Fellowship & Fairydust

November 9, 299

The morning after her wedding, Sansa woke to the sound of a door opening and Tyrion grumbling from the other side of the room.

“You really ought to knock….”

“I’m sorry, M’lord.” Adelaide’s voice was small. “I… I brought breakfast.”

Sansa cracked an eye open. She watched Tyrion, who had snored on the chaise longue all night, scrub at his eyes and sit up. Adelaide had a tray of food which she set out on Tyrion’s table before crossing to the bed.

Sansa stood. She let Adelaide help her change out of her nightgown and into a dress. Tyrion didn’t look at her when her clothes were off – he had his back to her as he served the food onto two plates. Sansa was reminded of the night before when he refused to bed her. It was more than she had ever dared hope, and she resolved then and there to do her best by him.

Adelaide stripped the duvet from the bed and stared at the pristine white sheets, an unreadable look in her eyes.

Sansa didn’t allow herself to think about it. She crossed the room and sat across from Tyrion, allowing him to serve her eggs and sausage.

“M-my lord,” Adelaide said quietly. “Might I have a knife?”

“An odd request.” Tyrion gave her a long look, and then he pulled a penknife from a drawer and held it out to her. Sansa looked at him in surprise.

“If she was going to kill us, she wouldn’t be so obvious about getting us to provide the knife,” Tyrion assured her.

Adelaide walked forward and took the knife from him. As they watched, she crossed the room again, lifted her skirts, and cut into her flesh.

Sansa gasped, “Adelaide, what are you….”

Adelaide pulled the sheets up and pressed them to her leg, smearing blood across both the fitted and the top sheet until large circles of blood-stained them both and the blood had stopped running from her leg. When she was done, she dropped her skirts back into place, cleaned the blade off on the sheet, and walked back over to them.

“Thank you, m’Lord.” Adelaide handed him the knife, not looking him in the eye. She turned away from them, gathered the sheets, and stepped from the room before they could say anything further to her.

“Well,” Tyrion said, staring at the door that had closed behind her. “That was certainly interesting.”

“She’s covering for us,” Sansa said, blushing and dropping her gaze.

“So, it would appear.” Tyrion poured her a cup of orange juice. “It certainly makes it harder to mistrust her.”

Sansa took a sip of her juice.

“What would you like to do today?” Tyrion asked.

All Sansa really wanted to do was to curl up in a corner and not come out again until the war was over, but she knew better than to suggest it seriously. Only moments before, she had promised herself that she would make an effort in this relationship, and so she would.

“We could take a walk after breakfast? I enjoy the gardens.”

“As do I.” Tyrion smiled at her. “It’ll be good to be seen as a couple. It makes us appear stronger in the eyes of the people.”

“I wasn’t scheming,” Sansa muttered.

“No,” Tyrion agreed. “It doesn’t make it any less true, however.”

Sansa took a bite of her eggs, and Tyrion sighed.

“Gods, but my head is killing me.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have drunk so much,” Sansa said.

Tyrion stared at her. “I thought I was going to be sleeping with you.”

“Am I that hideous to look at?” Sansa asked.

“Not at all,” Tyrion said quietly. “You’re quite pretty. But I was not eager to… take you… when I knew you would not enjoy it.” Sansa stared at him. Because he was speaking openly, she decided to do so as well.

“You’ve had paid companions before.”

“Those women made money from the arrangement,” Tyrion said. “And none were quite as unwilling as a thirteen-year-old who secretly considers me to be her enemy.”

“I don’t consider you my enemy,” Sansa said automatically.

“No?” Tyrion cocked an eyebrow at her. “In any case, when I have partaken in that particular sport, I’ve been careful to ensure that the ladies in question enjoy it as much as they can enjoy that sort of work. Well, perhaps not ‘as much.’ Podrick has me beat there.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Tyrion shook his head. “My point is that I was not eager to bed someone who was not eager to bed me. Hence the drinking.”

“You don’t normally drink so much, then?” Sansa asked.

“Oh, I drink,” Tyrion admitted. “Not as much as my father thinks – not as much as Robert Baratheon – but I do drink.”

“My father rarely drank,” Sansa told him in a quiet voice. “Only at celebrations, and he never got drunk.”

“Your father was a good man,” Tyrion replied earnestly.

Sansa stared at him. “Do you really think so?”

“I really do.” Tyrion stood. “Come. Let’s go for that walk.”

***

The day was warm and lovely, but it was admittedly harder to enjoy the walk with his new wife than Tyrion had anticipated. It was hard enough to try to gain the trust of a woman who’d been his family’s prisoner for two years, but even harder when laughter followed them wherever they went. As two knights snorted particularly loudly, Tyrion’s hand clenched in irritation.

“Ser Eldrick Sarsfield,” Tyrion muttered quietly. “Lord Desmond Crakehall.”

“What are you doing?” Sansa asked.

Tyrion glanced at her. “I have a list.”

“A list of people you mean to kill?”

“For laughing at me?” Tyrion gave her a scandalized look. “Do I look like Joffrey to you? No, death seems a bit extreme. Fear of death, on the other hand….”

“You should learn to ignore them,” Sansa said.

Tyrion smiled at her. “My lady, people have been laughing at me far longer than they have been laughing at you. I’m the ‘Halfman,’ ‘The Demon Monkey,’ ‘The Imp.’”

“You’re a Lannister,” Sansa told him. “I am the disgraced daughter of the traitor, Ned Stark.”

“The disgraced daughter and the demon monkey,” Tyrion muttered. “We’re perfect for each other.”

Sansa chuckled. “So, how should we punish them then?”

“Who?” Tyrion asked. “Whom?”

“Ser Eldrick Sarsfield and Lord Desmond Crakehall.”

“Ah.” Tyrion thought about it. “I could speak to Lord Varys and learn their perversions. Anyone named Desmond Crakehall must be a deviant.”

“I hear that you’re a deviant,” Sansa told him.

Tyrion laughed. “I am the Imp. I have certain standards to maintain.”

Sansa looked excited for a moment. She took a seat on the wall looking over the village and leaned towards Tyrion.

“We could sheep shift Lord Desmond’s bed,” She whispered conspiratorially.

Tyrion gave her a curious look.

In a low voice, she explained, “You cut a hole in his mattress and you stuff sheep dung inside. Then you sew up the hold and make his bed again. His room will stink, but he won’t know where it’s coming from.”

“Lady Sansa!” Tyrion said, mock-scandalized.

Sansa smiled. “My sister used to do that when she was angry with me. And she was always angry with me.”

Tyrion could see sadness settling behind her eyes. Hoping to hold onto the humor she’d had a moment before, he said, “Why sheep shift?”

Sansa leaned even closer to him and whispered, “That’s the vulgar word for dung.”

It took everything Tyrion had not to laugh at how carefully she whispered that. It was another reminder of how young she truly was.

“My lady…,” He muttered.

“Well, you asked me!” She said, mistaking his amusement for embarrassment.

Tyrion laughed. “And so I did. Come, Sansa. Let’s head back inside.”

<Previous|Next>