Chapter 28

The sound of bickering reached Jon long before the door to Sansa's chambers came into view. While Sansa usually favoured her study for meetings, she'd remained in her chambers for now, while the problem was still a family matter. There would be formal meetings tomorrow, but tonight was for them to decide how to proceed.

A wheeze caught his ear, slowing his pace as they rounded the final corner. Jon winced as he glanced back at Tyrion struggling along after him, with Ghost at his side. He'd seen Tyrion walk often enough and while he had a limp he moved steadily enough. It hadn't occurred to Jon that what he saw was only a snapshot. As soon as he told Tyrion that Sansa had called a meeting he'd hurried to get ready and had tried to match Jon's pace without a word of complaint. Guilt stirred in Jon's stomach. The letter to Sansa brought grim news, but concern for Bran shouldn't make him careless – Tyrion was family too, and just as deserving of care. Ghost hadn't forgotten. The direwolf had paid Jon no attention in Tyrion's chambers and even now he loped alongside Tyrion rather than him. Rather than irritated, the sight only made him sad.

Jon reached out, grasping Tyrion's shoulder and bringing him to a halt. "Take your time. I'm sorry Tyrion, there's no need to rush."

"I'm fine," he said, sucking in a breath.

His eyes fell on Tyrion's open doublet. From his thoughtless question about if he could dress himself, Tyrion had hurried to prove he could, pulling on some breeches and throwing a doublet over his shift. He'd paused at the clasps, but in Jon's hurry, he'd simply told him to go as he was. Thoughtless. Sansa and Arya weren't going anywhere, and by the sounds of it, they were still arguing as when he left them to get Tyrion. Sansa had called a family meeting – and Arya had merely nodded in agreement that Tyrion should be there. Nothing would happen until tomorrow, and all he'd gained by rushing back was straining Tyrion and embarrassing him. It was becoming increasingly obvious how Tyrion felt about the Queen in the North, and his presence at dinner for the last two nights had shown the efforts he would go to.

"Here," said Jon, bending down. "I'll do the clasps for you."

Jon stopped short as a hand shoved against his shoulder. "Are you going to suck my cock too?"

"What? I thought-"

"That I need a nursemaid? Gods be good, if I wanted a nursemaid I'd find a more cheerful one than you Snow."

Jon froze for a moment before a laugh fell from him. He straightened up, lightly shoving Tyrion back. "You'll be lucky to find one at all Hill."

"Is that what bastards do? Fasten each other's clothes and stare into each other's eyes?"

"Only the real ones."

Stepping back from Tyrion, Jon was relieved to see him smiling, however tentatively. After all his work to regain lost confidence, Jon didn't want to be the one to damage it. Tyrion was his brother by marriage, and he'd happily help him – he just needed to remember who he was helping, and Tyrion's sharp retorts were a stinging reminder that he wasn't an invalid. Despite Tyrion's assurances he was fine, the slump of his shoulders and heavy breathing were evidence enough the rush had strained him. Before guilt had a chance to grasp him completely, the sound of Arya and Sansa brought him back to the reason for the midnight excursion.

"You're being stupid!"

"This is family Arya, how can you expect me to do nothing?"

"You'd be a liability, and you know it!"

Jon rubbed a hand over his face, struggling to temper his own emotions, but knowing it was the only way he could handle his sisters. The letter from Kings Landing had thrown everything into chaos. Arya was furious, and the Queen's voice was unusually shaken. Jon turned to Tyrion, only to find him already hobbling down the corridor towards the commotion. Whatever hesitation might plague him, Tyrion didn't hesitate when it came to Sansa. Given the news that had come tonight, Jon found it comforting. Sansa wouldn't like what would happen in the morning, but Jon hoped Tyrion might make it easier to bear.

Arya bit her tongue until the coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. There was no time to waste on this. Sansa didn't like it, but it was bloody obvious that she couldn't come – or at least it should have been obvious. The stubborn set of her sister's jaw when they first broached the subject had warned Arya it wouldn't be so simple.

Patience wasn't her strong suit, but she tried her best as Tyrion read the letter Sansa had received from Bran's council. Arya didn't need to look at it again to know what it said, the details were already engraved on her mind.

An attack on Bran left him comatose. Varys and Bronn sent to the Westerlands with no sign of return. Plots within plots. Possible involvement from followers of the lord of light. A second attack by wildfire. Why in the seven hells had no one told her? For weeks she'd been left in the dark, wasting her days watching her sister pine after Tyrion and suffering through their never-ending courtship dance.

