Chapter 24
It became a game they played.
Each day she joined Tyrion to work and each day he considered new ways to be of service. His suggestions ranged from serious to ridiculous but Sansa would pretend to consider them.
"I could work in the library," he said.
"Doing what?"
"Keeping the books in good order. You have many books and I'm so slow now – cleaning them all could take me years."
"An intriguing idea, but I'm not sure the books would get clean."
"You doubt my cleaning skills?"
"No, I doubt you could clean them without reading them. If you did that you might never leave the library."
To Sansa's relief Tyrion hadn't tried to be a servant again, and two days into his life as Tyrion Hill he quietly asked if Yvette could still help him. Of course, Sansa had seen his morning struggles. He wouldn't join her family or the lords in the great hall for breakfast and lacked the balance to carry his food through the castle to eat in his chambers. His leg was better but weak, and the damage to his right hand and shoulder still left him unsteady. Given the state they'd rescued him in Sansa thought it was a miracle he could walk at all, and there was no need for him to do everything himself – he was her husband. Sansa suspected it was fastening his clothes that had proven the final straw. For the two days he struggled without a servant his clothes had hung off him. Lacing his breeches with one hand was difficult, as was fastening the clasps on his doublets. When she called on him yesterday to spend the morning he'd half-opened the door, his head hanging low.
"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm not quite ready…I can't…"
Tyrion hadn't needed to finish and Sansa hadn't given him chance. It took her barely a minute to finish the clasps that had clearly consumed his morning. When he asked for a servant Sansa couldn't agree quickly enough. There was no need for Tyrion to damage his confidence by struggling alone when there was help available.
None of Tyrion's suggestions suited him or his skills. Most of the positions he suggested were so lowly she hoped he was joking and the rest of his ideas were no better. Sansa had noticed a trend in his suggestions, however – every position he proposed held no power. Never once did he suggest advising her, or any role that made use of his skills. It made it easier to refuse his ideas but Sansa knew she would refuse them anyway. There was only one position she wanted him to fill, but it was a question she couldn't ask and his avoidance of power only made it more awkward.
Her eyes moved to her husband, consumed with his current drawing. She tried not to smile. When Sansa suggested he try drawing to get used to his left hand she'd never imagined he'd take to the practice. It was rare to see him practice his writing now, but he probably thought he didn't need to write now he'd given up his lordship. The thought saddened her, though the decision had certainly lightened his mood. Sansa forced herself to look away. Tyrion had never shown her any of his drawings and she had no desire to make him self-conscious by nosing. She made sure his room was always stocked with paper and supplies for his drawing and contented herself with the relaxed expression on his face each morning when she joined him.
"I could join the guards," said Tyrion, drawing her attention.
"Oh?"
He nodded. "I'd be terrible at fighting of course, but I could act as a sentry. Winterfell always has guards on the battlements – I could sit there and keep a lookout – as they did in the Nights Watch."
"It would be long hours sat out there," said Sansa, "cold, often wet, boring."
"I would gladly do it for you, my Queen. You're not sleeping well and I'm certain an imp keeping watch at night will help you dream more easily."
"You are not an imp," said Sansa. "What makes you think I'm not sleeping well?"
Tyrion hesitated, a hint of hesitation creeping into his face. "You look tired. I may be wrong-"
"You're quite right."
"Then let me help you," he said softly. He drew in a breath, mustering a playful smile. "I'll happily watch the horizon day and night for the Queen to get a peaceful sleep."
Heat spread through Sansa's chest, filling her with warmth. "I appreciate your offer but I don't think that will be necessary. There are plenty of guards to fulfil that duty and I know you hate the cold."
"I'd say the cold hates me."
"Better you stay in here then and fight the cold with the hearth. I'll have extra logs sent up."
Tyrion laughed. "I must be the best-kept bastard in Westeros. Servants, food, a warm fire and no obligations – I'm not sure how I managed it."
"I'm glad you don't consider me an obligation. I do enjoy our mornings together…" The words slipped out before Sansa could stop them. Far from making him uncomfortable, Tyrion smiled.
"Me too."
Godwin's head pounded, a combination of sleepless nights and having the same conversation one too many times.
"Why are we still here? If he doesn't want to be lord of Casterly Rock we should go back to the Westerlands!"
"He's right. No point freezing our arses off for nothing."
In the days following Tyrion's announcement, the men had become increasingly difficult. No one liked the North much to begin with but their presence here had been to serve the lord of Casterly Rock. Now Tyrion had surrendered his name and titles the Lannister army was without a purpose and utterly humiliated. Shame stirred in Godwin's stomach. He'd done all he could to convince Tyrion Lannister of their loyalty but in the end, it wasn't enough. It was tempting to be angry, to be bitter, but Godwin knew he had no right to be. He'd been in Kings Landing – he'd seen Tyrion's torment.
Godwin sighed, lifting his gaze to the men who'd decided to air their complaints this time. "Lord Tyrion has surrendered his titles and pledged fealty to Queen Sansa, but we are pledged to King Bran. Until he formally accepts lord Tyrion's surrender we remain here."
"Why call him lord?" asked one man, a frown on his long face. "We all heard him give up his name. Any bastard in the Westerlands would give his sword arm for his family name and titles, but the imp throws it away to live like a bastard in the North!"
"Enough!" snapped Godwin, levelling a glare at the men. "Until King Bran responds to the letter we will continue as we have these past weeks. Nothing has changed. You will continue to treat lord Tyrion as if he is our lord, though it's probably better we keep some distance from him."
"Why? If he doesn't want his lordship why should we treat him like one?"
"Because I said so!" Godwin sucked in a breath, struggling to control his tone. "King Bran may refuse his request. He may summon lord Tyrion to Kings Landing. Even if the request is accepted you will continue to treat lord Tyrion with respect. The North is an independent kingdom and if nothing else lord Tyrion is the Queen's lawful husband. We will not disrespect Queen Sansa."
The men weren't happy and Godwin doubted this was the last time he'd have this argument. Over the last two days, he'd had it plenty of times with various guards. The Lannister army was humiliated, and homesick and their reputations were blighted by Cersei's reign. Tyrion Lannister had many flaws but he was the best chance they had for redemption – he was neither mad nor cruel. He had his father's intelligence without his coldness. It was a chance they'd lost. Tyrion had made it perfectly clear to the packed courtyard he wanted nothing to do with them. The Northerners had no love for Lannisters and Tyrion's pledge of loyalty to the Queen had won some over, but throwing his name aside had been the biggest victory. As the last of the main Lannister line, Tyrion might kill his house. There were likely cousins in the Westerlands but no direct links – no one who would have a strong enough claim to take Casterly Rock.
