Chapter Fourteen

That night, the entire family gathered in Sansa's solar for the evening meal. It was a joyous affair, even for Sansa. Eddard had been thrilled by the arrival of his favorite uncle and had insisted upon sitting next to him at the table, monopolizing the conversation whenever he could. Eddard regaled Jaime with stories of his exploits with his father, detailing every last thing they had done together since Tyrion's arrival. There had been snowball fights and late-night stories and games of hide-and-seek in the crypts. Jaime laughed at the idea of Tyrion playing nursemaid, and Tyrion laughed right along with him, obviously overjoyed just to be in Jaime's presence.

Sansa said very little as the larger personalities at the table dominated the conversation. Between Tyrion, Jaime, Eddard, and Arya, there was barely a chance for anyone else to speak. Thankfully, Brienne was seated beside Sansa, and they were able to talk quietly between themselves while the rest of the table was otherwise engaged.

"Thank you for your hospitality," Brienne said, her tone conveying genuine gratitude. "I know that hosting our party must be a bit of an imposition, particularly in the midst of winter."

Sansa offered Brienne a warm smile. "No, not at all. Both Tyrion and Eddard are glad for the company, and I'm glad to see them both so happy."

"I know you've waited a long time for this."

It was obvious that Brienne wasn't talking about her and Jaime's visit. She was talking about Tyrion's return, and they both knew it.

"Yes, it's been a long time," Sansa replied evenly, trying to keep the emotion from her voice.

"And has it been all that you expected it to be?"

Sansa's eyes drifted to Tyrion. He was sitting at the other end of the table, laughing at something Arya was saying. He wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to Sansa, so she knew it was safe to answer. She looked down at her plate, avoiding Brienne's piercing blue eyes. "It has not," she said as she absently toyed with her food.

"I must admit, I am sorry to hear that. Jaime was quite certain that Lord Tyrion would be overjoyed at returning home and finding you and Eddard waiting for him. I'm sorry if that isn't the case."

Sansa wished that she and Brienne were not surrounded by a roomful of people at that moment. She knew Brienne quite well, they had spent a good deal of time together both before and during the war, and she wished nothing more than to confide in her old friend, but she couldn't. Not now. Not with Arya's keen set of ears just a few feet away. Not with Tyrion watching from the other side of the room.

"Nothing has been as either one of us expected," Sansa said, finally raising her eyes to look up at Brienne again. "But then, whatever is?"

"Very little, I'm afraid."

Jaime's voice suddenly carried down to them from the other end of the table. "What are you two ladies talking about so gravely down there? This is a celebration, not a funeral."

Brienne turned toward her husband. Even when she was annoyed with him, there was still love in her eyes, and it made Sansa's heart ache just a little. More than anything, she wished that she could have what Jaime and Brienne had. It was obvious to anyone who looked at them that they were deeply in love. It was like something out of a fairytale.

"Not all of us feel the need to laugh like hyenas at the dinner table," Brienne answered. "Sansa and I were just having a civilized conversation."

"Oh, is that what you call it? It seems to me that you and Lady Sansa think you're above the rest of us. I don't think I've seen either one of you laugh all night."

"Well," Brienne replied, "perhaps if you said something that was actually funny, we would laugh."

Jaime laughed at that, and so did the rest of the table, including Sansa.

"Oh," Jaime said, "that is a bit harsh, Lady Brienne. And certainly no way to talk to your lord husband."

"If my lord husband is so sensitive that he can't even take a slight against his sense of humor, or lack thereof, then perhaps he is not worthy of being my lord husband at all."

There was more laughter from all around, and Jaime's eyes sparkled as he gazed at his wife with genuine affection. She was a clever woman, and more than a fitting match for the likes of Jaime Lannister. They were perfect for each other, and Sansa had never felt happier for them, or more envious.

"Does this mean you intend to have our marriage annulled?" Jaime asked. "Tell me, will it be on the grounds that I lack a sense of humor or that I'm too sensitive for my own good?"

"Both."

Jaime's smile broadened, and Brienne's carefully honed façade finally broke, and she smiled back at him.

That must have been all Jaime had wanted, a smile from his wife, because he finally relented and went back to entertaining the rest of the table.

