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Chapter Text

Sansa, on rare occasions, can paint her words with amusement and her eyes sometimes gleam in mirth; but her mouth remains tied up, heart-shaped, red lips sealing her truths and joys like a grave. Sometimes the blue her mother gave her threatens to spill over her face in a burst of grief, and Tyrion is waiting — everyone is waiting — for her to break down. Everyone knows, by now, about her: the girl who saw her father die, who was beaten by grown, armed men before the court, who was forced to marry the Imp, who lived under a bastard's skin for more than a year, who killed Petyr Baelish. When she first entered the broken walls of Winterfell, they all thought: at some point she must start screaming and throwing things in other people's faces and no one shall blame her; she must go mad, even if just for one day. She earned it.

But she never did. She remained stable like a cornerstone, keeping the household in order and trying to feed everyone, attending to the Great Hall every day and listening beside the rightful Lord of Winterfell, Rickon, making all the little and big decisions as his Regent; trying to teach him every day how to be a proper lord, which seems her most arduous task. The servants are scarce and sometimes she is the one to go to Winter Town herself, Brienne loyally at her side. Arya works with the masons to rebuild the ruins of their home. Tyrion helps, when the younger one lets him.

He is pretty sure the only reason Sansa asked for him to come North with her was so she could keep refusing the letters asking for her hand in marriage, piling atop her work table. He is also pretty sure Daenerys granted it because, gods above, there is no parallel to how the hardness of steel and the weariness of a crone mix up in Sansa's face and courteous words, a girl with burdens and sorrows for a lifetime; it is hard to deny her anything.

Still, no one dares to call her Lady Lannister. She is milady, Lady Sansa, Lady Stark. Tyrion calls her wife, and my lady, because her name — Sansa, only Sansa — burns his tongue.

Sansa won't let anyone pity her — it is impossible with so much coldness in her gaze, the certainty of her orders — but at the end of the day in their chambers, far from sight, her shoulders drop in tiredness while she settles in front of the fireplace. He brings her favorite tea — chamomile, at night — and their fingers brush when she takes the cup. "Thank you, my lord," she whispers gently. Their marriage is not a song, but it isn't anymore the nightmare that it once was and both of them are content with it, because winter is here, and one must keep their heads low. Sometimes he reads to her. Sometimes she sews while he works. Sometimes they stay silent by the window and do nothing as the snow falls and covers her home white. She doesn't smile, but Tyrion knows she likes the view — her eyes get somehow brighter, the lines of worry fading from her brow.

The first time Tyrion sees it, they've been married again for three moons and it is not for him: Rickon brings her a winter flower after being particularly wild one day. The petals are not quite Tully blue — more like royal blue, a beautiful shade, dark and deep. And then it happens — after her initial surprise, a careful, slow smile opens her lips — with teeth and all, reaching her eyes and melting the ice that freezes them like a winter's curse. She pats his hair and pulls him to a hug. "Thank you so much, Rick. I love it."

It is so breathtakingly beautiful that somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, he feels an ache. And he thinks, in a mad, romantic moment, that all around them — walls of gray stones, food coming in from winter town; horses; maids and servants and builders; snow, earth, daily life, war, death — this is all context, this is all secondary.

That smile. That is the important thing.

(Sansa wears the flower in her hair, tucked behind her ear, during dinner; after they retire that night, she uses it as a page mark to her book. Winter is here, and there is no other available way to collect flowers).

Chapter Text

They say
there is a rift in the human soul
which was not constructed to belong
entirely to life. Earth

asks us to deny this rift, a threat
disguised as suggestion—

(...)

When death confronts her, she has never seen
the meadow without the daisies.
Suddenly she is no longer
singing her maidenly songs
about her mother’s
beauty and fecundity. Where
the rift is, the break is.

"Persephone the Wanderer," Louise Glück

The thing about her is—

Sansa is not a stupid girl. She has never been, even as a child, no matter how much they tried to make her believe that; but now, she can read people as easily as open books. She knows what they are thinking and expecting and planning. It's like a gift in reverse.

When all the wars are over, and the major concern is not so much survival against an army of dead men, but rather survival against the old, familiar and equally lethal cold of the North, under a winter that refuses to give in —death, Sansa knows, is a headstrong, obstinate thing— she is looking at what is left of Winterfell's household, and they're all waiting for her orders. She judges them dysfunctional; she judges herself not ready. But no one ever asked her if she were ready, and these men and women won't either. They look at her and see her mother, and for a moment Sansa wonders if Baelish will ever truly leave this place so close to her heart someday (In a better world, you might have been mine, not Eddard Stark's, he'd said, but she is his, too, in a terrible way; and she hates it. She hates how much he mattered. She hates she had to swing the sword, or rather the knife which killed him, and how his last words haunt her worst nightmares: I see you are Ned's daughter, after all, sweetling. I'm very sorry about that.)

Unfortunately, Sansa is not Catelyn Stark. She is an amalgam of every woman she'd ever met, the good and the bad. She is Cersei and Catelyn and Alayne (because Alayne is, in fact, other woman); she's a little bit of Myranda and a part of her is Arya and another is Jeyne. (There's her men, too; but she doesn't like to think about them. Ned's voice is vanishing from her memory, while Petyr's is still clear. She follows her true father's steps through his silence, his absence. Ned is in her blood rather than in her mind. She loves him wordlessly, but at least it is working.) And above all, she knows how it is to be like Winterfell: broken, violated, burned to the ground but somehow still stand. Everything around her is an echo from somewhere inside. And so, Sansa steels her spine. Like a lady — maybe like Catelyn did; maybe all that is left of her mother is this involuntary reflex, of being the strong one during war and loss, but she couldn't know — she says her welcomes, and starts guiding them through the rebuilding.

(She keeps her distance from the crypt's door, nonetheless.)

She shares a bed with Arya one night, and they're not quite tangled in each other but it is close enough. "It doesn't feel like home," her sister confesses, and Sansa thinks they are too young for this.

"Not yet," she murmurs, like a promise. "But it will."

*

(I am not certain I will
keep this word: is earth
"home" to Persephone? Is she at home, conceivable,
in the bed of the god? Is she
at home nowhere? Is she
a born wanderer, in other words
an existential
replica of her own mother, less
hamstrung by ideas of causality?)

*

The first time they've met again was in King's Landing, where Sansa was summoned up to officially kneel before Daenerys Targaryen in Rickon's name. She was given a wide chamber, windows placed West, and the setting sun painted everything around her a lovely pink, with orange shadows. It was almost warm in the South, even during winter. Her skin was fresh right after a bath, and the clouds were sparse in the twilight sky. Her maids had just left, and she sat alone on the chair before the dressing table, watching her reflection framed by an oval mirror: her hair fell loose, still damp, and the roots were red – down until the level of her shoulders, but from that point on it was still dark-brown. And Sansa never discovered what, exactly, triggered it: but she looked at her own eyes — Tully eyes — and remembered being eleven and scared for her life; remembered being eleven and lost and grieving and longing for rescue. Remembered is not quite the word: she remembered, of course, since she first entered the city's gate, but at that moment, bathed in sunset light, she suddenly felt it with overwhelming intensity. She was in the same Red Keep, there was armed, savage men serving a Queen down the stairs, in the same room they stripped her off to the skin, and she needed to run from that place, from all those liars — until she looked at her own dark hair. Why, sweetling. You're a liar, too.

And so, Sansa searched among her dresses for the knife Petyr gave her, came back to face the mirror, and stared at her mother's eyes while she begun to hack off the strands of Alayne's hair in ragged, uneven slashes. She didn't notice when her eyes begun to swell; nor when her husband entered the room. (She remembers blood in her palm, but can't remember the pain.) In a second she was alone and in the following, she wasn't: he was right there, his familiar voice — low and deep — sounding concerned, "My lady? What are you—"

(This picture will never leave her mind: her own terrified face, and his ugly one right behind her; worry coloring his black eye, kindness overflowing from the green; a tentative hand hovering above her shoulder but never really touching her. There's a little part of her that is still waiting for that specific touch, as if he had just made a debt, somehow. But that is a silly thought. Sansa casts it away every time he hands her a cup of tea and accidentally bumps his hand against hers.)

She barely acknowledged his presence, back then, but she also hadn't seen him in years and his unmistakable face somehow anchored her back to reality. She didn't think of him as her husband, nor as her captor; neither enemy nor friend. She spoke to him as ghosts spoke to humans, in stories — trying to be real, trying to be flesh and bone. "I need to get rid of this," she interrupted. Could have been done earlier, but she'd been avoiding too much time in front of mirrors.

He'd looked to the floor, to the pieces of her past spreading out in a mess around her. And in a unexpected demonstration of wisdom, he made no questions; he merely reached out one hand to grab hers, took the knife from her. Her numb body didn't reject the touch, but didn't really notice it, either. "Alright. So we must."

She didn't fight him, but hated his patronizing tone. I'm not mad, she'd thought. "This is not my hair. It is not mine," she explained, looking him in the eye through the mirror.

"Indeed, it isn't," he didn't look away. "You're a redhead. I remember." (Like your mother, he never voiced, but she heard it.) She felt a wetness in her lips, but it was a distant, irrelevant perception. "Let me help you with this, my lady."

Sansa is still not sure about the precise moment she begun to plan this, to remain married to Tyrion Lannister – it was an idea built on hopes of stability, not love, during sleepless nights at the Eyrie – but in her heart of hearts, she knows what decided it: his silence as he cut off one more part of Alayne from her (neither the first nor the last part), before he could greet her as Lady Stark, before they could exchange a proper word; outside the impersonal zone of her courtesies and his constant japes. For all the bad blood, the war, the anger and hurt between them, Tyrion — misshapen and covered in scars, noisy and loud, witty and bitter: impossible to hide, impossible to miss, impossible to ignore — did nothing but remind her, for better or for worse, how she was still there.

*

(All the different nouns—

she says them in rotation.
Death, husband, god, stranger.
Everything sounds so simple, so conventional.
I must have been, she thinks, a simple girl.)

*

Sansa is not a stupid girl. She knows people. She knows her people best.

When she goes South and comes back with the Imp, she knows what they are thinking.

She ignores their icy stares and calls for Podrick, who at least won't kill her husband in the meantime. "Please, make sure there is a hot bath waiting for him," she gives Tyrion one last quick glare before her attention comes back to the attendant. They barely spoke on their way here. The air between them seemed rarefied every time they got too close; he makes her feel breathless in the worst sense of the word. "Assist him and carry his belongings upstairs."

Only when he and Podrick disappear from her view she turns around, crossing her arms before her body to stare at the rest of the household present in the Great Hall. I need to speak with Arya, she realizes. One of the perks of being in Winterfell again is that northerners never cared about the useless courtesies that were so valued at the capital. She doesn't need to pretend so much, here, so – "We've been married for years now. You all knew it," she states in a flat tone, raising her chin.

"A mummer's farce. He is a Lannister and a kinslayer," the man says, unkindly.

"I'm sorry, my lord. I didn't know you were still mourning Tywin's death." She narrows her eyes and when he starts to protest, she continues. "I appreciate your loyalty, I truly do. But Lord Tyrion tried to –" the words are caught in her throat and she has to look up for a minute, away from their faces. "He tried to protect me," she resumes, in a tone that says too well that it wasn't enough. "He is willing to help us to rebuild the North. He brought people, and gold, and we need all the help we can get. We can't refuse."

"My lady –"

"He is my husband and he is staying." She takes her gloves off and takes a deep breath. "And I mean alive, of course. Now, where is my sister?"

*

(My soul
shattered with the strain
of trying to belong to earth—
What will you do,

when it is your turn in the field with the god?)

*

Tyrion closes his book and gets up from his chair beside her. "I'll retire to bed, my lady, if you will excuse me."

She peeks at the candle wax and frowns in confusion. "So soon?"

"Yes. We leave at dawn." And, when she frowns deeper, he completes: "To White Harbor? I'm sure I've talked about it twice or more by now." There's a subtle note of frustration in his voice, but she appreciates his effort to hide it.

"Oh," she remembers. The first day of full moon. "Tomorrow. Of course."

He smiles a little, then, like he can't help it. Sansa is trying to learn his smiles, because there is a lot between them that goes unsaid. This one is half condescending, half charmed; she tries not to linger her thoughts on the latter, not only because there is nothing graceful in her constant distractions, but because she is afraid of —she doesn't even know. "Podrick gave me a list," he takes a piece of paper sticking out from the book's pages. "Is there anything else we need?"

We. Sansa takes the list, using the chance to watch her husband's face. He doesn't belong here, they both know it; he will always be a foreigner. But lately, it feels like everybody is. It doesn't feel like home. Not yet. "Everything you can bring is here," she shrugs. "Will you grab my purse, please, my lord?"

"No, I won't," he takes the list from her hands and hides it inside one of the pockets of the doublet laying on the back of his chair. "There is no need for that."

"My lord—"

"My lady." He answers in the same tone, and she sighs in anticipated defeat. "I've compromised my family's fortune in far less noble causes."

All the unsaid things — a Lannister always pay his debts, and I owe you, and you know it — fill up the air until she feels dizzy and inhales deeply again, hands nervously clutching each other. Of course he'd offered help for the reconstruction, but buying food was too much. It felt just a little as if he were staying for good, another topic open to discussion, since their union remains unconsummated despite the bed they've been sharing for three moons. "Thank you, my lord."

She waits for a witty remark, or some joke, but even Tyrion Lannister knows there are boundaries. He nods, murmurs "sure, sure, goodnight, my lady," and climbs up into the bed. Sansa pretends to come back to her needlework, and counts his breath until she is sure he is asleep. His nightmares, she knows now, will only come later into the night.

For now, it is a peaceful sound, and she can't help but remember, it will be home.

Chapter Text

We can do anything. It's not because
our hearts are large, they're not, it's what we
struggle with. (...) My dragonfly,
my black-eyed fire, the knives in the kitchen are singing
for blood, but we are the crossroads, my little outlaw,
and this is the map of my heart, the landscape
after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is
a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying Hold me
tight, it's getting cold. We have not touched the stars,
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back
to the hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes,
not from the absence of violence, but despite
the abundance of it.

"Snow and dirty rain," Richard Siken

If he could ignore the fishery scent of White Harbor – but keep the salty air making his skin sticky, the breeze from the sea kissing his hair – and replace it by the smell of fresh earth and wood after spring rain, maybe, it would be easier to picture sunset colors in the horizon and Lannisport around him.

Tyrion is, of course, familiar with the Narrow Sea; he spent a great part of his life in King’s Landing and a particular time of it actually crossing the damn ocean, but the Sunset Sea is the background of all his childhood memories. It is a part of him like Jaime and Cersei's noises in dark corners and behind closed doors, like the sound of Tywin's footsteps and the terrified feeling that came with it, like the Hall of Heroes and Joanna's tomb. He doesn't miss the Rock. He doesn't miss the people. But he misses the sentiment of familiarity, and he surely misses the shore, the quiet lullaby of the waves – and so, he closes his eyes and listens.

Lately, he felt like being vanished away from the surface of the earth without actually leaving it; the opposite of a ghost. His lady wife – oh, she was the ghost. Sansa was a bodiless wanderer, hovering three inches above the ground; a soul detached of things, places, people. Himself was more like their ultimate enemy: a empty, degraded body, lifeless and heartless, disintegrating but walking towards gods know where. Tyrion took it as his chance of atonement. Better men had died in the Wars, after all. Certainly survival was never meant as a prize? At some point he had to accept he was living a purgatory, and needed not to be a monster, for once, in order to leave. (In order to leave, in order to find his home.)

Tyrion tries to conjure anything that resembles the feeling of being home, and the first image that comes to his mind is one of dark curls, dark eyes; the memories profaned with the clang of silver coins.

And so, he tries to focus on the funny noises of the seagulls in the waters.

(Home: meeting Rhaegal for the first time. Home: the night before they went to the Wall, he and Jon and Dany, unable to sleep, but also unable to leave each other, watching the dawn coming on the horizon. Golden-boy Jaime, his lost hero, coming back home with a wooden toy from Lannisport when he was four.

Sansa, and auburn hair on the level of her shoulders. Sansa, and her scent – flowers, sugar-sweet and something else, something hers. Quiet nights before the fireplace, and her presence like a shadow by his side: never leaving, mute, untouchable; something in the lines of her form that could be him, that looks like him, if he searches –

The birds. Pay attention to the birds.)

"M'lord," calls Podrick Payne by his side. Tyrion winces as he approaches the boy. Their journey was long and tiring and his hips are aching. "Where are we heading now?"

All Tyrion wanted was a hot bath and a bed, but– "Nowhere. For now, we wait."

"What are we waiting for, m'lord?"

"Not what," Tyrion corrects him, trying to ignore the people's gazes. It is hard to miss a dwarf, and almost impossible to miss a noseless dwarf, but he can't know precisely the reason why they stare. The rumors about him can dance around both of his titles: kinslayer or dragonrider. The monster or the savior. No one is quite sure, himself included. "Who."

His purgatory is not the worst of places, although it is painfully monochromatic. Everything above the Neck was like that: White Harbor, for instance, was made of houses built in whitewashed stones covered in snow. The sea is grey, the sky too, even the anchored boats are some shade of white. All lands in the North looked the same to him. He tries to keep his wits and calm, in spite of the chill in his bones, and remember one afternoon silently spent beside Sansa, in her solar, while she tried to teach Rickon the names, mottoes and sigils of all their vassals. "You know House Manderly very well, better than I do," she'd said, a slender finger pointing to the eastern shore of the White Knife on the open map across her table. Her hands were made for playing the high-harp, he had thought. "Lord Manderly is a loyal friend of House Stark. That is why he took care of you."

"He said his son died on Robb's wedding," Rickon had said, "and that he was protecting me from the lions."

(Robb's wedding, he called it, even if the whole issue was that it wasn't Robb's wedding. He and Sansa stiffened their shoulders, but her youngest brother never noticed.)

And so, when Tyrion turns around and feels a pressure from three equidistant points stinging on his chest, a guard with a trident beside a big, fat, red-faced man, dressed in fine clothes – velvet doublet embroidered with golden thread and a golden trident as a pin to his mantle – he is startled and afraid as he raises his arms in surrender, but surprised? Not really; no more than the men are surprised to see him.

"I should do Lady Stark a favor and kill you right now," says the big man beside his attacker. With the corner of his eyes, Tyrion sees Podrick reaching for his sword. "Would she miss you, I wonder?"

"Don't, Pod. Here is our man." Tyrion stares calmly at Wyman Manderly's hateful eyes. "I don't know about missing me, but she will be pretty upset if I don't go back to Winterfell with her demands." He shakes the piece of paper in his raised hand, and tries to keep his voice firm and steady. "One might think that it is bad for business to threaten your guests in such a rude manner."

"I don't care about all the gold you shit, Imp."

"You mistake me, my lord. This one would be my father. A little taller, way older? But I'm afraid he is not among us any longer." And he almost smirks. Almost. "Unfortunately."

(Tyrion regrets a great amount of things. Killing Tywin is not one of them. If everyone will despise him for that, then so be it. They all loathed him before; at least now they have a proper reason.)

Lord Manderly reluctantly looks at his guard, and the man puts his trident down. "Lady Sansa sent us a letter about your arrival."

"Oh, did she," Tyrion smirks and lowers his arms. (Slowly. Just in case.) "Very thoughtful of her."

"I assume she trusts you, since you are here in her stead. But don't you ever think we do, too."

"I could never, my lord." The man reminds him of Arya, during those first weeks. Sansa accepts you, Jon likes you. That doesn't mean I trust you, Lannister. Arya and everyone else, although not everyone were brave enough to say it to his face, to spit it, Lannister. Like a curse. "And about her confidence in me, I'm just as surprised as you."

"Very well." The men begin to walk through the cobbled streets; Tyrion follows them, and Podrick follows Tyrion. "Are you here for the ships, the weapons, the whores or the food?"

"You wound me, Lord Manderly. I'm a married, faithful man, and ours are times of peace." His voice drips irony, although every word is true. Jaime used to say it was a talent. "I came for the food, as I'm sure my lady wife wrote you. And..." Both of his hands hide under his cloak. "I need a merchant from Myr."

"Myr?" Lord Manderly frowns. "They make a fine wine. Good to keep you warm."

"Maybe I'll take some with me," Tyrion smirks. "The gods know I'm in dire need of it. But I'm looking for glass panes."

They stop next to a marble statue of a mermaid, and Tyrion sees a flicker of realization in Wyman Manderly's eyes. The man smiles, then, just a little. "I see. Good glass will cost you a great deal."

"Oh, but I know." Tyrion crosses his arms, trying to keep the heat in his small body, and looks to the straight line on the horizon, beyond the waves. No sunsets. Grey. Everything here is grey. "You're talking to a Lannister, my lord."

(The lawn drowned, the sky on fire,
the gold light falling backward through the glass
of every room. I'll give you my heart to make a place
for it to happen, evidence of a love that transcends hunger.
Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars
for you? That I would take you there?)

At first, his brain registered the basics: she was prettier; older; thinner; and damn her, taller.

He knew, but not because she told him: she ran away with Littlefinger when she left him to take the fall and die, disguised as his bastard daughter in the Vale; she just came back to her abandoned, ruined home, in constant but slow process of rebuilding due to the ruthless cold of the North; she killed Petyr in a trial which took place in Winterfell, among snow and burned stones.

Her hair was dark at the tips of her long braid. It was a beautiful effect, the gradient from red to black across the plaits, but all he felt was a drop in his stomach, suddenly grateful he never saw her before the roots grew again. He didn't linger his thoughts on this; carefully tried not to see into it as he cut off the black, dry strands.

"Come back North with me," she had asked. He kept a safe distance between their arms. They never discussed the important things (where have you been, and why did you left, and can you forgive me, and did you find them, the things you were looking for), and he'd looked at her with a comma shaping one eyebrow. Her eyes never met his. He'd thought, the Rock never fell; it won't leave the West. It will be there, waiting for me. "I don't want to marry anyone else." And, after a moment of hesitation, she finally looked at his face. "Do you?"

In other mouths, with other people, it would have been a sweet declaration of love, worthy of a song. I just want you, there is no one else for me.

But they were Sansa Stark and Tyrion Lannister, and her words were just an statement of how they fought against the world, survived, but somehow life won over them. They were the defeated. They were very tired.

Still, Tyrion never understood why she had called (no more than he knew why he had accepted her worn offer).

(Here is the river, and here is the box, and here are
the monsters we put in the box to test our strength
against. Here is the cake, and here is the fork, and here's
the desire to put it inside us, and then the question
behind every question: What happens next?)

The Library Tower had burnt during the Wars, and the few remaining maps of Winterfell were old and difficult to read. So during his first week in Winterfell, Tyrion sat by Arya's side while she described the land from memory and they drew a draft of a map together (because, well, penitence). "There is the godswood, between the North's gate and the Hunter's gate. The Guards Hall, in the east, next to the Broken Tower and the First Keep. The door to the crypts. No," she harshly took the charcoal from his hands. "Here. The Armory is here, close to the middle," Arya scribbled. "The Kitchen, and the Guest House are here, and the Library Tower in between."

"I recall something there," he pointed to a blank space right above the godswood on the parchment. "From one of those old maps."

Arya winced. Almost imperceptible, but it was there. "The Glass Gardens. There are hot springs under the ground," and she shook her head quickly, as if to dismiss a dangerous thought, and continued her work, delineating thick inner walls. "We don't have money for that. Appropriated glass panels will cost more than what we can pay. Dornish glass won't do. We would have to trade it with Myr."

"We don't know how many years of winter we have ahead," he reminded her, in a practical tone, since Arya was very clearly a practical girl. "A greenhouse would surely be useful."

"It won't last long," Arya murmured. The candle burning on the table, next to their joined heads, cast shadows which made her face look dangerous. Even when she spoke low, the younger sister spoke sternly, fiercely; so different from Sansa, he had thought, who always spoke gently, even in her harder days, as if she couldn't help it. A part of him feared Arya. Truly. "The worst is over. Spring will arrive soon."

"You can't know those things, my lady."

"Don't be stupid. Of course I can." Her voice did that thing, that Stark thing – as if their blood and name were somehow linked to the land in mysterious, old ways, not only as means to an end, to food or power. As if they could feel the earth vibrating in their bodies. Telling them secrets. He felt, not for the first time, completely out of his depth and sighed.

Sansa had a list of priorities: the Kitchen first, then the Guest House. The Great Hall and the Great Keep needed fixing, but not complete rebuilding, and were enough to shelter them all. He brought the topic after supper, in their chambers, and she had looked through the open window to the black night. "For now we can trade food with the South. I wish we could rebuild it, but Arya is right. I'm afraid we can only do one thing at a time." Her voice was hollow, distant, and he suddenly felt interested in another opinion from her.

"She told me this season is coming to an end." His wife kept her eyes on the courtyard. It was terribly cold, even indoors, but the snow wasn't falling; they could still listen to people working down there, far away in the smithy. "Do you believe it?"

And then the corner of her mouth tugged up, in a curve that could be a tiny smile; he wished she hadn't done it. "I wouldn't be so sure, my lord."

He never found out if they were talking about the same subject.

Tyrion finds the Myrish trader by the fifth day of their stay in White Harbor, and it does cost a small fortune, but he closes the deal anyway. If someone is searching for glass panels from Myr in the middle of the winter, such person is in blatant despair. He says to himself he is doing it for the food, so no one will starve in this unending winter, and not as a poor endeavor to strip away that submissive sadness from Sansa's eyes, as if all she could ever hope for was coldness.

They will rebuild the goddamned gardens. They will make flowers grow in it through sheer force of will even if this is the last thing he will do in the North. He can't keep living in a world of black and white. It may be cheating, but if nothing changes he will go mad.

(I was away, I don't know where, lying on the floor,
pretending I was dead. I wanted to hurt you
but the victory is that I could not stomach it.)

He is coming back to the inn with Pod one night and sees it, an old, probably drunk man selling all sorts of artifacts and utensils, all of them piled and distributed over a purple carpet: poorly stitched clothes, gloves, dresses, bodices; broken toys; jewels missing one or two stones; used, matte wares; combs and mirrors with ivory handles; herbal oils and powders; porcelains from both Westeros and across the seas; and some secondhand books, too. He comes closer to look better at them: a book of prayers of the Seven with worn pages; a commentary on the changing of the seasons from a maester; a collection of songs and poems of the Seven Kingdoms; an economic study covering the period of Aegon I until Jaehaerys I. One of them, a chivalry romance by an author from the Reach, Tyrion recognizes, and smiles bitterly to himself. He read it as a child, some of the words still clear in his head, as they usually were with his reading materials: Lady, you wish to betray me. Shall I despise everyone? If love were not good, I would never love with refined love, but live always in hatred. Then I would be a mortal sinner, in fact worse, by the Gods, than a sneak thief; I couldn’t help sinning. I have to get out of this difficulty by one of two ways: either I love or I hate. He remembers believing it, back then – or trying very hard to, with his whole soul. (That love was worth the fall and the pain and the bleeding; that it would save him.) He doesn't know what he believes anymore; he's lost all his answers. Maybe, just maybe, the scraps of his faith, a romantic ten years old boy that refused to die under his twisted, scarred skin, took the ultimate decision when the time came and he choose to go over the Wall. Maybe today the book would serve as a good source of comedy, but as he turns the pages, he can't help but think of Sansa.

He wonders if she would find it cruel of him, as a joke; if she would find it romantic; he doesn't know, but he suddenly wants her to read it.

"A gift for your lady, m'lord?" asks the man, showing him a necklace with fake rubies.

"Rubies would not look good on my lady," he answers, and tilts his head to the side, pondering. The exemplar is old, but preserved. He takes some pennies from his pocket. "I'll have the book, though."

(I crawled out the window and ran into the woods.
I had to make up all the words myself. The way
they taste, the way they sound in the air. I passed
through the narrow gate, stumbled in, stumbled
around for a while, and stumbled back out. I made
this place for you. A place for you to love me.
If this isn't a kingdom then I don't know what is.)

All the wagons are full: barrels with dried grains, rye, wheat, oats, honeyed fruits, chestnuts and hazelnuts, salted stockfish, herrings, potted meat, trunks with clothes and fabrics. They are ready to leave, and Lord Manderly, for all his trepidation, came to bid them farewell.

"We Manderlys are very loyal to House Stark, my lord."

"I'm aware," Tyrion murmurs, trying to keep the cynicism out of his voice. He was in the man's city, after all.

"We protected our liege lord during winter. Kept him safe when–"

"Yes," Tyrion interrupts, not having any desire to hear one more story about the tragedy of his wife's family, carefully avoiding the vague feeling of guilt and responsibility and, therefore, the absurdity and utter lack of meaning of their marriage. "I know."

"And we are very fond of lady Sansa." Lord Manderly narrows his already small eyes. "A good lady, she is. Suffered enough."

Tyrion remembers the throne room, a child on her knees, a mad king, and shivers all over. "I agree, my lord."

"We northerners are suspicious of lions. We remember." He is justifying himself, Tyrion thinks. I won't get a proper apology. Maybe he really shouldn't, after all. Penitence, he says to himself, penitence, and bites his tongue. "People rumble about you, my lord. I know you risked your life at the Wall in the Great War, but if Lady Sansa needs our help, we'll come to her before you can blink. Send her my regards. Tell we'll visit soon."

Lord Manderly speaks like the father he never had, and the father Sansa no more has, and suddenly that conversation is too much – too normal for the likes of them; no more the old hatred towards Lannisters in general, but merely a paternal figure intimidating a man to treat his daughter right, his fragile girl who deserves only the best – but he is not the best, and Sansa hasn't been treated right since her father died.

(I could be good to you, he had said once. Fool, fool, why did you say that, why did you think– )

"I won't harm her. I never did." Why does he need to keep reminding everyone of that? Oh, right. Because his family were a bunch of crazy, murderous idiots. "You seriously need to stop threatening your customers."

"I'm sure you'll forgive me, my lord," he says with a smile, as someone who isn't sorry at all. "I'm just trying to keep the Starks children safe."

"I won't resent you for mistrusting my strength of character," he asserts, rather tired of carrying his family's crimes. Being the last one has more burdens than glories. "But I'm not stupid. I don't want northerner wrath all over my head, and I'm sick of war as much as you."

"You can't buy peace, my lord of Lannister," the man says, no more full of hate or contempt. Just the same weariness everyone seems to carry, after the war.

Tyrion rolls his eyes. "Of course you can."

"No, you can't. Peace is the daughter of justice. And if you can buy justice – well, that hardly would be justice worth its name."

"Spoken as a true northerner with blood of the Reach, my lord." Wyman Manderly laughs openly at the remark, his immense body shaking, and holds out his hand.

"It was a pleasure to make business with you, Lord Tyrion."

"We'll agree to disagree on that." Tyrion shakes his hand and Lord Manderly laughs again. "I'll send her your regards."

Pod is waiting for him. They enter the carriage and start the long ride back to the only home he was allowed.

Chapter Text

But I can't look at him, can hardly speak,
I took the bullet for all the wrong reasons, I'd just as soon kill you myself, I say.
You keep saying I owe you, I owe... but you say the same thing every time.
Let's not talk about it, let's just not talk.
Not because I don't believe it, not because I want it any different, but I'm always saving
and you're always owing and I'm tired of asking to settle the debt.
Don't bother.
You never mean it anyway, not really, and it only makes me that much more ashamed.
There's only one thing I want, don't make me say it, just get me bandages, I’m bleeding,
I'm not just making conversation.

"Wishbone" by Richard Siken

Sansa finds Arya's bedroom on the third night after Tyrion's departure. She doesn't announce herself. The moon hangs high in the sky and it is easy to find the bed.

"Missing your husband already?" she mocks, making room for Sansa to settle by her side, and the older one rolls her eyes.

"Shut up, Arya." Sansa comes closer to her sister's body, head resting on her shoulder. Arya has always been a slender girl, and Winter made them all thinner, but since they came back home, Sansa would choose the sharp angles of her bones over a thousand furs any day.

"When shall he come back?"

"In four weeks, maybe five." Sansa smirks a little. "Why? Are you missing him?"

"He is not the worst man to have around."

"No, he isn't," and Sansa's smirk turns into a smile, of sorts. "I don't particularly miss him, but it feels weird to sleep alone again."

"Really?" Arya turns to the side, and Sansa does the same, so they can face each other, although they can see more shadows than real lines. "You two behave so oddly around each other."

Sansa curls her brow in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"You always move together. When he moves to the right, you tilt to the left. When he reaches for the eggs during breakfast, you give it to him, as if you're trying to keep him from getting closer to you. And if he hears you coming through a corridor, he automatically leans against the wall, so you won't bump into him on your way. It is like you are perpetually avoiding each other, but also never too far away... Like a dance." Arya studies her carefully, narrowing her grey eyes.

"I didn't know you spent so much time watching us move." Sansa mutters, protectively embracing the quilt tighter around her body.

"Oh, but I don't. It is very noticeable." Arya rests on her back again, closing her eyes, a careless arm thrown over her own face and finishing the conversation. "This is how the braavosi fight."

Sansa lies awake for a very long time after that.

She didn't lie. Sansa doesn't miss Tyrion, but she notices his absence in daily, mundane things, a little void shaped after his small body. His empty chair during supper; the silence where his steps and voice echoed through hallways and rooms; how her chambers and bed feel twice bigger and colder without him at the end of the day. It doesn't hurt her, but it is there, and she can't help but perceive it. She tries to work until late, until complete exhaustion, until she is sure Rickon is truly upset with her persistence in making him learn all the names of the Lords of Winterfell during the Age of Heroes. "What is wrong with you?" he protests, and flounces off from the room to train with Arya.

So when he gets home, one week later than planned, she is not the only one releasing a impossibly long breath of relief. The sun is high in the middle of the sky; the snow is falling relentlessly when the guards blare their horns. She commands them to open the gates, and a bath to be prepared for Tyrion and another for Pod in the meantime. They hurry inside the Great Keep, and all the servants and maids crowd around them, helping to unload all that luggage, dry and safe from the cold: carrying the barrels to the larders, the trunks with clothes to the rooms. Tyrion orders the servants to be very careful with one particular baggage, a big one, covered and surrounded by layers and layers of thick furs, and Sansa takes a minute to observe him. Her lord husband is clearly bushed, the blonde of his hair covered by snow-flakes, ice on his lashes and beard. She nearly smiles. "Welcome back, my lord? And Ser Podrick," she greets him, and the boy nods to her. "You both look miserable."

"I feel miserable." Tyrion breathes in deeply; takes one of his gloves off, flexing his fingers and then looks at her face. He does what he always does – lingers his eyes on her a second too long, and opens his mouth to say something, but Arya interrupts him, spying on the furred luggage.

"Is this –"

"Yes," he interrupts her in return, taking the other glove off. Sansa is suddenly aware of his bare hands.

"There's a bath prepared for you upstairs," she says, politely. "For you too, Podrick."

"That is very kind of you, milady," Podrick says, courteous as always, and the corner of Tyrion's mouth goes up in a smirk, pulling the scar with it. Something gleam in his eyes, a dark amusement.

He removes his cloak, his shoulders and neck clearly stiff, and looks her in the eye again. "Thank you, my lady. I appreciate it greatly. If you'll excuse me...?"

She doesn't know why her head feels dizzy, her answer coming faster than necessary, "Of course," and Sansa doesn't look back to watch him leave. Instead, she tries to occupy herself, helps the staff until everything is in the right place, gives one or two instructions to the servants, and only then follows her husband's last steps.

When she knocks on the door of their chambers and no one answers, Sansa carefully opens it, only to find out that her lord husband is asleep. Inside the bathtub.

His dirty clothes are huddled on the ground next to a chair, where perfectly folded and clean clothes had been placed, just as a towel and a basin with soap. The light coming in from the open casement casts shadows on his face. His head is thrown back resting on the edge of the tub, his chest evenly rising and falling, and she suddenly thinks he could slip and drown.

There is a way in which Tyrion's body haunts Sansa.

She remembers the riot in King’s Landing. She remembers how heavy Harry had felt above her, how his weight crushed her chest, squeezed her lungs, making it hard to breathe while he whispered Alayne Alayne Alayne in her ear. The slender form of Petyr lurking about made her hands unsure, her stitches imprecise, her mouth tickling where he’d kissed her. She remembers how immense Sandor was, something between a solace and a threat.

All male bodies are weapons, armed or unarmed; Tyrion's is no different. Of course they were perpetually water-dancing around each other, but at least it was a defensive stance. No attacks, as long as he kept his distance – and he always did.

And then it hits her– the memory of his nervous hands on her skin, and the coldness in their wake when he first decided to leave her alone. (Open your eyes, Sansa, he’d said with his baritone, soft tone, open your eyes.) He won't harm her. He doesn’t want to. He is small, his members stunt. She was home, now. She could run. She could scream. She could easily put him away. She knows that.

But to know and to believe – these are different. It takes a heart to be a believer. It takes a step of faith; a risk.

And so, she closes the door behind her and approaches the tub with silent, gauged steps.

His body is full of demons. Most don't even belong to him; they are Tywin's, Cersei's, Joffrey's, and she conjectures about the names of the demons hidden under her own skin through his eyes. She needs to exorcise him of them all – to recognize in his misshapen form more than the condensation of her particular hell.

Sansa kneels beside the tub, her fingers curling around the cold border. He never undresses in front of her and she doesn't cultivate the habit of watching him sleep (he is always the first to rise, anyway). There are bubbles on the surface of the water, enough to cover part of his body, but not all of it, and she observes his shoulders, a big scar on his right side, the blond hair covering his partially submerged chest, his short but muscular arms. Maybe he is not as weak as she imagines, but the goosebumps on her nape and spine are not fear. Oh, Sansa knows fear. This isn't it. Nothing tells her to run.

She fixes her eyes on his face. There's wet hair falling over his closed eyes, a full beard covering part of his completely healed scar, hints of a sharp jaw-line, the curve of his mouth, his almost nose and the air flowing in and out of it in a calm rhythm. His expression now is tired, but peaceful in a way that it never is when he is awake. Vulnerable, she realizes, like a child: harmless. She thinks of a younger Bran, before the war, before the fall, before everything. It pains her, but just a little.

One of her hands dive in the water. Tepid. Sansa slowly approaches him, her wet fingers hovering in the air only three inches away from his face, and then she realizes she is not even breathing. She draws closer, removes one strand of pearl-blond hair from his eyes, lets the air escape through her mouth with a strangled gasp.

And then he blinks twice and looks at her. She retracts, heart fastening inside her rib cage like a bird fighting for freedom. Suddenly, all the weariness is back in the lines around his eyes, frowning his eyebrows, twisting his mouth. He visibly flinches away.

"What are you doing here?" he scolds, trying to lump the bubbles around him.

His voice is like stones hidden under thick snow; her feet skid, but she steels her spine, even if her own voice quivers. "I saw you were asleep and... I was afraid you would drown," she explains, spontaneously putting more distance between them, but then she thinks, No. I'm not afraid of you. I'm not. "I am sorry, my lord. I didn't mean to startle you."

His lips are pressed against each other in a thin line. "The journey was tiring, is all."

"I see," she nods quietly. "Your shoulders are tense. Let me help you."

"I am fine," he answers, but she is already kneeling behind him, gently pushing him away from the wall of the tub. "You'll soak your gown."

Sansa ignores him. Sweetrobin often needed massages, and she is surprised to realize her fingers remember the task more than her brain does; they explore Tyrion's shoulders, feeling his strained, almost solid muscles under her touch. This is the first time, Sansa realizes; the first time they intentionally touch each other since... He hisses a breath and she softens the pressure in her hands. "Too hard?" she asks, the words shivering, just as his body.

"No," he shakes and lowers his head, sighing. She can hear him swallowing, his strangled words. "You don't have to do this, my lady."

"I know," she murmurs, and resumes her work, seeking for the tension and massaging each spot until it looses, along his spine, in his neck, between his shoulder blades. He slowly relaxes, and makes no sound other than a gasp or two, so restrained she can barely hear him. When she is done, her gown is actually damp around her breasts, and the palms of her hands land over his skin; he has scars, old and healed, like scissors, on his back. Who did this to you?, she never asks, but her fingertips unconsciously travel delicately along the whipping marks, not massaging and not caressing, but discovering him. He leans towards her touch with a tired sigh and she wonders if this is wrong, to feel attracted, entranced by his weakness, what does this say about her. Her fingers instinctively crawl all the way up to his neck, because she needs to understand his limits; she needs to know where she is, who he is; but when he realizes it, Tyrion suddenly starts.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs immediatly. "I didn't–"

"Maybe you should leave now," he says, severely, "I guess I can finish from here. Thank you for you services." And under his forced civility (forced, she knows, for there's no such thing as civility when someone is mapping your scars), she hears undertones of some angry, terrified thing, almost childish again, and suddenly realizes how much he is afraid of her; she wants to reach out again and say, I understand you, I do; tell me your story, what happened to you, but instead, Sansa nods, gets up and leaves.

She closes the door, rests her back against it. Her limbs shake – hands and legs, her heart pulsing in her throat. When she closes her eyes, palming the hollow curve below her left breast, she can still hear him like an echo, louder than her steps. You should leave now. You should leave.

When the trembling breaks, she walks away.

They ignore each other for three days until Tyrion, as usual, breaks the silence.

There's a screen in their bedroom, so they can dress and undress far from each other's sight, and by the fourth night Sansa comes out of it wearing her night gown, ready to rest, when he raises his eyes from his book. His back is resting against the headboard, a candle burning by his side of the bed, and he says, nonchalantly, "I brought something for you. From White Harbor."

"Podrick told me," she murmurs, finishing her braid. If he wants to pretend nothing happened, then she will play along.

"Not for the house," he explains, as if irritated with himself. "For you."

"Oh." Her forehead creases. "A... gift?"

His smile in response is lopsided as always. "I believe this is how they call it these days. Yes. A gift." He points with his chin to a bundle resting atop her table, a red velvet cloth tied up in a golden ribbon. She had noticed it, but didn't ask him what it was; since the bath incident he had consistently avoided her, even retiring to bed way sooner than her. Sansa was unsure if he felt angry or ashamed, and was feeling angry and ashamed herself. If their marriage was a dance, it was like she had stepped on his feet, moved faster than the soundless music of their days.

She opens the package, the knot giving in easily when she tugs it, revealing a book, used but in good condition. She smiles to herself when realization dawns on her, her index-finger delineating the title on the cover, a gold, cursive style, The Romance of the Rose, framed by red flowers and green leaves. There's a part of her that can't help but think of Highgarden, the Tyrells, Margaery, Willas, and lost dreams, but when she gazes back at him, and he is apprehensively studying her reaction, it feels like a really small part. She grabs her lower lip between her teeth.

"This is beautiful," she whispers. There's so much silence between them; she doesn't need to speak louder than that. "Why now?"

He takes his time searching for words, until they come out in a rush. "I was rude to you," he finally says, diverting his eyes from her, but closing his own book, one finger marking the page. "At the bath."

She licks her previously bitten lip and looks down to the book on her lap again, feeling the worn pages. "You were." She waits, but when he speaks nothing more, an indignant tone colors her voice. "Is this your attempt at an apology, my lord? Are you trying to buy my forgiveness?"

"I am apologizing," he mutters, defensively, and Sansa chortles under her breath.

"You are terrible at it." He looks at her startled and she suppresses a smile. "Repeat after me: I am sorry, my lady, for being rude to you with no reason at all."

"I had reasons." He bites the inside of his left cheek to prevent from smiling, too. "And I would never try to buy you. You Starks are impossible to corrupt." There's a softness in him, then; minimal, but for now, sufficient.

"Awful, my lord," she shakes her head in feigned frustration, and comes to sit beside him on the bed. When she is comfortable under her furs she looks to the side, to his face, so he can see what she is unable to speak. "You are truly awful at apologies."

"I am. Part of my Lannister inheritance." He looks her in the eye in that unsettling way, the way that makes her feel naked and exposed as if he could see right through her walls. "I'm sorry, my lady. I didn't –" He stops, presses his lips against each other quickly and decides to start over. "I'm sorry for the way I treated you."

"You are forgiven," she says, feeling some strange emotion coiling up in her lower belly, something that urged her to hug him out of the sudden. She keeps the emotion under control. "And I am sorry, too. I interrupted you in a private moment. It was... Improper."

"It was improper! That is what I'm trying to say."

She can't help a short laugh, and slides down until she is laying on the mattress, counting the timbers on the ceiling. There is a implicit pact in their words, light and playful as they may be, that they will come back to leave each other alone. But Sansa still remembers how he leaned into her hands, how he eased at her touch; how brave she had felt. The memory is surprisingly hard to let go.

"Arya told me about the glass panels," she finally says. "I would say there was no need for that, but it would be an obvious lie."

She hates, absolutely hates, the proud, crooked smile that shapes his lips, his eyes still on the pages of his book. "Is that your attempt at gratitude, wife?"

She rolls her eyes. "Very amusing."

"Maybe you need lessons too. Repeat–"

"Thank you," she cuts him off hardly, before he can start rambling boastfully about... Whatever. "In the name of the North."

"Hm." He looks down to her. "The North, you say."

"Yes," she nods, not trying to fight her smile anymore. "The whole North."

"I suppose the North is very thankful for the romance, too?"

"And thank you for the gift." This time there is no joke in her voice. The words come heartfelt and sincere and almost weak in their vulnerability. "I sincerely liked it."

For a moment, something in his face changes; it becomes pleading and soft at the same time, like a cool breeze during a hot, summer, southerner day; and she believes he will reach out to touch her face. For a moment she almost wants him to do it.

"That makes two," he whispers, instead, the unrequited desire leaving, and he is all tenderness now, which is rare; his words are almost sweet, or as sweet as he could make them.

"Two what?"

"Smiles."

"Are you counting?" She is almost offended, but how much can you be offended when someone confesses to collect your smiles? "I smile! All the time."

"Not in my presence," he replies, softly.

She is the first to look away from him, his scrutinizing look suddenly unbearable, turning her back as she does every night. She wonders if he can hear the persistent smile in her voice, muffled against her pillow, "Goodnight, my lord."

His smug smile is clearly audible in his. There's a noise of a page being turned too. "Sleep well, wife."

Chapter Text

You can’t get out of this one, you can’t get it out of me, and with this bullet
lodged in my chest, covered with your name, I will turn myself into a gun, because
it’s all I have,
because I’m hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own. I’ll be your
slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this
bullet inside me
‘cause I couldn’t make you love me and I’m tired of pulling your teeth. Don’t you see, it’s like
I’ve swallowed your house keys, and it feels so natural, like the bullet was already there,
like it’s been waiting inside me the whole time.
Do you want it? Do you want anything I have? Will you throw me to the ground
like you mean it, reach inside and wrestle it out with your bare hands?
If you love me, you don’t love me in a way I understand.

"Wishbone," by Richard Siken

Tyrion spends a lot of time observing his wife when she is not watching. Old habits, after all, die hard.

Arya sees no point in having a Sept since no one prays to the Seven in Winterfell. "Tyrion does," his wife tries. He only snorts, and so does Arya: "Tyrion doesn't pray and you know it." "Podrick prays to the Seven," Sansa recalls. Everybody likes Podrick, so they decide to think about it after the Guest House is finished. And as they pass to another topic, she looks through the window, gazing at nothing, and for a moment she is gone. He touches her elbow under the table before anyone notices she is drifting away — she blinks once and comes back to the meeting, and he asks himself, where were you?

This is Sansa. Always surrounded by her people, but always alone. Always hiding somewhere in the secret chambers of her mind. Polite and courteous, but never warm. Sansa, convincing stubborn lords to do her will without them even noticing it. Sansa, economic and precise with her words, efficient as a clean cut through the guts. Sansa, patient and kind with Rickon, but firm as a mother. Sansa, who sometimes still asks please to her servants. Sansa, tired and silent at the end of the day, some nights hardly sparing him a glance. Sansa, his wife, a complete stranger.

She maddens him. Sometimes he can't help the sharp edges of his words when they talk, as if he is turning himself into a knife. Maybe if she bleeds, he thinks, she will feel more human, not so cold. If it hurts, she will lose her control a little, just a little. Just so she won't be so rounded and perfect and completely out of his reach. There is a balance between them, but it is always one step away from hanging and crashing them onto the ground. He wonders what will come after. What will happen when they speak the wrong word in the wrong tone, when they touch wrong, when they stare wrong. When, and not if, because he is sure it will happen, eventually. (He assumes it will be his sign to leave the North, give her that damned annulment and come back to the West. Dany will be angry. He doesn't care.)

Tyrion knows Sansa feels it, too, the air charged and dangerous when they are in the same room. Sometimes, he catches a glimpse of who she is behind that mask. When she holds his gaze for a second too long; when she works too much, and he brings a tray of food to her solar because she forgot to eat, and she looks at him as if she is seeing him for the first time, somehow; when she invades his baths and touches his scars. He can see the terror in her eyes – she is afraid to move, to breathe, much like he is. This must be the reason why she is so careful, while he... Well. He tries to keep his distance. But the monster inside him wants to burn everything that is beautiful. He wants her, because of it and despite of it. But usually the tension will leave him frustrated, and hungry for blood.

He doesn't know for how long he will keep the beast under control.

Tyrion is inside the castle when it happens, which means Sansa is nearby. He is still barefoot after his bath, and something sharp penetrates his right heel. His first reaction, of course, is to curse, louder than usual. He supports himself on one foot, leaning against the wall, trying to remember why exactly he is here at this hour of the day, and not out there. He remembers he promised to help Rickon with his lessons, and then tries to calculate what are the odds of hurting himself indoors while Winterfell is literally a construction site. Tyrion curses again, jumping his way to the bed, leaving a trail of drops of blood behind him, and searches for the object under his foot.

Sansa arrives just when he finds it: a wooden splinter sharper than Arya's sword, half the size of his little finger. She sees the blood first and stops at the door. "My lord? I've heard—"

"Don't worry, my lady," he grumps. The splinter is out, but the blood keeps flowing from the wound. His fingers are red. He tries to keep the memories at bay.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," he dismisses, but it sounds ridiculous, because of course something happened. He sighs. "I've stepped into a splinter, is all."

His wife only nods. She leaves the chamber and comes back with a basket full of white towels and a basin with soap, in one hand, and a bucket with water in the other.

And then she kneels.

She kneels in front of him, ignoring the dirt and the blood, placing the basket and the bucket on the floor by her side. The view is so disturbing he can't even react, at first. "What are you doing?" he finally asks, his voice flat. He is looking down at her, down. Nothing about this situation makes any sense. "My lady, get up. Please."

He sounds ridiculous again: what she is doing is obvious. She studies the wound with meticulous eyes. "It's not deep. You will be fine."

Well, she is kneeling for you, Imp. Isn't that what you wanted?

"I'm already fine," he says through clenched teeth, trying to take his feet from her hands. "I'm sure someone else can do it. This is no work for a lady."

(What he truly wants to say is, don't you think it is too late for that?, and gods, why, why does she keep trying to touch his scars?)

"Don't be silly," she murmurs. "And stop moving."

He tries to obey, but there is a tornado in his mind, something tearing him down out of the sudden, and Tyrion can't properly name it.

They have never talked about it, he realizes, about their first marriage. (Of course we haven't, he thinks. We never talk about anything that matters.) They have never mentioned Cersei's or Joffrey's names. They have never talked about King's Landing, and the fact she ran away and left him to take the fall and die, and everything else. It suddenly feels like all dead things between and behind them are getting up from their graves, at once, and he prepares his soul to war.

"I never knelt for House Lannister." His wife doesn't look up as she pours out the content of the bucket on his foot with the help of a empty cup. The water is freezing; he hisses a startled breath as she washes the dirt away, particularly around the wound. "Is that what is troubling you?"

He doesn't know what to say. There is nothing to be said.

"And I don't regret it. But when you stood on the back of that fool, I looked at you." She continues, focused on her task, until his foot is completely clean. "And I saw your face, and realized you hated to be there as much as I did." One of her hands holds his ankle as she brings the soap to the wound and rubs it. The white lather becomes a light pink when blended with the blood, and she pours out more cold water on it. "And then I knelt. Do you remember that? I knelt, and you kissed me."

He remembers, then, as if the scene is happening right now, a kiss that tasted of her tears. With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife. She dries his foot with another towel and takes a piece of soft cloth, wrapping it around the wound. The blood stains it red immediately.

"I never knelt for House Lannister," she whispers. "But I knelt for you." She ties the tips of the cloth tightly over his foot, and finally raises her head. Even now, looking up from under him, she still looks every inch a Queen. "You should... Remember that, my lord."

"My lady–"

"You must rest for today," she recommends, getting on her feet. He is taken aback by the hastiness of her moves and hurries to steady himself, placing his palms on the mattress as she straightens her skirts. A useless gesture: her hands are wet, her gown is dirty and bloody, and it leaves her condition messier than before. She notices, and sighs. "And I... I must clean this. Tomorrow you shall certainly feel better. Ser Podrick will come to help you."

She is looking down at him again, like it should be. There's coldness in his bloody hands, cold filling the room when she leaves. He feels cold all over.

Tyrion always knew this — past his love and past his hate, he would be left with nothing.

This was the main reason why he held on to his hate for so long, once his love died. It had served him well. Hate is a good fuel, he discovered, specially for the brain, but in the end it had left his heart damaged beyond repair. Had he a functional soul, a heart of flesh and not of stone, he would try to love Sansa. He would try to be kind to her. But all he sees when he looks at her, now, kneeling for him, is a mocking court; he hears laughs echoing through the throne room. He sees the contempt and the fear in her eyes, and if I never want you to, my lord?, never, never, why would she want a monster in her bed, in her home, in her life, why would anyone want that?

Deep down he knows he is running away from home, from the Rock, from the memory of Jaime's and Cersei's bodies upstairs and the blood in his hands, that first maddening moment, (what are you doing, what are you doing?) — but he can't stay here. This idea was doomed from the start, you should have known better, your fool, fool —

When Tyrion was a child he would hide in the crypts below the earth, next to Joanna's golden grave, to cry. (A Lannister, he knew from a very young age, never let the world see their weakness.) He knows Sansa hides her grief among her old golds and weirwoods. Arya can spend hours in the crypts, Nymeria by her side. Rickon doesn't cry; he practices sword-fighting with Podrick or Arya until his hands are bleeding, or disappear into his wolf's skin. Tyrion choose the Broken Tower for himself during his second week at Winterfell; he needed somewhere quiet, reserved, abandoned.

Podrick comes to help him; the boy offers him an arm and Tyrion grabs it. "Where are we going, milord?"

"To the Broken Tower." His free hand points to a bottle of wine. "And give me that."

Podrick hesitates. "Milord—"

"Don't question me. Just give me the wine, Podrick."

"Milord," the boy insists. He has grown more confident with the years, Tyrion had noticed. It is terribly frustrating. "Lady Sansa is a good lady—"

"Oh, gods. You too." He rolls his eyes. "Do you think I don't know she is a good lady? I know it better than anyone in this castle, Podrick. I wish I could forget it. If I have to vow that I won't hurt my wife one more time, I swear it, I will end up hurting her just so you all will be content with yourselves. Get me that damn wine. I'm not planning to murder her. I never needed wine for that." Podrick takes the bottle and gives it to him in obedient silence. "Good. Now, as I was saying — the Broken Tower, and you won't say a word about it to anyone."

Podrick nods. It is, of course, snowing and freezing out there, and as they walk unnoticed thorough the ramparts, their breaths pluming in front of their faces, neither of them say a word. Podrick keeps his pace slow with a patience that has to be a gift from the gods. Tyrion firmly holds his forearm and tries to walk on his already stunted legs using just one foot. When they get to the Tower, half an hour later, Tyrion is not only cold; he is numb. He points with a nod of his head to the stairs, and then to a door. There is nothing in there but a chair, next to window facing the north.

He sits on it, releases a white breath, takes a deep gulp of his wine and realizes he will never feel warm again. "I knelt for you." Much good it did to them. He is abruptly sick and tired of it, as he is of everything else — what is he doing, thirty-two years old, faking a marriage like a child's play. She tries to reach out to touch him, but she can't stand the idea of being his wife in truth more than he can stand the idea of her kneeling to him. They are liars, he and Sansa, and he had enough of lies for a lifetime.

He will leave. He has to.

Podrick stays by his side as he looks to the white fields. Nothing can grow here, Tyrion says to himself, and you were stupid to think otherwise. When will you learn?

"Milord?" the knight-boy asks. "Shall I leave?"

"Sure, sure. Leave me." He takes a sip of his wine again. "Come back at dusk."

Tyrion doesn't look back to the boy as Podrick walks away. He is not even sure he is actually seeing the North. He is not imagining the Wall, far ahead, or the eternal Winter beyond it. He can only see blood. His blood in Sansa's hands, Jaime's blood in his.

There is nothing. There is nothing, he feels nothing.

He bites his fist when he weeps to keep from crying out, even though there is no one to listen.

When he comes back to his chambers, Sansa is already there, sewing before the fireplace. She had been crying, too, he realizes. Her cheeks are red, just as her eyes. Podrick helps him get to the bed, and Tyrion dismisses the boy with a wave of his hand. Sansa raises her head, forgetting her needlework for a moment as she examines him. "You've been drinking," she states. Her eyes are colder than the Wall.

"I have." He takes his boots off; the wound is pulsing inside the dressing. There is always a flagon full of wine on the nightstand by his side of the bed. He takes it. "I stink. You may want to send me to sleep on the couch today." He shrugs. "I'm very small, as you know. I'll fit."

"There is no need for that." Sansa gets up and walks towards the door. "I'll order a bath for you."

"Oh, no. Don't worry." He shakes his head. He feels dizzy, but unfortunately, not drunk. Not anymore. "You don't want to sleep next to a drunk man, do you?" he puts the bottle away and crosses his arms before his chest, smirking. "Have you ever, Lady Stark?"

She turns around, tilts her head to the side slightly. He doesn't know if she pities him or is just trying to understand the reasons for his mood. "I'm not afraid of you, my lord."

"You should," he murmurs, staring at her from head to toes. "I'm not a good man."

"I know who you are," she says. He laughs bitterly and points a finger in her direction as she moves — she is searching for something in the drawers of her nightstand.

"You're wrong. You don't know me at all."

"I know you had the chance, but you never harmed me," she recalls, coming back with a small towel in her hands.

"Not yet," he mumbles, darkly. There is nothing he wants more than to hurt her, but there is nothing he wants less, too. "I've harmed lots of people."

His wife seems unshaken by his veiled threat, sitting by his side on the bed. "Let me see your foot." He places it on her lap before she can kneel in from of him again. She narrows her eyes as she examines the dressing. "Does it hurt?"

"No."

"Good." She returns it to him and gets up. "I'll order that bath."

"I don't want you here," he states. It comes out harsher than intended. She winces, but it is so quick that he thinks for a moment that it was just the wine, making it up.

"I'll leave," she offers. "Try to keep this clean," she points with her chin to the bandage. "I'll make another for you when you're finished."

The water is colder than usual. It washes away the last remnants of wine from his brain, and he stays in there for some moments after he is done, trying not to think about the tension in Sansa's shoulders when he arrived, the disappointment in her eyes. When he is fully dressed, he tries to walk alone to the bed and fails; he stops halfway, sits on the couch. The fire is alive on the hearth, flames hungrily eating each other in red and orange and blue, and he forces himself to watch them until his mind is empty. He doesn't know how much time had passed when Sansa comes in again, sitting by his side. He offers her his foot without resistance. She looks so old, he thinks as she rubs something from a small bottle on his skin, something doughy and green. How many years? Six years? She must be eighteen, now. Not a child, of course, but still so young. She shouldn't look this tired.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks. She keeps her eyes away from his.

"I'm your wife. Am I not supposed to take care of you?" There is no warmness in her voice, though. Only a distant sense of duty, and something else, something he can't put his finger on.

'I knelt for you'. 'I'm your wife'. Do you think I need your pity, Lady Stark? "Don't mock me, my lady."

"I'm not mocking you." She carefully wraps another fresh cloth around the wound. It isn't bleeding anymore. "You tried to take care of me. I'm merely returning the kindness."

"Oh, I see." He chuckles dryly, because the irony. Oh, the irony. "Paying your debts. As a true Lannister."

She stiffens, gives the foot back to him. "I'm not a Lannister."

"You're my wife. You just said it." He narrows his eyes. "You can't have both."

"What do you mean?" she murmurs, and it sounds sad. He loses a breath. She used to be merciful, he recalls, absently. The creature in front of him is determined to make this conversation as difficult as possible.

"Just say the word, my lady," he says, tiredly, hating how much it sounds like he is begging. "You don't even need to come back to King's Landing, I can get this annulment for us. You're so young, so beautiful. A high-born lady like yourself will have many a man fighting for your hand, just... If you don't want me here, let me go."

She shakes her head in disbelief while he speaks, and her words are venomous when she finally answers him, after what seems an eternity. "You are such a coward."

Tyrion doesn't believe his ears. "Pardon?"

She stands on her feet, her closed fists trembling. "Leave if you want to," she spits out, and he thinks he finally did it. He found a crack on the walls of her courtesies; he broke her. He doesn't know why it doesn't feel like a victory. "You're not a prisoner and you are free to go. But this choice is yours, my lord. You don't get to throw it at me. I've made mine."

And before he can formulate an answer, before he can understand there is no way to answer her, she leaves again.

Tyrion can't sleep.

He naps, once or twice, but wakes up startled and scared only to find the bed empty. Only by the third time he wakes and sees a silhouette by his side. It's a dark night out there. Only a half-moon, like the laugh of a mad king, shines against the blackness behind it, and little stars are dancing around like subservient vassals, casting a pale, shimmering light over them through the open window. Tyrion can feel Sansa's sobs shaking the mattress under them, more than he can see or listen to her. He hears nothing more than subtle gasps for air.

He reaches out one hand and touches her shoulder.

She recoils. He keeps the hand on her. "My lady, please. We need to talk."

Sansa turns to him and he can barely see her wet cheeks. Her eyes steal the starlight, the ice in them melted, liquid, flooding. On the same level of his eyes, as in that day she knelt for him. He suddenly thinks it is an odd kind of honor, what he is witnessing now – Lady Stark, crying. But he doesn't feel honored at all. There are so many things they need to say, so many ways to begin, but all that comes out is a poor "I'm sorry," so low he is not sure she heard him, and he is sorry – for everything that has been done to them, for everything they've done to each other. But when she lays a hand on his chest, over his tunic, closes her fingers in a tight, small fist, and hits him, he knows she has listened. And then she hits him again, and again, and again; Tyrion lowers his head and doesn't fight her. She isn't hurting him, but her punches are stronger than he would have assumed, and they make hollow, mute sounds that muffle her cries. Even when her free hand crawls up to his exposed neck, scratching him, clawing until he is sure it is drawing blood, he lets her.

Because he is feeling it; her anger, her frustration, her pain, his skin burning. It is better than feeling nothing at all. It makes him feel alive, and for the first time since – since ever, maybe, it feels real. He knows, then, he could never hate her for not loving him; he would never be able to hate her, just as he would never be able to love her.

When she stops, he holds her wrist and waits.

"Don't you ever talk to me like that again," she commands. Her voice is sharp as valyrian steel. "Never again, Tyrion, or I swear it by all the gods–"

"I won't." He doesn't want to hear the end of it, not now. Her fingers are closing around the fabric of his tunic and then palming his chest. Her hand is so small. He talks without thinking about it, just instinct. "I promise, I won't."

"I don't care about your promises, or about your vows, or any of your words. Just don't."

He brings her hand to his mouth, his lips brushing the knuckles. She lets him. "That's fair enough."

"And you won't get drunk again."

It isn't a request. "Alright."

And they stay silent. Something is born in the darkness and in the silence, in the lack of words or excuses or explanations or light, in that momentary truce. Tyrion is sure it is not something just in the air, implicit – no; the newborn thing is solid and breathing and raw. It is not love, but it binds them together in a way his cloak over her never did. (They have never fought before. They have never cared enough.)

Tyrion gauges the distance between his face and hers by the rhythm and warmth of her ragged breathing. Narrow. He realizes their hands are still on each other: his on her shoulder, hers on his neck. For some reason, she doesn't move away, and in a rare and mad impulse of bravery he comes closer, because it is so dark, anyway, and she won't see a thing. Just an inch, just enough to press his lips on her forehead. His hand slips to her hair to sooth it, like ice over a bruise, and her body relaxes at the touch, as if she'd been holding that breath for hours. Only then she begins. "I was afraid of you, before." She talks as someone who raises a white flag. "Because I had nothing to give you."

"I know that." He could say I never wanted anything from you, but apparently they were trying to be honest. "And it's alright, my lady. It wasn't your fault. You were a child."

"Do you hate me?" she asks in such a frail voice that he feels the ice in the corners of his mind melting. "For bringing you here, for..." She trails off. It is easy to hear what she doesn't have the courage to say out loud, though.

"I don't," he confesses. "Hating you is exhausting." A pause. "Do you? Hate me?"

He always thinks that maybe, if she did, the guilt would at least be more bearable, like some twisted form of justice. She sighs. He feels the air from her lungs in his neck. "I'm sorry. No." Her voice gets heavy with sleep. "I never did, and I still don't." Her fingers slid across his skin until they reach the back of his head, as if they've done this a thousand times before. Her touch leaves goosebumps in its wake. He doesn't know if she is completely lucid; she sounds too tired, too drowsy. "I don't want to do this anymore. We should... Try to be friends."

"We should," he says, not daring to bring her body closer to his, as he wished, neither to withdraw. I thought you said no more promises, he thinks, but it would sound needlessly sour. "But now, you should sleep."

(There is a lot of unsaid things, still, but all Tyrion thinks is

this is all I ever wanted from you.

It takes him some time to identify the feeling as hope. He hadn't felt it in so long. It is a ticklish, itchy thing.)

When the sun rises, he untangles her fingers from his hair as quietly as he can. They don't talk about any of it again, but when she asks about his foot over the midday meal, there is more than duty in her voice and he tries really, really hard to keep his hopes low.

He decides to stay a little while longer.

Chapter Text

I'm running out of things to say.
I've stopped stealing pages out of poetry books, but last week I pocketed a thesaurus and looked for synonyms for you and could only find rain
and more rain
and a thunderstorm that sounded like glass, like crystal, an orchestra.

"The anatomy of being," Shinji Moon

The glass gardens once were built in the northwest region of Winterfell, little more than half an acre of land hidden by the vast godswood, right beside the North Gate. Now there are only ruins: burnt glass and wooden battens, broken steel beams, rotten leaves, stumps and, for some unfathomable reason, white lilies. Under it all — among the wreckage, four or five surviving flowers. (Death, Sansa knows, is a headstrong, obstinate thing, but life is even sturdier, it seems). The edges were worn and black, they weren't even beautiful, but they were flowers, and she watches as her husband takes one petal on his fingers, barely touching it, seeming whiter against his black gloves. The petal loosens and falls. He keeps it.

The masons leave. It is still morning; they will come back after the midday meal and start cleaning the soil, but no one knows when they will properly start to build the greenhouse. The workers of Winterfell are just apprentices, improbable survivors of the War just as the white lilies around the dirty roots, well-meant volunteers; a glass garden demands a experienced blacksmith. But this is the hottest part of the castle, where the hot springs burn more intensely under the ground, and so, despite the destruction around her, Sansa stays behind a little longer.

She takes a quick look at Tyrion, standing three yards from her. He is toying distractedly with the white petal between his fingers. They don't spend much time alone, and she seizes the opportunity to study him. He seems smaller, she thinks with herself. Maybe it's just the effect of all the layers of dark furs; she remembers the proud man, with his head held up high, dressed in the finest Lannister crimson and with golden rings on his fingers, at court. And older. This has nothing to do with cloaks. It's in his eyes, in the corners of his mouth, in his shoulders.

It is very hard to be demure with someone when you wake up with their dry blood under your fingernails. A lot of the words that once came naturally to Sansa now get caught in her throat when she is near her husband. If it pleases you, as you wish: they hang in the air, present but unspoken, latent vows that they no longer have the energy to pretend that will be kept. She hardened her voice, he softened his; Sansa hopes they will meet halfway. In the meantime they spend a great amount of time communicating without words — subtle looks in crowded rooms, a hand on her elbow when he needs to hold her attention, a tilt of her head in his direction during important reunions. Sansa has no idea how much has been lost in translation, but they are getting better at it, she can feel.

For instance: right now, she is pretty sure he is thinking about how warm it is here. He always complains about how cold it is up in the North, and now his gloved hands are not even inside his pockets.

She sits on a big round stone and wraps her arms around herself. "It will feel even warmer when the glass garden is finished," she says, simply. He looks at her as if he had forgotten she was there at all. "More than any southerner summer day."

"It is really warm. And silent." He points vaguely to the godswood behind the gates. "I can understand the charm."

She feels the scent of trees from the godswood: muss, oaks, soldier pine; and remembers a conversation they had, ages ago, in King's Landing. There are no devotions, my lord. No priests or songs or candles. Only trees, and silent prayer. You would be bored. (She tries not to think about Dontos.) "You can come whenever you want, you know," she provides. It is only polite. The tension may be gone but she is still a lady, his wife and his host.

He chuckles dryly. "I appreciate the invitation," he says and kicks a little stone absently. "But I wouldn't bother your prayers."

"I wasn't asking for you to bother me." She doesn't come to pray to the old gods (assuming Bran doesn't count as a god), but no one needs to know that. "It is big enough for the both of us."

He gives her a lopsided grin. "I don't have the patience nor the faith to pray, and I need wine to meditate. I suppose it must be some kind of sin? To be drunk in sacred ground?"

Sansa chortles a little, because he really has a talent to turn everything and anything into a nasty joke, and refuses to dignify it with an answer. He looks around again, and closes his eyes. A cold breeze comes from the north and kisses their cheeks. His chest is inflated when he takes in a deep breath, his hair rippling, a harsh stubble covering his face, delineating his sharp, pretty jaw-line.

Looking at him this way, almost peaceful, Sansa is not completely sure Tyrion is still the kind of man that is bored by silence.

"Which sounds do you miss?"

She regrets the question immediately as soon as she says it. It sounds like a silly, childish thing to ask, and also a little weird. But he opens his eyes, crossing his arms, and thinks about it seriously.

"I miss the sound of the rain," he says, finally. "And the waves." The wind invites the leaves above them to dance. They attend, rustling softly in their branches, spreading wide to the bone-white sky, and for a blessed moment, Sansa almost forgets there had been a war. "Here everything is deadly silent. It's not just the godswood, it's..." A tired sigh escape his lips. "Everywhere."

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, and he smirks, amused.

"On behalf of the land?"

She chuckles. "I guess so." The snow does that. Turns the world mute, muffles all the noise.

(I'm sorry this isn't home to you, she never says, another thing lost in translation. Or maybe not — he eyes her, examines her face. Nods, just once, almost imperceptibly.)

"And you?" he asks. "What do you miss?"

Everything, she thinks.

"I miss the sound of my father's steps." She waits. "And Arya's laughter." Arya never laughs, these days. "And—" She suddenly halts, because if she begins she won't ever be able to stop.

Tyrion is looking at her warily. I'm sorry, he doesn't voice; she listens nevertheless. He keeps his distance, and she is grateful for it.

(The true question: what is the sound of life to you? Of time?)

"Tell me how this place used to be," he asks, instead, quietly. If she tunes her ears, it is possible to hear kindness in him.

Sansa smiles sadly. "I don't think it would do us good. To dwell on the past."

"It's not for the past's sake," he shrugs. "I need to draw a draft for the rebuilding."

She angles her head, looks at him through her eyelashes. He is lying. They both know it. (She is grateful for it, too.) "My lord–," she begins, strangled and cautious. And then, like a confession: "I don't know if I can."

"You can." A red leaf whips about and falls right by his side. "Come on. Let's just try."

She remembers. Vividly. And she is afraid to speak of it out loud, afraid that if she materialize the words, they will hurt her like swords. But she also can't not speak. The memories come like stones, out from her chest, from her bones, from under her skin. "There were three rows," she begins. "The flowers were cultivated right here, in the middle." Sansa gets up, and she is seeing it all. "Roses and chrysanthemums and daisies. Jasmines, pansies." She smiles. "When Arya was four she came here every day to study the habits of earthworms." She hears Tyrion chortling by her side, a distant sound, and walks around, remembering, remembering. "And we grew carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, lettuce, spinach. Mushrooms, basil," she looks up, sees the vines' branches crawling up the iron beams, Robb's hand reaching up. "Grapes. All kinds of berries, right there," she points to the easterner corner.

She talks. Only half of it is about the greenhouse. She talks about her mother's favorite tea (lavender), about the brewer's wife who once stole all the strawberries they had been growing for months, about the day Jon got sick and Old Nan made him cold soup with zucchini and he never ate zucchini again in his life, or when Bran climbed up his way to the roof and almost fell, or her lessons on the language of flowers, how it may change with the colors, did you know, husband, that a blue violet means faithfulness, but white violets convey candor and innocence? ("No. I didn't know"). And when she has covered every yard, she stops talking and waits for it to bleed, but it doesn't. It aches —pulses and screams— and she feels a terrible, familiar emptiness but not a sadness; not the all-consuming misery she was expecting, only a dull, stubborn melancholy, the kind that makes you want to smile, almost.

They were very happy here.

She sees the glass garden for what it is now, and the air seems colder. Tyrion notices, because he takes a step closer to her — only one, not enough to touch her yet. "We'll make it grow again," he vows, low and sincere, not even looking her in the eye, and Sansa forgets to tell him they don't do this anymore, promises, don't you remember, husband?, because she hates how easy it is for her to believe him.

The northerners don't love Tyrion. They tolerate him, because he belongs to the Starks: it is unclear if he has adopted the orphans or if he was the adopted one, but it matters little, in daily aspects of life. Lady Sansa wants him alive, Lord Rickon reluctantly has learnt to value his company, even Arya — well, Arya really tried to hate him; but Tyrion adores Jon, and she can't hate someone who loves Jon, and who Jon blatantly loves in return. (No one understands what is going on between Daenerys, Tyrion and Jon, but it is, clearly, something). Nymeria likes him, for all the gods. Arya had no choice but to acquiesce.

So they abstain from killing him, and sometimes — sometimes, when they are drunk in ale at the end of the day, some of them can even laugh of his dirty jokes or his miraculous adventures. But not all of them.

Because — the problem is, people talk, and neither Sansa nor Tyrion can stop them.

Sansa is in her solar, Lord Manderly's letter before her on her desk as she feels the beginning of a headache behind her eyes, when one of her men comes in to talk to her about her lord husband, because "your lord of Lannister" is reducing the portions of his workers to half their previous size. Apparently, Tyrion plans to starve Winterfell to death.

"Lord Tyrion is helping Arya with the rationing of the food, my lord," she explains, patiently. "I'm sure she can explain it to you. But our workers are growing in number every day, and our supplies will continue to be severely limited as long as we don't finish the glass gardens."

"If you would let me speak freely, milady?" Artos Flint asks. Sansa nods, steels her gaze. "We still don't understand why he is here. He didn't stop being a... Lannister."

He is here because I'm tired of men. He is here because I don't want another marriage. He is here because he tried to be kind. He is here because we need an alliance with the South and better me than Arya, or Rickon. He is here because I chose him. "Tyrion is not like the other Lannisters," she says, instead. Tired, very tired. Of course it wouldn't be about grains reserves.

"Indeed! He is the worst of them! He killed his entire family!"

(These are the rumors:

Tyrion Lannister killed the Boy King, Joffrey, and then killed his father with a crossbow; turned into a gargoyle, fled to Essos, transformed into a dragon and flew his way back home, where he poured out fire over the last members of his family in fury and revenge.

No, some would say. Tyrion Lannister stole a dragon from the Targaryen Queen in Essos, came back to destroy everything his father had built.

You've got it wrong, another would correct: Tyrion Lannister murdered his father, escaped from prison, came back home with an army of mercenaries to reclaim the West and tried to kill his brother, because he is full of envy and hunger for power. The Mother of Dragons is in love with him: she gave him a dragon, he never stole it, because she is as monstrous as him. They are lovers who came to burn the Seven Kingdoms to ashes.

Or, in other mouths, the Kingslayer had died defending their sister, whom Tyrion had always hated. He made her watch Jaime Lannister die, and then killed her. And the Queen is in love with Jon, the Lord Commander, not the Imp; the Queen hates the Imp, because Jon Snow is in love with him, and not with her.

In every version of the story, the same thing happens: All Tyrion's enemies are dead, some of them in mysterious circumstances. Tyrion Lannister hates the Lannisters more than anyone else. Tyrion Lannister won Casterly Rock through battle. At some point, Tyrion, Cersei and Jaime met: only Tyrion came out alive. At some point, he and Daenerys and Jon met: none of them were the same after that. At some point, they fled to a land where Winter never ends and saved the world, but no one sings about Tyrion like they sing to Dany, or even Jon, because in the end, every version of the story is the same: Tyrion Lannister is a dangerous man.

Sansa never had the courage to ask him what, after all, had truly happened during the Great War.)

"We don't know if this is true. And he didn't kill Joffrey." He didn't kill Tommem, either. No one has heard about Myrcella in years, not even Sansa, who hears lots of things.

"He killed his mother, his father, his siblings—"

"This is nonsense, my lord. You can't blame a child for a death in the birth bed. It happens all the time." She is thinking about Jon, too. About Jon, and his face when he found out about Lyanna, and how she held him through the night. "And Tywin was an evil man."

"But he was his father!"

It's Petyr's face in her mind's eye, now. And mint. She almost feels it in the tip of her tongue. "Evil, still. Besides, no one knows how the twins died. We mustn't make assumptions based on mindless rumors. He has been nothing but solicit to us since he arrived. And the Queen granted him royal pardon."

She is not sure why she is defending him. Something in her guts twists and drops — because she knows, she knows, it could very well be true. It could. Sometimes it is easy to forget he is a murderer. She never forgets about her own crimes, after all.

(Tyrion dreams, whispers names. Mother or Jaime or Shae or Tysha Tysha Tysha. She never asked him if she talks in her sleep, too.)

"That changes nothing, milady. We have children in the castle—"

"Lord Tyrion would never harm a child." This, at least, she knows for sure. She takes a deep breath and forces her voice to be firm, but gentle. There is no way to explain how she knows Tyrion won't ever hurt her, and therefore none of her people. It would be a stupid move of his part, of course, and Tyrion is anything but stupid, but this is not the only reason, it's not even the main reason. He owes me, you see? And he pays his debts. Instead, she raises her chin. "My lord, I understand your reasons to be worried. But please; if you don't trust him, trust me. I wouldn't share a bed with him, I wouldn't bring him here, if I knew he would harm us. We are safe."

"There's this, above everything else," the man growls. "What he did to you."

(The rumors about Sansa are different.

Petyr Baelish, Harrold Hardyng, Tyrion Lannister, Aegon Targaryen, even Jon Snow.

Their ultimate concern is who is the man between her legs.)

"Tyrion did nothing to me," she says, calmly. "They forced him, too."

"Bad men always say they are following orders to justify their own depravity."

Sansa appreciates their fatherly protection towards her and Arya; she truly does. But this shouldn't be of anyone's concern. "He did nothing to me," she repeats. "He never bedded me in King's Landing."

How odd, she thinks, that a maidenhead, a piece of skin, can hold so much power. Artos Flint seems completely startled, and just after many seconds he is able to speak. "Why?"

