Chapter 39
A thirst for adventure was close to Arya's heart. It was one of the main reasons she rejected the typical role of a lady and sought her own path. Riding a dragon might be pushing her limits, however. It would take nearly three weeks to march back to Winterfell and it wouldn't be fair to order their men to begin the march back with so little rest.
She and Jon had spent a week in Kings Landing, checking on Bran and helping his council regain order over the Red Keep. They'd witnessed the signing of the agreement between King Bran and the Red Priests, and then assisted Podrick and Brienne in arranging a ship to return them all to Essos. Within the group from Dragonstone, there'd been a number of men from minor houses in the Westerlands. The ones who confessed before Bran and bent the knee were pardoned, and the ones who tried to slip away in Kings Landing were executed. Arya would have had all their heads, but Bran was more forgiving.
"Most feared Daenerys. They were following the orders of their liege lords. Did you notice how the major houses of the West kept their men away? They were doubtful enough of this plan to try and keep their hands clean."
"Are you ok?" shouted Jon, the words whipped away in the wind.
Arya nodded, her muscles screaming. It would be a lie to say she'd never considered riding a dragon after seeing Jon do it, but Drogon's temperamental nature and the fact he recently dislodged Jon in mid-air had dampened her enthusiasm.
When Jon suggested it she'd agreed instantly, despite her misgivings. It was the fastest way to get back to Winterfell, and neither she nor Jon wanted Sansa to be alone when the lords of the West arrived. Leaving Bran so soon after his injuries felt equally wrong, but he insisted they support Sansa and Tyrion.
"I'll be quite alright," he'd said, half-smiling. "I think my council are as excited I'm back as you. They will help me recover."
Bran's council had certainly been keen to help Bran, but there was more than a small amount of guilt behind it. Brienne wore it the most plainly – her inability to root out the Red Priests in their midst weighed heavily on her. She'd been the most constant presence at Bran's bedside, along with Ser Davos. Both were their closest allies and both had failed to tell them of the increasingly serious situation developing in Kings Landing. Apologies had been made - Bran insisted his council had done exactly as he'd have wanted – but Arya struggled. She knew her anger would fade eventually, it just wouldn't be any time soon.
Riding Drogon was an experience few could claim, but not one Arya would hurry to repeat. According to Jon, Drogon seemed back to himself. He was following Jon's guidance, maintaining a steady pace and hadn't yet tried to kill them. Still, Arya couldn't avoid the feeling of sitting on a cask of wildfire. Drogon was a lethal weapon that shouldn't be trusted, yet Arya knew Jon had a bond with the dragon. He was the last Targaryen blood in the world, and Drogon was the last living dragon – how could they not be drawn together?
"Not much further!" shouted Jon.
Arya didn't dare risk moving. They'd had several breaks over the course of their journey back to Winterfell, but that did nothing to ease the soreness of flying. Not that she would admit such to Jon. She wasn't Sansa – she could handle rough travel. The cold of the North was harder to swallow, however, and Arya had begun to fear her body had frozen solid. Drogon's body heat only went so far.
It could have been hours or days as they flew over the snowy white of the North. Drogon was flying lower than he had been and Arya tried to guess which keeps they were flying over below. Some were small enough to look like rocks and even the larger castles looked impossibly small from above.
Even from above, Arya would always recognise Winterfell. The sight of their home was enough for the ball of tension in her chest to unwind. They'd made it in time. Yesterday they'd glimpsed a large host on the King's Road, moving towards Winterfell. Making out the banners and colours was nearly impossible, but it was surely the lords of the West. Far more than Arya had expected. While Bran had told them the basics of the events in Winterfell, Arya was more interested in what he didn't say.
Jon directed Drogon to land some distance from the castle, and the dragon met the ground with a world-shaking thump, sending fresh snow billowing around them. Arya's legs were stiff and frozen when her feet touched the ground. Irritatingly, Jon seemed untroubled by the long journey.
Arya stepped away as Jon moved to speak to Drogon. Arya didn't know what he said, but he stood directly in front of Drogon's jaws without an ounce of fear. The black dragon watched him intently, and when Jon reached out his hand Drogon hesitated only a moment before bumping his head against it.
This wouldn't be the relationship Drogon had shared with Daenerys. It was different for them both. They'd both fought, and both lost.
They walked to Winterfell in silence, leaving Drogon alone in the clearing. It was only when the gates came into view that Arya groaned. "Why the fuck would Sansa do this?"
Jon smiled fleetingly but looked equally put out at the assembled welcoming party. "Sansa isn't the girl we grew up with – you know how she struggles now. This is her way of saying she missed us."
"It's her way of earning a slap."
What appeared to be the entire Winterfell household had assembled at the gate, along with a number of visiting Northern lords. Varys and Bronn were stood off to the side and Godwin was easy to pick out in his Lannister colours. Of course, it was impossible to miss Tyrion. He was standing just behind the Queen, but as Sansa saw them approach she glanced back at Tyrion. Too far away to catch whatever Sansa said to him, Arya saw him offer his arm to the Queen a moment later and the two of them stepped forward from the group to greet them privately first.
Arya lifted an eyebrow at Jon, but he just smiled. "Be nice."
"I'm always nice, it's just not like Sansa to be so open."
Sansa was nowhere near as subtle as she thought she was. Many times, Arya had caught her sister holding Tyrion's hand, rubbing his back at dinner or otherwise getting close to him, but it was either a sloppy attempt to be discreet or so instinctive Sansa didn't realise she was doing it. This was different. Something had changed between them.
"Jon! Arya!" called Sansa. "Welcome home."
Arya rolled her eyes, but Jon went straight to give their sister a hug. "I'm glad to be back."
Tyrion stood awkwardly to the side as Jon and Sansa spoke. After deliberating for several moments he inclined his head towards her. "Lady Arya. I trust you had a pleasant journey back?"
"As comfortable as you can on a dragon, Hill."
"Oh. Right…"
Arya sauntered towards him, half expecting him to step back. He'd been living in her home for months now but still didn't seem quite sure how to take her. Tyrion stood his ground, watching her warily. He looked a little better than he had before they left. Not quite as nervous and there was more colour in his face. That was before considering the new scar on his head. A red line cut across the left side of his head, easy to pick out beneath the short strands of golden hair.
