Chapter 27
Yvette hurried through the castle, each step echoing down the corridors. It had been a normal day until just after lunch when she'd gone to the kitchens for her next appointment and found a mystery instead.
"He asked for you to go to his chambers as soon as possible," said Erik.
"Did he say why?"
"No, but he asked if we had any wine and took a flagon with him."
So many questions, and no answers that made sense. Erik had seemed relieved that Tyrion had come and gone – no one was eager for him to attempt being a servant again – but that only made his behaviour stranger. Tyrion's fondness for wine was well known but as far as she knew he'd drank very little since being brought to Winterfell, and only with Queen Sansa.
Yvette slowed her steps as she approached his door, knocking tentatively.
"Enter."
She eased the door open, quickly finding Tyrion. The Prince sat slumped in the armchair, a cup in his hand. That wasn't the most surprising aspect of his appearance though, and Yvette's face gave away her shock.
"Do I look that bad?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow.
"Not at all, just wasn't expecting it."
A hundred questions ran through Yvette's mind as she took in his now bare face, shorn of the uneven grey beard he'd seemed oblivious to for the past few weeks. His hair was shorter too. The back and sides were very short but the top was long enough for his golden hair to form ruffled curls. Yvette knew him well enough now to know he missed his longer hair, which in his words 'hid his face' but the new style suited him well enough and looked far better on him than his growing hair had. This look might not be what he wanted but it was a choice, rather than another lingering effect of his imprisonment.
"You saw Yeron," said Yvette. It wasn't a question. Tyrion hadn't the ability to do it himself and she doubted he'd gone to the Maester.
"I did," he said, lifting his cup, "hence the wine. It was a rather trying affair."
A few months ago Yvette wouldn't have dared voice her thoughts to a lord, let alone a Prince, but she'd found Tyrion preferred if she did. The Winterfell household treated him at worst like a lord and at best like a Prince in waiting, but Yvette had learned through experience that Tyrion really wanted someone to treat him like a friend. Someone to listen to him and offer opinions – someone he could be honest with. Yvette wasn't sure why he'd chosen her as such, but she could guess why he confided in her and not the Starks. He shared much with the Queen but he also wanted her to see him in a certain way, and the same could be said of Jon and Arya. With Yvette, he needn't fear any loss of face or that his words might be used against him. Tyrion tried hard to fit in with the Starks and to give them no reason to turn against him, even if everyone else could see that wouldn't happen.
Regardless of his reasons, Yvette had a certain fondness for the Prince and enjoyed the dynamic she shared with him – whether it was offering advice or nudging him in the right direction.
"It suits you well if I might say so," said Yvette.
He hummed, finishing his cup in a single gulp. "Well enough to go to dinner?"
Yvette stared. "You're going to dinner?"
"Well, I was…" he dropped his head forwards, staring into his cup. "That was the idea."
A smile broke across Yvette's face. "A good idea. The Queen will be thrilled."
"I'd settle for not angry."
"She won't be angry," said Yvette, shaking her head. "Is that why you asked me here?"
"If I'm going to dinner, I suppose I should try and look presentable." He lifted his eyes to her and Yvette saw all his fear staring back. "I thought maybe you could help with that."
"It would be my pleasure." Yvette closed the distance between them in a few short steps. Tyrion had placed his empty cup on the table in front of him and was reaching for the flagon when she beat him to it.
"What?" he said, pouting. "That's my liquid courage – the only kind I'll ever have."
"You don't need it, and you've plenty of courage."
"You didn't see my lurking in Yeron's rooms. I'd rather not tell you how long I watched before going through with it."
"Aye, but that doesn't matter. That you went there at all, that you're going to dinner – that's what matters."
"It's not enough," he said, lowering his voice, "Sansa…she deserves so much more."
Yvette's heart twisted for him and his struggle, but she couldn't let him wallow in it either. She set the wine away from him and clapped her hands. "Come now. Dinner is soon and you need to be ready."
"You really think Sansa will want me there?"
"She will," promised Yvette.
Perhaps, when Tyrion went to dinner, he might see for himself that there is nowhere else the Queen would rather he be.
A lifetime had passed since he was last in the Great Hall. It was impossible to believe only a few months ago he'd sat in there as Hand to Daenerys Targaryen, plotting a defence against the white walkers and how to take the Iron Throne.
Sometimes Tyrion thought it was a dream. He could hardly remember what it was like to be that man and he could only wonder at how he'd sat through meetings with so many people, let alone voiced his thoughts and ideas.
Tyrion slowed his steps as the door came into view. He was late enough that he was probably the last here, and the rest of Sansa's guests would already be in place. What if there was no seat for him? Arya had never liked him, perhaps this was a plot to humiliate him? No, the Starks weren't like that. Still, it was always possible there were no spare seats. What in the seven hells would he do then?
'Don't mind me, your Grace, I simply got lost on my way to bed. Oh, my appearance? I always sleep in the finest clothes I can find and I'm not sure what happened to my beard now that you mention it…'
Gods, he'd look ridiculous. Tyrion fiddled with the edge of his doublet, rubbing the thick material between the fingers of his working hand. Yet another thing he'd taken for granted. Since waking in Winterfell he hadn't questioned the brand new clothes that filled his draws but simply pulled some out every day to begin the struggle of getting dressed. In preparing for dinner Yvette had pulled out several fine options, simultaneously exposing how little attention he'd paid these past months. All of the clothes were tailored to fit him and were high quality. A small number tucked away in one draw, were red and gold with lions threaded around the cuffs and collar.
