Chapter 19

The Godswood had been her father's favourite place in Winterfell. Sansa had paid little attention to his duties as lord, but she knew this was the place he retreated to for reflection and quiet. Despite the happy memories of finding her father here, the familiar form of the Heart Tree called to mind darker memories. It was beneath this tree that she'd been married to Ramsay Bolton, and it was in the Godswood that Theon Greyjoy had died defending Bran in the long night.

Sansa ran her hand over the base of the tree, hoping the old Gods might let her demons sleep for a while. This was her father's place of reflection, but not one she normally chose - a fact that hadn't gone unnoticed.

"This must be important for you to bring me out here," said Jon. Ghost padded around them, but since his return to Winterfell, the direwolf had seemed strangely indifferent to his master. By all accounts, the wolf had made a show of greeting Tyrion yesterday.

"It is important," said Sansa, turning to face him. "Winterfell has ears."

"So does the Godswood," said Jon.

Sansa followed his gaze to a group of birds fluttering between the upper branches of the trees. That was the other reason for choosing this place.

"I hope Bran sees this," said Sansa.

"A letter would be easier," said Jon, "and I'm sure Arya would have told you that, which is why I'm here instead."

"I will tell Arya, but I'd rather tell you first. I think you'll be more understanding."

Jon nodded, waiting for her to continue.

Sansa drew in a breath, bracing herself. "When I stopped Tyrion the other night, it wasn't just good timing. I had a dream - of a lion, looking towards Winterfell from here. I think it was Jamie."

"You think it was a green dream?"

"I don't know, but it wasn't normal."

Jon rubbed his jaw, considering her confession. "Why would Jamie Lannister appear to you, in the Godswood of all places?"

"It wasn't him exactly, it was a lion missing its right paw," said Sansa. "When I saw it I thought of Tyrion, but the closer I looked the more it didn't fit."

"I don't know what to tell you Sansa - this isn't something I'd know about."

Sansa drew in a breath, trying to ignore her disappointment. "I suppose it doesn't matter as long as Tyrion is safe, but I can't stop thinking about it either."

"I saw Jamie when he was a prisoner of Daenerys," said Jon, lowering his eyes. "He asked me to make sure I saved Tyrion - he knew he was going to die and Cersei would lose any restraint when he did."

"Whatever his flaws were he loved his family, and Tyrion loved his brother."

"Are you going to tell him about the dream?"

"Not right now. Maybe." Sansa sighed. "I don't know - it's hard to know what to say to him. He's so quiet, and I have no idea how to pull him out of it."

"He looks better though."

That was something to hold onto. As much as she hated taking away Tyrion's freedom there was no denying how much better he looked with a proper routine.

"Do you really think Bran will see this?" said Jon, glancing at the heart tree. "Sending him a letter would be easier."

"I can't risk it. The North's independence is new and if word got out I was having strange dreams it could undermine me."

"You're overthinking it," said Jon.

Unfortunately, that was a skill she had a lot of experience in.

"I'll take him from here."

Arya ignored the way Tyrion shrank in the wheelchair as she took over from Wolkan. The Maester raised an eyebrow but made no comment as she pushed his charge down the corridor and away from him.

Having pushed Bran's wheelchair, Arya had a good sense of what routes to avoid. Of course, the guards were well practised at moving the chair up and down the many stairs, but given the tightness in Tyrion's face, she thought it best they keep the journey short. Tyrion seemed to realise where they were going and if anything he tensed further. Arya resisted the urge to roll her eyes; honestly, she wasn't that scary.

She opened the door to her chambers without hesitation, pushing Tyrion quickly inside. He flinched when she shut the door, keeping his eyes on the blue blanket someone - probably Sansa - had placed on his lap. Arya rolled him into the middle of the room, before stepping away to circle him. She knew Sansa had visited him after breakfast, but she also knew her sister had disappeared into the Godswood with Jon. It was tempting to follow them and find out whatever Sansa was trying to keep secret, but the opportunity to speak with Tyrion was too good to pass up.

"What do you think is going to happen now?" asked Arya, pacing a slow circle around him.

"I don't know," he said, winding his hand into the blanket.

"You must have an idea."

Tyrion swallowed visibly, his voice a whisper. "You're going to kill me."

Arya's steps faltered but she didn't break her pace. "Hmm. I'd heard you were a clever man."

"Not really. I thought I was once."

"How would I do it?"

"Your sword," he said softly, "or push me through the window."

"Why a window?"

"To make it look an accident...or self-inflicted..."

"My sword would be easier," said Arya. "Why would I bother to disguise your death?"

At that he paused, sinking deeper into the chair. "No reason. No one would mind."

Arya stopped behind the chair, giving herself a moment to gain control. Was he truly oblivious, or simply depressed? She and Sansa may have bickered as children but she didn't like to see her proud sister suffering either, and Arya could see how much Sansa wanted to let her heart take over. It made no sense to Arya, but Sansa wouldn't move forwards until she thought Tyrion was ready - there was nothing wrong with giving him a nudge in the right direction, was there? Their conversation was quickly changing Arya's mind. Was this why Sansa was waiting? It didn't matter - she could still talk to Tyrion, but she'd tread softer than intended.

She took hold of the wheelchair once more, pushing Tyrion forwards. He tensed as he spied the window, but Arya directed him to the table instead, positioning him at one side and taking the seat next to him.

"I'm not going to kill you," said Arya. "That's not why I brought you here."

"Oh."

"Besides, Godwin and the Lannister guards would want to avenge their lord."

"I'm not their lord."

