Chapter 29
Sansa had thought the first day would be the worst, but it was actually the second. The first day without Jon and Arya passed in a blur, mostly because Winterfell was distracted by the news of the attacks on King Bran. The gossip spread quickly when volunteers and Stark soldiers began making travel preparations. The first day of their absence had swept by in gossip and well wishes for Bran. The second day was when Sansa realised exactly how right Tyrion was.
The lords of her council wished Bran well, and they'd all sent some men to go with Arya and Jon, but on the second day after their departure, all focus was back on the North. Bran's name never came up, nor did Arya or Jon's. Tyrion had warned her of this, warned that the North would no longer be interested in the six kingdoms, but it was only now she could see how true it was, and it was a painful truth to swallow.
Sansa reminded herself this was what she wanted - to be free from the six kingdoms. What a naive hope that had been. She could never be separate from the six kingdoms when her family and allies were there – some part of her would always be invested.
The Queen's fingers wound tightly around the arms of her throne as she heard petitions. The great hall was packed. Was it always this busy, or did she just notice it more today, now she was alone? She drew in a breath, schooling her features into a cold mask. This shouldn't bother her – Jon and Arya hardly ever came to her court sessions – it hadn't bothered her before.
'Yes, but you knew they were still close too,' whispered her mind. 'Now you're alone again.'
The thought sent her heart pounding, but Sansa couldn't lose control. Not here. Not in public. She nodded for the next petitioner to step forwards, a man with greying hair in a loose bun behind him. Sansa tried to focus on the man before her, but her mind wanted to focus on everything else instead. Her eyes strayed over the red and gold uniforms spread throughout the hall. She'd sent as many men with Jon and Arya as she could spare, meaning the Lannister guards were now covering more duties. Trusting Godwin wasn't the problem, but trusting his men was. They knew Tyrion sought to be rid of them; they knew their presence here was extended only because King Bran could neither accept nor deny Tyrion's surrender. Men without a purpose could be dangerous, and Godwin was the only true authority over them. The sight of them guarding the great hall unnerved her – it was little wonder Tyrion shied away from leaving the family corridors.
A slight smile tugged at her mouth. For weeks she'd told Tyrion he needn't fear the Lannister guards and now here she sat doing the same. The absence of her family had unsettled her and the lack of Winterfell guards was making it worse, but she had to move past it. The North needed her and the Lannister guards had done nothing since their arrival to earn her distrust. Besides, if she hoped to convince Tyrion that he was safe here she could hardly hide herself.
'I'll do it for you,' she thought.
Poor Tyrion had asked if there was any way he could help her this morning but Sansa was not selfish enough to ask him to come here. The meeting with the lords had pushed him outside his comfort zone and Sansa had no intention of pushing him too hard – she knew his interest in politics was gone and his confidence in handling such matters was shattered. For now, she'd take what small victories she could. Spending the morning together, having him beside her at dinner – it was enough that he was trying.
Rather than focus on what was missing, Sansa let her mind wander upstairs instead. They were both doing the best they could. She would endure down here, silencing the voices that whispered she was alone. Tyrion was facing his own struggles upstairs. The Maester was probably with him now, guiding him through exercises that would help to rebuild his strength. More than anything she wanted to be with him, offering support, but Tyrion had insisted she not forgo her duties for him and promised he would be fine.
"You have your duties, Sansa," he said, forcing a smile. "I'm sure I can survive some time with Wolkan."
"He's not going to hurt you, I promise you that. Are you sure you'll be all right? I'm happy to be here with you."
His eyes betrayed him, but his tone was upbeat as he answered. "Don't worry my Queen, as a bastard dwarf in your service I should be making your life easier, not more difficult."
"You do make it easier."
"Gods know how," he said. "I've not forgotten either. I will find a role you'll approve of and then I can serve you properly – I've no intention of taking your hospitality for free."
"It's offered freely and always will be."
He smiled. "You're too kind to me."
That wasn't true. If Sansa was truly kind she'd be honest with Tyrion and tell him exactly how she felt, rather than let this awkward dance continue. It was impossible. She'd lost too much to risk her heart, and while Tyrion always met her halfway crossing the line required a step she hadn't the courage to take.
'How do I tell you the truth, my love?' she mused. 'I know you're waiting for my lead, but I'm scared. I thought love was the easiest thing in the world – what a stupid girl I was. It's so hard Tyrion, and I don't want to lose you. If I asked you to be my Prince, would you do it?'
The throne suddenly seemed uncomfortable beneath Sansa. Without it, would she have more courage to follow her heart? Moving forwards with Tyrion was complicated. Marriage to her meant marriage to the crown and by extension the North, it meant responsibility Tyrion was more than capable of carrying but now lacked the desire to carry.
Maybe she'd find the right words, the right time and enough courage. For now, she contented herself with having him here and knowing she wasn't truly alone.
"I understand your mistrust Tyrion, but I am not Qyburn no more than he was a Maester. He was a monster who assumed our title and disgraced it. He was expelled from the Citadel because of his lack of ethics."
Tyrion swallowed. "Disowned but not killed."
Maester Wolkan's head dropped forwards. "Maesters are not made for such decisions, but at the very least his behaviour at the Citadel should have raised more questions and his conduct should have been referred to those who could punish more severely than us. It was an oversight."
An oversight? Tyrion might have laughed if he wasn't the joke. Qyburn should have been stopped years before he wormed his way into Cersei's service. How much pain and suffering had Qyburn caused between his expulsion from the Citadel and becoming Hand of the Queen? Tyrion knew first-hand what the monster was capable of, but it wasn't just Qyburn who clouded his mind. Recently, other images had surfaced, of men in grey robes pinning him to a table and tearing something from his hands.
Tyrion frowned at the incomplete memory. Every night he was persecuted by memories and nightmares, blending seamlessly together to create a new kind of torture. All night he lay awake trying to make sense of it, but the only thing it brought him was exhaustion in the day. Terribly inconvenient, particularly when he'd agreed to let Wolkan help him rebuild some strength. The Maester had shown up not long ago and rather than go straight to his injuries the old man had sat talking to him first.
