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Tyrion Lannister
The solar still smelled like his father.
Tyrion woke to find himself sprawled across the massive desk, drool pooling on a letter from Lord Crakehall requesting additional grain shipments. Wonderful. Nothing said "competent leadership" quite like moistening correspondence with one's own saliva.
He pushed himself upright, wincing as his back protested the makeshift bed. The leather chair—Tywin's chair—sat empty beside him, and Tyrion had avoided it for the past week. He'd sleep on stone before he claimed that particular throne.
Dawn light crept through the narrow windows, painting the stone walls gold. Tyrion rubbed his eyes and reached for the wine cup he'd abandoned sometime after midnight, finding it disappointingly empty. His hand moved to the desk's hidden compartment almost unconsciously, the one where he'd secreted Adrian's wooden dragon after his father's command to destroy it.
The carving was cool against his palm as he drew it out. He'd spent weeks on this thing, whittling away in candlelight, wanting it perfect. Adrian's delighted squeal when he'd received it—"It's Balerion! Look, his wings are spread like he's flying!"—had made every splinter and cut worthwhile.
"I'm keeping you safe, little brother," Tyrion murmured, running his thumb over the dragon's head. "Even if Father would flay me for it."
A knock at the door sent him scrambling to hide the dragon back inside his clothes. "Enter," he called, trying to sound lordly rather than guilty.
A servant entered—Marin, one of the older men who'd served at the Rock for decades. His bow was no longer a mockery like it always was, Tyrion thought with a smile in his head.
"My lord," Marin said, and there was no mockery in the title. "Your bath is prepared. Maester Creylen requests your presence in the council chamber within the hour."
"Requests?" Tyrion swung his short legs off the desk. "How politely autocratic of him."
"He said it was urgent, my lord."
"Everything is urgent with Maester Creylen. The man treats a shortage of goose quills like the Doom of Valyria." Tyrion sighed. "Very well. Tell him I'll attend him after I've made myself presentable. Unless he'd prefer I arrive smelling like old wine and regret?"
"I shall relay that you'll be there shortly, my lord."
The council chamber felt too large even with seven people crowded around its oak table. Tyrion had chosen to stand rather than sit. Sitting put him at eye level with most men's chests, and he needed every advantage this morning.
Maester Creylen presided at the far end, his grey robes pristine, his expression radiating the particular smugness of a man who believed himself indispensable. Beside him sat Ser Addam Marbrand, the master-at-arms, whose scarred hands rested calmly on the table. Two minor lords—Swyft and Yarwyck—occupied the middle seats, while the steward, Lyman, hunched over his ledgers like a miser guarding gold.
"My lord," Maester Creylen began, his tone suggesting Tyrion had kept them waiting for hours rather than minutes, "we have pressing matters requiring your immediate attention."
"How fortunate that I've attended immediately, then." Tyrion hoisted himself onto a cushioned seat at the head of the table. It gave him perhaps two more inches of height. Not enough, but something. "Do enlighten me, Maester."
Creylen's lips pursed in that way that suggested he'd bitten into something sour. "The supply wagons for Lord Tywin's army are behind schedule. The quartermaster reports difficulties in procuring sufficient grain, and—"
"Lord Tywin would have ensured the supplies left on time," Lord Yarwyck interrupted, his jowls quivering with self-importance. "Perhaps we should send word to His Lordship that—"
"That his son is incompetent?" Tyrion finished pleasantly. "Yes, I'm sure my father would appreciate being distracted from his war against the Iron Islands to manage grain procurement. Tell me, Lord Yarwyck, how long did it take you to formulate such brilliant strategy? Or did it come to you all at once, like divine inspiration?"
Yarwyck's face reddened. "I merely meant—"
"I know what you meant." Tyrion turned to the steward. "Lyman, what's the actual problem with the grain shipments?"
The steward cleared his throat, not meeting anyone's eyes. "The merchants in Lannisport are demanding higher prices, my lord. The war has disrupted trade routes, and they claim—"
"They claim they can gouge House Lannister because we're desperate." Tyrion nodded. "How much higher are we talking?"
"Thirty percent above standard rates, my lord."