Arya ignored him. "That would be nothing to Sansa though. Gods, she'd never forgive me."

His mouth twitched upwards. "Our Queen is too kind to me."

"Would you rather she beat you?"

At once his smile vanished, and Arya winced. She'd meant it in humour but it was in poor taste. Talking to Lannister shouldn't be this difficult - she'd only wanted to nudge him in her sister's direction - but it was becoming clear he wasn't ready for that.

"Sansa won't hurt you," said Arya. "She won't let anyone else hurt you either."

"My debt to her grows ever bigger."

Arya shook her head. "She won't want you to pay her back - she only wants you to get better."

Tyrion fell silent and Arya struggled to contain her irritation. It wasn't Tyrion's fault he was like this, and it was a fact she had to keep reminding herself of.

"You must be excited to get back on your feet," she ventured. "I bet you're bored out of your mind in that chair, and stuck in your chambers."

"I don't mind," he said, shifting in the seat. "I don't much like the chair though."

"At least it's only temporary."

"I'm inconveniencing a lot of people."

"Like who? Yvette likes serving you, and Maester Wolkan would probably spend all day following Sansa around if you didn't keep him busy."

He glanced up at her, his green eyes wary. "The Queen wastes her time on me, and I can't understand why."

Ah, so he wasn't completely oblivious. Arya hid her smile. "Why do you think she's wasting her time?"

"I'm an imp, and she's a Queen. There are many more worthy of her kindness and attention."

"You want her to stop visiting you?"

His face tightened as if the thought pained him. "Sansa is a dutiful woman, and I'm a ghost of her past. I don't want her to feel I'm holding her back from moving forwards."

"Moving forwards?"

"Finding happiness - a husband, children - I know how she still wants the fairytale she was denied. I won't stand in her way."

Arya bit her tongue from blurting out the truth. Tyrion was close to it himself, but his issues were blinding him to the situation. He thought himself a burden weighing Sansa down, where Arya knew her sister was waiting in the hope he would realise her feelings.

"Sansa is a lot colder than she used to be," said Arya, "you have to look closely to see what she's really thinking."

"I've never thought of her as cold."

"Mostly to enemies," she agreed. "Or those she doesn't trust."

"LIke...Daenerys."

"She was right about her," said Arya, watching as Tyrion wound his good hand into the blanket at the mention of his former Queen. "As you say, Sansa can be warm - especially to those she cares about."

"A fortunate few."

Arya bit back a sigh, staring at Tyrion. "Sansa's signs can be subtle, but if someone looks close enough they'll see them."

"I can't see lord Lydden."

Varys was a skilled actor, but he couldn't disguise the frown that formed on his face. The King had been absent as he searched for the truth of what was happening, but Varys had hoped when he returned he would have answers.

"What does that mean?"

"That is the question I'd like to answer," said Bran. "Whatever fog is blocking me from seeing the Westerlands clearly has grown tighter around lord Lydden. It's not something I've encountered before."

"What about the North?" asked Varys.

"The fog isn't as strong there, but that's also where I'm strongest." Bran frowned, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Have you any news?"

"I do actually." Varys pulled a letter from his pocket, sliding it across to the King. "It's from lady Arya, recounting what she found when she went after Drogon."

Bran's eyes darted quickly over the message. "She found Ghost."

"Indeed."

"I saw something heading towards Winterfell, but I didn't see it was Ghost. This isn't good lord Varys."

"Your Grace, I must confess I'm confused. You were able to warg into your own direwolf, weren't you? That would imply you see them clearly, yet you couldn't see Ghost approaching the castle. What's more - Drogon didn't attack Ghost. By lady Arya's account, he was agitated, and flew closer to the castle, but didn't attack."

"You're correct in what you say, but I fear I know no more than you. Something is interfering in the North, and I believe its source is the Westerlands."

"What shall we do my King?"

"I'll continue to search for answers through the raven's eyes," said Bran. "You will go to the Westerlands."

Varys bowed his head. "As you say my King. Is there anything particular I should be looking for?"

"Investigate lord Lydden, but do so discreetly. Ser Bronn will accompany you."

At that his head jerked up. "Your Grace, I fear discreet and Ser Bronn don't go together."

Bran's mouth lifted into a half-smile. "His skills will help you."

Over his short time as Hand, Varys had quickly learned to trust Bran, but in this case, he wondered if the King's time in the past had made him lose touch with reality.

Tyrion couldn't help watching Sansa as she settled herself at the desk beside him, as she had for the last couple of days. The conversation with Arya often drifted into his mind, but he wasn't sure why. Part of him was convinced she'd been suggesting something about her sister, but he couldn't figure out what.

"Are you sure you don't mind me doing some work in here?" she asked.

He shook his head. "This is your castle my Queen."

"And these are your chambers my lord."

"I'm not a lord."

Sansa frowned. "I heard you told Godwin to leave with the Lannister army."

"They're waiting for the lord of Casterly Rock, and he's not here."

"I'm looking at him right now," said Sansa.

Tyrion stiffened, a flicker of irritation going through him. It was beginning to wear on him, how little control he had over his life. Every aspect of his day was planned out for him, and his refusal to be lord Lannister was dismissed as if he'd declared the sky was red. The annoyance wasn't something he should feel - he knew what was expected of him - all he had to do was obey and the pain would stay away. If he started to get annoyed there was no telling what he would lose. He doubted the Starks would hurt him as Cersei had, but that didn't mean they wouldn't throw him out. The thought of being banished from Winterfell was enough to temper his moments of irritation with appreciation. He was fed, warm and Sansa visited him - what more could he hope for?