Godwin hadn't seen Tyrion since the courtyard but he had spoken to the Queen. As sympathetic as she was Godwin knew it was only for his benefit. She'd got what she wanted after all – Tyrion would remain at Winterfell, pledged to his new Queen. He was hers for the taking, even if he didn't realise it.
"No."
"It's the best idea I have," said Jon.
"Think of another."
Jon frowned frustration curling in his stomach. Drogon's behaviour was more unpredictable than ever and as that had changed so had Ghost's.
"You know I wouldn't suggest it if there was any other way, and you can't deny the logic. Ghost has stuck with Tyrion for weeks. Three times in the last two days Ghost has tried to draw Tyrion to the dragon."
"You don't know that's what Ghost wants."
"Of course it is. Ghost jumped on Tyrion and woke him up last night, at the same time Drogon set fire to that group of trees. You can't say it isn't connected."
"What has any of it got to do with Tyrion? Take Ghost and check on Drogon if you like but leave Tyrion out of it."
Jon leaned forwards, locking eyes with the Queen. "I don't know why, but Ghost wants Tyrion to see Drogon. I've searched everywhere for answers and found nothing – Drogon won't let me near him – Tyrion is our only hope. He was fascinated with dragons as a child, if anyone might know it's him. Let me take him out to see the dragon."
Sansa's mouth pressed into a thin line. She didn't like it but Jon knew she couldn't deny the logic either. Ghost and Drogon were both acting strangely, and for whatever reason Ghost had attached himself to Tyrion. The direwolf had made several attempts to steer Tyrion towards the dragon and Jon thought it was past time to find out why.
"Fine," said Sansa, "you may ask Tyrion if he will accompany you. He has the final say."
"Alright," said Jon. "You've nothing to worry about Sansa – I'll keep him safe."
"I'm sure you will, but I'll be there all the same."
"Sansa, you've no need to come. Arya will join us."
"No." The Queen's eyes shone a steely blue. "If Tyrion goes so will I, and I'll hear no argument about it."
Bran stared at his body as it lay in the bed. Alive, but burned. The Maesters said his injuries were healing but would leave scars. Not that Bran was concerned about that. It didn't matter what state his body was in when he couldn't access it. No matter what he tried Bran simply couldn't rejoin his body. Something was blocking him, but no matter how many times he'd wandered the Red Keep or how many conversations he'd listened to he couldn't find it. The only certainty he had was that the lord of light's followers was to blame. He was more sure than ever that it was the red priests that blocked him from the Westerlands and obscured the North, but that kind of power surely meant they were here in large numbers and the only reason he could think of was Daenerys Targaryen.
It was more important than ever that Drogon remained in the North. The power of the old Gods would afford some protection from the lord of light but Bran was only guessing at what was happening. He couldn't share what he knew or give orders while he was stuck in the in-between. Bronn and Varys were the last hope but Ser Davos and Brienne were increasingly concerned about them.
His council's conversation had once again turned to his family in the North, and whether they should be informed of the situation. Bran wasn't a very visible ruler but mutterings were growing louder that something was wrong. Soon it wouldn't matter whether the council told his family, the whispers would reach them anyway.
Bran tried again to rejoin his body, but as usual, nothing happened. He huffed, turning away from the bed in search of his council. All he could do was wait and watch. Even if he discovered the source of the block in Kings Landing it was useless if he couldn't pass the information on.
Arya rolled her shoulders, easing some of the strain that had been there since her morning practice. It would be easy to grow complacent in Winterfell but she couldn't give in to that temptation. Soon she would sail for west of Westeros and if she was to survive, as she had every intention of doing, she could leave nothing to chance.
She leaned against the railing, switching her attention from the groom readying the horses to the other occupant of the stables. Tyrion looked as nervous of the horses as they looked of Ghost. He'd arrived not long after her but kept his distance, hovering uncertainly near the entrance with the direwolf. Hiding it wouldn't work – she could see how uncomfortable he was. Was it being outside the castle that bothered him, or the people bustling around the courtyard? Tyrion had been at Winterfell for weeks now, yet he rarely strayed from the upstairs corridors and the library, on occasion.
She pushed back from the railings, making her way over to him.
"Excited to get out?" she asked.
He flinched, pulling his gaze from the horse to her. "It will be different, my lady."
"Jon thinks you're our best chance of figuring it out." She nodded towards Ghost. "He seems to agree."
"He has been rather agitated the last few days. Ghost seems fine and then he gets this urge to drive me towards the dragon – it's quite strange."
"I'm glad you agreed to come with us."
He bowed his head. "I'm pleased to be of service, my lady."
Arya bit her tongue, fighting back her natural impulse. Tyrion's desire to reinvent himself as a bastard amused her as much as it saddened Sansa. It was so tempting to poke fun at him, but Arya wasn't completely heartless. The reasons for his identity crisis were enough for her to hold back and it was probably for the best if she did. Tyrion was technically her brother by law, and she didn't doubt Sansa was already planning names for their children even if the would-be father was oblivious.
"Just Arya will do," she said, "I'm not a lady."
He sighed. "As you wish. I don't think I'm doing this bastard thing properly you know – people still treat me as a lord, only now they don't know what to call me."
"Ask Jon for tips. He was the bastard of Winterfell all his life."
Ghost was padding his paws impatiently, nudging against Tyrion and then staring in the direction of Drogon. The dragon was some distance from the castle but they'd heard his roar and seen flames shoot towards the sky. Only minutes before Ghost's behaviour had changed too. According to Tyrion, the direwolf had nearly dragged him from his chair and to the door of his chambers. Of course, Sansa had been there with him. Arya struggled to not roll her eyes at the thought. They'd alerted Jon and with Sansa's blessing, he'd asked Tyrion to join them in riding out to Drogon. Arya had seen Jon only briefly but from what he said Tyrion had quickly agreed to come with them and Sansa was coming as well. The only question remaining was why she and Tyrion were still waiting for Jon and Sansa.
Ghost was impatient and so was Arya, even if Tyrion looked nauseated at the prospect of going to the dragon. Words danced on Arya's tongue like a knife, ready to poke fun at him for being afraid. He was her brother, she reminded herself, and he had every reason to distrust Drogon. The last Queen he served had used the creature to kill his brother. Arya hoped he wasn't worried about the same fate. They weren't taking him out as a sacrifice to Drogon, and Arya knew Sansa would burn herself before she let him be hurt.
