Hi! Season 8 of Game of Thrones screwed up lots of things, but one of its absolute unforgivable crimes in hinting at Sansa/Tyrion and then tearing it away from our hands. I decided to fix the mistakes of screenwriters and give these two a happy ending that they truly deserve. Also, Dany appears only very indirectly in this story, but I just want you to know that she did not just completely lost her mind out of the blue and is very much crowned, sane and alive.
Also, I don't know a lot about dwarfism, so I tried to make certain issues vague. If I made some critical mistake in ANY PLACE and accidentally offended someone, just let me know, I will educate myself further and fix it.
Without further ado, enjoy ;)
Go ahead and laugh
Even if it hurts
Go ahead and pull the pin
What if we could risk
Everything we have
And just let our walls cave in .
When the winter comes and the white winds blow, his youngest daughter is born prematurely, almost a whole moon before she was supposed to.
It is a quick labour, but a labour nevertheless; bloody and full of rushed activity in the whole castle. The sight of handmaids running in and out of the birthing chamber with arms full of red-stained linens put his three elder children in a weird state of excitement mixed with panic – their little hands clenched on his clothing as they keep on asking about their mother and the new babe.
Truth be told, he is at loss at what to answer.
Birthing a child is always a gamble with gods in the world they live in, no matter how many successful rounds one had beforehand. The lady of Winterfell might be a strong, healthy woman in her prime, already having children herself and experience of assisting in labors. It might mean something. It might not. His own lady mother had given birth to a perfect pair of twins and still lost her life to him. And so, he would be lying if he said that his heart does not clench in his chest as his wife screams and groans echo through endless stone corridors, somehow magnified by the howling of the wind outside.
He wonders, briefly, if it somehow can be comforting for her thou, this sound. His goodsister once scoffed at a particular honorific of their queen in one of the rare occasions when they all could meet and talk like a family, not a group of lords and ladies and politicians. Late at night, they sat gathered around the table, voices low not to wake up children and warm light of the fireplace coloring their faces orange.
"Honestly, Dany." – she stated then, pouring herself another goblet of rich Arbor wine, ignoring her lord husband's soft protests and swatting his hands away. – "The rest is well deserved, but Stormborn? All of my babes were stormborn. It's not a feat for them. It's not even a feat for me. If anything, it's a blessing."
And they shared a knowing look then – the three woman in presence, with their babes in their bellies, with their babes in their arms, with their children sleeping on their laps, red and dark and silver-headed – they shared a look of understanding, of weary soldiers, hardened like well-forged steel. He did not understand it then, but maybe he understands it better now; the battle with nature itself needs a proper orchestra to match a tone, doesn't it?
But it seems like Mother turns out to be gentle to his family one more time, cause when they finally let him in, Sansa is very much alive, sitting upright with her braid undone and cheeks pink. Handmaids mutter to him something with their heads bowed and eyes wet, but he does not spare them any attention. He doesn't think it will ever get less exhilarating to him, the sight of his wife victorious, exhausted, beaming. Sansa might not carry a sword or know how to wield a dagger, but she is a warrior nevertheless, a women wars' veteran, and it shows in this room, on this occasion. There it is, this already familiar rush of sweet, sweet indescribable feeling swelling in his chest as he looks at her looking like that. Hair mussed, skin sweaty. The picture of motherhood so serene and perfect that they should put it on tapestries or the walls of all the septs.
The room is silent, except for the most wonderful sound of a newborn's cries. Desperate, thin howls when Maester examines the babe, so loud that they almost drown the gasp of air of the man, that they almost make everything seem so normal and fine for a moment. But then his daughter is swaddled in blankets and given back to Sansa who immediately presses the babe to her breast, cooing soft nonsenses under her breath.
But Tyrion has eyes and knows how to use them, and after a second or two his blood freezes, his breath catches, darkness covers his sight.
''Joanna.'' – his wife whispers.- " Hello, sweetling."
Joanna, this is the name they chose for her. Joanna if a girl, Jon if a boy. One to honor his long-dead mother, another to honor her brother in all but blood, to cement their connection with the crown.
