Chapter 26
A thin smile played on the King's lips as he watched the attempts to stop the wildfire from spreading up the side of the Red Keep. The guards would put it out, but then destroying the Red Keep wasn't the point of the exercise.
Bran wandered closer. The only benefit of being stuck in this between world was his legs and he'd be damned if he didn't take advantage of them.
His attempts to rejoin his body had failed. Trying to make contact with his council had failed until it was too late. Ser Davos had felt the urge to go to the Godswood, oblivious to the fact it was Bran practically shouting in his ear to go there. A wasted effort ultimately. The three-eyed raven was strongest in the North and near the old Gods – he'd hoped the Godswood might be powerful enough to let him communicate with Ser Davos but it wasn't enough.
Tonight, Bran had learned of the attack that would take place and been utterly helpless to stop it. Podrick had sensed something was amiss, and in his investigation, he'd come face to face with a shadow demon sent to kill the King. Pod was clever enough – he'd walked unknowingly into the danger but realised quickly it was lethal, no doubt recalling Ser Brienne's tale of Renly Baratheon's death.
Bran didn't know why he did it, but stepping between Pod and his would-be killer had been a simple choice to make. Perhaps it was the three-eyed raven's choice. The power of the old Gods and the lord of light had met when the knife made contact with him, giving Bran a single moment of visibility. It was enough to warn Pod and let him know the King still lived, but it wasn't long enough to truly warn him.
The King watched the last of the flames sputter to a stop. The Red Keep was damaged and three guards had been killed in the initial blast but the real danger was yet to come. The small council had followed his wishes in keeping the North in the dark but that was no longer possible. Brienne, Davos, Samwell – they would surely tell his family now there'd been a second attempt on his life. Bran's death would have spread quickly through Westeros and while that had failed word of the attack would spread nevertheless. The fire in his chambers had hardly been noteworthy, particularly when they'd disguised his injured state, but the wildfire attack could be seen across Kings Landing, and sooner or later Sansa would learn of it.
Bran had thought nothing could be more frustrating than to have legs that no longer worked, but watching a game unfold without the ability to influence it was almost worse. Did lord Lydden realise what he was unleashing on Westeros, all for control of the Westerlands? The few traitors Bran had located spoke little of their plans, but he'd heard enough to know the Queens were coming. Robb Stark had fought the war of the Five Kings, and it was more certain than ever that Sansa would have to fight the war of Queens.
The routines of Winterfell had become as familiar to Godwin as the routines of Casterly Rock had once been. That was what made the sight before him all the more strange.
Tyrion looked a little better than when he last saw him. His gait was unsteady but improving and he no longer winced with every step, but it wasn't Tyrion's appearance that caught his attention so much as his location. As far as he was aware Tyrion had been outside of Winterfell only three times since arriving. Firstly, when Godwin tried to bring his lord to meet his men, secondly when he disowned himself and renounced his titles and thirdly when he rode out to Drogon with the Starks.
Godwin straightened his back, picking his way through the bustle of the courtyard to the side door his lord had emerged from.
"Lord Tyrion," he called.
A formal greeting was best – Queen Sansa had promised to tell him when she heard word from Kings Landing and so far there had been nothing. Until King Bran formally accepted Tyrion's surrender he was the lord of Casterly Rock whether he wanted to be or not.
His lord flinched, glancing warily over his shoulder. "Oh…hello."
Godwin strode forwards, pausing far enough away to give Tyrion space. "It is good to see you around the castle, my lord."
"I'm not your lord anymore."
"That may be your wish, but until King Bran gives his official acceptance you are lord."
He frowned, opening and closing his good hand. His discomfort was obvious but Godwin was no danger to him, however hard it was to believe.
"Why?" asked Tyrion, his voice low. "I thought the Lannisters would be pleased to be rid of me."
"We're hardly the Lannisters without you, my lord. You know as well as I you are the last of your blood."
"There are cousins in the Westerlands. The Lannisters were everywhere."
"They were, but years of war ravaged your family line. There are distant relatives, yes, but not with a strong enough claim to Casterly Rock – none to carry the lion. My lord, I implore you to reconsider. We can remain here as long as you like. We serve you."
"You didn't serve me in Kings Landing!" Green eyes blazed, giving Tyrion an unintended resemblance to his father. Godwin had seen the look often enough to know, though in Tyrion it quickly fell away to the anxiety that now dogged him.
"To my shame, you are correct," said Godwin, "but we do serve you now. Casterly Rock and the Lannister name is yours to do with as you like."
"I want nothing to do with the Lannisters. If Jamie was here you'd all treat me like shit in favour of him, and you did exactly that for my sweet sister. Your loyalty comes because you have no other options left."
Godwin stiffened. "I cannot speak for my men, but I do believe you are the best option and have been since you led the defense of Kings Landing. Ser Jamie was an excellent commander, but he had no interest in the politics in which you excel. I've known you since you were a boy – you were always your father's son."
"I am not like him; I will never be like him." Tyrion glanced up at his face, furrowing his brow. "You were just another of Tywin Lannister's men. Probably laughed at me like the other guards did."
"That isn't true-"
"Yes, it is." Tyrion's mouth turned down, bitterness sweeping his face. "The guards would be respectful to my face. They'd never dare to insult lord Tywin's son, but I used to hear them mocking me in the corners of the castle or when they were drunk behind the stables. My father, Cersei, the servants, the guards – they were always laughing at me. The only one who ever defended me was Jamie."
Godwin's face tightened. "Memories are funny things, my lord. Your childhood was hard and I cannot deny what you say, but our memories differ somewhat. You may remember me only as a faceless guard, but I remember a boy who wanted to ride like his brother."
