TYRION
They breakfasted alone, as they now often did.
"The blood sausage is overcooked," Tyrion commented once.
"No matter," said the girl who had been his wife. "So are the eggs."
Did she recall that same exchange, long ago in King's Landing, when they had argued over pease and mutton? She very well might, Tyrion thought. That was the night they had both learned of the Red Wedding. He did not think Sansa would easily forget her brother's death. And suppose she had… the Northerners certainly had not. Father was certainly right about that, he thought wryly. Though he was wrong when he said the Northerners would never again challenge House Lannister. So much for his assurance of absolution. Here in Harrenhal, the greatest alliance ever seen in Westeros was coming into being, and it opposed, or at the very least did not support, Lord Tywin and his legacy of lions.
The Tullys, Arryns and Starks had been a start. But it was the new arrivals who threatened to enlarge the shadow. If he craned his neck and looked past Sansa, he could see through the window. All he would see from this vantage was mist, but if he angled his eye downwards…
The southrons had come up two days past. At their head they carried the standards of Highgarden and Sunspear; golden rose and pierced red sun. The Tyrells and the Martells had returned to the fray, and with their arrival they brought a thousand new complications.
Tyrion peered across at Sansa. For her own part she had hid her nervousness well – though not well enough to fool him. "That is a fine necklace you are wearing, my lady," he said. It rested above her heart, a silver wolf's head pin with amber-studded eyes.
"Thank you, my lord."
"Might I ask where you procured it?"
She regarded him frostily. "Lady Olenna gave it to me, at Highgarden."
"Ah. I thought so. It has the markings of Reachman silver." That, and the Lannisters would give you gold only, and the other kingdoms can offer little more than bronze and iron, and certainly not worked so fine.
"Have you been admiring it long, my lord?"
"It is a handsome piece." He forced himself to smile. "Much unlike myself. When I look at my reflection, Lady Sansa, it is always the prettiness of the glass itself that draws my eye, not its subject. Another aspect in which I am second to your Lord Willas."
She sat very still. "I beg your pardon, my lord?"
"You need not. Your preference for Lord Tyrell is duly noted. He was, no doubt, during the brief period in which he did his duty, a far more suitable husband than I ever could be."
Sansa pretended not to hear him.
"Wasn't he?" Tyrion pressed.
She raised her wine cup very slowly to her lips. Tyrion watched that elegant neck move, bracing itself for the slight bitterness of the first sip, savouring the taste as it went down. A moment of resignation crossed her face, then she said, "If suitability may be expressed in terms of keeping his spouse's best interests, then yes."
"And dwarf children would not be in your interests?"
Her lips tightened; she looked, he thought, remarkably like Lady Catelyn – or like Cersei. "The imprisonment of my cousin might not be in my interest, for example."
"Then, with Lord Robert's liberation, your concerns should be resolved." He had released the Arryn boy on the day of Sansa's arrival at Harrenhal, and he had gone to lodgings near his cousin in Kingspyre Tower, where he was currently abed with a bad cold. Bronze Yohn Royce, meanwhile, remained cell-bound. The Vale without Royce to steady it was not only a snake without a head; it was a snake biting its own tail. The other Vale lords had arrived to Harrenhal in the past few days; Waynwood, Redfort, Corbray, and so forth. They, too, had lodged with Sansa and her court. No doubt the Tyrells would too when the negotiations would done, leaving Tyrion all alone in the Tower of Dread across Flowstone Yard.
"I sense," he went on, "that you have greater concerns with me than the matter of Lord Arryn. I shall be sure to take careful note of the fashion in which Lord Willas addresses you today. In the hopes of proving a better…" What, now? Husband? Friend? "…ally."
Sansa smiled, entirely without pleasure. "You need not bother, my lord. There is no contest to be had—"
"Oh, I entirely disagree. What is life, if not a contest, Sansa? Lord Willas if the lord of Highgarden, and I the rightful lord of Casterly Rock. Even if it does not concern you, we are inevitably disposed to conflict."
