Chapter 8

Tyrion stepped into his working quarters with Sansa on his mind. His young wife was acting…strange. Ever since Bronn had started to tutor her about knife fighting nearly a week ago, she, and Bronn, for that matter, had been acting…odd. And the sellsword was no longer talking about their training sessions; normally, he prattled on, complaining mostly, but never silent. It was downright abnormal.

He sat down at his desk and nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the sellsword's voice ring from the darkened corner of the room.

"Wonderin' when you were plannin' on comin' in. Took you long enough."

He stepped out of the corner just enough for Tyrion to see that he was looking more haggard than usual. He sounded drunk with his less than clear words, and now that Tyrion was closer he could tell that he also smelled drunk. He hadn't seen the man drunk in weeks, since he'd started training Sansa, and so he knew something was off.

"Bronn…? Why are you drunk before noon?"

The sellsword swayed on his feet and stumbled over to the table at the side, where a half-empty decanter of wine sat in the center, and he clumsily grabbed for it with one hand, nearly dropping it in the process of bringing it to his mouth, drinking straight from the container.

" 'S not my fault," he said, practically tripping over his own feet into a chair. " 'S that fuckin' wife, of yours… 's her fault. All her fault..."

He took another swig of the jug, and Tyrion walked over and quickly removed it from his hand, placing it back on the table, and then dragged another chair over next to his and sat down. Apparently he had been partially right on his hunch, and he was going to get to the bottom of the problem and fix it. He would not have his sellsword drunk in the middle of the day, his lips more loose than they should be while he harbored a secret that could get all three of them killed.

"What did Sansa do, Bronn?"

The man glared at him, mad that he'd taken his wine away, and then turned his head.

Finally, he said, "She…she wants me to…teach her how to…to...shit, I won't do it. I won't!" With that bold declaration, he surged out of his chair and tried to go back and grab the wine, but he was so drunk that just Tyrion's hand on his arm had him falling back into it, and he cursed even more vehemently. "That fuckin' woman thinks I'll jus'…jus'…sit by and let her feel that way again…can'…I can't do it, T'rion. She doesn' deserve it…"

Tyrion rolled his eyes, realizing he was going to have to be more direct if he was going to get any clear answers from the man.

In an almost brutal fashion, he gripped the sellsword's wrist and pulled him in his direction as best as he could and said, over-enunciating each syllable and word so that Bronn was paying attention, "What. Does. She want. You. To. Teach her?"

With blurred eyes, Bronn looked at him, and Tyrion was taken back by the look in them. It looked almost as if the sellsword was near to tears.

"She…she was almost raped, d'you know that?"

Tyrion tensed but then carefully and softly said, "I suspected."

Bronn drunkenly nodded, and then continued, saying, "She wants me to teach her how to throw a man off of her in case…in case…" He couldn't finish the sentence and suddenly Tyrion knew what was going on, even though Bronn did not. The mercenary had come to care for the girl, hence why he was having problems with her request. In order to teach her how to throw someone off, he would have to…of course. He would have to pin her to the ground.

And knowing how Bronn taught, coldly and impersonally, through realistic attacks, not scripted ones, to do this…it would break him.

No wonder.

Tyrion slowly let go of the man's wrist, sitting back in his chair, wondering what could be done. Well, first off, he had to sober the man up. He was useless when he was drunk. However, the fact that he was drunk was what worried him the most. It took a lot to get the sellsword drunk; he had an exceedingly high tolerance to all forms of alcohol, and for him to be this inebriated…well, it wouldn't do well for anyone to see him this way, let alone Sansa.

He called Podrick and sent for some clean water, knowing that it would be the only way to cleanse his system of the inebriating effects of the alcohol. After he had some time to sober the man up, he would carefully broach the subject, knowing that if he said the wrong thing, the sellsword would most likely react in a violent manner.

After nearly two hours of drinking water and resting, Tyrion finally spoke up.

"Bronn. I am…aware…that you and Sansa have become friends, which pleases me, of course, but I have some…questions."

The sellsword nodded.

"Of course you do. You're a bloody Lannister. I wouldn't expect anything less. Going to take away my money?"

The Lannister in question shook his head and replied, "No, but I do have to ask you about Sansa and how you've been training her. She is stronger and more sure of herself, that has not escaped my notice, but she also seems to be…happier. At least, she was," he amended. "But over the past week, something has changed. Sansa has become…withdrawn. Almost depressed. Can you enlighten me perhaps as to why this has happened?"

Bronn looked at him, his smirk gone, replaced with a look of caution, his eyes wary. After a long, tense-filled moment, he said, "Let's just say that I feel that you threw me to a wolf cub, not realizing just what she could do once she sharpened her teeth for the first time."

Tyrion glared.

"That's not an answer, Bronn."

