Sansa Stark: The Lost Wolfling

paying-my-debts:

She was lovely, as lovely as Tyrion had ever seen her - and also as terrified.  Sansa’s hair had been pinned up, leaving her shoulders exposed, as white as milk and peppered with goosepimples; she shivered lightly even as sweat dried on Tyrion’s skin.  Her maids had done what they could to disguise the dark smudges beneath her eyes, but these past few weeks had made Tyrion so familiar with Sansa’s face that he could easily read the tiredness there.  She hadn’t slept well the night before, he knew, if she’d slept at all.  Powder might have been enough to fool the rest of King’s Landing, but not Tyrion, whose hand Sansa had not long ago pressed against her mouth to muffle her desperate sobs.  It pained him to think that she might have sobbed again last night, pressing her face into her pillow in the absence of anyone who might comfort her.  If only he had been there…

But if she had spent the last night crying, it had been no one’s fault but his own - who was he to offer her comfort?  Tyrion’s stomach clenched painfully at the thought, and he forced himself to swallow past the growing thickness in his throat.  Wasn’t Sansa everything he had wanted?  Young and beautiful and, if not entirely willing, then at least not disgusted by him.  How different would he have felt about this match only a few months prior?  Tyrion closed his eyes in resignation.  Yes, he’d told Sansa that he’d been unable to refuse his father - and it had felt that way in the moment Tywin Lannister bade him marry the girl or watch Joffrey take her as his wife instead - but surely that had been an empty threat, meant to move Tyrion to acquiesce.  Tyrion had suspected it even then.  His father had always known how to play him as well as a singer played his harp, and not for the first time, Tyrion wondered if he’d masked his desire to fashion himself Sansa’s protector at all. 

Even if he had masked it, he’d not done it well enough.  In the end, he’d done exactly what his father had wanted him to do, of that Tyrion had no doubt - and was there not a small part of himself that too rejoiced at their union?  At the knowledge that it was to him Sansa would look first for comfort and security - if only out of necessity?  Would he have let the opportunity pass, let her look for these things in another, had there been some other choice?

The world was spinning, and heat was rushing to Tyrion’s cheeks, leaving him light-headed and his limbs weak; his legs trembled beneath his weight.  Distantly he could hear Sansa’s concerned voice, asking him if he was well, suggesting he should sit, but he barely had time to think that sitting might be a good idea before his blind groping for a chair was interrupted by one being thrust under him.  Tyrion scrubbed a hand over his face as he collapsed into it, careful to avoid the raw flesh there; he must have looked worse than he thought if even Sansa’s maids had thought him like to fall over. 

On a level with Sansa, the ridiculousness of their match was more apparent than ever.  Tyrion could feel her eyes on the scar; it wasn’t the first time she’d seen it, but it was still as new to Sansa as it was to himself.  Fidgeting, Tyrion fought the urge to run his fingers along the freshly knitted flesh; picking at the wound would only call further attention to it.  Not that Sansa would ever say anything of it - except to ask whether or not it pained him.  She was far too polite - and far too conscious of his delicate pride - for anything else.  If only he could say as much for his own manners…  It shamed him to think that he‘d called upon Sansa this morning so that he might offer her what support he could, and here she was, inquiring after his well-being.  Again.  As if the past month devoted entirely to his health had not been enough.

“I…” he began, croaking on his words, “I can’t say that I’m well, Sansa, but I feel significantly better upon seeing you.”  Tyrion tried a smile, but found it difficult, even when he had far more reason to smile than his child-bride.  Their exchange was hardly a fair one - Tyrion had been given the most beautiful maiden in King’s Landing, and Sansa had been given… him.  It was no surprise her eyes were so sad.  But no… Sansa would not appreciate his self-pity, and he knew her better than that.  “I know tradition dictates that I’m not to see you, but I had to speak with you for myself.  Sending Pod wouldn’t do.”  He took a deep breath and gestured to the boy hovering behind him.  “We’ve had this discussion already, I know, but I need to hear you say it just once more before we go through with this thing.  Tell me, Sansa, that while you didn’t choose this marriage, you enter it willingly.  That you don’t fear me.  That you know of no other course you’d take in its stead.  One word, and I’ll call the whole thing off.”

Sansa’s eyes were watery but resolute - such a brave girl, braver than she knows - and Tyrion felt himself break under the weight of her trust.  It might have stung to see distrust there - uncertainty as to where his hands might wonder after the candles had been blown out - but this was, perhaps, worse.  He ached to remind her of his promise never to touch her, to hold her as his dearest friend and nothing more, but the eyes of her maids - Cersei’s maids - were on him, so it was here that their charade had to begin.

