The next day was the ball concluding the harvest festivities. It was to be held at the manor of Lord Torquil, the victor of the competitions. And naturally, Sansa was expected to be there at his side, his consort for the evening…and, very possibly, ever after.
But she seemed none too eager to participate. Stiff as a manikin, she had allowed Sauriel to help dress her for the occasion, but had made no movement to leave. No, she just sat in her favorite chair by the fire, with her hair flowing loose and free, fingering her healer’s crystal she had insisted on wearing. She let the minutes tick by, wishing away what had to be.
When she was a good quarter of an hour late, Tyrion came in to see her. He was sober by this time, although still not completely steady in his walking. She got the distinct impression he wanted to say something to her very much…but was not entirely sure what that something was, or how he was supposed to say it. After all, the words he had spoken to her the day before were intended to split them up. But he was still here, and she was still here. And it was awkward.
So he just stared at her, distractedly, and she stared back at him. For a little while, Sansa wondered if they were going to go on like that all night, guessing at each other’s thoughts but not daring to utter a word. Finally, Tyrion summoned enough courage to blurt out, “M’lady, you…really must go.”
She crossed her arms tight around her and shook her head. “I don’t want to.”
“Sansa, it’s highly improper…”
“Improper?!” she exploded. “You’re going to lecture me on what’s improper?”
“No,” he exhaled. “It’s just…I have no idea how he might react to such an affront. He’s your champion, and this is his victory celebration. He’ll be disgraced in front of everyone if you don’t arrive.”
“I never promised him I’d come. In fact, I never promised him anything.” She eyed him harshly. “It’s rather complicated to discern what’s fitting and proper when one’s…guardian…wants his charge to act like a woman in the body, while at the same treating her like a child in the mind.”
He sighed. “Look, I’m not going to go through all that again. Once was…more than enough for me.”
From the tremor in his voice, she gathered that his rant in the woods had not given him great pleasure, and in fact, had caused him more than a little pain. But apologies and explanations still seemed beyond his reach at this stage. Typical man.
“Just…think rationally,” he implored. “We both know how insane nobles can be when deprived of what they see as belonging to them by right.”
“Yes,” she acknowledged bitterly. “It seems a very consistent reality.”
Tyrion shut his eyes. “Right, so you hate me,” he mumbled. “That’s entirely the point.”
She raised an eyebrow, trying to grasp his meaning. Then her expression softened. There was clearly more to this than met the eye. She had to test him.
“If I asked very politely, would you…go with me?”
“What?”
“As my escort. It’s proper for a young lady to have one.”
He shook his head. “Sansa, they’d take one look at me and laugh us both out of the hall. You know that. It would be…pointless.”
“But there’s no one else,” she whispered. “I promise…this will be the last kindness I’ll ask of you. If this arrangement works the way you seem to think it will, I’ll be gone in no time, and you need never be bothered with my presence again.”
Again, he seemed unable to find words, and proceeded to stare at her for a long moment.
“I shouldn’t,” he stated at last. “But if that’s the only way to make you…go…”
She turned her eyes down. That part hurt.
He too wrenched his gaze away from her. “Let’s just go.”
***
The celebration was already in progress when Sansa and Tyrion made their entrance in the hall of Lord Torquil. Unblinkingly, Sansa introduced Tyrion as her “guardian and protector.” As predicted, the hall erupted in laughter. Torquil did not laugh immediately, but there was a glinting grin on his face which somehow unnerved her. She had not seen it in all her time spent with the man on the fairgrounds, but now, in front of Tyrion, there was a cynical glee about it that made her feel sick.
Over the past two weeks, Tyrion had been actively suppressing his natural suspicion due to his own inferiority complex in the face of emotional complexities. The feelings of genuine affection, he realized, had done little to keep his armor of the mind polished in a state of readiness for war. Now it was a little late to go back and rethink things, even though his gut instinct was finally starting to wake up and reassess the situation.
