Disclaimer: I don't own anything from Game of Thrones. This is just a quick one-shot about a potential Season 8 scene. As you might be able to tell, I'm trying to ease myself back into A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones mindset in order to update Winter is Coming. Wish me luck, lol.
Summary: Tyrion Lannister returns to Winterfell over seven years since he'd last left it. He'd worked hard to push Jon Snow, the King in the North, towards the Mother of Dragons, hoping that his innate Stark honor and goodness would halt her increasingly rapid plunge into madness and tyranny. However, the young king's reunion with his siblings opens Tyrion's eyes and threatens to undo all of his plans.
A Stark of Winterfell
Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen to Daenerys Targaryen, really hated the cold; and snow, and ice and…..the North in general. Oh, he liked the people well enough, hard and unsmiling and closemouthed though they were, it was just the land he hated. He hadn't enjoyed visiting it during the summer, but now with winter upon this land for several years now, it was nothing short of unendurable.
Wrapping think furs around himself and trying desperately to keep his seat upon his horse after a particularly…..exuberant gust of wind, he glared around at his companions. Ser Jorah Mormont, on his left and riding directly next to the queen, looked grim and watchful, but there was a lightness to visage that told Tyrion he was happy to be in the lands of his birth once more.
Sandor Clegane, the huge woman warrior his brother was so fond of, Brienne of Tarth, and Pod were all warmly dressed in furs and looked undisturbed by the fierce, biting winds and deep snow drifts. And the Stark soldiers looked positively happy.
Really, it wasn't to be borne.
And that wasn't even taking into account Jon Snow, King in the North, one of the last members of House Stark. He rode his horse on Queen Daenerys' other side. His face was glum as usual, his dark eyes serious and sharp, but the way he held his reins, the tightness to his mouth, and the way he sat his mount showed he longed for nothing else than to urge his horse into a gallop north along the Kingsroad.
Two dragons circled high overhead, the creak of leather and the quiet wickering of horses was audible in the lulls between gales of wind, and the huge party of Daenerys Targaryen formed a royal procession north towards the seat of House Stark, the ancient and – reportedly magical – fortress of Winterfell.
Jon Snow had insisted on this slow trip via horseback, insisting that it would give the northerners a chance to see the Targaryen queen. Tyrion hadn't seen any northerners except at the holdings and small castles they had stopped at, but Jon had assured him they were watching the procession. Mormont grew more and more uneasy the farther north they went, but Tyrion was mostly unconcerned. Snow had said they wouldn't attack the queen as long as he rode by her side and the Lannister dwarf believed him. He felt that he understood northerners more than most southerners, and he knew that the common people's loyalty for the Starks ran deep. He had been right that Bolton control wouldn't last long, even though they were a northern family as well.
The North had been ruled by the Starks for as long as history recorded. Even if there wasn't something…magical…..about that, well, it spoke to good stewardship at the very least. People in a land as harsh and unforgiving as the North would remember something like that.
Tyrion watched the young king. Jon Snow's ascension as king in the North had surprised him – a bastard son tucked away in the Night's Watch had seemed an unlikely candidate to displaced Bolton and Lannister hold over the North – but listening and watching the Northerners great their king told him much.
The Northerners were in awe of their king, spoke of him with the sort of passionate and devotion that they had shown to his brother, Robb, the Young Wolf. Tyrion had explained to the queen the legend which had sprung up in the wake of Robb Stark, the boy-king with his huge direwolf, who had never lost a battle. Now, he could see her watching as northerners raised their eyes to Jon Snow and called him the White Wolf and Your Grace. They smiled when Jon appeared, and waited for him to speak. Oh, like true northerners they argued with him about everything, and Tyrion watched as the king listened to their concerns an addressed them. They seemed to love him even more for this.
Daenerys commanded and people obeyed through fear or worship, but Jon Snow lead and people followed because they loved and respected him.
It was…..interesting. Tyrion, who had watched many people wield power over the years, had never met anyone else who ruled in quite the same way as the Starks. And Jon Snow was truly his father's son.
They were still a day out from Winterfell when the honor guard rode to meet them. This wasn't a northern custom, but Lady Stark had spent many years in the southern court and Tyrion suppressed a wry grin as rows of orderly Stark soldiers came towards them. A huge, white direwolf loped along before them, bounding over to Jon Snow as soon as the king came in sight. Tyrion watched the queen's surprise at the wolf, at how it rubbed against Jon Snow's leg and leaned in to the fond rub on his head the young king provided.
