Sansa

Spring, Sansa Stark deduced, especially here in King's Landing, was not at all like the seemingly eternal winters of Winterfell up North back home.

No more the bare wands of the trees that told of winter's magic. Here, in the heady heat of early May, came the green flags, the parade of spring in bright blooms as she and another companion strolled through the garden. The chorus of the skies above her head had called forth the promise of the earth and sunshine combined, and she inhaled a deep breath of fresh air, as much as her lungs would stretch and allow, and exhaled slowly.

Another deep breath to calm her nerves. And then another. A third. These next few weeks in the company of Lions, Sansa knew, would be as a developing portrait, a grand one, the developments happening slowly, and over time. The colors of the earth in these goddamned gardens deepened with the richness of the season. The rain would wash warmer over each face, a freshness to open each budding smile of the flowers.

And yet, for all its beauty, the warmth of the sun did nothing to thaw Sansa Stark's ice-cold heart, or thaw the walls of her heart, that stubborn, beating, corded muscle within the confines of her chest, that in the current moment, Sansa decided if she were to perhaps fall over and die of a complaint of the heart at the ripe young age of eighteen, well…she would not complain. Not if this was to be her plight in life, the hand she was dealt.

The Lady of Winterfell resisted the urge to crinkle her nose in disgust as she stared down at the Imp, perhaps the least imposing of the Lions among Men in this wretched cesspool of a city that dared to call itself King's Landing. Though in actuality, the look of immense disgust etched upon her pale features was not necessarily directed towards the dwarf himself, but more adequately so, at the man's lord father, Tywin, who had insisted his dwarf son marry Sansa on the morrow in the evening. A fact that she hated.

She bit the wall of her cheek as she stared down her slender little nose at the man who she was ordered to wed on the morrow, unable to decide whether or not she felt betrayed by this sudden displacement or not.

For she had previously was to wed the boy-prince, soon-to-be King Joffrey, though there was a much bigger part of her internally that felt rather relieved at having narrowly avoided such a gruesome fate, and yet…

By the gods and seven hells below, she thought angrily, all too aware that the briefest flashes of anger darted through her cobalt eyes as the eighteen-year-old watched as the heat speckled to Tyrion Lannister's cheeks and he promptly looked away. Are the Gods to be so cruel as to leave me saddled with the Imp? Sansa knitted her brows together in quandary, frowning at Tyrion.

She felt her lips part open to speak, but Tyrion, having sensed the young redheaded woman's discomfort, noticed this, and his eyes alit with a gleam that Sansa Stark of Winterfell was not at all quite certain how to take in the current moment, and she wondered briefly if the Imp had seen her displeasure.

"You should learn to ignore them. These people…are naught but sheep, and are you not a lion, sire? You lions…you eat sheep, do you not? Surely, you have a list of people that you aim to kill," Sansa murmured as the pair took a leisurely stroll through the gardens, Sansa's hands neatly folded in front of her stomach as she caught the inquisitive gaze of a knight and maiden passing them by, hearing the sniggers and watching them point at Tyrion.

For the better part of a half hour, the dwarf had been murmuring names to himself under his breath, practically whispering it in low tones.

It was of Sansa Stark's belief that Tyrion had been of a mind that her future betrothed could not hear her, though Sansa had the ears of a Wolf. Sansa did not quite know what to expect at her comment, or where that had come from when the words had tumbled unchecked out of her mouth. The redhead flinched and promptly looked away and was surprised at Tyrion Lannister's remark. She heard the unmistakable sound of the man snorting through his nostrils, scoffing in gest at her attempt to be kind to him.

"Milady," he sighed, and Sansa believed the Imp to sound world weary. "People have been laughing at me far longer than they have you."

Sansa's frown deepened, a look which did not suit the Lady of Winterfell at all, for lines became etched upon her otherwise smooth forehead and a deep groove formed near the edges of her mouth, which curved her soft, pink lips downward into a frown as she stared at him.

