Tyrion II
Days had passed, and Sansa had not stepped foot outside their chambers. The room, once foreign and cold, had become a prison of her own making, the heavy drapes drawn to block out the world. The air inside felt oppressive, thick with unspoken sorrow. Every time Tyrion tried to approach her, she turned away, curling deeper into herself, her silence laced with heartache he could not unravel.
Since Roslin's visit, Sansa had retreated further, breaking into sobs that seemed to carry through the long hours of the night, continuing into the next day. Tyrion watched helplessly as the woman he had sworn to protect fell apart before his eyes, her grief pulling her into an abyss he couldn't reach. She cried without explanation, her hands sometimes trembling, her eyes haunted by something she hadn't yet revealed.
Tyrion's patience, though vast, was tested. He had tried talking to her, offering soft words, attempting to coax out whatever burden she carried, but every question was met with silence or tears. He sat by her side, unsure whether his presence comforted her or only made the weight on her shoulders heavier.
At a loss, Tyrion had turned to Roslin, hoping she might shed light on the situation, might help him understand the cause of Sansa's despair. But Roslin had been distant too, tight-lipped and cautious. When he'd confronted her, desperation creeping into his voice, she had only shaken her head.
"Please," Tyrion had begged, his frustration evident. "You know what happened. She's been like this since you left. I can't help her if I don't understand."
But Roslin had remained unmoved, her expression firm but filled with sympathy. "It's not my place, my lord," she had said quietly, her tone gentle yet resolute. "Sansa needs to tell you when she's ready. Whatever it is, it's not for me to speak of."
Her words had been final, leaving Tyrion with a hollow sense of helplessness. He had no choice but to wait, though the waiting was torturous. The uncertainty gnawed at him, and he found himself replaying moments over and over, searching for any clue, any sign of what had broken Sansa so completely.
In the days that followed, he tried to maintain his usual duties, though his mind constantly drifted back to the darkened room where his wife sat, withdrawn from the world. He spoke with the maesters, though none could offer any remedies beyond the potions that had already failed to soothe her. Servants came and went, quietly bringing meals she barely touched, their pitying glances making Tyrion feel even more impotent.
Each night he watched the shadows stretch long across the chamber walls as the candles burned low. He would lie awake, listening to the sounds of her quiet weeping, the anguish in her sobs filling the silence between them. Tyrion had endured much in his life—scorn, mockery, violence—but this helplessness was something else entirely. He had no weapon against it, no armor to shield either of them from the sorrow that seemed to suffocate the room.
He yearned to reach her, to break through whatever wall had gone up between them, but the more he tried, the more unreachable she became. All he could do now was wait—wait for Sansa to find her voice, wait for her to let him in, wait for the day when she would finally speak the truth that weighed so heavily on her fragile shoulders. But how long could he wait? And when she did speak, what devastating truth would come?
The night before Joffrey's wedding had arrived, and with it, a growing sense of dread that hung heavily in the air. The castle bustled with preparations for the grand spectacle to come, but inside Tyrion's chambers, all was quiet save for the soft rustling of Sansa shifting restlessly beneath the covers. She had barely moved all day, not even to dress. Her hair, which once had been meticulously braided every morning, lay tangled and limp against the pillow, a small testament to the weight of her despair.
Tyrion stood by the window, staring out into the darkness. The torches from the courtyard below flickered like distant stars, but there was no comfort in their warm glow tonight. He had tried to give her space, hoping that time would allow her to heal, but time had done nothing but deepen the chasm between them. Every day that passed without a word, without even a hint of the vibrant girl she once was, wore at him. The more he tried to be patient, the more futile it seemed.
As he turned back to look at her, lying motionless beneath the blankets, something inside him snapped. He could no longer remain passive. He needed answers—no, they needed answers if they were to survive what was to come. They had to stand together tomorrow at the wedding feast, present a united front to Joffrey, to the court, to the entire realm. And yet here they were, adrift, with Sansa trapped in her own silence and Tyrion unable to reach her.
