Author's Notes: First, I just want to thank everyone who has made it this far. Thank you all for reading and for your lovely words of support and encouragement! The response to this story has been far beyond what I ever expected, and I am happy to know that so many people are enjoying it!

Of course, I know what most everyone is hoping for at this point, Tyrion to accept that Eddard is his son. As much as I would love for that to happen sooner rather than later, Tyrion just isn't ready yet. He's still suffering some deep psychological trauma. After killing his father and the woman he thought he loved, he went to Essos and has had nothing to do for five long years but drink and hate himself. Tyrion's determination to believe that Eddard isn't his son has a lot more to do with his self-loathing than it does with his lack of faith in Sansa. Tyrion can't believe that anyone would want him at this point, and he pretty much thinks the gods are setting him up to be the brunt of some cruel joke. So unfortunately, it's going to take a long time before Tyrion is finally able to accept the truth.

Chapter Eight

The library was deathly quiet as Sansa and Tyrion stared at each other across the silence. Outside the unshuttered windows, the snow was falling in wailing gusts all around Winterfell, but it was nothing compared to the tension that had built up inside the small, cloistered room.

"Well?" Sansa asked, desperate to know what Tyrion thought now that he had finally met his son.

"Well, what?"

"You know what."

Tyrion sighed heavily, breaking her gaze and running a hand over the back of his neck in agitation. "He's a fine boy," Tyrion said when he finally looked at her again. "Smart and robust and tall. Very tall."

"I am very tall," Sansa countered, her words as cold as the wind howling outside the windows.

"Yes, and I am not. There's no way—"

"There's every way."

Tyrion shook his head. "I know what you want me to say, my lady. I know why you shut me up alone with the boy. You wanted me to be charmed by him, to believe, for some unfathomable reason, that he is my son when he is clearly not."

"Clearly? Is it that it's clear, or is it that you're just unwilling to see the truth?"

"You and I were only together once—"

"All it takes is once."

"You spent more time alone with Littlefinger than you ever did with me."

"Littlefinger?" Sansa nearly choked on the word. Of course, she had heard the accusation before, but it hurt even more coming from Tyrion. "Littlefinger is not Eddard's father, I can assure you."

"Then someone else," Tyrion said with a resigned shrug of his shoulder, "but not me. You spent a long time in the Vale—"

"Trying to hide, trying to survive. Do you really think I went to the Eyrie to find myself a lover? I was already with child when Joffrey was murdered. Eddard was born nine months after you and I were together."

Tyrion didn't reply, and Sansa could see that she wasn't getting through to him. There was something distant in his eyes that told her he had already made up his mind about everything.

"Why do you find the truth so hard to believe?" she asked, utterly confounded by Tyrion's obstinance.

"Eddard is a fine child," he replied. "He's going to make a wonderful Lord of Winterfell someday. But look at me," Tyrion glanced down at himself before meeting her eyes again, "do you really expect me to believe that I helped make him? He's perfect and beautiful . . . and tall. And everything that I'm not."

Sansa opened her mouth to protest, but Tyrion cut her off.

"I'm not angry with you, Sansa. I'm not judging you for what you might have done while we were apart. It doesn't matter to me. But I can't believe that Eddard is my son. I just can't. And there is nothing you can do or say that will ever change my mind, so please, just let it go."

His words were like a knife to her heart, and for a moment, Sansa couldn't even speak. In her fantasies, she had imagined Tyrion coming home, meeting his son, and being overjoyed to know just how much they had both longed for his return. But this, this she hadn't expected. Of course, Tyrion thought Eddard wasn't his son. Half of Westeros thought Eddard wasn't his son. Not only had Sansa had ample opportunity to cuckold her husband, but Eddard was as far from a demon monkey as it was possible to be. Although others couldn't see the resemblance between him and Tyrion, Sansa could. She saw it every time Eddard laughed and every time he said something clever. He was Tyrion's child, whether Tyrion wanted to believe it or not, and Sansa didn't know how they were going to move forward if Tyrion refused to accept the truth.

"So, I suppose that means you still intend to go then?" Sansa asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes, as soon as the weather lets up."

"It's a bad storm. Maester Wolkan said it will probably last for days."

"Then perhaps I will find a room in the winter town and wait out the weather there."

Although there was an inn in town, Sansa could only imagine that Tyrion intended to get himself a room in the local brothel. That was what he was renowned for, wasn't it? Drinking and whoring? Sansa was disgusted by the idea, but she knew she had little hope of stopping him. She was certain Tyrion had not been faithful to her while he'd been across the Narrow Sea, so why should he start being faithful to her now?