Something just…wasn’t right. Just watching the Torquil ceremoniously giving Sansa back the sash he had won for her. It was like a chain, latching her to him…like a prisoner…
Dinner did little to quell either of their apprehensions. Note worthily, Sansa was the only woman present in a room full of merchants and nobles. The seating arrangement had Sansa next to her “champion”, with her “protector” off to the other side of the table. Now, even if she needed protecting, he was a bit far off to even try to attempt anything. And worse yet for her position, both the men in her life were being rather free with the wine going around.
For Tyrion, the bottle was a godsend, something to keep himself preoccupied when one or another of the lords in attendance would take a jab at his stature or scars. Ordinarily, he would have fought back with more fire, but he did not want to ruin what could be salvaged of the evening for Sansa. He could safely ignore whatever this prestigious event had to offer with a full glass in his hand.
Until, that is, he heard the strains of “The Maiden and the Bear” from the hired players pick up in the background. Prior to this, Tyrion had only ever heard it played in the brothels and taverns of ill repute that he had so often frequented in his colorful past. Sansa, he imagined, had probably never heard it before, but she still reddened at the crudeness of the words and connotations.
“What shall she do with a bear? The bear, the bear…all black and brown and covered with hair…” Torquil and his friends belted out, laughingly.
What the hell…why would a nobleman regale his lady with a song about a beast…licking the honey out of her hair…?
Tyrion turned to Sansa for the first time all evening, and their eyes met. She looked like she was searching for some strain of the friend she had grown to trust and depend on, who had provided her with a safe haven from the cruelty that had wracked her world.
Then her eyes took on a shade of despair. He knew she was remembering his outburst the day before, wondering if their friendship really had been just a game, and that she really was all alone in the world, the plaything of savage men on all sides.
Torquil ran his hand along the back of her neck seductively, and she shivered. Something jostled inside Tyrion.
“Stop that bloody song!” he bellowed. “It’s not fitting for my lady’s ears.”
Torquil looked genuinely shocked at his boldness. “Your lady?” he repeated incredulously. “She’s mine now, half man.”
“Not if you treat her like a whore, she’s not!”
First, silence flooded the room. Then Torquil let out a loud laugh, and his guest joined in, pounding their goblets on the table. “And you’re going to fight me for her?” He challenged.
Tyrion burned red, fired hot with fury and frustration. Kill, kill, kill the money-grubbing, dirt-rolling, snott-faced son of a bastard prince…
“Oh, come now, I wish for no feud with you, little master,” Torquil insisted unconvincingly. “In fact, to show you my good will, I’ll even let you make one last toast to your former charge.”
Tyrion got off the chair slowly and raised his glass in front of him defiantly. Now was his chance to show off his biting Lannister wit, his infamous determination to have the last word, his refusal to be cowed by mockery by giving it back in turn and taking no quarter. He could show that his time away from the viper’s nest at King’s Landing had not softened his cynicism, not blunted his cutting edge…
But then he looked at Sansa and saw that her eyes were weak with pain. Her face was blanched as she awaited his words, words she seemed to have already predicted might just wound her all the more by making her a pawn in yet another round to save his pride. His intent faltered. All the clever lines he could have said died on his tongue.
“To she who is most desirable for her presence alone,” he whispered, the broken shards of his heart scratching at his throat. “Like the strength of a rose in winter gives hope to men…”
Just then, the glass which he had been gripping so tightly, cracked in his hand. It gashed his palm, and the pain made him drop it to the ground. Torquil and his guests burst into laughter once again. Tyrion closed his eyes to hide from the shame, and felt his way back to his seat. He blindly reached for his napkin, to sop up the wine and blood…
In moments, he felt her hand on his. She was kneeling down next to him, wrapping up his hand in her sash, the one Torquil had worn throughout the tournament. He turned his eyes away. “M’lady…don’t…they’ll just disgrace you further…”
She seemed not to hear him at all, but continued to place pressure on his hand, which was now trembling. He clutched the table with his other hand as he heard the noblemen continue cackling, and Torquil saying it would be bad luck for her to get dwarf’s blood on her fair hands. That there would be more worthy things for them to caress that night. His mouth dried, his head throbbed, and his stomach twisted.
