Chapter Text
Shall I be eaten? That was what crossed Tyrion Lannister’s mind as he approached the gate to Casterly Rock.
In his haze, the Lion’s Mouth truly seemed to live up to its name. It loomed over him, more than it seemed to even when he was a child. He resented the gate for this. As much as he resented the gleeful, springtime revelers gathering in Lannisport below.
Although it had been twenty years since he’d last seen the Rock, he felt like he’d stepped back in time to when he was just a small boy, barred from attending his father’s grand tournament for the royal family.
His anger overwhelmed his fear and thus Tyrion Lannister arrived shouting his name and declaring his identity. His cousin Martyn, now grown up, and dressed in formal, festive velvets was brought out. Tyrion looked his cousin in the eye and said, “Green velvet always did look better on you.”
Martyn paled, and looked lost for words.
When his cousin had been a lad of ten, Tyrion had caught him wearing a cast off gown of Cersei’s. The lad had been twirling around in the green velvet in front of the mirror. When Martyn saw Tyrion’s reflection behind him, he crumpled to the ground and started crying. The dwarf had walked over, put a hand on his shoulder, and promised he’d never breathe a word of it to anyone. He kept that promise.
Now he sat in the very same chair where he used to take his meals, with his childhood friends the small painted lions. The same small painted lions that now seemed to regard him with the same fear and hate as his sister once did.
He’d known this room as a child. It was a private breakfast room deep within the Rock, not far from the nursery. Tyrion often took meals here as a boy, always with his nurse or Maester, frequently with his brother, more rarely with his sister, and never with his father.
On the rare occasions when child-aged Tyrion did dine with the Lord of Casterly Rock, it was in the loosest sense of the word “with”. He’d be sat at the end of the enormous table in the Great Hall on only the most special occasions, seated so far down so his Father didn’t have to look at him beyond one brief presentation at the beginning of the banquet. The room was filled with enormous lion sculptures that terrified him. His siblings almost always sat by Lord Tywin: Jaime to his immediate right, then Cersei next to Jaime. Sometimes, Jaime would come visit him briefly before Cersei, wrinkling her nose, would drag her twin back.
Tyrion always preferred this room. There were numerous roaring lions painted on the walls, and when he was very small, he would pretend to be one, catching and tearing the food on his plate apart with his sharp jaws like prey. Even then, he knew his family words: “Hear Me Roar!” As a child, he much preferred that to the better known saying regarding Lannisters.
When he had to sit at the end of the big table, being ignored, he would hope and pray that some day, he’d be able to roar loud enough to be heard and noticed, acknowledged as a true lion like Jaime and Cersei. Even if I never grow big, I could learn to shake the whole rock with my voice. And I will be good enough. It won’t matter how small or ugly I am. I still have a voice, and I shall roar.
In the small room, the paintings of the lions were small enough that he didn’t have to worry about being big. They still appeared to be roaring fiercely enough, and Tyrion liked that. Small lions can still roar.
Later, when he realized it wouldn’t matter how much he tried to roar, he came to appreciate the line about paying one’s debts far more. The glint of gold was when people actually paid attention and started showing him some of the same respect and regard that they showed his siblings, his father, his uncles or his cousins.
Despite the false hopes they gave him, though, Tyrion still considered the small lions of this room his friends. This was the room, and these were the golden beasts that always welcomed him. As he got older, he comforted himself that theirs were roars of welcome. He could always eat here.
But now, even the paintings on these walls seemed to view him as an enemy. They were snarling at him with angry, hateful eyes. Tyrion sat at the small table, his sister, brother, father, nurse, and master all gone, and he knew he wasn’t welcome. He never was.
The room in his youth was always well-lit, despite the lack of windows. Numerous sconces and the small fireplace off to the side always flaming. And the chamber was always clean and warm. Now, the paint was peeling, only a couple of the wicks were lit, and the fireplace was empty.