For a long moment, Arya stared at him, taking in the man her sister loved so much. However nervous he was, Tyrion didn't drop his gaze. He watched her back, lifting an eyebrow. "Can I help you?"
Nothing could have prepared Tyrion for when she threw her arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a quick hug. He flinched at the unexpected contact but quickly hid it and tried to reciprocate. She pulled back, flashing a grin at Tyrion's bemused expression.
Sansa and Jon were watching them, though Sansa looked half-ready to jump in and defend Tyrion if need be.
She shrugged. "What? I can be nice."
Jon clasped Tyrion's good hand in greeting, though Tyrion looked unusually nervous of him. Hmm, that was interesting. Before she could consider it, Sansa decided to risk a hug.
"I'm so glad you're all safe," said Sansa.
"Why were you worried? We hardly did anything in the end."
"Is Bran ok?"
"He's getting better. At least he's back in his body now."
Sansa scrunched her nose. "What?"
"I'll tell you all about it," said Arya. From the corner of her eye she saw Jon and Tyrion heading back through the gate together, with Jon seemingly steering him along. "If you tell me what happened here. Bran only gave us the basics, but I need to know everything."
"There's a lot to tell you."
"Start now then. The lords of the West are days away at most and we need to be ready. I'm assuming Tyrion's new scar is from his heroics with a flaming sword?"
"How do you know?" She blinked. "Bran, of course. Tyrion saved me from Cersei…"
Arya nodded. "Alright then, let's save him."
Tyrion wanted to speak to him, but he also didn't. When Jon greeted him at the gates he could see his nerves straightaway. He almost looked like he preferred Arya's attempt at a hug.
"You look better," said Jon, clasping his good hand.
"Ah, yes, I suppose."
"What happened to your head?"
Tyrion swallowed. "Winterfell was attacked, while you were gone. Jon, I-I need to speak to you…"
Honestly, Jon just wanted to sleep. His battered body was heavily protesting the exertion of the last week, but he couldn't let Tyrion linger in this state either. It was obvious anxiety had been eating away at him and Jon suspected the reason why.
He kept a hand on Tyrion's shoulder, which he hoped was friendly, and steered him towards the Godswood. A quiet place to talk, and hopefully, settle things.
They walked in silence and Jon could feel the tension rolling off Tyrion, growing stronger as they made their way into the privacy of the Godswood. They stopped at the fallen log Eddard Stark had often sat on, and Jon lowered himself onto it. He left room for Tyrion but he remained standing in front of him instead.
"Alright," said Jon, "what's worrying you so much?"
He hesitated, lowering his head before speaking. "Jon, I'm so sorry. When Winterfell was attacked I tried to reach Sansa's room with Ghost…we were attacked and they killed him. He was defending me and I couldn't do the same. I'm so sorry-"
"Why are you apologising?" asked Jon, cutting him off. "Ghost made his choice."
Tyrion lifted his head, sorrow etched across his face. "He shouldn't have died for me."
"He died protecting his family."
"I…"
Jon caught his arm, waiting until Tyrion stopped his anxious shuffling and met his eyes. "You are family, and Ghost knew that. I'll miss him – and I know you will too – but Ghost knew his duty."
Tyrion nodded, his face tight. "I'm still sorry he's gone. Ghost helped me at a time when I wouldn't let anyone else."
"Aye, he helped me when I was alone too."
Jon had known Ghost was gone from the moment he had the wolf dream, and Bran had confirmed as much in Kings Landing. He'd carried a hollow ache with him since then – Ghost was one of the last links to his youth in Winterfell and the family he'd lost so many pieces of. That didn't mean he would blame Tyrion for the loss of his old friend. Tyrion had been acting to reach Sansa and Ghost had chosen to protect him.
"Come on," said Jon, heaving himself up from the log. "If I stay here much longer I'll fall asleep."
"You look rather tired," said Tyrion, "and sore. I should know."
"Would you believe I fell off a dragon?"
Tyrion's mouth quirked up. "Anything is possible with you, Snow."
It had taken weeks, but finally, Varys felt a spark of hope for Westeros. Cersei was dead. Daenerys was dead. Bran was alive and recovering in Kings Landing. Varys hadn't realised just how tense he was until he experienced some relief from it.
Jon Snow and Arya Stark had returned earlier today and following a small feast for dinner, attention had turned to the final problem; the lords of the West. They'd remained seated in the Great Hall after the food was cleared away and the cheerful mood took on a serious edge. Sansa was in her usual place, with Tyrion in his usual seat beside her. Over the last few weeks Varys had watched his old friend for any sign he could be persuaded to take his place in Casterly Rock, but there was no hope to be found there. After Tyrion's reaction last time, Varys was careful to let him be and not push the issue. It did little to help – Tyrion was wary of speaking alone with him and seemed to prefer Bronn's company. It saddened Varys, but he had to accept Tyrion wasn't the man he'd been. At least he seemed content in the North, and more specifically with Sansa.
He turned his attention to Jon Snow and Arya Stark – both seated along the other side of the Queen. Arya was impossible to read as usual, but Jon Snow was obviously in some discomfort. Dark circles ringed his eyes and he looked half-engaged at best. His mind was elsewhere. With Daenerys perhaps? Of course, Queen Sansa had briefed them all on the events of Kings Landing. Having seen how close Daenerys was to Drogon, the idea of him burning her seemed unfathomable, yet that was what had happened.
The rest of the table was rounded out by the usual suspects; lord Manderly and several junior Northern lords, Bronn, lord Broome and tonight, Godwin had joined them. The old captain had been offered a seat at Tyrion's side and he sat there looking rather out of place. He was here to offer his knowledge of the Westerlands no doubt. Tyrion knew much of the politics, but Godwin knew the military strengths in more up-to-date detail than his lord would.
"Jon and Arya's return brings good tidings," started Sansa. "Nothing pleases me more than knowing the return of Daenerys Targaryen has been stopped, and that my brother is recovering his health in Kings Landing. The North may be independent but the bond we share with the six kingdoms is one of mutual benefit. The six kingdoms are and should be our closest allies."
"As the acting Hand of King Bran, I must agree with Queen Sansa. It is the unity of the North and the Six Kingdoms that has allowed us to drive back the plague of R'hllor's followers. Both kingdoms have seen first-hand how dangerous they can be."
Arya rolled her eyes, already looking bored of the meeting. "Yes, yes, well done to all. We know what the problems are, we just need solutions."
