Chapter 21

Tyrion hesitated in leaving the table as Yvette cleared away his breakfast. Yesterday he'd gotten away with staying in his chambers, mostly because Sansa had visited in the morning and they'd had breakfast together before she turned her mind to work and he sat quietly beside her. It was past lunchtime when she left him, and by then his tiredness was evident. Walking to her chambers the night before had been a stretch too far for his ruined endurance, but if he wanted to keep his freedom he had to keep his end of the arrangement - and that meant not hiding in his chambers all day.

The Queen had told him yesterday she had meetings most of today, and while he had little desire to venture from the room, not doing so could be taken as a sign he wasn't caring for himself. He bit his lip, moving to the edge of the chair. No matter what, he couldn't risk going back to the life he'd had the past few weeks. How had he endured the humiliating schedule for so long? It didn't matter. The bath had broken him of whatever paralysis let him be treated like that. This was the North - the men here were hardened and strong. If he wanted to fit in he couldn't be a pampered little lord who was waited on hand and foot. He wasn't a lord and he'd never be strong, but all he needed was to blend in.

Tyrion slid from the chair, clutching the table to steady himself. Did he really want to fit in? In truth, he wanted to hide, but Sansa expected him to care for himself - she wouldn't like to think he was sitting in here all day.

Yvette had finished cleaning the table and stood waiting to his left, her head bowed. "Is there anything I can do for m'lord?"

"No thank you," he said, gritting his teeth at the ache in his leg. He'd definitely strained himself the night before last. "You needn't serve me you know - I'm not a lord anymore."

"You're the lord of Casterly Rock," she said. "Queen Sansa told us all you were to be treated as such."

Tyrion lifted his head, his voice soft. "Do I look like a lord to you?"

"M'lord, if I offended you-"

He shook his head. "I know you were following orders. I bear you no ill will, though I wish it hadn't happened."

"Queen meant you no harm m'lord, she worries for you a lot."

There it was again. Yvette's words echoed what Missandei had said in her letter. Missandei had alluded to Sansa worrying over him and Yvette seemed convinced of the same. He'd written it off as a dream, but part of him was still convinced Sansa had visited him in the night last week and tucked him in bed. That wasn't to mention the snippets of dreams that constantly poked at his consciousness. His time in Kings Landing was a muddled blur but he couldn't escape the feeling there was truth in his dreams - were they memories?

Tyrion's stomach lurched uncomfortably. A pattern was forming but he couldn't bear to consider it - there wasn't a chance it was true. Thinking that way would only hurt him in the end and risk losing his friendship with Sansa. Rather than distancing herself from his disgrace, she'd brought him into her home and, somehow, still wanted his company. If he lost that...

He shook his head, clearing the thought. It was better not to think of that. The Starks were kind and he had no desire to be anywhere but here, if he caused no trouble there was no reason to think Sansa would throw him out.

Yvette stood waiting for his order, though her face betrayed her nerves at being dismissed from his service. To Tyrion, it made no sense. Surely anyone would want a better task than serving him? Nevertheless, Sansa had told him Yvette would continue to serve him and in truth he still needed help. If not Yvette, another servant would need to assist him and he'd much rather it be her. She'd already seen more of him than anyone needed to and she was a comfortable presence to be around.

"What should I do?" he asked, taking an unsteady step away from the table.

"M'lord?"

"I told Sansa I no longer needed to be watched over. I suppose she'll expect me to carry on as I was before - eating regularly, sleeping - and leaving the room."

"Aye m'lord." Yvette nodded. "Queen told us that."

Ah, so Sansa had removed the schedule but still told the servants to watch him. No doubt the rest of the Winterfell household would be watching too. The thought unnerved him, but it was a small concession for freedom. Anything that meant he wouldn't sink as low as being bathed again.

"The question is what to do," said Tyrion. "I must leave the room but have no reason or desire to do so. What do you think?"

"I'm sure the Queen would be happy to see you."

"She has meetings most of the day," said Tyrion. He couldn't impose on her all the time either. The more time she spent with him the quicker she would tire of his company, and Sansa would be too polite to tell him so.

"There's lady Arya and lord Jon too," she said.

"Hmm. I'm not sure."

He didn't want to bother them either. Arya hadn't been friendly towards him before this and although she was being nicer now he had no desire to test that. Jon was an option, but not a great one - he didn't want to bother any of the Starks if he could avoid it.

"Maybe I should stay here," said Tyrion, the hint of hope in his voice barely concealed.

Yvette shook her head, conveying a silent warning.

It shouldn't be this difficult to leave the room, but hiding had become second nature to him. If he left his chambers he'd undoubtedly run into servants, guards - perhaps Lannister guards. If he didn't leave he risked violating his agreement with Sansa.

A purpose would help. It was that which had driven him to confront Sansa after the bath, but now he found himself at a loss.

"I hope you're not busy," said Tyrion, shifting his weight at the burning ache in his leg. "This could take some time."

"I told you we were better staying away."

Varys rolled his eyes. "Of course, it would be simple for us to find the truth from outside the castle."

Bronn spread his arms in the opposite cell. "Now you can hear it all from the dungeons instead."

"We had no choice."

"We could have gone home."

"That's not why King Bran sent us."

"We could have told him all we'd seen. You could have sent a letter saying lord Lydden was gathering men at Deep Den, and we could have waited for more men to arrive," said Bronn, shaking his head. "But no, you had a plan to get us in here."

Varys bit his tongue, refusing to continue the debate they'd had repeatedly since their capture two days ago. The plan had been sound. Varys had disguised himself many times before and, of course, his little birds knew many ways into Deep Den. What he didn't understand was how quickly they'd been caught. It wasn't something he'd anticipated, nor could he blame it on Bronn. The former sellsword had followed his direction without question, displaying a hint of the intelligence that had kept him alive for so long.

"You see how many lords were in that hall?" asked Bronn. "Casterly Rock is empty right now. If they want to take it now's the time. Tyrion aint there and only a garrison are in place at the castle. They could take it before a raven gets to Winterfell."

