Chapter Two

Sansa Lannister stood on the covered walkway between the Great Hall and the armory at Winterfell, watching her son spar with her sister in the yard below, a light flurry of snowflakes drifting around them. It was the dead of winter, the snow more than three feet deep in the fields beyond the keep, but here, inside its walls, most of the snow had been shoveled away or packed down so that life could continue on as it always had.

Sansa could see her breath misting in front of her every time she breathed, but she barely noticed it. Her attention was on little Eddard, doing his best to fight like a warrior despite the fact that he wasn't even quite four and a half years old.

Eddard didn't look very much like a Stark, but he acted like one. He was brave and proud, and he understood duty and honor far better than the average child his age. Of course, he wasn't all Stark. Even if the world refused to see it, he had inherited much from his father, and Sansa's heart ached just a little every time she looked at him. He may have had her Tully blue eyes, but he had Tyrion's unruly blond hair, and every time he opened his mouth, she heard Tyrion's voice. Not the deep, honeyed tones that made her blood sing, but his words, his inflections. Eddard was an intelligent child, curious, loquacious, precocious. Sansa imagined that Tyrion had been much the same way at Eddard's age, and it warmed her heart just as much as it pained it.

Eddard was half warrior, half scholar, an odd combination in a four-year-old, but there was no doubt that he would make a superb Lord of Winterfell one day, even if half the kingdom believed he had no right to the title. Sansa tried not to let the gossip bother her, but it was always there. She knew what people thought, and there was nothing she could do or say to change their minds.

The sky was heavy with storm clouds, and Sansa knew it wouldn't be long until the snow began to fall in earnest. There would be another foot at least before morning. Sansa didn't mind though. She had always liked the snow, and besides, Eddard reveled in it. She was certain he'd be out at daybreak the next morning, making snow castles and throwing snowballs at anything that moved.

In the yard below, Arya goaded Eddard into attacking her. He raced forward, wooden sword in hand, intent on striking his aunt, but Arya easily sidestepped his assault, and little Eddard ran headfirst into a pile of snow. Sansa quickly descended the stairs to the yard, determined to put an end to their training session for one afternoon.

"That's enough," she said as she moved up behind her son, intending to pull him out of the snowbank.

But Eddard pushed himself out without her help, and when he turned over and looked up at her, he was laughing. "Can't we do it again?"

"No, you cannot do it again." Sansa reached down, putting her hands beneath his arms and pulling him upward so that he could stand on his own two feet. Without thinking, she began to wipe the snow from his cloak and tunic, though there was so much of it that it was nearly a lost cause. "That's enough for one day."

"Oh, let him do it again," Arya said, a genuine smile on her face. "It was funny, and he enjoyed it."

Sansa scowled at her sister. "No, that's enough for now." She turned her attention back to Eddard. "Go to your chamber and change your clothes. It's almost time for the afternoon meal, and you can't be seen in the Great Hall like this."

"Just one more time?" Eddard pleaded, his stubborn streak shining through.

"No, not one more time. Not any more times. Now, go," she said, with a slight pat to his bottom.

Eddard grumbled something under his breath as he headed toward the keep, something Sansa was sure she didn't want to hear. He reminded her very much of Tyrion at that moment, and Sansa tried her best to ignore the resemblance, lest she think too much about the past.

"You sound just like Mother when you say things like that," Arya said as they stood there watching after Eddard. "You were born to be the Lady of Winterfell, that much is certain."

Sansa began walking toward the keep, and Arya fell into step beside her.

"I really wish that wasn't true," Sansa replied. "It would mean Mother was still here. And Father. I'd much prefer that they still ruled over Winterfell. My ambitions are certainly not what they once were."

"Yes. There was a time when you wanted to be queen, remember?"

"I'd rather forget. I'd rather forget a lot of things. If I could just go back in time, change all of it—"

"Then you wouldn't have Eddard. And somehow, I don't think you could give him up for anything. Not Mother and Father. Not Robb and Rickon. You wouldn't really go back because you'd lose him, and we both know you couldn't bear that."

Sansa hated to admit it, but it was true. She loved her parents with all her heart. Loved Arya and Bran and Jon. Loved Robb and Rickon. But she loved no one more in all the world than Eddard. He was the greatest joy she had ever known, the one shining light in the darkness of her life. He made everything seem worth it – every tragedy, every loss. She thanked the gods every day for him because, without him, she would have given up on living a long time ago.

"No," Sansa said, "I suppose I wouldn't go back. I've already lost too much in my life. I don't want to lose anything more."

Sansa wasn't just talking about the family who had fallen in the years since she had first left Winterfell. She was also talking about the husband she had lost. For years she had assumed that Tyrion was dead, hearing not a single word of him after he had escaped King's Landing. But then, she had been reunited with Bran – or at least, what was left of Bran – and he had reassured her that Tyrion was still alive. Of course, it had been six months since she had seen Bran, and she feared every day that circumstances had changed. Just because Tyrion had been alive six months earlier, didn't mean that he was alive now. And even if he was, it didn't mean she would ever see him again.

It had been more than five years since Sansa had last seen Tyrion. The last time she had seen him had been at Joffrey and Margaery's wedding. He had held her hand as a troop of dwarves had made a mockery of Robb's death. And when Joffrey had kicked his cup under the table and demanded that Tyrion retrieve it, she had gotten it for him, feeling a desperate need to help her husband the way he had once helped her. If Ser Dontos had not hurried her away from the feast after Joffrey's murder—

Sansa didn't want to think about what would have happened. She was certain she would have stood trial right beside Tyrion, been convicted of regicide, and Eddard would never have come into this world. Sansa had spent a long time feeling guilty for having abandoned her husband, but had she stayed, things would have been worse for them both.