His voice was stone, forcing Bronn to stand and walk to the back corner of the room, feeling more than a bit agitated at his line of questioning. The dwarf seemed determined to get an answer out of him, but he didn't know how to tell him without him turning full-Lannister. He had no desire to see Sansa go through the same questioning, though, so he decided that it would be best if he answered the questions and kept the young woman from having to deal with them.

"Fine, you want an answer? I'll give you one," he said, striding back across the room, placing his hands firmly on either side of Tyrion's chair. "It's not just that she asked me to teach her how to throw a man off of her, it's that she has to ask me that in the first place! I don't think your wife fucking gets what I've been doing for her! I'm a damn sellsword, not a bodyguard, and I have gone out of my fucking way to make sure that she stays safe. Yeah, it may be for the money, but you could take that away and, for some bloody reason that I can't fuckin' well figure out, I would still protect her!"

His chest heaved, as though he'd been running, and Tyrion looked at him surprise…and then a soft smile appeared on his lips, confusing Bronn as he stepped away, feeling more out of control than he'd felt in a long time.

"You're in love with her…"

Bronn froze and his shoulders tightened, and Tyrion knew he was right.

However, Bronn tried to shrug it off, shaking his head and saying, "That's ridiculous," but Tyrion cut him off, and said, "No, it's not. In fact, at the moment, you are the one being ridiculous. You, who can take on ten men…and you're scared of one girl? This is not the sellsword that I know!"

He said it on purpose, trying to provoke him, unsure if it would work. Had it been the old sellsword, he would have seen right through it; Bronn had always been smart, after all, that was what made him such a good sellsword, but instead he only proved Tyrion's point when he wheeled around on his heel, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword, fire in his eyes as he stalked towards the lord, but Tyrion was unsurprised when he said, "Girl? Is that what you think of your wife? That she's just a girl?"

Tyrion smirked.

"Perhaps I do. She hardly ever shows otherwise around me," he added, knowing it would infuriate him, and he grinned even wider as Bronn continued to react.

"Sansa Stark is not just a girl; she's a full grown woman who can handle herself better than any woman here at King's Landing! She is more formidable then ten men because she has a decent head on her shoulders along with that training I've given her, with a mind that could be sharpened to rival yours! Of course, I'm fuckin' terrified of her!"

Tyrion had immediately noticed how Bronn called her Sansa Stark, and his smirk softened into a knowing smile as he got down from his chair and walked over to Bronn, where he then motioned for the man to sit down. He did.

Tyrion then said, "So you do have feelings for her…"

The sellsword wouldn't look at him, staring off to the side.

"So what if I do? Can't do anything about it. She's married."

"That's never stopped you before," the dwarf quipped. Bronn looked back at him and sneered, "She's married to you, you fuckin' idiot! As if you'd ever think of giving her permission to-"

"And yet," Tyrion said, cutting him off, "That's exactly what I'm doing."

Bronn fell silent. He looked at Tyrion, as though trying to ascertain if he was telling the truth…and, after a long moment, he simply looked away. Of course the man had reservations about it. He and Tyrion both knew that the marriage had never been consummated, but no one else did. Without consummation, they were technically not fully married, and she could leave him at any time. Bronn knew this to be true, and so to be told by the woman's husband that he had permission to, well, seduce her, was a bit surreal.

Finally, after a long moment, Bronn stood back up and said, "So, maybe I have feelings. I'm not entirely a cold hearted bastard, after all," and Tyrion smirked at that. "It causes a problem, though. Emotions…they're what get people killed. I can't afford to. Neither can she."

Tyrion nodded, understanding the logic behind it, but at the same time, he was worried. For Bronn.

"Yes, you may be right," the lord said, nodding and taking small sip of wine from his cup, "But, at the same time, if you don't address this issue with her, she will continue to suffer. Her focus, as of late, has been erratic, at best, and that's no good to her when she trains, now is it?"

Bronn nodded.

"Fine. I'll deal with it." He looked at Tyrion over his shoulder, his eyes dark. "I may have your permission, which is probably more than I deserve," he added, tilting his head to the side, "But that doesn't mean that I'm going to take advantage of it. Like I've said before, she may be a Lannister in name, but she is a Stark. And heir to Winterfell. Neither of us needs that girl to be walkin' around with her head in the clouds thinkin' she's changed the mean ol' sellsword. Because she hasn't; not really, anyway."

Tyrion gave him a long look, trying to figure him out, and then said, "What do you mean by that?"

Bronn smirked.

"Oh, I think you know. She may have brought out more of my old upbringing more than I've liked, but that doesn't change the fact that if I ever get offered better money...I will leave. You know it, and so do I, but the loyal wolf doesn't. She needs a pack to survive; I don't. By training her, she thinks I'm taking her under my wing, and I can't let her think that, even if I have developed feelings for the girl. I won't kill her, even for more money, so help me; but you…"

He let it linger in the air between him, and Tyrion simply nodded, understanding completely what the mercenary was telling him. However, one thing bothered him…

"When you say she brings out your old upbringing, what exactly do you mean by that?"

