Chapter 35
Varys had fallen silent at her words, sitting so still Sansa feared he'd frozen. It was several minutes until he regained the ability to speak, and when he did his voice held a tremble.
"Do you believe Tyrion is correct?"
"I do," said Sansa. "I wish he wasn't, but his theory makes sense of everything. Drogon was fine in the North at first, but when his behaviour changed Ghost appeared. Ghost has acted strangely towards Drogon ever since he came from beyond the wall - I can only think that's why. Direwolves are close to the old Gods. I think Ghost sensed something, or someone, was trying to control Drogon."
Varys nodded reluctantly. "The timeline would match. Ghost was never bothered by Drogon before?"
"No, that's why we couldn't understand why he was now. He knew something was wrong."
They lapsed into silence, each lost to their own despair over a situation not of their making, or at least that's what Sansa despaired over. She'd done everything to protect her family. The North was independent. Life should be peaceful for them, like last night in the hot springs with Tyrion. The swim was awkward at first, made worse by the shifts that concealed almost nothing, but those worries soon faded. While Sansa couldn't deny her nerves at being so vulnerable - so nearly naked around a man – it helped that Tyrion was just as uncomfortable. She'd noticed his excitement quickly, but it was obvious Tyrion was trying to hide it. Far from stirring her worst memories and anxieties towards men, she'd found it rather sweet, and somewhat flattering. Tyrion had a reputation for women, and the fact that she excited him…well, it pleased her in a way she never expected it would.
She smiled, but it was fleeting. Tyrion had told her his theory on their way from the hot springs. If he was right Jon had effectively taken a weapon of mass destruction from the North to Kings Landing.
"What will you do?" asked Varys.
"Sending a raven to Arya will be impossible. I'll write to Bran's council in the hope they can warn Jon. They shouldn't be too far from Kings Landing now."
"And?"
"And what? There is nothing more I can do from Winterfell than worry for my family's safety. Maester Gallard and lord Westerling will be interrogated tomorrow."
"Why the delay?"
Sansa bit her tongue, narrowing her eyes. She liked Varys well enough, but what did he expect her to do? "My men are stretched thin and after what happened to Tyrion I'm reluctant to trust my less experienced guards with such a task. I've sent a letter to Castle Cerwyn, requesting some trusted, senior guards of experience to assist. I'm sure you can understand why I can't let Godwin and his men interrogate them, as much as I trust Godwin. Lord Cerwyn's men will arrive tonight, and interrogate the prisoners tomorrow."
It pained Sansa, but there was nothing she could do but wait for news from Kings Landing. She'd spent all night considering the problem, using it as a distraction from her worry over Tyrion. The hot springs had been good for him and as predicted he looked ready to drop asleep as soon as they left. The Maester had warned her it would get worse before it got better, and by the time they got to his chambers it was certainly getting worse.
Shivers ran through Tyrion as he shuffled along the corridor. Sansa kept her hand on his back, pressing his cloak around him.
"Are you sure you'll be alright?" she asked.
He bit back a yawn. "I'm fine, just tired."
"Alright. If you need anything – anything at all – you send for me straight away."
Tyrion only smiled. "Thank you for tonight. I feel much cleaner now."
It had taken all of Sansa's restraint to not hover in Tyrion's room. She waited with him while he got ready for bed, turning away when he dressed in his night shift, and then stayed long enough to see him in bed. Tyrion had insisted several times he could manage, but she hated leaving him when he was so unwell. It was only the thought of the rumours that would spread if she spent the night in his chambers that convinced her to leave. When she closed the door, Tyrion was already drifting to sleep.
"How is lord Tyrion?" asked Varys. "When you invited me to your study I half expected him to be with you."
"He's not well. Yvette told me he was still asleep and I've spread word he's not to be disturbed."
"Your Grace, while I understand your concern for him, surely it's better if he's a visible presence to your guests from the Westerlands, even if he's not at his best."
"Tyrion will rest. I doubt lord Broome would want to speak with him anyway after yesterday, and we can all agree Jeyne Lydden has no political use to us."
The eunuch shifted uncomfortably, his hands disappearing into his sleeves. He sighed. "I suppose you're right. Forgive me Queen Sansa – it's been a trying few weeks and I feel rather useless up here. It looks increasingly likely Bran's reign will be a short one. The least I can do is stay here and await lord Lydden and Ser Harys Swyft. They will not recognise your authority, but they must recognise mine as acting Hand of the King, or at least what others accompany them should."
"It's all we can do," said Sansa, "and I wouldn't lose hope yet. If anyone can help Bran and his council, it's Jon and Arya."
Trees whipped past Arya as she urged her horse through the forest. Branches slapped at her face and the horse heaved beneath her, but she paid little attention to any of it. Nothing mattered until she reached there and saw the truth with her own eyes. There could only be one truth, couldn't there? They'd all noticed Drogon lurch away from the agreed path. Arya and the Winterfell captain had paused the march to consider if Jon had seen something from above and wanted them to follow, but that wasn't the case. It couldn't be the case when they'd all seen Drogon dive towards the earth, twisting through the air and dislodging his rider.
The dragon carried on but Jon Snow fell through the trees.
Arya blinked, clearing her eyes. Damn the wind! The whole party had immediately moved to follow Jon, but Arya had taken charge. She'd ordered Barrik to take their men on to Kings Landing with all haste, and she would find Jon. Two brothers were in need after all, and Jon would be furious if they turned away from Bran - that was if Jon was alive to know. A fall from that height…
She shook her head, clearing the thought. "Seven hells Jon! Only you could fall off a bloody dragon."
The cry went unmet and Arya eased her horse to a canter. This was where she'd seen Jon disappear through the trees, she was sure of it. The thicket was dense with trees and teaming with the sounds of nature you'd expect from such an area, but Arya was searching for something that wasn't supposed to be there.
More than once she called her brother's name, but more often than not she searched in silence, straining her ears for a sound that wasn't supposed to be there. Arya searched long enough that when she came upon a pond buried within the forest, the trail of disturbed gravel and broken branches leading out of it was a shock. Something had dragged itself from the pond. Was it something or someone? Arya chewed her lip as she led her horse towards the trail. There was only one way to find out. Until she knew for certain that Jon was dead, Arya decided it was best to believe he was somehow alive.
"So it wasn't as bad as you thought?"
Tyrion shook his head, though the movement made him dizzy. He slumped back in the chair, closing his eyes. "It was wonderful. Sansa thought the hot springs would help me feel better, and they did, but it was her company really. She's always been too kind to me – treats me as if I'm not a little monster."
