She awoke before Tyrion did. The work of reorganizing and managing one of the seven kingdoms had required her to rise before the sun on many mornings, and Sansa found herself deeply grateful for the opportunity to center herself without an audience. Her tongue was heavy and dry in her mouth, and her head pounding away in time with her heartbeat, but the direst consequence of her night was in the twisting and shifting thoughts and warnings waging a war in her mind. She didn't regret her decision to seek comfort in Tyrion's touch—assuming that it had been a decision made, rather than an instinctual return to his side—but the world that awaited her on the other side of the door was so much more complicated than the quiet corner she and Tyrion had sequestered.
It was less complicated than it had been two days ago, though, so she forced her mind to still and focused only on the soft smile curving at Tyrion's lips. Sansa considered herself privileged to have seen so many of Tyrion's smiles over the course of their acquaintance, and she quietly tucked away this smile as one especially special. This smile was hers, and hers alone.
She was still studying him, quietly memorizing how that smile gentled the harsh line of his scars and eased the tension that plagued his brow in his waking moments, when a quiet groan slipped past his lips. Tyrion woke, the smile twisting into a frown as one of his hands rose up automatically to rub at his eyes. When his eyes opened at last, he stilled to recognize Sansa still lying beside him, propped up on her elbows as she stared down at him. A curious bloom of warmth sprouted in her chest when the man relaxed almost immediately to smile at her again.
"Not a dream, then?" he asked, voice still rough with sleep as his eyes traced the gentle curves of her body, still exposed to the air. A flicker of self-doubt threatened to rear up in Sansa's mind, but it was smothered just as quickly as it had appeared by Tyrion's eyes shifting to meet hers, warm and content.
A part of Sansa wanted to tease him for his comment—do you often dream of me, my lord?—but the possibility of a serious answer scared her into silence for a long moment. Eventually, she settled on stretching her stiff spine, quietly bemoaning the hard stone that had been their bed. The knots in her back reminded her of the reality that waited behind the closed door, and the thoughts that followed the reminder was much less pleasant than the warmth of Tyrion's gaze.
"I have to go," she realized softly. Her last words to Jon the previous night—her goodbye when she went off to speak with Tommen—hadn't been said with consideration that she might be gone through the night. The castle had gotten considerably safer with Cersei secured away at Tommen's order, but the rest of the Northern party would no doubt be worried for her after such a long absence. Worry meant platitudes—it meant explanations—and Sansa wasn't sure if she was ready to offer any of those to her brother.
Tyrion winced suddenly, and Sansa wondered briefly if his thoughts had followed hers exactly or merely paralleled them. Daenerys hadn't been exactly quiet when expressing her concerns towards Tyrion's feelings for Sansa. A spike of worry pierced Sansa's heart when she considered that the Dragon Queen would be less than pleased with her lord Hand once word of their tryst inevitably reached her. That worry prompted her to reach for his hand, but the look of wonder that overtook his features at the gesture inspired her to lean down towards him, hesitantly catching his lips in a kiss. He shifted closer to her, deepening the kiss as his other hand lifted up to cradle her cheek.
Sansa regretted the necessity of leaving him in this place. She wasn't sure exactly what she wanted as the sunlight began piercing the darkness of this space—to steal him away would invite questions she wasn't able to answer—but parting with him struck a hollow chord in her heart.
"Sansa…" Tyrion murmured her name against her lips, pulling away far enough to prompt her to look at him. There was a darkness in his eyes that epitomized the snarled mess of his thoughts and Sansa toyed vaguely with the concept of quietly untangling the chaos, learning and soothing the storm of his thoughts. There was a sadness to the idea, a wistfulness of what might have been if their lives had been different in any number of tiny ways. She wondered again at her wedding cloak. She hoped it survived somewhere, hidden and safe.
"You'll sail North with us," she said as soon as she found her voice again. She had hated the voyage to Dragonstone—she was born for earth and ice, not wind and sea, and her stomach hadn't settled the entire journey—but the concept of taking to the sea with Tyrion close at hand was almost pleasant. "I'll see you for the preparation."
Tyrion's thumb brushed against her cheekbone carefully before his hand fell away, allowing Sansa to stand and begin the process of reclaiming her clothes where they had been discarded around them. Neither spoke a word as they both dressed quickly, but Tyrion reached towards her hand with his own, squeezing it tightly before they parted at the door, each to return to their own rooms.
