Chapter 16

The halls of Winterfell were unusually quiet. Tyrion had spent enough time at Winterfell to work out what part of the castle he was in, and while the family rooms were usually quiet the patter of servants could still be heard.

Not today.

Everyone would be in the Great Hall, of course, to witness the crowning of the new Queen. Tyrion adjusted his position slightly, a hiss escaping him as the movement jostled his shoulder. It was kind enough of Sansa to take him into her home, but she'd made certain he would be comfortable too by giving him one of the family rooms. He glanced around the chamber, wondering which of the Stark children it had once belonged to. Sansa had insisted yesterday that the room was his and he could stay at Winterfell for as long as he wanted, but it was something he struggled to believe. Why would any woman, let alone a newly crowned Queen, want a disgraced imp in their home? This room was fit for a lord and he was the furthest thing from that.

The man in grey - Maester Henly - had been in earlier, checking his injuries and asking questions. The Maester never said anything directly, but each question was an opportunity for Tyrion to share what he'd been through - as if he'd want to talk about it. A bitter smile crossed his face. Why wouldn't he want to talk about how his Queen tossed him aside and his sister tortured him for weeks?

The Maester had seemed keen to engage him in conversation, though Tyrion had little interest. The man had updated him on his injuries and outlined some sort of plan that would help him recover, but he'd paid little attention. It didn't matter that his leg was broken, or that his shoulder would be immobile for another week at least. He didn't care how well the burn on his arm was healing or that he needed to rebuild his strength.

None of it mattered.

Tyrion slumped against the pillows, fiddling with the thick blanket that covered him. The Queen who'd betrayed him was dead. Cersei and her dead-eyed Maester had been executed. His brother was gone.

"I-I heard that Jamie..." he started.

Sansa's face fell, sympathy brimming in her eyes. "I'm so sorry."

"Is it true that the dragon..."

She nodded. "Jon said he was defiant to the end. Ser Jamie didn't cower."

He'd known it was true when Cersei told him, but a piece of him had clung to the false hope that his brother still lived. It wasn't to be. He was the last of his house now, through the main Lannister branch anyway. No doubt he had distant cousins somewhere, but they were as strange to him as the Northerners. Truly, he was alone. He'd found purpose once in serving Daenerys and look how well that had turned out for him.

Heat pricked the back of his eyes as he lay in the soft, warm bed. Why was there no peace? Cersei and Daenerys might be dead but it was only a matter of time until someone else decided to hurt him.

His thoughts drifted to the coronation going on in the Great Hall. He'd never wanted Sansa to see him like this, and despite his shame she had enough kindness in her heart to offer him sanctuary. It wouldn't last. She was the Queen in the North and he was nothing. Sooner or later she would marry and move on with her life. Sansa wouldn't want the broken pieces of her past laying in her family's rooms forever.

Jon smiled as his eyes found Sansa. She held her head high as she walked amongst the lords and ladies, wearing the crown of the North as if she'd been born to it. Sansa was good at masking her true feelings but for once Jon believed her smile to be genuine. The North was independent, their enemies were dead and she was Queen. All were reasons to celebrate but Jon knew the real reason Sansa was smiling; Tyrion was awake, and more importantly, he was aware.

"She'll be more annoying than ever now she has a crown," said Arya.

"Do you want one too?" asked Jon. "By all laws, you're Sansa's heir."

Arya scrunched her nose. "I'm not her heir."

"Your title should be changed now. Really you're-"

"Finish that sentence and die a second time." Arya crossed her arms, sinking in her seat. "Why are you so happy anyway? It's not like you to have a sense of humour."

"I'm happy to be back in the North - and for Sansa."

"I wouldn't jump for joy yet. I've heard Lannister refused his lunch."

"Give him time. I couldn't imagine being in his position, and my Nights Watch brothers killed me."

Arya hummed, tapping her fingers against the handle of her dagger. "We'll see. Sansa spent half the morning debating whether she should visit him today or not."

"Why wouldn't she?"

Arya lifted an eyebrow. "We're back in Winterfell dear brother, and Sansa is playing the game of thrones."

"She has the throne of the North."

"She does, but it's not everything she wants," said Arya. "Half these lords will be playing the game by tomorrow and Sansa's hand in marriage is one of the most important moves."

Jon turned to his sister, his mouth turning downwards. "Sansa is married. We both know that's what she wants."

"Sansa won't admit that's what she wants and now Lannister is awake she's retreated behind her shield. He doesn't know about the marriage yet."

"Sansa will tell him soon enough."

"Will she?" mused Arya. "Or will she carry on with the half-marriage that guards her from unwanted suitors and lets her pine after Lannister in secret?"

"She wouldn't do that," said Jon, shaking his head. "I know you've never got along very well but Sansa isn't the girl she used to be."

"She's not, but you can't see the change," said Arya, turning her gaze to Sansa across the Great Hall. "Let's hope the Prince can see through her."

Sansa bit her lip, folding her hands in the lap. "He's still not eating?"

"No, my Queen. In the two days since he woke I'd say lord Tyrion has eaten no more than a few mouthfuls of soup each day, and even then I'd say it was to appease whoever was giving it to him."

"He's still being fed?"

Maester Henly shook his head. "Lord Tyrion can feed himself though his weak state makes it difficult. I offered to assist him and he refused, though I don't think the physical challenge of eating is his problem."

Sansa's heart sank at the Maester's report. In the interest of giving Tyrion some privacy, she hadn't visited him since he first woke but asked Maester Henly for regular updates. She knew Tyrion would hate anyone seeing him in such a poor state, and she could think of no valid excuse to call upon him.

'You don't need a reason,' whispered her mind.

Of course she needed a reason. It would be inappropriate to visit Tyrion simply because she wanted to see him. Surely he would wonder why she was doing so? They'd spent time together at Winterfell but it was coincidental they'd kept finding each other - a product of their positions as hand of the Queen and lady of Winterfell. Visiting him in his sickbed was a different matter entirely, particularly when Tyrion knew little of what had happened in his sickness. It was difficult but Sansa had to forget the Tyrion who'd clung to her in Kings Landing. Forget the way his eyes would brighten when she entered the room, and the feel of him cuddling against her - Tyrion was awake now, and perfectly aware of what was going on.

The Queen rubbed her eyes, turning her attention to the Maester. "Why isn't he eating?"

"Several reasons most likely, but I suspect the biggest is a lack of desire to carry on."

"How can you say that?" said Sansa, her heart twisting. "He's only just woken up."

"And in the time since he's regained awareness, he's enquired only about his brother's fate. My Queen, if you'd woken up after weeks of confusion and misery would you not have questions? Lord Tyrion has shown no interest in what happened in his absence beyond the basics, nor in recovering from his injuries."

"He lost his brother. Grief can make you do strange things," said Sansa, adding softly. "I should know."

