Fellowship & Fairydust

The Longer I Run – Peter Bradley Adams

When my blood runs warm with the warm red wine
I miss the life that I left behind
But when I hear the sound of the blackbird’s cry
I know I left in the nick of time.
Well, this road I’m on’s gonna turn to sand
and leave me lost in a far-off land,
so let me ride the wind till I don’t look back–
forget the life that I almost had.

 

January 1

“Damn it!”

Tyrion’s eyes popped open of their own accord, startled by the outburst. He rolled over to see Sansa sitting upright in bed. Tyrion sighed and scrubbed at his eyes. “Good morning to you, too.”

“I’m flowering.” Sansa had the unique ability to make the word flowering sound like even more of a curse than the damn it that she’d shouted earlier.

Tyrion frowned, looking at her quizzically. He spoke carefully. “I wasn’t aware that you were that eager for children.”

Sansa looked at him in surprise. “My duty as a lady…”

Tyrion waved the words away. “Yes, yes. We’re supposed to produce lots of little Lannisters. Do you actually want children, though? With me?”

Sansa frowned at the covers. “I… I haven’t really thought about what it would be like.”

Tyrion swung his legs from the bed and slid to the floor. “It will happen in due course, I’m sure. But if I were you, I wouldn’t go cursing the gods until you’re sure they’ve actually robbed you of something.”

Sansa sighed and toyed with the covers. “Do you want children?”

Tyrion was slow to reply. He said, “I do. I actually think I’ll rather enjoy fatherhood. But I’m a few years older than you; I’ve had time to sow my wild oats. I would be neither surprised nor offended if you wanted some time and freedom to do the same before you become Mother first, Sansa second.”

Sansa frowned as she pondered his words.

“I need to make sure the bells are set to ring to celebrate the wedding between Joffrey and Margaery,” Tyrion said. “I’ll have Adelaide bring you the herb milk for your cramps.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said quietly.

***

Sansa was hiding in the Godswood. The bells had been ringing all day, as was customary when a royal wedding was occurring elsewhere in the kingdom. After the first hour, the sound seemed to echo in her head. She couldn’t hear herself think. The Godswood, she had found, was the most insulated place in the entire castle. She could still hear the bells, but they were duller from within its sanctuary. Sansa suspected there was some sort of magic surrounding the Weirwood tree to give a person peace while they prayed.

Sansa wasn’t praying. She hadn’t prayed at all since the day that she’d heard that her mother and brother were dead. In the weeks since, details of their deaths had trickled to her, little by little – her brother’s body sewn to the head of his direwolf, her mother’s throat sliced through to the bone. They were cruel, gruesome deaths; the sort to keep her up at night.

Tyrion had said that her mother would want her to carry on. Sansa knew deep down that was true. She also knew that her mother would be mortified to learn that Sansa was wed to the Lannister Imp. Her mother had tried to have Tyrion executed. She’d thought he was responsible for Bran’s fall. Though Sansa was sure that the latter wasn’t true, the former still gave her pause. Her mother had wanted Tyrion dead, and now Sansa was wed to him, bedding him, contemplating children with him.

She closed her eyes, thinking about that last thing. Did she want children with Tyrion Lannister? Her heart screamed that she did. Her head was less sure. Was she betraying her family if she became mother to a new generation of Lannisters? Would her siblings –any that were left – one day hate her for it?

The thoughts made her ache for her comb. Tyrion still hadn’t given it back to her, though he had dispensed with the constant guard around her, instead sending different people to check on her at odd times throughout the day.

Sansa sighed, leaning her head back against the tree and closing her eyes.

***

Tyrion was in his study, poring over an accounting ledger. He was no longer master of coin, but still, financial matters followed him. Now he was in charge of Casterly Rock’s finances and, while they were quite good, there were always improvements that could be made. With winter coming they’d have to start taxing the smallfolk less or risk starving their people. Without knowing how long the winter would last, it meant that they’d have to cut expenses in other areas as well. Tyrion was wondering how many of his father’s guards were corrupt, and of those, how many were so corrupt that he could send them to the wall, without fear of retribution.

There was a knock on the door of his study and Podrick came in, looking nervous. “My lord?”

“Podrick?”

“There’s people here to see you, my lord,” Podrick said quietly.

Tyrion frowned, pushing himself to his feet. Anyone who might think of visiting him ought to be at the wedding. “Who is it?”

