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She has always loved songs and stories--the tales of Aemon the Dragonknight and his sister, Queen Naerys; Duncan the Small, Prince of Dragonflies and Jenny of Oldstones; Florian and Jonquil...she knows all the songs, which she learned from an old bard who once visited Winterfell. She even longed to play the high harps once--her father promised he would find someone to teach her when they went to King's Landing. This was when she thought her song had begun; when she was first betrothed to Joffrey; when she lived in a world of dreams; when she trusted the queen and loved her prince; before she lost Lady and Septa Mordane and her father; before they took Jeyne Poole away; before the Lannisters killed her father's men and took her prisoner; before Arya ran away.

She dreamed, once upon a time, that she would marry a hero out of a song, a brave and honourable knight, who would rescue her from monsters, love her and keep her safe. Instead, she is betrothed to a cruel and despotic king, who appears handsome, with his gold hair and green eyes, but isn't--he has Septa Mordane and her father put to death and he gets the knights of his Kingsguard to beat her up.

She is married off to his dwarf uncle, with his bulging brow, mismatched eyes and stumpy legs, a man who is reviled as evil and cunning. And yet, this man who looks like a monster is kind to her. He tells her he wants her, but he wants her to love him first, which she cannot do. So they do not consummate the marriage. Her brother and mother are brutally murdered because his father is able to get two of her brother's allies to play traitor. Which makes it even more unlikely that their marriage will ever be consummated. She plots her escape with a drunk knight, her Florian--the Hound, who always told her the bitter truth, has fled after the Battle of the Blackwater, when the sky and the very air around them, was green with wildfire!

He does not believe in songs or stories, but he does want love. He will do anything for it--even wed a crofter's daughter, because she tells him she loves him. They're happy together for a short while before his father's men find him and his little bubble of joy bursts disastrously for them both. He can never forget her, although his brother assures him she was a whore he paid to lie with him, Tyrion. He searches for her ceaselessly, in all the whorehouses in Westeros.

He will do anything to win the regard of his father--including shoring up the throne of a cruel boy-king, his nephew--Jaime and Cersei's first-born. He does all he can to win the war against Stannis--the chain across the mouth of the harbour, the wildfire, leading a charge, getting badly wounded and damn near killed in the process. And what does he get out of it?He is now Master of Coin, instead of being Hand of the King!

And he cannot help but be moved by beauty and suffering, and angered by cruelty. So when his nephew tries to get knights of the Kingsguard to strip and beat up his betrothed, or when his father talks of marrying this girl off to just about anyone in their family for her claim, he has to step up. He rescues her from the Kingsguard and he agrees to marry her, although he knows she would rather dream about tall, blond knights than a badly scarred dwarf. And yes, although he wants to bed her, he wants her to love him--so their marriage is not consummated. And the deaths of her brother and mother in the Red Wedding don't help either.

So should he be so shocked when she disappears after Joffrey's death? Should he not realise that for her those words spoken in the sept could mean nothing, because those who forced her to enter the sept and utter those words wanted to claim her home? Does he not realise that his family's intentions were never good, when he finds himself in a cell, accused of a crime neither he nor she committed?

They write songs about knights and their ladies, about true love--how about a song of broken hopes and dreams that were destined to die because they were never based on reality?

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They have been married some years now—she is now a woman of twenty, wise in the ways of courts, politics and housewifery. Physically, he is still the same person she was forced to marry all those years ago by Queen Regent Cersei and King Joffrey the Unworthy (as the smallfolk now call him); he still makes unmannerly jests and japes despite being the Hand to their Graces the Kings and Queen of Westeros; and he has the oddest friends in Westeros, after her sister Arya, King Jon and the late Lord Stannis Baratheon. However he no longer treats her as a silly little girl who likes songs and stories about tall, handsome, blonde knights but listens to her gravely when she tells him firmly that he must eat or rest, else he will make himself ill.

She wonders if he treats her differently because she spends more time with Maestress Sarella than in listening to bards, watching tourneys, gazing at handsome young knights or gossiping with other women at court. They decide to stay married after the war, to maintain peace between their families, but they have little time to devote to their marriage. He is busy with matters of state, and she is busy rebuilding her relationships with her brothers and sister and her uncles, even as she helps them rebuild Winterfell, the Riverlands and the Vale. He cannot forget that she had once told him that she would never want him—and she feels she needs to really know him before she gives him more power over her person. The circumstances in which they were married were so dire that she could never have loved him—perhaps now, they can at least be friends before they become lovers?

But she notices the little things—that he is kind and friendly to Arya and Rickon, the two most difficult members of her family. He is affectionate with Bran and Jon, and tries very hard to be polite to Sweetrobin, who is very jealous of him, as well as her uncle Edmure and granduncle Brynden, who look at him with their lips pursed in disapproval. Nowadays, Tyrion does not drink as much as he used to when they were first married—nor does he keep mistresses or a whore. At first, she wondered if he had fallen ill with some foul disease when he went to Essos, but Grand Maester Samwell assured her these fears were groundless—he had treated Tyrion for some wounds he had received in battle and could say with confidence that he was free of disease. She simply assumes that he has grown tired of his old way of life—that his work as Hand keeps him far too busy for his former pastimes.

She does not know why, after all these years, she has begun to yearn for motherhood. She had thought she would be satisfied being a sister, a niece, a cousin and an aunt. Is it the sight of Robb’s twins, Ned and Bob, whom Jeyne brings to court, or that of little Catelyn, her uncle Edmure’s daughter, which ignites the longing within her to have children? She is determined to have her husband’s children, for she will not take a lover and have Tyrion bring up another man’s children as his own, as King Robert did. She is not a Lannister—she is a Stark and a Tully; she will do the honourable thing, the right thing. Besides, she knows what it is like to be the last of one’s line—she had suffered much when she believed that all her brothers, other than Jon, were dead; that Arya was lost or dead; and that her father, mother and Robb had been foully done to death by the Lannisters. She knew how fond he was of Tommen and Myrcella—she knew Jaime was the only sibling who had loved him. And he has lost all three of them, a loss she wants to make up to him by giving birth to his children. Of course, Lancel and Janei and several more of his Lannister cousins are still alive, but he is the only one of his family still alive, just as she had been when Joffrey died.

She is a little nervous when she speaks to Tyrion about her need to have a child one evening, as they sit in the solar after their supper. She has never felt very comfortable at the thought of being alone with a man, even with Tyrion who has always been kind to her. She cannot forget how Joffrey ordered the knights of his Kingsguard to tear her dress and beat her to punish her for her brother’s victories. Nor can she forget how the Hound and her lord husband rescued her from him that time. But they were not there to save her from Littlefinger’s unwanted kisses and caresses in the Vale, when she pretended to be his bastard daughter and fall in with his plans, so that she could flee with Sweetrobin when his suspicions were lulled. She was able to flee—she thanks the gods that she did not become his victim, unlike her aunt. So although Myranda Royce extols the joys of love and shares each juicy detail of every conquest she makes in King’s Landing for her edification, she still thinks of marital intercourse as a rather painful duty that she must endure if she wishes to have a child of her own.

When she speaks of her desire for a child to her husband, he looks at her thoughtfully. He has never asked her what transpired between herself and Littlefinger—she does not know what to make of his reticence. He asks her what she knows of the relations between men and women; she repeats some things that Myranda has told her. Her face turns redder than a beetroot when she does this and his mismatched eyes twinkle wickedly; she can tell he is trying not to throw back his head and laugh aloud at what she says. He waddles up to her on his stumpy legs and gently kisses her lips—she is glad she is seated on a chair by the fire, her embroidery in her lap, so that she is at the same height as him. It is a sweet kiss, not as clumsy as Sweetrobin’s nor as cruel as the kiss she had thought the Hound gave her on the night the Blackwater burned.

His eyes are still gleaming with mirth when he asks her gravely, “Has your maid done our beds?”

“Yes,” she says, surprised. “She does so while we are at supper. Why do you ask, my lord?”

“Because,” he says in a grave tone of voice but with mischief in his eyes, “we must begin as we mean to go on. Sitting here and talking about it will not help you get with child, but the two of us going to bed will. So put aside your embroidery,” he picks it up from her lap, “and put it in your basket. Now come on—let’s get to it. We have much to do if we want to become parents.” He takes her hand and she gets up from her chair.

They go to their bedroom. Their bed has been made and their nightclothes are laid out neatly on the pillows. The candles in the room are lit—all is ready for them. She is glad neither her maid nor Tyrion’s squire are there in their apartments—she would not know how to face them if they had seen her walk into the room hand-in-hand with her husband. She is at a loss for what she should do next—she did not think her husband would take her up on her offer so enthusiastically. She watches him undress and begins to follow his example. She is about to put on her night shift when he gently pries it from her hand and puts it on the stool nearby. He stands there looking at her, as naked as his name day, a hungry look in his eyes. She recalls that look in his eyes from her wedding day.

But she is no longer that scared and angry young maid of three and ten, forced into a marriage of convenience by her family’s enemies. She is now a woman of twenty who has chosen to stay in this marriage and she will not fear him. She is a Stark and she will be brave. She looks him in the eye as if to ask what he wants her to do. He takes her hand and guides her to the bed, where she sits down. And then he stands up in front of her, just as he did in the solar, and he begins to kiss her gently and sweetly—somehow, his kisses remind her of the first drops of rain on roses, as his mouth travels leisurely from one corner of her lips to the other, to the corner of her eyes, the tip of her nose, her chin, her cheeks... She begins to enjoy the sensation of his lips on her skin and she thinks it would only be fair to return the favour. So she kisses him back shyly when he kisses her lips yet again, and she kisses his face, which has now, over the years, grown dear and familiar.

She can feel her face turn rosy with his kisses, which grow deeper, hungrier, as he kisses her mouth again and again. She feels that she has forgotten how to breathe, and so has he. She does not know which one of them opens their mouths first, because she can soon feel their tongues touch. He draws closer to her—she can feel one of his hands on her shoulder, as his other hand gently cups her breast and his fingers gently caress her nipple till it peaks and grows hard. Now it’s not just her face that flushes with heat—she can feel as if she is on fire, from the top of her head to the soles of her feet.

She does not know how she comes to be lying across the bed, her legs somewhat spread out, as his lips and his hands travel down her neck to her breasts. She can feel the need to cry out growing within her, as he gently nibbles and sucks at her nipples, while she gasps for air and her heart hammers like a horse running a race. She feels she will burst into flames as his lips and his hands travel down her body, to her tummy, to her navel, to...down there. She is terrified she will scream—not from fear or terror, but from sheer excitement.

He is kneeling between her legs now—she can feel him caressing her folds, first with his lips, then with his fingers. She holds back her scream—she does not want Brienne or some other member of their guard battering down the door and finding the two of them like this. She is about to say something when he lies down on top of her—he is almost as small as Sweetrobin used to be. She hugs him close. He begins to suckle at her breasts, just like Sweetrobin used to do—but she used to hate that then, so why does she like this so much now? And then he enters her.

At first, she feels she will burst—he is a small man, but his man’s staff is not small at all. But then, she can feel herself open up as he goes in deeper. Their bodies seem to meet in a rhythmic series of thrusts and counter-thrusts as the excitement within her grows, rising to a crescendo, until she feels she will explode, like a barrel filled with wildfire, and burn King’s Landing down. She does cry out, as does he a little while later, and then his organ flops out of her, like a large eel. She lies back, looking at the ceiling of her bedroom, hugging her husband, wanting to laugh for joy. She can now understand why Myranda carries on so about her many conquests, but she is content with this.

A little while later, she rouses and straightens herself a little. She feels somewhat sore. Tyrion is dozing at her breast, snoring gently. She smiles and gently kisses his forehead. She lays him down on his side of the bed, with many small kisses of love and gratitude, and tucks him in. She moves somewhat stiffly to her side of the bed and gets under the covers.

She must ask Sarella how often a man and woman must bed each other, before the woman becomes pregnant. She will do so casually—although Sarella is the most discreet woman at court, she does not want the world to know that she and her husband have finally consummated her marriage. She acknowledges to herself that he was, as he had boasted, the Knight of Flowers in the dark.

The next morning she wakes to a warm kiss from her husband.

“How do you feel?” he asks her gently.

“A little sore and stiff,” she says shyly.

“What you need is a soak in a tub of warm water,” he tells her as he bounds out of bed, pulling on his nightshirt. As he is about to leave the room, he turns to her and asks, his eyebrows raised. “Are you sure I did not hurt you?”

“No,” she says, puzzled. “Why?”

“Are you certain I should not send for Sarella to see you? You do trust her, don’t you?”

“I am fine, Tyrion, really...there is no need to disturb her. I will have the soak you suggested and I will be fine. All you need to do is send for Maddie...”

He stands there, and grins at her shyly. “Was it all right for you? You weren’t ...”

She blushes and says, “I was afraid I would shout or cry out.”

“Oh? Why?” he asks her, trying to sound innocent, although his eyes are dancing with mischief.

She is about to speak when she hears a knock on the door. It is Maddie, her maid, with a tray of food for them to break their fast—she is told to leave the tray in the solar. Sansa also tells her to bring a tub of hot water up to her room. When Maddie goes, she looks at Tyrion and explains.

“I was there, you know, when my aunt married Lord Baelish—and her ladies and I could hear her all night after they were bedded. I did not want to cause any embarrassment for you with the guards...”

He laughs and kisses her, again and again. “You could never embarrass me, dear wife,” he whispers against her lips. “You know,” he said gravely, “we will have to do this quite often, if you really want to have a child. Are you sure you want to?”

She smiles and says, “Yes, my lord, I do.”

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They had parted abruptly when Joffrey died—she had fled the banqueting hall to freedom and Winterfell (so she had hoped), while he stayed on to be imprisoned and falsely accused of murder. He escaped sooner than she did, and went on to have more adventures in the Free Cities of Essos and on Slaver’s Bay, while she remained a captive of the mockingbird, first at the Eyrie and then at the Gates of the Moon. She had an equally adventurous journey from the Vale to the North, with the help of her granduncle the Blackfish, the Maid of Tarth, Ser Hyle Hunt and young Podrick Payne, whose unflinching loyalty to her enabled her to clear herself of the murder of a king.

She had almost forgotten him, since she was kept busy with the rebuilding of Winterfell, the education of her young brothers and sister (when they finally located Arya in Braavos, with the assistance of Ser Gendry Waters) and the provision of assistance not only to the Stark bannermen and smallfolk but also the Night’s Watch, which was battling the Others. And they met almost as abruptly and unpleasantly as they had parted—she was going in to Jon’s solar to speak to him, just as Tyrion was coming out in a hurry. They stumbled against each other and both would have fallen on the slippery ice, when she steadied him.

“Sansa!” he exclaimed when he saw her. He sounded almost angry, she thought—and she did not wonder at it. He had been left alone to face accusations of murder when Joffrey died. How he must hate her.

“My lord,” she responded courteously. “It is good of you to visit the Night’s Watch—they need your assistance, especially at this hour.”

He growled, “You never forget your courtesies, do you, dear wife? I wonder what you would say on your death bed.”

She was prevented from answering his jape by Satin, Jon’s steward, who told her that Lord Snow was ready to receive her. She turned to her husband. “I hope, my lord, to see you in the common hall.” She did not wait for his “Pah!” to follow Satin in to Jon’s solar.

When she had finished discussing her business with Jon—a method of paying off the Night’s Watch’s and the North’s debts to the Iron Bank of Braavos—she asked him, not without a certain curiosity, what had brought Lord Tyrion to visit the Wall after so many years. Although he had first visited before King Robert died, it did not prevent him from giving Ser Alliser Thorne, the Night’s Watch ambassador, a very shabby reception when he arrived at court.

“So, what brings him here now, Jon?” she asked.

Jon shrugged slightly. “There’s yet another claimant to the throne,” he said. “Daenerys Stormborn, old King Aerys’ daughter, who was born on Dragonstone. She’s here in Westeros, with a force of Unsullied, a Dothraki khalasar and three dragons. His lordship is her Hand and is visiting the Wall in that capacity.”

She tried to remember who ruled at King’s Landing at present—Tommen and Myrcella had both briefly reigned after Joffrey’s death, supported by their Highgarden and Dornish in-laws. Both Stannis and his daughter had died in the North, but not until the Boltons were defeated and the Dreadfort and Moat Cailin taken. The boy who claimed to be Aegon Targaryen had taken King’s Landing from the Lannisters and fought against the Ironborn king, Theon’s Uncle Euron—both men had perished only a few moons ago. Had he lived, the North would have bent its knee to him, for help against the Others. There was a remarkable lack of claimants to the Iron Throne at present, so Daenerys Targaryen could lay claim to being lucky.

“So why did he leave in such a hurry?” she asked.

Jon looked at her rather guiltily. “Well, after we’d exchanged diplomatic courtesies, I asked him why the Iron Throne had failed to respond to the Night’s Watch’s request for help when his father was Hand. He retorted by reminding me of Robb’s treason and I reminded him of how our lord father was executed. And then he spoke of how you had abandoned him and I reminded him that you had been forced into a marriage you did not want... It went on from there—he accused me of supporting Stannis; I told him that Stannis, as King, had come to the aid of the Watch, which neither of his nephews or niece had done. And I reminded him that Daenerys was more likely to execute his beloved brother than any other claimant to the Iron Throne had been. That’s when he walked out so hurriedly.”

Sansa sighed and laughed. “Really, Jon!” And then she tried to explain why Lord Tywin would not have given aid to the Night’s Watch, even if his son had asked him to do so. “I know it’s difficult to understand how they used to think...” she concluded, “but he never really listened to Tyrion when he was alive. It makes me angry now, when I think about it.”

Jon huffed a little and then said, “I would have offered you a meal in my solar if he had not turned up.”

“But since he has,” she said firmly, “both of us must eat in the common hall. Of course, you will seat him at your table?”

“Of course,” he said, as he helped her out of the solar.

During the meal that followed, Tyrion took care to address his remarks to Jon, who answered him civilly enough. Sansa spoke to Jon’s brother officers—Maester Samwell, Pyp, Grenn, Tormund Giantsbane, Mance Rayder—but she could not help noticing the manner in which Tyrion looked around the hall as he ate. When their meal was over, Jon excused himself—he had to send a raven to Eastwatch—so Sansa was left alone to entertain her husband.

“The Wall must have changed a great deal since you were here last, my lord,” she remarked, when they were on their own.

He grunted. “I was surprised not to see Bowen Marsh, Alliser Thorne and Janos Slynt here. I recall sending Slynt to the Wall myself.”

“Yes—well, Jon had him executed for not obeying a command,” Sansa said quietly. “Jon wanted him to take some men and take charge of another part of the Wall, and Slynt was rude and refused to obey him.”

“And Alliser Thorne and Bowen Marsh were executed when they tried to assassinate the Lord Commander? Yes, I’ve heard the tales.” Tyrion said. “You Starks are a bloodthirsty lot,” he remarked conversationally.

“I think I could say the same about your family my lord,” Sansa said, through gritted teeth.

“Now that we have exchanged courtesies to my heart’s desire, dear wife, perhaps you will be good enough to tell me why you abandoned me in King’s Landing and what you got up to thereafter?” he asked, a sardonic grimace on his lips.

Sansa marched into the sept, which was empty—Septon Cellador was probably sleeping it off in a cell somewhere in Castle Black. “We can converse here in some comfort, my lord—I don’t see why both of us should freeze in the practice yard.”

She then proceeded to tell him how and why she had escaped King’s Landing, and how she had reached the north. She had to respond to his indignation with her reasoning--“Why did you feel the need to escape? You were married to me! You were a Lannister!”

