Chapter 29: Reap Happiness in Pain
To know joy,
Reap happiness in a field of pain.
To lessen sorrow,
Close your ears to the sound of rain.
Ellaria and Oberyn's apartment was like a miniature Dorne. Golden tones and bright colors — yellow, green, orange — dominated their interior decoration. Large windows let in the light and the breeze of the sea. Silks, rugs, furs of exotic animals; the smell of spices, aromatic oils and candles; the soft chatter of wind chimes; the inviting pillows and divans; the colorful decorative pottery — all imparted a distinctly Dornish atmosphere to the place. Sansa loved Ellaria's home. Her friend was making fruit tea in the large, light-filled kitchen, while Sansa sat on a barstool at the kitchen counter.
"So, what did you want to talk to me about?" asked the older woman.
Sansa took a deep breath.
"Please, promise me you will not laugh at me or tease me. I'm… I'm in enough pain as it is," she pleaded in a small voice.
Ellaria looked concerned.
"If anyone has hurt you in any way, just tell me, and I'll castrate them and fuck them in the ass with their own cocks," she growled deep in her throat, dark brown eyes flashing.
"No! My gods, no!" Sansa cried in shock. Why did Ellaria always have to be so explicit and extreme in her wild opinions? "I just want your advice… I know you won't judge me and… I wanted to talk to you because I don't think my mother would understand…"
Ellaria reached for the young girl's hand.
"Sansa, you can tell me anything — anything at all — and I'll tell you the truth as I see it, no judgement attached," she winked, "you know I always do." Ellaria squeezed her hand and let go, returning to making tea. "As a mother, however, I can tell you that there's nothing we won't understand about our babies."
Sansa shrugged. She did not want to take any chances where her mother's understanding was concerned.
"So what is it?" persisted Ellaria.
"I… I think I'm falling in love with someone who will never love me back," Sansa said hesitantly. Ellaria seemed as if she knew whom Sansa had meant.
"Are you talking about Jaime?" she began. "Because — "
MY. GODS! flashed in Sansa's mind, and she hastened to interrupt:
"I'm talking about someone else!" she yelped her lie in panic.
"Oh." Ellaria looked surprised; anxious; and a little disappointed. "Who, then?" she inquired.
"Someone else!" Sansa repeated. "Look, it doesn't matter who," she added and sighed. "The point is: that person will never love me back. So I want to ask you this: is there a way to live with this… Learn to get around it? Like a disability or something?"
Ellaria looked pensive for a few moments, as if sad memories called to her from the past.
"Yes," she said, and Sansa released the breath she had been holding. "Yes, there is."
The hopes she had placed in Ellaria were not in vain.
"Could you teach me how?" she asked.
Ellaria proffered her a cup of the delicious fruity drink and walked toward an orange divan that stood before an open balcony. They sat and drank in silence for a few minutes.
"You're right to compare it to a disability," Ellaria said finally. "It's like dyslexia, or ADD. It's always there, making your life a little harder than everyone else's. You can curse and despair, but it won't go away… So you learn how to go on in spite of it; how to overcome it. With unrequited love… What you learn is to find the little happiness you can. Don't think, 'he doesn't love me,' or 'he loves someone else.' Focus instead on a friendship, perhaps a few warm words. Learn to be happy with scraps until something changes, or you can move on."
The Dornishwoman took a sip of her tea.
"What if I don't move on?" Sansa asked almost in a whisper. In truth, this question petrified her more than any other.
"Nothing lasts forever," replied Ellaria with conviction, "not even love."
"But my parents will always love each other," Sansa countered, "so some love does." Ellaria's smile was a little rueful.
"When love is returned, it can last an eternity; but when it's not — sooner or later, the heart shakes it off. It's like a bad dream: it may seem you'll never stop running, but at some point, you do wake up."
They paused, watching the sea and the white boats in the far distance.
