Chapter 20

Sansa took care to not let Tyrion catch her watching him. They were sat in his chambers - as they did every day - with she working while he stared vacantly at the table. He'd yet to read any of the books she brought him, but he had read the two letters that had arrived for him. The last letter she'd received from Varys had asked if Tyrion was up to receiving letters and she'd quickly said yes. However much she felt like his warden it wasn't true and it never would be. Letters from Ser Davos and Podrick had arrived for him today, and while she'd caught a faint smile as he read them, his mood had quickly turned gloomy afterwards.

Yesterday's conversation with Arya was stuck in her mind, but she was undecided on whether to push ahead with it. Unfortunately, the more she watched Tyrion the more inclined she was to try her sister's method. There had to be some way to break him from the dark clouds hanging around him, but she feared the solution would push him away from her, rather than draw him close.

The Queen sat back in her chair, stretching her back as she turned to Tyrion. "Would you like some paper to write a reply?"

His head jerked up. "What?"

"A reply to Ser Davos and Pod. You'll write them back, won't you?"

"Is that a joke?" he asked quietly, dropping his head. "You know I can't."

"You have two hands."

"I can't write with my left."

"Have you tried?"

"It would look like an infant's drawing. Do you think the Maester will write back for me?"

Sansa chewed her lip. The last thing she wanted was to deny him, but he couldn't hide from reality forever. His right hand was ruined, and he needed to find a way to live without it.

"He won't," she said.

His eyes flicked to hers for a moment, a hint of annoyance in them. "Oh."

"You're the lord of Casterly Rock and the Westerlands already think you're here as my prisoner. The Winterfell household won't handle your correspondence." She drew in a breath. "If you need to send a letter you'll have to do it yourself."

"I'm not the lord of Casterly Rock," said Tyrion, his voice low. "I want nothing to do with it."

"If that's truly how you feel you'll need to inform the King you're surrendering your titles. When I brought you here I made it clear I'd have nothing to do with the Westerlands. Some of your bannermen weren't happy you were coming here and saw it as me wanting your titles. Whatever decision you reach is entirely up to you, but I will ask you to consider it fully. You're still recovering - who knows how you'll feel when you get better?"

"I know how I feel."

Sansa reached out, laying her hand over his damaged one. "I'm just saying there's no rush. Winterfell is your home no matter what you choose. If you're certain you don't want Casterly Rock write the letter to Bran, but you'll need to write it."

Tyrion nodded mutely, turning his gaze to his letters.

"The Maester won't write your letters, but I can ask him to help you learn to write again-"

"I'm not a child."

"I never said you were. It'll take practice to use your left but I'm sure you'll find a way."

Tyrion rubbed his face and Sansa felt sure he wanted to say more than he was, but he hid it all behind a mask of obedience. If she could rid him of that, perhaps her Tyrion would return, or at least a piece of him would.

"Do you think Bran has forgotten we exist?"

Jon bit back a sigh, deciding it best to humour his sister. "Why would you think that?"

"The last letter we got from Bran was just the usual rubbish and that message to Tyrion about him losing a hand and not a stomach."

"And?"

"I've written to him, I know Sansa has sent a few letters and I'm sure you have too."

"I hoped he might have some idea about Drogon."

The question of Drogon had puzzled Jon for days, without any insight coming to him. He'd been searching for answers again when Arya barged into his chambers, bringing the issue of Bran to the front of his mind.

"Bran would be my first choice for answers too," said Arya. "It's a shame he seems to have forgotten us."

"I doubt he's forgotten us."

"Then why hasn't he replied?" said Arya. "Sansa told me about her lion dream, and that she described it in the Godswood so Bran might see."

Jon's mouth twitched up at the disbelief in her voice. "I told her to send a letter."

"Well he's not replying to those, so Sansa's method might not be completely ridiculous. Do you think he saw it?"

"Bran was always in the Godswood when he was here - I think there's a chance."

"Then why hasn't he sent a message!" Arya rocked back in her chair, her hand resting on needle. "I don't like this."

"Neither do I, but we can't force Bran to reply."

Arya hummed, irritation lingering on her face. As dangerous as she was, Jon knew family mattered most to her, and Bran's silence was worrying her as much as it was annoying her.

"Did you ask him about Ghost?" she asked. "Or have you traded him for a dragon?"

"That's not the situation-"

"If I was Ghost I'd be pissed at you too. He fought beside you in the long night and then you sent him North. The lone wolf dies Jon."

"He belongs North of the wall."

"He belongs with his pack. No wonder he's traded you for Tyrion - at least Lannister appreciates his company."

Jon shook his head, a laugh escaping him. "You can't believe Ghost is jealous of Drogon."

Arya lifted an eyebrow. "I don't know that, but there's something he wasn't getting from you that he's getting from our good brother."

Jon's stomach twisted uneasily. Ever since Ghost returned he'd felt he was missing something, but controlling Drogon had to be his priority. If his old friend preferred Tyrion's company right now he didn't mind - he knew it eased some of Sansa's worry to have the wolf near him. He tried to not take Arya's sharp words personally. When he left Ghost he'd done so because he believed it was the right thing to do, but he supposed it would irritate her given how she'd had to leave Nymeria.

