his forehead down to hers, “We’re going to outlast all of them. As they fall, we’ll rise; yet they won’t know it until they find themselves kneeling at our feet, begging for mercy while cursing their own shortsightedness, because all that time they were fighting the wrong enemy.”

“Fuck,” Bronn cursed, in a tone of voice that said he didn’t like what she was implying, but would go along for the ride, anyway, “Where’s this she-wolf been hiding all this time?”

“Right here. Just didn’t know it until you set her free. Now, husband, I must ask a very important question: was it really you who loosed the flaming arrow that set the entire Blackwater aflame?”

Bronn grumbled, “I took it as my damned sigil, the old lion knighted me for it, and still no one believes me.”

She chuckled, “I do believe you. I was just wondering if you think you can do it again.”

Bronn backed away (though only from the shoulders up) and lifted a brow, “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“It means, how would you like to watch this whole cursed place burn?”

The right side of Bronn’s mouth quirked up, “Darlin’, sometimes I think yer cunt’s only the third most beautiful part of ya.”

It only weakened his point a little that his cock flinched inside her.

Bronn rolled his eyes, “Fine. The second.”

<<<<<>>>>> 

It was important that he not wait for them to summon him. Or rather, his wife. He’d go to them.

It was surprisingly easy for Lord Stark to get some of the queen’s time. He was known to be close to Tyrion and obviously was close to Sansa – the persons Cersei considered to be the main (or only) suspects in the king’s murder. In Tyrion’s case, because he’d touched the king’s wine goblet not long before the king started choking. In Sansa’s case, because the king had made a toast to his guests that singled out Sansa, then forced her to dance with him, then drunkenly bemoaned – right in front of his own bride – how he ought to have reinstated the practice of First Night before Sansa’s wedding to Bronn. By then Bronn had eyes on Tywin Lannister, waiting for the man to put a stop to things. What Bronn had found was pure disgust as grandsire looked upon grandcub, though a moment later the expression was gone and the man was lifting his goblet in a very skimpy and dispassionate toast, “to our king and queen, long may they reign”.

Apparently, Cersei didn’t realize that bringing poison to a wedding and slipping it into a king’s cup required premeditation and thus Tyrion and Sansa being mocked by the king at said wedding was not a viable motive. Bronn hadn’t pointed that out though because, truthfully, both Tyrion and Sansa had plenty of motive prior to the embarrassment the king put them through on what would end up being his last day.

Until he and Sansa spoke late that night, Bronn had thought it likely that Tyrion did kill the little cunt. Or rather, that he gladly would have if not that Joffrey’s actions all afternoon made Tyrion the likely suspect. The little lion was smart enough to know that and to abort his plan.

But he and Sansa had put some pieces together and realized that they could free Tyrion and ensure the queen would never accuse Sansa again… and in doing so, they could aim a flaming arrow at the heap of cow dung that was the royal family and their circle of allies and lickspittles.

Thus, he had a messenger deliver word to the queen mother that he would visit her solar at midday, if she wouldn’t mind sparing an escort, and inviting her lord father to join them. He might as well have written her a letter that read, “I can prove Tyrion killed your brat” for as gracious as the grieving queen was in meeting his requests. He wasn’t entirely surprised that she had him brought over before summoning her father. Either she didn’t want to make the lion wait on the sellsword, or she wanted to have a few minutes to seduce him – the sellsword, that is – without her father there to dampen the mood.

The opportunist in him hated acting oblivious to her flirtations, but he reminded himself he was a married man and that he already didn’t deserve the bride the gods’d given him, so he’d best not act like an ingrate in case the buggers did exist, after all.

Eventually, a queen, a lion, and a knight were sitting together at the former’s table. Surely there was a jape to be made, but Bronn didn’t think that’d be a great way to lead off so he instead started by clearing his throat, “Pardon, yer grace, m’lord. I hope you know I’d not waste your time over trivial matters…”

The lion sneered, “Then don’t waste them over pleasantries, either. What did you have to tell us?”

He made a point of looking around the room, at the walls, specifically, “Can we speak freely here?”

The queen became even more alert than she’d been, her red-rimmed eyes clear and focused and hawk-sharp. The lion’s only narrowed on Bronn, “Freely enough, assuming you know to keep your voice down.”

Bronn nodded, “That I do. Anyway, I hemmed and hawed over comin’ here, knowin’ ya got no reason to believe a word out me mouth, but I can’t let one person get away with a crime while another takes the fall for it.”

The queen’s lip curled, “I knew it! So loyal to my wretched little brother that you’d come and lie for him, hm? Or is it because you’ve grown fond of Sansa Stark’s—”

“Cersei. Hear him out.”

The queen scoffed loudly and looked away, deliberately pointing her eyes toward the window as if Bronn would feel bereft, but she did not speak another word.

“First off, I like my neck more than I like your son,” Bronn directed at the lion, “Even more than I like Sansa Stark’s…” he shrugged, searching for the proper way of alluding to a lady’s cunt but ended up saying, “you get the idea. So this ain’t me stickin’ my neck out for either a’them. I’ll speak my piece and leave it up to you what to do with the information.”

The lion didn’t nod but uttered, “Go on.”

And with a deep breath, he did. Told them how, during the wedding breakfast, Lady Tyrell told him that she admired self-made men. Told him that, should he ever find the city not to his liking, dangerous place that it was, he and his bride would be welcome at Highgarden. Her grandson would receive “House Stark” with friendship.

That got the queen’s attention, but she pursed her lips as if afraid to too quickly buy Bronn’s tale only to later look the fool.

“You asked me to gain the girl’s trust, m’lord,” he directed at the old lion, “Well I did. So much so that a couple months back she confided somethin’ t’me. The ladies Tyrell invited her for tea in the gardens only to all but interrogate her about the king – the late king’s – character. They asked if it were true his grace used to abuse her—”

“My son would never—”

“Silence!” the word came out the old lion’s mouth faster and sharper than a dog bite. The queen petulantly faced the windows again.

“As I was sayin’. They asked if it were true that the smallfolk hated him, that he was cruel. They asked if she knew whether her father had ever had any proof that he was a… you know. Sansa told ‘em the king was just, kind, and stern but fair, and that her father’s words were… I forget… Somethin’ about a fever he had ‘cause his leg was hurt?” Bronn shrugged his shoulders and his face, “Neither here nor there. Point is, I know that girl told me true ‘cause she can’t lie to save her life. But I also know that means that…”

“That the ladies Tyrell wouldn’t have believed her,” the old lion supplied in a voice that almost sounded mournful. Could it be he’d really have preferred to think his son had been the culprit? Tyrion had said his father hated him, but blood was still blood.

Wasn’t it?

“Wish that were all,” Bronn sighed, “But there’s also… this…” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out the handkerchief-wrapped surprise. He carefully uncovered it and laid it on the table in front of him, right next to the wine he hadn’t sipped. Shame, that; the queen stocked with the good stuff.

The old lion studied the plum-colored stones webbed together by silk thread then lifted his eyes to Bronn. The queen glanced at the object, frowned, and then turned back toward the window.