"Thirty percent." Tyrion leaned back, making a show of considering this. "And what would my father do in this situation, Maester Creylen? Since you invoke his name so frequently."
Creylen straightened. "Lord Tywin would remind these merchants where their prosperity originates. He would—"
"He would threaten them subtly, demonstrate that their continued success depends on Lannister goodwill, and probably ruin one or two as examples." Tyrion smiled. "I agree entirely. Lyman, send word to the merchants. House Lannister will pay standard rates, not a copper more. Any who refuse will find their licenses to trade revoked, their goods impounded, and their names added to a list of merchants we'll remember when the war ends and trade resumes."
"But my lord," Lyman protested weakly, "they might refuse to sell at all—"
"Then we'll seize the grain under wartime provisions and compensate them at sixty percent of standard rates." Tyrion said with satisfaction. "I believe there's legal precedent for such actions during times of war. Maester Creylen can confirm."
The maester's mouth opened and closed like a fish. "Well... technically, yes, but Lord Tywin preferred to avoid such heavy-handed—"
"My father also preferred not to be extorted." Tyrion looked around the table. "Does anyone else have concerns with this approach?"
Ser Addam's scarred face showed the faintest approval. "Sound strategy, my lord. The merchants will cave rather than lose everything."
"Excellent. Next item?"
The meeting proceeded with similar efficiency. Tyrion found himself falling into a rhythm—identify the problem, cut through the posturing, implement a solution. It helped that he'd spent years observing his father, learning the mechanics of power through bitter experience.
When Maester Creylen raised concerns about the fortress's preparedness for potential Ironborn raids along the coast, Tyrion had already studied the defensive assessments and knew the answer. When Lord Swyft tried to bring up a land dispute between his house and a neighbor, Tyrion recalled the details from a case three years prior and cited the precedent his father had set.
"Lord Tywin would have—" Creylen began at one point.
"Lord Tywin left me in command," Tyrion cut him off, his voice hardening. "If you question my decisions, you question his judgment. I trust that's not what you're suggesting, Maester?"
The room went silent. Creylen's face paled slightly. "Of course not, my lord. I merely wished to ensure—"
"Then ensure by following my orders, not by constantly comparing me to my father." Tyrion held the maester's gaze until the older man looked away. "Are we clear?"
"Crystal, my lord."
After that, the objections became fewer and more carefully worded.
They broke for midday meal, and Tyrion retreated to the library—his favorite refuge in Casterly Rock.
He'd just settled into his usual chair with a cup of wine when Aunt Genna swept in like a crimson-and-gold storm.
"Well, Tyrion," she announced, dropping into the chair across from him with none of the grace expected from a lady of her station, "let's see if you drown or swim."
"Good afternoon to you as well, Aunt." Tyrion raised his wine cup in salute. "I take it you've been watching my performance?"
"Watching?" Genna laughed, a full-throated sound that reminded him of better times. "Darling nephew, I've had servants reporting to me hourly. You put Maester Creylen in his place, outmaneuvered Lord Yarwyck, and solved the grain crisis without bankrupting us or starting a merchant rebellion. Not bad for your first week."
"You sound surprised."
"I'm not." Genna leaned forward. "I've always known you were sharper than Tywin gave you credit for. Sharper than Jaime, certainly."
That drew Tyrion up short. "Jaime is—"
"Jaime is a brilliant swordsman and a mediocre thinker," Genna said bluntly. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I love your brother dearly, but let's not pretend his talents lie in administration or strategy. You, on the other hand..." She gestured at him with her wine cup. "You have your father's mind. You see three moves ahead. You understand power."
"High praise from a woman who married into House Frey."
"Careful, nephew," she said, her voice soft and deadly. "You're doing well in your temporary position. Don't let it make you careless with your tongue."
Tyrion felt heat rise to his cheeks. "Aunt, I didn't mean—"
"You meant exactly what you said." Genna set down her wine cup. "I was fifteen years old," Genna continued. "Beautiful, clever, a Lannister of Casterly Rock. I should have married a great lord, perhaps even a prince. Instead, I was given to Emmon Frey like a prize horse, because my father cared more about maintaining friendly relations with the Riverlands than about his own daughter's future. Your father—my brother—was sixteen and away at court. By the time he learned of it, the marriage was done."