"Perhaps you might speak with him then," said the Maester. "I will stay another week to be certain his injuries are healing correctly, but then I must move on. I've done all I can to help his body heal, but I cannot repair the damage done to his mind. That is beyond the skill of any Maester my Queen."

Sansa swallowed, nodding her assent. It was inevitable the Maester would leave and she still had Maester Wolkan, but it felt like giving up on Tyrion all the same.

'You'll get through this' she thought. 'I'll help if you'll let me.'

Clothes were scratchier than Tyrion remembered, but it had been so long since he wore them it was hard to tell. At least he wasn't naked. Then again he'd become so used to it, the humiliation barely registered anymore.

"Are you alright?" asked Sansa, pulling his gaze from the sleeves of his shift to the Queen in the North.

"I'm fine your Grace."

"Sansa," she said, smiling. "You don't need to be formal with me."

He nodded, dropping his gaze to his lap. In the two days he'd been awake he'd been visited by the two Maesters and a smiling, middle-aged servant called Yvette. The woman had apparently been assigned to his personal care and had the thankless task of cleaning him. Tyrion's stomach twisted at the thought. He could hardly sit up without support and Yvette was perfectly respectful to him, but her assistance humiliated him all the same. Maester Henly had told him no one would enter his chambers without his permission and so far it seemed to be true. Yvette and the Maesters knocked before entering and when Sansa arrived a little while ago she'd done the same.

"Are you hungry?" asked Sansa. "I haven't eaten yet either - I can have the servants bring us some soup."

"Oh...I'm fine, thank you."

"If you want anything you only need to ask. I didn't think you'd want a lot of different servants coming in here so I assigned Yvette to your service, but any of the servants will answer to you."

"You don't have to do that. I'll stay out of the way..."

Sympathy filled Sansa's eyes as Tyrion's stomach churned at the sight. "You're in no one's way. I can't imagine how difficult this is for you, but if you ever want to talk-"

"No," he said quickly. "Thank you, but I...I just..."

Sansa nodded, offering him a tight smile. "I understand."

It was hard to tell whether his current reality was better or worse than his memories. The pain and humiliation he'd suffered had scraped his soul dry, but the aftermath was rotting him from the inside out. Sansa had told him Cersei was dead, but Tyrion knew she wasn't. His vile sister's mark would stay with him for the rest of his life. The shift and bandages were scratchy, but at least he didn't have to see the marks. His mind had been so distracted after waking the sight of the word kinslayer by his left hip had sent his mind reeling. Yvette had been helping him at the time, when the sheets had first been pulled back to expose him and the damage his sister had wrought. His left leg was encased in a splint and propped on a pillow, but the tattoo had instantly caught his attention, reminding him of the marks scrawled all over his body.

Tyrion glanced sideways at Sansa as she sat beside the bed - he hoped she hadn't seen the marks, but she'd surely heard about them. The whole of Westeros probably knew how he'd been degraded.

"If you're feeling up to it there's someone who would like to see you," said Sansa.

Did he have a choice? His mind was torn between hiding alone in the dark and the obedience his sister had beaten into him. He was an imp, what he wanted didn't matter.

"It can wait if you don't feel up to it," said Sansa, her brow furrowing. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." A shiver ran through him. "Who wants to see me?"

Sansa hesitated before continuing. "A man called Godwin."

"Who?"

"He's the captain of your guard."

At once Tyrion's chest tightened, his voice barely a whisper. "There are Lannister guards here?"

"I wanted to bring you here but the North is a separate kingdom now, and the lords of the Westerlands weren't happy about it. Bran agreed you could come North but under the condition a number of your own guard were present," said Sansa.

A wave of nausea rolled through Tyrion and the room suddenly seemed smaller than it was, as if the walls were closing in on him. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Sansa didn't need to know that the thought of Lannister guards made his heart beat too fast, but the Queen in the North was a clever woman. Even if she didn't say it her expression told Tyrion she suspected the truth.

"There's no rush if you're not feeling well," she said.

The words stuck in Tyrion's throat like glass. "I'll see him."

It was better to get it over with, wasn't it? He was pathetic enough as it was, the last thing he needed was to add another stain of dishonour to his reputation by refusing to see the captain of his own guard. A bitter taste filled his mouth. The guards served the lord of Casterly Rock and that was who Godwin was coming to see. Not him.

Sansa was watching him and Tyrion fought to get his breathing under control. His body didn't work properly anymore. It was weak, sluggish and barely responded to him - truly he was powerless. The Queen either didn't see through his weak facade or chose not to.

She turned to the door, her voice strong and steady. "You may enter."

Instantly the door opened and an older man dressed in the uniform of house Lannister stepped into the room. The man closed the door, pausing a moment before crossing the distance in a few strides. He dropped to one knee a short distance from the bed.

"My lord."

Tyrion froze, all attempts at retaining a neutral face fleeing him as he faced the lion sigil.

"Oi, hold him still," said one man, a grin on his face.

Instantly hands fell on Tyrion, pulling him from the corner of his cell and pinning him in place. The guards were young men, but cruelty had no age. The leader of the group leered down at him, resting the bottom of his boot against his shoulder.

"Your sister says you're nothing," said the man. "No land, titles or name to protect you."

One of the men holding him laughed, tightening his grip. "Bet my piss is nobler than his blood."

"Born into a wealthy family," said the first man, spitting in his face. "All that power was wasted on you. The Queen doesn't discriminate - she rewards loyalty."

"We're loyal, aren't we lads?" said the second man.

A chorus of agreement echoed around the cell and Tyrion squirmed to get free. His friend was nearby. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the edge of his friend tucked into the corner of his cell.

Tyrion focused on his friend when the man began pressing his boot against his shoulder. He tried to remember the feel of the blanket between his fingers when his bones began to break. One of the men grasped Tyrion's face, forcing him to look at the first man as he forced his boot into his shoulder.

"Look your superiors in the eye imp," he said, grinning. "The Queen will want to know all the details when we report."

Tyrion flinched as something brushed his arm. Instantly the memory was replaced with reality. It was Sansa who'd touched him. Her hand was resting on his left arm and Godwin was still kneeling on the floor, looking lost on what to do.

"Are you here to take me?" he whispered.

Sansa's eyes widened and the captain looked just as surprised.

"I'm here to serve you my lord," said Godwin, inclining his head. "As lord of Casterly Rock we are yours to command."

It was the title he'd always wanted - his father's title. As a young man it had held everything; power, respect and a way to prove his worth to his family. The captain seemed eager enough to serve him and Tyrion didn't recall his face amongst his tormentors in Kings Landing. Sansa mentioned he hadn't been formally disinherited, of course, that meant he was lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West. It was all his for the taking.

"I'm not your lord," said Tyrion. He wound his fingers into the thick blue blanket, his voice wavering. "Please...just leave me alone."

