Chapter 38
"I've seen the flames."
"Many have now. R'hllor is showing us the truth…"
Bran listened as the men discussed what they'd seen in the flames. It was chatter that was being repeated by many of the imposter guards when they were tucked away in hidden pockets of the Red Keep, far from Brienne and her trusted guards who were continually sweeping the castle.
It pleased the King to see Brienne taking every precaution, but these enemies were not an army ready to announce themselves. They were infiltrators with the necessary skills to blend in. If anyone questioned a hint of an Essos accent it was easy to brush off as years working on boats. War had ravaged Westeros for long enough that any able-bodied men willing to work weren't looked at too closely. Senior guards of years gone by might have questioned the sudden influx of men with an Essos background but who spoke the common tongue so well. Now many castles were glad to take anyone and give them a duty, and Kings Landing was most in need of all. It was a lapse Bran hadn't foreseen, allowed to fester by the distraction and inexperience of the council.
Bran winced. This was his fault – he'd spent too long seeing through a thousand eyes and neglecting to use his own to see what was around him. Sending Bronn and Varys to the Westerlands had made the most sense at the time, but now it seemed ridiculous – they were the two members of his council most likely to notice something amiss. Varys would have heard from his little birds. Bronn would have noticed the groups of men disappearing together and whispering amongst themselves.
Brienne, Podrick and Samwell were too honest to see it. They were looking for a threat that would ride to the gates and demand battle. Only Ser Davos had grown suspicious of possible enemies within, but it wasn't enough and the game was too far gone to change things now.
Bran turned away from the two men as their talk turned away from what they'd seen in the flames and to general praise of their lord. In his wanderings, Bran had seen many of the lord's followers watch the flames. Most saw nothing and some claimed to see things. For the last two days, more and more men had claimed to see something in the flames, but whether they did or didn't, Bran would never know. For all he tried watching along with them, he never saw anything in the flames, but the experience did have a peculiar effect on him. If the men claimed to see something, Bran could feel the heat. After weeks in this between world, it was the first thing he'd felt – and it was familiar.
The same painful burns that had ravaged his body the night he was attacked. Bran didn't doubt it was the lord of Light keeping him from returning to his body, but he had no idea how it worked or more importantly, how to break through it. His mouth quirked up – was this the true song of ice and fire? Not a battle fought by armies, but the old Gods against the fire God?
Bran wandered the corridors, his mind grasping for any strand of hope to hold on to. There had to be a way to find the Old Gods' strength in the South. He just needed enough of it to break the fire God's hold. He was increasingly convinced his incapacitation had little in common with the number of enemies in the castle and more to do with the flames that had touched him the night of the attack. Today there would be a reckoning, and Bran knew the answers lay in the flames.
"Forgive me for not calling upon you sooner, old friend. I fear the current situation has consumed my mind of late. I am glad you accepted my invitation tonight."
"Well your invitation mentioned wine, and as you recall I have a certain fondness for it."
Varys smiled lifting his glass in a toast. Tyrion Lannister's fondness for wine had bordered on dependency, but the Tyrion sat across from him didn't seem to depend on it, nor have a particular fondness for the sweet drink he'd rarely gone without. If anything, it felt like Tyrion was playing a role that no longer suited him.
"How are you feeling?" asked Varys. "Seeing you so unwell in Kings Landing was difficult for all involved."
Tyrion's expression remained neutral but his eyes became guarded at the mention of Kings Landing. It was only natural – Varys doubted Tyrion had ever experienced humiliation on that scale. The walk through Kings Landing alone likely broke him. Cersei might have suffered the same indignity but she was shameless and Tyrion wasn't, for all he pretended to be.
"I'm fine now," said Tyrion. "The northern air has been good for me."
"Ah, so it's the air that has been good for you?"
"The lack of politics helps too."
Varys lifted an eyebrow. "Queen Sansa had nothing to do with it then?"
Tyrion didn't answer, instead sipping his wine. It wasn't a question – they both knew Sansa Stark had everything to do with how well he'd recovered. As distracted as he'd been these past days, Varys had noticed the scope of Tyrion's recovery. He appeared to be adapting to using his left hand if the brace he used for dinner was any indication. There were signs of how injured he'd been, found in his limping gait and the grimace that crossed his face when his shoulder caught. His growing hair was styled in a severe cut at the sides and longer on top – a drastic change from how Varys always remembered him, but it suited him well enough. Bruises coloured his neck and a red line cutting across the side of his head were the most visible reminders of his recent, final encounter with Cersei. In answering a lord's enquiry about Tyrion's welfare, Varys had heard Sansa report he'd taken quite a beating and hurt his ribs – the likely reason for his careful movements in the chair opposite.
Varys was acting as Bran's hand, but information would always be invaluable to him. The ability to read a man, gather information and discern his motives was a skill Varys would never leave behind. Inviting Tyrion to his chambers was a chance to catch up with his old friend – and turn his full attention to the lord of Casterly Rock.
"You got rid of your beard," said Varys. "For Sansa?"
"No," he said, almost defensively. "It didn't grow back at first, but when it did it was grey and patchy. I could hardly go around looking like Ser Davos, so I shaved."
"Forgive my curiosity, I mean no offence. Seeing you without it merely reminds me of when you were Hand of the King to Joffrey."
"That seems a lifetime ago," said Tyrion.
"It does, though not many years have actually passed. You were good at it, you know. The power suited you."
"Really? Daenerys didn't seem to think much of my skill as Hand."
"That was an impossible situation – you know what they say about Targaryens. You thought you were advising a Queen, but she was a conqueror."
Tyrion shuffled uncomfortably in the chair opposite, rubbing his damaged hand against his ribs. "I'd rather not talk about her if it's all the same to you."
"Of course," said Varys, nodding. "The past is the past, it's the future that concerns me."
"I'm sure Jon and Arya will be able to help Bran."
"That is troubling, but my immediate concern is the Westerlands and what unrest there could mean for the small folk."
"The Hand speaks with the King's voice. I've written to Bran to relinquish my name and claim to Casterly Rock – in his absence you could agree to my request and move on to finding a successor."
Varys shook his head. "I am only acting as Hand and would not make such decisions alone, particularly when the cleanest path is available."
"Which would be?"
"You."
"No, I want nothing to do with-"
"You are not a claimant to Casterly Rock, you are Tywin Lannister's son and heir – the Rock is yours. I don't understand why you would give up such power."
"I don't care for power."
"You did."
Tyrion narrowed his eyes. "Not anymore."
Varys set his glass down, leaning forwards in his chair. "You always wanted Casterly Rock, and now it is yours. There is no reason you can't take your place as lord, even if you split your time between the Rock and Winterfell. There are few good lords left and even fewer who are competent too – you are the best option the Westerlands has – and I dare say the only option to bring the houses of the West to heel."
"Varys, I-"
"Ned Stark was an honourable man and it was his downfall, but he understood duty. Sansa will understand you attending to yours. As the warden of the West it is your duty to bring order there in the name of your King. You have the temperament and intelligence to bring the Westerlands to full strength if only you stop hiding away in Winterfell and take your place…"
Varys trailed off when the look on Tyrion's face registered. The words had flowed from him so easily, held back for too long and charged with desperation to bring some order to the chaos of Westeros that he'd failed to notice the effect it had on Tyrion. The reluctant lord of Casterly Rock was rigid in the opposite chair, his face pale. He looked for all the world as if someone had pulled the floor from beneath him, stripping away the security and comfort he so clearly depended on.