"And I am just one of your battle grounds?" she said.
Tyrion did not have an answer to that, but fortunately the arrival of Podrick Payne saved him. The boy had a particular nervous way of knocking that had not changed at all with the years. "I believe that is your squire," he said, "you might want to let him in."
She scowled at him, though he was not sure why. Then she rose, went to the door and admitted a pink-faced Pod. "I came from Lady Waynwood," he said, all in one breath. "She wants to see you." He stopped and noticed Tyrion. "My lord. I mean you, my lady. Lady Sansa, that is."
"There are no other ladies here," Tyrion observed dryly. "Your message is not doubted, Podrick. May I ask—"
"You may not," said Sansa sternly. "Did Lady Waynwood say that she must see me now, Podrick?"
"Yes, my lady. That's why I ran." He bobbed his head, something like half a bow. "My lady," he said again. Tyrion noticed that he could not meet her eyes. He is half in love with her too, he thought. Though Pod could not meet his eyes either, and he doubted that was love. "Well," he told Sansa, "you had best go at once, my lady. You wouldn't want to be late for Lord Willas."
She turned to him. "None of us would," she said curtly. Without a second glance she swept out of the room. Podrick moved to follow but Tyrion called the boy back. "The Hound is out there, isn't he? With Lady Sansa?"
Pod gave a wordless nod.
"Then there is no need for you to follow her too," said Tyrion. "Come and sit with me awhile. Her ladyship did us the favour of not finishing her wine. You may drink what is left."
Pod seemed to shrink. "Lady Sansa does not appreciate my early drinking, my lord."
"Lady Sansa does not need to know. Does she?" A long pause; no response. "Does she, Podrick? You may serve her now, but I trust you still have something in your heart for me, no?"
"I – y-yes, my lord. I… I suppose so."
"You suppose." Tyrion was not sure why that irritated him so much. Podrick had been unquestioning, in those days. He had always been stammering, yes, but the moment of doubt had never existed. With that realisation, he was starting to understand what others might find irritating about the squire. Speak your mind, Pod. The gods know that someone in this world needs to. So he said as much. "Have you abandoned me too, Podrick?"
Pod paused with his cup halfway to his lips. "M-my lord?"
"I said have you abandoned me, too? I know you have served a great many masters since you left me in my cell."
"My lord? But you – you told me to go. Or you told Ser Jaime to tell me—"
"You have been with Jaime too, or so I have heard. My blessed brother. Savior of the City of King's Landing, and of all men, indeed. Ser Jaime Lannister, Goldenhand the Just, Lord Commander to both of his dead sons."
Podrick's fingers trembled as he lowered the cup. "M-my lord? But I thought Ser Jaime… I thought he helped you to… to—"
"Only to ease his conscience, I think. Suppose…" He set down his own drink. "Suppose I had been condemned for Joffrey's murder. Suppose I was waiting to die. I think Jaime would have saved me then, too. Again, to ease his own conscience. I never did tell you about Tysha, did I?"
"T-Tysha, my lord?"
Something about the big-eyed innocent look incensed him further. "Mayhaps not. But you remember Shae, I trust? Do you know what my sister did to Shae, Podrick? I will tell you. Cersei had her strangled. As she would no doubt have done to all those close to me, if she could. My wife might have been one of them… my loyal squire too. When I sent you away, Podrick, it was for your own good. Not so you could—" He stopped. Some self-control kicked in, and he did not think it was wise to continue.
"So I could what, my lord?" asked Podrick.
Tyrion looked at him: this fresh faced youth in all his innocence, knowing nothing. "I think you should go, Podrick," he said with a sigh.
Pod went – quickly, almost scurrilously. He slipped out quickly and quietly and the door behind him closed with only the slightest click.