The younger son of Tywin Lannister couldn’t hear it now, but he knew outside there were shouts of revelry. He’d heard it earlier, before he was ushered into the deep recesses of the Rock like a dirty secret. There were singers singing, mummers reciting lines, happy chatter, the roar of fire balls thrown by jugglers and entertainers. Silken banners of all manner of colors were strewn about, red being the most prominent. Dragons were amongst the lions in the gardens. Tables with hundreds of guests filling themselves with piles of delicacies and gallons of wine were assembled all over.
When he was young and still believed he could roar loud enough, his father had hosted King Aerys and Prince Rhaegar for a tourney much like this one to celebrate the birth of Prince Viserys. Cersei had spent weeks chattering about it in excitement, anticipating the time when she would finally meet her beloved dragon prince. She’d been nervous, afraid she’d not be pretty enough. Their Aunt Genna assured Cersei she would be. But the girl feared Rhaegar wouldn’t like her since she had yet to grow teats.
Tyrion made the mistake of giggling when he heard this. Cersei begged her aunt to make sure that Tyrion wouldn’t come. “He’s an ugly monster who will scare away my prince!”
Later that day, after Cersei went out on a walk with her friends Jeyne and Melara, chatting about seeing a wise-woman. When Cersei returned, she turned a disgusted look upon her youngest brother, then went to Lord Tywin directly to beg that Tyrion not be allowed to show his face at the tourney. Lord Tywin’s reply was swift.
“Your brother was never going to be allowed anywhere near the celebrations. Are you really such a fool to believe I’d allow such a thing to happen? Work on your instincts, Girl, the prince won’t like a fool.”
Tyrion was allowed to look out the windows of his nursery down upon the blaring lights of Lannisport. He did look, until he could take it no longer. He ran off to the small lions on the walls and roared as loud as he could.
The only consolation was that Cersei returned in tears, screaming and railing at her father for destroying her life and denying her the Silver Prince. “You’re as much a monster as Tyrion!”
Lord Tywin slapped his red-faced daughter and had her confined to her rooms for a week.
She was right. Tyrion thought with a small smile.
My sister is very dead, he told the lions silently, she came to a very bad end. Your paint is already fading and peeling, so don’t tempt me to worsen your situation.
Perhaps they resent me for allowing them to fall into this state, he thought wildly, I’m sorry, little lions. If I’d been Lord of Casterly Rock, this wouldn’t have happened.
Tyrion rubbed his eyes. Yes, I’m definitely mad. He’d been locked away a few times over the years as he wandered in a drunken stupor from one region in Essos to the next. Sometimes, he forgot that he wasn’t actually Hugor Hill.
He forgot that a lot, actually. In fact, until a few moons ago, when he came upon a small body that had once been Penny, he had been Hugor Hill for all but what he thought were mere dreams of being the son of a rich lord in the west.
Tyrion heaved himself off the chair and went over to the small fireplace. There were a few logs there, and some kindling and flint. He tried to make a fire. But he was too frail to even properly heave all the logs into the pit. At some point over the last twenty-two years, he’d done irreparable damage to his right hip and shoulder so they pained him horribly if he put too much pressure on them. Battle wounds from Slaver’s Bay.
After a humiliating attempt to load the logs, the dwarf was curled up on the ground, panting and clutching his horribly pained shoulder, tears running down his disfigured face. The ground beneath him was cold. He could feel the stone against his bare cheek and through the thin, patched clothes he wore.
They could have at least given me some wine, he thought bitterly. Damn it, Martyn, I never told a soul. I pitied you. If it had been Lancel that found you, you’d have been whipped and locked away. You’d have gotten a taste of what it was like to be me. Instead, you’re Lord of Casterly Rock now. At least officially.
Tyrion wondered vaguely how many green velvet dresses Martyn had purchased for himself over the years with Lord Tywin’s gold. With my gold.
Everyone always seemed to enjoy the bounty of Casterly Rock more than he ever got to.
The Dragon Queen likely enjoys it now. He wondered if Daenerys Targaryen knew that her first taste of Lannister service was from him, when he went to fight for her in Yunkai. Did she ever learn who Tyrion Lannister was?