Who knows?, Sansa thinks with herself, and shrugs as if it was of little importance. "I've told you. He tried to protect me from all the Lannisters. Himself included." When he keeps his silence, she frowns one eyebrow and sharpens her tone. "Do you have any more questions, my lord?" because he wouldn't ask. He wouldn't dare. And he doesn't; he shakes his head, leaves the solar in resigned silence, and Sansa smiles to herself. Now is just a matter of time.

The week hasn't even finished when some of the proudest northerner lords are seen sharing a flagon of wine with her lord husband over the dinner table.

(She finds the charcoal drawings of the glass garden among his letters and parchments, on his table, a couple of days later. There are three or four sketches; one of them has branches of vines scrambling over the iron frames, weighed down by heavy bunches of grapes, and a little boy next to a window. She knows it is Bran, even if the lines of his face are blurred, and her heart swells and hurts.

The following night, when he is ready to go to bed, she lowers her needlework to her lap and calls in a hushed voice. "My lord?"

He turns around. "Yes?"

Why did you kill my maid — I understand Tywin, but why Shae? And Jaime and Cersei? Did you kill them? Where is Myrcella? Why have you never touched me again? He never did, after the fight, not in the way she fears and waits: never caressed her hair again, never kissed her fingers. She can only remember he was soft.

"Would you mind a visit to Winter Town for me in the morning? We need more threads. And silks."

"Oh, I wouldn't. Sure." His attention is stuck on her work for a second and then comes back to her face. "Anything else?"

Why are you still here? Why do you still care?

"No, my lord. Thank you.")

"When Love had made these commands," Sansa begins to read out loud, "I asked him: Sir, how and in what way can these lovers endure the woes that you have told me about?" She looks up quickly from the page to check if he is listening. His eyes are still on his own book, but he presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, and so she continues. "I am greatly terrified by them. How can one keep on living when he is in burning pain and sorrow, weeping and sighing, weighed down by the care and attention that he must give to every detail and every condition? Gods help me; I marvel greatly how any man, even one of iron, can live for a year in such hell."

He finally closes his book, marking the page with his finger, and looks at her. He sits opposite to where she is on the couch in front of the fireplace. She is reading the one he gave her a couple of moons ago, and sometimes she quotes her favorite lines, when he is nearby. He listens, shares witty remarks with her: sometimes, offers her another point of view of the characters or the lessons, but most of the time he just makes her laugh with his usual nastiness.

"The God of Love then replied to my question with a good explanation: Fair friend, no one has anything good unless he pays for it. Men love a possession more when they have bought it at a higher price, and the good things for which one has suffered are received with greater thanks. It is true that no woe measures up to that which colors lovers. No more than one can empty the sea could any man recount in a romance or a book the woes of love." She searches for his face again, and tilts her head slightly. "A Lannister wrote this."

"No!," he laughs. "We Lannisters don't have time for this. I've told you, the author was some pretty shining lord from the Reach. But please, continue," he asks, lightly amused. "The suffering goes on for a while."

"Why are you laughing?"

He smiles uncannily. "I knew you would like this part."

She narrows her eyes. It is annoying, how sometimes he acts as if he knew her every thought. He doesn't. He doesn't. "And how could you know?"

"Because of course you would quote the line about the necessity of self-sacrifice and the suffering of lovers, and tragedy, and..." he waves his hand about. "Those kind of things."

She would feel the need to defend herself if his voice didn't carry so much cynicism. She finds it distracting. "Did you even like this book? When you first read it?"

"I did, back then. Very much."

"But not now." It's not a question.

"No, wife," he says, gently. "Not anymore." His voice is always very deep – in moments like this, Sansa can't help but feel invaded by the mere timbre of it; she looks at him as if he had just pinched her, and he quickly adds, "but it is still a good novel! And it is true, won't you agree? We don't value that which cost us nothing. We know that no thing that truly matters comes freely."

Sansa weighs everything down in three seconds – the price, the debts, the years.

Maybe she has made the right decision, after all. Isn't she home now? And safe? Why do they fear you?, she wonders. You're so easy to understand.

"Yes, my lord," she ends up saying. "I believe it is true. In a way. This is a good story. Thank you."

"I'm glad." And, nonchalantly, as he comes back to his own reading, "and this is a pretty dress."

"Thank you!" There's a proud and simple happiness in her voice, almost vain. She had spent her scarce free time in the last couple of weeks working on it: a velvet indigo dress with embroidered leaves in gray thread crawling up the sleeves. She uses a cloak over it during the day; no one ever sees it. "I made it myself."

"I know," he murmurs, unthinkingly.

Sansa often feels like her husband is ignoring her existence, avoiding her presence, or trying to forget they are married. They frequently retire to their chambers in different hours, go to bed separately, and sometimes spend entire days without even seeing each other. The mere idea that he is observing her paints her voice with a rare fondness when she asks, "would you mind, my lord?" and stretches her legs on the couch until her crossed feet are on his lap.

He is stunned just for a second. "Not at all," he assures, and they come back to their respective books.

Later, when his thumb begins to softly stroke the skin of her heel, she doesn't flinch.

Chapter Text

Dear Boy: Be the muscle,
make music to the bone—risk

that mercurial measure
of contact. There are those

who touch a body and leave it
graceful: be that kind

of wonder in the dark.

"What I Mean When I Say Harmony (I)," by Geffrey Davis

Winterfell's household is unstable. Sansa welcomes anyone who begs for aid or protection; a lot of people come for the food, for shelter themselves from the lethal cold and recover from their wounds. Only some of them stay, offering their workforce; they don't ask for money — you can't eat gold — but they are not strong nor skilled men. It is a kindness, in the end, both from them and from Sansa. It is the most dysfunctional household he has ever seen, except for Brienne and Podrick, maybe, who are both too talented to be here, in this wasteland, at least the way Tyrion understands it.

(Brienne had spoken directly with him on her own free will only once. Sansa had explained, in succinct words, "You remind her of Jaime. They were friends, I believe." The silence that followed was fit to a crypt. He likes Brienne, though, if only because Podrick is clearly devoted to the woman, and, above all, the woman is devoted to Sansa. He wished he had the chance to ask Jaime about her. Tyrion paints him in his head, gilded, two hands: did you give up on Cersei already, brother, he would've asked, in another world, in another life. Always pitying the ugly ones of this world, I see. There's something in Brienne, something loyal and pure and whacked, that reminds him of Jaime, too.)

They don't have a Maester. There's a fat, smart young man, called Samwell Tarly, though, who has read almost as much as Tyrion at his age. If he is not taking care of someone, Samwell — Sam, as they call him — is surely reading something. Tyrion had written to his aunt Genna, who holds the Rock in his name, asking her to send some of his old books to the North, for the boy as much as for himself. Sansa had smiled with the corner of her mouth when he said it to her. "Your books? Really?" There was— not a promise, but the ghost of it, filling up the empty space between his body and hers on the couch. He never answered her. She hadn't asked a proper question.

Last sons in inheritance lines and a lot of women and children, men with no great names, clans of the North: these are the people rebuilding Sansa's home. The men Tyrion brought with him are capable and disciplined, and are finally, after six moons, adapting to the daily snows. Slowly, Winterfell is taking form, starting to look like a castle again. Once a week they have the dinner meal together, lords and peasants, in the Great Hall. Sometimes the builders sing and dance, drunk and tired from work, like a defiant scream into the night, into the destruction. In those nights Tyrion thinks: life is very simple, after all. Humanity is simple and fragile and embarrassingly foolish, this mysterious entity they gave their lives for. Everyone just wants some place to land, something to eat, a warm bed at night. He looks at Sansa, by Rickon's side, sometimes laughing with Arya, sometimes even drinking a cup of wine or two. (A reason to die for, to live for, that smile of hers.)

There are a lot of missing pieces, still, but time, eventually, takes care of them. One afternoon, at the end of the day, Podrick announces someone by the name of Gendry Waters, who is waiting to have an audience with the lord of Winterfell. Sansa calls for Rickon and orders the man to meet her in the Great Hall. Tyrion finds his place in the corner, and observes: a young man, remarkably strong, with black hair and blue eyes, offering his services as a blacksmith. He has no manners, barely manages to be courteous with Rickon and Sansa, and his face is familiar but Tyrion doesn't know why.

"I know your sister, milord," he says, finally. Sansa stiffens and looks at Tyrion subtly. He nods and leaves the room, in search of Arya, listening the words echoing in the hallway. "Arya Stark? I know her."

She is in the Kitchens. Tyrion describes the man the best way he can, which is not much (black hair, blue eyes, a bastard). When he says the name, she all but runs in the direction of the Great Hall. He arrives there considerably belated. Arya is screaming at the man with a furious look in her face.

"You idiot!," Arya says, and punches the man in the shoulder. Hard. He holds her wrist as everyone watches in silent shock, Podrick and Sansa and Rickon and Tyrion and Brienne, this last one studying the bastard's face gingerly. "What took you so long? I thought you were dead!"

Arya demands a bed in the Great Keep for him.

Later that night, before Tyrion retires to bed, Sansa lifts up her eyes from the parchment before her. "Did he say he was a blacksmith?"

Tyrion almost smiles. "He did."

She nods and her attention comes back to the letter she was writing. "Talk with him about the glass gardens tomorrow."

"As my lady wife wishes," he answers, only half-mocking, and is rewarded with one of those tiny smiles he is learning to adore.

He sleeps as terribly as he always had. Sansa is no better. Often, he needs to wake her up in the middle of the night as she writhes by his side; his wife usually just turns her back to him again, mumbling a thank you, and falls asleep.

His nightmares are different. Some nights he needs to literally get up to breathe; he walks to the window, spreads it open and lets the freezing wind numb his face, his lungs, until his mind is as blank as the towers of Winterfell, covered in snow. Sometimes, when she is too drowsy and her guard is down, Sansa calls from the bed, her voice muffled by the pillows and blankets around her: "Husband? Where are you?" He keeps his eyes on the courtyard. "I'm right here. I'll be there soon." She always falls asleep before she can see his word done.

He understands her. They normally sleep in a safe distance from each other (except for that one night), but even like that, to share a bed is oddly comforting. In King's Landing, he'd liked to hear Sansa's calm breathing in the morning, before he had to leave for the day. He still does.

One night, the sound of her distress awakes him as she fights some monster inside her own mind, kicking the sheets, murmuring let me go let me go. He turns to the side out of habit, shakes her by the shoulder: "my lady? My lady, wake up" and she does — gasping heavily for air, hands wrapping her own throat. He can see her eyes wide as plates, stealing the starlight, and when she turns her back to him, the frame of the blanket is trembling with her; maybe she is sobbing — he can't tell. She is always very quiet. But he keeps the hand on her shoulder, waiting for something to happen.

Later he won't remember who started it (he can't trust his memory, these days; wine kind of fucked up his brain). Sansa grabbed his hand and tugged at it, he took courage from the darkness to bring his body closer to hers, but he couldn't tell what happened first, or if everything happened at the same large length of time, slowly, both of them too hesitant and too brittle. They exchange no words as they settle in each other's unfamiliar, unresisting form: his chest pressing lightly against her back, one arm wrapping her waist from behind and resting below her breasts and her hand resting above his, his face hidden somewhere between her nape and the curve of her shoulder. (Her hair smells of lemons and flowers and fresh soap.) He is tense, and she is shaking, and they stand still as statues at first. After some minutes, her trembles fade and end; he synchronizes his breathing with hers — feeling the limits of her rib cage swelling and shrinking — and then, he feels it in her shoulders when she starts to relax, allowing him to relax, too – and it leaves him slightly breathless, how natural and intimate it is. She may have sighed when his chest pressed against her.

There are a hundred ways in which Sansa's body haunts Tyrion – the terrified look in her eyes during their first wedding night, the disgust as she studied his naked body; her fingers clawing the skin of his neck with anger as she cried; her hands on his back, fingers drawing the map of his scars. His own body is before his eyes every hour of every day. When he was a child, the maids and servants of Casterly Rock avoided to touch him unless it was strictly necessary. He spent years thinking it was normal; when he realized it wasn't, he started to think he had some contagious sickness. He was four when he understood that he was the sickness. Sansa’s rejection never did anything but remind him of what he already knew and couldn't not know. She is like a walking mirror, reflecting his every flaw.

But it was very dark, and in the darkness, a mirror is harmless, powerless.

This is your wife. This is her body and these are her lungs and this is her, he keeps thinking, and he can't stop thinking.

She is the one to break the silence. It takes a lot of time; long enough for him to take note of every place their bodies are united, long enough for him to keep track of the rhythm of her breathing. "Does this bother you?" Her voice is very shy.

"What?" She dabs the hand over her belly. "Of course not."

"Robb hated to share a bed with me." He waits. It seems important. Sansa never talks about this one, Robb. "He used to say I was suffocating him."

He imagines a little Sansa — she is so damn young, it wasn't even that long ago — holding her brother to sleep as he tries to untangle her limbs from him in a warless, idyllic, white world. He imagines Sansa in King's Landing, sleeping alone; Sansa, in King's Landing, still alone, but with him; and then in the Vale, sleeping with the Gods only know who, and he wants to hold her tighter out of the sudden. (He doesn't).

"I'm breathing perfectly fine," he murmurs. It is only half a lie. He waits a little more. "Does this bother you?"

She inhales, exhales. In and out, one, two, three times, before she answers, calmly, "No. I like it. It keeps me warm."

He nods. Yes. Warm, indeed.

Her scent makes him heady. He tries to breath in the skin behind her ear without invading her space more than he already is invading — and then he listens to it, a giggle. It occurs to him he has never heard it before. "Are you—"

"I am! I'm sorry!," she is seemingly ashamed, but soon giggles again, squirming. "It is just— your beard."

"What about my beard?"

"I'm ticklish on my neck and your beard keeps brushing against it."

For the first time since he came North she sounds like a normal eighteen years old. "Here?" he scratches his beard against her neck and shoulders; she flinches away, laughs, doesn't let go of his hand.

"Ouch! Now you're burning me."

He kisses the spot by instinct, forgetting they don't do this, but apparently, she doesn't mind (and then again, they also don't hold each other at night).

"I'm sorry," he whispers, not knowing precisely what he is sorry about, and very thankful for the darkness.

She turns around, shifting until her face is hidden somewhere between his chest and shoulder, throwing one careless arm around his torso. This way his chin rests atop her head, his beard is really far away from any exposed skin, and she is still inside his arms.

"Better now?" he asks, mockingly.

"Much better, thank you," she answers, smiling against his tunic. He wonders if she can hear his heart. She is so close. She is so close. She probably can. "Tomorrow you'll shave."

"But my lady, it serves me—"

"If I can bear the cold without a beard, so can you," she cuts him off. "You'll shave."

That is a terrible argument, but he keeps it to himself, because her laughter still reverberates in his limbs like a thunder. "All right."

For some reason, he thinks about how hard it will be to leave in the morning without waking her up, but he tries to focus on other things. The pressure of her firm breasts against him, even with two layers of clothes in the way. He feels the dangerous, keen curve of her waist under his hand, and the tremendous effort that is not to run his palm up and down the side of her body. He draws his hips away from her, subtly, just to make sure.

After a long time he notices her breathing is not getting slower. "My lady?"

"Hm?"

He waits three seconds to ask. "How are you?"

"I am well." There's a resigned tone in her voice. She sounds fifty again. "Just a nightmare, husband."

"Do we want to talk about it?"

"We don't." Her cheek rests on the crook of the arm under her. It is growing numb. He wouldn't move even for all the gold in the Seven Kingdoms. "We want to rest. There's so much to do tomorrow, and we are tired."

They know what is happening. They deal with it every day, when Sansa and Rickon hold court: after every war, the Kings and Queens and Wardens have to redefine the boundaries of their lands, redistributing it to new lords and new people, for a new beginning.

This – this is not like walls crumbling down; it is like removing old landmarks. Soundless.

And so it seems natural, like the logical next step, to bury his hand in her hair — not a light caress, as he once did, but feeling it between his fingers, running them down through her strands as far as his small arms allow him to, and then coming back to the top of her head and doing it again, slowly, and again, until she is sighing and accommodating herself closer in his small curve; until her muscles are unstringing. "Your hair is growing fast," he comments. She nods, hums her agreement, but says nothing else.

Later, when he rests his hand on her nape, she groans in frustration: "Don't stop." Her voice sounds drowsier than before.

He can't help a chortle against the crown of her head. "Stop fighting sleep, darling," he says, and begins to slide his hand again. (He, too, is drowsy enough to let it slip past his teeth—darling, soft like a poem.) "You need to rest, you said it yourself."

"I am resting."

This is the last thing she says.

When he is sure she is asleep, he kisses her brow. Don't grow used to her, he drills his heart, uselessly, hopelessly, as sleep catches him. Don't fucking grow used to any of it.

By the end of the week, in the middle of the morning, one of Sansa's girls — Jeyne, he believes — finds him with Gendry, planning the glass gardens, and says Lady Stark is calling for him in their bedroom. They rarely meet in private during the course of the day, and never in their chambers, but he attends. His wife is waiting for him on the couch across the fireplace, and by her side, over the nightstand, there are two basins, one full with water, another with soap.

She raises her head and smiles, kindly, only with her eyes; mouth still tied up. "Oh, there you are. Come here."

He walks cautiously in her direction because— there's a razor in her right hand. It steals the sunlight and shines, too brightly for his senses. "What is happening?"

"I see you still haven't shaved," she explains. "We must take care of this situation."

He rolls his eyes, but comes closer, anyway. "Leave my beard alone, wife. It hides my face."

She lays a white towel on the back of the couch as he sits by her side and leans his head backwards over it. "I like your face," she says, casually, and he feels something like hysteria raising in his throat; he almost snorts a laugh, but instead his fists close at each of his sides as he stares at her.

"That is... cruel. You weren't that cruel, the first time you married me."

She just almost-smiles again. "Don't be silly, my lord. Are you ready?" and suddenly he is acutely aware that Sansa Stark is holding a blade inches away from his face, which, by the way, is already missing important parts.

"Do you really know what you're doing?" he asks, eyes squirming, and she chuckles gracefully.

"You rode a dragon, you have been in wars," she wets her fingers in the first basin and spreads them through his face, the right, lower side of it. "You can't possibly be afraid of a woman with a blade."

"Oh, but a woman with a blade can do so many terrible things to a man," he comments, and her shoulders tense visibly as she takes a handful of soap and applies it on his right cheek, all the way down until his jaw-line. All the hints of a smile are gone from her eyes and lips, now. "I'm in no position to judge such woman, surely— Me, the monster who killed his own father."

She brings the razor down. A blade shouldn't be soft; and yet, she slides it on his skin like velvet. When she is concentrated at something, the space between her eyebrows frown together in the smallest of the curves, she presses her lips against each other in a thin line, her face assuming this serious, Stark-hard expression, whether she is sewing, at a meeting or... Shaving her husband's face, it seems. "Petyr wasn't my father," she declares, voice as hard as her face or her shoulders. "And from now on, you'll need to shut your mouth."

"Of course he wasn't," he says while she takes more lather and distributes it over his face. Tyrion doesn't like the way her mouth tugs down in the corners. "The whole Realm is in your debt for his life, you know."

Every time the name Petyr Baelish appears in conversations, even at random, this happens: she steels herself, avoiding to look people in the eye. He knows she was responsible for his execution, he knows she had spent years under his tutelage, and he knows she pretended to be his daughter all along. (Some people say she did it, not in the name of the Queen's Justice, but in the name of House Stark, and that she used a knife that he had given her himself).

She slides the razor again, holding his chin in the right angle with her free hand. "For his death, you mean? The whole Realm is in your debt for your father's death, then." Sansa taps the razor against the rim of the basin, cleans his face with more water, and then adds more lather. "The world is built by killers," she murmurs. It sounds incredibly sad, but there is a tenderness in Sansa that never leaves her; that resists and endures. He wishes he knew how. "A friend told me this, once."

"You're not a killer, my lady," he says when she retires the razor to clean it again. She needs to know this. "An execution is not a murder. It was the right thing, what you did. The honorable thing."

And he realizes – in the way she moves tiredly again to his face, in the quiet sigh that escapes her, in her evasive words – that she is still in mourning for Petyr, that she speaks about him like an abandoned orphan. He knows it by recognition, his heart identifying the undertones of it way sooner than his mind; it's a different look in her eyes from that one when someone mentions Ned, or Catelyn, when she is just in plain, aching sorrow.

"I know it was," she states, coldly. "I will accidentally kill you, if you keep talking."

She dabs two fingers over his mouth and he purses his lips, hiding them inside. Her face is very close; it is uncomfortable, in daylight, but she is so focused on her task that he seizes the chance to study her as she delicately shaves the bristles away, skilled and careful around the scar. She is so beautiful that sometimes it hurts him, like a physical blow. "Accidentally," he mutters when she retires the blade one more time. "The whole North would praise you if you accidentally killed me."

Her eyes gleam again, just a little, with amusement. "That is not true."

She pushes his head, exposing the skin of his neck. He feels goosebumps running through his arms. "But it is."

"If it is, why do you trust me with a blade so near your throat?" she asks, and looks him in the eye for the first time.

"That is a really good question, wife, but you won't kill me; of that I'm sure."

She starts to spread lather under his chin. "I've done it before. You just said it, that I could do terrible things to a man."

"I'm not saying you can't. I'm saying you won't."

"How can you be so sure?" Her voice is sly and mysterious, just when the razor reaches his neck, and for a moment he is afraid. He reminds himself this is the worst possible timing to be afraid, to have the vessels in his neck pulsing faster with something so honed right over them, but then he thinks, this is Sansa. This is just Sansa; I know how you breathe when the candles are blown out. You don't believe I will hurt you. This is how I'm sure.

Still, he is no fool and won't play with his luck. He just speaks again when she retracts the razor. "It is not like you," he says, simply.

"I'm not as good a person as you think I am," she says, and he feels the sharpness of the blade sliding parallel to his skin with ferocious precision.

He shuts his mouth, lets her finish the right side of his face, and before she begins on the left, he says, "You're not as bad as you think you are, either."

Sansa glares at him with regretful eyes. As if she is waiting for absolution, for a sentence, for a fair trial for herself. She shakes her head and brings the razor to his face again. "Hush, husband."

The first night was like a seal over a letter, and the following nights are just a repetition, a ritual.

They sleep apart, until Sansa wakes up in the middle of the night. If he is already there, she will merely rest her head on his shoulder, or his chest, as he rolls one arm over her. Some nights, he is watching the snow falling outside, or staring at the embers in the hearth, as if he could order them to burn in flames again only with the power of his eyes. "Tyrion?" she will call, anxiously, "come back to bed."

Under the sheets, she finds her place by his side, and he tucks her hair behind her ear, needlessly – he can't see her face, anyway. "Hello," he murmurs; holds her face, seeking her cheekbone, and runs a thumb over it. Darkness makes him notably braver, but not enough to completely forget her rejection, all those years ago. He waits for any sign of reticence, but when he only feels her body snuggling closer to his, he whispers, "I'm here. Try to sleep."

Sometimes she grabs his hand and places it in her hair. Some nights, he knows she doesn't fall asleep for a very long time, and he finds out he can't sleep unless she sleeps too.

He finds worthy of note that they are only able to hold each other in the dark, when everything else vanishes and there is nothing left but this need for something to appease the loneliness that threatens to swallow them whole. Sansa lies peacefully inside his arms, keeping his own nightmares at bay, and it's very hard to remember that neither of them wanted this marriage, in the first place. They never talk about it in daylight.

That night she wakes up silently and instead of turning her body to his, she pulls him closer, like that first time, and his arms enfold her from behind, under the many layers of blankets, their hands tangled together over her belly. He hides his smooth, not-tickling face between her neck and shoulder. "See," she says, and he can hear her smile. "This is the reason why you should shave."

Tyrion smiles against his own will, and knows one more battle has been lost.

Chapter Text

Wherever you are, you know that I adore you
No matter how far, well, I can go before you
And if ever you need someone– well, not that you need helping,
But if ever you want someone, know that I am willing

Wherever you go, well, I can always follow
I can feed this real slow, if it's a lot to swallow
And if you just want to be alone, well, I can wait without waiting
If you want me to let this go, well, I'm more than willing

Because I don't want to change you
I don't want to change you
I don't want to change your mind

"I don't want to change you," by Damien Rice

When Sansa was a little girl, she wanted to be one of the adults. The tall, big people wearing worried scowls; making decisions; using words she didn't know. She would search for Uncle Benjen's lap when he came to Winterfell during dinners. She would study the way her lady mother moved and talked and she would act accordingly. She'd liked to play the Queen, not only the Princess. In her childhood dreams she was loved, admired, praised.

She misses this girl. Her grown-up heart is kind towards her. If she could travel back in time, she would pat her own child's red hair. Wouldn't tell herself the truth. Would let herself play pretend. Now she wanted to be free of it; she wishes her mind didn't look at everything and everyone as pieces moving, that her brain didn't plan outcomes and consequences in every word and action. Who, in the future, could turn against Daenerys, because of the North? Who could turn against the North, because of Daenerys? Who could resent and turn against the Starks, many years ahead, because of her marriage with Tyrion? Who could turn against Winterfell merely because they were still vulnerable, rebuilding, three surviving orphan children? (You're not a child, she tells to herself, strengthening her spine, hardening her mouth. You're the grown-up now.) What if Rickon only breed girls? And, very often, what if Rickon decides to leave, go north of the Wall, find himself a wildling bride? The Stark name would die – Ned's name, Ned's name would die. This is all that's left of him, a name, she can't let it die.

Sansa hates this about herself. Her baby brother, so long thought lost – he is just Rickon, the last Stark male. He is not a piece in the game,

except he is.

He is becoming a man before her eyes, and Sansa doesn't know what to do with it. His voice sometimes cracks in the middle of a sentence; his muscles are starting to show in his arms; he is getting taller, so much like Robb at his age that sometimes she misses a breath. Rickon is clever, his kindness is quiet and discrete but it is there. But most of all he is angry, always, waiting for a war that has ended, already; waiting for a real enemy to cast his fury upon, someone to blame for the childhood he never had.

They have managed to head all this into fighting. And so Rickon trains and fights. Every day, for hours. Often with Podrick – patient, kind, wise Podrick, but sometimes with Arya.

The problem with Arya: she loves her little brother, and because of that she is ruthless with him.

One afternoon, Sansa is watching as they fight with wooden swords in the godswood, and when Rickon falls for the tenth time, she thinks, now, he will give up. He will scream, pull a tantrum. Arya's style is too different from Podrick's; it demands a calm, a coldness, even, that Rickon does not possess. His wilderness works on his own favor when he fights in Westerosi style, but not when it comes to Bravoosi water-dancers. Sansa has the impression Arya just really moved her feet twice.

Rickon doesn't yell, but doesn't get up, too, which Sansa has learned to read as a bad sign. "That was not fair," he accuses. "It's getting dark."

Arya rolls her eyes. "You have a shitty memory." Sansa wants to correct her, language, Arya, but she knows that it would be useless. "You are a sword, Rickon. Use your ears. They are just as important as your eyes."

"I'm using my–"

"You're not," Arya interrupts, the wooden sword dancing from one hand to another in such gracious, swift moves that it almost looks like it is, really, part of her. "You're only paying attention to your own body, not mine. Once you understand that the sword is you, and you are a sword, you will learn to focus on your enemy." She doesn't reach a hand to him, but rests the blunt point of the sword on the ground. "Now get up." When Rickon only stares at her with murderous eyes, she frowns one eyebrow. "Bran would never stay fallen this long."

"Arya," Sansa warns. This is too much. He is just a child. "That's enough."

Arya ignores her completely, but Rickon eventually gets up, and Sansa sees it, in his still childish face, hints of a man: the Stark finding its way through the fire in him as he raises his sword, widens his stance. "Again," he says, and Arya smiles to him.

He still looses. When the sunlight is too dim for Arya's standards, she lets him go. Sansa is leaning against a nearby tree, and approaches him, worried.

"Come here, Rick." He seems fine, although his gait is funny when he walks in her direction. She frowns. "Are you hurt?" She reaches a hand for his face. His lower lip is bleeding, she can see now that he is closer.

"I am well," he pulls off her hand. "You're not my mother, Sansa."

Sansa is not sure if he is saying that to her or to himself. Rickon is the only one who never said it out loud – you are just like her, you look just like Catelyn – and yet, sometimes it is like he is screaming at the top of his lungs, watching her with the corner of his eye.

"I'm not." She keeps her hands clasped tightly in front of her, because the urge to caress his hair is almost impossible to resist. "You're my brother and my lord. Should I not care about you?"

"You don't need to take care of me all the time. I'm no child anymore."

Of course you are. You are just ten.

"No, brother, you're not," she murmurs, and bites his tongue, so she won't order him to get inside. He leaves by himself. She observes quietly as he walks towards the castle, and only when his silhouette disappears into the almost-night she turns around, where Arya is waiting. "You shouldn't be so hard on him," she rebukes.

"You shouldn't be so soft," Arya answers. She has Needle in her hand, somehow; it was probably hidden somewhere. It is never too far away from Arya. The younger one searches for a stone, finds it; sits on the ground, between the roots of an oak.

"I'm not soft."

"You’re soft with everything that matters," she says, and starts to sharpen her sword, and Sansa knows what she means.

It is an amateur's mistake to show weakness, but really, she has no one else to talk about this. No matter their differences, Arya is her sister, more an ally than a friend. They are a pack; a team; the last Starks of Winterfell. There must be no secrets between them, not more than necessary, not when it comes about their most fundamental task: to rebuild their home, and protect Rickon at all costs. They'd agreed on that. Didn't they? "Well, aren't you afraid?"

"Of what?"

"That he will leave?"

"If he leaves," Arya says, in a placid voice that Sansa isn't completely used to yet, "then we pray that he will find happiness." The stone against the wiry blade makes a metallic noise, rings in Sansa's ears like a strident scream. It is getting really dark. In her man's clothes, with her hair cut like that, Sansa could play pretend and Arya could very well be Ned.

"If he leaves," Sansa replies, "everything we worked for, it will be over."

But Arya only snorts; a bitter, tired sound. "Listen to yourself, Sansa. You are not paying attention to the important part."

"What is the important part?"

"The he will find happiness part, sister," she sighs. "Just because you and I are doomed doesn't mean he has to be, too."

Sansa is so frustrated for a moment that she forgets the plots, the future, the possibility that in fact the Stark line might very well end with them. "And how beating him up will help with that?"

"Don't worry. Rickon just needs to do something with all that anger." She gets up, throws the stone aside, passes Sansa by. "You’re making a lord out of him, but I’m making a warrior. We need him to be both."

Sansa knows it is irrational, but the godswood is the only place she feels safe, apart from Tyrion's arms at night, because this is where Bran is watching them. For a moment, there are Arya's sleek steps getting lower and lower, the wind whistling through the leaves; Bran, somewhere; and Ned, always Ned between them, above them, by their side.

"Father was a great warrior, a great lord, and that didn't save him in the end," Sansa says, loud, so Arya will listen. And Robb, too, but Sansa doesn't talk about Robb, never, the brother who never came, who never rescued her. She doesn't turn around to face her sister, but prays that she will understand, this is not enough, being loved, being wise, or knowing how to swing a sword, it is never enough, we have to, we have to–

"Aye, it didn't." Arya stops. Her voice doesn't quiver when she continues. "But before that, he raised sons and daughters to survive through the winter and we are here. I am here, alive, and Rickon is here, alive, and Jon is alive, and so are you." She takes a deep, a-thousand-years-old breath. "All men must die, Sansa. You're not paying attention again."

That night Tyrion notices there's something wrong, but he doesn't change the dance: he serves her a cup of tea, leaves her alone with her letters and her distracted eyes wandering as she stares at the snow falling outside. He says, "I'm retiring to bed," which now means something around I'm here, if you need me, and she answers, "I'll be there in a moment," which is another way of saying wait for me.

And he does, obviously. Sansa doesn't need nightmares as an excuse anymore. She changes her clothes, blows out the remaining candles and crams herself in the blankets with him, holds his waist, pillowing his arm. He doesn't ask – he never asks – but doesn't fall asleep, too, slowly massaging her nape under her loose hair, until she is, if not relaxed, at least more inclined to sleep than before.

"Do you ever feel," she says, after a long time, in a flat voice, "that the War meant nothing? That you risked your life over nothing, because in the end everyone will die anyway?"

Sansa is always the one to begin the conversation, if the conversation is to happen in a particular night. Tyrion just follows wherever she is heading. They don't talk about any of the wars, not normally, for blatant reasons.

"I see you are in a dark mood today," he mocks. And then catches a deep breath. "But, well, yes. Constantly."

"How do you deal with it?"

"I usually avoid this path, when it occurs me."

"But when you go there–"

"Then I drink until I pass out."

"But since I forbade you–"

He chuckles dryly. "Just tell me your point, my lady."

"I can't keep everyone alive," she declares, finally. "Or safe. I can't."

"You can't," he says, in his kind, soft voice, in his night voice.

"Because I'm weak." Sansa is aware of how childish, how vulnerable she must sound. She is aware that showing herself like that is a terrible mistake.

"That is not true," he murmurs, gently. "You are stronger than the Wall."

She snorts. "Please."

"The Wall fell, but here you are, standing." She wants to cry, because he seems to actually believe his own words, but she doesn't want to cry in front of him again, even if he won't see her. "You can't keep everyone alive or safe because no one can. But you accomplish admirable things, my lady."

"That's not enough."

"Nothing ever is." He runs a finger on the curve of her shoulder over her night gown, up and down. "Is there anything we can do... Now? Today?"

"No," she hides her face in his chest. She doesn't want to talk about Rickon and his bleeding lip, about how he will never win that war inside his heart, and probably she won't win her own battles, either.

"Then tomorrow we can try to fix it, whatever worries you," he says, as if it were simple like that. "One day at a time."

Sansa nods. She knows he never follows his own advice, but she is grateful for him, anyway, for his arms and his calm voice and the rhythm of his breathing lulling her to sleep.

It is winter, Sansa lies to herself. Everyone needs to keep warm at night. There's nothing exceptional about holding your husband to sleep.

In the first nights Sansa didn't want to hold Tyrion. She wanted to hold – and, most of all, to be held by – someone. Anyone would do. In her half-conscious state it was easy to pretend he was Robb, or Ned, or, more often, Bran – he has the same height, and at night, she misses Bran the most. She always held him when he had nightmares with all those monsters Old Nan kept telling him stories about.

But Tyrion's body is at its loudest when there are no lights. Every night she is more and more aware of his skin, like he is a forgotten, dusty chamber in Winterfell she is putting back at use. She can’t see him, but she can feel, listen, touch: the muscles in his arms, bones forming his collarbone and shoulders, the hollow space under his jaw, his heart under her palm beating faster every time she comes closer even over the fabric of his tunic, his feet brushing against her knees. It is, in the end, just flesh: a little misshapen, yes, stunted and out of proportion; flesh, nevertheless. He smells of white lilies, old books, wine, fresh snow. One night after another she feels the ghosts of their first wedding night leaving, although she wouldn’t call this bed, now, a proper marriage bed.

When the moon is full, it casts a wan, silver light on them; not enough to light up the room, but his eyes shine the brightest, even the black one, and it was in one of those nights that Sansa decided to speak. "My lord?" "Yes?" "What is your favorite food?" And then it started, short exchanges of unnecessary information – she has asked about the places he had been (he makes everything sounds like an adventure; she remembers the whipping marks on his back and wonders how much he is hiding for her sake), and in return, mumbled about her childhood, her girl friends. No dead family members, no wars, no lost lovers. It leaves little to conversation and so they don't talk much, but when he laughs she feels the rumble of it in his chest, his body vibrating slightly against hers. She likes how he sounds, then, careless, almost happy, or as happy as he can be. She starts to collect his laughter as he once did to her smiles. Sansa never thought about herself as a funny girl, but Tyrion laughs with her when she is not even trying. (He says he likes her mind, that she is a clever woman: "You have a sharp tongue, wife. Who knew?" He laughs at her, too, frequently. She lets him. She laughs with him at herself. She had never done it before.)

The darkness unravels secrets that the brightness leaves unscathed:

Like that night, when, as she turned around, he had whispered, worried, "you are shaking, what is wrong?" and she answered, "just hold me, I’m cold," and he ran the palm of his hand up and down her arm – his hand is not soft, it is roughed and there are little scars on his pads, but it serves her better than the blankets.

Or the names he calls her, sometimes. He still won’t call her by her name, but in their bed he doesn’t call her my lady all the time. Rather, he says, fondly, bashfully: "this is not true, darling"; "why, my dear, you know me"; "try to get some rest, sweetheart, the dawn will arrive anytime now." (He had called her sweetling, once. "Don’t call me like that again," she’d said. He had never asked why.)

Or that occasion when he ran his fingers chastely up and down her waist as he talked about the first time he met Daenerys; his hand always stopping safely far from the sides of her breasts, but travelling lower enough to feel her curves, and when he hit the protuberance of her hipbone she had just jerked towards him. "I'm sorry," she had murmured, ashamed, her breathing quickening. His thumb started to draw circles there, very softly, his voice like honey as he asked, "Here?" And she muttered some sort of agreement, closed her eyes. His voice was very careful when he spoke again: "May I? Only like this?" and she had just– "Yes, yes. Just like this is good." Every move of his fingers in the absurdly sensitive spot of her hip sent strange, weak waves of warmth through her spine, like the surface of a lake disturbed by a stone, and when she came closer, his lips found her brow. She fought the impulse to raise her head, cover his mouth with hers, and won. Fear raised in her chest; not of him, but– "Tyrion," she'd called, like a warning. But he'd just whispered "Shhh. Please. Don't. Can you trust me?" and she'd nodded, relieved, yes, she could trust him. The conversation ended; they stood awake, listening to each other's breathing, for a long, long time. She didn't move, he didn't stop the soothing caress on her, but also did nothing else. He never repeated the gesture, and also never asked anything from her again. Her impulse never came back. She feels more sorry about it that she should.

Sometimes he is the one to weaken. When her nightmares are really bad she likes to wrap her arms around his neck; this way it feels like he is a shield over her, around her. It is a childish reaction, really, but he never complained. One of those times her hand had found the soft hair in the base of his head, curled it around one finger; he'd sighed a breath that sounded a lot like relief, after his initial tension. (He does it for her, often: runs his fingers through her hair to put her to sleep. It was only fair she returned the favor.) "Does this feel good?" she'd asked, and he'd nodded in response, soughing, "it does, my lady." It was an innocent, delicate touch, like their touches usually were; she'd never done anything of the sorts with anyone outside her kin. It was almost motherly, in a way. Maybe that was the whole point. "Should I stop?" she'd asked in a cautious voice, and he'd shook his head; maybe – just maybe – chortled nervously. "No, you shouldn't," and it was like he was melting right under her hands. Sansa felt powerful, remembering how he'd leaned into her touch when he was bathing. (Sometimes it seems like she is always trying to come back to that moment, to the discover and the wonder and the vulnerability she’d found there; to his scars.) You are so easy to please, she’d thought, fingers running through his hair as he fell asleep, just... so easy.

(When you know what a man wants you know who he is, and how to move him, Petyr conspires in her head. She ignores him.)

Sometimes, his mouth brushes over her skin by accident – travelling the curve of her neck and the shell of her ear while he talks when her back is turned to him, chest firmly pressed against her; or soughs against her hair while he tells some unbelievable tale about Essos; but he never finds her lips. He won’t kiss her, like she is a whore. But she is not sure whores normally do what they are doing. It is getting easier and easier to read his body, like he is becoming some limb outside her, like she can reach him through spinal reflexes. Sansa is no maid: she knows sex, this it not sex, definitely, but it must be some kind of intimacy. She is also aware that desire and sex are different things, but their bed has neither; his touch is not a song, nor a fire. It's more like balm over her wounds; he heals her, somehow. She holds him because loneliness is still frightening; her own body seems lighter to carry around when she shares it, like a load is being taken away from her legs. She isn’t oblivious to the numerous occasions when she felt something hard pressing on her belly, or the small of her back. The twelve years old child-bride inside Sansa keeps saying this should scare her. For some reason it doesn’t. She survived far worst men than Tyrion Lannister.

Nothing happened, she tells herself in the morning– and it is true, but it also isn’t. Something happened: she just doesn’t know what. It confuses her, the fact there is not a proper name for it. (Sansa believes it is important to properly name things. Places, events, feelings. People, above all.) He doesn’t seem bothered at all. In fact, life under the sun proceeds as if nothing has changed. At first she had been afraid of being misinterpreted, but Tyrion clearly expects absolutely nothing of her; he only takes whatever she is willing to give. Some nights, all she has to offer are vanishing memories; some nights, she merely intertwine her fingers in his, but keeps her distance and her silence; some nights she holds him so tight that he is forced to hold her, too, whispering sweet nothings in her ear, don't, my lady, you are fine, it is fine, you are home now, it was just a bad dream. But she can't remember the last time she slept, truly, alone.

It makes her nervous– but she soon finds out they can’t just stop, that once the night falls and the fire is out, it is inevitable to be drawn to him, even if most of the nights is just a palm over his heart and her brow resting on his shoulder; he is warmer at night, braver, funnier, far kinder. And after a three weeks or four, it became just one more habit, like braiding her hair in the morning, or inspecting if there's enough wood in the hearths.

In the dark, Tyrion had said to her, a lifetime ago, I am the Knight of Flowers, but the weeks go by, and the moons, and there is no other face in her mind’s eye but his: scarred, familiar, missing a nose and all. In daylight, she doesn’t find him handsome, but she tries to remember why she had thought him repulsive and she can’t, not anymore. She's not even sure she can put the lines of his face together as a physical, material reality. All Sansa sees now when she looks at him is a feeling – of serene familiarity, as if he is another piece of her home, one of the thousand walls being raised around her for her protection.

A week later or so, in the middle of the morning, Sansa realizes the Keep is too quiet. Rickon should be with Tyrion and Samwell, learning his lessons. They usually occupy her own solar, next to where she is now.

"Where is Rickon?" she asks Jeyne, and the girl gives her a sweet smile.

"I believe he is outside with lady Arya, my lady."

"And Lord Tyrion?"

"I don't know," she shrugs. Jeyne never cared about Tyrion; never hated him, never fell for his witty charms.

Sansa decides to walk around, then. She means to visit the glass gardens, where Gendry and another group of masons are relentlessly rebuilding and almost finishing the greenhouse, but she listens to echoes of laughter from afar and decides to follow the sound. She is surprised to find out a cheerful Arya, Rickon ducking down behind a abandoned carriage, forming a perfect ball of snow into his hands and then throwing it right in Tyrion's face. Her husband is the only one not smiling, and it was obvious why: his beard was white from the snow, just as most of his hair, and his clothes. He hits back, though; another snowball flies right in front of her and hits Rickon in his belly, in a moment of weakness.

Arya is the first to notice her presence. "Hey, sister," she screams, and takes a handful of snow from the ground, walking in her direction. "Your husband needs help. He is worse than you."

"Arya, don't—," she warns, raising both of her hands in a poor attempt to protect herself, but it is to no avail; her sister covers her up with merciless attacks, one, and then two, and three, and Sansa barely has the time to run for the closest tree and starts to make snowballs herself. She doesn't notice she is laughing until Rickon teams up with Arya against her; she also has no time to think about her ruined gown, or the fact they haven't played in the snow since they came back home.

"Stop hiding!" Rickon screams. She momentarily leaves her shelter to pelt him — Rickon is a hard target, being small and fast as he is, but her aim is right; she hits him in the arm.

"You were hiding when I arrived here," she yells back. "And two against one is not fair."

"Two against two," Arya corrects, and Sansa notices her husband is actually being attacked too, somewhere. She pities him, but just for a second, because Arya finds her, pulling her from behind the tree, bringing her to the open field. She throws Sansa on the ground, burying them in the snow, shoving snow into her cloak and her gown as the older writhes and squeals and laughs and fights back with all her might until she is pretty sure the fight is, at least, even, if not won.

They lie down on the snow, breathless and still smiling, looking at the white sky above them. "I need a hot bath," Sansa declares, her chest still rising and falling with the effort. "We all need a hot bath, actually," and now, her Lady Regent voice is finding its way into her, but not enough to ruin the fun.

"I feel fine," Rickon says, lying down by Arya's side. "We won."

"We did," Arya agrees.

"You didn't," Sansa shakes her head. "Maybe in the beginning, but I beat you in the end, sister."

"No way!," Arya retorts. "Tyrion is terrible, and we are in pairs. He lost for the two of you."

Sansa raises her head, and looks around. "Husband? Where are you?"

"I'm here." His steps are mute on the thick snow, but he eventually comes closer. His beard still has snowflakes all over, there's ice on his lashes, his cheeks are flushed red, his clothes are stained white. He looks down at them and a jet of fondness drowns his eyes. "I see you are very good at this," he says, looking at her.

"She isn't," Arya mutters. "You're just saying that because she is your wife."

"Well, I'm nothing but loyal," he shrugs, almost smiling, and crosses his arms before his chest.

"Come here," Sansa calls. "Lie down with us."

He frowns. "I've had enough of snow for today," he says, apologetically. "I had enough of snow for a lifetime, to be honest."

"You are very bad at this," Rickon shakes his head. "Have you never played in the snow before?"

Tyrion blinks once, and then twice. "Well... No. You know where I came from, I assume, my lord?"

Sansa bites her lip to prevent another laughter. He really looks funny, all covered in white like this. And defeated by a boy of ten. She can't think about a better way to destroy his Lannister pride than that. He ultimately lies down by Sansa's side, a couple of inches away. Touching is for night time.

"You look miserable," Sansa asserts, merrily.

"Thank you, wife."

"Hey, Rickon," Arya says, getting on her feet. "I bet you can't get to the Armory before— hey!," she yells, and runs after her brother, because in the middle of her sentence Rickon is already running.

Arya always had good timing, after all. They hear Rickon's laughter getting far and far away until it disappears.

"That one, right there," Tyrion censures, "is the Lord of Winterfell."

Sansa chuckles. "Let him play. He is just a child." He hums something that sounds like agreement, and turns his face to the side. She does the same, and watches as he studies every inch of her face with the same deliberate concentration he uses when he is working. Once, she thinks, distracted, being scrutinized like that would have been uncomfortable, but Sansa no longer fear his eyes. She is curious, though. "What?"

"How can you look so adorable after a snow fight?" he asks, frustrated, and Sansa blushes like she is ten and two again.

"I should have defended you against them," she says, changing the subject only because she doesn't know how to receive compliments anymore, at least not when they aren't a concealed threat. She can't defend herself, if there's no weapon. Being safe has its own challenges. "I'm sorry."

He smiles his customary crooked smile. "It is all right."

"Be honest with me."

"Always."

"Did you let them win?"

"I didn't. I swear. I'm that bad."

She giggles again. "You must have some southerner version of snowball fight?"

"Mud fight?" he tries, amused. "My lord father used to say it was a waste of time."

Sansa's voice is too skeptical; she doesn't try to hide it. "To play?"

"Yes." It's his time to scoff, a joyless sound. He doesn't talk much about Tywin, a fact that doesn't bother Sansa at all, but when he does it's always with a poisonous tone in his words, some cynic remark, an acid commentary. It's never like that, with these distant eyes, with this empty voice. She wants to drag it away, the emptiness. She wants the memory of Tywin to disappear, forever, for his sake as much as for hers.

"I think that for a novice in the art of snow-fighting, you went pretty well." She sits down, tilts her head to look down on him, reaches a hand to brush the snow from his eyebrows. He flinches away at first. "There you go," she murmurs, softly, getting up on her feet and offering him the same hand.

He looks at her warily before accepting her help, and just lets go of her hand when they are very close to the Keep, his fingers lingering on hers as much as they can. He hides his hands in his pockets, under his cloak, and once they are indoors, doesn't look back at her as they part their ways.

Chapter Text

A man saw a bird and found him beautiful. The bird had a song inside him, and feathers. Sometimes the man felt like the bird and sometimes the man felt like a stone—solid, inevitable—but mostly he felt like a bird, or that there was a bird inside him, or that something inside him was like a bird fluttering. This went on for a long time.

"The language of the birds," Richard Siken

When winter touched the South, the northerner breezes in King's Landing made the cold unbearable, specially at night, and Tyrion hid indoors, the chill berthing in his bones making the pain in his hips and legs impossibly worse. Jon mocked him for it, and Tyrion commented about how he would never, ever, understand the northerner obsession with winter as some magical, mystical entity. He just felt miserable. There was nothing special about snow.

And Jon gave him one of those smiles of his — kind of sad, a thousand years old, as if he had to carry the world on his no-more-bastard shoulders. (Later, he will see the same smile on Sansa's face, and will wonder what is wrong with Ned's children.)

"You don't understand the cold," he had said, like some fucking old, wise wizard, a flagon of ale in his hands. Tyrion glanced at him over his cup of wine in disbelief.

"I do, Jon. I do understand the cold. It is about endless pain and the utter impossibility of anything that vaguely resembles comfort."

"You southerners think you know comfort," Jon had said, drinking hard and looking at the courtyard through the balcony of his royal chambers, despite his refuse in accepting them. I am a man of the Night's Watch. It doesn't matter if my father is a Targaryen. Tyrion only thought the boy knew how to hide his feelings, very much like his lady wife once more. "But if you spend all your life surrounded by the sun and the heat, how will you know how much it is worth? How precious these things are?"

"Oh," Tyrion smiled, and glared at him, still all in black from head to toes. Jon was no stupid man; his message was very clear. The Wall needs help, he kept saying. "Is it about that you don't know what you have until it's gone thing?"

"Yes. On a daily basis. At the end of every damn day, we come back home and we know warmth again, in front of our fireplaces, together. This is how we survive through winter, my lord. Not fighting for ourselves. We fight for home."

He remembered Essos, then, and almost said it, I know warmth; maybe I don't know home, but I know warmth. Of course all those concepts — family, a warm place around a table, somewhere to come back to, like an anchor — felt very foreign to Tyrion, who had no roots whatsoever, and whose biggest desire as a child had always been to leave: to know the world, to flee from the Rock and Tywin and Cersei. Maybe Jon was right; maybe he would never know comfort, if a home was needed to know it.

"I thought you northerners were sturdier than that," he mocked, instead. "This sounds like bad poetry."

Jon smiled, then, with all the pride worthy of a boy raised by Ned Stark and all the obscenity of someone who grew up as a bastard and spent his formative years in Castle Black. "Fuck off, Imp."

When Sansa called him, a couple of years later, Jon's words were there, whispering empty promises. Say yes to her. Go, find yourself a home.

(A man had two birds in his head—not in his throat, not in his chest—
and the birds would sing all day never stopping.
The man thought to himself, One of these birds is not my bird.
The birds agreed.)

This is the story, his story: he was married, once; he was in love, once.

This is where his heart is at, every day since, and Tyrion knows it won’t ever leave.

After that, he ordered death and made death with his own bare hands; he fell in love again and again and again; he felt angry and wanted to burn everything to ashes; he traveled the world and was alone; he held power, and then lost it, and then took it back; he lost his pride, his dignity, his name, his family; but he is always there, never leaving the shadow of that girl.

He never found her. Maybe that was for the better – what would he say to her, if he had, anyway. But he never found her, and that, he thinks, is the whole point of leaving: to come back home with empty hands, and, somehow – somehow, move on. Because he is not sure that finding her was what he really wanted; looking back now, maybe he just needed something to chase, a unreachable horizon to keep him going.

(Now, he can only feel his limbs as an appendix, inconvenient, vexing. Sometimes he puts the palm of his hand over the left side of his thorax just to check his heartbeat. I am alive, he thinks: it's a tiresome idea.)

His marriage with Tysha – he was so drunk in love, in such a hurry to be hers. I never gave her a cloak, he thinks. A Lannister cloak, my protection over her. I never did it.

(A man saw a bird and wanted to paint it.
The problem, if there was one, was simply a problem with the question.
Why paint a bird? Why do anything at all?
Not how, because hows are easy—
series or sequence, one foot after the other—
but existentially why bother, what does it solve?)

He often imagines Sansa with dark eyes, dark hair.

He knows he cares about her when the image starts to feel like an atrocity.

(Blackbird, he says. So be it, indexed and normative.
But it isn’t a bird, (...)
he isn’t looking at a bird, real bird, as he paints,
he is looking at his heart, which is impossible.

Unless his heart is a metaphor for his heart,
as everything is a metaphor for itself,
so that looking at the paint is like looking at a bird that isn’t there,
with a song in its throat that you don’t want to hear
but you paint anyway.)

Tyrion will remember this night, a moonless, particularly dark night. He is aware of her only by the sound of her voice, the pressure of her chest against his chest. He has a hand on her, somewhere. Probably her shoulder, where it normally lands.

They've been talking about the first time she saw Robb drunk — she is introducing her lost family little by little every night, the good, happy memories — when her hand slides from where it was resting on his shoulder up to his neck, and somehow — he won't remember, really, how — she cups his cheek.

He flinches away, and she stops talking. "Let me—," she says, but never finishes. It's a thing she does a lot, like she is always trying to find the right words, frustrated at herself. In the dark, some words are not as neat and simple as they are during the day. He hears it, curiosity and shame and even fear, and something else, consuming it all. "Stay still."

In the morning he also won't be able to remember why he lets her.

She begins from his cheeks, running her hand through his cheekbone, and then his eyebrows. He closes his eyes and she touches his shut lids, but he doesn't open them again when she moves on. She delineates the scar where his nose used to be ("Does it hurt?" she whispers, so pure and sweet that he can't find it in him to be angry with her. "Not really"). When her fingers reach his lips he startles again, but she waits, and proceeds when his breathing comes back to normal: runs her thumb over his upper lip, feels the scar tearing it in two, and then the lower lip, and then his chin, and slips up the line of his jaw, until his ear, and his brow, and stops at his hair.

"What are you doing?" he asks. His voice is hoarse from the lump in his throat.

"What do you think I'm doing?" she answers. There is an audibly smile there. "I'm seeing you."

This, he will remember:

He wants to kiss her, more than ever before (and he always, always wants to kiss her), because he almost says it, thank you, and he wants to say it, don't do that, and I will miss you, when I'm gone.

He is on the verge of asking: kiss me. Please.

"I suppose I look much better in the dark," he japes, instead.

"You look the same to me," she says, as if it were a good thing.

And Tyrion — Tyrion is just too old, and he has seen too much of the world, to let himself believe he is anything more than a deformed monster; but, as it seems, not even monsters are out of the reach of kindness.

He takes her hand from his hair and brings her palm to his mouth, kisses it as softly as she had touched him; neither of them speak, afterwards.

(The hand is a voice that can sing what the voice will not,
and the hand wants to do something useful.
Sometimes, at night, in bed, before I fall asleep,
I think about a poem I might write, someday, about my heart, says the heart.)

Tyrion spends his name-day in the glass gardens, as he spends most of his days, lately (they concentrated all their work-force on it and finished the greenhouse before any other site of Winterfell). He doesn't know a thing about gardening, but it is the warmest place he could find, and the heat alleviates the constant pain in his bones. Osha is teaching him how to properly cultivate flowers, how to heal the plants from pests with oils, how to avoid some insects and birds, what to add in the clay so the fruits will grow faster. No flower has grown yet, but one day, he realizes he is hoping for it.

"Gardening is the art of patience," Osha says, sometimes.

He usually spends his name-day drunk, trying not to think about Joanna and failing. No one knows about it but Podrick, who gives him a book about old dragons of Asshai and other monsters. But Sansa stops by in the middle of the morning, apparently just to see him. When the day is done and she holds him to sleep like every normal night, he thinks about it as a gift.

There's this odd dynamic— it's not that she is turning him into a better person; he feels the same selfish, bitter man he has always been, but they've adjusted to each other in such a way that she is the one with answers at the tip of her tongue and he is the one often speechless, marveled by her. She is the fearless one, seeking for comfort when she wants it, shamelessly crawling her way into his arms in the dark, and he is the one holding on when his fingers are burning to touch her skin past the limits of her clothes, not out of nobility but out of fear: of her rejection, her surprise or, worse, her impossible consent. (Never, she'd said. Never.) Once, he was the one who could never stop talking, but now she asks harmless questions so naturally that he is starting to believe she wants to know those things, more than just to fill the years of silence between them. His wife is, for some unfathomable reason, interested in his favorite books and his favorite color and the most beautiful building he had ever seen and which flowers he thinks are best for tea and which are best for ornaments.

("What should I grow for you?" he asks that night.

She takes her time to think, fingers absently drawing abstract patterns on his chest over his tunic. "Almond blossoms. Apricot blossoms." A couple of silent seconds. "Wild daisies. Asters."

"Why?"

She accommodates herself closer in his arms. "They are pretty. And they convey good things."

"What things?"

She doesn't answer.)

A couple of weeks later they cross their ways in the middle of the afternoon when he and Arya are heading to her solar, upstairs, and Sansa sees him, smiles, slows down her pace. He mirrors her without even thinking.

"I was looking for you," she says, takes a little, glass bottle from somewhere under her cloak, and gives it to him. "I've visited Winter Town this morning."

It's full of dry petals that must have been red, once. He opens it, smells it. "What is that for?"

"It's for the pain in your legs," she explains, resting one gloved hand on his left shoulder, and he looks up to look her in the eye. "You just have to blend it with peppermint oil. Jeyne can do it for you. Or Osha."

"Oh." He is absolutely sure he had never mentioned or complained about the pain in his legs for her, or around her, and suddenly he doesn't know how to phrase his gratitude. She is the only person he knows that has this effect on him and Tyrion hates it. "Well—that was very... That was most kind of you. Thank you, my lady."

She excuses herself to leave, and just then he realizes how close they've orientated each other in that brief exchange — how she was bending her neck down even if no secret was being shared, and he had unconsciously leaned his body to the left, to where her hand had been, how she runs her fingers down his arms as she leaves, and when she disappears in the corner, Arya is looking at him suspiciously.

"Don't," he mutters.

"I didn't say anything," she retorts.

Sometimes, he wishes he had just someone to compare her to. But Sansa insists on being unpaired. She is not in love with him like Tysha had been, she is not sweet lies and bitter truths like Shae, she is not devoted to him like Penny, she doesn't need him, doesn't love him, but keeps him all the same.

He never had someone like her in his whole life.

(What is alive and what isn’t and what should we do about it?
Theories: about the nature of the thing. And of the soul. Because people die.
The fear: that nothing survives. The greater fear: that something does.

The night sky is vast and wide.

They huddled closer, shoulder to shoulder, painted themselves in herds,
all together and apart from the rest. They looked at the sky, and at the mud,
and at their hands in the mud, and their dead friends in the mud.
This went on for a long time.)

He says to himself he is not waiting for Sansa every night, he is just reading – and the book Podrick gave him is really a very entertaining book, but his chest is flooded with relief when he hears the door opening and then closing behind him. He doesn't look back, but suddenly his eyes can't understand the words before him. He listens to her steps coming closer and she all but falls in the chair next to his with a exhausted sigh. Her eyes are fixed on the flames but he is not sure she is seeing it.

He gets up and walks to the nightstand between them, where Jeyne had left a full teapot earlier. "No," she mutters, closing her eyes and pressing her thumb firmly against the middle point between her eyebrows. "Give me wine." Tyrion looks at her uncannily – smiling, almost, but serves a cup of wine from what he is drinking, hands it to her in silence. "What?" she says, frustrated, as she accepts it. "Can't a woman have wine peacefully anymore?"

"A woman can do whatever she wants under her own roof," he raises his hands apologetically. Her lips twist in a repressed smile, and she takes a small sip.

It is hard to concentrate in his book when she has that void in her eyes. She doesn't divert her attention from the fire. Maybe it is one of those nights when she wants to be left alone. She shakes her head, as if to dismiss a intrusive thought, and takes another swig. "This is really good," she says, looking at the content of her cup. He can't avoid a wicked smile.

"It is also very strong," he says. "You might want to drink it slower."

"Is it Dornish?"

"Myrish."

"Of course." Her lips brush the rim of her cup, and she tries to peek at the cover of his book, her head drooping to the side. "What are you reading?"

"Something from Asshai."

She finishes her wine and puts the cup aside; leans down, settling in the chair, shuts her eyes again, and exhales a long breath. Her shoulders drop in tiredness. "Read out loud for me."

"It isn't a good bedtime story," he explains.

"I don't mind." Her hair is still braided, but messy, a single plait rested over her left shoulder. It catches the fire, golden highlights to her naturally red strands. Maybe it's a good thing she's not dark-haired, after all. At least like that, there's a hint of Lannister in her head. "I like your voice. You have a very manly voice."

He frowns. "Are you drunk?"

"I'm not drunk." She opens her eyes, points to his book. "What is it about?"

"Monsters," he answers with a dark smirk.

"My brother Bran adored these stories," she says, fondly, and her eyes wander again.

Oh. "Is he your favorite?" he asks, careful but curious. Every mention of Bran on her lips sounds like a song, a prayer.

She chortles feebly. "Bran was everyone's favorite." Was. He doesn't know if she prefers to phrase it like that because the people who are supposed to love him are gone, or because he is gone – not dead, but gone, which, Tyrion assumes, is terrible in its own particular way.

"He is very brave," he says, honestly. "We could never have won without him."

"I wish you could have met him before..." She trails off, and then just sighs, looks up to the ceiling. "Before."

"Oh, but I have," he answers, although he can't remember Bran as a child anymore; he had seen him just once before the War. Now, when he thinks about Bran Stark, he thinks about a god. There is no other way to describe him, and no difference for Tyrion.

Sansa frowns one eyebrow. "When?"

He shifts in his chair, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. "I was coming back from the Wall, when Jon first joined the Night’s Watch. He asked me to help Bran, after he’d fell, so I stopped by Winterfell on my way South."

She nods, just once, and says nothing else. He comes back to his book.

Her voice is small and distant when she speaks again. "Did you?"

The silence had settled between them for so long that he misses the point of her question, at first. "Did I what?"

"Did you help him?"

"Oh, it was a silly thing," he dismisses. "I draw a special saddle for him to ride horses," he shrugs. It sounds silly, now that Bran had practically saved the world and all without even moving. "I don't know if he had the chance to try, back then."

"This isn't silly," she says, and her voice shakes so much that for a moment he believes she will cry. She doesn't. "He wanted to be a knight."

He smiles with what's left of his kindness. "Well. He is more than a knight, now."

"You never told me that," Sansa says, gently, as far as accusations can be gentle.

He merely shrugs, and they stare at each other for a long, long time.

She looks very tired.

"My lady–" he begins, but she interrupts before he can think about a way to finish.

"Read for me, husband," she asks, her eyes thawing.

He complies. (Tyrion never learned to say no to Sansa.) He reads about gargoyles and ghosts, and monsters with four heads, with his gentlest, tenderest voice, until he looks up quickly to spy her face and she is asleep, soundly and peaceful, in her chair. Her head is dropped to the side, her chin resting against her right shoulder. It doesn't look comfortable – no more than her dress, too tight around her waist. He gets up and walks around the bedroom blowing all the candles out except for one taper by his side of the bed, changes his clothes and comes back to the fireplace.

Were he a whole, real husband, not a half-man, he would carry her to bed, but he isn't. He approaches the chair silently and takes her hands from where they are folded in her lap. "My lady?" he whispers. She doesn't even blink. He sighs, touches her cheek delicately. So beautiful, he thinks, almost sad. "Wake up. Come to bed."

She shifts slightly to the side and curls herself as if she were trying to hold something that isn't there. Her eyes remain closed, and he starts to think it was a bad idea to give her wine. "No," she mutters.

A involuntary smile shapes his lips. He kneels down, take her boots off. "Sansa, come on. Your neck will be sore."

"I'm good," she mumbles; the sound of the air coming in and out of her lungs when she sleeps is almost music to him, now, one that he actually likes. He takes one step closer, takes her hand again and tugs at it this time until she relents with a irritated grunt. But she lets him guide her by the wrist, carefully deviating from the furniture on their way until they get to the bed. Her knees brush against the edge of the mattress and she lets herself fall on it. He climbs into the bed by her side, gently wraps one arm around her waist to pull her up until her head rests comfortably on the pillows. He doesn't think about how easily she leans on him in her almost-asleep state.

He is ready to blow the last candle out when she speaks, the letters all messed up and confused around her tongue, "Husband."

"Yes?"

She tries to reach the laces on her back, but her arms are weak. "Take this off," with half-open, hazy eyes staring at his wary, mismatched ones. "I'm wearing another under this one."

He had guessed. That is not the point. She is lying down on her belly and he just nods, takes in a deep breath, and starts to free her from all the laces of her gown (a beautiful gown, deep gray with white ribbons tying around her torso). He does it slowly, trying to steady his hands as the fabric loosens around her; "may I?" he murmurs, and she barely nods her consent. He slides the straps off from her shoulders, pulling her arms gently. There is, indeed, a chemise under the first shift that looks a lot like the ones she uses to sleep. When the dress is huddled around her waist, he touches her hips with all the care he can muster: "Raise it up for me, darling." She obeys without questioning and he feels something warm, but not in his groin, as he was expecting. It is rather around his heart. (He had fantasized about this very moment a dozen of times – undressing his wife, her face against her pillows, lying on her belly and her hips raised for him. But not like that. Not like that at all.) He keeps his hands safely on the sides of her body as he slips the gown down her legs until it is completely off, and just leaves it there, on the bed at her feet, too tired to fold it or stow it, and just then he blows the taper out and finds his place by her side.

The following is a reflex borne of habit: one arm wrapping her shoulder to bring her close and her arm surrounding his waist and the curve of her body against his and warmth, so much warmth, more than he ever thought possible this far north.

A better man wouldn't use his wife's body to keep the chill out of his skin. A wiser man wouldn't try to read it, understand it, wouldn't feed useless expectations. But she sighs a deliciously exhausted, relieved breath when she is comfortable inside his arms. A braver man would do the right thing and turn his back, and just fucking sleep, or maybe just kiss the girl already.

(He is made of ugly scars and fatigued muscles and cold bones. His body is a deadly weapon that he turns against everyone else or himself: he feels it as a liquid or a vapor, something vague and sparse occupying his empty places, giving the tones of his words or the scorn of his laughter. It occasionally solidifies, under the right conditions, and changes into a gun. But Sansa is here, and he doesn't want to hurt Sansa. He thinks he wouldn't be capable even if he wanted.

But a nobler man would warn her about the danger one more time.)

She is always cold. And thin, so thin. He feels her bones protruding under her pale, marble skin, even with the layer of her clothes in his way: ribs and hipbone and the sharp angles of her shoulders, shoulder-blades, the notches of her spine. He ran a finger over them, once, in one of his braver moods, almost down to the small of her back, and felt her shivering lightly under the touch. Made of steel, he had thought, then. Today, he rests one modest hand on her shoulder. She's not drunk, he knows she's not, but he won't risk her resentment in the morning.

Still, even with the privilege that is to know her bones, he wishes he had a whole harvest for her.

This whole marriage is winterbound. He wouldn't call it love.

"Thank you," she mumbles, eyes closed and face hidden on his chest. "You're a good husband."

He reaches for the tip of the nearest blanket to cover her and bows his head down to puts his lips to her forehead. "You're drunk," he answers, and she chuckles briefly, too tired to argue.

The minutes before sleep catches him and the first minutes right after he wakes up are always the hardest, his conscience fighting its best against the unconsciousness, like the last battle against the drowning in a dark lake. There's too much lucidity in him; he can't deny how much he craves it, not even her, but this. He tries, very attentively, not to put a name on it as they fall asleep.

Chapter Text

When the dead return
they will come to you in dream
and in waking, will be the bird
knocking, knocking against glass, seeking
a way in, will masquerade
as the wind, its voice made audible
by the tongues of leaves, greedily
lapping, as the waves’ self-made fugue
is a turning and returning, the dead
will not then nor ever again
desert you, their unrest
will be the coat cloaking you,
the farther you journey
from them the more
that distance will maw in you,
time and place gulching
when the dead return to demand
accounting, wanting
and wanting and wanting
everything you have to give and nothing
will quench or unhunger them
as they take all you make as offering.

Then tell you to begin again.

"No Ruined Stone," by Shara McCallum

It happens some days. Sansa hasn't discovered the triggers yet. One morning she will wake up and look at the mirror: there, she will find a beautiful woman, pale as snow, with blue eyes like the summer skies, auburn hair as fall leaves, high cheekbones with sharp edges that could cut and kill. Who are you? (She will recognize something, a memory long lost. Mother?) And then she will search for dark hair, for snake eyes, for a wan, sick skin.

Alayne had a father, and a story, and a home, and a name: a future. Sansa says to herself she shouldn't feel guilty for slipping into her skin so easily. (She does).

You are Ned's daughter, after all. That was what he told her. And stared at her as if it were the greatest honor, to die by the work of her hands. She is looking at him and it is snowing; but when she swings the blade and opens his throat in one neat, swift move, it is Ned's head parting from his body and falling at her feet. She is holding Ice, and realizes her tongue had been cut out from her mouth.

And then she wakes up screaming.

There's a gray light filling the room and she knows, in the back of her mind, the sunrise is coming. She looks at her own shaky hands and they are clean. She puts one finger inside her own mouth and her tongue is there. She understands, too late, that her face is wet because of the tears, and not spilled blood.

Her husband wakes up, touches her shoulder, and she starts, trying to contain a sob.

"Wife," he mutters, worried, half-awake. She had untangled her body from his arms in her hectic sleep, and now she can't move – away from him or closer to his embrace, she can't move, she can't move. "My lady, take a deep breath. You are awake now."

He places one hand on her shoulder and she closes her eyes and tries to obey. It is ridiculously hard, the dawn is cold, her lips are trembling and so is the air when it rushes in; but his voice is soothing and real, his hand is warm, and she focus on the air coming in, filling her lungs until it pains her. "Now breathe out, slowly." She lets the air escape between her half-parted lips. Slowly, as he instructed. "Good. One more time, come on, a deep breath."

She repeats the cycle again, and again, and again, until her hands are not shaking so much. Neither of them fall asleep after that, but he is the first to rise. He puts his lips to her forehead and does not ask a thing.

It's only when the sun is high in the sky that she remembers: it is the anniversary of Petyr's death.

Sansa was six when she saw a doll, very ugly and worn, that belonged to one of the cook's daughters, and decided she wanted it.

Her lord father could give her any doll she wished for; Sansa knew this.

Thieves are terrible sinners; and it is even worse when you steal from the poor. She also knew this; her Septa taught her, and she was always the one to remember her lessons. (She was a good girl, everyone said. You're a good girl, Sansa. You're a true lady.)

During six or seven moons, it became an habit, of sorts. She never kept any of those toys for more than a week, hidden under her pillow: jewels made of northerner stones, nothing precious like emerald or ruby or diamonds, but black tourmaline, unakite, little agates; hair-ribbons; more dolls. She watched from a distance when the children of the household found them again with a happy shout: under a tree, behind a chair, casually placed on the kitchen's table. She told herself that such joy, of finding something you thought lost, was even better than the toy itself. Such reasoning made her feel proud of her acts.

"What is this, sweetling?" her lady mother had asked one night, sitting by her side on her bed, touching the bracelet of wooden beads around her ankle.

"Robb gave it to me," she answered. Catelyn frowned, but nodded, asking nothing more. Perfect Sansa was always beyond suspicion.

(Thinking about it retrospectively, Sansa wonders if it's fair to blame Petyr for everything.)

The most terrifying thought that has ever crossed her mind is,

but what if I'm no one's daughter

The day stretches, dull and silent. It is not the acute hack of a keen blade; it feels like the tender empty space when you loose your teeth, throbbing and sensitive – and yet you can't help but try to fill it with your tongue. There's a hole there, and the hole is worst than the pain.

She does her duties. People call her my lady, or m'lady, or lady Stark. "My lady, your letters arrived, I've placed them on the table in your solar," "Lady Stark, we are in need of more candles and wax," "m'lady, the cook's sister has the flu," and Sansa nods, barely listening, picks up her letters. Reads them. Assists the cook's sister (her name is Anya). Does the laundry. (Tyrion doesn't like it. "You are a lady," he mutters. "You shouldn't be washing clothes." She doesn't adore it, but doesn't care, either. Alayne did the laundry all the time.)

There's a part of Sansa that was supposed to belong to Ned and only Ned. But now it shares ground with another man that she could never bring herself to hate, not even after all the truths and lies, not even in the end. He taught her how to kill, to seduce, to play. This is not the worst part.

The worst part is allowing herself to miss him. This part, she had to learn alone.

Cersei was right. She is a traitor, in the end; she won’t ever forgive herself for that, and the people who could forgive her are all dead.

Brienne notices her melancholy but does not ask, keeping her company instead. (It helps; Brienne always helps.) Tyrion looks at her gingerly once or twice during the day, and appears in her solar in the middle of the afternoon, a tray with bread and cheese in hand. He puts it on her table, makes his leave, and then stops, comes back one step. "You look tired, my lady. Are you feeling sick?"

How could she explain that to him? She had seen both of her fathers die. There must be something dreadfully wrong with her. "A little bit, my lord, but I'm sure it will pass soon."

She retires sooner than usual, takes a long bath and goes to bed, hiding under the sheets.

(She wishes she could just cry already. The lump in her throat is getting suffocatingly bigger.)

When Tyrion comes in, the candles are burning low and she is still awake. She knows, by the pattern of the noises coming from the courtyard and the hallways, that is still relatively soon for Winterfell's standards. She watches him closing the door, removing his gloves, his cloak, his boots, and then walking distractedly to the table in the other corner of the room. She shifts on the bed and only then he notices her.

"Oh. You're awake." He doesn't smile, but the surprise in his voice sounds warm. He comes closer, standing by her side, looking down at her with a bow of his head. Whatever he sees in her makes his face twist in worry. "Are you feeling better?"

She nods, because she doesn't want to explain any of it. She doesn't want to talk about all the stolen toys under her bed; about the taste of mint at the tip of her tongue. So, "Yes, my lord."

Her little husband studies her face. "You look pale."

"I'm always pale," she reminds him.

"Not like this. Have you eaten?"

"I'm not hungry."

He pulls a face, narrows his eyes in reprimand. "Let me bring you something."

"No." She holds him when he tries to leave. Her voice sounds feeble. "Don't go," she asks, feeling the weakest of the Starks. Arya would never feel such things, let alone say them out loud.

He glances at her fingers around his wrist, then at her face, and nods. She makes room for him, so he can sit on the mattress by her side. It is a natural reaction, to nestle in his arms, face turned to his chest as he holds her close. His body went from a threat (like a sword against her throat) to a domestic, familiar thing (like an old porcelain in her family for generations) to a comfort. Like a blanket.

"Tell me what's wrong, my lady," he says, gently. His thumb is making circles over the curve of her shoulder.

I'm afraid of my own mind, for I forgot my name today doesn't sound reasonable, even if it is true. I wish I didn't miss Petyr Baelish sounds just– wrong, very wrong.

"You never call me by my name," she states, instead, and looks up to face him. He shifts his arms so she rests her head in the crook of his elbow, like a babe.

One second, two, three, and he understands. "Oh. I'm sorry? I thought you would prefer it that way."

"I don't. Not when we are alone."

"I see," he says. "Sansa is a beautiful name. You are right. There is no reason to avoid it."

Her eyes go shut, then, while she inhales deeply and lets the name find a place in her heart. Sansa. Sansa likes the way he pronounces it (slow, but natural, like she is part of his personal landscape); it feels steady, safe. Tyrion's voice is deep, rich, good for telling stories; it reminds her of Ned and it breaks her heart a little, but it's a sweet pain, a welcomed pain. The silence lingers on for a while.

"Hugor Hill," he murmurs, quietly. She opens her eyes, frowning one eyebrow. "I hid under this name. In Essos."

The words are caught in her throat. Sansa suddenly feels for him something still nameless that spreads inside her body like a fluid, a real substance, filling up spaces, warming her bones; whatever it is, immediately makes tears sting in her eyes, and she wonders if he lost himself in Hugor Hill, or if he always knew who he was.

"After the King?"

"Oh. You know that story?" he asks, surprised, and smiles kindly at her. "Of course you do."

She knows. Hugor from the Hills, first King of the Andals by the hands of the Father himself. The Maid had given him a wife with blue eyes, too. "My lady mother kept the Seven."

He nods, and his free hand hesitantly reaches out to touch her hair. "You don't need to be strong here, Sansa," he says, so very gently, and that's when Sansa realizes they are a place – somewhere she goes to or runs from. "You have been through a lot, and you have so many people relying on you, but not me."

"Don't you rely on me?" she tries to jape. It works. He rolls his eyes, but smiles. "I must keep you alive too. I'm your wife. This is my job."

"What I'm trying to say is that in case you need someone to be weak with... I'm your husband. This is my job."

Oh. It's affection. The nameless feeling is affection.

"What happened in Essos?" she asks in a murmur. Apparently, he is not confused by the sudden change of subject; he merely takes in a deep breath, doesn't take his hand from her hair, lift his eyes to think.

"A lot of things happened in Essos." His eyes find hers again, and he strokes her cheekbone. "I've told you some."

"You only tell me the good parts," she mutters, and the next words blurt out before she can stop them. "Your back." She swallows hard, trying not to divert her gaze from his. He deserves this, at least; if she is making honest questions, she needs to look into his eyes. It wouldn't be fair, otherwise. "You have scars."

Nothing but the tight set of his jaw denounces his tension as he studies her whole face before he speaks, softly, "I do. But I think you already know what they mean."

She suspects, but such things are forbidden in Westeros. Her own father fought against it, punishing the men who got involved in such atrocities, and Daenerys is the Breaker of Chains, after all. "I don't."

"Then ask me."

"You were sold as a slave." The words sound unbelievable, distant, as if she is listening to someone else speak them.

"I was."

"And they hurt you."

"They did." He smirks sardonically and his words have all the usual rough edges of his ironic moods. "It was... unpleasant."

She remembers the weight of all the marriage cloaks on her back, and the flat of the swords of the Kingsguard against her calfs. It's not the same, but– "I'm so sorry," she mumbles, her fingers gliding on his collarbones over his tunic.

"I am sorry too," he shrugs, as if it were nothing. "What happened in the Eyrie?" And just like that, she stiffens inside his arms like a bowstring. He feels it immediately, and his face is careful, hesitant, when he asks, "maybe not?"

Not today, she thinks, please. Not today.

"I hid as a bastard." Her voice is hard and flat, but she tries to relax. The hand stroking his shoulders falls still on his chest. "I thought you knew."

"I do," he nods, brushing his knuckles on the sides of her face. "I do know."

She makes the mistake of looking into his eyes again. They are close enough so she can see details, even in dim light: the green has little golden lines around his pupil, like rays of sunshine, and it overflows worry, wariness.

The black, though. The black is just pure kindness. It dismantles her completely.

"Alayne Stone," she says, toneless. "Alayne... was the name of Petyr's mother."

It almost sounds like a statement right from a history book. Something distant and impersonal that happened ages ago. But her voice cracks like a frozen lake, thin under heavy steps, in the last second. And that's it; she realizes she can't speak, the words dying in her mouth like a sickness consuming her energy. She is tired. Alayne should be dead already.

But it is easier than she thought it would be, just speak the damn name; she knows worse pains. With cautious moves, Tyrion comes closer and puts his lips to her forehead. "Your name is Sansa," he whispers against her skin, removing the hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear – she closes her eyes again – then his lips move to her temple, "Sansa," and then to her cheek, under her eye, "Sansa," and over her closed lids, "Sansa."

