Chapter 36

Fear wrapped around Tyrion like icy cords, tethering him to the ground. All his pain faded into the background at the voice. It was raspy – quiet and with a faint whistle to it – but it was unmistakable. His heart slammed against his chest with such force he was surprised it didn't break free. His throat ached from being choked but it wouldn't have worked if he wanted to.

"It was nice of Sansa to put you back together," cooed the voice. "I'll enjoy breaking you again after I've gutted her and hung her corpse in the Great Hall."

The words broke Tyrion from his paralysis, jolting his mind into action. He knew who it was, and he couldn't allow her anywhere near Sansa. He braced his good hand against the floor, using his legs to slide forward enough to dislodge the foot on his shoulder. The voice should have warned him. It was recognisable, but damaged. Its differences did nothing to prepare him for the sight that met him when he turned around.

The figure wore a black cloak but the hood had fallen back to reveal a gruesome sight. What had once been a face of beauty was a ruin. The skin was thin enough that it looked stretched over the bone and had taken on an unpleasant blue hue. Pieces of skin had fallen away as if rotten, leaving dark holes across the sunken cheeks. What hair remained hung in limp strands of white and gold, barely thick enough to cover the head. The worst damage lay just below the face, however, where a narrow hole gaped in the throat, the edges of the wound rotten and dying.

Every nerve in Tyrion's body stood on end, his voice barely a whisper. "You're dead."

"I was," said Cersei, in her new raspy voice, "but I had debts to pay. First your new whore, and then you little brother."

Tyrion leaned against the wall, dragging himself to his feet. There were two red priests behind him and Cersei in front of him. Or what remained of Cersei. Her once-famed beauty had rotted away to reveal the monster lying underneath. His stomach churned at the sight of her – she looked like a white walker, and that was before he considered her crimes against him.

It would be so easy to crumble. It was exactly what his soul was urging him to do. This woman had crushed him as easily as stepping on an insect. There wasn't a piece of him she hadn't ruined or defiled in some way.

"You dare to call me brother after all you did to me?" He lurched away from the wall, swaying as he moved to stand in front of Cersei. "You are a monster, and you finally look like one. Everyone can see what you are."

Even in death, Cersei had her pride. Her green eyes flashed with familiar hatred. "Your whore will die slowly now. I'd planned a different death for her, but I will enjoy seeing her break."

"No, she won't. Sansa is a true Queen – she's everything you could never be." Tyrion's good hand curled into a fist as the cork came off months of fear and pain. "I won't let you hurt her. While there's breath in my body, I promise you won't touch her."

Her ruined mouth quirked into her familiar smirk. "That can be arranged."

Why were they moving so slowly? They should be running. Moving with all the speed the old Gods would grant them to reach Tyrion.

"This is too slow," said Sansa. "We need to find him."

"It would be quicker if you'd stayed behind," grumbled Bronn.

Godwin was more diplomatic about the situation. "Your Grace, intruders have spread throughout Winterfell. For them to have reached lord Tyrion's chambers there is every chance more are lurking. Moving quickly, but quietly is our best chance."

Sansa nodded, trying to temper her worry. It wasn't that far to her chambers and according to Bronn that was where Tyrion had been heading. She, Godwin and Jeyne had run into Bronn and a young Lannister guard on a corridor not far from Tyrion's chambers. Bronn had been supporting the guard, who was bleeding steadily from a wound in his side.

"What happened?" demanded Godwin.

"In case you missed it there's a fight going on," said Bronn.

Godwin turned his attention quickly to the injured guard. "Are you well, lad?"

"I'll be fine, Ser," he said, grimacing. "We were with Lord Tyrion when we were attacked a short distance from his chambers. He left with the direwolf while we were fighting."

"He's alone?" said Sansa.

"The wolf was with him," said Bronn. "It was that bloody wolf that got us out of his chambers in the first place. It got twitchy and Tyrion started worrying about you and wanted to follow the damned thing. Are you gonna help with the lad or not? He's bleeding everywhere."

"It's not like you to care," said Sansa.

Bronn's eyes darkened. "He took a sword aimed at me. I couldn't leave the bastard to die, could I?"

Her heart twisted painfully at the conversation. Tyrion had gone to find her – she only hoped he hadn't found trouble instead. Bronn and the Lannister guard had managed to kill the intruders they'd encountered, but the guard was injured. They'd been on their way to follow Tyrion when the groups crossed paths. The young guard was too injured to be of help despite his instance on following Tyrion, so had reluctantly agreed to stay with Jeyne in a spare room instead. Both Godwin and Bronn had suggested she do the same, but there was no chance of that. Not knowing if Tyrion was alright would haunt her every thought.

Not long and they would reach her chambers. With any luck, Tyrion would be there waiting for her.

'Soon,' she thought. 'Please be alright, my love.'

Cersei grunted, moving stiffly to her feet. Every move she made felt the same – stiff and grating. But then again, she shouldn't be moving at all. This second life could hardly be called living, yet it had its uses. It could give her revenge.

She dusted her cloak down, levelling a glare at the two red priests. They'd been too slow to react. The imp had taken them by surprise when he launched himself at her. Cersei hadn't expected it either. He collided with her waist and managed to knock her back onto the floor before the red priests wrenched him off her. He hung there now, suspended a few inches from the floor and trapped in their grip. Cersei raked her eyes over him. He looked sickly and sore but not broken like he should be. He should be a quivering wreck, barely capable of thought and pissing at the sight of her – not staring at her with a face of thunder that held an eerie similarity to their father.

Cersei stepped closer, smiling. "Have you forgotten the rules? You know what happens when you break the rules."

"I am not beholden to your rules anymore."

"You'll be punished for your insolence. The lessons didn't sink in last time, but when your whore is dead I'll dedicate every moment to your suffering."

"I'll kill you."

It took effort for Cersei to hold her tongue. She couldn't let him think his defiance bothered her. She was in control, she had the power.

'Power is power,' she thought, 'and the imp has none.'

She grabbed his jaw, expecting him to flinch at the touch – at her closeness – but he met her gaze steadily. Cersei's blood boiled. It was the same stubborn look he'd had as a child, when Jamie had struggled to answer their father's questions correctly and ignored his youngest son's attempts to answer. The little beast had grown tired of being ignored one night, daring to stand in front of Tywin Lannister and reel off the answers Jamie had struggled with. It seemed a lifetime ago, but Cersei remembered the glint in his eyes as he demanded attention, and his silent tears when he finally got it. A clout to the ear was enough to subdue the eight-year-old, but Cersei never forgot the look. She'd glimpsed it many times over the years – at his trial in Kings Landing where he'd once again defied their father. Cersei had turned immediately to her father then, half expecting him to leap from the throne and clout him again. Of course, he didn't lose control.

Cersei let go of Tyrion's face, wrenching her arm back and smashing her hand into his left ear.

He shook his head, a dry laugh escaping him. "You should have done that to Joffrey."

"You dare speak to your betters like this?"

"Betters? You're a walking corpse. I've seen better shits than you."

"Don't forget what you are." He was only wearing a shift and breeches and Cersei let her hand brush against his ribs. "You're an imp, remember? It says so right here."

His eyes narrowed, a grimace crossing his face. "Stop."

She reached over his shoulder, pressing her fingers against the mark she knew was there. "A little monster."

"Don't touch me."

To the edge of his breeches, against his hip. "A kinslayer."

"Can't keep away from your brother's breeches, can you?"

Cersei's nostrils flared. She grabbed the collar of his shift, pulling it down to expose the top part of the tattoo. "This is my favourite. A Queen's hand, or in your case a failed hand. I remember you crying when Qyburn did this to you – it was pathetic."

He lowered his voice, speaking hoarsely. "I'm not crying now."

He should be crying, flinching, trembling – she'd broken him after all. She was the one who'd taken him apart piece by piece. Tyrion shouldn't be able to meet her eyes or dare to speak back to her, but someone had managed to put the pieces of him back together. He'd broken easily in Kings Landing after the walk of shame through the city, but something was different now. If anything, he seemed more stubborn than ever and Cersei could only find one possible reason.

She stepped away from him, glancing at the charred remains of the direwolf. These Red Priests did like to make sacrifices to their God. From the whispers she'd heard, several of the Red Priests had gifts for calling on fire and the man on Tyrion's right seemed to have it. He'd been quick to set fire to the wolf's body and somehow stopped the flames from spreading until they burned out.

Cersei stepped closer to the remains, nudging them with her foot.

"Get away from him!" said Tyrion. "You desecrate everything you touch."

"Like how I touched you, little brother? You hated it, but your cock didn't mind – Qyburn got plenty of samples from you."

"You're poison." He slumped in the priest's hold. "I wish Jamie had seen it."

