"The Cruelty of the Gods"

Tyrion Lannister, the demon monkey, the shame of House Lannister, sat in his chambers at Winterfell. The castle felt warm and inviting to him. It had not always been this way. When the Starks feasted him the first time that he had ever set foot in the North, he felt like an invader. He had arrived with the King, Robert Baratheon. Robert brought the entire royal host to Winterfell when he offered Lord Eddard the honor of being the Hand of the King. When he was in Winterfell for the first time, he wanted nothing more than to get back to the South. Winterfell felt cold, and dreary and the people inhabiting it, especially Lord Eddard, were solemn and humorless. He spent the first few hours of his first day in the North at a brothel in the Winter Town. He spent a lot of his days and nights in brothels all over Westeros. This was who he was. This was who had been. He loved the company of whores. He paid them well. He knew that he was ugly. His own father had shown him as much. His father treated him with scorn and disdain, and shame. The disdain with which his father treated him was surpassed only by that of his own sister who hated him from the moment of his birth, and who wished he would die in his crib. Only his brother Jaime had ever been decent to him. He was a joke, a thing, a non-entity, an object worthy of derision and laughter and hatred. But he desperately wanted to be loved. So he endeavored to sharpen his wit, to sharpen his mind, to focus on internal betterment and he paid beautiful women to pretend that they loved him. Why had the gods treated him so cruelly?

He lived out his drunken days and nights in whorehouses, because he loved beauty. He loved beautiful women. He also knew, very keenly, that he was a monster. He knew that no beautiful woman would ever love him, if they were not being paid to.

Tyrion sat on a richly upholstered velvet chair, with a small stool for his feet. His fingers wrapped tightly around the silver goblet that he was holding. It was a beautifully engraved silver goblet adorned with intricately formed wolves biting each others tails. The flagon on the table was filled with wine. He refilled his cup.

Alone now, with nothing but his wine for company, Tyrion thought about Sansa Stark. She seemed to be asking him to stay at Winterfell. She seemed to be hinting that she was amenable to rekindling their marriage. Ever since he had gotten to Winterfell to make preparations for war, he had spent his idle moments quietly watching her. She was dedicated to her people. She was a leader. She was a little bird no more. She didn't need to marry. She had more power as a woman without a husband.

Tyrion heard the soft rhythm of footsteps approaching the outside of his chambers.

"Lord Tyrion," the familiar voice of Lord Varys, the master of whispers, was recognizable through the heavy ironwood door.

"Yes, come in." Tyrion responded.

"Her grace would like a word." His expression gave the impression of urgency.

Tyrion followed Lord Varys to the Queen's chambers. He entered the room to find her face even more solemn than the visage that Varys had presented to him at his door.

"Lord Tyrion," Daenarys turned towards him, her eyes wide and dark underneath the flickering of the candle light.

"The dragons-are not eating. They grow weak. They dislike the North. I need to depart for Dragonstone. We've lost most of our army. Rhaegal has torn his wings in battle. I cannot risk the dragons becoming any weaker. Cersei grows stronger by the day."

"The soldiers are in need of rest your grace. The dragons are injured. Might we trespass on the Starks hospitality a little longer?"

She looked as cold as the winter wind, "They will only get weaker."

Tyrion sighed. "Yes, your grace." Her mind is not easily moved, Tyrion thought. "We shall depart within the week."

"Very good," Daenarys flexed her hands. " I wish to be rid of the North. It's so dreary in this part of the country."

"Very good my lady." Tyrion began to walk towards the door.

"And what of Lady Sansa. She has been less than hospitable. It may be that we need stronger alliances in the North. Jon intends to ride South with us. You were close to Lady Sansa once, can I count on her loyalty?"

Tyrion stood still in the shadow of the door. "You can count on her loyalty to the crown."

"Which crown? Your sister holds the South."

"Lady Sansa is no friend to my sister, your grace."

"Can I count on your loyalty as well?"

"Of course my lady, you are meant to break the wheel." Tyrion stared up at Daenerys. "Is there anything else your grace?" Sansa must be careful, he thought.

"I've had enough of betrayals. If you betray me…" she trailed off.

"You have my council, always."

Tyrion looked closely at her. He felt that Daenarys looked smaller in the shadows. Her eyes were wide. Her hands were constantly tugging at her dress, or her hair, or her jewelry. She did not return his gaze. The North did not agree with her.

There was a cold in the room, that did not come from the air. All through the castle he felt warm, and safe and invited, but as he stepped into her chambers, the chill hit him so strongly that it almost took away his breath.

"Very well then. You are dismissed." She said coolly. From the shadows of her chamber, she called to the one called Grey Worm, and whispered something into his ear. Tyrion glanced back one last time, only to see them both staring intently at him as he turned and walked further into the corridor.

He walked the corridor silently watching the shadows of the flames as they danced against the walls. He heard soft footsteps behind him. Soon, a hand was on his shoulder-Lord Varys.

"Our queen seems vulnerable," Varys whispered. "You may want to tell your northern lady to be more careful. Our queen sees enemies around every corner." Varys looked pained in the flickering candlelight, his eyes red and tired. The North was not agreeing with him either. He looked like he'd aged a decade since they'd set foot in Winterfell.

"Once we get the dragons back to Dragonstone, and…" Tyrion trailed off

"I think our problems are bigger than Dragonstone. What of your sister?"

"My murderous sister wants all of our heads on pikes of course." Tyrion smiled. "What's new?"

"Please speak with Lady Sansa and secure our Northern alliance. Our queen is not in the gayest of spirits. She needs to be assured of her allies."

"Jon is the warden of the North. He is quite devoted to our queen."

"But is he the real power here? Sansa Stark is Ned's trueborn daughter. Jon is a bastard. He won't be here to hold the north for our queen. He is travelling with us to the South to engage the Lannister army. Or have you forgotten?"

"I will speak with Lady Sansa." Tyrion walked silently back to his chambers.

The Queen eats, and the Hand takes the shit. Tyrion thought to himself. Truly, the gods are cruel.