Fellowship & Fairydust

December 6, 299

Sansa woke aching and tired, signs that her red flower had hit her in full force. She groaned as she sat up, pushing the covers off of herself. As they fell, she realized that her flower had broken through her nightclothes last night and stained the cover. She stared at the stain, and then, her face hot, she looked over to where her husband had begun to scrub at his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa whispered, mortified. “I thought I was covered for the night.”

“What?” Tyrion blinked at her blearily. His eyes followed the trail of hers to the blood staining the sheets. He shook his head and scrubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Oh. That.”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa repeated.

“For what?” Tyrion swung his legs out of bed and slid to the floor. “We both knew you’d flower, considering.”

“But it… leaked,” Sansa whispered. “Right next to you… It’s disgusting.”

“It’s not ideal,” Tyrion said. “But it is a risk one takes when sleeping next to a lady. There’s no need to be dramatic about it. Adelaide will wash the sheets.”

Sansa stared at him, a mixture of surprise and awe on her face.

Tyrion sighed. “A man is not much of a man if he’s scared of a little blood, Sansa. Come, change into your morning clothes, and we’ll grab some breakfast in the gardens.”

Sansa felt the world spin around her. She pressed a hand to her stomach. “Actually, my Lord, I think I’d rather skip breakfast if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind,” Tyrion said, though his words were gentle. “It’s certainly not that big of a deal for you to bleed in the bed.”

“No.” Sansa shook her head. She gave him an apologetic look. “It’s… uncomfortable. The flowering.”

“Ah.” Tyrion’s expression cleared. “Of course, it is. I have heard rumors. Worse for some women than others, I’ve heard. Cersei turns into a complete dragon when hers is upon her.”

Sansa smiled weakly.

“You should get dressed just the same,” Tyrion said. “The fresh air will do you some good.”

Sansa gave him a pleading expression. She wanted nothing more than to climb back into her bed and clutch her stomach, which was tight and cramping.

“Trust me, Lady Sansa,” Tyrion said.

Through gritted teeth, Sansa replied, “You have a lot of experience with flowering, my Lord?”

“I have experience with women,” Tyrion replied lightly. “Flowering women, even. Please get dressed, Sansa.”

Sansa sighed, wiping her hair away from her face, but she could not truly deny him. He was her husband. He owned her; if he wanted to, he could have her dragged out by her hair. The fact that he wouldn’t didn’t change the fact that Sansa was sworn to obey him.

As Sansa was behind the curtain fixing rags into place, she heard Tyrion call, “I’ll meet you in the gardens in half an hour.”

Sansa sighed, wiping sweat from her brow. “Yes. Of course.”

Half an hour later, Sansa made her way to a shaded section of the gardens and took a seat on a low wall. It took every bit of her energy to keep her face bland when all she could think of was the pain in her stomach. She could feel sweat beading on her forehead.

It was a few long moments before Tyrion came towards her, Adelaide trailing behind him with food. Sansa frowned as she looked at the two of them. Tyrion had a cup in his hands, and she wondered if he was already drinking.

“My Lady.” Tyrion bowed politely when he came close, a gentle smile on his lips. He held the cup in his hands out to her. “For you.”

Sansa took the cup into her hands and looked at its contents questioningly. It looked almost like milk, except that chunks of… stuff… floated in it. Sansa’s nose crinkled in distaste.

“It’s not attractive,” Tyrion admitted.

“No,” Sansa agreed.

Tyrion sat next to Sansa on the wall. He said, “I got the recipe from a courtesan I bedded once.”

She stared at him over the cup.

“She was from Essos,” Tyrion told Sansa. “She had once been a slave. On Slaver’s Bay, they give this… concoction… to slaves so that they can continue their work while flowering.”

“That’s horrible,” Sansa says.

“Slavery is horrible,” Tyrion said. “But the drink is effective. Drink. It will help.”