“Lady Sansa was given it by this lout of a knight. Looks and smells like a barrel on legs. Ser Dontos. He owed her a favor, she said. She once stopped the king from drowning him – literally – in wine. But shortly after our marriage, the drunken fool accosted her in the Godswood, offered to help her escape. Sansa thought the man was tryna lure her away somewhere he could have his way with her. I thought the same and went out lookin’ for the cunt, only couldn’t find him. Couple weeks later she saw him again. Less drunk this time. Said he wouldn’t hurt her. Was sorry he scared her. Said he wouldn’t take her anywhere. Gave her that there hairnet. She tried to refuse but he said he’d be honored if she kept it and wore it. It was the last of the Hollard family jewels, and since he never planned to have daughters he wanted to see it on someone worthy. Oh – mind you, I didn’t hear about her second visit with this knight until after the… the king’s passing.”

“He didn’t pass, he was murdered! By that disgusting cretin I have the misfortune of sharing a name with. The one you think you can somehow defend with this story of drunken knights and hairnets!”

Bronn shook his head slowly, as if shamed, “The reason the girl told me about her second meeting with the knight was because, after the king was murdered, she noticed a stone was missing from the hairnet. Right in the place where, earlier that day, Lady Olenna had touched it. She was so upset, thinking she hadn’t properly taken care of the gift that poor sad sack’d given her. And as she stood there, running her fingers over the stones while confessing the whole damned story to me, another stone came loose. Dropped right to the ground. And another. And another. I picked one up and squeezed it ‘tween me thumb and finger. It turned to… Well, a sort of dust made out a’ tiny crystals. Like salt, only purple.”

He demonstrated again, and nearly grinned at the two sets of entranced green eyes. The lion dragged the handkerchief over to his side of the table. The queen’s eyes followed the movement, then snapped back to Bronn and narrowed, “Or you’re lying. Trying to incriminate the Tyrells so your wife would be acquitted.”

“Acquitted? I didn’t know she’d been charged. Oh, and where the fuck would Sansa Stark get a deadly poison turned into tiny jewels? Moreover, with what gold would she pay for such a thing?”

The queen’s cheeks flushed, “Then she had a co-conspirator. Perhaps that twisted imp rotting in the dungeons as we speak.”

“Right. I’m sure she’d trust a Lannister – meanin’ no offense – to be her partner in a crime of regicide,” Bronn rolled his eyes.

“How dare you look at me like—”

“Cersei, enough,” the old lion spoke in a weary voice, “Sansa Stark didn’t do this. And if she did, she certainly would have thrown away the hairnet afterward, or do you think the girl’s smart enough to carry out an assassination but also so daft that she’d hold onto the murder weapon even after you accused her in front of all of court. The thing would’ve been down the privy three nights ago. Actually, it’d have been tossed into a hedge while everyone was distracted by the commotion.”

The petulant child look returned to the queen’s face, but before Bronn’s very eyes it shifted… became a certain understanding…

“It wasn’t Sansa Stark in league with my brother… It was that Tyrell bitch! We honored her by offering her the chance to be queen even after she and her entire craven family supported Renly Baratheon. In repayment, she—”

“We shall talk on it more privily,” the old lion interrupted, then he flicked his eyes to Bronn, “You’ll speak to no one about this…”

“Told ya, I like my head right where it is.”

“…And make sure your wife knows to do the same. And don’t even think about leaving the Red Keep. Not to buy your wife a gift. Not to visit a brothel. Not to stretch your fucking legs.”

Bronn nodded, “Understood.”

“Out,” the lion jerked his head toward the door.

Bronn got out as quick as he could, subtly biting his lower lip to keep from grinning. Tyrion would be released and acquitted, and the little shit would have Sansa and Bronn to thank. Bronn planned to collect that debt with haste by demanding Tyrion help them get out of the city, one way or another. Maybe there was a castle whose poor lord had died in the war. Ideally one already employing a capable steward so Bronn could put his feet up for a change.

It had seemed like a fine plan until days went by one by one by one, then an entire sennight, with Tyrion still in the cells and the Tyrells still walking around freely. Maybe the queen and the hand were biding their time, assembling some evidence, but… but something didn’t feel right. Maybe it was the way the lion hadn’t asked Bronn to swear to a formal statement, or to bring Sansa to do the same. Maybe it was because Bronn saw no evidence of a manhunt for this Dontos fella.

Or maybe it was the way the lion looked as stoic as ever, and the queen one fraught nerve away from exploding like Stannis Baratheon’s ships had.  

And then… the date of Tyrion’s trial was announced.

And Bronn knew then that Tywin Lannister wanted to be rid of his son almost as much as he didn’t want war with the Reach.

And Bronn realized that only one of them was biding time: the queen. And when that wildfire caught, he didn’t want to be anywhere near it.

Carefully, quietly, he and Sansa began plotting their escape and stashing away what they’d need on the run.

Because Bronn knew how these things worked. He and Sansa possessed a truth that Tywin Lannister wanted buried.

Six feet down, ideally.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

I should feel something.

Guilt, or pride. Fear or joy. Something. Anything.

Tyrion’s body seemed to float down the stairs of the Tower – a first for him, since his too-short and slightly bowed legs had protested every step of ascent and descent in his life thus far. Crossbow hung loosely in his hand, the weight of it ought to be taxing his arm (the weapon was yet another that had been meant for a full-sized man, though Joffrey had met only half those qualifications), Tyrion let his legs decide his destination as the past sennight played behind his eyes like a very disturbing mummer’s show.

The trial had been a sham – no surprise there. It was surprising that his father didn’t put more of an effort into making it seem genuine. It was even more surprising that Cersei was not the most vocal of Tyrion’s opposition. Instead, the queen regent sat with her eyes fixed on nothing, as if none of the people in the assembly were worthy of her gaze. Father presided over the trial, during which a number of servants and retainers claimed to have witnessed clandestine meetings between the imp and some shady figure or another. Apparently, not only was Tyrion a kinslayer and kingslayer, but he was also a complete moron. He’d tried to defend himself on that very basis – “Do you truly think me so foolish as to conspire regicide within hearing and seeing distance of servants, or anyone for that matter?!” It didn’t matter. The people loved a good beheading, as Ned Stark learned to his detriment.

So, he’d demanded trial by combat, thinking of his time in the Vale when a nobody sellsword decided to put his life on the line for Tyrion Lannister’s gold and favor.

(Tyrion had winced upon realizing that Bronn had not just stolen from Catelyn Stark the justice she was so sure Tyrion owed her, but also her pretty daughter.)

In order to recruit a champion, Tyrion had been allowed to have male visitors to his dark cell. Jaime had been one. One-handed and unwilling to risk his head against the Mountain (or perhaps it was father’s disappointment Jaime feared). Podrick Payne was another, there explicitly to try Tyrion’s tear ducts. Most of the rest rejected Tyrion’s very gracious invitation.

Bronn accepted the invitation, rejected the offer. “Not for all the gold in the world will I fight the mountain fer ya. And I know you don’t really want me to.”

The sellsword had been right. Tyrion would choose survival over honor nine times out of ten, but to have Bronn face Ser Gregor was to all but condemn Lady Sansa to a horrible fate. If her husband died, Tyrion shuddered to think of the type of men that would see Sansa Stark as an easy conquest, and she wouldn’t have the protection of the great lion. Would Tywin still protect her if Bronn fought against the Crown’s champion? No. In fact, he'd probably order a dozen of his men to ravage her, while another handful held Bronn down, forced to watch it all until he rescinded his offer to fight on Tyrion’s behalf.

