Fellowship & Fairydust

December 9, 299

Sansa sprung from her bed on the morning they were to leave King’s Landing, her eyes as bright and excited as Tyrion had ever seen them. It reminded him a bit of the girl she had been when she was first betrothed to Joffrey. He rose more slowly, stretching carefully. He’d actually fallen asleep last night, the book he was reading sinking onto his chest. His fears about accosting the girl in the night had not come true, thankfully, and he rubbed at the back of his neck, musing that it was the first normal night’s sleep he’d had since they were wed.

“I’ve never been West before,” Sansa told him absently, as she combed her long red hair.

“Not much different than East.” Tyrion pulled on the one tunic Sansa had not packed with the rest of his things. “Sea’s on the opposite side.”

“Very helpful.” Sansa rolled her eyes.

“You’ll see it for yourself in a few weeks,” Tyrion told her.

Sansa pouted at her reflection and pinched her cheeks lightly to give them color. “Do you miss it?”

Tyrion thought about the question for a moment. “I suppose I do… some, anyway. I miss having a suite to myself. This room has always felt small, even for a dwarf.”

“You might not take up much room,” Sansa said, “but you have more books than anyone I know, and they take room.”

“Books are important.” Tyrion shrugged.

Adelaide came into the room with a tray of breakfast for the two of them. She dropped the food onto the table and slipped out again without a word. Tyrion sighed, staring after her. He wished the damned Lannister name didn’t make him seem like such a formidable opponent to so many people; it was tiring.

***

It was barely dawn when their caravan started its slow progress away from King’s Landing. Sansa was on her knees on the carriage seat, watching through the back window as her prison of two years faded from sight. Only when the sun was high, and the Red Keep was a mere dot on the horizon, did she allow Tyrion to pull her down into a more appropriate sitting position in the carriage.

“You seem happy,” Tyrion commented, handing her a flagon of water.

Sansa smiled gently. “I never thought this day would come.”

***

The river was to their left when they stopped for camp. The few guards that had been spared for their journey took the horses to water, while Bronn showed Podrick how to start a fire. Sansa sat in the grass, Tyrion beside her, and stared at the snapping flames until they withered, at which point the moon was high. Tyrion stood, tugging gently on her hand to encourage her to do the same.

They had a tent to themselves; a luxury Sansa hadn’t had the last time she travelled the King’s road. Blankets had been laid out for them, forming a small bed on the ground. It was a tighter fit than their bed in King’s Landing and, to her discomfort, Sansa found herself shoulder to shoulder with Tyrion. She could barely move without risking herself to the cold, and any time her skin would slip from beneath the blankets, she would begin shivering badly.

Tyrion frowned and rolled onto one side. He looked at her appraisingly for a moment and then carefully draped one arm across her middle. Sansa froze for a moment at the contact, but then she relaxed. His body was warm against hers, and with Tyrion so close, there was more give to the blankets than before. She fell asleep with her hand tangled in his curls.

***

December 20, 299

Sansa was bored in the carriage on the Gold Road – board, aching, and tired of smelling like dirt and grime. According to Tyrion, they were supposed to reach the Deep Den – the home of House Lydden – soon, and Sansa couldn’t wait. She’d never met the Lyddens and, for all she knew, they might be even more horrid than the remaining Lannisters at King’s Landing, but just then, she wanted a bath more than anything in the world and so found that she didn’t care.

She had firmly decided that she hated traveling by carriage. She missed having a proper bed, a proper bath, and a proper dinner. There were even days when she thought longingly of King’s Landing – despite the horrors there. From the Deep Den, it would be another week before they reached Casterly Rock, and she wasn’t sure if she could make it that long. Her bones ached terribly.

The only upside to their travels was that they forced her into close quarters with Tyrion on a far more regular basis than at home. Sansa wouldn’t have thought that such a situation would be a good thing, but it turned out that it was; it forced them to talk. She’d told him a few stories of her childhood in Winterfell, and he had returned the favour with scandalous stories from all over the realm. To hear him talk, it sounded as if he’d drunk in every Tavern in the seven kingdoms. His stories made her laugh, though, and at night he held her close and kept her warm. Sansa could almost imagine what it might be like to be with him forever. She could almost imagine that it wouldn’t be terrible.

The Den came into view just as the sun began to burn low on the horizon. Sansa breathed out a sigh of relief, glad that they would not be spending another night on the cold ground. Tyrion smiled, squeezing her hand gently.

“How are the Lyddens?” Sansa asked. She hadn’t dared to ask before now, afraid of his answer, but as the doors to the Deep Den drew nearer, she couldn’t help but ask.

“Very accommodating.” Tyrion inclined his head. “And very loyal to the Lannisters.”

Sansa smiled weakly at the news. “Lucky I’m a Lannister, then, huh?”

Tyrion chuckled and kissed her fingertips. “You’ll be fine, my lady.”