"You're not a monster," said Yvette. Rustling on the table told him she was cleaning away his half-eaten lunch, and he peeled open his eyes to see it was true.
"Perhaps I'm not," said Tyrion. "Not completely anyway."
His mind strayed into new territory, considering what else he could be if he was not an imp, a little monster and a kinslayer. He had killed Tywin Lannister, but the man could hardly be considered kin. If Tyrion wasn't a monster he surely had to consider what else he could be, and in what way he might serve Sansa. He'd spent far too long lazing around Winterfell. Sansa had refused his past suggestions of stable boy and bookkeeper to name but a few. She was right of course – he was poorly suited to tasks like those, particularly when there were so many more able-bodied than he was to fulfil such roles.
"I need to find a way to be of service here. I cannot keep taking Sansa's generosity and offering her nothing in return."
"The Queen doesn't expect you to serve her."
"All the more reason to insist I do."
Yvette raised an eyebrow. "As you say, but maybe not today. Remember what the Queen said."
"I know – I'm to eat, sleep and do nothing else today."
"Not true. Her Grace said you can read too."
Tyrion groaned but his heart was warm. He'd only just made it out of bed for breakfast when Sansa knocked at his door, concern etched on her tired face. There was no way to hide the truth from her this time. He barely remembered climbing into bed last night, but his sleep was surprisingly pleasant. It was only when Yvette eventually nudged him awake for breakfast that he woke up, and by the Gods did he feel terrible. There were, he imagined, pieces of shit that felt better than he did. Every part of him ached. A dry cough racked his lungs and his head pounded. Sansa had begun fussing over him so automatically Tyrion doubted she was even aware of what she was doing.
"I don't look that bad, do I?" asked Tyrion.
Sansa lay her hand across his forehead, keen blue eyes evaluating him. "You're not at all well."
"I'll soon shake it off. The Maester said it would get worse before it got better."
"He did. I asked him if he thought the hot springs would help you and he thought it would speed things up."
"Well, there you have it. You're worrying needlessly." Tyrion didn't mention how much her concern meant to him, but he was sure Sansa already knew.
"Maybe I am. Nevertheless, you will spend the day resting."
"Is that wise with so many from the Westerlands here? Surely I need to be seen to play the part."
"Lord Broome already knows you bent the knee to me, and the only other highborn in the castle is Jeyne Lydden who won't be a problem."
"I think she could be problematic…"
"I spoke to her yesterday – she won't be a problem."
Sansa's only elaboration on her conversation with Jeyne was that she'd offered the girl some advice she hoped she would take. Whatever was said, it couldn't be a coincidence that Jeyne sat silently through dinner last night and refrained from a single snide look in his direction.
The Queen was adamant there was nothing he could do today and Tyrion did understand the logic. His playacting as lord Lannister had been primarily for lord Broome's benefit and there was no urgency in maintaining the pretense now that he knew the truth. Some of the visiting guards might wonder at his absence but their opinions were unlikely to sway the lords they served. The true test would be when lord Lydden and Ser Harys Swyft arrived – and whoever accompanied them.
Tyrion tried to focus on other thoughts. The Queen had insisted he rests and Tyrion found himself too tired and achy to disagree. He had little desire to leave his chambers on a good day, but after all that had happened over the last few days, he was more reluctant than ever. Maybe a day of rest was what he needed. If nothing else it would give him time to consider how he might make himself of service to Sansa.
The Queen had promised to visit him later for lunch, and Tyrion could amuse her with some of his worst ideas. Anything that brought a smile to her face was worth it.
'Perhaps I am a fool,' he thought, smiling, 'but only for Sansa Stark.'
Godwin's hand rested on his sword hilt as Queen Sansa greeted the Cerwyn men. It never hurt to be careful, but Godwin could already see from the way the men carried themselves they were guards of experience - a position they would have not achieved without proving their worth to lord Cerwyn.
"The hospitality of Winterfell is yours," said Sansa, turning towards the castle. "If you're prepared, I believe we can start the interrogations tomorrow morning. I will call a meeting of my council and our guests from the Westerlands to decide what answers we seek and then I trust you to extract those answers."
There were six men in total. Two interrogators – as grizzled and hardened as the job demanded - and four senior guards accompanying them. The younger of the two interrogators spoke with the Queen.
"Who is there to interrogate, your Grace?" he asked. "I heard there was some minor lord."
"Lord Westerling. There's a Maester too, and a number of men. These men are from Essos, Tyrion believes, followers of the lord of light. A few disguised themselves as Stark men to take Tyrion, and when he was found by Godwin there was a large number of them wearing Lannister colours to impersonate guards."
"Rest assured, your Grace, we will find the answers you need…"
The Queen talked easily with the men but Godwin kept a watchful eye all the same. The Cerwyn men surely thought it strange that he, a Lannister captain, was accompanying their Queen, but there were few senior Stark guards left who the Queen trusted implicitly, and even they needed the occasional rest. While Godwin's first loyalty was to lord Tyrion, he'd grown to respect Sansa Stark and had no issue with he and his men protecting her – it was exactly what lord Tyrion would want them to do, and Godwin knew he would agree if asked. While their lord's faith in the Stark guards had wavered following his abduction, his commitment to Sansa was more obvious than ever. On the rare occasion he was seen around Winterfell it was nearly always in her company. It was when Tyrion Lannister seemed the happiest, at least from what little Godwin had seen.
The Lannister captain was content enough that their lord was no longer completely hostile towards them. He'd spoken with Tyrion on several occasions and each time Godwin felt the ice thaw a little more. Tyrion's request for Lannister guards at his door was the most positive sign of all though. He'd taken care to ensure every man that undertook that task understood how important it was. Lord Tyrion had given them a chance to prove themselves, Godwin told them, they must not waste it.
They'd just passed from the courtyard and into the entrance hall when the second Cerwyn man spoke. "Your Grace, lord Cerwyn asked us to convey his relief at the Prince's safe return."
Sansa seemed surprised, but quickly covered it with a smile. "I thank you, and hope that you will pass along my thanks to lord Cerwyn. I will not forget how quickly he answered my call to join the search."
The conversation moved onto where Tyrion was found and with whom. All vital details for the Queen's interrogators, but nothing Godwin hadn't already heard. He found his steps slowing as they continued into the castle. It was no fault of the Cerwyn men, but the message they brought reminded Godwin of the situation. Lord Tyrion might be thawing towards them and accepting some small service, but he would not be lord of Casterly Rock. He'd made himself a bastard and confirmed to lord Broome that he intended to relinquish his name and titles as soon as Bran could assent the request. Whatever positive impression they strove to make to Tyrion was ultimately wasted.
