Author's Note:

Some Sam/Gilly family fluff in this chapter because they're adorable and I love them forever. Also some bitter lamentations by Tyrion because basically "why's all the rum gone?" only with wine ;) One last Sansa chapter left in the Winterfell storyline…oh yes, lovelies, we're approaching the end. It's bittersweet for me (I heart this story) but also exciting, because I can finally start outlining new stories :)

Next week - back to Bear Island. Mwah!

Tyrion

Tyrion rebuilt the glass houses for Sansa.

There was no great mystery in this, though he might have made some excuses to Sam that it was for the benefit of Winterfell as a whole or the practical thing to do.

Tyrion had spent his life making these sort of excuses, avoiding the unsettling idea that his actions were wholly motivated from selfish whims or protecting those he loved from further harm. There was too much of Cersei and his father in those perhaps-more-accurate reasons so he preferred the excuse of advancing the general welfare. Sometimes he almost believed it was true.

Is there such a thing as selfish altruism? He wondered, far too self-aware for his own good, remembering the latrine and sewer project that he had completed in Casterly Rock all those years ago. Had he done such a thorough job for the sake of the city residents? Or was it for Tywin Lannister's approval?

Honestly, he didn't know. And he assumed it would be disingenuous to claim both.

But in any case, Sam ran with idea of rebuilding the Winterfell glass houses, giving Tyrion his full support and blessing, as both the Maester of Winterfell and an amateur gardener, in his own right. After the houses were rebuilt, Sam watched their chance of survival grow stronger with each shoot and bud that appeared in the dark earth, warmed by pale sunlight caught through frosted glass windows. Gilly too, found comfort and purpose in the act of making things grow. She spent hours in the glass houses, kneeling between rows of rutabagas, cabbages and winter greens, carefully thinning and tending to the resilient plants, giving them every chance to thrive.

Often, Tyrion joined the Tarlys in the gardens…without the same enthusiasm, of course, but finding distraction from the grey skies in its greenery nonetheless. While Gilly tended to the vegetables, Sam was hoeing his patch of tangled herbs. Little Sam and Ghost were nestled among the flower beds, where they'd scattered seeds that Sam found unmarked in Maester Luwin's stores. There were daisies and hyacinth that seemed ready to give up as soon as they poked their heads out of the ground. But they were soon joined by lilies, irises and orchids, which seemed to change their minds.

The colors in that corner of the glass house were wild and vibrant. At its center was a winter rose bush, flourishing in the colder climate, its pale blue flowers at home here. The winter rose was beloved by the Starks, so Tyrion paid it special care, hoping to present Sansa with one of its first blooms.

But it was taking its own sweet time to flower. Tyrion found its stubbornness reminiscent of the family who loved it—strong vines, healthy roots, but buds locked away from any of his would-be ravishings, as if the flowers knew that he was trying to con their mistress into forgiveness and they wouldn't allow it. Not without a fight.

Cold-weather flowers, Tyrion mused to himself grumpily, impatient and unimpressed. To hell with them.

He found himself wondering again—for perhaps the hundredth time—if Sam could find a way to grow grape vines in this weather. Now there was a plant with a purpose.

A delightful, delicious purpose.

Sam had assured him that grapes were native to the south and there were no vines in Winterfell that might be tricked into growing tall and strong, or heavy with ripe fruit, not even in the relative warmth of a glass house.

"Shame," Tyrion had answered, understatedly. His sister's honeyed voice was in his head saying the same thing and, in this one respect, he would agree with Cersei whole-heartedly.

But even without grape vines that might be pressed into an elixir that could make winter just a little more bearable…he had to admit that the glass houses werebeautiful. Sam and Gilly worked miracles under those glass plates and Tyrion found himself spending more and more time with the Tarlys, even tending to the plants occasionally. He was no gardener, but he was no winter child either. And the glass houses were currently the only place in Winterfell that wasn't colored in shades of white and pale grey.

Gilly had remained quiet in Tyrion's presence for a long time. The wildling woman practiced the same reticence that she impressed upon her son. She was slow to trust, which was understandable, given her origins. Besides, she had Sam, who spoke enough for both of them.