It was not long before the regret set in. I have few friends here. Podrick is not a powerful one, but he is a friend nonetheless. Was. And yet… well, if the boy was going to spend all of his time feeling sorry for himself, Tyrion had no need of him as a friend.
He resolved to deal with this later. Now, his duty – whatever that meant – was calling.
When they arrived, the Tyrell host had seemed somewhat threatening; they numbered some fifty thousand, enough to outmatch Tyrion and Sansa's followings combined five times over. But their threat was undermined by three things:
Firstly, only about one-third of that army were fighting men. The rest were camp followers and families and all manner of poor and squalid people. Tyrion even glanced some sparrows among their number, of the sort that had haunted Tommen's early rule in King's Landing.
Secondly, Daenerys's attack on the roseroad had destroyed most of their food wagons, which left the force deprived of its essential resource. Willas Tyrell had appeared before them not only crippled, but thin and grey-faced, and Princess Arianne looked only a little better. As for the soldiers themselves, they were in an even worse state. Hunger naturally led to disease, and even now in the camp a worrying number could be found squatting over privy ditches, shitting their guts out.
Thirdly, and most importantly, they had come as refugees, not as conquerors. Hence it was a parley of peace that Willas Tyrell was seeking, and not one of war. And if things did change for the worse… well, he and Sansa had Lady Margaery in their custody. See how he likes that.
Sansa misliked the Hall of Hundred Hearths – it reminded her of Littlefinger, she said – so they met in the Small Hall, on a lower level of the Kingspyre Tower. Each side could have brought all manner of negotiators, but they were hoping to keep this simple, so they kept it to two and two: Tyrion and Sansa, and Lord Willas and the pregnant Princess Arianne. Sandor Clegane and Shagga waited threateningly in the antechamber, but inside the room it was only the four of them.
Tyrion was the last to arrive. The room had a decidedly funereal atmosphere, largely because all four participants had opted to wear black: for Sansa, sable stitched with silver; for the visiting pair, matching sable stitched with gold; for Tyrion, plain dark sable. It seemed that every noble person in Harrenhal wore sable nowadays. The walls were chilly, and the heat needed to be kept in.
"You might have started without me," Tyrion begun. He was content to let Sansa deal with the broader strokes of the negotiations. He was only concerned with the finer points.
Sansa nodded, turning to Lord Willas. "What do you desire of us, my lord?"
"An alliance." Lord Tyrell's speech seemed heavily rehearsed. "An alliance with… well, with whomever you represent."
"Lady Sansa represents House Stark," Tyrion informed them. "All branches of it, and her brothers and sisters, whether they be living or dead. I represent myself, mostly."
"Not House Lannister?" asked Arianne Martell.
"I can represent House Lannister if you want me to, my princess," said Tyrion. "Though given the history of our two houses – of our two peoples – such a move might prove unpopular."
"I know this," she said. "But Daenerys is a threat to both of us."
"Is she? I have no reason to be angry with Daenerys. She named me as her master of coin, back in King's Landing. Which is a damn sight more than Aegon ever did for me."
(This was not true. Jon Connington had made Tyrion master of coin – acting master of coin, Connington would no doubt stress – but he did not want to go against Daenerys without good reason.)
"Aegon had plans for you," said Arianne. "He told me he would have sent you to Casterly Rock, to treat with your nephew."
She lied well, Tyrion thought, but it was still a lie. "Whatever Aegon intended does not matter. He is dead now." And it was Viserion and I that doomed him. "We are asking what you intend."
"To fight," said Willas.
"She has a dragon."
"So do you, I have heard."
"And what do Lord Tyrion and I get from this?" Sansa asked. "Suppose we defeat Daenerys somehow. Suppose we kill her, and her kingdom is broken up. What can you offer us, then?"
"And who will rule?" Tyrion asked.
Lord Willas took a breath. "The… child… that Princess Arianne carries will rule when he or she comes of age—"
"Which will not be for another sixteen years."
