Title: Miss Stark's Millions
Author: PrettyPoppy
Summary: Tyrion Lannister is a struggling actor in 1940s King's Landing. When he's offered the role of a lifetime—impersonating Bran Stark at a family will reading—he jumps at the chance, even though he knows he's helping Bronn Blackwater commit fraud. Once at Winterfell, Tyrion realizes he's in over his head and wants to back out, but after meeting Bran's sister, Sansa, the last thing Tyrion can do is leave.
Author's Notes: This fic is a Sanrion retelling of my mother's all-time favorite movie, "Miss Tatlock's Millions." It's a 1948 screwball comedy that's so obscure it's never even had an official DVD release. The film is definitely a product of its time and has some questionable content, but I still love it just as much as my mother does, and I thought it would be fun to share the story with my fellow Sanrion shippers.
In order to make the movie's plot work within the Game of Thrones universe, I had to make two important changes. First—and most significantly—I had to make Bran a dwarf. It was the only way Tyrion could convincingly impersonate him. And second, I replaced the scheming aunt and uncles in the film with Cersei, Tywin, and Petyr. So for the purposes of this fic, they are all Ned Stark's siblings.
Dedication: This fic is dedicated with much love and appreciation to my mom. Not only is she a devoted Sanrion shipper, but she introduced me to "Miss Tatlock's Millions," without which this story would not exist.
Chapter One
King's Landing, 1948
Tyrion Lannister tore the stocking cap from his head and the fake beard from his chin, tossing them both on the dressing room vanity with a sigh of resignation. He stared at himself in the mirror, the bright lights turning his painted skin a sickly shade of blue.
"How in the seven hells did it ever get this bad?"
Tyrion covered his face with cold cream, then began to wipe off the greasepaint with a washcloth, wishing there was a way to do it without looking at his own reflection. When he'd first gotten into acting, he'd dreamed of playing meaty roles like Richard III or Hamlet. Instead, he'd been lucky to get work in children's plays. There weren't many roles for men of his stature in King's Landing. He'd been playing one of Snow White's seven dwarfs for weeks now, and he was sick of it.
As Tyrion scrubbed the paint from his face, nearly taking the skin with it, there was a knock at the dressing room door. Of course, it wasn't Tyrion's own personal dressing room. He was just a member of the chorus, a faceless, nameless nobody. But he'd waited to take his makeup off until everyone else had gone home, spending the intervening time backstage finishing off a bottle of wine.
"Come in," Tyrion grumbled, not caring who was at the door. He was too wrapped up in his own self-loathing for it to matter.
The door opened, and Tyrion didn't even turn around to look at who had entered the room. He just kept his attention focused on his task, grateful to be wiping away the evidence of his shame.
"You Tyrion Lannister?"
The voice was an unfamiliar one, and Tyrion finally turned around on his stool, tossing aside the cloth he'd used to remove the last of his makeup.
The man before him was lean and lanky and a bit rough around the edges, but Tyrion wasn't the least bit intimidated. He'd spent his whole life being ridiculed. There wasn't a condemning look he wasn't used to, nor a snide remark.
The stranger's gaze traveled the length of Tyrion's body, from his head to his toes and back again. When the man's blue eyes reached Tyrion's once more, he cocked his head to the side thoughtfully and said, "You'll do."
"Do for what?" Tyrion didn't move a muscle. Too late, he realized that this man's interest in him might be a bit more sinister than he'd supposed. Now, he was sorry he'd waited to use the dressing room until everyone else had left.
"I've got a job for you," the man said. "If you want it."
Tyrion exhaled in relief, his whole body suddenly relaxing. "A job? I thought you were hired muscle. I'm surprised you're not packing heat."
The stranger snorted. "Don't do that anymore. Not since I got this sweet gig. So, you want a job or not?"
Tyrion narrowed his eyes on the stranger, more curious now than afraid. "Who are you?"
"Name's Bronn. Bronn Blackwater," the man said as he ambled farther into the room, plopping himself down on the chair at the dressing table across from Tyrion. He stretched out his long legs, slumping casually in his seat. "I work for the Stark family. The Starks of Winterfell?"
Bronn said it like Tyrion was supposed to know who they were, but he didn't have a clue.
"That's nice for you," Tyrion said, "but what does that have to do with me?"
Bronn reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph. He leaned forward just enough to hand it to Tyrion.
Tyrion took the photo with numb fingers, looking down to find a dead-eyed young man with pitch-black hair staring back at him. The man in the picture was also a dwarf.
Tyrion looked up at Bronn, offering him back the photo. "I don't get it."
"Think you could pass for him?"
Tyrion looked at the picture again. If he squinted in just the right way, he could see a vague resemblance between himself and the man in the photograph. "So, what? You want me to play him in a biopic or something?"
"Somethin' like that."
Tyrion shoved the picture back at Bronn, who finally took it.
