Chapter 37
"I'm sorry. I tried my best, I promise."
"Sansa-"
"I was so worried – I had to do something…"
There would be nothing left of her inside cheek if she continued to chew it, but Sansa had few ways to manage her nerves and this was one of the most discreet. She adjusted the angle of the mirror she held, making sure Tyrion could see the full extent of his new scar. He'd slept for a few hours after lunch and Sansa knew she would soon run out of excuses to keep him in her chambers. When he last woke Tyrion had insisted on leaving the bed and she'd helped him move to the armchair instead.
Every step was uneven and she caught him holding his side at one point, but there was no real reason he had to stay in bed. Tyrion was awake, alert and far from confused. With rest, Sansa believed he would be fine. An outcome she'd believed impossible when his head hit the wall.
The Maester would come and check him soon, and Sansa would insist on Tyrion having dinner with her before she released him to his own chambers – but first she had to explain herself. Tyrion deserved to know who was to blame for the scar that now run along the side of his head.
He lifted his hand to touch it, wincing as he brushed the tender skin.
"Careful," she said. "Please understand, I did what I thought was best for you."
Tyrion turned to her, a pout on his face. "Where were you after the Battle of Blackwater?"
Maybe he was confused. "What?"
"If you'd sewn my face together the scar might not be so bad."
Sansa lowered the mirror. "You're not angry?"
"Why would I be angry?"
"I stitched your head back together rather than wait for the Maester."
"I'm sure you did a neater job too. Thank you, Sansa." He smiled. "I know that can't… have been easy."
Sansa lifted an eyebrow at his hoarse voice, but already hope had sparked in her heart. Closing the wound had felt both necessary and a great responsibility – Sansa hadn't wanted to be responsible for Tyrion falling ill from the wound, or suffering an unsightly scar. Neither had come to pass. Tyrion looked worse for wear but Sansa didn't fear losing him, and he seemed all too happy about the new scar.
"Drink. It will help your throat," she said, handing him the cup. "You're smiling a lot for someone who got their head smashed against the wall. Do men just enjoy scars?"
His smile widened as he sipped his drink. "I admire your needlework. Always have."
Sansa felt her own mouth twitching upwards. "Hmm. Perhaps I'll find a new needlework project – something less terrifying than sewing you back together."
Last night, Sansa had doubted she could ever feel happy again, but Tyrion had a way of chasing away such fears. Here, hidden away in her chambers with Tyrion, she could be just Sansa Stark, and not the Queen in the North.
The feeling had intensified after releasing the long held truth, albeit it not as boldly as she'd hoped. Saying the words had been difficult, and waiting to see if Tyrion rejected her was a form of torture – but of course, he hadn't. Tyrion hadn't questioned her unusual request to feign sleep, nor had he stirred as she spoke. He'd respected her wishes and offered more understanding than she'd dared to hope for. Far from rejecting her words, Tyrion had played along with her façade and not directly acknowledged what she'd whispered to him. He knew though. The warmth in his green eyes was unmistakable, as was his soft smile.
It was so tempting to toss responsibility to the side and hide in here forever. To put it off as long as possible. But Sansa had already spent much more of the day in hiding than a responsible Queen should. Plans would need to be made. Answers sought. Sansa breathed in and out – one problem at a time. She would start now, with a problem she needed Tyrion to solve.
"You won't have heard this," said Sansa, "but after you fell in the corridor, the Red Priests surrendered."
"Outmatched?"
She shook her head. "They believe you are Azor Ahai – the Prince that was Promised."
Tyrion stared at her for a moment before he snorted, a dry laugh scraping from his sore throat. He winced at the pain, but couldn't stop laughing.
"Be careful of your throat," she cautioned, "but I'm glad you find it so amusing."
"It's ridiculous. Gods I've heard it all now!"
"Red God you mean, seeing as you're his chosen champion."
Tyrion shuffled in the armchair, tilting himself closer to where she sat on the chaise. He was still too pale for Sansa's liking, but his eyes were bright with interest. "You don't believe it, do you?"
"Well, your sword did catch fire while you spoke of vanquishing a great darkness."
"You're a clever woman," he said. "I know you don't believe that."
"You are a hero, and I found you quite dashing with the flaming sword – but no, I don't believe you're the Prince that was Promised. Honestly, I don't believe this fabled Prince exists at all."
"Ah, you're a cynic."
"More than I used to be."
Tyrion flopped back in the chair, lifting his eyebrows. "You wound me Sansa dear. How could you doubt I am the chosen champion of a god I don't believe in?"
Sansa's heart fluttered, relief seeping into her bones. He looked poorly and would need rest, but she truly believed Tyrion would be alright. "Because you're my champion."
Daenerys was used to feeling nothing. She'd felt nothing when she left Daario in Mereen and even less when she traded Tyrion away to his sister. The betrayals of her supposed friends had stung, to some extent, but nothing that could harm a dragon.
'It did though. Jon's betrayal killed you…'
Her jaw tightened at Viserys's voice. She'd heard it many times on her quest to claim her rightful throne, but since the flames gave her new life she heard it with irritating frequency. What did it matter what Viserys thought? He was no true dragon.
She turned her attention to Drogon, shifting restlessly on the rocks below Dragonstone. He'd returned to her hours ago, though not with the eagerness she'd expected. The dragon looked wary then, and continued to now. Why would Drogon be wary of her? Was she not the mother of dragons?
"What troubles you, my Queen?" asked Kinvara. The Red Priestess drifted to her side, following her gaze to Drogon. "With him at your command, and the lord of light's blessing, your victory is assured."
"Is it?" she asked. "Something has changed with Drogon."
"How do you mean?"
It was impossible to explain. Drogon had watched her warily when he arrived, but he had come. Confusion was to be expected, she supposed. After all, she was dead until the fire brought her back to life. She rolled her shoulders, wincing at the sharp pain that ran through her back to her front – the wound still gaped from where Jon Snow had run her through. A kinslayer. The North thought Jon a man of honour but he'd broken his pledge to serve her.
"What do the flames say?" asked Daenerys.
"Last night, one of my priests saw a burning sword in the flames," she said, "the sign of Azor Ahai."
"He saw me wield it?"
The woman pursed her lips. "He said he saw only a sword, but the experience overwhelmed him some – he is resting now. The priest said that he had seen Azor Ahai and his burning sword. It can only further confirm what we know – that you are the princess that was promised. Chosen by R'hllor to vanquish the darkness."
Daenerys nodded, but distrust gnawed at her. Perhaps it was because of all the betrayals she'd suffered, but Daenerys thought Kinvara wasn't telling her the whole truth, and as her gaze moved to Drogon the same doubt stirred.
Tyrion tried to not let self-consciousness dampen his mood. There was only Sansa and the Maester here, and both had seen far more of him than they ever needed to. The thought did little to ease his insecurity, but Tyrion fought off the urge to try and cover the tattoos.
He'd won against Cersei, despite everything she did to him. Every cruel, demeaning punishment he endured only made his victory more satisfying. She might have shaved his head and made him walk the streets naked but it was she that looked a monster in the end. She had him inked with vile taunts but it was nothing to what history would call her. She broke his bones, pulled pieces of him away and defiled him, but he laid hands on her too. Despite it all, he stood against Cersei, and against all odds he won. It was obvious in her cold, dead eyes that she didn't understand how he could defy her. It surprised her even more when he didn't simper and beg for mercy. Her expression as the flaming sword cut her face in half was his favourite though – he saw the moment Cersei knew she'd lost – and it was everything.
That alone made the Maester's examination more bearable. Well, a little. He still winced as the old man poked and prodded his chest and ribs. He grimaced as the man guided him forward to check the back of his shoulder.
This was different, he decided. Facing Cersei was easy because he had something to fight for, or someone. His eyes drifted to Sansa, sitting on the chaise next to his armchair. She smiled, nodding encouragingly at him.
The Queen had arranged for Wolkan to check him over and when the old man suggested removing his shift she'd offered to step outside and give him some privacy. It was absurd – Sansa was Queen and these were her chambers. Besides, he wanted her to stay. Tyrion's mouth twitched upwards. It was amusing really, he could face down his monstrous sister alone but the Maester was too much?
Wolkan's hand brushed a sore point on his right ribs. "Breathe in and out for me, my lord, I need to check if it's a break or not. Nice and slowly."