'Easing my fears no doubt, like how one would comfort a frightened child,' he thought, a sour taste filling his mouth. It was pathetic – a sign of how low he'd fallen – but the fear was real enough. Wolkan was an old man and Tyrion had no reason to distrust him, but that rational part of his mind was buried beneath layers of hurt.
"Tyrion, if I may ask, what precisely are you afraid of?" asked Wolkan. "Not just here and now, but what specific fear acts as your warden?"
His fingers tightened on the arm of the chair. "You're the Maester, I think you're supposed to tell me."
"How could I? Only you know the answer."
The last thing Tyrion wanted to do was try and understand himself and then explain whatever mess he found to Wolkan. He'd only agreed to the Maester's help because Sansa had encouraged him to do so. It was easier to agree to these things when she was around as if she amplified whatever crumb of courage he had inside.
Tyrion's stomach twisted uncomfortably. He had to try and be better, or at least as better as he could be. Sansa's discomfort at her family's departure was obvious and he dearly wanted to be of some help to her but he couldn't do that without first helping himself.
"Alright, I'll play your game," said Tyrion. Deep down he knew his fears well, but admitting them wasn't easy. "I'm weak. Wherever I go I'm vulnerable."
"Hmm, and did this fear bother you before Kings Landing?"
"No more than being accused of murder a few times would worry a man."
"Why the change?"
Tyrion snorted. "It's bloody obvious."
"Is it? Your captivity certainly spawned this fear, but why do you have it now, when you're safe in Winterfell and surrounded by allies?"
"I can't forget what happened," snapped Tyrion.
"Nor should you. I merely wish to understand why you're so wary in Winterfell. Do you not feel safe here?"
"I do."
"You doubt Queen Sansa's authority? She would not allow you to be insulted, let alone harmed."
"Of course I don't doubt her."
Wolkan laced his fingers together in the opposite chair. "Then tell me why you feel vulnerable here. I understand your unease in the unfamiliar, but for weeks and weeks, you've trodden the same paths with little variety. You leave your chambers now, but you're still a prisoner of your own making."
Tyrion's chest tightened as his good fingers curled into a fist. "You want to know what's different? Look at me! I'm a cripple, I'm weak – anyone could turn on me and I would be helpless."
The Maester scoffed. "Forgive me Tyrion, I didn't realise you used your right hand to defend yourself. I'm sure the loss of your sword hand is devastating."
"I…I never used a sword…"
"Your hand is ruined but your weakness is not a permanent state. By all accounts, the Maesters who first worked on you thought it better to let you die – considering that I'd say your recovery so far is quite remarkable – and still a work in progress. Hardly a sign of weakness."
He shook his head. "Sansa did that for me."
"Respectfully, our Queen did not. She fought to give you a chance but only you could take it. Queen Sansa wasn't the one who helped you to walk – from what I've heard you taught yourself to walk again with only a direwolf as a witness."
"I see your point…"
"Do you? You are far from weak or crippled, Tyrion. Physical strength is not yours but it never was. As to being helpless, well, you surrendered your titles and power. Even so, you're far from helpless. The Winterfell household will defend you and the Starks treat you as family. It is not my place to speak for the Queen but I'm sure you realise what position you hold for her."
Heat rose to his cheeks at the Maester's suggestion. The thought of Sansa and what she may want from him was overwhelming – it was better to focus on the present – not the past or future. He would try his best for Sansa and see where that path led as he walked it. The rest of the Maester's points were equally valid, though he was loathed to admit it. No one had threatened him at Winterfell. He rarely saw the Lannister guards and if he did they usually tried to greet him. The Stark guards were always friendly towards him too, a fact that only added further weight to what Sansa's intention may be.
Tyrion rubbed his thumb against the bottom of the direwolf ring. He could get through this for Sansa. Whatever her plans for him were, the only certainty he had in life was to do what he could to help her. She deserved everything, and whatever he had to offer was hers.
He turned his attention to the old Maester, waiting patiently in the chair opposite. "Alright, fix me then."
Brienne had thought many things about Podrick over the years of their friendship. At first, she'd found him clumsy and annoying, though she'd quickly come to appreciate his positive qualities. Through all the good and bad thoughts, Brienne had never thought him mad until now.
"You saw the King?" she asked.
"I spoke to him," said Pod, "he saved me from a shadow monster."
"And this monster-"
"Exactly how you described the shadow that killed Renly Baratheon."
Brienne studied her former squire. Pod had told them all the same story since the night of the wildfire attack, and hadn't strayed from it once. If anyone else had told such a story they would be thought mad and utterly discredited, but it was Podrick Payne telling it and he was a trusted source.
"You don't believe me," he said, a sad smile on his face.
Brienne straightened in her seat. "If anyone else told me I wouldn't, but I trust you Podrick. It just seems beyond belief that you could see Bran."
"I don't understand it myself, but it was real – just like the shadow that attacked me."
That was the other part of the story that made Brienne inclined to believe. She'd witnessed Renly's death and what Pod described matched up perfectly with her memory of that night.
"Well then, we know the enemies we're looking for," said Brienne.
"The lord of light," said Pod, furrowing his brow. "Stannis allied with them, but since then there have been very few followers in Westeros."
"That we know of."
"Power like this can't be the work of one person."
Brienne nodded, her mind already racing. This was surely the reason behind Bran's sight problems and why he had yet to wake. Samwell and the other Maesters could find no reason for him to still be unconscious. The lord commander rose from the chair, her joints creaking. The past weeks had been hard, but the real work was yet to begin.
"Come on then Podrick, if there are enemies in Kings Landing it's past time we routed them out."
The quiet of the castle was unsettling, and on some level, Sansa feared what the shadows held, but it was a nice escape from her chambers. When the nightmares of Ramsay struck, the room never felt safe after – she never felt safe after. In the four days since her family left, Sansa's dreams had only gotten worse. The day-to-day running of the castle didn't change much without them, but Sansa knew she changed without them. The only high point was Tyrion. She knew he was pushing himself to move beyond his comfort zone. He'd only just begun joining them for dinner before Jon and Arya left and in their absence, he'd continued to do so. As much as she loved having him beside her, she almost wished he'd skip a night and rest instead.
