Chapter Twenty-five

That night at dinner, Tyrion could hardly eat. Sansa kept looking at him as if there was something she wanted to say but couldn't quite find the words. She'd been avoiding him for days now, just as he'd been avoiding her, but Tyrion had known it couldn't last forever. It was obvious that Sansa wanted to talk, whether he was prepared for it or not.

Three days had passed since Tyrion had shared Sansa's bed, and the memory of it still haunted him. As he watched her from across the table, he couldn't help but wonder if she was trying to summon up the courage to ask him to visit her again. There was only a slight possibility that she was already with child, and perhaps she was hoping to maximize their chances of conceiving before he left. If asked, Tyrion would go to her gladly, though he knew it wouldn't settle anything between them. They were still strangers. They were still separated by an ocean of doubt and mistrust, and Tyrion knew there was nothing he could do to change that. Well, there was one thing, of course, but he feared it would do more harm than good.

After dinner, as everyone left Sansa's solar and went their separate ways, Tyrion tried to sneak out of the room, but Sansa stopped him. "Tyrion. A word, please."

Tyrion stopped halfway through the door. Reluctantly, he turned around and looked up at Sansa. "I really must be going," he said, trying to keep his voice calm even though his heart was racing. "I spent far too much time entertaining Eddard today, and even though it's late, I have a great deal of work to do. There are some ravens from the Citadel and a report to Jon and—"

"And this is more important." Sansa motioned toward the open door. "Please," she said, urging him to close it.

But Tyrion couldn't. Other than the night he had visited her bedchamber, every time they had been alone together, behind closed doors, it had ended in an argument. And Tyrion was in no mood for an argument tonight.

"Perhaps we should take a walk," Tyrion suggested, suddenly feeling the walls closing in on him.

"A walk? But it's dark outside, and the night air is far too cold for a leisurely stroll."

"Not outside then. Somewhere else perhaps." Tyrion held his hand out toward the hallway. "Please," he said, inviting her to join him. He was already forming a plan, and even though it made him terribly uneasy, he couldn't seem to stop himself.

Sansa crossed the room, and Tyrion stepped aside, allowing her to precede him through the doorway. She waited for him in the corridor, and Tyrion was struck by just how innocent she looked. For a moment, she looked as sweet and trusting as she had when she'd been just a girl, before she'd left for King's Landing, and Tyrion hated himself for what he was about to do. But they needed to end this, once and for all. They needed to move forward, even if moving forward meant destroying the last of the goodwill between them.

"This way, my lady," Tyrion said, leading her down the hallway toward their destination.

"Where are we going?" Sansa asked.

"You'll see. I think I know the perfect place where we can talk without being disturbed."

"We can talk in my solar without being disturbed."

"In theory, yes. But you never know when that little moppet is going to burst through the door, demanding a bedtime story. I think this is for the best. Trust me."

Sansa cast Tyrion a sidelong glance, and he knew she was reluctant to put any trust in him at all. But she held her tongue and kept pace beside him, probably because he had yet to do anything to egregiously offend her.

Tyrion led Sansa straight to the crypts. He shivered as the cool, underground air touched his skin. Or maybe it wasn't the air that made him tremble at all. Maybe it was fear.

"This is really where you want to talk?" Sansa asked as they idly walked amongst her dead ancestors.

"Yes. I think it might inspire quite the productive dialogue between us."

Sansa stopped, not far from the tomb of her beloved father. She turned and looked down at Tyrion. "Tyrion, we have to—"

He held up a hand, silencing her. "Talk. Yes, I know."

"Fix things. We can't go on like this. I know you're leaving in less than a moonturn, and I'm not asking you to stay. But before you go, we need to settle a few things between us, and I believe it would be best if we settled them sooner rather than later."

"I couldn't agree more."

"Really?" There was genuine surprise in her tone, as if she had expected him to argue with her.

"Yes, really. I think it's time we faced what's standing between us and slayed the proverbial dragon, so to speak."

"And how do you suggest we do that?"

Tyrion sighed heavily. He tore his eyes away from Sansa and stared up at the statue of Ned Stark, cursing himself ten kinds of a fool. He knew he was going to pay for what he was about to do, but he'd thought long and hard about it, and he could see no other way out of their predicament. He knew Sansa was going to hate him when it was all over, but she already hated him, and it was time he knew the truth.

"I want you to do something for me," Tyrion said, unable to keep his voice from trembling. His entire body had suddenly gone numb, and he felt like he was falling into an abyss from which he could never return.

"What? What is it you want me to do?"

Tyrion turned and stared up at Sansa again. She looked concerned, curious, but not the least bit angry. There was a softness in her eyes that he knew he was going to miss once he answered her question, but he'd come too far to turn back now.

"You want me to believe that Eddard is my son, don't you?"

Sansa seemed momentarily stunned by the question, but quickly recovered. "Of course, I do. You've known that from the start."

"And you know that, for my own sick, twisted reasons, I can't take you at your word."

Sansa looked away, staring off into the distance. "Can't or won't?"

"Can't. I wish that I could, Sansa. I truly wish that I could. But you don't understand—"

"I do understand." She looked at him again, a hardness in her eyes that hadn't been there before. "You're a coward."

