Hey look, I actually got a new chapter up! *ugly cry/laughing* Sorry if this seems a bit aimless, but I felt like Tyrion and Sansa just really needed some "day in the life" narrative to show a budding relationship, as well as some minor plot movements that could be combined in one chapter rather than making up their own. Anyway, enjoy, and here's to hoping I get the next chapter done faster than tortoise speed.

Chapter 10

Tyrion V: A Lovely Day

Tyrion's eyes opened to the canopy of their bed as the sun rose to the east, casting a gray glow onto the velvet, wool, and furs that made up most of their bedding. He looked to his right, and Sansa was there, still fast asleep on her front, her face turned peacefully toward him, her fingers outstretched and brushing against his ribs. Gently, he picked up her hand and laid it on his chest, softly tracing her fingers while she slept. In King's Landing, she would have started wide awake at his touch. Now, she merely gave a sigh and settled her head more comfortably into her pillow. He looked back at the canopy, fingers still absent-mindedly trailing on the back of his wife's hand.

It had been almost a week since that emotional day when Sansa realized what he'd thought of her all those years apart, and he, of all people, still didn't know what to say to her.

"Please, forgive me, Tyrion," she'd asked a few nights ago as he'd held her in bed.

"There's nothing to forgive, Sansa. I don't blame you for leaving." It wasn't a lie, either. He might have resented her once for abandoning him to face the trial alone, but the more she opened up to him, the more he learned of just how miserable she had been in King's Landing beneath her armor of courtesy, the more surprised he was that she hadn't tried to run even sooner. As much as he'd tried to be kind to her and treat her as his proper wife then, he'd been foolishly naive not to realize how impossible it had been for her to see herself as anything other than a prisoner handed from one gaoler to the next amongst his family. Really, the only wonder he had was that she had chosen to stay with him after all that misery, despite her insistence that she really had thought kindly of him throughout their marriage. He couldn't see how she would—were he in her place, he sorely doubted he'd be so understanding and forgiving—but she'd always been a kinder soul than he had, and as much as he'd have to work to trust her, to set aside five years of feelings of doubt and betrayal, he wanted this marriage to succeed as much as she did, and so he didn't question her unfathomable willingness to remain his wife.

He was right, though, as well as truthful; there was nothing to forgive. She'd been a child surrounded by lions, and while he'd kept his word and not savaged her, who could ever blame a child for escaping the lion's den when she had the chance? But he still didn't trust her. That wasn't entirely her fault, either; she'd had secrets in their marriage, as had he. She had just as much reason to distrust him as he did her. And it was that, that he couldn't say that he trusted her, that was what still had Sansa upset a week later. The words "I want to trust you" weren't enough for her, though Tyrion had said them a dozen times. "I'm trying to trust you" and "I'll come to trust you" were just as useless, and often did nothing more than to summon a sadness to her eyes and a sullen silence as she'd find something to busy herself with at her desk or some errand or task to take her out of their tent.

A week later, and Tyrion didn't know what to say. He wasn't going to give up, nor was she, from what he could tell. She was too much a stubborn Northerner for that. But clever and perceptive as they both were, neither had yet to figure out what to say to the other, and it was maddening for him.

It wasn't long before Sansa stirred, breaking Tyrion from his thoughts as her fingertips curled into his nightshift before she stretched out her arm, as always; he knew she'd roll her eyes if he ever said it, but the manner in which Sansa awoke was simply adorable. The first few nights, her morning touch had taken his breath away, that she could be so comfortable with him. But now that he was used to it, the way she stretched out like a cat after a nap on a sunny windowsill every morning, without fail, was so endearing to him that he couldn't help the smirk that fixed itself on his lips as he watched her slowly awaken.

Her eyes opened and focused on him, and she gave him a small smile before a muffled "Good morning" uttered behind her hand as she stifled a yawn that rose to her lips.

