Chapter Twenty-three
Tyrion barely slept that night, his dreams haunted by a crimson-haired goddess who was always just beyond his reach. When he awoke the next morning, he was tired and irritable, and more than a little anxious about seeing Sansa again. As he headed to breakfast, his heart beat an uneven rhythm and his legs trembled beneath him.
When Tyrion reached Sansa's solar, he was surprised to find her missing. She was always the first one at the table, and it felt odd to see the rest of the family sitting there without her. Jaime and Brienne sat beside each other on one side of the table, while Eddard and Arya sat together on the other.
The instant Eddard saw Tyrion, he was out of his chair and across the room. "Good morning!" he squealed as he threw his arms around Tyrion's waist and hugged him tightly.
Tyrion held Eddard for a moment, enjoying being close to the boy. "Good morning, Little Lord Lannister."
Eddard laughed, squeezing Tyrion just a little bit tighter. Then, he pulled from Tyrion's arms and raced back to his seat.
"Good morning," Jaime said with a knowing grin as Tyrion crossed the threshold. "Care to join us for some breakfast?"
Tyrion headed toward the table, being careful not to look in Arya's direction. He didn't want to know what she thought of him at that moment, although he was sure she would make her feelings abundantly clear before breakfast was over.
Tyrion sat down at the head of the table, Jaime to his immediate right. He stared at Sansa's empty chair, feeling her absence acutely. Despite his insecurities, he missed her already and he wished that she had decided to join them.
The instant Tyrion was settled, Jaime leaned in close and asked, "Did you sleep well last night?"
Tyrion scowled. He pulled his eyes away from Sansa's chair and reached for the flagon of ale in front of him, pouring himself a tankard. "Don't ask."
"It couldn't have been that bad. I mean, you did . . . you know, didn't you?"
Tyrion glanced in Eddard's direction, realizing that Jaime was trying to keep the boy from hearing something he shouldn't, but Eddard was too distracted to notice. He was playing with his toy soldiers, doing his best to entertain his aunt Arya with their exploits.
As Tyrion turned to look at Jaime, he caught Arya's eye, and for a moment, they just stared at each other across the table. Tyrion's blood flushed cold in his veins, and he sensed a distinct chill in the air. Arya raised a single brow in challenge, and suddenly, Tyrion was certain that she knew every last thing that had passed between him and Sansa the night before.
Tyrion swallowed the lump in his throat and turned to look up at Jaime, keenly aware of Arya's eyes still upon him. "I did," Tyrion finally answered. "Or we did. I mean, it's done." He was as flustered as an adolescent boy who'd just spent his first night in a brothel, and he felt like a fool. Between Arya's pointed stares and the sly smirk on Jaime's face, Tyrion just wanted to dig a hole, crawl into it, and die. Sansa had been wise to skip the morning meal. Now, Tyrion was sorry he hadn't just taken breakfast alone in his chamber.
"It's done?" Jaime asked, his tone far too glib for Tyrion's liking. "And is that why Lady Lannister is not with us this morning? Is she too exhausted from doing her duty last night?"
"I wouldn't know," Tyrion replied. "I haven't seen her this morning."
"You haven't seen her? Didn't you . . ." Jaime's eyes darted to Eddard, who was still oblivious to their very grown-up conversation. "Didn't you spend the night?"
Tyrion broke Jaime's gaze, staring down at his plate to avoid looking at Arya again. "Not exactly," he said. "I left as soon as it was done."
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Jaime swore under his breath.
Tyrion refused to look at his brother again. Instead, he began filling his plate, determined to eat as quickly as possible and then disappear. Jaime didn't say another word about the previous night, for which Tyrion was grateful. He was beginning to think that not asking Sansa if he could stay had been a mistake, but he'd been too afraid of rejection – or rather, too certain of it – to even broach the subject.
As soon as Tyrion finished eating, he made his escape, heading to the Great Hall to start his work for the day. He felt an odd combination of anticipation and dread at the thought of seeing Sansa again. Although she had not been at breakfast, she was far too responsible to ever miss meeting with their daily petitioners, and he was reasonably certain that she would make an appearance.
Tyrion settled himself at the head table to confer with Maester Wolkan on the morning's agenda, all the while, listening intently for the sound of Sansa's footsteps in the corridor behind him. No more than a quarter of an hour passed before Tyrion heard her enter the room. He turned around just in time to see her step through the open doorway.
Their eyes met, and Sansa's feet faltered. She stopped for a single instant, staring back at Tyrion as if she hadn't expected to see him.
The breath stilled in Tyrion's lungs as he watched her, silently praying that she couldn't see the emotion in his eyes. He feared that if she looked at him for too long, she might detect his true feelings, and he wasn't quite prepared for that.
The moment passed just as quickly as it had come, and Sansa abruptly turned away. She moved to the table and took the seat beside him, her head held high, her shoulders back. Tyrion was tempted to say something, but he could tell that wasn't what she wanted. Sansa had already begun building up her walls again. Whatever they had shared the night before had not softened her feelings for him. She looked as thorny as ever, like a fortress whose ramparts he could never breach.