Sansa unpacked her work, setting a book beside him as she did every day. He had no interest in reading, but the gesture was thoughtful nonetheless. On top of the book she placed a folded letter, with his name neatly written on the top. Against his will he found himself staring at it - in a way imps weren't allowed to look without permission.

"It's for you," said Sansa, nodding towards it.

A cold knot settled in his stomach. "What is it?"

"A letter. What do you think it is?"

"It's from Varys." Tyrion swallowed. "I know his hand."

Sansa paused, chewing her lip. "I thought Varys was your friend. Why would a letter from him cause you concern?"

"He's serving the King."

"Acting as Bran's hand, yes."

Blue eyes peered at him, probing for the truth he'd rather avoid.

"I suppose it was inevitable," said Tyrion.

"What's inevitable?"

"I killed my father, and I killed Shae. I was going to help...her...take the throne. I'm a traitorous, murdering monster."

Sansa's eyebrows rose. "You think this letter is a summons to Kings Landing, don't you?"

"So I can pay for my crimes..." he trailed off, his chest tightening. Facing death was one thing, but never Kings Landing - not again.

"Is that what you think?" said Sansa, her voice quiet. "I didn't bring you North so I could prepare you like a pig for slaughter. The letter is in Varys hand, but it's from Missandei. She speaks so many languages but she's only just learning to write. Varys wrote it for her, and she gave it to you before we left - I thought now you might be ready to read it."

Heat rushed to Tyrion's face. "Oh..."

"No one is going to punish you for your past crimes either. Cersei's trial exposed how she blamed you for Joffrey's death and set witnesses against you. The new High Septon visited you before we left and gave you the gift of mercy - he said your crimes can't be washed away, but he believed you'd suffered enough to have the Mother's mercy."

"I-I didn't know that," he said, shrinking into his seat. "I'm sorry...I never meant to suggest you would..."

She waved away his apology. "It's alright, I should have told you before. When I said you were safe here, I meant that Tyrion - no one is going to hurt you."

Despite her easy forgiveness, he couldn't escape the feeling the direction of his thoughts had hurt her. Sansa reassured him of his safety here often - he had no reason to believe that would change - but the Starks were honourable too. Her father would have sent him to face justice or delivered it himself, of that he had no doubt.

Tyrion lifted the letter carefully, struggling to unfold it with his good hand.

Dear Tyrion,

I hope when you read this you are in a better state than when I last saw you, but I'm sure Sansa is taking good care of you. Please understand; I'd have never asked you to sacrifice yourself to save me. When Grey Worm told me what you'd done I couldn't believe it, but it wasn't the first time you saved me, was it?

Thank you, Tyrion. I wish there was some way to 'pay the debt' as you would put it, but Sansa is taking you home and I'm going home with Grey Worm. I know it probably won't make much difference to you, but we both pleaded with Daenerys to change her mind. When it became clear she wouldn't we offered to help Sansa. I'm sorry it took so long - I'm sorry you suffered so much.

If there's ever a way to repay the debt I owe you, I'll find it. Grey Worm says he owes you a great debt too. If you're ever in Naath or you're looking for a fresh start you're more than welcome to join us - but I'm confident you'll be happy with Sansa. She worried for you so much.

I know many languages, but none can properly express how grateful I am for what you did - or how much I wish it hadn't hurt you. Take care of yourself, Tyrion.

Your friend,

Missandei

As soon as he reached the end of the letter, fragments of memories lurking just below the surface broke through to him. A bush of dark hair, and warm brown eyes peering at him. Missandei's familiar voice telling him tales of Naath and unfunny jokes. The pieces were overwhelming, painting a glimpse of his recovery in Kings Landing. Tyrion lay the letter down, curling his hand into a fist to stop it from shaking. The flashes of memory were as infuriating as they were confusing. How was he to know which memories were true and which were false? Missandei's letter didn't just offer him thanks, it offered him insight. Varys had written it on her behalf, but they were Missandei's words - and she mentioned Sansa more than once.

Tyrion lifted his gaze to the Queen in the North, watching as she read her correspondence.

"Sansa?" he said softly.

At once she turned to him, a smile on her face. "Yes Tyrion?"

She was always the one to start a conversation, and it clearly pleased her that he'd spoken first. Was she just pleased, or was it something else? So many questions, and so few options for finding answers.

"I was wondering...did Missandei see me in Kings Landing?"

"Yes, she sat with you often. Grey Worm visited too. Missandei was guilt-ridden over what happened."

Tyrion nodded, his mouth going dry. If the memories of MIssandei at his bedside were true, did that mean his other memories were reliable as well? He risked a proper look at Sansa, quickly taking in her delicate face, and the long red hair framing it. Gentle blue eyes watched him back, almost inviting him in.

No. It couldn't be true. Sansa Stark was a beautiful woman - a true Queen. She might have seen him in Kings Landing but she wouldn't have acted as his mind kept insisting. The glimpses of her tending to him and offering him comfort were nothing more than fantasy. Except...

'She worried for you so much.'

Tyrion swallowed. He couldn't ignore the whisperings of his mind forever. Each day the memories became sharper, more insistent. He had to find evidence they were fantasy, and if he couldn't he'd have to face the impossible scenario they were true.

Few things made Sansa nervous anymore, but the dragon prowling in the distance was one of them.

"Do you know what Drogon wants?" she asked.

Jon leaned against the wall, hanging his head. "I have no idea."

"Wonderful."