“I was a prisoner of war, my lord, marriage or no marriage. In fact, they married me to you to humiliate both of us—they wanted to show me how powerless and helpless I was and they wanted to show you how much they despised you by giving you a wife who did not want you. They forced me to marry you—neither my mother nor my brother was present at the ceremony.”

“And so, you got back at us all by killing Joffrey...”

“I wasn’t involved in a plan to kill Joffrey—I was Ser Dontos’ dupe in this, just as he was Lord Baelish’s dupe. Baelish had him shot as soon as I stepped on the deck of the Merling King—he said it was to ensure my safety, but he wanted to ensure Ser Dontos’ silence as well. The people who made the plan were Lord Baelish and Lady Olenna, both of whom are dead now.”

“And you claim,” he said, “that Baelish not only killed Lady Lysa, he did so because he felt she would reveal his part in the murder of her husband?”

“Yes—I was there in that hall, with the Moon Door. She wanted to push me out of it—I don’t know how he got in. And then she was all over him.” She recalled all that Lysa had said—her painful adoration of a man who had loved another woman; the loss of her first-born in an abortion; the threat to deprive her of Sweetrobin and Petyr’s suggestion (and gift) of the Tears of Lys...the promise that they would finally be together after so many years.

“She accused me of the crime,” he said suddenly. “Your mother arrested me and took me to the Eyrie, and Lady Lysa accused me of the crime.” He was indignant, she could tell.

“She sent a secret message to my mother, accusing the Lannisters of the crime—your family, not you in particular.”

“Yes, but when I got there...”

“You were the only member of the family she had available, so she accused you. Yes, she was like that—I’ve had quite a time training Robin out of that habit.”

He jumped up from the bench where he had been sitting. “That horrible boy! Do you know, all he wanted to do was to throw me out of the Moon Door? Is he still alive?”

“Yes, he is—alive and well and at Winterfell. Although he has a hard time of it with Bran, Rickon and Arya—they are less gentle with him than I am. Of course, Pod does what he can to keep the peace.”

“Podrick is there? Podrick Payne?”

“Yes—he is now Ser Podrick Payne and my castellan.”

She then described her escape from the Vale and her arrival in the north. He was then sufficiently mollified to describe his adventures and his travels from the Free Cities to Slaver’s Bay. When Jon walked into the sept, looking for them, it was to find them deep in conversation, as Sansa sat wide-eyed, listening to Tyrion’s account of the Battle for Meereen.

Later that day, as Sansa prepared to leave for Last Hearth, she invited Tyrion to visit Winterfell to meet Bran. “He wants to thank you—for that special saddle you designed for him. He got someone to make another such for him after he got back from beyond the Wall—and he got Brienne and Pod to train a horse for him, just as you had advised.”

“Beyond the Wall! What in seven hells was he doing there? I’ll certainly come to Winterfell—I want to find out just what each one of you was up to!”

And he was as good as his word. He arrived in Winterfell within a month, to meet her brothers and Arya. He was glad to see them all, which surprised her to some extent. She had always assumed that he, like the rest of his family, merely saw his marriage to her as a means to lay claim to Winterfell. Hence her refusal to consummate a marriage that she believed was undertaken to conquer the North by means other than war. But then she recalled the questions he had asked her as they left the palace after presenting Joffrey with their wedding gift—she remembered that he had asked about Bran falling. He had seemed concerned and anxious then, she recalled. And she had felt unhappy and unable to help him.

He spent some time talking to Arya and Rickon about Braavos and Skagos, after which he spent a long time talking to Bran and Osha, as well as the Reeds. Finally, he came to see her the day before he was to leave.

“Sansa,” he said, quietly. “We need to talk before I leave for King’s Landing. Has Bran spoken of how he came to fall to you?”

“Yes, my lord, he did.”

“Did he tell you that Jaime pushed him off the First Keep?” When she nodded, he asked, “I suppose he must have told you why Jaime did that.”

“Yes, he told me—did he tell you?” she asked quietly.

“He told me he was climbing—he used to climb all over Winterfell, you said—and he climbed to the First Keep, where he heard a man and a woman talking. He did not know who the people were—it was only when he looked into the room that he saw a man and a woman ‘wrestling’. Yes, that is what he said,” he responded to her raised eyebrow.

“He said he realised what he had seen only when one of your bannermen told him of Stannis’ letter that described my nephews and niece as products of an incestuous and adulterous relationship. “ They were both silent after this.

“What can you do about this?” she asked him.

“There is little I can do to atone for Jaime and Cersei’s misdeeds. Of course, all three of her children are dead—there is little she has to live for, now. And Jaime—well, he lost his hand soon after your lady mother freed him—it seems Vargo Hoat had his sword hand cut off. Of course, he learnt to fight with his left hand, but it seems that the Dragon Queen might well want him punished for killing her father.”

“Have you spoken of this with Jon, my lord? I am sure he can find a place for Ser Jaime in the Night’s Watch. Perhaps Her Grace may consent to his taking the black, if he confesses ...”

“Sansa,” he sighed, “I don’t know if the queen will be so forbearing. She has waited long for this day, you can be sure of that. So why should she not wreak her vengeance on Jaime? And believe me, my lady, he deserves punishment—he has caused much harm in the realm. Moreover, Jaime is at least alive—my father, Jon Arryn, Hoster Tully and King Robert are dead. Your father was executed. Edmure Tully, you Starks, myself and young Robin—we were either too young or not yet born when the rebellion took place...”

“She cannot blame my father and Robert Baratheon for raising the banners—not after the manner in which her father killed my uncle and grandfather, nor after the manner in which her brother carried off my aunt!”

“She can and she does,” he said rather bleakly. “It seems Viserys, who was a boy of six or so when she was born, told her about the rebellion. He said that Rhaegar fought Robert for the right to love Lyanna, just as Robert claimed that Rhaegar had kidnapped and raped Lyanna. Of course, both Ser Barristan and I, as well as Jorah Mormont, have tried to tell her what we know happened—but she prefers to believe her brother died for love.”

“Doesn’t she realise that her brother’s conduct led to the deaths of his wife, children and parents; their family’s loss of the throne and exile for her brother and herself? The Gods know, we all grieve for Robb and his untimely death—but we also know what it cost the North and the Riverlands...”

“Yes, but you were not a babe unborn when Robb was killed...” he said sadly.
She was silent after this. He continued. “Bran also spoke to me about the weirwoods and the godswoods. He said he could see things through the trees—that he could see past events.”

“What of that, my lord?” she asked, somewhat surprised. Bran had not spoken to her of this.

“He said he saw your father speaking to Cersei about the children in the godswood—days before Robert died. He says your father told her to leave Westeros with the family...and Cersei refused.”

“Perhaps father wanted to spare the children’s lives?” she wondered aloud.

“Sansa,” he said with some difficulty, “I need to know just what you told my sister about your father’s plans. She gave me to understand you told her everything. Yet, Bran says your father told her the gist of it—that he knew her children were born of incest and that he planned to reveal her secret to Robert. And she admitted it all to him.”

“All I knew of my father’s plans was that he wanted to send us back to Winterfell. I did not wish to go, because at that time, I believed myself in love with Joffrey. I thought that if I went to Cersei, she would speak to the king and convince father to let me stay on at court. He did not tell me what he had discovered—all he said was that he would betroth me to someone honourable and good when we came back to Winterfell. All I could think of then was that he would betroth me to a hedge knight.”

“You were what—a child of eleven? I can understand why he would not have told you then, although I wonder if you would have trusted Cersei quite so much had he told you the truth. At least, you would have known her to be capable of much duplicity...I wonder why she lied to me about you. She must have sensed that I would try to befriend you and she wished to leave you friendless at court, at Joffrey’s mercy. Well,” and he sounded cold and icy—all of a sudden, Sansa realised that Tyrion, whom she had always seen as a kind man, could also be very cruel—“I will ensure she lives a very long life after Jaime dies. I want to see her alone in the Dragon Queen’s court—at Daenerys’ mercy.”

“My lord,” she exclaimed, “she is your sister...”

“She has never behaved like a sister to me, has she, Sansa? So why should I treat her with any kindness or consideration? She has earned nothing but hatred from me, and I shall repay her with interest. A Lannister pays his debts, you know,” he said, his eyes and voice as cold as a glacier. She shuddered as she looked at him.

“Bran also told me,” he continued in a calmer tone of voice, “about your meetings in the godswood with Dontos Hollard and his offer to help you escape. He told me about Dontos’ gift of the hairnet. Did he tell you the purple stones were amethysts from Asshai?”

“Yes, my lord, he did.” She answered.

“Of course, you would not have known that the purple stones were the strangler, would you? Young ladies are not taught to recognize poisons by their maesters or septas, are they?” he asked musingly. “Not if you’re not the Red Viper’s daughter, at least.”

“So you do believe that I did not knowingly poison Joffrey?” she asked anxiously.

“Yes, I believe you—I think both Littlefinger and the Tyrells wanted you there for the wedding. No one would look twice if you were to appear wearing that hairnet—they all knew you were being watched. And yet, when Joffrey was killed, they turned on us, on you and me, as the killers. I wonder why?”

“I don’t think,” she spoke with some difficulty, “that they wanted us to live. Even if we’d consummated our marriage, they would have found a way to kill us off. I would have died in childbed and you would have been killed off conveniently—poison in your wine; a knife in your ribs as you visited a brothel or...”

“An accusation of murdering a king who was also my nephew? Yes—my father and my sister would have done that. And now you know why I want her to live and to suffer and to watch me rise.”

They were both silent after this exchange—she was shocked but not surprised to realise the extent of his hatred for his father and sister. She then asked him hesitantly, “Will we have to go to King’s Landing to declare our fealty to the Dragon Queen, my lord?”

“I think the Dragon Queen plans to visit the North soon, my lady,” he informed her, “And then she will expect to receive oaths of fealty from all her northern subjects, including the wildlings. Of course,” he continued, “your uncle at Riverrun and the other Riverland lords have welcomed her, as have the Lords of the Vale. The Reach, Dorne, the Crownlands and the Stormlands are exhausted, as are the Westerlands, with their battles with the Ironborn. So she should come north in say six turns of the moon or so. You have restored Winterfell to its former glory, my lady, but...she will bring a smaller retinue than Robert did. She might even visit the Wall.”

“Have you informed Jon of this, my lord?”

“Yes, he knows. I spoke to him of this before I left the Wall.”

They were silent for a while, and then he spoke again.

“Sansa,” he said heavily, “she also expects us—you and me, that is—to live as man and wife. She is convinced that it will settle the war between our families. Believe me, I tried to talk her out of it, but she is determined.”

She was silent, so he continued: “You once told me that you could never love me. If you still feel the same...”

“When I said those words to you, my lord, I was very angry with you. You had promised—nay, you had given your word—that you would send me home to my mother. And I was enraged that, when my betrothal to Joffrey was broken, you agreed to marry me when your father asked you to do so. My brothers were dead, or so I believed, and Arya was lost, believed dead. And then, Robb and my mother were murdered by the Freys and Lord Bolton and his men. Can you doubt that I believed you had married me for my claim to Winterfell? And can you blame me for hating you then?”

“You had every right to feel that way...although I hoped to win your love somehow...”

“I could never have loved you then, my lord—my heart was too full of grief and bitterness. And no, I did not want your comfort either...I could not have trusted you then, for I had seen what trusting and loving Joffrey and Cersei had cost me.”

“You speak of then, Sansa, as if your feelings have changed now.”

She was silent for a while and then she spoke. “My lord, I think both you and I need to be better acquainted with each other before we can truly live together as man and wife. We have lived apart for many years and we have misunderstood each other so often that...I sincerely hoped you would meet someone on your travels who loved you better than I did.”

“Is there someone else you would prefer to wed, Sansa? Anyone you met in King’s Landing or the Vale?”

She said quietly, “No, there isn’t—my aunt tried to make a match for me with Robin before she died and Lord Baelish wanted me to marry Ser Harrold Hardying—but I was sick of marriages being made for me. I had no desire to wed—I still don’t. But, if I must be married, I’d rather marry someone who had been kind to me. And you were kind to me when we were together.”

“So what should I say to the Queen, my lady?”

“Tell her that we agree—we can choose to live as man and wife while we get to know and understand each other better. She does not have to know everything about our lives, does she?”

“No, she does not—I think this is a good plan, my lady.”

Chapter Text

Although she knew she should not have done so, Sansa could not really help it. As soon as Lord Petyr left for King’s Landing, she made arrangements to visit the Quiet Isle. She knew Lord Petyr would be busy in the capital; after all, both Queen Cersei and her daughter-in-law, Queen Margaery, wife to King Tommen, were to face the wrath of the Faith because of their sexual immorality. She had spoken to Petyr about getting her an annulment, by pointing out that, since theirs had been a political marriage and he had been a kinslayer, Tyrion would never be accepted by her lords in the North. This would enable her to marry Ser Harrold Hardying with a clear conscience—she had a horror of causing a scandal.

Petyr only laughed, telling her that it was more than likely that Tyrion would die a horrible death in some distant part of the world and she was refining too much upon inessentials. He told her she should worry more about Sweetrobin’s imminent demise, because as soon as that took place, she would wed Harry.

Sansa was determined to prevent that at all costs. So as soon as her “father” left for the capital on the Merling King, she talked Lady Myranda and Mya Stone into accompanying her to the Quiet Isle and the Isle of Faces, with a group of the knights from the Vale to act as their guardsmen. When Myranda demurred, because she thought the expedition too dull, Sansa said that she was going to get the Elder Brother, known in the Riverlands and the Vale as a healer, to prescribe for Lord Robert. Myranda immediately agreed to go with her.

They were lucky enough to meet him, they learnt on their arrival, because he was going to King’s Landing to sit in judgement on the two queens. It appeared a great Council of the Faith had been called, because Queen Margaery had insisted on trial by law. Queen Cersei had chosen trial by combat—she would be represented by Ser Robert Strong, a knight of the Kingsguard. The Isle had already sent their strongest man, a gravedigger and lay brother, to face the knight as the Faith’s champion.

Sansa was glad to get the Elder Brother’s opinion on Robert’s health. She had prevailed upon Maester Colemon to accompany them on this journey. While the maester learnt what needed to be done to aid Robert, Sansa gradually confided in the Elder Brother under the seal of the confessional, and told him her sad tale, including all that she had learned of Lord Petyr’s misdeeds. In turn, the Elder Brother promised to speak to His High Holiness about her annulment, and to get Petyr punished for his role in the murders of Lord and Lady Arryn, as well as his attempt on the life of their son.

Sansa returned to the Vale, satisfied—the Elder Brother had also told her of Lady Brienne’s visit and the truth about the gravedigger at the Quiet Isle. She felt she would soon have protection from Petyr, should she need it. So she was really quite frightened when Petyr arrived almost two weeks later, looking as though he had been riding all night. He immediately insisted on going up to the Eyrie and commanded Mya to get the mules ready. When she demurred, he reminded her that he was Lord Paramount of the Vale till young Lord Arryn reached his majority and he would not be gainsaid. He then commanded Sansa to accompany him alone to the Eyrie, with Ser Shadrich to guard them both.

Sansa did as he bade her—there was an air of reckless desperation about him that frightened her. She was afraid to imagine what he would do if she refused.

When they arrived at the Eyrie, he immediately made for the Lord’s Hall, dragging Sansa after him. They entered, followed by Ser Shadrich.

“Bar the door,” Petyr commanded, “We need no witnesses.”

He seated himself on the Lord’s throne and commanded Sansa to stand up before him. He looked at her coldly for several minutes before he spoke.

“You little fool,” he snarled, “do you know what you have done? You have ruined us both!”

“What do you mean, my lord?” she asked, trying not to sound afraid.

“You confided in the Elder Brother at the Quiet Isle, did you not, you little ninny? Answer me, yes or no?”

“Yes, my lord, I did—but it was under the seal of the confessional.”

“Well, he spoke to His High Holiness about your case—you will be glad to know that your annulment will be granted. I hope that makes you happy, you little... But did you also have to tell him all that your aunt raved about before she died? Did you have to tell him just how King Joffrey died? Do you know the danger we are in, right now?”

“No, my lord, I don’t.” But I’m sure you will tell me, she said to herself.

“The Elder Brother told His High Holiness all that you had told him. And that holy fool chose to confide in a Dornish septa, who knows someone on the Small Council. So now I have King Tommen’s soldiers, both Lannisters and Tyrells, looking for me in King’s Landing. I hope that makes you happy, you little ingrate!” he snarled at her, his eyes blazing.

“It does not, my lord—I hoped the Elder Brother would keep silent about this. After all, I spoke to him under the seal of the confessional—I had no wish that he make these matters public knowledge,” she replied mendaciously, looking pleadingly into his eyes. She continued, as he glared at her, “You must know, my lord, that I was troubled by the deaths of the king and my aunt—I only spoke to ease my conscience... I did not think he would...”

“No, you don’t think, do you, you empty-headed little...? I should have left you to die like the rest of your family...I should have left you there on the banks of the river with Dontos...I should have let you take the blame for Joffrey’s death...I should have done to you what I did to your father—let Cersei behead you. And yes, she will do it—she knows you are here; I am sure Lord Mace Tyrell has informed her.”

She remained silent as she digested the import of his words. So he had betrayed her father—somehow she was not surprised to hear that at all. He had shown himself to be a vile man—he had seduced her aunt and made her believe he loved her, only to use her to murder her husband and marry her, so that he could rule in her son’s name. And he had got Joffrey to execute her father, was making plans to murder poor Sweetrobin and was about to ...

“Can you tell me why I should not throw you out of the Moon Door, my lady? I have gone to immense trouble—I have risked my life and all that I have made of myself--to protect you from the wrath of the Lannisters. Perhaps I should have left you in King’s Landing—I should have let Joffrey live—to torment you for the rest of your life. Your dwarf husband would have not been able to help you at all—and your goodfather would perhaps have thrown you to his soldiers, to silence you once and for all!”

As he spoke, he got up, grabbed her hand and dragged her to the Moon Door, which he opened wide. She tried not to look down—she knew that if she did, she would feel sick. She looked into his eyes, red and blazing with anger. She should have felt afraid—she knew, at this moment, that he wanted to kill her for her betrayal. But she did not regret what she had done—he deserved to be punished for his crimes. All she had wanted was to return to Winterfell and rebuild her home—she did not wish to be a player or a piece. But Cersei and Petyr did not care—they were players and they would use everyone else as a piece in their game.

She turned her eyes away from his face—she no longer feared death. If she died, she would be reunited with her parents and her brothers. Her only regret was that if she died, she would not be able to rebuild Winterfell or give the North a new generation of Starks to rule it. Nor would she be able to avenge her dead. As these thoughts flew through her mind as swift as birds, she glanced towards the east, where she could see the sun gleaming faintly. And against the sun—what was that? A dragon?

“What is that?” she cried out, as Petyr paused in his tirade against her ingratitude, stupidity, naivety...

He fell silent as the black dot in the east increased in size as it flew towards them. Both of them moved away from the Moon Door. Petyr tried to bar it as the dragon—with two people on its back—flew into the Lord’s Hall. Both of them backed away from the Moon Door.

It was a large beast, cream and gold in colour, its wings almost touching the walls of the Hall. She watched in wonder as its riders got off the dragon’s back. They were dwarves—a man and a woman. And the man looked remarkably like her lord husband.

“Well, so we meet again, my lady wife!” he said, bowing to her.

“My lord! How did you acquire this dragon?” Sansa asked, with a gasp.