He approached the bed slowly, the floor creaking beneath his careful steps. Gently, he sat down on the edge of the mattress, feeling the soft give beneath his weight. Sansa didn't move, her gaze fixed on the far wall, her eyes distant and dull. Tyrion's heart clenched at the sight—this was not the girl who had been so full of hope and dreams, the one who had spoken of Winterfell's snow and family dinners with warmth in her voice. This was someone who had been broken, and he had failed to stop it.
"Sansa," Tyrion said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper. He reached out, placing a hand gently on the blanket near her arm, not daring to touch her directly, unsure if the gesture would be welcomed or rejected. "Please, speak to me."
She gave no response, her breathing shallow and steady, but he could see the tension in her form, the way her fingers clutched at the fabric of the sheets as though they were her only anchor.
"I may not understand," Tyrion continued, his voice cracking slightly with emotion, "but I can try. I can help, my lady. If you just tell me what's haunting you, I will do everything in my power to fix it. I swear it."
He waited, his words hanging heavy in the air, but there was no reply. His chest tightened as he leaned in closer, hoping that his proximity might draw some reaction from her. He could hear the faintest sound of her breath, steady but shallow, as though she were struggling to keep herself composed. He wondered how long she had been holding it all in, how many nights she had wept silently while he lay just feet away, unable to offer her comfort.
"Sansa," Tyrion said again, his voice firmer now, laced with both urgency and compassion. "Whatever it is, you don't have to carry this alone. I know you've been hurt—more than anyone should ever have to endure—but you're not alone. Not anymore. Let me in, Sansa. Let me help you."
For a long, heavy moment, there was no response, just the sound of her shallow breaths and the faint crackling of the fire in the hearth. But then, slowly, Sansa shifted beneath the blankets, stirring as if the weight of his words had finally reached her. She sat up, pulling her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them as if to shield herself from the world. The light from the flames danced across her pale face, casting shadows that made her look far older than her years. Tyrion's heart sank as he saw her tear-streaked cheeks, the redness of her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and endless weeping.
"I—" Her voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, as she struggled to speak. She looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "I didn't… It wasn't my fault."
Tyrion stepped closer, sitting beside her on the edge of the bed, careful not to startle her with his nearness. He reached out gently, but stopped short of touching her, knowing that any sudden movement might drive her back into herself.
"I know, Sansa," he said softly. "It wasn't your fault. None of it was."
She squeezed her eyes shut as if trying to block out the memories that flooded her mind. "Is this why?" Tyrion asked gently, sensing the floodgates were beginning to open. "Is it what he did to you? Joffrey?"
At first, she only nodded, biting her lip as fresh tears welled in her eyes. "Yes," she whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of the truth. "But… it's not just that. I did everything I was told…after... after it happened."
Tyrion felt a knot tighten in his chest. The thought of what Joffrey had done to her, the cruelty and torment she had endured, made his blood boil. He swallowed hard, keeping his voice steady for her sake. "I know, my lady," he said softly. "You did nothing wrong."
Sansa sniffed, her fingers tightening around her knees as she stared blankly at the floor. "Roslin... Roslin said it would be okay," she muttered, her words coming out in a jumbled rush. "She said it wouldn't happen if I did what she told me. I took the tea, like she said."
"The tea?" Tyrion's brow furrowed in confusion. "What tea?"
Sansa glanced at him, her face stricken with guilt and fear. "It was… a tea that Robb brought from the maester," she explained haltingly. "Roslin said it would stop me from..."
She trailed off, but Tyrion suddenly understood, the realization dawning on him like a blow to the chest. His throat tightened, and he could barely form the words. "Moon tea?"
Sansa's silence was all the confirmation he needed.
Tyrion closed his eyes briefly, fighting to keep the surge of emotions from overwhelming him. Moon tea— Roslin must have given it to Sansa after Joffrey had assaulted her, thinking it would protect her from the worst of it. And yet... it hadn't worked.
"She said it wouldn't happen," Sansa repeated, her voice barely more than a broken whisper. "But it has. I'm… I'm with child."
Tyrion felt the weight of her words slam into him like a physical blow. His mind raced as he struggled to grasp the full gravity of what she had just confessed. She was pregnant. Joffrey's child.
