Chapter 32

'Hello old friend'

The words had a strange effect on Tyrion Lannister. The confusion was to be expected, but there was more to it than that and Varys could only assume the lord of Casterly Rock was battling his mind. Even when Varys removed the stifling helmet that had been stuck in place for what felt like an eternity, Tyrion didn't relax or appear relieved at finding a friendly face beneath. Varys assumed Tyrion knew he was friendly anyway, and hoped he didn't think he'd agreed with Daenerys to trade him away. It was unlikely Sansa would let him believe him that – the Queen in the North had surely told him the truth.

Tyrion's chest heaved on the chaise, a shakiness in his expression that hadn't been there before Kings Landing. Or, perhaps it had been there. Varys had glimpsed Tyrion's trauma in Pentos, but he'd been self-medicating with wine back then and his fortunes had only got worse since – it was bound to come to the surface sooner or later. Nevertheless, Varys smiled, laying a hand on the shoulder he recalled wasn't broken.

"It's good to see you again Tyrion, and I dare say you're looking well."

"Varys?" He said the name as if testing it, a sign that Varys didn't think boded well for his mental state, but it was just as likely he was in shock.

"Indeed, my friend. I would have liked to see you in better circumstances than our current situation."

"Release me at once!" said Gallard, though his voice was decidedly more panicked than it had been minutes before.

"Why would I do that?" drawled the other guard. "The way I see it, you should be tied up and he should be giving the orders."

Tyrion squinted at the second guard. "Ser Bronn of the Blackwater."

"Took you long enough," said Bronn. He draped his arm lazily around Gallard's neck, keeping the point of the blade hovering an inch from his throat. With his free hand, Bronn lifted his visor. "Are we interrupting you and the lady here?"

"No!" said Tyrion and Jeyne, matching looks of horror passing over their faces.

"Alright then," said Bronn. "You want me to cut her and the old man's throats?"

Varys tsked, shaking his head. After weeks of Bronn it would be nice to drop the disguise and once again enjoy civilised conversation, though Tyrion's silence wasn't filling him with hope. The improvement in Tyrion from Kings Landing was drastic, at least on the surface. He was dressed in fine, if plain clothes and his hair was growing out a little, though the style was still a drastic change for him. Most importantly, he appeared well looked after, as if someone had taken the time to scrub the traces of Kings Landing from him piece by piece. Despite his physical improvements, Varys saw immediately Tyrion wasn't as he had been. There was a wariness and uncertainty in his face that hadn't been there before. Under normal circumstances, Varys would be wary of pushing his friend when he was clearly struggling, but the situation was too delicate to allow that.

"You can't kill me," said Jeyne, edging behind the chaise and further away from Bronn. "We have a deal. He's going to pardon me."

"I'll assume you are addressing lord Tyrion?" asked Varys, emphasising the title. "Is this true my lord?"

He nodded distractedly, his green eyes flicking between him and the floor. "Varys, will you…could you untie me?"

"Of course."

Varys dropped down awkwardly in the borrowed guard uniform, carefully tilting Tyrion to access his bound hands.

"Alright the girl can live, what about the old man?" asked Bronn. "You might not realise this but there's a hell of a lot of guards here who aint loyal to you. The sooner we can get moving the better. Where are you heading anyway?"

Tyrion didn't answer and Varys' concern grew. Maester Gallard seemed the most concerned however and was beginning to sweat in Bronn's grip.

"My lord, we have only a limited window for escape," said Varys, hacking through the thick ropes with a knife. "We understand you were taken captive on lord Lydden's orders. Ser Bronn and I have travelled with these men in disguise for weeks and while many are loyal to lord Lydden, there is a number who are sceptical of his claim that you requested your bannermen to escort you from Winterfell to Casterly Rock. I believe, if you were to call upon your bannermen gathered here a number would answer you. Your silence these weeks has had the unfortunate effect of allowing lord Lydden and Ser Harys Swyft to claim they are working under your direct order. I fear some of your bannermen have fallen in with lord Lydden's scheme and the rest have believed his lies. If you take charge, now, we will be in a better position to defend ourselves-"

"Or we run." Bronn's dark eyes glinted beneath the helmet. "Varys thinks these men will instantly turn to you, but I reckon it's too much risk. There are too many fakes in the group – men who aint from the Westerlands at all. Easier for the three of us to get out. I know the North well enough to hide us, and we aint far from Winterfell if that's where you're going. Better if we sneak away than risk a fight. This lot don't know the North at all, that's why they're going so bloody slow."

It was a discussion Varys and Bronn had engaged in several times over the last few days, but it ultimately came down to what Tyrion decided. Escaping from the Westerlands had been a trying affair but when they heard whispers this group was to kidnap Tyrion Lannister, Varys had insisted on a change of plans. Lord Lydden couldn't be allowed to control Tyrion, and if that meant he and Bronn had to travel for weeks to prevent it then it was a risk worth taking. Not that Bronn had been happy about it. At least the most trying part was behind them. They had Tyrion – and he had the power as lord of Casterly Rock to bring order to the Westerlands.

The ropes fell away and Varys moved to assist Tyrion in sitting up. As soon as he tried to move a grimace of pain cut across his face. His left hand moved to his damaged shoulder, rubbing the aching limb. It was then Varys got a proper look at Tyrion's ruined hand. The fingers were loosely clawed and the hand was now resting uselessly in his lap.

Bronn was fidgeting on the spot, the Maester eyeing the knife nervously in his grasp. "Hurry up will ya? We've not got all day."

"Remember our deal," said Jeyne, glancing sourly at Tyrion. "I get a pardon and a way out of this."

Tyrion's face darkened. "I remember girl – if I recall I had to agree or you'd smother me with a pillow."

