Tyrion I

"You need to do something about that boy!" Tyrion's voice thundered through the stone corridors as he stormed into his father's office at the top of the Tower of the Hand. His footsteps echoed with the force of his fury, and his face was flushed with anger. The doors slammed behind him, punctuating the eruption of his temper.

Tywin barely glanced up from the parchment spread across his desk, his quill scratching lightly as if Tyrion's outburst was nothing more than a passing breeze. His expression remained cold, unreadable, betraying not the slightest flicker of emotion. He took his time, deliberately finishing his line before he acknowledged his son with a single, dismissive look.

"What boy?" Tywin asked, his tone clipped, indifferent, as if he had no need to pretend he didn't know.

Tyrion's temper flared hotter at his father's disinterest. "You know damn well which boy I mean—Joffrey! Your precious grandson, the king. He's out of control!"

Tywin set down his quill, his eyes finally meeting Tyrion's, cold and sharp like steel. "The king," he corrected in a calm, almost detached manner, "is not for you to concern yourself with."

Tyrion's laugh was humourless, edged with the kind of bitterness that only a lifetime of contempt could foster. "Not for me to concern myself with? The boy's a menace! He's tormenting Sansa Stark beyond what's excusable, and he's made no secret of his desire to keep her here as his personal toy after she's married. Even worse, he's made boasts. Publicly. How long do you think we can keep that quiet?"

Tywin remained still, a statue carved in marble behind his desk. "Joffrey is a king, Tyrion," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "And kings do not answer to every petty complaint that comes from their subjects. Nor should they."

Tyrion's hands clenched into fists at his sides, the frustration boiling just under his skin. "Petty complaints? He raped that girl!" Tyrion shouted, "This is more than some tantrum, Father. The boy is a disaster waiting to happen. He's becoming a liability. If we don't rein him in, there will be consequences—bloodshed."

Tywin stood then, slowly, purposefully, his towering figure casting a long shadow over the room. His eyes, cold and calculating, locked onto Tyrion's. "Do you think I don't see the flaws in my grandson? Do you think I am blind to what Joffrey is?"

Tyrion held his father's gaze, his own resolve hardening. "Then do something about it."

Tywin moved around his desk with the deliberate, calculated grace of a lion stalking its prey. His steps were slow, but every movement radiated power and control, the air in the room growing colder with his approach. He stopped directly in front of Tyrion, towering over him, his cold eyes narrowing as if assessing whether to strike or let his prey continue breathing.

He looked down at his son, the disdain in his gaze palpable, as if Tyrion were an insect beneath his boot. "You forget yourself," Tywin said, his voice cutting through the air like a sharpened blade, every word precise and measured, laced with chilling authority. "The future of this house—our house—rests with Joffrey. He is the king, and no matter his... deficiencies, no matter the boy's faults or whims, we will ensure he remains seated on that throne." His tone brooked no argument, as if his will alone could keep the realm intact.

Tyrion bristled, but Tywin continued before he could respond, his expression hardening even further. "As for the girl—Sansa Stark—she will be dealt with. Stark or not, she is a mere pawn in a game far greater than her, and she has no value beyond what we allow her. If she finds herself carrying Joffrey's child," he said with a flicker of contempt, "then she will receive everything that befits the mother of the king's bastard. If not, if you really care about her you should take her to wife and save her reputation. She will be kept in line, one way or another."

The casual cruelty in his father's voice sent a chill through Tyrion's veins. Tywin spoke of Sansa as if she were nothing more than a piece on a board, to be sacrificed or exploited as needed. There was no empathy, no thought for the girl who had already suffered so much. Tyrion clenched his jaw, swallowing the retort that burned on his tongue.

"And her brother?" Tyrion asked, his voice quiet but sharp, the bitterness in his tone barely concealed. He already knew what his father would say, but the question needed to be asked. Robb Stark was not a man to be easily dismissed, no matter how much Tywin wished to reduce him to a mere footnote in their power struggle.

Tywin's lip curled in disdain, the mention of Robb Stark barely worth the flicker of interest it seemed to stir in him. "Robb Stark," he bit out, his voice dripping with contempt, "is nothing more than a loyal dog. He will do as he is told. When the time comes, he'll slink back to the North with his tail between his legs, grateful that we haven't torn him apart." Tywin's gaze was cold, dismissive, as if the Stark boy's fate had already been sealed in his mind.

Tyrion clenched his jaw, anger rising in his chest. His father's arrogance was staggering, even for him. He'd seen Robb Stark up close, seen the steel in his eyes, the unyielding loyalty to his family. Robb wasn't a man who would simply fall in line, not after what had happened to his sister, his brothers, his home.

