Tyrion lay on the straw bed. It pricked a little. This was, unexpectedly, the lord's bedchamber.
Sansa Stark cleaned his wound. A little way off, Bronn leaned in the doorframe. Brienne sat on a chair by the door.
"It's not deep, my lord," Sansa said as she wiped the cut. "Just a scrape."
"Sometimes a scrape can be fatal." Tyrion had checked the sword as soon as he was wounded. Thankfully it wasn't rusted. "Remind me to avoid wine for a while."
"Yes, my lord. You will avoid wine."
"Seeing you so fond of life reassures me," Bronn said. "Need anything else? Herbs? A septon? A maester?"
"Oranges." Tyrion bared his teeth. "Eat some oranges to build up my strength."
"My lord, did I hurt you?" Sansa blurted an apology.
"It's all right. I've hurt you before," Tyrion said. "Bronn, Brienne, I want to speak with Lady Sansa alone."
Bronn rose and left. Brienne said she'd wait just outside.
"My lord, what would you have me do?" Sansa stepped back and asked cautiously.
"I'm leaving for Riverrun tomorrow." Tyrion sat up a little. "I'm taking you with me. Arya will stay at Darry."
"Whatever you command, Sansa will do." She lowered her head. "I will follow your orders."
"Aren't you curious why I'm taking you?" Tyrion gestured for her to sit back down. "Or do you already know and refuse to say?"
Silence answered him.
"All right. Speak." Tyrion took her hand. "Tell me what you think. If you were me, what would you do?"
"Do you want me to try to persuade Ser Brynden to surrender? He's my mother's uncle..." Sansa asked. "But my uncle is already in your custody. Why do you need me? He could be the one to do it."
"If you ask me, the Blackfish doesn't give a damn about his foolish nephew," Tyrion said. "I wasn't at the siege, but I know well enough they're at a loss with him. They won't kill Edmure, and they won't risk a direct assault."
"My lord, I begged you to spare my uncle's life."
"Empty threats mean nothing." Tyrion held her hand and felt the sweat in her palm. "If I don't hang your uncle, how am I supposed to take Riverrun? Threaten them with your life? You're my betrothed."
"But you say you want to restore peace to the Riverlands." Sansa looked at him. "You say you're here to do justice for the dead. Riverrun would answer you."
"You believe that rubbish?" Tyrion tilted his head at the girl. "Why not be honest with me? Justice? I doubt even you truly believe that."
"I know… you wish to rule here." Sansa lowered her head. "Your rule would be far better than Frey's. Ser Brynden has no reason to refuse you."
"Of course he does. I am a Lannister," Tyrion said. "I escaped the Eyrie under his watch. To him, I'm likely a scheming Lust Demon."
"I can help you, my lord." Sansa clasped his hands tightly. "I can persuade my Ser Brynden. They'll trust you if you can guarantee their safety."
"My lady is most understanding." Tyrion kissed the back of her hand. "I heard today about your brother's brother-in-law, Raynald. He's dead. Stayed loyal to Robb Stark to the very end."
"That is terrible news, my lord."
"Do you know how Robb married Jeyne Westerling?" Tyrion asked. "She's in Riverrun now. Perhaps we'll meet your sister-in-law."
"I would like that," Sansa said. "How did they marry—my brother and Jeyne?"
"At the Battle of the Crag, Robb Stark was wounded. Jeyne's mother sent her to tend the Young Wolf," Tyrion said evenly. "During that time, after hearing of your brothers Bran and Rickon's deaths, Jeyne comforted Robb. And Robb… took her maidenhead. Out of honor, he married her afterward."
"The Crag is a barren coastal castle. I've been there once. The mines are long exhausted, the lands all sold or mortgaged, and the castle itself is falling apart—more like a ruin perched on a cliff than a seat of power. Harrenhal still shows traces of its old glory, but the Crag? Hah, I'd say it's no better than the ruins of Tarbeck Hall."
"The Freys sent over four thousand men to fight for your brother. Lord Walder Frey's heir, Ser Stevron, died on the battlefield. And the Westerlings? They gave a few horsemen and a daughter. Even though Raynald Westerling gave his life for Robb, do you think it was worth it?"
"It was not, my lord," Sansa said quietly. "Even I know that wasn't a wise choice."
"The Westerlings joined the Stark cause, and the Freys turned their backs on it. Still, even if Robb hadn't broken his betrothal, I'd say old Frey's betrayal was inevitable," Tyrion said. "But everything happens for a reason, doesn't it? In any case, Walder Frey violated the sacred rights of hospitality, and I intend to punish him for it."
"Thank you, my lord, for telling me this."
"A betrothal is a betrothal. A vow is a vow," Tyrion said. "If you have any objections to me, speak them now. I'll adjust our strategy for Riverrun accordingly." He smiled faintly. "For example, by hanging you from the gallows—then even the pitiless Blackfish would have no choice but to surrender."
"No, my lord," Sansa replied. "You are a wise Lord and a fearless warrior. It is my honor to marry you."
"Good. I'll take that as the truth."
Tyrion suddenly grinned. "I mentioned earlier that Jeyne comforted Robb while tending to him. Sansa, is there anything you wish to do?"
"No, my lord." Sansa rose hastily. "Forgive me, my lord, if you insist…"
"I'm joking. Give me a kiss instead. May tomorrow go well for us." Tyrion's tone grew serious.
That was the Blackfish—the most troublesome of the Tullys for generations. One wrong move, and he'd be doomed.
Sansa kissed his forehead lightly. At least it wasn't cold. What did a girl's lips taste like? Margaery's were like honey, Arianne's like red pepper. And hers? Did all Tullys taste like fish—smooth and slippery?
...
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