Promise

by rhaellion

Nothing mattered to Sansa more than protecting her family. She didn't trust Daenerys but Tyrion did. His divided loyalties always stopped that odd feeling in her chest before it could manifest into something more. As whispers from the South reach Winterfell, Sansa is forced to consider her own loyalties. Warning: Quite graphic

34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

Where memories ended and dreams began was a line Tyrion found often blurred. He could never decide whether it was because he had a sick imagination, or because his past experiences were too terrible to seem real. Whichever the case, as soon as his head hit the pillow he disappeared into his mind – an unpleasant place to be.

The castle was quiet as he wandered it, illuminated by the soft warm glow of the torches lining the walls. Tyrion had come to appreciate the beauty of Winterfell. It was a castle of stoic solitude. Uninviting to enemies but comforting to those it protected. Tyrion relaxed as he walked; this was his home now.

At first, it didn't bother him, but the further he walked the more his unease grew. Something wasn't right. The castle was too still, too lonely. Tyrion quickened his steps, turning down the corridors until he reached the family rooms. Rather than head to his own chambers, he turned in the opposite direction, where Sansa's solitary rooms were located. Winterfell wasn't supposed to be like this – he needed to find Sansa. The guards usually positioned outside Sansa's doors weren't there and Tyrion hesitated only a moment after knocking before letting himself in.

"Sansa?" he called.

The room was in total darkness. No sign that the Queen – or anyone – had been there recently. Tyrion took several steps into the room but stopped in his tracks as the door closed behind him. He spun towards the door, but as he did the hearth caught fire, casting an eerie orange glow around the room. A shudder went through Tyrion. Every instinct screamed at him to run to the door, but that was pointless – the door would be locked, wouldn't it? Of course it would. He turned back to the room, spotting a trail of crimson drops leading to the hearth. Tyrion's legs and brain refused to cooperate. He didn't want to follow the trail but found his legs taking him there anyway. The splashes of red got bigger the closer he got, forming puddles on the ground. Tyrion froze when he reached the side of the chaise, his eyes locked on the small table that sat before it, or more specifically, what was on the table.

A severed hand lay there, in a pool of still-running blood. It was a right hand, he noticed, and a man's by the look of it. Tyrion stared at the horrible sight, bile burning the back of his throat. It was then he heard a dripping. Spilt water perhaps? He could see nothing obvious, but the sound unsettled him all the same. It sounded close too.

Tyrion wasn't sure what it was that made him look, but by glancing to his right he found the source of the dripping was himself. Where his right hand should have been was a stump, with drops of blood dropping to the floor beside him. He lifted his arm, his heart pounding as he glanced between the end of his arm and the hand on the table. Tyrion stared in horror before a scream ripped from his throat.

The covers tangled around Tyrion as he jerked awake, his heart beating far too quickly. His head ached. He was shivering despite the thick blankets and burning hearth.

Tyrion clamped his mouth shut, stifling the cries that threatened to escape him. Perhaps it was naive to think he'd escaped his latest capture without complications. The ordeal hadn't hurt him physically and he'd tried not to linger on the dark thoughts it spawned – distracting himself by focusing on Sansa had seemed to help with that – yet it wasn't enough. He'd escaped punishment in the wheelhouse, but here, in his own bed at Winterfell, his mind would punish him instead. Tyrion wound his fingers into the soft blue blanket. Everything had seemed so good at Castle Cerwyn – how could it change so quickly? It had been bad news after bad news since then. Tyrion tried not to linger on the dark thoughts. He couldn't afford to go there. Whether he did or didn't hardly mattered in truth. Either way, Tyrion knew it was going to be a long night.

---

Sansa hurried through the corridors, trying and failing to not run. It was the early hours of the morning, but already a few servants were stirring to life, preparing for their day's work. Sansa's day typically didn't start for another couple of hours, but she'd struggled to sleep and her mind had been with Tyrion. Dinner had ended quickly after he started vomiting and Sansa had taken him straight to his chambers for privacy. He'd refused to see the Maester, but Sansa knew what had spurned his sudden stomach troubles – it almost caused her own.

If Jeyne Lydden could be trusted, which she couldn't, It wasn't just Daenerys who was back, but Cersei Lannister too. The silence that followed the announcement was eclipsed only by the chaos that came next. Frantic, panicked discussion had erupted. Some lords wanted instant action to find her. Others wanted to interrogate the prisoners. Half the lords looked to her for answers, but the rest had turned to Tyrion – the reluctant lord of the Rock, who'd begun vomiting at the mention of his sister.

Sansa's heart twisted for him. He'd had almost no time to recover from his kidnap and subsequent rescue before he was thrust in front of the lords to play a part he didn't want. Tyrion had apologised profusely for throwing up and damaging the lordly image he was trying to project.

"You ask so little of me," he said, his eyes falling to the ground. "Forgive me, my Queen, I've failed you tonight."

"Not true. No one could have prepared for what Jeyne Lydden said. You more than did your duty Tyrion, I'm only sorry you had to do it all."

"You asked me to play the role of lord Lannister and I couldn't do it. If the lords weren't already convinced of my weakness they will be now."

"The other lords will understand – you're still recovering – they know what you went through. All that matters is that you're seen as lord of Casterly Rock and no one questions your capacity for the role. Vomiting at dinner won't damage that. You hardly ate anything and didn't look well to begin with…"

The conversation had gone in circles, but some colour had finally returned to Tyrion's face and he'd stopped vomiting. Sansa had insisted he'd done well at dinner and that he get some rest - tomorrow they would discuss a strategy moving forwards. Leaving Tyrion in his chambers had felt wrong on every level. She'd lingered as long as possible, checking and then double-checking he didn't need anything. Tyrion had insisted he felt better and apologised again for troubling her, but they were only words and deep down Sansa knew he wasn't alright. She'd spent her own night in agitation, her mind split between the rapidly mounting problems that had made their way North and concern for Tyrion.

When one of her guards rapped the door in the early hours she'd already been awake for some time and tripped over herself to reach the door. Her heart dropped at finding a young Lannister guard standing there, but she had two guards herself, albeit borrowed from lord Manderly.

"Apologies your Grace," he said, fidgeting on the spot. "It's only…I finished my watch at lord Tyrion's door. We're under orders to not enter unless he commands it, but m'lord doesn't sound well. It's faint but I thought it best you know. His trust in us is shaky, but not in you."

That was all it had taken. Sansa had hurried from her chambers as if it was the call she'd been waiting for, and in a way, she had been waiting for it. The young guard accompanied her, though he didn't add to what he'd already told her. Sansa understood. Tyrion's distress was nearly always quiet. Where her nightmares rattled the walls, she knew Tyrion's were muffled. She'd heard his nightmares before only when passing close to his chambers, and she suspected the young guard had listened to it all night. This was the first time Tyrion had trusted any of the Lannister guards to keep watch at his door – or even given an order. It was understandable the guard dared do nothing but stand and listen, though it had clearly bothered him enough to seek her help.

It didn't take long to reach Tyrion's chambers and she quickly picked out his stifled cries. A fresh Lannister guard was stood in place at the door, though he looked uncomfortable at his lord's distress.

"Thank you," said Sansa, turning to the young man beside her. "I'll take care of him from here."

He nodded. "Of course, your Grace. I-I couldn't sleep myself knowing m'lord was like that. What happened in Kings Landing still haunts me."

"You and me both lad," said the other guard. "It was a nasty business."

Sansa relaxed a little. Tyrion had asked Godwin to set his most trusted men at his door and he appeared to have done so – both seemed appalled at what had befallen Tyrion there, and both seemed sympathetic to his distress now. It was a good thing, so why did it make her jealous? For Tyrion to play the role of lord Lannister it was better he had his men guarding the door rather than hers, but she wanted Tyrion to trust her men. This was his home, wasn't it? She didn't want him to feel he needed protection here.

Muffled cries caught her attention again and Sansa found herself already moving to the door. The sight that awaited her on the other side wasn't unexpected but was heart-wrenching all the same. Tyrion was trembling in his sleep, his face buried in his pillow. The sheets were a tangled mess around him and his left hand was balled tightly in the blue patchwork blanket, much as it had been in the filthy rag he was found in the black cells with.

The Queen stepped closer to the bed, her walls breaking and shuddering with every step.

"I'm here Tyrion. It's all right, everything will be alright…"

---

"Dragonstone has gone quiet," said Brienne. Her usually sharp face was uncharacteristically tired as she addressed the council. "The garrison are supposed to check in on a strict schedule. The report a fortnight ago failed to arrive, and there's been no response to my letter."

"Lost raven?" suggested Sam. "Unusual, but it can happen."

"The next report should have arrived yesterday," said Brienne. "That would be three lost ravens."

Bran listened to the conversation as if he was at the meeting and not observing from the between world he was stuck in. He smiled grimly; in a way, he was a fourth lost raven. He couldn't return to his body, nor could he see through the raven's eyes. All he could do was watch and listen and walk. The walking was nice. Since his fall it was the one thing he'd wanted more than anything, and when he flew as the three-eyed raven he enjoyed it. Now, he'd much rather return to the wheelchair and never walk again if it meant he could interact with his allies once more.