"Lord Lydden and Ser Harys Swyft are riding here to answer Tyrion's summons, and given the large host that reportedly joins them several other houses are coming too. This can only mean they wish to contest the charges against them," said Sansa.
"The other lords will be riding to see lord Tyrion with their own eyes," said lord Broome, scowling as usual. "I was far from the only lord to question lord Lydden's honesty. Many of the lords have been following his lead from a wary distance. I do not doubt their cloaks will turn when they see lord Tyrion has recovered his wits."
"How do we convince them of that?" asked Bronn.
Tyrion shot him a dark look. "What do you mean, exactly?"
"Come on, you don't act like a lord. The Lannister guards here might as well wear the Stark wolf."
Varys was well aware of the indignation building in Tyrion's eyes – a ghost of the man who had always wanted to be lord of Casterly Rock – but Bronn was correct. To all of their detriment.
"I don't want to be lord," he said, "but since Varys and Bran won't accept my request I have no choice."
"The Westerlands has been dominated by the Lannisters since your father was lord – if you wish to surrender your seat it needs to be you who arranges the succession. The West will not accept the Crown's intervention, I fear," said Varys.
"The matter of succession will likely need to be decided when the lords arrive and the traitors have been dealt with," said lord Manderly. "It should be easy enough for Tyrion to project the right image when they arrive."
"Certainly," said Godwin. "The men serve lord Tyrion faithfully and those who have had the chance to serve him personally speak fondly of him. The Lannister army is firmly committed to serving him."
"Your Grace, might I ask of the North's justice?" Varys glanced down the table to the speaker, a middle-aged Northern lord – a bannerman of house Tallhart if Varys was correct. "The Red Priests attacked Winterfell and threatened your safety under orders from lord Lydden. Many were injured and several men lost their lives in that battle."
Sansa pursed her lips, glancing at Tyrion. "Yes, I have discussed the matter with Tyrion. We both feel it is past time justice was done for the attack on Winterfell and intend to see it done tomorrow. Jon and Arya have confirmed how Bran has handled the Red Priests in Kings Landing – now seems the ideal time to deal with them and send a message."
Lord Manderly chuckled. "I'm sure they'll be thrilled to see Azor Ahai again."
A rumble of laughter went around the table and Tyrion smiled along with it, but Varys noticed the Queen's hand disappear beneath the table, no doubt to find his. A pang of sympathy wormed through him – even after all these years Tyrion still wished to be the hero. His intellect was extraordinary, but Varys supposed it was natural to wish for what you didn't have. His gifts would never be physical, but that wouldn't stop Tyrion wishing to be seen the way he saw his brother. It was almost sad. It would be sadder if not for Queen Sansa – the young woman clearly adored him, and more importantly, understood him. She'd made certain everyone knew it was Tyrion who had saved her from Cersei.
Varys smiled - Sansa Stark was a clever woman, and she knew how the game was played. She would not let Tyrion's role in protecting her be overlooked and it was a great boost to his reputation amongst the Northern lords. Consciously or not, she was preparing him for power. It would nor be Casterly Rock, of that he was certain, but he would be offered a place at Sansa's side sooner or later.
'Take it when it comes, old friend,' thought Varys. 'Your mind is too great to be allowed to idle away. If not the Six Kingdoms, use it for your new home.'
Sansa's heart twisted at the look on Tyrion's face. Almost two weeks had passed since he decided to accept Uhlan's offer, but since then it had been almost impossible to get Tyrion in the same room with the man. Every time she'd suggested it Tyrion had managed to distract her long enough that she forgot about it, until she next saw Uhlan, who kept asking when he could see Tyrion.
The day after Jon and Arya's return, Sansa finally managed to arrange the meeting. She winced at the memory. Having explained who Uhlan was to Jon and Arya last night, this morning she'd asked Arya if Tyrion had time for the meeting with Uhlan before she needed him.
"Plenty of time," said Arya, smirking. "Tyrion will go with you to see Uhlan and then he can come with me for his preparation."
Tyrion's face fell. "Are you sure? There's a lot to do today and I don't mind putting it off with Uhlan…"
"Oh, I'm very sure Tyrion. I can go with you and Sansa if you want."
It was a dirty trick really, using Arya to compel him. While Tyrion was well practiced in distracting her, Sansa knew it wouldn't work with Arya. If he didn't go, Arya would drag him there. It was for the best though – Uhlan had said the other day he needed time to prepare to cover the tattoos and he couldn't \wait for Tyrion forever.
"Hold still, little Prince," said Uhlan. "Won't take too long."
Sansa squeezed Tyrion's hand but the gesture seemed so small compared to her husband's distress. His face was as white as a sheet and his hand clammy in hers. The meeting had started as the first had finished, with Tyrion sitting on the chaise beside her as Uhlan talked about what he did.
"I can't get rid of what's there," he said, "but I can make it something new. I need time to prepare the new, so show me the old!"
Unfortunately, this meant Tyrion removing his doublet and shift while Uhlan sketched life size copies of the tattoos. Poor Tyrion. He didn't like being undressed anyway, but Uhlan's poking and measuring of the tattoos was proving a lot for him. Was it the reminder of the tattoos? For months now Tyrion had tried to ignore them, confessing that he got dressed and bathed with his eyes turned away from them. It wasn't healthy – that alone was enough to strengthen Sansa's commitment to encouraging Tyrion along. He'd made this decision himself, he just needed support to see it through.
Sansa traced circles on the back of Tyrion's damaged hand, trying to soothe him. Green eyes flitted to hers, unsure and panicked.
"You're doing so well," she said softly. "Not much longer."
Glancing at Uhlan, Sansa saw three sheets of paper with identical copies of three of the tattoos; imp, kinslayer, little monster. Uhlan was working on the last, and the one which seemed to bother Tyrion the most – the Hand of the Queen mark sat where the badge once had on his chest. It was the largest and most complex of the marks and Sansa struggled to see how it could be covered up.
It didn't take Uhlan too long to finish the sketch, and while it probably felt a lifetime to Tyrion, Sansa was simply enjoying the time alone with him. Tomorrow the lords of the West were expected to arrive and time alone with Tyrion would become even more fleeting. It would be temporary, she promised herself. The lords would leave and Winterfell would be theirs again. They weren't going to take Tyrion away – he didn't want to leave. She'd kill them all before she let that happen.
