Anything That Bleeds

"There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds."
― Laurell K. Hamilton, Mistral's Kiss

—

Arya walked into the courtyard for her sewing lessons. Jon had the blacksmith fashion a thin, flexible sword for her. She called it "needle." She had been nervous but excited when first she held "needle" in her hands. He had given her the simple instruction to "stick 'em with the pointy end," but this was not training. Her sister, Sansa, much changed since her sickness, had even encouraged her swordplay lessons. She had been talking crazy. She claimed to have greensight. She was under the impression that Arya needed to be a trained warrior, and that it would somehow contribute to their safety in the capitol. So, Arya trained every day.

The sun was just rising over the Keep when she walked into the courtyard to begin her training for the day. Her teacher, Syrio Forel was the former First Sword of Braavos. He was small, wiry, and quick, much like Arya imagined her grown up self.

As Arya entered the training area, Syrio Forel stood at the center of the training yard with a thin braavosi blade held tightly in hand. He watched her with his eyes fixed on her feet and her sword hand.

Arya stepped into the center of the yard, her feet kicking up a light dust, and her sword held tightly between both hands. The sun shone brightly overhead now, casting a bright glare over the whole courtyard.

"Remember, boy," Syrio began.

"I'm a girl," Arya corrected. This was a common joke between them.

"Remember girl…" he continued, "a sword is a dancer's weapon. You are meant to be quick. Graceful. Not a brute."

Arya nodded her head, her eyes fixed on his movements, and the placement of his sword.

She had been training with Syrio for many moons now. She had already learned more than she ever thought possible. But she knew that she had a long way to go before she would feel satisfied.

Syrio moved like water flowing through a sieve. He was smooth and flawless as he demonstrated sword techniques. Arya watched him, studying his every movement. She had always considered herself a quick learner. Sword fighting was very much like dancing.

"Now child," Syrio said, gesturing for her to step forwards. "Let us practice the riposte."

She stepped forward, sword at the ready. Syrio feinted to the left, and then quickly to the right. His sword flashed in the sunlight. Arya tried to block, but he was quicker. His sword slipped past her guard and touched her lightly on the right shoulder.

"Again," he said, calmly.

Arya nodded. She stepped forward again. This time when Syrio feinted to the left, she quickly moved to block him. Syrio flashed a quick smile. He was impressed by her quick thinking.

"Good," he said. "Now, faster."

Syrio began to move faster. His sword was almost a blur. He attacked Arya again and again. She was breathing hard now. Sweat was drenching her hair. She tried to keep up. But she struggled to match his speed. Her arms were aching now as she lifted the sword which had previously felt light.

"Again." He said. His voice was stern.

Arya gritted her teeth and stepped forward again. She was determined not to give up. Now she moved faster. Her sword flashed in the sunlight as she blocked Syrio's blistering flurry of attacks. She could feel herself improving.

When the training was over for the day, Arya was exhausted but exhilarated. She watched as Syrio began to pour himself a glass of water.

"Good work, child," Syrio said, his voice softer now. "You are learning quickly."

Arya smiled. She felt a sense of pride that she has never felt before. She had always been told that girls couldn't fight with swords. But Syrio had shown her that she was just as formidable of a warrior as any man.

As she made her way back to her rooms, she thought back on the progress that she had made. She had learned to parry, and lunge and perform a riposte. But more than that, she had learned that there was a lot more to it than "sticking them with the pointy end." But she had gotten a lot better at that too.

Ned Stark had returned from the North. Tyrion was not sure what that meant for him now. He readied himself to go back to the Rock. But not before settling some of his promises. He had promised to send some men to the Night's Watch. He had cleared out the dungeons of King's Landing and sent at least one hundred men North. Ned Stark had taken the trouble with Joffrey much better than he had expected. But they had not spoken again. He prepared himself to go back and face his father. Tyrion sat in his chambers now, packing a trunk full of his books and personal effects. He placed a wax seal with his family sigil on the letters to his father and to Lord Commander Mormont and as he sealed the last one, he heard a knock at his door. Tyrion climbed down from his chair and went to the door to see standing before him, Sansa Stark. Her face had almost healed completely.

"My Lord," she began, "might I have a word with you?"

He was taken aback by her being there, but he stepped aside to let her into his rooms.

"Lady Sansa," he began, "to what do I owe this pleasure?"

She smiled demurely as she proceeded into his rooms, and found for herself a comfortable seat by the fire.

