Author's Note: This is just a little something which wouldn't stop bothering me after the last, awesome episode „Blackwater". I wrote it in like half an hour and don't even know if it's any good, but figured that posting it here won't hurt. :) Hope you'll enjoy.

Disclaimer: Nothing of this is mine, so please don't sue me. Just borrowing the characters for a while to play a bit with them.

After the War

"Where is he?" The sellsword was behaving as he always did when he faced her, Cersei reflected, as she took a moment to study him, the lean, battle-hardened body and the face which spoke of hits taken during those battles; the blood still drying on his clothes and even on his hands gave silent witness to his part in the fight they just had won, and even though she knew said part had been big, she couldn't feel anything but disdain for this ruffian.

"In his chambers, of course", she told him anyway, wanting to get him out of the room again as fast as possible, noticing the way her father was looking at him with contempt – they'd met before, she remembered, and he had behaved just as he did here all the time, with no respect for those above him in status and birth. The only one, she reflected, who ever had gotten at least a hint of that had been her wretched brother, and even with him, the sellsword had been insolent and never had bothered to hold his tongue when it would have been wiser to do so. Why he'd been made Commander of the City Watch, she'd never understand, but now that Stannis had been beaten off and her father was here to take over his duties as Hand of the King, she supposed at least that would be set right.

She held his gaze as he gave her a long, hard look, not expecting any words of gratitude from him for the information she just had given him; and he didn't disappoint her, merely letting out a low grunt before he turned and strode off again, the door slamming shut behind him, the force he'd closed it with prompting Cersei to roll her eyes.

"Such a ruffian", she then told her father, "I really don't know why Tyrion keeps him around."

"For once, we have other things on our minds than the company your brother decides to keep", Tywin reminded her of the war at hand in reply, already having made himself comfortable and now glancing around for someone to get him a cup of wine, "I will take care of his hired hand after we got done here."

Nodding her agreement, the Queen Regent pushed all thoughts of her wretched brother and his despicable companion out of her mind as her father required her attention; they only looked up from their plans and maps and lists when a cupbearer finally made an appearance to do his job and fill their cups, and as she basked in her father's attention and enjoyed the light buzz the wine was giving her, Cersei once more could tell herself that everything would be alright – and believe it.

I don't even know why I care so much, Bronn pondered as he marched through the hallways of the castle, shoving aside people who were dumb enough to get in his way – not that there were many of those, since most of the castle folk made sure to stay out of his reach after taking one look at his face.

Not knowing why he cared bothered him almost more than the caring itself did – when he had started working for the Imp, he had made it clear to the smaller man what he was after, namely power, money, women, all the good things in a man's life, and he even had told him back then that he wasn't his friend and that he wasn't interested in his friendship. I'm not your toady, and I'm not your friend.

The words still echoed in his mind, and he had meant them when he had said them back then, standing for the dwarf a the trial by combat because one look at the others had been enough to tell him that no one else would, and because he knew of the dwarf's family, knew how rich they were, and whenever he saw a chance like that, he grasped it, that was just who he was, who he always had been and would always be until the day he'd die. Probably from a sword through his gut.

I'm not your toady, and I'm not your friend.

Not your friend.

And yet…

"Don't get killed."

"Nor you, my friend."

"Oh. Are we friends now."

"Of course we are."

Had Tyrion meant those words? By now, Bronn was quite sure that he knew him well enough to figure out the answer to this question, and he nodded in reply to his own thought – most certainly the dwarf did see him as his friend. And, judging from the unpleasant jolt which had went through him when he had heard that Tyrion had been gravely wounded in battle, a jolt he never had felt for any companion before, not even for the guy who had travelled with him for months – Seven Hells, he didn't even remember that guy's name – he just didn't see the dwarf as a mere employer anymore, either.

He held back a sigh as he realized what a big mess he actually had gotten himself into this time, then shrugged those thoughts off as the door leading to Tyrion's chambers finally appeared around the corner, the guards standing to the left and right of it giving him slightly uneasy glances as he approached.

