Chapter 30
Tyrion's teeth chattered, momentarily distracting him from the rest of his woes. His legs were throbbing, his shoulder creaked and cracked with every movement and to top it off, it was bloody freezing.
Why in the seven hells was he putting himself through this? Sansa's trip was for three days at most. He could have hidden in his chambers until she returned, but no, riding to Castle Cerwyn with her seemed the better idea.
He flinched as his horse navigated a particularly rocky section of ground, feeling every stone as if it was being jabbed into his body.
"Are you well my lord?"
Tyrion bit his tongue at the title, but it was pointless telling Godwin to not use it. The man was determined to call him his lord until the moment Bran Stark accepted the letter – a feat that could take gods knows how long given the circumstances.
"How much further?" asked Tyrion.
"A few hours I'd say. Maybe longer if we take another break."
Tyrion grimaced – the breaks were for his benefit and everyone knew it. "There's no need to stop again, surely?"
Godwin lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. When Sansa asked if he wanted to join her on this trip to Castle Cerwyn it had been easy to agree.
"I planned this trip before lord Cerwyn left for his own seat. I considered cancelling but the North is indifferent to Bran and my duty must continue," she said, her mouth turning downwards.
"Are you going for long?" he asked.
"No more than three days. You're more than welcome to join me, though I understand if you'd rather stay here – I know it's difficult for you."
Some of the joy had fallen from Sansa's face when she mentioned the trip, and more than anything Tyrion wanted to return it there. "That could be interesting."
"You want to go?"
"I've not left Winterfell in so long. It might be nice to see Castle Cerwyn."
A brilliant smile spread across Sansa's face, warming Tyrion to his bones. "It will be far more fun with you. We travel the day after next. I'll arrange a wheelhouse in the morning."
"No need, I'm perfectly able to sit a horse…"
Gods be good, that must have been strong wine. Why had he thought this was a good idea? It was unfortunate, but Sansa's mention of the trip had caught him in a particularly hopeful mood. Not only had she accepted and liked his name day gifts, but she'd also invited him to share Arya's gift of dinner. Well, he was the gift, apparently. Was that why Yvette had suggested he wear his best clothes to give the Queen his gifts? Perhaps she knew what Arya had planned – Sansa had looked glorious, naturally. At first sight, he'd confused her for the maiden in flesh. His mouth twitched upwards. It didn't matter what games Arya played – he'd spent the evening with Sansa, celebrating her name day and soaking up every moment of her company. It was dangerous, but he was becoming increasingly dependent on her. Tyrion suspected it was why he'd so quickly agreed to go to Castle Cerwyn, though in hindsight he should have accepted the wheelhouse.
Sansa had mentioned a few times lately how suffocating Winterfell could be and how she would like time to go riding. The Queen hadn't said as much, but she'd surely intended to ride to Castle Cerwyn and Tyrion knew if she arranged a wheelhouse she would join him in it to save his pride. He wouldn't let that happen. No matter what, Tyrion wouldn't let his presence be a burden to Sansa, though he feared it already was. He could barely sit on the horse without aggravating his old injuries, and controlling it with only one hand was hard work. The amount of Lannister guards around hardly helped, though Godwin was being somewhat useful. The old captain plodded alongside him as they travelled, occasionally offering advice on controlling the horse with one hand.
As anxious as the trip was making him, and despite the aches and pains, it was nice to be out again and doing something different. They rode a little further and Tyrion poured all his concentration into controlling the horse. He'd never been a great rider, but it was like being a beginner all over again, only this time Jamie wasn't here to help him and he had one hand to use. Tyrion was distracted enough that he didn't realise Godwin had dropped behind to let another horse fall in beside him.
"You're riding very well."
His head whipped towards the voice, nodding quickly in greeting. "Your grace."
Sansa rolled her eyes, but they weren't in private company and it was more than appropriate to use her title. The Queen could pretend to forget all she wanted, but Tyrion had willingly given up his titles and all that came with the Lannister name.
"Not much further to go," she said. "Have you ever been to Castle Cerwyn?"
"I haven't. When I came North with King Robert he was in a hurry to reach Winterfell and enjoying himself too much on the Kings Road to consider stopping."
"They're our closest allies, and not just in distance. My brothers often met with Cley Cerwyn when they were boys and house Cerwyn often visited Winterfell. It's a tragedy what Ramsay did to his family, but it united our houses more than anything."
Tyrion's heart dropped. "Oh. It's good you have allies so close. The North has suffered so many losses of Great Houses."
"Do you know why I agreed to this trip and turned down countless others?"
Did he want to know the answer? Suddenly Tyrion wasn't so sure he did. Was his judgement so damaged he'd missed something right in front of him? Tyrion tried to shake the thoughts from him. It was Sansa's duty to find a suitable husband, he'd just thought…it didn't matter. Whatever made Sansa happy was enough.
"Lord Cerwyn never pursued my hand in marriage, though he would have been one of the best placed to try. I'd have turned him down regardless, but knowing his interest lies elsewhere makes him far easier to be around than many other lords."
Tyrion's head perked up. "He didn't try for your hand?"
