ȹȹ A Song of Winter ȹȹ

[Ezra Brooks]

 

[Ezra Brooks]

overview

• 
  
  

  
  A Roleplay by Ezra Brooks and Sansa Stark
  
  After Tyrion's escape from King's Landing, Sansa, his wife
  of forced marriage, travels with him to flee her own horrendous
  fate. When the two end up in Pentos across the sea, choices
  must be made to reclaim their homeland and clear their
  names from the horror that follows them.​

[fieldbox=Tyrion Lannister -- The Imp, #1c449c, solid, 0, georgia]

Tyrion Lannister
"It is not what we do, so much as why we do it."
​

More wine

The imp stumbled across the room, an empty clay pitcher in one hand, while he downed the last cup full of sweet, red Pentoshi wine as the events of the last month stagger through his mind in the same unsteady, disorganized manner in which he staggers across the stone floors of the palace to exchange his empty decanter for a filled one. He had a life once and though it was no prized jewel as lives were concerned, he had been awfully fond of it. It had its ups and downs, there was no denying that, but it had been, until the most recent past, fairly livable. The tides of fortune had mostly been in his favor, and what harm did come to him had been largely in the form of internal, emotional squalor that he had been able to seal up with cold logic and tempered indifference so that the scars were never visible. But this time things had been entirely different. Granted, there were things about his past that measured terrible, when he thought the world would simply end because there was no way it could possibly continue to spin, when he thought for sure his blasphemy against the gods had reached the mark deserving of a smiting, and yet the universe had somehow managed to endure, and time marched ever persistently onward. But there had always been Jamie. There had always been the affirmed knowledge that he was a Lannister, and no matter how bad things had gotten, he would at least always have coin enough for a pitcher of wine for his heart, and a whore for his trouble.

I don't want to think of it any longer

He cursed at the thoughts, pushing them away as he reached with unsteady hands across the table, setting down the empty pitcher, finding that no other waited for him. He wanted to be through with the entire affair. With Shae and her whorish ways, with the optimistic delusion that she had truly loved him and the harsh contrasting evidence of her actions at his trial, and her presence in his father's bed. He wanted to forget about his father's treachery, serving him up as a sacrificial lamb over the death of Joffrey. He had been found guilty of regicide, sentenced to death by his own father, while his own sister would have happily, lovingly crafted the blade meant to cleave his head from his shoulders were there no other way. For all it's desired effects, the wine was doing an improper job of washing away those particular facts. He had hoped that enough of the drink would pickle that particular portion of his memories, obliterating the crispness of them: he didn't want to remember the strength at which Shae had fought him in those final moments, or how he felt when she finally stopped. He would push the damnable thoughts aside, if only they didn't fall upon his mind like rains in a storm.

He exhaled, looking around the room for another pitcher, stashed, preferably less than half drunk and forgotten over the day since arriving in Pentos. His efforts only gained him the realization that he was far from home, and as his eyes caught a reflection of himself in a standing mirror across the room, in bad need of a bath. His face was covered in the thick, scratchy stubble of his discontent, and his hair hasn't seen brush but once since having emerged from the crate he crossed the narrow sea in. His red tunic was dirty, his face looked worn. It was the sight of himself that was the most sobering for Tyrion, causing him to exhale, toss the empty cup upon the surface of the serving table, and attempt to straight the wrinkles in his tunic with a few passes of his small hands.

"Ah, there you are my friend," the voice came from the doorway, and Tyrion saw in the mirror the taller, larger, balder form of Varys standing in his robes, arms tucked into each other. The eunuch had an unusual kindness in his eyes these last few days when he looked on Tyrion, a looked that made the dwarf want to scream out in protest, denouncing the need for pity.

"You found me, pity. A few minutes more and I'd have actually made it into the bottom of the pitcher, an excellent spot to hide I'd wager," Tyrion spoke, in the first moment of Varys's presence managing to find the strength to push aside his troubles that he hadn't been able to find in all his time of solitude. He even found the strength to muster a small smile.

"And would you be drowned in a sea of wine?" Varys asked, coming to stand beside Tyrion, towering over the smaller man in statue, but measuring equal with admiration for the other.

"And contribute to the poverty of the brothels? No, " Tyrion responded, exhaling a breath. " I think I'm honor bound to swim. What news?"

"Plenty, I assure you, but the world can wait," Varys answered, retort for retort, as cunning and interesting as ever. To learn that Varys was an acquaintance of Illyrio Mopatis was no surprise, merely confirmation of a suspicion, but to find safe haven in Pentos had been truly unexpected for him. He had had no plan, after killing his father. He only knew what was right and what needed doing. Sansa had come to mind in those aspects. He knew that if he had left her, regicide would be her fate as well. He knew he couldn't leave her to die. Varys could be said to have saved both their lives.