"Won't do it," said Tyrion, his voice hoarse. "I'd rather die than leave Winterfell. Won't go to Casterly Rock."
"Tyrion, forgive me, I fear I got carried away."
His good hand tightened around the cup of wine, his voice taking on a bitter edge. "Why would I go and play lord Lannister, when none of those bastards ever wanted me? They didn't give a shit what I did for the family, I was always an outcast."
"No, of course, I understand. It is your choice, I misspoke."
Varys had hoped a conversation with Tyrion might be enough to nudge him into some action, or at least to show some interest in Casterly Rock. His avoidance of the politics he'd once enjoyed was shocking, but surely it was only a matter of time, wasn't it? Tyrion would grow bored sooner or later – he needed a challenge for his intelligence. Despite his intentions, Varys hadn't meant to speak so bluntly nor make it sound as if he was threatening the security Tyrion so clearly relied on. Appearances could be deceiving, he supposed.
"Please forgive me, my friend – you've made such a remarkable recovery it's easy to forget what you were put through."
Tyrion had put down his wine, gripping the arm of the chair like his life depended on it. Wary green eyes watched him. "I'm not leaving Sansa. Ever. Unless she orders me away."
"Something she will never do, of that I'm certain. Come now, let's speak of more pleasant subjects. I did not invite you here to make you uncomfortable."
Varys continued to watch as the conversation moved into safer territory, far away from Casterly Rock. It took a while for Tyrion to warm up again and lose the defensive edge that had come over him but Varys was glad when he did. As much as he cursed his own tongue for running away from him, Varys was certain now Tyrion would have reacted the same however he phrased it. Lord Tywin's last son wanted no part of his family's legacy. If anything, he was far more interested in the North.
Tyrion could refuse the Westerlands but sooner or later his mind would rebel at this passive, simple life. If he would not be lord Lannister there was a very good chance Queen Sansa would have a role for him, but would Tyrion accept it? His feelings for his Queen were obvious – just as obvious as his anxiety over holding a position of power.
The game of thrones was cruel. Tyrion had played better than most but suffered terribly for his troubles. It wasn't the outcome he'd hoped for, but there were many positives to Tyrion using his skills in the North, if he would allow himself to.
A borrowed face had many uses, but knowing which to choose was often the problem. The guard Arya had killed was of a low rank but apparently well known. She'd managed to brush off the awkward encounters with fellow guards by grunting that she had orders and keeping her head down as she followed the Red Priest and Kinvara. She'd considered swapping this face for another but time was running short and she wasn't convinced her knowledge of the lord of Light was enough for her to pass amongst them.
Now, back amongst her fellow guards as they filled the courtyard where Jamie Lannister had been burned alive, she tried to process the snippets of conversation she'd picked up. It was impossible. Improbable.
There was no way in the seven hells that Tyrion Lannister was the Prince that was Promised.
Arya's hand rested on a knife concealed in her guard's uniform as Jon was led into the clearing, his hands in chains behind him. He looked even worse than the last time Arya saw him, but somehow he was still standing. Leaving Jon in the dungeon had been the smart choice, though not one she cared for. Rationally, Arya accepted there was no way she could get him out in that state without them both being caught, and Jon wouldn't leave while Drogon was a threat – or Daenerys. That knowledge didn't make it any easier to stomach. Following Kinvara had given her knowledge, but how it would be used was a mystery.
"The flames are not lying. We have seen – many of us – the truth. Azor Ahai has vanquished the darkness."
"I met him in Mereen – he is no Prince of our lord."
"You doubt what R'hllor shows us?"
Kinvara hesitated before her shoulders slumped. "I saw it too. He drew a flaming sword and vowed to vanquish the darkness."
"And he did. The lord of light raised Cersei Lannister so his chosen one could strike her down – a final blow in his name…"
It was too much information to process. If these Red Priests were right Cersei Lannister had been raised from the dead, attacked Winterfell and was dead once again, this time at the hand of her brother who was supposedly the Prince that was Promised.
Surely it was a joke? Even as she thought it, the wolf dream came to mind. Jon had seen intruders in Winterfell and the death of Ghost – it couldn't be a coincidence. Arya shook her head, clearing the thought. There was no use dwelling on it. If Tyrion had 'vanquished' Cersei with a burning sword she had to hope Winterfell and Sansa were safe. That left the more immediate problem of Jon and Daenerys.
Heat beat down on Dragonstone as they awaited the arrival of the dragon Queen. It must infuriate her. The last time Daenerys was at Dragonstone she'd led a great army and stood on the cusp of taking the Iron Throne, now her army was a raggedy group of priests and guards from the poorer houses of the Westerlands. As far as Arya could see none of the major houses of the West had sent their men here, suggesting not all were willing to commit to Daenerys as Queen, nor risk the wrath of lord Lannister. Not that Tyrion would ever take that title – his commitment to being a bastard was as strong as it was amusing. Spending his days with Sansa and reading in his chambers was hardly what it meant to be a bastard, but Sansa had banned him from servant work – she just hoped her sister finally offered him the only role she would accept him in.
Sweat ran freely down Arya's back by the time Daenerys emerged, flanked by Kinvara and a number of Priests clad in red robes.
Something was wrong.
Arya quickly noticed the fury threatening to spread over the dragon Queen's face as she drew closer. Kinvara and the other priests weren't so much escorting her as hurrying to keep up. Arya grunted, using her borrowed face to barge through the crowd and get closer to the group. It was a delicate balance of not wanting to get too close and needing to know what exactly was going on. The crowd had noticed their Queen's temper too – a ripple of unease spread through the crowd as if they'd all suddenly remembered Daenerys was unstable and Drogon had returned to her.
Despite her efforts, Arya couldn't discern what the Red Priests were muttering between themselves as they passed her. Daenerys took her place in the centre of the area, with waves crashing against the rocks below them. Jon didn't react to her arrival, merely standing in place. A group of soldiers blocked him into the clearing, but there was no need – Jon wouldn't run.
Silence settled over the crowd like a dark cloud. Daenerys sensed it too, from the way her lip curled.
"We stand here today, to pass judgement on a traitor. Jon Snow didn't just break his vow to me, he threw away his duty to Westeros when he killed me. The people of Westeros were robbed of their rightful Queen because the North wouldn't kneel. And now, the North is a separate kingdom, while the six kingdoms are ruled by a Northern King! No more. When I sit the Iron Throne, all seven kingdoms will kneel before me – all seven kingdoms will be equal!"
Fury rippled through Arya. This was about Sansa. It wouldn't matter where Daenerys conquered or how many thrones she won – she wanted Sansa to pay for not falling in line. She wanted the North to burn. Jon's face was grim as he lifted his head to the woman he loved.
"It could have been yours. You had the support and the army, but in the end it wasn't enough. You're no different to the mad King."
"And you were there, like Jamie Lannister was to my father, waiting to strike me down." Her purple eyes blazed with a blend of fury and madness. "You should have understood me – you should know what it's like. A dragon can trust no one. Even now, I have traitors in my midst."
Arya's hands twitched to her weapons, but Daenerys turned on Kinvara and the Red Priests instead. "You brought me back – your red God brought me back – and now you turn on me?"
"The two are not connected, my Queen. R'hllor brought you to life for a purpose, but not the one we thought," said Kinvara. "We should discuss this privately."
"No, I tire of old men plotting in dark rooms. No more whispers. Tell everyone assembled here what you saw in the flames and what you proposed."
