TYRION

Dagmar son of Hagmar licked his lips. "You are a fool, Halfman, to think this will be your salvation."

"Perhaps so," Tyrion admitted. He was not feeling so confident about his plan now. The mountain clansmen were not known for listening before they acted.

"Better to accept your fate than to make our chief angry."

"I'd sooner have life than death any day." Tyrion passed beneath his outstretched arm into the tent. Penny followed close behind him, anxious not to be abandoned.

No sooner had he stepped inside the tent than Tyrion regretted his decision. The dozen or so clan leaders were twice as tall as he was, and garlanded in so many medallions and chains, with so many weapons in their belts, that the tent interior looked like some strange meeting between King's Landing whores and a cult of bearded priests. Only the cult of the Stone Crows was vast and angry, and armed to the teeth (— quite literally; Tyrion saw that one of the chieftains had silver teeth that had been shaped into fangs). What also struck him was the sheer volume of steel that he recognized. These were swords and shields and pikes from his father's forges, the payment of a promise Tywin Lannister had made long ago to the man sitting in the middle of the ring: Shagga son of Dolf, who lorded over it all with such radiating presence that he could have claimed to be king of all Westeros, and Tyrion would have gone down on bended knee.

Dagmar son of Hagmar presented his prize captives: "Shagga son of Dolf, and other chiefs of the Stone Crows. I bring you Tyrion son of Tywin, the Halfman. And his little wife."

The little wife was Penny. It was a safer story than to admit the truth. If the Stone Crows thought she was Tyrion's property, it was less likely they'd rape her. Not that she was entirely safe anyway. Especially if Shagga decided that he'd like to lop off Tyrion's head.

No such words came forth, though; instead, the chief of the Stone Crows let out a great, rumbling laugh. "Tyrion Halfman," he boomed, "you stood so tall once."

The Stone Crows burst into screeching laughter. Tyrion smiled back at them. Let them see me as they will. Dwarf, jester, monster, I can be whatever you like, Shagga dear.

"You stood so tall once," said Shagga again. "Yet now I see that you are truly quite small."

Again the incessant, vulture-like laughter. This time, Tyrion timed his outburst for when the laughter broke, like the susurrus of a river. "It is good to see you again, Shagga son of Dolf." He dipped his head courteously; Penny followed his lead. "I bring glad tidings—"

"What do you want, Halfman?" Shagga's smile was amused, but it was the sort of smile that could disappear and be replaced by malevolence without a moment's warning. It was the smile of a cat that could turn to a lion at any second.

What do I want, indeed? "My freedom, for a start," said Tyrion. "And that of my wife, Penny. Your friend Hagmar took us as prisoners. I was hoping we might remember old friendships, and stand before you as guests."

Shagga advanced, as a hunter stalks his prey. But when he reached Tyrion, he turned away and leered over Penny instead. "Your wife?" he growled at Tyrion.

"Aye," said Tyrion, hoping neither his voice nor Penny's shaking would betray them. "She is."

"Heh," said Shagga. "Pretty. Young. But small. Just right for you, eh, Halfman?" That sent up another chorus of laughter; when it died down, he went on: "Shagga son of Dolf like this girl. But he needs much more than a Halfwoman. And he needs much more than lies from you, Halfman, if you are to keep your manhood."

"Of course," said Tyrion. "But you understand, I will settle for half in this deal."

It was, he supposed, in vain to expect that the lummoxes would get his little joke. Shagga just scowled even wider.

"Nevertheless," Tyrion went on, attempting and failing to meet the eyes of the gathered chiefs. "I would ask that of you, as a first boon. Our freedom." He held up his wrists, bound with the rope.

A long moment passed. Then Shagga motioned for one of his men to cut Tyrion and Penny's bindings. "Your freedom," he said, coming close, his breath smelling of raw meat. "Not your lives."

Tyrion understood that only too well. He also understood that if he was to speak, the time was now. "I have come here to you, noble Stone Crows," he called, "to make a deal."

"You made us a deal before," said Dagmar son of Hagmar. "And you lied. You said we would have the Vale of Arryn. But here we are, and the Vale is still the land of the milk men."

"You do not have the Vale yet," Tyrion corrected. "But a Lannister always pays his debts. On my word, you shall have these lands sooner than you can believe if you help me."

"But why should we believe you, Halfman?" Shagga boomed. "Why should we believe you after your last lie?"

It was not too difficult to outsmart the Stone Crows, especially after he'd had the better part of four days on the road to think this plan through. "I promised you more than the Vale," Tyrion said. "I promised you weapons and armour, too. And looking around, I see that you have them. Is that not testament to the fact that I pay my debts?"

