Author's Note: I apologize for the lengthy delay in posting this chapter. While I was at my writing conference, my boyfriend's mother was admitted to a hospital two hours from home for complications with her Leukemia. For the past week, we have been practically living at the hospital, and I haven't had any time to work on my writing. Unfortunately, the prognosis isn't good, and I have no idea what lies ahead for us. Because of that, future updates to this story and "The Things We Do for Love" will be sporadic at best, and I probably won't have a chance to reply to reviews for the foreseeable future. I will complete both stories eventually. It's just going to take a lot longer than I thought to get there.

Chapter Seventeen

That night at dinner, Tyrion sat quietly at his end of the table, observing everything that went on around him. He wasn't in a jovial mood, not after Jaime had lectured him on the bridge that morning. Of course, he spoke when spoken to, as not to seem too unsociable, but for the most part, he just ate his food, drank his wine, and sat there feeling sorry for himself.

The meal was just as lively as it had been the night before, Sansa and Brienne making up for Tyrion's lack of involvement. A few times, Sansa actually laughed at Jaime's jokes, and Tyrion couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. Watching them all together – Sansa, Arya, Jaime, Brienne . . . Eddard – Tyrion was struck by what a happy little family they made. It instantly reminded him of the fact that, while he had been out aimlessly roaming the world, trying to run from his problems, they had all been here at Winterfell together, braving the winter and fighting White Walkers. It had forged a connection between them that Tyrion didn't think he would ever be a part of, and in that moment, he was certain that they would all be better off without him.

Halfway through the meal, Eddard began regaling everyone with a story about the last time he and Arya had gone down to explore the crypts, and Jaime took the opportunity to lean in close to Tyrion for a private word. "You're awfully quiet tonight. Still being obstinate and feeling sorry for yourself?"

"Something like that."

Tyrion took a sip of wine, and Jaime sat back. There was nothing his brother could do or say to lure him out of himself. He was in no mood for revelry. All he wanted was to finish his dinner and retire to his chamber without incident.

Jaime turned back toward the table and said something that made Sansa laugh. The sound was as bright and cheerful as a birdsong, and Tyrion wished he had been the one to bring her such joy. But then, there was far too much tension between them for that.

Tyrion lowered his head toward his plate and concentrated on his meal, determined to survive the evening as best he could. Ordinarily, he couldn't get through a single meal without Eddard talking to him incessantly, but since Jaime's arrival, Eddard's attention had been directed elsewhere, and Tyrion was surprised to find just how much he missed it.

Just as it had the night before, the meal lasted a bit longer than usual, and when everyone had emptied their plates, Sansa suggested that they all retire to her sitting room so that they could continue enjoying each other's company for a while longer. Tyrion tried to protest, but neither Jaime nor Eddard would allow him to decline the invitation. And so, before Tyrion quite knew what was happening, he found himself in Sansa's sitting room, seated in a large chair by the hearth, while everyone else gathered around the matching sofas in the center of the room. There was a book on the table beside the chair, and he picked it up, pretending to read as he quietly observed what was going on around him.

Jaime continued to entertain everyone with his undeniable charm, his devoted wife by his side. Sansa sat across from them, her needlework in her lap, while Eddard and Arya sat on the floor playing war with Eddard's wooden soldiers, joining in the conversation whenever it suited them. And again, Tyrion was struck by how cozy and domestic it all seemed. They were the perfect picture of a happy family spending a cold winter evening together, and suddenly, Tyrion felt more like an outsider than ever.

An hour passed, then two. Finally, it grew so late that Eddard began to show signs of fatigue.

"I think it's time for bed," Sansa said, putting down her needlework, obviously intending to stand.

But Eddard was in her lap before she could rise. "Please, let me stay, Mother. I want to hear more of Uncle Jaime's stories."

Sansa looked down at Eddard, and Tyrion could see her warring with herself. She always tried her best to be a strict disciplinarian, but she often failed in that regard. Eddard was Sansa's one weakness. She hated to see the boy suffer even in little ways, and so, more often than not, she succumbed to his pleading.

"If you don't go to sleep now, you won't wake up until noon, and then you'll miss your morning training."

"Please," Eddard begged with the tone of a child who knew just how to get his own way.

Tyrion knew Sansa was going to give in even before she spoke.