"There was no other choice." Jeyne covered her mouth as if she might gag. "I'd rather die than touch you."

Varys narrowed his eyes at the girl, who was clearly spoilt with little regard for how she addressed her liege lord. It was Tyrion who was proving the bigger concern, however. The lord of Casterly Rock was lost in his own world and had said very little since he and Bronn arrived – a worrying sign for one so talkative.

A few more moments passed before Tyrion spoke, though he was addressing the floor more than them. "I think I'd like to go home now."

Bronn snorted. "I aint trailing back to the bloody Westerlands."

"No, I mean home. Winterfell. With Sansa, If she'll still have me there…"

Varys shared a look with Bronn, and the spider had to admit his plan of Tyrion taking charge was beginning to look unlikely.

"I'm certain she will," said Varys quickly, "and I do believe Winterfell is the best option."

"That just leaves how we get there and what we're doing with the old man and the girl," said Bronn.

Jeyne's face soured. "I'm not staying here. He gave me his word-"

Raised voices caught their attention from outside the wheelhouse, cutting off Jeyne's complaint and interrupting them before Tyrion could decide anything.

"In here!" shouted Maester Gallard, suddenly lurching away from Bronn. "Help, there is-"

Bronn's fist connected squarely with the old man's face. A pop sounded, followed by a torrent of blood before the old man fell unconscious in a heap. Jeyne took several steps back from Bronn, while Tyrion looked mildly satisfied to see the Maester on the floor. Varys wrinkled his nose, turning away from the sight of blood. The noise outside the wheelhouse got louder and Bronn drew his sword, aiming it at the door.

"Get yours out!" said Jeyne, gesturing to the sword hanging at Varys' side.

"He lost his sword a long time ago," said Bronn.

"That never gets old."

Tyrion was biting his lip, sat on the edge of the chaise. For all the good work that had clearly been done in his recovery, it appeared to still be a work in progress – hesitation did not befit a lord of the rock. Or perhaps Varys was expecting too much. After all, he'd seen what befell his old friend in Kings Landing. How to tell him of the most recent developments was a problem, and it was one he'd much rather discuss with Sansa Stark first. If they made it to Winterfell.

"They're at the door," grunted Bronn. "If it comes down to it, I'll leave you all to save myself."

"I'm sure King Bran will make saving us worth your while," said Tyrion. He'd seemingly passed through his hesitation and was now hobbling from the chaise to stand behind Bronn. Every movement seemed to pain him, but Varys imagined some of it was stiffness from the position he'd been left in. Either way, it was no small feat that he could walk at all.

"Open the door," said Tyrion. "Let's see if I have any lion left."

Ser Davos sighed, slumping in the chair beside the King's bed. In the weeks following the fire there had been little improvement in the King and no one could understand why. The burns that covered one side of him would scar but had otherwise responded well to treatment. Sam Tarly had scoured every book imaginable but could offer no answer as to why Bran Stark wouldn't wake.

The council now had a theory, but whether they were right or wrong was anyone's guess, and that was before they considered what in the seven hells they were supposed to do about it.

"The lord of light," said Ser Davos. "I'm not a follower, but I'm sure you know that. Any faith that demands innocent people – children – be burned to death is an evil one if you ask me. I reckon it's them that are interfering with your power. The fire in your chambers, the attack on the Red Keep and the monster Podrick saw; it's all connected."

It sounded ridiculous. A tenuous link at best. Yet, they'd all had some experience with the followers of the lord of light. Ser Davos had seen Melisandre and what she did during the long night. When Podrick described the shadow creature that attacked him it sounded like a flight of fantasy, until Brienne swore it sounded the same kind of creature that killed Renly Baratheon. Ser Davos would know – he'd watched Melisandre birth that monster.

If the lord of light had that kind of power, maybe he had enough power to interfere with the three-eyed raven. To block Bran's sight and somehow keep him comatose.

Ser Davos rubbed his beard, feeling his age. Brienne and Pod were actively searching for potential infiltrators, but while ser Davos thought they'd found the right enemy there was still too much they didn't know.

"Jon and Arya are on their way," said Ser Davos. "I bloody hope they make some sense of this mess, your Grace. We can't keep your condition hidden much longer and if word gets out every man in Westeros will be after your throne."

Tyrion couldn't believe it, but for all his resistance to Jeyne Lydden's ridiculous plan it was exactly what they were forced into doing. If chaos hadn't erupted outside the wheelhouse he would have most likely agreed with Bronn's plan of sneaking quietly back to Winterfell. It wasn't to be. The commotion was almost directly outside the wheelhouse now and Tyrion thought it was far better they go out and try to seize control rather than wait for the enemies to come in.

Maester Gallard was unconscious on the floor and Tyrion found himself hoping the old man didn't get back up. The vindictiveness with which he'd threatened him was disturbing, but Tyrion had to consider that he might just bring that out in people. Both the Maester and Jeyne Lydden hated him, though as far as he could gather their only interaction with him was in Kings Landing – a time when he'd barely known his own name by all accounts. Was their spite because of what he was, or had he accidentally shit on them? It was hard to say, but he felt certain Jeyne Lydden's disgust was mostly inspired by his appearance. Perhaps if it was Jon Snow tied to a chaise she'd have been more amenable to fucking him.

They were an odd party as they prepared to leave the wheelhouse. Ser Bronn was in the lead by virtue of having a sword. Varys had one but hadn't bothered to draw it, seemingly relieved to be done with posing as a guard. Jeyne was hovering behind them, having decided her best chance of escape was sticking close to them.

Bronn glanced at him, hesitating at the door. Every instinct screamed at Tyrion to hide, but he found himself nodding to proceed. Whatever waited outside could be no worse than what would have happened in here if Bronn and Varys hadn't intervened when they did.