"Do you enjoy calling Tyrion our brother, or is it just to annoy Sansa?" he asked.

"Mostly to annoy Sansa," said Arya, "but since she's attached to him I suppose I'd better get used to it."

"I don't like this," said Varys.

Bronn snorted softly beside him. "You aint liked anything since we left Kings Landing."

It had taken eight days for them to get close to Deep Den, the seat of House Lydden, but the closer they got the more uncomfortable Varys became. Something was in the air, and it wasn't whatever treason the lords were undoubtedly plotting.

"We'll struggle to get close," said Bronn.

They'd left the Gold Road behind them two days ago, travelling over the rougher, but quieter terrain instead. The hills that comprised the Westerlands offered them plenty of places to shelter - and watch the comings and goings along the Gold Road. So far they'd seen plenty of comings and few goings.

"Lord Lydden is clearly hosting a gathering of some sorts," said Varys. "Though I'm surprised he'd host it in his own castle. It's quite brazen."

"Lords aint all that clever," said Bronn, "fancy boys with no sense."

"I can't disagree with you there."

Hidden in the dense bushes and trees, the Gold Road was easy enough to make out below them - as were the flags of lord Tyrion's bannermen. Unlike other regions of Westeros, house Lannister's rule had gone unquestioned since Tywin took control. None of the other houses could match their power, yet now the bannermen were flocking to lord Lydden's castle.

"There's something I don't like about this," said Varys. "I fear there's a force at play we've yet to see."

"Whatever's blocking King Bran."

"Exactly."

Bronn sighed. "You want to get closer, don't you?"

"We must."

Bronn straightened from his crouch. "Alright, but if it comes to a fight you're on your own. We've seen half a bloody army heading towards Deep Den, and I aint fighting them by myself."

"It won't come to that if we can keep hidden. Unfortunately, going closer seems the only way we'll learn anything at all."

Something was wrong with Yvette. The servant was trying hard to maintain her usual cheerfulness as Tyrion finished his dinner but something was hiding behind it.

He pushed away his empty bowl, nodding towards her. "Thank you."

"Very good m'lord," she said, moving the bowl and beginning to clean the table.

Soup was the easiest thing for him to eat with his left hand, but he'd be lying to say he wasn't bored of it. The campaign to make him eat had seen his appetite grow from non-existent to a more normal level of hunger. As humiliating as the routine was, the regular food had cleared his head some. His actions the night of the incident seemed even more irrational in hindsight. Often, he still heard the voices of Cersei and Daenerys - mocking and taunting him - but the visions of mad purple eyes and constant cruel whispers had diminished greatly. If his hand worked, if his body wasn't covered in those bloody marks and if the violating feel of Cersei's hand on his cock would leave him Tyrion might have felt almost normal. He dropped his head, running a hand through his too-short hair - nothing would ever feel normal again.

It took him longer than it should have to realise Yvette had deviated from her evening routine. At this point, she would change him into a night shift and he'd spend the remainder of the evening in bed. Yet now, Yvette had laid out the shift on the bed and stood waiting by the door.

"Everything alright?" he asked quietly.

"Aye, m'lord - just waiting for the Maester."

Tyrion's heart sped up. "For what?"

Yvette didn't answer, but she had no need to. A minute later a knock sounded on the door, which opened to let not just the Maester in but four servants as well. Two carried a tub between them with the others carrying buckets of water and other supplies.

"Good evening lord Tyrion," said Wolkan, inclining his head before turning to Yvette. "Are we ready?"

"M'lord has just finished his dinner."

"Good, good." Wolkan stepped further into the room as the servants continued the preparations. "No need to look so concerned lord Tyrion. I've made sure the water will be quite hot for you."

His mouth went dry. "For what?"

"Your bath. Washing you in the bed can only achieve so much. You'll feel much fresher after this."

Surely he didn't mean...

"Thank you, but I'd rather not."

"My lord you must. You're unable to care for yourself and our instructions are to care for your needs. Yvette will wash you - I'm only here to assist."

Tyrion shook his head. "No, please..."

"Are you refusing?" asked Wolkan, tilting his head curiously. At his words, two Winterfell guards stepped into the room - both their eyes on Tyrion.

"Any trouble Maester?" one asked.

"I'm not sure," said Wolkan, staring at Tyrion. "Is there an issue my lord?"

The walls of the room closed in on Tyrion as the Maester, servants and guards watched him. Surely this was a nightmare? It was one thing for Yvette to clean him with a cloth in the bed, but a bath would leave him completely exposed - a bath was personal, private - particularly when you had the body he had.

Tyrion's heart thumped unevenly in his chest. This was degrading, humiliating, cruel - but he was an imp. What he wanted didn't matter...

Jon frowned as Ghost darted away from him, heading towards the woods that lay on the outskirts of Winterfell as Jon reached the gate. The wolf had followed him as he visited Drogon but had once again behaved strangely. Ghost had taken little interest in Drogon or Rhaegal when they were here with Daenerys - there was no obvious reason he should have taken against the dragon now.