A twinge ran through Cersei's chest, where before there was emptiness. "No one knew me better than Jamie."

"That's what makes it worse. He knew what you were, and he loved you anyway."

Cersei glared at the imp, who looked worse with every moment that passed. Whatever bravado he'd summoned couldn't disguise the truth of his injuries, and Cersei knew she'd left permanent damage behind. His neck was quickly colouring with blue bruises and his feeble efforts to escape were only getting more tired and sluggish.

She ignored him for now, glancing at the direwolf. This was Jon Snow's wolf, wasn't it? All of the Starks had one, but as far as she knew this was the last one still alive. Or it had been alive. Why was it so far from its master? Before she parted ways with the company travelling to kidnap Tyrion they'd heard Jon Snow and Arya Stark had left for Kings Landing with half of the Winterfell guard. It would make sense if the wolf had been left to defend Sansa, but it was with Tyrion – and the imp looked grief-stricken at its loss.

"You love her, don't you?" said Cersei. She turned away from the wolf, sneering at Tyrion. "The Starks take you as one of their own, do they?"

He didn't answer, but there was no need to – she could see the faint hope in his eyes. Tyrion wouldn't admit it, not even to himself, but he wanted the belonging he'd never had. She would enjoy taking it from him.

"Your new family won't be very happy you killed their wolf. Jon Snow might take your head."

Tyrion laughed bitterly. "You have no idea, do you? They're not like you, and you can't scare me."

"We'll see about that-"

"Tyrion!"

The fallen Queen whipped her head up at the sound. A smirk spread across her face as she spied Sansa Stark running down the corridor. "It's been too long, little dove."

Sansa's heart was in her mouth from the moment she spied the two intruders at the end of the corridor dangling Tyrion between them. Caution was thrown to the wind as she ran towards them, with Godwin and Bronn hurrying to keep pace with her.

It was a stupid idea, in hindsight. The intruders were surely armed and had Tyrion as leverage – what was she going to do? She wasn't Arya. She couldn't draw a sword and kill the men daring to touch her husband.

They were at an intersection of corridors. The path to the left led away to her chambers, but the corridor ahead led to the master chambers of Winterfell – the rooms that had once belonged to her parents. Sansa couldn't help crying out when she saw the back of Tyrion if only to let him know he wasn't alone.

She stopped short at the voice that answered her. Rasping and grating though it now was, Sansa would have recognised it without hearing the words 'little dove'.

Every hair stood on end as she saw Cersei Lannister. Her face was a ruin, more skeleton than human, but still far too alive. She wore a black cloak with the hood down and was looming over Tyrion, who was pinned in place, his feet off the ground, between two intruders who she now suspected were Red Priests. It was in checking over Tyrion that her eyes drifted past him, to a pile of charred remains with smoke still drifting from them. What had they burned?

Bile filled her mouth as she picked out some defining features. No. Not again. They'd killed Ghost-

"Sansa, run!" Tyrion's voice broke her paralysis, returning her attention to her husband. "It's a trap!"

"Oh no," said Cersei, "it's been too long – little dove and I have some catching up to do."

Footsteps behind her announced the arrival of Bronn and Godwin, both breathless.

"Godwin, get Sansa away from here!" shouted Tyrion, squirming in the men's grasp. "Now!"

The order jolted Godwin, who now had his sword drawn beside her. He glanced between her and his lord.

"You serve Tyrion," said Sansa. "You protect Tyrion. It's your duty!"

"It is," said Godwin. He stepped quickly in front of her, holding his sword in one hand and catching her wrist with the other as he inched them both backwards. "And I know he values your safety above his own."

A lump formed in Sansa's throat as Godwin shuffled her back. They'd only taken a couple of steps before footsteps echoed down the corridor. Sansa turned, half-expecting to see the Winterfell guards arriving. That hope died in her chest as three Red Priests charged down the corridor towards them, blocking their escape.

Bronn swore, shooting her a glare. "You couldn't just stay with the whiny girl, could you? You're going to get us all killed."

Sansa's lip trembled, in a way unbecoming of a Queen. This was her fault – Bronn was right. Even so, she met his gaze steadily. "Save Tyrion."

"Kill the sellsword and the Lannister traitor," said Cersei, as the three red priests arrived. "Bring the so-called Queen to me, I have plans for her."

"Fucking Lannisters," grumbled Bronn. He spun towards the men holding Tyrion, launching a knife from his hand so small Sansa only identified it when it was stuck in the eyeball of the man on Tyrion's left. He dropped Tyrion with a howl, staggering back and dropping to the ground.

Tyrion's other captor dropped him quickly too, scrambling to draw his dagger. Tyrion hit the ground with a groan, crumpling into an unsteady heap. Before he could regain his balance or try and move away, the Red Priest kicked him in the ribs, sending Tyrion sprawling across the ground.

"No!" cried Sansa. She lurched forwards instinctively to go to him, but Godwin dragged her behind him as fighting erupted in the corridor.

There were four attackers left, with only Godwin and Bronn to fight them. Sansa didn't need to know much about fighting to see the Red Priests were untrained. Their strikes were wild and unpolished, lacking in Bronn's cunning or Godwin's discipline, but the wildness made them dangerous. Godwin and Bronn were struggling to gain the upper hand and Sansa knew it was her fault. Her attention was split between trying to stay out of the way and watching Tyrion. He didn't look well and was gasping for breath on all fours across the corridor.

"Come here!"

A hand seized her upper arm in a vice-like grip, dragging her away from Bronn and Godwin. Bronn moved to intervene, but the man he was fighting towered over him, wielding a dagger in each hand. Sansa turned to hit the man dragging her away, but he easily swatted away her attempt, shooting her a gap-toothed smile.

"None of that, now. The fallen Queen wants to see you."

The corridor was a mess of fighting. Godwin had killed one man, but he and Bronn were struggling with the two who remained. The view of the fighting quickly disappeared as Sansa was brought face to face with Cersei Lannister.

The former Queen was alive, if her current form could be considered alive. It shouldn't be possible. Months had passed. She'd watched Arya push Needle through her throat. Sansa shuddered, despite herself. This was unnatural – not like how Jon was. She'd heard the stories of how he was brought back. It wasn't long after he'd been attacked, and Jon was still Jon. Cersei was even more monstrous in death than she'd been in life.

Harsh green eyes glinted at her, burning like wildfire. "Look what you did to me, bitch."

"You deserved so much worse," said Sansa. She held her head high, trying to ignore the dark memories that threatened to overwhelm her. The man was gripping her upper arms so tightly – it was exactly what he used to do when he took her.

"I've dreamed of this for a long time, ever since you killed Joff."

"I didn't kill Joffrey and you know that."

"You were involved though, weren't you? Don't lie to me little dove, you're no good at it. I was kind to you in Kings Landing."

"You destroyed my family! You took everything I loved and broke it."

"And I'll do so again." Cersei leaned closer, her breath the scent of rot and decay. "Before that creature you call a sister killed me, you took pleasure in telling me all the things my little brother could still have; a family, a lordship, whatever he wanted. I'm going to take all of that and more from the little beast, while you watch, but first I want something from you. My beauty is lost, it's only fair yours is too."

Cersei's right hand moved inside her cloak, and Sansa caught a flash of steel. Unable to break free, Sansa closed her eyes as the blade arced towards her.

Sansa felt the air move as the blade whipped past, but there was no pain. Did that come later, after her face was cut open? She flicked her eyes open at Cersei's grunt, finding Tyrion standing between her and Cersei. The former Queen was on her knees, scrambling to reclaim the knife she'd dropped when Tyrion intervened. Had Tyrion dragged himself to his feet and charged at Cersei, the woman who'd tortured him so horrendously?

Of course he had - her brave lion.

"No more games little brother, I'll cut you to pieces and then I'll start on your little whore…"

"You will not touch Sansa." Tyrion breathed heavily, swaying where he stood. "You are a repugnant, morally devoid ghoul who didn't deserve to draw breath in one life, let alone two. You are pure darkness…"

Sansa tried to break away from her captor, but the man squeezed her tighter, pinning her helplessly in place as Cersei rose to her feet. The knife was in her hand again, but the real weapon was the pure hatred in her eyes as she stared down Tyrion. Two lions, locked in a dance that stretched across decades.

Cersei lunged forwards, eager to pounce on her prey.

"…and I'll suffer it no more," said Tyrion. As he finished speaking, he threw himself backwards. A move that caught Sansa by surprise as much as Cersei.