But Bronn had given Tyrion something of a weapon that could be used, in a last resort ‘if I’m going to die anyway’ type situation. While Ser Gregor groaned in agony and Prince Oberyn laid in the dirt, the innards of his skull disturbingly on the outside, Tyrion knew it was time.

The septon who’d requested the Father lend his knowledge and the Warrior his strength to the man fighting on the side of the truth had given Tyrion another chance to confess. This time, there was no chance of it buying the mercy of men, only potentially the forgiveness of the gods.

Defeated, Tyrion walked to the center of the pit where the trial-by-combat had taken place. He nodded slowly, uncertain whether he could do this, and knowing it was not just his head that might roll, but two other heads he had grown quite fond of.

He’d lifted his chin high and kept nodding as he spoke, “It would seem the gods are all-seeing, all-knowing, and just, indeed. I admit to bearing in my heart hatred for my nephew. I admit to at times fantasizing about his death, and even thinking that I and everyone else in this realm would be better off for it. But I was not alone.” He lifted his hand and pointed at Lady Olenna Tyrell, to the gasps of many, “Having heard and seen Joffrey’s character as one who was abusive toward even the most highborn ladies, Lady Olenna Tyrell feared for her granddaughters’ safety…”

Father began shouting over him in his solemn voice, ordering no one to heed the dwarf’s spiteful words. He ordered some red cloaks to take Tyrion to the dungeons to await his execution on the morrow, but as those men approached Tyrion hastily shouted it all out, “The lady Olenna Tyrell approached me. She procured the poison and was willing to administer it, but she needed me to create a diversion. You want justice for your rotten son, Cersei? There sits his killer!”

He was being dragged away by then, so he heard more than saw the fruits of his labor. The Tyrells had enough men in the city and in the dragon pit that for the Lannisters to attack them was unwise, but Cersei shouted violently the orders for her men to do so even as Father shouted that it would lead to chaos and the matter must be addressed civilly.

It would seem, at minimum, that Tyrion had bought himself more time. Jaime came to tell him that Father was livid and had decided that Tyrion should not be executed on the morrow but interrogated instead.

Tywin Lannister would’ve had his own son tortured for however long it took to get him to confess his words as lies, all so that he wouldn’t have to go to war against the house that controlled half the realm’s crops and at least a third of the realm’s fighting men.

Tyrion returned the favor by putting a bolt through Tywin’s belly.

And while facilitating Tyrion’s escape, Jaime had told him about more than Father’s plans to interrogate him. Jaime told him about Tysha. The truth about Tysha. If Tyrion had had a weapon on him then, he might’ve used it on his brother. Instead, he told Jaime that he was a duplicitous cunt. He asked if Jaime would’ve saved Tyrion if it was only a beheading awaiting him, not hours or days of torture. Jaime had looked wounded, but what else was Tyrion to think?

His feet, in all their wisdom, carried him to the door he’d been to a handful of times in the past months, usually to deliver news that Lady and Lord Stark needed to know.

He supposed tonight was no different.

Bronn unbarred the door only after Tyrion mumbled his name through it, and the sellsword immediately yanked Tyrion into the room by his dirty collar then shut the door, glaring at the crossbow that Tyrion forgot was still clutched in his hand.

Sansa stood near the hearth, fully dressed in mourning colors. Tyrion forced his lips to smile at her, which felt strange, “If you got up so early to dress for my execution, I’m afraid you lost beauty sleep for no good reason. Not that you need it.”

“What are you—No, how are you here?” Bronn hissed.

“The Spider decided the realm is better off with me, though my brother’s pleading might’ve been a factor. I just finished killing my father – may he rot in all seven of the hells, sequentially or simultaneously – and thought you’d like to join me in leaving this shitstain of a capital.” Tyrion’s eyes drifted over Bronn, who was fully clothed and wearing chainmail and leather armor, knee-high boots and a cloak. He brought his eyes back to Sansa, and realized she was wearing boots, not slippers. “Or maybe I’m joining you.”

He felt a pang of betrayal to know they’d have left without him but was pragmatic enough to know they hadn’t the resources or know-how to sneak him out. Still, it occurred to him that they’d have used his execution as the distraction needed for their escape, and Tyrion realized that without Bronn and Sansa in the audience, he’d have truly died alone, with not a single person who’d ever harbored a kind thought about him in his proximity.

Bronn’s rough voice growled out a response, “This city’s a puddle a’that wildfire, and I don’t trust that sister a’yers not to accidentally drop a candle on it.”

Tyrion narrowed his eyes on Sansa Stark, “Indeed. But who lit the candle?”

Bronn followed his gaze then turned back to Tyrion, lowering his voice to the tone that said the sellsword was no longer joking, “That gonna be a problem?”

Tyrion shook his head, facing Bronn so the sellsword could see his sincerity, “Have you ever heard that saying, ‘blood is thicker than water’?”

Bronn shrugged, “Can’t say I have.”

“Hm. Well, it’s meant to say that family members are bound by their blood; that they’ll stick together in hard times, I suppose. But do you know what else is thicker than water? Piss. Shit. Wine. Just about every other substance known to man.”

“Sooo…?” Bronn arched a dark brow.

“I’ve decided that blood alone isn’t enough anymore. My father would’ve executed me knowing I was innocent. My father would’ve tortured me knowing I was innocent. And my sister might not have liked knowing Joffrey’s real killer would go free, but as Tommen’s mother she could have ordered my father to free me. Gods, to at least let me rot in nicer accommodations. And Jaime…” Tyrion made a forced smile, “Well, I imagine we’ll have plenty of time on our journey to talk about that one, and hopefully plenty of wine.”

“Our journey?” Sansa asked, the first words she spoke since Tyrion’s unexpected arrival.

“Yes. I assume you two were planning to travel by horse, hoping not to be noticed for a day or two, or ten, while the lions and roses tore each other apart, but I have managed to procure more comfortable transportation.”

“To where?” Bronn asked.

Tyrion shrugged, “I haven’t the foggiest idea, but I intend to find out. So, either follow me, or don’t, but I won’t say any more to convince you, lest I miss my boat.”

…

Varys was there to greet them when they emerged from the passageway the eunuch had described to Tyrion just before Tyrion decided to take a detour to kill his father and gather his… well, friends, he liked to think.

The only other soul on the beach at this hour was a man in a dinghy.

“I had not been expecting additional travelers,” Varys spoke, his head facing Bronn and Sansa but his expression indistinguishable in the shadow of his cowl. Without seeing the eunuch’s face, though, Tyrion thought he heard what sounded like… satisfaction? Pleasure?... by the appearance of Tyrion’s traveling companions.

“Will that be a problem?” Tyrion asked.

The eunuch shook his head, “On the contrary, I would be most honored to help the Lady Stark. I imagine the capital may prove a touch dangerous for someone so… gentle.”

“And are you equally honored to help Lord Stark, even if he is not quite so gentle?” Sansa asked pointedly.

Varys tipped his head, “Apologies, my lady. Indeed, any friend of yours is a friend of mine.”

“And can the same be said to us?” Tyrion asked, “You claim to be bringing us to a friend of yours – does that mean he – or she – is also a friend to us?”

Sansa’s head snapped toward Tyrion, her eyes glittering in the moonlight, “You don’t know to whom he is taking you?”

“My lady,” Varys hurriedly interjected, “it is a situation of utmost delicacy and secrecy, but I assure you that I mean you no harm. Now, we must not tarry. If you would?” he reached for her arm, but Sansa took a step back and in the same moment, Bronn drew his sword, holding it between Varys and his wife.