Godwin was still kneeling but looked increasingly uncertain. "We're sworn to serve the lord of Casterly Rock, to serve house Lannister."

"I'm neither," said Tyrion. He squirmed against the pillows wanting nothing more than to hide.

The bed dipped as Sansa joined him. "They're here to serve you Tyrion. No one is taking you anywhere either. Remember what I told you? Winterfell can be your home too."

They were both watching him, but for what Tyrion didn't know. He wasn't a lord and Cersei had made it damned clear he wasn't a Lannister either. All his life his father and sister had made it clear he didn't belong. His eyes found the lion sigil on Godwin's uniform and a shudder ran through him. He'd never trust the Lannister guards after what they'd done. Why would he believe they were loyal to him anyway? His father had made certain to keep him away from the Lannister army. They would recognise Jamie of course, and respect his skills as a swordsman and commander, but why would they ever follow his orders?

"Lord Lannister, we are at your service," said Godwin, shifting in his kneeling position. "Anything at all you require-"

"Go," said Tyrion. "I'm no lord. Go home."

Godwin's eyes widened, and he turned his gaze from Tyrion to Sansa.

"They can't leave," said Sansa, pursing her lips. "King Bran has ordered them to remain here until you're in better health. I thought it was best you were introduced to Godwin quickly so you were familiar with the captain of your guard, but they're yours to command Tyrion. They aren't going to bother you if you don't want them to, and no one will come in your chambers without your permission."

"Of course," said Godwin, bobbing his head up and down. "I will keep charge of the men until you are well my lord."

They were still treating him like a lord even though he wasn't. It didn't matter whether he recovered or not, he wanted nothing to do with the Lannister guards and he sure as hell didn't want to go anywhere with them. How many miles away from Winterfell would they get before the abuse began?

Tyrion dropped his head from them, focusing on the blankets instead. He didn't hear Sansa say anything but he heard Godwin get to his feet. From the corner of his eye, he saw the captain bow.

"My lord, your Grace."

A moment later the door closed and a little of the tension eased from Tyrion.

"You're safe here," said Sansa. "I know why you can't trust the Lannister guards but I think Godwin means well at least."

He nodded. With Godwin's departure, his fear was rapidly turning to shame for being so weak. The Lannister guards were surely mocking him and Sansa must think poorly of him too, despite her kind words. The thought made his stomach twist.

Tyrion risked a glance up, catching sight of an unusual expression on the Queen's face. She looked torn between saying something and holding her tongue. Was she going to berate him for his cowardice? Whatever she was or wasn't going to say she seemed to change her mind, offering him a smile instead.

"The Lannister guards are under your command, but the Winterfell guards will answer to you as well. My men know to defend you if needed, even against your own guards. I promise Tyrion, no one will hurt you."

He tried to smile, nodding his appreciation. Sansa's kindness never failed to amaze him, but knowing there were Lannisters in Winterfell only heightened his fears. Maybe, if he stayed quiet and stayed hidden they'd go away and forget about him.

Jon leaned over the railings, smiling as he caught sight of the servants carrying out their duties in the courtyard below. For a moment he almost imagined he was a boy again, playing games with Robb and naive to the truths of the world. Back then duty and honour had been words they often used; ideals they aspired to. How could they have known the true weight of those ideals and the price that came from holding onto them?

It was something Jon had often thought about at the Wall but it came to his mind more often than ever since he killed Daenerys. As Queen in the North, they were words Sansa now struggled with.

"You need to tell Tyrion," said Jon, his voice soft. "He deserves to know about the marriage."

Sansa dropped her head. "He's not ready yet. I introduced him to Godwin today and it was a disaster...he's not well."

"The Maester said he's healing, didn't he?"

"His injuries are healing but he's barely eating or talking."

"Is he still confused?"

"No." Sansa bit her lip. "Tyrion's awake but it's like he's not there...he..."

Jon waited, knowing there was more to come.

"He reminds me of Theon!" Sansa's hands curled tightly around the railing as she spoke. "I barely recognised Theon when I first saw him, after everything Ramsay had done to him...he wasn't himself."

"Theon got better. He died a hero."

"I don't want Tyrion to die!"

Jon sighed. He really wasn't the best placed to give relationship advice and it was important to tread lightly when it came to Sansa's heart. The girl she'd once been was in there somewhere but if Sansa closed off she could be as cold as ice.

"I can't imagine how Tyrion is feeling, but if I'd been betrayed and abused by one family member and lost the only family I loved at the same time I'd be lonely. I wouldn't know who to trust."

Sansa's blue eyes met his, her lip quivering. "He can trust me."

"I'm sure he does, but you need to be honest with him first. Tell him about the marriage Sansa, it's the honourable thing to do."

At once her expression darkened. "He's only been awake two days. Seeing Godwin today was enough."

"How are you keeping it a secret? Surely he wonders why he's being called the Prince?"

"He isn't being called that," said Sansa. "Only a few people are allowed to see Tyrion at the moment and I've instructed them all to refer to him as a lord. No one will tell him until I'm certain he's ready."

'Until you're ready,' thought Jon.

To him, it seemed an easy enough thing to tell Tyrion. If anything it might reassure him he wasn't alone and there were people who wanted to help him, but Sansa's decision would stand. That didn't mean he wouldn't try and convince her otherwise. In Kings Landing Sansa had explored the fantasy of having Tyrion without having to face the reality. Now Tyrion was awake and aware Sansa was torn between playing the dutiful Queen and honouring the truth of the situation.

'Duty was the death of my love' thought Jon. 'Don't let the same happen to you.'

Sansa struggled to conceal a yawn as lord Holt continued to talk. The Holts were a minor house sworn to house Manderly, and Owen Holt had recently taken over his father's seat as lord. It was to be expected that the lords of the North would seek to win her hand, and with many of the great houses now extinct minor lords would be eager to offer themselves or their sons to her. With her marriage to Tyrion neither annulled nor consummated she had no decent excuse to refuse the invitations of her bannermen.

"It's nice to finally see Winterfell," said lord Holt. "I may have been far away, but tales of your beauty were never far from my ears."

"That's kind of you, my lord."

He grinned. "I'd have killed the Bolton bastard myself to share your bed."

A shiver ran through Sansa at the mention of Ramsay. Lord Holt carried on, completely oblivious to her discomfort. Clunky - that was the word to describe Owen Holt. The lord was maybe a few years older than her but could have passed for younger. Light brown hair fell straight around his square face. He was tall, strong and handsome enough, but Sansa had learnt long ago how meaningless those things were. Throughout their dinner, she'd found Owen Holt harmless but of limited intelligence. He didn't seem to have a thought he didn't voice and his attempts to seduce were clunky enough to make greener boys blush.

He liked the sound of his own voice, and to Sansa's relief it meant she had to do little more than nod occasionally. As Owen launched into a story about something or other her eyes drifted to the thick brown beard that covered his face.