"I thought that we might have a council of regents, as there was for Aegon III in his minority."
"Come now, Lord Tyrell. You are a learned man. You have read countless histories, I am sure. And you know that modelling our future government off Aegon III's is an awful idea. They started with seven regents, but none of them lasted the whole five years save for Grand Maester Munkun. Are you planning to have the Seven Kingdoms ruled entirely by maesters?"
Lord Willas straightened up. "A solution could be devised. One regent, elected from each of the Seven Kingdoms." But even as he spoke it was plain that the problems of factionalism were growing in his mind.
"This is what I understand of you," said Tyrion. "You want us to support you in a war which is of no interest to us, against an enemy who has the capacity to burn us all on a whim. Assuming that by some heroic effort we defeat this enemy, you then want us to kneel to an infant – who may grow up to be as ineffectual as his father – and wait while the kingdoms are fought over by squabbling lords like dogs over a bone – or while seven maesters sit on a council mumbling about aesthetics and astronomy."
"That is… that would…" Lord Willas seemed to have lost the ability to speak in sentences. "That is—"
"—in a word, stupid."
A few moments passed in silence.
Then Sansa said, "get rid of it, then. Get rid of the Iron Throne."
Tyrion stared at her. But even as he did so, the pieces slowly started to fall together, and as she continued talking, the pieces came together quicker and quicker.
"My father was a good Warden of the North," she said, "but a terrible Hand of the King. He understood the Northmen, and what they would fight for, and what they respected. Similarly, your own father would have been adrift in the North, Lord Willas, but he was well-suited to understand the politics of the Reach. As he could never rule in the north, my father could never rule in the south. We were raised in different traditions, all of us. Each one of us here has our own culture and understanding of the world. It seems to me that we are all coming at this problem from very different places. The Seven Kingdoms… they were never a natural thing. Forgive me if my history is inaccurate, but it took some two hundred years for the Targaryens to appease the Dornishmen alone. It will take many years more for any ruler, Targaryen or otherwise, to bring us all back together.
"My father once told me that the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. He was right when he was talking about Starks. But we Seven Kingdoms are not a family. The Starks hate the Lannisters, the Tullys hate the… Lannisters, the Martells hate the… well, they hate the Lannisters too."
"Everyone hates the Lannisters," said Tyrion. "Especially the Lannisters. Which more than proves Lady Sansa's point, I think."
But Sansa was not done. "Perhaps we should not be united under a single banner, but we can be united in our cause."
"Our cause being…?" Lord Willas asked.
She has them, Tyrion Lannister thought.
"Our cause is twofold," Sansa said. "We will support you – we will support each other in our attempts to free ourselves from the…"
"Yoke?" Tyrion suggested.
"—the yoke of the Iron Throne, yes. But we require your support in another matter. A bigger matter, which Daenerys pales in the face of. The great war. The army of the dead. They are coming." Lord Willas made to interrupt, but Sansa would not be stopped. "You may think me mad to throw that at you like that, yes. But you travelled across the Riverlands, and doubtless you have heard the rumours by word-of-mouth, even if you thought they were little more than supersitious folklore.
"So I will tell you now, Lord Willas, what I told Lord Tyrion. The army of the dead is real. I saw them on the beaches of Seagard, massing in their thousands. And every man in my army saw the same. Ask Lord Mallister. Ask Lord Vance. Ask Sandor Clegane – there is a man who will never lie to you about what scares him. And if you still doubt, let Lord Tyrion take you up in his dragon, to see the beaches for yourself, as he did."
As he had. When Sansa had come speaking of the army of the dead it had been difficult to believe, even when the Hound had suggested the same narrative. So two days after his arrival, he had taken Viserion and flown down to Seagard beach alone.
It was not the bodies that scared him. It was not the frost-bitten corpses with the terrified eyes, or the extinguished fires and fallen swords. It was the silence.