A lump formed in his throat at the discovery. If he'd wanted to be lord Lannister Sansa had made it easy enough. The rest of the clothes were more traditional Northern colours of grey, black and blue with some gold and silver detail sewn into them, but to his relief no lions. Yvette had dressed him in a few options until they settled on a dark navy one with some gold trim. In truth, Yvette had liked them all and gone far beyond her duties as a servant in easing his anxieties - the problem was him. Whichever way he looked in the mirror he saw something he didn't like. If not for Yvette's perseverance he'd have talked himself out of this hours ago.
Tyrion hovered in the corridor near the side entrance, grasping for some final shred of courage to carry him into the room, and finding nothing. The day had bled him dry of any fortitude he might still have.
Fear could be just as motivating, however. The sound of a boot, men's voices – Lannister red and gold. All it took was a glimpse of the three young guards rounding the corner for Tyrion to lurch towards the entrance.
"Is that…"
Tyrion didn't hear the rest as he disappeared into the Great Hall. Part of him was ashamed – the men likely hadn't noticed him until he hurried in here and they probably meant him no harm, but overriding his impulse was impossible in the moment.
That was a problem for another day. Now he'd stepped from the frying pan and into the fire. The great hall was quiet, with a few servants milling back and forth to tidy. A few groups comprised of minor lords and merchants cluttered the tables, but it was the head table that drew his attention. Sansa sat in her father's place at the middle of the table with the rest of the seats occupied by Jon, Arya, lord Manderly and several others he couldn't name.
All of the seats were taken bar one, and his mouth went dry when he realised which. Surely Arya hadn't meant that seat? He'd spent most of the afternoon debating whether Sansa kept a seat for him at all, let alone the seat at her right hand. It had to be a mistake. Perhaps there was a young, handsome lord sitting there who'd gone to take a piss.
"Tyrion!"
Sansa's voice drifted through the room and all eyes turned to him. He barely paid attention to that, however, all he could focus on was Sansa. A smile was quickly covering the surprise on the Queen's face and her blue eyes were bright as she watched him. Her gaze flicked from him to the chair beside her. His chest tightened – Sansa knew what he needed without asking – she always did. In a single gesture, she'd swept aside any doubt of who the chair was for and invited him to take it.
Tyrion found his feet moving before his mind was convinced. He glanced at Arya seated at the far end of the table, and the younger Stark nodded approvingly as he made his way to them. Jon and Arya were both spaced out around the table and Jon was talking to an older lord on his left while Arya sat at the other end, content to listen to the conversations around her.
The few steps up the raised platform were troublesome but Tyrion couldn't decide whether it was from his injuries or just from nerves. He kept his head low as he reached the table, moving as quickly and quietly as possible to the empty chair.
"Your Grace," he greeted, bowing his head before glancing at the rest of the guests. "My lords, my ladies."
"Please join us," said Sansa, erasing any lingering doubt he was wanted here.
Tyrion slid onto the seat before he could change his mind and felt Sansa's arm brush his a moment later. Several of the lords were watching him but all murmured some greeting before returning to their previous conversations.
"Tyrion," said lord Manderly, drawing his attention. The lord of White Harbour was large enough to straddle two seats and in his place across from them managed to block half the hall from view. "It's good to see you – I was beginning to think you'd fled the castle!"
He laughed at his joke and Tyrion forced himself to smile too. Somewhere, buried beneath the uncertainty that clouded him, Tyrion's mind was straining to work. Knowledge was power, and he'd learned all about the Northern lords before he came here with Daenerys. What each of them had, what they wanted, how to move them to do what he wanted – it was a game he'd once thrived at, but now his enthusiasm was tempered with doubt.
"I fear you aren't so fortunate my lord," said Tyrion. Sansa's fingers found his beneath the table, squeezing gently. She was wearing the mask of Queen of in the North now, but Sansa Stark still sought to reassure him. "The North has been most kind to me."
"A pile of horse shit would be kinder than Kings Landing," grunted an older man further along. He inclined his head towards the Queen. "Pardon your Grace."
"It's a strange place," agreed lord Manderly. "You look well Tyrion, better than when I last saw you and infinitely better than when you were at White Harbour."
He was at White Harbour? It would make sense if they'd travelled here by boat. Why hadn't he considered the journey North before now?
"I'm sorry my lord, but I don't recall visiting White Harbour."
"I'd be amazed if you did. You should come and see White Harbour though – the sea breeze will do you well. I hope our Queen might visit again, in better circumstances than the last time."
"I should like to see White Harbour again," said Sansa, "perhaps when the North is more settled in its independence and trade is flowing."
"Of course, your Grace. As discussed, I reached out to an old friend in Highgarden regarding a potential deal…"
Had conversation always been this difficult? Tyrion knew lord Manderly was harmless to him – the man had no son left to offer the Queen and was hardly a potential suitor himself – Wyman Manderly liked information. He traded in gossip and secrets. The lord likely knew more about what had happened to him over the last few months than Tyrion knew himself. Despite knowing what Manderly wanted and how to appease him Tyrion could barely get his throat to work. The fear of one misstep hung over him like an axe. It wasn't just lord Manderly. Several of the other lords were stealing glances at him and he suspected they did mind that he was sitting at the Queen's side.