"Good morning, Sansa," he said softly. He reached over to her face to brush a lock of hair behind her ear, earning a blush. After a moment, she gave a small sigh, and then rolled over to leave the warmth of their bed. That had been the way of it, for a week now. Where Tyrion needed touch and affection to read her, to better know her, Sansa treated those things as something to be approached only after trust was firmly in place. And so they were at an impasse as they lived together, coexisting much as they had in King's Landing, not entirely trusting the other but so wishing things could be different between the two of them. True, they spoke more; in the past week, Tyrion had come to know more about who Sansa truly was than he had in the months they'd shared together in King's Landing.

"What are your plans for today?" Sansa's voice called out to him, and he snapped out of his reverie to look at her across the breakfast table. He swallowed a bite of bacon and wiped the grease from around his lips before answering her.

"I need to walk the Dothraki camps with Missandei this afternoon," Tyrion told her. "They've never dealt with Winter like this in Essos, so Daenerys has asked me to make sure they have the supplies they need."

"I need to visit the Wildling camp this morning, and a few other errands. What do you say to keeping each other's company today?" She smiled at him then in that coy way only she could. If she didn't look so angelic, it would come off as mischievous.

Tyrion returned the smirk. "Are you sure you won't be put off by the barbarians?"

Sansa rolled her eyes. "I grew up surrounded by unshaven, stinking Northern warriors. I think I'll be fine." Tyrion chuckled, and they finished their breakfast quietly as they each read through their correspondences for the morning. They each took a moment at their respective desks to send out replies before donning layers for the Winter that lay outside the threshold of their tent.

"Your Grace. My lord," Lady Brienne greeted them as they stepped outside. Podrick stood as well and gave a nod to Tyrion.

"Lady Brienne, Ser Podrick. Would you mind accompanying my lord husband and I? We'll be walking the camps seeing that everyone is fit to bear the Winter weather. It'll be a long day, I'm afraid."

"As my Queen commands," Brienne said with a bow of her head. A smile played on her lips, but it diminished as she regarded him.

Tyrion knew the lady knight had reservations about him, and he was doing his best to earn the trust of Sansa's sworn sword. But after whatever disparaging comments she'd heard about him from her time with Lady Catelyn and his brother, Lady Brienne of Tarth had made it perfectly clear that she disdained the idea of Queen Sansa Stark of Winterfell keeping Tyrion Lannister as her husband and royal consort. He'd mentioned his concerns to Sansa, who had brushed them aside and told him of how Brienne had come to fondly regard his brother after getting to know him, despite Brienne's insistence otherwise. As prickly as she could seem, Sansa was convinced that Brienne was simply a cautious judge of character, and told him that she was certain she'd come around, just as Sansa had herself. Nevertheless, Tyrion tried to be on his best behavior around her. Half the Northmen would be happy to cut him down, regardless of Sansa's wishes; the last thing he needed was to add Brienne to that list.

Tyrion had mostly kept to Daenerys's side of the encampment since they'd made camp at Castle Black; he remembered well the hostility the Northmen and Riverlanders had shown him when Catelyn Stark had taken him hostage, and that was before Ned, Robb, and Catelyn were killed at his family's behest. Needless to say, he felt leery of the looks the Northmen gave him, even as he walked beside his lady wife and their queen under her protection.

The looks intensified when Sansa had them stop in the medical tents just inside the walls of Castle Black. Sansa's good at this, Tyrion noted as she helped wipe the sweaty brows of fevered soldiers missing limbs, soldiers maimed, bloodied, cut, frostbit. He remembered Daenerys doing the same, paying kind attentions to the wounded after the battle for Meereen. But with Sansa, it was different. Sansa took the time to ask them where they were from, what family they had, to describe when she met their liege lord growing up in Winterfell. Some of the wounded were warriors she knew personally, second and third sons of lesser lords who had regularly come to Winterfell to pay respects and celebrate happy occasions with the Stark family. Daenerys might be a lovable queen once given the chance to prove herself to Westeros, but Sansa was truly loved. Even hostile glances at Tyrion softened to questioning or curiosity as they shifted to Sansa.

Edging away from her as she rounded the troops, Tyrion found himself standing by the bed of a young Riverlands man, unconscious to the world. Around his neck was an icy black hand print. Tyrion's brow furrowed as he considered him.