As soon as he finished reading it, Tyrion turned to Sansa. "I'm so sorry. If there's any way I can be of help, please just say the word."

"You can convince Sansa to stay here," said Arya, levelling a glare at her older sister. "If Bran is in danger the last thing we need is the Queen in the North in danger too."

"Bran is my brother – he's a Stark – the North will fight for him."

Arya turned to Jon, shrugging. "You tell her. I've tried everything."

"You can't expect me to stay here," said Sansa, "nor do I need your permission to go."

Jon looked as if the last thing he wanted to do was try and reason with Sansa, but Arya had said her piece several times – it was his turn to try.

"Sansa, we don't even know what exactly we're walking into. The letter is vague, at best," he said.

"That doesn't matter. We don't leave family behind – especially in Kings Landing."

"Aye, but you don't need to be there. I'll go to the Kings Landing-"

"And so will I," added Arya, lifting an eyebrow at her older brother.

He sighed. "Fine. Arya and I will see to Bran – your responsibility is here."

Sansa's nostrils flared, reminding Arya sharply of their mother. "My responsibility is to my family!"

"The North needs you here…" said Jon.

Arya only half-listened as Jon tried to reason with Sansa, instead turning her attention to Tyrion. Ghost had followed him and Jon into the room, but the direwolf had quite obviously chosen Tyrion over his master and sat attentively beside his chair. Tyrion's doublet was hanging open and tiredness lined his face, but he needed to be here – particularly if she and Jon wouldn't be. Of more interest to Arya, was his opinion. Would he tell Sansa what she wanted to hear or what she needed to hear?

"What do you think Tyrion?" asked Arya, loud enough to draw Jon and Sansa's attention.

He shrank in his chair. "Oh…I don't think it's my place."

"You serve the Queen don't you?" said Arya. "What's your advice?"

Sansa was glaring at her, but Arya ignored it. One way or another, she would get an answer to her question and in doing so would know exactly where Tyrion's interests lay.

He bit his lip, glancing quickly at Sansa before he answered. "You should stay here, your Grace."

Sansa deflated, her voice quiet. "Why?"

"The North is now a separate kingdom, and while you are rightly concerned for your brother the rest of the North won't be. After years of war, you'll struggle to call the banners to march to the now six kingdoms of Westeros. There will no doubt be Stark loyalists willing to venture to Kings Landing, but for most of the North I fear they would be unmoved to take action, and forcing them to do so would only weaken the North's claim of independence."

"I could go with Jon and Arya – we could take volunteers," said Sansa.

Tyrion shook his head. "You are Queen and the risk is simply too great. The letter tells little of the situation in Kings Landing – it's far wiser if you stay here and if necessary coordinate resources. The North will not willingly march to Bran, but they may be open to other forms of aid to the neighbouring King."

"Tyrion is right," said Jon. "We will keep you updated on what's going on, and you can help us from here."

It was when Sansa's eyes glistened Arya knew they'd won. Tyrion looked guilt-ridden but he had no reason to be. His advice to Sansa was hard to hear, but it was soundly reasoned and more importantly, it was best for her. If Tyrion's interest was purely himself he'd have told Sansa what she wanted to hear to keep her favour. While Arya knew it would take a hell of a lot for him to lose her favour, Tyrion didn't know that and his hesitation betrayed his unease. He'd chosen well. However much he feared losing Sansa, it didn't outweigh his concern for her safety.

"It seems you've all decided," said Sansa, staring at the table. "Tyrion will stay here."

Arya snorted. "I don't remember inviting him."

"Either way he's not going."

"Who are you to decide that?"

"Queen," said Sansa, her voice sharp. "That is my order."

Arya felt her hackles rise, baited by Sansa's controlling behaviour. Logically, Tyrion was never going to go with them. He was traumatised by Kings Landing, struggled to walk and would be useless in a battle. If they wanted someone to sit quietly in the corner they could take him, she supposed. It wasn't a desire for Tyrion to join them that spurred her anger though, it was the idea that Sansa could decide. She curled her hand into a fist, lifting her eyes to meet Sansa's piercing blue ones.

Before she could bite back, Tyrion intervened. He covered Sansa's hand with his damaged one, seamlessly drawing her back from the Queen of ice who'd stared at Arya like lunch.

"Of course I'm staying," he said, "I don't know how, but if there's any way I can help you I will – you won't be alone Sansa, I promise."

Sansa's gaze broke off and she quickly claimed Tyrion's hand with her own, tears glistening in her eyes. "Thank you."

