LORD TYRION

and like many kings before, a queen needs her hand. she presents the pin marking him as such, pinning it to him while giving him this role. in the short time daenerys has come to know tyrion lannister, she's grown to see he is an honorable man. none other would best hold the position. she believes she can place her trust in him. (she already has.) perhaps any other man would feel most honored. perhaps some would fight for the role. instead she is met with uncertainty in his eyes and a rather foolish statement.

@halflion ❛ you’re a little tragedy, aren’t you? ❜

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐅 as her Hand, and Tyrion couldn't decide if that made her brilliant or mad. Hand of the Queen. He'd served as Hand before, of course. To Joffrey, that vicious little monster wearing a crown. He'd saved King's Landing, and his reward had been a scar across his face and a trial for murder. He'd learned then what his worth was to those who ought to have valued him most. His father had made certain he understood that lesson from the time he could walk. The Lannisters paid their debts, the saying went. What they didn't mention was how they collected them . . . with interest, and usually from those least able to afford the cost. Did he believe so little of himself? The honest answer was complicated, as honest answers tended to be. He believed himself clever; that much was indisputable. He'd survived this long in a world that would have preferred he'd never drawn breath, and one didn't manage that without a certain native cunning. He believed himself capable of seeing the truth of situations that others missed, of reading the spaces between what people said and what they meant. But worthy? That was a different question wholly. She had no idea how many men would kill for this position. How many would scheme and murder and betray everything they claimed to hold sacred for the chance to stand at the right hand of power. But then, perhaps she did know. Perhaps that was precisely why she'd chosen him instead; the dwarf with nothing left to lose, the kinslayer with no house to return to, the exile who'd murdered his way across the Narrow Sea with nothing but wit and wine to sustain him.  Tyrion's lips quirked despite himself. ❛ Your Grace flatters me, ❜ he said, though the self-deprecation in his tone had softened considerably. ❛ Though I wonder if you've truly met enough men to make such a comparison. I've found the pool of worthy candidates in this world to be remarkably shallow. ❜ He paused, his gaze dropping again to the pin with a hollow laugh. ❛ Then again, ❜ he continued, ❛ perhaps that's precisely why you've chosen a dwarf who's killed his own father and stands accused of murdering his nephew. The competition must be positively abysmal. ❜

He drew in a breath, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of being genuinely moved. This young queen, with her dragons and her earnest belief in justice, in him, had unmoored him in ways he couldn't quite articulate.  ❛ I find myself compelled to ask, though, ❜ he said, tilting his head with genuine curiosity gleaming in his mismatched eyes, ❛ what precisely convinced you that a man universally reviled by his own family—a man who stands accused of regicide and has confessed to patricide—would make a suitable Hand to a queen attempting to win the love of a continent? Because I assure you, Your Grace, I am many things, but beloved is not among them. My presence at your side is more likely to raise questions about your judgment than inspire confidence in your rule. ❜

⠀⠀⠀𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑; daring to circle nearer to the crown with their greedy eyes and sharp talons. But Harwin would have titled such audacity by its truer name — foolishness. For traitors who believed the realm ripe for pilfering mistook the silence of the night for absence of watchful eyes; they believed the crown unattended, believed the halls of the Red Keep and streets of the city neglected. They were wrong. Not under his watch. Not while breath yet warmed his lungs; corruption and rot would never touch her. Whoever dared stretch their hungry, scheming hands towards the realm, whoever sought to gnaw at the foundations beneath her, would find no easy harvest in King's Landing. Harwin had not worn the cloak of the City Watch merely as ornament, nor borne the title of Lord Commander as some gilded medal he paraded for praise. Since the whispers of vanishing coin, phantom freights, and false records had first begun to slither through the corridors, he had moved through the shadows with relentless purpose. Patrols had been doubled, then doubled again. Routes tightened as though the noose strung around a traitor's neck. Sentries placed in the smallest of crevice where shadows once lingered undisturbed. Every man gifted the gold cloak had been chosen by Harwin's own hand; he trusted them because he had challenged their loyalty vigorously, meticulously. He had ensured they were men whose honour did not crumble beneath the weight of coin or silver-tongued promises.

