.

Author's Note to Readers:

This is a slow-burning (at least in the beginning) romance to give Tyrion a happier ending than the one it seems Martin might have in store for him. And if you like strong female characters, you're in the right place.

I will not be conforming to Martin's POV style for each chapter; the story will mainly be from the perspective of my OC, and if I change perspectives, it will be seamlessly, without a chapter break. Also, I feel it was terribly unjust of Martin to lop off Tyrion's nose when he already has so many other disadvantages, so I am going to write it as only a scar.

At times I will use lines taken directly from George Martin's works, so I take the time now to credit him.

Finally, the Tyrion Lannister I imagine and craft is Peter Dinklage's, & the name 'Alyce' is pronounced like 'Alice.'

Thank you, and enjoy.

…

And Of Such Follies

Part I: Sworn Sword and Vow

…

"At least he did not dream. He had dreamed enough for one small life. And of such follies: love, justice, friendship, glory. As well dream of being tall."

—Dance with Dragons, George R. R. Martin

…

I.

Sworn Sword and Vow

Alyce Waters squinted at the small script in the dim light, engrossed in a story. Among the books Corliss the acolyte had given her to read for the week was a romance between a knight of Highgarden and a lady of Summerhall, and she was of course reading that one first before forcing herself through the tedious histories.

The cramped room she sat in was circular and plain but for the extensive wardrobe of sheer fabrics, gem necklaces, peacock feathered ornaments, and lacy underclothes in the large wardrobe to one side of it. The candles that lit it were few, but of real wax and even scented. The bed's mattress was linen, but plain. Alyce was sitting with her back against the wall on a pad of wool blankets on the floor that she was using to sleep on.

The muffled, breathy cries of a woman faking orgasm began to issue through the floorboards from below her. Alyce wiggled her bare toes at the sound, but did not look up from the book.

Her friend Rhea was in front of the wardrobe's mirror, finishing tying herself into a wispy silken dress.

"Lock up behind me and remember to stay quiet," Rhea told her under her breath. "You know the moment Madam sees you're here, she'll insist you employ yourself like the rest of us—"

"—or find the door, I know," Alyce finished for her. "I'll only be here a day more. The goldcloaks will give up after that, and I'll be able to sleep in my own bed."

Rhea made an absent humming sound. She had the nose and eyes of a Lysseni though she was born and raised in Maidenpool. Her slightly exotic look helped her with her clientele. She also had very tiny feet. Alyce looked over the top of her book at her own rather large feet. Her lips thinned.

"Wish me luck."

Alyce glanced up at her and smirked. "I wish you a dashing knight with all his teeth and a cock the size of his forearm, darling."

Rhea laughed under her breath as she shut the door behind her. Alyce got up to lock the door, but as she was turning the key, a soft rapping on the wood from the other side made her pause. She shifted her weight slightly, feeling the knives concealed in thin sheathes under her clothes against the small of her back and under the left sleeve of her dress. She reached her fingertips under that sleeve to touch her fingertips to the small dagger handle.

"Who is it?"

"A bird," came the quiet answer. Alyce relaxed and opened the door. A tiny boy of six or seven stood in the hall. He held out a scrap of parchment to her and promptly left. Alyce knew her benefactor's handwriting at a glance.

The fifth prayer room at seven, it read. Alyce grimaced. She had been hoping he would visit her soon, but she knew this summons was probably do to her ill behavior from the day before. I'll tell him what happened. He'll believe me.

It was close on to seven, so she knelt beside her blanket pad, dropped her book onto it absently, and pulled from under it a thick, strong leather swordbelt. The belt had steal fastenings and was loaded with sheaths for knives. She placed it gently onto the bed, and then sat to pull on her boots. The old leather was a little tight in the toes; she would have to ask for replacements at the meeting tonight.

Standing, she lifted her skirts into one arm impatiently and fastened the belt tight atop her hips around the top hem of her linen smallclothes. She let her skirts fall again. The fabric was thick and unflattering enough that it concealed the belt. She took up a thin grey wool cloak, ran her fingers through her tangled hair, and then gave up on making herself more presentable.