The room seemed to spin for a moment, but Tyrion forced himself to focus. Sansa's face was etched with despair, her whole body trembling as she tried to keep herself together. He wanted to rage, to curse the gods and the fate that had brought this upon her. But none of that would help now.
He reached out slowly, carefully placing his hand over hers, and this time she didn't pull away. "Sansa," he said gently, his voice thick with emotion, "everything will be okay, I swear it.."
She looked at him then, her blue eyes wide with fear and uncertainty. "But how?" she whispered. "How can we? What will happen when they find out?"
Tyrion exhaled slowly, his mind racing through the dire possibilities. If word got out that Sansa was carrying Joffrey's child, it would ruin her—destroy her reputation entirely. They would be trapped in King's Landing, bound to the whims of the royal court. Joffrey would undoubtedly claim the child as his own, as a way to humiliate Tyrion. The child would be subject to Joffrey's cruelty which Tyrion had no doubts would extend to his own child, the child would be forced to watch as Joffrey's other children on Margaery would be revered but they would be unable to leave. But Sansa—Sansa would be at Joffrey's mercy. She would be his to torment, his to control. Tyrion couldn't—wouldn't—let that happen. Not to her.
"I'll claim the child as mine," Tyrion said firmly, his mind already piecing together the plan. "We'll wait until after the royal wedding. Once we return to Casterly Rock, we can announce that we're expecting our first child. No one will question it. We're newly married—people will expect it. And my father... he'll be delighted."
Sansa's wide, tear-streaked eyes met his, disbelief flickering across her face. "You would do that?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "You would raise his child? After everything he's done?"
Tyrion's expression softened as he looked at her. "This child will be yours," he said gently. "That's all that matters to me. No one else needs to know the truth, not even Joffrey. I won't let him have any claim over you or the baby."
Sansa hugged her knees tighter to her chest, her breath shaky. "But the child will still be his, not yours," she said, her voice laced with fear and uncertainty. "What if... what if people find out? What if Joffrey finds out?"
Tyrion leaned in, his eyes calm but unwavering. "Joffrey can say whatever he wants, but if he tries to claim this child, he'd have to admit to what he's done. He won't risk that. As for everyone else, they'll believe whatever they want to believe regardless of the truth. You've seen how quickly rumours spread when Roslin's pregnancy became known."
Sansa hesitated, her heart torn between the comfort Tyrion offered and the horror of what had happened to her. "You would be taking on so much, Tyrion. I don't deserve this kindness."
"You deserve far more than what this world has given you," Tyrion said quietly. "I promised to protect you, Sansa, and I intend to keep that promise. This child... he or she doesn't need to bear the sins of the father. They'll be Lannister in name, Stark in spirit."
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, a small glimmer of hope lit in Sansa's eyes. "What if it's not enough? What if people still see through it?"
Tyrion sighed but remained resolute. "Then we face it together. But I believe this is our best chance. The sooner we leave King's Landing, the better. Once we're at Casterly Rock, no one will dare question us."
Sansa's lip trembled as she looked at him, searching his face for any hint of deception or hesitation. She found none. "Thank you," she whispered. "I don't know how to repay you for this."
"There's nothing to repay," Tyrion replied softly. "You've been through enough, and you deserve a chance at peace, at a life free from Joffrey's cruelty. If this is the way to give you that, then I'll do it, without question."
Sansa nodded slowly, the weight of their decision beginning to settle over her. "I... I'll try to be strong," she said, her voice gaining a little strength. "For the child, for us."
"We'll face it together," Tyrion reassured her. He reached out and gently took her hand. "No one will take this from you—not Joffrey, not anyone."
Sansa nodded again, this time more firmly, and for the first time since her world had collapsed, she felt a small flicker of hope. Tyrion would protect her, and together, they could find a way to survive.
