Chapter 42

'Don't answer now. Think about it first, and give me an answer when you're ready…'

Whatever way Tyrion thought about it, he still couldn't wrap his mind around it. Sansa had been perfectly clear in her offer. She wanted to marry him, and she'd been brutally honest about what it would entail; he would serve as Prince Consort and lord of Winterfell, taking an active role in the politics he'd avoided since coming here. There needed to be heirs to the Northern throne – he would father her children, and be her husband in every meaning of the word.

Despite how he felt for Sansa, her offer had taken him by surprise. He loved her, and truly believed she felt the same – but he hadn't considered she would actually wish to marry him. If anything, he'd thought their marriage might continue as it was now. Neither developing nor ending, but protecting her from a real marriage.

That wasn't the case.

Sansa had insisted he not answer straight away, but consider everything it would entail before giving a final answer. She'd been just as quick to reassure him that he had options.

"Whether you accept my offer or not, nothing will change your place in Winterfell. This will still be your home and we'll still be your family – there's no pressure to accept. I don't want you to feel it's something you have to do…"

Tyrion didn't doubt Sansa's sincerity but if he did refuse it was impossible to see how things would remain the same. At best it would be awkward and at worst intolerably painful. A lump formed in Tyrion's throat. Even making the offer had been difficult for Sansa. When they finished talking, she'd given him a shy kiss and turned the conversation to tomorrow.

He sat on the chaise, stroking Gerry as he lay beside him. It was long past when he usually went to bed, but Sansa's proposal dominated his thoughts. Could he do it? He loved Sansa, and the idea of truly being her husband made his heart soar…it was everything else. The politics. The work. Playing the game once again. After what happened with Daenerys he'd intended to never hold power again, but Sansa had been perfectly honest about what her offer entailed. Tyrion slumped back against the chaise. His mind would turn this over all night.

If nothing else it would distract him from tomorrow, when he would subject himself to Uhlan fixing the tattoos. His blood ran cold at the thought. Sansa had said they would go to Uhlan after breakfast, but he'd been spared from knowing any further details.

Tyrion closed his eyes, trying to imagine a life where he was everything Sansa needed him to be.


Bran flew over the familiar North, enjoying the freedom to visit here again. No longer was his sight blocked or interfered with – the three-eyed raven could see everything once more.

Today's business in the North was less about the three-eyed raven or even the six kingdoms, and more about Bran Stark. He'd never been to Greywater Watch, but the three-eyed raven had been there many times.

Meera had received his letter days ago but hadn't managed to reply.

Perhaps this wasn't his best idea, but Bran was short of people to ask for advice in this regard. In the end, he'd settled on Podrick Payne, who'd thought the plan had merit and a personal touch his letter lacked. It didn't take long to find Meera's window, and to his relief, he caught a glimpse of her at her desk.

Bran landed on the window ledge, dislodging small stones and debris. Meera glanced up at the noise, her instincts reminding him of Arya. Without thinking about it too much, he tapped on the window in a steady pattern – the kind a normal raven wouldn't make.

It had the desired effect. Meera pushed away from the desk to approach the window. He tilted his head, staring at her. She was older, sharper – but still the Meera who'd sacrificed everything to help him. For a long moment, she held his gaze, before opening the window.

"It took you long enough, Bran."

Could the three-eyed raven feel shame? Bran Stark could, but his current form made it impossible to speak. That was a benefit of the plan, he supposed. Bran had hoped his presence in any form would say what he could never put into words.

"I suppose you're here for an answer," said Meera. "What would I know about being a King's hand?"

Bran waited, watching.

Eventually, Meera huffed. "I won't serve the three-eyed raven – that's why I didn't answer your letter."

It was strange to feel loss in the form of a raven, it felt more like an urge to flee than it probably would have in his own body.

"Since you've come all this way, I'll assume you've found some of Bran Stark," she said. "He was my friend once."

A light breeze ruffled Bran's feathers, tempting him to fly away from this painful, awkward moment.

Meera stepped back from the window. "I might be willing to help Bran Stark again, but I won't serve the three-eyed raven. You balance them, or I go – those are my terms. Do you accept?"

Could a raven smile? Bran wasn't sure, but he bowed his head all the same.


It was hard to not feel like a warden dragging Tyrion to execution after breakfast. She'd joined him for the meal as usual and they'd sat together for a while after, playing with their wolf pups until Yvette knocked on the door to inform them Uhlan was ready. He'd been quiet all morning, though Sansa couldn't decide if it was because of last night or his nerves over today.

Sansa had sympathy with both positions. Last night everything had felt perfectly right to ask Tyrion the question, and while she was glad she had asked, the wait for an answer would be excruciating. All night she'd wondered how many pieces her heart would break into when he turned her down.

They walked the corridor in silence and Sansa could feel the tension rolling off Tyrion. He'd said goodbye to Gerry like he might never see him again and the little wolf had cheerfully licked his face in an attempt at comfort.

"You can bring Gerry to meet Uhlan if you like," she said. "Direwolves are good judges of character."

"It's ok, Gerry will be happier with Jenny anyway."

"Arya will come and check on them later."

His brow furrowed. "It'll take that long?"

Tyrion appeared to be slowing down as they approached the room Uhlan was set up in, but Sansa was careful to not rush him. She knew he was nervous and if he needed to pause for space she understood.

"What made you decide on Jenny as a direwolf name?" asked Tyrion, feigning interest in the nearest window.

"The story of Jenny of Oldstones. The ones she had lost, the ones she had found and the ones who loved her the most." Sansa smiled. "I never liked it much as a girl, but I understand now."

"It's very pretty, much like your wolf."

"Jenny and Gerry go well together too."

"Yes, Gerry is quite taken. I took him to see Jon and Night yesterday and I swear he was trying to divert me to you and Jenny on the way."

They slowed to a near crawl the closer they came to the room until they stopped completely outside the door. Tyrion had fallen silent beside her, his face devoid of colour.

"Everything will be fine," she said, taking hold of his damaged hand. With practiced ease she slipped her hand around his, rubbing her thumb in the back of it. "Shall we go in?"

Sansa waited for Tyrion to lead the way and after a few moments he did enter the room. The Maester was already in there, as was Uhlan.

"Ah, little Prince we meet again!" said Uhlan, grinning. "I think you been avoiding me."

"Not well enough, apparently."

"Are you ready?"

Tyrion's damaged fingers were trying to squeeze her hand, but Sansa was certain it was a subconscious reaction of nerves rather than him trying to tell her something. "I suppose."

"Not good enough little Prince," said Uhlan, his tone turning serious. "I only do this to those that choose it. Yes? People like you get these marks without having a choice. I won't change them without it being a choice. Do you truly want this? For you – not because you feel you have to."

Sansa wasn't surprised by Uhlan seeking a final answer from Tyrion. For the time she'd worked with him on this, he'd made it perfectly clear that nothing would happen without Tyrion's explicit consent. It was as it should be, but it made Sansa's stomach roll too. If Tyrion's nerves overcame him he would lose this chance forever.

With great effort, Tyrion lifted his head. "No, I need to do this. I need them gone."

Uhlan watched him for a moment before a grin split his face. "Very good, Prince. I will get my last supplies and let you get ready."

Maester Wolkan was the next to leave. "I've left the potion on the side. As discussed my Queen, take care with how much is used."

He patted Tyrion on the shoulder, wishing him luck on his way past. The door closed, leaving just the two of them in the room Sansa had set aside for this particular task. The Maester's room had seemed the most obvious place to do the procedure, but Sansa feared Tyrion's distrust of Maesters and the clinical surroundings would trigger bad memories. Instead, she'd found a quiet room, tucked away within the family wing of the castle and set about preparing it.

An exam table was set against the wall, covered with soft sheets and a couple of pillows. A hearth burned cheerfully on the other side of the room with a table set up near the bed for Uhlan's use, and a single chaise by the hearth. It was basic but cosy, and Sansa particularly liked how well the windows let light into the room, brightening it considerably.

"I tried to make it comfortable for you," said Sansa. "We've got plenty of privacy here too."

He nodded mutely, seemingly rooted to the spot.

After a few moments, Sansa nudged him along. "You should get ready."

