"𝑊𝑜𝑙𝑓'𝑠 𝐵𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑," their father always called it. Could make a man or woman wild in a sense, unpredictable, and powerful. And when a violet-eyed twin born to the Lord Eddard Stark, all knew that the boy would have it. And he did.
Beside his...
꧁~~~Tyrion Lannister~~~꧂ ꧁~~~298 After Conquest~~~꧂ ❄❄❄
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꧁He wakes to a start, nearly jumping out of his skin from the sudden added weight of armor being thrown upon him. Tyrion rubs the tiredness from his eyes, Shae barely even flinching as she ignores the sudden intrusion of the sellsword Bronn.
"What is this? W-What are you doing?"
"It's wakeup time, m'lord. They stole a night's march on us. Can practically see all 20,000 of them. They're a mile north."
Bronn remarks, anxious to get moving and get to fighting already as he moves to exit the tent.
"Get my squire!"
"You don't have one!"
Tyrion slumps his head back into his pillows, exhausted and not ready for the day at all. He would be in the vanguard. An "honor" it is to be a part of it. An honorable way for his father to finally get the wish he always wanted granted; his death. Killing one's son is a terrible thing, no matter how agrevious or sinful that son may be. But to knowing sending them into the frontlines where they will surely die die gruesome death? Oh, nobody looks on that discouragingly.
You cannot kick an old man down the stares and call it an accident, but you cannot just cut his throat and call it even.
Sighing heavily, Tyrion shifts a little, looking upon the foriegn whom he had laid with the night before this day. Shae was her name. She was special, Tyrion thought as he looked her in the eyes.
"If I die, care to write me a song for my heroic deeds on this day?"
"You'd be dead. The dead don't hear songs."
Shae says uninterested, turning away from Tyrion to go back to sleep. Tyrion sighs, looking up to the ceiling of the tent, gazing at the crimson colors as hundreds and thousands of Lannister soldiers march outside his tent, all preparing to kill or be killed. He takes his helmet from where Bronn had dropped the gear, lifting the helm up as he gazes into the strange and somewhat useless face covering of the helmet.
Good steel, admittedly. The steel from the Westerlands could match, or rather, beat any steel the North could produce. But Tyrion knows from his experience thus far with the North, the Westerlands cannot produce the same quality of man than the North. And sometimes, quality makes for a much better steel than quantity.
