Tyrion was in Dany's room, having the same conversation they seemed to have at least once a week, if not more often. Food was running low, it was as cold as death in the North, the northern lords were distrustful of them, and the banks of snow around Winterfell grew taller by the day. The Others were coming, but they didn't know when, and the longer they waited the more restless the Dothraki grew. Under the surface, unspoken, was another conversation, one they both avoided studiously. He had only broached the subject of her claim once since Jon's true identity was revealed. Dany's reaction had made him wary to bring it up again. He reasoned that they could resolve the matter later, what was the point in the face of a battle for the literal fate of humanity. It was an excuse, he knew, but he told himself that it was a rather good one. Maybe he would be dead soon and all his problems would be over. He was just tired; all he wanted was some peace. Tyrion noted that Dany was looking rather tired herself. She was pale with dark circles under her eyes, and she complained that the northern food didn't agree with her, it made her sick to think about eating it for gods only knew how many more months while they waited here. He wasn't terribly fond of it himself, but he was more concerned about the quantity in the cellars than the meals themselves. If they couldn't keep their people warm and well fed they wouldn't last much longer here.
When he finally left Dany, Tyrion felt no closer to solving their problems than he had before their meeting. It was frustrating, he wanted to be a good Hand for her, but he had few resources here in the North to even begin tackling their issues with. The Lannister name was hated here, snowdrifts hemmed them in, and their army was ill suited to the winter climate. Walking slowly back to his room, Tyrion knew it was time to put his best skills to use; he needed to forge an alliance. He turned on his heel and began the long walk into the heart of the Great Keep where he knew Sansa's room lay. It was clear to him that she was the one keeping the northern alliance together, and he needed her help to keep his own southerners united as well.
As Tyrion drew closer to her room, a knot began to form in his stomach and his throat grew dry. He hated asking for help, being in the position of weakness. And he wasn't sure that Sansa would even want to help him, even after he had approached her in the godswood weeks ago she had maintained her icy demeanor, quiet and aloof. But he had tried to keep Dany's armies alive and placated on his own, and he had to admit that he was failing. He would swallow his pride and try to reach out to her again.
Reaching the door of her chambers, Tyrion found himself staring up at Brienne of Tarth. She made even tall men feel like dwarves, and standing before her he felt even smaller than ususal. Nevermind though, he told himself, its not the first or the last time you'll feel so small.
"Lady Brienne, I must beg an audience with Lady Sansa, will you let me pass?"