"The problem isn't taking Casterly Rock, it's holding it," said Varys. "Lord Tyrion's death would start a succession crisis in the Westerlands. No other house is close to the strength needed to rule. Tyrion is the key to controlling the West, unfortunately for lord Lydden, he's a key Sansa Stark holds."

It had taken less than an hour for him and Bronn to be found out, though Varys wasn't sure how anyone had seen through their disguises so quickly. Bronn had hidden himself amongst the many men who'd come here with their lords, while Varys had hidden amongst the servants. The castle was packed, there were lords and servants everywhere - they should have been invisible. Guards seized him before he had a chance to learn anything of value and he and Bronn had quickly become the main entertainment.

"Why are two members of Bran Stark's council hiding in my castle?" asked lord Lydden.

"A eunuch and a sellsword," sneered Ser Harys Swyft. "How many lords were overlooked to give you two places on the council?"

"It's no matter," said lord Lydden. "They're too late to do anything."

"The King asked us-" started Varys.

"The usurper," cut in Ser Harys.

The guards had been rough enough dragging Varys into the hall but Bronn appeared to have fared worse. Even so, he smirked at the two men in the centre of the packed room. "You lads found a different King, eh?"

"I doubt lord Tyrion Lannister has arranged this little gathering," said Varys.

"The Imp knows nothing," said lord Lydden, "and it will stay that way."

"Imp? You've given up on arranging a match with your daughter Jeyne then."

Lord Lydden's mouth twisted as he glanced sideways at his daughter. "She will be the lady of Casterly Rock. The imp will father her son and secure our future."

"You arranged this with lord Tyrion?" asked Bronn. "Last I heard he was married to a Northern Queen."

"It's been arranged by a higher power, and his marriage to the Stark girl is a sham," said lord Lydden. "Enough of this. I won't have rats in my castle but your deaths may yet serve a purpose. For now, you'll remain in the dungeons..."

An unpleasant feeling stirred in the pit of Varys stomach. An idea was forming, and if he was right they were in great danger.

"Lord Lydden seems set on using Tyrion," said Varys, "he didn't try to hide his intentions."

"His daughter can't hide anything either. See her face when he talked about her having his son?"

"Something has changed. Lord Lydden and Ser Harys sought to use Tyrion from the outset, but they did attempt to hide the fact. The switch to using him for his seed is brazen - what could have caused it I wonder."

Bronn sighed, leaning against the bars. "You have some idea, don't you."

Varys nodded, his mouth a thin line. "Let's hope I'm wrong."

The library was usually empty, visited occasionally by Sansa and Arya, or more often the Maester. Jon was probably its most frequent visitor of late but he didn't need to venture far into it today to realise he wasn't alone. A few desks were spread around the library and his eyes soon found Tyrion sat at one, tucked away in the corner of the room. Ghost sat beside him, his red eyes flicking to Jon as he approached.

"You're the last person I expected to find in here," said Jon.

Tyrion's head jerked up at his voice, fear flooding his face for a moment. Perhaps he should have announced his presence with more care but the grin on his face seemed enough to reassure Tyrion. Jon crossed to the table in quick strides, squeezing his good brother's shoulder as he took the chair next to him. Ghost stared at him for a moment before going back to lying at Tyrion's feet.

"Hello Jon," said Tyrion, inclining his head. "Am I in your way?"

"Of course not. You caught me by surprise though." Jon looked closer at him, realising he was sitting on a chair and not in the wheelchair. "Did the Maester bring you?"

"No, I walked."

Tyrion ducked his head as if worried he'd done something wrong but the words stunned Jon into silence. He was pleased to see Tyrion here because it was the first time he'd seen him further than the upstairs corridors, but he'd assumed the Maester had brought him in the wheelchair and then left.

"That's great to hear," said Jon, his smile widening. "I had no idea you were back on your feet. Does Sansa know?"

"Yes, she was equally surprised."

As his shock passed, Jon's mind turned to how he'd missed the development. It must be very recent. The problem of Drogon had consumed him all of yesterday and now he came to think about it he hadn't seen Sansa or Arya for more than a few moments since the day before.

"I'm happy for you," said Jon, patting his shoulder. "I know you hated the wheelchair."

"It's nice to not be wheeled around the castle."

It seemed almost normal to be sat here with Tyrion. He was dressed in the fine Northern clothes Sansa had filled his draws with, his hair was beginning to grow out and the only visible signs of his injuries were the new scar that cut across the bottom of his old one and a smaller cut above his left eye.

The smile faded from Jon as he realised what wishful thinking that was. The damage they couldn't see was the most dangerous, and the trial in Kings Landing had made sure everyone knew exactly how Tyrion had been hurt. It wasn't surprising that he flinched and hid his face when in company - it was surprising that he sat here at all.

"Maybe I should go," said Tyrion, watching him warily.

"You don't have to leave. I'm the one who's disturbing you." He held back from offering to leave. He had no desire to bother Tyrion now he was out of his chambers, but he didn't want to leave him on his own either. He'd never learn to trust anyone if he was left alone all the time, and Jon wanted to make sure Tyrion knew he could trust him. If he was to be part of their family it was time to treat him as such.

"You're not disturbing me," said Tyrion. "I'm not doing anything here anyway."

"Did you come here to do something?"

"I came because I know Sansa would want me to leave the room even though the sched..."

He trailed off and Jon quickly filled in the missing pieces. "I get it."

There was no need to say any more. Tyrion clearly wasn't sure who knew about the routine he'd been subjected to and Jon had no intention of embarrassing him by mentioning it. The lord of Casterly Rock slumped in his seat, the fingers of his left hand fiddling with the ring Sansa had placed there.

"I don't know what to do," he said softly. "I've no purpose here."

Jon's heart sank. He couldn't want to leave - it would break Sansa's heart. "What do you mean?"

"Ever since Tywin made me Hand of the King I had something to do - some problem to solve - it was a game I thought I was good at. I liked it. In Essos I lost purpose until I met..." he swallowed, pain flickering across his face, "...until I met Daenerys. I had purpose again, however misguided it was. Now there's nothing. I can't take advantage of the Queen's kindness forever."