Still, Tyrion had to do something to reassure her - to show her that her trust was not misplaced - even if he could scarcely reassure himself over the pulsing of blood in his ears and through the wreck of his face.  Rising with some difficulty, he crossed to Sansa, the urge to go to her not worth fighting; that was a fight he would never win.  Her servants were there, and Pod besides, watching open-mouthed and silent.  Had Tyrion laid claim to even the smallest measure of self-control, he would have held back.  He and Sansa were not yet married; this was not proper.  But Tyrion had never cared a shit for propriety - and did even less now.  It felt only natural to wrap his arms around Sansa and squeeze as tightly as he dared, willing her to relax in his embrace as she had the afternoon of the riot.  As he ran his hand along the back of her neck, chilled and clammy, he felt her let out a shuddering breath against his shoulder.

His heart swelled with a sudden burst of affection, and his throat tightened dangerously.

 My lady wife.

The corset they’d put her into for this wedding symbolized more than a woman’s figure. It caged her, forced her into the “proper” shape, and stole her very ability to breathe. Sansa could feel her heart pressed against her ribs, fluttering like a captured bird, and the fearful tears were not yet dry in the corners of her eyes. Cersei’s spies hovered about her and gave her not even a second to catch her breath—the lost Stark child stood on the edge of a knife while the world pushed her every which way, and it took all her strength to sit there and not break down.

Tyrion hadn’t meant to push her towards the edge. She knew that, could see it on his face after he asked his question and she could only stare, throat tight, realizing that she couldn’t speak under all this pressure. If she let go of any words at all, they would all rush out and she would collapse. Don’t make me speak, she begged with her eyes and somehow he understood. The concern in his eyes was palpable and then he was stepping in, embracing her instead of asking. His arms were small but secure, and she trembled before resting against his shoulder, letting go of the breath she couldn’t remember holding.

One of her maids made a slight grunt and Sansa ignored her. She could breathe again, even as he squeezed her tight and stroked her neck. Her throat stopped hurting, her eyes squeezed too tightly shut to sting. This was her wedding day and it was the next step of the nightmare that began at the Sept of Baelor. All she wanted was to sob out the rest of her tension until she was exhausted but free, knowing that he would listen as he always had. That was not allowed them, not today, but she held onto this brief respite. She breathed as deeply as her corset would allow while clinging to Tyrion. Beyond the two of them, one of the maids fidgeted and then hurried into the antechamber. The other made another slight noise, disapproving and intrusive. He is to be my lord husband in a few hours. If he wants to hold me, he can.

And yet, was that not the source of her tension? Only a few weeks before, they would have sold her to Joffrey to submit to his every whim. To be his prisoner had been helplessness enough—to be his wife would have been a living death. The boy king had been the first, but not the last, to make her tremble at his touch. Yet since she was a maid, that had been her final protection; she had to be kept pure for her husband.

Sansa trusted Tyrion when he said he would not consummate their marriage. Every repetition of the words, every awkward assurance, every hesitant embrace. Awkward it might be, but Sansa believed in it all, and more so for how awkward it was. Joffrey had been so smooth in his lies. Tyrion was honest, if not talented. Even now he still sought her comfort and permission.

Yet for all that trust, Sansa could not let go of the fear. What if he desires me? What if he tires of being good to me? What if… The thoughts cycled through her head and she let out a shuddering breath. Tyrion’s fingers were warm against her neck, then, gentle and reassuring. He needed her not to be afraid. I don’t want to be afraid either.

It could have been a few minutes or an hour before she finally breathed in deeply, putting her lady’s face back on. Now was not the time to indulge fears. She had to try.

Sansa slowly pulled back from Tyrion’s embrace and beheld the worried wrinkling of his face, the concern in his eyes. She shook her head. “There is nothing else. I…I will do this.” Swallowing hard, she straightened her back, sliding her hands down the pleats of her skirt. “Willingly.” It was a lie, the willingness part, but for the good of them both they had to stick to it. They would be wed, would endure everything it meant, for the security that came in the end. Sansa’s heart still beat fast as she looked at Tyrion—her friend, and soon her lord husband as well—but she did not fear him.

paying-my-debts:

The morning of his wedding, Tyrion looked himself up and down in the mirror; he found no surprises.  The scar was just as ghastly as it had been the last time he’d looked at it - approximately five minutes earlier.  He couldn’t keep his eyes off the thing.  Red and raw-looking, the flesh had barely had time to knit together before he was to show off his new face to the entire court.  Beautiful.  The maesters told him the wound was healing cleanly - but if that was the case, Tyrion shuddered to think what he would have looked like had it not been.  Tyrion grimaced, the movement twisting the mass of flesh unpleasantly.  Sansa had been characteristically kind when she described the scar to him, whispering, “The maesters said they couldn’t fix it all,” as she’d knelt at his bedside while he wept for the loss of beauty he’d never possessed. 