“My lady,” Varys huffed, “Why would I help you – at great risk to my own safety – if only to hand you over to someone with nefarious intentions?”

“I can think of a few reasons, but one of them is more than enough: because I have the sole claim on the largest kingdom in Westeros, and one of two claims on another kingdom.”

“You think I mean to bring you to… to what? Some man who’ll dispose of your husband and make you his captive bride?”

“If it is not so, then tell me who you are bringing us to.”

“My lady, you will know in time, but not now, here, on this beach, with the Red Keep just on the other side of that wall,” Varys pointed. “When you are on the ship, you will be told everything.”

“When we are on that ship it’ll be too late,” Bronn growled, “assumin’ ya got some sellswords on there that outnumber all one of me.”

“I like to think it’s two,” Tyrion added, “but, point taken.”

“This is a waste of time,” Varys spoke curtly. For one of the few times in Tyrion’s life did the eunuch sound frustrated.

“I’d rather waste me time than me life,” Bronn responded glibly.

“Will you just get in the boat? We do not have time. At the next shift change, Lord Tyrion’s absence will be noted.”

“Why do you keep saying ‘you’… Are ya not joinin’ us on this journey?” Bronn asked.

Varys drew back his hood, perhaps hoping that his expression would testify to his sincerity, “My place is here, and I am growing weary of your lack of gratitude, ser. It seems to me that I got Lord Tyrion out of the dungeons when no one else could. It also seems that you two are far from any place that would give you asylum, and no guarantee of reaching any of those places.”

Bronn replied, calm and calculating as ever, “If you stay here, what’s to stop ya from runnin’ right to the queen, revealin’ us as the traitors we are, and reapin’ whatever reward money she offers up.” Bronn turned to face Sansa, his sword not so much as tilting as he did, “I leave it up to you, Sansa, but I say this stinks.”

Sansa didn’t look at her husband, only the eunuch, “You got Lord Tyrion out of the dungeons, you say?”

Varys nodded, “I did, my lady, because he is a good man, innocent of the crime for which he was imprisoned. The realm needs such men.”

Sansa nodded slowly, “Was Eddard Stark not a good man, innocent of all crime but speaking the truth?”

A stone sank in Tyrion’s belly.

“My lady—” Varys started.

“Could you have gotten my father out of the city? Or me, for that matter?”

Varys sighed, defeated, “Perhaps, yes, but the queen would have suspected me, knowing I am one of the few in the entire realm who knows the city’s tunnels and passageways.”

“And she’ll suspect you for the same reason after tonight,” Tyrion cut in, “So, you’re not really staying in the city. In fact, I dare say you’ll never return to King’s Landing, certainly not to the Red Keep, until such a time as someone other than a Lannister is on the throne.”

Sansa scoffed, “You will risk being hunted by the Lannisters now to help us, but you wouldn’t risk it to help my father so that thousands would not die in war? A war that could’ve been settled peacefully if my father and I were released?”

“Course not,” Bronn snorted, “‘Cause whoever backs ‘im needed the great houses of Westeros weak, and at each other’s throats.”

When Tyrion spoke next, he could hear the awe in his own voice, “You fomented the war, because what else could damage the great houses such that your chosen candidate could take the throne? You all but eliminated Houses Baratheon, Stark, and Tully, and severely weakened House Lannister…”

“Four of the five houses that overthrew the mad fuckers, if I know me history right.”

Tyrion snorted drily, “The Targaryen girl. That is who you back. A Targaryen with three dragons at her disposal and the mad king’s blood in her veins! You truly think she’ll be good for this continent? Do you truly think that line of madness, of fire and blood, needs another chance?!” he was all but shouting by the end, but luckily the crashing waves would cover his voice.

“You don’t understand—” Varys defended, wide-eyed, but he never got to finish as Sansa spoke over him.

“No, you don’t understand, Lord Varys,” Sansa smiled, “A Lannister always pays his debts.”

Tyrion turned to her and grinned, “And the North remembers.”

It seemed barely a flick of the sword and Bronn sliced through Varys’ neck in one fluid motion, then stared down at the corpse after it hit the sand, “And Bronn never misses.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes, “I believe this is the part where we all run?”

Bronn cast his gaze to the lone oarsmen, who seemed to be hoping that if he sat still enough, they wouldn’t see him.

“Seems to me,” the sellsword drawled, “that they’s expectin’ us to board without the eunuch…”

“But you said you think he has hired swords,” Sansa grasped her husband’s arm.

“Might, might now. Either way, they’d be getting’ paid to deliver us somewhere. Meanin’ they ain’t gonna do us no harm. I’d wager there’s three of ‘em, at most, plus the crew. No way the Spider wanted to have more’n that to silence, ‘specially when he thought it was only this’un,” Bronn jerked his thumb toward Tyrion, “who’d be on that boat.”

Sansa nodded, her look of fear becoming one of hopefulness, “You can take care of the guards when they are least expecting it. And the crew can be paid to deliver us elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere like…?” Tyrion asked, “Need I remind you that I’m a fugitive? As are you two now. Where might we be safe on this continent?”

“I can think of four places,” Sansa spoke matter-of-factly.

“Four?” Tyrion stared at her, incredulous.

“The first is White Harbor.”

“Which is part of the North, which has acknowledged Roose Bolton as its liege.”

“No, the North has acknowledged Roose Bolton as its warden until a Stark son comes of age. And the Manderlys have been ever loyal to House Stark.”

“I’d really like to hear options two, three, and four,” Tyrion sighed.

“Option two is Sunspear.”

“Prince Oberyn just had his head crushed in for me.”

“Which means House Martell has another reason to hate your sister, not to mention Lady Olenna, who orchestrated the regicide that indirectly led to the prince’s demise. Besides, Prince Oberyn chose to be your champion, my lord,” Sansa spoke solemnly, “it could not have only been for the chance to kill Ser Gregor. He must have thought you worthy of fighting for, to take such a risk, when he was certainly more than capable of slipping poison into the man’s food.”

Tyrion sighed again, “You may have a point. He spoke with me in the dungeons when he came to pledge as my champion. Told of how he witnessed my sister, when I was just a babe, treating me… abusively. Said Cersei called me a little monster, but he only saw an innocent babe with a head too big for its body.”

“And you say it’s yer cock…” Bronn shook his head in exaggerated reprimand.

“Uh!” Sansa made the ladylike version of a gagging noise, “Please tell me I won’t be spending an entire sea voyage listening to you two comparing your swords.”

“Ain’t much of a comparison,” Bronn offered with a sly grin.

“I am not in the mood, husband,” Sansa scolded.

“Right,” Bronn cleared his throat, “What’re numbers three and four?”

“Well, this would be far from ideal, but the only other place where I have kin is Castle Black – at the Wall. Jon Snow, my half-brother, would shelter us there, I must hope. And it is so remote I cannot imagine Queen Cersei, or Lady Tyrell, or anyone managing to send an assassin there, let alone march an army there, with winter knocking on the door.”

Tyrion shrugged, “I suppose it could be a good hiding place. Somewhere for us to hunker down and plan our next move. Though it is abominably cold and boring there, and  it must be a month sea voyage to Eastwatch, not factoring in poor weather. So? What’s number four?”

“Well,” Sansa lifted her shoulders daintily, “perhaps the lord of Casterly Rock would host us?”