"Lord Cerwyn already has a lady in mind, by all accounts."
A smile spread across Tyrion's face. "What a fool."
Godwin sighed when Castle Cerwyn came into view. After months in Winterfell he'd enjoyed the ride here more than he expected and the Lannister guards accompanying him surely felt the same. A number of Stark guards made up the party but since Jon Snow and Arya Stark went south the numbers were more evenly split. The Lannister guards were limited in what duties they were allowed to undertake – they were not sworn to Queen Sansa – but the increase in duties they could fulfil was more than welcome. Despite his best efforts to remain positive, every day only solidified the fact Tyrion would not take his place as lord.
For months the men had awaited Tyrion's orders and in their absence, they'd served Queen Sansa dutifully. Still, it wasn't enough. Tyrion made every effort to avoid them where possible and was spending more time with the Queen than ever before.
The horses approached the gates with Sansa in the lead, followed by the Stark guards and then Tyrion near the back. Godwin dropped back to join him. The Lannister guards were staying further back too and their proximity to Tyrion appeared to be making him nervous.
"All well, my lord?" asked Godwin.
His face was pinched with pain and sweat beaded on his brow. "Wonderful."
"You did well to ride this far."
"I'm doing even better to not throw up."
The young lord Cerwyn stood at the gate, surrounded by his household to greet the Queen. The guards began to dismount and Godwin saw the Queen's tall frame slip gracefully from her horse ahead of them. It was Tyrion who kept his attention, however. The lord of Casterly Rock didn't look well and was watching the ground as if it might attack him.
Godwin dismounted quickly, handing his horse off to one of his men and moving to Tyrion's side. "Let us help you, my lord."
Tyrion grimaced but there was nothing he could do about it if he wanted to dismount his horse with any dignity. A Lannister guard steadied the horse and another helped Godwin in removing Tyrion. If the tiredness on his face wasn't enough the way he flopped against them spoke volumes of how this journey had worn on him.
"Thank you," grumbled Tyrion, swaying on his feet. He pushed away from the other guard but Godwin maintained his grip, nodding quickly at the other man.
The guard took the hint, bowing quickly to Tyrion. "M'lord."
"This was a bad idea," said Tyrion, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Not at all m'lord. Recovery takes time, and your strength grows every day."
"I'm going to humiliate Sansa."
Godwin's tone softened. "You won't. The Queen is delighted you're here."
"I doubt that."
"Ask her yourself." Godwin saw her approach before Tyrion did, but he'd stared at the ground since dismounting his horse and wasn't likely to see anything but his own misery.
"Tyrion," she called, her eyes bright. "Are you alright?"
Godwin maintained his hold on him as Tyrion lifted his reluctant gaze to the Queen. "I'm sorry…I can't-I can hardly stand…won't embarrass you."
"Why are you embarrassed? I've just spoken to lord Cerwyn and he can't believe you're sitting a horse at all." The Queen held out her arm to him. "Will you join me? Lord Cerwyn would like to greet you, and we're all going to rest before dinner."
Tyrion hesitated before accepting the Queen's offered arm. Godwin lingered only long enough to see he was steady, though he was hardly needed – Sansa Stark clearly had things under control, and if her smile couldn't convince Tyrion of her pride in him nothing would.
They'd taken a few steps when Tyrion glanced back over his shoulder at Godwin, inclining his head in thanks.
There was no need to thank Godwin; he served the lord of Casterly Rock. Even so, the old captain found himself standing straighter than he had in a long time.
It was impossible to decide which was more precious; the beautiful babe with big brown eyes and tufty hair, or the grin on Tyrion's face as he balanced him in his lap.
"You're going to be a tall lad," said Tyrion, adjusting his hold on the child. "Or taller than me at the very least."
Sansa's heart warmed at the sight. She'd tried to keep her mind in check, but it was impossible – already she was imagining the future and its potential. It would be in Winterfell, sat by the hearth, where the man before her was holding not a stranger's child but one of their own. Tyrion would be a good father, she could see already that he would adore their children.
The Queen in the North was determined to maintain her icy mask in the presence of her bannermen. Sansa Stark, on the other hand, slid closer to Tyrion on the chaise, peering over his shoulder at the child.
"I think he likes you m'lord," said Jonelle, watching her son fondly.
"I'm rather enjoying his company," said Tyrion. He turned his attention to the baby. "You don't mind keeping me company, do you lord Beron?"
"He's such a happy baby," said Sansa.
"Aye, he's a good lad," said lord Cerwyn. "My nephew has brought life here once more."
A shadow passed over his face for a moment, but it quickly gave way to his familiar warmth. It was a feeling Sansa understood all too well. The ghost of Ramsay never truly left you, and the bastard of Bolton had flayed Cley's father, mother and uncle while he watched. While Sansa knew Cley well enough from her childhood, where he'd often gone riding with her brothers, she knew far less about Jonelle Cerwyn, now Jonelle Mollen. A maid past thirty, she'd finally agreed on a wedding match with lord Robbard Mollen. A poor match for house Cerwyn, but given how the war had decimated so many Northern houses any match was better than none – and it had quickly bore a child.