"I'm sorry Sansa - I know you don't trust Dragons and Tyrion is afraid of him-"

"Tyrion isn't afraid, he's traumatised," cut in Sansa. She lifted her eyebrow. "I don't trust Drogon, but that doesn't extend to you Jon. You'll always be my brother."

"I wish I never knew. Does that sound strange to you?"

Sansa pursed her lips, weighing her response carefully. Jon was nearly always calm and steadfast, but his Targaryen heritage was the one thing that unbalanced him, and since Ghost's arrival Drogon had become a more immediate problem. Rather than stay in its chosen clearing as it had since arrival, Drogon now moved between there and Winterfell - lurking in the distance and then coming close enough for its roars to send Winterfell into a panic.

"I understand why Jon. Father should have told you before you joined the Night's Watch - you shouldn't have had to find out the way you did. That can't change the facts though. You're the last of the Targaryen bloodline, and the only hope of controlling Drogon."

"Maybe it's better I leave now. Drogon won't be a threat, and you can all sleep easier."

Sansa's heart seized. "No! I don't want you to leave."

His voice softened. "You know I'm going to leave sooner or later."

"So is Arya," said Sansa. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling the nights chill. "I'm going to be alone."

"We might not be together, but you'll never be alone." Jon lifted his head, offering her a smile. "Besides, you'll have Tyrion."

"Maybe."

"You don't want him anymore?"

"Of course I do," she snapped, before lowering her voice. "I don't know if he'll want me though."

"You just said he's traumatised. Give him time - he is recovering."

Sansa bit her lip, struggling to contain her worry. Was she being too subtle with Tyrion? He'd been so easy to read in Kings Landing - his eyes would brighten whenever he saw her - now he barely looked at her. She tried to be understanding, knowing only a fraction of the hell he'd suffered through, but she'd hoped he might open up to her as well. Was she expecting too much? There was no need to rush anything, but part of her couldn't help aching to be closer to him. Even if it was only to offer him an ear and some comfort. He looked so lost all the time.

Jon seemed to sense her shift in mood, wrapping his arm around her. "You can't know what Tyrion is thinking, and trying to will drive you insane."

"You're right. I just...I want to be with him... to help him. I feel like his warden more than his wife."

"Father always said wolves are patient," said Jon. "I'll have to be patient with Drogon - something is bothering him but I can't figure out what. Do the same with Tyrion - sooner or later a wolf gets their prey."

"He's not my prey."

Jon's mouth twitched up. "You don't want a taste of lion?"

Sansa groaned. "You're as bad as Arya."

"Ghost keeps avoiding me and joining Tyrion when he's being wheeled around upstairs. You might have competition."

At that Sansa smiled. "It's not just Tyrion he's following. Ghost came and sat in my meeting with lord Manderly earlier."

"I don't understand it."

"Maybe he's trying to make you jealous?"

Jon sighed, running a hand through his hair. "When did life get this complicated?"

"When we left Winterfell."

"If only we knew then what would happen."

Sansa nodded her agreement, but for all the horror she'd suffered there was one glimmer of gold in the shadows, and it was enough for her to hope for a better future. She could be patient, and wait for her chosen mate to decide.

"Perhaps you'd prefer to join the lords in the great hall," said Wolkan.

Tyrion peered at him for a moment, before quickly returning his gaze to his bowl of soup.

The old Maester struggled to contain a sigh. He'd thought no one as wilful as Arya Stark but the lord of Casterly Rock could challenge her for the title, albeit in a more subdued manner. The Queen's intervention in his care had been hard but necessary, and even a week on the change in lord Tyrion was noticeable. He was far more alert, and each day some strength crept back to him. Not that lord Tyrion would have noticed. He now ate, slept and did his exercises as directed but was a passenger in his recovery rather than an active participant. Wolkan glanced sideways at the Queen's husband, ensuring he was eating the soup that comprised his every meal.

The Queen's orders that he be kept on a schedule only extended so far. As long as he ate, Tyrion could eat what he wanted - and for every meal it was soup, or occasionally a piece of bread.

"Do you not tire of soup my lord?" asked Wolkan. "I believe the other lords are enjoying ham in the great hall if you'd rather-"

"No thank you," he said quickly, panic filling his eyes. "I'm fine with this."

"The Queen would be pleased to see you there," he tried.

"I'm not a lord."

Wolkan bit his tongue from disagreeing. Tyrion Lannister was the lord of Casterly Rock, but the silver ring on his finger made him so much more. Queen Sansa had made it clear from the outset he was to be addressed as lord Tyrion, but the Winterfell household knew this man was Prince consort, the question remained on whether the marriage would remain in limbo or if it would become official. Guards and servants all had their own opinions, with some believing it would end and the majority believing the current situation would continue indefinitely. Only those closest to Sansa could see the truth - that the Queen was waiting for her husband to take his place at her side.

As the Maester of Winterfell it frustrated him to see lord Tyrion refuse to participate in his recovery. He could scarcely imagine how it must frustrate the Queen. He and Yvette had tried numerous times over the last week to convince Tyrion to eat in the great hall for breakfast, lunch or dinner. The Queen had told them to continue inviting him, but she'd made it clear not to force the issue. The schedule they'd arranged was to ensure his basic needs were met - anything beyond that was in lord Tyrion's control.

Wolkan leaned forwards in his chair as Tyrion finished the soup. "My lord, I understand you are struggling to adjust to using your left hand, but I can assure you adapting is possible if you give it a chance. You needn't live on foods that require only one hand."

Tyrion fiddled with the spoon. "You won't let me have a knife. Everything sharp was taken out of the room after the incident."

"A knife can be brought in at mealtimes," assured Wolkan. "That won't be an issue."

