Chapter Five

Tyrion stood alone in Sansa's solar, staring at the closed door in complete shock. Never had he imagined that his reunion with Sansa would end like this. He had expected her to be relieved by his offer to set her free from their marriage, but instead, she had been offended. He wished now that he hadn't said anything about her infidelity. He should have stayed silent on the matter and just tried to talk her into letting him go. But no, he had been blunt. He had pushed for honesty, and that had been a mistake.

Tyrion dragged his eyes away from the door and looked around the room. The fire was still burning brightly in the hearth, and he was drawn to its warmth. Suddenly, he felt colder than he had while traveling the snowy road to Winterfell. He felt empty inside, hollow, broken. All he really wanted was a hot bath and a nice warm bed. It had been so long since he'd had either. Even though, a few minutes earlier, he'd been more than prepared to turn down Sansa's hospitality, now, he didn't think he had the fortitude to step out into the cold, dark night again.

All at once, the strength seemed to drain from Tyrion's limbs, and he collapsed onto his knees in front of the hearth, staring blindly at the roaring fire. He didn't know what to do anymore. He'd had everything all planned out, he'd been so certain about all of it, but now, he was floundering. Sansa was hurt, more than hurt, and he didn't want to leave with things still so bad between them. Perhaps if he gave her some time – a night, just one night – she might settle down enough to rethink her decision and let him go without any animosity between them.

But for now, Tyrion could do nothing but wait. He would wait until morning, and then, he would try to talk to her again, try to convince her to see things his way. He had to try, just one more time, for the sake of the good memories they shared, few though they were.

Tyrion didn't know how much time had passed when the door quietly opened again. Without even turning around, he knew it wasn't Sansa. He was certain she was too angry to even look at him at that moment. No, it was either Arya or a servant come to throw him out or to tell him that his chamber was ready.

The visitor was silent for some time, but finally, a familiar voice broke the quiet. "Are you coming?" Arya asked.

Tyrion continued to stare into the flames. "Are you going to toss me out into the cold?"

She laughed. "I probably should, but by all rights, you're the new Lord of Winterfell, so it wouldn't be my place to toss you out, even if I wanted to."

"The Lord of Winterfell," Tyrion said, the words like ashes on his tongue. He finally turned and looked up at Arya. "Tell me about the old Lord of Winterfell, the one who held the title before I got here."

"You mean Eddard?"

"Yes, Eddard Lannister. Tell me about him."

Arya moved farther into the room, finally closing the door behind her. "What do you want to know?"

"Whose child is he, really?"

"Yours."

Tyrion shook his head. "You don't expect me to believe that, do you?"

"I don't know what you're inclined to believe, quite honestly. I don't know you that well. But I do know my sister, and I do know what my brother Bran has told me, and I believe them both when they say that Eddard is your son."

"What does your brother Bran have to do with this?"

Arya took a few steps forward, closing some of the distance between them. "Bran sees things, visions of the past, the present. He is the Three-Eyed Raven now. He saw Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark get married. He saw my Aunt Lyanna give birth to Rhaegar's rightful heir, Jon Snow. And he saw you and Sansa together, and he knows it is your child that she bore."

Tyrion stared at Arya in horror. The idea of Bran Stark seeing him and Sansa together stunned Tyrion to the very core. "That . . . that's absurd."

"It's not absurd. It's the truth. And Eddard is your son, whether you choose to believe it or not."

Tyrion hadn't even seen the boy yet, but he was already convinced that there was no feasible way the child could be his. According to Bronn, the boy was perfectly normal, nothing like the deformed little monkey that Sansa claimed had sired him. Besides, it seemed nearly all of Westeros thought Sansa had been unfaithful to Tyrion. Surely those rumors were grounded in some semblance of fact.

Of course, Tyrion didn't hold Sansa's infidelity against her. He understood that he was no woman's ideal of manhood and that even someone as dutiful as Sansa Stark might feel compelled to find comfort in the arms of another. But what Tyrion hated was the idea that Sansa was lying to him. The only good thing that had existed between them back in King's Landing had been the truth. They'd always been honest with each other – at least, he'd always thought they had – and he wanted that now. It was all he wanted, in fact. He wanted them to be open and honest with each other so that they could part on good terms.

"I've been told," Tyrion said, "that nary a soul in Westeros believes that child is mine. Why should I be any different?"

"Because you're his father. Because you know my sister. I know you weren't together long, but even so, you should know her better than that. She's a Stark. She takes her duty very seriously. As do we all. She would never be unfaithful, and you should be ashamed of yourself for even thinking it."

"It's a nice fairy story, isn't it?" Tyrion mused. "The beautiful maiden, beholden to the ugly dwarf, is so pure of heart, so virtuous, that even after he murders her handmaiden and disappears across the Narrow Sea, she still remains faithful to him. You know, I think I like the sound of that. I've never tried my hand at writing fairy stories for children, but maybe I'll write that one someday."