"Is lord Mollen here?" asked Sansa.
Cley shook his head. "My good brother was here when I arrived but he's had to attend to matters at home."
"His father is too old to carry on," said Jonelle, "but he insists he's fine and then Robbard ends up doing the work."
"Forgive my sister," said Cley, half smiling. "She likes the old lord Mollen well enough."
"I do, but I must admit I prefer my own home comforts. So long living at home has made me reluctant to move."
"You and Beron are always welcome sister."
The siblings lapsed into a conversation and Sansa returned her focus to Tyrion. The ride here had exhausted him. She'd felt him struggling to walk as soon as he took her arm at the gates. She watched him closely. A few hours of rest had done little to sweep the tiredness from his face. They'd arrived later than Sansa expected and she'd waived the offer of a formal dinner tonight in favour of eating in her chambers and then joining lord Cerwyn afterwards. It was an informal meeting in a cosy room – appropriate for houses as close as theirs. Cley had brought his sister and three-month-old nephew, while Sansa had asked Tyrion to join her.
On the night of her name day he'd easily agreed to accompany her on this trip, but she'd sensed his nerves ever since. It was a big step forwards for him and she was keen to make sure he was comfortable, a feat made easier by lord Cerwyn's lack of romantic interest in her. Cley already had a woman he was widely rumoured to soon marry, and unlike almost every other lord in the North he wasn't pursuing her hand and so was perfectly happy to make Tyrion an ally. A sour taste filled Sansa's mouth. Even those who didn't desire her hand would still want her favour – it was to be expected. Still, there was no malice in Cley and he'd clearly chosen the path of befriending the man who might well be Prince consort, rather than the thinly veiled disdain other lords chose.
Tyrion had been on edge since arriving, but she'd expected nothing else. Sansa had made a point of introducing him to Cley and lord Cerwyn had shaken his hand with enthusiasm, insisting on showing them their rooms. Tyrion had seemed surprised. Surely he didn't think he'd be sleeping with the guards and servants? It was one of the problems his position caused. He had made himself a bastard and relinquished his lordship – but Bran was in no condition to formalise it. By the laws of gods and men, he was her husband – but the marriage lingered in limbo.
Sansa's stomach twisted uneasily. She knew what she wanted and that the current arrangement was untenable. No one was quite sure how to treat Tyrion, and while the Winterfell household would call him by name as he wished they still treated him like a lord – as a Prince in waiting. Lord Cerwyn and lady Jonelle hadn't seemed certain either, but had decided to call him 'lord Tyrion', and to Sansa's relief Tyrion hadn't contradicted them, nor did she think he would. It was fortunate baby Beron was here. Tyrion's nerves had been obvious when they arrived at the room, clear enough that Jonelle had seemingly picked up on it. Soon after they'd sat down she'd asked Tyrion if he would hold the baby.
"Will you hold him lord Tyrion?" she asked. "Little Beron's eyes haven't left you since you sat down."
"I…my grip isn't the best."
"Ah, you'll be fine," she said, moving from her seat and depositing her son in his arms. "Beron is a curious little lord."
"I doubt he sees many dwarfs."
The lady only smiled. "Your golden hair stands out in the North, my lord. I'd wager it's the first time he's seen anything like it."
Sansa made a mental note to thank the lady later. Despite his concerns over his hand, Tyrion had quickly compensated and held the baby as if he'd held a thousand. Beron had stolen his attention, and while Jonelle had surely faked her son's interest in Tyrion, the boy had quickly taken to him. The little lord had gurgled happily at Tyrion, and somehow his presence had calmed her husband. It wasn't wise to dream – Sansa had learnt that the hard way – but she couldn't escape the image of Tyrion in a similar position at Winterfell, cradling their child in his arms.
"I do believe I'm hogging lord Beron," said Tyrion, a smile on his face. "Would you like to hold him my Queen?"
"I'm quite alright," said Sansa, leaning closer to his side. "I'd hate to disturb him when he's clearly so comfortable with you."
"He'll be asleep soon," said Tyrion. His voice softened to a whisper, though his smile remained. "Tommen used to get the same sleepy look before he fell asleep."
"You're very good with him."
His mouth quirked up. "That could be my service to you – a baby handler - though I don't think I'd qualify as a wet nurse."
Sansa laughed, doing her best to stifle the sound and draw Cley and Jonelle's attention. The brother and sister were chatting between themselves and Sansa didn't want to draw them into this moment with Tyrion.
"I think your skills lie elsewhere," said Sansa, adding, before she could stop herself. "Would you like one?"
He lifted an eyebrow, but to Sansa's relief, Tyrion seemed amused rather than annoyed at the question. "I always have. When I was young I'd imagine how I would be a better father than what I had. When I got older I wanted what Cer- I wanted children like Tommen and Myrcella. They were sweet, innocent children and while their mother's attention was nearly always on Joffrey, I'd take the chance to give them my attention."
Sansa's heart lurched at the longing in his voice. He'd never gotten along with Cersei, but what she'd put him through had tainted his every thought of her to the point where thinking of his nephew and niece was clearly painful. Her hand brushed against his back as he adjusted his hold on the now-sleeping Beron.
