"Looking The Truth In The Face"
Ever since the end of the Great War, Tyrion has had trouble sleeping. His thoughts have been haunted by visions of skeletal men in decaying rags tearing at his flesh. He has awakened in the middle of the night, not knowing where he was, and searched the dark corners of his room for blue eyed fiends. Vivid nightmares have plagued him. When he wasn't dreaming of the dead, he dreamt of Lady Sansa. He also found himself thinking about her in the quiet of his room. At night as he lay in bed, with an oil lamp reading the writings of some long dead Maester, his thoughts always went to Sansa.
He wondered how Lady Sansa was doing. What was she feeling? He remembered how stoic she looked that night in the crypts. The front of her thick auburn hair was braided tightly and pulled back away from her face, and the back cascaded down and brushed lightly against her shoulders. Her face was still. But her eyes betrayed her. Her eyes were wet with fear, though she showed none of that in her features. She seemed to be holding on to her strength for the people of the North. She knew that they looked to her to know what to do and how to act.
Sansa Stark had been his wife. They had shared a bed. He remembered the cascade of her auburn hair against her pillow, and the soft murmuring sounds that she made in her sleep. She would not share her pain with him. She protected herself and her heart with all of the fortifications of the most heavily guarded castle in Westeros.
Tyrion slipped out of bed. He stepped down onto the stool that he kept by his bedside and climbed down to the floor. The floor felt warm against his feet. He walked over to the the table that faced his bed, and poured himself a goblet of water. His throat felt dry. He looked towards the plump chair in the corner of the bedchamber and saw that there was a pair of black, soft leather boots underneath the richly tufted velvet chair. Upon the chair, there lay a doublet and breeches. He clothed himself in the black velvet doublet, put on his Hand of the Queen pin and slipped into the pair of black breeches. He looked into the mirror on the table beside him, and saw that the nightmares and poor sleep were taking a toll on him, and his face. His eyes looked tired.
He walked down to the Great Hall to partake in breakfast he could hear a flurry of activity. Winterfell was still bustling with soldiers from the various armies that took part in the Great War. This meant that there was the possibility of an engaging conversation on the horizon. Tyrion smiled at the thought of this.
As he walked into the great hall his eyes searched for a familiar face. The hall stretched out before him bustling with conversation and occasional merriment. Groups of people sat clustered in their various factions. He smelled the aroma of freshly baked bread, pork sausages and frying bacon. The tables were well outfitted with platters of fresh bread, and pitchers of ale. The grey stone walls were draped with banners bearing the sigil of House Stark, the direwolf, on a field of white. The long, heavy wooden tables of the room were dotted here and there with oil lamps. As Tyrion ventured further into the hall, a servant passed by and almost knocked him over.
"Pardon me m'lord," she mumbled as she hurried towards the kitchens. Tyrion quickly grabbed a slice of bacon from the platter that she was holding. As his eyes searched the room, they came to rest on Lady Sansa.
Tyrion walked towards the table where she was sitting and found a spot on the bench right across from her. She was speaking with Ser Brienne, and Maester Wolkan. He seated himself on the bench and pulled a tankard towards him. He caught a wandering servants eye as they passed by with pitchers of ale.
"Girl," Tyrion turned towards the servant girl, "bring me a platter of bacon, brown bread and a cup of strong, dark ale," he winked.
"Yes, m'lord" she said, and walked towards the kitchens without further words.
"Lady Sansa," Tyrion began, "You look quite well this morning." This was an understatement of course. She looked more than well. She looked exquisite, as always. A rosy glow spread across her cheeks, accenting her high cheekbones. Her eyes were as blue as a spring sky, and her hair shone like burnished copper in the sunlight that streaked through the castle windows. She seemed to be in good spirits. Her eyes were smiling this morning.
She turned towards him. "You look very handsome today Lord Tyrion. You slept well, I hope?"
"Not well, I admit." Tyrion took a sip of ale. "I've had...odd dreams."
"My sleep has been...fitful," she pushed at a bit of potato on the edge of her plate, before looking up at him. "Might I have Maester Wolkan mix you some dreamwine?"
Maester Wolkan nodded his head.
"Lady Sansa," Tyrion began, "Thank you for your kindness. I may take you up on it."
Sansa rose from the bench. Tyrion jumped to his feet. "My Lady."
"My Lord," she nodded.
He watched her walk from the hall, with Ser Brienne and Maester Wolkan in tow. She smelled sweet as she passed him. He couldn't tear his eyes away from her. Her form was tall and graceful. The light seemed to follow her from the hall. Although she was as beautiful as any summer day, she was outfitted for winter. She was wearing a rich, grey fur cape around her shoulders, and underneath, a black dress with a laced bodice. The bodice, Tyrion noted, was reminiscent of armor.
As Tyrion watched her leave the hall, he thought back to the words that she spoke to him when they were down in the crypts. "It's the most heroic thing we can do now, look the truth in the face."
"What is the truth," Tyrion thought to himself as he sat down on the bench to break his fast. He could still smell the perfumed oil Sansa was wearing, and as he took a sip of ale, he imagined her face looking at him with wide eyes, and playing nervously with her food. He had not allowed himself to think of a woman, to entertain the idea of any woman, since Shae. But Tyrion could not stop imagining his lips working their way up and then down the astoundingly long neck of the Lady of Winterfell.