He glanced once more at the woods his old friend had disappeared into before stepping through the gates. It was early evening, and Ghost had likely gone hunting. He wouldn't see the wolf again until tomorrow if he followed his new routine of joining Tyrion at night. Jon didn't mind that Ghost chose to spend his evenings with Tyrion, but there was something unusual about his behaviour and for the life of him he couldn't figure out what.

It was a testament to how distracted he was that he jumped at Arya's voice as she appeared at his side.

"Figure out your dragon problem?"

"No," said Jon. "Drogon won't fly back to the other clearing but doesn't seem settled where he is either."

"What about your direwolf problem?"

"Ghost is still acting strangely if that's what you mean."

They crossed the courtyard and moments later the warmth of the castle wrapped around them, though it did little to ease Jon's concerns.

"I'm missing something Arya, but I don't know what."

"If only we had a brother with a third eye."

"Still nothing from Bran then?"

"Of course not. Our brother only writes when it's convenient."

"He has a kingdom to run."

"And Varys to run it for him."

Rather than turn to his chambers Jon turned towards the library, with Arya following alongside him.

"I thought you said we had no books on dragons?" she asked.

"We don't."

"Then why the library?"

"I need to do something," said Jon, sighing. "Maybe there's something hidden somewhere in a book that could help. No one really understands dragons but the Targaryens, and it's not something we read much about in the North."

"No," said Arya, pursing her lips, "but there is someone who knows rather a lot about dragons in Winterfell..."

"I can't ask Tyrion. You didn't see how he reacted to Drogon, and after what happened with Daenerys I doubt he'd want to talk about them at all."

She shrugged. "It's still an option."

"He needs time Arya - I'm not going to drag him into this when he's not ready."

"We don't know what this is anyway, and it's not like he's going anywhere. Besides, he's busy tonight."

"With Sansa?"

"Not exactly. I think she's taking my advice."

Jon lifted an eyebrow as they reached the library. "Let's hope it's good advice then."

"Relax m'lord, I've been a servant all my life - I've seen it all before."

Yvette's words had little effect on the Prince, who'd sat rigidly in the tub since he was placed in it. Her stomach lurched at his silence as she carried on rubbing the rag over him. She hoped he wouldn't hold this against her - it was the Queen's orders and the Maester had explained the purpose of it all, but she still didn't like doing it. Caring for the Prince wasn't easy seeing how he liked to be alone, but she'd grown to like the Queen's husband. Serving him was a position of high trust from the Queen, and she didn't need to be a Maester to see how she loved him. Yvette steadied her resolve as she nudged Tyrion forwards to continue cleaning his back. His muscles had locked as soon as she began undressing him and he hadn't spoken a word since.

The Maester watched from the side, occasionally passing comments on where to focus her attention next and how they might adjust the Prince's routine for better results. Yvette didn't like to listen to it so she could only imagine how it made the Prince feel. Guilt crept through Yvette but she was quick to temper it. These were the Queen's orders and Yvette understood why she was doing it. For weeks the Prince had hidden away, nodding his assent to whatever they said. These were desperate measures and Yvette had a role to play in it.

"You're still too thin lord Tyrion. Since you can't eat anything but soup I'll have to procure some herbal remedies to help you put on weight. You don't want to be undernourished in the cold of the North..." said Wolkan.

Yvette frowned, shuffling around from Tyrion's back to his left side. The Maester had explained why they were doing this and what roles they had to play, but she thought he might be enjoying it a little too much. The Queen wanted him to be known as lord Tyrion for now, but Yvette thought it better to remember who he really was. She'd been young once - she knew the look in the Queen's eyes well enough to know she wanted this man as her husband and royal consort.

"Nearly done m'lord," said Yvette, forcing some cheer into her tone as she carried out her role.

His shoulders were hunched as he sat in the tub, his head downcast and his eyes shut. The Maester was watching, of course, but he was carrying on as if it was perfectly normal. That was the plan after all - to convince Tyrion Lannister this was to become a regular aspect of his routine. Yvette's throat tightened as she tugged his arm out to gain access to his chest. She'd noticed the strange markings that covered him before, and when he first came to Winterfell the two Maesters had taken her aside and explained what they were. Yvette couldn't read, but she knew the tattoos were insults, and there was no one who wouldn't know what the bigger mark on his chest was. Eddard Stark had been made hand of the King after all, and it was well known the Prince had been the dragon Queen's hand.

"Please..." he whispered, staring at the water. "Stop, please..."

Yvette kept a neutral face as she carried on, but if her touch became softer the Maester didn't notice.

"Sorry m'lord," she murmured, setting the cloth aside to focus on his hair. "Queen's orders."

It was the only time he spoke as she cleaned him, and the longer the bath went on the more despondent he became.

'This aint to hurt you, my Prince,' she thought, 'Queen misses you is all.'

Time lost all meaning to Tyrion when he was finally left alone in his chambers. The bath had lasted for what felt like several lifetimes before he was freed from the humiliation, only to be dressed and put to bed like a good boy. Should he have asked the Maester to read him a story before he slept? Was that the next stage in his descent? A shudder ran through him as he clutched the patchwork blanket.

