Chapter 4: Spring ~ Sansa

"Make sure there are lots of candles in Lord Tyrion's bed chamber," Sansa directed the servants as she moved through the castle. "And extra pelts—he gets cold in the night." A glace was exchanged between Sansa's handmaid and one of the servants.

"Yes, m'lady," was the only reply before he scurried away.

Meera Reed caressed the table in the great hall with the tips of her fingers. "You're making quite a fuss over the little Lannister," she said.

Sansa gave her a cross look, "Lord Tyrion is Hand of the King, and as for being a Lannister…well, most of the Lannisters are gone, the worst of them anyway, so that doesn't mean much anymore, does it?"

"Is the King coming as well?" Meera asked, her eyes growing sad. Before Sansa could answer, the maester stepped into the entryway.

"Pardon, Your Grace," he said gesturing to the south. "The Lord Hand and his party have been sighted on the King's Road."

Sansa's eye grew wide, "Already?" She looked down at her dress—modest for a queen but fitting enough. There wouldn't be time to change, so it was no matter. Sansa beckoned the maester to gather the rest of her household to the courtyard.

Within the hour Tyrion, Brianne ,and a small party of soldiers reached the gates. Tyrion sat atop a grey mare with a white mane and as he entered the castle's courtyard he spotted Sansa immediately. A stable boy ran up to Tyrion's horse and sat a raised wooden block next to him. In unison Tyrion and Brianne dismounted and approached Sansa. They both dropped to one knee and Sansa extended her hand out to Tyrion. He took her hand in his and kissed her fingers chastely, as one would kiss a queen. Not for the first time since she received word of his coming, it occurred to Sansa that she longed for a kiss that was altogether different.

He rose and Brianne and the others followed his lead. Sansa and Tyrion looked at one another, their eyes met and their gaze lingering.

"Lord Hand," she said, "You surprise me. We weren't expecting you for several more days at least."

"I rode hard," Tyrion smirked at her, and Sansa smiled in spite of herself.

She turned to Brianne and her grin deepened. "My friend, it is so good to see you."

"And you, Your Grace." Brianne was ever the proper and honorable knight, but her excitement to be in Winterfell with Sansa again was plain on her face.

Sansa turned to the servants. "Our guests have had a long journey. Please show them to their chambers. We will feast at sundown."

"Your Grace," Tyrion said reaching out a hand toward her, "we aimed to reach Winterfell before it was overrun with all my many northern admirers." Snickers from the courtyard. Tyrion glanced around and then back up at Sansa. "I would speak with you in private," he said softly. Sansa held his eyes again and then nodded toward her servants and turned back toward the castle, beckoning him to follow her.

She led him, not to her private quarters, but to a library off of his own guest chambers with a great window overlooking the expanse of the castle below. To the east was the godswood tree and its crimson leaves, dusted with snow. Sansa shut the door behind him and sat at a small table in the far corner of the room, watching as Tyrion took in the sight of the newly restored Winterfell, and remembering, she imagined, the state it was in when he last looked down upon it, standing on the ramparts urging her to give his queen a chance.

Once he'd had his fill of the view, he turned to her and their eyes met for the third time. He drew his brows together and searched her face. Sansa had perfected the gambler's gaze-no one could read anything on her face that she did not want them to, and in this moment she refused to betray what she'd hoped would bring him here, not until she could trust that she understood it better. "Fuck it." Tyrion shook his head and walked up to her—with his small hand to her cheek he pulled her to him and pressed his lips down on hers.

When she didn't immediately push him away and call for her guards, Tyrion deepened the kiss. His hand slipped to the back of her neck and she braced her hands against his chest. A whimper escaped her, and Tyrion sucked in a deep breath, his lips now millimeters from hers, but he did not pull away. He slid his thumb across her cheek and rested his forehead against hers. "I've dreamt for years what it would be like to really kiss you," he whispered. "Dreams cannot even compare."

Sansa smiled into his mouth, but then pulled back slightly. "You are very bold, sir. Coming into a queen's house and taking liberties that way. More so since I very soon may be engaged."

Tyrion dropped his hand pulled back to look at her. "Yes," he said. "I'd heard as much."

"Is that why you've come here?" She asked. He hadn't moved away and she still had one hand resting against his chest. She felt his heart hammer underneath his shirt.

"I'm here because my King bade me come and offer you the best wishes of the realm," he paused. "Though we had heard that the engagement was official…that you 'soon may be engaged' is actually an interesting development."

Sansa shrugged. "The prince is an acceptable prospect—but my countrymen would need to embrace him first and—that could be difficult."

"Sansa—"

"He'd be an ideal match actually. It makes a lot of sense in a way."

Tyrion rolled his eyes and paced a hand on either side of her face, "Don't do it," he pleaded.

Sansa jerked her chin. "And why not?"

"You don't want to marry another man you don't like—you think it's expected of you, but you don't have to wed to be a good ruler."

"That's incredibly naive of you—I believe you're actually jealous."

"I most certainly am," he admitted. "But that doesn't change the fact that it's a bad idea. You're a grown woman now. You don't have to bend to the will of men who made up these traditions a thousand years ago."

"Who's to say I wouldn't be happy with the prince. Dornish men have a way about them—he could have a lot to teach me," she mused with a simple smile.

Tyrion raged inside. "You're just saying that to hurt me."

"I just want us to speak true with one another. Do you want me for yourself?" She raised an eyebrow at him and he ran a finger down her long pale neck.

"You are a queen, and I'm—"

"the God-of-Tits-and-Wine?" She was recalling the drunken diatribe he let loose at their wedding feast so many years ago, but Tyrion only thought of Varys and it pained him.

"Not for some time now actually," he twirled a tendril of her hair between his fingers, until Sansa placed a hand on his and pushed him back.

"That's a shame," she said, "but you didn't answer my question." She stood, meaning to step away but he grabbed her hand, spinning her and pulling her back to him. Her fingers tangled into the curls of his head and he buried his face against her skirts. His hands moved to her hips and he gripped her in a hug that suggested, if she let him, he might never let go. She sucked in a breath as he planted a hard kiss against her pubic bone and nipped at the fabric. He was intoxicated with the smell of her. "I've always wanted you," he whispered roughly.

Sansa felt drunk. No one was more surprised than she was that this turned out to be the man that could bring her back from all the horror and hardness she'd seen in her short life. Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling his face up until he was looking at her. "Could you love me, Tyrion?" She asked. "I'd go against all of them to be yours if you can say that you might."

Tyrion opened his mouth to tell her—of course he loved her. But he stopped himself. He struggled to find the words that would save her from herself. Save her from him. "I've been in love before," he said finally, "It doesn't work for me."