"Sansa," Tyrion spoke, as though knowing what was coming.

"She is as lost as you, but without your classic portrayal of it. Alone, in a far place. If I know you my friend, as I believe I do, you'll soon come to the conclusion that you should pay her a visit. Now, normally I would let you come to this conclusion on your own, but our time draws short. Magister Illyrio is kind to let us remain for a bit, but we do draw some uncomfortable question."

"How is she," Tyrion asked.

"Go see for yourself, a little bird told me she's in the courtyard," the spymaster of King's Landing trilled, as he looked Tyrion over once more, before sniffing at the air. "Perhaps after a bath?"

[/fieldbox]

 

[moffnat]

[fieldbox=Sansa Stark: Daughter of Winterfell, plum, solid, 0, georgia]

Sansa Stark
"My skin has gone from porcelain, to ivory, to steel."​

Oh, how she missed the color of her hair. It was Sansa's favorite physical trait. A gift from her mother, as the Tully blue eyes had been, and many other things she could never hope to count. They were trinkets to remember her by. Sansa had dyed her hair dark for the sake of safety as her dwarf husband led her across the Narrow Sea to an unknown place, but now that they were relatively secured she had allowed the black dye to wash out in her morning bath. Brilliant auburn curls tumbled down her pale back and exposed shoulders. It feels good to come out of hiding, Sansa thought, wondering when the last moment had come upon her where she felt so incredibly safe. She knew Pentos was only a temporary refuge, but it was much-needed, and she was endlessly grateful.

The breeze feels nice. Sansa perched herself on a marble bench overlooking the view of the sea from Illyrio's palace. The wind stirred the lavendar silks of her gown, far more revealing than her modest nature appreciated, but to blend in she had to hold the highest of Pentoshi fashion. Her auburn curls were tied back in a flattering style. Sansa admitted to herself and only herself that Pentos, while an interesting city absent of many of her favorite customs, was a beautiful place that had captured her attention and relaxed her frayed nerves. She felt safe here, if only for a short span of time.

"You want wine?" asked a serving maid. Sansa blinked and turned her attention to the slave girl, smiling in the friendly manner she was known for.

"No thank you," she replied. "I don't drink."

The maid seemed shocked at that declaration. No doubt Tyrion had already passed out in every brothel in Pentos, every tavern and wine bottle. Sansa felt sorry for him and disdained his behavior, but could she truly blame him? I haven't the slightest clue how he feels, Sansa thought with a little frown. All I know is he must hate me, for being a reminder of the life he wanted to leave behind.

"Is there anything...that you want, my lady?" Her accent was heavy and foreign, hard to understand, but Sansa understood the sentiment well enough.

"Do you have lemon cakes?" she inquired.

"Cake. Lemon." The maid nodded. "Water?"

"Please," Sansa smiled.

"Be right back." The maid picked up her skirts and left the courtyard, leaving Sansa once again in her lonesome.

At least, until her husband came for an unexpected visit.

Sansa heard his heavy footsteps before she saw him, standing at the entrance to the garden. "Lord Tyrion," she said softly, her expression falling to one of shock. She stood from the bench and folded her hands in front of her, trying not to look at him with the extent of pity that her heart undoubtedly felt.

"Are...mm." What do I say? "Are you feeling better, my lord...?"[/fieldbox]

 

[Ezra Brooks]

[fieldbox=Tyrion Lannister -- The Imp, #1c449c, solid, 0, georgia]

Tyrion Lannister
"It is not what we do, so much as why we do it."
​

Since having left Varys, Tyrion had heeded his advice, took some time to wash, change his clothes, and drink a few tankards of water in order to try to dilute the wine in his blood. The result was a fresh appearing, solidly thinking dwarf, dressed in a black tunic embroidered with threads of stark, brilliant silver. He strolled into the small square, for a moment letting his eyes skitter away from the narrow sea in the back drop to Sansa, turning to face him as she spoke in greeting. For the moment, Tyrion saw the pity enter her eyes, and for but a moment he thought the was going to have to say something, but as quickly as it came, it was banished. Hopefully never to return. After all, the last thing Tyrion wanted was pity.

"My lady Sansa," Tyrion spoke in formal, respectful greeting to her, as he had always done. Wife by title and authority of dead men, yet bound before the gods themselves. A bond created by men with an evil intent, to punish the lady for her opposition, as little was it was, and punish him for his very existence, yet even as these men fill their own graves, the bond imposed by them was still as binding as the moment they had struck it. So was the unforgiving nature of the Gods to whom the vows were sworn. Married still, as much in exile as they had been in royal scorn.