And something between them ignites and comes alive, something dormant, waiting to be resurrected. She doesn't notice that her fingers are clutching his shirt like a shipwrecked man clings to the ruins of his boat; doesn't feel the tears she had been holding the whole day until a sob forces itself out of her chest, but Tyrion just kisses them away, and holds her, and hums so low she can barely hear him – just the sibilants reach her ears, Sansa, Sansa, Sansa.

Chapter Text

In the middle of my life
it was right to say my desires
but they went away. I couldn’t even make them out,
not even as dots
now in the distance.

Yet I see the small lights
of winter campfires in the hills—
teenagers in love often go there
for their first nights—and each yellow-white glow
tells me what I can know and admit to knowing,
that all I ever wanted
was to sit by a fire with someone
who wanted me in measure the same to my wanting.
To want to make a fire with someone,
with you,
was all.

"All I Ever Wanted," by Katie Ford

"Tyrion?"

It's a whisper. He opens his eyes, but it doesn't make much of a difference; the room is dark, and the bed is empty by his side.

"Husband." It's her voice. She shakes his shoulder. "Wake up."

As his eyes adapt to the darkness he feels the mattress moving under him. He recognizes her form moving around their chambers, just a shadow in the darkness.

It's so cold. He wonders if it's snowing.

"Sansa?" He narrows his eyes, and suddenly feels his heart racing. Maybe there's an attack, a danger. "What is happening?"

"I can't sleep," she says.

His brain is lazy and that doesn't explain a thing. They hardly sleep through the night.

"Yes, but..." She is not wearing a night gown, he notes; those are usually cream, or white. No, she is almost camouflaged against the blackness around her. "Why are you dressed?"

"You should get dressed too." She comes closer again and throws something at him. He is startled for a moment, raising his hands reflexively, and feels only soft fabric on his fingers.

Oh. Clothes. His clothes. "Why are you running away?"

She chuckles. "Don't be silly. We are not running away." He listens to the clatter of rock against rock and then there's a dim light, one single candle lit. He feels slow, but can't help but be surprised with how quickly she can make the stones produce a spark. "I want to show you something."

"Show me something," he repeats, confused. "As in outside this chamber."

"Yes." She uses the candle to light up another taper. He can see her better, now, and she looks... Ready, braided hair and all. Sansa has always been a morning person, more than him, who just raises sooner than her because the pain in his hips wakes him up every day.

But it's not morning yet, though he feels that it will be soon; the air changes some hours before the dawn. "Darling, it's dark and cold. Come back to bed."

"No," she says, stubborn, and he smirks, despite himself. He likes it when she sounds young. "It will be worth it, I promise."

He gets up, grunting a little because of the hurt and chill in his bones, and moves behind the screen to put his clothes on.

"Hurry, husband," she mutters, impatient. "We will be late."

"Late for what?," he grumbles. "You really won't tell me where are we going?"

"I won't. It's a surprise." He gets out. When they are close enough she wraps his scarf around his neck, puts his cloak over his shoulders, clasps it with a pin, and hands him one of the candles. She leaves the room and he has no choice but to follow her (how couldn't he) as she walks across corridors with complete confidence, keeping one hand on the granite walls, turning to the left, and then to the right: just the two of them and their shadows, flickering. He can listen as she counts under her breath; he did it, too, when he was a child, counted his steps to Joanna's grave in the dark, found his way through fingertips. When they get to a ladder she stops, offers him a gloved hand and he holds it. They climb up; she doesn't seem bothered by his clumsy gait, or the fact the steps are too steep for him to accompany her rhythm. She keeps counting, even when they are breathless and need to stop for a break: one hundred and thirty five steps in spiral, and then there's a door, and after it one single straight corridor, windowless walls surrounding them. When they get to the end of it, she opens another door and a rush of cold wind comes in, blowing their candles out.

"Seven Hells," Tyrion curses, hiding his hands inside his cloak. She closes the door behind them but he can't move his feet; they are finally outside, on the ramparts. The night is still dark, and he will surely freeze to death. "It's so cold. We should come back."

Surprisingly, it's not snowing. It's hard to tell, but he thinks he sees when she smiles with the corner of her mouth, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "Absolutely not. We are almost there."

He sighs as he follows her. His breath plumes in front of him. "My hips will be destroyed after this."

She doesn't stop her way. "You are going to be one of those angry, bitter old men who complain about everything."

"I'm already an angry, bitter old man who complains about everything," he mutters. He didn't mean it to be funny, but she laughs, anyway.

"Well, that's almost true."

There's another staircase, leading to the top of a tower. He sighs again. "I mean it, Sansa. I'm too old for adventures in the middle of the night."

"This is the last one. And you're not that old," she says. He can listen to the pieces in her brain fitting together, for a few seconds, and, then, finally— "How old are you?"

"Thirty and two," he answers as they start to climb up the steps.

"But—" Even if he can only see her cloaked back, he imagines her eyebrows frowning together as she does the math once more. She gives a glance over her shoulder; he can see only the outlined half of her face, turned to him. "When is your name-day?"

They get to the top of the tower; Tyrion realizes it is, actually, the gatehouse. "It was three months ago." He stops, does the math himself. "The second day of the full moon," he adds, and finally looks up and around.

He misses a breath, his words suddenly lost, the conversation forgotten: he can only see the dome of the sky above them, of a blue so dark that it is almost black, and the stars. There are so many he can't count them; at first they seem all white, but as his eyes adapt, he is able differentiate their pale, sparkling colors: red, and blue, and yellow, and pink, and gold. It is a moonless night, but the world gleams under their pallid light, the weak silhouettes of Winter Town: houses, buildings, wells, trees covered in snow, the Kingsroad.

(It makes Tyrion think about the end of the world, the curtain of light beyond the Wall, flying on Rhaegal's back, and the freedom, and the fear of dying, and finally overcoming it, conquering it. And for the first time since Rhaegal died, he feels it— like— maybe it wasn't only that he was ready to die, maybe, just maybe, he was very eagerly ready to live, to live well, to thrive; he has wanted it, always, against the world; his personal, sustained rebellion. And maybe he had finally won.

Maybe there's no need to fight anymore).

"Worth it?" she asks, standing by his side. His head is bent back; he is trying to capture it, to be part of it (of the beauty). It's all so immense, broad, vast. For a moment, he feels small (in a good way).

"Worth it," he answers. He can't take his eyes from the sky. "Thank you, my lady."

"The sun will rise soon," she says. "I thought you would like it. Bran brought me here once." He looks at her, then. Her eyes are on the sky, too, the contour of her face is barely recognizable but it is there, blurred in the faint light. "Maester Luwin had an observatory, but he never taught me much about the sky. He just told me once that some people use it to navigate." She chortles wryly. Her voice is sweet, low, distant. She could be talking about someone else, not herself, not her kin. "I suppose he just assumed girls wouldn't use the information. I wasn't too invested in learning it, anyway."

"Sansa, the Captain," he tries. Three seconds later and she is laughing. (He laughs, too, mostly because she sounds lovely when she laughs).

"That is cruel," she mutters, smiling when her laughter fades.

"But why not?" he japes. "You could sail across the Narrow Sea. Conquer lands far beyond Westeros, leave this cursed place," he hides his hands under his cloak, inside the pockets of his breeches. "You could make a big title for yourself. Like Dany."

"I can't leave." She embraces herself, looks down just for a second before looking up to the sky again, with a sadness that leaves him wondering if this is the first time the idea was considered an option, even as a joke. "And besides, how does one actually uses the stars as a guide? The sky is not the same every night. No wonder people get lost and never find their way back."

"Some constellations point always North, or South." He closes one eye and points to the sky. "See that one? Ice Dragon?"

She tilts her head to the side. "Maybe? I'm not sure."

"The one with a blue star in the rider's eye? The blue star is always pointing North, the tail always South."

Her eyes and smile widen, and she clutches his arm. "I can see it! I can."

He smiles, too, and searches another one; aims to a constellation near the horizon, over a trail of a dark-purple nebulosa. "That one is the Crone's Lantern."

"Yes. I can see it too." (She doesn't let go of his arm.)

"And... If you look left and up," he points with the arm she is not holding, "you can see the Shadowcat constellation."

"That doesn't look like a shadowcat, my lord." Sansa frowns, and he grins.

"Have you ever seen a shadowcat?"

"No." She straightens her shoulders defensively. "But it can't be very different from a... Regular cat."

Tyrion laughs, shakes his head, thinks about saying it out loud, you are adorable, just adorable; doesn't. "Well. The wise maesters of the Citadel are the ones to blame. I'm merely passing the knowledge on."

"Why only the maesters can determinate the architecture of the sky?" she protests. "That constellation over there," she points at a group of seven small yellow stars in the east, "they look like a giant trout, like the sigil of my lady mother's house. From now on I say they are... Catelyn's constellation."

His heart swells a little. It is a particularly dazzling set of stars, and besides, they actually do look like a fish.

(And he feels, for just a fraction of a second, that if she asked for the stars, for the whole sky, he would find a way to give it to her. He would name stars after her. If anyone in the world deserves it—)

"You know," he begins, "the Dothraki believe the stars are the soul of the dead. They shine depending on how they lived."

A winter breeze sighs around them, tries to play with her hair. Her eyes are on the sky but they wander, distant, vacant. "So the brightest star...?"

She trails off. For a moment he thinks he could love her, just because of that silence, those fading words. "Yes," he says, as low as he can, as if he speaks too loud he will break something, create a rift between them.

Her face is like a statue, carved in stone, a mask of calm: she searches, and searches, until she finds it.

The brightest star shines alone: it doesn't seem to belong to any particular constellation, although neither of them could truly know. "There," she says. "Hello, father."

It is only a whisper, and he is not sure he was supposed to hear that, but he does and feels something inside him breaking, and breaking, and hurting. But there's no space for him in that pain; it belongs to her alone, he has no right to it. So Tyrion merely touches her fingers, still on his arm, and she slides her hand until it intertwines in his own. And they share the silence for the longest time. He trembles when the wind rushes around them; she notices, comes closer and wraps one arm around him, as naturally as the night allows them to. (Weak, he thinks as his head rests against her side, you're so fucking weak.)

He doesn't know what she is thinking about, and doesn't ask. His mind is filled with memories of home, remembering how the sky looked like from the cliffs of the Rock. But then, the first beams of sunlight appear over the horizon, before the sun itself. He lifts his head to watch better as the sun rises, and rises, and rises: rays of sunshine breaking through the dense clouds marking the horizon, and the sky above them changing from dark-blue to purple to red and orange and just blue, at the summit, limpid and clear; among the morning mist, Winter Town is rising with it, women with buckets over their heads walking towards the wells; birds singing, stars fading and fading. Inside the walls of Winterfell, people are raising as well; they can hardly see through the fog as a group of women and some children walk to the oven inside the Kitchen.

"Good morning," he says, and Sansa smiles, and it burns brighter than the sun.

"Good morning."

(There is a winter kind of light, pale-white and cold, that leaves the world colorless: grey, or black, or white, as if one just needs the contrasts, as if the colors are some dispensable vanity. It binds the world together, though: everything is Nature, everything shares common ground, raw and wild. There’s a melancholic poetry to it, a beauty, even.

But Tyrion knows for a fact there is no winter in this world powerful enough to completely wash out the fire in Sansa's hair, or the sky-blue of her eyes. He knows she thinks about herself as a winter woman, but she is wrong. Sansa is of spring.)

"It’s beautiful, isn't it?" she says, smiling in awe, eyes not even blinking, and he takes in the light rose in her cheeks and lips, the freckles running down the bridge of her nose, the air coming out from her mouth in a white smoke over her face, stars and suns and galaxies in her eyes.

"Beautiful," he agrees, and when she turns to look at him he doesn't look away. "Beautiful."

It turns out that Tyrion is, indeed, too old for adventures in the middle of the night.

There is no point in going back to bed, and so they eat breakfast together and part their ways: Sansa goes with Rickon, Tyrion with Arya and Gendry. But when they reunite to eat the midday meal together at the Great Hall, Tyrion can barely keep his eyes open over his food. All his muscles feel sore and tired.

Arya laughs by his side. "Did you have fun last night?" she japes, and he blinks once, twice. He sees when Sansa tenses, just for a second.

"I did," he smirks wickedly, refusing to give in. "You wouldn't believe the places I've been, my lady." (Arya hates when he calls her my lady.)

"Where have you been?" Rickon asks, and Sansa blushes. Tyrion avoids her eyes.

"Don't answer him. He is just a child," Arya mutters.

"Do you take me for a pervert?" Tyrion asks, feigning offense, "and besides, where do you assume I've been?"

"Yes, if the rumors are true, you are a pervert. Of sorts," Arya shrugs.

"I'm not a child," Rickon reminds them.

"Eat your food, Rickon," Sansa says, coldly. "Where Lord Tyrion has been last night is not of your concern."

"But I want to know," he insists.

"To the stars, my lord," Tyrion answers, and can't hold back a yawn. "I've visited the stars."

"There is no such a thing," Rickon says, in a matter-of-fact tone that brings a proud smile to Tyrion's lips.

"You should retire, my lord," Sansa suggests, courteously. "Perhaps a little nap would make you feel better."

He snorts. "Please. I don't need to take a nap."

"Yes, you do," Arya says, chewing a piece of her meat.

"Arya, don't talk while you're eating," Sansa asks, seemingly tired, too.

"Daytime is for work," Tyrion says, rubbing his eyes. "Naps are for slothful people."

"What is wrong with you?" Arya mutters, and drinks a gulp of wine. "Everybody naps. Gendry and I can handle the masons. You're not that necessary."

"Thank you, my lady. You always keep me humble."

Sansa chortles a short laugh. "She is right, though," and before he can start another protest, "Everyone needs a little rest, occasionally. Who told you that naps are for the slothful?" she asks, and there is something sharp and witty in her eyes that lets him know unequivocally: she knows the answer.

(Of course it was Tywin. Wherever you are, he thinks, fuck you, father.)

And so, when everyone else leaves the Great Hall and just the two of them stay behind, Sansa reaches out a hand to him and presses her lips together to hide her smile. He looks at her face, and then at her hand, before he takes it.

She guides them to their chambers. The bedroom is still bright with sunlight, but even so, Sansa lights up the fire in the hearth, takes two blue cushions resting on the couch and sits down on the rug of furs before the fireplace. "When I need to take a nap, I usually sleep here," she says. Tyrion just stares at her. She gives him one of the cushions and lies down, placing the other under her head; her hand dabs the empty space by her side. "Come here."

There is no point in resisting. He lies down by her side, and for a moment, just looks at her face: her glistening blue eyes, her almost-smiling lips.

"What is it?" she asks, and he smiles.

"Nothing." She is at arm's length (one of his arms) from him; he keeps his hands to himself. His body starts to relax, muscles loosening. "Just admiring my wife."

Her eyes divert from his, a little, shy smile pulling the corners of her mouth up. She slides her hand over the carpet to take his again. "You should have told me about your name-day."

Oh.

"Don't worry," Tyrion says. "I don't usually celebrate, anyway. There's not much to celebrate."

"How can you say that?" she mutters, offended. "You are alive."

Tyrion can understand why she is so upset about his lack of gratitude, but really, he has no energy at the moment (or ever) to discuss the subject, and so he holds his silence. Realization slowly dawns on her: he sees it, embarrassment, and then pity, and then just plain sadness.

"Jon's mother, my aunt, died in the birth-bed, too. It... Happens, sometimes," she says, voice small and gentle, as she plays with his fingers. "It was not your fault."

He doesn't believe in such thing at all, but she, apparently, does, and it makes his heart sting: her kind, unspoiled naivety, the fresh honesty of her words, like she could heal thirty and two years of emptiness and guilt with a simple sentence: not your fault. His voice sounds vacant, dry. "Yes, yes, I know. Of course."

"Look at me," her palm cups his cheek, forcing him to face her. She looks in pain. "What can I do for you?"

Unless she is a secret red priest and can bring the dead back, nothing.

"Just stay here a while," he asks. "I'm cold."

She nods, pulling him closer, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, as if she is trying to shield him. (This is how he has always imagined a mother's embrace would be, more or less: like holy water poured out from a god he doesn't believe in; like grace, like mercy, like undeserved kindness.) She runs her fingers through his hair and he hides his face in the valley between her breasts, tired but more comfortable than he had any right to be.

"Sleep," she murmurs, kissing the top of his head. "I'll be here when you wake."

He doesn't want to, but his lids get heavier and heavier, and so he closes his eyes.

Tyrion wakes up from his dreamless sleep, and then keeps his eyes shut.

He is still in her arms. Her fingers run gently across his back; he barely feels it over his tunic. He breathes in her scent (sugar, roses) and listens when she smiles. "Hello," she says. Her whole body loosely accommodates to his; for a fraction of a second, he can't think straight. She is soft in all the places he isn't and he feels cozy and weirdly indolent, even if most of the tiredness is gone. "Better?"

"Better." He places a hand on her waist, keeps his head low. "Haven't you slept?"

"No. I've been watching you." Her pads wander carelessly on the sides of his body, and then his chest. He holds his breath. "I don't normally have the chance to do so. You are never there when I wake up."

He doesn't say that he leaves earlier so she won't be forced to witness him change his clothes under daylight, even with the screen. (And then thinks about everything else he hides from her.) "What can I do? There is work to be done. I can't allow myself to be as lazy as you." She hits him on the arm, maybe harder than necessary. "Ouch, Sansa! I'm joking."

"I'm not lazy."

.".. Says the woman who invited me to sleep with her in the middle of the afternoon," he mocks.

"I didn't invite you to sleep with me."

"And yet here you are."

He finally opens his eyes to look at hers and they are smiling, although her mouth isn't. How does she do that? "And yet here I am."

He has always loved her eyes, and even more so since he came to live in Winterfell; the blue in them are like summer, a southerner sky in the midst of all the white and gray. He likes how they contrast with the red in her hair, now golden under the flames of the hearth burning behind his back. He has lost track of time, of space; Tyrion could not say if outside is still cold, if it is already dark, because if he could just reach out a hand—

(You should leave before you lose control, says a voice in his head, but he just ignores it. The voice speaks the same mantra every day, specially when she smiles, or laughs, or looks at his face as if she is trying to say something: he needs to come back home, this marriage isn't real, she doesn't want the same things as he does, etc., etc. Now, it seems of little importance.)

It happens as everything else between them happens: in silence and wordlessly. She is lying on her side, just as he is, bodies turned to each other, and Sansa brings him closer, hesitant, afraid; but he yields, maybe too easily. When she envelops his shoulders and pulls him impossibly closer still, though, there is something different in her embrace. They always hold each other gently; whether they are trying to fall asleep or merely providing comfort, it has always been of uttermost importance to keep this freedom of movement, freedom to leave, if they wished so. Now she presses him sternly against herself, as if trying to merge herself with him, to overcome the inconvenient barrier of clothes and skin. There is no space between them anymore, no place of his body that hers is not touching: her chest against his chest and her cheek against his cheek. Tyrion closes his eyes, trying to reason and failing, and he notices they are shaking, or something very close to it.

Everywhere. She is everywhere, it is overwhelming, it leaves him breathless, and he thinks, leave, get up and leave, you should leave. He tries to. He knows his arousal is evident, knows it is impossible that she is not feeling it pressing between her legs, but when he starts to withdraw with a embarrassed "I'm sorry," she holds his hips in place: "Don't move." Her voice is a scared, fragile thing; he nods, feeling scared and fragile himself. His hand hesitantly slides down from her waist to her hip, right to the salience of her bones, where he knows she likes to be touched. The sudden whistle of air he listens is, definitely, not fear. His thumb strokes the spot in small circles, the rest of his hand wrapping her waist. She sighs, he sighs. It's not pleasure, Tyrion thinks; it is relief, like breathing again after a long time drowning. "Close your eyes," he says, low, whispered, just for her, even if there is no one else in the room. She looks him in the eye one last time, long enough so he can see when her uncertainty dissolves into trust, and obeys to his word.

Stop. Stop now, says something in his head, a lucid, wise voice that he promptly disregards. His hand starts to slip through the side of her body, like he is so used to, but now, pushing the boundaries a little further; it is a forgotten habit that makes him palm the back of her thigh, gently raising her knee to the level of his hips until she is resting one leg over him, around him. "Oh," she breathes, and her hand searches for his chest, her fingers clutching his tunic and one eyebrow knitting slightly.

"Too much?" he asks, because now his hardness presses even more against her and it feels deliriously good; he can feel his own heart hammering against his thorax. Gods, this is a bad idea. This is such a bad idea.

She takes her time to answer. He sees her lids fluttering; she catches her lower lip between her teeth. "No."

Not too much. Not enough. He runs his hand up and down her raised thigh wrapped around him, thinks about slipping his hand under her skirts and then gives up. His touch is shy and hesitant and trembling; there is a battle in his mind between that part of him that wants to dig in his fingers in her flesh and the other one who believes she will push him away, any moment, now. But she doesn't, and he bites his tongue so the words won't roll off against his will, I want you I want you I want you. His hands wander, unplanned, hungry. He feels her arms, from shoulders to wrists, brushes his fingers on her belly, slides a finger up over her breastbone: soft, slow, the way he imagines she would like it, the way he has wanted to touch her for so long. Her breathing comes in short fits, little starts; she looks surprised, melting under his hands, so sensitive, responsive to the tiniest changes of pressure in his fingers, jolting and dithering. His fingers dig in her scalp, massaging it gently, and then run down her nape, her shoulders, feeling the fragrance of her hair; she hides her face in the crook of his neck, muffling something against his skin, a soft and low noise that may or may not be a moan and that sounds like a yes, but regardless, is the most beautiful sound he has ever heard from her. He returns to her hips, glides his hand up, past the downfall and the rise of her waist, and stops right where he can feel the bones of her rib-cage. One more inch and he will touch her breasts. Tyrion is suddenly acutely aware of how little control he has left. He wants her to the point of pain— actual, real pain. His cock is pulsing and throbbing with frustrated lust for her, and he fights back the urge to thrust his hips against her, just once—

"Ask me to stop, Sansa," he murmurs with the last drop of sense in his mind, and only then realizes his breath is short too. His lips brush on the lobe of her ear. "Before I can do something terribly stupid."

She is trembling all over. When she draws away her face and opens her eyes they are dark, and she sees right through him.

She takes his hand, and carefully separates it from her body: guides it to his chest and keeps is there, eyes never leaving his, not until their breathing are normal again. She stares at his mouth and then at his eyes. "Maybe I should leave," she says, simply.

"You should," he nods, and she withdraws her hand first, then lowers her leg (Tyrion immediately misses the warmth of her flesh against his cock, even across layers of clothes), then shifts her body away.

And for five infinite seconds, they just lie back staring at the ceiling and wondering what the hell just happened.

She gets up, straightens her skirts, and he can't look at her. It is so bright, there is so much light. He feels shame overcoming him like a punch in the face. Maybe he should apologize.

She stares down at him again, mouth agape, cheeks flushed. Gods, she is beautiful when she blushes. "I'm leaving," she says. "If you will excuse me, my lord."

He can't help a smirk, despite... Everything else. "You said that already. My lady."

"I know. I'm only being polite," she explains. (He tries to remember the last time he saw her nervous.)

"Of course you are, my dear." He sees when she spares a glance at the bulge in his crotch and almost, very nearly, laughs. He needs to fix that. Maybe he should take a bath. "Sansa."

"Yes?"

He points vaguely at his own head. "Your hair is a mess."

She blinks. "Yes. Yes, that makes sense," she mumbles to herself, and starts to walk away.

"Sansa." She turns around, almost desperate, and he points to his right. "The mirror is behind the other door, sweetheart."

She nods slowly, blushing a shade darker, and Tyrion considers calling her to come closer again, just so he can kiss her. But of course this is another bad idea. Kisses are for lovers, and this is no love. This is no love, he says to himself, even when her head and legs get all confused and in different directions and he feels oddly, insanely overwhelmed with joy just because she is the way she is and he has the honor to witness it. "Indeed," she says, and turns to the right, points to the bathroom. "I'm going–"

"You go, darling."

"Yes. Excuse me. Again."

He listens to the door opening, and then closing, and groans in frustration to no one in particular. She gets out a minute later, hair properly braided again, and walks directly towards the way out of the room; stops at the door, looks back at him. She seems... Composed. "Don't you have work to do?"

"Sure," he nods. "I'm coming. In a minute."

And Sansa narrows her eyes, her cheeks reddening again before she leaves the room and Tyrion thinks he is a really, really bad person.

Instead of working, Tyrion spends the rest of the day in the glass gardens. The heat from the earth is not human heat: it doesn't pulse and shiver, but it is enough to keep his mind and body mildly comfortable. It is easy to occupy his mind with trimming branches, feeding the soil, planting seeds. Some of the plants are almost blossoming into flowers and he tries his best to keep Sansa out of his mind: he doesn't think about her face changing from surprise to awe to pleasure, doesn't remember the warmth of her short breath close to his face, doesn't recall the sound of her approval against his neck, or the softness of her curves, doesn't try to imagine how they must feel like without clothes in his way.

(He doesn't think about how it is possible that he ruined everything).

At night, he retires sooner to their chambers, availing the chance to read and answer Jon's and Dany's letters, when Sansa comes in. "My lord," she greets, and takes her cloak off, folding it.

"My lady," he says, quickly looking up from the parchment.

She hides behind the screen and he listens while she takes the rest of her clothes off. It happens every night, but he can't remember the last time it had felt like torture. She slides from behind it covered in her night shift, takes the cup of tea waiting for her at her side of the bed and sits in her favorite chair: turned to the window, conveniently placed by the side of the table where he is working at the moment.

It is not, Tyrion knows, an invitation to conversation, but he gets distracted by her all the same: the chill bristling the hair of her arms, her white hands wrapped around her teacup, nose breathing in the scent of mint and chamomile. She looks at him in silence, and he holds her gaze, and refuses to be the first one to look away or say something.

She surrenders, then. "What are you working on?"

He shrugs. "Finishing a letter to your brother."

"Jon?"

"Yes." He resumes his work, but feels Sansa's gaze on him.

"Why?"

He frowns. "Because I'm not willing to go to the Wall every month just to check if he is healthy and well."

"Every month?" Sansa asks, surprised. "You write to him every month?"

He finishes the letter, waiting for the ink to dry. "Well, yes."

"I didn't know that you were close," she mutters.

He shrugs. "Jon is family." Something flickers in her face, as if she is thwarting herself from speaking. "Are you jealous, my lady? I'm not stealing him from you," Tyrion japes.

"I'm not jealous," she says, resigned, and finishes her tea, puts the cup aside. "He is coming home the next moon."

"I know. He told me," Tyrion says, rolling the parchment in his hands and sealing it with wax, and Sansa scoffs, frustrated.

"Family, you said," she mumbles. "Like a brother?"

Tyrion ponders if he should tell her. Probably not. "Not like a brother, but-" he presses his ring against the wax. "But I love him, and I couldn't love him more even if he were of my blood."

Sansa stares at him, and he knows the words scare her, mostly because they were true and it is impossible not to notice when someone is telling a truth from the heart. There is no way to explain that to her. Family is a narrow concept for Tyrion; he can't put Jon in a category in the same way he can easily think of Dany as his mother, because Daenerys is pretty much everyone's mother. Jon Snow, though, is something else entirely. Jaime was, is, a brother, for better or for worse. Jon was chosen; Jon is his. It is, at the same time, much more and less than blood.

"Do you think about me as your family?" she asks, and he feels cold from head to toes.

"Well- yes," he says, finally, after a second too long. "You are my wife."

But it is too late. Sansa, of course, notices it.

"I shouldn't have asked this," she says, courteously. "I'm sorry."

(There is no way to explain that to her, either: she can't be family, because she doesn't belong to him; Sansa is not his. And he is not hers. And in the end, there is nothing entailing them together for good: nothing that could keep him from leaving, when the time comes.

He will miss her, terribly, but that is not her problem.)

"Don't be sorry," he says. "It's a legitimate question."

And for a second, he thinks she will ask: her mouth opens, but nothing leaves it but a tired sigh, and her eyes melt like her body did under the ministrations of his hands, and his heart races.

Instead–

"I'm retiring to bed," she says, sounding a little out of her breath, and gets up.

"Sansa–"

And she looks right into his eyes, pleading, desperate. "Yes?"

He sighs. "Nothing. Sleep well."

She nods and walks away. He watches her back as she blows the candles around the bed out, back turned to his direction when she lies down on the mattress.

Maybe it was his afternoon nap, but he feels sleepless. It is very late when Tyrion comes to bed, late enough so the castle is deadly silent, and it feels like that morning, when she woke him up to watch the sunrise, was a lifetime ago.

He lies down by her side and reaches out one arm, touching her shoulder. "I know you are awake."

Her blue eyes twinkle open, their gleaming the only thing he can see in the dark. He listens when she sighs in frustration. "I think you spoiled me."

"Come here," he murmurs, and she slips into his arms under the blankets so easily that he is almost angry with her. All of this would be mortally easier if she just ignored him, like she used to.

"Do you think I'm a selfish wife and an awful person?" she asks.

"You're as far from awful as anyone could possible be, Sansa." He uses the hand attached to the stunted arm which is not, at the moment, serving as her pillow, to tiredly rub his face. "Don't be delirious."

"I behaved most improperly this afternoon," she says, all duty and courtesy, but it is hard to believe her when her arms are wrapped around his torso like that, and when her hair spreads around his chest like a blanket. "And I am sorry."

Of course she is sorry.

"It doesn't have to happen again, if you are not comfortable with..." With what, gods. What was that? "With being touched like that. I'm sorry, too."

(It is a lie; he isn't. He would do it again, and more, if given the chance.)

"It is not about you," she murmurs, and he feels the words crawling their way up to his neck. "The reason why I can't–"

"Sansa," he says, softly. "We are all right."

(Because just like that, with her calm breathing and her shy words, Tyrion realizes he would lie forever if it meant to keep her here, inside his arms, one more night: he would swear it, it meant nothing, and I don't want you, if she asked him.)

"Thank you," she murmurs, relieved, settling her face against his chest, and it hurts more than it should. He caresses her hair, feels as she starts to relax.

"I suppose this was the reason why you couldn't sleep?" he asks, kissing the crown of her hair. She shakes her head.

"I don't think so. I guess I'm no longer capable of falling asleep without you."

"Cold?"

"Of course not. I don't have southerner sensibilities like you," she japes. "I can handle the cold."

"Is that so? Why are you so close, then?"

"I like to listen to your heartbeat," she whispers. Her fingers draw the left side of his thorax, as if she is trying to guess the borders of his heart. "It calms me down."

"Oh." He pauses, thinks about that for a second. "Really? You should have told me. I would have come to bed earlier."

And her fingers slide his arm, up, down, in lazy, soft movements, and for some reason, instead of remembering her face as he explored her body, he remembers how she looked like under starlight. Shining, precious, infinite; galaxies, oceans away from him.

"When I was a child I used to listen to father's heart, every time I had nightmares," she explains, after a very long silence.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, and remembers: "hello, father". Sometimes Tyrion fears her pain will never end; that her beauty will always be like that, a melancholic longing, worn out by the time, like the ruins of a city: something that used to be great, and alive, and warm, once.

"It is fine," she says, sweet as ever. "All the hearts beat the same, I think. It's one of my favorite sounds in the world."

"A beating heart?" and Tyrion thinks, gods, Sansa. Gods.

"Yes. A beating heart."

(Many years ahead, Tyrion will trace back his love for her; he will find this moment and he will identify the peaceful silence that follows her words, the awe flooding his chest like an avalanche, the ache in his heart at the purity in her voice, for what it is.

But not now. Now he keeps it nameless, and kisses her hair again, and waits. Every memory, every scar— he can't miss a thing.)

"I feel like I'm using you to remember Robb or father or Bran. Because I'm so scared I will forget them. I don't trust my memory. It has betrayed me before." (She always tries to keep her voice empty and emotionless when she talks about them. She never makes it.) "And I'm sorry about that too. I never meant to use you, but I think sometimes, not every night, but some nights, I do."

And Tyrion holds her closer. It is wrong, he thinks, to feel this sort of delight at the expenses of her suffering and grief. It just reassures him how much of a bad man he is. "I don't mind," he murmurs against her hair. "Use me whenever you need."

"Do you use me to remember someone else?"

Why does she always has to be so smart? Damn her.

"Sometimes," he answers.

"You don't want to talk about her, do you?"

"I don't. And believe me, you wouldn't want to hear."

"Don't you think I can handle you, my lord? That is very condescending."

He laughs wryly and looks down, trying to catch a glimpse of her face under the pale light from the stars.

"You are so brave, Sansa. I wish I could be brave like you."

"You won't talk," she says, resigned.

"No. I'm sorry."

"Can I ask just one more thing?"

"You can ask. I'm not assuring your answer."

"What was her name?"

His body reacts before his mind: tensing, loosening his grip around her. He forces his arms to keep her close.

"What difference does it make?" he asks, dryly.

"It doesn't," she says.

It really doesn't, he thinks, and the pain is just the way he expected it to be.

"Tysha. Her name was Tysha." Tyrion never speaks her name out loud; he thinks about her on a daily basis, but to speak her name tastes sour, and he feels sudden tears stinging in his eyes. They don't spill and fall, but the reaction of his body is immediate and it scares him. "Don't ask me anything else and never mention her name again."

"I won't." She kisses his breastbone over his tunic and he sighs. Don't do that, he wants to ask, help me not to love you, but doesn't. "My lord?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

He is not sure what she is thanking him for, so he doesn't answer.

Chapter Text

I am trying to forget your fingers in each
skipped space. I am trying to forget the frogs
falling one by one, their tear sound, that
sighing stone. I tell you there is no moon.
I know I have loved you only in darkness.

Alison Stine

You must ask yourself:
where is it snowing?

White of forgetfulness,
of desecration—

(It is snowing on earth; the cold wind says)

(...)

Persephone
was used to death. Now over and over
her mother hauls her out again –

You must ask yourself:
are the flowers real?

"Persephone the Wanderer," by Louise Glück

When Jon comes home with his little party of three brother of the Night's Watch, like a black wolf in the snow, Sansa feels like breathing for the first time in months.

He looks so much like Ned that it almost hurts her, but Jon is Jon, and Jon never hurts. Sansa, Arya and Rickon welcome them with all the formalities and courtesies, surrounded by the white snow and the slowly raised black towers, until Podrick leads the brothers (new ones, that Sansa had never seen before, but the Night's Watch prestige had been renewed after... Well, after) to their chambers, and Arya all but jumps in Jon's arms. He laughs against her dark hair, two wolves entangled in each other. Arya never looks so young as she does when Jon is home, and so Sansa smiles. Rickon is in line to be the next; he knows little of Jon Snow, but knows enough to like him (maybe for the same reason he connected so easily to Sansa, once they've been reunited; an orphan is always an orphan). Jon smiles to him, calls him "my lord" but pats his hair.

And so Sansa is the last. He raises his eyes to her and gives her a smile only with his eyes. (She has lost track of time and facts, during the Long Night, and so Sansa is not sure if she learned to smile like that with him, or if he learned it with her; or maybe, this is just who they are. Funny how things change. She would have never believed that Jon would become the closest to her heart.) "My lady," he greets her, all warmth and gentleness, and Sansa just throws her arms around his neck and breathes in his scent. It's Ned, all Ned, leather and fresh snow. He holds her close, steadying both of them.

"Thank the gods you're home," she murmurs, and closes her eyes.

This is what Sansa knows about her husband:

Whatever happened, wherever he had been, it changed him. From many angles, he is pretty much the same; his words are still his weapon, he is still as ugly as ever, his brain is still the best part of him. But in some aspects he is more than he was, and in other aspects, he is less than he used to be.

Sansa remembers him walking around in King's Landing like a golden little king who owned everyone, like a lion. He was the kind of man who refused to look anywhere but into your eyes, probably because he knew the effect his mismatched ones provoked; the kind of man who knew exactly which words to use, wielding his speech with the skill of a warrior. Now, he looks away. To the nearest window, to his hands, to the ground. There is something rotten in him, the sweet, sickening perfume of death that follows him wherever he goes; she remembers he couldn't keep quiet or shut his mouth, but now, there is a constant boredom in his eyes, like everything, all the time, is a tiresome burden to him: during meetings, during work, at night in front of the fireplace. She is not sure he is aware of how tired he looks all the time.

If he still seeks for whores, like in the past, he does so very discreetly, because Sansa has never noticed any signs of it.

There is the shape of his witty words, sharp and precise, and his humor is always sour at his best and ruthless at his worst; but there are moments where Sansa swears she had never met someone so kind in her life: when he is patient with Rickon, when he calls Gendry to the table with them when Arya is not around, merely justifying it because he is "fond of bastards"; when his laughter is pure; in the rare moments he stares into her eyes with enough light in the room so she can see them melting and burning; when he kisses her brow when he thinks she's already asleep and she is sure he cares, in this weird way of his, making her blush with inappropriate commentaries and naughty jokes and holding her at night.

Sansa doesn't know what to do with this feeling of pendency, of something hanging, waiting to be cut out or knotted for good. There is still something in him, hungry and grasping at her insides and needy and demanding and she wishes she knew what is it, exactly, that he honestly wants. It was easier when he only wanted to bed her. Now she doesn't know anymore. Now she is not even sure this is the only thing he has wanted from her, all this time.

But life is easier at Winterfell now, after the glass gardens are finished: through the hard winter, there are sweet fruits in the morning meals and fresh vegetables at dinner, though no flower has grown yet. (Tyrion says flowers are harder to grow, that they take time). An old northerner tradition says that the Lord of the land should provide bread for their liegemen. Now that they're safe from hunger, Sansa suggests it during a council meeting, a week before Jon arrives, that they reconstruct the oven of Winter Town and start to supply them with corn. Tyrion frowns, confused. "For free? Why would we do that?" he asks. Arya is the one to explain it to him, that Starks of many generations ago began to do it during spring and that it is reasonable to try it now that the winter is milder. He takes a very long time thinking about it. Sansa does not judge him, at first; the mere idea of Tywin Lannister serving food for his vassals is laughable. But as the meeting goes on, and he opposes every suggestion that appears to make the plan work, saying they don't have enough in store, or that the greenhouse's capacity is not enough for it, or that they can't travel to White Harbor all the time, it begins to upset her. She knows he often helps Arya with the practical managements of Winterfell, and he is resourceful and smart, but he is a Lannister living in the North. There are limits he must respect.

They are hard on each other that day, after, behind the closed doors of their chambers (never before the observant eyes of the servants and friends and family and anyone else beside the two of them who could never understand what is it that they share, this proto-marriage, this half-something-coming-into-being and never fulfilling it, never accomplishing, always unfinished). She says he has no word in it, remembers him, with a stark-cold, emotionless voice, that this is her home and she is not breaking northerner traditions only because he is bothered by it. He mutters something around the impracticality of that reasoning during Winter, they can't feed the world, they can't make the grains grow out of nowhere. She says he is being selfish. His voice changes to something condescending and cruel when he snaps back she is being naïve and that's when her anger flares, right along with a sudden fear, a moment of lucidity when she is forced to acknowledge how much he has come to know her: his words are aimed at everything in her that is tender and sensitive, at the joints that sustain the weight of her whole soul. Naïve. Better call her a whore, better slap her in the face. What did you just call me, she repeats, trying for furious and managing to sound, at best, defeated and fragile, and she hates him, for a second, but hates herself so much more for caring about what he thinks of her. How could he say that, he was there when they ripped out her songs from her throat. He was on the enemy's side, he saw, he knows.

Later that night she wakes up from a nightmare and realizes she has slipped, unconsciously, into his arms during her sleep. Her rising is a mute, quiet thing, a mere tremble and her eyes startle open, hands closing in his tunic, trying to hold on to something, to ground herself. He shifts in his sleep and wakes up too; it is dark, but she knows how the rhythm of his breathing changes when he wakes. Her fingers unwind from his clothes and she starts to draw away from him in a silence that is both ashamed and resentful. "Don't," he asks, and holds her, not too strong, as she would have liked, just enough. She could have put up a fight, for her dignity's sake, but who are they fooling; in the dense darkness between them, her face easily finds that hollow space carved out for her under his jaw.

I should be angry with you, she thinks, you are a terrible person. But she is so cold.

"I didn't mean that," he whispers. (He never learnt how to properly apologize for anything, to say it, I'm sorry, not when it matters.)

"Then why did you say it?" she asks, and it shouldn't be like this, a vulnerable thing curled against his side, but it is, she is.

"Because I was angry with you."

(He is shrewdly frank, sometimes, and she wishes he wasn't.) "And why were you angry with me?"

"Because you remind me too much of the person I wanted to be and will never be," he says in one tired breath. "Good and gentle and—" he swallows. "Not naïve. Not really."

"You are good and gentle to me," she says, and then regrets it, immediately. The echoes of a memory and the hint of some truth, something she does not dare to ask and he does not dare to confess, lingers between them, dances around them, and for a moment she thinks she should drag away from him, but can't. "You've been very tense lately," she murmurs. "What is wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong," he lies.

"I'm your wife, you should talk to me about—" it is her time to swallow. "About what troubles you."

He places the softest of the kisses on her brow. "I don't think you can help me, but thank you, my lady." His fingers are buried in her hair, then, and he slides them down, slowly. He is trying to put her to sleep again. Sansa tries to match this man with the man she knows during the day; people are funny, always shifting in different lights, or the absence of light altogether in this particular case. She feels the rush of something grasping at her heartstrings to the thought that this is a part of him that no one else has access to. One could even think that this part of him belongs to her: in these terms, with all the corollaries and implied vows.

"I care about you," she says, only because she needs to say— something, because all this silence is starting to become unbearable. His hand reaches that minimal area of exposed skin under her hair, in the back of her neck; he draws lazy circles on it. She feels sleep catching her, fights it. "It hurts me when you're hurt." (What a coward she is: to give a half-soothing truth when the raw side of it is a scream, almost: I will lose you, won't I?) "If there's anything I can do—"

"Sansa," he soughs, and her name sounds like a polite, careful, considerate warning. (Because the scope of it, anything. Anything: take what you want from me.) "You're very kind, but you can't fix everything."

"I'm not trying to fix you," she replies. "You're not broken." He sneers something that sounds like the dry half of a laughter, quietly. She hates the sound, gets up on her elbow to look down to him. His face is barely visible; he is only a shadow in the darkness. "You're not," she says. Too young, too fierce, too stubborn.

"Try to get some rest, my lady." He tries to pull her back to him. She palms his chest, trying to stop him.

"Tyrion—"

"We can make it work. We are going to give bread to the whole country if you want to," he says, and tugs at her waist again. She complies this time, resting her cheek against his chest once more.

"I wasn't thinking about this afternoon." Her fingers fidget and tickle. She wants to touch his face. She wants to ask him what is going on with them. She wants to ask him what does he wants from her. She wants to ask if he, too, can't stop thinking about that day, when he touched her in all the right places and lit up something in her that refuses to be extinguished, but she keeps quiet.

"I know you weren't," he sighs. "Sleep, Sansa."

(And Sansa considers that maybe,

maybe, she is the one who is changed. Changing).

Sansa is happy beyond relief for Jon's presence; Rickon is more prone to listen to him, who knows the wildlings from both beyond and this side of the Wall, than anyone else. After they share the midday meal together, Sansa assembles Rickon, Jon, Tyrion and herself in her solar, to (at last) discuss the redistribution of the lands of the Gift, both Old and New: she, as Wardeness of the North and Lady Regent; Tyrion, because she likes his opinions when he gives them cautiously; Jon, as the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch; Rickon, as the future Lord of Winterfell, because he needs to learn.

They open an old map over her table and Sansa summarizes the overall situation to Jon: the clans who survived, the possible heirs who expect to be named lords and receive lands to farm, those of the free-folk who had agreed to bend the knee to the Queen-

"They didn't bend the knee to the Queen," Rickon cuts her out. Sansa raises her eyes to him, surprised with the sound of her little brother's voice. She had forgotten he was there. "They bent the knee to me."

"And you accepted it in the name of the Queen," Sansa reminds him, soberly, although Rickon was right. Most of the free folk were suspicious still of the Southern Throne; at best, some of them trusted the Starks because of Jon, but not all of them, and those who bent the knee did so with great suspicion, and one threat or two. "Because we are loyal to the Queen and we have served the Crown as Wardens for generations. We have talked about it, I'm sure you remember."

"I don't understand why we have to decide who should inherit the land," Rickon says, sharply. "Just the four of us, behind closed doors. Shouldn't they be here? The free folk, the leaders of the clans, the heirs?"

Tyrion makes a face that says too well what he is thinking (that is a hell of a good point), and she looks at him hoping he will listen to what she is thinking too (for the love of all the gods, not now). He looks out to the window and keeps quiet; Sansa shares a worried look with Jon before she answers, as calmly as she is able, "They will be part of the... Discussion. Soon. But the Gift is not theirs yet. It belongs to Winterfell and to the Night's Watch, and it is our duty to manage it wisely and justly."

"Are we being just?" Rickon asks, almost innocent in his doubt, and Jon tries to suppress a laughter. He reclines on the back of his chair and crosses his arms before his chest, eyeing Rickon with something akin to pride blossoming from his surprise.

"I like your mind, boy," Jon says.

"I'm not a boy," Rickon says, bored.

"I'm sorry," Jon raises his palms. "You are right. I like your mind, my lord."

Sansa clutches her hands in her lap. Tyrion sits across her on the table, far from everyone; Jon by her left and Rickon by Jon's left. She sees with the corner of her eyes when her husband raises his eyebrows and nods, silently agreeing with Jon. "What do you suggest, then?" she asks, warily, to Rickon. "A fair, just approach. How would it be?"

Rickon thinks, frowns, looks at the map for three seconds. "Let them fight. Let the winners have it."

Sansa sighs. Jon laughs, unbelieving. Tyrion doesn't laugh but he gets close. "Well," he says, sardonically. "A practical man, our lord-to-be, no one could ever deny it."

"War, Rickon?" Sansa asks. "Do you believe this is what the North needs? More war?"

"It wouldn't be a war. It would be a battle," Rickon explains. Sansa makes a mental note to praise him for the distinction later, but not now.

"Physical strength is not all," Sansa says. "You can't solve all the North's problems through battle and sheer use of brutal force."

"All important problems are solved with brutal force," Rickon mutters.

"Your sister was two and ten when she married me," Tyrion says, his grave voice very solemn. "She survived most knights and warriors I've known."

Sansa's eyes search for her husband's face. She is not surprised, but she is thankful. For the first time since they entered her solar, Rickon spares his eyes to the little man in the corner of the table. "I know that," he says, cold as ice. Stark to the bone.

Tyrion shrugs. "As far as I know, she has never swung a sword in her life."

"Because she is a lady," Rickon says. "Ladies don't fight."

"Arya fights," Jon points out.

But Rickon is not looking at Sansa, or at Jon, for the matter. He is examining Tyrion with a curious expression, cocking his head to the side. "You survived too," he says, after his scrutiny. "Do you fight, my lord? Not in the back of a dragon, I mean."

"Rickon," Sansa warns. Tyrion only smiles, and she knows why. Rickon's wits hold more than a vague resemblance with her own and a little bit of Tyrion's too; she wonders if that should be worrying.

"When I have to," Tyrion answers, nonchalantly.

"The free-folk wouldn't believe you." The heir to Winterfell rests his back against his chair and says, with the same disinterested voice Tyrion tries to convey, "Among the wildlings, you would have been sacrificed on the day you were born."

"Rickon," it's Jon who warns this time, but Tyrion doesn't even wince.

There's a horrified silence with the way he says it - not as a wish, not as a threat, as nothing but a pure, simple fact.

"That's a cruel thing to say, Rickon," Sansa says, trying to hide under the table when her fingers start to tremble, because Rickon is not a cruel boy and that just makes everything worst. Her first instinct is to get up and drag Tyrion off the room. But his mask doesn't shift from its perfect position on his face: he is still half-smirking and looking into Rickon's eyes, somewhat gingerly. "Apologize."

"Let him be, wife. My lord is just being honest," her husband says, raising just a hand and then lowering it, his palm over the edge of the table; he speaks with the cold, unbreakable calm of a man who outlived all his enemies, and Sansa is suddenly once more reminded that he can be dangerous, like all survivors can, like she is, sometimes. "But, oh, if I could have a golden dragon every time I'm told that."

"You are the richest man of Westeros already," Rickon says, simply. "You don't need any more golden dragons."

Tyrion quietly snorts to that and says nothing else.

One night, in the darkness-

Her back is turned to him. She is awake and she knows that he knows. He has been keeping his distance from her most of the nights, and Sansa does not blame him. This is not her place.

But that night he runs his fingers across the notches of her spine under the blankets that cover them, from her neck to the small of her back, up, down, up, down, and the fabric of her gown brushes against her skin in all the places he touches her and she feels like crying. Hold me, she wants to ask: he has never denied her, she knows, but she keeps waiting for him to make a move and he doesn't, doesn't. He never comes. It has been four days since the last time you held me.

(She realizes she is counting.)

"Tyrion," she breathes.

He waits.

"Why did you ask me to stop you?"

It has been three weeks, since.

There is absolutely no way she would ask this looking into his eyes, in daylight.

His finger slides over the space between her shoulder-blades. And goes up. "Because I don't trust myself." His voice is honed and dark and deep, and she shivers. "You shouldn't, either."

She doesn't turn to him, eyes fixed in the chair in front of the window that stands some feet away from her side of the bed, the curtains waving as the winter wind rushes in. "What do you mean?"

"I mean-" He reaches her nape, stops. "Every man has a breaking point, and I know mine very well." His finger glides its way down again. "I made you a promise, I'm keeping it. Nothing has changed."

How can you say that, Sansa wonders. Everything has changed.

"That was very noble of you." It's three parts honesty and one part mockery, the kind of irony she learnt from him. She listens when grins.

"Noble?" he scoffs. "I like you better when you're not hating me. It wasn't very altruistic, I assure you, my lady."

She feels his finger reaching the middle of her back through her shift, his breathing close to her shoulders.

"You didn't kiss me." It isn't a question.

"I didn't."

(Why?, she wants to ask, but doesn't.

Instead, she thinks, with a girlish despair-

something is wrong with me.)

"Why did you ask me to close my eyes?"

His hand stops again. More silence. "I thought it would be easier for both of us."

"Did you close yours?"

He chortles. Dry and wicked. "Please, my lady. I didn't even blink. I'm not a fool."

She misses a breath. Drills her lungs to inhale again. It sounds ragged. He notices, and says her name, Sansa-, as if to begin a confession, a plea, an explanation. And then his words die.

"I'm no good man," he finally says.

"I know who you are," she murmurs. This time he doesn't try to dissuade her.

Sansa knows.

She knows, and yet-

Jon, Daenerys and Tyrion behave oddly in each other's presence. She had seen them all together in the same room just once, and as she observes Jon and Tyrion during the feast, she can't help but be disturbed by the way they orientate themselves.

They talk low, heads almost touching, but they don't look at each other. They watch the hall, instead: restless eyes, ready for some battle to burst out from anywhere, like soldiers who never learned how not to fight. (Jon has always been like that, but this is a side of Tyrion that stays hidden.) Jon stares at his ale, half-smiling, looks around; his lips barely move when he mutters something that makes Tyrion laugh under his breath, behind his cup of wine. They touch, too, the subtle, queer kind of touch you can only share with someone you have been to War with: his hand on Jon's elbow when he comes closer to whisper some warning in her brother's ear; their arms comfortably brushing when they are side by side; the way Jon straightens his shoulders and inclines his body forward, slightly, shielding them both, or his hand goes subtly to his belt, to the ghost of a sword, whenever someone comes too near them, even harmless people. She remembers the way Daenerys and Jon managed to orbit around each other even in opposite spots in a hall full of people, Jon always looking for the her eyes just to reassure himself she was there and safe and Daenerys making sure she would never walk too far from his careful watch; Tyrion was different, he didn't look directly at Daenerys, but to every man and woman looking at her, trying to read their intentions, their movements, possible threats to the Queen, somehow managing to warn Jon with a tilt of his head before they could get to her.

Sansa's place is by her husband's side but she hesitates, feeling like she is interrupting some weird kind of intimate moment. Something in Tyrion shines in Jon's presence, although she can't quite put her finger on it. It makes her jealous; of which one of them she is not sure. All that she seems able to bring out from Tyrion is a weary kind of longing; he never shines by her side. She wonders what she is doing wrong, but then again, she knows what she is doing wrong, or rather not doing.

She just doesn't know what does it say about Jon.

She finally sits on the empty chair by Tyrion's side just in the moment a servant comes closer between the half-drunk-dancing bodies on the Great Hall to fill up their empty cups. "Wine or ale, m'lord?" she asks Jon.

"Ale, thank you," he says, and Sansa sees when he reaches to the flagon himself, but the girl fills up his mug before he can take it. Jon doesn't like to be served. Sansa thinks he will never get used to it.

"Wine for you, m'lord?" the servant asks Tyrion, but Sansa covers his cup with her hand before he can confirm it or the girl can do her job.

"He had enough wine for tonight," Sansa says with a small, polite smile, and the poor girl peeks at Tyrion as if she is waiting for him to contradict her and make her night miserable.

He just sighs. "Of course. I'm good, thank you."

Jon watches the scene as if Sansa had just grown a third arm as the servant leaves to serve other tables. "What just happened?"

"My lady wife is of the opinion that I drink too much," Tyrion explains. He doesn't sound very happy with her. "Apparently, it ruins my mood."

"Because it does, but why are you complying?"

"Jon?" Sansa calls out, as if to remind him she is there, listening. "A little bit of loyalty would be appreciated."

"She is my host. I'm obliged to the rules of the house," Tyrion states. Sansa touches his arm and he intertwines their fingers out of pure habit, as he always does in public events like feasts, even if it's just a feast to celebrate the fact that Jon is home and no one is truly watching because at this point everybody is drunk.

"Oh, you must miss the West," Jon laughs.

"Terribly," Tyrion nods. "Since the West misses me just as much, soon I'll be back home, and no one, not even your sister, will keep me from my wine."

Sansa catches his eye. He looks at her for half of a second, but it's enough to see the confusion in her face and then he looks away.

She doesn't like this talk of host and the West, no more than she likes the distance that has been growing between them. Little by little. Like one inch per night so neither of them truly noticed.

Like the Thing Left Hanging is finally being cut out.

What did you expect, she muses, bitterly, to herself, the music in the hall and the conversation between Tyrion and Jon only a vague, shapeless sound in the background of her mind. Every man has needs. She can't keep him from his rights as a husband forever, no one is that kind. Tommem remains in the Rock as Tommem Waters, not Lannister, and Myrcella is nowhere to be found, probably dead. House Lannister needs heirs just as House Stark, and Sansa keeps wondering why did he accept to come North with her knowing this.

And then she thinks about how would it be, to sleep in a empty bed. She thinks about the glass gardens he rebuilt for her, where he spends so much of his time, not because he likes gardening but because, she knows, he misses the heat. The Broken Tower, where he hides when he needs to be alone or to cry, and that he thinks no one knows but she does. And she thinks about her chambers, so big and so cold, and remembers quiet nights spent reading or talking with the boundaries of his body nearby as a part of the inventory of Winterfell. She thinks about a rising sun and a starlit sky and how he could have looked at it all, but instead he chose to stare at her. She thinks about how it feels to fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

Her fingers let go of his. "My lady?" her husband asks, eyeing her with worry. "Are you feeling well?"

She works a smile as well as she is able. "Actually I'm not, my lord. I think I'm retiring to bed, if you wouldn't mind. It's late."

"Is there anything you need, Sansa?" Jon asks, worried, and reaches out for her hand.

"No. I just need to rest," she tries to reassure him, taking his hand in hers and kissing it, remembering the conversation they had early that day. She wishes she could drag Jon away for herself, because there are things that no one else understands but him, but that would be selfish. Everybody misses him, and she doesn't want to deprive her family from his presence; soon he will leave again. "Keep an eye on Rickon for me, both of you."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Tyrion asks, still suspiciously studying her face. As if he knew she wouldn't fall asleep without him. And yet, you want to leave.

"No," she says, and kisses his cheek. "Should I wait for you?" she asks, looking subtly to Jon.

"Maybe not. You said you needed to rest."

She nods, and looks at the two men left in her life, the way Tyrion leans towards Jon as soon as she gets up. And then she turns around and leaves.

(The Conversation Jon And Sansa Had Earlier That Day happened as follows:

A couple of hours before the feast, while all the household prepares the Great Hall and the food, Sansa hides in one of the dozen small storerooms, closes the door behind herself and takes a deep breath, her back pressed against the wood, among barrels of food. Everyone asks three questions at once, about the menu and the disposal of the tables and the turns of the guards, and really, it's just a special dinner because she wants Jon to feel at home, and because the Night's Watch deserves the prestige they've gained after the War. No great lords or royals are in the house and this shouldn't be so stressful and she just needs a second to-

breathe.

Feasts were funnier when she was a child and she didn't have to worry about every detail.

Someone knocks on the door and she wants to scream. "In a moment!," she says, it sounds angrier than it should, she doesn't care.

The person behind the door laughs it off. "It's just me, Sansa," says the voice, Jon's voice, and as soon as she recognizes it, she opens the door, pulls him inside and closes it again.

There is little space for them and he stands before her, leaning against a cask full of something that she suspects to be lentil, and smiling, amused. She smiles in return. "I'm sorry. I just needed-"

"I know," he says, because Jon usually knows these things.

"I'm so glad you are here," she says, then. She means in Winterfell but also locked with me in a random storeroom.

"I'm glad to see you, too." He reaches out one arm, and in the confined, narrow space of the room, he doesn't need much more than one arm to bring her near. She allows him, and rests one cheek on his shoulder, even if she is one inch taller than him, maybe two. Her whole body seems to breathe, muscles and mind and all. "There you go."

"Thank you," she says, still not lifting her head. "Where is Rickon?"

"Tyrion is taking care of him," Jon says. "But it's not like he needs to be watched over all the time. He is not a child anymore. You need to relax."

"Everyone keeps saying that," she mutters.

"That you need to relax?" he asks, audibly smiling. She rolls her eyes.

"That he is not a child."

"Because he is not."

"I can't see him that way."

"How old were you when-"

"It's different, Jon." She had Rickon's age when she left Winterfell, eleven, and they both know it.

"It's not that different." He pushes her away just enough to look at her face, but doesn't let go of her; she is grateful for it. "He seems to be very fond of Tyrion."

She pulls a face. "It took them some time and a lot of hard work."

"That's understandable. He is not easy to love," Jon agrees.

She knows. Oh gods, she knows.

"He is not," she bites her lower lip, and then looks down, because a part of her feels that this conversation is the reason why he followed after her, to begin with.

"Sansa," he says, very gently and she doesn't want to look him in the eye.

Because Jon's eyes are Ned's eyes, and what would her father say to her if he could see her now, married to a Lannister because she chose to?

Not only married to a Lannister but, almost-

"You are disappointed in me," she begins.

"I'm not disappointed." He frowns, as if she just said some absurd thing, and studies her face carefully, worryingly. "But I would be lying if I said I was not surprised when he wrote to me about you." She nods. "Sansa. Look at me." She takes a deep breath again and looks at him. "Talk to me. Please."

And this is the problem:

When Sansa swung the blade that cut Petyr's throat, she knew, that kind of knowledge that sinks into your bones: I will never be happy again. It's not that she thought she would be a sad thing, crying all the time, or that she would never be able to accomplish anything ever again. What Sansa knows is that she is broken, they broke her, and she won't ever be the same girl she was before. She will ever be marked by this pain. And time has passed and nothing will ever be pure, joy won't be pure again, everything will be stained with the absence of Ned and Catelyn and Robb and even Bran, and Petyr, too, and everyone and everything that happened.

And Sansa accepted her fate with the grace that only the oldest daughter of Catelyn Tully could ever deliver.

But-

"He is kind to me," she begins. "He is good for the kids. He helps me to keep everything in order."

Jon only nods.

He kisses my forehead when he thinks I'm asleep. He calls me darling. He holds me every night. He is growing flowers for me.

That sounds too intimate, only hers and her husband's concern, and so she doesn't say it.

"I think I might love him, eventually," she says, so carefully as if she is trying not to cut herself with a broken mirror. "I don't know if I can love like that again, but I could... Learn. I could try."

"That's a very good thing," Jon says, still as kind as ever.

"And I think I have..." the word is almost impossible to say out loud. "Hope?"

"That's good, too, Sansa. There is nothing wrong with it."

"Jon." She needs to know this from him and him alone. "Do you think people like us-," her hand is palmed against his chest where she knows there is a scar, right above his heart, where they tried to break him. "Do you think we will ever be happy?"

People like them, or Arya and Tyrion, or even Gendry, and Daenerys. Happy in that carefree, yellow-bright, summer, full-of-dreams way.

Jon Snow smiles to her. "No, Sansa," he says, and she loves him because of that, because he understands what she is asking and because he never lies. "Not how we used to be, but I think we can be whole, and that is just as good.")

Chapter Text

I swear, I end up feeling empty, like you’ve taken something out of me, and I have to search
my body for the scars, thinking
Did he find that one last tender place to sink his teeth in? I know you want me to say it,
it’s in the script, you want me to say Lie down on the bed, you’re all I ever wanted
and worth dying for too
but I think I’d rather keep the bullet this time. It’s mine, you can’t have it, see,
I’m not giving it up. This way you still owe me, and that’s
as good as anything.

"Wishbone," Richard Siken

Tyrion and Jon watch Sansa leaving and Tyrion is determined to not to be the one who speaks first.

It's the first time since Jon's arrival that they are alone, or as alone as they could be in a Hall full of people. Arya and Gendry dance and sing with the masons, some weird, northerner style, very different from the mannerly dances at the court. Most of the tables around them are empty and Tyrion looks at Jon, waiting.

"Your host," Jon says, finally, echoing his previous words with a color of skepticism to them.

Oh, so this is where they are starting. Tyrion sighs in annoyance. "Could we just don't do that? Please."

"She is my sister, so I'm afraid we need to," Jon rebukes.

"Then speak what you must, Jon. The whole North threatened me already. It would be unfair to deprive you, of all people, of the chance–"

"Hurt her and I will be forced to hurt you," he interrupts, not coldly but not joking. "Really bad and permanently. Not even Daenerys will be able to stop me."

"There we go," Tyrion japes, and misses his wine. "Objective and honest as usual! This is why I love you." Jon gazes at him, tries to hold back a smile, but just like Dany he is terrible at it. "Don't try, pretty boy. I'm a married man now. I'm not falling for your charms again. And don't you have vows in the Night’s Watch, anyway? There is no respect to tradition in this country anymore."

Jon laughs and takes a gulp of his ale. "My vows concern only women," he reminds Tyrion.

"Sure. How is Val?"

Jon rolls his eyes. "Val is well. And you were already married before," he points out, unbreakable, unreachable. "Technically."

"Technically," Tyrion replies, "my wife didn't care."

Jon raises one inquisitive, intrusive eyebrow. "And does she care now?"

"That–" Tyrion begins. Stops. Thinks it through. Sighs. "That is a good question, Lord Snow," he finishes, the cursed nickname rolling of his tongue gently. Jon does not mind. Not from him.

"Are you happy?" he asks, after some time, eyes crossing the Great Hall.

Isn't that the main point for them. Nothing is ever enough for you, Jon said to him, once, in one of the countless fights between the two of them and Dany.

Tyrion smirks. "You know me, Jon. I'm never happy."

Jon smiles back and shakes his head in a fond acceptance of his person, knowingly and tired and beautiful. Tyrion has missed this smile. He tries not to stare. People talk, people have been talking the whole day, and as much as it is fun to hear the absurd gossip surrounding the two dragonlords, Tyrion doesn't want to upset Sansa. He also fears some of the gossip will get it right.

"You smile like her," he murmurs, fixing his eyes on the Hall too. He notices with the corner of his eye when Jon tilts his head to the side and frowns one eyebrow. "Like Sansa. You two are so much alike," he sighs, wondering if that is the reason why he can't help to fall for them both in a way. Not like a song, but a real and visceral kind of protection, like he would grow out of his skin, out of his usually selfish inclinations, if it meant to keep them smiling, weary smiles as they were. He is not like that. He does not risk his skin, nor his heart, for other people's happiness- but then, if the War couldn't change people, nothing else could. And he, truly and in fact, almost died in said War.

There is just something about broken Starks that brings Tyrion to his knees. He is in awe of them. He envies them and he probably loves them.

"I'm nothing like Sansa," Jon says. His innocence makes Tyrion grin.

"I don't mean physically."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you are both too kind and too tired and too smart in a very specific, Stark way."

"I'm not a Stark," Jon says, like a fucking mantra. Tyrion rolls his eyes. Horseshit. No one has ever been more of a Stark. "But I'll take it as a compliment. Sansa is a wonderful lady and I hope you know how lucky you are."

Oh, but that is another thing coming from Jon's mouth, the man who almost married Sansa, who would be in Tyrion's place if Daenerys could have her way: a safe way to secure the wild North, marrying a Targaryen to a Stark, the Queen had thought, as much as it pained her to give Jon away. For better or for worse, both Jon and Sansa refused the proposal. We are Starks, Sansa had said, we don't marry among siblings, and Daenerys had smiled smartly to her. Jon is not a Stark, lady Sansa. Jon is a Targaryen, and we Targaryens do it all the time. But it was to no avail. Sansa insisted upon considering Jon her brother, recent bloodlines be damned, although, Tyrion suspected, she has always been too comfortable around Jon to be completely repelled by the idea of marrying him. It was Jon, honorable, stubborn Jon, the one impossible to convince. He would take no wife - not his pretty sister-cousin, not his white-haired Queen, who asked, begged for him to rule by her side. I'm a man of the Night's Watch, etc, etc.

If Jon wants to freeze his balls in that place and spend the rest of his life deprived of sex and warmth, let him, Dany. A man must be free to choose his own hell, Tyrion had said to her, later. He loves you and you know it, isn't that enough? It wasn't. Tyrion knew it well enough. Dany ignored him, the pain of Jon's rejection still tender and sensitive, but that night she'd let Tyrion take care of her all the same, a rare and appreciated gesture. It was usually the opposite.

Now, all things considered, Tyrion ponders if the best answer would be a heartfelt vow to protect his lady wife, a bitter remark about being constantly reminded of how lucky and undeserving of her he is, or a jape. He chooses the safe way. "You wound me, Jon," he japes, hand over his heart, feigning offense. "I'm the former Hand of the Queen, the richest man in the Seven Kingdoms. I rode a dragon. I'm an excellent match."

Jon pulls a face. "I don't doubt your credentials."

"But?" Tyrion offers. Jon holds his silence. "Are you worried about her?"

"I'm always worried about her," Jon murmurs. "But I worry about you as well. It is hard for a southerner to live so far up North."

Your sister keeps me warm, he thinks about stating, a simple and deeper truth that it first seemed, but Tyrion holds his tongue. He is not delusional. Jon loves Tyrion but he loves Sansa so much more, and Jon is twice his size. Literally. "You shouldn't. I am just fine. The greenhouse works fine for me," he says, dismissively. "And Sansa knows how to take care of herself. She survived taller men than me," he half-grins, infamous as ever. "If anything, I should be afraid of her, not the contrary. You should fear her too."

Jon laughs. "Sansa wouldn't hurt you," he says, kindly. It goes implicit that she wouldn't hurt Jon as well, too obvious to be spoken out loud. "She spoke fondly of you."

He ignores the last words; he can't allow himself to get his hopes up, not after these last weeks, and the way the rift between him and his wife had been growing, as if it weren't wide enough. "I don't believe she would hurt me, either, but to make sure I would keep an eye open."

"You two make an odd, good...," Jon seems to fight with the words, and settles for- "alliance."

"Don't we," Tyrion grins sardonically once again. "Dany let go of me! And I'm her favorite, as you know."

Jon's face slowly falls. He swirls the mug in his hands, watches with interest as the liquid inside transforms into a mini amber tornado. Tyrion is absolutely sure he is not actually seeing the beer. "How is she?" he finally asks.

There's a specific expression in Jon's features, a melancholy in his otherwise hard tone, that is only there when he is thinking of Daenerys.

"I haven't seen her more than you in the past year," Tyrion says, trying to be gentle. "Don't you write to her?" Jon's silence is guilty as blood dripping from a sword. "Fuck. Write to her, Jon. I'm not playing messenger boy again."

His eyes are still firm on the ale, voice plain and flat. "I'm not asking for you to."

"I've said it already but it bears repeating: you are idiots. The two of you."

"Thank you, Tyrion."

"But, since you've asked," Tyrion says, and only then Jon raises his eyes. He tenders his voice again. "You really should visit, or write something. She needs you. She needs a friend. Any friend."

Jon nods, guilt still painting his eyes darker, and finishes his ale. "Aye. Who doesn't?"

Tyrion chortles, tiredly. If he and Sansa were able to eventually overcome his murderous family, Jon and Daenerys surely could get past their problems. They saved the world together. That must count for something.

"I'm glad to see you again," Tyrion confesses, not looking into his friend's eye. "You look more alive than you did before. It’s a relief, really."

"You are very much alive too," Jon smiles to him.

"I am," Tyrion shrugs. "Who would have thought?"

It is almost morning when he retires to his chambers, he and Jon the last ones to leave the Great Hall, and Tyrion tries to be as quiet as possible when he opens the door and enters the room.

Sansa is lying down on her belly, in the middle of the mattress, and there's one single candle's fire burning low on the nightstand by her side. She is still dressed in the same gown she wore at the feast, although her shoes are placed on the ground next to the door, and her cloak is hanging on the head of the wolf carved out in wood at the post of the bed. She breathes deep and slow in her sleep, but even so he hides behind the screen at the corner to change his clothes and put his tunic on, mostly for habit. When he climbs in the bed and approaches her, carefully, he sees her cheek resting over a book, one single drop of slobber in the corner of her mouth that makes him smile to himself. He tries to take the book from underneath her without waking her up and fails. She blinks her eyes open, confused and blue like anything he has ever seen in his life, and raises her head, looking around as if trying to remember where she is.

"Just me," he murmurs low, still trying not to disturb her. "Come back to sleep."

But her eyes, once the initial confusion is gone, are lucid. "I was just... Napping."

She wipes her mouth with the tip of a blanket that is only half-thrown over her body; he takes the book from her hand. It is one of his, he realizes as he closes it and puts it on the nightstand by his side of the bed. "Too boring?" he asks, faintly amused.

"I was waiting for you, but you didn't come," she explains, and rests her head on the pillow, curling herself up on her side. "What time is it?"

"Almost dawn," he answers, and lies down by her side. "I told you not to wait."

"I wanted to," she replies, and takes his hand. He lets her, watches as she toys with each one of his fingers with great interest. It makes him smile again.

"Is everything all right?" His wife nods in silence, tracing the lines scratched deep into his palms, but there's that little frown of tension between her eyebrows. Besides, she has spent too much time with Arya, because now she bites her lower lip whenever she is thinking too hard. "Hey. Sansa?"

She looks up, into his eyes, then. Her face doesn't quite thaw but at least her resolve into silence does. "I want to ask you something."

"Ask me."

"I didn't know you still planned to leave to the West."

Well.

Her face is bland then, and it shows nothing. It is a part of her that he knows she only uses when she needs to play, and he doesn't like it here, in their bed. "That is not a question," he says.

"And that is not an answer," she replies, courteously, but lets go of his hand.

He also doesn't like to be left speechless. Two can play this game. "I am the rightful Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West," he says. That's an answer, he thinks with himself, and then wonders if it truly is, after all. "I can't spend my whole life here."

She swallows down something. He can't help but ask himself what: an explanation, or maybe just pride. "When?"

There are a hundred ways to give her the answer she wants. His first instinct is to say that he should have left, really, a lot of time ago. He shouldn't have let things grow into what they have grown. He should say that he has been trying to leave for so long that it doesn't make sense anymore. He would show her all the letters of his Aunt Genna, writing about his lands and with not-so-subtle remarks about his absence and, most importantly, the absence of an heir, but he always burns his letters after he answers them and there is no physical register of it, of all the things he is failing at. And he wants to say it to her. That just like in King's Landing, everyone here knows that this marriage of theirs is just an odd kind of shield they have found against all the demands and responsibilities, like they were children. He wants to say it, that it was irresponsible of her to ask to remain married with him, and it was irresponsible of him to have accepted it, because they have duties and they are seeing to none. It is a good alliance, but not the best it could be, and here they are, neither leaving for good and neither truly staying. Of course she doesn't want to leave her home behind; Tyrion stood no chance against Winterfell, against Arya and Rickon, against ruling the North. He wants to say that he has always been ready to give her that damn annulment. That he still is right now, and he would if she asked, but she insists on not asking. And that she is cruel, because no one forced her this time. And that he doesn't know what he is doing here, except he is not completely sure he wants to leave her, now, and that this, this is her fault, too, because now her scent actually clings to him the whole morning, and how is he supposed to leave? He wants to tell her that he is too old for this, too old and too tired. Gods, he should have left when he had the chance and the nerve.

Instead:

"I don't know. Eventually," he says, and for some reason can't meet her eye.

"I can't leave now," she says, and her voice is so small that he has to come closer, just one inch. "Rickon is barely eleven. He needs me, he needs family, at least until-"

"I know that," he says, as gently as he is able at the moment, which is not much. "I'm not asking for you to come with me. I know Winterfell needs you."

She stares at him, then, with disappointement. It reminds him so much of Cersei, like she was expecting he would fail at something. He is just not sure about what is it, exactly, he is failing at. "Without me," she says, nodding only once, slowly, and retreating, drawing back as if his proximity is paining her. "You are planning to leave without me. Just as I’ve assumed."

"We can remain married," he hurries to explain. "We've done this before”. And it happens all the time, couples living miles apart. His own father lived in King’s Landing while his mother stayed at the Rock, before he came into the world and killed her. "You will be safe. And the children too, Arya and Rickon," he reassures her, knowing very well this is always Sansa's first priority. "Daenerys wouldn't force you to marry against your will."

"Yes, she would," she says, and lies down on her back, staring at the ceiling. She sounds angry, defeated. "You have romantic notions about Daenerys and I don’t judge you for that, but if she thinks this alliance is not strong enough then yes, she would. She should. A good Queen should”.

“You are mine”, he states, with finality. His head is starting to ache. "At least from this I can protect you. You shouldn’t worry”.

She looks to the side, to his face, and her frustration is starting to look like a mix of sadness and confusion. He is feeling a little confused himself, because he is not sure about where this conversation is heading.

It’s not a good moment to be out of his depth. Again. The sun is almost rising and he can’t remember how exactly they ended up discussing Daeneyrs hard-won peace and alliances through the Seven Kingdoms and gods, he is so, so tired. Of it all.

But Sansa just studies his face, eyes narrowing as she thinks something over. “I don’t understand”, she says, and he doesn’t know if she is talking with him or with herself. He favors the latter.

“What is there to understand?”

"What do you want?"

He almost laughs at that, all bitter and sour, but holds himself back. You know what I want. Because she is not a friend – who does that, for all the gods? Who holds their friends in the dark every night, who knows the names they whisper when they dream, who touches their friends like that? She is no proper ally – their alliance grants him nothing, not an heir, not gold, not lands, nothing he didn't have without her, and she is no proper wife, either; he vows over and over he won't touch her and she thanks him, she is nothing, this is just a ghost of a marriage and yet, he has spent the last year following her form like a compass following the North, like a, like a–

"Does it matter what I want?" he says, then, because he can't not say it. The question has been chocking him for years, since she refused to kneel for him, since she asked him to come to the North, since Tysha, and he knows he sounds angrier than he should.

She still not cowers before his own self-deprecation, as usual; her voice becomes something urgent, her face assuming an iron determination. "I'll give you children, if this is what you want," she says, and the words are so incongruous and absurd that he keeps not understanding; he can only identify the edges of the words, the way she tries to make them neat, to steady her voice, how she tries not to tremble. She fails. "I can give you an heir. I know I've been... Neglectful. Of my duties as your wife. You’ve been very patient to me from the start, and I might have–"

"Wait– no. Sansa? No." Once he understands what she is offering, he realizes that there are two parallels conversations happening here. Of course she wouldn't think he is asking– "I don't want anything from you, not like that."

And then a flicker of realization crosses her face, her eyes changing from anguished to weary as she sighs. It softens her, somehow. "Oh gods," she mutters. "Do you have any idea of what I'm trying to say? For a man so clever you can be surprisingly oblivious sometimes."

Her voice is sharp enough to cut his pride just in the right joint. "Clearly I don't," he answers, defensively. "If you wouldn't care to enlighten me–"

"I'm asking for you to stay with me, Tyrion" she says, so soft but so fierce, and suddenly there is not enough air in the room. "For me. Not because of the queen, or the Seven Kingdoms, or anything else."

... Oh.

He hears his heart bumping in his ears, as if his body knows her words before his brain. Sansa glares at him, waiting for an answer.

"To stay," he repeats, trying to help himself to think. It doesn’t work as planned. "You mean– in the North."

"I mean with me. Wherever the damned place, the North or the West or Essos or the end of the world."

He studies her face, and his mind is a white blank page as he tries to make a list of the possible reasons why she would–

Tyrion does not dare to assume.

"Why?" he asks; it is the only word that occurs to him.

"Why? What kind of question is that? Because you are my husband, that is why," she says, and her voice ignites and burns as she speaks. It is anger but also despair. She looks anywhere but at him. "How can you do that? We shouldn't make plans and decisions without at least consulting each other, and- Every night we–" and she closes her eyes, stops abruptly her speech and shakes her head. Her frustration is almost palpable, solid. "It doesn't matter”.

"It does matter," he murmurs. The fact that he can't control his own maddening heartbeat strikes him as immeasurably annoying.

"It doesn’t, what matters is that we are married. We can't leave again, we left before and then–," she throws one hand in the air, sighs, takes another breath. She seems unable to finish a sentence, which makes him feel oddly less lonely. "I know this is not an ideal marriage to you."

"Sansa... Don't. Don't do that," he asks, because if she continues to say these things it is possible he will believe her and it will break him. And he has no more pieces left to break.

She has to be, at least, merciful.

But she isn't: "No," she declares and finally looks him in the eye. He does not know if it's better or worse. Probably worse, because he can't think if he can't breathe appropriately. She looks into his yes and his lungs feel useless. "You don't do that. Don’t be a coward, Tyrion. It is impossible you didn’t see it coming, you can't be that blind, and still you would leave me, even after– After–," and she doesn’t finish, again, she just covers her face with both of her hands and it feels like he is bleeding inside. Already.

"My lady." He touches the back of her hand. She keeps hiding from him, and this silence, it seems important. He dares to come closer to her, knowing she can feel it; props himself on his elbow and asks, begs, almost, "Please."

"You touched me." Her voice is muffled against the palm of her hand but he listens to every word. He would not miss them. He could not even if he wanted. "You can't... You can't do that. You can’t touch me like that and then leave me, a good husband would never do that." Both of her hands slide off from her face and he can, at last, look in her eyes again. His wife. His flawless, beautiful, brave wife. She is not crying, but her words shake when she speaks. "Say something, please."

He stares at her for a very long moment. Thinks about duties and debts and about lies and honor and want.