Tyrion snorted, “Perhaps he’d host you, but… Oh… Wait… You mean me…”

Bronn and Sansa both grinned at him. Tyrion huffed, “Harboring a convicted kingslayer? You think any Lannister mad enough to do that?”

When their smiles didn’t fade, Tyrion rolled his eyes, “I mean, a convicted kinslayer?”

“Except you didn’t actually kill him,” Sansa spoke insistently, “Lady Tyrell did, then framed you for it.”

“I admitted to conspiracy in front of hundreds.”

“Because it was the only way your sister and father would believe the other part of your admission.”

“As we can attest,” Bronn nodded, “since we produced the hairnet and your father and sister still went through with the trial and woulda gone through with the execution, too.”

Tyrion nodded slowly as he began to see how it could work, “Which would’ve made them kinslayers. And Aunt Genna and Cousin Stafford, well, they’ve seen how my father treated me and never approved. They’ve seen how Cersei treated me, and didn’t approve of that, either. Thought it was a grievous insult to my mother’s memory.”

“All you need to do is convince them not to send you back to the capital to face your punishment, at least not until they’ve evaluated all the facts.”

“Seems they’ll have bigger fish to fry,” Bronn added, “I imagine yer sister will be calling all yer Rock’s fightin’ men to the capital, or tryna dispatch them to the Reach.”

Tyrion nodded, “I know secret ways into the Rock, too. Benefit of having been given the esteemed title of Master of Sewers. If none but my closest family members know we’re there, there will be no pressure on them to send us to Cersei. Stafford and Genna will give us shelter, I’m sure of it. I was always Genna’s favorite nephew. Hells, I was our favorite son – believe it or not I’m smarter and better looking than each of those Frey boys she popped out. And Stafford and I shared similar interests in our youth, and though he’s tough as nails he always did have a soft spot for the weak or broken. But even if we know we’ll be safe at the Rock, we’re not liable to be allowed to leave the place until they decide our fate. We’ll be making ourselves prisoners of House Lannister of Casterly Rock.”

“Unless they come to agree that you’re their rightful lord,” Sansa spoke levelly.

“Well, I am, but we’re forgetting one thing… they may believe I had no part in Joffrey’s death, but when word reaches them that my father died on the same night I escaped…”

“You mean the same night Lord Varys, who has been warmongering for years, set you free?”

Tyrion blinked at Sansa. Can it truly be so simple?

Sansa continued, her lips curved almost proudly, “I, for one, only know that Lord Varys lured my husband and me down to the beach on the promise of… of reunion with my missing sister, Arya. She wasn’t here, but you were, weak and shivering after too many nights in the Black Cells. Lord Varys revealed his real plan, which was…” Sansa trailed off.

Tyrion took the mantle, “To bring us to places and persons unknown though allegedly friendly to us.”

“But being three skeptical people, we did not trust him.”

Tyrion looked to Bronn, who simply shrugged and said, “I’d buy it. I’d also understand why none a’the three of us were keen on returning. You were due for a meetin’ with the headsman, and me and me wife are all but hostages here.”

“That we would choose to go to Casterly Rock instead of fleeing the continent entirely, shows that I only wish to clear my name…” Tyrion added, feeling dangerously hopeful that it could work out.

“And I only wish to see one of the few kin remaining to me: my uncle Edmure, and to live somewhere I won’t have to fear for my life and my husband’s life; to make peace with the family mine was thrust into war against, so that someday my son may claim his birthright without fear of Lannister or Bolton retribution.”

“And what will you really be doing?” Tyrion asked.

“Making peace with House Lannister, as I said,” Sansa sniffed.

“And…?” Bronn drawled knowing.

“And, perhaps, in time, learning what houses in the North, Riverlands, and Vale might be willing to fight for House Stark, should the need arise. Perhaps also finding out whether any houses in the Reach are weary of Tyrell rule – flighty and unprincipled as it tends to be.”

“Depending on how ugly Cersei and the Tyrells make their not-so-little feud, you may find it shockingly easy to garner support,” Tyrion smiled, “Perhaps even from certain factions of House Lannister that choose the ugly lion over the mad lioness.

Sansa shrugged, “Then we are in agreement on our destination?”

Tyrion and Bronn nodded, and with that their future was set.

While Bronn went to explain to the oarsman that he’d be allowed to live if he didn’t blow their cover as they approached the ship, Tyrion walked up the beach toward the cave they’d emerged through earlier. He placed Varys’ head there where high tide would not disturb it, then used his pointer finger to leave a message in the sand for Uncle Kevan. He mainly relayed all of Varys’ plotting that he’d uncovered only tonight when the portly man offered him an escape, but he also noted that Tywin and Cersei were well aware of the Tyrell ladies’ crimes and chose to let Tyrion be the scapegoat rather than pissing off the family whose armies and food were keeping the people of the crownlands alive and fed. Kevan would infer that Varys also killed Tywin to further weaken House Lannister, but Tyrion did not put such in writing because how would he even know his father had been murdered? Surely, Varys would not admit to such a crime.

He did also swear on his cock that he did not kill Joffrey, adding the hope that once his sister was past her grief she would be able to see that her brother was innocent and that his admission after the trial-by-combat had been Tyrion’s last-ditch effort at protecting his house by exposing those who plotted against them.

“C’mon, already,” Bronn called out from where he stood next to the rowboat, Sansa safely seated inside it.

Tyrion scanned the rather lengthy message and hoped it would remain undisturbed. The beach ought to be one of the first places checked once his escape was noticed, but he feared animals might be drawn to the scent of Varys’ blood and stomp all over his message.

He figured he’d just have to risk it, and he cast one final glance up at the wall then hurried toward his companions, doing an admirable job of hopping into the boat after helping Bronn push it into the water.

“It’s a long way to Braavos,” Tyrion commented under his breath, almost too quietly for the oarsman to hear.

“You got any better ideas?” Bronn rasped back.

“I might. We’ll talk of it later.”

As it turned out, there was no need for subterfuge. When the ship was becoming visible, though still only as a shape in the distance, Bronn jerked his head toward the oarsman, “How many’s on the ship?”

The man shook his head, “No idea, ser. I was paid to deliver you from the beach to the ship.”

“And then what?” Bronn asked, “don’t tell me yer gonna return to the beach and hope it ain’t swarmin’ with gold cloaks.”

The man shook his head, “Will make for Massey’s Hook. Got ‘nuff gold to last me a lifetime.”

Bronn let out a long breath, “Fool. Ya shoulda said they’re expectin’ ya on the ship. Though I suppose you weren’t gonna live to see the dawn either way.”

Before the man could voice his confusion, Bronn’s sword was through his neck. With one hand on the sword’s handle, Bronn used the other to dig through the man’s clothing until a bag of coins was found. He opened the flap of his saddle bag and dropped the pouch in, then used the sword and his hand to slide the man’s body to the side of the dinghy. The corpse was easily pushed over the side, Bronn holding tight to the sword so the blade slipped free when the body sunk under the lapping waves.

Bronn dipped the sword into the water and swished it until there was no trace of blood, then wiped it down with a handkerchief he pulled from up his sleeve. His sword was sheathed and he was rowing not more than a minute after asking the oarsmen his question.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Bronn groused toward Sansa. Tyrion couldn’t read anything in her expression other than perhaps surprise.