'You're part of the pack whether you know it or not,' thought Arya, watching him rub his damaged hand. 'If I know Sansa she won't leave your side.'
The horse skidded on a patch of ice and though it kept its balance the movement jarred its riders. Tyrion grunted, tensing in her arms at the jolt. This was a bad idea. Tyrion was still struggling to walk long distances; weeks of imprisonment and then bed rest would take time to heal – riding a horse over the rough Northern terrain wasn't good for him.
"Are you alright?" murmured Sansa, subtly tightening her grip on him.
"I'm fine," he said.
It was the expected answer, just as she'd known he'd say yes to Jon's request to go with them. She'd been there when they spoke, making sure Tyrion knew it was his choice and there was no pressure. It wasn't that she distrusted Jon, she just didn't want Tyrion to think he had to do it. Even when the horses were saddled and ready she'd asked him again.
"Are you sure about this?" asked Sansa, watching her husband fidget where he stood.
"He said he's fine," said Arya. "Let's get moving for seven's sake."
"I'm sure," said Tyrion. He smiled weakly. "I'm happy to be of any help."
"You don't have to," said Sansa.
"I want to do it."
Jon clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. "That's the spirit. You'll be fine with us."
Sansa wasn't convinced but she had no desire to undermine Tyrion's fragile self-confidence either. That he was willing to go with them was a positive step forwards, albeit a big one.
"Very well," said Sansa. "I've spoken to the Maester and he doesn't think you should ride yet. Your body is still healing and you've yet to try controlling a horse with only one hand."
Tyrion's shoulders sagged, relief flickering over his face. "Oh."
"Bloody hell Sansa," said Arya, as the horses were led out of the stables. "Drogon could have burnt half the North to the ground by the time we get there. Hill can ride with Jon-"
"No. Tyrion will ride with me…"
It had hurt his pride, even if Tyrion couldn't argue with the logic. As soon as Tyrion had agreed to go with them Sansa had gone to the Maester for advice. Tyrion hadn't ridden since before his captivity and even then he'd never seemed fond of it. While Arya, Jon and Tyrion got ready for the journey she'd asked Wolkan's opinion, even if she already knew the answer.
"Tyrion will be able to ride independently, but only when he has improved his endurance and begun to adapt his right hand. It hasn't been amputated and can still serve some purposes, but Tyrion seems determined to pretend that arm doesn't exist. Given his unsteadiness and lack of adjustment to his new reality, I'd advise against letting Tyrion ride a horse – particularly in this landscape. It's an accident waiting to happen."
That was all the confirmation Sansa had needed. Tyrion couldn't ride alone so he would ride with her. She rode well and her horse was more than strong enough for both of them. If Tyrion was unwell or needed her she was right there. Seeing Drogon would be horrible for him – if she was close she could comfort him.
Tyrion hadn't protested the arrangement but he'd looked more than a little uncomfortable, particularly when the stable hands lifted him onto the horse in front of her. He'd apologised, of course, blaming himself for being weak and inconveniencing her. Little did he know there was nowhere else she'd rather have him, or that holding him close filled a hole in her heart she didn't realise was there.
Sansa eased her horse to a trot when they reached a patch of particularly rough land. Jon did the same, and Arya followed suit – even if she did it with a glare. Flames shot into the sky ahead of them, though Drogon was obscured from view by the snow-covered hills. The dragon had moved again.
"Drogon has moved," said Sansa, pointing towards the origin of the flames. "When he first came here he stayed in a clearing further North, but he seems to be moving south. This isn't where Jon found him last time."
"Have the areas he's left been checked?" asked Tyrion.
"Yes, there's nothing there. No obvious reason for him to move."
"He's still hunting?"
Sansa tightened her grip on Tyrion, drawing him closer as they approached the ridge. "Jon says he hunts regularly and then returns to his spot, but he doesn't go far to hunt now. Only far enough to find food and then he comes back."
"How curious."
The three horses came to a stop at the top of the ridge, giving their riders a clear view of the valley below and the dragon stomping through the space. Sansa's heart pounded at the sight – she could only imagine how Tyrion felt.
Jon and Arya guided their horses to either side of hers, but the creatures were already skittering at the sight of the dragon. Even if they wanted to go closer the horses didn't. Ghost pushed between the horses, stopping between hers and Jon's. The direwolf had followed them but fallen behind the horses' pace early on.
"This is the worst I've seen him," said Jon.
It had occurred to Sansa more than once that killing Drogon might have been safer. He was too unpredictable, too dangerous. Cersei's scorpion weapons could have done the job as they had to Rhaegal, but in Kings Landing Jon had taken control of the dragon. He had Targaryen blood and despite what he said Sansa thought he did have some bond with Drogon.
The ground shook as Drogon paced back and forth, shaking his head from side to side and hissing. Tyrion stiffened at the sight of the dragon. Sansa wasn't sure if it was a conscious action or not, but when he leaned back against her she quickly adjusted her position to welcome him. Her hands held the reigns but her arms were wrapped around Tyrion, and she was close enough to feel the tremble in his body as Drogon shot flames into the sky.
"Well, Hill?" asked Arya. "Speak up. What does that look like to you?"
Sansa answered first. "You, when mother told you to be more ladylike."
"Really? After all these years you're trying to develop a sense of humour?"
"I'm deadly serious."
"If you ask me it looks more like you when father was going to break off your engagement to your beloved Joffr-"
"Pain," said Tyrion. "Drogon is in pain."
He cut off Arya before she could finish but her sister's words still stung. She'd made her jibe at Arya to stop her bothering Tyrion when he was so obviously struggling, but throwing Joffrey in her face was a low blow. Sansa regretted many things but the shame of her infatuation with Joffrey would never leave her.
"What do you mean?" asked Jon. "I can't see anything that would hurt him. He's eating and moving fine too."
Tyrion shook his head. "Not physical. There are very few things that would hurt Drogon physically and you've said his bouts of temper are seemingly random, correct?"
"Aye, there's no pattern to it."
"I don't think it's a physical problem. Dragons are intelligent creatures, as are direwolves. Something is affecting Drogon and Ghost can sense it. That's why he reacts as he does."
"What would affect him though?" asked Sansa. "He didn't act like this last time he was here."
"No, but his mother was here then," said Tyrion.