Sansa watched Brienne from the corner of her eye. She was blushing like a maid as she turned back to her meal, and Sansa's envy suddenly deepened. Tyrion never looked at her the way Jaime looked at Brienne. Jaime looked at Brienne as if the sun and moon rose in her eyes, as if she was the most beautiful woman who had ever walked the earth and he was unworthy of being in her presence. Sansa knew that Tyrion would never look at her like that, and it wounded her deeply.

Dinner lasted a bit longer than usual that night, and when it was finally time to retire for the evening, Eddard refused to leave Sansa's solar.

"It's past your bedtime," she said as she ushered him toward the door. Everyone else was still seated, lingering around the table.

"But Uncle Jaime just got here."

"Yes, and he will be here tomorrow too. You can see him in the morning. Maybe he'll take you out for some sparring if you ask him nicely."

"Will you?" Eddard asked, turning toward Jaime with large, hopeful eyes.

"I think that can be arranged," Jaime replied.

"Oh, thank you!" Eddard raced forward and launched himself at his uncle.

Jaime leaned down in his chair so that Eddard could wrap his arms around his neck. They shared a quick hug before Jaime ordered Eddard to bed.

Eddard did as he was told, not because Sansa had commanded it, but because his Uncle Jaime had, and he loved his uncle almost as much as he loved Tyrion.

"And no sneaking into your father's chamber tonight," Sansa warned as she led Eddard back toward the door. "It's been a long day, and he needs his rest."

"Yes, Mother." The words held just a hint of impertinence, but since Eddard was already on his way to bed, Sansa chose to ignore it.

Eddard toddled off with one of the maidservants, and Sansa turned back toward the table.

"It has been a long day," Brienne said as she laid her napkin next to her plate. "I think it would be best if we retired for the night as well."

Sansa couldn't keep the disappointment from showing on her face. It had been so long since she'd had a conversation with anyone that wasn't about grain stores or building plans or Eddard's paternity. For one night, she had actually been able to relax a little, to forget some of her cares and woes, as she'd listened to the happy voices chattering around her. But now, the evening was at an end, and suddenly, it was all over.

Sansa nodded graciously in Brienne's direction. "Of course," she said. "It is late."

Brienne rose, as did Jaime and Tyrion.

Jaime turned toward Sansa. "Thank you for a lovely evening. I can't remember the last time I enjoyed myself so thoroughly."

"You are quite welcome," Sansa replied.

Brienne rounded the table, moving up alongside Jaime and gently slipping her arm around his. It was a small gesture, but it tortured Sansa just the same. They looked so beautiful together, and she was certain, once they were alone, they would do more than simply fall asleep in each other's arms.

Jaime and Brienne said their goodnights before leaving the room and heading for the Guest House. Sansa stared after them, suddenly wishing that she was Brienne of Tarth, not because she wanted Jaime Lannister, but because she wanted to be loved by a man more than she cared to admit.

Sansa didn't notice the silence around her until it was broken.

"Well," Arya said, finally getting up from the table, "I think I've had enough family togetherness for one night. Maybe Brienne will forgo her gown on the morrow and meet me in the yard for a sparring match as well, do you think?"

Sansa looked at Arya, a little surprised to see her still in the room. "I'm sure she wouldn't mind. And I think Eddard might enjoy sparring with her too. She'll be gentler with him than either you or Jaime, and I think I'd prefer that."

Arya laughed. "Of course, you would. If you had your way, you'd keep him locked up in the library for the rest of his life, reading books and stuffing his head full of knowledge, just like his father."

Sansa glanced at Tyrion. He was standing beside the table, finishing off the last of the wine in Jaime's glass.

Sansa looked back at Arya again. "Eddard may be a Lannister, but he is also a Stark, and he must learn to fight like one. I've always known that. Don't pretend that I haven't. He can spar with whoever he likes tomorrow. I won't interfere."

Arya smiled at her in that cold, cool way she had before heading toward the door. She stopped for a moment when she finally reached her sister. "Goodnight, Sansa." Then, Arya turned her attention to her brother-in-law. "Tyrion."

But before either Sansa or Tyrion could reply, Arya was gone, closing the door behind her.