"White Walker got hold of him," Podrick said quietly. "Lad was out beyond the wall on patrol when they were ambushed. He and his mate were the only two to return." Podrick nodded at a young man missing an arm across the tent near Sansa. "Hasn't woken up since he got here. Maester's not hopeful, but is doing the best he can to keep him alive."

"You knew him?" Tyrion asked.

Podrick nodded. "He used to take shifts guarding outside Sansa's tent. Not a great cyvasse player, but he was learning. Helped pass the time in the cold, anyway." He frowned, and looked away to Sansa. Tyrion, curious, reached out to the man's neck. Before even touching the skin, he could feel its cool. Black, hardened, and cold as ice. If that cold sunk deeper than the flesh, then Tyrion could only imagine how difficult it was for him to breathe. Even now, Tyrion could hear a faint whistle as his chest rose minutely, all the air he could muster into his lungs. He wouldn't last much longer, Tyrion was sure.

After Sansa had paid respects and tended to the wounded, they left, her next order of business to visit the Wildlings, their camp set off to the west of Castle Black a bit away from the others. When Brienne heard that they were to visit the Wildlings, she blanched, and Tyrion noted the reaction. "My lady, your brother asked if I might join him at Castle Black sometime this afternoon to help train the new recruits. If I may have your leave?"

Sansa smirked knowingly, then nodded. "Tell my brother I'll see him this afternoon," she called after Brienne as the Lady Knight was already retreating back to the stronghold.

"The Wildlings unnerve her, I take it?" Tyrion guessed as he, Sansa, and Podrick continued on toward the encampment of tents made of furs and skins and sticks.

"Only one of them," Sansa replied, but Tyrion didn't inquire further.

As they entered the camp, young Wildling children clamored around Sansa, calling out her name rather than her title or address. The familiarity surprised him until he recalled that Wildlings don't bow or kneel, especially not to Southron kings and queens. Sansa knelt and handed out lemon sweets she'd packed in the pockets of her cloak. Some thanked her, but most didn't. To be fair, though, Tyrion suspected quite a few didn't even speak the common tongue, but rather their tribal languages, so he could hardly fault them for that.

In the camp, they were surrounded by tents made of skins, and the crowd of children followed them all the way through until a large Wildling man with red hair and beard chased them off with a few strong words and threats.

"Ah, my fiery beauty," he greeted Sansa, and Tyrion felt his eyebrows raising. Familiarly, he picked Sansa up in a bear hug; Sansa just shook her head and laughed in the man's arms. As tall as she was to him, he often forgot just how slight she was in the arms of a normal sized man, and jealousy flared up in his chest, a feeling that was all too familiar to him.

He released her, and she smacked him on the arm before composing herself again. "Watch yourself, Tormund, or I'll tell Jon you're flirting with me."

He raised his hands defensively and backed away with a chuckle. "Be kind, little wolf queen. Us folks kissed by fire should stick together is all." Then, his attention shifted to Tyrion. "Though it seems you've already been stolen away."

"Stolen away?" Technically it was true, given that Sansa was a hostage when his family married her to him, but that a total stranger would say it so glibly rubbed Tyrion the wrong way.

Sansa seemed to understand the insult and waved away his indignation. "It's a phrase of the Free Folk referring to how men will steal their women from villages to take to wife. Though Tormund gets cross with me when I imply it refers to something so soft as stealing a woman's heart," she said with a smile and a twinkle in her eye at the man.

"Bah!" was Tormund's reply, and he turned around and gestured for them to follow him into a large tent built of bones, branches, and furs. Podrick followed along silently, but with a smile; Tyrion guessed this was Sansa's normal repartee with Tormund.

"Lady Brienne is elsewhere, I take it?" Tormund asked.

"Yes, Jon needed her at Castle Black."

Tormund made a sound like a growl. "Jon keeps me from stealing you away, now he keeps Brienne from me. That wolfy bastard," he said fondly, and Sansa chuckled.

"I don't think you have a rival in him, if it's any consolation."

"Mmm... Rabbit?" he asked, changing the subject as he gestured to the set of hares on a spit over a fire in the middle of the tent.