"I reckon I will be fine as long as I do not get too near a flame for a few days still. I have attempted to scrub off all journey into the bottle, but fear what may still yet linger," Tyrion spoke with a small grin gracing upon his thick lips, as he come to stand beside the lady Sansa, looking up to her face. "It is a curious thing, how others concern themselves with such things as a man's drunkenness when it's known he pains. I have spent longer stents at the bottom of a jug in pursuit of wine's gaieties, and have garnered nothing of the same attention, which leads me to believe that it is not my drunkenness that concerns. A very liberating conclusion, as it frees me to seek the wine as often as I see fit, in so long as I don't allow my heart to break in concert. But what of you, milady Stark? How are you enjoying Pentos?"

The intention of his questions was genuine, though he couldn't help but hear Varys's voice in the back of his mind, warning him of their brief stent here. It was nice to get one's feet back on the ground, to live for a moment free of the cell and his father's noose, before having to start running for one's life. Maester Illyrio's hospitality was definitely a debt that Tyrion would have to repay at some point, and in spite of recent events, he was still a Lannister. He will not change. But now it was his turn to feel pity, as the gears of his mind start to turn, and he realizes that their journey isn't yet over. How much more would this poor lass have to endure in this life?

For the moment, he didn't want to think on it. For the moment, he simply wanted to rest. To find his ground once again, to gather his strength for the journey he knew was coming. He didn't know where to, didn't know what it would consist of, but he knew stability was not so easily achieved in days like this. He killed his father, has been found guilty of killing the King. Living so close to King's Landing meant a life of worry before being found by an assassin's blade. He wondered, as he smiled up at Sansa, taking a chair at a near by table, listing to her speak, if there would ever be a safe place in the world for them while the throne is controlled by a Lannister, Baratheon or not.

[/fieldbox]

 

[moffnat]

[fieldbox=Sansa Stark: Daughter of Winterfell, plum, solid, 0, georgia]

Sansa Stark
"My skin has gone from porcelain, to ivory, to steel."​

Sansa bit her lip. She wanted to advise him against his obsession with alcohol as she had seen the effects it had on men's judgment, but Sansa wasn't certain whether or not he would listen. She was only a girl, a faded memory of a life that used to be. She was a symbol of both humiliation and the fall of both their houses, of a marriage made to shame them. He shouldn't have even bothered with me, Sansa thought, but she refused to mention her apprehension until long after the lemon cakes had been brought and left by the handmaiden.

"Pentos is breathtaking," Sansa said with a small smile. "It's beautiful. So much different from King's Landing and Winterfell. The sun is so warm." She would always miss the snows of her homeland, however. That much could never be denied.

Sansa picked up a lemon cake and took a bite, looking out to the rolling waves of the Narrow Sea and admiring the fresh smell of the ocean breeze. Being away from King's Landing was liberating for certain, but she didn't know why she still felt caged and trapped. Winterfell was her home, she didn't belong in Pentos with her dwarf husband so far from the North. But I should do what I can while I'm here, Sansa realized, looking across the table to Tyrion Lannister. She found a small part of her heart that held compassion for him, and carefully leaned forward in her seat.

"My lord..." Sansa said. He says not to call him that. "I mean, Tyrion," she corrected. "I don't...I don't think you should continue with the wine, the way you are." Her heart stirred somewhere in her body, some deep, warm part of her that felt empowered and in her right place to speak to him as a wife instead of a prisoner. "If something happens, you'll need your wits and movement about you. To protect you." To protect me. Sansa knew she was defenseless. She had her own smarts, but her political intrigue came from Westeros, not Essos, and Tyrion was far older and wiser than she on the subject. Sansa considered her words carefully before she continued.

"I know you mourn for what you lost. Believe me. I know loss better than most." She fumbled with her hands in her lap. "But you have to survive, Tyrion. Drunkenness isn't survival. It will only take your further from the things you want."

But who am I to tell him that? Sansa leaned back in her seat and wondered if he knew that she truly cared. She wondered if he knew that out of all the people in Westeros, she was glad to be here, with him.[/fieldbox]

 

[Ezra Brooks]

[fieldbox=Tyrion Lannister -- The Imp, #1c449c, solid, 0, georgia]

Tyrion Lannister
"It is not what we do, so much as why we do it."
​

"My dear, sweet Lady Sansa" Tyrion began, taking note of the concern in her voice, as well as the intent of her words. There was an inherent truth to them that Tyrion couldn't argue, so he simply smiled, and waved the obvious truth away as though a gnat buzzing about his face, an annoyance. "I assure you I will be ready for whatever comes, unless it's a flame," He smirked, enjoying his own wit for a moment before letting the humor die, and his concentration focus squarely on his ill fated wife.

