Chapter Three

The road from King's Landing to Winterfell was a great deal more treacherous than Tyrion remembered, but then, the first time he'd traveled it, he'd been part of a caravan and it had been the height of summer. Now, the road was snowy and slippery, a danger for travelers at every turn. Before allowing him to leave for Winterfell, Bronn had taken Tyrion to the local stables and outfitted him with the finest horse Jon Snow's money could buy. After nearly a month on the road, the horse was finally starting to show some wear, moving slower and more cautiously the farther north they traveled.

The only saving grace in the entire journey was the fact that the kingsroad was kept relatively clear by royal decree so that provisions could continue to flow freely from south to north and north to south. While the snow had piled up in the fields beyond, the kingsroad had remained passable, though some spots had proven more difficult to navigate than others.

Although Tyrion had taken Bronn's advice about going north, he hadn't given up on being reunited with Jaime. Before leaving King's Landing, Tyrion had sent a raven to Casterly Rock, telling his brother that he was still alive and on his way to Winterfell. It wasn't as if Tyrion thought Jaime was going to head north to meet him there, but he wanted Jaime to know that he was still alive, just in case some tragedy befell him on the road and they never saw each other again. Thankfully, no one was interested in the contents of a message sent by a surly, unkempt dwarf, so Tyrion had little fear that the note would be intercepted before it reached the Rock.

It was late evening on the last leg of Tyrion's journey when Winterfell finally came into view. He had thought about stopping in the winter town and getting a room for the night so that he could approach the keep in broad daylight come morning, but he had ultimately decided against it. He wasn't quite sure how he was going to get past the gates of Winterfell without revealing his identity, but he was certain his chances were better in the dark than they would be in the bright light of day.

And so he urged his horse through the streets of the winter town, past the sleepy cottages with their snow-covered roofs and smoky chimneys. He was no hero, no warrior. There was no way he was going to be able to storm the castle and break inside. And for the life of him, he couldn't remember if there was a way to sneak past the walls. He was sure there must be, for someone more familiar with the castle, but if Winterfell held any such secrets, they were a mystery to Tyrion.

Which meant that he only had one option, and that was to go straight to the East Gate. Had the ground not been covered with four feet of snow, Tyrion might have avoided the main gate and tried to approach from the south or the west. But there was no clear path around the walls of Winterfell, and the only gate accessible to him was the gate off the kingsroad.

Tyrion slowed his mount as he approached the East Gate, waiting for the guards to meet him. They came forward, two young men with swords at their hips, looking him up and down as if they had never seen a dwarf before in their lives.

"State your business," the one to Tyrion's left demanded. He was a tall boy with short blond hair, probably no more than twenty. He looked hardened for his age, but then, he had undoubtedly seen more fighting and death in the past year than Tyrion had seen in his entire life.

"I am here to see the Lady of Winterfell," Tyrion answered.

The other guard snickered. His hair was as black as pitch, and he was no older than his companion, but he looked just as wizened. "The Lady of Winterfell doesn't have time to meet with beggars."

"Do I look like a beggar to you?"

The boy opened his mouth to speak, but Tyrion cut him off.

"Before you answer that," he said, "take a look at my horse. Does it look like something a beggar would ride?"

The boy's eyes traveled down the length of Tyrion's mount. Even after almost a moonturn on the road, it was still a fine piece of horseflesh, there was no denying that.

"So you stole it from somewhere. Even more reason not to let you in."

Tyrion laughed. "And how exactly do you think I could have stolen a horse? Look at me. Do you think I strike fear into the hearts of men? Do you think me capable of being a highwayman and robbing travelers on the road?"

Both guards eyed him doubtfully. They looked more confused than convinced by his words.

"I assure you," Tyrion said, "I am a descendant of a great house, and I've come here to bring Lady Lannister news of her husband."

"Lady Lannister doesn't have a husband," the fair-haired boy replied. "He's long dead. Everyone knows that."

"No, everyone does not know that, not for certain. I must see Lady Lannister at once."

"No, you must turn that horse around and leave at once. Unless you want me to introduce you to my fist. Or would you prefer the sword?"

This wasn't going at all as Tyrion had hoped it would. The guards had already made up their minds about him. As far as they were concerned, he was a feckless dwarf on a stolen horse. If they let him past the gates of Winterfell, it would only be to escort him to a cell to await trial for thievery.

"Well, get on with you now," the other guard urged when Tyrion failed to move. "You can't stay here all night."

"But Lady Lannister—"

"Has no time for the likes of you." The boy moved closer, unsheathing his sword in silent threat. "Turn around now, or you'll be spending the night in a cell. It's your choice."

Although being escorted to a cell would mean that Tyrion might eventually see Sansa – at least when he came before her to stand trial – he had no idea how long he'd be held captive before he got his chance to see her. Horse thieving was a severe offense, punishable by death. If these guards really thought he was a horse thief, they might let him linger in his cell for many moons before they even informed Sansa of his presence.

"Well, now," Tyrion said, "if you put it that way—"

But he never got the chance to finish. The guards had obviously had enough of his tongue for one night, and the blond one reached up and dragged Tyrion off his horse before he could say another word.