"Please," Sansa answered, to his surprise, and she took a seat by the fire. Tormund offered her a plate and cut off half a rabbit for her, then did the same for Tyrion as he sat by his wife.

It was a side to Sansa he hadn't seen before; she was always so proper, and yet here she was matching barbs with a Wildling, eating rabbit with her fingers while sitting on nothing more than furs. There was a kinship between them that he was missing, some common ground from the blood of the First Men that they both shared that Tyrion didn't quite understand, but he found it oddly familiar to times he'd sat in with Daenerys speaking with the Dothraki. With a smile, he leaned back on his bolster and ate his rabbit as he listened to Sansa and Tormund.

"Tormund, please, allow the women and children staying behind to go to Winterfell. There's nothing left for them here at the Wall, and they could be better cared for and of more use in Winterfell."

"It's not my call. They don't trust you Southrons. They only come south of the Wall because of the icy bastards on the other side of it. I don't rule them, I only lead."

"I know that, but..." Sansa sighed, frustrated. "Help me convince them, then. Help me earn their trust, that they'll be safe in Winterfell, that I won't try to rule them, or make them do anything they don't want." She shot a glance at Tyrion. "You know the legends as well as I do. No matter how far north the expedition goes, the battle will come back to the Wall, and if it falls, they'd be much safer in Winterfell than here with no wall to defend them."

Sansa leaned forward and put her hand on Tormund's and stared him in the eye. "The past years have seen far too many innocent men, women, and children slaughtered. I would not have the blood of the last of the Free Folk gone when it could be saved. My House has been here for eight thousand years, and you have no idea how it feels to be the last of my name, of my blood. The fear of being the one who failed and extinguished all of that heritage and history to hand it over to another conquering name. I would not have that for your people, Tormund."

Tyrion shifted uncomfortably, but neither Tormund nor Sansa paid him mind. He wasn't the one who had made the decisions to kill Sansa's family; it had been his father, his nephew who had done that. But Tyrion was still caught off guard with how easily Sansa now referenced his family's role in the death of hers. He didn't know if it was easier for Sansa to talk about now after time had passed, or now that she was no longer his family's prisoner, or a bit of both, but he was still so used to the meek child bride he'd known in King's Landing who swore fealty to the crown and to House Lannister with every other breath that he'd never imagined she would speak so openly, without holding back, with him and others. She never said it with blame or hatred toward him, just as fact, but it was still disconcerting.

"I'll see what I can do. But only if you promise to come drink with us before we leave for north of the Wall." He winked at her, and Tyrion started to frown, but Sansa's reaction caught him off guard; she leaned back from Tormund, and shifted toward Tyrion, taking his hand in hers to lay them in her lap.

"My husband and I would be glad to join you, and my brother as well. I'm sure we'd all make for wonderful company."

"Alright. But only if Brienne comes, too." He turned to Tyrion then and added in a hushed tone, "I can't count how many times I've climbed that crow Wall, but Brienne's a woman I'd like to climb." Tyrion suppressed a grin as Sansa rolled her eyes. A smile settled onto Tormund's face that left Tyrion in little doubt of why Brienne had begged off before they had made for the Wildling camp. He leaned back and took a swig from a skin. "But then again you've got Sansa here, doubt a man like you needs much more than that."

"I doubt any man needs much more than her," Tyrion quipped, earning a blush from Sansa and a chortle from Tormund.

After one more pause outside the tent to give candies to the children who had missed Sansa the first time, and a few who snuck back for seconds, Tyrion, Sansa, and Podrick left for Castle Black.

When they walked through the gates, Jon was up on the walkway looking down at the new recruits practicing in the yard. His face was intense. Sansa led them to stand next to him, and not until she rested her head on his shoulder did he notice them. He greeted her with a smile, and put an arm around her shoulders, though his brow was still drawn as his gaze remained on the recruits.

"How are you today?" he asked.

"We visited the wounded and the Wildling camp, then had lunch with Tormund. How are you?"

"They're not ready," he answered with a frown.