Tyrion's future was at Winterfell – a fool could see it. If things continued as they were, he would surely become Prince Consort. Many of the men wondered why they were still here, serving a lord who wanted little to do with them. The ones who served the most eagerly were young and keen to impress any lord.
Lord Broome had pulled him aside after yesterday's meeting, demanding to know how he could serve a man like Tyrion Lannister.
"He has no honour or loyalty but to himself," grunted lord Broome.
"I don't believe that's true. He is loyal to the Starks and Queen Sansa."
"He should be loyal to the Westerlands but he's quite happy here pretending the West isn't his responsibility."
Godwin shrugged. "He bent his knee to the Queen in the North."
"And bloody good riddance to him! It's a bloody disgrace – if he'd taken the West in hand lord Lydden and his ilk could have been stopped."
"Lord Tyrion was recovering for many weeks. His injuries were horrific."
"I don't doubt that, but be honest Godwin – you're a good man – how many weeks have passed where Lannister could have sent letters to the West? He could have done something to assert his rule and quell any dissent. For all his faults, he's not a bloody idiot. Lannister knew his inaction would cause unrest, and he didn't care to stop it."
"My lord, I fear you're underestimating how badly affected he was by Kings Landing."
"War and pain are like a forge. It either makes you stronger, or you break under the pressure. I understand time to recover, but weeks have passed where he could have made moves to secure the West, without him needing to leave the Stark girl. Don't give me that look, a blind man could see what it between them. You're an honourable man Godwin, how can you serve one with so little of it?"
The question had followed Godwin ever since. He'd never wavered in his reason for being at Winterfell. Their duty was to serve the lord of Casterly Rock, and he reminded the men of that often. But Tyrion didn't want or need their service – he was protected by the Stark household.
If Tyrion was to stay at Winterfell, Godwin had no need to go beyond his basic duties until King Bran accepted the surrender. Why did he push for more?
It had taken a while to uncover the truth, but Godwin knew the reason he served Tyrion had nothing to do with his lord's honour and all to do with his. Honour was everything to a knight, but Joffrey, Cersei and Tywin had eaten away at the honour of the Lannister army. Tyrion was far from perfect, but service to him was a chance to redeem his failings, and see if he could salvage some of his knight's honour.
The boy looked impressive enough, standing outside the door in his shiny armour. To his credit, the boy had moved to intercept him and his voice wasn't shaking. Perhaps he wasn't as green as he looked. Not that Bronn cared. Compared to him most men these days seemed green.
"No one may enter without m'lord's permission," said the young man.
Bronn smiled. "Are you gonna ask him for me then? I reckon you'll do it nicer than I would."
The guard narrowed his eyes, his hand gripping the pommel of his sword. He moved in front of the door, knocking softly while keeping his body turned towards Bronn.
"Pardon m'lord, you have a visitor – Ser Bronn of the Blackwater."
"I bet ya don't do this when Queen Sansa comes to visit him."
He didn't answer, but Bronn knew damned well Sansa Stark had free access to Tyrion. The biggest question was why Tyrion felt he needed a scrawny green boy guarding his door in a castle full of guards who would defend him, if only to appease their Queen.
It took several moments but the door eventually opened enough for Bronn to discern Tyrion glimpsing through the crack.
"Yes?" asked Tyrion.
"Are you gonna let me in?"
"Hmm. Are you going to punch me in the face again?"
"I'll punch you a lot fucking harder than last time if you don't open this bloody door."
The guard's hand was on his sword in an instant, drawing it enough for the steel to show. "Step away from lord Tyrion."
Bronn sighed, rolling his eyes. "I'm not here to punch you Tyrion, or spill your boy guard's blood all over the Queen's castle."
Tyrion hesitated a moment before pulling the door open. "Alright then, I suppose you can come in."
"M'lord, are you sure? I can send for more men."
"That won't be necessary," said Tyrion. As he pulled the door open a furry white face appeared at his side. "I'm sure you and Ghost will be sufficient to subdue Ser Bronn if he proves troublesome."
Tyrion turned back into the room, and Bronn followed. The guard returned to his position, but glanced sideways at Bronn as he passed as if daring him to cause trouble on his shift.
As soon as the door closed behind Bronn, he shoved Tyrion in the back. "You little shit."
"I don't open my door very often these days," said Tyrion. "I thought it best to check your intentions first."
He was dressed in breeches with a shift loosely tucked into them. It was as if he'd started to get dressed but gave up halfway through. Tyrion moved stiffly to the armchair by the hearth, where a pillow and blue blanket were already in position. Bronn assumed it was a position he'd spent most of the day in.
"So this is how you spend your days is it?" asked Bronn, dropping onto the chaise. "Languishing in your wife's castle."
"You know the marriage isn't real, and I'm languishing in here because my Queen told me to."
Bronn snorted. "Aye, I heard you were too sick to come to dinner."
"I told Sansa I would be fine but she insisted I stay in here and rest today. The prisoners will be interrogated tomorrow and I'll need to be around for that discussion."
While Bronn was far from a Maester, it was apparent that Tyrion was suffering some illness – but he was hardly on death's door. When he'd asked Sansa Stark where Tyrion was, the woman had made his condition sound terrible.
"So are you laying it on to get out of another dinner or what?" he asked.
Tyrion rubbed tiredly at his face. "As I told you, this wasn't my idea, though I'm not sorry to be missing dinner. What's your excuse?"
"No one gives a shit whether I'm there or not." He shrugged. "I've not seen you for months and figured your company was a small improvement on Varys."
"I'm touched. If you hoped to extort a castle from me I'm fresh out – I'm a bastard now you see…"
Bronn struggled to not laugh as Tyrion went on to explain the freedom of tossing aside the Lannister name and titles and his experience as Tyrion Hill. The poor want-to-be bastard had no idea. He was living in rooms second only to the Queen's, with servants attending his every need and said Queen fussing over him from dawn until dusk. Bronn had only lasted the starter course of dinner before taking off, but it was long enough to grow tired of the Queen's worried looks at the empty seat beside her. Tyrion had no idea what bastard life was really like. He seemed to think it was to go by no title but his first name and to drop all lordly responsibilities. Tyrion was a clever sod, surely he realised even peasants and high-born bastards had responsibilities and duties? He was still a pampered little shit, just without the power his family name held.
Bronn raised an eyebrow at his old friend. "This it then, is it? You gonna spend the rest of your days sat by this hearth, reading every book in the library and waiting for your not-wife to come and visit?"
