A/N: This oneshot is based on a Tyrion/Tysha theory. It will probably be disproved as the ASOIAF series continues. Please leave behind a review! Thanks for reading.
The ship was called The Whore's Husband, and it was this uninspiring title that was like to have led to its small crew, its filthy decks, and the incessant stream of barnacles apparently summoned from thin air. Yet still a handful of poor smallfolk seeking passage would board it at each crossing, going from King's Landing to Braavos. Dismissed in disgrace and raped by the garrison, a small girl stumbled out of a keep on one black night, in a torn dress, barefoot. Her lip had split, her hair erratic. Her face looked windburnt as she descended into the city, a pool of horse shit and ale. The Whore's Husband had left port a few days ago, taking a detour, with the girl called Tysha on it. She remained in her cabin the entire journey, sobbing and in her cups while passengers discussed her fabled promiscuous ways, to the ambivalence of the crew in their petite numbers.
Tysha kept recalling her lost love's face, the way it twisted when Tywin Lannister decreed that he too should rape her. He said Lannisters were worth more, she remembered as the tears dried upon her thinning face. And now I am headed to a whorehouse for some kind of psychotic jape. She turned once more to the substance in front of her, and the downed the bloody flagon. Her wine was her only friend, but friends alone do not keep one alive.
One night, when she sobbed over Tyrion and their wedding night (her tears disgusted her, so she remained resolute in keeping her weakness obscured from her erstwhile passengers) some drunken cunt burst into her quarters, demanding unintelligibly. Tysha hugged the warmth of her wine, shaking uselessly until the man vomited, his ruddy cheeks flushing redder, and he fell out of her probably decrepit cabin and passed out. The way he slumped reminded Tysha of a dead body.
The Whore's Husband appeared to gather scraps of dignity as it slowly, raggedly sailed into Braavos. Even Tysha emerged, blinking from the foreign light. The sky was punctured by three long red lines, looking like wounds. Tysha peered over the water, and it bisected her face a hundredfold. Her vision was somewhat shaky, thanks to the soothing from her wine. A singer (or perhaps he was a bard, Tysha could not recall) approached her as Braavos came within the horizon. 'Hello, milady,' he said crisply, with a tone she had sometimes seen in Tyrion, 'what's your name?'
'Um,' Tysha said. She stowed away her elixir for later, keeping her eyes on the burning skyline, the interval between the red-blue air and the dirty sea. She thought quickly, and averted her eyes. 'The Sailor's Wife,' she said clearly. 'I am the Sailor's Wife, and I only bed those who I marry.' The singer (or the bard) walked away. The Sailor's Wife continued to gaze ahead of her: she could imagine Tyrion smiling atheir words. The Whore's Husband's passengers eventually disbanded from the ship and The Sailor's Wife was soon staring, barefoot, the wind stirring at her hair, at a brothel named The Happy Port. She swallowed a lungful of air and a mouthful of wine before stepping inside.