"Walder Frey? I'd rather die in the Eyrie than befriend them."
Night had fallen when Tyrion finally returned to the Tower of the Hand. His steps were heavy as he walked the long corridor to his small but tidy chamber. Sitting on his narrow bed, he noticed faint stains still clinging stubbornly to the carpet—traces that remained despite careful scrubbing, leaving only pale marks of cleaning behind.
But how was he supposed to tell Sansa and Arya about this? It was part of the plan, yes—but still.
Before he could even get comfortable, a knock came at the door.
"My lord?" It was Shae.
"What is it? Come in," Tyrion said.
"It's not me, my lord," Shae said as she pushed the door open and peeked in. "It's the ladies."
Sansa Stark and Arya Stark entered the room.
"If you need anything, just call. I'll be right outside," Brienne said before closing the door.
"Ah, my ladies. What brings you here at this hour?" Tyrion asked, not pleased to see them. "I was just about to sleep."
"My lord, I came to thank you," Sansa said politely, stepping closer. "Your hand."
"Oh, my hand." Tyrion lifted it. The wound had already scabbed over, and he felt no pain. "See? It's almost healed. Nothing to worry about. And you don't need to call me 'my lord.'"
"But yesterday, when I cleaned it, there was a deep scar," Sansa said, kneeling before him and gently taking his hand. "It should be treated again today."
So it was her who cleaned my wound.
Tyrion watched her tend to his hand, then glanced at Arya with a crooked grin. "Horseface, tell me—was Marlin Trant on your list?"
"You should've killed him," Arya said. "You hesitated, and then you vomited everywhere."
"At the feast?" Tyrion asked.
"Yes, that did happen."
"And here too," Arya said, pointing at the carpet. "A spot here, another there, and one over there." She walked as she spoke, gesturing at the crusted stains like the scabs on his hand. "Took forever to clean."
"You cleaned it?" Tyrion asked. "No wonder it's still filthy. You're nothing like your sister when it comes to tidying."
Arya stuck out her tongue at him.
"My lord," Sansa looked up at him. "The betrothal ceremony is over. When can my sister and I go home?"
Just as I thought.
Tyrion looked from Sansa to Arya. No, he couldn't tell them—not now, not here—that Robb and Lady Catelyn were dead.
"Ah, yes. I've been thinking about that," Tyrion said evenly. He couldn't hesitate; even a pause would make him sound deceitful. "You must understand, my lady, the Riverlands are full of bandits. Sending you home requires careful planning."
"I'm not afraid, my lord," Sansa said. "Brienne can protect us. Nothing will happen."
"I know, I know." Gods, someone save me from this. "I'm assembling an escort. Two or three days, and you'll be on your way."
Sansa opened her mouth to speak again, but the door swung open.
Black hair—it was Arianne Martell.
"My apologies, my lord," Brienne said. "This lady—I couldn't stop her. She said she was your—"
"Betrothed," Arianne said. "It seems you have visitors. Ah, the Stark ladies."
"Sansa, I have guests. Can we talk about this another day?"
Sansa rose and curtsied to Tyrion. "Thank you, my lord." She turned to Arianne. "My lady, you look lovely tonight."
Only then did Tyrion notice the black gauze cloak clinging to Arianne's form. The fabric was fine and light. It showed her shape and was utterly tempting.
The ladies left. Arianne closed the door. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything important."
"Important?" Tyrion waved a hand. "Nothing but tending my wound."
Arianne went to the desk, drew two candles from her bosom, lit them, and then blew out the first.
"She wants something from you. I'll bet anything you ask, she'll grant."
"Are you a devil?" Tyrion frowned. "I thought I was the devil. What are you thinking? I treat her like a sister."
The new candles burned with a fresh cardamom scent. The aroma spread, faintly sweet and warm, as if it could banish fatigue and worry.
She sat beside him, took his wrist, turned his palm up, and inspected his fingers and the center of his hand. "Let me see your hand."
"She did a fine job," Arianne murmured, sucking one of his fingers. "Just too cold. That bastard's hand can't compare to your wound."
"The price was higher than that," Tyrion said. "Father stripped me of office. I am no longer Master of Laws."
"They don't understand you," Arianne said. "You are a true knight, a true lion, glory about you. They are court fools, jesters, schemers."
She understands me, Tyrion thought.
Arianne gently slipped off his tunic. Each motion was careful and intimate. As his chest was bared she gave a small look of admiration.
"My dear husband, may I keep you company tonight?"
"Or… never mind." Tyrion recoiled from the invitation.
"You're not bound for another woman's bed, are you? Tell me who she is and I'll fight her for you, draw blood." She smiled. "Did my uncle send his mistress to you? If so, we can share you."
"Ridiculous. At least for now there's no other woman," Tyrion said, enjoying her touch. "I'm just… my head is full."
"You're worn out, my lion."
"I'm thinking of the future. Of Casterly Rock."
"Casterly Rock is a pocked whore, dry as dust between her legs, and her kisses will make you bleed," Arianne said, kissing his chest. "We'll have twins. Casterly Rock for the son. Sunspear for the daughter. Until then, Dorne can be ours."
Tyrion wanted to shut his eyes and not end up like his brother and sister. His father's words drifted in his mind.
Think before you drop your breeches.
Think, my ass. Where you fall, lie there.