He shook his head, his voice low. "I've no appetite - soup is fine for me."

"There's no harm in trying."

Tyrion ignored him, dropping the spoon in the empty bowl. "I've finished."

"Sooner or later you must find ways to adapt my lord. Your hand is beyond repair, but that's no reason to limit yourself. Your brother suffered a similar misfortune-"

"I'm not Jamie," snapped Tyrion. For a moment his eyes darkened before his gaze fell to the table. "Even without his hand he was still Jamie Lannister - it didn't matter what he lost or did - nobody could take that away from him."

"Identity isn't something that can be taken from you either my lord. You're still Tyrion Lannister."

The Maester strained to hear the quiet reply. "What if I don't want to be?"

Arya moved down the corridor in perfect silence, not that her skills were necessary. Even from this distance, she could hear her sister's screams echoing down the corridor, loud enough to cover most other sounds in the quiet night. As soon as she arrived at the door the two guards stepped back to let her pass.

"How long?" asked Arya.

"She started half an hour ago but it was quiet," said one man. "We thought she'd gone back to sleep but then the screaming started."

"Aye," nodded the other one. "Thought it best we send for you m'lady."

Arya nodded her thanks, quickly opening the door into her sister's chambers. In the middle of the bed, the Queen in the North writhed as if trapped in some invisible agony. Her hands wound tightly into the blankets covering her, as her breath came in gasping cries.

"Aaahhhh. Ugh...aahhhhh."

A sigh escaped Arya as she moved to the side of the bed. The Queen's nightmares were the worst kept secret in Winterfell. It was impossible not to hear her when she was in this state, despite no one inhabiting any of the rooms near hers. The Winterfell household was loyal enough to their Queen that no whispers escaped them, particularly with guests in the castle, but Arya knew it was discussed amongst themselves. Most pitied the Queen, assuming - quite rightly - her nightmares were a lingering effect of Ramsay Bolton. Yet it was a truth Sansa was keen to hide, and in this situation, Arya understood why. Wolves could show no weakness, except to each other.

"Sansa," she called. "Wake up. You're fine."

"Aahhh..." moaned Sansa.

Arya reached across, gently gripping her sister's shoulder and ignoring the way she flinched. "Wake up. You're home Sansa, everything is fine."

It took several minutes of coaxing until Sansa's eyes opened and her cries quieted. The Queen drew in quick breaths, fear leaving her eyes as she realised where she was - and who was with her.

"Are you ok?" asked Arya.

Sansa pushed herself upwards, clinging to the sheets. "I'm...fine."

"You're not fine. If you were this wouldn't keep happening."

"I never asked you to come and wake me every time."

Arya rolled her eyes. "You don't need to ask for that."

The Queen rubbed her face, sighing tiredly. "How loud was I?"

"I could hear you down the corridor, but since there's no one close to your chambers I doubt anyone but the guards heard."

Sansa would be mortified to know of Arya's arrangement with the guards, and it was a small relief her sister hadn't questioned why she was always near her chambers when her nightmares began. She couldn't wake Sansa every time, but the guards knew to send word to her if a certain point was reached. The thought almost made her smile. Sansa had her systems in place to ensure Tyrion was cared for, but had no idea she was subject to her own.

"Want to talk about it?" asked Arya.

Sansa shook her head, rubbing her arms as if she were cold. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Are you gonna be like this the whole time?" asked Bronn.

"Like what?"

"You're sitting on that horse as if it's a bloody dragon. It's a horse, and since you got nothing else between your legs it should be more comfortable for you than me."

Varys lifted his nose and Bronn took it as a sign the eunuch would be like that for the length of their journey West.

"This is supposed to be stealthy," said Bronn. "You can't take a wheelhouse or litter into Lannisport."

"We could have taken it most of the way."

"Too slow."

"We're no good to King Bran if we fall off our horses."

Bronn smirked, watching his companion struggle with the horse. He'd been surprised at the Kings order to go West - with Varys of all people - but it was a refreshing change of pace. Being master of coin had its advantages, but it was difficult to not kill some of the stupid bastards he had to deal with. At least in the Westerlands he might get his sword wet and feel more forgiving when he returned to Kings Landing.

"What are we looking for anyway?" asked Bronn.

"Whatever is interfering with King Bran's powers."

"So what? Some kind of bird trap?"

Varys rolled his eyes, sighing. "When we reach the Westerlands we are to stay hidden and uncover what the King cannot. Something is interfering with his sight and we're fairly sure it's affecting the North too."

"So this is about Tyrion. The other lords want Casterly Rock, and his magic cock is the best way to get it."

"Hmm. Surprisingly astute of you, but yes - we fear their plot involves lord Tyrion and by extension Queen Sansa."

Bronn bit back a smile. He wasn't stupid and it was necessary to remind people of that on occasion. It was easy to tell Varys would have preferred Ser Davos or Pod to accompany him, but Bronn knew he had the right skill set - and King Bran knew it as well. Varys would be irritating but it might be nice to stretch his sword arm, particularly against the bastards who wanted to use Tyrion. Seeing him so beaten hadn't sat well with Bronn, and it was a feeling he would be happy to exorcise.

It had been two months since he was rescued from the Black cells, and a month since he arrived in Winterfell, though Tyrion remembered little of the last eight weeks of his life. Kings Landing was a hazy mess of memories and hallucinations, while his time in Winterfell had passed in something of a trance. Had he really been here four weeks? It seemed only days ago he woke up to find how much the world had changed, but at the same time life before Winterfell seemed like a distant dream.