Kinvara stepped forward reluctantly, her gaze sweeping over the guards who had reached for weapons at their Queen's words. These men at arms were not the loyal soldiers she'd once commanded, but between the Red Priests and a dragon, they would back the dragon.
"The night is dark and full of terrors, but our lord offers us light. These past days the light has burned brightly – the flames have shown myself and many of us here today a difficult truth. Azor Ahai is here." She glanced apologetically at Daenerys. "Though I fear we were mistaken in identity. The flames have shown the promised Prince, with his burning sword, vanquishing the darkness that is Cersei Lannister. In raising Daenerys Targaryen, she was raised too – though her form is monstrous."
What little colour Jon had drained from his face as the Red Priestess spoke. It was a feeling Arya knew too well.
"It is clear now Cersei Lannister was not raised by R'hllor but by something dark and dangerous. That is why the lord also sent us Azor Ahai – the Prince that was promised. The flames show he has fulfilled his destiny and vanquished the darkness." Kinvara swallowed. "Our prince is Tyrion Lannister."
There was a moment of shock, and then complete uproar. The followers of the lord of light weren't surprised at the announcement, and while a number looked sceptical, most were fully convinced. Had they all seen Tyrion wielding a flaming sword against his supposedly dead sister? The rest of Daenerys' army was the problem. Nearly all were from the Westerlands and believing the Lannister dwarf was the lord of Light's promised Prince was a stretch too far for most. There was an undercurrent of fear too. Arya could feel it building around her in the guards who now worried their betrayal would hurt them. They'd thought Tyrion a crippled dwarf – a mockery of a lord – not the Prince who'd been foretold for so long.
If Jon was surprised to learn Cersei had been returned from the dead, it was nothing to the disbelief now etched on his face. Does Sansa know what they're calling Tyrion, she wondered? Arya hoped so. The thought of her sister alive and well in Winterfell, swooning over her Prince, was far more pleasant than any other possibility.
Daenerys' voice cut through the noise like a whip. "Now do you see why I must take the throne? Even the Gods conspire against me."
Kinvara shook her head. "No, R'hllor has a plan for you, but not as imagined. He brought you back for a reason."
"And that reason will not be to wed Tyrion Lannister," she spat. "You would make him King – you would give him my throne!"
"It would fit well, your Grace," said the old man Arya had followed earlier. "The promised Prince and the lost Princess, ruling as King and Queen…"
Daenerys had never looked so dragon-like as she did then, as if she could breathe fire herself. It was at that moment the ground began to shake. Rocks crunched and snapped in the distance, growing louder until Drogon climbed over the lip of the rock. Instinctively, the crowd lurched back as did the Priests near Daenerys and the guards watching Jon. Arya was jostled back by the crowd as if moving a few feet would save them if Drogon wanted a feast. The great black dragon settled on the edge of the clearing, his back to the sea. Arya had been distracted, but she hadn't seen the dragon approach or heard it. Judging by the look on Daenerys' face, neither had she. Had Drogon been lurking on the lower rock face this whole time, hidden from sight and forgotten in the fervour over the Prince that was Promised?
Arya tore her eyes from the dragon, and Jon, who was staring intently at Drogon. It took her only a moment to refocus on Daenerys. The mother of dragons had left Kinvara and the red priests behind, making her way into the clearing to stand across from Jon.
"The North betrayed me. The lord of Light shuns me. You, Jon Snow, broke your oath to me and then dare to come here for Drogon as if he is yours," she said. "Drogon came because I called him home. You wished to see him – he will be the last thing you ever see."
Arya's heart raced as Jon and Daenerys stared each other down. Ice and fire, in one final confrontation.
Sansa couldn't remember the last time she felt so at peace. Winterfell was quiet, the North was peaceful and Tyrion was sitting on chaise beside her. If Jon, Bran and Arya were safe, her life would be almost perfect.
She inched a little closer to Tyrion, her heart warming as he leaned against her. There was no space between them, and far from feeling anxious, Sansa found herself craving more closeness. The thought almost made her blush, and surely would have, if she hadn't experienced the dark side of intimacy. The more vulnerable she was, the worse the pain would be.
'Not with Tyrion,' she thought, forcing herself to relax into his side. 'He won't hurt me.'
Intimacy had a particular effect on Sansa and she was keen to not let her mind wander down that path, though it seemed determined to explore it more frequently than ever. Instead, she turned her mind to her husband. Sansa loved his company, but finding him at her door this afternoon was something of a surprise.
"Oh, Tyrion – is everything alright?"
"I was worried about you. At lunch, you seemed rather stressed and the thought of you trapped alone with dull letters from dull lords compelled me to check on you," he said. Tyrion swallowed, rubbing at his bruised neck. His speech was better but still raspy. "Am I bothering you? I'm sorry-"
"Not at all," she said, quickly taking his hand. "You're just in time to save me from a particularly boring letter from Flint's Finger…"
While Sansa regularly spent her time with Tyrion, working while he practiced drawing or, rarely, writing, he almost never called on her. Sansa was certain it was insecurity and a desire to not be a bother that kept him away, but something had surely troubled him enough to break the rules he'd made for himself. Not that she was complaining. An afternoon spent going through correspondence was far more enjoyable when cuddled against her husband. Tyrion seemed just as keen on the closeness as he flipped through a book on Northern history beside her.
Now that she thought about it, Tyrion had been somewhat clingy all day, though Sansa had no idea why and Tyrion seemed conflicted by it too. At breakfast in his room, he'd kept her talking long after they finished eating. He walked with her to hear petitioners in the Great Hall and was sat waiting for her at lunch. The only thing he hadn't done was actually go into the Great Hall with her for the session. Sansa's brow furrowed as she pushed her correspondence to one side.
Something was bothering him enough to seek her comfort, and she knew how difficult it was for Tyrion to ask for that which had always been denied him.
"I think that's enough work for now," said Sansa, turning towards Tyrion sitting beside her.
He glanced up from his book, concern creasing his face. "I'm sorry, am I disturbing you?"
"How could you sitting there, as quiet as a mouse, distract me?"
"Mice can be very distracting, irritating creatures – prone to getting into places they don't belong."
"Well, it's a good thing there are no actual mice about. Just a wolf and a lion."
Tyrion smiled tightly. "I'm not so sure about a lion."
Her heart fell to see Tyrion set on giving up the identity he'd once been so proud of, but she more than understood why, and he'd never faltered in his commitment to his bastard name.
Sansa reached across him for his left hand. He easily traded the book for her and a thrill went through Sansa when his fingers brushed against her skin. After holding his damaged hand so often, Sansa had forgotten what it was like to feel a strong but soft grip, and the reminder warmed her head to toe.
'Focus,' she thought, 'don't get distracted.'
"I misspoke," said Sansa, brushing her thumb over the flat-topped ring wedged on his finger. "I meant to say two wolves."
He smiled but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm a Hill."
"You are in service to the Queen in the North, aren't you?"
"I serve Sansa Stark."
"And the North?"
"If it pleases my Queen."
"Your home is Winterfell?"
The tinge of uncertainty creeping into his eyes gave away the reason for his clinginess, but Sansa was baffled as to the cause. Had she not made it clear to Tyrion that this was his home?
"My Queen asks many questions," he said, forcing some humour into his voice.
She let go of his hand, cupping his face instead. She turned him carefully towards her, mindful of his injuries, until she could inspect the stitches she'd made only a few days earlier. "You did hit your head rather hard. I'm simply checking that you know who you are."