"You don't need to do anything," said Jon, picking up on his point. "There's no need to earn your place here. Sansa brought you to Winterfell because she wants you here - I know she's told you that."

"She has, still, I can't help but feel guilty."

"Do you want to go to Casterly Rock?"

At that Tyrion's eyes widened, panic taking over his face. "No! Please, I can't go there."

Jon held his hands up. "You don't have to go anywhere. Do you want to stay at Winterfell?"

Redness was creeping into Tyrion's face at his outburst, but he nodded quickly. "If I can...I don't want to go anywhere else."

"Then stay."

"I can't impose on you forever."

"You can, and I think you should. If I was you I'd never want to go to Kings Landing again."

Tyrion bit his lip, considering his words and Jon had to think it was what Tyrion had been doing before he interrupted him. There were no books on the table and by all appearances Tyrion had just been sitting here with Ghost.

"Sansa is too kind to tell me," said Tyrion, "but you'll tell me, won't you? If my presence here ever imposes on her or keeps her from pursuing the happiness she deserves you'll tell me?"

"That won't happen."

"Still, you promise?"

Jon's mouth twitched up. "Promise."

Tyrion relaxed a little, dropping his damaged hand to brush against the top of Ghost's head. "I suppose I should start thinking."

"Of what?"

"Of how I can repay Sansa. I won't take her charity without offering her some service in return, however meagre it might be. I'll find a way to be useful."

Jon held his tongue from pointing out how unnecessary it was, sooner or later Sansa would tell him that. For now, finding a purpose would give him a purpose - and if it distracted Tyrion from his experiences he'd gladly go along with it.

"You could be a Direwolf handler," said Jon. "Ghost seems to prefer you these days."

"I have no idea why. Does it bother you?"

"Wolves are free Tyrion, they choose who they want to be with."

"As long as you don't mind," said Tyrion. The corner of his mouth twitched up. "I only made it down the bloody stairs with his help. Getting back up them would be a problem if he left me."

Jon laughed. "There are plenty of people in Winterfell who'll help you."

"Yes, but only Ghost doesn't damage the slither of dignity I have left."

It was difficult for Sansa to imagine a more perfect scene. The sky was clear, and a thin layer of snow covered the edge of the balcony and the ground below. A crisp breeze wrapped around her, uncomfortable for some, but welcome to her Northern blood. She glanced sideways, checking her companion didn't mind the chill. Knowing he wasn't a fan of the cold she'd left the seat closest to the fire available for him.

Tyrion looked well enough in his thick winter clothes, but all his focus was on the pages in front of him and not on the chilly air of the balcony. Should she send for a blanket for him? No, it would embarrass him. It wasn't something that would cross her mind with anyone else, but whenever she was with Tyrion protectiveness overtook her. He had a way of unlocking a part of her she'd thought long dead. The warmth and care that had come easily to her as a girl was seldom seen in the Queen in the North, but it was there for family - it was there for Tyrion.

More progress had been made in the days following the bath incident than in the last few weeks combined. For the first time since he left Winterfell Sansa could see her Tyrion again, or at least glimpses of him. It was enough for her to know he was there, buried beneath the damage his Queen and his sister had caused him. To her satisfaction, Tyrion had so far kept to their agreement. On the first day of his freedom she'd worked in his chambers most of the day, keeping an eye on her obviously tired husband - the walk to her room the night before had pushed him a little too far. From there, Tyrion had continued to surprise her. The following day she'd been in meetings but Jon had found him in the library - having walked there himself. Yesterday she'd spent the morning with him, and heard later he'd gone for a walk around the castle corridors. Yvette said he requested food at every mealtime, though he still stuck to soups and items that required only one hand.

Overall, the change thrilled her. Tyrion was still unnaturally quiet and often struggled to meet her gaze, but he did speak more and Sansa wholeheartedly believed it would get better in time.

'I'm so proud of you,' she thought. 'They beat you, degraded you, betrayed you in the worst ways - but they could never break you completely, my love.'

It was nearing the end of yesterday's visit when she'd noticed his eyes on the stack of paper and ink she brought with her. While Tyrion would talk to her if prompted he tended to sit quietly otherwise and had yet to open any of the books she always brought for him. Yesterday he'd seemed deep in thought but she'd noticed his attention on the writing equipment - and the hint of hunger in his eyes.

Today she'd left ink and blank paper next to him, as well as another book. It had taken an hour, but Sansa had seen him inch towards the equipment, watching her all the time as if it was a trap.

'Never a trap my love,' she'd thought. 'Never to you.'

The hours had passed and Tyrion had slowly grown more comfortable in what he was doing, seemingly accepting he was safe. Sansa had done her best to leave him in peace, knowing he would be self-conscious of writing with his left hand.

It was nearing midday now and Sansa sank back into her chair, stretching out her back. Tyrion had stopped whatever he was writing and sat with his head bent, his left hand curled into a fist.

"Everything alright?" she asked.

"I can't do it," he muttered.

"It's only your first try..."

"I can't do it!" He banged his fist on the table, shoving the papers towards her. "See for yourself!"

Sansa lifted an eyebrow but picked up the papers. His temper had never scared her and it didn't now, though she was surprised to see a return of it. After living through Joffrey and Ramsay it took a lot to rattle her, and she knew Tyrion well enough to know his moods came from frustration rather than cruelty. She'd seen it first hand in the crypts, as he continuously worked himself up about being stuck down there during the Long Night.

"Maybe we should have stayed married."

She smiled softly at him before turning to the papers. Already his head was bowed with regret for his tone, though Sansa didn't mind. Maester Henly had warned her Tyrion would process his trauma in his own way.

There were a few pages in the pile, covered in splotches of ink and shaky letters. He'd started with just letters and on the later pages he'd progressed to trying names. Tyrion, Sansa, Ghost, Jon - each was written out a few times in unsteady letters - shaky, but clear.

"You did well," she said. "I can read the names just fine."