He’d imagined then how he must look - already so disfigured from birth - but the reality of it was harsher than even his imagination.  The scar ran from just below his right eye - he’d been lucky to keep it, Sansa had remarked one day while helping him eat his breakfast, and Tyrion had quipped, with badly disguised bitterness in his voice, that it was only one more eye to look at himself with - and split his face right down to his lip.  The worst of it, though, was his nose - what there was left of it.  His assailant’s blade had left a yawning hole where it should have been, still leaking puss and snot sometimes, when he neglected to wipe it away.  Even Tyrion, who had long ago learned to face disappointment in the looking glass, could hardly stand to look at it.

Disgusted, Tyrion turned away from the glass, his stomach queasy - and not only from having to face himself.  While Tyrion had picked disinterestedly at overcooked eggs and underdone bacon, Pod had laid out his finest attire this morning - a red velvet doublet embossed with gold paired with supple leather riding boots.  Tyrion had briefly considered donning the garb - his house’s colors, his father would approve - before deciding that the doubtlessly painful act of buttoning the doublet would hardly be worth the end result.  No tailor was capable of making clothing fine enough that it might distract from his ruined face.  And he didn’t give a shit what his father thought.

So instead he’d chosen a simple green tunic - Sansa might have been playing the strong lady-wife-to-be since Tyrion’s injury, but she was still a girl, and didn’t need reminding of the family she was marrying into.  Careful to avoid the mirror, Tyrion belted the tunic around the middle and didn’t protest as Pod helped him into the riding boots.  They added a few inches to his height, and if that was what it took to lessen the height difference between he and Sansa, Tyrion would wear the damned boots.  Sansa had promised she wasn’t ashamed of him, and Tyrion had been surprised to find he believed her, but still - if it would spare Sansa even a little of the humiliation sure to come with their wedding, Tyrion could do at least this small favor.  Sansa.  Westerosi tradition said it was bad luck for him to see his bride before the marriage ceremony, but Tyrion supposed it would be difficult for their union to be more marred by bad luck than it was already was.  He needed to see her before this farce began - needed her to know that he could still put an end to all this, even if the choice was all but denied her.

Pod loping at his heels, Tyrion began the slow trek from his tower.  The boy was stuttering away behind him - though Tyrion knew Pod’s stride could easily have overtaken his own had he let it - questioning whether his lord should be doing this, where his lord might be going, if his lord remembered his own wedding was to begin in little more than an hour and did he want to be late.  At first, Tyrion ignored him, reminding himself inwardly that the boy had saved his life so killing him would hardly be fair, but by the fifth step, Tyrion could not have answered if he’d wanted to.

It had been three weeks since Tyrion first awoke to find Sansa by his bedside and half his face missing.  Those first few days of lucidity had been terrifying; each time he woke, he’d been confused all over again, pain wracking his body and heat crawling under his skin and nothing making sense.  Sansa had been the one constant, sometimes curled up in the chair she’d pulled nearer his bedside, looking like she might have been asleep until she felt him looking at her; sometimes doing needlework or looking through his bookshelves.  But she was always there.  (When Tyrion, desperate and half out of his mind with pain, had begged Sansa to stay, he’d never expected she’d take her vow so seriously, but apparently she had, and Tyrion could not say he wasn’t grateful.)

Until the time he’d woken to find his father at his bedside instead.  It had made him shiver to imagine how long his father might have been standing there, watching him twitch in sleep, and for a moment, he’d studied Tyrion dispassionately, finally asking when Tyrion imagined he’d be well enough to wed.  Tyrion half-suspected his father would have called Sansa up to his chamber and had them married at his bedside had the public nature of their union not been so important, and the thought had made him smirk.  That would have been the wedding he’d have chosen - short of no wedding at all.  But Tywin had been impatient rather than amused and had set the affair for a fortnight from the day he’d visited Tyrion.

Three weeks had hardly been long enough for his body to heal, Tyrion was learning, as he limped heavily down the winding stairs.  Even at the peak of his health, stairs were always a nuisance, and this was the first time he’d attempted them unaided since he’d been so unceremoniously skewered.  He growled something unintelligible at Pod when the boy tried to place a cautious hand on his arm, shame at his own weakness making his patience thin.  Tyrion had begun refusing milk of the poppy as soon as he’d felt his wits returning to him, so he had naught but wine to dampen the pain - and he’d been reluctant to get drunk before the ceremony.  The occasion was sure to be ridiculous enough without the added spectacle of Tyrion wretching at his bride’s feet.  There was a stitch in his side, and his shoulder thudded in time with each step on the stone staircase by the time he reached the landing.  His body heavy and his head strangely light, Tyrion mopped the sweat from his brow, leaning heavily on the door to Sansa’s chambers.

