driftfleet | One - Well Honed Thought

Entry tags:

One - Well Honed Thought

Who: Tyrion Lannister
Broadcast: Fleet-wide
Action: Aboard the Marvisa
When: Er, nowish.

[When the communication device is turned on, you are greeted with a scarred, bearded face that has seen better days, topped with golden curls mixed with black, and mis-matched eyes besides. Despite this rather ... interesting visage, the eyes are mixed with some sort of dark humor and his mouth is crooked with a flat sort of smile. The voice, however, ah, flows like honey.]

Good day, my fellow travelers. I apologize for my ... current state of less than noble stature, but I assure you that a wash and a shave will do no one any favors. I find myself at more of a loss over silken robes onto what ... precisely I am doing here. I have some knowledge - I am on something called a space ship, I am to be an engineer for such a vehicle but ... not entirely sure where, and I am here to entertain people. And before I forget my manners further I am Tyrion Lannister. If that name means anything to you, knowing that I have been thrown into such a role probably amuses you, so I appear to be ahead on my designated purpose on this show.

For the rest of you, I have two questions. One ... is it to be considered amusing when my lack of practical application in managing such a metal beast sends us crashing into some other spacial object, and two, ... there is wine here, is there not?

[A sigh, and a hand rubbing across his beard.] Not a great deal is needed. Just a glass. Just so I can ... stop breathing heavily and think we are all about to suffocate from the lack of oxygen from apparently being surrounded by an airless ... vacuum, I believe the word is, popping into my mind. Yes.

[He smiles, and it's not a bad smile at that.] Pleasure to meet you all, by the by.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ it wouldn't be the worst undertaking. after all, she knows well enough how experienced lord tyrion is in furnishing himself with capable guards and sworn swords. he (perhaps as deeply as she does) understands a need for protection and security. except she also understands how catspaws work, and must come to terms with the notion that a lannister might have a hand in picking her brother's protector.

and what would bran say, in the end? he is the heir to winterfell, now. not her. yet, it's sansa at the negotiating table. perhaps she'd come to it a little too eagerly. ]

If such a man could be found... [ she trails off, dubious. she hasn't yet met an individual worthy of such complete trust. ]

[Tyrion watched the thoughts flit across Sansa's beautiful face, and alas, it was beautiful. He kept his tongue, however. She wanted no charm from him, merely truth, and he could give that in the bucketfuls if required. He had her trust once, and now he had lost it.

Still, the important thing was Bran's safety, and although he would not say it outloud to her, her own.]

Or woman. [He arched an eyebrow at her.] Women are just as capable of being defenders. Brienne of Tarth has proven that, ably. As it stands, I already have a few ... possible suggestions, if you would be willing to hear them after we conclude our arrangements.

[He has won his point, though. She has all but agreed.] Shall we consider the bargain set, and move to your next demand?

[ or woman. once upon a time, she might have scoffed. sansa hasn't grown any more inclined to the notion of a she-knight or a lady warrior, but she has (at the very least) witnessed great courage and strength on the part of women like mya stone. mya does things as men might do them, and finds pleasure in her existence all the same.

even so, she tells herself in silence, her brother's protector will be no woman. not because sansa doesn't trust women (after all, she trusts equally across the sexes) but because she cannot imagine a society where a woman's duties to her brother wouldn't be compromised by all the other pressures put upon her shoulders.

all told, however, sansa mostly regrets having taken umbrage in the first place. her cheeks colour when she realizes what manner of victory her lord husband has wrangled from her. her nose crinkles with displeasure. ]

I will choose my own protector, my lord. Although you would see to approve my brother's, mine will be my own choice. [ because she doesn't forget how readily he claimed responsibility for her, as well. nor does she forget the very fact that she requires protection. technically it is his right by marriage to manage these aspects of her existence, but sansa wishes she had petyr here for a second opinion. not tyrion lannister.

but she can't help but aim for a sliver of courtesy: ] My lord husband has been gracious and giving in the past when it comes to matters of my safety. I know it as kindness and recognize it as such. But I would want the decision to be my own, here.

[ without brune or baelish to guide her in this matter, she must be careful. but she must separate herself from dependencies upon tyrion -- leaning upon his help will not end well for her, she imagines. ]

[Tyrion's eyebrows rose at that, but it was an easy concession to make. Sansa clearly wanted to take control of her own life, and he had no issues with that. Clearly she wanted him as far away from her as possible, and he would concede to that as well.

Even if it stung, like a bee sinking it's stinger far below his skin. He mentally waved it off - rejection was something he was well versed in after all. Besides, he has already achieved his primary goal, which is to protect young Brandon. Here though, he is going to make a Point.]

Lady Stark ... to give you permission to do so, I would have to have some sort of leash attached to your neck. I do not, nor would I want to. To Brandon Stark I owe justice, a life for a life, and if that life is mine then I shall pay it. So his protection is very important to me. On a personal level ... so is yours, but I cannot make you accept it, or me, or anything else I might offer. You are free to chose your own protector - keep as far away from me as this situation will allow - dance about the ship singing bawdy tavern tunes, if you like.