"I will heed your words, for they are wise," he spoke, picking up a piece of bed from a plate on the table, sniffing it to see if the aroma would give clue as to the taste, before he took a hesitant bite of the crusty roll. He found the taste pleasing enough, though a bit dull in flavor, and placed it on the table before him, while he leaned back in his chair. He chewed quietly, quickly, to free his mouth for more words. He was always ready to talk, strove to ensure that he always had something to say.

"I'm tired of being grumpy anyways. I lost only a delusion: albeit a potent and powerful one, but a delusion nonetheless. I have mourned it appropriately enough, for it warrants no more of my pain or concern. A tyrant of a father, and a whore of a lover, perhaps in the grand scheme of things, I am better off. At least, that is how I shall choose to view it. So worry not my dear, I have pulled myself free of the bottle." He announced with another bit of the crusty bun in his hands, before standing from the table, tossing the bed back onto it, and walking across the stone covered terrace to the stone wall that served as its border. He pressed his hand upon it, looked out over the ocean, towards the direction of King's landing, and their former lives.

"My mind leads itself back home however," Tyrion spoke, watching the dim shell of a merchant ship on the horizon, "to justice, if it should actually exist." He spoke, and with surprising agility and strength, turned himself and pulled himself up to the top of the small wall, sitting upon its top like so many children in their youth. "My sister will attempt on my life, I have no doubt of this, and my brother may well assist her, considered I killed father," Tyrion spoke, lining up enemies verbally, "The Iron Throne will be against me, as the young king is nothing more than a puppet to my sister's manipulations."

He then paused, leveled his eyes on Sansa, and as though the thought just came to his mind, a question fell from his lips.

"What do you want Sansa? They've killed your father, your mother, your brothers. They've taken your home, and lost your sister. If you could name the retribution brought down upon them, and have it be so, name it now. What vengeance lives in the heart of Sansa Stark?"

[/fieldbox]

 

[moffnat]

[fieldbox=Sansa Stark: Daughter of Winterfell, plum, solid, 0, georgia]

Sansa Stark
"My skin has gone from porcelain, to ivory, to steel."​

Sansa listened to her dwarf husband speak, following every word he said with vigilance. She understood where he was coming from. While Sansa was ultimately relieved that he would put down the bottle for her sake, she couldn't help but read the sadness that she saw in his eyes before he turned away. She knew of his love for Shae, no matter how warped and twisted it might have been, and her own affection for the maid was shattered as well upon her public betrayal. But it mattered little to them now. Both of them had to continue moving forward for the sake of their own survival.

Tyrion's question caught her entirely off-guard. Sansa sat there, mouth slightly open as the wheels in her head kept turning and turning in attempt to decipher some answer. She looked away from him for a moment and fumbled with her hands.

What retribution lies in my heart?

She stood slowly from her little table and crossed the distance to rest her hands against the stone wall next to where he sat. Sansa looked at him and knew he observed the beauty she was so known for, and a part of her was grateful for it, glad that Tyrion could have something to inspire him to better health. She took a deep breath and sighed, turning her eyes out to the horizon and the various ships that dotted the Narrow Sea.

"I want them to fall," she said almost quietly, forgetting she was safe with him. "I want Walder Frey to suffer for killing my brother. I loved him." Sansa felt her voice tremble. "I loved all my family, and they are gone. I don't want that to go unpunished. The North bleeds because there isn't a Stark there. I want to go home, I want to take my father's seat..." She took a trembling breath and forced back tears. Sansa had no desire to let Tyrion see her cry.

"I can't have my home back. Not unless Tommen and the queen are gone. Stannis isn't right for the throne--he may be just and strong, but he employs a priestess who would burn my kingdom's heart trees to the ground as sacrifices. I don't want to support a king who would only cause another war in the name of religion." Sansa turned to look at her husband, a small beam of confidence showing on her young face.

"I think we should support the dragon queen. Daenerys. If we find her, she would make me Wardenness of the North, and you Warden of the West, and we could fight for what is ours. Fight for home."

