AN: and i am back! goodness life is nuts, but I am doing my best to keep up with my updates. an update to last chapter's history notes, there is evidence that suggests women disguised themselves in the war as soldiers. and if you want to learn more on women soldiers there was a female battalion in Russia which inspired style icons in the 1920s to cut their hair short.
some things to note: Battle of Cambrai was one of the first battles to involve American soldiers fighting as American forces, not volunteers for Britain or France. On December 3rd, there was a retreat, and about 4 days later the battle ended. Truces were common in trench warfare to clear the ground of bodies. some Truces became famous such as the Christmas of 1914 where soldiers stopped fighting to celebrate Christmas and even threw each other gifts from the opposite ends of the battlefield.
Little people like Tyrion usually were outcasts and were usually found as spectacles at freak shows pulling stunts and doing tricks. Barnum's was one of the most popular freak shows at the time. Frequently little people were socially shunned and mistreated. that being said, there are dwarfs in history who have made incredible strides and impacts on history such as Benjamin Lay, an abolitionist and friend of Benjamin Franklin.
enjoy this next chapter!
-Flaming Rose
December 3rd, 1917, Battle of Cambrai, France
It had been one month and nine days since Jon, Theon, and Robb set sail for France from London. The French countryside was gorgeous, but he didn't think he could ever come back—if he lived through this. Trench warfare had destroyed the landscape. Blood soaked into the soil, and the sounds of bullets and bombs cut through the silence. Sometimes he tried to imagine what it was like before the war. He tried to visualize the fields with no trace of the gruesome battle in front of him. If I can imagine it that way, he thought, maybe I can return when the land heals and finds its peace again. He still couldn't manage such a scene though he tried for it daily. He had better luck imagining home, and imagining Winterfell. Every night he would go back to Winterfell. He tried his best to bring himself there. He got no sleep otherwise—no respite from the horrors of his every day; the thick stench of death hung in the air above living, dead, and undeclared. Blood and pieces of men were strewn about the ground. Groans and cries of pain echoed in his head serving as a warning to stay vigilant. It meant death if he didn't. The smell in the trenches was awful, so poignant it left a nasty taste in his mouth. The sounds were deafening. The sights, the things he touched, anything he sensed was an awful overload, but Jon preferred the sounds of battle to the eerie quiet that fell on both sides once a momentary truce was called. In the silence when he didn't have fighting to distract him, everything else came into focus: Men ill with sickness or rotting wounds, the looks on his fellow soldiers after a truce is called, wondering who of their squadron would be found in the carnage. The dread before he was given his command—he prayed he would not have to leave the trench. Then again he'd been in the trench so long he would give anything for a change of scenery. Be careful what you wish for—that's what he learned.
Once, Jon was assigned to retrieve the living from no man's land when the truce was declared, and if he had time, he was to retrieve the dead. When he came up over the ridge of dirt, all he saw were bodies—corpses, once living, breathing, fighting men struck down in the dirt. He was so scared he could barely move. He wasn't sure if he'd faint or be sick, but he had a job to do, and only a set amount of time to do it. One by one he and his peers drug the living and dead to their side.
Today they expected much of the same. The fighting went on and on. Jon couldn't tell if it was night or day when the news came to him.
"Half their ranks have retreated," Theon told them as he made his way through the injured to Robb and Jon's side, "there's a chance this hell might be coming to an end.
"Thank God!" Robb exclaimed, "That's such good news. I never thought I'd see an end to this battle." Jon stayed quiet. Despite Robb's optimism and Theon's hopeful words, Jon didn't see and end anytime soon/ Even if the battle ended, the war would wage on. He thought of Benjen. He thought of that morning in Winterfell before he left. He'd told he godfather he wanted to help bring an end to the fighting. At the time his godfather gave him a look he didn't understand. Now he realized it was sadness at Jon's naivety.
'My son," Benjen gravely replied, "as long as there are men on this earth, there will always be fighting."
Benjen was right. This was neither the first nor the last war in the history of the world. He felt stuck in a never-ending cycle. The fighting would never stop, and after all he'd seen, Jon found it hard to believe he'd ever find peace.
