Author's Note: And now, here we are at Chapter One, five years after Tyrion escaped King's Landing.
Chapter One
The fog was thick as the ship moved closer to the shore, but that didn't keep Tyrion Lannister from standing on deck and watching the city lights glisten through the haze. The first proof he saw that he'd truly reached King's Landing was the Red Keep, its towers spiraling above the landscape like a castle in the clouds. His gut clenched involuntarily at the sight of it, a flood of dark memories drowning his soul. He had spent the past five years trying to forget all of it, and he'd thought he had. But a single glance at the Red Keep and it all came back to him. Every slight, every pain, every terror. Tywin Lannister was dead now – Tyrion had made sure of that himself – and so were Cersei and Joffrey. There was no longer anyone in the Red Keep who had a personal reason to hate him, and yet, he despised the place just the same. He had no intention of ever going back there, no matter who sat on the Iron Throne.
Jon Snow.
Tyrion almost laughed. If someone had told him on his first trip to Winterfell that the young bastard would one day be king of the Seven Kingdoms, Tyrion would have died laughing. The boy had been impossibly green then. Overly sensitive, inexperienced, the last boy in the world one would imagine becoming Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, much less the King of Westeros.
And yet he had.
A lot had changed since Tyrion had last seen the shores of his homeland. His sister was dead, Daenerys Targaryen was dead, and her dragons with her. Now, Jon Snow – or more precisely, Aegon Targaryen – sat on the throne. Rumor had it that his love for the Dragon Queen had burned quite brightly until he'd been forced to end her life, sacrificing the woman he loved to defeat the Night King. The second coming of Azor Ahai some called it, but Tyrion had his doubts. Either way, the war was over. Jon had executed Cersei for her crimes, and all was right with the world.
And it was finally safe for Tyrion to return to Westeros.
Tyrion had been in a tavern in Norvos when he'd first heard the news, getting drunk and trying to con a particularly stupid bard out of his last halfpenny. The Night King was dead. Cersei Lannister was dead. And Westeros was safe again, at least until another mad king decided to sit upon the throne.
Tyrion had gathered up the pennies he'd been hoarding, called in his debts, and had managed to scrape together just enough to fund his passage home. It had taken months, but now, he was almost there. Soon, they'd be making port, and his life would finally begin again.
It had been a long, lonely exile for Tyrion. He'd been separated from Lord Varys early on, and their paths had never crossed again. He'd heard rumors that Varys had eventually found his way into the court of Daenerys Targaryen and had helped her reach Westeros. Of course, Varys had lost his life for it, but at least he'd died doing what he believed was right.
Tyrion, on the other hand, had spent years traveling the breadth and width of Essos, trying to find something meaningful to occupy his time with while he tried to avoid being captured and dragged back to Westeros. The first year had been the worst. He'd seen ghosts at every turn, around every corner. He'd taught himself to sleep with one eye open, just so he could finally get some rest.
Eventually, he'd become so poor and unkempt and dirty that no one in the world would have been able to tell him apart from all the other worthless dwarves roaming the land begging for alms. And so he had finally begun to let his guard down. Now, he could go anywhere, speak to anyone, without fear of discovery, and not just because he was barely recognizable, but because all those who wanted him dead were already in the grave themselves.
Suddenly, the ship lurched to one side, nearly knocking Tyrion off his feet. He gripped the railing to keep himself upright, his eyes never leaving the scene before him. King's Landing was growing closer by the minute. Although it was the middle of the day, the clouds cast a shadowy pall over everything. It was still winter, and from a distance, the city looked quiet and peaceful, as if it were hibernating and just waiting for summer to reawaken it.
Tyrion had no plans for what would happen when he reached the shore. It didn't really matter what happened as long as he could finally plant his feet on home soil again. He felt tired and weary, old beyond his years. He had heard through whispers and rumors that his brother Jaime still lived, that he'd married a fine lady and was now the Lord of Casterly Rock. Tyrion hoped it was true because, if it was, maybe he'd finally be able to return to the Westerlands in peace. If it wasn't true, Tyrion feared what had become of the Rock. Had it fallen into disrepair, a mere relic of its former glory? Or had some unknown lord taken command of it, someone appointed by the new king? Tyrion had too many questions and not enough answers, but he knew it wouldn't be that way for long.
