Chapter 25
Honestly, she wasn't going to kill him – Arya only wanted to talk. Was she so terrifying that having lunch with her made him anxious? Hill hadn't relaxed since she met him on the corridor and she was quickly running out of mundane questions to break the ice between them. He spent every morning with Sansa and her sister had never mentioned him being this nervous around her, leading Arya to believe she was the cause of his unease.
Tyrion had finished his food though Arya wasn't convinced he'd enjoyed it. How could he enjoy it when he was so tense? Arya tried to remind herself it wasn't Tyrion's fault. When she'd reached his cell in Kings Landing the guards who should have been loyal to him were beating him. She might not have cared much for Tyrion but listening to him sobbing alone in the cell had been bloody painful. How Sansa had managed to care for him through the trauma that followed was as much a testament to her love for him as it was to her strength. That was why this conversation needed to happen. Tyrion was improving and it was only fair she opened his eyes to what everyone but him could see.
They'd both finished eating and Arya wasn't blind to Tyrion's casual glances at the door. She'd done what she could to thaw the ice but it was time for her questions to get more pointed.
"So, did you ever think of an answer to my question?"
At once Tyrion tensed, shifting in his chair. "I'm sorry – which question are you referring to?"
"It was a little while ago," said Arya, "but I asked if you could remember who gave you that blue patchwork blanket."
"Oh…yes, I did think about it but the memory is rather hazy."
"And? Come on Tyrion, give me your best suggestions – you're not going to be sent to the dungeon for a wrong answer."
"I fear I've no sensible suggestion to offer."
Arya studied him, searching for what he wasn't saying. He looked nervous as hell but there was something more than that.
"How much do you remember of Kings Landing?" asked Arya. "After you were rescued, I mean."
She was keen to get Tyrion talking but Arya wasn't callous enough to question him on his time in captivity. She'd learned plenty from Qyburn's diary, and seen the jars containing pieces of him.
"I don't remember much," he said.
"Really? You were awake quite a lot. I sat with you once."
He flinched, his eyes widening. "Why would you sit with me? Why would anyone?"
'Because Sansa loves you, and that means I have to find a way to love you too,' thought Arya.
The insecurity lurking behind his words was poorly hidden and Arya knew she had to tread carefully. She could tell Tyrion everything but it wasn't her place to do that, and she was beginning to think he did remember, but whatever he recalled made him nervous.
"I sat with you to make sure you were ok. Do you think you were left alone in Kings Landing? Is that what you remember?"
Tyrion bit his lip, running his useless fingers over the direwolf ring on his left hand. Arya had often noticed his habit of fiddling with it and each time she wanted to laugh – Sansa had been so worried he'd be upset by the ring, yet he seemed to take comfort from it instead.
"I'm not entirely sure what I remember," said Tyrion, fixing his gaze at the table. "While I was Cersei's prisoner she and Qyburn…they took me to pieces. The first few days Qyburn tested various poisons on me. After that things got worse. I lost track of everything that was happening between the pain, but I do recall Qyburn studying me. The bastard…he was always making notes and I'm sure he was putting potions into the bit of water I was given. I tried to stop drinking it but the guards would force me to…"
"It's alright," said Arya, as he trailed off. Guilt swelled in her chest for pushing him. The last thing she wanted was to make him relive bad memories and doing so was taking a toll on him. "You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to. I'm not trying to force information from you Tyrion."
"No, it's fine. I just…maybe you can help…"
"Of course, I will."
He lowered his voice, keeping his head turned down. "I have dreams. Every night I see Kings Landing – sometimes the pain, sometimes the time after – I can't decide what's real and what isn't."
Arya nodded. "The potions you were given messed with your mind?"
"I saw so many things. Sometimes Daenerys was there to taunt me, sometimes I saw Sansa or Jamie." He swallowed. "Reality and nightmares twisted together. The things I see in my dreams – I don't know whether I can trust them or not."
Ah, that certainly changed the perspective. Arya had wondered how he could be so oblivious to Sansa's affection and have seemingly no memory of her care in Kings Landing. He might not have been himself then, but he'd been awake regularly and asked for her by name several times – some part of him must remember. Now the cause was clear and Arya could kick herself for not thinking of it. Qyburn's journal had kept records of all his experiments on Tyrion, but the physical horrors inflicted had overshadowed the other aspects. If Tyrion had suffered hallucinations in captivity it was only natural he would doubt his memories now.
"Alright," said Arya, settling more comfortably into her seat. "Let's make it a game. You have the memories and I don't want to make you relive them all, but you need to know what's true and what isn't, right?"
"I do. I can't think of any way past the confusion."
Arya nodded. "Ask me what you want, and I swear by all the Gods I'll tell you the truth."