"When I fell in love with Oberyn," Ellaria began, turning to examine the pieces of fruit in her teacup, as if to read in them her fate, "he didn't pay me any mind. It was nothing but a fling for him, and he wouldn't have known what faithfulness was if you showed him the definition in a dictionary." She smiled a wistful smile, pained still by the memories. "So I learned to close my eyes to his escapades: even if I killed his lovers, it wouldn't have mattered — he'd simply find new ones. So I pretended to be blind, opening my eyes only when he was mine, if for a brief time, dedicating the rest of myself to my art. I was jealous but patient. I loved on, regardless of how my whole body seemed to ache and blood boil when I caught a whiff of feminine perfume or noticed stains of lipstick on his clothes." She paused. "I learned that I was happier when I was with him even if he wasn't mine than when I was without him at all." She turned to Sansa and put a warm hand on her knee: "Learn how to be happy hearing a laugh or a kind word; learn to ignore the pain — it won't go away, so put it on a back burner. Find comfort in a smile that you have brought to his face; feel happy because you do get to speak with him, see him. You would be more miserable if you didn't. If you're certain he'll not love you…" Sansa nodded in discouragement, "something I find hard to believe, " Ellaria commented, "accept that you can change nothing and that you must be content with what you have, and you have more than just the love for one person: you have a wonderful family, adoring friends, and a promising career."
Sansa had never dreamed Ellaria had experienced heartbreak firsthand. She had simply assumed that her friend would have sound advice based on what she had seen in others.
"What happened then — with Oberyn?" she inquired hesitantly, gently, so as not to disturb an old wound.
"I domesticated him," Ellaria smiled with good humor. "After a while, he'd stay longer, return sooner. He wanted me more and the others less. He grew to depend on me, because I refused to depend on him — I was the one he could talk to, knowing I would never throw a fit over his words. He started sharing secrets and dreams with me, and I did the same. At some point, I could tell it was just me he was with. He didn't say anything, didn't make any promises, but the perfume and lipstick were gone from his clothes and I knew where he was almost every hour the day — partly, because he was never far from me. Then, one day, we were in a bar, and a big Dothraki guy began flirting with me. Oberyn flew into a terrible rage. I thought he would kill that guy — Sansa, and the big brute was three times Ober's size! Anyway, when we returned to my place, I started cleaning his bloody, bruised hands, and it was the first time I'd ever reproached him for anything." She smiled at the fond memory. "He pulled me against him and told me that he'd tear anyone who tried taking me away from him to pieces. I got angry, I slapped him, but he never let me go. I told him I did not make similar threats and that he should show me the same curtesy. He said he wouldn't, and that I was welcome to claw anyone who looked at him in ways I didn't like. I almost kicked him out of my apartment, I was so mad." Ellaria chuckled and shook her head. "Anyway, we shouted a long time that night — at first in anger, then with pleasure. And that day, something changed between us: we knew it would only be us and no one else. A year later, he asked me to be his wife; then I had Tyene, and Oberyn went nuts — I never imagined a guy like him would turn to putty in his daughter's hands."
Ellaria paused, drinking more from her cup.
"Why did you never change your name?" Sansa asked. She had pondered this for a while.
"I was known as Ellaria Sand professionally, so I couldn't change my name. I worried Oberyn wouldn't understand, but he did. Tyene took my name, because she wanted to continue the 'female line.' I think Oberyn's still a little wounded," finished Ellaria with mock sympathy, which poorly hid her pleasure at her daughter's choice. Sansa had noticed early on that, in the Martell-Sand family, there seemed to be a latent competition between the parents for their daughter's smiles.
She smirked into her cup; the sweet aroma of Dornish tea surrounded her like a soft, warm summer wind. Ellaria tucked a lock of Sansa's flaming hair behind the girl's ear.
"There's no telling how love will turn out, Sansa," Ellaria said. "Whoever he is, he might never love you, or he might fall in love with you someday, or he might love you already and you simply don't know it yet. On average, men are slow creatures when it comes to feelings — it takes them longer to go from willful ignorance through denial to acceptance. In the meantime, look for small joys and try not let your heart dream of greater ones. Nothing cures unrequited love so well as friendship, darling."
Sansa nodded, recognizing the truth in Ellaria's words. After all, what choice did she have?
They drove to the LBC building together, chatting cheerfully along the way as if they had never known heartbreak and one was not teaching the other to live with it, yet a bitter sweetness seemed to float around them like perfume.
