Author's Note: As this story finally comes to a close, I just want to thank everyone for getting this far. This was a difficult story to write, and maybe even more difficult to read, and I appreciate each and every one of you for sticking it out till the end. Thank you all so much!


Epilogue

A howling wind woke Tyrion in the dead of night as a fearsome storm raged around the walls of Winterfell. It rattled the windowpanes and made everything seem darker and colder, and Tyrion's only thought was that he needed to get to Eddard before he took his next breath.

Even though Eddard had just passed his seventh nameday, he was still scared of the thunder, lightning, and baleful winds that racked the old keep on nights like this. Tyrion slipped from his bed, quickly donning a heavy, quilted robe before creeping out into the corridor and heading to Eddard's chamber.

When Tyrion reached the boy's room, he opened the door without even knocking, expecting to find Eddard cowering beneath the furs, but the bed was empty. Tyrion froze, his whole body flushing cold. A single glance about the room told him all he needed to know. Eddard was nowhere to be found, and Tyrion instantly feared the worst.

His heart beating an uneven rhythm, Tyrion hurried from the room, walking blindly through the halls, his mind frantic with worry. It wasn't like Eddard to run off in the middle of the night, and Tyrion wasn't even sure where to begin searching for him. If anything happened to the boy, Tyrion wouldn't know how to go on. He just couldn't lose Eddard, not after he'd already lost so much.

Instinct drove Tyrion deep into the heart of the keep, down into the crypts below Winterfell. Without conscious thought, his feet carried him to Sansa's tomb, the sounds of the violent storm above dampened beneath countless tons of stone.

Although myriad candles lit Tyrion's way, they were of little use to him. He knew the path by heart. He had visited Sansa every day since her passing, and he could have found his way to her in blackest darkness.

As Tyrion approached Sansa's tomb, a great wave of relief washed over him. There, curled up around the foot of her stone effigy, was Eddard. He was fast asleep, one arm wrapped around his mother's skirts, the other clutching the large book of dragon tales that Tyrion had given him for his nameday.

Tyrion approached with light steps, captivated by the small figure sleeping so peacefully at his mother's feet. Eddard's golden curls looked like burnished copper in the dim light, and his face was a mask of pure contentment.

This was not the first time Tyrion had found Eddard at Sansa's grave, though it was the first time he had found him sleeping there. Despite the fact that Eddard had never known Sansa in life, he seemed just as attached to her memory as Tyrion was, and he took the same comfort in visiting her tomb, even though her spirit had long since departed this world.

Drawing his eyes away from Eddard, Tyrion looked up at Sansa's coldly beautiful face, his heart constricting in his chest. Although the statue had been carved by a master craftsman and bore a striking resemblance to its subject, it failed to capture the true beauty and radiance of the real Sansa Stark. Even so, it was still a comfort to Tyrion. Being able to gaze upon Sansa's face gave him a sense of peace that little else could.

Sometimes, when the world was simply too much for Tyrion to bear, he came down to the crypts to talk to Sansa. It was where he felt closest to her and where he always knew he could find comfort when he needed it most. Tyrion felt oddly at home amongst the army of dead Starks who inhabited the tombs around him. Even though he had been born a Lannister, after living in the north for eight long years, he felt like one of their own. Tyrion wasn't sure, of course, but he liked to think that they approved of how he was raising Eddard. The boy would make a fine Lord of Winterfell someday.

A short laugh escaped Tyrion's throat as he stared at the stone countenance above him. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that Eddard came running to you instead of me. He adores you, you know. And I'm sure you're a tremendous comfort to him now." Tyrion sighed wistfully. "He's so much like you, Sansa. You'd be so proud of him. He's devoted to his lessons, devoted to his family and to honoring all the Starks who came before him. He's most proud of your father Ned. Tells everyone who will listen about his grandfather's great exploits and how he intends to be just like him someday."

Tyrion fought back the tears that suddenly clouded his vision, determined not to cry. There was no cause for sadness anymore. Sansa was exactly where she was meant to be, in the crypts beside her family. And he and Eddard were exactly where they were meant to be, at Winterfell, honoring the dead and securing the future of the north.

Taking a step back, Tyrion rested one hand against the folds of Sansa's skirt. "I love you," he whispered, his voice barely audible in the cavernous space. "I've never stopped loving you, but I think you already know that. Thank you, Sansa, for giving me the greatest gift that anyone has ever given me. Thank you for giving me Eddard. If it wasn't for him, I . . . I don't know what I would have done."

Tyrion closed his eyes, his fingers tightening around the cold stone. For a moment, he just stood there, struggling to remain upright, his emotions threatening to drag him to his knees. The days following Eddard's birth were a dark and distant memory now, but that didn't mean there weren't times when it all came flooding back to Tyrion in a torrent of shame and regret.

Tyrion inhaled a tremulous breath, finally managing to compose himself. He opened his eyes and let go of Sansa's skirt, his hand slipping to the top of Eddard's head. Gently, he ruffled the boy's hair, determined to rouse him from his slumber.

Eddard began to wake, grumbling tiredly as he blinked his eyes open. At first, he didn't see his father standing beside him, but eventually, his gaze met Tyrion's in the semidarkness.

"What are you doing down here?" Tyrion asked, his tone holding only the slightest hint of reprimand. "It's the middle of the night."