"I think you'd make a great father," said Sansa.
Tyrion smiled, but it was tinged with bitterness. "What woman would have my child?"
"A lucky one."
Tyrion wasn't sure which to blame as he heaved himself to the edge of the bed. It was either the lingering effects of his injuries and imprisonment or that he was getting old.
'No, never that. I might move like an old man but I'm nowhere near that age.'
He clung to that thought as he pulled his aching body from the warm sheets. Everything was sore, but his legs felt as if he'd been trampled by a horse rather than ridden one.
Yesterday's ride had drained him to the point where he could sleep for a month and still wake tired. There'd been a few hours rest yesterday before Sansa asked him to join her and lord Cerwyn. A twinge of jealousy wormed its way to his heart. Lord Cerwyn was a decent enough man – he would treat Sansa well, share sympathy with her difficult past and make a well-respected King consort. He was better suited to Sansa in every way, even before considering the laughable physical differences.
He paused at the edge of the bed, letting his body adjust to its upright position. Lord Cerwyn had given him an excellent room close to the Queen's. By all accounts, Cley Cerwyn was infatuated with another woman and held no interest in pursuing Sansa, and she'd made it clear she had no interest in lord Cerwyn. That begged the question; what did Sansa want? She'd turned down every suitor who came before her, and had displayed no interest in any of the most well-matched lords available. Did she wish to never marry, and keep their arrangement as a shield to guard against it? The idea didn't seem realistic. The North expected a clear succession and heirs to the throne – Sansa would know this.
Tyrion's stomach stirred uneasily at the thought. It was ridiculous to be jealous of lord Cerwyn when it was clear both parties had no interest in a marriage, but the unknown of what Sansa wanted had begun to eat away at him. She spent her days with him, she invited him on this trip and had made it clear over the past week that he was always welcome at council meetings. Sansa saved the seat next to her at dinner every night – she'd kissed him on several occasions, and it was far more than a curious brush. That was before he even began to consider the fragmented memories of Kings Landing.
It wasn't his place to ask, and he wouldn't, but Tyrion was increasingly convinced he wouldn't survive seeing Sansa wed another man. The jealousy would rip him to pieces.
'What if she doesn't want another man?'
The question played over and over in his mind. The thought of Sansa considering him as more than a friend willing to spare her a real marriage was ridiculous.
As soon as his mind turned in that direction he stirred himself to action. His legs protested standing, but Tyrion forced himself to walk as Wolkan had directed. The old Maester had proven to be of some use, and he'd quickly picked up on how to improve his cursed limp. The way he was walking before was putting uneven pressure on his good leg rather than strengthening his injured one, but forcing himself to walk properly had at first felt like ten steps backwards. Slowly, it was improving and Tyrion was determined to carry on.
He moved to the small trunk of the few belongings he'd brought; some spare clothes and a book. Tyrion smiled – Yvette had packed it for him when he'd been too distracted making his preparations for this trip. She'd packed some of his finest clothes and included the book he was currently working through, but it was the other item he lingered on. His stomach lurched at the sight, but there was no better time than now – he'd done as much practice as he could.
"Tonight," he murmured, a promise to himself.
"I must confess, it's nice to be out of Winterfell," said Sansa.
Lord Cerwyn smiled, leading them around the grounds of Castle Cerwyn. Sansa had been here a few times as a girl, but in her youth, she'd dismissed it as another boring castle in the dreary North. Now she found it fascinating; steeped in history and a monument to one of the last great Northern houses.
"You are always welcome here, your Grace," said Cley. "Now the North has independence and peace I've given considerable thought to how I want my house to grow."
"And how is that?"
"As large as possible." A shadow passed over his face. "Do you know what was left after the bastard of Bolton came here? Silence. My home still bustled with servants and guards, but without my father, mother and uncle it became a tomb."
Sansa's heart constricted painfully, the way it always did when Ramsay was mentioned. The words choked out of her. "Believe me, my lord – I understand."
Cley's eyes were haunted but his mouth twitched upwards. "I won't live in silence, or the bastard's shadow anymore. I want to fill Castle Cerwyn with children; sons, daughters, nieces and nephews. I want the spark of joy to warm my home again."
"A worthy goal," said Sansa, "and one I hope for myself."
"The prince seems willing enough, if I may say. He took a particular shine to young Beron."
There was no reason for the heat that flooded Sansa's face, she'd spent last night consumed with imaginings of a future family with Tyrion. "He certainly enjoyed your nephew's company. Coming here is a challenge for him, things are still…difficult."
Cley merely smiled, a hint of knowing in his gaze. "Of course your Grace. It is good to see Tyrion recovering so well, both you and I know how hard it can be."
"Can I trust on your honest counsel, my lord?" asked Sansa. There were too few people she could trust to be honest, but she thought Cley might come close.
"Certainly, your Grace."
"If it happened that my choice of husband wasn't born of the North, if he was different, would the Northerners accept him?"