"Um, Ser Bronn, Ser", one of them had enough guts to talk to him, even though he addressed him with a title he'd never been given, "the Maester is with Lord Tyrion now, maybe you should—"

"Step aside", Bronn interrupted him, his voice low and pleasant, but with an audible edge to it, an edge that promised pain for the two men, shouldn't they heed his command. Obviously, they'd heard it, and had received the unspoken message; they exchanged an uneasy glance, then moved to let him pass, and he pushed the door open and strode into the room as if he owned the place, a smirk tugging at his lips as he remembered how often he had annoyed Tyrion with that kind of behaviour.

Seven Hells, he then realized, frowning to himself as he approached the door leading to the bed chamber, you think of him as if he's dead already. And even if he was, why should you care so much?

Again the question remained unanswered as he opened the door and peered inside; the Grand Maester stood next to one side of the bed, Tyrion's permanently tongue-tied squire Podrick at the other, the latter looking at him when he entered, the old man ignoring him though, fully focused on his patient.

You better do a good job, old man, Bronn thought to himself as he watched the old man fuss over Tyrion, using bandages and strangely smelling ointments and potions, if you mess this up on purpose because of what he did to you… because of what I did to you… I'll cut off more than just your beard.

Strangely enough, he noted, the Maester looked even older with his beard shortened than he had before Bronn had sliced it off; he had a moment to imagine his dagger slicing through the limp skin of his throat instead, then he told himself that this could wait until he knew anything about Tyrion's state and moved closer to the bed, the sound of his footsteps finally making Pycelle register him and look up at him.

"Oh", the old man then said, another smirk curling the sellsword's lips as he reflected on the eloquence of the wizened man; he looked as if he wanted to say anything else, but didn't, just standing there and staring. As if he'd ridden in on a dragon, juggling lemon pies, Bronn sourly mused.

"Don't let me stop you from your work", he said after holding the old man's gaze for a moment longer, then letting it flicker to the unconscious small form on the bed, "I'm just here to make sure you do a good job."

In response, Pycelle cleared his throat, then just nodded and focused on his work again; and even though he'd seen healers at work, Bronn found it hard to figure out what he was doing exactly, since Tyrion's face was wrapped up in bandages so thick and thorough that only his closed eyes and nose were visible.

"He took quite the c-cut", Pod somewhere found the guts to speak up, making the sellsword look at him and nearly swallowing his own tongue when the hard eyes met his, "b-but Grand Maester Pycelle thinks he will be fine…"

"I heard you killed the one who cut him", Bronn flatly said after pondering this for a moment and to his slight amusement, Pod blushed, but managed to nod; the sellsword held the squire's gaze for a bit longer, then muttered "Well done", holding back the urge to roll his eyes when the boy beamed at him happily in reply.

"Be quiet, please", Pycelle now threw in from his place next to the bed, "I'm doing very delicate work here."

Biting back a snarky comment, Bronn just nodded as he moved to a chair next to the door and sat down there; fidgeting with the hem of his vest, Pod watched him a bit longer for a moment, then focused on Tyrion again, bravely observing how Pycelle kept working on the slash, the only noise in the room being the sounds he made as he did this and the calm breathing of the four men inside.

"You go ahead", Bronn told both Pycelle and Pod once the Maester finally had finished his work, "I'll stay right here. After what Pod told me, I'm not leaving him out of my sight until he's back on his little feet."

Such a comment would have brought him a scalding look and a fitting response from the man in question, but since Tyrion was still out cold, he only got frightened looks and nods from the two other men; they hurried off and closed the door behind themselves, and for a while, there was silence again, until Bronn got up from his chair and moved over to the bed, looking down on the motionless man beneath the soft blankets.

"You're gonna look even more messed up once that healed", he told the unconscious man, "and you better watch your back for a while if what Pod told me is true."

He fell silent, then smirked, a hint of humour in his voice as he went on, picturing how Tyrion would react to his words, if he were awake. "If you pay me extra, I'll do that for you. You don't have to pay me much, seeing it's such a small back."

Again, silence formed as Bronn looked down on the unconscious man; then, he let out a small sigh, his smile fading as he reached down and surprised himself by briefly touching the dwarf's shoulder, his voice now low and solemn as he spoke up again, finally acknowledging the reason why he was here. "Hold on there. You'll be alright… my friend." And beneath the bandages, despite his pain and discomfort and fear, Tyrion smiled.