Author's Note: I apologize for the slow updates. Now that the show is over, I've had no choice but to start tending to all the real-life stuff I neglected while Season 8 was airing. I would rather take my time editing this story than start posting chapters that are not up to my personal standards, so please, bear with me.

Again, I want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement. I'm glad that so many of you seem to love this story just as much as I do!

Chapter Eleven

Tyrion was shaking. Every nerve in his body was trembling, and he thought his legs might give out beneath him. He had known that Eddard would eventually learn the truth, but he hadn't expected the experience to be quite so visceral. Eddard loved him unconditionally, adored him, revered him. And Tyrion felt like the worst kind of liar. There was nothing admirable about him, nothing heroic or brave or worthy. And worst of all, he wasn't even Eddard's real father. Whatever Sansa said, whatever Sansa believed, it just wasn't true, and Tyrion felt utterly wretched.

When he was certain that he could move without collapsing to the floor, Tyrion took a few cautious steps toward the bed, wrapping his arms around the bedpost and holding on for dear life. He closed his eyes, fighting back the tears. He felt like a fool. He wanted it all so badly – Sansa, Eddard, Winterfell – so badly he could taste it, and yet, he knew he was just deluding himself. His entire life, all Tyrion had ever wanted was to be loved unconditionally. The only person who had ever come close to showing him that kind of affection had been Jaime. But beyond that, no one had ever really cared for Tyrion very much at all.

Despite his determination to remain strong, Tyrion was suddenly overcome with emotion, and he began to weep. He sank to the floor, his arms still wrapped around the bedpost, and leaned his head against the mattress, the tears finally falling in earnest.

It felt good to cry. It had been a long time since Tyrion had cried. He hadn't shed a single tear since the night he had murdered Shae. After that, he had spent months in a drunken stupor, too numb to feel anything at all. Once the initial shock had worn off, the numbness had lingered, becoming a vital part of his self-preservation. But now, Tyrion was finally starting to feel again, and it was all simply too much for him to bear.

He cried for Shae. He cried for his father, and for Cersei, and for Myrcella and Tommen. For little Eddard and his dream of the father he would never meet. For Sansa and her silly girlhood dreams. For the five long years of his life that he would never get back. For what might have been.

Tyrion cried until he nearly choked on his tears. Then, he finally let go of the bedpost, turning to sit on his backside so that he could gaze at the dying embers in the hearth. His eyes stung, and his nose was stuffed swollen. He could feel the heat in his cheeks, and he knew his face was probably bright red. He was sure he looked like shit, but then, what else was new?

Tyrion stared into the hearth, a thousand thoughts running wild through his head. More than anything, he just wanted to run. He wanted to put on his ill-fitting clothes, find his horse, and gallop off into the countryside, the crippling snow be damned. He wanted to get as far away from Winterfell as possible before he no longer had any desire to leave. Because what Sansa and Eddard were offering him was tempting beyond measure – a family, a home, acceptance, . . . love. It was everything Tyrion had always wanted, and he knew he didn't deserve any of it.

Tyrion could still feel Eddard's arms around his neck, clinging to him like a drowning man to a lifeline, and an unbidden sob escaped his throat. How easy it would be to fall in love with Eddard, whether the boy was his son or not. There was something so endearing about him. He was so much like his mother that Tyrion couldn't help but love him.

Tyrion sighed. He'd buried his feelings for Sansa Stark a long time ago. He'd always cared for her, always loved her, in his way. Although he'd adored her from the start, he'd never truly believed that there could be anything more between them than friendship, even after he had shared her bed. Sansa was an extraordinary woman, she always had been, and she deserved far better than to spend the rest of her life beholden to a half-man who could never truly be worthy of her.

And yet, she had just stood before him and said the one thing he had never expected her to say. I want my husband. Tyrion wasn't quite sure what that meant, whether she wanted him by her side or in her bed. Either way, it was more than he had ever expected, and he was stunned by the very thought.

