A God of Wine and Flowers

"Half gods are worshiped in wine and flowers. Real gods require blood."

― Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God

Sansa couldn't sleep. She yearned to walk the castle, much as she would have done at home in Winterfell. She was plagued with nightmares. Her dreams were a confusing vision of fire and ash and whispers from the trees. Often she would dream of herself alone in the godswood. She imagined that this was because she was missing her home. She craved the solitude and peace that she often felt in the godswood at Winterfell. When she was at home, she would stare into the unseeing but all knowing eyes of the weirwood. She felt closest to the gods at these moments. Walking through the grass, feeling the cold packed earth beneath her slippered feet, she felt as if she could hear their voices clearly. She felt as if she were not alone. But that was before she came back to whatever life this is. And that was when she was well and truly home.

Today, she sought out peace and comfort in what remained of the small godswood in the Red Keep. The only thing that remained of the weirwood in the Keep was a massive ashen stump. On nice days like today, she would bring a blanket out to the garden and work in the sun. She would lay out and feel the gentle breeze against her cheeks as she read or worked on her sewing. As she spread out the blanket from her parcel, she imagined what the face of that old weirwood may have looked like. The heart tree in Winterfell had a long, solemn face, the expression inscrutable and weary. If she closed her eyes she could picture the long, solemn face carved into the ashen white bark, staring out at her with dried sap the color of blood and sad, deep set eyes full of questions that would never be answered. She had no idea what the tree that stood on this spot may have looked like. But she imagined a face that looked like her brother-like Bran-with serious and thoughtful eyes. She knelt soundlessly on the mossy ground and reached out to touch the stump where the sacred tree used to be, and it felt warm to her touch. She felt more at home than she had in a long time. Laying flat on her back, looking up at the sun, she could hear voices being carried in the wind. Within those whispers, she could hear her name.

"Sansa," she heard the voices whisper. She began to wonder if she was mad. Is this how the Mad King began—by hearing voices in the wind?

"It was just the wind,"she thought to herself. Just the wind. She repeated in her mind as she drifted off to sleep in the cool air.

Joffrey strolled through the Godswood. His eyes narrowed when he saw Sansa lying on a blanket in the sun near the stump of the weirwood tree.

"What do we have here?" He smirked. "The Hand's daughter, basking in the sun like a common whore?"

Sansa's heart raced in her chest. She sat up and protectively clutched her skirts, suddenly aware of how vulnerable she was. Joffrey was still angry at her for taking a walk with the Knight of Flowers.

"I was just enjoying the sun, Your Grace." She looked at his face, recognizing a familiar cruelty as his smirk transitioned into a sneer.

"Liar-" he spat at her. "You're plotting something. You've been avoiding me."

"Your grace…" Sansa protested through shaky breaths as she scrambled to her feet. She stood to face him finally.

Joffrey stepped in closer to her, his eyes burning with contempt. "My father loves redheads. Maybe he'll have a turn too? Maybe my uncle? He loves whores. Maybe you are trying to seduce someone." He grabbed her roughly by the arm, his fingers digging into her flesh.

"You're hurting me," she tried to pull away from him. This was the man she had wanted to marry. She looked into his face. His golden hair shining in the sun, green eyes narrowed, he looked just like his mother. They locked eyes as he dug his fingernails into her flesh, leaving behind little moon shaped marks on her skin. She could see the glee in his face. He took pleasure in seeing her wince in pain.

"You're a stupid girl, Sansa-a stupid little girl. I see that now. But you belong to me and I can do whatever I want with you. You are mine to play with as I see fit." The chill in his voice was palpable. The Hound stood behind him, his face blank and unreadable.

Tyrion entered Sansa's rooms. He exchanged some small words with her handmaidens. The rooms were dark and quiet. The only light was the flicker of a few candles that were placed around her chamber. The air was thick with the scent of citrus, as that was Sansa's favorite. The slight breeze coming in from the outdoors carried the fragrance around the room. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could just make out the form of Sansa laying in bed. Her chest rising and falling with each breath. The room was scattered with her sewing projects, her books, and parchment, and dried flowers. The large bed at the center of the main room dominated the space. The small table that sat by the bed held a neat stack of books. The books themselves had little pieces of parchment stuck between the pages. He could see on the parchment little notes and scribblings.