Tyrion glanced down to see where the old man was pressing but wished he hadn't as black ink caught his eye. He quickly moved his gaze elsewhere, refusing to dwell on the large patch of ink on his chest. It would be a lie to say the marks didn't bother him – he knew they always would – but beating Cersei took a little of the shame from them. He was crippled and degraded, but she was dead.
It was to Sansa's credit that she could stomach looking at his bare body. Never once had she shown any revulsion or distaste towards him. Tyrion wasn't naïve enough to think she hadn't felt such when they married in Kings Landing, but she was a lady then and a Queen now – a Queen who loved him.
"The bruising is worse," she said, "it's spread more than when I checked."
"It will look worse now it's had time to fully come out," said Wolkan, moving his attention to the other side of his ribs.
Tyrion lifted an eyebrow. "Your Grace checked under my shift?"
Sansa's face turned pink. "You were hurt."
"Sansa Stark, am I still a maiden?"
It was a risky joke, given Sansa's discomfort around bedding, but Tyrion was more than a little pleased at the giggle that escaped her. She was a truly formidable woman but Tyrion did enjoy the rare glimpses of the easy to embarrass girl she'd been.
"Your honour is still intact, my lord," said Sansa. "I managed to control myself."
"I should have never doubted a Queen," said Tyrion, "it's the Maesters you need to watch."
Wolkan rolled his eyes. "Of course, my lord."
It was easier to relax now the spectre of Cersei no longer hung over him. Of course, he'd believed her to be dead for months, but there was a satisfaction in doing it himself – in one final confrontation where he wasn't the victim. Tyrion knew the effects of his imprisonment would continue to linger, but with Cersei's final death the trauma no longer felt like a life sentence.
He felt Wolkan move his attention to the wound on his head, gently probing the area that Sansa had stitched together so nicely. Sweet Sansa, who'd been so worried of his anger at the injury. Did she not understand? This wasn't an injury he'd suffered fighting for a cruel boy king or a mad Queen – it was a scar he'd earned from defending Sansa, and it was a price he'd gladly pay. That the Queen had stitched it closed herself only added to his pride. Sansa might struggle with the words, but her actions always told the truth of her feelings for him.
"You'll be fine, lord Tyrion," said Wolkan, moving stiffly to his feet. "The bruising will be tender for days to come, and I believe you've cracked two ribs, but it's nothing rest won't help. You don't seem as feverish as yesterday either, so I suspect you're over the worst of your illness."
The old man glanced at Sansa as if seeking approval of the prognosis, and the Queen gave a small nod. "Thank you Maester. His head?"
"No sign of anything serious. Keep the wound clean, plenty of rest and send for me immediately if he becomes confused or sick."
"I can't believe Bronn was right," said Sansa, as Wolkan left the room. "He said your injury looked worse than it was."
"It felt worse too. I saw the wall, and the next thing was your lovely face."
Her cheeks flushed. "Yes…well, you scared me. Try not to do so again."
"Of course, my Queen," said Tyrion.
He shuffled to the edge of the armchair, wincing at the ache that spread through his chest at the movement. He lifted his discarded shift from the arm of the chair to begin the saga of putting it on again, but he hadn't even turned it the right way round when Sansa took hold of the material. It took only seconds for the Queen to guide it over his head and arms, doing so with far more care than he could have managed with one good hand. Tyrion didn't protest the help. He knew exactly what Sansa would say if he told her he could manage, so he enjoyed her closeness instead. Sansa's presence was the single most comforting thing he'd ever experienced. The once hazy memories of his recovery in Kings Landing were clearer now, and Tyrion knew who'd been there for him. Sansa had been his everything in that dark time – a single light that guided him. If he could offer her even a fraction of that he would.
"Ready for some dinner?" she asked, her clear blue eyes watching him with such warmth he almost double-checked there wasn't a better man standing behind him.
"I would like that," he said. His mouth twitched upwards. "Not soup?"
Sansa was torn between wishing the walk to Tyrion's chambers was longer or shorter. The further away it was, the more time she had with him, but she could tell Tyrion was tiring quickly beside her too. Her stomach rolled uncomfortably at the idea of leaving him. Logically, she knew the threat had passed and Winterfell was safe. Unfortunately, there were parts of her that refused to accept that logic – that wanted to lock herself away with Tyrion and forget the world.
"Take your time," she said, squeezing his damaged hand as they shuffled along the corridor.
"I'm alright."
"If you need to rest just say."
Maester Wolkan had no concerns for his health, believing Tyrion's aches would ease with rest and he was over the worst of his illness. As comforting as it was, Sansa couldn't help but worry. He'd been so still in her arms – it was a memory that would haunt her forever.
Sansa's heart dropped as his chambers came into view, knowing she'd have to leave him tonight. Tyrion slowed beside her, quickly grabbing her full attention.
"Do you want more guards tonight?" she asked softly.
"Hmm. Oh. No, it's quite alright." He paused for a moment, a shadow passing over his face. Sansa felt his fingers twitch around her hand in his own version of a squeeze before he slipped out of her grip. He gave her a small smile before continuing to his chambers, and the Lannister guard stood before it.
"My lord," said the guard, a broad man with curly brown hair. He inclined his head to Tyrion first and then Sansa. "Your Grace."
Tyrion nodded back as he usually did, but rather than continue inside he addressed the guard. "Do you know the lad who was on duty here last night?"
"Yes, m'lord. His name is Caspor."
"I heard he fought bravely alongside Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, and that he was injured." Tyrion's voice had improved a little since this morning, but he still rasped when speaking in longer sentences.
"All true, m'lord."
"How does he fare?"
Something changed in the guard's face at the question, and Sansa thought it was a glimpse of real respect. Not the kind bought by birth or status, but the kind that was earned. "Doing well, m'lord. The Maester has him on rest but he would rather be on duty."
Tyrion nodded. "Tell him he's earned a rest – you all have. I'm hoping there's less excitement out here tonight."
The guard stood a little taller, puffing out his chest. "We'll be ready if not m'lord."
Tyrion led the way into his chambers, holding the door open for her. Sansa glanced at the guard on her way past, her heart warming as she turned her attention back to Tyrion. Lordship was more than a birthright or ruling by fear. Sansa hadn't understood as a girl, but it was something she was keenly aware of now and noticed certain qualities in those around her. They were qualities Tyrion had in spades. It was easy to judge a lord on his battle skills or physical attributes while the truly important skills were harder to notice. Sansa wasn't naive – Tyrion had and could be ruthless – but he was genuinely interested in people and their stories. Loyal to those loyal to him.
The warmth in Sansa's chest spread lower, igniting a feeling she didn't dare to name as she watched Tyrion hobble to his draws. Love was hard to express, but this was impossible. Her face grew uncomfortably hot and Sansa quickly moved further into his chambers. She'd only come to see him safely in bed and check he didn't need anything. The longer she lingered, the harder it would be to leave, and Sansa didn't doubt her chambers would feel emptier tonight.
Did Tyrion feel it too, or was he nervous to be alone? He'd seemed happy enough in her chambers, teasing her as they ate and making her smile. Now the smile had left his eyes as he moved slowly around the room. He pulled out a clean shift to sleep in and Sansa pulled back the covers of his bed, fluffing his pillows and smoothing out his blanket. Yvette had already done this, but Sansa wanted to busy herself. She kept an eye on Tyrion as he prepared for bed. More than once she caught his attention wandering around the room, as if looking for something that wasn't there. She'd began to fear he was confused, but when he disappeared behind a screen to change understanding set in.
Tyrion wasn't looking for something but for someone. Ghost had often kept him company, spending days and night with Tyrion in this room. The direwolf's interest in Tyrion had been unexpected, but Sansa didn't underestimate how important that connection ultimately was. It was Ghost who'd been a constant companion to Tyrion during the dark early days of his recovery. It was the direwolf he'd leaned on for support in relearning to walk and it was Ghost who'd protected him with his last breath.
When Tyrion emerged, he was dressed in a fresh shift and nothing else. He looked uncomfortable in front of her without breeches – as if she hadn't seen him like that before – but the lost look in his eyes overrode her resolution to leave him in peace.
"Is everything alright?" she asked.
"Just tired," he said, trying to smile. "Thank you, Sansa. I don't know what I'd do without your care."
