Damn his family.

Tyrion had never been fond of their shenanigans, but this—this was different. Whoever among them had sent a catspaw after Brandon Stark, of all people, had not only acted foolishly, but disgracefully. Paralyzing the boy hadn't been enough, apparently. No, someone had to finish the job, and in doing so left behind a Valyrian steel dagger like a signature scrawled in blood and arrogance.

"Fortunately, the Stark boy had survived… though less fortunately, Tyrion had been captured by Catelyn Stark in her single-minded pursuit of justice. She wasn’t hearing his well-reasoned arguments—and, to his own mild irritation, he could understand why.

She wasn't here to weigh facts. She was mourning and not in the weeping, fragile way most noble ladies did—but in the silent, rigid kind of way that turned bone into steel, grief calcifying into actions and he—Tyrion Lannister—was the nearest shape her vengeance could take. Logical or not.

Why would she listen to a Lannister? Why listen to him of all people?

To her, he might as well have been the one who pushed the boy from that tower. A lannister name, a lannister face and a lannister smirk that only made teh whole thing easier to hate... and hate was easier than grief. Hate had purpose.

He didn't blame her, not really.

But Gods, was he tired of being the punching bag for people's blind rage—who else but the Imp was to blame?

They had finally reached a resting point under the night sky.

Most of the group had settled near the main campfire—guards trading quiet conversation, some sharpening blades, others already wrapped in furs. A few were busy setting up a sleeping space for Lady Stark, laying down blankets and checking the ground for stones. She sat nearby, silent and rigid, staring into the flames as if they might answer something she hadn’t yet dared to ask aloud.

Tyrion lingered on the edge of the scene, half-watching, half-forgetting to care—until his eye caught a flicker of movement beyond the firelight.

The Stark Boy. Always a little ways off, now crouched low with a pile of kindling, while struggling to coax a stubborn flame into existence. No guards. No noise. Just him and his breath visible in the cool air, brow furrowed with quiet frustration as he worked the flint again.

Tyrion tilted his head, laid on the rocks and still tied up like a pig for butchering. “You planning to start a fire or a war with that stone?” he called out, voice low but laced with amusement.