"Jamie taught me to ride."
"He did but you struggled with the saddle."
"I designed one myself."
Godwin smiled. "When you were older you did, and it was a far cleverer design than the one I gave to Jamie when he started to teach you."
Tyrion's head jerked up. "You what?"
"It was an old saddle I adjusted so you could use it. Bloody crude compared to what you designed later on."
Tyrion swallowed. "Why are you telling me this? I'm not going to change my mind – I'm a Lannister no more."
"Then the Lannisters are dead," said Godwin. A bitter laugh escaped him. "I don't know why I'm telling you. Perhaps I don't want to be tarred with Lannister filth any more than you do. Yes, some of the guards would mock you and some would pity you. I admired you. Physical strength would never be yours but rather than wallow you turned to your mind instead – Jamie and Cersei were predictable, but never you."
"I…" Tyrion trailed off, looking increasingly uncomfortable.
"Apologies," said Godwin, inclining his head. "I've delayed you long enough my lord."
He turned on his heel, striding quickly away from the last of the Lannisters. Tyrion would not change his mind and Godwin's shame ran deep for those he'd served, but he'd tried to be honourable – to do the right thing. Tyrion didn't want his family's poisonous legacy and Godwin didn't want his mistakes to be his legacy. He'd thought serving Tyrion a chance for redemption but he couldn't serve a lord who didn't wish to be such.
Arya's senses were sensitive to the point of being painful. It gave her some sympathy for Bran and his three-eyed raven powers. Her training as a faceless man had left her overly aware of her surroundings, but none more so than when she engaged in water dancing. The heightened awareness was as natural to her as breathing. She was aware of everything – including her unexpected observer.
She spun in that direction, finishing her practice with a deft twist of her sword. Arya opened her eyes, confirming what she already knew. "Here to practice?"
Tyrion was several feet away from her and hovering uncertainly at the edge of the practice yard, but he still flinched at the sight of her thin sword. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you."
"You're not," she said. Arya lowered needle, returning it to her hip and resisting the urge to roll her eyes – she wasn't going to poke a hole in him.
He'd paused at the edge of the practice yard, leaning against the wall that lined the path from the main castle. Despite the frosty breeze, his face was red and the effort of getting down here appeared to have exhausted him.
"Do you need to sit down?" she asked.
He straightened up, his eyes narrowing. "I'm not an old man, for seven's sake!"
As soon as the words left his mouth his eyes flashed with panic. Arya snorted, wandering closer to where he stood. "I never said you were old. You look tired is all, and while I'm flattered you made the effort to come and see me it seems to have strained you."
"I'm too weak," he said.
"Then make yourself strong."
Tyrion shook his head. "It'll never be enough."
"Old, weak – why do you care all of a sudden?"
"I'm not old," he grumbled, staring at his feet.
"You're not weak either. If you were you'd still be in bed with Yvette playing wet nurse."
He winced. "Please don't remind me of that. The last few months have been an exercise in how much shame one person can endure."
"You're not responsible for what happened to you, only how you move past it. Besides, it was brave to trade yourself for Missandei."
"I wanted to impress her. Daenerys…" he swallowed, "she wasn't happy with me. It was her idea and I thought going along with it might win me some favour. I trusted her to come for me."
Training as a faceless man had sharpened Arya's mind as much as her senses and it was becoming obvious Tyrion was skirting around his true purpose. After weeks of sticking to the same places, it was surely something important for him to seek her out, particularly outside of the castle.
"Have you come to practice then, or are you just enjoying the show?"
Tyrion glanced around, dropping his voice even though they were alone. "Well…there was something I wanted to speak with you about – privately if possible."
"Alright then."
Arya waited, but with every passing minute, it became more obvious Tyrion wasn't going to voice his thoughts.
"Speaking involves words Tyrion," she said, "I can't read your mind."
He sighed, ruffling his hair. "Sorry. I just don't know where to start."
"I'm going to assume this discussion is about someone with red hair."
"Well, yes…"
If the god of death came to Arya, today might be the day. She'd tried to be patient and understanding but becoming the sounding board for both Sansa and Tyrion's romantic difficulties was a cruel fate. Was it really this hard for two people who obviously cared for each other to get it together? Arya was a faceless man, a girl with no name – not an expert in romance. While it was true that Jon ran his last lover through with his sword Arya still thought he was better suited to these discussions than her. Sadly, it wasn't to be – for reasons unknown Sansa and Tyrion had chosen her as their designated ear.
"I still can't read minds," said Arya, folding her arms. "Whatever it is, just say it."
Tyrion drew in a breath, struggling to find his words. "I remember more of it – every night I remember more of Kings Landing, and in every memory, I see the same person."
"Oh?"
"This person is always with me. She saw me at my absolute worst, in a way I never wanted this person to see me."
"This person you speak of has a name," said Arya. "Come on Tyrion, you can say it."
His voice wavered as he spoke. "It's true, isn't it? The memories are correct."
"If you remember Sansa at your bedside day and night, then yes, it's true." It felt good to say her sister's name and end the charade. Arya wasn't one for games like her sister and Tyrion enjoyed. They would dance around each other forever if left unchecked, but sometimes the blunt approach was needed to cut through all the shit.
Tyrion grimaced, his head falling forwards as if he'd heard bad news.
"What's wrong? Please don't tell me you were thinking of a different redhead…"
"How can I look Sansa in the face again?" he said, lifting his head up. To Arya's surprise, his green eyes glistened. "I was broken, weak and shamed beyond all meaning of the word. Do you know how many times I wanted to die in that hellhole? I wish I had – I never wanted anyone to see what became of me, least of all her."