Tyrion jerked back in his chair, pulling the blanket closer to him. "Why not? I've had more than enough of politics – and people – to last me a lifetime. Don't I deserve some meagre amount of peace?"
If Tyrion thought Bronn was criticising his newfound way of life he couldn't be more wrong. He'd never cared for politics, people or responsibility either, but that was who he was – not Tyrion.
"I aint saying nothing like that," said Bronn. "I'm just wondering when you'll get bored of it."
"I've had enough excitement to last a lifetime."
"You say that now, but you'll get bored soon enough. You're good at the politics and shit – when you were Hand you liked playing the game."
"I liked it until I lost," said Tyrion, "and then I lost everything."
Bronn snorted. "You lost a family that hates you, a Queen who would have burned every bastard in Kings Landing and got a few scars."
"A few scars? I was tortured every bloody day – by my sister – while her Maester pulled me to pieces."
"You had it rough, I'll give you that. Now you're in a nice Castle with no one barking orders at you, with a woman who marched across Westeros to get you, all for the price of a few scars."
"I lost Jamie."
Bronn faltered. "You did. The dragon Queen would have found a reason sooner or later, no matter what you did."
Tyrion stared at him for a long moment before raising his right hand. Bronn's eyes strayed to the white wolf lying beside his chair, but to Bronn's relief, Tyrion wasn't signalling the beast.
"I'm a cripple too. This hand doesn't work anymore."
"Use your other to take a piss then."
To Bronn's relief, Tyrion laughed. The former sellsword relaxed into the chaise. He'd thought all day about how to start a conversation with Tyrion, but everything he thought of saying sounded hollow. He wasn't going to coddle Tyrion, but he was sorry for what he went through – and Bronn hoped his old friend understood that.
"What is it with you Lannisters and hands?" asked Bronn. "First Jamie lost his right hand, now your right hand is useless."
"It does seem to be a curse. This hand still has some uses I suppose – Sansa is fond of it."
Bronn moved to stand. "Let's get some wine in here, and you can tell me all about the uses your woman has for that hand."
Maester Gallard had expected the door to open at some point. It had only been a couple of days since they were made prisoners of Winterfell, but already he knew the routines well enough to work out what time of day it was. The door didn't open after dinner until the next morning, and he doubted it had been more than an hour since the slop masquerading as dinner was brought in.
He straightened on the hard bed, trying to brush some of the filth from his grey robes. This was surely the interrogation. All his time in the cells had been devoted to preparing the best defence possible which would absolve him of responsibility.
A flicker of flame drew his eye down the corridor, but in the wrong direction from the main door. That was strange – he'd heard something open and close. The flame grew closer, illuminating the empty cells immediately around him and lord Westerling snoring in the cell opposite.
Silent footsteps brought a man to the door of his cell. His face was squashed and scraggy brown hair fell about it, but his eyes held a peculiar light. "Valar morghulis."
"Valar dohaeris," said Gallard, automatically returning the greeting. Ah, this was not a Stark interrogator then, but a follower of the lord of light. "How did you get out? Is this a mass escape attempt?"
While Gallard still thought he had a better chance of survival with the Starks, to turn his cloak so obviously and decline to escape would mean certain death from his supposed allies. It was better to go with them and do what he could to guide the escape attempt. The majority of the prisoners were at the far end of the winding dungeon, away from himself, lord Westerling and a few senior guards of the Westerlands. It was strange that he'd heard nothing. No whisper from those in the cells a few down from his own that an escape would be attempted. How had this man got out? Was Cersei Lannister here?
"Answer me you bloody fool!" hissed the Maester, gripping the bars in his hands. The man was simply staring at him, his torch gripped in one hand.
"All men must die," he whispered, "all men must serve."
Gallard wasn't sure what caught his attention first; the prickly heat or the smell of burning. It didn't matter – either way he was on fire. He lurched back from the man, swatting at his burning robes. Rather than vanquish the flames, they spread like wildfire.
The man outside his cell watched solemnly. "The night is dark and full of terrors. Lord, cast your light upon us…"
The rest of the lord's prayer was lost in the echoing screams of the dying.
Dinner was an endless affair. Sansa knew it would be as soon as she told Tyrion to skip dinner and rest instead. Logically, Sansa knew he wasn't that ill and would be over the worst of it today or tomorrow. It still seemed a good idea to give him the night off. He hated playing lord Lannister almost as much as she hated seeing him dressed in red and gold. There was no real need to maintain the ruse until lord Lydden and Ser Harys arrived – if they answered the summons. Godwin thought it was more likely the lords of the Westerlands would turn on lord Lydden and bring him North as a sacrifice to save their own skins. Lord Broome had agreed with the assessment.
"Tywin Lannister is dead, but the old lion cast a long shadow and it has been rumoured for years that Tyrion was his father's son in some ways – ruthless. The Rains of Castamere still stirs unpleasant memories…"
Sansa didn't like that assessment. Tyrion could make difficult decisions but he was not like his father. If he was, Tyrion would have bedded her on their wedding night. He wouldn't have been kind or cared for her feelings, he'd have done his duty without a second thought.
Whether the lords of the West feared Tyrion or not, it was still likely they would turn their cloaks back to him. The lion had ruled the Westerlands in such a way that no other house had the strength or desire to rebel. It was best to prepare for the possibility a host from the Westerlands would march North to bring the traitors to their liege lord, and it was then Tyrion would need to play the role. There was time to prepare for that. For now, he could have the night to relax and recover his strength – even if she sorely missed having him at her side.
The Queen frowned. Ser Bronn had left soon after arriving. It was possible he was bored, but more likely he'd gone to see Tyrion. While Sansa knew Tyrion had been friendly with Bronn before, he'd shown no interest in catching up with him outside of basic conversation. At least if Bronn did go to Tyrion somebody would be with him and watching over him, but if Bronn upset him there would be hell to pay.
Sansa tried to drag her mind back to the dinner. She was Queen in the North – she shouldn't be daydreaming, particularly when there were guests. It was just difficult to concentrate without Tyrion beside her. She couldn't pinpoint when it happened, but somehow she'd become reliant on him. His presence alone gave her confidence and calmed her in equal measure. Her eyes brushed over the guests, noting they were mostly friendly faces. Lord Broome was the obvious stand-out, but he was disgruntled rather than a problem. Both Godwin and Tyrion had told her the man was loyal, but prickly by nature. She paused her gaze on Jeyne Lydden. The girl was pushing the food around her plate sullenly, reminding Sansa sharply of Arya when she'd been chastised.