"We'll be back as quickly as possible," said Jon. "Let us handle this Sansa…"

It didn't matter what Jon said, Sansa was no longer listening. Their sister had eyes only for Tyrion and the conversation had made it glaringly obvious it was his opinion she valued most. That was fine – Sansa's intentions towards him couldn't be clearer, and at least when they left tomorrow Arya knew he would be here for her.

With the matter settled, Arya's mind turned quickly from the family around her to the missing piece. The letter offered little, but enough to know Bran was injured and in danger, though it was what the letter didn't say that concerned her most. Daenerys and Cersei were dead, the Unsullied were gone and the wars were finally over. Who now would dare to disturb the peace?

Tyrion wished he would be sick. Vomiting now would be far preferable to returning his breakfast in front of Sansa's council. His stomach churned at the thought and Tyrion had to force his feet to continue carrying him forwards. For whatever reason, Ghost had decided to accompany him and he gratefully ruffled the white wolf's fur.

"If I asked you to eat me, would you?" murmured Tyrion. "It seems preferable to going in there."

Ghost glanced at him, but when the wolf made no move for a mid-morning snack Tyrion knew he had no choice but to go through the door. He lay a hand on the door, drawing in a breath. The quiet chatter on the other side died off quickly as he eased the door open and despite his better judgement, Tyrion forced himself to carry on into the room.

'This is for Sansa,' he thought, edging his way into the room.

If the lords on the other side were surprised to see him, it was nothing to their surprise at seeing Ghost trailing after him. Several of the lords winced as the great wolf lurched into the room, unaccompanied by Jon Snow.

"Ah, Tyrion!" greeted lord Manderly, starting a round of murmured greetings from the other lords. "Her grace said you would be joining us."

The door clicked shut behind him and Tyrion's heart dropped. There was no need to panic. Sansa had asked him to come here – these lords were loyal to her. Lord Manderly was sitting at one end of the table in Sansa's preferred council room, with lord Cray seated next to him. Two other men filled the seats opposite, and Tyrion thought one might be of house Woods, though he couldn't say which. Further along, an older lord dressed in the black and red of house Crowl watched him, and two more men sat to his left, rounding out the table and leaving only one empty seat next to the Queen's chair. Unlike her high-backed chair in the Great Hall, this was far plainer, though the back of the chair did bear the direwolf sigil. Tyrion's throat tightened to the point where breathing was difficult.

Many of the great families in the North had been wiped out through war, and Tyrion suspected several of these lords were new to high-level politics or else he would know their sigils. Perhaps it was nerves making his mind sluggish, but Tyrion could only curse his lack of attention. How could he help Sansa when he'd paid so little attention to the political situation in Winterfell? He knew several of Sansa's strongest allies had returned to their own keeps and since then the Queen had entertained an ever-changing roster of minor houses reaching for more. Lord Manderly was the Queen's strongest ally on the council, and it was fortunate arranging trade had kept him here. As to the others, Tyrion could only blame himself for not knowing them. The old lord of house Crowl carried himself with experience too, but the others were most likely as green as summer grass. This meeting was the last place he wanted to be, but Sansa asked nothing of him and he truly wanted to be of some use.

"Will you be there, Tyrion?" asked Sansa, her blue eyes swimming. "I'll have to tell the council in the morning…I'd rather not be alone."

"Of course. I'll be there with you Sansa – whatever I can do to help."

It all seemed so simple last night. What Sansa asked of him was nothing – a friendly face to support her while she informed her council of Bran's situation. The wobble in her voice and tears in her eyes would have compelled him to murder if she'd asked it, but in the cold light of morning, any thought of heroics was laughable. He'd never be Sansa's hero or protector. At best he was a beaten mongrel, loyal to the only hand that had never hurt him.

"You needn't wait for the Queen, Tyrion," said lord Manderly, nodding to the empty seat. "Won't you join us?"

Tyrion's face flushed at the realisation he'd barely moved inside the room and most probably looked like an idiot. It was only as he took his seat that he realised lord Manderly's intention. Ghost had hovered at the door with him – making the young lord sitting at the end of the table incredibly nervous. The lord had a mess of curly brown hair but looked barely old enough to be away from his mother let alone at a Queen's council meeting. Tyrion hobbled to the seat next to Sansa's, Ghost shadowing his steps.

"Gods be good boy," snapped lord Crowl, turning to the young lord. "The direwolf is house Stark's sigil. The Stark children all had one, and that is the only one left – Jon Snow's direwolf."

