A Holiday by Decree
~~ Day 2 ~~
Fortunately, this is no Winterfell, Tyrion thought to himself, as wetly, he turned back to Sansa.
He tried to be at ease, but felt anything but as the wetness of his clothes left him feeling uncomfortable. Yet not sure it would do to excuse himself again, he did the only thing he could think to. "May I?" he asked gesturing to remove his vest and hang it on one of the dining chairs; the climate was hot enough that his rain-blotched shirt would dry soon enough with the vest out of the way.
Still staring at him as if a dwarf had grown out of the ground in front of her, Sansa nodded minutely, so he went ahead and boosted himself into the dining chair from which he had hung the vest.
The maid brought Sansa the extra requested cup and poured her wine, though Tyrion refused again. The feelings that had him looking for a drink earlier were getting supplanted by a whole new set of feelings that he did not yet know how to interpret, leaving him unsure of how to act.
Once they were alone again, he looked over at Sansa. Her expression had hardly changed despite the sip of wine she had taken. She clearly was not expecting to see me here, he thought. Which, as I first thought, can only mean –
"Do you think this was planned?" Sansa asked as if plucking the thoughts from his mind.
He pursed his lips, and searched the ceiling with his eyes for a moment. Like himself, Sansa Stark was no stranger to plots and plans forming behind her back. He did not imagine she could hate it any more or less than he did, but time had taught him to proceed with caution.
"Well that depends, how did you come to be here? Our Queen ordered me to take a holiday here, though I suspect it was an effort to get me out of her hair for a bit, since I probably would not have gone otherwise," he explained looking back at her with an almost-smile.
"Jon convinced me to leave on a vacation as well. He thought it might do me well to take some time to rest on my own," she said plainly enough yet still gripping her cup.
Tyrion leaned back in his chair, rubbing his beard in thought. Even a glance back at her had him dying to pry into her obvious emotional turmoil.
But he couldn't, he told himself. Not yet, perhaps not at all.
He tried to focus. "Well, it could be that they planned it, but having worked with both of them, it is still also often the case that one hand works while not caring to check what the other is doing, so to speak - if you'll pardon the pun."
"That does sound like Jon," Sansa agreed, before something in her expression softened.