As soon as the door opened, the clash of steel met Tyrion's ears. Bronn stepped down to the ground with Varys, but Tyrion remained on the step, peering at the fighting going on around them. At first glance, it appeared to be Lannister on Lannister, but there were a number of Stark guards in the mix along with an array of houses from the Westerlands. Years had passed since Tyrion last set foot in the Westerlands, but he still picked out the sigils of his fath- of his bannermen, who appeared to be on both sides of the battle. He leaned further out of the door until he could see a concentration of Lannister guards with swords drawn, seemingly arguing with a group of men wearing various sigils of the West. Was that…Yes! Tyrion let out a breath as he spotted Godwin amongst them. He could breathe a little easier now, Godwin was loyal to him, wasn't he? Distrust rumbled in his mind, but if Godwin had brought men to find him it would go some way to convince any of his captors who may have been deceived by lord Lydden. Varys had suggested some of these men were sceptical and would answer his direct order, he just needed a way to give it to them.

"Any ideas?" asked Bronn. "They're gonna notice you eventually."

"Only one," said Tyrion. He turned to Jeyne, who was hovering in the doorway behind him. "You want me to abide by our deal, yes? Since you couldn't fulfil your end you can do so now – get me the attention of these men, and you have my word of honour on what we agreed."

"How am I supposed to do that?" she snapped.

"Must I think of everything? Use your voice dear, it's shrill enough to shatter the Wall."

Her face soured, but she pushed past Tyrion to lean out of the wheelhouse door.

Jeyne paused for a moment, drawing in a deep breath. "Stop in the name of your lord!"

"Bloody hell!" said Bronn, wincing at the sound.

It was hard to disagree. The girl's whiny, petulant voice was even worse at full volume – her father was probably desperate to marry her off for some peace. Nevertheless, it worked well enough. Every man in the area paused their fighting to turn to them.

Tyrion's stomach lurched at the scrutiny, and he was well aware of both Varys' and Jeyne's eyes on him. This was for Sansa. It was the best way to get back to her, and that had to be enough to get him through this.

"Stop fighting," he called, his voice wavering. "You have been lied to – I did not give lord Lydden any orders nor did I send for my bannermen to escort me to Casterly Rock!"

A man in a Lannister uniform shook his head. "M'lord is confused. Maester Gallard warned us all your memory was troubled."

Instantly, other guards began to nod in agreement – some wearing Lannister uniforms and others wearing his bannermen's sigils. Sweat trickled down Tyrion's back as panic began to set in. These Lannister guards were not his, they were imposters and he had to remember that.

"My memory is fine," he said. "I remember who rescued me in Kings Landing and who did not. I am not a confused invalid to be used, but if Maester Gallard hadn't been interrupted by Ser Bronn and lord Varys I might bloody well be. I'm telling you now, lord Lydden has lied to you and I demand he is brought to Winterfell to face my justice, along with Ser Harys Swyft."

A man bearing a yellow sigil with three purple dots – the arms of house Plumm – also stepped closer. "M'lord doesn't look well. These were your orders – your men told us so."

"I said no such thing," said Tyrion. He forced his legs to move, awkwardly stepping down from the wheelhouse. Bronn and Varys immediately fell in at either side. "I am in complete command of my senses, and you would do well to remember that."

"You can't be," chimed in a Lannister guard. "Why else would you order lord Lydden and Ser Harys be brought to Winterfell rather than the Rock? The North is a separate kingdom."

Tyrion's eyes narrowed. The man was a decent pretender, but Tyrion could still detect the hint of an Essos accent beneath his words. They were surrounded by frauds, but there was still some hope. Tyrion knew his earlier suspicions were correct. If he'd marched out of the Wheelhouse and tried to take command as Jeyne wanted there were too many men who would undermine him and cast doubt on his capacity to do so. Bronn and Varys lent him some credibility, but the most recent arrivals were his best chance.

"I will explain this once more," said Tyrion, forcing his voice to reach every man. "I have not communicated with lord Lydden or Ser Harys Swyft at all. I did not request an escort from the North to the Westerlands, and I've no desire to leave Winterfell. Four of you, posing as Stark guards, abducted me while I was riding back from Castle Cerwyn. I want no part in this, and any man who still doesn't understand will hang as a traitor!"

Tyrion didn't realise his voice had risen as he spoke, as fear and stress bubbled to the surface. It was Varys subtly nudging his shoulder that urged him to regain control. He directed his gaze through the crowd of men, to where he'd seen Godwin before.

"Some of you have been misled and others are traitors. The captain of my guard can decide which is which. Godwin, take any man you suspect a traitor as a prisoner, lord Varys and Ser Bronn will help you decide which is which."

"Hold!" bellowed another man. The sea of men parted to let him through, and Tyrion quickly recognized the sigil of house Westerling. Ah, so this must be lord Westerling, who according to Jeyne was working with Maester Gallard. "I will not follow the orders of a man so clearly unwell. Lord Tyrion, you must let us help you. These ravings of yours do not at all match with your letters. We moved only because you explicitly wished to be with Jeyne and wed her as soon as possible. I fear it is perhaps lord Varys and Ser Bronn who have lied to you – they were found sneaking around lord Lydden's castle for sevens sake! I can't imagine how they escaped justice there and wound up here."

Tyrion smiled thinly. Godwin and the actual Lannister guards were moving subtly into defensive positions around them, but lord Westerling had already made his mistake. Repeating the well-rehearsed story of his supposed love for Jeyne Lydden might have been a solid strategy if Godwin was not here, but it was Jeyne herself who would sink it and barely a moment passed before she did.