"You said you sat with me in Kings Landing. Did anyone else?"
"I stayed with you once and Jon did a couple of times. Most of the time it was Sansa or Missandei. Maester Henly did too, but mostly at night. There was always someone with you. Grey Worm visited a couple of times with Missandei, I think."
His forehead creased. "I wasn't alone?"
"Never."
Questions danced on the tip of Arya's tongue but she was careful to control her curiosity. This was about giving Tyrion whatever clarification he needed. She'd brought him here to point him in Sansa's direction, but learning how his mind had been compromised had changed things. If she could help Tyrion untangle his memories he would surely remember Sansa, and it might be enough to make him see the truth.
"Who took me from the black cells?"
"I was there. So were Varys, Grey Worm and Podrick. You kept telling us to leave so Sansa went in to see you-"
"She held out her hand to me."
Arya hid a smile. "She did. You weren't yourself and you wouldn't let go of this ragged blanket you had. Grey Worm carried you out of there and we brought you straight to the Maesters."
She was more certain than ever that Tyrion remembered enough to realise the truth, but realising it and accepting it wasn't the same thing. If anything, Tyrion looked more confused than ever.
"Anything else?" she asked. "It must feel better knowing the truth."
"It does," he said, "I just don't want to ask the wrong questions."
"There are no wrong questions. I'm not a lady like Sansa, or as upright as Jon – you can say what you want to me."
He drew in a breath, lifting his wary eyes to meet hers. "There is one particular dream that keeps coming back. If I tell you…please don't mock me."
"Why would I mock you?"
"Because of what happens in the dream. I'm lying in a bed and I can't move. Someone is with me but I'm not sure who. The door opens…" he swallowed. "A Lannister guard comes into the room and lifts his sword over me. I'm trapped – I can't escape. Someone gets between us. I see the sword but then someone is on top of me…almost like they're shielding me…"
It took Arya a moment to realise why he was embarrassed and when she did her heart sank. "You don't believe anyone would get between you and a sword."
"Jamie might have, but he's dead."
Arya's throat grew unexpectedly tight. She might have been a lone wolf for years, but she'd never known loneliness as Tyrion had. Even in Essos she knew she still had family out there – people who would protect her if they could.
"Other people care about you too," said Arya, softening her tone. "You're not wrong either. Cersei tried to escape the black cells and some of the Lannister guards turned traitors. Bran had his suspicions and put things in place. Cersei was going to use the chaos of your death as cover but we were ready. A guard did go into your room to kill you and someone did throw themselves on top of you. I arrived in time to kill the two guards at your door and the one with the sword."
He nodded, lowering his eyes and beginning to fiddle with his ring again. His voice was quiet when he next spoke. "Who got between me and the sword?"
"I think you know the answer to that," said Arya, her mouth twitching up. "It's the same person who spent hours trailing around Kings Landing for the perfect blue blanket."
Why did Bran have to stay in Kings Landing? He might not be the brother she remembered but Sansa would much rather have him here than in Kings Landing. At least here she could keep an eye on him. His lack of letters had gone from typical of the three-eyed raven to increasingly worrying. The Queen sealed her letter to Brienne, resolving to finally send it. She'd held out as long as she could but the silence from Kings Landing was deafening. For weeks now there'd been no news from Bran, Varys or any of their allies.
For some reason, Arya had skipped having lunch with her but Jon had joined her instead and he'd agreed it was time to reach out to those close to Bran.
"You can't predict Bran, but he must know we'd be worried by now," said Jon.
"I've had a letter to Brienne ready for days but I don't want to go behind Bran for information."
"It's gone beyond that," said Jon, "send the letter and I'll write to Ser Davos too. Even if Bran won't reply you'd think Varys would."
Sansa stifled a yawn, watching the wax of her direwolf seal dry. It was only early afternoon but her sleepless nights were quickly catching up with her. It wasn't the image a Queen should portray – even Tyrion had noticed her tiredness. While he was still too anxious to mention it directly she'd quickly picked up the intention in his vague words and the concern behind it warmed her heart. Spending her mornings with him had quickly become her favourite part of the day and a selfish part of her wanted it to continue all day. There was no reason it couldn't. Tyrion was perfectly capable of assisting with her work and she valued no one's opinion more than his. By all accounts, he was growing restless of having nothing to do and Sansa knew in her heart she'd reject any role he suggested because there was only one role she could see him in.
An ache stirred in her chest at the thought of Tyrion. He was close but distant – within her grasp but slipping away. Telling him the truth of her heart tempted her constantly but the temptation was always followed by fear. No matter what she couldn't lose him, but if she didn't move forwards were they doomed to be stuck in this limbo forever?