The Red Keep was still largely asleep, with only a scattering of servants in the halls to send curious looks to the Wardeness of the North as she quickly retreated back to Breakspear Tower. Sansa slipped into her rooms as quietly as she could manage, but her care was clearly for naught as an irritated tapping began to echo through the emptiness of the room. Jon Snow sat at her breakfast table, Brienne beside him. His face was a hard mask, but his eyes—filled with poorly disguised worry—reignited a rush of shame as Sansa met his gaze.
"I have half a mind to keep you to your quarters," were the first words out of Jon's mouth. He was usually frowning, but his current grimace had a pained edge to it that it usually lacked. He always worried, but now he had a more direct cause for worry than his usual driving tensions.
"I should have told someone where I was," Sansa said quickly, apologetically. A quiet war raged in her thoughts before she settled on honesty as the only course of action. There may not have been many eyes to witness her return, but all it took was one witness to unravel any complicated stories she might weave. "What Tommen told me yesterday… I was unsettled. I came upon Tyrion in my wandering and wanted his opinion."
"His opinion," Jon grumbled with marked disbelief. His eyes darted around the room—to the table, to the curtains shifting in the breeze, to the sword at his side—before landing on Sansa's face. "You should have stayed in the North, where it's safe."
At that, a hard laugh escaped Sansa.
"Safe? It's safe in the North? Are you really more worried about Tyrion mistreating me than you're worried about the dead?"
"He's a Lannister—" Jon attempted to interrupt her but aiming to discredit Tyrion—especially through one that mattered as little to Sansa as his name—was a strategy just short of absurd.
"Tommen's a Lannister, who just swore the crown's men at arms for our war. Ser Jaime's a Lannister, who will be risking his life to lead those men to battle. The way I see it, good Lannisters are outnumbering the bad right now."
"I shouldn't have let you go to Dragonstone. I should have—"
"Let me go to Dragonstone? Jon, listen to yourself. You didn't let me go. I went, because it was what was best for the North. Just like you went beyond the Wall. When will you understand that? I've been doing what's best for the North as best I can since we took Winterfell back."
"Is Tyrion good for the North, then?" Jon was very nearly shouting, and Sansa saw red.
"My lady." Brienne's interruption was a boon, a balm that stole the tension from the air almost effortlessly. Sansa suddenly wished there were more unoccupied castles in the North, just so Brienne could have her pick. "I'm sure what your brother means to say is that we were all worried for you. Jon went to see Queen Daenerys, expecting to find you with her advisors, but you and Tyrion were both missing. There are still threats within the capital, and you had no one to defend you."
"I understand your concern, and I'm sorry to have made anyone worry. After speaking with Tommen, I was… out of sorts." Sansa bowed her head towards her sworn sword, clearly hearing the reprimand in Brienne's words. She truly hadn't meant to worry anyone; it was as if she'd used up all her guile in the weeks leading to the parley, and she was too tired to plan her actions or foresee the consequences her thoughtlessness might engender.
"I would ask, my lady, that Podrick stays at your side from now on. He's improved greatly with a sword, and he would serve you well." The words Brienne wanted to say remained unspoken, but Sansa heard them clearly. Especially since you would have me leave you. Again.
"I—" The words died on Sansa's tongue. Arguments flitted through her mind but she discarded them all. Brienne—and Jon, oblivious as he was—deserved more than that from her. "I will consider it. Thank you for your concerns." She looked to Jon, who's eyes were still dark and tight with worry. "I'm sorry for worrying you. But we cannot keep these lines between all of us. We're all alive here, and we must work together to keep it that way."
"I'm not asking you to—" Jon's voice cut off abruptly at a sharp glance from Brienne that was gone before Sansa could truly process whatever emotion was there. Maybe a remnant from some prior conversation, some worried exchange the two had had before Sansa had returned to her rooms? In any case, Jon tried again after a moment's silence. "When the fighting starts, I need you to be with our people south of the Neck."
The words shocked Sansa into silence for a long moment and she stared at her brother, surprise quickly giving way to something darker.
"You want me to run away."
And Jon, for the first time in years, saw a resemblance between his two sisters. Arya had been something jagged and fierce when he briefly was reunited with her, and all that danger danced in Sansa's blue eyes as they bore into him without mercy. The words were accusatory, but her tone was flat as her shoulders set back primly as the Wardeness dared him to deny it.