Joanna has a tuft of Lannisters' blonde hair and Tullys' vivid blue eyes. She is far smaller than any other babe of theirs has ever been, pink and wrinkly, wiggly like an earthworm, until she latches on her mother's nipple and starts to suckle.
She is also disfigured and crooked. A half-finished clay figure formed by a drunk potter. Her head's too big for her tiny body; her nose is flat, not even close to the elegant slope of Sansa's and the rest of the children, the features strange and unnerving. The rest of her body is hidden underneath the blanket, but he could've as well been able to see right through it – those bowed legs, that will always and forever curse her to sway like a duck, even on solid, flat ground. Gods know what else.
Gods are cruel, indeed.
Is this how his father felt like, when he first saw him, when his heart turned to stone from grief and sorrow?
He stares at his daughter, the wheels in his mind just refusing to turn. What now? What now?
"What do you mean?" his wives raspy voice makes him snap his head up – he was not even aware he was speaking out loud. Sansa looks at him, with her eyes wide open, shivering a little, half from sweat drying on her skin and a half from fury. Fury, clear as a day, rushing out of her like a heat wave.
The maester opens his mouth and closes it again. Tyrion bites on his lip.
The room is silent, except for the soft, suckling noises of Joanna nursing and the whistling of the wind.
"Sansa-"
"My lady-"
Both men start speaking at the same time, but she raises her hand, silencing them half-word.
"What do you mean, what now? She is our babe. Now, we will love her."
Tyrion's short of breath. He wishes he could say something, anything really, but he does not know what or how.
What live lays ahead of you, my flesh and blood?
Sweet Mother, for what I sentenced you?
"She may not live, my lady..." – Master states weakly after a heartbeat or two.
Sansa takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, as if bracing herself, before she answers:
"Any child can die, Maester. Any babe. We must do our best to ensure she will live thou. And live the best life possible." She bows her head down to kiss the top of Joanna's head, her eyelids fluttering. Tyrion keeps his eyes fixed on a single tear that rolls down her cheek, round and shiny like a pearl.
"I'm gonna do just that." – his brave, sweet wife states, steel in her voice.
He is still sitting straight by the bed, numb and stone-faced long after Maester leaves the room. His daughter soon falls asleep, her cheek pressed to her mother's breast and pinkish lips slightly open. Sansa gently tucks her tighter and then turns her head towards him with sight.
Slowly, she rests her forehead against his and speaks very softly and very quietly, just as they talk when it's late and they're alone.
" They deemed you a monster and a half-man, but you are four times a man than any of your tormentors, Tyrion. A thousand times a man. Let her prove to be your blood, that's all I'm asking you.''
My flesh and blood, what life lays ahead of you?
He thinks about Casterly Rock for a moment, those endless years of childhood, dark and sad, and lonely. How often he wished his mother had taken him with her, to the Mother above. How many times he prayed for it all to just end.
He takes the child from Sansa and wraps her in his arms. She fits perfectly, just like all of his children did. Sleeping soundly, undisturbed, she looks so fragile and peaceful.
No Casterly Rock for her, but Winterfell.
Winterfell, lush in the summer, pristine white in the winter. Where people are harsh sometimes, but strong and true. Winterfell, Godswood in its ethereal glory. Winterfell, grey and cold, and home.
Gods give mercy and she will grow up here, with her beautiful big sister Cat that has a heart more golden than all the gold in the Iron Bank coffers. With her kind brother Jaime, who would cry for hours if he found a dead chick laying underneath a nest. With her sweet brother Robb, barely older than a babe himself and laughing so loudly that all of the women in the castle would coo at him and pinch his cheeks.
I wonder, my sweet, what will become of you?
But I have given you a better start than I had. I hope that's enough.
He cries bitter tears until the morning sunlight, his wife napping with her head resting on his shoulder and Joanna nested in his arms. And when the new day comes, he silently lets the hope in.
They call her a Winter Child and a few other things he does not wish to hear. But she survives.
Joanna grows up in the barren land of the North, amongst the legends and stories, and weirwood trees, surrounded by her siblings and cousins and direwolves. She does not grow much, truth to be told, doomed to remain petite and small like a doll until the rest of her life. But passing time does not take away gold from her hair and they stay most beautiful out of the bunch, shiny just as Cersei's locks once were. Cat braids them in an elaborate manner, mimicking Queen Daenerys newest hairstyles and adorning it with leaves and flowers as they sing the Forest Love song to the endless glee of Sansa.