He turned to Willas Tyrell, made his voice solemn. "Lady Sansa speaks the truth, my lord," he said. "But I will leave that to her." He could do no more good here today; he would only get in Sansa's way – and he sensed the negotiations were over.
Tyrion rose before anyone thought to catch him and drag him back to his seat for more pleasantries. He was halfway up the hall stairs when a hand suddenly fell upon his shoulder and turned him round. "Imp," said Sandor Clegane. "Where exactly are you going?"
"To my chambers," Tyrion told him, more annoyed than threatened. "Perchance you would like to stalk me there."
"Have a care what you say, Imp. You're a small man with a big mouth, but a small man nonetheless. And when that mouth gets you into trouble, it'll be the other thing that matters."
Tyrion half-laughed. "Very well," he said sarcastically. "I apologise profusely if I have distressed your lady Sansa in any way. Though she has a sharper tongue now than she once did; I am sure she could rebuke me herself, if she cared to."
"I am talking about Lady Sansa. I am talking about the boy."
That left him utterly bewildered. "The… the boy? What boy?"
"The Payne boy," said Clegane. "Lady Sansa is a Stark of Winterfell and well-placed to deal with you. The boy is of lower birth such that you might condemn him to death on a whim. He is not yours to torment. When monsters like you or I are angry, best find another monster to direct our anger against." He loomed large over Tyrion, his hideous burned face contorting into a grin. "Don't you think so?"
"You have a point," Tyrion conceded. "Though you seem to have lost your angry bite altogether, Clegane. When did you become so sentimental?"
"Saving Starks will do that to you," the Hound replied. "You should try it sometime." Then he stepped away from Tyrion, and retreated down the stairs.
For his own part Tyrion continued upstairs, up the steps from the Hall of the Hundred Hearths, out across Flowstone Yard and up to the Tower of Dread. A name which is starting to suit me more and more by the minute. Sansa lives in dread of me, Podrick lives in dread of me… and why would they not?
He was close to his chambers when he first heard Penny's voice – or rather, two tones of her voice: one high, the other yet higher. It was almost comforting to hear her talking to herself; it proved that he was not the only one who was mad. But then he realised that the second voice was not hers at all. Perhaps it had been disguised at first, but now that guise had fallen away, and Tyrion recognised the velvet-soft tones of Varys the Spider.
"My lord," he said, aware that Varys almost certainly knew he was listening. "What a pleasant surprise."
"Pleasant?" The eunuch arched an eyebrow. "Your countenance suggests otherwise, my lord Tyrion." He came forwards; he wore his usual cloying perfume in even greater quantities than was normal. Does he think it will repel me, somehow?
"I did not know you had accompanied Lord Willas and Princess Arianne," Tyrion said. "That is how you arrived here, I presume?"
"It is."
"Then why, pray, did you attend our meetings in the Hall of Hundred Hearths."
Varys smiled, showing small white teeth. "For the same reason that you are not still present at this moment for the refreshments. I did not think I would be welcome there. But whereas you returned here to brood, no doubt, I thought I might find some joyful pastime. Hence my meeting with your lady companion."
Tyrion turned to Penny. "You should not have let him in."
She blanched. "He said he was a friend—"
"Many people claim to be my friend. Believe me, I have very few. And Lord Varys is certainly not one of them. He was at the Blackwater, remember."
"I remember," said Penny. "But he never hurt me."
"Oh, I do not doubt that he would be willing to." He turned his glare on Varys. "I know that you and the cheesemonger made good use of children to carry your messages in King's Landing. But a dwarf and a child are often indistinguishable." To Penny: "No doubt in different circumstances, Lord Varys would not have hesitated to cut out your tongue."
"You wound me with your accusations, my lord," said the eunuch. "Come, now. I know there is bad blood between us, but I had hoped that we had developed a genuine friendship over the years, too."
"You have a strange notion of friendship," Tyrion said. "Or did you regularly betray Illyrio, too?" Strike for the heart, now. "Did Illyrio escape the ashes of the sinking ship that was Aegon's claim, or did he burn with all the rest?"