With the raven's power, he saw the past and present easily – too easily. It had led him to distraction and made him distant. Bran thought that should he ever return to his body he would like to spend more time in the present than the past and see through the eyes of Bran Stark rather than the three-eyed raven. He knew his powers carried a burden of duty, but he hadn't realised how much it was taking over him until he lost it. Now he'd do anything to be sat at the table, present in the conversation. Or to write a letter to his family. He should write a letter to Meera too. The way he'd left things with her hadn't felt like anything at the time, but now it bothered him.

"Is there anything else that could go wrong?" asked Ser Davos, rubbing tiredly at his face. "No word from Dragonstone, still no sign of Bronn and Varys and the Westerlands is unnaturally quiet."

"You read the King's post?" asked Brienne.

"Of course not! I recognise the sigils on the wax seals. The only one who can read the King's post, besides the King himself, is Varys – and we don't bloody know where he is."

Bran wanted to scream at them. The pile of letters had grown ever larger since he became stuck here and more than anything he was desperate to know what was contained with them. It could be nothing, or it could be vital pieces of information they were missing.

Talk moved on to Brienne and Podrick's hunt for possible traitors and their lack of success in finding them. There was mention of Jon and Arya's approach – whispers of a dragon in the sky had begun to travel south, but the King feared it was too late.

He didn't have his sight as the three-eyed raven to guide him, but instinct told him the situation was developing more rapidly than they could have dared to imagine.

"I hope you're all ready," said Bran, standing in his empty place at the head of the table. "Whether you are or not, I fear the end game is approaching, and with it comes fire and blood."

---

Sansa rubbed Tyrion's arm, mindful of his shoulder. In his current state, Sansa doubted he was paying attention to his physical aches and pains, but she was and she knew his soreness would only be worse in the morning.

"I'm sorry," mumbled Tyrion, trembling against her.

"I'll hear no apologies," she said. "You've nothing to be sorry for."

It wasn't Tyrion's fault in the slightest. He'd escaped his captors and returned to Winterfell, only to throw himself into comforting her. The news that Daenerys lived once more had shaken him, but he'd taken it in his stride and pushed on to do his duty at dinner. Knowing that Cersei lived had proved to be his breaking point, however. Whatever hurt and anxiety he'd locked away today had gradually bubbled to the surface, finally unleashed by the thought of his tormentor still alive.

They should have burned her body. Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, drawing Tyrion more tightly against her. Arya had stabbed Cersei through the throat with Needle rather than take her head. At the time it seemed fitting, but now it seemed ridiculous – why hadn't they taken her head, burnt her body and scattered the ashes across Westeros? After all, they'd seen they shouldn't have taken any chances, but who could have predicted this?

Sansa had gone straight to Tyrion when she entered his chambers, coaxing him awake and trying to soothe his panic. It quickly became apparent that Tyrion wasn't suffering a simple nightmare, but rather a series of nightmares as his mind was forced to sort through the day. His eyes had been bleary when she woke him and tremors had rocked his already tired body. Trauma and illness – both brought back memories she'd rather forget, but how could she when the last time she saw Tyrion in such a state was when he'd stood before the mirror with a knife? The comparison in situations was unfair and she knew it. Last time Tyrion had been unaware of what he was doing and acting on impulse. Now he was scared and vulnerable, but he was still with her – it was why he kept apologising for needing her help.

Her heart ached at the heat coming from him, but she'd suspected he wasn't well at dinner. Weeks in a dungeon and then weeks in the castle had weakened him to the point it was a miracle he hadn't fallen victim to the North's cruel nature earlier, but his most recent abduction appeared to have done the trick.

Tyrion tried to insist he was fine, but it was a weak lie when the evidence was in front of her. He was utterly exhausted and had dropped asleep twice since she arrived. Every time it was restless and ended with him whimpering, curling as tightly into himself as possible. He was awake again now and had seemingly given up trying to escape her comfort. If Sansa thought her closeness made him uncomfortable she'd step away immediately, but she knew it was pride and that simply wasn't a good enough reason.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, dropping her head against his.

The cycle repeated several times in quick succession. Tyrion would tell her pieces of his nightmares, often dozing off as he spoke before the cycle would begin again. Sansa had assumed Tyrion's nightmares were based on Kings Landing or Cersei or Daenerys, but that didn't seem to be the case. From the whispers she could get from him his nightmares were more generic – being completely alone, an ordinary scene with an out-of-place detail, shouting for help and no words leaving his mouth – every time he closed his eyes he suffered. No matter how she offered comfort Tyrion's mind wouldn't rest, plagued by trauma and what she suspected were fever dreams. Morning would soon be upon them and Tyrion needed some sleep if he was to face the day – it was time for a different approach.

"Can you walk?" she asked softly.

He nodded, panic flashing in his eyes. "We're going somewhere?"

"To the chaise," she said. "A change of scenery helps me when I have nightmares."

"You don't need to do this. I'm sorry…I've disrupted you more than enough."

"What did I say about apologising? I'm not leaving you like this." Sansa looped her arm around his waist, steadying him as they shuffled to the edge of the bed. "Consider it a royal command if you like – you are to endure my fussing until morning at the earliest."

He hesitated a moment before leaning tiredly into her. "As my Queen says."

Sansa knew she was dangerously close to crossing the line. If the words didn't stick in her throat, would she have already told Tyrion she loved him? She did love him. Holding him close was like finding the missing piece of her heart. Telling him that truth came with too many obligations he wasn't ready for, however. The Queen bit her tongue, pushing the thoughts aside to focus on helping her husband cross the room. There would be time to consider this later – when Winterfell was quiet and the ghosts of the past stayed dead.

The shakiness of Tyrion unnerved her as they left the bed behind. He hadn't been this unsteady for weeks now, and while some of it could be put down to the sickness creeping over him she suspected more was from aggravating his old injuries. From all she'd heard Tyrion had spent the day tied down in what was surely a horrifying re-enactment of Kings Landing. Maybe the chaise wasn't such a good idea? It was too late now. She'd only thought the change of position and roaring hearth in front of them might help him sleep easier. Sansa had no intention of leaving him but she was reluctant to stay on the bed with him all the same. It was irrational, but since Ramsay, the idea of sharing a bed with any man unnerved her, even if it was Tyrion and there was no chance of anything happening. The chaise was safer. She could fuss over him more comfortably and the hearth could chase the chill from him.

"Sit here," she said, propping him in the middle of the chaise.

The Queen only left him for a few minutes. Just long enough to pour a cup of wine from the flagon on his table. She'd had it sent up after dinner thinking he might like a drink before he slept but the flagon was still untouched.

Maester Henly's warning from Kings Landing rang in her ears, reminding her that Tyrion was a man prone to excess and to not let him use it to hide from his trauma. Sansa had been insulted on Tyrion's behalf, but there was truth in the Maester's words, or at least there had been. While Tyrion would join her for some wine and he drank it at dinner, his wine glass was no longer permanently in his hand. He drank relatively little with her, and even less without. Tonight was different. Tonight she didn't mind encouraging him if it helped.

She passed the chaise again, handing him the full cup. "Drink some wine, it will help you sleep."

Leaving Tyrion to drink, Sansa busied herself with gathering supplies. A pillow from his bed, his patchwork blanket and a spare one – just a few things to make him comfortable. When Sansa went back to the chaise Tyrion was finishing the wine, though his hand was shaking as it held the cup. She bit her lip. The last thing she wanted was to encourage him to drown his troubles in drink, but tonight it seemed warranted. Taking the empty cup from him, Sansa wasted no time setting it aside and returning to him. It was best to do this before she lost her nerve.

It helped that Tyrion seemed to share her uncertainty. He'd been apologetic and embarrassed since she entered the room, but now he just looked vulnerable and had seemingly developed a habit of scratching himself. She'd asked him earlier if he was itchy and he'd said no, but he continued to rub his arms and scratch himself. She'd wondered what the cause was ever since and the answer had eventually come to her, but it was an answer that broke her heart if true. Sansa pushed the thought aside for now. She had an idea of how to help Tyrion with that but it would have to wait until later.

Sansa started with the spare blanket, draping it around Tyrion's shoulders.

"Are you going to drown me in blankets again?" he asked.

"Only two, I promise."

His blue blanket was next and Sansa's heart began to beat quickly as she tucked it around him.

His mouth quirked up. "Thank you. I really am sorry for troubling you tonight. I'll be alright now."

"I don't believe you're alright and I told you already, you're mine until morning." Sansa picked up the pillow but rather than place it behind Tyrion's head she sat at the end of the chaise with the pillow in her lap. "Come on, you need to rest."

"Sansa, you needn't trouble yourself…"

"You're no trouble. Won't you let me help you?"

What Tyrion decided, Sansa didn't know. Whether it was pure exhaustion or the wine taking effect his eyes were once again sliding shut and Sansa seized the opportunity. He didn't resist as she took hold of him and guided him to lie with his head on the pillow in her lap, or when she smoothed the blankets over him. Maybe he was nervous too. More and more often they were crossing the line these days, if not one of them then the other. Sansa wouldn't have dared do this a few days ago, but Castle Cerwyn and everything that followed had pushed her to be bolder. The words could wait – she would find other ways to tell Tyrion how she felt until then.