“He’d a’been shot with an arrow by the men on the ship, or intercepted by a sellsword on Massey’s Hook. The Spider would’ve had plans in place to eliminate ‘im, just like he prolly had plans to eliminate the guards and crew on the ship once it delivers us to wherever it’s s’posed to be deliverin’ us.”

“So we’re to be no better than Lord Varys. I see,” Sansa crossed her arms impertinently.

“Don’t you start, woman,” Bronn grunted as he rowed, “Better safe than sorry. I told you that’d be the rule.”

She ignored him, “So I wasted all my breath talking about Casterly Rock when you planned to silence the man anyway?”

“You weren’t serious about Casterly Rock?” Tyrion asked, with Bronn echoing his words almost exactly.

“Whyever would I expect to be safe at Casterly Rock?”

“Made sense t’me,” Bronn admitted.

“I will not put my faith in a Lannister. No offense, Lord Tyrion.”

“None taken,” he mumbled.

“But you’ll put yer faith in a Manderly? Or a Martell? Or a few hundred rapists and thieves at the Wall who haven’t seen a pair’a teats in ages?”

“I heard Stannis Baratheon is at the Wall. My father died for telling the realm that he Stannis was the rightful heir; I like to think that, for that alone, House Stark has Stannis Baratheon’s favor.”

Tyrion snorted, “Perhaps House Stark does, but I highly doubt he’ll have open arms for the two men behind the destruction of ninety percent of his fleet and army.”

“I believe I can persuade him to shelter all of us.”

Tyrion sighed, “I’m not making that bet.”

“Me either,” Bronn added.

“Neither,” Sansa corrected, “Then to White Harbor.”

Bronn stopped rowing and let out a frustrated breath, “You trust this Lord Manderly fella more than ya trust the bloody imp?”

“I’m right here,” Tyrion moaned, “But, aye, I’m wondering the same.”

“It isn’t Lord Tyrion I doubt, but his kin. Did my brother not invade their lands, even if in retribution for their liege’s attacks? They will either kill me on sight or kill you, dear husband, so I can be married to one of their own.”

Bronn hummed, “She might have a point.”

Tyrion sighed, “Then to Sunspear it is. At least they’ll have good wine.”

“And ya seen the dresses their women walk around in?” Bronn grinned, then it fell away and he feverishly began rowing, “Can’t wait to buy me lady wife a whole new wardrobe.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “I suppose we could go to Gulltown and then make our way to the Eyrie, seek refuge with my lady aunt.”

“Eh, she isn’t particularly fond of me and Bronn,” Tyrion reminded her, “and Littlefinger went there on official crown business to woo her to House Lannister’s side. I wouldn’t put it past him sending word to Cersei.”

“Hm. Maybe I was wrong and we were better off goin’ wherever the Spider meant to send us.”

“Oh!” Sansa peeped, then she was digging through a different saddlebag and pulling out a rolled and sealed parchment, “While you were leaving your message in the sand, my lord, and you were threatening the oarsmen, husband, I searched Lord Varys’ robes. I found a bag of gold dragons and this.”

“Isn’t that your husband’s job?” Tyrion asked wryly.

“Ordinarily, yes, but it seemed some division of labor was wise, for the sake of time. Anyway, I imagine he intended to give this to one of us to present to either the ship captain or the person the ship captain is delivering us to. Shall I open and read it?”

Tyrion moved to sit next to Sansa, taking care not to rock the small boat, “Might as well.”

Her delicate fingers cracked the wax and unrolled the scroll. Out on the water, the moonlight and starlight were surprisingly bright, and up close and with squinted eyes Tyrion could make out the words.

He read the entire missive, then looked up to Sansa, “He intended for me to be put to use by some prince?”

“Aren’t there many princes in the Free Cities?” Sansa queried.

“Aye, which makes me think Varys was not referring to any of them. Merchant princes are as common there as pigeons are in Flea Bottom. Varys makes mention of a time that is soon coming. I believe he is referring to a campaign for this prince to take the Iron Throne. He must’ve thought I could help, given my intimate knowledge of the current regime. Did he think I’d betray my own kin?!”

“Well, ya did just kill your pa, so…” Bronn said, rather unhelpfully.

“But what prince could Varys be referring to?” Sansa asked desperately, “Prince Rhaegar’s death was witnessed by hundreds of men, and I recall the day Joffrey told all of court that the beggar prince, Prince Viserys, was murdered by his goodborther.”

“Perhaps one of ‘em had a bastard. Or the mad king might’ve, for that matter,” Bronn added, his words puffed out as the rowing was clearly starting to exhaust him. Tyrion felt he should offer to help, but… Well, he didn’t want to have sore shoulders in the morning.

“King Robert had many bastards, I heard. Might Varys have been planning to install one of them?”

Tyrion shook his head to Lady Sansa’s question, “That just doesn’t feel right, to me. It must be someone of Targaryen blood that he’s backing. He supported the mad king right up until the end, counseling the king to keep the city gates closed when my father’s army marched there.”

“He wanted to keep such a man on the throne?” Sansa asked, horrified.

Tyrion nodded, “He’d likely claim that he only did so to spare the smallfolk who suffer any time a city is ransacked, but frankly, the actions of his beloved king and prince had already contributed to more casualties than my father’s brutal but brief sack did. Varys clearly didn’t care that Aerys was…” Tyrion’s lips snapped shut.

“That Aerys was…?”

“Varys. Aerys. Just never noticed that their names rhymed. It makes me think… Well, I just realized that Varys would’ve been there, in the Red Keep, when my father’s men arrived. And if he realized there was no way to save the king, perhaps he focused on the next best thing…”

“What?” Sansa asked, her voice betraying her eagerness.

“Savin’ the crown prince,” Bronn supplied, “the mad king’s newborn grandson. I heard the bells ringin’ from Flea Bottom. Criers were tellin’ that there was a new prince, born on Dragonstone. Nothin’ but a little pink babe that’d someday rule us all.”

Tyrion sighed loudly, “Well, now I’m doubly glad we didn’t blindly go where Varys sent us. Can you imagine a Targaryen prince welcoming a Lannister and a Stark with open arms?”

Sansa shrugged, and Tyrion decided that was enough about that subject, for now. He looked to his companions, “Well, we’ll need to have a destination to give the captain just as soon as Bronn has dealth with any sellswords who might be on the ship. So? Where are we going? I vote for Casterly Rock.”

“I vote for Sunspear,” Bronn answered instantly.

“I vote for White Harbor.”

“Fuck it,” Tyrion cursed, “I change my vote to Pentos. It’s only a four-day voyage across the sea, and it’ll give us time to decide where we really want to go.”

When the other two shrugged, Tyrion figured that was as good as it was going to get, and Bronn was good enough to not point out that Pentos was the destination of the ship he’d put Shae on a few months back. Not that Tyrion expected to find her in that crowded city, but he wouldn’t complain if he did.

Then again, he was the head of House Lannister now, regicide conviction notwithstanding. If he really wanted to lead his house through the next few decades, he’d need alliances, and that meant a marriage. Nose-less dwarf he may be, but to be the lady of Casterly Rock, women would endure worse.

Either way, a holiday in Pentos seemed like just what they all needed, after the past few years.

…

Tyrion woke to hushed whispers and became immediately alert while remaining motionless other than the slight swinging his hammock was doing. To know that, in fact, there were no sellswords on the ship, hadn’t been completely reassuring and had been a little insulting. Had Varys considered Tyrion so small a threat, or had he such faith that Tyrion would blindly follow the eunuch like a lamb its shepherd?