The younger lord's ears turned pink at the scrutiny, and he quickly shot back. "What's it doing with Lannister then?"

"I'm not a Lannister," said Tyrion. The words slipped out before he could think through the consequences of speaking out of turn. "I gave up that name."

"Aye," said lord Crowl, his sharp eyes studying him, "an old name to give up."

"A poisoned name, my lord," said Tyrion.

"Ghost is very friendly to you Tyrion," said lord Manderly. The old lord was clearly searching for an end to the awkward conversation and had settled on the direwolf to do so. "It bodes well."

Before Tyrion could ask what he meant, the door opened and Sansa swept into the room – her long red hair hanging carelessly around her shoulders and betraying her disturbed night.

"My lords, apologies for keeping you so long."

Tyrion breathed out as the attention turned away from him. All he had to do was sit quietly and support Sansa. It wasn't much to ask – he could do that. Dark circles lay beneath the Queen's eyes, but her mouth twitched up when she saw him and the brush of her hand against his beneath the table suddenly made the room far more bearable.

"You don't have to come," said Jon, "you should stay here with Sansa."

"I didn't ask for your opinion, and I'm not leaving Bran."

"You sound just like Sansa did last night."

Arya's stare was icy. "Sansa was wrong and I'm not."

Despite the situation they were preparing for, Jon couldn't hide his smile. "You're a lot more alike than you think."

"Our sister is a Queen; a girl is no one."

"You are Arya Stark of Winterfell." Jon shook his head. "What's wrong with being compared to Sansa?"

"Because I always have been, and I always come out worse," said Arya. The valyrian steel dagger Bran had gifted her sat in her hands and Jon suspected he was dangerously close to being on the end of it. "I'm not like Sansa."

"Fine, you're not like Sansa."

"The comparison is stupid anyway. We both know Sansa spends most of her time staring at Tyrion, and I certainly don't."

Jon merely nodded, deciding it was safer to agree than point out how much time Arya spent watching Sansa and Tyrion. Perhaps travelling to Kings Landing would be good for her – staying in Winterfell had clearly stretched her patience to the point where stalking Sansa and her relationship was the high point of her day.

"Who are you going to kill first?" asked Arya.

"What do you mean?"

"Ser Davos, Brienne, Podrick, Samwell – they've kept this secret for weeks! Our brother has nearly died twice on their watch, and rather than ask for help they've kept it hidden."

Jon's stomach twisted uncomfortably. He'd had a similar thought, but there had to be a good reason for the deception. "They're our allies, and until we have a reason not to trust them we should."

"We have a reason."

"No, we have a duty. We find out what is going on, we find out what enemies we're dealing with and then we can question our allies."

Arya stared for a moment before nodding. "Fine. How soon can we be ready?"

Jon paused his packing, his hand lingering over his sword's direwolf pommel. "Soon enough. Sansa is making arrangements with her council, but I don't want to delay."

"On that, we agree big brother."

The crypts weren't her favourite place to visit family, but given the situation, Sansa thought it the most appropriate. Her eyes trailed over the stony visage of her father – it didn't look like him.

"Am I doing the right thing?" she whispered. "I want to help Bran, but Jon and Arya are right – I'd be a liability."

Tyrion was right too, though she hesitated to mention his name to her father. What would Ned Stark think, to know his eldest daughter's heart belonged to Tyrion Lannister?

'Hill,' she thought, though the name always sounded wrong. Separating Tyrion from the lion sigil he'd once proudly worn often felt impossible.

"You'd grow to like him," said Sansa. Saying it aloud was difficult, but saying it to her father was terrifying. "I love Tyrion."

Sansa lay her hand against the stone, fighting against the tears threatening to escape her. It wasn't fair. Things were finally improving, and now her world was falling to pieces again. Bran was in danger, Jon and Arya were leaving – at least she had Tyrion, though not in the way she truly wanted him. The meeting with her council had set her on edge too.

Tyrion was silent beside her as Sansa explained the message from Bran's council. It didn't matter how quiet he was, she just wanted him there. Jon and Arya were preparing to go and the thought of ruling alone, without her family's support, was terrifying. It was a lot to ask of Tyrion – he'd only joined then for dinner twice – but he didn't have anything to fear and his presence had a way of soothing her. When she'd summoned her council, her note had mentioned Tyrion would join them in the hopes it would spare him any unwanted attention and Sansa was pleased to see her council giving him the respect he deserved. It wasn't until she finished explaining the situation in Kings Landing that she noticed her council's expressions had changed, though it was to disappointment rather than anything else.

