Tyrion sulked in the back of the bouncing wagon, mentally taking back every complaint he'd thought about the ride to Winterfell from White Harbor in a plush, royal carriage. That had been a luxurious dream by comparison. Still… if the alternative was to be ripped apart by the dead, he supposed this was preferable.
His ego brutalized after being unmanned by his queen and sent away like a worthless cripple, left him quite sure he'd prefer anything the dead had to offer to this shameful retreat. Even his retreat, he thought he could have endured if he could see the point in it. If he truly thought she was sending him away to preserve his mind, he could have soothed his wounded ego. But no… What was the point in preserving his advice when she didn't heed it. It seemed that despite his best efforts, his counsel went in one ear and out the other.
He gaze strayed once again to Sansa, studying her was the only shred of pleasure on his ride. She'd started out on horseback, but quickly gave up her steed when she noticed a pregnant woman walking.
Despite the tutelage of Cersei and Littlefinger, he was surprised by how often the softer sentiments of her kinder role models slipped through the redheaded beauty's deceptively icy exterior. In the quiet, unobserved moments, he saw in her the honor of Ned Stark, the kindness of Margery Tyrell, and the maternal warmth of Catelyn Tully. How different she was from the naive and quivering child he'd promised not to touch even as she stood beside what might have been their marriage bed.
Where would they be now if she'd remained his bride? He could almost picture a couple of strawberry blonde brats running around Casterly Rock, but he knew that was a far-flung dream. If she'd remained his bride, it was as likely as not they'd both be dead now. And if they weren't, there was no guarantee that she ever could have learned to love him. To this day, she might still have sent him off to find carnal comfort in the arms of whores. If she hadn't learned that you couldn't always tell a monster just by looking at it, and that sometimes those with the most monstrous faces had the best hearts, she would have had no reason to change her opinion of him and she wouldn't be the woman before him now. A wolf raised by lions. But she'd returned to her pack stronger for it.
Even now she walked side by side with Jon's dire wolf. The wolf, like its master, seemed aware of the beautiful girl's every move, letting out low growls whenever it felt anyone drew too close to her. He didn't blame Jon or the wolf for the urge to protect her. Despite having proven capable of protecting herself, she was a treasure worthy of protection. At least Jon seemed aware of what he was blessed enough to possess. Tyrion hadn't recognized her value when she was his to hold. If he had it to do over again, he would have done whatever it took to make sure she remained his.
Sansa looked up and caught Tyrion staring. She gave him a slight nod in greeting.
"We should have stayed." He called out to her over the grinding, whining wagon wheels.
She tilted her head, as she tried to figure out what he'd said. She quickened her stride to bring herself closer to the wagon.
"I'm sorry?"
"We should have stayed." He said again, looking into those lovely blue eyes, he could see why his brother, so long enchanted by green eyes had been swayed by a pair of sapphires. "If we were up there, we might see something everyone else is missing. Something that might make a difference."
Sansa let out a sad, humorless laugh.
"What?" Tyrion riled at her lack of support. "Remember the Battle of Blackwater? I brought us through the Mud Gate."
"And got your face cut in half." She reminded him.
"And it made a difference." Tyrion insisted. "If I was there…"
"You'd die." Sansa said, though rather than a rebuke, it felt like a gentle kiss of kindness. She was glad he was here, glad he wasn't doomed to a pointless death. And he was glad that she was glad. "There's nothing you could have done." She cleared her throat to push down a swell of emotion. "Nothing either of us could do."
"You might be surprised at the lengths I'd go to avoid joining the Army of the Dead." He told her. "I could think of no organization less suited to my talents."
"Witty remarks won't make a difference, Lord Tyrion." Sansa said and gave him a sad smile. "We are of no use to those we'd like to protect. Staying out of the way is the best thing we can do now."
"But…" He began to protest, despite knowing that she had a point.
"It's the truth." She reached down and scratched Ghost behind the ear, but Tyrion thought her mind had likely drifted back to the walls of Winterfell and the man who held her heart.
Lucky bastard… though not a bastard, not really.