"You're welcome to stay here, if you like," Sansa offered. "You'll be more comfortable."

"No, not really. I can't say that anything about this place makes me feel comfortable."

Sansa suddenly felt the urge to cry, but she fought back the tears, not wanting Tyrion to know just how much his words had hurt her. He'd been back at Winterfell for less than a day, and already, their relationship was in tatters. She didn't know how things had gone so bad so quickly, and she had absolutely no idea how to fix them.

"Well, then," Sansa said, "I won't force you to stay, but there is one thing I must ask of you before you go."

"You've already asked one thing," Tyrion replied, holding out his hand toward the spot on the floor where he had sat beside Eddard, "and I granted it. Now, you want something more?"

"I want your permission to tell Jon that you're alive. I don't want to be a widow anymore. I don't think that's too much to ask."

"You may not think so, but I—"

"You've been gone for five years, doing gods-only-know what. I bore you a child and have had to endure nothing but ridicule and accusation for it. My honor has been slighted, my very character questioned. All I am asking is for you to stand up, stop being a coward, and admit to the world that you are alive so that I don't have to spend the rest of my life living a lie. That's all I ask."

Tyrion's brow furrowed, and he stared at her in quiet contemplation. When he finally spoke, he said, "You're asking a great deal."

"Am I? What does it matter to you if people know that you've returned, alive and well? You still intend to leave, and I won't stop you from going. Go, live your life, drinking and whoring until you die. I don't care. But I won't pretend that I am free when I am not. And I won't take a new husband while I am still married to the old one. I am a Stark, and I have my Stark pride, and I'm not giving it up for you or for anyone else. You owe me something, after all the years I spent waiting for you. At least give me this."

Tyrion pressed his lips together, and Sansa was sure he was fighting back the urge to swear. She knew he wanted to move on with his life, that he didn't want to be fettered to her and Eddard and Winterfell for the rest of his life, and that wasn't what she was asking. The night before, that's what she'd been asking, but not now. Now, she was just trying to salvage what little she could for herself. At the very least, she wanted the world to know that he was still alive, that he was still her husband.

"You took a vow," Sansa said. "Just because you were gone for five years doesn't mean that you aren't still beholden to it."

Tyrion sighed. "Sansa—"

"Tyrion."

"Are you sure this is what you want? I understand that you have no desire to live a lie, but it's a small price to pay for your peace of mind. This is your only chance to be happy, Sansa, to live your life as you see fit. If you tell Jon the truth, that's it. It's over for you. You will be beholden to me until one of us dies. You'll never find your knight in shining armor, your prince charming. This," he held his hands out to his sides, "this is it. This is all you'll ever have."

Sansa wanted to tell him that that was quite enough for her, but she didn't. She knew he wouldn't believe her. Over the years, he'd become her idea of a knight in shining armor – the brave, gentle soul who had shown her kindness and compassion in her darkest hours. He had given her the single greatest gift she had ever received, Eddard. And she was certain, had he been willing to stay, she could have been quite content with him by her side.

"I am not a little girl anymore," Sansa replied. "I am not waiting for a charming prince or a knight in shining armor to come along and rescue me. I've rescued myself. And now, I want what's rightfully mine. Are you willing to give it to me?"

"Only if you're certain it's what you truly want."

Sansa straightened her spine, an unconscious signal that she had more than made up her mind. "It is."

"Then, who am I to deny you?" Tyrion asked. "You're right, it's the least I can do. You may send word to Jon."

Sansa was instantly overcome with relief. She had won a small victory, but it was more than she had expected to win. "Thank you," she said, forcing her voice to remain steady, lest Tyrion sense just how much his words had affected her. "And we should send a raven to Casterly Rock as well. Your brother Jaime is there, and he will be glad to hear the news."

"It's already been done."

Sansa was surprised by Tyrion's reply. "Has it?"

"Yes, right before I left King's Landing for Winterfell. I wrote to Jaime and told him that, once my business here was through, I intended to make my way to the Rock."

"Is that still what you intend to do?"

"Of course. But it seems I'll have to wait longer than I expected, thanks to these damned northern winters."

"And what do we do about Winterfell?"

"I beg your pardon?" Tyrion seemed genuinely confused by the question.

"By rights, you are now the Lord of Winterfell. And if we are going to inform the king that you are alive, then our bannermen should know as well, and the smallfolk, of course."

"And little Eddard?"

"Yes. And Eddard."

Another silence fell between them. Their conversation had come full circle, and neither one of them was comfortable with it.