"Daenerys is dead," said Arya. "For the record, I think you're right Tyrion, but I don't know what force could hurt him mentally now that hasn't before."
"What force could disturb a dragon and be sensed by a direwolf?"
"White walkers," said Jon, his face grim. "When I was at the wall Ghost sensed them first."
Tyrion considered, before shaking his head. "Similar perhaps, but I don't believe it's that. When did he start acting like this?"
"When we came North," said Jon.
"Immediately, or was it later?"
"Later. He was fine at first and then Ghost turned up and his behaviour changed."
"Hmm." Tyrion gripped the saddle with his good hand, drumming his fingers nervously. "Please remember, I'm only speculating. I may be completely wrong and I don't want to give any of you bad advice."
"We're all only guessing," said Jon. "Anything will help."
Tyrion's breath frosted in the cold air. "Very well. If you're looking for a force that could disturb Drogon and Ghost I'd wager it would be something of great power. Given this began in the North I can think of no other force but the Old Gods of the forest. We've already seen a taste of old Northern power during the long night, what other old powers are there in the North?"
"It could be Bran," murmured Arya. "He tried to warg into Drogon at Dragonstone."
"Tried but couldn't," said Sansa.
"Yes, but Bran's power comes from the old Gods – he'll be stronger here – and we haven't heard from him in weeks."
Silence settled over them at Arya's words, interrupted only by the huffing of Drogon as he prowled below them. They'd followed a logical path to reach the conclusion, but Sansa didn't believe it. Why would Bran try to take control of Drogon? As unsettling as his silence these last weeks had been Sansa couldn't imagine it was because he was trying to control the dragon.
"It's not Bran," said Jon, his mouth turning downwards. "I can't see why he would try now when he couldn't do it at Dragonstone. Besides, why would he want Drogon?"
Tyrion dropped his head, though he would struggle to hide on the horse. "I'm sorry. Please know, I wasn't accusing Bran…"
"We know that," said Sansa, brushing her arm against him. "I think you're right though. I don't believe it's Bran but what's to say there aren't others with similar powers?"
"The best person to ask would be Bran," said Arya, "but he seems to have forgotten us."
Ghost grew restless between the horses. His eyes were fixed on the dragon as it raged below them. Whatever Ghost sensed he didn't like it.
"Drogon won't let me near him," said Jon. "I thought flying him away from here might help but whatever control I had over him is gone."
"You're not his natural rider," said Tyrion, "of all the dragons Daenerys was closest to Drogon. With her dead and you the last Targaryen blood, I can only think the manner of her death might have caused a rift. If she'd fallen in battle, for example, he might have taken to you."
"Shoving your sword through her back was overdue but poor strategy in the long run," said Arya.
Sansa narrowed her eyes as Jon looked away. "If you're not going to help why did you come, Arya?"
Her sister shrugged. "I'm just stating the facts."
Arya had a peculiar way of helping. Everything she said was as pointed as the thin sword on her hip and Sansa was increasingly convinced Arya was oblivious to it. Jon's actions had saved them and Sansa could only imagine how difficult it was for him – he didn't need to be reminded. She tightened her grip on Tyrion, subtly leaning into him. Arya wouldn't understand, but love had a way of changing everything. Never had she thought herself capable of doing what she had, but as soon as she learned Tyrion had been betrayed and was in pain a different force had taken over entirely.
Every rock and dip in the ground threatened to unravel him. Every inch of Tyrion ached but nothing hurt as badly as his old injuries. Sansa was an excellent rider and the horse was steady, but every jolt in the road pierced him like a knife. The ride out had been painful, seeing Drogon was terrifying, but the ride back to Winterfell was going to be the end of him. Tyrion clamped his mouth shut, determined to keep his discomfort to himself. The Starks had asked nothing of him and when Jon suggested he join them to see Drogon he'd agreed without a moment's hesitation and no thought of how they'd get there. He was doomed as soon as he saw the horses. He could ride well enough with a normal saddle and better with an adapted one but that was before he'd endured weeks of torture and lost the use of his right hand. Now he couldn't walk without limping.
Jon and Arya's horses were a short distance in front of them. Both could have been back by now but Tyrion knew he was the delay. Sansa was riding at a steady pace for him, and as thoughtful as she was it embarrassed him all the same. He shouldn't need to ride with the Queen or slow her down. Rationally, he knew he couldn't sit a horse alone in this state but riding with Sansa was splitting him in half. One part of him was drowning in shame for his weakness, but the other part of him was sicker. Tyrion had thought himself long departed from desire – a piece of him he killed with Shae - that wasn't the case.
Sansa's warm breath tickled the nape of his neck as her soft curves pressed against his back. Her arms reached around him to hold the reigns, holding him prisoner. Tyrion was almost grateful for the pain wracking his body, without it he'd have nothing to distract from the Queen's proximity.
Winterfell loomed in the distance, growing bigger with every yard they covered. A little longer, that was all he needed to hold out. If he was lucky the Starks would have no further need for him and he could excuse himself before anyone noticed the state of him. All thoughts of retaining a shred of dignity were torn from him as the horse stumbled. Tyrion lurched forwards as the horse fought to right itself. Sansa gasped, falling against his back. He glimpsed the problem as the horse regained control. It had stepped on a patch of ice obscuring a deep puddle. The ice had caved under the weight, unbalancing the horse.
The sudden jerk had a ripple effect. Tyrion's shoulder felt it first, starting with a spike of agony that ripped across his battered body.
"Ugh," he grunted, screwing his eyes shut. Nausea rolled through his stomach even as the horse resumed its previous pace.
Tyrion's body was giving up. Every muscle had turned to liquid at the last jolt and he felt himself tilting to one side. The landscape turned ahead of him.
"Tyrion!"
The vertigo lasted only a moment before Sansa's left arm wound around his waist, with her hand pressing against his chest to keep him upright against her.
"Are you alright?" she asked.
Heat stung the back of his eyes as he answered. "I'm fine."
"We're nearly home. Just a little further."
Tyrion said nothing, not trusting himself to speak. If he opened his mouth now there was every chance he would cry and he was ashamed enough already. Physically, his body was in pieces, torn between agony and the stirring in his groin. Sansa's arm wasn't helping matters. She'd slowed the horse even more, using only her right hand to grip the reins while her left held him in place. It shouldn't bother him – without her support he would fall – but this isn't how he wanted Sansa to see him.