“It’s a very long story, my dear wife. But what brings you here to the Vale? Ah, I must have forgotten—your lady aunt! Is that not so, Lord Baelish? By the way, how is your charming wife? You must have married her by now?”

“He not only married her—he also killed her!” Sansa interjected.

Petyr turned towards her, enraged. “You...! I did that to save your sorry neck.”

“No, Petyr,” Sansa snapped. “You did that because you could. You made her believe you loved her so that she would poison her husband when you asked her to do so. You married her because you wanted to become Lord Paramount of the Eyrie and then, that day in the godswood, when I was building Winterfell, you kissed me when she was watching. You wanted her to get angry with me; you wanted her to almost kill me, so that you could pose as my saviour. You really needed to kill her, didn’t you? She was an embarrassment—she knew too much and she drank too much. She wasn’t raving, was she, Petyr, the day you pushed her out of the Moon Door and blamed Marillion for her death?”

“You traitor! You know I did it to save your life.”

“Yes--and I suppose you had my father killed to save my life, too, didn’t you, Petyr?”

Tyrion listened to their quarrel, his head to one side. He did not look amused. When he spoke, his voice was as cold as ice.

“Is it true what my wife just said, Baelish—that you got Lady Arryn to kill her own husband? How and why?”

“He told her to use the tears of Lys to poison Lord Arryn—and then he told her to write to my mother and say that the Lannisters had killed him! All because my uncle wanted Robin to be fostered at Dragonstone! He says he had my father executed! He must have said something to Joffrey! And then he plotted with the Tyrells to have Joffrey murdered—he sent me a hairnet containing the strangler to wear to the wedding feast, so that Lady Olenna could put it in Joffrey’s wine! And he told the maester to give sweetsleep to Lord Robert!” Sansa was so angry that she was shouting—as unlike her normal, soft-spoken courteous self as she could be—shouting like a common fishwife, pointing a finger at Petyr Baelish, who stood there, looking afraid.

“Lord Tyrion—I can explain everything...”

“He can explain nothing! He got her with child when she was a maiden and dishonoured her. My grandfather had her abort the baby—that is why Sweetrobin is the way he is. The Elder Brother at the Quiet Isle told me this must have happened.” Sansa had recovered her customary poise. Now she glared at Petyr, almost snarling out the words she spoke. “He told me my mother loved him and had given him her maidenhood, which was a lie—Aunt Lysa slept with him when he was drunk and he thought it was Mother.”

“Your mother was as cold as you are, you ...! She could have been mine, but no—she had to marry a Stark! Lysa...she was always there, with her puppy-dog eyes, always underfoot and in the way. And that’s how she got pregnant and her father wedded her to Arryn, who needed the Tully spears to fight Aerys. They all deserved to die—Jon Arryn, Robert Baratheon and your father—they shat on my dreams. I hoped he would die in the Rebellion, but no—he lived and went on to sire you!” Petyr spat at her angrily.

“So that was why you poisoned Jon Arryn. And I suppose the fact that my brother and sister were sleeping together must have been common knowledge in the Red Keep? It must have been so easy to blame them when you knew that Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark were looking into the same thing—the paternity of the king’s children. You would have stuck close to Eddard Stark, would you not—to ensure he did as Arryn had done?” Tyrion’s voice was as soft and smooth as summer silk, but she could sense the steel underlying it. “And my father and I had no one but you to do our bidding—make the alliance with the Tyrells; ensure the Vale stayed out of the war... I warned him you were dangerous, but he did not heed me—he thought you a man of low birth, who would not aspire so high. You’ve been stealing from the crown, too, haven’t you, to pay off your own agents?”

Petyr did not speak—he suddenly looked at Ser Shadrich and said, “Kill them both,” as he pointed at Sansa and Tyrion. “If you do as I say,” he continued, “the Tyrells and the Lannisters will give you a lordship—these two have been condemned as traitors and murderers of the king.”

“From what I’ve heard,” Ser Shadrich responded insolently, “they did not kill the king—the Tyrells did. You do have a habit of wanting everyone to do your dirty work, don’t you, Baelish? Lord Varys warned me of this when he sent me here. Lord Tyrion, I think you should give him to the dragon—I tend to believe what the young lady says. Varys had his eye on you, you know,” he then said, looking at Sansa. “He thought you must be up to something—you were being such a good little girl. Calling all your family traitors! He knew it was an act—and he knew you would make a run for it sometime or the other. He was afraid you would get into trouble with this fellow—he knew Baelish had sent your friend Jeyne to a brothel.” As Sansa started in horror, Shadrich continued, “The girl was going north to the Boltons as Arya Stark—this man,” he pointed at Petyr, “trained her for her part.”

He moved away from Petyr as he spoke and drew closer to Sansa and Tyrion, and to the dwarf girl who stood in the shadows. “You’d best give him to the dragon, my lord—he will not be missed.”

As Tyrion spoke, the dragon opened its mouth and breathed out fire, engulfing Lord Petyr, who screamed as he burned. Later, Sansa, Tyrion, Penny and Ser Shadrich sat on its back to descend to the Vale. Sansa could not help but thank the gods, old and new, to have been rescued in such a timely manner. She could not help but change her attitude towards her husband—it was true they had been forced to marry and his father had wed her to him for her claim to Winterfell, but he had come to her rescue time and again, just like a good knight should. It was true that he did not match her picture of what she had dreamed her husband would be like—he was neither tall, nor handsome—but he was a man of honour, a good and kind man, the sort of man her father would have betrothed her to, had he lived. Her manner was no longer as icily courteous as it used to be at King’s Landing—there was a hint of warmth in it that pleasantly surprised Tyrion. They were finally able to talk, instead of exchanging empty pleasantries, and to tell each other what they had endured until they met again at the Moon Door.

Ser Shadrich also told them that Varys had sent him to look for Sansa, because she needed to go north—Stannis was at the Wall, with his red priestess. He had made peace with the wildlings and would get them to fight alongside the Night’s Watch in the war against the Others. But it was necessary, if not essential, that there be a Stark in Winterfell if the realms of men were to be saved. When Tyrion asked him why this was so, Shadrich said he did not know.

“Lord Varys had another message to give you, my lady—he asked if you recalled Ser Alliser Thorne who had come to court, asking for help for the Night’s Watch?”

“Yes, I recollect—my lord spoke to him the same day that he saw Ser Cleos Frey.”

“Well, Lord Varys spoke to him also—both before and after he spoke to my lord in court. The man spoke of wights and Others—he said the Watch was under attack by both. They found that fire helped against the wights.” And Shadrich told her of the wight who had almost slain Lord Mormont in his own quarters, and how he’d been saved by Jon Snow.

Soon after that, Tyrion and Sansa spoke to the Lords of the Vale, telling them of the crimes Petyr had committed and why he had been killed. And then they spoke of the need to go North, to rebuild Winterfell and help the Night’s Watch against the Others. Sansa advised Tyrion to get Robert to sign a grant bestowing the Gates of the Moon in perpetuity on Lord Nestor Royce, and, leaving Sweetrobin to be brought up by Lady Anya Waynwood, Lord and Lady Lannister set off for the north on their dragon, taking an escort of warriors from the Vale with them.

Chapter Text

When she was scarce thirteen years of age, Sansa Stark was married off to a man ten years older than her, and shorter and uglier than he had any right to be. Of course, her bridegroom was not chosen by her parents or her brothers—her father had been executed as a self-confessed traitor and her mother, eldest brother and uncle were rebelling against the king, Joffrey Baratheon, the First of his name, to whom she had been betrothed for a year. When the crown allied with Highgarden and Joffrey agreed to take Lady Margaery as his wife, the Queen Regent and the Small Council in their wisdom decided to wed her to someone whose loyalty to the crown was unquestioned—the king’s dwarf uncle, Tyrion Lannister, who had briefly served as Hand and had participated so valiantly (although neither his father nor the queen spoke of this) in the defence of the city against Stannis Baratheon.

Of course, she was horrified when she learnt whom she was to marry—she was told of her own marriage only a few minutes before it was to take place. However, although she wept throughout the wedding, did not kneel when the cloaks were exchanged and refused to consummate the marriage, she did not totally hate her husband, because he had been kind and understanding to her at a time when she needed it most. But, when he made it obvious he wanted her to be a wife in fact as well as in name, if not now than sometime in the future, she refused by telling him that she could never love him. To be honest, she could never forgive him—he had promised to send Arya and her home in exchange for his brother. And he had broken his word, sworn before the whole court, so that he could get Winterfell. Now that both her brothers were dead, killed by Theon Greyjoy and his men, and Robb had no children of his own, she would be heir presumptive to Winterfell if he should fall in battle. She would be godsdamned if she let the Lannisters get the North so easily. And yet—she felt sorry for him. She could not understand the look in his eyes, but she could not give him what he wanted. Not then, anyway.

He did not know then that she planned to escape King’s Landing with the help of Dontos Hollard, whom she had saved from Joffrey’s vengeance on the young king’s name day. She left on the very day that Joffrey was married to Margaery Tyrell and died choking at his own wedding feast. And she left Tyrion alone to face the accusations of murder levelled against him by his father and sister. Perhaps it was as well—for it was likely she too would have been accused of the crime and executed. Her presence there might have made it impossible for her husband to escape, which he did, and go east.

As for Sansa, she went to the Vale of Arryn and lived there as the bastard daughter of the Lord Protector, Lord Petyr Baelish, who was married to her aunt, Lady Lysa Tully Arryn. On her way there, she learnt the truth about the murder of the king and her own role in it. She also learnt—even as her aunt died—how her family and the Lannisters had been cleverly manoeuvred into a war by a lovesick woman and her manipulative lover. Perhaps it was pure luck that her granduncle arrived in the Vale, just before she was to be married off to Harry Hardying, her sickly cousin Lord Robert Arryn’s heir. She was able to confide all she had learned on her journey from King’s Landing to the Vale to Ser Brynden Tully, and she was able to then honestly describe how her aunt had died.

Her revelations helped the Lords of the Vale to convict and execute their Lord Protector for the murder of his wife and her late husband Lord Jon Arryn and his attempt to murder his stepson, Lord Robert. Although the Lords then expected Sansa to set aside her marriage and take one of them as a husband, she hesitated, explaining to the Lords that she had made her vows before the High Septon and the entire court at King’s Landing—any marriage she entered into would be seen as null and void if her previous, unconsummated marriage to Tyrion Lannister was not annulled by the High Septon and a council of the faith. She said she had hoped Lord Petyr would find some way to accomplish this, but he had expected to marry her off to Harry Hardying and hope for Tyrion Lannister’s death, wherever he was. She said she would wait—she was a maiden short of her fourteenth year and had much to learn about the world before she would wed again. However, she was able to convince the Lords to invade the North in support of King Stannis in his battles against the Boltons, telling them that their late overlord and her father had both supported his claim as King Robert’s heir.

She used the same arguments when Stannis’ Lords and her father’s bannermen tried to convince her to set aside her marriage—her youth; her need for an annulment granted by the High Septon to ensure that her second marriage and the issue thereof were trueborn in the eyes of the law and the gods old and new. No, she would not opt for a Northern or wildling marriage—she would wait to get an annulment from the High Septon and nothing else. Of course, she would need her husband’s consent for this, as many of her suitors reminded her—and they all prayed for his early demise. With her ladies—My Stone, Myranda Royce, Maege Mormont, Barbrey Dustin, Brienne of Tarth and Val of the wildlings, as with Ser Brynden and Lord Edmure Tully, she was most open. “I have no desire ever again to be married for my claim to Winterfell. Let them wait if they wish to wed me.” With her half-brother, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch Jon Snow, who was eventually revived after his men tried to kill him, she was more forthcoming.

“Jon,” she said to him honestly, “he was kind to me and I deserted him at a time when he needed me at his side. Yes, I know that, if I had been there, he might never have been able to escape and I myself would have faced execution. No, I did not love him then, but ... I felt sorry for him, Jon. He should have been loved—there was much that was good in him. Of course, Lord Petyr tried to turn me against him by telling me that he had his first wife raped by his father’s guards when he grew tired of her. I do not believe that he was the instigator, Jon—I have never forgotten how he roared at Joffrey when he tried to get the Kingsguard to strip me naked and beat me because Robb won a victory against Ser Stafford Lannister. I need your help to discover the truth, Jon.”

Jon did try, of course, to find men from the West who knew something about Tyrion Lannister’s previous marriage, but to no avail, until Maester Samwell arrived from the Citadel by land, bringing Ser Jaime Lannister in his train. It appeared that Ser Jaime had been captured by a group of brigands in the Riverlands and had been involved, along with them, in many crimes, namely the killing of sundry members of the Frey family, many of whom had been involved in the Red Wedding. Ser Jaime’s excuse for his involvement with the brigands was his general disapproval of the Red Wedding and his dislike of the Freys. He also said he had joined because the leader of the brigands, one Lady Stoneheart, had claimed that Lord Bolton had mentioned his name while stabbing Robb Stark.

“And I had nothing to do with it—nothing at all,” he responded angrily when he faced Jon Snow and Theon Greyjoy. “I had less to do with it than that turn cloak,” he pointed at Theon rudely, “had to do with your younger brothers’ deaths.”

Jon remained silent—by this time, he had learnt, not only from Theon but also from Sam, after much waffling, that both boys were alive. Indeed, Lord Davos Seaworth had been heard from recently from White Harbour—he had returned from Skagos with Lord Rickon in tow. And Sam had reported helping Bran, Hodor and two friends of theirs go through the gate at the Night King’s tower to go beyond the Wall. Jon had been very wroth with Sam for not telling him this earlier—even though Sam pleaded that he had sworn an oath not to tell. Jon had spoken of this to Sansa, who had been relieved—at least she would no longer be seen as the heir to Winterfell. People would want to wed her for herself rather than for her inheritance.

Jon eventually got Ser Jaime on his own, after many sessions in the practice yard. Ser Jaime soon learnt of how Lord Baelish had set the Starks and Lannisters at each other’s throats; how he had planned the murder of King Joffrey with the Tyrells and had almost got away with the murder of his stepson. He was at first sceptical, but then horrified when Sansa told him how the father of the three Kettleblack sellswords, one of whom was part of the Kingsguard, had worked as the captain of Lord Baelish’s ship, the Merling King. He agreed to write of all this to Queen Cersei and, in turn, he told the truth about Tysha and Tyrion to Jon and Sansa.

“He was a boy of thirteen when this incident took place. We ran into a girl outside Lannisport—she was fleeing from some men, who were harassing her. I gave chase, while Tyrion comforted the girl. I never caught up with the men. She told us she was a crofter’s daughter. Tyrion took her to an inn while I went back to the Rock to get more men to find and punish her attackers. We did not find those men, no matter where we looked. Tyrion remained away from home a week or two. When my father came home—he had gone to visit Cersei in King’s Landing—he immediately sent men to look for his son. He had little love for Tyrion—he blamed him for my mother’s death—but he was a Lannister. Well, we were soon visited by a septon, who told us that my brother, Tyrion Lannister, had taken Tysha, the daughter of a crofter, or so she claimed, to wife! My father was furious. He was convinced the girl was up to no good—he felt she was after his gold, since she thought Tyrion would inherit Casterly Rock. He told me to say that I had set this up to make a man of my brother—paid extra for a whore who was a virgin. He was my father—and I was suspicious about the men who had appeared and disappeared so opportunely. So I told the lie when Tyrion came home with his wife. He was devastated—he loved that girl. He had been happy—they had found a cottage by the sea... The rest you know—it was my father’s decision to have half a regiment of Lannister guardsmen rape the girl and have Tyrion watch. He made each man pay her a silver stag, and he made Tyrion go last and pay her a gold dragon. As a Lannister, he was worth more.”

Sansa listened to this story in horrified silence. So this was where Joffrey’s and Cersei’s violent streak had come from. This was perhaps why Tyrion had refused to force her to consummate their marriage. This was why he had been so enraged with Joffrey...

“What became of the girl, Tysha?” Jon asked quietly.

“I don’t know. I could never tell Tyrion the truth about this until your mother set me free, my lady,” he told Sansa. “And then, when I found him accused of a crime he did not commit, I was certain he was shielding you, although Brienne was equally certain that you were innocent. I spoke to Varys—I forced him, at the point of my sword, to help my brother escape. I felt he deserved another chance—away from the enmity of my father and sister. And then, when I let him out of his cell, I told him the truth of what I had done. He hated me then—he went to confront our father. Early the next morning, Cersei and I were told that our father had been done to death—shot in the guts with a crossbow bolt while on the privy. And the girl Shae--who had been Tyrion’s whore—had been strangled.”

They were silent then, as they allowed the whole horrific story to sink into their minds. Eventually Ser Jaime left for his own quarters—Jon had asked him to train recruits in the art of swordsmanship. He was also learning the armourer’s trade from Gendry Waters, who had been a member of the Brotherhood without Banners, the brigands who had captured him.

When Jon returned after speaking to the watchers on the Wall, he found Sansa still in his room, staring into the fire. He had left her thus after Ser Jaime’s departure—Sansa had not even wished the man a good night. He was going to tease his sister about her letting go her courteous demeanour when she turned to him and said in a rush, “Jon, I think he is looking for her, wherever he is. He must be—he is a kind man and he would never forgive himself for the wrong he did her. I am convinced he must have loved her greatly. And to have his heart broken when so young... I can understand and forgive his killing that unnatural man who called himself his father. And I can even understand about Shae—I made it very clear to him that I did not love him and he said he would go to the whores. It was my fault, Jon—but I could not have let him have Winterfell so easily, could I? I had to be brave—I had to be like Robb.”

Had he been a man with a sardonic sense of humour, like the Hound or the Imp, Jon would have told her that, had she been like Robb, she would have submitted to her Lannister husband. Instead he asked her, “Does this help you gain an annulment—the knowledge that he was a kinslayer? I know that it would be enough to end your marriage in the North.”

“Not unless he was actually seen committing the murder. The fact that he was accused of a murder that he did not commit—that he was always accused of having caused his mother’s death—would have been enough to sour anyone’s disposition. And then to be accused of yet another murder—for he served Joffrey most loyally even though he hated what the boy was like—would be enough to set off his temper. It was as volatile as wildfire, you know, Jon. I have read accounts of the trial and I know he would have said those things, vile things, when he was angry. And all he said so hastily would be used against him—a stick to beat him with. No, I will not annul this marriage, Jon—not unless he finds Tysha and she forgives him and he is happy with her. I am certain he will come back—there are many debts he has to collect here in Westeros.”

Chapter Text

Many years after the Dragons regained their throne, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, who had been Lady Protector of the North while her brothers were minors, decided to get married. No one was surprised at that--after all, the Stark boys were now men grown and she herself was a beautiful, intelligent and accomplished lady, known for her kindness and good sense. What surprised and horrified everybody who heard the news was that she would marry Lord Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the Queen.

"Why?" Arya demanded to know, even as she paced about Winterfell's great hall impatiently. "Why are you marrying this man? He is no handsome knight from your stories, Sansa--he is an ugly, evil-tempered dwarf. And you went through much trouble to be rid of him so many years earlier. I have not yet forgot," she said, interrupting her sister, who was trying to get in a word edgewise, "the septa examining you to prove you were a virgin. I was in the room with you, if you recall." And she glared at Sansa.

"Why on earth," demanded Ser Jaime Lannister, now a man of the Night's Watch, "do you want to wed that wench? She didn't want you the first time when our father bade you both wed, so why does she want you now? Because you're the Hand of the Queen, that's why! She's a very self-seeking woman, that one--as cunning as a wolf, say I. She's got me freezing my butt and my balls up here, and you go and marry her. Have you forgotten," he asked his brother, who pursed his non-existent lips as he looked at him out of his mismatched eyes, "that she was the one who smuggled the poison in at Joffrey's wedding?"

