Chapter Text
She backed against the door to the room and inhaled deeply. Forced herself to push it back out again. She breathed in, air that was familiar to her, scents from her own bedding, expelled the smell of leather and woodland. Even when she had changed and crawled her way into bed, she couldn’t escape the wet leaves covering the fallen snow, the faint tease of wine and deep musk of leather. It surrounded her – intoxicated her. She slowly fell into a fitful sleep, supported not by the woollen blankets but the arms of another.
~
Her maid awoke her with a knock at the door while the early morning sun was beginning to fill the room.
She rose and thanked her maid for the offer of breakfast brought to her solar, but declined. While the previous evening had felt like a dream, cloaked in the shadows of the godswood, they had negotiations to attend to, border issues and Highgarden trade as well as the tax on glass imports that she was preparing to push down.
“Your grace, you have had a letter.”
The maid handed the sealed note to her before opening the curtains and leaving her chamber.
Sansa broke the seal and read the note briefly, her eyes flicking down to the signature at the bottom.
Arya was returning.
~
She walked into breakfast to find Bronn sitting at the table alone.
“Ser Bronn.”
“Your grace.” He dragged himself up from his chair, briefly bowed and then sat down again to nurse his goblet of wine.
“I trust you slept well,” she said as her food was plated in front of her. “I know Lord Tyrion does not favour the cold. Is he well? “ She tried to keep her voice level and uninterested but was not convinced that it had worked when Bronn looked at her appraisingly.
“I saw him just this morning, my lady, he is suffering from a discomfort but will be here shortly. I can assure you that I slept well, as to my friend, he seemed a little tired. What has been keeping him up I can only guess at.” He picked up his goblet and drained the remaining dregs of wine.
Sansa was not persuaded by his casual tone but he carried on before she could interrogate him further. “I will not stay to interrupt whatever you two have to discuss this morning. Call for me when the official negotiations start.” With that he turned and left through the doors, passing Tyrion who had entered the hall while they were still talking.
He grimaced slightly as he walked. “My apologies, your grace, I did not mean any insult.” He bowed slightly, looking as though that simple movement was an agony.
“My lord –“ She stopped herself. Sansa had no idea where they stood, what he would take offense to if she tried to help. “Ser Bronn informed me you are not feeling well.” It hung awkwardly in the hall and she remained silent as he pulled out a chair and sat at her side.
“It is nothing, your grace. Merely my body rebelling as it has want to do throughout my life.”
He attempted a smile but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“If there is anything that would help – “
His mouth turned down and he sat to face the hall, looking firmly at the windows.
“No, thank you, my lady. I am well.”
She sighed softly and found his hand on the arm of the chair. The servants were leaving the hall with Ser Bronn’s detritus and were too busy to notice this small act of familiarity.
He started slightly, came back from his reverie. She worried that he was so consumed in his pain that she could not reach him, but when he turned to her, she saw the whisper of what had passed between them the day before. He did not smile then, allowing her into a fraction of what he was struggling through, frowned at the persistent ache in his limbs that had extended to his temples, but his eyes spoke of gratitude and a sense of safety in her company.
“My lady,” her maid approached, carrying a note on a tray. Sansa held his hand tightly before removing it to hold her clasped hands in her lap. “Your council is requesting a meeting at your immediate convenience.”
Sansa raised her eyebrows. They had met before the hand’s arrival to plan what had to be raised over the next few ways and the issues there were not willing to flexible on, the focus had been entirely on securing the trade deals proposed and fostering common ground with the South. She had scheduled a meeting for later that day and had not thought it would be anything other than routine. There was little information that she could find in the note as she skimmed it at the table.
“My lord, if you will excuse me,” she said, pushing back in her chair. “Please,” she reached out a hand to silently stop him from rising, “do not get up.”
He nodded at her with a small smile, descending back into his seat and watching her depart before bringing his elbows to the table, resting his aching head in his hands.
~
She walked slowly to the council chamber, wondering what the topic of the meeting could possibly be. The past couple of days had made her relax slightly – not in terms of trade or her suspicions as to Tyrion’s ambition for the South but in that she had allowed herself some optimism. Littlefinger’s tactical plotting had been crawling around her mind for so long that she had forgotten what it was like to not plan every encounter.
As she opened the door, her council rose and smiled hesitantly at her.
“Your grace, something has been brought to our attention –“
~
After the meeting, she walked to the kitchens, instructing the maids as to how to prepare for her sister’s arrival. Focussing on menial tasks gave her brain some stimulation and let her think about something other than what they had been discussing. She couldn’t think about it, not now, not with everything that had to be done… Not with him…
She carried out most of the morning in this way – drifting about the castle, ordering fires to be stoked, clean bedding prepared. The infestation had reduced the number of rooms so that all were occupied, though she had met Bronn in the hall amidst preparations and he had been willing to offer his own to Tyrion and settle in the town. She had sent a maid to inform him of the change in rooms, but they had found him lying on his bed, in fits of agony and came back to inform the queen.