"He wants a baby brother, you know?" Tyrion said awkwardly, his eyes suddenly unable to meet hers.

"Yes, he's told me that many times. He has some silly idea that dwarves are magical, and he'd very much like one for a brother."

"He also seems to think that I'm some kind of hero," Tyrion added, looking up at her again. "I wonder where he got that notion."

After everything that had happened between her and Tyrion, Sansa was unwilling to admit that she had been the one to put the idea in Eddard's head. She didn't want Tyrion to question her motives for telling Eddard that he was a hero. "Well," she replied, "children often have quite fanciful imaginations. Sometimes, it's difficult to tell where their ideas come from."

Tyrion eyed her shrewdly, as if he didn't believe a single word she had said. "Of course."

Sansa looked away, gazing idly about the room, wondering where they could go from here. Finally, she forced herself to look at Tyrion again and asked the one question she was most afraid to ask, "So, shall we tell Eddard the truth then?"

"You mean that I'm not his father?" Tyrion said with a laugh.

Sansa scowled, and Tyrion instantly sobered.

"It was a joke," he said, in an obvious attempt to pacify her.

"Well, it wasn't funny."

"No, I suppose not."

Tyrion fidgeted on his feet, and Sansa knew he wanted to run. He felt trapped, she could see that, but they were both trapped in this situation – Tyrion with a family he didn't want, and Sansa with a husband who didn't want her. It was perfect.

"All right," Tyrion finally conceded, "tell the boy. Tell all of Winterfell. I suppose, if I'm stuck here, it's only a matter of time before someone figures it out anyway. I mean, how many dwarves are there in the world, and how many of them have ever made it this far north? Someone's bound to make the connection eventually."

"Will you be staying in the keep, or are you planning to get a room in the local brothel?" Sansa asked before she could stop herself.

Tyrion nearly choked. "Well, that was cold, wasn't it?"

"It's what you do, isn't it? At least, from what I've heard."

"I'm sure you've heard a lot of things that aren't necessarily true."

"I've heard a lot of things that I wish weren't true, but that's a conversation for another day. Are you staying or not?"

Tyrion's eyes turned toward the row of high windows running along the far wall of the library. Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, the sky outside was dark, the snow falling heavily beyond the window panes. Tyrion looked back at Sansa. "I don't think I fancy going out in that, to be honest. I'm so short, I'd likely get buried the instant I step foot outside. No, if it's all the same to you, I will stay at Winterfell until it's safe to travel."

"And do you plan to continue to hide in your chamber, or will you be taking meals with the rest of us?"

"I would rather limit my interactions with those who live in the keep, for the time being. I don't plan to be here long anyway, and I'm not looking to make any connections that will soon be broken."

Tyrion meant Eddard, of course. He didn't want to get close to his son, to get to know him. Sansa knew that, once Eddard discovered Tyrion's true identity, there would be no keeping the boy away from his father, but Tyrion didn't need to know that. Even if he skipped every single meal with the family, Tyrion would have to face Eddard again, whether he wanted to or not.

"Well, then," Sansa said, "I will have your meals brought to your chamber." Her eyes slid down the length of him, taking in his clean but ill-fitting clothes. "And I will send a seamstress as well. We can't have the new Lord of Winterfell looking like a peasant."

"Oh, I don't know," Tyrion said, examining the simple linen garments he wore. "They're not so bad. I just wish they fit better."

"I'll send someone to your room to measure you. You'll have new clothes by morning."

Tyrion shook his head. "I don't want any poor, old washerwoman spending the entire night hunched over a needle and thread just so I can have something to wear. What happened to the things I came in?"

"I had them burned. They were beyond repair. You need a new wardrobe, and I will see to it."

Tyrion grimaced, though he made no further protest. Sansa didn't understand why he was so opposed to claiming his rightful place as the Lord of Winterfell. He had murdered the Hand of a King, and yet, upon his return to Westeros, he had a title, a wife, a child, and a keep waiting for him. He should have been on his knees, thanking the gods for their blessings. But instead, he wanted to eschew everything they had given him. It made little sense to Sansa, but she was done arguing for one afternoon.

"I will leave you now," Sansa said. "I'll send a raven to Jon after luncheon, and then, I'll talk to Eddard."

"As you wish, my lady." Although there was no derision in Tyrion's tone, he couldn't have spoken with less enthusiasm.

Sansa took one last look at him, knowing she was doing the right thing, but hating the fact that all her dreams had been destroyed. She had wanted so much from Tyrion, expected so much, and he had let her down. She would have to remember never to get her hopes up again.