"You underestimate him," Tyrion said, his words deliberate, a warning edged with tension. "He's not the naïve boy you think he is. He's been through war, loss, betrayal. He won't bend easily, and certainly not if Joffrey keeps pushing him. He will snap." Tyrion knew Robb had the North's spirit in him, the same iron resolve that had made Ned Stark such a respected figure. Robb had inherited that same honor—and a burning need to protect what remained of his family.

Tywin's expression remained cold and unmoved, though a flicker of impatience crossed his features. He returned to his desk, picking up a scroll and unfurling it as if Tyrion's words were little more than a nuisance. "The boy is headstrong, I'll grant you that," Tywin said, his tone dismissive. "But honour makes men foolish. I've crushed men with far greater ambitions than a wolf pup pretending to play the game. He will do what's best for the North, for his house, or he will suffer the consequences, a position as the King's mistress is an honour, one which that girl should be grateful for." He glanced up, the chilling certainty in his eyes enough to make even Tyrion's blood run cold.

Tyrion shook his head, his frustration mounting. His father's arrogance blinded him to the reality of what they were dealing with. Robb Stark wasn't just any lord—they weren't dealing with petty ambition or simple rebellion. There was fire in Robb, a deep well of anger and pain, and if Joffrey continued down this path, it would ignite into something far more dangerous than Tywin anticipated.

"You speak of consequences, Father," Tyrion said, stepping forward, "but have you considered that Robb Stark might be the one to bring them to your door? You may think him a mere boy, but he has the North behind him, and his name still commands loyalty. Joffrey's cruelty—his madness—it will provoke him. And when it does, you'll have more than just a wolf pup to deal with. You'll have the North rising against us again, and this time, we might not have the strength to crush them."

Tyrion turned on his heel and strode out of the room, a sense of resolve settling over him. If his father refused to confront Joffrey's madness, then it would fall to him to intervene. He knew all too well that ignoring the problem would only allow it to fester, and he was determined to take action before it spiraled out of control.

Tyrion swirled the deep red wine in his glass, watching the liquid catch the light as he awaited the arrival of his guests. The rich aroma wafted up to him, but he felt a knot of unease tighten in his stomach. He was all too aware of the delicate nature of the discussion that lay ahead.

"Lord and Lady Stark," a guard announced, breaking the heavy silence of the room.

As the door creaked open, Tyrion straightened, forcing a smile onto his lips. Robb Stark entered first, his expression stoic and his posture rigid. Following closely behind him was Roslin, her face pale yet determined. Tyrion noted the weariness in their eyes, a reflection of the turmoil they had endured in recent days.

"Thank you for coming," Tyrion said, gesturing for them to take their seats at the intricately carved table, its dark wood polished to a sheen. As they settled into the sturdy chairs, he poured Robb a glass of wine, the deep red liquid sloshing gently against the sides. Tyrion could feel the tension crackling in the air, his mind racing with the implications of the meeting ahead.

"My wife seems to believe that you want to help us," Robb said curtly, his tone laced with skepticism. "So how could I refuse such a generous offer?" His eyes narrowed slightly, betraying his protective instincts.

"Forgive my husband," Roslin interjected. "He's tired; it's been a long few days." Her voice was soft, but it carried the weight of the distress they had both endured, and there was a resolute strength beneath her words.

"A long few months, if we're being honest," Tyrion replied, leaning back in his chair, attempting to project a sense of calm even as the chaos swirled relentlessly in his mind. He took a sip of his wine, relishing the familiar burn as it slid down his throat, hoping it would help to clear his thoughts and ground him in the moment. "How is Lady Sansa?"

"As well as she can be," Roslin said, her tone somber, and she glanced away for a moment, as if searching for the right words among the shadows cast by the flickering candlelight. "She's been through so much—more than anyone should bear at her age. But she's resilient, even if it feels like her spirit is being tested every day."

Robb clenched his jaw at the mention of Sansa, anger flaring in his chest. "Resilient or not, she shouldn't have to be. No one should be forced to endure such cruelty," he said, his voice low and tinged with barely contained rage. "Especially not at the hands of Joffrey."

Roslin's eyes softened as she looked at Robb, recognizing the turmoil brewing within him. "You're right, Robb. No one should suffer like this. But Sansa needs support now more than ever. She needs us to be strong for her, to offer her a way out of this nightmare."

Tyrion nodded, his brow furrowed as he contemplated the situation. "And that's precisely why I'm here," he said, leaning forward, his expression turning serious. "We need to formulate a plan that ensures Sansa's safety. If Joffrey continues on this path, he could not only ruin Sansa's future but potentially destabilise the entire realm. His actions will have consequences, and we must be prepared."

