Day Eight: The Hand
(Hey guys- thanks so much for bearing with me! I'm slowly but surely getting myself back on track; keep an eye on your f-lists for more updates very soon!)
Giftee: allisvolat
Title: The Hand
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones
Pairing/Characters: Sansa Stark, Tyrion Lannister, Aegon VI Targaryen, Daenerys Targaryen
Rating: K+
Word Count: 898
Prompt: Sansa/Aegon/Tyrion; Sansa regains Winterfell and Tyrion becomes Dany's Hand. They meet again while she's being harrassed by Aegon.
She spots him immediately, riding at the front of the Dragon Queen’s retinue. At once, an anxious twinge seizes her heart; many years have passed since last she saw him. A lifetime has passed.
Tyrion Lannister remains her husband in the eyes of the Septons and the laws of the land. Petyr’s machinations proved unsuccessful; Harry died before he could wed Alayne, and Petyr himself passed soon after. And so even as she rode North and reclaimed her birthright, even as her knights and bannermen flew the colors of House Stark and hailed her as the Lady of Winter...all the while, she’s been a Lannister, a wolf clad in a lion’s pelt.
If the notion did not grieve her so, she might almost find it funny.
The years have changed him, she thinks later that evening, when he joins her in her solar. The scars still dominate his face, his nose still appears more absent than present- but there is a peace about him, a grounded stillness. When kingdoms burn and the world falls to pieces, many crumble and break beneath the chaos. And others (like him, like her) allow themselves to collapse into the ashes of their dying pasts, only to rise, stronger and braver and fuller than before.
He offers her the annulment again, just as he has in the courteous letters he sends every few moons. She sees the logic- they live their lives apart, he in King’s Landing as the Hand of the Queen, she as the Warden of the North. There is no time or space for a true marriage, and her bannermen are anxious for an heir- they would surely encourage her to marry again as quickly as possible.
Yet when she thinks of taking a husband in earnest, of letting herself be claimed and used, of placing her trust and her body and her kingdom in the hands of a man-
She asks Tyrion to allow her time to consider. A glow of understanding flashes in his mismatched pupils as he nods his agreement.
-
The Prince Consort is handsome- achingly, overwhelmingly, excruciatingly handsome. And yet she cannot think him pleasant to look upon; he is beautiful, he knows it, and he knows how to weaponize it, how to use it against those foolish enough to drop their guards in his presence.
He sits beside her at dinner, all flashing smiles and easy charm, and the sparkle of his violet eyes is nearly enough to make her forget herself.
(It disgusts her, that she can still be taken in so easily, and she accepts the sudden nausea in the pit of her stomach as penance.)
It starts with a light brush of his hand on her knee, followed by a gradual lean into her air space. She knows well enough what he expects, but all he’ll have from her are pretty, empty smiles and sweet, impersonal courtesies. With each thwarted advance, the shine in his eyes grows sharper, harsher, like the glint of the sun on a blade. He bristles with peevish energy- she recognizes it well enough, remembering Harry’s quick temper and childish disbelief that he could be denied anything he desired. Man-children, the lot of them, privileged and spoiled and entitled- Prince Aegon drinks as heavily as Harry ever did, and his volume and color rise until he threatens to become a spectacle.
Sansa locks eyes with Tyrion across the table; his brow furrows and his jaw works beneath his skin. He quietly rises and approaches Queen Daenerys, seated at the head of the table. He beckons the Queen, and she leans down to allow her Hand to whisper in her ear. As Tyrion speaks, Daenerys’ lovely face hardens into grim lines, a vibrant burst of wildfire dancing in her own violet eyes (brighter than her nephew’s, purer than her nephew’s).
Tyrion returns to his seat and meets his wife’s gaze once more. He offers her a deep nod and a lift of his goblet, and for some inexplicable reason, she feels nearly reassured.
-
When the Prince Consort rides from the castle the next morning, the official explanation involves some sudden, pressing matters farther south that require immediate attention. But the truth quickly spreads through Winterfell, and every lord, lady, knight and peasant chuckles at the thought of the proud Prince Aegon skulking away like a hound with his tail between his legs, berated and chastised by the diminutive woman who rules above him.
Daenerys insists on taking her supper in her chambers that evening, accompanied only by Sansa, Tyrion, and a handful of her most trusted advisors. She keeps the Lady of Winterfell by her side, and there is something nearly apologetic in the attention she bestows upon Sansa. For her part, Sansa knows not whether to be annoyed or gratified- she eventually opts for the latter, remembering that power is power and that Daenerys Targaryen possesses it all.
Tyrion sits on Sansa’s other side, and he takes care to fill her goblet with fresh wine every time it begins to wane. He grins at her, and it is a grotesque sight; the expression stretches the scars on his face and bares his teeth in a peculiar, feral way. Nevertheless, she returns the gesture, and the soreness in her cheeks reminds her how very long it has been since she really, truly allowed herself to smile.