Sansa gave him a nervous look and then she tipped her head back and drank the… whatever it was. The texture was thick and full of leaves, like a toddler’s attempt at a stew, but the taste was less unpleasant than Sansa had anticipated. Mostly it tasted of milk and ginger, though there were other things floating in the drink that she didn’t recognize. When the first sip wasn’t terrible, she pressed on, drinking more of it.

Adelaide laid out their breakfast for them; a light affair of fruits and biscuits. Sansa stared at it, but for the time being, she was content to just sip the drink Tyrion had given her. She wasn’t sure if it was actually the drink or just the thought that it might help, but the cramps seemed to be receding slightly.

Tyrion stretched his hands out beside him on the wall. “It’s a beautiful day.”

“It is,” Sansa agreed blandly.

Tyrion sighed; the sound thick with contentment. “I used to love days like this when I was a boy – warm, but not hot, with just the touch of a breeze.”

Sansa looked at him. He never talked about his childhood.

“Casterly Rock sits on the sea,” Tyrion explained. “The harbor is full of ships. On days like this, when the wind was good, it put even my father in a good mood. My brother, Jaime, had a ship. He used to take me sailing. Just the two of us… Cersei hated sailing.”

Sansa set her now-empty cup beside her on the wall. “Do you miss him? Jaime, I mean?”

Tyrion’s lips quirked. “He’s the only one in my family who has ever seen me as anything more than a dwarf.”

Sansa’s eyes fell to her lap.

“I’m sure you miss your siblings as well,” Tyrion said, his tone apologetic.

Sansa swallowed. “I was horrible to my siblings,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tyrion stared at her.

“My sister and my brother Jon especially,” Sansa told him. “I liked to remind Jon that he was a bastard. And Arya… Gods, I hated her. She was always getting into fights. I thought she’d never learn to be a true lady.”

Tyrion watched her quietly.

Sansa gave a sardonic smile. “I hated them both, and now I lie awake at night wondering if I’ll ever see them again.”

“I’m sorry,” Tyrion said, sincerely.

“Me too.” Sansa moved her cup and set it down beside the fruits and biscuits that Adelaide had laid out. She stood. “I’d like to go to the Godswood if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Tyrion told her. “I’ll see you this evening.”

***

The Godswood was as quiet and abandoned as it always was. Sansa sat away from the doors just the same. She stretched her legs out and rested her back against the Weirwood tree. Only when she was settled, did she reach up and pull the comb from her hair; letting it fall down in waves around her shoulders.

It was a pretty comb, she thought. Plain, but pretty. She smiled at the thought. She never would have thought that a proper gift from a Lannister would be understated, but she appreciated it all the more because it was: A black comb could be worn in her hair at any time, regardless of her dress.

Sansa pushed on the base of the comb, popping out the little knife hidden within. The blade caught the light of the sun, shimmering for a moment. Sansa touched the base of her thumb to the blade. When she pulled it away, a thin tendril of blood remained behind. Sansa whistled. She’d have to be careful with this – it was sharp. Much sharper than her little sewing needle.

***

That evening she met Tyrion in their chambers as they usually did. Tyrion had a wry look on his face. He tugged on the hem of his tunic; a sign she had learned over the weeks meant that he was nervous.

“What is it?” Sansa asked him. The comb was back in place upon her head.

Tyrion cleared his throat. “My father has requested that we dine in the Great Hall tonight.”

“Oh.” Sansa looked down at her hands.

“We’ve been lucky to have avoided it this long,” Tyrion said. “I’ve been placating him by going to the Small Council meetings sober.”

“I appreciate that,” Sansa said quietly.

Tyrion took her hand in his and gave it a small squeeze. “I know you’re not feeling well. If you need to beg off…?”

“I hardly think informing them that I’m flowering will soften their disposition towards me.” Sansa checked the comb in her hair and touched the necklace against her breast, two small talismans of safety. Talismans from her husband… She looked at him, worry in her eyes. “You won’t lose your temper again, will you? Joffrey almost had you beheaded last time….”