The Queen treaded softly down the dark corridors, engaging in Tyrion's habit of midnight walks. Taking dinner in the great hall with them was a great step forwards, but Sansa wasn't oblivious to how it unsettled Tyrion. He was on edge throughout dinner and never actually ate with them. It would be easy enough to send for soup or something he was comfortable with, but Sansa would not embarrass him like that – nor would Tyrion let himself eat anything that required both hands. Her stomach churned uncomfortably at the thought of his eating habits, knowing he couldn't carry on like that forever. At least he was now accepting the Maester's help to rebuild his strength, and with any luck that would translate into accepting his limitations and adapting to them.
Her feet carried her around the corridors and around them again. With every step, Ramsay's ghost got a little further away. It was by chance she drew close to Tyrion's chambers, or at least it was a subconscious choice. He'd looked exhausted for days and she knew from the Winterfell guards his insomnia often left him wandering the corridors at night.
Sansa had no intention of disturbing him, but that changed the closer she got. It was hard to tell what alerted her first, whether it was the mumbled cry that reached her ears or simply instinct for her husband. It didn't matter which it was, Sansa wasted no time in reaching the door. The Queen pressed her ear against the wood, quickly picking out the gasping breaths and stifled distress of Tyrion. Where her night terrors were loud and begged for help, Tyrion's distress was always more subdued. She'd noticed as much in Kings Landing. However scared and not himself he was, Tyrion's upset had always been quiet and self-contained, as if he'd long gotten used to no one caring and expected no comfort.
The idea broke her heart, but it wouldn't be true tonight – it would never be true again. She eased the door open, quickly finding her way to Tyrion. As expected, he was curled in his blankets with his face half buried in his pillow.
It occurred to Sansa that he might not welcome her presence or support, but he woke her often enough from her own terror – the least she could do was return the favour.
"Tyrion," she called softly. "You're ok, wake up."
She lit the torch near his bed, illuminating the tight expression on his face as he squirmed beneath the sheets. Ghost wasn't with him, a fact she found unusual. When not with Jon, the direwolf had taken a liking to Tyrion and Sansa suspected he slept better when Ghost was nearby, not that he was in danger in Winterfell.
"You're safe," she said, brushing the back of her hand against his cheek. "The nightmares can't hurt you Tyrion, open your eyes – you're at home in Winterfell."
A few minutes was all it took. Sansa restrained herself to the least she could do, keenly aware of how uncomfortable Tyrion could be with physical touch. The last thing she wanted was to startle him, but even as she perched on the edge of the bed beside him she knew he didn't mind her touch. A smile pulled at her mouth, already he looked more relaxed. He blinked wearily as the nightmare lost its hold on him, and his eyes found her sitting beside him.
"Sansa?" he said sleepily. "Am I dreaming?"
Her heart fluttered. "You were, but I think you're awake now."
"I don't feel very awake."
"I know what you mean, I feel like I'll never sleep properly again."
It shouldn't be this difficult. She couldn't sleep, he couldn't sleep – would they sleep better together?
'You know you would,' whispered her mind. 'You could hold him all night.'
A lump formed in Sansa's throat. More than anything she loved being close to Tyrion, but sharing a bed with a man was a different matter entirely. Sansa doubted she would ever be able to sleep in a shared bed, even if it was with Tyrion, whom she trusted implicitly. It was one of the main reasons she wavered on moving forwards with him. She would have to fulfil her duties as Queen and wife but she knew the bed would pose a problem. Tyrion deserved better than a woman afraid to sleep next to him.
The weight of the bed shifted slightly as Tyrion pushed himself upright. His face was pale and despite his smile, she knew his dreams must have been awful to disturb him so.
"If this isn't a dream, then I fear I've disturbed you, my Queen."
"Not at all. I couldn't sleep so I was trying your method of a midnight walk."
"Is it working?"
"Not really, but talking to you does make me feel better."
His eyes brightened. "Then talk we shall."
It was an easy choice to stay a while with Tyrion, and Sansa knew it was never really a choice at all. It would be heartless to wake Tyrion only to abandon him immediately after, and she wasn't ready to return to her own bed either. It didn't take long for them to position themselves on the chaise, watching the flames dance in the hearth. They brought spare blankets and were soon settled into the comfortable familiarity they shared. Sansa stifled a yawn, sinking deeper into the cushions. It was too comfortable with Tyrion; too easy to fall into her feelings for him.
She lifted her eyes from the fire to Tyrion. He seemed content enough now, but she knew his distress as well as he knew hers. Whatever mask they put on after nightmares did nothing to lessen the scars.
"I thought Ghost would be with you," said Sansa.
"He often joins me at night but he's hardly a reliable bed companion," said Tyrion. "I never knew direwolves could be so fickle."
"You'll have to make do with me," she said, adding quickly, "for a little while."
Stupid! Tyrion surely knew what she meant without her having to clarify it. A glance at him quickly soothed her embarrassment however – he was smiling and his eyes held the hint of mischief she'd come to adore.
"A more than fair trade," he said, "I do believe you're less likely to slobber on me."
"I'll keep my slobber to myself then."
"I never said it was a good thing."
Sansa's chest lightened, losing some of the strain her nightmares left there. "How do you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Make everything better."
A laugh fell from him. "Some could argue I make everything worse, but if I were to believe you I'd have to say it's because of you."
"Oh?"
"I simply can't stand to see you sad, and distracting you distracts me. You could say it works out well."
It certainly did. Sansa tried everything to shake the ghosts clinging to her, but nothing chased them away as quickly as Tyrion. If she could do even a tiny piece of that for him, she would do it in a heartbeat.
Sansa lost track of how long they sat there, trading idle chatter in between comfortable silences. The time she spent with Tyrion was always valuable, but when they found each other in the night like this it was a different type of companionship than what they shared during the day. It was an understanding that only existed between people who'd seen the worst of the world. The only other person Sansa had glimpsed a similar connection with was Theon Greyjoy.
An hour passed like this before Tyrion spoke of his nightmare, though Sansa had seen the indecision in his eyes for far longer.