Bronn smirked again, turning fully around to face him, his left hand casually resting on the pommel of his sword and said, raising an eyebrow, "You've never wondered, not even once, why I seem completely unsurprised by anything I see?"

Tyrion shrugged, and replied, "Well, I assumed since you've been north of the Wall, that you've simply been around more than the average sellsword and seen more than a person might usually expect of such a man."

The sellsword laughed and nodded.

"Well, that's accurate enough. However, right now it seems I don't have much of choice but to tell you what I don't want to," he said enigmatically. "But if I tell you this," he added, "You will be at permanent risk of your neck meeting my blade at any time, am I clear?" Tyrion nodded. "Good. The reason why I've seen what I've seen, is because my father traveled. All the time. You see, we couldn't risk stayin' in one place too long because of my father…"

"Who is…?" Tyrion pressed, still not expecting much of an answer that would shock him.

Bronn gave him a grim smile.

"The direct descendant of Maegor Targaryen."

Tyrion scoffed and let out a small chuckle, shaking his head, saying, "You almost had me, Bronn! Everyone knows that Maegor Targaryen fathered no children. Besides, if he'd had any descendants," he said the word mockingly, "Their bloodline would supersede any claims that are on the Iron Throne. Which would make you heir to the Iron Throne and ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and that's simply out of the question," he added, still laughing, but then he saw the look on the sellsword's face and his laugh slowly diminished.

Finally, he said in a less than confident tone, "What proof do you have?"

"How about his bones?"

At that, Tyrion looked up at him, and then slowly helped himself into the open chair next to Bronn's empty one, not quite believing what he was hearing.

"Do you have proof that they are his bones?"

Bronn nodded.

"His ring. It's still on his damn finger. It's sort of a thing in our family. Once you die, your family crest stays with you, the ring never removed, even after death." He paused and then gave his employer a dark look, his mouth drawn in a tight line. "Now do you understand why I can't take your permission?"

Tyrion nodded, obviously shaken.

"Yes. I do."

The sellsword then said, "I may be the bloody heir to the throne, that doesn't mean I want it. My father wanted me to have it, hence the reason why I left. I have no desire to take the fuckin' thing. It destroys men and ruins families. I should know." He turned away once more, looking out over the courtyard, and then added, "Sansa Stark is the heir to all of the North because of Winterfell…and, technically speakin', since I'm heir to the South…"

"…You would have the largest reign and the hold over the most formidable army the world has ever seen," Tyrion finished for him, and Bronn nodded.

"And I don't anything to do with it. Hell, you could take the Iron Throne, and I wouldn't care. I just want get to get paid, plain and simple. With my job, I can always find work, and I never have to answer to anyone but myself. I honestly think there shouldn't be a damn throne. Too much power, too much control…it always corrupts. Always."

He then smirked and said, "Now, if you don't mind, milord, I think I'll go find myself a wolf."

Tyrion smiled, and nodded.

With that, the sellsword walked out while Tyrion looked on in shock. Now that he knew, suddenly things came into focus. Everything began to make sense…the reason why he'd never given a name when he'd introduced him to his father; the reason why he looked at the politics with such disdain…the reason why he had always had that confidence about him. And now that Tyrion knew, he could suddenly see the family resemblance.

He'd seen paintings of Maegor the Cruel before, and now it all fit together perfectly like the pieces of a puzzle that he didn't even know was in front of him. Bronn had the same nose, the same deeply furrowed brow and dark eyes. His hair was darker, not the lightning white blonde usually associated with the Targaryens, but it made no difference.

The arrogance.

Now that he recognized as Targaryen, and to know that his own sellsword was heir to the Iron Throne…no wonder Bronn had threatened to slit his throat. If anyone found out, it wouldn't matter that the mercenary wanted nothing to do with it, they would kill him anyway. If word got out, he would the most hunted man in all of the Seven Kingdoms.

Tyrion remained sitting.

This was going to take a while to sink in.

Part 8/?

A.N. - For reference, I used this depiction of Maegor, the Cruel, for the description. Just remove the spaces. 40 .media .tumblr 6c0081e1d4364bd0873319ba13ef339e /tumblr _mxam99VKyk1rpizwwo1 _500 .jpg

(Also, I had to do a *ton* of research into Game of Thrones bloodlines and it's SUPER CONFUSING! So, if I didn't get it right, just go with it, please? It's fan fiction, after all, so let's just say, if I'm not right about the bloodline thing, that, for the sake of my story, it is true. Pleeeease? Thank you!)