Weak, pathetic and as excited as a green boy. Gods was this how far he'd fallen? Since he fled Kings Landing to Pentos desire had been lost to him. Daenerys was the closest he'd come to it but it had always been tempered by reality; she would never care for him as more than a friend, and in the end she hadn't even done that. A similar knowledge ruled his friendship with Sansa as well. Any man would be lucky to win her heart, but Tyrion had always known it wouldn't be him. That Sansa was willing to associate with him at all was a gift to be treasured and he would not let anything damage that. If Sansa had any idea what her closeness was doing to him she would surely be disgusted, and losing her friendship was a loss he wouldn't survive.
It took every inch of his focus but by the time the horse stopped inside the Winterfell gates Tyrion had gotten himself under control enough to avoid humiliating himself any further. Servants quickly took control of the horse, readying to help the Queen dismount.
"Ready?" asked Sansa, her voice soft.
He nodded, bracing for the coming humiliation. Whether it was out of kindness or a desire to not offend the Queen the servants were respectful when manhandling him. There was no way to dismount himself other than falling off the horse and it took only moments for two men to lift him from the saddle and set him down. As soon as their hands left him he staggered, his legs trembling at the strain of standing. All of him ached but his lower half felt as if Gregor Clegane had used him for training. Ghost padded around him but lingered only a moment before going to Jon. Tyrion's heart dropped – even the direwolf didn't want to associate with him.
Tyrion lurched away from the horse, managing the three steps it took to reach the castle wall. He leaned against it, struggling to remain standing. Glancing over his shoulder he saw Jon and Arya already deep in discussion a short distance away, but the sight was soon lost as Sansa appeared at his side.
Her mouth turned downwards. "You're in pain. I knew it was a bad idea."
"No, my Queen…" he swallowed, "I was happy to be of any help."
"You did help. I know it can't have been easy for you, but you did so well."
That was strange. It sure as hell hadn't felt like he did well or helped. All he'd done was slow them down.
Blue eyes watched him, brimming with concern. "Do you need the Maester?"
"I don't think so."
"You look pale and I know you're in pain. Please, let him check you over."
"That's not necessary…"
Sansa bit her lip, reaching out to take his arm. "Alright. Let's go inside then. Some rest will do you well, and I'll have food sent up for us."
It was so tempting to give in and accept Sansa's offer of comfort and care. Yet Tyrion found himself moving away from her touch.
"Thank you, but I won't intrude on the rest of your day. I'm sure you have better things to do."
Something twisted across the Queen's face but it passed too quickly for Tyrion to identify. "I can help you."
He forced a smile. "I'm quite alright."
As lies went it was thoroughly unconvincing – he could hardly stand up and his stomach was still churning as if he might be sick. Sansa would see straight through it and she did, though she decided to not push the issue.
The Queen straightened her back, folding her hands in front of her. "Very well. If you won't accept my help, you will accept Yvette's. One of the servants will fetch her and she will see you are well."
Tyrion bowed his head, recognising an order when he heard it. "As you wish."
Sansa's face was the neutral mask of a Queen but Tyrion thought there was something deeper hiding there too. The Queen was unfailingly kind to him and he appreciated every moment of it but letting himself enjoy it was a slippery slope. The return of desire was a sharp wake up call. Sansa Stark would never see him as more than a friend and the more attached he became the more it would hurt when she found a true husband. Besides, this wasn't how he wanted Sansa to see him. After the years of hell she endured she deserves someone who could look after her, not a cripple in constant need of help.
Yvette didn't understand it. As soon as she received the summons to the courtyard she hurried in that direction, only to meet the Queen in the corridor leading to the side door.
"Tyrion rode out with us to see Drogon and I fear it's taken a toll on him," said the Queen, her eyes downcast. "I offered him my help, but I think he'd be more comfortable with yours."
"Of course, your Grace."
"Just…keep an eye on him for me? Seeing Drogon was hard on him and I know he doesn't want my help but I worry."
Pride was the only reason Yvette could think of that would lead Tyrion away from the Queen, but it wasn't something she could understand. Surely he saw how much she cared for him? The Prince was in a bad state when she reached him. He'd moved away from the other Starks and was struggling to stand in the shadows of Winterfell. Getting him upstairs was difficult and when the door finally closed behind them he dropped all pretence of being fine.
In truth, there wasn't much Yvette could do for him. He refused to see the Maester, didn't want a bath with or without her help and despite the exhaustion on his face, he didn't want to sleep. In the end, Yvette had taken charge. Tyrion was the Queen's husband but since he surrendered his name and titles no one was entirely sure how to treat him. Yvette found it easiest to treat him as who he would likely be, and that was Prince consort, though she was careful to temper it. Tyrion didn't want to be treated like a lord and it gave her some confidence in taking charge. Besides, the Queen had asked her to keep an eye on him.
Yvette had helped him change out of his dirty clothes so he now sat in a fresh shift and breeches on the chaise. He wasn't hurt but the ride had strained his underused muscles and old injuries– she didn't need to be a Maester to know he would be sore for days to come. At her insistence, he'd had some soup to eat and had been lazing on the chaise since. There was nothing else Yvette could offer him but she was reluctant to leave him like this and he hadn't asked her to. The Prince often looked lost but more so when he was without the Queen.
"Sure you're not hurt m'lor-Tyrion?" asked Yvette.
He was lying on the chaise, staring at the ceiling and fiddling with the ring on his finger. "Only my pride."
"What hurt your pride?"
He paused, lifting his head slightly to see her. "You didn't know? I'm too weak to ride alone so I shared Sansa's horse."
"Many men would be pleased to do so, if I may say."
"Parts of me were," he muttered, low enough that Yvette thought she wasn't meant to hear it. He dropped his head back, continuing his staring. "I slowed them down."
"You're still getting your strength back. I doubt the Queen minded."
"Of course she didn't – none of them did."
"Then why is it bothering you?"
Yvette clamped her mouth shut worried she'd spoken out of turn, but Tyrion didn't seem to care. The Prince needed someone to talk to and Yvette was already here. If she'd left it was almost certain he wouldn't have sought company, and the thought made her sad – the Starks would welcome him if he let them.
"I don't want them to see me like this. I was weak enough before…now I'm completely useless. Sansa will think poorly of me."
"I doubt that." Yvette smiled, hoping to reassure him. "You talk about before but that was when you were Tyrion Lannister. He would be embarrassed, but that doesn't mean you have to be."
He scrunched his nose. "What do you mean?"