He flinched as the Maester's hand pressed at his knee where the scar lay, not that the man would realise he'd touched that particular place beneath his breeches. Wolkan continued pressing his leg, flexing his knee and testing the bones until he sat back, nodding in satisfaction.

"All seems to be well my lord. If you are ready to stand we can try some weight on it."

Tyrion's mouth went dry. He couldn't stand - he was too weak. As much as he hated the damned wheelchair it did save him the humiliation of falling flat on his face. Wolkan straightened up, moving back a few steps to give him room.

"Come now my lord, nice and slowly. The bones in your leg have had long enough to heal. Your shoulder is healing well, but the stiffness might make you feel unbalanced. If you stand, I'll be able to offer you further guidance on the problem."

The old man was as stubborn as a goat. He stood opposite him, looking as if he had all the time in the world. Why wouldn't he give up? Tyrion knew he couldn't do it - why humiliate himself? Minutes passed and with each one Tyrion wilted further into the wheelchair. It didn't matter what he wanted. If he didn't do as he was told they'd find a way to make him. His chest tightened, sending a rush of heat through his body. His good hand curled into a fist...but no - he was an imp - what he wanted didn't matter.

Movement caught the corner of his eye as he stared at his lap, and Sansa's soft words reached him a moment later.

"Would you like some help?" she asked. "You can use me for support if you're nervous - I won't let you fall."

Heat burned his cheeks at the offer. "I can't do it..."

"You can," she said, "you're more than strong enough."

The Queen moved in front of him, her bright blue eyes blocking the sight of Wolkan. She reached out, lightly grasping his arms.

"Let me help you," she said.

He bit his lip. "I can't...please..."

It was too much. The shame of his condition collided with his growing frustration at having no voice, opening a chasm in his heart that only brought more shame. He ducked his head lower, avoiding Sansa's gaze as weakness burned at the back of his eyes, and started a trail down his face. It was impossible to hide from the Queen when she was so close, and the shift in her demeanour from encouraging to worried only furthered his embarrassment.

At once her hands began rubbing his arms. "It's alright. You're doing so well - it will take time. There's no rush."

"Sorry...I can't..." he whispered. "My leg it-it still aches..."

The excuse was poor and in Cersei's hands he'd have been beaten for the obvious lie, but Sansa merely nodded along. "Don't worry. Maester Wolkan will carry on with your strength building and we'll try this again in a few days."

Tyrion nodded his thanks, but the chasm only deepened. Why was no one hearing him? He wasn't ready. That didn't matter though. This saga would repeat in a few days until he was eventually forced from the wheelchair so he could land flat on his face and reaffirm what everybody already knew - that he was weak and damaged in a way that couldn't be fixed.

Sansa squeezed his arm, straightening up to speak with the Maester. Tyrion only half-listened as they spoke about what was best for him.

Jon took a wary step forwards, keeping his eyes locked on Drogon's mouth. The dragon was having a tantrum, though Jon couldn't find any reason for it. Flames shot into the sky as Drogon once again let his rage be known. Before Jon could take another step forwards a tug pulled him back, and he turned to see red eyes.

"Ghost, let go."

The direwolf pulled again, sinking his teeth deeper into Jon's cloak.

"You can wait over there if you want, but I have to see what's wrong with Drogon. He's too dangerous to leave like this."

Ghost released his cloak, but turned towards the dragon instead, snarling at the much larger creature. Not that Drogon seemed to notice. Whatever had upset Drogon, the dragon wouldn't settle. Since Ghost's arrival, the dragon hadn't returned to the initial clearing it had chosen but had moved to a different one closer to the castle - a fact that displeased Sansa. Jon didn't understand. Drogon had been fine on the journey from Kings Landing, and the first couple of weeks in the North. Now, something had changed, putting Drogon on edge and the rest of the North with it.

"What's gotten into you?" muttered Jon, looking between the dragon and the direwolf. Ghost was his oldest friend but since he came south of the wall he'd changed too. The wolf seemed to have lost interest in him, preferring to follow Sansa or Arya around Winterfell - he'd even taken to joining Tyrion when he was being pushed around the corridors. Whenever Ghost did join him, Jon had the inescapable feeling he was missing something - he just didn't know what.

Jon moved again towards Drogon, pausing when he realised Ghost wasn't following him. He turned in time to see Ghost loping away, heading in the direction of Winterfell. For a moment he considered calling him back. Ghost had saved his life more than once - he was a trusted ally.

Ultimately, he turned away, focusing on Drogon instead. As much as he cared for Ghost he couldn't ignore his responsibility for Drogon either. If the dragon wouldn't settle he'd have to speed up his plans for going North of the wall. The dragon couldn't remain so close to the villages in such an unpredictable state, and he was the only one with a hope of controlling him. Why Ghost had returned was as curious as his mood, but in this situation, Jon would have to choose the dragon.

Tyrion squirmed in the bed, a whimper escaping him. His good hand tightened in the blankets, pulling them closer as he struggled to escape his mind. It could have gone on all night, as it had the night before, if not for the scratching at his door and the voice of the guard. He jerked awake at the noise, his nightmare quickly fading as a new one took over. The door rattled, and on reflex, Tyrion began to curl in on himself.

A moment later the guard's face appeared, illuminated by a torch. "Oh, you're awake..."

Tyrion nodded, his mouth dry. Somewhere in his mind, it registered that the guard was trying to keep the door closed, but that small voice was drowned out by fear. Guards coming to him in the dark never ended well, though the Winterfell guards had yet to start beating him. There was always one or two at his door, and if they saw him when the Maester entered or when he left in the wheelchair they greeted him with some warmth. None of that factored into his current fear - it didn't matter that this young guard had done nothing to hurt him - all that mattered was that the Lannister guards had.