"Where will you travel next?"

"To the Rock—the sewers are probably in great need of repair." He smiled.

"Would you be interested in staying on here?"

"To do?" He asked.

"Well, I wondered if you might be amenable to becoming my father's adviser, while he is here."

Tyrion was ready to go home. He was in need of wine and whores. Wine to soothe his mind, and whores to soothe his body. He had to be on his best behavior while in King's Landing. His sweet sister was waiting on him to "bring dishonor" upon their house. Littlefinger's brothel had been taken over by a new buyer. But he still did not trust that there would not be spies there.

"Your father, is well served by the company that he has brought with him here. Why would he need my help?"

"My father is—honest to a fault," she began, and "This place is—for liars."

He smiled then. "Ah, so you are calling me a liar."

She laughed. "My Lord—please do not think that I mean to insult you. I only mean that you are more—politically minded."

"Ah, so I am a talented liar," he said with a laugh.

She narrowed her eyes before saying, "The betrothal with Joffrey seems to be—ill matched."

"Ah," it began to register with him. "I see. Would you like me to intervene on your behalf? Well, I have bad tidings for you—You see, Joffrey hates me."

She laughed. "I wondered if there might be a better match for him."

"Did you have someone in mind?" His curiosity was piqued.

"I have heard whispers of a maiden, very lovely, in Highgarden—Margaery Tyrell. I have often heard it said that she resembles my Aunt Lyanna. There have been whispers in court about the prospect of her marrying some Baratheon or other. Joffrey would be a suitable match. Also it would bring with it the riches of Highgarden, and with the threat of winter, access to the fresh food and livestock of The Reach. She has an army 50,000 strong, and besides that she is said to be comely and sweet."

"And what of your marriage contract? You would have been Queen of the realm."

"I am of the North, Lord Tyrion, truly. I see that now."

He sat in silence. The firelight was playing tricks of light with her shimmering red hair. She was beautiful. Her skin was as fair as freshly fallen snow, and her eyes were as blue as a robin's egg. She was wearing a pale blue dress, that seemed to bring out the blue in her eyes.

"Lord Tyrion…" the last part of his name sounded like a question. He must have been just quietly staring at her.

He cleared his throat, trying to gather his thoughts, "Your hair," he said softly, "it's like the flames of the fire have come to life and taken on a life of their own. I was distracted."

Sansa blushed, "We were discussing the match…"

"Politically, this would be a great match. I am not sure how we could possibly propose it…" He sighed. "My sister may object. What will you do once the betrothal ends?"

"I shall go home."

"Your father will make you a new match." He said with some finality.

"He shall. He always told me that when I was old enough he would make me a match who was brave, and gentle and strong."

"And handsome, I'm sure." He said.

"Sometimes the most beautiful fruit on the tree is rotten on the inside," Sansa said.

"If only everyone had your insight," he said.

"Some lessons are learned the hard way," she replied.

"You would find a match among the Northern lords, I am sure."

"Or the Western."

This was a curious answer. He thought to himself. Why was she looking at him like that? She had the softest expression on her face.

"This I may be able to assist with," he agreed.

"Tell me about the Westerlands," she said.

"The Westerlands are beautiful. Rolling plains, rugged hills, lakes as blue as" He stopped then.

"Lakes as blue as?" Her eyebrow raised curiously.

"Lakes as blue as sapphires. Forests full of game. Caves full of unimaginable wonders. The great wealth of the Westerlands comes from the Gold and Silver mines."

"It sounds lovely."

"It can be."

"What was it like to grow up there?" She asked.

"Difficult. My father is a hard man. My mother died in childbirth. My brother and sister were born to be best friends, and I was the lonely one out."

"That is rather sad."

"You have a tender heart, my lady."

"Have you thought of taking a wife?"

He laughed then."I have thought of it. My father has attempted to make matches for me. Many of the highborn ladies take it as an insult. I have given up the idea of marriage for myself."

"That is rather sad."

"Well, the gods saw fit to punish me, I suppose. I am an embarrassment to my father. I am an embarrassment to my house. No highborn woman will agree to a match and no lowborn woman will be deemed good enough—my father has made that clear."

The look of sadness on Sansa's face was touching.

"But—enough about me and my sad existence—we can find you a new match. I am sure that there is no shortage of strong, able-bodied young men willing to make absolute fools of themselves to gain your affection."

