Author's Note: Thanks for reading! Xo

Tyrion

The Winterfell courtyard was nearly quiet when Tyrion Lannister walked through it a few minutes before midnight, ice clinging to his beard and curses raised on his lips, against the fucking cold, the goddamn wind and the inevitable futility of a bleak, vain search for a dead man buried in snow.

Tyrion trudged through a foot of snow to the main entrance of the Keep. Bronn followed him in through the gate, brushing snow off his long coat, taking off his leather gloves and blowing air into his bare hands, red and raw, rubbing them briskly to conjure up some semblance of warmth. The sellsword's eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep and hours of trying to maintain his bearings in the icy blasts of snow pellets swirling in the dark. Together, they stood on the stone steps beneath the awning for a long moment, finally out of the weather for the first time in hours. Bronn took a deep breath and looked down at Tyrion.

"I'm going to bed…," Bronn tried to think of something clever to say but found he was exhausted to a point beyond cleverness and finished with a simple, understated, "Forever."

"That's a good plan," Tyrion answered, nodding wearily. Bronn leaned against the thick planks of the Keep doors and they both stumbled inside. Tyrion slipped the heavier furs from his shoulders onto the stone floor. There was a wheelbarrow of straw just inside the entryway. He was tempted to plop down in it and sleep for a few days himself. Walking up the staircase to the proper bed chambers seemed a little too far after hours upon hours of trudging through endless, white snow drifts.

Bronn decided to try the stairs. The promise of a soft mattress was too tempting. He turned once before disappearing from view and added, "If those fuckin' Whitewalkers come back, don't wake me. They can have the whole fuckin' country, from Casterly fuckin' Rock to King's Landing, from Winterfell to fuckin' Dorne. Just don't wake me to tell me about it."

He grumbled some more but Tyrion didn't hear the rest. The winter winds howled against the castle's thick walls with insistence. The storm wanted in, to gnash its frosty teeth against every stone and timber in the place, to blow out the fires, to freeze the hot springs below the castle and make frosted ice figurines of them all.

Tyrion shivered. It would be warmer upstairs, under down quilts and wool blankets, but his bones ached and his body was ready to mutiny. He looked at the wheelbarrow of straw once again. He'd slept in far worse places.

"Lord Tyrion!" a steward appeared from the inner chambers. "Lady Sansa has asked for you."

The steward looked as if he had just woken up, with his muddy-brown hair askew and his eyes glassy. He'd been charged with fetching Tyrion as soon as the dwarf returned to the castle, and he'd been waiting on a stool since sundown. Honestly, he gave Lord Tyrion and Ser Bronn up for dead hours ago—so many of the others were dead so why not them too?—and promptly fell asleep at his sentry.

Tyrion and Bronn's communal cursing had roused him.

"Has she?" Tyrion stated flatly. His lingering glance on the wheelbarrow of straw turned wistful.

"Yes, my lord," the steward answered. "She's retired for the night but asked that you come to her chambers immediately upon your return."

"Of course," Tyrion replied tersely and with effort, dragged himself up the stairs.

She would want to know if they found Jon Snow's body. They hadn't. She would want to know who else could now be counted among the dead. Too many. She would want to know if the storm would kill the rest of them. Probably. It was dismal talk for a dismal night and he wasn't quite up to it.

He just wanted to sleep. Forever and a day, and dream of sweeter times, red wine, beautiful women and summer sunsets at the edge of the warm Summer Sea.

But that was all nonsense. He wouldn't sleep tonight. He already knew that. The horrors of the past few days were too fresh in his mind, and unlike Bronn or Sandor Clegane—who he found, still covered in battlefield grime, snoring in a wooden chair in the hallway upstairs…gods, the man was as resilient as a cockroach—he couldn't chase those thoughts away so quickly.

But perhaps Sansa had found a way to sleep tonight. He knocked at her door tentatively, tapping the planks with a feather-light touch, and saying softly, "Lady Sansa, are you awake?"

"Yes," came the swift reply.

Of course you are, my lady.

Tyrion opened the door and found Sansa still dressed, with a second fur thrown around her shoulders, sitting at her fire, gaze on the crackling flames, white knuckles gripping the sides of her chair tightly. Her bed wasn't turned down, it hadn't been slept in for days.

"Did you find his body?" she asked immediately, as he knew she would. He sank into the chair across from her wearily. The soft cushions and warmth of firelight beckoned him to close his eyes. He resisted the temptation and shook his head.

"The snow was too deep. We had to turn back," he sighed, pleased at least that they were beyond subterfuge and court manners that would require him to mask tragedy with pretty, empty words. "He's buried under snow somewhere out in those fields. And thousands of others with him. If this storm continues, we won't find any of them until spring…whenever that will be."

Sansa closed her eyes for a long moment. Her pained face betrayed much. She had lost another brother today. Her last brother, really. Bran Stark was too deep in the mysticism of the Old Gods to be brother, husband or son to anyone anymore. The young man had spent the entire battle in the godswood, with his palm flat against the white bark of the weirwood, its unseeing eyes streaming with rivulets of scarlet.

Tyrion had lost his last brother today too. His only brother. His only kin. Perhaps the only person in the world to ever give a damn about him. He had ignored that fact for the better part of the last twelve hours, ever since he heard the news of Jaime's death. And he would continue to ignore it, until he found a bucket of wine to drown himself in.

But oh, how Tywin Lannister would fume and rage, to know the last Lannister standing was the little monster that put an arrow through his heart.

"And the Whitewalkers and their armies?" Sansa wondered, breaking into his thoughts and chasing away the echo of his father's voice, speaking those same old words that had taunted him again and again.

You're no son of mine…

"They appear to be staying dead this time," Tyrion replied, with forced optimism. It fell flatter than he imagined in his head. Still, he continued, "When the Night King fell out of the sky, his armies fell with him, as we suspected they would. And now their bones are buried in the snow with the rest. We'll know more when the night is over and we can see beyond the castle walls again."

"Whenever that will be," Sansa exhaled softly, echoing his own words. She opened her eyes and met his gaze with a fixed nature that caught him off guard.

He had known Sansa Stark for years, since she was a child. Ha! He'd even married her once upon a time. The thought never ceased to amuse him, most bitterly. A sham, a lark, the most beautiful girl in the Seven Kingdoms married off to the monstrous half-man…

But in that look she gave him, cynical but fierce, he recognized her for perhaps the first time. Or at least the woman she had become while he wasn't watching—Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Queen in the North. Despite the events of the day and the direness of their future, he suddenly found himself thinking she was gloriously suited for it.

Gods, Tyrion. How many monarchs do you plan to pledge fealty to? He nearly laughed on the absurd thought, giddy with hunger, grief and sleeplessness.

"Daenerys Targaryen is lost," Sansa relayed the news to him bluntly. It didn't come as any surprise. When Tyrion and Bronn went to search for Jon's remains, Daenerys and her dragon were missing. Sansa continued, "Jorah Mormont too. Clegane says Ser Jorah went to find the dragon queen…."

"Of course he did," Tyrion interjected with a huff of wry amusement, which he couldn't sustain, knowing how Sansa's news would end. All their stories were the same tonight.

"Neither has returned," she confirmed quietly, her eyes finally leaving his, to contemplate the flames once more.

Tyrion sighed and laid his head back against the chair, wondering with bitter contemplation if counting the dead would work as well as counting sheep.

They had enough to choose from.