The Edge of War's End
[AUTHOR'S NOTE] I have no idea why I'm writing this. I've never read the books, and I've skipped through parts of the show. However, I have a great and terrible love for Sansa/Tyrion. They're the best characters in the universe as far as I'm concerned. Sorry if I get a few details off. Tell me I'm wrong, and I will revise to accommodate the canon where possible.
This begins a few months after the show's end, so Jaime is, unfortunately, still dead (no matter how wasteful of an ending his character had).
Chapter 1:
Tyrion
Business as usual. What a sorry way to end his days.
Not that he was complaining.
As honorable as he'd thought he could be the last night he'd freed his brother, Tyrion would always prefer living. Once again subjected to the weight of guiding a ruler, being hand to someone like the three-eyed raven made the job tolerable.
Barely.
The job would never be easy, but at least it had saved his life.
The Last War had somehow overshadowed The Great War in the scale of horror. Occasionally, Tyrion thought it had simply been a nightmare. The rest of the time, he woke up in thick layers of sweat. Reliving that long night would ensure he would never rest again. What good was rest without someone to share a bed with?
Another side effect of the war was a lack of passion.
His love for the Dragon Queen had always been inevitable. Beauty, an unyielding fire burning at her eyes, and a silver tongue was the perfect package for a depraved imp like him. This love had ruined him. He'd betrayed her at the last hour. Everything she'd ever desired he'd helped deliver. No matter the cost—even his own reason and sanity—was a price he could afford.
Daenerys' greatest mercy was loving Jon Snow instead of him in return. Tyrion would not have survived her if he'd known her. Because he was a fool in love. Hells, a fool in everything.
So he drank. Drinking until just before he got totally pissed at night and nursing the bitter hangover the following morning had become a part of his business as usual.
What a waste of life he was now.
Tyrion once was fun. He'd slipped between the sheets of many whores before. There was a new brothel building. He'd visited for only a night. And how humiliating! He was mostly positive that one paid a whore to fuck. Not to sob to while drunk.
So, maybe business was not so usual now.
A knock pulled him from his cynical reverie. "Enter," he called from his desk. A boy emerged from the shadows of the halls beyond the threshold. Tyrion tensed. "I told you I'd throw things at you if you were to deliver anything else!" The sun had set hours ago. Long nights were to be expected as the Hand, but for a week straight?
The boy cringed, using the door as his shield. "S-sorry, Lord Hand!" The boy poked his hand around the door, which muffled his voice as he spoke. "Two letters from the North."
Tyrion stood, nearly falling out of the chair in the process. Stumbling, he rushed toward the door and plucked the letters from the boy's hand. "Good work, boy." The boy winced, but Tyrion grabbed him by the shoulder. "I mean it, though. Come here once more tonight, and I shall have your head."
"Y-yes, sir…"
Letting the child go, Tyrion slammed the door shut, turning around and leaning against it for support. The weight of the letters in his hands nearly crushed his fingers. Turning them over, he saw a name he didn't expect. "Sansa…"
The Queen of Winterfell hadn't yet sent word personally down south. Correspondence had always been through her council, which changed in all three reports from the north. One letter was addressed to the king. The other was his.
Sliding to the floor, Tyrion sighed and set the king's letter beside him while fumbling to rip the paper open.
My dear friend, Tyrion,
I'm pleased with the reports I've seen regarding your promise as His Grace's Hand. Whether true or not, I've prayed to the Seven you not drink yourself silly yet. It is far too early…even for you.
Tyrion's lips curled slightly. Lifting his eyes from her words, he rested his head against the door and sighed. "Ever as proper…and bold." The refined curls of the Queen in the North's penmanship expressed an empathy he probably imagined.
There was a quiet dominance in her writing style. Long red tresses flashed before his eyes. Although his heart still beat, seeing proof of her wellbeing eased tension in Tyrion's chest. Sansa was familiar, and familiar was such a safe concept to him.
I'm writing to you personally because your guidance is needed in the north. We have an equal ratio of corpses to the living. Winterfell grieves more than we can afford in a time where food has become a luxury.
With the pack displaced, Brienne in the south, and Lord Royce's return to tend to the Vale, my reign thus far has proven more solitary than I prefer. I recognize the disposition this requests places you in. I regret that I'm not particularly repentant for asking this.
At the precipice of peace and edge of a war's end, I've learned to seek guidance when I'm at a crossroads. Yours is an opinion I value. Please consider coming north for any period of time for which Bran can spare you. Although under different sovereigns now, the north is still a friend of the south.