Since they'd been reunited, Jon had largely given way to her wishes, to her demands, and he was happy when her gambles had—at least for the most part—succeeded beyond his best hopes. This was one issue, however, that he would not negotiate. He got to his feet and felt a brief rush of pride when she didn't back down away from him. She was as stubborn as any of them, and he truly loved her, but he needed her safe far more than he needed her happy. The worry he'd felt since she disappeared with Tommen—the fear and the tightness in his chest that had grown when they were surrounded by living enemies—only proved that he needed her to be safe when the dead came. If not for her own sake, then for his.
"Sansa, all I can do is fight." He was his father's son; Ned Stark might have been Lord of Winterfell, but he'd been raised with the expectation that Brandon would inherit the mantle of Warden. Jon had grown with the understanding that he would be a soldier, a defender of his home but never the leader of it. "If the dead reach Winterfell—if Winterfell falls—I won't be good for anything. I need you south of the Neck not just to keep you safe, but to keep our people safe. The parley stands until the war with the dead is over. No matter how it ends, the North will still have enemies in the kingdoms. You'll keep them safe."
Sansa wanted to argue. She wanted to scream at Jon, berate him for the mere suggestion of abandoning Winterfell, but clarity fell over her mind like a deep freeze as she opened her mouth to speak. Jon underestimated his own worth constantly, but he was rarely wrong. Despite how the other kingdoms may have felt about the North, their lords wouldn't have crowned an idiot or a fool.
Sansa wouldn't fight, not today. There were days ahead, numbered though they may be, that would keep her at her place in Winterfell. She would be at Jon's side as they planned the defense. She would work alongside Wolkan and the lords to ensure that supplies were properly stored and measured. She'd work with her lords to determine who would go south.
She pulled Jon into a hug, forgoing a response. She'd allow Jon today's victory because to argue now would only be petulant. She'd take Podrick as a guard when Brienne was riding alongside Ser Jaime because to refuse would only cause more worry. She would save her arguments, save her judgement and reasoning for the only battle that mattered.
The Black Cells had once been a place of power for the queenmother. She had once strolled these dank hallways with a gleeful smile as she exerted her influence to shape and crush the lives of the foolish few that dared stand in her way. Now that familiar darkness clawed at her, stressing the cracks on Cersei's mind that had developed so long ago. It was in this darkness and the loneliness of her thoughts that the shadows began to shift from enemies to allies and back and forth as time dragged by. There were occasionally shifting shadows at the doors—guards or servants delivering meals and performing impartial wellness checks and never ever speaking to her—but Cersei began to run out of the energy to scream and bite and kick at them as the unending days stretched into perpetual weeks.
They would pay. She couldn't see their faces, but she was certain that she knew them. They thought they were safe in their darkness, but Cersei could plainly see the million eyes that had stared impassively or glared or pitied or hated her as she was marched to the Red Keep. But the Sparrows were dead at her hand, and soon all those million eyes would be clouded with a death she'd inflict. It would take time to slit that many throats, but she had eternity in this darkness to plot, to plan, to hate.
As a child, Cersei had no doubt that she'd be unable to recognize the woman the years had turned her into. That was fine, though. She had been a naïve little thing in her youth, dreaming of princes and happily-ever-afters. Hate had made her strong enough to do what was necessary. Hate had protected her, protected her family, from all that would oppose them. It was hate that fueled her every move, her every thought, and it wouldn't abandon her now. She was a lion of Casterly Rock. Her father's exploits had inspired terror and allegiance. Hers would cement a dynasty to last a thousand years, so long as she was as clever as her father taught her to be.
Someone would come for her soon. Cersei wasn't the only one who knew how strong she was. It only took one shadow to come slithering out of the shadows to free her, and that shadow would be amply rewarded for their service.
She could make her way to Casterly Rock. Her son was rebelling against her, but his treachery would be tempered by the sharp bite of winter. Until he came crawling back to her, though, she would protect herself as she always did. Jaime would keep Tommen safe until he came around. Until then… The North had struck out as an independent kingdom, and Dorne had fallen into anarchy last she'd heard. The Westerlands would serve as the seat of her power as she began her campaign to reclaim and rebuild the seven kingdoms into a stronger, better land. Even if she had to burn everything that existed to expose the foundations that she could build onto, it would be done. With her at the helm, Westeros would become a land built from the flagstones up to be stronger and last longer than the Targaryens could have ever fantasized.