"I wondered if you might help me with something," he said, fiddling with his direwolf ring. Once, she'd feared the ring would humiliate him but it pleased her to no end to see Tyrion use it as a source of comfort instead.
"Always."
"It's not the nicest question," he said lowering his head. "I find my dreams are often haunted by what happened in Kings Landing. I've got better at separating the memories from dreams, but some of them…they're lingering and I'm not sure."
"I'll help you however I can." Sansa chewed her lip, considering what he'd told her. "Is there a particular dream you're struggling with?"
Sansa was proud of how calm her voice managed to stay while her mind raced through everything he could be struggling to recall. More than once over the past few weeks she'd got the impression Tyrion remembered pieces of what occurred in Kings Landing, but Sansa couldn't decide if it was a good thing or not. Was it better he remain oblivious to those long, frightening weeks, or would the memories give him the closure he needed to heal? Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat. It didn't matter which it was – if Tyrion wanted answers she would give him to them, with complete honesty.
He still didn't look convinced it was a good idea, but after a few moments, he began to speak. "I've been having the same dream quite often, and I'm quite certain it's a memory, but there's part of it I don't understand."
Sansa waited, her heart thumping.
"I'm on a table," said Tyrion. "There are men in grey robes all around me. They start to…I don't know, there were a lot of voices. They started to grab me, and hold me down. I was holding something, but it was ripped away from me and then I couldn't move. Everything was worse." Troubled green eyes peered at her. "I don't suppose…do you know what I was holding? I feel like I should know, but I can't remember the details."
"I know the memory," said Sansa softly. "I'll tell you if that's what you want."
"Is it, well, is it particularly horrible?"
Sansa shook her head. "You remember most of it. I can fill in the blanks if you like."
Tyrion hesitated before nodding. "Please. It's driving me mad."
She reached for his damaged hand, giving him a light squeeze before rising from the chair. Instantly his face fell.
"You're leaving? I'm sorry, you don't have to tell me. We can talk about something else."
"I'm not going anywhere," she said, her mouth quirking up. "I'm only going to show you something. You haven't opened your trunk – do you mind if I get something from it?"
"Of course not."
More than once Sansa had noticed how Tyrion's belongings – packed from Dragonstone and brought North – had sat untouched in his chambers.
When he'd begun to recover she'd had them brought to his room, hoping it might help him settle into some normalcy, but he had yet to open them and the reason alluded Sansa. Was there nothing he wanted in there? He hadn't even opened them to check. She ran her hand along the trunk, keenly aware of her anxious husband watching her.
'My love, do you really think I'd leave because you opened up to me?' she thought. It didn't take long to find what she sought – it was exactly where she'd left it.
She turned back to Tyrion, holding the object for him to see.
"Gods be good," he said, scrunching his nose. "Who put that filthy rag in there?"
"I did. You were attached to it in Kings Landing and I wasn't sure you'd given it up completely. I meant to burn it, but if you wanted it again I thought it best to keep it in case."
His expression morphed several times as he comprehended her words, shifting from disgust to realisation and then shame. "That's the blanket from my cell."
Sansa approached him softly, retaking her place on the chaise but closer to Tyrion. She lay the blanket on his lap, brushing her hand against his in the process. "When we found you in the black cells you were wrapped in this, clutching it like your life depended on it."
"I remember now," he said furrowing his brow. "It was freezing, and that was all I had."
"You wouldn't let go of it," she said.
Tyrion nodded, rubbing the worn material between his fingers. "This is what I was clutching in the dream, wasn't it? Would you…do you mind telling me what happened?"
"I'll tell you anything you want to know. You can ask me anything Tyrion, and I promise I'll tell you the truth."
Sansa's heart lurched at the thought of what he could ask, but she knew it was the right thing to do. Tyrion deserved the truth about what had happened in Kings Landing and she would give it to him no matter how uncomfortable she felt.
"Thank you," he said. "It's not a pleasant subject, but some of the dreams I can't separate from reality. I think knowing the facts might help."
"If you're sure." Sansa shuffled closer to him, keen to offer her comfort if he would allow it. Much to her joy, he leaned into her, still fiddling with the worn blanket on his lap. "The memory you're dreaming of happened when we first rescued you. There was a team of Maesters working on you, and they all had their own ideas on treating you. Gallard was the most senior."
He snorted. "Why would a team of Maesters want to help the imp?"
"You're not an imp and I told them to save you."
"Ah. That makes sense – you were the most likely to claim the Iron Throne and they wanted your favour."
Sansa dropped her head. "There was no one else to make decisions for you. I didn't know what you would want, or who you would want but I promised I wouldn't leave you. I don't know if I got everything right, but I did it all with your best interests at heart and I hope you believe that."
"That's the only thing I'm certain of," he said. Bright green eyes met hers, haunted by his experience but sparking with warmth too. "There's no proper way to thank you for what you've done for me, but I'll spend the rest of my life trying to do so."
When she reached for his damaged hand he met her halfway, and nothing felt better than his fingers twitching against hers, doing all they could to squeeze her back.
They were wasting time, and they were completely oblivious to it.
Bran grimaced, watching his council once again go through the motions of a meeting. They were dealing with the letters to Varys, but the letters to himself remained frustratingly unopened. It wasn't the letters that bothered him – they were most likely from his family – it was everything else his council couldn't see. The Red Keep was compromised, infected by followers of the lord of the light like a disease.
They were clever. Brienne was nothing if not diligent, but she could hardly defend against an enemy she knew little of. His council knew the lord of light was involved, but while they wasted time searching for news of red priests in Westeros, the enemies were already here, and they'd learned from Stannis Baratheon. Where they'd once shared their faith openly with grand gestures and spectacle they now hid away, operating in the shadows and biding their time.
Bran knew this because he occupied the shadows too, stuck in this between world. The three-eyed raven watched his council debate whether to help this minor lord or that one, all the time wanting nothing more than to shout the truth in their ears.
"The enemies are already here," he said, knowing no one would hear him. "They're disguised as servants and guards – they're waiting for a signal."
Saying it aloud didn't help. It didn't matter what he said if no one could hear him.