"It was all lies!" she said, her voice bubbling with an enthusiasm she hadn't had in the wheelhouse. "I never wrote letters to him – no one did. It was all my father's plot to marry me to him, but I won't do it! Never. I'd rather die-"

"Bloody hell, we get the point!" said Bronn. He twisted his sword in his hand, looking at lord Westerling as if sizing him up. "If any of what you said was true it's an odd way to treat your liege lord. You had him trussed up in that wheelhouse like a prize pig. The old bastard in there was threatening to poison him so he'd go along with this shit."

A ripple went through the crowd as Tyrion's cheeks burned. Bronn was trying to help, in his own way, but he could do without the humiliation of every man knowing what state he'd been trapped in and how weak he really was.

"That isn't true," grunted lord Westerling. "Why would anyone believe the word of a sellsword and eunuch? I imagine you threatened poor Jeyne into going along with this nonsense. I've heard more than enough. Lord Tyrion isn't well enough to know what's good for him, so as his loyal bannermen we must make that decision. Kill Bran Stark's allies and escort our lord back into the wheelhouse!"

"Enough!" cut in another man, his thunderous voice filling the clearing. He was an elderly man, but built like an ox and carried himself as if he were several years younger. He stood next to Godwin, but as he spoke he moved forwards through the crowds. "Gods be good, can't you use your own bloody eyes. Does lord Tyrion look confused to any of you? I came because lord Lydden's word was the only one we had, but the badger is a snake and I've seen more than enough to prove that. Lord Tyrion can speak with his own voice, and Ser Godwin here assures me he is of sound mind. That is evidence enough to persuade me."

Lord Westerling turned on the older man, his face twisting into a scowl. "You're a traitor too! You were never really with us – I told Ser Harys you weren't to be trusted!"

"I'm not the only lord who doubts the horseshit lord Lydden has been feeding us. I came to see lord Lannister with my own eyes and judge the state of him." The old lord shook his head. "He's not lacking his faculties at all, and I've known Godwin many years – he is not a liar. Even the lady Jeyne confesses this is all lies."

"I've been at Winterfell all these weeks and I can assure you, lord Tyrion has not contacted the Westerlands to give instructions. This was an abduction. Queen Sansa has all her men out searching for lord Tyrion," said Godwin.

Varys was stood beside him, and Tyrion could feel his eyes burning into the top of his head, urging him to take command. For his part, Tyrion was reluctant to do so when things were progressing so well without him. Was it too much to hope Godwin and the other lord would resolve this and he could go home to Winterfell quietly?

Tyrion chewed his lip. Some words were probably required to solidify his wishes and assure them he wasn't an invalid. He focused on the lord whom Godwin seemed to know. He wore a sigil of green and black check with a silver helm, crested with a sprig of-

"Ah, I thought you were familiar," said Tyrion. "I confess it's been some time lord Broom."

The old man grunted. "I wasn't a lord when I last saw you, only a knight. If my brother and his son hadn't died I'd still be no more than a knight and all the happier for it."

"I'm sorry for your loss. I'll admit it took me a moment to place you, but I wasn't trained in arms as a lad."

"Perhaps you should have been my lord, and you might have kept your helmet on during the battle of Blackwater."

Ser Benedict Broom, just as blunt as Tyrion recalled the former master at arms, who was now lord of his house. Tyrion had little to do with the man in his youth, but Jamie had spoken of him often. His words were blunt and he lacked charm, but his sword was always sharp and he was staunchly loyal to house Lannister. The man could be as blunt as he wanted, Tyrion would gladly take that to go home, and with lord Broom's declaration, they were one step closer.

Slowly, the traitors and allies were revealing themselves, shifting the balance of the group surrounding them. Godwin was on his side, along with the Lannister guards that accompanied him and the few Stark men. He had Bronn and Varys, though only Bronn would be useful in a fight. Lord Broom would answer him too, along with his own men. While there were only a few wearing the black and green check of Broom, Tyrion could see immediately they were experienced. As soon as their lord spoke, the men were already falling in with Godwin's, taking up subtle positions around the perimeter of the group.

The problem was the number of fake Lannister guards, the Lydden men who were unlikely to follow Jeyne and lord Westerling's men, with guards bearing several other Westerlands sigils sprinkled amongst the group. Where their loyalties lay was anyone's guess, but if it came to a fight there was some small hope Tyrion's men would win. Godwin and his guards were quite familiar with the Northern conditions by now, whereas his abductors had clearly underestimated the difficulty posed by the landscape – even Bronn had noticed as much.

Tyrion swallowed, curling his good hand into a fist. If defeat looked likely he'd rather die here than be taken captive again.

"Well, that didn't bloody work," grumbled Bronn.

In his distraction, Tyrion had failed to notice the fake Lannister guards also moving into position. It was only when the first clash of steel rang out did Tyrion realise his abductors could not be swayed.

"Secure the imp!" said lord Westerling, pointing his sword in Tyrion's direction. "We cannot fail our Queen!"

It wasn't the first time he'd heard mention of a Queen – Jeyne had let it slip earlier – but this time his blood ran cold. This wasn't Sansa, so who could it be?

Godwin was already moving, his sword in hand. "Protect our lord!"

Before the battle could truly begin, the pounding of hooves drew their eyes to the crest in the distance. Tyrion's heart slammed against his chest as Lannister guards surged towards them. This was it – they would take him and the pain would start again. The tiny scraps of his identity he'd tried to patch together would be ground into dust, and no one would save him this time.

Tyrion was struggling to breathe as the guards joined the battle and it was only Varys' hand on his shoulder that kept him upright.

"You must hold out," whispered Varys, his voice urgent but not unkind. "This should end quickly now."

It took Tyrion too long to realise what Varys meant. Where his mind had automatically connected the image of surging Lannister guards with enemies, that was not reality. These were Godwin's men – his men – and they were already attacking his abductors. Bronn stayed near him and Varys for all of a minute before his blade tasted blood. It was unlike Bronn, who nearly always killed for profit or personal gain, but the former sellsword appeared to be relishing the bloodshed.