"Forgive us, your grace," said lord Manderly, bowing his head. "When we received your summons and you said Tyrion was joining us…well, we thought it was for happier news."

A lump formed in Sansa's throat at the memory. Gods, how could she be so stupid? Just because her council didn't mention marriage didn't mean the expectation wasn't there. The North needed a Prince consort and heirs to secure the succession. Poor Tyrion. He hadn't said anything but he was surely embarrassed by the suggestion.

The meeting had quickly brushed over the awkwardness but the pain hadn't left Sansa. How she wished that was the news she was sharing, rather than more danger for her family. It wasn't to be. Tyrion was close but distant. They'd both experimented with crossing the line, though Sansa couldn't hide her anxiety over his intentions. Was he simply being her friend, or did he desire her a fraction of how she desired him?

"I wish you were here father," said Sansa, breaking the quiet of the crypt. "I was never meant to rule, and sometimes I worry I'm still that naive girl who fell for Joffrey. I don't want to lead the North wrong…I don't want to lose Tyrion."

As awkward as the meeting had been, at least they'd quickly moved on to aid for the six kingdoms. Tyrion's suggestion that the lords would not fight for Bran quickly proved to be true. Lord Manderly took the lead in offering some men to assist Jon, but the gathered lords made it obvious their support was only a token of respect for the Stark name.

"Your grace, I wish King Bran well but the troubles of Kings Landing have consumed the North for long enough," said lord Woods.

Lord Crowl grunted his agreement. "True words."

Sansa's heart fell. Tyrion had warned her of this, but some part of her had clung to the North's loyalty. It was a hard lesson to learn, but years of war had worn down whatever generosity the lords of the North had, and Sansa could hardly blame them – several great houses had fallen over the last few years.

"You can take the Lannister guards," said Tyrion. All eyes turned to him, and Tyrion kept his gaze on the table. "I'm sure they'd sooner return to Kings Landing than linger here."

A younger lord Sansa found forgettable snorted at the end of the table. "Good of you to offer your men since our last venture to Kings Landing was to get you."

"I never asked for that," said Tyrion, his voice little more than a whisper, "and they're no longer my men."

"Ah, yes, well I wouldn't be so certain Tyrion," said lord Manderly, his chins wobbling. "Of course, we know you surrendered your name and titles but as far as I am aware King Bran has yet to accept. The reason for his lack of response is now clear, but until he can accept you are still, technically, lord of Casterly Rock. Given the political situation in the Westerlands…" lord Manderly trailed off, seemingly aware Tyrion knew little of what had happened during his incapacitation. The old man forced a smile. "Let's just say your men should stay here until King Bran can accept your surrender, though I'm sure your offer is most appreciated."

"It is," said Sansa, nodding her appreciation to lord Manderly for his interjection. Whatever warmth she showed quickly frosted over when she turned to the younger lord. "And I would suggest you remember everything we accomplished in Kings Landing. If we had not travelled there Daenerys Targaryen would be Queen, Kings Landing would be burning and the North would not now be independent."

His face flushed. "Certainly, your Grace…I merely…"

Sansa cared nothing for what he had to say, and turned instead to Tyrion. "I appreciate your intentions Tyrion, but lord Manderly speaks true. The lords of the West were unhappy you were brought here, and until Bran can officially accept your letter it's wiser to keep the Lannister guards here."

It was the only time Tyrion spoke in the meeting but Sansa had expected nothing else. A pang of guilt wound through her for pushing him to go at all, but with Jon and Arya leaving she hadn't wanted to be alone.

Ned Stark's stony face gazed down at her and Sansa tried to consider what her father would do. It was impossible – he wouldn't be fazed by ruling alone – it was duty.

"Look after them," she said softly, "I can't be with them this time, and I hope you understand why. My duty is to the North, and that means Jon and Arya will have to help Bran."

It didn't feel enough. For Tyrion, she'd marched to Kings Landing, and if she had the means she would do so again, but the situation was different now. She had the North's independence to consider, and then there was Tyrion. He wouldn't want to go to Kings Landing and she could hardly leave him. However comfortable he was in Winterfell being left alone would surely terrify him in his current state. She suspected he only left his chambers at all because he knew he was under her protection.

Standing in the crypts, Sansa tried to find a bright side. She and Tyrion would be alone, without Arya watching them. He was still recovering from what he'd endured and Sansa was determined to be there for him as he worked through it. Physically he was improving, but there was still a long way to go. Going to the meeting had been a big step for him – she'd make sure to praise him later. The initial awkwardness of the meeting had lingered even at the end, and Tyrion had quickly excused himself.

