A/N: Another little drabble for all you wonderful people who have taken the time to read and review this story! I am so sorry for the hiatus but a little something called end of semester exams as well as rehearsals/general uni life got in the way of writing and it's only now that I've found the time to write- please accept my most sincere apologies!

Disclaimer: As I sadly am not George R.R Martin or the producers of the show, I cannot hold any claim to the recognisable characters in A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones. I am simply trying to put my fantasies about Tyrion and Sansa's future into something cohesive- please don't sue me!

Moments Alone

Time seems to speed up after that. Tyrion begins to see Joanna everywhere he goes; Joanna with her mane of burnished copper curls and his deep, hazel eyes, haunting him like a spectre from beyond the grave. He sees the copper mane with its unruly ringlets of tumbling curls reflecting off the torch brackets in the passageways, sees the gap in her teeth, sees the dimples in her cheeks, the smattering of freckles caressing the bridge of her nose…

Over and over he tells himself to pull himself together, tells himself that they still have time left as he pours over menus and bills for the upcoming arrival of the Clegane entourage and all the necessary pomp and ceremony that will come with it. His mouth feels dry; dry and bitter and barren as he watches the children tumble through the halls; hears Sansa call after them, hears Lyanna's cry as she desperately tries to keep up with her older siblings…

He sees Joanna spin past him; barefoot and breathless, even in the frosted froes of early spring. Sees her and wants to hold onto her; to enfold her into the warmth and safety of all that she knows and never let her go.

But he can't do that. He's knows that. Years of bitter experience; first with Tysha, then with Shae and then Sansa have taught him that… The look of desperate pity etched like ink that had burnt through his child bride's eyes as she knelt to hand him the cup on the dreaded day of Joffery's wedding to Margery seems to swim before his vision and he blinks it back; desperately trying to forget Cersei's roar of wounded pain, the horrid retching being forced through his nephew's throat as he struggled for air…

A sudden knock at the door makes him jump and turn as the hinges groan audibly in reply; feeling the breath suddenly caught in his throat exhale as he sees that it is only Joanna, and not a herald bringing in more news that he does not wish to deal with in the present moment.

'Father?' She looks young, too young; younger than her twelve name days and Tyrion's heart is suddenly filled with pity as he watches her standing in the doorway taking in the softly dappled afternoon light that bathes the solar.

He stretches out his arm to her as she waits for a moment too long, her teeth worrying at her lower lip as she does do.

'It's all right little one', he tries to say; but the words feel dry and worthless; his mouth tasting as if he has swallowed a bowl of ash.

A moment passes. A moment that feels long, almost too long, before she has crossed the floor and her face is buried in his arms; a bundle of skinny, leggy nine year old, softly weeping against his chest. It's as she knows what is about to happen and as he draws her closer, one hand reaching up to catch itself gently within her mane of auburn curls, he wishes she didn't.

Wishes that she hadn't listened behind locked doors, or hidden in cupboards as he had drawn up the plans and held embassies with representatives from House Clegane, laughing with her siblings as if this was just a game.

A game it was, he thinks dryly. A political game that ended not in the throwing of flowers but in the rolling of heads, the tearing of families, of Kingdoms, of lives, unless some agreement was reached. A game… A game played with die slick with the blood of the Seven Kingdoms as the powerful continued to play on regardless.

The bundle of life in his arms has quietened as he glances down at the mane of auburn hair shielding the deep, hazel eyes stabbed red with silent tears.

'It must be done my love', he tells her quietly.

'But… But why?' A spark of that age old fire that he dimly remembers seeing in Cersei's eyes when their father had informed her of the proposed marriage to Loras Tyrell.

He can't answer her that. He knows he should, but also knows that this will also hurt her further.

Instead he simply pulls her closer; listening to the ragged, tear stained breaths landing fast and damp against his chest. The breaths that he clings to and counts, despite himself; wishing that he would never have to let her go.

A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, questions, suggestions, constructive criticism etc are like chocolate to my brain!

Much love and enjoy x