"What do you need? I have another shipment of dragonglass coming through White Harbor within the next moon, and I can get more steel from Winterfell within a fortnight," Sansa offered. "Whatever you need, it's yours."

"More time," was Jon's answer, and Sansa frowned.

"I can't give you that."

Jon looked at her and gave her a grim smile before kissing her on the brow. He looked at Tyrion, and the corner of his mouth pulled up in greeting, but otherwise he returned his attentions to the men in the yard.

Lord Commander Tollett emerged from his chambers then and joined them. "Jon, my lord, Your Grace," he greeted them all.

"Lord Commander," Tyrion returned. He was certainly a different man from Mormont, but he had the same gaunt, wearied look that Mormont wore when Tyrion was last at Castle Black all those years ago.

"Your Grace, could I have a word?"

"About the dragonglass?" Sansa guessed.

Edd nodded, and Sansa put her hand on Tyrion's shoulder and gave him a smile before pulling away from him and Jon and leaving with Edd.

Tyrion put his hands on the railing and stood next to Jon. Despite their previous friendship, they hadn't spoken alone since Tyrion had come to the Wall. After everything that had passed between their families since then, the tense silence that stood between them was hardly a surprise.

"Bastard," Tyrion greeted.

"Dwarf."

A moment passed before they both let out a chuckle.

"You've done well for yourself since I last saw you here," Tyrion said.

"Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, now commander of the Northern armies for my sister. Not bad, I suppose. You're Hand to the Queen and will be Lord of Casterly Rock. You've done well, too, Lannister."

Tyrion cocked his head to the side. "Go ahead and say it. I know you want to."

Jon looked down at him, and Tyrion met his gaze. "Sansa's been through enough. If you hurt my sister in any way, I will kill you."

Tyrion nodded. "I know. Anything else?"

Jon shook his head. "I tried talking Sansa out of it, but she knows her mind. Not much more for me to say."

"Alright then." Tyrion moved over a step closer to Jon to talk more easily. "Are they truly that unprepared?" He asked, nodding toward the yard.

"Just look at them. They're almost as bad as Pip and Edd and Grenn were when I first came to the wall. And you remember how well that went. Imagine that against a White Walker."

Tyrion tilted his head to the side. "Any chance you can leave them here on the Wall?"

"We need them. We barely have enough men to go North as it is, even with the Targaryen army. And they're men of the Night's Watch. They need to go North. It's their sworn duty. Sansa's already made it clear she can't ask what few soldiers of her Northern bannermen that remain to go North of the Wall if the Night's Watch won't even go."

"It's Sansa's choice?"

"Sansa and Edd, yes." Jon looked at him then. "You really think I have much say in all this? I come up with strategy, but as for who marches where, that's Sansa's domain." Jon gave her a sigh. "I love her, she's my sister. But she's more and more like her mother every day. She doesn't say it to be cruel like Lady Catelyn did, but Sansa's quick to remind me that I'm only a bastard, and not a Stark, not truly, anyway. And she reminds others."

"You're a threat to her claim, to Rickon's. Surely it's not a surprise to you," Tyrion leveled.

"No. I just wish she'd trust me more, that I don't want anything. Seven Hells, Lannister, she's giving me the Dreadfort. I never asked for that. What more could I want?"

Tyrion nodded with a smirk. "Sansa was pleased with herself for coming up with that."

Jon frowned. "For everything we've been through, Sansa still thinks we'll all get through this unscathed." His shoulders hunched as he leaned forward, his grip tight on the railing. "She's only seen the Wights, and always been far away when they attack. She's never been up close to it, seen the White Walkers. So few of us here have. We have a plan, but..." He shook his head. "I honestly wish she were in Winterfell. Or better still, across the Narrow Sea. Her and Rickon."

"You don't think we'll be able to defeat them?"

Jon shrugged. "Before Daenerys came, no. Absolutely not. Even now, I'm hesitant. When we took Winterfell back from Ramsay Bolton, I lead the army of Northmen on the field of battle. We almost lost. Then Baelish finally ordered the Knights of the Vale in to clear the field. Sansa and I never trusted him after that, after he held his men back so long after swearing his help. We had to keep them back so that Ramsay wouldn't know they were there, but even so, we lost almost all our men that day."