"Alas," said Varys, with overabundant sorrow. "Illyrio is gone. Along with brave Ser Richard Lonmouth, and the Lord Hand, and so many of my beloved little birds."
"And Aegon himself, of course. Your long-prophesised prince. Forgive me if I do not weep at the death of your little Blackfyre rebellion."
"Oh, but is it dead, my lord? Arianne Martell is pregnant. And if Daenerys should die while her child lives… well, then you might say that our plan proved successful after all."
"Perhaps," said Tyrion. "But there is still some time before Princess Arianne gives birth, I think. And even then, the child might be stillborn, or worse, born malformed, like me."
"Oh, I do not think you are malformed, my lord. I think you are exactly the shape you need to be. And we would not use such unkind terms as 'malformed' to describe persons of your stature, would we?" This he directed to Penny, who gave a small, nervous, shake of the head.
"Penny," Tyrion said. "Would you mind doing me a favour? Would you go down to the cellars and ask them to bring up some wine for Lord Varys and me? Arbor gold, if we have it."
There might well have been Arbor gold in his cabinet, but Penny asked no questions. Varys saw fit to comment on that once she was gone. "Poor girl. She feels she is entirely indebted to you. I have no doubt that she'd lay down her life for you, if it was necessary."
"It is a good thing I have no intention of making her do so, then."
"Hmm." Varys nodded. "For now."
"I have a dragon now," said Tyrion. "If I want something, I can get it that way. No need for Penny to sacrifice herself. No need for anyone to sacrifice anything."
"I disagree, my lord. There are always sacrifices." Varys picked at his hands, as if he'd just found dirt on his palms. "Everybody has to die for something, in the end."
"And what are you willing to die for, Varys?"
The eunuch smiled wryly. "Why, the realm, of course. And what about you, my lord?"
"I lost my faith in causes worth dying for a long time ago."
"Oh, no, my lord. There are always small sad things to die for." He stepped out into the passage that connected Tyrion's chambers with the Tower of Dread's main stairs. "If you follow me, I will show you some of them."
He did not think wandering into the unknown with Varys was the wisest idea in the world, but that at least gave him away out from his self-pity. They descended the stairs to the entrance level, and then further still to the kitchen level, and then yet further still. The wall in front of them appeared to be solid stone, but Varys clicked something into place and then pushed the wall, and it opened as a door would.
Tyrion did his best not to look surprised. "I suspected that Harren would have built his fair share of tunnels."
"Not Harren," said Varys, starting down the tunnel. "Else he would have been able to shelter from Balerion's dragonfire – which, as we know, he did not. No, these tunnels were built by Lady Danelle Lothston. Do you know of her, my lord?"
"She was the one who bathed in blood, wasn't she? They called her Danelle the Mad."
"She also had a habit of eating human flesh, or so we are told. House Lothston was the sixth family to take Harrenhal as its seat. So far ten families have ruled from here."
"Hoare. Qoherys. Harroway." Tyrion counted them on his fingers. "Then… Towers – very aptly named. Strong. Lothston, ending with Mad Danelle. And then the Whents. Catelyn Tully's mother was a Whent, I believe."
"That is six, my lord," said Varys.
"Janos Slynt makes seven. I forget how he was dispossessed of the castle. And Littlefinger makes eight. And…" Had he missed one, somewhere back in the days of the dragonkings? "Oh. You are including Sansa, are you?"
"You might argue that her claim is merely the continuation of the Whent claim," Varys said. "But yes. There are Starks of Harrenhal now, as there are – or were – Starks of Winterfell."
"That is nine," said Tyrion. "What is the tenth?"
"Can you really not think, my lord?"
Tyrion frowned.
"Why, it is House Lannister," the eunuch said, oddly pleased with himself. "Your own lord father was briefly lord of Harrenhal, if only informally."