"All we need to do is survive tomorrow," Tyrion said, his voice low but resolute. "He'll try to provoke us, Sansa—he'll push and test every boundary, but we need to resist. We can't give him the satisfaction of seeing us break." He reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. "I promise you, I won't let him hurt you again. Not now, not ever. But tomorrow… we may have to play his games, just for a little while longer. Keep our heads down, endure what we must. After the wedding, we'll leave for Casterly Rock, far from his reach, and we can start over. You, me, and the baby."
The morning of the wedding dawned, and for the first time in days, Tyrion watched as Sansa slowly got out of bed, her movements hesitant but determined. He gave her space, leaving the room so she could bathe and dress in privacy. When she'd asked the night before if she could forgo the Lannister red today, he'd agreed without hesitation. Today, of all days, she needed to feel like Sansa Stark, not Sansa Lannister.
Once she was ready, her hair brushed into a simple braid and her gown a soft blue-gray reminiscent of her Northern roots, they made their way down to the King's wedding breakfast. It was a small gathering, reserved only for the King, his family and his bride's father. Tyrion knew how isolated Sansa would feel without Robb or Roslin by her side.
As they reached the gardens—once Sansa's sanctuary, now overtaken by Joffrey like everything else in her life—Tyrion felt her stiffen beside him. The lush, open space was crowded with guests, courtiers, and servants bustling about. A grand table sat at the center near the fountain, decorated extravagantly in gold and crimson, and while the day was lovely, the weight of what was to come dampened any sense of joy.
The royal family had already gathered. Cersei sat with Tommen beside her, a cool smile on her lips. At the far end, Grand Maester Pycelle, freshly released from his brief captivity, shuffled awkwardly in his seat. Tywin, seated next to Cersei, looked as though he was merely tolerating Mace Tyrell's ramblings about his own house's holdings, his expression vacant, his mind elsewhere. Sansa's gaze drifted over the scene, her eyes locking on the empty seat at the center of the table. The seat meant for Joffrey. His absence seemed to set her further on edge.
Tyrion guided Sansa toward the empty seats left for them, but before they could sit, Cersei's voice rang out, cutting through the morning air.
"Good morning, brother," she called sweetly, her tone laced with false warmth. Her gaze shifted to Sansa, and her smile twisted slightly. "And good morning to you, little dove. You look... pale. Are you quite well?"
Sansa squared her shoulders, forcing her voice to remain calm. "Very well, thank you, Your Grace."
"Sansa had trouble sleeping last night," Tyrion added, stepping in smoothly. "The excitement of the occasion, I imagine."
Cersei's smile tightened. "Ah, of course. Weddings do stir such anticipation."
Mace Tyrell, oblivious to the tension, let out a booming laugh. "Ah, I remember those days well! The early days of marriage," he said, turning to face Cersei, who smiled politely. "I don't think Alerie and I slept a wink for weeks!" He chuckled, clearly amused by his own recollection.
Tyrion's attention was fixed on Sansa. He could feel the tremble in her hand where it rested against his arm. She was trying so hard to hold herself together, to keep up the façade they needed to survive the day. Joffrey hadn't yet arrived, but they both knew it was only a matter of time before he made his grand entrance, ready to taunt, provoke, and likely humiliate them in front of the court.
As they took their seats, Tyrion leaned closer to Sansa and whispered softly, "Remember, we get through today. That's all we need to do. We stay strong, and after this, we'll be gone from here."
Sansa nodded faintly, her eyes downcast. She clutched the fabric of her dress tightly in her hands, trying to steady her breathing. Tyrion glanced around the table, already bracing himself for Joffrey's inevitable performance. He knew this was only the beginning of what would be a grueling day, but for Sansa's sake, he would endure it. They both would. Together.
It wasn't long before Joffrey arrived, sweeping into the garden with the kind of dramatic flourish that seemed to be his signature. Flanked by several members of the Kingsguard, all gleaming in white and gold, he strutted toward the head of the table with the self-satisfaction. His presence was like a dark cloud settling over the breakfast, and the low murmur of conversation dwindled as all eyes turned to him.
The young king sauntered toward his seat at the center of the grand table, his every step deliberate, his every movement designed to draw attention. His golden crown glinted in the sunlight, a symbol of his power, and yet it seemed to magnify the cruelty etched in his boyish features. Joffrey's lips curled into a smirk as his gaze swept over the assembled guests, but his eyes lingered, almost hungrily, on Sansa.
