Chapter Nine

Tyrion stayed in his chamber for the rest of the day and long into the night. Sansa had been good to her word, sending not only his meals to his room but a seamstress as well. The old woman had addressed him as "my lord," but had given no other indication that she'd known who he was, and Tyrion had begun to wonder if Sansa had revealed the truth to her people or if they still believed he was just a messenger.

Until their conversation in the library, it had been Tyrion's intention to leave Winterfell without ever revealing his identity to a single soul. But the blizzard raging outside was treacherous, and he would have been a fool to try to traverse it simply to avoid his duty. And he did have a duty to Sansa, he knew that now. He had committed himself to her in the Great Sept of Baelor, and for better or for worse, as long as he lived and breathed, he was still beholden to her.

Of course, that didn't mean he had to stay by Sansa's side, but it did mean that he couldn't pretend he was a faceless, nameless vagabond anymore. He was Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Winterfell, and with that came certain obligations he could no longer ignore.

Tyrion sat in a straight-backed chair before the hearth, staring into the roaring fire, a glass in his hand, his mind clouded with unpleasant thoughts. He hoped to stay in his chamber until the snow let up – whether that be in three hours or in three days – and then be on his way. He didn't know what Jon Snow would think when he received word that the Imp of Casterly Rock was still alive. Although Sansa seemed to think Jon would welcome the news, Tyrion had his doubts. All he needed was for Sansa to tell Jon just how unhappy she was, and he might find himself being dragged back to King's Landing to stand trial for any manner of crimes. Tyrion didn't want to think about it too much. He felt like a caged animal just waiting to be slaughtered and skinned for someone else's supper.

The quiet solitude of Tyrion's chamber was suddenly broken by a soft, low rap at the door. The hour was impossibly late, so late, in fact, that Tyrion had been certain the entire keep was already abed, but evidently, he'd been wrong.

For one insane, irrational moment, Tyrion thought it might be Sansa. He knew she wanted nothing to do with him, but her son wanted a baby brother, and Tyrion was under the impression that she would do just about anything to make the child happy. But Tyrion quickly dismissed the thought. After everything he had said to her since his return, he was certain that Sansa despised him, and he knew she would never share his bed again.

Before Tyrion could answer, the door began to open, and he leaned over the edge of his chair so that he could see the door from over his shoulder. "Who's there?" he asked, his heart beating an anxious rhythm.

There was no answer, just the pad of tiny footfalls as Eddard took a few unsteady steps into the room. He had his big book of dragon tales in one arm and was trying to push the door all the way open with the other. He looked like he was going to topple over at any moment.

Tyrion's heart lodged in his throat. The last time he had seen Sansa, she had told him that she intended to reveal his identity to Eddard, and Tyrion was suddenly scared to face the boy. He feared what Eddard might do or say if he now knew the truth.

And yet, Tyrion couldn't let the child continue to struggle, so he quickly put his glass on the table beside his chair and scrambled to his feet. He rushed forward, reaching for the book. "Here, let me help you," he said, plucking the heavy volume from the child's arms.

"Thank you," Eddard said as he finally got the door all the way open and toddled into the room. He turned around and pushed it closed behind him, using both hands to move the heavy wooden door.

Tyrion sighed. This was not at all how he'd wanted to spend his night. Sleep had been elusive, of course, but he'd hoped to drink at least another flagon of wine before the sun came up.

"What are you doing here?" Tyrion asked, his voice quavering slightly. "Shouldn't you be abed?"

"I couldn't sleep," Eddard replied as he turned around again. "Mother said you would be leaving as soon as the snow stopped, and I wanted to finish showing you my book."

"And did your mother say anything else about me?" Tyrion had to know.

"No," Eddard answered, shaking his head, his golden curls swaying with the movement.

Tyrion exhaled a relieved sigh, thankful that Sansa hadn't revealed his identity to the boy. It would be a lot easier to leave Winterfell if Eddard didn't know the truth, easier for Tyrion and easier for Eddard.

Before Tyrion could say another word, Eddard asked, "Can we read the book again?"

Eddard's eyes were so damned earnest that Tyrion just couldn't resist them. They were so much like his mother's eyes.

"All right," Tyrion said. "I can't sleep anyway. Let's read some of this book."

