Chapter 17
Sansa's legs trembled beneath her as she hurried through the corridors of Winterfell. Was her dream truly a warning, or merely a vivid dream? It didn't matter which it was - she would know no peace until she laid eyes on Tyrion. The haste with which she'd fled her chambers had startled the guards who minded her corridor, and Sansa didn't doubt whispers would soon spread through Winterfell. None of that mattered as long as she reached Tyrion.
When Sansa reached the door to his chambers she opened it without a second thought, all ideas of giving him space and privacy dissolving in her panic. Her eyes darted to the bed, freezing when she saw it empty.
She opened her mouth to call his name until movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. His name died on her lips as she found Tyrion across the room. Stood in front of the lone mirror tucked in the corner of the room, the lord of Casterly Rock was stark naked as he stared at his reflection - a knife clutched in his left hand.
The Queen froze as her mind struggled to comprehend the situation. Somehow Tyrion had made it from the bed to the mirror, though he was swaying where he stood. His shift was discarded on the floor and looked as if he'd resorted to cutting it off. The bandages around his chest and shoulder were in tatters, and his damaged hand was rubbing at something on his chest. Tyrion hadn't moved at her entrance, nor did he seem to realise anyone else was in the room.
In one second Sansa analysed the scene and in the next she was moving. She saw the tears trickling from his eyes and the exhaustion etched on his face. She noted the awkward way he was holding himself as he stood for the first time in weeks and the way he was trembling at the effort. Most importantly, she noticed the knife in his left hand and where he was raising it too.
"No!" Sansa dropped to her knees behind him, snaking her arms around him and pressing him against her.
He flinched at the contact, shuddering as if he feared pain would follow. The hand holding the knife froze, hovering barely an inch from her hand.
"Please Tyrion - put the knife down."
"Have to do it...or they'll never leave me... "
"No one else is here. It's just us."
He shook his head, a sob breaking from him. "They won't leave. If I get rid of it maybe they will..."
Sansa's heart pounded as she tightened her grip. The last thing she wanted to do was startle him while he had a knife, and the only thing separating the blade from its target was her hand.
"That won't work," she said gently. "You won't be hurting them, you'll only hurt yourself."
"I don't want it," he said. The knife trembled in his hand. "Don't want to be an imp, a kinslayer...a little monster...I don't want to be her hand!"
"They're cruel taunts and nothing more. That isn't who you are," she said. "I'll help you, just please, drop the knife."
Indecision tore across Tyrion's face and Sansa didn't dare move from her position. Her left hand covered the hand of the Queen tattoo, with the sleeve of her robe covering the word 'imp' on his ribs. Her right hand wrapped across him to cover 'Kinslayer' from view. It was a difficult argument to make. Sansa knew if it was her she'd want the cruel words gone too, but Tyrion would only mutilate himself to make them disappear. As painful as the truth was, Cersei and Daenerys were dead and the only person Tyrion would be hurting was himself.
He wasn't well. If anything he looked worse than the last time she'd visited him. How he'd made it from the bed to the mirror was anyone's guess but Sansa knew he wasn't well enough for it. His right arm was dangling at his side and he was leaning in that direction, lessening the pressure on his broken leg. Her stomach twisted. His leg and shoulder were close to being healed but he needed to rebuild his strength gradually - she could only hope he hadn't set that progress back.
She leaned her head over his left shoulder, studying their reflection. Tyrion's eyes were wide and unfocused, undoubtedly a product of little sleep and not enough food. With his body in such a vulnerable state, his mind had given in to desperation.
'I'm so sorry,' she thought. 'I never should have kept my distance from you.'
Blame would have to wait. She'd promised to protect Tyrion, even if that meant protecting him from himself.
He squirmed in her grasp, trying and failing to move from her grip. "Please...have to do it..."
"I'm not moving," she said firmly, before softening her tone. "I won't let you hurt yourself Tyrion. I should have been here for you, but I'm here now."
Tyrion continued to struggle but he simply didn't have the strength. Without her arms around him Sansa suspected he would have already fallen over. The knife was shaking in his hand, hovering near his chest where her hand refused to grant him access to the tattoo. They stayed like that for a minute, with Tyrion struggling and she refusing to budge.
The knife clattered against the floor, followed by a sob from Tyrion. The cry was the first but far from the last. Sansa could only guess what had been going through Tyrion's mind since he woke in Winterfell, but if the sobs coming from him were any indication it wasn't pleasant.
"Sorry..." he said, shaking like a leaf. "...I'm sorry..."
"Shh, it's alright," she said.
Tears stung at her own eyes as the weight of what could have been landed on her shoulders, but she couldn't afford to focus on her failures right now. Whether he liked it or not Tyrion needed someone to care for him.
She held him against her for a moment, bracing for what would have to now happen.
'I'm sorry,' she thought, 'but If you won't look after yourself I will.'
"Come on," said Sansa, carefully turning him from the mirror and the discarded knife. "Let's sit by the hearth."
Jon rubbed at his face. "You shouldn't be following Sansa."
"Sansa shouldn't run from her room in the middle of the night wearing nothing but a shift and robe if she doesn't want to be followed."
"You don't approve of her choice of dress?"
Arya paused her pacing. "Sansa is a Queen. We both know there's only one person Sansa would leave her chambers for in such an unladylike fashion."
"Leave them alone Arya."
"The ungrateful little shit won't leave his room, barely eats, sleeps or speaks and still causes problems."
Jon straightened in the armchair, levelling a glare at his sister. "That's enough. You know as well as I do what Tyrion went through."
"It's been weeks. Daenerys and Cersei are dead."
"Gods Arya, that doesn't mean he can just move on from it."
"Why not?"
It was there again. Talking to Arya often brought him back to their childhood and who they'd once been, but more than once his sister had said or done something that made her seem like a stranger. Bran and Sansa were just as bad, but he'd always been close to Arya. It would be naive to think his siblings hadn't changed - he surely had - but now and then they seemed like strangers. Arya's insistence that Tyrion should, firstly, be over the weeks of torture he suffered and secondly, be grateful to them for staying at Winterfell was as cold-hearted as it was chilling. One look at his sister's grey eyes made it clear she saw nothing wrong with what she'd said.
