Hello again (͡° ͜ʖ ͡°), I watched Game of Thrones recently (by recently I mean months ago) and realized just how much I shipped Bronn and Tyrion, and after finding like one story I decided I'd write my own one. So here is a story! Enjoy

Bronn hurried to Tyrion's chambers, he had just heard about what happened at the battle of Blackwater, some cunt had sliced him across his face, and Bronn had no idea of the damage that had been done.

He marched down the corridors with an aura of anger about him, people steered clear of him and for good reason. The sellsword's face and chest was covered in blood and his hand was on the hilt of his sword, daring any stupid fool to cross him.

He was furious and a bit worried, although he'd never admit it. He cared about the half man although he hid it well. Reminded the small man of the fact he was only there so long as there was gold, although that was a lie. Tyrion and he were friends, and he cared about the imp more than he let on. If something were to happen to him-

He swallowed roughly. Tyrion would be fine, and if he wasn't he'd kill the dwarf himself.

He eventually came to the corridor that led to Tyrion's chambers, stopping short at the two guards that stood, blocking the door. He felt his temper rising at the thought of not being allowed inside his friends chambers. He needed to see for himself how he was, and no knight in the seven kingdoms could stop him entering that room.

One knight, a light-haired man stood nervously, his eyes taking in Bronn's appearance before glancing away. He wore a fancy white cloak with gold embodiments on it. Much like the type of cloak Tyrion wanted him to wear not that long ago, as they discussed battle plans and looked over the history of sieges.

"S-ser Bronn, the Lord Tyrion is injured and Lady Cerci has ordered us to-""Move." He was cut off by the sellword. His tone was hard and demanding, and spoke dominance. He wasn't going to be shooed away by some of Cerci's lapdogs.

The knight looked petrified and glanced to his companion. Both were young, looked like they had just became knights. Obviously they hadn't had a hand in the battle, they were probably in the castle guarding the woman and children.

The knight took too long to reply and Bronn's anger swelled, he unsheathed his sword at his side, "Move. Now." The knights practically jumped apart, allowing Bronn room to pass unhindered.

He glared at them as he pushed his way into the little Lord's chambers, closing the door softly behind him. Didn't want to wake him while he was resting. His steps were silent as he walked toward the bed. He stopped, looking over the bed at his friend. His face was heavily bandaged, hardly any of his face was showing through the blood soaked bandages.

He rubbed his face with a hand and moved a chair next to his friend's bed, sitting down and watching over his comrade. He refused to leave the imp's side after this. If he had been there by his side protecting him like he was supposed to none of this would have happened.

He sighed and looked at Tyrion. The stupid little man shouldn't have been fighting, he was too small and no match for a broadsword. If the man who had hit him had hit harder he would have chopped his face in half. If he was there he would like to think he would be the one to kill the bastard who did this. From what he heard Podrick had killed him. He was rather proud of the squire, he, Podrick and Tyrion had become a trio. An unlikely friendship had formed between the three.

It was the first time in a long time he had friends. From as long as he could remember he'd been fighting, having himself only for company. His parents beat him and his little brother when he was younger and when he was old enough he had taken up a sword. Killing his first person before he was properly a teenager. Then he had sold his sword for money, money kept him alive after all, and he liked to indulge in women and wine on the occasion he wasn't fighting. Like every other man. Then he had went with Lady Stark to the veil and stood for the dwarf when no-one else would. At first he would admit he only did it because he knew Lannister's were wealthy and protecting one would make him by association wealthy.

But as time went on he had found himself becoming attached to the imp, which was a first. He thought back on the conversation they had before the battle, the last time he'd seen Tyrion until now.

'Don't get killed.'

'Nor you, my friend.'

'Oh, are we friends now?'

'Of course we are. Just because l pay you for your services doesn't diminish our friendship.'

'Enhances it, really.'

'Oh! "Enhances." Fancy word for a sellsword.'

'Been spending time with fancy folks.'

The moment between them had been too intimate, both didn't expect to survive the battle, and they had played off the intimacy with humour. He didn't want Tyrion to go into battle thinking Bronn didn't expect the half-man to survive so he used his brash humour to ease his mind.

But of course it was too good to be true, neither of them had escaped unscathed, Tyrion had that gash across his face and Bronn had a nasty untreated slice on his arm. Thankfully it wasn't his good arm, he would admit he had been favouring it.

He refused to have the maester treat it until he was certain Tyrion was going to be okay, he knew it was foolish but people were after the dwarf and he could rest easy after the Lannister was back on his feet and well protected.

He sighed again and rolled his arm, he was sore after the battle, tired too. His plan was to celebrate with some wine with Tyrion before enjoying himself in Baelish's brothel. But Tyrion getting injured had put a fork in his plan, and now he needed to be on full alert.

He looked down on the sleeping dwarf, smiling softly "I better get paid thrice as much for this," he spoke aloud, trying to assure himself his friend was going to be okay "you're a right pain in the arse you know that" to anyone listening he would have sounded angry or bitter, but his eyes were soft and vulnerable as he took in the battered form upon the silk Lannister sheets.