⠀⠀⠀Ser Harwin Strong had sworn an oath before gods and men; to defend the realm, to protect the crown and those who bore her blood. There was no fate beneath the heavens he would not gladly welcome before allowing that very oath to shatter in his hands. He would sooner die than fail to honour his vow to keep them safe; the Princess Rhaenyra, and their her sons. It was a savage instinct, primal in nature, entirely unyielding; to safeguard the precious extensions of his own heart.

⠀⠀⠀That fiercely protective instinct had drawn him here tonight, long after Rhaenyra had surrendered to the rare realm of sleep, the lines of her face peaceful in such a pure way it had made Harwin ache with devotion. He had not wished to part from her, but he refused to smother the urge to appraise; the lion had been summoned to court, clever of tongue and sharp of mind, brought forth to sift through ledgers and parchments until the rot beneath the crown’s coffers revealed itself. Harwin knew his kin well enough. Jason and Tyland Lannister were creatures of false smiles and calculating eyes, men whose loyalty leapt wheresoever power and coin went. Tonight he would learn whether yet another vulture had been granted entry into her halls, or whether the younger Lannister might prove a hunter worthy of trust.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Lord Tyrion, ❜ Harwin greeted with a curt nod of his head, crossing into the chamber with the steady stride of a man accustomed to authority. Warm firelight bathed every surface, flickering over the sheafs of yellowed parchment, scrolls, and ledgers strewn across the table. His gaze swept the battlefield of documents before settling upon Tyrion, studying. ❛ While I find it is in the quiet of late nights where guilty men struggle most to conceal themselves . . . ❜ He began in low, steady tones, ❛ . . . I do not yet have reason to seize you. Though, I must confess the hour tempted me to test the notion. ❜ Fleetingly, a shadow of amusement touched the corner of his mouth as he paused beside the table where the bottle of wine stood. Harwin claimed it with little hesitation, pouring into Tyrion’s empty chalice before filling his own. Setting the bottle aside, he lowered himself into the chair opposite the Lannister with a quiet scrape of wood against stone.

⠀⠀⠀❛ As Lord Commander of the City Watch, and sworn shield to the Princess of Dragonstone, it is my duty to know the movements of those who might wish harm or instability upon the crown. ❜ His fingers curled loosely around the stem of his chalice before he lifted it in wordless salute and brought to his lips to drink. Over the rim, his eyes remained fixed upon Tyrion’s — searching for the faintest tremor of duplicity, ❛ I understand that you have been tasked with untangling the source of the recent . . . inconsistencies. ❜ The word lingered between them with quiet distaste — the threat of corruption carrying a flavour that ignited something scorching deep within him. When Harwin spoke again, it was cordial, still, yet tinged with the subtle tension that rippled beneath his surface,

⠀⠀⠀❛ Rumours say you are a discerning man, Lord Tyrion. Tell me then, what have you found? ❜

𝐅𝐄𝐖 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍, but Tyrion knew this: when a man like Ser Harwin Strong appeared at your door in the small hours bearing wine and purpose in equal measure, the conversation that followed would determine whether you'd found an ally or simply a more courteous executioner. The red splashed into his cup with a sound that was nearly obscene in its appeal, liquid salvation in the form of Dornish wine. Tyrion's fingers closed around the stem before Ser Harwin had fully settled into his chair, bringing it to his lips for a drink that was perhaps more enthusiastic than strictly dignified. Sworn shield to the Princess of Dragonstone. The clarification had not gone unnoticed, weighted as it was. There was an emphasis on how Ser Harwin had spoken the title, a possessive quality that suggested devotion of a distinctly personal nature. Tyrion had heard the whispers, of course; one could scarcely exist in King's Landing without becoming intimately acquainted with the city's peculiar gift for gossip, that great churning mill that ground truth and fiction into indistinguishable powder and scattered it on the wind for idle lords to breathe. The Lord Commander and the Princess. The City Watch and the heir to the Iron Throne. It was the sort of tangle that would have delighted Tyrion under different circumstances, a scandal with genuine teeth. But circumstances being what they were, with the crown's coffers bleeding gold like a man with a slit purse walking through Flea Bottom, personal entanglements held less appeal than they might have otherwise. Besides, Tyrion had long ago learned that the most dangerous weapon in King's Landing wasn't steel or fire or even dragons; it was knowing and choosing not to act. Information hoarded became power. Information wielded led to suicide.