"Why does it matter that Sansa saw you like that? She didn't run away screaming if that's what you're worried about – we couldn't get her away from you!"
"Sansa's friendship was the one thing I valued. She didn't look at me and see a disfigured dwarf or a Lannister – she saw me, and despite our sham marriage she still offered me friendship. It was pure and honest. She knows what they did to me now…"
Arya's face tightened. "She knows exactly what they did to you, and never once did Sansa's actions towards you waver."
"I don't deserve her friendship."
"If you really think Sansa called the banners and marched south for you out of friendship you don't deserve her at all."
His brow furrowed. "She didn't trust Daenerys, that's why she went South."
"She went south as soon as she heard what you'd done. Seven hells, you're supposed to be clever. Sansa never wanted the Iron Throne – she didn't care what happened in Kings Landing as long as the North and her family were safe. She didn't trust Daenerys but me and Jon were fine; she marched south when she knew you were in danger. When she left Kings Landing she had the two things she wanted most; Northern independence and you."
"I don't understand," he said, biting his lip. "Sansa is a Queen, she could have any man in Westeros."
"I'm not going to convince you Tyrion, I know you've seen the truth for yourself. Just know you're not the only one with insecurities." Arya moved to pass him, pausing when he spoke.
"Sansa deserves so much more than me."
"She knows who she wants, and she saves a seat for him at dinner every night."
Pain flashed across Tyrion's face but Arya was already moving. The truth was damned obvious and it wasn't her job to convince Tyrion of it. He knew the truth now, and what he did with it was up to him.
Leaving the Westerlands should have been a relief. Jeyne might have celebrated getting away from her father and his plots if she wasn't currently engaged in one. It would be easy to pretend she was simply a powerful noblewoman travelling in a wheelhouse with a small army of guards at her command. Unfortunately, reality was stronger than dreams. The guards were here to protect her, but they were also here to keep her like a prisoner. No matter how she pleaded her father wouldn't budge from his position. She would be wed and give birth to sons. It was the path expected of highborn ladies.
A shudder ran through Jeyne. She'd expected to marry and have children, but not with him.
The wheelhouse trundled along, leading Jeyne away from the Westerlands and towards the North where her soon-to-be husband awaited. Bile burned the back of her throat at the thought of Tyrion Lannister – of all the lords in Westeros why him? If anything it showed exactly what she meant to her father, that he'd trade his only daughter to the imp.
Jeyne shuffled along her seat, peering out the window. They still had a long way to travel but Jeyne could see no means of escape and her father had withheld his plan from her.
"What if he's recovered? He won't want me over Sansa Stark!" said Jeyne. "Please, father…"
"Enough! It doesn't matter what Lannister wants and you needn't concern yourself with it. My men know their orders. We need Lannister to be seen in Casterly Rock enough to cement his place as lord and so there are no doubts of who your children's father is. He will be ours to use and he will comply one way or another."
"You can't do this!" said Jeyne, tears spilling down her face. "He's disgusting, I don't want his children-"
"What you want doesn't matter. Play your part and act the loving wife – seduce him, dote on him in public. My men will ensure he complies. We can't afford for there to be any doubt. We have great support but there are too many still in the shadows, too many loyal to house Lannister who might rally to him if he calls. It's unfortunate we don't know more about his current state. With any luck, he's not recovered his wits and will be docile enough to use. If not," he shrugged, "there are ways to compel him."
It wasn't fair. Her father was staging this to look romantic, to plant the idea that Tyrion Lannister chose her as his wife, but it couldn't be further from the truth. Tyrion knew nothing and was as much a victim of this plot as she was, though Jeyne had little sympathy with him. As far as she was concerned he could stay North with the Stark woman and she could marry the son of lord - who always smiled at her so sweetly.
The wheelhouse rolled to a stop and a rap on the door soon followed.
"Everything well m'lady?" asked the captain, peering through the door.
Jeyne nodded, content to wallow in her misery.
"The Queen wishes to stop for the night. We will continue at first light."
The door closed and the wheelhouse suddenly felt colder. At least they weren't travelling in the same one. Jeyne had yet to see the Queen herself but the rumours were enough to haunt her sleep. Why did she have to come too? This was bad enough without her around.
Yet it was another thing her father had insisted on.
"One Queen wants the Iron Throne, the other simply wants revenge. They may have been enemies in life, but death has narrowed their focus. This time their goals can co-exist."
"Along with yours," she grumbled.
"Yes, with ours. The Westerlands will be ours and when Daenerys takes her throne we will have been her most loyal supporters."
"The other Queen…"
He grimaced. "That's another matter. Revenge consumes her more now than it did in life and it's best we are not on the receiving end of that."
Jeyne Lydden didn't care for either Queen or their goals. All that bothered her was her own fate, and if her father had his way it would see her become the lady of Casterly Rock.
The Godswood was a place of peace and solitude – it had been her father's favourite place to think and while Sansa's faith in Gods had long ago faded the Godswood still reminded her of him. It made the incessant chatter of lord Ronnel Stout all the more irritating. They were in the early days of Northern independence and that meant Winterfell hosted an ever-changing roster of lords. A few, such as lord Manderly were useful, and their presence at Winterfell was necessary. Several other key lords and ladies had returned to their own keeps weeks ago and it had opened the floodgates for petty lords to descend on her, all to pledge their fealty and offer their aid in person.
Sansa struggled to not roll her eyes. Almost every petty lord who travelled here was young, unmarried and useless. Of course, Sansa was polite to all of them. They were her bannermen or the sons of her bannermen – a good relationship was necessary and she thought she endured their doomed attempts at seduction with grace, but it was a grace Ronnel Stout was testing.