"Arya, please sit down and let me explain myself. Yes, that's much better. Why am I marrying Tyrion Lannister and not a handsome knight from a story? Because he has intelligence and integrity, Arya--I can talk to the man and trust him. He was kind to me in King's Landing--he knows what I had to endure as Joffrey’s betrothed. I could not love him then, nor he me, for we were forced to wed by his father, so that the Lannisters could claim Winterfell. And no, I was never proud of abandoning him to face judgement for a crime he did not commit. So neither of us wanted to keep up that farce of a marriage, you can be sure! But now I feel he needs someone to care for him at court, to make him comfortable and listen to him. And nowadays he is no longer the man he was when we first married. When we were first wed," she sounded sad, “I was still a foolish young girl, although I had flowered. I would never have made him a suitable companion or wife. But now, the gods willing, I know I can be good to him. I know I can make him comfortable and happy, and he can make me feel safe.”

"Jaime, you idiot," the Queen's Hand responded in his usual blunt manner, "why don't you understand that she saved your life when she forced you to take the black? Otherwise you would have made a fine meal for Drogon! I don't blame her at all now for not loving me when we were forced to wed by Father. She had every right to be angry with me and to hate me for demanding that she love me. What I haven't forgotten is the manner in which Robb Stark died to feed our father's appetite for revenge. And I haven't forgotten what you did to Bran either. I'm marrying her," he spoke more calmly now, "because she is a kind woman with a keen mind who has learnt to keep her own counsel. And about Joffrey's death--she was a child who wanted to go back home. Your precious Petyr Baelish, whom Father made Lord of Harrenhal and the gods know what else besides, saw to it that she carried the poison to the feast. And dear Lady Olenna, Margaery's grandmother, put the poison in the cup. I would not have made a good husband for her then because I was in love with Shae." He twisted his mouth as he said that name—he had not yet forgotten that Shae had betrayed him with his father. “But now, I think she no longer wants someone out of a song or a story—she wants and needs an intelligent man with whom she can spend her days and nights. She’s done her duty by her family—wedded off her sister, seen her brothers and cousin grow up and regained the family inheritance. She can now choose whomever she wishes as husband. And yes, she asked me to marry her! And she told me she felt I needed looking after. She’d come to King’s Landing when I was overworked and irritable, and she insisted on taking care of me. And then she asked me to... Well, of course I said yes—and I told her I was saying yes not because I wanted Winterfell but because I wanted her. That was the real reason why she could not be a wife to me then—she thought all I wanted was that bloody castle.”

When Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion had finally convinced all the members of their families that they had not lost their wits when they decided to remarry, they were finally able to plan their wedding, which would be a simple affair. It would take place at the bride’s home, since Lord Bran was unable to travel. There would be two ceremonies, one in the godswood and another in the sept of the rebuilt castle. And yes, the Lords of Winterfell would host not just their own bannermen but also the Lords of the Riverlands, the Vale and the Westerlands, not to speak of their allies from the Iron Islands and Lord Tyrion’s friends from Dorne. Add to that the Storm Lords who had accompanied King Stannis north and the men of the Night’s Watch who served alongside Ser Jaime and Jon Snow, and there were wedding guests enough to satisfy anybody. There would be seven courses (“Not seventy-seven!” both bride and groom chorused), and, although it was hoped that they would consummate the marriage this time, there would be no bedding ceremony.

What the friends of the couple noticed, when both ceremonies took place, was their sincerity when they spoke their vows. Many guests remarked on the expression of joy on Sansa’s face and a glimpse of quiet satisfaction on Tyrion’s.

Chapter Text

Lord Tyrion Lannister was a brave man who had led charges against several armies of men and Others, on horseback and on the back of a dragon. He reminded himself of this as he collected Casterly Rock’s books of accounts and prepared to meet his wife, Lady Sansa. She had, much to his displeasure, refused even once to look at the book of accounts, telling the steward to present them to her lord husband himself. When the steward told her, with many hems and haws, that the lady of Casterly Rock was expected to do the accounts each week, she had insisted he give the books to Lord Tyrion instead. The steward had done so, even as he shook like a blancmange handing the books to his lordship.

He found her in her bower, where she usually broke her fast, sitting at her sewing amongst her women. When she caught sight of him, Lady Sansa immediately smiled and sent the other ladies away to their various tasks, urging him to come closer with the merest glance of her eye. Her expression changed as she saw what he held in his hands.

She pouted, "Why do I have to look at those boring old ledgers? They make my head ache." Her lovely blue eyes filled with tears. "You're my husband--you should rescue me from them, instead of inflicting them on me. You are cruel to me, my lord—and on such a lovely morning, too!"

"But, my dear sweet little wife," Tyrion said gently and kindly--he was always so gentle and kind to his lovely wife--"you must take charge of the accounts. You're managing the whole household so well--my aunts Genna, Dorna and Darlessa tell my how the servants and smallfolk adore you. Now, you must take charge of the accounts also—and I know you can do that too.”

She sighed. “I always hated sums—Arya was better at it than I ever was.”

“Well, sweetling, you are here—and Arya is at the Dreadfort, with her blacksmith. You did the accounts at Winterfell, did you not, while all of us were away fighting at the Wall? You were such a clever girl; rebuilding your family home, being so charming to the Dragon Queen...”

“I had a lot of help,” she whispered. “With the accounts and the rebuilding. Asha and Brienne advised me—they’d both helped their fathers. And Lord Harlaw taught me how to keep a simple book of accounts, which anybody could manage. Your books are very complicated, my lord—and I’m afraid of making a mistake and losing your esteem. You won’t shout at me or call me stupid if I get a sum wrong, will you?” she asked, gently placing her hands on his shoulders and drawing him closer, as she gazed adoringly into his eyes.

“I would never dream of shouting at you, my dear wife,” he exclaimed, horrified.

“Then you must teach me,” she said, entangling her fingers through his curls and drawing his face closer to hers. “You must show me how to keep your accounts correctly. You must tell me how to read the accounts.” And she kissed him on the gash that replaced most of his lips, gently inserting her tongue when he gasped in surprise.

She tasted of lemons, he noted absently—had she been nibbling lemon cakes again? He hoped she did not mind that he’d been at the spiced wine so early in the morning—he had developed a taste for red Dornish, with cloves and cinnamon and nutmeg and the peels of oranges, lemons and limes.

“You taste nice,” she told him, lifting her head, gazing into his dazed eyes. “Cinnamon and cloves and nutmeg and orange and Dornish red.” She stroked his bearded cheek, her fingernails gently scraping his beard. “I think men who taste of Dornish red—not too much, just enough, just like you—taste very nice, very manly. Very virile and tasty.” And then she kissed him again, going much deeper, holding the kiss longer. He never knew he could hold his breath and still stay alive for so long.

He did not know how long he had been standing before her, nor did he know when the offending books of accounts of Casterly Rock (so carefully maintained and examined by the lords of the castle for hundreds of years!) fell from his hands and he fell into his wife’s warm and welcoming embrace.

She held him close to her as she gently kissed his face—soft, sweet kisses that travelled from his forehead to his nose, the corners of his eyes and as much of his cheeks she could reach. She cuddled him as she kissed him—he had never been held like this before, with such tenderness. And then she let him go, gently and reluctantly, as she giggled mischievously.

“I will keep the accounts my lord, as you command. But,” she smiled roguishly at him, “you will have to teach me how. Just as you have taught me so many other things. Much more pleasant things.” And then she gave him a very unladylike, suggestive wink.

He tottered out on his legs, clutching the books to his chest, after agreeing to sit over the accounts with his wife after the evening meal, in his solar. She had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to this latter condition, wondering aloud, with an innocent expression on her face, why they could not sit in their bedroom or her bower instead, which were so much more comfortable. He had agreed to reward her with kisses for each sum she got right and she had promised him, with a naughty smile, not to get a single sum wrong.

He did not know which of them had won this round of negotiations, but he looked forward to introducing his wife to the intricacies of book-keeping as eagerly he did to their nightly sessions of love-making. If, he mused, he had managed to transform his wife’s cold disdain, which had sorely tried his patience in the early days of their marriage, to warmth and tenderness, he would find it no problem to transform her fear of numbers, of making mistakes, of losing the esteem of those she respected, to confidence in her abilities as chatelaine of Casterly Rock.

Chapter Text

“Now that we have an alliance with the Tyrells in place, surely we can think of sending the Stark girl to the Rock?” Ser Kevan asked his brother, Lord Tywin Lannister. “The King has ill-treated her and the Queen Regent did little to protect her. Tyrion and Lancel can go with her—they’re both badly wounded and will receive better care there than here at court. Moreover, I fear Tyrion has angered the Queen Regent greatly—I think it would be wise to send all three away from King’s Landing.”

Lord Tywin sighed in exasperation. “I wish we could settle something about the girl—probably get her married to either Lancel or Tyrion before we send her away from court.”

“I think,” Ser Kevan replied, “it might be easier to arrange such an alliance more advantageously when she is at the Rock. Here at court—you do know, do you not, that she has become increasingly friendly with the ladies from Highgarden? Lady Margaery had her to supper with her mother and grandmother. I would send her away from court if I were you, brother. It is more likely that she will come to think of the Rock as home when she is living there. She is a gentle and docile girl—Genna, Darlessa and Dorna will soon put her into the proper frame of mind for welcoming a proposal of marriage from a Lannister. And both Tyrion and Lancel should be sent back home to recover.”

So Lord Tywin was convinced. Another reason for his agreement was that the Stark whelp who called himself King in the North had returned to the Riverlands with the Westerling girl for wife. The Ironborn had attacked the North and sacked Winterfell, killing the two youngest Stark boys. It was likely that, if he lived, Robb Stark would spend more time recovering his northern kingdom than in raiding the Westerlands yet again. This made it essential that the Stark girl should be sent somewhere safe, where he could, in good time, arrange for her marriage to someone trustworthy.

Of course, Sansa, Tyrion and Lancel were not told of these plans. The first they knew of their removal from court was when they found themselves on litters bound for Duskendale—so many ships had been destroyed in the Battle of the Blackwater that the port at King’s Landing was no longer usable. Their boxes had been packed by servants and maids with all they would need on the journey and in Casterly. At Duskendale, a swift ship took them to Lannisport, and thence they travelled, again by litter, to the Rock. When they arrived, they learnt that the lords Frey and Bolton had successfully conspired to kill Robb Stark and his followers at the Twins, even as his uncle Edmure Tully wedded and bedded Lord Frey’s daughter Roslin.

It was Ser Devan Lannister who gave Sansa the news soon after they reached Casterly.

“My lady,” he said, when she reached his solar, accompanied by Tyrion and Lancel, “I have grievous news for your ears.”

She said nothing—Tyrion noticed that she straightened an already straight back and stiffened her shoulders to take the blow. She looked straight into Devan’s eyes as he spoke—when he finished, she answered quietly:

“Ser Devan—my lords,” turning to Tyrion and Lancel, who stood dumbstruck behind her. “I thank you for breaking this news to me. I am sorry to hear that my mother and brother led so many to follow themselves to treason and death. As for myself, I remain loyal to King Joffrey.” She said these words in a soft and dulcet, yet firm, voice—Tyrion fancied he was the only one who noticed the hardening of her mouth or the cold look in her eyes. Ser Devan’s dumbfounded expression, as he heard these words uttered by a maiden of twelve, was a sight to behold—Tyrion would have laughed at the look on his face, had the story not been so horrible to hear.

However, Tyrion guessed the truth of the matter—the little she-wolf would not reveal her feelings to her enemies, but would hold her grief close to her heart. His belief was confirmed when he passed by the closed door of her bedroom some days later and heard her sobbing into her pillow. He did not go in to comfort her—he knew she would not welcome his presence. He ensured that no one at Casterly told her the ghastly details of what the Freys had done—how they had hacked her brother’s head off, replacing it with that of a wolf, and thrown her mother’s naked body into the Trident, after trying to slit her throat.

A few words from him also ensured that the maester, who was his closest confidant at Casterly, spent some time reading with her. Tyrion had noticed that she had an ability to get along well with people—he was determined that, although she had lost her family, she would not lose out on a good education. His aunt Genna was scandalized at the state of her wardrobe and said a few pithy words about Cersei’s absolute lack of care of the child, who was to have been her son’s betrothed. She then had an entire wardrobe made for the young lady, for which Sansa thanked her courteously.

The ladies Dorna and Darlessa were at first shocked by her response on being told of the death of her mother and brother. However, they were soon forced to acknowledge that, had they been in her position, they too might have behaved as she had done. They also noticed her many kindnesses to Lancel and Tyrion, both of whom took some time to recover, not just from the agonies of their war wounds but also from the journey by ship.

Tyrion was, at this time, also troubled by thoughts of Shae, who had remained behind in King’s Landing. Of course, he’d had no time to tell her that he would be returning to Casterly, He wondered if he should send her a message through Varys, and then thought better of it. His father had made it quite clear, when he sent a raven from court, that he expected Tyrion to stay away—he had angered Cersei and Joffrey to such a pitch that they were both likely to ask for his head. And he, Tywin Lannister implied, would not stand in their way. If he wished to regain a place in his father’s affections, he had to woo the Stark girl, wed her and bed her, to become Lord of Winterfell. As for Lancel—he had to recover from his wounds, for Lord Tywin had arranged his marriage to Amerei Frey, a widow. Tyrion almost curled his lip when he read the message—he wondered if his father knew from Cersei, as he did, that Sansa had betrayed Ned Stark because of her love for Joffrey. Would that have any bearing on her being a suitable wife to him? He thought not.

Sansa knew she was in a prison from which there was no escape—Robb, on whom she had pinned so many hopes of rescue, had been murdered treacherously by those he trusted. She wondered if Lord Tywin had something to do with it—after all, he was now the Hand of the King. She’d had no means to get word to Ser Dontos about her removal from court before she left—she hoped he was safe. Tyrion had lost his place on the Small Council after he made his charge in the Battle of the Blackwater and was wounded so severely. His wounds did little to add to his looks—he’d lost half his nose and most of his lips, which were replaced by a terrible scar. However, he was, as always, kind and courteous to her; whereas Lancel, who had always been rather rude and haughty to her, because of his closeness to Joffrey and the Queen, totally changed after her kindness to him on the night of the battle. Cersei had thought nothing of ripping open his wounds again—it was Sansa who got him back to his room and sent a maester to treat him.

It was more than a month after their arrival at the Rock that they received news from court.

“It appears,” Tyrion said as he put down the message, “that Lady Margaery is the death of any man she weds. Here’s poor Joffrey, who survived a betrothal to you, my lady—he lasts barely a few hours before he falls dead at his own wedding feast, choking on his blood.” He looked at Sansa as he spoke—she looked at him sympathetically as she said:

“I feel for your sorrows, my lord—the Queen Regent must be prostrate with grief.”

“Who? Cersei? Perhaps—however, I feel relieved—he would have shortened me by a head had he lived. Tommen will make a much better king—if my father takes over the regency.”

“How did Joffrey die?” Sansa asked. “You said he choked on his blood, my lord—how did that happen? Did he eat something that...”

“Nothing of the sort—it appears someone put the strangler into his wine. Of course, the Tyrells suspect the Dornish, whom I invited to the feast. But I doubt Oberyn Martell would be so foolish as to poison a King of Westeros at his own wedding feast, especially as he too was partaking of it. I don’t know who did the deed—but I wish it had been done sooner, when the late King Robert lay dying. Just think of all that grief averted—your father and mother alive; my brother safe; your brothers and sister alive and well...”

They spoke quietly—they were sitting on a balcony off the great hall that overlooked the sea. She was sewing as he sat there, enjoying the sunshine. Sansa could see the waves as they crashed against the shore, even as her grief for her family crashed against her heart and mind. She had often gone to walk along the shore, accompanied by Podrick and a guard—she had found it calming to look at the vast expanse of sea and sky; the harshness of the western mountains that bred hard men, who believed in winning at all cost. She wondered if Sandor had ever walked here—she knew he must have been a squire at the Rock. She wondered if he had felt as she did; if he had been calmed by the vision of the sea and sky merging into one on the western horizon, as the sun set in rays of crimson and gold.

“Of course, I have my enemies at court—Pycelle claims I must have arranged to have Joffrey poisoned.”

“How could you do that, my lord? You served him diligently while he was alive—it was true that you spoke harshly to him, but then,” her voice lowered slightly, as if she feared a spy was listening to her speak, “but then...he deserved it, did he not? You were merely being a good uncle and a loyal subject when you reprimanded your king and tried to make him behave like one. Of course, kings hate being reprimanded...especially by their relations.” She could not help recalling that incident at the Hand’s Tourney when King Robert had struck the Queen and almost knocked Ser Jaime Lannister off the dais. In those days, Joffrey had still acted as though he loved her; she had been safe and loved...

A gusty sigh from Tyrion broke the web of her thoughts.

“Well,” he confessed, looking at her guiltily. “I did something rather foolish—I stole some medicines from Pycelle’s store to make my sister sick. She went more frequently to the privy that day—but I did not take any poisons from his store.”

“And how could you have poisoned him?” she asked, bewildered. “You are here, at the Rock; they sent away your mountain men after the battle—the washerwomen at the wells said they were given much gold to leave the city.” When he gave her a look of surprise, she said indignantly, “I couldn’t help finding out about it—all the maids talked!” She continued:

“So if you had to poison someone, how would you do it? I don’t think you had too many friends at court who would poison the king on your behalf, do you, my lord?”

No, I don’t, thought Tyrion grimly.

“Who do you think might have done the deed?” he asked her instead.

“I wonder...” Sansa said softly. “Did you know the Tyrell ladies asked me to share a meal with them, after they arrived at court?” she said suddenly.

“Did they? Why?”

“Well...” she looked guiltily at him as she spoke. “It appears they wanted to know all about Joffrey—at least Lady Olenna did. They got Butterbumps—that’s their fool—to sing very loudly; then she asked me if it was true that Joffrey got the Kingsguard to beat me up. It appears,” she said in a small voice, “the story travelled all the way to Highgarden.”

“Of course you told them what he was like, did you not?” he asked her suddenly.

She nodded her head, silently. And then she burst out. “I didn’t want her to love him, only to find out that he would hurt her if he could.” She looked pleadingly into his eyes—he stretched out his hands and enfolded her fingers.

“No, you did the right thing. They will find out that I had nothing to do with this, nothing at all. I was not there at the feast—I was far away from court. And I have no friends who would do me such favours as to poison my nephew.”

It was on the heels of this message that Ser Jaime Lannister rode in, accompanied by a knight who would have easily matched the Mountain that Rides or the Hound for height and girth. Tyrion was delighted to see him, even without his sword hand. Ser Jaime took the trouble to introduce his companion, Lady Brienne of Tarth, to Lady Sansa, before he sat down with Tyrion for a lengthy conversation over several cups of wine.

Sansa was astounded to meet Brienne—she had never imagined that a lady could aspire to be a knight. Although Brienne could fight as well as a man—she proved this by beating several Lannister guardsmen regularly at practice, later—she was as gentle and guileless as Sansa used to be. Ser Jaime and Tyrion arranged for the two ladies to share a room—perhaps they felt the two women would have much to say to one another.