Another half hour passed, and the ship finally moored in port. The city was much busier than it had looked from afar, the wharf bustling with people going about their daily business. It was obvious to Tyrion that no matter who sat on the Iron Throne, little seemed to change for the smallfolk. They were still poor. Their lives were still hard. It was all the same.
Of course, Jon Snow had barely been on the throne six months and the country was still reeling from years of endless war. Perhaps the boy would make things easier for his subjects if given enough time. As Tyrion remembered him, he was an honest boy, earnest and altruistic. If anyone could effect change, it was Jon Snow.
Tyrion clambered down the gangboard with the other passengers, no one paying him particular attention. But then, why should they? He was certain that as far as most of Westeros was concerned, Tyrion Lannister was long dead and happily forgotten, just like his father and sister.
Tyrion walked the streets, taking his time to observe his surroundings despite the bitter cold. He held his cloak tightly around him with gloved hands, warding off the worst of the winter sting. How many times had he walked these streets when he'd lived in King's Landing? A dozen times? A hundred? Everything looked different now, and yet, eerily the same. But maybe it was the snow that did that. He had never seen King's Landing in winter before. Perhaps the only difference now was that there was snow on the ground and a chill in the air.
As unwise as it was to visit the haunts of his past, Tyrion was drawn to the same familiar places he had known in his previous life, before he'd been convicted of Joffrey's murder, before he had murdered his own father and made his escape across the Narrow Sea. And so he found himself hiding from the cold in an old familiar tavern in Flea Bottom, having a beer and huddling at a small table in the corner, listening to the men and women reveling around him.
Tyrion had gotten very good at being inconspicuous, despite his unique stature. He had learned to listen more than talk, a skill it had been very difficult for him to hone. He listened now for any bits of truth that wafted on the air – gossip about the new king, whispers about Cersei's execution, fears about the future of Westeros. The talk was much more detailed than what he'd heard in Essos, but nothing told him what he truly needed to know. He needed to know what had happened to Jaime before he decided what to do next.
Tyrion was on his first bowl of stew and his second tankard of beer when the door burst open and a familiar voice rang out across the room.
"Hey, barkeep. I'm gettin' married tomorrow. One round on me!"
The entire room cheered in appreciation, and a bunch of men scrambled from their tables to rush the bar for drinks before the new arrival changed his mind.
Tyrion stayed exactly where he was, his head bent over his stew, his heart pounding against his ribs. His first instinct was to look up, to make sure that the voice matched the face he remembered. But he wasn't ready to reveal himself just yet. He still needed time to reacclimate to his surroundings before he exposed himself and there was no going back.
Tyrion listened intently as the tavern benefactor got himself a table and called over a serving wench. There was some slapping and giggling and promises of a glorious night to come. The more the man spoke, the more Tyrion was certain that it was Ser Bronn of the Blackwater.
Tyrion forced himself to finish eating his stew, the chunky liquid feeling like rocks in his stomach. He didn't know what to do. Did he want to talk to Bronn? Should he talk to Bronn? The problem was, he had no idea who Bronn was working for, and if it was an enemy – because gods only knew who might still want him dead – Tyrion didn't know if he could trust his old friend or not. He had no money to offer him, no way to keep him quiet if he threatened to reveal Tyrion's secrets. And yet, Tyrion longed to see a familiar face, just once. It had been far too long.
It was a good half hour before Tyrion finally had the courage to raise his eyes and look around. When he did, he found Bronn staring at him from across the room, his expression as implacable as ever.
Bronn slowly shook his head. Then, he nudged the girl off his lap, stood, and made his way toward Tyrion, his drink still in his hand. He looked older, though no less cynical than usual. All his limbs were still attached, so Tyrion knew he couldn't have done too badly in the war.
Tyrion's first instinct was to hide his face, and his second instinct was to run. But he did neither because he already knew he was caught.
"Knew it was you," Bronn said as he sat down in the chair opposite Tyrion. "Been waiting for you to show your face for half an hour. Never remembered you being a coward."
"I'm not a coward," Tyrion said, washing down the lump in his throat with a mouthful of beer. "I'm just being cautious."
Bronn laughed. He looked around the room. "Cautious? Who here do you think is going to recognize you, other than me?"
"It wasn't really them I was worried about."