Tyrion allowed himself to rest there for a moment, and then the door was moving, forcing him to again take his own weight.  It opened to reveal one of Sansa’s handmaidens (whose face twitched just barely, Tyrion noted, at the sight of his scar - Sansa must have prepared her) and behind her, Sansa, sitting atop a stool as another handmaiden put the finishing touches on an elaborate mass of braids at the top of her head.  His Sansa, he‘d called her when he‘d first awoken from that nightmare of blood and fire, though he‘d never spoken it aloud.  There was a look of surprise on her face, but Tyrion could scarcely think past the relief he felt just upon seeing her.  To know that neither of them, at least, had to face this thing alone…  “Sansa,” he breathed, “you look… lovely.” 

That morning, Sansa had woken from a nightmare. In it, she’d been led in her bride’s gown to the Sept but it had been Joffrey standing there, a smile ice-cold on his wormy lips. Whimpering, she’d tried to run, but Meryn Trant was suddenly behind her and gripping her arms so fiercely that she could feel the bruises blossom under the silk. Joffrey had leaned in to kiss her and then she’d woken with the taste of bile in her throat. Dawn had yet to break through the shroud of darkness and so Sansa had lain still, breathing deeply, twisting her hands in the blankets to remind herself that she was safe.

Her maids—Cersei’s spies—came to tend to her as soon as dawn arrived, and she’d nibbled at the sweet porridge and sipped the milk. Then they’d brought her gown and the sight of it brought back the dream suddenly. Tears threatened at the corners of her eyes—she pushed away the food and swallowed hard.

Any other day, she would have tucked her fears deep in her heart. Most days gave her opportunity to see Tyrion, and he had a way of settling her mind for a while—or at least a way of distracting her from the terrors her own mind created. As he grumbled more often than necessary, he had his own insecurities and worries and projected them onto anyone nearby without thinking. Sansa had dealt with worse. It was a slight cost to pay, to have the comforting safety of a friendship with Tyrion Lannister. There was a sort of peace in thinking of others’ cares instead of one’s own. At least for a few moments. Yet today of all days, such a tactic would not succeed. Today was the day that, at Tywin Lannister’s command, her cares and her friendship with Tyrion would be forced together in an unnatural bonding.

At least it is not Joffrey, she’d told herself as she always did. But Joffrey would be there, and nightmares had no logic. Sometimes neither did King’s Landing.

Regardless of how she fought tears, the wedding day carried on. The girls had bathed her, scrubbing her till her pale skin shone, trimming and polishing and perfuming her until she looked like a noble Lannister bride and not a tired girl. A bride without a home, family, or even honor. A bride who, after months of picturing this day including only Joffrey, could not face her duties with anything but revulsion and panic. Somehow she couldn’t keep all the tears back.

“It’ll be alright, my lady,” one of the maids whispered as she helped Sansa into her petticoats. “You just lie still tonight and close your eyes, and it’ll be over quick enough.”

Startled, Sansa’s thoughts were suddenly dragged from her nightmares by the woman’s unexpected remark.

“With the Imp?” The other maid snorted before Sansa had time to collect her wits to respond. “He’s no green boy when it comes to the bed. My lady had best hope she’s drunk enough so it’s all a blur.”

It was so very crude and Sansa’s cheeks flushed almost painfully. She’d forgotten the more common fears that brides were supposed to have, and what the world saw in this marriage hurt both her and Tyrion—humiliated them. In her own chambers Sansa could not let such casual cruelty stand. “That is enough,” she ordered, though barely above a whisper. “Tyrion is good to me. I’m not—I do not cry because of him.” No, not anymore. As her nightmares were keen to remind her, there were far worse fates than tonight’s. He won’t touch me. It is only for show, all this affair.

The women fell silent obediently and laced her into the silvery-grey gown, fitting it to her like a second skin. With the corset pushing up her small breasts and the full skirts widening her hips, Sansa saw a woman in the mirror. A fraud, a costume, yet it was so hard to see where the child ended and the woman began, save at the hint of tears still lingering in her eyes. They could make her look like a woman, and that was the only truth they cared about.

But if her friendship with Tyrion had brought her nothing else, it had given her the belief that she could play her part. If they make me say words, it means nothing. I won’t mean them. If they make me wear a Lannister cloak, it means nothing. I am not theirs. They can make me do everything they want, but I won’t be changed. When I’m alive and free, none of this will matter anymore.

Finally, as they started arranging her hair, Sansa stared her pale mirror-self in the eyes and told herself that she could be strong. She hoped that she knew what that meant.

And so Sansa was all nerves long before her maid opened the door to let Tyrion in.

When he called her lovely, had it been anyone else she would have accepted it as mockery. He was always too kind to her, this man they were forcing her to marry. “Thank you,” she said, and glanced down to see if her hands were still trembling. They were. With effort, she stilled them.

