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Tyrion will never forget Theon's face when they are told about Jaime. The flash of anger across his eyes, the grim and hungry set of his jaw as dark as the hair falling into his face - not a smile in sight. Theon knows better than to speak out of turn in Tywin Lannister's councils but when Addam Marbrand insists that they must launch an assault to rescue Jaimie post-haste, his hand goes the hilt of his sword. Foolish, eager boy. Tyrion doesn't know - as always with Theon - if what he feels is fond disdain or some odd gratitude for a loyalty that's far beyond the capability of most of his father's men.
When Tyrion is released from his father's council, head spinning at the understanding that his father has abandoned Jaime in his mind, at least for the time being, Theon accosts him. "What did your lord father say?" he insists. "Are we to march on Riverrun?"
Tyrion gives him a hard look. "My father is not in so much a hurry."
"What of Jaime? We cannot just leave him with those savages."
Tyrion cocks his head at him. "What do you suggest, then? We do not have the manpower and there are other foes who make us vulnerable out here. Come, Theon, I thought you were the one more in the know on warfare." Theon was always quick to remind Tyrion of that, although who knows more of war is questionable. Theon knows mostly of how to shoot a bow.
That he is very good at. Another thing Tyrion will never forget: watching his father's new ten-year-old hostage empty quiver after quiver in the yard with perfect form. The first time Jaime had come home after the Greyjoy Rebellion and seen him, he'd whistled and asked, "How long can he keep doing that?"
"Oh, hours," Tyrion replied, sipping his wine.
"Seven hells. This one squid brat has more discipline than half the grown men I know, and better accuracy than half the grown archers." Jaime’s eyebrows arched slightly. “Is he this good with a sword?”
Tyrion had scoffed in amusement. “Hardly. You need not worry on that account.”
Now, Theon glares darkly into the middle distance. "I say, if we can't get Jaime directly, we lure the wolf pup into a trap and then I use him for target practice."
"Sadly, I think that will hardly get us my brother back."
"We can't not do anything."
"I'm certain my father has a plan. He has a plan." The plan just does not directly include a rush to Jaime's rescue. But perhaps Tyrion could do something about it from King's Landing. Perhaps Lord Tywin is even counting on that. Tyrion still has a difficult time believing that his father would give up Jaime so easily. No one gives up Jaime. There's a bitter part of him that knows Theon would not put half this effort into his rescue. If anything, he likely reacted to the news of Tyrion's kidnapping by Lady Stark with crude japes and his usual smiles. Those smiles, sharp and bristling like two-dozen steel arrowheads.
"Your father should have let me go with Jaime's host to the siege."
"Oh, that's romantic. Did you want to be captured alongside my brother?"
Theon rolls his eyes. "Perhaps I could have realized what the Starks were planning."
Tyrion snorts. Theon overestimates his abilities regularly. Though, perhaps, his enthusiasm at least may be admirable. "Even if you had, do you think my brother would listen to you?" Tyrion was about the only one who bothered to listen to Theon most days, and even that inconsistently.
Theon does not grant him an answer to that. “So, what are we to do now? Simply sit at Harrenhal?”
“Does that bother you? Do you think the castle is cursed? I did not take you for a superstitious sort, Greyjoy.”
“Inaction bothers me.”
“Well, you’re in luck then. My father will indeed move his host to Harrenhal and wait out the Stark boy. For now. But I am to go to King’s Landing to serve as acting Hand in his stead.”
Theon snorted. “Wish I could be there to see the look on Cersei’s face.”
“Oh, this is where you thank me.”
“Thank you?”
“You’re coming with me.”
Theon stops in his tracks and turns to give Tyrion a suspicious look. “To King’s Landing? Lord Tywin is sending me to King’s Landing?”
“Well, not quite. He’s sending me, but I did convince him to let you come as part of my escort. Mind you, he was not convinced initially, but I assured him that your great love for our Jaime would convince you to stay out of too much trouble.”
Theon gapes at him, confusion and something akin to hope mixing in his expression. “I—I don’t know what we can do from King’s Landing—”
“I know it’s not the rush to rescue that you had wanted, but focusing my nephew and sister in a non-destructive direction will certainly make this war effort easier. They are also holding the Stark girls hostage, so perhaps something can be arranged when it comes to an exchange. And I thought you might enjoy court more than being stuck at Harrenhal. It’s piss gloomy there.”
Theon nods, accepting this. “Thank you, then.” He gives Tyrion one of his sharp, enigmatic smiles and stalks off.
Tyrion goes to find a jug of wine and wonders how it is that he has known Greyjoy since he was a boy and still never quite understands what goes on in his head.
