"You are very lucky, Ser Tyrion,"
"I know, Your Grace," he replied.
They were walking by the walls of the Red Keep, Tyrion leaning heavily on a walking stick. One of the crossbow bolts fractured his kneecap, and although Maester Darrion promised the limp would be diminished with time, he warned that it will never be quite gone. Great, Tyrion thought. A limp to add to my waddle. Just what I needed. Still, it could have been much worse.
The last thing he remembered before passing out was Cersei burning alive. And a sweet sight she made, too. The first thing he saw when he regained consciousness was Sansa's tearful, anxious face. He had chided his wife many a time in the following days to get her rest and entrust him to the care of the masters, but her refusal to quit his side filled him with deep satisfaction.
"I granted pardon to your uncle Kevan when he surrendered Casterly Rock," said Daenerys, "your nephew Tommen is with him now. I have declared my forgiveness of all the Lannisters, except…"
"Jaime," finished Tyrion, "Your Grace, if he were to take the black – "
"No," Daenerys shook her head, "I'm sorry, ser, but the Kingslayer's only fate if I lay my hands upon him will be the headsman's axe."
Tyrion knew better than to press this point, and merely bowed his head in acknowledgement.
"I would make a request of you," said the queen.
"Her Grace needs not make requests of me, for I am hers to command."
"Be my Hand," said Dany, "I know you would serve me better than anyone."
"Your Grace…" Tyrion hesitated. "I have served as hand once, and if you require it I will do so again, but… the Seven Kingdoms are full of able men, and I know that staying here will not make my lady happy."
"I mentioned the prospect to Sansa, and she expressed her enthusiasm about it," said Dany.
"Of course she did. Sansa is dutiful, but I know her heart's desire is to return to Winterfell and begin rebuilding it. It is there that she will want to bring our child into this world."
He feared the queen would be vexed, but she smiled.
"So be it. Ser Tyrion Dragonwing, I name you my Warden of the North. With the winter already descending upon us, and the Wall more vulnerable than ever, I need a man like you in Winterfell."
"Marry Sansa Stark," his father's words echoed in Tyrion's mind, "and one day you may rule the north in her name." Well, it seems this is coming true, though not quite in the way Tywin Lannister had foreseen.
Their party went away the next day, under two banners – Tyrion's crimson lion on a field of white, and the direwolf of house Stark. As they said their farewells, Sansa sank onto her knees in front of the queen, but Dany drew her to her feet and kissed her on both cheeks.
"Goodbye, Sansa. When I arrange matters here, I shall visit all of the Seven Kingdoms, and hope to come to Winterfell soon enough. Perhaps I will even be in time to hold your child just as it is born."
"Perhaps you might be with child yourself by then, Your Grace," suggested Sansa, "if you accept one of the many suitors clamoring for your hand."
"The prophecy said I will never bear a living child," Daenerys said with a hint of sadness. "I'm afraid house Targaryen will die with me. But I am young, and in due time I will name a heir, so that peace is preserved in Westeros after my death. Until we meet again, Sansa."
… Their column traveled slowly. Sansa's condition and Tyrion's wounds made it necessary to take along a wheelhouse pulled by a dozen horses, in which the lord and lady found respite from the doubtful pleasures of riding. Many people rode with them, some of whom Sansa knew, others not. One familiar face was Ser Aslyn Blackwood, who made a point to say a gallant word to her every time they stopped to make camp.
One such time, Sansa noticed a young man who rode with Ser Aslyn, a burly, black-haired, blue-eyed youth with powerful arms, wearing a horned helm. His broody silence made strong contrast to Ser Aslyn's flow of chatter.
"Would you tell me the name of your companion, Ser Aslyn?" asked Sansa.
"Ah," said Blackwood with a smile. "This is Ser Gendry Hill, my lady. A fine fellow, was knighted at the end of Bitterbridge battle. The Bull of Bitterbridge, they called him."
Hill. A bastard, thought Sansa, yet she spoke to the surly young knight politely all the same. "So you fought at Bitterbridge, ser? I've heard some of the Freys fought there too, have you come face to face with them?"
"I slew two or three Freys there, m'lady," replied the burly young man indifferently. "'Twas a blood bath that day."
It was at this moment that Arya, who rode more expeditiously at the head of the column, stopped her horse and called excitedly:
"Gendry!"
"Do you know each other?" Sansa asked curiously, looking from her sister to the young man.
"M'lady of Stark," Gendry looked at Arya, his expression as surly as ever.
"He is the one I told you about," Arya said to her sister, "the Bull."
"I prefer to be known as Ser Bull these days," countered the young man.
"I would be glad if you make it for Winterfell, together with Ser Aslyn," said Sansa graciously.
"It would be a great pleasure, my lady," said Gendry, but there was little pleasure in his face when he rode off.
"What?" snapped Arya, observing her sister's smirk.
"I saw the way he looked at you," said Sansa.
"He hardly did."
"That's precisely the point. He is baseborn, you are a Stark of Winterfell. He dare not presume…"
"Gendry doesn't even know what presume mean," Arya cut across her.
"Was he born in King's Landing?" Sansa asked.
"I think so. Why?"
"Ever noticed who he looks like? That black hair, those blue eyes… he has the look of a Baratheon."
"You think…" Arya looked up at her in wonder, "no wonder Queen Cersei's men were looking for him. Well, I suppose it's likely he's Robert's bastard, but you'll find that hard to wrangle out of him. Whenever someone talks of his parents, Gendry shuts up like an oyster and it's impossible to make him string two words together."
"We'll see about that," Sansa smiled enigmatically. She had an idea or two in her mind that would help her satisfy her curiosity.
Another time, as Sansa and Tyrion were getting ready for bed, their cupbearer knocked and said a man insists on seeing the lord right away.
"Who?" asked Tyrion.
"I have no clue, m'lord. He kept his face hooded."
"And you just let him wander around the camp?" scowled Tyrion. The war was over, Daenerys had won, yet many still held grudges, and some of those men he had not the smallest wish to run across.
"It's me," a voice sounded outside the wheelhouse. Tyrion froze.
"Let him in," he said to the cupbearer, "and leave us."
As the man entered and took off his ragged cloak, Tyrion thought it was possible to recognize Jaime only because he knew him so well. His brother had darkened his hair and beard, and the latter was coarse and unkempt and covered half of his face.
"I believe congratulations are in order for you and my good-sister," said Jaime, looking at Sansa's rounded belly.
"Keep your voice down, you idiot," hissed Tyrion, "how come you happen to be here, where all are loyal to the queen? Have you taken leave of your senses?"
"You lied to me," his brother's voice was stern.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You didn't kill Joff. I know that now."
"I said that to spite you. It was ill-done. Mind you, I'm still not sorry he'd died."
Jaime sank onto his knees before his brother. "Tyrion, I know I will never get royal pardon, but I wanted to ask for yours before I leave Westeros forever."
"Where would you go?" asked Tyrion. Jaime merely shrugged.
"I don't know yet. One thing is certain, this will be the last you see of me here. I will be sailing out of White Harbor upon the morrow. Will you forgive me, Tyrion? I know now what I did was foul, I let our father manipulate me, I never should have said Tysha was –"
"Stop," Tyrion said abruptly, "I know. There is no need to –"
The brothers embraced, and when they broke off, Jaime was struggling for breath and Tyrion's eyes were rather red.
"Farewell, brother," said Tyrion.
Jaime only nodded before closing the door behind him, and as he did, Tyrion knew he left their life forever.