She wished her mother was here, or her father. They would know what to do, even if they would likely disapprove of Tyrion.
Tyrion couldn't sleep, but that was hardly surprising. He spent his days doing very little and the more his body recovered the more his mind refused to rest. How could he possibly sleep after what he'd learned today? Lunch with Arya had been unexpected enough, but that paled in comparison to everything else.
From when he was rescued in Kings Landing he'd never been left alone. The images that lurked in the depths of his mind weren't hallucinations, but memories. Tyrion hadn't asked Arya everything – however amenable she'd seemed he couldn't share all the memories. The feel of someone holding him close and stroking his face; the glimpses of being washed and fed while totally helpless – it was too intimate to dare repeat. Even now when Arya had all but told him the truth he couldn't believe it; could Sansa Stark truly care for him?
The thought was laughable. She was a clever, formidable, beautiful woman who was loyal to those she loved. That Sansa offered him friendship was more than he could ever hope for, particularly after Kings Landing and their sham marriage.
He pushed himself out of bed, restless energy running through him. All afternoon he'd turned the conversation over in his mind, and while Arya had refrained from naming her sister as the one who got between him and the sword it was bloody obvious. So obvious it was surely force of will that had made him bury the information for weeks. Steadily, the haze was lifting from his memories and Tyrion couldn't help but wonder if he'd put it there in the first place.
Now it was clear. He saw the guard and the sword and felt the tight sheets holding him to the bed. He remembered someone throwing themselves on top of him, but now he recalled the soft, red hair that tickled his face and the three words whispered hurriedly into his ear.
Heat spread through Tyrion, stoking the flames of something long forgotten. Could it be true?
That was the question he contemplated when he slipped from his chambers and wandered the corridors late in the night. The first few times he'd taken a midnight stroll he'd feared every shadow as if it held a monster long dead, but gradually the anxiety had receded. Ghost would accompany him sometimes but the wolf had been strangely absent the last few days. Tyrion had thought he was with Jon, but Ghost was spending more time out of the castle. Nevertheless, Tyrion was comfortable enough in this part of the castle. Only Sansa's most trusted guards were stationed here and the Lannister guards weren't allowed near the family rooms. Only Godwin came up here and that was usually if he was with Sansa or Jon. He winced at the thought of the Lannister captain – he'd managed to avoid seeing him since he surrendered his name and titles but there was no telling how long his luck would hold out.
As he walked Tyrion paused to look out the windows, but if he'd hoped the eerie darkness of the Northern night would make sense of things he was badly mistaken. Every so often a Stark guard would pass him, uttering a greeting that sounded far too much like he was still a lord. Tyrion sighed, scratching his beard. No matter how hard he tried to disassociate himself from the Lannisters it didn't work. He could always see the confusion in the eyes of the few guards and servants he came into contact with. They knew he was no longer lord of Casterly Rock, but that only furthered their confusion.
By the time he turned back towards his chambers he was as confused as the servants about his place here. He'd thought it was a combination of pity and kindness that led Sansa to bring him here, and maintaining their marital status was a small request to save her from unwanted suitors. Yet, the more he thought about it Sansa's reasoning for both those things was always vague, he just hadn't noticed before. Sansa told him she brought him here to rest and recover but getting him here couldn't have been easy. The search for answers led only to more questions, and with each one, Tyrion realised how little attention he'd paid to the events that brought him here. Sansa had told him the basics when he first woke but he hadn't cared to learn more than that – he'd accepted everything and wallowed in his ignorance for weeks.
Tyrion's chambers were in the quieter part of the upstairs corridors; within the family rooms, but distant enough to give him space. Generally, Tyrion steered clear of the corridors where the Starks slept on his midnight walks. Not because he feared their anger, surprisingly, but because he didn't want to draw their concern. Winterfell was huge and most of the family rooms were empty. He knew Jon and Arya used their childhood bed chambers and both were tucked away in the east corridor. Jon had grown up as a bastard and Arya was a second daughter – Robb and Bran would have had the best rooms, followed by Sansa as the eldest daughter. Guilt churned in Tyrion's stomach as he considered his own room. It had taken him longer than it should have, but he'd eventually realised he had Robb Stark's old chambers. A room that had been meant for the future lord of Winterfell, and the childhood room of the first King in the North since Torren Stark. Sansa had told him repeatedly it was his room and he was free to make it his own, but it was only now her words held weight. No longer was her offer of a home a kind but empty gesture brought on by pity, but if his faltering memory was true…
He shook his head, pushing the thoughts aside as he turned back to what had been Robb Stark's room. As Queen in the North, Sansa had taken her parent's chambers and much like his own it was a quiet part of the castle. Tyrion was at least three corridors away from there when he heard the first scream. At once, his blood turned to ice. A moan followed, and then another scream.