"And who would that be?"
"You tell me," she said, brushing her thumb across his cheek. He leaned into her touch as if accepting her comfort would give him all the answers.
"My name is Tyrion Hill – I'm a bastard dwarf from the Westerlands."
"You made yourself a bastard, but yes. What else?"
"I bent the knee to Sansa Stark, and I intend to serve the Queen in the North if she will approve a service for me."
"We'll know the right one when we find it," she promised. "Anything else?"
He lowered his eyes, though Sansa continued to stroke his cheek. "I am from the Westerlands, but I live in the North now. Winterfell is my home."
The last part was so soft it was almost a question – who had made him feel he had to ask it? Tyrion spoke to few of their visitors…but he had seen Varys last night. Anger rolled through Sansa at the thought of the spider, but for now, her focus was Tyrion.
Sansa smiled. "Answered perfectly. I'm satisfied that your mind is no worse for wear after hitting the wall."
His shoulders relaxed. "Good to hear."
"You were concerned you'd get the answers wrong?"
"No…it's just nice to know the answers haven't changed."
Sansa leaned closer. "They never will. You're part of our pack, and there are no lone wolves."
A smile tugged at his mouth. "That sounds quite lovely."
It was. Almost as lovely as the unguarded look in his soft green eyes. They were close enough that Sansa could pick out the exact shades of green in his eyes, and see the tension easing out of his face at her reassurance.
Sansa moved first, her lips capturing his like a woman starved. Tyrion responded just as quickly, as if he too was eager to take advantage of their closeness. Rational thought left Sansa as desire took control. It was a shame to waste an opportunity when Tyrion was so near and so inviting.
"Are you sure about this?" grunted Ser Davos, struggling with his half of their burden.
"Not really," said Sam, "but I've no better ideas."
Ser Davos could see the sense in bringing Bran's body to the Godswood, but after so many weeks without any sign of Bran waking it was hard to feel optimistic about anything they tried.
"I tried coming here to see if Bran could communicate with me by whatever he does as the three-eyed raven. All I got was stiff knees and a creaking back," said Ser Davos.
"A good idea in theory, but bringing Bran here might be more useful."
It wasn't an easy feat to smuggle the comatose King out of the castle. Brienne and Podrick were dealing with the aftermath of last night's attack and actively searching for more enemies lurking within – the activity was enough of a distraction that the council agreed to Samwell's plan. Even the High Septon had agreed.
"There is power in places where the Gods have touched," he said. "I assume the same is true for the old Gods. If the King is to return, I see no better place than the Godswood…"
The plan was problematic. For weeks they'd concealed Bran's injuries and hidden him away to avoid word of his current state spreading. Trying to carry him out of the Castle and into the Godswood had been challenging to say the least.
Between them, they settled Bran against the Heart Tree, cocooned in blankets and looking far too still. Ser Davos moved stiffly to the fallen log along from it and sat down. Sam was red-faced and sweating in his Maester's robes as he fussed over the King. Moving Bran before now was too risky – his burns were open to infection and there were too many eyes who might have seen them. Now, with the castle focused on the threat of Red Priests among them and Bran's injuries healing, there was no better chance of reuniting the King with his body.
"Alright," said Ser Davos. "What do you think is going to happen?"
Sam shrugged. "I'm only guessing. Bran said when he became the three-eyed raven he was in a cave with the last one – he said the old Gods were strong there. I suppose I'm hoping that bringing Bran here will trigger something."
"And if not?"
"I don't…we can't carry on without a King."
Ser Davos nodded, falling silent. He turned his attention to Bran, propped against the base of the heart tree.
'Come on,' he thought. 'It's now or never.'
"Are you alright, my lord?" asked Godwin.
"Yes, just some stiffness."
"You were moving better last time I saw you. The Maester could always check you over again…"
"I'm perfectly fine, thank you," said Tyrion, struggling not to wince at the ache in his ribs.
He'd walked into the old captain on his way from Sansa's chambers and while he couldn't deny his observations, he could hardly admit to them either. His ribs and chest were stiff and achy, but the stiffest part of him wasn't something he would show a Maester. Hopefully, Godwin wouldn't notice that particular area.
"How is Queen Sansa?" asked Godwin.
So many words came to mind, but none could adequately describe the vision of her rosy-cheeked and breathless against him, her eyes alight with desire.
"Our Queen is well," he said, "worried for her family, but far more at ease now the prisoners are under control."
"Thanks to you. The remaining prisoners are all red priests, patiently waiting to meet Azor Ahai and unwilling to risk his wrath."
"You're not stupid," said Tyrion.
"Why thank you, my lord."
Tyrion snorted. "You don't believe I'm Azor Ahai."
"I don't believe there is a Promised Prince, no. If you'd like me to lie and tell you otherwise, I will do as m'lord commands, but I don't think you're Azor Ahai."
"I'm not your lord either."
He lifted an eyebrow. "You are for now."
"I won't be for much longer. Winterfell is my home – I'm never leaving."
Tyrion struggled to contain his glee at saying the words aloud. The conversation with Varys last night had planted doubts in his mind. However unintentional it might be, Varys had made his current life sound like a dream that could be snatched away from him at a moment's notice. He could lose Winterfell – he could lose Sansa. Varys had realised his error and apologised, but nothing would drive the doubt from him. It had played on his mind all night, compelling him to seek reassurance from the one person in the world who could offer it to him.
In hindsight, he wasn't exactly subtle. All day he'd followed Sansa like a lost puppy – it was pathetic – but far from growing annoyed with his presence, she'd welcomed it. In only a few exchanges she picked up on what was bothering him and washed away his anxiety. Winterfell was his home, he did have a place in the North, and more importantly, with Sansa.
The thought sent a jolt through his already tight lower region. Sansa's care was something he'd come to rely on, but the look in her eyes when she kissed him was more than he'd dared to hope. Sansa had initiated the kiss and taken the lead in growing it. Given Sansa's experience of such things, it took him by surprise, to say the least, but he was careful to let her be in control. Tyrion knew Sansa loved him, but the desire in her hungry kisses was totally unexpected. Her hands drew him closer, moving to brush through his short hair and along his shoulders. Tyrion reciprocated. When Sansa moved closer, he did too – the last thing he would ever do was reject Sansa's advances when her confidence with such things was already so low. It was a fine balance of seeing how far he could go with her and keeping his own urges in check.
Far from being put off by the bulge in his breeches, the feel of it against Sansa only seemed to urge her on.
"I'm sorry," he said, his cheeks going red as Sansa pulled back to see what was poking against her stomach.
Her blue eyes were darker than usual as she eyed his breeches. She tilted her head to look at him and the lightest touch traced a pattern across the front of his breeches a moment later. Tyrion groaned, teetering dangerously on the edge of self-control as Sansa experimented.
She withdrew her hand, leaning in to cup his face. "Don't be sorry."
If not for the ache in his ribs and chest and the throbbing in his cock, Tyrion might have thought he'd died and somehow avoided the seven hells. Surely Sansa was the maiden made flesh? It was impossible to think she could look more beautiful, but the image of her lying on top of him, red-faced and panting was one of his new favourites.
Whatever had come over Sansa, she'd seemingly forgotten his injuries in her quest to get closer to him. Not that he minded. Sansa was worth every ache and pain.
It took Tyrion several moments to realise Godwin had stopped walking and was looking at him as if expecting a response.
"Pardon?"