"It's the most heroic thing we can do now," She said, breaking the silence, "look the truth in the face."
"Maybe we should have stayed married." Tyrion teased, knowing well that she belonged to another and likely wouldn't have reciprocated his wish even if she wasn't spoken for.
"You were the best of them." Sansa admitted.
The best of them. The best of the men who had sought to claim her. He thought of the company that put him in. Joffery… a sadistic little tyrant granted too much power by a cruel trick of the gods and his mother's scheming. Littlefinger… an obsession so strong it transferred from mother to daughter. Ramsay… Where to even start? Yes, he could see she was right. He was certainly the best of them. Just as Daenerys was the best of the Targaryens. But in truth, better was not the same as good.
Yes, he was the best of the bad men who'd desecrated her innocence. What a great honor.
Sansa reached out and placed her hand upon his on the sideboard of the wagon. "It wouldn't work between us."
He raised an eyebrow, surprised by this. "Why not?"
"The Dragon Queen." Sansa squeezed his hand gently, and he wondered if, perhaps, in a different life his chances with her hadn't be as impossible as he'd imagined, if not for Jon.
"Your divided loyalties would become a problem." She assured him.
Tyrion chuckled softly to himself. If only she knew how much of a problem those divided loyalties were to him even now. He'd sworn himself to Daenerys and been named her Hand. But even now, he could see Jon, and particularly Jon with Sansa by his side, would be far better suited to the throne. He supposed it was poetic, for another Lannister to be caught between loyalty to a monarch and the good of the realm. He'd always looked to his brother's example, perhaps he should do so once again.
A shadow fell across Sansa's fair face. Ghost whined and the horses stamped and snorted in protest.
Tyrion looked up, half expecting to spot Drogon soaring overhead, blotting out the sun. But no, no dragon was responsible for this unnatural dark. Instead, it was as though something had blotted out the sun itself, leaving only a painfully bright ring around a black abyss.
The caravan had backed up to a stop as everyone slowly looked up at the unnatural dark
"What in the name of the gods?" Sansa whispered, sinking to one knee to soothe Ghost who snarled despite her reassurance.
Tyrion struggled to his feet and hopped down from the wagon, looking around at their surrounding. The gleaming white snow had dimmed to gray in the shadowy light. It looked closer to dusk than early afternoon. And everything was still. Too still. Not a single bird or animal rustled among the trees and bushes.
"Well, this can't be good." He observed, resting a hand on Sansa's shoulder which he hoped offered more reassurance than he actually felt. "Stay here. I'll take a look."
Sansa nodded.
Then a scream split the air.
"Out of my way." The Greyjoy lad elbowed his way through the crowd running like someone had lit a fire beneath his feet. He nearly plowed down Tyrion as he raced to Sansa's side. He hoisted her to her feet and dragged her away without a word. She looked back at Tyrion, but did not resist Theon's lead.
Tyrion watched her go and then turned back in the direction of the unrest. The screams and general panic was growing. His heart pounded in his chest and his throat tightened. He could scramble onto a horse and ride the other direction. It would be challenging to hold on without a customized saddle, but he could manage.
But no… yet another downside of self-betterment. A desire to preserve the greater good.
He pushed through the restless crowd in the direction of the mounting panic. His tongue felt dry and heavy in his mouth and his neck felt hot and sweaty despite the chill.
When he reached the edge of the crowd, he froze. His bowels turned to water and if the shock hadn't locked his legs in place, he would have fled. Self-betterment be damned.
He'd been prepared for the dead. He'd even been prepared for the sight of a wight dragon flying overhead, spouting icy fire.
But not this.
Not spiders larger than draft horses with icy appendages and eight glittering blue eyes that glowed in the growing dark.
And their small mortal company consisted of the old and young and the women. The ill and unable to fight.
Guarded by a handful of Ironborn.
They were well and truly fucked.
Welcome to episode three! If you're new here, I recommend going back and checking out episodes one and two! Otherwise, I'm glad you're still with me! Thank you to all the amazing readers who have supported me on the journey so far!
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