When they arrived to Jaime's studio, they walked into the arena of a heated argument. That day, they were supposed to continue crafting the dance of Azor and Tanea. Margery and Jaime were arguing with venom.
"That movement doesn't work, Lannister!" Margery was screaming at the top of her lungs, but Jaime would not be contravened:
"Of course, it does! You're simply too clumsy today for whatever reason to carry it out! Yesterday, you were spouting none of this nonsense!"
"I told you yesterday it wouldn't work! And it doesn't! You won't be the one risking to sprain your ankle to satisfy some lunatic's ideas! I'm telling you, I won't be doing this!"
"Don't be ridiculous, Marge — not even a one-legged dancer would sprain her ankle doing this simple pirouette!"
"What's happening here?" Ellaria inquired.
"He's trying to make me do this crazy pirouette!" Margery complained, annoyance heavy in her voice.
"Which one?" asked Sansa.
Margery showed it without preforming the motions fully. It was difficult — but hardly impossible.
"But you were doing it fine yesterday," noted Ellaria in confusion, and Jaime bowed to her in exaggerated gratitude.
"Traitor," bit out Marge and went for a drink of water.
Margery Tyrell was not, ordinarily, a person to be pissed. She could be annoyed, exasperated, or mad but, generally, she would not describe herself as "pissed." That day, however, she was unable to find in her rich vocabulary a more appropriate word to summarize her emotions.
She was elated the night before — the man she loved had finally gotten a hint and asked her to marry him. No sooner had she seized his proposal (and the accompanying ring, which, by the way, was the prettiest thing she had ever seen in all her life), than Tyrion began saying that they should wait before announcing their engagement. At least he had the decency not to state anything like that while they made love through the night — but did he have to spoil her morning? She wanted to put the magnificent piece of jewelry on her finger — where it officially belonged now — and tell everyone that Tyrion Lannister was off the market for good, back off bitches. But no. Tyrion had to start saying stupid nonsense about how the ring needed to be refitted (it absolutely did not, of course — it was a special order, after all); then he began suggesting that they should wait to tell the news anyway ("father will not leave us alone until we're married, and I want some quiet time to savor getting used to the idea," he said). At first, Margery laughed him off, but he was more persistent than a bulldog who had seized his owner's slipper and would not unclench his jaws. Finally, after a prolonged argument, her fiancé made a statement, which, in ridiculousness, rivaled any foolish thing that had ever been said. He declared that he simply would never believe that she did not act on impulse unless she had time to "think the whole thing through." Margery tried reasoning with him; she tried some dirty tactics; she tried false tears, threats, and puppy eyes, but Tyrion was indomitable. She would have time to reconsider whether she wanted to or not. Margery was outraged, but, in the end, she had no choice but to give in.
She wanted to tell everyone, most of all her grandmother and Sansa, but her stupid, stubborn fiancé had somehow managed to temporarily cheat her of this fun. At least, she could take some small pleasure in his new title — though she could not say it aloud, damn it! Margery was not a big believer in delayed gratification, and if she lacked one virtue, it was patience. She wanted a wedding, a wedding with Tyrion. She had waited for at least two years already, though glimpses of a future with him had begun flashing before her eyes much earlier than that. Weddings took so long to plan — good ones, anyway — why could they not take the time to "think the whole thing through" while preparations were underway? It was not like the outcome would be different — she would just have to wait longer until she walked down the aisle.
She was not sure if she wanted a wedding in the Great Sept or on a beach somewhere… Perhaps a garden? Oh! Maybe they could go to Highgarden and celebrate there, at grandmother's estate? She wondered what Olenna, Sansa, Ellaria, and Tyene would think of these ideas, but she could not ask them! Because Tyrion, no matter how wonderful in any other matter, was being absolutely impossible in this one! Margery even considered secretly telling Tywin and so having the problem taken off her hands entirely; but she knew that Tyrion would think this a betrayal, and she could not very well betray her own husband-to-be? She smiled, but then a frown came to her face — she really liked the term but could not share it with anyone!
Yes, there could be no doubt about it: Margery Tyrell was pissed. And she was not in the mood for dealing with Jaime Lannister's crazy ideas about stupid moves no one cared about anyway when they wanted to get married to the love of their life!