As if Arya could somehow read Sansa's mind, she said, "You're thinking about him again, aren't you?"

Sansa's heart skipped a beat, and her body flushed with warmth. Arya had an uncanny ability to sense what she was thinking. That hadn't always been the case, but things had changed considerably between them since they'd both returned to Winterfell.

"I don't know who you're talking about," Sansa replied, her voice trembling despite her best efforts.

Arya snorted derisively. "Don't you?"

Sansa looked down at her sister as they continued to amble across the snow-packed earth. "No, I don't. I've lost a lot of people in my life. They all mean a great deal to me."

"But he means more than most."

Sansa's cheeks burned hotly, and she turned away, hoping Arya wouldn't see. But there was no hiding anything from Arya.

"Why can't you admit it?" Arya asked, her tone as cool and seemingly disinterested as ever. "You've been waiting five years for him to come home. Why pretend when it's so painfully obvious?"

"It isn't painfully obvious," Sansa snapped. "I think you're just seeing something that isn't there, that's all."

"You mean the way you see a goodness in him that isn't there?"

Sansa stopped, forcing Arya to come up short beside her. She turned and looked down at her sister.

"There is good in him," Sansa said, speaking with her heart before her head could think.

"He murdered his own father. He murdered your handmaiden."

"We don't know that," Sansa said, lowering her voice, hoping no one had heard the accusation.

"Yes, we do. Who else would have done it? Lord Tywin? Don't tell me Tywin Lannister murdered your handmaiden and that Lord Tyrion was simply avenging her death. He murdered them both. Everyone knows it. Perhaps it's best that he hasn't come back to Westeros. You're better off without him."

Sansa shook her head. "No, I'm not. He's my husband. No matter what he's done, he belongs by my side. I'm sure, whatever he did during his last day in King's Landing, he had a very good reason for it. I loved Shae," Sansa said, her voice quivering with emotion, "but I didn't know her like I thought I did. I didn't really know her at all. And only Tyrion knows what happened between them that night, and until he can tell me himself, I cannot judge him for it."

Arya rolled her eyes and started walking again. Sansa was tempted not to follow, but she didn't want to seem like a coward, especially in front of her sister. So, in a few long strides, she caught up with Arya again, hoping that the conversation was over. But it wasn't.

"When are you going to admit the truth?" Arya asked, slowing her pace as they drew closer to the keep.

"What truth?"

"That you're in love with him."

"I am not in love with him," Sansa said, horrified that Arya would even make such a suggestion.

Arya turned her head, skewering her sister with cynical eyes.

"I am not," Sansa reiterated.

"And yet, you defend him when he's done the indefensible. You wait five long years for him to return when there is little indication that he ever will. You tell Eddard ridiculous fairy stories about him—"

"I do not—"

"Yes, you do. Eddard thinks his father is some kind of hero because of you, but he isn't. He's just a man, like any other. Worse than most, actually. But you can't seem to see that because you're still so moonstruck over that one precious night you spent together."

Sansa's skin flushed even hotter, but she refused to turn away from her sister, refused to hide like a petulant child. She was sorry now that she'd ever told Arya about what had passed between her and Tyrion. Had she known it was someday going to be used against her, she would never have spoken in the first place. That night, all those years ago, felt like little more than a dream now. The very next day, Sansa had discovered that the Freys had murdered her mother and brother, and everything had suddenly fallen apart. It had taken her a long time to learn to trust Tyrion again, and by the time she had, it was already too late.

It took Sansa a moment, but she finally replied, "It has nothing to do with that."

"Doesn't it?"

Arya stopped, just outside the door to the Great Hall, and Sansa stopped with her.

"No, it doesn't," Sansa said. "You don't know Tyrion like I do. He's not like the other Lannisters. He was always kind to me."

"Yes, because he wanted something from you, something that you were more than willing to give him."

"That isn't fair," Sansa said, her tone hardening. "Tyrion didn't ask anything of me, and he only took what I was willing to give. He's a good man. Better than most. Better than any I've ever known. And I won't let you slight his memory."

"His memory," Arya scoffed. "That's all he really is to you now, isn't he? A memory. A hazy, beautiful, fading memory that you can dress up however you like whenever the world around you gets too dark and scary. I don't blame you, Sansa. We all have things we cling to for comfort even though we know we shouldn't. I just wish the thing you chose to cling to wasn't going to break your heart."

"He's not going to break my heart. How can he? I'm never even going to see him again."

"Let's hope that's true."

Arya turned then and disappeared into the keep, leaving Sansa staring after her.

Sansa's heart was racing, and she could feel every nerve in her body trembling softly beneath her skin. It was as if Arya had ripped open her soul and poured salt in the wound, and Sansa suddenly felt like crying. She reminded herself that this was why she always kept her feelings for Tyrion hidden, why she never spoke his name unless she absolutely had to, why she never brought him up in conversation. She knew to do so would be to open herself up to ridicule, and she had already suffered enough.

Sansa knew what she felt for Tyrion was foolish. They hadn't known each other very long, and despite one glorious night of passion, there had been little intimacy between them. And yet, when she lay alone in her bed at night, it was his arms she imagined wrapped around her, his body she imagined pressed against hers. It was him she dreamt about. Him she longed for. She knew he wasn't much more than a ghost, a figment of her most fanciful daydreams. But it didn't matter. Sansa wanted to believe that she and Tyrion shared something special. She needed to believe it. It was the only thing that made the nights bearable, the only thing that got her through her loneliness. She had waited her whole life for a handsome knight to sweep her off her feet and steal her heart, and somehow, at least in her fantasies, Tyrion had become that knight. He was the love she had waited for all her life, and she was counting the days until he finally returned to her.