A rumble went through the Stone Crows. Shagga nodded. "Continue, Halfman."

"I promised you weapons and armour," Tyrion said. "But I did not give you them. You had to take their weapons and armour, by demanding them from my father. Else he would never have given you them. He, like many of the milk men, regarded you as savages. But he was wrong, was he not? The Stone Crows took what they were owed!"

When the nods of agreement went through the tent, Tyrion could scarcely believe it. This is almost too easy, he thought. "You took what was yours then, and you must do the same with the Vale of Arryn. I am not the lord of the Vale; I cannot give it to you on a silver platter. But that is no matter to you – for you are not milk men, and you take what is yours!" He turned his attention to Shagga alone. "Every great leader - including you - knows that they must fight their own battles. When you took those weapons from my father, you took the tools of conquest... and now, finally, it is time for you to use them."

The Stone Crows might have bought that there and then, but unfortunately, Shagga son of Dolf knew Tyrion Lannister better than his fellows did. And Shagga son of Dolf was only too familiar with the lies and empty promises of the milk men. His people built their civilization on a dung heap. Of course he knows one when he smells one. "Those are words, Halfman. Nothing more. We have steel, aye. But they have better steel, and bows, and spears, and hundreds of men on horseback in steel suits, and tall stone houses which we cannot attack."

"No. You cannot attack castles. But if you ride with me, I will show you how—"

Shagga laughed, a loud, throaty sound. "And how will you do that, Halfman? Will you talk these castles into dust?"

Stepped right into the trap there, Shagga. "Would that I could," said Tyrion, "if it were possible, I would be the right man for it. No man can speak like me. But, no, I have a different suggestion. One that will test even the bravery of the feared Stone Crows."

"Oh?" Shagga's smile was more dangerous than Tyrion ever remembered it being. He was all too aware that what he had to say next was likely to make them burst our laughing. Or else he might lose his head.

"Perchance," he began slowly, "perchance you have heard tell of a creature that lives up in the hills. A fanged beast of some fearsome reputation. A scaled neck, wings larger than any birds, the eyes of death itself, a mouth like the maw of hell, with fire scarce contained within—"

"We know what a dragon is, Halfman," Shagga growled. "And we know that it is not the hell-beast you have just described. The creature is wounded."

So Viserion had not recovered from the woundings he'd received from Aegon's ballistae on the Blackwater. Not yet. "You have seen it?"

"Aye, we have."

"I'll wager that you thought dragons were myths until a few weeks ago." Tyrion decided to play up that angle. Appeal to their bravery. Appeal to their stupidity.

"There were dragons in the old times," Shagga said, with an almost-thoughtfulness. "They lived like kings. Not this one, though. It just burns pasture grass and steals sheep from the high hills. It is more an annoyance than the hell-spawned demon you describe, Halfman."

"But dangerous nonetheless, I'm sure you'll agree."

Shagga nodded. "They are dangerous," he said, gravely. Tyrion was a little surprised. He'd expected the clansman to shake his head and beat his chest, and claim that the Stone Crows feared nothing. They did not, of course; that was the beauty of their stupidity. Give a man something to fight, and he'll fight for a day. Give a man something to fight for, and he'll die a stupid death in battle for you, and be proud of it. Unless that man is called Bronn.

Never mind that, though. He could still work with this. "And what if I told you," he said, "that three hundred years, a great dragon named Balerion melted the walls and towers of Westeros's greatest castle, Harrenhal, to dust, even though the stones were four hundred feet thick, and burned a thousand thousand men on the Field of Fire?" A little embellishment would do no harm.

"This is known, Halfman."

"And what if I told you," Tyrion said, "that these beasts could be tamed, and convinced to fight for you?"

Shagga laughed, as Tyrion had hoped he would, and the rest of the tribe laughed with him. He let the laughter gather. "You are mad, Halfman," said Shagga.

"Perhaps," said Tyrion. "Or perhaps I have tamed one myself. Perhaps I tamed this dragon in the hills."

"That is impossible, Halfman," said Shagga. "You are funny, though. You have always been funny."

"On the contrary, noble Shagga son of Dolf. I am entirely serious. I will tame this dragon, and I will help the mountain clans conquer the Vale with it, if you help me. I will pay my debts, more than twice over. All I ask is your support, and your friendship, as you lent it to me in the fight for the kingdom of my people."

Shagga's gaze darkened. "You want us to help you tame this dragon?"