“I was drunk last time,” Tyrion said. “I won’t be drunk tonight.”

Sansa nodded hesitantly.

***

As Tyrion led his bride, his arm on hers, he wished that he were a different sort of man – taller, stronger, more capable of offering comfort to the wife he hardly knew. She held her head high, and the careful mask that she had spent the past two years perfecting was perfectly affixed to her face. That alone told Tyrion that she was terrified. He had learned in the past month that the mask only went up when she was upset or nervous. When she was relaxed, her face was full of expression.

The rest of his family was already in the Great Hall when Tyrion and Sansa entered. Tyrion envied her careful control. His own face was set in a grim line. Even as a boy, he’d hated dining with his family. You could never relax around them – never let your guard down. Tyrion sighed, leading Sansa to two empty seats at the end of the table.

“Nice of you to join us, Uncle,” Joffrey said, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “And Lady Sansa. I see you’re still walking. A month of marital relations with my uncle hasn’t ruined you?”

“Joffrey…,” Cersei said quietly.

“I told you, Your Grace, my manhood is so very small. She hardly knows when I am there,” Tyrion replied.

Joffrey snorted, turning to Sansa, “Is that true?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sansa answered automatically.

“Well, you can’t expect too much from a dwarf.” Joffrey, mollified, for the time being, slouched back in his chair.

Tyrion served Sansa a plate of food from the platters before he served himself. He served her despite knowing that when she was nervous, her stomach was turned away from food – despite knowing that she would likely not eat a bite. She hadn’t eaten at breakfast, either, and if he wasn’t careful, he would watch her wither away in front of him.

Dinner was nearly over when Joffrey stood and again addressed Tyrion and Sansa. Without preamble, he announced, “My future queen doesn’t want either of you at my wedding.”

Tyrion looked at him sharply.

“What do you think of that?” Joffrey pressed.

Tyrion stood looking in Margaery’s direction. “Have we offended you, my lady?”

“No.” There was a gentle smile on Margaery’s face as she stood. “I only said to Joffrey that I thought it might be… awkward… to have the woman he was once engaged to at our wedding.”

“That’s understandable,” Tyrion said gently.

“Yes,” Joffrey smirked. “So, it’s decided. You two will leave King’s Landing before our wedding day.”

“Leave for where?” Tyrion asked.

“Casterly Rock,” Tywin answered.

Tyrion shot his father a sharp look.

“You will rule there in my stead,” Tywin said, “until such a time that the North has been reclaimed and we can send you there instead.”

Tyrion had dreamed of ruling Casterly Rock for most of his life, but now that the task had been given to him, it felt bittersweet. If his father had put him in charge of Casterly Rock, it meant that he had truly given up on Jaime.

“Petyr Baelish will be back in two days,” Tywin said. “You will leave in three. Baelish will take over as Master of Coin.”

“Very well, Father.” Tyrion stood, touching Sansa’s hand gently as he rose. “If you’ll excuse us, it seems we have preparations to make.”

Joffrey waved them away, looking bored. As he was turning to escort his lady from the hall, he saw his father give him a single, tight nod.

Tyrion had to hold it to his young bride: She knew how to keep her composure. It wasn’t until they were alone in their rooms, the door closed and bolted behind them, that she allowed the smile to take her lips. Tyrion smiled as well. It would be good to put a good deal of distance between them and their sadistic king.

Sansa spun to look at him. “Did you know?”

“I had hoped,” Tyrion admitted. “I spoke with Lady Margaery yesterday. I wasn’t sure if she’d have the influence already, not before the crown sits upon her head.”

Sansa’s eyes glistened. She stooped down in front of him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. It was a small, chaste thing.

Tyrion smiled and bowed, “M’lady.”

“Three days,” Sansa whispered. “Three days and I’ll be free of this place.”

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