Varys wrinkled his nose beside him. "He's been desperate for this for weeks. Travelling with him has been insufferable."

"When can we go?" cut in Jeyne, leaning out the door of the wheelhouse. She glanced at the fighting with some disgust but it didn't hold a candle to how she looked at him.

Tyrion vaguely registered Varys answering her, but his focus was stuck on the battle before him. The Lannisters were winning – they had a discipline the imposters did not, and lord Broom's men were just as deadly. Prisoners were already beginning to be arranged and Tyrion knew he couldn't hide from this. More than anything he wanted to return to Winterfell and the quiet life of Tyrion Hill, but that wasn't possible. He'd gleaned enough scraps of information from his most recent imprisonment to know the situation in the Westerlands went deeper than a few brigands and chancers. It needed to be dealt with properly, and while Tyrion knew he wasn't up to the task, it was where he would bring the problems that caused him the most distress.

Sansa didn't deserve his troubles and he didn't deserve her at all. Yet, he found himself wishing to be back with her all the same. Tyrion could only hope Sansa would forgive him for what he brought back with him, it had cursed anyone who'd ever held a piece of it, but Sansa held the whole thing and there was no way to take it back.

Sansa paced forwards and backwards. She walked in circles and walked the corridors near her chambers. No matter how she spent her time, nothing could distract her from the chasm that had opened in her chest with Tyrion's disappearance. Every hour was spent lurching between her constant companions; anger and shame. That anyone would dare to lay a hand on Tyrion ignited a fire in her heart that spread through her veins. There would be justice done, she would ensure it. But it was shame that dogged her every step. For all her promises and reassurances to Tyrion, she'd failed in her duty to him. How disappointed was her poor husband, whose only error was trusting her word? She hadn't kept him safe – her poor judgement had left them both vulnerable with inexperienced guards.

She'd sent every man at her disposal to find Tyrion, once again leaving Winterfell poorly defended. It was worth it if they succeeded and found him. If Tyrion had been kidnapped it could trigger all kinds of horrible memories for him, and she wasn't there to help him through it.

'What if he wanted to leave?'

Sansa grimaced as the dark thought crossed her mind. Had she made him uncomfortable? Did Tyrion want to leave but hadn't wanted to tell her? She tried to control the errant thoughts, and temper them with logic. Either way, it didn't matter – she'd know no peace until she knew he was safe.

In her desire to find him quickly she'd even turned to Ghost. The direwolf came and went from the castle as he pleased, but when Sansa found him near Tyrion's chambers she'd pleaded for help.

"Please Ghost, help me find Tyrion." Sansa pushed Tyrion's patchwork blanket closer, hoping the wolf might get a scent from it. "Someone took him. Please – if you can find a trail…"

The direwolf had watched her with unsettling red eyes, but no matter how she'd pleaded Ghost had been unmoved. Sansa curled her hands into fists. Ghost often slept in Tyrion's chambers and followed him around, but now that he was missing, the direwolf wouldn't help. All Ghost had done was try and follow her in here, but she'd shut the door to keep him out. It was petty, but Ghost's refusal to join the search felt as if he knew there was no point searching. Tears burned the back of her eyes at the thought, but the Queen forced her thoughts in a more positive direction; they would find Tyrion and he would be fine.

At least Uhlan had agreed to wait for Tyrion, and she'd given orders that he was to be treated with the full hospitality of Winterfell while he was here. The man's unusual appearance had raised more than a few eyebrows around the castle, but Uhlan either didn't notice or didn't care. Sansa just needed him to wait for Tyrion to be home. If Uhlan could help him with the tattoos it would do wonders for Tyrion's confidence, she knew it, she just needed him here.

A full day had now passed since Tyrion was taken, and it was quickly becoming one of the longest in Sansa's life. The lords in her castle had sent some of their men to join the search. Word had been sent to lord Cerwyn, who'd replied immediately to say he and his men would search the areas near his castle. Inside Winterfell was fraught. Word had spread quickly that the Prince was led away by men in Stark uniforms, leaving an uneasiness throughout the whole castle. It was Yvette who Sansa felt the closest to however – the older woman was fond of Tyrion and shared Sansa's eagerness to see him safely returned.

The Queen tried to settle in her study, but whatever she read wasn't really registering nor could she summon the desire to care. The pattern of restlessness and no concentration continued unabated all day. It was mid-afternoon when a frantic knock on the door roused her.

Sansa was out of her chair in a moment, covering the distance in several strides. She wrenched open the door to find Maester Wolkan breathless before her.

"Your Grace, I came as quickly as I could. A Lannister rider has arrived; he says Godwin believes he has located Tyrion and is moving to engage."

"Anything else?" asked Sansa, her heart pounding. "Did anyone see Tyrion?"

"No one has seen him, but the rider says Godwin noticed a trail that looked like it came from a wheelhouse. Apparently, Godwin sent one man back here to inform you, and another to rally any nearby search parties in case of battle."

The Queen was grateful for her long gown, it hid the moment her legs trembled beneath her. They'd found him – he could already be on his way here. The relief was like opening the drapes after a storm to let the light in.

'Soon my love, soon. You'll be home where you belong and I'll do better, I promise.'

Godwin shifted on his saddle, trying to ease some of the achiness from him. The past day had been spent nearly entirely on horseback, a fact that wouldn't have troubled him some years ago, but his time at Winterfell had softened him somewhat. Weeks of little to do and nowhere to go had taken some small price from him – nothing he couldn't overcome with increased training. Age was no excuse for sloppiness. However uncomfortable Godwin was finding the ride, it paled in comparison to how lord Tyrion was finding it.

