Fellowship & Fairydust

Please Don’t Say You Love Me – Gabrielle Aplin

Winter comes, summer fades
here we are just the same.
We don’t need pressure; we don’t need change.
Let’s not give the game away.
There used to be an empty space,
but with your presence and your grace
everything falls into place.
Just please don’t say you love me
‘cause I might not say it back.
Doesn’t mean my heart stops skipping
when you look at me like that.
There’s no need to worry when you see just where we’re at.
Just please don’t say you love me,
‘cause I might not say it back.

 

The raven came at breakfast.

Tyrion and Sansa were in the great hall, eating eggs and toast. As a child Sansa had dreamed of sitting at the focus of the head table in a great hall, looking over her people, but now that she was older, she found that she didn’t care for the attention. She much preferred the quiet mornings she and Tyrion spent in their bedchambers. As they were the presiding Lord and Lady of the Rock, however, they tried to make an appearance in the great hall at least once a day. It was tedious, but there it was.

Arya seemed to have less of a time of it, but then, she wasn’t required to sit at the head table. As far as Sansa knew, Arya was in the great hall for every meal. She usually sat with Bronn and Podrick. Sansa was sure that outside the great hall the two men had Arya drinking rather more than she should at her young age, but she didn’t know what to do about it. Arya had been on her own for two years: She wouldn’t welcome Sansa mothering her now.

The raven flew in one of the tall, gaping castle windows, a letter tied to its leg. It made its way to the head table automatically, landing with a soft sound in front of Tyrion. Tyrion frowned, leaning forward to untie the letter from the raven’s leg. He unrolled it and, without reading it first, held it so that Sansa could see as well.

Little Brother–

Much news to bear from the capital. The first, as you may presume, is that I have returned home. The second, more serious, is that the King is dead. Joffrey died at his wedding feast. Cersei is overwrought. She says to tell you that if the king did not see fit to invite you to his wedding, there is no reason for you to show for his funeral. I, on the other hand, will attend. After, I will be making my way to Casterly Rock to see you and say hello to your new young bride.

Long Live King Tommen, first of his name.

~Jaime

Sansa exchanged a look with Tyrion. It took everything she had in her not to smile at the knowledge that Joffrey was dead. Tommen was only a child, but the child king would be better than the sadistic king, she was sure.

Tyrion stood, tapping on the side of his goblet with his knife until the hall fell silent. In a powerful voice, he announced, “King Joffrey has died. Long live King Tommen Baratheon, first of his name!”

As cries of “long live the king!” filled the hall, Sansa’s eyes sought her sister. Arya was sitting very still beside Podrick, her eyes on the table in front of her. Her face gave nothing away, and Sansa let out a slow breath of relief. Arya would have to swear fealty to the new king, publicly. Sansa and Tyrion had discussed it at length over the past few days, and it was the only offer they could come up with to ensure Arya’s safety. They hadn’t told her yet, and Sansa hadn’t known if her young sister had the subtlety to deal with news of Joffrey’s death, but it seemed she had mistaken her. They had both grown in their years apart.

***

Joffrey was dead. Tyrion’s words washed over Arya like a bucket of ice water on a hot summer day: Startling, terrifying, and, once she got used to it, oh so sweet. She was careful to keep her expression tame, all too aware that she was in the heart of Lannister territory. Tyrion seemed like an okay sort, maybe, but the walls had eyes and ears. Tyrion and Sansa hadn’t said it to her yet, but she knew that with her mother and Robb dead, the war was essentially over. If she wanted to keep her own neck, she’d have to swear fealty to the Lannisters just as Sansa had done.

It would be much easier to swear fealty to Tommen than to Joffrey.

Arya’s hands shook as the news washed over her further. Joffrey’s name was off her list. In truth, she wished that she could have been the one to handle him herself, but that might be asking a lot. She was desperate to know how he died. Her eyes flicked up to the head table, searching her sister’s face and then Tyrion’s. Like her, they were careful to keep their emotions – whatever they may be – well concealed.

Bronn leaned heavily on the table. “Well. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I would rather enjoy a drink.”

Podrick frowned. In the days she had been at court, Arya had learned that Podrick wasn’t actually very good at drinking.

“I’ll take one as well,” Arya said. When she’d first met up with the hound, she hadn’t been able to stand the taste of ale, but after the journey they had taken, Arya had learned two important things. The first was that any food or beverage was better than none, and the second was that when you drank with men, they tended to treat you like one of their own–at least for a time.

***

Tyrion did his duty. He made sure to instruct the bell-ringers to ring that the king had died and to ring again about the ascension of Tommen. He sent a raven to his brother, offering condolences about Joffrey and high hopes for Tommen. He had a feast arranged for the evening – he wasn’t sure if the feast was supposed to commemorate Joffrey or celebrate Tommen, but he had it arranged anyway. As he did his duty, he found that all he wanted was to be with his bride.

It was afternoon before he was free to seek her out. He tried their room first, and the godswood, but when he found her, it was in the gardens, sitting on a low wall with a book. Tyrion sat beside her, watching the fall of her hair as she finished her chapter.

“Tyrion.” She smiled at him at last, marking her place in the book with a small piece of cloth. “I thought you’d be busy the entire day.”

“I carved out some time in my day.” Tyrion stood, holding a hand out to her. “Come.”

She gave him a bemused look but took his hand, allowing him to guide her into the castle and upstairs to their quarters. Tyrion barred the door. He took her book from her hand and set it upon the small table they had in their room.

“What are you doing?” Sansa frowned at him.