Jon softened his tone, locking eyes with his sister. "You know why, and I'm not going to explain it to you."
Arya met his gaze readily and Jon held it. A moment passed before something shifted in her expression, moving her from a cold-blooded killer to Arya Stark of Winterfell.
"Fine," she said. "Let's go then."
"Go where?"
"To see Tyrion."
Jon froze before a smile cracked across his face. "It's the middle of the night."
"And?"
"We don't know what's happened."
"I know Sansa ran into his chambers. I know she sent for the Maester and servants."
Jon shook his head. "We're here if Sansa needs us, but I doubt we'd be any help to either of them right now.
"I don't understand," said Arya, lifting an eyebrow. "You and Sansa demand I be supportive, and when I try to be it's wrong."
"Your timing needs work."
She dropped into the chair opposite him. "You'll have plenty of time to tell me about it. You won't let me spy on Sansa and there's no way I'll sleep now - guess I'll have to keep you company."
The circumstances were poor but it would be nice to spend time with his sister. He'd know no sleep until he was certain Sansa didn't need them and the night was long. Searching for Arya behind her cold mask was as good of a way to spend it as any.
There was no easy way to comfort Tyrion, and it was anyone's guess how aware he was of his surroundings. He'd sobbed continuously since Sansa guided him from the mirror, as if all his fear and pain was escaping him at once. It was long overdue, she decided. Maester Henly had warned her Tyrion would need to face what happened to him and she'd been naive to think giving him space was the best way for him to do it.
She rubbed his back, keeping him pressed against her. "It's alright. Shh, the Maester is only here to check you're ok."
Tyrion gave no sign of hearing her but continued to cry as Wolkan examined him. Getting Tyrion to the chaise hadn't been easy. Dropping the knife seemed to extinguish whatever energy he had left and she half carried him the short distance. She'd wrapped a blanket around his waist to give him some privacy but Tyrion was so lost in his misery he barely seemed to notice he was naked beside her. Talking to him in this state was impossible. After settling him on the chaise she'd tried talking with him, offering a friendly ear for his troubles, but all she'd coaxed from him was self-depreciation. If there was a way for him to insult himself he'd found it, starting with how he was an 'imp' and moving quickly through how he was a murderous monster to being a crippled dwarf.
"I'm stupid..." he said, sniffing. "Trusted her...she killed my brother..."
"You're not stupid," said Sansa. "You believed Daenerys was your friend, and she was, but in the end the madness got her. It's not your fault - you couldn't have known."
"She liked burning people...should have burned me too."
She tightened her arm around him. "Don't say that. She's dead, but you're still here. I know it's hard now, but things will get better..."
Tyrion trembled as she drew him against her, falling back into his despair. She locked eyes with Wolkan as the Maester moved back from him.
"I've applied new bandages, my Queen," he said. "Everything seems to be in order, but it will be best I check again when lord Tyrion is more...calm."
"Thank you," she said. "Is he..."
"Exhausted," said Wolkan, lowering his voice. "Tiredness and hunger can do strange things to the mind. As can trauma."
Sansa nodded, her stomach rolling. "Lord Tyrion will need something to help him sleep. Have it ready for when he's finished his dinner."
Wolkan lifted an eyebrow but nodded. "Of course my Queen. Is there anything else?"
"Send Yvette to the kitchen. I'll send for you when he's finished eating."
It was the furthest thing from what she wanted to do, but tonight had shown her it was necessary. Tyrion shuffled against her but she refused to relinquish her hold on him. He'd repeated the same pattern since she got him on the chaise, lurching between accepting her comfort and shame for what had happened. It was hard to tell for certain, but Sansa didn't think he truly understood what was going on. Unlike the confusion that had plagued him in Kings Landing, his current state was self-made - a scenario Maester Henly had warned her of as he prepared to leave Winterfell.
"Restoring lord Tyrion's sense of self and confidence is of the utmost importance," said the Maester, "but based on what I've seen it may need to come second."
"To what?" asked Sansa. "If he's unwell you should stay."
"It's not something I can fix your Grace, as I've told you before. I say this only to warn you; if lord Tyrion will not engage with the help offered you have but two options."
"What options would those be?"
Henly's voice was soft but his words were not. "You can let him continue down this path that leads to death, or you can take the decisions for his wellbeing away from him."
"No," said Sansa, biting her lip. "He's getting better. The news about his hand hurt him, but he never stays down for long. He'll pick himself up."
The Maester's eyes were full of pity. "I hope so my Queen, for both your sakes..."
Sansa wrapped another blanket around Tyrion as a knock sounded on the door. He was trembling against her, staring at the floor as he tried to contain his emotions. It was a losing battle - Tyrion had worn himself down to the point his mind was mastering him rather than the other way around.
"Enter," called Sansa.
Tyrion tried to curl into himself as Yvette approached the chaise, but Sansa tugged him against her instead, tilting him so he leaned back against her. Yvette's eyes widened at the state of Tyrion but she did not comment on it.
"You sent for me your Grace?" she said, bowing her head.
"Yes, lord Tyrion is ready for some dinner," said Sansa, locking eyes with the woman. "He hasn't been well and would appreciate it if word of this didn't leave the room."
"Oh!" said Yvette, quickly nodding her head. "Of course your Grace. I serve you and lord Tyrion - I keep your confidence."
"I'm not a lord..." said Tyrion, rubbing at his eyes with his good hand.
"Of course you are," said Sansa.
"No...can't..." He tensed as a sob wracked his body, despite his attempts to stifle it. "Don't want it."
"It's alright," said Sansa, rubbing his back. "Don't worry about that now. You need some food and proper sleep. Yvette's brought you dinner."
He shook his head as the servant moved towards them, steam wafting from the bowl in her hands.
"It's a good soup m'lord."
"Can't eat...please..."
Sansa's heart lurched. "You have to."
Yvette was quiet but her eyes were flicking between her and Tyrion, unsure how to proceed.
Whether it was embarrassment, trauma or something else, Sansa didn't know, but Tyrion tried once again to move away from her. Without the strength to move properly, she could only assume he sought to hide his face in the cushions of the chaise, but it wasn't something she could allow - no matter how much it hurt her.