But dull fear wasn’t the only reason Tyrion hadn’t fallen into a deep sleep, instead wading in and out of twilight. The small ship had only one cabin – the captain’s quarters – which Tyrion, Sansa, and Bronn were given. That meant the captain sleeping in a hammock in the communal bunk room shared by the few men of his crew. The fellow didn’t seem to mind, since Tyrion gave him gold beyond what Varys had already paid. The crewmen did mind when they realized Sansa would be separated from them by a door. Sailors were notoriously lecherous since they routinely went months or even years without seeing anyone prettier than a dockside whore. In Tyrion’s opinion, the whores found at ports were the least attractive category of whore, since they had the least discriminating of customers. Well, those girls up at Mole’s Town near the Wall were definitely in the running, but to the men of the Night’s Watch they probably looked as lovely as a roast chicken to a starving man.

Tyrion had let the couple take the sleeping pallet on the floor, thinking it might be interesting to sleep in a hammock.

It wasn’t interesting, and he was barely sleeping.

It didn’t help that the cabin door didn’t have a lock on it. Tyrion feared the crew would decide to come in here, kill Bronn and Tyrion, steal their gold, and have their way with Sansa.

Worse, he feared some of them might have their way with him. A certain one-eyed sailor had looked particularly intrigued to see a dwarf, and it reminded Tyrion of that rumored whore in Old Town who had both female and male parts. Tyrion had no interest in male parts that weren’t his own, but he was pretty sure he’d pay for a go at the lass, er, lad, out of curiosity if nothing else.

Thus, he was presently lying in the hammock, straining his ears to listen to the whispers that had woken him from a very shallow slumber and refusing to reach for the dagger in his boot until he made an appraisal of the situation.

“He ain’t wakin’ up,” Bronn’s whisper barely reached Tyrion’s ears.

“Can you not wait a few days?” (That was Sansa.)

“For you? No. C’mon. He’s a heavy sleeper.”

Tyrion realized where this was going.

Common decency demanded he announce his wakefulness.

Utter depravity had him deciding to stay mum.

“It would be mortifying if he woke up and saw us.”

“You only think that ‘cause yer a woman.”

“Just go to sleep.”

“I can’t,” Bronn hissed, “Ya got me in a state, the way you handled the Spider like that.”

There was a pause, probably while Sansa blushed, then, “I found the way you handled him rather… impressive… as well.”

Tyrion could hear the grin in Bronn’s next words, “My lil woman likes watchin’ me use me sword, eh?”

Sansa clicked her tongue.

“Slim Sally… Lucky Lucy… Big Bronn… Ya can’t say yer husband don’t know how to handle his weapons.”

“Ugh! Fine. Just be quick about it.”

“Yesss!”

Tyrion listened to the shuffling of fabric and wondered if it was time to put a stop to this, for Sansa’s sake. He’d heard other men fucking. Hells, he’d heard Bronn fucking, back in his father’s war camp, after he’d sent the sellsword to find him the prettiest camp follower, who turned out to be Shae. (No doubt Bronn took the runner-up for himself.)

Still, he felt a bit horrible listening to a wedded couple fuck, even if their marriage was rather unorthodox and owed entirely to his skills as a matchmaker.

He felt even more horrible when he realized he was not listening to the animalistic grunts and wet skin-slapping noises of fucking, but the gentle, slow movements of lovemaking.

Well, I’ll be damned.

“We’re out, Sansa,” Bronn rasped in a strained voice Tyrion almost couldn’t hear, “No matter what happens now, you’ll never be their hostage again.”

“I told you we’d outlast them all.”

Bronn hummed, and for a while Tyrion just listened, feeling less lecherous as he realized he wasn’t hard as a rock or picturing Sansa Stark naked, but that he felt somewhat… envious… of what the lady and the sellsword had found. Bronn was a lowborn rogue with no last name, illiterate to boot. Sansa was a woman as highborn as they come short of a princess. Well, technically her brother’s campaign meant she was a princess. And yet the pair had come to care for each other, respect each other, and trust each other. Bronn had a way with ladies, it was true, but Tyrion saw in his friend something different around Sansa. Bronn wasn’t playing her; not even for innocent reasons and certainly not for nefarious ones. His smiles toward her were sincere, as was his praise. His protection of her wasn’t done for coin, but because her death would greatly hurt him.

Perhaps if Bronn, the nameless sellsword from Flea Bottom, could find love, so could Tyrion. Perhaps he would’ve already found it if he hadn’t associated exclusively with whores. In hindsight, such behavior had been not just selfish but craven. He’d been afraid of rejection, so he stuck with lovers who would never reject him on account of the gold in his coin purse. He even convinced himself there was more honesty in whores than he’d ever find in a woman of his station.

Who had he been fooling? Every encounter with a whore was paying for an illusion. He’d have found more honesty in a noble maiden’s trembling than in any whore’s kisses and moans. And in time, he’d have been able to soothe the trembling of whatever poor lass had been made to wed the demon monkey. Something genuine could’ve been built from something awkward and forced, but how could he ever have trusted that Shae’s affections were genuine, when money still passed from his hands to hers?

But even if he had trusted her, even if she really had loved him, it had still been selfish of him. If his father had ever found out the truth… Tyrion still broke out in a hot sweat just to think of it. The most loving thing he’d ever done for Shae had been to put her on a ship to Pentos.

She could never have been his wife, and if he wanted to be somebody in Westeros, if he wanted to lead his house, then he would have needed to take a wife. He had fooled himself all through the months of their association into thinking… he wasn’t even sure what. Thinking he’d never have to give her up.

A small part of him was envious that Bronn, of all people, had found what Tyrion had never bothered to look for but suddenly wanted more than anything. A bigger part of him was proud that he’d brought Bronn and Sansa together. Sansa Stark deserved to have a champion. Someday soon she may wish she had her hand to barter, but she’d not have been unwed all this time, and there were few places in this world right now that would welcome a Lady Lannister over a Lady Stark.

“Fuck, Sansa…” a strangled grunt from Bronn made Tyrion remember what prompted his introspection. Sansa’s ladylike panting was starting to do things to him that he wasn’t proud of, but at this point he’d just be ruining things for them to suddenly awaken from his feigned slumber.

“Bronn,” Sansa breathed, “I want you to finish inside me again. Is that a bad idea?”

“Fuck. The worst damned idea I’ve ever heard. And the best.”

The movement accelerated and then stopped altogether in time with a muffled grunt. Tyrion had half a mind to make Bronn listen to him beat his meat, and would have if Sansa wouldn’t hear it, too.

Instead, he continued the ruse of sleep, no matter that there was an inconvenient tent in his breeches.

Next came the sound of lazy kissing, then shifting, then sniffling.

“Hey,” Bronn whispered, “Hey, darlin’, none a’that now.”

“I’m just happy. We made it out. I know we’re not in the clear. I know we may never be in the clear. But… but I’ll never have to be in that terrible city where all my terrible memories live.”

“I know, love. Shhh. It’s alright. Whatever tomorrow brings, we’ll face it together.”

“Promise you won’t leave?”

“I promise. Swear it on Big Bronn.”

Sansa clicked her tongue then sighed, “Good. It would be awful being widowed. Can you imagine all the men who’d be vying for my hand? It would be so tedious.”

