Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mordred watched the army assembling on the other side of the field.

Camlann, this place was called, and it was as fine a place to do battle as any.

His father was an utter fool to march at him with such a puny force. The battle would be short, Mordred had thought. He would attack Arthur from the center, pinning the King in place while his Saxon mercenaries will turn and envelop the enemy flank. But things had not gone to plan. Arthur had retreated in an orderly manner and had not been frozen in place by Mordred’s attack. The Saxons didn’t turn the loyalist flank but were instead lured into marshy ground wear upon they were felled by the hundreds courtesy of Arthur’s archers. The King’s army had been a tiny host compared to Mordred’s own, but Arthur’s men were all seasoned veterans of a hundred battles.

The bloodletting at Camlann should have ended there. Mordred learned a valuable lesson, one that had cost his army dearly in blood and bodies. He should have retreated and made to regroup his forces. Arthur, of course, would likely also be able to lick his wounds and gather more men to his side. But that was just the nature of war.

Instead, Mordred had reformed his line and ordered his men forward and back into the blood-soaked field. Instead of the battle ending, the bloodletting got much worse with the second attack, until Mordred’s men had eventually been repulsed. Undeterred, Mordred again reformed his line and launched a third attack. The battle, which had begun in the early hours of the day, had now dragged on all the way to sunset.

When the fighting finally ended, it was not because one side had emerged victorious. But because both armies had utterly broken themselves upon the swords of the other.

Mordred soon found himself slain by his own father. But he could not find it within himself to despise the man. He was instead rather furious when he felt a curse cast by his mother activate and Mordred’s limp body moved not of its own free will to deliver a final blow to the King.

Now, both King and Usurper would die, and Camelot will fall to turmoil as the result. One last act of spite from his Mother.

It was only at the Throne of Heroes that Mordred could admit to himself that it was his mother who he should have despised. Even if the admission left so much bitterness in his soul. For both his sires.

Mordred unexpectedly opened his eyes, feeling rather out of breath. He couldn’t think very well, nor could he even know where he was. His eyes were blurry, and black spots appeared in the corners of his vision.

He felt something around his neck, and reached up to find that it was a rope.

It was hard to think very well but Mordred soon realized that he was hanging, with a cord around his neck, squeezing the life out of him. Mordred reached for a sword to cut the infernal thing but could find nothing on his belt. His body felt pudgy and small, and he was almost too big for it.

Mordred then summoned what small amounts of magic his mother had taught him and cut the blasted thing around his neck. He fell to the ground below, gasping breath loud to his ears as he writhed on the ground.

The room around him was dark except for a single candle burning with flames of different colors. A Mother’s candle, his mind quickly supplied, lit near the dead and dying. It will burn in brilliant colors for hours, before finally settling on the Stranger’s black flame only to them be snuffed out forever.

It was a strange thing for Tyrion’s mind to recall…

Mordred froze. These weren’t his memories—they were Tyrion’s. But who the fuck was Tyrion?

The door to the room opened to a rather plump woman, with golden hair and sharp green eyes. She gasped when she saw him there, sprawled out on the ground, gasping and coughing for breath.

“Father’s Mercy!” The woman, Aunt Genna, his mind told him, exclaimed out a prayer before closing the door behind her. “What have you done with yourself, child?!”

Bitter and salty tears rolled down his face, and Mordred quickly realized that the hanging and rope had been self-inflicted. The woman, his Aunt – or rather: Tyrion’s Aunt, got on her knees before him and collected him into her arms.

“..m s-orr.y.” The apology came to --Mordred’s?— mouth without much prompting. Even if it had come out as a rasp.  

“Hush, child,” The woman had begun to weep silently as she held him. “Hush.”

Mordred felt so small in her arms, tiny and different. He had not felt such since before his Mother had made him a knight of the Round Table. Mordred had just been a girl then, one living in a simple cottage with her kind and adoring mother. But that girl had been utterly stupid. She had ignored her mother’s growing madness and cruelty. Ignored how she grew much faster than all the other children of the village. Mordred the Knight would never be that stupid girl again.