"Sorry for the bother m'lord," said the guard, grunting as he pulled the door so only his face could be seen. "I can't get him to leave you be."

"Who?" asked Tyrion. How could he have ever been a lord or a Queen's hand when his voice was so feeble? He was no roaring lion.

"Ghost, m'lord. I thought he'd come to have me for dinner, but he's going past me to scratch at your door. Figured it best I check you were alright."

"Oh..." Tyrion's brow furrowed. Why would Ghost be here? Some of his fear slipped away as his mind turned curious.

The guard grunted, flinching as a furry white face pushed against him. It occurred to Tyrion the guard was doing his duty in keeping Ghost out but was obviously scared of the wolf, and why wouldn't he be? Direwolves were of the North, but they were bonded to the Starks. The poor bastard probably thought the wolf was here to kill him, but he was willing to do his duty in protecting the Queen's guest.

"It's alright," said Tyrion, quietly. "Ghost can come in if he likes."

"You sure m'lord?"

"It's fine. I don't think he's a threat."

The young man looked all too relieved as he opened the door and the great wolf lurched past him. Ghost went straight to the side of the bed, dropping his front paws on the side and presenting his head for a rub.

"Hello Ghost," said Tyrion. "Can you not sleep either?"

The guard lingered in the doorway, watching the wolf warily. "Do you need anything m'lord?"

He shook his head. "I'm alright - thank you."

The door closed quickly, and Tyrion felt the rest of his anxiety draining away. He shouldn't be so paranoid. Sansa had been nothing but generous to him, and as much as he hated being watched the guards had done nothing to earn his distrust.

Tyrion scratched the wolf's head, grateful for the distraction from his nightmares. His dreams were never kind, but since Wolkan and Sansa had tried to get him to walk they'd taken a nasty turn. He blamed it, in part, on what Maester Henly had told him about Kings Landing. The Maester there had thought the damage to his leg warranted amputation, and it was only Sansa's intervention that had spared him such a fate. The thought had plagued him often since, but none more so than when the Maester suggested he stand. Now his nights were plagued by dreams of standing and his leg snapping beneath him, leaving him crippled and helpless. The night of the incident he'd made it to the mirror alone, but that had hurt his leg in the process. For days after it had been sore and swollen. If he damaged it anymore would he lose it? He had no power to refuse if the Maester convinced Sansa amputation was in fact necessary.

Ghost nudged his hand, drawing him from his increasingly morbid thoughts. His eyes landed on the damaged side of the wolf's face, where the battle against the white walkers had left its mark. Ghost's right ear was torn, missing the top piece - not that it seemed to bother the wolf.

"How would you handle a weak leg, hmm?" mused Tyrion. "I suppose you'd find a way to adapt - you'd be left alone to get on with it. There wouldn't be people watching your every move."

Red eyes watched him closely, but unlike the people who called upon him, Ghost couldn't answer. The direwolf couldn't offer him false hope, or try and cheer him by emphasising how he was 'doing so well' when he was truly doing nothing. Ghost was of the North, where harsh truths were looked in the eye and confronted. Tyrion found the silence of his companion welcome. It was cold, but it was honest - a stark contrast to the manipulation that had caused him such torment and the kind lies that tried to heal him. He wasn't getting better, not in any meaningful way. Sansa and the Winterfell household were quick to tell him how he was doing well, but that's all they were doing; telling him.

"Do you think I could do it?" he whispered. Was it better to try here? Alone, with only Ghost as his witness? At worst he would fall and face the humiliation of needing help, but if he was going to fall surely alone was best.

Tyrion eased the blankets off himself, turning his aching body until his feet dangled at the side of the bed. Ghost stood back, watching with interest. If he could stand now, perhaps he wasn't confined to life in the chair. If he fell, it might be enough to dissuade Sansa and her Maester from trying to fix him. Tyrion thought through the options, forcing himself to consider the worst scenario; he would damage his leg, lose it and spend his life in the damned chair. If he didn't try to walk he would spend his life in the chair anyway, clinging to a leg he was too afraid to use. Rationally, the risk made sense - he hadn't much to lose either way.

It wasn't just his leg that worried him as he pushed himself further to the edge of the bed. His shoulder ached regularly and that arm was stiff from continued lack of use. The damage to his hand made him want to forget that arm existed at all, but he supposed that wasn't the best way to view it. For now, he focused on his leg, and whether it would ever be any use to him again. Tyrion drew in a deep breath, before sliding from the soft bed until his feet brushed the cool floor. He leaned to his right, anticipating agony as soon as he put weight on his leg, only it never came.

His muscles strained at the movement, and his imbalance caused his shoulder to catch - but his leg didn't snap in half as his nightmares warned him it would. Tyrion's heart soared, sending a pleasant warmth through him. It was nice to do this alone, to claw back some tiny piece of control without being watched. Tyrion stood there, holding the bed for support as his eyes fell on the chaise across the room. Could he reach there?

Ghost had stood silently but now padded to his side, his soft fur brushing against him.

"You'll help me?" asked Tyrion, his voice soft. The last thing he needed was the guard to report him talking to himself, or worse, come in and find him standing without supervision.

'You're breaking the rules,' whispered Cersei.

Tyrion shook his head, stretching his right arm across Ghost's back. Maybe he was breaking the rules, and maybe Sansa would punish him.

He stepped forwards, easing one foot in front of the other.