Tyrion was already moving in that direction when his mind caught up with him. He limped as quickly as he could to find the source of the cries, even though he suspected where it was coming from. Sure enough, the cries grew louder the closer to Sansa's chambers he got. The sound echoed down the corridors and Tyrion half expected to see guards and servants rushing past him to find the source. Winterfell, however, remained still. Coldly indifferent to the blood-curdling screams coming from the Queen's rooms.
He slowed down as the door came into view. Two guards were stood by it – not doing anything. Tyrion swallowed thickly, hobbling towards them as another wail came from behind the closed door.
There were plenty of things he wanted to say to the guards, demanding to know why they were standing idly by when the Queen so clearly needed help. All he managed was a soft question that wouldn't startle a cat. "Is everything alright?"
The two men exchanged looks. "Aye, it's fine."
Sansa's voice drifted beyond the door. "No, no, NO! Please…"
Her words trailed off into a moan, stirring an unpleasant feeling in Tyrion's chest. "Is the Queen well?"
"She's fine," assured one of them. "Bad dreams is all."
Tyrion shuffled uncomfortably on the spot. His instincts were screaming to leave and get away from the guards, but tonight a different impulse was stronger than the ones Cersei had beaten into him. The guards were no threat to him, and he tried to remember that as he stepped closer.
"Has anyone checked on her?" he asked.
The guards shared another look and it occurred to Tyrion that this must be a regular occurrence. Most guards would panic if their Queen began screaming in the depths of the night, but these men – Sansa's most trusted - were stood like statues at her door.
The older of the two guards lowered his voice, glancing back at the door before continuing. "No one is to go in when the Queen has her nightmares, except lady Arya. We've sent for her but she ain't in her chambers and there's no way of knowing where she could be. The lady is impossible to find unless she wants to be."
"What happens if you can't find Arya?"
The other man grimaced. "We wait it out."
"You leave her in such distress?"
"Queen's orders," said the guard. "It's because of the Bolton bastard, you know. The Queen rarely lets anyone in her chambers, especially men."
"Aye," nodded the other. "She takes most visitors to her study instead."
"What about Jon?" asked Tyrion. "He's family."
The younger guard shrugged. "We suggested that once but the Queen doesn't want him to be called either. I don't understand it."
"It's pride," said the older guard. "These nights embarrass her…"
A picture began to form in Tyrion's mind, though it wasn't one he cared for. Sansa's chambers were in a quiet, lonely part of the castle where no one could hear her night terrors. Jon likely knew of them but wouldn't push his help on Sansa and Tyrion suspected he wouldn't know how to help. Arya was an odd choice of comfort but as the guards mentioned, Sansa was careful about letting men into her private space. How had he never noticed?
Realisation spread like fire through his body, chasing away the anxiety clinging to him. Sansa only let those she trusted into her chambers and he was one of them. How many times had Sansa opened her door and invited him in, while he'd been oblivious to his privileged position?
"I can check on her," said Tyrion, as Sansa's screams began to build in volume once more. He lifted his left hand across his chest, fiddling aimlessly with the clasps of his tunic. The ploy worked. Both men's eyes caught sight of the silver direwolf ring on his finger, prompting a whispered conversation between them.
Tyrion's voice may fail him these days but there were other ways to get what he wanted. The ring was stuck on his finger but the guards likely didn't know that. Sansa had told him to keep it – he might as well make use of it. What the guards knew didn't matter. The ring was a sign of Sansa's favour and a reminder he was technically her husband.
"Alright," said the older guard, wincing as the screams continued. "Queen Sansa told us to keep all servants and guards out, and Jon Snow knows not to try – she never mentioned you."
"Even if she takes our heads it'll be better than standing here being bloody useless," said the other man. "You think you can help her?"
"I can try," said Tyrion.
The guards stared at him a moment longer before stepping aside. There was no need to threaten him – he would never hurt Sansa and the guards didn't need to say they would be listening for him to know it was true. It occurred to Tyrion as he eased open the door that Sansa might not want him in here. Just because she'd invited him in here during the day on a few occasions didn't mean she'd want his help now.
His stomach lurched at the prospect of angering Sansa, but it was quickly drowned out by worry when he saw the state of her. Tugging the door closed, Tyrion hurried towards the bed where Sansa lay huddled beneath the rumpled sheets. The Queen was murmuring, twitching in her sleep as nightmares plagued her. A thin sheen of sweat clung to her brow, illuminated by the pale moonlight. Tyrion hovered beside the bed, certain that he wanted to be there but with no idea what to do now he was.