And this was not some half-imagined hallucination where his Mother gave him comfort after a bad nightmare, those only ended with his Mother’s madness appearing in the morning and beating him for showing such weakness. The woman holding him was most certainly not his mother, and the dark room around them was almost certainly not the cottage of his birth.

His arms seemed too small, and legs too stubby and strange. His shoulders and hips seemed almost misshapen. Tyrion was a dwarf, his mind quickly supplied, a low creature born upon Tywin Lannister as a curse from the Gods.

“Tywin was far too cruel, he should not have gone so far.” Genna Lannister said as she held her nephew. Or at least the boy who used to be her nephew.

What happened? Mordred wondered. What cruelty?

It all returned to him then. Going riding with Jamie, only to come across brigands assaulting a woman on the road. His brother riding down the bandits with mace and sword, while Tyrion had gone to help the woman, who turned out to be a girl his age, to safety.

Tyrion had taken the girl riding through the country, and they had spent a night of passion together in an inn they had drank at. Tysha would say that she loved him, would sing for him and laugh with him. They would marry soon after, and spend the whole of a fortnight staying in a cottage by the sea.

But it all ended when Jamie said the girl was a whore he had hired. Both he and Tysha were then taken to Casterly Rock where Lord Tywin had Tyrion’s wife brutalized by the guards. Mordred could only feel all matter of horror and disgust by the memories that had made their way into his mind.

“I am going to kill him!”

It was a cold promise to make, but Mordred could only think of Tysha and Tyrion. Tysha was only fourteen and Tyrion a year younger than that but Lord Tywin had brutalized one and driven the other to suicide. It was not so hard for Mordred to resolve to kill this Lord of Lannister.

Genna Lannister froze at the words. “You can’t mean that.”

“Can’t mean it?” Mordred Tyrion asked incredulously. “You would have me forgive him?!”

Mordred had memories of Tyrion running through his head. Of the boy sneaking around the halls of the castle, listening to every secret being told when it was thought that no one was there listening. Even so, Tyrion Lannister had not believed a single thing said about his Lord Father.

“You were foolish Tyrion, eloping with a lowborn girl-”

Rage, pure undulated rage cut its way through Tyrion. “You are going to take his side?!”

Genna looked hurt by his anger. “You can’t speak of killing your father, child. Not even-”

“He gave her to his guards!” Tyrion could feel tears running down his cheek again.

His aunt flinched back like she had been struck; her eyes went wide. “…what..”

“He gave her to his guards and made me watch,” Tyrion told her. “He paid her silver coin for every man. Then he had me…” Tyrion faltered, a sob escaping him. “…and gave her a gold coin for me.”

Genna Lannister didn’t say anything about that. And Tyrion realized that she had not, in fact, known what had occurred.

“He could have just sent her away!” Mordred yelled. And that had been what resonated with him. Tywin Lannister had been a knight, sworn to oaths, before he had become a Lord. As a Lord with lands and vassals, the man had an even greater obligation to do justice and keep the peace. “He had already annulled the marriage; he did not need to do this-”

Mordred froze as he went through Tyrion’s memories again. The boy had been told by his brother Jamie that Tysha had been a whore who had only wanted him for the Lannister name and fortune. But Mordred knew lies, knew how to spot liars too, and he could not find a single lie to when Tysha had confessed to love Tyrion. The only one was from Jamie-

There were sounds around him, and Jamie turned on his side as his sleep became more fitful.

Then there was a sword on his throat.

Jamie startled awake and was wanting to grab the blade; only to then see who wielded it.

“Tyrion?” He asked, his voice sleep addled.

“‘She is a whore, Tyrion. You cannot marry a whore.’” Jamie felt his heart sink as his brother repeated his words at him. “Isn’t that what you said?!”

Jamie could not answer as he saw more people enter his chambers from the doors that had been left ajar. His aunt Genna was first through, her face marked by worry and fearfulness. His uncles Tygett and Gerion follow after her.