That day, the rehearsal was difficult. Although usually inventing steps was a pleasant and exciting occupation, Margery was distracted and unenthusiastic the whole afternoon, her mind seemed far away, which irritated Jaime, because it hampered the progress they were supposed to be making with the scene. By the time the session was through, everyone was more than happy to retreat.
Fortunately, in the days that followed, Margery's irritability left her. In fact, she seemed happy, and her eyes acquired a sly look as if she had pulled a prank on the entire world without anyone's knowledge. Not one to focus on the negative, Margery decided to enjoy her secret, realizing that sooner or later — though she wished it would be sooner rather than later — Tyrion would accept the fact that he was in her nets and she had no intention of ever loosening them.
In the next few weeks, Sansa, who had taken Ellaria's words to heart, tried acting on her advice. Her good sense triumphed completely over the petty feelings she had felt toward Margery, partly because Jaime's strange rancor had disappeared from his dance as inexplicably as it had come. The return of his good humor certainly helped Sansa keep her own sulkiness at bay. Soon enough, they had finished the dance of Azor and Tanea, and it was time to rehearse the dance of Nissa and the king.
Sansa had not tried arranging all the steps on her own, mainly because it would be challenging to do so without a partner. Besides, she would not presume to invent Jaime's movements for him — he could do it just fine on his own. In the nearly three months they had been working on the choreography and music, the only sequence that had been coordinated without Jaime's lead was Nissa's waiting dance. Sansa realized that she had been given such freedom with this scene because she would be the only one on stage in its duration. Dances that involved more than one person, however, had to be coordinated when everyone was present. Still, she had thought of various combinations beforehand.
She was pleasantly surprised when Jaime decided to keep a large part of the dance they had invented a few weeks before and was astonished by his detailed memory of the composition, which she remembered much more dimly. In the beginning of the dance, Nissa moved spirally, in a circle that continuously narrowed until she reached Azor. She would come to stand next to him by the first diminuendo of the music and then, like they had done the other night, Jaime and Sansa would dance together. As far as Sansa could tell, they did alter the steps somewhat, but the overall structure remained the same. Her suggestions were also incorporated.
Trouble came later.
The dance essentially consisted of three parts: Nissa's seduction as she neared Azor, which was followed by the king temporarily succumbing to his former lover's charms during their joint pas de deux; then came his rejection and Nissa's frantic, desperate dance that would initiate her descent into the madness of jealousy. The music was supposed to adhere to these divisions and reflect the changing feelings of the characters. Renly thought that it did. Jaime, however, stated plainly that the melody following Nissa and Azor's pas de deux had to be changed almost entirely. The argument that ensued between the choreographer and the composer had been terrifying. In the end, Jaime prevailed. Considering his position as the co-owner of the company and artistic director, this was unsurprising. Moreover, Tyrion had sided with his brother, making the directors' vote unanimous: the music that followed Azor's rejection had to have more passion, its rhythm had to be faster, its volume more violent.
One of the major alterations in the steps Jaime and Sansa had invented several weeks before came at the end of Azor and Nissa's joint dance. When music froze, her arched body was fully supported by his outstretched arms, their faces inches apart, their gazes locked. They would sustain this arresting pose for a long pause. Everyone, even Renly (after some convincing), agreed that the music for the third part of the dance, which followed the pause and centered on the rejection and the inception of jealousy, had to begin briskly, on a strong note. The problem they faced in choreography was how to follow the swift beginning of the music from the complex and still pose which they would hold during the pause. It was an issue that had been occupying their minds for the past two days. They had tried different ways in which Jaime could deposit her back on her feet while conveying Azor's rejection, and yet none of them seemed right or fitted the altered music. They were trying another one, when Sansa, who enjoyed the feeling of Jaime's arms around her without reservations, seeking to find happiness where she could, as Ellaria had advised, was enlightened. Jaime was about to begin lowering her to the ground, when she said urgently:
"Wait!"
He stilled, his strong arms supporting her body effortlessly, and looked back to her face.
"Do share, minx," he said, and a smirk began tugging at his lips. The serious and somewhat annoyed expression that had settled on his features in the past hours left his face and his eyes turned teasing.
