Fellowship & Fairydust

December 4, 299

Tyrion sat hunched over the table in his room, worrying for the umpteenth time about the royal coin. Robert had driven the country into terrible debt, and Joffrey’s war had done nothing to waylay it. They needed to raise the taxes if they were ever going to begin repaying their debts. The truth was that their people were doing even more poorly than they were. Tyrion would be more than happy to turn the task back over to Baelish and escape with Sansa to Destination Unknown.

The door opened, and Adelaide stepped in with a pitcher of water.

“Thank you,” Tyrion said absently, still staring at his charts.

Adelaide hovered by his elbow, shifting from foot to foot.

Tyrion turned to look at her. “Something else?”

“I just…,” Adelaide tugged on a strand of hair. “I only wondered if you had plans for tomorrow?”

Tyrion looked at her, not comprehending the question. “Not particularly, no.”

“Right.” Adelaide ducked her head. She still didn’t move towards the door.

Tyrion sighed and set his quill down. Folding his hands, he said to her, “Is there a reason you think I should have plans for tomorrow?”

Adelaide tugged on her dress. “No, sir. Only… It is milady’s name day.”

“Name day?” Tyrion repeated blankly.

“She’ll be fourteen,” Adelaide said.

Tyrion stared at the grain of the table for a moment before admitting, “She hadn’t told me… I didn’t know.”

“She enjoys lemon cake,” Adelaide said.

“Then she shall have lemon cake,” Tyrion said. “And a nice dinner – whatever you think she’ll enjoy, whatever the cost.”

“Very well, my lord.” Adelaide curtsied.

Tyrion set his papers to the side and stood. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Adelaide.”

“Yes, my lord.” Adelaide picked up a crumb-covered plate leftover from Tyrion’s snack. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“That will be all,” Tyrion replied.

***

Evening came slowly in King’s Landing–much more slowly than it had come in Winterfell. Sansa sat on the garden wall, her legs hanging out towards the city, and listened as the birds sang their goodnight songs. The sound was pleasant enough, but as she listened to it, it was all she could do not to burst into tears. In a few hours, her nameday would be upon her. She would be fourteen years old. In Winterfell fourteen was a special age for a girl – a marked sign that she was now a woman. Her mother and father would have thrown a feast in her honor. Her father would have given a speech about traditions and responsibilities, and her mother would have gifted her with something beautiful that had been passed down through the years.

Instead, she would turn fourteen at King’s Landing, married to a man she would never love even if she respected him, prey to an evil king, stuck in this hellish nightmare. Sansa hadn’t even bothered to tell Tyrion her birthday was coming. He’d have done something special, she was sure of that, but he’d have done it out of duty to her. He took his duty as a husband seriously; she’d give him that much. But Sansa knew that he didn’t want this marriage any more than she did, and the thought of him spoiling her when they hardly knew each other was almost too much to bear. She pulled a sewing needle from her dress, and with her eyes focused on the burning sky she pressed the needle into her skin, halfway up her arm where her dresses would cover the marks. She stuck herself with the needle again and again, and somehow the pain kept her tears at bay.

She waited until darkness fell before swinging her legs back inside the garden and making the slow trek back up to the castle. Once ensconced within the castle walls, the torches on the walls guided her back to the room she shared with her husband, the imp. She could see the lights on in their rooms, and any dream she’d had that he might already be asleep washed away. Sansa straightened, her face bland, and opened the door.

Tyrion was on the chaise longue, his back against the arm, his legs extended out. He held a book between his hands. Without looking up, he said, “You were out late tonight.”

“Sorry, my Lord,” Sansa replied automatically.

Tyrion lowered his book. “Tyrion, Sansa. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Sansa smiled wanly. “Just tired.”

Tyrion nodded in response.

Sansa stepped behind the divider to change. She undid her dress and dropped it to the floor, letting her slip join it a moment later. She replaced them with a pale pink dressing gown. Only when she’d covered it with a robe, did she step around them towards her husband.

His eyes were still focused on the book in his hands. He said, “Have you eaten?”

“Earlier,” Sansa lied. She hadn’t felt much like eating today, but she didn’t want it to become an issue between the two of them. In the near-month that they had been together, Sansa had found that Tyrion cared about very few things, but making sure that she was fed was near the top of that list. She wasn’t sure why.

Tyrion flipped a page in his book. He looked for all the world as if he were relaxed and at home on the chaise longue, but Sansa was sure it wasn’t true. She’d tried to rest on that chaise on a few occasions to do her needlework. It was the single least comfortable piece of furniture she had ever come across. The floor would be a better place to relax. Not for the first time since she’d married him, Sansa told herself that she should tell Tyrion it was okay if he joined her in bed – to sleep, and nothing else.

Not for the first time, she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. She climbed into bed, pulling the covers over herself. As she stared at the drapes around the bed, she concentrated on the steady sound of Tyrion Lannister turning page after page in his book, trying to let it drown out the worries that clogged her brain most of the time these days.

Just as she was drifting to sleep, she heard a voice across the room whisper, “Goodnight, Lady Sansa.”

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