Tyrion crashed against her, sending her and the Red Priest off balance for a moment. She felt Tyrion's arm bump against her left side, but she didn't realise why until the scrape of steel caught her ear. Tyrion clutched the man's sword in his left hand, holding it in a reverse grip that would be no use in a fight but was perfect for what he had in mind. Cersei had thrown all her weight into her lunge at Tyrion, and his sudden move back had left her off balance and exposed.

Tyrion went with the momentum of the sword, drawing it across him in a savage arc. As the sword left its sheath, Sansa caught a spark in the corner of her eye and then the sword was ablaze. It cut across Cersei's face, severing what remained of her rotten nose and carving a cut deep enough that the paper-thin skin flapped open. She howled as she fell back, blood and skin falling from her face. Tyrion didn't hesitate. The sword blazed in his hand as he brought the point down through the centre of Cersei's face.

Sansa was so absorbed in the scene before her, she almost forgot the Red Priest holding her captive until he threw her aside. She tripped in her surprise, landing heavily against the floor. Scrambling to her knees, the rest of the corridor suddenly came into focus for her. Three more Red Priests had arrived at some point, but to Sansa's relief, so had allies. She spied Stark and Lannister guards battling alongside Bronn and Godwin, with lord Manderly and a number of his personal guard beginning to flood the corridor.

She turned to Tyrion, who stepped back from his sister's body as the flames leapt hungrily from the sword to consume her. No sooner had he stepped back did the Red Priest attack.

"Watch out!" she cried, but it was too late. The Red Priest lifted Tyrion by his right arm, causing him to cry out at the strain on his weak shoulder.

Sansa lurched to her feet, hurrying towards them. There was no time to intervene. The man didn't hesitate to lift Tyrion and smash the side of his head against the wall.

"Lord of Light, take this murderer as a sacrifice and cast your light upon us." He dropped Tyrion in a heap a few feet from where Cersei was now burning, reaching into the folds of his robes. "The night is dark and full of terrors…"

Sansa didn't remember taking Cersei's discarded knife from the floor, nor was she aware of the ungodly scream breaking from her throat as she fell on the Red Priest, plunging the blade deep into his neck. He staggered backwards, surprise crossing his features as blood bubbled to his lips. If he was so eager to make a sacrifice, the Lord of Light could have his life.

By the time he hit the floor, Sansa was already moving away. She dropped to her knees beside Tyrion, immediately checking him over. Her throat tightened until she couldn't breathe. Blood was pouring from his head, seeping into his golden hair.

"No," she choked. "No, no…Tyrion!"

Everything faded away into background noise as she eased Tyrion upright. He was floppy and too warm as she pulled him against her. His eyes fluttered open, a soft moan escaping him.

"You're ok," she said, fumbling in her gown for something to staunch the bleeding. "You'll be fine. Please Tyrion, stay with me…"

He barely winced when she pushed a handkerchief against the left side of his head, sending her stomach into knots. Blood quickly seeped through the thin material.

His face contorted suddenly as he lurched in her arms. "Your parent's rooms…don't go in…she was in there. A trap. She thought it was yours…"

"Ok! It's all ok. Please stay still. I won't go in – I'm not going anywhere. I'll make sure it's checked."

Already his eyes were sliding shut.

She shook him gently, trying to keep the tremble from her voice. "No. You have to stay with me."

Tyrion smiled slightly, blinking wearily up at her. "Always."

Sansa trembled, shouting hoarsely into the chaos. "Maester! The Prince needs a Maester!"

"It's alright…"

"Shh, don't say that. You're fine. You'll be fine. I'm right here with you." Something wet slipped down her cheeks.

"Don't be sad…kept my promise."

"What promise?"

"That she wouldn't touch you…"

Tyrion was still smiling when he lost the battle to stay awake. His green eyes disappeared from view as he slumped against her. A crater opened in Sansa's chest, her mind flooded by all things she'd left unsaid.

The cloth was now soaked in blood, and Sansa heard raised voices and movement around her. All she could focus on was Tyrion.

"No, please no…"

Blood filled Bronn's mouth. It was fortunate the burned-out corpse of Cersei Lannister was nearby. He spat the glob onto her charred remains, peering closer at the sword stuck through her face. He had to admit, Tyrion had done a decent job of ruining her face. The gash cut across her features in a similar shape to the scar that covered Tyrion's own face but lacked the precision the Kingsguard had managed on him. Her nose was gone too. The sword cut alone would have likely killed her without immediate treatment, but Tyrion had finished the job by shoving his burning sword through her face.

"Azor Ahai!"

"A burning sword…"

"He is a Prince!"

Bronn shook his head, ignoring the excited chatter of the Red Priests who'd now surrendered. It started with one of them, dropping to his knees, pointing wordlessly at Tyrion. Perhaps if he'd said some words, the other bastard wouldn't have bashed Tyrion against the wall and tossed him on the floor ready to sacrifice. By the time the kneeling man croaked out the words 'Azor Ahai', Sansa Stark had already killed the Red Priest readying to burn Tyrion and was pulling the dwarf into her arms. Bronn and the Lannister captain had managed to kill a few of the Red Priests but the bastards had continued to arrive. If lord Manderly hadn't arrived with his personal guard and several Stark and Lannister men they would be dead.

As it happened, the remaining Red Priests had surrendered at their comrade's shout of 'Azor Ahai'. A few had dropped to their knees but the rest had rushed towards Tyrion as if they hadn't just been helping the enemy. Godwin and lord Manderly had taken charge in the Queen's…distraction. Godwin was organising the guards to detain the men who'd surrendered and keep them from trying to reach Tyrion, while lord Manderly supervised. The fat lord was doing an admirable job of blocking Sansa and Tyrion from view by doing nothing, but as Bronn got closer, he suspected the lord was trying to look busy on purpose – no one really wanted to approach the now hysterical Queen.

"Where's the Maester?" asked Bronn, tilting his head towards the Queen. "Best tell her something."

Lord Manderly shook his head. "I've sent a man to try and get him, but when this started he was a target. Gods only know why, but I've heard the Maester ended up barricading himself in his rooms. The intruders spread through the castle – fighting was still going on when I brought a group up here to protect our Queen."

"Wonderful," he muttered, pushing past the lord.

He stepped quickly down the corridor to where Sansa was cradling Tyrion against her. Tears streaked her face, and she was mumbling softly to him.

"Open your eyes, my love – I've so much to tell you. Please Tyrion…you can't leave me too."

Bronn sighed, crouching down beside them. He glanced back down the corridor to find Godwin looking in their direction. Of course, he'd rather be down here serving lord Hill, but he was better suited to dealing with the prisoners. If Bronn heard one more fucker proclaiming Tyrion the Prince that was Promised he'd have no choice but to gut them all.

"Let's have a look at him then," said Bronn.

Sansa ignored him, lost in her fear. She carried on whispering to Tyrion, a gesture that might not have been so grating if he wasn't agitated and aching from the fight.

"Oi, are you deaf?"

Her head snapped up. "Where's the Maester? Tyrion needs help…"

"What do you think I'm trying to do? The fighting is still going on downstairs and your Maester ain't coming anytime soon."

Her iciness crumbled at once, giving way to naked fear. "No. Tyrion is hurt…he won't wake up."

"Move that cloth out the way."

She hesitated as if the cloth itself was keeping Tyrion alive. When she started to peel it away, Bronn wasted no time inspecting the damage. He was no Maester with fancy book knowledge on injuries, but as a sellsword, he'd seen it all, and his initial reaction was correct.

"He's fine," said Bronn, straightening up.

"Fine? There's blood everywhere!"

"He's a dramatic little shit."

She pressed the cloth against the wound again, trying to staunch the flow of blood. "He's not fine…"

"Seven hells, you're stubborn. I've seen a thousand head injuries – I could tell from the angle his head hit the wall the damage wasn't serious. I reckon he'll have a damned good headache though, and a nice new scar."

Sansa sniffed, looking down at Tyrion to see if it was true. It didn't help that there was blood everywhere, and he did look as pale as a ghost. Raised voices filled the corridor and Sansa turned in that direction, blinking as if she'd only just noticed the commotion going on outside her little bubble.

"Look, he's breathing, isn't he? You can't stay on the floor with him – not while there are enemies in the castle. If anything happens to you, your brother Bran might try and do me out of my castle."

She tightened her grip on Tyrion. "I am not leaving him. Ever. Take us to the Maester."

Bronn rubbed his face. "Did you hit your head too? Your Maester isn't coming and you're not going to him."

The Queen's eyes were still watery, but at least she'd stopped sobbing. "My chambers are the next corridor – take us there then."

He sighed. "Suppose I'll have to carry him."

So many thoughts clawed for Sansa's attention her mind had given up on trying to decipher them all. Instead, she was numb. As if Sansa Stark had disappeared and only this empty shell remained, stumbling blindly through the nightmare that had unfolded around her.

