Author Note: This one is a little sad, but please bear with me. It takes place after the Red Wedding.
The next roses came a fortnight after Sansa's mother and Robb were murdered. Instead of a single rose, a whole bouquet made its way into her chamber. She thought of it as only hers now, because Tyrion rarely visited, even at night. He'd mentioned wanting to give her space, but Sansa convinced herself he'd already lost interest in keeping his promises to her. He still had whores in King's Landing, she was sure of it.
She had thought Shae was up to something when the handmaiden seemed adamant that Sansa should walk and get fresh air immediately after her morning bath. "It will be good for your skin," she insisted. Shae seemed to worry excessively about her skin. Normally, if Sansa walked at all, it was later in the day.
With Shae around, it was hard for Sansa to do what she wanted. She remembered after her father had been killed, she had lain in bed and refused to wash for several days. How nice it had been to grieve undisturbed, at least until Joffrey came and ordered Ser Meryn to hit her. Shae, gentle but insistent with Sansa, scared the girl into bathing sometimes by talking about her skin getting scales like the stone men and how she might come down with illness if she did not wash. Sansa felt she would have welcomed an illness that could bring death, but some ways of dying were more desirable than others. More than once, she had considered jumping out of her window, but that way frightened her too. She wished she could take something that would put her into a dreamless sleep, never to wake.
After their walk, Shae left Sansa alone at the door to her chambers, so she made the discovery of the roses by herself. The bouquet rested on top of her fresh pillows. There was a card attached to them this time. Heart pounding, Sansa rushed forward and snatched it. It only had two words on it – "I'm sorry." She did not recognize the handwriting. Whoever it was, was no friend to her if they were in Winterfell picking roses. The Boltons held Winterfell. She thought this had to be a cruel joke.
What a strange message: "I'm sorry." As though the person writing felt some responsibility – otherwise, they would have said, "I'm sorry for your loss." They would still have been empty words, but Sansa thought the meaning would have been quite different then.
Sansa picked up the bouquet. The flowers did not look as pitiful as the last, though perhaps that was just because there were more of them. She noticed they still had that brittle quality, the blue petals falling and littering her chamber floor. As she took in their familiar scent, tears came to her eyes. With all her strength, she threw the bouquet across the room. She did not have a fire going and did not care who saw the mess. She flung herself down on her bed and cried, most of the day passing without incident.
Since the day she'd learned of her mother's body tossed to rot in the Trident, and Robb's wolf's head sewn to his body, she had stopped going to meet Tyrion for afternoon tea. In the quiet of the night, just before the dawn came, there was a soft part of her that knew he had nothing to do with it and had no knowledge of the plan ahead of time. But most of the time, she told herself he was one of them, and she wanted nothing to do with any of them.
Shae brought plates of food, and she took them away, untouched. Sansa had lost track of how many plates had come and gone before a knock sounded at the tall chamber doors. Sansa lay in the bed, knees drawn up to her stomach, and did not answer. Her belly ached with hunger, and she lacked the energy to put up resistance to her unexpected visitor.
The door creaked as it began to open. From her vantage point, she knew it had to be Tyrion as she could not see anyone at the open door. The furniture in the room hid him from her view until he closed the door and drew closer to the bed. She watched his funny walk as he approached the chair next to the bed and sat. Shae had swept up the ruined bouquet and burned the note the day it had arrived, but Sansa saw a single blue petal that she had missed stir with his movement. Tyrion did not seem to take note of it, and even if he had, Sansa would not have cared. The petals were more an annoyance now, something that reminded her of a home she would probably never see again.
Tyrion said nothing for several minutes. He fidgeted in his chair, drummed his fingers on the arm of it. Sansa hoped he might give up and leave, but she had no such luck. A man like Tyrion could always come up with something to say, no matter the situation.
"Your presence outside this room has been missed, my lady," he remarked. He'd stopped calling her "lady wife," seeming to realize it would have irritated her since all that had happened. Sansa knew the statement was his coded way of saying that Lord Tywin had taken notice of her absence around court. That meant that he'd probably had another talk with Tyrion about the lack of an heir in Sansa's belly.
"What do you want from me?" she asked. She wanted to hear him say it. He wanted her, and Lord Tywin's insistence was just an excuse he made to feel better about his desire to take his pleasure inside her. She would never give him what he wanted, not willingly. A part of Sansa wanted Tyrion to drop this veneer of patient, wise man and reveal the monster inside. All Lannisters were monsters.
Tyrion's brow furrowed, his lips forming that frown that looked so severe and odd on his features that were already ugly enough without it. "For a start, I want you to eat something. I want you to get out of bed and move around. I want you to take care of yourself without your handmaiden needing to force you to do so."
"And if I refuse?"