He knew now what he should have known all along…they were cruel…and they’d use her… and it was all his fault…
“I need…the wine, please…please get me another glass…it hurts if I don’t have it, please…”
She swallowed back tears at his pleading with her for something to numb the pain. He was not used to enduring this sort of torture without the security of a glass in his hands. He had been an alcoholic, after all, although she had somewhat forgotten it over the past six months. When he was happy with her, he hadn’t seemed to need the alcohol in excess. Now it looked as if he might have a panic attack without it.
“It’s alright, it’s going to be alright,” she calmed him, stroking his sleeve. “I’ll get you another glass, I promise.”
“I…I’m not sure I can pour…my hand…”
“I’ll pour it for you,” she assured. “It’ll be alright, I promise, you’ll be alright…”
He gazed into her eyes, and all at once he knew he had been wrong to try and push her away from him. The tears springing up from them were drawn from the deepest inner well, brought forth when one’s own heart is pierced. So her heart was his own, and his was within hers. Why had he refused to believe that earlier?
She stood up and stepped towards Torquil, who was holding the wine bottle. She extended her hand towards it. “My lord, if you please…”
“I do not believe I would be able to conscience that,” he declared smugly.
She closed her eyes tight. “My lord, please…”
“You see, sweeting, the drink serves either to enhance euphoria or blot out realities, for some small space of time, and I really don’t think that indulging false illusions is ethical. A man should get used to his own face, no matter how disgusting it is.”
“There is nothing in his face that disgusts me,” she stated with resolve.
He smirked. “But of course! You’re a maiden, and he’s your bear.”
She watched silently as he poured out the contents of the bottle in a crimson cascade, and the cruel laughter rose up from the table like a gurgling brook. She took a step back and touched Tyrion’s shoulder. His mouth was partially open, watching the wine form a puddle on the floor. She squeezed his shoulder tightly, lest some animal impulse might cause him to try and lap it up like a dog. Then she turned back to Torquil, daggers striking through her eyes.
“No, he’s a man,” she responded, rage creeping through her restraint, “and you’re not even half.”
Before he could respond, Sansa took hold of Tyrion’s hand and ushered him out of the room and into the outer courtyard.
“My lady…” he addressed her shakily. “No…”
“Yes,” she insisted firmly, stepping outside.
“I know…I know this kind…kind of man…” he stammered, bracing his back against the courtyard wall to quell his alcoholic spasms. “He will not…just…let you go. I have to think…think of a way out…”
Sansa knelt down and gripped him by both shoulders, feeling the tension in them. “I need to get you home. You’re not well…”
“I’m not a moron either!” he burst out. “And I don’t want to be patronized and treated like a child!”
“No one is doing any such thing,” she exhaled. “Everyone knows how intelligent you are. That’s why people wanted to kill you, remember? You were too smart for them, and they hated you for it. You’ve survived situations no one could survive unless they had the keenest of wits. Even here, in a strange land, your mind has assured you give orders, and not just take them. You have always been, and will always be, your own master.”
He looked at her hand on his shoulder and muttered, “My wits…seem to have failed me…these past weeks. I…I put you in danger here…because I was…afraid…of it happening again…I…wanted to get it over and done with…” He shivered. “Everyone I know…always…goes away in the end.”
She inclined her head a little closer to his. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“But that’s just it! You’d live your life as a prisoner of pity!”