"It's awful. A child could do better."

"A child would use their dominant hand, not have to learn to use the other. This is good Tyrion, you should be proud."

"Proud?" he snorted, resting his chin on his arm. "I was proud once. Letters, books, numbers, history - it was the only thing that came easily to me."

"It will again. You need only practice."

"You wouldn't understand."

"I can try."

He shook his head. "There's no point. You were the golden child, weren't you? I imagine you were great at everything you tried as a child."

Her cheeks reddened. "That's not true-"

"Of course it is. That's why Arya fought with you so much, isn't it?"

The Queen drew in a breath, keeping her voice steady. "You don't have to tell me Tyrion, but my childhood was far from perfect as you well know."

"Your childhood wasn't, but you were. You don't know what it's like to be useless."

Sansa ignored him, putting the papers back on the table. "Your writing doesn't have to be perfect, it need only be readable. There's no time limit on you practising either."

"No, I'll just carry on as a semi-literate invalid instead."

"You're putting pressure on yourself to be perfect," she said, "there are other ways to strengthen your hand. I tried drawing for a time after Ramsay. It helped me to relax, and you could practice using your left hand-"

He laughed, his face twisting into a sneer. "Why not? Surely that would complete my descent. Perhaps I could get some bells and motley to be a proper fool - Cersei had plenty of ideas for that!"

Sansa flinched, her heart twisting at his mockery.

'It's not his fault,' she reminded herself, 'he's hurt and frustrated. He can't hold it in forever...'

Despite knowing that, Sansa couldn't listen anymore. She pushed back in her chair, turning away from his gaze. "It was only a suggestion, my lord. You are, of course, free to do as you like. If you'll excuse me I have a meeting with lord Manderly to prepare for."

She turned quickly from the balcony, not risking a glance back at Tyrion. More than anything she wanted to help him, but she could do no more than try.

The knock on Arya's door was soft enough that she might have missed it if her training hadn't made her hypersensitive to her surroundings. She folded away the maps she'd been studying in her preparation for exploring what lay west of Westeros, moving on silent feet to determine who her guest was.

She pulled open the door, her eyebrows lifting when she did. "Oh...lord Tyrion."

"Just Tyrion," he said, staring at his feet. "I'm no lord."

While she'd heard from Sansa and Jon that Tyrion was walking she had yet to see the sight for herself. He held himself awkwardly, leaning away from his bad leg with his ruined hand hanging forgotten at his side.

"Do you want to come in?" asked Arya, opening the door further.

He stole a quick glance at her, long enough for Arya to see his eyes were red before nodding. "Please. If I'm not bothering you."

"Come on," she said, "we'll sit by the hearth."

Tyrion's gait was as awkward as his posture, and every step seemed to pain him.

"Are you alright?" asked Arya, watching as he sank back into the chaise. "I can get the Maester if you want."

He grit his teeth, wincing. "I'm fine. Walking tires me more than it should."

"Last time I saw you, you couldn't walk at all." Arya took the armchair for herself, watching her guest closely. "Did you practice by yourself?"

"Ghost helped."

"I'm glad you're walking again. Seeing you in the wheelchair wasn't right."

Tyrion's brow furrowed curiously at her words. It was true she'd been cold to him when he was last here, but that was the past and Sansa was determined to make him her future. It was now or never to start bridging the gap between them.

"So," said Arya, "what can I do for you?"

At once the curiosity left his face, replaced by a deep-rooted fear instead. He ducked his head, brushing his damaged hand against the direwolf ring on his finger.

Arya rolled her eyes at the display. "I'm not going to kill you Tyrion, I rather like that chaise without your blood on it."

"You might change your mind on that."

"Why?"

"I think I hurt Sansa," he said, swallowing thickly.

"Oh?"

Arya tempered her immediate reaction. She needed context. It was highly unlikely Tyrion would hurt Sansa intentionally, but whatever had happened he was visibly torn over it. His eyes were rimmed in red and he looked as if he expected the sword to fall any moment.

"She was trying to help me, and I snapped at her several times. I was quite rude."

Gods, was this what life had come to? She shrugged diplomatically. "Sansa can be irritating."

"It was all my fault. I never should have spoken to her like that - she's a Queen - she's the only friend I have left."

"Don't tell Ghost, Jon, Pod, Ser Davos, Varys, Bran or Bronn that," said Arya, rolling her eyes.

"I didn't mean-"

"I'm teasing you. Please, tell me how you offended Sansa, your only friend."

The story Tyrion told was one lacking any real drama or excitement - she'd heard a more exciting argument between the cooks in the kitchens. Sansa's encouragement had struck a raw nerve in Tyrion, unleashing a little of the poison he surely carried with him. It was good that Lannister was opening up, but Arya could easily see why she'd irritated him or he'd thought she wouldn't understand. Tyrion wasn't the only one who'd lived in the shadow of a more perfect sibling.

"Do you think she wants me to go?" asked Tyrion, staring at his lap as though he'd committed some great crime.

Honestly, it was nothing. Sansa could be overbearing and irritating no matter what her intentions were. It wasn't a surprise that Tyrion had tired of the constant encouragement; it was a surprise it had taken so long.

"Are you going to think of leaving every time you make a mistake?" asked Arya. "Sansa would be devastated if you left."

"Why?" He scrunched his nose. "I give her nothing but trouble."

"Oh come on," said Arya, rolling her eyes. "You can't be that oblivious."

"To what?"

"Apparently you can."

Arya struggled to not blurt out the whole truth; that Sansa was in love with him, wanted him to be her prince and breed a generation of golden-haired northerners with him. How could he not see the truth for himself? Sansa was trying not to be obvious about it but she was failing miserably. The lords of her council all knew where she disappeared to for hours each day.

Tyrion wrapped his arms around himself, looking thoroughly miserable. "I don't understand."

"Look," said Arya, sighing. "Sansa wants you here - she's not going to throw you out on a whim. If you're that upset over what happened apologise to her and move on."

He nodded, moving stiffly to his feet. "I owe her an apology - and an explanation."