The old captain smiled sadly. "I know you won't be leaving Winterfell, my lord. There will be a new lord of Casterly Rock no doubt."
"As there should be. The Westerlands deserves better than what it has had."
"For what it's worth, I believe you'd have made a great lord of Casterly Rock." Godwin stood tall, inclining his head. "I will leave you in peace, my lord. I'm sure you're keen to enjoy your bath."
"Bath?"
Godwin lifted an eyebrow. "Perhaps a hot one."
Tyrion flushed, resisting the urge to cover his breeches. Godwin turned off down the corridor, leaving Tyrion alone, save for the guard standing at his door. It had been a strange day. What started with a desire for Sansa's reassurance ended with her almost straddling him on the chaise. When she finally pulled away, her face was bright red and her lips swollen from kissing. It was impossible to imagine Sansa Stark flustered but that was exactly what she'd been, and she'd seemed unsure what to do next.
In the end, he'd made it easy for her. A few teasing jokes to make her smile, a kiss on her cheek and a promise to join her at dinner later. He'd managed to hide his discomfort until he left her chambers, but now his ribs ached fiercely from the unexpected activity, though it was nothing to the pain in his balls.
Godwin could be right. A hot bath seemed an excellent idea, particularly if he would be sitting next to Sansa at dinner.
"Where are Jon and Arya?"
Podrick winced at the barely concealed desperation in Brienne's voice. Their letter to the North had summoned reinforcements, but Jon and Arya were supposed to be with them. The presence of so many northerners would raise questions, particularly when they were unaccompanied by Bran's siblings.
From his time in Winterfell, Pod recognised Barrik, the gruff captain of the guard.
He sighed, rubbing his face before answering Brienne. "Jon Snow came with the dragon, and when we were a few days march from here, the dragon threw him off."
"What?" asked Brienne, the colour draining from her face. "He's injured?"
"The dragon went wild. The bloody thing turned east and flipped over in the air – we saw Jon Snow fall."
Pod's blood turned to ice. "Lady Arya?"
Barrik shrugged. "She told us to carry on to Kings Landing. She went to where Jon Snow fell."
"What about the dragon?" asked Brienne, her voice wavering.
"Gone. No one knows where but it was heading East. For days before that it drifted further away from the path. Damned thing can't be trusted."
"Ser Brienne?" asked Pod. His mentor's face was ashen as she turned to him. "What are your orders?"
"Ready the defences. Prepare to evacuate people if need be. We're under attack from the inside and now Drogon is out of control."
Barrik nodded. "Nothing else to do really."
Podrick gripped his sword, recalling what Tyrion had told him so long ago when they talked about the Dance of Dragons.
"All the heroes, Princes, Queens and Kings you've heard tales of – it's not their story. The Targaryens thought they ruled the dragons, but ultimately the dragons ruled them. It's a story of power, yes, but it's the dragons who chose what was written…"
Time didn't mean much to him. It could have been hours or minutes. The ground shuddered as he shifted his weight on the edge of the rock, his tail dislodging some chunks that tumbled into the water below.
Drogon didn't want to be here. This place was wrong and everything had gone wrong since they came here. Both his brothers were gone – he was alone. Mother had gone too, but not anymore. The pull to her was strong. It always had been.
The pull that led him to this rock wasn't the bond he was used to. It was different. Forced. It felt like a demon drawing him in…yet parts of it were familiar.
The familiar parts were mother, he decided. The other parts weren't. The white one in the cold place had understood – it had sensed the demon too.
Leaving the cold place had made the pull worse. The urge to come here had become unbearable, and he did want to see Mother.
Mother wouldn't want to see Jon though. Through the haze, he'd understood that much.
"I, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, stand before you now on the brink of victory. I will free the oppressed, overthrow those who think themselves your master…"
Drogon huffed, tilting his head as Mother spoke. That was the worst thing. She looked like mother and sounded like her, but something had corrupted her. She wasn't the same – she wasn't her. Since arriving here the pull had vanished. Maybe the demon had got what it wanted.
"My army is not what it was, but what is an army worth when it is disloyal? You've heard these Red Priests – they believe Tyrion Lannister to be Azor Ahai – a man whose every action is for his own benefit," said Mother. Her voice used to be softer. Kinder. Now it sounded hollow. "I will take the Iron Throne my way, the way a Queen should – with fire and blood. Stand with me and take your place in the new kingdom I will build. Oppose me, and you will burn…"
Drogon shuffled on the edge, leaning his head closer to Mother. It seemed to please her, but not the others. He could smell their fear. Only a few didn't have that scent around him. Jon was one of them. There'd been others too but they were gone. Even the little man had smelled like fear the last time he saw him.
He pulled his head back, turning his attention to Jon. He looked sad as he watched Mother too. Drogon was glad Jon was here. Mother used to be happy when she was with him, until the end anyway. Jon glanced up at him, no hint of fear on his face, even after what he did to him on the way here. It was the best way, he'd thought. Better to see Mother alone. Did Jon understand?
"Drogon!" called Mother, her eyes blazing. "Today, we take what is ours. Avenge my death – burn the traitor, Jon Snow…"
No. She didn't mean that.
"Dracarys!"
Everyone was afraid. The smell of their fear was overpowering enough to be unpleasant. No one bothered him in the cold place. There was so much space and peace. He'd almost forgotten the smell of fear. Jon didn't like it when he burned people. He remembered Jon telling him so on the way to the cold place.
"I know what you've done for Daenerys, but not anymore. These people are innocent, and we have a duty to protect them…"
"Dracarys!" shouted Mother, her sharp voice breaking through the silence. "Burn him!"
Jon lifted his chin, watching Drogon. "You don't have to do this. You have a choice, Drogon."
"No, he doesn't – I am the mother of dragons. If I tell Drogon to burn them all, he will burn them all."
Drogon shifted his weight, unleashing another noxious wave of fear from the crowd. They were terrified, but so was he. Mother had asked him to burn many, but they were usually attacking him and his brothers too. He didn't want to burn the people, though it would get rid of the smell…
"Drogon, dracarys!" Mother didn't look sad or worried like she did sometimes, she looked furious. It's not really Mother.
Jon wasn't paying her any attention anymore, all his focus was on him. "Don't do it. You'll burn us today and someone else tomorrow – it will never stop."
Drogon whined, backing closer to the edge of the ledge. Burning people never bothered him before – it pleased Mother and fed him and his brothers. Now it was different. The bond with Mother was different. She wanted to burn Jon, but he smelled like a dragon too. The scent was so familiar. Not as strong with him as with Mother, but it was there.
He looked between them, shaking his head as heat rumbled in the back of his throat. Mother looked pleased. Jon looked sad.
When the flames left his mouth, no one was sadder than Drogon. He cried when the flames died down, the sound shaking the cursed rock.
Shuffling drew his attention downwards. Sad eyes met his in mutual grief.
"You did the right thing," said Jon.
Drogon roared bitterly, his eyes lingering on the ashes where Mother had been.
Sansa wasn't sure what to do with herself after Tyrion left. It hadn't taken long for the haze to disappear and fear to claw its way into her mind. What had she done? Kissing Tyrion was one thing, but she'd draped herself over him like a wanton whore.
Heat rushed to her cheeks at the thought of what she'd done – and what she'd almost done.
Going to the Godswood didn't seem right considering her behaviour, nor did she have any desire to run into the lords in her castle. In the end, she settled on needlework, but even the familiar rhythm of that didn't settle her.