"It's a good thing you'll never have to know," she said. "Can I help you into bed?"
It had taken time for Sansa to understand that Tyrion wasn't averse to her care, but embarrassed to accept it. Of course, that would make sense. She doubted anyone had ever fussed over Tyrion in his life. She'd noticed the hesitation during his recovery – even confused in Kings Landing he hadn't known how to accept love and care. Sansa had grown up in a family where it was given freely and was keen to extend the experience to Tyrion.
"I can manage," he said. "I've taken up enough of your time and energy."
She lifted an eyebrow, placing her hands on her hips. "That's not true, and it wasn't a question."
"It certainly sounded like a question."
"Well, it wasn't. Since I stitched your head together you're under my care rather than the Maester."
"Hmm. You are much prettier than him."
It wasn't that Tyrion needed her help, but Sansa enjoyed fussing over him and she thought Tyrion liked it really. He might insist he was fine and could manage, but she suspected deep down he wanted someone to make the effort for him, and Sansa was all too happy to oblige. He grimaced as she helped him climb into bed, his hand rubbing his side.
"You need to take things easy for the next few days," said Sansa. "You're going to be sore and achy."
"I'll be fine – I'm under excellent care."
Sansa smiled, pulling the blankets and furs over him as he lay down. He looked a bit uncomfortable with the help, but Sansa thought he was getting better at accepting it. She'd planned to see him safely in bed and leave quickly, but the lost look in his eyes called to her. Actions were easier than words. Showing Tyrion she cared for and loved him very much was infinitely easier than squeezing the words out – she'd only managed that when he feigned sleep. What Tyrion needed right now could only be expressed with words, however difficult she found it.
Sansa perched on the bed beside him, drawing a curious look from him, but no comment. "Before I go, I need to tell you something."
She cringed inwardly at her words. An old guarded look crossed Tyrion's face, as if he was automatically preparing for the worst.
"You can tell me anything," he said, nodding encouragingly. "It's alright."
Gods, she was making this difficult for them both. She reached out to him, gently cupping his face and rubbing his cheek. He hesitated a moment, waiting for something, before leaning into her touch.
"It's just…I know you miss Ghost. He kept you company and you relied on him – I'm so sorry you lost him."
"He was Jon's wolf."
"But he loved you too. Ghost brought you comfort and company when you needed it most. I know it's not the same, but I want you to know, you can rely on me too. I'm here for you, and I'll offer you whatever comfort and support you'll let me."
"Sansa…"
"I can't lie on the bottom of your bed, but you can call on me at any time, night or day, and I'll be here. I always will be, I promise."
Tyrion appeared stunned, but then his eyes glistened. "I…thank you."
Sansa still didn't feel complete. There was so much more she could say to convince him of how much she loved him, but words like those didn't come easily to her anymore. It was enough for now. Tyrion was looking at her with such naked adoration she doubted she'd manage to say anything else. Holding his love was a big responsibility and she knew it wasn't easily given. Tyrion still looked dazed by what she'd said and Sansa could find her cheeks warming. It needed to be said, didn't it? Just to make sure Tyrion knew she was here for him.
She brushed his cheek, leaning down and kissing his forehead before he had a chance to get his thoughts in order. "Sleep well. I'll see you for breakfast."
"Um…" he managed, blinking up at her. "Breakfast, yes."
Sansa stood, quickly tucking the blankets around him. As she reached the door, the familiar tug in her chest had started, as it always did when she was away from Tyrion. She glanced over her shoulder, seeing that Tyrion was already succumbing to sleep.
Easing the door open, Sansa quietly slipped from the room. As she did, resolution took root in her heart, spreading through her bones – one day she wouldn't have to leave him. Their bed would be the same and she could spend her nights as she spent her days; never missing a moment with her husband.
Arya thought she was more patient than people gave her credit for. Being no one required patience after all. Maybe that was wishful thinking, however, because Jon was sorely testing her patience.
"This can't be a coincidence," said Arya. "I dreamed of Nymeria howling and you saw through Ghost's eyes."
"It was just a dream, Arya."
"You've never had a wolf dream before?" She crossed her arms. "You know what you saw, and we have to go back."
It was difficult to tell why Jon was in denial over his dream. Was it that he simply didn't believe he could warg? That seemed unlikely given what Bran could do. Or was it because he didn't want to believe what he'd seen? She had some sympathy if that was the reason. If the dream was true he'd seen Winterfell under attack, and the death of Ghost.
"We can't go back," said Jon, though he looked pained to say it. "We can't forget Drogon-"
"Fuck your dragon, our sister is in danger!"
"Drogon threatens everyone Arya! He could massacre hundreds if not thousands. He could burn Westeros to the ground. It's our duty."
"Our duty is to our family."
"Duty goes beyond family. Lord Commander Mormont once told me that love is the death of the duty, and he wasn't wrong. I neglected my duty for Daenerys – love blinded me. I can't forget again."
"What about Sansa? We can't leave her alone in Winterfell."
Jon's shoulders slumped, defeat crumpling his face. "What do you want me to do? We're too far away to help Sansa now."
Arya bit her tongue, trying to not let emotion rule her. Logically she knew Jon was right – even if they left now, it would take more than two weeks to reach Winterfell. Enough time for the intruders to escape and Winterfell to fall into enemy hands again…
"Sansa isn't dead," said Jon. "You know that, don't you?"
"How can we know that? You saw Winterfell under attack."
"I saw Ghost and Tyrion under attack. Winterfell is well defended against assault."
"Sansa sent half the Winterfell guard with us!"
"Aye, but the Northern lords have their guards in the castle. The Lannister guards are there too – this attack wasn't them."
"Then who was it?"
"I don't know," said Jon. "I think they were from Essos…one of them said Valar Morghullis to Tyrion. I've heard it mentioned before-"
"All men must die – that's what it means," said Arya. A shiver crept down her spine. "It is a saying more common in Essos, but why would intruders from Essos be in Winterfell?"
"The letter from Kings Landing. It mentioned followers of the lord of light."
"Yes, in Kings Landing. Why would they go to Winterfell? How would they get there without being noticed?"
"I wish I knew," said Jon. He rubbed his shoulder, grimacing as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. The fall from Drogon had caused more damaged than he would admit and riding to Dragonstone was doing him no favours.
Arya breathed in and out, forcing her mind to let Winterfell go for now. There was nothing they could do for the moment. Their best chance was to reach Bran and hope he'd recovered consciousness, but first the dragon. They weren't far now. A night of rest before continuing had seemed a good plan, but their dreams had other ideas.
"What about Tyrion?" asked Arya. "Did he survive?"
"I don't know. I saw him trying to help Ghost but they were outnumbered and then…" he broke off, looking away.
Arya could only nod, sharing in his grief over Ghost. Nymeria was out there somewhere, but losing Ghost felt like the last connection to their childhood had been severed. The wolf pups had been symbolic of their family. Arya still remembered her father giving her Nymeria.
"Ghost protected Tyrion," said Jon, "I hope it was enough."
Arya did too. She'd come to like Tyrion and it was obvious how Sansa felt for him. Losing him would shatter Sansa, and Arya had no desire to lose another brother.
Why was she staring at him? It wasn't the first time today Tyrion had caught Jeyne Lydden watching him, and he had no idea what had brought it on. When he'd first sensed her attention on him he'd assumed it was the usual scorn and disgust, but a quick glance in her direction showed otherwise. The effect was so baffling he'd recruited Yvette to find the cause of it.
"She's watching me," said Tyrion, grimacing at his raspy voice. "All through the meeting with the lords, she watched me."
"Perhaps she was just paying attention."
"She's not that kind of girl. She listens only when it benefits her."
"Why does it bother you m'lord?"
"Tyrion," he said, pouting. "I'm a Hill, remember? I'm only pretending to be a lord."
Yvette lifted an eyebrow. "As you say. Why does this girl bother you so?"
"You didn't see how she looked at me before – she hated me. I disgust her. She made it damnably clear to everyone. I don't understand what's changed."
"Has the Queen noticed?"