For a brief moment, Tyrion let himself imagine what life would be like if he chose to stay at Winterfell. Although he knew Sansa could never truly love him, he knew she could make him happy. And so could Eddard. He could easily envision himself falling into a comfortable little life with a wife and child by his side, ruling the north, restoring Winterfell to its former glory. He wondered, if he stayed long enough, if Sansa would someday ask him to share her bed again. After all, Eddard was already demanding a baby brother and Winterfell could always use another heir. Would Sansa willingly sacrifice herself to him one more time in hopes of conceiving another child? Tyrion couldn't even begin to imagine what it would feel like to share Sansa's bed again. It had been a long time since he had been with a woman, and he wasn't even sure he remembered what to do with one.

Tyrion shook his head, trying to chase away the thought. He was getting ahead of himself by leaps and bounds. He didn't even intend to stay at Winterfell, so there was no point in speculating about such a future. He already knew the future. The snow would stop, and he would head for Casterly Rock. That was it. Simple and easy and painless.

Tyrion laughed, nearly sobbing with the effort. Even he didn't believe his own lies anymore.

The empty silence was suddenly broken by a knock at the door, and Tyrion swiped at his cheeks, trying to dry away the evidence of his tears. He could tell by the light streaming through the unshuttered windows that it was still morning, and he was certain that his breakfast had finally arrived.

Tyrion scrambled to his feet. "One moment."

Instead of heading to the door, he walked over to the washbasin and doused his face with cold water. Even if his visitor was just a servant come to deliver breakfast, he didn't want to look like he'd spent the last hour crying like a newborn babe.

When Tyrion was sure that he didn't look like a total disgrace, he turned back toward the door. "Come in," he said in a calm, clear voice.

The door opened, and Arya Stark stepped inside, followed by a maidservant carrying his breakfast tray.

Tyrion groaned inwardly. The last thing he needed was a visit from his sister-in-law. All he wanted was to eat his morning meal in peace.

Tyrion could feel Arya's eyes boring into him from across the room. Instead of meeting her gaze, he focused his attention on the maidservant. He watched as the woman crossed the floor and put the tray on the small table in the corner. Then, she turned around and offered him a small curtsy before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

The atmosphere suddenly felt stifling, and Tyrion wished he was anywhere else in the world at that moment. Even the dirtiest gutter in Essos was preferable to being shut up alone in a room with Arya Stark.

Tyrion knew he couldn't avoid facing her forever. She was standing between him and the door, and it was obvious that she had no intention of leaving until she got whatever it was she had come for.

It was with great reluctance that Tyrion finally raised his eyes to Arya's. The look he saw there was inscrutable, and yet, he knew she could see right down into his very soul. He shivered at the sensation but fought the urge to look away.

"Lady Arya, is there something I can do for you?"

Arya moved farther into the room, stopping at the foot of the bed. She threw something onto the furs. "Here," she said, "these are yours. The seamstress finished them this morning."

Tyrion hadn't even realized that Arya had been carrying anything, but now, he saw the fine set of clothes she had tossed onto the bed. She'd brought him a dark blue woolen doublet with breeches, hose, and boots to match, all of exceptional quality. Tyrion looked them over with glassy eyes. It had been a long time since he'd worn anything so refined, and he was surprisingly apprehensive about the prospect.

"It will take some time for her to finish your entire wardrobe," Arya continued, "but Sansa wanted you to have these for now."

Tyrion looked up at Arya again, her expression as blank as ever. "And what do you want, Lady Arya? Still hoping to throw me out a window?"

"If you hurt my sister and my nephew, I'll do worse than that."

Tyrion laughed. "I certainly don't doubt it."

"Eddard's already told half the castle who you really are. The next time you step out of this room, it's going to be as the Lord of Winterfell, so you'd better make sure that you're ready and that you're worthy of the title."

"But I'm not worthy of the title. I never have been."

"Well, it's yours now, and if you do anything to disgrace those who held the title before you, I will kill you. Make no mistake. You get one chance, Lannister, one. My sister may think you're a kind and gentle soul, she may even fancy herself in love with you, but I am not blinded by my emotions. I judge everything by what I see. And if I find you lacking, I will not stay silent. My father would be horrified to know that a Lannister has taken his place. Don't make me regret letting you live to walk in his footsteps."