Euron was still free. He would comply with their plan and hire the Golden Company. There wasn't a direct sea route for them to land in the Westerlands, but the Riverlands were a land still ravaged and reeling from the War of Five Kings.
A shifting shadow at the door gained her attention briefly. Another wellness check, a meal so soon?
The door opened and the darkness shifted and breathed as it stepped closer to Cersei. A shining silver streak swept towards Cersei and she only grinned, unable to see the madness glinting in her own eyes as the knife arced down towards her.
Tyrion's head was throbbing but there was an undeniable spring in his step as he entered the rooms where he had been supposed to sleep. His happy thoughts threatened to fall away when he realized that he was not alone in the rooms. Daenerys stood near the window, staring out onto the city with a dispassionate gaze.
"My queen—"
"Tyrion. Where have you been?" She turned slowly to face him, her pale eyes scanning his unkempt appearance critically. She was dressed for traveling, and Tyrion reminded himself that they were to set sail for White Harbor today.
"Grandmaester Tylan approached me last night to discuss finances, as I was the last serving Master of Coin," Tyrion answered automatically. One of Daenerys's eyebrows arched daringly. Caught, Tyrion sighed tiredly. "I assume someone told Varys."
"Varys didn't need to tell me. The King in the North did. It would seem that his sister joined Tommen on a walk yesterday, and she wasn't seen again until this morning. Jon Snow was very concerned, and wanted to speak to you, since he knows you to be on good terms with his sister, only to find you gone as well. It seems that we both underestimated your relations." Her voice was steel, cold and unforgiving.
Tyrion wondered how he found himself in these situations. Sansa had come onto him, but he was the one in trouble. There was no justice in this world.
"My queen, I—"
"I told you once that I was losing patience with your attachment to Lady Stark," Daenerys reminded Tyrion. He remembered the conversation well; she had ended it with an unveiled threat on Sansa's life. Looking at Daenerys now, Tyrion watched as his queen's face shifted from the grim mask it had so reliably been since her invasion of Westeros had begun. Looking at her now, she looked almost… apologetic? "I did not appreciate your concern for her because I didn't see her care for you. But she does care for you. I misjudged her greatly, and now it would seem that I owe her the success of the parley. You were right to name her as a valuable ally…
"Do you love her?" Daenerys asked, an open curiosity in her voice. Tyrion's eyes drifted downward as he considered the question. He didn't quite know how to love. He cared for Sansa immensely, but was it love? Could he curse her with his love, which had served to poison so many others' lives? It was with his love that Tysha had been ripped away from him, raped at his father's order. It was with his love that Shae had spoken against him in that farce of a trial. His love tended to twist people into something ugly, something broken. He didn't want to love Sansa if that meant marking her for ruin. "Yes, I think you do…"
"I've learned not to bet against House Stark." The words were in the air between them before Tyrion could stamp them down. "Just as the world learned not to bet against House Targaryen."
"I'm the last of my family. I will be the end of my house." A bitter laugh escaped Daenerys. "Sansa Stark will continue her house, and her legacy will live on."
"Your legacy will live on. We'll make sure of it," Tyrion assured his queen quickly. He had no other words to offer her, though, and silence fell between them for a long moment.
"You wanted to speak to me about succession and I refused to humor you. I couldn't think about the future, about what happens when this war finally ends. But after all that's happened… We do need to talk about it, no matter how hard it is."
For the second time in as many days, Tyrion found himself in a situation he couldn't imagine. This would be a lengthy negotiation, and it would span many meetings, but she was thinking of it. Daenerys would break the wheel; Tyrion only had to figure out a way to keep it broken.
The door opened without warning, swinging open to reveal Bronn striding forward. His gait faltered slightly as his wandering eyes caught sight of Daenerys, but he recovered admirably and focused on Tyrion's small form, a serious grimace twisting his features.
"We're in the shit now. Someone's gone and broken the bitch from the Black Cells." The sellsword explained in his rough way, speaking of plots and of poisonings and of Cersei smuggled from from the Red Keep, as Tyrion and Daenerys were a captive audience. There was only speculation at this point, but Thena couldn't be found. It would seem that the mistress of whispers had decided that Tarly's case was too strong to risk Cersei in a fair trial. She had been right, of course, but Tyrion still felt his heart sinking as Bronn delivered a summons to him from King Tommen. Already his mind drifted back to Sansa, wondering if it was too late to go back to that dusty office.
Published 15:32, 7.29.20