"Well, you're Tyrion Hill now, aren't you? Maybe he doesn't have to hold himself to Tyrion Lannisters expectations. Maybe he can accept help and know he's doing his best."
Yvette ducked her head when she finished, overly aware she was risking a lot by speaking so freely. Tyrion carried on his staring, but rather than defeated Yvette thought he looked contemplative. She hoped he understood. Queen Sansa wasn't waiting for the lord of Casterly Rock to return, she only wanted Tyrion to let her in.
"I think Tyrion is right," said Jon, "but what are we supposed to do about it? If there is some invisible force upsetting Drogon, how can we fight it?"
"If only we had a brother with a third eye," said Arya.
Jon paced back and forth, pausing now and then to look grim. Arya imagined it was how he'd looked at the Wall.
"It can't be a coincidence," said Jon. "If Bran knew something he would tell us."
"Would he?"
Jon ignored her. "What if it's affecting Bran too? That would explain why he's not replying to our letters."
"It would."
Arya wasn't a fan of puzzles, she much preferred the simple approach. It was likely Tyrion was right but that didn't bring them any closer to solving the problem. As far as she could see their only options were to wait for more information or hope Bran bothered to reply. Speculating was useless, and Tyrion had offered them the most likely scenarios. Perhaps Drogon had decided he didn't like the North or had remembered Jon killed his mother? Ghost could simply be picking up on the dragon's volatile mood and warning them.
"I'm going to talk with Tyrion," said Arya, tapping her fingers on the table. "It can't go on like this. Sansa could dance naked in front of him and he'd still be oblivious."
Jon paused his pacing, his mouth falling open. "Have you heard a word I've just said?"
"I heard you but it's the same conversation we've had for weeks."
"It's a problem we need to solve."
"I'm more focused on a problem we can solve. Honestly, Sansa was practically grinding against him on that horse and I bet he still thinks it's just friendship."
Jon shook his head, a bitter laugh falling from his lips. "I'm beginning to understand why uncle Benjen took the black."
Tyrion should have known better than to fall asleep on the chaise. He grunted, pushing himself upright as a second knock sounded on the door. Yvette had kept him company for a while but she'd had to return to her duties eventually and Tyrion was too tired to do anything else. He was well acquainted with how taxing horse riding could be, but the effects rarely set in unless you were travelling long distances or inexperienced. Tyrion had plenty of experience, but this morning might as well have been his first time. No matter how much time passed from Kings Landing his body still felt the effects of his imprisonment. His body was weak, unbalanced and ready to betray him at a moment's notice – it barely felt like his anymore. The damned tattoos made things worse. Avoiding them when getting dressed was difficult but he'd almost mastered the art of taking his shift on and off with his eyes closed. Now it was just lacing, clasps and cutlery he couldn't handle.
"Tyrion, it's me." Jon's voice drifted through the door, followed by another soft rap.
He lurched from the chaise, forcing his shaky legs onwards. It was late in the evening and he hadn't expected anyone to visit him for the rest of the day. Tyrion swallowed thickly as he reached for the door handle. No matter how many times he opened the door to a friendly face the memory of guards beating him in a cold, dark cell never left him. Instinctively, his body tensed as he opened the door.
"Hello," said Tyrion, inclining his head. "Sorry, I'm a bit slow."
Jon stared at him. "Did you just bow to me?"
"Um. Well, you are the Queen's brother…"
"Does Sansa ask you to call her Queen or bow to her?"
"No, she insists I don't."
"Does Arya?"
"She told me earlier to just use her name."
Jon's mouth twitched upwards as he shook his head. "Then why would you think I'd expect you to?"
Tyrion considered several responses to move past the awkwardness, but he thought the truth was the easiest. "You've all been so kind to me and I don't want to threaten that. I gave up my titles and family name – it seemed the way a bastard should address members of the house he serves."
"Do you think I used to treat Robb like that?" Jon laughed. "I'm sure lady Catelyn thought I should."
Heat crept up Tyrion's neck. "That's different – he was your brother."
Something passed through Jon's eyes but too quickly for Tyrion to name it. "Aye, it's not how brothers act. Am I disturbing you?"
"Not at all," said Tyrion, opening the door wider, "please come in. No Ghost?"
"He stayed with me for a while and then wandered off. I thought he'd come to you but one of the guards said he saw him going out. He's probably hunting."
Tyrion nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. It was unexpected but he'd come to rely on the wolf's presence – his chambers were emptier without him. Jon glanced at the chaise before choosing the armchair and Tyrion winced at the state he'd left it in. He was supposed to be serving the Starks but he'd spent most of the day wrapped in his blue blanket and lazing on the chaise.
"Don't even think about it," said Jon, following his gaze. "Not a word."
"I didn't mean to-"
"Tyrion, don't." Jon's face softened. "This is your room and whatever you think I can promise that no one expects you to serve us. Sansa brought you here to rest, not to work – Gods know you've done enough of that."
When Tyrion dropped onto the chaise he let himself relax. Jon was his friend, and it was the instincts Cersei had beaten into him that demanded he bow low; not what the Starks wanted. He caught the blanket in his good hand, letting the familiar material soothe him. It went against the sharp lessons of Kings Landing where he would be punished for any infraction or insubordination, but the rational part of him knew Cersei's game had never been fair and he'd have been punished whether he was good or not. The Starks weren't like that, and it was something he had to keep reminding himself.
"How are you?" asked Jon.
"I'm fine. A little stiff, perhaps."
"I know how difficult today must have been for you."
Tyrion shifted in his seat. "It was fine."
The lie was obvious but Jon nodded his acceptance. "I didn't get a chance to talk to you when we got back, but I wanted to thank you. The last thing I wanted was to ask any more of you, but you didn't hesitate to say yes."
"Oh. I'd like to be useful if I can. Anything I can do to help I will."
Jon smiled. "You do enough. Make sure you take it easy if only to stop Sansa worrying about you."
Tyrion's mind was split as they carried on talking. Half his focus was on Jon and the other half was contemplating the absurdity of it. There was something off about the way the Starks treated him – what had he done for Arya to insist he use her name, or for Jon to check in on him as one would a family member? Sansa was the biggest mystery of all. He certainly hadn't done anything to be worthy of her care or concern yet she continued to give it to him. The Starks gave him rather a lot and asked for nothing in return – it was an arrangement that warmed his heart as much as it baffled his mind.
"Have you spoken to Tyrion since?"
The old captain shook his head, staring at his half-eaten breakfast. "I haven't seen him and I think he prefers it that way."