Eddard's face instantly brightened, and he raced to the big bed in the center of the room.

Tyrion had intended for them to sit on the rug by the hearth, but apparently, Eddard had other ideas. It was obvious that what he really wanted was a bedtime story, and it had been a long time since Tyrion had told anyone a bedtime story. The last time it had been Tommen and Myrcella curled up beside him. This time it would be Sansa Stark's precocious little son.

Eddard scrambled onto the bed, scaling it like Bran Stark had once scaled the walls of Winterfell. Tyrion walked across the floor, placing the book on the mattress before climbing up himself. Together, they settled back against the headboard, the book so large that, when Eddard opened it, it covered both their laps.

"Where would you like me to start?" Tyrion asked, idly flipping through the pages. Although he hadn't noticed it earlier, the book looked oddly familiar, and Tyrion suddenly realized that it had been one of the books he had read on his last trip to Winterfell.

"Read me the one about Aegon I and how he used his dragons to conquer Westeros. That one's my favorite."

"All right then, Aegon I it is."

Tyrion turned a few more pages, and Eddard hunkered down at his side to listen to the story.

For Tyrion, there was something oddly comforting about having a child curled up beside him. With Eddard's head bent over the book, only his golden curls visible from the corner of Tyrion's eye, Eddard looked just like Tommen, and it was easy for Tyrion to pretend that he was back in King's Landing, telling dragon stories to his beloved nephew. It was easy for him to pretend that the last eight years had been nothing more than a bad dream, if only for a moment.

"There it is!" Eddard exclaimed, pointing one chubby finger at the page as soon as it came into view.

"Indeed, it is." Tyrion cleared his throat and began to read.

The story was an old one, one Tyrion had heard told and retold many times, but it never got boring. Dragons were fascinating creatures, as were their Targaryen masters. Within minutes, Tyrion was as deeply engrossed in the story as Eddard, and he read with a passion and a fervor that he hadn't felt in a long time.

He read about Aegon and his sisters sweeping into Westeros and laying waste to all who opposed them. He read about the burning of Harrenhal and the invasion of Dorne. It was all quite thrilling, even after so many years, and Tyrion was surprised to find that he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

As they reached the climax of the story, Eddard gripped the sleeve of Tyrion's nightshirt, clinging to him for dear life.

Tyrion looked down to find that Eddard's knuckles had gone white. He gently patted the boy's hand to comfort him. "It's all right," Tyrion said. "It's almost over."

Eddard clutched his shirt even tighter. "I know. This is the best part."

Tyrion chuckled and went back to reading, leaving Eddard exactly as he was. Tyrion finished the story with all the fire and gravity that a tale of dragon conquest deserved. When he was done, he closed the book and leaned back, feeling oddly satisfied for some strange reason.

Eddard finally relinquished his hold on Tyrion's sleeve. "Read me another. Please, please."

Tyrion shook his head, unable to chase the smile from his face. "No, I think that's enough for one night. What if your mother discovers you're not in bed?"

"She won't come looking for me till morning. Read me another, please."

Had the hour not been so late, Tyrion might have acquiesced, but as it was, he was finally growing tired and he didn't think he possessed the stamina to give the performance that Eddard was expecting.

"I'm a tired old dwarf," Tyrion said. "I'm afraid I don't have the energy to read you another one tonight."

"Then I'll read you one." And before Tyrion could protest, Eddard opened the book again and started turning the pages, looking for his own tale to tell.

Tyrion cringed inwardly. He'd had children read to him before, and it was always an ordeal. They'd stumble over the same word a dozen times before he'd have to intervene and do the reading for them. He was in no mood for such altruism tonight. All he really wanted now was sleep. "Don't you think you'd rather save it until morning? It's very late."

"Don't worry. I'm not tired," Eddard reassured him.

A moment later, the boy settled on the story of his choice and began to read. His voice was loud and clear, his inflections highly dramatic, as if he was determined to put on a performance every bit as theatrical as Tyrion's had been. He breezed over the words, reading as if he'd been born with a book in his hand.

Tyrion was beyond impressed by Eddard's knowledge of the written word. He had never known a child who was so well-versed in his letters. Well, except for one. But Tyrion refused to make any more comparisons between himself and the little boy sitting next to him.

