Fellowship & Fairydust

Hero – Family of the Year

Let me go.
I don’t wanna be your hero.
I don’t wanna be a big man.
I just wanna fight with everyone else.

 

January 31, 300

Sansa sat at the head table with her husband on one side of her and her sister on the other side. With Jaime at Casterly Rock, it was important that they put on the appearance of being the picturesque Lord and Lady that Tyrion’s father wanted them to be. Sansa wasn’t feeling it. Every time she turned her head, she was reminded of what was really going on: another Lannister had come to their home, and once again, they were stealing her family away from her.

Sansa could scarcely touch the meal that had been placed in front of them. Every bite turned to ash on her tongue and, when she managed to swallow it, danced in her stomach until she was sure she would be sick. How could Arya think of going to the wall? She was just a child.

When the Raven came, Sansa already knew what it would say. She didn’t bother to look over Tyrion’s shoulder as he read it.

Tyrion cleared his throat. “The King decrees that more are needed at the wall. All prisoners that can be safely transported should be sent to the wall. Additionally, the king encourages volunteers to go to the wall with the understanding that they can return to their lands and families at any time.”

Arya grinned. She leaned forward in her seat, her eyes on Jaime. “So, when do we leave?”

“Not yet,” Sansa heard herself say.

Arya turned in her seat, giving her sister a startled look. “You said I could go!”

“You can.” Sansa clenched her fist beneath the table, her fingernails cutting into the palm of her hand. “As soon as you can beat Bronn in a fight, you may go to the wall.”

“That’s not fair!” Arya said. “He’s twice my size.”

“You’ll face bigger than him on the wall,” Sansa pointed out quietly.

Arya turned to Tyrion, her eyes begging him to interfere.

Tyrion shook his head. “She’s right. If you can’t beat one man in hand-to-hand combat, heading to the wall is suicide.”

Arya glared fiercely at both of them before shoving away from the table, her chair making an awful grating noise as it scraped against the floor. Sansa watched sadly as her sister stormed from the hall, her skirt billowing behind her. She had their mother’s temper and their father’s pride – a dangerous combination. Sansa closed her eyes, feeling impossibly tired.

***

Arya sat on a stump in the practice yards, carefully sharpening needle with a stone. She heard footsteps behind her and muttered, “You ready for me to best you?”

“M-milady?”

Arya turned frowning. She had assumed Bronn would be the one to find her as they were to be fighting. Instead, she found herself sitting face-to-knee with Podrick. Arya stared at him for a moment. Even now there were times when she looked at him and could swear it was Gendry staring back at her beneath that mop of dark hair. She forced herself to look past that for a moment. “Sorry, Pod. I thought you were Bronn.”

“No.” Podrick laughed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his britches. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Arya shrugged. She stood, sheathing needle. “I don’t suppose you want to fight?”

“I’m not much of a swordsman,” Podrick admitted. “You’d have me beat in a minute.”

Arya scowled. “I bet Sansa would let you go to the wall, though.”

Podrick shrugged. “Probably. I’m not her sister.”

“She barely even knows me.” Arya sighed, staring at the dirt near her feet. “In her eyes, I’m still a child.”

“I don’t think you’re a child.”

“No?” Arya looked at him. His face was flushed, and his eyes anywhere but on her. It reminded her of the way Gendry had looked when he first realized which lady she was. Arya’s own face felt hot. Her hand reached up of its own accord, carding through Podrick’s thick hair.

“Milady?” Podrick’s eyes widened.

Arya stood on tiptoe and, before she could talk herself out of it, she pressed a chaste kiss upon his chin. Before he could respond, she left, sprinting back towards the castle.

***

Tyrion hadn’t seen Sansa since the confrontation with Arya at breakfast. She hadn’t shown for lunch, and when he asked Adelaide if she was working on her secret project in the abandoned wing of the castle, Adelaide assured him that she wasn’t. He left in search of her.

When he finally found her, it was in the window of their chambers, tucked behind the curtains so that he hadn’t seen her the first time he looked. He frowned, climbing up onto the sill beside her. He didn’t say a word, choosing instead to watch her watch the waves crash upon the shore below.

“I’m sick of this,” Sansa whispered at last.

Tyrion watched her, waiting for her to continue.

“I was such a foolish girl,” Sansa said. “All I cared about was needlework and fairy tales. And for my troubles, the Gods see fit to force me to sit neatly in a castle while everyone I love dies in battles miles away.”

Tyrion reached a hand out, placing it upon her knee.

“I can’t keep her here forever.” Sansa turned her head and caught Tyrion’s gaze. He saw tears misting her eyes. She said, “I know I can’t keep her here. But I’m so sure that she’ll die if she leaves, and I’ve only just gotten her back in my life.”

Tyrion sighed softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.” Sansa turned back to the waves. “My mother used to tell us how lucky we were, young enough that all we remembered was summer. Winter hasn’t even arrived yet and already the world feels so cold.”

Tyrion had nothing comforting to say to that. He heard himself whisper, “The world is cold, Sansa.”

She laughed, though her smile did not reach her eyes. “Yes. I suppose it is.”

***

It took some doing, but Arya finally found the tall Lannister man who had come to town sitting in the kitchens enjoying a glass of wine. She stared at him for a moment, calculating, and then she strode in. “I want you to fight with me.”

“What?” He stared at her over the top of his glass.

“Tyrion said you used to be the best swordsman in the seven kingdoms, back before you lost your hand,” Arya said. “I’ll never beat Bronn if Bronn’s the only I fight against. I’ll never learn anything he doesn’t already know. I need to fight with other people.”

Jaime frowned at her. “I used to be good. Back before I lost my hand.”

“Syrio Forel said any swordsman worth his salt learns to fight with both hands,” Arya said. “I bet you know more than nothing.”

Jaime smiled. “He sounds like a good instructor.”

“He was.” Arya crossed her arms over her chest. “So, you’ll fight with me?”

“Why would I do that?”

“The sooner I learn to beat Bronn, the sooner your debt to my mother is paid,” Arya said.

Jaime took a calculated swallow of his wine. Then, wordlessly, he nodded pushed himself to his feet.

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