Sansa chewed her lip. Since Tyrion surrendered his name and titles Godwin seemed to have lost all purpose. The man maintained control of the Lannister forces but it was obvious his heart was no longer in it. As sympathetic as she was to him Sansa couldn't deny her own satisfaction – Tyrion had pledged himself to her as his Queen. While she would have never asked him to bend the knee she appreciated the gesture and what it meant; he would stay in the North with her. Still, she tried to be diplomatic. The Lannister guards were stuck here until Bran accepted Tyrion's decision and she was well aware morale was low with Godwin's men.
"Would you like to talk to him? I know what he did caught you by surprise – it surprised me too – but I can arrange a meeting if you want to speak with him."
"Thank you, your Grace, but I don't think that's necessary. Tyrion has made it perfectly clear what he wants and as much as it disappoints me I can hardly blame him. What was done to him in Kings Landing would break any man."
"Tyrion isn't broken, he's healing."
Godwin lifted an eyebrow but didn't argue. "As you say. I heard he went riding yesterday."
"Yes, he managed quite well."
"The dragon didn't upset him?"
"I think his fascination with dragons is over but as I say, he managed quite well."
That was all she would say. Tyrion had hidden any discomfort quite well yesterday – only she knew the way he'd tensed at the sight of Drogon, or how his battered body had struggled to sit on the horse. Nobody else ever needed to know. Tyrion was her husband and she couldn't be prouder of him, even if she wished he'd accepted her help. By the time they dismounted, he'd been almost limp in her arms and her instincts had screamed to take care of him, but Tyrion had pulled away from her. It hurt but she understood. Sharing a horse was necessary but it hadn't helped his fragile confidence – Tyrion had refused her help out of pride. She'd seen the same look in his eyes during the long night; a vulnerability he'd once hid behind wit and wine but now struggled to conceal.
"Is there a clear successor in the Westerlands?" asked Sansa.
"No. House Lannister ruled through strength and fear, and Tyrion is the last of the main line – there will be a succession crisis."
Sansa didn't care at all what happened in the Westerlands. Godwin was a decent enough man though and offering him some company and a friendly ear was a small thing she could do. Tyrion might have given up his family name but Sansa would always see him as a lion – and he was all hers.
Bronn would have preferred to be alone. Slipping in and out of places was always easier as an individual, but he couldn't leave Varys behind either. The acting King's hand wasn't entirely useless and Bronn thought Bran would prefer he rescue him too – if the King was still alive. Bronn had been largely forgotten in the dungeons but Varys had been taken out several times for meetings with Daenerys Targaryen, who'd somehow been returned to life if you could call it that. The guards had implied Bran was dead but Varys didn't believe it was true. From the little he'd learned on these trips to see Daenerys things seemed to be spiralling out of lord Lydden's hands.
"Daenerys wants the iron throne, the other Queen…they both want revenge on the Starks."
"Other Queen?"
Varys shook his head. "I haven't seen her."
"It's not her, is it?"
"Don't speak of it. I don't believe King Bran is dead, and he must be warned. The Westerlands have turned to the lord of light."
It didn't take much imagination to guess who the second Queen was, and it only made Bronn more eager to escape - the bitch was crazy enough before she was killed.
"Ready?" asked Bronn, hovering at his cell door.
"I think so."
It was far from a perfect plan but it was the only chance they had. While Varys had been taken to be questioned by Daenerys Bronn had been left to languish in the cells, and he'd quickly learned the routine. Two guards brought them two meals a day, and there was another on the door at the end of the corridor. Some of the guards came and went quickly, but there were a couple of bastards who'd taken to mocking them and would regularly linger for close to ten minutes to do so. When Varys returned to his cell earlier on he'd brought a mixture of news.
Daenerys Targaryen was leaving for Dragonstone, taking a host of lord Lydden and Ser Harys men with her. Tonight a sacrifice would be made in her honour - with Bronn and Varys as the main attraction. Time was running out. The plan Bronn devised was clunky but it was their only chance. The two guards who brought them lunch left quickly, but the two who brought them dinner were the kind who lingered. It was a stroke of good fortune - after Bronn killed them it gave him and Varys more time.
"You did his head?" asked Bronn.
"Yes, I did," said Varys. "It's unfortunate he's not quite my size."
"Mine fits well enough."
The guise wouldn't work for long, but it was worth the extra few minutes. In his hours alone in the cell, Bronn had managed to fashion a small stone into a sharp weapon. It wasn't perfect, but when the guards opened his cell door to empty the piss bucket he'd slashed the first one's throat before he could utter an insult. The second was lazy and had grown complacent - he should have had his sword drawn before he went into the cell. Struggling to draw it in the cramped space was all the delay Bronn needed to kill him. He'd unlocked Varys' cell and they'd quickly got to work. Bronn dragged the darker haired guard into his cell and switched clothes with him, while Varys took the other man to his cell and quickly shaved his head. If anyone looked in on them before tonight the two bodies under the ragged blankets wearing their clothes might convince them, but Bronn planned to be long gone by then.
"Look more like a guard," said Bronn. "When we go out of here, put your visor down and keep your hand on that sword - at least look like you might use it."
Varys lifted his nose. "This man's uniform may smell repulsive and barely fit, but I've no desire to be sacrificed to the lord of light tonight. I will play my part."
"You're sure the dragon bitch has gone?"
"Yes, I heard them discussing an afternoon departure."
"Alright then." Bronn pulled his visor down, and checked the locked cell doors with the dead bodies in them before turning to the corridor. "Best get on with it then."
They had one chance to escape. If it failed, Bronn would rather die fighting than be burned alive tonight. He'd rather not die at all though, and rather hoped Bran Stark was still alive - the King owed him a fucking big castle after all this.
Life as a bastard was uneventful and remarkably unchanged from when he was Tyrion Lannister only a week ago. He'd made several suggestions of roles he might be suitable for but Sansa had refused all of them. For some reason, she didn't want him to be a guard, stable boy or to tidy the library.
Tyrion sighed, trudging along the corridors that led from the library to his chambers. It had been three days since he went horse riding and his body was still in rebellion. The day after was the worst. Sansa had visited him as she did every morning, and he was barely able to stand. He'd talked her out of calling the Maester and the achiness had gradually receded but the shame continued to linger. He wasn't that old that riding a horse should exhaust him – he was nowhere near that age. Fortunately, no one had asked him to go riding since, not that there would be much point seeing Drogon again. Tyrion had thought seeing the dragon would fill him with rage or loss, yet he'd felt very little for the creature that killed his brother. His interest in dragons was long gone but the anger he'd expected at seeing Drogon hadn't materialised either. Drogon might have carried out the act but it was under the instruction of Daenerys.