Tyrion inhaled a hard breath, tearing his eyes away from Sansa and forcing himself to turn toward Maester Wolkan again. They had a lot of work ahead of them, and Tyrion was determined to bury himself in it.
The rest of the morning was wholly uneventful. Tyrion and Sansa met with a score of petitioners, hearing appeals from bannermen and smallfolk alike. When they were done, Sansa pushed back her chair, stood to her full height, and walked out of the room without a single word.
Tyrion collapsed back against his chair with a sigh, wishing that things were different. He wanted to go after her. He wanted to follow her back to her chambers, lock the door behind them, and finally confess his feelings. There was so much he wanted to say, if only he had the courage to say it. He loved her more today than he had the day before. He'd spent years trying to deny it, but he couldn't deny it any longer. He loved her, he wanted her, and it was his fondest wish that she might someday love and want him too. But love like that wasn't meant for men like Tyrion. Oh, no. That's why the gods had created whores.
Tyrion wondered what Sansa would do if he tried to confess his undying love. Would she laugh at him? Probably. And if he told her that he wanted to stay? He was sure she would tell him that it was his right as the Lord of Winterfell and then coldly walk away.
Tyrion shook his head, reluctantly climbing down from his chair. He left the Great Hall, feeling no better about his relationship with Sansa than he had the night before. Although he had a mountain of work waiting for him in his study, he decided to go for a walk instead. He needed to clear his head more than he needed to reply to ravens.
Had the weather been more hospitable, Tyrion would have ventured outside, but a heavy snow had begun to fall and it was far too cold for idle rambles in the godswood. Instead, Tyrion found himself in the crypts beneath the keep, walking amongst all the dead Starks who had once inhabited the hallowed halls of Winterfell.
Tyrion hadn't visited the crypts on his first journey to the north. But when he'd returned this time, he'd been dragged there more than once by little Eddard. The boy loved to play games amongst the shadows of his ancestors, not the least bit troubled by the bodies decaying in the tombs around him. It was an odd choice for a child's playground, but perhaps that's what came of spending one's whole childhood raised in the heart of a northern winter. Some days it was simply too cold to play outside, so Eddard had been forced to find other ways, other places, to entertain himself.
Tyrion wandered through the crypts, stopping here and there to examine the stone effigies that lined the walls. As he stood before one particularly grim looking figure, deeply lost in his own thoughts, something suddenly grabbed his ankle.
Tyrion shrieked, jumping nearly a full foot in the air. His heart threatened to pound out of his chest, and for a split second, he forgot how to breathe.
There was laughter near the ground, familiar laughter. Tyrion peered down into the darkness at his feet and saw Eddard hiding behind one of the tombs, his back pressed up against the large stone block.
"What are you doing?" Tyrion asked, his voice far harsher than he'd intended. "You almost scared me to death."
"Shh," Eddard warned. He reached up and grabbed Tyrion's hand, pulling him down to the floor beside him.
"What is going on?"
"We're hiding from Uncle Jaime. We're playing hide-and-seek, and if you're not quiet, he'll find us. Shh." Eddard peered around the edge of the tomb as if expecting Jaime to discover them at any moment.
Tyrion leaned his head back against the carved stone behind him and took a moment to catch his breath. His heart was still racing, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd been so terrified. There was a part of him that wanted to take Eddard over his knee and give him a good spanking just for frightening him so, but he was not particularly fond of corporal punishment where children were concerned.
When Eddard was certain that Tyrion hadn't given them away, he turned back toward him, once again pushing himself up against the tomb.
"Don't you ever do that again," Tyrion scolded, still finding it difficult to breathe. "My heart nearly stopped."
"I'm sorry, but I thought Uncle Jaime might see you, and I didn't want him to find me."
Tyrion looked down at the little boy beside him. Eddard was staring out into the cavernous room, his eyes darting this way and that. He looked as if he was taking the game far too seriously, and Tyrion couldn't help but wonder where Jaime was.
"Just how long have you been hiding here?" Tyrion asked.
"I don't know. A long time. Uncle Jaime isn't very good at this game. I always win."
"Does he ever find you?"
"Sometimes he gets close, but he never finds me himself. I always have to jump out and surprise him."
"And nearly stop his heart in the process, I suppose."
"No. Uncle Jaime isn't scared of anything," Eddard replied, straightening his spine as if he himself took great pride in his uncle's courage.
"Well, at least that makes one of us."
There was a noise off in the distance, and Eddard turned his head, anxiously searching for the source of the sound. "Shh," he warned again, holding his hand up in front of Tyrion's face to silence him.
Tyrion was sure that it was nothing more than the drip of water seeping down from the walls or the ceiling, but he didn't say anything. If Eddard wanted to believe that it was Jaime – or even a dragon – he would let him. He didn't want to spoil the boy's fun.
Eddard sat there, quietly scanning the darkness, his knees bent against his chest, his eyes keen and aware. He looked so terribly serious, not like he was playing a game at all. In that moment, he reminded Tyrion very much of his mother, the serious girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders, always so proper, so dignified. Even as a child, she'd been nothing more than a miniature adult. And Eddard had that in him too. Of course, he could also be brave and impetuous, but quite often, he was as serious as the tombs around him, and there was no denying that he was his mother's son.