Though she’d grown accustomed to him over the past weeks, and had not expected anything pleasant to appear once the bandages were removed, the sight of Tyrion’s scar almost made her flinch. It was a cruel-looking gash, tearing through his oddly-shaped features to knock his whole face almost sideways. More than ugly, it looked painful. He did not look like a man ready to wed—he did not look quite firm on his own feet. Worry creased her brow, distracting her once again. “Please, Tyrion, you must sit. Are you unwell?”

paying-my-debts:

The milk of the poppy was thick sliding down his throat, and Tyrion had to force himself to swallow to keep from gagging.  The water Sansa had given him had been a welcome relief, so cool it almost burned as it ran down his parched throat, but this was sticky and cloyingly sweet, and although it promised a relief from the pain that left him panting - even when he was otherwise unmoving - Tyrion also knew he would soon be past even the most basic conversation.  That was no comfort.  There were still things he would say to Sansa, but already they were becoming less clear, fading into his memory as if they were from some time long past. 

Tyrion’s stomach rebelled at the thickness of the milk - you’ve had nothing but liquid since your face was carved open, fool - but because he’d had nothing to eat, there was nothing to be sick on.  His mouth watered for only a moment before Tyrion was able to clamp down on his nausea, and it was only bare seconds after that his pain began to lessen.  Just barely, at first.  He noticed he could allow himself to lie comfortably against the pillows; it was no longer necessary to position himself to keep the weight off his injured shoulder.  Then the smallest of his aches and pains faded into the background, and even his head, which had hurt the worst - pounding and sloshing around inside as if it had been filled with water - quieted into something bearable.  

When the searing across his face eased enough that he could finally let his mouth go lax, Tyrion let out a little groan of relief without meaning to, releasing the white-knuckled grip he hadn’t realized he’d been keeping on his sheets.  He’d never imagined he could feel so good lying in what he was sure was his own piss with his face flayed open and his arm nearly detached at the shoulder.  And yet his eyes pricked with tears again that his mind could rest in the quiet of his momentarily appeased body.  Part of this feeling of comfort had to be for Sansa’s presence, he knew.  He’d never have asked for the milk of the poppy had he not believed himself safe in her care.  No amount of relief could be worth taking the chance of sleeping through a visit from his sister’s spies - or now, his father’s.

With Sansa here, watching over him, he could float in this pleasant place between sleep and waking, where his hurts and even his thoughts were muted, something back-lit by the strange, fractured light of the kind of stained glass windows found in a sept.  Tyrion snorted at his own analogy, although he’d not said the words aloud, so Sansa could not appreciate them - and this time, there was no pain.  Or if there was, it was so little that it was of no consequence.  Of all the places Tyrion might belong after the battle - after the thousands that had burned amidst those horrible green pillars of wildfire - a sept was the last of them.  (And even that morbid thought lacked intensity, Tyrion’s mind was so pleasantly clouded.)  Unless he really had died, his body lying cold and rigid on some septon’s stone slab, while this place of disfigurement and confusion and loss was the afterlife he had earned for himself.

If that was the case, he must have done something right, Tyrion decided, looking into Sansa’s concerned face - because it wasn’t so bad.  He grinned sleepily up at her, knowing how it must twist his newly disfigured face, but unable to stop himself.  Even in the dark of the room, she seemed to Tyrion to give off some inner glow, her hair falling mussed and dirty around her face.  There was a moment that Tyrion thought he should chastise himself for thinking such a thing of her, but it went as quickly as it had come; he was unable to hold onto any one thought for too long.  Words felt slippery to his mind… if words could be slippery.

Tyrion opened his eyes, surprised to find they’d been closed at all; he didn’t remember closing them, but Sansa was fussing with his bedclothes, so Tyrion surmised they must have been closed for some time.  Sleep would be easy now, drugged and comfortable and fever-warm as he was, his eyes burning when he opened them, but he couldn’t allow himself to fall into unconsciousness with Sansa still standing, fussing over him, not allowing herself rest when she surely needed it even more than he did.  The hollows below her eyes spoke of her exhaustion, as did her posture, the battle to hold herself as befits a lady plain in the lines of her body. 

Tyrion struggled to rise from the depths of sleep; he felt as if he was submerged in some great sea, the water rising up around his head and pulling him down, down, down - and then there was a flash of greenish light against familiar armor, followed by a stinging on his cheek, and then a watery film of red over his eyes.  Something pinged in the back of his mind - a memory - but like everything else, this too was gone and forgotten in an instant.  “Sansa,” he mumbled, reaching for her hand and finding it.  Go rest, he meant to say.  Return to your quarters, your own bed, your life.  But the words that came out of his mouth, though his own, were not what he expected.  “Stay with me,” he begged.  “Just until I sleep.  Please.”  His words were so slurred he could barely understand them.

Tyrion’s hand tightened around hers.  “You can go back to your quarters then, I swear it.  You need the rest.  But just… until then.  Stay with me.”

A lifetime ago, Sansa had been all but a princess in Winterfell. Pretty and always good with her courtesies, every woman had clucked at her fondly, every man had smiled and doffed his hat or at least dipped his head. Making friends had been easy. Jeyne Poole, nearest her age, had shared all the same joys—lemoncakes, songs, beautiful dresses, dashing young squires. The girl Sansa Stark had giggled with Jeyne, had shared all her secrets, had squeezed her hand and whispered remarks that only her dear friend would understand.