Tyrion exhaled a sigh of relief, having expected far worse. "A coward and a villain. You have no idea why I brought you here, do you?"

Sansa's eyes darted around the vaulted room as if she expected to be set upon by unknown assailants. When she saw that there was no immediate danger, her eyes locked on Tyrion again. "Why did you bring me here? I want the truth."

"I brought you here because I want to end this as much as you do. I want to believe your truth, Sansa Stark. I want to believe it with all my heart."

"Then take me at my word."

Tyrion cringed inwardly, wishing she had asked him for anything else. "I'd like to," he said, "I would really like to, but I can't. I'm sorry, Sansa. You have no idea how sorry I am."

"Then what do you want from me?"

Tyrion's heart skipped a beat. He stared up at his wife – his wife, who was so kind and so trusting – and tried to gather up the courage to say the words. "I want you to swear to me that Eddard is my son."

Sansa's eyes narrowed in confusion. "I swear it. Of course, I swear it."

"On your father's bones."

Sansa stared at Tyrion, a coldness in her eyes that chilled him to the core. He could see the anger boiling beneath the surface of her calm exterior. Her father meant the world to her. She had stood right beside him as Joffrey had ordered his execution, as his head had been severed from his body. She had watched him die, the pain and shock so violent that she had fainted on the spot. She had adored her father, worshipped him as every girl should worship the man who had given her life. Now, Ned Stark slept silently beneath Winterfell, in what was supposed to be eternal peace, but Tyrion was asking Sansa to jeopardize that peace, to risk her father's eternal soul for the sake of his cowardice.

Sansa's eyes bored into Tyrion, and he began to squirm on his feet. The words had already been spoken, and he couldn't take them back, no matter how much he wanted to. There was hatred in her eyes, and disgust, and it wounded Tyrion deeply, even though he knew he had brought it upon himself.

Tyrion forced himself to speak, desperate to mitigate some of the damage he had caused. "I realize—"

"How dare you?" Sansa spat, cutting him off before he could get any further. "How dare you? Is this why you brought me here? So I could lay my hands on my father's tomb and swear to the old gods and the new that Eddard is your son? Is that how little you think of me? Is that how little you care about my feelings?"

Tyrion shook his head. "No, not at all."

"How could you do this? How could you think this was the answer to all our problems?"

"I . . . I didn't think," he stammered. "I mean . . . I did, but I couldn't think of any other way."

Sansa turned away from him then, her eyes settling on the statue of Ned Stark. Even in the shadowy torchlight, Tyrion could see that she was trembling.

"My father was a great man," Sansa said. "He would have been horrified to hear you ask me such a thing. My father," her voice broke on a sob, "my father wanted me to marry a man who was worthy of me, a man who was brave and gentle and strong. He did not want me to marry a coward."

"Sansa, I—"

"I hate you, Tyrion Lannister. At this moment, I truly hate you. What you've asked of me is crueler than any threat Joffrey ever made, any lie Littlefinger ever told. My family means more to me than anything in this world. You know that. And here you are, offering to give me what I've always wanted, if only I will betray my father."

"I'm not asking you to betray him. If Eddard is my trueborn son, there will be no betrayal in your oath."

Sansa looked at Tyrion again. There was a fire in her eyes that he had never seen before, and suddenly, he had no doubt that in a fight between a direwolf and a lion, the direwolf would always win.

"Yes, you are," she practically hissed. "Because it doesn't matter if I speak the truth when I swear my vow. I will be swearing on my father's body, on his soul. He has not been at peace for very long, and you are asking me to disturb his eternal rest. And for what? To appease your vanity? To convince you that Eddard is yours, even though you intend to leave anyway?"

For a fleeting moment, Tyrion wondered if Sansa was reluctant to do as he'd asked because she simply couldn't. He knew she could never swear a lie on her father's dead body, and perhaps what that really meant was that Eddard wasn't his son after all. But Tyrion couldn't say that. He feared that if he even hinted at it, Sansa would strike him. He had never seen her temper get violent, but suddenly, he didn't doubt that it could.

"I'm sorry that I even suggested it," Tyrion replied, not knowing what else to say. "I knew you would hate me for it, but I could see no other way."

Sansa laughed bitterly. "You really are a sad little man, aren't you? You're so miserable and jaded that you honestly believe that there isn't any good left in this world. You honestly believe that everyone is as selfish and dishonorable as you are. But you're wrong. No matter how much you want it to be true, you're wrong. And it's sad that the only way you can believe that there is any good left in this world is by asking someone else to swear a vow on the bones of their father. Tell me, Lord Tyrion, would you swear on the bones of your mother that I am the only woman you have bedded since we were wed?"

The air rushed from Tyrion's lungs, and he suddenly felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He stared up at Sansa, struggling to cope with the crippling pain her words had inflicted upon him. Even though he had never known his mother, he had always held her memory sacred. He couldn't imagine swearing an oath on her corpse any more than Sansa could imagine swearing one on her father's. And yet, that is exactly what he had asked her to do.

"Well?" Sansa said when he didn't answer. "Would you?"

