The Imp, Tyrion Lannister sits before Viola, his mismatched eyes alight with mischief, and perched upon his lap is his lover, Shea. Shea's hands and lips almost never leave Tyrion's body, even when she gulps her wine and he fidgets in his seat.
Varys had led her here, to the manse where Shea lived earlier in the evening under the guise of having fun, and fun they had, had. Viola had never drank, or laughed so much in her life. Tyrion and Shea sang songs she had never heard, hit one another with pillows, danced around the room, and drank more than she had seen even Sandor drink.
Sandor had no idea where she was, the long hours spent training for battle that was on the horizon, and submitting to each and every one of King Joffrey's whims had him pacing the halls of the Red Keep day and night, leaving Viola alone in their chamber with nothing to do. He had knitting supplies and embroidery tools sent to her to keep her occupied, forgetting that she were not a highborn lady and therefore had no idea how to use any of it, and so they sat in the window collecting dust. The books he had lying around the room also went untouched, the words of them much too large for her to sound out, and the ones that she could only served to confuse her and hurt her head.
He made certain to lie with her often to make up for his absence, each time as good as the last. Many nights he would drift off to sleep, only to wake in the middle of the night and take her once more, this time gentler, more passionate. He took care to never spill his seed within her, by her own command, as to not have a babe in this shit hole of a castle.
"So," Tyrion beings as Shea extracts herself from his lap to go make water. "When will you tell me the truth of just how you got those scars?"
"I—uh…Don't remember." Viola stammers, the wine effecting her thought process as she looks to Varys to find him enthralled with a book on the opposite side of the room.
"Oh do not give me that. I know first hand of my sweet nephews cruelty. I think you do remember, and I think that our sweet Joff is whom we owe the pleasure."
"The dwarf may be trusted." Varys confirms, his eyes never leaving the book he was thumbing through. "I doubt that are many who mistrust the king and queen so much as our little friend here."
Viola delves into the tale; Shea sitting open mouthed, enthralled with the story, Tyrion leaning forward in his seat to rest his chin in his hands held up by his elbows resting upon the table that sat around, they hung on to her every word. Once finished, Viola takes a deep breath, Shea clutches her chest, and Tyrion drains the final dregs of wine from his cup and fills it once more before lifting it in toast.
"To whores, and dwarves, and eunuch's, and disfigured girls." Tyrion drains the wine he had just poured and turns to allow Shea to feed him wine from her own cups. "What a merry band of misfits we make."
The bed chambers are black and pitch and ice cold by the time Viola returns. Varys had led her through a passage that brought them to the Tower of the Hand, and then swiftly saw her to the hall housing her and Sandor's own chambers on the ground floor of the Red Keep, the darkness and late hour masking their drunken crusade.
There is no sign of Sandor upon her return. Viola collapses down on the bed and closes her eyes, trying her best to ignore the room spinning behind her lids. Her head will no doubt ache on the morrow, perhaps she will have some eggs and salt ham to break her fast and soak up the wine.
Just as she is drifting into a drunken slumber, the chamber doors are flung open and slammed against the wall, rattling her teeth and causing her head to pound.
"Where the fuck were you?" Sandors voice booms from the doorway, the candlelight streaming in from the hall illuminating him in firelight.
"With friends." Viola answers, her voice thick with wine and exhaustion.
"Friends? Ha!" His barking laughter rings in her ears as he towers over her. "Who the fuck is that, you dumb cunt?"
"Keep your voice down."
"Why? Have too much to wine? Get fucked too hard while you were at it?"
"Do not fucking speak to me in that manner." Viola jumps to her feet, perhaps a bit too quickly, as the room begins to spin and her knees threaten to buckle beneath her. "I did not fuck anyone. I was with a friend; a friend who is a woman grown, and we had too much wine."
"The city-wide curfew means nothing to you? If the queen had caught you-"
"The queen did not catch me. I do not plan on making a habit of this. I am bored, it was harmless."
"Who is this friend you speak of? Who the fuck do you know in this bloody place that isn't licking the queens golden cunt the moment you turn your back?"
"A kitchen maid." Viola lies as Sandor begins removing his armor noisily. "Met her while I was working in the kitchens. She visited me tonight and asked me to have some wine with her in our old rooms."
"You lie well, little fox." Sandor mumbles, just barely loud enough for her to hear from across the room. "But not well enough. That was the first place I looked for you when I found you missing."
"I can't tell you where I was." Viola whispers to him in the darkness, careful of the ears that may be listening within the walls. "Because I do not know where it is, and likely could not lead you back there. I can tell you that they are a trusted friend, and nothing was said that will get you in trouble with the king. I only wanted—"
"Fuck the king." Sandor spits and crosses the room in two strides to grip her chin and force it up to look up at his face in the darkness, the only light creeping into the room coming from the moon and stars streaming in from the window behind them. "Fuck the queen. Fuck this friend of yours. You get bored again, fucking sew something. You have made it this far with your head still attached, don't go losing it now."
"I am no lady, Sandor. I cannot knit you a new tunic and embroider a hound onto it, I can't fucking read, and I don't know any stories or songs to sing you. I did not grow up in a manse, or manor, or whatever the fuck you call it, with handmaids and septa's to wipe my ass and blow my nose. My mother died when I was four and ten, and never taught me to be a proper wife, either. I can roast a quail, I can dress a doe, I can bake bread, tan hides, fish for trout, and forage for mushrooms, but I cannot act a proper lady. I do not belong in this place, Sandor. I do not belong here. I feel I am going mad within these walls. I need to get out. I need to go home before I'm forced to become like them. I do not wish to become like them."