'Not Tyrion,' she thought. 'I can't lose Tyrion.'

She kept close to Bronn's side as he carried Tyrion away from the bustling, frantic corridor and towards her chambers. It wasn't until Bronn lifted Tyrion from her arms that her hands began shaking. She folded them in the sleeves of her gown as they left the corridor, pausing only long enough to speak to lord Manderly.

"Your Grace, are you well? How is the Prince? I must say this attack was rather unexpected…"

Most of the lords referred to Tyrion as a lord, but of course, she'd called him the Prince when calling for help. Beneath her logic and reasoning, her heart knew exactly what it wanted.

"Thank you, my lord," she said, cutting off his prattle. "No one is to enter the master chambers down this corridor until they have been thoroughly checked. Tyrion…he saw Cersei in my parent's rooms – he thinks she may have left a trap."

The old lord had been only too eager to be of use, but Sansa hadn't waited for his reply before following Bronn. She saw Godwin watching Bronn carry Tyrion, but the captain had assumed control of the gathered men and Sansa was grateful for that. They passed the surrendered Red Priests quickly, but shouts of 'Azor Ahai' and 'the Prince that was promised' were impossible to ignore. They'd been only too eager to help Cersei and hurt Tyrion, but now they were proclaiming him their God's chosen one? Sansa bit back a snarl – justice would be done. Passing them gave Sansa a satisfying view of Cersei's burned corpse and the gut-wrenching sight of Ghost's remains. An old ache stirred in her chest, and she found herself longing for Lady. The direwolf had become her closest companion, but of course, Cersei and Joffrey had soon taken that from her too.

'They won't take Tyrion,' she thought, as the door to her chambers came into view.

No matter what, she wouldn't lose him. When he fell unconscious in her arms she'd feared the worst. There was so much blood and Tyrion was too still and too pale. Nothing she said would rouse him and she realised then how much she'd left unsaid – things she might never get the chance to say.

She pushed the dark thoughts from her mind as her chambers came into view. Bronn was hardly an expert, but he seemed certain Tyrion wasn't in imminent danger and that was a hope she was happy to cling on to.

Bronn was huffing as he carried Tyrion into the room. "What the fuck are you feeding him?"

"Not nearly enough," she said softly, moving past him. "Bring him here."

Bronn raised an eyebrow as she pulled back the furs and sheets of her bed, but Sansa was too worried to care what he thought – what anyone thought. Tyrion needed somewhere safe and comfortable to rest, where she could watch over him.

Bronn dumped Tyrion on the bed far more roughly than Sansa liked. She moved quickly to her husband's side, inspecting the strip of cloth they'd torn from the priest she killed and used to secure the handkerchief against the wound. Blood streaked the side of his face, and was sticky in his short golden hair but the flow did seem to have slowed down from the initial bleed.

She stroked his cheek, her stomach churning at the heat that met her hand. "Even sick, you were so brave."

"Alright then," said Bronn, rolling his shoulders. "If you need anything, you have servants."

Her head snapped up. "You can't leave."

"Watch me."

"Tyrion is hurt – he needs help."

"I'm sure the Maester is rushing here as we speak."

"You said yourself that could take time. Tyrion is still bleeding – you can see how unwell he looks – we can't leave him like this for who knows how long! What if he loses too much blood?"

Bronn stared at her for a moment before shaking his head, a dry laugh escaping him. "If you're so worried stitch it closed yourself."

"What?"

"That's all your Maester will do anyway. You were good at needlework, weren't you? Problem solved." Bronn turned away, moving quickly to the door. "I should probably see if the King's Hand managed to survive without me."

A note of desperation bled into Sansa's voice as she looked between Tyrion and the door. "Wait. You can't leave us undefended."

"I'm not your guard dog. You're not even my Queen." His voice softened. "Look, I'll get lord fatty to send some guards. If not, he can block the corridor with his arse."

Bronn left without another word and Sansa didn't try to stop him. She gnawed on her lip, turning her attention back to Tyrion. His chest was rising and falling, but she couldn't forget how limp he was in her arms, or the blood that had gushed from his head.

Her stomach twisted and churned, threatening to spill its contents on the floor. There was so much to deal with; dead prisoners, the loss of Ghost, Cersei's return – the feel of blood coating her hands as she plunged a knife into a man's neck.

She moved closer to the bed, her hand hovering over the makeshift bandage around Tyrion's head. The rest of the castle was in chaos - It was just the two of them. It was better to wait for the Maester, but could Tyrion afford to wait? There was no telling how long that wait could be.

"I wish you could tell me what to do," she murmured, stroking his cheek.

Arya was watching him. He could feel her eyes burning into the back of him, no doubt wondering how he'd survived the fall. Jon wondered too. Perhaps he was just being paranoid – they were sharing a horse after all – Arya had little option but to stare at the back of him.

The horse was struggling beneath them from the hard ride, but they had to try and make up ground. Was it possible to catch up to a dragon? Jon didn't know, but they had to hope it was possible. Drogon had veered off course before dislodging him, but Jon suspected where the dragon was going – there was only one place, really. The bigger question was why Drogon would return to Dragonstone. Presumably, there was a garrison holding it for King Bran.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" asked Arya. "I could go alone."

"I'm fine," said Jon, "and you're not going alone. Drogon wouldn't obey you."

"He doesn't obey you either."

Jon clenched his jaw, ignoring the way the side of his face ached. He really had no business riding to Dragonstone. The fall should have killed him and it might have if the tree branches hadn't slowed him as he fell, so when he hit the water it was with a bone-shaking crash rather than a fatal blow. Barely conscious, he'd managed to drag himself to the nearby bank, driven along by the thought of what he'd unleashed. Drogon was capable of mass destruction – he could burn cities to the ground – and he was gone.

"How's your knee?" asked Arya.

"It'll hold out." There was no other choice. Jon knew he was lucky to have not broken anything, but part of him wondered if it was by design. Drogon could have twisted in the air at any point and dislodged him, but the dragon had dived first, shaking him off over a large body of water with thick trees everywhere. He winced at the memory of the trees. It had happened so quickly, he'd barely been aware of what was happening as he fell through the air. Any of the branches could have dealt a fatal blow, but instinct had made him try and grab them. His face was a mess of cuts and bruises, particularly on his right side where his eye was almost swollen shut. His hands were equally shredded from grabbing at the branches, despite the thick gloves he wore. Jon was battered and bruised. His left knee was swollen and barely supported him, but he was alive. Against all the odds, again he was alive.

Drogon had long gone when he pulled himself from the water, but Jon had dragged himself in that direction anyway. That was where Arya found him.

"Jon!"

He stumbled to a halt, glancing behind him to find his sister riding to meet him. Her grey eyes widened at the sight of him. "Arya, why are you here?"

"You fell from a dragon – I thought you were dead."

"It's not safe. Where are the men?"

The brief flash of relief on her face was quickly replaced by her familiar mask. "They've gone to Kings Landing. I came to find your body."

"I'm sorry…" said Jon, leaning against the nearest tree. "Drogon threw me from his back. He's a danger to everyone in Westeros…I have to go after him."

Arya studied him for a long moment. "Are you planning to catch him on foot?"

For once, Jon was grateful for Arya's coolness. If it had been Sansa, she'd have demanded answers and fussed over him continuously. Whatever Arya had thought upon finding him she'd quickly moved on to what happened next, with few questions and accepting that he wouldn't be dissuaded. Sharing a horse wasn't ideal but it was much quicker than travelling on foot and he knew Arya wouldn't let him go alone, no matter what he said.

"Have you considered what you're going to say to Drogon?"

"I have no idea."

"You don't know how you pissed him off?"

"Since we left the North he's been acting strangely, drifting further away from you and the men. I thought he was restless at first."

"We all noticed that Drogon was going further and further ahead."

"Aye," said Jon, his mouth a grim line. "He had his own destination in mind."

Sansa's hands trembled as she combed her fingers through Tyrion's short golden hair. She was grateful for its current style as she brushed the top of his hair carefully away from the wound. The top was only just long enough to form its familiar wavy curls and the sides were shorter still - prickly against her hand. It made it so much easier to see the wound as she gently wiped the excess blood away. Don't think about anything but the task at hand.

Dip the cloth in the water bowl, wipe the blood away. Repeat.

The water became redder as Tyrion's hair and face became cleaner. Soon Sansa was left with a straight gash, about three inches long, running from Tyrion's left temple to just before the top of his ear. It was a neat line, reminiscent of the wall his head had been slammed against. The skin gaped open and blood was oozing from the injury, but it wasn't as nasty as Sansa had feared. So much blood, for a cut the length of her palm. Was there any internal damage? That she had no way of knowing, but she had a little more faith in Bronn's initial assessment at least.