"I do. Or you stand outside with Penny and cower, if you'd prefer, while I venture into the beast's lair alone, if you are too weak-hearted to follow me into the depths." And pray that my luck holds out.

When the angry roar of indignation went up, Tyrion Lannister knew he had them. Shagga made himself heard above the rest. "So be it, then, Halfman! You want to face a dragon, we will take you to his cave! And we will laugh and dance over your bones when you burn. Yes, there will be a dragon hunt!"

"A dragon hunt?" Tyrion frowned. A hundred Storm Crows armed with spears and one angry dragon. This will end well. He forced himself to smile.

"If you fail, Halfman," explained Shagga. "We will have to go after the beast then and there." Then he smiled, showing stained yellow teeth, and turned that smile on Penny. "And if you fail, your little wife will be poor and powerless… and alone."

Now Shagga seemed satisfied that his threats had been made with sufficient clarity. That done, he abruptly banished Tyrion and Penny from the hall while he made plans for the 'dragon hunt' with the rest of his kinsmen. Tyrion did not overly mind; he had not great desire to waste his hours sitting on the councils of savages. Dagmar son of Hagmar led them from the room. Tyrion began to whistle.

"Why are you so happy, Halfman?" asked Dagmar. "Unless you are even madder than you look, you have nothing to be pleased about."

"Oh, quite. I am mad. The dragon will burn me down to bones and melted flesh if I am wrong. But he will do the same for you and all your clansfolk, so it is every bit in your interest to see that I survive."

"We made no guarantees of your survival."

"No. But your chieftain implied my death, as I recall. So forgive me if I do not take your words to heart."

Dagmar was seething, he could tell. Some men might have called it unwise to let such resentment fester among savages such as these, fearing, perhaps, that they would end up being dragged out and murdered in the night, but Tyrion was used to that sort of situation. It is somewhat like being back in King's Landing, he thought, only the Stone Crows do their backstabbing and murdering in plain sight.

In his unending kindess, Shagga had decided to take them as guests rather than prisoners. Tyrion and Penny were conducted to a snug hut on the edge of town, with a firepit and two misshapen mattresses strewn with goathide blankets. It was a little small, but as Penny predictably japed, they didn't need much room.

After about half an hour, a matronly woman came round with some skewers of goat meat, some goat's cheese and two bowls of goat milk. Tyrion felt a little sick after finishing it all, but they did not give him time to feel too uncomfortable; the matron promptly returned with a large wooden bucket, which she filled with pails of tepid water. "Out," she grunted, slapping Tyrion on the head.

Very well. She wanted him to take off his clothes, so he did, and stood opposite her in his rude naked skin, his cock slapping down against his thighs. He raised his eyebrows at her. "Well? Is this what you want?" She did not know how to take that. He was about to waddle towards her when he remembered that Penny was watching too, so he turned away, and climbed up obediently into the tub. The girl did not deserve to be a subject of his anger.

The matron made her wrath known, scrubbing him down so forcefully Tyrion was certain some of his skin sloughed off with the dirt and the mud. Then, as soon as he'd stepped out of the bath, she forced him into a shirt and trousers that were too tight around the waist and too loose everywhere else. They had been made for a child, he surmised. Then it was Penny's turn; Tyrion averted his eyes, so that she might have some decency. But as he listened to her splashing timidly in the tub, some strange impulse overcame him. He had not been with a girl since Shae. She had been the only girl who had spoken to him since Braavos. But she was just that: a girl. Not a woman. A virgin, sure as sunrise. If he turned round now, and she caught him looking back at her, what would that mean?

It took a tremendous amount of willpower, but he averted his eyes until she had climbed out of the tub and put her clothes back on. His cock stopped twitching in his breeches. Penny stood there in front of her, fresh faced and newly scrubbed, looking like a miniature mockery of the Maiden. "Tyrion," she said, "maybe… maybe you shouldn't have turned away."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean… well, you said I was your wife."

"That was to protect you. Otherwise some of them might have sought to have their way with you."

A long moment passed. Then Penny said, "Tyrion…"

"What?"

"I… I would be. If you wanted me to be. Your wife."

Tyrion blanched. "What?"

"Well," said Penny. "It's just… I haven't met many little people, and… well, you've always been good to me. Most of the time. And no big person is ever going to want me. So maybe… if I tried, I could fall in love with you—"

"Stop," he heard himself say. "No. I mean it. Stop. Penny… don't. Just don't."