Sansa had suggested doing this on a bed, but Uhlan said a table had the better height and he would need to get close enough to Tyrion to work accurately. In an effort to make it less intimidating she'd covered the bench in a couple of sheets and brought pillows but Tyrion still climbed the step to the table as if he was about to be tied down to it. The sight pulled at her heartstrings, bringing home the truth of how difficult this was for Tyrion.

He sat awkwardly on the edge, his legs dangling in the air. Tyrion never looked small - not to her who saw all that he was – but the hunch of his shoulders and bowed head didn't suit him. His good hand gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. Reluctantly, she turned away from him, focusing on the potion and cup the Maester had left her. In preparing for this, Sansa had known Tyrion couldn't stay awake. Uhlan said it was a painful procedure, particularly in the areas where Tyrion had tattoos, but there was a growing trend of people in Essos willingly having tattoos. The pain was tolerable for most, but the length of time it would take to do Tyrion and his anxiety meant it was better he slept. Numb to the worst of the pain and free from the strain that being awake would put on him.

In not wanting to know the details, Tyrion was unaware that he would be asleep for it. Sansa poured a cup of water, glancing over her shoulder at Tyrion before adding two drops of the potion to his cup. Tyrion was terrified. She'd seen him nervous and afraid before, but he usually covered it by talking or joking – this was far beyond that. She hadn't seen him so afraid since Kings Landing, when he was confused and clung to her for comfort.

Sansa lifted the cup, moving in front of Tyrion where he sat on the bench. She bit the inside of her cheek, panic filling her. This was too much for him. He looked ready to change his mind and bolt for the door, but if he did that the chance to change the tattoos would be lost to him forever. Tyrion didn't know what was in the cup. She could just tell him to drink it and he would soon fall asleep.

No. She dismissed the idea as quickly as it came into her mind. Uhlan was very clear on needing Tyrion's consent, and she would never betray Tyrion's trust like that. It was better to be honest and do her best to encourage him.

"Tyrion, I discussed this with the Maester and we think it will be easier on you if you're asleep for the procedure. Unless you would feel better being awake."

He lifted his head to meet her, his green eyes drowning in fear. "I…ugh. Gods, I can't…"

"You can do this." She lifted the cup. "You'll sleep through it all, I promise."

It wasn't fair. Tyrion didn't deserve to suffer such degradation in the first place, let alone endure it again. He wavered on his decision for several long moments before lifting his hand to take the cup. His eyes met hers, and Sansa nodded her encouragement.

Tyrion stared into the cup before quickly downing the contents. His hand was shaking when he lowered the cup. Sansa quickly set it aside before returning to him. He was trembling now, having made his decision.

"Here," she said, "let me help you."

The doublet was the first to go, and Sansa made quick work of taking it off. The potion would begin to take effect soon and it would be easier to undress him before then. The shift was next and proved more troublesome, mostly because Tyrion was losing himself to panic.

"Shh, it's alright," she said, taking hold of the hem of the shift. "You'll get sleepy soon. Let's take this off first, ok?"

Tyrion didn't answer, but let her pull the shift up and over his head, leaving him in just his breeches. As soon as it was off, he crossed his arms over himself, looking anywhere but at the ink on his body. Sansa's eyes stung – this was why he needed to do this. Tyrion should never feel like this again. Carefully, she wrapped her arms around him in a gentle hug.

"You're doing so well. The hard part is over," she said, "you need only rest now."

He tried to smile when she pulled back, but his eyes betrayed him. "Thank you. Your support means everything to me."

The door creaked open and Uhlan bounced into the room, his eyes quickly finding Tyrion. "Ah, you are ready! Did you take the potion yourself? This is your last chance to change your mind, little Prince."

"I did," said Tyrion, his voice quiet. "I'm ready."

"Good, good. I will not start with the needles until you are asleep. Make yourself comfy."

Tyrion's face drained of what little colour remained. Still, he bowed his head towards her. "I'm in your debt, my Queen. I'll see you when it's done?"

He was getting tired. The trembling was lessening and the tension slowly seeping out of his body, despite his fear increasing. Sansa offered him a smile, guiding him to lie down.

"I thought some sheets and pillows might make this easier on you," she said, helping him lie down on the table.

"A kind gesture," he said.

When Tyrion was positioned on the table, Sansa slipped onto the top of it.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Lift your head."

He just had the energy to do so and a moment later Sansa was guiding his head onto her lap.

Confusion lined his sleepy face.

"You will see me when it's done Tyrion, because I'm not leaving your side."

"You're a Queen." He shook his head. "There are more important things…"

"Nothing is more important," she said, before lowering her voice. "Did you really think I'd leave you to face this alone? I was always going to stay with you – it was never a question."

Green eyes glistened up at her, and then Uhlan was setting himself up beside the table.

"Don't worry little Prince, I only get you ready. Won't start until you're asleep," he said. "Let me see your chest."

It wouldn't be long now. Sansa thought it was anxiety keeping Tyrion fighting against the potion's effect, but he would soon lose the battle. She lightly gripped his arms, guiding him to rest them at his sides and allowing Uhlan to access his chest.

Tyrion grimaced as the hand of the Queen mark became visible.

"It will be gone soon," she reminded him. "This is the last time you'll see it."

Sansa left her hands on his upper arms, lightly tracing circles as Uhlan spread a paste on the left side of his chest, spreading out from the hand of the Queen design. Sansa was confused until Uhlan lifted a small knife and began shaving the area.

Tyrion squirmed, but it was a weak effort. "What are you doing?"

"Cleaner is best, yes? Less chance of infection."

Tyrion looked away, a mix of fear and humiliation on his face that Sansa wished she could take from him. Uhlan finished quickly, and while Tyrion didn't have much chest hair to begin with the bare patch was a clear indication that the cover-up would be bigger than the original – it had to be. Covering that design was far more complicated than the words written on him.

Sansa leaned forward, lightly kissing his forehead. "Let the potion win. You've no need to fight it, I'm here with you. Close your eyes…"

He was on the edge, struggling between the pull of oblivion and his anxious desire to flee. After a few minutes of coaxing his breathing evened out. It was the best way. Uhlan had said this would take hours and Tyrion's nerves would not last through the experience – the strain would make him ill. This way, he was free from the stress and she was free to comfort him without any awkwardness.

Uhlan pulled over his table of tools, sitting patiently beside them. "He's asleep?"

"Yes."

"Good, good – let's begin."


Arya wasn't sure when she got demoted from family member to servant but it wasn't a change she cared for. Jon was busy with Night and Drogon, and Sansa was busy with Tyrion, leaving her to deal with the running of Winterfell and tending to the direwolf pups. Shadow was pleased to see her siblings at least, even if Gerry and Jenny were more interested in each other.

She struggled to not roll her eyes. Only Tyrion and Sansa could name their direwolves like that. The wolf pups enjoyed their break outside and after making sure they ate their fill, Arya took them back to Tyrion's room, where Gerry and Jenny would anxiously await their master's return.

Arya ruffled Shadow's fur when they left, enjoying the grey wolf's company. Like Sansa and Jon, she found the wolf pups both a source of joy and a painful reminder of their childhood. What would their father and mother think if they saw them now? Sansa a Queen. Bran a King with three eyes. Jon a lost Targaryen Prince and her… she was no one. Would they be proud?

She shook her head, clearing the thought. It would be more amusing to know what their parents thought of Sansa's attachment to Tyrion. She could imagine her mother's reaction to them harbouring an ex-Lannister.

With that in mind, Arya decided she might as well see how the tattoos were going. Sansa had made it clear she wouldn't be leaving Tyrion today but Arya thought her sister just wanted a day off. She rapped lightly on the door, deciding against barging in as normal. She wasn't completely insensitive after all. Uhlan opened the door a moment later, nodding his head in greeting.

"Ah, lady Arya. Good timing. We take small break now."

Shadow stayed in the corridor as Arya slipped into the room. Uhlan went back to the chaise where a bowl of soup seemed to have been brought in for him, and Arya quickly found Sansa. Her eyes narrowed. Naturally, Sansa wasn't eating – that would mean putting down Hill, rather than cuddling him like a well-loved toy.