It wasn't something she'd ever paid much attention to. Seeing Tyrion without his beard in Kings Landing had been jarring but she'd quickly gotten used to it - his face had been bare when they married and there were so many other things to focus on when they rescued him.

"I'm concerned there may be internal damage, your Grace," said Henly.

The ship was days away from White Harbour, and in the dark of the evening, Sansa had slipped away from the company of the lords to sit with Tyrion. She pulled her eyes from his sleeping face to Maester Henly. The man had spent much of their voyage studying Qyburn's journal of horrors and the comment made her stomach twist.

"What do you mean? I thought his injuries were healing."

"They are, but I'm more concerned about the damage we can't see. Qyburn's notes mention Cersei twisted and abused his genitals multiple times. The swelling has disappeared and I found no injury on examination but there are still signs something is amiss."

Sansa brushed her hand over Tyrion's. "Like what?"

Maester Henly lifted an eyebrow. "Surely you've noticed his beard hasn't grown back?"

The memory made her heart lurch. She'd noticed his bare face in Kings Landing but she'd assumed the Maester was shaving him to keep him clean. It had never crossed her mind that it had stopped growing - or its implications.

Sansa swallowed, nodding along as lord Holt prattled on. The North would need an heir, and according to the Maesters Tyrion's disappearing beard indicated his ability to father children was compromised.

Internal injury? Trauma?

They didn't really know, but both agreed it was a sign something was amiss whether it was physical or psychological. If Tyrion couldn't have children would she need to marry someone else? It was her duty to the North to produce an heir. She forced herself to focus on Owen Holt, trying to imagine what a future with him could be like.

"I like a tall woman you know," said Owen, grinning. "My father always said the more woman the better."

No. Duty be damned. She would give everything she had to the North but not her hand in marriage. Never again would she be reduced to a prize to be won or any man's property. Besides, she was getting ahead of herself. Tyrion knew nothing about their marriage and she had no idea whether he even wanted children, regardless of whether he was capable of fathering them. It didn't matter whether she produced an heir or not. She would give her life in duty, but her heart was already given.

"Do you know what I admire most about you Sansa?" said Tyrion.

"I have no idea."

He smiled. "You're a survivor. No matter what terrible position you were put in you found a way to survive. Men can fight their way out, most men anyway - women don't have that option. You survived using your wits and intelligence; I respect that."

A smile flitted across Sansa's face before she could stop it, not that lord Holt could really see her. The North could view her as they wanted - that didn't matter if Tyrion saw who she truly was.

It was hard to tell which was worse; the days when his mind wandered to dark places, or the nights when the dark places came to him. Tyrion braced his left hand against the bed, a hiss escaping him as he struggled to rise. It was useless - he was useless. His arm shook at the exertion and he flopped back against the bed.

There was no reason for him to get up. It was the dead of night and he had no desire to go anywhere, but he'd wanted to see if he could move. Apparently not. A bitter smile crossed his face. They really thought he was the lord of Casterly Rock?

'A Kinslayer twice over. Jamie is dead because of me...'

The room was dark save for the soft glow of the hearth, but Tyrion couldn't decide whether it was a good thing or not. The dark reminded him of his cell and the horrors that had been done to him there. Knowing there were Lannister guards in the castle only made it worse. Despite what Sansa said he didn't believe the Stark guards would defend him - they were more likely to join in. The light of the day gave him some comfort in that respect, but the light meant he could see himself too and that was something he truly didn't want to do.

The bandages around his chest covered it, but Tyrion knew it was there. The hand of the Queen badge would be there to mock him forever.

'I'll come back for you, I promise.'

Liar. Tyrion screwed his eyes shut, a tremble running through him. Everyone betrayed him in the end. He shifted under the blankets and furs, frustration bubbling through him. His body didn't feel like his own anymore. Cersei had defiled him in every way imaginable, stripping away any pride and dignity he had. He lifted his hand, brushing his short, prickly hair. Nothing was right anymore. Heat burned at the back of his eyes but Tyrion refused to let the tears fall.

He squirmed in the bed, scratching at the bandages that covered the hand of the Queen badge on his chest. It didn't matter if he couldn't see it - he still knew it was there. Just as 'Imp' was marked on his ribs, and 'Kinslayer' on his hip. The back of his right shoulder tingled, reminding him that 'Little Monster' was marked there too. It might be on his back but Cersei hadn't let him go without seeing it - she'd made sure a mirror was brought in so he could see.

Tyrion twisted on the bed, ignoring the aches in his battered body as his skin crawled. He needed to get the words off. Maybe then he'd feel whole again.

'You'll always know exactly what you are now little brother' sang Cersei's voice. 'Everyone around you knows too.'

"Stop," he whispered. Too weak to do more than wriggle he curled into himself as much as he could, willing the voices to leave him be.

Sansa laced her hands in her lap, appraising the man opposite her. Godwin had spent the two days since his meeting with Tyrion wandering Winterfell in something of a daze. He'd likely prepared himself to face Tyrion's wrath, or bear the brunt of his anger for allowing what happened in Kings Landing, but he hadn't prepared for his lord to disinherit himself.

Not that Tyrion's words held any weight at present. It was obvious enough he was in no fit state to give up his lordship.

"I don't know what I can do for you," said Sansa. "You saw lord Tyrion with your own eyes."

"You're close to him your Grace," said Godwin. "What can be done to restore his faith in us? Morale is low in the ranks and we're without purpose here."

Sansa's eyes narrowed at the subtle hint. "No. There will be no Lannister guards around lord Tyrion's chambers unless he asks for it."

Godwin deflated in the chair opposite. It wasn't that she lacked sympathy. The Lannister captain appeared genuinely hurt by his lord's refusal of his service but Tyrion had been scared enough by Godwin's presence. Having Lannister guards outside his room would do nothing but upset him.

"I understand," said Godwin. "I must say he looked worse than I expected."

"He's not well," she said softly.

She hadn't seen Tyrion since she introduced him to Godwin, but the Maesters kept her updated. Only this morning Maester Wolkan had told her he'd refused breakfast again. Both Maesters said he was hardly speaking and while he always allowed them entry he seemed desperate for them to leave too. Staying away from Tyrion was difficult, but if he needed to be alone to work through what had happened she more than understood. Her duties as Queen kept her busy and the last thing she wanted was to disturb Tyrion if he wanted some space. Even so, the Maesters reports were worrying.

"If your men are bored they can assist the Winterfell guard with their duties," said Sansa.

Godwin nodded wearily. "Thank you, your Grace. Lord Tyrion trusts you - perhaps if he sees us working with you he might extend that trust to us."

"Perhaps."

Sansa would never trust the Lannister guards and she suspected Tyrion now felt the same, but it wasn't her place to tell Godwin that.