The lord was in charge of a small keep near Barrowton and in honour of his family's service during the years of war lady Dustin had granted him more land and raised his station, though it was hardly high enough for the young man to think he stood a chance with the Queen.
Not that logic would stop lord Stout. He was young and broad-shouldered, standing slightly taller than herself with neatly trimmed hair and a moustache that looked as if he trimmed each hair individually. It was the kind of grooming Sansa might have found attractive as a girl, but now it made the man seem a green boy and reminded her too much of Loras Tyrell. Ah, her knight of flowers who'd looked so perfect but had no interest in her, and was ultimately a pretty face lacking in wit.
As soon as the thought crossed her mind another face came to her; one that it had taken too long for Sansa to find perfect
"I hunted a stag in trees like this," said lord Stout, pointing to a grouping off to their left. "Took it down with a single arrow, and then slit its throat with my knife."
"How impressive," said Sansa, smiling politely. Why did all the young lords who tried to win her heart do so with blood and violence.? Hunting was part of life in the North, but Sansa found there was little glory in death.
They circled the Godswood twice with Sansa murmuring often enough to satisfy lord Stout as he listed his many achievements since becoming lord – if such things could be considered achievements. Many of the things he mentioned were the bare minimum expected of any lord and if nothing else it gave Sansa the impression Ronnel Stout had been allowed to grow up without learning duty. His father had passed in the long night, leaving his son in control of his keep. Lady Dustin's gift had rightly honoured the old lord Stout, but it was an honour that the new lord Stout was too immature for.
Lord Stout stopped and Sansa paused beside him. They were near the entrance of the Godswood and she was more than ready to find an excuse to leave. The role of Queen demanded she appeases her bannermen and forges good relations, but her tolerance only stretched so far. Few of the older lords pushed the issue of marriage and heirs to her, but few of them had sons to offer and despite her efforts to disguise the truth they could plainly see where her heart lay.
Trees rustled around them in the breeze and for a moment Sansa enjoyed the silence, though it was over far too soon.
"Winterfell is a fine castle," said the lord.
"It is," she nodded, "steeped in the history of the North."
"A castle like this demands strength to rule it."
At once Sansa stiffened. "Strength isn't always physical my lord."
He laughed. "I mean you no offence your Grace – you are Queen in the North – but you need strength beside you. A strong hand to take charge of Winterfell whilst you rule as Queen. A consort you can lean on-"
"You believe you're strong enough?"
Lord Stout closed the distance between them. "I know I am."
His large hands gripped her upper arms, holding her in place as his stale breath wafted around her face. "You need a man at your side to guide you, give you children, lead the North with you. I'd make you a good husband."
"I'm already married." Sansa's chest tightened as fought to control her breathing. "Let go."
"Your marriage isn't real to the imp. It's time you had a real man."
Lord Stout was convinced of his own importance. Sansa had thought it nothing more than irritating as they strolled through the Godswood, but now it had taken a darker turn. She could see it in his eyes – he thought this was a game, that no woman could really refuse his charm.
Sansa's heart thrummed as ice slipped down her back. Trapped, again. No longer a Queen but soon to be a victim. Would this man be a Joffrey or a Ramsay?
He grinned as Sansa froze, stepping closer to her. Bile burned the back of her throat.
"Your Grace!"
The voice washed over Sansa like the sun. She turned in that direction, finding Tyrion hovering at the edge of the Godswood. He stepped towards them, his eyes locked on lord Stout.
"Sorry I'm late, your Grace," he said, glancing sideways at her. "I know you expected me here earlier."
He held his arm towards her and Sansa stepped back, breaking lord Stout's grasp easily. That was strange – moments ago it had felt like iron, but she broke it easily now. She quickly took Tyrion's offered arm, putting some distance between her and the now scowling lord.
"We weren't finished," he said.
"You are now," said Tyrion.
Heat ignited in Sansa's chest, melting her fear to nothing. Tyrion was here; she was safe. It occurred to her only now the moment had passed that lord Stout was oafish and forward, but he wasn't Ramsay or Joffrey. Before her experiences in Kings Landing she might have found his arrogance charming, but now it triggered her worst memories. Sansa knew better now, knew that she wanted a man who was brave and gentle and strong. It was a criteria no one matched more perfectly than Tyrion, who had the courage to intervene on her behalf despite the trauma that surely ran as deeply for him as it did for her. His gaze never faltered as he stared down the younger lord and Sansa knew enough of his gentleness.
'I love you,' she thought, fierce pride rising in her as she squeezed his arm.
Lord Stout looked thoroughly confused as he stared at Tyrion, but the young lord was the first to back down. In a matter of moments, he'd changed in Sansa's mind from a monster to an oblivious green boy too sure of his own charm. A smile tugged at Sansa's mouth – that was the difference between boys and real men, and she knew exactly which one she wanted as her husband.
"Did you have something to say to our Queen?" asked Tyrion. "I'm sure you're not wasting her time for nothing."
"What? Uh-no, I was…"
"Thank you for this afternoon, my lord," said Sansa, struggling to contain a smile, "but I'm sure you appreciate I have another engagement. I trust you can find your way back from here."
The young lord didn't seem to understand what had happened. In his mind, things had surely been going well until Tyrion appeared, and Sansa didn't doubt he was oblivious to how his forwardness had stirred her worst fears. Nevertheless, the dismissal registered with him eventually and he gave a half bow towards her before lumbering away.
"Are you alright?" asked Tyrion, turning towards her. When facing lord Stout his gaze hadn't faltered, but now worry was creeping back in. "I didn't mean to disturb you, but I was passing the Godswood and heard the end of your conversation. I only wanted to check you were alright, and well, you looked uncomfortable."