"Is everything alright?" asked Sansa.

"The castle is still standing. How are the tattoos going?"

"Well, I think." Tyrion was sound asleep and totally oblivious to his position in Sansa's arms. His head lolled against her shoulder and Sansa had her arms wrapped around him, stroking his back. "It's a lot to process."

"What do you mean?"

"I just didn't realise what went into it. Uhlan told me in Essos slavers often use brands and then ink rather than needles like he uses. It's horrifying Arya."

"I know, I've seen it. How's Hill?"

"He was so afraid, and I understand why now. This must have been terrifying to go through, especially all alone."

"At least he agreed to get it done. What did he think of the designs?"

Sansa shook her head. "He didn't want to see them."

Arya moved closer to them, quickly finding the patch of ink on Tyrion's back that branded him a little monster. "I'm guessing that one is next?"

"Uhlan started with his chest – that was the biggest and most complex. His back is next, then his hip and ribs."

"Why that order?"

"The potion will start to wear off soon and Uhlan said his back will hurt the least. Maester Wolkan warned me about how much to give him and I can't give him another dose yet. Uhlan will do his hip and side when the potion is stronger in him."

Arya bit her tongue to keep from blurting out that the pain wouldn't kill Tyrion and he'd certainly experienced worse. Sansa wanted to protect Tyrion from every little discomfort and Arya knew it was a waste of time trying to convince her that was impossible. One look at how she held Tyrion made her feelings clear. Only here, when Tyrion was oblivious, did Sansa let her true feelings show. The Queen was leaning against the wall with the dwarf lying against her, almost sitting in her lap as she stroked his back and adjusted his head on her shoulder.

"Can I see his chest?" asked Arya.

Sansa hesitated a moment before gently turning Tyrion. Arya leaned over the table, peering around to see the fresh patch of black ink. "What do you think?"

Arya's breath caught in her throat. "You're sure he'll be ok with this?"

"I hope so. It was hard to cover the hand of the Queen design – it was always going to be bigger."

Sansa settled Tyrion against her again, going on to explain how Uhlan had shown her how to blot away the blood and excess ink, and how he had a certain paste to cover over them when it was done to promote healing. Arya only half-listened as her sister talked, her eyes fixed on Tyrion instead. He'd had no say in the tattoos Cersei inflicted on him, and rather than choose this time he'd trusted Sansa to decide instead.

The hand of the Queen mark was gone now, replaced by Sansa's permanent decision.


Jon didn't think he would ever get used to seeing Godwin in a Stark uniform. The old captain had suited the Lannister colours he'd worn for so long and seeing him dressed in Northern colours seemed wrong. It didn't seem to bother Godwin though. He stood just as proudly in the Stark colours as he had in red and gold.

"Why did you want to stay?" asked Jon, joining Sansa's new captain as he walked the perimeter of Winterfell. Night trotted ahead of them, pausing to sniff and explore his new home.

"To serve," said Godwin. "For the first time in many years, I feel I am serving with honour."

"You didn't want to serve the new lord of Casterly Rock?"

"I respect lord Serrett, he is a good man, but I wanted a fresh start. The North has grown on me."

Jon didn't believe that to be the entire truth. Godwin had served Casterly Rock since his youth – giving it up would surely feel like trying to leave the Kingsguard or Nightwatch. Godwin may not have sworn a vow like that, but he'd clearly devoted his life to serving the lion.

They carried on walking with Godwin pointing out where the defences could be reinforced and asking Jon's opinion on current guard positions. It wasn't until they turned back to the castle that Jon asked the question.

"Why did you want to stay with Tyrion?"

Surprise flashed across Godwin's face. "I wouldn't say that's true."

"You've been eager to serve him since Kings Landing. If it's guilt, he doesn't blame you – I don't think he blames anyone but Cersei anymore."

Godwin stiffened. "You don't understand the horrors Cersei inflicted on him. It wasn't justice or punishment, it was cruelty for the sake of it. She and Qyburn wanted to see how much pain and suffering they could inflict on someone before they died."

"You followed orders, but you didn't take pleasure in it. What happened isn't your fault."

"I did nothing to stop it, despite knowing it was wrong. When I learned Tyrion wasn't disinherited I have never known such shame as I felt then. That I was part of what Cersei did to him already haunted me, but knowing my sword should have been his was too much to bear."

"And now your sword is his?"

Godwin shrugged. "My sword belongs to Queen Sansa and her family."

Jon merely nodded, but he hadn't expected the complete truth, though it was obvious. Godwin respected and served Sansa, but he'd stayed for Tyrion. It was his own way of atoning for what he perceived to be his failure in Kings Landing and Jon couldn't blame him – he planned on going North to atone for his own mistakes.

At least when he left, Sansa would have an experienced captain to assist her. Whatever Godwin's reasons for staying, Jon believed he understood honour and loyalty.


As soon as his forehead creased, Sansa was there, stroking his face and shushing him. Her heart ached at the discomfort on Tyrion's face, but at least she was here to soothe him. She wasn't sure how much good it did, but there was nothing more she could do as Uhlan worked. The potion was keeping him asleep and numbing the worst of the pain. Maester Wolkan had been very clear in his instructions.

"Take care how much you give him – it is dangerous to give him too much. You must wait the required time between giving him more."

"What if he wakes up? You said it will gradually wear off."

The old Maester shook his head. "Your Grace, you cannot protect him from every discomfort. The procedure will be unpleasant, but you know it is to his benefit. Whatever pain he feels will be dulled by the potion and temporary."

Uhlan had started with the biggest and most complex tattoo on his chest while the potion was strongest in his system. It had taken hours of delicate, intricate work to cover the hand of the Queen sign. Uhlan had taken a small break afterwards before starting on his back. The potion had been waning then and towards the end, Sansa felt Tyrion tense against her, sluggishly trying to escape the needle jabbing into the back of his shoulder.

The process was as fascinating as it was sickening. Uhlan was highly skilled and Sansa couldn't deny her interest in watching him work, but it sickened her too – this had been done to Tyrion as a humiliating punishment. It was only through the help of Missandei he had a chance to change them at all. Uhlan chatted cheerfully as he worked, telling her of his travels and explaining what he was doing. After a while, she'd taken over using the cloth to wipe away the traces of ink and blood, and she continued to do so now they were on the third tattoo.

Tyrion had been given a second dose of the potion at the time the Maester indicated, mercifully keeping him asleep as Uhlan unlaced Tyrion's breeches and tugged them down to expose more of his left hip. According to Uhlan, covering the word 'kinslayer' would be particularly painful because of the area.

"Not so much flesh there and on his ribs – bad places to get tattoos," he'd said.

Sansa was just glad Tyrion was asleep for it. He was embarrassed enough without his shift, but having to pull his breeches down would humiliate him. Not that there was any reason for him to feel that way. It was necessary for Uhlan to work on the area, and like all of his tattoos, the cover-up would have to be bigger.

Tyrion's face tightened again and Sansa bit her lip. He hadn't shown as much discomfort with the last two. Uhlan said covering 'Imp' on his ribs wouldn't take too long but it was on another delicate area. It was already mid-afternoon and Sansa hoped there was enough potion left to keep Tyrion safely asleep for the last of the tattoos. Maester Wolkan had warned against giving him a third dose and urged her to simply try and keep him calm instead.

She leaned her head close to Tyrion, lightly combing her fingers through his growing hair. "You're doing so well. Everything is fine. You're safe at home…"

His face settled back into his sleepy expression and Sansa was careful to monitor it as she blotted away drops of ink and blood from his hip.

"Nearly done," said Uhlan, checking his work. "Looks good, yes?"

"Much better," said Sansa.

Anything was better than the degrading words Cersei had ordered be put on him. It would take time, but Sansa hoped Tyrion might one day see the marks as a sign of his victory over Cersei rather than a reminder of his imprisonment.

"I'll remind you," she whispered. "I'll tell you every day if I have to."


Living in Winterfell, Tyrion had gradually learned to relax his defences, including his habit of waking up without showing any sign. Whether it was the anxiety of the experience or the remnants of the potion, Tyrion found awareness returning to him while his body retained the illusion of sleep.