"I'm sorry, Aunt. I spoke without thinking—"
"Yes, you did." Genna picked up her wine cup again, taking a long drink. "I have never forgiven my father for that weakness. Not in life, and not in death. And your father has spent forty years making sure that no Lannister ever suffers such humiliation again. So before you make snide comments about my marriage, remember that it's a reminder of what happens when Lannisters allow themselves to be weak, the only good thing I got out of my marriage are my children,"
Tyrion sat in chastened silence. He'd thought he was making a clever jab, using wit to deflect a compliment he didn't know how to accept. Instead, he'd opened an old wound that had never properly healed.
"But that's ancient history," Genna said after a moment, her tone softening slightly though the steel remained underneath. "We're here to discuss your present situation."
"Which is temporary," Tyrion said quietly. "Father will return, Adrian will be recovered, and I'll go back to being the family embarrassment."
"Will you?" Genna tilted her head, the sharpness leaving her eyes. "Because from where I'm sitting, you look rather comfortable in a position of authority."
Tyrion took a long drink to avoid responding to that particular observation. The wine was excellent—Father's private stock, which he'd been liberally helping himself to. Small rebellions.
"Tell me about Adrian," he said instead, desperate to change the subject. "How is the household handling his absence?"
Genna's expression softened immediately, the anger draining away like water through cracks. "The servants adore him, you know. He's kind to them, remembers their names, asks about their families. The exact opposite of how Tywin treats anyone beneath his station." She paused. "The boy talks about you constantly. 'Tyrion says this, Tyrion knows that.' You're his hero."
Something warm and painful twisted in Tyrion's chest. "He has poor taste in heroes."
"He has excellent taste," Genna corrected. "You're the only one who treats him like a person rather than a chess piece. Tywin sees him as the heir. Jaime barely knows him. Cersei..." She trailed off, frowning.
"What about Cersei?"
"Nothing. Old gossip." Genna waved a hand dismissively. "The point is, Adrian loves you. And he'll come home, Tyrion. Your father won't rest until he does."
"I know." Tyrion stared into his wine cup. "I just hope there's enough of him left to come home to. The Ironborn aren't known for their gentle treatment of prisoners."
"Adrian is Tywin Lannister's son," Genna said firmly. "He's stronger than he looks. He'll survive."
Tyrion wanted to believe that. Desperately wanted to believe that his clever little brother with his endless questions and secret dragon fascination was strong enough to endure whatever hell Euron Greyjoy had planned for him.
"There's one more thing you should know," Genna said, her tone shifting to something more businesslike. "My younger sons have been spreading rumors."
Tyrion blinked. "Lyonel and Tion?"
"The very same." Genna's mouth thinned into a hard line. "They're suggesting you're enjoying your father's absence a bit too much. That you're making decisions that benefit you rather than the family. That perhaps you don't want Adrian to return."
Red rage flashed through Tyrion's vision. "Those little—"
"Careful," Genna warned. "They're still my sons, however foolish they're being."
"They're spreading lies about me," Tyrion said through gritted teeth. "Suggesting I want a six-year-old boy to remain in Ironborn captivity so I can play at being lord. How am I supposed to react to that?"
"With the cold calculation your father would use, not hot-blooded fury." Genna took another drink. "I've already addressed it with them. Made it quite clear that spreading discord within the family during wartime—especially when their eldest brother is marching to war with Tywin—is tantamount to treason."
Tyrion felt some of his anger drain away. Cleos was nineteen, barely more than a boy himself, and marching with Father's army. Genna must be sick with worry, even if she'd never show it publicly.
"What is Cleos like?" he asked. He hardly knew the boy.
"Eager to prove himself a Lannister rather than a Frey," Genna said with a mixture of pride and concern. "Which means he'll probably do something brave and stupid and get himself killed trying to impress Tywin." She shook her head. "But that's not your concern right now. The point is, I've dealt with Lyonel and Tion. They won't spread such poison again."
"Did you threaten to tell Father?"