"Have you seen lord Tyrion recently?" asked Godwin.

"No, but I will see him tomorrow."

She didn't want to impose on Tyrion if he didn't want company, but the Maesters reports were stirring an unpleasant ache in her heart. She had to see him, just to make sure he was alright. Maester Henly had said they would assess his hand tomorrow and as Tyrion's friend she would go and offer her support. If Qyburn's journal was any indication it wouldn't be good news.

The lord of Casterly Rock cried when they told him about his hand.

He tried to hide it; dropping his head to the side and keeping his eyes from them. As a Maester, Henly had delivered good and bad news to countless patients and developed a skill in reading between the lines. Lord Tyrion wasn't just mourning the loss of use in his hand, he was crushed by it. The Maester glanced sideways at the Queen, seeing the strange hesitance in her expression once more.

They were a peculiar pair. The connection between them was undeniable, but they continued to dance around each other. Queen Sansa had arrived not long after they'd removed the splint from lord Tyrion's shoulder and replaced it with tight bandages instead. His shoulder would need a little longer to heal properly but now was the best time to start some strength building. He and Maester Wolkan had redone the bandages to support his injured shoulder but left his right arm free for some movement - giving them a long-awaited chance to see the extent of Qyburn's damage to his hand.

The Queen in the North had timed her arrival so lord Tyrion was dressed and they were testing his hand when she arrived. Sat beside the bed, she'd tried to make conversation with lord Tyrion but mostly observed as his hand was assessed. It was strange. In Kings Landing she'd hardly left his side and offered her comfort without thought. Now she was restraining herself, keeping some distance between them. Lord Tyrion was doing the same, though Henly doubted he was aware of it. Queen Sansa had come to offer her support, but it wasn't something the lord of Casterly Rock would accept.

With the verdict on his hand rendered a healthy man would reach out for support or reassurance. If lord Tyrion lifted his head he would find that and more hiding in Sansa Stark's guarded expression.

If he looked for it - which the Maester knew he wouldn't. The Queen could reach out and give it to him - if she let her defences slide.

Maester Henly shook his head, refocusing on his patient. He was a Maester, it wasn't for him to judge how lords and ladies courted.

"You have slight movement my lord," offered Maester Wolkan. "It's possible you can strengthen that through certain exercises."

"Will it ever work again?" asked lord Tyrion, staring at the appendage.

"The damage is too severe to fix my lord," said Wolkan. "You still have feeling in the hand, and over time that may improve, but the bone structure is damaged beyond repair."

"I'm so sorry," said Sansa. Her hand twitched in her lap as if she might reach out to him, but she seemed to change her mind. "If there's anything I can do to help, you need only ask."

"Maester Wolkan is right my lord," said Henly. "Your hand will never function as it once did but it can still be of some use. I will show you some stretches to do each day. Use your left hand to stretch out the fingers of your right and practice the strength exercises we will show you."

Tyrion lifted his head slightly, his voice barely a whisper. "Why bother?"

"Because my lord, if you do not stretch your hand out and keep it active it will atrophy and likely end up clawed - having no use to you whatsoever. You have a small amount of movement in it now. To keep that you must do the stretches and exercises we show you."

Maester Wolkan nodded. "Quite right. You can twitch your fingers and your thumb has slight movement. This can help you to grip things, fasten your clothing and so forth."

If anything lord Tyrion sunk deeper into the bed as the implications of his maiming became real. His right hand could serve some purposes but he would be almost entirely reliant on his left from now on.

"You'll find a way around things," said Sansa, offering him a smile. "You're more than clever enough."

"I don't feel clever," said Tyrion.

"What do you feel?" asked Henly.

The lord of Casterly Rock lifted his gaze to him, meeting his eyes for a single moment. "Nothing."

Arya wasn't sure how she ended up outside Tyrion's room. Perhaps it was mindless wandering, or perhaps the urge to annoy Sansa had overcome her. Either way, she was here. The question was what should she do now.

Sansa had made it clear several times that she wasn't to bother Tyrion.

"If he's living with us why shouldn't we bother him?" said Arya.

"For the hundredth time; he's not well. Lord Tyrion has only regained awareness the past few days after weeks of confusion. He needs time to process things."

"Lord Tyrion? Seven hells, you were cuddling him like your favourite toy a week ago."

Her sister flushed. "You know the circumstances then and now are completely different."

"He's awake and you're afraid."

"I am not afraid."

"Did you tell him about the marriage?" Sansa's face tightened, giving Arya all the answers she needed. "Perhaps I should call upon my good brother and tell him-"

"No!" Panic flashed through Sansa's blue eyes. "He's not ready Arya! It could upset him. You didn't see how upset he was when Godwin visited him - and he's mourning his brother. Stay out of it. I'll tell him when the time is right."

"You're avoiding him. I've heard he isn't eating and sleeping," said Arya. "You barely left his side in Kings Landing but now you make a formal visit every few days. I thought you'd be helping him."

"I'll give him whatever help he wants, but he's refused all my offers. The Maesters say he just wants to be alone."

Arya sighed. "I don't know Tyrion very well, but I do know death and Tyrion's looked in its eyes. He might not want your help, but he probably needs it."

The conversation had been days ago and Sansa had only visited Tyrion once since then, when he got the news about his hand yesterday. Her sister hadn't said much about it, but Arya had heard enough to know he hadn't taken it well. What did he expect? Surely he remembered Qyburn taking a piece out of it. He still had his left hand to use. She was left-handed. If she went in maybe...

Her shoulders slumped as Sansa's much-repeated orders flitted through her mind.

It was strange to Arya that Sansa would bar her and Jon from visiting Tyrion, but not as strange as Sansa's lack of visits. It was damned obvious how much she loved him, but some irrational fear was keeping her away. Was her clever sister living in hope Tyrion would leave his chambers one day as the man she'd spent time with at Winterfell? No matter how cold Sansa was some piece of her childhood naivety remained.

Arya stepped closer to the door, listening for any sound within. There was no sound of movement, but that didn't mean Tyrion was asleep. From the whispers she'd heard around Winterfell the lord of Casterly Rock moved and spoke as little as he ate and slept. Should she go in there? As long as Lannister was married to Sansa he was technically part of their family. It was easy enough to see that Sansa's ban on visiting him was to prevent her or Jon from telling him the truth of his situation, but if she went in she could avoid mentioning the marriage if she wanted to.

She lingered a moment longer before stepping back from the door. Perhaps it was better not to visit Tyrion yet. They'd barely spoken a word to each other before this and in his current state he may well be afraid of her. A pang of remorse shot through her chest. When she'd glared at him and stalked him around Winterfell she'd never imagined Sansa wanted to keep him around.

Arya turned away, creeping back down the corridor. She couldn't change the past but she would tread more carefully in the future. A girl has many faces, and if she'd chosen a different one to show Tyrion she might have offered him help now. It was a lesson to learn, but for now it was left to Sansa to reach him.