"We've spoken about it, and we believe the best course of action would be to marry Sansa quickly," Roslin said, her voice steady but carrying the weight of the decision. "To someone beyond Joffrey's grasp—someone who can take her far from the capital and protect her." Her gaze shifted from Robb to Tyrion, searching for any sign of disagreement.

Tyrion nodded thoughtfully, swirling the wine in his glass before setting it down on the table. "I had the same thought, my lady," he replied. "It's the most viable solution, but it must be done carefully. Any misstep could tip Joffrey off, and we'd risk losing any advantage we might have."

Robb, leaning forward, rested his forearms on the table, his expression serious. "There are a few contenders we've been considering, but mostly we want someone who can be discrete, it won't be long until Joffrey makes Sansa's situation well known" he began, glancing at Roslin for a brief moment before continuing. "My uncle Edmure Tully, he's bethrothed to Roslin's niece but if we offered- "

Tyrion took a deep breath, bracing himself for the reaction he knew was coming as he interupted. "I'm going to marry Sansa."

Robb's laughter erupted instantly, a sharp, disbelieving sound that filled the room. "You're what?" he asked, incredulity clear in his voice as he stared at Tyrion like he had lost his mind.

"I'm going to marry her," Tyrion repeated, his tone steady. "After Joffrey's wedding, I'll take her to Casterly Rock. She'll never have to return to King's Landing. She'll be closer to the North, and she'll be free to visit Winterfell as often as she likes."

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy with implication. Robb shot to his feet, his chair scraping back harshly against the floor. His face was flushed with rage, his fists clenched at his sides. "You have to be joking," he spat, his eyes blazing. "You think I'm going to hand over my sister to another Lannister? After everything your family has done to us? After Joffrey—" Robb's voice cracked as the weight of his anger and helplessness bore down on him.

Tyrion stood his ground, his expression composed, though he could see the storm raging in Robb's eyes. "I understand your anger, Robb. Believe me, I do. But this may be the only way to get Sansa out of King's Landing safely. If she's married to me, Joffrey will have no claim to her. She'll be protected under the Lannister name, and I will make sure she never has to face Joffrey again. The Rock will be her sanctuary, not her prison."

Robb's chest heaved with the force of his emotions, and he pointed a finger accusingly at Tyrion. "You think you can protect her? You? Another Lannister." His voice rose with each word, fury seeping into every syllable.

Roslin, who had been silent until now, stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Robb's arm. "Robb," she said softly, trying to calm him. "We need to think about Sansa's safety above all else. Lord Tyrion is kind, he would look after her, she could be happy."

Robb looked down at her, his expression torn between the fierce protectiveness of a brother and the painful realization that perhaps they were running out of options. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing, waiting for Tyrion to continue.

"I don't expect you to trust me," Tyrion said quietly, his voice losing some of its edge. "But know this—I have no love for Joffrey, and even less for the way he's treated Sansa. If anyone in my family understands cruelty, it's me. I've been on the receiving end of it my entire life. I won't let him hurt her again." His gaze flickered to Roslin before settling back on Robb. "This isn't about family alliances or politics—this is about getting her away from him, Joffrey cannot step against Sansa if is she is his uncle's wife."

Robb paced the room, his mind racing. The thought of trusting another Lannister—any Lannister—was unthinkable, yet the logic behind Tyrion's offer gnawed at him. Sansa was trapped, and time was running out. They needed a plan, and as much as it sickened him to admit it, Tyrion's marriage proposal might be the best chance they had to ensure her safety.

"Do you honestly believe," Robb said, his voice quieter now, though no less intense, "that marrying her will protect her from Joffrey? From your father? You think they'll let you take her away without consequences?"

Tyrion's face darkened, and he spoke with a grim finality. "My father will support this, Sansa is a good match for me as Lord of the Rock. Joffrey will have no room to refuse. If she's my wife, they'll both lose leverage over her, and we can quietly move her out of their reach."

Roslin squeezed Robb's arm again, her expression pleading. "Robb, think about what this could mean for Sansa. Tyrion is right—Joffrey will be preoccupied after his wedding. This may be our only chance to get her away from him."

Robb finally stopped pacing, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the decision before him. His eyes met Tyrion's, filled with both suspicion and reluctant consideration. "And what happens after you take her to Casterly Rock?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "What guarantee do we have that she'll be safe there?" Robb pressed, his voice steady but tinged with concern.

Tyrion stepped forward, locking eyes with Robb, determination etched on his face. "I swear to you, on my life, I will protect her," he said, his tone serious and unwavering. "I've never asked for much in this world, but I would stake everything I have on this. I will ensure that she's never harmed again."