Lord Cerwyn tilted his head, considering the question that plagued Sansa too often. "I would say it depends, your Grace. Marrying outside the North will allow house Stark to reclaim strength without borrowing from its bannermen – marrying a Northern lord would elevate them more than house Stark."
"I can see that." House Stark would be unburdened by blood ties as it rebuilt strength, something the next generation could establish through marriages in the North.
"I would also say acceptance is earned. If your imagined husband was fully dedicated to the North, and if your children were called Stark, I cannot see why not. After the last few years…no lord would dare presume to tell you whom to marry."
Sansa smiled, nodding her thanks. It was exactly as she'd thought – she should feel happy – if anything she felt more confused. Every day it became more apparent that her hesitation was her own and couldn't be blamed on politics, nor could a decision forever be put off. Sansa knew what she wanted, but making it a reality was a different matter entirely.
Tyrion fumbled several times as he tried to fasten the clasps on his doublet. It was nerves making him clumsy, and it was the last thing he needed tonight.
It had taken more practice than he'd care to admit, but he'd finally developed a system for fastening his clothes without Yvette's help. He'd considered the problem every time Yvette fastened his doublet or had to tie the lace of his breeches, but this trip to Castle Cerwyn had brought it into sharp focus. He couldn't put it off any longer.
"I can't do it!" he said, glaring at his useless hand. The damnable thing was there; he could see it, and mostly he could feel it, but it refused to obey him.
"Try again," said Yvette.
"That won't help," he said, "I'll never be able to do this alone."
"Then you'll go to dinner with your doublet open and your breeches falling down."
He frowned. "You wouldn't."
"I will. You need to find a way of doing this that works for you." Her expression softened. "Your brother managed with one hand, didn't he?"
Tyrion looked away. "Of course he did – he was Jamie – he could do anything."
"And why can't you?"
A smile pulled at Tyrion's mouth as the clasp finally closed. His decision to come here with Sansa had spurred him on to do what he should have begun months ago. Wolkan had again shown him how to stretch his hand and while the range of movement was still severely limited the fingers weren't as curled in. It was as good as it would get and he had to accept that, however painful the truth was.
Tyrion had spent much of the day recovering from the ride in his room until lady Jonelle knocked on his door and offered to show him around the castle. Sansa had told him over breakfast she had meetings with lord Cerwyn most of the day, discussing logistics for trade deals and defence plans. She'd invited him to join the meetings, but his horror must have shown for she'd quickly said he didn't have to. A pang of guilt wormed through his heart. He'd promised to serve Sansa yet he was doing nothing but take advantage of her kindness with no obligation. One problem at a time. He would find a way to serve Sansa, but he couldn't go back into politics. Sitting through dinner with the lords at Winterfell was difficult enough without spending hours in discussion with strangers who most probably disliked him.
Lady Jonelle had at least taken his mind off his guilt for a while. The woman had led him slowly around Castle Cerwyn, pausing for breaks to tell him of the family history. Tyrion had feared his endurance wouldn't last but the lady seemed particularly attuned to his limitations and didn't push him. Visiting Beron at the end had surprised him too, but lady Jonelle seemed only too happy to let him hold the little lord.
Tyrion smoothed out his doublet, checking and then checking again that everything was fastened correctly. He'd hardly seen Sansa all day, but she'd knocked on his door a little over an hour ago to see if he would join them for dinner. It was a situation Tyrion had prepared for but hadn't expected. He'd come to Castle Cerwyn at Sansa's request but he was nothing more than a bastard, with no name or titles. The Queen might be happy to see him at dinner in Winterfell, but to sit with his betters in another castle was a different matter entirely.
He flinched as a rap at the door echoed through the room. Tyrion's heart dropped a little as he moved to answer it; had someone come to disinvite him from dinner?
Whatever doubt he had was instantly swept aside by the sight of Sansa in the doorway. The Queen's eyes sparkled, set off by the deep blue gown she wore. Warm red hair framed her face, softening the Queen in the North into Sansa Stark instead.
"Ready for dinner?" she asked, smiling.
"Oh…yes…You look beaut-I mean, well, your Grace. You look very well." Shit, he was acting like a green boy. It was Sansa's fault for looking like the maiden.
Her smile widened, an adorable hint of red colouring her cheeks. "Thank you Tyrion, you look rather handsome yourself." She held her arm out to him. "I thought we could walk together if you like. I'd rather not go in alone."
Tyrion's heart warmed as he took Sansa's arm in his own. He knew full well Sansa wouldn't care about entering the hall alone, but she surely knew it would worry him. Here she was, once again saving his pride.
"I would be honoured," said Tyrion.
If Tyrion had feared overstepping his welcome in Castle Cerwyn, he needn't have bothered. Lord Cerwyn greeted him warmly, and the rest of the guests seemed accepting enough of his presence. Of course, as this was Sansa's first visit to Castle Cerwyn since being named Queen it was a large dinner not quite big enough to be a feast, though he suspected that was down to Sansa's preference. The castle household was in attendance as were several minor lords who served House Cerwyn as their liege lords, along with a few prominent merchants. The head table was comprised of the most prominent of the minor lords and merchants, and Sansa had held his arm until he was seated beside her as if she'd feared he would slip away if she let go.
