Chapter Twenty-six
Sansa returned to her chamber and quickly stripped off her cloak and gown. She buried herself beneath the sleeping furs and stared blindly out into the darkness, her heart pounding in her chest, tears threatening behind her eyes. She felt like such a fool.
Just that morning, she had convinced herself that she was safe, that she could be content with her new life. But she'd been oh-so-very wrong. There was no such thing as safety, no such thing as security. Life at Winterfell was just as unstable and unpredictable as it had been in King's Landing, and it was time she faced the truth.
Arya was abandoning her, and Tyrion would too someday. She had allowed them both to lull her into a false sense of security, to convince her that she could be happy, but she knew that wasn't possible now. Life was changing, and it would continue to change, leaving her behind, just as it always did. Arya would return to King's Landing and forget all about her. Tyrion would go to Casterly Rock the moment he grew tired of her, and he might never return. And why should he? She hadn't been a particularly accommodating wife, despite the liberties she'd allowed him in her bedchamber. He would be much happier, she was sure, with some whore in his bed.
Sansa squeezed her eyes shut against the pain in her heart, and hot tears rolled down her cheeks. She knew she was letting her insecurities get the best of her, but she couldn't help it. She'd been so sure, so certain, that she'd known exactly what her life was going to be like now that things were more settled between her and Tyrion. She had never expected Arya to return to King's Landing. She'd thought that Arya felt the same way about Winterfell as she did, that it was home, that she would never want to leave it again. But apparently, she'd been wrong.
Sansa lay there for a long time, crying her heart out. Arya was right about one thing. Even though their relationship had improved since they'd both returned to Winterfell, they weren't terribly close. They were still getting to know each other again, and Sansa mourned the chance they were about to lose. She wanted Arya to stay, not just because she didn't want to be the only Stark in Winterfell, but because she loved her sister and she wanted the chance to get to know her better. Now, that could never be. She'd be lucky if she ever saw Arya again. Those she loved most had a painful habit of leaving Winterfell, never to return.
But it wasn't just Arya that Sansa feared losing. It was Tyrion as well. They had only been married for a short time, and already she couldn't imagine her life without him. He was her friend, her lover, her confidant. He knew how to make her smile when her whole world was falling apart. He knew how to comfort her, how to console her, how to bring her joy. Every morning, she awoke in hopeful anticipation of seeing his face, of talking to him, of being near him. He made her happy. He made her feel whole and alive again. She had come to rely on him as she relied on the air she breathed, and she knew if he ever left her, she'd simply fall apart.
Sansa opened her eyes and stared out into the darkened room, suddenly overcome by a startling truth. Since the day she had taken Tyrion as her husband again, she'd been fighting to keep him out of her heart. She'd thought she had steeled her heart against him, but somehow, he had managed to break through her defenses. Now, her heart ached for want of him, and Sansa could no longer deny the truth. She loved Tyrion Lannister. She loved him, and she was terrified of losing him.
Experience had taught Sansa that no one ever stayed by her side for long, and that, in the end, she would always end up alone. And yet, that morning, Tyrion had been so kind to her, so warm and gentle. He had held her in his arms and loved her as if his heart had been in every caress. He had cared for her, doted on her, confessed one of his darkest secrets. He had opened himself up to her. How could she ever believe that he would someday walk away? He had never betrayed her, never turned away from her. He had proven himself a kind and loyal husband, and Sansa knew she had judged him unfairly.
Sansa swiped the tears from her cheeks and threw off the covers. She got out of bed and hastily donned a robe. She still had no desire to see Arya, but she owed Tyrion an apology. She could not be angry with him for something he hadn't even done. She couldn't hold the sins of others against him. And she needed to tell him that.
Sansa slipped from the room, making her way to Tyrion's chamber as quickly as she could. The hour was growing late, and she prayed that she would find him there.