"Aye. You will never become like them. Don't have it in ya to be like them, little one. I will see you home, I swear it."
"Come with me? Please? You don't belong here, either."
"I am a killer, little fox. I belong where I am needed, and for now, that is here."
The sun streaming in from the window, entirely too early in the morning for Viola's liking, causing her eyes to ache behind their lids and her head to pound. As she rolls over onto her opposite side, her stomach churns, causing her to gag. She had certainly had entirely too much wine the night before. A serving girl opening the door nearly causes her to lose to contents of her stomach in the very bed she lies in.
"Up." Sandor's booming voice causes her to moan deeply and pull the feather pillow over her face.
The smell of food wafting through the room causes her to perk up slightly, and for a moment, forgetting that the fact that Sandor was present this late in the morning rather odd, he was usually long gone before the sun even rose.
Viola rises from the bed, the room spinning in the process, and sits across from her husband as he pours a flagon of wine and presses it into her hand. Viola shakes her head in an attempt to refuse, the thought of even sipping the wine making her heave.
"Spiced hot wine." Sandor tells her, pressing the wine on her once more. "Best thing after too much wine. Bet your stomach is churning and your head is spinning about now. It will help."
Viola accepts the flagon and stifles a gag as the scent wafts into her nose, but sips it nonetheless. As promised, the drink begins to ease the ache behind her eyes and the nausea coursing through her within moments. She looks down upon the plate before her, piled high with seared salt pork, fried eggs with runny yolk, toasted bread, and a fruit that Sandor had once called figs.
The food here was strange to her, too. Everything was so heavy on her stomach, spiced with things she had never seen or heard of, and even the grapes and apples here were different from what grew wild in the fields surrounding her house. She was used to large, black grapes with thick skin the should be removed before eating. Father had taught her to put them stem side between her teeth, and squeeze the back end of the grape with her fingers so that the meat and juice popped on her tongue. She'd spit the seeds into a pale, and father would toss them out of his wagon onto the ground along the countryside so that more would grow in the future. These grapes, however, are small and yellow, and Sandor had laughed at her when she attempted to pop the meat into her mouth, and the entire grape exploded between her fingers. He had told her there was no use saving the seeds, there was nowhere to plant them. The apples they ate were large and came in all different colors of red and yellow, they were not misshapen, small, yellow and pink things like she had grown up plucking from the trees.
The honey too was different from what Jonah would gift her. The honey he had given her was nearly black with a woody, earthy flavor, and so sweet it made her teeth hurt when she would first take a bite of the comb. It was black due to the buckwheat the hive of bees lived off of, Father had explained to her so long ago now. The honey here was yellow and tasted of nothing but sweetness. The combs within were thinner and broke apart between your fingers before you could even bring it to your mouth. Quail, too, was different. It was far too greasy, and lacked the distinct taste that caused her mouth to water when father would come home with a flock of them strung up and ready to be plucked for dinner.
Viola longed for home more with each passing day. Longed for her father and his loud snoring, the smell of acorn tea steeping in a mug as she stoked the fire. She wished to forage for mushrooms and berries with Alna, to trade fish and quail for flour and salt with Masha. How she wished she could bake one more loaf of bread in her own kitchen as father chipped away at stone outside.
She picks at her food, pushing it around the plate instead of actually eating as she gazes out of the window. People pass by, talking amongst themselves and rushing towards their destination. Some look well off, others poor with threadbare clothing and no shoes upon their feet. She can feel Sandor's eyes on her, boring in to her as though willing her to eat. He does not speak, and had long since cleared his plate. Viola takes a single bite of her eggs, the yellow yolk sliding heavily down her throat as though made of steel, and passes the plate to Sandor to finish off. He usually finished her meals, anyway.
"My brother had this little black pup." Viola begins as she continues staring out of the window, her voice is low and she must clear her throat several times before continuing. The sounds of Sandor eating halt at once, his eyes once more trained upon her, urging her to continue. "He named it Garrison. It followed my brother around everywhere, always so loyal to him, always looking out for him. Once he almost stepped on a snake while hunting, never even saw it, but Garrison did. He ran right under my brother's foot, nearly tripping him, and ripped the head off of the thing before my brother could even blink. When my brother got injured, I think Garrison knew he would die. He stopped eating the day before the fever sat in, and wouldn't leave his side for anything. Nearly bit my father's hand off when he tried to remove his body from the house. The day we buried Elias, Garrison whined all through the day. Then he just walked into the woods, and we never saw him again. Father mourned for that dog just as he mourned for my brother. I wonder if he thinks that's what happened to me. I wonder if he thinks I just walked into the woods, and he'll never see me again."
Tears begin to stream from Viola's eyes before she can stop them. Sandor's large hand reaches across the table towards her, but a pounding knock at the door causes her to jump, but allows her to turn her body to hastily wipe the tears from her face and compose herself.
"Clegane!" A voice shouts from the other side, followed by more pounding at the door. "Clegane, we need you!"
Sandor hastily dons his armor and fastens his swordbelt before grabbing several knives and tucking them strategically about his body. He rushes from the room, slamming the door behind him, leaving Viola to stare out of the window at the commotion outside.