Gods, what must Tyrion think of her? She can't say 'I love you' to his face, but she can stroke his cock through his breeches?
Sansa sank into her armchair, setting her needlework project aside. She couldn't even look at the chaise. It was only supposed to be a kiss. Something to reassure Tyrion of his place in their home and cheer him. Sansa hadn't anticipated how quickly desire would take over. Tyrion was an excellent kisser, and well, she'd craved more. Even if she wasn't entirely sure what more she wanted from him. The feeling was new and it was terrifying. It far outweighed the childish love she'd once been blinded by, but her only experience of physical love had been with Ramsay, and it was an abusive nightmare that still haunted her.
Tyrion wasn't like that. He was kind and gentle and strong, and his touch only made her want more and not less. She bit her lip, replaying what she'd done. Tyrion had followed her lead. He'd been a perfect gentleman, not urging her on or rejecting her. The freedom was intoxicating, and she'd be lying if she said she regretted it. Running her hand through his hair and over his back and shoulders was thrilling – almost as exciting as when his feather-light touch drifted across her back and sides. Despite how close they were getting, Sansa was still surprised to feel something poke against her stomach.
Embarrassed, Tyrion had started to apologise but there was no need. Far from awakening her anxieties, the sight had emboldened her. A hint of earlier warmth flared in her lower stomach and Sansa wrapped her arms around herself, groaning.
Tyrion must think her behaviour maddening, but he didn't know the half of it. In the throes of desire, she'd almost led them down a path that couldn't be unwalked. Loving Tyrion wasn't a question, but what to do about it had plagued her with increasing frequency. The problem almost disappeared completely this afternoon. All she would have had to do was unlace his breeches, pull her skirts aside and invite him in. Instinct would have taken over for him, surely? For all his admirable control, Tyrion's eyes had been as hazy with desire as hers. It had been so tempting to lie back on the chaise and let him claim her as she wished he'd done in Kings Landing years ago. It was a foolish wish – she hadn't been ready then – but she dearly wished Tyrion had been her first experience of intimacy. He'd have been kind; he wouldn't have hurt her.
Sansa had teetered on the edge of that choice as they kissed and explored each other. All the pressure and anxiety would be gone. All she had to do was let Tyrion go through the act and he would be hers forever. There would be no talk of her marrying anyone else, and Tyrion would never need to question his place in their home. The marriage would be consummated. Tyrion would truly become Prince Consort.
In the end, she'd pulled back. Marrying her wasn't just a matter of love, it would compel Tyrion into active duty in Winterfell. He would gain more titles than just husband, and he would be locked into his responsibilities to the North; the politics, a lordship, to be Prince Consort – to father heirs to the Northern throne.
If Sansa had continued, she would now have a husband in every sense of the word. But when the haze of desire wore off, Tyrion would be faced with so much responsibility – would he regret it? That thought had sobered her enough to withdraw from Tyrion, rosy-cheeked and embarrassed at her behaviour. Of course, Tyrion had been perfectly sweet about it. He'd made several jokes she couldn't recall but had made her laugh at the time. He'd lingered long enough that Sansa didn't feel she'd scared him off and when he did leave, he'd kissed her cheek and promised to see her at dinner.
Seven hells – how was she supposed to look him in the eye at dinner? Or even sit next to him without her face glowing red hot?
Time moved on without a plan formulating. If anything, Sansa just became more anxious to face Tyrion. Did he think her cruel for leading him along only to end things so abruptly?
It was well past the time Sansa usually left for the Great Hall when she finally moved from her chambers. The guards in the corridor both watched her with concern, but neither commented on her break in routine. Usually, she liked to get there in good time to devote some energy to each of the lords at her table, as her father had always done.
Not tonight. She would be lucky to make it before the food was brought out.
The table was already alive with conversation when she entered the Great Hall. She recognised lord Manderly's chortle and lord Broome's sharp tone that she'd come to realise was the only tone he had. A wave of nausea rolled through Sansa, as if everyone at the table somehow knew what she'd almost done. It was ridiculous – her mother had surely spent many nights with her husband and continued on as if nothing had transpired between them. There was no need for her to be so anxious about something that had come to nothing.
To Sansa's surprise, Tyrion was chatting with a couple of Northern lords as she approached the table. While his confidence had improved tremendously over the course of his recovery, he was still very introverted in company that wasn't his usual circle of people. The sight warmed her heart, but not as much as Tyrion's smile when he saw her.
"Your Grace," he said inclining his head, as the rest of the table echoed the greeting.
"Apologies for my tardiness, my lords. I fear I got caught up in my work."
Bronn snorted. "I never have that problem."
"You would need to do work for it to be a problem," said Varys.
Jeyne Lydden cleared her throat, grasping for attention. "I'm sure lord Tyrion works tirelessly – he always looks like he does nothing else. Even injured!"
Tyrion flushed, while Sansa could only roll her eyes at the clumsy attempt at a compliment. It appeared Jeyne hadn't yet gotten over her sudden infatuation with Tyrion and his heroics. The rest of the table shared her quiet bemusement but Jeyne remained committed, sitting tall and daring anyone to disagree. Naturally, Bronn took the challenge.
"Aye, it must be tiring sitting on your arse all day. I'm pretty sure the Queen gave him enough sympathy for the cut on his head sweetheart, so you might want to take a break."
"I disagree," said Tyrion, sipping his wine. "My Queen's orders to rest are difficult, but I manage. You've no need to be jealous either – I'm sure someone will fuss over your sore back for you."
Bronn laughed along with the table and Jeyne was quickly forgotten as the conversation moved on. Sansa glanced at the deflated girl at the end of the table, before leaning close to Tyrion's ear.
"I think you have an admirer still," she said.
"Haven't the Gods punished me enough?"
"It's harmless infatuation," said Sansa. She linked her arm through his, tugging him closer. It was hardly appropriate for a lady at dinner, but she was a Queen. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable earlier."
"Quite the opposite." He smiled. "Are you alright? I worried when you were late."
"I'm fine."
"Lord Tyrion!" called Jeyne, waving to get his attention.
He groaned beside her, grumbling. "Can't you banish her?"
Sansa patted his arm. "You'll survive. Just remember one thing."
"What's that?"
She kissed his cheek, a thrill going through her. "You're all mine."
Bran didn't understand until he and his body were both in the Godswood. Of course, he'd came here searching for solutions while trapped in the between world. Even Ser Davos had thought to come here to try and communicate with him. It wasn't until he was here with his body that things made sense.
Samwell and Ser Davos had propped his body against the Heart Tree and had since alternated between silence and discussing what might happen if this failed.
Bran ignored them, standing in front of his body. He looked terrible. His face was pale and sunken with burns creeping up one side of his neck to his jaw. The worst of the burns was his hand and arm, currently covered by the blankets Sam had brought. The three-eyed raven cared not for looks, though Bran was pleased his face didn't resemble the Hound.
This was it. His only chance to rejoin his body. It should have occurred to him when he got between Pod and the shadow monster. For the moment the blade struck him he was visible – the power of the Old Gods and the Lord of Light met, though it wasn't enough to shatter the invisible chains that had bound him these past weeks. To do that, the power of the Gods needed to meet where they'd already met – on his body.
Bran grimaced at his inability to speak to Sam and Ser Davos. This would be safer if he could tell them what he needed to do – what was about to happen. For a moment, Bran let himself enjoy the sensation of standing. It was a feeling he would only ever have again through the Raven's eyes.