As Eddard wove his tale, Tyrion finally began to relax again. Instead of staring at the illustrations as Eddard read, Tyrion watched the boy intently. His eyes were bright, his face enraptured by the words as he flew over them. Had Tyrion had a son, he would have wanted him to be just like Eddard – smart, clever, passionate, stubborn. Tyrion wondered which of those traits the boy had inherited from his mother and which had come from the man who had sired him.

Tyrion didn't know how long he sat there watching and listening, but when Eddard was finally done, he looked up at him for approval.

"Well?" Eddard asked.

"That was brilliant. Are you sure you don't want to join a mummers' troupe? You'd make a marvelous actor."

"No," Eddard replied without giving the matter a second thought. "I am the Lord of Winterfell. I will stay here all of my days."

"Well, if that is what you wish, then I hope that is what the gods grant you. Now," Tyrion said, closing the book for him, "you really should run along and get some sleep before your mother finds out about this."

"Can I stay with you?" Eddard asked as he burrowed down deeper into the mattress.

"No, you definitely cannot stay with me."

"But why? I like you. You're good at telling stories."

"Yes, well, there will be time for more stories tomorrow. But for now, you must go."

But Eddard was determined to stay. He pushed the book farther onto Tyrion's lap, then slipped under the furs before Tyrion could stop him, nestling himself against one of the pillows.

Tyrion fought the urge to swear. "This is highly unconventional," he argued. "Maybe you should go crawl into your mother's bed."

Eddard yawned, pulling the covers up against his chin. "No, I'll stay here," he said. Then, he closed his eyes and exhaled a contented sigh.

Tyrion didn't know what to do. He had never expected the boy to fall asleep in his bed. Eddard had put him in an awkward position, and he wasn't sure how to get himself out of it.

Tyrion knew he couldn't move Eddard even if he wanted to. The boy was more than three-fourths his height, and there was no way Tyrion would be able to carry him off the bed if he didn't want to go. But Tyrion didn't want to spend the rest of the night in the chair either. He was thoroughly exhausted now, and all he really wanted was a comfortable bed and a good night's sleep.

Without allowing himself to think too much about his own motives, Tyrion eased the book from his lap and pushed it to the bottom of the bed. It was damned heavy, and he didn't feel like getting up just to move it.

Once the book was out of the way, Tyrion lay down atop the furs beside Eddard, resting his head on his own pillow and turning so that he could face the boy. Eddard was already fast asleep, and Tyrion took his time examining him thoughtfully, looking for what he knew Sansa wanted him to see.

There were traces of Lannister in him, even a blind man could have seen that, and for a moment, Tyrion's heart stilled in his chest. Had Joffrey gotten to Sansa after they'd been wed? Had he forced her to—?

Tyrion shook his head, chasing the thought away. If Joffrey had raped Sansa back in King's Landing, she would have been too traumatized to hide the truth. She would never have been able to keep it a secret, and Tyrion would have ended up murdering Joffrey himself. No, Joffrey wasn't Eddard's father. But if not Joffrey, then who?

At the time Eddard must have been conceived, there had still been plenty of Lannister men roaming about Westeros. If the boy had Lannister blood, his father could have been any one of them. Surprisingly, the person Eddard most reminded Tyrion of was Jaime, but Tyrion knew that Jaime would never have betrayed him like that. It was the only thing in the entire world that Tyrion knew for certain.

Of course, there was a part of Tyrion that knew he was avoiding the obvious conclusion. The gods had always been cruel to him. There was no way in the seven hells that they had suddenly decided to take pity on him and bless him with a beautiful wife and a beautiful child. No matter how much he longed to believe that Eddard was his son, he simply couldn't. He didn't deserve what was being offered to him, and he was terrified to let himself feel even the slightest pang of false hope. He had done that many times before, and it had never ended well.

No, Tyrion decided that he would stop looking for hints of himself in the boy because, even when he found them, they just made him feel more uncertain. Tyrion had been a fool too many times in his life. He was done being a fool. He would not believe, he could not believe, that Eddard was his son, for fear of having his heart shattered again.

Tyrion exhaled a defeated sigh and finally allowed his eyes to close. He focused on the soft, sweet sound of Eddard's breathing as he slowly drifted off to sleep.