Not sure if it was writer's block or just total lack of motivation, but this took longer than I thought it would.
Thank you all for the reviews, follows, and favorites. Glad to see people are enjoying this little adventure, which continues below.
...
His ass hurt. A dull, throbbing ache that never seemed to subside. Even after two nights spent within the comfort of Winterfell's heated walls, Tyrion could not rid himself of the saddle sores suffered from days spent riding on winter roads. It had been an unpleasant journey upon the back of a particularly unpleasant black gelding. Thrice Tyrion had tried soaking himself in a hot bath to ease his pains. It was easy enough to do, servants would draw and carry water from the keep's natural hot springs and fill the small brass tub in his quarters. The first and second baths had felt wonderful, the hot water driving the chills and aches from his bones and easing the cramping in his legs. Only after the third time did he realize the water smelled faintly of sulfur. I'll need a bath after my bath, he had thought.
With long bouts of sitting out of the question, Tyrion had elected instead to spend his time walking and wandering the walls and passageways of Winterfell. He remembered only some of the layout. The last time he was here was many years ago, late into that great summer that now seemed so far away. The dark greens of the northern pines and broadleafs had been replaced by snow and ice, a dozen hues of white cast upon the greys and browns of the castle's walls and roofs. Winterfell looked different now, but more beautiful too. He enjoyed walking along the battlements of the inner wall, gazing out upon the Winter Town and the frozen hills beyond.
The views within the keep were less spectacular. Dim torches illuminated dark stone halls that wound on endlessly. As he waddled down a dark, unfamiliar corridor, he pulled at his memories, trying to recall which way to go. Left or right? It did not help that he had been drunk for much of his first visit here, on his way to see The Wall. He had refused the Stark's hospitality on his way back south, preferring instead to sleep in a brothel instead of suffer young Lord Robb's insults.
Left, he decided at random, hoping for the best. The keep seemed bigger than he remembered, more rooms and passageways and towers than he could hope to successfully navigate. The great hall was his destination now, to meet with the Northern lords and convince his queen and the Lord of Winterfell of his brother's good intentions.
Jaime had arrived two days ago, dressed in black and riding upon a swift black stallion. Indeed, everything was black save the golden hilt and pommel of a sword emerging from his black cloak's cover. Tyrion had known who it was before the figure removed his hood. He knew how his brother rode, the way he still dipped his left shoulder as if tilting at the lists and the way he kept his sword hand resting in his saddle. That knowledge did nothing to lessen his shock at seeing his face.
Of course, Tyrion had been expecting Jaime. They all had. Only in a fortnight or another moon's turn. It would take time to gather supplies and men from the south and march them up the Kingsroad. Tyrion had guessed his brother might bring another five thousand men to fight against the dead; those who had survived Daenerys' ambush and the siege of the Rock. Perhaps they'll be along in another moment. Tyrion had strained his ears for the distant sound of stomping boots or shaking mail, but heard only the disquieted murmurs around him as the other lords looked on in suspicion. His family's men were not marching north. One look into Jaime's green eyes told him as much.
If I had only had another moment alone with him, he thought as he passed through a wide corridor. He had been first to approach Jaime, to question his appearance, but he did not get far. The horns that had announced Jaime's arrival had summoned everyone back to the center yard. Any lords and knights not already present returned at once while sentries and smallfolk had abandoned their tasks to turn and look upon the scene. The queen and Jon Snow had emerged from a snow-covered archway not a moment later, ostensibly having been speaking with the Lord of Winterfell's younger half-brother in the Stark's godswood.
They looked every bit the royal match as they crossed the yard; Daenerys in her grey, fur-lined riding dress and Jon with his great fur cloak. Their facial expressions had been less reserved. Jon had seemed sullen, as he so often did, and Daenerys had worn a curious expression on her face. Joy? He honestly could not say. He and the queen had shared some lighthearted moments together, but even armed with those memories Tyrion could not give the look she wore then a proper name.
The warm fire in her eyes had faded as she surveyed the scene and realized who the rider in black truly was and that he had ridden alone. Then, as he so often had since they landed on Dragonstone, Tyrion saw a hot rage begin to boil within his queen. He knew the signs; the clenched fists, tight jaw, pursed lips, yet it always shone brightest in her amethyst eyes, like a tempest at twilight.