[He lifted one hand.] I would only ask that if you need some advice, to use a sharp mind that is readily at your disposal. If it would not be too impertinent, allow me to introduce you to those who might be able to help.

[Both hands, now held wide.] With my lady's pleasure, of course.

Certainly, my lord.

[ that brief flickering candle of her protest dies out. all that's left is the sooty remains of old manners and means. sansa bobs her head, as though agreeing with him, although she keeps the private conviction that she shouldn't need him at all.

(and yet deep down she understands that in petyr's absence, she'll need someone.)

sansa doesn't argue the leash. he might have been merciful in dispensing with the particulars of their marriage, but by westerosi custom and law she is his wife. it's a limitation she won't forget merely because he suggests it might be dissolved in spirit. ]

You're very clever to remind me so.

[ weak, once again. at least on the surface. ]

[... By the Seven, Sansa Stark was trying to play him. He would have honestly believed every word she had said, until she went with 'certainly my lord', and 'You're very clever to remind me so'. In fact, it was so sweetly and innocently done he would not have seen the catch if she had not made her loathing so apparent before.

He leaned back in his chair, giving her a more studied look. Keener, with more interest.] Not half as clever as you, it seems. You've learned much in the time that we have been apart ... and I have to wonder from who.

[Deception and manipulation were all the rage in Kings Landing, but the girl had disappeared from there, months ago. Where exactly had Sansa Stark gone, to have such a steady hand on the Game?]

[Those eyes narrow.] If we are going to continue to barter with our words alone, my lady, I would ask that you put your weapons upon the table. I have found I do not have a taste for lying behind a lovely face anymore. Please speak as frankly as you have been, and I will treat you with the respect you deserve.

Edited 2015-11-11 18:46 (UTC)

[ he doesn't know what he asks. to trade frankly in anything is a hurdle she no longer knows how to overcome. lies have seeped into her blood, and like a disease they settle into her bones and muscle and flesh. sansa removes her fingers from the table and tangles them instead in her lap. long dark-dyed hair curtains her face. it makes her look all the more pale.

and all the more starkish too, to be honest. dark hair, like her forebears. ] I have nothing else to ask of you. Not yet, at least, my lord.

[ her secrecy and bran's safety secured -- what else could she want? it would rub salt into his wounds to demand he keep his distance. she has to trust he knows that request without being asked. ]

[Tyrion watched that gesture - wondering who in the name of the Seven this girl was. This wasn't Sansa Stark, the young woman who held her head up in front of all of Kings Landing and married him with dignity beyond measure despite Joffery's intentions. This was not the girl who coldly demanded his silence.

Who are you, milady? What have you become?] Very well... then we shall put this in writing, sign, and keep it open until our next need for parley.

[And thus, Tyrion began to write in his quick, elegant hand, everything they had agreed to. Then he pushed it across the table and rose to his feet, hobbling towards the door. He paused, half-way across, to turn and give her a bow before he stated quietly.]

Ever your humble servant, Lady Stark.

[But he would not meet her gaze - would not meet distrust or lies anymore. Enough of this. She had stabbed him enough with her silence - or her charms. He had work to do. No more. No more.]

[ -- does he expect her to sign? sansa's fingers tremble. she touches the edge of her thumb to the paper and (marveling at its smooth and even complexion) reaches for the quill. no -- not a quill, but some other strange instrument. similar to (but not quite) a quill.

with little flourish and precise lettering, she signs her name. her maiden's name, at that. and sansa rolls the agreement up into a tight scroll before she stands. ]

Our next need...[ her thoughts dip and take flight. her mouth flattens into an unhappy line. ] Should any of your family be brought to the fleet, my lord, you and I will need more pages.

[ a quiet signal to suggest she is (perhaps) more at ease with him than with the other lannisters. after all, hadn't he been asking for that much of a distinction this whole time? ]

[He does expect her to sign. It is an agreement now of paper and pen - and cannot be erased with fancy words and promises. He has learned the value of paper treaties. His father should have, as should the rest of his family.]

[Speaking of which ... that stops him in his tracks, as he turns to look back at her. He raises himself to his full height, and while dimunitive it may be, it still casts a larger shadow than one might think.] Should any of my family arrive here, my lady ... we will not need pages. We will need knives, and sharp ones, and a place to dispose of the bodies. Because we are not going to leave a single one of them alive.

My lord.

[ breathless. sansa needn't wonder from whence springs his sudden vitriol. she and petyr had left tyrion behind to reap the punishments for someone else's crime and (sansa understands) the imp's family had been savage to him. trial upon trial until at long last he disappeared from the city. and baelish with his sharp-toothed smile had suggested it would only be a matter of time before tyrion would turn up dead -- or be gone long enough to be presumed as such, thereby freeing her hand for fresh marriage.

but here is, alive and angry. and for once she feels a kinship to the man who'd shared her wedding vows. once a gentle girl, sansa had grown cold and unfeeling towards those who had hurt her. to recapture some slip of sentimentality, she tries to make herself feel horror at what tyrion proposes. it doesn't work. in a sense, she feels relief. ]

My lord -- [ she repeats herself, and stands primly on the library's threshold. instead of curtsying, she inclines her upper body to such a degree that she must mean to speak confidentially with him. ] Before we part, there is a question I would ask.