The King sighed, once again bearing the burden of knowledge alone. They'd sent word to his family, and if Bran had to guess Jon and Arya would soon be on their way – a raven would probably arrive in the next day confirming such. He could only hope his family's presence moved things in a positive direction, rather than tip the fragile balance into chaos.
Bran's knowledge was for once limited to what he could see or hear in the present moment in the Red Keep. What was happening further afield was beyond anyone's control.
Tyrion eyed the tools before him as if they might reach out and bite.
They were woefully simple to use. No thought was required really, except if you were crippled, in which case the simple things became your worst enemy. Tyrion sighed, lifting the fork in his left hand. Reluctantly, he placed his ruined hand next to the knife.
It was tempting to toss the cutlery and stop torturing himself, but the problem wasn't going to fix itself and he'd waited long enough for a miracle. Tyrion liked to think it was a sign of the progress he'd made that the servants didn't hesitate when he asked for some spare cutlery. Even a few weeks ago, the question would have brought unwanted scrutiny and most likely a frantic knock at the door from Sansa. Whatever insanity had taken hold of him that fateful night no longer controlled him. Tyrion's rational mind knew there was no way to be rid of the wretched tattoos and he found avoiding mirrors and getting dressed with his eyes closed most useful in pretending they weren't there.
"Things would be easier if I could eat like you," said Tyrion, glancing sideways at Ghost. The direwolf had joined him after lunch and Tyrion was grateful for the company. If anyone thought he was talking to himself he could simply point to Ghost as his companion. "I'm not sure the Queen or lords would approve though. I do believe my presence offends some of the lords enough without eating like a wolf."
A lump of stale bread sat before him, oblivious to how it was to be desecrated by his attempts to use cutlery.
"Alright then," said Tyrion, "I suppose it's now or never to figure this out."
Try as he might, Tyrion knew it couldn't carry on much longer. For weeks and weeks he'd existed off bread and soups – anything he could eat that didn't require cutting or the use of two hands. At first, it didn't bother him. He had little to no appetite and eating three meals a day was challenging enough. Now the smell of meat and real food set his stomach growling. Just last night he'd almost drooled as the food was brought out at dinner. Since he'd started joining Sansa and the lords he'd avoided eating anything more than bread in front of them, and after several nights of this a servant had begun bringing a bowl of soup to his chambers after dinner, undoubtedly on the Queen's orders.
It was unsustainable. He knew the lords probably thought his behaviour strange and the last thing Tyrion wanted was to embarrass Sansa. If he was going to be around her in public he needed to at least act normal. It was only a matter of time anyway. He'd agreed to let Wolkan help him and the Maester had hinted that if he was moving around more and wanted to improve his strength it would be useful to eat more. That was as good as a threat, particularly given how Sansa kept asking him if there was anything he'd prefer to eat.
Did they think he was trying to starve? They were lucky he wasn't trying to lick the meat at dinner. He forced his eyes to his ruined hand, laying uselessly beside the knife. It wasn't a desire to eat but rather a desire to ignore the truth that make his stomach growl, and it was a situation he could no longer tolerate.
Tyrion lay his fingers against the knife's handle, focusing all his energy on making them twitch. The Maester's stretches did loosen the joints and make his hand less curled, but nothing could make his fingers move. The scar across the palm was neat and clinical – no one would guess at the agony that etched it there.
His heart fell with every brush of his fingers against the handle, but Tyrion set his jaw. This wasn't optional. One way or another, he had to find a way around this. Jamie had done so, as Bran Stark's last letter had reminded him some months ago.
'You lost a hand, not a stomach.'
"I hope you've no plans today Ghost," he murmured. "This could be a long afternoon."
The Queen was distracted today.
It was barely noticeable unless you knew her well, and while Maester Wolkan had seen her distracted on several occasions he'd never seen her so persistently distracted. She'd been this way since Jon Snow and Arya Stark left. While neither of them was involved in the politics of the North their presence in Winterfell did appear to soothe the Queen. In their absence, Queen Sansa's only source of comfort was the man she danced with. Together, but apart. Committed without any words to speak.
Watching the Queen and the Prince do this dance was exhausting enough – Wolkan could hardly imagine participating in it. In his opinion, Queen Sansa would be far more comfortable if she made her position with Tyrion official. There was no real reason not to. The lords of the North either knew or at least expected her intentions. The Winterfell household treated Tyrion as if he were Prince consort, no matter how often he calls himself Tyrion Hill.
Wolkan watched the Queen as the meeting progressed. Normally, she was fully engaged but today she was a passenger in the meeting rather than its leader, though it was fortunate the lords wouldn't notice. It was only when the last of them left that the Queen allowed her mask to fall. She slumped in her chair rubbing the back of her neck tiredly.
"I didn't think they'd stop," she said.
"They seemed to find many ways to say very little."
"They want my time, though it isn't theirs to waste."
The old Maester bit his tongue – he knew who the Queen's time belonged to, but it wasn't for him to make such an observation. "It's the burden of your position, your Grace."
"Not one I care for." She sighed, lifting her eyes to him. "How is Tyrion managing?"
"Quite well, your Grace. I like to think he's coming to see me as an ally rather than a threat, but I fear his experience with Qyburn has made him wary."
"Understandable."
"Of course, though if he'd allowed me to help him earlier he might be in a better position now. Tyrion taught himself to walk – a great mark of his progress – but doing so without proper advice has caused his limp. Rather than strengthen his injured leg he's learned to compensate on his stronger side. Breaking the habit will be difficult but I've no doubt it will improve his mobility. As for his shoulder, well, he's ignored it entirely. That and his hand will require more time, but Tyrion is doing the work. He seems rather determined, which couldn't be said when he first arrived here."
A smile flitted across the Queen's mouth, wiping away her earlier distraction. "Good. Is he getting enough rest? He looks tired whenever I see him."
"He is more active, my Queen, and tiredness is to be expected in the short term. I've suggested he should eat more to boost his energy, but you know how he feels about his hand."
"He can't live off soup forever."
"Certainly not, but I'm keen to not push him before he is ready. I've found he takes instruction best when it sounds least like an order."