"Tyrion," she called, locking her eyes on him. "Do you like that patchwork blue blanket?"

He froze at the question, panic lurking in his eyes. All the same, he nodded. "Yes."

"You use it every day?"

"I do."

Arya sat back in her chair, nodding. "Do you remember who gave it to you?"

"Um, no. It was there when I woke up, I think. Why? Does it belong to someone else?"

"No, it's yours," said Arya. "I just wondered if you remembered."

He shifted awkwardly where he stood, leaning against the chaise. "Who gave it to me?"

"Someone who heard your favourite colour was blue and spent hours searching for the perfect blanket. Not just any old one - it had to be just right."

"Why would anyone do that for me?"

"You figure it out."

"Very well." He sighed, turning to leave once more. "Thank you lady Arya."

"Just Arya," she said. He'd just reached the door when curiosity overcame her. "Tyrion, is blue really your favourite colour?"

"It is."

"Why?"

A funny look took over his face as if he hadn't really considered it before. "Because I know it won't hurt me."

Sansa was so lost in her needlework the soft rap on her door startled her back to reality. Her eyes found the door in time to see a folded note slip beneath the wooden frame. Her heart picked up pace at the unusual sight, but she had to assume it was nothing sinister. There were always guards on her corridor - they would protect her from any threats.

The Queen rose from the chair, holding her head high despite the nerves fluttering in her stomach. The note was blotched with barely dry ink as she picked it up, and stuck as she opened it out, but when she did a smile crossed her face.

I'm sorry Sansa,

Tyrion

The writing was crooked and blotchy, but she could read it clearly enough. A circle of ink at the bottom looked to have two blotches in the centre of it, with pointed shapes she quickly realised were meant to be ears. Her smile widened as she realised it was meant to be a drawing, though she could only guess at what animal it was meant to be.

Shuffling pulled her attention back to the door, and she opened it to see Tyrion waiting in the corridor. He was struggling to balance, shifting his weight between his good leg and his bad. Tiredness lined his face, but it was his sad green eyes that drew her in. Trying to hide it wouldn't work - she could see how nervous he was.

"Your Grace," he said, bowing his head. "I'm so-"

"You owe me no apology my lord," she said, lifting the letter. "I've already accepted it."

"I was rude to you when you were only trying to help me."

"It's alright, you were frustrated - I know you meant no harm." She stepped into the corridor, her usual concern for him quickly replacing any hurt feelings. "Have you eaten yet?"

"No..." he bit his lip. "I will, I just wanted to give you my apology first."

Sansa nodded, turning to the guard wandering the corridor. "Send for dinner, please. Some soup for lord Tyrion and I."

"I don't mean to bother you," said Tyrion.

"You'll join me for dinner my lord?"

"If you're sure."

She gestured to the door and he lurched unsteadily forwards. "Are you well? You look tired."

"I'm alright," he said, "I think I've walked further than usual today, that's all."

"Then you'll have to rest for a while," she said, struggling not to smile.

Tyrion glanced up at her as he passed, a tentative smile on his face. "I hoped you might tell me more of your drawing idea. You might have noticed my poor effort."

"Gladly," said Sansa. She pulled the door shut, hovering at his side as they moved towards the table. "I tried it myself but I prefer needlework to relax. You might enjoy it though - I think it's worth a try."

He stumbled three steps away from the table, and Sansa's hands found him immediately, steadying him and offering support. His voice was low, but Sansa didn't miss his words.

"I trust you."

"This is a bloody mess," said Ser Davos. "The Starks need to know what's happened."

"The King didn't want his family to know about the Westerlands," said Brienne. "If this was them."

"It was," said Davos. "There's been something wrong for days but I couldn't put my finger on it. Mark my words this has something to do with them."

"I don't disagree, but what reason would they have for attacking the King? If it is the Westerlands surely they would target lord Tyrion or Queen Sansa. Attacking Bran makes no sense."

Ser Davos and Brienne continued the debate they'd had for the last few days - Bran suspected it would end in a stalemate once more. Turning his attention from them Bran looked at himself, or rather his body. The fire in his chambers had been explosive, destroying most of the room and setting him alight. At the last moment, Bran had forced his way into his attacker's mind, attempting to take control of him as he once had Hodor.

The results were mixed.

The man had lost control of the fire, rather than the flames focusing on Bran they'd quickly spread throughout the room. Getting into his mind wasn't like controlling Hodor either. With Hodor it was like slipping in through a gap meant for him - with this man he'd forced his way in; seeing everything and then nothing.

Guards had rushed into the room minutes later, finding the King on fire and his attacker writhing and screaming on the ground. Romel was his attacker - a servant of the lord of light. Forcing his way into his mind had shown Bran the missing pieces of the puzzle but left Romel's mind too damaged to remain there. Bran had fled the dying man as soon as he saw the guards putting out the flames on his own body, yet he'd been unable to go back in.

Now the King watched as Davos and Brienne asked the Grand Maester for updates. The left side of Bran Stark's body was badly burnt - it would take weeks for the damage to begin to heal and leave nasty scars when it did.

"Will he recover?" asked Davos.

"If we can avoid infection I think so," said Samwell. "It's a miracle he wasn't killed. Do we know what happened?"

"Nothing yet," said Brienne, clutching the hilt of her sword. "The guards on Bran's doors were killed and the man in the room with Bran is dead too. The King is the only one who really knows what happened. We can only speculate."

"But he was attacked?" asked Sam.

"Aye, it looks that way," said Davos. "We need to tell his family."

"Tell them what?" said Brienne. "You know Bran as well as I do. He wanted the North to know nothing."

"They deserve to know what's happened…"

The conversation carried on as it had before and Bran stood along from them as they had it. Seeing himself was strange - it was a sight he was sure he wasn't meant to have. The three-eyed raven tried once again to rejoin his body, without success. Was it the injuries stopping him? The burns were bad but the Maesters weren't sure why he hadn't woken yet. Bran thought it was because he was split in two. The body of Bran Stark was lying in the bed, but the three-eyed raven was trapped outside of it. He could walk and see as he did when he visited the past, only this was the present and he couldn't leave it. His brow furrowed as he turned away from himself. He knew now what the real threat was, but there was more to be learned - Romel's mind had only told him so much. If he was stuck in this in-between world he'd have to make the most of it. For every moment Bran Stark couldn't tell his council the truth the greater the danger became.

