Tyrion Lannister (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
littlelannister) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
edge_of_forever2012-05-30 08:23 pm
littlelannister) wrote in edge_of_forever2012-05-30 08:23 pm
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the merest breath of circumstance
Tyrion slept poorly. He'd always slept poorly, plagued as he was by nightmares of one sort or another. Though lately they'd been less nightmare and more...unbidden memories of past mistakes and missteps, the gods' preferred method of fucking him right up the arse.
But tonight, nestled among the Second Sons's camp, Tyrion dreamt of dragons. Vague, shadowy shapes as large as castles loomed over him, their breath hot upon his skin. His exposed skin. Some time during the night, he'd been stripped bare. His breeches and tunic, gone. Even his smallclothes had fallen away. He was naked, and though exposed to the savage gaze of the enormous, scaled beasts, he was unashamed.
He woke, then, taking a deep breath and then rubbing at his scarred nose. Frowning, he took another deep breath. The air smelled...odd, and he was sure his poor stump of a nose wasn't the culprit. Gone were the lingering odors of many men crammed into a small space. No stale sweat. No shit. No piss. Not even the acrid smell of fresh vomit, and he knew the mercenaries stayed up drinking well into the night. He knew because he was with them for much of that night.
He sat up in the bed, puzzling over his surroundings. He was in a cell of some sort. And since I've become somewhat of an expert in cells over the past few years, I can honestly say that this particular one houses the nicest accommodations so far. And I've never known prison togs to fit so well. Still, the Eyrie owns the best view. Lady Lysa and little Lord Robert Arryn ought to be proud of that.
His circumstances seemed simple enough. He'd probably been carried off somewhere while he was unconscious. Not the first time he'd been taken against his will, after all.
But he wasn't alone.
The gods have finally granted me a cellmate! A reward for my many years of service to the faith, no doubt.
"And what crime have you committed to have earned your spot in this place of honor?"
But tonight, nestled among the Second Sons's camp, Tyrion dreamt of dragons. Vague, shadowy shapes as large as castles loomed over him, their breath hot upon his skin. His exposed skin. Some time during the night, he'd been stripped bare. His breeches and tunic, gone. Even his smallclothes had fallen away. He was naked, and though exposed to the savage gaze of the enormous, scaled beasts, he was unashamed.
He woke, then, taking a deep breath and then rubbing at his scarred nose. Frowning, he took another deep breath. The air smelled...odd, and he was sure his poor stump of a nose wasn't the culprit. Gone were the lingering odors of many men crammed into a small space. No stale sweat. No shit. No piss. Not even the acrid smell of fresh vomit, and he knew the mercenaries stayed up drinking well into the night. He knew because he was with them for much of that night.
He sat up in the bed, puzzling over his surroundings. He was in a cell of some sort. And since I've become somewhat of an expert in cells over the past few years, I can honestly say that this particular one houses the nicest accommodations so far. And I've never known prison togs to fit so well. Still, the Eyrie owns the best view. Lady Lysa and little Lord Robert Arryn ought to be proud of that.
His circumstances seemed simple enough. He'd probably been carried off somewhere while he was unconscious. Not the first time he'd been taken against his will, after all.
But he wasn't alone.
The gods have finally granted me a cellmate! A reward for my many years of service to the faith, no doubt.
"And what crime have you committed to have earned your spot in this place of honor?"