"Sleep well," she said, letting her hand brush his cheek. "I'll take care of you."

He yawned tiredly, his eyes already shut. "I love you too."

---

"It's hard to imagine how things could be worse," said Varys. The spider was leaning forwards in his chair, his hands clasped so tightly in front of him that the knuckles were white.

Bronn took a long drink. "Don't lie. You've spent all night imagining how it could be worse."

"Can you take this seriously? Westeros is on the brink of war for the Iron Throne. As long as Daenerys lives she will seek the throne, and those unhappy with King Bran will side with her."

"How can they be unhappy with Bran? He barely started ruling and already he's lying down on the job."

Varys tutted, rolling his eyes. "The people are rarely happy with their ruler. Bran has the capacity to be a good King, but as you pointed out, he'd not had the chance to be one. From what Queen Sansa told us, Bran has been missing in action for weeks. He might not be the most visible ruler, but his absence and more importantly, his silence, will not win him support."

"You're saying the people will be tempted by a more charming ruler, like Daenerys, even if she's bloody mad."

"That's exactly what I'm saying," said Varys. "Bran's ideas for reform and rebuilding would win him support, but they need time to bear fruit – a time free of war and conflict."

Having finally got to a castle with an actual bed and after weeks of travelling in disguise, Bronn had hoped for some respite. When a knock sounded on his door at first light he'd rolled out of bed hoping it was a whore sent by the Queen to thank him for returning Tyrion in one piece. Instead, Bronn had been greeted by Varys. The eunuch clearly hadn't taken advantage of the night's rest. If anything, Varys looked more haggard than ever.

"Ya know, I thought reaching here was the end of it," said Bronn.

"I fear our problems are just beginning."

"No, I meant you and me. Do you know how many times I was tempted to cut your throat on the way here? It aint easy trying to hide a eunuch. Even in a guard's uniform, you stood out – it's damned good luck we were travelling with a bunch of fucking idiots who didn't notice!"

The weeks of travelling had been stressful. While the guards and minor lords on this Northern excursion were hardly lord Lydden's inner circle, there was every chance someone would notice them. Lord Westerling and Maester Gallard were the biggest risks but they'd largely ignored the guards in favour of the fake Lannister guards who were more integral to the plan. Twice, Bronn had caught lord Broome watching Varys, but if the old man suspected he never said. He was apparently the former master of arms at Casterly Rock – of course he would notice a soldier who'd never handled a sword before. That was before considering the problem of trying to hide that Varys had no balls or cock.

Varys lifted an eyebrow, sitting back in his chair. "I enjoyed our travels just as much as you did. I come to you now because we are both part of the King's council. I am acting as his Hand, and as far as Sansa Stark has heard that position has not changed."

"You think I give a shit that you're the King's hand? Ask Tyrion – I didn't give a shit when he was doing the job for Joffrey."

"I won't debate it. You're clever enough to know where your interests lie and understand that King Bran would not have made you Master of Coin if he doubted you. This situation with the Westerlands must be resolved, and Tyrion must lead the way."

"Aye. A shame he bent the knee to the Stark girl, isn't it? He always wanted her to like him."

Varys smiled. "For an uninterested man you picked up that gossip quickly."

"Hard not to, everyone in the castle knows."

"Well that complicates matters. I thought it was a naive hope we could contain that truth but if you've heard it indirectly in less than a day I dare say word will spread to lord Broome and the rest of the Westerlands party. If this knowledge returns to the West it will exonerate lord Lydden to some extent – the other lords will see Tyrion has lost power and the West will seek a new leader…"

Varys went on, talking through the key problems and possible solutions. Bronn let him talk. To him it was simple – Tyrion didn't want his castle, land and titles anymore – fine. The King needed to only choose a successor, and in his absence, surely Varys could make the choice? To Bronn it was a simple solution to a simple problem. It was a shame more people didn't think like that; more would get done in far less time. He would point this out to Varys, eventually. When the King's Hand finally tired of dissecting everything that could possibly go wrong.

---

"I, Tyrion of house Lannister, lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West do hereby summon lord Jon Lydden of Deep Den and Ser Harys Swyft of Cornfield to Winterfell. I demand that they present themselves to me without delay, and if they should fail in this, I command my loyal bannerman to compel them by any means necessary."

Addressing a group of unsmiling lords was far more difficult than it had once been, but Tyrion thought he'd done well enough considering the pounding in his head and shivers rattling through his limbs. It probably helped that he was reading from a letter – no need to improvise.

"A clear enough message," said Varys. "You're sending this to Deep Den?"

"Yes. A copy will be sent to every house in the Westerlands too."

"You writing them personally?" asked Bronn, nodding towards his damaged hand. "Just saying, sooner is better."

A faint flush rose in Tyrion's cheeks. "I can write with my left, albeit not as clearly as with my right. You needn't worry – Maester Wolkan has agreed to copy my letter as many times as needed – I need only sign."

Tyrion eyed his handwritten letter lying in front of him. It was legible if somewhat childish. Writing with his left hand frustrated him. It felt wrong and writing was something he'd previously been good at. It was one of the main reasons he focused his time on drawing instead – learning a new skill with his left hand was far more enjoyable, and after giving up his name and titles he hadn't seen a great need to improve his writing anyway.

"Queen Sansa," started a squat-faced Northern lord, licking his lips as he spoke. "Do you think it wise to allow the Westerlands problems to be summoned North? We are a separate kingdom. Surely lord Tyrion can deliver justice to these traitors in his own seat."

"Your concerns are noted my lord, but the North does not hide. Lord Lydden and Ser Harys Swyft sent their people into the independent North to further their schemes. Lord Tyrion will deliver his justice at Winterfell, and I will deliver mine."

The man's head bobbed up and down. "Of course, your Grace."

Lord Broome had listened in silence as Tyrion read the letter. He was the only lord of the Westerlands present in the meeting which included lord Manderly and three Northern lords of little importance, as well as Varys and Bronn. Godwin was present too, but he was no lord. Excluding Jayne was an easy decision. It was better for appearances that she was treated well at Winterfell and she had some freedom of the castle, but Tyrion suspected he wasn't the only one glad she wasn't here.

"What are we to do about the other problem?" asked lord Manderly.

The old lord refused to say the name, but Tyrion knew, and it sent a shiver through him.

"No one has actually seen her," said Sansa. "We have only Jeyne's word to go on. Lord Westerling and Maester Gallard are perhaps the most likely to know and it would be useful to question them."

All eyes turned to Tyrion. Of course they would – he was lord Lannister – the prisoners were his to deal with, even though it was Sansa's castle.

"I agree," he said. "Whatever information we can get from them the better. I happily consent to you using whatever methods you find suitable, your Grace."

Sansa nodded, quickly moving on to the next thing. It was Varys who watched him, and Tyrion got the distinct impression he wasn't impressed. What was he supposed to say? He hated playing this role. It didn't fit him anymore. He hoped never to see the Westerlands and Casterly Rock again let alone get involved with its problems.

"I don't believe Cersei Lannister is alive," said lord Wood. "We saw Arya Stark put a blade through her throat months ago – she would be a rotten corpse by now."

"That's an interesting point," said Godwin. "I don't pretend to know how these red priests supposedly bring the dead back, but presumably the corpse would need to be fresh."

"I would have thought the same if I hadn't seen Daenerys Targaryen," said Varys, folding his hands in front of him. "It isn't something you forget."

Tyrion considered for several moments before opening his mouth. He'd only planned on speaking when a direct response was required, but his mind wasn't satisfied with the arrangement. "Targaryens are hard to kill. You've heard the tales of how she stepped into a burning pyre with three eggs and emerged with three baby dragons. There were several in Essos who swore to it, including Jorah Mormont. I suppose if anything could help Daenerys it would be fire."

"Lord Tyrion is correct," said Sansa. "I propose we continue on the basis that Daenerys is somehow alive, but Cersei Lannister is not."

"You know it's possible the rumours of Cersei being alive had their own purpose," pondered lord Manderly, scratching one of his many chins. "If lord Lydden hoped to control lord Tyrion, the threat of Cersei Lannister being alive could have been a lie to make him compliant." The large man looked at him apologetically. "I mean no disrespect lord Tyrion, but if I'd suffered as you had the mere thought of seeing my tormentor again would threaten me."

It was a horrible thought that stabbed at the most vulnerable pieces of his self-esteem. Tyrion was no lord – but he didn't wish to be seen as weak either. Still, he found some comfort in lord Manderly's suggestion. It was plausible, and it was far better than the possibility Cersei had returned from the dead.

"An interesting theory," said Varys, "and one I dearly hope proves correct."

Sansa straightened in her chair, but not before brushing her hand against his leg beneath the table. Tyrion hid a smile. Sansa knew he was nervous and she knew exactly how to comfort him. If he'd had his way he'd have never left the chaise this morning. Lying on the pillow in Sansa's lap had felt awkward at first for both of them. Tyrion barely recalled falling asleep but waking up to Sansa was everything.

"How do you feel?" she asked. Her hands had been resting across him when he first woke, but Sansa had quickly pulled back when she realised he was awake.

"Better," he said, moving to sit up.