It didn't mean anything – he'd promised himself he would try, that was all. Sansa could tell him later she never wanted to see him at dinner again, or that she wanted nothing more from him than a paper marriage that spared her a real one.
Even as the thought crossed his mind he knew he was lying to himself. Sansa's eyes had lit up when she saw him and of all the possible reactions he'd imagined that was the one he hadn't. Things between them were so uncertain it was like climbing a sand hill, with neither of them quite willing to cross the line that divided them. Now wasn't the time to think of that. All he could offer was effort, and as long as Sansa didn't object to his presence he'd continue to offer it. His fragmented memories painted a picture of all that Sansa had offered him when he was too unaware to realise, and it was up to him now to reach out, no matter how badly stepping back into the world scared him.
Sansa could hardly stop smiling. It was a sight that Arya enjoyed, even if a childish part of her longed to poke fun at her sister.
Tyrion probably didn't realise how happy he'd made Sansa by coming to dinner. He'd taken his place with some hesitation and remained mostly silent since, avoiding eye contact with most of the lords and generally looking like he was in line for execution rather than food. It didn't matter that Tyrion was quiet or nervous or hadn't touched his dinner – all that mattered was his effort.
Arya's mouth curled upwards. Her sister's eyes had widened like saucers when she saw Tyrion clean-shaven with trimmed hair and dressed in fine clothes – it was a miracle the Queen hadn't drooled.
Even now, when Tyrion was looking dejectedly at his dinner plate, Sansa was beaming. Arya narrowed her eyes - Tyrion would have to get over his damaged hand. He couldn't live on soups and simple foods forever. He was scrawny enough now and the weather in the North wasn't kind to runts. That problem could be dealt with in time, however, for now, it was enough that he was here despite any embarrassment over his mutilated hand.
You couldn't accuse Sansa of being oblivious. If anything she seemed intimately attuned to Tyrion's struggles, and while the pride on her face never faltered she found subtle ways to comfort him. A gentle question to keep him in the conversation, a hand disappearing under the table to find his, smoothing the shoulder of his doublet when it creased – Arya counted dozens of ways Sansa soothed him throughout dinner, and less than half of them were intentional. The rest were intuitive, coming so naturally that Arya doubted her sister was any more conscious of her actions than Tyrion was of his reliance on them.
Most of the lords were ignoring Tyrion. Lannister hatred ran deep in the North and many were undecided on him – setting aside his name and titles had gone some way to sway the lords but some were waiting to see what happened. If the Queen chose him they'd have to accept him as Prince consort, but if she set aside her marriage he was a bastard with no land or titles. Either way, Arya thought he was in no danger from the Northerners. Joffrey, Cersei, Tywin, Daenerys – they'd been the true enemies of the North, and in the end, Tyrion had been the enemy of their enemy. It hardly made him a friend, but it made him a grey area if nothing else.
Arya watched him as the dinner progressed, seeing his obvious struggle to fit into a world he'd once easily commanded. Jon had drawn him into a conversation further down the table, likely sensing his difficulties too. Good. Sansa had done her best to ease him into the dinner and it was only right the rest of them helped. If Jon hadn't reached out, Arya would have.
Her observations of Tyrion when he was last at Winterfell and now couldn't be more different, but she was finally decided on him. Sansa's love for him was never in doubt, but Arya had needed more than that to decide herself. Tyrion had made Sansa laugh and smile and treated her well when he was last here, but it had been easy for him then. Now, it took more than charm or confidence for him to be worthy of her sister – it took courage.
Arya didn't expect him to forget all he suffered in Kings Landing or set it aside, what she needed to see was an effort. Everything about Tyrion's presence here tonight had taken effort, from his appearance to entering the hall alone and taking his seat. It was an effort he'd made for Sansa. Even now his eyes were flicking to the Queen, consciously or not seeking her support. That was fine too. Tyrion's effort tonight had proven many things, most notably that Sansa's fears were unfounded. Arya's mouth twitched up. It would take time, but things were progressing. Tyrion was relying on Sansa for his confidence tonight but that wouldn't always be the case – soon he would learn to lean on the rest of his family too.
At one time it was unthinkable, but Arya was satisfied Tyrion had earned the right to be called brother, and have all the benefits that came with it.
"Dinner not good enough for you Tyrion?" asked a middle-aged lord a few seats down from her, a sneer on his face.
"I…I fear my appetite isn't what it once was my lord," said Tyrion, sinking into his seat.
He snorted. "Used to better food you mean – the kind we Northerners have never experienced."
Sansa opened her mouth to bite back, but Arya beat her to it. "I'd say he's used to no food my lord, and I can happily arrange for you to experience it. By all appearances, I'd be doing your belt a favour."
The table exploded in laughter as the lord's face flushed. Lord Manderly seemed to find it particularly amusing, and Arya could only assume he rarely heard a weight joke not directed at him. The conversation moved on and several of the lords were suddenly keen to speak to Tyrion, no doubt to show they didn't share the other lord's sentiments. Many of these lords had been or had known prisoners of war, and if nothing else it was an experience they could relate to Tyrion through.
Sansa rubbed his back as lord Manderly claimed his attention to talk of ships, and Arya thought she saw a ghost of a smile on Tyrion's face.