"All well my lord?" asked Godwin.

Tyrion was shuffling on the saddle too, and if he was riding alone Godwin suspected his lord would have already fallen from the horse. "I'm fine. The sooner I'm off this damned horse the better."

Godwin knew he wasn't fine but didn't push the issue. They would be back at Winterfell soon enough and the Queen would surely check Tyrion was truly alright. The search had proven fruitless since yesterday until Godwin found a sign.

As soon as he spotted the wheelhouse tracks partially obscured by snow, Godwin sent two riders out; one to inform the Queen, and the other to gather any nearby search parties. Some of the men had suggested it might not be Tyrion, and the Stark guards with him had said wheelhouses were not uncommon given the terrain. Godwin didn't change his mind. The North wasn't an area he knew well, but he knew how to follow tracks. The wheelhouse had taken an unusual path – not one any man familiar with the terrain would. The poor choice of route had slowed the wheelhouse considerably, along with riders unaccustomed to the rough landscape. Godwin knew he'd found the right tracks even before he saw the lion sigil flying from the wheelhouse. Finding lord Varys and Ser Bronn there too had been a surprise, but lord Tyrion seemed comfortable enough with their presence.

"A lot of Lannister guards appeared during the battle," said Tyrion, his voice soft. "If not for them, it may have ended differently and with far more death."

"I sent for reinforcement as soon as I suspected we'd found you."

"Where were they?"

Godwin's brow furrowed. "I don't follow my lord?"

Tyrion had turned down the offer of a horse to ride himself and had quietly asked to ride back with him. A wise choice given how stiffly he was moving and the tiredness on his face, but Tyrion had no need to ask when he was lord. An air of uncertainty had clung to him since they began the ride back, and for once Godwin suspected it wasn't caused by the large number of Lannister guards accompanying them, or the prisoners being transported a short distance behind them.

"Where were the guards when you sent for them?" asked Tyrion, keeping his head turned down.

"They were searching for you, my lord. Queen Sansa sent every man she could find as soon as we realised what had happened. Lord Manderly and some of the visiting lords sent men too, and I believe lord Cerwyn has sent guards out near his lands."

His head lifted slightly. "The Queen…she wanted to find me?"

Godwin's chest tightened at the question. Was that why he was so subdued? Did he fear punishment from the Queen, or that she wouldn't want him back? Tyrion had seemed set on returning to Winterfell, and Godwin didn't doubt that was what he wanted, but his capture had clearly dislodged some insecurity in him. An insecurity that didn't suit a lord – particularly when lord Broom and his bannermen were around.

Leaning forwards as if to adjust the reigns, Godwin directed his voice to Tyrion's ear. "I can promise you, my lord, the Queen has been beside herself at your absence. You will see for yourself soon enough. For now, I implore you to play the part of lord Lannister. I know you don't want it, but you've seen first-hand that your bannermen are plotting. Don't give them a reason to."

A bitter laugh escaped him. "Hard to have authority when I'm too weak to ride alone. If not for you I'd have fallen by now and you bloody well know it."

"There are ways to command that aren't physical. Your extensive injuries from Kings Landing are well known and no man will judge you harshly for that. It is your mind you must not let them doubt. Lions don't concern themselves with the opinions of sheep – if you display confidence, your bannermen will reflect that."

Tyrion was silent for a moment before he spoke. "Tywin used to say that. I bloody hate it when he's right."

Every day the dragon strayed further from their course. Sometimes it would disappear and come back in sight hours later, but more often than not Drogon was moving away from the decided route. It was bad enough that the dragon was so often out of sight, but Arya was more concerned about Jon.

She'd rarely seen her brother since they left the North. If and when Drogon stopped for breaks it was nowhere near them. It didn't help that the morale of the men accompanying Arya had dropped significantly since they set out. They'd most likely assumed Jon would be a more visible presence – for all she'd proven her unique skills some of the men were undoubtedly uncomfortable with a woman in charge. Arya didn't care. She was in charge, but she left most of the duties to the Winterfell captain who accompanied her – it was easier on everyone that way.

"Are the men still with us?" asked Arya, hearing the captain's approach before she saw him.

"No Northerner worth his salt would desert. They gave their word to go to Kings Landing and they will. Reckon most of them regret it though. After the last few years, they're keen to stay in their own beds for once."

Arya nodded, her eyes following the black dot in the distance. Barrik followed her gaze, grunting as he picked out the dragon.

"Thought he'd stay closer to the group given what happened to King Bran."

"Jon would," said Arya, narrowing her eyes. "But it's not Jon making the decisions."

Nothing was quick enough for Sansa. As soon as the guard told her Godwin thought he'd found Tyrion and was moving to engage, time seemed to have slowed down. Minutes felt like hours as she waited, but there was little else to do. The moment riders were spotted in the distance, Winterfell surged into life. With so few of her own guards left in the castle she let the captain of lord Manderly's guard take charge of arranging the reception as the scouts on the walls relayed information. It was a large party approaching, with what appeared to be a number of prisoners at the rear and a wheelhouse bobbing along in the middle. The party was mostly comprised of men in Lannister uniforms, but she spotted a few Stark guards there too, along with several houses she didn't recognise.

Sansa took all the information in and ordered the guards to prepare for prisoners, but she was still distracted. Nothing mattered until the gates were opened and she caught her first glimpse of Tyrion. She looked for him on his own horse at first but quickly spotted him riding with Godwin. Was he hurt? Why was he sharing a horse?

The Queen schooled her features into a cool mask as the party spilt into the courtyard. There were enemies to deal with and Sansa was well aware of lord Manderly and the current visiting lords spread around the courtyard.

"Thank the Gods," said lord Manderly, moving beside her. "It appears the Prince is well."