"I was," said Sansa, "thank you Tyrion."
"I want you to be happy, and I'll never stand in the way of that."
Sansa's heart twisted. Did he think she'd been here with lord Stout because she desired him? That couldn't be further from the truth.
"The lords who come here seek my hand and I won't give it to them. I entertain them because they are my bannermen but some won't take the hint that I've no interest in them."
"A great loss for them but you cannot blame them for trying."
"I'm sure they all desire the Queen in the North," she said, bitterness tinging her words. "They desire the power my position holds."
"Then they're great fools."
"Oh?"
Tyrion nodded, his mouth twitching up. "Don't misunderstand me, I'm a great admirer of the Queen in the North, but I've always preferred Sansa Stark. The Queen is merely a face in the game of thrones but Sansa Stark is a very real thing in a world of pretenders."
"Not many people see that," said Sansa, her throat tightening. "They don't look beyond the surface."
"Few people do, but there's always hope that someone will."
"A hope worth holding onto."
"It is," he said, his green eyes piercing hers, "but it's terrifying too. You have to hope they like what they find beneath the surface."
Sansa was aware of everything, from Tyrion's arm in hers to the soft rustle of leaves in the trees, but mostly she was aware of her heart thrumming in her chest, stirring her deepest held desires.
"Trust," she breathed, "you have to trust they won't turn away from you."
"Or break what's been broken too many times before."
It was impossible to say who'd moved, but somehow they were facing each other, and Sansa was still clinging to his arm as if he might slip away from her at any moment.
"Hope and trust," she said softly. "It sounds so simple."
"It isn't."
Two fragile hearts that had seen the worst of humanity, both held prisoner by the circumstances that had shaped them. It wasn't enough for one to move, the space could only be bridged by two. Moving as one was both familiar yet new.
When Sansa met him halfway it didn't matter who moved first – they were in sync now and it was more glorious than any childhood dream had ever been.
"What do you know?" asked Jon, watching the direwolf.
Ghost's eyes were locked on Drogon and Jon was more convinced than ever that his friend saw something the rest of them couldn't. The wolf's return to Winterfell was strange enough without considering his fixation with Drogon. Ghost had largely ignored Jon in favour of Tyrion, but by all accounts he was now ignoring both of them and spending his time in the Wolfswood, making his appearance all the more unusual. Jon had been halfway to Drogon when he noticed the direwolf running behind him.
"Aarrgh!" Drogon screeched, whipping his head from side to side.
Drogon's behaviour had continued in this fashion for weeks without obvious cause. The dragon would stalk back and forth, shoot flames in the sky and pound the ground as if he was in agony – but none of them knew why. Tyrion had been his best hope of an answer and while Jon thought the dragon may well reject him as a rider over his mother's death it didn't quite fit the behaviour either. If Drogon truly rejected him why would he stay here? There'd been no issue between them in Kings Landing or while travelling North. The problem began when Ghost appeared and his old friend seemed to know exactly what the issue was if only he could communicate it.
Jon crouched next to Ghost, running a hand through his shaggy white fur. "What do you see, Ghost?
Red eyes turned to him, almost accusing him of knowing the answer. What the answer was, Jon had no idea. He could barely get close to Drogon lately, let alone ride him. At times the dragon was calm and as he had been on their travels here but the rest of the time something came over him, turning Drogon into a dangerous, unpredictable weapon.
The time to go North would soon be upon him, but Jon was increasingly concerned about Drogon. He couldn't leave the dragon behind but would Drogon follow him either? He hadn't tried to ride the dragon since his bouts of moodiness increased but he couldn't put it off indefinitely.
"There has to be a reason," said Jon, "but it's lost on me. The only other person who could give me advice is Bran and he seems to have forgotten we exist."
Ghost remained silent, watching the dragon with a bizarre intensity.
Jon rubbed his friend's head, straightening up. "We never should have left Winterfell. Everything went wrong after that."
There was still time to turn back. Maybe he should think about it and come back tomorrow if it still seemed a good idea.
Tyrion locked his limbs, forcing himself to remain still.
No, he couldn't put this off again. It had taken two days of thinking for him to make it down here – if he backed out now he might never return. Besides, this wasn't for him it was for Sansa.
The last two days had passed in a haze. Arya's bluntness in the practice yard had finally put an end to his excuses; he couldn't refuse to see the truth anymore, no matter how he struggled to believe it. Accepting that his memories were true and what that meant was already drowning him when he made his way back to the castle, but the sound of Sansa's voice had quickly broken through the gathering clouds.
"Let go."
It was pure chance he was passing close to the entrance of the Godswood, born out of a desire to avoid Godwin and the Lannister guards. The Queen hadn't shouted, but in the stillness of the Godswood she hadn't needed to and Tyrion had easily picked out the fear lurking beneath the two words. Going to her was never a question, and seeing her stood rigidly in the stupid lord's grip had ignited a fire in him he thought long extinguished. He'd only meant to check on her, but things had taken an unexpected turn to say the least.
Heat rose to his cheeks at the memory of the Godswood and what they'd shared. Sansa's kiss hadn't been a brief brush of gratitude or satisfying a curious urge – it had thrummed with desire and something he didn't dare to name. When they finally broke apart neither had known how to address it, so they didn't. Sansa held his arm and they left the Godswood together, falling into casual conversation as if nothing had happened between them.
It was a foolish notion. Something had changed between them and Tyrion suspected it had changed a long time ago, but like a fool, he'd been too self-consumed to notice. And there was Sansa – sweet, reserved Sansa – a Queen who feared a monster's rejection.