As soon as he moved the room spun around him and Sansa's hands were quick to pull him back to the pillow in her lap. "Not yet. You look shaky and I don't like how pale you are."

"Is that an order your Grace?" he asked, his mouth twitching upwards.

"Yes." A shy smile crossed the Queen's face. "You have to stay with me."

This was unchartered territory for both of them. When he first woke he'd felt Sansa's arms comfortably around him, with one hand stroking his hair. Unlike Jeyne Lydden's attempt at showing affection, Sansa's touch didn't make him feel lower than dirt. He rather enjoyed the feel of her arms around him, but since waking she'd retreated to a more proper position – or as proper as she could get with his head in her lap.

"I think I can manage that," he said.

It was the nicest position he'd woken up in for a long time, though the circumstances made his heart drop. He'd tried to move quickly past the events of the last two days but it had caught up with him at night. Horrible imagery haunted his sleep. Every time he closed his eyes a new nightmare took hold of him. It was only Sansa's presence that chased them away, reminding him he wasn't alone.

"I think we understand as much as we can for now," said Sansa. "I've no desire to send ravens around the North proclaiming Cersei Lannister is alive without proof. I'll arrange to question lord Westerling and Maester Gallard for more information, but the priority needs to be lord Lydden and Ser Harys Swyft."

"What about Daenerys?" asked Varys. "You can't mean to ignore that threat."

Tyrion caught the slip in the Queen's mask, and it was enough to confirm that Sansa didn't quite believe Daenerys was back from the dead either. She covered it with grace, but Tyrion knew.

"From what you've said, Daenerys seeks the throne and is likely to be on Dragonstone. I will write to Brienne and Ser Davos in Kings Landing to warn them of the possibility, but unless we learn more from lord Westerling and Maester Gallard I doubt there is much we can do from the North. Jon and Arya should be there within the week – I'm certain Jon will assist in Bran's absence."

Varys frowned for a moment before his face returned to its neutral expression. "Very well, your Grace. It's possible lord Lydden will refuse the summons here, or come with an army of loyalists."

"I'm not concerned on that front," said Sansa. "They would have to travel past several of my loyal bannermen to get here and I don't believe that the lords of the West will be so keen to support lord Lydden now they've had word from the lord of Casterly Rock."

"Have they had word from him though?" asked lord Broome. The old lord had remained quiet throughout, but now his gaze found Tyrion.

"The letters will be sent as soon as Maester Wolkan copies them," said Tyrion.

"Not from the lord of the Rock are they?"

"My lord, please understand, my writing is rather poor with my left hand-"

"I don't care if you write them with your cock. You're not lord of Casterly Rock – you're not even a Lannister."

Tyrion opened his mouth, scrambling for a response, but lord Broome wasn't finished.

"Spare me, lord Hill. I know damned well you've surrendered your name and titles and bent your knee to yet another Queen. End this bloody mummers farce and I might find some morsel of respect for you."

"Be careful," warned Sansa, narrowing her eyes.

"No, it's alright," said Tyrion. He forced himself to look the older man in the eye. "You're quite right. I want nothing to do with the Westerlands. I renounced my titles and name in front of a full courtyard, including every Lannister guard who came here."

"Yes, well, it's certainly better at the moment that Tyrion is lord of Casterly Rock, wouldn't you agree?" added lord Manderly.

Lord Broome ground his teeth, turning to Godwin. "You knew and said nothing."

"It's not my place to," said Godwin. "Lord Tyrion has written to the King to confirm such, but King Bran is in no fit state to acknowledge it. Until he is, Tyrion retains his name and titles. He is lord of Casterly Rock."

"Does this change your position?" asked Tyrion. "You served house Lannister loyally for years."

"I did." He sat in silence for several moments. "I will pretend I know none of this. As Godwin says, you are still lord until the King assents. Don't mistake this for loyalty to you – as far as I'm concerned the Westerlands is better off without a man who changes his allegiance so regularly. I do this because lord Lydden and his ilk need to be brought to heel. Then, perhaps, the Westerlands can find a worthy liege lord."

Tyrion wanted the weight of his name and titles gone, he should be happy enough with lord Broome's typically blunt position. Yet, part of him couldn't hide from the sting of his words – unwanted again. He smiled tightly. "Then we have an agreement, my lord."

---

Maester Gallard watched lord Westerling pacing back and forth, or as far as he could in the cramped cell across from him. The Maester sniffed. Considering their stations the cells were no better than the ones holding the rest of their party further down the corridor. It was inappropriate. As a Maester of some reputation, he should have been given more consideration, as should lord Westerling – a fact the man had taken quite personally.

"Bloody Northerners," he grumbled. "Only a step above the bloody wildings they are!"

The Maester smiled thinly, nodding his agreement. Lord Westerling was a puppet of a man who liked to think he was more. Already the fool had fallen for the Starks insult. These dungeons had surely been designed like this to make a point – all men were equal in crime. He could almost imagine stoic Ned Stark saying such, or the Queen in the North doing a poor impersonation.

When it looked clear Sansa Stark would take the Iron Throne, Gallard had done everything to position himself as her Grand Maester - he'd even dirtied his hands trying to fix the dwarf. Only the gods knew why she held such affection for a man with so few redeeming qualities, but underestimating her attachment had been his biggest mistake. Sansa Stark had dismissed him in favour of Henly, but even when she didn't claim the Iron Throne he was overlooked by Bran Stark in favour of Samwell Tarly. It was connected. Of course it was! Bran Stark had listened to his attempts to win favour with those soulless eyes, already knowing he would bypass him for a boy with barely an ounce of his experience. Undoubtedly because of Sansa Stark and her bizarre attachment to the Lannister imp.

Gallard's hands curled into fists as he sat on the hard lump posing as a bed. Yes, he'd badly miscalculated in Kings Landing. Who would care what became of Tyrion Lannister, he'd thought? No one in Westeros would, but the wolves had closed ranks around the little lion as if he was one of their own. It would be fascinating if it hadn't ruined his ambition of becoming Grand Maester.

"How did you not notice the eunuch and sellsword travelling with us for weeks?" snapped lord Westerling, pausing his pacing to glare across at him.

"The same way you did, my lord. We had more important issues to devote our attention to. If you wish to blame someone, blame your half-wit guards who didn't notice two escaped prisoners in their ranks. The sellsword might blend in, I'll give him that, but Varys is hard to forget."

"Damn it all! Our bloody luck that Godwin and his men found us so quickly…"

Lord Westerling went on, ranting once again about their poor fortunes but Maester Gallard had heard it repeatedly since their imprisonment and quickly tuned it out. It wasn't one thing that had gone wrong but many. Jeyne Lydden turning against them had ruined any credibility they had when saying they were acting on Tyrion's orders, but lord Broome turning cloaks had been the death blow. The plan was never ideal. Problems such as this should have been expected really. The North is too large and unforgiving – they didn't know the terrain well enough to evade discovery when they had Tyrion in their grasp.

The Maester sighed, shuffling his creaking body against the wall. Lord Lydden had lost. If Tyrion Lannister had any sense he would already be sending his actual orders to every house in the Westerlands. A few would stay the course with lord Lydden and Ser Harys, but more would turn their cloaks back to Lannister and pretend they'd always been his loyal servants. His failure to control Tyrion would cause irreversible damage to his plans, even if the Queens succeeded. The dungeons seemed to darken at the thought of the Queens. As they should. Daenerys looked herself but he'd seen enough to know what sanity she once held was burned away; there was only the throne. As for the other one. Well, Cersei Lannister was vicious in life and worse in her second life. At best, Cersei's mission could provide an escape route. Then what? Daenerys would not tolerate failure but if he could distance himself from lord Lydden it was possible he could wait out the storm and start afresh from there.

Yes, that would have to do. He was only a Maester, after all. Only here to give advice to lords and ladies. What else was he to do, but do as his masters commanded? That would be his best chance, but it was complicated by Lannister, who would surely distrust him after the wheelhouse. A bitter taste filled his mouth. He was loathe to admit it, but Henly had done good work on the dwarf. His injuries had healed remarkably well and he was no longer a quivering wreck. Despite that, the trauma still lurked beneath the surface. He'd seen it in his eyes, threatening to break free if just the right amount of pressure was applied.

The Maester filed the information away for later, just in case it had a use. For now, the priority was securing his own future.

---

There was no easy way to escape that wouldn't make it look obvious that she was trying to do so. With no other option, Jeyne turned to the nearest window, feigning interest in the courtyard below. Gods, even the people here looked miserable. She'd already bored herself of the castle by lunch.

Winterfell was a boring, if big castle. The castle was warm enough but outside was permanently dull and snowy, leaving Jeyne limited options to entertain herself. After weeks stuck in a wheelhouse, dreading her fate as the imp's wife, was it too much to want some break from the tedium? In boredom, she'd turned to nosing around Winterfell. She had freedom of the castle but was turned away when she tried to enter the corridors surrounding the family rooms. It was when moving away from these corridors she noticed a few of the Northern lords emerging from a room further up. Why were they all together? It seemed odd. She moved to the side, just out of sight of the room in time to see lord Broome step into the corridor, but unlike the Northern lords who'd passed her, he turned in the opposite direction. Her face soured. They'd had a meeting - without her. That was the only explanation.