*~*
Some years ago, when Tyrion was nineteen, Casterly Rock received visitors from Essos. Tyrion was never certain who exactly they were – bankers, wealthy merchants, perhaps some fiefs or administrators – for Lord Tywin did not wish to have his son’s presence at the negotiations more than necessary, although the newcomers seemed quite interested in seeing a dwarf.
The Essosi brought gifts for the household, including Lord Tywin’s children and even his young ward. There was a heavy sword with a gaudily bejeweled hilt for Jaime, a golden necklace inset with rubies for Cersei, a rare book of Old Valyrian history for Tyrion, and a recurve bow in the Dothraki style for Theon.
Theon spent the afternoon practicing with it, learning the difference in how the draw felt between the recurve and the longbow. When Tyrion saw him at supper, the lad’s hands were bloody and he was distracted in thought, but his eyes were bright and happy. Theon seemed to enjoy his gift best of all of them. Something about that pleased Tyrion. The boy did not get much joy at Casterly Rock, after all – who did? – so it was good to see him pleased.
What Tyrion had not expected was Theon barging into the library the following afternoon, waiving his new recurve with a giddy grin. “Get up, Lannister, it’s time for training!”
Tyrion looked up at the boy, bewildered. Theon was indeed in his training leathers, and the dirt on his face told Tyrion he had already had his morning training at arms. “What are you on about, Greyjoy?”
“Archery. I’ve convinced Garren to take me down to the beach for wider range practice. You’re coming.”
“I don’t think so,” Tyrion said, cocking his head and pointing at the book before him. “I am studying the intricacies of the court during the reign of—”
“Fuck your boring histories. Don’t you want to learn weapons? I’ve seen how you watch Jaime train.” The boy cocked his head to the side with an insolent look.
The jab stung. Of course he would have liked to be like Jaime. Who wouldn’t? Ot at least to have one martial skill his father could be proud of. Not that Tyrion thought his father could ever be proud of him, but perhaps Jaime could be. Hearing Theon be so blasé at mocking him with this also hurt. Tyrion would not call them friends, but the lad did not typically go out of his way to make Tyrion suffer. “I think you can surmise well enough for yourself, despite the ironborn lack of logic that you may have inherited from your father, that I am not tall enough or properly built to handle a weapon.”
Theon’s eyes narrowed and for a moment, Tyrion expected him to turn around and leave. He was already unhappy with himself for lashing out. Greyjoy was only a boy, and being cruel to him did nothing to improve Tyrion’s own lot. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Theon cut him off. “For all your books, you can be daft as the seven hells, Lannister.” He brandished the recurve at Tyrion. “This may be a little large for you, but a slightly smaller size could certainly be made. And it’s light. As for range, the Dothraki use these while mounted. You ride, don’t you? A longbow is too large to use on horseback comfortably, but a recurve like this is the perfect thing. You could be as good an archer as any if you put your mind to it. But sure, stay here, with your nose planted in your books and everyone talking about how you’re barely even a man.” Theon tossed his head and turned on his heel to leave.
Tyrion stared at his back. He realized that he had stood somewhere halfway through Theon’s tirade. A twisting feeling in his stomach made him feel nauseous. It felt a lot like longing. He doubted, severely, even if what Theon wanted to believe with all the ardor of an excited green boy was true, that Tyrion would ever be good at any weapon. He rode passably, for instance, with the special saddle he had created for himself, but without distinguishment. And yet…
“Greyjoy,” Tyrion called after him, making the boy stop in the doorway. His voice was embarrassingly hoarse all of a sudden. “And pray tell, who would teach me? I am somehow doubtful of how our master-at-arms would view this.”
Theon did not look back at him when he answered. “I will.”
“Have you ever trained in the Dothraki way?”
“Archery is archery. Riding is riding. We leave in quarter of an hour; it’s your choice.”
When he had gone, Tyrion sat down heavily and stared at the tome in front of him. He liked his books. He had given up on martial prowess long ago. Not even Jaime expected anything from him on this account enough to offer to help. But it was the offer that mattered more, he realized.
No one, save Jaime, had ever offered him that much grace.
*~*
Balon Greyjoy somehow manages to beat even Lord Tywin for the dubious title of worst father of the century. King’s Landing begins hearing reports of the Greyjoy incursions into the North at the end of the sixth moon of the year, but busy with reports from Bitterbridge, Oxcross, and the frantic preparations for a possible attach on the city, King’s Landing mostly ignores them. In particular, Tyrion attempts to stifle the reports and wave them off as the typical ironborn reaving. And if anyone asks, well why should they be too concerned? If the ironborn distract the Starks, all the better.