He sat by the young Lannister's side until the sun set, darkness engulfed the room but the Sellsword sat perfectly still in the cool air of the night. If anyone were to attack the half-man it would be now. In the dark, when the unsuspecting victim slept, helpless. He sat in the tension filled room, waiting. He was ready to smash some skulls, and had someone waltzed in, knife in hand intending to do Tyrion harm he wouldn't live to see daylight.

Sometimes he didn't understand Tyrion, he lived in the capitol with his siblings and occasional father, who Bronn suspected would be around for a while after his entrance on the battlefield. The dwarf lived with a family that despised him, blamed him for a death he couldn't have prevented if he'd wanted to. His sister had tried to kill him more than once, from what he heard Tywin only tolerated him because he was blood. Jaime was the only one who valued his brother, cared about him.

It was obvious Tyrion cared about the Kingslayer too, if what he'd seen at the eyrie had been any indication. He had immediately asked for his brother, knowing he would ride out to fight for the little man. They had a bond, they valued each other, didn't just tolerate each other like most house siblings did. Bronn felt an ache in his heart when he realised it was love, not the Cerci and Jaime type love obviously, no they truly cared about one-another. And Bronn was shocked to notice he had never had that, a true bond.

He had a younger brother but he was simple minded and didn't think past the village they lived in. Bronn had often stood in place of his brother, taking his beating for the young lad. But it was never reciprocated, perhaps that was him trying to love his brother, reaching out, hoping to have a bond that so many families did. He didn't though, his brother kept his head low and did his father's bidding, more like a slave than a man with a conscience. Too late to think back though, he was sure his brother was dead, his parents too. That's probably why he grew up the way he did, why he was bitter, cold, snarky and disrespectful. He had no one who awaited his return, nowhere to return to, no friends on the battlefield. He realised with a gasp that he was lonely.

His thoughts kept him occupied as he leaned back in his chair, now was not the time to be jealous of a family. He had closed himself off before he had really become a man and acted like he didn't have feelings. He did, they were just well hidden and protected behind snark humour and sarcastic comments. He knew one day his tongue would cost him, end up pissing off the wrong person. He couldn't allow himself to wear his heart on his sleeve as Tyrion does, being too kind and generous always led to problems. He had been kind to the Stark girl and had been hated more by Tywin, Cerci and all the other inbred cunts that made up the Lannister's.

Eventually the darkness lifted and even then he sat, motionless as the sun rose, light streaming in through the curtains. He was tired, sore and drained, but he would only allow himself to rest when he was sure the little-lord was around those Bronn trusted. Maybe some of his men could guard his chambers, with Podrick at his bedside while Bronn got some shut eye. Sleep sounded nice, he could hardly believe he was allowing himself to do this. To put someone else's needs before his own, they had just won the battle and every man who was right in the head was resting after a hard day's work. It was foolish and in the past he wouldn't have even considered putting off his needs to ensure someone was okay.

Now here he was, sat at the bedside of a disliked dwarf, the people were lucky to have him, from what he'd heard he had been the one to inspire the knights to fight for the stupid capitol in the first place. He felt strangely powerless, he had no way of knowing if Tyrion would wake again yet here he was sat at his side, hoping for him to be okay.

He felt a wry smile cross his face, if their situations were switched would there be anyone at his bedside, hoping for him to wake? He doubted it. Tyrion would probably have some random knight keep watch of him then report on his situation. He wouldn't be sat at Bronn's side like a worried mother hen.

His eyes snapped up when he heard the door open, his hand on his hilt, prepared for a fight. Instead he lowered his hand when the grand maester Pycelle walked in, Podrick following closely like a lost puppy. He saw the maester freeze up when he saw Bronn, probably shocked to see him. They walked in and towards the bed, Bronn got up and moved his chair out of the way, giving the old man room to work on his friend. He felt a little unsteady on his feet as he stood, having had no food or sleep after walking out of the battle of Blackwater. He felt pale and a little ill all of a sudden, and leaned against a wooden beam from Tyrion's bed, trying to nonchalantly lean against it. He didn't want anyone to know he felt unwell. He had a reputation to uphold after all.

The bearded man worked his magic and Bronn felt eyes on him, he glanced over, seeing the concerned eyes of Podrick. He couldn't imagine what he looked like to the young squire, he had dried blood on his face, his clothes worse for wear, his eyes were sunken in their sockets and his hair a mess. Thankfully he couldn't see his wound from the dark leather he wore, the garment hid the gash in his arm well.

The maester suddenly turned, looking to Podrick expectantly "Podrick I need you to fetch some clean towels and some water" he went back to whatever it was he was doing and Podrick flew from the room. The second the door to Tyrion's chamber closed he turned again, staring at Bronn, more accurately glaring at him.