But most of all, he remembers one of a thousand conversations before they fell asleep: all hearts beat the same, I think. It is one of my favorite sounds in the world, she had said. A beating heart.

"Don't lie to me, Sansa," he asks, after all, and his voice does that Lannister thing of camouflage his fear with a color of fierceness. But maybe his eyes show it, how absurdly afraid he is, because next thing he knows, she is reaching out to him, her hand skidding down his neck until she finds the line of his tunic and pulls him impossibly closer. She turns to the side just in time, enough to press her chest against his, and he gasps.

"I'm not lying," she whispers, so soft and so kind and he lets himself believe in her, stops thinking. It's all instinct, now: when he allows her to circle one arm around him like she is trying to tie him to her for good, when he puts her hair behind her ear and then lets the hand rest in there, in the soft, unknown skin under her ear, wrapping the back of her head; when her hand finds his face and forces him to keep looking at her, inviting him to test her truth, to verify her words right there in the source. And he does. He searches in her eyes for repulsion or pity or lies and finds none. He doesn’t find a burning passion or desire, either. He sees mostly just stubbornness. "I'm not lying, I promise," she says, and cups his cheek. He leans into the touch because, let's assume for a moment that he is indeed dreaming, as it feels: what could go wrong? Absolutely nothing. "Don't go back to the West just yet, can you do that?" she murmurs and they have come so near that her lips almost brush against his when she speaks, and he sighs just with the anticipation, the promise of it. Gods he is tired of trying not to kiss her. All the time. All the damn time. And so, as the first signs of the morning begin to stretch its rays into the room, he nods and says all right, I won't. "Give me some years and I will go to the West with you. I will find Rickon a bride, I will see to Winterfell reconstruction and then I'll go with you. We are so young, and the war is over, there is no need to hurry," and she barely breathes between her words, as if he needed to be convinced. "I know I'm asking a lot of you, I'm asking for time, for years, and I know you hate the snow, and that the cold hurts your bones, but maybe– maybe if you stay we can–"

He shushes her; soothes her hair, chuckles a little. This woman. He can't believe her sometimes. "Whatever you want, my lady." It is that simple. It has always been that simple. He closes his eyes. Her hand is still there on his face, her arms still around him, the usual coldness of the air mitigated by the heat of her body: there's a real chance he might be awake. "I want whatever you want."

He feels the hand on his cheek shyly travelling through his skin, his neck, until it reaches the base of his head and she lands there, a timid touch asking for permission. "Keep your eyes closed," she whispers.

Tyrion doesn't think he could be ready for her, eyes open or not. And so he waits, merely, until he can feel the pressure of her mouth against his. There is nothing confident about it, about her halting movements, her fingers fidgeting in his hair; in the first moment it's just the lightest of the touches, she's barely there, still and smooth. He keeps waiting, feeling her, feeling her – his hand finds her face, and he discovers the trace of her jaw-line with his fingertips. Just then her lips finally move beneath his own, careful, hesitant, glorious. Like breathing and drowning at once. He slides the tip of his tongue along her lower lip just to taste it, and she sighs deliciously against his mouth but that is it: neither of them try to deepen the kiss, they let it linger softly. They are both sleepy and tired and for now there's no need of anything else, no need to rush. When she breaks apart he opens his eyes again and she smiles, small and lazy like a winter morning, but warm, always warm. He could swear he feels her smile under his skin. It makes some old fracture of his heart heal immediately.

"You look surprised," she says. He traces a invisible line from her cheek to her lips, just because he is not ready to stop touching her yet, and also because he wishes she would kiss him again.

"I am surprised," he shrugs. "You can be hard to read, lady Stark."

"Not that hard." She studies his face, fondly, closely, and just then brings the blankets up to cover them both, settling herself to the curve of his body just like she's done a thousand times in the last months. He holds her close, and wonders why it feels new. Maybe it's just the morning air. "You still haven't said it," she murmurs against his chest.

He looks down at her face, frowning. "I haven't said it?"

"That you are going to stay with me."

He almost laughs. "Do you honestly believe I would leave now?"

She giggles a little, and her arms wrap around his torso one inch tighter. "I actually don't, but I would like to hear it, anyway."

He kisses the crown of her hair. Thinks, for half a second, that he is the luckiest man alive. The luckiest. "I am going to stay with you, for as long as you want me."

(There's a vow, and there's a kiss.

It's way better than the first time.)

"Good." She closes her eyes and rests her cheek against the left side of his chest. He wonders what she will find there today, in his rib-cage. For the first time he is not afraid of what she will listen in his heart. "Can we sleep now? I'm exhausted. You kept me waiting for quite a while."

He is too happy to make some bitter remark about which one of them is more likely to leave the other waiting, too happy to sleep, too happy to leave the bed. He watches as she falls asleep, his fingers running through her hair, her face finally serene, her breathing even and silent. By the time he falls asleep too, the room is completely filled with the morning light.

Chapter Text

Never, never may the fruit be plucked from the bough
And gathered into barrels.
He that would eat of love must eat it where it hangs.
Though the branches bend like reeds,
Though the ripe fruit splash in the grass or wrinkle on the tree,
He that would eat of love may bear away with him
Only what his belly can hold,
Nothing in the apron,
Nothing in the pockets.
Never, never may the fruit be gathered from the bough
And harvested in barrels.
The winter of love is a cellar of empty bins,
In an orchard soft with rot.

"Never May the Fruit Be Picked," by Edna St. Vincent Millay

History says that the original Winterfell was built by Brandon the Builder, and as if he weren't a mythical figure himself, he was aided by giants. Different generations of Starks, in different eras, contributed to make of Winterfell what it used to be. For Sansa, Winterfell grows like trees among the snow, a forest made of stone and iron and hard work, but not of feasts and laughter like before. It is quiet and fruitful and sacred as the godswood, and it can be warm, but it carries the marks of war even as it is made anew. She tries to be as faithful to the original project as she can, both from memory and from register; it is a kind of obsession, sometimes, to make everything as it was before. She knows she is failing.

It doesn't quite feel like the home she knew in her childhood. Every corner screams absences, silences; to keep herself practical, Sansa divides her mission in small tasks, and these in smaller ones. Fix the Great Hall: Sew new banners for the walls (buy threads, needles and dyes in Winter Town). Crop oaks (find more joiners). Buy iron (talk to Gendry). Feed the household: send out hunters. Calculate the salt and honey needed to keep the meat conserved-

She has Arya working by her side and doing all the numbers that confuse her, and Tyrion keeping her sane and helping her not to forget the details, and Samwell, who has no more experience in rebuilding an ancestral castle than herself or Arya, but he reads, all kinds of books and all the time, and is incredibly resourceful. She has Podrick and Brienne as her protectors and, occasionally, her friends. And what if Winterfell is being erected in the slowest of rhythms? Better late than never, Sansa says to herself (and thinks of Tyrion, and doesn't know why), better late than never. Sansa is no myth, no giant, but she has time. And patience.

But Winterfell is not the only castle that suffered during the War; the whole North needs rebuilding, and so Sansa shares her workforce with another houses. It's the least she can do as Wardeness of the North. The inevitable result of such gentleness is to burden the ones who stay, including herself. It is for this very reason that Sansa finds herself in one of the smaller kitchens inside the Great Keep, cutting slices of lemon and flowers of anise to the flavoured water she (and Tyrion, supposedly, although he is never there when she wakes up and therefore, she can't affirm for sure) normally drinks in the mornings, before she breaks her fast, when she is approached by a shy Jeyne Poole. "My lady?"

Sansa raises her eyes, and gives her friend a smile. "For you, just Sansa." There is an abundance of Jeynes in the North, in Winterfell and through the Seven Kingdoms; but Jeyne Poole is the only one Sansa truly, personally cares about. They've never shared details about what happened to them; and tales about the horrors she suffered in the hands of the Bolton's bastard are enough for Sansa to never talk about it and never ask. Jeyne carries a guilt, though, referring to her as her lady, the innocent familiarity of their friendship lost and replaced by a implicit contract of protection. Sansa keeps her safe; Jeyne never leaves her side. She is, maybe, what in the South is called a lady companion or lady in waiting; to Sansa she is family, no different from Arya or Rickon. They waddle silently around the name of their dead and their grieves; they sew together, sometimes; they never dance, never talk about boys and songs like they used to. Jeyne works silently for Winterfell's reconstruction with a wary kind of hope, maybe trying to bury her own ghosts there; she is the complete opposite of Sansa, who wants everything as a perfect copy of the past. No, Jeyne wants it to be as different as possible, like her shadow, her contrast. Sansa knows she needs her, they need each other. "Can I help you?"

Jeyne is holding a bucket with dirty clothes, and her fingers clutch it until the knuckles are white as now. "I have- Actually yes, you could." She fidgets nervously. "It may not be the best time. It is important- to me, my lady."

"Oh, don't worry, Jeyne," Sansa smiles, and throws the sliced lemons into the water. "We have time now. You can speak."

"I've heard someone talking about- about you and Lord Tyrion leaving to the West, soon?"

Sansa stops her work, puts one hand on her waist, and considers Jeyne's words. "Oh, sure, this," she says, absently, and raises one eyebrow. "Who told you about that?"

Jeyne almost instantaneously panics, wide eyes filled with fear. "I've heard- one of the cooker's daughter- I'm sorry, Sansa, this is not of my concern-," and she is about to leave, looking anywhere but at Sansa's face.

"No, don't go," Sansa hurries. She sometimes forgets that Jeyne grew used to feel guilty for anything that happens, and so she softens her voice. "It is all right, Jeyne. I'm not angry, I'm just..." she looks around, trying to find an amenable word, and shrugs. "― Curious."

"I've heard rumours, it's all," Jeyne says. Sansa grins to her.

"You mean gossip."

Jeyne smiles too, and it is the greatest victory of the day. "You know how these things are."

"Oh, I know," Sansa says, and shares a knowing look with her friend. "But, yes. I haven't talked to you about it yet because it won't be soon," Sansa ensures. "A couple of years, maybe more." She suspects someone heard Tyrion mentioning it, during that feast in the last month. It's not so much the fact that the gossip exists that bothers her, but the fact she didn't know about this particular one. Sansa has her ears everywhere, in the North and beyond; it is amazing how, sometimes, it is easy to forget to pay attention to her own home. Maybe because she feels safer here than anywhere else.

(Oh, people talk. Always. About her, about her husband. Little has changed, she suspects, from a outsider's point of view; she and Tyrion never displayed public demonstrations of affection, and they won't start now. The way he touches her cheek and she clings to him at night, her hard-won smile and his kind, soft words, are for them alone.

They don't have a child, after all, and this speaks louder than anything else. The man who never bedded his own wife; the winter Queen of the North. It shields them, the names they've been given. If she looks more comfortable than she used to in his presence, people only say they have grown used to each other; if she defends him from mean jokes, it is her honour, not only his, which is at risk; of course she must defend her husband, as a dutiful, obedient wife. And if he looks at her as if she is the sky itself, well, she is Sansa Stark; possibly any man in his position would look at her like that? And he, the Imp, more than any of them?

People see what they want to see. Sansa learnt it from the best.)

Jeyne nods slowly. "I see," she says, oddly disappointed.

Sansa frowns, confused, tilts her head to the side. "Winterfell is your home as much as it is mine, Jeyne," she says, kindly but firmly. "When I leave," and gods, these words make everything so real that she needs to drill herself to stay calm. "You can stay. She will always be here for you, if you need her protection," and as she speaks, Jeyne only grows sadder until she suddenly understands. "Oh. Unless―"

Jeyne looks at the ground.

"Unless this is not what you were planning to ask me?" Sansa suggests.

"No, Sansa," she answers. "Would you take me with you? To the West? Do you think Lord Tyrion would mind?"

Sansa ignores all the ghosts hovering above their heads. "The Lion's Den? Would you go?" she asks.

"Anywhere but here," she murmurs in response, so low Sansa barely hears it- but she does, after all, and her heart misses a beat. "Lord Tyrion is not a terrible man. The others are all dead, aren't them? And, besides, you are going."

"He is my husband," Sansa explains. "I have a duty towards him. Casterly Rock belongs to Tyrion, just as Winterfell belongs to RIckon."

"I have a duty towards you," Jeyne snaps back.

"No you don't, Jeyne. You are free to―"

"I'm not free," Jeyne says.

They stare at each other, gracefully, in silence.

"You can leave, you know," Sansa says, when it grows uncomfortable. "We can find you a good, kind man, a husband―"

"I don't wish to get married, ever again," Jeyne says, for the first time fierce and sharp, with a determination Sansa rarely sees in anyone. She takes a deep breath and raises her chin. "And no man would have me. You know it well, my lady."

"Just Sansa, Jeyne," Sansa asks, somewhat anguished.

"I would rather follow you, wherever you decide to go," she says, firmly, her voice unshaken. "It's close to the sea, if I remember it correctly?"

And Sansa thinks― oh. Theon. All right. Theon.

"Yes," she smiles. She knows it is a sad smile, but she gives it all the same. "The Sunset Sea. It must be very beautiful." She stops, clasps her hands. "Of course I can take you with me, if it pleases you."

Jeyne doesn't smile back, but her shoulders drop, relaxed. "It would please me, yes."

Of all the things in the short list of activities they engage together, working is the easiest of them.

Sansa's solar is contiguous to their chambers; at night, though, she prefers the table placed next to their bed. This way, it feels a little less like the work to be done in Winterfell and the North is swallowing every piece of her life and mind. She has been trained to do this, to run a castle, but it is northerner politics that puzzles her the most; most of the things she learnt in the South, at court and with Petyr, just don't apply here in the same fashion. Tyrion never finishes what he was supposed to at twilight, too, and so, more often than not, they spend a couple of hours after supper reading and answering lingering, bothering letters just to shorten the piles that accumulate on their desks; or planning the next day so they can gain half an hour of sleep in the morning; sometimes, they plan Rickon's lessons together, but most of the nights they merely share the table, side by side, in silence. It is not peaceful; work never is. But his presence makes it more bearable and less tiring. Sometimes she believes he can feel her moods in the air and the reasons behind them. When she is too stressed out, he pours out wine for her without asking. When she is confused he will hand her a document, a book, a note. He begins, "My lady, what are the names of those―" and she answers "The Fenns of the Neck" before he can finish his question; she inquires, "husband, where is that book that I―" and he points to the bookcase resting against the wall, barely moving his eyes from his own book, "third shelf, second from left to right. And if you wouldn't mind bringing one for me?" When he is too tired, Sansa takes the quill from his hand. "Go to bed, husband," she will say when he protests. "Let me handle this."

As the time went by, the invisible limits that divided the table in two halves became naturally less and less clear. There's a stool by the side of his chair, and they both have separate drawers with different keys; but his wine stains her parchments and some pages of his books smell like chamomile tea. It is hard to say, in the organized mess of the weird life they are building together, what is still hers and hers alone. More and more parts of her desk are theirs.

Sansa is thinking about this one night, about how easily they trusted each other in practical matters, and how some other areas don't flow as smoothly. He still kisses her forehead first thing in the morning, before he leaves the bed a couple of hours earlier than she does; he still keeps his hands where her clothes are covering her skin when he holds her, at night; once, in the first night of the full moon, he spent a lot of time studying every inch of her face, with his eyes, with fingertips; but they've never kissed again. Sometimes he touches her jaw-line as if he is playing a high-harp. Delicate. A clawless lion. She is wine from the better vineyard and the oldest harvest and he is trying very, very hard, to be sober.

Sansa is no longer so naive as to mistake his fear for gentleness.

It is, in the end, curiosity, more than desire. She closes the book with the accounts of Winterfell. Looks to the side, at him. He is reading something, searching for a specific line or word. "I'm retiring to bed, my lord," she notifies.

He looks up from the page. "Yes, sure. I'll be there in a minute."

It has been precisely eighteen days, more than two weeks, since that morning when he came to her and she told him out loud, in plain, clear words, that she wanted him. She doesn't know what else he needs and decides she is done with the waiting. When he comes closer to kiss her cheek, almost unconscious of his own movement, she tilts her head to the side, just enough to catch his mouth. And before he can react, be surprised or afraid, she puts one firm hand on his nape, keeping his face close to hers, and he raises a hand that cradles the back of her neck; and in the first seconds it is just this, their linked mouths and their ragged breathing against each other, like in the first time. Until he moves his lips, so, so carefully, the tip of his tongue tracing her lower lip before he gently sucks at it, and Sansa gasps. She can feel the corner of his lips raising in a tiny smile. She had never felt anyone's smile in her mouth before. It is a new kind of healing, one she wasn't aware of, and she kisses his smile as if she is trying to feed from it, from him, a little clumsy and a little kind, and finally darts out her tongue between his lips, mutely asking let me in. He doesn't hesitate: she finds no resistance in her way as he opens his mouth to her, as if he had been only waiting.

Sansa likes kissing. Harry hadn't kissed her very often, but she wishes he had. Petyr always kissed her, but she wishes he hadn't. There is something inherently exciting about kissing someone who is as eager as herself, and she likes everything about it: she likes the feeling of his tongue, velvet-smooth, sliding against hers, and the low, deep sound he makes with the back of his throat, half-surprise and half-pleasure, when they first touch. She likes that it grows deeper, but never faster; likes the rhythm of it, a slow, sultry waltz of their mouths; she likes how he lets her lead, likes how his hand feels generously warm as it caresses her face, slides down her neck. This is not their second kiss: it is, rather, a different kind of first. She breaks apart after he slows it down, and they press their foreheads together for a moment, slightly out of breath.

"Well, hello, darling," he whispers, toying with a loosen strand of her hair and resigning to cup one of her cheeks.

She giggles. "Hello. I was just leaving."

"I recall it," he murmurs, and brushes his lips against hers again. His lips are smooth except for the scar, and Sansa likes the contrast. "What was that about?"

One of her eyebrows raises inquisitively. "I'm kissing my husband good night. Can't I?"

"Oh, my lady, your husband is definitely not objecting," he says, and Sansa chuckles quietly, and let it fades to a smile, that too fades and leaves only amusement in her eyes, amusement and something else that paints him with different colours.

(Because Sansa is tired of men and their desires; and she likes the way they have settled into each other in the last weeks. It is a comfortable arrangement and a part of her wants to leave it like that for quite a long time. Sex is too raw and too animal and it misses that ethereal, untouchable quality of the songs she so loved as a young girl. Sansa is no maid, no more; she does not expect a sudden, consuming passion to flare for her husband out of the sudden, no matter her affections for him. This is not how her body works. She has always been the kind of woman whose pleasure is built slowly; a hard woman to love and please. Maybe too hard.

She wants him, in a way: she wants to merge her skin with his, so he won't leave her side; she wants to drag out the sadness in his eyes and the grief in his voice; and if her roots are to grow again somewhere one day, she wants it to be next to his, next to him, so she will see when he finally blossoms, for Sansa truly believes he will. She wants him as a woman waiting for spring, growing seeds, hoping, and even now, when she is feeling the start of something that has all the potential to grow into truly arousal, it isn't, fundamentally, about desire. It is not passion, not yet: but it is not pity, either.

It is a kindness. For him and her both, to touch and be touched. She is always so numb; Sansa lives through her day trying to ignore all her movements ― of her spine, of her clasped hands, of her feet, the tilt of her head ― rehearsing and repeating them to exhaustion until they became muscular memory, so she doesn't need to plan them every time. It is closed in itself, this body of hers; but here, under a gentle touch, she allows herself to bloom. She closes her eyes, and all her senses mingle and mix as one: like she is listening to his hands, touching his voice, tasting the warmth of his breathing beneath her lids.

And now, his lips are kiss-swollen, probably a mirror of hers, and his eyes shine with joy, and the constant scowl of irony that usually shapes brow is gone, and she thinks he looks almost beautiful.

Not pretty, like Jon is. Not handsome, like Harry had been.

Just― beautiful, like a sky full of stars, like the golden glow of the sunset over the red leaves in the heart-tree.)

"I will leave you to your work," she says, then, but makes no move to get up and leave. His hand is still there, on her cheek, so she closes her eyes and leans into it for a second, and then shifts her face to the side so she can kiss his palm, and then his wrist, mostly because she wants to gauge his reaction, how far can she go; his fingers curl in her face, around her ear.

"If you keep doing that, I won't let you," he warns her. She muffles a chortle against his hand, and opens her eyes in time to catch him looking at her almost entranced.

Good, Sansa thinks, good.

She is willing to rip out the fear from his hands with her very claws, if she has to.

"I'm sorry," she smiles, making it sound equal parts wicked and truly sorry.

He seems to catch his breath for a second. "Don't be," he asks, and his voice does something; Sansa doesn't know what, she just know where, right under her lower belly and spreading through her legs, and before she knows it, she is bowing her head to his and his mouth is there, halfway, searching for hers too. She lets him kiss her this time. He is not as gentle as before; more possessive, hungrier. She mewls, fingers coiling in his hair; in the position they are in, each in their chairs, there's no way to bring their bodies closer, unless she climbs onto his lap; but that she won't do, not now. Maybe they need to lead this carefully. He is a breakable thing, her husband. Sansa is made of a stronger material, but she has been broken before, too. And they know the sound of time, now, too well to let themselves be rushed by it.

"Tyrion," she laughs, like a reminder, the letters of his name all messy in his lips.

"Sansa." He smiles. Opens his eyes.

Ah! She likes so much the way he says her name.

He withdraws the hand from her face first; she slowly removes her fingers from his hair, letting them rest on his shoulder, and then both of them start to create some distance between their mouths until she is free from his grasp. They look at each other in the eye for some time, and finally, Sansa runs a thumb over his lower lip, cleaning it, feeling it wet under her fingertips. "Good night, my lord."

He looks at her eyes, her mouth, her eyes again. "Good night, my lady."

And Sansa finally stands and makes her leave to the bed. In her way, she discreetly puts her trembling hand over her heart, and her throat, and when she lies on the bed, she misses his body next to hers ―

and if it feels different than yesterday, if she feels intrigued and nervous and disproportionately happy with how easily he reacted to her, if she wants more than comfort tonight, Sansa, for now, lets the newborn feeling alone.

Sometimes, Sansa feels like she and Rickon are strangers to each other.

There are little gray-and-white threads linking her to the North, to Winterfell. They are fragile, but numerous, and for all the mistakes they have made, and the persons they became, she and Arya know who they are, where they came from, they know their words. Rickon feels loose, adrift in space and time, misplaced and often lost. He was too young to understand or remember anything (or anyone, if she is being honest) when the War came to House Stark, and it is hard to remind him the reason he must follow some orders; some are harder than others.

It doesn't go well when she brings the topic of marriage, one cold afternoon. Sansa tries to explain that he is the future of their House. That he is the heir to Winterfell and that he must marry, and have children, and rule. He speaks some barbaric tale about how the wildlings kidnap their brides and that they have to threaten each other to death or something of the sorts, and Sansa tells him he will act in no such manner, that he is a Stark of Winterfell and that he will treat his bride with the respect she deserves; he retorts saying it is not a disrespect ― and, anyway, how could he respect a woman who can't defend herself? Sansa says, irritated, you are no wildling, and regrets it immediately because then he gets angry, and says she can't force him to marry anyone because you are not my mother and leaves the room without excusing himself.

Arya probably listens to the whole fight, because she comes in not two minutes later. "Seriously, Sansa," Arya begins, shaking her head, but comes to sit by her side.

"Leave me alone," Sansa rolls her eyes, massaging her temples, but she doesn't mean it and Arya knows it.

"He is eleven. Is that necessary?"

"I'm not saying he needs to marry anyone tomorrow," Sansa mumbles. Alliances had been sealed, marriages had happened, between much younger people. Not that Sansa thinks it ideal. "But the sooner he accepts he has to, the sooner he will accept his other responsibilities and stop acting like a child. It's time."

"He is a child," Arya says. She has a knife in her hand, Sansa realizes, and she is using it to mince a pear; she brings the razor with the piece to her mouth.

"Well, he can't be a child forever, can he?" Sansa mutters. Gods, her head hurts. At eleven, Sansa was in King's Landing, alone. Arya was― only the gods know where she was.

Arya probably feels her distress. She pats her shoulder and offers Sansa the pear. "Hungry?"

Sansa sighs and accepts it.

That night, she tries to sew ― mainly to distract herself: nothing important like a banner or a dress, and Tyrion is reading across her on the couch. He peeks at her over his book once in a while, and she ignores it, focusing on the profile of the wolf that is in her head and is starting to come alive in the fabric in her hands, until she hears him closing his book with a thud that almost startles her, but no more than his exasperated voice: "Oh, gods, I give up. Speak. You'll make me mad."

She frowns, keeping her eyes on her work except from the quick, confused glance she manages at him. "Pardon? I'm sewing."

"No. You are thinking so loud that I can hear you. I can't read, it is distracting." He points with his finger to the space between his own eyebrows. "You have a frown here." And he makes a gesture towards her lap. "And these stitches are terrible. I can sew better than this."

Sansa sighs, consciously trying to relax the muscles of her face, and puts the embroidery frame down. It is really bad. "You don't sew," she mutters.

He crosses his arms over his chest. For some reason, Sansa is aware of them, of their form of how his shortened arms look... muscular under the tunic that covers them. She remembers they feel strong at night, anyway, when he holds her to sleep. "As I have said in the past: you don't know me as much as you think you do, Lady Stark," he declares, but his voice lacks a real reprimand in it.

Sansa's eyes widen in her surprise. "Can you sew? Really?"

He shrugs, half-grinning in that infamous way of his. "Don't look so surprised. I am a man of many talents," he says, and takes a useless cushion between them, places it on his lap and gives it two little pats. "Give me your feet."

"What do you want my feet for?" Sansa asks, suspicious.

"Testing one of my many talents." When she just keeps looking at him, wary, Tyrion rolls his eyes. "Trust me, wife."

She decides to give him a chance, and stretches her legs on the couch until her feet are resting over the cushion on his lap. He takes her sandals out and lets them fall on the floor, runs a finger over the bridge of her right foot, and down to the ankle, almost as if admiring them. It is weird at first, but not bad; Sansa does not pretend to understand men and their obsessions. But then he is taking her foot into both of his hands, thumbs placed against the sole just above the arch, and pressing circles against it with graceful expertise. His fingers are firm, his touch hard, and as he continues to massage her right foot, all the tension held into her lungs leaves in a long exhale. She lets her lids fall closed, heavy, as the tiredness of the day that was weighing on her begins to fade; her head drop backwards, too, and at some moment he touches her somewhere that sends a laziness dissipating through her whole body, up to her legs and spine. It feels so insanely good ― Sansa doesn't know why, it is just a foot, after all, but she lets out a involuntary, soft moan, and when she hears it – when she realizes it actually came from her – she opens her eyes and hides her mouth behind her hand, as if she could swallow the sound, trap it back into her mouth. She feels her cheeks burning.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs.

He is smirking, all smug. "I’m flattered."

"You’re good at this," she says, trying to sound at least dignified. It doesn’t work, not when her whole body feels sluggish and her mind, dull.

"Thank you." He doesn’t look up to her face, still very focused on his work. It is inevitable, for Sansa, to wonder about other possible skills of his hands. "Although not everyone is as sensitive as you, I must say." Just then he looks at her, never stopping. "Such a pleasant surprise."

"Not everyone," Sansa repeats, trying to ignore the way his eyes catch the fire, blazing. "Did you practice a lot?."

He laughs lightly, eyes coming back to the task at hand. "Oh, let’s just not have this particular conversation, my lady."

"All right," Sansa resigns herself. Really, she does not mind that much. She just wants him to keep talking and to keep touching her. He dabs her right foot and she switches the feet, giving him the left one. "One could think you are trying to seduce me."

"One could," he agrees. Tyrion can be insufferable when is feeling smug, but Sansa is not in a state of mind to resent him for it.

So she frowns one eyebrow, smiling with the corner of her mouth. "Are you?"

"Maybe," he answers, nonchalantly. "Is it working?"

"Not a bit."

He narrows his eyes to her, as someone who doesn't believe in her at all. Sansa just chuckles in response. He is very good at it, after all. "To be perfectly honest with you," he begins to explain, looking around the room distractedly, his fingers working deliciously on her left foot – for some unfathomable reason, it feels even better than the right one, "my main goal was to make you relax."

"Well," Sansa shifts in the sofa, brushes the razor of her teeth against her lower lip, trying not to let it show that the easiness taking control of her weak limbs is starting to feel uncomfortably as something else, something she cannot quite name and, worst of all, cannot stop. "That is certainly working."

"Now you can speak about what troubles you," he says, elucidative as usual. Sansa thinks him dangerous. He could rip out all sorts of secrets from her doing this.

"I spoke to Rickon today," she surrenders, at last. "About a possible engagement."

"And?" he asks, his thumb massaging hard the arch of her left foot.

"It was tragic," Sansa sighs. He smiles, but it's a sympathetic, concerned type of smile.

"As in he does not wish to marry anyone?"

"He said I could not force him, I said he was not a wildling. He flew off the room," Sansa summarizes, moving a hand to the back of her neck to massage the tense muscles there herself. It doesn't work as well as what he is doing in her feet.

She closes her eyes for a moment, but hears his dry laughter. "I'm sorry."

"Me too," she sighs, opens her eyes again, and says, more cautiously, "also, I think Arya likes Gendry."

"Oh, do you think?" he inquires, a cunning look in his mismatched eyes.

Sansa glares at him. "I'm serious, Tyrion."

"So am I," he answers, unaffected. Arya is not easy to read, Sansa believes, but Tyrion is cleverer than most. "I can't see the issue. She is a second daughter. Let the girl marry for love." He stops, twists his lips and what's left of his nose. "Or whatever that is."

"He is a bastard," Sansa reminds him, and she thinks he gives a ironic smile at that, suppressed as it is, his mouth a thin line fidgeting at the corners.

"You shouldn't be judgmental about bastards."

"I'm not judgmental about his person," Sansa rebukes, annoyed. "But we are in small numbers. We can't lose the chance of an alliance." She takes the unfinished job in her lap, careful with the needle, and studies the half-contour of the direwolf. She didn't pay mind to the colours. The combination is weird, a orange thread against the gray cloth. "Rickon must marry a northerner, and you bind us to the Crown―"

"You are Jon's family," Tyrion interrupts her. "You are bonded to Daenerys whether you want it or not."

Sansa rebuffs. She can't help it. "Your opinions on your Queen are heavily blind-sided, husband," she mutters. Daenerys is far from being the worst monarch Westeros had seen, but Sansa remembers the sharpness of her purple, Targaryen eyes when they talked. She can be ruthless when she wants to; it bothers Sansa how much Tyrion acts as if she is incapable of doing harm. For all the gods, old and new, the woman had arrived with dragons. Sansa puts the matter aside. "I have northerner lords expecting to be rewarded for their loyalty during the Wars. Rickon must do his duty, I paid my price; Arya is a Stark as much as we are."

"Northern lords?" he frowns one eyebrow.

"Wyman Manderly sends me letters, once in a while. He is not explicit but he can be very stubborn. And I don't know what else I could give him." Sansa rubs her face, tiredly, her voice exhausted. Wyman Manderly might as well be the closest thing the North has of a southerner lord. He should make it easier for her. He doesn't. Truly, he doesn't. "He took care of Rickon. I can't just say thank you for your service."

"You actually can," Tyrion corrects. "He is your vassal. He did no more than his duty."

It is so much easier for Lannisters, Sansa thinks, who believe the whole world owed them things. "He risked his life. I don't think he did it out of duty."

"And he wants Arya's hand in marriage?" Tyrion asks, somewhat wary.

"He wanted mine," she confesses. "But I am taken. He didn't ask for hers, yet, but..." Sansa trails off.

Tyrion takes some time digesting that information, and then gives a single, understanding nod. "I mistook his affections for some kind of fatherly love." His fingers are still working on her feet, lighter now, but still good. He grimaces. "That is... Very disturbing."

Sansa, in spite of everything, chortles. "I don't think his affections have anything to do with it," she shrugs. "And I truly believe he cares about us. People are not so simple," she says, her voice softening in the end.

"You can always annul our marriage and marry him," Tyrion japes. "He is rich, a northerner―"

"I don't care about his gold more than I care about yours." Sansa cuts off. And she thinks she sees something in his eyes as his joke dies, then: a softness, a gratitude, a surprise. It distracts her, but just for a second. "He has granddaughters," she proceeds. "I thought about marrying one of them off with Rickon, but I don't think he would fancy the idea... Is it selfish of me? I don't want my brother to hate me." She sighs, feeling completely miserable, remembering the rage in Rickon's eyes that afternoon. "I think he hates me."

Tyrion caresses the bridge of her feet again and gives her the warmest of the looks. "Rickon doesn't hate you," he says, as if he were talking to a child that has been hurt. And then, more serious, more careful, and yet warm, "the Wars are over, you know."

"Not this one," Sansa says, staring at some imaginary point in front of her. "I think I'm a bad woman," she says, in a flat tone.

Tyrion seems confused with the declaration, so abrupt, and with her incongruous words. "Pardon?"

"I'm treating my little brother as if he is a stallion and my sister as a prize for something that was ours, anyway, by right," she explains, looking at her hands, her fingers fidgeting against each other. "What kind of woman thinks like that?"

"You're not him," Tyrion says, gently, the words themselves feeling like a kiss on her brow. She has to look him in the eye, but she thinks he knows what he means; she just doesn't know how he can know, how easily he is able to follow her mind before she can speak it. Sansa holds his gaze as he completes. "Baelish. You have too much heart in you for that."

Sansa is not that sure.

"But I will do what must be done all the same," she murmurs, and hates how much it feels like there's a tear in her voice. She swallows that lump down. "What does that say about me?"

"That you are a Stark, through and through?" he suggests, so kind that it plucks one tear from her. Sansa swipes it off with the back of her hand, hastily. "You are practical, and clever, and you have pure, good intentions, there is nothing cruel about this."

"Pure intentions are not enough," she retorts, angry at her own weakness, at her own incapacity to manage her feelings and, ultimately, her life and her family.

"Pure intentions are half of the way," Tyrion says, soothingly caressing her calves over her gown.

"And the other half?" Sansa dares, sadly.

"The other half is life. There's no way around it." He tugs at her ankle, beckoning her closer, and she slides on the couch until her upper legs are resting on his lap, not her feet. He gets rid of the cushion underneath her so she can fit more comfortably there, puts one hand on the back of her knee. It tickles, even with her gown on the way; she squirms, he notices and smiles, but moves his hand to rest on her thigh instead. "Talk to Rickon again tomorrow, try to stay calmer this time. He will come to his senses. Take your heart with you."

"My heart with me?" she asks. He is closer, now, close enough so she can toy distractedly with the line of his tunic.

He holds her wrist there, against his chest, taking some seconds to think. "I've met smart people, ambitious people, strong people. I've met people willing to do good and sacrifice themselves for great causes." He is not looking at her while he says it, not yet, but then he searches for her eyes, and there is something precious there, something Sansa holds on to. "You are all of that, for sure. But... You are the kindest person I've ever met. You have the kindest heart. And the more I know you, the more I'm in awe of you for that." He really believes in what he is saying, Sansa thinks, incredulous. He thinks I'm the kindest person he has ever met. "So you should take it with you. So you won't become like him in the process of...," he makes a vague sign with his hand. "Doing what must be done, as you put it."

"Do you think I can do it?" she whispers, and damn him, but she is about to cry again.

"I have no doubt you can do it." He brings her hand to his mouth, places a kiss on her knuckles, and then he is the one fidgeting, linking their fingers together as if it could help him. "Can I ask you something? It has been puzzling me for than a year."

Sansa smiles, curious, forgetting her misery for the moment. "Ask me."

He tries to collect himself. "When the wars ended, I thought you would ask me to annul our marriage. I was, indeed, ready to offer it to you when we met."

She waits, and when he adds nothing else, she quotes him: "that is not a question."

He snorts, not missing it. "Very funny."

Sansa smiles, more to herself than to him, and gets free from his grasp to cup his cheek instead. He clearly likes when she touches his face, although it also seems he censures himself for liking it. "I've spent all my youth thinking about who would I marry," she says, her voice the texture of old scars and past dreams. "First Joffrey. Then Willas Tyrell, and then, suddenly, you. Then my cousin Robin, and then Harry, and always Petyr, somehow, and then Jon, of all people." She sighs, only with the memory. It still weighs on her, after all these years. "I felt so tired. We were married already, and you never hurt me. I didn't need much else."

"And you would gain the Queen's favour?" he conveys. Sansa shrugs.

"That helped."

"If you really wanted to gain her favour, you should have married Jon when she asked you to," he says. "The way I see it, you just stole her Hand away."

Sansa does not know if it is possessiveness in his voice, as much as he tries to sound distant and impersonal, but she laughs it off anyway, a dry sound, not happy.

"If you think Daenerys Targaryen would love me any more had I married Jon, husband, you are a fool," she declares. "And I don't take you for a fool. Besides, the way I see it, her Hand came willingly and too easily."

He knows she is right, so he half-smirks, but his tone is careful when he answers. "She is not as bad as you think."

"I don't think she is bad at all," Sansa retorts. And then mutters, "you always try to defend her."

"Because I know her, and I know that―," he begins to argue but suddenly stops, lifts his eyes to study her face in that scrutinizing, unsettling way, "― Are you jealous?"

"No!," she snaps back immediately. "I'm not jealous. It's just..." the hand on his face slides to his chest, resting there. "I've always felt you think of her and Jon as your family." She almost pouts, her eyes down. "But I am your wife," she says, voice small, like she is collecting that old debt of the vows they made when they were forced to: you're mine.

He puts one finger under her chin to raise her head so she will hold his gaze. "And I am here, living in this frozen hell, for you," he murmurs, full and dense. "Doesn't that count for something?"

She tries not to smile; fails. He really hates the snow. "It does."

"Jealousy suits you so fine," he chuckles, his eyes warm and shining.

"I'm not jealous," she rolls hers. "But I won't deny that I am waiting for her to summon you to King's Landing, give your post as Hand back, and then you will be gone."

"No one can force me to leave your side," he says, making his voice surprisingly soft, as if paying his own debt, as if he is saying I am yours, or at least this is how Sansa imagines in her head.

"Don't be naive. Naivety most definitely does not suit you. She is the Queen," she says, trying not to sound so young and vulnerable, "she can."

"I said no one," he repeats. Sansa sighs in defeat. Tyrion is one of the smartest men she knows, but it is impossible to persuade him to reason, sometimes. "If Aunt Genna didn't drag me back to the Rock up until this day, no one else can. Believe me," he says. He sounds like he respects this woman that Sansa has only heard about; or actually, as if he fears her, and he rarely talks in this way about anyone.

"I haven't met your Aunt yet."

"Lucky you," he mumbles; she laughs a little. She has to. He gently touches her legs, trying to get up, and she moves them aside. "I'm going to wash my hands," he says. "Go to bed. You look like you could use some sleep."

But after he leaves, Sansa lingers on the couch, staring at the flames that are starting to die in the hearth and thinking about his words, about lords and queens and old vows.

Sansa does not speak to Rickon in the morrow, nor in the days that follow.

Her lord and brother spends with her the strictly necessary time and no more; he does not dwell in the rooms at night if she is there, and avoids her presence and her gaze, creating no breach in his defences, no chance for her to speak. It is only by the end of the week that Sansa arrives at her own solar, where he should have been waiting for her, to find no one there.

She seeks for Rickon in his chambers; in Arya's, Tyrion's, even in Bran's, the empty one, always arranged, waiting for him to come home. She asks Podrick, who is too busy seeking for his own sword, that was, apparently, stolen; Brienne hasn't seen him either. She seeks in the kitchens, in the armory and in the courtyard. He is nowhere to be found and Sansa starts to feel partially angry, partially worried, a unpleasant knot in her stomach of irrational dread. She asks for the guards in turn at the gates and they swear the boy hasn't left. He is home, Sansa repeats to herself, coming back to the Great Keep to search for him again, he is safe and home, he must be here, somewhere.

Jeyne is the one who saves her. Sansa is searching in her own chambers for the third time. Tyrion is not there, and she knows she is crossing the line of the irrational; she just left this room, she knows he cannot be here, and she is about to seek in ridiculous places, under her bed or inside the wardrobes, only because she can't stop looking for him, she can't lose him, and that is when Jeyne enters with a new set of clean blankets in her arms. "Oh. Sansa," she greets, and walks towards the night stand.

Sansa lets herself fall on the edge of the mattress. "I lost Rickon."

Jeyne turns around, hands free; she frowns her brow and crosses her arms over her chest. "I beg your pardon, my lady?"

"I can't find him," Sansa says. She must sound delirious. "I searched everywhere. I lost the heir to Winterfell. Inside Winterfell." And then she buffs, not ladylike at all. "How come he got away from a entire household? This is absurd."

"Isn't he in the godswood?" Jeyne inquires, as if it were the most obvious thing. "He normally fancies a walk with Shaggydog, when he is not with Podrick or with Tyrion or with you."

Once she is there, it doesn't take too much time to follow Rickon's path. The forest is deadly silent, the presence of old gods and old ghosts hovering among the trees; she finds him angrily attacking a innocent tree with a sword, a sword with a real blade, not a wooden sword. He is sweating and panting and grunting in pain. Shaggydog raises his head and snarls at her.

"Rickon," Sansa says, keeping her fear at bay with a deep, slow inhale. "Control your wolf. We need to talk."

He does not turn to look at her, but Shaggydog sits back again. "Nothing of this is mine," Rickon says, the words breathless with his effort, and gods, he sounds so devastated, so furious. He is eleven, Sansa thinks. No child of eleven should be a turmoil like this. "I'm the last one. I'm the last son. I'm not supposed to inherit anything."

Oh, brother, Sansa laments, holds back a sob, everything would be easier, if you weren't so smart.

"It is yours," she says, and repeats, for both of their sakes. "Winterfell is yours."

"It should be yours," he says, striking two blows against the tree trunk. "You're so much better at this than I. No." He stops, breathing hard, and his distorted face calms and softens in a second as he stares at the violent destruction in front of him. "It should be Bran's."

But Bran is not here. Do your duty, Sansa wants to say, wants to scream; but then she remembers, take your heart with you.

"I miss him too," she whispers. He looks at her for the first time. "Bran." Sansa no longer wears her heart as a collar, in her chest, exposed for anyone to see and break. She tucks it inside; hides it. But her brother is her blood, the spitting image of Robb at his age, the same wild temperament of Arya, and for him, Sansa can, Sansa must, to wear her heart out. "I miss him the most, as I know you do. But Father-," and what if her voice cracks? Let it crack. Not everything is made of steel. Sometimes one needs to bend in order to be whole. "Father would want you to have it. You know he would."

"No, I don't know," Rickon retorts, turning his back on her once more and swinging his sword against the wood again. "I will be Lord of Winterfell because everybody else is dead."

Her heart, worn out and tired, maddens in her fragile chest. "Yes," she says, placid and calm and hurt, "yes, you will be Lord of Winterfell because everybody else is gone." And maybe it is this calm, or the fact she won't lie to him, not about this, that makes him finally stop. He lowers his sword to the ground and looks at her, intrigued. "I will be Lady of Casterly Rock because, once, our family's executors wanted to claim our home and forced me to marry Tyrion," she says, shrugging, feigning indifference. It is a rehearsed movement, but it takes a trained eye to see it, and Rickon, thanks all the gods, is not there yet. "They dragged me. I tried to fight them, but they dragged me. I was twelve." She allows herself to take a fearless step closer. "Tragedy and war brought us where we are, yes. There are things we can't change." And she thinks about her husband, just for a second. About the impossible odd that they would come to rely on each other. "But there are things we can."

"You shouldn't leave Winterfell," he mutters, and Sansa finally sees his fury cooling into pain. Which is not, exactly, better, but it is easily handled in face of the fact he is still holding a sword. Something about him in the moment is so oddly soft, so much like Bran, that she feels like crying. Gods, she misses Bran. She misses Bran in a way that leaves despair in its wake, in a way that urges her to prepare his chambers, lets them ready for him, even if she knows he won't come back home. It is a sort of madness that she can't help but hope. Maybe this is her problem. She cannot stop hoping.

"Tyrion is not happy here. And he has a duty to his House, just as you have a duty to yours. A woman must stay beside her husband," Sansa says, and takes another step nearer. This is the breach. This is her chance. "Your future wife, too, must come to live in Winterfell and stay by your side."

She almost cry in relief when he doesn't run away, or screams. He looks to the ground, using the keen tip of the sword to draw imaginary nothings on the earth, thinking.

"Can I marry Arya?" he asks, finally. Sansa freezes from head to toes.

"No," she says, in a reflex. It sounds edgy; she recomposes herself. "No, you can't."

"But I like her," he argues, and Sansa wants to hold him, to protect the little that is left of his innocence while she can. "We are friends. She is annoying sometimes, but we fight together." He stops drawing and looks up, to her face. "And she is already here."

"She is your sister," Sansa says. She hasn't talked to him about the recent history of Westeros, yet, about Jaime and Cersei Lannister and how they brought the realm down with their sick love, about the Targaryens. "It is very good to be friends with your future wife, but there are other things in a marriage apart from companionship that you should not do with your sister." Sansa looks away. Thinks about the right words and adds, "Ideally. For us Starks, it is not... Ideal."

He grimaces. "You mean babies."

Sansa can't help but laugh, then. "Yes. Yes, I mean babies."

"You are married and you don't have babies," Rickon points out, his eyes holding some of Arya's wickedness.

"But I will," she says back, her tone light. "Honestly, you should not worry about fathering children now. Nor anytime soon, for the matter," Sansa completes. Now that she is close enough there is a tree that has been spared her brother's fury, and she leans her back against it, crossing her hands behind her. "I just want you to consider the possibility. Maybe you can know her in person, talk to her."

"What if I don't like her?" Rickon says, with anguish in his voice and in his face.

"I've thought about someone for you," Sansa says, her voice soft as a mother's. "She comes from an island where every woman is raised to be a fighter."

That seems to catch his attention and, maybe, his interest. "Really?"

"She doesn't fight with swords, though. Maybe you can teach each other. Speaking of," Sansa says, pointing with her chin to the weapon in his hand. "Where did you get this?"

(She knows the answer. But Ned always did that to her, to Arya and Robb: make them say out loud things they've done, even if he already knew it; not because he was cruel, but because he wanted to unburden them from the heavy weight of secrets.

Sansa is trying. Oh ― Sansa is trying.)

"It belongs to Pod," he admits. Sansa suppresses her smile. "Don't punish him," he asks, and there is a kindness there in his confession that she likes to think he learnt from her. "He was in his bath. It's not his fault."

"I won't. You shouldn't walk around with deadly weapons, you know," she says, not really upset. "It's dangerous."

Rickon wields the swords, swings it around with ease, and Sansa can't help but notice he is surprisingly strong for a boy this age. "Do you want to learn?"

She laughs a scoff. "Will you teach me?" she asks, ironically.

But in the next second he coming closer and holding her hand and Sansa doesn't even consider resisting him. He positions her in front of the tree he begun to destroy, and places the sword in her hand. It is heavier than she expected.

"Hold it like this," he says, wrapping his hands around hers, guiding her fingers, and then cupping her elbows. "And raise your arms." Then he moves to stay by her side. He looks down. "Mind your feet." Sansa notices, widening her stance, and watches as he moves his arms graciously, waving a imaginary sword. "Now move like this."

She is terrible. The first time, her blow doesn't even reach the wood, and in the second, she almost loses her balance and falls. Rickon laughs, clearly amused. (He laughs prettily, looking younger, his true age. It is a rare sound, a rare sight.) Sansa tries not to get upset with him as she hands him back the sword, carefully. "There is a reason why I don't do this, Rick."

"You are right," he concedes. "I hope this bride you found me is better than you."

"She is, although it is not that hard to be better than me," Sansa says, sitting among the roots of the nearest tree. The smile that's left on her brother's mouth looks very much like Robb's, and she finds herself saying, not as sad as she could be, "Robb tried to teach me, once."

Rickon nods, leaves the sword on the ground and comes closer. Sansa makes room for him and he sits by her side, crossing his legs. For a very long time, he just rips out the grass from the soil, plucking herbs growing around the roots, until he murmurs, finally, "I don't remember him."

Sansa fondles his auburn hair, damp with sweat, and he doesn't push her away. "That's fine, brother."

"Can you tell me?" he asks, looking down. He sounds guilty, scared, lonely, all the things he shouldn't. "About― about them?"

Sansa tells him.

She feels a thousand pounds lighter, that night.

When she leaves her bath, Tyrion is reading in the corner of the couch, a cup and a flagon resting on the night stand by his side. The fire is burning quiet and lovely in the hearth in front of him, leaving his blond curls paler against the dark ones; he doesn't notice her presence, at first, and as she watches him turning a page, taking a sip of his wine, Sansa feels a sudden, sweeping flood of affection for her husband. It has happened every so often these last days, and she welcomes the feeling. It is the end of the day, after all; she would hate this moment if he weren't here, but he is. Maybe it's just because she is happy, because she spoke about her family the whole night and she is still painless despite of it, or because she and Rickon are in good terms; maybe she feels hopeful, but as she approaches him and he finally acknowledges her, Sansa catches herself smiling. She is wearing a gown that she hasn't used since her time in the Vale and that is incredibly impractical for northern weather: fabric too thin and too much skin exposed, too much of her chest visible from the neckline that is deeper than she is used to wear. But the silk is blue, darker than her eyes, and she likes the contrast against the fiery red of her hair, falling loose over her shoulders.

"Good evening, my lady," he greets her, closes his book, one finger marking the page. She sits on the couch by his side, leans down to kiss his cheek, and sees when he pretends he hasn't notice her choice of clothes. "I haven't seen you all day. Too busy?"

"Yes." She tucks one curl of his hair, one of the black ones, behind his ear. "I spoke to Rickon."

He raises his eyebrows in a surprised understanding. "Oh." He nods, just once, probably trying to evaluate her spirits in the light of this new information. "And, I hope..."

"It went well," she assures him, and he visibly relaxes. "We spent some good time together, actually. Not studying. Just... Together." Sansa grimaces, wrinkles her nose. "He tried to teach me how to wield a sword."

"A warrior in her own right," Tyrion laughs. "I'm sorry I missed this."

"You're not," Sansa corrects him. "I'm a complete disaster." He is still smiling at her when she looks at the tome in his hand. It does not look like work, so she doesn't feel so guilty when she leans over him. He doesn't let go of the book but his arms shift to accommodate her body between them. "Hi," she whispers.

"Hi, beautiful," he murmurs, fondling her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw as he always does, sighing when she seals their mouths together.

It feels different, to be loved by an ugly man.

Harry had touched her as a man who receives a golden bag after a tourney- that is, as a prize; precious, but earned, and therefore undoubtedly his to do as he wished. Petyr touched her as a man who steals a crown, someone who does not believe anything can be earned at all, only taken.

Tyrion touches her, now, as a sinful man enters in a temple, or lands his feet in sacred ground: unworthy of her, the goddess, but in need of her favor, waiting for her wrath or her blessing, and, in any of the outcomes, ultimately conscious of his own indignity. He touches her hesitantly. Cautiously. Sansa does not find it arousing, but it is, or it can be, endearing. It makes her a little bit more his, a little bit less sour. It makes her heart swell with fondness: a man afraid of touching her! Maybe this particular complication is all she needed.

And so, while he watches her with observant, silent eyes, she puts one leg around him, and then the other is just there as she straddles his lap, with all the courage she can muster. It is a comfortable position; there's a rhombus-shaped void creating a secure distance between his groin and her open legs. His arms and legs are small, but not the rest of his body, and so she is not as taller as she usually is when they are standing, his eyes on the level of her chin — if she grabs him by the hair, by example, and pulls his head up, his mouth will be right there, near to hers, just as her body is within his reach, if he dares: all parts of her, limbs and belly, and breasts and neck, and—

"Myrish lace," he declares, catching the hem of her dress between his fingers: it covers her just above her knees, but in her position, the fabric slides higher, exposing part of the skin of her thighs. He looks into her eyes and then down: her neck, her bare shoulders, the neckline of her nightgown, the upper curve of her breasts. He tries not to stare and looks up to her face again.

She smiles. "I was starting to think you hadn't noticed."

He scoffs nervously. "Please, Sansa."

"Do you like it?" she asks, her voice sweet and naive.

"Of course I like it," he says, in a voice Sansa would think casual if she didn't know him, "the colour matches your eyes."

Now she is just trying not to laugh. "Do you think so? Thank you."

"I've never seen this before," he comments, letting go of the brim to put his free hand — modestly — on one of her hips.

"I've never used it before," she explains.

"I know you haven't. I wouldn't have forgotten this sight," he murmurs, and strokes his hand up and down her waist, as Sansa looks at him, waiting, smiling. She can smell his fear like a wolf follows the song of the blood of its prey. "Is this a test?" he asks. It sounds like a jape but Sansa knows better. "Because if it is, I'll fail."

"Maybe," she shrugs, and takes the book that he is holding in his other hand, closes it, puts it on the couch by their side. He follows her actions with a half-smirk on his lips. "Define failure."

"How am I supposed," he starts, in that know-it-all, instructive way of speaking she can love or hate, depending on the occasion, "— to concentrate on my night reading while you wear myrish lace and sits on my lap?"

"No one is forcing you to read, my lord," she says, landing two very innocent hands on his shoulders.

He presses his lips together for a moment, mouth a thin line, and then starts rambling, as he normally does when he is nervous. Sansa finds it adorable. "Well, you see, wife, I must discipline myself. Because, I've been told, being smart is the only redeeming quality I have left, and if I just stop reading at all, my brain will surely—"

Sansa pulls his head up, trying to be as careful as he is with her, and silences him with a kiss, tender and long. He makes his approval known with a grunt, his chest rumbling gravely against hers, and she adores it, she wants to hear it again. His mouth responds to hers, only moving where she demands him to move. "You talk too much," she says when they part, at last, lips brushing on his like a secret, her eyes still closed, her fingers still lost in his hair. His breath tastes of wine.

"It has put me in all sorts of trouble," he sighs dramatically, but at least now he has forgotten that damn book and finally closed both of his arms around her waist.

"That I don't doubt," she laughs, and he laughs quietly with her. Sansa likes the way their bodies wave together. Her arms circle around his neck as she lowers her eyes to his. "You were lecturing me on the importance of good reading habits, before I so rudely interrupted you."

"That's true, that was very rude," he agrees, and kisses the corner of her mouth. It is kind, chaste, even, but it makes Sansa feel flushed in unexpected places. "A smart woman like you wouldn't want a dumb, empty-headed husband."

"Gods, no woman would want that," she says, feigning dread, feeling his mute chuckle against her lips. "But being smart is not your only redeeming quality," she murmurs, and again lets herself lean into him, presses her cheek against his cheek.

"Oh, no?" he asks, and keeps laying plume-kisses on her skin: on her jaw, her chin.

"No... I admire your kindness, my lord, when you want to be kind," she says, and moves backwards, opening her eyes. She sees him: he feels like honey in the back of her throat, slick and dense and sweet. "And you always want to be kind to me."

He shrugs and inspects her thoroughly, head to hips and legs and back up to her face again, and toys with the straps of her gown. "You happen to be a very inspiring woman."

"You are staring," Sansa says, because his eyes always come back to her bosom, a look that lingers just long enough but never a second too long, as if he is afraid of what he might do if he does not manage to look away. She drags the emotion out of her voice, testing the waters: it's not an accusation and it's not an invitation. It's a fact.

But he doesn't seem ashamed, for Sansa's surprise. His hands, both this time, come back to rest, unpretentiously, on her hips. "It's a very nice gown," he murmurs. "And you want me to stare." She smirks. Maybe he is right, she does, after all; but when she palms the back of his right hand and guides him to slide it up, until it reaches the curve of her waist, she sees the ball in his throat going up and down as he swallows dry. "Sansa—"

"I'm not going to break if you touch me," she says, keeping her hand over his, because it feels like a comfort for her as much as for him. She is not trying to tantalize him; a man like Tyrion surely would notice the farce of it. This is, after all, the only thing he has ever asked of her: the truth.

So she puts honesty into her words, as much as she is able.

"I'm touching you," he points out, and his voice almost doesn't shake. Almost. He avoids her gaze, fixed at their joined hands instead. "Truth be told, I can't keep my hands off of you lately," he adds.

Sansa smiles kindly to him. It's a shame he does not see it, since he's still looking down. "You know what I'm talking about. I thought you men liked to feel like hunters?"

"Lions don't hunt if the lioness is around," he states, and Sansa thinks that explains a great deal about his family, in general. But it is not about them she cares about; not now, anyway.

"Well, that's a shame," Sansa rebukes, but her voice is sweet, and her thumb soothingly caresses the back of his hand underneath it. "I'm no lioness. I'm a wolf."

At that, her husband just laughs, the inevitable sound breaking the tension in his shoulders. "Of course you are a wolf," he murmurs, primarily to himself. "I'm sure you won't break," he says, and when he raises his head Sansa sees something there in his face that is, at the same time, brave and vulnerable and hungry, among the fear and the shame. It sends a shiver down her spine, cold and white. "But what about me?"

And she remembers, every man has a breaking point and— oh.

"You are stronger than that," she says, confidant and sure, and glides his hand higher until it reaches the lower limit of her rib-cage, and carefully higher, until he is cupping one of her breasts in the palm of his hand, and- please, she thinks; does not ask, she can't, one of them has to be the strong one, so she holds it back, the begging that threatens to raise up to her mouth: come on, please, I need to feel something, I'm so cold, my skin is so thick now.

She lets go of his hand, then, praying he will understand how much it means.

"You don't know what you're saying, my lady," he says, every word hoarse; the other hand is crawling up to her waist and bringing her whole body closer, very carefully, but not quite gentle. She feels the back of his fingers stroking the side of her breast; too soft, as if to torture, while he studies her face, her response. For the first time, it occurs to Sansa that he may be afraid, but he knows what he is doing; he must know. She seeks for his eyes to anchor her here, in the moment, so her mind won't flee or try to hide, so her body won't grow paralysed with fear; and there, amidst black and green irises, she sees awe, and a fierce lust, that Sansa forgets to dread for the first time in years. "I'm not strong at all. And we've established I'm also not honourable?" he says; it sounds like a question, somehow, an irony and yet a truth. I'm no good man.

But Sansa grins. This is a beast she knows she can tame, and it is absurd how much she wants him to just touch her already. She doesn't even know why. "You may not be strong nor honourable but we have established you can be very kind when you want to," she says, lightly, her voice something between a jape and a vow of trust.

"And that you're inspiring," he completes; it makes her laugh a little, and it is impossible to believe his flattery is cheap, because he can't look away from her face, he can't help but smile intimately to himself as he hears her short giggle.

"And that I am inspiring." She lets her nails run lightly over the exposed skin of his neck; he licks his lower lip, grasps it under his teeth. Sansa, for a moment, considers doing it herself. She never bit anyone's lip before, and it had never occurred to her to do so until this very moment. Maybe is just the wolf speaking. "That must be enough, for now."

He considers her words, the beginning of a smirk ghosting his mouth but never settling there, his fingers still brushing the sides of her breasts in the lightest of the caresses. "Hm. Kindly, then? I've always assumed this is how you'd like it."

And she hears her own breathing, shallower, only at the idea that all this time, he has imagined this, her, and the things she may or may not like. "Slow, I'd say," she explains. "And kind, yes, but not exactly soft."

"Slow but not soft," he smirks, and looks at her, scrutinizing, but not cold; rather the contrary, sending a jet of blood to her cheeks. "That's interesting. I like it."

Sansa signals to him, just once. His thumb, then, runs around the lower curve of the mound inside his hand, and then covers a nipple, slowly but not softly, circling it until it grows hard and sensitive and perfectly distinguishable against the fabric of her gown. She closes her eyes, exhales a long breathe of relief, and feels something... Pulsing. Like a beat, a heartbeat, but not in her chest. "All right?" he asks, voice tight.

"Yes," she murmurs, her head lolling forward and downward, until her brow meets his. You don't need to ask, she thinks about saying, but changes her mind. The world will always doubt her word, but not here. Here, she is as a Queen. He won't touch her without her consent, won't move until she moves too. She can feel something very hard against the inner face of her thigh but there are no threats here, nothing to be afraid of, she tells herself, nothing to be afraid of. "Yes, this is all right." His fingers never stop the slow, careful massage of her flesh, exploring and knowing her, while his other hand leaves her waist and wander around: down to her hip, her leg around him, still safe and yet braver than before. He doesn't lift the hem of her gown, but he slides his hand underneath it and asks, so quietly, "and this?" his lips brushing on her neck, where he is hiding his face. Sansa discovers it is hard to speak.

"This too, yes," she hurries to say, afraid he will stop, but it sounds fainted, breathless. He doesn't stop, then, all the while leaving unhurried kisses on her cheek, her throat, some very specific point between her neck and her shoulder that sends goosebumps all over her arms. He takes in a deep breath, bows down to kiss the visible, exposed part of her other breast above the neckline of her gown, and it takes all the strength that she has to keep herself from moaning at the contact, even more so when he whispers, still so close to her that she can feel his stubble against her chest, "gods, you are so beautiful, Sansa."

"Am I?" she asks, not because she doubts him, but just because she wants to hear him saying it again.

"You are," he murmurs, nodding slightly. "And brave, too. For us both." She laughs, the sound muffled in his hair. She can be brave for them both, if she has to.

"You seem rather bold today as well, husband," she whispers, hoping it will work as encouragement.

He laughs. "I'm not doing even half of the things I want to, so I wouldn't say that."

Oh. His voice. His voice.

She is not sure if she should, really. It seems cruel, to ask for him to say things she won't allow him to do right now.

But Sansa is afraid of things she can't control, afraid of unknowns, of ungovernable desires. She guards her own urges; they're tucked in and suffocated inside the closed walls of her plans for the future: safe and dead, cold as the North, disposable and only useful in restrict circumstances.

But if she knew what to expect, maybe it wouldn't be so scary, maybe--

"What would you do, if you could?" she asks, and her own voice is a trembling thing, clearly insecure.

He holds his silence for a moment, his hands stopping where they are, and Sansa is afraid she broke the spell of the moment. "Maybe we shouldn't," and before she can feel the pain of rejection, he explains, "I think I would scare you."

"Try me," Sansa pleads. He kisses the side of his neck, the most available part of her skin to his lips in the position he is in; it doesn't go unnoticed, for her, these little demonstrations of bravery, of want, when he is hidden from her sight: night time, or candles out, or his face against her neck or her back or, like now, his cheek against her cheek. "I want to listen to you."

"So brave," he praises, almost hurtful; if seems painful to want her, now, unsheltered like this. But Tyrion lifts his head so his mouth is brushing on her ear and Sansa is already holding her breath. "Well, first of all, I want to tear apart this pretty gown of yours since I put my eyes on you tonight," he says, barely above a whisper. They are not looking at each other; she doesn't think neither of them could do it, if they were. He keeps his arms around her, and his chin against her shoulder as she listens to his whistling breath in her ear, checking himself from looking into her eyes. Sansa can't tell if it is fear that leads him to do so or the absolute contrary, the hope it will work. And her whole body stiffens in shock, her eyes widening as plates. She didn't know what to expect, but certainly not this. Not the casualness of his words; not the boldness of them; definitely, not the way her heart races inside her chest, her stomach dropping in anticipation. He feels her members rigid inside his embrace; asks, as if to make sure, "Sansa?"

"Don't stop," she whispers. His mouth is so close to her ear; she does not miss it when he smiles audibly.

"You seem to like it so much, though," he says, and starts to fondle the dress covering her legs, grabbing it between his fingers to feel the texture of it, "and it is really pretty, so maybe not. Maybe I should take my time undressing you, and we do no damage to your clothes. Would you prefer it like that?"

A picture of scraps of her dress on the floor appears in her head, and then another one, of his fingers removing the straps of her gown, sliding them down her shoulders, and she swallows dry, her skin humming at his words, at his voice, so grave and deep. "I- yes, I guess," she agrees feebly, closes her eyes.

"And since you said slowly," he proceeds, and she can feel and listen the warmth of his breath in her neck, his hands aiming to touch again her hips, deft and incredibly warm. She feels the heat of him even with clothes on her way. "I would like to taste you. Everywhere. Because you taste so sweet when you kiss me, darling, so, so good, and I keep wondering," he murmurs, and Sansa does not understand how he can sound so frustratingly calm while his hands travel to cup her breasts, both, kneading them carefully, "how would other parts of you feel in my mouth?"

"Other parts of me," Sansa repeats, feeling completely dizzy and stupid. She is not even sure she knows what he is talking about. She just want him to do it, whatever it is.

"Yes," he confirms, a thumb brushing against her nipple and she bites her lip so she won't make any sound. "And I know you don't like my beard, you say it burns you, but if I kissed you here," he says, and one hand skims, with no haste, all the way from her chest, across her belly, until her hip again and slips under her gown, so close to her core but not there, settling his palm against her inner thigh instead, stroking it gently, "and if I were gentle, would you mind that much?"

"Not- not really," she murmurs, completely aware that she sounds breathless. Suddenly, she adores his beard.

"Maybe it would leave a mark," he points out, clinically. "Your skin is so perfect, darling. It would be a shame if I marked you this way, don't you think?"

"I wouldn't care," she soughs, half-mad, skin burning. She wraps one arm around his shoulders, looking for support of some sort, even if she is sitting and there's no way she could fall.

But it feels like it, like falling, like loosing her stance, her balance.

"I see. Maybe you are right," he says, and he sounds so careless, still caressing her thigh under her gown, "it would be hidden from view, after all. No one would know, it would be our secret," he suggests. Sansa loses it. Secrets are her weakness. "If you could keep quiet."

"Fuck," she mutters, and bites her lip, feels the walls of her womanhood clenching. This is absolutely ridiculous, he just talking, but gods, his voice.

He chuckles. "What is it, darling?"

"You," she says, sounding so hoarse, her throat dry. "I can't guarantee I would keep myself quiet," she manages to pull out with the last drop of her lucidity, wondering if she should speak at all, interrupt the thread of his ideas, "in this hypothetical scenario."

He doesn't seem to mind; if anything, he is pleased, for he is still smiling (she is sure he is) when he speaks again. "We must find a way to keep your mouth shut, then," he says, low and wicked, in the exact same voice he uses to deal with problems at work during the day, except not even nearly as bored as that. "You could always bite a pillow."

"You could kiss me," she suggests.

He bites the lobe of her ear before he speaks again, making Sansa gasp, her nails biting his shoulders and sliding to his back until she checks herself. He has scars, she remembers, she can't claw his back open- "I had other plans to my mouth. Speculatively speaking, of course," he says. The hand on her thigh finally moves up, and Sansa lets her head loll back when she feels it between her open legs, stroking so lightly over the fabric of her small-clothes, his touch too soft to bring anything but more agony, a summer breeze against the storm she is feeling. It aches, she can't help but notice, because she has never felt anything of the sorts before. She is aching. His mouth brushes on the base of her throat when he continues, "I'm curious. Has anyone ever kissed you here, Sansa?"

She needs to answer. She needs to find her voice.

"No," she says, finally, among her faltering breath, straightening her head, and realises that the fingers of her feet are curling, "I've always assumed there is nothing there for anyone to put their mouths on."

She knows men like it; she could never quite imagine how it could be done in a woman. Isn't that, after all, the main difference between them? A woman is made of a hole; a woman is defined by her absences, by what is in fault in her.

But his thumb starts to massage her, and Sansa starts to question if there is anything really lacking in her, because in this very moment, her body feels perfect.

"There is quite a lot for me to put my mouth on," he says, and then his thumb finds the little nub at the top of her mound, the origin of all the pulsing and all the heat and the aching, and Sansa moans for the first time, her hips bucking against his hand, seeking for any kind of friction, desperate. Finally, his voice seems to break, and the fracture of his restraint sounds rough and delicious, "gods, Sansa."

"Tyrion," she whispers, completely hopeless, "come on."

"What do you want?" he asks, and his voice is a liquid thing, like oil, murky and deep, like he is clawing her skin out, exposing her nerves all at once, and gods above, his thumb is moving so tortuously slow that Sansa almost finds him cruel for it.

She does not know how to name it out loud, not for anyone else but herself. "I don't know," she protests, tries not to writhe.

"You can ask," he says, kisses her shoulder so tenderly that Sansa would be emotional, if her mind weren't currently occupied with pursuing the embers that are burning bright and consuming in her insides. "Don't be ashamed. Whatever you want."

"I need you to touch me," she says, and even though he was the one who brought her almost to the edge only with his words, her own voice sounds like a command, something he cannot choose to deny, disobey, barely recognizable to her own ears. "Really touch me, not only-"

And he does not wait for her to finish, his fingers sliding inside of her small-clothes, experimentally exploring her folds, the bush of coarse hair covering it, and Sansa no longer cares if he wants to be kept away from her view; she withdraws just enough to face him, to crush her mouth against his. He drinks her sounds, the half-moans, half-whimpers she offers. She kisses him with her eyes half-open only to see he is looking back at her, and she knows- like the fire of the desire he lit in her is illuminating truths that stay hidden, in the darkness of their routine - he is not in his mind, lost in his fantasies, and neither is she. They are here, with each other, present, alive, breathing the moment, and-

"So wet," he coos on the edge of her mouth, his voice, too, breathless and strained. She knows she is, but she no longer has the presence of mind to be embarrassed about it; for two of his fingers are circling her entrance, very carefully, and she is almost thanking the gods out loud now. "May I?" he asks.

Oh, how Sansa loves the fact that he asks, even at this point. She gives him a feverish nod, unable to deny him anything, unsure herself about what should come next and yet unafraid. He lets one finger slide inside her; it is such a different sensation, but not unwelcome and neither unfamiliar, and at first he just keeps it there, still, as if waiting for the next command, her next move. It brings some sort of relief to the pressure, but not enough. "More," she says, finding this braveness he keeps praising her about somewhere deep in her own need; this is unknown territory, but she keeps listening to him say whatever you want, and her body keeps asking for more, more.

He slides another finger and her lids fall heavy, she fights to keep them open, to stare at him, to see his face when he mouths a soundless fuck. He feels so thick inside her, thicker than she imagined for fingers, anyway. Both of her arms wrap around his neck again as he starts to slide his fingers out and then in again, very slowly at first. She enjoys the feeling of breathing in synchrony with him, of being filled, the hot, visceral intimacy of the moment. She feels vulnerable, exposed, open, and yet the most powerful, beautiful woman in the whole realm, if she could tell only from his eyes. Maybe what arouses her the most is the fact that he seems to be enjoying it, observing her face as if he is drunk in her, keeping his eyes fixed on her, and as much as she tries to keep quiet, her throat works involuntary mewls of pleasure, wordless and distorted and utterly unladylike. He keeps his rhythm constant, steady, firm, and Sansa abandons herself to his care. Never before it felt so wonderful to lose her control.

And when she thinks it couldn't be better, he curls his fingers inside her, strokes somewhere inside her she is sure no one has ever touched before, and presses the arch of his hand against the top of her sex at the same time, and it feels like the air is being completely knocked out of her lungs. She jolts in his lap and closes her arms tighter around his neck, pleasure hitting her like a lightening, igniting her nerves, heavenly. "Oh gods," she soughs, her whole body squirming above him, her head dropping again, but he uses the hand not working on her to lift her chin, himself looking up so their eyes can lock.

"I found you," he says, a smile in there, somewhere, but Sansa is too overwhelmed to smile back. He gives her no time to recover and repeats the gesture, once, twice, thrice and more, and she moans in both surprise and bliss. Loud. Her hips rock against his hand mindlessly and erratic. "With me, darling, not against me," he says, so, so gentle, and Sansa is incommensurably grateful that at least one of them still can think and speak.

"More," she says, she orders, and he raises one eyebrow to her.

"More?"

"Tyrion," Sansa says, almost begging, and he looks her in the eye while she lets a third finger slip inside her and curls them just so, just there, and her hips sway towards him, as if he is casting a spell on them, "yes, like that, this-"

"With me," he says, his other arm pulling her closer again, and from that moment on, Sansa lets go. There is nothing but this: he whispers once in a while, but she can't identify the words completely. All she listens to is the depth of his voice; they breathe hard, and he feels so, so right inside her like this, his fingers moving in and out like they are following the rhythm her body is singing; they move together, like a dance, his thumb firmly pressing circles against her pulsing, throbbing nub, and wherever is that other spot inside her that makes her moan his name, each time more high-pitched, more like a whine, a pleading thing. She says it to him, that he is doing it so right and he feels so good, and he shuts her up with a kiss, his tongue lavishing her mouth wet and sloppy and perfect. Her hips move so easily, fucking his fingers out of instinct, swaying in movements that are both graceful and unapologetically obscene, and Sansa laughs, astonished, against his lips among her moans, proud of herself, free, wild, completely oblivious until the moment that such thing as laugh out of pleasure was possible, and Tyrion smiles amazed to her at the sound, says yes, but at some point, as the pressure and the pulse of life grows in her core and becomes too much for her to bear, to breathe, even her laughter dies: before she can think about it, she is asking harder and he makes it harder and faster and she moves harder and faster with him and when it comes to her Sansa is not ready for it. It hits her out of nowhere, wave after wave after wave of pleasure that drowns her, she can't find the surface to breathe and her whole body shudders and shudders as she rides it out, throwing her head back and moaning hoarsely, howling, almost.

She does not descend from it immediately, her body trembling with smaller waves in the afterglow as he keeps caressing her until it starts to hurt. She winces, touches his wrist. Her legs are weak as jelly, but she finds some strength to support her weight on her knees, resting at each side of his legs on the couch, only enough to make it easier for him to remove his hand; but she falls on his lap again as soon as he is out. Her eyes are still foggy with the aftermath of it all, but she sees when he puts his fingers inside his mouth and sucks them clean. Her mouth falls open, agape, and it dawns on her the realization that she wants him. She wants the things he spoke about, she wants to hear the end of it.

Tyrion licks his lips and smirks to her. "I'm sorry. Did you want it?"

Her breathing is slowly coming back to bottom, but at least now she can speak. "Yes," she says, hazily.

He holds her chin to bring her mouth closer, to kiss her, open-mouthed, like a sacrifice, an offer. She licks her own wetness from his tongue and, at last, he moans too, a low sound that reverberates all the way to her own throat. When she parts from him, he still has that half-smirking look, eyes shining and dark, "so?"

"Salty," Sansa says, and his smirk turns into a smile.

"You are wonderful," he murmurs, simply.

And Sansa feels so deliciously exhausted, so sated and so grateful; she lets her body fall, tired and heavy in his arms, stifling a quiet chuckle against his hair. She feels a completely dumb, slow-witted, dense sort of happiness. He is smiling audibly, too, giggling, she could name it; not amused but happy as he holds her, tenderly stroking her arms, waiting until she is strong enough to leave his lap and sits by his side on the couch; and even then, her head rests on his shoulder, and she reaches for his hand, intertwining their fingers together. He kisses her brow and says nothing.

"I feel very sleepy," she says, looking at their joined hands, after a very long, comfortable silence, when her mind starts to wake up at the edges.

Tyrion laughs quietly. "Some say it is the best treatment for insomnia."

"I would never bother you like this every time I can't sleep."

"I wouldn't mind, really. But you wouldn't need me every time."

"Tyrion," she chides. It is not like she had never tried to touch herself before, although she always stopped before her body could find its release, afraid of being found or listened, ashamed of herself. He chuckles again, brings the hand linked in his to his mouth and kisses it. It looks so chaste for someone who had that same hand buried in her cunt to the knuckles, five minutes ago. "That was... very kind of you," she says, then, wondering if a thank you would be more appropriated. But if property is the issue, she is doomed; for some reason, it is hard to look at his face, now. She keeps her eyes down.

"Oh, kind," he repeats, slyly, the smile lingering in his voice. "Is this how we are calling it, now? A kindness?"

Sansa laughs, licking her own lips. She struggle with words, with explanations. This is not what he expects of her. He knew her as a lady, courteous and composed; she cannot begin to fathom what he must be thinking about her, now. But when she finds her courage to turn her head to the side and up, their gazes meet for a second before he looks away, and for Sansa's surprise, she sees her shyness reflected in his beautiful mismatched eyes, the same wariness, as if he is, too, embarrassed and waiting for her judgment.

"I'm sorry if I pushed too far," he says, finally.

(Never before Sansa had found him so beautiful.)

"I wanted it," she frowns her eyebrows, cups his cheek. "Maybe it is not that bad to lose control once in a while."

"Who are you and what did you do to my wife?" he japes, and Sansa laughs more, her self-consciousness forgotten for a second. "You looked so lovely when you came," he murmurs, somewhat darkly. "And when you cursed."

Sansa feels the heat of blood radiating to her cheeks instantaneously. "I didn't curse."

He smirks. "Sweetheart: you did," he declares in a haughty tone. "But who am I to judge? I actually felt very proud of you."

"You are a naughty man," she mutters, mortified, and covers her face with both of her hands, only to hear him laughing. Her hands fall on her lap, revealing her incredulous expression when she questions, indignant and proud, "are you- laughing at me?"

"I'm not laughing at you," he explains, and takes her hand in his again. "But you wore your smallest gown," he starts, so fondly that her anger stops boiling, "you straddled me, you kissed me, you asked me to touch you. You just came on my lap, and yet you are reddening because of a swear word or two?" he laughs it off again, shakes his head, unbelieving. "I don't think I will ever grow tired of you, my lady."

She looks up at his face, then, and he is looking at her, as if- as if-

(as if he loved you?, a voice in her head offers. She ignores it.) "Only one swear word," Sansa corrects, and can't help but smile. Small and tiny but a smile, undoubtedly.

He winks at her as he would to a child. "Of course. I apologize. Only one."

(Sansa tries to remember the last time she felt so cared for, so important in a human way, not in some historical sense of inheritances and Houses and games being played; the last time she allowed herself to be happy in some unprofitable, vain way. Something for her alone.)

"Did you feel it?" she asks, suddenly. "When it... Happened?"

He inspects her eyes; Sansa is relieved that he understands her question. "You mean besides the fact you were screaming and trembling?" he says, and she reddens again. "Yes."

"Really?" It is surprising, intriguing, actually, for her. Men were so different, with their seed spilling all over, everything so evident and visible. Sansa finds it easier to understand how men's bodies worked; her own is so much complex, it seems, with all these processes happening in the insides. (That must mean something about women, Sansa ponders.)

Tyrion smiles to her, comes closer to steal a quick kiss, taking her aback. "You are adorable like that, you know," he says. "All curious about how things work."

"Tell me," she demands.

He takes her hand, closes his fingers around three of hers, squeezes and loosens his grip several times. "Like this. But wetter." And then he frowns. "Also tighter, and warmer, and smoother." He lets go of her hand, head shaking in frustration. "Just better. I'm not doing it justice. It is the most amazing thing my fingers have ever experienced," he finally declares. "Thank you."

Sansa chortles shortly at his exaggerated adulation, her fingers insisting on toying with his, her eyes cast down, "why are you thanking me? I should be the one doing the thanking," she murmurs, a little shy. He is still hard in his trousers, after all, although he does not seem to give much thought about it.

"Why am I thanking you?" he repeats, as if he couldn't believe her. Something in his tone urges her to lift her head and she finds him looking at her in awe, not smiling, but warm like summer. (And it is like, in a second, she understands why she asked him to stay. This is why. It is this look in his eyes). He reaches out the hand she is not grasping and touches her cheek with the gentleness of a feather. "When will you learn, Sansa Stark?"