Why would Sansa do that to him? He could have had a bath himself, but they never even gave him the option. The Winterfell guards had stood in the doorway long enough to see the Maester and Yvette start to undress him before taking their leave, and the other servants had left as soon as the tub was full. Yvette and Wolkan had seen more of his twisted body than anyone but that didn't give them the right to strip him down and bathe him.

The more Tyrion's mind replayed the experience, the more the ache in his chest grew, turning from a prickle to a raging fire he couldn't quell.

Stay quiet, stay hidden - cause no trouble. He was a voiceless imp, eternally grateful for any scrap of kindness shown him. Daenerys had showed him how little he meant, and Cersei had made sure he knew it. A quiet life, free from pain and subservient to his betters was all he could aspire to.

The ache in Tyrion's chest spread like a forest fire, burning past the restrictions he'd placed on himself as if they were nothing.

This life in Winterfell was safe, but was it really a life he could endure?

"Does something about Kings Landing feel different to you?" asked Ser Davos.

Pod shrugged, shaking his head. "Not that I've noticed."

It was difficult to explain and Ser Davos was sure he wasn't the right man to explain it, but there was something about the Red Keep that didn't sit right with him.

"Have you seen anything strange?" asked Pod, as they wandered further from the King's chambers.

"No. Everything and everyone seems normal, but I still find it strange."

"Have you asked the King?"

"Aye, that's what I was just doing with him. He says he's seen nothing unusual, and there's still no word from Varys and Ser Bronn."

Bran Stark was never easy to talk to, but the way his sight was being restrained had left him looking more a boy than a man. The King had looked unusually lost when they spoke, and no matter what he said Ser Davos couldn't ignore the strange presence in the Red Keep. It was familiar but he wasn't sure how. Nobody had said or done anything out of the ordinary, yet his suspicious mind couldn't rest.

"Has he written to Queen Sansa?" asked Podrick.

"No, and he won't. Until Bronn and Varys report back the small council has been sworn to not tell a soul of what's happening in the Westerlands."

The young man's forehead creased. "I don't understand."

"There may be nothing happening," said Ser Davos. "Varys heard whispers but that's hardly unusual - all lords talk of taking control from their liege lord. Most of it's just talk. The King can't see the Westerlands clearly, but the North is giving him similar trouble. Varys and Bronn may find nothing and we can't risk the peace without proof."

Pod considered for a moment before nodding. "I'll tell Ser Brienne of your concerns."

"I don't even know what my concerns are. A strange feeling is hardly evidence of wrongdoing."

"You wouldn't mention it if you thought that."

Ser Davos rubbed his beard. "Aye, you got me there."

It wouldn't hurt to have Pod and Brienne keeping an eye on things, and in normal circumstances, he'd trust Bran's word that everything was fine. Yet, the King wasn't himself and as they walked past a group of servants and guards Ser Davos couldn't ignore the churning in his stomach.

By all appearances, the Queen in the North was as calm and still as ice. It was late in the evening, but she worked with the vigour of the morning as she finalised the details of trade deals and rebuilding efforts in the North. It was important work and the sooner she got it done the better, but tonight her work ethic had a different motive.

If she buried herself in her work she didn't have to think about the plan she'd agreed to put in place. While Tyrion was recovering in many ways, in other aspects he was little different from the day they'd rescued him. His refusal to stand up for himself was a problem he needed a push to fix.

"I don't understand," said Sansa. "I thought when he improved he'd push back against the restrictions we put in place, not surrender to them."

"Your Grace, the trauma lord Tyrion carries cannot be underestimated. Qyburn's notes are fortunate in the sense they give us an account of what happened, but they can't do justice to what lord Tyrion experienced."

Sansa swallowed, her voice low. "The notes were...detailed to say the least. Do you think we've missed something?"

"Qyburn's journal is the single most horrifying thing I've read in all my years as a Maester," said Wolkan, "but they are written from his twisted perspective - a view where lord Tyrion is barely a step above an animal."

"Tyrion is a good man! Qyburn was nothing more than a worm under Cersei's boot-

"You needn't convince me, my Queen," said Wolkan, his mouth twitching upwards. "I am merely pointing out what perspective the journal is written from. It is cold, clinical and observational. It has no true understanding of lord Tyrion's mental or emotional state during that time, other than what physical signs could be seen. I'm more concerned about what the journal didn't tell us in truth."

Sansa bit her lip, her heart aching. "I hate seeing him like this, it's not who he is."

"No your Grace, it is who he believes he must be to survive..."

It was hard to take, but Sansa knew the Maester was right as she knew Arya had been right. The only way to help Tyrion was to put him in a position where he'd have no choice but to object.

She hoped.

It went against her every instinct to do this, but she wanted her Tyrion back. Sansa had all the understanding in the world for how his experience had changed him, but she knew Tyrion would never truly be happy like this. She could only hope her plan worked and he wouldn't hold it against her.

The Queen sat back in her chair, glancing out the window. The hour was growing late and she'd heard nothing. Yvette and the Maester would have finished with him by now, but they wouldn't see her until morning. In discussion with Wolkan they'd planned for the most likely scenarios. At best, Tyrion would summon her to his chambers, though the late hour made Sansa believe that possibility had passed. He could be waiting for when she visited him in the morning to protest the new arrangements - it would be something, but not as bold as she hoped.

