Full Summary: Sillage (n.) the scent that lingers in the air, the trail left in water, the impression left in the space of something or someone that has been and gone. When Tysha left the Lannister barracks with more than a pouch of coin and a desire to never see those blighted cliffs of Casterly Rock ever again, Leodora Lannister is born nine moons later on a shipwrecked boat crossing the Sunset Sea.

With her father's mismatched gaze and gold spun hair, her mother's kind heart and lovely smile, and perhaps a dash of luck, she fights, bites, and claws her way to survival in a world of curses, horcruxes and pureblood supremacy on the back of a dragon with death as her shadow. Being a Chosen One is never easy, and being a Lannister less so.

Ambushed by on-the-run Deatheaters out for blood for their slain master, hit by strange magic before she could flee on the back of Kilgharrah, the dragon she had raised from an egg at eleven years old, Leodora finds herself falling from the bleak skies of a wintry kingdom locked in a war twice bloody and twice darker than her own.

Or

The story in which it's a Lannister that rides a dragon, a Stark that steals a bride, and a Targaryen that wins a throne. May the Gods have mercy. Robb Stark/Fem!Harry/Jon Snow.


Chapter One

Her Lovely Smile


Tyrion Lannister & Tysha Silverfist


I

Tysha was scarcely a year older than Tyrion Lannister when they met, ten and four, dark-haired, slight, with a face that could break hearts.

It certainly broke Tyrion's.

Lowborn, Half-starved, unwashed, and yet so painfully lovely, she had the gentlest of smiles and the kindest of hearts, and she was everything Tyrion thought he could never hold.

Tysha was a crofter's daughter, and she smelled of damp earth after fresh rain, and something sweet like wild berries. Her mother had died on her birthing bed, much as Tyrion's own had, and her father had been stolen by the Stranger only a few moons before their meeting, sickly and shrivelled from a sickness unknown.

She was alone in the world, and Tyrion, with his stunted legs and his mismatched eyes and carrying all his father's loathing, thought he could understand that feeling. What a boy of ten and three truly knew about life, love, and luck, however, was, perhaps, something only the Mother could speculate.

Nevertheless, when Tyrion met Tysha, having stumbled across her being hounded by some outlaws on the road between Lannisport and Casterly Rock, outlaws Jaime, honourable Ser Jaime, chased down, Tyrion thought himself in love from first glance.

He'd ripped the sleeve of his tunic, a fine thing of velvet and gold thread, and dabbed it on her bloody lip, and she, slight, lowborn, lovely Tysha, had smiled at him.

Smiled at him as if he were as handsome as Jaime, as tall as Tywin, as if he were-

More than what he was. More than his malformations. More than his name, or his gold, or the lion at his breast.

It was there, that smile, that charming, beautiful smile, that doomed them both.


II

What came after transpired in a rush, a reckless and rash string of choices. What else could there be for two children thought to be in the deepest throes of love?

Tyrion took Tysha to a nearby inn, they ate bread and supped soup and cheese, drank wine and talked, and soon there was a room in the back, a clumpy bed rendered from straw and linen that scratched, soft sighs in ears, and wet kisses that tasted as sweet as the wild berries Tysha smelled of.

She cried when Tyrion took her maidenhead.

Tyrion cried too.

It was strange, the pain of peeling childlike naiveté away like a grass-snake shed its skin, with a slip and a hiss, and the relief and pleasure too, a heady mix for any man double the size of Tyrion.

He was such a small boy.

Boy.

That was what he was. A boy of ten and three, and Tysha, a girl of four and ten, and they were so foolish, so careless, so very free.

It was the best night of his life.

It was the worst night of his life.

She sang to him afterwards, a sad but sweet Myrish song about seasons and love and maids with sunset and moonglow in their hair. Tyrion was drunk off it. Drunk off so many things. Her touch, her smile, her song, the wine, the love, the madness that griped him tight that night.

They wedded at dawn. Out back of the inn, known as the Potter's palace to the locals, around the side of the stables, with fat little pigs as their witnesses and a drunk Septon as their divine blessing


III

Tyrion and Tysha squirrelled themselves away, and lived a life of dreams and songs. They lived in a squat cottage by the Sunset sea, and they spent whole days in bed, kissing, making love, twirling locks of hair between lover's fingers, peppering touches and strokes as sunlight sprayed flushed flesh golden, watching the tides come and go and the moon rise high over silver waters.