"Your Grace," Jaime had spoken as he clumsily dismounted from his stallion, sword rattling at his side as he landed with a dull thud upon the frozen ground. Shut your mouth you damned fool.
"Your Grace!" Tyrion pursued his brother across the yard as he cut off his speech. "May I present my brother, Jaime of House Lannister," he breathed out the introduction over mutters of "Kingslayer" and "oathbreaker" in the crowd.
"You've brought fewer men than we were expecting," Daenerys said with a cold edge to her voice. "Perhaps the rest of the Lannister forces are on their way by ship?" Jaime looked at Tyrion for a moment, his jaw locked tight as if preparing to charge, but his eyes looked to Tyrion for aid.
"I… no, Your Grace," he said, stepping closer to her, drawing his sword slowly from its ornate sheath. Widow's Wail, Tyrion Unsullied stepped forward from the press alongside a number of Stark men. All moved to block Jaime's path, but he had laid the sword upon the ground before they reached him. He took a knee and looked up at Daenerys. "She lied," he said, disbelief coloring his voice, "to you. To me. To all of us. She ordered the men to stand down as they prepared to go north and-"
"-Enough," Daenerys' interruption was an order. "So you've ridden north to confess your betrayal?" The question hung in the air as if frozen before she continued. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Oaths don't mean much to a kingslayer, do they?"
Jaime opened his mouth to speak, but Tyrion stepped forward to cut him off. "Your Grace, he has ridden north in spite of Cersei. To warn us. To fight with us." Apologies, brother. If that wasn't true before, it is now.
"Or perhaps to fight us," she suggested. The northern lords murmured in agreement. Tyrion briefly looked around at the scowling faces on all sides. Whatever their feelings about a Targaryen, they'll always hate a Lannister more. How many of their kin died at the Red Wedding? "To scout our forces and subvert our efforts while his sister takes back the lands in the south."
Jaime's moment of quiet submission ended abruptly as he stood, guards taking half steps towards him in his sudden motion. "I saw that thing in the Dragonpit. I rode north to fight them. I could have stayed in the south and let you have at them alone," he replied in defiance.
"Perhaps you should have," the queen replied coolly. Jaime offered no response, instead looking to Tyrion. What am I to say? His mind raced for an answer, a logical retort and reason to stay his queen's hand, but another beat him to it.
Jon stepped forward, his sullen trance seemingly broken by the scene playing out before him. "You," he gestured at the four Stark men standing around Jaime, "see the Kingslayer to a tower room and post two guards at the door day and night."
"Aye, m'lord," one responded as the guards nodded at Jaime and escorted him toward the keep's large oak doors. Better than a dungeon, he mentally shrugged as he watched his brother disappear behind the entrance to the great hall. He turned back to Daenerys, but she had eyes only for Jon. Emotions swirled inside them; anger and frustration, love and tenderness and desire, confusion and loneliness. Her lips parted but a fraction of an inch as if to speak, but no words or orders came forth. What is it…? He wondered briefly before seizing the moment and breaking the silence.
"Thank you, my lord," Tyrion spoke. Jon nodded at him and caught Daenerys' gaze once more, his own grey eyes reflecting… what? Sadness? It was a fleeting glance between two lovers and Tyrion could not rightly say what he saw before Jon turned to the assembly to speak.
"We'll see to the matter of Ser Jaime later," he announced to the yard before turning and walking away abruptly. Daenerys did not follow him. No one did.
The crowd had dispersed then; the smallfolk returned to their tasks, the guards to their posts, and the lords to whatever idle lords did. As Daenerys walked away and Ser Jorah and Missandei moved to follow her, Tyrion found himself alone amidst the milling press of bodies and cold winter air.
An idle lord himself, Tyrion had spent the following days wandering throughout Winterfell, in his own chambers, or chatting with his brother when the guards permitted him time alone. The conversations with his brother were strained and awkward, but he knew Jaime would have done the same for him. He did, in fact, not long ago.