He hesitated for a moment, gathering his thoughts before continuing. "My father has declared me his heir, but it comes with conditions. He demands that I marry a woman from a respectable family and father children on her. Sansa is young and from one of the great houses; he could not hope for a better match. He would give us time, and even then I have cousins, I can live without an heir of my own."

Robb stared at Tyrion, his anger simmering just below the surface. But behind it, there was something else—an understanding, however reluctant, that Tyrion might be their best hope. With a slow exhale, Robb spoke, his voice tight. "If anything happens to her..."

Tyrion gave a small nod. "I know."

It was only two days later that Tyrion stood in his chambers, dressed for his wedding. The fabric of his tailored attire felt heavy against his skin. He had hoped for a day filled with joy, but instead, the weight of impending decisions loomed heavily over him. They had chosen to keep the wedding a secret, especially from Joffrey. The young king would undoubtedly react with fury, but by then, it would be too late to change anything.

"You look nice; I'm sure your bride will appreciate the effort," Shae said, her voice laced with barely contained anger as she leaned against the doorway, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Tyrion turned slowly, his face a mix of frustration and resignation. "I didn't ask for this marriage, Shae. I never wanted it."

"No?" Shae's voice dripped with sarcasm as she pushed herself off the wall, walking toward him with deliberate steps. "She's a beautiful girl, isn't she? You said so yourself."

Tyrion sighed, rubbing his temple as if trying to ease the pressure building inside. "That doesn't mean anything. This isn't about beauty or desire. It's about duty and survival. I don't want her, Shae."

"Duty," Shae echoed bitterly. "Is that what you'll tell yourself when you're lying in her bed? When you're playing the good husband? Will it still be just duty then?"

"I don't have a choice!" Tyrion snapped, his voice rising before he forced himself to calm down. He took a step closer to her, pleading with his eyes. "You know what Joffrey is capable of. You've seen it yourself what he's already done. That girl—Sansa—can't take much more. He'll destroy her, just like he's destroyed everything else he touches."

Shae's expression flickered for a moment, but her resolve didn't waver. She sat down on the edge of his bed, her voice low but insistent. "Then come with me. Across the Narrow Sea. Leave all of this—the Starks, the Lannisters—leave them to their bloody games. We could live our lives far away from this madness."

Tyrion's laugh was hollow, almost bitter. "And what would I do there, Shae? Become a performer, juggling for copper coins? I'm a Lannister of Casterly Rock, whether I like it or not. My place is here."

"And mine?" she spat, rising to face him. "What's my place? Will you keep me hidden away as your whore? Sneak off to see me in the dead of night when your noble wife is fast asleep?"

"My feelings for you have never changed, Shae." His voice was earnest, almost desperate. "I'll marry Sansa, yes, but only to protect her. To do what's expected of me. It has nothing to do with us."

She scoffed, stepping closer, her eyes blazing. "And while you're busy protecting her, what am I supposed to do? Empty her chamber pot and then fuck her husband?"

Tyrion took a deep breath, fighting to keep his emotions under control. "I swear to you, Shae, it won't be like that."

"No?" she asked, her voice sharp. "Then what will it be like, Tyrion? Tell me."

"I'll buy you a house," he said quickly, grasping at any solution that might soothe the hurt he saw in her eyes. "A fine house in Lannisport, with guards to keep you safe, servants to care for you. You'll have fine clothes, anything you desire. And if we have children—"

"Children?" Shae interrupted, her voice rising in disbelief. "You think I want children who will never know their father? Who would be hunted down and killed if your father ever found out about them?"

Tyrion flinched at her words but pressed on. "They would be provided for, Shae. They'd have everything they need."

She threw her arms up, mocking his promises with a cruel smile. "Oh, look, children! Do you see that castle up there, on the rock? That's where your father lives, with his real wife and the children he truly loves."

"Listen to me," Tyrion said, his voice low and urgent. "You will always be my lady. No matter what."

Shae shook her head, her eyes filled with a mixture of pain and fury. "I am not your lady. I am your whore."

"You're not," he whispered, stepping closer, his hand reaching out but not quite daring to touch her. "You'll always be more than that to me, Shae. You're—"

"I am your whore," she snapped, cutting him off. "And when you tire of me, I'll be nothing."

Her words hung in the air, the finality of them sinking deep into Tyrion's chest. Before he could say another word, Shae turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Tyrion stood there, staring at the door, the weight of everything—the marriage, his family's expectations, the loss of Shae—bearing down on him. He took a deep breath, trying to swallow the ache that had settled in his throat, but no amount of wine could ease the pain of what he was about to lose.