"Oh, no? That mean you were worried about me?"
"It's been five years," Tyrion reasoned. "I have no idea who's pocket you're in now."
"I'm not in anyone's pocket," Bronn said, sitting up taller and straightening out the front of his leather tunic. For the very first time, Tyrion noticed the fine cut of his clothes, the gold trim around the edges. Either Bronn had murdered and stripped a very rich dead man or he had moved up the social ranks of his own accord in the time Tyrion had been gone.
"Don't tell me someone finally made you a lord," Tyrion said in disbelief.
"I'm about to become Lord of the Twins, actually. Gettin' two castles, not one. And a pretty wife to go with them. You missed a lot while you were gone."
The mention of the Twins set Tyrion's teeth on edge. That was where Catelyn and Robb Stark and all their men had been murdered at his father's command. It was an awful business, something Tyrion did his best never to think about. The Red Wedding, as it had come to be known, had destroyed more than Robb Starks' chance to take the throne, it had destroyed Tyrion's very last chance at happiness.
"What's wrong with you?" Bronn asked, cutting through Tyrion's thoughts. "You look like you're a thousand miles away."
"Sorry." Tyrion shook his head, chasing away the memories. "You were saying?"
"Where have you been all this time?" Bronn asked, leaning forward so that he could rest his arms on the table, closing some of the distance between them.
"Where haven't I been?"
"Well, Westeros, that's for damn sure. You look like shit, by the way. In case no one's told you."
"Thanks. I honestly had no idea." Tyrion took another sip of his beer. He didn't need Bronn to tell him that he looked like shit. He was more acutely aware of it than anyone.
"What are you doing here now?" Bronn asked when Tyrion finally put down his tankard.
"What do you think? My sister's dead – at least, I've heard she's dead – so what possible reason could I have to stay away?"
"You're still a Lannister, and there's now a Stark on the Iron Throne. I'd think that's reason enough."
"Jon Snow has nothing against me. As far as I know, anyway. Why should that concern me?"
Bronn let out a long, low whistle, and the hairs on the back of Tyrion's neck stood on end.
"You really don't know, do you?"
"Know what?"
"You abandoned his cousin. Fled Westeros and never came back for her. I would think that's reason enough for him to hate you."
"Sansa?" Tyrion asked in disbelief, the word feeling foreign on his tongue. He hadn't spoken her name in five long years, and it felt very strange to say it now.
"Yes, Sansa. Your wife. Or don't you remember that part? Just how drunk are you?"
"Not drunk enough. I'm only on my second beer."
Bronn snickered. "Well, you never came back for her."
"And how could I? I was wanted for the king's murder. I escaped my own execution."
"Yeah, but you could have made some kind of effort. As is, you left the poor girl to fall into Littlefinger's hands, and by the time she made it back to Winterfell, she already had a babe in her arms."
Tyrion shook his head, trying to break free of his stupor. "What are you talking about?"
"Sansa Stark. Your wife. She has a child. The Bastard of Winterfell they call him. Seems rather fitting, if you think about it. Winterfell lost its old bastard – turned out he wasn't a bastard at all – and now it's got a new one, thanks to Sansa Stark."
This was certainly not the news Tyrion had expected. He had expected to come back to Westeros and discover that his marriage to Sansa Stark had been dissolved. After all, he'd assumed that everyone thought he was dead, so why shouldn't she have moved on with her life, married someone worthy of her and started over? Tyrion was more confused than anything. He had wanted to ask Bronn about Jaime, but now, he needed to know the truth about Sansa before they went any further.
"Who . . . who is the father?" It was all Tyrion could think to ask.
"Well," Bronn said with a laugh, "she claims it's you. But no one believes that. I'd assume it was Littlefinger if I hadn't seen the boy myself. Looks nothin' like him." Bronn shrugged. "I suppose the father could be anyone, really. After you left, she spent a good long time in the Vale under Littlefinger's protection. Gods only know what she got up to when she was hiding out up there."
Tyrion hated to think that Littlefinger had fathered Sansa's child. He couldn't think of a worse man for her to attach herself to. Littlefinger was a manipulative, conniving monster, a whoremonger and a villain. Tyrion hoped it was anyone but him, anyone at all.
"Where is she now?" Tyrion asked.