Tyrion almost laughed. He'd spent the past moonturn studying the boy, trying to find evidence of his paternity, and in the end, it didn't really matter. He was Sansa Stark's son, and Tyrion loved him for that alone. Tyrion knew it was going to be painful when he finally left for Casterly Rock. He was sure, the next time he saw Eddard – if he ever saw him again – the boy would be a full-grown man and hate him just as much as Sansa did.
And what of the child they had tried to create the night before?
Tyrion had been so wrapped up in the idea of spending the night in Sansa's bed that he hadn't even thought about what would happen if she actually got pregnant. He didn't know if they had created a child together, but what if they had? What if there was already a babe growing in Sansa's belly, a little boy or a little girl? A dwarf. What if? Tyrion didn't even want to think about it, and yet, he couldn't stop himself. Would the child look like Eddard? Would he or she hate Tyrion as much as he hated himself?
Suddenly, there was another eerie sound in the distance, and Eddard crouched onto his knees, leaning forward to peer around the edge of the tomb, the large statue above him casting just enough shadow to keep him hidden. His feet danced impatiently behind him, and Tyrion knew he was just counting the seconds until his uncle appeared and he could burst forth from the darkness and startle him.
A bittersweet smile tugged at Tyrion's lips. He loved Eddard so damned much, and he knew it was going to kill him when he finally left Winterfell. It hurt to even think about, to even imagine. But Tyrion knew he couldn't stay. Despite what had happened the night before, he knew that Sansa didn't want him to stay. All they ever did was argue, and it would be better for everyone concerned if they just went their separate ways.
Tyrion exhaled a heavy sigh. He dragged his eyes away from Eddard and leaned his head back against the tomb behind him. He closed his eyes and desperately tried to get his emotions under control. He wished that things were different. He wished that Eddard was his son. He wished that he could believe that Sansa cared for him, that she had been faithful to him. But there were some things that he just couldn't let himself believe, no matter how much he wanted to.
Tyrion fought back a sob. He forced his eyes open, trying to chase his demons away. He looked straight ahead, scanning the vaulted room with curious eyes. He hadn't realized it earlier, but he had wandered into the newer section of the crypts, the tombs around him belonging to people he'd known in life. Tyrion stared at one figure in particular, looming above him like a sentinel in the darkness.
Lord Eddard Stark.
The stone effigy didn't look very much like Ned Stark, but Tyrion supposed whoever had carved it hadn't really known him. Sansa never talked about her father, not that she talked much at all. Tyrion knew that her father's death had been terribly traumatic for her. He knew that she had loved and respected him just as much as she had loved and respected her dearly departed mother. He wondered how often she visited his tomb. Did she come every day to light a candle for his eternal soul, or did she stay away, the memories simply too painful to bear?
As Tyrion stared up at his father-in-law's solemn face, he couldn't help but wonder what Ned Stark would have thought of the situation they had found themselves in. Would he have been horrified that Tyrion Lannister, of all people, had taken his place as the Lord of Winterfell? Tyrion knew he was not the kind of man that Ned Stark had wanted for his daughter, but he truly wished that he could be. He wished he could be everything that Sansa deserved, a man who could trust and love her unconditionally, despite his own crippling insecurities. He wished he had the courage to believe her. He wished there was some way he could take her words on more than faith.
Tyrion's heart suddenly stopped. He stared up at Ned Stark, the breath trapped in his lungs, as the awful truth finally washed over him. There was one way, of course. One terrible, horrible, unforgivable way for him to believe everything Sansa had ever told him. Tyrion hated himself for even thinking it, more than he had ever hated himself before. There was one way for him to know for certain if Eddard was his son, but he knew if he chose to pursue it, Sansa would never forgive him.
Tyrion forced himself to breathe, his heart suddenly racing at an alarming speed. Ned Stark stared down at him in silent condemnation, and Tyrion instinctively turned away, desperate to hide his guilt. He tried to focus on Eddard, still skulking in the dark beside him, but it was no use. He couldn't see the boy's little feet anxiously thumping against the ground, nor his golden curls bobbing in the hazy shadows. All he saw was Ned Stark's dark disapproval staring down at him from on high.
Tyrion felt the darkness closing in around him, and he wanted to run. He abruptly stood, desperate to escape as quickly as possible, but Eddard grabbed his hand before he could take a single step.
"Get down!" the boy commanded in a harsh whisper as he tugged on Tyrion's hand.
But Tyrion wouldn't budge. He stood there for a moment, relieved to be standing in the torchlight again, as he struggled to pull himself together. "I must go," he said, the words sounding as if they'd come from someone else.
"But what if Uncle Jaime sees you?"
"I will tell him that I don't know where you are and that you are definitely not hiding behind this tomb. All right?"
Eddard nodded his thanks, finally letting go of Tyrion's hand. He squirreled himself up against the stone block again and hunkered down to anxiously await his uncle's appearance.
Tyrion sighed in relief, happy that Eddard hadn't made more of a fuss. He quickly turned around and fled up the stairs, hoping beyond hope that he would never have reason to visit the crypts again.