He had enough to work through without having to defend himself from the sheep – there were no lone wolves in the pack.
As Queen in the North, Sansa liked to think she had time for all the lords of her council, but tonight she'd much rather lord Manderly shut up. When dinner ended and the guests drifted off to their own pursuits Sansa had every intention of going with Tyrion, but lord Manderly was too deep in his retelling of a difficult negotiation from twenty years ago to be stopped.
"…wasn't something they expected, I can tell you that much!" he chortled. "The Dornish man thought he was being clever, but there's rarely a negotiating tactic I haven't seen…"
Sansa nodded along politely, her eyes wandering to the corridor Tyrion had just disappeared down. At least he hadn't gone alone – she'd seen Jon talking with him as they left.
Seeing Tyrion at dinner was the last thing she'd expected, but the thrill that ran through her was undeniable. Everything was better when he was close. Tyrion's doubts were easy enough to see – he wasn't sure where he belonged – but Sansa had no such concerns. Having Tyrion beside her felt more right than anything else in the world.
The minutes crawled past until lord Manderly finished, excusing himself as if she was the one who'd kept him so long,
"Forgive me your Grace, but I fear I've put off the privy long enough!"
The Queen was only too happy to see him leave and wasted no time in heading to Tyrion's chambers. Lights flickered on the other side of the door and Sansa easily picked out the shuffle of Tyrion's steps. He'd looked tired when he left, and his limp was always worse when he overextended himself. Sansa tried to temper her emotions as she knocked. This was a quick visit to check on him and say what she hadn't had a chance to in the Great Hall. In going to dinner Tyrion had stepped outside of his comfort zone, pushing against the boundaries that had held him prisoner for weeks – it had been stressful for him, and Sansa didn't intend to intrude on his time to process it.
A few moments passed before the door creaked open and Tyrion appeared. As soon as he saw her, he dropped his gaze, worry creasing his face.
"Your Grace," he said.
The use of her title stung but it was obvious he feared her reason for visiting. "Hello, Tyrion. I'm sorry I missed you in the Great Hall, lord Manderly refused to stop talking."
"It's no bother," he said. "I don't know how he has so much to say all of the time."
It was a cruel irony that lord Manderly had words for everything, yet neither of them seemed able to find the few they needed to say.
"It was good to see you at dinner," she said.
Tyrion waited and it occurred to Sansa he was waiting for a 'but' to follow. Is that what he expected? It was good to see you at dinner, but don't come again? She smiled, waiting for his insecurity to pass.
When it did his brow creased. "I didn't embarrass you?"
"Of course not."
"I didn't intrude?"
"Not at all."
"Steal the seat of a young, handsome lord?"
Sansa laughed, her heart warming at the hint of a smile on his face. "That seat is for you, and I've moved several young lords who thought they could sit there."
At that he grinned, his eyes brightening. "How terrible for them."
"You hardly look sympathetic to their plight."
"This is my sympathetic face," he said, trying and failing to look sad.
Sansa's heart warmed, the way it always did when Tyrion smiled at her.
"Would you like to come in?" he asked.
She wavered before shaking her head. "No, thank you. I'm rather tired and don't want to disturb you."
It was a lie, more than anything she wanted to go in and spend the rest of the evening with him, but Tyrion was struggling to stand straight and wincing as he moved. The urge to fuss over him was consuming but tonight wasn't the time. Perhaps tomorrow she'd give in, but Tyrion had pushed himself hard today and he'd done it alone. The dinner was difficult for him, of that Sansa had no doubt. Tiredness lined his face and Sansa suspected he needed some time alone to process. Going from months of hiding away to stepping out of the shadows wasn't easy – adjusting would take time.
"I did come for a reason though," said Sansa.
"Oh?"
"You look very handsome tonight, and I didn't get a chance to tell you before."
Redness crept up his neck and flooded his face. "I…um, thank you."
Taking compliments was never easy for him, but that wouldn't stop her from giving them. Sooner or later he'd learn she meant every word.
"I'll see you in the morning then?" she asked.
"Ah, yes. Morning – I'll see you then."
She smiled. "Good night, Tyrion."
In his dreams, Jon flew.
The dragon's scales were rough beneath his hands as he struggled to hang on. Higher and higher the dragon climbed until the northern landscape below was reduced to dots.
He tried to direct Drogon, but the dragon had other ideas. Jon's muscles strained as he clung on, with Drogon writhing beneath him. With a lurch, the dragon dropped into a dive, hurtling towards the ground without a chance Jon could change course.
On instinct his eyes closed before the impact, only the impact never came.
"Fire and blood."
Jon's eyes shot open, his blood turning to ice at the sight that met him. Drogon was no longer beneath him, but in front of him – steam curling from his nostrils as he eyed his target. It wasn't the dragon that scared him though, it was the rider.
Daenerys sat easily on the dragon's back, her purple eyes alight. "Those are our words Aegon, you should have chosen me – it was where you belonged."
Jon tore his eyes from Daenerys to consider his own position. Drogon was in front of him, but Jon still felt he was sitting on a dragon, and looking down confirmed he was half right. The corpse was broken and rotting, but it was Rhaegal.
"Fire cannot kill a dragon," said Daenerys, her tone almost mournful, "that's why I know you'll burn."