"I told you, Winterfell. She took up there after Jon came to King's Landing and Bran went to live north of the Wall. Her and her little sister are the only Starks left. Someone had to take over Winterfell. It made the most sense that the Lady Lannister should be the one to do it."
"She still uses my name?" Tyrion asked, the words hollow in his throat.
"Yeah, well, what choice does she have? She's got the boy, after all. Had to give him some sense of legitimacy, even if no one believes it."
"And I'm assuming the child is . . . normal?"
"What? You mean not a dwarf?"
"Yeah."
"Why do you think no one believes her? Besides the fact that a pretty thing like her would never want to bed the likes of you?"
Tyrion nodded. He hadn't thought the child was his, not really. He and Sansa had only spent one night together, and that had been so very long ago. Before her family had been murdered by his. Before his entire world had fallen apart.
"Is she all right?" Tyrion needed to know. He had no intention of ever returning to Winterfell, of ever seeing Sansa Stark again, but he had to know if she was well.
"By all accounts. She's pretty close to her cousin now. They send ravens back and forth all the time. I think she's all right."
"And how do you know what goes on in the Red Keep?" Tyrion asked, ever suspicious of his cunning friend.
"Oh, didn't I mention that? Who do you think gave me my title and my two castles? None other than King Aegon himself."
Tyrion was surprised by the news. In fact, he didn't think he could have been more shocked if a full-grown dragon had suddenly appeared in the sky and burned off the roof of the tavern. "And what, pray tell, did you do to convince the new king to lavish you with such gifts?"
"I helped fight the Night King."
"Did you really?"
"And I wasn't the only one. Your brother was there too. Which is why good old King Aegon let him keep Casterly Rock."
The blood stilled in Tyrion's veins as he stared at Bronn, trying to figure out just how true his words were. This is what Tyrion had come to King's Landing for, this information, to find out if Jaime was really still alive.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Bronn laughed. "Find that hard to believe as well?"
"My brother . . . Jaime, is he still alive?"
A broad smile slowly spread across Bronn's lips as he leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out beneath him. "You really don't know, do you?"
"I don't know anything," Tyrion snapped. "Just rumors I've heard on the other side of the Narrow Sea. I want to know, is Jaime alive or is this all just an elaborate lie designed to drag me out of the shadows?"
"Oh, he's alive all right. Right before the battle, your brother turned on Cersei. He tried to bring the Lannister army north with him, but they refused to leave your cunt sister. So he headed up north on his own, a lone knight riding straight into certain death, and he helped us win the war. Jon Snow couldn't ignore him after that. Couldn't execute him either. So," Bronn shrugged, "he gave him a castle. And all is quiet in the Westerlands."
Had the story come from anyone else, Tyrion wouldn't have believed it, but he knew Bronn, knew how to read him. Bronn was getting far too much pleasure from telling the story. There was no way he had made it up.
"Well?" Bronn asked when Tyrion failed to speak. "What do you think?"
"I think . . . I think . . ." Tyrion didn't know what to think. He had been so certain that it was all a lie, that the rumors about Jaime taking Casterly Rock were just that, rumors. But now that he knew the truth, the world was suddenly a very different place. He wasn't alone anymore. He wasn't without family or friends. He had Bronn and Jaime, and that was quite a great deal more than he'd had just an hour earlier.
"Yes?" Bronn prompted. "You think . . .?"
"I think, in the morning, I will be on my way to Casterly Rock."
Bronn laughed. "Don't you think you should be on your way to Winterfell?"
"Whatever for?"
"Your wife and her bastard son?"
Tyrion had no interest in heading north, nor in seeing Sansa Stark again. Better for her to continue to think that he had abandoned her or that he was dead. Her life would be much easier without him in it. Perhaps she'd even remarry someday, as long as he stayed away.
"I think it would be best for all concerned if I forgot all about Sansa Stark," Tyrion said. "Let her live her life as she chooses without me in it."
Bronn shook his head, making a tsking noise with his tongue. "And what happens when news reaches Winterfell that Tyrion Lannister has suddenly appeared at Casterly Rock? What do you think is going to happen then?"
Tyrion pushed aside Bronn's concerns with a wave of his hand. "Nothing in particular. I'll stay at the Rock, if Jaime will allow it, and I need never see her again."
"And how do you think the new king is going to feel about that?"