"Do you have any questions, my lord?"

Tyrion shook his head.

"You are comfortable doing the exercises I've shown you?"

He nodded. Anything to get rid of the Maester and be alone. He kept trying to fix him, but there was nothing to fix. Daenerys had cracked his heart to pieces and Cersei had relished crushing the shards. The Maesters, servants, Sansa - they all referred to him as lord Tyrion, but that man was long dead. Sometimes Tyrion thought he'd never existed at all.

Maester Henly was watching him and Tyrion forced himself to look at him. The man was leaving later today and this was to be his final visit, some words would be expected.

'Be good little brother. If you're not I'll have to let Qyburn teach you another lesson...'

"Thank you Maester," said Tyrion, biting his lip. "I appreciate your efforts to help me."

The Maester stared at him for a moment, before leaning back in the chair. "You needn't thank me my lord. It was Queen Sansa who sought the best care for you."

"She did?"

"Oh yes. When you were rescued several Maesters assessed you. She dismissed some for not giving you a chance and dismissed the rest because they would only do the bare minimum for your injuries. Without her intervention, you would be in a far worse state."

Gods, it could be worse than this? He was a crippled dwarf; shamed and beaten. The Maesters who didn't want to give him a chance might have been right. Henly seemed to read his thoughts.

"You have a good chance of recovering my lord, if you allow yourself to take it. The Maester who initially took charge of your care - Gallard - he would have amputated your leg and left your broken shoulder to heal in the wrong position. Sansa refused to hear of it - she wanted only the best for you."

A chill wrapped around his heart at the outcome Henly was describing. Living in such a state was unthinkable, but without Sansa's intervention, it would have been his reality. Questions danced through his mind, probing why Sansa would go to such lengths for him. No one else would, and Sansa had more reason than anyone to be indifferent to him after their sham marriage.

"You're my friend Tyrion."

Sansa's voice filled his mind, giving him a fleeting taste of the pride he'd felt when she'd said that. In his youth he'd never imagined friendship could be so fulfilling, but then again he'd never experienced it. Of course, Sansa would see he was treated well in Kings Landing. The Starks were honourable, and Sansa had a kind heart. Tyrion dropped his gaze to his ruined hand - he'd never wanted her to see him like this. All his life people had looked at him with revulsion or pity. Sansa was one of the few people he believed saw past what he was, or at least she had. How could she look at him now without seeing a weak, broken man.

"My lord," said Henly, drawing his attention. "Maester Wolkan will take over your care and he's more than able to assist you in regaining your strength. The bones in your leg are nearing the end of healing, but after so long in captivity and then resting it will take time to get you walking again. Still, you are free to leave the bed now-"

"No." Tyrion curled his good hand into a fist around the blankets. "Not in that."

"It is only while you regain your strength. You struggle to sit unaided at the moment, spending time outside of this room using the wheelchair will help your recovery..."

Tyrion's eyes flitted from the Maester to the thing sat in the corner of the room. Wolkan had brought it in yesterday saying Bran had instructed him to have another wheelchair built before he left for Kings Landing with Sansa. Since Bran would not be returning to Winterfell, at least not soon, someone had decided he could use it. He'd rather never leave this room again than use the wheelchair. A bitter taste filled his mouth. What a sight that would be - the supposed lord of Casterly Rock - pushed around in a wheelchair because he was too weak to move. He was already a crippled, disgraced dwarf - why add anything else to the list?

'Cripple,' purred Cersei. 'I should have had Qyburn add that mark to you as well...'

"Is everything alright my lord?" asked Henly.

"I-I'm fine," said Tyrion. "Thank you for your assistance Maester."

"No one will make you use the wheelchair if you're not ready," said Henly, lifting an eyebrow. "I'm sure Queen Sansa would like your company though."

"Why would anyone want my company?"

"Hmm. Ruling is a lonely burden, and you're a clever man. I'm sure she would appreciate your advice on matters."

"I'm not clever," he said softly. "I can't help Sansa either."

The mark on his chest prickled, like a mocking reminder of what he'd once been. All his belief in Daenerys had been for nothing. For all his supposed cleverness he'd failed to see he'd fallen out of favour with her, or that she might betray him. Sansa was a Queen now, why would she want his advice or even his company? He wasn't a lord, he was an imp; a little monster who brought misery to everyone around him.

Tyrion pulled the blanket closer, avoiding the Maester's probing gaze. It was better he stayed in here.

He couldn't disappoint anyone, and no one could disappoint him.

Jon's frown deepened as he listened to Sansa and the Maester. A few guards would see Henly safely to White Harbour, where the Queen had arranged passage south for him. Jon had joined Sansa to see him off, hearing more than his sister probably wanted him to know as they walked to the main gate.

"Your Grace, I am quite concerned about lord Tyrion," said Henly. "He's no interest in leaving the bed or regaining his strength. Yvette and Maester Wolkan have noticed the same whenever they visit him."

"You're welcome to stay," said Sansa. "If Tyrion still needs your care..."

He shook his head. "This isn't something I can fix your Grace. His injuries are healing, the rest is up to him. I tell you my concerns only because I believe you can help."

"I don't want to force my company on Tyrion if he wants some time alone," said Sansa, lowering her eyes. "You said we need to restore trust with him and that means respecting his boundaries."

"Indeed. It is vitally important lord Tyrion regains the confidence to determine his own boundaries, but in this case that work may need to come second..."

The Maester trailed off and Jon caught Sansa giving him a look; as if warning him off saying more.

"I'll make sure he knows there is help available," said Sansa. "He knows he can leave the bed?"

"Yes, I've offered him the use of the wheelchair multiple times," said Henly.

"No man wants to be seen in a wheelchair," said Jon, drawing their attention. "Especially if you already see yourself as weak."

"Quite right," said Henly. "It is unfortunate, but it's the best way for him to regain his strength - however much it hurts his pride."

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about," said Sansa, pursing her lips. "Tyrion isn't weak."

"Aye, but that's not how he sees it," said Jon.

They stopped at the gate, where the guards were readying the horses. Getting any information about Tyrion had been difficult the past few days. As far as he knew Sansa hadn't visited him since he learned the extent of the damage to his hand but Jon wasn't entirely sure why. Her ban on him or Arya visiting made a little more sense - she feared they'd tell Tyrion of the marriage - but it had surprised Jon how Sansa was keeping her distance. The extent of her feelings towards him had been painfully obvious in Kings Landing, but now the Queen seemed determined to hide it.

"Thank you Maester," said Sansa, clasping the man's hand. "Without your patience and care, Tyrion wouldn't have had a chance."

"You're quite welcome your Grace," said Henly. "I wish you and lord Tyrion the best. I've done all I can to help his body recover, the rest is in his hands."