Jon jerked awake, his heart hammering in his chest. It was a dream, nothing more – no matter how real the flames had felt against his skin. It was the early hours, but he wasn't the only one awake. Ghost had followed him to his chambers every night for the last week and each time he'd been haunted by nightmares. Even now, the direwolf sat watching him. A shudder ran through Jon. There was something wrong with this. Ghost and Drogon. The wolf and the dragon.
He stumbled from the bed, opening his chamber door before turning to the wolf. "Out. I don't know what's going on with you but I need to sleep. There are plenty of rooms in Winterfell and if you're desperate for company you can go to Arya or Tyrion."
Red eyes stared at him and it unnerved Jon in a way Ghost never had. Whatever it was the direwolf sensed or wanted to convey, the meaning was lost on him and trying to figure it out was tearing his mind to pieces. It was impossible without Bran, and his brother's silence made it all the stranger.
"Go now," said Jon.
The direwolf wandered past and Jon wasted no time closing the door behind him. As soon as he did, Jon sunk back against the wall. It was ridiculous to blame his dreams on Ghost, but the timing was suspect, to say the least.
Drogon was uncooperative and temperamental, and Ghost's behaviour had changed from silent guardian to silent messenger, only no one could understand the message. Jon ran a hand through his hair, moving back to his bed. The wolf and the dragon. Stark and Targaryen.
Perhaps Tyrion had the right idea. Jon had hated being a bastard in childhood but now it seemed ridiculous. Had he really wanted the weight of a legacy that came with a family name? Tyrion was trueborn but had thrown it all away rather than carry it.
Tomorrow Jon would pick up his duties again, but tonight Tyrion wasn't the only bastard in Winterfell.
Sansa smiled, nodding encouragingly at Tyrion as the Maester pulled his doublet off. Wolkan was a good Maester and Sansa trusted him implicitly, but Tyrion's experience had ignited a deep distrust of Maesters, and she could only assume it was because of their detached manner. The insight gleaned from Qyburn's journal made it perfectly clear why Tyrion was nervous around Maesters, even if Tyrion wasn't sure himself. Qyburn's experiments had dehumanised him to the point where he was just an experiment – no rights, no feelings or heart. Having met Qyburn, Sansa found it all too easy to imagine how the man had approached torturing Tyrion. Cold, methodical, curious – all Maesters were similar in that way. They were logical thinkers, often detached and unbiased by design. Some part of Tyrion knew all Maesters were not Qyburn and were horrified by what he'd done, but that knowledge did little to ease Tyrion's fears. She could only hope that was a task her presence went some way to complete.
Calling upon Tyrion in the morning was a normal part of her day but when he'd opened the door this morning his discomfort was obvious.
"Are you sure you're alright?" asked Sansa. "You look in pain."
"I'm fine," he said, smiling tightly. "It's just some stiffness."
"Is that what the Maester says?"
"Um, no…I haven't asked him."
Sansa had known the answer before she asked the question, and while she was comfortable now that Tyrion was taking care of himself the desire to help was impossible to ignore.
"Has Maester Wolkan been checking your injuries?" she asked. Only last week the Maester had voiced his concerns about Tyrion avoiding him.
Tyrion winced, rubbing at his right shoulder. "I believe he's offered several times."
"Maybe you should see him," said Sansa lightly, "he might have some ideas to help reduce your stiffness."
"I wouldn't want to waste his time."
"You wouldn't be."
Tyrion had looked increasingly tired and sore at dinner and this morning he looked no better. Pushing himself would tire him, but even though his bones had healed the Maester should still be checking on his injuries and helping him build strength. From all Sansa had heard, Wolkan had offered his services many times and Tyrion had refused or made excuses every time since the last bandages came off.
The Queen covered his hand with her own, softening her tone. "Do you not trust Wolkan?"
"It's not that…after Kings Landing…" he swallowed, "I don't like being examined."
"I understand, but Wolkan knows best how to help you recover. There's no need to struggle alone when there's help available."
"You're right," he smiled slightly, " as usual. I need to be stronger than this…but the thought of going…"
"I'll go with you if you like."
"That would be wasting your time as well as the Maesters'."
It had taken some persuasion but Sansa thought Tyrion looked relieved to not be going alone, and despite his misgivings, seeing the Maester was necessary if only to affirm his injuries were healed correctly.
"This would be easier and more accurate without your shift," said the Maester, lifting an eyebrow at his squirming patient. "I'll struggle to check your shoulder with it on."
"You can manage," said Tyrion, crossing his arms.
Sansa rose from her chair across the room. "I can wait outside if you're uncomfortable."
The words had barely left her mouth before Tyrion's face morphed to horror. "No! Please, don't leave me-"
He slammed his mouth shut before more truths could escape. Tyrion folded his arms across his chest, staring at the floor as his words echoed around the room. It hurt to see her once confident husband so afraid of something as mundane as visiting the Maester and being left alone, but Sansa was well aware Tyrion's physical recovery likely didn't match his psychological recovery. Physically he was gaining strength and could move around the castle freely, mentally she suspected he was in the black cells more often than he was in Winterfell.
Wolkan stepped away from Tyrion and turned his attention to his cupboards instead, and Sansa wasted no time crossing to him. Shame radiated from Tyrion where he now sat hunched on the edge of the table, and part of her felt guilty for convincing him to come here, but it was necessary – Wolkan was the best placed to aid his recovery and avoiding the Maester couldn't go on forever. What if he was unwell and hid from the Maester?