Bronn had a very good point. When Tyrion had married Sansa, he'd had no idea that someday she'd be the king's cousin. Had anyone else been on the throne, Tyrion might have gotten away with abandoning her forever, but Jon was a proud northerner, a Stark through and through. He would not take a slight against his family so easily. Kind though he had always been to Tyrion, this was different, and Tyrion knew it.
"What is it that you suggest?" Tyrion asked, afraid he wasn't quite prepared for the answer.
"Come with me up to the Red Keep. See Jon. Talk to him. Tell him what you've been through and let him pardon you for Joffrey and Tywin's murders. Then, you can go north and claim your rightful place as the Lord of Winterfell."
"The Lord of Winterfell?"
"Well, you are married to the Lady of Winterfell, that would make you its lord. You can take the title away from that little bastard before he's old enough for it to go to his head."
This was all too much for Tyrion to take. He'd come back to Westeros hoping to live a quiet, unassuming life. In his fantasies, he'd imagined Jaime granting him a small piece of land where he could live in peaceful solitude, growing grapes and drinking wine. He'd imagined having his own vineyard and his own vintage and happily drinking himself to death.
But there were no vineyards up north, at least not the kind Tyrion had envisioned for himself. In the north, grapes could only be grown in a glass garden. And suddenly, all of Tyrion's fantasies came crashing down around him. He'd spent five years without being weighed down by the twin shackles of duty and honor. And then, the moment – the very moment – he'd stepped on home soil again, he'd been captured and chained as if he'd never escaped at all.
Tyrion didn't want to return to Winterfell, and he sure as hell didn't want to return to the Red Keep. "What makes you think that Jon Snow is going to pardon me for anything?" he asked, determined to veer the conversation away from Sansa Stark and her bastard son.
"As I recall you tellin' it," Bronn said, "he rather liked you when you last met. Besides, everyone knows you didn't kill Joffrey, and you did our new king a great favor by murdering your father. Of course, he'll pardon you."
Tyrion wasn't so sure. Politics were a funny thing. You could be allies with someone one minute, and the next thing you knew, they could be chopping off your head. Ned Stark was a perfect example of just how fickle the winds blew in King's Landing.
"I think I'd rather avoid the Red Keep altogether, if it's all the same to you."
"What? Too much of a coward to go before the king?"
"Too tired, quite frankly. The truth is, I don't want any of this. I don't want a pardon. I don't want the king's gratitude. I don't want Sansa Stark or the title that comes with her. I just want peace and quiet and to not live like a hunted animal for once. That's all."
"And yet, you are a Lannister, and with that come certain responsibilities."
"Gods, now you sound like my father," Tyrion swore. "I will not go before the new king and beg for a pardon. I'm not ready for the world to know I'm alive yet. I'm not ready for any of this."
"Well, you can't go straight to the Rock."
"And why not?"
"Because that will offend the king when he finds out that you're still alive. If you're going to go anywhere, go north. See your wife. Decide from there what you want to do." Bronn laughed. "Perhaps you can pretend that you missed her so much that you had no choice but to race to her side. Who knows? That just might impress the king."
Tyrion hated all his options, absolutely all of them, except going to Casterly Rock. But Bronn was right. He owed fealty to the new king, whether he liked it or not, and it was best to do as little to offend him as possible. Tyrion could travel to Winterfell, just a nameless dwarf riding alone on the kingsroad, see his wife, and assess his options up north. He could send word of his arrival to Jaime before he left. It wasn't ideal, by any means, but it was better than facing Jon Snow or incurring his wrath.
"I suppose there's no chance of you accompanying me on this journey north, is there?" Tyrion asked.
Bronn snorted. "I'm getting married tomorrow, to a lady. There's no way I'm missing out on my own wedding, and wedding night, for the likes of you. I'd ask you to stay for the ceremony, but you seem determined to go."
"I am."
"Then go. But be careful not to show your face to anyone who might recognize you. I'm sure somewhere there's still a bounty on your head, and if you get captured, you'll just end up right back here, standing before the king."
"I'll keep that in mind." Tyrion raised his tankard. "To you and your lovely new bride. I'm assuming she's lovely, isn't she?"
Bronn nodded. "With big tits."
"Well, to you and your lovely new bride, may you have a happier marriage than I ever did."