Maybe it didn't matter. Every part of his life was planned out and managed - this was something he could do for himself. Only Ghost would know, and unlike humans, the wolf wouldn't mock him.

"Is there nothing we can do your Grace?"

Bran shook his head. "We can only wait for Varys and Bronn."

Brienne sighed and Bran struggled to not show his own frustration at the situation. Losing the use of his legs had left him crippled, but seeing through the raven's eyes had given him a different perspective. The issues with his third eye were like losing one of his senses. His sight still worked, but he could no longer see the Westerlands or the North at all.

"They'll be there soon," said Bran. "They're close enough that I can feel my sight beginning to struggle to find them."

The knight frowned. "What could be powerful enough to block you?"

"If only I knew." Bran's gaze fell on the letters spread across his desk. "My family are asking questions. Jon says Ghost and Drogon are both acting strangely."

"You haven't told them about your problem?"

"Not yet. Queen Sansa is busy enough without me adding to her worry. Varys and Bronn will investigate, and if there's anything I need to make her aware of I will."

"I could have gone with them my King."

"You're too recognisable ser Brienne," said Bran. "You're needed here more. I can't see what is happening in the Westerlands but I doubt it's good news. Ensure your men are ready."

She bowed her head. "As you say my King."

Bran pulled his eyes from the letters, but he couldn't forget them. Sansa, Arya, Jon - they'd all written to him asking advice on everything from Drogon to Tyrion, but for now, he could do nothing. Since taking the iron throne it was the first time he'd truly felt alone. Whatever was happening in the Westerlands, it was getting stronger.

"How's my good brother doing?"

Sansa sighed, narrowing her eyes at her sister. "Don't."

"Don't what? Tyrion isn't here - and he knows about the marriage. Calling him brother shouldn't be a surprise."

"He thinks the marriage is only temporary."

"Oh, so you've decided it isn't?"

Sansa ground her teeth until they clicked, cursing herself for falling into Arya's trap. "That's not what I meant."

"Don't pretend." Arya leaned her elbows on the desk, a smirk on her lips. "How long can this really go on? Surely Lannister wonders why you've not asked him to request an annulment."

"Lord Tyrion is free to request an annulment any time he wants," said Sansa, lifting her chin. "Until he does, our arrangement stands."

"Maybe he's hoping you don't ask him. For all you know he could never want it to end either." Arya shrugged. "Food for thought. Telling him how you feel might not end like whatever disaster you're imagining."

Curse Arya. No matter how many times Sansa explained all the reasons why she was holding back with Tyrion her sister continued to push the issue. Of course, she hoped Tyrion cared for her - even a fraction of how she loved him would be enough - but it was a risk she wasn't ready to take.

"To answer your question, Tyrion isn't doing so well," said Sansa, hoping to bring Arya back to her original point. "We tried to get him to stand the other day but he said his leg ached too much. We hoped a few days rest might help, but he couldn't get out of the chair today when we tried."

"Couldn't or wouldn't?"

Sansa bit her lip, dropping her gaze.

"Should I visit him?" asked Arya. "I can get him moving out of that wheelchair. All it'll take is a few flames against the wheels."

"No! Stay away from him Arya!"

Grey eyes stared at her. "If the Maester has told him he can try walking and he keeps coming up with excuses, it's not an issue of can't but won't. Surely you can see that?"

"I know that - but if he really doesn't feel ready I don't want to push him."

"Seven hells Sansa, someone has to push him. Or do you really want a docile husband who's afraid to live?"

"That's not fair," she said sharply. "You know what Tyrion went through."

"I do. I also know he'll never get over it unless he moves forward. You're his wife - show him some tough love."

Sansa sank into her chair, rubbing her face. "What do you think I've been doing? I hate doing this to him, but no matter what I do he doesn't protest. I can see it in his eyes sometimes - he wants to say something - but he won't."

Her sister's face softened. "Sorry. I know it must be hard for you. Maybe it's time you push him too far."

"What do you mean?"

"You know him better than I do. Find something that'll push Lannister past his breaking point - enough to provoke a reaction. He's afraid of the consequences, right? That's why he doesn't speak up. Give him no other choice, and maybe when he sees you're not Cersei he'll stop hiding."

It wasn't the worst idea. Maester Wolkan had talked about other strategies after they left Tyrion this afternoon, but Sansa wasn't sure she had the stomach for it. Yet, if it was truly in his best interests...

"You might be right," said Sansa.

"I usually am." Arya sat back, lounging in her chair. "Does he know why Ghost keeps visiting him?"

"Tyrion said he has no idea. Ghost turned up at his door the other night and he's gone back every night since."

"Why? I can only assume he's trying to make Jon jealous, but why Tyrion?"

"Why not Tyrion?"

Arya snorted. "Don't get defensive. He's a Lannister and there are two Starks here. You'd think Ghost would choose one of us to make Jon jealous."

"What if Ghost isn't trying to make Jon jealous and just likes spending time with Tyrion?"

Her sister pursed her lips, considering. "It's possible, I suppose. What do you think they do in there?"

"Tyrion says he sleeps on the bottom of the bed."

"There are plenty of beds in Winterfell."

It was more than a little strange why Ghost had returned to Winterfell, only to leave Jon in favour of Tyrion. Not that Jon particularly minded at the moment - his focus was on Drogon and if his direwolf would rather seek company elsewhere he didn't mind. Sansa didn't mind either. As much as she trusted the Winterfell guards she slept a little sounder knowing Tyrion had Ghost with him for protection. A faint smile crossed her face at the thought of him and Ghost together. Perhaps the company would be good for him.