Though she did not entirely approve of her choice of future husband, that did not necessarily mean Sansa had to dislike him, and out of all the Lannisters, there was a small part of her that favored the one walking alongside her the most, for it had been Tyrion himself who had saved her from a brutal beating in the throne room from Joffrey and his king's guard.

"You truly have such a low opinion of yourself, milord?" Sansa asked.

Her betrothed swiveled his head almost lazily to the side and was eyeing Sansa as though she had grown a pair of horns that had spouted out of her head, as if by witch's curse. He gestured towards himself and scoffed.

"Do you not see what I am? I know what they call me," Tyrion remarked dryly, though Sansa could not mistake the underlying tones of bitterness in the disgruntled bookkeeper's voice. "I am the Imp. The Demon Monkey. The Dwarf. An Almost-Made. The Half Wit. Shall I continue? The list of mine that I am spouting to you on our walk is egregiously long, milady, if I do continue and tell you every single person, we should walk these cursed forsaken gardens for quite some time, I am afraid, Sansa," Tyrion snapped.

Sansa stuck out her bottom lip and bit down hard in a slight pout. She glanced down and nervously fidgeted with the gold wedding band Tyrion had bequeathed her out of an obligation and let out a haggard little sigh.

"They may call you all of those things," she murmured, lowering her voice as they passed by another set of wanderers, also aimlessly traipsing about these damned gardens, though Sansa did not know which ones were spies of the Spider in the Garden, that wretched, insufferable Lord Varys.

"And?" Tyrion prodded gently, quirking a thick dark brow Sansa's way.

"And," emphasized Sansa, attempting to not allow traces of her annoyance intermingled with her hopelessness at her predicament seep through her tone, though the young redheaded woman of Winterfell feared that was already too late, for even she could hear it within, and she cringed. "But that does not make you any less of a Lannister, Lord Tyrion. You bear the family name, your crest, the sigil, colors. All of those things. Whereas I," she commented, hating hearing the dip and crack in her voice as she briefly looked away, "I am the disgraced daughter of fallen king Ned Stark."

Sansa fell silent, flinching only once as she felt the nails of her hands dig into the skin of her palms, hard enough to pierce the supple, unblemished flesh and bleed, though she felt her ironclad grip slacken and she relaxed.

The Lady of Winterfell glanced down and sideways out of her peripherals towards Tyrion Lannister and for a moment, she was startled.

The left side of her betrothed's face, more specifically, the left side of his faint pink lip tugged upwards, creating a sinister smirk on his face, casting an eerie spell of lust to any pairs of wandering eyes that dared to look his way. "Ah, yes. The Demon Monkey and the Disgraced Princess. Just look at us," Tyrion growled irritably. "We are perfect for one another."

Sansa watched with no small measure of growing amusement in her eyes, though her face remained neutral, for she had, during her time spent in the company of Lannisters, learned how to perfect the look of passive indifference. It was perhaps her only chance at staying alive this long, really.

She watched as the Imp cast a strange, longing glance backwards towards Sansa's newest lady-in-waiting, a dark-haired beauty called Shae.

Sansa repressed the urge to roll her eyes. She had seen that look all too well in the dwarf's eyes, and in the eyes of Men as well. The look of lust.

Not love, no. Though at least, she suspected what the dwarf felt for the woman trailing behind them at a petty snail's pace was not love, but…but.

But. The one thought that had been plaguing her thoughts more than most as of late. That familiar prickling feeling of doubt that pierced her skull hotter than any branding iron for cattle and sheep could ever hope to. But she wondered if there was an element of Tyrion Lannister that was not so bad. Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown as she contemplated this as they continued their leisurely stroll through the damned gardens.

Sansa blinked owlishly, startled out of the inner musings of her mind as she realized that Tyrion had asked of her a question that she had missed.

"My apologies, milord," she stammered, dipping her head in acknowledgement towards Tyrion, and then her embarrassment deepened as she realized that this gesture perhaps only made things even worse. "I meant no offense. I am afraid that I was woolgathering. Please repeat that."