Sansa leaned down to try and catch Tyrion's eye, but his gaze remained downcast. "I'm not going anywhere Tyrion, I promise. I only thought you might be reluctant to undress with me here."
"You've seen all of me before anyway," he mumbled.
Heat rose to Sansa's cheeks. He might have been referring to the night she'd found him with the knife, but instinct warned her it was more than that. How much of Kings Landing did he remember?
He sighed, his shoulders slumping. "It's not taking my shift off that bothers me – though it's hardly a sight I'd recommend."
"If there's any way to make this easier for you I'll do it, just tell me how. I know the stiffness in your leg is bothering you and you're struggling with your shoulder; Maester Wolkan can help if you let him."
Green eyes rose to meet her, a curiosity lurking beneath the fear. Sansa was left with the distinct impression Tyrion was searching for something, but whatever it was he seemed to find it, for he lowered his voice to a whisper in her ear.
"It's Maesters, or anyone really, touching me." Panic must have shown on her face as he hurried to expand. "Not you, or friends, or people I trust. It's just…I'm not strong Sansa…in Kings Landing I was manhandled and touched like a piece of meat. Other men can overpower me so easily…"
Sansa's heart swelled in sympathy. It was something she could understand better than most. One of the many things she loved about Tyrion was that his size made him less intimidating. The Maester was an old man, but if Tyrion believed he was weak anyone bigger than himself could be a threat. She reached for his good hand and relief flooded her when he gripped her back.
"I was helpless," he said. "Every day I was strapped down to that damned table and they did whatever the fuck they wanted to me. I couldn't resist…"
"No one could have."
"They could have put up more of a fight than I was capable of." He squeezed her hand, leaning his head closer to hers. "There was one day when Cersei came to the black cells with Euron Greyjoy. With Qyburn I was always restrained, but Greyjoy…he dragged me from my corner and pinned me to the ground himself. I couldn't get him off, I just wanted him to kill me and be done with it. Cersei was watching of course. The bastard heated his knife in the guard's torch and then pressed it repeatedly into my arm, he took his time doing it. When he was done he prodded my injuries…pulled at my cock to see how I compared to a normal man…all he had to do was put his weight on me and I was trapped."
Sansa's stomach rolled at the story. Qyburn's journal had mentioned that it was Euron who burned the pattern into Tyrion's upper arm, but the few words he spared for it did nothing to capture the true horror of the experience. Sansa rubbed her thumb into the back of Tyrion's hand, leaning her head drop against his.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered.
"It's not your fault…I just thought it better you understand."
Oh, how she did understand. Sansa thought it unlikely anyone but her could so perfectly comprehend what Tyrion was describing, and the consequences it left behind.
"No one will ever hurt you like that again," she said. "You're in control Tyrion. Wolkan, Yvette, the servants – no one will force you to do anything you're uncomfortable with, as long as you're taking care of yourself."
He winced at her last words but Sansa wouldn't lie to him. If he fell back into the patterns of his early days at Winterfell she would do whatever necessary to keep him well.
"I'm trying," he said.
"You're doing so well," she said, squeezing his hand. "This is another step in getting better, but it's up to you. If you don't want the Maester to examine you that's fine. If you don't want me to be here that's fine too, but I'm perfectly happy to stay and support you if you'll let me."
Maester Wolkan had surely heard every word they'd said but the old man was pretending to busy himself in the cupboards and Sansa was grateful for the space. She understood Tyrion's fears - they were so close to her own – but she also knew how important it was he try and overcome them. If Tyrion was hurt or unwell he needed to be comfortable going to the Maester for help. The idea of him hiding an injury or illness made her stomach roll.
"Will you stay?" asked Tyrion, his soft voice drawing her back to him.
"Of course," she said. "Everything will be fine, I promise."
Sansa perched on the edge of the table beside him, signalling for the Maester to continue. Tyrion's distrust of Maesters hadn't been apparent in his early days here, but for weeks now he'd steadily regained autonomy and the memories of hands touching him had likely faded to nightmares. Distance could heal, but in this case, the distance was letting Tyrion's fears grow.
"Are we keeping the shift on?" asked the Maester lightly.
Tyrion hesitated before shaking his head. "It's alright – as long as our Queen isn't offended."
"That will never happen," said Sansa. She turned to face him, helping him tug the material free. His face crumpled as he glimpsed the marks on his body, but he was quick to hide it and turn to stare past the Maester as the old man began to examine his damaged shoulder.
"It shouldn't bother me," said Tyrion. "I had to strip down yesterday to get rid of my bloody beard."
"Yvette made you strip down?"
"It wasn't Yvette who shaved my beard. I went where all bastards go – to see your barber."
A slow smile spread across Sansa's face – improving every day. "Really? I assumed it was Yvette."
"I'm sure she would have, but I…well I wanted to be normal. No other bastard would have servants attending him as I do."
"And what prompted this urge to shave?" asked Sansa, still smiling.
"You."
"Oh? I don't recall commenting on your beard."
"Exactly. You could have told me I looked like Ser Davos – I looked in the mirror and saw this scruffy old man staring back."
"Ser Davos isn't scruffy."
"He's old though, and I am not old enough to have a grey, patchy beard."