"What if you threw me?" she asked excitedly.
"Come again?"
It was an odd way of having a conversation: their chests pressed together, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, her back arched and her legs thrown over her head as his arms, aligned with the backward curve of her legs, supported her thighs, his hands reaching her knees. During pauses, when they waited for the music, she never fully realized how intimate this pose was: she was quite literally enveloped in him. She fought the blush that crept into her cheeks and, still relishing, though not as guiltlessly as before, in the alignment of their bodies, explained:
"I said: what if you threw me instead of lowering me to the ground? It would go well with the music and would be a perfect way of communicating Azor's rejection."
She saw a flash of interest in his eyes and knew that he agreed with her, but then his expression became neutral.
"It's too risky," he said. "You might not land well and hurt yourself."
"Put me down," she ordered, and he returned her to her feet. She might be able to enjoy being close to him without holding back, now that she looked for such moments and caught them when she could in her continuous search for small joys, but this did not mean she had lost her sense of propriety entirely.
"I've seen something similar in a Dornish ballet once, quite a few years ago. The ballerina who performed it didn't seem to have any problem, so it can be done. And I think we should at least try it."
"It's only been done that one time," Oberyn cut in. "Jaime's right — it is rather risky, Sparkle."
"You hear that, minx?" Jaime said with a self-satisfied smile.
"You're the one who says we need to innovate!" she accused him.
"Yes, but not at the cost of our limbs," he countered. "Minx, you do realize that the expression 'break a leg' is a metaphor?" he jibed.
She rolled her eyes at him.
"Let's just try it!" she urged.
"Absolutely not," was his categorical answer. "Now, let's return to the last step we've thought of."
She was pouting as, again, they tried the different ways of breaking from the pose. They worked for another hour without making any progress. Everyone — Margery, Tyene, Tyrion, Ellaria, Oberyn, Renly, even Podrick and Brienne — was suggesting different ways of solving the difficulty in Jaime and Sansa's dance. Jaime kept thinking of new movements as well, and Sansa gave up her moping, trying to come up with a solution. They diligently tried everything, but to no avail. The music was perfect for the dance, but it made its demands.
"Sansa," Tyrion spoke when they were all taking a break, their sullen silence a gloomy indicator of their frustration, "do you think you could land safely if Jaime were to throw you?" he asked quietly.
"I think so," she said with more confidence than she felt, but Jaime would hear none of it.
"The matter is not up for discussion, Tyrion," he said uncompromisingly, his tone a warning.
"How about we try it with Oberyn as stand by? He can catch me," Sansa ventured.
"And who will be your stand by on stage, minx, huh?" Jaime inquired mockingly.
She took a deep breath and felt exasperation fill her lungs.
"I'm just saying we should try it," she said stubbornly. Before Jaime could refuse yet again, Tyrion spoke:
"Honestly, Jaime, I think she's right. You should try it. If it works, we can figure out the precautions later."
Jaime's eyes flashed:
"Well, that's a great idea, Tyrion!" he exclaimed with heavy sarcasm. "And pray tell: will those 'oncoming precautions' be handy enough to heal her broken bones or sprained ankles?!"
"Oh, don't be such a drama queen, Jaime," Sansa said, and the flaming eyes turned to her with doubled anger. Seeing that he was fuming, she put a hand on his forearm, a gesture that seemed to quiet his indignation. "I really don't think it's that bad."
In the past month, she had noticed that her touch had a strangely calming effect on him when he was irate. Since the disturbing realization that she was falling in love with him and her conversation with Ellaria, Sansa had clenched her teeth and prepared for the worst. Somehow, however, she found that her friend's advice was not impractical. Having never doubted Jaime's unavailability, it was not impossible for her to accept that he would not be hers. She tried being happy with what she had, which, she constantly reminded herself, was not little: a promising career, a loving family, and caring, wonderful friends; even Jaime, although sometimes the sight of him made her heart sting as if from the bite of a venomous snake, was a kind, gently teasing presence. She came to realize that, though he had an odd way of showing it, what with his nickname for her and constant jibes, Jaime respected her as a dancer. His teasing was a form of endearment. She grew to warm herself with his taunts and ever more often she was able to return his japes with interest. He did not seem to mind. Since their argument and his revelation of Aerys' death, there was a sense of kinship between them. His support for her in her moment of doubt about her dancing abilities was something she would recall when she felt blue, and the memory never failed to bring a small smile to her face. Sansa was proud that she did not allow the ill-placed inclination of her heart drag her down. In her understanding of her own feelings and her acceptance of them, she had found an odd sort of peace. The bondage of love was not without its sense of freedom.