Not once did Sansa feel her suggestion was too daring.[/fieldbox]

 

[Ezra Brooks]

[fieldbox=Tyrion Lannister -- The Imp, #1c449c, solid, 0, georgia]

Tyrion Lannister
"It is not what we do, so much as why we do it."
​

"Ah, the white queen," Tyrion spoke, figuring the name as good as any. Daenerys Targaryen, the mother of dragons, or so rumor and whispers named her. She was an as of yet unknown to Tyrion, at least for the most important parts of a potential monarch. He knew little about her temperament, or wisdom. The last he heard of her, she was a girl, lost of the far side of the world, unsure of who or what she was. Since, apparently, she's come into some form of calling for herself, turning a miserable fortune into an army and kingdom by sheer cunning and force of will alone. "A high gamble, to seek a Targaryen for the Iron throne, but if rumor and past achievements are any bearing on the worthiness of a soul, then I do reckon a smart choice." Tyrion spoke, resting his eyes on Sansa, and for a moment looking at his wife as though for the first time.

There was an anger there, one that she had full right too, but one that discolored and tarnished the purity of her soul. It was a blemish that threatened to turn her pure, snow white complexion into something darker than the night, all it would take is a little nudge in either direction to send this one tittering to either side. Did she know she balanced so carelessly on the blade of a knife? She was beautiful, even in her anger, and somewhat cold and collective about it all. She had her reasons, and the pain that he saw raging beneath the surface never touched it. Even in her listings of retributions, there was no joy in it. Most people when so gravely injured, sought retribution with a certain zeal, a vigor of sin that made the lips curl and the soul darken. She spoke of it more in matter of justice. She wanted it done because it deserved to be done, but, at least on the outside, she would find no love of the business. Tyrion found it odd, admirable, but odd. He can remember his most recent brush with retribution. He had killed his father, his ex-lover, and had done so with such passionate abandon that he still can recall the high.

It dawned on him that he could mold her here. A nudge to either purity of sin, and he could alter his dear wife in whatever way he saw fit. He asked himself a similar question, what was it he wanted from Sansa. She was quite attractive, beautiful to put it into a word, but did she truly belong to him? Their worlds are so different, and their union was by neither one of their choices. Use, a bond forged by the gods was difficult to undo, but does that mean they truly are married in every since of the word since neither of them truly consented to the union in the first place? And being so, what business had he to participate in whatever shape or form her soul would take? At least, what business had he in deliberately darkening her radiance so that it somewhat matched his own?

"Then I will inquire to the location of our new patron, and we will move in that direction," Tyrion spoke, and as he did he felt a shift in the world. In one breath their goals became real. They were no longer simply waiting to discover what life would hold for them, but they were engaged to a course of action, whatever its outcome. "We will take the North back from the Bolton's and heal your land… and then, we will place a Targaryen on the Iron Throne."


[/fieldbox]

 

[moffnat]

[fieldbox=Sansa Stark: Daughter of Winterfell, plum, solid, 0, georgia]

Sansa Stark
"My skin has gone from porcelain, to ivory, to steel."​

Tyrion offered his approval, and Sansa's mouth fell open in shock. She hadn't expected him to be so encouraging of her ideas. Her husband had always been thoughtful to her, considerate and kind where no such thing was to be found, but to give her opinion the weight that he did changed everything. Perhaps he no longer saw her as a child he was forced to marry, and instead as the woman she was meant to be. The wife of the heir to House Lannister. The last living Stark of Winterfell. The Queen in the North.

She took a moment to absorb the information. Sansa pulled some of her thick auburn hair over one shoulder, twirling it around her finger in thought. It was a habit she had picked up on the boat ride across the Narrow Sea. "I suppose we should rest, then." She lifted her eyes to him. "I expect he'll have us leaving as soon as possible."

But there was something Sansa had yet to confess. She folded her hands over her stomach and glanced over to Tyrion, not long enough to leave him wondering but just enough to satisfy her curiosity. They had never consummated their marriage as man and wife, for which Sansa was partially grateful, but they shared a bed and a chamber in their time together in King's Landing. Tyrion had resigned himself to solitude since their arrival in Pentos. Sansa missed his soft breathing at her side, missed the shuffle of blankets when he moved in the night. She ached for his japes and jokes every morning when they broke bread together. She'd come to miss a man she could call her friend.

"The sun is setting," she noted with a little sigh. The orange glow of the sunset reflected off the color of her hair, making her look like fire personified. "I should retire. And...perhaps, if you..." Sansa took a deep breath. "You don't have to spend your nights alone anymore, Tyrion. Especially if we're to travel to Daenerys. She won't take our word if we're husband and wife still sleeping apart."

And you have proven yourself worthy of my bed. Sansa would never forget his refusal to rape her, even in the face of certain death, despite being a Lannister. She left out her thoughts from her words, however, and wondered whether or not he could hear the compassion in her mind.[/fieldbox]