"That's enough of you," the boy grumbled. "We're taking you in."

He dragged Tyrion a few feet toward the yard before a calm, steely voice said, "Let him go."

The guard stopped. He scanned the surrounding darkness, looking for the source of the voice. A moment later, a small figure stepped out from among the shadows, eyeing them coldly. It was Arya Stark.

"You heard me," she said. "Let him go before I take out my sword and you end up with a few extra holes in you. Do you understand?"

The boy instantly released Tyrion and backed away slowly, obviously intimidated by Lady Arya. She had changed a great deal since the last time Tyrion had seen her. She had changed so much, in fact, that he almost hadn't recognized her. But there was no mistaking her dark eyes or her slight stature or her Stark pride. No, even though she no longer looked like a lady, that was definitely Arya Stark standing before him, and no one else.

She made a wide circle around Tyrion and the two guards, walking slowly with her hands clasped behind her back. She looked like she didn't have a care in the world. She certainly didn't seem surprised to see Tyrion, but then, perhaps she didn't recognize him. Although his voice was the same as it had ever been, he didn't look very lordly in his beggar's rags. Perhaps she thought him just an aimless wanderer stopping to ask for alms.

When Arya had completed one full circle around them, she stopped directly in front of Tyrion, her eyes focused on him with the keenness of a predator. "Leave us," she said, sending the two guards scurrying away, and just like that, she and Tyrion were alone.

A spark of cold dread crept down Tyrion's spine as the once-little girl stared at him in chilling assessment. Under different circumstances, he might have opened his mouth and tried to talk himself out of the current situation, but there was something so ruthless in Arya Stark's eyes that he didn't dare breathe a word. He knew he'd have a chance to speak once she spoke. But until she opened her mouth, he was going to keep his shut.

"You say you've come with word of my sister's husband," Arya said, finally breaking the silence.

"Yes," Tyrion replied, his throat suddenly dry. "From Essos."

"Is he alive then?"

"Yes." Tyrion was surprised that Arya didn't recognize him. She had looked at him so intently that he'd been sure she'd figured out who he was.

"And when is he coming back?"

"I think that is a question best answered just for Lady Lannister."

"And why did he send you? Why does my dwarf of a brother-in-law need another dwarf to deliver his messages?"

"It's a long story. One I'd be more than happy to tell you over a hot bowl of soup and a large glass of wine."

She looked down her nose at him. "Do you really think you're going to be allowed in the castle looking like that? I could smell the filth on you from ten feet away. Surely, you don't intend to meet with Lady Lannister looking and smelling like that."

Tyrion didn't care how he looked or smelled. In truth, he wanted to meet with Sansa just as he was. He wanted to look as sad and miserable as possible when she finally saw him so that she would send him away without a second thought. No one but Bronn – and hopefully, Jaime – knew he was alive yet. And if Sansa Stark decided that she didn't want him for a husband anymore, it could stay that way. He'd turn around, leave Winterfell forever, and never darken her life again.

"I think I look just fine," Tyrion said with a laugh. "I only need a moment of her time. I'm sure she can withstand the smell for that long. After all, she was born a Stark, and I hear the Starks are quite a hearty lot."

Arya's eyes raked over him in quiet appraisal, and Tyrion held his breath, wondering if she intended to let him in or if she was going to turn him away. When next she spoke, all she said was, "Grab your horse and follow me."

Tyrion exhaled a relieved sigh, his breath crystallizing in a cloud of smoke in the cold evening air. He turned around just long enough to seize his horse's reins before following Arya Stark into the yard.

He looked around as he walked, taking in his surroundings with acute interest. It had been more years than he could remember since he'd last visited Winterfell. The keep had changed a great deal since then. Now, it wasn't just the library that lay in snow-covered ruins. It was obvious that the castle had been hit hard by the war, and more than one outbuilding had been burned to the ground. It looked as if the Great Keep was mostly intact, with only the odd stone missing here and there. Even though the destruction could have been far worse, it all looked bleak in the dim evening light. A hazy half-moon hung overhead and a few torches spluttered in the wind around them, but beyond that, all was dark and quiet.

When they reached the entrance to the Great Hall, Arya called over a stableman. "Take his horse," she commanded. "Brush it, feed it, and give it shelter for the night."

Tyrion opened his mouth to protest, he had no intention of staying more than an hour, but Arya lifted a hand in warning, instantly silencing him.

The stableman dutifully took Tyrion's horse and led him away, leaving Tyrion no choice but to follow Arya into the Great Hall.

The hall, at least, looked no different than the last time Tyrion had seen it. He recalled that visit quite fondly, in fact. It was the one time he had been able to do something kind for Bran Stark, and he was glad that he'd had the opportunity. He had asked Bronn what had happened to the boy and had been informed that he'd somehow become a greenseer, the Three-Eyed Raven, and now lived north of what was left of the Wall, never to return.