"You think Baelish was trying to weaken the Northern forces even after retaking Winterfell?"

"To make himself invaluable to Sansa? Yeah, I do. And so did she. There's a reason he's not here anymore. After all the tricks your sister and family played in King's Landing, how Frey and Bolton betrayed our brother, Sansa won't let anyone get between us again." Jon looked at him. "You should probably take that as a warning."

"I've no plans to keep Sansa from her family, or interfere with Winterfell. I should be safe."

A door creaked open behind them and they heard footfalls approaching, and both turned round to see Sansa and Edd returning to them.

"Shall we continue on to the Dothraki camp before the day wears on?" Sansa asked, donning her gloves.

"Of course." Tyrion offered her his elbow, and her fingertips curled around his upper arm. It wasn't a particularly intimate gesture, but Tyrion did enjoy having his wife on his arm. He nodded his farewells to Jon and Edd, and they were on their way to the southeast of the camp.

"How was your meeting with the Lord Commander?" Tyrion asked as he, Sansa, and Podrick made their way through the Northern camp.

"It was alright. We mostly discussed supplies—food, garments, dragonglass, armor, shelters, horses and livestock to go North. I'm not too worried about the Night's Watch. Edd's done a good job of making sure that they can keep their own, but I'd rather offer help when it's not needed than be thought stingy."

Sansa took a deep breath and reached her other hand over to clasp both to his arm. She gave a small smile and a sigh, and Tyrion felt the corner of his mouth twitch as well.

"What's Winter like in the South?" she asked. "The past few years have been my first proper Winter since I was young, and it's just as Father always told me it would be. Is it like this in the South?"

"No, nothing like this, thank the gods," Tyrion added, eliciting a laugh from Sansa. "It snows, but not as much. And in the West, at least, the winds from the Sunset Sea can be brutal, but it's nowhere near as cold as this, and not as constant. We don't have the ice that you do here, either."

"That must be pretty, though, seeing snow on the beach. I imagine it would be lovely."

"You imagine quite a lot." Tyrion smiled at her. "It is quite surreal when it snows at low tide, and as the tide comes in, it slowly melts and washes the snow out to sea. Jaime and I used to make the biggest messes, going out and playing in the sand and snow when it stormed when I was young."

Sansa smiled at the image. "I imagine that must have been quite fun as a child."

"Oh, it was. Can't say the servants were too happy about the messes we tracked in after that, but it was fun, nonetheless."

"You and I should do that, when we take Casterly Rock. We should build sand and snow castles right next to each other."

Tyrion looked at her shrewdly. "Snow for Winterfell, and sand for Casterly Rock."

She cocked her head. "It would be a bit odd the other way around, don't you think?"

He chuckled at her, but then saw her looking elsewhere. He followed her gaze and found Brienne of Tarth returning to them.

"Your Grace," she greeted, bowing to Sansa. "My lord. Ser Podrick."

"Lady Brienne," Tyrion said.

"We're going to the Dothraki camp. My lord husband needs to make some inquiries on their readiness. Would you care to join us?"

"As my queen commands," she answered with a bow of the head and a smile.

"Tormund mentioned you," Sansa said nonchalantly, and Tyrion coughed to hide a laugh.

"Did he?" Brienne said tersely.

"Hmm. I also mentioned that we'd have to have drinks together before he leaves north of the Wall. You'd be very welcome company."

"If it please Your Grace." Brienne looked like she quite regretted taking vows to Sansa in that moment as she blushed as red as Sansa's hair.

Finally, they reached Daenerys's camp. Tyrion's first stop was to meet Missandei to translate for him.

"I don't believe you've been properly introduced," Tyrion said, remembering his courtesies. "Sansa, this is Missandei, handmaiden, scribe, and translator to Queen Daenerys. Missandei, this is Sansa Stark of House Lannister, Queen of the North and Regent of Winterfell."

Missandei bowed her head. "Your Grace."