"Lean against me," said Sansa. "You need to eat this."
She nodded at Yvette and the woman hesitated as Tyrion dropped his head forwards.
"Please...just leave me..." he said.
"That isn't going to happen," said Sansa, ignoring the twinge in her chest. "You're going to have some dinner Tyrion, even if we're here all night."
Minutes passed with Sansa propping Tyrion against her and Yvette hovering at their side. He was still shaking as tears slipped from his eyes. The sight broke Sansa's heart but not as much as the scene she could have walked into. The urge to wrap her arms around Tyrion properly and hold him close ate at her, but it was better for both of them if they didn't cross that line tonight. Tomorrow she would have to face their situation, but tonight Tyrion needed a friend. Giving into her heart when he was so vulnerable wasn't fair to either of them. Despite her resolve, Sansa wrapped her arms loosely around him, keeping his arms down as Yvette approached with the bowl.
"No..." he said, eyeing the spoon as if it was filled with poison. "Please..."
"Yvette will help you tonight," said Sansa. "You're not well enough - I can feel your hands shaking."
Sansa tried to focus on anything else as Yvette fed him the soup. With nowhere to move Tyrion had no choice but to surrender to the warm food being spooned into his mouth, but it was a victory Sansa hadn't wanted to win. Feeding him in Kings Landing was different - he wasn't really aware - but this Tyrion knew what was going on. As muddled as his mind was tonight he understood enough to be ashamed, and Sansa felt it in every cry that escaped him.
"Shh," she soothed, her voice shaking. "It's alright. You'll get your strength back - this is temporary. It's all temporary."
She pulled her eyes from the sight of Yvette feeding him, focusing on the back of Tyrion's head instead. Over the course of their journey from Kings Landing his hair had begun to grow back, even if his face remained bare. Sansa focused on the growing hair, noting how it was a darker gold than Joffrey's had been. As a stupid girl, she'd loved the prince's bright golden hair but now the thought made her nauseous. Tyrion's darker gold was a far nicer colour, and she loved the curls...
Without thinking she leaned her head against his, letting the soft, short strands brush against her face as a tear trickled down her cheek.
'You feel so alone Tyrion, but that's not true,' she thought. 'I'm here for you my love.'
As useful as his little birds were, Varys found he didn't always like the songs they sang. He read the note for what could have been the tenth time, searching for any meaning he might have missed. The first weeks of Bran's reign were interesting to say the least. To some degree, Varys was used to reading Kings and Queens - seeing what they might do before they did it. With Bran there was nothing. The new King was as unreadable as he was prone to vague instructions.
'Watch the Westerlands.'
What or who Varys was watching for the King didn't say, but the note in his hand proved Bran was right.
Badger gathers, Rooster feathers the nest.
Lord Lydden and Ser Harys Swyft. This note wasn't the first he'd received but it was the clearest warning that something was afoot. Lannister rule was absolute in the Westerlands, with any opposition cowed by Tywin Lannister or wiped out through years of war. There was no clear successor to house Lannister in the Westerlands and for any ambitious houses, Tyrion was their best chance.
A chance that had gone North with Sansa Stark.
Varys sighed, tapping his fingers on the table. The King would want to know, but uncovering plots across Westeros wasn't easy, particularly when there were so many moving parts to consider.
When Tyrion peeled his eyes open it was to an unexpected sight. He winced as the light of the day spilt into his chambers, followed by the soft patter of Yvette as she tidied the room. He lay still, maintaining the pretence of sleep for as long as he could. Judging by the light coming into the room it was just past midday, but that couldn't be right. He'd struggled to grab more than a couple of hours of sleep for days...
Memories of last night crashed into Tyrion like a wall of ice. Some of it was muddled, but not enough to shield him from his shame. Gods, what had he done? Now his mind was clear his actions last night seemed all the more irrational. He remembered dragging himself from the bed and taking a knife from his uneaten dinner plate. He remembered moving to the mirror and his desperate plan to rid himself of Cersei and Daenerys.
Tyrion squeezed his eyes shut as his heart constricted - he remembered who stopped him from hurting himself. Why had he decided that was a good idea? The bitter tinge of nightshade was still on his tongue, giving some clarity to the hazy image of Sansa and Wolkan putting him back in the bed. After a night of rest and in the light of day his actions last seemed ridiculous. His leg was propped on a pillow and throbbing angrily after last night's exertion. The rest of his body was in no better state, aching as if he'd lost a trial by combat with Gregor Clegane. None of that held a candle to the shame quickly consuming him. He'd thought Sansa had seen him at his lowest in Kings Landing, but there were apparently new levels to sink to. How could he ever look her in the eye again knowing what she'd seen? For all the kindness she'd shown him he'd thrown it back in her face. Not only had she seen him with the knife but she'd endured the horror of seeing him undressed. Some of last night was a blur, but he remembered the Maester checking him, and Sansa holding him still as Yvette fed him...
Vomit burned the back of his throat. He'd never wanted Sansa to see him like this - she must be disgusted. Perhaps he could leave Winterfell quietly. Sneak through a back door and disappear. He braced his good arm against the bed, intending to push himself upwards. As soon as he moved the room spun around him, and his arm shook like a leaf in a storm. He dropped back against the pillows, his throat tightening. Whatever strength he'd used to leave the bed last night had deserted him in the light of day.
His efforts hadn't gone unnoticed however. The creak of the bed drew Yvette's attention, and the servant was quick to make her way over to him.
"Afternoon, m'lord," she said, bowing her head.
Tyrion couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze. The bulk of his shame was that Sansa had seen him last night, but Yvette had seen too, and had the unfortunate task of feeding him.
"Are you ready for lunch m'lord?" she asked.
"Oh...I...no, thank you," he said, adding quietly. "Could you close the drapes before you leave?"
If he couldn't leave the bed to escape he could at least hide in the darkness. Perhaps Sansa would forget about him - surely she wanted to. It was hard to remember what she'd said last night but Tyrion knew she'd been exceptionally kind to him, and it was a kindness he certainly didn't deserve. The least he could do now was leave her in peace.
It took him a moment to realise Yvette hadn't moved. The woman shifted from foot to foot, fiddling with her skirts.
"Is there anything particular I can get for your lunch m'lord?" she asked.
"Um...I'm not very hungry..."
"The soup is good today," she said, a note of pleading in her voice. "I'll have someone bring it up."
Yvette was always keen to serve him, but she was usually easy to dismiss too. Something had changed, and it was enough to set his nerves on edge.
"Thank you," he said, "but I'd rather be alone right now, if you don't mind. I can eat later."
The older woman bowed her head. "I'm sorry m'lord, but I've got orders."
"From who?"
She avoided his gaze. "I'll send for the soup. It should be here by the time you're dressed."
"Dressed?" His heart picked up pace. "Am I going somewhere?"
A knock echoed around the room, snapping his attention to the door. To Tyrion's horror the door opened a moment later. That wasn't right. Since he woke in Winterfell no one had come into his chambers without his permission. It was Maester Wolkan who entered, but Tyrion was more focused on what he was pushing - and the two Winterfell guards at his door. Wolkan paused as he pushed the wheelchair into the room, inclining his head towards him.
"Ah, it's good to see you awake lord Tyrion," he said, turning to Yvette. "Has he eaten yet?"
She shook his head. "Says he's not hungry."
"I see. Send for the food - you know what must be done."
Tyrion's stomach rolled at the conversation. What he wanted didn't seem to matter anymore.
Sansa stifled a yawn, rubbing her eyes as one piece of correspondence blurred into the next. Sleep had been all but impossible after last night, but tiredness was no excuse for her to neglect her duties. She glanced at the fire burning in the corner of the balcony. After all the damage to Winterfell in the long night parts of it had needed to be rebuilt, and she hadn't been able to resist making some changes. As keen as she was to continue the Stark legacy and maintain Winterfell as she'd known it in childhood, this castle had played host to one of the darkest times in her life.
Was it wrong that she'd instructed the building effort to let more light into Winterfell? Her father would likely disapprove of the balcony she'd added, claiming it was southern style without practical value, but to Sansa it was an escape. The balcony faced south, overlooking the courtyards of Winterfell. For all she now hated Kings Landing there was no denying how her years there had shaped her taste. When the walls of Winterfell lost their welcome and Ramsay's ghost reached out to haunt her she could come to her balcony and breathe. In the weeks since she'd been crowned it had quickly become one of her favourite places to think, and occasionally work. A fire burned at the side of the small balcony, keeping the cold at bay enough so she could sit here comfortably.
"Are you warm enough?" she asked, turning away from the fire to face her silent companion.
Tyrion hadn't looked up from his lap since he was rolled onto the balcony and Sansa was happy to give him some time to adjust. He'd spent weeks in the black cells, weeks drifting in and out of sleep and then the last two weeks in his chambers. As far as she was aware this was the first time he'd been in direct daylight for weeks.
"Would you like another blanket?" she asked. The patchwork blue blanket covered his lap and he'd been dressed in some of the heavy winter clothes she'd had made for him. They hung off his malnourished frame but it was still nice to see Tyrion dressed like a lord once more.
Sansa waited, pushing aside her correspondence. She'd tried and failed to carry on with work while giving Tyrion a chance to work through whatever was on his mind, but the conversation couldn't be put off forever - no matter how much either of them wanted to.
She smiled, turning her chair to face him properly. "You look better today. Is there anything-"
"I'm sorry," he said, dropping his head forwards. "Your Grace, last night...I'm sorry..."
"You've nothing to apologise for."
"Your Grace-"
"Sansa. We're alone Tyrion, there's no need for formalities."
The wheelchair was too big for Tyrion, and he seemed to shrink further into it. "What happened last night...I can't apologise enough..."
"You weren't well," said Sansa. "As I've said, you've nothing to apologise for."
"Of course I do!" He glanced up at her, his eyes dark with self-loathing. "I wasn't going to do that. Please don't think I was."
"I know," she said quickly.
"Truly Sansa, I wouldn't do that." He swallowed, curling his good hand around the arm of the wheelchair. "I'm in no rush to see my father and Cersei in the seven hells."
"You're not going to the seven hells," said Sansa, her stomach twisting. "I panicked when I saw you with the knife, but I realised what you were trying to do."
"It was stupid. I-I don't know what came over me..."
"You weren't well," she said again.
Her eyes swept over him, taking comfort from the clarity in his eyes that had been missing last night. Proper sleep and food - already he looked better. The results before her were enough to silence the doubt that had plagued her all morning. The plan she'd put in place with Maester Wolkan last night was the last thing she wanted to do, but it was clearly in Tyrion's best interests.
"It's the only way forwards my Queen," said Wolkan. "Lord Tyrion has made no attempt to help himself and without intervention it is inevitable he'll slip deeper into a dark place. What you witnessed tonight would almost certainly happen again if left unchecked."
Sansa's throat tightened as she nodded. It was the right thing to do. If Tyrion wouldn't take care of himself she'd make certain he was taken care of. "Very well. Spread the instructions throughout the Winterfell household. Tyrion is clever...if he's determined he'll find a way around Yvette and you. If all the guards and servants are clear on the system there'll be no problems."
The system had worked well enough today. Before Tyrion was brought to her she'd heard the first report from Maester Wolkan. He'd refused Yvette's offers of lunch and they'd moved to stage two. If Tyrion wouldn't eat for Yvette the Winterfell guards would do what was necessary to see he was fed. Her stomach twisted uneasily at the thought. She'd hand chosen several Winterfell guards to be assigned to Tyrion and made it very clear what was expected. If they had to hold Tyrion still or upright while he was fed they would do so with the minimum force required. Under no circumstances was Tyrion to be hurt, threatened or insulted. If Tyrion was still none compliant with stage two they would move to stage three and alert her - she'd feed him herself if she had to. She had no reason to doubt the guards she'd chosen and all had sworn on their lives to follow her orders. The captain of her guard had vouched for the men and reassured her they were loyal, trusted guards, but she couldn't help her unease.
The last thing she wanted was for Tyrion to be afraid in Winterfell, particularly when she'd told him to think of it as home. According to Wolkan he'd panicked as soon as the two guards entered the room and their presence alone had spurred him to eat the food. The Queen rubbed her temple. Godwin would quickly find out there were Stark guards positioned at Tyrion's door and would no doubt demand for the Lannister guards to do it. The presence of the guards wasn't to protect Tyrion from external threats though, it was to protect him from himself. Until she was certain Tyrion was well he would have to live with the system she'd arranged. Looking at him now she could see how uncomfortable he was at being in a wheelchair, and given the chance he'd have likely not left the room at all. Her heart ached at his distress, but if he was to heal she had to give Tyrion what he needed - not what he wanted.
"Am I your ward?" asked Tyrion, glancing sideways at her before returning his gaze to his lap.
"What? No. Tyrion, that's-"
"I don't mind," he said quickly.
"Why would you think that?"
"The guards at my door." He shuffled in the chair, huffing as he struggled to move. "I understand. House Lannister owes the North a debt - owes your family a debt."
She shook her head. "You're not here as my hostage, and there is no debt. If the Stark guards make you uncomfortable I can arrange for Godwin and the Lannister guards to do it."
His eyes shot to her, panic taking over his face. "No, please. I'll be good, I promise!"
It was hard to decide who was more surprised at Tyrion's outburst. The thought of Lannisters at his door appeared to have triggered something in Tyrion. In only a moment he'd gone from clear and rational to panicked like a caged animal. Sansa opened and closed her mouth as she struggled for a response, while Tyrion's rational mind caught up with what he'd just said. His cheeks burned red as he dropped his head away from her once more.
"Sorry..." he mumbled.
"It's alright," she said, her heart aching. "You're not my hostage Tyrion, and I swear the guards won't hurt you. The Lannister guards are under your control, and if you don't want them near you they'll stay away. My guards are only there to help you."
He bit his lip, nodding. "I see."
However resolved Sansa was to her course of action it did nothing to ease the awkwardness of Tyrion understanding the situation. It was hard to see how the conversation could go much worse. It was bad enough that Tyrion thought he might be her hostage as some sort of Northern revenge, but he now knew she'd put measures in place after last night's incident. Sansa breathed deeply, forcing herself to remain calm. It would be difficult but it would be better to be honest with Tyrion - Jon and Arya were right.
"I made you a promise in Kings Landing," said Sansa. "I promised that until you were well enough you were under my care. You aren't my hostage Tyrion, and I hope you believe that - but I won't let you leave either. After all you endured it will take you time to recover, and until I'm convinced you're well enough to look after yourself the Winterfell household will take care of you."
Tyrion's brow furrowed as he turned his gaze to hers. "Why? You owe me nothing. Leaving me to die in the black cells would have saved you a lot of trouble."
"Don't say that. I can't imagine the pain you're in right now, but there are people who care about you." She swallowed. "I care about you - I don't want you to die."
Green eyes peered at her with uncertainty but he inclined his head. "As you say, my Queen."
Sansa smiled. "Winterfell is yours, my lord, for as long as you like."
Tyrion snorted softly. "I'm no lord."
"Of course you are."
His response was so soft Sansa barely heard it. "I don't want to be."
This was hardly the way she'd imagined the conversation going, but she could only blame herself for putting it off for so long. Surely Tyrion had wondered why he'd been brought to Winterfell and then left alone for days on end. Guilt swirled in her stomach - it was no wonder he'd begun to think he was her ward. The guards at his room this morning had surely made him feel like a prisoner. She made a mental note to speak with the guards. Whether Tyrion liked it or not the guards would be in place until she was certain he was well - encouraging them to be friendly with Tyrion might ease any fear he had.
"I owe you an apology," she said. "I brought you here and then ignored you for days."
"You owe me nothing. You brought me into your home and I..." He swallowed, fiddling with the blanket on his lap. "I'm sorry."
Sansa bit back a sigh. They were going in circles but at least they were having a conversation. Talking Tyrion out of his guilt was as pointless as him denying her own. Her heart began to pick up pace as she considered what now needed to be discussed. The truth needed to come out but the thought of losing Tyrion terrified her. She swept her eyes over him, taking in the way he hunched in the wheelchair and kept staring at the floor. Seeing him out of bed and dressed like a lord thrilled her but he was a far cry from the man who'd left Winterfell.
"Not Theon, Reek! My name is Reek!"
The memory of Theon pierced her heart like a shard of glass. No. That wasn't Tyrion's fate. He was hurting and lost but she wouldn't let him lose himself. The urge to pull him into her arms nearly overwhelmed Sansa, but now wasn't the time. There was so much to work through and she had no idea if her affection would be welcomed or not. Sansa chewed her lip, searching for a way forwards that made the situation clear without putting any pressure on Tyrion. He needed to focus on getting better - the fluttering in her heart would have to wait until he was ready.
She smiled, hoping to reassure him. "Can I see your hand?"
Tyrion froze, his eyes flicking to hers. He hesitated a moment, before extending his right hand towards her. His arm trembled as he moved it - weak from his injured shoulder and weeks of no use. She took careful hold of the hand, running her fingers gently over the back. His fingers were curling inwards as she turned it over, her eyes resting on the puckered scar running across the palm.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
He wouldn't look at her as she examined the hand. "Not really."
One by one she stretched his fingers out, following the pattern Wolkan had shown Tyrion. The exercises were to strengthen his hand but she didn't need to be a Maester to know he wasn't doing them. Knowing the answer, she still asked the question. "Have you been doing the exercises?"
"Um, not yet."
Sansa carried on with the stretches, watching for any sign it hurt him as she continued. When they rescued him in Kings Landing Tyrion had been particularly sensitive to anyone touching the scars on his hand and knee where Qyburn had cut into him. He was far calmer now, but Sansa could feel the tension in him all the same.
'I won't hurt you,' she thought. 'Please believe that.'
She smiled as she released his hand. "Can I see your other hand?"
Heat flooded Tyrion's face at the realisation she'd wanted his left hand. "Oh...ugh, of course."
Unlike with his right, she squeezed his left hand, keeping it clasped in her own as she shuffled to the edge of her chair.
"There's something I need to tell you," she said. "I should have told you before now but I was worried you wouldn't take it well. It's the reason I haven't visited you as much as I should have."
"You've no need to visit me at all." He tried to hide it, but Sansa felt the tremble in his hand. "I'm sorry Sansa, truly I am. Please, I promise I won't trouble you anymore just don't let them take me."
"No one is taking you anywhere," she said quickly. "Gods, I'm sorry Tyrion. I'm making this worse, aren't I? Please don't worry."
It was hiding in his face - a spark of the pain she'd glimpsed last night. Food and sleep had helped him, but Tyrion had a long way to go to heal. As much as he was trying to hide it she now knew the vulnerability lurking behind his damaged mask and it only made her more cautious as she struggled to find the words.
"Bran didn't tell me - he never does - but he made some enquiries about... certain things. I only found out at Dragonstone, after Daenerys was dead."
He flinched at the name but Sansa forced herself to carry on, starting to unwind the bandages around his left hand.
"It turns out our marriage was never annulled. Littlefinger said it was and like a fool I believed him- of course, it wasn't annulled. A marriage between two powerful families couldn't be annulled by someone like him."
Tyrion's mouth fell open. "Sansa..."
"When Bran became King he appointed a new High Septon. He offered me an annulment and I...well..."
The bandages fell away from Tyrion's hand, revealing the gleaming direwolf ring resting snugly on his finger.
All of Sansa's excuses and apologies fell away at the smile spreading across Tyrion's face. For a moment his eyes brightened, giving Sansa a glimpse of a sight she'd start wars for. She found herself smiling as Tyrion lifted his hand to examine the ring.
"A direwolf," he said softly.
"A token. The lords of the Westerlands wanted to take you West and I wanted to take you North - I had no idea what you would want but I didn't trust the lords."
"You didn't take the annulment?"
"No. I-I thought it was better you came to Winterfell. The circumstances were unusual so the High Septon agreed I could bring you here if I refused an annulment and gave you a token to wear until we reached Winterfell." Tyrion's eyes widened and Sansa found her words tumbling out. "Nothing is permanent. Both parties usually need to request an annulment. I forfeited my right but you still have yours - the High Septon will accept your request."
"Oh...yes," he said, ducking his head. "Of course. By all means, send the letter in my name. I truly appreciate all you've done for me Sansa - I won't stand in the way of your happiness any longer."
"No!"
Sansa slammed her mouth shut as soon as the word left her. Gods, why couldn't this be easy? Jon and Arya had implored her to have this conversation with Tyrion for days but it was easy for them - they didn't need to tell the one they loved they were married. They didn't need to tread softly, protecting two fragile hearts that had endured enough suffering for a thousand lifetimes.
"What I mean is..." she swallowed. "If it's all the same to you I'd rather you not request an annulment right now. You're only just recovering and the North is newly independent...our marriage status could keep away unwanted suitors until things are settled..."
Tyrion peered at her, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. If Tyrion was truly himself he'd be questioning her flimsy reasoning, digging deeper into what she was or in this case wasn't saying. This version of Tyrion wasn't like that - would he ever be again? He nodded, offering her a weak smile.
"I owe you a great debt Sansa. Whatever you need from me is yours," he said. "When you wish to be free of me, write the letter. I'll never stand in the way of you being happy."
Sansa's heart twisted, urging her to go further - to let all the truth escape. She would never want to be free of him, but that wasn't a conversation either of them was ready for.
He brought his damaged hand towards the ring on his left hand, a grimace crossing his face as his fingers refused to move. He brushed the edge of his finger over the direwolf sigil, sinking deeper into the wheelchair with a huff.
"I'm sorry," said Sansa. "When I gave it to you I never thought you wouldn't be able to take it off with your injured hand."
"Oh..." he nodded, biting his lip. Tyrion lifted his hand towards her. "Of course. It was until we reached Winterfell - you want it back."
Sansa could only control herself so much. She closed her hand around his, ignoring the way he flinched at the contact. "Keep it. I had the ring made for you after all."
"You're sure?"
The uncertainty in his voice pulled at her heart. Far from offending him, the token had made him smile. She had no intention of taking it back if he was happy with it, but the look on Tyrion's face made her think he was expecting a trick.
"Of course I'm sure," she said, squeezing his hand before releasing him. "I meant what I said Tyrion; Winterfell is yours for as long as you like."
He nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards, if only for a moment. Their conversation was long overdue and despite its awkwardness, Sansa felt herself relaxing now the secret was out. Tyrion had taken the news well but she was keenly aware of how unwell he was. They'd been sitting on the balcony for little more than an hour and he already looked exhausted.
Her stomach churned at the plan she'd put in place for his care. Talking to him had given her a glimpse of the man she knew, but it had shown very clearly where he'd changed - if she'd told him he was to be moved into the stables she imagined he'd have accepted it with the same docile obedience. Restoring his sense of self would take far longer than healing his body, but for now his submissiveness would make it easier to set him on the right path forwards. Whether he hated her when it was done didn't matter - she'd take all his hate if it gave light to his eyes that had been missing last night. For now, she contented herself to enjoy his quiet company, hoping Tyrion would see her actions in the coming days were only to help him.
'You're all mine. Only a poor Queen would fail her Prince.'
Tyrion lay still, turning his mind from the guards at his door to focus on sleep instead. Night had fallen long ago but that didn't mean sleep would grant him a respite from the day, nor would it let him be alone. There was no one in the room with him, but there were two guards at his door - he'd heard them change places with the last two an hour ago. His stomach twisted and churned at the thought, but it could just as easily be the three meals he'd been made to eat today. Yvette and the Maester had insisted on lunch before he saw Sansa, but when he'd refused the Stark guards had come into the room.
"No..." he said, squirming back on the bed. "Please, no..."
The guards paused their approach, looking as uncomfortable as he felt. Yvette wouldn't meet his eyes but Wolkan was watching him. The old Maester moved forwards, sitting on the end of the bed.
"Lord Tyrion, you must eat if you are to recover. I know you may have little appetite for it but sleep and proper food are as important for healing your mind as healing your body."
The words squeezed through his tight throat. "I don't want to."
"Don't want to what?"
"Recover." He dropped his head against the wall, away from the man's gaze. "Nothing left..."
"I hope that's not true my lord. There are people who need you to heal..."
Wolkan hadn't expanded on who, nor would he leave him alone. Yvette had pleaded with him again to eat, and with the Stark guards watching he'd given in. They'd come into the room when he refused the first time. What would they have done if he'd refused again?
The guards had remained until he finished eating and then resumed their watch outside the room while Wolkan and Yvette moved to the next stage of his humiliation. Tyrion hadn't given much thought to clothing since he woke in Winterfell. He'd been given a shift to wear and after destroying it last night he'd somehow acquired another one. It wasn't until Yvette pulled open the draws at the side of the room did he notice the shifts had been tailored to fit him. The clothes Yvette had pulled from the draws were brand new and equally well-tailored if a little baggy to accommodate his injuries. Who would go to the trouble of getting new clothes for a crippled imp? He'd tried to refuse Yvette and the Maester's attempts to dress him, but as soon as they glanced at the door he knew he had no choice. When he was placed in the damned wheelchair he was sure he had no control of his situation. Little things from the past two weeks began to stack up and by the time he was brought to Sansa he was certain of his position as her ward.
It was only fair, he supposed. Sansa had been a hostage of the Lannisters in Kings Landing to secure her claim to Winterfell - if the Starks wanted to use him for the West he didn't care - he'd gladly pay that price to hide in the North.
A ghost of a smile crossed his face as he lifted his left hand, catching the ring glinting in the moonlight. It shouldn't surprise him to be wrong - he'd been wrong about everything else. Of course, the Starks were too honourable to use him like that, but he'd never guessed at the truth either.
He'd assumed their marriage was long annulled, but as Sansa pointed out an annulment for such a match wouldn't have been easy to obtain - least of all by someone like Littlefinger. Numerous possibilities swam through his mind on why Sansa would refuse the chance to be free of him. Was it misplaced duty? Sansa owed him nothing, nor would he have expected her to honour their marriage. It could be their friendship. The Starks were loyal and Sansa had a kind heart - no matter how disgraced he was she probably had some pity for him.
A memory flashed through his mind, of soft blue eyes in a worried face. He could almost imagine soft strands of hair tickling him as she stroked his cheek. Her words were lost to him, but her tone was soft and pleading. He could relax. He was safe with Sansa...
Tyrion curled his hand into a fist, pushing away the image. Why did his mind have to taunt him like this? Sansa had shown him exceptional kindness, but she would never look at him like that. It didn't matter why she'd brought him here in truth, all that mattered was being far away from Kings Landing and nowhere near the lions in the Westerlands. He had no value to offer Sansa, but if she wanted their marriage to stand as a shield against potential suitors he'd gladly oblige her. After all she suffered at Ramsay Bolton's hands it was little wonder she had no appetite for marriage. A lump formed in his throat as he brushed his thumb against the ring.
The day would come when Sansa wanted a husband and children, and when it did he would stand aside immediately. What happened to him after that wasn't a question he was keen to answer, so instead he focused on more immediate problems. The Winterfell household had made certain he was fed and presentable to see Sansa, but he'd expected them to leave him be when he was returned to the room. Since he woke here no one had bothered him without permission, and it was an arrangement he'd gratefully accepted.
Not anymore.
The guards at the door were but one of the changes since his bout of madness last night. Yvette had returned to feed him two more meals, glancing towards the door whenever he refused until he complied. Maester Wolkan had visited as well, announcing his arrival with a knock but not waiting for permission to enter. The man had examined his injuries once more before directing him through some simple exercises. Resistance was futile. Wolkan had stubbornly refused to move on until he completed each movement and gave an answer on how it felt. All afternoon and evening there'd been someone coming in and checking on him. Just before night fell one of the guards had opened the door.
"Anything you need m'lord?" he asked, peering at him from the doorway.
Tyrion's heart pounded unevenly, his voice shaking as he answered. "No. I'm fine."
The man had simply nodded before closing the door but fear had stayed with Tyrion long after. This was his fault. He'd broken the rules and this was his punishment. They'd never leave him in peace, Cersei never left him-
He stopped, forcing his mind to unwind his train of thought. Cersei was dead. It wasn't she who was keeping him under watch, it was Sansa. He swallowed past a lump in his throat. Sansa was his friend - she didn't mean him any harm. By the laws of gods and men, she was his wife. Tyrion rubbed the ring with his thumb, tracing the direwolf pattern. Their marriage was a sham but some tiny piece of his soul knew Sansa's friendship was not. He should be grateful for what the Starks were giving him and seize the opportunity to climb from the hole threatening to swallow him, but that glimmer of clarity was overshadowed by a thousand hurts he couldn't begin to process.
The mirror had been taken from the room when he was with Sansa, and Tyrion suspected anything sharp or potentially dangerous had been removed as well. For all she claimed to understand he hadn't meant to end himself last night, the Queen was taking no chances either. Whatever Sansa's intentions were he was effectively under her control. Things were easier when he complied and he had no inclination to see how the Stark guards would hurt him.
'Stay quiet, stay out of the way, be invisible,' he reminded himself. That was how he'd survived the Black Cells despite not wanting to. The same could work here.
Tyrion turned his mind towards sleep once more. Sansa might have worried how he'd take the news about their marriage but she needn't have bothered. She'd taken him from the hell of Kings Landing, and the direwolf ring on his finger was a far more pleasant sight than the tokens Cersei had given him.
"Why wasn't I informed lord Lannister was unwell?"
"As I've told you, there wasn't time."
"I'm the captain of his guard - I should have known!"
Sansa sighed beside him and Jon decided an intervention was necessary. She may be the Queen but she was also exhausted. One look at her told Jon how badly last night had drained her but Godwin wouldn't let the issue go.
"Your lord is afraid of you," said Jon, catching their attention. "Whatever your intentions are, I doubt your presence would have helped Tyrion."
"It wouldn't have," said Sansa flatly. "I spoke with him earlier and he pleaded for me to not let 'them' take him away."
Godwin jerked his head back. "I would never-"
"We know you mean him no harm," said Jon, "but Tyrion doesn't believe it. If you truly mean him well you'll understand."
The older man glared at him and Jon met his gaze easily. Silence reigned until Godwin inclined his head. "I do understand. The conditions Cersei kept him in were atrocious. She made sure he knew the Lannister guards served her."
Sansa straightened in her seat. "So you understand why I can't allow you or your men to guard his door?"
"Unfortunately, I do."
"I did ask Tyrion if he would prefer that. The Stark guards make him nervous too, but after last night I can't risk leaving him alone."
Godwin rubbed his chin, sinking into his seat across from them. It was late in the evening but all day Jon had struggled to get hold of Sansa as she dealt with Tyrion and the lords of the North, who were keen to work on trade deals. Godwin appeared to have had a similar problem, for the man had appeared barely minutes after Jon entered the small room Sansa used as a study. It was close to the Queen's chambers but a more private space for her to work and hold meetings. It was one of several peculiarities he'd noticed about Sansa since they were reunited. She spent little time in her chambers, and when she was in there only family were usually allowed in. Despite the late hour, Jon had suspected she'd be in the study, and Godwin had thought the same.
"How is he?" asked Godwin.
"Not well," said Sansa. "He hasn't been eating or resting properly. He's not doing the exercises Wolkan has shown him, and refused all offers of using the wheelchair to leave the room."
"He was in the wheelchair today. I've heard from enough guards to know he was."
There was an undertone of accusation in Godwin's words but Jon ignored it for the moment. Convincing Arya to leave Sansa and Tyrion alone had been difficult but they'd passed the time by keeping watch on the Lannister guards. Arya had heard no whispers of treason, but Jon had heard plenty of grumbling about being stuck North. The Lannister guards knew they were here to protect and serve their lord but keeping morale high was difficult when they either knew or suspected their lord wanted nothing to do with them. Jon couldn't help but sympathise with Godwin. If he was the Lannister captain he'd probably want some task or duty to pass onto the men that would make their Northern misery worthwhile too.
Sansa lifted her chin as she answered. "Lord Tyrion was out of bed and in the wheelchair because I gave him no other option."
"He's the lord of Casterly Rock-"
"He's my husband," said Sansa, her mouth turning downwards. "For now at least. When I reached him last night he was seconds away from mutilating himself to remove the tattoos. I won't let that happen again, so until I'm certain he's well enough there is a plan in place to ensure his wellbeing."
Jon frowned. "What kind of plan?"
"The kind that makes sure he eats, sleeps and leaves his chambers." Sansa rubbed her eyes tiredly. "He won't look after himself - this is the only way I can help him right now."
Both their attention turned to Godwin, awaiting his agreement or argument on what Sansa had said. It wouldn't make much difference either way - Sansa was Queen and the wolves outnumbered the lions.
"This plan is temporary?" asked Godwin.
"Until Tyrion is himself again. I hate having to do this but there is no other way."
"Alright," said Godwin, nodding stiffly. "I suppose we're to keep our distance?"
"From his chambers, yes," said Sansa. "It will start slowly but Tyrion will be leaving his chambers and it's inevitable he'll come across you and your men. How he reacts to that is up to him, but I'd suggest you prepare your men. Don't push Tyrion to be lord of Casterly Rock when he isn't ready."
"The more he sees of you the less he'll hopefully see you as a threat," said Jon.
"The best we can hope for I suppose." Godwin moved to his feet, inclining his head before moving to the door. "Very well your Grace. I'll prepare the men for any interaction they might have with our lord. Good night."
As soon as he left Sansa slumped in her chair, pinching the bridge of her nose. "That could have gone worse."
"You handled it well," said Jon.
"There was no other way to handle it. I won't let them make Tyrion uncomfortable, no matter how much they want to prove their loyalty to him."
"Godwin knows you want the best for Tyrion, I think his men are getting restless."
"They can always leave."
"You know they can't," said Jon, softly. "Not until Tyrion is well enough to take command of them."
Sansa sighed. "They'd best get used to the North then."
"He's that bad?"
"He promised he'd be 'good' while pleading for me to not let the Lannister guards near him," said Sansa, grimacing. "Tyrion's not himself. He says he's not a lord and when I spoke with him earlier I had to persuade him he's not my hostage."
"Why would he think that?"
"The guards at his door, being left alone for days on end, trauma from what Cersei and Daenerys did to him - take your pick." Sansa lowered her eyes, tapping her fingers against the desk. "I told him about the marriage."
Jon waited. For days he and Arya had tried to convince her it was the right thing to do - and it was - but Jon was keenly aware how difficult it was for her.
"He took it well," said Sansa, her mouth twitching upwards for a moment. "When he saw the ring he smiled."
"That's good, isn't it?" said Jon. "It's what you want."
Sansa bit her lip, keeping her eyes away from him. "I want him to be Tyrion again."
"Ah Sansa - he needs time."
"I could have told Tyrion he was to be my personal servant and he'd have accepted it just as easily. He's like a frightened cat rather than a proud lion."
It was unusual for Sansa to be so open, and it made Jon choose his words with even more care. "You're not alone. I can't promise to stay much longer, but for now I'm here and so is Arya. Let us help you with Tyrion."
She sniffed, nodding. "Maybe."
"Don't think you're trapped either. If you're having second thoughts about the marriage-"
"I love him," said Sansa, lifting her glistening eyes to his. "I love him so much."
Jon paused, offering her a smile. "Then tell him. After all he's been through that's something he probably needs to hear."
Sansa shook her head. "No. Not now. Not when he's like this."
"Why not? He's in Winterfell - now is the perfect time.
"I won't take advantage of him," said Sansa sharply. It lasted only a moment before her Queenly mask fell away again. "I love Tyrion, and I want him to be my husband - but only if it's mutual. He's so afraid right now he'd be anything I ask him to be. I won't ask for his love until I'm sure he means it, if he feels that way at all."
Jon reached across, closing Sansa's hand in his own. There was nothing he could say to make this easier for her, but their conversation had made it clear Tyrion wasn't the only one suffering from cruelty. Sansa's scars were fading but they were still there. Love wasn't something Jon had been successful with, but he'd seen Tyrion in Kings Landing - alone, scared, and asking for Sansa. As confused as he was at the time Jon didn't think he was confused about who he wanted to be with him.
All he could hope for was that Tyrion remembered who he wanted too.