She carried on cleaning around his face until she could put it off no longer. The Queen gingerly lifted the needle she'd sterilised by a candle flame. The wound needed to be closed, and the longer it was open the more blood Tyrion would lose. She could maintain pressure on it until Wolkan arrived, but the risk of infection grew greater the longer it was open.

Sansa breathed in and out, pulling her focus away from Tyrion's sleeping face and focusing only on the task at hand. She loved needlework, and her Septa had often praised her for it. She could manage a few stitches if it helped her husband. Sewing a wound and needlework weren't so different, she'd watched Maester Wolkan stitch together many of her wounds from Ramsay.

The first few stitches were the worst. Her hands trembled and she feared Tyrion waking or showing signs of pain as she worked. She'd propped him on his side for the procedure, supported by cushions in case he suddenly woke or tried to move away. She needn't have feared on either count. Tyrion remained perfectly still and, steadily, she fell into a familiar rhythm.

In and out. Breathe. In and out.

When Sansa straightened from her work, her neck was stiff and her blood-stained hands began to tremble, but it was done. A neat row of stitches sealed the wound closed – a new scar for her husband.

A thousand what-ifs floated through her mind as she began the process of cleaning the wound again and wiping away the fresh blood. What would Tyrion think? She'd done her best to help him, and with no other option, it was all she could do. At least, if it didn't heal well his hair would cover most of it when it grew out some more.

Sansa turned Tyrion carefully onto his back, mindful of how he'd been kicked in the chest and side. She'd lifted his shift only to check his injuries and already bruises were covering the area, but that was something the Maester would have to check. Black and blue bruises bloomed around his neck too, as if someone had tried to strangle him. She'd cleaned the drops of blood from the collar of his shift and removed his boots, leaving him in his shift and breeches to rest in. She'd considered removing the torn and dirty shift entirely and letting him rest without it, but she knew how sensitive Tyrion was about the tattoos – it was better to just clean him up as best as she could.

Her thoughts strayed to Uhlan, her strange guest from across the Narrow Sea. She'd barely seen him since Tyrion's return to Winterfell but that was at her request that he avoid Tyrion until she'd had a chance to talk to him. She'd planned to tell him in the coming days when she was sure he was alright after his kidnapping and had a chance to get over his illness. She chewed her lip, hoping Uhlan hadn't been caught in the fighting. The man was a guest under her protection and the only chance Tyrion had to be free of the cruel tattoos.

She pulled the covers and furs tightly around her husband, settling into a chair beside the bed, with his right hand clutched tightly in hers. The damaged fingers curled automatically around hers – it was the damaged nerves, she knew – but the gesture comforted her all the same.

"I love you," she said, tears filling her vision. "And I'll find a way to tell you that."

Was this night ever going to end? Maester Wolkan thought it might have been longer than the Long Night and only slightly less terrifying.

He straightened his back, stepping away from the bed and turning his attention to the Queen. Judging by the tiredness on her face, she too was feeling the effects of tonight's events.

"How is he?" she asked.

Wolkan bit back a smile. "Nothing of major concern, your Grace. He might have a couple of cracked ribs beneath all that bruising, but as long as he takes things easy it shouldn't trouble him too much. His throat is rather bruised and tender – it would appear someone tried to strangle him. That will likely be painful until the bruising goes down."

"What about his head?"

"Lord Tyrion is very lucky. If there had been any more force behind the injury or if it had been in a different position things could have been rather nasty. As it happened, the damage is mostly surface level."

She swallowed. "There was so much blood."

"Yes, head wounds tend to bleed a lot. I suspect lord Tyrion will have a nasty headache for a time, and he may experience some dizziness and mild confusion, but otherwise, I think he'll be fine with rest. Given his bout of illness too, I'm not surprised he's sleeping now." Wolkan smiled. "You did an excellent job with the stitches, your Grace. I dare say it's some of the neatest work I've ever seen."

The Queen tore her gaze from Tyrion, looking up at him warily. "I didn't hurt him?"

"Certainly not. Lord Tyrion is no stranger to stitches and in his current state, I doubt he was even aware of what was being done to him. I am only sorry I was unable to get here any faster to aid you."

It was easy to forget just how young the Queen was, but Wolkan could see her youth clearly enough tonight. The events of the evening had shaken her enough that Sansa Stark was on full display, rather than the Queen in the North. Why shouldn't she be? The young woman was in her chambers, she'd suffered a frightening ordeal and clearly feared the man she loved was dying. Wolkan had been surprised to find a line of neat stitches already closing the wound when he arrived, but Sansa would take no risks with Tyrion. It was obvious she'd kept vigil over him for the two hours it had taken to restore Winterfell to order. Once again, she clutched Tyrion's damaged hand tightly in her own.

"When he is awake I will examine him again, but I'm confident all will be well. Shall I send for some men to carry him to his chambers?"

Sansa stared at him as if he'd suggested they throw Tyrion in a ditch, and the Maester found himself quickly backtracking.

"Though it is better to be careful with head injuries. It might be best if someone were to watch him over the coming hours, just in case…"

"Yes, I agree. I'm sure you and the servants are busy with our other wounded so I'll watch over him."

He nodded quickly. "Of course. Better not to move him until he's awake and can give us an accurate account of his injuries. The bruising on his chest and shoulder can hide internal damage…"

The Queen wasn't listening anymore, she'd already turned her attention back to Tyrion and was tucking the blankets and furs around him that he'd moved for the examination. Finding him in her bed was quite a surprise. Wolkan was aware of how sensitive Sansa was about her chambers. She only let those she trusted fully inside – usually family – but to place Tyrion in her bed was a different level of trust entirely. Wolkan's shoulders sagged, relieved he'd reached the answer Sansa wanted. She was Queen – if she wanted Tyrion Lannister to remain in her chambers she need only say – yet she wouldn't do that. She wanted an excuse to use as a shield in case anyone questioned why the lord of Casterly Rock was in her bed.

He turned to the door, quietly letting himself out and leaving Sansa in peace with Tyrion. The night had been difficult, but the morning would soon be upon them. Wolkan had no doubt the Queen would emerge in the morning, but for now Sansa Stark needed time with her family.

Two of lord Manderly's men guarded the corridor and Wolkan gave them the first telling of the lie. "Lord Tyrion has a head injury. The Queen will watch him for any problems and send for me if needed."

They nodded sharply, not questioning the half-truth they'd been given. Wolkan doubted anyone would – it was increasingly obvious how the Queen felt for her Prince.

"Murder, poison, plots within plots – it was naive to believe the seven Kingdoms could find peace so soon after years of conflict."

"Six kingdoms and the North," said Bronn, raising his cup. "Don't forget that. The Northerners are still damned happy about their independence."

Varys sighed, taking a long drink from his cup. It was the early hours now, but Varys knew there was no point going to sleep when there was so much to sort through. The prisoners were all dead, bar the Red Priests who'd managed to escape the dungeon. That was a prominent Maester, lord Westerling and several senior guards from the Westerlands all dead in a Northern castle. It could start a war if not handled properly. The independent North could be accused of killing prisoners without a fair trial – the West could take it as an attack on them. It was a small possibility but it fell to Varys to examine everything that could cause issues down the line and plan a defence. In this case, the Red Priests they'd taken alive were good evidence and Tyrion's presence in Winterfell helped, as did lord Broome's.

The lords of the Westerlands would soon receive Tyrion's letter if they hadn't already and it would quickly become clear which way the situation would develop. If lord Lydden and Ser Harys Swyft managed to twist the letter and maintain control then last night's events would only help them. If the West fell into line at Tyrion's command they would turn quickly on lord Lydden and Ser Harys.

"So Tyrion was right then," said Bronn. "He warned Sansa not to go in that room."

Varys's face darkened. "A good thing he did too. The Maester examined it and found two lots of poison on the bed. If Sansa Stark had lay on that bed she'd have inhaled the poison on the pillow first – it would have paralysed her quickly. Apparently, the poison in the bed works slowly, but as she lay there, slowly dying, the poison would have reacted with her body heat and burned her. A horrible, long death."

"Good thing that wasn't her room."

"Anyone who went in there – like the servants – could have come into contact with the poisons. The Maester went in prepared to find a trap, already suspecting poison as the most likely method." Varys folded his hands across him, a shudder creeping down his back. "You saw Cersei?"

"Aye. She looked rough but it was her. Hard to forget a voice that grating."

"I suppose it's lucky that Tyrion caught her in the act. If not for him, no one would have found the poison before tragedy struck some poor soul. How is he?"