He felt the soft blanket beneath him and another draped on top of him. The room was quiet apart from a faint rustle above his head, but Tyrion knew instinctively who it was. His throat tightened. Sansa had, of course, kept her promise. His head and shoulders weren't flat on the table and Tyrion could only assume it was because Sansa was supporting them. If he needed more evidence he need only concentrate on the warm, delicate hands on him. What felt like Sansa's arm brushed his jaw and her other hand was continuously stroking his forehead.

The only disruption to his peace was the achy patches spread across his body, accompanied by a growing urge to itch. His chest was the worst, and the size of the itch made his heart sink.

Focusing on the positives, Tyrion turned his mind to Sansa. She was a Queen – there were infinitely more important ways for her to spend the day, but she'd insisted on staying by his side, and Tyrion didn't doubt for a moment that she had. All his earlier anxiety about the tattoos subsided. He could feel they covered the same areas as the originals and nowhere else. When the potion took him to sleep his last thoughts had stuck on Cersei's threats to make him a fool. It was ridiculous – Sansa would never allow that to happen…she always acted in his best interests, even if he wasn't sure what that was.

He needed to see her.

Tyrion peeled his eyes open, forcing some movement into his heavy limbs. At once, Sansa's hands stilled before retreating to a less familiar distance. Tyrion missed her touch as soon as he lost it. Waking up took longer than he thought, but eventually, Sansa's face appeared in his vision. Such a beautiful woman. Blue eyes watched him with concern, her delicate features framed by fiery red hair.

"Hello," she said softly. "How do you feel?"

"Quite alright, just a little sore."

"It's over now - you did so well."

"I was asleep through it all."

"It doesn't matter, I'm proud of you for going through with it."

Tyrion tried to sit up but Sansa's hands quickly caught hold of him, blocking his attempt.

"Not yet," she said. "The potion won't have fully worn off. You're fine here, just take it easy."

He followed her instruction, though his heart began to pick up pace. Tyrion wouldn't have been able to go through with it at all if not for Sansa and her safe, reassuring presence. He did recall several moments where he felt the familiar jab of a needle entering him, but it was always followed quickly by a familiar, comforting voice, and warm arms holding him close.

Tyrion's good hand wound into the blanket covering him. "Sansa…yes."

"Yes?"

"To everything." The words struggled to get through his tight throat, but they needed to be said. "What you offered last night…yes."

Her eyes widened, a tentative smile forming on her face. "You'll be my husband?"

"If you'll have me."

Sansa's face lit up, her hands quickly returning to their familiar position around him. She leaned forward, kissing his forehead. "Of course I'll have you! Oh, Tyrion…are you sure? Don't feel you have to decide now if you need time to think about it."

"I love you," he said, "there's nothing to think about."

Sansa's blue eyes glistened as she began talking about getting dinner and then discussing the details. Tyrion smiled, nodding along with her. He could turn the question in his mind for days but he knew he'd find the same conclusion. The return to politics and power was frightening, and while he would like to be a father that title was almost as terrifying to him. Tyrion doubted his ability for any of these roles.

In the end, he could live with everything that came from marriage to Sansa, but he couldn't live without her.


No one was less surprised than Arya when she received Sansa's summons to breakfast. The last to arrive, she knew exactly what her sister was going to say before she took her seat next to Jon.

Sansa was beaming, a brightness in her face that had long been absent. Tyrion, on the other hand, looked as if he might be sick at any moment. Seven hells, they made this difficult.

"Thank you for joining us," said Sansa, when the last of the food had been brought in by the servants.

"We have breakfast with you and Hill almost every day."

Sansa ignored her. "Before we start, I wanted to make an announcement."

It took everything in Arya to not roll her eyes, and Jon clearly expected it too when he shot her a glare, warning her to stay silent while Sansa stated the bloody obvious.

The Queen took Tyrion's hand, placing it on the table clasped within her own. "I asked Tyrion to marry me, and he did me the honour of saying yes."

"The honour is mine," said Tyrion.

"Congratulations," said Jon, smiling warmly at the two of them. "I know you'll be happy together."

"Well done Sansa. It took you months but you finally got there." She turned her gaze to Tyrion. "Guess I can't kill you now, brother."

His face reddened. "As much a relief to me as a disappointment to you."

"Arya," warned Sansa, narrowing her eyes.

The conversation quickly moved on, but Sansa appeared to be ignoring her in favour of talking to Jon about what would happen next. Tyrion was quiet throughout and Arya caught him grimacing several times, presumably irritated by the new tattoos.

It was, all in all, an awkward breakfast and Sansa's annoyance with her became more obvious throughout. It was awkward enough that Tyrion quickly agreed to go with Jon to take their direwolves on a walk when it was over.

"Be careful," said Sansa, smoothing out Tyrion's doublet. "Yesterday was hard on you, just promise you won't push yourself today. Uhlan said the tattoos will be sore."

"I'll be fine, I promise. Are you sure you don't need me for anything?"

"No, you're resting today. I have a meeting with the lords after this – I'll make the announcement if you're happy with that."

He smiled. "Of course."

Sansa kissed his cheek. "I'll see you and Gerry for lunch then."

"We'll look forward to it."

Arya struggled to not gag at the lengthy goodbye, or Sansa's forlorn look when Tyrion actually left with Jon. As soon as they were alone the awkwardness returned in full force.

After several minutes of it, Sansa spoke. "Why do you do that? Are you not happy I'm marrying Tyrion?"

"You're already married to Tyrion."

"I mean a real marriage. Do you still not like him?"

Arya shrugged. "I like him well enough, he's just not what I thought you wanted in a husband."

Sansa's expression turned icy. "I'm not the stupid girl I once was. Tyrion is kind, brave and strong – he's everything I want in a husband and I love him."

It was a sensitive subject for Sansa. Sensitive enough that Arya didn't care for the guilt stirring in her stomach. "Sorry. I am happy for you and I do like Tyrion. I'll like him even more if he stops looking at me like I'm going to gut him at any moment."

"Stop threatening him then."

"Sibling banter, nothing more." Some of the tension left the room, but Arya could still feel the edge of her sister's annoyance. "So, you finally asked him?"

"I told you I was waiting for the right moment."

"And that was this morning?"

"No it was the evening before last. I told Tyrion to not answer straight away, but to consider if he could live with everything that marriage to me comes with; the power, titles and children. He answered me before dinner yesterday."

"You've known since then and only told us today?"

Sansa smirked. "I was busy with my husband-to-be. There was a lot to discuss and he was recovering from the tattoos."

"What does he think of them?"

"He hasn't seen them and hasn't asked what they are. Uhlan covered them all with this paste that hardened like a shell to help them heal and prevent infection."

"You're not going to tell him what they look like?"

Sansa's face softened. "Only if he asks. The physical pain is healing, but only he can heal his mind. When he's ready, he'll face them."

Arya nodded. She folded her arms, looking anywhere but Sansa. "I am happy for you by the way. After what you've been through, I can't imagine how hard it is to face marriage again. Making fun of you is a habit I struggle to break."

"It's alright, I know you can't help yourself." Her mouth twitched upwards. "Besides, I still find it amusing to annoy you. We've both got childhood habits we can't break."

"And Jon is just as gloomy as he used to be."

"I don't know, I think Night has brightened his mood a little."

"Maybe. At least he gave his wolf a proper name, not like poor Gerry and Jenny. What in the seven hells were you and Tyrion thinking?"

"Aw, they're so cute together. Tyrion is very attached to Gerry."

"It's a good sign," said Arya. "If Gerry hadn't taken to him I'd be less enthusiastic about you marrying Hill."

She snorted. "This is you being enthusiastic?"

Arya shrugged. "I'm happy – I have another brother. With any luck, his sense of humour might return. Gods know Jon and Bran are lacking any."

The guilt lifted as they talked, though Arya doubted it was the last time she would provoke her sister. It didn't matter how happy she really was for Sansa, some part of her couldn't help annoying her. Using words like Needle to seek out weaknesses. It would have to stop to some degree. Tyrion was going to be her brother and the father of her nephews and nieces – he would be part of their pack.


"I'm happy for you and Sansa," said Jon. "I know how long she wanted to ask you."