There were moments, however, when she felt acutely the bitter ache of wanting someone she could not have. Every so often, at night, when she could not stay brave, she would hide her face in the pillow and deny that she cried softly, wishing at times that he could be hers, at times that her heart were not his; but she did not let sadness turn to depression and fought against melancholy by looking for bright spots in her garden of shadows. She simply refused to give up on happiness because she could not chose whom she loved. More often than not, it was around Jaime that she found peace. In his presence, she rarely felt forlorn, and she discovered that she herself had a pacifying influence on him.
His deep sigh returned her to reality. Jaime was clearly fighting against multiple degrees of irritation.
"Minx, for the last time, we're not going with this crazy idea," he said, exhaling. Seeing that she opened her mouth to protest, he added: "I'm warning you: if you bring up the subject one more time, I swear, I'll ask Varys for old Ned Stark's number and inform him of his daughter's dangerous carelessness."
Sansa pursed her lips in annoyance, and an infuriating smirk spread itself on Jaime's.
"Well, thank the gods for the stern Northern parental authority! Now, where were we with that other movement?"
It was unlike Sansa to give up after the first attempt. Next morning, she talked Oberyn into trying the movement in secret. They made a pact: if anything went wrong, Sansa would not tell Ellaria on him, and Oberyn would not betray her to Jaime. Both conspirators were rather unsettled by the wrath that the Sand Snake and the Kingslayer would unleash upon them, if they even discovered before time that they had practiced the risky step.
As Sansa had predicted, the movement, although it required considerable concentration and unusual care in execution, was neither too dangerous nor too challenging. Oberyn and she practiced until they both felt confident that Sansa could perform the motion without any hiccups, and they could boast of their achievement to the rest of the group. Despite their high hopes, both felt somewhat uneasy when they walked into Jaime's studio the same evening.
They waited, upon tacit agreement, until the search for the right way to break out of the pose began to fuel irritation and respite was called for. Then, they walked to the center of the dance floor together.
"Renly, be a good man, take it again from the pause, will you?" Oberyn asked as he lifted Sansa into his arms. She noted absentmindedly, not for the first time that day, how Oberyn's arms did not affect her at all: it seemed as though there was something magical about Jaime's embrace, a secret to making her whole body glow, which no one else knew.
The silence lingered, and then Renly's piano, accompanied by Brienne's cello and Podrick's violin, launched into the tumult of passionate music. With the first, resonating note, Oberyn's arms flexed, and Sansa flew backward through the air, landing gracefully on her feet and immediately beginning the steps she was supposed to perform. She only made a few motions to show how seamless was the transition. When she paused and the musicians stopped playing, Oberyn wore a pleased, proud smile he was accustomed to displaying when his student's achievements were in evidence; adding to his satisfaction was his own contribution to the discovery of the successful transition. Sansa looked to Jaime and was taken aback by his expression. His face betrayed a petrifying fury, yet his eyes could not conceal his admiration. He flexed his jaw muscles and, without saying a word, advanced on Oberyn. Everyone tensed, bodies ready for preventive measures. Tyrion, leaving his place next to Margery, even followed his brother cautiously. Jaime came to stand so close to his colleague and friend that their height difference forced Oberyn to look upward to meet his eyes. Sansa knew this intimidation tactic of Jaime's very well.
"Oberyn, was I not clear yesterday when I said — and several times, too, — that we were not going to try this movement because it might jeopardize Sansa's health and ability to perform in the ballet we've all been working on tirelessly for the past three months?"
"Jaime, listen — " Oberyn began, but the Lannister was not in the most open-minded of moods.
"Was. I. Not. Clear?" he repeated, his voice quiet and dangerous.
Sansa would not let Oberyn be pulverized for helping her. She approached the enraged lion fearlessly.