Outside the warm brothel, the streets of King's Landing smelt of stale piss and got riskier the longer after dark the hour became. The city was not as desperate as it had been in the weeks before Queen Margaery had brought food in from Highgarden, but still it was not the kindest place after dark. Alyce was long used to it. This city was her home, and the eyes in the dark could tell by the swift, smooth strides of her legs that she knew her business in these streets.

She lifted a latch and slipped into a dark hall of the familiar sept that made her feel half a girl again, as it always did. She walked confidently through the blackness until she felt she was close. She reached out and silently touched a door handle, feeling for the number etched in it. Six. The next one…

When she opened the door, he was sitting with some bread and cheese in the small, dimly-lit prayer room. Candles were lit piously for every figure of the seven gods of the Citadel on the mantle to the right. Alyce closed the door behind her quietly and walked to him.

He was wearing a septon's robes—as was his usual attire for this meeting place—and he smelled like tallow and old books. He had dressed that way all throughout her childhood, and she had been convinced for many years that her protector was a kindly—albeit secretive—septon. After she had learned the truth at around ten years old, she had told him frankly the next time she had seen him that she had recognized him "up there with the lords and ladies" and that he did not have to dress up anymore.

Oh, I find many benefits to dressing up, tichira, he had told her. I think I shall continue and I think you shall not tell anyone what you now know. His tone had been very firm, but his eyes had held a measure of pride in them.

He touched her chin affectionately when she sat beside him on the bench. Though they were of a height now, it had not always been so. She smiled. "Favrimar." He had taught her to call her by the word for patron in High Valyrian when she was very small. Though formal, the term had long become an endearment.

"You broke your teacher's wrist," he scolded.

"He was a brute." She crossed her legs brusquely. "He tried to put his hands places I did not want them. Anyway, I was practically born swimming in the bay. These are one set of lessons it shan't hurt me to cut short."

"To swim well one must needs technique."

"I have seen others and just copied them. I can do all the strokes. Pray do not send me to another."

Lord Varys opened his soft hands in a look of acquiescence. "He did not harm you, I trust?"

"I didn't give him a chance to, but I thought you chose your instructors with more care than that, my lord."

"Alas, there was no reason to think he would behave in such a way. The temptation must have been just too much."

Alyce made a face, helping herself to some of the cheese. It was of good quality. She looked up at Varys, trying to read his enigmatic expression.

"You aren't displeased?"

"After taking pains to make sure you can defend yourself from such, I do not know why I would be," he replied, nibbling some cheese as well.

Alyce relaxed fully and trained her soft blue eyes on him, waiting for him to take up the conversation. He had brought her to him for a purpose. He always had a purpose.

Varys sat back in his pious robes and folded his hands together.

"Tichira, I had hoped when I made plans to foster you under my protection that you would serve me well. You have done that much and more."

Alyce warmed under the unexpected praise. Varys never praised her unless it was deserved. She knew she could sometimes be bullheaded, but she had always done everything he had asked of her and had done it well, because she knew it was to him she owed the life she led safely off the dirty streets with the rest of the bastard-born.

He had had her instructed in how to read languages, how to fight, how to move quietly, how to deceive, how to kill, how to hold a wine glass. She could speak like a courtier and a sailor. She knew High Valyrian and a number of its bastard dialects alongside her native Common Tongue. She had learned how to see or hear what was truly important in a room or in a conversation. She knew what truth sounded like and what lies sounded like. She had belonged to someone, had been taken care of, and had been given an education the firstborn son of a lord would have been proud of. He had given her more than other bastard children could even dream of.

She owed him everything.

He had used her for many tasks—some as simple as becoming someone's friend, some as odd as switching out a nobleman's left shoe, and some as difficult and dangerous as sneaking through secret passageways in the Red Keep. He never asked her to kill—he had other people for such things—but they both knew she had taken lives in order to complete with discretion some of the tasks she had been set. She took his word as law and would do anything her asked of her. He was her security and savior, and almost the only person she regarded as family. Even to the baseborn, family was sacred.