Sansa was half curled in a ball, trembling as half-formed words tumbled from her lips. His heart twisted at the sight of her. Sansa had done everything to make him comfortable in Winterfell, going as far as putting measures in place to ensure he ate and slept properly. He'd noticed Sansa's recent tiredness but other than asking her if she was well he'd done nothing to make sure she was.
He shuffled closer, leaning on the edge of the bed and dropping his head closer to hers. "Sansa, wake up."
That wouldn't do. His words had come out little more than a whisper, and Tyrion knew well how deeply nightmares could grip you. Waking Sansa up was the priority, but it needed to be done gently.
Sansa's muttering grew louder, turning to gasping sobs. "NO! Please…no…mother, father…"
"I'm sorry," said Tyrion, the words sticking in his throat. "They're not here, but I'm with you."
"Aarrgh." She gasped, screwing her eyes shut. "Not again. Ugh…no Ramsay."
Tyrion had never met the Bolton bastard, but at that moment he'd have gladly gone to whichever hell he ended up in to kill him. The fear in Sansa's voice betrayed the face she wore during the day. All day she stood proud as Queen in the North, and every night she was tormented by monsters.
He reached out with his left hand, brushing the tips of his fingers against her damp cheek. "Shh, you're safe Sansa."
"Ugh…Jon, Arya, Bran…"
"They're safe too. Everyone is fine."
The Queen trembled, her face tight. "No…Tyrion…"
The sound of his name triggered a response learned over a lifetime; he was a monster, like Ramsay, and he haunted her too. Of course he was. Their marriage was forced, and her family had been slaughtered by the Lannisters…
'No.'
His mind slammed to a stop as he fought for the truth and not what he feared was true. The conversation with Arya whispered in his ear, jabbing against his defences with irritating persistence. Sansa hadn't said his name with fear like she did the Bolton bastard, but with something else entirely.
Tyrion leaned further onto the bed, running his thumb across her cheek in soft circles. "Sansa, I'm here. Please, let me help you."
"Mmm…he's back. Not again…please…no more pain…please…"
"Never again," said Tyrion. Before he could think about it, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, echoing the comfort he was now certain she'd given to him in Kings Landing. "I won't ever hurt you Sansa, and I'll never let you be hurt either – I promise."
Several moments passed of murmuring and squirming, but the Queen's face slowly relaxed until watery blue eyes blinked at him.
"Tyrion?"
No amount of doubt could make him mistake her tone when she said his name, and if he was stupid enough to do so the beginnings of a smile on her face was impossible to miss.
Ser Davos wasn't sure what led him to the Godswood, but for the past few days, he'd felt drawn to it. Perhaps it was stress, although there was nothing to be stressed about as far as Westeros was concerned. They didn't know the King had been attacked and was lying unconscious in the Maester's rooms, or that the King's hand and Master of coin had gone to the Westerlands and not returned. No, that information was only for the privileged few. Along with him, the only others who knew were Brienne, Podrick, Samwell Tarly and the couple of Maesters assisting him. Were their nights as sleepless as his? Probably. Ser Brienne had looked half asleep in the morning meeting, and that was usually something reserved for Bronn.
The old knight tread carefully as he entered the stillness of the Godswood. The faith of the seven was enough for him, but he respected the old Gods too. Bran's power was enough to make a believer of any man and anything was better than the lord of light.
The Godswood in Kings Landing was rarely used by anyone other than Bran and Ser Davos felt a stranger in it now. He pushed the feeling aside, setting his sights on the Heart tree. He eased himself to the ground, his joints creaking at the movement. Ser Davos stared at the tree, searching for whatever force had drawn him here. Considering all the things he'd seen he half expected the tree to start talking, but the Heart tree remained solid – unmoved by his desperate desire for answers.
"I don't suppose you can sort Bran out? He's the three-eyed raven and he won't wake up."
Silence met his plea, but what had he really expected?
"There must be something we can do," said Ser Davos. "The longer this goes on the worse it'll get. Sooner or later people will wonder why they haven't seen the King."
Ser Davos rubbed his beard, weariness creeping through him. There was no point in staying here but Ser Davos lacked any desire to go back. The council were in tense agreement to follow Bran's wishes and not inform his family but it got harder every day. If Bran didn't wake, their best chance was for Varys and Bronn to return, but the chances of that grew smaller every day.
"Ah, it's a bloody mess!" he said, banging his fist against the ground. "Too many damned secrets. What's the point of having a council and telling them nothing?"
Ser Davos struggled to his feet, taking one last look at the Heart tree. Thinking he might find answers here was ridiculous – nothing more than a desperate hope that he could end the lies and be honest. What was the harm in the Starks knowing about the trouble with Bran's power or that Varys had heard whispers from the Westerlands? Tyrion was the lord of Casterly Rock – he should have been the first to hear.