(My sister. – she laughs until dimples show up in her cheeks, until her eyes water. – My wild sister, turned into a love song.)
Her mother sews her pink dresses, embellished with nightingales and soft-grey wolf pups and she calls her my little rose. Tyrion is a smart man and he would never accuse his wife of playing favorites, but there is no doubt which child she holds closest to her heart.
By Joanna's one and third nameday, her voice already has a reputation across Seven Kingdoms and beyond. Sweet like a wine, deep like a sea, clear as the sky on a summer morning – near and far people gasp with wonder when she sings, this little golden-haired Stark Imp.
She leads a happy life and so are her songs are merry, filling peoples' hearts with joy. The Song of Ice and Fire, The Forest Love, The Wolf Storm, The Bear and The Maiden Fair. No Rains of Castamere, not even Jenny of Oldstones for her.
During feasts, men would raise her up and put her on the tables and from up high, she taps her feet on the wood along to the melody, waves at others to join her in the chorus. Clad in Stark's silver grey and ermine fur, long braid reaching her waist, her face colored in glee, she commands the crowd. No one would call her ugly. No one would dare to pity her. The room sings and sways with her, Sansa and Cat clap their hands in delight, Jaime and Robb spin some Northern girls around the hall.
Tyrion heart swells and he refuses to blink so as not to lose any second of it. He wishes he could live forever, just frozen in the amber of moments like this.
As for her fancy of love songs, only once he tries to approach the subject with her.
Cat has already flowered by then and there are dozens of dozens of young lads and older men alike stumbling on their feet, trying to steal her glance or make her laugh. A particular spring afternoon, Tyrion spots Joanna watching silently from the balcony as the young knight from the Vale drops to his knees in front of her sister and presents her with a flower crown of blue winter roses.
They stand together for a while, the father and the daughter, eyes fixed on the sight below before Tyrion coughs awkwardly.
"There will be a time for you also. There are men, here in the North, who have known you since you were a child, who knows what a gift you are-"
But Joanna just burst into laughter, shaking her head.
"Father, are you trying to reassure me? You don't need to try to make me feel better. I know what people see when they look at me." - her smile drops. " And I know what they see when they look at Cat."
Then, she reaches for his hand and holds it in both of hers; stares into his eyes solemnly and he feels the weight of her next words dropping between them.
"But you are a dwarf also and you married the most beautiful woman in the whole Seven Kingdoms; you won her heart. Please, don't try to make me settle for less than something equally true to what you have, just so I won't end up alone."
And he sees it, the belief they have been instilling her since she was a babe; there is nothing she cannot do, if she works for it hard enough. It shines through with a power that his cynicism has never had.
From then on, he drops the topic of her marriage altogether.
"She will be fine." - he reassures Sansa confidently. "She knows what she wants, don't worry."
Joanna doesn't have his wit, but she is sweet and strong and true. And when he looks at her, all he sees are his mother's golden hair, his wife's blue eyes, the innocence on her face that he plans to keep there as long as possible.
He does not live long enough to see her grown, as long and particularly terrible winter takes him before that. But, as he lies in the warm featherbed, surrounded by his family, it's Sansa and Joanna that hold his hands. His dear wife, ever so lovely, her face unflinching and eyes shining; his darling Cat, weeping softly. His sons, turning their sight away and swallowing tears.
Joanna's not crying.
And it's her that he hears last, after he cannot keep his eyes open anymore.
Give me the book to sharpen my mind
Give me the stone to sharpen my sword
Give me a chance
Give me some time
Let me show you my heart
My brave, little lionheart
Oh my brave, little lionheart
Cause there are no storms too rough
And no battles too grime
For my brave little lionheart
As time unfolds and empires fall,
As wolves howl and dragons roar,
Watch me grow smart,
Watch me grow strong
Let me prove that you're wrong
My brave little lionheart
As my brave, little lionheart
Will weather it all
And keep on
And keep on and on and lead me home
Her voice is in full bloom; sweet, without a taste of bitterness.