"All done little Prince," said Uhlan, taking his sketches and retreating to the armchair. They'd met in the same unused room as last time, though Sansa wasn't sure if it was making Tyrion's anxiety better or worse. Uhlan wasn't an enemy and they had no reason to treat him as such.
"I'm not a Prince," said Tyrion.
"The Prince that was Promised," said Uhlan, grinning.
"I'm a bastard."
"Calling you little bastard doesn't sound very friendly!"
As soon as Tyrion pulled his clothes on to his lap, Sansa let go of his hand and started helping him get dressed. Protest built in his eyes, but she merely shook her head, warning him that she was going to help.
"Tyrion is a Prince, really," said Sansa, "since our marriage still stands he is technically Prince Consort."
She was looking at Tyrion as she said it and at once his expression softened. "I suppose."
"You shouldn't doubt a Queen."
It took only seconds for Sansa to close the clasps on his doublet, and now that the tattoos were hidden from view Tyrion seemed much more relaxed. As she retook her seat beside him and claimed his hand, she felt his fingers trying to squeeze her back. It was one of Sansa's favourite feelings.
Uhlan coughed, drawing their attention to his grinning face. "So little Prince, I need only know what you want to cover the tattoos?"
"Oh…I don't know," said Tyrion. He swallowed thickly, looking to her for help.
"This is your chance to make them what you want," she said.
"I never wanted them in the first place."
"I know, but you can take control of them now. They don't have to be a reminder of what you went through, but that you were strong enough to survive it."
Green eyes watched hers and Sansa saw just how difficult this was for Tyrion. He'd decided to accept Uhlan's offer but it was so far from an easy choice to make.
"You are good at drawing, aren't you?" asked Uhlan. "Your Queen tells me so."
"Not really…"
"He's excellent," said Sansa.
"Use your drawings then, yes? You and I can decide what will work!"
Tyrion bit his lip, and Sansa was increasingly worried he would change his mind about the whole thing. The last thing Sansa wanted was to underestimate his trauma but this was his only chance of a solution. Uhlan was nodding encouragingly, but Tyrion was just shrinking into himself beside her. When he spoke, Sansa's stomach dropped. He'd changed his mind hadn't he?
"Will you do it?" asked Tyrion.
Sansa blinked. "Do what?"
"I can't do it – the thought of choosing…I want to know nothing about this. Will you choose for me?"
Her heart swelled. "Oh…"
"Please? You're the only person I trust."
Sansa found herself nodding, even as the heavy weight of the responsibility settled on her. "If that's truly what you want."
"It is." He turned to Uhlan. "Sansa will help you."
The man watched them curiously, before nodding. "Very well little Prince. Your Queen and I have work to do."
Bran grimaced as the dressing was pulled away from the wound in his neck. It was healing, albeit slowly.
"I can't understand how you survived that," said Sam. "Ser Davos and I thought the tree was killing you."
"Not me," he said. "The Heart Tree killed the Red God's hold on me. The fire that burned me was cursed."
"I'm not sure how that works."
Bran shrugged. "Neither am I."
"It's good you're back in one piece." Sam turned away from him, preparing a new dressing. The hole in his neck wasn't particularly large but it ran deep enough to ache and burn as if an ice-cold poker had been driven into his flesh. "The Council was falling apart without you."
"I fear I must take responsibility for that. The council was already weakened without Varys and Bronn, and my absence made that worse."
Sam cleared his throat, keeping his face turned away. "Well, your Grace, maybe, next time – Gods forbid there is a next time – you could keep the Council in the loop a little more."
A smile threatened the corner of Bran's mouth. "I think that might be wise. The three-eyed raven may have a lot of knowledge, but that doesn't always translate to wisdom."
"I think we're all still learning."
Bran sat still as Samwell worked. The wheelchair felt more confining than ever after weeks of using his legs in the between world. The powers of the three-eyed raven were an escape, but Bran was reluctant to spend too much time flying. A focus on the past had blinded him to the present. As King, not every problem could be solved by his third eye – some required his own two.
"I assume you've read the letter from Varys?" asked Bran.
"Yes, he and Ser Bronn will return when the succession of the Westerlands is secured. Who do you think will claim Casterly Rock?"
"I don't know," said Bran, "but it's a great loss to the six kingdoms."
Sam nodded. "You wanted Tyrion to remain as lord?"
"I hoped Tyrion might be my Hand."
"Ah…you haven't asked?"
Bran shook his head. "There's no point. Our loss is the North's gain. Varys is a capable acting Hand, but he is a far better Master of Whispers. My powers only see so much, and Varys has a way of seeing what I don't."
"Who will be your Hand then?"
Bran folded his hands in his lap. "I have someone in mind if they'll accept – I just have to send a letter to Greywater Watch."
Curiosity ate at Tyrion, but not enough to risk asking Arya what they were doing. Last night's meeting with the lords had ended with a vague plan that put him at the centre. He swallowed, guilt filling him for even thinking himself hard done by. The Starks and the North already gave him so much – it was selfish to wish they'd fix this too. Whether he liked it or not, the Westerlands was his problem to solve.
By all reports, the lords would arrive tomorrow and he needed to be lord Lannister then. Tyrion's stomach twisted uneasily at the thought of the part he had to play, but if he played it well, maybe, the Westerlands and his family's poisoned reputation would finally leave him alone. He could forget them all and stay in Winterfell with the Starks if they'd have him.
"You and Sansa seem closer than before," said Arya, leading them through the Courtyards and towards the armoury.
"Yes, well, I enjoy her company and Sansa doesn't seem to mind me following her around Winterfell like a stray cat."
"Sansa follows you just as much. I'm surprised I managed to pry you away from her."
"It was difficult, but my Queen insisted you be supervised."
Arya snorted, lifting an eyebrow. If Arya wanted to embarrass him about his closeness to Sansa she would have to try harder. Unlike the Queen, he wouldn't blush like a green boy who'd just had his first kiss.
"So, should I be calling you brother now?" asked Arya
Ah, perhaps Arya could embarrass him. "As flattering as that would be, nothing has happened that would warrant such a change."
"Hmm. Really? Sansa looks at you as if you're the last man alive."
"Not an honour I deserve."
"Sansa doesn't give away that kind of admiration easily."