“Tyrion, child.” His aunt’s tone is soothing and conciliatory. “That is your brother Tyrion. Your brother, Jamie.”

And what a wretched brother I have been. Jamie thought as Tyrion kept the sword steady to his neck, his brother’s mismatched eyes glaring at him with all the hatred in the world.

“Would you kill your own brother in his bed?” His aunt asked, and Jamie thought it was a poor thing to ask a boy with a sword at his brother’s neck. It was Jamie’s blade, and he had been sharpening it that morning. It would slice through his throat with a simple jerk of the hand. “No man is as cursed as a kinslayer.”

His uncles said nothing but made small steps forward, silently reaching out for his brother.

Then Tyrion snorted, and suddenly Jamie could breathe as the sword left his neck. “Not in his bed, then. Should I kill him on his feet?” Tyrion asked as he threw Jamie’s sword to the ground. It clattered and rang with the fall.

Jamie stood up then, and silently watched as his brother crossed the room to the opened doors of his apartments. They were soon closed and locked as his brother turned back to them.

“Child, you-” His aunt tried to sooth, but was interrupted.

“Stand up!” Tyrion yelled at him. “Stand and pick up your sword!”

Tyrion went to their Uncle Gerion and drew the sword at his belt. It was a long thin blade, not as heavy or cumbersome as a true longsword, as their uncle preferred a swift sword.

Jamie stood, but did not reach for the blade at his feet. “Tyrion-”

“Pick it up!” Jamie flinched as his brother screamed at him.

He would try to reason. “Tyrion, I-”

“Pick it up Ser,” Tyrion said. “You are a knight, what have you to fear from a boy?”

Tyrion got into a stance, blade held out in front of him and steady. Jamie blinked, it had been thought that his brother would never become a knight and so he had not been seriously trained. But the stance he was in was half solid, though it looked like Tyrion was replicating it after seeing it be done, as his brother had not adjusted the stance to his too small height.

“Tyrion, that’s enough.” Gerion said, a pained expression on his face. “We should all keep our tempers-“

“Pick it up!” Tyrion demanded again. “Or are you a coward, too? Along with all else they say about you.”

Jamie picked up his sword, despite himself.

Then Tyrion charged at him, thrusting their uncle’s blade straight for his heart. Jamie only stepped aside, and his younger brother fell sprawling on the floor, carried forth by his own momentum.

Tyrion had gotten back up in an instant. “Kingslayer!” His brother yelled at him. “Oathbreaker!”

Tyrion thrust forward again, and Jamie deftly stepped aside.

“Every time I heard them say it, I would scream at them.” His brother said as he swung at him. Jamie parried and stepped aside again, letting the blade slide harmlessly off his own.

“You lie!” Tyrion yelled as he thrust out his sword again. Jamie ducked the blow and again parried. “You are all liars, I told them, my brother is the greatest knight in the world!”

Another swing, Jamie blocked it.

“Tyrion,” Jamie choked out. “Tyrion, please-”

“Tell them the lie,” Tyrion demanded, panting, sweating and glaring up at him. “Tell them the lie you said to me!”

Jamie’s eyes darted around the room, his aunt and uncles stood there watching the fight. Tygett was grim faced and silent, watching Jamie with a gleam in his eyes. Gerion and his aunt both had hands out, wanting to plead with a word and stop the fight.

“Tell them!” Tyrion’s voice broke from all the yelling.

Jamie looked down in shame. “I said she was a whore.”

“You lied!” Tyrion stepped forward and swung at him. Jamie blocked and took a step back.

“Say it again!” Tyrion demanded.

“She was a whore, Tyrion-”

Tyrion was charged at him with a bellow, far faster than he had been before. Uncle Gerion’s blade blurred, and its sound whipped in the air as Tyrion swung it at him. Jamie blocked and stepped back. Tyrion was exhausted, he could see that. His brother’s arms were shaking with every effort he made, breaths uneven and face red with exertion. Despite this, his brother did not stop swinging.