December 3, 1917 , The Stark House
It had been over a month since Arya ran away. That's how Mother and Father explained it to Bran and Rickon, but Sansa wished they wouldn't. Sansa knew that Arya ran to the battlefield, not away from home. She got letters from both her and Margery now. She hadn't heard from Jon since he arrived in France. She tried not to worry, but it was always there in the back of her mind. Margery's letters were informative and helpful. She always felt like she was kept in the loop about everything, especially Robb and Margery's whirlwind romance.
When Arya's letters came they were all about the things she was learning and the people she met. To keep Arya safe, Sansa always received these letters from someone named Gendry. Arya explained in her first letter that he was a young American pilot who was keeping her secret and teaching her how to fly in exchange for French lessons and to act as translator when talking to the French mechanics. Old Nan would be so proud of me, and so relieved that all those hours she spent with me in my lessons actually paid off! She wrote. Bran and sometimes Rickon would also write to her from school. Sansa lived for her letters. Her mother and father had so much to deal with, and with all her siblings gone, she was frequently lonely. Letters were lovely, but it wasn't the same as real human contact. Today she decided to venture out. She put on her most comfortable walking shoes, her wool stockings, and a brown and grey striped skirt with a grey blouse. She put on her coat and made her way to the Lannister house.
It wasn't her best decision to walk unattended to the Lannister house considering who lived there, but she missed human contact and face to face interaction so much she was willing to endure a brief encounter with Joffrey or Cersei if that meant spending quality time with Myrcella. When she arrived she could hear voices, mainly Cersei's, but another one, piped up from time to time—one she didn't recognize. It was a man's voice, and whatever this man was saying seemed to anger her greatly.
"I'm here to see Myrcella," she said quietly to the butler.
"Yes, of course Miss Stark," he replied. She followed him down the hall trying not to listen to the argument developing in the other part of the house.
"You can wait here in the parlor. Miss Myrcella will be down momentarily." Sansa thanked him as he left and perched on the edge of a chair furthest from the door. The voices stopped and were replaced by the sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway. Myrcella's little bother Tommen, perhaps, thought Sansa. Instead, a man—at least she thought he was a man—came into the had the face of a man, but the stature of a child. He had sharp, intelligent eyes, a prominent but slightly crooked nose, and a mouth that seemed to be in a permanent smirk. Sansa had seen a dwarf before, mostly in pictures advertising Mister Barnum's circus and show, but never in person, and definitely not in a parlor. Though this was new and a bit surprising, Sansa was careful to keep her face neutral.
"Oh! I'm so sorry to barge in here this way," he apologized. His voice was much deeper than she expected. Had he been much taller, he would have been a fairly imposing man, she thought.
"It's quite alright," she replied.
"I seem to have left my gloves in here," he muttered as he scanned the room. His eyes settled on the small table next to the chaise lounge by the window and made his way towards it. He grabbed his gloves before stopping and turning to Sansa once more.
"Goodness! Where are my manners? Tyrion Lannister," he said as he held out his hand.
"Sansa Stark," she answered as she offered her hand. He took it and kissed it formally. Sansa blushed.
"I am Cersei's abomination of a brother," he said breezily.
"I don't think that's a fair assessment," Sansa answered kindly, "I think you are just as much a gentleman as anyone else."
"You are very kind, my lady, but I assure you my past actions have given me the title."
"Is that why you were arguing?" She hadn't meant to be so bold. It just slipped out. She hoped she hadn't offended him. She thought of Cersei, and she thought of Joffrey. Offending a Lannister is a foolish thing to do, and something I have done too often. I should watch my tongue, she thought to herself. To her surprise, Tyrion's smirk transformed into a genuine smile, free of any sardonic qualities.
"You are an astute young lady. And bold," he said, "you will do my niece some good. I assume you are here to see Myrcella and hope you are not here to see my eldest nephew."
"Your assumptions are correct, Sir."
"I am glad to hear it. I have always known Starks to be sensible."
"I am afraid that is not always the case," Sansa said, thinking of her brother, sister, and cousin all across the water fighting in a war, "though I suppose Bran is fairly sensible. He reads so many books one would hope he'd find some sense in the pages he's read." She wasan't sure what compelled her to speak so freely with this man. He was a stranger and a Lannister at that.