"I implied it heavily enough." Genna's smile turned sharp. "They got the message. But watch yourself, Tyrion. If my own sons see an opportunity to undermine you, others will too. The vultures are always circling, looking for weakness."
"I'm familiar with vultures, Aunt. I've been living among them my entire life."
"Yes, but now you have power." Genna stood, smoothing her skirts. "That makes you dangerous. And dangerous people attract enemies like honey attracts flies. Remember that."
She paused at the door, looking back at him with an expression that was almost gentle. "And Tyrion? Learn to think before you speak about things you don't understand. That sharp tongue of yours is an asset, but only when wielded with precision rather than carelessness."
"I'll try to remember that, Aunt," Tyrion said quietly. "And... I'm sorry. About earlier."
Genna nodded once, accepting the apology, then left.
Night had fallen by the time Gerion found him.
Tyrion heard his uncle before he saw him—the characteristic whistle of "The Rains of Castamere" echoing down the stone corridors. Then Gerion himself appeared, carrying two wine bottles and wearing his habitual grin.
"There's my favorite acting lord," Gerion announced, dropping into the chair Genna had vacated hours earlier. "I've been searching all over for you. Should have known you'd be hiding with your books."
"I wasn't hiding. I was contemplating." Tyrion eyed the wine bottles. "Is one of those for me?"
"Both are for us." Gerion uncorked the first bottle with his teeth—a trick that never failed to make Tyrion wince—and poured generous measures into two cups. "You look like you could use a drink."
"I've been drinking all day."
"Then you're ahead of schedule. Excellent." Gerion raised his cup. "To your first month as Lord of the Rock. May it be your last, for Adrian's sake."
They drank to that. The wine was good—Arbor gold, sweet and smooth.
"How is our father taking my regency?" Tyrion asked. "Any ravens complaining about my incompetence?"
"None that I've seen. Though to be fair, Tywin's a bit busy crushing Ironborn skulls to worry about grain shipments." Gerion stretched his long legs out, boots propped on a stack of books that would have given Maester Creylen an apoplexy. "From what I hear, you're doing fine. Better than fine."
"Genna said the same thing. I'm starting to suspect conspiracy."
"The conspiracy of honest observation?" Gerion's smile faded slightly. "I mean it, nephew. You're good at this. Natural, even."
"Natural?" Tyrion snorted. "There's nothing natural about a dwarf trying to command lords twice his size and half his intelligence."
"There's nothing natural about a Lannister with humility, either, yet here you are." Gerion took another drink. "You know what your problem is, Tyrion? You've spent so long believing Tywin's assessment of you that you never bothered to form your own."
"Father's assessment is accurate."
"Tywin's assessment is shit." Gerion said it matter-of-factly. "Tywin looks at you and sees your mother's death. He looks at you and sees everything he hates about fate and gods and the fundamental unfairness of the world. He can't see past that to what you actually are."
"And what am I?"
"Smart. Capable. Cunning when you need to be, merciful when you can afford it." Gerion studied him over his wine cup. "You're more like him than Jaime ever was. The difference is, you have a heart buried under all that sarcasm. Jaime just has his pretty face and his sword."
Tyrion didn't know what to say to that.
There was a long moment of silence until Tyrion asked the question that burned on his mouth. "What are the odds of getting him back alive, Gerion? Really?"
His uncle was quiet for a long moment. "Between you and me, nephew... I don't know. The Ironborn are brutal, and Euron Greyjoy is mad even by their standards. But Adrian's valuable. He's Tywin Lannister's heir. That has to count for something."
"Unless they've already killed him. Made an example."
"Then we'd have heard by now. They'd want us to know, to demoralize us." Gerion leaned forward. "Listen to me. That boy is alive. I'd stake my sword on it. He's too valuable as a hostage, and Euron's too cunning to waste such a prize."
"You're just saying that to make me feel better."
"I'm saying it because I believe it." Gerion refilled both their cups. "And because I saw Adrian before they left for Lannisport. You know what he told me?"
"What?"