She rose up to leave saying,"I will trust your judgment."

"Your Lord father has been avoiding my presence."

This sentence made her stop, and turn to look at him.

"Has he?" She smiled.

"He has. Am I about to be executed?"

"My Lord, please…" she looked at him in jest.

"Why is he avoiding me? He won't even look at me?"

"He is busy. That is all."

"Well, in the event of my murder, I would like to bequeath my books and scrolls to—"

"My lord, there is no need. He is merely thinking over plans for the nameday tourney for Prince Joffrey."

"Ah, I see."

"Yes. Lady Margaery Tyrell will be in attendance."

"Ah I see," Tyrion said again, this time more knowingly.

"Pray tell…what does that have to do with me?"

"The marriage alliance is something that we will need your assistance with."

"Ah, so I will be here at least until the tourney."

Sansa smiled, "at least."

Sansa sat in her father's solar. The solar was spacious and well lit with tall window that allowed in ample natural light. The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting scenes from battles and heroic songs of knights of old. The large hearth dominated one side of the room, casting a warm glow across their faces. Lord Stark sat behind a heavy desk. He wore a simple tunic and breeches today, with his sword laid at his side—a reminder that he was ready for battle at a moment's notice. He was looking at her sternly. His eyes were unreadable. She sat before him to finally discuss her marriage. The air in the study was heavy with smoke and his desk was covered in parchment. The three fat candles on his desk had almost burned down to the wick.

"I've spoken with Lord Tyrion," she began.

"And," her father asked expectantly.

"I think he may be an asset."

"Aye, let's hope. I have made the arrangements for the tourney. Lady Margaery is not yet betrothed. Her grandmother, Lady Olenna Tyrell, seemed amenable to the possible match. She has questions about the boy prince. She is to come here to the capitol as well. She wants to talk to him, herself."

Sansa sighed. "Well, this is expected, I suppose. I just hope that she finds him as charming as last time."

Her father raised an eyebrow. "Last time?"

"Lady Olenna poisoned Joffrey at the wedding. I was kidnapped, and fled the capitol leaving my husband behind to be tried for treason."

"Your husband—that is what I wanted to discuss."

"Lord Tyrion and I were matched. It was meant to be an insult. But he was kind, and decent and respectful to me. I was only a child. I was not very kind to him. But that was expected. His family had been part of the murder of my father, my mother, my brother and our house was—destroyed."

"How much have you seen, Sansa?"

"I have seen up until my own death. A death which I hope to prevent. I hope to prevent yours as well. I am hoping that we can marry the prince to Lady Margaery before the King—"

"I see."

"But he will still need a Hand."

"Joffrey will name Lord Tywin Hand of the King."

"What of your betrothal? What if the Lannister's do not agree?"

"It needs to be the best possible option. They will only agree if it benefits them to the detriment of others."

He looked at her again, as if seeing her for the first time. "And what could we possibly offer?"

"I offer myself. I offer myself as a match for the presumptive heir to Casterly Rock, Lord Tyrion Lannister."

"You are suggesting that I offer you as a match for Lord Tyrion?"
"Yes. Lord Tywin has found it difficult to find him a match, because he is…"

"A dwarf," the words stung and Sansa found herself flinching slightly.

"Small." She finished.

Her father smiled. "You are protective of him."

"The only thing that you can do is offer him the match." She said exasperated.

"But first we must break the betrothal."

"The betrothal can be broken if I am seriously ill, or if I am found to be married to someone else."

"What are you suggesting?"

"We should try to negotiate with them for a new betrothal. I can't say that I know how Lord Tywin will respond, but, it is worth consideration."

"You wish to tie yourself to this man?"

Sansa closed her eyes, and remembered the delicious sensation that she felt when Lord Tyrion kissed her ungloved hand, before saying, "I do."

"I will think about it," he said, "Sansa, he has not—touched you"

"No, of course not. He was always a complete gentleman.Even when we were married."

"His reputation precedes him. I have heard that he is a lecherous monster who frequents whore houses."

"He does frequent whore houses. Father—he cannot marry. If you cannot marry—would you not—"

"Sansa." He said sternly.

"He searches for love and companionship where it can be found."

Her fathers eyes softened. "You have a soft heart, Sansa."

"I can say that he has never hurt me. Not intentionally. That is more than I can say for other men in my life."

"I still don't understand what has happened to you."

"I know. Nor do I. But I aim to make the best of it," she said.