Tyrion feared the repercussions of taking a stand, but it wasn't something he needed to fear here. If Tyrion protested she would gladly show him that, but as the night wore on she couldn't help but fear the worst. It was possible Tyrion wouldn't protest at all, accepting the new aspect of his routine, or, he could be upset. Sansa's stomach twisted - she hated either possibility. Perhaps she should check on him? The last thing she wanted was to hurt him, but it had been difficult to find a way to jolt Tyrion into action; she knew the bath would humiliate him, and hopefully cross the line in what he would tolerate.

Sansa had half convinced herself to check on him when a knock roused her from her thoughts. Ah, he was summoning her tonight. She'd made certain the Winterfell household knew she wasn't to be disturbed. Her guards had been told to expect lord Tyrion's summons and tell her immediately. She pushed back from the chair, smoothing her skirts as she straightened up. The Queen hurried to the door, quickly pulling it open.

She paused when the guard's face didn't greet her, but her eyes quickly found who'd knocked on her door.

"Tyrion?"

"Enough," he said, his bright green eyes narrowed at her. "You say I'm not your prisoner or your ward, but you seem to have mistaken me for a child!"

Sansa couldn't answer, her mind was still comprehending the sight in the corridor. Tyrion stood - unaided - before her. His golden hair was damp and stuck to his head, and a doublet hung open over his shift and breeches. He'd dressed himself, she thought, but he couldn't fasten his doublet with one hand. His breeches were probably loose too. She glanced sideways down the corridor, where her two guards stood watching. They looked just as confused as she was. She and the Maester had tried twice to get him to stand from the wheelchair and try to walk, and twice he'd claimed he couldn't and pleaded pain. Yet, here he stood - with no help in sight.

"I've done everything to stay out of the way - to cause no trouble - but you continue to push me. It's bad enough you make Yvette and Wolkan supervise me, but to have them bathe me...I thought we were friends..."

"I am your friend," said Sansa, finding her voice. "You refused to care for yourself, so I made certain you were cared for."

"By having me bathed as if I'm completely useless? Yvette is not my wet nurse!"

"You're not useless at all, but you've refused to participate in your recovery so far. I won't watch you die Tyrion."

It was a difficult balance to strike between the part of her that wanted to wrap her arms around him in relief and the rational voice telling her she must continue to play her part. Tyrion had to believe the threat of Yvette and the Maester doing everything for him without his input was real - she couldn't let him think this was a ploy to invoke a reaction. In this case, the dishonesty was in his best interests. Tyrion was fighting for himself and the truth would only undermine his fragile confidence. As much as it pained her, it was better she approached this with distance; as a Queen to a lord, rather than an overjoyed wife desperate to embrace her husband.

"Do you think I've no dignity left?" said Tyrion. "It was humiliating. I didn't think anything could humiliate me after Kings Landing, but I'm not completely shameless."

"It was never my intention to humiliate you, my lord. The Maester thought it best you have a bath after so long of being washed in the bed."

"You don't know what it was like in Kings Landing. I had no control over what happened to me - I couldn't protest, I couldn't escape - I didn't think I would endure the same here."

Sansa inclined her head. "I apologise if I've offended you. Please understand, I wish only the best for you."

Tyrion's face softened. "I appreciate everything you've done for me, truly I do, but I can't live like this. It's not really living..."

Sansa searched his face, seeking proof he believed what he was saying. Not that she needed to look much further than the fact he was standing. "Did you walk here?"

He tensed, and for a heartbeat, Sansa thought he might shift back to the subdued shadow he'd become. At the last moment, he caught himself.

"I did."

She nodded. "I put the routine in place because I feared for your wellbeing. If you're saying those fears are unfounded and you can care for yourself I will remove the schedule."

"I am saying that," said Tyrion. "You needn't watch over me anymore."

"Very well. Yvette will remain as your personal servant if it pleases you, but she will work under your direction. The Maester is available to you at any time and I will stand the Winterfell guards down from your chambers.

"Thank you."

"If you don't look after yourself, I will implement these measures again."

"You don't need to-"

"I hope not, but I will if I have to."

Tyrion considered for a moment and Sansa thought he might argue but he nodded. "Very well."

An awkward silence fell between them and Sansa could hardly stop staring at Tyrion. He was standing, though he was leaning to one side. How had he taught himself to walk again? He'd spent weeks in bed - the Maester had warned her it would take weeks for him to walk more than a short distance alone, yet here he was. The effort had taken its toll though. He looked a little pale and was wincing on the spot. Now he'd made his voice heard he seemed to have lost purpose, hovering uncertainly before her.

'Invite him in...' whispered her mind. 'He can rest and you can have him all to yourself.'

Sansa swallowed. It was sorely tempting to invite him in but the hour was late and neither of them needed the whispers. Besides, tonight had pushed Tyrion further beyond his comfort zone than he'd been since Kings Landing. Already she could see hints of doubt creeping into his face. It was better to end things here - for tonight at least.