He dropped his head, realising Arya was right. Sansa guarded her heart far more closely than she once had – but somehow, she'd decided he was worthy of holding a place in it. As baffling as he found it, there was no greater honour.
Arya led him into the armoury, drawing a few curious looks from the men working there but they quickly turned back to their work. No one with any sense would question Arya, but Tyrion's tongue had always been troublesome. He paused far more often now, the lingering effects of his imprisonment difficult to overcome. He'd worked hard on overcoming it – speaking his mind wouldn't end in punishment here, and every time he voiced his thoughts it felt like one more insult to Cersei. She hadn't won in the end.
"What are we doing here?" asked Tyrion.
Arya stepped away from him, turning back a moment later with a knife spinning in her hand. "We're getting you ready."
"Of course. Can I ask why we're doing so in the armoury?"
"When lord Lydden and Ser Harys arrive, you'll have to face them as lord of Casterly Rock. It looks like a lot of your bannermen have come too."
He nodded, hoping his voice didn't waver. "It's my problem to fix, I know that."
"I'm not saying you're alone. Sansa told you what happened in Kings Landing, didn't she? The lords of the West feared Sansa ruling the Westerlands through you."
"I would give Sansa the West if she wanted it."
Arya's eyes narrowed. "You'd give her a poisoned cup?"
"What? Never."
"Then you know why that can't happen. If the lords of the West don't believe you are lord of Casterly Rock and are acting under your own power, there will be war Tyrion. They will accuse the North of controlling you, and more importantly, lord Lydden and Ser Harys will get away with what they've done."
All humour drained from Tyrion. He looked Arya straight in the eye. "That won't happen. They will face justice for betraying their liege lord, treason against the King of the Six Kingdoms and trying to kill the Queen in the North. None of them will get away with it."
Arya's grey eyes watched him closely before she nodded. "Good. Then we can continue preparing you."
"I appreciate your help, but I'm not sure how you can prepare me. I know what needs to be done."
"But can you do it?"
Tyrion's mouth twisted into a frown. "What do you think of me? I will not cower before the lords of the Westerlands. I don't want to be lord of Casterly Rock, and soon I won't be, but for now they kneel to me."
"I'm not asking if you can be a lord, Tyrion, I'm asking if you can be a Northerner."
"What-what do you mean? I thought I could stay here…Sansa said-"
"You're not listening. I'm not questioning whether you can stay in Winterfell or the North, I'm asking whether you can be one of us. Whether you understand why the North needs to be its own kingdom."
It was difficult, but Tyrion forced his frantic mind to think beyond the surface of Arya's words. Sansa had told him this was his home in every way possible, and despite's Arya's past behaviour towards him, he didn't think she was cold enough to cast him out. No, Arya meant something different.
When serving Daenerys, he'd given a lot of thought to keeping the North in the fold, but when they arrived at Winterfell Sansa had shown him why it needed to be separate. It was an understanding that had led him, to his detriment, to propose Northern independence to Daenerys.
Tyrion's mind was sluggish to start with, too long away from the politics he'd once loved, but slowly he understood exactly what Arya was asking him.
"You know I've killed before," he said, a humourless laugh escaping him. "Ask my father or sister."
"There's a difference between killing in battle or rage and swinging the sword. My father didn't teach me or Sansa, but he taught our brothers. It's about knowing the weight of taking a life. Sansa is a Queen and it's not expected of her to swing the sword herself. When Littlefinger died, she made sure she looked him in the eye when I took his life."
"My hand," he said, lifting the curled appendage. "I don't have the strength to take a man's head with two good hands, let alone one."
"Sansa isn't expected to swing the sword because she's a woman, but you're a man."
"A halfman."
Arya said nothing, her grey eyes watching him.
Ned Stark was an honourable man, and he'd surely instilled in his sons the same lessons he'd once learned. Tyrion had heard the phrase before in the North - the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword – and he agreed with the sentiment. Lords shouldn't forget the power they wield, nor expect others to carry out a sentence they won't. It was about understanding the weight of power and the fragility of life. At least that was how he'd considered it, and the trial for Joffrey's murder had given him plenty of time to consider that long walk to face the executioner.
Could he be the executioner? Arya was right – it would not be the same as killing an enemy in battle, or in a rage. If he was a Northerner then it would be expected that he would deliver the sentence, but he was born in the Westerlands…
"Godwin will offer to do it, I've no doubt," said Arya. "You don't have to lift a finger-"
"I will swing the sword," said Tyrion, narrowing his eyes. "But I am not cruel enough to try and take a man's head to do so. It will have to be enough for the Northern lords that I cut their throats."
Arya shrugged. "You don't have to swing the sword at all. It's your choice who you want to be."
Tyrion breathed in and out, straightening his back. "I will pass the sentences, and I will deliver the sentences."
"If that's what you want to do."
"It is."
Arya turned away, pacing towards a beam with a wooden target strapped to it. "The Northerners won't judge you for how you do it, to them it will only matter that you do. I can't take a head myself, but if I deliver Sansa's sentences I look them in the eye when I cut their throat."
Tyrion dropped his shoulders, rubbing his face tiredly. "You knew what I would decide. You brought me to the armoury to practice, didn't you?"
"I couldn't know what you'd choose. It depends on who you want to be." When Arya turned to face him, she had two daggers in her hand. She offered him one, with a black and silver handle. "If you decided to be one of us, I thought I could help you prepare."
He took the dagger, holding it awkwardly in his left hand. "Please do."
Her mouth twitched upwards. "It's lucky for you I'm left-handed."
It didn't take long for him to get swept along practicing on the target with Arya. Just one clean cut was all he needed his left hand to do. Tyrion was distracted enough that he didn't give much thought to why it mattered what the Northerners thought of him. Sansa had already assured him this was home – he had no need to prove himself as one of them.
Yet, some part of him knew he needed to do this. It was important the Northern lords approved of him, even if he couldn't put his finger on why.
Jon stared around his chambers as if seeing them for the first time. It was wrong. Something was missing, and he knew exactly what it was.
He rubbed a hand over his face, sinking back into the chair. There was preparation to do for tomorrow but Jon found himself too tired to consider doing it. Sansa had assured him everything was in hand and he should rest, but how could he rest when his room was wrong? It was strange. Ghost's absence hadn't bothered him when the wolf chose to spend his nights with Tyrion, but that was markedly different from now, and knowing his old friend would never again be in his chambers. Ghost – his silent, steady companion for so many years.