"Jaime, calm down," she began soothingly, as if, truly, she were entering a cage with a wild animal, entreating him not to tear her to pieces, "I asked Oberyn to help me practice. If he had not agreed, I would have gone to someone else. It was better that he helped me, considering that he's one of the most experienced dancers in — "
Jaime turned on her, and she was immediately daunted by his anger.
"YOU!" he exclaimed with a passion. "I have no words for you! What kind of an imbecile jumps, forgive the pun, into something so remarkably stupid?!"
Sansa was resolved not to feel like a scolded child, but her determination had availed her nothing. She looked down at her feet. Tormund, who had been coming every now and then to the meetings, his trumpet in tow, began approaching them, when Jaime whipped his head toward him and growled:
"One more step, redhead, and you'll regret it."
Tormund would have kept advancing, but Brienne, by far the more reasonable of the two, put a hand on his arm, stopping his progress. Sansa was still grateful for the reprieve. Jaime turned back to her, and she tried defending herself:
"Listen, you can see for yourself that everything's fine. You're overreacting!"
"Overreacting?!"
"Yes!"
"I should fire both of you for disobeying direct orders from your superior," he barked.
Oberyn bit back a nervous smirk, but Sansa gave full voice to her indignation:
"This isn't an army, Lannister! And if you dislike having your 'orders' disobeyed, maybe you should have just been less stubborn and tried doing the step with me when I asked you to!"
Jaime's astonishment and outrage at her words rendered him speechless for a moment. Tyrion took advantage of the pause to join the conversation:
"Jay," he used the shortened form of his elder brother's name very rarely, "I also happen to think you need to calm down," he began, and Jaime redirected his gaze, which called to mind the muzzles of dueling pistols, onto his younger brother. Tyrion was perhaps the only one entirely unfazed by his sibling's temper. "Sansa can clearly perform the movement very well and without any risk to her health, so we should acknowledge her and Oberyn's hard work, incorporate the movement into the composition, and — finally! — move on. We still have quite a bit of choreography to get through, and we've been stuck on this dance for far too long as it is!"
My gods, thought Sansa, he looks like a bull about to charge. Indeed, the only thing Jaime Lannister lacked, as far as the resemblance to the above animal was concerned, was the ability to beat the ground with hooves. Seeing as this was not an option, he ran a hand through his golden hair. The gesture was filled with animosity and irritation.
"Why do I bother?" he asked rhetorically, though it seemed as though the question truly interested him.
After a prolonged argument, he grudgingly agreed to attempt the movement. ("Minx," he had commented angrily, "if and when you sprain your ankle or break a godsdamned bone, don't complain and whine about wanting to dance!") The way Sansa saw the matter, however, his acquiescence was still quite a victory.
He refused to let her land on her feet right away, making Oberyn catch her the first few tries. The entire time he wore an expression of annoyance, but Sansa could see that there was worry in green eyes and felt the unusual tension in his muscles. Is he worried about me?, she wondered happily, and her heart, always ready to jump to conclusions, sang. She felt a little giddy.
Finally, she, Oberyn, Tyrion, and Margery insisted that sooner or later they would need to try the movement without a stand by. (Ellaria, like Jaime, was glaring daggers at the group.) Jaime muttered something barely audible, but Sansa, who was standing close to him, caught the words "a bunch of idiots." During the break they were taking before trying the throw for the first time without Oberyn's help, which, she knew, had been entirely superfluous in the first place, Sansa watched Jaime's face and was left without a doubt that he really was quite concerned for her.
"You're worried about me," she stated with a pleased smile as she came to lean on the wall next to him.
"Why would I be worried about you?" he grumbled. "A foolish minx with nothing but wind between her ears and a liking for trouble?"
She grinned.
"I'm a very smart minx, who saved us a lot of trouble," she returned cheekily.
She observed that he was not simply worried. Jaime seemed agitated and apprehensive. She placed her hand on his arm.
"What's eating at you?" she asked gently.
"Your stupidity," he said tartly. "It's a rather corrosive chemical."
"I'm not letting you throw me across the room with that attitude, you might enjoy it too much,"she joked. That seemed to have hit a nerve.