When she reached his room, she knocked softly on the door, hoping he would answer, hoping he wouldn't send her away. She knew he had every right to turn his back on her after the way she had treated him, but she hoped that he would show her more compassion than she had shown him.
"Enter!" he shouted.
Sansa was surprised by the boisterous tone of Tyrion's voice. Her heart skipped a beat as she wondered what she was going to find waiting for her when she entered his chamber.
Sansa opened the door and stepped inside. Tyrion was sitting at the table in the center of the room, wearing nothing more than a tunic and robe. He had a nearly empty flagon of wine in one hand and a goblet in the other.
"Sansa!" he said, raising up his glass to her. "Come to join me?"
Sansa quietly shut the door behind her. "You're drunk," she said, her tone leaving no doubt that she was none too pleased by his intoxication.
"Well," he said, contemplating the cup in his hand thoughtfully, "I don't know if I'm quite drunk yet. I've only had . . ." He stopped talking and counted the numbers in his head, silently mouthing the words as he did so. One, two, three, four. "Four," he finally said. "I've only had four glasses of wine. That hardly makes me drunk."
Sansa approached the table, her determination to apologize suddenly fleeing as her anger returned. She wrenched the flagon from his hand and slammed it down onto the table.
"Hey! I wasn't done with that!" Tyrion protested.
"I thought you were done with that a long time ago. I thought you were done wasting your nights drinking."
Tyrion shrugged. "I thought so too, but I guess we were both wrong. I guess we were both wrong about a lot of things." He laughed bitterly and raised his glass to take a drink. He leaned back his head, emptying the cup in one swig. When he lowered it, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaned forward and reached for the flagon.
Sansa pushed it to the other side of the table. "You've had enough," she said.
"Oh, no, not quite. You'll know when I've had enough. I'll be passed out on the floor in a puddle of my own vomit."
"Why are you doing this? Why are you acting this way? After everything we've been through together, why are you doing this now?"
"You know why."
"No, I don't."
Tyrion shook his head. "I'm tired of denying who I am for you, Sansa. I can't do it anymore. Nothing I do is ever good enough. You'll never believe that you mean anything more to me than any of the other women who have come in and out of my life. You've already made up your mind. You tell me I'm wonderful. You invite me into your bed. And yet, and yet, you don't believe me when I tell you that I'll never leave you. You don't believe me when I tell you that . . . well, it doesn't matter. I'm tired of pretending. I'm tired of fighting who I am just to make you happy. Because nothing is ever going to make you happy, Sansa Stark. Nothing. You've already made up your mind about that. And there's nothing I can do to change it."
Sansa stared at Tyrion in stunned silence. Was that what he really thought of her? Did he really think that the only reason she was unhappy was because she had chosen to be unhappy? It was a cruel assessment, and Sansa felt as if she might burst into tears. But she held them back, determined not to let him see her cry.
"I have not made up my mind to be unhappy. The world made that decision for me long ago."
"Horseshit," Tyrion said. "That is complete and utter horseshit. You made up your mind, Sansa. You. We were so happy together, so very happy. Happier than I've ever been in my miserable little life. And you just decided, all of a sudden, that it doesn't matter. Arya is leaving, yes. But she has every right to leave. It's her choice. Not yours. She isn't doing it because she wants to hurt you. She's doing it because she thinks you don't need her anymore, because she thinks you're ready to stand on your own two feet. But apparently, she's wrong, isn't she? Because you're not ready. You'll never be ready. You're letting your pain and your anger and your hurt feelings dictate everything you do, and until you can let them go, you'll never be ready to stand on your own, Sansa Stark. Never."
Sansa's bottom lip trembled as she struggled to fight back the tears. Everything Tyrion had just said about her was true. She was afraid, afraid and angry. And she was letting her fear and anger control her. They had become constant companions in her life, the cruelest of counselors, and she listened to them far too often.
"So," Tyrion continued when she failed to reply, "since there is nothing I can do to make you happy, I'm going to make myself happy instead. I am going to drink until I pass out. And then, when I wake up, I'm going to do it all over again. Because I can. Because I have no reason not to. And there isn't a damn thing you can do about it."