Sansa was relieved too, but it was tinged with sadness as two Lannister guards helped Tyrion dismount the horse. She didn't miss the shame passing over his face at the crowd watching his supposed weakness and wanted nothing more than to give him the reassurance he needed, but now wasn't the time.

"Lord Tyrion," she called, striding to meet him. Sansa hoped he could read her – some formality was necessary now, but she didn't want him to doubt her relief at having him back. "It pleases me to see your safe return. I trust you are well?"

Green eyes she knew so well, clouded with uncertainty, glanced up at her. "I'm fine your Grace, thanks to your efforts. Once again I'm in your debt."

Sansa let her mouth twitch up. "There is no debt, my lord."

Tyrion looked torn, and she saw his legs move as if he might bend the knee to her. Before he could, Godwin's hand grasped his shoulder. To onlookers, Godwin appeared only to be steadying the exhausted lord of Casterly Rock, but Sansa saw the truth and was grateful for the quick action. The house sigils she didn't recognise were most certainly from the Westerlands, and as far as the six kingdoms were aware, Tyrion was lord of Casterly Rock and warden of the west – it was better he wasn't seen kneeling to her, nor was it a position she liked to see her husband in.

Her eyes swept over Tyrion, taking in his dusty clothes and tired face. He was holding himself stiffly, particularly his right shoulder, but he didn't appear to be physically hurt, though that didn't mean he wasn't hurting. What had happened to him in the time he'd been gone? The hint of growing confidence she'd witnessed at Castle Cerwyn seemed to be extinguished now. Her heart ached for Tyrion, throbbing with a confusing mix of empathy and that which she struggled to put into words. There was so much to tell him, to ask him – but it was an area that cowardice held. Too craven to tell Tyrion the simple truth; a life without him wasn't one she could tolerate.

Sansa struggled to hold her Queenly mask, but the situation needed to be dealt with before she could tend to Tyrion.

"There are prisoners, your Grace," said Godwin, his voice low. "Lord Broom is an ally, but there are several senior guards from other minor houses who are prisoners, along with lord Westerling and Maester Gallard. There's also-"

Godwin was cut off as the wheelhouse door flew open, and Ser Bronn stepped down into the courtyard.

"I can't listen to it anymore," he said, glancing around the courtyard. "The bitch hasn't stopped since we left the fucking woods."

Varys was the next from the wheelhouse, glaring at Bronn with disapproval. "You wanted to ride in there."

"Aye. Someone needed to keep the high-value prisoners in line and I'm fed up of riding on a bloody horse. Don't get your missing balls in a twist, you're not the bitch I'm talking about – for once."

Varys rolled his eyes, stepping away from the wheelhouse as if to distance himself from Bronn.

"Ser Bronn, lord Varys?" Sansa's head spun. How had they ended up North, in a group that had apparently abducted Tyrion?

The eunuch inclined his head. "Apologies, your Grace. I realise this must be a bit of a shock."

Sansa was still formulating a response when Jeyne Lydden stepped down from the wheelhouse, her face sour. Her nose wrinkled as she took in Winterfell.

"How long do we have to be here for?" she said, crossing her arms. "I have a deal with him!"

It took Sansa a long moment to realise the 'him' in question was Tyrion, and then fury broke her icy façade. How dare this girl show such blatant disrespect to her liege lord? Before she could bite back, a hand on her arm stopped her.

"Your Grace, I'll explain everything as well as I know it…just, maybe not here?" said Tyrion.

At once her anger dissolved, replaced by concern. Tyrion was trying to keep a lordly mask on, and Sansa was well aware it was a face he didn't want to wear. The sooner they were alone the better.

"Lord Manderly, can I ask you to handle this while I consult with lord Tyrion? Godwin will assist you in sorting the prisoners, I trust?"

"Of course," said Godwin, nodding.

Lord Manderly surely wanted to hear whatever Tyrion knew, but he wouldn't refuse a position of authority and Sansa needed to be alone with Tyrion, and one look in his eyes told her he wanted that too.

"Your Grace, I should really speak with you-" started Varys, until Sansa held up a hand.

"I will speak with lord Tyrion first. Lord Varys, Ser Bronn – the hospitality of Winterfell is yours, and I extend it to lord Broom as well. I trust lord Manderly to handle this for now, and later I will consult with you."

Varys nodded, but Sansa didn't like the look in his eyes. He was nearly always calm, but now Varys looked as if he'd seen a ghost and not recovered from the shock. Sansa was more than curious about what they were doing here, but there was only one priority right now. She offered her arm to Tyrion, turning towards the castle.

"Come my lord, I will receive you in my chambers to discuss this."

Tyrion took her arm, though his face was distant. Sansa hoped he understood what she couldn't put into words.

'I missed you so much, my love.'

It always surprised Tyrion to see what tricks Sansa had learned from her years in Kings Landing. The lady had appeared meek and mild yet proved to be a wolf with hidden claws. In the courtyard, she'd done her duty as Queen and retained a dignified indifference at their arrival. She'd greeted those who should be greeted and delegated in a way that satisfied the Northerners, gave lord Manderly some prestige and made it perfectly clear to the intruders that she was comfortable enough in her role to give orders and expect them to be fully carried out. It was an impressive display, and Tyrion didn't doubt everyone in the courtyard thought he and Sansa were sat at a table, deep in discussion about what had occurred and possibly planning the next steps.

It was important the lords and prisoners thought that, but that couldn't be further from the truth. As soon as the door closed behind them, the Queen left and only Sansa Stark remained – and she appeared to be trying to bury him in blankets.

The hearth was burning as if it was the depths of winter and Sansa had so far wrapped three blankets around him, though that wasn't deterring her from searching for a fourth.