"Is there anything else my lord?" she asked

"Ugh - oh, no." He bowed awkwardly. "Thank you, your Grace. Apologies for disturbing you so late..."

"My door is always open to you."

His mouth quirked up. "Good night Sansa."

He turned away, limping slowly but surely down the corridor. He'd taken several steps when Sansa called out to him.

"Lord Tyrion."

He glanced back, and Sansa couldn't help but smile. "It's good to see you again."

There was something unnerving about a happy Sansa, though Arya thought it might be how rare the sight was. When her sister invited her to breakfast in her chambers she'd expected Sansa wanted to talk business, as she usually did, but as soon as she saw her smile Arya knew the real reason.

"I take it you followed through on my suggestion," said Arya, pouring herself a drink.

"I did."

"So did Lannister send for you to air his complaints?"

Sansa's smile widened. "No."

That was strange. The whole point was to provoke Tyrion and see if there was still some lion in him. If he hadn't complained the whole exercise was a waste, yet Sansa looked pleased.

"Why are you smiling?" asked Arya. "Did you bathe him yourself?"

"He came to my chambers."

Arya shrugged. "And?"

"You don't understand. He came himself - he walked!"

"You mean the same man who's spent the past week claiming he couldn't stand because of his injuries, somehow walked from his chambers to yours?"

"Yes! I couldn't believe it either, but he was stood there Arya!"

In previous conversations Sansa had made it sound like Tyrion was in obvious discomfort and to stand would be a great victory. Surely if he could walk now he could have stood then. Arya bit her tongue from airing her thoughts. Her sister was obviously delighted, though to Arya it appeared she'd fallen for Tyrion's deception. Lannister hadn't just decided to get out of bed and walk to her chambers last night, in his state he'd have had to practice. Curiosity ate at Arya as to how he'd done it, but she'd have to tread carefully with her questions. A happy Sansa was a rare sight, and she'd rather not cast shadows on her sister's joy.

"Did he look ok?" asked Arya. "I mean, was he struggling?"

"He looked tired, and he was limping rather a lot when he left - but he did it!"

"Any ideas how? When I last saw him he looked like he could barely sit up."

"Ghost," said Sansa, sipping her drink. "I was thinking about it all night."

"Why would Ghost help Tyrion learn to walk?"

"He goes to his room every night now, and when I stood the Winterfell guards down this morning I asked them if they were aware lord Tyrion could walk. They were just as surprised as me when he left his chambers, but one of them said they'd heard footsteps going back and forth late in the evening, but it sounded like Ghost."

"You think Tyrion was using Ghost for support and the sound of his steps masked Tyrion's steps?"

"It's the only logical explanation I can think of. He's obviously not left his chambers or the guards would have known. I can only assume he's been practising at night, going back and forth in his chambers."

"Good for him. It's about time he did something to help himself."

Sansa nodded but her face fell. "I'm happy for him - seeing him at my door last night was the best surprise I could imagine - but he didn't have to struggle on his own. I would have helped him."

"It was something he had to do himself. You can't hold his hand all the time."

"I don't hold his hand at all."

Arya struggled to not roll her eyes. Sansa had grown used to caring for Tyrion in Kings Landing and keeping some distance from him now was killing her. It was a good thing that Lannister had done this himself, but typically, her sister had already begun to fear the worst. Arya knew what her sister would say next before she opened her mouth.

"Why do you think he hid it from me?" asked Sansa. "We tried twice to get him to stand and he wouldn't. I'd have given him all the support in the world."

"Maybe he didn't want that. Honestly, Sansa, if I'd spent weeks as an invalid the last thing I'd want to do is risk humiliating myself with an audience."

"I would never mock him," said Sansa, a frown on her face. "He managed to walk on his own - he's stronger than he thinks."

"It might not have gone that way though. After seeing the state of him I'm surprised he could stand at all, let alone walk to your chambers last night. He probably thought he'd fall over or couldn't do it - that's why he wouldn't try."

Arya wasn't sure when her life went from that of a faceless man to analysing Lannister's every breath with Sansa, but it wasn't a change she cared for, no matter how accurate she thought her analysis to be. Still, she wouldn't be in Winterfell forever and if Sansa wanted to engage in such talk she could stomach it for a little while longer. Her sister looked somewhat downcast at the analysis, so Arya decided to offer a different perspective.

"Don't look so sad about it. It's a good thing Lannister did something for himself, and doing it alone wasn't because he doesn't trust you."

"You don't know that."

"Neither do you," said Arya, tilting back in her chair. "I don't think he'd care about failing in front of Wolkan, but failing in front of you would be different. He cares about your opinion of him."

Her sister's eyes brightened, though her face remained neutral. "You're only guessing."

"Not really. When he was last here I'm sure he polished that bloody hand of the Queen badge to impress you. Whenever he saw you he played the gentleman."

"He's a good man," said Sansa, red creeping into her cheeks. "He has a lord's manners."

"Yes, but more so when you were around. When I talked to him last week he said he never thought of you as cold."

"I'm not cold."

Arya snorted. "They call you the Queen of ice, but Tyrion didn't see why."