"So, you did murder her handmaiden."

Tyrion blanched. He'd known he should have left that part out. But he was no coward, and he wouldn't deny the truth now. "I did."

"Why?"

Why. Such a simple word, and yet, so perilous. "Why? I don't think I owe anyone an explanation, least of all you."

"You owe Sansa one. She still doesn't understand why you did what you did. Perhaps, before you abandon her again, you might explain yourself."

Tyrion didn't think he could explain himself. He'd spent five painful years trying to run away from the things he'd done before he'd left King's Landing. He knew that dredging it all up now just might cripple him. "It doesn't matter why I did what I did," Tyrion said. "It's in the past now, and I have no intention of remaining at Winterfell for very long."

"So you are staying the night then?"

Arya seemed less than inclined to let him stay now, but Tyrion didn't think he had the strength to venture out into the cold again. He felt very weak, and he didn't want to argue anymore. "Yes," he replied, "for your sister's sake."

"Ha!" Arya laughed, the sound mocking, bitter. "You haven't ever done anything for my sister's sake. You're just as selfish as the rest of the Lannisters. You can pretend all you want that it isn't true, but I know what you are. I know who you are. And if you do anything, anything at all, to hurt my sister, I will kill you."

Arya's voice was so cold, so threatening, that Tyrion didn't doubt her for a second. He knew, if he ever did anything to truly hurt Sansa, Arya would slit his throat while he slept. Suddenly, the cold, snowy night was looking a lot more desirable to Tyrion than a warm bed and a decent meal.

Tyrion finally pushed himself to his feet, relinquishing the comforting warmth of the hearth. "Perhaps it would be best if I found myself some lodging in the winter town for the night. I don't want to stay where I'm not welcome."

"And risk discovery? Absolutely not. It's not often we see dwarves in this part of the country. One look at you and the gossip will start."

"Then maybe you'd like to set me up in the kennels with the other dogs."

Arya laughed, though this time the sound was one of genuine amusement. "If only I could. But my sister would definitely have something to say about that in the morning, and I really don't want to cross her any more than you do."

"Afraid of your sister, are you?" Tyrion asked in challenge.

"Not afraid, no. Frankly, I just don't want to be bothered. I'm not particularly fond of hysterical females."

"Well, that makes two of us."

"Are you coming then?"

"Yes," Tyrion said with a regretful sigh. "Lead the way, Lady Arya."

Arya shuddered at the use of her title, but she didn't reprimand him for it. She just turned around, opened the door, and ushered Tyrion out into the corridor. "Your room is this way," she said as she started to walk, not bothering to slow her pace so that he could keep up with her longer strides.

Tyrion scrambled after her, walking as fast as he could without losing his footing. By the time Arya stopped at another door, Tyrion was nearly out of breath.

"These are your chambers," she said, "for now. There's food and a hot bath waiting for you. There are fresh clothes too, though I doubt they'll fit properly. Perhaps your wife will take them in for you before you leave. She does love to sew and mend."

"Thank you," Tyrion said, genuinely appreciative of the kindness Arya had chosen to bestow on him. "I am grateful for your help."

"Don't thank me. I'm just following my sister's orders. If it were up to me, I'd probably throw you out a window and let you sleep in the snow."

"It wouldn't be the first time someone picked me up and tossed me out a window. It's one of the perils of being a dwarf. People think they can just manhandle you at will."

"Well, you're safe for tonight, but only because the lady of the keep commanded it. Remember that."

Arya said nothing more. She didn't even wish him a good night. She simply gave him one last look of warning, turned around, and disappeared down the corridor.

Tyrion stood there for the longest time, watching after her. His limbs were stiff, and he felt numb all over. Now that he had finally started to warm up, his body was beginning to fail him. He feared, if he didn't move soon, he might collapse right there in the hallway.

It took a great deal of effort, but Tyrion finally turned around and pushed open the door. His joints ached with every movement, but somehow, he managed. The instant the door was closed behind him, he sank back against it, taking a moment to get his bearings.

The chamber was surprisingly large for one given to an unwanted guest. There was a big bed in the center of the room, a roaring fire burning in the hearth, and a wooden tub full of steaming hot water just waiting for him to climb inside. From the corner of his eye, Tyrion saw a small table set with a tray of food and a flagon of wine. As much as he wanted to immerse himself in the waiting bath, more than anything, he needed a drink.

Tyrion pushed himself away from the door and staggered to the table, leaning against it for support. He lifted up the flagon, his arm shaking more than he would have liked, and poured himself a glass. He downed half of it in one gulp, taking comfort in the familiar warmth of the wine burning down his throat.