Tyrion seldom saw Jon and his queen refused his council, refused to even discuss trivial matters. What had happened in that godswood? Whatever it was, it had turned two inseparable lovers into two sullen sulks in a matter of minutes. He hoped this gathering he was just now walking towards would bring them back together. He had planned to push them together. They were stronger together.
His plans had all gone awry since landing upon the shores of Dragonstone. His plans for the siege of the capital, for taking Casterly Rock, and for a successful truce with his sister had met with as much success as a Skagosi vineyard. He could not let his plan for their marriage fail. It was too important, especially now their forces would be without Lannister arms.
The sounds of a dozen boisterous conversations assaulted his ears as he opened a door at the end of the long passageway and entered a side room leading directly to the great hall. As he reached the arched entrance, he saw perhaps thirty lords and as many attendants seated at the long tables. Lord Glover, Lord Cerwyn, Lady Mormont… He silently recited the names as he recognized each face in the hall. Yet for every face he knew there were two he did not. Stark guardsmen stood sentry at every main entrance. Jon and Sansa sat upon the high table with Ser Davos standing behind them, talking quietly in the Lord of Winterfell's ear. Jon flashed a brief smile as some unheard jest before standing to address the gathering.
He raised a gloved hand to silence the murmurs and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could do so the great oaken door creaked loudly and swung inward. A gust of snowy air blew through the hall from outside, making the torches and braziers flicker and dance. Daenerys walked through, the pale light accentuating her silver hair. Jorah and Missandei walked a half step behind her as she strode across the hall.
Tyrion looked again to Jon and saw that odd gaze in his eyes. He swallowed hard and nodded at his queen, waiting until she had taken a seat beside him before continuing. "Jaime Lannister has ridden north, alone," he began, "he has brought no troops or provisions, just his sword and the news that the southern armies will not join us in this fight."
Angry whispers filled the room. Oh come now, we all heard this information in the yard this morning. "Send Cersei her brother's head, I say!" shouted one disgruntled older lord, his head a thicket of wiry grey hairs. Some of the other northerners nodded in agreement. Tyrion moved to step forward and silence the man, but thought better of it. Best not risk it, lest they pick the wrong brother. Jon addressed the man.
"No. Whatever else he is, Ser Jaime is our guest now. I've ordered him confined to quarters for the time being, but's that not what we're here to discuss." The murmurs died as the lords' collective curiosity took hold. "My broth – Bran saw the dead marching past the Last River. They're further south than I hoped." The whispers adopted a more hushed and worried tone at the news. Ever elusive but always present, the threat of an army of dead men always darkened the mood.
Jon continued, "And that's not all. Cersei has hired the Golden Company to fight for her. Between the sellswords and the Lannister forces, they match our own men in numbers. We cannot hope to win a war on two fronts. I'm sending a garrison back to White Harbor and another force of pikes and archers to hold Moat Cailin against any incursion northward. The bulk of our men will remain at Winterfell."
Is Cersei fool enough to try that? Tyrion was not sure. She wanted his queen dead. She wanted him dead, but even she would not march an army north in winter. She'll surely try something, though…
"We were promised southern supplies as well!" shouted another lord, clean shaven and baby-faced. His high-pitched voice interrupted Tyrion's thoughts, "our men need to eat. Our children need to eat!"
"Aye," Lord Glover stood then, "the queen's riders and eunuchs are eating through our stores faster than we thought. Some grow sick and weak, using our healers' herbs and poultices. We won't last half a year more with them camped outside the walls and in the Winter Town."
Tyrion looked again to the high table, expecting Daenerys to speak, but she had eyes only for Jon. It was Sansa who stood to silence the dissent, "Lord Manderly's river fleet will arrive soon with the queen's supplies from Dragonstone. We can gather additional provisions by sending hunters and foragers into the surrounding countryside. Deer and elk from the woods. Fish from the White Knife. The North will provide." She finished.
"Deer and elk!" the young Lord Cerwyn rose to his feet, joining the others. "Our hunters haven't caught anything bigger than a hare for weeks. Those damned dragons eat half the beasts in the Wolfswood and scare off the rest."