It bothered him how little he knew of what was happening in Westeros. His memory and wits were not what they once were. He couldn’t bear to stay sober. The hip hurt so much more when he was sober. Once, he’d known everything that was happening despite how much he drank. I was the most knowledgeable, savvy, clever man in Westeros.
Now… what did he know? Daenerys Targaryen was queen. She’d stabilized Slaver’s Bay, and took her dragons west. She fought a scourge of Others. Now she sat on the throne and the realm was at peace. She had no husband or children, but she had an heir in her nephew, the prince, the long-lost son of Rhaegar Targaryen, who fought at her side against the Night’s King. Cersei was dead, as was Jaime. Martyn held Casterly Rock. The wars were over, the realm was beginning to prosper again in the new summer. Everyone was happy but him.
He was amazed that Aegon had given in to taking second place so easily. But then, Tyrion imagined that it was hard to argue with dragons. Maybe he didn’t get the top spot, but home was still home.
Am I willing to step aside for Martyn? He imagined he had about as much choice as Aegon, despite his cousin’s lack of dragons. Why hasn’t the blasted fool killed me yet?
Maybe he was to be left here to die. It didn’t make much sense. Make it quick for me, at least.
He wondered why he’d even come back. It was miraculous that Martyn was even willing to recognize him. But what did I expect?
Tyrion had no idea. He shouldn’t have come here. He should have tried to find Tysha. I should have tried to find our little inn where we consummated our little marriage. I should have found out where you went. I’m so sorry.
He managed to get to his uneven feet. A cry escaped his lips as he pushed open the door, putting an awful strain on his shoulder. It wasn’t worth it. When he did get out of the room, it was only to fall to the ground in an empty hall. He fell on the hip hard and screamed.
Tyrion curled up again in pain. Damn. Damn. He felt a small, warm hand upon his shoulder.
“Are you alright?” A soft, feminine voice said. Tyrion looked up. That face. It was familiar to him. It was young, pretty, with kind eyes. Framed by dark hair. Beautiful. I know that face.
“Tysha!” He cried, reaching up and grabbing for her. She screamed, and Tyrion felt that old anger rise. Monster. Imp. Half-man. Dwarf.
There was an awful blow to his stomach that had him skidding across the ground. Running. Regular footsteps, and clanging ones from guards.
“What happened?!” Another feminine voice, this one also familiar. Then male voices.
“My Lady! Is something wrong?”
Tyrion lifted his head and groaned. Metal hands grabbed him.
“Did he hurt you, Sweetling?"
“No… I think I hurt him though. He was hurting and I went up to him. He scared me. Put him down!”
Tyrion was settled unsteadily on his feet. He rubbed his eyes and squinted. Two women, no… One woman, one girl. The girl was dressed in white silk, trimmed in violet. Her face was so familiar… why couldn’t he place it? Was it Tysha’s?
He looked at the woman, gowned in red and silver. She clutched her face, so he couldn’t make it out. Her hair was red.
His sight wasn’t too good these days.
“It… It can’t…. Has Lord Lannister been informed?” The woman asked sharply.
“He knows.”
“But… How…?”
“No one knows.”
The woman came closer. She bent over, looking at him with utter bewilderment. “L-Lord Tyrion?”
“Tyrion Lannister is dead.” The girl said.
“You’re likely right,” the dwarf called over to her, “I’m not even sure anymore.”
“Put him in some decent guest quarters, clean him up, feed him, help him, for pity’s sake!”
“Lord Lannister---“
The woman's voice cracked like a whip. “Lord Lannister isn’t here. Now do as I say!”
He was dropped in a tub of lukewarm water and scrubbed. He was given a flagon of ale, some bread and hard cheese. He was shown a small, warm bed in a small room. No lions.
Tyrion slept, and wasn’t sure how long he did. But when he woke, a servant came with a set of wool clothing that looked like it was made for someone else. Probably a child.