She took several steps towards the door when the next conspirator left the room. She stepped back at once, scrunching her nose at Tyrion Lannister. His face was pale and he held himself stiffly, looking just as ill as he'd been at dinner last night. He froze at the sight of her and Jeyne automatically evaluated him. Seeing him in his sick bed and then tied to a chaise might have given her a distorted impression of him. She'd barely noticed him at dinner until he became sick, but she'd caught her first real glimpse of his mutilated hand. The appendage looked curled and lifeless, and she'd noticed him using some sort of brace just to hold a fork!

Now Jeyne examined him more thoroughly, in what was presumably as good as it got for him. Jeyne smirked – she'd made the right choice in defying her father. She could never waste her life with a man like this, let alone bear his sons. He was small and scrawny, his face dissected by a long scar with a smaller, newer one cutting across the bottom. His golden hair was nice enough if she was feeling generous, but his eyes held the look of a kicked puppy.

"I'm surprised they let you walk around the castle," she said, a smug smile crossing her face. At once he dropped her gaze. Jeyne had missed this. She and her friends had often enjoyed poking fun at the ugly girls and boys who tried to court them – they would have had great fun with Tyrion, if her father hadn't gotten caught up in his quest to control the Westerlands. "They even let you sit at the dinner table next to them."

"Where else would my husband sit?"

The cool voice pulled Jeyne to the doorway and Sansa Stark's icy expression. The Queen glared at her for a long moment before ignoring her completely, turning her focus to Tyrion instead. She softened her voice. "Come on. Let's see if Wolkan has anything that will help you feel better."

She took Tyrion's hand – the clawed, deformed-looking one – slipping her hand into his and leading him away down the corridor. Jeyne stood there, completely forgotten.

Sansa Stark might have ignored her earlier, but now the Queen strode towards her and Jeyne had no way to avoid her. Not that she was afraid of the Queen, of course. If anything she pitied Sansa. There must be something wrong with her to settle for a man like Tyrion Lannister when she could find the most handsome man in the kingdom. Her coldness was unsettling though, and as the Queen slowed to a stop alongside her the corridor suddenly developed a chill.

"Jeyne," she said, nodding her head. "Care to join me?"

Despite her treatment of Tyrion, Jeyne was not completely oblivious to courtesy and recognised an order when she heard one. She had no love for the Queen in the North but it was better to go along with her than argue. The rules of courtesy and respect didn't apply to Tyrion Lannister and all that he was, but Sansa Stark demanded some effort. The Northerners were loyal to their Queen, and disrespecting her in her castle would surely not go without challenge.

She forced a smile. "Of course, your Grace."

Sansa led the way as they wound through the corridors. Jeyne groaned as their path led them out of a side door.

The Queen's mouth twitched upwards, breaking the silence. "You won't freeze. This is quite mild for Winterfell."

It certainly didn't feel mild as they left the surprising warmth of the castle for the bitter Northern air. They continued in silence until they reached a covered bridge overlooking an empty practice yard with straw targets set at the far end.

"My parents used to stand here and watch my brothers practice," said Sansa, her voice soft. "I couldn't wait to leave Winterfell as a girl – the North felt like a prison."

Jeyne nodded politely. Gods she hoped the Queen hadn't dragged her out here to relive her childhood memories. Perhaps she was lonely? For a Queen, she never seemed to have any ladies waiting around. Most ladies, and assuredly Queens, were surrounded by people all day, catering to their every need, weren't they? Yet, Sansa Stark was mostly alone from what Jeyne had seen so far. Even in Kings Landing, she rarely left Tyrion's room and if she did it was with her family. Her father had found it infuriating, complaining often and loudly about how the Starks were corrupting the lord of Casterly Rock.

"You don't want to be here," said Sansa, staring across the practice yard. "I understand. I also understand you not wanting an arranged marriage. Tell me, what did lord Tyrion do to offend you so?"

Jeyne's mouth went dry. "Well…he just – you know what he is. He's called the imp for a reason."

The words escaped Jeyne without much thought and she winced immediately after, bracing for the Queen's wrath. To her surprise, Sansa only looked sad.

"I used to think like that. When I met Joffrey all I could think about was marrying my handsome prince. Nothing else mattered."

"He was handsome," said Jeyne. "I saw him once when I was a girl."

"He was a monster on the inside. When Joffrey set me aside for Margaery Tyrell I was relieved, and then they married me off to Tyrion Lannister. I didn't want to marry him and I won't pretend some of my reasoning wasn't vanity at the time. It was only later, when I truly understood what a monster is, did I appreciate Tyrion."

Jeyne hummed, trying and failing to look thoughtful. She'd heard Joffrey wasn't quite as nice as he looked, but he was a Prince – they were allowed to break the rules. While Jeyne had heard of Sansa's marriage to some Northern bastard she hadn't cared to learn the details, but that marriage didn't appear to have ended well. Surely the Queen realised there were more men out there? She didn't need to settle for Tyrion Lannister as the best out of three.

Sansa glanced sideways at her. "You don't understand now. That's fine. I was like that too, until the world forced me to change. That's why I wanted to speak with you. Appearances can be deceiving and all those things you probably want in a husband now – tall, strong, handsome – they don't matter in the end. What matters is having someone you can rely on; who'll take your hand in the longest night and give you hope of seeing the morning."

The Queen was still staring into nothing and Jeyne was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Yes, it was nice enough what Sansa was talking about, but surely the other things mattered too? A handsome face and a strong body were important. Sansa Stark may not care about those things, but Jeyne did and she knew her friends felt the same. Still, it wouldn't do to disagree with Sansa and Jeyne was keen for the conversation to be over.

She smiled, nodding. "Of course. You're right, I see that now."

Sansa smiled, turning to face her. Despite her smile, her eyes held only frost. "Whether you take my advice or not is up to you. I don't care either way. I do care for Tyrion though and I will not tolerate your attitude towards him. Like it or not, he is your liege lord and you will show him respect. You will not insult, demean or otherwise bother Tyrion while you are in my Kingdom. If you look at him with so much as an ounce of the distaste you did earlier I will let you rot in the dungeons. Upset him, and you'll replace these straw targets. Understand?"

A cold wind nipped at Jeyne's face, but that was nothing to the ice spreading through her veins. She nodded quickly, stumbling over her words. "Yes…I, of course….I never…"

The Queen had already turned away, striding back towards the castle and leaving Jeyne alone on the covered bridge. Jeyne shivered. Her father had warned her the wolves were unforgiving.

---

"Sansa wants to meet me?"

Yvette nodded. "In the Godswood."

Tyrion furrowed his brow, dropping his aching head back against the chair. Why would Sansa want to meet him now? A little over an hour had passed since dinner. If she'd wanted to meet him later wouldn't she have told him in person? If anyone else had delivered the message Tyrion would be suspicious, particularly after what happened to him on the journey back from Castle Cerwyn. It was Yvette delivering the message though, and Tyrion did trust the older woman. She was kind to him and didn't seem to mind lending him an ear when he needed someone to talk with aside from Sansa. If he couldn't trust Yvette, who'd helped him through some of his worst moments with such gentleness, then who could he trust?

"Alright," he said. "I really shouldn't keep a Queen waiting. I don't suppose you know why she wants to meet me?"

She smiled. "Don't look so worried. The Queen wants your company."

Every part of Tyrion ached as he eased himself from the chair and through the door Yvette held open. As soon as he stepped through, the Lannister guard snapped to attention. "M'lord."

Tyrion nodded, but couldn't find any words to say. He'd asked Godwin to set guards at his chambers to ease his anxiety, but he was still undecided on whether it made him feel better or worse. Rationally, he knew the men who took him were only fake Stark guards, but he'd been betrayed too many times to pay attention to such logic. For now, the Lannister guards were a more welcome sight, particularly while there were so many enemies in the Winterfell dungeons.

The last threads of daylight were visible through the windows, but Tyrion had been North long enough to know how quickly they would fade. The hour wasn't late, but Tyrion still felt uneasy as he moved through the castle. After dinner, most of the lords would have retired to their own chambers. Many of the servants would have finished for the day, particularly those who had an early start the next morning. It was cruel really. Tyrion wanted to get through the castle and out to Sansa as quickly as possible, but his body was refusing to cooperate. Everything ached, he was already shivering and his head felt as if someone had tried to drown him. He'd tried to hide his poor state at this morning's meeting but it was a poor effort and lord Broome's sharp words had stung more than he expected. He'd always wanted to be lord of Casterly Rock – to prove he was as good as Jamie, as good as every other Lannister.

Tyrion didn't want anything to do with the Lannister name or titles now, but it still hurt that the Westerlands didn't want anything to do with him. Wanting him for his seed certainly didn't count. Sansa had insisted he sees the Maester and she'd whisked him away straight after the meeting, though not before he had the chance to see Jeyne Lydden. Tyrion rubbed his arms as he walked, automatically lowering his head. It was her face. Most women turned their noses up at him, but his family name and the Lannister fortune had spared him the worst of it. As a lady of noble birth, Jeyne had surely been taught manners by her Septa, but if she had the lessons hadn't stuck. The girl looked at him with open revulsion and a hint of juvenile cruelty. It shouldn't bother him – he'd suffered far worse pain – but the girl's reaction to him managed to prick a tender spot in his well-worn defences, and for the life of him Tyrion wasn't sure why.