For now, he would search for answers in Kings Landing, but if he was truly stuck like this the only hope left was that Bronn and Varys would find a way to make the danger known.

Walking was a painful thing. Why had he taken it for granted for so many years? It was only now, when every step threatened to send him sprawling that he appreciated what he'd once enjoyed so easily. He was improving - even he was beginning to see that. Walking short distances was becoming comfortable but his stamina and strength were so poor he struggled with going further.

Ghost padded along beside him, an unusual companion in the morning. While the direwolf had taken to staying with him every night, Ghost also left every morning. Except for today. Ghost hadn't run out the door when Yvette came but had followed him around his chambers as he had breakfast and got dressed - or tried to get dressed. It was humiliating but he still couldn't fasten the clasps on his clothes or tighten his breeches properly. Doing it with his left hand was awkward, made worse by his right hand being so useless. He grimaced at the thought of his right hand - the damned thing was ruined beyond repair yet he couldn't stop trying to use it. His natural reflex was to reach first with his right, to write, drink and eat using his dominant hand. Learning to use his left was frustrating beyond belief, though Yvette never complained about helping him. He paused a little before the passage to Sansa's balcony, waiting for his breathing to settle down - Sansa would fuss if she heard him struggling.

Ghost nudged against him, urging him forwards.

"Why are you in a hurry?" he asked. "Sansa knows I don't move quickly these days."

The wolf pushed against him again, stepping in front as if to block Tyrion's path.

"What is it?" asked Tyrion. "Do you want Jon?"

Red eyes peered at him and without warning Ghost shoved his shoulder into him, sending him stumbling back a step. Ghost wasn't finished. As Tyrion struggled to regain his balance the direwolf moved to the corridor at the left, pausing after a few paces and looking back expectantly.

"You want me to follow?" asked Tyrion. He glanced up the corridor towards Sansa's balcony where the Queen was expecting him, before looking at Ghost down the adjacent corridor.

It was strange for Ghost to act like this and there was no obvious reason why he wanted to go down that particular corridor. Tyrion's stomach stirred as he considered his options. Maybe he should tell one of the guards or Sansa. That would be the sensible thing to do.

'The cowardly thing to do,' taunted his inner voice. 'Ghost wants you to follow - look at him.'

Tyrion swallowed. There was no denying the intensity in the wolf's eyes as he stared at him. He wavered before lurching after the direwolf. Ghost led him further down the corridor and Tyrion's leg ached with every step. He was still too weak - weeks of captivity, weeks in bed - would he ever feel normal again?

Eventually, Ghost stopped at an alcove at the end of the corridor. The window looked out over the grounds of Winterfell, with the trees of the Wolfswood in the distance.

"Why did you want to come here?" asked Tyrion, leaning against the wall as he reached the wolf. He drew in a breath, trying to ignore the tremble in his underused muscles.

Lifting his head, Tyrion peered out the window, searching for whatever had led Ghost here. It took him a moment to place the unusual aspect of the scene, but when he did he couldn't tear his eyes from it. How had he missed it? A huge black mound roamed in the distance, shaking snow from its wings as it went.

"Drogon..." he whispered. Tyrion's heart slammed against his chest at the sight of the dragon. All the fascination he'd once had towards dragons had dissolved the moment he learnt of his brother's fate. He turned to Ghost, his hands shaking. "Why? Why lead me here?"

The wolf merely stared at him, as if it didn't understand why Tyrion hated the sight of the dragon. Tyrion was so distracted he missed the sound of boots in the corridor until they stopped behind him.

"Lord Tyrion," said one man, his tone coloured with surprise.

"My lord," said the other man.

Tyrion twisted on the spot, his shoulder cracking at the sudden movement. He fell back against the wall, his left hand clutching at his damaged shoulder. Two Lannister guards stood opposite him. Both had their heads bowed but straightened up at his movement.

"Are you well m'lord?" asked the first, taking a step towards him.

The second shuffled closer too, reaching a hand out towards him. "Here, let us help you lord Tyrion."

He shrank back, his legs shaking.

Red. Gold. Lions.

The guards were all the same to him. Had these men participated in his misery in Kings Landing or had they simply watched? It didn't matter - they were all as bad as each other.

"I'm not lord Tyrion," he said, his voice a whisper. "Leave me be."

The men exchanged looks.

"Begging your pardon, but you look unwell my lord," said one. "We can take you to the Maester."

"Do you need us to carry you?" asked the other.

Tyrion's shoulder ached as his legs gave out beneath him, sending him sliding to the floor. In desperation, he turned to Ghost but the wolf was disappearing down the corridor, leaving him at the mercy of the Lannister guards. He flinched as a dragon's roar shook the castle.

Surrounded by lions with a dragon at his back. Tyrion's breathing sped up as the corridor closed in around him. Was this how he'd die? Would it be the Lannisters or the dragon that would deliver the final blow?

Sansa tried to control her panic as she swept through the corridors. Tyrion was supposed to meet her half an hour ago on the balcony, but he'd never arrived and the guards by the passage hadn't seen him. She tried to put things in perspective. It wasn't set in stone that he would meet her there, but it had become a habit that they'd spend the mornings together. She'd asked him yesterday if he wanted to join her on the balcony rather than meet in his chambers and he'd easily accepted the offer.

'Maybe he doesn't want to come. Maybe he's bored of your company...'

She shook her head, pushing away the thoughts. There was no time to consider such things when she didn't know where Tyrion was. Sansa turned left at the end of the corridor, halting as she came face to face with Ghost.

"Gods, you startled me!"

Jon's wolf was always the quiet one of the pack and Ghost didn't disappoint. His red eyes stared at her before he took off down the corridor. Ghost was behaving strangely of late but this was strange even for him. On instinct, she followed.