They had barely hobbled their horses when Anders Lydden approached them. He was a thin, wrinkled man with long wisps of grey hair protruding from his ears.

He bowed to Tyrion, “My lord? News from the capital.”

Tyrion frowned. Joffrey wasn’t due to be wed for weeks yet. He doubted any other news from the capital was good. His wife stood beside him, her back straight. Tyrion sighed and nodded for Anders to continue.

Anders cleared his throat. “The war is won.”

Sansa sucked air in sharply.

Tyrion gave her a warning look and touched her wrist ever so slightly. “And how was it won?”

“Robb Stark’s army was killed,” Anders said. “Walder Frey had them killed at the wedding between Edmure Tully and one of his daughters… they’re calling it the ‘Red Wedding.’”

Tyrion barely dared to look at his wife. He was sure that the news must be hitting her hard, but unfortunately, this was definitely not a safe place for her to grieve. He said, “And Robb?”

“Killed,” Anders said. “His mother as well.”

The hand that rested on Sansa’s wrist could feel that she was shaking. Tyrion wanted to pull her into her arms, but he dared not. Joffrey had won the war, and by all rights, they should be celebrating.

Anders was not so kind. He said to Sansa, “Are you all right, my lady?”

“Quite.” Sansa’s voice was cool and controlled, though Tyrion could tell it was tight as a bowstring. “My brother and mother were traitors. It is right they are dead. Long live King Joffrey, the one true king.”

“Long live the king.” Anders smiled broadly.

“I’m sure you’ll be celebrating this night, but I think we’ll save our celebrations until we’re home to Casterly Rock. It’s been a long trip, as you can imagine,” Tyrion said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Of course,” Anders said. “I’ll have Lysette show you to your rooms.”

Tyrion kept hold of Sansa’s hand as they followed Anders’s maid into the den and up a set of winding stairs to the guest room on the top floor. He was afraid that, if he did not, she would lose her way. Her blue eyes were fogged over, and he doubted she could see where she was going.

Still, it wasn’t until they were in the rooms – the door closed and barred behind them – that he dared to address her. “My lady?” His voice was quiet.

“Don’t.” Sansa pulled her hand away from his. Her lower lip trembled, and then the floodgates opened. She sank to her knees, burying her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry,” Tyrion whispered as he touched a hand to her face. “Truly.”

Sansa recoiled from him as if he had struck her. “Don’t touch me!”

Tyrion stepped back from her, hands in the air, so she could see that he would not. “Please, lady….”

Sansa sobbed openly and, without leave to go near her, Tyrion could do little but watch as the grief wracked her young body. When the tears ceased falling, they left her face stained with streaks of dirt and her skin red and blotchy.

Tyrion called for Adelaide to draw her a bath. He didn’t dare leave the room while she took it – having already told Anders that they were both retiring for the night – but, to give her some privacy, he climbed into bed and closed the canopy. He could hear the water splashing for some time, and then he heard her get out and change, but she did not come to bed.

***

Sansa sank into the bath Adelaide had drawn her, feeling numb all over. She was an orphan. First, her father, now her mother and brother. Bran and Rickon had been missing for months. Arya had been missing for years. For all Sansa knew, she was the only Stark remaining – and she wasn’t even a Stark anymore; she was a Lannister.

The thought made her feel cold despite the warmth of the water. She pulled her hair down, setting her combs on the floor beside her bath, before sinking her head beneath the surface. Dirt fell away from her, staining her bath nearly black. Sansa stared at its murky depths. She felt nothing.

It wasn’t until the water became truly cold around her that she stood and stepped out. Drying herself with a towel was done on auto-pilot, as was pulling on a nightshirt. She stooped to pick up the combs that she’d left on the floor. Her fingertips touched upon a black comb that was heavier than the others. She stared at it for a long moment, and then her eyes rose to the bed where her Lord husband likely waited for her.

He wouldn’t leave the bed. She felt almost sure of it – he was giving her space, trying to be polite. She wouldn’t be away from bed long, anyway. She knew that it was wrong but just needed to do it once – maybe twice. Just until she was certain she could feel again.

She curled up in the corner of the room, her legs exposed beneath her nightshirt. Pulling the hem higher until her thigh was exposed, she carefully unsheathed the tiny blade from her comb, and then pressed it against the white flesh, drawing a straight line that bubbled red. Sansa stared at it, fascinated by the sharpness of the color. Anders had said they called it the red wedding. She drew another line, parallel to the first. Had Robb bled so cleanly? Had her mother? And still, she couldn’t feel anything. She pressed harder on the next pass, and the blade sank deeper into her skin.

***

Tyrion woke suddenly to a voice calling his name. He sat up and found himself staring at the backs of curtains that were unfamiliar to him.

“Lord Tyrion!” The voice called again, sharp and urgent. “Quickly!”