A hint of a smile played at Sansa's mouth as they finished breakfast and it was enough for Arya to consider her sisterly duty fulfilled for the day.

Tyrion eased open the door to his chambers, poking his head warily into the corridor.

It was utterly empty, devoid of the guards who'd been stationed at the door since the incident. Sleep had proven troublesome last night and he was awake a little earlier than usual, but it was nice to wake up alone - without Yvette or the Maester rousing him to begin the day. Ghost's furry face appeared beside him, poking into the corridor as well.

"I think it worked," said Tyrion. "No guards, no servants - the Queen has kept her word."

The wolf's red eyes found him, looking almost curious that he'd doubt Sansa's words.

"You wouldn't understand, but I've been betrayed before you see. Not Sansa of course, but the experience makes one doubtful of anything."

Ghost withdrew into the room, bumping his head against him as he did. A flutter went through Tyrion as he closed the door and followed. Freedom was such a strange concept - something taken for granted until you no longer had it. His leg ached as he shuffled towards the chaise. No amount of walking back and forth in his chambers with Ghost to lean on could have prepared him for walking to Sansa's chambers last night. A frown crossed his face as he reached the chair. Last night's humiliation had spurred him to confront Sansa about his place here, but in the light of the morning, he couldn't help but wonder if it had been wise. Was he being ungrateful? Sansa had given him so much without asking anything in return - she'd put the routine in place to help him, not to humiliate him.

Tyrion rolled his shoulders, pushing the nagging thoughts aside. He couldn't let his mind dwell on such things. Sansa had quickly agreed to end the arrangements as long as he took care of himself, and he was certain she was smiling as he left. Ghost padded past him, laying down in front of the hearth.

"Freedom Ghost. It seems so strange now. I barely remember being in control of my life, but I was free far longer than I was a prisoner," mused Tyrion. "Was I really free before? Responsibility, expectations - they all seem so pointless now."

As he sank onto the chaise Tyrion found he couldn't shake the question; what did he do now? The last time he'd felt so purposeless was when he'd fled across the Narrow Sea, and it was only in serving Daenerys he'd found purpose again. A hollow ache opened in his chest. He thought he'd been beaten and broken before, but nothing could compare to this. He might have regained his freedom but he had no idea what to do with it.

According to Sansa, his past crimes were forgiven - he was the lord of Casterly Rock.

Tyrion laughed, causing Ghost to lift his head. The idea was completely ridiculous. He was no lord, and Casterly Rock was ruled by House Lannister. It had taken many years for the lesson to sink in but it finally had, and he was no Lannister.

He slumped back on the chaise, relaxing into the soft fabric. No expectations, no responsibilities. Sansa had told him several times he was welcome to stay here. If that was true, perhaps it was the best idea. Spend the remainder of his days hiding in Winterfell. Tyrion closed his eyes, pushing aside the bad memories that constantly bothered him in favour of the pleasant thought instead.

Sansa's heart picked up pace as she knocked lightly on the door. She'd made certain the arrangements for Tyrion ended immediately, and despite how she worried for him it thrilled her too. A piece of her Tyrion had been there last night, proving his sense of self wasn't completely lost. It was a small step, but already she had more confidence in Tyrion's recovery.

She waited patiently at the door, though she strained to hear any noise inside. Shuffling caught her attention, followed by a separate set of footsteps. Tyrion's hushed whisper reached her and she froze. Sansa couldn't make out what he was saying, but he was talking to someone.

Did he have a woman in there? After he left her last night had he sent for some company?

'You could never satisfy him,' hissed the darkest corner of her mind. 'Why have second-hand goods when he has the gold and power to buy any woman he wants?'

The idea planted itself in Sansa's mind in less than a second, and in the next coldness spread through her chest, seeping into her bones. Before her trembling heart had the chance to comprehend the situation, the door opened.

Tyrion peered around the door, his growing hair looking ruffled and a doublet hanging open over his shift and breeches. It was similar to how he'd appeared last night, but the clothes were fresh.

He relaxed at the sight of her, inclining his head. "Good morning my Queen."

"Good morning my lord," said Sansa, the words burning her throat like acid. "Am I disturbing you?"

"Oh, no...I'm not busy."

The footsteps reached her ears again and the words burst from her mouth before her mind could register them. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise you had company."

His brow furrowed, and Tyrion opened the door a little wider. "Apologies my Queen, I didn't realise you were looking for Ghost."

The white wolf appeared behind him - its paws padding softly against the floor in what Sansa could have sworn were footsteps a moment ago. Heat rushed to her face, burning into her cheeks.

Tyrion lowered his head, balancing awkwardly on the spot. "I'm sorry Sansa, I don't know why he comes here. Is Jon angry with me?"

Gods, had she truly thought...no, of course, Tyrion wouldn't do that. Not in his condition, not in her brother's chambers.

'Get a hold of yourself,' she thought. 'Tyrion has no idea how you feel - he's perfectly entitled to do as he likes. Look what your jealousy has done.'