Brienne soon told Sansa her story—how she had been accepted as part of King Renly’s Rainbow Guard; how both she and Lady Catelyn had been with him when he died; how Ser Loras had behaved towards her after his death; how she had then sworn fealty to Lady Catelyn, who had taken her to Riverrun, and had then asked her to take Ser Jaime to King’s Landing and bring her daughters back to her. She told Sansa this story as she held the weeping girl in her arms—Brienne was the only person at the Rock who understood and shared Sansa’s grief for her mother and brothers.

“I don’t know where Arya is,” Sansa confessed in a whisper, drying her tears. “She vanished on the day when...when the Lannister guardsmen attacked my father’s men. I did not see her after that...but on the day when Father was executed on Baelor’s steps, I saw her with a man in black. Yoren...that was his name. He had come to visit Father to ask for men for the Night’s Watch. Father said he could take them from the dungeons. And Jeyne...my friend, Jeyne Poole...they took her away, I hope to a safe place.”

Brienne wiped away her tears and replied. “I think I know what became of Jeyne Poole—Ser Jaime told me. He said his father had sent a steward’s whelp to wed Lord Bolton’s bastard son—he’s been legitimized by King Tommen.”

Sansa leapt up like a scalded cat when she heard this.

“Brienne,” she said, speaking forcefully. “I’ve heard about this man—they used to tell horrible stories about him in Winterfell. They say his father got him on a miller’s wife...they say he forced her because he said he had first night rights as the miller’s lord...he killed the man when he protested. This happened when my father was a boy at the Eyrie...and this vile man, Ramsay, used to wander the Bolton lands with his servant, Reek, raping all the peasant girls and naming his bitches after them. Of course, Lord Bolton made his people keep quiet about it—he’s a very dangerous and unpleasant man. I told them to send her to a safe place...not to the Boltons!”

In the meantime, Ser Jaime was sharing his woes with a sympathetic Tyrion.

“Father wants me to give up the Kingsguard because of my injury—he wants me to return to the Rock as his heir and marry Joff’s widow, Margaery, to keep the Tyrells sweet and keep her away from Tommen. He was disposed to blame you for Joff’s death, until Uncle Kevan very sensibly wondered aloud how you could have poisoned the wine with the strangler whilst sitting in Casterly. Then he wanted to blame the Dornish, until Prince Oberyn told him he would not be foolish enough to murder a king when he had been invited to sit on the king’s Small Council. He dare not blame the Tyrells—he thinks they might well have done it. And he thinks Littlefinger might be involved.”

“Really? Why?”

“Well, you know that Littlefinger was asked to go woo Lady Lysa at the Eyrie? He did so to such effect that he wedded her and bedded her almost at the same time as Joffrey. One of her ladies overheard him boasting to his wife how he would have almost got her niece out of court, if Lord Tywin had not sent her away to the Rock instead, with his son and nephew. He told her about a hairnet set with strangler...he said he’d given the geegaw to a Ser Dontos Hollard, to give to the girl, Sansa. It appears your little friend saved the good knight’s life during Joffrey’s nameday tourney and he decided to rescue her. They used to meet in the godswood, to plan her escape. He was to get her out of the Red Keep on Joffrey’s wedding day—but his bird had already flown when our man received the geegaw. So he gave it back to Lady Olenna, of all people, because Littlefinger was away, wooing Lady Lysa. Father got to Ser Dontos, when Lady Lysa’s waiting woman sent him a message, and the drunk old fool sang as sweet as a canary. Lady Lysa’s waiting woman has a husband who is heavily in debt—a gambler—and father holds his debt. You don’t know what else she revealed—that Lady Lysa gets furious if another woman even looks at her dear Petyr. And when she gets angry, she drinks...and when she drinks, she reveals secrets.”

Ser Jaime sat back, looking at his brother’s astounded expression with some pleasure. Tyrion closed his mouth with some effort and then asked, “What secrets does she reveal?”

“Well, the most interesting conversation our lady overheard was when Lysa saw Petyr dancing with Myranda Royce, Lord Royce’s charming widowed daughter. That night, as she passed by her lady’s bedchamber, she overheard her lady screaming at her husband that it was she, not Cat, who gave him her maiden’s gift; that it was she, not Cat, who was forced to abort his child; that it was she, not Cat, who followed his advice to give Jon Arryn tears of Lys in his wine so that he should die of fever. And she then followed his instructions to the letter and told her sister that the Lannisters murdered her husband. Father was horrified when he read this—he showed me the letter; his hands were shaking.”

Tyrion’s eyes were gleaming like those of a cat.

“How does she manage to get her messages across to Father?”

“Her husband has a small holdfast in the Vale—she goes at least once or twice a week to see to his comfort and instruct her servants. That’s when she sends him her ravens.”

The next day, while Brienne and Ser Jaime were practicing in the yard, Sansa confronted Tyrion with what she had learned of Jeyne Poole’s fate.

“You must do something to stop this wedding, my lord,” she said softly but firmly. “The man is a monster.”

Tyrion sighed, exasperated. “My lady, I can do nothing.” He said, slapping his hand on the top of a table. “Nothing at all, do you understand?” She stepped back, shaken—she had never seen him so enraged. “My father is Hand of the King—if he has decided that Ramsay Snow should be legitimized as Ramsay Bolton and wedded to your steward’s daughter, posing as your sister—what in seven hells can I do, I ask you? Do you think anyone in Casterly or the Westerlands will stand by me if I rebel against my father? Do you think the Riverlands or the North will send us men? Your aunt has sat atop her mountain home after murdering her husband—oh, you may as well hear it from me! And she tried to pin the murder on our family—she wrote to your mother as Littlefinger instructed her; that’s what led to this bloody war and the deaths of your family. She has done nothing to help, has she? Littlefinger—why, that little bastard went around King’s Landing boasting how he’d slept with both Lord Hoster’s daughters, not realising that he’d only slept with the younger one. Did you know,” he asked her, pinning her with the anger in his mismatched eyes, “that he and the Tyrells would have had you carry poison to Joffrey’s wedding feast? You didn’t know that, did you? They would have given a hairnet to that fool Dontos—the same one you saved from an ugly death on Joff’s nameday; the one with whom you were planning to escape—to give to you; do you know that?”

She stood there, staring at him, her blue eyes filled with a look of horror. He was breathing raggedly, as though he had run a long distance—it was evident he’d held this deep inside before he burst out with it before her.

“Be grateful to the gods, my lady, that I have not obeyed my father’s command—to wed you and bed you, to secure your claim to Winterfell.” He spoke in a colder, calmer tone and might have said more, when Ser Kevan, whom they had not been expecting, walked in. It was evident he had ridden long and hard; he brought bad news. Lord Tywin had died, some days after Ser Jaime’s departure from the capital. Ser Kevan had brought his body home, to be placed in the Hall of Heroes.

“It appears, “ Ser Kevan informed them, after he’d drunk some wine and had something to eat, “that he went to the privy before he went to bed each night. His guards knew his habits. Well, he did not go back to bed that night; he died on the privy. They said,” Ser Kevan’s voice broke as he spoke, but he controlled himself with an effort, “they said his heart failed him and he died. Pycelle cut him open—we feared poison after ... after Joffrey’s death.” His eyes slid towards Sansa; it seemed as though he was in two minds whether or not he should reveal all. “That is when he realised what must have happened. He said men with a malady of the heart often go to the privy when they feel unwell.”

Sansa watched the faces of the others in the room, her own a blank. Tyrion looked calm, much calmer than Ser Jaime, who looked distraught—he must have truly loved his father, she realised. The ladies Dorna and Darlessa wore expressions of woe, but Lady Genna was weeping. Sansa could feel for her—she, too, had lost her brothers, all but one...

Tyrion’s calm voice cut through her thoughts, like a knife.

“So Cersei did not ask you to stay on as Tommen’s Hand, uncle?”

“No—she wants Jaime as his Hand. She wants him to give up the Kingsguard, wed Lady Margaery—the Tyrells, of course, want her to wed Tommen instead—and become the Hand. She has sent me into retirement—she wants young Devan as Warden of the West. Where is he, by the by?”

“He is at Riverrun, my lord husband,” Lady Dorna spoke, “pursuing the siege...”

“Ah yes,” Ser Kevan glanced once again at Sansa, who said nothing—she had greeted him when he arrived and expressed her condolences on hearing of Lord Tywin’s demise, but said not another word. Tyrion’s revelations of the baseness of her aunt’s conduct had shaken her to the core; she had yet to take it all in. They all went to the great hall for the midday meal—Lord Tywin would be laid to rest in the Hall of Heroes in the evening. They were all subdued and spoke little—Lady Genna, who was the most outspoken and talkative of the Lannister women, said nothing and barely ate. Sansa sat quietly with Brienne at her side; the two of them pecked at their food, waiting for the meal to be over, wondering what would happen now that Queen Cersei had the reins of power firmly in her hands.

Ser Kevan asked both young women to meet him in the solar after Lord Tywin was interned. They found him there with Tyrion and Ser Jaime—it was plain he had been talking to his nephews. He did not spend too much time on courtesy but began to talk of what was to happen almost at once.

He asked Sansa, “Has my nephew Tyrion spoken to you of marriage yet, my lady? Your marriage to him, I mean.”

Sansa shot him a glance and then replied, “He was talking of it but this morning, my lord, when you arrived. I told him,” and she glanced at Tyrion again as she spoke, “I told him I had not thought of it at all—I am scarce thirteen years of age.”

“And certainly not to a greybeard of twenty-five years, is that not so, Sansa?” Tyrion asked with an edge to his voice. Sansa said nothing to this, only giving him a quelling glance.

“May I remind you,” Ser Jaime interrupted, “that I speak for Lady Catelyn—the deceased Lady Catelyn? She sent Lady Brienne with me to King’s Landing, so that her girls would be returned to her, safe and unharmed. However, you and my father made it impossible for me to fulfil my vow to her, with your plots. Neither my brother nor Lady Stark has a mind to marriage—I fail to see why they should be forced to wed.”

“It is the interests of the Iron Throne that Tyrion Lannister wed Sansa Stark,” replied Ser Kevan, firmly. “Otherwise,” he looked at the two of them coldly, “the Queen Regent will have your heads. You have angered her on several occasions, Tyrion, and you, my lady,” he told Sansa icily, “are not only the daughter and sister of traitors, but the niece of a murderess—that too, a woman who murdered her husband and sought to foist the crime on the Queen and her family. You will not be spared, either of you, if you disobey her in this matter. I will go to Darry with Lancel—Jaime will accompany me; he must return to King’s Landing to renounce the Kingsguard and wed Lady Margaery. As Lord of Casterly Rock,” he looked at Jaime and Tyrion, “he might well be able to protect you from Cersei’s malice. As a Kingsguard, his first duty is to obey the King.”

The four of them stared at each other as Ser Kevan swept out of the solar. Sansa’s legs felt weak; she would have fainted if Brienne had not grabbed hold of her and put her into a chair. She poured some wine from a jug into a cup and forced Sansa to drink it. As Sansa sipped at the wine, she noticed the grim expressions on Jaime’s and Tyrion’s faces. Jaime finally spoke in a whisper, drawing Tyrion closer to Sansa and Brienne:

“Lady Sansa, you and my brother must pretend for all you’re worth to a growing fondness for each other. I’m glad you spoke of his talking of your marriage this morning and of your response to it—you must, for now, pretend to play along with this absurd fantasy, at least while Uncle Kevan is in residence. Spend as much time as you like in each other’s company—but make plans for escape while you do so. I have no intention of falling in with Cersei’s mad schemes—I will not give up the Kingsguard and I will not wed Lady Margaery. However, I will go to the capital and say this to Cersei face to face—she should really have made Uncle Kevan Tommen’s Hand. Brienne, you must find a means to get Lady Sansa out of the Rock and the Westerlands, to a safe place. And Tyrion, you must find a way to leave the Rock, go to Lannisport and board a ship for Essos. Take plenty of gold with you, both of you.”

Sansa stared at him. Why was Jaime Lannister, who had wounded her father and killed three of Eddard Stark’s men outside a brothel in King’s Landing a year or so ago now trying to help her to escape? Was this yet another convoluted Lannister plot? She spoke in a voice as soft as Jaime’s as she looked into his eyes:

“Ser Jaime, you must tell me more of this oath you swore to my mother. I must know the truth of it—Brienne only said that she had sworn to get you to King’s Landing in exchange for...”

“I know what Brienne swore,” he said, with a smile. “She keeps her vows, unlike me. But I promised your mother that I would get you to a safe place—she told me I was a man with shit for honour—I am determined to prove her wrong. She made me swear on my sword, you know.”

“I don’t blame you,” he continued, “for trying to escape.” Tyrion snorted in derision. “No, it’s true—I know what it’s like to be a hostage for your family. I know you would rather not wed Tyrion—at least not be forced to wed him like this, for nothing more than your claim to Winterfell. I know he promised to send you safe to your mother and was unable to keep that promise. And I know he would like nothing more than to disobey our father’s last wish.” He looked at Tyrion squarely.

“Spend time together, the three of you—Brienne, you are to watch over the two of them. My brother has a terrible reputation, and Lady Sansa is very young and innocent. Keep that squire of yours close, Tyrion—he might be able to help you. He did save your life on the Bridge of Boats, did he not? I will go to Uncle Kevan and tell him the two of you will wed when he returns to Casterly Rock.”

Brienne, Sansa and Tyrion stared at him and then at each other’s faces as he left the solar. Could they trust each other enough to plan an escape from the Rock together? Would they be safe wherever they went? Would they be able to come back to Westeros? None of the three had answers to these questions, but they knew they had no choice other than to follow Jaime’s advice if they wished to live.

Chapter Text

When Joffrey fell to the floor in the banqueting hall, choking on his own blood, Sansa ran, as she had been told to by Dontos Hollard. But she did not leave alone; she grabbed Tyrion by the hand and dragged him with her to their chambers. She did not know why she did so—she could not think of a good reason why she’d dragged poor Tyrion, stumbling and falling over his stumpy legs, after her.

When they got to their rooms, she paused, gasping for breath as she looked at Tyrion horrified. What had she done? She’d jeopardised her plan for escape from King’s Landing. Of course, they would blame her for Joffrey’s death—all of them, including her lord husband.

“Why have you brought me here, Sansa?” he demanded angrily. “I should be in the banqueting hall, seeing what I can do for Joffrey...and so should you, if you had nothing to do with his death. Unless...” and here he fixed her with a glittering stare from his mismatched eyes.

“You think I had something to do with it, don’t you?” she blurted out, almost weeping with rage. “You think I had the means and the forethought to plan to poison him at his wedding so that I should escape?”

“Well, if you did not do so, why did you run when he began to choke?” Tyrion demanded angrily. “And why,” he asked in his most cutting manner, “are you bundling up my plainest and warmest doublets, breeches, stockings and smallclothes in that cloak?”

“Because we need to escape and we need to do so quickly. I’ve already prepared a bundle for myself and hidden it in the godswood. Everyone saw how Joffrey treated you at the feast, my lord—and your marriage to me makes you a suspect. His behaviour to you—and your manner to him—were not friendly.”

“No, they were not,” Tyrion acknowledged.

“And your father and sister—even Ser Kevan—how friendly have they been with you after the Battle of the Blackwater? No matter that you led the charge; no matter that you sent emissaries with treaties to the Tyrells and the Martells. Have you been rewarded at all for all that you did for Joffrey and Cersei while your father was fighting my brother—and losing?”

She spoke frankly and forcefully, although she spoke in a whisper. She had never spoken so openly to him—she had always maintained her pose of a young and silly girl, her head full of songs and stories, not just with Cersei and Joffrey but also with him. She had kept her observations of the court and its ways deep inside, only to give Lady Olenna and Margaery a glimpse of all that she knew about Joffrey and Cersei, before she closed herself up, tighter than a clam, after her wedding.

She grabbed his hand and began to move fast, tossing the bundle she had made over her shoulder. “I should have left ages ago...if I had not dragged you away from the banqueting hall and stopped to pack for you. I don’t know why I did that...it’s not as if you’re the man I dreamt of marrying...” she gasped out as they moved fast.

“Nor are you the woman I would have chosen to take to wife,” he snapped, as they entered the godswood. They could hear the bells ringing as she made for the heart tree, where she had concealed her bundle in a hollow. She threw his bundled up clothes at him.

“You’d better change into something plain and warm quickly—leave your fancy clothes here for them to find. You’d better hurry—Ser Dontos will be here any moment.”

“You trusted SER DONTOS HOLLARD...that drunkard...to help you escape King’s Landing? You really live in a world of songs and stories, dear wife,” he snarled at her, as he briskly flung aside his fine clothes on the grass and changed into something simpler and warmer.

She began to look around the godswood impatiently as soon as they had changed. She could not find Ser Dontos anywhere. And then she spied him, hurriedly rising from a drunken slumber behind a bush, rubbing his face as he looked all around him. She would have called out to him, to let him know she was there, when he lumbered to his feet and walked away, out of the godswood and away from the Red Keep.

Sansa and Tyrion followed him, through the chamber filled with dragons’ skulls, down the steep staircase out of the holdfast. The climb down was not easy for either of them—Sansa tried not to look down as she climbed, or she would faint from giddiness, while the steepness of the staircase wore out Tyrion’s legs and his patience. They followed him as best they could, as he walked away from the city, to a secluded wharf—he walked up to the only boat anchored there. They could just make out the name on its side—the Merling King.

He halted when he reached the boat and looked up towards its deck. Two men were standing there—Tyrion almost gasped aloud when he recognized one of them.

“Have you got her with you, you drunken old fool?” the taller, more grizzled man called aloud from the deck to Dontos, standing on the ground.

“No, Ser Luthor, I was unable to get her—she did not make it to the godswood in time. I waited and waited, till the guards came in and began to make themselves a nuisance. Then I came here.”

“Liar,” muttered Tyrion into Sansa’s ear. “He was likely sleeping off a drinking bout in the godswood.”

She pressed her finger to his lips—and then began to tremble when the other man spoke in a voice she recognized.

“Well, Ser Dontos, you have failed me. I asked you to do something simple—to get Sansa Stark out of the Red Keep and to this wharf, to take this boat to freedom. And I helped to create a diversion that would take everyone’s eyes off her for some time. Of course, you must have gotten drunk—and she might well have been caught by Cersei’s guards. Who knows?”

“Littlefinger,” muttered Tyrion. “Well, he was in love with your mother...and he is to wed your aunt Lysa...”

Sansa covered his mouth with her hand as Ser Dontos begged, “Let me go into the Keep and find out what has become of her...perchance I can get her out...”

“No,” Lord Littlefinger responded coldly. “I cannot give you another chance.” He nodded at Luthor Brune, who pulled a bow off his back and shot an arrow at Dontos, killing him instantly.

Sansa would have cried out, if Tyrion hadn’t covered her mouth with his hands. They watched the Merling King sail away eastward, to the Vale of Arryn, Tyrion surmised.

“I could have saved him,” she sobbed, when the boat was well out of sight.

“I don’t think so,” Tyrion remarked grimly. “I think Lord Baelish meant to kill him, whether or not he had you in his power. For, mark my words, Sansa; that man does nothing for anyone unless it is in his own interest. Do you know why my father had the two of us wed? Because Baelish told him of a plot to smuggle you to Highgarden and wed you to Willas Tyrell. That’s when my father had him made Lord of Harrenhal and asked him to wed your aunt.”

She was silent as he scanned the wharf, looking for another boat. He would have stayed to help Joffrey, if she had let him; but now that she had dragged him out of his comfortable prison, he was determined to see the world a little.