Sansa laughed. "I can imagine. Even before Kings Landing he wouldn't take orders from anyone other than who he served – I suppose he's more subtle about it now."
"I've found it's easier to point him in the right direction and let him work at his own pace. Tyrion takes his confidence from his mind, and after the trauma he's endured I'd say it's important he takes charge."
"He might call himself a bastard, but he is a lord. Tyrion can take charge as he likes, as long as he is well."
A look of longing passed over the Queen's face and Wolkan couldn't help but wonder if she wished the Prince would take charge of more matters than his health.
"This is a great undertaking. One wrong move could destroy everything – it's so fragile…"
Yvette nodded along as Tyrion exhausted ways to tell her how important this was. His worries were completely out of proportion with reality, but it was his anxiety doing the talking. A smile tugged at her mouth, it was sweet really. Queen Sansa's name day was a big occasion, without a doubt, but Yvette knew she would be happy with anything from Tyrion. Their relationship wasn't so fragile either, at least from what Yvette saw – it would take a lot to turn the Queen away from her chosen Prince.
The Prince in question had stopped his pacing and now leaned against the back of the chaise, fiddling with his patchwork blanket folded neatly on the back. Since agreeing to let the Maester help him Tyrion had doubled down his efforts to help himself. There was barely a time she'd visited him the last few days where he wasn't pacing back and forth or stretching his shoulder.
"What do you think?" asked Tyrion.
Yvette blinked. There'd been a question hidden in all that?
"I think the Queen will be happy, whether you get her a gift or not," said Yvette. "She knows you don't leave Winterfell – she won't expect anything."
"She deserves something."
"Like what?"
"Everything." Tyrion dropped his eyes to his blanket, rubbing the material. "Did you know Sansa gave this to me? She saw how attached I was to some disgusting rag and got me this instead."
"Most kind of her Grace."
"Sansa said she asked me what colour and I said blue. I don't think anyone has done that before – asked me what I would like and then do something for no reason but to make me happy." A smile curved over his face. "It feels nice."
Yvette's throat tightened, even as she nodded her agreement. It was easy to look at Tyrion and see the surface, or at least it had been easy. He'd been judged by his family name, his size, his vices – beneath that was a different matter. The Lannister name brought riches and benefits most could only dream of, but the more she got to know Tyrion the more lacking she found it. For a single, basic kindness to evoke such joy in him the life he'd lived must have been devoid of any true care.
"The Queen thinks highly of you," she said, "her care was always guided by that."
"I think rather a lot of Sansa too," said Tyrion, "and I'd like to show her, but I'm not sure how."
"You mentioned lady Arya's suggestion – it seems a good one."
"Really?" He pursed his lips. "Sansa is a Queen; my scribblings aren't good enough."
"Do you think the Queen values expense over sentiment? I'm only a servant, but I do know women, and Queen Sansa is the kind who cherishes the personal."
"That wasn't always the case."
"Maybe not, but I'd say it is now."
Tyrion tilted his head, a thoughtful look crossing his face. It was always uncomfortable offering her opinions to the Prince, but Yvette knew it was what he wanted. There were few people he trusted and for him to confide in her, Yvette considered herself lucky, though it did mean having to offer a clear perspective. Yvette suspected he knew how Queen Sansa would cherish any gift from him, he simply didn't want to accept it.
"Very well," he said, "I'll see if I have any scribbles fit for a Queen. That leaves only my backup gift to deal with."
"A backup?"
He nodded. "Whether my first gift is poorly received or not, I need more. Will you help me?"
Yvette smiled, quickly agreeing. The Prince did not need to ask her when he could so easily order her, but a request bought loyalty where an order rarely did.
Had it really been a week since Jon and Arya left? It felt so much longer, no matter how she tried to distract herself with Tyrion.
Sansa might have felt the difference of her family's absence, but the rest of Winterfell traipsed along without change. There were meetings, court sessions, and endless correspondence – enough to drive anyone mad. The role of Queen was a heavy burden, but it was one she'd felt more comfortable bearing with her family around. The only bright spot in her days was Tyrion. To her joy, he'd continued joining her and the lords for dinner, though he ate very little, and by all reports, he was putting great effort into his work with Wolkan.
Since waking him the other night something had changed between them. It was as if Tyrion confiding his dreams and subsequent confusion had helped them pass an unseen hurdle. He seemed more at ease around her and over the past few days, she'd learned much about her husband.
The heat emanating from Tyrion's room was enough to warm anyone who passed outside his door. Having been consumed by court this morning, the Queen had decided to call on Tyrion after lunch.
"Feeling the cold?" she asked, closing the door with a soft click.
Tyrion grinned at her, brandishing a stack of papers in one hand as the fire roared behind him. "I found an excellent way to keep the hearth burning."
Heat prickled Sansa's skin as she moved closer to him. Tyrion wasn't the only one enjoying the heat. Ghost lay not far from the fire, his red eyes occasionally flicking around the room.
Her stomach lurched. "Not your drawings, right?"
"I'm sure they'd burn equally well, but I admit to being oddly attached to them."
"As you should be," said Sansa. "What are you burning then?"
"The past," he said, nodding to the side of the room.
Sure enough, the trunk of his belongings was open, and Sansa glimpsed a pile of documents set aside, most likely waiting their turn to burn. The trunk had gathered dust for weeks and as far as she knew Tyrion had shown no interest in it, but something had clearly changed his mind and she couldn't help but wonder if it was showing him the ragged blanket the other night. Whatever it was, she was pleased to see him taking action – even if it was to burn most of his belongings.
"Do you not want any of this?" she asked, lifting a stack of papers.
"It's a waste," said Tyrion, "it's nearly all work I did for her. Want to set fire to it?"
The afternoon passed like that. Tyrion sorted through his trunk and the boxes of his belongings, and Sansa helped him set fire to it all. Nothing was private. Tyrion warmed up almost as much as the fire, telling her stories behind several of the documents and pointing out the politics to her. Sansa doubted he was aware of it, but Tyrion was unwittingly confirming the skill he had for politics and making Sansa more certain than ever that he would make an excellent consort. It was a side of him she'd rarely seen since Kings Landing, but one she dearly missed. By the time they neared the bottom, Tyrion's possessions had been reduced to almost nothing and it was a miracle Winterfell hadn't caught fire from the blazing hearth.
