Fellowship & Fairydust

December 7, 299

Sansa’s eyes popped open as the first tendrils of sunlight reached their bedroom window. She’d had a fitful night’s sleep, too excited to really doze now that her time at King’s Landing was drawing to a close. She ran a hand over her face and then rolled onto one side to look upon the sleeping form of her husband. Tyrion slept more soundly than anyone she’d ever met, and the steady rise and fall of his chest was the only sign that he was still alive. Although he fell asleep after her most nights, she felt sure that when he did fall asleep, he didn’t move a single muscle the whole of the rest of the night. It was a skill she wished she had. She was a thrasher at night and, on her side of the bed, the blankets were always tangled around her legs by the time she opened her eyes.

Sansa let out a small breath of air and stood. Lord Baelish was due into King’s Landing tomorrow, and Tyrion would likely spend the entire day speaking about the king’s coin with him, which meant that they needed to make the most of today to ready their preparations. As Tyrion continued to sleep, his hand furled near his mouth, Sansa began readying her things for travel. It had been two years since she’d been on the road, travelling from Winterfell to King’s Landing. She’d been a little girl then. Now she was a woman.

She packed away the combs and jewelry that she had gathered, wrapping each item neatly in a handkerchief before placing it into a small wooden box that had come with her from Winterfell. It was one of the few personal possessions she’d been permitted to keep, having no markings from Winterfell on it, and she was inordinately attached to it despite its simplicity. The only items she kept out were her name day presents from Tyrion, which she intended to wear.

Tyrion stirred as she was closing the lid of the box. He scrubbed at his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“I thought I’d start packing while you slept,” Sansa said.

“The maids will do that.”

“I like doing it myself,” Sansa said. “That way I can be sure nothing is missed.”

“Hmm.” Tyrion slid from the bed, landing heavily on the floor. “Tomorrow then, while I’m occupied with Baelish. We have things to do today.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Tyrion,” he corrected automatically. He stumbled sleepily to the table in the center of the room and poured himself a glass of water. Sansa watched, bemused, as he upended the water over his head. It dripped down his face, pasting his golden curls to his skin.

“Are you okay?” Sansa asked.

“Just tired.” Tyrion shook his head like a dog after a bath. “I spent most of the night making preparations – figuring out how much food we’ll need, how many men… My dear father hasn’t given us a lot of time.”

“Oh.” Sansa looked at him. There were dark circles around his eyes, and she remembered now that the candle next to the bed had been going until quite late.

“Nothing for you to worry about.” Tyrion smiled tiredly.

“Of course.” She held herself still, not sure what to do if he was in a mood.

Tyrion sighed. “Get dressed, Sansa. We’ll grab a bite in the city – we have many things to attend to today.”

***

King’s Landing had once been the richest city in the Seven Kingdoms. When Sansa had arrived two years ago, she had loved exploring the little stores with her nanny. She remembered one day when Arya had raced through the streets after a cat, and they had both been dragged back to the castle early. Sansa had been examining a little golden ring at the time, wondering if she could convince their father to purchase it for her. She’d been so angry with Arya that she’d slapped her face, leaving a red mark that lasted on her pale skin for an hour.

Now the city was starving. She and Tyrion had eaten breakfast in a dreary tavern surrounded by King’s Guard, served by a wench with suspicious eyes. She had trailed after Tyrion as he purchased supplies for their trips. The food he’d written out orders for, but he went personally to gather new garments for the two of them, suitable horses, and men.

The worst part of traveling the cities were the whispers that followed after them. Things were calmer than they had been the time that the King’s caravan was attacked in the city, but Sansa still kept close to Tyrion and his guard. Tyrion, sensing her discomfiture, took her hand in his and gave her a reassuring smile.

She was grateful when they turned back towards the castle and put some distance between themselves and the cities. As she slipped her hand away from Tyrion’s, she mused that the feeling of security was just another thing that the war had stolen from them all.

“Most of the matters are dealt with,” Tyrion said. “Tomorrow, while I’m assisting Baelish, you can say your goodbyes; if you have any to make.”

“And pack,” Sansa reminded him.

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “Yes. Pack.”

Sansa poked him lightly in the ribs the way she might have done to Robb or Bran when they were teasing her for being too girly. “You’ll be happy I packed when we get to the Rock and your favorite books actually arrive with us.”

“I’m a Lannister,” Tyrion said. “I could send for books.”

“And they would take months to arrive,” Sansa replied. “You told me it would take us three weeks to get to Casterly Rock if the weather holds.”

Tyrion sighed. “Very well. You pack, and I won’t say another thing about it, even if that is why we have servants. But there’s one matter we still must discuss.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow, encouraging him to continue.