Sansa suddenly found herself alone in her solar with only her husband for company. She hadn't kept count of how many glasses of wine he'd consumed that evening, but looking at him now, she was certain it had been quite a few. His cheeks were flushed, and he seemed just a little unsteady on his feet. She wondered if he had imbibed so much because he had been celebrating Jaime's return or because he had felt just as uncomfortable as she had in the presence of such a happily married couple.

Sansa drifted away from the door, silently studying Tyrion from across the room. She watched as he reached for the flagon of wine in the center of the table and emptied the last of its contents into his own glass. Then, he turned around and looked up at her, holding the glass aloft as if to ask if she wanted to finish it off. Sansa shook her head, and Tyrion downed the wine himself.

When he was done, he slammed the glass down onto the table. "Well, that was a fun night, wasn't it?"

"You're drunk," Sansa said, suddenly certain of that fact.

"Yes, I am. And it feels wonderful! Have you ever been drunk, Sansa Stark?"

"Never."

Tyrion smiled wryly. "Then you don't know what you're missing." He turned and scanned the length of the table as if searching for another flagon, but there was only the one. He scowled and turned around to look up at Sansa again. "Perhaps we should call for more wine."

"I don't think that would be wise."

"Why?" Tyrion asked, his eyes lighting with mischief. "Don't you like to have fun?"

"Of course, I do."

"Then, why don't you? Have fun, that is? You never have fun. Never. Not even when everyone else around you is enjoying themselves. Why is that?"

Sansa didn't want to answer. Tyrion was drunk, that much was clear, and she was under no obligation to humor him. She hadn't seen him drunk since their wedding night, and the association alone made her uncomfortable. But Sansa didn't know how to simply walk away, so despite her overwhelming desire to end the conversation right then and there, she replied, "I am the Lady of Winterfell. I have responsibilities—"

Tyrion laughed, stopping her before she could go any further. "Responsibilities? What responsibilities did you have tonight other than to be a gracious hostess and to laugh at your guests' jokes? Oh, no, this isn't about responsibility, or honor, or duty, or any of that. This is about you hating the fact that I am here and wishing I were gone. If you didn't feel that you needed a father for Eddard and someone to help you rule Winterfell, you'd want nothing to do with me, and we both know it."

Sansa stared at Tyrion in utter shock. Nothing could have been further from the truth, and she didn't understand how he could even think such a thing. Perhaps the wine had gone to his head and he didn't know what he was saying.

"Is that what you think?" Sansa asked when she was finally capable of speech. "Is that what you really think?"

"Of course, it is. You've barely spoken to me in a fortnight. If it wasn't for our responsibilities in the Great Hall every day, I doubt we'd speak at all."

"I don't want you gone," Sansa said, her voice almost shrill. "I'm sorry if my devotion to duty and honor is somehow offensive to you. I'm sorry if I'm not entertaining enough for your liking, but I do have a duty to fulfill, a duty to my people and to Winterfell, and I can't be laughing and joking all the time like some people."

"I don't joke all the time. And frankly, I find very little to laugh about here at Winterfell."

Sansa tore her eyes away from Tyrion, afraid that she might say something she wouldn't be able to take back.

They stood there for a long time, neither one saying a word. Finally, Tyrion broke the awkward silence. "I'm sorry, Sansa. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"That's all you ever do, isn't it? Hurt me?"

He didn't answer, and Sansa turned to look at him again.

He was staring across the room, watching the flames dancing in the hearth. "I think . . . I think we've gotten very good at hurting each other."

Sansa's breath caught in her throat. That was the last thing she had expected Tyrion to say, and she wasn't going to waste the chance that he'd suddenly given her. "Then how do we fix it? How do we stop?"

Tyrion laughed, but the sound quickly turned into a sob. "I don't know," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I just don't know."

Sansa didn't know either. She didn't know how to even begin mending what was broken between them. She didn't even know if it could be mended. As long as Tyrion didn't trust her, they could never have a happy marriage. Trust was more important to a marriage than even love, and there was very little trust between them.

"Did you see them tonight?" Tyrion asked, his eyes still fixed on the flames in the hearth.

Sansa was surprised by the question. "Did I see who?"

"Jaime and Brienne." Tyrion finally turned and looked up at Sansa again. "I've never seen my brother so happy. He loves her with all his heart. And she loves him. That much would be obvious to a blind man."

"They're very fortunate."

