Smoke and Savor
All that smoke and savor rising so delicately from our altars. It leaves only ash behind."
— Madeline Miller (Circe)
Tyrion groaned as he slowly opened his eyes. Even though it was fairly dimly lit in his rooms his head throbbed and ached as if it had been stomped on by a horse. The pounding headache was the first thing that he noticed. The next was the sour taste in his mouth and the faint scent of Dornish red that still clung to his clothes. He sat up slowly, his mind a mess of haze and fog. He tried to piece together the events of the previous day, and the previous night. He vaguely remembered holding hands in the garden with Sansa Stark. He had been drinking for most of the day. He had started his day by being berated by his Lord Father to do his duty for the good of his House. He was convinced that this was all a farce. Why in seven hells, he thought, would Sansa Stark or any highborn lady for that matter—consent to marrying a misshapen monster of a man.
He had been properly drunk when he stumbled upon Sansa in the gardens. She was sitting silently on the bench escaping his lovely sister and his charming nephew. He could not help but be wary of any plot involving his father, especially if he was to play a part in it.
He sat in bed staring blankly at the wall and thinking over how he would tackle the day. As he finally climbed down from the softness and comfort of his bed, there was a knock at the door. He made his way to it to find his brother towering over him.
Jaime was the kind of man that Sansa deserved—perhaps even desired, he thought to himself. He was a golden boy. Tyrion was a disappointment by comparison. He would never be a knight. He would never be a swordsman. He had, however, built his strength in other ways.
Jaime strode into Tyrion's rooms as if they were his own. He propped his sword up against the wall and made himself comfortable in one of Tyrion's chairs before saying, "Is something bothering you little brother?" He poured himself a goblet of wine from one of the many bottles that lay open on the table nearby. He smirked, taking a healthy gulp of wine.
"Do you find this amusing, Jaime? That I, the brother, whom you love, is to marry?"
"I must admit, it is quite amusing to watch you squirm like this. The cool, calculating Tyrion Lannister brought to heel by a little bird."
"I take it the news has spread." Tyrion said pouring himself a goblet of wine as well.
Jaime raised an eyebrow, "Brother—you must be serious. The whole keep is talking of the marriage of the imp and the little bird."
He leaned forward now with a sparkle of mischief in his eyes, "How did you manage this?" Jaime laughed, "you are known for your "golden tongue" but this is more talent than even I thought you capable of" he said leaning back.
"Well, apparently my tongue has talents that even you are not aware of," he laughed, but he also wondered at the suitability of this match, regardless of Sansa telling him that this was something she wanted. She was adept at saying what people wanted her to say.
"When is the wedding?"
"I suppose that is something that will be discussed," Tyrion said
"Father should be proud. He once told me that he had offered five marriage arrangements for you—"
Tyrion sighed, "Yes. And I was married, or don't you remember?"
"Youthful folly—"
"Yes—father saw to that." Tyrion said bitterly.
"The Stark girl, is beautiful. Is something wrong with her? You should be thrilled."
"I am waiting for the trap to spring."
Jaime made an unintelligible sound, "Brother—not everything is a trap."
"When have you ever known our dear father to do anything that would be beneficial—to me?"
Jaime raised an eyebrow, "Still, you will wed her and bed her and there are worse things in this world."
The words echoed in Tyrion's head "wed her, and bed her." He said finally, "She still has time to reconsider," he said and raised his glass.
"Being married to a highborn lady comes with a lot of responsibilities," Jaime began.
"I had no idea you were such an expert on marriages…"
Sansa walked through the gardens of King's Landing arm in arm with the Lady of Highgarden, Lady Margaery Tyrell. Margaery Tyrell was fair and slender with a womanly figure, and was of an age with Sansa. She had softly curling long brown hair and large brown eyes. Her smile was shy and sweet. Sansa remembered that she was deceptively capable of protecting herself. She was also very popular with the smallfolk, a definite benefit to the future King. They walked through the gardens taking in the sweet scent of flowers and enjoying the gentle rustle of the leaves and the kiss of the breeze against their bare arms. She felt at peace with Lady Margaery. She was grateful for this respite from the politics and gossip of the Red Keep where deception seemed to lurk around every corner. Margaery had a calming presence that she hoped would work on Joffrey. But she did not have much hope.