Sansa had turned away so that they could not see the worry in her eyes.
While it was not ideal to have the returning princess housed in the guest wing, she could not bear to put him through the pain of moving himself and his belongings to a new room. There was some other instinct, to keep him near, that she brushed past –
“Mary, there is a new order for the rooms.“
~
Just as Sansa felt they had well prepared for her arrival, she could hear the soft grind of hooves on the newly fallen snow.
Looking out of the window, she saw her sister quickly and fluidly dismount before walking to the gate. Arya always carried a sense of self-possession that others’ responded to and was welcomed back into the arms of Winterfell with reverence and care. Sansa was at the doors to the hall to welcome her back and grasped her tightly, wishing that she could persuade her sister to stay forever.
“Come to the table, we have plenty for you to eat.”
They settled down at the table, to stories of what the other had been up to, Arya’s travels and Sansa’s progress in the North. Their new relationship was built on much sturdier ground than before – while the duty of family was intrinsic to their own identities, there was a gentler, softer feeling which bound them now, moulded of genuine appreciation for the other’s company.
Sansa enjoyed every second of their reunion, even as she dismayed at her sister’s recklessness, but Arya could tell she was not entirely present.
“Sansa.” She said, startling her sister with her serious tone. Though Sansa had been looking at her, her expression was glazed over and something was preoccupying her.
“Yes, I’m sorry. You were telling me about the boy who fell overboard?”
“Sansa.” This time more gently. “Please tell me what it is.”
Sansa frowned, looked down at the table and rearranged her knife and fork on the plate in front of her.
“It is just that… It is difficult… My council have informed me of a matter that Baelish organised, a parting gift of sorts.” She smiled wryly and took a breath before confessing to her sister. “Cousin Robyn has claimed a proposed match between us and believes our marriage to be his by right.”
Arya looked at her, incredulous. “But surely not?”
“Baelish secured a match, before his execution. Robyn has grown now and looks to partner with the Northern power.”
The sun ran across the table, a river of gold separating the sisters from the rest of the hall.
Sansa forced a smile onto her face.
“You must change before dinner. You smell of horse.”
Arya chuckled lightly, but it didn’t lighten her eyes which lingered over her sister’s face.
“Very well. I gather we are not alone tonight – Southern invaders take a seat at our table.”
~
The two sisters were the first to appear and sat together, enshrined in the ease of each other’s company and familiarity.
When Tyrion walked in, he smiled softly at the sight.
Sansa looked over casually, before catching his eye and grinning at him. He smiled back, feeling the slight tinge of pink in his cheeks that he seemed helpless to stop. He bowed politely to both of them and approached the table.
She then turned back to carry on talking to her sister as he climbed onto the bench opposite the sisters, instead of his usual seat, but Arya observed him carefully.
“Princess Arya,” he said with surprise, greeting her as Sansa turned back towards him, including Tyrion in their conversation. “A pleasure to see you again.”
“Lord Tyrion,” Arya replied, tone composed but eyes alive and watchful.
“How are you, my lord? My maid heard that you were not feeling well this afternoon.” Sansa looked at him with a kind smile and concern lighting her face.
He thanked her. “I am well, your grace, just not suited to long distances. I will likely survive.”
“I am pleased to hear that.” She couldn’t keep the gentleness and familiarity out of her tone, her hand inching forward subtly over the table, before a raised eyebrow from Arya caused her to blush and bring her hand back under the table.
Before Arya could comment, Bronn entered the hall, shouting his civilities and cajoling his friend over spending the day in hiding.
~
The meal passed without incident, Bronn and Arya keeping them entertained with alternating stories of very different tones. Sansa could tell that her sister was making an effort to cheer her spirits and thanked her by duly laughing at all her tales. As the meal was cleared, Arya and Bronn headed to the courtyard to settle a bet on which of them was the more competent swordsman. She and Tyrion laughingly observed the pair as Arya promptly threw Bronn to the floor time and time again, though he made a valiant effort and won a few times at hand-to-hand combat. She made her excuses as the sun started to settle and headed back to the fire in the hall.
~
Sansa walked into the castle and slumped against a sideboard. The maids had disappeared to the kitchens for their own tea and the fires had been newly stoked, casting long shadows around the room. In this corner, she could surround herself in darkness, a small cave away from responsibility. She sat, leaning against the wall, feeling the tears start to drip down her face, reddening her cheeks and blurring the flames that licked at the grate. She started to shake and muttered to herself.
Robyn was good. He had grown into a good man. An honourable man. He would make a fine husband, she thought, but he is not… He could never be…. What I truly want…
“Sansa.”
A small voice reached out to her in the darkness. Illuminated by the light from the flames, the richness of the leather he wore contrasted heavily with the golden sunshine that draped his face.
She laughed through the rivers that flowed down her face. Of course, of course he would appear now.