"I mentioned it to her at lunch but she just smiled. I don't know…"
Tyrion shuffled in his seat, keeping his focus on his dinner and not Jeyne Lydden. The day had been unexpectedly busy. He barely recalled falling asleep after Sansa left last night, but he would never forget her kind words. He did miss Ghost's presence in his chambers. The loss had been easier to bear in Sansa's chambers, where her presence wrapped around him like a warm blanket. When faced with the prospect of being alone in his room grief had sunk it's teeth into him. Ghost hadn't been a constant presence in his chambers, but the reality that he would never be a presence there again had been difficult to take. Sansa made it easier – she always did.
A hand brushed his back and Sansa's voice drifted to his ear. "Are you alright?"
"Of course. Don't worry, my Queen."
"A little longer and we'll leave. Are you tired?"
He shook his head. "I'm fine."
Sansa lifted an eyebrow but didn't contradict the lie. "Then you'll join me on the balcony?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
The Queen smiled, returning her attention to Varys and lord Broome as Tyrion toyed with his food. Perhaps coming to dinner had been a step too far – his battered mid-section certainly agreed – but he was keen to show Sansa he was well. She already spent too much time worrying over him. When she called upon him this morning Yvette had just finished helping him dress. It was help he usually didn't need now but his illness and most recent injuries forced him to accept the help. His mouth twitched up – Sansa had looked thoroughly disappointed to find him already dressed.
They'd shared breakfast together, with Sansa peppering him with questions about how he felt. Were his stitches sore? Did his ribs ache? Could he breathe ok? As embarrassed as he was at the attention, Tyrion would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it.
"Promise you'll tell me if you don't feel well?"
"You've no need to worry."
"That's not a promise."
He smiled. "I promise I'll tell you."
"There's no pressure to come to the meeting either, if you don't feel ready. I can't imagine how difficult it was for you to face Cersei…"
He'd thought it would be more difficult than it had been. Even when recounting his version of events to the gathered lords this morning it wasn't hard to talk about Cersei, or how he shoved a sword through her face. In Kings Landing she'd seemed all-powerful and he was so weak. Her appearance at Winterfell had shattered that illusion. She'd lost everything from her looks to whatever strands of humanity she had left - and he wasn't weak enough to let her threaten Sansa..
The meeting had been like most others – a lot said and little done. Cersei's body had been disposed of and the surrendered Red Priests were back in the dungeon, under much heavier guard. No one could say how Cersei slipped into Winterfell. The Red Priests thought the lord of light must have guided her, while lord Broome suspected Maester Gallard had advised her on how to get in. The death of the Maester and other prisoners meant it was unlikely anyone would ever know, but Tyrion suspected her shrouded face and female figure helped. From a distance she would have looked like an old woman and Tyrion didn't doubt she'd played on that to avoid drawing attention. As draining as he'd found the meeting, Tyrion was glad he'd gone to support Sansa. The deaths of the prisoners seemed to weight heavily on her, even though a couple of Red Priests had confessed it was they who'd killed the others under Cersei's orders.
He frowned. The Red Priests were only too eager to help now they believed he was Azor Ahai. According to Godwin they'd answered all of his questions without pause, asking only if they might see the promised Prince.
A shudder ran through Tyrion – was that why Jeyne Lydden kept staring at him? Surely she didn't believe he was Azor Ahai?
"Oi Tyrion, you want to finish that drink from the other night?" asked Bronn, in between mouthfuls of food.
He shook his head. "Another night."
"Are you still milking that cut on your head?"
"Certainly not, though my head did get smashed into a wall."
"I've got a bad back and ya don't hear me complaining."
Tyrion scrunched his nose. "What did you do to your back?"
"It could have been the fighting, but I think it was carrying your heavy arse to bed that did it."
"What?"
Bronn lowered his voice, leaning across the table. "You think your woman carried you in there? I suppose she would have tried. I barely got you out of her arms."
Heat flooded Tyrion's face. He glanced up and down the table hoping no one else had heard. "Don't embarrass Sansa."
"You're the one blushing," said Bronn, a smirk on his face. "Don't fuck it up – this one actually likes you."
That was as close to approval as Bronn would ever come. He'd liked Shae well enough, but where Tyrion had fallen into the delusion she actually loved him, Bronn had seen the truth and warned him. Shae was a whore and for all her sweet words she'd been loyal to his coin before him. Bronn was a cold-hearted bastard but he was a decent judge of character and he appeared to believe Sansa. Not that Tyrion doubted Sansa, even if it was difficult to believe a Queen could love an imp.
Dinner seemed longer tonight than others, most likely dragged out by talk of the attack. Sansa had joined him for lunch in his chambers and told him repeatedly he didn't need to attend dinner if he didn't want to, but of course, he'd insisted he was fine. Part of it was wanting to be near Sansa, but he'd be lying if part of it wasn't avoiding being alone in his chambers. It was funny really. He'd avoided contact with everyone when he first woke up in Winterfell, but now his chambers seemed a lonely place to be.
Still, his chambers might have been preferable to Jeyne Lydden's scrutiny. He risked a look in the girl's direction at exactly the wrong moment. Her face twisted strangely. Seven hells, did she just smile at him? Perhaps it wasn't him. No, she was definitely looking at him. Tyrion turned his attention quickly around the table, catching the eye of lord Manderly. That would do. True to form, the old lord quickly launched into conversation with him.
"It's fortunate my men and I came upon you and the Queen when we did. I dare say Godwin and Ser Bronn were getting rather tired. Well done, by the way! I'm not sure I had chance to tell you so this morning, but your quick actions certainly saved our Queen and uncovered the poison before it could do any harm…"
Tyrion forced a smile, trying to sound interested in what lord Manderly said. Beneath the table he reached for Sansa's hand, relieved when hers closed quickly around his, squeezing tightly. A silent promise they would go soon, away from the scrutiny and to the peace of her balcony.
Tomorrow – it would have to be tomorrow.
Bran watched the Kingsguard and Gold Cloaks scramble through the Red Keep, launching a messy defence against the sudden attack. Brienne was trying to take charge but the intruders were disguised as guards – who was an enemy and who was an ally?
The King wandered through the battle, recognising several men wearing his three-eyed raven sigil who were actually Red Priests. Trapped in this between world, Bran had occupied his time by watching. It wasn't the same as seeing through a thousand eyes and one, but his own two eyes were good enough to watch enemies plotting in the dark, huddled around a single flame as they prayed to their lord of light.
He could give Brienne the name and description of every traitor in the Red Keep, and tell her that this was only the first wave of an attack that would reach it's climax tomorrow. He would, if he could. Trapped without a body and without a voice all his knowledge was meaningless. He couldn't tell Brienne anything, nor could he do a single thing to help his council prepare for this.
Bran watched Ser Davos directing men to put out the small fires breaking out in several corridors. He saw Podrick and another Kingsguard battling a heavy set man who'd already killed a young man. Seeing the past was a burden in a way – it couldn't be changed, but it could inform. The present was fluid and changing, but what if you could see the present and not do anything to change it?
It was a peculiar kind of torture to have knowledge you couldn't use. The King took in the scene before him with a sadness few would expect from the three-eyed raven. Of course, he couldn't see through the raven's eyes in this between world, and Bran thought the distance had let more of Bran Stark come to the surface than there had been for years. He almost smiled – his family would like to see this side of him.
It would be a long night. Brienne was naturally directing guards to the corridors around his chambers and prone body. It was a waste. The intention wasn't to kill the King tonight – this was to announce the arrival of the Queen tomorrow.
Daenerys Targaryen would come at noon to demand his head and the Iron Throne. His council would either consent or there would be fire and blood, and Bran Stark had no way to advise them. The only hope remaining was that a battle may break the barriers the Red Priests had put in place. The intruders he'd spied on only knew a little, but he'd heard enough to know Kinvara and senior priests had travelled from across the Narrow Sea. Undoubtedly, it was they who'd interfered with his vison and shrouded the Westerlands. Bran was certain they blocked his return to his body even now.
If the lord of light's hold could be broken there was still a chance – but it was the only one they had.
The wine warmed Sansa as it trickled down her throat, chasing away the chill of the evening. Not that the cold bothered the balcony too much – she'd made sure the hearth was burning nice and hot long before she invited Tyrion to join her.
Her gaze wandered to Tyrion, sitting quietly to her left. Evening had fallen, coating the landscape in an inky darkness, broken only by the torches of the castle and the stars above them. Sansa smiled, leaning a little closer to Tyrion. The stress of the last couple of days made this all the more enjoyable.