'Good,' she thought. Jeyne behaved so poorly because she'd been allowed to. Her blatant disrespect would not be tolerated in Winterfell and Sansa felt no guilt for warning her of such.
Aside from the usual lords and ladies, the only other guest was Varys, who'd been unusually quiet throughout dinner, staring at his plate as if it might be his last meal before Drogon arrived to burn him. Just looking at him stirred Sansa's anxiety, so she quickly moved her attention elsewhere. The possibility that Drogon would betray Jon and join Daenerys hung over her like a dark cloud, but the North was her responsibility. All she could do was warn Bran's council and hope her family and friends survived-
"Fire in the dungeons!"
Sansa's head jerked in the direction of the voice, finding a Stark guard sprinting into the great hall. His uniform was stained with patches of black and brown, and the smell of smoke was strong enough that Sansa could smell it before he reached the table.
"How?" asked Sansa, moving swiftly to her feet. "There are prisoners down there-"
"All dead, your Grace."
"How has fire spread so quickly to kill every prisoner before the alarm was raised?" demanded lord Broome. "This can be no accident."
The guard swallowed, his eyes downcast. "The screams is what drew us down there. We found the old Maester burning alive. Every man in the deeper cells is dead where they sat and lord Westerling's throat is cut open. The fire was spreading from the Maester but we got it contained enough to check the prisoners...all dead."
Sansa struggled for breath as the table erupted into chaos around her. The prisoners were under her care and they'd all died on her watch. How could anyone kill so many without alerting her guards? Was there a traitor in her ranks once more? No, it didn't fit. If the prisoners had been killed off one by one they'd have surely began calling for help or at least struggling.
Most were dead where they sat and that only had one likely option - and poison was a woman's weapon.
Catching up with Bronn wasn't how he'd planned to spend his evening, but Tyrion didn't mind the company half as much as he'd expected. Bronn had neither demanded a castle nor punched him in the face. If anything, he seemed in reasonable spirits and equally relieved to have avoided dinner. A drop of guilt wormed through his heart. He'd insisted to Sansa he was fine, but the Queen would hear none of it. Tyrion knew he was little use, but he still didn't like leaving her alone to face the lords at dinner. The thought almost made him smile – as if Sansa Stark needed him? She was more than capable of holding her own with anyone. Still, he missed her company and the foolish notion his presence could help her.
"Why are you and the Queen still pretending?" asked Bronn.
"Pretending what?"
"Come on, it's bloody obvious."
"No, it isn't." Even as he said it, Tyrion knew it was a lie. They both pretended otherwise but their growing attachment to each other was impossible to miss. Sansa wouldn't have taken him to the hot springs if she didn't feel a certain way towards him, would she? Of course not. He knew well how Sansa struggled with intimacy. It had taken him too long to realise how privileged he was that Sansa let him into her world. No one else ever joined her on her balcony or her in her chambers – aside from her family, of course.
"She went to Kings Landing to get you, and didn't let you out of her sight when she did. If that's not obvious nothing is."
Heat spread through Tyrion's chest, warming him from the inside out. It wasn't the first time he'd heard what Sansa did for him, but every time it filled him with the most peculiar feeling. It was enough to bury any shame, and there could only be one word for it.
"I'm quite happy here," said Tyrion, smiling. "I can't imagine going anywhere else."
"You stay here as a well-kept bastard then and I'll get on with running the six kingdoms."
"Ah, yes – you're master of coin." Tyrion sipped his wine. "I'd love to hear how you convinced Bran to name you that. I seem to recall explaining to you what a loan is."
Bronn lifted his cup. "And you thought I wasn't listening-"
He cut off as Ghost leapt from his position beside the armchair. The white wolf was instantly alert, his hackles raised.
"What did I bloody do?" asked Bronn, leaning back from the direwolf.
"It's not you," said Tyrion. He followed Ghost's line of sight, his own instincts roaring to life. "It's in the corridor. Something is wrong."
Bronn moved to his feet almost as quickly as Ghost, facing the door with his sword in hand. "Stay in here."
A tremor ran through Tyrion as he moved to his feet. His limbs were shaky and it could only half be blamed on his sickness. "I'd rather know."
"I aint telling your woman you died on my watch, stay in here with the wolf and I'll take your green boy outside with me."
Tyrion's legs didn't want to move, but he forced himself to the door ahead of Bronn, with Ghost close beside him. It was stupid – Tyrion knew he was a liability – but he didn't want to be a coward. It was the same energy driving him now that had spiked at lord Broome's dismissal of him as a worthy lord of the Rock. Pride was hard to throw away, and while Tyrion's had been ground down he still had enough left to want to prove himself capable. If there was something disturbing the peace in Sansa's home, he wanted to help.
"Alright," grunted Bronn, as he pushed past him. "Stay behind me."
"I didn't know you cared."
"I don't need your Queen on my back because her idiot husband got himself hurt again."
Tyrion wasn't sure what he expected when Bronn opened the door, but the empty corridor was tame compared to the imaginings of his mind. Instantly, the young guard snapped to attention.
"My lord?" he asked, his eyes lingering on Bronn's sword.
"Is everything alright out here?" asked Tyrion.
"Yes, m'lord. All quiet."
"Nothing suspicious?" asked Bronn. The sellsword moved further into the corridor, leaving Tyrion lingering in the door.
"Nothing at all," said the guard. "Is all well, lord Tyrion?"
He shook his head. "I don't know. Ghost has become agitated – we thought there was something going on out here."
It all appeared to be peaceful, but Ghost wasn't convinced. The direwolf lurched past Tyrion and into the corridor. While Tyrion didn't speak wolf, he could see the obvious. Ghost's body was tense, his red eyes alert – there had to be some cause of it.
"Oh well," said Bronn. "Best be getting back to that wine."
"Ghost wouldn't act like this without cause – it's how he acted towards Drogon. Direwolves have unusual senses and he is trying to tell us something."
"Seven hells, has your brain froze up here? The wolf might be hungry for all you know."
That wasn't it. There was something wrong in the castle, and Tyrion could feel it himself. Or he thought he could. What if it was just his own anxiety? The thought nagged at him, but Tyrion would know no peace until he satisfied his curiosity either way.
"We follow Ghost," said Tyrion, inching further into the corridor.
Bronn sighed. "A sick dwarf and his green boy bodyguard. I'm going to end up doing all the fucking work."
Tyrion's mouth twitched up. "You won't mind going first then."