Jamie could have easily disarmed him before this, he was taller than Tyrion and had the advantage in reach and positioning. But then Tyrion moved as if he was a whirlwind, and Jamie could only block the attacks and retreat.

Suddenly, his back hit a wall, and all he could hear was a sword clattering loudly on the stone floor.

Jamie was dumbstruck as his brother now held a blade to his neck again. He had been disarmed by a boy of three and ten, who had barely received any training at all. Any other day, and he would have been praising his brother, but now all he could do was stare at Tyrion’s hate filled eyes.

“Say it!” His brother demanded.

Jamie let out a breath and closed his eyes. “She was not a whore.” He confessed.

He thought Tyrion would cut him down in the next moment, but the blade did not move from his neck. Jamie opened his eyes to find his younger brother crying, silent tears rolling down his malformed cheeks.

“You are no brother of mine.” Tyrion spoke quietly. And the soft words cut and hurt more than any blade.

Jamie thought of apologizing, thought to beg his brother’s forgiveness but Tyrion looked away from him. The blade in the boy’s hand was discarded and Jamie could only watch as his brother fled the room.

“I’ll go after him,” Gerion murmured. His uncle gave him a long look, he had mismatched eyes the same way Tyrion did, but there was no hatred in the man’s like there had been in Tyrion. Instead, there was pity in those eyes. Gerion turned and followed Tyrion out of the room.

His aunt Genna looked at him with furious green eyes. “How could you tell such a lie?”

Jamie did not have much of an answer. “Father ordered me, said it will bring shame to have Tyrion elope with a common girl.”

Genna Lannister stared at him with judging eyes, and Jamie could feel some resentment stirring in his chest. He had followed his father’s orders, his aunt should know that Tyrion couldn’t just run off-

“Your father took the girl to his guard’s barracks.”

Jamie’s breath caught in his throat.

“He paid the girl a silver coin for every man that took her and made Tyrion watch.”

Jamie shook his head. "No. Father wouldn’t—"

"He did.’ Genna’s voice was hollow. ‘And you helped him.’

“Then he had your brother have her last, and gave her a gold coin.” Genna Lannister said. “A lesson, my brother wanted to teach.” She shook her head. “Lannisters are worth more.”

His aunt’s eyes looked haunted and red from crying. “I did not think him capable of this, not when I have loved him ever since I had been a girl. Not my valiant elder brother, who stood up in protest for me at the day of my betrothal. Not Tywin, who would do anything for his family.”

 “I should have known.” Genna choked out. “The day I heard he sent brutes to savage a Princess of the Realm and her children. I should have known when he had the Tarbecks slaughtered to the last suckling babe over insults and pride. I should have known when I heard the Rains of Castemere, hundreds killed even after asking for terms.”

His aunt looked at him. “I found your brother in the night, with rope around his neck-”

Jamie was alarmed. “Who would-”

“The boy did it to himself.”

Jamie’s knees finally buckled.

“That is the worth of your lie, your brother attempting to take his own life, and his wife raped a dozen times over.”

Jamie felt numb, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest. His aunt shook her head and left the room.

Only Tygett Lannister remained. His elder uncle had not said a word the whole time, simply standing there and listening. Jamie wondered what recriminations he would get from the man. Not that he did not deserve them.

“Your actions are yours and your father’s his,” Ser Tygett finally spoke. “The Gods will judge you for your lie, as they will your father for his cruelty.”

Jamie said nothing, his hands had started to shake.

“I will be resigning my post as Master-at-Arms,” His uncle said. “Ride off to that ruined hall of the Tarbecks your father oh so generously granted me. Your brother asked me to take his wife with me.”

Jamie looked up at his uncle. “Father told me he would have the marriage annulled.”

Tygett snorted. “Your father did far more than that.” The man shook his head. “But your brother was adamite that she remains his wife. And not even the High Septon could annul the thing if your brother refuses.”

“And the girl?” Jamie asked softly.

“Your brother went riding in the night, Genna bid me follow after him. I found him visiting the girl.” Tygett replied.