“Not pity,” she refuted. “Never pity. How could I pity a man who has saved my life time and again?” She touched his face lightly. “But that doesn’t mean that you don’t need to be helped sometimes, just like I’ve needed to be helped many times. It’s not a matter of treating each other like children, it’s a matter of being…helpmates. No one else could understand the things we’ve been through together, no one else can read each other’s hearts like we can. That’s why we take care of each other. That’s why we need each other. ”
He felt a tingling sensation run up his spine at the sound of her northern accent coming through her words.
A true-born daughter of the North, she was, her father’s blood flowing rich and red in her veins, and his soul knit into her own…
Just then, a hand covered in chainmail gripped Sansa’s arm and pulled her up. It was one of Torquil’s guards. “My lord demands you be brought to his quarters.”
“His…quarters?” Tyrion repeated. “Clearly his lordship is wasting no time in testing the effectiveness of his…manly charms.”
“Shut your trap, dwarf!”
“Tell Torquil, from one old player of the game to another, that he needs to read the rules more carefully,” Tyrion lectured, his old tit-for-tat reemerging with vigor. “Attempted seduction must end in consent or rejection. You may use any type of treat you wish to lure the damsel into your lair, from the size of your manhood to the coinage in your pockets, but having her physically dragged? No…that’s just cheating.”
“It is not my desire to go with you,” Sansa informed the guard coolly. “Release me this instant.”
“What a shame, little damsel,” her captor jeered, starting to pull her towards the door.
“I really wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Tyrion advised.
The guard laughed and twisted her arm as she started to struggle.
Quicker than quick, he unhitched the wooden shield attached to a lion gargoyle in the courtyard, which conveniently, was perfectly fitting for the littlest Lannister lion’s use. Then, with a level of skill Sansa never knew he possessed, he rapidly struck the guard in the legs with the shield and knocked him to the ground. Before the man could rise, Tyrion proceeded to smash him in the face with it.
Whether the guard was dead or merely unconscious, Sansa could not tell, but her mouth hung open in shock at the sight of the bloodied shield in Tyrion’s hands.
“Don’t stand about gaping, m’lady!” he panted. “Run!”
“But you…”
“Just go!”
She dodged behind a statue just as two more guards stepped out into the courtyard. A melee ensued, one which Sansa knew from the start Tyrion had no way of winning. All he was trying to do now was buy her time to escape. But she couldn’t tear herself away.
He was a much better physical fighter then she had expected, and she now began to understand how he had achieved legendary status for his rallying the forces at Blackwater and earning his facial scar. He might be small, but he was also fast and ferocious, like a badger smoked out of its hole.
But this could only go so far in evening out the sheer unfairness of the fight. It was a wooden shield against two swords being swung by much large opponents, with his back up against a wall. Then two more guards came and knocked the shield from his hands. It was the end game.
Sansa’s eyes burned blood red as they kicked him to the ground commenced beating him with the blunt ends of their swords. She stepped out of the shadows on impulse, and one of the guards instantly seized her. She strained against the hands twisting both her arms behind her. “No, stop, stop! Stop, please! STOP! You’re killing him!”
“You’re getting the idea, little girl,” the guard snickered.
Tears spilled down her cheeks as she watched them continue to beat him and kick him hard in the chest, in the face. She could have sworn she heard his ribs snap, his jaw break, and his effort to suppress a muffled groan. She remembered how his twisted bones pained him already, and knew how much agony he had to be in. She saw a puddle of blood forming on the ground beneath him.
“No, please…please…I’ll do anything you want,” she sobbed. “Just let him alone!”
“Quite attached to that abominable little troll, aren’t you?” Torquil was standing in the threshold, arms crossed, with a self-satisfied expression on his face.
Sansa turned and her eyes blazed with a raw emotion. “He is my husband!” she screamed, so loudly that her lungs ached and her ears felt pierced through. “My husband! I love my husband…” Then she broke down weeping.
“Yes, so I gathered. Lord Tyrion Lannister and Lady Sansa Stark, is it not?”
She gasped, frozen in time through the realization that their lives were truly forfeit.