Ser Davos shook his head. It wasn't for him to question the King and Bran had made it clear his family weren't to know of the trouble in the Westerlands. To tell them Bran had been attacked would raise too many questions they weren't allowed to answer, and the absence of Varys made it all the worse.
"I hope Bran knew what he was doing," muttered the knight, turning his back on the Godswood.
"Well, are you going to tell me about it or not?"
Sansa lifted her head from her work, glancing in her sister's direction. "About what?"
"You know. I'm surprised you've kept it to yourself this long."
"I have no idea what you are talking about."
Arya rolled her eyes, tilting back in her chair. "You had a nightmare last night."
"As I do most nights – you know why."
"Yes, and I'm usually the one that wakes you up. I was out on business last night-"
"Please tell me there are no bodies buried around Winterfell."
"Amusing, but no," said Arya. Her grey eyes were sharp and persistent – and Sansa knew there would be no stopping her sister's line of questioning. "I went to your chambers when I got back, knowing your nightmares are constant, only to find I wasn't needed."
Sansa turned back to her work, avoiding her sister's stare. "You sound disappointed."
"Only if you didn't seize the opportunity. Should I consider Tyrion my brother now-"
"You think we did that?" Sansa sat back in her chair, shaking her head. "No, Arya, nothing happened. Tyrion said he was wandering the corridors and heard my nightmares. He came to check I was ok."
"I know that, the guards told me when I got there. They weren't sure about letting him in, but since you hadn't explicitly banned him and he's technically Prince Consort they did." Arya could barely contain her grin. "Come on Sansa – I heard you both laughing through the door and the guards said he'd been in there at least an hour when I arrived. He spent the night, didn't he?"
"Of course not!"
"You fucked him and then sent him to his own bed?" She shrugged. "Whatever works for you I suppose."
Heat rushed to Sansa's face. She glanced around the room, making certain they were alone and then dropped her voice anyway. "I did not lie with Tyrion last night. He woke me up and then stayed a while to make sure I was alright. We sat on the chaise and talked, and then he left."
"You really didn't-"
"No! Seven hells Arya, I'm Queen in the North – I can't make decisions like that on a whim and the nightmares of my false husband raping me hardly set the mood for romance!"
At once, Arya deflated. "You want him though."
"Only if he wants me." A familiar ache stirred in Sansa's chest. "Tyrion is still recovering, and if I'd taken him into my bed last night he'd have truly become my husband. You know what I want, but marriage to me comes with a lot. I can't decide that in a moment. If I had, somehow, been in a romantic mood after reliving the feel of Ramsay's hands on me I couldn't just bed Tyrion without discussing what it meant. He would become lord of Winterfell and Prince Consort of the North – he'd take on the duties of those roles and share the responsibility with me of providing an heir."
"You're overthinking this. The only God is death Sansa. You can fuck Tyrion and not tell people – it doesn't have to become official."
Sansa's mouth fell open. "That would go against everything mother and father taught us about duty. My marriage to Tyrion is at a standstill now, but when we consummate it we will be bound to each other."
"So you are planning to consummate it, the only question is when."
Sansa sighed, pinching her nose. "You're impossible."
"You're not denying it. Come on, Tyrion is slow on the uptake but he must have given you something to work with."
It wasn't natural how one person could light up a room, and Tyrion would surely find it ridiculous, but Sansa thought it was his greatest skill. Nightmares haunted Sansa continuously, turning what should be her sanctuary into prison when night fell. The wheel of exhaustion and terror only got worse as it continued to turn, but Tyrion could break it. His deep, safe voice had drawn her from hell to the familiar comfort of his green eyes watching her. The sight of him had overcome her restraint for a moment, but Tyrion hadn't resisted as she fell on him sobbing. Stress, fear, exhaustion – it escaped in a way totally inappropriate for the Queen in the North but long overdue for Sansa Stark.
Tyrion had been nothing but kind to her, easily taking charge of the situation she couldn't. Sansa recalled bits and pieces of Tyrion guiding her from the bed to sit on the chaise, and she vaguely remembered the sweet taste of wine he'd insisted she drink for her nerves. Most of all, she remembered Tyrion. Her source of light who chased the shadows from the room and somehow made it feel homely again.
He'd sat next to her, simultaneously sure and doubting. Tyrion wanted to help her but he seemed to fear her rejection too. Was that how she looked to him? It was almost funny – did they both fear the same thing? Tyrion had made several offers to get her anything she needed or send for the Maester, but there was only one thing she needed and the lingering sensation of Ramsay's touch pushed her to ask for it.
"Stay with me," she asked, her throat tight and dry, "just for a little while."
"Of course I will."