"He was nervous about the festival, worried he'd embarrass Father. So I told him what I tell every young Lannister facing something frightening—be brave, be smart, and remember you're a Lannister. You know what he said back?" Gerion's smile turned fond. "He said, 'Tyrion taught me that being smart is better than being brave. Brave people die. Smart people survive.'"
Tyrion's eyes burned. He blinked rapidly, blaming it on the wine.
"That boy worships you," Gerion continued. "Thinks you hung the moon and the stars. Half the castle knows it. So when—not if, when—he comes home, he's going to expect you to still be here. Still be the brother who carved him dragons and taught him to think."
"You sound very certain."
"I am certain." Gerion's expression turned serious, all humor dropping away. "You're doing well, Tyrion. Better than well. But you can't let them take this from you."
"What do you mean?"
"This." Gerion gestured around them, encompassing not just the library but all of Casterly Rock. "This taste of what you could be. What you could do if they'd let you. Don't let Father or anyone else make you forget what you've proven these past weeks."
"I'm only acting lord until—"
"Until Adrian returns and Father decides what to do with you," Gerion finished. "I know. But that doesn't mean you have to go back to being invisible, Tyrion. You've shown them you can lead. Don't let them pretend they didn't see it."
After Gerion left—taking both empty bottles and leaving Tyrion with a pleasant buzz and uncomfortable thoughts—Tyrion found himself wandering toward Adrian's chambers. He told himself he was just checking on the room, making sure the servants hadn't neglected it.
The truth was less palatable.
He missed the boy. Missed Adrian's endless questions, his infectious enthusiasm, the way his face lit up when Tyrion entered a room. Missed having someone who looked at him and saw a person worth admiring rather than a deformity to be pitied or mocked.
The door creaked open, and Tyrion froze. Someone was already inside.
"Hello?" he called, hand moving instinctively to the small knife he kept at his belt. Not that it would do much good, but—
A small figure emerged from behind Adrian's bed. Golden curls, tear-streaked face, wide green eyes that reminded him painfully of family.
"Lord Tyrion!" Joy Hill rushed forward, then stopped uncertainly a few feet away. "I'm sorry, I wasn't supposed to be here, but I wanted to—I just—"
"It's all right, Joy." Tyrion relaxed, pocketing the knife. "You have as much right to miss him as anyone."
The girl's lip trembled. "Is Adrian coming back?"
Gods, he was tired of that question. Tired of not having a good answer.
"Come here," Tyrion said instead of answering. He made his way to Adrian's bed and patted the space beside him. "Sit with me."
Joy climbed up—she was small for five, taking after her mother in stature—and tucked herself against his side. Her eyes were like two green gems in a pool of blood.
"Adrian talks about you a lot," Tyrion said, putting an arm around her narrow shoulders. "Did you know that?"
"He does?"
"Constantly. 'Joy and I found the best hiding spot in the gardens.' 'Joy can climb higher than anyone.' 'Joy doesn't care that I'm short for my age.'" Tyrion smiled despite the ache in his chest. "You're his best friend, you know. The person he trusts most."
"I'm just a bastard," Joy said in a small voice. "Nobody important."
"You're important to Adrian. And you're important to me." Tyrion squeezed her shoulder. "Your father would tell you the same thing. Being born a bastard doesn't define your worth, Joy. Your character does that."
She was quiet for a moment, then: "Adrian said you're the smartest person he knows. Smarter than his father even."
Tyrion laughed despite himself. "Did he? That's dangerous talk. Don't repeat it anywhere Lord Tywin might hear."
"But it's true, isn't it? You know everything. Adrian said you taught him about dragons and history and how to think properly."
"I taught him to ask questions. That's not quite the same thing." Tyrion retrieved the wooden dragon from his doublet, where he'd taken to carrying it lately. "See this? I made it for him. For his fifth nameday."
Joy's eyes widened. "It's beautiful! Look at the wings!"
"He loves dragons. Did you know that? Father doesn't approve—thinks it's a dangerous fascination—but Adrian can't help what captures his imagination." Tyrion turned the carving over in his hands. "I'm keeping this safe for him. Until he comes home."
"When will that be?"
"I don't know." The honest answer, the only one he could give. "But I promise you this, Joy—every lord in the Seven Kingdoms is looking for him. My father, the King, everyone. They'll find him. They'll bring him home."