King’s Landing had been a new world for the two friends to discover, even as Sansa’s betrothal gave her an edge up on the brunette girl who—they both agreed—was not quite so pretty as Sansa (but most certainly handsome). The Hand’s Tourney, especially, had them both cheering and laughing. Jeyne had twirled around in the sunlight, imagining out loud how Ser Beric might name her the queen of love and beauty—Sansa had clutched the red rose that Ser Loras had given her while her heart thumped with wild excitement.

Then everything had fallen apart. People were dying. Screaming. Sansa and Jeyne were locked into a room and Jeyne wouldn’t stop crying. They’d taken her away eventually and Sansa had done nothing.

Only weeks later did she put the pieces together and realize that they’d probably killed Jeyne like they’d killed all the other members of her father’s house. Jeyne has been dead three weeks and I have not even cared, Sansa had told herself, too empty for any emotion more than a bottomless ache in her chest.

That had been Sansa’s experience with friendship. Laughter and secrets and then confusion when all went to seven hells. Yet she’d called Tyrion friend, and for none of those reasons. The dwarf—her enemy, she’d thought at first—had spoken softly, held her hand, offered her dinner and the promise of home. Jeyne had never done so, for there had never been reason, and had Tyrion ever gossiped about handsome men Sansa would have felt awkward and stiff. No, he’d done none of that. Only so much more, so much that touched her heart and she knew of no word to use but friend. Best friend. Whatever innermost secrets Tyrion had, Sansa was not sure if she would ever know them. Yet she knew more than that, for he had shared his heart with her. He’d cared, as she expected naught but her family to ever care for her.

It was the strangest luck, to be cared for with such honesty. Here he lay on what could have been his deathbed, and he asked for her as no one else would. A smile touched his lips that made his face even more disfigured—a smile that was warm as any fire, somehow. Perhaps she was used to the ugliness now, and like all familiar things it blended into the background. Sansa could not help but return the smile weakly. He has been a good friend to me, and maybe I have been a good friend in return, if he looks to me so.

Tyrion could easily have made it a burden, their friendship—especially when she was to be his wife soon enough. He hadn’t, though. Or if it was a burden, they shared it equally. Sansa could not make time go backwards and restore those happy golden days at Winterfell. She might cry a thousand tears yet it would not change her captivity here. Friendship had, however. In the smallest of ways, and yet the dearest. She would cherish this friendship even if her nightmares came true and it was ripped from her like everything else had been.

At last Sansa gave Tyrion’s hand a slight squeeze. Sleep was nearly upon him, and it dragged at her eyelids as well. Bones weary, neck sore, she felt aged by the past few days—and misliked the feeling and how foreign it was. “I will,” she promised Tyrion easily with a slight nod of her head. “I’ll stay here, and then I’ll rest.”

The final tension seemed to melt from his eyes and he flopped back against the pillows. Small, twisted, wounded. Yet mending. She saw peace and what might have been gratitude in those mismatched eyes, before they finally closed and his grip on her hand slackened. Stroking her fingertips over the back of his hand, noting the fresh scars across the prominent veins and broad knuckles, Sansa quietly wished him pleasant dreams. Perhaps a vain, childish wish, but one that she meant with all sincerity. Whatever else he would be, Tyrion was her friend. Days had been passed in this horrible room, and for a few moments longer she stayed to make sure that he slept. His breathing was even, and less shallow than it had been. “Sleep well,” she whispered, before rising to her feet.

Sansa found herself swaying, then, and had to clutch at the bedpost to keep from falling to the floor. Only for a few moments, however, and then she was able to stand. The Tower of the Hand was silent and chill as she descended the steps to the chamber they’d provided. Once again she was no more than a defenseless girl in a realm of lions, yet too tired to care. Tyrion was alive, and that was cause for hope. Someday she’d get home. And someday Tyrion will come visit me, and we can share in the joy too, not just this darkness.

It might have been a laughable thought, given how pale and drawn she looked when she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes seemed watery pale, surrounded by dark circles and limp tangled hair. She took her time to brush out the tangles and wash the tear-streaks away, at least, even as the bed called her name. Stripping herself of her clothes at last, not bothering to call one of her maids, Sansa felt as if some of the burdens fell away as well. At last she crawled into bed and her head hit the pillow. For the first time in days she did not soak it with wrenching hopeless tears.

Things might be alright in the end. Or at least…they might not be all bad. Sansa curled up under the covers, warm and for the moment safe. She saw only Tyrion’s twisted and bandaged face in her mind as she fell asleep, and instead of praying for Joffrey’s death she prayed only that he might stay living. Life could be greater than death, and friendship greater than revenge. It was not quite like the songs, yet Sansa thought she could be happy with it. Yes, if all went well, she might know some happiness in the end.

