RULES: Name 10 favorite characters from 10 different fandoms,
then tag 10 people.
1. Furude Rika (Higurashi no Naku Kori Ni / When They Cry) 2. Bertolt Hoover (Shingeki no Kyojin / Attack on Titan) 3. Gregory House (House MD) 4. Shinji Ikari (Neon Genesis Evangelion) 5. Tyrion Lannister (A Song of Ice and Fire / Game of Thrones) 6. Walter White (Breaking Bad) 7. Oswald Cobblepot (Gotham Series) 8. Walter Bishop (FRINGE) 9. Ms. Punyama (Oyasumi Punpun) 10. The Narrator (Fight Club)
“An old septon once claimed I was living proof of the goodness of the gods. Do you know why that is, Imp?” “No,” Tyrion admitted warily. “Why, if the gods were cruel, they would have made me my mother’s firstborn, and Doran her third. I am a bloodthirsty man, you see. And it is me you must contend with now.” ♦ requested by @dalekofchaos
Jaime smiled. “You are a perverse little imp, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” Tyrion admitted. “I hope the boy does wake. I would be most interested to hear what he might have to say.”
His brother’s smile curdled like sour milk. “Tyrion, my sweet brother,” he said darkly, “there are times when you give me cause to wonder whose side you are on.”
Tyrion’s mouth was full of bread and fish. He took a swallow of strong black beer to wash it all down, and grinned up wolfishly at Jaime, “Why, Jaime, my sweet brother,” he said, “you wound me. You know how much I love my family.”
From black comedy to romantic comedy; the relationship between Tyrion Lannister and Brown Ben Plumm takes the unmistakable form of a seduction. First, one calls out to the other:
“Two thousand,” called a new voice, back of the benches.
They size each other up across the crowd:
And what would a sellsword want with a dwarf? Tyrion pushed himself back to his feet to get a better look. The new bidder was an older man, white-haired yet tall and fit, with leathery brown skin and a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard. Half-hidden under a faded purple cloak were a longsword and a brace of daggers.
“Twenty-five hundred.” A female voice this time; a girl, short, with a thick waist and heavy bosom, clad in ornate armor. Her sculpted black steel breastplate was inlaid in gold and showed a harpy rising with chains dangling from her claws. A pair of slave soldiers lifted her to shoulder height on a shield.
“Three thousand.” The brown-skinned man pushed through the crowd, his fellow sellswords shoving buyers aside to clear a path. Yes. Come closer. Tyrion knew how to deal with sellswords. He did not think for a moment that this man wanted him to frolic at feasts. He knows me. He means to take me back to Westeros and sell me to my sister. The dwarf rubbed his mouth to hide his smile. Cersei and the Seven Kingdoms were half a world away. Much and more could happen before he got there.
But it’s a missed connection, they go their separate ways; the memory lingers, however, and then they see each other at a party. The seducer skillfully arranges for a one-on-one:
Brown Ben Plumm lifted the fallen table, smiling. “Try me next, dwarf. When I was younger, the Second Sons took contract with Volantis. I learned the game there.”
“I am only a slave. My noble master decides when and who I play.” Tyrion turned to Yezzan. “Master?”
The yellow lord seemed amused by the notion. “What stakes do you propose, Captain?”
“If I win, give this slave to me,” said Plumm.
“No,” Yezzan zo Qaggaz said. “But if you can defeat my dwarf, you may have the price I paid for him, in gold.”
“Done,” the sellsword said. The scattered pieces were picked up off the carpet, and they sat down to play.
They read each other again, more closely now, laying the groundwork for payoff later in the relationship.
As they set up for their third contest, the dwarf studied his opponent. Brown-skinned, his cheeks and jaw covered by a closecropped bristly beard of grey and white, his face creased by a thousand wrinkles and a few old scars, Plumm had an amiable look to him, especially when he smiled. The faithful retainer, Tyrion decided. Every man’s favorite nuncle, full of chuckles and old sayings and roughspun wisdom. It was all sham. Those smiles never touched Plumm’s eyes, where greed hid behind a veil of caution. Hungry, but wary, this one.
The sellsword was nearly as bad a player as the Yunkish lord had been, but his play was stolid and tenacious rather than bold. His opening arrays were different every time, yet all the same—conservative, defensive, passive. He does not play to win, Tyrion realized. He plays so as not to lose. It worked in their second game, when the little man overreached himself with an unsound assault. It did not work in the third game, nor the fourth, nor the fifth, which proved to be their last.
Near the end of that final contest, with his fortress in ruins, his dragon dead, elephants before him and heavy horse circling round his rear, Plumm looked up smiling and said, “Yollo wins again. Death in four.”
“Three.” Tyrion tapped his dragon. “I was lucky. Perhaps you should give my head a good rub before our next game, Captain. Some of that luck might rub off on your fingers.” You will still lose, but you might give me a better game.