The sellsword shrugged, but Varys didn't miss the way he winced at the movement. It was fortunate Tyrion had intervened to protect the Queen – his appearance surely distracted Cersei from escaping – but it was equally lucky Bronn had been there to fight.

"I think he'll be fine, but she was sobbing over him in that corridor like he'd died."

"Poor thing." It was unlike Sansa Stark to break free from her Queenly mask, but her affection for Tyrion was her weak point. "As long as they're both alright. What has become of the prisoners? What of Cersei's body?"

"I ain't your servant. You want information use your little birds."

"Alas, they're unavailable and I know relatively little of what happened upstairs. In my haste to escape the fighting I'm not suited for I ended up barricaded in the Maester's rooms with him. Most unfortunate he was a target of the attack, but not surprising given his knowledge was the only hope Sansa would have had if she fell victim to the poison."

Bronn grunted, slumping in the chair across from him in a manner that hardly befit a King's master of coin. Varys bit his tongue. It had been a long night and Bronn had certainly played a key part in averting a tragedy.

"The Lannister captain took charge of the prisoners, but I don't think Cersei will be coming back this time. Be hard to after Tyrion shoved a flaming sword through her face."

"A flaming sword?"

Bronn raised an eyebrow. "Don't pretend you haven't heard those rumours. They're calling him the Prince that was Promised."

"Tyrion isn't of Targaryen blood."

"Do little things like that matter when your sword catches fire while promising to destroy the darkness?"

"He said that?"

"Something like that." Bronn shrugged. "I was busy, but Tyrion was calling Cersei a great darkness he would get rid of."

Varys frowned, undecided on how to take the news. Red Priests and their beliefs were one of the few things he was truly biased against. That the Red Priests had so easily taken Tyrion as their promised Prince showed clearly how flimsy their beliefs were. Tyrion was no great warrior – anyone could see that – nor was he born amidst smoke and salt. Casterly Rock was by the sea, but so were many castles.

"Cersei's body?" asked Varys.

"Caught fire from the sword but burned out quickly. The fat merman-"

"Lord Manderly."

"Aye. He was arranging to have the body burned. No chance of her coming back this time."

Varys tried to take some comfort in Bronn's report. Cersei was finally destroyed and Winterfell was back under control. Sansa and Tyrion were both well enough by all accounts. There was nothing for the North to do but await the West's response to Tyrion's letter, but Varys found his thoughts drifting south – to the six kingdoms and the threat that brewed there.

No one had seen Cersei Lannister before tonight, but Varys had seen Daenerys Targaryen, despite how few truly believed him. Perhaps now they would believe. The lion was dead, but the dragon lived again.

It was the one habit from captivity he couldn't shake. When waking, it was always safer to maintain the illusion of sleep, and it was something Tyrion had learned quickly. It was automatic now. Most days he barely noticed the pause between when he woke up and when he let his body show signs of waking.

Now was no different. Despite the pounding in his head, Tyrion maintained the illusion of sleep until his anxiety ebbed away. No danger, that he could sense. He was somewhere soft and warm and comfortable. He peeled his eyes open, wincing as daylight met him.

Winterfell. He was in the castle, but this wasn't his room. Before he could give it any more thought, movement to his right drew his attention.

"Tyrion?"

It was subconscious, but Tyrion felt himself relax at Sansa's familiar voice. He turned to face her, noticing his useless hand clasped in her warm, delicate one. He hadn't noticed before – a slip in his anxious appraisal of the area. But was it because that hand had fluctuating levels of feeling, or because Sansa's touch never felt wrong? He couldn't decide but tried to squeeze her hand anyway. There was almost no movement in that hand but Sansa always smiled when he tried.

There it was. Her mouth lifted upwards, but it did little to wipe the worry from her face.

"Hello," he said – or tried to. The words scraped out of his throat, and Tyrion had a sudden panic he was choking.

"It's ok," she said, noticing his discomfort. Sansa moved quickly from the chair beside the bed to lean over him. "Your neck is bruised and swollen. It might hurt to talk for a few days. Relax, you're safe."

He started to nod, but the movement sent a wave of dizziness through him, intensifying the angry throb in his head. Sansa noticed, of course. She released his hand, hovering her hands over him as if unsure what to do with them.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Do you want me to get the Maester?"

"No," he said, trying his voice again. "I'm alright. Are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks to you. Are you in much pain?"

"It's passing…" Speaking softly and shortly was easier on his throat. Waking had unleashed a barrage of aches and pain, but it was settling down now – easier to discern one ache from the next. His head was heavy and throbbing, as was most of his mid-section, but nothing appeared too badly damaged.

Sansa smiled sadly. "You wouldn't tell me even if you were in agony."

"You worry."

"For good reason."

"Where…are we?"

"My chambers. The battle is over now. The few remaining Red Priests have been captured and lord Manderly is overseeing the burning of Cersei's body. There will be no chance for her to return this time."

"Good." Tyrion breathed in and out, letting the information settle into his sluggish mind.

He'd clung to the hope that Jeyne Lydden was wrong and Cersei hadn't returned, but he'd surprised himself when faced with her. His worst fear was reverting to the creature he'd become under her power, but seeing her had stirred something far stronger than fear or shame. It had woken a fury so great it shocked even him, particularly when she threatened Sansa. After months of drifting without purpose, he'd found it In that moment; nothing mattered beyond protecting Sansa from his beast of a sister. Killing her hadn't brought satisfaction – it hadn't brought back everything she took from him - but it had brought relief.

Tyrion relaxed a little, taking more notice of his surroundings. Sansa was perched on the edge of the bed beside him, biting her lip as she fiddled with the blankets covering him. The room was familiar. Where did Sansa say they were?

His face flushed at the realisation. If these were Sansa's chambers, then this must be her bed. He started to push himself upwards, but as soon as he moved, Sansa's hands found him, pinning the blankets in place around him and squashing his attempt to sit up.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "You're safe, I promise. Please stay still. The Maester said you might be confused."

"Not confused," he said. "Out of place. I'm in your bed, my Queen."

It was Sansa who turned red. "Yes, well, the fighting was ongoing and my chambers were the closest."

Sansa had never said as much, but he was well aware of how protective she was of her chambers. She often took him into her chambers, as she did Jon and Arya, but Tyrion was aware of how privileged that was. Having him in her bed was a different matter entirely. She'd sat on his bed comforting him several times, but he'd noticed quickly her discomfort in getting too close – it was why she'd moved them both to the chaise the other night, wasn't it?

"I'm disturbing your sleep," he said. "I should go."

"No! Please stay…I mean, you have a head injury – someone needs to watch you. It's early morning and I won't be sleeping any time soon. Rest in here for now, until Winterfell is fully secured and the Maester checks you again."

"If you're sure."

"I am. It's better you stay for now."

Tyrion could see the conflict in her eyes. The part of her that had brought him to her chambers without hesitation, and the small part of her that felt vulnerable in her chambers – a place that should be safe for her. Sansa had nothing to fear from him, but Tyrion knew it wasn't him she feared. It was a ghost long dead and he had great sympathy with her anxieties. She was trapped between an old vulnerability and not wanting to be alone.

Her hand brushed his cheek and Tyrion realised he'd been drifting to sleep.

"Sorry," he said.

"Don't be. You need to get some rest – you're nowhere near over your sickness and you got hurt. You'll be doing nothing but resting for days to come."

He smiled. "As you say."

Her blue eyes brightened as she pulled the furs and blankets snugly around him. "Exactly."

Tyrion settled into her comfort, letting himself appreciate the trust she was extending to him. She stood from the bed, lingering above him.

"I'll be here if you need anything." Tyrion thought she was going to turn away, but Sansa surprised him, leaning towards him. A tender, soft brush of her lips against his – over far too quickly. "And thank you, Tyrion. You saved my life."

Warmth spread through his chest, easing every ache he had. "Only fair - you saved mine."

Lord Lydden crumpled the letter in his hand, half tempted to throw it in the hearth and let the flames take it.

"What do we do now?" muttered Ser Harys, as he had for the last hour.

The man was pacing back and forth like his rooster sigil, repeating the same question and offering no answers. What was there left to do? The letter demanded his and Ser Harys arrest, by order of Tyrion Lannister.

For Lannister to have sent this letter their plot to kidnap him must have failed, but beyond that anything could have happened. Had Lannister escaped himself or had their whole party been taken prisoner? What had happened to Jeyne? Judging by the timeline they'd established, it was likely the plot to kidnap him had either been discovered before it happened or shortly after – not enough time for Jeyne to have his babe in her belly unless she mounted him immediately. The lord grimaced. Jeyne had wanted no part in this scheme; she would have put off bedding him until she was forced to.