This morning had been consumed by planning but perhaps he wouldn't mind her joining him for lunch. The thought brought a hint of a smile to her face. She couldn't help Bran, but she could help Tyrion and it was exactly the distraction she needed.

He'd just made it to the chair when a sharp rap at the door echoed through the room. Tyrion groaned, sinking deeper into the warmth of the chair. The tiredness was all-consuming – a product of too little sleep and too many nightmares. He'd been awake when Jon came for him last night and stayed awake long after the meeting with Sansa and Arya. Dragging himself from bed this morning was torturous. It was fortunate he hadn't fallen asleep in the council meeting, but fear was there, giving him enough anxiety to keep awake.

The rap sounded again, less patient this time. Tyrion sighed – it was surely Arya. Ghost had left him after the meeting, but even without the white wolf, he was certain enough in his guest's identity to face them alone.

"Come in," he called.

True enough, Arya quickly stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. Really, as a bastard in service to the Queen, he should stand to greet her sister. To hell with it. No matter what he called himself it didn't change how he was treated and he was tired enough not to bother.

"Comfortable?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at his slumped form.

"Quite, but I doubt it will be enough to let me sleep."

"The Maester can give you something for that."

He scrunched his nose. "I've had quite enough of Maesters and their potions."

Arya moved closer, dropping onto the chaise without ceremony. "Qyburn wasn't a real Maester."

"No, but he was a nasty bastard."

"Agreed," she said. Grey eyes studied him, and Tyrion fought the urge to fidget. She may be Sansa's sister but there was little similarity between them. "I heard you offered your men to go to Kings Landing."

"They're not my men," he said, "no matter how many people tell me otherwise."

"Maybe not, but until Bran accepts your surrender they're stuck here and you are their lord."

Tyrion sighed rubbing at his face. "I'll never be rid of them."

"You will, but until we get back from Kings Landing you need to handle them."

"What do you mean?"

It was Arya's turn to sigh. "Sansa is desperate to help and she's sending a lot of Stark men with us – too many."

At that Tyrion straightened in his chair, his brow creasing. "Sansa is Queen, she must be protected."

"It's good to see you're not oblivious to Sansa's safety at least. With so many of her men gone there's going to be a lot less guards at Winterfell. The Lannister guards are going to be Sansa's strongest line of defence, unfortunately. Their experience will far exceed a lot of the Winterfell guards staying behind."

"That's ridiculous, Sansa's safety is paramount. For seven's sake, she is Queen!"

"I'm glad we agree. Our Queen refuses to listen though and if she can't come herself she'll send her men."

Tyrion drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair. It was a bad situation all around. The lords at the meeting had offered some of their men to the cause, but unfortunately, his prediction was true – the North was reluctant to march south again now they had independence.

"I won't let anyone hurt Sansa. Godwin will keep the guards in line," he said, "and I'm not oblivious either…it's just difficult."

Arya nodded. "Good. And I'm not blaming you by the way – Sansa seems to find the bloody obvious difficult as well."

Was it so obvious? The lords of the North had clearly expected a different announcement this morning, and Sansa had been quick to brush over it. He knew she would need to marry eventually, but was it something she wanted…

Tyrion swallowed, pushing aside the stray thought. He couldn't go there. It was undeniable that there was a bond between them, and Tyrion knew what it meant to him, but he didn't know what it meant to Sansa. She could have her pick of fine young men – the chances that she'd want him in any capacity were astoundingly low. An ache spread through the chest at the thought. There was no use dwelling on it when there were so many possibilities and reasons it would never work.

'I love you.'

The whispered confession slipped through his mind. He'd improved at sorting fact from fiction in his dreams, but those three words always caused him doubt. Had Sansa said that when protecting him, or was it wishful thinking?

"Are you still awake?" asked Arya.

Tyrion jolted in the chair, cursing his tiredness for forgetting his guest. "Yes, sorry. Just thinking."

"Let's say I believe you." Arya moved to the edge of the chaise, holding an envelope out to him. "I need you to do something for me. It's Sansa's name day next week and I doubt we'll be back by then. I've already arranged my gift, I just need you to give her this envelope."

Tyrion turned it in his good hand, noting the location and time on the front. "Instructions?"

"For you. It's important you give her the envelope then and there."

"Of course," said Tyrion. A frown pulled at his face. "I never thought…Sansa's name day – I've nothing to give her."