He soon spied two small figures, hurrying towards the wharf, looking for a boat. It did not take him long to recognize them—these were the two dwarves who had jousted at Joffrey’s wedding. He grabbed Sansa’s hand, and the two of them followed the dwarves.

Sansa had taken the precaution of tucking a pouch plump with golden dragons into his bundle—they found this useful when the two dwarves got onto a ship. Sansa and Tyrion also boarded the boat, and Tyrion offered the captain a handsome sum in gold to take them wherever he was going. It appeared he was going to Essos—to the city of Braavos. Husband and wife sighed with relief—they hoped Braavos would be safer than what they had experienced in the capital.

Neither of them were good sailors—they were both seasick as the ship tossed and turned on the voyage. They were glad to totter to deck when they made landing in Braavos—Sansa gaped when she saw the Titan looming over the harbour. They found a comfortable inn for the night—Tyrion had decided he would spend some time wandering the city, to see how they could make their life here. They also decided they would need to use some form of disguise, if only to hide from Cersei’s spies. Tyrion would have to cover his head with a hat in the Braavosi manner, while Sansa would have to wear a scarf to cover her auburn locks. And they would have to find new names, new identities, to use as their masks.

Although the dragons helped them live reasonably well for their first few days in Braavos, they both realised the need to do something useful to make their way in a foreign land. Tyrion soon found a job as a scribe and accountant—his neat and clear hand, as well as his facility with numbers, soon got him a good post at a merchant’s warehouse. Sansa’s skills as a needlewoman, as well as her sweet voice and ability to play the bells and high harps, soon got her clients—many a Braavosi courtesan wore dresses which the young Westerosi noblewoman had either embroidered or mended. And they sent her their pupils—those courtesans yet to complete their training—who needed to polish their accomplishments to gain admirers. And then, even though Braavosi noblewomen dressed simply, in dark colours, they were not averse to a little pretty embroidery on their plain dresses. Of course, neither used their own names here—they went by the names of Hugor and Maege Hill. Maege’s mother, so said Hugor, had been from the Riverlands—her father had been a ship’s captain from Sea Dragon Point, who had been killed by the Ironborn when they attacked the North. Hugor, the son of “a great Westerosi noble house,” had been the steward at their holdfast--she had escaped with his aid and they had married subsequently.

The two of them were able to lead a peaceful and quiet life in Braavos, undisturbed by the fallout from Joffrey’s death. Of course, Cersei and Tywin had put a huge price on both their heads—they were both convicted and condemned in absentia for the crimes of regicide and kinslaying. They heard of the return of Jaime Lannister to his family, minus a hand; of the marriage of Margaery Tyrell to her deceased husband’s brother, and of his coronation; of the death of Lysa Arryn, supposedly killed by a bard; and of the fall of Riverrun to Lannister forces, despite the death of Tywin Lannister, who was struck down by one of the many arrows shot at him by the Blackfish’s men. Although they maintained a facade of calm before the neighbours, they could not but grieve for their dead. However, while Sansa grieved sincerely for a relative she had never met and might have loved in place of the mother now dead, Tyrion was relieved when he heard of his father’s death. As he told Sansa quite frankly one night, after a cup too many of the local brew:

“My father never forgave me for being born—he believed I had killed my mother. He never loved me—it was only Jaime and my uncles Tygett and Gerion who showed me any affection. And as for Cersei...” He hiccupped and then began again. “When I was thirteen...” and then he spilled out what had actually happened to end his marriage with Tysha. Sansa listened to him silently, even as she raged with anger against the Lannisters. They were truly cruel, even to their own, she thought. When he finally wound down, she helped him clean himself up and undress, before she tucked him into their bed. She gently kissed his bulging forehead, brushing aside his lank hair as she did so. He mumbled something indistinguishable, before he fell off to sleep. She took care to place a jug of water and a tumbler by his bedside—she knew he would awaken with a raging thirst.

It was on one of their rambles through the Purple Harbour that they saw him—the big man in black, beating up a much handsomer, leaner man, outside the Happy Port, which Tyrion had told her was a whorehouse. He had not visited it—not because he had suddenly turned virtuous, but because he had suddenly become frugal. Moreover, honest Hugor Hill, clerk to a merchant, had no business visiting pleasure houses if he had a lovely wife at home. Especially if said lovely wife was showing him more affection as time passed.

They stood around as bystanders will and heard the big man shout about oaths sworn and forsworn; about babes and old men and a Lord Commander in the North; the need to pay an innkeeper, buy firewood and passage to Oldtown. There was a skinny girl hanging around there—Tyrion frequently brought mussels and cockles from her, for Sansa in their little home. She had been teaching herself to cook, with the help of the women in the neighbourhood, with most of whom she had formed fast friendships.

“Cat, what’s afoot?” he asked her.

The girl turned and looked at him, but her eyes widened when she looked at Sansa, who also stared at her, mouth agape.

“Is that your wife?” she asked him abruptly. Tyrion nodded impatiently. “Yes...but what in the seven hells is going on with these two men?”

“They’re men from the Night’s Watch,” the girl replied shortly. “It appears the handsome one’s a minstrel, who was supposed to make money from his singing and bring recruits to the watch. The fat man has to go to Oldtown, to the Citadel, to forge a chain—that’s what the Lord Commander told him to do. He has an old man, a woman and a babe with him—they were sent from the Wall by the Lord Commander...”

“If the fat man needs gold, we can give him some,” Sansa interrupted. When Tyrion turned around and gaped at her, she said, “We can give his companions a bed—I don’t think the handsome one will help. The women here have turned his head.”

“He’s married the Sailor’s Wife, that’s why,” the girl interrupted. “She always marries a new man every day. And he’s a favourite here, with Merry’s girls. They’re my best customers, for the mussels and cockles and oysters I sell.” She was speaking to Sansa; it seemed to Tyrion that she knew his wife.

“Why don’t you speak to him, husband?” Sansa turned to him. “Tell the fat man to bring the woman, her babe and the old man to our home. It is a small place,” she told the girl, “but we can give these people a place to stay and money for their passage.”

While Tyrion went to speak to the fat man, Sansa spoke to the skinny girl, who called herself Cat of the Canals. By the time Tyrion returned with the man in tow, he found the two females talking to each other like long-lost sisters. They stopped speaking as soon as he walked up to them.

“This, dear wife, is Samwell Tarly, a member of the Night’s Watch,” Tyrion announced. “He’s been sent by his Lord Commander, Jon Snow (both Sansa and the girl exclaimed in surprise) to make his chain at the Citadel in Oldtown—the Night’s Watch needs maesters, it seems. He’s got Castle Black’s maester with him—also a wildling woman and her child.”

“They can come and stay with us,” Sansa said happily. She turned to the girl and said, “Why don’t you come and join us, Ar...Cat?”

“I will,” the girl replied warily, “when I’ve sold all I have in my barrow.”

“We can buy that off you, surely?” Sansa exclaimed—when they had done that, the girl went off to Brusco’s to return her barrow and Tyrion and Sansa returned home, to await the arrival of their guests. While they waited, Sansa told him what she had learned from the girl, who was none other than her sister, Arya.

“She managed to get away when Ser Meryn Trant and his men went to get her,” she told Tyrion as she quickly tidied up their little home. “She was at Harrenhal when it was held by the Mountain’s men and Roose Bolton—then she fled for Riverrun when she learnt that Bolton would give Harrenhal to Vargo Hoat. She never got there—the Brotherhood without Banners took her hostage for money. She ran away again, this time with the Hound. She was there, Tyrion—she was there, at the Twins, when our mother and Robb were killed.” And here she broke down and wept. Tyrion hugged her, feeling both angry and helpless—why and how was it that her family had got caught up in this struggle for power? They had lost more than most—the boys and men dead, their home destroyed, the girls...

Sansa interrupted his thoughts with a loud gulp as she said, “I’m all right, Tyrion—she said the Mountain’s men ran into her and the Hound. There was a fight—he was badly wounded and might have died by now. She knows of our marriage and Joffrey’s death. She doesn’t believe we did it, Tyrion.” The hope in her voice was heartbreaking. As she washed her face, Tyrion told her what he had learned from Samwell Tarly about Lord Commander Mormont’s attempt to take his men ranging into the wilderness beyond the Wall; how he had been killed by mutineers at Craster’s; how Jon Snow had been sent to infiltrate the wildling hordes and how he had returned to Castle Black, to lead the resistance against the wildling attack. He told her how King Stannis had arrived just in time to save the Watch. He concluded with a description of the election that had elevated Jon Snow to the post of Lord Commander, and how and why Jon Snow had decided to send Samwell Tarly and his companions away from the Wall.

As he finished speaking, Sansa looked at him, her eyes shining. “Tyrion,” she said, her voice quivering with happiness, “perhaps I have not lost everything in this dreadful war, and neither have you. The gods be praised, we have found Arya, safe and well and alive. I have told her she is to come stay with us from now onwards, if you don’t mind. Jon is alive and well, I hope, at the Wall. You and I together can help Samwell Tarly and his companions get to Oldtown—surely we have gold enough to buy them passage? And we can give them a good meal tonight. Someday, when this horrible war is over, we can go home. Life is not so bad after all...”

Tyrion would have argued with her, reminding her of the false accusation of kinslaying that hung over his head, when Samwell Tarly of the Night’s Watch walked in, carrying Maester Aemon and followed by a wildling woman, carrying her babe. Cat, who sold the cockles and mussels he bought frequently, followed them, a suspicious expression on her face. Sansa welcomed them warmly into her home, her tears of joy merely adding a certain pink to her eyelids but making her eyes look as blue and bright as ever. As the evening continued, Tyrion felt the wariness he had built around himself relax; he had been playing a part in Braavos, a part he needed to play so that he and his child bride could live safely. He had enjoyed Maester Aemon’s company when they had last met at the Wall; he was astounded to see him so frail. Sam had told him that Jon had sent the elderly maester, as well as the infant, away from the Wall, so that the red priestess, Melisandre, could not use them as sacrifices in her rituals. They talked and laughed, although soberly; Cat (or Arya, as his wife called her) seemed to relax her guard as she asked Sam and Maester Aemon question after question about the Night’s Watch entering the wilderness to fight the wildlings, their encounters with the wights and how Jon managed to infiltrate their ranks as a spy and return to fight their attempt to cross the Wall. Sam spoke of Jon’s plans to settle the wildlings in the Gift, at which both girls expressed their approval. And then he grew grave.

“I have not shared this information with anyone,” he said, “not even with Jon, because I swore I would keep it secret. But, seeing you all here, I feel you should know—Lord Bran Stark crossed the Wall into the wilderness. He was on the shoulders of a rather large man...”

“Hodor!” exclaimed the sisters.

“...And he was accompanied by two young people, a boy and a girl. They looked like crannogmen.”

“Crannog...Could they be the son and daughter of Howland Reed? You remember, Arya, the man who fought beside father at the Tower of Joy...”

Tyrion had never heard the story of Ned Stark’s battle against the three knights of the Kingsguard at the Tower of Joy, so Arya told it to him. He sat silently, frowning. Maester Aemon began to drop off to sleep in the warmth—Sansa and Gilly gently led him to his bed. Gilly and her babe also settled down for the night.

Later, seeing her husband preoccupied in his thoughts, Sansa drew Samwell aside and presented him with the hairnet she had worn to Joffrey’s wedding feast. She told him how she had received it from Ser Dontos in the godswood and how she found one of the stones missing after the banquet that concluded with Joffrey’s death. Sam looked at it thoughtfully.

“Did you show it to your husband?” he asked her.

Before she could answer, Arya walked up to them to take her leave. She exclaimed in horror when she saw the hairnet in Sansa’s hand. “Sansa,” she demanded, “what in seven hells are you doing with that buggering hairnet full of strangler?”

In the old days, Sansa would have reprimanded her for her use of foul language; now, she merely told her the story she had just told Sam. Arya looked thoughtfully at her.

“Someone had Joffrey killed, and they used you to carry the poison to the feast.”

Sansa almost dropped the hairnet in horror. Just then, Tyrion walked up and took the hairnet from her hand. “There’s a stone missing,” he remarked grimly.

“Lady Olenna...” whispered Sansa brokenly.

“Yes—she touched your hair, did she not, just before the banquet?”

“I-I told her...about Joffrey; what he was really like. I told her about Mycah...”

“When did Ser Dontos give you this hairnet, Sansa?” her husband asked sternly.

“Just after...just after my betrothal to Joffrey was broken...”

“So the plan to kill Joffrey and smuggle you out of King’s Landing was made long before you told Lady Olenna the truth about Joffrey. Someone else—Bronn, I think—told me I should think of killing my nephew if I hoped to survive. He was not a good king, and he was not willing to learn.”

“But Dontos was working for Lord Petyr,” Sansa exclaimed suddenly.

“And I had sent Lord Petyr to Highgarden to negotiate an alliance with the Tyrells. Yes...he would have hatched this plot with Lady Olenna, using you as the person to carry the poison to the feast. And he asked you to leave immediately, did he not, to meet him in the godswood? And Petyr was waiting there in a boat, for you, to spirit you away to the Vale of Arryn... he would always have held this over our heads. Although I don’t think your aunt would have been of much help—she accused me, if you remember, of having killed her husband. The last time I was at court, then, was at Joffrey’s nameday tourney, when Lady Lysa was rude to Lord Frey. I left soon afterwards for Casterly Rock—my sister could not long abide my presence at court.” He grimaced in recollection. “So I would have no reason to poison Lord Jon, not that I wanted to, of course.”

“Why was my aunt rude to Lord Frey?” Sansa asked, wide-eyed.

“Something to do with the fostering of that horrid boy, your cousin. I overheard Lord Jon telling Lord Walder, in Lady Lysa’s hearing, that the boy would go to Dragonstone for fostering. It’s not a very comfortable place, and I don’t blame Lady Lysa for getting angry when she heard this and walking away. Which is why I suggested my father should foster him at Casterly Rock... but he was such an unpleasant little fellow...he wanted me to fly, if you please!”

Sansa exclaimed at this in horror, which ended the conversation for the time. Everyone sought their bed—Arya had told Brusco’s daughters she had met friends from home and would spend the evening with them. She told Tyrion and Sansa she planned to continue her work with the fishmonger and his daughters; they did not object, provided she spent the nights in their home.

The next morning, Tyrion went to the Purple Harbour to get a boat for their guests of the Night’s Watch. He had managed to book space for the party on the Cinnamon Wind, got everyone on board and was turning back, to get to work at the merchant’s warehouse, when he was hailed by a tall man in gray armour. Tyrion exclaimed in surprise when he saw him, for although he no longer wore his rippling blue and red cloak of Tully colours, it was none other than the Blackfish.

“You’re easy to recognize when seen once, my friend,” the Blackfish remarked to his grandnephew by marriage. He was accompanied by a pretty young woman, brown-haired and brown-eyed, who appeared to be heavily pregnant. And they were accompanied by a skinny little child in a plain dress, with brown hair braided with ribbons.

“Robert Arryn by all the gods! What in seven hells is the matter?” Tyrion wondered aloud.

“We must find a quiet and safe place to speak,” the Blackfish said. So Tyrion led them to their home, where Sansa offered them some wine and bread to break their fast. The Blackfish told them how he had escaped Riverrun while the Lannister host was confused by Lord Tywin’s death from a stray bow shot. Ser Jaime had taken charge, getting Edmure released to surrender Riverrun and take his place as a hostage in Casterly Rock. The Blackfish had already sent Jeyne away from Riverrun with the peasants he’d sent back to their homes. He was able to locate her and get away from the Riverlands—he told all who asked that he was a farmer leaving for a safe place with his young wife.

When he arrived in the Vale, he was able to hide Jeyne in Lord Bronze Yohn Royce’s home as a maid. He soon learned of the circumstances surrounding Lady Lysa’s death; the members of her household described how she’d violently quarrelled with Lord Petyr about sending away a bard, one Marrillon, of whom both she and her son had grown fond. The maids spoke in whispers about the tears of Lys given to Lord Jon and the strangler given to the king, all of which Lady Lysa had spoken about freely and frequently when she was in her cups, which was all too often after Lord Jon’s death. The Blackfish described how he had managed to steal Robert Arryn away as soon as Lord Petyr had left for the Riverlands.

“He’s on the lookout for the two of you, Sansa,” the Blackfish told his grandniece. “Mya Stone—she’s the mule girl; your husband met her when he was last at the Eyrie—learned from one of his knights that he’d already sent a girl who looked and sounded like a northwoman to impersonate Arya and wed Ramsay Snow. Now he wants Tyrion, so that he can hand him over to Cersei, and he wants you, so that he can control the North, as he does the Vale and the Riverlands.”

“But he can’t control the North—King Stannis is there, fighting on the side of the Night’s Watch...” Sansa exclaimed.

“He thinks, if he has you, he will have the loyalty of the North. He doesn’t know that Robb disinherited you after your marriage to young Lannister here. Lord Tyrion seems to have taken better care of you than I had expected him to. I have always been disappointed in your brother, Lord Tyrion—I am pleasantly surprised by you.”

“And he doesn’t know about Jeyne’s baby either,” Sansa said. She did not weep over the loss of Winterfell; if what Sam said was true, then Bran was alive and, she hoped, safe beyond the Wall. She was certain Rickon must have escaped as well; Bran would not have left their baby brother to face death while running away. She was glad she had escaped Lord Baelish’s clutches; he seemed to bring death and destruction wherever he went.

“He’s been trying to encourage the pretensions of Harry the Heir—Robin’s young cousin,” Robb’s wife, Jeyne, whispered. “He’s been telling the boy he’ll discover the Stark heiress, have her marriage to Lord Tyrion dissolved because it wasn’t consummated, and wed him to the girl. He’s been buying support throughout the Vale—that’s what the women said. He’s been trying to give the boy sweetsleep for his fits—but it’s a poison if it’s taken too frequently...”

They decided to wait till Arya came home before they made any plans. Sansa made her granduncle and her goodsister comfortable in their home before she went out to meet her customers, while Tyrion went to the warehouse to work. They left their guests well provided with food and drink.

That evening, the family sat together and discussed what was to be done. They put together all the information they had received—that Bran was alive; that Arya was with them; that Jeyne was carrying Robb’s heir; that Sansa was no longer heiress to Winterfell. Tyrion, for one, was glad of the last—he told Sansa frankly that he had hoped to make a home with her at Winterfell, but he had never wanted to marry her solely because of it. He had married her to protect her from a worse suitor. She told him, just as frankly, that she had grown to appreciate his kindness in King’s Landing; their closer relationship in Braavos had shown him to be intelligent and resourceful as well. She would stay with him, with or without Winterfell. They’d learnt from Sam that Stannis was at the Wall with his men and that Jon had been elected Lord Commander. “However, that might mean little—the Night’s Watch takes no part in the affairs of the realm,” said Sansa, reciting a lesson learned long ago from Uncle Benjen.

“But he did refuse to be legitimized and take Winterfell,” Arya reminded her sharply—she still regretted not going north to Jon, although both Sansa and Tyrion spoke of the dangers presented by the presence of the Ironmen and Lord Bolton’s forces. Sansa reminded her of the horror stories Jeyne Poole had often repeated, regarding Lord Bolton’s bastard and his servant, Reek.

“Stannis will not look kindly upon us—I’m a Lannister; Sansa, although a Stark, is my wife and sister to the King in the North, who would have diminished Stannis’ realm, had he lived. Arya, although unmarried, is also a Stark and likely to be married off to anyone who would support Stannis’ claims, including Lord Bolton’s son. As for Jeyne and her babe, he’d try to marry her off to someone loyal to him who would raise the boy as his supporter. As for you, Ser Brynden, you fought for Robb Stark... and Robert Arryn is too weak and sickly to be of use to him.”