"He'll take our heads," said Ser Harys, halting his frantic pacing to look at him. "This letter will be enough to turn our allies into enemies. They'll throw us to the lions to save themselves."

"A lion," said lord Lydden. "Lannister power has been diminished enough to be near extinct. There is only Tyrion Lannister with a strong enough blood claim to Casterly Rock - why should the West throw themselves at his feet? This isn't Tywin Lannister we're dealing with; it's the imp. We don't even know what state he's in."

"There's Cersei Lannister-"

He shook his head. "We've heard nothing from Maester Gallard or lord Westerling. It's more likely they've been taken prisoner, and if they have Cersei Lannister do you think Sansa Stark will let her live even a moment longer? No, until we learn otherwise it's best to assume they've been taken prisoner and Cersei is dead."

"Not a loss if she's dead," grunted Ser Harys.

Lord Lydden couldn't help but share the sentiment. Raising Daenerys from the dead had been their goal, but even that hadn't gone to plan. They'd expected the dragon Queen to be grateful, but she'd been more ice than fire. It was still a marked improvement from Cersei. No one had wanted her return, and while she had a use, it was better for them all if she was dead. One dangerous Queen was enough.

"The lords of the West will already be plotting," warned Ser Harys. "It might be the smarter option to cut our losses."

Lord Lydden's head jerked up, his eyes narrowing. "Run, you mean?"

"This rebellion is finished. I've no interest in my head mounting a spike at Winterfell."

"Winterfell holds no power over us."

"Tyrion Lannister does, and the Queen is besotted with him – she will back him."

He slammed his fist into the arm of his chair, the wood groaning beneath him. "I will not run and hide from the imp! He couldn't take a piss by himself when we last saw him. Are we to believe he is in control, or are the Northerners using him as a puppet?"

"Jon…"

"He hasn't written these letters either – his hand was ruined. A convenient excuse for someone to write letters on his behalf."

Ser Harys sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What are you suggesting? You must know our allies will turn their cloaks back to the lion. No house will risk a rains of castamere."

"That was Tywin."

"It's long been said Tyrion is his father's son – though never in Tywin's hearing."

He snorted. "Are you afraid of a little lion? He was clever, I'll give him that, but that was before Cersei trimmed his claws. A man like him would have struggled to hold the respect of the West even before his sister finished with him, now he's nothing more than a joke."

"A little lion with powerful friends. If needed, Sansa Stark will act for him, and Bran Stark will back her."

"You forget the King is indisposed." He leaned forwards, lacing his fingers together. "Daenerys is still in place to take Kings Landing, and if she does I've no doubt she'll turn on the North first. I say we ride for Winterfell ourselves, with a host, and express our deep concerns for lord Tyrion. The lords of the West will not tolerate the Westerlands being ruled by the North through Tyrion – if we can plant that seed there's no reason we should lose our heads."

"You want us to ride to our deaths?"

"If we're taken there we'll look guilty. Going of our own accord strengthens our position and weakens the imp's. A true lord of the Rock would be riding to the West to take justice, not ordering it from another kingdom! Besides, Daenerys is still in play. If she succeeds, she will back us over the treacherous Starks and the Hand she disposed of. If she fails, we may still succeed in swaying the Westerlands against Lannister."

Ser Harys stared at him, shaking his head. "You truly believe we can still win this?"

"The game isn't over. We can cut our own throats before the wolves do, or play to the end and see where it takes us. Which do you prefer?"

Sansa rubbed her eyes, reluctant to face the growing pile of notes before her. It was mid-morning and the North demanded her attention. There was no rest. No time to digest how Winterfell – her home – had been violated. The pile had grown steadily bigger all morning as more messages were dropped off for her. A note from the Maester telling her how many men had fallen and how many were injured. A message from lord Manderly informing her that Cersei's body had been burned to ashes. A thousand distractions clawed for her attention, and she couldn't bring herself to care for any of them at the moment.

Her eyes flitted to the bed and all that really mattered. Tyrion was sleeping soundly enough, even if his wheezing breaths and pale face worried her. She let her gaze linger on him, finding she quite liked the view.

It was hard to believe how she'd worried for him only hours before when he was bloodied and limp in her arms. The Maester's assessment had eased her fears, though she had worried that Tyrion would be confused. A selfish part of her still clung to how he'd been in Kings Landing – so easy to give warmth and affection to. A larger part of her revolted at the idea of him returning to that state and losing the wit that made Tyrion who he was. Sansa had lingered in that unknown for hours, wondering which version of her husband would wake up.

To her relief, Tyrion woke up as himself. He was obviously tired, a little distracted and groggy but he wasn't confused – she knew those brilliant green eyes well enough to see it straight away. Sansa could have wept. How anyone could survive such an act of violence with so minor an injury she would never know, but Tyrion had always been an exception.

The Queen glanced at her work pile again, pushing back from the table with a sigh. There was no use in pretending. She wouldn't be able to focus until she satisfied the swirling mess of emotions that had broken through her defences the moment she thought she'd lost Tyrion. She retook her seat beside the bed, adjusting the covers and feeling his forehead as she did. He was still a little warm, but not as feverish as he'd been yesterday morning.

Sansa had made it clear to Tyrion when he was awake that he wasn't leaving this room today. He would stay where she could look after him, until tonight, when she'd have to let him return to his chambers.

'You could just get in bed beside him,' suggested the traitorous voice in her head. 'You liked the view.'

She did like the sight of Tyrion in her chambers. Whenever she invited him in here it never felt like having a guest in her personal space, but someone who belonged here. Putting him in her bed had been easy in the moment, and the sight didn't fill her with anxiety as she'd expected, but Sansa wasn't brave enough to consider anything else – like lying beside him. Some part of her wanted to; badly wanted that comfort and connection, but it was buried beneath a mountain of shame and fear of what had transpired in her last marriage bed.

"I'm not as brave as you," murmured Sansa.

It was a truth that shamed her but filled her with pride in Tyrion. She still couldn't fathom where he'd found the courage to stand against the monster who'd abused him so badly, but she was in awe of her husband.

She brushed his cheek, letting her fingers stroke his soft, ruffled hair. Last night had been many things, but it had shaken her icy walls to dust. The truth was plainer than ever. She could say she was waiting for Tyrion to get better before considering the path forwards, but Sansa knew she was the delay. Tyrion had made his feelings clear in a way she'd failed to – until today.

Sansa swallowed, steeling her resolve. No matter what, she couldn't let Tyrion leave this room tonight without making her position clear. There could be no doubts, nothing left unsaid – Tyrion would know plainly what he meant to her, and she would have to find the courage to tell him.

Godwin felt he'd aged ten years as he made his way down the corridor. Between the fighting, organising prisoners and accounting for how many of his men had been killed or injured, he'd managed only to grab a couple of hours of sleep.

There was no rest from duty after all, but Godwin found himself wondering, not for the first time, who he was truly serving. He'd taken more orders from Sansa Stark than he had from lord Tyrion. It wasn't a problem to him – he respected the Queen and Tyrion never questioned why they followed her orders. After months in Winterfell, it was simply nice to have a duty again. If they took orders only from Tyrion, Godwin feared they would be waiting forever.

It was a request from the Queen in the North that brought him to the obscure corridor above the kitchens, and the single room at the end of it. From what the Stark guards told him, this was a guest room used mostly when Winterfell was at capacity. Now it had a different purpose. Winterfell wasn't at capacity but the Queen thought it wise to keep this guest in a private part of the castle.

Godwin straightened before the door, rapping lightly.

Barely a moment passed before the door opened, and Godwin got an up-close look at Uhlan – the Queen's guest from across the Narrow Sea.

The man leaned easily against the doorframe, his eyes travelling quickly over Godwin. "You come kill me?"

Godwin blinked. "No, certainly not."

"Good. Rather not die in this cold place where there are so many warmer places to die."

Uhlan had been given the hospitality of Winterfell, but it came with the request that he avoid Tyrion Lannister. Having seen him from a distance and heard the rumours, Godwin suspected why, but that was nothing compared to seeing Uhlan close up. Tattoos covered his entire head and snaked down his neck and arms. His loose, baggy clothes obscured the rest of his body but Godwin didn't doubt the tattoos carried on beneath.

"Are you lost?" asked Uhlan, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Godwin snapped to attention, quickly ending his observations to fulfil the Queen's request. "Queen Sansa asked that I check you were well after last night's events."

"How kind! I am quite well – I have plenty experience of being under attack – I know how to hide."

"Ah…"

He flashed a smile. "I got lucky. No one comes down this corridor, as Queen wants. Is she ready to let me meet the Prince?"