As Bronn stowed the photo back in his pocket, he said, "This here's a picture of Brandon Stark, one of the heirs to the Stark fortune. When he was a kid, he fell from a tower up at Winterfell, the Stark ancestral home, and cracked his head open. Suffered a traumatic brain injury that left him . . . well, shall we say, kind of eccentric? Thinks he's something called the Three-eyed Raven. Thinks he can see the past and the future."
Tyrion screwed up his face, trying to make sense of what Bronn was saying, but he still didn't quite understand where this whole thing was going.
Bronn continued, "After his parents died, he was raised by his grandparents, but they didn't know what to do with him, so they sent him to Dorne to get him out of their hair. They pay me to be his social secretary cause no Stark could ever be said to need a keeper. I get paid five grand a month to look after him and keep him out of trouble. It's a good racket and not one I'm ready to give up."
"I can see why," Tyrion replied, not knowing what else to say.
Bronn leaned in closer in a conspiratorial gesture. "Thing is, though, both the kid's grandparents just kicked it, and I need to take him home to Winterfell for the reading of the will."
Tyrion shifted uncomfortably on his stool. He still wasn't entirely sure what Bronn was getting at, but he had the sneaking suspicion that he wasn't going to like it. "Okay, so again, what does that have to do with me?"
Bronn rubbed the back of his neck nervously, and Tyrion knew there was something bad coming.
"See, I've got myself a bit of a problem," Bronn said. "About two years ago, there was a little house fire down in Dorne. I went into town for a day, maybe two, and came back to find our bungalow burnt to the ground and Bran with it."
Tyrion sprung off his stool, finally realizing what it was that Bronn wanted him to do. "I'm not getting involved in any kind of fraud."
But Bronn just brushed Tyrion's concerns aside with a wave of his hand. "It's not fraud. Or if it is, it don't matter. Them Starks have got millions. They don't even notice the five grand that goes out every month. It's nothing to them."
Tyrion shook his head, taking a step back, needing to put some space between him and the lunatic who'd invaded his dressing room. "So, you've spent the past two years embezzling money from them and now you want to keep the charade going by having me pretend to be this Brandon Stark person?"
"Yeah, that's about the size of it."
Tyrion nearly choked. "Not for a million gold dragons. I'm not getting involved in this. You're going to end up in jail, do you know that? And I don't want to end up there with you."
Tyrion turned on his heel and headed straight for the door, determined to escape before Bronn could say anything else incriminating. But just as he crossed the threshold, Bronn said, "The job pays ten grand for forty-eight hours' work."
Tyrion froze. He didn't even have heat in his apartment, let alone a copper penny in his bank account, and the promise of ten grand was enough to stop him dead in his tracks.
"Ah, I knew that would get your attention," Bronn said. "Ten grand. All you've gotta do is go with me to Winterfell and pretend to be Bran for two days. Once the will is read, you can go back to King's Landing ten grand richer and I'll return to the lap of luxury in Dorne."
Tyrion finally turned around, his eyes intently focused on Bronn. "And how am I supposed to convince anyone that I'm Brandon Stark? If there's a will reading, that means there are going to be other family members there, right?"
Bronn shrugged. "Just an aunt and a couple of uncles from the Westerlands. Nothing to worry about. They haven't seen Bran in ten years. I'm sure not a one of them could pick him out of a crowd."
Tyrion's mind began to whirl with possibilities. He still wasn't convinced it would be an easy sell, but he had to know something. "This Bran fellow, you said he was eccentric. What was he like?"
Bronn sighed heavily, as if he was already tired of Tyrion's questions. "You know, eccentric. He was a lively child, I remember that, but after the accident, it was as if the light just went out of his eyes. Not a thing in this world excited or interested him. Thought he could warg into animals and spent most of his time with his eyes in the back of his head, pretending to fly like a raven. Weird stuff, but nothin' you can't mimic with my help."
Tyrion bit the inside of his lower lip, fighting the urge to give in. He knew what Bronn was asking of him was wrong—not just wrong but illegal—yet he really could use the money and playing an eccentric millionaire was just the kind of acting challenge he'd dreamed of his entire life.
Tyrion had always considered himself to be an upright kind of guy. Oh, not that he wasn't a sinner. He was a first-class sinner, all right. But when it came down to it, when other people's welfare was concerned, he always did the right thing. Would it be so bad to do the wrong thing for once? After all, who was it really hurting? A bunch of nameless, faceless millionaires who didn't know how much money they had in their bank accounts to begin with? It was almost a victimless crime, and if Tyrion helped Bronn, at the very least, it might keep Bronn out of jail. In the end, Tyrion would be doing a good deed, and there was some merit in that.
"Well?" Bronn asked. "You got an answer, or do I have to find someone else?"
Tyrion's stomach growled. He hadn't eaten anything all day, preferring to save his money for dinner rather than breakfast or lunch. It was exactly the impetus he needed to make his decision.
"Yeah, I'll do it," Tyrion said. "I'll be your Brandon Stark, the consequences be damned."