It was hard to remember who closed the distance, but over an hour they ended up lying against each other. She leaned her head against his shoulder as his good hand rubbed her back. Tyrion didn't ask the details of her nightmares but set about distracting her from them instead. The talk was lighthearted and somehow Tyrion achieved the impossible – he made her laugh in a place she never thought she could. The day was different. Her bed chambers didn't hold her nightmares then, but in the night her horrors returned in full force, but not with Tyrion. His presence alone brightened the room, and it was an ability he was charmingly unaware of.
"I've finally found a role for me in your service," said Tyrion, his mouth quirking up.
"Oh?"
"I can do this. You know I struggle to sleep anyway – if you're plagued by bad dreams your guards can send for me and I'll see you are well."
Sansa's mouth turned upwards. "You are very good at this, but I'd hardly call it a role. I hope one day my nightmares will leave me."
"Oh…of course, I want that too. I never meant-"
Sansa laughed, tilting her head up and quickly kissing his cheek. "I know what you meant and I truly appreciate it."
Tyrion had given her so many things last night; safety, understanding and most of all, hope. He'd had no obligation to check on her, let alone wake her gently and then waste his night soothing her. Tyrion could have turned away, but instead, he'd turned to her and the genuine concern in his eyes had sent her heart racing. Perhaps her feelings weren't completely one-sided. Sansa found it hard to lean on people, but Tyrion made it so easy. Is she was ice he was fire, and his natural warmth had been so sorely missed when he left Winterfell.
"Well?" asked Arya, tapping her fingers impatiently. "Are you going to tell me what happened or not?"
"I told you," said Sansa, a smile tugging at her mouth, "we talked and then he left."
"Gods, you two are making this harder than it needs to be. Just tell him you love him for seven's sake!"
Perhaps it wasn't something she needed to say, or maybe it was wishful thinking, but Sansa was quite certain their actions last night had spoken louder than any words could.
Mirrors had never been flattering to him, but this was bloody cruel.
Tyrion squinted, trying to find himself in the mirror monster. Gods be good, it was a miracle he hadn't made Sansa's nightmares worse. Her dreams must be truly terrible if the sight of his face leaning next to her was a comfort.
'There's another explanation…' teased his mind, 'you know what it is.'
He swallowed thickly. It had been three days since he first woke Sansa from a nightmare and the same thing had happened last night, only this time he'd arrived at the same time as Arya.
"Oh, I'm sorry…" he said, stepping back from Arya and the guards. "I heard Sansa, I just wondered if she was alright."
Arya's grey eyes had watched him with a strange intensity. "Do you want to wake her up?"
"I'm happy to help her unless she'd prefer her sister's presence…" he started, but Arya was already walking past him.
"You can deal with it. You and Sansa might not like sleep but I'm rather fond of it."
Arya's departure had left him alone to help the Queen, and he'd once again roused Sansa and stayed with her until she was calm. As always, Sansa was unnecessarily grateful and embarrassed. She'd tried to apologise for the bother but there wasn't a chance he'd allow that – not now he'd found the missing piece of his memories.
What had once been blurred, unreliable memories were now crystal clear and Sansa Stark slipped into them easily. The disembodied voice soothing him was hers. The soft yet strong arms holding him close were Sansa's. Tyrion could remember it all, from the brush of long red hair tickling his face, to the kind blue eyes that held so many promises.
Tyrion's face grew warm, turning his reflection scarlet. Sansa had seen him at the absolute lowest point in his life, and if his memories were true she'd been far more than a friend visiting his bedside. She'd fed him by hand, soothed him when he was confused and afraid – shielded him with her own body when Cersei's men came to kill him.
'I love you.'
Three simple words. A secret, a promise – everything he could ever hope for and then some. It was impossible, but it was real. His mind could find a thousand ways to deny it, but somewhere deep within him knew the truth.
The newfound clarity was both a blessing and a curse. Knowing how Sansa felt had breathed life into an impossible dream. It was never a question of whether he loved Sansa, but the impossibility of her returning that had led him to cherish their friendship without hoping for more. He'd cared for Sansa when they first married but she was too young and rightly disgusted by the Lannisters. Meeting her again at Winterfell had been a different experience entirely. Sansa was an impressive woman; intelligent, fiercely loyal and beautiful. That she was able to look past their sham marriage and offer him friendship was more than he deserved, but for her to offer him love…
Tyrion shook his head, locking the thoughts away for now. He could hardly go and ask Sansa if she was in love with him. In his memories of Kings Landing, she'd been easily affectionate towards him, but now he was fully aware she was much more reserved. There'd been breaks in her resolve here and there – he still recalled her checking on him in the night and kissing his forehead – but she was wary now, and Tyrion well knew the reason. Fear of rejection had dogged him most of his life, and as a young man, it had left him unable to speak to girls until Tysha. After her…every piece of affection was paid for.