My lady?

[He pauses, a faint frown touching his scarred features as she suddenly seems ... well. As if she has seen him in a new light. That grabs his curiosity, so there he stands, head cocked to the side as he awaits her arrival. She comes close, she leans in, not in a curtsey but in a manner that states she wishes to share a confidence.

Or ... ask a question that should be kept so. He looks up at her, lips pursing, before he nods.] And what question would that be, my lady?

[ be brave, sansa. brave like robb would have been.

her fingers twist around the rolled treaty -- putting creases into the strange soft paper. what she's about to ask is (at best) indelicate. and at worst, offensive. but given his fervent battlecry against his own family, she can't help but be...curious. ] Your father's murder, my lord. Was it -- [ you?

because (after all) she knows him to be innocent of another assassination. her question (so earnestly asked) carries with it a vein of doubt, as though she couldn't imagine he'd truly done it. just because the crown accused him of it didn't mean he'd done the deed. ]

Edited 2015-11-12 18:33 (UTC)

[He looks up into those too-blue eyes, at that question that is asked with ... well. Bluntness. How unlike her - and yet - how refreshing. Some part of him was curious to see how she would react to this news, what would shift across those blue eyes then.

Horror? Fear? Or would it be relief? Joy?

His mouth twisted, before he leaned up to whisper near her ear.] It was.

[Then he leaned back, his expression serious.] He broke my heart, thrice over, and in a rage I killed him with a crossbow. [He paused, then added somberly.] I killed Shae as well, for being in league with my family to wrongfully execute me for Joffrey's murder and ... warming my father's bed.

[ what does sansa stark care for a murdered serving girl? except -- except, until now, she'd not realized the depth of feeling attached to that particular handmaiden. tyrion's words paint a picture of anger and of jealousy, and she must abruptly stand tall once again. she retreats (one step, and then two) because although she might empathize with whatever feeling had manifested behind tywin's murder, the servant's death makes her heart beat a little faster. fear, indeed.

she remembers a story told to her by baelish -- about how tyrion had dispensed with a woman of whom he'd grown...tired. it had been petyr's response whenever she'd tried to defend her lord husband. ]

I'm -- I'm sorry. [ because when in doubt, sansa knew little more than to apologize. not because she felt the blame (though she certainly did) but because it was all so tragic. they lead such sorrowful and difficult lives. even so, her words are steeled and distant. polite, but ultimately not half-so-honest as the question that had prompted her surprise. ]

[Tyrion Lannister looked up at Sansa Stark for a long moment, as she retreated from him. Although it was only two steps and not a dozen, so he supposed that was also some kind of progress in itself.

He smiles, sadly, before he finally speaks.] You know of my family - of my father in particular. Does it not seem rather inevitable that it would be them, or me? That they would use whatever weapon they could to destroy me? It is a terrible crime, being born a dwarf. You cannot trust blood, and you cannot trust love. Thank the Gods that you never fell under an unlucky star, my Lady.

[He folded his hands behind him, taking two steps back in turn.] But you will forgive me, if I am less likely to be so open with you in the future. Perhaps our paper arrangement will allow us both to garner further trust.

[He bowed gravely, and with all due respect, before turning to leave once more.]

[ knee-jerk and instinctive, her soul rails against such a supposition. my star is unlucky, too, she thinks. but it's not a game and it's not a tourney, and neither of them win for being the more maligned. so she holds her tongue.

he made his signal to leave; she curtsied nicely. although she considers him no ally of hers, sansa is forced to accept that (no matter what the both of them claimed) there is a ribbon tied between herself and tyrion lannister. fate, circumstance, and a web of lies knits them into each other's company -- though she hopes she won't have to indulge in that company too often. he's so morose and somber, now.

what have we done to him? ]

Farewell, Lord Tyrion. May the Seven keep you.

[Honestly, if there was to be a tourney between the two of them who has had the hardest life ... Tyrion would like to gracefully back down, if it at all possible. Why play a game neither one of them wishes to win, regardless.

Sansa, alas, is correct -- nothing ties them except everything that they have both suffered and it seems, fate across universes. He would actually find that amusing at a later time - Whatever I do, I cannot seem to avoid the woman who has been the only one honest to admit she wants nothing to do with me.

Time would cheer him, Sansa. Time and space, apparently.]

...And you as well, Lady Sansa.

[The blessing at least earns her a faint smile, before he turns and carefully hobbles away. Considering this entire interaction, from top to bottom in his mind as he does.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

One - Well Honed Thought

wow, despise* apologies for my typos.

No worries!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject