Chapter 18
Arya had been more than patient. If their father was still alive she thought he might have been impressed with her restraint. One full day was surely enough space to give them, wasn't it? Of course it was. Jon had spoken with Sansa last night after all - her sister knew she wasn't alone in dealing with Tyrion.
Thoroughly convinced her timing was right, Arya wound through the corridors of Winterfell until she reached the balcony Sansa had installed. A frown pulled at her mouth. The castle was brighter now than it had been in childhood. In the rebuilding of Winterfell Sansa had opened the space up, letting light in where it hadn't been before. The effect made Winterfell seem warmer, but Arya still found it jarring. Nevertheless, she wouldn't begrudge her sister. Sansa was Queen and sooner or later she and Jon would leave. Sansa was the one who would remain in Winterfell, and if letting light into her home-turned-prison made her demons smaller Arya would accept the changes.
A room little bigger than a passage led to the balcony, and as always it was guarded by two men.
"She's out there?" asked Arya.
"Aye m'lady," said one man.
"Is lord Tyrion with her?"
The men shared a look. "He is."
Arya waited, but when they didn't move aside her hand moved to needle. "I need to see my sister."
"The Queen said no one is to go out there," said the second guard, eyeing her blade.
Her hand hovered over needle a moment longer, before pulling a letter from her belt instead. "A letter came for us and she needs to know. Tell her - I'll wait."
A Stark of Winterfell didn't need a crown to have authority. Sansa had more power, but the Queen's sister wasn't to be ignored. One of the men disappeared into the passage, returning moments later with an answer.
"The Queen will see you."
It was a good sign, thought Arya. Since returning home Sansa had done everything to keep Tyrion away from them and all it had done was leave him isolated and her without help. Jon hadn't gone into details of his talk with Sansa but he'd said enough to make it clear Sansa wanted Lannister to be a permanent feature of their home, and that meant he'd have to get used to them sooner or later. Ambushing him in his chambers probably wasn't the best way to start, but intruding on Sansa's private balcony was fair game.
She let her boots tap against the floor as she walked through the short corridor, giving her sister every chance to prepare Tyrion. It wasn't until she stepped out on the balcony did Arya realise she might have been the one who needed preparing. It was impossible, but somehow Tyrion looked worse than when he'd arrived at Winterfell. Her eyes quickly flitted over her tired-looking sister to the man beside her.
The wheelchair was too big for Tyrion, designed to accommodate Bran's tall frame rather than Tyrion's short one. He was hunched over, staring fixedly at the blanket covering his legs. His right arm was free of the tight bindings that had held it in place the last time she saw him, but it now hung loosely at his side - as if the damage to his hand had made Tyrion abandon the arm altogether. The outline of a splint around his left leg was visible beneath the blanket but for all his body was healing, Tyrion looked like death.
"Hello Arya," said Sansa, lifting an eyebrow in warning.
Arya swallowed distractedly. "Sansa. Lord Tyrion."
He lifted his eyes for a fraction of a second, before quickly ducking his head. "Lady Arya."
"Good to see you out of bed."
Tyrion's left hand wound into the blue blanket on his lap, and Arya swore she saw it tremble as he nodded. "I'm...grateful to be here...the Queen has been most kind to me..."
Arya didn't believe Tyrion was grateful to be here. From the few bits and pieces she'd heard, Tyrion was happy to be at Winterfell, but Arya didn't believe for a moment he wanted to be out of bed. One glance at Sansa told Arya she knew it too. Jon had told her what Sansa intended to do regarding Tyrion's care and it was something she would back her sister on completely. Seeing Tyrion in person confirmed it was the best way forwards, and Arya made a note to remind her soft-hearted sister of that if she wavered.
"We're pleased to have you here," said Sansa, offering Tyrion a smile he didn't see.
The lord of Casterly Rock was barely recognisable from the man he'd been. He was dressed in fine winter clothes, his hair was beginning to grow back and his injuries were healing - but there was an emptiness clinging to Tyrion that brought Arya back to the house of Black and White. Her heart twinged for Sansa. If Arya found this Tyrion difficult to take she could only imagine how it hurt Sansa. The Queen was watching him from the corner of her eye, as she'd likely done since he was brought out to join her. Sansa was itching to fuss over him - the desire was plain to see if you knew Sansa well - but Tyrion wasn't in a place to see it.
"What are you reading?" asked Arya, her eyes drifting over the three books set on the table in front of Tyrion. Sansa's side of the table was covered with work.
"Oh...I'm not reading..." he said, shrinking into the chair. "I'm just..."
"Keeping me company," said Sansa, before turning her attention to Arya. "The guard said you had a letter."
"From Bran," she said.
The letter was her excuse to intrude on Sansa but she'd almost forgotten it in seeing Tyrion. Over the years Arya had gotten used to reading people. It was a useful skill, but in this case, it told her an unpleasant truth. Tyrion was growing more uncomfortable in her presence by the second. Was she that frightening? She'd done her best to intimidate him last time he was here, hoping for this result - yet the reality left a sour taste in her mouth.
"I should go," said Tyrion, fidgeting under her gaze. "I don't want to intrude."
"You're not intruding," said Sansa.
"Stay," said Arya, "there's a message for you too."
Arya handed the letter to her sister but kept her focus on Tyrion. Sansa would reach the message in a moment but Arya wanted to deliver it as Bran wrote it. Their brother had his reasons, mysterious as they were, and Sansa would bend the words to soften them.
"You lost a hand, not a stomach," said Arya. "That's what Bran wanted us to tell you."
Sansa's head snapped up, but Arya was more interested in Tyrion's reaction than her sister's ire. He jerked back at the words, turning his gaze to his damaged hand.
"Bran can be blunt," started Sansa, worry filling her eyes. "Don't take his words literally-"
"They're my words," said Tyrion.
"Is that something you told yourself in Kings Landing?" probed Arya.
Tyrion shook his head, a bitter smile crossing his face. "No, it's something I said to Jamie. When he returned to Kings Landing missing his sword hand."
"Why would Bran want to remind you of that?" said Sansa, her forehead creasing.
Tyrion fell quiet but Arya thought it was a thoughtful silence rather than fearful. The words were blunt, even for Bran, but they weren't his words at all. There was no way of knowing what effect the words would have on Tyrion if any, but Arya took it as a reminder. Tyrion had been blunt with his brother about his hand and expected him to move on from it - Bran's message was perhaps a reminder that it was something that could be overcome.
"We have our differences, Jamie and I."
So different in every aspect. Their father had made sure Tyrion knew every way in which he didn't compare to his golden son. There had been little need for it - Tyrion was only too aware of how Jamie was better than him.
Tyrion pulled his attention from the direwolf ring on his left hand, forcing himself to properly confront his damaged right hand. Bran's peculiar message had stuck with him long after he'd been returned to his chambers for a 'rest'. Arya and Sansa had both been curious about the words but neither had asked for too many details and instead focused on the rest of Bran's letter.
He shuffled in the bed, using his right leg to push himself into a more upright position. If he'd thought the watching of him would end yesterday he was badly mistaken. Yvette had woken him and brought breakfast, glancing at the door whenever she felt he might protest. He'd been washed, dressed and visited by the Maester this morning before being brought out to join Sansa on the balcony. The Queen had been as kind as ever, offering him books to read and trying to make conversation.
It was terrifying. What if he made a mistake, or gods forbid lost Sansa's favour as he'd lost Daenerys'? He'd been poor company as Sansa worked, but she'd mostly left him to his thoughts, checking on him every so often throughout the morning. Arya's appearance had been an unpleasant surprise. Sansa might feel some friendship towards him but Arya didn't - she'd made that clear enough when he was last here.
His leg trembled as he groped at the bed to pull himself upright. It wasn't long after Arya arrived that Sansa excused herself for a lunch meeting with some lord, and he'd been brought back to his chambers where Yvette was waiting to feed him and tuck him in for a nap. His mouth pressed into a tight line at the memory. It wasn't Yvette's fault - she was following orders - but the evidence was increasing that he was now on a schedule. His day was planned out for him without any question of whether he wanted it to be. The servant had left him to his imposed nap time, saying only that Maester Wolkan would visit later to work on rebuilding his strength.
Tyrion grunted, slumping awkwardly against the headboard as his body trembled. No Maester could fix this. He couldn't even move in the bed on his own. Since his late-night madness, his left leg had ached constantly and his shoulder was little better. Sitting in the damnable wheelchair was far from comfortable, and returning to bed had at least offered his weak body some respite. Settling into his awkward, half-propped position Tyrion lifted his right hand close to his face.
As soon as his eyes fell on the scar across his palm a lump formed in his throat. It didn't really ache anymore, at least compared to his other injuries, but that didn't stop the ghost of the initial agony wrapping around him like a chain. Tyrion tore his eyes away, fighting back the bile filling his mouth. Would he ever forget the feel of the knife cutting into him, or the snap of bone as Qyburn sawed a piece of him away?
His hand had stopped moving after that, though the pain had made the thought of moving it unbearable. Now the pain had faded and he was left with a scarred, useless hand - perhaps that was how Daenerys had seen him? Tyrion focused on each finger in turn, starting with his little finger and watching for any movement. That side of his hand was the worst. The last two fingers wouldn't move at all and were beginning to curl inwards. His middle finger twitched, with his index finger and thumb having the most movement. His heart dropped. His thumb and index finger would barely move half an inch forwards or backwards. Moving his thumb to either side was even worse - barely a twitch, and it started a cramp in his hand. Heat burned at the back of his eyes as he shoved his hand beneath the blankets and out of sight.
Jamie had lost his hand completely; he should be grateful he still had it. That was easier said than done though. Was it better to lose the hand altogether, or be frustrated by seeing it and not being able to move it?
What did it matter? Jamie could lose a hand, kill a king, fuck his twin sister - he was still Jamie Lannister - he could do anything.
And what was he in comparison? A crippled dwarf?
"You're no son of mine."
"I don't want to be your son," whispered Tyrion. "You never treated me like family."
Why pretend anymore? Cersei and Tywin Lannister had made it perfectly clear he didn't belong, and it was the only promise he'd ever had from them.
"Are you well your Grace?" asked lord Manderly.
Sansa tightened her jaw, trying to ignore the pounding in her head. "Quite well, my lord, thank you."
She looked terrible and she knew it. Blaming her tiredness on Tyrion's behaviour would be easy but untrue, at least in part. Worry over Tyrion had gnawed at her since the incident the night before last, but her nightmares were just as much to blame for her poor condition. Sleep wasn't her friend and hadn't been for some time, but since she was named Queen it had worsened. Ramsay's ghost haunted her more than ever. Rather than it fading with time, it had only grown worse and Sansa was at a loss as to why. Their enemies were dead, they'd survived the long night and the North was independent - why did she struggle to sleep in her home? In Kings Landing caring for Tyrion had consumed much of her time, but she'd still slept well when she did sleep.
The Queen drew in a breath, straightening her back and turning her focus to the council. Several of the lords and ladies of the North had returned home but she'd asked a number to remain at Winterfell while the North transitioned to independence. Lord Manderly was crucial to negotiating trade through White Harbour and several smaller houses were vying for various positions on her council. With so many great houses extinct there was room to elevate lesser lords and they were positions Sansa wanted to fill with loyalty.
The problem was deciding.
She glanced around the long table, sweeping her eyes over each of the lords and ladies as they worked. If she chose wrongly the North would suffer - her family would suffer. Arya would investigate anyone she asked and Jon would give advice too, but neither of them was going to be here for long. Jon was trying to hide it but Sansa knew he was desperate to go North and put the politics behind him - he was delaying for her benefit. Arya would remain while she made her travel plans but her little sister would go sooner or later. Winterfell would be empty again.
Her mind drifted upstairs, to the man resting in what was once Robb's room. Tyrion would be able to advise her - he'd played the game in Kings Landing - seeing through these lords would be easy for him.
It wasn't to be. It was mid-afternoon now - Tyrion would be going through exercises with the Maester. She chewed her lip, thinking through the schedule they'd set for him. Yvette and Wolkan had both reported how Tyrion seemed confused by the sudden changes, but he'd voiced no opposition either. Her heart fell at the thought. If Tyrion was well he would contest being treated like a child, not meekly go along with it. That would be her marker. For as long as Tyrion was compliant he would be subjected to the routine they'd devised. Healing his body was the first priority, for now, healing his heart was a long term project.
For now, she turned her mind to the papers in front of her. She would be the last Stark in Winterfell and establishing a loyal council was as important for her peace of mind as it was for the North's stability. Discipline couldn't silence every thought. Perhaps she wouldn't be alone when her siblings left. As long as Tyrion was here he was hers, and that thought alone encouraged her to focus.
She was shaping the North's future, but it was a future she wanted to share.
The heat of the hearth warmed Tyrion's side, easing some of the stiffness from his body. It was almost enough to send him to sleep, but that could simply be the time of day. It was only three days since the incident but already his body had adjusted to the routine. Perhaps it was some buried survival instinct - adapt or die. His eyes wandered to the windows, confirming his suspicion. Ah, it was that time. Yvette or the Maester would have returned him to the bed if not for his guest. Having a designated 'rest time' in the afternoon was humiliating, but not as embarrassing as how quickly he'd accepted it.
Tyrion shifted in the chair as much as he could, trying to ignore the way his body was pulling him towards sleep.
"Are you comfortable enough?" asked Jon.
He nodded quickly. "I'm fine."
The armchair had been added to his routine yesterday. After breakfast, he was either brought to Sansa's balcony to sit with her or wheeled around the upper corridors of Winterfell by Wolkan - pausing at every bloody window.
"Daylight is good for you my lord," said Wolkan. "Sitting upright in the chair is helping you too, though I doubt you realise how much."
"As you say," he muttered.
"The Queen sends her apologies. A meeting over trade has trapped her all morning. I'm sure she'll see you tomorrow."
"Her grace has no obligation towards me," said Tyrion, rubbing his thumb over the ring. "I'm nothing."
Wolkan pushed the wheelchair forwards, directing them to the next window. "That's not true my lord. The Queen enjoys your company..."
Wolkan had returned him to his chambers and he'd had a couple of blissful hours of peace before Yvette appeared with lunch and the Maester returned for strength-building exercises. The routine had changed yesterday, but not too much. Rather than doing the exercises in the bed, he'd been placed in the wheelchair and then transferred to the lone armchair in the room. A 'change of scenery' as the old man called it. The same had repeated today, except Jon Snow had knocked on his door as the Maester was finishing.
Tyrion glanced sideways at Jon, careful to avoid eye contact. He liked Jon well enough, but he didn't want anyone to see him like this - let alone someone he'd considered a friend.
"Are you sure you're alright?" asked Jon. "I can come back later if you're tired."
"I'm fine," he repeated.
Jon seemed just as lost on where to go, but unlike him, Jon could escape. Sitting upright took far more of Tyrion's energy than it should, and despite Sansa's assurances he wasn't her ward the feeling was difficult to escape, particularly when he had no control over his day.
'Imps have no power,' whispered Cersei. 'Don't forget, I taught Sansa Stark how to rule.'
A shudder ran through him at her voice - she was dead, and she'd broke him into a thousand pieces - wasn't that enough for her? Sansa had learnt a lot from Cersei, but she was kind, he didn't think she'd hurt him. Then again, he'd once thought the same of Daenerys...
Tyrion flinched as a hand landed on his arm, startling him back to the present.
"Sorry," said Jon, holding his hands up.
His moment of distraction must have been longer than he thought. Jon had moved from the chaise to kneel next to the armchair, a frown covering his face.
"It's my fault," said Tyrion, withdrawing into the chair as much as he could. The pain would start any moment now - he should know not to react. "I'm sorry..."
Jon's eyebrows rose, the frown deepening. "Why? You've nothing to be sorry about."
"I'm sorry...for the trouble..." He swallowed. "I can go..."
Cersei's laugh echoed down his ear. 'You can't even piss on your own'.
"No, Tyrion..." Jon lifted his hand, moving it slowly towards him until he grasped his uninjured shoulder. "I owe you an apology. More than one, I think."
Tyrion stiffened at the contact, but Jon didn't seem threatening. His dark eyes were kind and his words soft as he spoke, going some way to slow the pounding of Tyrion's heart and allowing rationality in. What had Cersei turned him into, that his first instinct was to cower and hide? He'd never been brave but this was pathetic. The Starks were honourable - beating a crippled dwarf would be the last thing any of them would consider.
"I am so sorry Tyrion," said Jon. "I saw what Daenerys was becoming, I just didn't want to believe it. I should have acted sooner - you shouldn't have had to pay the price you did."
"Not your fault. I was the one stupid enough to trust her."
"You did the honourable thing, offering yourself for Missandei."
"Only because I..." he swallowed. "I believed she'd come. I didn't think Cersei would..."
Defile him? Rip away his dignity and let her vicious Maester cut him to pieces? Use the guards that should have served him to abuse him?
Jon squeezed his shoulder, nodding his understanding of what Tyrion couldn't name. "There are a lot of people to blame for what happened in Kings Landing, but you're not one of them Tyrion. You trusted your Queen when she gave you her word. Nothing that happened to you is your fault, and you've no reason to think that."
"You're kind."
"I'm honest. If you're worried about what anyone else thinks of you don't be. You offered yourself to the enemy to spare an innocent life - people can see that. The ones who don't see that aren't worth your time anyway."
Tyrion chewed his lip, nodding slightly. He didn't believe for a moment anyone saw what he'd done as honourable, nor had he intended it to be. As much as he liked Missandei, his agreement to the plan had been predominantly to appease Daenerys and solidify his position as hand.
A bitter taste filled his mouth. He'd done a bloody good job of that, hadn't he? Daenerys had left him in the lion's den and his position as hand was branded on him forever - a mocking reminder of what he'd once coveted.
He drew his eyes back to Jon, inclining his head to the younger man. "Thank you. I truly appreciate all your family has done for me. I know it would have been easier to leave me in Kings Landing."
Jon's mouth turned upwards. "Sansa wouldn't have allowed that, and neither would I. The North will be good for you - everything is clearer up here."
"I hope so."
Jon gave his shoulder a final squeeze before straightening up. "I can't imagine what you've been through, but you're not alone here. I'm going North of the wall soon, but I'm here for now if you need to talk. So are Sansa and Arya."
A slither of unease went through Tyrion. There was something strange about this. He'd long considered Jon a friend but the way Jon was speaking to him now moved beyond friendly and towards a more familiar relationship. It was baffling. Sansa had been equally warm towards him, and even Arya hadn't threatened him. Were the Starks truly so noble they'd look past his humiliation and view him kindly? Perhaps. The rest of Westeros would shun him for his shame, but of course, Ned Stark's children wouldn't. Tyrion was as touched by the thought as he was disgusted by the pity that surely prompted it.
Jon opened his mouth to speak, as a familiar roar broke the silence outside the castle. On instinct, Tyrion turned towards the window - in time to see a large black shape flying in the distance. The dragon roared again, the sound cutting through Tyrion like a knife.
"Drogon?" said Jon. "He doesn't usually come this close to Winterfell..."
Tyrion didn't hear the rest of Jon's words, too consumed with the dragon lurking in the distance. Dragons had been so many things to him. In childhood, they'd fascinated him, in Essos they'd given him a reason to carry on. Now the image was marred, damaged forever by what had been done. His breath came in short gasps as Drogon spat fire into the air.
"Tyrion?"
Jon was stood close, but his voice could have been miles away.
"It's alright," said Jon, reaching towards him once more. "Drogon is under my control, he won't hurt you..."
He'd always admired dragons, but not anymore. Watching Daenerys burn her enemies had been difficult but that was nothing to now, when instead of seeing Drogon burn strangers the image was replaced by his brother. Tyrion hadn't been there, but that hardly mattered. It was easy to see the steam rising from the dragon's mouth as it aimed at its target...
"Tyrion?"
Jon sounded panicked, but it was hard to focus on him when his mind was determined to picture how Jamie died.
Something is heading for Winterfell, but I can't see clearly what it is...
Arya spurred her horse forwards, keeping an eye on her target while maintaining a healthy distance from it.
...Being in the south affects my sight, and a thousand eyes makes it difficult to focus on something so unspecific...
Jon wouldn't be happy she'd gone in search of the unknown without him, nor would Sansa, but Bran's message had arrived barely half an hour before the signal. Sansa was busy with the lords, and Jon had gone to visit Tyrion - she could handle it herself.
...when the dragon roars, follow it.
Drogon's presence in the North had gone more smoothly than Arya imagined. The dragon had kept its distance from the castle since arriving, and Jon had ridden out to the clearing it had claimed several times to ensure there were no issues. Drogon's bond with Jon wasn't as strong as it had been with Daenerys - they were both wary of each other - but until now the dragon had hunted alone and returned to its field without problem.
Arya pulled back on the reigns, slowing her horse as Drogon stretched its wings, shooting flames into the sky. Something had upset the dragon, but Arya was too far away to tell what. It occurred to her now that getting Jon might have been the best option if only to keep control of Drogon, but Bran's message had been addressed to her.
Drogon stomped the ground, sending a vibration through the ground that turned her horse skittish. The dragon's focus was on something below it, but from this distance, Arya had no idea what. She led her horse to a group of rocks, swinging from its back and hobbling it. The horse wouldn't go any closer to Drogon, and as Arya watched the beast she sympathised. Nothing in its right mind would go near the dragon, but Bran must have sent her here for a reason.
She drew in a breath, inching her way across the clearing. Something had disturbed Drogon, and as Arya approached she hoped whatever it was kept the dragon's focus away from her.
"How bad is the situation?" asked Bran.
"That's something I thought you might shed light on, your Grace."
Bran sighed, tapping his fingers on the arm of his wheelchair. "Something is interfering with my third eye."
Varys hid his emotions well, but the slight downturn of his mouth made it clear it wasn't the news he wanted. "Perhaps if you focus your sight on Lord Lydden and Ser Harys Swyft. Many in the Westerlands are making moves but they are at the forefront of any activity."
"It should be easy enough to focus on them - your little birds have provided enough strands for the three-eyed raven to follow." Bran pursed his lips. "It should be easy, but it isn't."
"Your Grace-"
"I'm not being deliberately vague lord Varys. I can see Westeros clearly, but when I go near the Westerlands something changes - it's as if I'm being blocked."
"Is that possible?"
"It would appear so."
"What about the North?"
"Not as easy to see as it should be."
The North should have been the easiest to see of all - his power came from the old Gods and was the strongest in their home, but whatever interference was blocking him in the Westerlands seemed to extend North too - though it was weaker. The old Gods power likely tempered it, but Bran disliked the loss of clarity all the same. He'd seen enough to know something was travelling towards Winterfell, and he'd seen Drogon heading towards the castle as well.
"What can we do my King?" asked Varys, folding his hands into his wide sleeves. "I consider myself knowledgeable, or at least connected to those with knowledge, but I'm at a loss as to where we can find answers. You have no idea what might be interfering with your power?"
"I don't, but the three-eyed raven might." Bran sank into the wheelchair, inclining his head to Varys. "Continue to monitor the Westerlands, but for now you'll need to act as my hand. It's possible I can find answers in the past, but that means leaving the present for longer than usual."
Varys nodded. "Of course, your Grace. What of your family in Winterfell?"
Bran shook his head. "I know what you're suggesting, but lord Tyrion isn't ready to take his father's place in Casterly Rock, nor would Sansa allow him to leave in his current state."
"Merely a thought, your Grace. If lord Tyrion were well enough to take control many of the whispers might disappear. I fear the longer he is away the harder they will be to quell."
The situation was precarious, and with his sight impaired Bran could do little to help. Tyrion Lannister was in no place to take control of the Westerlands and from the glimpses he'd seen through the raven's eyes Tyrion had no interest in doing so. That could all change, of course, as he recovered.
Sansa's position was more certain. She wouldn't let Tyrion leave while he was unwell, nor would she want him to when he was. Hiding in the North suited them both for now, but if Bran couldn't see the problems to warn them, it was only a matter of time before problems found them.
"How could you be so stupid?"
"There was no other choice."
"Of course there was. Why would you ever think riding out alone to Drogon was a good idea?"
Sansa rubbed her temples as Jon and Arya continued to bicker. They'd all heard the dragon's roars as it came closer to Winterfell than it had since arriving, but before they could begin to wonder what had caused it Arya had ridden from Winterfell.
"I had a message from Bran," said Arya, wafting the crumpled note as if it excused her behaviour. "You were with Tyrion and Sansa was busy - I handled it."
Jon's frown deepened, and when he spoke Sansa couldn't help but hear their father. "The lone wolf dies Arya. Drogon is unpredictable and you know he has no hesitation in burning people. He can't be controlled-"
"You could control him," cut in Sansa. "Whether you like it or not Jon, Drogon is bonded to you. He wouldn't have come North or stayed here if not."
He shook his head, sighing. "That's not the point!"
"I survived, didn't I?" said Arya. "If I hadn't gone out there who knows what would have happened."
Jon pursed his lips. It was clear he thought the conversation was far from over, but there were bigger problems to address and Sansa was keen to get on with it. According to Jon, Tyrion had become distressed at the sound of Drogon and Sansa knew there was no one to blame but herself. She should have warned him about the dragon - of course it would bother him after his experience. Drogon wasn't just a reminder of the Queen who'd betrayed him, but of how his brother had died. Establishing the North's independence was a time-consuming affair, and despite her intentions, she'd been unable to see Tyrion since the day before last. Hearing from Jon how he'd reacted to Drogon had ignited a fierce ache in her chest. She needed to see him, but once again her path was blocked by duty. By the time Jon had told her about Tyrion, Arya had returned from a mission they knew nothing about - and the development needed to be handled.
Sansa moved her eyes from Jon and Arya to the final occupant of the room. Ghost lazed by the hearth, but the wolf's eyes were alert.
"I don't understand what happened," said Sansa. "Why would Ghost come south of the wall? Jon sent him North with Tormund."
"I don't think it's a mistake he found Drogon," said Arya, crossing her arms. "When I got there they were having a standoff of sorts. Most animals know to avoid Drogon - Ghost went to him on purpose."
All eyes turned to Jon, who looked just as baffled at the arrival of his direwolf. The sight of the white wolf sent a pang through Sansa, reminding her of Lady.
"How could you send him North?" she asked quietly. "They were-are bonded to us all."
Jon grimaced. "It was for the best. Ghost belongs in the North and I was going south..."
"To fuck Daenerys, yes, we know," said Arya, rolling her eyes. "Ghost is bonded to you, and now Drogon is too. Wolf and dragon - choose a side Jon."
"I did," he snapped. "Or did you forget my sword going through my Queen?"
"How can you still think of her as a Queen after what she did to Tyrion?" said Sansa.
"The same way you can look past Tyrion's flaws." Jon turned on his heel, storming towards the door. "I know who I am - I'm Ned Stark's bastard."
The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Sansa with only her sister and Ghost, who'd made no move to follow his master. Jon rarely showed a temper with family, but talk of his identity had a way of stirring it. Sansa could understand - she'd always consider him her brother, no matter what, but Ghost's arrival and his conflict with Drogon couldn't be a coincidence. Arya moved past the direwolf, scratching its head before dropping in the opposite chair.
"You took a risk," said Sansa. "Drogon could have burned you alive and we wouldn't have known."
"Not you too."
"I know better than to try and stop you, but at least keep us informed. What actually happened between Ghost and Drogon?"
"From what I can gather Ghost turned up at the clearing Drogon has been using, and that caused him to fly closer to Winterfell."
"Why? Ghost is no threat to a dragon."
"Your guess is as good as mine," said Arya. "Drogon seemed frustrated but he was holding back from attacking. As soon as I got close enough, Ghost came to me and he flew off."
Sansa pursed her lips, considering the chain of events. The only explanation she could come up with was jealousy from Ghost that Jon had a dragon, but that didn't seem to fit. Ghost hadn't seemed bothered by Rhaegal.
"Did Bran not say anything else in the letter?"
"No," said Arya. "He said to follow the dragon and I did."
Sansa nodded, easing her stiff body from the chair. "Fine. Write to Bran and tell him what you saw. He's the only one likely to have a proper explanation for this."
"Bran can see it himself."
"Maybe, but I want him to have your account."
"Yes, your Grace," said Arya, nodding her head in a mocking bow. "I suppose I have to do it so you can fuss over Lannister."
"It's late - he'll be asleep."
Arya rolled her eyes. "We both know that won't stop you."
A creak of a door was a sound Tyrion had become intimately familiar with. A boot scuffing the ground, a heavy breath - they were insignificant to most people - no one would notice them. To Tyrion, they were just a few of the markers he'd trained himself to recognise. Sleep had evaded him since hearing the dragon this afternoon, but the creak of his chamber door in the dead of the night instantly triggered his defences. He let the tension leave his body, steadying his breath to feign sleep. The technique had spared him a few beatings in Kings Landing, and he'd had enough practice at doing so that his body fell into the rhythm automatically.
Sometimes, if he didn't move or respond the monsters left him alone. Sometimes they took it as a sign to begin their fun.
Tyrion kept his eyes shut, maintaining his position facing the wall as soft footsteps crept towards him. Too light to be a man's footsteps. Had Arya come to kill him? The footsteps stopped beside the bed and Tyrion fought the urge to squirm under the obvious scrutiny. Perhaps it was Yvette, coming to check he hadn't tried to harm himself?
Hmm. No, it wasn't Yvette - the steps and general presence didn't fit her.
Lost in his musings, Tyrion's focus almost broke as a finger brushed against his cheek. He suppressed a flinch, struggling to maintain his ruse. Nothing was threatening about the finger as it traced a path down the side of his face - if anything it felt familiar, almost soothing.
A woman's sigh drifted to his ears. "You can't be comfortable like that."
Tyrion's mind froze at the familiar voice. Sansa? Why would she be here at this hour? He had no time to contemplate it as soft hands took hold of him.
Jon's visit hadn't gone too badly until the dragon appeared. Of course, with Daenerys dead Jon was the last Targaryen - Tyrion had never considered Drogon's fate. As a boy he'd been obsessed with dragons, and the awe he'd experienced when seeing real ones hadn't diminished despite the death they'd caused. Now, where there'd once been joy was only an aching hollowness. Drogon's arrival had unleashed a fear and hurt in him he'd never considered - the mother of dragons had betrayed him, and Drogon had burned his brother to ashes.
His breathing hitched, causing Sansa's hands to still as she adjusted him. A second passed before her thumb began rubbing soft circles in his undamaged shoulder.
"Shh, you're safe," she whispered.
It was only a glimmer of the terror that had overtaken him with Jon this afternoon. He'd struggled to breathe at all then, causing Jon to summon the Maester and adding more shame for him to carry. Eventually, Jon had left and he'd managed to convince the Maester and Yvette he was fine. Wolkan had skipped his daily exercises and told him to rest instead, where Tyrion had spent the evening curled in bed - trying to ignore the pot of hurt bubbling in his chest.
Tyrion's breathing evened out, returning him to his fake sleep and giving Sansa the signal to return to her task. The Queen in the North was nothing but careful as she moved him, treating him with a tenderness he'd only ever paid for. Sansa moved slowly, easing him out of his curled up position and settling him against the pillows. She didn't want to wake him, and Tyrion had no intentions of doing so. If he woke now he'd have to ask what she was doing, and it was a question to which he couldn't fathom an answer.
He was lying on his back when she finished, taking the pressure off his still aching leg and damaged shoulder. The pain wasn't from the breaks anymore, but more stiffness from lack of use. His late-night madness had caused some damage to his leg - it had been swollen and aching the last few days, but Wolkan was certain it was only strained. The pillows propped his head in a better position and Sansa pulled the blankets up to his chin, tucking them snugly around him.
The gesture almost broke him.
Sansa was Queen in the North; she did not need to waste her night making him comfortable. No one else in his life had ever given him such thought. She'd surely heard from Jon and the Maester what happened earlier. Was that why she was here?
For weeks in captivity, the only hands that touched him had been stained with red and hard with violence - the kind tenderness of Sansa's hands threatened to unravel the ball of hurt he carried with him. Rational thought wouldn't come to him, because it went against all logic. Sansa was a dutiful woman, but this was more than duty, wasn't it? And yet, how could it be anything else?
Sansa's hand cupped his face, as light as a feather. "Sleep well."
The simple touch was overwhelming, but it was nothing to the soft brush of her lips against his forehead a moment later. Sansa's touch left him then, but the warmth of her presence didn't leave him, even as her footsteps disappeared towards the door.
Tyrion lay still, his body tingling as his mind struggled to process what had happened. He didn't dare open his eyes, in case it was only a vivid dream. There was no logic behind Sansa's visit, no reason she would choose to check on him in the dark of the night. As his body relaxed into its new position Tyrion stopped looking for a logical explanation. If it was a dream it was a pleasant one, if it wasn't...he didn't know what it was.
All he knew was how Sansa's presence had pulled him from dark memories and pain to a warm, soft bed in a safe place. As sleep drew him into its embrace Tyrion considered how long it had been since he'd felt at such ease in his surroundings. It was long enough that he thought he might have never felt this way at all.
"I've never seen a direwolf," said Godwin. "I've heard stories of course - we all heard how Robb Stark's wolf tore men apart."
Jon lifted an eyebrow. "Does it scare you?"
The older man snorted, shaking his head. "Some of the stories were so far fetched they were laughable."
"Ghost is dangerous."
"I don't doubt that, but compared to the stories he's something of a letdown."
Jon scratched the wolf's ears as he loped alongside them. He'd thought a night of rest would give him fresh eyes on the problem, but it had only given him a headache.
"I'm surprised your dragon didn't eat the wolf," said Godwin.
"He's not my dragon," said Jon.
"If he wasn't your dragon, I suspect he'd have eaten the wolf."
Jon sighed, but he could hardly deny the point. The Lannister captain wasn't his first choice for company but Arya's recklessness yesterday had frustrated him and he knew Sansa would be eager to see Tyrion today - if she hadn't visited him last night. He'd found Godwin on his way to Sansa's study, no doubt seeking an update on his lord. Jon didn't need to check if Sansa was there or not, he was certain she'd already be on her way to Tyrion. There wasn't much he could do to help Sansa, but sparing her from Godwin was one small way he could help.
Godwin had accepted his invitation to search for Drogon, though Jon knew it was tinged with disappointment at not seeing Tyrion again. The Lannister guards were surely growing restless, but they had taken to their Winterfell duties with surprising ease and Jon didn't doubt it was down to the captain.
"Your men haven't caused any problems," said Jon.
"Neither have yours."
Jon's mouth twitched. "Given the history between Stark and Lannister, it's surprising."
"I brought the best men I had, and they all understand we're here to serve lord Lannister. Given his current state, we serve him best by causing no problems."
Snow crunched underfoot as they left the Winterfell gates behind. "Why do you want to serve Tyrion?"
"He's the rightful lord of Casterly Rock."
"And? Don't tell me it's duty; you have something to prove."
"I started my service under his grandfather, and then served his father." Godwin paused, turning to face him. "I've served house Lannister my whole life - I would like to end my service with a lord worth serving."
"What makes Tyrion worth serving?"
"What makes your sister love him?" shot back Godwin. "I'm well aware of his flaws and crimes. I wish to serve him for two reasons. Firstly, to repay the debt I owe him for serving his sister. Cersei's vile actions will stain me until my dying day. Secondly, I believe lord Tyrion has been handed a bad lot in life but is not inherently bad. Ser Jamie was likewise tarnished by his deeds, but I always believed he held to the values of a knight in his way. Both are an improvement on Tywin and Cersei."
Jon nodded. "Good enough reasons. I'm not sure Tyrion is ready to be lord of Casterly Rock yet."
"We'll be here, waiting for his orders then," said Godwin. The old man pointed to Ghost disappearing in the trees. "I suppose that's where your dragon's gone."
"Arya said he flew in this direction, but I don't know why."
"Avoiding your wolf, perhaps?"
Something didn't make sense. Drogon had been fine in his chosen space since they arrived, but as soon as Ghost appears he flies away?
"Come on," said Jon. "I don't know what's got into Drogon, but he can't be left to roam the North - there are villages not far from here."
Sansa kept her eyes on her letters for as long as she could, knowing as soon as she lifted her head Tyrion would try to hide the fact he'd been staring at her. Something had changed this morning, though she wasn't sure what. The last couple of days had kept her busy but she refused to let work stand in the way of visiting Tyrion, even if she had to bring her work with her. The balcony was fine for short bits of work and smaller tasks, but with the amount, she needed to do it wasn't practical every day. What she needed was a proper desk in a quiet part of the castle where no one would dare to disturb her - Tyrion's chambers were perfect and had the added benefit of his company.
Knowing his routine as well as she knew her own Sansa had arrived only minutes after Yvette finished dressing him.
"Your Grace," said Tyrion, bowing his head. He was propped against the wall along the far side of the bed, with his legs stretched in front of him as the Maester examined his leg. He'd been dressed in his breeches and a loose, grey doublet, but his boots were sat beside the bed waiting to be put on.
"Good morning my lord," she said, smiling. "How are you today?"
"I'm fine, thank you."
"Hmm," said Wolkan. "Your leg is still more swollen than I'd like."
Sansa paused in the middle of the room. "Does he need to stay in bed?"
"Not necessary, my Queen. Time spent sitting upright and away from the bed is vital to rebuilding his strength. When he's returned to bed later on I'll have his leg elevated."
Tyrion had frowned at the discussion, a glimmer of annoyance lighting up his eyes at the way they spoke about him as if he wasn't there. To Sansa's dismay, he didn't vocalise his irritation. No protest left him as his boots were put on and he was moved to the wheelchair - if anything he seemed resigned to the lack of control he had over his life. Sansa had asked if he minded her working in his chambers and as expected, he'd easily agreed. She'd pushed his wheelchair over to join her at the desk, though the action embarrassed him. As she had on the balcony she'd brought some books that might interest him, but Tyrion was once again her silent company - though she'd caught him staring at her more than once.
Sansa gave him another moment of watching before she lifted her head, catching sight of him quickly ducking his head. The morning had passed in near silence and Sansa was happy to give him some space, but she was eager to talk with him all the same. Seeing him last night had soothed some of her nerves, but it didn't compare to a conversation.
"I'm sorry I haven't seen you the last couple of days," she said. "Arranging trade deals is more difficult than expected, particularly with all the vacant seats in the south."
"I don't expect you to visit me at all."
"What do you think I'm going to do with you?" Sansa smiled, hoping to put him at ease. "I didn't bring you North to ignore you Tyrion, you could say I did it for your company."
"I'm no company."
"That's not true." She didn't try to explain the hollow ache that opened in her chest when she wasn't with him - it was a feeling she didn't dare to understand. "Did you sleep well?"
Tyrion's head jerked up. "Why do you ask?"
As soon as the question left him he froze, long enough for Sansa to see the colour drain from his face. Gods, did he really think...
"Jon said you were caught off guard with Drogon. I wondered if you'd been able to rest afterwards."
"I did," he said, swallowing. "Sorry..."
Sansa caught herself before she could offer words of comfort. Saying 'it's alright' might soothe him in the short term, but it wasn't an answer. When Jon had told her of his talk with Tyrion she'd noticed the same patterns that happened when they talked. If Tyrion thought he'd said something out of line he'd withdraw behind a shield in an instant, as if he was mentally preparing for punishment. The Tyrion of old rarely cared for the ramifications of his sharp words, but this Tyrion seemed to think anything other than docile obedience would earn him pain. It was a habit Sansa needed to break him of, and it required a different approach than her usual words.
"What are you sorry for?" she asked, fixing her eyes on him.
He squirmed but confined to the wheelchair he could do nothing to escape her gaze.
"Why are you apologising to me?" she asked, after giving him a moment.
"I questioned you." He stared at his crippled hand, his voice wavering.
"Am I so terrifying?"
"You're a Queen."
"And?"
"I'm sorry, it won't happen again."
Bile burned the back of Sansa's throat. Her poor husband - what hell he'd suffered to reduce him to this. Sansa pulled her chair closer to where he sat but maintained some distance between them. The closer she got the more tempting it was to cross the line. It was a line Sansa had to be sure of before it was crossed, because when it was there would be no way to return.
"I understand you've suffered because of Kings and Queens, truly I do, but I will never hurt you Tyrion - I promise you that."
He nodded, and Sansa could see his bout of fear fading to embarrassment. It was a conditioned reaction, she realised, and not one he had much control over. It would take time but a learned behaviour could surely be unlearnt. Tyrion had nothing to fear with her, and it was a fact she would continue to make clear.
"Drogon won't bother you either. He's not supposed to come near the castle, but Ghost has come south of the wall and somehow startled him."
"Why would a dragon fear a wolf?" he said softly.
"I don't understand it either," she said, smiling. "Wolves can be quite fierce you know. They're loyal, protective creatures - especially to their pack."
Tyrion's mouth twitched upwards, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. "Must be a nice feeling."
Sansa's heart ached to comfort him properly, but until he was better she'd have to make do with the small gestures she could offer. He'd looked so uncomfortable last night when she checked on him, curled up in a ball and lying awkwardly on his healing shoulder.
Had Tyrion seen her last night? Worry spiked in her chest at the sudden thought - it would explain his staring and reaction to her question - but no, it couldn't be. She'd taken care to not wake him and when he'd begun to stir she'd easily soothed him back to sleep. He'd been perfectly still as she readjusted him - Tyrion didn't know she'd been there.
Sansa turned back to her letters, though her mind was far away. The routine they'd devised for Tyrion was already helping him; his eyes were clearer, the tiredness didn't take over him as often as it had even a few days ago. As much as he hated the wheelchair he was sitting straighter in it every day. Healing him was the priority, and if he wouldn't resist then she'd use his agreeableness to push his recovery further. She would have to speak to the Maester for advice.
Tyrion was still there, but he was hidden beneath layers of reactions and insecurities that had been beaten into him.
'Brace yourself, my love,' she thought, watching him stare into the distance. 'You might not like how I do it, but I will help you find yourself again. I only hope when you do, you'll realise I did everything out of love for you.'
Tyrion barely heard Wolkan as the man prattled on about Winterfell's architecture. With Sansa visiting him this morning he'd thought himself spared from being wheeled around the upstairs corridors of the castle, but it wasn't to be - the Maester insisted it was good for him to get out of the room.
His mind drifted to the morning he'd spent with Sansa. The Queen had been her usual self; checking he was well at regular intervals and showing him more kindness than he deserved. As she worked, Tyrion had watched. It was a difficult feat - every instinct had screamed at him to withdraw and avoid drawing any attention - but he couldn't help it. After last night he'd needed to find the truth, but what he found had only left him more confused.
Nothing in Sansa's actions had suggested she'd visited him last night or there was anything other than friendship between them. Had it simply been a vivid dream? The feel of Sansa's hands on him hadn't just been soothing, it had felt familiar. Shards of memories poked at his consciousness, lurking just below the surface. He'd dreamt of Sansa before, but last night and the memories he couldn't quite grasp felt different.
"You don't need to worry about anything, I'll protect you."
The memory was similar to others. Someone was holding him close, whispering soft words in his ear as he trembled. Soft, long hair brushed against his cheek-
The wheelchair rocked over a crack in the ground, jerking Tyrion back to the present. A knot tightened in his chest. So close. There were so many things hiding just out of reach, but were they real or imagined? No one in Kings Landing would have held him like that, or offered such comfort to an imp. Sansa might have taken charge of his care in Kings Landing and he didn't doubt she'd done so with the best intentions, but there wasn't a chance in the seven hells she'd be that close to him. His memory was clouded as of late, but he'd never forget the flicker of disgust on her face when he'd kissed her at their wedding. Knowing she didn't want the marriage he'd kept it to the lightest brush possible without drawing attention, but her courtesies had faltered for a moment all the same.
Tyrion's forehead creased at the conflicting evidence before him. Sansa had visited him last night, he was sure of it. Yet he could find no plausible reason why. He could hardly ask her either.
'Did you visit me last night my Queen? I was pretending to be asleep but I'm convinced you tucked me in and kissed me...'
He sighed, slumping in the wheelchair. There was no way he could ask Sansa and risk losing her friendship - it was the only thing he had left of any meaning. It must have been a dream, more vivid than most perhaps, but a flight of fantasy all the same.
"Ah, we have company," said Wolkan.
Tyrion's head shot up in time to see Jon and a Lannister guard rounding the end of the corridor. The man's eyes lit up as he saw him and Tyrion struggled to hide his panic - it wasn't a guard, but the captain of the Lannister army.
"Hello Tyrion," said Jon, offering him a smile. "Good to see you out of your room."
As soon as they got close Godwin bent the knee. "My lord."
Tyrion nodded, looking anywhere but the Lannister captain. A lord was the furthest thing from what he was. His eyes fell on a large white shape padding past Jon. Ghost was at eye level with him as he approached the wheelchair, but he didn't stop there. The direwolf leaned in, brushing his wet tongue against Tyrion's face without hesitation.
"Ghost!" said Jon, grabbing the back of the wolf's fur as if to pull it back.
The direwolf shrugged off his master's grip, sitting at the side of the wheelchair instead. Tyrion swallowed as red eyes bore into him. He'd got along well enough with Ghost whenever he saw him, but the wolf rarely got so close to anyone, let alone him.
"Sorry," said Jon. "I don't know what's got into him."
"Are you alright my lord?" asked Godwin.
"I'm fine," said Tyrion, wiping the drool from his face. He wasn't really. The scrutiny was causing his heart to race and Ghost was contributing the least to that.
"Ghost, leave him alone," said Jon, narrowing his eyes at the wolf.
The direwolf stared at his master before returning his gaze to Tyrion, leaning his head over the side of the wheelchair. Tyrion hesitated a moment before lifting his damaged hand to brush the top of the wolf's head. What did it matter if the white wolf bit it off? The damned thing was useless to him anyway.
"Is Ghost always so friendly?" asked Wolkan, shuffling warily at the back of him.
"No," said Jon. "He never acts like this."
"Ghost would barely walk back with us," said Godwin.
A look past between Wolkan, Jon and Godwin, and the silent communication left Tyrion strangely ostracised. Some piece of him was keen to ask - to know what was going on - but that wasn't for someone of his station. He wasn't a lord or a hand anymore. What was he then? A hollow ache spread through his chest at the question that had no answer. Tyrion focused on Ghost instead, brushing his damaged fingers through the wolf's thick fur. At least he thought it was thick - some parts of his hand had more feeling left than others, compromising his assessment of such things.
"Are you doing alright Tyrion?" asked Jon. His tone was casual but Tyrion knew the reason behind the question was his embarrassing episode when Drogon-
Ah. Was that what they were avoiding mentioning? It would make sense for Jon to have visited the dragon, and given how he reacted yesterday it was likely Jon had told the others not to mention it.
"I'm fine," said Tyrion.
Did they really think him so weak that they couldn't mention Drogon through fear of unsettling him? Of course, they did - and they were probably right. The thought of dragons ignited a deep ache in him, but in this case, it was eclipsed by the shame of how he was seen. Did Sansa see him like this? She must. Why else would she instruct the Winterfell household to keep him to a set routine?
The path of his thoughts led to a place Tyrion didn't want to find. It was almost a relief when Godwin's hand on his arm brought him to the present.
"My lord, it is excellent to see you out of bed. Myself and our men are at your disposable in whatever capacity you need us," said Godwin. "We would happily assist with moving you around Winterfell-"
"No," said Tyrion, his chest tightening. "Please...no..."
Disappointment flashed through Godwin's eyes, but the old captain was quick to hide it. "Of course my lord, whatever makes you most comfortable. If there is a way we can be of service, you need only say."
"Leave." Tyrion swallowed. "You and your men are wasting your time. I'm not the lord of Casterly Rock - I'm not a lord at all."
"Lord Tyrion you are recovering from a terrible experience, it will take time for you to feel like yourself once more," said Wolkan.
Jon nodded, patting his shoulder. "You're making great progress. Give it time."
"As they say my lord," said Godwin. "We will be here, waiting for your orders when you are well..."
The three of them continued, talking about Tyrion Lannister as if it was only a matter of time before he returned - yet not one of them was listening to him. It was the same with Sansa and the Maester earlier on, and Yvette and the guards too. What he thought or wanted didn't matter, but perhaps that was the problem. He didn't know what he wanted, really, other than to hide and hope he would be whole again.
Tyrion blocked out the well-meaning voices around him, returning his focus to Ghost instead. They were all looking at him, but he thought the direwolf was the only one who really saw him.
Perhaps they were similar in that way - seen and not heard.