It would be even better if they were sharing a lounge chair rather than the two chairs she usually had on the balcony, but Sansa thought swapping the two chairs for one might be too obvious. She and Tyrion were in a comfortable place – Sansa knew how Tyrion felt about her and she hoped he knew the same. She was reluctant to risk disrupting that by pushing anything, even if she did want to cuddle. This was fine for now. She'd pulled the chairs close together before Tyrion arrived and if he noticed their new position he hadn't commented.
"Alright," she said, "what are you thinking of?"
Tyrion startled, quickly sipping his wine. "The beauty of the North."
"A little dark out to enjoy the view."
"I can see you perfectly."
Sansa's face flushed and she was sure her cheeks were glowing. How did he manage to make charming seem so effortless? She'd suffered through enough conversations with hopeful suitors to know true charm was a rarity. She cleared her throat, trying to remember what she'd been asking him. Ah, yes – his distraction. She'd noticed the same at dinner and thought it was a combination of tiredness and his injuries bothering him. Ideally, she'd have rather Tyrion took the day to rest but he'd insisted he was fine to go to the meeting this morning and had said the same at dinner. He was moving slowly and stiffly – bending troubled his ribs the most – but he seemed otherwise fine. The stitches in his head were holding nicely and several lords had congratulated Tyrion on his heroics.
She turned towards Tyrion, determined to not let him charm his way out of her enquiries. A quick kiss to his cheek was enough – that always left him tongue-tied. True to form, his eyes widened at the gesture and Sansa saw all his clever words drain out of him.
"So what are you really thinking about?" she asked. "You've had the same puzzled look on your face since dinner."
"You don't like my puzzled face?"
It was adorable. "I'm curious about what put it there."
"Well, alright – I can't understand it."
"Understand what?"
"You'll laugh," he said, his voice growing hoarse. Sansa knew it was the bruises around his neck changing his voice, but the timing made her want to kiss him again.
"I won't laugh. Let me help you."
He glanced at her sideways. "I can't understand why Jeyne Lydden is staring at me so much. She didn't take her eyes off me at the meeting this morning, or through dinner! It's not with disgust either."
Sansa bit her lip, struggling to keep her word to Tyrion. Was this really what had been bothering him? He'd mentioned it at lunch but she wouldn't tell him the answer – she thought he'd figure it out quickly enough and his bemusement was endearing.
"Yvette hasn't found anything either," he said, slumping in his chair.
"You sent Yvette to investigate?"
"I asked her to see if she could uncover anything. Apparently not."
It was increasingly difficult to not laugh. She had wondered why Tyrion had been consulting with Yvette in the corridor before coming out here, but it made sense that he was seeking an update on the Jeyne Lydden situation. Sansa shook her head – how was he so oblivious to the truth?
"I'm sorry Tyrion. If I'd realised it was bothering you so much I'd have told you earlier."
"It's not bothering me," he said too quickly.
Sansa reached for his damaged hand, lacing her fingers between his. His hand curled around hers automatically – he wasn't doing his exercises enough – but she felt him try and squeeze her back.
"Jeyne Lydden is staring at you because she's now realised exactly what she missed out on."
He lifted an eyebrow, a hint of hurt in his eyes. "You don't need to soften the truth Sansa. I can take it."
It bothered him so much to be judged by others, but he never considered it could be anything but a negative judgement. It was understandable in this case – Jeyne had treated him horribly, but it wasn't the case now.
"I'm softening nothing," she said. "I noticed her watching you too and when Godwin told me she'd been asking Lannister guards how you were I realised what was happening."
"Which was?"
"Girls like a hero Tyrion. Tales of what you did in the corridor have spread and Jeyne is re-evaluating her opinion of you. Power is attractive."
He snorted. "She's heard them calling me Azor Ahai."
"Perhaps, but girls can be romantic and…" Sansa swallowed. "What you did was so brave – like a knight from a fairy tale."
Tyrion lowered his head. "I wasn't trying to be brave. I didn't think of anything really, besides keeping her away from you."
"And that is exactly why you are a hero, and you deserve all the respect and praise you're getting now. It's long overdue." Sansa squeezed his hand, rubbing her thumb in soothing circles. "Jeyne Lydden is seeing you in a new light. If it bothers you, tell me and I'll have a word, but I suspect she'll be watching you for days to come and re-evaluating how she judges men. It's good for her."
"I see. Thank you Sansa – I never even considered that."
"I know you didn't," she said softly. "Jeyne will have to admire from afar seeing as you're already taken."
His mouth quirked up. "Am I?"
Sansa's heart sped up. This was a golden opportunity to move forwards with Tyrion, if she could just find the words to do so. Claiming Tyrion was so easy when her heart did the talking.
But no, it wasn't tonight. A step like that needed careful consideration – she needed to consider every implication on her family and the North as a whole. That didn't mean she couldn't give him something.
She leaned over to kiss his cheek again. "I seem to remember you bending your knee. You belong to the North, and as Queen you are mine."
To Sansa's relief he didn't seem disappointed by her answer, but his eyes brightened. "Ah, yes, I do remember that. If I recall, I was trying to find some meagre service to the Queen but she's thwarting my every attempt."
"We'll know the right one when we find it. Until then your main concern is resting and recovering," she said.
"As my Queen commands."
The night was peaceful and quiet. Her guilt for dragging Tyrion out here when he needed to rest was tempered by just how much she enjoyed his company. Still, they couldn't stay out here all night. His voice was growing hoarser and Sansa wasn't oblivious to the discomfort that flickered over his face when his injuries caught. She'd brought him out here with purpose and it couldn't be put off any longer.
She twisted in her chair to look at Tyrion properly, careful to watch his expression for any unease. "I was hoping you might meet my guest tomorrow."
"Another Northern lord?"
"No, he's not from the North. He arrived at Winterfell when you were missing and I've been waiting for the right time to tell you."
There it was. A hint of suspicion took over his face that Sansa tried not to take personally. For all Tyrion had improved and seemed his old self with her, she couldn't forget he was still suffering the effects of his traumatic experience in Kings Landing. Stabbing his sister through the face wouldn't wash all of that away.
"Who is it?" he asked.
"His name is Uhlan and he's from Essos. He arrived at Winterfell with a message from Missandei."
"Missandei?"
Sansa nodded, smiling. "She asked him to come here and offer his services to you. He gives people freedom Tyrion – he can get rid of the tattoos."
Jon hadn't thought much beyond following Drogon and preventing him from causing a massacre. He'd put little thought into why the dragon had turned on him, though he was certain Drogon had gone to Dragonstone. As he'd expected, Drogon was at Dragonstone – but so was a small army bearing the three-headed dragon banner. There was no sign of Bran's three-eyed raven sigil, or any of the King's garrison. Surveillance alone was no use from this distance, he had to be on Dragonstone to find out what was going on – a feat made easier when four men wielding spears caught him in a small crop of trees looking out at the castle.
Fighting them was pointless. He was too weak and too injured to do anything other than worsen his condition. With his hands bound behind his back, Jon could do nothing but wait as the four men rowed the small boat to Dragonstone. A thousand questions danced on his tongue, but Jon doubted his captors would answer – they were obviously from Essos. Were they Red Priests? The letter from Kings Landing had mentioned possible involvement from followers of the lord of light, but Jon knew only that the religion was a minority in Westeros, though it had gained popularity in Stannis Baratheon's camp through Melisandre. Why were they in Westeros now? Why was the Targaryen sigil in use, when it should have died with Daenerys? Unless he claimed it, of course – something he would never do. His family were the Starks and his only sigil was snow.
Jon tried to glean as much information as possible before they reached land, but there wasn't much to go on. His captors were wearing mismatched uniforms with the three-headed dragon hastily stitched on the front of the fabric. Sansa would complain endlessly about the poor quality needle work if she saw them. He twisted in his seat, instantly sending two of the men reaching for their weapons, but they needn't have bothered – he was only looking for Drogon.
Ah, there! The black dragon was climbing around the rock face to the North of Dragonstone. Even at this distance, Jon could sense the dragon's focus on him, but it lacked the anger he'd expected. Drogon had unseated him and left him for dead – was he simply surprised Jon had survived or was it something more?