Daenerys stood to address the young lord's concerns, but Sansa answered the challenged. "Those damned dragons will keep us alive when the dead come, my lord," Sansa looked to the queen for a moment and the two women made brief eye contact as some understanding passed between them. "But, we shall draw them closer to the keep, on the eastern side, to allow for your men to hunt unmolested." Some of the men nodded in agreement. Cerwyn was a skinny young man to begin with, but he seemed to shrivel under Sansa's gaze before sitting down again. Tyrion raised his eyebrows in some surprise. Quite the administrator, he thought.
The Sansa Stark that now resumed her seat before him was a different woman than the frightened girl who he had been forced to marry in King's Landing. One look into her icy blue eyes told Tyrion that. Her words just now showed it too. Sansa had taken food from hungry mouths all over the North to ensure Winterfell's armies remained well supplied. She had silenced angry lords who urged her to resist her own half-brother's decision to swear fealty to Daenerys. And, of course, there was the matter of Lord Baelish. He had heard rumors, but hoped to receive confirmation from Sansa herself. She was no doubt a competent leader. Ruthless, some might say. The thought gave him some measure of disquiet. She may have come across these abilities naturally, but it seemed more likely that learned them from her time in the capital. From Cersei… and father.
Sansa's words had eased some of the tension in the room. Jon looked to Daenerys, seated at his side, then back to the assembly. "If that's all, my lords." It was. Tyrion stood still as he watched the groups slowly exited through half a dozen doors. Jon moved off to the side as well and Daenerys with him. They stood facing each for a moment, alone in the corner by side of the roaring hearth. She reached for his hand and held it firm. Jon returned to the gesture, but to Tyrion it seemed half-hearted. He still wore that sullen look upon his face and, a moment later, he turned and left Daenerys behind after they had exchanged a few whispered words. She caught her Hand's eye for a heart's beat before turning and leaving, disappointment etched on her delicate features.
As the crowd thinned, Tyrion saw Varys sitting across from him, his face half lit in dim orange torchlight but otherwise cast in shadow. A fitting look for the master of whispers. The eunuch smiled at him, a knowing look in his eye, and then stood to greet him as Tyrion made his way across the room. He turned slowly and made sure the room was empty before opening his mouth to speak.
"Our queen seems rather troubled of late," Tyrion pointed out.
"Oh?" the spymaster said with a raised eyebrow, the firelight dancing in his eyes, "do tell."
Of course… "I was hoping you could tell me. What has transpired between them?"
"Who?" he asked innocently. Why must it always be like this…
"Our queen and Jon Snow. Weeks spent on a ship and in the saddle and we rarely saw them separated yet now they speak in hushed whispers before he leaves her alone in his own hall."
"Hmmm…. Indeed," the eunuch nearly sung out the syllables. Helpful. "Daenerys and Jon Snow have not shared a bed these past two nights. He keeps a room in the largest tower and she's been given grand chambers a few floors above."
"And you know this how?"
"Lorra, a young serving girl in the service of the Stark's," Varys said, spinning his tale. "Poor young thing. Her mother has fallen quite ill. Too little coin for food now, you see, and far too little for the proper healing herbs and wood to keep a fire in the hearth. A bit of silver for wind and words seemed a fair trade to her."
"And so Lorra reports our two young lovers are in love no longer." Tyrion finished simply.
"Not so fast, my friend," he chided playfully, "one look into Daenerys' eyes should tell you otherwise." True enough. "It's our young Lord of Winterfell who has found some reason to withhold his affections." Tyrion made a sweeping gesture with one hand, inviting his friend to get to the point. "They arrived here as lovers not two days ago, yet when they emerged from the godswood to meet your brother something changed. I doubt it was Jaime's arrival that drove them apart, do you?" Tyrion nodded. "Good," he spoke faster now than before, rapidly spinning his web. "Brandon Stark spends all his time by the Stark heart tree in that godswood. That's where they went to see him, to speak with him."
"It's said the boy has visions," Tyrion added.
"Indeed,' said Varys, "and whatever whispers he spoke to our royal pairing has seeded some strife between them." And, as master of whispers, you don't have a bloody clue what it is. Excellent.