Giftee: allisvolat
Title: The Hand
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones
Pairing/Characters: Sansa Stark, Tyrion Lannister, Aegon VI Targaryen, Daenerys Targaryen
Rating: K+
Word Count: 898
Prompt: Sansa/Aegon/Tyrion; Sansa regains Winterfell and Tyrion becomes Dany's Hand. They meet again while she's being harrassed by Aegon.
She spots him immediately, riding at the front of the Dragon Queen’s retinue. At once, an anxious twinge seizes her heart; many years have passed since last she saw him. A lifetime has passed.
Tyrion Lannister remains her husband in the eyes of the Septons and the laws of the land. Petyr’s machinations proved unsuccessful; Harry died before he could wed Alayne, and Petyr himself passed soon after. And so even as she rode North and reclaimed her birthright, even as her knights and bannermen flew the colors of House Stark and hailed her as the Lady of Winter...all the while, she’s been a Lannister, a wolf clad in a lion’s pelt.
If the notion did not grieve her so, she might almost find it funny.
The years have changed him, she thinks later that evening, when he joins her in her solar. The scars still dominate his face, his nose still appears more absent than present- but there is a peace about him, a grounded stillness. When kingdoms burn and the world falls to pieces, many crumble and break beneath the chaos. And others (like him, like her) allow themselves to collapse into the ashes of their dying pasts, only to rise, stronger and braver and fuller than before.
He offers her the annulment again, just as he has in the courteous letters he sends every few moons. She sees the logic- they live their lives apart, he in King’s Landing as the Hand of the Queen, she as the Warden of the North. There is no time or space for a true marriage, and her bannermen are anxious for an heir- they would surely encourage her to marry again as quickly as possible.
Yet when she thinks of taking a husband in earnest, of letting herself be claimed and used, of placing her trust and her body and her kingdom in the hands of a man-
She asks Tyrion to allow her time to consider. A glow of understanding flashes in his mismatched pupils as he nods his agreement.
-
The Prince Consort is handsome- achingly, overwhelmingly, excruciatingly handsome. And yet she cannot think him pleasant to look upon; he is beautiful, he knows it, and he knows how to weaponize it, how to use it against those foolish enough to drop their guards in his presence.
He sits beside her at dinner, all flashing smiles and easy charm, and the sparkle of his violet eyes is nearly enough to make her forget herself.
(It disgusts her, that she can still be taken in so easily, and she accepts the sudden nausea in the pit of her stomach as penance.)
It starts with a light brush of his hand on her knee, followed by a gradual lean into her air space. She knows well enough what he expects, but all he’ll have from her are pretty, empty smiles and sweet, impersonal courtesies. With each thwarted advance, the shine in his eyes grows sharper, harsher, like the glint of the sun on a blade. He bristles with peevish energy- she recognizes it well enough, remembering Harry’s quick temper and childish disbelief that he could be denied anything he desired. Man-children, the lot of them, privileged and spoiled and entitled- Prince Aegon drinks as heavily as Harry ever did, and his volume and color rise until he threatens to become a spectacle.
Sansa locks eyes with Tyrion across the table; his brow furrows and his jaw works beneath his skin. He quietly rises and approaches Queen Daenerys, seated at the head of the table. He beckons the Queen, and she leans down to allow her Hand to whisper in her ear. As Tyrion speaks, Daenerys’ lovely face hardens into grim lines, a vibrant burst of wildfire dancing in her own violet eyes (brighter than her nephew’s, purer than her nephew’s).
Tyrion returns to his seat and meets his wife’s gaze once more. He offers her a deep nod and a lift of his goblet, and for some inexplicable reason, she feels nearly reassured.
-
When the Prince Consort rides from the castle the next morning, the official explanation involves some sudden, pressing matters farther south that require immediate attention. But the truth quickly spreads through Winterfell, and every lord, lady, knight and peasant chuckles at the thought of the proud Prince Aegon skulking away like a hound with his tail between his legs, berated and chastised by the diminutive woman who rules above him.
Daenerys insists on taking her supper in her chambers that evening, accompanied only by Sansa, Tyrion, and a handful of her most trusted advisors. She keeps the Lady of Winterfell by her side, and there is something nearly apologetic in the attention she bestows upon Sansa. For her part, Sansa knows not whether to be annoyed or gratified- she eventually opts for the latter, remembering that power is power and that Daenerys Targaryen possesses it all.
Tyrion sits on Sansa’s other side, and he takes care to fill her goblet with fresh wine every time it begins to wane. He grins at her, and it is a grotesque sight; the expression stretches the scars on his face and bares his teeth in a peculiar, feral way. Nevertheless, she returns the gesture, and the soreness in her cheeks reminds her how very long it has been since she really, truly allowed herself to smile.