Tyrion’s analysis was harsh but accurate—Stannis would not welcome their support for his cause with courtesy or grace. He was known to be just, but hard—Sam had spoken of how he had tried to use the Night’s Watch for his own purpose, which Jon had firmly prevented. However, as they all realised, Stannis was the only one left standing after the War of Five Kings who would give them a hearing. Cersei would not welcome them in King’s Landing, and although Tyrion had tried to improve the Iron Throne’s relations with Dorne, he would not be welcome there. Although the Blackfish told them of Lady Catelyn’s suspicions about Stannis’ role in Renly’s sudden death by shadow, and spoke disapprovingly of his tendency to hold a grudge, he agreed that supporting Stannis was their only chance to regain all that they had lost.

“Unless we travel east, across the Dothraki sea, to Meereen, to meet with Daenerys Targaryen,” remarked Tyrion.

“No,” said the Blackfish slowly, “not with three women, one of whom is pregnant and another who’s a temptation to any man, as well as a sickly little boy. Besides,” he continued warmly, “why do you think Aerys’ daughter would welcome a visit from a Lannister and a Tully, accompanied by two or three Starks and an Arryn in tow? Our families fought against the Targaryens less than twenty years ago, Lord Tyrion! And if she were to return, your brother the Kingslayer would be her first target, followed by myself and those of your relatives who participated in the sack of King’s Landing. And then she would attack the young ones—just as her father wanted to kill Ned and Robert after he’d killed Brandon and Rickard.”

As Tyrion sat there, rubbing the stump of his nose, trying to think of a plan of action, the Blackfish continued, “I heard rumours in the Vale—that Stannis had defeated the Ironmen and would take Winterfell from the Boltons. I hoped to come to Braavos to recruit sellswords to his cause. If I were to do that, and he were to win, I could claim Winterfell for Robb’s child. Will you join me in this enterprise, Lannister? You can rely upon this—that Stannis will help you gain the Rock if you help him gain the throne. He might even help you and Sansa clear yourselves of the charge of killing Joffrey. And perhaps you can save the lives of your sister, your brother and their children.”

Tyrion glanced at the three women—Sansa, Arya and Jeyne—and then he looked at Robert Arryn, lying there pale and listless. He slowly nodded his head. “We could take a ship from Braavos to Eastwatch. We could leave the women there with the Queen and the Princess and travel to Castle Black with the sellswords. I’m sure Jon, if not Stannis, will be glad of our aid.”

Chapter Text

What is she thinking of as she waits for her lord husband in the darkness of their bed chamber? It is now time, she thinks, that the two of them finally consummated their marriage. She is now a woman grown—she had refused to separate from him when he returned from Essos. Many years have passed since then—long enough for them both to have licked their wounds clean and start afresh.

He has drunk quite deep at dinner—he is no longer used to that, but it is a special occasion that they’re celebrating today, the rebuilding of Winterfell. He gets out of his fine tunic and breeches and boots in their solar next door before he enters the bedroom. He staggers in on his stumpy little legs and roars in pain when he hits a toe upon the bedpost.

“My lord,” she calls out, hoping she sounds as though she’s been sleeping, which she has not—she’s been wide awake and plotting how to seduce him when he walked into the room.

“My lady? My apologies—I should have realised you would be asleep and not woken you like this,” he stutters and stammers, feeling very silly.

“No, my lord—I should not have let the fire go out. Or I should have left a candle burning on your side of the bed. I should apologise—I hope you are not too badly hurt.” She rises up out of the bed and strikes the flint to light a candle. He turns around to look at her with his mouth agape. For there she stands, as naked as her nameday.

“Come,” she says gently, “let me help you out of those clothes.” And she walks up to him, to pull off his linen smallclothes.

“Er—my lady—don’t you think you should wear a shift?”

“No, my lord—I do not. “ And then she guides him into the bed, getting in after him. When they’re both under the furs, she reaches out her hands for him and gently draws him into her arms, laying his head on her breast. He is a little surprised at this—she has never behaved so boldly as she does now.

She begins to cuddle him—he’s almost the same size as Sweetrobin once was; only he, unlike Sweetrobin, does not wet the bed, have fits or want to be suckled. She gently brushes back his lank, fair hair from his forehead and kisses him—his face, his ears and the back of his neck. He laughs out loud when she does the last—he’s a bit ticklish there, she realises.

He begins to breathe heavily and he kisses her back—on her mouth and her cheeks and her throat. His hands and lips caress and kiss her breasts—he licks her nipples with his tongue and then he gently sucks, which causes her to cry out softly. He laughs throatily and then his hands snake down, down to that spot between her thighs. She cries out as he caresses her there, and then he presses her legs apart and lowers himself over her. She whimpers as he enters her—and then she slowly begins to move in time with his thrusts. They both collapse in exhaustion—he roars as he comes into her, she notes absently. She cuddles him again, when it is over—she showers his face with kisses, and he kisses her back hungrily. Somehow, she feels they have both come a very long way indeed—they have laid the foundations of their marriage even as they rebuilt Winterfell, stone by stone.

Chapter Text

The one thing Tyrion hates about the North are the distances he has to ride. He returns home to Winterfell with a stiff back, a sore bottom and cramps in his legs. He staggers up to his bedroom, refusing dinner and demanding a drink and a hot bath in his chambers, now. When he gets to his room, he flops onto the bed in all his dirt, too tired and in too much pain to care. He would feel sorry for himself and weep into the pillow, if he had any energy left. He drops off into a tired doze...

Until he wakes up suddenly, to a woman undressing him gently. He wonders if it is a dream--he thinks he can hear her humming softly. And then, there is that lovely flowery perfume she wears. He can feel her tugging off his boots, taking off his breeches and doublet and smallclothes. And then, she tenderly lays him on his stomach on a large towel, taking care to lay his head sideways on the pillow, so he can breathe.

Then he feels her pouring warm oil--perfumed, he thinks, with the plants of the North--onto his back and legs. And then, he feels her clever fingers knead away the cramps in his legs, the soreness of his bottom (he nearly yells when she pinches him there!) and the stiffness in his back and neck.

He keeps his eyes closed when she slowly rolls him over onto his back, and begins massaging his arms and legs and stomach. She even massages his feet and hands--she leaves him feeling relaxed and soothed and pampered, as if he were a king or a lord in Essos, being coddled by an adoring handmaid, instead of being a very hardworked noble of Westeros. And then she ends the massage with a kiss on his lips; the taste reminds him of the rare sweet amber wine from the Summer Isles that he had once carried all the way from Casterly Rock almost to the Wall. He opens his eyes and says, happily, "Sansa."

She bends down once again and kisses him again. "My lord husband, your bath awaits. Have a nice long soak, and when you're done, ring the bell. I'll come in and help you dress. And you will have dinner--a nice hot soup with some lovely fresh oat bread--and then you will have a glass of wine to help you sleep." And then she gives him yet another kiss. She does not give him a chance to say no. That is how she makes the winter and his life in the north bearable.

Chapter Text

Tyrion Lannister was startled to learn, from old Ser Barristan, that Sansa Stark, now Queen in the North, was coming personally to conduct negotiations with Queen Daenerys, her liege lady.

“Do you know anything of the matter?” the grizzled old knight enquired. “Why is she coming herself? She has usually sent Lord Davos Seaworth or Lady Brienne Tarth to negotiate on her behalf, has she not? You have dealt with them, as Hand of the Queen. She is your wife—has she not confided in you?”

Tyrion laughed bitterly. “My marriage to her,” he told Ser Barristan, “was a means by my father to seize her family’s lands and title in the North. She and I had little in common then—she was only a child of three and ten and I was a hardened rake of three and twenty. We parted immediately after my nephew died—I only know by hearsay of what became of her in the intervening years. She has not communicated with me...”

“But she has not ended your relationship either, has she?” enquired the old knight shrewdly. “It is almost four years since your nephew’s death—and His Most High Holiness, the Chief Septon, tells me that he has received no requests for annulment of her marriage from Lady Sansa.”

“Perhaps,” Tyrion japed, “she is waiting for me to die of my excesses...” Ser Barristan merely looked at him, pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows and shrugged. For Tyrion had forsworn whores and wine on his memorable journey through Essos with Penny and Ser Jorah Mormont. The three of them had somehow survived the Battle of Meereen, when Brown Ben Plumm’s Second Sons had almost perished to a man.

When Daenerys returned from the Dothraki Sea, with the largest khalasar of screamers supporting her, she found Ser Barristan, her Unsullied and his knights, along with the three wanderers, who had not only survived an enfeebled Yunkish attack but also the attempts of the Iron Fleet, under Victarion Greyjoy, to sack Meereen. Viserion and Rhaegal had done their bit against the Ironmen and the Yunkish, before they flew across the Sunset Sea. Of the Iron Fleet, there were only a few ships left, which would do to transport the Unsullied, Ser Barristan and his knights, as well as the lion and the bear. Penny would travel with the queen and Drogon, with her entourage of Dothrakis, as they uprooted slavery throughout Essos, with fire and blood.

Tyrion could still vividly recall their passage through the Demon Road; how they had been waylaid by remnants of Victarion’s Iron Fleet, which had held back from his headlong journey to Meereen for just this task. They had been able to fight them off, with help from Ser Gerion Lannister, who had been trapped in the ruins of Old Valryia with his crew. He had found Brightroar, and two dragon horns, which Jorah said could only be used to control Viserion and Rhaegal.

By the time they arrived in the Westerlands after this eventful voyage, much had changed. Stannis had defeated the Boltons; they said he had been aided by an army from the Vale, led by Ser Brynden Tully and his niece, the Lady Sansa. They had seized the north and then the Riverlands; those of Lord Walder’s family who had participated in the Red Wedding were killed; and the Lannisters in the Westerlands were forced to sue for peace, for the roads south were now controlled by the Tully, Stark and Arryn forces. Tyrion immediately had all prisoners of war living in the Westerlands released and sent home, without collecting a penny of ransom. His father would never have forgiven him that, had he been living, and neither would Cersei; Tyrion did not care. Lady Genna and his cousins were held in Riverrun—he wanted them home at the Rock.

Stannis had left his allies in control of the Riverlands, the Vale and the North; he had retaken Dragonstone from the Lannisters and Tyrells, and recovered Storm’s End from Aegon Targaryen, who had left the confines of that keep to fight the Ironborn raiding the Reach. There was talk of a marriage alliance between Aegon and Stannis’ daughter, Shireen, who was but a child of nine or ten.

Daenerys’ arrival from the east to Dragonstone changed the situation drastically. There was a danger that both Stannis and Aegon would become food for dragons when Lady Sansa Stark, then residing at Harrenhal, arrived to request Daenerys’ aid against the wights and White Walkers attacking the Wall. The Ironborn had almost all been defeated; some of the more adventurous knights from the Reach and other southron lands accompanied Daenerys to the Wall.

It was now almost two years since Daenerys’ return to King’s Landing from the North; her so-called nephew had, in the meantime, died of his wounds after winning the final battle against the Ironborn. Stannis Baratheon had died at the Wall, fighting the Others; his daughter had chosen to marry her bastard-born cousin Edric rather than Prince Trystane of Dorne, who had wedded Tyrion’s niece Myrcella, once believed to be Robert Baratheon’s daughter. Shireen now held Storm’s End for the Queen.

Daenerys told Tyrion she felt the North, which now included the wildlings from beyond the Wall, as well as the remnants of the Ironborn and Skagosi fleeing the White Walkers occupying their islands, could not be governed effectively from King’s Landing. “They are too different from the southron people,” she said, “They still worship trees and not the Seven. Some of them are of the faith of Rh’llor. And Sansa Stark has introduced innovations—she has a Great Council of the North and listens to all of them, the Ironborn, the Skagosi, the wildlings, the northmen, the men of the Night’s Watch—before she makes a decision. I cannot accept that—not in the south. I will not have it. I have agreed to not molest her kinfolk—her Tully and Arryn relatives—because I know she will not fight me for the throne of Westeros.”

Tyrion had little and less to say to that; he had his hands full with settling the south. The Dornish and the Reach were baying for Baratheon blood, and were told just as sharply that they could not have it, since both Shireen and Edric were determined to live peacefully in Storm’s End. Lord Randyll Tarly was incensed because Lady Elinor Mooton of Maidenpool had been wedded off to a Blackwood scion, after her betrothal to his heir, Lord Dickon, was broken; he would have fought the Tullys and the Riverlanders, if Tyrion had not prevented his doing so in a rather harsh manner. He had expected the Tullys and the Arryns, as well as their bannermen, to fall upon the Lannisters, just as the Dornish were trying to do, as vengeance for Lord Tywin’s hand in the deaths of Elia and her children, but they did not do so. He was too relieved to note that they did not; he had not the energy to enquire why. Add to that famine, epidemics of the pale mare and grayscale, the mutual hatred between the Westerosi and the Dothraki, the lack of money in the treasury and the unlikelihood of raising taxes...and he had too much on his mind for sleep. He had no time to think of Jaime or Tommen; he knew Myrcella was safe in Dorne; Princess Arianne had told him so, when she visited King’s Landing with Lord Willas, her husband. He knew Cersei had died, and he knew Margaery had chosen to marry Ser Perewyn Frey, who now held Rosby.

He had chosen not to think of Sansa; he was relieved to know that she was alive and safe in the North. That was enough for him. He did not want to know how she had made her way back from King’s Landing, although he suspected that Littlefinger, whom Stannis had hanged in the Riverlands before he left for Storm’s End, had something to do with it. He was glad to deal with Lord Davos Seaworth or Lady Brienne Tarth, when they came south as envoys; they spoke of taxes and trade, of settling the borders between the North and the South, of dealings with Essos and the Free Cities, which Sansa left to Daenerys, since the Dragon Queen had lived there and had greater knowledge of the people. “Moreover,” as Lord Davos gravely informed him, “the North cannot afford to send out ambassadors, my Lord Hand; if you think matters are bad in the south, you have no notion how things are in the north. We feed the poor if they rebuild holdfasts and houses and towns. Her Grace is even building roads, to give her people something to do and to keep the peasants fed during the winter.”

There was also the matter of repaying the Iron Bank of Braavos, which had financed Robert, Stannis and the Night’s Watch, and which had also bought up the debts owed by the crown to the sept and the Lannisters. Sansa had contributed by sending wood for ships to Braavos—Lord Davos and Lady Brienne explained that Brandon’s Gift, and the land given to the Night’s Watch by Good Queen Alysanne, was being cleared for cultivation come spring. This had enormously helped ease Westeros’ burden of debt—Tyrion had been so delighted to hear of this that he had quaffed a pitcherful of spiced Dornish red to celebrate. The Riverlands had also contributed, and the Vale, which acted as Westeros’ bread basket in these troubled times, had eased its burden by paying its share in silver.

But none of this provided an explanation for Sansa’s visit to the capital. Tyrion wondered if she had come to arrange for the annulment of her marriage; after all, she was a woman grown, and as a queen, she had a duty to her people to provide them an heir. He recalled what he had heard of her brothers’ deaths at the hands of their Ironborn foster brother, and he recalled her sister’s disappearance. As the last of her line, Sansa had a duty to perform. He would not stand in her way, but he did not desire to see her. He had heard enough from the southron knights who had gone north to fight the White Walkers or her beauty and her icy courtesy to all men; they called her the Ice Maiden, in jest or in earnest, who can say?

When he heard she had arrived, he sent his squire, Ser Podrick Payne (for he had returned to serve Tyrion, after being knighted for his services by Lady Brienne) to tell the queen he was suffering from a fever. He hid in the maester’s rooms, reading Archmaester Marwyn’s books to allay his feelings of dread; the Archmaester had chosen to attend the queen instead of attending to the Lord Hand, who had nothing in the world wrong with him, except a case of nerves or cowardice.

When the lamps were lit in the evening, Tyrion crept back to his room in the Tower of the Hand. He did not know how long Sansa chose to stay here; he would stay away from her as long as he was able. He would use whatever excuses he had at hand; he would claim to be suffering from the pale mare, the pox, grayscale, whatever...as long as he did not have to meet his wife face to face. He had reached his rooms by the time he made his resolution—when he opened the door to his sleeping chamber, he was startled to find Sansa Stark, the woman he had done much to avoid the whole day, seated on his bed wearing a plain northern gown.

He could not tiptoe out of his room and go and hide in the stables, he thought wildly, because she had seated herself facing the door and she was looking at him and she was even lovelier now at seven and ten than she had been four years ago...and...and...he should skin Pod alive for not keeping her out of this room. He pasted a smile onto his face and bowed to her.

“Your Grace, you do me too much honour to visit my humble home.” There, that should please her! He thought triumphantly.

She got off the bed and curtsied. “Not at all, my lord husband—Her Grace informed me you were unwell and were thus unable to attend our meeting. I came to see if I could be of service to you. I am glad to see you on your feet, my lord—I hope you have recovered from your illness.” This was said gravely and kindly, as though she meant it.

“Somewhat recovered, my...Your Grace, although Archmaester Marwyn assures me I should convalesce for as long as possible—he feels I have been weakened by my labours on behalf of Westeros,” he said rather pompously. He hoped she believed him and would let him be. “He also feels,” he said hastily, as he saw her open her mouth to speak, “that I might have some infectious disease—he is not certain what it may be.”

“Does he now?” she asked, an eyebrow raised in enquiry. “He told me you were the healthiest man in court, now that you had...ahem...given up a life of debauchery and vice for one of virtue and hard work. His exact words, I assure you.” She did not smile, but gazed at him gravely. The silence would have stretched out between them till the Others attacked again, if he had not lost his patience and his temper, and exclaimed angrily:

“Enough of this mummery! You don’t have to fool me with your false concern for my well-being—I know how much you cared...you abandoned me to face my father’s wrath after Joffrey’s death. You ran off and left me to face the music. That’s how much you cared for our marriage. Well, if you want an end to it, go to the High Septon and ask for an annulment—I will not make it easy for you by requesting it from His High Holiness.”
He said all this in a rush—it was as if this volcano of words erupted out of his mouth now that he had seen her after all these years. She still gazed at him gravely and replied:

“My lord, I want to ensure you understand a few things about my feelings with regard to our marriage. You are aware, of course, that I was a prisoner in King’s Landing? You are also aware that, although I was betrothed to the king, this did not prevent your nephew from getting me beaten by the Kingsguard? You are also aware that your nephew had my father executed? It was this execution that led my mother and my brother to rebel against him... that, and your father’s attack on the Riverlands.” He would have spoken, but she raised her hand, requesting his silence and continued:

“I know you did much to alleviate my ill-treatment as a prisoner—I know you arranged for Joffrey’s betrothal to Margaery. Are you aware that the man you sent to arrange the alliance also arranged for his murder by the Tyrells?” He stared at her, his mouth open, as she spoke:

“His servants spread tales of Joffrey’s cruelty to me, even as Littlefinger assured the ladies Olenna, Alerie and Margaery that the tales were untrue. He had already arranged for Ser Dontos Hollard, whom I saved from being murdered by Joffrey, to meet me and plan my escape from the Red Keep. He gave Dontos a hairnet of silver,” and here she took out the net from a pocket in her dress to show him, “which was set with pieces of strangler—Ser Dontos assured me these were priceless, magic pearls from Asshai to take me home to Winterfell—that I was to wear to Joffrey’s wedding feast. The Tyrell ladies talked to me when they first came to the capital—they asked about Joffrey. I told them the truth—I did not want Margaery to go into the marriage as blindly as I had done. They offered to take me to Highgarden, to wed me to Willas. I told Dontos of this plan; I did not want him to risk his life for me anymore...”