Tyrion was smiling but there was nervous energy hanging over him. It was probably the Maester's exam causing it. Nothing Wolkan could do would make it easier, but she was here to help Tyrion – if nothing else she could distract him.
"I like it," said Sansa, brushing her hand against his cheek before moving to his prickly hair. "Did this offend you too?"
"That was your barber's choice. I merely said I was going to dinner with the Queen and he began hacking at me – quite terrifying really."
He framed it as a joke but Sansa suspected there was more truth to it than what he'd admit to, and it only made his efforts all the braver.
"It looks good on you."
He pursed his lips. "Hmm. I prefer it longer – hides my face better."
"There's nothing wrong with your face and your hair will grow out eventually. This style merely draws attention to your other assets."
Tyrion snorted. "I have no assets."
"Not true, you have the most beautiful green eyes."
As soon as the words left her mouth, heat raced up Sansa's neck, turning her face crimson. Gods, she'd never meant to say it aloud - to cross the line.
Tyrion's gaze was unflinching, but his voice was soft as he spoke. "I always preferred blue."
It was a struggle. Painful really.
Arya was perfectly hidden in the shadows, concealed in a small gap in the brickwork several feet above Sansa's balcony. She wouldn't be here forever, but while she was it was up to her to think like an assassin. If someone wanted to kill the Queen in the North, how could they do it? The question had led Arya around Winterfell these past weeks, doing what she could to destroy any weaknesses in Winterfell's defence. No regular assassin would be able to fit in this gap, but a faceless man could. Someone with just the right training could. The position was several feet above the Queen's favoured place but it also provided a direct line of attack. When Arya left, she'd make sure the gap was unusable, but she couldn't do that now without revealing herself.
She sighed softly, resigning herself to a long sit. Arya had begun exploring the weaknesses around the balcony because Sansa wasn't there. Routine was dangerous and Sansa was unfortunately predictable. When she didn't arrive at the balcony at her usual time Arya assumed her sister was sitting in Tyrion's room – at this time of day they were the only two places to find her.
Arya had been ready to render the gap useless when Sansa and Tyrion appeared below.
For the last hour, the two had sat on the balcony, talking while Sansa worked and Tyrion did his drawing. With no other way down from the gap but the balcony Arya had found herself trapped in the hellish position of listening to them. If she revealed herself now it would be awkward and Sansa would be pissed, but listening to them while freezing her arse off in the biting cold was bloody cruel.
From what she could gather, the two had stopped at the Maester on the way, disrupting Sansa's predictable routine and inadvertently condemning Arya.
"…only need to say if you want me to go with you," said Sansa, "any time at all."
Tyrion dropped his head. "You shouldn't need to."
"Don't you dare feel embarrassed. Wolkan was the Maester here when Ramsay took over Winterfell. I'm sure Jon and Arya thought it strange I let him stay on, but he hated the Boltons and is one of the few people who knows what it was like to live under them."
"That's why you trust him."
The Queen nodded. "I don't need to explain to him what I went through, he knows well enough. If I had to see another Maester…I'd probably feel like you do."
"If you ever want me to be there for you…" Tyrion trailed off, shifting in his seat. "I know you have your family to support you, but I'll always be here too…I mean, if you want my support. Or if you still want me here…"
"Thank you, Tyrion, and I'll always want you here. Did you not accept my offer to stay at Winterfell?"
"I did."
"Then you'll stay."
Tyrion smiled. "You're overly generous. The kindness you've shown me is immeasurable, yet all I do in return is distract you, and waste your supply of paper on my pointless scribbling."
"You're a welcome distraction, and I don't care how much paper you use for drawing."
"I bent the knee to you – I should be serving you."
"You've no need to serve me, but if there is a role you'd like to fill that's suitable to your talents I'll happily consider it."
"Hmm. Did I suggest cupbearer? I could ensure your wine is always filled."
"You did suggest it, and I believe I voided it."
"A smart move really, there's every chance my useless hand will make me more a hindrance than a help."
Sansa smiled, reaching for his damaged hand and tugging it towards her. "You're quite cruel to this hand, you know. It served you well for many years and now it's retired you've turned against it."
Arya rolled her eyes. Gods this was painful. Even from here, Arya could tell her sister had been waiting for an excuse to touch him. Tyrion was just as guilty. His face brightened considerably as the Queen rubbed his ruined hand, and he'd been inching closer to her for the last hour.
"Well it is rather useless now," he said.
"Poor hand," said Sansa. The Queen spread the fingers apart, lacing them gently between her own. Tyrion's fingers curled in automatically around Sansa and Arya winced at the sight – he hadn't been doing the exercises to strengthen it. "Does this hurt?"
"No, it's tightness rather than pain," said Tyrion. "I can feel your hand, but no matter what mine won't move."
"Do you want me to let go?"
He shook his head quickly. "Not at all, I just…I can't hold you back."
Sansa's mouth curled upwards. "Try again."
Arya couldn't see Tyrion's hand move from her position, but she could see the frustration on his face clearly enough.
"You have a little movement," said Sansa, "I can feel your thumb twitch, and a couple of fingers too."
"It's not enough. The damned thing might as well be cut off – I can have a golden hand like Jamie. Once again, I can be a poor version of him."
Sansa watched him for a moment, before lifting his hand to her lips. "Do you feel that?"
"I…well, yes."
"You wouldn't with a golden hand."
"True, and that would be quite the tragedy."