It all seemed so clear now, how had he missed it before? In his memories Sansa had doted on him, going far beyond the expectations of friendship to give him comfort and care. Not once in his memory did Sansa hesitate, but then she'd thought him oblivious. His heart twisted at the thought. If he hadn't pieced his memories together would she have ever told him the truth, or would her…kindness be forgotten by him?
Tyrion inched forwards, sticking close to the wall. It went far beyond kindness and while he would never understand what Sansa saw in him he'd have to be a blind fool to not lose his heart to her. Ignorance was no longer an excuse for him – he knew the truth and he had to act on it. That meant either joining Sansa in this new territory or cutting ties so she could move on without him.
'I love you.'
It was a terrifying concept. How any woman could love him was a miracle but for it be Sansa Stark…
He swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing his feet forwards. Sansa feared rejection, from him of all people – it was enough for him to do this. He could meet Sansa halfway, and if she still wanted him then maybe they could cross that bridge together, but it was time for him to make an effort. Sansa had let her heart take over when she thought it was safe to do so – he needed to show her it was always safe with him, and she need never fear his rejection.
Still, his stomach twisted at what was to come. He was lingering at the back of the room but already he was drawing curious looks.
'For you, I'll try,' he thought. 'I'll never be the man you deserve and I have no idea what you want from me, but I'll try my best Sansa, I promise.'
He was woefully inadequate for Sansa and the Gods only knew what she saw in him, but for her, he would try to be better, even if that meant he had to stop hiding.
Tyrion had spent enough time in Winterfell to know it well, yet he'd never found his way to this room. Dark, damp and the air heavy with sweat – it was the last place he wanted to be. He edged forwards for a better look, keeping to the shadows as well as he could. The room had the unfortunate similarity to a dungeon. Men ranging from the young to the old lined up against the right side, leaning against the wall as they waited for their turn. In the middle of the room, a man stood behind a stool, hacking at the bedraggled brown hair of the old man in the seat. From what Tyrion had seen, few words passed between whichever man took the chair and the hulking form of the barber before the shearing began. Like everything else in the North, he wasted no time or words and got straight to the point.
Tyrion's problem was twofold. The thought of the barber cutting his hair away made him physically sick – a mundane thing that would have never bothered him before his walk of shame through Kings Landing. Every night he relived the hands grabbing him as his clothes and hair were stripped away to nothing, leaving him exposed to the vultures of that horrid place. The second problem was arguably worse and not one he'd considered until he stepped in here. Every man was naked to the waist, in what appeared to be a requirement of service. Why it was necessary Tyrion had no idea, but from his observations, it appeared to be tradition and no one valued tradition more than the Northerners.
As he watched, the old man dropped a coin into the barber's hand and moved off so the next man could take their place. Tyrion's stomach rolled as the cycle repeated - he couldn't do it. Arya's words had lingered in his mind ever since their conversation in the practice yard, and one piece, in particular, wouldn't leave him be; Sansa saved a seat for him every night.
Did the Queen really keep a place for him at her table? Arya had no reason to lie and there was no way he could ask Sansa – if it wasn't true he would look pathetic. Of course, Sansa had invited him to dinner many times and often reminded him he was always welcome to join her and the lords in the Great Hall, but he'd never considered doing so. Hiding in the shadows suited him better. The Northerners could pretend he didn't exist and Tyrion needn't fear retribution.
"Are you waiting?"
Tyrion flinched at the voice, automatically lowering his head. He corrected the response as quickly as he could but shame burned through him all the same. It was a boy who'd spoken to him. Tall and gangly, with a boyish face and light brown hair. Some fuzz pretending to be a beard spread across his face but its unevenness only reinforced his youth – not that Tyrion was one to judge on uneven appearances. A couple of the men had glanced around at the voice but passed no comment on Tyrion's presence, though he'd been watching long enough to be considered a lurker.
The boy was watching him and Tyrion's mind began a frantic battle to decide. Could he go through with this? Tyrion wasn't convinced but his feet had other ideas, leading him along the wall until he was at the end of the line. There were four men in front of him and the boy quickly fell in behind him, effectively trapping him. Escape was still possible but it would be humiliating now he'd joined the line – his lurking was bad enough.
A bead of sweat trickled down his back, despite the chill in the air. Winterfell was warm, though this room seemed to be the exception and Tyrion had to wonder if it was by design – another test of manhood.
"Do you always come here?" asked the boy, seemingly oblivious to the silent atmosphere.
Tyrion shook his head. "No…I've never been."
"You're a lord, don't you have servants?"
His stomach lurched at the question but there was no malice behind it. One sweep of the boy's face and Tyrion knew it was pure curiosity.
"I'm a bastard. I surrendered my name and titles."
"Oh…" His brow furrowed and Tyrion couldn't blame him for being confused – he was the best-kept bastard in Westeros and other than his title there was almost no change to when he was a lord.
That was why he had to do this. He wasn't a lord anymore, and if he wanted to look half presentable for Sansa this was the only way. If his hand wasn't ruined he could have cut his own beard but he daren't try with his left hand and the Winterfell household was still wary of leaving blades around him anyway. Maester Wolkan could do it but his experience of Qyburn had made him wary of all Maesters, and while Yvette would help him it didn't seem right. He'd renounced his name and titles and no bastard would have servants to cater to his every need the way he did. He'd chosen this path and it was time he actually experienced it, even if the Queen and Winterfell household continued to treat him as a lord.
The next man went to the seat and Tyrion found himself edging closer to his turn. He turned to the boy, fighting the urge to fidget.
"Have you been here before?" asked Tyrion, lowering his voice.
"No, my mother always cut my hair," he said, frowning, "but there's a girl I like and I want to look good for her.
"Ah, there's normally a woman involved."