She was a curious girl, Sansa Stark. Soft, sweet smelling Sansa. He pushed the thought away. She always seemed to be reading, or writing, or sewing. She seemed knowledgeable beyond her years, and yet innocent. Sansa was soft spoken, intelligent, and considerate. Less headstrong than her sister. He would often catch her looking at him. But not in the way that people often did. People often looked at him with disdain and contempt. But she looked at him with-what-admiration-curiosity-something that he could not name. It felt like she knew him.

As he sat across from her bed, he couldn't help but be drawn in by the delicate features of her face. Her shimmering auburn hair was splayed out behind her. Her rosy cheeks and full pink lips made her look ethereal in the candlelight. He wondered what she was dreaming about, and what she was thinking. Every so often she would shift in her sleep. He could sense a shift in her as more activity occurred in the room behind him.

Tyrion moved closer to the bed, pulling a small stool closer and sitting upon it so that he might look down at her peaceful face. Her long, auburn hair was splayed across the pillows. Her soft, delicate features were bathed in the soft flicker of candlelight. Looking down at her, Tyrion felt a flutter in his stomach. She's just a girl. He was responsible for her. And he had let this happen. She began to stir within the covers. As he watched her, he felt what could only be described as a pang of longing. Longing for what? He fought the urge to reach out and smooth her hair away from the ugly bruise on her forehead. He almost felt like he shouldn't be here. He felt like this was inappropriate. But he could not resist what welled up inside him as an urge to protect her. She was in danger here. Joffrey was no longer interested in the betrothal, but he was interested in using her as a plaything. He had pushed her down hard. She had hit her head on the stump of the weirwood tree. She had been in and out of fitful sleep for the past few nights. She didn't seem to remember exactly what Joffrey said to her. Her father was to return tomorrow and she lay here with a deep purple-reddish bruise on her head. How would he explain what happened? He felt himself flinch as he looked at the bruise again. It looked sore and tender. As he was lost in his own thoughts, her eyes slowly fluttered open and she turned those eyes towards him curiously.

"My Lord," she said weakly.

"You're awake," he said.

The faint hint of a smile formed at the corners of her mouth. "How long have you been watching me?"

"I've only just come in…" he stammered, "but I can leave if you…"

"I know," she laughed. "I…I'm only teasing."

Sansa awoke to find Tyrion Lannister staring at her. She squirmed within the thick bedclothes feeling an ache in her head. As she sat up, a dull pain began to hammer just behind her eyes. She could see the concern etched upon his face as he leaned closer.

Wanting to break the tension she playfully asked "How long have you been watching me?" It seemed to catch him off guard.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she noticed his eyes watching her with a concerned expression. She found herself captivated by the intensity of his piercing gaze and the way that his eyes seemed to shine in the candlelight like emeralds. She studied his face. Her gaze drifted down to his nose, which she noticed had a slight crook in it, giving his face character. Her eyes traced his cheekbones, and jawline, and soon she realized that she had been staring long past what would be considered polite for a lady. She felt a warmth rise to her face, and a flush rushed to her cheeks.

"You fell, my lady, in the gardens," he began.

"Joffrey pushed me," she spoke up. "I hit my head-on the stump of the weirwood tree."

"He pushed you?" He began to get up from the chair. "Do you want to put an end to your betrothal?"

"I…" Sansa did not know what to say. "I only want-"

"To be happy," he finished.

Yes. That was what she wanted. She would speak with her father herself. It was possible that she may yet escape.

"Your father returns tomorrow," he said. "I will speak with him on your behalf."

He stood over her now. He smelled like the outside air. She wanted to reach out and ever so gently put her hand on his. She wanted to say, "it's not your fault." She nodded silently.

As she watched him leave, she felt a warmth spread all through her body. There was something about the way that he had looked at her. He seemed to see her. She had never experienced anything like that before. She called out into the darkness "Thank you-for-taking care of me." His eyes met hers from across the room.

In the orange glow of the candlelight, she could see his face soften as he said, "Of course, my Lady."