He walked towards her, placed a hand on either elbow and held her to the earth. “Talk to me please,” he whispered, his voice desperate and for once uncertain.
That same familiar feeling built up in her, that was always present when he was there. His solidness calmed her, slowed the tears and she leant forwards, resting her head down in the crook of his neck. He moved a hand to stroke her hair, murmuring calming sounds into her ear, his breath tingling against her skin.
“What can I do?” He was calm now, but concern still clouded his words.
She just buried further into his neck, breathing more steadily now. He pressed a kiss to her temple then moved to her ear. Kissing his way up and down her face, whispering kind things to her.
Sansa heard the maids outside in the entranceway and leant away from him, avoiding his eye and hurriedly cleaning the tears from her face.
“Shall we go for a walk?” He suggested, quietly.
She nodded gratefully, the corners of her mouth lifting in some approximation of a smile.
They went through the hall and walked to the godswood. As soon as they were inside the walls, she reached for his hand and squeezed it tightly, trying to express her gratitude and absorb some of his surety.
They sat on a large log in the middle of a compact area of trees, shielded from the outside world by leaves and bark. Tyrion could tell that whatever it was, it would wait until the morning. What she wanted was his presence. She moved to lie on the log, her head falling back until it hit his lap. Sansa looked upwards until she met his gaze and looked questioningly at him until he started to run his fingers through her hair in silent assent and she closed her eyes, settling into him. They led like that for some time. Sansa started to rise, twisting around to sit at the side of the log and lifting herself from his legs. He stood and came round in front of her, to help her to her feet. But as he held both her hands in his own, something changed in the air between them.
She could hear the chain between them rattle, so used to it being taut between them, in the breeze from Tyrion’s long and shaking breaths. He backed away slightly, kissing her temple as he saw the frantic look in her eye, as if to tell her that he wanted – needed - this as much as she did. Moving his mouth down to her neck he brushed against her collarbone, smiling against her skin at the shiver that reverberated through her. He kissed his way up to her jaw before pressing his lips against each of her eyelids. They fluttered at his touch and Sansa blushed deeply as she felt his smile upon her, felt something stirring within her. He can’t know what he does to me. I can’t let him know. Tyrion brought a hand up to cradle her cheek and she gave in at his touch, at the warmth that spread through his palm and down to her stomach. He grazed his teeth against her bottom lip and she looked into his eyes.
“You are teasing me,” she whispered.
“I never tease, your grace.” He said, looking back at her, voice rough and low and welcoming.
He leant forward then, moving his hand to hold her chin between his fingers and meeting her mouth with his own. At first there was little pressure there, as though he was a prince awakening her from a deep slumber – it was chaste and brief but sent sparks flying through her. She put her arms around his neck, pulled him closer and wound her feet round his legs. She didn’t want him chaste and proper, she wanted him. She looked at this man in front of her, trying to express all her desire for him in her eyes alone. He seemed to get the message. Tyrion’s hand moved up to the back of her head and he fed his fingers through her hair, pulling her further towards him. When their lips touched, something had changed. They no longer had a distance between them, the distance of what-could-be, what-could-happen – instead it was happening now and gloriously so. She could feel his intensity and heat emanating from this touch alone. She grabbed his neck tighter, connecting them as much she could, though it didn’t feel enough. His tongue ran across her lip and she could have fainted at the explosion it prompted within her. He moaned deeply and she moved her fingers to his hair, pulling them through it until she made him moan again.
“Sansa –“ he murmured against her lips.
She opened her eyes and saw his face had darkened, his eyes large and deep, his gaze focussed solely on her. She wondered silently at the sight of it, at eliciting such a reaction from the man she thought would be beyond the mercy of such a thing as a first kiss. He broke from her then, making her whimper, pulling his mouth further and further down her neck. She could see he enjoyed making her frustrated, making her want him more, could see that it turned him on. She pulled his face up and insisted on being kissed. From the way he lingered and pushed closer against her, Sansa didn’t believe he minded.
They stayed, entangled, at the lake’s edge until the sun descended in the sky and the moon began to rise. Sansa pulled back, softening it with a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and extracted her limbs from where they had been tightly coiled. She began to rise, could see his reluctance to head back to the castle.
“We must go.” She whispered. “We will be spotted.”
He murmured something that she couldn’t hear, reached out to grab her hand and pulled her back for one more agonising kiss. She ran her hands through his hair once more, hoping that she could hold onto this night, that it could carry her through until morning. She smiled at him, seeing in his eyes a desperate longing that reflected her own. Still holding his hand, she brought it up to her lips and pressed a kiss into his palm.
“Wait to follow. I will go first but it is too late to return together.”
She walked towards the entrance to the godswood, turning back where she knew she could not be spotted from the windows, and drank in the last sight of him, reflected against the water, the silver light from the moon through his golden hair tinging it the same bronze as the weirwood tree.
She smiled to herself and walked back towards the castle, leaving all thoughts of the Vale waning in the moonlight.