A grin broke across his face. "I've liked her for a while but I need to get her attention. Figured if I tidied up a bit it would help."
"Are you taking her somewhere?"
"Yeron is the best but he costs coin – I only just saved up enough for this," he said. "Maybe I'll ask her to go on an evening walk or something. I think she'd like that, right? It's not the most romantic but by the time I save up again I'll end up back here!"
Eagerness overtook the boy's voice as he spoke of his plans and Tyrion could hardly hide a smile. As different as they were, their reasons for being here were almost identical.
"Aren't you gonna get ready?" asked the boy. He easily stripped off the top half of his clothes, shaking out his shaggy hair.
A pang of jealousy shot through him at the boy's physique – free of the blemishes that marked his own and remarkedly more normal.
"I don't look like you," said Tyrion, a sour taste filling his mouth. "Is it necessary?"
"From what I've heard its tradition. My friend says he came once and one man wouldn't do it so Yeron refused him and he got laughed out of here."
Perfect, that was exactly what he needed. If he left now he'd be humiliated and if Yeron refused him he'd be humiliated – whichever way he looked at it he was doomed and his actions would reflect back on Sansa. As long as their marriage stood; as long as he was her guest at Winterfell whatever he did would bring judgement on the Queen.
Tyrion was so caught up in his thoughts he didn't realise the man in front of him was in the chair and he was now next. Behind the boy, several new men had joined the line – all stripped off and waiting.
Tyrion's blood drained to his boots as his heart struggled to keep to a rhythm.
'Twisted little freak.'
'Monster.'
'Disgusting imp.'
The jeers and laughter of Kings Landing rang in his ears until his skin crawled. It was too much. Pushing the memories aside was only ever temporary. He'd never forget the street and the laughter and the hands that had violated him.
"Um, are you alright?" asked the boy.
Tyrion could only nod, not trusting himself to speak.
The boy shuffled closer, dropping his voice. "Don't think about the rest of us. What made you want to come down here anyway?"
"The same as you," he whispered.
"There's a girl you like?"
"A Queen."
Understanding dawned on the boy's face. "Bloody hell, no wonder you're nervous!"
Gods be good, had this boy been living under a rock? How many dwarfs did he usually see in Winterfell? He knew enough to recognise him as a lord but somehow forgot he was Queen Sansa's guest and legal husband. Unless the boy actually thought there was another woman who would look twice at him.
"Who's next?"
The barber's gruff voice cut through his thoughts and Tyrion realised the chair was empty and he was holding up the line. Yeron's dark eyes bore into him, full of challenge. Tyrion swallowed thickly. He was technically the Queen's husband and Tyrion suspected Yeron would break his policy to serve him rather than risk offending the Queen, but if Tyrion forced him into that position he would separate himself from the other men indefinitely. Whether he called himself a bastard or not would no longer matter – he'd be a pampered lord pretending to be otherwise.
He fumbled for the clasps of his doublet. It was a small mercy that undoing the clasps was easier than fastening them, a feat he still couldn't manage alone. He shrugged out of his doublet as soon as his left hand finished with the last clasp and turned his attention to his shift before he could think better of it.
The air was cool against his skin as he exposed his upper half and Tyrion was excruciatingly aware of every eye on him. The clothes dropped from his shaking hand and he hurried towards the seat before he could change his mind, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.
'They won't hurt you,' he reminded himself, 'they won't risk offending Sansa.'
It was the only hope he had. Relying on Sansa's protection once again was shameful, but it was better than the fear – a single strand of hope he had to cling to.
The stool was high enough to be awkward to climb on, made all the more challenging by his injuries. It had been months since Kings Landing, yet he was still inexcusably tired and weak. Tyrion chewed his lip. If he made it out of here alive he'd have to find a way around his injuries. This couldn't be as good as it was going to get for him. He'd come here to shed his old man look but it would take more than tidying his appearance to do that.
Yeron stepped in front of him as his good hand gripped the edge of the seat. From the corner of his eyes, he glimpsed the boy and the other men. All were staring at him – of course they were – but it wasn't with the cruelty he expected.
He had no doubt his body was a spectacle but he suspected it was the tattoos drawing the most attention. They were a sight rarely seen in Westeros except on fools, and he'd been a bloody great fool to trust Daenerys Targaryen.
Yeron was staring at him too, but his voice was far softer than his stony face indicated. "What'll it be?"
The boy had got over his shock and Tyrion could see him nodding his shaggy head encouragingly. Still, the familiarity of the situation was hard to move past no matter how different the circumstances.
"Dinner," said Tyrion, forcing his voice to work. "The Queen."
Tyrion winced as soon as he said it; that was hardly instructions - but his mind was ripped in two between why he was here and memories of Kings Landing. Before he could consider offering more guidance Yeron nodded, lifting the knife to his face.
What happened next was something of a blur. Tyrion was aware of what was happening but was oddly detached from it. The scraping at his face sent his stomach into knots but he had to cling to his reason. If he was going to attempt dinner in the great hall he couldn't embarrass Sansa, even if he was a bastard now. The man in the mirror had never been who Tyrion wanted to see, but his reflection since Kings Landing was a complete stranger. He looked like a homeless beggar – that Sansa had the stomach to kiss him in such a state was a testament to her fortitude, to say the least. Hair fell into his lap as Yeron shaved his beard away, and irritation flickered through him at the sight of the grey hair. He was not that old. Asking Wolkan might have been easier but he preferred to avoid Maesters and the library had given him enough information to make the connection between his grey beard and Kings Landing – trauma could have such effects. It was fortunate the colour change hadn't extended to his hair.