"His name is Ghost," Jon Snow explained to Daenerys.
"An albino?" She had been even more surprised by its red eyes and pure, white fur.
"A very northern wolf, like its master," Tyrion had observed, "with the coloring of the weirwood trees. You left him with your sister, Your Grace?"
Jon Snow had nodded but his attention was already gone, fixed northwards, impatience writ clear across his handsome features. He didn't even notice when the silver-haired queen by his side rested a gentle hand on his arm. Daenerys frowned, looking almost hurt, before she removed it and fixed her attention on greeting the Captain of the Stark Guard.
Tyrion noticed Ser Davos Seaworth watching the interaction between the king and queen carefully. It had been Tyrion who had pushed Jon Snow towards the Dragon queen; the boy hadn't been precisely unwilling – Starks always knew their duty, Tyrion had said at the time with no small amount of sarcasm, and the duty of a ruler was to make alliances, with marriage if necessary – but he hadn't exactly been excited either. Which was odd, if Tyrion thought about it. Daenerys Targaryen was widely acknowledged as the most beautiful woman in the world and although much of that might be hyperbole, there was no denying that she was both stunning and powerful. Any many would have considered himself blessed by the Seven to be her lover.
Any man except Jon Snow, apparently.
They arrived within sight of Winterfell by mid-morning the next day and despite the chill in the air, the crunch of hard snow underfoot, the whistling of the icy wind, Tyrion felt his jaw drop. Winterfell was whole and proud once more, but it was the area around the castle walls – miles and miles and spreading in all directions – which had Tyrion godsmacked. When he had visited years ago, the small Winter Town located beneath the fortress had been mostly deserted and Winterfell had stood by itself amidst rolling green hills. Not so anymore. Stone and sod dwellings, most hastily constructed but in the process of being reinforced and even – in some places – being re-built entirely, surrounded the walls of the ancient castle. In every direction, within sight of those reassuring Stark banners, people had come, moving their entire lives and families, to re-locate next to their Stark overlords. Smoke rose from their chimneys, doors banged and dogs barked joyfully, as the merry, cacophony of thousands and thousands of people swelled towards them over the winter air.
They were happy, these people. Tyrion wouldn't have believed it. After all the pain and suffering they had endured, all the pain and suffering that was yet to come, these northerners were happy to be here, before the walls of Winterfell.
"The king in the north, the king in the north," they murmured, ripples spreading as more and more heads turned. Though a quiet bunch, the small children ran forwards to wave at Jon Snow or try to pet the giant direwolf at his side. Horns blew from the walls and the dragons, circling closer to their mother now, screeched and screamed, giant wings flapping. None of the northerners cried out or ran from the sight of these huge, fearsome beasts. They looked from their king to the white-haired woman beside him, and if there wasn't anything friendly about those looks, there wasn't anything hostile either.
Tyrion realized that they were waiting to see what their king said.
A crowd was quickly forming but Jon Snow did not halt his horse to explain anything to them. Instead, he kneed his horse and with a jump the animal took off at a gallop, speeding towards the castle.
"Jon!" Ser Davos shouted after him, while the Hound roared with raucous laughter. The men and women kept the road clear for him, and the Stark soldiers took off in pursuit, Brienne of Tarth, Pod and Hound amongst them, while Ser Davos clung onto his horse and cursed a bluestreak all the way.
Tyrion, Mormont and their queen were right on their heels, although most of her Dothraki and Unsullied entourage remained behind.
They poured through the gates and into the main courtyard, people scattering out of their wake. Tyrion had a quick glimpse of painstakingly dug paths in through the snow, a scene of efficient industriousness, before a high-pitched shout caught his attention.
"Jon!" It was a girl's voice, loud and joyous. "Jon! Jon!" The cry came again. A short, slender girl with Jon Snow's dark hair was pushing her way through the crowd. She was dressed in boyish clothing, in Stark colors of brown and blue, and a slender sword and knife hung at her waist. Her small face was vivid with happiness. "Jon!" she shrieked again, and then she was pelting across the clearing.
Jon Snow swung down from his horse, meeting the girl as she launched herself into his open arms. She wrapped her own arms and legs tight around him, buried her face against his bearded one. Jon Snow threw back his head and laughed, spinning her around, his fur-lined cloak flaring around him. The smile that split his lips was the biggest Tyrion had ever seen from him and he looked like he was squeezing the girl hard enough to hurt her, but she wasn't complaining.