"Thank you," said Tyrion, "though it did take me by surprise."

"You aren't that oblivious."

"Not to everything. Sansa and I certainly share the same feelings for each other, I just didn't think she would ever want something more than a paper marriage."

Jon didn't know how to answer as they followed their wolf pups through the Godswood. Sansa had always been romantic but after the horrors of Joffrey and then Ramsay it would be easy for her to turn away from marriage forever. Her icy façade only added to the illusion that the Queen in the North had given up on love.

"You're the exception," he said eventually. "Sansa wouldn't marry anyone but you."

Tyrion slowed beside him, his expression pleading. "Why? She can do far better – don't pretend she can't. I have nothing to offer her. No power or connections."

"Aye, but she doesn't need those things. You can give her what she needs Tyrion, trust me."

"I hope so. I would never hurt Sansa, or want to disappoint her."

"You won't." They carried on after Gerry and Night, enjoying the solitude of the Godswood. "When you came to Winterfell with King Robert, did you ever think you'd be lord of Winterfell, or Prince Consort?"

Tyrion snorted. "I thought no further than wine and whores. I'm a second son – heir to nothing."

"You were heir since Jamie joined the Kingsguard."

"You should have told my father that. Gods know I tried on more than one occasion," said Tyrion, bitterness tinging his tone. "He said he'd let maggots consume him before he let me have Casterly Rock. He got his wish, in a way. Maggots are consuming him and I am not lord of Casterly Rock."

"You'll be lord of Winterfell."

"Are you trying to scare me?" His shoulders slumped as they reached the heart tree. "I love Sansa, and for her I will do anything. I don't want the titles, Jon, as ungrateful as that sounds – but for Sansa I will do my duty as well as I can."

"You're more than capable of being lord and Prince Consort. Sansa believes in you."

His face twisted into a grimace. "Let's hope she's right."

Mindful of the new tattoos, Jon placed his hand on Tyrion's shoulder as they faced the heart tree. Sansa had finally asked the question and Tyrion's answer thrilled her, but it would take time for Tyrion to rekindle his confidence. He was more than capable of being Sansa's husband, and Jon knew his belonging in Winterfell would be clear to see if Tyrion dared to look.


Sansa wanted to include Tyrion in everything she did, but it was better she met the lords alone first to break the news. When Tyrion gave his answer yesterday, Sansa had thought her heart might burst with joy. She was careful, of course, to make sure he knew exactly what he was saying and it wasn't a decision he'd regret. She'd sent for dinner soon after and helped him into a shift. The potion had left him groggy and he admitted the tattoos were sore and itchy, but he wasn't confused and confirmed again over dinner that he loved her and agreed to the marriage – if she'd have him.

A smile flitted across her face. That was never in question, but she knew convincing Tyrion of that would take time. Sansa had reassured him the tattoos went well but it was obvious he didn't want to linger on the subject so they turned quickly to their marriage. They would tell Jon and Arya first, as they'd done over breakfast, and then she would tell the lords.

"Is there anyone you'd like to tell before it's common knowledge?" asked Sansa. "It will spread quickly after tomorrow."

He fiddled with his brace. "Perhaps Yvette, she is most kind to me."

It saddened Sansa for a moment. She was eager to tell her family and allies but Tyrion had so few people to tell. "And Godwin? He would like to hear it from you, I think. Your friends in Kings Landing too – Podrick will be thrilled for you. Even Bronn might smile."

"I suppose I should. I do owe Pod a letter after all."

Sansa's stomach churned as she entered the room. Already the lords were assembled, a number of visiting minor lords and lord Manderly. They surely wondered why she had summoned them so suddenly, but Sansa only hoped their reaction to the news would be positive. She schooled her features into her Queenly mask. On the subject of marriage, she would not be moved. Tyrion would be her husband, or no one would.

"Your Grace," they chorused as she took her seat.

"I trust all is well, my Queen," said lord Norrey. "Your summons caught us by surprise."

"Apologies my lord, but I could not delay any longer." She smiled tightly. "It is with good tidings I called this meeting. I appreciate that many of you have not raised the matter of succession with me, though it is surely on your minds, and for that I thank you. I have decided who my husband and Prince Consort shall be, and I'm fortunate that he has agreed to the match – I will marry Tyrion."

A chorus of congratulations quickly ensued, and while Sansa noted a few disappointed faces, none seemed surprised. Heat crept across her cheeks. Were her affections for Tyrion that obvious?

"This is excellent news, your Grace," said lord Manderly. "None of us would presume to pressure you into marriage given your last experience, but it is a relief to know the succession of the North will be attended to."

"It will," said Sansa, quickly picking up on the hidden question. Having children was a dearly held wish, but sharing a bed still sent a chill through her bones. "Tyrion will become Prince Consort and lord of Winterfell."

"You wouldn't seek to make him King?" questioned lord Wells, an elderly minor lord who Sansa recalled visiting her father at Winterfell.

"No. I think it's better for all that he is Prince Consort."

"A wise choice," said lord Manderly. "Forgive me for asking this, your Grace, but if the worst were to befall you, how do you see the succession of the Northern throne?"

It was the question Sansa had anticipated and her prime reason for seeing the lords without Tyrion. Many of the lords would have preferred a Northerner, but a number like lord Manderly, with no son to offer her, saw no harm in Tyrion being Prince Consort. That he'd severed all ties with the Westerlands was another point in his favour. They would see him, however unfairly, as a means to furthering the North's succession and supporting her as Queen. His place if she were to die was the only possible point of contention.

"I thank you for asking the question lord Manderly, as I'm sure it's on many minds now. If I die in childbirth and the child survives, Tyrion will be regent until our child is of age. If I die while my heir is underage, the same applies."

There was a murmur of agreement, but it was given reluctantly by several lords.

"What if you die without an heir?" asked lord Norrey. "I hate to be so blunt, your Grace, but the North is at peace when a Stark rules from Winterfell."

"I made Tyrion a citizen of the North many months ago, in thanks of his work that allowed us to agree independence so quickly, yet I am not naive enough to think that would be enough to protect him ruling in his own right. Nor would Tyrion agree to do so." Sansa's gaze hardened as she looked at her council. She'd expected these questions, but it still hurt to think some would never fully accept Tyrion. "If I die without an heir, I would want Tyrion to rule as regent until a child of Arya or Jon comes of age. Tyrion has the skills and experience to rule, and I would want him to prepare the next King or Queen of the North. In this situation, I suspect Jon and Arya would return to Winterfell to assist him anyway."

"Why not name Jon Snow?"

"Jon was already named King in the North and bent the knee to Daenerys. He would not command the same respect again and he would refuse to rule, as would Arya. Tyrion is my choice of regent until a child of Stark blood comes of age."

There were several objections to this plan, as Sansa had thought there would be. Discussions went on for hours as the finer details were arranged. It took multiple assurances of Tyrion's loyalty to the North to convince them, but it was ultimately considered an unlikely scenario anyway and talk turned to the wedding itself.

Gradually Sansa's anxiety receded. The hard part was done – she would marry Tyrion. That only left her personal fears to overcome. Tyrion was kind and gentle and understanding; Sansa hoped it would be enough to soothe her fear of the marriage bed.


Why was writing so frustrating? Tyrion had learned to draw well enough with his left hand, but his writing was still poor. He huffed, ignoring the blotches on the page as he wrote a long overdue reply to Podrick. He would have to practice his writing more, particularly now he would be taking on lordly duties once again. He doubted any amount of practice would overcome the wrongness of using his left hand but he didn't have a choice.

He'd accepted Sansa's proposal, and all that came with it – he'd have to get used to these things. Besides, it was long past time he served Winterfell and began to repay the debt he owed to the Starks and the North. He just hadn't expected his service would come in the form of power.

Tyrion didn't think about that aspect as he wrote to Podrick. Instead, he apologised for the lateness of his reply, gave assurances that he was recovering well in Winterfell and then the good news that he was to marry Sansa Stark. His mouth lifted into a smile at that thought. Sansa was worth anything and everything – a Queen amongst women.

There were only a few people Tyrion would tell personally, and Podrick was the second, having told Yvette earlier. The servant had been delighted at the news, beaming at him.