Arya's threats were powerful indeed, but they were nothing compared to her assertion that Sansa could ever fancy herself in love with him. It was all Tyrion heard.

"I can assure you," he said, with absolute certainty, "your sister does not love me."

The hint of a smile pulled at Arya's lips for one brief instant. Had Tyrion blinked, he would have missed it completely.

"And everyone says you're so clever."

"I am clever," Tyrion said with genuine pride. "In fact, I think that's my only redeeming quality. Well, that and my winning sense of humor."

"My sister may have grown up a lot since the last time you saw her in King's Landing, but in her heart, she's still the same girl she always was. She still believes in true love and fairytales and knights in shining armor, even though she's had her heart broken one too many times. Whatever you do, don't break it again."

Tyrion couldn't help but wonder who else had broken Sansa's heart. Had Eddard's father used her for his own pleasure and then abandoned her when he'd discovered that she was with child? Or had they been in love but unable to wed because Sansa already had a husband? Tyrion didn't think he wanted to know.

The only thing Tyrion did know for certain was that Sansa didn't love him, and therefore, there was no way he could ever break her heart. Although Arya was a fine fighter, with a keen ability to size up her opponents, she didn't know the first thing about love. Not romantic love, anyway. Yes, Sansa had told herself a fairy story about what would happen when he returned, but her desire for him to come back had nothing to do with love. She wanted a father for Eddard, she wanted a husband to rule Winterfell by her side, but that was all.

"I promise you," Tyrion said, "I am not going to break her heart."

"Good, because she's already been through too much, and she doesn't deserve any more heartache in her life. And neither does Eddard."

Tyrion didn't want to talk about Eddard. He knew how Arya felt about his relationship with the boy, what Arya thought, and to discuss the matter again would just be to talk in circles. So Tyrion abruptly changed the subject. "You've told me how you think Sansa feels—"

"How I know Sansa feels."

"And how you feel," Tyrion said, ignoring Arya's admonishment. "But what about the rest of Winterfell? Are the servants and the stable hands and the stewards willing to accept me as their new lord, or would they much rather have my head?"

"I think that remains to be seen."

"But surely you know which way the wind is blowing. I would appreciate it very much if you would give me a report on the weather."

Tyrion held his breath as he waited for Arya to reply. He knew she was not particularly fond of him, but she had expressed what seemed like a genuine desire for him to succeed, at least until she felt he had proven himself unworthy. Would she be honest with him? Would she tell him what he needed to know to navigate the politics of the north? Or would she ignore his pleas and set him up for certain failure?

"You may be Sansa's husband, but you are also a Lannister," Arya replied. "A year ago, that meant that the average northman would have killed you on sight just for your name alone. The only reason Eddard was safe was because he had Stark blood running through his veins."

Tyrion wanted to point out that it was probably also because no one believed that Eddard was a trueborn Lannister, but he held his tongue. That was a door he had no desire to open again.

"And then," Arya went on, "the White Walkers came, and Jaime Lannister defied your sister and rode north to join our fight. I must admit, until I got to know him, I had never thought well of a single Lannister besides Eddard, but even I could not deny what an asset your brother was to the cause. He fought for Westeros, he fought for the north, like he didn't care whether he lived or died. He killed a lot of White Walkers, saved a lot of lives. And because of that, I think the people of Winterfell, and our northern brethren, will be less likely to despise you than they might have been just one short year ago."

"And yet," Tyrion said, "I am the man who abandoned their lady and her child for more than five long years."

Arya snickered. It was the first time Tyrion had heard her laugh, even derisively, since she was a child.

"I think they were all grateful that you stayed away," Arya said. "After Jon and Littlefinger drove Ramsay Bolton out of Winterfell and Sansa finally returned, I think the people of the north were relieved to be free of outside influences. No one was sorry to see Sansa return alone. They were just happy that there was a Stark in Winterfell once more."

"What happened between Sansa and Littlefinger?" Tyrion asked before he could stop himself. Bronn hadn't been able to tell him much, and all Sansa had said was that Littlefinger wasn't Eddard's father.