He put it on regardless, and was led back to the damn breakfast room. A tray of eggs and kippers waited for him. No one was there. He sat and began to eat.
The door opened and a head poked in. A girl of about twelve, on the cusp of maidenhood, with pale skin, dark curls, and a pretty face that looked so damn familiar. But not Tysha. Couldn’t be. Who then?
The child stared at him for a second before coming in completely. She wore a russet kirtle, and curtsied. “Forgive me, but… Are you really Tyrion Lannister?”
“I was, once,” he told her sadly. “Who are you, My Lady?”
“My name is Naerys.”
“Naerys? For the queen who loved the dragon knight?” He swallowed a mouth full of egg.
“Sort of.” Naerys shifted her weight and cracked her knuckles awkwardly. She reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “Actually, my real name is Daenerys, but I’m called Naerys for short. So I’m named for her and for---“
“Our illustrious queen, yes.”
“I have a brother named Aemon.”
Tyrion rolled his eyes. “I imagine Valyrian names must have come back into fashion.”
Naerys glanced at the ground. “May… May I ask you a question?”
He sighed. “No, I did not kill Joffrey. But I did kill my father.”
“No! Everyone knows that! I was wondering about the chain. At the battle of Blackwater? How did you… How did you think of it? And the widlfire? Where did you get it? They say you found the old stores of the Mad King but…”
Tyrion cocked his head. “You know about the chain and the wildfire? And you know about me?”
“Of course. I’ve read and heard all about it. But no one knows where you got the fire or how you came up with the chain. I’ve always wondered. I’ve read at least three books on it, but they never explained it.”
Tyrion began to shake. “Books?”
“Yes. Sarella Sand’s Historie of the Brief Reign of Lions, Maester Samwell’s War of the Five Kings, and Lord Davos Seaworth’s Memoirs. I’ve read those. I’m still making my way through ‘When the Long Summer Ended’ by Maester Merys, but I’m working on it.”
“You read quite a bit for someone so young.”
Naerys shrugged. “My father says that the mind is a weapon, and that it needs a book like a sword needs a whetstone. It’s funny, because he’s not a great reader, but he is very smart. My mother reads more, though.”
Everything about this child disturbed him. She was so painfully familiar. But all the things that seemed to remind him of something or someone for some reason didn’t gel together. He couldn’t place any of it.
“Have we met before, child?”
“Last night. You called me Tysha. By the way, who was she? I’ve never heard of ‘House Silverfist’.”
Lady Tysha of House Silverfist. Their sigil is a single gold coin amidst fifty silver ones clutched in a hand upon a bloody sheet. He’d made that claim to someone once. But…
The door opened again. A boy, red of hair and once again, horribly familiar, ran in. “Naerys! We’re not supposed to talk to him!”
Tyrion knew the lad suddenly. “BRAN STARK?!”
The boy looked at him with wide, blue eyes. “What? No… I’m Robb. Brandon’s only eight.”
“He was when I… But… He couldn’t walk…” His head hurt. He clutched it. “What is happening?”
“Come on, Naerys,” the lad said nervously. “Mama said…”
“You always do what Mama says. Look at him! He’s in pain!”
“I know, but we can’t help him. And Aunt Arya says that when you talk to the wrong people, it can get people hurt. We need to go.”
“I’m sorry, Lord Tyrion.” And the children left.
What is happening? What is happening?
Martyn came to him an hour later, when Tyrion had his face buried in his arms. The dwarf looked up at the new, young Lord of Casterly Rock.
“Cousin Tyrion, I---- I’m sorry about the accommodations last night. You caught me off guard and I had to attend the tournament and--- I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to--- But the bedchamber you were shown to… It was comfortable?”
Tyrion’s eyes widened. Are you bloody kidding me? With that, he began to laugh so hard his belly hurt.
~_~_~_~_~
The next day Tyrion sat upon the small table provided for him, ingesting salad, venison sausage, and cider. The cider annoyed him. No spirits.