"And then everything will be better?"
"Then he'll be safe," Tyrion said instead. "That's what matters most."
Joy leaned her head against his shoulder. "Will you read me a story? Like Adrian does?"
"What sort of story?"
"One with dragons. Adrian always picks the ones with dragons."
So Tyrion read to her from a children's book of Targaryen legends, his voice softening as Joy's breathing deepened into sleep. He carried her back to Gerion's chambers—awkward with his short legs and her dead weight, but manageable—and tucked her into bed.
Gerion looked up from his own reading, raising an eyebrow. "Making friends?"
"She misses him."
"We all do." Gerion set aside his book. "You're good with her. With children in general. Has anyone ever told you that?"
"No, because it's never come up before." Tyrion adjusted Joy's blanket. "I'm not exactly the nursemaid type."
"You're the type that cares. That's rarer than you think."
The next morning found Tyrion on the walls with Ser Addam Marbrand, inspecting defenses. It was tedious work, but necessary—Father had drilled into him the importance of understanding every aspect of one's holdings, even the boring bits.
"The scorpions are in good condition," Ser Addam reported, gesturing to the massive crossbow-like weapons positioned at intervals along the wall. "We've adequate ammunition stockpiled, and the crews are drilling regularly."
"How often is regularly?"
"Twice weekly, my lord."
"Make it four times," Tyrion said, squinting out at the Sunset Sea. "If the Ironborn are bold enough to attack Lannisport, they might try for the Rock itself."
"Doubtful, my lord. These walls have never been breached."
"There's a first time for everything." Tyrion turned to face the master-at-arms. "Humor me, Ser Addam. Increase the drills. And run scenarios for defending the harbor approach, the western cliffs, and the main gates."
Ser Addam studied him for a moment, then nodded. "As you command, my lord. Though if I may say so, you're more cautious than Lord Tywin typically is."
"My father has the advantage of being terrifying enough that most enemies think twice before challenging him." Tyrion smiled without humor. "I lack that particular advantage. I'll have to settle for being prepared instead."
They continued the inspection, Tyrion asking questions about everything from arrow supplies to the condition of the fortifications to the rotation schedules for the guards. Some of it he knew from his reading, but much was practical knowledge he'd never bothered to acquire before.
One of the veteran guards, a grizzled man named Lewys with scars across his knuckles, watched him with skepticism at first.
"My lord," Lewys ventured when Tyrion asked about defensive positions, "no offense meant, but do you know anything about actual fighting? Books are all well and good, but walls are defended with steel, not words."
Tyrion could have taken offense. Should have, perhaps. The man's tone carried that particular blend of condescension and pity that Tyrion had spent a lifetime learning to recognize—the assumption that a dwarf who read books knew nothing of practical matters like warfare.
"You're absolutely right, Lewys. I've never swung a sword in anger, never felt the weight of armor in a real battle. My knowledge is entirely theoretical." He met the guard's eyes steadily. "Which is precisely why I'm asking questions instead of making assumptions. If I'm going to keep this castle safe while my father's away, I need to know what I don't know. So tell me—what am I missing?"
The guard blinked, clearly not expecting that response. "Well... my lord, the thing about defending these walls is..."
What followed was a detailed explanation of sight lines, blind spots, and the challenges of coordinating responses across such a large fortification. Tyrion listened intently, occasionally asking clarifying questions, making mental notes of vulnerabilities they should address.
That night, exhausted from days of meetings and inspections and the constant mental warfare of managing personalities and politics, Tyrion collapsed into bed without even bothering to remove his boots.
Sleep came immediately, and with it, dreams.
'''He stood in the Great Hall of Casterly Rock, but everything was different. The usual banners hung from the walls, but they seemed brighter somehow, more real than real. The Lord's chair sat at the far end of the hall, massive and imposing as always.
Except Tyrion wasn't looking up at it. He was looking down.
He stood on the dais, at a height he'd never achieved in waking life. His legs were strong and straight, his body proportioned like any normal man's. He wore crimson and gold, and when he raised his hand, people—dozens of them, hundreds maybe—fell silent.