Tyrion's stomach churned uneasily. There were a lot of people here. In Winterfell, the dinners he attended were generally much quieter and he'd come to rely on the safety of being in Sansa's castle. He tried to distract himself from his unease. The Winterfell guards were enjoying the feast and he spotted Godwin amongst the crowd with a few but not all of the Lannister soldiers who'd come here.
"Some weren't comfortable coming in," murmured Sansa, following his gaze. "Godwin and a few of his best men have come in as they're bound to protect you, but given Lannister reputations in the North some weren't comfortable coming into a Northern Lord's castle."
Ah, of course – the Red Wedding. The bastards probably feared meeting the same fate.
"They're on duty outside with a few of the Winterfell guard, but if you want more of your men here they will come in."
"They're not my men," he said, his voice low as the top table talked. "None of them need to be here."
Sansa's hand brushed his beneath the table. "I know your feelings on the matter, but until Bran is well they serve you. If you want extra protection…"
"Do I need it?" Were his nerves so obvious that Sansa could see straight through him? Of course they were – she knew him better than anyone.
Her hand gripped his quickly, squeezing. "You're perfectly safe here. My men know to protect you at all costs."
A lump formed in Tyrion's throat and he could only nod his appreciation. Sansa knew what he needed without needing to ask, and the reassurance that he was safe in this Northern castle was enough for him to relax a little.
Lord Cerwyn and Lady Jonelle were generous hosts and Tyrion soon found himself drawn into conversation with Cley. If the boy had sought Sansa's hand Tyrion might have been jealous. He was young, handsome, whole – he would be a good match for the Queen. It was also apparent that his friendliness with the Queen existed on a level similar to cousins, bound by their childhood closeness and the trauma they'd later endured. It made it easier for Tyrion to like the young lord, knowing he didn't pursue Sansa's hand. Not that he had any claim to it.
'You're a crippled, bastard dwarf,' he reminded himself. 'Be grateful you're sitting next to the Queen at all and imagine no more.'
Sansa wasn't as at ease as she appeared. Did she share his newfound fear of the unfamiliar? It was more than likely – he knew well enough the nightmares that plagued her. Tyrion mustered a smile, forcing himself to relax. Sansa did everything to make him comfortable, and if he could offer her even a tiny piece of that he would.
"It was a nice ride here, your Grace," he said. "I dare say you rather enjoyed sitting a horse again."
It wasn't much, but the words were enough to draw Sansa back into the conversation around her and not the dark place he feared her mind was slipping towards. A small gesture, wholly inadequate really, but Tyrion hoped Sansa understood his intentions. That he was here with her if she needed someone to rely on.
The first course was a simple soup, tasty enough but Tyrion had consumed soup every day, sometimes twice a day for weeks on end. It was one of the few things he could eat using only his left hand, but by the gods it was boring.
When the empty bowls were cleared away Tyrion's heart began a whole new rhythm. He caught Sansa watching him from the corner of his eye and a moment later she leaned close to his ear.
"Don't worry, Cley knows you struggle with your hand. No one will judge you."
Tyrion smiled, nodding his appreciation. Of course Sansa would make sure he was comfortable. What had she told lord Cerwyn? That his appetite hadn't returned, perhaps? She wouldn't have told him anything in detail, of that he was certain, but she'd probably made some excuse for him.
When the servants brought in the main meals Tyrion almost drooled. The pork and potatoes were almost singing to him, and the aroma set his stomach growling. His appetite had begun to grow at Winterfell, but the increased exertion of exercising with Wolkan and the journey here had tipped him over the edge.
As soon as the plates were placed down, Tyrion slipped his left hand into the pocket of his doublet. He fumbled slightly, nerves taking control, but he pulled the leather brace over the thumb and forefinger of his mutilated hand, quickly lying it on the table to place the fork in the holder in between. With one smooth motion, he pulled the lacing with his left hand, tightening the binding around his thumb and forefinger, and closing the holder around the fork. It wasn't perfect. The brace pulled his thumb and finger into a pinched position, allowing him to feel the fork secured in the leather strip between. He adjusted the lacing so it was tight enough before fastening the single clasp to hold it together. All in all, it took him no more than twenty seconds to put it in place, and then he was sat with his knife and fork like everyone else, albeit with the knife and fork in his wrong hands. Perhaps no one would mind that. He'd tried holding the cutlery the proper way, but his damaged hand lacked the strength needed to cut anything. Yvette had suggested he switch, and Tyrion had to agree it made more sense. His right hand, with the brace, was able to use the fork to impale food and lift it to his mouth. His left hand would have to do the heavy work of cutting.
The rest of the table was lost in their own conversations and Tyrion hid a smile. Good, no one had noticed. When the lords and ladies began filling their plates Tyrion joined them, considering every piece of food that made it to his plate a small victory. Sansa had been chatting with a merchant on her left but Tyrion felt the moment her eyes found him.
