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Fandomweekly Challenge 191 - Invisible chains
Title: Invisible chains
Fandom: Game of Thrones (ASOIAF)
Characters: Tyrion
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 1,000 words
Content notes: None
Author notes: Written for Challenge 191 - Freedom at![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fandomweekly
Summary: Tyrion’s existence is a far cry from what he has become accustomed to.
Tyrion rolled onto his other side in the small tent, trying desperately for sleep in the stifling heat. Beside him, scarcely a foot away, Penny snored loudly. Pretty Pig snored. Even Crunch, the brutish but old, grey dog, snored. Tyrion was beginning to believe there wasn't a single creature in Yezzan zo Qaggaz’s mishmash circus of fools that didn’t snore. It was far too hot for his liking and that was bad enough for attempting to sleep. Even the warmest summer’s day in King’s Landing was nothing compared to the dry desert heat.
He should have been tired and yet the humiliation that came from the ridiculous performances they were forced to endure between days of marching across the desert did nothing to weary him so much as the prospect of this being his eternity. There were no carriages to cart him from place to place, no jugs of cooled summer wine to quench his thirst, and no figs or pears to sweeten his pallet and fill his stomach. There was only hard, dried goat meat and even harder lumps of bread. Everything was hard; the baking sun saw to that. Small wonder the skins of the Meereenese ranged from the colour of roasted almonds to the black of thick treacle syrup. There weren’t even any books to read, nor folk with which he might hope to engage in intellectual conversation.
It was hard to imagine anyone being happy in this existence, yet Penny was. Or had been when her brother had been alive, the pair of them performing their mock jousting atop Pretty Pig and Crunch, receiving the cheers and laughter of the crowds, even if it was not complimentary cheering. No one thought of dwarves as anything other than a grotesque; useful as a point of humour and mockery and nothing more. No one saw them as people trapped in shrunken bodies. Tyrion’s own upbringing, though not always cheery, had been markedly easier than that of most dwarves. He had his Lannister name and all the wealth and power that brought with it. He’d never toiled a day in his life, always assured of a soft bed, a hot meal, and as many flagons of wine and willing whores as he desired.
It was Tyrion’s fault that Oppo was dead, leaving Penny without a brother and a partner, and without hope that the circus would keep her. What use was a she-dwarf, her fat pet pig and a mangy old dog? She would most certainly have been sold yet again, into even worse conditions than she lived now. Tyrion owed it to her in some way to offer to replace Oppo and keep the performance going.
He supposed it had served him as well. Like Penny, he could have been sold into worse slavery than this. Just to be alive was nothing short of a miracle. His sister was never going to stop until she found him and had his head removed from his shoulders, the way they’d done to Oppo, presenting him to the Queen and hoping that she might mistake the ugly shrunken head as being Tyrion’s. Cersei was many things, and a fool at times, but she would never mistake any dwarf, no matter how beheaded and disfigured, for being her brother. Only Tyrion’s head would suffice as revenge for killing her son, the King. A nasty, feral little thing he’d been, but Tyrion was no murderer. And now, here he was, hidden in plain sight thousands of miles and a whole ocean away across the Narrow Sea, sold into slavery.
He pulled himself up on weary legs, sore from hours of clutching them tight to the sides of Crunch to stay mounted without a saddle as they’d entertained yet more perfumed Masters from Meereen and Yunkai. His shoulder hurt from where Penny had accidentally poked him with the jousting pole – the idea being never to strike in earnest, but only to pretend to be struck. She’d apologised terribly afterwards but it didn't make the pain and the bruising any less. All the while, their audience had jeered that Tyrion was not in more pain, tumbling from Crunch into the sand and rolling away from the makeshift jousting list like the fool he was. Any more sleepless nights like this and he wouldn’t even be able to stay awake let alone stay saddled atop his pretend steed.
Outside the tent it was scarcely any cooler than it had been inside. The clear night sky overhead glittering with a dusting of stars belied the idea that the desert air would become chill. Instead the heat clung to his skin like a damp blanket. Others remained awake throughout the night, dicing and drinking around small fires, as if the heat in the air wasn’t enough for them.
No one noticed Tyrion as he wandered through the maze of tents, campfires and the assortment of other slaves that had no choice but to simply sleep under the stars. A tent was a luxury and he should have been grateful for it, yet the only luxury he craved right now was freedom. He could have walked out of the camp right now and no one would have taken heed, but what was the point? They were days from any town and without water and supplies Tyrion wouldn’t survive a day out in the desert on his own. He’d survive the towns and the cities even less. Freedom would be fleeting until he was captured and sold again. No one was going to believe that a dwarf was anything other than a slave, and slaves that escaped their masters were fair game for being stolen and resold. Worse, he might be captured by one of Cersei’s mercenaries.
There was no safe place for him now, in either Westeros or here across the Narrow Sea, only degrees of relative safety. So long as Cersei sat the throne in place of her murdered son, there could be no freedom for him anywhere.