(Source: the-lost-wolfling)

only-tywin-dared-speak:

paying-my-debts:

king-joffrey:

Had any whores lately or is your betrothed satisfying enough?

You will not reference what my betrothed and I do in our own quarters. That is no one’s business but our own. Although I can understand that your own lack of love-life might lead you to seek excitement from that of others.

…

Tyrion, did you already bed her?  We haven’t even had a wedding yet.

And Joff, SHUT THE FUCK UP.

N-no my lord, he hasn’t. I swear he hasn’t.

king-joffrey:

the-lost-wolfling:

You…you are foul…

#you won’t bed me #you can’t #Tyrion won’t let you - he told me #please can’t you find some other form of entertainment? #why must you keep hurting innocent animals? #why do you even care what I think of you? #why can’t you treat me like nothing - everyone else does

Another for the lovely lady.

How can you be so cruel? I don’t understand how anyone can love you, even your lady mother.

lady-lioness:

please do not concern yourself with my grandson. He is a vile loathesome creature, and I have every intention of strangling him myself.

only-tywin-dared-speak asked: My lady, as my future good daughter, I give you my word that Joffrey will NEVER bed you.

Thank you… I—I appreciate your protection as well.

king-joffrey:

I hope you’re having fun with my dear uncle, I should hope you know that just because you are involved with him does not mean I won’t bed you.

As it is Valentine’s Day, I thought I would get you this to express my feelings for you.

I couldn’t find a direwolf and that beast you had was already dead - so the hearts of two other, regular wolves will have to do.

You…you are foul…

paying-my-debts:

Even though he’d refused to allow himself to ask for milk of the poppy, Tyrion’s thoughts came slow and muddled as ever.  Sleep tugged at him as he shifted slightly so he might take some pressure off his injured shoulder.  He groaned quietly, not wanting Sansa to hear.  She looked so distressed already; she didn’t need to worry that he was in pain as well (although Tyrion didn’t think her stupid enough to believe he wasn’t).  But it was quickly becoming difficult to remain lucid enough for the type of conversation on which one’s entire future might hang.  Sansa had said something about keeping his house, allowing him to live as he always had… as he always had.  There was something important to those words, and Tyrion struggled to hear it over the desperate urge to beg Sansa to soothe her fingers over his forehead again until he might sleep.  Sleep and dream.

Dreams could just as quickly turn into nightmares, but it was said that nightmares could be kept at bay with a kind touch.  (Nightmares had never touched him in that cottage with Tysha - but he’d had so little reason for nightmares back then.)  Still, whatever problems might be solved in his dreams would be as present as ever when he woke.  So Tyrion stamped down that urge, swallowed it with the bile burning the back of his throat.  Sansa’s words made sense now.  She knew - had to know - of his whoring.  He hadn’t kept it a secret - had never had reason to.  His reputation preceded him, and why not?  He was unmarried, and if his whoring was a blight on his family’s reputation, well, so was his very existence.  As far as he was concerned, if every whore he’d ever frequented had caused another hair to fall from Tywin Lannister’s head, he should have paid them each an extra gold dragon for the favor. 

But shitting on his own honor was one thing; destroying Sansa’s was another entirely - although she was far too polite, had been trained far too well, to ask him to stop.  For the first time, Tyrion felt a flush of shame at his reputation, made worse by the heat of fever on his cheeks.  What could he say to her to explain that he would rather pay a woman to share his bed than sleep alone night after night?  That if he waited for the woman who would come into his bed willingly - and without the added promise of his Lannister gold - he would never know companionship?  That waiting for such a woman would amount to asking for the most bitter of humiliations?  Even Sansa, who cared for him even now, after seeing the very worst of him, could never come to want him.  And Tyrion could never ask her to.

He had only to think of the fear in her eyes when his father had announced the betrothal…

What could he say to her of Shae?  Of all the things Sansa knew about him, Tyrion had never mentioned the dark-haired woman who waited for him at Chataya’s.  Until now, he had told himself it was out of concern for Shae’s safety, but he could no longer deny that it had been out of shame at what Sansa might think.  And, if the truth was told, he had found his thoughts turning to Shae less and less of late, since he had discovered Sansa was willing to share his company, that he alone could make her smile, out of everyone at court - even if her company was bought and paid for in its own way, with the limited shelter he could provide her from the chaos of King’s Landing.

“I don’t think you understand, Sansa,” Tyrion began, his breath shuddering in his chest.  “I never imagined I would be married.”  He turned his hands over in his lap, his palms displayed face-up in front of Sansa, imploring.  “Think on it, sweetling.  I’m soon to be four and twenty.  What other man of my age do you know who remains unmarried?”