When he lowered the glass, his eyes unconsciously fell to the plate of food on the table, and his stomach rumbled with hunger. He picked up a hunk of bread and tore into it, thankful to finally have something decent to eat.

Soon, he had downed two glasses of wine and had eaten his fill of bread and meat and cheese. When he was certain he could stand on his own again, he finally let go of the table and began stripping the clothes from his body. He'd been wearing the same garments for so long now that they were little more than rags. Bronn had offered to outfit him with a new tunic, breeches, and cloak before he'd left King's Landing, but Tyrion had refused, preferring to travel in peasant garb. No one had any interest in a beggarly dwarf. It was always safer to travel in rags than in finery.

Once he was naked, Tyrion slowly made his way across the room, careful not to let the weakness in his legs drag him to the floor. The tub had been placed near the hearth so that the water would stay as warm as possible. When Tyrion finally reached it, he climbed in and sank beneath the surface of the water, enjoying the feel of the heat seeping into his bones.

Tyrion sighed contentedly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a hot bath. It must have been years. He had spent so long being poor and anonymous and itinerant that he could scarcely remember the luxuries of his past. This was one he had definitely taken for granted, and now, he was going to enjoy it to the fullest.

Tyrion knew he should scrub himself clean, wash the dirt and mud and sweat from his body before anything else, but he had no desire to move. The water was too intoxicating. So instead, he leaned his head back against the rim of the tub, closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate on the delicious warmth enveloping his body.

But the peace lasted only for a moment. The instant Tyrion's eyes were closed, all manner of wretched memories assailed his mind – doubts, fears, regrets. He could see it all as if it had happened just yesterday. Joffrey's death, Shae's betrayal, his father's mockery. He could feel Shae's necklace in his hands as he pulled tightly and strangled the life from her body. He could feel the kick of the crossbow as he let loose an arrow and coldly shot his father.

Tyrion shuddered, and his eyes flashed open. He stared at the flames in the hearth, wondering if he would ever find peace. But he already knew the answer. He would find peace when he was dead and not before.

Tyrion swore softly, cursing himself for a fool. He'd been a fool to ever believe that he could have even a single moment of happiness in this life. And he'd been a fool to return to Winterfell.

Knowing that he would get no rest in the tub, Tyrion sat up straight, reached for the bar of soap that had been left for him, and began to wash himself clean. He scrubbed and scrubbed until his arms shook with the effort, desperate to shed the grime from his skin. He dunked his head beneath the water, washing his hair vigorously, before dunking again to rinse out the soap. He washed his beard too, and for a moment, he thought about shaving it off, but there was no razor, and truth be told, he rather liked the beard. It had become something convenient for him to hide behind.

When the last of the dirt had been washed from his body, he finally got out of the tub and dried himself off. Then, he made his way toward the bed where a fresh tunic had been laid out for him. It was a fine white linen, finer than anything Tyrion had worn since he'd left King's Landing. He shrugged it over his head, enjoying its fresh scent as it settled over his weary body. It was a little too long, falling almost to his ankles, but it would do.

Tyrion was tempted to pour himself another glass of wine, but he was far too tired to even make it to the table. Instead, he climbed into bed, slipped beneath the covers, and stared blindly up at the ceiling above him.

He was reluctant to close his eyes again, dreading the nightmares he knew would come. But he was exhausted. It had been a long time since he'd slept in a warm feather bed, and he didn't want to waste the opportunity while he had it because, come morning, he would be leaving Winterfell for good.

For a moment, Tyrion's thoughts drifted to Sansa. He wondered where she was, what she was doing. Was she still furiously angry, or had she calmed down enough to stop spitting fire? He'd never seen her lose her temper before, but he hadn't been surprised by it. He'd always known that, deep down inside, she was just as fiery as her red hair. In fact, if he hadn't been the target of her fury, he might have found it almost arousing.

Tyrion turned onto his side and groaned into his pillow. Throughout their years apart, the single night he had spent in Sansa's bed had haunted him more than he cared to admit. He'd thought about it whenever he'd been feeling particularly low, and it had always made him feel stirrings in odd places. Sometimes, when he'd remembered that night, he'd even fooled himself into believing that it had been his name Sansa had whispered in the dark and not Loras Tyrell's. But Tyrion knew that was just a fantasy, a trick of his overactive imagination and faulty memory.

That one night had made him believe that he and Sansa might have had a chance at happiness, if only fate hadn't intervened. But it had, and now, their chance had long since passed. He would never share her bed again, and they would go their separate ways on the morrow.

Tyrion buried his head in his pillow and closed his eyes, praying for his demons to let him rest. He needed to sleep for just one night. He needed to suppress the pain and the memories and the regrets just long enough to fall into oblivion. He clutched the furs tightly in his fists and willed himself to sleep.