It didn't matter. Sansa's appearance had quickly scared her off and at dinner, Jeyne hadn't so much as looked in his direction. In fact, he didn't recall the girl saying a word at all. A stark contrast to last night when she'd inserted herself in the conversation and delivered such concerning whispers…

Tyrion screwed his eyes shut, forcing his aching legs forward. He wouldn't think about it. Lord Manderly could well be right and the rumours of that particular ghost could have been a ruse to make him compliant. He was nearing the main doors when light steps drew his attention left. Tyrion didn't realise his body had tensed until it relaxed at the sight of Ghost padding towards him.

"Hello," said Tyrion, holding out his hand.

The direwolf came to him easily, standing at near enough eye level. Piercing red eyes stared straight through him as Tyrion ruffled his fur.

"I've not seen you for some time. Do you miss Jon?"

Ghost continued staring and a trickle of unease crept down Tyrion's back. The wolf wanted him to know something – for weeks Ghost's behaviour had made them all believe he had a message to communicate – but none of them had any idea what. Was is as simple as jealousy towards Drogon, who occupied much of Jon's time? No. It didn't quite fit.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know you want to tell us something, but unless one of us learns the other's language I'm not sure how. Perhaps when Bran is better we can ask him."

Was it considered strange to talk to a direwolf? It probably was, but given the number of flaws charged against him, Tyrion decided it was one he could live with. Ghost's presence was already easing his anxiety at travelling through the castle alone.

"I'm meeting Sansa in the Godswood, if you'd care to join me?"

To Tyrion's relief, when he started to walk away Ghost moved with him. But with every step he took, he could feel the wolf's eyes on him.

---

Sansa shifted from foot to foot, gnawing on her lip. It had been a while since she sent Yvette with her invitation. Had Tyrion decided not to come? No, he must be coming. If not, Yvette would have come and told her so.

Her stomach twisted and then twisted again. She was nervous. Not just for what she planned to do, but she was worried for Tyrion. He rarely strayed from his familiar paths in Winterfell and given the number of guests now in the castle he was more likely to hide away than ever, but that wasn't something she could allow. His abduction on the way back from Castle Cerwyn had shaken his fragile confidence. If she allowed him to withdraw he would – the best solution was to not let him have the chance.

It was concern for Tyrion and his wellbeing that brought her to the Godswood as the sun set. It was also what kept her from meeting Tyrion and walking him down here herself.

Winterfell was safe. Winterfell was his home. Tyrion needed to understand this, and it was only the hope of building his confidence that kept her rooted in the Godswood, ignoring the worried voice reminding her that he was sick and had suffered too much already.

It felt like forever, but eventually, footsteps crunching on the frosty grass drifted to her ears. A smile spread across her face as Tyrion moved stiffly towards her, though her mood soured somewhat at seeing Ghost with him.

"You got my message," said Sansa.

His breath frosted in front of his pale face. "I did. Apologies for keeping you waiting…I don't move quickly these days."

"You move perfectly well. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Better than before in fact."

Sansa hummed, not pressing the issue. It was obvious to anyone that Tyrion wasn't well, and Maester Wolkan had confirmed as much when she brought Tyrion to him earlier. A heavy cold, the Maester called it. Wolkan had given him a potion to ease some of the symptoms but there was nothing to do but wait it out. It would get worse before it got better, but as long as it didn't turn into Winter Fever the Maester thought Tyrion would be fine. It was only when Sansa floated her idea to Wolkan in private afterwards that the Maester aired his concerns.

"This sickness sits heavily on him because he lacks the robustness to fend it off," said Wolkan. "He's lived off soups for too long."

"He started eating proper food at Castle Cerwyn. Tyrion designed a brace so he can hold a fork in his injured hand."

"That is good to hear. It is in his best interests to encourage him to eat more and get out of the castle on occasion. I'm aware of how difficult it must be for him, but it's imperative he rebuilds his health so these sicknesses do not trouble him so. I'm sure some of this is stress related too – he's had a rather nasty experience that I imagine was a shock to him after so many months of peace, and it's strained his old injuries again. The more he moves around the better for reducing the stiffness, though I doubt he feels like leaving his room much."

Sansa nodded, soaking in every word that could help Tyrion. "His confidence has been hit badly by this. I had an idea and wondered if you thought it would help him…"

Of course, the Maester thought it was a good idea on all counts. It would hopefully speed up his recovery from this illness and help his injuries. Sansa knew exactly what she wanted to get from this, but now she was here, and Tyrion was standing in front of her, a trickle of nerves wormed around her heart.

"Are you alright Sansa?" he asked, scratching Ghost's ear.

She blinked, realising the silence had become awkward. "Sorry, just thinking. Are you ready?"

"Of course." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I must confess I'm rather curious."

'And nervous,' she thought.

Sansa reached for his hand, slipping hers easily into his damaged one. A twitch of his fingers was all the response she needed. Knowing how sensitive Tyrion was about his hand, it had thrilled Sansa to find he didn't mind her touch there, but she'd begun to notice another reason. Tyrion liked to have his left hand free. It made sense in many ways. It was that hand he needed to do everything now, and on the odd occasion he took her hand or she took his left Tyrion was far quicker to let go. With his right hand, he seemed happy enough to let her hold it indefinitely, and that was something she was keen to take advantage of.

Ghost followed them only a few paces before he brushed against Tyrion and disappeared amongst the trees of the Godswood. Now it was just the two of them – exactly how Sansa imagined it. She led Tyrion deeper into the Godswood but rather than head for the Heart Tree, as he seemed to predict, she led him off to the right instead, walking until they came to the edge of the Godswood, where the trees met the side wall of the guest house. Tyrion was puffing beside her, his breath frosting in the cold air. Her stomach twisted at the sight – he wasn't at all well – but this would help, she hoped.

The door looked as if it was carved from the surrounding stone and would be impossible to move, but not for a Stark with the right key. Sansa let go of Tyrion with a squeeze, working her way down the locks and bolts as if she'd done it a hundred times. The door opened inwards, leading to a corridor illuminated with lit torches, the soft orange glow reflecting off the walls. Tyrion followed in silence as she led him down the corridor to a door guarded by a grey-haired man in a Stark uniform.

"Your Grace," he said, inclining his head. "All is as you asked."

"Thank you," said Sansa.

She could feel Tyrion's eyes burning into her back as she led him through the door and down the winding staircase. She hovered close in case he needed assistance but stopped herself from reaching out to him first. This was about confidence. That was why she'd asked him to meet her in the Godswood rather than shown him the far more direct route here through the warmth of Winterfell. He needed to trust himself and his home, though it felt cruel when he was so shaken. His nightmares last night had haunted her as much as him, but despite the situation, she'd relished holding him so close – and Tyrion had slept far better with her company.

Her heart ached at the thought of tonight, but she couldn't make a habit of seeing him at such hours in his chambers. Whispers would surely spread and Sansa wasn't ready to face them, no matter how ridiculous it seemed to maintain separate rooms when the truth was in front of them.

"This is an awfully long way to go to bury me," said Tyrion. His light tone only partially obscured his concerns.

Sansa bit her tongue, ignoring the urge to reassure him and choosing a different approach instead. "It's where I hide all my bodies."

"Ah…a dwarf-sized grave?"

"Hmm. On what charges would I sentence you?"

"You could always ask lord Broome, I'm sure he's working on a list. Jeyne Lydden already has one, no doubt…"

They carried on as they descended the staircase, which seemed to go on forever. Tyrion was nervous of the unknown, but Sansa knew exactly where they were going and that caused her own nerves to flare. She tried to pretend she was going slow to accommodate Tyrion, but she couldn't deny it was her anxiety making her stall. It was only when she heard a faint wheeze from Tyrion that she picked up the pace. She wanted to build his confidence, not strain the limits of his endurance.

Finally, they reached the bottom of the stairs and turned left along a short corridor that opened into a wide cavern.

Tyrion drew in a sharp breath beside her. "The Winterfell hot springs."

"I'm sure you've read a lot about them."

"They heat Winterfell, and the greenhouse – a natural defence against the natural cold."

The cavern was filled with wisps of steam, and the air was moist on Sansa's skin. How long had it been since she was last here? Too long. She'd been here only once since she left Winterfell as a girl, and it was for a reason she suspected Tyrion would relate to.

"Would you like to get in?" asked Sansa.

"Oh…I."

Sansa pushed ahead, heat rising in her cheeks. "I thought we could swim together. I've set up a screen for us."

Without waiting for an answer, Sansa headed towards the screen set along the water's edge. Her legs wobbled with every step, but she did her best to maintain an air of nonchalance. It was just swimming – it was no big deal. A moment passed before she heard Tyrion's footsteps following her. Sansa slowed her steps until he caught up, letting her eyes wander around the cavern. The hot springs were a series of steaming hot pools that filled the cabin. There were pockets of smaller ones closer to the edge but the biggest pool was directly opposite the screen and filled most of the cabin.