❛ Discerning, ❜ Tyrion echoed. ❛ What a diplomatic choice of vocabulary. My father would have selected something rather less flattering, I suspect. Meddlesome, perhaps. Presumptuous. Dangerously clever, if he was feeling generous in his assessment. ❜ He set the cup down, fingers drumming once against the scarred surface of the table before gesturing to the chaos of parchment surrounding them—evidence and accusation rendered in neat columns. ❛ But I shall accept your compliment in the spirit it was offered and answer your question with the candor it deserves. ❜ His gaze swept across the ledgers, the requisition orders, the damning columns of numbers. ❛ What have I found? Evidence of systematic theft, executed with sufficient competence to suggest someone with intimate knowledge of how coin flows through the crown's administration. The thefts follow a pattern . . . small enough to escape immediate notice, consistent enough to suggest planning rather than improvisation. Grain shipments that vanish between ports. Naval contracts for vessels that never quite materialize. Building materials purchased for renovations that remain perpetually incomplete. ❜  It was, Tyrion reflected, almost beautiful in its execution. A symphony of small corruptions; the cumulative effect only visible when one stepped back far enough to perceive the whole composition. Whoever had orchestrated this possessed both patience and intelligence—two qualities that, when combined, made for dangerous adversaries.

He reached for one of the ledgers, flipping it open to a page he'd marked earlier with a strip of torn parchment. ❛ This particular entry caught my attention. A payment authorization for ship repairs, signed and sealed with all appropriate documentation. Except the ship in question was decommissioned six months prior and now serves as housing for particularly ambitious barnacles somewhere off the coast of Dragonstone. Someone went to considerable trouble to make it appear legitimate—the signatures are authentic, the seals properly applied, the amounts carefully calibrated to fall just below the threshold that would trigger additional scrutiny. ❜ He closed the ledger with a soft thump, meeting Ser Harwin's gaze with an expression that hovered somewhere between resignation and dark amusement; the Lord Commander had the eyes of a man who took his oaths seriously, which was either admirable or foolish depending on one's perspective. 

❛ In short, I have found exactly what I expected to find: proof that someone clever, well-connected, and utterly lacking in loyalty to the crown has been helping themselves to the royal coffers with admirable efficiency. What I have not yet found—and this, I confess, vexes me considerably—is the identity of our enterprising thief. Or thieves, as the case may be. This sort of operation seldom springs from a single mind, no matter how brilliant. ❜

He picked up his wine again, swirling it thoughtfully. ❛ Tell me, Lord Commander, in your patrols through the city, your watchful guardianship of our beloved King's Landing, have you noticed any sudden improvements in fortune among those who serve the crown? New horses acquired by minor functionaries? Lavish gifts bestowed upon mistresses by men whose salaries should scarcely cover rent? I find that thieves, no matter how clever, eventually succumb to the temptation of spending what they've stolen. It's a fatal flaw in an otherwise well-executed crime. ❜  His fingers tapped against the cup's rim, a restless gesture that betrayed the exhaustion gathering at the edges of his considerable focus, threatening to breach the walls of wit and wine he'd constructed against it. The hour was late—or early, depending on one's approach to time—and even Tyrion's formidable capacity for functioning while spectacularly under-rested had its limits.