Fandom: Game of Thrones (ASOIAF)
Characters: Tyrion
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 1,000 words
Content notes: None
Author notes: Written for Challenge 191 - Freedom at
fandomweeklySummary: Tyrion’s existence is a far cry from what he has become accustomed to.
Tyrion rolled onto his other side in the small tent, trying desperately for sleep in the stifling heat. Beside him, scarcely a foot away, Penny snored loudly. Pretty Pig snored. Even Crunch, the brutish but old, grey dog, snored. Tyrion was beginning to believe there wasn't a single creature in Yezzan zo Qaggaz’s mishmash circus of fools that didn’t snore. It was far too hot for his liking and that was bad enough for attempting to sleep. Even the warmest summer’s day in King’s Landing was nothing compared to the dry desert heat.
He should have been tired and yet the humiliation that came from the ridiculous performances they were forced to endure between days of marching across the desert did nothing to weary him so much as the prospect of this being his eternity. There were no carriages to cart him from place to place, no jugs of cooled summer wine to quench his thirst, and no figs or pears to sweeten his pallet and fill his stomach. There was only hard, dried goat meat and even harder lumps of bread. Everything was hard; the baking sun saw to that. Small wonder the skins of the Meereenese ranged from the colour of roasted almonds to the black of thick treacle syrup. There weren’t even any books to read, nor folk with which he might hope to engage in intellectual conversation.
It was hard to imagine anyone being happy in this existence, yet Penny was. Or had been when her brother had been alive, the pair of them performing their mock jousting atop Pretty Pig and Crunch, receiving the cheers and laughter of the crowds, even if it was not complimentary cheering. No one thought of dwarves as anything other than a grotesque; useful as a point of humour and mockery and nothing more. No one saw them as people trapped in shrunken bodies. Tyrion’s own upbringing, though not always cheery, had been markedly easier than that of most dwarves. He had his Lannister name and all the wealth and power that brought with it. He’d never toiled a day in his life, always assured of a soft bed, a hot meal, and as many flagons of wine and willing whores as he desired.
It was Tyrion’s fault that Oppo was dead, leaving Penny without a brother and a partner, and without hope that the circus would keep her. What use was a she-dwarf, her fat pet pig and a mangy old dog? She would most certainly have been sold yet again, into even worse conditions than she lived now. Tyrion owed it to her in some way to offer to replace Oppo and keep the performance going.
He supposed it had served him as well. Like Penny, he could have been sold into worse slavery than this. Just to be alive was nothing short of a miracle. His sister was never going to stop until she found him and had his head removed from his shoulders, the way they’d done to Oppo, presenting him to the Queen and hoping that she might mistake the ugly shrunken head as being Tyrion’s. Cersei was many things, and a fool at times, but she would never mistake any dwarf, no matter how beheaded and disfigured, for being her brother. Only Tyrion’s head would suffice as revenge for killing her son, the King. A nasty, feral little thing he’d been, but Tyrion was no murderer. And now, here he was, hidden in plain sight thousands of miles and a whole ocean away across the Narrow Sea, sold into slavery.
He pulled himself up on weary legs, sore from hours of clutching them tight to the sides of Crunch to stay mounted without a saddle as they’d entertained yet more perfumed Masters from Meereen and Yunkai. His shoulder hurt from where Penny had accidentally poked him with the jousting pole – the idea being never to strike in earnest, but only to pretend to be struck. She’d apologised terribly afterwards but it didn't make the pain and the bruising any less. All the while, their audience had jeered that Tyrion was not in more pain, tumbling from Crunch into the sand and rolling away from the makeshift jousting list like the fool he was. Any more sleepless nights like this and he wouldn’t even be able to stay awake let alone stay saddled atop his pretend steed.
Outside the tent it was scarcely any cooler than it had been inside. The clear night sky overhead glittering with a dusting of stars belied the idea that the desert air would become chill. Instead the heat clung to his skin like a damp blanket. Others remained awake throughout the night, dicing and drinking around small fires, as if the heat in the air wasn’t enough for them.
No one noticed Tyrion as he wandered through the maze of tents, campfires and the assortment of other slaves that had no choice but to simply sleep under the stars. A tent was a luxury and he should have been grateful for it, yet the only luxury he craved right now was freedom. He could have walked out of the camp right now and no one would have taken heed, but what was the point? They were days from any town and without water and supplies Tyrion wouldn’t survive a day out in the desert on his own. He’d survive the towns and the cities even less. Freedom would be fleeting until he was captured and sold again. No one was going to believe that a dwarf was anything other than a slave, and slaves that escaped their masters were fair game for being stolen and resold. Worse, he might be captured by one of Cersei’s mercenaries.
There was no safe place for him now, in either Westeros or here across the Narrow Sea, only degrees of relative safety. So long as Cersei sat the throne in place of her murdered son, there could be no freedom for him anywhere.