"Sansa wrote to me and told me you were home, but I almost couldn't believe it," the dwarf heard him murmur to the girl in his arms, voice inaudible to most in the courtyard. People were smiling.
His queen moved to Tyrion's side. "Who is that?" she asked, "Arya or Sansa?"
"That's Arya Stark," the Hound said, gruffly, moving up to Tyrion's other side. His voice was more gravelly than usual.
Tyrion shot him a look. "If I didn't know better, dog," he couldn't help but tease, "I would say that you sound almost emotional."
The Hound didn't look away from the joyful reunion between the brother and sister. "Well, you do know better, don't you, dwarf," but there was no malice in his tone.
There was a commotion from the back, a faint murmur from the crowd, and then they parted before Sansa Stark. Lady Stark was far different from the girl Tyrion remembered. This woman was beautiful, statuesque and regal, her serene face and vibrant red hair a beacon amidst her people. Her long, black dressed and fur-covered cloak was both practical and elegant. She was smiling as she approached her siblings, completely ignoring the strangers waiting to be presented.
Tyrion watched the northern king look up instantly at her approach, saw him hold open one of his arms for her, and stared as that icy, reserved woman melted into his embrace, her cheek pressed against his. Her face smoothed and she looked utterly relieved.
"I am glad you are home safe, my king," she said, quietly, her eyes closed and lips barely moving.
Tyrion Lannister, keen observer of human behavior and interaction that he was, saw the northern king shiver at her words, a barely-discernible flinch before he controlled himself, the brief tightening of his arm around the waist of his tall sister, before it was gone. Tyrion felt his mind freeze for a second, before jolting into furious possibilities.
Had anyone else seen that? Tyrion was almost positive his queen had not, nor….really anyone else. Had Ser Davos? The onion knight was watching his king with his two sisters with a bland expression, but his eyes were uncomfortably sharp.
And… Arya Stark. Tyrion watched the younger Stark girl as she raised her head from Jon's shoulder and looked almost-imperceptibly between her siblings. There was absolutely no expression on her face and Tyrion could not tell what she was thinking. Suddenly, Arya Stark laughed. "We have to go find Bran!" she declared and the moment, whatever it was, was broken.
"Here we are, Jon," a panting voice called from deep within the crowd. "We're coming!."
A rotund man with an anxious face, dressed all in blank, wedged his way through the assembled people, pushing a young man in a wheeled-chair.
Bran Stark, the little lame prince, had grown up since Tyrion had last seen him. He had a young man's features now, but an old man's eyes. Their dark depths warmed as they landed on Jon. The king placed his youngest sister down, and released the other one, before striding over to his little brother and kneeling down before him. One gloved hand rose and rested against the young man's cheek.
Tyrion couldn't see Jon's face, but he could hear the pure happiness in his voice, could imagine his rare smile, as the king breathed, "Bran."
It was Bran Stark who leaned forward and reached his arms around his brother's neck. "I saw you," the boy said, eyes closing as for the first time, he looked his age. "Everywhere you went, I saw you. You were never alone, Jon," he said.
Tyrion, surprised, looked towards the Stark girls. Sudden tears sprang in Lady Stark's eyes before she dropped them to the ground and Arya Stark cleared her throat vigorously and shifted her stance as though preparing for a fight.
It was the call of the dragons which at last roused Jon Snow to remember the men and women he had arrived with. Hastily, he scrambled to his feet, clapping the large man who had pushed his brother on the back as he did so.
His eyes searched the crowd until they found Tyrion's queen. Daenerys Targaryen, dressed all in silver-white, her pale hair indistinguishable from the snow around her, trained calm, expectant blue eyes on the northern king. She tilted her head and held out one hand, plainly expecting Jon to come to her side and face the courtyard as hers.
Jon Snow looked towards his sisters. "Sansa, Arya," he began, making to take a step towards them, but Bran Stark reached out a hand and grasped his arm.
"Jon," the young man said, his voice urgent, "before you say anything, anything at all, we need to talk."
The large, worried man – who looked to be roughly Jon's age as well as from the Night's Watch – looked rapidly between the king and the Targaryen queen. "Yes, I agree, Jon," he said, his eyes widening at whatever he had realized. "Before you make any announcements, there's something very important and private we have to discuss with you. Something that will change…..everything….." He trailed off suddenly as Bran elbowed him in the side.