Tyrion's voice echoed in his head, reminding him dragons were intelligent creatures. While Jon agreed with the sentiment, it was difficult to remember when faced with Drogon. Whatever intelligence the dragon had was overlooked in favour of its power.
The man on his right caught him watching the dragon. "You scared? Dragon back with mother."
Drogon missed his mother and had returned to her final resting place – it was an explanation Jon was willing to believe, though it didn't answer the question of why there was activity at Dragonstone or why the Targaryen sigil flew once more. A shiver crept across the back of Jon's neck, warning him of answers he might not like.
It seemed a lifetime ago that he was last here, trying to convince himself that Dany was still the woman he loved and not something else. He'd killed a lot of people in battle, both the living and the dead – yet none of it stuck in his mind as clearly as his sword sliding through Daenerys.
The men shoved him roughly from the boat as soon as they reached land and it occurred to Jon that these men were priests rather than fighters. That wasn't to say they couldn't fight – Thoros of Myr certainly had – but they were hardly disciplined soldiers. Nothing like the Unsullied Daenerys had once commanded. Who was commanding these Red Priests?
By the time Jon was led through Dragonstone to the throne room he was more confused than ever. The castle was once again decorated in the Targaryen sigil and colours of black and red, but it was sloppy. As if the banners had been made and hung by amateurs in a hurry. The bulk of people they passed appeared to be Red Priests, with some dressed in their own robes and others in mismatched Targaryen uniforms. There was some Westerosi amongst them, and while Jon struggled to place the sigils he glimpsed he thought some were from the Westerlands.
Jon wasn't sure who he expected to be brought to. His best guess was that a Red Priest had come to Westeros with followers to avenge Daenerys. Both Tyrion and Varys had mentioned she had their support in Essos, though Varys was deeply distrustful of them for reasons he wouldn't go into.
What he hadn't expected was to see Daenerys, alive and seated on her throne. Her purple eyes blazed across the room.
"Hello, Aegon."
The Prince managed to be both everything and nothing like Uhlan had imagined.
Grey Worm and Missandei had spoken well of him, giving a description of golden hair and green eyes on a small man. While his short hair was gold and wary green eyes followed Uhlan's every move, the man before him was markedly different from what he'd imagined. Missandei hadn't called him a dwarf, though that was exactly what he was – not that Uhlan hadn't assumed such from where she held her hand in describing his appearance.
Uhlan did not discriminate – he gave people freedom. In Essos he'd met many dwarf slaves seeking freedom from their tattoos and he'd been fond of many of them. Tyrion Lannister was unique among the unique. Men such as him found employ as fools and in mummers troupes – they were not well-read, highborn lords. They were not Princes.
Uhlan smiled, extending his hand. "We meet at last little Prince."
Tyrion didn't shake his hand, but continued to watch him with narrow, wary eyes. Like a beaten dog ready to flee at the first sign of abuse. This he'd expected. Missandei and Grey Worm had explained what abuse Tyrion Lannister had endured in Kings Landing, and that his sister was the perpetrator. Uhlan had seen the look in Tyrion's eyes many times with abused slaves unwilling to trust anyone, but it rarely affected the dwarfs he'd met to this degree. If they were beaten, mocked or abused it was nothing they hadn't come to expect, as grotesque as the thought was. Most dwarfs learned quickly to be submissive and keep the tall people laughing. Tyrion wasn't like that. It was obvious he'd been raised as a lord.
Beneath his fear and distrust there was a lion lurking. There had to be. If not he wouldn't have survived the horrors he endured, nor saved his Queen's life two nights ago.
"I hear you are the Prince that was Promised," said Uhlan.
"People believe anything." His voice was deep and well-spoken, tinged with a hoarseness Uhlan assumed came from the bruises around his neck. "Is that why you're here?"
Uhlan smiled. "I follow no religion, little Prince. I've helped many Red Priests shed their flames when their faith left them. Whether you are the promised Prince is a matter of belief. I say, why not you! Missandei speaks of your bravery."
"I was foolish, not brave – and I'm no more a promised Prince than you are as genial as you seem. Drop the pretense. You would not survive giving people 'freedom' from slavery if you were not difficult or dangerous to kill."
Ah, his sharp tongue would see one such as him punished horribly in Essos – Uhlan liked him already.
"Difficult is probably true – I've been called so many times. Those I help are grateful enough to hide me, help me find passage elsewhere. I anger many masters I'm sure, but tattoos are growing in popularity in Essos." He shrugged. "My trade is useful and mostly harmless."
Tyrion Lannister still didn't look convinced, but Uhlan knew talk alone would not convince him. His gaze slid from the Prince to the Queen sitting quietly on the chaise that seperated the armchairs occupied by him and Tyrion. The meeting had been arranged in a spacious room not far from where Uhlan had met with the Queen, though it was obvious this room was usually empty. A hearth burned and there was a few bits of furniture, but it had the musty smell of rooms often cleaned but seldom used. Neutral ground, perhaps? A way to make Tyrion comfortable, no doubt. Not that it was working. The little Prince's eyes darted between Uhlan, the door and his Queen – wary of the first, hopeful for the second and clearly dependent on the third.
Uhlan smiled. In meeting Sansa Stark he'd understood what Tyrion meant to her, and now he could see she meant the same to him. Lurking beneath every effort to hide his anxiety was the part of him turning to the Queen for reassurance and comfort. He turned to her now, and Uhlan didn't miss the silent pleading in his eyes.
As if on cue, the Queen stirred to life. "Missandei asked you to come here because she thought you could help Tyrion, if I'm right?"
"You are right, Queen! Missandei and Grey Worm saved me from great trouble with the help of their Unsullied friends. I offer to repay their kindness and they ask I come here – to meet Tyrion Lannister and offer my services."
Tyrion stared at him for a long minute, before a single word escaped him. "How?"
"You have tattoos, yes? Some in Essos now seek them, but yours were punishment. I give people freedom from the marks forced on them by their masters."
"Cersei was never my master."
"Of course, little Prince." He nodded his head. "Show me your tattoos and I see if I can give you freedom."
Ah, that threw him! The challenge was washed from his eyes as quickly as it came, giving way to panic. Predictably, he turned to the Queen.
"It's alright," she said softly, leaning towards him. "Uhlan will need to see them – I'll be here with you."
In Essos, Uhlan had seen every way possible that victims dealt with their scars. It was no surprise to him that Tyrion was reluctant to show him – he was the type to pretend they didn't exist rather than face the truth.
It took some whispered coaxing from the Queen before Tyrion moved to the edge of his armchair, his good hand fiddling with the clasp of his black doublet.
The Queen took his hand, tugging him towards her. "Come sit with me."
Uhlan remained quiet as the Queen began undressing her Prince. The help was clearly needed physically as well as mentally. The little Prince winced and grunted several times as his doublet was removed and his shift was eased over his head, though the reason quickly became obvious. His midsection was a mess of blue and purple bruises, focused around his ribs. Ah, so the Prince's efforts had earned him more than the line of stitches along the side of his head.
Uhlan waited while Sansa neatly folded the clothes and left them beside her, before returning her hands to Tyrion. She slipped her hand into his curled up one easily – as if she'd done it a thousand times. At her nod, Uhlan moved to kneel in front of the chaise, though Tyrion was staring fixedly off to one side. His good hand was curled into a fist, and tension was obvious in his skinny, beaten frame.
"Do you mind, little Prince?" he asked. The Queen was nodding but Uhlan would wait for Tyrion. He had these marks put on him by force, and Uhlan had learned quickly that those he helped should always have a choice.
It was several moments before he answered, grinding out a response. "Get on with it then."
The mark on his chest was the largest and most obvious – even in Essos, the Hand's symbol was known. Uhlan's command of the common tongue was excellent but his reading skill was minimal. When the Queen told him of the cruel words written on her Prince, it was fortunate Uhlan had asked for details beforehand – asking now would only unsettle Tyrion further. The 'imp' on his ribs would be easy enough, as would 'kinslayer' on his hip, from what little he glimpsed when Tyrion reluctantly tugged the top of his breeches down to show the mark in full. The 'little monster' on the back of his shoulder was bigger than the other words but wouldn't prove problematic either. The Hand of the Queen mark would be the biggest challenge.