Silver waters for his Silverfist.

Tysha sung for him still.

He loved her so much he thought his heart could burst behind his ribs.

Tyrion… For the first time in his life, he was happy. Whole. There was music, and wine, and lovely smiles and-

Everything he could ever want.

Tyrion Lannister, the youngest of Lord Tywin's brood, and by far the ugliest. All that the gods had given Cersei and Jaime, they had denied him. Tyrion the dwarf, half his brother's height, ever striving to keep pace on stunted legs. His head was too large for his body, one green eye and one black peering out from under a fall of hair so blond it appeared white in bright light. And what should Tysha say to this wretched mangled man?

"I love you, Tyrion. I love your lips. I love your voice, and the words you say to me, and how you treat me gentle. I love your face."

It was sweet to be in love.

A sweetness that did not last.

A fortnight later, the Septon, who had finally sobered, confessed to Tywin Lannister about the wedding he had presided over.


IV

His sweet innocent Tysha had been a lie from start to finish, only a whore his brother Jaime had hired to make him a man. If it had been anyone other than Jaime to tell him so, to play such a cruel, cruel trick… Tyrion would no have believed it.

Yet, it was Jaime.

Tyrion's brother, the only one in the family to ever love him, even if but a little, and as a dwarf what more than little of anything did he truly need?

Jaime who took him out to pick dandelions as a child, who came back from King's Landing with books gifted and heads patted, who… Who…

Who bought a prostitute to take his inexperience.

To make him a man because no woman, whore or not, would ever touch Tyrion without coin.

He felt sick in that moment, fiercely dizzy and pale and something in his belly was so heavy, it felt as if his guts and entrails would spill out from under his feet like a turned-over goblet.

Jaime did not meet his mismatched gaze.

Tyrion needed to find his wife, he needed to talk to Tysha, he needed to speak and see and-

He never had the time to. His father, Tywin, came thundering in, and too soon Jaime was left behind in the chamber, still refusing to meet his eye, and Tyrion was being dragged down to the dark, dank depths of the guard's barracks.


V

Tywin made him watch as the guards raped his wife. He remembered his father's hand at the back of his neck, so large, so cold, pinning his head against a barrel so he could not turn away. He tried to screw his eyes shut, but Tywin squeezed until he couldn't breathe, and ordered him to look. Watch. See.

And Tyrion did see.

He saw Tysha's tears and the blood on her thighs black in the candlelight, the blue and purple kisses of bruises forming on tender flesh. She was washed in the paint of pain.

He saw the glint of silver coins being tossed at her feet as laces are tied back up and the next guard comes.

He saw her chest heave as sobs quake, and slowly, gently, the fight flies out.

She just lays there towards the end.

Still, silent, almost dead.

No, not dead, merely… Not there. As Tyrion too is somewhere far away from his father's too tight fingers.

I love your voice.

What voice? Tyrion did not have one that night, not a sob, not a sigh, not even a whisper. It had blew away from him too, caught in the storm that was Tywin Lannister. Why couldn't he shout? Why couldn't he scream? His sight had stole all other senses from him, he was struck dumb, he was struck numb, he was… Struck.

He only watched, and he only saw, and at the very end, he did something far worse.

Tywin forced him to be the last, for which Tysha was paid in gold for Lannisters were worth more.

Tyrion's father stole that from him too that night. The thought that Tyrion being more than what he was could possibly be anything good.

He wept through it, like a babe torn from their mother's breast.

She scrambled after, scuppering away on scraped, bruised knee, trying to hold the tatters of her corset and smallclothes over her shattered dignity.

Tysha did not look at him.

She plucked up the coins at her feet.

She hobbled into the night.

That was the last Tyrion ever saw of his sweet wife.


A.N/ I am currently trying to post all the stories I have backed up on my hard drives. This is one of those I've had saved for a while now. Instead of keeping it on the shelf collecting dust, and adding new chapters no one is going to read, I thought I would publish it, along with a few others I have stored up, and see what the response is. That way, I always have an update ready to go, I can work on fics you lovely readers seem invested in, and I can finally put to bed the ones that flop.

I hope you all enjoyed this! Stay beautiful ~AlwaysEatTheRude21