"I'm sure she's not expecting something from you given your situation."

He bit his lip, guilt gnawing at his heart. Of course he needed to get her a gift – after all she'd done for him it was unthinkable to not honour her name day.

Arya rolled her eyes. "Don't worry, you don't need to get her anything."

"I want to." He swallowed. "She deserves the best."

"On that we'll disagree," said Arya. Her eyes strayed to his table. "Why not give her one of your drawings? I'm sure she'd love that."

"Why would she want one of my scribblings, unless she wants to laugh?"

"You never show her, do you? She's curious, she won't laugh and…" Arya grimaced. "She'll think it's sweet."

Did Sansa wonder what he drew? She never asked him and he assumed her silence was to salvage his pride, but there was nothing he was keeping from her. Maybe, he could give her one if Arya thought she'd like it.

"I'll consider your suggestion," he said, "thank you Arya."

"I'll consider us even if you do me a favour."

He lifted the envelope. "Other than this?"

"I thought you wanted to be a bastard servant of house Stark?"

A few weeks ago speaking out of turn or asking questions would have terrified him, but without realising it he'd grown more comfortable in Winterfell, and with Sansa's family.

"I am a bastard dwarf in service to the Queen in the North," he said, "and by her grace's order I am not to serve you in any capacity."

Arya snorted. "Typical Sansa."

"I might still consider doing you a favour, I suppose," said Tyrion, leaning back in his chair.

Arya moved to her feet, her grey eyes watching him with a wolfish intensity. "You'll like this one Hill; I need you to look after Sansa while we're away."

"Of course, though I doubt she needs me – Sansa is the strongest person I know."

"Exactly. She hides it well but she's not always as well as she appears. You know she has nightmares."

His chest tightened at the memories of Sansa crying in her sleep. He'd woken her several times on his late-night walks, a clear sign the Queen was still haunted by her past. And why wouldn't she be? Tyrion couldn't imagine a time when he would forget the horrors of Kings Landing.

"I'll do whatever I can," said Tyrion, "I promise I'll be here for her."

"Good," said Arya, nodding. "You handle Sansa and we'll handle Bran, though you are getting the worst end of the deal."

"Not true," he said. Spending time with Sansa was a privilege he was keen to not squander.

Tyrion was still lost in thought when the room went dark. He jerked in the chair, grabbing at the heavy material that had fallen over him. His panic quickly subsided as he recognised the familiar blue patchwork blanket. It was on the bed, how had it…

The thought trailed off as his eyes found Arya now standing at the door, where a moment ago she'd been next to him.

"How did you do that?"

Her mouth twitched upwards. "Enjoy your nap Hill."

It wasn't a good idea. As far as Godwin was concerned, the risk far outweighed the potential reward, but while Jon Snow had welcomed his opinion he wasn't going to heed his advice. All Godwin could do was watch and hope Drogon wasn't hungry.

Over his time at Winterfell, Godwin had seen Drogon a number of times with Jon. While he suspected the Starks included him out of mistrust he found he didn't mind. The animosity between Stark and Lannister ran deep, and while he'd grown rather fond of the Starks he didn't particularly care if the feeling was mutual. After all, he was here to serve Tyrion, and until King Bran could accept Tyrion's letter that is exactly what he would do. While Tyrion wanted nothing to do with the Lannister name, it did nothing to override their duty as servants of house Lannister.

Godwin's shoulders dropped as he led his horse along. Serving the Lannisters hadn't always been easy, but at one time he'd believed it was honourable. After Tywin and Cersei, Godwin could sympathise with Tyrion's desire to cut ties with his family. The horrors he'd suffered were unthinkable, but some part of Godwin held out hope Tyrion might reconsider. Until the matter was settled he would serve him dutifully. Tyrion had great affection for the Starks - working with them might go some way to convince him not all Lannister guards are cruel.

"Not what I was expecting."

Jon's voice quickly drew his focus to their destination. Godwin slowed his horse as the black dragon came into view. By all accounts, Drogon had been irritable and restless for weeks. The last time Godwin saw him the dragon had been stomping around the field, but now Drogon was perfectly still. Glowing red eyes watched their approach and a hint of unease slipped through Godwin.

Ghost had joined them soon after they left Winterfell, and it was the white wolf Godwin watched. The dragon and the wolf stared at each other across the clearing. Drogon's gaze never faltered, but Ghost snarled, gnashing his teeth in the dragon's direction.

"I don't think he approves," said Godwin.