As a point of pride, he made sure to remember his old, more lordly table manners. In Essos, he had to eat like a slave: quickly, desperately, messily before someone bigger and meaner came to steal what gruel he could get his hands on.
The room was small but well-furnished, and when Tyrion sat down to eat, the two maids that brought in his breakfast remade the bed. He kept glancing at it longingly now. The only beds he got to sleep in for so long were the ones in brothels, when he could afford it. That was rare.
Tyrion found himself alone again quickly enough once the maids had placed a set of green wool clothes on the bed. Once they were gone, he changed and resumed his meal.
He received a visit soon after changing clothes. A woman came in, but not a maid, judging by her posture and the way her blue eyes met his head on. She was tall, extremely tall for a woman, with fair, soft skin, pouting lips, high cheekbones, and gleaming red hair. She wore a green wool dress with layered skirts and a high waist, which only emphasized the fullness of her bosom. Tyrion found himself disappointed with the level of her v-shaped neckline. Only a bit of bare collarbone was visible from his height.
The twitch in his cock was followed by a chill. There was something about this woman. No… It can’t be Lady Stark. And it hit him. Twenty years have passed, you fool.
Tyrion smirked at her. Her breathing got deeper, and she flinched slightly. He found himself simultaneously angered and aroused, not an uncommon state for him.
“Hello, Little Wife.”
She took a measured breath. “Hello, Lord Tyrion. Where have you been for the last twenty years?”
“Essos. Here and there in Essos. And you?”
“Here and there in Westeros. But honestly, My Lord…” Her eyes narrowed and she sat down. Tyrion raised his head, eager to get a better glimpse of her chest. He was distracted when she said, “Everyone thought you dead.”
“I’m sorry to ruin your fun,” he replied with a bit of bitterness. Cersei would be so disappointed. This one apparently is. “It must be inconvenient to you to see me alive. And even more hideous than ever. All while you’ve grown ever lovelier. Not a child anymore, I see.”
He leered a bit, looking again. She leaned back then, tugging at her neckline nervously. Tyrion found himself simultaneously finding delight and misery in her obvious discomfort. I’m not even naked now, and already she looks ill.
“Come now, My Lady. Don’t make that face. You’ve grown to be such a lovely sight. No need to spoil it with a grimace, repulsive as I may be. You don’t need to follow suit.”
“No… My Lord. You’re not—-“
“Oh come now, stop lying!” Tyrion said, suddenly furious. False. False. All my women. Shae, Sansa… All but Tysha. “You used to be at least better at it than that! Smile at least. Once, it pleased you to please your lord husband, remember? Would it please you to please me now? You’ve grown the body for it, certainly. Even more than you had before.”
He gestured to the big bed behind him. “Last time we were alone in a bedroom together, you offered to strip three times before I allowed it. Where is that generosity now? Especially when you have so much more to show…”
She put her hand to her mouth. Tyrion smirked. He wanted her humiliated. Just like you humiliated me. Let’s see how well those stiff Stark knees and stiff Stark pride suits you now. If he was truly that repulsive to her, she would suffer for it. I’ve suffered for it.
“Don’t have anything to say? Come now, you can give me some of your sweet little courtesies. Maybe after, we can pick up where we left off.”
His wife doubled over, her shoulders shaking. Tyrion found this enchanting. If only she were Cersei. It would be even funnier, and it wouldn’t hurt as much.
“What would you do if I kissed you now? If I commanded you to share my bed? I used to wonder all the time---”
Sansa grabbed the plate from him and heaved. A chunky liquid poured out of her pretty little mouth.
Tyrion stared, astonished, and then furious. Women have found me repulsive all my life, but never so much as to vomit at the sight of me.
He forced himself to smile, as though her reaction gave him nothing but satisfaction. “Well then, you’ve made me lose my lunch,” he mocked. “Now we’re even. I must say with all that mess running down your chin, you’re almost half as disgusting as me.”
Sansa glared up at him and wiped her mouth. “It’s not you, you—-“
She put her hand on her belly and it was only then Tyrion noticed the small bump.
