Fellowship & Fairydust

Zombie – the Cranberries

Another head hangs lowly;
child is slowly taken.
And the violence caused such silence;
who are we mistaken?
But you see, it’s not me.
It’s not my family.
In your head, in your head, they are fighting.
In your head, in your head, they are crying.

January 2, 300

Sansa hadn’t slept.

She and Tyrion hadn’t spoken much about Arya’s arrival. Sansa hadn’t been able to. It was far too easy to enjoy having her sister with her again. She’d thought for sure that Arya was dead. To have her at Casterly Rock, older and more jaded than she’d been, perhaps, but safe and well, was like living in a dream.

It wasn’t a dream, though. Sansa had lain awake all night knowing that it wasn’t a dream. This was real life. In real life, Arya was wanted by the Lannisters and had just come to Lannister territory. The budding trust between Sansa and Tyrion mattered very little in this regard. The servants here belonged to Tyrion’s father and, in all likelihood, word was already fluttering back to King’s Landing that Arya was here. It meant that she and Tyrion would have to send word as well or risk looking like betrayers.

And then what?

With Robb and their mother dead, Arya wasn’t needed as a hostage. Her two years away would make her seem every bit the betrayer to Joffrey as the rest of their family – as if Joffrey needed proof of it. He’d have her head. By coming here, Arya had signed her own death warrant.

Sansa had thrashed for most of the night. Finally, before dawn, she pushed herself out of bed, careful in her movements. Tyrion slept on; his brow furrowed. Sansa pulled on a dressing gown and slipped out the door.

She wandered the halls without properly knowing where she was heading. In the end, she found herself in Tyrion’s study. She recognized some of the books on his shelves as ones she had packed for him before they journeyed here. Others had been here for years. The shelves stretched towards the ceiling.

Sansa sighed, dropping into his desk chair. She felt restless. It was that more than anything else that had her rifling through his desk, opening drawer after drawer.

It was located in the third drawer down on the left. She stared at it; her breath caught in her chest. Her fingers reached out, touching it, relishing in its familiarity — her comb.

It would be so easy, she thought. The pain would help – it always did.

She thought of Tyrion. She thought of the way his mouth twisted when he said my lady and the gentle tug of his hand on hers as they ran up the hillside. He’d been so angry the night after the last time. “You were so pale…”

Sansa pulled her hand away and slammed the drawer closed. Before she could think about it again, she turned and strode purposefully from the room.

***

Tyrion woke to find himself alone, his wife’s side of the bed abandoned and cold. He frowned, looking out the window to see the time of day. Sansa was not usually up so early. He rubbed the back of his neck and pushed the blankets back. He couldn’t help where his mind went, but he pushed the thought away. What reason would she have for that? He was sure she had been happy these last couple days, and now with Arya back…

The door slammed open, and Sansa strode in, her face flushed and her eyes wild.

“My lady…”

“He’s going to kill her!”

“Shh!” Tyrion slipped from the bed and quickly strode to the door, shutting it behind her. “Who’s going to kill whom?”

“Joffrey,” she clarified. “Joffrey’s going to kill Arya.”

“He won’t,” Tyrion said.

“What’s stopping him?” Sansa glared at him.

Tyrion said, “She will swear her fealty to him in public. She’s a child, and she, herself, has committed no crimes against him. No reasonable king would kill a child who swore him fealty.”

Tears shone in Sansa’s eyes. “Joffrey’s not reasonable.”

“No.” Tyrion sighed. “His advisors are, however, and his wife.”

Sansa shook her head. “What if that’s not enough?”

“Then we will send her to the Eyrie, to your aunt,” Tyrion said. “She’ll be safe there. The Eyrie’s defences have never been breached.”

Sansa pressed her lips together.

“It will be okay, Sansa.” Tyrion squeezed her hand gently. “Trust me.”

She looked away.

“In the meantime,” Tyrion said meaningfully to her, “your sister is here. She’s had a long couple of years. We should make what time she does have here as enjoyable as possible.”

Sansa nodded; her eyes still cast away from him.

***

“I’m not picking fabric for a bunch of girly dresses,” Arya said. “I don’t want to wear dresses.”

“You’ll look so pretty,” Sansa said.

“I’ll look like a weasel in a skirt,” Arya said. “What do you care what I wear? I’m not trying to rob you of your dresses.”

“You’re a Stark,” Sansa said. “You should…”

“You’re a Lannister,” Arya interrupted. “It shouldn’t be your concern.”

Tyrion coughed from the doorway.

Both girls turned towards him, surprise in their eyes. They had been alone in Arya’s room and had thought no one could hear their squabbling.

Tyrion smiled gently. “A compromise, perhaps?”

Sansa raised a delicate eyebrow towards him. Arya just scowled; her arms crossed over her chest.

“You should wear whatever’s comfortable during the day,” Tyrion said to Arya. “Breeches and tunics are easy enough to provide.”

The scowl slipped away, and a triumphant look took over. She turned to Sansa. “See? Even the imp agrees with me!”

Sansa sighed. “I told you not to call him that.”

Arya shrugged.

“I would ask,” Tyrion pressed on, “that you agree to wear dresses at mealtimes, and whenever we have company of import.”

Arya’s nose wrinkled.

“If you agree to that,” Tyrion said, “I’ll see what I can do about getting Bronn to give you some additional fighting instruction.”

“Seriously?” Arya’s eyes lit up in excitement.

Tyrion inclined his head. “If you agree to…”

“Yeah, yeah.” Arya waved a hand at him. “I’ll look like a prig at meals. That’s fine. Who’s Bronn?”

***

Equipped in new practice clothes, needle belted tightly to her waist, Arya stepped onto the practice courts.

Bronn was already there, looking bored. He frowned when he saw her and pointed towards needle. “What’s that for?”

“Needle?” Arya looked at it. “It’s my sword.”

“Set it aside,” Bronn instructed. “We’re not using that today.”

“What?” Arya shook her head. “Tyrion said you were going to teach me to fight.”

“I am,” Bronn said. “I’m going to teach you to fight. With your fists.”

“But I have needle,” Arya said. “I need to learn…”

Bronn leapt forward, grabbed Arya around the shoulders, and pinned her to the ground.

“What are you doing?” Arya cried. “Get off of me!”

“You have your sword,” Bronn said. “Make me.”

“I…” Arya wiggled. “I can’t.”

“Exactly.” Bronn stood, shoving her to the side, and dusted himself off. “Put the sword aside. When you can take care of yourself without it, we’ll start using it.”

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