“Sander Clegane,” Podrick said, “and… he says the girl with him is Arya Stark.”

Tyrion pushed past Podrick, sprinting down the hall. Over his shoulder, he called, “Get Sansa!”

***

When Tyrion arrived at the front of the castle it was to find the Hound and his captive barred from entrance by a few knights, Bronn included. The child beside the hound was grubby, hair cut short and dirt smeared across her face, but through all of that Tyrion could see that it was indeed Arya Stark.

“That’s a Lannister,” the child said. She turned, beating her small fists against the hound’s thigh. “What happened to ‘fuck the Lannisters’? You said you were bringing me to family!”

“Fuck the Lannisters?” Tyrion gave Sander a small, humored smile.

“She’s tired,” the hound muttered. “Doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“I’m sure.” Tyrion didn’t try to comfort the child. She had no reason to trust him. Sansa had more reasons than Arya, and it had taken her at least a month to warm to him.

The castle door opened and a breathless Sansa stepped out, trailed by a flushed Podrick. There was a question on her lips, but when her eyes touched upon Arya, it went away. She let out a cry and sprinted forward. “Arya!”

“Sansa?” Arya dropped her hands away from the hound, looking baffled.

Sansa wrapped her arms around Arya, pulling her close. “I thought you were dead!”

“Not yet,” Arya mumbled. “What are you doing with… him.”

“Oh.” Sansa dropped her arms. She looked back at Tyrion uncertainly. “Well…”

“This is all very touching,” Clegane drawled. “But I actually have things to do. I want a hundred gold dragons for the girl.”

“A hundred,” Tyrion repeated.

“Are you going to refuse?” Sander jutted his chin in the direction of Sansa and Arya.

Tyrion sighed. “Hardly. Podrick, fetch the man his money. Feel free to grab a few gold coins for yourself while you’re doing it – if I’m to be robbed today, every man might as well get his share.”

***

Sansa stood beside her sister as she waited for Podrick to return with the coins. Seeing Arya in front of her after so much time apart felt unreal. Her sister had grown nearly a foot, now standing at the same height as Tyrion, and the curves of womanhood were beginning to fall upon her. She was skinnier than she had been in King’s Landing and dirtier. Sansa touched her sister’s cropped hair, and then the hem of her tunic. “What are you wearing.”

Arya shrugged uncomfortably. “I dressed as a boy to get out of King’s Landing.”

“That was two years ago,” Sansa reminded her.

“Well, I’ve been a little preoccupied,” Arya said. “Haven’t had much time for clothes shopping.”

Sansa flushed. As when they were children, Arya had the unique ability to make Sansa feel like a child.

The castle door opened and Podrick stepped outside, a purse held uncertainly in his hands. Tyrion nodded towards the hound, and Podrick jogged to the man and held the purse out.

Clegane flipped the purse open, staring down into it for a moment, and then he nodded. “Aye. Looks like it’s all there.”

Arya turned to him. “You’re done with me, then?”

“I’m done with you,” Clegane agreed. “Good riddance.”

Arya stared at him for a moment, and then she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his legs.

“Gods.” Clegane held himself stiffly. “You’re making a scene, girl.”

Arya stepped back from him. “You’re still on my list, you know.”

“I know.” Clegane swallowed and then nodded at her. “Until that day, then.”

“Until that day,” Arya agreed.

Sansa watched as Sander Clegane made his slow way away from Casterly Rock. Part of her wanted to call out to him, to ask him back, to ask him why he’d finally left Joffrey. She suspected she wouldn’t get those answers from him even if she asked them, though, and, in the end, she watched him leave.

“Okay.” Arya’s voice came from her left. “Seriously. How did you end up here with… him?”

Sansa’s eyes flicked to Tyrion, who stood at the top of the stairs to the castle looking down at them. In a small voice, she said, “He’s my husband.”

“What?” Arya’s eyes flashed. “That’s… that’s sick, even for the Lannisters.”

Sansa opened her mouth to reply, but she didn’t know what to say. She’d thought the same thing when she and Tyrion were first wed. It was sick, wasn’t it? Just because she and Tyrion had found each other through all of the wreckage didn’t change what the situation had been in the beginning.

Tyrion smiled gently. “Lady Stark. Welcome to Casterly Rock. Should I have the handmaidens draw you a bath?”

“I…” Arya stared at him.

“You do need a bath,” Sansa said, grateful to have the conversation on even ground. “I’ll see if Adelaide can take in one of my dresses for you.”