"All right," she said, "but just a little while longer."

"Thank you!" Eddard wrapped his arms around his mother's neck and hugged her tightly. Then, he snuggled down into her lap, resting his head against her shoulder so that he could turn and watch his uncle Jaime. Tyrion knew it wouldn't be long until Eddard was fast asleep. He'd simply had too much excitement for one day.

While everyone else continued to talk, Tyrion continued to observe. Sansa had one arm wrapped around Eddard, her hand resting gently against the back of his head. As she chatted with Jaime and Brienne, she idly stroked Eddard's hair, running her fingers through the curls at the base of his neck.

Tyrion sighed longingly, the sound so soft that it didn't carry across the room. His eyes fixed on Sansa's fingers and their gentle movement, his heart wishing for something he knew he could never have. Tyrion wondered what it must feel like to be so close to Sansa Stark. Although he had known her touch once – just once – the memory was so old and faded that he could scarcely call it a memory anymore. It was more like a dream, a fantasy, something that had happened to someone else a lifetime ago. Tyrion longed to feel Sansa's arms around him again, her fingers in his hair. It wasn't a sexual longing. It was something more, something deep and visceral and as old as time itself. Tyrion wanted to be loved, to be cared for, to be a part of something bigger than himself. He wanted Sansa to love him, but he could not – he would not – ever ask her for her love.

Tyrion tore his eyes away from his wife and stared down at the flames flickering in the hearth. He wanted to be anywhere else in the world at that moment, but there were too many people between him and the door for him to make his escape. So Tyrion just sat there, listening to their stories, their jokes, their laughter, pretending not to notice how truly empty he felt.

Although the conversation around him was loud enough for Tyrion to hear every last word, it barely registered through the foggy haze that had settled over his brain. It wasn't until Jaime said, "It looks like he's asleep," that Tyrion was finally roused from his stupor. At first, he thought that Jaime was talking about him, but no, a quick glance at the center of the room and Tyrion saw that it was Eddard who had fallen fast asleep.

"I should take him to bed," Sansa said.

"No, let me." Jaime got up from the couch and crossed the floor. He reached down to take Eddard from Sansa's arms.

"Are you sure you don't mind?"

"No, not at all," he replied as he gently hefted the boy upward. "I need the practice, after all." Jaime glanced at Brienne, and a soft look passed between them. The kind of look that tore at Tyrion's soul.

"I'll come with you," Brienne said, standing up and moving to his side. "You're not the only one who needs some practice putting a child to bed."

Standing there together like that, Eddard fast asleep in Jaime's arms, Brienne by his side, they looked like the perfect little family. Anyone seeing them at that moment would have had no trouble believing that Jaime was Eddard's father and that Brienne was his mother. They looked so blissfully happy together, and it made Tyrion feel just a little bit ill.

"Good night, Sansa," Jaime said. He glanced about the room. "Arya. Tyrion."

Arya hopped up from her spot on the floor. "I think I'll go too. I don't have the luxury of sleeping till noon like Eddard. Good night, Sansa." Arya didn't even bother to acknowledge Tyrion as she followed Jaime and Brienne out into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

An uneasy quiet fell over the sitting room. Tyrion expected Sansa to make her own excuses and disappear just as quickly as everyone else had, but she didn't. Instead, she picked up her needlework again and went back to her sewing.

Tyrion turned back to his book, trying to make sense of the letters on the page, but the words all seemed to bleed together. He was acutely aware of Sansa sitting on the other side of the room, of the sound of her breathing and the rhythmic movement of her needle against the fabric. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to know what was going on in her mind at that moment. Why hadn't she run from him when she'd more than had the chance?

Tyrion knew that if he stayed where he was, he'd never get any answers, so he climbed down from his chair and reseated himself on the couch beside his wife, leaving enough space for two people between them.

"You're very good at that, you know?" he said, trying his best to make idle conversation even though his mind was fraught with anxiety.

"I had a very good teacher," Sansa replied, not missing a stitch.

"Septa Mordane, correct?"

"Yes." The word was barely a whisper, and Tyrion wondered if she was picturing her Septa's head on a pike as she said it.

"She would have been very proud of you."

"Why?" Sansa asked, still not bothering to raise her head. "Because I can stitch a sampler?"

