A/N: I was robbed at my home earlier this week, I'm christening my new laptop.

As he tried to get himself ready to face his sister again, Tyrion felt overcome by perhaps one too many emotions.

Some would argue feeling was good, but he had closed the part of himself that truly felt anything for so long….

However, he could not help but replay the last days in his head. He replayed going on the wall, looking for lady Sansa, wanting to mend things between her and Daenerys, he had almost forgotten how to breath, something he was getting accustomed to when around her. She had always been beautiful, something he had not been able to make himself not see when they were married, but the trials she had undergone had granted her inner strength and a powerful charisma. He remembered telling her that he would feel better leaving to take back the Iron Throne if he knew that Sansa and Daenerys would see eye to eye.

It had not been a political savvy move on his part, just a selfish request perhaps. He was bound to one woman, but could not stop thinking about the other. The last time it had happened, he had been bound to Cersei, and enthralled by his way too young wife. He did not want a repeat of what had happened, the pain, the humiliation, the losing her-part. He had seen her talk to the Hound and had felt jealousy, prompting him to drink more than he should have.

However, he had been honest on the wall. He had spoken his mid, tried to make her see, and had failed, as always, for his lady had seen too much and had been undermined too often to let him have the upper hand, to bend to his will and make peace with his queen?

Nevertheless, when she had said his name, it had felt like lightning striking. He had felt like he was all-knowing, all powerful, all everything really. Move along, three-eyed raven Bran, the omnipotent Imp was in the castle.

That night, he had wondered if she had used his first name because she knew it would make him turn around, or if she had done so because this was who he was to her. Tyrion. Not Lord Tyrion. Not the Imp. Not her former husband. Not the lesser of too many evils.

When she had said his name, he had turned around and never had the chance to ask before she delivered that oh so important piece of information.

At night still, he pondered. He probably was reading too much into things, but from what she had told him, only family knew about Jon's true parentage, and he hoped it meant he was part of that inner circle, that when the throne was secure, he could go back and court her the way she deserved to be.

She….. probably would be the death of him. Yet he could not bring himself to care. What a glorious way to go!

Having that knowledge had put him in the crosshair of a state affair, but he did not mind. He had been honest with Varys, showing his torn loyalties between the two Targyaren heirs, honest about having pledged himself to one of them and not the other, but as time went by, he realized that he had perhaps always known what the spy would decide upon hearing his bit of news. He had planted a seed. If something happened and they were to change strategies, it would not be on him.

A few months back, it would have horrified him to even think about the Iron throne being claimed by anyone else, but as things were…. There was a reason the chair was so uncomfortable, and no man would be better at home but Jon Snow, sitting there. He did not want to be king, he was in love. His heart, his purpose in life was love. He had been deprived of it for too long, needed it any form he could get it, had forgiven Sansa for the way she had treated him in the past. It took a great man to not hold to any grudge, especially when you had this ace in your sleeve, no matter how much you disliked it.

As painful as it was, Tyrion had decided to let Varys make the decision that he would deem the best for everyone involved. And he thought of a lovely lady with red hair and green eyes, and the way his name had rolled off her tongue. How he longed for it to happen again. How he wished it could happen in the bedroom, desire in her voice, for him, only him, always him.

It felt like a decade later, but as he watched the queen react to Missandei's death, Tyrion had to thank his lady for the trust she had shown him. He met Varys' eyes, and they exchanged a knowing look.

His hand went to a locket around his neck, containing a few red hairs.

There was only woman who was supposed to be the death of him. No one could deprive her of the privilege.

What it meant for the future, well…

Yet, with the locket in his hand, he felt like the tallest man in the room, and for once, he did not fear his sister, felt ready to take her on. He had business to attend North. Cersei needed to die.

A/N: I'd love to hear from you guys!