"I knew you would be married in time, my Prince," she'd said, hugging him. "You and the Queen will be so happy."

Her enthusiasm was catching and reminded Tyrion of the many positives of the marriage, such as Sansa, rather than the parts that worried him. He'd just reached the end of his letter when the guard's voice called to him.

"Ser Godwin for you."

"Enter," he replied.

Gerry stirred to life from in front of the hearth, wandering towards the door.

"It's not Jenny," called Tyrion. "Perhaps we'll visit her and Sansa later."

Godwin entered the room a moment later and after staring at him for a moment, Gerry wandered back to the hearth.

"Something I said?" asked Godwin.

"He was hoping for Sansa's direwolf. I told him you weren't Jenny."

"I understand his disappointment then," said Godwin. "You asked to see me?"

"Ah, yes. I just thought you should know that I am to be married to Sansa."

The old captain's face softened. "Many congratulations to you both. That is good to hear."

"Thank you. It was decided last night and we told Arya and Jon this morning. Sansa is telling the lords as we speak."

"Thank you for telling me. It will please me to serve you as Prince of Consort."

Tyrion swallowed. "That's quite the title."

"One you'll carry with ease, I'm sure." Godwin shifted awkwardly on the spot, seemingly unsure what else to say. Tyrion felt the same, though he couldn't bring himself to dismiss the captain either.

"Did marriage never appeal to you?" asked Tyrion.

"Not particularly. My life has been my sword, at the expense of everything else."

"Jamie was like that, apart from a couple of exceptions."

"Many swordsmen are," said Godwin. "Better suited to battle than marriage. I dare say you're well suited to marriage."

"Because I'm a shit fighter?"

He smiled. "Because you use your mind. Queen Sansa doesn't need a man to fight battles, she needs a man to help her navigate the politics and trade agreements. Given her past, she needs a man who will offer her safety."

Tyrion tilted his head. He hadn't really considered it like that, he'd only thought of every area he was lacking in. While he wasn't as clever as he'd once thought, he was still somewhat capable of politics. He was well-read about the North and most importantly, he would never hurt Sansa.

"I suppose I can manage that," said Tyrion.

Godwin nodded, moving to leave. "I'm certain you can, my Prince."

He was halfway to the door when Tyrion spoke, the words tumbling from him. "We will marry before the heart tree in the Godswood. I would like you to be there."

The captain turned. "Tyrion-"

"The groom's family is normally there, but I have no one left. I'd rather not be alone."

He smiled, bowing his head. "I would be honoured."


The days following their engagement passed in a flurry of planning. There was no reason to delay, aside from a few necessary preparations. Letters were sent to every house in the North informing them of the marriage and Sansa sent a letter to Bran too, though she suspected her brother already knew.

Word spread quickly through the Winterfell household with servants and lords suddenly taking more interest in the Queen's guest, who would soon be their Prince and lord of the castle. Most of the household had, according to Arya, suspected they would be married and treated Tyrion as if he was a Prince in waiting anyway, but there was suddenly a clamour to gain his favour.

When they first met in Kings Landing, Sansa suspected Tyrion would have loved such attention and deference, but now it embarrassed him. He was far more himself when they were alone, and happiness took over his eyes and his manner turned playful. The challenge was to bring some of that confidence to the surface once more.

It was the reason they were making the journey to the village. Godwin and a number of chosen guards accompanied them, along with their wolf pups, but Sansa's stomach still fluttered. The riots of Joffrey's reign were a particularly unpleasant memory but that paled to Tyrion's anxiety at entering the village. He'd agreed to the trip but it was increasingly obvious he didn't want to actually go.

Sansa slowed their pace as they drew closer to the village. It wasn't a long walk but it was the furthest Tyrion had been on foot since his imprisonment. It would tire him, but it was necessary to build his strength. To be lord of Winterfell, Tyrion needed to regain what he'd lost, and the village was a good place to start.

"What's worrying you so?" asked Sansa, her voice low. She gave Godwin a look and the accompanying guards soon spread out from them.

"Nothing. I'm fine," said Tyrion.

"You've been in the village before."

"I have."

"Nothing is different now."

"Everything is," he said, biting his lip. "There will be crowds to see you."

"Perhaps. I should go into the village more often than I do – my father often did. He always said it was important for a lord to understand who he serves."

"Wise words. I wish I were a braver man to carry them out."

"You're more than brave enough," said Sansa, her heart sinking as the first villagers noticed them in the distance. "This isn't Kings Landing. These people won't hurt you, they're just curious."

Sansa offered her hand to Tyrion and after a moment's hesitation, he placed his damaged hand in hers, his worried green eyes watching her. "You deserve better than this."

"I won't hear you speak about yourself like that, and I understand more than you think. Going into the village worries me too, but it's our duty and it can be fun. There are so many places in the North we can visit – lord Manderly is keen for us to visit White Harbour."

"That's your idea of fun? Gods, he would talk us to death."

Sansa laughed lightly, squeezing his hand and urging him on. "You don't want to go to White Harbour then?"

"I've always wanted to visit White Harbour, just not when lord Manderly is there."

Sansa kept him talking as they moved closer to the growing crowd. Her own nerves intensified but focusing on Tyrion helped. For too long he'd hidden away in Winterfell, and Sansa blamed herself for not pushing him sooner, though she shared a similar anxiety. It wouldn't do. The past was the past, and they couldn't allow it to control them. They'd seen first-hand what happened to Kings and Queens who never left their castles.

His damaged fingers twitched around her hand as they reached the crowd. Tyrion's face was pale and panic was building in his green eyes.

"Come on," she said, smiling. "The people are keen to meet their Prince."


"How was the village?" asked Arya.

"It went well, I think," said Sansa. "Tyrion was very nervous, but the people were just curious. He does stand out in the North with his golden hair and green eyes."

"And being a dwarf."

Sansa shot her a look but Arya didn't care – it was the truth. The Queen was planning her wedding outfit and while Arya had no interest in gowns, she'd felt obliged to keep her sister company, meaning she had her legs thrown over the arm of the chair while Sansa rattled on about colours and patterns.

"I suppose in a few generations we'll be overrun by golden-haired Northerners," said Arya, "once you and Tyrion get busy in the marriage bed."

Her sister had her back to her, but Arya noted the sudden tension in her shoulders. "That's a bad thing?"

"No, I'm excited to have nieces and nephews."

"Yes, well, we do need to do that…"

"You don't actually have to, you know. Whatever my previous opinion of Tyrion was, I've always respected that he didn't force you, and he won't start now."

"I know that," snapped Sansa. "I trust Tyrion with all my heart."

"But not with your body."

Sansa turned, her blue eyes icy. "I don't need you to mock me."

"I'm not mocking you, I promise. Bedding is great fun with the right person."

Sansa's eyes widened. "How would you know?"

"Seven hells Sansa, do you think I'm still a maiden?"

"I had no reason to think otherwise," said Sansa. Her mouth opened and closed, but the iciness left her expression, only to be replaced by something else. "It doesn't always hurt?"

Arya's hand curled into a fist. "No. It shouldn't hurt at all."

"I don't know how to do it…Ramsay took me like a dog-"

"Don't worry about it, or overthink it. Your body will know what to do with the right person and Tyrion knows exactly what to do. If you want to learn what bedding can be, he's a great choice. Just trust him."

Sansa lowered her head, lost in thought. Arya had certainly not planned on this conversation but she'd long suspected Sansa's reluctance to ask Tyrion to marry was caused by her fear of the marriage bed. On that count, Tyrion was the perfect partner. He'd already proven himself honourable enough to not force anything and his experience would make things easy and pleasant for Sansa.

"When I told Tyrion we needed to have children, he said he would like to be a father but warned me of what the children could be like. He said 'they could be little like me' and all I could think about was children with curly golden hair, clever green eyes and a warm smile," said Sansa, her eyes brightening. "I told him they sounded perfect."

"It wouldn't bother you if they have his condition?"

"I learned long ago how deceiving appearances are. I'd rather have little wolves who are clever, kind and honourable than children like Joffrey, who are monsters with an acceptable face."

"On that we agree."

