Chapter Text
Sansa took in a sharp breath at the ghastly wound covering Tyrion’s face. No one had even bothered to bandage it, let alone soothe it with a salve. They’ve left him here to die, Sansa realized with a jolt. The queen has left him here to die.
Sansa ventured inside the little room, shutting the door behind her. There was no window here; the only light came from a tiny candle on the bedside table, flickering in the dank and cold air. Sansa felt her heart clench in fear as she drew closer to Tyrion, as she saw how deep the wound cut into his face. The blood was shockingly red in the light of the candle, a deeper red than the Lannister coat of arms.
Her father’s head rolling away on the parapet, his blood staining the wooden floor and the sword Ilyn Payne had used. Her blue dress splattered with the blood of her father, her hands covered in gore, guilty, her father was a traitor and so was she...
Sansa was drawn from her reverie at the sound of a low moan, like an animal in pain. She watched Tyrion stir in his sleep, and sat on the stool at his bedside, forcing bile back down her throat and watching his eyes flicker rather than his wound. “Tyrion?” she asked. He groaned in response, and she searched for his hand in the bedsheets, grasping it tightly when she found it. “Tyrion, it’s me. Sansa.”
“Sansa,” he whispered. His hand was feverishly warm in hers.
With her free hand, Sansa brushed his blonde curls from his forehead, being careful not to accidentally brush her fingers against his wound. “Tyrion, can you hear me?”
It seemed to take all the little lord’s strength to nod.
Sansa found herself smiling. “Tyrion, do you remember the night we snuck away from the library? The night we kissed?”
A small smile passed over Tyrion’s face, though his eyes still did not open.
“I had snuck a bottle of honeyed wine from the kitchens,” Sansa continued. “You didn’t want me to drink it at first. ‘You’re too young,’ you protested, you stole from my gracious hosts, they’ll think I was the one who did it.’ But eventually I wore you down, and we sat beneath the heart tree, drinking sweet wine until the sun rose.”
“I remember,” Tyrion whispered.
“And then you kissed me,” Sansa said, her cheeks burning at the memory. “It was my first kiss.”
Tyrion smiled.
It was then there was a knock at the door, and Sansa dropped Tyrion’s hand on instinct. The ancient wooden door swung open to reveal Shae, standing in the doorway with a salve and bandage in her hands.
“I’m here on orders of the queen,” the handmaiden said, the bite back in her voice. “I’m to take care of Lord Tyrion.”
Sansa’s instincts told her to defer to Shae and the queen, to do whatever was told of her, to be a pretty little bird and fly back to her cage. But she gathered her courage, brought herself to her feet, and grabbed the salve and bandage out of Shae’s hands.
“I am Lady Sansa of House Stark, betrothed of the king. I am taking care of Lord Tyrion. Thank you.”
She didn’t have time to see the look on Shae’s face as she closed the door.