There was no time to consider how the prisoners died. Poison was the obvious answer, but no sooner had the thought flitted into her head did Winterfell erupt into chaos. Shouts echoed around her. There was fire in the corridor outside the great hall. Steel clashed in the distance. The lords fumbled for their weapons around her, abandoning their half-eaten food. Sansa needed to act. She was Queen – this was for her to control.
In a perfect world, where she was stronger, that was what she would do. But this wasn't a perfect world and Sansa was scared. It was one thing to face down an enemy on a battlefield but another to face enemies in your home, the one place you were supposed to be safe. Sansa had thought herself done with monsters in her home when the hounds finished their feast on Ramsay, but the monsters had come again. They never stayed away-
"Your Grace, you must go." Lord Manderly was beside her, urging her to action. "My men say there is a disturbance in the main corridor."
"Who?" she croaked out.
"Followers of the lord of light, by the sound of things."
Followers of the lord of light. Of course, they had been in the dungeons too. They were her prisoners, or at least they had been. Her guards had found Maester Gallard on fire – was that what happened? Somehow they'd escaped and turned on their once comrades? There were so many unknowns Sansa didn't know where to start.
"Your Grace, take some men and go while this is resolved," said lord Manderly.
"I'm Queen," she said. "I cannot run."
"It isn't running, it's good tactics. This is an attack your Grace, not a battle. As Queen it is beneath your attention and your presence would only endanger our men. Our numbers are low – the distraction of protecting you would not help."
Sansa nodded, biting her lip. Lord Manderly's words were kind and well-reasoned but it was hard to swallow all the same. If she were like Arya she needn't hide or endanger anybody.
'Tyrion,' she thought, her heart constricting. 'He doesn't know. I can hope Bronn is with him, but otherwise, there'll be only one guard.'
Her paralysis lifted as she found reason. Reach Tyrion. She would stay with him while her guards battled. He would know what to do and how to reassure her. Suddenly, nothing would satisfy her until she was with him.
"Alright," she said. "See if there's a leader to capture, but otherwise kill them. They've escaped the dungeon once – I can't allow them the chance again."
For all the years that had passed and everything that had changed inbetween, some things stayed the same. Tyrion still wanted to be liked. It was buried deeper than ever, but it was still there. Bronn supposed the difference this time was that he was liked. Tyrion wasn't falling over himself to impress family and lords that would never give a shit about him – he was trying to impress Sansa Stark. There was no need to. The Queen in the North liked him well enough if her pouting at dinner was anything to go by.
Bronn might have pointed this out to Tyrion if he wasn't busy trying to keep his head on his shoulders. Naturally, a night of rest wasn't allowed. They'd followed Ghost to the end of Tyrion's wing of the castle, only to come face to face with two of the ugliest bastards Bronn had ever seen. One had a face with a sunken cheek, as if a horse had kicked it in, and the other was tall and thin, but in a way that made him look as if he'd been stretched. Scrappy strands of brown hair hung around his face and down the back of his head like a sickly horse's tail.
"I know why you follow the lord of light," said Bronn, twisting his sword to deflect the incoming slash. "You were too ugly for the other Gods but he ain't as picky."
"Fool," grunted sunken cheek. "The lord of light is the one true God."
The man was burly and self-righteous, and while he could handle a sword he wasn't castle trained either. Bronn grimaced. The men trained by a master of arms were often predictable. Those who weren't either died quickly or were cunning enough to learn the tricks. Bronn's focus had to stay on the flight, but he could hardly leave Tyrion either. If the idiot got hurt there would be hell to pay with the Queen. At least Tyrion had sense enough to avoid the fighting. Bronn picked him out in the corner of the corridor, lurking in the shadows with the direwolf beside him. The creature had no interest in these men but held its nose in the air as if it was searching for a scent.
The Lannister guard looked as green as grass but he was holding his own well enough for a lad. Having travelled as much as he had Bronn thought he was a good judge of how the great houses trained their men. The Lannisters were nearly always the most proficient and capable fighters as guards went. Despite his appearance, the boy was proving why he was tasked with guarding his lord's chambers.
A streak of silver passing barely an inch from his face pulled Bronn back to the fight. In the distance, Bronn picked out the clash of steel and raised voices. There was a battle underway; these weren't the only intruders.
It took longer than Bronn would have liked to gut his opponent, but when he turned around Tyrion was nowhere to be found. The direwolf was gone too.
The Lannister guard finished his opponent moments later, blood splattering against his shiny armour.
"Where's your lord gone?" asked Bronn.
The boy panted heavily, nodding down the corridor. "I caught sight of him heading that way, towards the Queen's chambers."
Bronn was both impressed and annoyed that the boy had tracked his lord while fighting – it was something he'd struggled to do in this particular fight. There was no time to dwell on it as footsteps pounded up the hereby staircase.
"More ugly bastards," said Bronn. "Since you're not useless, you can take first crack at them."
He scoffed. "We need to protect lord Tyrion."
"Aye, and the best way to do that is blocking these bastards from following him."
The lad was clever enough to see the sense of that at least, no matter how much he wanted to play loyal lap-dog to the lord who didn't want to be. It was too much to hope that Tyrion had sought his chambers to hide in – of course he would go for Sansa.
Bronn only hoped the Queen was there with guards, and he ran into no trouble on the way.
Tyrion shivered as he hurried alongside Ghost. His body ached and every instinct was urging him to hide, but he couldn't until he knew Sansa was safe. Winterfell was under attack. Sounds of fighting had begun to drift through the corridors and every clash only fueled his anxiety.
'Just a little further,' he thought.
Everything ached as he hobbled along. It was fortunate Ghost seemed to be heading in the same direction. The white wolf had ignored the two attackers in favour of following whatever scent had captured him. Was it too much to hope he was following Sansa's scent and not an enemy?
While Tyrion's chambers were in a quiet wing of the castle separate from the family rooms, they were still treated as if they were an extension of the family area. No one but permitted guests and servants were allowed in the area. Sansa's chambers were in another wing within the family rooms, but separate for a different reason. Tyrion wasn't blind to why Sansa liked the privacy of a distant bed chamber when her nightmares troubled her. Tonight, he wished her chambers were closer.
He and Ghost had turned down the long corridor connecting the wings when he caught a black cloak disappearing around the corner. If Tyrion had any doubt of the person's intentions, Ghost was quick to silence them. The direwolf bristled, his red eyes locked on the corner where the enemy had disappeared.