“We’re allowed to take some servants with us,” Tyrion said. “Not a lot – there are already some servants at Casterly Rock, of course. But those will be my father’s servants, and we are permitted to bring some of our own – people to assist us in the journey.”

“Podrick, Bronn and Adelaide,” Sansa supplied.

“Naturally.” Tyrion inclined his head. “Bronn has a… friend… Adelaide’s mother. If it pleases your lady, I thought we might bring her as well.”

Sansa frowned. “Adelaide’s mother? She’d be old for a handmaiden, wouldn’t she?”

“She would.” Tyrion frowned. “I thought we could say she was… a nanny.”

“A nanny.” Sansa stared at him.

Tyrion sighed. “I know I said I wouldn’t press you, milady, and I won’t, but we are expected to produce heirs. Bringing a nanny with us will show to everyone else that we intend to have heirs in a short amount of time.”

Sansa reached out and squeezed Tyrion’s hand gently. “It’s a smart idea.”

Tyrion lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to her fingertips.

***

By the time he and Sansa made it back to their chambers, Tyrion was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and fall into a deep sleep. Unfortunately, he knew that he would not. He never fell asleep before Sansa – never allowed himself to. Instead, he told her stories every night, stories he’d heard from his nanny when he was a boy. He didn’t read them, though; instead he would hold a book in his hands and turn the pages every once in a while. He didn’t need to read them. He knew all the stories by heart. Pretending to read was just a game he played, like pretending to sleep beside her each night when the truth was that he worked from bed each night, lying down beside her and keeping his breathing even so she would believe the charade. He slept during the day when she was out. He feared truly falling asleep beside her. Feared that she would wake to find herself nestled in his arms, and any trust that he had built between the two of them would crumble like the walls of Winterfell.

Tyrion selected a nightshirt from his wardrobe, ready to play the charade once more. As he stepped behind his privacy curtain, Sansa reached out to him, stilling him with her fingertips. Tyrion frowned, giving her a questioning look.

“May I?” Sansa touched the bottom of his tunic.

“My lady?”

“You said you won’t touch me until I want you to,” Sansa reminded him.

Tyrion could feel his heart quickening. “I did….”

Sansa worried her lower lip with her teeth. “I don’t know if I’ll ever….”

The words still stung, despite the fact that she didn’t finish them.

“I don’t.” Sansa breathed out slowly. “Sorry. I’m nervous. I just… I don’t know that I’ll ever make it that far if I don’t dare to look at you. Or have you look at me.”

It’s clear that the girl was terrified. Tyrion smiles gently at her. “Baby steps, my lady. You can bear to look me in the eyes now – that’s better than a month ago.”

Sansa blushed. She knelt in front of him so that they were at a level. “Please, my L… Tyrion. I wish… I wish to look upon my husband.”

Tyrion doubted that very much – and because he doubted it, he didn’t want her to look at him. He knew what she’d find: An imp with bowed legs and disproportionate body parts. He didn’t know if he could stand to see her try to mask her face from him – to see the mask she would wear to hide her disgust – or, worse, pity.

Sansa didn’t wait for his response. She reached up and carefully undid the top button on his tunic. Tyrion held himself stiffly as she worked her way down his tunic, undoing button after button before tugging the shirt carefully away from his shoulders. He stood in front of her in just his undershirt and trousers. He watched as Sansa took a breath before grabbing the hem of his shirt and lifting it up over his head.

She didn’t drop the shirt on the floor, as he would have. Instead, she folded it carefully, her hands and eyes focused on the task. Tyrion knew that she was doing so to avoid having to look at him, and it did nothing to help his ego. When she finished folding it, she set it gently on the floor before lifting her eyes.

Tyrion watched her face as her eyes roved up his pale body, taking in everything from the scars on his arms to the wispy hairs on his barrel chest. Her expression gave nothing away. Her hand rose, and her fingertips touched lightly against a crescent-shaped scar on his shoulder.

Tyrion swallowed. “I got it when I was seven. Cersei was angry with me – I don’t remember what about – and she hit me with a poker from the fire.”

Sansa’s eyes darkened. Her fingertips trailed away from that scar to another, larger, on his chest. She looked at him questioningly.

“On the way to the Eyrie, where I was tried for your brother, Bran’s, fall. Your mother and I were fallen upon by tribes’ people.”

Sansa stared at the scar for a long moment, and then she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his skin, the kiss feather-light. Tyrion closed his eyes. It was all he could do not to let out a moan at the fleeting contact.

It was gone quickly. Sansa sat back on her heels. She reached for a nightshirt and handed it to him, watching as he pulled it over his head before removing his trousers. Without a word, Tyrion walked past her towards the bed they were supposed to share. He climbed into it, not offering to take her clothes from her. She wasn’t ready, he knew, even if she was determined to do her duty.

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