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. ❜