Margaery stopped to study a flowering bush as they walked by, "Sansa, isn't it lovely," she said, gesturing towards the bush. "I do so adore the gardens here at the capital. They are wild—to be sure—but charming."
"That is a good description of the capital," Sansa smiled.
Margaery smiled in return.
"This is certainly a welcomed respite from the cold of the North. I do miss the forests and the crisp air."
"Maybe you will be able to return home soon," she supplied. "I spent most of my life in Highgarden, surrounded by fields of golden wheat and sunshine. Now that I am here in King's Landing, I find myself longing for the sweet perfume of flowers and the sound of birdsong in the morning."
"My father has asked Tyrion to stay on as Master of Coin." Sansa said.
They continued to walk and talk enjoying the sights and smells, a welcome respite from the smell of the city below. After a few moments of silence, Margaery spoke again, "You must tell me more about your betrothed-"
Sansa felt a brush creeping up her neck and changed the subject. "You will soon be queen, are you excited," Sansa began.
Margaery nodded. Her expression shifted at the mention of Joffrey but she quickly regained her countenance. "I am honored, surely, but…," she said diplomatically, "Joffrey is…difficult."
Sansa turned to the Lady Margaery giving her a slight embrace, "I think we shall become quite good friends."
Tyrion and Sansa made their way through the winding corridors of the Red Keep.
"Well, my lady, I'm afraid that the streets of King's Landing are not quite as pristine as the gardens of Winterfell. You must be careful not to dirty your shoes."
"I can manage my lord," she said.
"I never said that you were fragile, my lady. I am of the mind that you are quite resilient."
They reached the stables after a short time and a carriage was waiting for them, pulled by two strong horses. The driver was a grizzled old man with a bushy gray beard, and he doffed his cap towards them as they approached.
"Good day, my lords, my lady," he greeted them. "Where can I take you today?"
Tyrion stepped forward. "We will be heading down to the city, good sir."
Tyrion entered the carriage first, and held his hands to her, to help her up. As she climbed aboard, she could not help but feel a nervous energy which she could not quite name.
She was more than slightly worried about traveling in the city. She had been nearly raped in King's Landing. She remembered it as if it had happened a mere fortnight ago, though it was a vision from another life. Tyrion must have noticed her unease.
He leaned towards her to whisper in her ear, "Don't worry my lady, I will make sure that you are safe. Besides, I've always had a soft spot for redheads."
The feeling of his breath tickled her ear and almost caused her to shiver. She tried to steel herself with a smile, "Is that so my lord?" She replied coolly.
With a glint of mischief in his eyes he said "Especially when they are as lovely as you."
She felt a rush of blood to her cheeks. As the carriage began to roll down the hill, Sansa took in all of the sights and sounds of the ancient city. The streets were bustling with activity. The air was thick with the smells of roasted meats and smoke. Tyrion took the opportunity as they were riding to point out various landmarks, telling her stories and legends about each one.
They passed by the Street of Steel where the sounds of hammering and clanging echoed throughout the air. Sansa covered her ears, wincing at the loud clamor. "How can anyone stand to work in such a place?" She asked.
Tyrion laughed silently. "Some say that the noise keeps the shadows away."
Sansa raised her right eyebrow skeptically, "Shadows?"
Tyrion nodded with a very serious expression on his face. "Yes," he paused, "demons. They say that the forges and smithies are the only things standing between us and the creatures that lurk int eh darkness."
Sansa rolled her eyes. "Are you the same person who does not believe in grumkins and snarks?"
Tyrion shrugged, "Well, it's as good an explanation as any."
As they passed the Street of Flour, the smell of freshly baked bread wafted into the carriage. Sansa stomach growled loudly. Tyrion chuckled, "Hungry, my lady?
Sansa would have been mortified, the old Sansa would have been. But she found it hard to be embarrassed in front of someone who made her feel so comfortable. She was still courteous, "I'm sorry, my lord, I didn't mean to be—impolite."
Tyrion waved a hand dismissively. "No need to apologize. I'm rather hungry myself. Perhaps we can find a baker and indulge in some freshly baked bread."
Sansa smiled, liking this idea.
They continued on exploring the winding streets and alleyways of the city. Tyrion pointed out various city landmarks as they passed, including the Great Sept of Baelor that loomed in the distance. As they rounded a corner they came