Sansa looks at him for a very long moment, feels a stubborn lump tightening her throat, tears threatening to water her eyes. And then leans over and kisses him, hoping he will understand what she can't bring herself to say out loud, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Chapter Text

Ordinary days deliver joy easily
again & I can’t take it. If I could tell you
how her eyes laughed or describe
the rage of her suffering, I must
admit that lately my memories
are sometimes like a color
warping in my blue mind.
Metal abandoned in rain.

My mother will not move.

Which is to say that
sometimes the true color of
her casket jumps from my head
like something burnt down
in the genesis of a struck flame.
Which is to say that I miss
the mind I had when I had
my mother. I own what is yet.
Which means I am already
holding my own absence
in faith. I still carry a faded slip of paper
where she once wrote a word
with a pencil & crossed it out.

"Elegy, Surrounded by Seven Trees," by Rachel Eliza Griffiths

Aunt Genna writes to him, sometimes; not every month, like Jon or Dany, just sometimes. Tyrion knows she will never forgive him, but lately, Lannisters are not in a position to pick which ones of their kin they will relate to.

She is doing good, thank you for asking, you ungrateful bastard; dealing with the Westerling situation, arranging marriages and avoiding plots before they can come to fruition, keeping the work in the mines and taking care of his lands and his castle as his Regent while he is away, and, anyway, I've not heard a word about the Stark girl being with child. Is that correct? It has been more than a year. When do you plan to come back? I can't keep your cousins from claiming the Rock forever, if you won't give me a sign.

Which means, Tyrion assumes, remember your debts. He owes House Lannister an heir.

He burns the letter and watches the flames, ruminating on the last line. Tommem sends his love; and though the ink was black, he read the words crimson. He says he misses you.

Tyrion can't ignore Genna Lannister when she writes, though. He is trying to finish a letter to her in Sansa's solar, but distraction's taking the best of him.

He is looking over Winterfell's courtyard, the whiteness of it all, thinking about the Rock: assembling the memories, cleaning them from particular voices and pairs of green eyes and hollow voices that haunt it; trying to remember it as it felt in his childhood. A blue palette: a clear, azure sky against an aquamarine sea, during spring; searching for animals in the misty form of clouds; Jaime, alive and innocent (was he, really, back then?), by his side. That one looks like a lion, Jaime had said to him. No, look, there, Jaime! A dragon!, he pointed out to the dome of heaven, and imagined himself riding a dragon made of white-air, cloud and lightness, flying away, away, away.

Three knocks on the already open door wake him up.

He raises his eyes to a standing Sansa, resting against the frame of the door, hands clasped on her back and an amused glimmer in her eyes. "Am I interrupting something?" She asks, cordially — and yet Tyrion knows the joke's on him.

He doesn't mind that much. "Not really," and just because he is still a Lannister and can't just let it alone, "and you, I suppose, must have plenty of free time." He smirks, runs his eyes from her feet to her face before he rests his head in the back of the chair behind him. "What are you doing there, gawking?"

She smiles fully. "I've been here, gawking, for quite a while."

"Then stop and come here," he says, reaching out a hand, beckoning her closer with a finger.

His wife walks her way to him with no hush, and when she takes his hand, he tugs gently at it until she sits on his lap, one of her arms almost unconsciously wrapping around his neck. His legs are short, and so she has to come really close to him so she can be comfortable there, and good. That is good. He lets himself appreciate it for a moment; the side of her body against his chest, the little smile lingering on the corner of her lips, the warmth in her eyes when he envelops her waist to keep her near. He knows he is in love with her, he has known for a while; and sometimes it is wonderful, and sometimes it is a tragedy.

Now is one of those times that it feels wonderful.

She seems content to just be here, in silence with him; he is the one to speak first, as he is normally with her. "So, tell me how guilty should I feel to be robbing you from your duties."

"How guilty should I feel to be stealing you from..." She tries to bend over to read the parchment on the table in front of them and he moves it away, as far as he can, at the same time his other hand keeps her still in place in his lap. She raises one inquisitive eyebrow to him. "Do you keep secrets from me?"

He smirks. "Of course I do. Don't you?"

She seems to give it an honest thought— and then shrugs. "That's fair."

Tyrion laughs, places a single kiss on her covered shoulder. Chastely; the door is open, though the corridor is empty, and it is the middle of the day. To be frank, he is already surprised that she actually seems relaxed to be in the position she is in. Things are changing. Evolving, he would say; pieces coming together, diffidently and faltering, not in a smooth crescent, but rather one bold move at a time.

Most nights are quiet and friendly and just the same as they have been the whole year. They'll work together, or read together, or just talk and drink wine.

Some nights, occasionally, are different.

Some nights, on the couch, Sansa will lean her cheek over his shoulder to peek on what he's reading. She will nudge her nose against his beard, and kiss his face, and in a second his book will be forgotten and she will be straddling his lap again, her delicate fingers curling around his ear, into his hair, her lips hesitant but hungry against his, her tongue caressing slowly his own; she will ask, short of breath, do you mind if I— and Tyrion won't wait for the end of her sentence. "No, I don't mind," he'll say, and kiss her again, and again, slowly, sometimes softly and sometimes not soft at all, knowing each nook and cranny of her mouth, until it is red and swollen, because at some point she will drift away, before he can slip one hand beneath her clothes; she will hold his face, and breathe in deep, put a hand on his chest— and it will be over.

Some nights, they will lie awake on the furs before the fireplace, sleepless among the cushions, talking. And her hands will be smooth and gentle on his waist, on his chest, on his face, like they've been all these months. But his hands will refuse to remain idle. He will fondle the places that he knows, by experience, that leave her breathless: that spot on her hips, this curve of her waist, the sides of her breasts. She will come closer to him in approval, but she won't ever say a word about it— no, she will only observe his progress, almost smiling. He will watch her face in apprehension, waiting, looking for signs of discomfort, and he will never find one. One night, she was lying down on her belly, torso supported on her elbows and her ankles crossed in the air. She was talking about something very, very important. He can't remember what, because the outline of her body was irresistible: he'd kissed her exposed shoulder, nodding to whatever she was saying, and then ran a finger on the notches of her spine before he bowed down to kiss them, moving her hair aside, starting from the base of her neck, skimming between her shoulder-blades, down to the dip of her lower back, pleased to see the goosebumps waking on her arms. And then he moved lower, to the rise of her bottom, when she finally laughed, turning her head to look behind her. "Husband, are you listening to me?" and he'd nodded, one palm stroking her ass slowly exactly where he just planted a single kiss, "sure, I'm listening." Because it was a very impressive specimen of an ass, and that position made all sorts of interesting things to her already amazing curves; and she'd blushed, bit her lip, "we should go to bed."

Yes, they should. Nothing ever happens in the bed. The Bed is not furniture: is an event. It has been a place for comfort and rest, and Sansa fights to keep it like that. The Bed talks about heirs, about future, about surrender; it is bigger than they are. Sansa is not ready for it, her inner rhythms a music that he can't hear. But Tyrion doesn't mind. For all his past experiences, it is all new to him as it is to her: she is learning how to be brave, he is learning how to wait. And not only as a gentleness to her. Tyrion isn't normally a patient sort of man. He is not one to deny himself a pleasure when the opportunity presents itself to him. Indeed, he's been, through all his life, a man who's taken his pleasure shamelessly, lecherously, unapologetic. But Sansa does something to him. She raises in him a shame, such a monstrous, mindless fear of her rejection — and he is not unfamiliar with it — that sometimes, he wonders if the wait is not, too, for his sake, as much as it is for hers. Maybe he is not ready to show her how much he craves for her touch. Maybe he is afraid of her answer, of her reaction, he is afraid she would laugh at him, or flinch away, or mutter her dissatisfaction in some critical, pivotal moment and he would never, ever be able to try again, to face her again, to look at his own reflection on a mirror again, because and what if I never want you to? Maybe he needs time to gather the courage. And the wait is different now. Because now he has hope. In hidden corners of his mind, of course, deep inside and kept apart from his daily routine. Or at least he tries to; but now Sansa is here, casually sitting on his lap, and he is forgetting to check his feelings. "Tell me what do you want."

"I meant it; how busy are you?" She asks, her fingers twisting lazily in the hair in the base of his head. "Is it important, this secret of yours?"

"I'm not busy at all," he answers, closing his eyes. (The letter is actually important, and he should have answered it two days ago, but one more day won't make a difference. Right?)

"Because I actually do have plenty of time," she whispers, her free hand landing on his chest, and Tyrion nods when he feels her breath close to his mouth. "As it turns out, all petitions of the day are over and I decided it would be good for Rickon to have a free day."

"Everyone needs a free day, sometimes," he comments, and brushes his lips against hers, where a smile readily blossoms. "A wise choice, my lady."

She holds his face there, on the edge. "Good to know you agree," she finally declares. "Because I have something to show you." And then she gets up, taking all the warmth away with her, and stands in front of him, grooming the skirts of her gown. Tyrion makes some frustrated noise and tries to pull her back to him. It doesn't work; she keeps standing there, even when he brings her between his legs, and she wraps both arms around his neck again, laughing a little. "I promise you will like it," she assures him.

"I probably won't like it more than what I had in mind," he warns her, kissing the place he imagines her belly-button must be beneath all those layers of clothes.

She blushes prettily, a hot pink against the paleness of her skin. "But you'll like it enough. Or at least I hope so." He would think her nervous, but she quickly hides it away and takes his hand, forcing him to get up as well. "Come on."

Tyrion doesn't understand where they are heading to, and he starts to complain when he realizes Sansa is taking them outside. It is snowing, naturally, snowflakes falling slowly and almost magically above them as they cross the courtyard. It is just halfway through it that he realizes they are approaching the Library Tower.

The Library Tower is not on the top list of priorities of Winterfell's rebuilding. A place to keep books that will seldom be consulted, anyway; Sansa kept most of their work-force in the Guest Room and in the Kitchens. When the Kitchens were finished, the Starks decided to focus on improvements on the walls and on the Great Keep. Tyrion remembers one afternoon, five months ago or so; he had been working by Arya's side, and when he spied the parchment in her hand, he'd seen it was a draft for the Library Tower. He didn't give it much thought, at the time; it was not his responsibility, anyway.

So he is positively surprised when they finally arrive, and he sees it actually looks like a tower again. It isn't finished; some windows are broken, and the structure on the base needs some repairs, but there's a stair again, wrapping outside it like a noose, and both doors (on the top of the stairs and the one at the ground's level) are fresh new. Actually, the entire wall that faces the north seems to be new; he remembers when he arrived in Winterfell there was just a giant hole in there. He had wondered how the building was even standing, and this new Library Tower looks... Well, it doesn't look like it's going to fall apart anytime soon.

There are no workers, though; it is filled with blessed silence, and all they can hear in the distance is the clashing of sword in the courtyard where the young boys are training and people working from afar. He frowns when they get to the base of the stairs, Sansa leading the way. "How did this happen? It just grew back?"

She giggles and starts to climb the stairs up; he follows. "There are masons working here once or twice a week. This way, we make progress without slowing down the most important buildings. I didn't want it abandoned," she explains, turning her head to the side so he can listen to her. "It isn't ready yet, but I couldn't wait to show it to you, and now I've been told we can be in here with no danger to our lives."

She has a key in her hand, and when they get to the top of the stairs she opens the door, holds it open for him to enter. They get rid of most of the snow before coming in.

Tyrion remembers the biggest Library Room at Casterly Rock. It was huge. One of the only places in the world where he didn't mind to feel small. When he was a child he could barely see where the bookcases ended, the roof as high as the sky from his point of view, walls covered in gold, and a silence as dead as the one that filled the Hall of Heroes. His clumsy steps would echo all over it, embracing the books. So many books!

Tyrion didn't grow up so much, since. And the wonder of being among tomes and books from the ground to the ceiling is not lost on him, after all these years; apparently one of the few things war and time and loss couldn't steal from him. And this room— it's very big, for Winterfell's standards. Not even close to how enormous the library of his childhood had been; the walls are made of dark stone instead of painted in gold, and even a small man like him is able to see where the ceiling ends when he raises his head. But he still needs to raise his head high— he needs to bend his neck back to see the top of the bookcases. Some of them are still empty. He spends a good whole minute touching the spines on the lower shelves, reading the titles. Some of them are written in a language he can't identify, and he feels tempted to take it, open it; but he stops himself, like a man afraid of touching something that could burn him.

Sansa reads his mind. It feels like time has stretched into eternity, and it almost startles him, to hear her voice again cutting the silence in half, echoing through the corridors of dozens of bookcases. "It's in the old tongue of the North," she says, and he thinks she is smiling. He turns around to verify it. She is, indeed; watching him with her hands on her back. "These are stories about the Children of the Forest, if I'm not mistaken. Some people suggested we should burn it to make fire, but I rescued them just in time."

He holds his silence, nods, just once.

And then he realizes... Some odd things.

He notices there are mobile stairs, with short steps, at almost every bookcase, climbing all the way to the top. He spots, close to a window that is already fixed, a chair, very comfortable, very much like his chair in their chambers, with a little stool on its feet, and there's also a flagon of wine on the night-stand by its side. He realizes that in the lower shelves, the ones on the level of his eyes, line up some of his books, the ones he asked to be sent from Casterly Rock. He understands he is not tired because it was surprisingly easy to climb those stairs, outside.

Tyrion looks at his wife, frowning a little. And then waddles his way to the door, poking his head through the gap, studying the circular stair they just climbed, enveloping the tower in its embrace. And then he comes back in, walking slowly towards Sansa again.

"The stair—" he starts, voice wary. "Has it always been like this?" He wonders why. Why would the Starks of old care to make steps so shallow and so large— so comfortable for a child to climb? Or a dwarf?

Sansa bites the inside of her cheek. "No?" Something in the way she says it makes it sound like a question and Tyrion understands she is nervous, like she is waiting for his approval. Or disapproval. "I asked for Arya to adapt the draft, because I assumed— I don't know, I assumed you would like to come in here, when we finished it."

Tyrion nods again. Five months ago. They were starting to grow distant, five months ago, all the complicated and unsaid things getting in their way.

He tries very hard not to shed a tear; makes it. It is Tywin Lannister's blood running in his veins, after all, and nothing screams weakness more than crying in front of people.

(But—

Tywin never truly cared to change the steps of the stairs in Casterly Rock; Tyrion doubts the idea had ever crossed his mind. He remember how he fell on them all the time as a boy, and kept falling as he grew older and his legs remained short, and how he always felt guilty for falling, and then angry, and then guilty for being angry. That's probably the reason why he doesn't want you as his heir, he reasoned with himself as he understood his father better and better, you can't even climb the stairs of your own home.)

"Oh," he says, pressing his lips together. "I see."

Sansa's eyes get wide. "I know what you're thinking. I'm not trying to convince you to stay. It was before I knew we would leave to the West. But I wanted you to feel at home here. I know it is hard for you, with daily snows, and without me or Podrick you are always so lonely, and I worried— I won't change my mind, I just—"

"This is not what I'm thinking," he says. His voice is soft, low, and yet enough to interrupt her, maybe because of the way he is staring at her. In wonder. "I would like to kiss you now, but you are so damn tall."

Her anxiety breaks into a relieved smile, and she kneels in front of him. Naturally. She doesn't seem to mind, so he doesn't, either. Tyrion cradles her face in his hands and looks at her, at all that gentleness in her eyes, before he kisses her mouth, as kindly as he can. It is long, and so sweet, on the verge of painful. He thinks he will choke on the affection it seems to contain.

He keeps her cheeks in his palms, even when she parts from him. "Ah, my lady," he murmurs. "I don't deserve you."

"I know," she cups his cheek as well, and she is smiling. Very happily, and therefore, prettily. Where was his mind when he thought, all those years ago in King's Landing, that her sadness made her beautiful? Nothing is more astonishing than her face when she smiles. "You are so lucky."

He chuckles. In her mouth it doesn't sound so bitter, like in everyone else's. "I am, indeed, the luckiest man alive. Please know that I know."

It almost stings in him. If he was to be the survivor between his siblings, he should at least have the decency to stay miserable for the rest of his life. And here he is. Being happy. What a traitor.

"You gave me a whole greenhouse," she points out, interrupting the dark path his thoughts were leading him. "Why can't I build you a tower?"

"I gave it to the North," he corrects her, although it is only half a truth; the idea of benefiting the North, of using it to grow food, came after. First, he thought about the flowers.

"Then the Library Tower is for Winterfell as well." She graces him with another smile before she gets on her feet. "Sam will love it, I'm sure."

Tyrion smirks, watching her gracious form moving through the corridor in front of them. It is quite the view, Sansa, surrounded by books, two of his favorite things in the world. He feels a silly sort of happiness. Like he is a boy again, before this thirteenth name-day. "It is, indeed, almost as good as the things I had in mind," he concedes.

She doesn't turn around, but he knows she is smiling. "Oh, you mean we can't do it here, the things you had in mind?" She asks, fingers brushing the spines of the books as she walks.

And Tyrion is surprised. He is, but he shouldn't; Sansa is always one step ahead of him. "Lady Stark...!"

She laughs, like bells, and finally turns to face him. "So, you will just stand there, gawking? I had this place built so you could read in peace whenever you liked."

"You didn't bring me here today because it is a distant, isolated tower, where nobody could find us or interrupt or walk on us?" He says.

"I didn't," she shrugs. "There are other towers for such purposes. I wouldn't dare to compete with your books."

He laughs, taking one of the books brought from home to him. Sansa has one in hand as well, and she sits on the ground, her back against the bookcase behind her, stretching her legs on the corridor. He sits across her, mirroring her position. Winter days are short, and he doesn't think they will be able to stay here for much longer, not only because of the dark, but because of the cold. Unless there's a hearth, but he didn't see any. It is a bigger room than it seemed, at first. There's a broken window, though, the cold white light coming in through it, more than enough to light up both the pages of their books and his wife's features. Tyrion tries to ship her away in his imagination, all the way through the Kingsroad and then turning to River Road towards the West. He tries to picture her, surrounded by gold, the salty breeze from the sea kissing her hair instead of winter winds howling around her, colorful dresses instead of black and white and gray furs.

His heart flutters. Maybe she could do it, maybe she could make the Rock beautiful. If he locked the right rooms, and threw the keys in the seas, to never, ever enter them again.

"You're doing it again," Sansa says, half-smiling, raising her eyes from the pages in front of her. He tilts his head to the side, smiles back to her with a little confused frown, supposed to convey a question mark. "Daydreaming," she explains.

"Not daydreaming." He allows himself the right to study her face for some seconds before he answers. "I was imagining how will it be, when we move to the West."

Her mask almost doesn't split. "Oh," she says, her attention coming back to the book at hand, and Tyrion knows, just knows, she is not reading a word. "Are you looking forward to it?"

"Not really," he shrugs. It is not a complete lie. It is not a complete truth, either. "But I can't run away from my duties forever. I might as well prepare myself for it."

"You liar," she mutters. He laughs in return. "Are you trying to convince me this is all your home is to you? Your duty?"

"Well," he lets his eyes roll, somewhat fondly. Of her. Of her stubbornness. "I never said it is all it means to me."

"You could just be honest with me, you know," she says, crossing her feet at his side.

There's an intimidating sharpness in her eyes. Something near to danger. Tyrion touches his own lower lip, absently, where it's parted in two, an old habit. "Can I?"

"Definitely."

"Then you be honest with me," he says, challenging, and she raises her chin. "You don't want to leave Winterfell."

For honesty's sake, she doesn't mask her feelings. He sees it all, the initial ache, the way she measures him, weighs his words and his possible intentions, until she decides for a heavy sigh. "We women are different than you, men."

"I'm sure you are," he agrees, waiting.

"Because our claims are only as good as your deaths are." It is harsh, too harsh for Sansa, but he keeps his ground. "And thank all the gods, my brother is alive. I have no right to Winterfell."

He has to measure his words, here. Carefully. "I'm not talking about your claim."

"Yes, you are," she says, tiredly. "We are raised to do this. We are meant to go. All women know it; at some point, we must marry someone and they will... Take us away."

"It's not that simple, my lady," he tries to ponder. It sounds patronizing at its worst, but he means it. Their world is not what it used to be before the Wars.

"Nothing ever is," she answers, matching his condescending tone with a indifferent one of her own, though he doesn't believe in it at all. "But I've been ready to leave since I was a little girl. If I'm here now, I can only recognize it as a blessing, a gift, and I am grateful for the time I have, while I have it." She shifts, uncomfortable in her place, as if she does not know what to do with her hands, misplacing them, deciding to clutch her book tightly, too tightly. Tyrion wants nothing more than to make those hands relax again. "I'm bound to our deal. Rickon comes of age, marries, and we leave." Her eyes focus on his, anguished. "Why are you bringing it all now?"

He rests his head against the bookcase behind him, licking his lower lip before he grasps it between his teeth, thinking if he should tell her the truth and how. He decides for not lying. It has been working on their advantage, after all, all the honesty. "I've always felt you made that offer without thinking it through," he explains.

"You were trying to leave me," she says, in a matter-of-fact tone. "I didn’t have the time to think it through."

He smiles again. It is truly amazing how much he has been smiling lately. She seems unaware of the fact he never, actually, told her when he would leave. "And then you thought that a good way to handle it all was putting your homeland in the game, and your security, and your womb—"

"Well, I had to play all my cards," she says, shrugging. "If you think about it, I didn't promise anything that was not yours already by right and law."

"You played me well," he agrees with a single nod. "But my rights were not what I wanted."

As if she knows the story behind it — and he is not sure, now, she doesn't know; it is unsettling how much they've come to know each other, even if they don't talk about everything — "What do you want?"

Tyrion wonders— is there any other question in the world that matters more than this one?

He wants many things. I want to know if Myrcella is alive, and where. I want to be sure Jaime didn’t die thinking I murdered Joffrey. I want to share your bed, bury myself in you until I forget my name so you can scream it back to me. I want you to want me.

But, for the purposes of the current conversation— "I'd like to make you happy, if I can do any thing about it," he says. Very diplomatically. Not romantic or heart-felt, not at all. "And if it means staying here, then I'd rather you told me. Just so we can think of a solution."

Sansa cocks her head, her blue eyes melting, and her voice is quiet when she speaks again. "You don't like to live here."

(As if his happiness is important, too. Does she have any idea of the things she does to him? He doesn't think so.)

He veils his emotion with a japing tone to his voice. "Oh, but I'm growing used to it," he says. "And you did build me a library."

"Not for you," she snaps back, and Tyrion rolls his eyes, waves his hand dismissively. They watch each other for some seconds, each lost in their own thoughts.

Suddenly, Sansa gets up, leaving her book behind; she walks towards the post where they left their cloaks, hanging them on her arm, and then reaching for the two candles on the small-table beside the door. There's a quartz and a hand-stone, already used, a deep canal dug in it. She strikes them until it makes a spark, setting one of the candles alight, and them using the flame to light up the other one. Then she comes back, handing Tyrion his cloak and both of the candles.

Instead of sitting on the ground with him again, Sansa heads to the window. The sky out there is painted in a lovely, light pink. The day is ending. "I hate sunsets," she says, eyes on the courtyard.

Tyrion chuckles dryly. "So, is that your way of telling me you would hate the West?" The Rock literally faces the Sunset Sea. Tyrion was not so familiarized with days beginning as he was with days ending. He's learned to like it, if for no other reason, at least for the habit; it is the background of a great part of his memories.

"What? No," Sansa frowns, turning to him, and then chortles, as if she is surprised by his absurd conclusions. She wraps her cloak around her, tighter. "I always think— another day is gone. And I could have done more. But I didn't, and now it doesn't matter." She looks away, to the window again. "I lost my chance, the day is wasted."

Tyrion feels his heart swelling. Getting bigger. It has to, or it won't contain the amount of love, of pain, he feels for her. "That's a sad way to look at sunsets," he says, in his usual practical tone. The one he uses in negotiations. He doesn't force the tenderness into his voice; and yet it's there, subtly, like the frame of a painting that highlights its beauty. "And a sadder way to look at yourself. I've never seen you giving less than everything for Winterfell."

She smiles, a little bit sad: she believes that he believes in what he's saying, but can't bring herself to oppose him or agree with him. "I don't hate the West," she says. Very conciliatory and diplomatic herself. "I couldn't possibly hate it, for I don't know it, but most of all I don't hate the idea of living there. I..." She sighs, curls her mouth in a ugly, strained way, "I... I have to leave," she says, and her eyes go back to the sky out there. Purple, now. The sun always goes down so quickly, here, in the North of the world. "I can't stay here forever."

She is not talking about claims.

She is this shadow against the light, beautiful curves, eyes distant and sad. She could be a princess in a tower, from this angle. A lifetime ago, the idea would sound romantic to the ears of his imagination. But not now. Not anymore. "You once told me you couldn't leave." Do you remember? It was a sunrise, and I named stars for you. "So you can't leave. And you can't stay." He shrugs. "It seems to me that you're trapped, my lady."

She chuckles again at her own incoherence. Or at her own situation. Hands clasped in front of her, eyes fixed on her fidgeting fingers. "It can be tricky." She makes a pause; looks up, and turns to him once more, her face focused and concentrated as she tries to elaborate on her line of reasoning. "But you know the trap. You... You came North too easily. You've never visited Casterly Rock since you came here, not even once."

His body stiffens.

"So you know it," she says, growing sure of her conclusion as she says it out loud. "You have a home, a place that you are not free to abandon and yet, you can't live there. Not anymore."

Tyrion's gaze is fixed on hers.

For a terrifying moment, he thinks she'll finally ask— I know what happened here; but what happened there?

She'll ask, are you here because you're running away? What are you running from?

She doesn't. The moment is gone and it's his turn to speak. "They never leave, Sansa," he says, trying to clean his voice from emotion, making the words as vague as possible. Because they don't do this. They don't talk about the deceased; maybe they can share innocent memories, but they don't talk about the way they died, about the hole that's left because of them. They can't. How could he understand or share her pain about Robb and Catelyn, murdered by his father's orders? Or Ned's, murdered by his mad nephew? And how could Sansa ever, ever understand what it means to have Jaime's blood in his hands, and Cersei's? "I'm here, miles away from home, and they are here with me." He looks away. He has to. "If that's what you're worried about, well, don't worry. It's not the castle that is haunted. It's us."

And Sansa thinks over his words, her eyes scared and wide. But then she sighs, softening, and nods. Just once. He is not speaking any news to her. So she comes back, slowly, to sit across him again. She takes one of the candles, brings it to her side. "Tell me," she says. "About Casterly Rock."

It takes him aback, for all this was precisely the subject they were talking about, because she sounds pure; sincerely curious. "Pardon me?"

She recoils, raising her knees until she can rest her chin on them and wrap her arms about her own legs. "Since you are dragging me away from my homeland, you might as well... How did you put it? Prepare me for it."

Tyrion wonders if she is thinking about it, too. The conversation they had on their way to Joffrey's wedding, when he offered to take her to Casterly Rock and was met only with polite, cold courtesy. How he'd felt like the worst of the fools of the Seven Kingdoms. Only a Lannister can love the Rock, he'd said, bitter, resented, hurt.

He tells her, their books forgotten, open in their laps. About the cliffs, and the sea, and the seabirds. About sunsets. He tells her about how he learnt how to swim among the waves, about his acrobatics as a child, about how he climbed furniture, trees, all sorts of heights he could find. He remembers the name of all the Maesters he infuriated, to the point they were, eventually, dismissed; about the Septons, and that one who was, actually, a very gentle man, and the time he wanted to be a Septon (she laughs so much at that, until she tears up). It is hard to avoid Jaime's and Cersei's memories, and at some point he stops trying, although he never says their names. He says my sister, my brother, the twins: he talks about how he would put spice in her breakfast plate, sometimes, or rip off her dresses the night before important feasts he was not allowed to attend. He learnt to read all by himself at three, and always did his brother's lessons for him behind their Maester's back.

He avoids Tywin, though, his thunder-voice, his mere presence stealing the air from every room he entered, the dance they did to avoid each other's company as much as they could, because Sansa was loved, too much loved and protected; he doesn't think she could ever understand, and finds himself too tired to explain. All the memories happened before his thirtieth name-day— no youth, just childhood. If Sansa notices it, she is wise enough not to ask why.

"So, to keep track," she muses, clutching her own cloak about her body. They both are using them like blankets. Tyrion smirks as she numbers: "you can sew, you give massages, you can draw, you swim, you do acrobatics, you're a self-taught person and you may have a hidden talent for the sacred life of priesthood." He laughs at the last one. "A man of many talents, indeed."

"I am not completely terrible at a lot of things, which does not mean I excel in all of them," he says.

"Hm," she hums, a cunning look in her eyes. "And is there anything you are completely excellent at?"

"Drinking," he says, first of all. He gazes away at the room while he thinks about it. "Talking. Lying. Fucking, some would say, although it was probably implied in the price I've paid them to say it," he ends up, but regrets it as soon as he says it.

His eyes come back at his wife. It is darker, but not dark enough to hide her expression: the uncomfortable frown of her eyebrows, her eyes cast down, her hands clasped together as she does when she is nervous, or anxious, or unsure.

"I'm sorry, my lady," he proceeds to say. Not hurrying, because he wants her to know he means it. "Those are... Rude words to your ears."

She scoffs. It seems that the honesty pact is not only still valid, but also has lowered her walls considerably. "Do you think your language is what troubles me?"

His mouth opens in a small o, and he forces himself to close it. Yes, crude language troubles Sansa; but not only that, definitely not mostly that. "I think you want to ask me a question and you are afraid of the answer," he says, trying to sound light. He doesn't think he quite manages it. He steadies his voice, makes it tender instead of amused. "But I'm not the man I used to be."

"Is that so?" She asks, and it is so fragile, even in the starkness of it all. Tyrion is not completely sure why someone would be this weak for him, because of him.

"I no longer visit brothels and you keep me from my wine," he shrugs, feigning indifference, "so yes, I'm left with... Talking. And lying, if needed."

"Is lying needed now?" She inquires, so, so very afraid beneath all that confidence.

"Not at all," he says, calm and sure. Almost smiling. "Honesty brought us here; I wouldn’t risk it."

Maybe something like relief softens her brow. Maybe it is just wishful thinking. His wife studies him, unsure. Her final sentence is left implied when she gets on her feet and her eyes starts to wander through the shelves, and instead of trying to guess her mind, he uses his time admiring her form from behind and below, the braid falling on her uncloaked back, the hourglass curves of her body. She takes one book and hands it to him, barely sparing him her eye. He accepts it in silence as she walks away, to the end of the corridor, her steps making the wood crack in the weak points under her weight. After some time, he listens the soft rustling of pages and looks back to see she has sit down as well, her back against his back separated by the bookcase between them; if he turns his head, he can see her silhouette between and among the empty spaces left by the books in the lower shelves.

And so he puts his own book aside to open the tome she's given him, only to see it is a poetry book, one he has read before, and knows it is about love.

He smiles to himself. He always feels like Sansa is dancing to the sound of some music he is deaf to, but maybe he is starting to listen.

"A husband who is great at lying, drinking, and possibly fucking," he tries, turning the pages, looking for his favorite chapter. "What have you got yourself into, Lady Stark?"

He listens her hard-won, soft laughter, and shifts his head so he can listen to it better.

"May the gods help me," she says, and just like that he knows they are all right. "I'm very good at one of those things, at least," she completes, in a tone that is halfway between a confession and a conspiracy; another page is turned. "Maybe we are a good pair, after all."

We are, he thinks, but does not say it. "Fucking or lying?" He asks, instead.

"You think I can't drink?" She asks.

"I know for a fact you can't," he answers, and finally finds the chapter he has been looking for. "You've slept every time you tried."

She giggles. "That is true. Not a good drinker." Tyrion listens and feels a quiet thud in the bookcase behind him when she lets her head rest against it again. "I'm an excellent liar."

"Oh, are you," his voice wonders.

"Yes."

And then, very carefully, "not an excellent fuck?"

Tyrion waits apprehensive for her answer; he never knows the boundaries with Sansa until she sets them, and his method of choice is to never step ahead. He knows she is not a maid anymore, that she had to marry some shining lord during her time in the Vale, and Tyrion doubts she had refused him, or that she had the choice at all. But she never talks about any of it.

"I don't think so," he hears her voice, very small, maybe even shy.

(She laughed.

He remembers this, more than he can remember the little piercing moans against his mouth, or the perfection of the rhythms of her hips, more than he remembers her walls contracting around his fingers.

Whores often faked pleasure as pain; they look alike, and there's a thin line between bliss and agony. Tyrion knows.

But Sansa had laughed.)

"Who told you that?" He asks, then, and this time he doesn't even try to make his voice tender. It just comes out like this, easy as breathing.

For some seconds there is nothing but the rustling of the pages, and then silence.

"Harry had other women. Not whores, just other women." Her voice is not really sad, not really angry, not really anything. He turns his head to the side again so he can look back, peek at the line of her shoulders. She seems tense, although he can't see her face. "It didn't bother me. I never loved him and I didn't expect much different; I needed his loyalty, not his fidelity. I guess I just—," she stops, suddenly. Breathes out in a tired exhale of submission. "I wasn't enough. I don't know," she dismisses, very indifferently.

Tyrion is hardly on a higher moral ground to judge such man; he knows it, Sansa knows it.

(... But she had been so wet. She was dripping before he began.

He doesn't even want to think about it too much.)

"I see," he nods. In front of him, holes in the still incomplete book shelves reveal more book shelves behind them, and he listens to the sound of his wife breathing behind his back. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"It is all right," she assures him.

The silence lingers.

Of every kind of tree,
of every kind of tree,
the hawthorn blossoms sweetest;
my lover she shall be,
my lover she shall be,
the fairest of every kind, he reads.

"But just to be clear about something," he says, at last, still cautiously, and his voice echoes through the room until it reaches her, "I believe it is utterly impossible for you to be anything but amazing."

"You can't know that," she murmurs. "Not yet, anyway."

Is this fear in her voice, making it tremble? Is she— insecure?

And— not that he doubted that it is just a matter of time, now, but did she say yet?

"Sometimes a man just knows, Sansa," he answers.

"If you say so," she mutters.

And Tyrion smiles to himself, and they read together surrounded by candlelight, and the silence that occupies all the empty spaces between them is peaceful.

You see— Tyrion does not believe in fate, just as he does not believe in any god. He's seen dragons and dead men rising; he's seen holy men and women with flame in their swords and foreign tongues. He recognizes their world is full of mystery. But no god formally presented to him seemed sufficient.

To him, heaven and earth just breed chaos, and they, the humans, are stuck in the middle of it. There is a sacred land, but he never knows when he's stepped into it until it burns him alive.

If he were to believe in something — something greater than men, something powerful and inevitable and omnipresent that could give them meaning, he would believe in Time.

Like a true entity, something with spirit, and energy, something able to hurt and heal and move humanity forward. He believes in time, passing, and in the death that will come by the end of it, eventually.

Therefore he knows that for all this apparent happiness to break, it is only a matter of time. It happens in a lazy, cold morning, as he sits by Gendry's side. They are trying to elaborate a list of what was needed to raise the Sept, because Sansa has decided that they should rebuild it, for the thousandth time— and they can listen to Arya and Sansa, fighting in the room that shared a wall with theirs. Arya never liked this idea. In truth, Arya never liked Sansa's plans to Winterfell, the fact she used the old maps not only as a reference but as an absolute, unquestionable guide when obviously, some things needed change, for practical reasons, and some things were no longer necessary. Like a Sept.

It is funny, at first, hearing their women fight. You're insufferable when you act like the Lady of Winterfell, honestly, you never listen to anyone, (that's Arya.)

I've listened to everyone, Sansa answers, impatient, and you're just upset your particular suggestion was not our choice in the end. Don't be a child, Arya.

Both he and Gendry grimace. Not a good idea, to call Arya Stark a child. Upset? You want to keep the Armory the same size it has always been in times of peace, and doesn't want to expand the Smithy in times of rebuilding, because... Why? Absolutely no reason beyond the fact you have the last word, and also some weird obsession with rebuilding everything in the exact same way it used to be, and-

Oh, please, you just want your... What is he to you? Anyway, you just want a bigger place for Gendry to work-

Don't you dare to speak about Gendry like that, I'm not the one married to a Lannister-

The bastard looks at him, awkwardly. "I think Arya likes you," he says. "I'm sorry about this."

Gendry is, indeed, more polite and kind than the people give him credit for.

"Sansa likes you too," Tyrion says back. "Don't worry."

And they continue, echoes and messy words, interrupting each other, sometimes screaming at each other, until, finally, Arya gives the final blow:

Oh, for all the gods, Sansa, they are not coming back! Robb is gone, and father is gone, and mother is gone too, so no one will use that! Is this what you want? An empty sept? Do you want to keep her memory alive, build a fucking memorial! Or maybe try to visit father's tomb for a change- there's already a place for the dead in Winterfell, we don't need another!

And just like that. It is over. The fight is over.

There's nothing but silence. Silence, silence, silence, unending and heavy and suffocating, and Tyrion notices both he and Gendry are holding their breaths; and then they hear steps, a door being opened and closed, and then more silence.

Tyrion had never been in Arya's chambers before.

It's not so far away from his and Sansa's. He finds himself knocking on the wooden door without an actual plan in mind. What is he doing here? Or, to be precise, how he is going to do it? Before his brain can present him the answer he needs, the door is open.

So he hides it all the only way he knows how: with a joke. "Is Gendry in there?" In response, Arya's eyes divert, annoyed, and she starts to close the door again, but Tyrion's palm keeps it open, boldly. "Wait. I'm here to ask you for a favor."

"I owe you no favors," Arya says, but stops trying to close the door, which Tyrion counts as a victory.

"You don't," he concedes. "That's why I'm asking for it, and not collecting a debt."

Arya bites her lower lip as she studies his small form, an habit that he knows Sansa learnt from her, and finally sighs, defeated, widening the gap of the door again. "Come in, my lord."

Her chambers are neatly organized. He takes note of the wide bed, for two, near to a closed window. There's one hearth, instead of two, like in his own chambers, but there are two chairs across it, and that's where Arya is going. She sits in one of the chairs, and he occupies another, not knowing what to do. Nymeria is curled on the carpet and she gets up to welcome him. There's this interesting thing about the wolf; it always denounced Arya's true soul. Tyrion is petting her between her ears, appreciating the soft fur in his fingers. When he got to Winterfell he hated those wolves, the trauma with Grey Wind hardly forgettable, and he secretly thanked the gods Sansa didn't have one of those monsters anymore, although he never said it to her. Shaggydog was really hard to win; Ghost, like Jon, always kept his distance. But Nymeria? Nymeria liked him from the start. No matter how deadly Arya Stark looks like from the outside, in daily life and in practice, her heart is bigger than Winterfell. Sansa became quiet as the years went by, prone to loneliness. But Arya never lost her capacity for making friends. Nymeria is the ultimate prove of that.

"I believe the reason for your visit is that you’ve planned to convince me to apologize to my sister for my bad behavior this morning," Arya says. Tyrion raises his eyes from the wolf to stare at her face. She is very beautiful; something about her always reminds him of Tysha and Jon – in this calm moments at the end of the day – but they’ve been working together for months, now; the pain barely registers. "You shouldn't worry, Lord Tyrion. Siblings fight, as I'm sure you know. It's normal."

Truly, he knows no such thing as normal sibling love. He, Jaime and Cersei only knew the extremes. They loved each other to the point of madness, and then hated each other to the point of actual, real murder. "The things you said to her… That was uncalled for, my lady."

"I wonder why are you here, with me, and not with your wife, since you are choosing to stand by her side in this matter," she says.

Tyrion had found Sansa curled on the couch in front of the fireplace. And she was not even weeping. She was not sobbing. Her crying was the most silent thing he'd ever seen, like her tears were not asking for that much, they didn't necessarily need to make a noise, they just wanted to be there, to exist. She looked like a ruin, and had said – the exact words, I just want to be alone for now.

There was no place for him in that pain.

Whatever his face displays, Arya seems to read through him in three seconds. "Oh," she says, tilting her head to the side. Nymeria walks towards her, laying her head on Arya’s lap. "Oh, I see. She won’t talk about it to you. Not you, the Lannister." Arya nods. She’s not pleased with his suffering, or Sansa’s; that’s not who she is. But she is slightly curious. "That’s interesting. I’ve come to believe your marriage has grown stronger, but it seems like some things will never change."

"I can’t help her now," Tyrion says, shifting in his seat. "But you could. Apologize. What you did was nasty."

"Nasty?" Arya grimaces, eyes on Nymeria’s face as she fondles her head. "Sansa doesn’t like to hear the truth, that is all. At some point, someone would have to say it to her." She raises her gray eyes to stare at him. "And you know I’m right."

"There are many ways to say it," Tyrion snaps back. When Sansa goes to the godswood and passes by the crypt, she doesn't even glance at the door. There’s already a place for the dead in Winterfell? That was unnecessary. He chooses his words carefully. "More… sensible ways to say it."

The girl's face flinches in the slightest. "You treat her like she is made of glass," Arya answers. "Sansa is stronger than that."

"I know she is strong," Tyrion says, and he is defending himself, more than defending Sansa. The woman is his wife; he is supposed to know who she is, but then he thinks twice. He tries not to let his doubts show as he continues. "That doesn’t mean you have to be cruel with her. To be hard and to be cruel are different things, and–"

"Are you here to lecture me about what it means to be cruel with my own kin, Lord Tyrion?" Arya sighs. "Because I will not suffer it."

He swallows down, still unsure if he deserved it or not. He probably did. "All I’m trying to say," he begins again. Reining it in. "Is that she needs you now. Not me. And I’m asking, nicely, because only you can do something about it."

Arya allows them both a couple of seconds of pure, blessed silence. She leans over when Nymeria moves to come between her legs, supporting her elbows on each of her knees. "I killed my own mother," Arya says, quietly.

Tyrion frowns, narrows his eyes. He is not sure he listened to the words right, though nothing can be heard but the crackling of the wood in the hearth. That was not possible, unless she is not being literal. Maybe she carries some senseless guilt about it. "The Freys and the Boltons killed your mother," he says – not quite disagreeing with her, since he has no idea of what she is saying; just trying to state a fact so they can share some common ground.

Arya smiles, wolfish, not amused. "And the Lannisters?" she wonders, very aware of his phrasing.

But they can’t escape it, can they? Tyrion sighs. "Those too."

Arya’s face softens as she lets it go. "She came back as a creature transformed," she explains, and gives him the necessary moment to take that in. What in the Seven Hells is wrong with this fucking family is all he can think about, but Tyrion just lets her speak. "It didn't speak like her. It didn't look like her. It was not my mother at all. Just an empty shell." She does not look at him while she proceeds. "Lady Stoneheart, they called her… Gendry told me I gave her mercy." Arya takes in a measured, controlled breath. "Death… It changes people. It changed Jon. It changed mother," she shrugs. "I think it changed me."

"You are alive," he murmurs. The worst of the reassurances; he knows being the survivor is not, exactly, a prize. "And, from what you just told me, she was not… Your mother."

"No, my lord, she was not," she smiles. It’s, again, not very happy. "I was harsh to Sansa. But in this world we live in… After seeing what we saw… How can anyone bear the illusion that things can come back to be as they were?" And Arya seems, honestly, puzzled at that. "Is she stupid or blind or just plain cruel?"

Suddenly, Tyrion is not so sure there is a right side and a wrong side anymore.

"Or heart-broken?" he suggests.

"Well, then she must mend," she says, hardly. "We are the last Starks of Winterfell. To remain broken forever is a luxury that does not belong with us."

"Not forever," he sighs, again. "Or let’s hope so."

"Sansa never saw her," she says, looking at him for the first time since she began her tale. "If she had, she would never insist in this stupid Sept. I’m sure."

Tyrion nods in silence. He feels the weight of the sacred between them, the godly burden of stories, of the paths that led them all to that Castle. "I never said I was sorry to you, my lady," he murmurs.

Arya looks away again, her shoulders dropping. "It makes no difference to me if you’re sorry or if you’re not," she says. And it’s not even rude, or hard. It’s just the truth. They can accept him, tolerate him – but they will never forget his name or his blood.

"I know it doesn’t," Tyrion says, almost annoyed, but most of all tired. "Still."

He can’t tell if it’s his annoyance or his tiredness that attracts her eye; all he knows is that she studies him for a while, and then – "I can see why she chose you," Arya says. "The gods know we are as different as we can possibly be, but this I can understand."

He chuckles, warily. "Enlighten me," he asks, as politely as he can. "I never did."

She smiles, and for the first time it looks closer to happy. "I will let you figure this out by yourself," she says. "You're the clever one, aren't you?"

Tyrion closes his eyes, feels the first signs of a migraine in the left side of his skull. "Some say," he mutters.

But being the clever one doesn’t make much of a difference, too, not now.

When the sun finally rests and Tyrion has no choice but come back to his chambers, he keeps his distance from Sansa.

He finds her at the same spot and position he left her earlier that day. And he doesn’t say a word, except "may I come in?" He changes to his night-clothes, and grabs his book, and goes to bed.

They are together. They are not together.

But at last – and it doesn’t take as long as he thought it would – someone knocks at the door. "Sansa," says the voices behind it, easily recognizible as Arya’s. "Let me in."

Tyrion raises his eyes from his book first, then his head, and looks at Sansa. She looks back at him; at the door; at him again, drying her tears away from her cheek with the back of her hand. And there’s something weak and messy about it – two things he hates to associate with her – that finally prompts him to say, out loud, "come in, my lady," his eyes still on his wife.

Before Sansa can protest, Arya comes in. She takes three steps into their chambers, looks around, as if gaining acquaintance with her environment. "You’re not Sansa," she says to him.

He only shrugs.

Arya comes closer to Sansa, all the way to the fireplace, and reaches out a hand. Tyrion thinks this is the bravest thing he has ever seen her doing, just laying that hand there, in the air, in the waiting, in the limbo between the fight and the forgiveness. "Come with me, sister. We must talk."

Sansa looks at her stretched fingers, her palm up. Looks at the face of her sister. If Tyrion could bet, he would say that she is wondering if the younger one will apologize now or later.

They all know it will be later, but they also know Arya will always be the one to give the first step towards her, and not the contrary. Maybe that’s why Sansa finally gives a hand to her, gets up. All Tyrion takes note is that she takes her cloak on her way to the door, and just before stepping out, turns around, to him, a hand landed on the frame, "don’t wait for me."

He gives her a single nod, and then the Stark sisters are gone.

The empty space by his side on the bed smells like his wife (sugar, lemons and lavender), and he doesn’t know if it makes it easier or harder to sleep. All he knows is that he stays awake for a very long time, trying to distract himself with his book, before he finally blows the candle out by his side, and that it’s a even longer time before he finally falls asleep.

But he does, eventually.

It feels like he just napped when he wakes up again, with a womanly form covering herself with his blankets in the dark. The embers had died in the hearth; it is a moonless, dark night. He can feel Sansa is trying to be as quiet as possible as she settles by his side, but he turns around, to face her, and opens his eyes.

He listens when she sighs. "I’m sorry. I was trying not to wake you up."

There’s the thing he wants to do, most of all – the thing she never allowed him to, when he gave her the news about Robb and Catelyn. To cup the back of her head and bring her closer, so she could rest it on his shoulder. To bring her into his arms. To whisper sweet, useless nothings in her ear.

She doesn’t sound sad anymore, only tired.

"It’s all right," he murmurs. "You’re not the only one who sleeps badly when left alone."

She gives him the smallest of the scoffs.

There’s a distance of one arm between them. He can see, when she turns to the side so she can face him as well, that she is already on her night gown, that her hair is loose. He can’t see if her eyes are red – but they are still bright, wet, the only thing in the room able to catch the starlight.

"I was in the crypts," she says, her words cutting the silence to the bone.

Tyrion knows she was there. All orphans, sooner or later, find their way; he, too, is always miles away, at the feet of Joanna's golden tomb in the depths of Casterly Rock.

But he was not expecting she would talk about it; it takes him by surprise and renders him speechless.

"I’ve haven't been there, since –" she starts, and then stops; not trailing off, just out of the sudden, as if someone had just pressed a palm against her mouth.

"I know," Tyrion nods.

And waits, and waits, and waits.

Sansa takes some deep breaths. "They won’t come back home," she says, every word separately, as if she is speaking to herself, not to him. "They are gone."

This is the moment, when they set the price, when they face their grieves. This is what will shape their lives, the important part. When they decide what to do with each other’s pain. Tyrion knows exactly how it is, the denial, so he can't really say anything, except for the truth. "They are," he says.

"I thought that I knew that already," she whispers, as if she is chewing the truth between her teeth and the taste is terrible. "Who waits for the dead? I'm stupid."

"You're not stupid," he hurries to contradict. "You are mourning."

"It has been years." He can barely see her face. All he can feel is the tear in her voice. "I don't want to mourn anymore. But I should, don't you think? I must mourn them forever."

Carefully, still unsure if he is allowed to speak anything at all, Tyrion murmurs, "I think you can grieve them forever." Because, honestly, who is he to say she should stop grieving? She doesn’t flinch away, she doesn’t stop him, she doesn’t turn around, so he continues. "But you shouldn’t mourn them forever."

And then – it takes more courage than he needed to face Stannis in Blackwater Bay, but then he reaches out his hand until it touches her face.

And he just leaves it there, trembling a little on her cheek.

She breathes out, relaxing, and leaning into his palm. "I just want to come back to be the girl I was before. I was better, I swear. You would have loved me." She chortles. Tyrion wishes she hadn't; it sounds exhausted and sad. "I'm less than I was."

This, he can't afford. Not this. I love you now, he thinks, but it would be just bad timing.

"I don't think we will ever be the same we were before. And I don't think this is a bad thing." He allows himself to brush a strand of her hair where it seems to fall alongside her face. "But you are not less. Don't say that." He is almost whispering, now. "You are so much more. Stronger and fiercer and kinder. Wiser." He rolls his eyes a little. "Taller."

She laughs, then. Short and unexpected; she wasn't ready for it, but at least it doesn’t sound so miserable– that is, until it turns into a sob, that is followed by another sob. "They won't ever see me grow," she says, at last. "Father and mother and Robb and– gods, I need to stop crying–"

"You don't," he murmurs, and puts one hand on her shoulder. "Not tonight."

And Sansa lets him. When he pulls her closer, when he wraps his arm around her, she lets him. When he murmurs – finally, finally – I am so sorry, darling, I’m sorry into her hair, she lets him, and she buries her face in his chest and stays there, the quietest, strongest thing in the world, until she falls asleep.

Sansa stirs the whole night, and so he can't rest. It feels like he naps multiple times, never fully sleeping, being awaken by the slightest disturbance at his ribs or his side. After the fifth time, as soon as he gathers his thoughts, Tyrion sighs and starts to get up. They are both used to sleepless nights, but it seems it has been so long since the last time they've been disturbed by them. Sansa holds his arm, stopping him. "Where are you going?" she mumbles.

"To the Kitchens. I'll bring you tea and nightshade." The stars poorly illuminate the way to the door – they barely illuminate the bed – but Tyrion thinks he can manage it until he finds a candle.

"I'm sorry to bother you. It is very late," she points out, weakly.

"Nightshade doesn't mean it disappears at night and comes back at dawn to the kitchens, you know."

She scoffs. Not a proper laughter, but Tyrion holds on to it. "No. You don't need to," she murmurs, and curls herself against him, a little bit closer. His arm reaches out to wrap around her shoulder.

"Very well," he kisses the top of her head. "Anything else I can do?"

She holds her silence for so long that he is beginning to think she fell asleep, or that she didn't listen, but finally she whispers "yes, there's... I think there's something."

"I'm here," he says. And where he waited for a command, for a request, he is met instead with the feeling of her body hovering above him as she props herself up – he gauges the distance as a couple of inches, for her breathing, and then no distance at all when she leans down to kiss him. In the dark, she misses her aim at first; her open lips find his cheek instead, her tongue darts out to taste the corner of his lips. Messy. It makes no difference, he thinks as he shifts his face to the side so their mouths are correctly sealed, for a jet of blood immediately runs to his groin. Which says something about her, the fact she is able to arouse him when she is not, actually, trying. He should be ashamed.

Well. The shame must wait. For Sansa is kissing him and he is trying not to get lost in it. Tyrion hasn't been kissed often in his life; it is not an habit among whores. He wonders if one day he will stop feeling breathless every time their tongues touch and slide and dance with each other, if it will ever be like this, if he will grow used to her at some point. It is a question for the future; right now, he is trying not to gasp and failing miserably at it, because she is so savage against his mouth, because her fingers are brushing so tenderly on his face and twisting so possessive in his hair, because she throws one leg over his body so she can straddle him, and she leans down until her chest is pressing against his on every point and his hardening cock is so well positioned between her legs that it is, truly, unfair. And her mouth is still there– it reaches his neck until he is moaning, so she can slide it up again and claim the sounds to herself. It exposes him, open and vulnerable and beneath her in every way, and soon his hands are all over, sampling her small waist, her long neck, her full breasts. She mewls a little as he grabs them, but never lets her lips draw away from his. It is all furious and hasty and Tyrion forgets to be careful or hesitant or afraid, forgets to check if she is alright, and he tries not to think about the fact that she is not flinching away or stopping the progress of his hands, of his mouth, he tries not to think about the reason why she is sleepless in the first place.

That is, until her hands are sliding down, to the fastening of his trousers, and Tyrion remembers.

"Sansa," he calls out, faintly. "What are you doing-"

"What do you think I'm doing?" She sounds just as breathless, but most of all hurt, and desperate; the determination in her voice makes him picture her face in the eye of his mind. It makes him think about nights spent awake, about all that playful, light teasing, about how she would always stop in the right time, before they went too far. "I think it's time," she murmurs, still fumbling with the laces of his clothes.

He reaches out to hold her hand. To stop her hand. "My lady," he says, with care. To ground himself, and maybe, hopefully, her, too. "You are sad. You had a terrible day." She is ignoring him so blatantly that he would be offended, but she does so while kissing his chest over his tunic, and then his neck again, and oh. Oh. "Please, talk to me, Sansa-"

"I don't want to talk." There she is. With all the stubbornness he so loves. She sighs and kisses the side of his face more tenderly, a little trembling, fingers fidgeting on his tunic. He tries to remind himself of Arya's face while she spoke about her mother, about Sansa, teary-eyed, about that pain, the kind that makes you want to burn the world just so you don't need to handle any of it at all, the kind he knows, that can get someone drunk in it. And Tyrion knows something about decision made while drunk. "I need to feel something… Feel something good. I’m tired, I just want to relax, and please, Tyrion, please. Take this away." Her pain. She is asking for him to take her pain away. "You said you could be good to me, remember, you said it–"

"Do you trust me?" Tyrion asks, and his voice sounds choked out. He is just this close to losing it, but the only thing that would be worse than refusing Sansa now would be the regret in her eyes in the morning if he doesn't refuse her. And he won't handle the latter. He won't risk it, but there's still something that he could do, something that could help her to forget and feel good and fall asleep, something that he wants to do, that he has dreamed and fantasized about, and–

"I do," she answers.

"Then hold on to me," he asks.

She does, her arms closing around his shoulders, slipping between his body and the mattress so she can clutch him tight enough, her face inevitably hiding in his neck. His hands are firm around her waist, and then he turns to his side, smoothly enough so he won't drop her, and then flips them both over so he is the one hovering above her while she lies down on her back. He is already between her legs, long, warm legs wrapped around his hips, and–

It takes the breath out of his lungs for a second.

"Good?" he murmurs, and tries to support his weight so he won't crush her. With his shortened arms, there's only so much he can do, but that means their chest are still brushing on each other, barely any space between them.

Tyrion considers giving her what she asked for, but the idea lasts just a moment.

"Yes, good," she whispers. The fact he can't quite see her face disturbs him, but not enough to stop him, so he lowers his head until his lips meet hers. He misses it, too; he listens to her smile, for the first time since her conversation with Arya, when it is her turn to correct him. She cups his cheek. "Here," she says, amused, and properly guides his mouth to hers.

Tyrion could kiss Sansa for hours, really. He could relish forever on the way her body arches slightly underneath his, on her little whimper when the move makes his cock press against her center, on how their breaths mingle as one into each other's mouth. The darkness makes it so much easier; she can imagine whoever face she likes in her mind, and he can do things the light would forbid. He leads his mouth a little lower, slowly, to the salty skin of her neck first, to the curve of her breasts that escape from the neckline of her gown, to the parts of her that are dressed and covered. Because of the dark, he has to touch and explore his way through her, to understand the limits of her body, where he ends and where she begins, and it prompts these little moans and gasps that make him harder than any whore's scream could ever, more so when she gently runs her fingers through his hair and says, "gods, I've missed you," not quite laughing or giggling and yet there's a joyful tone coloring her words, a sort of relief that makes him groan against the fabric of her clothes. He kisses her belly, and his hand slides down from her hip to her leg, gently caressing them over her clothes; he moves aside, then, searching for the hem of her dress, pulling it up. Slowly. He is trying to give her time to say no.

Sansa doesn't say no. He lifts her dress up to her waist; in the dark, he seeks for her legs, now bare to his touch, a silken skin beneath his calloused, scarred hands and fingertips, and he keeps sliding up until he feels the laces tying her small-clothes together at her side. He brushes it, wishing he could see it. "I'd like to take this off," he says.

"Then take it off," Sansa says, her voice breathless and a little shaky. It takes him much longer than it would have with the lights on, but he finally unlaces everything and slides it down her legs, bringing it to what's left of his nose, breathing her in. It wakes up some animal thing in his core, something feral and hardly controllable. He moves again, finding his way in the dark as he finally settles between her legs, gently spreading them wider as he starts to kiss her inner thighs, and he thinks he listens to Sansa's breathing getting heavier when she realizes the destination his lips seem to be heading, when she understand his plans and his mind are not the same as hers.

"What are you doing?" She asks, and Tyrion can't help himself; he has to scratch his beard against her skin, hoping it will, in fact, leave a mark. Bound to his word.

He is rewarded with the feeling of her legs trembling. His blood feels like wine, like fire. He licks her thigh again, first one, them another, and then goes up. "I'm kissing you," he answers. Her hand reaches down; she seems unsure about what to do, pull him closer or push him away, and so she just fists her fingers in his hair and Tyrion very nearly moans. She breathes hard, in silence, and Tyrion waits. His thumb reaches up to soothe her hip while he keeps kissing his way to her, until he reaches the vee of her thighs. " I can stop, if you're uncomfortable. Aren't you at least curious?"

"I am, but... You don't have to," she finally explains, and Tyrion wonders how much does she know about it. "I mean- I don't know if I should- if you should-"

"I want to," he whispers, and finally places one single kiss, very chaste, on the bush of curls covering her, and feels when she squirms beneath him. It makes him smile. She smells different, here, not the sweet-flowery, girly scent he is used to; it is a wild note, it feeds that primal, ancient beast inside him again. Hungry. Gods, he is so hungry. "Trust me, Sansa. I know what I'm doing." He takes her hand from his hair only to place her small-clothes in her palm. "Hold this."

"Tyrion–" she begins, but he doesn't give her time to finish. This is no easy task with the lights on, let alone in the almost complete darkness, but he tries to keep his touch gentle as he finds her folds, gently separating them and when he puts his mouth on her, all of her words die, replaced by the most beautiful sound: this breathless, surprised, whimpered moan that escapes her. It contrasts quite nicely with his own moan, deep and grave and muffled against her, when he darts out the flat of his tongue, just once, to taste the wetness making her slick and delicious. She is the sweetest thing he has ever tasted; he was not ready for it at all. "Oh, gods–"

He tries to remember how to form words, his hunger taking the best of him. "Please, let me, Sansa," he begs, but holds still, breathing ragged and uneven, waiting for her command. It doesn't come with words; she just shifts her hips towards him instead, a blundering hand in the back of his head trying to bring him closer again, but he keeps waiting. He needs to hear her; he is not completely sure if he wants some shield against her resentment, in case she regrets it, or if he is just this desperate to be wanted, needed, demanded by her. Probably a sick combination of both. "Say it," he murmurs.

"Yes," she yields. "Yes, Tyrion, please–"

In truth, Tyrion would have liked to do it differently. He'd planned over and over to kiss her slowly, to explore her in the same fashion he likes to explore her mouth; to go harder and faster only to bring her almost to the edge so he could break it down again, multiple times. He would have liked to make her beg. But as he lavishes her flesh, he feels terribly distracted from his plans by the way she reacts to him, calling his name as he blindly licks and kisses all parts of her he can find in the dark; and when he starts to fuck her with his tongue she truly cries out, her hips starting to move and ride his face and– oh, it is too much, too much for him to deny her what she wants. She is hot against his tongue and lips, tenderly sensitive, sweet as honey; and, most of all, when he finally finds what he has been looking for - that small nub at the top of her sex, something harder than the softer creases surrounding it, raw and sensitive and perfect and gods, how he wishes he could see her – he can't risk to miss it, to lose it to the darkness again. She all but screams when he grasps it between his teeth, gently sucking and then swirling it around the tip of his tongue; her hips buck completely errant against his face, inviting him to never leave this precise spot, her thighs closing around his ears as she urges him on, right there, yes, yes. And he feels breathless. No: he is starving, and he won't be satiated until she is. And so, when she starts to sound inconsistent and thick with want, he holds her hips in place against the bed, lets his rhythm grow with each octave of her voice. They rise together as he sucks and laps harder and faster, each of her moans sounding sharper, louder, pitch going higher and higher until they sound like whines; but when she comes, her voice completely vanishes, nothing but gasps for air being heard in the dark. It is beautifully, surprisingly quiet, and Tyrion can't decide what he likes more about her, if her loud, obscene voice while she howls her bliss, or her trembling silence as she finally peaks. He feels the force of her orgasm, fast and sudden, like a thunder, only by the way her body convulses vigorously under him; by the sting at his neck where her nails bite him, even though he does not mind the pain; in his mind he imagines her mouth open, no sound leaving it, lips with a wet gloss, her head thrown back, her throat exposed, her face distorted in pleasure, outlined by a silver moonlight, a full moon that isn't there. The picture urges him to lap her even more and he only stops when her body falls still and relaxed as she kindly tries to push his face away.

Oh, not exactly away, he soon notices; because as he leaves her clit alone to lick her clean, kissing her skin, her thighs and the dip of her groin, Tyrion feels she is tugging at his hair. She speaks, then, her voice weak and exhausted and a little hoarse, "come up here, darling."

And so he climbs his way up to her again, until he is lying down by her side, and her hands seek for him in the dark; find him; wrap around his waist as she turns to the side. He does the same, finding the hem of her gown, huddled around her hips, and bringing her body to his. She throws one leg around him as if it is the most obvious, natural position to be in; he feels her curling against him, her face searching shelter in his chest, and when he slides his hand beneath her hair, swathing her nape, she trembles; her own hand trails its way up to nestle in his curls.

(A thought:

Tyrion likes sex; always has, and his gold has bought him fantasies enough for a lifetime. There is a sweetness in the lies, in the illusion, in the ease of coin, and a part of him misses how uncomplicated it used to be. How practical it was just to slip in there and make the world disappear. A transaction.

He never fed the particular illusion of being wanted, though, and when he did, it destroyed him; all he ever tried to buy was time. One hour of peace with some dark-haired, pretty stranger.

And the mechanics of it all, if he is being honest to himself, doesn't change if he is paying the woman or if he isn't.

The after, though―

damn him to the seventh hell: there's a chance he might like this part, now, this soft body and this soft woman caressing his hair, contently holding him in her completion, more than he likes anything in the world.

Anything.)

They stay like that for a long time, bodies turned to each other and a mess of limbs and breaths and silence, Tyrion's lips resting against her hair, Sansa's face hidden in the familiar spot of the projection of his heart, until she says, muffled against his tunic, "thank you, Tyrion."

And he remembers why and where they have started this; remembers her pain; remembers that she, too, was trying to buy herself some peace tonight. It tears his heart in two, specially when he realizes this is their bed, this is the first time anything has actually happened here. Out of grief. That's fitting, he thinks. "Don't thank me," he murmurs, and kisses her cheek, thinks about saying to her all the things she is, you deserve to feel like this, always, to thrive and be happy and be pleased and comforted, and, please, let me, let me, let me.

He is pathetic. Being in love makes him pathetic.

The hand which holds his hips move, unsure, to his belly, and then lower. "I can-"

"Don't." He holds her wrist before she can touch him, because he is inexcusably hard, and it would be such a shame to stain the memory of this moment with him exploding like a beardless boy in his breeches. And he can't ask this of her, not today, not like this. "We are all right, my lady."

"Why don't you want me to touch you?" She asks, almost hurt.

"There's nothing I want more," he says. Regrets it, immediately, but now it is too late. So he tenders his voice. Makes it gentle. "But I'd rather not have you feeling that you owe me anything."

"I owe you twice," she mutters.

He has to laugh. He has to bring her face up, even though he can barely see it. "This is not how this goes, Sansa."

"This is exactly how it goes."

"It is not. I assure you." And, after he swallows down some pride, he says, quietly, "and I enjoy it, too, you know."

Sansa stays there, mute, leaning her cheek into the palm of his hand. "You... like it?" And the way she says the words– so shy. It makes his heart clench with fondness. Gods. She is so young.

"I do," he whispers, bows down his head so he can be closer to her face. "You taste so good, dear. So good."

(Maybe he feels her body trembling, one single shudder, inside his arms; or maybe he is just that desperate, to the point of hallucinating.)

"Oh," she says, only, fondling his beard, still damp with her wetness. "I wonder..." And then she stops herself, letting the words fade, face hiding again between his chest and shoulder.

He nudges himself closer to her, slips his hand down to reach the leg comfortably enveloping his hips, caressing her exposed calf, her bare thigh, her gown still raised to her waist. She is still naked underneath it, he remembers; where are her small-clothes? He gave them to her. "You wonder?"

She doesn't lift her head, which Tyrion finds adorable, since it makes little difference in the dark. "How do you taste like?"

Oh, for all the gods-

"To be quite honest with you," he says, and he tries, really does, to keep his voice minimally steady. Is she doing this on purpose? Because she must know. What she is doing. She must. He curses her in his mind over and over, and yet cannot erase the image from his mind, of her lips around his cock, and fuck. Fuck. "I'm not sure."

"Have you never tasted it?"

"Once or twice, from other people's mouths." When he dared to kiss Shae. Tyrion breathes out. Methodically. Slowly. Shaking. He realizes his grasp on her thigh is tightening. What are you saying? You idiot. "I'm sorry."

She chuckles quietly, lowering her leg, and withdraws from his chest only enough to rest her cheek on her own pillow instead of his. But she lets her fingers dawdle there, in the line of tunic, in his neck. "It is all right. I'm sorry, too. I don't know what came over me."

He is not completely relaxed just yet, but calmer. "I'm sure you do," he mutters, and it sounds frustrated, yes, not exactly angry but definitely accusatory.

She laughs. The fiend. "Maybe I do. I learnt from you, though."

"It's not teasing if I deliver it," he points out. Playfully, this time, so the weight of it all won't crush her, or him, but before he can stop it, Sansa is sliding a hand inside his breeches and his hips all but jolt towards her. "Sansa, for all-"

"If you enjoy it, why can't I?" She mutters. "I want to please you. I'm not teasing."

"I told you, you don't need– fuck, Sansa–" and he can't think, he can't think, because her fingers. Her fingers are wrapping around his shaft, musical and long and delicate fingers, and how fucking long it has been since another person's hand had touched him? And this is Sansa, this is her hand, and he shuts his eyes close, burns the memory in his skull–

"I know I owe you nothing," she says, nudges her whole body closer, gently pushes him against the mattress until he is lying on his back. "Show me how you like it."

Somewhere hidden in her stubbornness, there's a I need a victory, give me a chance to win something, there's this need to feel alive. And he is alive. Throbbing with life, indeed, in the palm of her hand, absurdly hard, craving. So Tyrion gives in; he surrenders, because he is just a man, because he knows this is her victory and not his, even when he palms the back of her hand, wrapping his own fingers around hers harder, tighter. I'll hurt you, she murmurs, voice trembling, afraid; and he half-vows, half-begs, tenderly, you won't, guiding her, up and down all over his length. Like this?, she asks. Yes, yes, like this, just harder, darling, don't be afraid, he murmurs. His body betrays him: her hand is cold and dry, her rhythm is weird, he can't see her in the dark. And yet Sansa breaks him. She has him arching his back, thrusting his hips into her hand, hiding his face in her hair, trying to be quiet, to be as mute as the night makes him invisible, clutching her shoulders for support when she bends down to hold him. Her hand moves faster and he can't avoid it when her name is born in his lips, Sansa, a moan, a plea, Sansa, and she moans back to him. He feels himself shivering beneath her inexperienced touch, and he tries to speak, Sansa, I'm– but before he can warn her, her body is gone. Sansa is not there to hold him anymore, and instead he feels something hot and wet closing around his cock while her hands never stop their work, and for all the fucking gods above–

He finds her hair in the dark. He tries to – at least, this credit must be given to him – he really tries to pull her hair, draw her face away from him before he can finish within her mouth, but she insists. She won't let him, and it's again all so unrehearsed, the way she sucks the head of his cock, the way her tongue circles it, so soft, better than the finest velvet, so wet, so unmistakably good, and the way she moans and how he feels it vibrating in his skin– there's absolutely no way he could win; he was doomed from the start. All he can do is to try to hold his hips still, keep them from fucking her mouth as his impulse urges him to. The whole endeavor does not last much longer than two minutes; he feels his eyes rolling to the back of his skull as he comes with a single curse in his lips, his whole body feeling the release like a lightening is trespassing his limbs as he lies, shuddering, powerless, hers. It's heaven: there's no other word to describe it, because he feels like dying, but also feels like paradise. He spends himself into her mouth as he soughs I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry, and Sansa keeps pumping and sucking until he is soft and limp in her mouth and hand; he listens when she swallows it down. It prompts a moan of despair from his throat, just when he is about to come down from the height.

But the relief– it is so consuming that he could, honestly, cry. He doesn't, at least not at first. He tries to regain some of his breath, but before he can feel the old and known shame creeping up into his mind, he feels when she tucks his cock inside his trousers again, and places a single kiss on his belly. It is such a thoughtful, careful, kind gesture, the sort of thing a whore would not think of doing, that in his present state, with his guard down in the afterglow, he lets a single, scared tear fall. Just one; she won't see in the dark, anyway. It is enough to loosen the pressure of the lump in his throat, and he seeks for her, pulls her up again to him. She clashes her mouth against his as soon as they are on the same level on the bed again, and Tyrion fists his hand in the back of her hair and slips his tongue into her mouth without preamble. His own taste mingles with the taste of her, lingering in his tongue. If the first sunlight to crack the darkness open each morning had a taste, it would be like this, her honey coating his tongue and his seed beneath hers, together.

She chuckles against his lips, trying to speak, even though he can't stop kissing her, licking his seed from her tongue and her lips and every corner of her mouth. "You are salty! More than I am," she declares.

"Darling," he says, too breathless to be ashamed, cradling her face in his hand, "I am so sorry. I tried to warn you. I really did, but it has been a while, and you felt so good, I couldn't– I am sorry– "

"Stop apologizing," she asks, gently, peppering kisses all over his face. It feels like a blessing. Like some holy gift. He had never felt holy, but now he could be. "I just thought it would spare us a mess. And you feel so good, Tyrion," she whispers, amazed, just like him. "So good to touch and to kiss and to taste."

"Sansa..."

"You do," she repeats, holding him, tight. "And I enjoyed it. So thank you."

He has no answer for that. That's completely absurd, the fact she is grateful. It makes no sense whatsoever.

So he lets her hold him, accommodating her body in his, her leg once more lifting to wrap around his thigh, her face coming to rest on his shoulder, and he is not afraid. Of touching, of knowing, and of recognizing the curves he already knows. He is not afraid she will slip away, disappear into light and dust. And for a long minute they just stay like that once more, touching each other in silence, and coming down, finally both content and lazy.

When they are settled and quiet, it finally weighs on them both how tired they are, in the most pleasant way, how late it must be. Sansa is quiet for the longest time before she asks, voice lazy as slumber starts to catch her, "did you like it?"

"You are perfect," and that's the last thing he says before sleep catches him, too.

There's a noise.

Mornings are not his favorite part of the day. He is past that time of panic attacks every time he rises, but the first minute of lucidity is never a pleasant minute, much like the last minute of lucidity at night. Tyrion normally wakes up by himself, with a terrible pain assaulting his legs and hips, when the sunlight is still a reluctant, weak thing through the windows, not bright enough to bother them. It is always the same: he will open his eyes, let consciousness take him over, remember where he is. He will look at the ceiling, somehow seeing through the thin, still dark-gray winter air, and wait until his heartbeat calms down. When it does, he will look to the side, and Sansa will be there, invariably sleeping. He honestly believes her best sleep happens in the mornings; she looks the most tranquil, peaceful version of herself, and so, after one minute or two admiring her face, he will kiss her brow. Sometimes she'll keep sleeping. Sometimes she will shift her body closer to him, eyes still closed. Sometimes, when he tries to remove her arm from his chest, she will mumble, unconscious, wher' you going?, and he will say, nowhere; just rising for the day, and she will nod and turn her back on him. He will then head to the Kitchen, steal fruits or cheese since the bread is still in the making, and wait for Rickon to rise, or Arya.

But not that morning. That morning he wakes up with the clatter of a metal cup falling on the stony floor. He opens his eyes, and the light in the room is bright, white through the window, but when he raise one arm to cover his eyes he realizes it is currently stuck under Sansa's body.

Oh, Sansa. Sansa is a beautiful mess of legs and arms and hair around and over him; he can't remember one single time she slept so intricately curled in him like this. Sure she is always within a pleasant nearness, with her head resting on his chest, or her hand lost in his hair, or at least a friendly hand in his, but he finds out that he can't move one single limb without moving one of hers, too: her face is hidden in the nook of his neck, between his shoulder and his jaw-line, kept there by his own arm around her shoulders; her hair is everywhere, as if he is drowning in red; her arms are wrapped around his waist, one of her legs still raised to his hips, the other somehow almost in between his own stunted ones. She is halfway between being curled to his side and actually above him. They are just partially covered by the blankets.

It is delightfully confusing, because in the first three seconds, he can't remember how exactly did she end up like this. Until pieces of last night - and they are not images; they are sounds, words, feelings, instead - rush into his brain all at once. Until memories of yes please don't stop and you said you could be good to me and of her mouth around his cock in the dark, all attack him, harder than his pain. It still does not explain how they came to the present scenario, trying to merge themselves into one, but he has no time to think about this, because the light keeps hurting his eyes, because he follows the noise and raises his eyes to see a servant (a woman, what is her name again? Mika? Violet? He never cared to learn) taking the fallen cup, placing it on the table close to the fireplace once more, and then dashing towards the door, eyes on the ground, closing it behind her with a loud thud.

Oh. What an excellent morning.

He doesn't know if all the noise wakes up Sansa, too, or if it's just the fact that he did, but in any case, she stars to stir, shifting against him, and Tyrion patiently waits for realization to come to her the same way it just did to him right now.

It takes around ten seconds. He knows she understands and remembers because her body, relaxed until now, tenses in all the places she touches his, and her head lolls back just enough for her to look up to him, forehead frowning adorably in confusion. And Tyrion is suddenly very aware of himself, of his morning erection and of his ugly body and of his ugly face. He knows that it must be scary and disconcerting for her, to share what they've shared last night and then be reminded, with clarity and almost harshness, which body and face are inevitably attached to the whole experience; and he is ready for it, he was born ready. Daylight ruins everything, always.

But after three seconds, she just giggles - an apologizing, quiet chuckle - and starts to rest against him again. She rests her cheek on his chest, instead, and this way she can keep looking at him. "What happened?" There's a morning hoarseness to her voice. It is so unladylike. Tyrion wants to hear it calling his name again. She starts to lower the leg hooked up around him.

His hand flies to her thigh, holding it there on a whim. "Don't. Stay," he asks. She honestly does not look repulsed, or scared, as much as he searches for it. If anything, she looks... shy? She keeps the leg there, withdrawing only the other, the one lost between his. "And I don't remember," he answers, realizing his body is, too, loosening up, easing. "I think it was a long night."

"It was," she murmurs, her eyes distracted.

"But it seems like you found your sleep, at last," he completes.

"Oh, yes," she nods. "I haven't slept so fine in months."

Tyrion smirks. "They brought us food," he informs. "To be honest, I believe we must have scandalized one of your servants."

She blushes, a rush of blood staining her cheeks with the most lovely shade of pink; he paints other parts of her with the same color in his imagination. "Well. They probably have seen worse than a married couple sleeping."

He chuckles silently, running a hand through her hair. "How are you feeling today?"

"Better," she answers, simply. Better is good. She lifts her head so her chin rests on his chest, instead of her cheek. "We are late for the day. We should rise and get ready."

Tyrion nods, absent-minded, too warm to care, and touches her cheek with his thumb, and then her lip. He still remembers it, the flavor of her cunt, how her tongue felt in him. And now, he sees something in her piercing blue eyes that was not there before- that has never been there, all these years; he can't name it, exactly, it looks like interest, and like curiosity, and something else. It puzzles him: it is just another one of those elements of her that are hidden from him, the deaf, the blind to her mysteries. But before he can dwell thought on it, she presses a kiss to his mouth and moves away, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

Instead of following her, as agreed, he lies back and watches: the waves of auburn falling all over her back; her arms, long and gracious, as she stretches the stiffness out of them. As he instinctively mirrors the gesture, his hand brushes against something, half-hidden beneath her pillow.

A soft and small piece of cloth.

He knows what it is before he turns his head to see it. He catches it, careful not to tear the fabric apart, feeling it between his fingers before he calls, "I think this is yours."

Sansa turns around, frowning, and sees her small-clothes in his hand. Her brow relaxes as she understands it. She doesn't blush, doesn't look away, doesn't flinch or fidget.

She simply gives him one of those small smiles that tug the corner of her lips up only one inch and nothing more. "Oh, this," she says, casually, before getting up. "You can keep it."

Chapter Text

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond, by e. e. cummings

There's a snowstorm.

She's in her solar with Rickon when it finally falls on them, but it doesn't surprise her; she had been waiting and ready for it. It had been too cold a morning, and too cold a week; the winds had been crueler than normal, slowing down the work of the masons. It was just a matter of time until the snow than was falling thicker and harder each day finally turned into a tempest.

"I think it is your lucky day," she says over her shoulder to her little brother, peeking at the window before she shuts it closed; she can barely see the Armory, and a little multitude of tiny humans at distance running towards the gates of the Great Keep or the Great Hall (whichever closest). She notices no one is heading towards the East Gate. It's the middle of the afternoon, but the sky is gray-dark. "Let's take the rest of the day off. What do you think?" She suggests, winking at him.

Rickon is frowning smartly at her. "With this weather I won't be able to fight in the courtyard, or take Shaggy for a walk."

"Well," Sansa shrugs. "There's plenty of space indoors. Be creative. But not much," she points a raised finger to him, trying to look motherly, just when Tyrion and Arya enter the room. She turns towards them, lowering her hand, but her eyes linger on Rickon for a couple of seconds. They smile. He is not that young anymore. "We have a snowstorm," she says, even though she knows it is unnecessary to say it.