❛ Though I confess myself curious, Ser Harwin—what brings the Lord Commander of the City Watch to my door at this ungodly hour? Concern for the crown's finances, certainly, but I suspect there's more to it than mere fiscal responsibility. You strike me as a man who chooses his battles with care. So, shall we speak plainly, you and I? Or would you prefer to maintain the comfortable fiction that this is merely a courtesy visit between two servants of the crown, concerned only with our respective duties and entirely uncomplicated by deeper loyalties? ❜

"I   dare   you   to   try."

"Do   you   always   get   close?"

"You’re   pushing   my   limits."

"Stop   looking   at   me   like   that."

"I’m   losing   control   here."

"You   have   no   idea,   do   you?"

"I   can’t   resist   you   anymore."

"Stay   back,   or   don’t."

"I   know   what   you   want."

"This   is   getting   dangerous   now."

"You’re   too   tempting   for   me."

"I   shouldn’t   want   this,   but…"

"I   don’t   play   fair,   remember?"

"Careful,   you’re   testing   me."

"You’re   just   making   it   worse."

"You’re   too   close   for   comfort."

"Do   you   always   push   buttons?"

"Stop   before   I   kiss   you."

"You’re   making   it   too   hard."

"I   can’t   stop   thinking   about   you."

"I   want   you   too   much."

"You   know   exactly   what   you’re   doing."

"I’m   not   playing   games   here."

"You’ve   crossed   the   line   now."

"Keep   pushing,   and   you’ll   regret   it."

"This   is   dangerous,   isn’t   it?"

"I’m   trying   not   to   care."

"Don’t   make   me   regret   this."

"You’re   playing   with   fire."

"You   don’t   know   what’s   coming."

"I   shouldn’t   be   this   close."

"We’re   getting   dangerously   close   now."

"I   can   feel   the   heat."

"Don’t   test   me   right   now."

"I   want   you   too   badly."

"Don’t   make   me   chase   you."

"You’re   distracting   me,   you   know."

"I   won’t   fall   for   this."

"I   want   you,   but…"

"What   do   you   want   from   me?"

"I’ll   never   give   in."

"I’m   trying   not   to   care."

"You’re   playing   with   my   patience."

"Don’t   make   this   harder,   please."

"I   can’t   stop   this   feeling."

"I’m   already   in   too   deep."

"You   won’t   walk   away   unscathed."

"You’re   walking   a   fine   line."

"I’m   trying   to   stay   calm."

⠀⠀⠀𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐇, 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐔𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐄. The damp crypt hums with the stifled whispers of those not meant for war, faces pale in the dim torchlight, eyes wide with uncertainty. None would sleep. None dared. They waited for the hour they feared might be their last. The enemy had not yet broken through the stone, but their power had — icy tendrils that stretched through the silence, and Sansa felt it curling as though a noose. In truth, she had felt the frigid chill long before the dead had breached their walls. It was not the familiar bite of northern wind and snow, but something more ancient, terrifying, something darker. She, with winter woven through her blood, could not have been prepared for the cold that now ravages her home.

⠀⠀⠀Still, Sansa does not tremble.

⠀⠀⠀She had done her trembling years ago, when she had been a bird in a cage, wrapped in delicate plumage, pretty silks and obedient silences. Now her fingers pale around the dagger's hilt, not because she believes it would save her, but because it is an anchor — a reminder that their doing nothing is not weakness, but the wisest of decisions. She had learned, brutally and irrevocably, that sometimes staying, waiting, were the surest ways to survive. Beside her, torchlight flickers, casting shadows across the strong lines of Tyrion's face. Those wise and mournful features she had once regarded with loathing and fear. And then, by some miracle, with a quiet admiration. Even trust. Sansa barely looks at him at first, her gaze fixed upon the sculpture of an ancestor carved from stone. She feels the sweat gather between her shoulder blades, feels the talons of dread curl tighter around her bones. But then his fingers find hers, and the talons hiss and retract as though burned.