It was the sudden quiet that caught her attention. All afternoon she'd had the joy of Tyrion's voice – warm and confident – filling the room. It made the absence all the more worrying.
"Everything all right?" she asked, watching him lean over the trunk.
"I'm fine," he said. Tyrion turned back to her, a length of cut black leather in his hand. "Never thought I'd see this again."
"Brienne took some men to clean out your chambers at Dragonstone. We didn't know what you would want so we packed everything."
"Do you know what this is?" he asked, holding it aloft.
"I've heard of what kind of trade goes on in Essos." She held her tongue from saying more. While Sansa had seen it in Kings Landing and eventually learned the truth from Grey Worm and Missandei, it was Tyrion's story to tell.
He stepped closer to her, his green eyes watching hers intently. "This was around my neck. Ser Jorah Mormont and I were caught by slavers and sold at an auction – this was around my neck from then until I met Daenerys Targaryen."
"I'm sorry, Tyrion – you never should have gone through that."
"It matters little to me now." A bitter smile crossed his face. "I actually thought those days in chains gave me an insight into slavery. As if it was in any way comparable to the experience of those who'd spent their lives in chains. Missandei pointed out my ignorance then, that my experience was enough to know but not to understand – how right she was. After what happened to me in Kings Landing, well, I realise now how bloody arrogant I sounded."
Sansa sought the right words, but they wouldn't come. Tyrion seemed to sense her struggle for he shook his head.
"I can't change the past or my foolishness. But the past can change the future…"
"No," she said instantly. "It changes nothing."
He ducked his head. "You would be well within your rights to request an annulment. I know our arrangement protects you from unwanted suitors but I've no wish to shame you either. If word got out-"
"Nothing changes." Sansa forced her voice to be steady. "If word gets out the lords of the North will have another reason to admire your resilience."
Tyrion's eyes returned to her, lingering on hers with a hunger she feared her own expression held. So close, so far. Was now the time to risk it all? The moment stretched on until it became uncomfortable. Tyrion broke contact first, tossing the collar onto the hearth.
He smiled. "The past burns beautifully, wouldn't you agree?"
Sansa was drawn from her musings by a sharp tug of hair.
"Begging your pardon your Grace," said the servant, dropping her head forwards.
The memory of the other day drifted quickly away as Sansa was forced back to the present. She almost tilted off her stool when she glimpsed the mirror. In her distraction, the servant had continued her work, preparing Sansa as if she was going to a great event and not dinner in the Great Hall.
"What's the occasion?" asked Sansa.
"It is your name day, your Grace."
While the day was hardly a secret Sansa had insisted on a low-key affair given the struggles of the North to find its footing after years of war. The lords present in the castle had celebrated at lunch with her, as planned, but her original plan had been a quiet family dinner in the evening. With Jon and Arya gone that plan had fallen apart and regular dinner in the Great Hall would have to do, but that did not require this level of dressing up.
"May I finish, your grace?" asked the servant, hovering nervously behind.
Some game was afoot here, but the quickest way to answers was to go along with it. Ten minutes later Sansa was dressed up as if she were going to a great feast.
"I'm to go to dinner like this?" asked Sansa, studying her reflection.
The servant shook her head. "I'm to give you this note, my Queen."
Sansa lifted an eyebrow but quickly read the note. It was written in the Maester's hand, but she knew the instructions had not come from him – it was far more likely he was following someone else's instructions.
"Very well," said Sansa. "Thank you. I can find this room myself."
Sansa was Queen in the North and lady of Winterfell, but she didn't like not being in control. It didn't matter that the castle was her home, or that she suspected who was behind this – the ghost of Ramsay lurked in every shadow. Still, she waved her guards off when they offered to escort her. No matter what, she would not be intimidated in her home. Besides, the room wasn't far, though it was tucked away in a quiet part of the castle.
Despite her intentions, Sansa's anxiety grew with every step. A persistent voice in her mind whispered it was a trap, but Sansa ignored it in favour of logic. Still, she could barely contain her relief when she arrived at the room and saw Tyrion standing in front of the door. He was dressed in a fine navy doublet with gold trim that blended perfectly with his golden hair. He still disliked his short hair – Sansa often caught him running his hand over it and wincing – but she thought it suited him well enough. Particularly now it had grown out a little and the barber had styled it. The back and sides were very short, but the top was long enough to hint at his soft wavy curls, a development Sansa found increasingly distracting.
He must have seen the barber again today, for the bristly beard that had covered his face yesterday was gone now. While she usually called upon him in the morning, she'd been waylaid by lords wishing to celebrate her name day. By the time she'd made it to his chambers, he wasn't there and lunch had followed soon after. Sansa had meant to call on him after lunch but duty had reared its ugly head once again.
Tyrion froze at her approach, staring for a moment before a smile broke across his face. "Happy name day, your Grace."
"Thank you," said Sansa.
"I'm sorry it's taken me so long to wish you so today, there were a few things I needed to take care of and when I was free you were not."
"Bad timing for both of us." She smiled, hoping to reassure him. "I am glad to see you now though. I fear my day has been consumed by the lords in my castle."
"And now you're upgrading to a bastard instead." He was fidgeting on the spot, and Sansa noticed his eyes flicking to a brown package just behind him. "I don't mean to disturb you, your Grace."
"You never could, Tyrion," she said. The emphasis on his name was enough to make him look sheepish, and Sansa did feel guilty for it – but she hated when he called her by her title in private company. It was fortunately rare now, but she'd noticed it was a habit he fell into when nervous. "You're not disturbing me at all. Besides, I was going to disturb you later and force you to endure my company."
His face brightened, a hint of teasing in his eyes. "Ah, and I had such plans to laze with Ghost."
"He'll have to share."
Tyrion was gaining his confidence back piece by piece. If he fell into his anxieties now and then it was more than understandable, and no matter how frustrating it could be for Sansa she knew it must be so much worse for him. If he needed reassurances or a shoulder to lean on she was here for however much help he'd let her offer.