Arya sits on the edge of the table with one single jump. Her legs swaying in the air, her ankles crossed. "Spring is on its way," she says, and Sansa nods. "But I think it will last the whole night through, and the workers are seeking shelter in here. I don't think they'll be able to come back home to Winter Town tonight."

"I know," Sansa answers, sighing.

"There's a snowstorm happening out there," Tyrion speaks. His wife observes his face. He doesn't look really scared or surprised, just plain miserable, which she finds thoroughly amusing. "We can barely see a thing past the East Gate, and the conclusion you draw from such scenario is that spring must be coming."

He is speaking with Arya, but it is Sansa who answers, her voice naturally fond. "It's normal, the last snowstorm before the spring is always the greatest," Sansa shrugs. "It's a sign."

"Winter is saying its goodbyes," Arya completes. "You wouldn't know, southerner."

"Winter is doing so furiously," Tyrion retorts, all grumpy, which only makes her fondness grow. "Winter is making a point and trying to stay for good."

Sansa laughs, crossing her arms. "Don't be pessimist. We are indoors, warm, we have food and blankets..."

"There's food and blankets for your household," he points out, now more seriously. "I'm not sure we have food and blankets for everyone who lives in Winter Town and will suddenly stay the night."

"Then lets make sure of that," she decides, and starts to send each person to their tasks. Delegate is, after all, a great part of her job. She sends Arya and Brienne to verify if the workers are missing someone, and orders them to organize a group of people to rescue them, if that's the case. She sends Tyrion to find Podrick and gather all the blankets and put dry wood in all available hearths in the Keep. She goes to the Kitchens with Jeyne to discover if there's food enough available for everyone. It turns out they have – it will compromise their storage, but not in a great extent – and, anyway, they can worry about it when the storm ends.

When Sansa finally has everyone in their improvised chambers – some of them in the Great Hall – the children safe, the workers fed, the hearths stoked and the wounded stitched together, the night has already fallen, and the snowstorm still rages over Winterfell.

She finds Podrick at random on a hallway, with one flagon of wine in hand, and a box full of candles stuck beneath his arm. They listen to the sound of music, at distance, in the Great Hall, where some people refuse to sleep. "Podrick," she calls out. "Where is Tyrion?"

"He has retired, m'lady," answers the young man. "He said he was cold and tired."

Sansa smiles to herself (she can easily picture him saying those exact words), and takes a look at the box Podrick is carrying. "Would you mind if I took some of those candles with me?" She had decided to avoid lighting them up in all chambers, preferring to feed the hearths instead, because there were many children in the Keep. But her husband could use some.

"Oh, sure," he says, handing the box over to her. It's not heavy. "You can keep them."

Sansa thanks Podrick, dismisses him, and makes her way to her chambers. She is cold and tired, too.

Tyrion is found reading – but what's the surprise in that. She can see his very familiar silhouette in his favorite armchair in front of the fireplace – she notices he's dragged it closer to the heat of the fire. He also seems to be covered in a blanket that is spread over the arms of the chair, which she finds adorable. He doesn't listen when she enters.

She proceeds to put candles and tapers on every surface she can find, then: three over the night-stand by her side of the bed and three on the other, by his side; on the table where they work, keeping them as far as possible from their parchments; on the bookcase, in the empty spaces unoccupied by books; over the drawers where she keeps clean blankets and small-clothes; by the cabinet near the door, where they leave their shoes, and the other two, in opposite corners of the bedroom. At this point, he's already noticed her presence, so she moves to the surroundings of the hearth and lights up candles to put there, too: some of them on the console between the chairs, some more on the end-table by the love-seat.

When she's done, the room is bright in gold-yellow, and it is warm. It's naturally warm, because of the hot water running through the walls, but now it almost suffocates her. She removes her cloak, her scarf, letting them fall on the back of the love-seat and moving to the single-seat chair from where Tyrion observes her.

Sansa takes the book unpretentiously from his hand – he stopped reading since he saw her, anyway – to sit on his lap, beneath the blanket covering him. He's already only in his night-clothes, tunic and breeches.

She's been looking for an opportunity like this, since what they've shared, a week ago. All sorts of weird things happened – he slept earlier, and the night after, she slept earlier. Rickon got sick. Jeyne asked for her company because she was sad.

But now – they are alone.

He smirks to her. "You, my lady," he begins, "are every inch a northerner."

She wraps one arm around his neck. "I am, but why is that?"

"Because you are happy," he points out, cynically. "On the course of an actual snowstorm."

The way she sees it, they are snowed in and the work of the day is done. Podrick, Brienne, Arya and Gendry are dwelling on the Great Hall; Jeyne is looking after Rickon. Sansa made sure she is not needed anywhere. She shrugs. "It has its advantages."

He leans in to kiss her shoulder. "How is everyone?"

"Safe and warm. I've made sure," she says, nestling closer to his chest. "And how are you? Podrick told me you were feeling cold." There's a mocking in her voice, but it is a gentle mocking. He notices, though, and squirms his eyes, making her chuckle.

"Well, I'm better now," he answers. "We have wood in the hearths, we have blankets, and you brought all those candles with you. Surely there's a greater chance of starting a fire here more than in any other place in Winterfell, but at least we'll die warm." Sansa laughs at his drama, and, for practical purposes, slides her knees to rest on each side of his body, between his thighs and the arms of the chair as she rests on his lap, because they both know this is the position she will inevitably find herself in at some point that night. And because it is really, really comfortable.

"We will die warm," Sansa agrees. She likes the way he looks down, puts his hands on her hips; she likes how sheepish and timid his smile is, and how warm his eyes. "Also, thank you for the help earlier with..." she waves her hand, vaguely, towards the window.

"Oh. This. I am glad to be of service," he says, absent-minded, his eyes suddenly distracted with something in her face.

She frowns, putting her fingers on her mouth and then checking if there's food or wine in them, but they remain clean. "What is it?"

He chuckles. "It's nothing," he says, but then, touching her cheekbone, "it's just- you have freckles here. Twelve. And they are... Red? Darker than your hair, though."

Sansa knows she has freckles. They are sparse on her face, and abundant on her chest and neck and shoulders, usually covered by her cloak and scarf. When she was a little girl she hated them; she wanted to have a milky, pure skin. As a woman grown, she rarely pays any attention to them, she barely looks at her reflection in a mirror; but for some reason she feels a wave of emotion, a warmth that has little to do with the fire burning in the hearths or the candles she brought to their rooms. "Twelve? Have you counted?"

He shrugs. "I've made an habit of watching you while you sleep. So yes, I've counted." His finger glides down, to the side of her neck, until it reaches her collar-bone. "There's more here, but those I've never numbered."

Sansa swallows down, so the lump in her throat won't get in the way of her voice. "I've never liked them," she murmurs.

He frowns, as if he can't understand her. "Really? I think they're really pretty." He raises his eyes to look at her in that way he has in his face, sometimes, that makes him look like a child - when he is reading books about far-away countries, about heroes, or monsters, when he's telling stories to her about the beautiful things he's seen, only to ask, "has anyone ever told you they look like stars?"

Sansa chuckles, but it sounds remarkably like a sob. "No," she whispers. Her hands burn to grab his face and kiss him, but she holds back. "No, never."

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "But that's a shame, my lady. I taught you the names," he says, leaning in at the same time he pulls her closer, and Sansa can only comply. She feels tears threatening to come to surface. "Do you remember?"

"I don't," she lies.

"You don't?" He says, feigning disappointment. "What a terrible student you are."

"My memory is really awful," she agrees. Her heart races inside her chest, so fast she wonders if he can feel it, listen to it. Gods, she has been waiting so much for this moment, the whole week... "Why don't you remind me, my lord?"

"Hm. Let us see." His eyes are bright, catching the fire all around them, running over her exposed skin. He bites the inside of his cheek, as he does when he is thinking hard about something. Soon, recognition eases his brow, and he touches the point between her left shoulder and her neck. "Ice Dragon, here," he says, and closes the distance between them to kiss the spot he's pointing at.

Sansa smiles, leaning against him with a purr, but she doesn't want to waste any more time than necessary. She reaches behind her back and starts to undo the ties of her gown; since her time in the Vale, she adapted her clothes to be easier to dress, or undress, without any help. It is easy to find the tip of the laces and pull at them; her hands are trembling, her breath becoming shallower, and so she stops, gets off his lap and stands in front of him only to finish her work, sliding her arms out of it when she's done. Her gown falls to the ground, and she steps out of it, covered only in the chemise underneath it. It's white, the fabric soft and thick, leaving her arms bare, just like a good piece of skin of her chest.

All the while, Tyrion only watches. She straddles him again, and he looks very much pleased when he wraps two arms tightly around her waist.

Sansa smiles. "I like this better." Her voice shakes a little, but not because of fear.

He smiles to her, too. "So do I," he agrees, and studies her exposed skin, now, with care and attention. "This one, right here," he continues, putting his lips to her left collar-bone, kissing her tenderly, but warmer than before, "is Crone's Lantern."

She slides the right strap down to her arm, exposing her shoulder, and points to a collection of light-brown freckles condensed on her, staining her skin. "And here?"

It is his turn to swallow dry. He takes a couple of seconds to answer. "Here... I've never seen anything like it," he says, voice low. "I've been everywhere, I've seen all kinds of skies. But nothing like you." He strokes her shoulder and then kisses it, too, letting his mouth linger there, moving his lips across her collar-bones. And Sansa shuts her lids to feel and listen better, to not be overwhelmed all at once with sight. Because her husband - her husband is chasing the constellation patterns on her freckled skin with his lips. On her neck. Under her chin, on the ball of her shoulders. He is tasting them with the tip of his tongue, carefully, and connecting the dots that rain on her with his pads, making sense out of her, writing letters, drawing art, painting skies.

When she bows down her head to catch his mouth, fingers buried in his hair, it feels like she can steal the stars he just collected in the tip of his tongue, taste them, spell them. It is a kiss that already begins breathless, and Sansa knows, as soon as her tongue slides against his, that he, too, had been waiting for her. But she doesn't hurry; this moment is too precious, and he is too dear to her heart. So she enjoys every little touch of his hands on her thighs, pressing her lower back against him, but when her hand reaches the hem of his tunic, trying to pull it up, he holds her wrist, stops her.

She breaks apart, rests her forehead against his, and for many, many seconds, they just breathe in silence, as they usually do before something really important need to be said out loud.

"My lady," he begins, very, very cautiously.

"I'm not sad today," she offers. She is not: she's even created the habit of visiting Winterfell's crypts with Arya every day.

"You are not," he recognizes, but his voice is tight with apprehension. His whole body is tense, no longer leaning against hers, rather away from her, against the chair.

"And you deserve more than my pain," she murmurs. He is still holding her wrist and she thinks it wise not to move. "You were- you are a comfort to me, but this is not the only reason why I want you."

She's looking at his face, trying to read him; he keeps his eyes down.

"I've been trying to get to you the whole week," Sansa says when he does not answer. "Since we–"

She doesn't finish.

"Really?" He inquires, in a weak, surprised voice.

"Really." She touches his chin, trying to force him to face her. "My darling. What is wrong?"

He licks his lips, frowning as if to think straight is demanding some big effort. "Let me just put these candles out for you."

And Sansa thinks: oh.

Oh.

"No," she says, fiercely, and she didn't know how much she, they, needed that, until the words are said and out. They had enough of darkness, a lifetime of it. He looks like a wounded animal, one of those you find on roads, and so she tries to be careful; he needs kindness, maybe deserves it, even (although she is not sure kindness can be earned; wouldn't it be pointless?) His head is bowed down to their joined hands and she escapes from his grasp to pull the hem up again. His resolve seems to weaken, for just a second, and so she avails the chance, "let me see you, you are my husband. I want to see you. Please," and she knows she is begging, now, but she doesn't care. She knows her voice is verging on the pain, but this pain is theirs, and it must be acknowledged. They can't run away from that night forever, or the ghosts of it will keep hovering over their heads. If she needs to beg to exorcise them, she'll beg. "Please, let me."

He still won't look at her face but he lets her, and so she lifts his tunic up. He timidly raises his arms for her and she takes the tunic off, tosses it aside.

Gods. Under the hot glow of the flames there is so much detail to explore. His skin and hair are gilded by the yellow flickering lights, even his scars, and she thinks, he could be made of gold: a treasure, something precious, rare, beautiful. Sansa doesn't even know where to begin and so she touches his chest and his shoulders, her hands all over, all at once, and his skin is so warm– she is truly astonished, how could a man so small be able to generate this amount of heat–

"Sansa," he calls out, and she realizes both of them are holding their breaths: she lets out hers, stops, palms his chest; listens to their wavering breathing for a minute. His eyes are lowered to her hand, splayed across his heart, moving up and down in the same rhythm of his lungs. "You don't need to–"

But whatever non-sense he planned to say dies in his mouth when Sansa starts to touch him again, not so feverish this time, replaced only by sighs of relief. There is a blind map of his body in her spine, all made of dark lines. She tries to match her memories in every place she touches, drawing him in her brain, under her skin, harmonizing new information to the older ones. His chest first; for Sansa still remembers vividly the first time she slept hidden in his embrace against it, many, many months ago; she remembers thinking it was broader than it seemed, at first sight, remembers that it was broad enough to hide her fears. And so she palms it with both of her hands, feeling the soft, golden hair covering it, and the projection of his rib cage if she presses just a fraction of an inch harder. When she looks up to spy at his face, he is looking away with a expression of something like pain. He reaches out a hand and then takes it back, closes his eyes.

"Do you want me to stop?" She whispers, not sure if her touch is warming or burning, afraid she's really hurting him.

He just exhales, giving up, resting his head on the back of the chair behind him. "I don't," he says, like he is confessing something terrible and inevitable.

It emboldens her.

She drifts her fingers lower, touching the muscles of his abdomen that contract beneath her pads. There's one scar or two, she notices, that she had never seen before. Her fingers ghost them, hovering but never meeting the scar-tissue stitching him together.

"And these?" Her voice is just a whisper, really.

"War," he answers with a shrug.

"Do they hurt?"

He doesn't lift his head, only his eyes, and half-smiles. It is a sad smile, but a smile nevertheless."No. They've healed. I don't think you can hurt me any more, Sansa. Don't worry."

She nods and proceeds, her shaky hands unveiling, disclosing, making their way up again. His shoulders. She remembers all the occasions he let her wrap her arms around them, or when she leaned on them for support, or how easily her face fits there; her fingers brush over the collarbones sticking out of his skin (Winter has eaten their bodies away; he is thinner than he used to be when they first married). And then, the scar between his arm and shoulder – she traces it, gently. Soon she has reached his arms, stunted and small and strong; Sansa is familiar with their force, with their embrace. She outlines the curves of each muscle, feels them firm and hard under the pressure of her fingers. And then his hands, which have known the texture of her skin, of her clothes, of her hair, which have touched her from the inside out: she opens his tight fists, first one hand, then the other, feels the lines scratched deep into his palms.

And Sansa knows there are pretty people and ugly people in the world, but she tries to remember what, exactly, made her think he was so hideous on their wedding night. What was, is, so offensive about this body, existing, alive, warm. Why shouldn't she indulge in it, drown in him, when everything about him, the scent of him (old books and pine and lilies) and his form, is tremendously familiar, more than a mirror. Her hand finally lands over the left side of his thorax: this is his heart, his heart, his heart, and she dares to think she knows it too.

No, not gold, Sansa decides. Just flesh and bones. Never gold, never again.

"I want you, and not in the dark," she sentences. He does not say a thing, eyes still away, and Sansa holds his chin. Gently. "Look at me."

He does, and Sansa decides to rage a war against the fear in his eyes. She grabs him by the hair and kisses him and it is violent, almost; it is harsh, the way she sucks his lip; it is invasive, like a siege falling and breaking, when he lets her into his mouth with a throaty, low moan; it feels like victory when he whispers her name. She has her eyes open and sees when his eyes roll white between his half-closed lids; she kisses his shame away, fights it with ruthlessness, not a lady but a knight, a warrior. He has hands on her waist to prevent them both from falling under the strength of her desire. She has her hands everywhere she can reach. On his nape they are firm, on his face they are gentle, on his chest and arms they are greedy. And when she has proven her point, when she has him doing nothing but surrendering – when he lays himself at her mercy and he's finally touching her, too, holding her face in his hand to kiss her harder, just then she repeats – not demanding, not anymore; just asking. "Please," she murmurs on the border of his lips, her own voice wavering with anticipation and nervousness, a girlish, anxious and cold sort of feeling settling in her belly. "Please, come to my bed with me."

Sansa listens to the wood crackling, spluttering in the hearths, and the more gentle murmur of the countless candles around them: this is the sound of her time. Everything is home now. And when her eyes catch his, there's an ounce of fear and shame, still, but there is something burning too, hot and bright with desire and awe – this is her husband, in all his scars and in all his glorious brokenness and his longing, and he stares at her for what feels like an eternity. But he eventually nods, and Sansa gets up, offering him a hand.

They walk together, in silence, hand in hand; she stops at the border of their bed, watching as he waddles around it to the other side, where lays the stool he uses every night. He pushes the blankets aside and lies down and looks at her and she is there, standing, her knees brushing on the edge of the mattress.

It has been a while since any man saw her naked and her hands are itching.

Tyrion stares with a frown; she sees it, plainly as the daylight, that he thinks she will regret it and walk back. Before the doubt can permanently settle in his brow and shame creeps its way back, Sansa reaches for the ties on her right shoulder, already half-fallen to her upper arm, and undoes it. Slowly, because she doesn't want her nerves getting the best of her, and because she can't find a single reason to be hasty. Sansa learned how to seduce a man; but that is not what she is trying to do, now. What she wants is simple, really: to be free of everything keeping him from knowing her. She repeats the gesture to the ribbons tying her gown on her left shoulder, her calm eyes in Tyrion's face, his eyes on her hands as she lets the chemise slide down, heavy, huddling at her feet. Then, she removes all of her small-clothes and let them fall on the ground, too, and her hands don't know what to do anymore because that's it: she's bare in front of a man for the first time in years that she does not care to count at the moment.

When she finds herself brave enough to look up – and it takes a decision and a conscious effort not to cover herself with her hands, or a blanket – Tyrion is just... drinking her in. Still in his place, quietly. Waiting.

And Sansa knows what men think about her body.

And it used to make her angry. At them, and at herself, too.

This is a different body compared to the last time he saw her naked. All that was once just a draft of womanhood in her now is complete, full, occupying space. Too much space, in her opinion. Too many curves, swells; not a functional, practical, strong body like Arya's, or Brienne's. Nothing honed to protect or fight.

Sometimes she hates how very fragile she is.

But not now. Now there's neither fury towards his lust, filling his eyes with fire, nor shame towards her own weakness. There's only expectancy, a different sort of cold in her lower belly from that one of fear.

When he finishes scrutinizing her, wholly, his eyes lock in hers. "Come here," he asks, tenderly.

She rests one knee on the mattress; her hands tremble and she's taking her time, breathing in and out and in and out and in and out–

But she takes heart and slides beneath the blankets, lying on her back by his side. He's propped on his elbow, looking down on her, and when she looks at his face it is easier to breathe. He doesn't look hurried, doesn't seem like a man who is running against time. Surely, if he were, he wouldn't brush the back of his fingers against her jaw-line like that. A man in a hurry, Sansa believes, wouldn't draw her eyebrows with his fingertips, and then her nose, and her lips, and her cheek-bone, until she is calm again, like he's doing now; a hurried man wouldn't ask for her to turn around so he could undo her braid with nimble, but calm fingers, until her hair is free and loose around her, stopping once in a while to kiss her nape or her shoulder or the side of her neck. When he's done, she lies back again and he proceeds to caress her hip-bone over the blanket, making the fabric slide against her skin. Only when she is not shaking anymore he speaks. "You, my lady, are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life," he murmurs, quietly. "Is it cold or modesty that makes you want to hide yourself from view?"

She laughs at all that flourishing. He is trying to make her relax, and it's working. "I'm not cold," she says, pushing the blanket away. "So, modesty."

"Hm," he hums, and he's not ashamed in letting his eyes wander through her body; when they come back to her face they're darker, sharper. He bites his lower-lip.

"You can touch," she says, trying not to smile. It is really amazing what nakedness does to people.

He puts one hand on her hip, the same place he was fondling over the sheets. "Come closer, my lady," he asks, voice clear and husky.

Sansa turns her body towards him, lying on her side, mirroring him, and wraps her arms around his neck. His hand on her waist pulls her against him, pressing her breasts against his chest; she moans softly, surprised, dazed, adrift with the unexpected closeness, the intimacy of it, of the sensation of his haired chest against her hard nipples, and her lids fall closed once more. She needs to say something, she wants to voice her fears: I'm really, really not good at this. But all she is able to pull out is his name. "Tyrion, listen, I...", a incomplete, unfinished poem, like the last page has been torn apart from the book. Oh, but his name does sound very much like a poetry in her lips, she knows, and his answer, instead of words – more poems, her name – is to devour her mouth with his, voracious, maybe even fearless, or too far gone to care about fear.

Sansa smiles. His hunger makes her forget all her fears; it is easy to forget herself, to indulge in him, in his want, in his need for her. She allows access of his mouth to hers, caressing his tongue with her own, tortuously slow. Her hands roam. They feel up his chest once more, the muscles of his arms, making him hungrier, his fingers deepening in her hair to kiss her harder, his hips thrusting against hers as she raises one leg around him to feel him better. And she refuses to separate her mouth from his, but at some point, when one of his hands slides down to her breast, knowing the full curve of it, the outline of her nipple in the ball of his thumb, she has to, only to sough, "gods." It sounds surprised, ripped out from her, hoarse. He grins in response to that. Surely a skeptic like himself should feel proud to bring a broken girl to praise, specially if said worship comes out from swollen lips.

Sansa wonders if this is how it feels to be drunk.

But when she reaches between them to find the ties of his breeches – she has to create some distance between their bodies, their mouths, and he leaves out an impatient, lovely moan of protest – he holds her wrist. "Not yet," he says, still out of breath. "You said slowly."

Sansa looks up to his face, deciding she likes him best like this, his hair a mess and his half-parted lips red from kissing her. "We've been slow enough," she answers, rocking her hips against him. He rolls his eyes, intoxicated, but smirks as well, gently pushing her on her back against the mattress and the pillows, leaning over her. She opens her legs instinctively as he settles between them, almost an invitation. He obliges, swirling his hips against her and Sansa feels him hard and absurdly hot against her core, just in the right spot, impossibly better than anything she's ever felt, better even than his fingers. She whimpers as her back arcs, inconsolable. He both moans and laughs. "I want this off," she whines, pulling the brim of his breeches hanging just below his waist, and then hardly grasping his hips to keep him in the right angle against her, rocking herself against his length, back and forth. The fabric hurts her, but not enough to keep her from chasing the bliss that comes from the friction.

He leans over and places a open-mouthed kiss on her neck. The epitome of calm. "Be patient, my lady," he says, still smiling. He slides down her body until his hand can reach between her legs, exploring her sensitive folds, prompting a moan from her again. "See, you're not ready yet," he points out, climbing his way to her again, until he is hovering inches above her, face to face, and Sansa pouts, her arms closing around his waist.

"I'm ready enough," she protests, even though her body denies her. He chuckles and kindly kisses her protruded lower lip.

"Oh, my dear, wait. I want to know you," he kisses her cheek, kisses her temple, the tip of her nose. "I told you I'd like to taste you everywhere."

She shivers. She remembers, too. "I thought you were teasing," she murmurs, running a hand from his chest to his abdomen.

"I was completely honest and serious," he says, and his mouth wanders lower, to her chin, to her throat. She throws her head back into the pillow beneath her to give him all the access he wants and needs, curling her fingers in his hair and smiling as she feels him: his lips first, and then his tongue, and then his teeth – just scraping her skin, and already she moans "yes" to it, pulls his hair harder, making him laugh against her skin. "What is it with you and teeth?" He asks, amused.

"It's how we wolves like it," she explains, seizing his face and bringing his mouth to hers, grasping his lower lip between her teeth and pulling it, carefully.

He groans in a way that makes her throat dry. "I see," he murmurs when she lets go, before he bows down to bite her, lightly, on her neck, on her collarbones, on her shoulder, sucking and nibbling and licking his way on her, and Sansa can feel her blood running everywhere, bumping in her ears, but concentrating on her womanhood. She's pulsing, throbbing in a way that almost hurts, and if she was not wet before, she is now; she can feel it pooling between her legs.

It only intensifies when, while he kisses the ball of her shoulder, which feels wonderful for some reason she can't understand, he lets his hand lower again until it reaches her breast, and she all but yelps. It feels overly sensitive, and as if noticing, he kneads her gently at first; her breathing catches in her throat. Her thoughts become clouded, his touch the only thing she can feel. She hears him chuckling, all smug. "So sensitive," he breathes, in awe.

She can't find her voice to agree, so she only nods, until his thumb starts to make circles around her nipple again, and she lets out a sound – she doesn't even know what is it. It's undignified, for sure, like she's about to cry. "I'm sorry," she mutters.

He doesn't stop, but frowns, and kisses her chest, which is rising and falling so quick, covered in sweat. She feels her skin so hot where it waits for him, and so cold in his wake, as he follows the path of his kisses downward. Maybe all those candles were not the best idea. "Why are you sorry?" He asks, his mouth brushing against the curve of her breast. The sight makes her shiver, makes the fingers of her feet curl.

She blushes. "For being... Loud, I guess," she explains. He only smirks in response, and looks up, to lock his eyes with hers, before his mouth and tongue reaches the flat of her breastbone and then move to her right breast and Sansa just whines louder.

It makes him smile. "I love listening to you," he says, the words all messy because his mouth is full – she's always hated to have large breasts, hated the attention they drew, but now attention is all she wants on them. "Gods, but you are so gorgeous, Sansa–"

"Tyrion," she mumbles. His other hand massages the breast that he's not lavishing with his tongue, and as if listening to the request she's not able to phrase, his mouth closes around her nipple and Sansa yelps, can't help it, despite her apologies. His tongue swirls around it, whips it and then sucks it; she feels the air being knocked out from her lungs, no more loud, now wordlessly gasping for air, her eyes falling closed, her back arching and her hands twisting in his hair to pull him closer, as if she wants him to swallow her whole. He's moaning, too – she feels the vibration in her skin, and after some time he replaces his mouth with his hand and moves to the other neglected breast. His tongue feels so smooth, so warm, and the pleasure increases so intensely, it grows so deeply, that Sansa laughs. She has to, because it is absurd how good it feels. "Oh, gods," she murmurs, beneath her laughter. She's floundering beneath him, she's just – "fuck," she mutters when she feels his teeth biting – softly, not enough to pain her, just to make her hips jolt in immediate response.

He draws away to laugh, pressing his forehead against her chest for a moment before biting the mound of flesh of her breast a little harder than he did in her nipple. "I love when you do that, you know," he says. Sansa looks down, to his face, and he explains, "when you laugh like that."

(And something is building in her core – pleasure, of course, and a sensation of emptiness urging to be filled; but also something else, like she is opening the cages to a bird that has been trying to escape for years, wings bustling in her chest as it leaves.

It brings her to the verge of tears. Finally. She will miss that bird, but it was never meant to be here, stuck among her ribs.)

She doesn't know if it is too soon or too late when Tyrion's mouth finally chooses a destination, no more wandering and discovering and mapping her weak points but heading to the south of her. His fingers anticipate his lips, though, dipping between her folds while he kisses her belly-button, only to find her wet – she moans so loud when he touches her, because for all that she enjoys the time he is taking to know her, he's left her aching, almost painfully so. She breathes in deep, looking down to catch his gaze. He is smirking with something between mischief and awe glinting in his eyes when he starts to massage her clit with his thumb, in circles. Slow, as she wants it, but there's not enough pressure in it to quench the fire that he's built. She puts one hand over his on a whim and presses it more firmly against her. "Harder," she says, but soon blushes at her own insolence.

But he doesn't seem offended. He actually looks very much pleased as he complies to her word, and, why not, probes at her labia and slides two fingers into her, dragging a soft moan of approval from her. "Would you look at that," he comments, almost casually, and kisses that place on her hip-bone that always makes her shiver.

Sansa chuckles, delighted, feeling her cheeks still red, but giving in to his touch. "I have something to confess," she says.

"I'm listening," he says, eyes fixed on her face.

She smiles with the corner of her mouth, her voice clear and sure. "A couple of days ago, I touched myself."

His eyes darken, and his fingers curling inside her in response are enough of a reward to wash whatever shame and prudence are left in her; her hips answer in kind, and she whimpers, wanting more and forcing herself not to ask for it. Yet. "Hm," he murmurs, licking his lower lip. "And did you enjoy it?"

"Very much," she says, voice shaking and starting to sound breathless, closing her eyes to appreciate better the feeling – the heel of his hand pressing against her throbbing clit, his fingers inside stroking and pumping, so thick, just slow enough to keep her able to speak. "I came looking for you, but you were asleep, so I decided to take a bath. You said I wouldn't need you every time," she explains, and he chuckles. It is true; she really did it, two nights ago. "I'm surprised I didn't wake you up," she comments. "I was so loud."

"You're a wicked woman," he mutters, and his eyes are blazing.

She laughs a little under her breath. "I thought about you," she soughs.

"Sansa..."

"I did," she says, voice melting just like her body is under his hand, and her hips jolt when he curls his fingers just on the right spot again. "I thought about all those things you did with your mouth–" and her speech is (rudely) interrupted when he nestles what is left of his nose in the curly, russet hair between her legs, placing what she can only describe as one chaste kiss over it and taking in a deep breath like a man appreciating wine before he can properly drink it, savoring color, scent. Sansa feels a kind of despair that makes her writhe, impatient. "Oh, come on. Do you want me to beg again?" She asks, half-amused, half-mad.

"That would be nice," he comments, casually, amused, and palms his free hand on her belly, grounding her against the bed. "But I don't think it will be necessary."

And then he spreads her legs a little further, his mouth is on her again and – oh, never mind. She would wait for hours if she knew she'd have him in the end; she would beg if he asked for it. The last time, they were in the dark; now, she keeps her eyes open to watch him, even when her eyelids get heavy. Her throat lets out an involuntary yelp of happiness, and she feels his laughter against her womanhood mixed with the low tone of his voice, vibrating, when he moans at the first taste of her. She shivers at the contrast of his tongue – warm, smooth, firm – with his beard, scratching her inner thighs as she closes them around him. He's lazy at first; there's still no haste in him. His tongue explores every nook and cranny of her as if she were brand new, parts of her that had been invisible to him in the dark, building her pleasure patiently, until Sansa is incoherently asking please and more and he grows… not faster, just more urgent, and that's when she realizes he's reaching a point where she won't be able to keep her orgasm at bay. "Stop," she asks, in a feeble voice. "I want you – I want you inside me when –"

He raises his head just enough to look at her, his fingers still working, and she wants to moan with delight only at the sight of him. His mouth and chin are wet, his eyes are dark with desire, his hair a complete mess, and he is breathless, and beautiful, absolutely beautiful. "Let it happen, Sansa," he asks, and his voice. For all the gods, his voice. "Just come for me–"

And when his mouth comes back to her, he is ruthless. She is sure her body will melt; it won't be able to resist, as a whole, how hot and bright this fire burns. It will turn into something else, deforming, transforming. Sansa is shaking her head, denying it to herself, to him, trying to gather the force of will to push him away before it happens. Her legs and arms are tense; each slide of his tongue into her, each whipping on her oversensitive flesh weakens her strength. Her nerves sing in delight, her muscles hurt, she tastes blood and realizes she has been biting her lip too hard, trying not to cry out, trying to hold on. But when he starts to suck her clit in earnest, she lets go, moving her hips in accord with him, and her body is consumed, alight and alive as she shudders and cries out, back arching, completely breathless when the pleasure hits its peak; she tries to push his face away when it starts to hurt. He complies, but his fingers continue, merciless, they keep stroking her, hard enough for her body to tremble, urging her to keep rocking her hips with him; Sansa is on the edge of desperation – she lets out a curse when she understands that pleasure is still flooding her spine, her orgasm consuming her as it goes on and on, insistent, restless, slower but longer, fuller somehow, and as Tyrion works her through it Sansa truly believes the blissful waves rippling across her body won't ever stop.

But they eventually do, and she lets her body fall on the mattress, boneless, exhausted, sated, short of breath. She is just vaguely aware of one single tear streaming down across her left temple, reaching her ear.

(And, the thing is:

Sansa is no maid, and she knows her husband. She was ready for his lust and for his fear, for his hunger and for his kindness. But nothing could have prepared her for his devotion.)

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

When he finally slides into her, Sansa's first thought is: maybe we can be whole again, someday.

Because they are all over when she finally pulls him up from between her legs, he kissing her face and her neck and feeling up her body from waist to chest feverishly, she trying to undo the laces of his breeches while her teeth scrape the curve of his shoulder, her fingers delineating the bulge in his groin, hard as a stone, and he curses, stifling a laughter (a impatient laughter, if there's such a thing) against her skin, and she laughs too, because this time he does not push her hand away, and at last she guides him to lay on his back against the mattress and they get rid of the rest of his clothes and he is completely bare for her.

And before he can shy away from her gaze, she crushes her mouth in his, tastes her own wetness in his tongue, and then slides down to kiss his chest, his shoulders, his arms, every part of his skin she can find, trying to make her lips kind, remembering how he had reacted at first. But as she follows the track of hair that ends in his groin he no longer curls away from her – not as if he is at ease, but as if he had merely forgotten to fear for a second, and Sansa is pleased at the way he shivers, the way his body arcs towards her touch.

"Woman," he mutters, almost cursing, when her chin is just below his belly-button. He reaches out a hand to the back of her head, trying to pull her up, to him again. "Don't even think about it."

She lifts her eyes, resisting him, trying to suppress another smile and failing. "Don't you want me to return the favor?" She asks – it is an honest question – running a finger over his length, which makes him catch his breath again, and tremble, and therefore makes Sansa smile even more. He is so absurdly hard and hot and big and she wants to touch him, to feel him properly – indeed she tries to, but he shakes his head, dragging her so she can lie back. She complies, but not without a whine of protest.

"Tempting," he says under his breath and moving to find a place between her legs, "but it's not what I want now."

And then he stops; hesitates–

and Sansa, for a moment, almost misses that bird that she let go free. She wonders if Tyrion has one in his chest, too, and if he named it after someone, and if he is going to let it be free, someday – hopefully, today.

It's with that hope in mind that she wraps both of her arms around his neck and pulls him down so she can kiss him – a calm kiss. Soothing, sweet, long, letting him rest over her, feeling the brush of his chest against her chest and his cock pressing, sliding against her folds, deliciously hard, allowing her hands to wander again, to visit scars and muscles and all of his form while he traces his fingers on the sides of her breasts. Soon he takes one of them in hand again, and then in his mouth; he is back to her, with her – she knows he is, because when she runs her fingernails, lightly, on his nape, it is her name that he huffs against her nipple, "Sansa," and then – "please."

And it sounds like years and countries and seasons are contained in that word; some of them familiar to her, most of them only known to him. It sounds like such a old word, almost sad – his voice is ragged at the edges, and she knows it took him much courage to ask for it, to ask for her, just as it took all her courage, all those years ago, to refuse him. But Sansa thinks she wouldn't have him any other way; so she says "yes," – no more, no less, and it is enough.

It takes little adjusting, in the positions they're in – all she has to do is raise her legs just so to wrap them around him, and all he needs to do is to shift his hips just like that and – Sansa almost sobs when she feels the tip pressing against the rim of her, like his fingers in the first time he touched her there but larger, harder, hotter, better in every conceivable way. His arms shake from his effort to keep still. He sighs a quiet fuck, rests his brow against her shoulder. "When you're ready," he murmurs.

"I'm ready," she says. Her voice sounds hoarse, her fingers clench the sheets. And then he is sliding inside her with ease and no rush, filling her inch by inch, and saying her name under his breath against her skin – Sansa, Sansa, Sansa – with so much reverence that fresh tears swell in her eyes. Her walls stretch around him as he enters her, trying to fully welcome him; she breathes in and only breathes out once her body has sheathed him completely. Her nails inevitably bury themselves in his slender waist, right above the bones of his hip, and she feels his whole body shake, one single shudder that weaken his arms for a fraction of a second before he can recompose himself.

For a very long moment, they just stay still, breathing hard, he buried inside her and Sansa hiding her face in his neck. She thinks she feels something salty in her lips – maybe sweat, maybe tears, his or hers; she can't tell for sure.

My husband, Sansa thinks, leaning her cheek on his shoulder. She feels him throbbing inside her, so hard and so much, and her body accepts him and surrounds him in ways she was not expecting. My husband, my husband–

And neither of them speak until she murmurs, "Tyrion, please," in his ear. It is all the hint he needs to start moving, deep thrusts that claim her, fill her, and then she the one shaking: both from the impact of his every push, and from the pleasure that starts to build in her again: different this time, visceral, she'd said, far away still but there, like a fire being stoked. He is a quiet thing above her, making no sound other than gasps for air, and she is so wet she can listen to it; her throat feels dry, and gods, gods, it feels so good, to be this full, this- it is whole, she feels whole, not unbroken but complete, somehow. He moves slow, hard, steady; perfect, each roll of his hips feels perfect. It is some inherited, primal instinct, older than her, that urges her to lift her legs higher, her crossed feet resting against his back, her flexed knees almost to his shoulders. It drives him in impossibly deeper, makes him hit new spots, ripping out a moan from them both, and Sansa envelops her arms around his neck again. He is lost in her in every possible way, hidden in her. Maybe that's the reason why she feels the right to move, too – she knows her job is just to lie there with her legs open, but her body is screaming and so move she does, her hips bucking against him without her consent, seeking something, maybe to claim him just as much as he is claiming her. Her pace is not the same of his and something feels off. "Sorry," she mumbles.

"No," he murmurs. She feels his voice against her neck, where he found stars earlier that night. His tone is thick, almost dark with desire. "Move. I'll follow."

And then he stays still again.

Sansa takes a look down, between them, where they're joined, just as he does – his temple brushing against hers. She lets her body dance, sing its own song. He is not heavy; even while he is above her it is not difficult to let her hips sway, and it feels better when she moves, so much better, and soon she is throwing her head back, a whimper scratching her throat. He turns his head to the side and kisses her leg, her knee almost hooked on his shoulder and – it is everything: the view, the feeling, the scent of sweat and sex and how her body cannot grow used to the feeling of him filling her up every time she takes him in – she only realizes it is his name she is whining after it has left her mouth. She fights to find her voice to say, "with me," and so he starts to move again, with her, and Sansa just abandons herself, and there's nothing but him; Winterfell could be on fire around her and she wouldn't notice.

She watches how he shuts his lids, opens his mouth but does not say a word or lets out a sound, nor a moan or her name or a curse or anything, he is just speechless, and there is no empty space left inside her any more. The bird is gone: just a small, blue dot in the horizon.

"Open your eyes," she breathes out, letting her hands slide from his neck to his cheeks, lifting his head from her shoulder just enough so he can face her. "Look at me. Open your eyes."

He does. And from that moment on, his mismatched eyes never leave her sky-blue ones: not when she starts to move harder and he with her; not when they find their rhythm; not even when they are about to fall apart.

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

It is quiet, after.

His head rests on her left breast, over her heart. Sansa stares at the ceiling, keeping him in her arms, and her fingers caress his back like she is playing a song – a note for each scar. She doesn't know how much time has passed when he makes a move to pull off from her, but she holds him tighter. "Don't," she murmurs, her mouth brushing against his hair. He is softening inside her, which is a pleasure from a different kind, intimate in ways she can't fathom just yet.

A part of her wants to cry; not out of sadness, and not out of happiness, either. It's something else entirely.

Some candles have blown out, but not all of them; the light in the room is dimmer, more dark orange than bright gold, casting trembling shadows on the walls. Tyrion raises his head to look at her and she wonders if the immensity of it all scares him, too.

That wasn't in her plans. It feels strange, to need him like this.

He opens his mouth to speak something. His eyes have recovered their focus – she remembers how he looked like, at the end, the memory is burning in the back of her mind: so gone, so lost in her. Now he looks – well, not found, not yet, but lucid enough. "Sansa," he begins.

It seems important.

She puts two fingers over his mouth, feels his lips curling when he smiles at her impertinence. "Oh, don't," she asks. "Tell me in the morning."

Tyrion asks for no more explanation, only nodding. She touches the scar in his face; he brings his mouth to hers, and kisses her. No tongue, no teeth. Just lips. Slow and soft and over and over, for so long that she forgets that there is a world out there, that it is still winter. Her hand slides involuntarily to his chest, until she feels his heart, no more fast or hard: quietly hammering against her palm.

When they part, he touches the corner of her mouth, and Sansa sees it in his face that he is deciding if he will, indeed, wait until morning comes or not.

Then he settles his head again in her chest, between her breasts.

Outside, it still snows.

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

She wakes in the middle of the night, and knows, in that way that one knows, that they are still far from dawn. It is dark, the candles have burned out, the hearth just breeds embers, the fire is gone. And yet, it is easy to untangle her limbs from Tyrion's, delicately, wrap one blanket around her bare body and find her way to the privy through memory.

When she comes back, she tucks herself underneath the furs with her husband, lying on her belly by his side, and stares at him, who remains oblivious to her scrutiny.

There's moonlight – silver, no more gold – painting his face in white and gray, cold colors, Stark colors.

He breathes soundly, deeply and silently in his sleep, the inevitable aftermath of being both sated and tired. Sansa rarely sees him like that, sleeping so profoundly. She should leave him alone; a good wife would let him rest, but-

"Tyrion," she whispers, deciding to welcome the urge that just rose in her belly at the sight of him, and runs her hand all over him. First fingertips, and then palm: his curls and his face, his arms, his chest. She knows him in candlelight, in moonlight, in the dark– it makes no difference anymore. He feels deliciously, invitingly warm beneath her recently washed hands, and Sansa smiles when he begins to stir, but his eyes remain closed. "Tyrion," she repeats, still whispering, now propping herself on her elbow and leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth, ever so softly, but insistently, her hair cascading about them, "come on. Wake up."

He opens his eyes with a low groan of delight: the black one swallows the moonlight, inscrutable and infinite; the green one reflects it, bright and alive. His fingers close around her wrist, holding it to his chest, and then, after only two necessary seconds of understanding, it is his turn to prop his body on his elbow, just so he can gently push her back against the mattress and then find his place between her welcoming open legs. She hums her pleasure at the feel of his skin on hers, her arms finding easily his waist, closing around him, and she smiles, satisfied, to herself.

"Your hands, my lady," he murmurs, "are so damn cold." And then he kisses her.

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

In the morning, it is sunlight which wakes her up, like a mother kissing her children's cheek; Sansa open her eyes and does not move.

She feels, instead: soreness in new places and new ways, conversations in farther rooms – it is late, later than she is used to rise and much more later than her husband does, but his arms are around her, one hand under her breast, and his chest pressed to her back, and his breathing lost in her nape.

Sansa thinks: he stayed, he stayed, he stayed.

She closes her eyes once more, and tries to breathe as evenly as if she had been asleep. Even when he wakes up she keeps doing so; he is so discreet, anyway, nothing but the stroke of his hand on her waist, up and down, announcing his awakening. It is a soothing caress, and it takes conscious effort to keep her from expressing her contentment out loud. For a moment she almost truly falls asleep again; she thinks she would, if she weren't so happy.

It is only after a very, very, very long time that he draws her hair away to place a lonely kiss on the skin beneath her ear. "So. For how long do you plan to pretend you're asleep?"

She keeps her eyes closed, chuckling. "As long as you keep doing what you're doing," she answers, pressing back against his chest. Her voice sounds hoarse in the morning, very unladylike. She can't bring herself to care.

"You are, indeed, the laziest woman of Westeros," he concludes, tightening his arm around her, and Sansa's smile widens. His morning voice is even deeper and lower than usual – how is that possible?

She turns her body around, trying to keep herself within his arms, successfully. His hair is a mess. It makes her smile even more. She finds out she can't stop smiling; she grasps her lower lip beneath her teeth, trying to bite her happiness away.

It doesn't work. Because he keeps staring at her in that way – not smiling, just admiring, combing strands of hair with his fingertips from her face so he can keep studying her features. "You're beautiful," he murmurs, softly, after a minute of silence and contemplation. Then, cautiously, "are you always this happy when you wake up?"

Sansa reaches out to touch his face. The fear – oh, the fear in his voice is almost completely gone. There's still a little bit there, amidst the joy and the jape, but that's fine. She can wait until his fear give in completely.

(They've got so much–

… time!)

"I adore mornings," she answers, throws one leg around his hip, and decides that this, his chest pressed to hers when bare, must be one of the most wonderful things her body is capable of experiencing. Also, he is very hard; it feels delightfully distracting. "Don't you?"

He laughs a little, almost shy, casually moving the hand on her waist to her thigh, and his body vibrates against hers. "Not normally, but I can get used to..." he looks down, to where their legs are intertwined, and breathes out. "Well."

She nods, smiling, and lets him resume the fondling in her hair – not to put her to sleep, but just because he can and she wants him to. At some point his finger runs, idly, to her neck, and then down to her shoulder. He removes her hair from his way, and his eyes are focused on her skin when he murmurs, "King's Crown, right here."

It takes a while for Sansa to understand, because she is trying to count the stains of yellow around his green iris, like rays of sunshine. "You never told me about this one," she answers.

"Oh, so you do remember, after all," he points out, eyes squirming in feigned disapproval, and she giggles. "My wife is not only lazy and a bad student, but also a liar."

"Poor you," she shrugs.

"Poor me," he agrees, nodding, and a sweet brightness takes over his eyes. "You really are radiant this morning. I wonder why."

"You wonder?" Sansa murmurs, circles one arm around his neck, and something in his face makes Sansa want to hide him in her embrace for the rest of her days. "I had a wonderful night, that is all." He draws the freckles on her right shoulder, the ones he's just named, for a whole minute, keeping his eyes away, and Sansa feels a anxious coldness settling on her belly, like a warning. "And you?" She asks, trying to keep her voice calm. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did. I was exhausted," he shrugs; stops; eyes still fixed on her skin, the tip of his fingers tracing lines between the dots and then sliding down, past her arm, to the side of her breast. Carefully; too careful, she thinks, for a man who had touched her the way he did, who welcomed her begging for more with teeth, "And I had this... dream."

"A dream?" Sansa inquires, and swallows hard.

He bows down to kiss the stars on her right shoulder. "It was too good to be true. You wouldn't believe it, if I told you."

His voice trembles, but she is sure no one else in the world but her would have noticed. "Try me," she says, her mouth close to his ear.

"Sansa," he murmurs, and it is a plead. He is pleading.

They are near, too near. The distance between their mouths is irrelevant. Catching his lips with hers is the most sensible, obvious thing to be done, and so she does it, and he gasps; she feels his hip shifting towards hers, reflexively, when she tastes his lower lip. "Stop thinking so hard," she murmurs, still not breaking away. "I'm starting to believe you didn't enjoy this as much as I first thought you did."

"I'm sorry," he answers. "And please tell me you're joking." When she doesn't answer, he cradles her face in the palm of his hand and his face is pure disbelief. "Come on, Sansa."

And the truth is she does not know. She supposes he must have enjoyed her, otherwise a lot of the things he'd done and said are in need of an explanation, but they didn't talk much, after the first time, or after the second. Or the third, the one almost at dawn, when he woke her up, his mouth already kissing her belly, travelling down.

It just – kept getting better each time. For her, at least. "I owe you an apology, I believe," she mutters. It is, after all, morning, and mornings are for conversations.

So there's formality in her voice, but it is mitigated by the fact she is, well, naked, in his arms, all wrapped up around him. He frowns. "I'm sure you don't," he retorts, confused, and Sansa takes in a very deep breath, caressing his chest like she straightens her skirts or organize her chambers when she is nervous.

"I was very selfish," she says at last, all at once, because there's no point in delaying the topic. She was; she does not know much about sex, but she is aware that last night was very much about her demanding things from him, his voice, and his mouth, and his hand, and his cock, and Tyrion please and Tyrion more more, and now it is her who can't meet his eye. Things are different, when considered in daylight. "And I won't hold it against you, if you resent me, but I can learn. I don't want to– "

Her rambling is interrupted when he snorts a laughter, incredulous. "You can't be serious." When she holds her silence, he wraps his fingers gently around her wrist, holding her hand against him. "Look at me," he asks, in his kindest voice, and so she does, raising her face. Nothing could steal her happiness away, not even his doubts, not even her doubts, because her skin has a memory of his touch, and that alone is enough; but she needs to hear it, to know–

"Did I-" She starts, and her voice is no more than a whisper. "Please you? Just as much as you pleased me?"

He presses his forehead against hers, closing his eyes.

She does not close hers.

"I cannot believe you dare to question my enjoyment," he murmurs, and finally, gods, finally, he is smiling. "Do you think I woke you in the middle of the night going down on you because I'm so dutiful?"

"Just answer me," she murmurs, feeling her cheeks blushing with the memory, but already her shoulders are relaxing, already she is snuggling impossibly closer to him; her skin craves for his.

"You're better than my imagination could ever make you," he says, voice clear, almost amused, but thick with some emotion Sansa can't name. "And I have a very prolific imagination, or so I'm told." He resumes the caress on the side of her breasts, now with the back of his fingers. "I've been dreaming about you for a very long time, but my dreams did not make you justice."

Sansa feels her eyes watering. She never considered she could be better than someone else's dream.

It is like being better than a song.

"Did I hurt you?" he murmurs, after a long, silent moment; his voice so low she would never hear him if he weren't so close.

She touches his face again. "No. Not even once." Her fingers get lost in his hair, and she pulls his face closer, guides his lips to hers. This time he wastes no time before he dives his tongue into her mouth; he tastes of morning. Sansa lets him in, and when she closes her legs tighter around him, her hips seeking the perfect friction against his hardness, he moans, very quietly. He is so surprisingly quiet, here, inside her arms. "I know it is still early," he murmurs, lips still sealed on hers, as if apologizing. "You must be hungry."

Sansa smiles, shaking her head to deny it. "It is actually very late," she answers, resting on her back and pulling him atop her. "And I'm not hungry." She stops, frowns, and decides to clarify: "for food."

He grins. His eyes smile, too, and it makes Sansa feel warm all over. "I'm just trying to be considerate here, love," he answers.

She raises her legs to envelop his waist. "And I appreciate it," Sansa nods, her hand reaching down between their bodies to wrap around his cock. It feels so heavy, so big in her small hands. He tries to choke back a groan at first, when she begins to stroke him – slowly, just to tease – but the strain of the sound turns her on just as if he had screamed her name. For some reason she likes to see him fighting to control himself and failing. "Do you think they've noticed our absence?"

"I think they have, yes," he answers, breathless, and Sansa leans forward to bite his ear, his shoulder, arching her body towards him, her hips, inviting, asking–

"And do you care?" she murmurs.

"I couldn't care less," he says, voice hoarse. She feels anticipation taking over her like a wave when he sucks the base of her neck, and then lower, on her collarbone. Sansa gives herself a moment to take it all in, the sunlight gracing his face and eyes and hair, and the way she feels her body throbbing with life; when she tries to guide him inside her, he shakes his head with a mute no and keeps her gently lying back, taking her hand away. "Aren't you sore?"

She smiles. She can't express enough how much she adores that he cares and that he's noticed, even though she hasn't said a word. "A little, but I don't mind," she murmurs, shrugging.

He dives in to kiss her one last time, deep and lazy. "We should get you ready, then," Tyrion concludes.

Sansa is not mad. She won't refuse it. So while his mouth makes its way through her skin, she smiles, and watches her man, and allows herself to enjoy his attentions without further motivation beyond pleasing her, here and now. She sees every time he smirks when she moans, sees his eyes rolling in delight when she curls her hands in his hair, and when he finally gets to where they both want him, when he is finally lying down on his belly with his head between her spread legs, she seeks for his eyes, his gaze–

and he is adoring her. This husband of hers, finding constellation patterns on her skin and afraid of being happy. You fool, she thinks, kindly. How can't you see that I want you?

"Good morning," she whispers, before he can begin.

He chuckles, and gently hooks one of her legs over his shoulder, kissing the inner face of her thigh closest to his mouth. "Good morning, beautiful."

Chapter Text

III

Spring is like a perhaps hand
which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

"Spring is like a perhaps hand", by e. e. cummings

This is how Tyrion Lannister ended up among furs and sheets in his bed, during a cold, lazy afternoon, naked with his wife: he brought flowers home from the glass gardens.

And, truly, he had the most innocent and pure of the intentions in mind when he came in with a bunch of lavender flowers and an apology ready in his tongue: you asked for daises and asters, but I couldn't make them grow, and lavender remind me of the scent of your hair, and Osha told me they make a nice tea - your mother's favorite, right? It was still bright outside; he'd found her alone in her solar, brow twisted in worry as she wrote on a parchment, and spring had flowered in her mouth with a smile at the sight of the basket on his elbow. He'd planned to give the bouquet to her and come back to his work. He really, honestly did.

She had other plans. And even while he tried to resist her, but my lady, I promised to assist your brother with his lessons today, she'd guided him to their private bedchamber and closed the door and now, now he is lying on his back stripped from all his clothes, there are lavender blooms resting on the pillow by his side, and his wife is naked above him, straddling him and catching the icy, cold light of the day with her skin and eyes and hair and Tyrion is reasoning:

Sansa adores flowers and she is thankful; this is gratitude, he says to himself — she bends over to kiss him, her breasts pressing against his chest — this is gratitude because she is a romantic at heart, gratitude because he kept his vows and waited until she was ready, gratitude because he tries to be kind to her even while they fuck. Or maybe this is duty — her mouth leaves his to slide against his jaw and he bites his lower lip, tries not to moan at the wet, warmth feeling of her tongue in his face — for it is known to all that Sansa is a dutiful, obedient creature, and she could not abstain from her responsibilities forever. Or maybe she just really wants a child — her mouth wanders lower, to his neck, to his collar-bones, and he writhes beneath her in his attempt to keep silent — they've barely spoken of the subject but surely, she must want to be a mother, must crave it, indeed, to the point of being amenable to arrest him to their bed in the middle of the afternoon.

She gets to his chest and closes her mouth around his nipple and his body arcs toward her almost as if she has a rope around his torso, pulling him to her. It makes her chuckle; she has him wrapped around her finger at a ridiculous minimum effort and they both know it.

"You are so quiet," she murmurs, looking up to his face, in a gingerly voice. Her blue eyes are gleaming and her pupils are dark behind her eyelashes and he is running out of explanations to why would that happen if not for desire. At some point he will have to face the frightening possibility that maybe — just maybe — she might actually want to be here with him.

"Pardon me?" He inquires.

"You." She kisses his breastbone, supports her weight on her palms at each side of his face, and her hair falls around them. He likes this position very much. She has really, really nice teats, and he refrains from grabbing them in favor of listening to her; his hands rest on her hips instead. "I'm always so loud. I can barely keep from yelling, sometimes. But you never make a sound."

And to prove her point, her hips begin to sway, back and forth, stroking him with her folds. (She likes to do this a lot, just rub herself against him; sometimes that's all she needs, honestly). As if he weren't hard enough already, distracted enough.

"I thought you'd like it best," he answers, eyes looking down, to her hips instead of her face, to watch her movements. He wants to seize the perks of daylight.

Sansa doesn't stop — her rhythm is so lazy and so slow that he is almost grateful that he's not inside her yet, because it would be torture. She laughs, though: "Why would you possibly think that?"

"I don't know," he says, his voice breathed out and low. "I just assumed." Tyrion doesn't think much about these topics. He used to like sex because of how it made him forget things, and not because it made him think harder. He raises his eyes to hers. "Why this now? Does that bother you?"

She frowns, but her voice remains sweet. "Well, yes. How am I supposed to know if you're... Enjoying it?"

It is his turn to laugh. "Oh, but I am. I always am. Believe me."

She stops moving and he presses his lips together to hold back his protest, but now that she's mentioned it he notices that she's right. He tries a lot to stay silent. "You're missing my point. Are you always like this, or only with me?" He opens his mouth, closes it again, thinks about all his previous lovers, if he could call them lovers. Most of them were paid, but even the ones who weren't... Sansa sighs, defeat, as if seeing the answer in his face. "It's me, isn't it?"

"I don't want to distract you," he explains. "From your pleasure. That is all."

She laughs again. "Of course, my lord. You stick a thick, big, hard thing inside me, but maybe if you keep silent enough I won't notice that you're there." She squirms her eyes and leans down again to kiss his mouth, and there it goes, another inch of his defenses. She intertwine her fingers in his, and holds both of his hands against the mattress at each side of his head. He is at her mercy beneath her, as per usual. His cock throbs, painfully pulsing. "This is ridiculous, Tyrion."

He smiles, wants to tell her to stop it, wants to ask her to never stop. "You're very adamant about this," he says, instead.

"It's just- I miss your voice!" His wife argues. She sounds anguished in a cute, funny way. "I could listen to you listing the names of all the lords of Westeros and I'd probably like it. It is one of my favorites parts of your body."

He raises one eyebrow. "My voice is not part of my body, technically." But he understands her; he's come to realize that his wife is not so aroused by the things she sees as she is by the things she listens to.

That certainly works in both their favors.

"Tyrion," Sansa pulls a face, sighing, still grounding his hands and rendering him powerless, until a wicked gleam fills her blue eyes. "Maybe I'll need to bite a moan out of you."

"Hmm," he chuckles. Lately, he has the feeling that Sansa just really wants an excuse to bite him. "This is not how we lions do it."

"Oh, then tell me how lions do it, my lord," she smiles, the grin of victory, looking at him in that cunning way. This is her method. It turns out both of them have many things to learn: Tyrion observes and studies her; he takes mental notes of her every reaction, of the way her moans get higher or her hands clutch him tighter depending on where and how he touches her. It is puzzling and sometimes, frustrating; he never spent so much time trying to know someone's body like this before. Not every woman is the same, and this particular woman is a mystery he is permanently trying to unravel.

It is worth his every effort, though.

Sansa has a very different approach: she asks. She is this curious, experimental, brave thing, conquering him, surrendering him. In the most disturbing way, she reminds him a little bit of Qyburn: do you like this, husband? Does it please you? How does it feel for you? Show me how.

Never someone had spent so much time trying to know him, either.

"We use claws, I believe," he murmurs, because her mouth is working again at his jaw-line, and she lets go of his hand to run her nails along his neck, lightly, only tickling, like a caress — and he shivers, anticipating.

"Like this?" she whispers, and gods—

"I said claws, Sansa," he says, and already his voice is starting to sound weak, a pleading thing. She scratches him hard enough that he knows it will leave a mark and he moans, at last — can't help it and doesn't want to. Oh, fuck it. To the Seventh hell with it. "Yes. Like this, and harder."

"No," she pouts, rising her head just enough to face him again, her mouth half an inch away from his, her eyes worried, her eyebrows curling. "I don't want to draw blood from you."

"I don't mind," he murmurs on the edge of her mouth —

"But I do." She starts to run her nails again over his skin, this time exploring his chest, and shoulders, and it's not drawing blood, but it is hard enough to leave her name in him, it is hard enough to make him shake, to make his breathing shallower, warmer, to make his lids heavier. "Is that all right?"

"It is," he nods, and steals her mouth in a whim, hungry for her tongue like a starving man. Her nails trail along his arms, verging on the pain but never hurting too much, stinging without breaking him. It reminds Tyrion of love and its limits; he's always craved for a passion to consume him in the process until he became nothing, ashes, like a sacrifice to a foreign god. He never expected that it could mean holding something back, that love could be hidden in pauses, and he moans against the softness of her lips. When she breaks apart to breathe, he reaches out to the pillow by his side, where lays the branch of lavender he reaped for her, and runs it gently on her belly, between her breasts and around them, on her arms, her thighs, and watches as goosebumps rise on her arms, sees when she gasps as she discovers the new sensation. "Sometimes I wonder if you're not a goddess in disguise," he whispers.

She smiles, pleased and sly and gorgeous. His wife likes that, being praised; he can tell. She takes the flower from his hand and starts to rip off the purple petals, one by one, and lets them drop all over him, on his chest, on his hair, on his face. A light scent of lavender surrounds them as the petals fall. He contemplates it, unable to stop his own smile, blowing one petal where it falls on his mouth and thinks this is what defines them. Somehow Sansa is always above him, blossoming. Somehow he's always beneath her, undeserving but grateful and blessed.

"Come over here, my lady," he calls, his voice tendering. She tosses the green stalk aside and bends over until her face is within the reach of his hands, and so he cradles her cheeks, brushes his thumb over her cheekbone before he kisses her. It starts kindly until it isn't, until she begins to sway her hips again in the same pace of her mouth and tongue swirling around his, until his hands leave her face to knead her breasts, to find her nipple already hard and waiting for his touch, until she rocks her hips harder and her mouth leaves his because she's panting, too focused on what's happening down there to keep kissing him, and he is so lost in the feeling of her body coating his cock that he no longer cares if he is moaning against her neck, right next to her ear, only for her to hear. She is so wet now.

"I'm being selfish again," she says, her voice only above a whisper. "Does it feel good for you too?"

"It does," he says, and grasps the lobe of her ear between his teeth.

She lets her head fall onto his shoulder, brow against his collar-bone, giving in for a second. "Does it feel as good as when you're inside me?"

"Nothing in the world feels as good as when I'm inside you", he answers, and she eyes him, dark and wanting and ready, and starts to raise her body, trying to move to his side, to lie down next to him, but he holds her hips in place. "No," he asks. It would be a waste of sunlight. He sees the way she bites her lip, hesitating. She's still insecure about being on top, afraid she'll hurt him or that he won't like it or that she'll be selfish, saying things like you're better than I am at this, but really, how could he explain to her that her inexperience in this area is what makes him want her to do it to being with, how could he say out loud that he wants her to use him, to learn him, to learn herself, that he wants to be-

Taken. As a whole.

So instead of explaining anything at all he grabs hold of his cock with one hand and of her right hip with another and lines them up and says "please," like the gentleman he was supposed to be.

"But what about you—"

"I'm right here," he nods to her, and after a second of two of hesitation looking down at the area between their legs she comes to hover over him, and Tyrion guides himself into her warmth as she lowers her body down. She is slick and easy to enter, his own shaft wet with her arousal for the way she was rubbing against him, and she doesn't hurry as she takes him in, each inch a gasp until he is fully sheathed by her, she sitting straight, her chest heavy with her breathing. It's not the deepest he has been inside her, nor it is the tightest hole he has ever put his cock into, and yet his previous statement stands true: nothing compares to the feeling of being inside this woman.

The relief and the urge; the calm and the storm. Gods.

Take your time, my lady, he whispers, and his palms are traveling the skin of her thighs: the flowers, the weak but undeniable light of the afternoon, the way she says his name like an anchor as she starts to swivel her hips, excruciatingly slow, it calls for tender touches. She begins like this, almost lazy, humming under her breath once in a while, and he says soothing words to encourage her, says how good she feels, says she is doing it so right, and she whines and tugs at the hair in his chest and bends over to brace herself against the headboard behind him; he holds her hips as she gains speed. Her eyes are closed, her brow furrowed, she's concentrated and determinate and gorgeous, swaying her hips harder and yet not enough so she asks for his aid, says his name, Tyrion, come on, and so — finally, finally — he allows himself to thrust up into her, meeting her halfway and following her pace and she moans yes. And this, just like this. And gods and also fuck, fuck, and if Tyrion could think — if he could form coherent, complete sentences in his mind — it would occur to him that he had to admire a woman who could call for her gods and curse at the same time while she fucked him, and do both graciously. But he is distracted by the gloss of her lips and the flames of her hair and her tits bouncing as she moves and the smoothness, the warmth, the tightness of her walls around him, and he says it to her — that she is making him so hard, that he is going to come so hard when she does, and his words have the precise reaction he was aiming at; she whimpers and cries and rocks against him harder, and faster, and he holds on until they can't wait any second longer. Then he takes one of her hands away from his chest, brings it to his lips, puts two fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them until they're dripping wet, and guides them to her clit: come for me, now, love.

And she does. He doesn't know what exactly does it for him. Maybe it's the sight of her, fucking him and rubbing herself and so lost in her own pleasure that he's not even sure she remembers he is there. Maybe it's the sensation of how she throbs and clenches around him at the end, or the sounds she makes when she finally comes, this wrecked cry, desperate and relieved at once. All he knows is that where she goes, he follows, and when he spends his seed inside her it feels so long, like he can't stop shuddering and trembling beneath her, like he'll be stuck here forever.

But he doesn't, and when it's over she's resting her weight on him, face hidden in his neck, chest rising with his as her lungs fight for air. Sansa turns her head so she can kiss his throat, and then his face, slow, sweet kisses that rain over him like holy water, and Tyrion closes his eyes and lets her. Sansa is a kind woman by nature, but she's the sweetest version of herself in these first minutes after she comes, in the lowered walls of her afterglow. Somehow it ruins away all the traces of shame he's expecting to creep in. It leaves no space for guilt, because she leans against him so pliant and vulnerable, and he always thinks: thank you. It sounds depressing and sad, to thank someone for fucking him, but is all he can think about, thank you. Thank you. One day he might even say it out loud.

Not today; today, he clutches her waist, and keeps her near as she distractedly kisses his face and runs her fingers through his hair, until she finally slides off and comes to lay back by his side.

He can get used to that. To the flowers. To get stolen from his responsibilities just to fuck in the middle of the afternoon.

"That," Sansa says, after a long, comfortable silence, they both staring at the ceiling, lost in thought, "is precisely what I need when I say I want your voice."

He laughs under his breath. "Your favorite part of my body. I know."

"Maybe I should reconsider that," she turns to her side, and Tyrion takes a look at his wife. Her cheeks are flushed and her hair is tousled and his heart skips a beat, just the one. He likes her like that, post-sex, silly, speaking her mind freely. "Your cock. Your cock is definitely my favorite part of your body."

He dramatically palms his chest. "Is it all I am to you? You just want to use me."

"I know!" She pouts, and slides a little bit closer, throwing her body over his chest, resting her chin on his breastbone. She looks really guilty. Not sorry. Just guilty. "You had plans, and many things to do, and I just..." she looks away, shaking her head hopelessly, sighing. "I am a horrible, selfish person."

"You are so horrible", he laughs, and brushes one petal stuck on her cheek away. "Maybe I'm being punished, after all," he murmurs, and she smiles so brightly, in that way that always makes him think it will blind him. She gives him a quick kiss and then starts to unwind her body from his, drawing away. He tightens his grip on her waist. "No, no. Where are you going?"

Sansa delicately untangles his fingers from her body, brings them to her mouth to kiss them. The gesture distracts him enough for her to leave. "To get dressed, so we can go about our days properly and do our duties," she says, sitting at the border of the bed.

He sighs, turning to lay on his side, his elbow supporting his weight as he watches his wife getting up, seeking for her clothes. "Is it not a wife's duty to please her husband?" He suggests. She's still very much naked and he knows exactly where she threw her dress away, one hour ago.

"It is, I suppose," she says, vaguely, but smiling.

"And isn't a husband's duty to make his wife come as many times as possible?" He says, calmly.

That, at last, makes her stop. She crosses her arms before her bare chest, nibbling at the nail of her little finger. Her skin looks whiter, her hair brighter as she stands in the middle of their chambers, all somber colors and dark stones around her. Her beautiful breasts are partially covered, but he takes in everything that is available to sight: her long legs, the red curls between them, covering her flesh at the top of her creamy thighs.

It remains a mystery to him, even now, how they came to this point.

"I'm not sure. Is it?" She whispers, and even at distance Tyrion can feel her hesitation, her divided heart.

So he smirks, and shrugs as well as he is able in his current position. "It is. It's written. It's sacred law."

His wife laughs, stepping closer again, supporting one knee on the mattress as she leans over him, halfway into the bed and halfway out. "Oh, what a pious man I have brought to my bed," she murmurs, and dives in to kiss him, but he retreats just one inch, enough to leave her hanging in the air, above him, their mouths almost brushing.

"Stay," he asks, fire sneaking into his tone, unbidden. Before she begins to argue, he raises one finger, put the pad gently over her lips. "I don't mean for fucking. Just stay here with me for a while. No one will miss us."

The statement is inaccurate. No one is going to miss him; many people will certainly miss Sansa.

She bites her lower lip. "I'll stay with you," Sansa vows, at last. "Let me at least get dressed."

He holds her wrist, raising one eyebrow, scoffing. "Do you think I'm incapable of talking to you while you're naked?"

She huffs a laughter. "I think I might be incapable of talking to you while you are naked."

It is Tyrion's turn to laugh. "I'm not that young anymore, I'll need a minute. Come here. As you are." He tugs at her wrist until she relents, coming back to rest by his side among the furs, sharing his pillow as he lies back down again. Her arm wraps loosely around his waist as Sansa cuddles against his side, and suddenly, memories hit him like a blow in the back of his head, making his mind whirl: he's thirteen in a cottage by the fire; it is a lazy spring afternoon, and the waves in the sunset sea have lulled Tysha to sleep in his arms; he kisses her closed eyelids and she stirs awake with a weak smile.

(Had he reaped flowers for her, too? He can't remember. He would remember, if he had, wouldn't he? They were so young; that sounds like a young thing to do, something she would have thought of. He remembers she used to like flowers- but which flowers?

He doesn't know. Even this memory feels false, out of place, like most of what happened that year.)

"What's wrong?" Sansa asks, her mouth brushing his shoulder, and Tyrion blinks twice.

"Nothing is wrong," he murmurs, but it sounds unconvincing even to his own ears.

"You're tense out of the sudden," Sansa explains, and rests her cheek on his chest. "And your heart..."

Yes, his heart is faster. He holds her tighter. Sansa is not Tysha. And Tywin Lannister is dead. "It's nothing," he says, and it is almost a truth. He starts to draw circles on her shoulder, to calm himself more than to reassure her. It works; she lets go, as she often does when she realizes he has slipped into some dark, twisted corner of his mind to which she's not welcome. She is studying the angry marks her nails left in him. They will probably disappear soon, leaving no scars and no evidence of her... resolve, so to speak. Her fingertips follow the red lines, like wild roads in a foreign country. Tyrion feels the afternoon stretching over them, this sensation that is starting to become familiar that time twists whenever she's near, and slowly, the panic begins to fade, like it was just lurking about his door and has decided not to break in for some reason.

When his heart is calmer, Sansa speaks again. "Look what I've done to you," she murmurs, the worries about her alleged duties apparently forgotten. Her voice sounds kind, sad and amused, all at once.

His eyes are watching her face. Her eyes are watching his chest, the way it rises and falls, his shoulders and his stunted arms. "I think you made quite a good job," he answers.

Sansa makes this important, pregnant pause. Her fingers are stroking his arms, all the way from his shoulder to his elbow, following the marks she's left in him like a map. "Do you like that?" She questions, no more amused, but still kind, always kind. "Being... Hurt?"

She is a smart woman, this wife of his, and knows more than she usually lets on, so he is not surprised. And yet he, too, needs a pause before answering her. "I do," he says.

"What else do you like?" She asks, boldly.

Being choked, he thinks. Being praised.

"Many things," he dismisses. "What do you like?" He takes her hand and brings her knuckles to his lips.

She blushes. "You know what I like." As if trying to dismiss him, too, she turns around, quickly, to grab another branch of lavender on the pillow by their side. This time, it is her who runs the petals over his skin, with the delicacy of feathers, of a lover's kiss. The flowers stroke everywhere she's scratched him, and Tyrion feels goosebumps along his arms and neck at the sensation; he closes his eyes to appreciate it better. After a minute he feels the gentle, smooth touch of flowers on his face, the scent filling his lungs like spring had just bursted into the room. "Tell me the story," she whispers. "Why do you like getting hurt?"

He opens his eyes to find her gaze sadly settled upon his face. "No. It's one of those you don't want to hear about." Tyrion brushes his hand over her shoulder, and then to the notches on her spine, just below her neck. The flower comes back to cover the marks she's left in his arms; melancholy lingering on her features, on the crease of her brow. He realizes she is sorry, though he doesn't know why. "In any case, you don't need to do anything that you're uncomfortable with," he murmurs. "It doesn't matter how much I like it."

She stays silent for a very long time. "I don't want to punish you," she says, simply, after almost a whole minute. "I guess I did, before, but not anymore. I don't want to feel that way about you ever again."

One of those days, Sansa will make him weep and it will be pathetic, a thirty-three years old dwarf crying during sex. It will be just — humiliating.

"All right," he murmurs. Sansa keeps sweeping the petals over his skin. He keeps staring at her hands as she does so. He doesn't know where her mind is, and does not expect her to ask what he is thinking about, too. The truth is that he is trying to think about nothing at all. Memories of war and ashes and blood and his empty home seem far away, another life. In this life, he has luxuries gold could not buy: to stay in bed doing nothing at all with the woman he is currently in love with, naked at his side. Tyrion reaches out one hand to fondle her hair, and her eyes finally rise to his face. "Tell me something I don't know," he says, not because the silence bothers him, but because he misses her voice.

Sansa chuckles. "You know almost everything," she complains. "That's not fair."

"Untrue. I don't know a great deal of things." He starts to run a hand through her hair, from the crown of her hair to the base of her neck, until he remembers it makes her sleepy; he decides for massaging the base of her neck instead. "I don't know, for instance, what is the meaning of lavender in the language of flowers."

"Calm. Silence. Devotion. Serenity," she says, running the bloom of lavender over his lips, and then on the scar in his face. "It's used in meditation. It's also good for wounds."

He turns his head to the side, kisses the palm of her hand. "Hm. And what if I had reaped, instead... I don't know. A cactus?"

She giggles. "A cactus. In the North."

"It is a glass garden," he shrugs, smiling to himself. There is nothing in the world more important than making Sansa laugh.

"Well, it means endurance, which is not exactly bad message," she says.

"What if I wanted to send a bad message?" He suggests. "What if you wanted to send a threat to your enemies? Or to test some of your bannermen with a dubious message?"

"Only you could think of such things, my lord," she laughs, but gives it an honest thought. "Some flowers can be very dubious," she proceeds to explain, every inch a lady. "Purple and blue hyacinths look very similar, but the first means sorrow and regret, and the second means constancy. Pines can mean both hope and pity. Peonies can stand for a happy marriage or a profound shame." She pauses. "They could be useful at court, I think."

He laughs. "They'd be. I'm glad you have no use for them here." And then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, her smile fades, changes, her eyes harden. "Or you do...?"

She leaves the flower resting on his chest, and then slides her body up, until she's no more under his arm but they are face to face. "I sent a letter for Lyanna Mormont yesterday."

"Oh," Tyrion says, resting his hand on the small of her back. Here it is, at last, the worry she was trying to hide. "Saying?"

"You know," she looks down, distracting herself with the golden strands of his hair. "Inviting her for a visit, thanking for the loyalty of House Mormont during our times of need."

Tyrion narrows his eyes. "Not a word about Rickon?"

"No," she says, defensively, but her voice shakes a little. "That is too delicate a subject to be handled through letters."

"You are afraid," he declares. Her eyes snap to his face, almost defiant. "Or not?"

Three seconds pass before she finally gives in, sighing. "What if she does not like me?"

Tyrion chortles. "The only person she cannot dislike is your brother and Lord."

"She is to be Lady of Winterfell in three years or so," Sansa mutters, laying on her back, away from him. "She can't hate me."

He slides closer to her until he is the one hovering above her, looking down at her face. He can see the lines of worry she has been trying uselessly to keep from their bed drawn on her beautiful face. His hand moves to cup one of her breasts, not teasing, just caressing. "No one has ever disliked you in history. Only idiots and mad men, and Lyanna Mormont is neither, or so I've been told." Sansa sighs, accepting the comfort of his touch, but not so much of his words.

"Your Queen dislikes me," she murmurs, eyes on the ceiling. "And she is neither."

Tyrion scrutinizes her face, bites his lower lip. "That's also untrue. Daenerys does not... Dislike you."

She finally holds back his gaze. "Did you tell her? About my plans for Rickon?"

He shifts, uncomfortable, moving his hand away from her breast to a more adequate spot, given the tone of the conversation, settling his fingers on her hip. "I'm not the Warden of the North; it is not my business to tell her."

Sansa's smile is sly and cold. "You speak as if she didn't concede you to me in marriage so she could control the North through you."

"Control the North through me?" He laughs, dryly. "I spend my days in the glass garden growing flowers, calculating grain supplies, and drawing drafts for the masons. Anyone in your household has more influence over the North than I do. If that was her plan, it failed."

And the words leave his mouth too fast, too charged. His hand is stiff on her skin, and he starts to take it back.

Sansa's eyes pierce through him, palming his hand to keep it on its place. "You didn't answer my question," she says. It is more the Lady of Winterfell and not so much his wife, but he appreciates how vulnerable she makes her voice. He trusts, even though he shouldn't, that she's being honest. Sansa is Littlefinger's creation; he cannot presume to know the extensions of her plans, wholly. He can only know what she wants him to know.

"I didn't tell her," he says, at last, "but I strongly advise you do. She must know, at least, that you are planning to wed the heir of Winterfell to a Northerner. Just to avoid any... Miscommunication."

Something in her face softens. "I treasure that. Thank you, my lord." Her hand slides about his body, coming to rest on the small of his back and pulling him closer. He does not resist her, sighing both his contentment and his pity at his own weakness. "I'm not trying to make you choose," she says against his neck.

"Good, because there's nothing to choose," he says, even though he is not quite sure.

"It bothers you," she says. Not a question. He draws away to look at her face, so he can have a broader grasp of what she means. "Not being Lord of Winterfell. And that's why you want to come back to the West."

He clears his throat. "That is not why I want to come back to the West."

"Why, then?"

"Because I have to," he says, in a voice that leaves little space for questions, his fists closing like balls. He sighs again, runs his tongue over his teeth. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," she whispers. There is no trace of apprehension in her eyes, only worry. He comes to realize that she does not fear him anymore as she once did, even in his anger or his frustration. She moves to open his hand, tugging at his fingers until he relents. "I value your counsel, if it means anything to you."

"It means everything to me."

"Not everything," she says, not accusing, ever tenderly, but true. He knows it in his bones. Not everything. "I know I can't give you what she's given you." A dragon? A job, a pin in his chest, a high seat at the dais? A purpose in life? A place in her council? Tyrion doesn't know what Sansa means and finds himself suddenly tired of this conversation that has barely started. It is over, that part of his life; Jon is living in his beloved Wall and Dany is living in her beloved throne and he is living with his beloved wife, and their dragons are dead but everyone is happy, aren't they. They were not meant to last.

"I'm not asking for you to," he says, and cradles her face in his hand. She is naked in his arms. Willingly. What is she even talking about?

"But I'm happy to call you lord husband," Sansa says, intertwining their fingers again, and Tyrion just—

"I don't need more than that," he says, and leans down to kiss her. She is pliant underneath him, until a protest rises in her throat as she shakes her head in denial.