He fell back, eyes wide. He felt like his insides had disappeared. Shame flooded through him. “My Lady I—“
Sansa grabbed his cup and downed its contents. “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?”
I do now. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize---“
“Enough. I’ve heard worse. I was more offended by the way you grabbed my daughter last night. Do not do it again.” Another chill went down his spine, and he saw it. Yes, there it is... The cheekbones, the pout… She hadn’t looked like Tysha. She looked like another.
“I thought she was someone else,” he said hastily. He did feel bad about that. His stomach did, especially. “More apologies. She seems to be a fine child. Strong legs.”
“She is a fine child.”
“I’m sure.” Tyrion frowned. I might have given you fine children. Ones with my wits and your looks. “Which is also probably why you’re as pleased as anyone else to see me.” He cocked his head. “Tell me, why hasn’t anyone tried to kill me yet?”
“What?” Sansa’s eyes widened.
“Last time I was in Westeros, everyone and everything seemed determined to see me dead. Your Mother, my father, my sister, my nephew, my whores… whoever killed Joffrey… For nothing more than the crimes of being a Lannister and a dwarf.” He ground his teeth at that. No matter how many years had passed, the wounds of that seemed ever-fresh. “Now, I come back, a threat to my cousin Martyn’s current title and a threat to your own children’s legitimacy, and not once has anyone tried to swing an axe into my face, or a sword through my neck, or slip poison into my wine. The worst I’ve gotten is a little girl kicking me in the stomach.”
“You are not a threat to my children’s legitimacy,” she said firmly. “I married their father six years after you disappeared, four years after you officially died. In times of peace, a woman can remarry if her husband has been missing for five years. It becomes three in times of war. My apologies, Lord Tyrion, but I am not your wife in the eyes of gods or men.”
He sneered. “I bet you researched that the moment you got away from me. Must have been quite the kick in the teeth that you had to wait that long.”
“It angered Petyr Baelish something fierce.” She glanced at her hands, eyes holding the spark of a new, unpleasant revelation. “A former slave master from Yunkai delivered the corpse of a nose-less, white-haired dwarf with mismatched eyes to Queen Cersei. She declared that body her cursed brother, dead at last, and gave the man a lordship. Conveniently enough, this happened soon after I was formally betrothed to Harrold Hardyng.”
Her hands began to shake and Tyrion glanced at his lap. He remembered Penny’s brother. He died to be delivered to my sister as well.
His former wife continued, her voice sounding more contrite. “I always believed you were truly killed.” She sighed and cupped her temple. “It is clear to me now that that isn’t the case.”
“So this Hardyng sap is my replacement then?”
“Not… Not exactly. I mean, I married him, but he’s long dead.” She pursed her lips again. Tyrion’s stomach sank. As I thought. Some of the anger returned.
“Where’s Martyn?” Tyrion asked impatiently. His cousin had promised to come back and discuss ‘matters’ with him in the morning. Perhaps the matter of his marital situation might have come up before now. “Why am I speaking to you?”
Sansa looked up again. “Lord Lannister is speaking to his maester and steward. He’s worried about you, but he’s embarrassed. I told him off for leaving you in the castle as he did. He’s trying to find you some more suitable accommodations now.”
“So, Martyn listens to you, does he?”
“Lord Martyn listens to a great deal of people. He honestly feels awful. When you arrived, he was just due to welcome the royal family to Lannisport and give a great presentation. He wasn’t sure what to do. He asked me to speak to you.”
Tyrion’s jaw clenched. It seems my cousin has everything that should have been mine. “You must be quite relieved to be wed to me no longer.”
“I am. But then, is it that surprising that I would be?” She blinked.
“Of course not. And why should a woman like you have been happy to wed a dwarf? Even as old as you’ve gotten, you’re still a pretty face. Whereas I was hideous from the beginning.”
Sansa’s jaw clenched. “If you think that is the matter, then you were never as clever as you thought you were. It was wedding a Lannister that horrified me to the core. I admit never finding your face fair to look upon, but if you were not tied by blood and/or allegiance to the people who killed my family, were good to me, and could have taken me away, I could have been content to be your wife.”
