Fellowship & Fairydust

The Giving Tree – Plain White T’s

All the leaves on the giving tree have fallen.
No shade to crawl in underneath.
I got scars from a pocket knife
where you carved your heart into me.
If all you wanted was love
why would you use me up,
cut me down, build a boat, and sail away?
When all I wanted to be was your giving tree;
settle down, build a home, and make you happy?

January 10, 300

Arya was late. She’d been supposed to meet Bronn at the practice yards right after breakfast, but it had taken her forever to figure out how to undo the stupid lace corset Sansa had insisted that she wear at mealtimes, as if Arya was a complete girl. She didn’t know why Sansa bothered. Arya had no interest in being a lady or marrying or having lots of screaming babies to take care of. What was the fun in that? If she had babies, she’d never have time to get anything done. That was all right for people like Sansa, but Arya was capable of more than that.

She only wished she could get Sansa to see that.

Arya rounded a corner and, as she did so, she collided with something large and strong. The force flung her backwards, gracelessly, and she sprawled across the cobblestones.

“Milady!” The voice was sharp with concern.

A hand reached towards her, and when Arya looked up, it was to see dark hair fallen over concerned eyes. Gendry. But no – Gendry was gone. He’d been sold like cattle to the woman in red. She flushed hotly even as she allowed Podrick to pull her to her feet again.

“I’m sorry, milady,” Podrick stammered. “I didn’t see you there…”

Arya shook her head. “It’s Arya. And don’t worry about it. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“Right.” Podrick looked down at her feet.

Arya realized she hadn’t dropped her hand from his. She flushed, yanking her hand away as if his were a hot stove, and she took a step backwards. “I… I’ll see you later, Pod.”

“Sure.” Podrick gave her a curious look.

Arya didn’t stick around to decipher it. She took off again, sprinting, towards the practice yards.

***

Sansa scowled as she caught herself with the needle again – unintentionally this time. Tyrion’s twenty-eighth name day was in just over a month. On her own name day, Tyrion had gone to great lengths to ensure that she had something special to celebrate, and that was earlier in their marriage before things between them had become so settled. Sansa was determined to do right by him for his name day, but it was hard to gift a man who could buy himself whatever he wanted. She had decided to make his name day present, an ornate tapestry depicting his bravery at the Battle of Blackwater.

She hadn’t counted on how damned long it would take, nor how close together the stitching would have to be to look the way she wanted it to. She’d spent every free second she could hidden away in an abandoned wing of the castle, stitching the fool thing. Every minute she stitched, she wondered if she oughtn’t to have selected an easier task for herself.

There was a soft knock on her door just as the noon bell rang, and Adelaide came in bearing lunch for Sansa. Sansa smiled at her, nodding towards a corner of the room where a table and chair sat. Adelaide was the only one in the castle who knew her precise location, which Tyrion said he was fine with as long as she checked in regularly.

Adelaide frowned, not leaving after she had set the lunch foods down.

Sansa glanced at her absently. “That’ll be all, Adelaide.”

Adelaide smiled gently but did not move. “My Lord said he is afraid you’ve been neglecting your eating, and…”

Sansa nodded, pressing her handmaiden to continue.

Adelaide flushed. “He said I should stay and make sure you eat everything on the tray.”

“Controlling little man.” Sansa sighed, settling her stitching to the side. If possible, Tyrion had become more interested in her eating habits since the day she’d admitted that she wanted to start trying for children more earnestly. She would have thought he’d become more interested in the actual making of the babies, but though they’d tried for it every day that week, his interest seemed to be in making sure she was well fed. She wondered, as she crossed to the table if he thought that she would magically become pregnant, if only they made her gain the requisite weight.

Adelaide hovered near her elbow.

“If you’re going to be here anyway, you might as well join me.” Sansa gestured towards the chair across from her. “I can’t possibly eat all of this anyway.”

“My lady, are you sure you’re…”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “In King’s Landing, I had a dozen handmaidens and ladies to chat with at all times. It gets quiet here. Sit.”

Adelaide slid into a seat. She tugged on the hem of her shirt.