"If you expect me to fetch something and leave him defenceless you have another thin-" his threat was cut off by the old man "Sit down you foolish man, you can barely stand" Bronn's eyebrows shot up, not expecting the attitude. He moved his hand to rest it on his hilt as a warning to Pycelle, but felt himself sway a little from moving from the wooden pole.

His vision swam a little and before he knew it had happened the worn hand of Pycelle had guided him to a chair, forcing him to sit.

He was about to rise again when the older man spoke "You obviously care about Lord Tyrion a great deal to hide an injury such as that" Bronn's eyes snapped up, shocked at having been caught. Something must have shown on his face because the old man continued "Please, you've been favouring your left arm and you look worse than the little lord himself," he looked at Tyrion before glancing up at Bronn "You've been here all night haven't you, protecting him, seeing that he is treated before yourself," his eyes held a sparkle of knowing "a very noble thing to do, not too common for a sellsword" he moved closer to Bronn, taking his arm and rolling up the sleeves.

"Somethin' anyone would have done" he brushed off as he looked at the cut in his arm. It was the first time Bronn had taken a look at the wound, it wasn't too long, a line barely longer than his hand stretched over the back of his wrist up to his forearm, curving up his arm to near the elbow. He knew if he left it too long untreated the wound would fester. And was suddenly glad the grand maester had noticed. Had he left it any longer he might not have an arm.

The wound was dark and concealed by blood, the gash was open and agitated, the maester would have to sew it closed. The old man walked over to a draw, returning with a belt, he wrapped it just past the wound and closed it tightly. Keeping the blood from flowing and Bronn from bleeding out. It was at that moment Podrick arrived, shock evident on his face at the scene before him. Bronn pale and sweating with the old maester stood over him, fastening the belt tightly.

The old man took the towels and bucket of water from the squire with thanks, waving away the boy so he had space to work. Bronn watched through hazy eyes as he pulled out a sewing needle and some type of thread from who knows where, the sellsword was barely awake, he couldn't focus. He watched, beads of sweat rolling down his face as his body shook slightly. He felt like shit. The old man began closing up the wound and Bronn bit down on his lip, staring at the ceiling, trying not to shout. Best not wake the little lord. He almost cried with relief when Podrick handed him some type of wine, he downed the first half in a few gulps. Some of the red liquid running down his chin. He had had worse, but having no sleep seemed to have enhanced the pain he was feeling. The grand maester took the wine and poured some over his wound, the alcohol would help stop infection. Though it seemed a waste of ale.

Podrick stepped forward and began wiping his face with a wet towel, he was shocked, no-one had done that before. It was rather intimate. The shock on his face must have shown because Podrick smiled down at him, holding the side of his head with one arm to move it as he saw fit. While the other brushed down Bronn's face. The towel was washing off all the sweat, blood and grime he had accumulated over the battle.

Podrick shook his head "Tyrion doesn't know how lucky he is," he beamed down at the sellsword, a knowing gleam in his eye "while you're looking after him, who's looking after you?" he took the towel and bucket and just like that he was alone. The maester and squire gone in a flash, Bronn would have thought he'd imagined it if not for the empty tankard next to him on the bedside table. He pulled his sleeve down carefully over the wound, the stitches would tear if not looked after properly.

He walked over to a table in Tyrion's chambers, all noble folk seemed to have all this food so carelessly in their chambers, but none of them seemed to eat it. All that fruit in the bowel would probably be left until they were mouldy, then fed to the pigs.

He picked up a red apple, its skin was dark red and guaranteed to be sweet. He turned it over in his hands as he thought. He'd been brought up to value food highly, as he'd said to Tyrion before the battle, he'd been in a city under siege and had experienced a food shortage first hand. Food was so valuable yet here in Kings Landing noble people let it go to waste.

He casually walked back over to his chair and took a bite, his eyes never straying from Tyrion. He sighed, this softness he had for the dwarf was going to get him killed one day.

He continued munching on his apple as he thought. Now that Tywin was back he was probably going to lose his title as city guard captain, not like he would have stuck with it anyway. The elder Lannister would try to bribe him with money and women and the like, but the more he thought of leaving the little dwarf alone in King's Landing with no friends other than Shae and Podrick.

He swallowed roughly, the imp was vulnerable at the moment and Podrick couldn't manage watching the little lord alone, no-one even knew Shae was here other than Tyrion and himself. Tywin could try all he wanted but no offer would make him think of leaving Tyrion in such a vulnerable state.

He placed the apple core on the bedside table and leaned back in his chair, sighing dejectedly. Shae, he had introduced Tyrion to Shae. At the time trying to cheer the lord up with sex, something he assumed Tyrion only did with women. Tyrion had become close to her and Bronn had heard all about the last woman Tyrion fell for from Jaimie. This was only going to end badly for the dwarf, she was a whore after all.

Bronn rubbed his hair from his face and his breathing evened out, unknowingly falling asleep on a bedside chair in Tyrion's chambers.