Tyrion scowled, though there was no mistaking the look of jest that briefly lit up the Imp's face, making the dwarf look, for just a split second, dare Sansa even think this next scandalous thought, almost…handsome.

The dwarf huffed in frustration, though it did not sound to Sansa as though the man were too entirely perturbed at her lack of attention.

"I said," he repeated, his annoyance seeping through his tones, "that I will do what I can to ensure you are comfortable while in King's Landing with myself and my family, but I can only do so much. I can only ask that you only venture to the places that you are permitted, such as the Red Keep or these Gardens. There are, however, certain…places that remain off limits. Have you ventured anywhere that anyone might have seen you?"

Though she did her best to ignore the piercing stares, horrified whispers from some, others shot Sansa Stark sympathetic glances as they passed, she could not help but to wonder what Tyrion Lannister really wanted of her.

If his lord father Tywin, that brute, had ever asked of him what he wanted, though, if the current look on the man's face was anything for Sansa to go off of, she highly doubted that.

Sansa's frown deepened as she gripped her fingers together and glanced downward at the man that she was to marry in little less than two days' time. She could not help but to notice how the Imp's face had hardened, compared to this morning when she had last seen him in the great hall to break their fast together, as a…family.

She gulped and shook her head to clear her mind of the repulsive thought. As kind as Tyrion was being to her, the Lannisters would never be family. Far from it. Family was Father. Mother. Arya. Robb. Rickon. Bran.

Not this den of Lions. She felt her face relax as the tension practically melted away from her shoulders as she glanced down her nose at the man.

Strangely enough as it was, she found it easier to look upon Tyrion now in his current state of disgruntlement as the man grumbled darkly to himself than before, when seated with the other company of Lannisters, when he had hardened and he had looked every bit the monstrous dwarf Sansa had heard rumors about.

The tension in the gardens began to rise, and Sansa felt herself overcome with the overwhelming urge to apologize to Tyrion.

"Milord Tyrion," started Sansa hesitantly, biting her tongue and swearing internally that she could taste the metal and iron that lingered upon her tongue, a sweet sort of bitterness, before she realized that she had bitten down hard enough on the tender appendage to draw blood.

She had to raise her voice slightly so as to capture Tyrion's attentions.

"I must apologize to you again, milord. I know our…union," here, Sansa repressed the urge to shudder at the thought of ever bedding this man, as kind as he was, "might not be what you wanted, but I would—"

Sansa let out a muffled squeak of surprise and was taken aback as the dwarf rolled his eyes, threw up his short, stubby arms in exasperation and groaned out loud, much to Sansa Stark's astonishment, before turning to regard his future bride with an immensely disappointed look upon his face.

It was almost as if he had expected better of Sansa, the corners of his mouth twisting downwards into a scowl. A look that did not suit him at all.

"Lady Stark." The title escaped from Tyrion Lannister's mouth as a low growl, and Sansa could not quell the tremor of fear that traveled down her spine as the Imp fixed Sansa with a strangely glacier-cold stare, no warmth in his eyes, and for a split moment, it was Sansa who felt incredibly small.

Though he was quite literally, for lack of a better phrase, the short one here, Sansa Stark suddenly felt quite dwarfed in Tyrion Lannister's presence. "If I hear you apologize to me one more time, I swear with the gods above as my witness, that I should throttle you with my own two hands," he growled angrily, his deep and yet smooth, melodious voice sounding quite languid but irritable as well. "We both know that you and I had the choices removed from us. Were things different, then perhaps…"

Another glance behind him as he eyed the slim brunette. Shae, whose eyes were cast downward, did not lift her chin to meet the Imp's gaze.

"You did not answer my question, milady," came Tyrion's voice again, breaking Sansa's concentration as the young woman effectively tore her quizzical gaze away from her new handmaid. "Where have you ventured?"

Sansa startled, not having anticipated the dwarf's question. "The halls," she answered simply, after she had taken some time to form a reply as she cleared her throat in the process, well aware Tyrion's uncharacteristically hard gazed remained fixated upon her as the black sheep of the Lannister family awaited Sansa's answer. "T'is true, milord. I do not sleep well. I—I frequent your library from time to time, Lord Tyrion. It is truly fascinating."