Sansa, fighting for something to say to the girl, who was closer to Arya’s age than her own, carefully buttered a roll. She said, “Tyrion says your mother is acquainted with his knight, Bronn?”

Adelaide ducked, her eyes focusing on the table. “Yes.”

Sansa frowned. “Is that… nice?”

“He’s very good to us both,” Adelaide said. “He got me this job. I was a scullery maid before.”

“Were you?” Sansa thought that might explain the girl’s skittish nature. She hadn’t known a lot of scullery maids, but the ones she had known had often been beaten by servants higher up. Sansa frowned, remembering suddenly that Adelaide had been the one to help the night Sansa had hurt. She set her roll on the table. “Who taught you how to stitch people like that?”

Adelaide gave a small, soft smile. “My father. He was a Maester.”

“He was?” Sansa couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice. Maesters rarely had scullery maids as daughters.

Adelaide shrugged uncomfortably. “He died when I was eight. Mum couldn’t keep the house running on her own.”

“Oh.” Sansa gave an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry.”

Adelaide shrugged again. She took a strawberry from the basket and stuck it in her mouth. “The Septon said that the Gods give us these challenges to test our fortitude.”

“Wars test us all,” Sansa returned. She sighed, her eyes flitting towards the tapestry she was sewing. Who’d have thought she would spend her days sewing a reminder of a war fought to protect her enemies? They weren’t her enemies anymore, though. Tyrion was her husband. One day he would be the father of her children. And her children should look upon the Battle of Blackwater and be proud of how brave and strong and wise their father was.

She shook her head, plucking the bread from the table and sticking it into her mouth. She remembered asking her father about the war he’d fought with Robert Baratheon. When she was a child, she used to think it was exciting to hear all the songs of war and romance. Her father would comply, but there was always a shadowed look to his eyes. She wondered now how many enemies he had befriended by the end of the war, and how many battles he honored that had been fought for reasons he didn’t fully understand.

***

The last few times they had slept together, Tyrion had noticed Sansa’s eyes roving towards the curtains that surrounded their bed. They were in the Lannister gold and red. The whole room, he realized, was in Lannister colors. Though Sansa was a Lannister, it couldn’t be good to remind her of her years of captivity every time they made love.

While she was away, working on whatever secret project she had, he brought Clara into the room to take measurements. Clara was Adelaide’s mother, a dark-skinned woman with laugh-lines around her eyes whose hair was already starting to grey, though she couldn’t have been much past thirty. Though she was to be their nanny one day, Tyrion was currently paying her a salary just to stay on retainer. He thought he should at least get his money’s worth.

“I want it to be green and white,” Tyrion said. “Like a forest in winter. Stay away from grays – we can’t have anyone thinking we’re turning the Lannister master suite into a memorial for the Starks – but… try to remind her of home.

Clara smiled at him. “It’s a nice thing you’re doing for her, my Lord.”

Tyrion waved her off, uncomfortable with the praise. “She is the lady of the house. I want it to feel like her home.”

“And Lady Arya?” Clara raised a brow.

Tyrion frowned. “I’m already redecorating one wing. I might as well do the other. She is the lady’s sister.”

“Of course.” Clara gave a small smile. “Blue for the little lady, correct?”

Tyrion nodded. “Dark. With coral accents – small ones, nothing too feminine, but enough to lighten the room.”

“To lighten the room?” A mocking voice came from the doorway. “What do you know about lightening a room.”

Tyrion spun to see Bronn leaning against the doorjamb.

“All men should know a little bit of women’s arts,” Tyrion said. “Just as all women should know a little bit of men’s arts. It leads to greater understanding between the sexes.”

Bronn snorted. “Is that what your Nan taught you when you were a boy?”

“Yes.”

“She was trying to make you feel good,” Bronn pointed out. “Prolly ’cause you couldn’t handle the men’s arts half so well as the women’s.”

Tyrion scowled. “I do just fine with men’s arts; thank you very much.”

“Sure, you do.” Bronn rolled his eyes. “Leave the woman to her work.”

“And do what instead?”

Bronn grinned, holding a flask up. “Drink.”

“Well, I can’t very well argue with that.” Tyrion bowed towards Clara. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Go.” Clara laughed, waving him off.

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