"I'm sorry. I've forgotten myself," Sansa apologized in haste. Tyrion had a knowing smile on his face, his green eyes shining. Sansa wondered what he thought he knew.
"You never have to apologize for speaking freely with me, Miss Stark. Lord knows I get plenty of trouble myself when I do the same."
"It's a shame that honesty is not more highly valued," sansa stated.
"I agree wholeheartedly," Tyrion replied, "It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Stark. I should take my leave. I would hate for my sister to think I have overstayed my welcome. Should you like an opportunity to speak freely, however, don't hesitate to call on me. And If your brother is ever in want of reading material, I have one of the finest libraries this side of the Mississippi." He said with a kind smile. She was starting to have a new appreciation for certain Lannisters.
"Uncle Tyrion!" Myrcella exclaimed as she came into the parlor.
"Sweet Myrcella!" Tyrion greeted his neice warmly, "I am just on my way out."
"So soon?"
"Yes my dear, but not to worry. Miss Stark is a much better companion for you than i. Besides, remember that my door is always open."
"Of course Uncle," Myrcella smiled brightly, "goodbye." Sansa waited until Tyrion left the house before asking about him.
"Uncle Tyrion? Mother calls him a deserter, but that's only because he decided to become a lawyer instead of joining in the family business."
"Lawyers are quite necessary and respected," Sansa answered, curious to know how such a small man was taken so seriously.
"I agree! And I know mother and grandfather do, too, but he doesn't work for families like ours. Uncle Tyrion declares himself a defender of the disenfranchised, though very fewseem to understand how a rich man can be on their side if he doesn't know their struggle. He still helps them, though, if they ask for his help. Some suffragettes have asked for his assistance, and he's done his best to help them." Sansa could see how such actions might lead to some family tension, but she still didn't think it granted him the title of "abomination". The Lannister family was proving to be a complex web of relationships and dysfunctions. She was glad her family didn't have these sort of disagreements.
"He seems…different. From others in your family," Sansa said carefully.
"He is," Myrcella laughed, "he believes in liberated women, education, equal rights for all, an end to segregation. Grandfather says he's a radical."
'He sounds very interesting to me," Sansa stated absent mindedly. Sansa held her breath. Her statement didn't seem to faze Myrcella. In fact, she wondered if Myrcella even heard her.
"Come Sansa," Myrcella said as she grabbed her hand, "I want to show you the newest dress Uncle Jaime brought me. He says I should ear it to the Christmas ball. It's red velvet, the most beautiful sleeves you've ever seen and the most delicate lace!
"The Christmas ball? It's still happening even with the war going on?"
'Mother says we all need a bit of diversion. We need the ball more than ever."
'Forgive me if I disagree," Sansa said with a low voice, "I need my brother back more than I need a ball."
"And Jon?" Myrcella asked. Sansa swallowed.
"Him too," she replied evenly.
"Mother says Jon going to war is for the best. She says he will find his place there." Myrcella's voice was delicate and careful. "I'm sure mother just meant he'll find fulfillment following in your Uncle's footsteps. Not that he should—" Myrcella's unspoken words hung in the air.
'Of course not," Sansa replied, hr voice as cold and detatched as her facial expression. She would show no weakness in the Lannister house, not even in front of well-intentioned, sweet, Myrcella. Sansa went to the window and watched the snow begin to fall in the street. It was just starting to stick to the ground.
"I'm sorry for my mother, Sansa," Myrcella said quietly, "she's not always so careless with her words."
"You're right. Your mother is always careful and deliberate with her choice of words." Sansa answered.
"I've upset you,"Myrcella said with a wavering voice.
"Oh no, Myrcella, not you," Sansa said taking her friend's hands in hers, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't take my frustrations out on you."
'It's alright, Sansa. I know you are hurting. I wish my brother had gone to fight."
"No," Sansa uttered. It was the best she could do. It was the most diplomatic answer she could think of.
"Well, no. It would hurt mother. But I wish he was brave like your brother."
"I know what will cheer us up," Sansa said, "You can show me the dress that your Uncle Jaime brought you. Then once the snow had fallen a bit more, we can make a snowman by the front door to greet the postman." Myrcella's eyes lit up at the plan. Sansa was glad to see Myrcella happy, but she could not shake her own melancholy. She wished she knew what it would take to make her feel normal again.