"You know that's not true—", she tries to say, but he doesn't want to talk anymore. He thinks Sansa doesn't, either, because she exposes her neck to him and he attends the invitation, leaving pink, light marks on her skin as he kisses her collarbones and the column of her throat, his beard brushing her, marking her, and she trades her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. Her voice is breathless and vulnerable in his ear, almost as if she is afraid. "I'm not enough. I know that. But at least—"

"Shut up, Sansa," he says, voice firm but kind as he presses her mouth to hers once more, this time slipping his tongue among her lips. She hums pleasantly, her body arching under his, pulling him again until he finds himself between her open legs. "You are more than enough," he says against her chest, a poor summary to all the things he wishes he could say; I love you, I love you in the only way I know how, which is not much and not good but it is the best I can do, and you keep the ghosts out of my door, and you're my spring. Somehow it always feels like they are dancing around that soft morning when he came back to her and she asked him to stay, hanging in that thin line of their duties and their homes and their past and their future, trying to reach out to each other in the middle of the mess the War made, forever afraid of not being enough, afraid that they won't make it. It's not a peaceful love; it is not a strong love either, it is a fragile, breakable thing, but as she closes her hand around his cock, teasingly stroking him to full hardness, Tyrion cannot imagine how would it be not to fight for it. And he knows a thing or two, now, about the things that are worth fighting and dying for.

She guides him into her depths, whimpering, still tender and sore, and in that first second of amazement before she can urge him to move, when he's finally home, home, home, he wonders if he will ever feel used to the feeling of being inside Sansa, if those first seconds of pure bliss will ever stop.

(It has to, eventually.)

But that is thought for another day, a rougher one. Today, she wraps her legs around his hips, and her arms around his neck, and orders for him to move— slow, darling, she says, moaning softly in his ear as he fucks her— calmly, silent, devoted, serene.

When the news finally arrive, it is a clear morning – and it's not snowing. A good omen, for those who believe.

They are dwelling together in Sansa's solar, all of them: it was supposed to be a private lesson for Rickon, but Podrick decided to stay around. Jeyne came looking for the younger knight, and when Sansa gently extended to her the invitation to stay, she’d merely shrugged, sitting by Podrick's left. Then Brienne appeared, looking for Sansa, and the Lady of Winterfell beckoned her friend closer; they were no longer talking about numbers and figures as they should. Instead, Tyrion was entertaining them all with one of his unbelievable stories of dragons in Essos, and Rickon was all wide-eyed and making questions, how fast could they fly, and is there anything in the world south of the Wall that could kill them? and how high you had ever been in the sky, Lord Tyrion? At some point, Sam and Gilly appeared as well; then, there were more people than chairs, so they moved to the fireplace, taking their places in the chairs and couches and in the furs among the cushions, Tyrion sitting by Sansa's side on the small loveseat, her feet on his lap as he stroked her ankle, Jeyne sitting on the ground, laying her head back on Sansa's thigh behind her, Podrick protectively sitting by Jeyne's side out of habit, Brienne in a chair, Sam in the other, Gilly on the arm of Sam's chair, Rickon in the center of the carpet, when suddenly—

"A raven!" someone shouts from the hallway, and they all hear hurried steps in the distance, running closer and closer to them until Arya comes rushing into the room, slightly breathless. The conversation stops, and the Stark girl has a letter in her hands, still sealed. "A white raven!"

Gendry follows behind her, three seconds later and also breathless; the couple's breathing is actually the only sound they can listen to. Jeyne's eyes seek for Podrick's with a fragile hope. Brienne eyes Sam, unbelieving. Tyrion looks at Sansa, measuring her reaction; she's her usual self in her composure and in her face. Only her blue eyes thaw.

The truth is that it is not an unexpected new; it is only something they already knew. Days feel longer, in the past weeks; nights feel warmer, the glass gardens are suddenly blooming with flowers where they only had fruits before, the winds are kinder, not so harsh, and when the snow falls it is gentle and almost beautiful, like a blessing and not a curse.

And yet.

Rickon is the first one to react. He jumps on his feet and all but runs toward his sister. "Give it to me!"

Arya laughs, stretching her arm in the air, raising her hand as high as she can to keep the parchment from her little brother. Tyrion hardly sees Arya playing, those days, and the sight makes his throat feel tighter for some reason. "No! Why? I got it first."

But Rickon is getting taller and taller, even though he has not entered manhood yet, so Arya decides to close the letter in her fist behind her back instead, dancing in circles as Rickon tries to get her. He finally puffs and gives up, looking annoyed at his sister; he was never one to make a fool of himself. "Because I am your Lord," he replies. "And the letter was sent to me."

Tyrion allows himself the stolen right to feel proud of the boy, if not for anything else, at least because he has come to recognize the importance of good arguments instead of force. Even Arya surrenders with another laughter. "Good point," she concedes. "What about we open it together and read it together?"

Rickon narrows his eyes, but nods, and so Arya pulls him to her, his back against her front as she wraps her arms around him, the letter in front of them both in her right hand. When Sansa hugs him, Rickon's height gets to her bosom, but Arya is shorter, able to easily rest her chin over his head. Rickon's left hand holds the parchment. "On three," he says.

"All right," Arya agrees. "One."

"Two," Rickon follows,

"Three," they say together, opening the seal with a delicacy fit for Spring, like it is a petal, a flower still caught in winter, to be handled carefully.

Tyrion thinks he listens Jeyne sobbing, but just once, and it is so low, and so quiet, it could be just the wind, or the crackle of the wood in the hearth, it could be anything. They all get up; in reverence or only anxious expectation, Tyrion can't tell.

There's a silence, just a second, before Rickon reads the first line, out loud and solemn. "To all the Houses of Westeros, from the Citadel of Oldtown."

"The Conclave has met," Arya reads, "and considered the reports and measurements made by maesters all over the kingdoms."

"As it is known," Rickon proceeds, "our work has been delayed for the lack of qualified maesters and the peculiar circumstances of the last years, and we were careful as to not give false hopes to the realm,"

"but at last, we can safely affirm that Spring has arrived upon us." Arya says, and her voice almost does not waver, almost.

"After six years, five months and twelve days," Rickon announces, "this long Winter has come to an end."

They all watch in silence as Rickon bends his neck back to look up to Arya's face, and the small, reassuring smile she gives to him before their eyes come back to the letter. "Our wish to you all is only for good fortune in your future endeavors, fruitful harvests and peaceful times," Arya says, with finality, and they let the letter drop.

(Tyrions thinks, in this order, of three things:

have Jon and Dany received such letter already? Are they reading them alone, now? He imagines Jon surrounded by his brothers, in black, and his wildlings, drinking ale before the midday meal, but when he tries to think of Dany all he can picture is her figure alone in that cursed Keep,

he remembers Winter, all in two rushed, infinite seconds: how it fell upon his House and it slipped into his bones; how it had hurt and how long it had lasted, and now it all vanishes, under the power of a parchment, like the last years were a memory, a nightmare, like they are now waking up, sweating and relieved, to the scent of flowers,

he thinks of Sansa, of her smile as he ran lavender petals between her breasts, of her eyes as she rained them over him; he thinks spring has arrived earlier for him than for anyone else.)

But he has not much time to think, to muse about the changing of seasons, because the room erupt into the silliest, purest joy. It flows among them like an invisible wave; it washes over them. Arya laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and it is not amused, it is not dry, or scorned, it is the happiest Tyrion has ever seen her, and Gendry takes her off the ground in his arms, spins her around in the air as she holds onto him. Sansa runs to Rickon and hugs him and says something in his ear that no one else hears, and Little Sam giggles, unaware, as both Gilly and Sam kiss his hair and whisper to him that spring is here, and Jeyne hugs Podrick out of the sudden, a incredulous smile in her lips; the young man looks upon her shoulder to Brienne, behind her. Then Sansa reaches out to her husband, clutching his face and kissing him, and Gendry is hugging Rickon, and Jeyne seeks for Sansa to hold her hand, and everyone is suddenly hugging and laughing and smiling, until Arya, inside Brienne's arms, catches Sansa's eye.

And something passes between them, so powerful and so strong that they all lower their voices to murmurs, to give room to it, whatever it is. Sansa lets go of Podrick to approach her sister; Arya lets go of Brienne, and says, as simple and merry as it can be, "we made it, Sansa. I told you we would!"

And Sansa laughs, too, but it soon turns into a sob, and another, and then she is crying, and still laughing. "Arya..."

"We did it," Arya says, and Tyrion watches his strong, his controlled, courteous wife fall into Arya's arms, almost stumbling into her, as if her little sister is catching her halfway, and even if Sansa is one head taller, she is the one leaning against Arya's shoulder as the younger one holds her tight.

"Gods, I thought it would never end," Sansa murmurs into Arya's dark hair.

Arya nods. It is the first time in Tyrion's life that he sees her crying. She lets go of just one arm to stretch it toward Rickon, beckoning him closer as the other arm remains tightly circled around Sansa's shoulder. "Come here, Rick," she says. "You officially survived your first Winter."

Sansa creates room to accommodate Rickon between them, still laughing and still crying as she kisses his hair. There are holes in that hug, they can feel, but the ghosts — the dead and the absent — are friendly now, in the spring breeze. The three of them stay there the longest time, and no one dares to interrupt them.

Spring is good news to everyone, but it is different for them, for the Starks; they all know it. Their parents would be very proud.

The news spread to the castle and to the North, and Tyrion finds it odd, amusing, almost, how everyone is suddenly happier.

In the West, spring and summer were mostly opportunities for business, for good trades and good prices on food. In the North it certainly means that, but it also means a mysterious form of hope, the liberation of all the potential that winter forced them to keep hidden, the gods and nature themselves giving them leave to try again. In the North, he learns, spring is not only a good chance at better prices, but it means an open mind to new ideas, to new alliances. It is time to marriages and pregnancies and fostering children who are already born and new people in council seats. It is time to make plans and pursue them, feed them into growth. And so, Sansa and Rickon spend their days sending letters to most of the major Houses in the North so they can gather in Winterfell for the feast of Spring (which Tyrion also learns to be one of those northerner traditions he cannot dare to change). And if Sansa drags him even more eagerly into their bed, or actually into any available, empty room of Winterfell, at any time of the day, demanding his tongue or his fingers when not his cock, he won't complain. But Arya will.

"Seriously," she says, one afternoon, after he comes back to her solar, where they've been working to organize the feast that is to happen in a moon's turn. He had escaped, as discreetly as he could, when he saw Sansa passing across the door, pausing just to glance at him for a second before she kept on her way, inviting him to chase her — but maybe he lost track of time a bit. "It's the end of the afternoon. Couldn't you just wait until evening, like any normal couple?"

He chuckles. "I suppose we could, but why would I?" he says, taking the seat by her side.

"It is like you are newly weds. So disturbing."

"It is, technically, our first honeymoon," Tyrion reminds her. It sounds like too much information, but it is better than the alternative he has in mind, that consists in gently asking his good-sister to fuck off. "So if you could leave us be, please."

She makes a pause, refusing to look at his face. "At least she is happier lately. Yesterday I suggested that we changed the main meal of the feast, and do you know what she said to me?"

"I don't," Tyrion answers, looking into her parchment to see the accounts of grain supplies, and prices of different types of wine.

"She said oh, sure, fine." Arya shrugs. "She just left it for us to decide."

Tyrion openly laughs, crossing his arms against his chest. "She has other things in her mind to fuss about chicken or goat-meat," he says, because he feels like it is his duty to defend his wife, even though he understands Arya more than he'd like to. Sansa can be irritatingly picky and centralizing when she wants to.

"She has other things in her mind? She has other things in many parts of her body," Arya mutters.

"Gross," Tyrion chides, but smiles nevertheless. "But it is true. Lady Lyanna Mormont has confirmed her presence at the feast, and Sansa is nervous. She needs to..." He thinks it through, "... release the tension, somehow."

"All right. If you would be so kind as to ask her to release the tension a little bit more quietly during the day, I'm sure we would all appreciate it," Arya says, and glances at him almost with a death stare.

He chuckles again, unshaken. "Sure. That's reasonable."

Arya hands him the parchment with a list of flowers for decoration of the Great Hall in resentful silence, as if she is punishing him with the worst part of their job. But Tyrion doesn't mind. He is in too good of a mood, and honestly, he quite likes the glass gardens.

But the changing of seasons, apparently, brings its own complications; Tyrion receives a letter (from a normal, small, black raven) with the royal seal of House Targaryen in the afternoon before the feast.

Both he and Sansa had agreed that the most sensible thing they could do, at first, was to keep him secretly working in their chambers, attending only to the meals they ate together in the Great Hall, during the weeks the guests kept arriving for the big event. Sansa and Rickon welcomed everyone, but the North was still suspicious of her marriage, and they needed to make the transition from her power to Rickon's as the Head of their House as smoothly as possible. Not to exhibit her Lannister husband as a prize in their first encounter with her bannermen was a choice as smart as any other he'd expect of her.

And still it had a sting to it; the feeling of hiding from guests is familiar, to say the least. Sansa had held his face at night, whispered in the dark that she was not ashamed of him, that she was proud of being his wife. He knew she was sincere. That was not the problem, but he didn't expect her to understand, either. At night, and in those fleeting, stolen moments during the day, he is able to forget that he is one of the complications in her life, able to compensate for the shortcomings that his presence brings to her plans.

All in all, this is the reason why he is alone when he opens the wax seal and reads the parchment that arrives from King's Landing. He recognizes Dany's own handwriting; the words are short and unusually cold.

  To Lord Tyrion Lannister in Winterfell.

  My lord, I am afraid important matters require your presence in the capital. Do not worry, for they are not urgent; I expect your arrival in two moons. I only send you this raven so you can arrange your travel South in advance. I hope spring has arrived kindly upon the North.

It signs Daenerys of House Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, so on and so forth.

For some reason, Tyrion shivers. He remembers Sansa's words, the subtle venom when she suspected of Dany's plans, her constant fear that he would be taken away by the Queen's request. As friendly as it was, Tyrion can recognize a command when he sees one. His Queen is not asking. He keeps the letter with him through the day, in the pocket of his jerkin.

That night, as they get dressed for the feast, he locks the letter in his drawer and tries to forget it, for the moment. It gets surprisingly easier when Sansa rushes into their bedchamber with no warning, absently seeking for something until her eyes lock in the cabinet where they keep their shoes. She walks to it, finds a pair of old boots in brown leather and sits on the edge of the bed to change while Tyrion observes her.

"So," he starts, approaching her while she gets rid of her current boots, black and new, for the older pair. "You are going to just walk into our room as if you're not dressed like a goddess."

She looks like spring itself, wearing a white gown with embroidered flowers in different colors crawling up the sleeves all the way to her shoulders, around the waist climbing until her bosom and descending to the top of her skirts, and actual flowers stuck into the tresses of her braided hair, little white and yellow jonquils, delicate roses, a branch of lavender. She wears a necklace of a wolf in silver, suggestively pending on the cleft of her bosom. He has never seen her wearing such a colorful dress before. He actually can't remember the last time he's seen so many colors at once, period. It almost leaves him dizzy.

She smiles, diverting her eyes from her feet to look upon him, her eyes analyzing his small form as she tilts her head to the side. "You're not bad, either," she comments.

He huffs before commenting, casually, "old boots?"

"It is a night for dancing and celebration," she answers, slightly spreading her legs to welcome him. He comes closer, standing among her skirts, careful not to step on the hem of her dress as he puts his hands on her hips. She curls one eyebrow as she inspects him closely. "But you won't be able to enjoy it if you’re that worried. What’s wrong?"

Tyrion swallows and tries to avoid, successfully, to look at the drawer of the table at the corner of their room where the Queen's letter waits. Tonight is for celebration, he remembers. Having sex periodically with the same partner has some collateral effects, one of them being he is unlearning how to raise his walls around Sansa as he did before. Now she sees easily through him. "No worries," he promises, trying to pay attention to the most appealing subject literally in his hands, before him. The neckline of her gown is carefully planned to be fit for springtime but not too revealing, a perfect balance between a Lady of a great House and a careless woman enjoying a feast. He runs a finger on the upper curve of her breast before he bends down to chastely kiss it. "You're stunning, and I am going to make you come in this dress before the night ends."

That distracts her enough of her worries about his worries. She licks her lower lip before she bites it. "Hm," she hums under her breath, with somber eyes. The lust in them is almost too good to be true, but Tyrion has, at last, found some sort of peace with his luck in the last couple of months. "They say Lannisters pay their debts."

"We always do," he vows, and leans in to steal a kiss, but she palms his chest just in time to stop him.

"We're late," she says, and smiles, maidenly innocent, getting on her feet and holding his hand. "Shall we?"

Tyrion sighs, but follows, readying himself for a feast without wine and his wife, beautifully dressed, about to tease him the whole night through.

The feast goes just according to planned, but breaking one rule or two is part of the plan; it is a feast to celebrate Spring, after all, and Tyrion has found out peculiar northerner traditions regarding this particular season.

The Great Hall is decorated with flowers, all the types that bloom in early spring, at the dead of Winter: magnolias and pansies; blue snowdrops hanging over the tables; woven chains of dwarves irises above the hearths. Rickon takes the central seat at the dais, Arya by his left and Sansa at his right, and Tyrion trying to disappear by her side. Nymeria and Shaggy rest near Arya's and Rickon's chairs, an idea suggested by Rickon himself, which made Tyrion think, at the occasion, that the boy was way smarter than they gave him credit for. The party from House Mormont occupies one of the best places in the Hall, closest to the Starks, but in truth, all the lords and ladies invited come to officially compliment Rickon Stark, heir to Winterfell, to kiss the simple silver ring in his right hand with their heads bowed as a sign of their loyalty. Actually, most of them come to shake Tyrion's hand as well, not missing the way his hand and Sansa's are intertwined over the table. Tyrion spent a great part of the last month helping Rickon to learn by heart the names and mottos and sigils of all the Houses of the North, as a way to force himself to learn it as well. He is pleased to see how the youngest Stark gets on his feet as he smiles, calling each lord by their first and second names, thanking them for their presence before they can thank him for his hospitality.

It is the way of the Starks, Tyrion knows, to conquer their people through service and respect, and not fear. There's a moment of slight tension when Alys Karstark, now a Thenn, approaches Rickon. She comes alone, without her husband. Tyrion remembers that Sansa devoted to her a whole afternoon the previous week upon her arrival, and when she slides to Rickon's right and takes Sansa's hand, her courtesy is rigid, but there's no malice in her eyes. "My lady," she says, and stares at Tyrion with her cold blue eyes — not like Sansa's, bright and clear, but grayish and dark. Tyrion knows for a fact that Jaime killed her brothers in battle. Tyrion also knows that there's some bad blood between the Starks of Winterfell and the Karstark of Karhold. But Alys is a Thenn now; Jon told him the story. And she is here. That certainly means something; it has to. "I see our Lord Rickon has inherited Robb's looks," she says, words neat and simple, and her gaze settles upon Tyrion for just a second before she smiles. A shiver runs on his spine. It sounds less like a compliment and more like a warning, a question, verging on a plain threat.

But his wife merely smiles one of her crafted and polite smiles of court. "I've been told," Sansa answers. "We have the best hopes for him. Certainly he'll make us all very proud." Her words, on the other hand, are not a wish as much as they are a secret, veiled promise, weighing in the air like a sacred vow.

Alys waits three seconds before she nods quietly and passes them by, which Tyrion takes as an acceptance. When Sansa sits back again she holds his hand beneath the table, her fingers trembling. Tyrion squeezes them firmly until they're steady.

Unlike Alys, the rest of the guests don't pay the same attention to his presence. Indeed, most of them shake his hand, if not happily, at least politely. They are just happy enough to have the Starks in Winterfell again and peace in the North and spring finally at their doors. Tyrion caught Lyanna's gaze at him two times, but he doesn't keep her eye. Rickon makes a quick but remarkable speech, that both Tyrion and Sansa helped him to rehearse uncountable times that week, before the meals are brought in: warm and safe words of welcome and hope for the future and good wishes for everyone. The food is the most expensive and prodigal that Tyrion has ever seen in Winterfell; they are served fruit tarts, apricots and strawberries, cherries and raspberries, white cheese and green olives with fried breads in butter, white beans and bacon, honeyed duck and cod cakes, venison pies, cheese and onion pies, chestnut soup, baked apples with cinnamon for dessert, lemon cakes with sugar (at Sansa's request). Almost half of the food was brought to Winterfell by their guests; unlike in the West, Tyrion learns that the communal, collaborative nature of the feast for Spring is a sign of good faith for future alliances. But the drinks, easily the most abundant resource at every table, are full responsibility of the House Paramount: there's traditional northerner beer — dark and strong — but there's also wine for all tastes: honeyed wine, spiced wine, sour red, and Sansa even allows him to have two or three extra cups.

And there's music. Tyrion is used to watch — but not to dance — a very different style of dancing and music: the southerner waltz, slow and constant, every step reined, of his childhood at Casterly Rock and of his youth in King's Landing. Northerner dance is another matter entirely. Its rhythm grows faster and harder, into a crescendo that is almost erotic, like a climax, as the dancers switch partners until everyone seems to be dancing with everyone at the same time in a big circle, and then they come back to their initial partners and another music starts and it all begins again. Men and women, children and adults, even bastards and servants are part of the dance. It is even funnier to see when the dancers involved are drunk, as the present case.

He watches Sansa dancing from his seat. She dances with Rickon, with Arya, with almost every northerner lord, a smile upon her lips and her feet quick as she spins around from one arm to another to another to another. She glances at him and she looks so beautiful and so free and so genuine in her happiness that he can't feed any kind of resentment or self-pitying thought. She is his, and everybody knows. There's certain possessive pride in watching them all dance with her unable to hold anything but her arm or her hand, unable to know the texture of her bare skin as he does.

And so he watches, and when she catches his eye, he holds her gaze until she smiles.

At midnight, a crown of hellebores and winter aconites in yellow and white is brought by Arya. It is time to crown the King and Queen of Springtime. Daenerys does not know of this tradition and Tyrion hopes to keep it like that. It is the usual costume to give the crown of flowers to the Lord and Lady of the North, and so Sansa is crowned by the hands of a member of House Waterman, and Rickon is crowned by the hands of some wildling that Jon and Sansa turned into a House in the Gift at his request.

But they are not supposed to keep their crowns. Spring is the world turning upside down, it is the nature breaking through the norm of snow and cold. And so, in the weirdest ceremony Tyrion has ever seen in his life, he watches as Rickon passes his flowery crown to a shy blacksmith named Allen Snow, a young man that bears no great name and possesses no land, Gendry's apprentice and part of the household of Winterfell merely because of the Stark's mercy; and Sansa takes her crown off her head and gives it to her friend, Jeyne Poole, bowing down as the girl accepts it with a timid smile, clutching Podrick's hand at her side as if he is part of her personal Queensguard.

A king and a queen, praised by all the lords and ladies of the North as if they are of the purest royal blood, seating at the dais in Sansa's and Rickon's places for the rest of the night while everyone cheers them up and kneel and raise to them their cups and swords.

It gives Tyrion and Sansa a nice leave to change their seats to a more hidden table at the corner (he can't help but notice that Rickon chooses to seat with the Mormonts of Bear Island). Sansa bends over to talk to him over the sound of music, her face so close to his that it is almost improper. But everyone is drunk, nobody is paying them any mind, and if they are, Tyrion couldn't care less. They are not the only couple in the Hall, and he has spent the whole night trying to be invisible. Sansa is the only person who sees him, and he doesn't need another pair of eyes. "So," she says, amused. Her cheeks are stained scarlet, strands of her red hair messily escaping from the braids and molding her face, her pink lips half-parted as she catches her breath. Her mouth smells of honeyed wine. "Has any lady caught your attention yet, my lord?"

He grins. "Just the one," he murmurs, and carefully gets up, walking towards the closest corridor that leads the way into the Keep.

He doesn't look back. She will follow. He just knows it.

They don't make it to the bedchamber, probably for the best. As drunk as the lords and ladies may be in the Great Hall, he can't just disappear with the Regent of Winterfell for the rest of the night.

Instead, they find themselves in one of the abandoned closets on the ground floor, one that they've used before once (maybe twice). Sansa locks the door behind them, turns around and waits. In the dim light of the closed room, illuminated only by the candle she stole from the hallway on her way, she looks around, rests the candlestick over a wooden box by her side and takes a step closer as Tyrion sits on the nearest bench he can find, against a wall between two empty wardrobes. There's the distant, muffled sound of music and laughter and dancing as she slowly makes her way toward him, standing in front of him, supporting her hands on his shoulders. He keeps his eyes on her half-shadowed face as he slips his hands under her dress, caressing her thighs in his way to find her small-clothes, sliding them down until she can step out of them.

She doesn't take her dress off as she straddles him; a Lannister, after all, always pay their debts. And here, sitting on his lap while she looks down on him, eyes sharp and glinting, she looks... regal.

"You should have accepted that crown," he murmurs, cradling her waist in the palm of his hand, the other still beneath her skirts, fondling the inner face of her thigh.

Sansa raises one eyebrow, loosely wrapping her arms around his neck as she cocks her head. "Is that so?" She inquires, narrowing the distance between their mouths until they're brushing and their voices are but whispers. The flowers have fallen from her hair but she still smells like spring when he nudges the ruin of his nose against her jaw-line, all the way to the skin under her ear: rosemary and something else, something hers alone, the scent of her sweat and her skin and of her.

"You are a Queen," he declares— no, he confesses. "In every sense."

(He's always believed so.)

There's pride in her face as she ponders, clicks her tongue, runs her nails over the back of his head. It is the most delicate of the touches, and maybe it is just the wine but it feels so, so good. He sighs, lets his lids fall closed to enjoy it. "You're speaking treason, my lord," she confides.

The wicked gleam in her sky-eyes; the corner of her lips raised into a tiny, sly smile; he almost doesn't think about that letter hidden in his drawer, upstairs, almost. He swallows dry, feels himself impossibly harder, aching.

"Oh, but that's unfortunate," he murmurs, reaching the apex of her thighs. She squirms above him, her whole body yielding to his touch as she subtly spread her legs a little further, rocks her hips almost imperceptibly against him. "I guess we ought to keep it between us, then."

"It will be our secret," she agrees, and buries her hand in his hair, raising his head to kiss him like his mouth is an offering at her altar, like he is a vassal on his knees.

Chapter Text

The birds were louder this morning,
raucous, oblivious, tweeting their teensy bird-brains out.
It scared me, until I remembered it’s Spring.
How do they know it? A stupid question.
Thank you, birdies. I had forgotten how promise feels.

"Spring (Again)", by Michael Ryan

There are signs, of course, like in the tales her father told her when she was a little girl: children of the forest marking their way among the woods, leaving berries behind on their wake to find their way back. In her case, to find her way forward. She picks the signs little by little, completely unaware. She has always thought that something like this, so grand, so important, a dream so old — surely she would discover as soon as it happened, in that ethereal and mysterious way that dreams work; she imagined she would know without knowing, she'd feel it.

It is not the case. If she's being honest, Tyrion finds out (he, indeed, without knowing) first than she does, as follows:

It is one of those nights he's brought work to their bedchamber. It is late and the Keep has fallen into slumber, but Tyrion is bent over parchments and letters at his desk. There is an irrational urge in Sansa to establish her unpaired priority in his life over anything else, work included, and it doesn't take too much coaxing and not too much time to accomplish her goal. She comes closer, sits on his lap, and then kisses his cheek; he complains that he needs to write this letter urgently, and my lady, I am working, and she promptly ignores him and keeps chasing his mouth and one kiss becomes two that becomes twelve and then in no time he's lifted her to sit on the table in front of him and her legs are spread and his parchments are all over the place, her cunt is offered at the border as his tongue does what it knows to do best under her skirts, her knees squeezing his head, her hand twisting in his curls, the other supporting her weight on the wooden table. This position is so convenient, she'd think if she could. It is like the furniture was made for it.

Her hands falter her in her climax as her body arcs and she falls back on her elbows, breathlessly panting. It most definitely is a nice table.

After a minute, when Sansa is able to open her lids, her husband is resting back in his chair, observing her as she recovers her breath, with his mismatched and scrutinizing and smug eyes, toying with her small-clothes, his mouth glinting with her wetness. She smiles weakly. He's always so beautiful after he has pleased her, and she notices that he is invitingly hard inside his trousers.

He follows the movements of her eyes. "Later," he promises. "I really need to finish that letter."

She rolls her eyes, propping herself up again, her skirts easily falling back around her legs. She doesn't care to wear her small-clothes again. "It can't be that important," she murmurs, but it is mostly to herself; she knows it is a battle lost.

He cleans his lips with his thumb and looks at the wetness that lingers there, brow frowning. "Your taste is different today," he comments in a distracted voice, as if he is thinking out loud. Lately he has been very distant, her husband.

Sansa's head tilt to the side as she leans closer to him. "Different? Bad?"

"No," he shakes his head, his tone almost soothing as he absently strokes her left calf under her dress. "No, not bad, just... different," he shrugs.

But Sansa doesn't think much of it. As she retires to bed, waiting for him, it does not occur to her that her moon-blood is unusually late.

And then comes the sickness, but that, too, passes them by.

Because it is normal to be sick when the seasons change, and in that fatidical week almost one third of the household spent three or four days abed, being tended to by Sansa herself, with the help of Jeyne. Soon Jeyne fell sick, and then it was Sansa's turn. But while everyone was coughing, red noses, body aching and burning in fever, the only sign that Sansa is not in full health is the little detail that, one morning, she refuses lemon-cakes during breakfast in their private chambers.

Tyrion eyed her suspiciously. "You don't want lemon-cakes." He repeats, as if she had just confessed she could turn into a dragon at will.

"They smell different today," she says, feeling a nauseous feeling in her stomach. "We need to check this crop. Maybe it's rotten."

"The lemons are rotten?" He curls one eyebrow, observing her in a way she doesn't like at all. His lemon-cake is half-eaten in his plate. "They taste like normal lemon-cakes, Sansa."

"It's the scent that is different," Sansa mutters. She looks at the boiled eggs in her plate, untouched as well, and winds her hand on the edge of the table. Gods. Those must be rotten, too.

"The scent is half of the experience," he says, and puts one hand above hers. "You look positively disgusted. Are you feeling well?"

"I'm well! Don't worry about me," she affirms, not letting go of his hand, smiling weakly and reaching for her cup of tea. Tea is fine. Tea is wonderful. She doesn't need food. She can spend her whole day running on tea.

But her husband smiles condescendingly to her. "You're going to get sick."

Sansa shakes her head behind her cup, putting it down on the table again before she swallows the hot liquid in her tongue. "Absolutely not. I feel great. I've never been better. I can't be sick, now that Spring has come we need to-"

"I am sure a lot of work needs to be done," he says, pressing the back of his hand against her forehead, which, by the way, is not burning, in any form. "I'm just saying you are going to be sick."

"I am of the North," Sansa mutters, displeased. "I didn't get sick during Winter, not even once. I won't fall sick because of a stupid spring flu."

Tyrion chuckles, gets up and kisses her cheek. "Yes, but winter is over, sweetheart," he says.

She feels better as the day passes, and convinces herself that her husband is very wrong, but the next morning, she runs off the breakfast table straight to the privy, throwing up everything she tried to eat only two minutes prior. As she sits on the ground, her back against the stony wall, she hears Tyrion's steps approaching and his worried tone calling for her. "Sansa?" She is about to answer she is fine when another wave of nausea hits her and she kneels, bending over again, her stomach twisting over nothing; she tries to vomit but no food comes out.

Somehow Tyrion is by her side in a minute, rubbing her back and holding her hair. "You don't have to see this," she says, sitting down again and breathing in deep, eyes closed, cleaning her mouth with the back of her hand. There's a thin layer of cold sweat in her brow.

"Non-sense, woman," he dismisses. He has brought a chalice of cold water infused with orange and mint leaves that she accepts without resistance. She washes her mouth with the first gulp, spits it out and only then drinks. His fingers touch her forehead carefully again.

"How come you are in perfect health?" She complains out loud.

He gives a quiet chortle. "Hm," he shrugs, his grin lingering. "Maybe I'm more of a northerner now than you give me credit me for." In spite of her current state, Sansa chuckles, because the idea is ludicrous. "You're going to rest today," he declares; it does not sound like he is politely asking.

"I really have work to do," she pleads. She loves and hates, at once, the feeling of being tended to as if she is a child; she loves and hates at once that he notices the shiver running on her arms.

"Then work from our chamber," he orders. "I'll have a bath ordered for you. And more tea. And some bread." He comes closer and cups the back of her head, towering over her, guiding her eyes up to his. Something strange fills his mismatched eyes, then; worry, of course, concern, but there's something else that she can't quite put her finger on. "My lady," he says, very serious. "Is everything..." he looks away, as if he is seeking for some word, some very specific word he does not seem to find, so he looks at her face again and finishes, "... fine? With... you? Lately?"

She smiles, very feeble, but honest. "You worry too much," she says, squeezing his hand. "It's just a flu. I only need to rest. I'm stronger than that."

He smiles back to her. But he takes too many seconds to answer. "Of course you are," he murmurs, and kisses her forehead. "But I'm going to send Brienne to guard the door and give her direct orders to carry you back to bed, if needed."

And the truth is that she is too weak to oppose him. This is how she finds herself working in her own bed that morning, wearing her thickest night-shift, reading her letters. As the morning turns into afternoon, she honestly feels better, and that whole endeavor of putting an actual knight to her door seems ridiculous, even if said knight is mostly a friend. Tyrion comes to visit her during the midday meal, forces her to eat some bread and berries, and when he leaves she decides that if she can't leave the bedroom chamber to properly work in her solar, she can, at least, sit on a proper chair and use a proper table to write the answers she needs.

It is almost the end of the day when Sansa's knee brush against the sharp edge of the left drawer, the one where Tyrion keeps his private things.

They've never talked about it being private, using this word, because there was no need. She gave him the key, after all, more than one year ago. He was a Lannister sharing her bed and living in her home. He needed something to call his, a place for himself. That drawer was that place. The reminder that his life was not fully under the rule of the Lady of Winterfell. That he was a lion of his own, not meek, not docile, not tamable. When the ravens come with letters to him, he'd come to this chamber she finds herself in, alone, now; he'd read them before the fireplace. Sometimes he'd spend many hours staring into the flames as he thought the letters through. Sometimes he'd toss them into the fire and sometimes he'd lock them in this exact drawer. Sometimes he'd tell her about them. Often, most times, not.

Sansa thinks about the last weeks. Since the Spring feast, one month ago, he has been acting so weird: he'd be working alone and would start when she approached him too silently. She'd question him about plans for the following months and he would dismiss her, or draw her attention to other urgent matters at hand. Sometimes he was so distracted it barely felt like he were in the same room with her. She also thinks about his behavior since the first day he landed his feet on Winterfell to live with her. How a word can suddenly turn his mood inwards, miles away from her reach. How sometimes, she'll be tucked into his arms and his eyes will wander away to the window, somewhere she can't find him.

No, she reprimands herself. You won't do such thing.

But like a drunkard around a flagon of wine, this is how Sansa feels around prohibited, secret things. It's an old, ugly habit she learned at the Vale; many things of Alayne still cling to her, more than she'd like, lingering like a scar after a bloody battle, and this is one of them. When things feel off, she follows secrets like a wolf can feel the scent of blood, miles away.

And so, despite her honor and conscience screaming no, no, don't, Sansa opens the drawer that belongs to her husband. There, she finds a letter from Daenerys Targaryen.

When Tyrion retires to their chambers that night, Sansa is waiting.

Anger hones her eyes. She observes the way he comes in, closes the door, his shoulders dropped as if he is tired from bearing a weight. Secrets must be really heavy, she fumes in her mind. He only notices her gingerly posture, sitting at the border of the bed with a parchment in hand, after he has taken off his cloak. Her husband looks at the paper, and then at her face, and frowns. The confusion in his expression triggers something in her and she gets up almost in a jump. Shaking the letter, just once, she speaks through her gritted teeth: "You are going to King's Landing?"

Tyrion, at first, remains puzzled, standing in the middle of their bedroom, three feet away from her.

Then, in a second, realization softens his features.

And in the next second, he is just confused again. "How did you find that letter?" He inquires.

Sansa cannot listen to his words. She cannot listen to almost anything but her own loud, insistent heartbeat in her ears. "When did you plan to tell me?" She says, trying not to yell, feeling that she will fail at it. "Did you plan to tell me at all? Or I'd just wake up one day and you would have left right back to the arms of your Queen?" She strides on the room, back and forth, barely measuring her words before they come out. "Going South is never a small decision for us, Tyrion. Again you make plans without me, again you plan to leave me behind without informing me, how many times—"

"Sansa," he repeats, and his voice is so deep that she is forced to glance at him, "where did you find the letter?" And he fumbles in his pockets, inside his jerkin, finding his key. He looks at it, and then at her again.

"It doesn't matter," Sansa mutters.

"Of course it matters, it was locked inside my drawer!" He says, as if it were the most important issue in the world. "I've got the key with me right now."

"It is my castle," Sansa explains with a exhale. "I have the master key. Now, if you could answer me—"

"My lady," he says, completely ignoring her. "Are you saying you sneaked my personal things? Because—"

"I told you she would do this," Sansa murmurs to herself. This is why she's learned to trust her guts. Because it never lies to her. Unlike certain husbands. "You should have told me as soon as—" She stops, suddenly realizing she has no idea for how long, exactly, he kept this from her. "— When did you receive it?"

"I can't believe this is happening." He snorts through his nose, dryly, and walks until he sits on the low bench at the foot of their bed. Actually, he almost lets himself fall on it. His eyes are focused on nothing. "I can't believe you truly read a personal letter, which was properly locked in a personal drawer." And, as if awake, he finally stares at her, and Sansa sees the precise moment his incredulity turns into fury. "What is even the point of giving me a key if you already have one, too? I might as well leave everything open on your pillow, so you could read them first thing in the morning. Or do I need to burn everything, as soon as I read them, so my wife won't spy on me?"

"Spy on you?" Sansa yells. She can't help it. "Truly, former Hand of the Queen, I'm the most likely spy here? And how on earth can you be focused on that when you are being summoned up at court and didn't tell me? You treat me as if I am a child, and not your wife, not someone you can trust—"

"For all the gods, are you sincerely trying to lecture me on trust?" He truly laughs now, in that dry and edgy way she hates. "Sansa, I don't know any other way of telling this: you cannot and will not, ever again, do that. Do you hear me? The letter that you are holding had a royal seal. This is official correspondence. Do you understand what you've done? I would never do that. I would never read a letter that was sent to you, I'd never break your trust like that. I cannot believe, for the life of me, that I need to explain any of this to you." His fingers run through his hair, and before Sansa can begin to form an answer, or an excuse, he completes, "and yes. By the way, wife, I am leaving to King's Landing."

For the first time since Sansa found the letter, and decided to open it and read it, she feels a sort of failure, taking over the place of her anger.

It occurs to her that Tyrion is leaving for the first time since he came North, and that she has no idea of what will happen.

Or worst- she does; she always did, in a way.

"She is going to command you to stay," she says, speaking while she thinks it. The truth of the words weighs on her; it covers her like a unrequited, filthy cloak on her shoulders. "To be her Hand again."

Her husband looks at her face warily. Her voice sounds defeated, still not completely calm, still burning with irrational anger, but a different kind of anger; the desperate one, the type of useless rage displayed by trapped, helpless animals. He says, then, "and what if she does?"

Sansa swallows hard. There's a side of Tyrion that she always knew that was there, but she never felt it against her up until now: when he is angry, he can get childish, irrational, but when he is really, really angry- he can get dangerous. Fury turns him oddly cold, cunning, sharp, even.

She bites her lower lip."What if? Would you—"

— accept it?

— would you leave?

She can't bring herself to complete the sentence. And the worst part of being married to him is that he doesn't need her to. He just knows.

"Maybe I would," he shrugs. "Maybe I'd finally be truly useful."

Sansa's breath hitch in her throat, and she forces herself to keep her head and spine straight, even though something breaks in her. It cuts her, the way he says it; she is not sure he means it, but she is absolutely sure he knows how it hurts. "When are you to leave?" He can't possibly have forgotten the way she had to beg for him to stay when the idea of leaving was just a future, distant event; she won't beg again. She is not the kind of woman that begs twice.

"In a week," he answers, simply.

She feels her throat hurting, the muscles of her neck straining with the effort to keep the tears trying to come to surface in their place, inside her chest. She takes a step closer to him and hands him the letter. "I see. I think I've misunderstood you, my lord," she says, in her coldest voice. "Perhaps this travel is for the best."

His eyes are sorrowful for the first time since he entered the chamber. Not angry, not confused. Just sad. "Perhaps," he confirms, taking the letter without looking at it, folding it, hiding it in his pocket. "Is it all right for you, then?"

"I said it once and I will say it again: you are not my hostage. I'm not a Lannister," she spits out, and he winces. "Do as you will, my lord."

"Good," he says, biting his tongue.

"Good," she confirms, but it's not good; everything is terrible.

Anyway, it doesn't matter, because he gets up in silence and leaves the room, leaves her alone, leaves her to her tears.

Tyrion comes back late, later than the time he's used to sleep, but he is not drunk. She's already in bed, but awake, her candle still lit; he changes his clothes behind the screen by the side of the bed (how long since the last time he's used it?), lays down by her side, his back turned to her, not a single word spoken.

And Sansa feels – everything. A mixture of anger – with him, with the Queen, but mostly with herself; sadness, hopelessness, despair; tiredness. She feels her throat tightening and tightening, forcing tears to well up her eyes until they slip and fall again, as they did the entire night since he left, one after another after another out of her control, and soon she is biting her lower lip, trying to keep quiet and control the sobs ripping out from her chest. She feels she is overreacting, couples fight all the time. But Tyrion has become the closest thing to her, and now his back is turned on her and he probably hates her for being cold and completely mad, for not respecting his privacy, for using his name against him, and of course it wouldn't last, this fragile thing they've built; nothing ever does –

"Sansa?" He asks, and she hates his voice. Low, rough and tired with worry. He turns around, watching her face under the weak glow of the single candle lit by her side of the bed. "Are you– are you crying?" His voice is more surprised than anything else when he asks.

She almost denies it, but there is no point, it is obvious she is. Also, she feels exhausted. The day is heavy on her chest, like a stone. "Yes," she says, simply, sniffing.

His eyes are wary, his voice missing its usual kindness. "And why is that?"

"Because I'm going to lose you," she mutters, cleaning the tears from her cheeks

At that, his mouth twists as if he is trying not to laugh. "Lose me?" He repeats, cynic. "We had one fight, my lady."

"No," she says, sighing to keep her voice from trembling. "I know between the two of us, I am in the wrong. And I am sorry. But I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that you were going South. I thought we trusted each other, that you were my partner, that it was you and me against–" Against the world. Like her mother and her father. Stupid girl,, she says, hitting herself mentally for being so naive. "But you don’t... You don’t trust me. There is so much you don’t tell me, I know it, I see it in your face when we lie awake and when we have sex and when you stare at me with your sad eyes and I always feel like you are going to disappear at any moment to a place where I can't follow you, and—"

"All right, Sansa," he says, soothingly. Why is he saying her name like that? She hates it, too. "Let's take a deep breath—"

She doesn't want to breathe. She wants him to know.

"And now you hate me, because I broke your trust and your Queen is going to keep you and everything we’ve been through was for naught because you have this weird bond with her because of the War. I wasn’t with you during the War. And I’m always almost losing you, to the West, or to King’s Landing, I’m always trying to make you stay with me and you are always trying to leave and if you are unhappy here, with me, then yes, you must go—"

"Oh, for all the gods! You know what infuriates me the most in all of this stupid fight?" He says, cutting off her monologue and propping himself to sit up straight, his back against the headboard, and Sansa thinks, here we go again. He has angry eyes, a rough voice, and he is shaking his hands in that way he does when he is very frustrated with something. "You are the only person I know who can’t see it. I don’t know what else I need to do to convince you."

"Convince me of what?" Sansa asks, carefully sitting up by his side.

"That I am yours!" He yells, exasperated, not quite looking at her, like it is his turn to have a monologue. He does look furious. "I am a daily joke to your sister because of that. Gendry japes on my expenses, Podrick blushes whenever we are in the same room, even Jeyne, Jeyne!, tolerates me. For no other reason, I assure you, my lady, but for the fact that I am devoted to you. It is embarrassingly, painfully obvious to anyone but you. I have promised you several times that I am not going anywhere. I have forsaken my home just to wait for you to be ready. I left my dearest friend and a Queen worthy of her throne, a kingdom, because you called me." His voice lowers, though it still trembles with barely controlled rage. "I’ve been living in a place where people barely notice my presence but for the small circle of your family. Because for some reason, I can’t seem to let myself leave you. Between the two of us, it is blatantly evident that I adore you in a way you will never be able to reciprocate. And then, we have one single fight, a very justified one, by the way, and you think you lost me forever. You crossed a line, Sansa, and for some reason I have to listen to you talking about trust!" He sighs, holding the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes, as if he is having a headache. As if she is his headache. "Gods. I can’t believe you. I’ve done everything in my power. I’ve given you everything and I don't know what else I can do, you just took it all, you literally have the keys to everything in my life and because of a stupid trip and a stupid letter you think—"

Sansa had decided to kiss him in the middle of his little speech; she just wanted to listen to it until the end (more or less). So when she judges it enough, she nods and leans in, pressing her mouth against his without too much thought, without permission. It tastes salty, because of her tears; but he yields so, so easily, his fingers immediately treading into her hair as he forces her mouth open.

"I am sorry," she whispers against his lips, over and over, "sorry, sorry." His kiss, his hands on her waist – everything is rough. He is usually so kind, so gentle with her. But now he catches her lower lip with his teeth and pulls it and bites, hard, enough to leave a bruise. Sansa moans, her fingers twisting in his hair, in his tunic, pulling him closer, her mouth refusing to let him go. "I am so angry with you now, Sansa, you have no idea how mad I am," he mutters as her mouth explores his neck – she nods, whispering "I know, but I need– please–" and takes off his tunic.

It is overall messy and fast and perfect, his hands brutal against her waist and her teeth burying into his shoulder. She doesn't know if they are both trying to prove a point or merely canalizing the chaotic energy of their fight, or both. All she can feel is the sudden want for him, another feeling in a long list of unresolved feelings crawling up into one another inside her. They undress each other quickly, both murmuring mindless things, mouths never too far from skin, nails marking, teeth leaving their seal. But when he finally slides into her warmth, they slow down, just for a moment. Sansa seeks for his mismatched glare through her own foggy, hazed eyes. There is fire in them, but not from anger. "Say that you're mine again," she asks. He starts to fill her in, each thrust presenting a case of his side of the argument. She has no doubt: he is, most definitely, proving a point. "I am yours, gods, I can't believe you don't know that," her husband vows, over and over, mumbling praises in her ear when her hands clutch his back as she comes close to her end. He fucks her so hard that she is sure everybody listens to her screams, even while she muffles them against the pillow.

That night Sansa discovers for the first time that sex after (or during) a fight is, actually, cathartic. But it is also tricky, because when they are done, and the high is fading, she's unsure of what to do. She wants to hold him as he rests over her chest, but doesn't know if she can. When he pulls off to lie down by her side she wants to snuggle into his arms, but is unsure of how he'd respond. Her womanhood aches, and as they catch their breath, looking up, she lets the silence fill the space between them.

He doesn't look so angry anymore, but she can't tell if it means she is forgiven. So she fixes her eyes on the ceiling again. "You should be mad at me more often," she comments, and regrets it immediately. With the corner of her eye, she notices that he turns to the side, to look at her, but for some reason, she's afraid to do the same, afraid of what she'll find in his eyes. "I'm sorry. That was too soon."

"Not really," he says, and for her surprise, she listens to a chuckle and a sigh, at the same time, as he slowly shakes his head. "Gods. I am a simple, easy man."

His tone is light, amused, almost, and not cynic like before. She turns her whole body to lay on her side, then, facing him, trying not to smile, or be hopeful. "I didn't mean to seduce you into forgiving me."

He mirrors her position, though he doesn't end the distance between them. "Well, that's a shame, my lady, for it would have worked wonderfully. There is no way I'm willing to live without this."

Sansa chortles. She wants to caress the hair covering his chest so much, but she doesn't. Yet. "I just..." A sigh escapes her lips. "I've behaved like a completely witless person today. I overreacted, I don't know what is happening to me." She bites her lower lip, still unsure. "I'm sorry."

"I see that you are full of apologies," he chides, and stretches one arm. "Come here." Instead of hiding her face in his chest, she slides into his arms but rests her head on his pillow so she can look at him. She really wants to, now. "I am so doomed," he murmurs, examining her face as he strokes her cheek. "Look at you. How am I supposed to stay angry with a woman like you?" A smile blooms in her lips, and relief finds its place in her heart as quickly as fear did. "I'm weak. I'm putting the blame for that on you as well."

She twists her nose. "I'll take it."

Her fingers delineate the scar in his face, and them draw the hair on his forehead. She is looking anywhere but into his eyes, until he says, very serious, "Sansa."

So she can't look away anymore. He has eyes like stars, her husband. The black and the green, they are like a personal sky. "Yes?" She whispers.

He laces their fingers together. "Do not do that again," he says, voice firm, but gentle. "I trust you with my life. Don't ruin it." She nods, feeling the tears again right away, and sees his knitted brows behind them. "Oh, gods, are you crying again?"

"I am," she says, not wiping the tears away as they fall. "I'm just feeling– I don't know," she sobs. This is getting absurd. She is verging on the hysterical. "I am so sorry."

The next thing she knows, he is cradling her in his arms like she is a babe. She is unsure if he is just being kind with her or if he is plain worried with her mental state, but she wants so much to be comforted that she doesn't care for the answer. She can listen to his quiet laughter against her hair, though. "It is all right, darling. Don't cry. To be honest with you, that is the first time someone betrays my trust because of a misplaced excess of care, and not for the lack of it," he says. "Not that it justifies anything, but a part of me is flattered."

She laughs and sniffs against his chest. "That's a sick thought, Tyrion."

"What? It is true," he says, doing that thing of drawing circles on her shoulder with his thumb that, for some reason, always calms her down. "There is always a silver lining. For instance, now that you discovered the letter by yourself, I don't have to tell you about it anymore," he says, and his tone gets just one fraction heavier. "I really should have told you sooner. And I tried," he continues, eyes unfocused. "I just didn't know how. I'm sorry."

She leans in, nudging her nose against his neck, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of his skin. "You said you would leave me," she murmurs.

"But you know I didn't mean it," he murmurs back. His voice is so warm, so soft.

"I know," Sansa confirms, calmly. "I hurt you; you wanted to hurt me back."

She waits for him to understand that this is not any better.

"Well. I often do that," he cedes, at last, "and I am sorry for this, too."

That was all Sansa wanted. "It is fine," because it truly is. Now everything is suddenly brilliant. "But why? Why not just tell me?"

Tyrion presses his lips in a thin line. "I was afraid of your reaction, of..." He shakes his head, seemingly to dismiss a thought, and shrugs as well as he is able without letting her go. He seems completely unwilling to do so, his arms closing unconsciously around her a bit tighter. "I don't know."

The decision is surprisingly easy to make.

"I see," Sansa nods. "I'll go with you," she says, simply.

He looks down at her, only to check if she is being serious, and whatever he sees in that face confirms it. "Absolutely not," he states.

Sansa's smile is calm. "You mistake me, husband. I am not asking for your permission."

"You're Wardeness of the North," he says, shaking his head, still firm in his denial. "You must stay here. Daenerys summoned me."

But Sansa is unmoved. "That is just another reason to go," she points out. "We have many things to settle that are better handled in person. Letters can be a very limited way of communication. And we do not want miscommunications. You said it yourself."

"Sansa..." And now he is pleading. "It is dangerous and you know it."

"Dangerous?" She scoffs, and props herself up on her elbow so she can truly look upon him. "I survived that city when Joffrey and Cersei lived there." They don't mention that time, ever, and Sansa is reminded of the reasons why when her husband visibly flinches at the names, but she proceeds. "Your Queen is not even remotely close of being the most dangerous person I've met." Not without her dragons, Sansa thinks, but keeps it to herself. Tyrion would be hurt to hear it, and they've hurt each other enough for the day.

"Stop calling her my Queen," he mutters, pressing his thumb against the spot in the middle of his eyebrows, and closes his eyes. "She is everybody's Queen. And it is not her who worries me. The court is the problem."

Sansa can't understand. "What about the court?"

He talks slowly, as if he is explaining something to a child, his lids still shut: "As I've previously mentioned tonight, my affections for you are clear and evident," he says, voice restrained. If Sansa didn't know him, she'd even use the word tranquil. "I'm close enough to Daenerys that some people could think of using this against me to get to her, that is all."

He speaks as someone who knows, and that softens Sansa. She's heard one thing or two about his trial. So she hooks up one leg around his hips and straddles him, leaning down until her chest presses against his and their faces are inches away. "We will be fine," she promises. He doesn't look convinced, but his hands land on her hips. "We can be subtle. Everyone thinks I'm a cold whore anyway," she says, leaving a trail of kisses on his shoulder.

"No one, anywhere, thinks you are a whore, Sansa," Tyrion says, sighing heavily. "You are the spitting image of the Maiden more than any other lady in the Seven Kingdoms. You could float around and no one would find it odd." His eyes find hers, hard as winter. "And don't ever use that word."

This would be a perfect moment to point out to him that he doesn't tell her everything, but instead, she chooses to drop the topic. "What I mean is that people talk. They wonder about my many husbands and suitors and if I truly worked in one of Petyr's brothels or not," she merely says, sourly. It is true; everyone wonders, just not to her face.

"Only two husbands," Tyrion corrects, a little tart himself.

"You're missing the point here. We are liars. We can do it," she says, catching his eye with her gaze as she peppers kisses over his collar-bones. "I won't kiss your hand. I won't kiss you anywhere in public. I won't even look at you for too long." He bites his cheek to keep from smiling at her extreme measures, and Sansa takes advantage of his amusement to plant a open-mouthed kiss on his breast-bone. "I most definitely won't drag you to hidden corners of the Red Keep to fuck me during the day." At last he laughs out loud, so she goes on, "and when we fuck at night I will be quiet and silent, no one will be any the wiser."

His grin lingers, even as he stares at her face. "Are you trying to persuade me into this plan?" His fingers brush her hair away from her face, tucking the strands behind her ear. "Because if that's the case, those are poor arguments that you're using," he japes. "And, besides, I honestly doubt your ability to keep quiet."

"I will treat you with utter contempt and coldness," she proceeds, smiling brightly, straightening her spine as she looks down at him, hands on each side of his hips. "No one will ever suspect that I love you, and if yet anything happens," she concludes, "I will protect us."

Tyrion raises his eyebrows, then, first in understanding and then in surprise. He never truly stops smiling as he watches her face, but something in his eyes get wary, cautious, as if he is waiting for something.

"Hmm. Will you," he murmurs, biting his lower lip.

"Of course I will." Sansa crosses her arms over her chest, trying to sound defiant. "Why are you looking at me like that? You think I can't protect us?"

"I think you can protect us more than I ever could," he declares, softly. And then he keeps silent, half-smiling for a long moment before he asks, tilting his head, "but do you realize what you just said to me?"

And Sansa thinks, oh. Oh, that.

She feels her cheeks flushing with heat.

"Oh, you, Sansa," Tyrion laughs; it is a joyful and dense sound, it reverberates through her, all over. When it ends he is still smiling, not from amusement. "You always blush in the most unexpected moments. I'm certain I won't ever find anyone so precious and so rare as you."

Sansa swallows dry. She cannot decide what to do with her hands, where to fix her eyes. "Well, I love you, but I thought you knew that already. I might be more guarded than you would have liked in a wife, but I'm hardly keeping it a secret." There is no sting in her words. There is only her truth. "I'm not even that discreet," she says, blushing even harder and feeling suddenly nervous for some reason, fingers fidgeting. "I bet everybody can see it."

He props himself up, sitting straight as well, and circles her waist in his arms, keeping her in his lap. "I hope they can't, or your plan is destined to fail." She chuckles shyly as she wraps her arms about his neck, enjoying the soothing feeling of his chest against hers, and presses her forehead against his. "And I don't know, Sansa. You're not quite yourself today," he japes. "Maybe you're just confused?" He suggests, kissing her jaw-line with the gentleness of the fluttering wings of a bird.

But when she palms a hand against his chest, his heart is pounding hard and fast. So Sansa smiles, closes her eyes, speaks softly. "I am very sure that I love you," she says, since she knows he only wants to listen to it again. She is of the opinion that love shows in acts more than in words, but if words are important to him she does not mind saying them. "Ask me again tomorrow, if you're so inclined, and my answer will be that I still love you," and she holds his face in the palm of her hands, locking his gaze with hers, her nerves being replaced by peace. She's never seen him more happy. She's never seen him more afraid. "And then ask me the day after that," she whispers. "And the day after that. And the day aft—"

But then he is kissing her, hard, his hands on her back so she won't fall with the force of it, and she stops talking at all, chuckling against his lips.

By the end of that week, Sansa finds some time to pay a visit to Jeyne.

She knocks on the door of her chambers, but doesn't wait for the answer to come in, and finds her friend tucked beneath a thick blanket, her head raising from the pillow: "Podrick?" She asks in a feeble voice.

"Just Sansa," she answers, taking a couple of steps closer to the bed, with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry." There is a chair by the side of the bed, empty, or actually occupied with a book. Sansa assumes it was meant for Podrick but she eyes it with questioning eyes, "may I?"

Jeyne smiles kindly to her. "Don't be silly, Sansa. Of course."

And so Sansa takes the place, sitting on the chair and reaching for Jeyne's hand. The girl looks well, just tired. Jeyne's bedroom is small, but clean and organized. There's a small bookcase, two trunks for her dresses, flowers on the end-table, a silver candle-holder, a ivory-handle hair comb, a set of needles and ribbons, unfinished stitches. "I'm sorry I couldn't come earlier," Sansa says. "This week has been hectic. There's so much to settle before our departure."

Jeyne squeezes her hand. "You shall be missed," she assures. "When do you leave?"

"In three days," Sansa answers with a polite smile. She notices Jeyne's hand is not as hot as she expected, and so she gently presses the back of her hand against her friend's brow. Her skin is not heated. "You look... good, Jeyne."

"Oh, I'm not sick anymore," the girl explains as she understands Sansa's confusion. "It's just the first day of my moon-blood and I suffer from cramps. Podrick actually promised to bring me tea, and I'm waiting for-"

Jeyne keeps talking and talking, but Sansa doesn't listen anymore, her voice becoming an indistinct noise in the back of her mind, because suddenly, the pieces fall back into place. And the full picture is terrifying.

She thinks about the unexplainable changes in her humor. About her annoying sickness in the mornings. About the fact that her husband went down on her at every opportunity he had for weeks, now, because she didn't bleed the last month. She has memories of sudden flares of lust for him, of his innocent commentary about her taste. It's a simple math. She should have had her moon-blood a lifetime ago.

"Oh, gods," she mutters, letting go of Jeyne's hand, and it is like she can't see a thing. Her hand covers her stomach as if she is seeking for something.

"Sansa?" Jeyne asks, anxiously. "Are you all right?"

Sansa gets on her feet in one quick motion. "I'm sorry," she says. "I mean- I am well," she corrects herself, forces herself to breathe. "But I have to go, I need-" her hands are trembling. Oh gods oh gods oh gods oh gods "-I need to speak with Sam, I'm so sorry, Jeyne," Sansa says, barely being able to finish her sentence before she runs away from the room.

In the future Sansa will remember little of her conversation with Samwell, of his clinical and cold examination of her bare body; she won't remember the questions he's made and will remember her answers even less. The only memory that somehow burns in her is the moment that he confirms what she already knows. Congratulations on the child, Lady Sansa. Two and a half months along. Should I call for Lord Tyrion?

Numbly, Sansa says no, he shouldn't.

It is an unusual sight, to see the Lady of Winterfell making her way out of the Castle so swiftly, so suddenly, but they know better than to ask or follow her.

Sansa rushes to the godswood as if she is in a dream. Everything around her is a green and white blur. She runs and runs until she reaches the heart-trees far beyond the crypt, the ones almost at the northerner gates.

A mother, the winter whistles. You'll be a mother, a mother, a mother. She thinks about the way Tyrion has been observing her the past three weeks; a part of her tells her that he knows, he must know, even though she can't possibly phantom telling him, not now, not yet. Her hand clutches the wood next to the sinister face carved out in it as she leans against it for support. Her knees feel weak.

Tyrion's child; a little lion cub, Lannister blood now mingling with hers. What if it is a dwarf?, she ponders, dread taking over, suffocating, a pressure between her ribs. What if I die giving birth to it? What if it is born dead? Or if I can't raise it? What if I'm not ready for it? I'm not ready I'm not ready I'm not ready— What if it's like Joffrey, like Cersei— what if it is a good child and a happy child and another War comes— What if I love it and then lose it? What if it loves me, and then loses me?

Sansa feels panic. Sansa feels breathless.

But most of all.

She lets out a sob that she realizes, too late, that is born of a unyielding, unmatched happiness. One of her hands covers her mouth; the other, in a gesture as old as motherhood itself, unconsciously palms her still flat, innocent belly, and she smiles, and smiles, and then she is laughing amidst her cry.

You are going to be a mother, her ghosts whisper between the red leaves, and Sansa kneels — no, Sansa stumbles, falls to her knees in front of the heart-tree, and prays to the old gods of her father for the first time in years.

Chapter Text

You want a better story. Who wouldn’t?
A forest, then. Beautiful trees. And a lady singing.
Love on the water, love underwater, love, love and so on.
What a sweet lady. Sing lady, sing! Of course, she wakes the dragon.
Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly
flames everywhere.

"Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out," by Richard Siken

They are to leave before the dawn shines on them; the sky still tainted in indigo, waiting for the sun. Tyrion is readying their trunks outside the gates with Podrick. Her husband had suggested to make all the way by land, afraid that the sea would worsen her sickness, but Sansa insisted that she'd be all right; she didn't want to spend any day longer than necessary away from Winterfell, and they could move quicker if they went by the sea. The sooner they got there, the sooner they could come back home; so they have two weeks ahead of them to White Harbor, and another week in a ship to King's Landing.

When the time comes, Arya waits by her side at the front door of the Great Keep, her hand buried in Nymeria's furs. Rickon is asleep. Her younger sister will be the one responsible to watch over Rickon, and be de facto Lady of Winterfell in her absence. Sansa has already reminded her sister to exhaustion about what must be done while she is away and, above all, what mustn't; not that Arya didn't know. Now they stand together, in silence, wrapped in their cloaks.

It is always hard for a Stark to go South. Arya has already gone before. Sansa is more familiar with it, being the head of House Stark, but that doesn't make it any easier.

"My offer still stands," Arya says, after some minutes of friendly silence, both of them looking to the courtyard, and not to each other. "Nymeria can go with you."

"No," Sansa shakes her head in resignation, her own hand reaching out to quickly pet her sister's wolf between her ears. A Stark should never be that far away from their wolves. "I stand in my response. I'll be fine, don't worry."

"The knife I gave you?" Arya asks. Sansa touches, quietly, the side of her torso, feeling the flat blade against her bodice. "And the one Petyr gave you?"

"Behind my calf, as you've instructed," the older one replies, rolling her eyes just a little. Arya was worried about her safety and spent the last fortnight training with Sansa the basics of self-defense. "Podrick is going with us, and Daenerys is not..." Sansa shivers, trailing off. "I'll be fine," she repeats, and the second time sounds like she is assuring herself, and not her sister.

"It is not the Queen who worries me," Arya says. They have their disagreements, Arya and Sansa, and the fact that Arya adores Daenerys is only one more in a very long list. "A court is a court and men will be men."

"I know." Sansa does know. "We will be back soon."

It sounds like a promise and Arya does not say a thing about it. Instead, she looks down. "You are going to tell her about Rickon and Lyanna Mormont," Arya says, not questioning.

Sansa gives a small nod. "Among other things."

"Do you think she will prohibit it?" Arya asks.

Tyrion had said little about it, but Sansa didn't need much information to gather the pieces together. Most of Daenerys' peace depended on strong alliances between realms. Marriage was the main way she had to punish some houses and reward others. And Shireen Baratheon was, after all, alive and unmarried. "She has no say in it," Sansa says, calmly. "She won't prohibit because she can't."

"She is the Queen," Arya replies. And the way her eyes cast down- Sansa hates it. The apprehension, the lack of control over their own lives.

"Let me handle Rickon's betrothal, sister," Sansa says, knowing. "And yours, too."

Arya's eyes snap to her face, and there's fear in them. Arya and Jon look the most alike in their extremes: when they are too happy or too sad or too scared. Like now. "She can't know," she murmurs. "About Gendry. He doesn't want to-"

"She won't know from me or Tyrion," Sansa vows. "Besides, Daenerys adores you and knows you have a wolf," she japes, trying to lighten her sister's mood.

Arya breathes out, nodding quietly. When she looks at Sansa again, the older one has the feeling she is about to say something, but whatever it is, it will have to wait until her return, because Podrick approaches them, letting them know their party is ready to leave before he silently retires. As soon as they are alone again, Arya throws her arms around Sansa's neck and holds her tight. Sansa is taken aback, but soon returns the hug with the same force, knowing she only will be able to do it again in months. "Write to me," Arya asks.

"I will," Sansa promises. "Take good care of Rick, don't let those lords step on him, and don't get married while I'm away."

"Then make haste and come back soon," Arya mutters. "Winterfell will be waiting for you. Also, don't let Tyrion die, too. I actually like him."

Sansa chuckles and keeps holding her sister for the longest time. In the last second, she considers telling Arya she is waiting for Tyrion's child, but maybe it can wait. One more thing to hope for in her return.

(I can tell already you think I’m the dragon,
that would be so like me, but I’m not. I’m not the dragon.
I’m not the princess either.
Who am I? I’m just a writer. I write things down.
I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure,
I sink the boat of love, but that comes later. And yes, I swallow
glass, but that comes later.)

"For the last time," Tyrion grunts, coming out of the tub in the middle of their small but decidedly neat and tidy bedroom, "she is not keeping me hostage as her Hand."

They've been on the road for fifteen days, and finally got to White Harbor, at dusk. Lord Manderly wasn't in town, but their party was granted a warm welcome and a vacancy on a nice, clean inn. Their bedroom is much different from the tents they've put together or the dusty chambers of grimy lodgings on their way: the window opens to the Narrow Sea; they ate Seafood Stew and dark beer for dinner; the coverlet smells of soap. They both had a decent, heated bath for the first time in a week, and she finally could trim his beard. Now her husband is coming back to bed, drying his hair with a towel, his skin still half-damp as he wears his night-tunic. The moist and dense air from their bath quickly fades to the chill air of the night, but the fire in the hearth burns close enough to their bed to keep them half-warm. The other half of the warmth is provided by body heat: Tyrion tucks himself beneath the furs once his hair is no longer dripping water, snuggling against Sansa's side. His skin feels cold at first, and she shivers pleasantly, chuckling under her breath and wrapping one arm around him, pulling him closer and rubbing his arm.

"Not hostage," she explains. "You'll stay willingly."

They had too much free time during their trip. Occasionally, Tyrion would entertain her with stories of his brief but crucial time as Hand of the Queen, and the decisions that shaped the future of the realm: when he won Casterly Rock back and, therefore, the West (Sansa knows, as does the realm, that the twins died somewhere in that scope of time, but Tyrion doesn't mention them, as he never does) to the new reign of House Targaryen as Daenerys and Aegon conquered King’s Landing; when he advised Daenerys to marry her heir, Aegon, to Margaery Tyrell because they desperately needed the Reach; when they granted Dorne to Arianne once and for all; when Daenerys fled alone to the Vale only to find out a living Stark; when Jon finally landed South with his talk of dead men, right in the middle of some internal turmoil in her Council. Sansa, for her turn, would tell him of her own hard times during her time in the Vale: the death of her Aunt; her marriage with Harry, the Heir; the fact she never annulled her own marriage with Tyrion, even at risk of being found out; when she saw Robyn die and then Harry; when Daenerys finally arrived with her dragon and the decision of finally revealing her identity as the only known living Stark at the time, bending the knee to the Dragon Queen in the name of the North and the Vale in exchange of her claim to Winterfell; when she ultimately got Petyr arrested in the sky cells and, later, executed in Winterfell, as they prepared for the worst of Winter.

She knows neither of them are telling the whole story. She skips several details of her relationship with Petyr. Tyrion is notably vague when referring to both Jon and Daenerys, apart from political claims. The more they approach King's Landing, the quieter he grows. But Sansa doesn't ask any questions.

Nevertheless, Tyrion lets Sansa hide him in her embrace. He can be both upset and warm, after all. "The summoning is not about that," he mutters. Sansa sees he thoroughly believes in what he's saying. What actually bothers him is not knowing the reasons behind the Queen's calling. "And we already spoke of promises, didn't we," he says, more kindly, eyes distracted following his fingers as he skims them across the freckles on her shoulder. "I won't leave you."

"You promised not to leave to the West," Sansa points out, brushing his hair from his brow.

"I promised to stay with you for as long as you wanted me," he replies, his amused eyes finding her blue gaze. "So, unless you don't want me around anymore—"

"That's not funny," she says, rolling her eyes, a hand landing on the small of his back. Their legs get wrapped around each other under the blanket. "But for what other reason would she summon you?"

That makes him laugh. "Maybe she misses a friend? Is that such an absurd idea?"

"She didn't come out as lonely to me, not in that letter," Sansa mumbles, seeing how his mouth twists in agreement; it is true, no matter how much he dislikes it. There is no other possible explanation to Daenerys' letter.

But Tyrion hates admitting he is wrong, so he raises his chin. "Let's wager on it."

"A wager?" Sansa squeezes her eyes. "How does one bet against the richest man in Westeros?"

Tyrion seems excited with the idea of betting. That worries Sansa, but she puts the thoughts aside as he props himself on his elbow, still lying on his side as he explains. His arm is short, and that leaves his face very close to hers. "Let's assume Dany will, in fact, command me to remain in King's Landing and assume my post as her Hand back."

"Then I win," Sansa smiles, cautiously, turning to lie on her side as well, her finger trailing across his chest. "What's in there for me?"

His eyes glimmer with barely contained wickedness. "I'm going to eat you out for a whole, interrupted hour," he declares, his voice very calm. Sansa's eyes widen. "I'll buy you an hourglass. Not a sand of time less."

When the shock breaks, three seconds later, she laughs out loud. "One whole hour is a lot of time," she says, still grinning, her thigh pressing against his under the quilt. It seems like the kind of thing he would like to do even if he'd lost, but still.

"It is," he agrees, smirking, and Sansa feels her cunt clenching just with the idea, which inevitably leads to the question—

"And what if you win?" She dares. "What if we get to King's Landing and we have no word from the Queen about your job?"

If possible, his eyes grow darker. "If I win, you'll let me fuck your—"

"No," Sansa cuts off, shaking her head, completely baffled and horrified. "Absolutely not."

"Let me finish!" He laughs it off, and then, when it turns into a chuckle, he carefully completes, "I wouldn't ask that of you. Not in a wager."

Sansa's gaze is skeptical on his face. "Yes, you would."

"I wouldn't," he promises, palm over his heart. "Although it could be good to you, in case you want to try—"

"No way," Sansa denies again. He gives her a resigned smile. "What else would you have of me, then?" She is trying to think, honestly trying. There are not many options left, right?

He looks down, to the swell of her breasts above the line of her gown. "Your teats."

Sansa is downright confused. "How would you fuck my...?" And he gives her that smile, that impish, you-are-so-young-my-sweet-summer-child smirk. She looks down, to her own bosom, to the cleft between her breasts and suddenly it's like her eyes are open. She hits him in the arm, lighter than he deserves, her cheeks violently blushing. "You are a hopeless pervert, Tyrion."

"One whole hour...!" He reminds her, chuckling. "Also, you figured it out by yourself, who is the pervert between the two of us? I had to be taught."

"I can't believe people do that," she murmurs, lying on her back, mortified about the realization that she feels slightly aroused by the idea.

"People do worst," he replies, glancing again at her chest. "And I've always wanted to, I'm not going to lie to you. You have the prettiest pair of teats I've ever seen in my life. You should be proud."

Sansa blushes, but laughs anyway, looking down at the cleavage of her gown once more. "I've always found them too... big." When her body finally began to take form, it was impossible to hide her growing curves beneath her clothes. And they made her back hurt. And men stare a lot. She has to adjust all the gowns she buys or is gifted with. Big breasts have been more of a problem than anything else since she entered womanhood.

He smirks once again. "There is no such thing as teats too big, Sansa." She is torn apart between censuring him and laughing when he bows down and puts his lips to the upper curve of her bosom. Kindly. Sansa closes her eyes, treading her fingers into his curls and pushing him against her; he smiles and starts to unlace the ribbons on her left shoulder, and then the ones tied on her right shoulder, until he can bring the fabric of her gown down, always careful.

When her torso is bare he immediately mouths one of them, still gently swirling his tongue around her flesh. His hand reaching out to the free one, however, is eager and not as careful. When he grabs her, Sansa hisses in pain between her teeth, recoiling as discreetly as she can.

"Oh," he murmurs, raising his head to look at her face and easing the weight in his hand, turning it into a light caress with the back of his fingers. "I am sorry."

His eyes are sharp, and Sansa thinks, he knows. He knows.

"It is fine," she shakes her head, not daring to look in his eyes. "They just feel a little—"

"Sore?" Tyrion offers, tilting his head. The way he says it makes her feel naked, exposed. Not in a physical way, but still she suddenly feels the need to cover herself again.

Because he must know. She is sure. For the way he doesn't say anything when she refuses to eat in the mornings and blames it on the sway of the carriage, drinking her tea in silence. For the way his tongue lavishes her in every available chance because she just won't bleed. For the way he knows she needs him to be kinder, softer, these days, when he makes love to her, even when she doesn't ask out loud, when she sometimes cries for no reason after they're done and he holds her. For the way he sometimes watches her in silence when he thinks she is unaware.

"My lady," He starts. "Shall I assume that, when I win our little bet—"

"If you win our bet," Sansa corrects, and he presses his lips together; if he is trying not to laugh or cry, she can't tell.

"—I must wait a while until I collect my prize?"

Sansa bites her lower lip. "Maybe," she shrugs.

He does the same, cupping her breasts delicately in the palm of his hand. "Perhaps a couple of months." Sansa keeps silent. "Perhaps more?"

She feels heavily inclined to cry, but she looks him in the eye, after all. "Just ask me, Tyrion."

"Ask you?" He chortles, though his voice is also thick with emotion, all the amusement gone from both of them. "Do you have anything to tell me?"

Sansa turns to the side. It suddenly does not matter if she is half-bare from the waist up. It doesn't matter that they are in another town, halfway to a city that they hate and that hates them, that the future is unclear. It doesn't matter that she's been equally dying to tell him and afraid of telling him, afraid it will feel more real when he finds out. Suddenly her fears feel very small, very unimportant. Very few things matter but the child in her womb and the man in her bed. "That depends," Sansa whispers. "Do you plan to accept Daenerys' offer or not?"

He forgets to banter about his alleged victory in their wager, instead just answering, simply, "you know I won't."

"Good," she replies, and her voice is clear, even if it trembles a little. "Because I have no intention to leave your side and my first child will be born in the North," Sansa says, intertwining her fingers in his and bringing his hand over her lower belly. "So I'm taking you back home with me, whatever happens."

Her husband misses a breath, looking down at their joined hands as if he is touching a mystery.

And then he pulls off the blanket, sliding down against her side until he can rest his cheek against her upper thigh, close to her hip, his face turned up toward hers, as he keeps palming her lower belly.

He looks scared, more than anything, but Sansa, too, felt fear before she felt anything else. So she buries her hands into his hair, fondling it, giving him time.

"You already knew it," Sansa declares.

"I suspected," he corrects, quietly.

"How?" She asks.

"You're my wife. I know your body. I know you."

Sansa nods, saying nothing else. He really does know her. "You're very quiet, love," she whispers, looking down at him. "What is wrong?"

He presses his lips against each other, thinking hard, and his eyes are glassy when they find hers. "I confess, I feel the need to apologize for doing this to you, but I also feel like it would be insincere of me. I'm not really sorry."

Ghosts of lions hover over their heads, roaring from their graves.

Sansa ignores each one of them, smiling at her husband. "I'm glad you're not sorry," she murmurs. "I'm not, either."

He nods, swallowing his apologies, and looks at her belly once more. "I love you," he says: quiet words, low words, verging on the shyness.

And just like that, Sansa is ten and two again, thinking that Willas would never marry her for love, or Tyrion, or anyone else, but for her claim to Winterfell. Suddenly, Sansa is ten and four again, and Petyr is kissing her and telling her that she looks so much like her mother. Suddenly, Sansa is watching the Hound leaving because he wouldn't stay with her, for her.

She smiles sadly to her husband, her voice cracking. "You're only saying that because I'm going to give you an heir."

He stares back at her, with intent, and takes a long time thinking of her words. Their bedroom is quiet but for the unfamiliar sound of waves. "I'm saying that because I don't know today as much as I knew before," he finally replies; the words weight like a vow. "I am no longer certain about most things. But I am sure about you, my lady."

Sansa feels her eyes watering. She usually hates all this crying, but now she doesn't care that much. "Say it again," she asks.

And so her husband kisses her hand, still holding his; and then her belly, where the child they've made together grows, and whispers, I love you. And then he slides up and kisses her breastbone and repeats I love you. When he reaches her neck, he hides his face against her skin, breathing in her scent, I love you. Are you listening, Sansa?

She nods, holding him in her arms. "I'm listening," she murmurs, unashamed of her tears.

And he says it again, and again, and again, I love you, I love you, I love you, until she believes in him.

(For a while I thought I was the dragon.
I guess I can tell you that now. And, for a while, I thought I was
the princess,
cotton candy pink, sitting there in my room, in the tower of the castle,
young and beautiful and in love and waiting for you with
confidence
but the princess looks into her mirror and only sees the princess,
while I’m out here, slogging through the mud, breathing fire,
and getting stabbed to death.
Okay, so I’m the dragon. Big deal.
You still get to be the hero.)

The night before they arrive at King's Landing, Tyrion sleeps terribly, kicking the sheets the whole night through until he finally wakes up, one hour or so before dawn. Sansa suggested they could just build up a tent on the road, but Tyrion insisted in a proper room in the inn. It's not as clean and pleasant as the one in White Harbor, but it's warm enough; in the dim light, Sansa wraps her arms around her husband, feeling as he delicately palms her belly. He hasn't said much about her pregnancy; she assumed he would take more time than her to be happy, or to accept he was allowed to be happy, and she didn't want to add to the pressure, so she just lets his fingers caress her lower belly as if the gesture is meant to soothe him and not her. "Sweetheart," she murmurs. "There is nothing to be afraid of. The Queen is your friend. Our enemies are gone."

Tyrion keeps his silence. Sansa keeps brushing the tip of her fingers on his back, hands buried beneath the collar of his tunic to touch his skin without barriers.

"I think Aegon will be there, at court," he begins.

All that Sansa knows is that Daenerys had once proposed to her a marriage to Aegon, and after, to Jon, and then, to Willas, until Sansa finally decided to keep the husband she already had. Aegon married Margaery; Jon didn’t come back South after the Great War. Daenerys remains unmarried, though the rumors about her bed warmers are many.

"Isn’t he married?" The Prince struck her as a man who couldn’t accept not getting what he wanted, and it is true that he once wanted Sansa, but it’s been so long since; he barely knew her, then, he just thought her beautiful. As everyone else.

"He is, and I’ve heard it’s not an unhappy marriage," Tyrion says quietly, but then, "it’s not that part that worries me." He waits the time of a long silence. "He disliked me way before you came into the equation."

