Sansa closed her eyes as the mattress sank low on one side. Warm fingers trailed from cheek to collar bone, but she did not flinch. She was not supposed to flinch.
"They told me you were a little bird, Sansa." Tyrion's voice seemed sad, but his touch told her otherwise. "I suppose you are my little bird now, though. The dwarf and his pet, they will call us," he chuckled as his fingers traced her collar, leaving whispers of heat on the fine bone.
"I can fly circles around my cage and sing pretty songs, if it pleases my lord," she said. The words fells so easily from her tongue. Falsehoods were always the lightest, they almost begged to escape. The Imp's fingers stilled. And yet they weigh so heavily on others, how funny.
"I'm sure that you play a beautiful bird, my lady. But we can play another night." Finally his fingers lifted, and Sansa opened her eyes to the sheer canopy above. "Where would you fly, little bird, if I opened your cage? To Winterfell?"
Winterfell. No memories swam before her eyes like she knew they should. Winterfell is gone. "I would not fly there. They burned it to the ground."
The fingers returned, but this time they stroked only her cheek. It could have been comforting, but it was still a lion's paw. And even the smallest of lion's have claws. "I am truly sorry for what my family has done. But I promise you, my lady, I promise never to harm you."
Sansa almost wanted to smile—and would a smile be so bad? Painting them on was easy enough. "Yes, my lord," she replied, turning her head to face the Imp.
"Then tell me. Where would you fly?"
His emerald eyes pierced into her own, kindly but not without longing, longing for herself or a real answer, she supposed. Tyrion's eyes faded to surprise as she caught his fingers between her own.
"I would fly into the sun and make it my home. Not even they could burn down that down."