7A/N: Another instalment of these drabbles! Thank you to everyone who has followed and favourited this so far- you have no idea how much your support means to me and I love and thank you from the bottom of my heart!
Disclaimer: I am sadly not George R.R Martin and so cannot lay claim to anything that seems familiar to both book readers and show watchers! I am simply trying to convey my love for Tyrion/Sansa into something cohesive- please don't sue me!
On Silent Raven's Wings
vi)
She doesn't give Tyrion's comment another thought until a few weeks later when the ravens come from the capital. The mid afternoon sun is dappled against the mullioned glass of the sola windows, casting a tawny glow through the high windows as she bends her head over her latest embroidery.
From somewhere down in the bowels of the castle, a window slams.
She doesn't even think that it could be raven; merely presumes its' one of the servants or even Maester Locke closing a window against a sudden draft. She takes up her needle again but doesn't start sewing immediately. Instead the needle flicks itself through her fingers; the dappled light catching the metal as it twirls and pirouettes across the skin of her palm; flashing minute sparks of fire through the dusky gloom.
Ayra had a sword called Needle, she recalls. Or thinks she did; she had never taken much notice or interest in her sister once they arrived in Kings' Landing and she had been whirled away in a cavalcade of light by the social butterflies that were the knights and courtiers. Whirled away into the sticky web of lies and deceit which was to become her life; a life she would desperately try to protect herself against with a shield of icy courtesy.
A sudden knock at the door makes her start and turn; the fabric slipping from her lap as she rises; concern fluttering palpably at her breast. The children never knock; forever dashing into the solar and out again like the rush of wind chasing at leaves and Tyrion…
The door opens onto a pageboy with the sigil of the Lannister lion at his breast. She is so used to seeing their combined sigil; rampant lion back to back with the direwolf head of her father and brother that seeing the lone lion leaves an odd taste in her mouth.
'My lady', the pageboy bows and passes over a scroll signed with a wax seal. She cannot stop her hands from shaking as the weight of the flattened wood pulp lies cold and heavy in her palm.
'You… You may go', she says after a moment; a moment too long, the dread swirling in the pit of her stomach making her want to retch with every passing second. It can't be true. It's not true. It's not true. It's not….
Somewhere in a distant part of her brain that still feels connected to the real world, she marvels at the fact that she has managed to open the seal and unfold the scroll; the thick, cream parchment feeling like a lead weight to her touch.
She scans the first few lines of tight, clear script; heart thudding, unwanted, unbidden tears pricking painfully in the corners of her eyes; a dull ache rising through her chest, clutching at her heart like an iron fist as she comes to the closing formalities.
It's not true.
It can't be true.
She is still standing there, still frozen when her handmaid comes to inform her that supper is being served.
vii)
Tyrion doesn't say anything that night. He doesn't have to and for that she's grateful.
Lying in bed watching the candle gutter and spit to its' climax, she reads through the letter over and over again in her minds' eye. Sees the children asleep in their beds; Gerion's hair a cloud of golden curls, face tight in his silent nightmares, Robb curled like a cub, one hand flung out to catch his elder brother should he fall.
She sees Joanna with her mane of tawny copper billowing over the pillows, a small smile playing at the corners of her sleep filled lips; smiling in her dreams.
She even sees Lyanna lying in the little crib cot with her wet nurse at her side; a mass of smiling, broken toothed comfort to the little scrap she can call her youngest daughter.
'Sansa?' Tyrion's voice is thick and sluggish with sleep as she feels his small, hot paw reach out to touch her own.
'Are you well?' His voice has such compassion within it; such genuine, tender concern that her heart almost breaks in her chest.
'Yes', the whisper is little more than a breath against her lips, the age old lie being pulled out forever against the coverlet, stopping just in time before the customary 'my Lord' slips out.
She knows that he is not convinced.
'Sansa, you know I don't like being lied to. What's the matter my love?' The weight of his stubby fingers close momentarily over her hand and gives it a quick, reassuring squeeze.
'Promise me you won't send the boys' away before they're ready?' She manages at long last; thinking of Gerion with his wide, azure blue eyes and sweet, guiless smile. Thinking of Robb and his prickly Northern pride; which even now, when he has not yet reached his ninth name day is beginning to show and reminds her so much of Robb it sometimes hurts.
She doesn't want to think about the girls.
The small, chaste kiss to cool her sudden tears pressed to her cheek speaks volumes as as she leans into him; grateful for his warmth, for his support when her mind is in such bitter turmoil.
'There… There was a raven,' she manages to whisper, finally, brokenly. In the darkness the fingers tighten their grip, silently urging her to continue and yet, somehow, begging her to stop.
She swallows, desperately trying to think of ways that will make this less painful for him. For both of them.
'It was from King's Landing, my love.' The words come easily enough, however much it hurts her to say them.
'From House Clegane, you mean', the bitterness in Tyrion's voice is biting, but she refuses to comment on it.
'They've made an offer', she whispers; knowing she'll have to say it before she loses her nerve. 'An offer for Joanna's hand in marriage'.
His silence tells her his answer before he even utters it.
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