"Missandei," Sansa greeted. "It's a pleasure to properly make your acquaintance."

The two young women were of an age, and they chatted easily, taking the lead while Tyrion walked beside Podrick as they made their way through the camp, Brienne hovering at the rear.

"Sansa really can speak to anyone," Tyrion commented to Podrick. Looking between the two—Sansa, a highborn lady turned queen; Missandei, a lowborn girl born a slave, now a handmaiden—he could scarce call to mind two young women with more different lives, and yet Sansa found grounds for conversation all the same.

Podrick shrugged. "She always spoke easily to me in King's Landing when I was just a squire. She's always had that gift."

"I suppose she has." Tyrion had almost forgotten just how much Podrick used to blush around her. He'd blush now and again when she complimented him, but otherwise, he seemed at ease around her now. The lad actually seemed at ease around most of the women around camp, Tyrion had noticed. Oh, to be a handsome young knight. A flash of envy swept through him, just as it always had when he'd thought of Jaime, or Lancel, or any other young man who had the chance that he never had, but it passed as Sansa fell back and took his arm with a smile.

"You're in a cheerful mood today," he said, and her smile widened.

"It's been a lovely day," she said simply.

Tyrion turned around at a giggle, and noticed Dothraki children following them. Sansa turned to look as well, and the children broke into a mass of giggling and whispering that Tyrion didn't understand.

"I think I have a few candies left," Sansa muttered, reaching into her cloak and pulling out the last of the wrapped sweets. She knelt and held them out to the children who came near them, but the children paid the sweets no mind. Instead, they started to touch her hair.

"They've never seen hair your color before," Missandei said with a smile. With a sweet laugh, Sansa dipped her head, inviting some of the more timid children to come satisfy their curiosities as well.

"Is there anything that I can help provide the Dothraki for Winter?" Sansa asked him, and Tyrion noticed her gaze fall upon several children that were shivering and a bit underdressed.

"Not for the children. Once they're settled at Winter Town, they'll be fine. Before going north of the Wall, the men could use some more warm clothing, if you can spare it."

Sansa nodded. "As distasteful as it may seem, I had the boots, armor, and overcoats stripped from the bodies of the slain when I retook Winterfell from the Boltons before we burned their bodies. I'll have the bulk of it sent here for the Dothraki and Unsullied to use as needed."

"I don't think the Dothraki will mind a bit of bloodstain," Tyrion quipped, and Sansa and Missandei repressed smiles.

The children stayed around Sansa, but their parents finally came to see where they'd gone. With Missandei as translator, Tyrion asked what they needed, whether their rations sufficed, would they be ready to continue on to Winter Town when the time came. Satisfied by the answers he received through Missandei from hunters, gatherers, craftsmen, and healers, he considered his job for the day done.

Missandei took her leave then, and Sansa and Tyrion were left with the children, still curiously playing with Sansa's hair, but also showing curiosity about him. He was glad for the cold that had already brought a ruddy hue to his face, else his embarrassment would have shown through more. He knew they didn't mean anything by it, but being treated as a curiosity still irked him.

Sansa let out a giggle as one little girl gave her a hug and held her braided hair up to Sansa's to compare. It reminded him so much of how Cersei was with Myrcella when she was young. His sister's one redeeming quality: she loved her children. Without thinking, Tyrion commented, "You'll be a good mother."

Sansa looked at him with eyebrows raised, and he realized how his remark had come off. "I, uh, I didn't mean right away, of course," he said, stumbling over himself. Tyrion cursed himself and shook his head, looking away from her, the cold sapping his wits to get himself out of that statement.

"I hope I will," Sansa said, and he looked back to her where she was smiling. "One day," she added, and Tyrion smirked at her.

Sansa stood then, and they continued their walk through Daenerys's camp. "For what it's worth," she said. "I think you'll make a good father. Far better than yours was, at any rate." She didn't look at him as she walked beside him, her hand curled round his arm, but her words warmed him to the core. He wasn't sure what made her think that—his habits of drinking, gambling, whoring, and murdering probably had little do with it—but whatever she saw in him, he was glad of it.