"Sansa, I'm not sure you'll want it…but will you accept a name day gift from me?"
It was impossible to contain the smile that spread across her face. Was this why he looked so nervous? "I would be honoured, though you had no need to trouble yourself."
"I'd never ignore your name day, and it was Yvette I troubled really – she helped me carry it here." He turned to the package behind him but picked up a rolled piece of parchment on top of it instead. "Here is your first gift…"
A loose piece of twine kept it rolled together which fell away with a gentle tug. When Sansa unrolled the parchment, tears filled her eyes.
"Oh, Tyrion…" Sansa was looking at herself on the parchment, but a better version than she saw in the mirror. This Sansa was proud, her eyes a piercing blue but still somehow warm. The portrait was from her waist up, and in it, Sansa's right hand rested on a direwolf she recognised immediately as Lady. The lines and colours were strikingly accurate, but it was the picture as a whole that Sansa loved. This was the way she would like to be; strong, proud, and honourable. Sansa had thought that image nothing more than fantasy, but the image before her spoke of those qualities and more. A lump formed in her throat. Was this how Tyrion saw her? "I can't believe it…"
"If you don't like it-"
"It's beautiful." Sansa tore her eyes from the image to the man who had created it. "You did this, didn't you?"
"Rather amateurish, I'm afraid."
Sansa shook her head. The art in her hands was anything but amateurish, and Tyrion had somehow done it with his left hand. She knew he practised drawing every day but thought it was nothing more than stress relief for him – never had she imagined how seriously he would take it, or the skill he was developing. Sansa carefully rolled the parchment closed, fastening it gently with the twine.
"Thank you Tyrion, it's perfect."
His cheeks burned at the praise, but it was well deserved. "As long as you're happy with it. I must say, I felt somewhat cheap."
"There's nothing you could have bought that would make me happier."
He lifted the brown package beside him, raising an eyebrow. "So you don't want these lemon cakes?"
"You got lemon cakes?"
"Well, it was technically Yvette, but under my instruction. They did take some hunting down, but if I recall correctly Sansa Stark has a fondness for them."
Sansa couldn't help herself, she swept down, kissing his cheek. "Thank you. The castle seems lonely without Jon and Arya, but never when you're around."
"Ah, yes, well…" He was grinning from ear to ear, his face bright red. Tyrion fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a letter. "Speaking of Arya, she asked me to give you this – at this specific time and place to be precise."
"Arya? It wasn't you that sent the note asking me to be here?"
"No, I'm merely seizing the opportunity for my own purposes."
While the note the servant had given her had certainly been in Wolkan's hand, this one was undeniably Arya's. Sansa rolled her eyes. Arya did like to complicate things – her sister had probably planned this knowing she would think Tyrion had sent the note through Wolkan. Having now seen how skillful Tyrion's art was she was more than a little curious about his writing, not that it really mattered. As long as Tyrion was content whether he practised his writing or not was of no consequence.
The front of the note had a time and location, mirroring the one Sansa had, though this note was sealed with a blob of wax and the familiar direwolf mark. Sansa broke the seal, her face heating as she read the message.
Happy name day Sansa.
The room is set for you and your gift.
"Everything alright?" asked Tyrion.
Sansa didn't answer but pushed the door open to find the usually empty room transformed. A chaise was placed in front of the blazing hearth, and a table for two had been set in the middle of a room decorated with candles.
"Did Arya not get you a gift?" asked Tyrion, keeping a respectful distance in the corridor.
"She did, in a sense." Sansa stepped back from the doorway, handing him the note.
"I don't understand."
Sansa laughed, taking his damaged hand in hers and nodding towards the room. "Will you join me for dinner?"
Tyrion froze for a moment before understanding set in. When it did he rolled his eyes, grinning up at her. "And I thought I was being cheap."
It would be nice to avoid Kings Landing for a while. Arya hadn't enjoyed it before her father's death, nor had the march with Daenerys changed her opinion. As far as she was concerned it was a cursed place for Starks, something she and Sansa could agree on. While part of Arya had wanted the North to roar to life in defence of Bran, as it had once done for her father, the wiser part of her knew that wouldn't happen. The six kingdoms were separate from the North and the northerners had no desire for more conflict.
Arya shifted in her saddle, straightening her creaking back. So long in Winterfell had turned her soft, and if she was to find what lay West of Westeros she could not afford to be soft. The march to Kings Landing would take weeks but their limited numbers had the advantage of speed. As a gesture of goodwill – or kissing Sansa's royal arse – lord Manderly had offered them use of a ship, though it was one they'd ultimately declined. At sea, Arya was limited in what she could learn and while travelling by horse would take longer it offered far more opportunity to find the truth of what they were going into. The letter from Bran's council was frustratingly vague.
Her eyes shifted skywards as a dark shape soared past them. Jon could easily outpace them on Drogon, but Arya knew he would hold to their plan of arriving together – no lone wolves. Still, something was unsettling about the way he flew Drogon. Many of the men who'd volunteered to go with them had travelled back from kings landing with Jon. It hadn't taken many conversations before Arya learned enough to see the difference in how Jon and Drogon flew together now compared to then.
"He'd fly ahead a little and circle back."
"The dragon was like a cloud over us."
"Jon was never gone for long. The dragon struggled to go as slow as us, but they were always nearby."
Everything the men described about flying North with Jon was typical of him. It gave Arya an excellent baseline to judge the way he flew now – erratic, disappearing, tense.
Arya followed the dragon's progress as it flew ahead of them, carrying Jon on its back. In contrast to what the men had told her, Drogon looked less like a member of their party and more like a prisoner straining to be free. They'd been taking limited breaks and while Arya had seen Jon the first few days, for the last few she hadn't seen him or Drogon. The only relief she found in the mornings was when they continued the march and Drogon appeared in the sky soon after – a rider barely visible on his back.
Whatever Jon's reasons were for the behaviour, Arya hoped they were good ones, because if it wasn't Jon's decision they had far bigger problems than seeing Bran.