“I like my breeches,” Arya replied coolly.

Sansa shook her head, not sure how to deal with that. After so long away from Arya, she didn’t want to fight with her sister, but it simply wasn’t proper for a girl to go around in breeches.

Tyrion stepped forward. “We’ll have your measurements taken and get you some new clothes of your own this week, Lady Arya. In the meantime, one of your sister’s dresses would at least be clean.”

Arya frowned, and then after a long moment, she nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I’ll see to the handmaids.” Tyrion turned towards the castle. “I’ll put her in the West Tower, Sansa. You can show her the way?”

“Of course,” Sansa said. She watched while Tyrion walked into the castle, trailed by his squire and his guards. She was left alone in the courtyard with her sister – her tiny, spitfire of a sister, nearly grown now.

“When did you come to Casterly Rock?” Arya asked.

Sansa frowned, pulling on a strand of her hair. “We haven’t been here long. A few days.”

“Robb’s dead,” Arya said. “Mother as well.”

Sansa inclined her head. “We heard on the road.”

“I saw it,” Arya said.

Sansa turned to her in surprise.

“The hound was taking me there first,” Arya said. “He was going to sell me to Robb. We got there in time to see them kill Grey Wind.”

Sansa touched her fingers to a greasy strand of her sister’s hair. “Considering how everything happened, I’m glad he didn’t make it in time to sell you to them.”

Arya swallowed. “Me, too.”

Sansa shook her head. “How did you make it out of King’s Landing?”

“Yoren took me with some men headed for the wall,” Arya said. After a beat, she added, “He’s dead now.”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said.

Arya nodded mutely. Seeming to reach for something else to talk about, she said, “How long have you been married to the imp?”

“Don’t call him that,” Sansa said quietly.

Arya stared at her.

“Not quite two months,” Sansa told her.

“Oh.” Arya stared at the castle doors. “Too early to tell if you’re with child, then?”

“I’m not with child,” Sansa said.

Arya looked at her in surprise.

“I’m… flowering.” Sansa shrugged, embarrassed.

“Is he upset?”

“No.” Sansa’s fingers reached to touch the necklace he’d given her for her name day. She almost always wore it. She said, “We’ve only… once.”

“On your wedding day?” Arya clarified.

“No.” Sansa sighed, tugging on a strand of hair. “He… We didn’t. On the wedding day. He wanted to wait until I was ready.”

“But you’ve done it since then?”

Sansa shrugged, feeling helpless. “I was ready.”

“You were ready,” Arya repeated. “You were ready with him.”

Sansa frowned, staring at the doors her husband had disappeared through. “He’s… surprising.”

“Is he?” Arya gave her a dubious look.

Sansa sighed. “I suppose you can imagine that I had few friends in King’s Landing after Father died?”

“Father was murdered.”

Sansa inclined her head. “Yes. He was murdered. Joffrey was – is – a monster. You were right about him, of course. He only got worse as the war continued. He used to have his guards beat me every time that Robb would win a battle.”

Arya winced.

“Tyrion saved me from him,” Sansa said. “More than once. He was kind to me. He is kind to me.”

“He’s rather ugly,” Arya said.

Sansa replied, “Joffrey’s rather pretty.”

Arya laughed. “Yes. I suppose he is. You’re happy?”

“Happy enough,” Sansa said. “Happier than I’ve been in… well since Father died.”

“Hmm.” Arya frowned at her, and then she shrugged. “I guess I should take that bath.”

***

Tyrion had retreated back to his office. He told himself that it was so that he could give the ladies some time to themselves. It was partially true, but another part of him was licking his wounds. Sansa had barely been able to say the word husband to her sister. She’d barely been able to look at him. They had consummated exactly once, and Sansa had been hurting at the time. That wasn’t love. He couldn’t believe that he’d even allowed himself to believe it might be. That morning when she’d been so upset when she was flowering – was it the disappointment at not having a child or the realization that she’d have to bed him again?

The door creaked open, and Bronn stepped in. The sellsword rolled his eyes when he saw Tyrion sitting at his desk. “I knew you’d be in here sulking.”

“I’m not sulking,” Tyrion said.

Bronn snorted.

“I’m not sulking,” Tyrion repeated.

Bronn ignored him. He grabbed a decanter from a table nearby and poured them each a glass of wine. Handing one to Tyrion, he said, “What did you expect her to say? She hasn’t seen her sister in two years.”

