Daenerys Targaryen arrived in the North with Unsullied, Khalasars and three dragons in tow. The Starks had braced themselves, expecting her to challenge them to battle. Littlefinger's face was clouded with schemes, but he'd not shared them yet. Instead, the Khaleesi requested a meeting and left her throngs in the lands outside Winterfell—just far enough away not to be too threatening, though one cannot be completely unthreatening with three dragons circling overhead.
John and Sansa stood waiting in the courtyard. Daenerys entered with a rather short man by her side. Sansa gasped and tensed a bit at the sight of him.
"Lady Stark," Tyrion Lannister exclaimed in his velvety voice, "It's good to see you well. And Jon Stark, King of the North? You've done quite well, yourself!"
The moment Tyrion called her "Stark," Jon could feel his younger sister relax at his side. Jon nodded to Tyrion before locking eyes with the pale beauty walking toward him. Long, silver-blonde waves tumbled down her back. She wore a long, dress-like leather jacket over trousers. She wore no crown, but there was no mistaking her for anything less that a ruler.
Tyrion could feel the impatience radiating from his queen. "May I present Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons. Majesty, this is John Stark, King of the North."
She presented one slender, graceful hand and Jon took it, raised it to his mouth and kissed it with his full lips. She blushed a bit, and Daenerys could not remember when she last blushed. Jon released her hand, wondering if he'd done the wrong thing, cleared his throat, and for a moment, his head fell forward awkwardly. He was about to scratch this curly head the way he always had when stressed, but Sansa subtly cleared her throat, a signal that he wasn't carrying himself like a king. He hadn't been raised to be a gentleman, let alone a king, so Sansa had had her work cut out for her training his to behave like a king. He straightened to his full height.
"I apologize, Highness, for breaking protocol," Tyrion continued. "You see, Lady Stark was nearly my wife."
"Nearly?" The queen asked in an imperious tone, raising one silvery eyebrow.
"We were wed in a church, but it was never consummated," her Hand replied, "And besides, a marriage forced by a madman doesn't count."
"Doesn't it?" Sansa asked. "I'm not sure the law agrees with you."
"Well, if you wish to be my wife, it is so," Tyrion said, bowing and kissing her hand with a wink. "And if you do not…well if only we knew someone with the kind of power to make the law agree with me! Are you in need of a husband?"
Sansa laughed. She had heard "the imp" could be quite amusing, and in Kings Landing he'd been very kind, but neither of them had been much in the mood for joking at the time. Jon was surprised by his sister's reaction, for he hadn't heard Sansa laugh like that since they were children.
"Not just now," Sansa admitted. "I'm quite enjoying being a Stark of Winterfell again."
"Being a wolf quite suits you," Tyrion agreed. "So, King of the North, do you free your sister from her troth?"
Jon blinked at the man who'd managed in a few minutes to say more words that Jon did in a day.
Jon cleared his throat. "It is so."
Tyrion could feel his Queen's impatience. "Ah, good. With that out of the way…"
"You must be tired from your trip," Sansa said. "I've had rooms prepared for you where you can freshen up before dinner."
As they walked toward the Great House, Tyrion looked up and up at his former bride. "It is a good thing you were not this tall when we wed. Even with the stool, I doubt I could have gotten the cape over your shoulders."
Sansa laughed. "You know," she replied with a smirk, "One really oughtn't comment on another's height. It's quite rude."
Tyrion laughed a deep bark of laughter. "Oh, Lady Stark, already I regret letting you out of our vows."
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"You know, you could do a lot worse than a dwarf for a husband," he teased Sansa over goblets of wine after dinner in the Great Hall.
"I have done a lot worse than a dwarf for a husband."
He could see from her face that this was not a jest. "Ahem. Yes. Well, I'm sure you'll do a lot better, too."
Sansa tilted her head and looked at him seriously. "I'm not sure that's true. I've met many men since my father died, but besides my brother, I can't think of one kinder than you."
"Lady Sansa, you'll damage my reputation! I am known across Westeros as a lecherous ghoul. And what of Petyr Baelish? He seems quite devoted to you."
Littlefinger was, in fact, currently staring at them from near the end of the head table with a look that might have seemed benign to others but that chilled Sansa to her core. Baelish was devoted to achieving his vision: a vision that included her. That was not the same as being devoted her her, Sansa thought, and it certainly wasn't the same as kindness.
Sansa leaned closer to Tyrion. "Let Westeros believe what it will. You had no ulterior motive to be kind to me. You chose to. That is what I know." She took his small hand in hers and looked deep into his eyes. It was not the look of a girl seeking a friend or ally.
What in the names of the Gods old and new was happening? Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was that the winter had finally come. All Tyrion knew was that his world was upside down. He was the Hand of a queen he believed in. A base-born boy had risen to be King of the North. The shy bride who had once recoiled at the sight of him was declaring him a kind man and flirting with him.
But there were Dragons again in Westeros, so he supposed anything could happen.