Tyrion glanced behind, half hoping Bronn had followed him. When he slipped away from the fight it was as much to follow Ghost and find Sansa as it was to be away from the fight. He was unarmed and more useless than he'd been before Kings Landing. Even if he had a dagger, wielding it in his left hand would feel wrong. He ground his teeth, angry at himself. He'd wallowed in self-pity for far too long. When the Maesters told him his hand was useless he should have begun adapting rather than plodding along in denial for weeks. He knew in his heart the hand was ruined when Qyburn waved a piece of bone in front of his face.
Ghost was the only weapon he had at the moment, but Tyrion was reluctant to confront an enemy he knew nothing about.
"Follow for now," he whispered. "Until we know more."
Two things became apparent as they followed the cloaked figure. The first was the difficulty of remaining hidden in the corridors in his condition. The second was that they were not alone. Ghost was agitated, his head jerking back and forth as if he was sensing too many enemies at once. The cloaked figure was almost certainly moving towards Sansa's chambers, but they'd made one mistake. It would be natural to assume Sansa's chambers were the master rooms, but while the rooms her parents had once occupied were nearby, Sansa's chambers were in the corridor beyond that. Tyrion's heart pounded as he hobbled quietly along the corridor. The intruder was heading to Ned Stark's old chambers, but would they notice they were unused? That gave Tyrion some advantage – the intruder knew the castle layout, but not well enough to know exactly where the Queen slept. That corridor also happened to be a dead end. The intruder would have to come back up this way. It was the perfect place to lay a trap – some guards waiting to intercept them when they tried to double back.
The problem was the lack of guards. Tyrion had hoped to at least hear guards nearby or for Bronn to catch up to them. He hadn't anticipated being the last line of defence in protecting the Queen. Tyrion hung back as the figure approached the door to the master chambers, choosing to peer around the wall from some distance. It was impossible to make out who the intruder was. They appeared to be of average height with a slender build, but that was almost as useful as knowing nothing.
"What do you think, Ghost?" whispered Tyrion. "I won't make it to the door quietly and quickly enough to try and lock them inside. There's no help near hand either."
While Tyrion hardly expected a response from the direwolf, he knew something was wrong almost instantly. Ghost was fully alert, standing as still as a statue beside him. Red eyes met his for a moment before Ghost bared his teeth and lunged.
Protecting Sansa Stark wasn't his job. Godwin's duty was to the lord of Casterly Rock, and until King Bran decreed otherwise that meant protecting Tyrion Lannister. With that being said, Godwin was nowhere near lord Tyrion to offer his protection, and he was fairly certain Tyrion would prefer him to protect Sansa anyway.
Godwin inched along the corridor, keeping the Queen and the Lydden girl close behind him. When the fighting erupted in Winterfell it was instant chaos. Lords and guards scrambled to defend against the unexpected attack but the intruders were quite literally playing with fire. At first, there was confusion and panic, but already details were breaking through. A fire had broken out in the dungeons – all prisoners dead. Godwin had been on his way to respond to that, like most every guard in Winterfell, when the call came there were intruders heading towards the Great Hall. At once, the focus turned to protecting the Queen. The problem with Winterfell was its current division. The Winterfell guards were severely diminished in number and lacking their captain – too many had been sent to aid King Bran. Guards from Sansa's Northern guests filled out the ranks, but they were not a cohesive unit. Lord Manderly's personal guards were the most experienced and appeared to be trying to take charge of the Northern forces but it was a struggle – one the Lannister guards didn't share. Many of them had grown comfortable with Winterfell and their Northern counterparts. Godwin hardly needed to give the order for them to defend Winterfell and Queen Sansa.
He should have, perhaps, ordered them to find and secure lord Tyrion as the top priority, but Godwin knew that wasn't what Tyrion would want. He might hate the Lannister guards for their role in his torment, but it would be nothing to his wrath if they allowed harm to befall Sansa Stark.
"This way," he said, leading them through the corridors and away from the bulk of the fighting.
By the time he made it to the Great Hall, lord Manderly and a few Northern lords were trying to sneak the Queen out of a side door. He considered it a compliment how quickly Sansa trusted him, stepping away from the Northern lords and into his protection. The Lydden girl was less convinced, shaking and staring with wide eyes at the fight unfolding around them.
"What's one old man going to do if they try and set us on fire?" she'd protested.
"You can take your chances with the lords if you prefer," Sansa had answered.
The girl had apparently decided his protection was the better option for she followed along as he led them through the corridors. They encountered no one as they travelled deeper into Winterfell, but Godwin was wary all the same. It only took a couple of enemies to break away from the group and cause him a problem. Ideally, he'd have brought back up with him but there was no time to pull some men to assist him and a larger group might draw attention to the Queen's departure.
They were upstairs before Jeyne dared to speak. "Why are we going up if they're setting the castle on fire? We'll be trapped."
"I doubt there's enough of them to accomplish that. They appear to have mounted a direct attack on the Great Hall," said Godwin. "They are the fake Lannister guards who travelled with you – followers of the lord of light."
"They've escaped somehow," said Sansa, her tone icy. "Maester Gallard has apparently burned to death and the rest of the prisoners are dead."
Godwin arched an eyebrow. "They've had outside help then. You don't believe their lord of light gave them some power over fire, do you?"
"Thoros of Myr. Melisandre. They both did things that shouldn't have been possible." Sansa's face darkened. "Tyrion told me once that Daenerys had the support of the red priests of Volantis – that they believed she was some sort of chosen one. What if the fake Lannister guards weren't followers but priests? If anyone would have powers like Melisandre they would."
Both turned their eyes to Jeyne but the girl only shrugged. "My father didn't tell me much, but they did travel from across the Narrow Sea."
It was an unpleasant thought that left a sour taste in Godwin's mouth. It was one thing to kill a man with steel, but another to use sorcery. It was the same feeling that made him wary of King Bran. He had nothing against him and didn't know him enough to judge his intentions, but his appointment as King came as a disappointment. Under the laws of succession, it should have been Tyrion as King, or Sansa as Queen following her successful rebellion. Bran was part of the rebellion, but Godwin didn't think he was a King who would inspire much of anything, be it devotion or rebellion.
"Where are we going anyway?" asked Jeyne. "Isn't there a safe room or something?"
"We're going to Tyrion," said the Queen. "He has a guard at the door and I suspect Ser Bronn is with him, but we are going to him anyway. We'll wait with him until this is over."
Sansa's tone left no room for argument though Jeyne didn't seem enthralled with the idea. Godwin only nodded. He suspected that was where the Queen wanted to go, rather than the safety of her own chambers and it certainly made the most sense. The boy on lord Tyrion's door tonight was young but a strong swordsman – joining forces with him and Ser Bronn was the wisest option.