Sansa inhaled a sharp breath of humid warm air that almost caused her to choke on it as she felt Tyrion pause to consider his betrothed's words.

She knew that the dwarf was a man of talent, though since his talents were not well suited to the battlefield, what he lacked in stature and the physique of normal men in Westeros, the Imp made it up for it with his mind, and Sansa knew her future husband poured himself into his books.

Scouring the pages, sometimes even reading until he became cross-eyed.

"Is that the only place?" And before Sansa could even answer, he asked a follow up question. "Our library. What do you think of it? It suits your needs? What ails your fragile little mind so oft that you venture to the library at night when you cannot sleep?" Now, Tyrion sounded curious.

By the Gods, what a question! Just the words themselves felt loaded, as if the Imp had loaded his list of questions into a crossbow and had the arrow pointed directly at Sansa's heart. Where in seven hells to start?

Everything ailed her. She would oft awake in the middle of the night, brow drenched in terror and a scream of anguish at her lips as she frequently revisited the black day of watching her father's execution.

Sansa could not remember a night last when she had slept soundly in dreamless slumber, not awaking drenched in sweat, tears running in tracts down her pale cheeks. She furrowed her brows into a frown, looking away.

"Nothing troubles me, milord. I just have trouble sleeping." Sansa heard herself speak the words through clenched teeth and rooted jaw, fully aware that she was literally lying through her teeth. But such could not be helped.

"Hmm. And reading helps?" Tyrion sounded as though he did not quite believe her, though Sansa was grateful that her future husband was seemingly choosing not to press the issue, and she felt an immense wave of gratitude overcome her chest, and a feeling that she could not quite place.

"It does. Yes. It calms me down." Sansa replied, beginning to feel a little jittery and when she glanced down at her hands, she was hardly aware she had begun the incessant, unceasing nervous habit of fidgeting with her gold wedding band again. "It distracts me, and stops me from thinking about—"

"About things you would rather not think of," Tyrion interjected, right as Sansa lifted her chin blearily to look down at the Imp in pure surprise. "It helps you to escape for a while." The dwarf allowed a dark little chuckle to escape his lips as he regarded Sansa Stark in amusement, finally having reached the arboretum, and paused, looking up at Sansa with something akin that could only be described as a newfound respect, maybe even pride.

"Y—yes," Sansa breathed, not sure why she was confessing this to Lord Tyrion. There was a long uncomfortable pause, and Sansa thought that if the tension in the arboretum would have been a visible color, then the air itself would have been scarlet.

There was so much that Tyrion Lannister would not say, and though she did not want to wed the Imp, that did not mean that she was about to continue the long line of scorn and ridicule that Tyrion had no doubt been on the receiving end for his entire life so far.

Finally, Tyrion emanated a tense, slow exhale through his nose, effectively shattering the silence after several long, excruciating minutes spent in contemplative silence. "Lady Stark. I know first and foremost, as you said to me only moments ago, that you do not want this wedding, and were that I could change my Father's mind, I would, but seeing as we cannot, I can only promise to you to make the most of our…union while it lasts, and that if you should have me, then I should like to sit by your side. As a…" Here, Tyrion's voice faltered and cracked, and Sansa was apt to believe that the dwarf had meant to say as her lord husband, but he didn't.

When he spoke again, he seemed to have found his inner resolve. "As a friend." Now, his voice was steady, and much more resolute.

Sansa blinked, startled at the man's admission. However different and unique the black sheep of the Lannister family of Lions might be, even Sansa Stark could not deny that the strange little man standing in front of her was rather endearing towards her, and she was not about to continue the scorn and the jeering that Tyrion had been subjected to his entire life.

She bit her bottom lip and regarded Tyrion in silence. As shocking as his appearance was, Sansa could sense the dwarf had no malicious intent. At least…not towards her, and Sansa felt the edges of her lips curl up into a smile, her first genuine smile since she had stepped foot into King's Landing.

