A week after he'd slunk away from his wife in a fit of self-hatred and misplaced guilt, Tyrion sat in his study, exhausted, lonely, and feeling helplessly low. When a knock at the door ushered in Bronn, he had thought that the sellsoword would be a welcome distraction.

He'd thought that, that is, until the man opened his mouth.

"You look like shit."

As he sauntered in and plopped himself in a chair, Tyrion closed the door behind him, rolling his eyes. "Thank you, my friend," he said, suddenly wishing he'd not opened it in the first place. He crossed to the side table, took two glasses and the flagon of wine, and brought it to his desk, pouring one for each of them.

Bronn raised his eyebrows, folding his arms. "Is that what we are?"

"If we're not, then why are you here bothering me?" Tyrion huffed, edging himself onto the window seat.

"Because you pay me to be here bothering you," he shrugged.

With a laugh, Tyrion eyed him curiously. "Does that somehow diminish our friendship?"

Swirling his cup, he bobbed his head once, turning the corners of his lips down as the thought about it. "I suppose it enhances it," he surmised, taking a swig of the deep red liquid.

"Then, be a friend and let me wallow in my self-loathing without adding to it," the Master of Coin moped.

Unimpressed, Bronn leaned back in the chair, bringing his feet up on the corner of the desk with a thud. "So, I take it you still haven't fucked that wife of yours yet."

Of course, that was why he was here. To pester him about his personal life. Glorious, he thought. He glowered at him, making a dismissive noise that sounded like a "Puh."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"I-" Tyrion started, struggling to find the words. "We..." He tried again, hoping that he'd find the right way to phrase it without making it sound as stupid as he'd made it. "She-" he sighed, hanging his head.

Cocking his head to the side, hoping to coax the thought from his friend, he interrupted, "That would be the group of people to whom I was referring; You, she, you in the collective." He punctuated his thought with a gesture of his hand from Tyrion to the door and then a circle, as though tying the two objects together.

Resigned, picking at the knee of his trousers, Tyrion gave a quiet, "We have."

"No good?" Bronn asked, surprised by the admission. "I thought that soulmate shit meant it was supposed to be all charged and tingly."

"Like you don't know," Tyrion levelled, refrencing the girl he'd brought to King's Landing at Bronn's request when they left the battlefield all those months ago. She had been a whore with dark curls and a heavy Lorathi accent, hoping to make trade with some of the Lannister soldiers. Tyrion hadn't been near enough to them when they spoke for the first time to hear their exchange, but it was clear from the way she beamed and the way his knees seemed to weaken that she was the one for him. Unable to stand in the way of true love, he'd secured her a place in the Red Keep, to keep an eye on Lady Sansa. He didn't ask that she violate the girl's privacy by reporting back to him, but just make sure that, if he wasn't there, to take care of her. In the time before their marriage, it had been the best he could think to do. Her residence in King's Landing kept her safe and cared for, and for that Bronn was grateful.

The gruff, older man coughed a laugh. "Alright, so's I do," he said dismissively. "Then, why do you look like so pathetic?"

Tyrion shrugged, staring into his cup. "I haven't been sleeping."

"So, send for some essence of nightshade and have the lady ease you off," he suggested, folding his arms and raising his goblet to his lips, adding, "You'll wake up a new man."

Releasing a tense breath, Tyrion shook his head sadly. "If only it were that simple. A new man is what I need to be," he confessed, gesturing to himself.

Face scrunched in bewilderment, Bronn scoffed. "What are you on about?"

"She deserves the husband of her dreams, not some old, beaten-down dwarf," he mused, seeming to deflate with each of his own insults.

"Old?" he laughed, thoroughtly bemused by Tyrion's investment in his guilt. "You're not even thirty, are you?"

Bronn was older than Jaime by half again, at least, he supposed, but that didn't change the fact that, sometimes, when his wife would laugh in earnest, he'd see the difference in their age and he'd feel like he was taking some of that youth from Sansa. Leaning back against the window, enjoying the feel of the cool glass against his flushed cheek. He knew he was being foolish, but there was no need to be mocked. Granted, if he didn't want to be mocked, he should have just slammed the door in the man's face. "No. But she's not even twenty," he groaned, trying not to sound like the old coot he felt he was.

"And? She could be a whole lot younger," his friend reminded him, raising to refill his glass and handing the flagon off to Tyrion. "I doubt the girl gives a rat's red ass you're a dwarf. And she's your fucking soulmate. Who d'you think hers will be?" He rested against the edge of the man's desk, trying not to look as frustrated as he was.