“I’m celebrating the new king.” Tyrion unbuttoned the front of his tunic, tossing it onto the back of a chair.

“Cele… oh.” Sansa’s eyes widened in comprehension.

Tyrion paused. “Unless you don’t feel like…?”

“No,” Sansa said. “I mean, yes. I mean… yes, let’s celebrate.”

Tyrion chuckled at her nervousness. He said, “You know, I’ve yet to be the one to undress you.”

Sansa swallowed visibly, and then she knelt in front of him, her back to him. Tyrion eyed the long row of intricate lacing on her dress, which extended from the nape of her neck to midway down her rear end. He had half a mind to cut through it all, but instead, he stepped closer and began to untie each tiny bow one by one. Sansa shivered as her back was exposed piece by piece to the room. When he’d untied every little bow, he lowered the dress from her shoulders.

This time – the second time – Tyrion felt calmer as he stared upon her milky skin. He hadn’t realized quite how nervous he had been the first time, but this time he found that he could truly take her in her beauty. She was beautiful – no man in the seven kingdoms would deny that. Her hair was the most magnificent shade of red he had ever seen, and it fell on her shoulders like a rose on a winter’s snow.

“My Lord?” Sansa looked at him questioningly.

He had spent too long staring. Tyrion gave a gentle smile and held a hand out to her. “Come, my Lady. To bed.”

***

The first time she had been hurting. The sting of everything had pushed any nervousness she might have felt to the very edge of her mind, and she had been his. This, the second time, was slower. She stepped carefully over her fallen dress, allowing her small lord to guide her to the bed. She noticed everything, from the fall of the Lannister-red curtains around her bed to Tyrion’s soft breath. Most of all, she noticed the tightness of her own stomach. No longer hurting, she felt self-conscious. As Tyrion nudged her backwards onto the bed, she wondered where to put her hands.

Tyrion traced a finger over her abdomen. She shivered, sucking her stomach in naturally as a response. The hairs on her arms rose, tiny bumps seeming to spring up instantly.

Last time, she remembered, she had felt bad for not contributing. She didn’t know how to contribute this time, either, but she felt she ought to at least try. She lifted her left hand, touching it gently to his face. Her fingertips were drawn like magnets to his scar. They touched it, following the hills and valleys of it from jaw to nose.

Tyrion’s eyes closed, and he grimaced for a moment as if in pain.

“Are you okay?” Sansa asked.

“Yes.” Tyrion caught her hand, gently kissed her palm, and placed her hand to the side.

Sansa frowned at him, not understanding.

“It’s not my most attractive quality.” Tyrion touched his scar, smiled uncomfortably, and looked away.

Sansa’s mouth felt dry. She shook her head. “It makes you look like a man.”

Tyrion snorted.

“I mean it.” Sansa sat up, resting on her elbows. “Lady Margaery said the same.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “She did not.”

“She did.” Sansa put on a high-pitched voice, impersonating Margaery. “Some people like tall men, some like short men. Hairy men, skinny men, skinny girls. Most women don’t know what they want until they try it. Tyrion’s attractive, even with the scar. Especially with the scar.”

Tyrion’s laughter bubbled up from inside of him, the first full-bellied laugh Sansa had ever heard from him. “Under what circumstances would Lady Margaery have said that?”

“She said it when we were first betrothed,” Sansa said. “I was scared to death, and she said you’d probably surprise me.”

“And did I?”

Sansa gave him a steady look. “I find you surprising every day.”

Tyrion pushed her backwards. She landed with her head between their pillows. Her elbow caught a bit of her hair, pulling. She winced and readjusted, lifting her body as Tyrion leaned in for a kiss. Their brows collided, and Sansa fell backwards again, her hand lifting to touch her forehead.

“Ow.” Tyrion frowned, shaking his head. “I’m usually more graceful…”

“Hush.” Sansa cupped the unscarred side of his face. His stubble scratched her palm as she guided his face closer to hers. She pressed her lips to him. It was a gentle kiss this time, his lips soft and parting. She rubbed the pad of her thumb across his jawline and slid her other hand to the back of his neck, touching the little hairs that grew there.

Tyrion pulled back for a second. He lifted his shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor. Sansa touched her fingers to his chest, where hairs grew black rather than blonde like on his head. She smiled at him and whispered, “Please.”

***

Afterwards, she lay in bed with her head against his chest, listening to the stead dum-dum of his heart against her ear. Alive, Alive, Alive. She could feel his fingertips trailing aimlessly across her back, a soft, soothing motion that made her want to go to sleep. She yawned, fighting the urge, and pushed away from him.

“Milady?” He frowned at her.

Sansa sighed, running a hand across her face. “We have a feast to prepare for.”

He groaned, pushing himself upright. “I’d managed to forget about that.”

“I have to make sure Arya dresses appropriately,” Sansa said. “And she must sit at the head table tonight – she can’t sit with Bronn and Podrick at every meal.”

“Mm.” Tyrion ruffled his hair, letting the curls go wild. “You’ll be a wonderful mother one day.”

Sansa stilled at his words.

Tyrion, seeming to realize too late what he’d said, flushed. “I didn’t mean… It’s okay if you’re not ready for that yet, Sansa. I was just talking.”

Sansa touched the direwolf necklace that still hung on her neck. “You know, I actually think I am ready.”

Tyrion’s mismatched eyes held hers for a moment. “You are?”

Sansa turned from him, taking her time to select a dress. After a long moment, when he’d thought she wasn’t going to answer him, her voice spoke softly. “I am.”

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