⠀⠀⠀It is the barest caress. Tentative and almost fearful, but in the stillness of death’s approach, it strikes her chest as though thunder. She does not flinch, does not withdraw her hand. Instead, her fingers curl around his. His, possibly the only hand that had touched her without malicious intent. Sansa draws a tremulous breath and turns her head to, at long last, face him, a faint smile curving her lips.

⠀⠀⠀❛ We have both faced far worse tombs than this, ❜ she states, voice edged with a sliver of jest, ❛ and survived crueller monsters. ❜ She continues, her eyes drifting to their joined hands, her thumb daring the faintest brush across his knuckles — perhaps to soothe the restlessness she senses thrums beneath. When her gaze rises to meet his again, there is a flicker of trepidation, the slightest whisper of a frightened young girl who lives beneath walls of ivory and steel.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Are you frightened of death, Lord Tyrion? ❜ She asks, and believes she knows the answer before it comes, but there is strange comfort in hearing honest truth from a man who never lied to her.

𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇, ridicule, and poorly written love songs, Tyrion never anticipated that the end might smell faintly of candle wax and her hair. His eyes found her, and he, that bitter imp of infinite jests and bottomless wine, looked upon her as a scholar might regard a rare and ruinous text: with caution, reverence, and the creeping knowledge that it might undo him. He hadn’t meant to reach for her hand; his fingers move of their own accord, treacherous little things, tired of wine cups and poison games, craving something warm. ❛ Ah, yes. Monstrosities in silk doublets and maiden’s veils. And those were just the weddings. ❜

But her thumb brushes his knuckles, and the jest dies a quiet death on his tongue. He meets her gaze once more, and there it is, that familiar tremble of vulnerability beneath her armor; the ghost of the girl who once prayed to be rescued by knights. His fingers brush Sansa’s, a feather-light trespass, a question asked without words. He tells himself it is for comfort, for human intimacy in a place built to house the dead. But the truth festers beneath even his sharpest denials: there are so very few hands he’s touched that did not recoil. He tilts his head, owl-like, letting the question breathe, as though it’s a vintage that requires airing before it can be tasted.

❛ My lady, I’ve spent so long dancing with death I’m beginning to wonder if it fancies me. ❜ He gestures lightly with his free hand, as if to underline the absurdity of it all — a dwarf in a crypt, holding hands with the Stark girl, waiting for the world to end. ❛ And I’ve met enough smug executioners and sanctimonious kings to know — ❜ he leans in slightly, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial murmur, ❛ — death, at least, is honest. It doesn't care for names or titles. It comes without flattery. ❜ A pause. A breath. Then, quieter, too sincere to wear the armor of irony:

❛ But I find… I would mind it far less if your hand were the last thing I held. ❜

He says it without flourish, without jest, and it sits between them like a lit candle — fragile, flickering, and terribly brave. He half-expects the universe to correct itself — for her to retract, slowly and politely, the way one removes a fingertip from an open flame. With that impeccable Stark stoicism, that spine forged from the coldest months of the year. But no. She stays. And that, he thinks, is the cruelest kindness of all — for it makes him hope. Tyrion has lived his whole life shrinking, a contortionist of social necessity, bending himself into something palatable. The fool, the fiend, the fixture. A goblet in one hand, a barb in the other, always one step ahead of pity. And yet here, in this tomb of kings and endings, with her fingers still curled into his as if choosing to anchor him, he dares, for the first time in a very long time, to want to be seen.

His eyes lift again, catching hers now, fully — the risk be damned. His lips twitch, though the smile never quite finishes its journey. It stalls somewhere behind his eyes, where the weariness lives. Still, there’s warmth in it. His thumb brushing lightly across the side of her hand in thanks. Thank you for not pulling away. Thank you for letting me believe, if only for a spell, that not everything I touch turns cold. ❛ If the dead do come through that door, I hope they appreciate how well-lit the place is. Always hated the thought of dying in poor lighting. ❜