Stepping past his body, Bran saw what he needed and committed to memory. There was only one chance to get this right. He glanced back at Samwell and Ser Davos, who were debating once again whether there was any point to this. Turning away from them, Bran grasped for the feeling of his third eye – of flying – and then he stepped into the Heart Tree.
The tree welcomed him, sensing the power of the old Gods, but it was all-consuming to be within the tree. This was more powerful than him. It would destroy him if he lost focus.
Bran couldn't describe exactly what happened within the Heart Tree. It was a sense of being everything and nothing. The sudden formlessness struck a chord of fear him, but whether it was him or the Three-eyed Raven, as soon as he grasped onto the form of the tree he drove his will into the single low branch he'd identified. One moment he was nothing, and then he was the branch – thin and flexible – shooting away from the trunk and towards the patch of burns on the side of Bran Stark's neck.
Bran remembered the jolt of the impact, he remembered the gush of blood and the cries of his allies, and then he knew nothing.
Jon wanted to disappear. If he could walk night and day to the Wall and the true North beyond it, he would do so without complaint. War, politics, death – he'd had enough for both his first and second lifetime.
The sun rose lazily to warm their backs as they left Dragonstone for Kings Landing. Someone had found a horse for him and every jolt sent a sharp ache through his battered body. Arya was seated on a horse along from him and a few of the senior Red Priests were also riding, but the majority were walking. Jon didn't care what the rest of them did, as long as they left him be.
Yesterday, Jon had discovered Daenerys lived again, only to lose her hours later.
It wasn't really her; that was the only comfort he could take from her death. Where Daenerys had began the descent into madness before he was forced to kill her, the woman who'd met him on Dragonstone was a hollow husk in comparison. It was as if all the redeeming parts of her soul had been scraped away and the gaps filled with poison instead.
Jon turned his gaze to the sky as a dark shape passed over them. Drogon. The dragon was the only one who shared in Jon's sense of loss – and his desire to leave Dragonstone. At least Jon was satisfied that Drogon was no longer under a dark influence. It had taken some persuasion to get the truth from Kinvara, but the charred remains of Daenerys Targaryen were an excellent motivator.
"How did you control Drogon?" asked Arya, wearing her own face once again. Needle was in her hand as they faced the Red Priests in the throne room.
"We didn't control him," she said, "we merely guided what was already there."
Kinvara and her Red Priests had taken control of the crowd after Daenerys died a second time. Rather than descend on Jon and rip him to shreds, Kinvara had called for a meeting with him instead.
Jon didn't care what the Red Priests wanted, he only needed clear answers. "Explain, now!"
Kinvara sighed. "Daenerys already had a connection with Drogon. I won't pretend to understand dragons, but we prayed to R'hllor to strengthen the bond. Some of our finest priests focused night and day on building the body and making use of it. The bond is what drew Drogon to Dragonstone."
"You tried to draw him from the North," said Arya.
"Yes, but he was beyond our lord's reach. The North clings to the old Gods of the forest."
Jon rubbed his face, his head throbbing painfully. Despite repeated reminders to speak plainly, Kinvara and the Red Priests had barely managed a sentence without praising their lord. By the time a deal had been reached, Jon could have fallen asleep in the throne room. After some hours of rest, they'd set out for Kings Landing at first light, as was their deal.
"You're responsible for the attack on Bran," said Jon.
"We worked to the benefit of Daenerys Targaryen – who we believed to be Azor Ahai."
Arya's grey eyes were cold and unforgiving. "You hurt my brother, all in the name of a madwoman who should have stayed dead. And now your promised prince is someone else entirely. You know your Azor Ahai almost died because of Daenerys and Cersei. Two monsters you brought back to life…"
It had taken some persuasion to get Arya's agreement to this temporary truce. The Red Priests wanted to see Tyrion, and while Jon had no intention of letting them near the North they'd agreed on Kings Landing. This was for the King to sort out, not him.
Kinvara had reluctantly admitted to the plots against Bran. Like with Drogon, they'd called on the Red God to interfere with the Old Gods. It worried Jon how much power the Red Priests seemed to wield, but didn't Bran wield as much through the three-eyed raven?
"Do you think Bran is ok?" called Arya.
"I don't know," said Jon. He led his horse closer to hers, wincing at the bouncing of the horse. "They say there is Red Priests in Kings Landing, keeping the barrier active that's interfering with Bran's power. If Bran's not found a way back when we get there, we'll make them find a way."
"If I don't kill them all first."
"Arya-"
"No." She glanced sideways at him. "They confessed to you because Drogon is yours and they fear him. You heard everything they've done – if left to them Drogon would have burned Westeros to the ground, Bran would be dead and so would Sansa."
"They say Sansa is fine-"
"They say? Wonderful. We left Sansa under defended in Winterfell to help Bran, and these bastards were working with the Westerlands to overthrow Tyrion. We can't let them near Winterfell."
"We won't."
Arya led her horse ahead and Jon was left to his own company. Drogon had followed them when they set out, and seemed almost offended that Jon hadn't tried to ride him. It was better this way, for now. Perhaps in Kings Landing he could let go of some worry and sort through the storm in his head.
Three days. That was how long it took for Bran to readjust to being in his body. His memory of the first day was a hazy mess. After weeks of living as a literal ghost, the solidness of a body was impossibly heavy, particularly a body as limited as his. That was without considering the blinding pain that accompanied the return to his body.
According to Sam and Ser Davos he convulsed on the ground, with bloody froth foaming at his mouth. They'd seen the branch pierce his neck – they thought he was dying.
Bran didn't remember anything after that moment when the branch bit into his body. The burns on his arm and neck from the fire in his chambers had started to smoke by the time they got him back into the Red Keep. The once-healing burns now felt fresh and raw, but Bran was taking it as a good sign. The power of the Old Gods had burned out whatever dark force lingered in the burns. Bran knew the Old Gods were brutal, but so was the lord of Light. Perhaps all Gods were. Varys was rightly wary of the Red God and his followers. Far from simply being devout followers, too many of the High Priests had a peculiar affinity with fire.
Kinvara confessed that the man sent to kill him those months ago was chosen because of his peculiar gifts. Dark, some of the other Red Priests grumbled, yet they'd been happy enough to use him to kill a King.
It would be a lie to say Bran didn't feel like he'd lost something by returning to his body. The wheelchair seemed more restrictive than ever and he could do without the throbbing ache in his neck. Samwell thought it was a miracle the branch hadn't killed him when it entered the burns on his neck, but Bran knew it was by design. While Bran had conceived the plan, he knew the Old Gods had played a part too – they didn't want him dead yet. The three-eyed raven served a purpose. Finding another to serve that purpose for them would be inconvenient.
Being back in his body wasn't all bad. He was no longer invisible and could speak to his allies. The three-eyed raven wouldn't admit it, but Bran Stark was pleased by the reaction of his allies – it was nice to be missed. Jon and Arya were here too, which brought him to the current problem.
"We should hang them all from the castle walls," said Arya, leaning back in her chair. "Vicious bastards nearly killed you, attacked Winterfell and now they want mercy?"
"Sansa and Tyrion are fine, I promise," said Bran. His mouth twitched upwards. "I've seen what happened. Tyrion killed Cersei with a flaming sword."
"So he is Azor Ahai?" asked Jon.
"Who are we to say? It was foretold Azor Ahai would return and vanquish the great darkness with a burning sword." He shrugged. "Why not Tyrion?"
It was an answer that confused him as much as his siblings. Tyrion wasn't born amid smoke and salt – it was a prophecy that appeared to suit Targaryens rather than Lannisters.