What he said to Tyrion was the truth; Ghost had died honourably, doing his duty to protect the family. That didn't make the loss sit any easier in his mind, particularly given how little attention he'd paid the direwolf over the last few months. Ghost had known something was wrong with Drogon, but Jon had failed to pick up on the signs.
He leaned back, closing his eyes. He just needed a little rest. A few hours without worrying about Kings and Queens and lords. A break from the madness dancing in Dany's eyes when they met again on Dragonstone. More than once he'd feared finding it in his own eyes.
Jon breathed in and out. Bran was safe. Sansa was safe. Arya was safe. Drogon was subdued but otherwise back to himself. Tyrion was better than when they'd left, and Jon knew he grieved for Ghost too. He could relax for a few hours – just long enough for some of his aches and pains to settle.
Really, he should have spoken to Tyrion about the old ways, but Arya knew just as much, if not more about killing – and she was left-handed. Sansa had agreed to broach the subject with him but wanted no part in it herself. It would be Tyrion's choice, but he and Arya knew if Tyrion was to be lord of Winterfell and Prince Consort he needed to be prepared for it. Sansa would never admit her intentions either way to them, but her actions around Tyrion made it clear where she wanted him.
Jon would be there to support them, he just needed a little time alone to breathe.
"Are you ok?" asked Sansa.
Tyrion nodded, fiddling with the clasps of his deep red doublet in the mirror. It didn't suit him at all - the red and gold seemed garish and overshadowed his other assets. Sansa much preferred him in muted Northern colours that brought out the green in his eyes and let his golden hair shine.
Still, she moved to stand behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders. "You look quite handsome if that's what concerns you."
His reflection gave a half-smile. "Your Grace is too kind. I will never be handsome, but you are strikingly beautiful."
She let her hands wrap around his shoulders, leaning down to kiss his cheek. "You shouldn't disagree with a Queen, my lord."
"Perhaps not, but I did benefit from it."
"Ah, it was all a plot for a kiss."
He turned his head so his breath tickled her cheek. "I have to do something to bring you down to my level."
It was unusual for Tyrion to initiate the kiss, but Sansa was thrilled that he did. She sank quickly into the feel of his lips against hers. It was so easy to get lost kissing him – already she could feel a pull in her lower region, encouraging her along.
With great difficulty, she pulled back from her husband, brushing her fingers through his growing hair. "Are you distracting me, my lord?"
"Is it working?"
"Are you worried about tomorrow?"
He swallowed, shaking his head. Sansa could almost feel him trying to force a smile. "Of course not. Why would I be worried?"
"Well, you have no reason to be worried tomorrow or tonight."
It was long overdue that they dealt with the prisoners and acknowledged those who had defended Winterfell when Cersei attacked. Tonight was the ideal time – Jon and Arya were here to support them, and it would hopefully give Tyrion a confidence boost before he faced his bannermen tomorrow.
"I'd rather not see the Red Priests," muttered Tyrion.
"You're their promised Prince."
He snorted, shaking his head. "You know I'm not."
"I know you were my hero, and you need only be the Prince that was Promised long enough to get rid of them."
"Do they actually believe this nonsense?"
Sansa bit back a smile – Tyrion was never more cynical about anything than he was himself. "They saw you with the burning sword."
"I hate to break it to you, my dear, but I fear the flaming sword was a cheap trick."
Heat ran through Sansa, igniting her desire. "Oh, really?"
Tyrion lowered his voice, glancing around as if he was about to divulge a great secret. "The Red Priests are using mummery. For everyone who may have some connection to fire, like Thoros of Myr, the rest are using cheap tricks. I'd wager that man's sheath was coated so that when he withdrew the sword at a certain speed it would catch fire."
There was truth in Tyrion's theory, of course. Arya had suggested something similar when she'd described the attack to her and Jon. The Red Priests believed Tyrion to be the promised Prince because of the timing – he'd spoken of vanquishing darkness, raised a burning sword as he said it, and through their marriage, he was technically a Prince.
Sansa cupped his face, brushing her finger over the old scar on his cheek. Her eyes found her own stitching on his head. The wound was healing nicely and Wolkan had assured her the needlework was as good, if not better, than any Maester could do. It did a little to ease her guilt for Tyrion getting hurt in the first place. At least the scar wouldn't be so bad, and Tyrion didn't seem to mind anyway.
"You're probably right about the sword," she admitted, "but I think you should enjoy it a little bit too. Your role in the Battle of Blackwater was overlooked, and I know it hurt you to be sent to the Crypts during the Long Night, even though your bravery helped to protect the women and children down there."
"I'm used to being overlooked. It did bother me at Blackwater, and the Long Night – but I'd rather be forgotten now."
"Why?"
He paused, and Sansa got the impression he hadn't thought about it enough to consider his reasoning. After a few moments, he leaned his head against her hand. "It's safer to be forgotten."
Sansa's heart twisted at his confession. This was one of the reasons why she hesitated to move forwards with Tyrion, aside from her own nerves, a life with her was a life of service and duty. Things he was capable of but no longer cared for. She stroked his cheek, leaning down to kiss his forehead.
"Others may have overlooked your courage in the past, but that is the past. Your future is in the North, Tyrion, and the North remembers."
It was an unpleasant affair. Tyrion had thought dinner awkward when he first started joining Sansa and the lords, but that was nothing compared to now. The Great Hall was packed with Stark and Lannister soldiers. Lord Manderly and his men were there, as was lord Broome and the few men he had with him. Several of the minor Northern lords were in attendance with their personal guards and the room seemed to be shrinking with every second that passed. It would be worse tomorrow when the lords of the West arrived. Godwin had confirmed to him earlier they'd made camp some short distance from Winterfell, but would likely ride early to be here at first light. He had to be ready.
He shifted in his seat, trying to not squirm. The long table used for dinner had been moved aside and Sansa now sat on a simple, yet striking throne in the centre of the raised platform. She wore a light grey dress with the Stark wolf stitched into the fabric. A deep blue cloak hung around her shoulders and a silver direwolf crown sat atop her head. She was everything a Queen should be, and it was terrifying. Sansa deserved so much better than what she'd been given in life – she could marry any man in the seven kingdoms – she could love them. Yet, she loved him. The words were difficult, but that only made the moment Sansa whispered them to him even more special. The question remained; what did she want from him? Did he really want the answer?