"Stay close," said Godwin. "We will take the longer path through the side corridors to be safe."
He glanced at Sansa but the Queen was barely listening. Her brow was furrowed as if she was in deep thought – most likely considering how the prisoners escaped. There would be time for that later. For now, securing the Queen and lord Tyrion was the priority.
Tyrion scrambled backwards as Ghost lunged, but he was not the direwolf's target. The white wolf darted down the corridor they'd just come up and it was then Tyrion realized how unnaturally dark it now was. That couldn't be right. It was light enough when they'd passed through minutes ago, but now it appeared someone had extinguished all of the lights, plunging the corridor into a darkness broken only by the meagre light from the adjoining corridors. Tyrion backed against the wall, searching the darkness for any sign of enemies. The cloaked figure had yet to emerge from the master chambers and he couldn't see Ghost in the darkness either. Silence smothered the corridor, wrapping around Tyrion like an icy blanket.
A long moment passed where Tyrion heard nothing beyond his own rapid heartbeat, and then fires sparked around the corridor. No – not fires, but men holding torches. The light illuminated their grim faces, standing like statues at every exit.
"The lord's work cannot be disturbed," said one man with a hooked nose and black hair. "R'hllor raises only those who have a purpose. For the night is dark and full of-"
He broke off his speech at shuffling. Ghost appeared a moment later, blood dripping from his mouth onto his white fur. It took Tyrion a moment to realise there was no light coming from that particular corridor anymore.
Three lights remained – three enemies. They stared at the wolf in shock for several moments, before chaos erupted.
"Kill the bloody wolf!" shouted one of them. "And seize the dwarf!"
Tyrion was already moving when the man to his left moved to grab him. It was tempting to try and run but it would be ridiculously easy for someone to catch him in this state. Besides, he couldn't run when the queen was in danger. If Sansa was in her chambers her personal guards would surely be patrolling these corridors – she must still be at dinner. Given the intruders in the castle, she would most likely be escorted back to her rooms, and directly into a trap. No, he had to stay here. If nothing else he had to stay and raise an alarm with whoever came upon them.
He twisted just out of reach of the man, but the movement sent him staggering. Ghost snapped at the man's outstretched hand, missing only by inches. The other two had decided the wolf was the bigger threat. They were both armed with torches and what looked like weapons taken on their way here. One had a knife and the other a standard-issue sword. Tyrion grimaced. Was it taken from a dead Stark guard? Ghost fell on the man nearest Tyrion, snapping and biting as the other two men moved on the wolf. Ghost turned away to attack them and Tyrion ran to the fallen man. He was dying. Ghost had ripped his face apart but not had time to finish the job. A Stark-issue dagger sat on the man's belt and Tyrion quickly seized it, ignoring the dying whimpers of the man.
It felt better to have a dagger in hand, but Tyrion was keenly aware it was the wrong hand. He wasn't much use with a weapon in his right hand, but using it in his left felt even worse. Light flared behind him and Tyrion turned to see the men thrusting their torches at Ghost. The edges of the wolf's white coat caught fire, but it did nothing to deter him from his attack. Tyrion edged around the side, biding his time.
There! Ghost had one man on his back when the hooked-nosed one twisted away from the wolf's snapping jaws and cut wildly with the stolen sword. The blade bit into Ghost's back but was stopped from going any further when Tyrion slashed his knife across the man's throat. The cut was awkward, particularly with coming from behind, but it did its job. Blood was seeping through Ghost's white coat, but he eagerly ripped into the man scrambling to escape beneath him. Tyrion moved to help when a thick cord of rope fell around his neck. His feet left the ground as he was heaved upwards, dropping his knife to grab at the rope tightening around his throat. His lungs burned as the air was squeezed out of him.
"Valar morghullis," said the man. "Even you, dwarf."
Footsteps echoed down the corridor, but not the kind he'd hoped for. Two more men joined the one choking him – enemies and not allies.
Tyrion's vision swam. Help wasn't coming, and he would die before he could warn Sansa of the danger. Red eyes met his as Ghost turned on the new threat. Blood covered the wolf's back, but it didn't deter him. If anything, Ghost looked resolute…
'No!' thought Tyrion, struggling weakly as the world got smaller around him. He gasped, clawing uselessly at the rope choking the life from him.
He didn't see Ghost lunge but felt the floor meet him as his attacker dropped him to defend himself. A flash of white and red landed beside him, growling and snapping at the attackers. Tyrion shuddered, drawing air into his strained lungs. His neck ached with every breath, but he was still alive. The dagger he dropped was inches from him, maybe…
His hand closed around the handle as blood splattered the ground. These three were better armed than the first lot and Ghost was taking heavy damage fighting them. Tyrion rolled, ignoring the way the world spun around him. All he needed was one chance.
He drove the point of the dagger into the man's foot. He yelped, losing concentration and giving Ghost enough of a break to finish him. Before Tyrion could consider how to handle the others, a foot slammed into his chest with enough force to send him sprawling across the corridor, landing against the wall with a thump. He groaned, lifting his aching head in time to see the man who kicked him bring a sword through Ghost's neck. The second man lifted his hands and began muttering as Ghost's blood spread across the floor. A moment later, flames engulfed the wolf's body.
"No…Ghost," croaked Tyrion. He trembled on the floor, his body racked with pain and grief filling his heart.
He'd lost the dagger when he was kicked, but there was little point in trying to find it now. Ghost was dead and there were still two attackers remaining. He wouldn't be able to fight them off. The one who kicked him was young but already looked like a fanatic follower of the lord of light. Tyrion had seen the look often enough to sense the madness behind it. The second man was older and far more grizzled. He had the build of a warrior rather than a follower of the lord of light, but Tyrion suspected he was a priest. These intruders had surely come from the dungeons after all. Somewhere in his addled brain, Tyrion tried to make sense of what had happened. Some red priests had an affinity for fire or were excellent illusionists in practice. The fake Lannister guards were possibly priests rather than followers.
The men made no move towards him, not that there was any rush – the fight was over. Still, it would be better to die on his feet. Tyrion pulled himself to all fours, struggling to get breath through his aching throat. He'd barely managed that when something slammed into the back of his right shoulder. Pain lanced through the old injury as he was forced to the ground. He hissed in pain, squirming to escape the unrelenting pressure.
"Fuck," he croaked as the pressure increased. It was as if they knew exactly where to press. This was surely the intruder he'd followed. The cloaked figure he'd naively thought he could protect Sansa from.
The floor creaked as his assailant bent down, one foot pinning him to the ground.
"Hello, little brother."