"It would. I don't think a golden hand would suit you either – not your style."
"Perhaps not."
"If you try with the exercises and put your mind to work, I'm sure you will find a way to get some benefit from this hand."
Tyrion smiled, leaning closer to Sansa. "Alright then, you've convinced me to keep it."
"Oh no, you're not keeping it – I am."
"Not on the wall I hope."
"As Queen in the North, I'm claiming this hand for my own purposes. It is to remain attached to your arm at all times, and you are to exercise it daily, per the Maester's instructions."
Tyrion laughed – a sound Arya hadn't heard in a long time. "Anything else?"
"Yes, you are to treat it with the respect you do your left hand and it is to be available to me at all times."
"I think I can manage that."
Sansa rubbed her thumb against his hand, her blue eyes bright. "Very well, I shall entrust it to your care and check on it regularly."
"I believe it's rather eager to serve the Queen in the North…"
Arya gagged. Gods, was this how they spent their mornings together? Why were they still dancing around each other in public, when in private they acted like this? Sansa's smile hadn't dropped since she appeared on the balcony and Tyrion was far more relaxed and talkative than any other time she'd seen him.
They were hardly being subtle either. The balcony was Sansa's favourite place but it left them exposed to scrutiny. Anyone passing through the courtyard below would surely see them sitting too close, with their heads together as if they were conspiring. The whole of Winterfell could see the obvious. Even Tyrion seemed to have opened his eyes to who's been holding his hand for months.
Sansa may have laid claim to his damaged hand today, but Arya knew it was his heart she wanted. There was no reason to hesitate – Tyrion seemed to suspect the truth even if he couldn't quite believe it. Ultimately, Sansa held the power. Whatever Tyrion knew or didn't, he would wait for her lead. He was trying now, doing what he could to show Sansa he was available but as Sansa was Queen it was up to her to decide if she wanted Tyrion, and how she wanted him.
Arya wriggled in her position, settling in for a long, cold wait. Judging by the looks on their faces, the Queen and the Prince were in no hurry to leave the balcony.
Tyrion petted Ghost as the wolf lay at the foot of the bed. He wasn't entirely sure why Ghost had returned to visiting him but he'd hardly refuse his company, particularly when his nightmares were getting worse. The clearer the events of King's Landing became the more his mind lingered over the horrid details. The memories were clear now, and Sansa's soft smile featured prominently in most memories of the time after his rescue. With that mystery solved, his imaginings had taken a darker turn. Cersei's cruel smile and violent hands, the hint of madness in Daenerys' purple eyes – every night now the horrors replayed without mercy, leaving him more lethargic than normal throughout the day.
He winced, adjusting his position against the wall. Damned shoulder caught whatever way he moved, and the more he moved around Winterfell the worse it had become. Tyrion sighed. Maester Wolkan was once again devising a plan to rebuild his strength, and Tyrion knew this time he'd have to try with it. Sansa's gentle insistence that he sees the Maester had finally worn him down. If he was going to try for Sansa it couldn't be half measures, and dinner for the last two nights had laid bare his faults. Sitting at the bloody table for hours had strained whatever muscles he had. When he was alone with Sansa it didn't matter if he fidgeted or slumped in the chair when he got achy – it wasn't something he could do when seated at the Queen's side with the lords and ladies of the North watching on.
Tyrion ground his teeth, lifting his damaged hand for inspection. No matter what, he wouldn't embarrass Sansa, but his bloody hand made even that difficult. For the past two nights, he'd avoided eating dinner under the lords' scrutiny. Tonight, he hadn't long arrived back in his room when soup and bread were brought up to him – courtesy of the Queen, no doubt.
"I can't carry on like this," murmured Tyrion, nudging the direwolf. "I suppose I've ignored my hand as long as possible, but even I'm starting to get hungry after living on such simple foods. It would be nice to eat something that requires cutting and chewing."
Could a direwolf look pitying? Ghost did, but he also didn't have to use a knife and fork to eat properly.
"I suppose Wolkan will have plenty of ideas," said Tyrion. "If all else fails I could tear into my food like you – pretend I'm a wolf."
A smile tugged at his mouth, but it was tinged with bitterness. Making a bastard of himself hadn't really changed anything. Several of the lords at dinner seemed unsure how to address him in front of the Queen, but he could see in their eyes what he'd always be to them; a Lannister.
"I should probably sleep if I want to avoid falling asleep tomorrow. If I look too worn out Sansa will surely get suspicious."
Ghost was silent, as always, but sometimes that was the best company. At least he felt less like he was talking to himself.
Tyrion was considering a second attempt at sleep when a knock on the door startled him. A hard, rapid knock – not Sansa or Yvette. Not the Maester either. Tyrion's frantic attempts to guess his guest's identity was cut short by the door opening. Light flooded into his chambers, illuminating the sombre face of Jon Snow. He stepped further in, holding the torch higher to illuminate Tyrion and Ghost on the bed.
"Sorry," said Jon. He winced as if remembering charging in here was a bad idea. "I'm glad you're awake."
Tyrion's throat was tight but he forced the words out. "Is everything alright?"
"Not really. Can you dress yourself?"
"I'm not totally useless," said Tyrion. His cheeks burned as he slid to the edge of the bed. "Where exactly am I going?"
"A letter arrived from Kings Landing, and the Queen has called a family meeting."