"I'd throw you out of a window, if that would help add some grey matter to your brain," he bit out. "I'm afraid, though, that your case is rather hopeless."
She would not let his angry remarks get to her. Watching him carefully, she thought she understood the source of his annoyance and his concern.
"You think that if you throw me too strongly or not strongly enough, I'll get hurt because of you?" she asked.
She took his silence as a yes and moved to stand in front of him. He was deliberately looking at a point beyond her head, drinking water. There was something neurotic in the simple action.
"Jaime, I trust you, and you should, too. I know you will do perfectly well — we've done it several times already and, as you like to remind us all, you are the best dancer in the world. I'm certain it'll be just fine — great, even."
His deepened frown was the only indication that he had heard her and that she had not convinced him.
"Listen, people sprain their ankles and what not all the time in ballet," she tried. "Even if something were to happen," he looked at her menacingly, but she soldiered on, "I would never blame you."
His eyes displayed an odd combination of coldness and burning anger.
"And, of course, you take me for a heartless egoist, whose own conscience wouldn't bother him in the slightest while you were hopping around on crutches?" he said with venom. Sansa could not help but smile.
"I really don't think it'll come to that," she said and walked to the dance floor, indicating that it was time to pick up where they had left off. He followed her with the same expression of disapproval that had stuck to his face since the episode had begun.
Jaime had not been particularly surprised that Sansa went behind his back, stubborn in her determination to get the transition right. He was not even surprised that she had been able to master the movement. But he was mad beyond belief. Her obstinacy made him livid, and he wanted to crack a few of Oberyn's bones for indulging her dangerous whims. That her idea did solve the problem they had been unable to overcome exasperated him even more, because he realized it would be harder to prevent her from pushing the dangerous step into the choreography. Then, there was the additional displeasure of seeing her in Oberyn's arms… All in all, Jaime felt like breaking things by the time the morons had finished their little demonstration.
At the same time, he could not help admiring how beautifully she held her limbs as she flew through the air and the graceful ease of her landing. He was no more able to neglect marveling at her performance of the challenging movement than he was to prevent the fear that made his blood run cold when he had first observed Oberyn's arms flex and realized the Dornishman was about to throw her.
While raging at the band of idiots that he had made the mistake of surrounding himself with, he had not realized that he would end up worse off than he had started. He grasped this only when they had talked him into trying the movement, and he was faced with the unnatural task of taking Sansa's small body into his arms and throwing her away from him with strength. Had he tried, he could not have imagined an action he liked less. Breaking contact with her flesh in this violent manner was unthinkable, and his body practically refused to do so. It was enough that he had to fight daily the magnetism that drew him to her, to watch her leave him every time he wrapped up the choreography meetings — now he had to act against his instinct and better judgement in throwing her away from him. What was even worse, was the absolutely blinding fear that he might hurt her. He had memorized her shape so well in the past few months, had traced almost every one of her muscles and grown used to feeling her warm body under his hands; he knew that, in spite of her stamina when it came to dancing and her unrivaled willpower, her body was delicate and alarmingly breakable. Throwing her as he was forced to do by the grace of her devious mind, Jaime felt his heart shrink somewhere deep inside his chest as his eyes anxiously traced her trajectory and he waited for her to land. He kept anticipating, with considerable horror, that her face would contort in pain. He did not know what he would do if she hurt herself — his mind blocked any thought past the excruciating images of her agonized face, which it was powerless to thwart.
In the end, they had tried the motions enough times that even he was (somewhat) convinced that it could be done. That Sansa had not hurt herself seemed a magic trick to him; but if there was anyone whose falls the gods would cushion, Jaime felt certain it would be the minx's. The group of careless dimwits hailed the atrocious invention and forced his hand into adding it to the dance. He hated all of them for it with a passion. When they ended the session, he roughly took Tyrion's flask from him. Ignoring the little monkey's galling look, he downed the entirety of the whiskey the flask contained, disregarding his dislike of that drink, which ran strong ever since Tyrion had poured it down his throat on the night of Aerys' death. He considered procuring himself a similar container for some scotch — after all, if he was forced to throw the minx like that for the foreseeable future of rehearsing the dance, he just might need it.