Jon shook hands with him, but hung back as Sansa walked him to his horse. It was clear enough his presence was preventing them from talking freely. The whispers in Winterfell painted a sickly image of Tyrion - the lord of Casterly Rock was talked about as if he was a ghost. As Jon watched Sansa whispering with the Maester a knot of tension curled in his stomach. Sansa had no need to hide her feelings for Tyrion, especially around her family, but if what he'd heard was true Tyrion needed her friendship more than ever.

"Would you like the drapes opening m'lord?"

"No, thank you."

"Shall I get you dressed m'lord? You're awake in time to break your fast in the Great Hall."

Tyrion shook his head. "That won't be necessary."

It was tempting to tell Yvette he wasn't a lord, but despite telling her every day for the week and a half he'd been awake the woman continued to call him as such.

"Is there anything you need?" she asked. "I can bring you books..."

Yvette was persistent, he had to give her that. Respectful too. Every day she came to his chambers to clean him, help him use the chamber pot and bring him food. Every day she did it cheerfully, but it was impossible to miss the hint of concern in her eyes.

Perhaps she was worried Sansa would think her lazy, when that couldn't be further from the truth. It wasn't her fault he couldn't face food, and preferred to hide in the darkness of the room. Maester Henly had left yesterday, leaving only Yvette and Maester Wolkan to deal with. It was hard to say what had come over him, but this morning he'd tested the rules. When Wolkan knocked on the door and asked if he could enter Tyrion said no. Silence had fallen for a heart-pounding minute before Wolkan replied.

"Very well my lord. I shall return later."

It was better the Maester didn't come in. The man would try and get him to leave the bed; try to fix him - it was a waste of everybody's time. He'd refuse Yvette entry too, but he was too useless to use the chamber pot and he really didn't want to sit in his own shit and piss.

He rubbed at his face, watching Yvette from the corner of his eye. The servant seemed keen to do something, and there was perhaps one thing she could do for him. His voice was raspy as he forced the words out. Lords gave orders, not imps.

"Could you..."

She straightened up. "Yes, m'lord?"

"Will you take it out?" asked Tyrion, nodding towards the unused wheelchair.

"Oh...the Maester says you can use it." Yvette smiled nervously. "I'm sure the Queen would like to see you around the castle. We could visit her-"

"I can't..." he said, shaking his head. "Please. I-I don't want to see it..."

Yvette looked between him and the wheelchair before sighing. "Aye, m'lord. Is there anything else?"

"No. Thank you."

Tyrion turned away from her, wincing at the way his body protested the small movement. He listened to her moving the wheelchair but waited until he heard the door shut before he turned his attention to what used to be his dominant hand. The hand was there; he could see it - but it wouldn't respond to him.

A dull ache spread through the appendage as he tried to move his fingers. The last three just about twitched, and his index finger moved marginally more. His thumb had the most movement but even then it would only move a quarter of an inch. His eyes fell on the puckered scar across the palm as heat burned the back of his eyes.

Putting his hand in fire would hurt less than the agony spreading from the appendage and up his arm. Whatever potion Qyburn had given him was still in full effect - he felt everything but could move nothing. As soon as the failed Maester finished the stitches Cersei took hold of his hand, waving the useless limb at him and sending red hot agony through his arm.

"That's better isn't it?" she said, a smirk on her lips. "A useless hand for the dragon whore's useless hand."

Cersei pulled his arm across him, dropping his ruined hand on top of the mark on his chest. Tyrion groaned, tears streaming down his face.

Qyburn leaned over him, a piece of white glinting in some forceps. "Fascinating isn't it? Most people are ignorant of what their bodies are made up of, but you have the privilege of seeing a piece with your own eyes."

Bile clawed up his throat as the Maester placed the piece of bone in a jar. Cersei was enjoying his pain. Her green eyes were as bright as wildfire as she loomed over him. "Still think the dragon bitch is coming to save you, little brother? Perhaps I should send her that piece of you - at least then she'd have part of her hand back..."

A shiver ran through Tyrion at the memory, and then another until he was shaking on the bed. His good hand closed around the blankets, tugging them tighter around himself. He'd never be free from Cersei - she may be dead but her mark was all over him. The hand of the Queen mark burned on his chest, beneath the bandages. He couldn't get rid of them. Cersei and Daenerys.

His sister and his Queen.

His abuser and betrayer.

They'd wanted to kill each other, but they'd both agreed he was worth nothing. Daenerys left him in the lion's den, and Cersei made sure the encounter would forever leave him scarred. His skin crawled. Why couldn't they leave him alone? They were dead but their cruelty would always live with him.

"I thought it best you know my Queen."

Sansa nodded, weariness settling over her. "Thank you, Yvette. Continue to call upon him at the usual times. The news about his hand has upset him..."

"He's getting worse your Grace. He doesn't eat, barely drinks and won't let the drapes be opened."

"Yes, Maester Wolkan has told me the same. Keep trying with him."

The servant bowed, leaving Sansa to her growing headache. In the days since Henly left Tyrion had withdrawn more than ever. This wasn't the first time Yvette had brought her concerns before her, and Maester Wolkan had done the same only the hour before. The day before last he'd refused to see Wolkan and had refused the man every time he knocked since. This morning he'd refused Yvette too.

The Queen pushed back from the desk, her stomach twisting. It had been five days since she last saw Tyrion, and each day she'd struggled with whether to visit him or not. Finding an excuse had proven the biggest problem. Tyrion would wonder why she was calling for no reason and she didn't want to bother him if he wanted privacy. She paused at the door, turning to her bookcase and pulling out an old book of Northern history. Tyrion had often admired Winterfell's extensive library and this was a rare book - a good reason to see him.

With every step towards Tyrion's chambers, her heart beat a little faster. The few times she'd seen him since he woke up hadn't gone well. Tyrion would barely look at her, and when he did the pain in his eyes had pulled at her heart. It was tempting to reach out to him in those moments - too tempting. He was struggling to come to terms with all that had happened, and telling him of their marital status was an unfair burden to add to him, no matter what Jon and Arya constantly told her. It was easy for them. They didn't have to face Tyrion and explain it to him. He could hate her - accuse her of using him.

She stopped outside the door to his chambers, clutching the book in one hand. As much as she told herself she didn't want to bother Tyrion, part of her was eager to see him. Yvette and Maester Wolkan had painted a grim image of Tyrion but surely it wasn't that bad. She'd been lost and unresponsive after losing her mother and Robb - he just needed time.

Tyrion held his breath as a knock sounded on the door.

"Can I come in my lord?"

It was Sansa, but why was she here?

'She's getting rid of you,' said Daenerys. 'There are Lannister guards outside the room right now...'

'Time to take you away,' said Cersei. 'They'll finish what I started.'