False. False. All my women. Tyrion glared. “But none of those supposed objections--- my blood, my name, my home, have stood in your way now, have they?”
“What does that mean?”
“The hall last night--- that room was three doors down from the Lannister nursery. It is a hall well into the Lannister family quarters. An immense celebration was being conducted below the Rock, outside. What were you doing there?!”
Sansa leaned back, thoroughly at unawares. “What business is it of yours?”
“It’s my bloody home. Tell me.”
She sighed. “My daughter and I were putting her younger brothers to bed. They were allowed to stay out for part of the banquet, but we brought them back.”
“There are a great deal of guests at Casterly Rock. Not just anyone would be allowed to store their children in the Lannister nursery. But your children sleep there?” Even during his father’s fine tournament, only the royal family’s children were welcome. Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys ended up staying behind at the Red Keep, but the offer was still open.
She gaped for a moment. “You think I am married to Lord Martyn.”
“Your children are sleeping in the beds Jaime, Cersei, and I once inhabited. You give orders to my family’s men. You’re allowed to lecture the Lord of Casterly Rock and involve yourself in our affairs. You clearly have free reign of the castle. It is not hard to figure out.”
“You’ve seen my daughter, yes?”
“Of course.”
“What color is her hair?”
Brown or black. It was hard to tell exactly. He settled with: “Dark.”
“What color is Martyn’s hair?”
“Gold."
“How could Martyn possibly sire a dark-haired girl on a red-haired wife? You’re wrong.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then how have you and your children been permitted to take up residence in such intimate castle quarters? The only non-Lannister children that were allowed to stay there were---“
A quirk of her left brow stopped him “---The royal family?”
He grew angrier. “Do you think me a fool, Woman? That is one thing I most decidedly am not. There are only two Targaryens--- the queen and her nephew. If Martyn couldn’t give you a dark-haired child, there is no way one of those silver-haired dragons could. There is no way that girl is the prince’s child.”
And he’d never wed a Stark. That Aegon hadn’t managed to wed Daenerys was hysterical, but that didn’t mean the lad would wed the niece of the woman who replaced his mother. Martyn, on the other hand, was Sansa’s age, and had been released back to the Lannisters after the Golden Tooth. And it would be exactly the sort of thing my Uncle Kevan might cook up. Lancel was near death, I was gone. Perhaps he had this Hardyng chap taken out and took back the key to the North. It would be what Tywin might do, and Kevan was always so quick to follow his older brother’s lead.
He didn’t ever think Sansa particularly clever, but did she honestly think she could play at something like this? What does it gain her, lying about this? So she could pretend to be kinder? False. False.
She gave him a stupid look. “Wait… What? My husband---”
“---- I met Aegon, you know. Did your husband ever tell you that?” ‘Young Griff’ had dyed his hair blue to hide his identity, but in truth it was as silvery as his father’s. No trace of his Dornish blood whatsoever. “Your daughter has the look of Stark in her, which she obviously got from you. If that’s the case, then Martyn could have sired her as well as any Targaryen.”
She gaped. “You mean you honestly don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?!” He said impatiently. He was so very sick of not knowing things. Get to the point, Woman.
For some reason, she went red. “There… There was another, Lord Tyrion. The young man you knew as Aegon died long ago. But... remember my Aunt Lyanna?”
Tyrion gaped. “But how and where could such a child be---?”
And all of a sudden, it all clicked into place. “My father says the mind is a weapon, and that it needs a book like a sword needs a whetstone.” Gods above. Of course. The girl didn’t just look like Sansa. There was the thick, dark, curly hair. The length of her face. The slenderness of her frame. And that pout… a pout he hadn’t just seen on Sansa. That’s who she reminded me of. The sullen bastard boy whom I joked with. I pissed off the Wall in front of him. His jaw dropped.
“Seven Hells. Your honorable Father never did break his vow, did he?”