"Besides," said Sansa, "I happen to find Tyrion very handsome."

Arya rolled her eyes, but held her tongue from making a jab at her sister. For all Sansa had grown and changed, there were still traces of the romantic girl left behind. She could indulge Sansa a little longer if it helped her face her fears.


Wedding clothes weren't something Tyrion had considered he would ever need again, and while he didn't care for finding an outfit, the occasion made him smile. He was marrying Sansa. This wasn't a secret or forced marriage but a real one.

At least, that's what he kept reminding himself when the doubts came…

"I like that colour, my Prince," said Yvette, drawing his attention.

He peered at himself in the mirror. Black breeches and a deep navy doublet – it was hard to go wrong in that. It was as plain as his normal clothes but that was the point, he supposed.

"Are you happy with the fit?" asked Yvette. "The seamstress can tailor it more if you like."

"I think it's fine," he said. "Better than the grey?"

She nodded. "The navy suits you nicely."

"Good. I can't risk the grey making me look old."

"You're not old, my Prince."

"You're forgetting my grey beard. I simply can't risk growing it out again."

She laughed lightly, helping him out of the doublet. Sansa had offered to send the seamstress to help him find wedding clothes but he was still wary of strangers. Yvette was a familiar, friendly presence and she'd seen enough of him that letting her help with clothes wasn't as embarrassing.

"Forgive me, my Prince," said Yvette, neatly folding the clothes away, "but you don't seem yourself."

"I'm quite alright, just tired. Going into the village yesterday tired me."

She nodded. "The people liked to see you. Godwin told me it went well."

"Surprisingly."

"Not so surprising. You turned your back on Casterly Rock – many Northerners admire that."

Tyrion wished he could blame his tiredness entirely on that trip and not the nightmares that had begun to take root in his mind. All night, his mind tormented him with the images and all day he struggled to not dwell on them.

He glanced in the mirror as Yvette spoke of the village and its people. He saw his skinny frame hidden beneath the baggy shift. His hair was growing out steadily but at present did little to hide his face, leaving his scars all the more visible.

The sight strengthened the nightmare warnings, no matter how much his rational side protested that Sansa loved him.


Sansa rubbed her eyes as she finished reading the correspondence. Already a week had passed since the marriage was agreed and only a week to pass before it became a reality. Letters had begun to arrive, offering congratulations on the impending marriage from the houses of the North. There were several invitations for the Queen and Prince to visit their keeps and many more apologies for being unable to attend.

That was part of the reason they would marry quickly. Sansa had no desire for a large, royal wedding and would rather have a quieter ceremony. Tyrion had seemed just as relieved at the idea and there was no real reason for them to delay the wedding beyond a fortnight. Just enough time for them to make the arrangements and, Sansa hoped, for Tyrion to become comfortable with the idea.

Every evening they now spent together in his room or hers, and Sansa enjoyed every moment of it. Tyrion was his warm, teasing self and they'd developed a habit of sharing a proper kiss before leaving each other. A smile stretched over Sansa's face – she particularly enjoyed that. When they were alone as Sansa and Tyrion, he was perfectly comfortable in the marriage and Sansa could see he would enjoy the role of husband.

It was preparing him for the other titles that worried her. The trip to the village had gone well, but the exertion had tired him and he'd been visibly relieved to return to Winterfell. At dinner, the lords made a more concentrated effort to engage with him but Tyrion still hesitated to talk politics. It was as if he were afraid of discussing anything he might not have the authority to.

Still, he was trying and Sansa would do everything to help rebuild his confidence. This morning she'd asked him to join her morning meeting with the lords and he would sit beside her at Court tomorrow. As lord of Winterfell, he would soon hold his own court sessions to deal with local petitioners and ease her burden.

Pushing back from the desk, Sansa began readying herself for bed, turning her mind from Tyrion's struggles to her own. She pulled two spare pillows into position, forming the length of a short body on one side of the bed. Slipping beneath the covers, Sansa lay next to the pillows, trying to imagine them as the man who would soon lie there instead.


"Sorry I not stay for wedding," said Uhlan, "but I've spent long enough in Winterfell."

"You're welcome here anytime," said the Queen, smiling.

The little Prince was more reluctant but nodded too. "I owe you a great debt."

"You owe me nothing. Missandei and Grey Worm saved me – I came to repay that debt."

It was a sombre farewell in the Great Hall but Uhlan could see no reason why. The little Prince would actually become a Prince with his marriage, and the relationship between him and his Queen was clear to see. The Queen had arranged for guards to bring him to White Harbour, where the very fat lord had agreed to place him on a ship.

Tyrion glanced at the Queen before stepping forward, and handing over a small sack. "For your troubles."

Uhlan knew what was in the sack as soon as he saw it, and shook his head. "I help you as favour to MIssandei, no need for payment."

"I want you to have it. You do this work all the time, don't you? Use it to help yourself help others." Tyrion offered the sack again and Uhlan accepted it with a bow of his head.

"Very well Prince. Will help me travel Essos and do my work." He swept his eyes over the dwarf, noting he seemed just as insecure as he had before fixing the tattoos. "You see the tattoos yet?"

Tyrion crossed his arms. "Not yet. Better to leave the paste on a little longer, I think."

"Use salt water to remove the hard shells when you think enough time has passed. The smaller ones should be nearly ready, I would think."

Tyrion made several assurances that he understood but Uhlan knew he hadn't yet removed the paste because he feared what was beneath it. No matter – he would remove them when he was ready, and if he was married soon, someone may help him with that.

Uhlan grinned. "Farewell Queen and Prince. The North is too cold for me, but your castle has been warm!"


With five days to pass before the wedding, the preparation was intensifying. Sansa was pulling him deeper into the politics of the North, including him in meetings and Court sessions. Firm, but gentle was her choice of approach. Sansa would happily listen to his concerns and worries but nothing would dissuade her from seeing him carry out the task. Deep down, Tyrion knew he shouldn't be resisting anyway. He'd chosen the marriage knowing exactly what came with it, but engaging in politics and his new duties was terrifying. Serving Daenerys had worn away his confidence to nothing – despite her betrayal, it still hurt to see how he'd failed her. So many wrong decisions and poor advice. It wasn't something he could risk with Sansa, and it made him reluctant to voice his thoughts at all, no matter how she encouraged him.

Tyrion sighed, trudging towards the barber's rooms. The last few days had been busy and his beard had begun to grow out in all its grey, patchy glory. Best to get it removed today and then come for a real tidy-up before the wedding. He tried not to scratch as he walked, though the hard patches of paste were increasingly irritating. The one on his hip had begun to break away of its own accord, most likely caused by the pressure of his breeches. He grimaced – they would all fall off sooner or later if he didn't remove them first. When Yvette readied his bath the other night she'd offered to send for salt water to remove the dry paste covering the tattoos but he'd refused and cleaned carefully around the areas instead, particularly his chest. That was the one he was most eager to avoid uncovering.

As usual, several men were already queuing for the barber, who currently hacked away the tangled hair of an elderly man. Tyrion had come here often enough that it no longer bothered him. The barber was gruff but effective and while his body always got some stares, most men lost interest just as quickly.

Tyrion stood behind the last man, as usual, leaning back against the wall to lessen the strain on his leg. His new duties and Sansa's determination to make him an active presence in the castle had tested the limits of his endurance. To try and strengthen himself he'd taken to walking the castle more with Gerry, but it was a work in progress.

Caught up in his own thoughts, Tyrion didn't notice the men in front of him had all stepped aside. Having finished the old man, the barber now watched him expectantly. Tyrion's heart sank as he turned to the man directly in front of him, who hastily bowed his head.

"My Prince," he said.

"What's going on?" asked Tyrion.

The man glanced warily between him and the barber. "It's your turn, my Prince."

Tyrion shook his head. "There is a queue, and I will wait my turn in it."

The men waited several moments before resuming their places, but Tyrion could feel the tension rolling off them as if he might change his mind and begin demanding heads any second. Was a Lannister with power so terrifying? He might have given up the name, but it was foolish to think people would ever not associate him with it. Would the men assume Ned Stark would go in front of them? Tyrion doubted it. Ned Stark would have waited his turn, he was sure.

