adequately trained in the art of reading social cues (for what else is a dwarf to do? he cannot parry with intimidation, for he is small and most would assume unskilled; a grasp to the back of the collar could be the end of him), tyrion indulges in her respect — he wonders if her mother taught her that — yet knows that it is a gentle facade. he, too, has learned to behave in ways that his betters will find favorable when he is trapped in tight corners.
she speaks to him as if he is entirely her superior, and he wishes she didn’t. ’ lady sansa, i am happy with my name. you can use it instead of ‘lord’, for if i am a lord, then my sister is kind and my brother has two hands. ‘
idly, he sips his wine.
’ curiosity, i suppose. the boy can hardly handle his own. ‘
:: 〖 ❣ 〗――— ::
The queen, kind. Tell another,
why don’t you? Sansa used to believe
as such, used to think she meant her
endearments and smiles– but in the
end, Sansa realizes every word is a
laugh behind her back, a kick to a girl
already down. Do not speak to her of
kindness when it is but an ideal–
ｉｍｐｏｓｓｉｂｌｅ.
"The queen is kind to have the
blood of a traitor running in her house-
hold, husband.“ She finishes her cup,
cringing at the taste an how it seems to
travel straight to her head.
”Wine–“ she starts, the pauses.
Restless fingers pick at the base of the
cup. "is not our king’s poison of choice.”
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