She felt almost immediately, however, that there was another side to this praise. He wanted something of her. He always wanted something of her, and that was expected, but this time it seemed something with a deal more gravity than usual. Why else try to warm her?

"You have your mother's sweetness and your father's tenacity," he continued.

Alyce did not particularly consider either of those a compliment. She loved her mother, but the woman was soft and silly and prone to tears of any emotion. And her father…

That little bit of truth had been kept a secret from her until the bastard raid. She had been awakened at the beginning of this year by scruffy armed men barging in and posting themselves as her guards in the middle of the night. The effort had luckily been without warrant. Varys had hidden her so well as to have completely escaped royal knowledge.

Her father had certainly been tenacious…but it had also been the death of him. He had been made for war, and without one to fight was ruined by his own bad habits and a wife who hated him.

"I have sent you on journeys to the north, the west, and the south," Varys said, "and given you tasks which you have always fulfilled to the best of my wishes. You have both killed and bedded men. You have worked for a living at any trade I put you to. All these things you have done well. And rather to my own surprise, I have grown terribly fond of you."

This sounds more like a goodbye than anything else. He is sending me away.

Varys saw the suddenly trepidation in her eyes and patted her leg. "Listen now. There is a task I need done, and I confess I know of no person I would trust to do it better. I do not wish for you to leave me. But so many game pieces have been thrust out into the unknown wild… I need someone I can truly trust to help keep them safe while they flail about." He smiled a small smile. "Once you have seen that a certain person has done their part in safety, I shall have you hurried back."

Alyce took a breath, filling her lungs and buying herself a moment. She wanted to get out into the world…but also she was also a touch afraid of it. It could swallow me whole. There is war. Desperate bands of men. Soon famine in the Riverlands. And as the Starks used to say, winter is coming.

"What am I to do?" There was no thought of refusing.

Varys moved close silently and lowered his voice, though there was almost no chance there was anyone nearby.

"Tyrion Lannister has arrived on the shores of Pentos and is in the care of an old friend of mine."

"Mopatis," Alyce murmured.

"You know what you know," Varys murmured back. "Now. I am rather fond of this little lord, and it is by no means certain that he will be able to survive in the Free Cities… He is but a dwarf there, easily stepped on, captured… His sister has sent out assassins after him, and neither mine nor Illyrio's reach extends far or strongly enough to guarantee his safety. But I should prefer him alive, you see. He could play an important role in seasons to come." His eyes sparkled subtlety. Alyce nodded once. She needed no more explanation. The second Lannister son—the infamous, convicted Imp—was important to Lord Varys. Being so, she would guard him with her life.

"I will find him as soon as I am able and I will protect him, my lord."

Varys patted her hand.

"What should I know about him and about this journey?" She looked him firm in the eye.

A corner of Varys' mouth lifted. "Here is what I think you should know, dear one. The journey will be perfectly simple until you depart from my friend's manse. The plan after is to send him and a collection of others to the Queen Daenerys Targaryen." His voice was very low and intimate. Alyce had to sit very still in order to catch every word.

"For help or harm?" she asked very quietly.

"Help to be sure." She knew he was whispering intentions to her that he shared with very, very few others. Luckily she knew how to keep still and hear. "Along that intent, well," —Varys opened his soft hands in a delicate stymied gesture— "there is no knowing how things might go. The way to Volantis is treacherous."

Alyce nodded. "And what should I know about the dwarf?"

Varys smiled. "Oh, he is fascinating. Endlessly. Clever and full of all sorts of aspirations. Tricky, but oddly more moral than one would expect."

Alyce frowned. She had heard so many different accounts of the dwarf of Lannister that even with Varys' insights she did not know what to expect.

"Did he kill his father?" she asked directly.

"Oh yes indeed."

"Did he kill Joffrey?"

Varys' eyes shone with knowledge in the dim light. "No. He is not one for killing children, however terrible they might be."

"I heard he has a weakness for whores," she murmured, wondering if this was an angle she could use to get close to the man.

"Ah. Yes, perhaps before." Varys' lips thinned slightly.

Before his father shamed him over the one he was keeping in the Red Keep. Alyce vaguely knew the gossip.

"Tyrion has a colorful and shameful history with women," Varys added delicately.

Alyce nodded. That angle is out, then. "Is he kind? Cruel? What sort of man is he really?"

"Now who can say what sort of man any man is? But, I will tell you this: I know him to be as kind as he can when he can. I know him to be ruthless when he must. I know he has been cut deeply, terribly, by those he has put faith in. And he is just about as clever as they come, dear one. If you allow yourself to see deeper than the surface he presents…he is a good man. One who craves kindness and belonging but would never behave as if he did."

Not a cruel man, then. More like an abused one. If Varys says he is a good man, he must be. How often the beliefs of the commoners have everything backwards. Alyce sat back slightly. It sounded as if she would be able to respect her charge. That would make things easier.

"I will need new boots."

"Everything is packed."

"Shall I leave tonight?"

"You will. Visit with your mother in number eight. When you return, Taren will be here to escort you to the ship."

Varys stood then, and so did she. He stepped close to her and touched her chin. He said nothing, but his eyes were soft. Alyce put a gentle hand on his chest. She knew he was not a man for intimate gestures, and though he continuously surprised her, she felt close to him. She had found other father figures in the city—fisherman, pawners, musicians, tavern owners—but Varys had been her guardian ever since she could remember. She loved and trusted him as she did no one else.

He made a contented humming noise and patted her hand once before she lowered it, they stepped apart, and she went next door to room eight. Inside her mother was on her knees praying to one of the Seven. She was a plump woman with fair, smooth skin, light brown eyes, and sandy hair, though that hair was always covered in her septa's wimple. Alyce thought she looked very little like her mother with her thick raven hair and hard, wiry build, though Varys claimed her face was like her mother's when her mother had been younger, and that they had the same hands.

Her mother stood to embrace her, fat tears already rolling down her pink cheeks.

"I'm only going to be gone for a while. I just have to go babysit some lord across the Narrow. Don't bed any kings while I'm gone," she japed.

"Hush," her mother chided in a watery voice.

Alyce escaped as soon as she was able and met her guide in the previous room. Varys had gone, but in his place stood a scruffy-looking boy of thirteen or fourteen years with drab brown hair and suspicious brown eyes. She concealed her disappointment. He was little more than a child. Was this supposed to help her? On his jaw was the wishful fuzz of a beard, but his mouth was set in a determined line. She spied weapons concealed beneath his jerkin because she knew where to look.

"Are you Taren?"

"Aye."

They shook hands.

"Let's be on our way," Alyce said without preamble. There would be enough time for talk on the sea. "Is everything already on the ship?"

"Yeh, an' we're expected, so keep pace," he replied brusquely as she followed him out of the room. His Flea Bottom inflection was thick.

They left King's Landing behind them in the darkness. It was impossible to keep silent traversing down the stony decline to the bay, but there were no noises of others around.

"How long will the passage take?" she asked him as they kept to the water's edge, moving toward the hulking black silhouettes of docked ships against the stars. A few of the ships had faint oil lanterns burning.

"Four days if we don' run into no trouble," he replied in a low voice. "Now no talking."

Ignoring that, she asked, "You good with that sword?"

She had seen a handsome blade at his side beside a number of other scruffier sheaved knives at his belt. She was certain it had been a gift from Varys.

"Don' you worry about that."

That was it for the talking that night. Even in the darkness Taren knew the ship they were expected on, and they were greeted with silent nods from the crewmen as they boarded.

Their cabins were small, but separate and adjacent, and Alyce was glad to see hers had a bolt lock on the inside by the light of the small glass oil lamp. She was also delighted to see a well-made cloth pack filled with new clothes and number of parcels piled on her bed and the floor. She rarely got new things, and she opened and looked at them all with eagerness.