"No, because you've grown into a fine young woman, regal and dignified, just like your mother."

Sansa's fingers finally stilled. They never talked about her parents. Never. Her mother's murder had been one of the things that had driven them apart all those years ago back in King's Landing. It was a painful subject for both of them, and Tyrion usually did his best to avoid it at all costs. But Sansa did remind him of her mother, in the best possible way, and he felt she had a right to know it.

After a moment, Sansa began to move her needle again. "My mother was a much better Lady of Winterfell than I will ever be. She made a warm and loving home for her children, and even though she had a kind heart, she was never weak like me."

Tyrion was startled to hear Sansa say such a thing. She was one of the strongest people he had ever known, and he had no idea how she could be so wrong about herself. "You're not weak, Sansa Stark."

"Aren't I? Then why do I still cling to my dreams like a petulant child? Why can't I let go of the past, give up hoping for what I know I can never have? I am the Lady of Winterfell. The time for daydreaming is over, and yet, my heart rules me more than my head, and I simply can't steel myself against it."

"And why would you want to?"

"Because my heart is weak, and it makes me weak. And that is not what Winterfell needs. It's not what Eddard needs. It's not what you need."

Tyrion had the urge to move closer to her, to take her hand and offer her comfort, but he resisted. He didn't know why she was telling him any of this. Perhaps she was still self-conscious about what she had confessed to him the night before. Whatever her reasons were for confiding in him now didn't matter. He just wanted to help her in any way he could. "You need not worry about me," Tyrion said. "I don't want anything from you, and I admire you exactly as you are."

Sansa finally lifted her head and met his eyes. "Do you? Do you really? Even though you think I'm a faithless liar?"

"I don't think that."

"Yes, you do. And you're a liar if you can't admit it."

Tyrion rubbed the back of his neck in agitation, fighting to hold her gaze. He didn't want to flee, though every nerve in his body was telling him that's exactly what he should do. He didn't want to fight with Sansa again. He'd been trying to pay her a compliment, and he'd made a complete mess of it.

Tyrion dropped his hand to his lap. "I think you are a strong and capable woman," he said, ignoring the issue altogether. "I think you are a wonderful Lady of Winterfell and an absolutely amazing mother. There is so much to admire about you that, sometimes, I'm simply in awe of you, and I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to say it."

"Do you really think those things?" Sansa asked, her tone softening a bit.

"Yes, I do, every damned day. I've just never said it before, and I'm sorry for that."

Sansa was quiet for a moment, and Tyrion had no idea how she was going to reply. He was surprised when all she said was, "Thank you."

Tyrion shook his head. "Don't thank me for telling you the truth. You are the most extraordinary woman I have ever met. You survived King's Landing, you survived the Vale, and you survived the Great War all on your own. A weak woman would have crumbled at the first sign of adversity, but you persevered. And now, here you are, running Winterfell with the same grace and wisdom as your dearly departed mother. I know she would be very proud of you. I am very proud of you. And you should be proud of yourself."

"It's not that easy," Sansa said, "not with all my failings."

"We all have failings, some of us more than others. You don't have anything to be ashamed about or sorry for. You've done what you had to do to survive, and whatever that may have been, it got you where you are now, and in the end, that's all that matters."

Sansa stared at Tyrion for a moment, and then, she nodded. Without a word, she turned back to her needlework again, and Tyrion exhaled a sigh of relief. Soon, a comfortable silence settled between them as Sansa continued her sewing and Tyrion pretended to read.

After some time, Sansa's voice finally broke the quiet. "Jaime and Brienne intend to leave for Casterly Rock in a moonturn. Do you intend to join them?"

Tyrion eyed Sansa over the edge of his book, knowing that this was a conversation he did not wish to have. He had been mulling over the possibility of leaving Winterfell ever since Jaime had told him the news that morning, but he had yet to make a decision. "I am considering it," Tyrion admitted.

"I'm surprised you're even considering it," Sansa replied, her eyes still focused on her work. "I thought you would have made your decision already."

"You mean, you thought I'd already begun making plans to leave." Tyrion closed the book so that he could give Sansa his full attention.

"Yes."

"Well, I haven't. I'm sorry to disappoint you."

"When do you think you'll know for certain?"

"Are you so eager to see me leave?"