“Never fear, my lady, I shan’t turn you in for any price offered. I am a man of honor, and you are far too precious a jewel. The dwarf, however –” He gestured to his guards, one of whom yanked the limp Tyrion to his feet, and placed his dagger’s blade snugly beneath his chin. “I believe the arrangement from House Lannister is dead or alive.”
“No…” She felt all the strength drain from her body as Tyrion made eye contact with her. His scar had been ripped open and his face was covered in blood, but she still saw that strange, soft look clouding his crisscross gaze. That look that drank up the sight of the one thing he loved, with the knowing that he would never see it again with his living eyes.
And now there was something else present in those eyes as well, the same look her father had given her just before he was beheaded. A look that said everything would be alright, somehow, and she shouldn’t blame herself for what was happening. That she was still his “treasure.”
Oh, father…oh, Tyrion…so different, yet so very much the same…
“It’s the natural way of things,” Torquil rationalized. “The love of beauty always kills the beast.”
Sansa felt as if a knife had been plunged into her at his words, just as she saw the knife thrust up into Tyrion’s neck. Blood spilled out of his mouth, and he choked. She screamed as a final gurgling gasp escaped him and they pushed him down to the ground. She tore one of her arms free and reached out towards his crumpled body as it was cast down the stairs, gasping for her own breath that she felt was being crushed out of her body as she watched him die.
She heard Torquil snicker. It was the final straw. She lunged at him with a strength she did not know she had, freeing herself from the guard for a moment, and yanking Torquil’s dagger from his belt. She struck at him blindly, and slashed him across the face, leaving a gash that extended from the bridge of his nose to the corner of his mouth…not so very different from Tyrion’s scar.
As one of the guards seized hold of her one arm and dragged her back, the injured nobleman pressed his hand over his wounded face and growled, “I’ll make you pay for that, little wild cat! Just wait till you share my bed…”
No…no…I want to be with Tyrion…he’ll hold me, and whisper kind things to me, and help me get to sleep…
Sansa squeezed the hilt of the dagger in her other hand, gritted her teeth, and thrust it deep into her lower belly. She moaned like a doe shot by hunters and sank to her knees. The guard released her, shocked at the sight of the blood pouring out of her, a crimson cascade staining the stairs as she started to drag herself down them with the dagger still in her. Slowly, slowly, she made her way closer to his body, crumpled on the stairs, just as she had found him when she was a child on their first meeting.
She sobbed at sight of so much blood, both his and her own, mixing and mingling as she lay herself down against him, as the energy and will to live drained from her. “You don’t have to climb alone,” she gasped through the tears and pain. “I can…help you…”
Then she felt another chainmail clad hand clenched hard against her arm like a dog’s teeth. She knew what was going to happen, wavering between life and death as she was. She was a dying animal now, of no use to anyone’s game, and someone had come to deal the fatal stroke.
He turned her over on her back, and held her down by tugging her hair hard as he drew out his blade. Why so hard? There’s nowhere else to run…death is the only refuge left…
She twitched out of reaction when she felt the knife’s edge press against her throat and start to saw back and forth, like sawing wood. She felt the hot blood start to run down her neck…the neck Tyrion once thought so attractive…
The cold metal sank deeper, as if through butter, and she felt it stealing her breath away. She tasted blood trickling into her mouth, she choked on it…but could not breathe.
The death-labor was on her now, and her whole body writhed as the knife sliced through her pulsing veins and tore through her windpipe.
Her eyes were as empty glass now, and her face had gone from a sickened green to a deadened gray. Her lips were drained white, even as the tide of dark purple gushed over them, and her slit throat flailed once more, like the gills of a dying fish.
A last tear ran down her cheek, and a last word clung to her last fleeting breath. It was “mama”, but no one heard it, drowned out by the ocean of death. No one saw the glint of moonlight through her healer’s crystal in the jaws of darkness.
Her head fell back onto Tyrion’s chest…and she found her sleep there.