But he is unable to keep the news quiet forever, especially once it becomes clear that Lord Balon has begun styling himself King again. The raven comes from Lord Tywin eventually, as Tyrion always knew it would.
He spends the day watching Theon train young city archers for the siege, his black cloak proudly pinned with a gold kraken. Tyrion wonders how much he knows and what he expects. He has not tried to run yet, but he might if he gains a full understanding of his situation. The boy is callow and flippant, but not stupid.
He is also one of the very few people Tyrion has ever trusted.
The raven from the Riverlands that comes in the evening makes up his mind.
When Tyrion comes into Theon’s chambers early the next morning without knocking, the boy is jumpy. He swears at the sudden intrusion and fumbles at his belt for a sword. Realizing he is not wearing his swordbelt yet, he draws a dagger.
Tyrion holds up his hands to show that he is unarmed. “Good morrow to you as well,” he japes, a little awkwardly.
Theon merely glances over his shoulder, as though expecting a hallway full of gold cloaks to suddenly burst in from behind Tyrion.
“I’m alone. You can put that away,” Tyrion tells him, taking a seat. He casts around for wine, and to his disappointment does not find any. He really thought he might trust Theon, at least, to keep some on hand.
Slowly, Theon lowers the dagger. Tyrion notices he has not finished dressing for the day yet, and his hair is still unbraided, hanging loosely to frame the sides of his long, dark face. It makes something in Tyrion draw as tight as a bowstring. “Why are you here?” Theon asks, his shoulders still tense.
“I see you’ve realized the situation, then?”
“Have you come to arrest me?”
“I’d need some help with that, don’t you think?”
This does not have the preferred effect of making Theon smile. He does, however, relax enough to finish buttoning up his doublet. “I’ve heard my father is causing trouble in the North.”
“Yes. Which might have been helpful to our war efforts if he wasn’t also styling himself King.”
Theon flinches at that. He reaches for his sword belt and straps it on, still watching Tyrion. Tyrion lets him finish dressing, unmolested. Once he is done, Theon sits and leans his arms against his knees, pensive. “Let me go to the Islands. As an envoy.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I could talk sense into my father. Perhaps work out an alliance that could be beneficial for both my people and the Lannisters. Our ships could be of help, at least.”
There is a part of Tyrion that wants to let him go, that wants to set the boy free and tell him to run. Run as far from Tyrion’s father and sister and nephew as he can get. None of them deserve his head. But he cannot. Not like this. “You know I can’t do that, Theon,” he says quietly. “Even if I wanted to. My father would never accept it. Not to mention Cersei and Joff.”
“Joff,” Theon scoffs derisively.
Tyrion snorts. “He is the king.”
“So, if you won’t let me go, and you’re not here to arrest me… Why are you here?”
Tyrion stands and walks over to stand in front of him. Like this, with Theon sitting, they are at about eye level. “I have a different mission for you, if you should take it. It will get you out of King’s Landing and out of my father’s reach. It may even let you go home after.”
Theon looks up, curious but suspicious. “Which is what?”
“You would like to save Jaime from the Stark’s captivity, would you not?”
Tyrion catches the spark in Theon’s eyes before he schools his face into a neutral expression. “Yes,” he agrees.
“Well, my last plan to free him has failed. I need a new one.” He holds out a piece of rolled up parchment to Theon.
Theon takes it from him and unrolls it skeptically. As he reads Lord Tywin’s letter, Tyrion sees the muscles in his face tighten – anger more than fear.
“Go to Riverrun. Tell them that you escaped after intercepting Lord Tywin’s raven. Fall to your knees before the wolf pup and swear him allegiance—”
Theon looks up sharply, flushing.
Tyrion barrels over him before he can protest. “—Earn his trust. Get close to Jaime and find a way to set him free.”
Theon stares at him for a long moment. Slowly, his shoulders begin to set in determination. “You trust me with this? I could simply leave the city and go to the Islands instead. Or anywhere, really.”
“You could,” Tyrion admits. “But I don’t think you will. I saw your face when they told us about Jaime.”
Theon looks away, abashed, and a hot, painful wave of jealousy washes over Tyrion. Even he loves my brother more, though when has Jaime ever tried to befriend him?
Theon stands and nods resolutely. “You have my word as the heir to House Greyjoy and the Islands. I will do this. Not for the Lannisters, mind,” he adds with bite. “Not for your Lord Father. But for Jaime. And for you.”
It’s more than Tyrion could ask for. He reaches out and gives Theon’s elbow a squeeze. “Go. Bring our brother home.”