Tyrion topped off his wine, then looked up at him. "Truthfully? For her sake, some tall, handsome, young knight." He took a deep drink and paused. "Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if it were Podrick."

"Doubtful," he interjected, having heard the lad whispering with some Waters girl who apprenticed for one of the tailors in town.

After a moment's consideration, he continued, admitting the biggest concern he had with the whole thing. "I fear it'll be Joffrey and then I'll have done nothing but ruined her chances at true love."

"Shouldn't his lack of a mark should be a comfort there?" Bronn asked, as though it was the plainest thing in the world.

"Yes, but just because the Gods seemingly determined that he was incapable or unworthy of giving that type of love, doesn't mean that they wouldn't have decided that someone somewhere might help him." He looked off somewhere past his friend, trying to remember if he'd ever encountered such a story. "I've never heard of it happening, but I'd also only heard mention of a mark not coming in a few other times, so there's not much documented. Either way, the thought of having to watch her go back to him and not be able to help her..."

Bronn had to admit, in his limited experience with the young King, the idea of a girl as sweet as Sansa being forever tethered to him did sound like a fate worse than death. He imagined how he'd feel if he had to watch Shae endure some of the things he knew Tyrion had interrupted of Sansa and shuddered. He'd have torn the prick limb from limb, punishment be damned. Still, he knew that that wasn't the way that things worked in Tyrion's world. He did what he could and no one would ever fault him for using his head instead of a sword. "He's a right cunt, that one," he assessed.

"Not entirely accurate," Tyrion mused curiously.

Shocked at what seemed like a defense of Joffrey, the man clicked his tongue against his teeth. "How's that?"

"He lacks both the depth and warmth." With a grin at his joke, the Master of Coin drunk deep his wine.

Throwing his head back, Bronn roared a laugh, nearly choking on his own wine. "I'm going to have to remember that one." The pair sat in silence for a moment as he continued to mull his friend's predicament over. "Still, what does any of that have to do with your sorry self looking like shit?"

Giving in to his prodding, Tyrion sighed. "Sansa managed to talk me into bed a few nights ago and-"

Bronn put his cup down on the desk with a clink, cutting him off. "Talk you into? I've never heard-"

Raising his hand to silence him, he continued. "And it was incredible. Better than I could have ever imagined. And right after, everything came crashing down around me." He shook his head, appearing to look at a point somewhere above Bronn's head. The Gods, perhaps. "I violated her trust," he confessed.

"She had to talk you into it," the baffled sellsword asked, crossing to sit beside him, "and somehow you violated her trust?"

"Yes."

Lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on them, he mentioned, again, hoping that hearing it from someone else but his own head would make him realize how daft he sounded, "Let me get this straight. Your soulmate," he jerked his head in the direction of the door, "your beautiful, young, devoted wife comes to you on her hands and knees, begging you to fuck her and you want to and you do. Afterwards, instead of feeling like you'd just conquered the bloody world with your magical, mythical, good-luck dwarf cock, you feel like you've defiled The Maiden?"

Tyrion groaned, eyeing his companion with mounting frustration. "Graphic. Thank you, Bronn. Truly helpful."

"And I'm not done," he said, raising his brow and cocking his head to the side.

"Wonderful."

He nodded in the direction of the pile of dishes on the table across the room, meaning, too, the stacks of books on everything and nothing, and the generally disarray of the room. "By the looks of this office, which you're not even supposed to be in for another month, you've been spending the majority of your days here, and not with said lovely wife. Have you been sleeping here?" he asked, grabbing the cloak from behind him that was clearly being used as a blanket.

"No," the so-called half-man half-lied. "The settee in our chambers."

"What for?"

A weak shrug. "So that I won't be tempted to rush her again."

"Rush her?" Bronn laughed. "Are you hearing yourself? She's demonstrated that she's more than willing. What the fuck are you waiting for?"

Tyrion couldn't answer that. He didn't know what he was waiting for. He had married a woman who was, admittedly, better than the girl of his dreams. She was patient to a fault. She never shied from him, in fact demonstratively starting most of their more heated moments. There was absolutely no reason for it as far as the eye could see. He was trying to move past his years of self-loathing. He was. But he couldn't just ignore almost twenty-nine years of abuse from nearly everyone he'd ever known.

Having long since grown tired of Tyrion's brooding silence, Bronn stood, meaning to leave. "You're a depressing little shit, you know that?"

"I do," he admitted readily. "But, I don't pay you for the insults. The ones already in my head don't need company."

Bronn snorted a laugh. "You don't pay me enough to get out of them."