“I know that.” Tyrion drank the wine gratefully.

“Your relationship isn’t perfect,” Bronn said. “It’s getting better, sure, but it’s not perfect.”

“I know.”

“You’re not exactly prince charming.”

Tyrion glared at him, not bothering to repeat that he knew all of this already.

“Look.” Bronn took a swig of wine. “All I’m saying is, your fourteen-year-old bride has reunited with her sister for the first time in two years. She’s married to the ugliest of the Lannisters, and her sister is looking at her like she’s stabbed both their parents in the back. How is she supposed to defend you without looking like she’s been brainwashed by the lot of them?”

Tyrion scowled at the glass in his hands.

“Be nice to the Stark girl,” Bronn said. “You win her over; you’ll win her sister twofold.”

***

Arya watched as two years of grime and dirt slipped away from her. She ducked her head under the water, scrubbing at her hair with a bar of soap, and when she surfaced, it was to the feel of muddied water dripping down her face. Arya laughed, wiping it from her face. She may be in the lion’s den, but at least it was clean here.

When she was as clean as she could be in the dirtied water, Arya stood and stepped out onto the floor. A handmaiden wrapped in her a towel. Arya smiled at her and bowed slightly. “Thanks. I can get myself dressed; I think.”

“Yes, miss.” The handmaiden smiled at her and slipped out of the room.

“Miss.” Arya shook her head. She had forgotten what it was to be a proper lady, doted upon by servants. Had she ever really known? Certainly, in Winterfell, she hadn’t had ladies dressing her. She’d had Old Nan and that was about it.

She tugged on the shift and dress that had been left for her. They were both large on her thin frame. Arya wiggled, trying to re-accustom herself to the flowing fabric, and looked at herself in a nearby mirror. She looked like a boy in a dress. Arya stuck her tongue out at the reflection. She belted Needle to her, and it only added to the ridiculousness of the ensemble.

Arya sighed, pushing through the door and stepping into the West Wing.

The boy who had fetched the gold coins for Clegane stood just outside the door. “Milady. Can I bring you somewhere?”

Arya winced at the words. Milady. She remembered the day Gendry had left her. She had told him that she could be his family, and he’d told her she wouldn’t be family – she’d only ever be milady. “Don’t call me that.”

Podrick looked at her, confusion on his face.

“Call me Arya,” she said. “Please.”

“Can I bring you somewhere, Arya?”

She swallowed. “Do you know where Lord Tyrion is?”

Podrick nodded. “In his study.”

“Take me there, then,” she said.

Podrick nodded and led the way down winding stairs and stone hallways. He stopped outside a large wooden door, rapped twice, and poked his head in. “My Lord? Lady Arya to see you.”

Arya couldn’t hear Tyrion’s reply, but a moment later a guard left the room and Podrick nodded for her to go in. She found the imp sitting with his feet propped on his desk, a goblet held in his small hands. Arya sighed. She threw herself into a chair across from him. “You’re fucking my sister.”

Tyrion coughed and sat up, his feet falling from the desk to the floor.

“She told me that,” Arya said.

Tyrion smirked. “I doubt she used those words.”

“No,” Arya agreed. “She’s too delicate for that.”

“Proper,” Tyrion corrected. “Your sister is not delicate.”

Arya wrinkled her nose. “She was last I knew her.”

“Forgive me,” Tyrion said, “but that was a time ago. You don’t survive two years in King’s Landing on the other side of the war by being delicate.”

“I suppose not.” Arya tugged uncomfortably on her dress. It hugged her wrong.

“Is there a reason you came to see me?”

Arya sighed. She dragged a hand through her hair. “Look, Sansa seems to like you.”

Tyrion’s brows raised into his hairline in surprise.

“Last I knew, Sansa was a perfect idiot,” Arya said. “She used to like Joffrey as well. She used to say that she loved him.”

“She was young then.”

“She was the same age I am now,” Arya said.

“Forgive me,” Tyrion said, “but you are young.”

Arya scowled.

“War ages people faster than peace,” Tyrion placated.

“Maybe.” Arya bit her lip. “I just… I wanted you to know that if you hurt her, I’ll slit your throat.”

“Will you?”

“I’ve done it before,” Arya said. “I killed a fat boy and a soldier…”

“I’m sure you did,” Tyrion said quietly. He took a sip of his drink. “You’ve no need to worry. I will not hurt your sister.”

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