"Ghost has no choice," sad Jon. "Drogon is the quickest way to reach Kings Landing. I'll go ahead and relay any information to Arya and our men. She's going to take them the quickest way possible, but if I can get there first we'll at least know what we're dealing with."

"It isn't my place to offer you advice," said Godwin, "but I'd be remiss if I didn't warn you against this. The dragon…something is wrong."

"I agree." Jon smiled sadly. "I don't know what's going on with Drogon. He's been unpredictable since we arrived in the North, and that's why I can't leave him here. I'm the only one with a hope of controlling him – if I left him here he could burn Winterfell to the ground."

"The situation is difficult," agreed Godwin.

Jon swung off his horse, turning his attention to Ghost. "You don't like this but I have to go with Drogon. Stay here and protect Sansa."

Ghost growled at Jon, his red eyes darting between the dragon and his master. It was unsettling. Godwin had come across Ghost many times and found him a quiet, calm presence – now his agitation only furthered the idea that this was a mistake.

"Enough," said Jon, hardening his tone. "I have to go to Bran, and Drogon is the fastest way to get there. You can go back North, go to Tyrion if you want, but whatever warning you're trying to give I can't understand."

As unsettling as Drogon's behaviour was, Jon's was little better. It simply didn't fit the Jon Snow he'd come to know. The Starks trusted their wolves, but Jon was refusing to listen to his. Godwin looked closer at Jon. The boy had dark circles around his eyes and the look of a man haunted – Godwin had seen enough men after battle to know the look. Was it guilt for what he did to Daenerys, nightmares, worry for his brother? Godwin had no way of knowing and it wasn't his place to ask. He'd offered Jon his advice but it was ultimately his decision.

Drogon's eyes were fixed on Jon as he made his final preparation to approach the dragon, and Godwin could only hope this wouldn't be his last conversation with Jon Snow.

The wind whipped around her, but Daenerys didn't feel it. She hadn't felt much since the flames brought her back to life, but thinking back, she struggled to remember the last time she felt anything at all. It wasn't with Daario in Mereen. Cutting ties with him had been as easy as cutting a stray hair. With Jon, perhaps? That would be more natural – they both had the blood of the dragon in their veins, however much Jon wanted to deny it.

The thought of Jon sent a twinge through her back and chest, right where the wound from his sword lay. It was one of the few things she could feel and the pain reminded her of what now had to happen. Westeros had refused to kneel for her. After all she'd sacrificed for the throne they'd betrayed her, but Daenerys would remind them it was dangerous to betray a dragon.

She glanced at Dragonstone behind her. The castle had been easy enough to take from the small garrison holding it in the false King's name. Lord Lydden had warned her to stay hidden, to wait for the moment to strike. He forgot himself. The lords of the Westerlands had been useful to her, but she was a Queen. For now, she had no choice but to wait. News that Sansa Stark was Queen in the North had infuriated her almost as much as hearing how Tyrion Lannister still lived. She pursed her lips. By all accounts, he'd suffered horrendously at Cersei's hand and it was unknown what sort of state he was in. Daenerys was confident he would be broken. Tyrion was too weak to survive a trial of fire and blood – he was too little. A smile curved over her lips. He'd looked so offended when she'd used that word to describe Jon Snow, quickly pointing to his own battle experience as if to prove himself worthy. At the time she'd thought him a friend and humored him, but if he'd ever entertained the idea she'd be interested in him he was a fool. Tyrion was no warrior, or leader, or King – he was a broken man desperate for connection. The only woman who would want him had to be broken too, and Daenerys knew Sansa Stark was damaged, however she tried to hide it.

The mother of dragons turned in the direction of Kings Landing, to where her throne waited. She would kill the usurper. She would claim her throne. Sansa and Tyrion needed to be punished but her once enemy had claimed that task. It was the only thing Cersei Lannister wanted and despite their differences, Daenerys didn't mind letting her take it up. The throne had been both of their goals, but Cersei was willing to forgo it in favour of revenge. A true Queen wouldn't do that, and Daenerys knew where her duties lay. Cersei's revenge would serve them both, and Daenerys could take what was hers.

It wasn't something she could do alone, nor could she rely on the army lord Lydden claimed to be building. She scoffed. It was laughable – the man's only hope of control is by controlling Tyrion, which should be easy enough given the state of him.

The men could play their games, but Daenerys had learned long ago not to rely on men. She lifted her eyes to the horizon, reaching out with her Valyrian blood. The Iron Throne was hers, and she would take it with fire and blood.