“Uh huh. And you’d probably miss me ‘n all.”

“Oh! Of course! I mean, that would be the worst part of it all!”

“Mmhmm.”

“I mean it! I’d miss your… sense of humor. Your company. Your surprisingly clever input on many a subject. Your embraces, as well.”

“Fuck all that, you’d better miss my cock and my tongue and my fingers. In that order.”

“Absolutely, I would.”

“You’d miss Big Bronn so much, the idea of any other man’s cock would be disgusting.”

“Utterly. I’d gag at the mere mention of one.”

“You wouldn’t want nothin’ to do with no man.”

“I’d live the rest of my days in lonely widowhood.”

“Well, I suppose you could find a lady friend to keep you company. And I’d forgive ya if you were so lonely that ya took her into yer bed.”

“This again? I believe the last time you broached this topic, I made it quite clear what would happen to Little Bronn should I find out he’s been somewhere he doesn’t belong.”

“And I believe I told ya I’d be content to just watch.”

Tyrion growled at the ceiling, “And I believe you’ve forgotten you’re not alone in this room.”

Sansa gasped loudly while Bronn chuckled shamelessly. A smacking sound coincided with the abrupt end of the latter.

“Apologies, Lord Tyrion. I hope, eh, that we haven’t kept you awake for long?”

Tyrion twisted his head, though he could barely make out anything in the dark, “Long enough.”

Another smacking sound reached his ears, then Sansa was hissing, “I told you he might awaken!”

“He was awake the whole time, but I didn’t much care.”

“You!” Sansa squealed, clearly unable to find a suitable curse.

“Ah, quit complainin’. He don’t care. Prolly liked it.”

An even louder gasp came out of Sansa’s mouth, then what Tyrion thought was the sound of her pulling on her boots while muttering under her breath.

A few moments later she was stomping out of the room. When Bronn didn’t immediately hasten to follow, Tyrion said, “Um… shouldn’t you go after her?”

“I will, in a minute.”

“A minute might be all it takes for a bunch of sailors.”

“Nah, those ones want coin more’n cunt, I can tell. ‘Sides, she put her blade in her boot.”

“Her blade?”

“Been teachin’ her to handle a dagger. Gave her a small one for her nameday.”

“I’ve taught many a woman how to handle a dagger, though the one I give them is far from small.”

“Hah hah. Anyway, I guess I’ll go fetch her. Seems the sun should be up soon. Mind givin’ us some privacy when we get back?”

“I didn’t get the impression that privacy was a necessary condition for you.”

“It ain’t, but it seems to be for her, and it’d be a damned shame to waste such a fine opportunity.”

“What opportunity?” Tyrion asked, baffled.

“She likes it hard’n fast when she’s angry.”

Tyrion rolled his head back toward the ceiling, “Why do I feel like this entire adventure of ours is going to be a honeymoon for you and an act of penance for me?”

“‘Cause you’re a clever little fucker, that’s why.”

“Not clever enough,” Tyrion sighed. He didn’t point out the evidence of his statement, such as his current presence in a hammock in a small cabin shared with two other people, on a small fishing vessel that could be delivering them to Sothoryos for as well as Tyrion could navigate, likely wanted for two counts of kinslaying and arguably the most recognizable man in the entire realm, save perhaps Sandor Clegane.

“Ah, stop feelin’ sorry for yerself. Yer alive, and ya got me fer company. What more could ya need?”

With that, Bronn was off to find his wife. Tyrion decided to rest his eyes while he could, hoping Sansa was giving Bronn a proper tongue-lashing, replete with big words Bronn didn’t know the meaning of, in front of a group of strapping young sailors who’d gladly allow Sansa to take out her anger on them while she made her husband watch, in a sick twist on his fantasy regarding two lonely ladies.

Oddly enough, Tyrion thought he understood the dynamic between Bronn and Sansa enough to say that Sansa would live to gloat afterwards, though the sailors certainly wouldn’t.

At least, he thought so until Bronn strutted into the cabin some minutes later with a raving mad Sansa thrown over his shoulder. He dropped her on the pallet then turned to Tyrion, “Last chance.”

Tyrion almost fell as he hurriedly scrambled out of the hammock.

He made his way up to the top deck and listened to the remnants of whatever the crew had been saying about the redhead and her funny husband. They hushed upon seeing Tyrion, so he waved for them to continue, deciding he’d share a few stories of his own.

The sun was fully risen when Bronn sauntered up with the relaxed stride of a man who’d drained his sack at least twice in as many hours.

Bronn sat next to him on the crate that Tyrion had commandeered for himself; it was the ideal spot for staying out of the crew’s way as they worked their magic to harness the ocean’s tides and the sky’s winds.

“What?” Bronn shrugged at the look Tyrion was giving him, “You made me promise to take care of her, didn’t ya?”

“I hadn’t expected you to be so thorough in your duty.”

“You know I don’t do nothin’ half-arsed. You give me a job, I do it well.”

“Mmhmm. And that’s what she is to you? A job?”

Bronn gave him a sidelong glare, “Aye. A job I happen to enjoy, but still a job.”

“Enjoy?” Tyrion snorted, “I daresay, you’re one of the lucky few men who loves his job.”

Bronn hummed, looking toward the north while the wind tousled his dark curls. “Might be,” the sellsword eventually admitted.

Tyrion nodded, deciding to be merciful and not make the man speak more about things like feelings. Instead, he slapped his thighs and rose, intent on finding some wine and some food. “Well,” he said to Bronn, “since it turned out to be no chore for you, I suppose you could give me back what I paid you.”

Bronn smiled and stood up, clamping a hand on Tyrion’s shoulder, “Now I know why people call you a funny little man.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes, “Fine. But you owe me.”

Bronn shook his head, his lips scrunched in an entirely ambivalent way.

“Fine,” Tyrion sighed dramatically, “but the next time you save my life, it better be on the house.”

“Half off,” Bronn nodded.

Tyrion growled, “Fine. But you should know that if you and Sansa ever get in a row, I’m taking her side.”

“You’d a’done that anyway.”

Tyrion growled and turned toward the stairs that would lead him down to the common area and, hopefully, food. He acted quite put-out, grumbling as he perused the limited food items available (and meaning it when he realized there was neither wine nor spirits on board, only a couple barrels of rationed ale), but the truth was, he wasn’t sure there were any two people he’d rather be on this adventure with.

They might never make it to Pentos.

They might never make it out of Pentos.

They might come up with the smartest plans possible for their future moves and have it all be for naught because that was just how the game of thrones worked.

They might make it, whatever ‘it’ meant to each of them, but hate each other’s guts by that point.

The only thing he could predict about their future was that it would be unpredictable, but, at least for now, it was a future he walked toward gladly.

The shackles that were his father’s disappointment and his sense of familial duty were gone. Tyrion would get to spend a few weeks, at least, as just Tyrion. Likewise, Sansa wasn’t a hostage, a traitor’s sister, a girl with too much weight on her shoulders. And Bronn wasn’t just a sworn sword with nothing to work toward but survival and a bit of coin.

Maybe in Pentos they’d discover who they really were.

And maybe, when they returned home, Westeros would have no idea what it was in for.

Winter is coming, hear me roar.

He smiled to himself, thinking they’d need to come up with a motto for Bronn.

Ideally, one that didn’t involve the word ‘big’.