"I would like that," she responded warmly, her voice a soft susurration, little more than a flutter on the warm spring breeze that wafted through the garden's arboretum, which rustled the skirts of her gown and kissed her hair and her cheeks, for a moment, reviving her shattered spirit.

Tyrion Lannister was not necessarily the 'monster' or 'Demon Monkey' that everyone made the poor sod out to be, and yet, even now, at their newly claimed status of friendship going into this forced marriage, something within the confines of Sansa's heart still harbored a twinge of caution towards Tyrion, and she reviled this part of her mind. She despised this feeling. Sansa knew it was her wariness talking from all the terrible stories and rumors she was privy to about her betrothed whilst living here.

At her words, Tyrion looked a little shocked, but less so than she had expected him to be, for Sansa could discern that the dwarf had steeled himself, for she recognized the flashing of the short man's eyes, how he had been preparing himself for Sansa to claim that the sight of him revolted her.

It did not, and it was because of her admission that a hesitant, crooked smile crossed his features and the pair sat in silence together for a while.

As friends. "We could sheep shift Lord Desmond's bed," Sansa blurted out, a mischievous playful gleam in her cobalt blue eyes. When Tyrion did not immediately respond, she blushed and elaborated. "Y—your list, milord. You cut a little hole in his mattress. Stuff sheep dung inside, sew up the hole. His entire room will stink for days, but he won't know where it's coming from," she grinned.

Lord Tyrion's face, which had previously remained impassive, quickly melted away into a twisted smirk, and he smiled. "Lady Sansa!" he exclaimed, pretending to be aghast at the young woman's suggestion, though Sansa could read it in his eyes, he was impressed with her wit.

"My sister used to do that with me when she was angry with me. And she was always angry with me," Sansa sighed wistfully, looking away for a moment. When she turned back to regard Tyrion, the man had such a look of shock on his face that she snorted and immediately clamped a hand over her mouth and nose to cover it, though the sound had already escaped her and it was too late to take it back, which in turn prompted Sansa Stark of Winterfell to erupt into a giggling fit.

Her laughter was so free and pure, so childish despite the young woman's adult years. It came to Tyrion's ears as a tickle and bounce—and the only thing his rocky heart could do was join her. Her laughter was the summer rain and the birdsong too, and every time Tyrion heard it, no matter the weather, the sun itself brightened and warmed. It was as if her sound lifted a veil from our eyes and allowed the Imp to see the world more clearly.

Tyrion thought it funny how laughter can do that, those honest rumblings of the soul. Sansa had told him just the other day that she had always hated her laugh, but even now, as he heard Sansa giggling through her nose, snorting adorably, he fell a little harder for her.

Sansa continued her giggling, the sound like a brook flowing merrily through a well-lit wood. Her laugh was like a waterfall, free, flowing.

And Tyrion could not help but to laugh along with her, becoming lost in the moment of sitting with the woman to whom by the end of the morrow, he would be married to. He did not know how long they sat like this.

Though both parties it should be noted, were unaware of Tyrion's sister, Cersei, lingering behind a massive stone pillar, hanging onto their every word.

Cersei Lannister's expression was of one being forced to endure something unpleasant. Her gaze as she glowered at the pair of them was unwavering and unabashed. Those cold, calculating eyes of the fair-haired blonde Queen Regent did not travel up to Sansa Stark's face or down to her boots, but they followed her as Tyrion escorted the She-Wolf of Winterfell back towards her chambers in the Red Keep, but they followed Sansa as if really focusing on something a couple of feet further away. Perhaps Cersei's introspective nature led her to be locked in thought as she observed, it was hard for her to know for certain.

But Cersei made no gesture of recognition, no raised hand or stiff nod as her brother and the wretch passed her by.

Cersei watched as the pair quickened their pace to the corner of the gardens and melted into the crowds of couples taking leisurely strolls…

The Queen Regent furrowed her brows into a scowl. The girl was already leaving quite the impression on Tyiron, and Cersei was not at all sure that it should be allowed...