"Well…" Tyrion began to turn toward the door, "I suppose there's only one way to find out." Varys nodded slowly as Tyrion made for the exit, for the godswood, and for the broken boy he had not seen in years.
It was darker outside than Tyrion expected. The days were short this far north, but even so he found it disconcerting. A light snow was falling and Tyrion cursed himself for not bring a hooded cloak as snowflakes clung to his hair and eyebrows. It was a short enough walk to the godswood, though, and he did not want to wander back through the maze of corridors just to be slightly less uncomfortable while he spoke to Bran. He crossed the castle yard, almost empty in the twilight. Guardsmen and young stable boys shot him queer glances as he passed, though none question his intentions. He passed underneath the stone archway and into the sacred grove.
He paused at the edge, looking at the heart tree and its blood red leaves. He had never been a particularly devout man, but he could not deny there was some mystic energy to the grove, some presence that brushed against his mind like the snow against his hair. Now, where is he? Tyrion looked around for the boy or his high wooden chair but could not see either from his set off in a westerly direction, or what felt like west, he was not sure. Trudging through a light layer of fresh, powdery snow, he slowly circled the weirwood but found no sign of Bran. He looked to the edges of the godswood, to the barren oaks and evergreen pines but did not him there either, only a flash of white. Cold snow upon a colder wind. Lovely.
Disappointed in his utterly pointless venture, he turned to make way back to the archway, thinking all the while of the roaring fire he might find in his hearth. He began to whistle a nameless tune to keep himself company, the sharp tones leaving his lips and dancing aimlessly in the evening air. As he passed the pool of black water by the weirdwood's side, Tyrion stopped for a moment to regard the face carved into the heart tree, it's eyes crying tears of dried blood. Odd for a god to cry, he thought as he resumed his song.
Then, as he lifted the toes of his boots to turn on his heels, he felt a sudden hot breath on the back of his neck. Something tells me that's not Brandon Stark. He heard a low growl and cautiously turned around to find a great white wolf an arm's length away from his face, it's long yellow teeth bared threateningly. Eyes, red as the weirdwood's leaves, shone bright in the dim evening light.
"Hello there," he said, shivering in his boots. The beast growled against a low, guttural sound, and stepped forward with one massive white leg. I did not travel to Meereen and back to be supper for some pup. He thought about running, but decided in the end that would do no good. I've faced dragons, I'll take my chances with you. There was only one way out of this…
"You look rather warm in that white fur," he addressed the wolf, "I bet that pelt would make a fine winter cloak, though perhaps too large for a man like me." The wolf growled and took another step closer. Tyrion mirrored his movements in reverse, taking another step back. "No? Perhaps some fur undergarments instead. I'd do anything to keep myself warm on these horrid northern nights." Teeth flashed again as the direwolf advanced, snarling. Tyrion took another step back. Then another, then another. He felt his heel sink into water and wet mud below. Turning, he saw his right foot partially submerged at the edge of the pool. Water stood behind him and the wolf in front.
Shit.
"Ghost!" a woman's voice echoed from the archway. The great beast's ears twitched and it turned to face the direction of the shout. Tyrion breathed a sigh of relief as the wolf bounded away to the edge of the grove where a hooded figure stood beside a mighty oak near the entrance. The light from the archway's torches cast his savior in shadow. Face concealed underneath the hood of a black sable cloak, the figure bent slightly and, extending a gloved hand, scratched behind the ears of the white wolf as he approached. Ah.
"Well," Tyrion laughed nervously as he approached the pair, walking across the tracks the wolf had made in the snow, "I believe I owe you my life, my lady." The figure raised two hands and lowered the black hood. Lady Sansa's auburn hair shone a dozen hues of scarlet and fiery orange in the torchlight. Her blue eyes met his own mismatched pair, a look of amusement dancing across her face.
"It would have been a shame, eaten by a wolf after lasting so long around those dragons," she said with just a hint of humor in her voice.