Uhlan patted Tyrion's knee before he stood up, offering him a smile. "I can give you freedom, little Prince, if you'll allow me."
"You can remove them?" asked Sansa, her eyes lighting up with hope.
It was Tyrion who answered, his deep voice dark with cynicism. "No, he can't. No one can."
Missandei was right – he was clever. Sansa's smile wavered, looking between Tyrion and him with dimming hope. "You can, can't you?"
"Sorry Queen, but you misunderstand," he said, bowing his head. "Nothing can remove tattoos. When the ink is there, it is there."
"Then what can you do?"
"Nothing," said Tyrion, a bitter smile on his face. "He just came to laugh at me."
"Ah, you do me wrong! I can give you freedom, though I cannot remove the tattoos-"
"What are you suggesting then? Are you going to cut them from me? That's what many slaves do in Essos. They resort to cutting their shame away."
Uhlan clicked his tongue, half amused and half sad at Tyrion's cynical thoughts. Perhaps he should have made it clearer to the Queen first, but in Essos his trade was more understood. He knelt down again, looking apologetically between the two of them.
"I've seen many cut them away – too many. I cannot remove them little Prince, but I can change them. Take away the shame and make them yours."
Tyrion stared at him, his eyes widening. "Your solution is more of the same."
"Not the same. This time you have choice. This time the tattoos will give you freedom."
"How?"
Daenerys sniffed. Was that really all he could manage? He'd killed her in cold blood, betrayed her trust and every promise he made to her and all he could wonder was how.
"The same as you," she said. "When Ser Davos said you survived a knife to the heart, you lied, but I saw the truth with my own eyes. You didn't survive a wound like that – you came back from it. I have done the same. Fire looks kindly on dragons."
Pain hung heavily on his sombre features, as if he'd lived through a thousand tragedies but this one was too much. Good. He should be pained – he should be agonized over what he'd done.
"You pretend to be a wolf when you're a dragon," said Daenerys, "but you have more in common with the lions. An oathbreaker like Jamie Lannister, and a kinslayer like Tyrion."
He flinched. "Dany…"
The name spoke to a part of Daenerys long buried. She had liked it when Jon Snow called her that – when he spoke to her with such familiarity. That time was long gone. She tightened her grip on the arms of her throne, pushing down any lingering sentiment that could cloud her judgement. Not this time. She's suffered too much betrayal already.
"I hear Tyrion still lives, where is he hiding this time?"
Jon's frown deepened. "Somewhere you can't touch him."
"Hiding behind your sister's skirts in Winterfell." She nodded. "When I take the throne, I'll fly to your home and let Drogon burn Tyrion Lannister to ashes while the so-called Queen in the North watches. She'll follow soon after, and the North will bend the knee or burn."
Cersei Lannister had taught her one lesson at least – she wouldn't toy with prisoners and give them an opportunity. It was right that Sansa should suffer the loss of her love, but Daenerys had no interest in letting Sansa Stark linger longer than necessary. Her only use would be a dead body to compel the Northerners.
"Why?" asked Jon. He was struggling to stay standing, wearing tiredness and pain like a cloak . What had caused it? By all reports, Jon Snow hadn't resisted capture. Unease stirred in the pit of her stomach. He was obviously surprised to see her, and if he hadn't come to see her, why had he come?
A cold smile spread over her face. "You've followed Drogon here, haven't you?"
"Drogon is dangerous. You know what he's capable of, and I know the Queen I chose wouldn't put innocent lives at risk. You're not a conqueror Dany." Jon stepped forwards, causing a frantic shuffle of her guards. "Betraying Tyrion, turning on Missandei and Grey Worm, this jealousy of Sansa – it's not you!"
Viserys's voice drifted through her mind, no longer a whisper but a roar – closer than ever now they'd both tasted death. 'Show him the dragon. What fire and blood really means. We envy no one…'
"You came all this way to see Drogon," said Daenerys, her voice empty. "Then you will see him."
Try as she might, Sansa could do nothing to stop her mind wandering. Trapped in a loop, replaying the events of this morning and her subsequent conversation with Tyrion.
"Did you know that was his solution?"
"No, Tyrion, of course not! Uhlan never said how, he just said he could help you." She swallowed. "I thought he had a way to remove them."
Tyrion shook his head, but there was no anger in his gaze, only bitterness. "The only way to remove them is by cutting them off, which leaves you with a hideous scar in place of the mark. Many choose that."
"You won't," said Sansa.
"Of course not. Mine are easily covered by my clothes. Slaves in Essos often have a tattoo or brand on their cheek – harder to hide. When you found me with the knife in front of the mirror….well that's probably what was going through my addled mind."
Uhlan had left them not long ago and at Tyrion's request she'd helped him back into his shift and doublet. He was far more relaxed with his clothes on, though it saddened Sansa – he had no reason to be ashamed in front of her.
Sansa chewed her cheek, weighing her words carefully. "Will you consider Uhlan's offer?"
He wrapped his good arm around himself, leaning tiredly back against the chaise. "I don't think I can do it."
"This will be your only chance to have them changed. The cruel taunts will be gone forever – no reminder of Cersei."
"You're right… but I don't think I can."
"You're so strong. You can do it, and I'll be right there with you."
"Sansa…"
"Just think about it, ok? It's not what I hoped, but it will be your only chance to do something about them." She reached out, brushing his cheek. "I don't want you to feel you need to hide, or be embarrassed about the tattoos – you don't deserve it."
"I'll think about it."
Sansa felt her own flush of shame for her naivety. When Uhlan told her he could offer Tyrion freedom she'd thought only that he had a way to remove the marks. She never even considered how it could be done, or that it couldn't at all. Tyrion must have known. He'd been reluctant to meet with Uhlan in the first place, but given what Sansa had told him his wariness was understandable. Poor Tyrion had probably worried about what kind of man she was introducing him to, knowing already that tattoos were permanent. Of course Tyrion would know – he was so clever. If there was a way to remove them he would have already found it.
At least Tyrion had time to think about it. Uhlan said he wouldn't do it when Tyrion was injured, particularly with so much bruising around his midsection and his cracked ribs. He would give Tyrion a few weeks to heal and to consider the offer. After that he would have to move on. Sansa bit her lip, glancing towards the door. Getting more tattoos to cover the ones already there probably seemed more like a punishment than a solution to him, but Sansa hoped he did consider it. She hated how Tyrion's growing confidence melted away when he was forced to confront what happened to him in Kings Landing. Insecurity had no place in Tyrion's eyes. He'd been quiet since the meeting with Uhlan, maybe she should check on him…
"Is everything alright, your Grace?" asked lord Manderly.
Instantly her features fell back into her familiar mask. "Of course, my lord."
She shuffled the papers in front of her half-heartedly. This meeting was just for the Northern lords, going through the proposed trade agreements with various houses. It was a lot of reading and discussion, catching up with the work they'd delayed doing to deal with the recent attack and the problems posed by the West. It couldn't be put off indefinitely, no matter how much she'd rather spend time with Tyrion.
After everything that had happened over the past few days, his absence hurt her more than ever. Rationally, she knew he was likely drawing in his chambers, as he'd said he would be when she left him after lunch. As this didn't involve the Westerlands there was no reason for Tyrion to be here, or for him to pretend to be lord Lannister; she knew how he hated playing the role. That didn't mean she didn't wish he was sat beside her, offering his insight and making this task lighter.
Tyrion had no interest in politics, or so he said, but Sansa thought he missed the challenge. He was raised as a lord and would be a great one, given the chance. Sansa could give him that and more, but would he accept it? If he rejected it all, would her heart shatter for a final time?
The Queen returned to staring at the trade agreements before her, wishing she wasn't doing so alone.
It had been so long since Arya borrowed a face, it felt almost foreign to her. That wouldn't do. Her time at Winterfell was softening her. She'd traded the life of a faceless man for watching Sansa and Tyrion's endless courtship dance. As nice as it was to relax in her home once more, that was no reason to let her skills slip – not when she might need them at any time. Like finding a way into Dragonstone.
Arya took some relief in finding she wasn't the only one who'd slipped. Dragonstone had clearly fallen out of Bran's control, but she was reluctant to say it was under any kind of control now. Red Priests and Priestesses swarmed around the castle – some looked like fighters, most didn't. There was a number of Westerosi men too, with accents and sigils from the Westerlands, though none of the more prominent houses that she could see. It was one of their faces she borrowed. Tyrion was warden of the West and these men were not here under his orders, of that she was certain.