Tyrion finished filling his plate and forced himself to progress to actually eating it, painfully aware of Sansa's eyes on him. His stomach twisted at the scrutiny, but it was too late to back out. The brace was a novel invention, but was it too much for the Northerners, too different? The last thing he wanted was to embarrass Sansa.
His hand trembled as he took the first few bites but it was almost forgotten in the flavour that flooded his mouth. Gods, it had been so long since he had proper food. Tyrion kept his eyes on his food, not risking a glance around the table where the lords would surely begin to notice his strange approach to eating.
Tyrion had paused for a drink of wine when Sansa swooped in. The Queen kissed his cheek, her voice as warm as a summer's day. "Aren't you brilliant?"
Sansa adjusted the baby in her arms, smiling as Beron reached up to touch the ends of her hair. "You're very sweet little lord. Aww, I'm going to miss you. I think Tyrion will too. Maybe you and lady Jonelle can visit us at Winterfell. Would you like that?"
Despite her nervousness at leaving Winterfell, Sansa had thoroughly enjoyed the trip to Castle Cerwyn. Cley was easy to work with. Lady Jonelle had quickly become a friendly face, and Sansa did enjoy the time she got to spend with the baby. Jonelle had visited her chambers with the boy, and while she excused herself for the privy Sansa made the most of having the sweet boy in her arms. Over the course of their short visit, little Beron more often than not ended up in Tyrion's arms.
The thought of Tyrion warmed her heart. This trip had been good for him in more ways than simply leaving Winterfell. He'd lowered his guard with the other lords, a little at least, but the biggest victory was the brace he now used to eat. As soon as Sansa realised what the brace was and what it allowed him to do she could have wept. A knot of tension had unwound in her chest at the sight of him eating proper food. The North wasn't kind when winter came and the worry that Tyrion might not have a strong enough constitution to withstand it had constantly eaten at the back of her mind. He was self-conscious about his invention but there was no reason to be. He'd used it first the night before last and used it at all his meals yesterday. At dinner last night a couple of Cley's guests had asked him about it, and Sansa had loved seeing his confidence grow as he explained it. Northerners could be wary, but most were curious. Sansa imagined many of them knew someone who could benefit from such an invention.
The Queen turned her attention back to baby Beron. He was a sweet boy, and Sansa had seen first-hand how much joy he brought to his uncle Cley and Castle Cerwyn. The household doted on him as if he was the future lord of the castle, which Sansa supposed he was until Cley had children. Seeing the effect the little boy had on house Cerwyn only intensified Sansa's craving for one of her own, particularly when Tyrion was holding him. It was impossible to look at the boy though, and not imagine what her son might look like. All imaginings returned to the same image, of soft golden hair and warm green eyes…
Footsteps announced Jonelle's return, drawing Sansa from her musings.
"He looks happy with you my Queen," she said, retaking the seat across from her.
"I'm rather enjoying his company. He reminds me of when Bran and Rickon were born – I carried them everywhere, especially Rickon."
"I dare say Beron would enjoy that." Her smile was tinged with sadness. "I regret that my mother and father never got the chance to meet him."
Sansa's heart constricted – her parents would never meet her children either. Their family would consist of her, Arya, Jon and Bran.
'There's the father too,' whispered her mind. 'You know who that will be.'
The answer came easily to Sansa. It was the same answer that came to mind when she considered who would be Prince Consort, Lord of Winterfell and her husband. It was also impossible. More than once Sansa had been tempted to push things further with Tyrion, to offer her heart and see where it would take them, but every time she froze. It was as if her feelings were trapped in a frozen lake. She could see them and hear them shouting for release, but she couldn't breach the ice to free them. This limbo was unfair to her heart and it was unfair to Tyrion, who surely realised there was more to her actions than simple friendship. He'd met her halfway several times, and he was doing his best to build himself up, but in the end, it was her own weakness that would keep them apart. The gulf between knowing the truth and expressing the truth was impossible to bridge, and plagued by the danger of falling in between. The risk of losing what they shared now terrified her, but it was the past that paralysed her. Marriage and children had always been her dream, but it was forever tainted by the ghosts of her past.
Sansa held Beron a little tighter, enjoying his cheerful presence. They would return to Winterfell later today and things would carry on as normal, but for how long would Tyrion be content with that? If he continued to gain strength and confidence would he grow tired of waiting?
The ride back to Winterfell came far too quickly. Tyrion had begun to enjoy himself in Castle Cerwyn, and while he was happy to return to the safe familiarity of Winterfell he could do without the ride there. His legs still ached from the ride to Castle Cerwyn and he knew it would make the ride back all the worse.
Sansa was happy, at least. She'd ridden close to him when they left but had since excused herself to ride further up in the procession. He smiled. It was what made her a good Queen. Sansa did not stay exclusively with the senior guards or with him, but she made sure to talk with the others as well – normally with her trusted guards close by – but she still spread herself around the party. It was a tactic he was certain she'd learned from her father and it was an excellent way to foster loyalty. A ruler who saw those who served her and acknowledged them, even if it was a simple conversation, was a ruler that inspired devotion the right way.
They were halfway between Castle Cerwyn and Winterfell when their journey was brought to a halt.