“She’s a crofter’s daughter,” Jamie confessed. “An orphaned one.”

“And the boy I trained and raised on my lap would not have lied about that,” His uncle’s eyes were sad.

“You best ride back to King’s Landing, this morning.” Tygett said. “Return to your post.”

Then Jaime was left alone, and for the first time since his mother died, he wept.

Chapter Text

The smirking guard looms over her, his gloved hand rattling the coin purse mockingly, the metallic jingle of silver coins and one gold echoing sharply against the dry-stone walls of the cell. His cruel smirk only widens when she cowers from him, revealing yellow teeth.

Without a word, he tosses the purse to Uncle Harwin, who catches it with a grunt, his calloused fingers tightening around the leather. The guard doesn’t stay, he turns on his heel, his red painted armor creaking as he strides toward the heavy iron door. But just before he vanishes into the dim corridor beyond, a low, grating chuckle escapes him, a sound that lingers in the air though she often hears it in her nightmares.

Tysha’s uncle says nothing. His gaze fixed upon the grime-streaked floor as if the answers to his shame lie buried in the filth.

And it was shame he felt. Tysha recognized it was shame, even if her uncle might have been kind enough, or cruel enough, to never speak of it aloud. Others would, though. They would whisper it in tavern corners, hiss it behind his back at the market, laugh over it in the company of men who measured honor in the bruises left on women’s skin. And that was shame enough. Worse than a beating, worse than the sting of a lash: the slow, ceaseless erosion of a man’s pride, and the certainty that she would pay for it in blood.

It was the way of men, her minders in the village had told her, their voices dull with the weight of grim acceptance. They had said it as they watched a father flog his own daughter to death in the square, her crime nothing more than a whispered rumor, a glance held too long, a suitor deemed unworthy. The girl had shamed him, they murmured, as if that explained the way her spine split open like overripe fruit. As if that justified the way her screams had died into whimpers, then silence.

So it was that Tysha’s uncle, stone-faced and silent, could do as he pleased. He could take a whip to her until her back matched the ragged tapestry of scars so many women wore. He could draw his sword, a blade won in the Storming of Tyrosh so many years ago and carve his fury into her flesh. And no one would name him Kinslayer for it. He could knot a rope around her throat and drag her through the mud to the city square, selling her to the first man who tossed a coin his way.

And why not? The lawmen rarely bothered with such things. A man’s house was his kingdom, its women his subjects (or his chattel), to be cherished or broken as the winds of his temper dictated. And men could be kind in one moment and endlessly cruel in the next, their affections as fickle as a summer storm. A daughter might bask in her father’s pride at dawn only to cower beneath his fists by dusk. That was the way of the world.

But her uncle was no such man.

He was a scary old soldier, his face a map of battles fought and survived, his bearing stiff with the weight of years spent marching under the banners of lesser lords. The village boys whispered dark tales about him, how he’d gutted a dozen men in a single skirmish, how he’d once silenced a screaming horse with nothing but his dagger and a murmured apology. But Tysha knew the truth about him. He had never raised a hand to her, not even when she’d spilled the last of their oil or tracked mud across the freshly swept floor. Nor had he ever reprimanded her with the cruel, cutting words other men reserved for their womenfolk.

Her uncle could be stern, yes. He expected obedience, discipline, and a spine of steel hidden beneath a girl’s softness. But cruelty was not in his nature.

And so, when the guard’s laughter still echoed like a curse in that wretched cell, Harwin did not rage. He did not strike. Instead, with hands covered in callouses he unclasped his old, threadbare cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders like a shield. Then, without a word, he lifted her into his arms as if she weighed no more than a child, cradling her against chest and carried her out of the castle. He ignored the guards’ leering whispers, the way their eyes followed them like vultures circling carrion.

Even so, even as Tysha clung to him, her face buried in the scratchy wool of his cloak, she could not silence the traitorous thought that slithered through her heart: Her uncle was cruel, still.

Cruel, because he did not look at her in the eye. Cruel, in all his silence. His silence was a wall between them, thicker than stone, and she hated herself for how desperately she longed to tear it down.