When she didn’t answer, he continued.  “Oh, it’s not for lack of trying on my father’s part.  He did his best to arrange a suitable marriage for me in my youth, but none of the noble houses were eager to wed their daughters to a dwarf - even Tywin Lannister’s dwarf.  They considered even the suggestion a slight to their honor.  And my father wasn’t about to seek a betrothal from a lesser house; a Lannister - even the least of them,” and here he would have shrugged self-deprecatingly had it not caused an angry heat to flare all along his shoulder, “is worth more than a dozen Serretts of Silverhill.  Or perhaps half a dozen, for me.  So you see, I’ve not well-prepared myself to be a good husband to you.”

His voice faltered, caught on the word ‘husband,’ and he found the story was ready on his tongue - words he’d spoken only to Bronn and Shae, though he couldn’t say why he’d told the sellsword of all people.  I played at being a husband once, though it was for barely more than a fortnight.  We had a house together - the girl I called ‘wife’ and I - a cottage by the sea.  We made love there, and she laughed at my face - such a sweet laugh - but it was all a lie.  And my father would have taken it all in the end, even if it hadn’t been.  Exhaustion and pain loosened his tongue; telling Sansa would have been so easy, sharing this burden with her felt right.  But there were some shames he could not share with even Sansa.  If she knew what his father had made him…

Instead, he swallowed thickly and plowed on, picking at a bandage on one of his knuckles.  His wife would have to know someday, but he could save that for when she was not already dealing with his freshly disfigured face.  “My father will want us to stay in King’s Landing for at least a few weeks after we’re married, I’m sure, to ensure we intend to play the part of happy husband and wife well enough to convince your brother.  After that, perhaps the two of us could visit Casterly Rock.  It’s my family’s ancestral home, I know, but there are few enough Lannisters there now.  They all seem to have found their way here.  And it’s beautiful to look at, at least.  Like most of the Lannisters.”

Tyrion snorted, then regretted it as the tear in his face seemed to open again, engulfing first his right cheek and then his nose - oh gods why had he breathed in so harshly?  He was rendered breathless for a moment before, beaten, he asked, “Perhaps something for the pain?”  How clear could his head possibly be if he couldn’t even think past his own hurts?

He called her sweetling and, not for the first time, Sansa felt ashamed of her youth. Ten years separated them, years of understanding and knowledge that would have helped her in this situation. And helped him—oh how those extra years would have made all the difference.

Sansa might be too young for marriage, but that affected more than herself. Tyrion had not asked for this either. Had Tywin not had such a ruthless unsmiling face, she might have guessed that the Lord of Casterley Rock had only cruel japes in mind when arranging their match. To punish her with an early marriage, to punish him with a too-young bride. Father and Mother did not ask for their marriage, nor my Aunt Lysa and Jon Arryn, but they still had more than we ever shall. If only she’d been a few years older, she would not feel so shamed…so unworthy.

Yet awkward though it might be, there had been worse matches. Her and Joffrey, for one. Tyrion might protest that he did not know how to be a good husband, but it only made Sansa sure that he would be. His worry alone was reassuring, for it meant that he would try. She knew she need not fear for her safety, whether of body or mind. And that—well, it seemed a rare thing in the South, in these days.

Sansa’s tired mind could see her days as Lady of Casterley Rock. Mother had taught her how to manage a house, and as a great lady she could expect help in any case. She would make sure that Tyrion was not bothered, that he had food to eat that he enjoyed, and that would not be so bad. He could read his books and drink his wine while she did needlework and walked in the gardens. Perhaps after a while it would not be awkward to sleep in the same bed—perhaps to have another’s warm presence would be better than the life she had now. And they could eat breakfast together and share stories and maybe, just maybe, no one would care if that was all their marriage meant.

His bedside was no longer a place for her to weep and fear, as it had been when she’d first arrived before his blood was dried upon the floor. Yet if he was in pain, she was exhausted. Now was not the time to agonize over every detail. Life had struck them a cruel blow, but they could not skip steps in its mending.

For now, rest. “You’re still gravely hurt, and the maester said you need sleep,” she said as she held the milk of the poppy to his lips. Biting her lower lip, she watched carefully as he drank the creamy liquid, only spilling a single drop. Her husband-to-be. Her disfigured dwarf. It could be worse. There was conflict and pain in his eyes, so she added, “Please tell me you’ll sleep now. Waking has only caused you distress.”

(Source: the-lost-wolfling)

the-wolf-king:

the-lost-wolfling:

the-wolf-king:

I’m tired of war.

I want to go back to Winterfell.

I want to take Sansa from King’s Landing. I want to bring Arya back. I want to see Jon and Bran and Rickon and even Hodor again.

I want to go home. 

I want to go home too, Robb. I miss you, and everyone. I never thought I could feel alone when there’s so many people here, but I do…

I’m so sorry, Sansa. I said I would be there soon but it’s been so long…

I will be there. I swear it. 

Robb…why do you have to be king? Even father yielded…