Sansa paused, and Tyrion thought she might not answer him, but finally, she said, "I just want to know how much time we have, that's all. If you're going to be leaving in a moonturn, we need to prepare."

"For what?"

"For life without you."

"Would that be so terrible? You've lived without me longer than you've ever lived with me. I've only been here a month so far. Surely, my leaving won't disrupt your life so very much."

Sansa dropped her needlework and turned to look at Tyrion. There was a hardness in her eyes that hadn't been there before, and he wondered if she was upset with him again. "Eddard adores you," she said. "You have proven yourself a wise and capable Lord of Winterfell. Yes, you have only been here a month, but the help you have given me, and my people, has been invaluable. Eddard will be devastated when you go, the smallfolk will doubtlessly be disappointed, and our bannerman will lose whatever sense of respect they have for you."

"And you, Sansa? What about you?"

Sansa was silent, and Tyrion wondered just what was going on inside her mind. Did she want to say something biting and cruel, or did she want to confess to tender feelings, despite her better judgment? "I have no desire to rule Winterfell alone, but I will not make you stay. You've done as I've asked. You allowed me to tell Jon that you are alive. You've seen Winterfell through the worst of the winter. You've done your duty. You are welcome to go if that is your wish."

But for the first time, it wasn't.

Tyrion stared at Sansa, wishing nothing more than to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. He knew he had no right to touch her, but he longed to do so, just the same. She looked so beautiful, so grave. He wanted to kiss the frown from her lips and make her sigh with contentment. He had only managed to do that once in all the time they'd been married, and he wished, more than anything, that he could do it again.

"Well?" Sansa said when he remained quiet. "Is that your wish?"

Tyrion shook his head. "No, it's not."

"Then, you won't be going?"

"I . . ." Tyrion wanted to tell her that he was going to stay for the rest of his life, that he would never leave her again. But he knew he was just getting caught up in the moment, and he didn't want to make a promise that he might later regret. Everything was happening so fast, and he wasn't ready to swear his life away just because he was desperate to be close to his wife again. "I don't know."

Sansa's whole body stiffened, and the look in her eyes grew darker. "Which means, you will be leaving in a moonturn, just as I thought."

"It means, I don't know what I'm doing," he bit back, his temper suddenly flaring. "It means I will make a decision when I make a decision and not before."

"If you are going to leave, there's something I want from you first."

Tyrion laughed. "Oh, gods help me, I can only imagine. What is it? Would you like me to gather the entire north in the Great Hall and declare that you have never been unfaithful to me and that Eddard is my trueborn son?"

Tyrion regretted it the instant the words were out of his mouth. Sansa's eyes turned stormy, and he didn't think he had ever seen a deadlier look in his life, not even from Arya.

Sansa was seething with anger, and it was obvious that she was trying very hard not to scream. Tyrion braced himself, waiting for her to give full rein to her fury.

But she was Sansa Stark, after all, the most even-tempered, self-controlled woman Tyrion had ever met. She took her time tamping down her anger before opening her mouth to speak. "Why would I ask you for something that you have already sworn never to give me?"

"Then what do you want?"

"I want another child."

Tyrion stared at Sansa, his heart barely beating, her words clawing at his brain without making purchase. A child? She wanted a child?He couldn't even comprehend the idea. It was simply too foreign to him.

"Nothing to say?" Sansa asked archly, her words as chilly as a cold, northern night.

Tyrion struggled to reply, his mouth trying to form words but failing miserably. Finally, he managed to force something past his lips. "You . . . you can't mean it."

Sansa straightened her spine, which was no small feat since she was already as rigid as a corpse. "I do. You're going to leave in a moonturn, whether you're willing to admit it or not, and before you do, I want you to give me another child."

The weight of her words crushed the air from Tyrion's lungs, and he couldn't breathe, let alone speak.

"Eddard is the sole male heir to Winterfell," Sansa said. "Should anything happen to him, gods forbid, there would be no one to take his place. Jon is King of the Seven Kingdoms. If he ever has a son, that child will sit on the Iron Throne. Bran will never set foot south of the Wall again. And Arya has sworn never to marry. Eddard is all we have, and if, for some horrible reason, he cannot take his rightful place as lord of the keep, the days of the Starks ruling Winterfell will be over and it will be my fault."