"At least it wasn't a lion," Tyrion had to stop himself from laughing at the absurdity of it all. A grown direwolf. "Still, we've survived all sorts of monsters, haven't we?" He saw her smile a bit, but noted the reaction failed to reach her eyes. A prolonged silence settled in between them, punctuated only by the white wolf's heavy breathing. Then Tyrion spoke again. "I was looking for your brother Bran. You wouldn't happen to know where he is, would you?"
"I was looking for him too," she replied, voice trailing off in disappointment. "If he's not in the godswood, he'll be in his chambers. Asleep, I suspect."
Tyrion nodded and made to excuse himself, but thought better of it. Watching her hold court in the great hall had piqued his curiosity. They had spoken upon his arrival two days ago, but their conversation in the yard had been brief and formal. The last time we truly spoke she was a frightened child in the clutches of my sister… who is she now?
"You were quite good, you know, in there. Handling Lord Glover and Cerwyn and all the others," he offered her a genuine compliment.
Sansa laughed, a humorless sound that echoed menacingly off the stone archway and into the dark of the grove behind him. "Those fools…" she sighed softly, her breath forming a brief mist above Tyrion's head. "I did what I had to do. We need provisions here at Winterfell, not scattered across a dozen holdfasts. I've addressed their complaints at every turn, but every day brings new ones."
"Ah," Tyrion chuckled, "the joys of ruling." Sansa flashed a small smirk in his direction, but it quickly slid from her face as a whirlwind of concerns burst forth from her mouth and mind.
"Daenerys' men are going through our stores faster than I hoped… and more fall ill every day. But where are we to lodge them? The Winter Town doesn't have room for another thousand men, let alone ten thousand. It's almost a relief your family's soldiers won't be marching north," she paused for breath and looked at Tyrion, assessing his reaction. He pursed his lips and nodded to show her that he was listening.
The snow was heavier now, falling as fast as the grievances and concerns from Sansa's mouth. The large white flakes fell on Tyrion's exposed head or disappeared into the white fur of the wolf sitting beside Lady Stark. Tyrion lowered his head and brushed the accumulations from his damp hair before venturing forth with a question. "What of Lord Royce or Littlefinger? Last I heard they had ridden north to help you. Are they no help to you now?"
Sansa looked away for a moment, off toward the heart tree and beyond. Tyrion saw her gloved grip tighten in the wolf's thick fur. "I sent Lord Royce northward a fortnight past. I've heard nothing from the Last Hearth. And Lord Baelish…" her voice trailed off. I see. She turned and met his gaze again, staring intently. "I did what I had to do."
Tyrion looked back at her and nodded. Oh, I understand. He tried to imagine Petyr Baelish's face then, his black hair, that clever smile, and those twinkling, mischievous eyes, but he could not see them. The eyes were green flecked with gold. The hair was a pale blonde and bald atop. The face was weathered and serious. I did what I had to do too, father.
"He was a monster," she said, breaking the momentary silence. "They were all monsters… I've been married off and raped and beaten by monsters. At least Joffrey and Ramsay knew themselves, knew what they were. But Littlefinger? He claimed to do it out of love," she said bitterly. Tyrion expected tears to start falling as heavy as the snow around them, but none came. The only hint of emotion she showed was the coldness that had crept into her tone.
Yet when she spoke next, the coldness was gone, replaced by a softer, hushed tone. "I used to think you were a monster," she admitted. She looked at him again, blue eyes emanating strength and determination tempered with a woman's kindness.
"A frequent mistake," he replied simply. She smirked at the jest and he smiled back at her. Tyrion thought he saw something else in her eyes, a look that suggested she wanted to say more but could not bring herself to do so. What would we discuss? Our farce of a marriage? Our lovely wedding feast?
"I'm glad you're here, Tyrion," she spoke his name and brushed the spoiled memories from his mind.
"As am I, my lady," he said as he stared into the red eyes of the wolf and reflected on Sansa's words. Monster. I suppose not even you can be called that, eh? He thought as he reached out and gingerly scratched the underside of great white wolf's snout. Surprisingly, the beast pushed down on his hand, urging him to continue his attentions. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Sansa turning slowly to leave. Watching her, a thought burst forth in his mind, bright and promising as a new dawn. I came here to question Bran, but perhaps she knows what is troubling Jon.