It took Eddard a moment, but he finally unfurled himself from around the statue and sat up, protectively clasping the book of dragon tales against his chest. "The thunder frightened me, and I wanted to be with Mother."

"Well, you frightened me by disappearing like that. I went to your room as soon as I heard the wind howling, and you weren't there. Next time, come to me first, and I will bring you down here myself, all right?"

Eddard nodded, the flickering candlelight reflecting off his golden curls.

"Why did you bring the book with you?" Tyrion asked, suspecting he already knew the answer but wanting to know for sure.

"I wanted to read it to Mother. She hasn't seen it yet. I tried to read her the first story, but I fell asleep."

"Ah, the first story. The one about Aegon the Conqueror and his two sisters sweeping across Westeros on their mighty dragons?"

"Yes, that's the one. It's my favorite!"

Tyrion couldn't help but smile. "Mine too."

"Do you think . . . do you think we could finish reading it together?" Eddard asked, the hope in his voice unmistakable.

Tyrion scratched his beard thoughtfully, wishing that it was not so late and that he was wearing something more than just a nightshirt and a robe. He always found it difficult to say no to Eddard, regardless of the circumstances, and this time was no different.

Tyrion exhaled a long, dramatic sigh, making a great show of giving into Eddard's request. "All right, if it's just one story. But after that, it's straight to bed with you, little lord Stark. You can sleep with me if the storm has not passed by then, but we will not be spending the night in the crypts, understood?"

Eddard nodded again, his big blue eyes bright with anticipation.

Before another moment passed, Tyrion climbed up onto the foot of the statue. He pulled Eddard into his arms, cradling both his son and the book in his lap. Eddard snuggled close, his head resting on his father's shoulder as Tyrion opened the book and began to read.

The tale of Aegon the Conqueror and his two sister-wives was one Tyrion knew well. As a child, he'd always been fascinated by stories about dragons, and what could be more fascinating than a story about the first Targaryen king flying above the clouds on a fearsome dragon, intent on conquering Westeros? At the time, Tyrion had never imagined that he might one day serve a Targaryen himself, but he was glad that he had. And although he'd never actually ridden a dragon, it had been pure joy just to see them up close, even though the experience had sometimes been rather terrifying.

As Tyrion read, he occasionally glanced up at the statue above him, making sure to include Sansa in the experience. Tyrion was sure that some people might find the scene rather macabre—him and Eddard sitting at Sansa's grave, reading together as if they were all gathered around the hearth—but as far as Tyrion was concerned, there was nothing macabre about it. He and Eddard felt particularly close to Sansa here in the crypts, and it had become a second home to them.

By the time Tyrion finished the story, Eddard was once again asleep. Tyrion closed the book and laid it aside, wrapping his arms around his young son and holding him close, his gaze fixed on Sansa's face.

"He is a handful," Tyrion said softly, careful not to wake Eddard. "But he's ours. Sometimes, I worry about what the future is going to be like for him. The northern lords have been quite accepting of our little Eddard, in spite of his affliction. He's not a dwarf to them. To them, he's your son, Ned Stark's grandson, and the pride, future, and hope of the Starks. And while I'm grateful for that, I fear what will happen when he someday has to face the outside world."

Eddard stirred in Tyrion's arms, and he idly scratched the boy's head, lulling him back to sleep. Tyrion sighed as he gazed longingly up at his beloved wife.

"I am thinking of taking him to Casterly Rock to visit Jaime soon," Tyrion said. "Jaime and Brienne have just welcomed their fourth child into the world, and as Eddard doesn't have any brothers or sisters, I think it would do him good to finally meet some of his cousins. You know, if it weren't for Jaime, we wouldn't even be here like this. I would have rejected Eddard as my father rejected me, and I still feel great shame for that. I know you've forgiven me, Sansa, just as you've forgiven all my past sins, and I shall be eternally grateful. I love you, my dear, sweet Lady Stark, and wherever I go and whatever I do, you are always with me, here." Tyrion clutched his chest, his voice trembling with unshed tears.

Tyrion shook his head, making a conscious decision to focus on his joy rather than his sorrow. Even though Sansa was gone, he wasn't alone. He had Eddard, and not a day went by that he wasn't thankful for that.

After a few moments of quiet contemplation, Tyrion lifted Eddard in his arms and stood, stopping just long enough to retrieve the book. With one last, longing look at Sansa, Tyrion turned and carried Eddard out of the crypts, walking slowly back to his own chamber.

Although it hadn't been easy, a few months after Sansa's death, Tyrion had moved back into their marital bedchamber, feeling the overwhelming need to be closer to her. He had insisted that the mattress she'd birthed Eddard on be burned and replaced with something new, the linens too, but everything else had remained the same.

As Tyrion entered the room, he quietly eased the door closed behind him and crossed the floor to the bed. He laid Eddard snuggly within the furs, thanking the gods above that the storm had eased a bit. Then, he slipped out of his robe and slid beneath the covers, gathering his son up in his arms and drawing him close.

On nights like these, with Eddard lying beside him, Tyrion felt grateful for all that he'd been given. He had a kind, caring, intelligent son who loved him unconditionally, and Sansa's memory, and her love, would always be with him, deep inside his heart. There was nothing else Tyrion needed to be content. Despite everything he'd lost, he had finally found true and lasting peace.