Godwin fumbled for an answer, his mind quickly working through the scenario. Sansa had told him about Uhlan, mostly to make him aware of the situation and her desire to hide the man from Tyrion until he recovered from his kidnapping. With so much going on in Winterfell over the last few days, Godwin had missed the chance to learn the details, but he was staring at them now.

"Are you here about the tattoos?" asked Godwin.

"Missandei asked me to come here and meet Prince – and to offer my services." His manner was genial enough but Godwin sensed immediately he would get no further explanation, nor was it his right to demand one. "Is Prince ready?"

"I fear not. He suffered a head injury in the fighting."

"Red Priests will be upset if they harmed Prince that was Promised."

Godwin stared. "Where did you hear that?"

Uhlan pulled his door open wider, lifting a finger to his lips. It took a moment but when Godwin heard it, there was no mistaking the muted sounds of conversation drifting from the kitchen below.

"They say the Red Priests are calling him Azor Ahai," said Uhlan. "What do you say?"

"I thought this fabled Prince was supposedly a Targaryen, not a Lannister. It's hardly my place to say whether he is or isn't." Godwin didn't believe for a moment that Tyrion was the Prince that was Promised, but the idea was enough for the Red Priests to forget their loyalty to Cersei, whom their lord had raised from the dead. "Anyway, Queen Sansa asked that I pass on her apologies for the disruption last night. She is keen for you to meet Tyrion, but asks that you allow him time to recover before she arranges such."

The other man considered for a moment, before nodding. "Very well. I can wait a little longer to meet this promised Prince. Do you know him?"

Godwin straightened up. "I'm the captain of his guard."

"Ah, very good! I look forward to meeting the Prince – Missandei and Grey Worm tell me much about him."

Godwin smiled, nodding along. In truth, he didn't know Tyrion all that well. He had memories of the boy at Casterly Rock but hadn't seen him for several years before Kings Landing. It was Jamie who the guards had known well. Being at Winterfell had given him a chance to see who Tyrion was, but even that hadn't offered him much – Tyrion wanted little to do with them and the Lannister name.

Who would be the lord of the Rock when Tyrion's request was granted? Godwin had served faithfully for so many years he couldn't imagine a life outside of it – but did he want to serve yet another lord?

Tyrion grimaced as the hot soup slid down his aching throat. The hours of sleep had restored a little energy to him, but it had allowed achiness to establish a firm grip on him. His head ached dully, made worse if he moved too much – mush like his sore midsection. His right ribs were particularly opposed to movement. Otherwise, he wasn't in too bad of a condition. Not bad enough to warrant Sansa's worried stare.

It was just past midday when the Queen gently woke him. Again, he'd offered to leave her bed and let her rest but she wouldn't hear of it. Stay until tonight, she'd said, moving quickly on to questioning how he felt.

"Do you not like the soup?" she asked.

"It's lovely," he croaked, awkwardly spooning more into his mouth. In truth, he was completely sick of soup, having lived off it for weeks on end. Trying to balance the bowl in his lap and eat from it with only one functioning hand was another problem entirely, but he was keen to put Sansa's mind at ease by eating. The Queen had looked half-tempted to feed him and Tyrion had no desire to sway her in that direction.

Tyrion shuffled against the pillows slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position. Instantly, Sansa's hands were hovering over him, poised to assist him in any way she could, but hesitating too.

"Are you alright?" she asked. "I can get another pillow if you like."

"I'm perfectly fine, thank you."

"Let me know if you don't feel well. The Maester said you could be dizzy or confused."

"I'm neither of those things, I promise."

It was a lie, or half of it was anyway. His heart could easily accept that Sansa brought him to her chambers and fussed over him now because she cared about him, but his mind couldn't accept the situation. There had been a fight in the corridor. He was hurt in the fighting – the bastard priest had smashed his head against a wall. That was fine. He remembered all of that, including Sansa's tear-stained face as she tried to stop the bleeding.

What he couldn't accept was that he'd been brought to the Queen's bed to recover. The situation was so similar to the Battle of Blackwater, but the outcome couldn't be more different. He hadn't been trundled off to a dark little hole and left to rot. He was in the bed of a Queen who had every reason to want him anywhere else but had put aside her anxieties out of concern.

Concern for him – the imp. The half-man. The kinslaying little monster.

Of the few people to show any concern for him after Blackwater, not one was family, and the only one he believed was truly genuine was Podrick Payne. The difference between then and now ignited a fierce warmth in his heart. He would have died to save Sansa and gladly done so a thousand times over.

As soon as he finished the soup she took the bowl from him, adjusting the blankets over him and checking he was alright propped against the headboard and cushioned by several pillows.

"I found it," he said.

"Oh?" she asked, fiddling with the pillows. "And what would that be?"

"A way to serve you."

Her eyes softened. "You don't need to serve me."

Tyrion shook his head slightly, forcing his aching throat to function. "Can test your food for poison. Would fulfil your goal…for me to eat…and mine."

"What would your goal be in testing food for poison?"

"Keeping you safe."

Her mouth turned upwards, a faint blush colouring her cheeks. "That's a kind offer, but I think we can find you a better role than that. Perhaps one that doesn't involve you risking your life."

Tyrion had known full well she would reject the idea, but he'd hoped it might lighten her mood. It had for a moment, but already her face was falling back into the worried frown she'd worn since he woke. What could be causing her such distress? Cersei was dead and the fighting was over.

A twinge in his chest brought to mind an image he'd rather forget. A lump formed in his already battered throat.

"Sansa…I'm sorry about Ghost," he said, lowering his eyes. "He sensed something going on in the castle and I followed-"

"Shh, don't strain your voice. It's ok."

Tyrion drew in a breath, determined to get the words out. "He saved me – I couldn't save him. I'm so sorry."

Sansa's face softened in sympathy. "It's not your fault. We were attacked by monsters and Ghost died doing his duty – protecting his family."

"Will Jon-"

"Jon will understand," she said firmly. "I promise Tyrion, it's not your fault. I am sorry for your loss though – I know you were close to Ghost."

He hoped Jon would understand, but Tyrion wouldn't blame him if not. Ghost had survived so many horrors with Jon, only to die saving him. The direwolf had been a loyal companion to Jon, and since coming to Winterfell Tyrion had come to rely on the wolf's comfort. Ghost would be missed.

"Tyrion, I…" she fumbled. "Can I try something with you?"

"Oh, of course." He grimaced – speaking wasn't getting easier with his aching throat.

Sansa moved from the chair to sit on the edge of the bed beside him, fidgeting nervously with her skirts.

"I wondered if – maybe – could you pretend to sleep?"

Tyrion lifted an eyebrow at the request, quickly appraising the Queen. Her face was pale and her nervous fidgeting was so unlike her. Why would she want him to fake sleep? Whatever the reason, Tyrion knew it wasn't an easy request. Sansa was struggling and if he could help her he would. Without a word he closed his eyes, relaxing against the pillows propping him up.

Several moments passed before the bed creaked and Tyrion felt Sansa taking hold of him. She eased him forward from the pillows until he was lying against her, with his head on her shoulder and her arms wrapped securely around him. Her hand started to rub his back

Did she just want a hug? Tyrion itched to hug her back, but her request to feign sleep made him pause. The situation was increasingly confusing but he wouldn't break her trust. He lay loosely against her, keeping his breath even and his body relaxed.

Minutes passed without change and Tyrion feared he would genuinely fall asleep in her arms if it continued much longer.

"You were so brave last night," she whispered, still rubbing his back. "It shouldn't surprise me – I've seen just how strong you are. I'm not as strong as you. They all think I'm made of ice, but they forget how brittle ice can be."

Warmth ignited in his chest at her words. More than anything he wanted to comfort her, but forced himself to remain silent.

"I was so worried about you last night…there was blood everywhere and you were so still." Her voice broke. "I worried I wouldn't get a chance to tell you the truth. I've wanted to so many times, but I struggle to say it. It was easier in Kings Landing, when you didn't really know what was going on and just accepted my comfort."

She drew in a shuddering breath, tightening her grip on him. "I love you so much Tyrion. You deserve to hear it face to face, but I'm not there yet, I don't know if I ever will be – but I do love you. More than I ever thought I could love someone."

Heat burned Tyrion's eyes as his heart threatened to fly from his chest. It made sense now, as the pieces fell together. Lying against her felt so right because he'd done it so many times in Kings Landing. Sweet Sansa, who'd sought a way to tell him what he already knew, despite her fears.

Sansa held him a little longer before laying him gently against the pillows and Tyrion maintained his ruse throughout, albeit with great difficulty.

She tucked the sheets around him again, her voice soft and wary. "You can wake up now."

"Do I have to?" he asked. A smile covered his face as he kept his eyes closed. "I'm having the most wonderful dream."