Tyrion had never expected such a proposition from his wife. Her reasoning was sound, of course, but that didn't make it any easier to take. It was true, if something happened to Eddard, either now or in the future, there would be no one to follow after him. But Tyrion wasn't sure if Sansa knew just what it was that she was asking for. To make a child, they would have to lie together again, and he couldn't imagine how they could manage that with all the animosity and distrust that still separated them. The last time he had gone to her bed, there had been a tentative trust between them, but now, they didn't even have that.

"Do you realize exactly what it is that you're asking me to do?" Tyrion questioned, wanting to make certain that Sansa had completely thought this through.

"Yes, I do," she replied, her resolve unwavering. "You and I have shared a bed before. I'm sure we can survive it again."

Had circumstances been less dire, Tyrion would have laughed. He hadn't realized that the one night he had spent in her bed had been such a hardship for her. As he recalled, in his dark and distant memory, she had seemed to take some pleasure in it, even if she had been thinking about someone else the entire time. Tyrion wanted to say just that, but he was afraid that, if he did, she might slap him. Instead, he asked, "Are you sure you can really survive it?"

"I can. And while I'm certain it will be a trial for you, it is your duty as the Lord of Winterfell. Surely, you can fulfill that duty before you abandon us again. If it helps, just think of me as one of your whores."

Tyrion's fingers tightened around the book in his hands, and he had the sudden urge to throw it across the room. He knew what Sansa thought of him, she had made that abundantly clear, but she couldn't have been more wrong. Tyrion wanted to argue with her, but he knew it was a fight he just couldn't win. "When do you want to do this?" he asked, his voice painfully tight.

"When?" Sansa seemed surprised by the question.

"Yes, when? Tonight, tomorrow, the night before I leave for Casterly Rock? When?"

Tyrion could tell by the look on Sansa's face that she was tempted to tell him to take her that very night, just to preserve her pride. But even Sansa Stark wasn't that brave. Her cheeks were flushed a flattering shade of pink, and he could see a hint of embarrassment hiding behind her stunning blue eyes. It took her a moment, but finally, she said, "I will speak with the ladies of the keep and ask their advice about the best time to conceive. I would not want to have to go to your bed more than once if I can help it. A woman can only suffer so much in one lifetime."

Tyrion opened his mouth to speak, but he never got the chance. Sansa abruptly stood, putting an end to his halfhearted effort.

"The hour grows late," she said. "I think it would be best if you left now."

Tyrion was still in shock, but the cold look in Sansa's eyes forced him to move. He pushed himself off the couch, the book still clutched in his hands as he struggled to balance himself on unsteady legs. He was numb all over, from his head to his toes, and he had no idea how the hell he was going to make it back to his room because he was barely able to move.

Tyrion looked up at Sansa. He wanted to say something, make things better somehow, but for once in his life, he was at a loss for words.

"I will tell you when you are to come to me," Sansa said. "You needn't worry. I will give you fair warning."

Tyrion nodded, his head feeling like a lead weight on his shoulders. He slowly turned around then and carefully made his way toward the door, afraid he might lose his footing at any moment. When he finally reached the door, he grabbed the handle for support and pulled it open, the effort far more difficult than it should have been.

Tyrion glanced over his shoulder at Sansa. She was standing in the middle of the room, her posture rigid, her hands clasped in front of her. There was no warmth in her eyes, only impatience. She was waiting for him to go.

"Good night, my lady," Tyrion said, the words raw in his throat.

Sansa didn't bother to reply, and he reluctantly turned away again, closing the door as he stepped out into the hallway.

When Tyrion was finally hidden from Sansa's view, he leaned back against the door and swore violently, "Fuck!"

This was not what Tyrion had wanted. It was not how he had imagined bedding his wife again – and oh, he had definitely imagined it. But not like this. The first time they had been together, it had been because Joffrey had threatened Sansa's virtue. Now, it was to produce an heir. Sansa didn't want him any more now than she had back in King's Landing. The years hadn't made anything better between them, they had just made everything worse.

"Fuck," Tyrion swore again, fighting the urge to bang his hands against the door behind him. Sansa was determined to see this through, and he knew he had no right to refuse her. He had a responsibility to her and to Winterfell, and he had no choice but to do his duty, whether he liked it or not.