It wasn't hard to worm her way into the heart of Dragonstone. The force here was little more than a large squabble, with no real leader to direct or discipline the men. Wearing the face of a man twenty years older than her, Arya had no trouble finding information – nothing seemed to be a secret here. Why would it be, when the King was indisposed?
That still didn't prepare Arya for the moment she saw Daenerys Targaryen, alive once again. She'd heard whispers of the Dragon Queen as she gathered information, but Arya had expected to find a pretender, not the woman Jon had loved and killed. Positioned as a guard in the throne room, Arya had a perfect view of Jon's face when he was brought to Daenerys.
Her foolish brother – he still loved her. She saw the faint flicker of hope in his eyes when he realised it was Daenerys, followed quickly by the pain that realisation brought. This wasn't a second chance for her, and she hoped to all the Gods that Jon realised that. Not after what she'd done – what she'd become – and what she could still be.
Daenerys could die again, by her hand this time, but it would kill her and Jon. Slipping in and out herself was more doable, but Jon was too injured for sneaking around and would be useless in a fight. That was why they'd devised this plan in the first place. Jon would have walked straight into one of several scattered patrols if her senses hadn't picked them out first. As it happened, that was the best way for him to reach Dragonstone. Jon would be taken there, and Arya would find her own shadowy path in – she would be a secret weapon, hiding in plain sight and able to scout for useful information.
Daenerys was a complication neither of them had seen coming, and Arya's skills as a faceless man wouldn't save her brother from this.
"You came all this way to see Drogon. Then you will see him."
Arya followed the other guards as they filed out of the throne room. She jostled to get closer to Jon, but it was increasingly difficult to get near him without drawing attention to herself. Instead, conversation caught her ear.
"The flames do not lie," hissed an elderly Red Priest. He was speaking to a woman whose name Arya had learned quickly – Kinvara – the dragon Queen's closest ally.
"Who has seen?" murmured the Priestess.
"Many and more. The promised Prin-"
"Hush! Speak no more here. This must be decided quickly…"
Arya glanced to where Jon was quickly disappearing from view. They were taking him to the holding cells for now, but Daenerys wouldn't wait long – she wouldn't draw this out, but she would wait long enough to ensure there were spectators. A show of power. At best there was probably a few hours before he was brought before Drogon. Getting Jon out of the cells would be nearly impossible. On her last visit to Dragonstone she'd examined almost every inch and knew there were few ways into the dungeon, and even fewer that Jon could use in his condition.
Wearing her borrowed face, Arya turned away from Jon and trailed Kinvara and the Red Priest from a distance. Something was afoot here. Daenerys may have returned from the dead but she didn't wield the same power she once had. Drogon was flighty too – she'd seen the Dragon lurking on the mainland rather than Dragonstone itself, she'd seen the drop in Daenerys's expression when it was reported to her that Drogon still maintained some distance.
The how and why of Daenerys's resurrection didn't matter for now, all that concerned Arya was ending her second life. Hidden behind enemy lines, a direct assault wouldn't work, but information could be invaluable.
Brienne believed in honour. It was a concept that distinguished good actions from bad, and while Jamie Lannister had shown her there could be honour in the grey areas, it was still something she held close to her heart. The attacks on the Red Keep, from enemies within their own ranks, didn't just anger her so much as it cut to the core of who she was. It was one thing to face enemies in battle, but finding them hiding and plotting within your home unleashed a fury Brienne hadn't known she possessed. She was lord commander of the Kingsguard, it was her duty to protect the King and the people he served – there was no room for failure.
She toyed restlessly with the hilt of her sword, sharp eyes watching the proceedings below. Pod and several of her most trusted men were handling the few Red Priests they'd managed to take prisoner in court yard below. The attack had been brought under control in the early hours, but not before the Red Priests managed to set fire to the East tower and three rooms on the middle corridor. Since the last attack by them over a fortnight ago, nothing had really changed. The men were too good at fitting in and for all the hours Bran's council spent debating the matter they were no closer to a solution. The King showed no signs of waking – there was only Podrick's account of seeing him fleetingly during the last attack that gave her any reason to believe Bran might wake up.
Footsteps caught her ear, but she just as quickly realised who had joined her.
"This is a bloody mess," said Ser Davos.
"I don't disagree."
"We need a plan."
"We need King Bran."
Ser Davos shook his head. "I'd settle for Varys or Tyrion – they're used to schemes like this mess. They would know how to handle it. Kings Landing has no use for honour."
Brienne lifted an eyebrow. "Sansa believes Tyrion to be a man of honour."
"I never said he didn't have his own sense of honour, but he would know how to beat these bastards at their own game."
On that, Brienne couldn't disagree. Even Bronn and his ruthless nature might have found a solution, though she suspected it would involve a disagreeable amount of bloodshed.
"Don't suppose we know anything else?" asked Ser Davos, tapping his shortened fingers against the railing.
"Nothing we don't already suspect. One man had his head half caved in. Before he died he was heard ranting and raving about how the rightful Queen was coming to take her throne – how Azor Ahai had vanquished the darkness."
"You don't think-"
"She's dead. Jon Snow killed Daenerys and Arya Stark killed Cersei – it can't be them."
"A pretender? Hoping to take their chances and repeat Robert's rebellion."
"What would they be rebelling against? Bran barely had time to be King."
"None of this makes sense," said Ser Davos, signing.
Brienne searched for some hope to offer, finding none. "Either way, this isn't over. These attacks from within the Red Keep are a warning – this isn't the end."
Distraction wasn't working. When Tyrion sat down to indulge his drawing habit he truly thought it would distract him enough to offer some peace. All he needed was a few hours with his mind switched off – where Uhlan's offer and the memories it unleashed didn't twist his every thought.
Instead, he found himself in front of the mirror, with his doublet and shift hanging on the chair next to his abandoned drawing. His skin had crawled ever since the meeting with Sansa's strange guest – as if the attention towards the tattoos had breathed life into them. All afternoon, Tyrion swore he could feel the needle being repeatedly driven into his skin once more.
He glanced towards the door, hoping no one would call upon him. Sansa and Yvette were the most likely to come to his chambers, and given what happened the last time he was found in this position he'd rather not be disturbed. Not that there was any need for worry. He had no knife this time and whatever desperate impulse had driven him in his early days here was no more than a quiet whisper now. He wouldn't hurt himself. Cutting the tattoos away was a popular method used by slaves in Essos, but Tyrion knew it would only leave him more disfigured than he was – not to mention how it would hurt Sansa.
It had become second nature to avoid looking at the dark patches of ink that degraded him. Tyrion got dressed without looking at them. When he bathed, he did so quickly, relying on habit to clean himself without much thought to the process. Baths were no longer a place to linger or relax. Given the North's cold temperatures and the general state of his body he had no inclination to sleep naked as many men preferred, and he often had in his youth. The rules were simple – don't look and cover up quickly.
Tyrion's mouth turned downwards. Over the last few months he thought he'd come to terms with what happened in Kings Landing, but the more he considered things the more it felt like hiding. He traced a finger over the Hand of the Queen mark on his chest, a shudder running through him at the touch. There was no need – the tattoos didn't hurt and the skin felt no different to the rest of his body. It was just ink, easily hidden by his clothes and ultimately meaningless – very few people would ever see them. The scar on his upper arm should bother him more, a patch of burns made by Euron Greyjoy with a knife.
Even the new scar on his head didn't bother him so much, despite its position. If his hair grew longer it would cover it, but for now the stitched line was easy to see yet it didn't trouble him. It was a scar he'd earned defending Sansa, and that the Queen herself had stitched it closed only gave him pride in it.
Tyrion glanced over his shoulder, a lump forming in his throat at the absence of Ghost. He'd fallen into the habit of talking to the direwolf. Ghost couldn't answer, of course, but saying things aloud to another living thing had helped him greatly, particularly when they were things he struggled with. Ghost's loss was difficult to swallow, and would surely be even worse for Jon when he was told.
Turning back to his reflection, Tyrion forced himself to look at the marks and consider the future. Could he bear to look at them forever, or was Uhlan's offer something he should consider?