"Sansa," he called out perhaps a bit too loudly, "what of Jon?". Sansa turned back to regard with a curious gaze. A flurry of emotions passed over her face in an instant: guilt and confusion and frustration and more that he could not name.
"What about him?" she spoke the words cautiously as if expecting some trap.
"That gathering in the hall earlier was the first time I saw more than a moment's glimpse of the Lord of Winterfell," he explained.
She guffawed, "The Lord of Winterfell… Jon's spent more time riding around the Wolfswood than he has in his own keep since his return."
"He spent quite a bit of time alongside Daenerys on our journey north," Tyrion offered. "Yet now he seems troubled? I wonder…"
"He's in love with her," Sansa stated, "it doesn't take a maester to see that. I've never seen that look in Jon's eyes before. When he looks at her it's… something's different, I don't know" she finished lamely.
"She's in love with him, too. That much is clear." Tyrion added. Sansa nodded in agreement. "And yet something keeps them apart. Drives him away. That cannot continue. Whatever has happened between them, we must see it mended. And quickly. The Northern lords must see them together."
"Together," she breathed out the word as she considered his answer, "you almost sound as if you want to see them-"
"-married," he finished. "Precisely." She shook her head slowly, uncertain of his plan. "You don't approve?"
Sansa bit her lower lip for a moment as if trapped in a maze of her own thoughts. She knows something. What? He pressed the attack, hoping to find out. "What better way to unite House Stark and Targaryen? To unite North and South? To see the lords of the Vale and the North stand behind the best match this country has seen in centuries?"
"Houses Stark and Targaryen…" she mulled over his words, still uncertain.
"Sansa…" he said softly, "you are Jon's advisor as I am Daenerys'. If you know what troubles him so, you must tell me."
"It's not my place to say," she protested. He raised an eyebrow and looked at her intently. Finally, she relented and lowered her voice in a conspiratorial tone as she bent slightly to speak softly in his ear. "Bran, well, he saw a vision of Jon's mother," she said, voice barely above a whisper. Jon's mother…? Jon was a bastard. His mother was some whore or farmer's daughter or innkeep's wife, dead for years more like than not. Why would the boy see Jon's mother in his visions? He looked at Sansa again, eyes demanding an answer. "My aunt, Lyanna," she finished in a low tone.
Thoughts and images rushed through his mind, memories of hushed conversations and concerned glances. Lyanna Stark? Jon's mother? And his father, Lord Eddard? No. Fool. Not his father. The father was... He remembered now, though he had been a boy of eight then. Lyanna had gone south, had run off with…
"… Rhaegar Targaryen," he spoke the name aloud, tone matching Sansa's hushed whisper. "Jon Snow is Rhaegar's bastard?" he asked incredulously.
"His trueborn son," she corrected. "Bran saw them marry. A secret ceremony in Dorne, before the war." Well. This certainly complicates matters. Tyrion struggled to keep himself from laughing at the absurdity of it all. A secret prince named King in the North, now in love with the Dragon Queen… who happens to be his aunt. The last scions of House Targaryen, off to face an army of dead men and save the realm. I swear I saw this mummer's show once at Casterly Rock.
Sansa looked a good deal less amused. "No one can know the truth, Tyrion. You saw how they reacted to Daenerys. If the northern lords found out that they had named Rhaegar's son as their king…" she shot him a concerned glance. She was right, of course. The Lord of the North were already on edge with two Lannisters and a Targaryen claimant in their lands. Even with a hundred thousand dead men marching south, their pettiness knew no limits. This revelation could see them march their men home in protest.
"They will not," he agreed. "You must speak with Jon. I will as well. Make him see the truth of this. Eddard Stark raised him as a son and he looked upon him as father. Visions from trees do not change that." Sansa nodded, accepting her task. He had no doubt she would perform her part admirably.
"It grows colder here," she said, resuming their normal tone of conversation and glancing around the dark godswood, "will you accompany me inside, my lord?"