"What happened?" asked Tyrion, bringing his horse alongside Godwin further ahead.
"A horse has gone down and took a few others with. One of the horses has landed on a guard." Godwin swung off his horse, automatically moving to help him down. "This could take some time to sort out."
A tight knot settled in Tyrion's stomach. "Is the Queen unharmed?"
"The Queen is fine, she has dismounted further ahead. With your leave, I'll check on the situation and our men. It seems like a freak accident from what I've heard, but it sounds like it involved Stark and Lannister guards - best to be careful."
Our men. Godwin said it easily but the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth – he wanted nothing to do with the Lannisters. "Do as you wish, you owe me no service."
Godwin paused beside Tyrion's horse. "Shall I leave you there, my lord? If you'd prefer to ask one of the Stark guards to help you down I'd understand."
"I…." Tyrion swore. "Fine. Get me down from this horse, and then go and check on the bloody horse."
"Our men."
"Whatever. That's your order, then, happy?"
Godwin's mouth twitched up but he did as asked, and Tyrion was soon through the humiliating ordeal of dismounting the horse.
"You can pretend you have no power, my lord, but until King Bran assents your request, you are lord of Casterly Rock."
"I don't-"
Godwin held up a hand. "I'm well aware of what you want. Are you certain you wish to give up this power though, of men loyal to you and no one else?"
"They were loyal to her, first."
Godwin lowered his head, but made no further argument as he went to assess the situation further ahead. Getting up and down from the horse was brutal, and he disliked asking the Stark guards for help. He was a bastard of no rank – they didn't serve him. Still, Sansa continued to treat him as a lord and her men followed suit. He trusted the Stark guards to some degree, which was more than he could say for the Lannister guards. Even riding with them had him on edge and he preferred to stick close to the Stark men or Godwin, even if he did insist on treating him as lord of Casterly Rock.
As soon as he was off his horse a servant appeared to hobble it along with the others. He bit his lip, knowing he should do it himself really, but the ride had left a fierce ache in his legs and the servant had done it without a second thought. Tyrion turned away, noticing many of the guards had also dismounted for what appeared to be an unexpected break while the situation was resolved. Tyrion had dismounted to take a piss, but several of the guards were resting and passing a skin of water between them. He glanced at the source of the commotion and was relieved to spot Sansa's fiery red hair among the crowd. Perhaps he should check on her, or see if she needed anything? Or would he just be a nuisance in the way? It was something to ponder over while he pissed. A number of the Stark and Lannister men were mingling, but there was a large concentration of Lannisters on his left, prompting him to take his business in the opposite direction.
He'd never cared about getting his cock out in front of other men, he knew he measured up in that regard and in his youth he'd enjoyed the attention, but being stripped naked and walked through Kings Landing where every bastard and his mother had touched him was enough to crave privacy. He couldn't stand it now. Even the Maester's exams were difficult and if he had still been inclined to whores Tyrion knew he would hate it. The thought of who he'd once been filled him with a mixture of shame and revulsion that tainted every rebellious thought of Sansa. How could she stand to be near him, let alone give him…affection.
Tyrion screwed his eyes shut, fumbling to unfasten his breeches. He knew exactly what he felt for Sansa, and more than suspected how she felt, but it was impossible. Every touch or smile from Sansa was like a sip of fine wine, drawing him in, making him crave more. It was dangerous to want more than what he got – he'd bloody well paid the price for thinking above his station. He was a bastard dwarf, sworn to the Queen in the North, and grateful for every moment in her company – that was enough.
It took him longer to refasten his breeches than it had to piss, but he was slowly adapting to a new way of doing things. Perhaps one day he would instinctively use his left hand, rather than going for his ruined right first. The brace he used for food was working out nicely too. Sansa didn't seem ashamed or embarrassed by his use of it, in fact, she'd seemed delighted he was able to eat real food again and told him several times how clever he was.
Tyrion was halfway back to the rest of the party when four Stark men approached him. He didn't recognise them as he did some of Sansa's more senior guards, but he tended to avoid most people these days. The lead guard was middle-aged, with thinning brown hair and wearing the familiar Stark uniform.
"My lord, Queen Sansa has requested your presence."
"Oh…" He glanced around, seeing the rest of the party in the distance. A group of Lannister guards were the closest, glancing in his direction. He couldn't see Sansa in the distance, but these were her men.
"I can tell her you'd rather not," said the guard. He nodded to a path breaking off to the left. "Her Grace went for a walk and found a quiet spot. I think she hoped you'd join her there, but I'm sure she wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable."
Tyrion relaxed – that sounded exactly like Sansa. Being called a lord again felt strange but he knew a lot of the Winterfell household fumbled over what to call him due to his marriage status and many stuck with the familiar title of 'lord'. The Stark men were waiting patiently for his answer, but it was the Lannister guards unnerving him. One boy in particular, who barely constituted a man grown, was watching him like a hawk. Or a lion waiting to pounce on its weak prey.
That decided it. He would trust the Starks before the Lannisters any day. Tyrion nodded his assent, and the lead guard smiled.
"This way m'lord, it's not far."