"Sansa, I'm fine," said Tyrion, for what could have been the tenth time. "Are you well? Perhaps you should sit down."

"You're cold," she said. "You've barely been outside for months and done far more riding than was originally planned – I don't want you to get sick. I have another blanket somewhere. You're wincing a lot, I think the Maester should check you over."

He was tired, stiff, aching and he had been cold before Sansa got to work, but none of that mattered now. Sansa had barely spoken to him since they entered the room except for her repeated enquiries into his health and frantic fussing over him. At first, he'd feared she was angry with him, but that didn't suit Sansa. It took a little while to move past the thought, but he saw what her actions really were, and what needed to be done.

A blanket being piled on the ones already around his shoulders jolted him back to the present. It was time to stop Sansa before she found another task that didn't need doing.

"Sansa please, I don't need anything. Won't you sit with me?"

She hesitated beside the chaise lounge but kept her face turned down and away from his view. "Are you hungry? You've not eaten anything all day, have you?"

"I'm not going to starve, a little while longer won't hurt."

"I'll have something sent up. Would you like soup or do you feel up to something heavier?"

Tyrion reached out, grasping her wrist in his good hand before she could hurry away. "What's troubling you? If you're upset with me…"

"No! Why would I be upset with you? You did nothing wrong."

It was reflex that made Sansa turn to soothe his worries, and it was all Tyrion needed to see the tears brimming in her blue eyes.

"You're crying," he said. "Please, let me help you."

Sansa's shoulders shook with barely controlled sobs, but she made no move to escape his grip and he gently tugged her in front of him. Shrugging off the heavy blankets, Tyrion inched towards the edge of the seat but Sansa quickly blocked him.

"Stay still, you need to rest," she said.

"I'm fine, but you are not. What can I do to help you?"

"There's nothing, it's you I'm worried about."

"I'm more grateful for that than you would ever know, but I can see you're upset and given how I'm perfectly alright I suspect it's something else troubling you. Whatever it is, you can share it with me – I'll do anything to be of use."

Sansa was chewing her lip, looking more lost than a Queen ever should. It wasn't a state he would let her linger in, but the solution was both long overdue and a great risk. If it went wrong, if his gift was badly received, there would be no way to recover from it.

Despite those concerns, he tried to smile. "I've yet to find my service at Winterfell. I could be your ear, and listen to all your problems without judgement. I suspect it'll be a far kinder role than being Hand to a Queen was."

Tyrion had hoped to make Sansa smile, even if she didn't want to confide in him, but his words had the opposite effect. She sank to her knees before him, moving out of his grip to take both of his hands in hers.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Tyrion. I promised you would be safe here, that I'd never let anyone hurt you again, and I failed on every count. You deserve so much more…"

A lump formed in Tyrion's throat. "No, that's not true. You could never fail me."

"I did fail…if I was stronger you'd have never got hurt in the first place, you'd have been here- I mean you wouldn't have gone…" She sniffed, tears trailing down her cheeks. "I made so many promises to you and I couldn't keep any of them."

"You've done more for me than anyone ever has, and I'm forever in your debt. Whatever promises you made I know you've done everything to honour them, but you don't have to wear yourself out looking after me."

"I like looking after you." Sansa's voice was so low that Tyrion barely heard her words, but he did and it only made things clearer.

"There was nothing you could have done to prevent what happened in Kings Landing, or what happened on the ride back to Winterfell. Please don't blame yourself, because I certainly don't. You're the last person I would ever blame."

"It's not good enough. I should be stronger, I should be able to protect those I…." a sob broke from her, and Sansa screwed her eyes shut as if in pain. When she opened them, her impenetrable but warm blue eyes were like clear water, showing Tyrion everything she couldn't say. "I missed you…Winterfell isn't the same without you here."

"I missed you too - and you are more than strong enough."

"When I heard what happened…Tyrion, I was afraid you'd left. I was terrified you'd chosen to go…and you'd never know…that I…I-I lost my chance…"

Tyrion had heard enough. He slid his hands free from Sansa, his heart wrenching at the hurt that crossed her face when he did. The sight lasted only a moment. Tyrion quickly slid off the lounge and wrapped his arms around Sansa, drawing her against him. She wavered before sinking into his embrace, letting her head drop against his shoulder. Her crying increased as soon as she did, refusing to be contained any longer.

He rubbed her back, his own heart beating wildly in his chest. Despite the churning in his gut and barrage of poor outcomes his mind was concocting, Tyrion's voice was strong when he spoke.

"I can't leave Winterfell. This is the home of Sansa Stark, and I love her more than anything in this world. I'd never leave her unless that was what she wished, and if I was forcibly separated from her I'd do anything and everything to get back to her, and see the brilliant light in her blue eyes once again."

Sansa stilled against him for a painful heartbeat in which Tyrion swore time stood still. Her arms wrapping around him broke the spell, pressing him tightly to her. "Oh Tyrion…I-I…"

"Shh, it's alright," he said, stroking her hair. "You don't have to say anything. My love is yours, always."

"I want to," she whispered, "I just struggle…."

"I understand more than you can imagine."

Tyrion relaxed against Sansa, letting her familiar warmth soothe him. There was nothing attractive about his love – it had brought misery to too many people – but Sansa had accepted it anyway. Whatever broken pieces of a heart he had left were hers, and if he'd bothered to look closely he'd have realised that long ago.

Sansa was still crying softly, but she was relaxing against him too, holding him as close as she could. It didn't matter if Sansa never said the words. He knew it was Sansa who'd whispered them in his ear in Kings Landing, when she stood between him and death. There were a thousand ways Sansa told him – had been telling him – that she loved him. What did it matter if she never said the three words directly to him? Tyrion didn't have a thousand ways to tell Sansa of his love yet, so for now those three words would have to be enough.