After that they did not speak for three hours. Tyrion paced around the tent, mulling over his plans. Twice he went out into the encampment, though he never strayed far. He caught sight of a hunting party, comprising all men, as they rode down into the camp with a buck strewn over wooden poles between them. Other men were builders, putting up the houses for which their wives and daughters weaved hoardings and curtains, and the clothes and blankets which would fill the earthen rooms. The older boys were learning how to fight and fish from their elders, and girls learned their crafts from wizened old crones. Only the very youngest children were free at their play. Tyrion thought that his father would have liked it here. Everyone does as they are told, and no one disobeys the clan chief without consequence. And if the clan chief were to sire a dwarf, why, he could carry it out into the hills and abandon it, and no one would bat an eye.

He sat waiting in the hut for Shagga or one of his subordinates to return, but they never did. Though in the end, he supposed that was not really too surprising. "Why would they wait on a dwarf, after all?" he said aloud.

"My lord?" Penny looked up brightly. Tyrion had nearly forgotten that she was here at all. There she sat, rocking back and forth on her toes a bit. Earlier, one of the women had come in with a ball of wool, to get something useful out of her, but all Penny had managed to make was an even messier ball.

"I was talking to myself," Tyrion said. "It doesn't matter."

"Were you thinking about Gerion?" she asked him.

"What?"

"Gerion, I said. Numbers. I mean… seeing as he's your son and everything." Tyrion had revealed his suspicions to her on the way down to the camp, to get her to uncoil herself from her initial terror of their captors. Now Penny attacked the subject voraciously, as though she might die if she failed to bring it up at least once a day. Maybe that is what she wants. She wants to be a family, with me and her as the parents and Numbers as our son.

"Yes, Penny," he lied. "I was thinking about Numbers."

"Gerion. You should try calling him Gerion. He doesn't like Numbers, remember."

"I remember."

"Is that where we're going? Back to him?"

"I… possibly. Hopefully." He did mean the last part truly. He wanted to see the boy again, though he did not know what he would tell him, or how to tell him. He could not go running in, and proclaim that he was the boy's father. And after all I did to him, would he ever want me?

"Tyrion—"

"Go to sleep, Penny. You need to get some rest. The next few days will be long for us both."

She obeyed him, as a wife would obey her husband. She turned over in the corner, her face pressed into the blankets. Tyrion sat there in silence for a long time, watching her, and in some small way, wanting her. But that could not be, because if he took her, he would have to leave her, and that might very well kill her. It is for her own good, he tried to convince himself.

When he was quite certain that she was asleep, Tyrion went and lay down beside her, their heads about three feet apart. His fingers found purchase in the blankets and there he clung, like some limpet to the warm breast of life. He was asleep in moments; no great surprise there, for this was the first bed he had slept on in weeks that was not made up of rocks. His green eye blinked close, and then his black, and he fell into the soft, milky whirlpool of dreams. And at its heart, Penny was there, and the boy Gerion, and the girl he truly loved, a maid as fair as springtime, with sunrise in her hair.

Hours later he woke, though he could not remember what nightmare had brought him out of his dreams. Sweat lay damp on his forehead, his hair was greasy, and the crannies of his body smelled sour and ill-kept. Tyrion sat up, his clammy shirt sticking to him, trying to breathe gently and failing. His hands were shaking, inconsolable. "Wine," he murmured through the veil of sleep, "I need wine." But there was no wine here. He turned over onto his side, feeling sick, but there was nothing to be sick from. He looked back at Penny, watching her small breasts rise and fall, watching her as she snored through sweet dreams of her brother Groat and Pretty Pig. His breeches felt stiff, constricting and sticky. He did not dare chance a look.

Looking at Penny, he felt vile. I want her, and that is the worst thing. But I do not want to love her. I want to fuck her, and then toss her away, to hurt her and burn her and tear her to pieces, to teach her that the world is a terrible place for people like us. And then, he thought, I want her to be afraid of me.

I want you all to be afraid of me.


I think Tyrion has the potential to get very dark, especially when he's left alone in his own head for too long. And in the context of TCOS, this is a real low point for his morality, crossing from bitterly dark into downright morally reprehensible and terrifyingly unpredictable. And I think there are places in this story where, frankly, he gets even worse. But at the same time, on the occasions when the light shines through the dark, he's very very interesting indeed.

Another interesting thing about Tyrion, slightly in ASOIAF, but far moreso in TCOS, is his internal monologue. I think Tyrion, more than any other POV character, is aware of his own mortality and the transience of life. So, a question for you: who is Tyrion speaking to in his internal monologue?