"By that logic you would have to include the Boltons as well. Roose Bolton ruled here for a time. He was here when Jaime was."
"And where is Roose Bolton now?"
"As dead as my dear lord father," said Tyrion. "What are you implying, Varys? That the curse of Harrenhal will soon be visited upon Houses Lannister and Stark."
"I never said that." Varys smiled slyly. "Is that your suspicion?"
"My suspicion," Tyrion replied, "is that House Lannister does not need the curse of Harrenhal to destroy itself."
They went a little ways further, and then Varys stopped; the tunnel had come to an end. The eunuch felt along the ceiling, then rapped three times, hard. Tyrion felt the ceiling budge, ever so slightly. Varys hit three more times, and he realised that the eunuch was tapping out a signal. Then a trapdoor opened above them, revealing a triangle of light. A hand stretched down to help them up. Varys gestured for Tyrion to ascend first. "As it please my lord."
"It does not please me much." Nonetheless Tyrion took the hand, and let himself be hauled up, out of the darkness. He turned to thank the soul who had rescued him from Varys's solitary company, but his words stuck in his throat when he recognised Ser Bronn of the Blackwater.
"Lost for words, Imp?" Bronn asked.
Tyrion recovered quickly. "I am only surprised at how much you get around, Bronn. You would do well as a Flea Bottom whore, I think."
"You are too kind, m'lord." Bronn reached down to haul Varys up; the eunuch found his feet, and frantically dusted down his robes, as if even the hint of uncleanliness was like to kill him dead.
"We are in the Widow's Tower now, my lord," said Varys. "Lady Lothston's web runs between all five towers."
"Whereas I am sure yours stretches quite a bit further than that," Tyrion replied sourly. "I must confess myself disappointed, Varys. When you promised me something worth dying for, I had hoped for more than Ser Bronn."
"What were you hoping for?" asked Bronn.
"Not you. Not some sellsword I should have left to rot at the inn at the crossroads."
"Aye, m'lord, you should have. But that way you'd be short a head. As for what we're showing you… well…" And then he stepped aside to reveal Numbers – Gerion, or whatever he was calling himself – in the room behind him.
Varys planned this, Tyrion thought, absently. But when he turned to glare at the eunuch he was nowhere to be found. Here he was, Tyrion Lannister, stranded between the sellsword who had betrayed him and the squire who might well be his son. Here he was, lost for words. But where was he to begin? Where?
A thought: where do whores go? An answer: it matters not where they go, or whether they were ever a whore at all. They always come back to haunt us. And here stood the boy he had abandoned at the Blackwater, and looking closely now Tyrion saw what should have been obvious from first sight. It was the eyes that saw truest. One green eye; his green eye, brimming with Lannister mischief; and one blue eye, her blue eye. Two eyes of different colours. Was that something you passed down to your sons, and to your son's sons? It had not manifested in Lord Tywin nor in his wife, so far as Tyrion knew. But that did not mean he had not passed it down to Gerion. He remember sitting in that cave with Penny, absently humming the lyrics of Tysha's song; I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair… He remembered her absent comment; that was Gerion's song, Number's song. He said his mother used to sing it to him when he was small.
How many girls – or women – knew that song? How many sang that song so sweetly that for husband or son alike it would become the enduring image of her, so many years on, as bare and as plain as naked flesh even when the creases of her face were starting to fade from memory? How many—?
"You left me," said Gerion – said Numbers, said Tysha. He spoke with her voice, small and songbird-sweet. It was a voice that begged forgiveness for the crime it was about to commit: the crime of sticking itself in your heart and never ever letting go.
Tyrion watched him for so long – it may only have been seconds, but it felt like minutes. Then his lips came unstuck. He took half a step forwards, and felt Numbers step back, felt it in his bones, and beyond that, and it stung worse than any knife-edge. "I was your squire," the boy said, and in that word was a world of hurt and pain. "But you left me."
