Dresden Wine – Andrew Ripp
I don’t wanna be your savior.
I can’t be the one to hold you down,
but if you ever need a favor
I’ll do my best to be around.
Is anybody out there?
Is anybody scared like me?
I know it seems like I’m a stranger.
I know you feel I’ve let you down.
If I could build you something stronger
would you let it fall to the ground?
February 7, 300
Sansa swallowed against the saliva that was pooling in her mouth. She supposed she was hungry, though she couldn’t bring herself to eat. Food wasn’t staying down these days – she was far too anxious about Arya, who grew better with the sword every day and would one day manage to best Bronn, even if it was just a fluke. Now she sat in Tyrion’s study, his papers spread out in front of her. He had taken the afternoon off to have a drink with Jaime and Bronn. Sansa had told him that she would take a look at the ledgers in his leave and see if she could spot something he had missed. She doubted that she would, but they were supposed to have a partnership between them, and she felt useless sitting around day after day.
The tapestry was done. Sleep had been eluding her for a fortnight, and she spent her evenings’ sewing to the light of a dying candle until at last the tapestry had been finished. She had wrapped it, and it waited even now for Tyrion’s name day, which would be in a week. Sansa threw herself into other tasks now.
Tyrion had done good work with the ledgers. He had sent ten of his father’s men to help with the efforts at the wall – strong men who, he’d said, should be honored to help the king’s war efforts. Under Tommen’s new law, they would be free to return from the wall when their service was over, though Tyrion had made it clear that he would consider any man who returned before the end of winter to be a coward, and thus unworthy of guarding at Casterly Rock. As gambles went, it was a good one. Ravens arrived almost every day now warning of the dangers beyond the wall. The men in the north said that an army of the undead prepared to march south when the winter snows hit. The idea of it made Sansa feel chill to the bone, though she kept a brave face when she would read the scrolls with Tyrion.
Ten men was a lot of men, but it wouldn’t make the difference they needed. The Maesters predicted that the coming winter would be the longest in living memory – maybe the longest ever. War had depleted the resources of the kingdom, and no land was untouched. Casterly Rock had enough food to keep Lannisport through a short winter. It did not have the supplies to feed them all through a long, grueling one. Sansa wasn’t sure how much food would be needed for that, in truth, but more than they’d saved by sending away ten small mouths.
She rubbed at her eyes, feeling the ever-familiar fatigue settle behind them. Ten men was not enough. They needed to be doing more. The army of the undead might kill them quickly, but if the watch managed to hold the undead off, starvation would kill them slowly. She wasn’t sure which death she feared more.
***
Jaime leaned forward in his seat, his golden hand resting on his thigh. “So, I dropped down into the pit with her. And there’s this damn bear coming at us, snarling and snapping his jaws, and I boost Brienne up out of the pit. Bolton’s man had fire in his eyes.”
Tyrion laughed, imagining it. He had no love for the Boltons. He doubted anyone truly had love for the Boltons – even his father would know them to be the sort to betray their king the moment there was a better offer and would never really trust them. It was a bed they’d made for themselves.
“What’d he do then?” Bronn pushed. “I don’t suppose he suddenly agreed with you about his pet?”
Jaime took a swig of ale. “His men were against him at that point. And I pointed out that Roose Bolton would care less about his pet’s prize than about what my father might give him.”
Tyrion snorted. “I can’t believe you played the father card twice. You’re lucky he didn’t chop your other hand off.”
Jaime frowned into his mug. “I don’t think I cared very much.”
Tyrion gave him a sharp look.
“They’d taken my sword hand.” Jaime’s eyes were distant. “I didn’t want to live. Brienne… Brienne convinced me I should. I couldn’t let them take her.”
Tyrion let out a slow breath of air. “You love her.”
Jaime didn’t answer. He chugged the rest of his drink, slamming it onto the table in front of them.
“Cersei won’t like it,” Tyrion said.
Jaime’s voice was cold. “Careful, brother.”
“Whose ears do you think he’s protecting?” Bronn rolled his eyes. “She won’t like it. We all know it.”
Jaime gave Tyrion a look of disbelief.
Tyrion shrugged, looking at Bronn. “He doesn’t mince words. It’s why I hired him.”
“You always have kept the oddest company.” Jaime shook his head. He said to Bronn, “How’re things going with the Stark girl?”
Bronn shrugged. “She’s not bad for eleven.”
“She’s nearly twelve,” Tyrion pointed out.
Bronn took a sip of ale. “She’s too eager. It’ll get her killed one day.”
“If the rumors about the wall are true, she might die anyway,” Jaime said. “Might as well eagerly take out a few wights on the way.”
“And you still think you’re upholding your vow to her mother?” Bronn asked.
Jaime dragged his good hand through his short-cropped hair. “I don’t know what I’m doing any more.”
Bronn said, “She doesn’t stand a chance of getting through my defenses unless she can slow down and be more patient. When she’s learned how to do that… well, she could be great with a sword if she could do that.”
Jaime sighed, pushing himself up from the table. “I’m going to head back before I get drunker than I intend.”
***
Arya swung needle in a careful arc, practicing one of the moves Jaime had taught her the day before. He had been teaching her to maintain her center of gravity so she wouldn’t be knocked asunder, mid-swing. It was hard to do: Small as she was, Arya wanted to put her weight behind an attack.
“What’re you even hitting at?” Podrick’s voice came from behind her.
Arya spun, aiming needle carefully and stopping just before his throat. “I could hit at you if you want.”
“I’ll pass.” Podrick nudged the sword aside. “If you don’t sleep, you’ll never beat him.”
“I won’t beat him if I don’t practice,” Arya corrected, her expression mulish.
Podrick stepped forward. His eyes were soft. “I’ll miss you when you go to the wall.”
Arya licked her lower lip. “I… I’ll miss you, too, Pod.”
Podrick reached up and touched her cheek gently.
“I have to go.” Arya stepped away from him, sheathing needle carefully. “I… I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
Podrick watched her leave. He sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning the other way, thinking to head towards the stables for a bit. Jaime leaned against the wall of the wall, a smirk touching his eyes. Podrick felt his face heat.
“No need to be ashamed,” Jaime assured him. “She’s pretty, even in the breeches.”
Podrick swallowed.
“It’s a pity it’s not you she’s truly falling for,” Jaime continued.
Podrick eyed him.
“She mentions that boy, Gendry, a lot,” Jaime said. “Every story about her time on the road features him.”
“He was her friend,” Podrick muttered.
“He was Robert’s bastard,” Jaime said. “So that would make him tall. Dark-haired. Brooding. I think she said he was a few years older than her. How old are you again?”
“Fourteen,” Podrick muttered.
Jaime pushed himself away from the wall. He clapped Podrick on the shoulder, his expression kind. “You’re a good lad, Podrick. And that little lady is going to break your heart.”
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