They didn't expect the same from him. They saw a Lannister who placed himself above those he served, not someone capable of the common touch.

'I'm not like that,' he thought. 'I won't be like that.'


Arya wasn't surprised at the state of Tyrion. It wasn't the first time this week she'd caught him creeping around the castle with Gerry, but it would be the time she collared him for it. Shadow crept along beside her, just as intent on sneaking up on her brother as Arya was on her brother-to-be.

She followed the two along the battlements until they passed beneath a quiet spot, partially obscured by the jutting wall of the castle. Her hand shot out, grabbing the back of Tyrion's cloak.

Gerry turned first, but the direwolf sensed no danger, only a playmate in his sister and quickly greeted her. Tyrion didn't share the same instinct. He grunted, shuddering hard at the unexpected touch as he whirled around to face her.

"Bloody hell, Arya, I'm nervous enough."

"Why?" she asked, letting go of his plain black cloak.

"You want to know why I'm nervous of people sneaking up behind me?"

She shrugged. "This is your castle, and every man and woman within it will serve you and give their life for yours. Yes, I want to know why you're afraid."

"That's not true."

"You are the lord of Winterfell and Prince Consort of the North."

"Not yet."

"You will be," she said, hardening her gaze. "Unless you're planning on breaking Sansa's heart."

"I would never do that," he said, finally lifting his head. "I love your sister."

"But you're not excited about the wedding, or what comes with the marriage."

Confusion coloured his expression. "That's not true."

"Don't deny it. You won't make a decision about anything – I saw you this morning. Sansa kept asking your opinion on the wedding food and you left everything to her!"

It was one of her two reasons for confronting Tyrion. The first being his general demeanour around the castle and the second his seeming lack of interest in the wedding. He couldn't be that oblivious, could he? Sansa wanted to involve him in all aspects of the wedding planning but every time Sansa asked his opinion he simply deferred to her judgment. Jon had dismissed the behaviour as nerves and men simply not caring as much for such things as Sansa did, but Arya could see it hurt her sister and wouldn't let the matter slide. After all, this was to be Sansa's last wedding.

"Every time Sansa asks what you want, you tell her it's up to her," said Arya, crossing her arms. "Do you really not care about the wedding?"

Tyrion paled. "That isn't the case at all. I just want the wedding to be what Sansa wants."

"It takes two in a marriage, Tyrion."

"I'm well aware. When we married in Kings Landing you know as well as I do it was a forced arrangement. There wasn't a direwolf sigil in sight, nor any of Sansa's family. She'd always dreamed of her perfect wedding. My family ruined that for her – she chose nothing at the wedding, from the food to her gown or her husband. I imagine her second marriage was worse. Please don't misunderstand, I only wanted Sansa to have the wedding she always imagined."

Arya's irritation faded, replaced by some embarrassment. She had misunderstood Tyrion, and not even considered his motives could be well-intentioned.

His face creased with worry. "Is Sansa upset with me?"

"She's not upset at all, I just noticed the way she looked at you…" Gods, this was getting awkward. Arya had convinced herself Tyrion was disinterested without considering any other option. "I get what you're doing, and why, but I think Sansa would prefer it if you get involved. She's not the girl she was – I think she wants the perfect wedding for both of you."

"Of course, I will change my approach. I never meant for her to think I didn't care."

Arya was at a loss. She'd confronted Tyrion with the intention of getting answers and warning him to do better, but the truth had quickly soothed her ire. Warily, she turned the conversation towards her other reason for being here.

"Why are you sneaking around Winterfell? You will be lord of this castle," she said.

"I'm not sneaking, I'm…broadening my horizons."

"What?"

His face flushed. "I can't be lord of Winterfell or Prince Consort if I'm too nervous to leave my familiar paths. I'm walking the castle to be more familiar with it, and try and improve my abysmal endurance."

"Oh."

"Already people look at me differently. I went to see the barber earlier, as I often do, and the men all stood aside – as if they expected me to demand I go next, rather than wait. Why would they think that? I'm sure they wouldn't think it of Jon or your father."

It was difficult for Arya to feel any more guilty than she already did, but this latest confession managed it. She'd thought it strange Tyrion was walking the castle as he did, but she hadn't considered he was trying to get used to his position. Plenty of people in the North would judge Tyrion as an outsider, rather than by Northern standards – she shouldn't be one of them.

"Come on," she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him after her. "Ignore the people – they'll get used to you in time. It's good you're getting out in Winterfell, but you need to walk the castle like a lord and Prince, not like you've snuck in during the night. I'll help."

His eyes widened. "Thank you, Arya. You really don't have to."

Arya said nothing. Doing this would serve two purposes – atoning for her misjudgment of Tyrion and helping her new brother.


"Have you sent the letter?" asked Bran.

The High Septon nodded, tilting his head thoughtfully. "After careful consideration, it seemed the right thing to do. It was per the terms of our agreement after all."

"Agreed," said Bran. "It is as it should be."

"Most certainly. I've heard rumour you mean to appoint a new Hand from the North."

Bran folded his hands in his lap. "An old friend."

"Ah. A good choice. Old friends often make the most reliable aids, particularly for those with great burdens. Queen Sansa made a similar choice, I believe."

"The situations are quite different," said Bran.

"Perhaps. Have you broke the news to Varys?"

"This morning. He understood his position was temporary and I dare say he's happy to return to master of whispers."

The High Septon smiled. "When does Meera arrive?"

"Another week, I should think."

"I look forward to meeting the new Hand."

Bran didn't answer. It would be nice to see Meera again, but he was hardly going to tell the High Septon that. His thoughts still North, he considered Sansa and Tyrion's upcoming wedding. They were where they were supposed to be, but Bran would have liked Tyrion to be his Hand. He supposed this was best – Tyrion would never set foot in Kings Landing again, but he would serve the North well. It was a shame Bran couldn't make the wedding, but after all that had happened in recent weeks leaving Kings Landing wasn't an option for a King.


"It must be a relief," said Tyrion, leaning over her shoulder. "You're a free woman – not married to that dreadful Tyrion Lannister anymore."

"I heard he was a good man," she said.

"I heard he was an imp."

Sansa stared at the paper, a hollow ache opening in her chest. "They called him many things, but he was never an imp."

The paper was what they'd been waiting for. After some discussion, they'd agreed it was best if this marriage stood on its own – a marriage they'd both chosen freely. To that end, Tyrion had written to the High Septon, using his right to request an annulment of the old marriage, so they could marry properly before the Old Gods.

The High Septon's response had arrived today, confirming the annulment and wishing them luck in their new marriage. It was a simple note and Sansa was surprised to find it devoid of any attempt at convincing them to marry in the light of the seven, but this High Septon seemed more open than the ones she'd met. Or perhaps he understood the Queen in the North should marry before the Old Gods.

However expected the letter was, it didn't soften the blow to Sansa. Heat burned the back of her eyes, her throat tightening.

Tyrion came around the side of the chaise, but his smile quickly fell when he saw her expression. "What's wrong?"

"I…it's nothing."

"It can't be nothing if you're so upset." He sat beside her, cupping her face with his good hand until she looked at him. "Let me help you."

"It's silly."

"I'm certain it's not."

"It's just…I don't like not being married to you."

Tyrion's face morphed from concern to touched, before settling on amused. His mouth twitched into a style. "My dear, you do realise we're getting married in three days' time."

"I know, but I still feel like I've lost something precious." Her lower lip jutted out. "You're not my husband now."

"I will be soon."

"Promise?"

Soft green eyes stared into hers. "I promise. Are you worried I'll change my mind?"

"Now will be your last chance."

He leaned forward, kissing her mouth. "I am fully committed to this marriage, and to you. I'm sorry if you think I haven't been – I only wanted you to have the perfect wedding."

Sansa knew enough about that. When Tyrion suddenly began offering an opinion on the wedding food and such she didn't need to look further than Arya for an answer. Her sister was surprisingly cagey with the details, but she'd insisted that Tyrion's seeming disinterest was merely because he wanted her to have the wedding she dreamed of – a truth he'd just confirmed.

She took his hand in hers, settling her head against his shoulder. "It will be perfect as long as you're there."

"Then that is where I will be."