Tyrion could feel the shift in the air as Joffrey's attention zeroed in on his wife. The boy-king's stare was piercing, filled with the kind of malice that made Tyrion's stomach tighten. Sansa, seated beside him, kept her head bowed, her hands clutching her skirts as if the fabric alone could anchor her. She refused to look up, refused to meet the king's gaze, but Tyrion could see the subtle tension in her shoulders, the way she stiffened under the weight of Joffrey's eyes.
"Well, isn't this a lovely gathering?" Joffrey's voice slithered through the air, sharp and mocking, cutting through the delicate murmurs of conversation like a blade. His smirk was wide and smug as he surveyed the table before him, his eyes gleaming with a cruel delight. "It truly is the happiest day of my life."
The guests, gathered in their fine silks and velvets, fell silent at the king's proclamation. Some shifted uncomfortably in their seats, while others forced polite smiles, though it was clear that the tension Joffrey brought with him had already soured the atmosphere. Tyrion glanced toward Sansa, whose pale face remained downcast, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Every word that spilled from Joffrey's mouth seemed like a thorn to her, but she remained still, unwilling to draw attention to herself.
Joffrey, noticing the muted response, leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the unease he had stirred. His fingers drummed idly on the table before him as he continued, turning his focus to Mace Tyrell.
"Lord Tyrell," Joffrey began, his tone now taking on an exaggerated charm, "before we proceed with today's celebrations, I must offer my sincerest gratitude to House Tyrell for their unwavering support over these past months." He gestured with one hand, his movements grand and theatrical. "And, of course, for the most wonderful gift you've bestowed upon me—your beautiful daughter. She is a treasure, not only to me but to the entire realm. Truly, she is a gift to all of our lives."
Across the table, Lord Mace Tyrell beamed, his large frame practically glowing with pride. He stood from his seat with a flourish, his bejeweled fingers spread wide in a grand gesture of submission and gratitude. "It is my greatest honour, Your Grace," he boomed, his voice filled with pomp. "House Tyrell is forever at your service. We are overjoyed to be allied with such strength and wisdom." He paused, bowing slightly, as if savoring the moment before delivering his next words. "And please, Your Grace, allow me the privilege of being the first to present you with a gift on this most auspicious of days."
Mace clapped his hands, signaling to the servants waiting by the edges of the garden. Two attendants hurried forward, carrying between them an ornate chest, gilded in gold and decorated with House Tyrell's signature rose emblem. The chest was large enough to suggest something of great importance, and its shimmering exterior captured the light of the sun, drawing the eyes of every guest in attendance.
He gestured to a servant who stepped forward, carrying a beautifully crafted box adorned with intricate designs inlaid with gold. Mace continued, "Inside this box, you will find three treasures befitting a king."
Joffrey leaned forward, a glint of curiosity in his eyes as Mace lifted the lid to reveal the contents. "First," Mace declared, "a golden brooch, shaped like a rose and encrusted with the finest rubies and emeralds. It symbolizes not only your union with House Tyrell but also the strength of our alliance."
Joffrey's lips curled into a satisfied grin as he reached for the brooch, his fingers brushing against the cool metal. "I shall wear it proudly," he proclaimed, fastening it to his tunic.
"Secondly," Mace continued, "a collection of rare wines from the bountiful Reach." He gestured to several elegant bottles nestled within the box, their labels bearing the sigils of renowned vineyards. "These wines are said to bring joy and vitality, perfect for your wedding festivities."
"Excellent," Joffrey replied, his tone laced with mock humility. "I look forward to sampling them at the banquet."
"And lastly," Mace concluded, a touch of gravitas in his voice, "a custom-designed shield, adorned with the sigils of both House Baratheon and House Tyrell." He unveiled the shield, displaying its intricate craftsmanship and vivid colors. "It symbolises our strength in unity, a reminder that together, we shall defend our realms."
