Conversation: Sherlock Holmes and Tyrion Lannister

This is a fabricated conversation between two of my favourite fictional characters: Sherlock Holmes and Tyrion Lannister. Whilst the former is the best (or, at least the most popular) detective in the history of literature, the latter is a pocket dynamite–perhaps the most intriguing character in fantasy fiction.

I supposed concise intros of both are needed.

Sherlock Holmes: A classic character in every sense of the word. An ingenious sleuth who still appeals to contemporary readers after more than a century, and which makes whodunit-solvers of modern literature look tame and clichéd. A mastermind at what he does, and totally dumb at everything else. As he explains:

I consider that a man’s brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things, so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. … It is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic walls and can distend to any extent..

Holmes is also one of the few literary characters who have been adapted into countless TV shows, stage-shows and movies.

Tyrion Lannister: Good things come in small packages, as the saying goes. And no one epitomises the adage like Tyrion Lannister. A dwarf since birth, and thus unable to fight with heavy weapons like swords, he survives the vicious world of Westeros (A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones) solely on his wit, which is as sharp as a Valyrian steel sword. And he loves reading, because:

a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge.

Context: Magician Kevhorn peered in his magic globe. Amid the swirling white light, he saw Sherlock Holmes sitting lethargically before the fireplace in his apartment at 221B Baker Street, London, Britain of Victorian Era. He muttered an incantation, and slowly the light changed its hue to red. Kevhorn saw Westeros of 299AL, and, after a while, found Tyrion Lannister in King’s Landing. The dwarf was lying in his chambers in King’s Landing, befuddled, drowning his regrets and sorrows in wine.

Kevhorn muttered another incantation, this one a little longer. It had an immediate effect. Tyrion Lannister vanished from his chambers and found himself standing upright in front of a closed door, his sobriety completely restored.


There was a knock on the door. Holmes turned, strode up, a slight smile on his face, expecting Watson at the door.

“My dear Wats…”, Holmes began. But there was no one. He frowned and was about to turn back when he heard a voice.

Where in the seven hells am I?”

He looked down, and saw a queer little man clad in a most peculiar medieval style clothes, fidgeting in the doorway. He wore a burgundy doublet, a leather skirt, black pants and a chain with interlocking hands entwined around his little neck. He looked bewildered. And angry too.

“Pray, tell me who are you?”, Holmes asked. “I can’t deny that I like your costume!”, he added.

Instead of replying, the dwarf directed a barrage of questions. “Who am I? Who are you? How did I come here? Are you a damned wizard? Did you summon me? Which place is this?”

Holmes thought for a while. The dwarf did have an outlandish look about him. There was something really strange going on.

“Hmm! You mean you don’t belong in London?”, he asked concernedly. “At least tell me your name!”

“I am Tyrion, son of Tywin, of House Lannister. And what is this London?” Tyrion literally spat the last word, as though doing it could transform him back to King’s Landing.

Why, London is where you stand, my dear!”

“Oh, fuck me”, the dwarf swore. “How far is King’s Landing? Or Westeros?”

“I suppose these are, er, places? Hmm? Well, I have no idea! But come inside, have tea and then we’ll talk!”

“Are you fucking joking? Give me one good reason why should I trust you! You don’t look reliable to me”, Tyrion said suspiciously.

Holmes did not like Tyrion’s habit of emphasising the most offensive words. He decided Tyrion was dangerous.

“My dear Tyrion, son of Tywin, blah blah, I haven’t harmed you, have I? I only want to have a bit of discourse over your, uh, predicament. Come, come! Have tea! Make yourself comfortable!”

Tyrion grudgingly went inside and looked around inquisitively.

“Nice place, this. But almost everything is alien to me.”

Holmes did not reply. He was creeping stealthily towards his walking stick on the leftward of the door. He picked it up. Tyrion turned–

“Apologies. I never asked your name–ah!”

Holmes hit his walking-stick  right on the forehead of Tyrion. The dwarf toppled. Holmes watched the unconscious little man. For all his tantrums, the dwarf hadn’t actually harmed him.

Holmes waited. After around 15 minutes, the bell rang. Holmes advanced warily, walking stick tightly gripped in one hand, half-expecting another weirdo from some alternate-reality. He opened the door and relaxed. It was only Watson.

“My dear Waston! You have no inkling how glad I am to see you! I understand you have had cold lately? Ha ha! You know, I have this most curious specimen…”


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