The dwarf stood. Sansa thought perhaps he would finally lose his patience with her and strike her. No, he is not like that, the soft, small voice inside reminded her. Instead, he paced for a while, then moved for a cup and flagon of wine on the table by their window. She watched him pour a generous portion and drink the whole cup, then pour another. "That is your right. I can promise you I won't make you do anything you don't want to do, but I cannot promise the same for my father or anyone else in my family."
"You said you would protect me."
Tyrion nodded and drank deeply again, then placed his cup down hard on the table and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "It's what I'm trying to do now." He wore one of his ironic smiles and sat back down in his chair. "Warning you is the best protection I can give you since I am not much of a fighter. I'd prefer not to watch helplessly as my father brings guards in to force you down while food is pushed down your throat. I'd also rather not watch you starve yourself to death. I'm not protecting you if I'm letting you die, even if it is by your own volition."
Sansa could not be sure what compelled her to sit up and approach the table, her movements slow from her weakness and hunger. The plate on the table had an arrangement of fresh fruit and cheese. It would be warm by now, but still all right to eat. Sansa picked up a berry and chewed it. It tasted better than she had thought it would, and she picked up another and ate it, then another. Her stomach made loud noises of appreciation. She no longer felt embarrassed in front of him. The girl that took tea in the gardens with Tyrion had died right along with her mother and Robb. All she could feel was grief, rage, or nothing at all.
Tyrion picked up a blue rose petal and examined it as she ate. He didn't say anything for several moments before he let it fall back to the floor and sighed.
"They only grow in Winterfell," Sansa told him between bites of the cheese.
"I know. I remember seeing them there when I visited and thinking how unique they were."
He didn't seem upset or inclined to find out more. Testing the waters, she added, "I don't know who sent them."
Tyrion looked at nothing in particular on the wall and nodded. "Hmm. Perhaps you have a friend in the North, and they were trying to send you a message of encouragement."
The redhead looked at her now empty plate and pushed it back on the table. She had expected at least a little bit of a fight. Tyrion was no Joffrey, but shouldn't he be more curious if some unknown person sent his wife flowers? Especially flowers that held meaning for her. If she did have a friend in the North, wouldn't that be concerning for the Lannisters?
"I doubt that," she said, making up her mind. He was too nonchalant for the possibility he suggested. "That sounds too much like something that happens in made-up stories for children. It's probably some sort of trap."
He said nothing for a while, then, "Not all of life is awful. Sometimes you can find good in unexpected places. It is important to be cautious, of course, but maintain a sense of good in the world. Know it's there, even if you can't always see it. Otherwise, one can grow rather miserable and forget one's reason to exist."
His words were pretty, much like hers had once been. But it was too late for her. She had already forgotten her reason to exist. Turning away from him, she approached the window and looked at the hard ground below. She could do it now – climb right on the ledge and allow herself to fall off, to show him she didn't believe his pretty words and that he couldn't save her any more than her strange secret admirer could with his apologies and flowers. She wondered if he – they – would mourn her, if Tyrion would kneel by her broken, pale body and weep while her admirer composed songs about her. Something told her that even if Tyrion did not give a grand display, it would still hurt him. She wanted to hurt him, and even though she didn't know who sent her gifts, she wanted to hurt them too. Look at what your flowers and cryptic messages did for me. Nothing. She jerked from her thoughts when she felt Tyrion's hand on her arm and looked down at him.
"When you get that look on your face, it scares me," he told her.
"What look?" She backed away from his touch and the window and tried to push the thoughts away.
He shook his head. "Utter hopelessness. I'm no poet, Sansa, but it scares me all the same." He moved away from her to pour himself more wine.
"Don't you still have to work?" Sansa asked. He only drank that much at once when something truly upset him, or if he was angry at his father.
"Yes. I came here to tell you something but found myself… overcome by other things. My apologies." He drained his cup once more. "My father paid me a visit. Someone has taken notice that I have been sleeping in—well. That I have not been sleeping here. So, I wanted to tell you, I'll have to come back here to spend the night from now on. I did not want you to be surprised."
Sansa shrugged and sat on the edge of the bed. "It makes no difference to me, as long as you stay away from me." In her mind, it had not gone unnoticed that he avoided telling her where he slept. Something inside her burned at the thought of him in another woman's bed. She thought of how stoic Cersei had been with King Robert parading his whores right in front of her. She could not see Tyrion ever going that far, but she did not doubt his appetite and ability to do it in secret either.
Tyrion placed his empty cup down and gave Sansa a small bow. "I'll leave you to it then, my lady. I'll send for more food to be brought to you." He left without waiting for her response. Sansa knew she had managed to touch a nerve, but since he did not react in a bigger way, her pleasure was short-lived. She wished he would give her a reason to hate him and kept telling herself that he would, in time. Her life would be easier once she could hate them all.
Shae reentered shortly afterward, bearing another plate as promised. She seemed put off by something, Sansa thought, for her responses were short and snippy. "What's gotten into you?" she asked, but the handmaiden only apologized and went about the rest of her duties in sullen silence.