Joffrey leaned back in his chair, a flicker of admiration crossing his features as he examined the beautifully crafted shield. "Thank you Lord Tyrell" he declared, a smirk playing on his lips. "You have truly outdone yourself. I shall make sure to put these gifts to good use." He paused, scanning the table, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Who's next?"
As he surveyed the assembled family members, Tyrion stood, his posture relaxed but resolute. "Allow me, Your Grace," he said, a hint of formality creeping into his tone. He motioned for Podrick, his loyal squire, who stepped forward, carefully balancing a wrapped parcel in his hands.
Joffrey leaned forward eagerly, his fingers tearing at the wrappings with an impatient ferocity. When the final layers fell away, he blinked in surprise. "A book?" he exclaimed, disappointment creeping into his voice as he held it up for all to see.
"The Lives of Four Kings by Grand Maester Kaeth," Tyrion replied, a knowing smile on his lips. "It chronicles the reigns of Daeron the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed, Aegon the Unworthy, and Daeron the Good. A book every king should read."
Joffrey hesitated, ready to mock the gift, but then he caught the keen gaze of his grandfather, Tywin Lannister, who watched him with an unyielding expression. The weight of expectation hung in the air, and Joffrey's bravado faltered for just a moment. "Now that the war is won," he said slowly, "we should all find time for wisdom."
His words dripped with false sincerity, but Tyrion couldn't help but admire Joffrey's ability to play the part, even if it was disingenuous. "Thank you, uncle," Joffrey added, his tone too saccharine to be genuine.
Tyrion settled back into his seat next to Sansa, the tension palpable between them. Just as he prepared to speak, his father, Tywin, rose from his chair with an air of authority. "If I may have the honour of presenting my gift next, Your Grace," he said, his voice resonating throughout the hall. With a swift gesture, he summoned one of the King's Guard forward. The guard approached with reverence, carrying a finely wrapped sword that gleamed even in the dim light of the hall.
As the guard placed the sword upon the table before Joffrey, the King's expression transformed from curiosity to pure delight. He leaped to his feet, excitement radiating from him as he made his way around the table to inspect his new weapon.
"This sword," Tywin continued, his tone grave and measured, "was forged by the finest smiths in the capital. The steel is sourced from Slaver's Bay and is believed to have remnants of the ancient Valyrian ruins. The hilt is crafted from stone from Dragonstone and has been meticulously polished for weeks."
Joffrey unsheathed the blade, its gleaming surface catching the light, casting flickering reflections on the faces of those present. Tyrion couldn't help but admire the weapon's craftsmanship; it was magnificent, with a balance that felt alive in Joffrey's hands.
"Careful, Your Grace," Pycelle warned, his voice tremulous with concern. "Nothing cuts like Valyrian steel."
"So they say," Joffrey replied nonchalantly, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. He sharply turned, brandishing the sword like a toy, and swung it down with all his might, slicing through the book that lay carelessly on the table. Pages flew as the blade tore through the text, the destruction complete in mere moments. Joffrey laughed gleefully at the chaos, reveling in the power he wielded, before locking eyes with Tyrion in a challenging stare.
"Such a great sword deserves a name," Joffrey proclaimed, his voice rising with excitement. "What shall we call her?"
"Stormbreaker!" shouted one of the lords in attendance, eager to please the King.
"Heartbreaker!" chimed in Tommen, his voice small but enthusiastic.
"Widow's Wail!" came another suggestion from the crowd.
"Widow's Wail—I like that!" Joffrey announced with a wicked grin, pointing the blade directly at Sansa. She held his gaze, unflinching, defiance sparking in her dark eyes. Joffrey held her stare for a moment longer, as if daring her to flinch, before finally lowering the sword and returning to his seat, his triumph complete.
Tyrion sensed the unease in Sansa as she sat beside him, the weight of Joffrey's taunt hanging heavy in the air.
"Now that we have a name," Joffrey announced, looking around the table, "let's toast to Widow's Wail!" He lifted a goblet, filled to the brim with wine, and everyone else followed suit, albeit with reluctance. Tyrion raised his own goblet but felt a wave of anger wash over him at the sheer cruelty of the moment. The day was only just beginning.