Sansa paused at the screen, turning to Tyrion. "I asked Yvette to find you a light shift and I have one myself. If you'd rather get in naked that's up to you, but I'd rather keep my shift on."

Tyrion froze before nodding so vigorously that she thought his head might drop off. "Yes, a shift. Of course. Thank you Sansa…"

The screen was only thin – a basic spare taken from a guest room – but Sansa wasn't ready to get undressed in front of Tyrion and she doubted he wanted to either. A lightweight shift for each of them would preserve their dignity and there were towels set out for when they were finished. Sansa smiled at Tyrion before stepping around the far side of the screen to get ready. Getting undressed was far more difficult than it should have been, and Sansa fumbled as she removed her clothes. Tyrion seemed to have the same problem, based on the curses he was muttering on the other side of the screen.

As soon as she was dressed in the thin shift that fell to just below her knees, Sansa stepped around the screen and within a few steps lowered herself into the water.

The heat prickled her skin at first, but soon the water lapping against her felt like an old friend. The pool was shallow near the edge but quickly became deep the closer to the middle one moved. Sansa found the sweet spot between, where her feet were on the bottom and the water came just below her shoulders. She turned her attention to the screen, a pang of guilt going through her. In her hurry to soothe her own nerves she'd forgotten Tyrion and his.

"Are you alright?" she called. "If you need anything I can help you."

"Um…no, it's fine."

It was another minute before Tyrion stepped around the screen and when he did, heat flooded her face. She'd specifically requested lightweight shifts so the material didn't cause problems when wet and so they could feel the benefits of the hot spring. She hadn't anticipated just how thin they were though. Tyrion's shift left little to the imagination. It fell to just below his knees as hers did, but she could make out the shape of his manhood through the material, which meant…

Sansa's throat tightened and she sank deeper into the water, thankful for the steamy mist obscuring her body beneath the water. There was no real need to be embarrassed. She trusted Tyrion absolutely – she loved him with all her heart. None of that changed her desire to hide her body. Part of it was how she'd been raised as a lady, but the bigger part was how Ramsay had treated her, and the scars he left behind.

The same could be said of Tyrion. Even though he wore a shift she could see him checking the tattoos weren't visible through the thin material. He seemed far more alarmed at that possibility than the possibility she could see his manhood – not that he had any need to be embarrassed by either. Besides, there was a solution available now, in the form of the eccentric man Missandei had sent. Earlier today he'd asked when he might see Tyrion.

"He's had a difficult time and he's not well at the moment. Can you give him a few days? I'm eager to tell him the good news but I don't want to overwhelm him."

The man smiled. "Of course. It took me a long time to get here. I can wait a little longer to see your Prince."

It was fortunate he was so understanding. He wasn't bothered by her request to maintain some distance from Tyrion, saying only that he's seen former slaves deal with things in every way imaginable.

"Tyrion was a prisoner, not a slave," said Sansa.

"The two are not so different, from what I see."

She drifted closer to the edge, bending her knees to keep her beneath the water. "Will you join me? The water is so hot – you'll love it."

Tyrion winced as he eased himself in but he offered her a nervous smile as the water brushed against his jaw. "This is lovely. I think I'd forgotten what real warmth was like."

"Good. I hoped it might make you feel better."

"I fear I doubted you, my Queen. I worried your message was a trap set by another."

"No traps," she said, smiling. This wasn't a trap of course, but she did have Tyrion exactly where she wanted him.

---

The message was scrawled on a scrap of paper. Smudged and stained by the hands it had passed through to reach him.

'The debt will be paid.'

A Lannister saying that could have come from any Lannister loyalist, but Gallard knew who it had come from, and it chilled his bones. Cersei Lannister was here. The plan was always for her to take her revenge on the Queen in the North, but they were not supposed to be here when it happened. They should have been safely on their way out of the North, with Tyrion Lannister in their possession. Gallard crumpled the scrap of paper, hiding it in the cracked stone wall at the corner of the cell.

Was the message a positive sign? No. Cersei Lannister had this particular task because it was all that drove her second life and she was ultimately disposable. She was unlikely to try and free them. The best chance was to wait for the questioning that was sure to come. If he could make himself useful and distance himself from this mess he might yet save his head.

Lord Westerling caught his eye in the opposite cell, giving a slight nod. Ah, so he'd received the same message. Hmm. It had obviously come from Cersei, but to what purpose he didn't know. The rest of their party were locked away in cells further down from them, and receiving the scrap of paper had taken some effort – his had been fed through bars until he could poke some straw through a narrow gap and pull it around to him. He and Lord Westerling were the only prisoners of real value. The rest were followers of the lord of light disguised as Lannister soldiers, with a few guards from lesser Westerlands houses sprinkled between them. The fake guards would not reveal Cersei or her note. As devout followers of the lord of light, they were loyal to those their lord chose to return to life. Daenerys was favoured, but they all believed Cersei had a purpose too, and would not do anything to disrupt that.

The Maester shifted his weight on the sparse bedding. He would wait and see what came first. If Cersei somehow did free them he would throw his support that way, if the Northerners came first for information he would move in that direction.

It was all a game of chance, and if Cersei Lannister was here, it was a game that had become dangerous for Sansa Stark. The former Queen was somehow more twisted in her second life than the first, and her cruelty was without restraint.

---

Tyrion liked to think he was used to embarrassment, but that was before he put on the shift Sansa had left for him to use in the hot springs. It was a lovely idea, and Tyrion didn't doubt that Sansa thought the shifts would spare both their modesty. In practice, the shifts were paper thin and only a step above translucent. The flush in Sansa's cheeks when he gathered the courage to come out from behind the screen was enough to know the outline of his cock was showing.

That was bad enough, but the sight of Sansa floating in the steamy water, her hair drifting around her like a goddess, almost tipped him over the edge. He'd wasted no time getting in the pool, hoping the hot water would thwart his cock's attempt to stir. It had worked for a while. Tyrion's aching body relaxed in the water's embrace and he followed Sansa's lead deeper into the pool.

The Queen was nervous. Sansa wasn't one for historical facts really, but she couldn't get enough of them as she told him about the hot springs and how they heated the castle. It was all a deflection from her nerves, and while Tyrion had read enough books to correct Sansa, he listened with rapt attention to whatever she said, hoping she would begin to relax. The hot springs weren't terribly deep, but Tyrion soon had to swim as Sansa led him into a nook halfway around the edge of the main pool. Swimming with one good hand was a challenge in itself, but ironically, it was his aching leg causing the most problems - likely because it was doing most of the work.

"It's shallower here," said Sansa, switching seamlessly from swimming to floating as her feet found the bottom.

Tyrion felt nothing beneath his own feet, and his heart dropped a little. A normal man would be able to swim with Sansa properly. His feet would find the bottom and he wouldn't look like a dying fish trying to swim.

It was unfortunate Sansa noticed his difficulty, but Tyrion was tired already – he couldn't float forever.

"I'm sorry!" she said, her blue eyes wide. "I never thought…we can go back to the other end."

"No, I'm quite alright," he said. "Don't worry Sansa."

Sansa drifted closer to him, biting her lip. "Are you sure? You don't look at all well."

"The heat is lovely, and it's easing my old bones."

"You're not that old."

"Perhaps not, but my bones feel far older than me."

"If you come around here a little more I think there's a ledge you can use."

His feet brushed the small ledge Sansa guided to him, and while it was enough to ease his aches it was still too low for him to properly stand on. Even so, he smiled at Sansa. "Perfect."

To his surprise, Sansa stayed close to him rather than retreat to the other side of the nook as he'd expected. That wasn't to say her presence was unwelcome, but if she strayed too close it was possible something might poke her that wasn't a rock. The hot water was only going so far in controlling his urges, and every look at Sansa weakened his defences.

"I thought this might help you feel better," she said.

"It is. My aches are but a distant memory."

"Good, but that's not the only reason I brought you down here."

Tyrion's heart sank. Was his presence in Winterfell a liability, or had he simply misjudged things between them? He loved Sansa, but she had no obligation to return that, despite what her actions told him. Had she brought him to this private place to let him down gently?

"You're worried," she said, stroking her hand down the side of his face. "This is why I wanted to talk to you."

He struggled to not lean into her touch and take what comfort she offered. If a rejection was coming it was best he prepare now.

"I know the last couple of days have been horrible for you," said Sansa. "You were kidnapped when you should have been safe, you're getting sick and you've heard some…unsettling rumours."

That was a diplomatic way to view the nightmarish whispers that Daenerys and Cersei were alive once more. "I'm sorry Sansa. I know I've caused you trouble once more, please believe I never wanted this."

"No apologising. This isn't your fault in any way, but there are a few things I think we need to sort out."

Tyrion dropped his head. "Of course, your Grace."

"Sansa." She cupped his face, pulling his head up and brushing her mouth against his. It was quick, but firm, lacking the hesitation of earlier kisses they'd shared, and when she pulled back Tyrion wished only for another. "I didn't bring you here to speak to you as your Queen. If I wanted to do that I wouldn't be in the hot springs with you, wearing shifts so thin we might as well be naked!"