Poor Tyrion had no idea what she'd thought of him only moments ago, but he'd picked up on her displeasure. He was struggling to balance in the doorway, and his good hand was fiddling with the bottom clasp on his doublet. Sansa's heart dropped as she realised what he'd been doing. It looked as if he'd just woke up and been in the process of trying to get dressed when she knocked at his door - there was no one else in the room - he'd been talking to Ghost.

"I'm sorry Sansa," he said, though even Tyrion didn't look certain what he was apologising for.

The words snapped her back to the present and the problem she was creating. Tyrion was slowly regaining some confidence and she was rapidly damaging it.

"You've done nothing wrong," she said quickly, smiling at him. "Sorry, my mind is wandering this morning. Of course, Jon isn't angry with you, and it was you I came to see - not Ghost."

"Oh." He let out a breath, offering her a small smile. "How can I help you?"

"I ended the arrangements as agreed last night, though I wondered if you might still keep me company as I work? You're much better company than the other lords in Winterfell."

"That doesn't say much for them." His face had brightened at her words but he hesitated to invite her in. His good hand continued to fiddle with the clasp of his doublet.

"Have you eaten yet?" she asked.

Tyrion's eyes widened as he hurried to explain. "No your Grace, I woke early and went to sit on the chaise for a while. I fear I fell asleep and missed Yvette when she came. The room has been cleaned and someone put a blanket over me...I must have slept through her morning visit..."

Sansa knelt, grasping his hands and tugging him towards her. "It's alright, I haven't eaten yet either. We'll have breakfast together."

She might have broken her fast with Arya only an hour ago, but she'd gladly eat again to spend time with Tyrion.

He nodded, relief flicking through his eyes. Despite what she'd told him last night, it would take a truly desperate situation for her to impose such strict arrangements on him again. Her hands moved to his doublet, straightening the jacket out before moving to the clasps he was struggling with.

"You don't need to do that," he said softly.

"You don't need to struggle."

He lowered his head, a grimace crossing his face. "I can't do it."

"Yet," she added, pausing her work. "You'll find a way around things. In the meantime, let us help you."

"You're a Queen," he murmured. "This isn't work for you."

Sansa found his left hand, lifting it between them. She kept her tone light and teasing, though her heart thrummed with every word.

"As your wife," said Sansa, brushing her thumb over his direwolf ring, "I have a duty to help my husband."

He smiled, lifting his green eyes to meet hers. The words had the desired effect for he nodded his assent for her to continue. Tyrion might think her words nothing more than a jest to make him comfortable, but she meant every word, and perhaps one day Tyrion would know that too.

Bran had followed Varys and Bronn's journey for as long as he could, but the closer they got to the Westerlands the more difficult it became. For the last few days, he hadn't been able to find them at all. The power of the three-eyed raven was difficult to explain. He couldn't see the future, but he could sense the shape of it based on the past and the present. All he had to do was know what strands to follow, and then he could see the truth.

It was late in the evening when a strand opened to him. After days of trying to penetrate whatever shield blocked him from the Westerlands, he'd found a crack in the armour. The three-eyed raven flew into the gap at once, filling Bran's third eye with more than any normal man could process.

He saw Deep Den, the seat of house Lydden.

Banners flew brazenly outside the castle, representing an alliance of many Westerland houses.

Jeyne Lydden sat beside her father at a feast, her face pinched in displeasure at the conversation going on around her. Lord Lydden still hoped to rule the West through her.

A commotion distracted the guests. Minutes later the perpetrators were dragged into the room.

Bran saw Varys limping and Bronn being dragged between guards - both their hands bound behind their backs.

The images flew faster than ever as a squeezing sensation closed around the three-eyed raven. It wasn't like anything he'd experienced before, it was as if the crack he'd entered the Westerlands through was closing.

Bran jerked back to the present, his head pounding as if someone had squeezed it. A guard stood in front of him, but not one he recognised.

"Why are you in here?" asked the King.

"Important business, your Grace. Nothing personal, but the lord I serve demands sacrifices."

The guard's sword was sheathed, but Bran's eyes didn't miss the drops of blood on the guard's uniform. He was a stout, middle-aged man, with dark hair and light brown eyes. Though he wore the uniform of Bran's guards, it quickly became clear he wasn't one.

"I didn't see you coming," said Bran, more curious than worried. "How long have you been in Kings Landing?"

"Long enough," said the man. "You wouldn't see me. You and I serve different gods - I'm safe from you."

"And yet I'm not safe from you."

The images of the Westerlands swam through Bran's mind, settling into a pattern, but not one he'd have time to see.

The man smiled, lifting a hand towards the hearth. At once the flames grew stronger, the heat prickling at Bran's skin.

"This won't work," said Bran.

"It will," said the man, "as the lord decrees it."

Bran regretted many things as flames shot from the hearth. He regretted the deaths of the two guards at his door, he regretted sending Bronn and Varys to the Westerlands - but most of all he regretted not seeing the truth until it was too late. This man must have been here for weeks to get past Brienne's stringent security measures - who knew how many others there were in Kings Landing?

That wasn't to be his concern now. The future was taking shape around him and there was little he could do to change its direction. Bran Stark leaned back in his chair as the three-eyed raven took control - that wasn't to say he would surrender.