Tyrion swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to figure out a way to talk himself out of the situation. But there was no way out. The truth was, there hadn't been anyone but Sansa since they'd been wed, but just because it was true, didn't mean that he wanted to swear it on the bones of Joanna Lannister. "I . . . I would rather not."

"Of course, because you're just as much a liar as I always thought you were."

"No, because I have the same problem you have with the prospect of disrupting your father's eternal sleep. I don't want my mother to hate me more than she already does."

Tyrion thought he saw a hint of sympathy in Sansa's eyes, or maybe it was pity, he wasn't quite sure. Whatever it was, it wasn't hatred, and that, at least, was a start.

"I'm sure your mother doesn't hate you," Sansa replied, a slight edge to her voice. "It's hard for a mother to hate her own child, even if giving him life meant losing her own."

"Well, it's nice that you think so—"

"I do. And which one of us has more experience being a mother? You or I?"

Tyrion refused to concede the point, even though he knew Sansa was right. He tore his eyes away from her and gazed awkwardly about the cavernous room, suddenly unsure of where they could go from here. "So, what do we do now?"

"I don't know."

"I suppose we could just agree to trust each other and pretend all of this never happened," Tyrion said, looking up at Sansa again.

Sansa's expression darkened. "No, I don't think that we can."

"And why not? If we both have the same problem, maybe it's only fair that we give each other the benefit of the doubt."

Sansa shook her head. "No. This isn't about you and me anymore. This is about Eddard. You can stand here and tell me that you agree to believe me, but all you'll really be agreeing to is pretending, pretending to believe what you think is a lie. And that's not good enough."

"So, what then?" Tyrion asked. "Do you want me to go? I can go sooner rather than later. I need not stay at Winterfell another day, another moment. I can get a room in the winter town and wait for Jaime and Brienne to leave."

Sansa's eyes hardened on Tyrion, and he held his breath, dreading whatever it was she was about to say next.

"I don't want my son to spend the rest of his life under a cloud of suspicion. I know that there's nothing I can do about the gossip and the whispers that already follow him. The Bastard of Winterfell they call him. I've heard it more times than I care to count. But it's one thing for the nameless masses to believe that my son is illegitimate. It's another thing entirely for his father to believe it."

"Sansa, if I could—"

Sansa turned away from him then and moved closer to Ned Stark's tomb. She stood beside the stone effigy of her father and laid her hand on his final resting place. Then, she turned to look at Tyrion again. "I loved my father, more than anything. Not a day goes by that I don't miss him, not a night that I don't see him in my dreams. He was the most honorable man I have ever known, and I would rather die than disgrace his memory by swearing a lie on his bones."

"Sansa—"

"So I hope that, when I do swear my vow, you finally believe me. Because I would never, ever do anything to dishonor the memory of my father. Do you understand?"

Tyrion didn't know how to respond. Sansa's words had stunned him silent, and all he could do was nod his understanding.

"Good," she said, her voice surprisingly calm. "Then I, Sansa Lannister, daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark of Winterfell, swear on the bones of my father, and the bones of every other Stark who is buried here in the crypts of our ancestral home, that you are the only man who has ever shared my bed and that Eddard Lannister is your trueborn son. I swear it by the old gods and the new, by the souls of all those who have come before me and all those who will come after." She paused for a moment, just to catch her breath. "There. Do you believe me now, Tyrion Lannister?"

Tyrion couldn't speak or move or breathe. He stared up at Sansa in complete shock, his entire world suddenly crumbling around him. Eddard was his son. Eddard Lannister, the little boy he loved so much, the little boy he adored, was his trueborn son. And Sansa Stark had been faithful to him since the day they had been wed. Tyrion believed it now, all of it, though he knew it would do him little good. Although Sansa projected an air of quiet calm, he could tell that she was angry, almost violently so. She had done as he'd asked, and now, he would have to live with the consequences.

"Well?" Sansa's tone grew even colder as she waited for a response.

"I . . . I do."

"Good. I'm glad that you can finally admit what is so painfully obvious to everyone else. I'm just sorry that it was at the expense of the last of my good opinion of you."

Sansa's words hurt, more than Tyrion had expected them to. He wanted to say something to make things better, but there was nothing left to say. The damage was already done.

"I think it would be best," Sansa said, "if you removed yourself from Winterfell sooner rather than later. I have no desire to ever see your face again."

Sansa's hand slipped from her father's tomb, and she walked away, leaving Tyrion alone with his shame.

Tyrion didn't even turn to watch her go. He had just gained the two things he had wanted most in this life – a faithful wife, a loving son – and lost both in the same instant, all because his fear had been stronger than his faith.

Tyrion stood there, listening to Sansa's footsteps fade into the distance. He could feel Ned Stark's cold, dead eyes staring down at him in condemnation. Now, Tyrion wished that he had taken Sansa at her word when he'd had the chance. He had lost her trust and her good opinion, and he knew there was no way to ever get them back.

When Tyrion was certain that Sansa was gone, he finally turned away from Ned Stark's tomb and headed back to his chamber. He needed to collect his things and leave Winterfell before morning.