Lady Stark looked between her younger brother and the Night's Watch man. Smoothly, she turned to face the foreign visitor in her Court. "Queen Daenerys," she began, formally, pitching her voice so that all in the courtyard could hear her. "You and your followers are welcome to Winterfell. On behalf of the King in the North, House Stark would like to extend hospitality and guest right to you and yours. A feast is being prepared in your honor and I ask that you follow our servants to the rooms which have been prepared for you."
The Lady of Winterfell curtseyed to the foreign queen, polite and official and of the depth proper between equals. Tyrion felt the sudden stillness in his queen, the brief flare of surprise in Mormont, the surprise which flashed through Varys before he managed to hide it. Arya Stark had one hand on her sword hilt as she stood protectively half a step behind her sister.
Tyrion watched Jon Snow look between Sansa Stark and Daenerys Targaryen. He didn't make a move to interfere.
Winterfell was…..hers, Tyrion Lannister concluded. And her word was law within its walls.
Tyrion turned and fixed his queen with a look. Play nice, that look said. He had warned her about northern pride, cautioned her that coming in and claiming that Jon Snow bent the knee to her would have little effect upon the northern lords. You cannot burn them all, he had said, more than half-praying that he was joking. Surely she wouldn't see burning northerners who wouldn't follow her as the path towards winning the Iron Throne?
Looking around at the sullen stubbornness on those hard, northern faces, watching as they seemed to stand behind their Lady, Tyrion wondered if Jon Snow had known this; if he had bent the knee to Daenerys knowing it wouldn't make any difference. It wasn't Jon Snow his queen would have to convince, but Sansa Stark.
His father had said that Sansa Stark was the key to the North and Tyrion wanted to laugh hysterically about the fact that even when he was dead, his father still needed to have the last word.
He felt Daenerys draw herself up, knew that her face was hard and her eyes flashing…and quickly intervened.
"On behalf of Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Stormborn, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons and Queen of Mereen, Astapor and Yunkai," he said, spilling the words out in his haste, "we accept your hospitality, Lady Stark, and the hospitality of House Stark. It has been a long ride and we would be most grateful to be shown to our quarters now."
Sansa Stark's keen, icy blue eyes flashed at him – in thanks or in acknowledgement of his move to suspend hostilities he did not know.
His own queen stalked passed him, Mormont at her elbow and Missandei not far behind, and he knew that there would be a reckoning later. And another as well when she learned she would need to plead her claim before a meeting of the northern lords.
But as he watched Jon, his direwolf, the Night's Watch man and the rest of the Stark siblings head off together into the godswood, he began to think that he had another, even bigger problem. Tyrion Lannister prided himself on his ability to accurately sum up a situation and he did so now, unwilling though he was.
He had been planning to announce a betrothal between the King in the North and the Targaryen Queen, uniting North and South, Ice and Fire, while they were all within the walls of Winterfell. But watching the king hug his red-haired sister, the way their eyes gravitated towards one another, the way Jon let her lead within Winterfell, the way she automatically had her brother's back, Tyrion Lannister began to believe that his carefully laid plans for the future were all beginning to unravel through factors he had not taken into consideration.
Northern pride, he thought again and Starks were loyal to their own, which was something Cersei had told him once, when he had made it clear to her that Jon Snow – humble recruit in the Night's Watch – was no threat to her rule because he was only a bastard and not a true Stark. Blood is what matters, his father had said, and Jon Snow was indeed a Stark of Winterfell.
Yet…..perhaps he was jumping at shadows that were not even there. The Stark siblings had all suffered; perhaps it was just their natural protectiveness for all remaining members of their family which had him reading too much into things. No one else had noticed anything, after all.
"I need a drink," he muttered to himself, heading off in search of the kitchens. The ale in Wintefell had always been especially good.
Stark and Targaryen; a union between these houses was perfect. His plans for his queen would not fail, he decided, no matter what Sansa Stark and Jon Snow felt for one another. They were siblings and nothing could be acted upon between them anyway.
Sternly, he ignored the niggling voice which reminded him of his own siblings – still together, with three children and another one on the way to boot – and continued into the warmth of the main keep.
Ice and Fire, he reminded himself. The union between Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow was destiny and there was nothing…nothing at all….which would forestall it.
The End
End Notes: I feel like the interaction between Jon, Sansa, Arya and Bran needs something…. more? What do you think? Maybe Tyrion's just missing a lot of the nuance since he doesn't know them all that well….. Also, I am really liking Daenerys' story arc in the show, but I do feel like she is descending from hero to villain and most of the viewers aren't even seeing it. I think Jon is going to inspire her to turn away from madness/tyranny in Season 8 and become a true hero.