"And why is that?" Sansa asks, carefully. Tyrion’s face is buried in her bosom, against her heart, and he doesn’t look up to stare into her eyes.

"I might have betrayed his trust in Daenerys’ favor once. Or twice."

Sansa chuckles. "But he’s accepted to give up his Crown to be her heir, hasn’t he? You're safe, now," she says. She suspects give up his Crown is not quite the right way to phrase it, given the alternative would be death by dragon-fire; but then again, who's Sansa to judge.

"Of course," Tyrion agrees, but he doesn’t sound as sure as he tries to, "I’m just letting you know. Be careful around him."

"You speak as if he’s a dangerous man," Sansa japes.

"Any man can be dangerous given the right amount of incentive," Tyrion mutters in a jagged voice.

"The Prince should be afraid of you, then." He chuckles dryly against her. "What did you do to him?"

"I chose Daenerys," Tyrion says. His voice is resolute. He makes a long pause, so long that Sansa thinks he won’t say anything else. "And I’d do it again. Aegon is not who he says he is. But choices always have costs." He breathes in, deep and slow. "Many things happened in the War that I’ve never told you."

Sansa tenses, and wonders if he notices. He probably does. She tries to imagine Tyrion murdering his own siblings, tries to imagine what kind of rage and pain and coldness she’d need to murder Arya or Rickon in order to keep Winterfell. It’s not the same thing, a voice tells her, but she can’t even fathom. She remembers how startled he was when he woke up from his nightmare earlier, and wonders for how long he’ll run away from Casterly Rock. It's not the castle that is haunted, he’d said. It's us.

"You can tell me anything," she murmurs against his hair. "Anything. I won’t ever leave you. The past is the past."

He doesn’t answer.

(Here is the part where everyone was happy all the time and we were all
forgiven,
even though we didn’t deserve it.)

When their entourage finally get to the gates of the Red Keep, Sansa feels afraid for the first time.

As their trunks and belongings are gathered and taken to their rooms, they’re led to the Throne Room, to be properly welcomed by the Dragon Queen. The Red Keep is the same, the same, the same from Sansa’s nightmares and Sansa’s memories. It doesn’t matter if the banners hanging over the highest towers are three-headed dragons in black and red instead of lions in red and gold. It’s all red, after all, dragons and lions and stones, red as blood, and just as they stand before the closed double-doors, Tyrion reaches out to hold her hand. "Hey," he says. His tone is firm and soothing. "We’ve done this before."

"I know," she murmurs. She tangles their fingers together and squeezes tight.

"It’s fine," he says, like a vow, and then the doors open.

And it is true. They’ve done this before and so many times, alone and together, that the walk to the foot of the Iron Throne is numb, painless. They keep their heads high, followed by hollow skulls of dragons once again brought to the Throne Room, until they finally stand before her, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Never in her life Sansa met someone so fit to be a Queen as Daenerys. She’s dressed in light silk, a color that looks blue or purple, changing as the light shifts, the tone pale as her skin and hair and eyes. She’s a creature made of light and Sansa could swear she’s floating when she gets on her feet and climbs the many steps down, her bells ringing with victory until she’s on the ground before them, and they bow their heads. Sansa does it graciously, and Tyrion does it reverently. "Your Grace," Tyrion is the one who first says it.

"Rise, friends," she says, voice like the bells in her hair. "It’s good to see you again."

And then, Sansa raises her eyes and head. Courtesy dictates that she should look to the Queen’s eyes, but - perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of habit - she sends a quick glance to her husband first, and it lasts just a second, but she sees it. In his mismatched, green eyes, in the self-possessed way he holds his head high and stares into the other woman’s eyes almost as if he’s daring her to a challenge; there’s so much admiration, so much respect, so much longing, even, that it occurs to Sansa that this is what he’s been fearing their whole trip. His biggest fear was not Aegon, or any other potential enemy at court. He was afraid of meeting Daenerys again. He loves her, Sansa understands, and the thought is suffocating, like a hand covering her mouth and nose.

(We were inside the train car when I started to cry. You were crying too,
smiling and crying in a way that made me
even more hysterical. You said I could have anything I wanted, but I
just couldn’t say it out loud.
Actually, you said Love, for you,
is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s
terrifying. No one
will ever want to sleep with you.)

They are dismissed to their rooms to rest. A whole conversation happens silently between Tyrion and Daenerys that Sansa can’t listen to. She gets rid of her gown and boots and falls asleep almost as soon as she climbs onto the feather-bed, trying to avoid Tyrion’s gaze. When she wakes up, later, in the orange glow of twilight, her body is covered with a warm blanket, the braids of her hair undone. Tyrion’s doing, she supposes; he’s reading in the corner of the room, in a chair not far from their bed, and for a long moment she just stares at him, her chest clenching with love, lust and jealousy. He’s not going to say no to her, she thinks. He walks through the Red Keep as if he is the owner of the place - the way he walks through almost every place, except Winterfell. He’s comfortable at court in a way Sansa cannot ever be again.

Tyrion takes a long time to notice she’s awake, but when he does, he smiles and leaves his book over the night-stand to waddle his way to her. "Hello you," he says. "You were really tired."

"I couldn’t sleep last night," Sansa mutters. "You kicked me the whole night through."

Tyrion chuckles. "I am sorry about that." She tugs at his jerkin until he half-climbs onto the bed with her, and then Sansa embraces his torso without a word, burying her face against his chest. "Hey," he murmurs against the crown of her hair, almost amused. "Is everything all right?"

She lifts her head to look into his eyes. "Did you fuck her?"

The question startles him. "I am sorry?"

"The Queen," she insists, flatly. "Did you sleep with her?"

The grip of his arm around her gets weaker. "Where did that come from?"

"You hid her letter from me, when she had it sent to you," Sansa remembers. "You’ve been nervous on our way here. You look at her as if you love her."

"I do love her," he cocks his head. "It’s not how you think it is."

"Then answer me. Did you?"

"I am not sure you want to hear the answer to that," Tyrion says, calmly.

It breaks her heart, already, but she perseveres. "I think I want to."

Tyrion ponders her question for a long minute until he replies, simply, "never without Jon."

Sansa draws away, frowning her brow.

"I don’t understand," she says, lamely, because a part of her does understand.

"I’m sure you do," Tyrion smiles, still very soft. "I can’t be any clearer."

She looks at him, feels both shocked and pained, "you and Jon," she says, doesn’t finish, doesn’t have to, "-but I thought Jon and Daenerys-"

"Jon and Daenerys, yes," he confirms. Then, he laughs under his breath. "Don’t look at me like that, Sansa."

(It is like her eyes are suddenly open with a painful accuracy; it’s not that Jon and Tyrion bonded over their shared love for Daenerys, but that Tyrion and Daenerys were intrinsically and permanently linked by the love they shared for the same man, for her brother, her cousin, that this was not about the Queen, regal on her Throne, but about Jon, and everything they did, and all they left behind, and all they risked, they did because Jon convinced them to, and they just followed his lead. And Daenerys’ pain was not that Tyrion left her to live in Winterfell but that Jon left her to live in the Wall, that he refused to be either Stark or Targaryen, either Lord of Winterfell or King of the Seven Kingdoms to be a Snow, bound to his vows and his honor. And whatever happened - and he’d said, after all, that many things happened that he never told her - a part of Tyrion would always be halfway between Castle Black and King’s Landing, North and South; that was him, too, part of what made him and formed him and changed him, and once Sansa sees it, she can’t not see it.)

Sansa can’t imagine how much her face reflects her heart, so she asks, "what do you mean like that?" Her mind is still so slow, so many things make sense, now, how Jon resolutely refused to marry her when Daenerys asked him to, how he spoke of Tyrion in his last visit, how they would always find each other, eyes, hands. Soldiers; brothers in arms; in each other’s arms.

"Like I’m the pervert who seduced and corrupted your pure brother," he mocks. "Jon is no saint."

Sansa blushes. "Jon is a honorable-"

Tyrion waves his hand in the air, cutting her line in half. "Oh, I know. The most honorable man in the country, I’ve been told. You’d be surprised to know what honorable people can do on winter nights, on the eve of important battles, or when they’re facing the possibility of utter annihilation." He rolls his eyes. And then sighs, tiredly, reaches out to take her hand. "We were in the middle of the greatest War of our lives, we truly thought we would die, and we only had each other to trust. The past is the past. You said it to me yesterday." Sansa intertwines their fingers together once more and doesn’t say a word. "I am not going to lie. I’ll always care for him. I’ll always care for her." He raises her chin, forces her gaze on his. "But you are my wife, the mother of my child, my future. And I am yours and yours alone. I don’t have a choice to make anymore; I’ve already made it."

Sansa brings his knuckles to her lips, placing kisses on the vales between them. "I'm not like you," she murmurs. "I don't share."

Tyrion laughs, and leans down to brush his mouth on hers. "I know you don't," he says, tenderly. "And I'd never ask you to."

Sansa doesn't know if it's the child growing in her belly, or just the effects of being in King's Landing, making her feel like a young child again, about to lose everything she holds dear, but in either case she cups both of Tyrion's cheeks, stares him in the eye, "I won't risk losing you. The Red Keep has taken too much of me already, and I won't let it take you away." She's talking about everything. About his past lovers and former enemies. About his ever-lasting ghosts, about their future in the West, about home. But when he closes his eyes with a nod and kisses her, it feels like another part of him came into light, like she knows him better than she did before, and her heart bursts with gratitude.

To be trusted is not something she ever took for granted. And after betraying and being betrayed, she wouldn't be surprised if her husband never trusted her with his most private secrets, and the fact that he did, he chose to, warms her like wine; she cradles his life, past and present and future, in the palm of her hands, like a fragile, rare relic.

(I arrived in the city and you met me at the station,
smiling in a way
that made me frightened. Down the alley, around the arcade,
up the stairs of the building
to the little room with the broken faucets, your drawings, all your things,
I looked out the window and said
This doesn’t look that much different from home,
because it didn’t,
but then I noticed the black sky and all those lights.)










Later that night, after their rest, Tyrion and Sansa are invited to dine with the Queen.

They order a hot bath in their rooms, taking their time to prepare and get dressed. One of the maids asks if Sansa needs any help to get her hair done, but she kindly dismisses the woman and, once they're alone again, bolts the door. She chooses a crimson dress with a single golden strap around her waist, the red of the fabric as deep as wine, almost purple, and emerald earrings, a look fitting for the future Lady of Casterly Rock; dark clothes for Tyrion, black jerkins and tunic and trousers, like a northerner. She needs the Queen to believe that she and Tyrion are partners, that the alliance she had in mind is strong and solid. Which is not a lie.

Sansa wears her underclothes, then puts on her dress. She grabs the knives Arya gave her and ties one of them to her calf, walking toward the vanity. "My lord," she calls, sweetly, taking her seat, "could you help me?"

He happily attends, standing behind her, sweeping her hair to rest over her shoulder and freeing the sight of her back. Before he can pull the laces of her gown, she adjusts the second knife on her corset. "Another?" He asks, though the glint of his eyes is dark with lust.

"Just precaution," she shrugs, and he starts to pull the laces, one by one. It forces her to straighten her spine and shoulders. "I didn't know knives turned you on."

He chuckles quietly, looking at her face through the mirror in front of her as he works. "Not knives," he explains, "just the beautiful ladies who use them beneath their pretty dresses." She laughs with a timid blush as she braids her hair with quick, deft fingers. "If you're planning to be a queenslayer, though, let me know before the night is over."

"My weapons are for self defense alone," Sansa says, simply. Makes a pause, reaches for the ribbon over the desk to secure the tip of her braid, "you're included in the defense, of course."

He bows down to kiss her nape, finishes the straps on her back. "Hmm," he murmurs. "That's a side of you I didn't know."

She leans back against his chest, closes her eyes as he wraps his arm around her shoulders. "And what do you make of it?"

"I find it quite endearing," he says. Sansa smiles. "Also a little scary," he adds, making her chuckle, and kisses her temple. "Very, very enticing. It gives a man all sorts of ideas, if he's creative enough."

"It won't be really endearing or scary, definitely not enticing, if I have to make use of them tonight," she laughs it off. "So let's just hope for a boring, monotonous dinner."

"Of course," he smirks, kisses the left side of her neck, the skin behind her ear. "We can save the creative ideas for later," he suggests, grasping the lobe of her ear between his teeth.

"You better stop with that, my love," Sansa warns, though she actually melts against him.

"But you look so gorgeous in red," he whispers, "gods, you should wear red and gold for the rest of your days."

With the way he's brushing his mouth against her ear, making a jet of blood creep into her cheeks and neck, Sansa is all red, hair and dress and skin warm everywhere. "I'm not wearing red and gold in the North, so enjoy while you can," she jokes, the sharpness of the words stolen by her breathless tone.

"I will enjoy it," he promises.

Sansa is still blushing a little when they knock on the Queen's door.

And of course she never expected to use any of the weapons hidden beneath her Lannister-colored dress. It was precaution; she's made a habit out of it since they left Winterfell, as Arya instructed her to. But her battles are different. Her battle, tonight, consists in keeping her hands from trembling or touching her belly; making her words demure and prim; her eyes candid, beyond suspicion as she observes the way Daenerys smiles at them while they approach the table, taking their seats by each other's side. She came South with a plan; not only to make sure that Tyrion would go back home with her, but to make sure that Rickon and Arya and the North would be free. That Arya would marry her blacksmith bastard, if she wished, or never married anyone; that Rickon would marry a northerner girl, and not Shireen Baratheon. She needed to make sure they could count not only on the support of Daenerys, but also of the Queen's only heir in case anything happened to her. And whatever bad blood existed in the past between her husband and the Prince of Dragonstone, she was resolute to end it for good. It wouldn't be so hard, because Sansa knew she had Margaery on her side, always would have, but in any case, that is the reason why Sansa says, in a gentle voice, "I thought the Prince would join us tonight, Your Grace." There are four seats, three occupied and one empty.

"Oh, no," Daenerys says. She's not wearing her crown. The table is set in her spacious solar, the windows open, many sweet-scented candles lighting up the room. There are banners with dragons covering her walls and no one else on the table. "That is a private matter we need to discuss; I hope you're not offended. In any other circumstances we would celebrate your safe arrival with a feast, but..." She trails off, and then acknowledges Tyrion with a careful gaze. "Actually, my lady, my lord, I think there's no need to delay the topic any further. About three moons ago I sent you a letter, Lord Tyrion, because I received reports that were not only of your uttermost interest, but that also demanded your personal evaluation." The Queen pauses. She sends a quick look to the guards standing at one of the doors. "I thought about going to Winterfell, but all things considered, if her claims prove to be true, there's a ceremony to take place here in King's Landing at court. So I thought to spare us all the time and have you here." The Queen smiles at Sansa, like daggers. "Of course I didn't expect Lady Sansa to come, but that is a most pleasant surprise."

Out of instinct, Sansa reaches for Tyrion's hand under the table. Her first thought - her first ridiculous thought - is that he won their wager. That Daenerys didn't summon him to King's Landing to make him her Hand again. But the shadows in the Queen's face are somber, and the thought does not bring any relief. "My sister, Lady Arya, is wise enough to rule in my stead, Your Grace," she says, absent-minded.

It is then that Sansa understands the reason why they're here. Something in the air, in those words, feels familiar: when they found her in the Eyrie, they also needed confirmation that she was a true-born Stark. She's been there before.

And she looks at the side, at Tyrion's face, and realizes that he still doesn't understand; why would Daenerys invite Aegon and not reserve a chair for Margaery, his wife? They are not waiting for a couple, they are expecting a single guest.

They found her- Sansa thinks, but the words get caught in her throat.

"My wife has some topics to discuss with you on her own, Your Grace," Tyrion explains, but he tilts his head to the side, eyes sharp as he tries to read through his once-lover, once-friend, once-chief. "But I don't know how I could help you. Whose claim?"

And they listen to the door opening behind them. Firm steps follow. Tyrion frowns at the sound, turning around in his chair. Sansa mirrors him; they watch as a hooded, feminine figure walks toward them with the royal elegance of someone who was supposed to wear a crown. The woman lets the thick, dark hood fall behind her back, and in the candlelight, Sansa sees as sheer shock takes over each feature of Tyrion's face. Her curly, blond hair frames her face, but they can still see a scar on her right cheek, no right ear. "Lord Tyrion," begins the Queen, "that woman claims to be your niece. Some in my Council believe her to be Rosamund Lannister. I believe only you can tell the difference."

"Uncle?" Says the girl, and gives one step ahead. Her voice is hopeful, trembling. Sansa is struck with the realization that something about the fierceness in that woman's eyes reminds her of Cersei, and wonders if Tyrion can see it, too. "Uncle, it's me," she insists, and Tyrion pushes the chair away as he gets up, takes a step closer. "It's me, Myrcella. Do you remember me?"

Chapter Text

You don’t want to hear the story
of my life, and anyway
I don’t want to tell it, I want to listen

to the enormous waterfalls of the sun.

And anyway it’s the same old story –
a few people just trying,
one way or another,
to survive.

Mostly, I want to be kind.
And nobody, of course, is kind,
or mean,
for a simple reason.

And nobody gets out of it, having to
swim through the fires to stay in
this world.

"Dogfish", by Mary Oliver

The dangerous part is that he wants that girl to be Myrcella.

And because of that, he needs to play against himself. He needs to believe she is not his long lost niece, he needs her to convince him with incontestable proof. That blonde girl that looks disturbingly like Cersei did in her youth - high and sharp cheekbones and blonde Lannister hair and fair skin and emerald eyes - with the exception of the scar across the right side of her face. Tyrion feels dazzled thinking that they are alike in that, two wounded lions, marked by War.

As the girl takes the remaining empty seat, Tyrion looks at her suspiciously, as if she's a ghost. He can feel Sansa's worried gaze upon him, as if she's expecting him to break down at any moment.

The girl stares at him and Tyrion forces himself to not think about her as Myrcella, but she looks so much like Jaime when she's annoyed, she always has. "Uncle," she says as a maid serves the food on their plates, another filling their cups with wine. "I've been trying to convince Her Grace that I am me, here, in my own home, since my arrival. Could you please tell them that this is absurd? I am not Rosamund Lannister."

"I am sorry, my lady," Daenerys says. She really sounds sorry as she turns toward him. "Lord Tyrion, we've been treating her with the best of our hospitality, but we cannot be sure-"

"Why would Rosamund Lannister, hypothetically, pretend to be me after all these years?" Myrcella inquires. It sounds like it's not the first time she asked this question. "That doesn't make any sense. She has a family." A pause. "Had a family, I suppose."

Tyrion only watches in complete, utter silence.

Myrcella, noticing, lets out a deep sigh, and pins her eyes on his. "You can recite by heart all the sixteen wonders described by Lomas Longstrider," she says.

"I did it on public feasts all the time," Tyrion replies. He doesn't want to believe. He cannot allow himself to believe before he knows, but he already knows, in his heart of hearts, that it is her. "That is not private knowledge."

"You took me to see the dragons skulls hidden here when I was a girl," she continues. Her voice never shakes.

"That may be private knowledge, but not exactly a secret," he returns.

"Once, I was so upset with Joffrey that we spent the whole night inside Balerion's jaw. You told me a story where Joffrey was eaten by a dragon in the end and I laughed until I cried," she said with a smile. "We stayed there until our candles burnt out. You said you discovered the skulls on the day mother married fath-" she halts. Pauses. Tries to soften her voice. "On the day mother married King Robert."

There's a melancholy in her voice, then. He thinks two things:

First, he thinks that is too specific, and too personal, and Rosamund Lannister was blond and beautiful but she never spoke with that kind of grace, at the same time she never had that kind of witty, sharp tongue.

And then, he thinks she already knows. Of course she does.

"Oh gods," he murmurs. "Myrcella."

She rolls her eyes. "At last," she murmurs, reaching for her cup of wine and sending a proud gaze at the Queen.

Daenerys sends them away after dinner, so he can give Myrcella the news. He, Sansa and his niece walk toward their chambers. Sansa places a kiss on his cheek and retires to the bedchamber, closing the door separating the rooms; he and Myrcella stand alone in the antechamber. Someone had the fire lit in the hearth before their arrival, and the room feels warm, almost suffocatingly so, and small, too, or at least smaller than Tyrion had previously noticed. Perhaps it's just the panic, making him feel cloistered, like the walls are closing around them.

He barely touched his food, and now, as Myrcella paces impatiently before him, he feels his gut dropping with a cold fear, and thanks silently to whoever listens to this kind of silly prayer that his stomach is mostly empty. "Where have you been?" He asks. They can begin by so many different roads, but they all will lead to the same castle.

Myrcella stares at the fire. "Away," she says, simply.

"Away?" Tyrion echoes, skeptic. It is deeply disturbing how much she's grown. She's a young woman, now. He makes a quick math, counts sixteen or seventeen years. "I've been so terribly worried about you. I looked for you everywhere in this country, I've been looking for years."

His niece looks at him as if that information is new, and her eyes shine young, or younger, the way they used to the last time he's seen her. But she is no child anymore. He can't pretend that she is. "I didn't want to be found," she says, softly. There's gratitude hidden somewhere, but she won't voice it out loud. Her mother's daughter, he thinks with a pang of pain.

Myrcella finally decides to sit down, taking her seat on the love-seat in the fireplace, and that is when he notices something uncanny. He narrows his eyes. "What happened to your ear?"

"Sand Snakes," she shrugs, letting her head drop so her hair covers it. Fuck, Tyrion thinks. How long since the last time he's heard that name. "This place is different."

Tyrion remembers, then, that the Red Keep is her home. Myrcella grew up here. How easy it can be, to forget the most basic, fundamental things.

"It is," he confirms.

"The new Queen is as pretty as they say," she adds. "Her beauty precedes her everywhere."

Tyrion decides that this conversation will require wine.

"She is very pretty, yes." He moves to the console and pours wine in two cups.

"I've noticed you are friends," Myrcella says. When he hands her a cup she accepts without questions.

"In a way," Tyrion replies, because he can't give her much more truth than that. Not now.

"Actually," Myrcella sips graciously at her wine. Her lips are pale, except where the wine stained them scarlet. "I was under the impression you were her Hand, or at least those were the rumors."

Oh, the rumors. So wherever she's been, the rumors reached her. Tyrion doesn't like that.

"I haven't been in more than a year," he says, simply. Myrcella didn't say anything about he and Sansa, though he caught her staring, once or twice, through their very tense dinner. Carefully, then, he asks, "where did you hear that?"

Myrcella sighs, and her gaze grows hard. "People talk many things about you."

Tyrion drinks deep from his cup. "I can’t keep people from talking, niece," he says, simply. "My whole life would have been entirely different, if I could, a much easier one."

"But you can tell me the truth," she says. "You never lied to me."

(Tyrion remembers:

Myrcella, six years old on his bed, crammed to his left side, one of his arms wrapped around her tiny body as she bent over to peek at the illustrations in the book on his lap. Tommen was still asleep at his right, though it was late morning, because the boy hadn't slept well the previous night. Cersei and Robert had been fighting and the children had heard; they often did. Myrcella and Tommen went to his chambers, knocking on his door in the middle of the night. Tyrion usually tried to distract them the best way he could. Joffrey was nowhere to be found, a fact that made Tyrion very, very glad; Tommen was afraid of Joffrey, he always soured Myrcella's mood and Tyrion was always inclined to hit him. As much as Tyrion didn't like the older boy, he knew he must have heard, too, because Robert got violent and loud when he drank. Joffrey was probably hurting some kitten to distract himself. Everybody needed distraction after those hectic nights in the Red Keep.

"I'm tired of reading," Myrcella had complained. "Let's chase butterflies. It's sunny outside.")

"Then lead our way and ask the questions," Tyrion says, sounding braver than he feels. "What do you want to know?"

"The simplest one first," Myrcella says. Her voice is prim, her hands politely folded over her skirts, but her eyes are feline and sharp. "The Queen said you should give me the news. Which news?" Tyrion opens his mouth, closes it, and Myrcella shakes her head, closing her eyes as if she's trying to delay a headache; the gesture makes her look so old. "I want a straight answer, uncle, so we can move to the questions that matter most."

"Very well." He nods, takes in a deep breath and says, as controlled as he can, "you are going to be bastardized."

Myrcella frowns, both furious and confused, and it makes her look so much like Cersei that Tyrion thinks he will cry, right there and then.

"Why?" She demands.

"It was Shireen Baratheon's only request to bend the knee," he says, focusing on her request, straight answers.

"Because she thinks I want to claim Storm's End?" She wonders, with a mockery that is all Jaime's. Or perhaps his. "Why would I-"

"She said, at the time," Tyrion interrupts, soothingly, "that she wanted to honor the memory of her father. His whole campaign for the Throne was based on that statement. Shireen wanted History to remember he was right all along."

Myrcella catches her lower lip, trying to bit down a sour smirk. "So it's not because the Dragon Queen wants to clear the path to the Iron Throne and get rid of all possible suitable candidates."

Oh, Tyrion thinks, taken aback.

Not that he never thought of it, of course. He remembers, absently, that some people in Dorne planned to make Myrcella Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but that was so, so many years ago, and Trystane has long married to a dornish lady, since Myrcella disappeared.

"Shireen is still alive in Storm's End," Tyrion says. "As a Baratheon."

(As Tommen is alive in Casterly Rock, Tommen Waters, as a bastard born in King's Landing. Jon had been the one to beg for Shireen’s life, fond of the girl as he was, and Tyrion had been the one to suggest that Daenerys should make peace with House Baratheon, particularly after Stannis died in the War against the dead. Tyrion just didn’t know, at the time, what peace would cost.

But Myrcella doesn’t need to know that part yet.)

"Is there another male Baratheon alive?" Myrcella asks, smartly and bitterly. "A legitimate one, I mean."

He feels both unsettled and proud at her suspicions. Not a child, Tyrion thinks to himself. Not a child at all. "Every Conqueror in history has to find a way to get rid of contestants and heirs," he says. He hates how much he finds himself in that place, defending Daenerys for people who hate her before they can know her. "Rhaegar's children were killed. Daenerys had to run away from the country." He drinks another swig of his wine. "At least Daenerys didn’t kill any infant at their mother’s breast," he mutters, mostly to himself.

"You were on her side," Myrcella says, then, with cold enlightenment painting the words. "You are, still."

"She had dragons, Myrcella, and we were at War." How many times he will need to justify the decision of supporting a woman with three adult dragons? Who in their right minds decides to oppose dragons? "Do I need to explain myself any further? Did you want me to put a target on our backs? I was doing my best to keep us alive." He looks into her eyes, with intention, because he needs her to see the reasons why he did the things he did during the War. "I tried to keep your engagement with Trystane. Then, I offered you to Aegon, to make you Queen if Daenerys died in the War against the dead. And then I tried to marry you to Willas, when Aegon married Margaery, so you could inherit Highgarden. I tried to adopt you when that didn't work because you were nowhere to be found, I tried to make you and your brother my heirs, tried to give you the Lannister name and Casterly Rock. I fought for you. I begged, multiple times, but Shireen wouldn't change her mind, neither would Daenerys," he finishes with a wary exhale.

It convinces her enough to thaw her eyes. "You tried to make us Lannisters?" She asks, voice small and shaken.

"I thought it would be only fair," Tyrion says. He's dreaded his moment during great part of his life.

"So it's true," she murmurs. "About uncle Jaime."

Uncle Jaime. Tyrion feels like he's on the edge of a precipice. I can't believe he died without telling you. You were the one he wanted the most.

"You don't look surprised," Tyrion says, as softly as he is able, because he can't bring himself to confirm it clearly, yes, it's all true.

(Tyrion remembers:

Myrcella had always been a proper, prim lady, but sometimes she liked to escape the feasts and dinners to wander through the Red Keep. One of those nights, not two months before they all visited Winterfell together, and after dessert, when everybody was drunk enough, Tyrion and Jaime were talking, mocking Cersei's guests, in one of the empty corridors around the Great Hall, behind a column that kept them half-hidden in the shadows. Jaime was crouched on the ground - he was not on duty that night, but he never strayed too far from Cersei, anyway - and Tyrion sitting on a bench by his side, so they wouldn't need to speak too loud, when Myrcella, eight years old, came hopping toward them, holding her skirts so she wouldn't stumble and fall. She put both of her hands on each side of her waist. "Uncles!" She said. Her tone was demanding, as fit to a Princess. "What are you doing here, hiding?"

"Hello, sweetling," Tyrion smiled, beckoning her closer, "what are you doing here? Nobody cares about us, but you're the main attraction of the feast."

"I am not," she replied, smartly, closing the remaining distance and finding her way into Tyrion's embrace. "Uncle Stannis keeps staring at me. He is very weird. I don't like him."

Tyrion kissed her blonde curls, ignoring how Jaime looked at her as if she was the whole night-sky as he said, "who is going to care about Stannis when you look so beautiful, Princess?"

"Thank you, Uncle Jaime," she said, all courtesy, "Joffrey didn't like my dress, but he doesn't know anything about dresses, so I didn't listen to him."

"Joffrey doesn't know a thing about nothing and you should always ignore everything he says," Tyrion muttered. It made Myrcella laugh.

Perhaps that was the sound that made them get caught, because then Cersei appeared on the corner, a lioness protecting her cubs. "Myrcella, my love," she smiled. "I was looking for you." In the dim-light, Myrcella didn't notice when her mother's smile vanished as she looked at Jaime; Cersei never allowed him to stay too close to the children. She then looked at Tyrion, angrily, as if blaming him for letting Jaime and Myrcella interact for less than a minute; as if he was responsible for covering her secrets, the same way he guarded closed doors for her and Jaime when they were children at Casterly Rock, "come. Your cousin Shireen asks after you.")

"I'm not," she says, stares at her wine. "I think I knew. I knew before I've heard the rumors, before Stannis raised his bannermen against us, I always knew somehow, I just," she stutters, closes her eyes, her face contorted in pain. "I just wanted to hear from someone who would know. Truly know."

Tyrion gives one step toward the love-seat. "Myrcella, I am so sorr-"

"Did you kill them?" She asks. Not angry; Tyrion wishes she was angry at him, wishes she would hate him. Perhaps she will, in a moment, but for now her voice is still small and trembling, like her hands. She tries to fist the shaking away, and he almost laughs out of hysteria. He does the same. Did she learn it from him? Or is it just blood? "A lot of people say you killed them," she murmurs, words rushed and confused. "That you came back from Essos with an army to destroy our House and our legacy, and that you took Casterly Rock, that their bodies were found after-"

"We were at War," Tyrion says, it sounds like an apology, more than a explanation, "it's not that simple, Myrcella."

"It can’t be that hard to say it," she insists, her voice growing firmer, her eyes harder. "Did you kill them or not? You promised me straight answers."

"There’s no way to give a straight answer about that," Tyrion replies. "Maybe you don’t want to hear the truth."

"Oh gods. You did it." She covers her mouth with her hand to hide a nervous, incredulous chortle, her eyes watering until they focus on him, and then, even through the tears, her gaze is as sharp as any Valyrian steel. "You killed them because of your Queen? I never thought you–"

"I didn’t do anything because of Daenerys," Tyrion says, his anger taking over his shame. "I took Casterly Rock because it was my birth-right. It has always been mine, since your unc--" he halts, exhales, continues, "since your father pledged himself to the Kingsguard. It was mine. Do not blame me for seeking justice."

"For seeking revenge?" She inquires, eyes and hands burning.

But Tyrion is burning, too, with a different kind of fire. "Yes," he almost spits. "Revenge, too."

She shakes her head. "I want the whole truth."

"The truth is horrible!" Tyrion finally yells. He almost spills his wine, so to avoid it, he drinks everything that's left in the cup. "Why would you want to hear it?"

He is trying to protect her. He really is.

"Because I deserve to know!" She yells back. "They were my parents and I want to know!"

Tyrion is suddenly too tired, too weak, to keep this to himself any longer. "You want to know," he gives another step toward her. It's grief and anger and guilt pushing him forward, all at once. "Very well, I'll tell you. I ran away to Essos and pledged my word that the West would be loyal to House Targaryen if they recognized me as the head of House Lannister and Lord of Casterly Rock."

Myrcella takes in a deep breath. "You had no right to do that," she mutters, shaking her head in denial, "mother was still on the Throne-"

"I actually had, niece, I had every right because your grandfather was dead and I was his heir, whether he wanted or not," Tyrion proceeds. "So. When your mother heard of the Dragons coming from the East, she ran away with the court and your brother to Casterly Rock. Aegon laid siege on King's Landing, while I headed West, and took an army with me."

"How on earth did you gather an army?" She asked, still confused as the story unraveled in front of her eyes.

"Mercenaries from Essos," Tyrion replies. He walks to the console, fills up his cup, and drinks another deep gulp. He doesn't come back to be near his niece again, lowering his voice as he proceeds. "Your father found out that your mother was hiding in Casterly Rock and that I had plans to take the castle, so he went West too, to defend his ancestral home," Tyrion smirks, joyless, he can't not to. "I think he was trying to do the honorable thing. Trying. I don't know." He closes his eyes for a second, lets the pain wash over him again, the wave of it familiar and almost welcomed. When it passes, he proceeds. "The Rock had never fallen before. It's a hard castle to win over. It has to be open from inside; only betrayal could break it, or if someone happened to know a hidden passage."

Myrcella sighs. "You knew a hidden passage."

"Yes, I knew; that I owe to father, who gave me the job of taking care of the cisterns and drains of the Rock when I was sixteen," he raises his cup in honor of Tywin, drinks another sip. "That bastard."

Myrcella's eyes are sad when she concludes, "so you won."

"I didn’t fight in open field, and neither did your father," Tyrion replies, voice guarded. "He commanded his army, I commanded mine, but yes. I won."

Myrcella nods, so resigned that Tyrion hates it. Resignation never suited her. "Did he die in battle?"

"No," Tyrion shakes his head. "I gave clear orders to keep them alive. The one with the golden hand and the Queen," he drinks another sip, chuckles mirthless under his breath. "Hard to mistake."

"So you could kill them with your bare hands?" She wonders, her voice dry and caustic.

Tyrion rolls his eyes. "Look at me, Myrcella," he asks. "I am a half-man. How could I kill two grown-ups with my bare hands, one of them being one of the finest swordsmen in Westeros?"

"Then why?"

"I don't know," Tyrion mutters, runs a hand through his hair. "I didn't want them to die before they could see that I had won. I wanted to talk to them. I wanted to send them to Daenerys so she would decide what to do with them. I wanted to buy us time. I wanted them to escape, to live, to run away somewhere else. I don't know."

"Did you?" Myrcella asks. "Send them to your Queen?"

Tyrion looks at his wine, doesn't answer.

"Uncle," Myrcella presses in.

"I went upstairs to find them," Tyrion says. "Alone."

(Tyrion remembers:

He knew exactly where they were.)

"Unarmed?" Myrcella inquires.

He laughs under his breath, finishes the second cup of wine. She already decided that he did it, anyway, why bother? "Of course I was not unarmed, but they wouldn’t be, either," he says, starts to fill up the cup a third time only because he wants his attention somewhere, his eyes, his hands, occupied with something else that's not the face of his niece. You craven, he says to himself. "So I climbed the stairs, and I found their bodies. Your father chocked your mother to death and fell on his sword afterward. He killed her, and then killed himself, and that is your whole precious truth."

Only then he looks at her again, and she is horrified, and speechless, and lost, as if she's a child again.

"But... But why?" She wonders. "That does not make any sense-"

"I don't know why," Tyrion closes his eyes again. "The bedroom was a mess, there were broken vessels and mirrors everywhere, as if they had fought. But I don't know why. We'll never know."

(He remembers:

Bodies posed as two animals. A beastly pair.

Blood everywhere, Jaime, trespassed by his sword.

Cersei's skin, purple from the neck up. She looked so ugly. She had never been an ugly woman.

Tyrion remembers touching the blood staining Jaime's sword. There was no wound in Cersei, only in Jaime, but there was so much blood. He remembers that it had soaked his boots.)

Myrcella, then, gets up on her feet and points a finger to him, forgetting her cup of wine. "You did this!" She screams. "You marched against your own home! Who does that?"

"Myrcella," he begins, but he's already tired, already done.

She's trembling all over. "I thought you loved him," she murmurs. "Jaime... I thought you were friends. He adored you-"

"Oh, let's not go there, niece," Tyrion asks, because the last thing he needs is to remember Jaime freeing him from prison, telling him the truth about Tysha. "We had enough family drama for the night."

But she's not listening anymore. "Why would you do that to him?" She asks, her tears spilling out. "To us?"

"Gods, Myrcella, do you think I would have done it if I knew the price?" He asks, taking the first step nearer to her again. She raises her hand as if to stop him, but he doesn't stop, he can't. Tyrion takes another step; he needs that distance to end.

"I do!" She answers, her cheeks wet. She tries to dry her face with the back of her hand but the tears just keep falling. "I do think you would have done it either way! You killed grandpa, you might as well have–"

Tyrion raises his hand on a whim. "How dare you?"

"What? Will you hit me now?" She asks, looking at his raised hand with her head held high, not flinching, standing on her ground without one single step back. And for a second, even with tears covering her cheeks, she is every inch a lioness, every inch a Lannister – every inch her mother. For a moment he thinks the pain will choke him and he will die for it.

She also doesn’t flinch when he reaches out to give that last step, his hesitant hand touching her face. He removes a curl of her hair away from her face and puts it behind her left ear, and her lower lip trembles.

"No. I won't hit you," he whispers. His thumb caresses her cheek-bone, drying the track of tears, and Myrcella doesn’t push him away. She breathes heavily, her chest moving with the effort. "I have done terrible things. I regret many of them. And I am very sorry," he murmurs. "I know it changes nothing, but I don’t believe you would have come this far if you didn’t know that. Please believe me, Princess."

At last, she pushes his hand away from her face, but doesn't let go of his wrist. "Don’t you dare call me like that," she cuts in.

"You are a Princess," he says. "Your mother died a Queen."

"Stop," she begs.

"I know people talk," he continues. "I know what you’ve heard. But I loved you then, and I love you now. And maybe you are right. Maybe I had it in me, I could have killed them. Maybe I am a monster," Tyrion shrugs. "But this monster could never hurt you, or Tommen. Never, ever, in a thousand years, Myrcella."

It's Tommen's name that does it, he thinks, that breaks her, after all, because she falls on the seat behind her as if her knees are suddenly too weak to keep her standing. "Where is Tommen?" She asks, eyes full of both hope and fear. "Is he alive?"

Tyrion smiles sadly. "He is alive," he confirms with a nod. "He is safe at the Rock with Aunt Genna." Tyrion presses his lips against each other. "He asked after you, too."

Myrcella lets out a breath of relief, and with it a sob, as if she didn't know she was holding her breath to begin with, and her crying starts all over again. "Why do we do that to each other?" She asks, and it sounds so young, so innocent, "how do we make it stop?"

"I don’t know," he replies. "I am so sorry, Myrcella, I am so terribly sorry, for everything-"

He remembers he tried to hold Cersei, once. He tried to love her; he wanted to, but she never let him. Now, as he wraps his arms around Myrcella, she rests her head on his shoulders and clutches his back, cries against him as if he's the only person left alive who knows how heavy so much gold can be.

(It's weird, but after the victory and finding the bodies, he remembers little, how the bodies were taken, who held the funeral ceremonies that he didn't attend, golden tombs in the crypts, paying the army so they would come back to Essos, sending a letter to Aunt Genna and another to King’s Landing, even though he didn’t know who held the Throne at that point yet. He remembers that he didn't speak a word for three days straight. He remembers drinking himself to stupor in his private chambers, keeping a loose track of the days by the sunsets over his window. And he remembers that Tommen wouldn't eat.

Two maids had entered his chambers to clean the sheets and bring him food; he would only order for more wine. They always obeyed silently because he was the rightful Lord of Casterly Rock, after all, through blood, inheritance and now battle. But that day, one of them raised her brown eyes to him, before she could take away the tray of untouched food over the table on the corner of his chambers, and said, "m’lord, the boy won’t eat."

"Leave him alone, Maya," the other maid muttered, looking scared at him. That is when Tyrion realized that they thought he had killed the twins. Tyrion hardly cared about the names of the servants of the Rock but he remembers this one, this woman, Maya, for in the next second, she shook the other woman's hand from her arm without a care. "No. The boy is his nephew and he will die; it’s been almost a week."

He turned his eyes to her, bored, bothered, but listening. "I’m sorry?"

"Little lord Tommen," Maya, her name was Maya, explained. She had golden hair, not Lannister gold, a little darker, and eyes like mud. "He refuses to be fed, m'lord. You must do something. None of us can convince him to eat."

Tommen, Tyrion thought. Lovely, sweet Tommen, with his fat cheeks, who loved his cats and his mother and his family.

Tyrion remembers feeling offended by her petulance, by her raised chin, telling him what he must do, but he nodded. "Prepare me a bath and something to eat," he said. "And clean clothes."

He bathed. He ate. He shaved his beard and got dressed. And then he found Tommen. The boy was sitting against the headboard of his bed, covered by red blankets. His face was thin and his eyes looked sick. The same maid who had prompted Tyrion to do something was trying to feed him soup, the spoon in her hand hanging halfway as she cooed him, to no avail.

Tyrion approached them, came to stand by the side of the bed. "Give it to me and leave," he ordered.

She looked at him - Maya, he remembers well - with the same fear she did earlier, but placed the bowl with soup, the spoon and the sliced bread on the small table next to the bed, excused herself and left.

Tyrion sat on the edge of the bed, the same spot the woman had just occupied a moment prior, and said, "that’s enough, boy. Now, you’re going to eat."

"I'm not hungry," Tommen replied.

Tyrion grabbed his chin with one rude hand, so the boy could not look away. Jaime's eyes. Cersei's eyes. Gods, how stupid of him to ever have thought he would never feel anything again. Perhaps he would get mad with pain. "I don't care if you are not hungry," he said, voice shaking in rage between his gritted teeth. "I'm not going to let you starve. I'll stick this bread down your throat if I have to."

He meant, no more Lannister blood in my hands, not even a drop of it. He meant, it is just you and me now.

But for all his anger, Tyrion fed Tommen with surprising patience, one spoon after another, one bite after another. By the end of the meal the boy was roundly crying, almost sobbing, and Tyrion stopped so he wouldn't choke on his food. He took a handkerchief from his pocket (velvet crimson with golden lions embroidered on it). "Tommen, come on," he said, gently; wiped his nephew's wet cheeks, the corners of his mouth, and gave him a cup of juice blended with one drop of nightshade, enough for a child of his size to fall into a dreamless sleep. "The last one, this is the last one. I promise."

Tommen drank one shy, small sip, and his uncle nodded encouragingly to him. He opened his mouth, took his last bite of bread, swallowed as if it were clay, and reached for the cup again, drank another deeper sip. "Where is Myrcella?" Tommen asked.

"I don't know," Tyrion answered. He patted Tommen’s hair, and wondered if it was too late for those hands of his, skilled in fighting, in hurting, in inflicting pain, to learn how to care again. "But I am going to find her. I'll bring her home."

"Am I King still, uncle?" The boy asked. "And where is Maergery? I don't know what is happening. How did mother die? She wasn't in the battle. Nobody will tell me."

Tyrion swallowed dry. "Try to rest, Tommen, and we’ll talk after that," he promised. It sounded empty even for his own ears. "And you mustn't worry about the realm. Let me take care of this. Can you do this?" He asked. "Will you let me take care of us?"

Tommen lowered his green eyes. "I don't want to sleep," he murmured. "I have nightmares."

Tyrion took note of the purple bruises under his eyes. "You won't today," he vowed.

"Will you stay?" Tommen asked; he looked more tired than any boy of his age should.

"I will," he replied. "I promise you, I'll be here when you wake up."

That promise, at last, he was able to keep.

Later, Tyrion will go back to King’s Landing to find Daenerys crowned. He will be named Hand of the Queen. He will ride Rhaegal, and nothing will ever be the same.

Later, Jon Snow will come South with news of dead men and monsters that threatened to end all that they loved and held dear and fought for.

Later, Daenerys and Jon will talk to him about what must be done and what it might cost, they will tell him that is why Dany’s dragons were born, not to give her a Crown but to protect the realms, and Tyrion will take her hand and say yes. And he will be thinking about all the Jaimes and Cerseis and Tommens of the Seven Kingdoms: orphans and royals, terrible people, precious people; some of them, in Tyrion's best judgment, deserved death and not salvation; but in the end salvation is meaningless if it is deserved. The debt is never paid. No one should die for it.

Later he will save the world. But Tommen saved him first. He thinks he would never have left that bedchamber, if not for Tommen, demanding to be fed a bowl of soup.)

It was King's Landing he feared, the city itself. It shouldn't come as a surprise that his stay would be disturbed by the past. Tyrion doesn't believe in justice, but if there's something as reckoning day, the final judgment would take place in King's Landing, of that he is sure.

Myrcella had fallen asleep on the couch in the contiguous room next to his own bedchamber, her head resting on the cushion over his lap as they allowed a tired silence to cover them, like soldiers coming back from a bloody battle. He walked through familiar corridors and ramparts until he found a balcony. The night is blue against the red bricks; the winds warmer than in the North, but he realizes, surprised, that he misses the sight of snow. Tyrion rests his elbows on the rails, closes his eyes. He listens to the steps behind him, but doesn't turn around or say a word.

"She's a sweet girl," says the familiar voice behind him. "Just as I remembered."

"She's always been." He keeps looking over the moonlit courtyard. Guards keeping their watch on the gates. The sounds of the night in the city are so different from Winterfell: he listens to riding horses; vague, distant talks. It's already dark outside but King's Landing doesn't sleep early. "Where is she?" He asks.

"Still asleep, exactly where you left her," his wife says, and finally comes to stand by his side. Sansa rests her back against the balusters, bracing her elbows on the rails like him, but her body turns away from the courtyard as she faces him. "I know her own bed would be more comfortable, but I didn't want to wake her up."

"How much have you heard?" He asks, still avoiding her gaze.

She crosses her arms under her bosom. "Enough," she answers, simply.

"So you’ve heard it all," he concludes.

He can feel her eyes on him. "I did."

"Leave me, Sansa," he says. He willed it to sound as harsh as any order, but it comes out so tired.

"No." His wife, ever gentle, reaches out to rest a hand on his shoulder. For some reason the touch startles him. "You should have told me." It's not a judgment, not really. It's almost an invitation, if a man had enough hope to listen to it; almost forgiveness; almost; almost.

"You never asked," he cuts out. He finally looks at her face. He wants to find rage in there. Fear. Disappointment. But he only finds warmth and that, more than anything else, infuriates him. "I suspect you were afraid of the answer."

"I was," she simply confirms. Sansa can lie, if she wants to. The fact that she chose not to humbles some part of him he thought couldn't be bent. "Why did you never deny it? Not to me, just..." She trails off.

"I wanted to be feared," he replies, simply. It was useful, if not anything else. "Did you ever believe in them?" He asks. Lie to me, he thinks. Say you didn't. Say you always believed in the best of me even if I never deserved it. "In the rumors?" He never gave her a reason not to believe them, did he?

Sorrow touches her winter eyes as she answers, "I thought that they could be true, sometimes, at least in part," she says, so gently that it almost doesn't bruise. "We all did things we regret during the Wars."

He lets out a dry laughter. He cannot fathom what Sansa could have done that could be a source of regret so grand as his own choices. "How is it, Lady Stark? To have a monster as your husband?"

"I wouldn’t know," Sansa says, sliding closer to him on the balusters. He tries to slide further away and she holds his arm, keeping him in place. It is a delicate grasp, and yet enough. "I’ve never been married to a monster."

"You know, Jaime and Cersei," and he realizes it might as well be the first time in years he says those names out loud; it feels like speaking another language, as if he's lost the accent, his tongue doesn't know those sounds anymore. "I always thought about them as a single unit. Like two sides of a coin." He raises his head, looks to the night sky. What are you looking for? He thinks with himself. There's nothing up there. "And so I feel that it would be unfair of me to claim their deaths as mine. As if I'm intruding in a private matter, or coming to a party that I was not invited." He snorts, though the joke isn't funny.

"You didn't kill them," Sansa says. She's reassuring herself, he knows, telling the story in a way that sounds better for her. "It's not your fault."

"Yes, it is," he shakes his head. "I didn't kill them, but I made them do it." He stares her in the eye, throws the question like a knife pointed at her, "can you imagine yourself doing that, my lady? Hiring a company of mercenaries to take Winterfell away from Rickon? Can you imagine winning? Can you imagine Rickon being so devastated by the dishonor of his defeat that he would take his own life and Arya's with him?"

"Stop," she says, and her eyes shine with unshed tears.

"That's what I thought," he sneers. "You should leave me alone, Sansa."

He looks away and waits for her to leave.

She doesn't.

Instead, she allows the night and its murmurs to fill the air, and for once, the sounds are soothing, a proof that there is a real world outside the memories and the cruelty, a constant and steady world that never stops, that doesn't respect his grief. It's good to know that this pain is not the center of the universe, because it feels so much like it is, sometimes. They listen together. Leaves rustling beneath the breeze. Babies crying at distance. The shift of the soldiers. Bad music in a tavern, shapeless, indiscernible songs.

Only then Sansa talks.

"The worst part for me it's not the guilt. Or the loneliness. It isn't even how much I miss them. I think I can handle those feelings." She turns around, her position a mirror of his as she bends over the rail, looking at the empty courtyard with him, though there's nothing to see. "The worst part is everything I never told them and I never will." She looks at her own hands, ungloved, paler under the moonlight, almost ghostly. "I loved my father; he was the man I loved the most in the whole world. But I don’t know if he knew that. I didn’t tell him enough how much I admired him. And my mother... Every time someone told me, you are just like your mother, I felt a burst of pride. It was my favorite compliment." She smiles, as sad as he's ever seen her. "Robb and I, we were very close... Because of our ages, I think. And we used to play-pretend when we were children. I was always the princess and he was my rescuer. My prince, my warrior-knight, or my king. And so when he really went to War, and I was imprisoned here, what could I do but wait for him? I practiced waiting for Robb for years." She bites her inner cheek. "There is a lot I wanted to say to them. I love you more than anything, or I’m trying to be like you, I’m trying to follow your steps, or I waited for you; why didn’t you come to me?" She shrugs. "But they are gone and they will never know. That is the worst part. It enrages me."

And as she speaks, the shape of the world changes, the borders of countries and distance of seas. For a moment he does believe that the constant flow of life out there is the lie, and this, this is real, these unhealed wounds. It creates a space where he can talk. "How can you bear this?" He wonders; Tyrion doesn’t even have the words to voice what he wanted to say to Jaime, or to Cersei, or to Shae, or Tysha. He tries to phrase it but every time, the only thing he can do is weep and bleed some incoherent, silent, resented prayer that ends up as a mere, useless I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry –

Sansa chuckles, joyless, under her breath. "I don’t bear it. I'd crush under the weight of it, if I ever tried." She looks up to the skies, as he did, but she is able to do it more hopefully. "So I always break. I go to the godswood and weep. I try to rebuild our home, our legacy. I try to take care of my siblings, to avenge our enemies." A pause. "I try to live upon our words."

"Winter is coming?" He quotes. The most uncanny words of all the Houses of Westeros; a warning instead of a statement of pride.

"Winter is not about the cold, you know," Sansa says. "Winter is not even about the Others."

"No?" He decides to follow. "What is it about, then?"

"Winter is a reminder to actively choose to fight for life. It is the season of accepting the consequences of the decisions you made during summer with grace and honor. And it tells us to resist the force of death during hard times. Sometimes it is a silly, useless attempt, because death is just so big, but it keeps us trying. Our words make us vigilant, not of the weather, but of our own lives. So I say it to myself everyday. I can't let myself forget. In our world, winter is always coming." She turns to the side, catches his eye. "Tyrion, you fought for the living with bravery when the time came. You are accepting the consequences of your decisions, trying to fix what can be fixed." She raises one hand to brush an errand curl away from his brow. "And I can feel the death in you, but I think you resist it the best way you can."

"The best way I can is not enough," he mutters.

"Maybe," she shrugs. "But you’re trying. I admire this about you. Sometimes all we can do is try."

"How can you say that? Did you listen to a word I said to her?” A sort of cold panic settles in his belly, crawling up all the way to his chest, to his throat, unraveling him. "Everything I touch dies."

Her fingers reach out to cup his cheek, her skin smooth and warm against his scar. "I know for a fact this is not true," she whispers. Her free hand covers her belly. It looks like a unconscious gesture. "You grew so many beautiful living things with me, in the North. Flowers, and a castle, and a home."

He feels salt in his lips and realizes he's been crying. "You don’t understand," he says, the words thick in his throat. "I’m not supposed to be here." I should have died many years ago; he thinks often about it. The chances were plenty, all wasted— "I should not have been the one who survived," Tyrion explains. Cersei and Jaime were both stubbornly fierce; it is maddening that they died and he didn't.

Sansa grabs his chin, verging on the harshness, and forces his face up toward hers. "Don’t you never say that again," she commands, all Warrior. "Are you listening? Don’t you dare to ever think that, ever again," but then her voice breaks, and it's not much of a command anymore, it's just a plea. "You survived. You fought beyond the Wall for us. You found me, you loved me, and you will be the father of my child. I won't let you doubt that this life is yours."

But none of that is soothing enough to fade that sensation, ever-present, that he is living his life at the expenses of everybody else, of all the bodies he left in his wake. Tyrion shakes her hand away, because he needs to make Sansa understand. "There's more," he urges. He tries to escape from her grasp, can't. "You don't understand, Sansa, there's something I need to tell you, it's about- when we first married, I—" He stutters, stumbles on the truth like a stone; why can't he just find the right way to say it? "It's— it's about Shae."

"Tyrion," Sansa frowns her brow, worried. "Calm down."

"No," he snaps. He will not, indeed, calm down. Not about that, about the worst thing he's ever done in his entire life, now that she already knows that's what he is, not a killer but a thief, in his bones, a vulture, a creature that feeds from death. He wants her to know everything, needs her to— "And Tysha, too," he says, something cracking, deep down, the sound of breaking down so loud inside him he can barely listen to anything else. "You need to know what I did to Tysha."

"I don't need to know," Sansa murmurs, very softly, very calmly, trying to pull him closer to her. "It is clearly causing you great distress and it won't change a thing. Let's take this slowly."

He shakes his head feverishly to deny her, to resist her, one hand pressing against her hips to keep the distance, just enough so he can look into her eyes. He needs her to understand him, to see him, so, so much. "You do," and, at last, "you do need to know, because I need your forgiveness."

She brushes the back of her fingers over his cheek and he notices, too late, she's wiping tears away. "It's not my forgiveness you need," his wife says, and it's at once like benediction and daggers twisting. "It's over, Tyrion," Sansa whispers, pulls him to her embrace once again. This time he's too exhausted to resist. Her arms wrap around his shoulders, guiding him to nestle against her chest. "It's all over. Let it be over, please."

"You really should leave," he murmurs, ashamed, the words muffled by the fabric of her dress as his own stunted arms close around her waist.

"Maybe I should," she rests her chin atop his head. "But I won't, my love. I am not going anywhere."

It's the first and the last time he ever weeps in front of her.

Chapter Text

In the deep fall, the body awakes,
And we find lions on the seashore—
Nothing to fear.
The wind rises, the water is born,
Spreading white tomb-clothes on a rocky shore,
Drawing us up
From the bed of the land.

We did not come to remain whole.
We came to lose our leaves like the trees,
The trees that are broken
And start again, drawing up on great roots;
Like mad poets captured by the Moors,
Men who live out
A second life.

"A home in dark grass", by Robert Bly

That night, as Myrcella sleeps on the couch in the next room, the night before the ceremony that will have her bastardized, Sansa awakes in the middle of the night with the feeling of Tyrion's lips all over her neck. "Sansa," he is whispering in her ear, "need you."

He's been restless, she knows. "Mm?" She murmurs lazily under her breath, feels his body pressing hers from behind, his hands caressing softly her hip. She turns around on their bed, facing him. Her eyes, not adapted yet to the pale, weak light of the moon, can't see his face, but she can sense the movement, and when he kisses her she's not startled.

His hand is splayed on her hip bone, slowly fondling the shape of her. It makes the fabric of her night-gown pleasantly brush against her skin. His tongue on hers is always so warm and Sansa feels that familiar feeling of giving in; with Tyrion is always like she's trying to hold on to something, and then letting go. The latter is the part she craves for, the let go part. Tyrion knows how to make his lips tender, smooth, slow; he knows how to rob her of her breath. And his grief, instead of waking his urgency, turns him ferociously precise in his ministrations. She knows; it is not the first night he's been sleepless, though it is the first he seeks for her, instead of waiting for her offer. It is not like Tyrion to give the first step. He is the one always waiting for her to initiate, and he's not once denied her pleasure when she sought it, even when he didn't take his.

But the rest is eerily familiar: she knows he doesn't want to rush. He wants to drag it, to let it linger as long as he can. Because he needs to tire himself out and sleep. He always needs to sleep.

She grows breathless, writhing against him only for the way he kisses her, her hips involuntarily rocking against his as she hooks one leg over his waist. She lets out a keening, needy moan when he moves his mouth to her neck. "Need to taste you," he whispers there, over the column of her throat. His voice is low, deep, and its timber sends a jet of blood right to her lower belly, as it never fails to do.

"Myrcella is-" Sansa starts to argue.

He silences her with a long, languid kiss. "We'll be very quiet," he coos.

Sansa nods against his mouth as someone who had no intention to put up a fight at all. Her eyes are rolling behind her closed eyelids. She remembers, absently, that being quiet was always the plan. So she doesn't stop kissing him, not when her hands start to wander over the familiar lands of his shoulders and his arms, when her fingers find his scalp. She doesn't stop kissing him when his thumb finds her sensitive nipple, drawing lazy circles over her shift. When he twists his hand in the back of her hair, cradles her head in a way that makes her feel safe, that he'll take care of her. They don't stop kissing because that way at least they're able to swallow each other's sounds, muffle them enough, though even stifled moans sound too loud amidst so much silence.

(There's so much silence to cover, so many empty spaces to fill.)

But Sansa likes that. That is what she is thinking when she finally asks please and he nods, hooking one finger on her small-clothes to slide them down her legs with not a hint of haste in his gestures, and then accommodates himself between her legs, hooks her left knee over his shoulder as his mouth makes its way to her cunt in the dark; she is a familiar pathway and he does not need the light to get there. All she needs to do is raise her gown and let him have his way with her, and she likes that his notion of finding rest is somehow bound to burying himself into her. She likes to be needed this way, if not in any other, because this way is the easiest. She feels it, the flat of his tongue first, all across her slit, slowly tasting and opening her, and wonders if that makes her a bad woman, taking such obvious advantage of his grief like that.

But he is so good, now, she thinks, and decides to muse on that question later, perhaps in the morning, with daylight. His hands caressing her ass feel good, his beard brushing against her thighs feels good, his tongue is the best of all and Sansa lets her hips sway against his face because she needs him this way, too, and he wants to be needed and needs to be wanted. In that they are one and the same. She bites her lower lip, hard, reaches one hand down, to his hair, and murmurs, as quietly as she can, that he feels so good, that he is so good to her. Because it is true. She thinks it is useless to keep quiet because the whole Red Keep must be listening to the wet sound of his tongue lapping her, it sounds so loud to her ears. And when he finally, oh, gods finally starts to steadily suck at her swollen clit, it is like a storm was breeding in her belly and it's now falling apart. Lightening first and then thunder: the way it grows and grows and she has to bite her lower lip so much harder, until she tastes blood, grasping the sheets around her, a quiet, silent gasp escaping her as it finally breaks through her. She can't help but whimper when the bliss reaches its peak; she might as well have screamed; it's the kind of unmistakable sound that had once embarrassed her. Perhaps it will embarrass her, over breakfast with Myrcella. Sansa does not, however, want to think about Myrcella now. About any member of his complicated family and their complicated ties. Her knees are so weak but Tyrion holds her against him, grounding her on his tongue. He doesn't stop, and then she feels it again— lightening: she's already breathless but apparently there's still air to be knocked out of her lungs. "Oh gods," she whines, the tip of his tongue so meticulous against her throbbing, over-sensitive clit that she thinks she'll go mad with pleasure and then, thunder— her body shuddering out of her control, not yet spend, as if it requires all of him, every last drop. He's the eye of a hurricane and she's just taken away. Right now, he is the calm, steady point of it all, and she is the world spinning madly around him. It is part of his nature to leave chaos in his wake.

She tries to take deep breaths when it's over, the second time; her legs tremble so much as she tries to draw away, but he keeps her there, licking and drinking from her and then, he slides one finger inside. Everything feels too sensitive, almost painfully sensitive but not quite, and she tries so hard to keep silent. "I don't know if I can again," she soughs, but her hips are already swaying around his hand. He kisses the inner face of her thigh.

"You can," he says, it's like a promise, it sounds soothing. "One more time."

"Well, then give me more than one finger," she complains. Sansa feels his smile against her skin, and she feels like crying. That's all I want for you, she thinks. I want you to smile, always, I'll do anything, while another part of her screams that she is being selfish. It's easy to want him happy when so much of his happiness depends on her having multiple orgasms. But this is marriage, she supposes; so much of her peace of mind is tied to him being able to find an undisturbed sleep, after all. He adds another finger, and yet another, and it's good, not as good as his cock but it doesn't matter because he knows her so very well. He starts to pump his fingers in and out, slow until it isn't, and just as she's getting used to it he crooks them inside her just so, finds that roughed spot at the front of her walls, and she has to let go of the sheets to bite her own hand as the feeling crashes over her again so she won't curse him, or scream, and wake his niece in the contiguous room. It's different, the third time, not as sharp but longer, slower; it drains her out of her energies. She lasts so long that she sobs with relief when it finally ends. He's breathless. She's breathless, too, and her legs are completely useless, but her arms are not. So she twists a hand in his tunic and pulls him to her until he's above her. She starts to unlace his breeches, pulling them down. But when she reaches for his tunic, to get rid of it as well, he spreads her legs apart and pushes in- one swift movement and he's completely sheathed by her, his slide inside aided by his previous work and her own wetness. It's so sudden, though, as if all the rush and the haste and the urgency he kept at bay for her sake are coming all at once. Sansa has to bite his shoulder to keep from moaning too loud; he is so deliriously good at this, it is so unfair. She was not ready for it, for the sheer bliss spreading from her core as he starts to thrust, hard.

Perhaps too hard; in the quietness of the bedchamber the slap of their bodies is all she can hear as he sets a frantic rhythm from the start. It's the sound of being drunk in pain, and though she would like it in other circumstances, she doesn't tonight. "Tyrion," she murmurs. Her mouth brushes against his ear and she palms her hand over his shoulder, slides it towards his face, "my love. Not like this."

He stops in a halt, buried inside her to the hilt, and Sansa can feel him pulsing inside her. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, but it doesn't sound sorry, not really, it sounds just so, so tired. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," she whispers. She's not hurt. But he is, and that means, in a very real way, that perhaps she is, too, after all. "Just let me..." Her hands move further down. She finds the hem of his tunic, pulls it up. He allows her to take it off and, once she tosses it aside she slowly bends forward to kiss his chest, his collar-bones. Calmly. Adoringly. He keeps still, lets her. She feels his body trembling above her and breathes in his scent. Licks a beam of sweat falling across the left side of his neck. "Just stay with me," she murmurs, and then realizes she's about to cry. "Stay with me, Tyrion."

Just that morning, she really thought that the most dangerous thing, what could really jeopardize her marriage, was Daenerys Targaryen.

Fool girl. This is what is always lurking in the corner, threatening to reclaim her husband back to the shadows: this past, this blood, these memories.

"I'm with you," he murmurs; she seeks his mouth, finds it. Kisses him like she means it, hands curling hard in his hair. "I really need you now, I'm sorry," he mumbles against her lips and she tastes something salty.

"Don't apologize," she promises, and gently - as one would handle a porcelain - she pushes his chest away. He complies too easily, as if he's already developed good reflexes for being pushed away, and that is what breaks her heart the most. Sansa guides him to lay on his back and straddles his hips. "I've got you," she whispers.

He desperately jerks his hips up, and Sansa takes him in, slowly sliding down on his cock with easy familiarity. She braces herself on her elbows, body bent forward, and feels that after so much attention from his part, there's just not enough strength in her legs to do this, but she needs it, he needs it, and therefore she'll just have to gather the strength to do it from other parts of her, less tired parts.

In the dark, he finds her hand, laces their fingers together, and only then she can start to move.

It does work, though, for both of them. They sleep soundly, after, and when morning comes, Sansa is the one who wakes up first, which is an excellent sign. Tyrion is nestled against her left side, her arm wrapped about him, and it's still early. She listens to the sound of the Red Keep waking up. They haven't changed that much since she was a girl. It's still, after all, the same Castle, no matter the King of Queen sitting upon the Iron Throne. She brushes Tyrion's hair out of his forehead, and he blinks his eyes open.

"Good morning," she murmurs. He grunts something like good morning in return and pulls her against him a little closer. She smiles.

(Sansa thinks this hour of the day is when she loves him the most.)

"We should just stay abed for the rest of the day," he suggests.

"We can't," Sansa says. "Myrcella needs you today." She keeps fondling his back, the old scars familiar beneath her fingertips. "Do you think she's heard us?"

"Probably not," he replies, distractedly. "Myrcella sleeps like a stone."

Sansa doesn't want to push, but, "where will she go?"

He takes a lot of time to answer, and one of his hands covers her belly. Since she's told him about her pregnancy, he does it a lot when he's not thinking about it. "I don't think Daenerys would oppose it if she wanted to stay at court, after she's bastardized. The Red Keep is her home." He keeps drawing circles around her belly-button. "But I suppose she will head to the Rock. To Tommen." Sansa nods. A familiar longing takes over his eyes, but instead of lingering on the topic, he cocks his head against her arm. "You know, technically, I won our wager."

"We cannot be sure until the end of our trip," Sansa retorts. "If the Queen offers you your job, then we both lose."

"Or we both win," he offers.

Sansa laughs. "Fine. I like that better."

If Myrcella's heard anything, she doesn't comment on it as they break their fast - a true banquet, a indulgence from the Queen, like an apology in advance. She sits by Podrick's side, across Tyrion and Sansa on the table, bidding everyone good morning. She pours herself a cup of tea, and likes her bacon toasted and dry, like Tyrion does. Sansa notices, after a while, how Myrcella observes them, the silent dance of their marriage as Sansa slides the honeycomb toward her husband when he reaches for it, or Tyrion taking a handful of hazelnuts with strawberries without her ever asking for them. "I didn't know you were still married, before I arrived here," Myrcella says. She's still in her robe and her hair frames her face in a way that covers her missing ear. Podrick stares awkwardly, but Myrcella's voice is light and curious; Sansa searches for an accusation, trying to listen through it, but Myrcella has always been too much of a lady to be rude, and too much her mother's daughter to be stupid.

Tyrion replies before she can think of anything to say. "We both agreed it was better like that." It is not a lie, Sansa thinks, but she wonders if Myrcella will notice that it is no longer duty bounding them to each other. She feels somehow worried about what the younger girl will think; she can still remember cold afternoons sewing with the princess in Winterfell when they were girls. She realizes she wants Myrcella's approval, though the idea is illogical. The girl and Tommen might as well be the only part of Tyrion's family that Sansa actively likes, and while Sansa always thought Tommen a lovely boy, he was too young when they met and Sansa never quite bonded with him.

She didn't have much of a chance to bond with Myrcella, either, but their interactions have all been friendly.

Of course, they were both children and things are devastatingly different now.

"And you're living in Winterfell?" Myrcella says. It's not a question and her eyes are on her uncle.

Tyrion stares her in the eye. "I am, for now."

Myrcella curls one eyebrow, and it makes her the spitting image of Jaime. It almost scares Sansa. She instinctively shifts in her seat. "For now?"

"We'll eventually leave for Casterly Rock," Sansa explains. "As soon as my brother comes of age and marries, he shall assume the lordship of Winterfell."

"Bran?" She inquires, and Sansa is touched that she remembers the names.

"Rickon," Sansa explains. "Bran lives North of the Wall now."

"Oh, little Rickon, the wild one," Myrcella says, with a nod of remembrance. She raises her eyebrows and takes another sip of her tea. "He must be so big."

"He is," Sansa confirms, and she and Myrcella share a look. She knows the girl must be thinking of Tommen, and this, somehow, ignites a kind of recognition between them. They know war, and they know loss; they know the need to run away and to take care of little brothers.

It's, somehow, enough, and the rest of the breakfast is rather enjoyable. Myrcella remembers innocent tales of her childhood in the Red Keep and asks innocent questions about Winterfell. And she looks genuinely interested in the answers. She doesn't give a clue about where she's been the whole time, doesn't say a word about her parents, and doesn't ask about what happened in her absence.

They all get ready quickly to the ceremony that is to take place in the Throne Room. Guards come to summon them and guide them to the Dragon Queen.

Myrcella chooses a golden dress with crimson flowers on its sleeves. Her hair is combed in perfect, delicate curls about her shoulders, and she keeps her head held high as they follow the guards. When they're waiting in the hallway, just outside the Throne Room, she stops and takes a deep, shaky breath.

Tyrion holds her hand; she looks at him with a trembling lower lip, like she's about to cry. "Uncle..." She murmurs.

"Don't," her husband says. "You're a lioness. Don't let them see it." He squeezes her fingers. "I'll be right here."

She nods, exhales, and raises her chin again. Her name is called and she steps into the Throne Room with gracious, measured steps.

Shireen is not at court. Sansa sees a lot of new faces and a lot of familiar ones as she and Tyrion occupy their seats, close to the exit door.

Daenerys rises from the Iron Throne. She speaks of peace between kingdoms, and of the memory of heroes who sacrificed themselves in the War so they could all live and thrive; she speaks of delivering justice and slaying lies, but when she finally says the sentence, Sansa is entranced by Myrcella. Because damn her, but the girl does not bow and does not lower her head or her eyes, not even while the new Queen declares her a bastard, born of incest and outside wedlock, and therefore unfit for the Throne or the inheritance of the Stormlands or any other land. Myrcella keeps staring Daenerys in the eye and when she's done, she cocks her head to the side and looks around, as if saying, well, is that all?

In that moment, Sansa thinks that Myrcella looks like her mother did. If not anything else, and for better or for worse, Cersei never bent. She wonders if anyone else at court remembers their late Queen.

Daenerys dismisses her, and Tyrion gets up, not minding the curious stares and the low whispered chatter from the rows behind him, walking toward his niece. She politely walks away, holding his hand again as soon as they're close enough. Uncle and niece turn their backs to the court, taking their leave, and when they pass by Sansa and Podrick, the lady and the knight, too, get up to accompany them.

Sansa, walking side by side to Myrcella's right, puts one hand around the girl's shoulders; Tyrion, at her left side, laces their arms together. Podrick follows them, steps quiet and hand over the hilt of his sword, and as they all silently leave the Throne Room behind, Sansa can't help but think that her family just keeps growing these days.

They all find their way to their chambers - that is, Sansa and Tyrion's chambers, because there's a solar there, unlike Podrick's rooms, or Myrcella's. As soon as they close the door, Myrcella walks to the couch and lets herself fall on it, rather ungracefully, buries her face in her hands and starts to cry.

Tyrion walks toward his niece and wraps his arms around her shoulders. "Don't be sad," he murmurs against her golden hair as she leans against him. "It's all right."

Myrcella pushes her Uncle away just enough to look him in the eye. "I'm not sad!" She argues. "I am furious! That bitch," she mutters. There's a pause of silence until Tyrion bursts out laughing, and Myrcella laughs, too, even through the red rimming in her eyes. "Uncle! I'm mean it!"

"I know," Tyrion replies, and walks to the console to pour her another cup of tea.

Her gaze follows his movements. "Can I have wine?" She asks. It is so innocent and childish that Tyrion chuckles under his breath and reaches for the flagon of wine instead, pouring two cups. This time he takes a seat by her side on the couch as she takes a deep swig from her cup. Sansa and Podrick just watch the scene, bemused. "It's not that terrible to be a bastard in Dorne," she murmurs.

"It's not that terrible to be a bastard at all. One of the best persons I've ever known is a bastard," Tyrion says, looking at his niece fondly.

"Who would that be? Me?" She asks with a smug smirk.

Tyrion laughs again. "Well, there's you now, but even before you." He gives her a gentle smile. "You have a family who loves and supports you. You won't be neglected or abandoned. I know it's upsetting, but believe me - you'll be fine." Sansa exhales a breath of relief looking at their interaction; she knows by experience that it is completely possible to love someone and be mad at them at the same time. Myrcella gives a sigh and reaches out to hold Tyrion's hand again, and Sansa suddenly misses Arya. "Do you remember Joy?" Tyrion asks. "She still lives at the Rock."

Myrcella bites her lower lip, as if embarrassed with something. She lets go of his hand and turns to the side, rests her cheek on the back of the couch to look Tyrion in the eye. "I had a mind to ask you something, Uncle."

"Sure," Tyrion says, with a slightest shadow of worry settling in his mismatched eyes. Sansa doesn't think Myrcella or Podrick noticed.

"I thought I could stay with you," Myrcella murmurs. Tyrion narrows his eyes to her as she dips her head down, fidgeting with her hands. "I've been rude to you yesterday and I apologize for that," she murmurs.

"Don't," Tyrion asks, closing his eyes for a painful second. "You're entitled to be angry."

"But when I came to the Red Keep, I came looking for you," she proceeds. "And I want to see Tommen, but I won't feel safe at the Rock without you. Aunt Genna scares me."

Tyrion chuckles softly. "Myrcella, she would never harm you. She's just like that with everybody."

"Well, it makes me uncomfortable," Myrcella complains with a frown upon her eyebrows. She looks him in the eye again. "I thought you would be Hand here, in the Red Keep, or that you would be living at the Rock already, but I never imagined you and Lady Sansa were still married living in Winterfell, and I thought we would be together again, and - please," she says, almost begging. "Let me go North with you."

Tyrion opens his mouth, closes it, and looks at Sansa.

It takes her three seconds to realize he's waiting for her answer. And there's so much hope in his eyes - Sansa remembers how lonely he is, when she's not around him in Winterfell. He could use family.

"Of course, my dear," Sansa says with a exhale, as if the answer is so obvious as to be needless to even ask. "Of course you can stay with us in Winterfell for as long as you'd like."

For the following days, their small household settle in a comfortable routine.

Tyrion and Sansa spend their mornings together, usually abed or reading or just talking and enjoying the temporary suspension of the duty to rule a castle. The four of them share their midday meals and dinners. Tyrion spends his afternoons in private meetings with the Queen, and so Sansa and Myrcella inevitably grow close. Sometimes, they take a walk in Myrcella's garden in the Red Keep, surprisingly intact even after the War. Myrcella invites Podrick, too, who blushes violently but accepts the invitation; he's shy and guarded, but there's just something light and easy about the way Myrcella can bring anyone into a conversation that makes even Pod comfortable around her. Later, Sansa discovers that the two of them have fallen into the habit of spending their mornings together, going to the market or wandering through the Red Keep; Sansa doesn't tell that to Tyrion. Sometimes they go outside the city gates to ride their horses, when the weather is good, but other days they just stay indoors and sew together, and Myrcella talks about her time in Dorne, though she's careful not to mention where exactly she's been hiding or how. She asks about Arya and Rickon, but doesn't ask anything about Tyrion or their marriage. Sansa doesn't tell her she's with child. For some reason, she thinks Tyrion should be the one to do it.

The two ladies avoid the public eye of the court as much as they can. "I didn't want to be Queen," Myrcella says to Sansa, one afternoon, as they stroll around her garden. "Everyone wanted to put a Crown over my head, to push me against Tommen. They never asked if I wanted it. I ran because I wanted a life of my own." She doesn't say more than that, and Sansa doesn't press in. Myrcella has no patience for the game, and Sansa has no energy or the force of will, though she knows much better now how to play than she did when she was a child.

Sansa is reminded that she's always been fond of Myrcella, and tries to avoid the feeling of attachment, of caring about her too fast and too much; distance is a lesson she never quite mastered and she feels silly for it, but she can't deny that the girl makes her days on the Red Keep considerably more enjoyable that Sansa imagined they'd be.

At night, after dinner, everyone retires to their private chambers and Sansa tells Tyrion about her day and listens to him telling her all the gossip he's learned, the scandalous and shameful things the lords and ladies do at court, their schemes and plans. Sansa tells him about Myrcella and their walks in the garden. When Tyrion laughs, she can see the glint of happiness coming back to his eyes and the shadows of the past slowly disappearing; she feels the sound of his joy in her bones, leans over him to taste his smile with her own lips. One day Sansa feels Margaery's scent on his skin when her tongue darts out to the skin of his neck. "Did you meet Margaery today, my lord?" She asks, reaching for the fastening of his clothes.

Tyrion smiles, watching her work. "No," he says, smugly. "The Queen is trading oils and rose-water with the Reach. Now almost everyone at court smell like some kind of flower."

"Hmm," Sansa nods, brushing her nose against the column of his throat, "it's good news, then, that we finally get to live in such a peaceful, prosperous time." He chuckles and pulls her up for a kiss as he starts to patiently undo the laces of her gown. "How close you were to the Queen, though, to the point of having her fragrance on your own skin?"

"You might as well put me on a leash, wife," he offers, amused. "Not that there's anyone interested in stealing me away from you, of course."

Sansa lets out a laughter that Tyrion shares, until she presses her bare chest against his. "I would never humiliate you that way," she says, innocently.

"It would be no humiliation to have the realms know that I am yours in every capacity that you judge fitting," he whispers, caressing the sides of her breasts with the back of his fingers. "I'd wear your name proudly around my neck or over my heart or upon my head, Sansa."

She feels flushed all over. "Those are flattering words, but here I am, about to fuck a man who smells of other woman."

He laughs and kisses her. "Perhaps you would rather have me after a bath," he says. "Or even better, perhaps you could join me there."

Sansa knows he's just jesting, but she actually approves the idea. They order for a bath to be prepared and join the tub together, and stay there even after they've fucked, until the water turns cold, and then come back to the bed only to fuck again, because Tyrion actually likes her possessive, dominant moods and he too willing to attend to her every whim for Sansa to waste the chance. Of course it's all part of a joke; Sansa doesn't believe Tyrion would ever cheat on her. But she is not so sure that the Queen already gave up the idea of keeping him with her in the Red Keep. After all, Tyrion keeps advising her every day; he says it's only because she values his counsel, because they are old friends, but all Sansa can see is the Queen reintroducing her husband to the current situation at court. After two weeks after their arrival, Sansa just wants to go home already, though it is not polite to stay less than a month when visiting.

After they're done and spent, Sansa throws one arm over his chest just as he's about to doze off. "Tyrion," she murmurs. He doesn't smell of flowers anymore; he smells of clean soap, but she misses the scent of pine and snow and old books his skin always holds in Winterfell.

"Yes?" He asks, distractedly caressing her hair.

"I love you," she whispers.

He bows down his head with a worried frown to look upon her, and then touches her mouth with his; gentle and warm and long. "I love you alone," he murmurs. "I love you always, and I love you more."

No, you don't, Sansa thinks, because not only she has fallen for her husband when she didn't expect to, but she keeps falling for him, and her fear of losing him follows her love like a shadow. She holds him tighter; he falls asleep first. Sansa stays awake and thinks that perhaps it's time that she finally looks for the Queen herself, after all.