But Sansa knew there was something she could do about it, and suddenly, she said the only thing she could say, "I'm sorry, Tyrion."
Tyrion stared at her, his gaze lucid for the first time since she had stepped into the room. She knew that had been the last thing he'd expected her to say.
"Sansa—"
"I'm sorry that I hurt you tonight. I'm sorry that I doubted your loyalty. Arya is the one who broke my heart, not you. I should never have been so hard on you."
Tyrion exhaled a heavy sigh. "I accept your apology, Sansa. And I'm sorry if I hurt you just now."
She shook her head. "No, don't apologize. Those were things I needed to hear."
"Even so, there was no need for me to be so cruel."
"I'll assume it was the wine talking. You're not a cruel man, Tyrion Lannister. It's not in your nature."
He laughed. "Ah, you obviously don't know me as well as you think you do. I can be cruel when it suits me."
"We can all be cruel when it suits us, but it is a rare thing, for both of us. It doesn't define us or make us who we are."
Sansa reached for the flagon. She picked it up and emptied its contents into Tyrion's glass. When she put it down, she said, "Drink as much as you want tonight, but please, let that be the end of it, for both our sakes."
"Of course," Tyrion said. Then, he put down the cup even though it was half full. "I think I've had enough for one night, actually. Suddenly, the idea of making myself sick with drink doesn't seem all that appealing."
Sansa nodded. She was glad that Tyrion was willing to see reason. She knew that, had she not shown reason herself, he never would have put down the glass. "Thank you, Tyrion. I like you a lot better when you're sober than when you're drunk."
"And why is that?"
"Because you have an amazing mind, and you only do yourself a disservice when you drown it in wine."
"Perhaps, but sometimes my mind needs a rest, and it likes to drown in a little bit of wine. But I shall not indulge to excess, henceforth. You have my word."
Sansa sighed. Suddenly, her limbs felt weak, and she wanted nothing more than to retire to her bedchamber and sleep until Arya disappeared from her life. She looked around the room awkwardly, at a loss for what to say.
"I'm going to turn in," Tyrion said. "And dwarf though I may be, my bed is as big as yours. Would you care to join me?"
Sansa's eyes snapped to his face in surprise. She hadn't expected him to ask her to lie with him again. He was still quite drunk, and she had no desire to be mauled by a man so deep in his cups, even if that man was Tyrion Lannister.
Sansa opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her.
"I'm not asking you to spread your legs for me," he said, the liquor making his tongue far cruder than usual. "I'm asking if you want to sleep by my side, that's all. Nothing more."
Sansa was tempted, but Tyrion reeked of wine, and already the scent was starting to make her head swim. She was still confused about what she felt and what she wanted. She needed space. She needed time. She needed to sleep in her own bed and figure things out for herself.
"I think I would like to retire to my own chamber if it's all the same to you."
Tyrion held out both his hands in surrender. "As you wish, my lady."
Sansa backed up toward the door. As she did so, she caught sight of the big bed up against the far wall, and she instantly wondered if she had made a mistake. But it was too late now. She didn't want Tyrion to think that she didn't know her own mind. She had made a decision, and she was determined to stick to it. "Good night, then," Sansa said, sorry to be going, despite her misgivings.
"Good night, Sansa. Sleep well."
She left the room then, shutting the door quietly behind her.
Sansa leaned back against the door and closed her eyes, her mind fraught with turmoil. Tyrion had said a great many things to her that she needed to think about. She needed some time alone. She needed some time away from him to sort through it all. She knew she loved Tyrion now, without any doubt, but she was still hurt and angry and insecure, and she wasn't at all prepared for the loss she was about to suffer. Time and distance were the only things that could heal her now. She would think about everything that Tyrion had said, and she would pray to the gods that she could overcome her bitterness before it was too late, before Arya was gone from her life forever.