The Provenance || Jon Snow | Game of Thrones

2.07

 Distorted light shines through the windows of Tyrion's study, basking the oak table in a gold light, though the grain of the wood is invisible beneath the piles of books surrounding the three figures. Splayed out on opposite sides, Gabrielle and Tyrion find themselves on the fifth hour of this long hunt for ideas, their hands bearing the pain of papercuts and eyes almost bloodshot in their intensity. And beside Gabrielle, Bronn sits for his third hour, having done nothing to help besides remove some of the books from her side, and only because she fluttered her eyelashes at him.

It was the one time she removed her mind from the books that now cloud her vision, an amazing feat given her relative hatred for battle strategy and especially texts upon them. All day, she'd been tempted to worry over Sansa instead of focusing on the various military tactics, but had shoved the thoughts to the side with the reminder of Sandor guarding the outside of Sansa's room. She's safe.

And while that is the only thing needed to keep Gabrielle grounded and from going insane, Tyrion has had it with Bronn's performance these past few hours, only helping the female upon her pleading request and now cleaning his nails with one of Tyrion's instruments of study. Head whipping upward, Tyrion almost growls, "Do you have to do that here?"

Bronn just shrugs, "I like to keep me hands clean."

"Yes, but do you have to do it here?" Tyrion asks again, and has to wonder why this sellsword is even here if he does not wish to work. Honestly, the dwarf would expect it to be due to Lady Baelish's presence if not for the Hound's warning he posed to Bronn the other day regarding her. Bronn has not been the same since, and Tyrion will not say that he is not glad for it.

"Bronn," Gabrielle calls and Tyrion hopes she'll give him a nice lecture on helping, but instead, she tosses him a nail file, more fit for Bronn's task than a compass and he nods in thanks.

Meanwhile, Tyrion just huffs, "You should start wearing the gold cloak."

"I don't want to wear a gold cloak," Bronn denies.

"You're commander of the City Watch," Tyrion begins with a pedantic tone that is more irritating than instructive, "You shouldn't be dressed like a common—"

"A cloak slows you down in a fight. Makes it hard to move quietly. And the gold catches the light, so you're nice and easy to spot at night," Bronn makes the valid argument, something that Tyrion cannot argue with.

"Maybe I can make the fertilizer—no, wait, we'd need the Tyrells..." Both men look at Gabrielle as she mumbles, shaking her head as she forgets the idea she's currently plotting and spanning back to silence as she reads.

A beat passes, and Tyrion forgoes the hope that she has a great plan, turning back to Bronn, "Well, you're not sneaking through alleyways any longer. You're supposed to stand out."

"We had a deal and wearing a gold cloak wasn't part of it."

"Fine, fine. No gold cloak," Tyrion grunts and attempts to remove himself from this follied distraction as he begins to read again, Bronn's eyes boring into his forehead incessantly. His head whips up again, "What?"

"What?" Bronn asks innocently.

"What 'what?' Why are you staring at me?" Tyrion clarifies and Bronn throws down the nail file, not to Gabrielle's intense notice on her book.

"You don't want me cleaning me nails. You don't want me looking your way. Why am I here?" Honestly, he was wondering the same.

"Plague might work...but no, the spores wouldn't split in time. Too risky," the girl mumbles again, and this time, both men roll their eyes at the scene.