Ghost led her down two corridors, moving away from the private family corridors to the edge of Winterfell. It was as she reached the end of the second one she heard voices.

"M'lord, let us help you."

"Eh, he doesn't look well. Should I get the Maester?"

"Quicker to take him there - if he'd let us."

Sansa didn't need Ghost to lead her anymore. She overtook the wolf as she flew towards the voices, turning at the end of the corridor to find the source.

Two Lannister guards crouched near the end window. Between them Sansa caught a glimpse of golden hair, sending her stomach into knots.

"Tyrion!"

The guards jumped at her voice, turning and lifting their hands as if to prove they were innocent.

"Queen Sansa, lord Lannister is unwell," said one man; the older of the two.

"We didn't do anything!" said the second, taking several steps back from Tyrion.

The lord of Casterly Rock sat on the floor with his back to the wall, his left hand clutching his right shoulder. Tyrion's face was white as a sheet and he was shivering where he sat. The older guard was more composed than his comrade and stepped aside as she approached.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice tightly controlled as she took in the state of her husband.

"We saw him in the corridor, looking out the window with the direwolf," said the older guard. "He's our lord, so of course, we greeted him as you should. When he turned around he didn't look well. We asked him if we could take him the Maester but he's not been talking much sense."

"He told us to leave him," said the other guard, "but we couldn't leave him like this."

"Was his shoulder broke in Kings Landing, your Grace?"

"Yes, why?"

The older guard pointed at the shoulder Tyrion was clutching. "I think we startled him. He turned around so fast and then he was clutching his shoulder - reckon he's caught it. Shoulders are awkward buggers to fix."

Sansa wanted to blame the guards, her every instinct was to distrust them, but she had to look at the evidence. The guards sounded as if they were trying to help him before she arrived, and despite her personal feelings about the Lannister army she sensed no malice from either man. Her eyes turned to Ghost who was now staring out the window. Ghost had been with Tyrion when the guards turned up - surely he'd have attacked if the guards were a danger.

A roar broke Sansa from her thoughts, pulling her gaze from Tyrion to the window Ghost was looking out of. Drogon roamed in the near distance, shooting flames into the sky and stamping the ground. Her eyes picked out two horses riding towards him, tiny figures on the landscape. Something had disturbed Drogon, and by the looks of it, Jon and Arya were on their way to try and find the source. Ghost was watching it all - his eyes fixed on the dragon...

Of course, the dragon.

A picture quickly formed in Sansa's mind, making sense of the events. She turned to the guards, addressing the senior one.

"I understand the situation; I'll handle it from here."

His brow furrowed. "Do you need us to get the Maester, your Grace?"

"It's quite alright, I'll send for him later. Lord Tyrion requires some privacy right now," she said, "though I would appreciate it if you could have some wine and food sent to my chambers."

The Lannister guards weren't hers to give orders to, but both nodded their assent. Given the situation she'd found them in they were likely relieved to not be accused of harming Tyrion, but Sansa had a clear idea of what had happened, and if it was true the men were guilty only of greeting their lord.

As soon as their footsteps receded she dropped to her knees beside her husband.

"I wondered where you were," she said, offering him a smile. "Can I sit here with you?"

Tyrion stared straight ahead, trembling where he sat. The sight tore at Sansa's heart, but she knew what this was, and she knew everything that came with it - from the confusion to the shame. She sat beside him, leaning her back against the wall but leaving some space between them.

He said nothing as he sat there, but the corridor was quiet enough for Sansa to pick out his breathing. Gradually, his gasping breaths levelled out to a normal rhythm, though he was shivering as if he was cold.

"Here," she said, inching closer. "This corridor is drafty."

Sansa moved slowly, searching for any sign her presence was unwelcome, but when she found none she wrapped her arm loosely around him - mindful of the way he was holding his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Don't be."

"I don't know...something came over me..."

"I understand, this has happened to me before. Keep breathing - I'm here."

Slowly some colour returned to his face and his shivering lessened. Drogon had stopped roaring outside and Ghost seemed to have lost interest in the window, instead lying beside Tyrion.

"Do you feel up to moving?" she asked.

Tyrion nodded mutely, keeping his head low. It was enough for Sansa to know he was over the worst - his terror was quickly being replaced by shame. Not that he had any need for that. Sansa would do what she could to show him such, but it was a conversation better had in private.

He wobbled as he stood, but Sansa had no intention of letting go. Ghost pushed against his other side, offering support in walking. Tyrion didn't protest her help as they moved down the corridor, though he was careful to keep his eyes on the ground. His good hand still clutched at his shoulder but the old injury didn't seem to hinder his movement. It took them longer than usual to reach Sansa's chambers and when they did Ghost bolted back the way they'd come, leaving Sansa and Tyrion at the door. She frowned at the behaviour. Ghost was acting as strangely as Drogon but no one had any idea why.

"Come on," said Sansa, opening the door.

"I don't want to bother you," said Tyrion. His voice was quiet and he looked shaky on his feet.

"You're no bother." She smiled. "Besides, you were joining me this morning anyway, weren't you?"

"I was on my way...Ghost led me to the window..."

Her brow furrowed. She'd wondered why Tyrion had gone down that corridor. He usually stuck to the corridors around the family rooms where only the Stark guards were allowed. In following Ghost he'd wandered into the corridors where the Lannister guards now patrolled too. Winterfell was open to Tyrion - she didn't want him to stick only to places where there were no Lannisters, nor could she further limit the restless Lannister guards. Despite her misgivings about them they'd done nothing but follow her wishes. She bit her lip. Tyrion wouldn't like it but they'd have to find a way to help him past his fear of the Lannister guards.

"You can join me in here," said Sansa, leading them into the room. "It's colder than I thought on the balcony - I'd prefer the hearth for a while."

Tyrion's hand shook as he lifted the cup to his mouth, with the sweet taste of wine giving him only a fraction of the satisfaction it used to. Still, he did feel more normal, or at least more like himself than he had in the corridor. His stomach lurched uncomfortably at the memory. If he'd had any thoughts of being lord of Casterly Rock today had provided the final evidence he was unfit. Tyrion had no intention of ever being that man, and perhaps now everyone else would believe him when he refused the title.