Why did she dare hope for more?

The cart ride home lasted hours.

The wooden wheels groaned against the cobbled road, each jolt sending fresh tremors through Tysha’s battered body. The cloak around her shoulders, still faintly stinking of blood and iron, did little to ward off the evening chill, nor did it stifle the silence that hung between them, thick as a hangman’s noose.

Her uncle might as well have been carved from the same gnarled oak as the cart itself. He held the reins in scarred, soldier’s hands, his knuckles bone-white where they gripped the leather. His jaw was clenched so tightly she could see the muscle twitching beneath the stubble, his eyes fixed on the road ahead with a hollow intensity, as if the empty stretch of dirt held some answer to a question he’d never voice.

Not a word. Not a glance. Not even when she’d winced as the cart lurched over a stone, sending a fresh spike of pain through her ribs.

The quiet was worse than the cell. Worse than the guard’s laughter. At least in the castle, the cruelty had been honest. This silence was a slow suffocation, a thousand unsaid things rotting between them.

Perhaps sharp and cutting recriminations would have been better. At least then she could have raged against him. At least then she’d know what he was thinking, whether it was disgust that curdled in his gut, or pity.

But Uncle Harwin gave her nothing.

Then they were home.

The cottage stood as they’d left it, weathered shutters closed, the thatch roof sagging under the weight of last week’s rain, but it no longer felt like sanctuary. The door groaned on its hinges as Harwin shouldered it open, his arms stiff around her, as if he carried not a girl but the ghost of one.

He set her down gently, his calloused hands lingering for half a breath before withdrawing, as though he feared his touch might stain her further. Then he moved like a man performing a ritual: fetching buckets from the well, hauling them up the path until his breath came ragged. The oak tub, dry and dusty from disuse, filled slowly with water so cold it bit her skin even before she stepped in.

Only when she was submerged, her bruises purpling in the dim light, her scrapes stinging, did he pause. For a moment, she thought he might speak. But he only turned away, stoking the hearth fire until the kettle hissed.

He scrubbed his hands after. Scoured them with ashen soap until his knuckles split, as if he could peel away the memory of the dungeon from his skin. The salve he applied to her wounds was the same he kept for his own scars; she recognized the sharp scent of the woods witch’s make, the same concoction that had stitched him back together after battles long past. His fingers worked methodically, never lingering, never straying beyond what was necessary. A stranger’s touch.

The dress he laid out was worse.

It was the blue one, the one she’d worn the day Tyrion first kissed her, back when the world was soft at the edges and love was something sweet instead of sharp. The fabric was faded now, the embroidery at the collar fraying, but it was clean. Deliberately so. As if by dressing her in the ghost of that girl, he could erase what had happened.

Through it all, he never met her eyes.

Not when he bandaged her wrists. Not when he draped a towel over the tub so she could dress in privacy. Not even when she whispered his name, so faintly it might have been the wind through the cracks in the walls.

Perhaps that was the greatest kindness he could offer: letting her pretend, for just a moment, that she wasn’t seeing her own shame reflected back at her in his silence.

It should have been her preparing dinner for both of them, but if Uncle Harwin had any complaints about the matter, he did not voice them.

She should be doing this. The thought lodged in her throat like a bone.

Tysha wanted to cry.

But no tears came. She had spent them all in that cell, two days of weeping into the straw, her voice raw from begging the guards, from calling for Tyrion until her hope curdled into something brittle and sour. The knights in their gleaming armor had passed her door without a glance. Her husband, who had whispered pretty vows into her hair, had vanished like smoke even after all the foul deeds done to her. Even the gods had turned their faces away, leaving her to choke on the stench of her own fear.

And then-

Uncle Harwin.

Her uncle, who had ridden back from the hills stinking of sweat and saddle leather, his sword still crusted with the blood of outlaws. Her uncle, who had kicked open the dungeon door with a snarl that sent the guards scrambling. It was only after seeing her that he was struck silent, did his threats and glares at the guards cease.