The Queen was speaking to the assembled guards, going through what had occurred during the attack and giving a report of the attacks in Kings Landing. Some of Sansa's council had suggested she not reveal the whole truth of Cersei and Daenerys, but Sansa was not that kind of Queen. Far shrewder than her father, she still appreciated transparency unless there was a good reason against it.
Tyrion was seated on a regular chair along from the Queen, and on her left Jon and Arya were seated – though further away than he was. They were here as family members of house Stark, but he was here as lord of Casterly Rock. Bronn and Varys were both seated on chairs at the far side. This didn't involve them, but they were members of King Bran's council and Sansa would not disrespect them. Glancing to his right, Tyrion spied Godwin stood at attention, having taken position as the captain of his guard. Unfortunately, glancing right meant he caught the eye of Jeyne Lydden.
The girl smiled broadly, giving him a little wave. Tyrion tried not to groan – she still hadn't moved past whatever infatuation she'd developed with him, or more specifically, whatever power she thought he had. Sansa found it amusing, but she only had to look at Jeyne Lydden to send the girl running. Only last week, Yvette had caught the girl trying to charm her way past the guard at his door so she could 'surprise' him when he returned to his chambers. What to do with Jeyne had come up more than once during their discussions on handling the Westerlands – discussions the girl had complained she wasn't part of.
"Why can't I be at the meeting? I have no loyalty to my father," she said, crossing her arms.
"Words every father wants to hear from his daughter, I'm sure," muttered Varys.
"He didn't listen to what I wanted and was going to give me away like a horse," said Jeyne. Her face morphed quickly from anger to a smile as she turned to Tyrion. "He did give me a chance to meet m'lord though. For that, I am grateful every day."
It was utterly baffling how Jeyne could go from revulsion to…whatever this was, but Sansa just brushed aside any concerns.
"She's not getting near you, I promise."
Some of the lords had suggested using her as a hostage to compel lord Lydden, but there was no information they needed from him and Tyrion disliked the idea of using a young woman in such a way, no matter how grating he found her. She would have a use, but Tyrion had no intentions of hurting her.
"-and I must thank not only the Northern guards who rushed to defend Winterfell and myself, but also the courage of the Lannister guards. If not for them we may have lost many more good men to this disgusting attack. Cersei Lannister, and her allies, were careful in planning this attack. While the Red Priests distracted the six kingdoms and attacked my brother Bran, Cersei Lannister came here for revenge on the independent North – those who ended her reign of terror – and I dare say she finally paid her debt."
Tyrion tensed, knowing Sansa was nearing the end of her speech.
"Lord Tyrion fought valiantly to defend me from Cersei, and in doing so was badly hurt. Even injured, he struggled to warn us that Cersei had planted poison in what she thought were my chambers. In Kings Landing, Jon and Arya were also faced with a dead Queen – Daenerys Targaryen – rebuilding her army and as desperate to conquer Westeros as ever…"
He tuned out as Sansa moved on to describe the events of Kings Landing. He knew what she was going to say – they'd gone through everything yesterday and again this morning. She would end with how unity within the North and with our Southern allies was the key to defeating those who threatened us, and then she would pass over to him.
"Lord Tyrion has stood by the North, and by me. His men have become welcome faces at Winterfell. Tomorrow the lords of the West will arrive. It is no secret that both the North and the Six Kingdoms have suffered because lord Jon Lydden and Ser Harys Swyft sought power that was never theirs. They ride to face lord Tyrion's justice, and as Queen, I have consented to this meeting being held at Winterfell, so that the North may feel justice is done. Lord Tyrion was made a citizen of the North to acknowledge his proposals for independence which saved us months of negotiation and hard work. Since arriving here, he has bent the knee to me as Queen, and I gladly welcome him into my service." Sansa glanced at him for a moment, her blue eyes full of warmth. "Lord Tyrion will deal with the lords of the West tomorrow as lord of Casterly Rock, and he does so with my full support. Stark and Lannister isn't an alliance anyone imagined, but the last few months have shown how strong that union can be. In honour of that, lord Tyrion and I have agreed it is past time to acknowledge the courage displayed when Winterfell needed it most."
His throat was dry and scratchy when it was his turn to speak. Sansa commanded the room so well, people hung on her every word – they wouldn't do that for him. The laughter would start any minute now, like it had in Kings Landing, when he walked down the street with the hands and the laughter ringing in his ears.
It took Tyrion several moments to realise the hall was silent, full of people waiting for him to pick up where Sansa had left off. There was no laughing.
"Thank you, your Grace. No one is more indebted to the North than I, and it pleases me that my guards were able to assist in the defence of Winterfell. As you alluded to, the past between Stark and Lannister need not damage the future. We are truly stronger together…"
A bead of sweat trickled down his back as he trailed off, overly aware of the scrutiny of the room. What in the seven hells was he babbling about? He hoped no one interpreted his words wrongly. It was tempting to turn to Sansa for reassurance, but this was partly to prepare him for tomorrow – and if he turned to Sansa then, the lords of the West would seize upon it. With difficulty, he glanced to his right, catching Godwin's eye instead. The old captain gave a barely noticeable nod, encouraging him along.
"The North does not normally make knights," said Tyrion, forcing the words through his tight throat. "Most Northerners follow the Old Gods, but I have spoken with Queen Sansa, and she is happy to bestow knighthoods to a number of my men and hers, should they wish to make the vows of knighthood to her."
Maester Wolkan shuffled to the front of the platform, unfolding a list of those to be offered knighthoods. Tyrion relaxed a little. All he had to do was sit through the knighting of those who accepted, and that should give him plenty of time to prepare for the next stage.
The first man called forwards Tyrion recognised as the young Lannister guard who'd been with him and Bronn the night of the attack. When discussing who to honour, Sansa had suggested several of her men and Tyrion had sought Godwin's advice on recommending his. This young man was the first who came to Tyrion's mind, but when Bronn heard what they were planning he'd pulled him aside to suggest the same.
"The lad fought well for his age, and he risked his neck to help us. Reckon he'd be a good knight."