As they all worked side by side, however, Gilly appeared to relax her self-imposed rules of reserve. Not so much in taking Tyrion into her confidence. No, nothing like that. She said maybe one or two words to him at most. A small "thank you" here, a muttered "you're welcome" there, as they passed watering cans and weeds between them.

But she spoke to Sam, and Tyrion was allowed to listen. Their easy dialogue filled the glass house with a simple domesticity that Tyrion didn't know could exist. Here. In the ruins of Winterfell. In the middle of winter.

"We had a little glass house at Craster's for a while," Gilly told Sam, her hands digging beneath a row of clustered carrot tops. "My mother grew violets and gillyflowers in it."

"I don't remember that," Sam's face took on a thoughtful glance, as he dug through his memories for those long ago months spent above the Wall. After a long pause, he conceded, "Although Edd, Grenn and I were busy shoveling out your father's pig sty so I may have missed it."

"No, it was long gone before you came," Gilly replied, sighing over events that happened years ago. "Craster broke all its windows in a drunken rage one night, screamin' at my mother…'what good are flowers in the snow?' he said."

"Well, they're good for a lot actually," Sam answered her dead father's cruel cynicism with his typical fact-based research, only enhanced in recent months by the number of hours he'd spent reading every herbalist text in Maester Luwin's bookshelves. He leaned on his hoe, considering the question fully, before concluding with a knowing nod, "Depending on the flower, it could save your life."

"Gillyflowers aren't that kind of flower," Gilly replied smartly, having read enough books on the subject to know what she was talking about.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Sam answered her with a wink, continuing, "A gillyflower has saved my life at least a dozen times…"

Gilly grinned at the transparent compliment, lowering her blushing face beneath the large, leafy heads of winter cabbages. Sam grinned back, pleased as always that he could draw out a rare smile from Gilly. It wasn't easy, even for him. But the reward was worth it. Sam and Gilly eased back into comfortable silence, with Sam picking up his hoe once more and Gilly moving on to a row filled with beets and lettuce trimmed with crinkled, maroon-colored leaves.

Tyrion envied Sam's soft manner with his wildling wife. The love between them was palpable and uncommon, especially here, especially now. How had they managed it? Love in a time of monsters—it wasn't easy.

His mind wandered, attempting to pause on the image of Shae and that gold necklace she wore around her neck. Lannister gold had filled every corner of the Hand's Tower. His father's tower. But he pushed all those thoughts aside, with more effort than he was used to. The wine always made the thoughts slide away so easily.

A little wine goes a long way…now the persistent thought of grapes entered his mind instead. He was grateful for the intrusion and followed that line of thought further. Maybe he could bribe Bronn into traveling south to find him some vines? Although, all thing's being equal, if Bronn was going south, he should just bring back a caravan's worth of bottles. Red, white or whatever other colors might be found in this wretched country.

Tyrion wasn't picky about wine.

Looking at all the pretty flowers in that corner of the glass house, with their many colors—reds, violets, yellows—he suddenly considered. Maybe Sansa wasn't picky about flowers. Maybe she didn't like winter roses at all? Violet aster might suit her just as well. Violet petals against that red hair would look just as striking. She wasn't her Aunt Lyanna, after all. She didn't need a wreath of blue flowers laid in her lap. She wasn't the kind to fall in love with a silver-haired dragon.

But what about a dog? He didn't give that unhappy thought even a moment's notice. Well, maybe just one, as jealousy rose too easily, tormenting him with the natural way the phrase traipsed through his head. The scarlet wolf and her loyal hound…

There was nothing in it, he reminded himself. Sansa and Sandor Clegane were not together. It was only his jealous mind that conjured the idea. She had cooled to him after he sent Brienne to Greywater Watch. And, in cooling to him, she warmed to the Hound. At least, the looks that he'd seen pass between them in the Great Hall said as much…

In the meantime, Little Sam picked a handful of weeds from a huddled patch of daisies and plodded over to his mother, handing the limp crabgrass over to her hands, "Here, Mama."

"Well done," she said, pulling the toddler close to press a kiss against his little cheek. "Now put it here, with the others. When they rot, they'll give their life back to the soil to make more flowers."

So many flowers, Little Sam. So many wines. Of all tastes and colors. But, try as Tyrion might, pretend as he may, his heart was currently fixated by one taste and one color and gods-help-him, red was its name.