It was a shame, really. Bran Stark was his father's last remaining male heir. By rights, Winterfell should have been his. But Bronn had said that Bran Stark no longer existed, at least, not as he had once been. He was a shell of his former self, a hollow husk stripped of his humanity and living only for his visions, an almost otherworldly being who had no place in the lives of men. Tyrion could scarcely imagine such a thing, but he knew it must be true or else Bran would be there now, sitting at the head table, interrogating him upon his arrival.

Tyrion stopped when they reached the center of the Great Hall, and Arya immediately turned around to face him.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Waiting."

"You're not to wait here. You're to follow me."

"But this is the Great Hall. Traditionally, this is where the Lord, or Lady, of Winterfell meets with messengers. I shall wait here for Lady Lannister, if it's all the same to you."

The truth was, Tyrion didn't want to be alone with Sansa in the confines of her solar, or worse, her bedchamber. He just wanted to meet with her for a moment, let her see for herself that he was alive, and be on his way. It would be easier to do that if they met in the Great Hall. The hall was cold and impersonal. It was where Sansa conducted business on a daily basis. And this was business, plain and simple. Nothing more.

"If you wish to speak to my sister tonight," Arya said, "you will follow me."

"But why? You said yourself, I am in no state to be granted an audience with her ladyship. Surely, she would prefer to sit on the opposite side of the hall, as far from me as possible, as I give her my message."

Arya's eyes darkened. It was a subtle change, but it sent another chill racing down Tyrion's spine. He didn't remember Arya Stark being quite so scary. He remembered her as an energetic child, eager to explore and play with the boys. But now, she was a killer to her very core. Tyrion didn't know how many men she'd killed, but he could tell by the look in her eyes that it was far more than he ever had. He didn't want to cross her. He valued his own safety far too much for that.

"And as you said," Arya reminded him, "my sister is a Stark and we Starks are a hearty lot. Follow me."

Arya turned on her heel without another word and headed toward the doors at the far end of the hall. Tyrion could do nothing but follow.

They exited the Great Hall and entered the maze of corridors that ran through the main keep. Tyrion didn't know where she was taking him, though if he'd had to guess, he would have assumed it was Sansa's private living quarters.

With each step they took, Tyrion's anxiety grew. He had spent a moonturn on the road headed north to be reunited with his wife, and in all that time, not once had he felt the slightest fluttering in his chest at the thought of seeing her again. But now that their reunion was only moments away, the blood was racing through his veins and his heart was pounding against his ribs. He didn't know what he expected or what he feared. All he knew was that, for better or for worse, he was nervous about seeing Sansa again.

When Tyrion and Arya finally stopped, it was in front of a heavy wooden door. Arya pushed the door open without knocking and ushered Tyrion inside. The room was a large solar, warm and comfortable, a fire already burning in the hearth. Tyrion's eyes darted around, searching for Sansa, but she was nowhere to be seen.

"Wait here," Arya said. And then, before Tyrion could utter a single word of protest, she drew the door closed behind her and disappeared.

The breath caught in Tyrion's throat as he stared at the closed door. Suddenly, he felt like a caged animal. There was no escape now. The next time the door opened, Sansa Stark would be standing on the other side of it, and after five long years, he would finally see his wife again.

Tyrion had a fondness for Sansa that went well beyond what a man should feel for a woman he'd been forced to marry for political reasons. She was a smart girl, kind, well-mannered, always trying to behave like a lady even in the worst of circumstances. She had a good sense of humor, though as he recalled, she barely ever allowed herself to laugh. There'd been a time when he'd been certain that they could make each other happy, but it had been tragically brief. It had lasted all of one night and had ended the next day when they'd both discovered that her mother and brother had been murdered at his father's command.

After that, the coldness between them had returned, and as hard as Tyrion had tried to break down her walls, he'd never quite succeeded. His last memory of Sansa was at Joffrey and Margaery's wedding. Sansa had bent down to retrieve Joffrey's cup for him. She had handed it to him with a kindness and understanding in her eyes that haunted him to this very day. In that moment, that look had given him hope. And had things been different – had Joffrey not been murdered minutes later, had Tyrion not been convicted of his murder and gone into exile – they might have had a chance to rebuild the connection between them. They might have had a chance at happiness.

Tyrion tore his eyes away from the door and gazed about the room. There was a long sofa beside him, and on one of the cushions was a little hoop of needlework. He smiled despite himself as he picked it up, careful not to spoil the fabric with the dirt on his fingers. The stitches were straight, delicate, measured. Just like the girl who had made them. No matter how chaotic the world got, no matter how much things changed, there were some things that were always constant, like Sansa Stark and her needlework. She had always loved sewing, and she had always been extraordinarily good at it.

A wave of emotion flooded Tyrion's throat, and he nearly choked on it. He laid the hoop down on the cushion again and steeled himself against his feelings. He moved as far away from the couch as he could, determined to keep this meeting as cold and impersonal as possible. He was just there to make his presence known and to offer Sansa a way out of a marriage he was sure she no longer had any use for. That was all.

Tyrion clasped his hands behind his back and turned toward the fireplace, silently waiting for his wife.