The thought of his former Queen stirred an unpleasant ache in his chest. They'd had a plan – he was to be rescued and take his place as hand when she ruled – he wasn't to be left at his sister's mercy for weeks. It would have been terrible enough if the rescue had been tried and failed, but knowing Daenerys had chosen to leave him was worse. It was a betrayal unlike any other. Well, almost. The only other person to betray him so badly was Shae.
Tyrion paused, tucking the book under his arm to rub his eyes with his free hand. Ghost had stopped visiting him the last few nights and Tyrion had found his sleep getting worse. Every night now he was assaulted by a curious blend of dreams and memories. Some were so real he was certain they were memories, but at the same time, they seemed to belong to someone else.
"I'll protect you Tyrion – I promise."
It was so clear. Tyrion remembered the tiny cell and the ragged blanket he'd wrapped himself in. He remembered the biting cold and constant ache that wracked his body. The voice was familiar – Tyrion was sure he knew it. Of all the dreams that plagued him, this was the most persistent, but the speaker was always hidden. Every other detail was burned into his memory. He heard the voice and saw a hand reaching toward him, but Tyrion could never quite decipher the other person, and this person featured rather a lot in his mind.
'You know who it is…' whispered his mind. 'Admit it.'
No, he couldn't do that. It couldn't be true and confirming that would serve no purpose. He continued along the corridor, taking a more scenic route to stretch his leg. With no duties to attend to life as a bastard was rather boring. Sansa visited him every morning but the rest of her day was taken up with her duties as Queen. As slow as his progress was, the more his endurance improved the more restless he became. Reading and drawing only went so far to distract him and as keen as he was to be of service Sansa hadn't approved any of his suggestions.
He wandered down the corridor, dawdling at the windows. There wasn't much to do in the upper corridors of Winterfell and the library was the furthest he usually went. It was certainly the safest option though – he hadn't missed the Northern lords watching as he bent the knee. Was giving up his name and titles enough for them to leave him be, or had he thrown away any protection he might have had? Tyrion scratched his beard, clearing the thought. He couldn't trust the Lannister army after all they'd done, and he'd have to hope his friendship with Sansa was enough to spare him any revenge from the Northerners. Maybe they would accept him now – they could bond over a mutual hatred of Lannisters.
His mind was drifting when footsteps caught his attention. He tensed out of reflex but relaxed somewhat when he saw Arya. The girl could be silent when she wanted, but of course – no one wanted to startle the cripple.
"My lady-I mean, Arya," he greeted, nodding his head.
"Tyrion." She sauntered towards him, lounging against the wall next to the window. "I went to your chambers but you weren't there. Since the only other place you go is the library I assumed you'd be somewhere in the corridors between but you surprised me. Decided on a detour?"
There was always something unsettling about Arya's scrutiny. Tyrion could never decide whether she was making conversation or a subtle threat. Automatically, his eyes found the ground. "Just thought I'd stretch my leg. I'll go back now."
"Why?"
"Oh. Well, I'm not really doing anything…"
"It's good to see you out of your room," said Arya, her gaze unmoving. "You're not busy?"
"No."
"Good. Follow me."
His chest tightened as he limped after Arya. She'd been nothing but pleasant to him since he came North but he couldn't forget how she'd been before Kings Landing. Arya was unpredictable, and while he'd once enjoyed that in people these days he preferred the familiar. Not knowing which actions would lead to punishment had created a peculiar anxiety he carried with him from Kings Landing. It was easier to be quiet and compliant than risk confrontation.
"Don't look so nervous," said Arya, slowing down for him to catch up. "I only want to have lunch with you."
"Oh."
"What did you think I wanted?"
"Impossible to say. You're not easy to read."
"You don't know, but you still thought it was bad." She nodded. "Alright then."
"I'm sorry-"
"Don't. It's not your fault you think like that. If I was in your position I probably would too."
Tyrion tried to ignore the dark thoughts, but curiosity was eating away at him. What did Arya want? He doubted it was his company. The question plagued him as they moved into the corridors surrounding the family rooms and towards Arya's chambers. He half hoped she'd change her mind, but Arya threw her door open without ceremony and Tyrion soon found it closing behind him.
"I know you don't eat a lot," she said, gesturing towards the table. Several dishes were already there – all simple foods he could eat with one hand. The planning was thoughtful but it only made Tyrion more suspicious. "Come on – I'm starving."
Most of the time Tyrion ate his meals alone, but if Sansa had a quieter day she'd sometimes have lunch with him. As understanding as she was, he always found it embarrassing to eat in front of her. He was painfully aware of only having one hand to use and it always soured his appetite. Tyrion thought he might prefer eating with Sansa – it was embarrassing but he knew she wouldn't mock him. Arya was an unknown factor.
As it turned out, Tyrion needn't have worried about Arya's scrutiny as he ate. The girl tore into her food like a starved wolf and barely spared him a glance. He followed her lead, albeit at a slower pace.
"So, Sansa says you've taken up drawing," said Arya, between mouthfuls.
"She thought it might help me learn to use my left hand."
"And?"
"My writing is poor but just about readable – it's probably a good thing I don't need to write anymore."
"Why? Are you never going to send a letter again?"
"Who would I write to?"
"Pod, Ser Davos, Bran, Varys. You got some letters from them, didn't you? Consider replying."
"Ah, yes, perhaps I should."
Arya tore off a chunk of bread, leaning back in her chair. "Why didn't you ask me for help? I'm left-handed."
"I never thought about it honestly…"
Lunch passed in a similar pattern. Arya would attack her food and pepper him with questions in between, asking about his drawing, Ghost and numerous mundane things. It was both the longest conversation he'd had with Arya and by far the most confusing. For the life of him, Tyrion couldn't work out why she wanted to speak to him at all. Whatever her reasons were, Arya showed no signs of slowing down and Tyrion knew he had no escape. There was nowhere else he needed to be and Arya knew it. Answering her questions was fraught with danger. What would happen if she didn't like his answers? No amount of rational thinking could banish the thought from his mind; the Starks wouldn't hurt him, but Arya was so unpredictable his heart thumped unevenly anyway.
Of all the Starks Arya was the most wolf-like, and Tyrion suspected he was the prey.