Tyrion gave her a crooked smile as he brushed the snow from his hair and shoulders once more before stepping to her side. Together they walked out of the grove, through the archway, and back across the yard. Tyrion struggled to keep pace with his much taller partner. The wolf padded alongside them for a time before running off toward the western gates. Two large lit braziers stood on either side of the great oaken doors of the main hall and two Stark guardsmen stood beside them. The man on the right noticed his lady and Tyrion approaching his position and immediately stood upright. The guard on the left mimicked his companion's posture before remembering his own duties and scrambling to open the door.
"M'lady," he mumbled as Sansa and Tyrion passed out of the snow and into the darkened hall. It was empty now, with the long tables pushed to the sides and the fire burning low and untended in the massive hearth. He saw Sansa turn to him once more and open her mouth to speak.
"You really think a marriage between them is…" she struggled for the word, "proper?"
Tyrion shrugged, his muscles stiff from the cold, "She loves him. He loves her. I see no reason we cannot bring them together. They just need a good shove toward the weirwood tree, no?" He flashed her a mischievous grin which she did not return.
The air between them felt thick for a moment before she met his eyes and nodded. Then, turning, Sansa made for the door on the far end of the hall, leaving Tyrion alone. Tyrion Lannister and Sansa Stark. Matchmakers. The irony did not escape him. He watched her walk away, long sable cloak waving behind her as if caught in a gentle breeze. The Lady of Winterfell, he recited in his mind.
Of course, that is what she was. If Jon Snow was truly Rhaegar's son, Sansa was the rightful heir to this keep and all its attendant lands. And Jon… Tyrion thought about the man as he walked to the right and found the corridor from earlier. Jon was a trueborn Targaryen, son of the crown prince. Heir to the throne. His claim might best Daenerys' own. A male would always have a better claim in the eyes of the noble lords, even if he was a son's son or more distant still. Yet even as he thought through the implications of the godswood revelation, Tyrion knew it did not matter.
Do you really think a crown gives you power? His father's mocking question echoed in his mind. No. Heirs and titles were meant for keeping thrones, not winning them. Aegon Targaryen had ridden forth on Balerion the Black Dread and forged one kingdom from seven. Robert has smashed Rhaegar's forces on the Trident and seized the throne for himself. Daenerys would do the same to his sweet sister, once the fighting in the North was done. Jon Snow would help her, would sit by her side as she ruled.
He thought about Jon as he meandered back to his quarters, opening the latched door and slipping quietly inside. Tyrion did not doubt the man was confused. His father was his uncle, his siblings were his cousins, and his lover of his own blood. What will I say when I see him next? Tyrion considered his quandary as he stared into the fire some servant had lit before he arrived. Yellow and scarlet flames danced before him, wisps of fire licking the soot-blackened stones bordering the hearth.
A log cracked and split, sending red embers up into the air. Tyrion tried to count them before they burnt and faded. It was said the red priests of the east could see the future in their fires. Tyrion wondered what Kinvara, the priestess he had summoned to Meereen, would say if she could look into the hearth before him. Some riddle or prophecy. That all this was meant to be. The thought lit another fire inside his mind. Yes… Jon would come to grips with his parentage and the role he was meant to play. Tyrion knew exactly what to say… and exactly who would say it.
...
Well, I'm going to start adding a bit of commentary at the end of these. Though I'm entirely new to this sort of thing, fan-fiction seems like its a cool opportunity for "authors" and readers to explore familiar and favorite universes and characters. Tyrion is a bit of a challenge in that Show-Tyrion has sort of flat lined since Season 4. That's why I've incorporated some of his book personality here.
With regard to the story, I don't think there is any real romantic potential between he and Sansa. For one, she's beautiful and he's an ugly dwarf. Has Sansa learned that inner and outer beauty aren't the same thing? Yes, but I think both she and Tyrion are kinda done with romance for the time being. They come together and talk like exes who have come to grips with what happened to them.
My pace of writing will likely slow over the next couple of weeks, but I've got plenty of cool ideas to play around with in the coming chapters. I've got an ever growing outline so if you're expecting some big scene that hasn't really happened yet, chances are I haven't forgotten it.
Many thanks to all those sharing their thoughts or pointing out typos. Reviews of all kind are welcome.