On the second day back in his body, he was more lucid. The wound in his neck had been stitched closed by Samwell and after much prodding at the strange wound, the group of Maesters agreed he probably wouldn't die. Bran was reluctant to leave his body so soon, but curiosity tugged at him – he had to know. That was when he flew. Through the raven's eyes, he was able to see the North and the Westerlands clearly again. He saw what happened the night Cersei launched her attack and how it ended. Tyrion certainly hadn't seemed like Azor Ahai – he'd looked nervous and angry and desperate to protect Sansa.
"Stop avoiding the question Bran," said Arya, drawing him from his musings. "What are you going to do about the Red Priests?"
Bran sighed – he had missed Arya and her bluntness. "It won't be a problem. I will banish them to Essos, and they will leave."
"Why would they do that when they think Azor Ahai is in the North?"
"Because Kinvara and her senior priests would rather it not be Tyrion Lannister."
Jon frowned. "They announced it on Dragonstone. She said they'd all seen it in the flames."
"Yes, many of them did see Tyrion with the sword in the flames. Kinvara had no choice but to acknowledge it. I spoke to her earlier and there were concerns about Daenerys at Dragonstone. Some of the Red Priests had begun to fear what they'd brought back, particularly when Drogon joined her. Many of their followers had seen Tyrion in the flames and believed him to be Azor Ahai. The suggestion of marriage between Tyrion and Daenerys was to appease those whose loyalty had switched to Tyrion and those who still believed Daenerys to be the Prince that was Promised."
"They saw Tyrion in the flames but he's not good enough for them, is he?" asked Arya, crossing her arms.
It was nice to see Arya had accepted Tyrion as family enough to be offended on his behalf. "Essentially, yes. Daenerys Targaryen – mother of dragons, breaker of chains –was their preferred choice. Jon would have been a good option too, but Tyrion isn't the image they want associated with their God, or the legend of Azor Ahai."
"He's the one with the burning sword who vanquished the darkness, but he doesn't suit the powerful image they want so they will scurry back to Essos and pretend this didn't happen."
Bran nodded, wincing as the wound on his neck pulled. "Kinvara and the High Priests will try and spin this as a misinterpretation of the flames. They'll convince their followers that Tyrion isn't Azor Ahai, but for a moment was blessed with by the Lord of Light to destroy Cersei."
"That's not right-" started Arya.
"Do you really think Tyrion wants to be the Prince that was Promised?" asked Jon. "He won't want any part of this – it's better this way."
Arya didn't answer, but Bran could tell from the slump of her shoulders that she knew Jon was right.
"The Red Priests will leave immediately, after signing an agreement that they and their followers will never again interfere in the politics of Westeros, and the High Priests will never return," said Bran.
"You think they'll keep to that?" asked Jon.
"For a time. This has humiliated them and threatened to damage the powerful image of their God. I doubt they'll return to Westeros in either of your lifetimes."
"Fine," said Arya, though it clearly pained her. "What about the Westerlands? I assume you heard the same from Kinvara as we did. The rooster and the badger have been plotting, brother."
Bran grimaced. He'd heard more than enough about what lord Lydden and Ser Harys had been doing. Yesterday he'd asked Samwell to go through the correspondence that had piled up in his absence. A letter from Varys confirmed the main details and through the raven's eyes he'd seen it himself.
"I'm aware of the situation, but it will be for the lord of Casterly Rock to deal with his bannermen."
Jon tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. "Have you not read Tyrion's letter yet?"
"Yes, I have. I'll accept his request when he has delivered justice to those who sought to usurp him, and named a suitable successor."
"Bran-" started Jon.
"It's for Tyrion to handle as he sees fit," said Bran. He laced his hands in his lap, tiredness creeping through his weakened body. "Besides, lord Lydden and Ser Harys already ride for Winterfell."
Arya swore, moving swiftly to her feet. "Why in the seven hells are they going there?"
"To answer the lord of Casterly Rock's summons. They've decided to ride to face him, rather than be brought before him. They'll arrive within two weeks, I suspect."
It had been a peaceful couple of days. Peaceful enough that Tyrion should have known it wouldn't last.
"So lord Lydden is coming here?" he asked.
"I've had word from the Vale that he and Ser Harys are travelling here with a host of lords from the Westerlands," said Sansa.
"As prisoners?"
She bit her lip. "It appears they've come of their own choice."
"Ah, so they'll plead their case and try to discredit me. Lovely."
"Everyone in Winterfell knows what happened, and you are lord of Casterly Rock – your word reigns."
It was far from ideal. Tyrion would have much rather they been caught fleeing and brought as prisoners. To come themselves meant nothing good. They would question his capacity, no doubt. Lord Broome would side with him, at least as would the Lannister guards. It was the other lords of the West who concerned him. Were they coming in defence of lord Lydden or to see how things stood?
"Don't worry about it too much," said Sansa, squeezing his hand. "We've got nearly two weeks before they arrive – there's plenty of time to plan. You're not alone either, I'll help as much as you want."
"Please," he said. "Though I am sorry to trouble you at all with this. You've more than enough to deal with in the North."
Sansa rolled her eyes. "What did I tell you? We can solve our problems together."
"I would like that."
He leaned against Sansa, a thrill going through him when she did the same. He wasn't sure what prompted Sansa to change the chairs on her balcony for a chaise, but he couldn't deny the benefits. The night was quiet and stars lit the otherwise dark northern sky. Tyrion didn't want the lords of the West to come here and disrupt this life with Sansa.
They sat like that for a while, with Tyrion soaking up Sansa's company until he had the courage to put his thoughts into words.
"Uhlan's offer." He swallowed. "What do you think?"
The queen pursed her lips. "I think it's worth considering. It might not be the option you want, but it could be the only option you have if you want to do something about the tattoos. There's certainly no one in Westeros who can do what he does."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"You're considering it?"
Tyrion wasn't sure that was the right word. It was more like being plagued by it. He'd seen Uhlan twice in the corridors since their meeting and while the man moved to greet him each time, Tyrion found himself hurrying away. It was pathetic – Uhlan had travelled all this way to offer his help but Tyrion struggled to comprehend the idea of willingly getting more tattoos. Sansa was right though. This was a single chance and if he didn't take it now he'd likely never get another.
"I have to do it, don't I?"
Sansa shook her head. "You don't have to do anything."
"I do. I can't spend the rest of my life getting dressed and bathing with my eyes closed."
To Sansa's credit, she had offered her opinions on the situation without pressuring him to make a choice. It would be entirely on him what he decided.
He sighed. "I'll do it."
Sansa's eyes brightened, watching him warmly. "Shall I tell Uhlan?"
"If you would."
"I think you'll feel better about yourself when it's done."
"There are two chances."
Sansa kissed his cheek before nestling her head on his shoulder. "You're very brave, and I'll be there too. I know how hard this choice is for you – you're not alone."
He nodded, his throat tightening. "Thank you, Sansa."
Tyrion had struggled with the choice for days but now he'd committed to it he wasn't sure if he felt better or worse. There was time to try and get used to the idea. Uhlan had said he wouldn't do it until his injuries completely healed and that would take a couple of weeks given the extensive bruising and his ribs.
Everything was happening at once. The lords of the West would arrive and he would willingly subject himself to the procedure that had brought him such shame.
Pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind, Tyrion tried to focus on the present. On the stillness of the North and Sansa's soft red hair tickling his face.