Tyrion pushed aside the bed curtains. A lantern burned on the table in the center of the room, and Adelaide was in a corner, crouched over something. He slid out of bed, his feet touching the floor silently, and started towards her. It was a few steps before he realized that the ‘thing’ that she was crouched over was his wife.

Tyrion sprinted forward, dropping to his knees in front of the girl. Her eyelids fluttered, barely retaining consciousness. The comb he’d given her for her fourteenth name day was held loosely in one hand, stained with blood. Adelaide, he realized, had her apron pressed against Sansa’s leg. The apron was dark with blood – more blood than Tyrion could think a reasonable result of that little blade.

“No,” he whispered. “My lady, no.”

“I need you to hold this.” Adelaide’s voice was sharp and commanding, more confident than he’d ever heard before.

Tyrion stared at her blankly.

“Place your hands where mine are,” Adelaide commanded him. “And push down.”

Tyrion did as instructed, and then Adelaide stood and left. As he pressed the apron down against the flow of blood, he stared at the flickering eye of his bride.

Sansa stirred, her glassy eyes focusing for a moment on Tyrion’s face.

“I just wanted to feel something…,” she whispered,

Tyrion shook his head, not understanding. Clearly, she felt a great deal to have cut into her own skin as she had.

Adelaide returned a moment later, sewing kit in hand. She looked at Tyrion. “I assume you have alcohol?”

“In my bag,” he said dully.

He felt rather than saw her step away. When she returned, she waved him off. Tyrion stumbled backward, crouching to the left of his fading wife. Adelaide lifted the apron away from Sansa’s leg and poured alcohol onto the blood there. Sansa’s eyes widened in pain and she let out a gasp. Tyrion squeezed her hand gently, his eyes transfixed on her leg. Four straight, parallel lines had been cut into her thigh. The first two were thin – scratches, really – but the third was deeper. The fourth… the fourth was reason to fear for his wife.

Adelaide worked with deft hands, threading a needle and slipping it into Sansa’s pale skin without a word. Tyrion’s grip on Sansa’s hand tightened as he watched, but Sansa let out no more noise as she was neatly stitched.

When the stitching was done, Adelaide sat back. For a long moment, the room was silent.

“Thank you,” Tyrion whispered to the maid.

“Hm.” Adelaide would not look him in the eye.

“I didn’t know she…,” Tyrion shook his head. “I thought she just wanted some space to be alone.”

Adelaide sighed. She gathered the bloodied apron in her arms, carried it to the fireplace, and dropped it in. The fabric smoked on impact. Her back to Tyrion, she said, “She’s done it before.”

“What?” Tyrion’s voice was sharp.

“I came upon her once.” Adelaide’s voice was quiet.

“You didn’t tell me!”

“I’m not your maid.” Adelaide spun, her arms wrapping around her waist. Her dark eyes looked haunted. “You told me when you hired me that I was for Sansa. You were very clear in that regard. You told me, specifically, that I should keep her confidences – that you didn’t want a spy.”

He had said those words. At the time, he was doing everything he could to gain Sansa’s trust, and he didn’t want to fall into the trap of using her handmaiden against her, knowing that if she found out about it, she wouldn’t trust either of them.

“I thought it was handled,” Adelaide said. “She was using a needle last time I saw her, not the knife. I thought when she realized I saw, she’d….”

Tyrion sighed. It was hard for any handmaiden to question her own mistress, and Adelaide had just begun the line of work – Sansa was her first mistress.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Tyrion shook his head. He didn’t blame the girl. He sighed, looking at Sansa, who was clearly not ready to stand. “Thank you, Adelaide. That will be enough for tonight. Please send Podrick to me.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Adelaide curtsied and hastened from the room.

Tyrion stayed crouched, his hand gripping Sansa’s. In a small voice, he whispered, “My lady, what am I going to do with you?”

Sansa swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry.”

“Shh.” Tyrion ran his thumb across the back of her hand.

It was long moments before Podrick arrived, his hair mussed from sleep, and his expression confused. When he saw Sansa on the floor, his eyes widened. He took a step backward out of instinct and then froze. “My Lord?”

“Help me lift her onto the bed,” Tyrion said tiredly.

Podrick scrambled forward. Between the two of them, they were able to lift her body and carry her onto the bed. She whimpered as they lowered her onto it. Tyrion shushed her, brushing her forehead with her fingertips.

“What happened, sir?” Podrick asked.

It was a natural question, but though Tyrion knew Podrick would never betray his confidence, he was wary of answering. This was a private matter. It was between him and his wife. Rather than answer directly, Tyrion merely said, “She’ll need some looking after in the coming weeks, Pod.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tyrion nodded. “That will be all, Pod. Thank you.”

Podrick bowed and left the room, closing the door carefully behind him. Only when he was gone did Tyrion climb into bed behind his wife. He wrapped his arm around her stomach as he had done in camp the past few weeks. When she whimpered and began to stir, Tyrion shushed her gently and carded her hair. A small sigh escaped her lips, and she settled.

<Previous|Next>