He turned his focus back to the mirror, searching for some hint of what Sansa saw in him. After several minutes of scrutiny, he came to the only conclusion he could.
Sansa was seriously unwell.
There could be no other reason why a young woman, a Queen no less, would desire him in any capacity. He was scrawny beyond belief, his hair was growing out a little but lacked anything that might resemble a style and his beard aged him at least ten years. Seven hells, he looked like he'd died and no one had bothered to tell him. He'd grown out his beard in Essos to try and hide his face and became used to its covering, but now he looked like a scruffy beggar. His once dark beard had turned prematurely grey, and it was uneven. The scar from Blackwater was as ugly as ever but a new scar cut across the bottom of it to his jaw leaving a noticeable gap in his beard.
The sight of his face was bad enough without adding his body to it. Even weeks on from Kings Landing he couldn't bear to look at the marks Cersei had let him with. The scar on his now useless hand haunted him enough without needing to see the one on his knee or the bloody tattoos that mocked him. His skin crawled at the thought of the marks and he tore his gaze from the mirror, stepping quickly away. The Winterfell household had only just stopped removing sharp objects from his chambers and Yvette had needed to check if he was allowed a mirror again. Looking at his reflection for too long never ended well.
Tyrion turned to his desk instead, planning to lose himself in drawing for a little while. As ridiculous as the activity seemed it did clear his mind. The situation with Sansa had been one-sided for so long and he had no idea how to proceed or whether he even should. Was it better to leave so Sansa could find someone worthy of her affection?
A deep ache settled in his chest at the thought. The clarity of Kings Landing had shed light on more than just Sansa's actions, it had laid bare how utterly weak he'd been left. He'd been fed, cleaned and cared for like a helpless infant and no matter how kindly Sansa had treated him the shame was enough to drown him. Sansa hadn't just glimpsed him naked on a couple of occasions, but if his memory was true he'd been in such a state for weeks. The only slither of hope he could salvage from the experience was that Sansa hadn't run away screaming – on the contrary, she'd held him and offered comfort without hesitation.
Tyrion focused on his drawing, hoping some solution would come to him in the solitude of his practice. That Sansa held all the pieces of him that were left to offer wasn't a question, but how or if they moved from this impasse was a different matter entirely.
There are some things you never forget. A certain smell, taste, a favourite sound – the memory always lingered somewhere in the back of your mind. The memory that stirred in Podrick was so old it took him a moment to place it, but when he did he was already moving. Since the attack on Bran, he and Brienne had made sure one of them was always positioned near the rooms where the King lay. Tonight it was Pod's turn and it was for the best – Brienne's senses might not be as sensitive to wildfire as his own.
The corridor was empty, but the scent of wildfire was unmistakable after you'd been so close to it. Pod drew his sword as he proceeded down the corridor. Since the King's condition was being kept secret it wouldn't do to have Kingsguards or senior guards constantly near the Maester's rooms. He and Brienne kept close to the corridors but not enough to draw suspicion – a feat that became harder the longer Bran was unconscious.
It was only as he moved further down the corridor did Pod notice just how dark it was. Not the usual darkness of the night, but somehow darker – sinister.
In the back of his mind a memory stirred, of a conversation with Brienne long ago about how she went into lady Catelyn Stark's service. If time was on his side it could have warned him of what lay in the shadows, but the darkness was all around him and no amount of time could save him.
"Podrick!"
He spun to face the voice and then froze. A half-formed creature stood amongst the shadows – and Bran Stark stood opposite it.
"Your grace, you're…" Pod trailed off, transfixed by the scene.
The shadow monster had a blade in its hand, but rather than hitting its intended target the blade was sunk deep into the chest of the King. The creature hissed, as if the sight of Bran pained him. Pod hesitated only a moment before lurching at the creature with his sword raised.
"NO!" said Bran, seemingly unbothered by the blade in his chest. "I'll handle this. I'm trapped Pod, find a way to bring me back. There are traitors in the castle, serving the lord of light-"
Bran was cut off by an all too familiar whoosh of flame. Green flames erupted outside the castle window as a blast shook the floors. Pod stumbled, righting himself in time to see Bran nod in his direction before dissolving into ravens. As Bran disappeared, so did the shadow monster.
"Your grace!" he called, as the ravens flew. The ravens weren't solid though, and dissolved into wisps of smoke moments later.
Pod could only stare. Flames were racing up the side of the castle, and frantic voices could be heard in the distance but that paled in comparison to what he'd just seen.
Shadow monster. Renly Baratheon. The King. An enemy.
Pod gripped his sword until it bit into his hand. There would be time for answers later, but right now Kings Landing was under attack.