"Yes, they are. And we are not."

Sansa and Tyrion stared at each other across the chamber, and Sansa wondered why he had felt compelled to say such a thing. It hurt, more than she could ever put into words, and she did her best not to let the pain show on her face.

"What do you want, Tyrion?" Sansa asked, her voice trembling slightly. "What do you really want from me?"

"The truth," he said. "That's all. Tell me who Eddard's father is. I won't tell another living soul. I give you my word. But I must know the truth so that you and I can move forward, so that there can finally be some trust between us."

Had he said anything else, Sansa might have granted his request, but she was not about to lie to him for the sake of his pride. It wasn't her fault that he refused to believe the truth, and she would not tell him a falsehood just to keep the peace between them.

Sansa turned around and headed toward the door, intent on leaving. She refused to have this same argument with Tyrion again. It never got them anywhere, and it only ever drove them further apart.

"Sansa, wait!"

Sansa halted, just shy of the door, and listened as Tyrion shuffled awkwardly toward her, the wine obviously making it difficult for him to stay upright. When he finally stopped, she turned around to find him standing a few feet away, swaying slightly on his feet.

"What?" she asked, her tone as icy as a northern winter.

"What . . . what do you want?"

"Me?" She had expected him to question her again about Eddard's paternity, not to ask her what she wanted.

"Yes, you. I've been so caught up in my own suffering and my own self-pity that I haven't stopped to think about what you want from me."

"I want you to trust me, just as much as you want me to trust you. But we've already agreed that neither one of us can have what we want in that regard."

"How do you feel about my brother?"

Sansa stared at Tyrion in stunned silence. She didn't know why he had asked her such a thing. She could only imagine that it had something to do with him being drunk. "What kind of question is that?"

"I saw the way you were looking at him tonight, like you wanted something that you just couldn't have."

Sansa's mouth gaped open as she struggled to comprehend Tyrion's words. He was accusing her of wanting Jaime. That was it, wasn't it? Was he so petty and jealous that he couldn't see what was clearly right before his eyes? It wasn't Jaime's love she wanted, it was his, but she knew she was never going to get it.

"Is that really what you think of me?" Sansa asked, barely able to form the words.

"I don't know what to think. I hardly know you, Sansa Stark. All I do know is, the look in your eyes tonight was unmistakable."

Sansa shook her head, taking an unconscious step back. The closed door was right behind her, and she leaned against it, afraid she might crumble without the support. "I know you think me unfaithful, but to accuse me of wanting your brother is going a step too far. I like Jaime. He's smart and he's funny and he's charming."

"And handsome."

"And one of the most handsome men I have ever met," Sansa replied with unabashed bravado. "But you do me a disservice by believing that I want him. Although it may not have been true in the past, your brother is a good man now, and he loves Brienne with a passion that I . . ." Sansa faltered, struggling to catch her breath, "that I can't even begin to imagine. No man has ever felt about me the way that Jaime Lannister feels about Brienne of Tarth. When you see me looking at him with longing, it's not because I want him. It's because I want someone to look at me the way Jaime looks at Brienne. I want someone to love me like that."

There were tears in Sansa's eyes by the time she finished, and she didn't even bother trying to hide them. She was so tired, so lonely. She didn't care if Tyrion knew the truth about her anymore. Even though she had grown up a great deal in the past five years, deep down, she was still that same stupid little girl who had always believed in true love and fairytales and knights in shining armor. She was still a hopeless romantic whose heart ached every time she was reminded of what she could never have.

"Sansa—" Tyrion began, his voice warm and soft, but she was too afraid to let him finish.

"Don't," she said, cutting him off. "I don't want to hear whatever it is you have to say. You had your chance. Now, I would just like it if you would leave me alone."

Sansa turned then and opened the door.

Tyrion stared up at her with sad, sympathetic eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but she scowled at him, stopping him cold.

Tyrion broke Sansa's gaze and walked to the door. He paused just long enough to say, "Good night, my lady," before moving past her and stepping into the hallway.

Sansa didn't even bother to reply. Instead, the instant Tyrion was over the threshold, she slammed the door closed behind him.

For a moment, Sansa just stood there, listening to the sound of Tyrion's footsteps retreating down the corridor. As soon as he was gone, she fell to her knees and began to weep.