Packed along with many of her old clothes and belongings, Varys had gotten her many pairs of new traveling clothes, and she smirked when she unrolled them. Ah, the gods are good. He has me wearing pants.

There were no dresses among her new clothes; only practical and well-made traveler's shirts and pants tailored slightly to suit a woman, as well as new boiled leather, two pairs of well-fitting boots, and a mail hauberk. She eyed the mail with distaste. She would not be wearing it often; it was too cumbersome, and it would also prove deadweight in her pack for the most part. She did not see anything suited for the coming winter, so she knew Varys intended her for warmer climes.

Her old but excellent steel shortsword was among her belongings. She also found a compass, her old bow and quiver of arrows, a good steel hatchet, a high quality water satchel, combs, maps of the Free Cities, thick woolen socks and thin cotton ones, new linen underclothes, parcels of cured dried meats, well-made soaps, and a medical bag with ointments and cloths…and a few other "medicinal" items Alyce knew enough about to recognize. Varys had placed a few vials of poisons, milk of the poppy, and other highly useful little poisons and drugs alongside the more docile ointments and cloths.

Her favorite of his presents she sat down onto the cot to inspect closer. She had been trained with axe and mace, crossbow, sword and shield, war hammer, bow and arrow, and arakh, but the weapon she had taken the most liking to was the knife. The easiest weapon to conceal, they could be just as deadly as a sword when thrust and as deadly as arrows when thrown. They were, however, limited and finicky lovers. Knives abandoned their master almost as often as arrows, and, when thrown, had a very short range in which they were powerful.

Alyce most often used knives while sparring. One of her teachers had encouraged her use of knives in swordplay where the others had only scoffed, and with his molding, she had settled into her own preferred style. She would hold her shortsword in her right hand—it was light enough for it and she had a strong arm—and wield a hefty dirk in her other. While distracting the enemy with the sword, she could use the knife. If she lost the first knife, there were always others at her belt.

Varys had given her four such large, sturdy knives—excellently made with unadorned but nonetheless handsome handles. Another, a dagger, was thin and slight and would make a perfect replacement should she have to abandon one of the knives that currently hid against the small of her back or beneath her sleeve. Among the collection was also a new stiletto, never used by the shine of it, with a point so sharp she could barely see it.

But the knives Alyce gazed most interestedly at came in a rolled set. They were all smallish throwing knives. Steel, with no handles, and double blades sharp as razors. The blades on one side contained a slight shallow divot where she would place her thumb before releasing. This gift bemused Alyce. Varys had always referred to knife-throwing as an 'impractical art,' and though she enjoyed throwing, as a rational person, Alyce could not but regard it as such herself.

She had spent a few minutes with each the previous knives, familiarizing herself with them, as each knife generally has a slightly difference balance, weight, and feel. She needed to know them if she wanted to use them well. But with these knives… She held one in her hand, and then the next, and found that they also were somehow so similar to each other in weight and feel she could not tell the difference between them. These took great skill and precision to make…Varys spoils me with this princely gift.

She replaced the knives in their roll and felt a thrill of expectation. If I learn to throw one with accuracy, I can with the rest. Their range is much shorter than a bow's, but within a certain distance…I will be deadly with these.

Among the extremely useful and quality gifts and equipment she had been given for her journey, she also found some work to be done. There were old books of dragonlore on her bed as well as a history and lineage of the Lannister and Targaryen houses. There were short passages in the different dialects of the Free Cities and in high and low Valyrian in order to test her adequate and hard-earned understanding of those tongues. There were a few letters regarding Tyrion, his actions, and his whereabouts from a variety of senders and in a variety of scripts.

Alyce bolted her cabin door, stripped down to her smallclothes, freed herself of weapons, and, though her eyes felt rather tired, opened one of the family histories as the ship found its way quietly over the dark, rolling Blackwater out into the open sea.

…