Nerves were a strange thing too. In his anxiety, his mind was speeding up. Thoughts ran through his mind to the point he didn't realise Yeron had finished shaving his beard until he felt a hand from behind pushing his head forwards. His blood ran cold as soon as he felt the knife run through the back of his hair.
Shit, he should have given proper instructions. It had taken months for his hair to grow to this meagre length and it would be gone in a matter of minutes. He should speak up, put an end to this now – but his voice simply wouldn't obey him. Cersei had taught him to take his punishment in silence and in doing so he'd lost the ability to speak for himself. Tyrion tilted forwards as if to step down from the stool, hoping Yeron would take the hint. The man's hand tightened at the top of his head.
"Keep still," he muttered, continuing his work. "Won't take long."
Tyrion screwed his eyes shut as the blade did its work. Yeron tilted his head to whatever angle was needed and Tyrion didn't try and resist – it was too late for that.
It took him a moment to realise hair had stopped falling onto his shoulders and he peeled his eyes open to see Yeron watching him. The older man's face seemed to be a permanent scowl but his eyes held no resentment for who his customer was, or who he had once been. There was a peculiar amount of pity there, however. Was it better to be pitied than hated?
"Wouldn't go any shorter, if I were you," grunted Yeron. "Women tend to like it if you've got it."
Tyrion uncurled his hand from the edge of the seat, wincing at the effort. His hand trembled and sitting in the chair had felt as taxing as being in battle, but he'd survived – with some hair intact. He blinked, slowly coming back to reality. The boy was grinning at him and the other men had clearly had their fill of gawping at his body and were merely leaning against the wall waiting for their turn.
Sliding from the chair, Tyrion's legs wobbled beneath him but it was entirely his fault for being so tense in the chair.
He glanced up at Yeron, finding his voice. "Thank you."
The older man nodded and moved off to ready his tools for his next customer. It took Tyrion a few moments to adjust to the reality where he hadn't been beaten or mocked, and when he did he quickly realised he'd forgot something.
Tyrion grabbed his discarded clothes, fumbling in the pocket for his coin.
"Your payment," said Tyrion, his voice shakier than it should be.
Yeron took one look at the coin and shook his head. "No charge for the Queen's…friend."
He placed the coin on the stool, tilting his head towards the waiting line. "For the boy then."
A rumble that may have been a laugh escaped Yeron. "Aye, alright then. Get over here boy, I've not got all day!"
The young man's eyes brightened as he bounced over to the stool, and Tyrion struggled to pull his clothes on. The shift was easy enough but he'd have to make do with the doublet hanging open for now. Without help, he'd be here all day fiddling with the clasps and he'd lingered here long enough.
"Thank you!" said the boy, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
Tyrion winced but offered him a smile. "Take your girl somewhere nice."
"I will." He grinned, lowering his voice. "Good luck with your girl."
It would take more than luck with Sansa Stark, but Tyrion forced himself to think of only one thing at a time. It was dinner in the great hall – if he could make it through that, maybe then he could consider the next step forwards.
"Are we in agreement?" asked Samwell.
Ser Davos was the first to add his voice, and while he'd long argued for this he didn't seem happy about it. "Aye, something has to be done. Jon wrote to me asking about Bran."
"Sansa wrote to me," said Brienne. "I promised I'd protect her family."
"There's nothing more we can do. The Starks will learn the truth sooner or later and it's better it comes from us."
"We tried to follow the King's orders," said Brienne. The lady knight was slumped in her seat, defeat lying heavily across her features. "He didn't want the North to know his suspicions of the Westerlands or the problems of his power, but I agree things are too far gone. With the King incapacitated and lord Varys missing in the Westerlands we've no choice – we need the Starks."
"Ser Bronn is missing too," added Podrick.
"Yes, how unfortunate."
"Jon and Sansa won't be happy we waited this long," said Samwell, twisting the sleeve of his Maester robes. "That's to say nothing of Arya Stark."
"It's past time they knew. Tyrion should have been told before now – he's the warden of the West," said Ser Davos.
Brienne shook her head. "We don't even know what condition he's in."
"It doesn't matter, he should have been told his bannermen are plotting-"
"We don't know that – we know barely anything!"
Sam shuffled awkwardly in his seat. "We know that King Bran has been attacked twice now, and his family have a right to know."
The conversation went on without progress. They'd already written the letter to Queen Sansa and decided to send it, their argument now was a combination of habit and tiredness.
Bran stood behind his empty seat, taking in the tired faces of his council. The game of thrones was unforgiving. The three-eyed raven had thought himself a player, but his choices had led them to this mess. The only correct choice he'd made was letting Sansa take Tyrion North. If the lord of Casterly Rock had been taken to his home all hope would be lost, but with any luck, Tyrion was healing enough to take his place and restore order in the Westerlands. As long as a Lannister lived no other house could take complete control of the West. The destruction of the Reynes and Castameres was still remembered and Tyrion was lord Tywin's son – many would think twice before rebelling if he had recovered enough to lead.
The King grimaced as his gaze fell on the letter. He couldn't re-join his body nor could he give his council instruction. If he could he'd warn them to write a different letter. The first attempt to kill him had failed but Bran knew the second attempt had a different intention. The wildfire had burned for hours but Bran had been safe enough in the Maester's room. It wasn't his death they wanted in particular, but the reaction it would provoke and the letter was exactly that.
His mind wandered to the increasing stack of letters written to him. Letters addressed to Varys had been opened by the council – it was customary for most merchants and petitioners to write to the King's Hand – the letters to him had remained unopened, however. Nearly all bore the direwolf seal and Bran wished his council would read them if only so he could read over their shoulder. He hoped his family were writing with good news. They would need to be at full strength for what was coming.