And now, the silence.

It stretched between them, thick and suffocating, broken only by the soft bubbling of the broth in its pot. Tysha made some effort to eat, forcing spoonfulls past the lump in her throat. The guards had not fed her in the cell, and her stomach clenched painfully at the meager warmth of the broth, but every swallow tasted like ash.

Across the table, Uncle Harwin sat motionless, his own meal untouched, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the walls of the cottage. His hands, usually so steady, trembled faintly where they rested on the rough-hewn wood.

Then-

“Child-”

Tysha’s head snapped up, the sound of his voice startling her in the quiet. For a heartbeat, hope flared in her chest, he’ll speak now, he’ll say something, anything, but the words died in his throat the moment their eyes met.

She didn’t know what he saw in her face. Didn’t know what he wanted to say. He must know. He must. What did he feel? Disgust? Pity?

But Harwin only choked on his words, his throat working soundlessly, his eyes (Gods! His eyes) filling with a grief so raw it near stopped her heart. Then he surged to his feet, his chair scraping against the floor like a scream.

His gaze locked onto the purse by the door, the one left there hours ago when they’d stumbled back into this broken semblance of home.

Rage.

He crossed the room in three strides, snatched up the purse, and hurled it to the ground with a snarl. Coins exploded across the floor, spinning, clattering, gleaming in the firelight. Eleven silver stags, solid and unclipped. One golden dragon, untouched, worth all its weight and nothing at all.

“I’ll kill them!”

The words tore from him like a vow, ragged and half-mad. He whirled back to her, his face a mask of fury, but the moment his eyes found hers again, the rage crumpled. Collapsed in on itself like a dying star, leaving only grief in its wake.

And then-

Her proud uncle fell to his knees.

Great, heaving sobs wracked his frame, his hands clawing at the floor as if he could dig his way back through time, back to some moment before this horror. He turned his face away from her, shoulders shaking, as though ashamed to weep in front of her. As though he were the one who had brought this shame upon them.

“I should’ve killed them,” he rasped, over and over, the words a litany of failure. “I should’ve killed them.”

Tysha watched him, her own tears dry as dust.

For a wild, fleeting moment, she thought he might do it. Might seize his sword, mount his horse, and ride back to the castle in a storm of vengeance. But then his gaze would flicker to her, to the bruises on her wrists, to the hollows under her eyes, and his will would shatter anew.

Because vengeance now meant death. Not just his, but hers. And not just theirs, but every soul who’d ever known them. A lord’s wrath, once invited, would be indiscriminate in who it punished.

So Harwin wept.

And Tysha sat amidst the scattered coins, the remnants of a meal gone cold.

Then, knocking came at the door.

The sound shattered the fragile silence between them, sharp as a blade on stone. Both startled, their eyes meeting for the first time in hours - was it real, or just another cruel trick of their exhausted minds?

The second knock left no doubt. Harwin rose like a storm given flesh, wiping his face with the back of his hand before striding to the door. When he opened it, his hands fell limp at his sides. A quiet gasp escaped him as he stepped back, revealing the figure standing in the darkness.

Tyrion.

The dwarf entered without invitation, closing the door softly behind him. His eyes found Tysha immediately - a flash of something unreadable crossing his face before he fixed his gaze on the floor. The candlelight caught the fresh rope burns circling his neck.

Harwin moved first. In three strides he had Tyrion slammed against the wall, the impact rattling the shelves. "You knew!" he roared, spittle flying from his lips. "You knew what your father would do!"

Tyrion didn't resist. "I didn't."

The words hung between them. Tysha felt something twist in her chest. In the darkness of her cell, she had painted Tyrion as the architect of her suffering, a willing participant in his father's cruelty. Was it better or worse to learn he'd been as blind as she?

Harwin noticed the marks on Tyrion's neck. "Did you choke yourself with cowardice?" he sneered, tightening his grip. "Or did you try to hang yourself after?"

Tysha's breath caught. Had he truly-?