"Hmm. Ah, yes. The shifts are very thin…" Forming a proper sentence was always difficult when Sansa surprised him like that. He could still feel her soft lips against his. "Sorry. Yes, you're right, of course – you didn't bring me here as my Queen."

"I brought you here because…I care about you very much." Her voice softened. "You're working so hard to build yourself back up and I hate seeing you lose confidence because of small-minded people like Jeyne Lydden."

"Oh…I don't care what she thinks about me, really."

"You do. I can see it in your face whenever she makes a comment."

"She's a horrible girl. It shouldn't matter what she thinks."

"But it does." Sansa smiled. "It's alright Tyrion. I know you don't actually care what she thinks about you, but it does bother you. She shows you no respect and looks at you as if you're lower than dirt. It makes you feel dirty, doesn't it?"

Tyrion's mouth fell open. He'd struggled with why he cared for the horrid girl's opinion of him – she was nothing to him – but Sansa had summarised his feelings perfectly. "How do you know?"

"I've felt the same. A little with Joffrey when I was the traitor's daughter," said Sansa. Her blue eyes became distant. "It was Ramsay though. He used me in every way imaginable, and he left scars. Every time he made a new one he'd force me to look at the mess…and he'd look at me…" Sansa trailed off, struggling. "I hated Ramsay with every bone in my body. He made me feel disgusting and ashamed of myself, and despite knowing it was nothing I'd done, it was what he'd done, it bothered me. I hated him, but he still made me feel ashamed of myself."

"That wasn't your fault, it was never your fault. You've nothing at all to be ashamed of."

"And neither do you. They may judge us, mock us, make us bleed – it's not our shame to carry."

A weight shifted from Tyrion's chest, dislodged by Sansa's words. She was right, of course, she was always right.

"I've noticed the way you react to Jeyne's disgust. You scratch yourself, lower your head – you try to hide."

"I-I don't mean…"

She shook her head, smiling tenderly. "I felt the same - uncomfortable in my own skin. When Jon and I reclaimed Winterfell I came down here alone. The water…it felt like a rebirth. I felt clean again. That's why I brought you here. I hoped, maybe, it would do the same for you."

Tyrion's throat was tight enough that he could barely squeeze the words out. "Thank you. I understand."

She lifted her hand to his head, her fingers brushing through his damp, short hair. "For what it's worth, and as Queen, it's worth a lot – I find you very handsome. Of course, your looks are only one thing in a very long list that I adore about you."

A smile spread slowly across Tyrion's face, but when it came he couldn't stop smiling. Sansa was far too kind to him, and he could detect no deceit in her eyes. His aches and pains sank beneath the water, banished by the warm glow of Sansa's genuine affection. He knew Sansa struggled to say the words, but she never failed to find a new way to deliver the message to him.

Sansa seemed to sense he was a captive audience to her words, for she subtly shifted the conversation to a different issue. "I want you to remember that when anyone dares to look down on you. You are better than all of them, and if you need reminding of that you come to me. If you need to refresh yourself, we'll come down here."

"That…that sounds wonderful."

"I'm glad you think so. I know playing lord Lannister isn't easy for you either, but Tyrion – you're more competent and capable than any lord in this castle. If you wanted to be lord of Casterly Rock you would be great."

"I always wanted it, but now I can't stand anything to do with the Lannisters. It sounds ridiculous but I even hate wearing their colours." That was the other reason for his fidgeting, besides Jeyne Lydden's haughty looks. "Every time I wear the clothes and answer to lord Lannister I feel like I'm betraying someone."

"Who are you betraying?"

Tyrion tilted his head, considering. "Me. I'm not that man anymore, I feel like I'm betraying myself."

Sansa only nodded – not surprised by his confession, but rather like she was expecting it. "I must admit, seeing you in Lannister colours is strange. They don't suit you anymore."

"I want to be rid of it all," he said, lowering his voice. "I much prefer life as Tyrion Hill."

"It's only temporary." Sansa took hold of his left hand, drawing it out of the water and brushing her thumb over the ring. "For now you must persevere. Be a wolf in lion's clothing."

Tyrion's heart soared, so much lighter than it had ever felt before. No one had ever made him feel the way Sansa did. She saw through him so easily, and knew exactly what he needed. "When you put it like that it seems doable."

He lost track of time as they relaxed in the hot spring, talking and laughing. The conversation steered clear of any more heavy topics and it was exactly the escape they both needed. Sansa stayed close to him, and while her proximity stirred his cock to life he managed to avoid her noticing his situation. It was almost a shame when Sansa suggested they head back, but the truth couldn't be denied – the hot water had eased him enough that he was liable to fall asleep in it. While spending time with Sansa had distracted him from his ailments the symptoms had gradually returned with some bite. By the time they swam back to where they'd entered the water, his head was pounding.

"Do you need any help?" asked Sansa, hovering beside him near the edge.

"I should be alright, thank you."

"Are you sure? I'm happy to help."

He shook his head. "I'll be fine. You go ahead, I'll follow."

Sansa straightened up, the water cascading down her body and dripping off the near-transparent shift. Her cheeks flushed but she didn't try and cover herself. "As you wish. If you need any help just say." The ledge out of the pool was low enough that Sansa climbed out with graceful ease. She paused on her way to the screen, glancing over her shoulder. "Tyrion? Please don't struggle alone. I'll help you whether your sword is raised or not."

It was Tyrion's turn to flush, his face turning a deep red. Sansa merely smiled before retreating behind the screen. Gods be good, how long had she been aware of his excitement? She'd given no sign of noticing he was as excited as a green boy at his first glimpse of a real woman, but of course, Sansa was always a lady.

Getting redressed was far more difficult than getting undressed had been. Now he was out of the water his shivers had returned in full force and he would have quite happily slept on the ground near the hot springs, content to let their heat soothe his achy body. He coughed, the sound echoing around the cavern.

"Are you dressed?" asked Sansa.

"Mostly."

"Are your breeches on?"

"Yes, I've sheathed my sword."

Sansa's face appeared around the screen and a moment later she stepped around to join him. Immediately she bent down to fasten the clasps on the deep red tunic.

"I can manage," he said.

"You're sick. Let me help you."

It was pointless to try and dissuade Sansa from completing her task, so Tyrion let himself relax in her care. His eyes wandered to her damp red hair, still dripping from its messy pinned-up style.

"How did you get dressed so quickly? I'm almost certain your gown is more difficult to put on than my clothes."

"It's easy enough with practice. My hair takes the longest to sort out – it's the only downside to swimming, really."

Tyrion rubbed his own head. "Not a problem I have anymore."

"It's not a problem you want. I imagine your curly hair is rather the nightmare when wet."

"It was. This is much easier to maintain."

She kissed his cheek. "You suit either quite well."

Sansa straightened up when she finished the last clasp, pulling his cloak around him. "Come on, we can go back through the castle. Then you'll know both ways to get here."

"That sounds far nicer than going outside. Do you think Ghost is waiting for us though?"

She scrunched her nose at the mention of the direwolf. "He can wait as long as he likes."

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Have you had a falling out with Ghost?"

"I begged him to help find you. Ghost spends half his time with you and ignores Jon, but when you were missing he did nothing! I brought him your blankets so he could get your scent and he wouldn't even leave the castle."

Sansa was pouting like a jilted child, but Tyrion could only laugh. "Of course Ghost wouldn't look for me. Jon is his master, and Jon would have ordered Ghost to protect you in his absence. Just because Ghost keeps me company doesn't mean he's loyal to me. You know direwolves – they'll follow their master into death if they have to…"

It was an unexpected realisation, but when it came to Tyrion he wasn't sure how he hadn't seen it before. It was so obvious – Ghost had done all but tell them. The news Varys and Bronn brought only solidified a picture they should have seen long ago. Tyrion swallowed. The heat of the hot springs meant nothing as the cold settled around his heart.

---

Drogon allowed Jon Snow to ride him and had followed him North, but Jon was not Drogon's master, let alone his mother. Like Ghost, Drogon was loyal to one above all others.

"Stop! Drogon, land, now!" Jon's words were whipped away in the wind as the dragon powered forwards.

Ever since they left the North, Drogon had been increasingly restless and unpredictable. If Jon said to land, the dragon did so reluctantly. If Jon tried to steer Drogon closer to Arya and their men below he would resist for miles before begrudgingly complying. Rarely did Drogon set down anywhere near the rest of their party, as if he was deliberately trying to keep them apart.

"Drogon enough!" roared Jon, clinging to the dragon's back with increasing difficulty.

No longer was Drogon following their path towards Kings Landing, but he'd taken a sharp left instead, flying with a single-minded intensity. The world sped past beneath them in a blur of colour. Jon had no idea why Drogon was acting like this, but his every attempt to regain control failed.

They were over a forest thick with trees when Drogon seemed to remember he had a rider. Jon could feel the dragon slowing down as if it was regaining its senses, but it was a short-lived feeling. Drogon huffed, and in one sharp movement, twisted onto its back. Jon did everything to cling on as they plummeted, but one hand slipped and then one foot followed. Jon fell through the air, watching the sky above him as Drogon quickly righted himself and continued his path East.

Jon thought it was the last thing he would ever see as Drogon grew further away and the forest grew closer.