"I don't know all of it," Arya replied, her voice growing quiet. "She hasn't told me all of it, and I don't think she ever will. But when they returned to Winterfell – when we all returned to Winterfell – the true extent of his treachery was finally revealed, and Sansa and I put an end to his life once and for all."

"Sansa?" Tyrion couldn't imagine Sansa putting an end to anyone's life, not even Littlefinger's.

"She delivered the sentence, and I carried it out. Our father used to say, the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. But Sansa doesn't have the stomach for inflicting pain, even on the most deserving, and we made our decision together – Sansa, Bran, and I. Together we decided his fate, and together we gathered in the Great Hall and watched the blood flow from his veins when I slit his throat."

Arya painted a gruesome picture, and Tyrion wondered exactly what Littlefinger had done to deserve such a fate. Of course, Tyrion didn't doubt that he had deserved it, but he wondered just how bad the whoremonger's treachery had been. "May I ask what the charge against him was? I knew Littlefinger for a long time, and I can't help but wonder which of his many crimes finally did him in."

"He orchestrated Jon Arryn's assassination. He murdered our Aunt Lysa. Through his lies and treachery, he purposefully started the conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters, a conflict that led to a brutal war. He betrayed our father and sent him to his death. And gods only know what else."

Tyrion stared at Arya in silence. He couldn't imagine how the Starks had been able to prove any of it, but he didn't doubt that every word was true. Whatever Littlefinger had been after – whether it had been the Iron Throne or Catelyn Stark or just the joy of watching the world burn around him – he had done everything in his power to make it happen. He had destroyed more innocent lives than Tyrion could count, and suddenly, Tyrion was glad that Littlefinger was dead and that his wife had been the one to pass the sentence.

"And who brought testimony against him?" Tyrion asked, too curious to stop himself from inquiring.

"Bran. He sees all and knows all."

"Because he's the Three-Eyed Raven?"

"Yes."

"I've heard that Bran lives north of the Wall now," Tyrion said, still wanting to know more. "Is that true?"

"It is. After the war, he had no desire to stay and look after Winterfell. He had no desire for anything, really."

Tyrion couldn't quite imagine a Stark, any Stark, turning his or her back on Winterfell. Its snows ran in their blood, and they were as tightly connected to the keep as they were to each other. He knew that Bran Stark must be in a wretched state to not have the slightest care for his ancestral home.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Tyrion said with all sincerity, the words passing his lips without a second thought.

Arya's eyes suddenly softened, and Tyrion could tell that was the last thing in the world she had expected him to say. At first, he thought she wouldn't even acknowledge his words of sympathy, but then, she said, "All we've had is loss for eight long years. But I thank you for the sentiment, anyway."

Tyrion nodded, not knowing what else to say.

Arya turned away from him for the first time since she'd entered the room. She looked at the table in the corner where the maidservant had left the tray of food. "You should eat your breakfast. The rest of us have already had ours."

"Yes, thank you."

Arya's eyes moved back to Tyrion. "And remember, the next time you walk through that door, it will be as the Lord of Winterfell. Don't make me regret helping you."

A cold chill swept down Tyrion's spine, but he held his ground. "I won't."

"Good."

Arya turned around and left the chamber without another word.

Tyrion closed his eyes and exhaled a heavy sigh. The weight of the world was suddenly on his shoulders, and he didn't know how to deal with it. Upon his return to Westeros, all he had wanted to do was forgo duty and honor and live a quiet life of solitude. But it was becoming more and more apparent that Sansa and Arya had no intention of letting him leave Winterfell as long as there was breath in his lungs and blood flowing through his veins. The moment he donned his new lordly attire and stepped out of his bedchamber, he would be shackling himself to a lifetime of responsibilities that he knew he didn't want. But what choice did he have? Like it or not, he was the Lord of Winterfell now, and he could no longer run from his obligations, no matter how much he wanted to. Unless he could think of a clever way out, Tyrion was certain he was going to be stuck at Winterfell for the foreseeable future.