His heart slammed against his chest as he slid against the headboard. Sansa must have had enough of him, but he wasn't sure why. He'd done everything he could to stay silent - to stay out of the way. Was it too much to hope he could hide away in Winterfell and be forgotten?

'I told you, no one wants a little monster' whispered Cersei.

Daenerys joined her. 'I tried to save you, but you were a lost cause - a loose end...'

Tyrion screwed his eyes shut as the voices assaulted him. Why wouldn't they leave him alone? He never wanted to be this creature. All his life he'd been tormented for being a dwarf, but now he was a cripple too. The Maesters, Sansa - they all thought he could be lord Tyrion Lannister again, but that man was dead.

"Tyrion?" called Sansa.

She was kind, perhaps she could help him...

No. He was a murderous little monster - this was all he deserved. No one could help him. If only the voices would stop. Daenerys and Cersei wouldn't leave him alone. His skin crawled. This body barely felt like his own anymore, and how could it be - not when those words were on his skin. Everyone who saw him knew what he was. Cersei had degraded him in every way possible, and even in death, her poison was killing him.

Soft footsteps drew his attention to the door, and the sound of Sansa walking away.

Somewhere in his mind, a sane piece of him urged him to call out and seek her help. The lone voice was drowned out by a thousand others, all reminding him what he was, telling him he deserved this.

If he could silence the voices maybe things would be better. Maybe that tiny voice in his soul might sound more convincing.

Sansa's regal face was failing her tonight. All through dinner Arya had noticed the cracks in her sister's facade. With many of the lords and ladies drifting off to their chambers and the rest distracted amongst themselves Arya decided to breach the subject.

"What's bothering you?" she asked.

Sansa blinked as if waking from a daydream. "Nothing."

"It's something."

"I'm fine."

"Is it Lannister?" The ripple of unease that passed over Sansa's face was all the answer Arya needed. "How is he?"

"I..."

"Don't pretend," said Arya, rolling her eyes. "How many hours did you spend with him?"

Sansa bit her lip, lowering her voice. "He didn't answer when I knocked on his door. I tried a couple of times but got no response."

"Oh."

Awkward. While Arya knew her sister had held back from visiting Tyrion she hadn't known he'd refused to see her. The back of Arya's neck tingled, filling her with unease. The only person Sansa was fooling was herself. Her reluctance to visit Tyrion had nothing to do with him and everything to do with fearing what time in his company could mean. Sansa was hiding from the possibility of rejection rather than facing the more likely scenario of acceptance. From the whispers Arya had heard, and what Jon had overheard from Maester Henly, Tyrion wasn't well enough to accept or reject Sansa's affection. He needed a friend but his closest friend was hiding.

"Maybe he was asleep," offered Arya.

"Maybe."

"You should keep trying though."

"Arya, if he doesn't want-"

"It's not about what he wants. You can keep me and Jon away all you want, but I've heard enough to know he doesn't know what's good for him. If you love Lannister-"

Sansa's eyes narrowed. "Keep your voice down!"

"-then be damned with what anyone else thinks, including Tyrion. He needs a friend whether he likes it or not."

"You don't understand."

Arya lifted an eyebrow. "I know spending days alone in a room isn't good for anyone. He spent weeks in the black cells, and by all accounts, he's trying to turn his chambers into the same thing."

"Did Yvette tell you that?"

"Seven hells. Windows work both ways Sansa - I know from the outside of the castle which room is Robb's, and I know the drapes haven't been opened in days. Yvette says nothing about Tyrion but the rest of the servants talk. He's not eating and sitting alone all day in a dark room. If that's not a cry for help I don't know what is."

Sansa dropped her gaze to her lap, fiddling with her hands. "You're right."

"So you'll drag him out of his room?"

"I'll try again in the morning. We're the only family he has now, it's up to us to take care of him."

"Who said we? He's your problem."

Sansa's mouth twitched upwards. "You don't mean that."

"Fine. He's Jon's problem too."

Strange dreams were a regular occurrence for Sansa. In Winterfell her dreams were always worse, a fact she blamed on Ramsay and the horrors she'd endured at his hands. Nightmares plagued her more nights than not and were part of the reason she preferred the rooms around her chamber to be empty.

Tonight her dreams had taken an unexpected route.

Sansa wandered the grounds of Winterfell, her feet following the paths she'd known since childhood. A chill went through her as her wandering took her to the Godswood. Winterfell was her home but it had once been her prison, and her dreams often returned her to that dark time. The Godswood was still as she entered the trees, but it wasn't unwelcoming. She'd been wed to a monster here, forever darkening what was a sacred place in their family. Sansa tried not to think of that. Rather than Ramsay she thought of Bran, and the hours he would spend beneath the heart tree.

As soon as the thought crossed her mind she found herself wandering towards the heart tree. With every step her heart beat a little faster. Something was wrong. The stillness of the Godswood wasn't frightening, so much as it was full of warning. The heart tree held the answer but whatever awaited her wouldn't be pleasant, that much she was sure of.

She quickened her pace, her nerves tingling as she rounded the corner to the heart tree. At once she froze. Shock quickly gave way to a smile.

A lion sat in front of the heart tree, with glinting green eyes. Her joy was short-lived as the details became clearer. The lion had instantly reminded her of Tyrion, but the closer she looked the less certain she was. It held its head high, a smirk pulling at its mouth.

"Tyrion?" she asked.

The lion's smirk faded as it tilted its head to stare at her. No, it wasn't Tyrion. Similar but not the same - the eyes weren't right. Sansa stepped closer, a chill creeping through her.

"You're not Tyrion," she said.

The lion shook its shaggy head, sadness sweeping through its eyes.

"I don't understand," said Sansa.

A cold wind wrapped around Sansa as the Godswood grew darker. Something was wrong. Of all the dreams and nightmares she'd had this was different; something older, more powerful…

"Please," said Sansa, stepping closer to the lion. "You're here for a reason but I don't understand what it is."

The lion tilted its head, staring into her eyes. A shiver ran through Sansa. It was here to tell her something, but whatever it was the lion had no words to use. Whatever the lion was looking for in her expression it seemed to find. Turning its head from her, the lion looked towards the looming figure of Winterfell and roared in a way that didn't fit the lion. It wasn't a proud, fear-inducing roar, but one filled with sorrow, as if the lion was sorry it couldn't help. If anything, it reminded Sansa of the way wolves communicated with their pack. When Lady was killed the rest of the pack had known, and made their grief heard…

The dream was already fading when understanding came to her. The lion tore its gaze from the castle to meet hers, charging her with the task it couldn't complete. It was in her last view of the lion she noticed it was missing a front paw…

Sansa jerked awake, her heart pounding in her chest. She scrambled from the bed, tossing the furs aside in her hurry. She couldn't be too late. Her stomach lurched. Gods, if she was too late…

All the fears and uncertainties that had plagued her since returning North quickly faded to nothing. The only thing that mattered was reaching Tyrion.