This was what it felt like to be a true Lannister, unencumbered by the cruel joke of his birth.
But when Tyrion looked out at the assembled faces, searching for approval, for acceptance, for anything that might feel like vindication, he found only three that mattered.
His father sat in the front row, face as unreadable as ever. Those cold green eyes studied Tyrion with the same calculating assessment he'd seen a thousand times before. No warmth, but no disgust either. Just... consideration.
Beside Father sat a small figure with silver-gold hair that caught the light—Adrian, looking exactly as he had the day they'd left for Lannisport. The boy was watching Tyrion with an expression of pure delight, his green eyes shining.
Then Tywin stood. The hall went absolutely silent.
Father approached the dais with slow, measured steps. Each footfall echoed like a hammer strike against an anvil.
Tywin stopped directly before him. For a long moment, those green-gold eyes searched Tyrion's face, and Tyrion saw something he'd never seen in waking life.
Recognition.
"Well done," Tywin said, his voice carrying across the hall. "My son."
The dream began to fade. Tyrion tried to hold onto it, desperately grasping for this impossible moment where he was whole and valued and seen for what he could be rather than what he lacked.
But it slipped away like water through his twisted fingers, and he woke to darkness and silence and the familiar ache of reality.'''
His face was wet.
Tyrion scrubbed at his cheeks with the heel of his hand, angry at himself for the weakness. It was just a dream.
Father would never say those words.
He sat up, reached for the water pitcher beside his bed, and drank deeply. Dawn was still hours away, but he knew he wouldn't sleep again tonight.
His hand found the wooden dragon in his doublet—he'd taken to sleeping in his clothes these past weeks, too exhausted to bother with nightclothes. The carving was solid and real beneath his fingers, proof that Adrian existed outside his dreams, that the boy's faith in him was genuine even if Father's never would be.
"Come home safe," Tyrion whispered to the darkness. "Come home and I'll read you every book in the library about dragons, consequences be damned. Come home and I'll teach you everything I know. Come home and be the lord I could never be."
The dragon didn't answer, of course. It was just wood and wishful thinking.
Tyrion tucked the carving back into his doublet and turned toward the bed—his father's bed, though he'd been sleeping in it for the past three nights now. Another presumption he'd never have dared before. The sheets were rumpled, and two women still dozed there, hired from the finest establishment in Lannisport. Anya, with her dark hair spilled across the pillow, and Dancy, with beautiful laughter.
He'd brought them to his father's bed. To Tywin Lannister's bed.
The Tyrion who was just the dwarf of Casterly Rock, the embarrassment, the thing his father wished had died at birth, would never have dared such sacrilege. Would have kept to his own modest chambers, would have been grateful for whatever small pleasures he could steal in the shadows.
But Acting Lord Tyrion Lannister? He could do as he pleased.
Tyrion felt his smile grow. The Lord of Casterly Rock...Huh
He left them sleeping and moved to the window, watching dawn break over Lannisport below. The city was waking—smoke rising from baker's ovens, the distant sound of the harbor coming to life, the eternal rhythm of a place that continued regardless of wars or kidnappings or the personal turmoil of misshapen younger sons playing at lordship.
Another day would begin soon, and Tyrion would sit in his father's chair and command the people of Casterly Rock. He would command them. Him. The Dwarf.
"It's temporary," Tyrion reminded himself suddenly, watching the sun paint the Sunset Sea gold. "Father will return, Adrian will be found, and I'll go back to being the Imp who drinks too much and says inappropriate things at feasts."
Behind him, one of the women stirred. "My lord?" Anya's voice, still thick with sleep. "Come back to bed."
"In a moment," Tyrion said, not turning around.
His hand moved to the wooden dragon in his pocket, fingers tracing the familiar contours. "Just keep him safe until he returns," he murmured, as if the carving could hear him, could somehow transmit his wishes across the sea to wherever Adrian suffered. "That's all that matters."
Tyrion then returned to bed, and he closed his eyes; he felt their touches, their kisses, and their flesh. He forgot about Adrian for a moment and allowed himself to feel the pleasure, to hear them call him their Lord.
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