"Tyrion-" The name tore from her throat, but he wouldn't meet her eyes.

Then the rage came, white-hot and blinding. She snatched coins from the floor, hurling them with all her strength, one by one. Silver clipped his brow, drawing blood. Gold struck his cheekbone, leaving an angry welt. Still, he didn't flinch, even when her palm cracked across his face with enough force to turn his head.

"Damn you!" she screamed, voice raw. "Damn your father, and all you Lannisters to the Seven Hells! Go hang yourself again for all I care!"

The moment the words left her lips, she regretted them.

Tyrion lifted his head slowly. Blood trickled from his brow, the imprint of her hand blooming across his cheek. "Would my death please you?" He touched the rope burns gently. "Would it be enough?"

She stared at him, hands trembling. Then, she laughed, a sound like shattered glass. "No. Nothing will ever be enough." She stepped closer, her whisper sharper than steel. "Not your death. Not your tears. Not even your blood on my hands."

Tyrion fell to one knee with a thud that shook the floor. "I will tear Casterly Rock apart with my bare hands," he vowed, voice thick with something darker than grief. "Every man who touched you will scream in the dirt. I swear it."

For a heartbeat, she let herself imagine it, the Red Cloaks choking on their own blood, golden lion banners burning. Her pulse roared in her ears, matching the fury in his eyes.

Then she saw the truth.

Desperation. Not for her, for himself. A coward's plea for absolution.

"You want me to say yes," she realized, the words dripping with icy contempt. "You want me to tell you, 'Go, die for me,' so you can throw yourself at your father's swords and call it justice." Her lips curled into a mirthless smile. "So, you can stop feeling this."

His breath hitched.

She loomed over him. "No. You don't get to run from this. Not into a noose. Not into battle." Her whisper cut deeper than any blade. "You live with it. Like I have to."

Tyrion shook his head violently. "I cannot." His voice broke. "I cannot live with the wrongs done to you. My father's... and my own."

"Justice must be done."

A hollow laugh escaped her. "Justice?" The word tasted like ash. "There is no justice in this world, my lord. Not for the likes of me." The village square flashed behind her eyes, the crack of the whip, the way screams turned to silence.

"I made vows to you," he insisted. "Took you as my wife-"

"Wife?" She asked. "And am I still your wife? When all the world will call me ruined?"

"Yes." His reply came swift and sure. "You are. And I will have justice for you, my lady."

"Go choke on your justice, Lord Lannister!" She spat at his feet.

Tyrion didn't flinch. For a long moment, he simply knelt there, blood and spit mingling on the floor between them. Then, without another word, he rose and left as silently as he'd come.

Despite everything, Tysha wept again that night.

The tears came quietly this time, no sobs, no gasps, just a slow, ceaseless trickle that soaked into her pillow. Her chest ached with a bitterness so thick she could taste it, like bile at the back of her throat. She thought she’d cried herself dry in that cell.

In the morning, Ser Tygett Lannister arrived.

He stood at their door like a specter from another life, his once-golden hair gone steel-gray, his face lined with years she hadn’t noticed when she’d glimpsed him in the city. The morning light carved harsh shadows under his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, he looked less like a lion of the Rock and more like a man who’d fought too long beneath its weight.

His gaze found hers. “Niece,” he said, with a grim nod, as if the word could stitch together what had been torn.

Tysha’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. She wanted to scream. Wanted to claw the pity from his face, wanted to demand which part of this made her his kin, the violation, or the coins left behind like payment for a slaughtered pig? But her voice had abandoned her, lost somewhere between the dungeon and the hollow space behind her ribs. So, she said nothing.

Tygett spoke to Harwin in low tones, their words too quiet to catch. Her uncle’s jaw tightened, but after a moment, he gave a single, terse nod.

And then, they were leaving.

Tysha paused at the threshold, her eyes drifting over the cottage one last time. The bloodstains on the floor, already browning at the edges. The scattered coins, glinting dully in the dawn light. The remnants of a life that no longer belonged to her.

She turned away.

And she did not look back.