"How are you feeling?" asked Sansa, sipping her wine along from him on the chaise.

"Embarrassed."

"You've no need to. It's happened to me before - it feels like the world is ending but it isn't."

Tyrion grimaced. The Queen's analysis of his experience was too accurate, and it wasn't something he'd ever wish on her. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"That you ever experienced something like that. I'm sorry I couldn't help you as you helped me."

Her eyes brightened; warm pools of blue gazing at him. How could anyone ever think Sansa was cold? After the incident in the corridor she'd taken him to her chambers, insisted he have some soup and then cancelled her afternoon meeting in favour of staying with him. She insisted it was no trouble; that she needed a break from work and he was good company, but he had trouble believing even one of those things.

'My debt to you grows larger every day,' he thought. 'I'll find a way to pay it back.'

"It was when we reclaimed Winterfell that I had them. Certain rooms, certain smells - they reminded me of Ramsay." Her mouth turned downwards for a moment, but she was quick to hide it. "It got better in time. New memories replace the bad ones."

"It was the dragon," he said. "I don't know why Ghost led me there but as soon as I saw it…then I saw the Lannister guards."

"Did they threaten you?"

He shook his head. "They did nothing wrong, just the sight of them reminded me of Kings Landing. It was Cersei's game there and everything was a trick."

Sansa nodded, listening to him patiently - no hint of judgement on her face. It was enough that Tyrion found his words tumbling out before he could stop them.

"A few days into my captivity, I found a way to escape. I'd been forced to walk through the city, and Qyburn had poisoned me several times but I wasn't too weak then. I waited and watched, plotting my escape. When I saw the opportunity I stole a key from Qyburn. I unlocked my cell and escaped through a passage Varys had once shown me." A bitter taste filled his mouth. "I thought I was so clever. Cersei and the Lannister guards were waiting at the other end of the passage - she'd planned my escape for me. They dragged me back and Cersei let Qyburn punish me. That's when they ruined my hand…"

His right hand ached at the memory. Tyrion knew he'd never forget the knife slicing into him, or the sensation of a bone being removed. Bile burned the back of his throat and Tyrion took a larger drink of the wine, grateful for the taste.

"I'm so sorry," said Sansa.

"For what?" he said, echoing her question. "You didn't hurt me."

"I wish you hadn't been hurt at all. You don't deserve it."

"There are a lot of people who'd disagree with you."

Tyrion smiled tightly. "You're too kind to me. I know what I am though, I've always known."

"And what are you?" asked Sansa. "Tell me these false beliefs that need correcting."

"I won't burden you with my problems."

"As the Queen in the North, it's my duty to help my people."

The wine had taken the edge of his troubles, relaxing him more than anything else since Kings Landing. Sansa seemed to be enjoying the effects too. Her guard had lowered the longer they spoke and her eyes sparkled with an openness she rarely showed others but often showed him. They were far from drunk, but the crackling hearth and sweet wine had eased their defences enough that Tyrion found himself indulging her. If nothing else it might exorcise a few of his demons to speak of them out loud.

"Alright then," he said, settling into the chair and turning his gaze to the hearth. "I'm not as clever as I like to think. When I went to Essos several of my plans fell to ruin, exposing a stupidity I'd avoided seeing so far."

"I can't speak for what you did in Essos, but being clever doesn't mean you can't make mistakes. My father used to tell Robb and Jon when they practised with their swords mistakes were the best teachers."

"Hmm, perhaps. Here's another for you - I'm not a Lannister."

Sansa laughed. "Your hair and eyes look very Lannister to me."

"I could be a bastard."

"You are a true born son of Lannister. If your father thought you were a bastard I doubt he'd have raised you as otherwise."

"Good point. Tywin was always ashamed of me, but he did love my mother. Perhaps it was to honour her than he kept me. For all we know I could be the butcher's son."

The Queen shook her head, her voice soft. "You know that isn't true."

"Wishful thinking." Tyrion took a long drink, his thoughts turning to the point that had been clear to him all his life. "I know you won't be able to reason with this one; I'm a disgusting imp, an ugly little monster."

"That isn't true at all-"

He held up his finger. "Ah! You can't disagree with this one."

"Why not?"

His voice softened as he answered. "I've paid every woman who ever loved me, and it was all lies. I paid my whores well but I'd often notice the disgust in their eyes - some struggled to hide it."

"You've had shallow experiences then. You're not an imp or a monster, nor are you disgusting or ugly."

"You needn't lie to me."

"I'm being nothing but honest."

He tightened his fingers around the cup, his eyes fixed on the crackling fire. "Eyes don't lie Sansa. You're a perfect lady, but even your courtesies wavered when I kissed you at our wedding."

"Tyrion-"

"I don't blame you," he said quickly. "My family destroyed yours, you were a child being forced into marriage with a man you didn't know - it was quite right you were disgusted by me."

Why had he brought that up? He knew all the reasons why Sansa had reacted like that, she was an inexperienced, frightened child then - yet it had hurt him. It always hurt to be judged on his appearance.

"Tyrion."

He turned at his name, an apology on his tongue, though it quickly died as Sansa pressed her mouth against his. She cupped his face, her lips moving against his. Tyrion's mind went blank as he responded to the kiss, quickly returning it.

Sansa lingered a moment before pulling back, her face flushed. "Have I dissuaded you of that belief?"

"Hmm? What belief?" he asked, staring at Sansa as if he'd been struck dumb.

She smiled, settling back to her side of the chaise and sipping her wine. "Do you have any more false beliefs that need addressing?"

"Oh, um, somewhere." Gods, he sounded an idiot, though perhaps it was excusable in this case.

"Well, if you think of them you're welcome to bring them to my attention. I'll convince you of the truth."

Tyrion swallowed, his heart thumping as he stared at Sansa and her crystal clear blue eyes. "I believe you."