It was as close to a compliment as Bronn could get, and Tyrion was quick to agree. It only occurred to him when working on this with Sansa just how little he knew of the Lannister guards. For months they'd stayed in Winterfell because of him, making peace with the Stark guards and defending a Queen that wasn't theirs. They knew he had no desire to be their lord, yet they hadn't hesitated to defend him.
The young Lannister guard glanced at him as he came forward to receive his knighthood from Sansa, and Tyrion found himself nodding his encouragement. As he wasn't a knight himself, Tyrion was spared from having to perform the ceremony. Sansa could do so in her capacity as Queen, and while lord Manderly had suggested he could perform the ceremony as he was technically Prince Consort, Tyrion had no inclination to do so. He knew from Jamie what knighthood meant to most men. This boy and the others on the list could take pride in knowing they were knighted by the Queen in the North. No one would be proud to be knighted by a disfigured dwarf who was surrendering his name and titles.
He tilted his head, watching as Sansa carefully lifted a sword from one shoulder of the young man to the other. Even if he was lord of Casterly Rock, Tyrion would never be able to do this as he would never himself be a knight – he would have had to make Godwin bestow any knighthoods he wished to. It was better that he give up his name and titles. Lordship wasn't meant for imps.
All in all, eight Lannister guards were knighted and five Northerners, two of whom were Stark men. The other three were lord Manderly's men, though that was hardly surprising as house Manderly followed the faith of the seven. Several Stark guards expressed deep gratitude for the Queen's offer but refused knighthood as they followed the old Gods. The two who accepted were younger men who Tyrion sensed didn't follow any particular God – a position he could agree with.
Tyrion found himself growing anxious as the knighting came to an end and Sansa once again thanked those who'd defended Winterfell, charging the new knights to act always with honour. It was when she shifted her speech from thanks to retribution that his blood ran cold.
"As many of you will have heard, in defending me from Cersei, lord Tyrion used a sword which caught fire. To the Red Priests, this is a clear sign of the Prince that was Promised. Like most of you, I was raised to know the Old Gods and the faith of the seven. Whether lord Tyrion is the Prince that was Promised is an issue for the lord of the Light, but it can benefit us now."
Tyrion tried to sit straighter in his chair, focusing on the task at hand rather than the faces watching him. "We all want justice for the attack on Winterfell, but on the issue of the Red Priests it seems best to follow King Bran's lead and banish them. If they believe me to be Azor Ahai, then they will follow my direction to leave Westeros and never return. The followers of R'hllor committed terrible, inhuman acts in raising the dead Queens, but we must not forget who called on them to do so – lord Lydden and those who supported him will answer for their crimes tomorrow. Now, the Red Priests will be given the chance to leave in peace, or pay with their lives."
Sansa must have signalled for the prisoners to be brought in earlier, for no sooner had he finished speaking did the double doors open. There weren't many Red Priests – Tyrion counted ten in total – being led through the centre of the room by a mixture of Stark and Lannister men.
The ten were arranged in a line before Sansa's throne, but after a quick glance at the Queen, ten pairs of eyes fell on him, and only him. It was tempting to shrink under their scrutiny, but Tyrion knew he had to play the part. It was a plan that hinged on the men believing he was Azor Ahai, and it was quickly apparent they did.
"My Prince," they chorused, falling to their knees. Their hands were bound in front of them and the guards were watching them warily, but this was going as well as he and Sansa had expected. It was almost frightening, seeing first-hand what fanatical belief looked like. Tyrion had wondered if the weeks in the dungeon might have made them see sense, or at least dampened their enthusiasm, but it was clear their belief had only grown.
"You call me that," said Tyrion, "yet you came to Winterfell in support of Cersei Lannister. You followed the orders of a vile creature of darkness, and in doing so, threatened my closest allies."
"We were mistaken, my prince!" cried one elderly man, lifting his head. Gods, was he trembling? "The false Queens lied to us, but you showed us the way. The night is dark and full of terrors."
"We are your servants, my prince, now and always," said another man. "You are the lord of Light's chosen champion. Your coming has been foretold!"
The first man nodded his head eagerly, his old eyes gazing at Tyrion with something he'd rather not name. "Our lord's fire burns brightly in you – all can see it!"
It was a testament to the discipline of the assembled guards that no one was yet howling with laughter, though Tyrion could see from his place on the raised platform that it was a struggle for many. It probably wouldn't matter if the whole hall descended into laughter – these Priests were utterly convinced he was Azor Ahai. For a moment, his blood grew hot. Did these dumb bastards not see he was a dwarf and a cripple? They waited centuries for their supposed Prince, who was famed to be a great warrior, yet they were willing to believe it was him?
He stood from the chair, stepping to the edge of the raised platform. He could feel Sansa's concerned eyes on him, and it cooled his boiling blood for a moment.
"You have failed me," he said, narrowing his eyes at the Priests. "You sided with the enemy – you tried to kill me. Westeros is no place for your preaching. Go! All of you go back to Essos with all the speed R'hllor will grant you and spread the word that Westeros does not need you. If you wish to serve the lord of Light, spend your days helping those who need it. Defend the defenceless in Essos, and never return here."
One man gulped, his eyes shining with tears. "But my Prince, you are among non-believers…"
"I am where I'm meant to be, and if you truly serve the lord of Light, you will go where you are supposed to be. If you refuse this command, your life will be forfeit. Westeros and the North is not in need of R'hllor – return to Essos."
There was a frantic bobbing of heads and when the guards led the men from the room, Tyrion saw a puddle of piss from where one man had apparently lost his nerve. He held his position at the edge of the platform until the doors closed behind them, and then his shoulders fell. Silence reigned in the hall, until applause broke out, interspersed with laughter.
Tyrion turned his back on the crowd, facing Sansa instead. The Queen was smiling, her eyes bright with warmth. She gestured him closer, her sweet voice drifting to his ear as the crowd celebrated.
"Well done, my lord. I dare say you enjoyed that."
"Their ridiculous belief was irritating," he admitted, "telling them where to go was refreshing."
She lowered her voice to a whisper, her hand brushing his. "I enjoyed watching you. I'd almost forgotten how captivating you are when wielding power. It suits you."
A faint blush crept across his cheeks. In the moment he'd forgotten his nerves, letting his irritation take control. Sansa wasn't the only one who'd forgotten what it was like to see him wield power – he'd forgotten what it felt like himself. Was it a feeling he cared for though? He supposed he would see tomorrow. He doubted the lords of the West would piss themselves before him.