At worse, you cannot come. There are many words I never had the opportunity to share with you since your queen's death. Not to fret. I have to believe your reply will come. There will be other letters. However, permit me to write plainly, if only for this one.
I will not pretend to be anything with you save myself. I'm not sad that your siblings' died. I recognize my selfishness in saying this. Nevertheless, your sister taught me something of which I shall never let go. While kindness is not always possible as a ruling body, Cersei made me see that compassion is always a choice.
Tyrion looked away, wiping a tear before it could fall from his eye. Would the pain ever ease? Awkwardly standing, Tyrion narrowed his sights on the last of his wine perched atop his desk. Walking toward it, he pushed the glass next to the bottle away, favoring to nurse the ache with only aid that helped these days.
The last Lannister.
There would be no more tears on the matter. The choices he'd made led to a much better world than he could have hoped to help shape. He didn't deserve his life, but Bran had chosen him. Tyrion had no choice, but to do his best with the thousandth chance at life.
Even if he had no idea what to do with any of it.
I will always choose compassion. For that, I owe her a great deal.
Tyrion, we've not always seen eye-to-eye. For Seven's sake, please do not think I mean your stature! I am a queen now. You're the Hand of the king…We're no longer a helpless wife and drunk husband. I'd say we're equals.
This letter is much longer than I'd intended. With only the walls with which to speak, I suppose I'm in need of good company. Whatever the outcome of this letter, know that I'm happier knowing you're alive. It could have gone a different way. I believe you saved us all. The North shall never be able to repay the Lannisters.
Either way, let's start a new game. The rules are simple. Honesty. It matters not how vulgar the reply. I'll start.
I remember laughter.
Always your friend,
Sansa Stark
— — — — — — — — — — —
"We need to rebuild, my king." Tyrion swallowed, looking at Sansa's letter to Bran on the table between them. "You must stay your focus on the realm. Winterfell has won its independence."
"So it must suffer in our silence?" Bran's impassive, soothing voice unnerved the imp.
Tyrion gulped a sip of wine, wiping his mouth and exhaling. "Your Grace, all I'm suggesting is that we send someone in my stead. Need I remind you my sentence was to the role of your Hand."
"Sansa trusts you, Tyrion. No matter whom we send, she will not be receptive to our instruction unless it is you."
Closing his eyes, he prayed for patience the Gods had long since drained. "You were just named, Bran. Drogon is still at large." He shook his hand, gripping the arms of his chair until he nearly lost feeling. "My place has always been King's Landing."
"No," Bran said. "Your place is elsewhere. Where, however, remains to be seen."
Tyrion looked away, the sea beyond the window capturing his attention. "I've been elsewhere, Bran." His eyes grew heavy and vision blurry. "It had good intentions, but disastrous results."
"You must go."
The sound of the ocean trickled in with a period of silence between them. Shaking his head, Tyrion met the king's gaze once more. "Please don't make me go."
Bran stared at him, eyes unreadable and dangerously calm. A smirk bloomed on his lips if it could be called even that. "I'm ordering you to travel north to nurture our relations with Winterfell."
Slamming his fist on the table, Tyrion narrowed his eyes.
"What have you to fear, Tyrion?" Bran sighed. "You've overcome White Walkers, survived a Mad Queen, and secured peace in Westeros. You have all you desired."
"Not all…" Tyrion's shoulders sagged. Falling back in his chair, he dragged his hand over his face, not wanting tears to win this battle.
Bran's mouth stretched. "Maybe you'll discover the rest…or at the very least, what you need."
— — — — — — — — — — —
Sansa,
You asked for honesty. As you wish.
I've started many drafts of my reply, so forgive my delay.
You've crippled my tongue and mind. I am speechless.
I'm sure you've heard the news of my upcoming visit to the expanse of white lands. My generous king has afforded you five months' time in my dreadful company. I leave by ship with a fine stock of what food, materials, and livestock we can spare in a month.
Prepare yourself.
I will hold you to your words. No matter how vulgar, you said!
I remember a hot mouth around my cock. I'm ashamed by the stretch of time I've not revisited such a paradise.
Yours,
Tyrion
[A/N]Even though I'm still quite unhappy with the show's end, I wanted to make a canon-compliant "what-if" story. Because Tyrion and Sansa deserve to find each other again. Please review!