“He must have told Littlefinger, because Littlefinger spoke of it to my father.” These words burst out of his lips almost without thought; he was listening to her breathlessly. She was silent and looked at him as he continued.
“That is why my father had us wed. He wanted me to bed you, to get you with child...”

“But you were unwilling to do as he bid...and I was unwilling to be forcibly bedded.” She spoke quietly. “Especially by a man whose family was fighting mine, an oath-breaker. You promised you would send me home to my mother in open court...and you broke your word. I could never forgive that. And then your father had my mother and brother murdered most treacherously...did he think I would jump into your arms when I heard of their deaths?”

I don’t know what he thought, he wanted to shout, but she continued. “I lived for my meetings with Ser Dontos in the godswood after that—to plan my escape. When Joffrey fell down, choking on his blood, I fled to freedom. Even had I remained—I was the daughter and sister of traitors; you might well have been killed for being my husband, if for nothing else! Ser Dontos got me out of the Red Keep and to the wharf, to the Merling King, where Littlefinger was waiting. He wanted a thousand gold dragons for his trouble and he got a bolt from a crossbow instead. I learnt how he had murdered Joffrey when we reached his holdfast on the Fingers, where my aunt waited to wed him.”

She looked at him in silence a while before she continued with her tale: “My aunt wished me to wed her son, a sickly boy of eight. She wanted to be certain you had not bedded me...she thought I would be meek and obedient, now that I had lost my family and Winterfell.” She laughed bitterly. “She was a jealous and bitter woman and cared nothing for me. Do you want to hear how she died?” she asked suddenly. He nodded—he was both riveted and shaken by what she said. He slowly walked towards the bed and sat down—she followed his lead and sat facing him.

“Petyr spent many days away from the Eyrie, pacifying the Vale lords, who hated him. One morning ... it was snowing so heavily... I went out to the garden and built Winterfell out of snow. Petyr had returned by then...he helped me. And then he wanted to walk into my castle! And he kissed me—and she saw that. She called me to the Lord’s Chamber at the top of the Eyrie—she accused me of seducing Petyr, just as my mother had done (so she claimed) when they were girls. She would have thrown me out of the Moon Door when Petyr arrived...Marillion the bard was playing all the while so that no one would hear my screams...Petyr threw her out, but not before she said she’d killed her husband with the tears of Lys that Petyr gave her. She sent a letter to my mother, telling her the Lannisters had killed her husband.”

He saw the tears pour down her face as she spoke; he gave her his handkerchief to wipe her face. She continued to speak as she dabbed at her eyes and cheeks and delicately wiped her nose. “Of course, Petyr denied the truth of all she said. He told everyone Marillion had killed her...and I repeated the story to Lord Nestor Royce. I knew he had committed murder—he’d killed Joffrey; he’d got my aunt to murder Jon Arryn and claim your family did it; he’d killed my aunt when he had no use for her...what was to stop him from murdering me? He could always say I was not his daughter...he told everyone I was his bastard; did you know that?” He shook his head silently. She ploughed on. “And then he expected me to marry Robin’s heir, Ser Harrold Harrdying...he wanted me to give Robin sweetsleep.”

She fell silent then, gasping—sounding as though she had been running a long while. “What happened then?” he asked, riveted despite his horror at what she described.

“I lied to him of course...I pretended to be his bastard, because he said that would keep me safe, but you can never forget who you really are, or where you really come from, can you, my lord? I agreed to the betrothal...and I added honey to Robin’s milk instead of sweetsleep, because Maester Colemon said too much sweetsleep would make him ill. And I waited and waited for Petyr to leave for the Riverlands...for something to happen. He did leave for the Riverlands, when a messenger arrived from the Twins, complaining about the bandits who were killing Freys. I told him he had to go...he knew my grandfather’s bannermen; he could catch the bandits; he could hoodwink Cersei, while she struggled with the Faith and the Tyrells...and he believed me and left for Harrenhal. And then my granduncle arrived in the Vale. Of course, he knew whose daughter I was as soon as he laid eyes on me—he said no amount of brown dye on my hair would make me look less like my mother. It took me some time to trust him—and then I told him how Aunt Lysa had died and what she had said before dying. The lords and knights of the Vale were eager to fight—when Uncle Brynden arrived and asked them to fight for me, they answered his call. They defeated the mountain clansmen—but I made them allies when I told them who I was and how you had been falsely accused of Joffrey’s murder. They too were eager to fight against those who had wronged you. The rest you must have heard already.” She spoke more quietly now, her emotion spent.

He gazed at her in wonder. “And yet...you fought for Stannis, not for yourself.” He said softly.

“I learnt, when I reached White Harbour, that Stannis Baratheon was the only one to answer the Night Watch’s call for help. The Royces had word from the North—they said Jon had become Lord Commander. Petyr would not help him at all—and Petyr had kept my dearest friend in a whorehouse, of all places, and sent her to wed Ramsay Bolton, of all men, when I had begged them all in the Small Council, to send her to a place of safety. I could never forgive him that. Stannis hated him, and made no secret of it. Petyr entrusted a chest filled with his papers to my care—he told me to keep it unopened against his return. I took the chest north with me and had a smith make a key for its lock as soon as I was able. I took a good look at the papers—there were lots and lots of numbers and names. I could not make head or tale of it. By the time we reached Stannis’ army, they had driven the Boltons from Winterfell, but Stannis himself was ill and feverish. I’d taken Robin and Maester Colemon with me from the Vale—the maester cared for Stannis. In the meanwhile, the knights from the Vale were able to prevent Lord Bolton and his son from reaching the Dreadfort—they cut off their retreat and took them prisoner.” She said the words and looked at him—he nodded at her, to tell her he understood. “Lord Bolton left his pregnant wife behind in Winterfell—the poor woman was on the point of giving birth. Of course, she lost the babe.”

“Then what happened?” he asked, unable to stop himself.

She sighed. “The northern lords wanted their revenge for the Boltons’ part in the Red Wedding. Ramsay and his men used to strip peasant girls naked and hunt them through the woods with dogs—they forced all the Bolton men, including Lord Roose and his son to do the same—and then they set the dogs upon them. They were killed, every one of them, and fed to the dogs. It was most horrible...but I could not blame them. Lord Manderly had lost a son, as had the Greatjon. I had lost my brother...and it was the Boltons who burnt my home, not the Ironborn. Theon was there, with his sister...you remember him, do you not? You must have met him when you visited my parent s at Winterfell.”

He nodded silently—yes, he recalled the boy.

“He’s dead now—he died fighting the Others. But I met him then...he told me that he did not kill Bran or Rickon. I did not believe him at first...but then Lord Davos arrived with Rickon, Shaggydog and a wildling woman who had been caring for him. And they were followed by almost everyone from Skagos. They were fleeing the White Walkers. We had arrived at the Wall by then—and I learnt Jon was on the point of death; a group of his men had tried to kill him, because he wanted to go south to aid Stannis.” She laughed hysterically, “So I had two ailing men, one dying of fever, the second of his wounds; a sickly little boy; countless wounded knights and soldiers, Valesmen and Stormlanders and Skagosi and Northmen...I was like to go mad, I can tell you this, my lord. And then, there was this banker, a Braavosi, one Tycho Nestoris—a man with a funny hat. I gave him Petyr’s papers, telling him only that they had been left in my care, and I could not make head or tail of them. Could he please help me? So while I handed Stannis off to Maester Pylos, who was also caring for Jon, and handed Robin off to Alysanne Mormont to look after and had Jon’s assassins locked up in cells and calmed down the wildlings, who would have killed and eaten them all, they were so incensed...you can well imagine my state.”

He smiled and nodded in understanding.

“Luckily, Lady Dustin was there—she was able to arrange for more maesters to care for the wounded. And Lord Reed arrived as well, with Lady Maege and Mors Umber and Galbart Glover. They all helped to care for the wounded. And then Lord Reed said I had to go beyond the Wall to fetch Bran from the three-eyed crow. He said Bran would help Jon get better; he said his son and daughter were with Bran. Lady Brienne and Pod and Ser Hyle Hunt...no, you never met him...he was at one time household knight to Lord Randyll Tarly—had followed us from the Vale to the North. She and Val, a wildling woman, agreed to go with me to look for Bran. Ser Hyle and Pod stayed with Jon, to ensure that no one harmed him further. Well, to cut my story short, we found Bran and returned to Castle Black to help Jon. In the meanwhile—this I learned much later—the Braavosi banker and Maester Pylos had broken Petyr’s code; he’d apparently been embezzling money from all the manufactories he was setting up. He would ensure that the king had just enough in the treasury to meet his expenses; the rest went into paying off debts and Petyr’s pocket, which is why Stannis had him executed at Harrenhal.”

She stopped speaking—her voice sounded rough, as though she had not used it so much in so many years. He got up and poured some wine into two goblets for both of them. Giving one to her, he said:

“I can now understand much and more of what you did. But if your brothers returned to the North, how is it that you became Queen in the North? Why did neither of your brothers take the throne?”

She sipped at her wine and, setting her goblet down, she said, “Bran is a greenseer, which means he has little interest in the things of this world. However, he can give me good advice, because I trust him. Rickon has no patience with being a lord, let alone a king, but he will fight for me. And as for Arya...yes, my troublesome little sister did come back,” she smiled at him as she spoke, “she has little patience with things as they are, but she will fight for justice. The Northmen were reluctant to accept me—after all, Robb had almost set me aside in his will because of my marriage to you. But since you were nowhere around, they agreed to let me lead them. About being Queen—I would have been content with being Lady of Winterfell, Warden of the North—but my bannermen have little or no patience with southron lords and kings. They could not forget how my father, grandfather, uncle, aunt, brother and mother were murdered when they went south of the Neck. So even though they were grateful to Daenerys for her aid, they told her they would be ruled by one of their own, by me. And they said it as one man, at a great assembly I had called after the War against the Others ended, to honour her. I did not know whether to be pleased or mortified. I was angry with them—I reminded them that she had fought at their side—and they said they would have a kingdom of the North. I told them I knew little of reigning over them—they reminded me I had kept them fed and battle-ready during the winter. And when the Ironmen and the Skagosi and the wildlings joined in, well I could not say no. And since they agreed with me that we would not fight the Iron Throne, since Daenerys herself came to our aid, she was able to agree to our secession.”

“That was a wonderful tale,” he said with a sigh as he stretched out on his bed, leaning on an elbow and looking at her, “but it does not answer my questions. Why did you come to negotiate with the Queen on the Iron Throne? You usually send Lord Davos or Lady Brienne. Why come yourself this time? And, why, for the Seven’s sake, Your Grace, if Robb nearly disinherited you because of your marriage to me, did you not ask the Lord High Septon for an annulment earlier?”

She got up from the bed and paced about the room. “I could not send Lord Davos—he is visiting his wife and sons at Cape Wrath on Dragonstone. Yes, Daenerys let him keep his lands in the south—I told her it would ensure he would support peace between the North and the Iron Throne. As for Lady Brienne—she is not well. No, it’s nothing serious—she is increasing, expecting a child.”

Tyrion could not but exclaim in surprise. He recalled Lady Brienne, who was no beauty. “Who is the father?” he asked, trying to keep the laughter from his voice.

“Your brother Jaime,” she answered.

He stared at her, his mouth and eyes round with astonishment; he had never expected Jaime to live through a Targaryen restoration, nor had he in his wildest dreams expected him to lie with a woman other than Cersei. In fact, he had often wondered if his elder brother had discreetly removed himself from Westeros, although discretion and Jaime were rather distantly acquainted.

Recovering himself, he said, “I would ask you to tell the tale...but you must be tired.”

“No,” she said. “I am not tired. It is time you learned it all. You have chosen to be blind and deaf for far too long, my lord, and now you must be told all. You do know my mother released Ser Jaime and sent him with Lord Cleos and Lady Brienne to ransom myself and Arya, do you not? She succeeded in getting him to King’s Landing, by which time my brother and mother were murdered and Joffrey himself was dead. He asked her to look for me and keep me safe...and she found me at the Wall, poor woman, after many a dreadful adventure. When we returned to the Riverlands, with Stannis and his men, she and I went to Harrenhal. It was my grandmother’s home; if Winterfell was lost to me, as Lord Reed said that Robb’s will decreed, I could always go to Harrenhal. Stannis had already executed Petyr and I had nothing to fear. However, while we were there, we were attacked by a Kingsguard knight—he was enormously big and strong. Ser Jaime had given Brienne a sword called Oathkeeper, which she now used to defend me against him. She took a wound, but she killed him. Ser Jaime arrived almost at his heels. He was delighted to see her, and she him. I could tell at once that they were in love; and I could tell they were just right for each other. She kept begging his pardon for betraying him and he told her she’d done very well to do so, for she had completed her mission. Tommen was with him...oh, it was a long tale they had to tell.”

He sat there, looking at her as wide-eyed as a cat, breathlessly waiting. She continued, “It appears this Kingsguard knight was a Ser Robert Strong, whom your sister had given the white cloak. He fought for her honour against the Sept’s champion when she was accused of adultery and incest...and he won. Margaery was accused of adultery and immoral conduct—she chose to defend herself in the court of justice. She won too. Ser Jaime had been in the Riverlands, getting the lords to pledge allegiance to Tommen, when Brienne met him again; she had been captured by my mother’s men, the Brotherhood without Banners... Oh, you know my father sent out men to bring the Mountain that Rides to justice, did you not? These men were led by Lord Beric Dondarrion, who was now dead. They had recovered my mother from the river—she led them to hang the Freys who had been present at the Red Wedding. They captured Brienne and her companions—she had to kill Jaime to free Pod and Ser Hyle Hunt. I am surprised Pod never told you of this. Or is it that you did not ask?”

He looked at her, as if to say, Continue the tale, and so she said, “Well, she wounded him badly enough; she left him for dead at Saltpans, where she claimed the Hound held me captive. She and her companions then came to the Vale to look for me. In the meanwhile, who do you think came to Saltpans, dressed as a septon or near enough? Why, Sandor Clegane himself! It seems he’d been wounded by his brother’s men at an inn; the wound festered; he was like to die when he was found by the brothers of the Quiet Isle, which is where he took your brother. “

Tyrion took a deep breath as she finished speaking and sipped at her wine again. She now sat facing him, smiling slightly as she told the tale.

“Well, Ser Jaime recovered...and Sandor insisted on taking him back to court, instead of to Riverrun. It was as well they did so, because by the time they reached King’s Landing, our forces had taken the Riverlands. When they arrived at the Red Keep, he went to Cersei, told her his tale (I know not what he said to her) and was made a sworn shield to Tommen. He was a brave man—the only thing he feared was fire. She knew he was loyal. Well, it seems your sister did not think too well of Margaery—for Margaery was celebrating (so she said) her victory and Cersei’s against the Sept. She had her cousins with her, and Tommen was there as well, with Sandor. And Ser Robert Strong attacked. Sandor faced him—he ordered the women to run; he told the king to flee, and he faced that mountain of a man alone. Tommen went straight to Ser Jaime, to complain of the conduct of his brother officer. By the time Ser Jaime arrived, it was too late—Sandor was dead; the women had fled to the Tower of the Hand and Ser Robert Strong was gone...no one knew where. So they chased after him—Tommen and Ser Jaime. Tommen even picked up Joffrey’s sword—Widow’s Wail?—and yes, his kittens three. They followed him all the way to Harrenhal.”

“But that does not explain,” He objected, “how he wedded Brienne.”

“No, it does not. Well, they went north, after visiting a smith at the Inn on the Crossroads—you know it, do you not, my lord? He was the very image of Lord Renly. He was able to weld together Oathkeeper and Widow’s Wail, and remake Ice, my father’s greatsword. And then he insisted on accompanying Brienne, Jaime and Tommen north—he said he had travelled with Arya and served with the Brotherhood; he knew my mother well. I was happy to meet him. Mother was near the end when I met her—she was glad to learn that Bran and Rickon were alive; her men had heard the news from northern soldiers and Stannis’ men. The rest of the Brotherhood had taken the black; only the smith remained. He had been caring for a house full of orphans. When my uncle came back from the Rock, he took in the orphans to Riverrun. He told us you’d freed all the prisoners; he also saw to it that your aunt and cousins returned home. I had Ser Jaime disguised as a septon, and Brienne forced him to memorize The Seven-Pointed Star. He acted as my septon at Winterfell—and then I sent them both to the Rock, telling the Queen that strange sights and sounds, as of dead things rising from the sea, were seen there. They did find something in the depths of the Rock, although they never told me what it was.”

“But they did not stay on at the Rock,” he interrupted.

“No, they did not—they came back North after Daenerys left. They will hold the Shieldfort for me—Brienne has, for the past few years, been the captain of my guard and Jaime has been master-at-arms. I owe them much. As for Tommen, he is happy in the North—he has learnt to be a warrior and he will do well, whatever he decides to do. He might well marry a Mormont woman; who knows?”

She was smiling as she spoke; he heaved a huge sigh of relief. He had been angry with Jaime, whose lie about Tysha had caused him so much grief. There was a time, not so long ago, when he was angry and bitter enough to hurt Tommen or Myrcella—but his grief and rage had cooled and frozen over. They were his blood—he had lost too many members of his family to contemplate their loss with complacency. Then he asked her:

“So about the annulment...I presume Your Grace sought me out to speak of that?”

She shook her head. “No, my lord; I have no desire to request an annulment. If you will hear me out... I have thought long over this and sought the advice of my lords, all of them, individually and in council. They are agreed that Robb acted unjustly in disinheriting me because of my marriage. It was not something I could have avoided as a prisoner. Although I did say that he did it to safeguard Winterfell and the North from your family, they said that his will would have been valid if he had lived and won the war. Since that was not the case, neither Lord Stannis nor the Queen Regent would have heeded his wishes. And he died leaving no heir of his body behind. They have seen and disliked most of the knights who have sought my hand in marriage; most of those men are ambitious; they would wed me, set aside my brothers and sister and rule the North in my name. On the other hand, they know how you assisted in bringing Queen Daenerys back to Westeros; they have heard from the Dornish that you were keen to see justice done against those who had Princess Elia and her children killed. Many believe that you were accused of Joffrey’s murder for that reason alone. They also know how hard you have worked, how much you have changed, since the restoration. Lord Davos and Lady Brienne have spoken well of you; Lady Shireen has several friends in the North and she, too, has spoken kindly of you since she returned to Storm’s End. So they are agreed that I should bring you North, as my consort and Hand.”

“But... do you recall our wedding night, my lady? Do you recall that I offered to wait however long it took to gain your affections? And you said that that would never happen? What has made you change your mind, my lady? Why are you willing to consummate your marriage to me now when you were so reluctant then?”

“Yes, I recall our wedding night vividly my lord. I am not proud of what I said—I was unkind. But... I was a girl of three-and-ten, forced to wed a man who was fighting against my family. I was married to you for my claim to Winterfell, nothing more; your family did not cease fighting against mine after the wedding—my mother and brother were murdered most cruelly by your father. Well, I learnt from my aunt that she had set us—your family and mine—at each other’s throats; I learnt from what I saw of knights and lords that they were more moved by thoughts of land and loot than by thoughts of honour and justice. You were an exception to that rule, my lord... And since then...I have seen how hard you have worked to rebuild Westeros after the war. I have worked just as hard to rebuild the North, and my regard for you has grown, I must confess, with the passage of time. There was a time,” she said hesitantly, “when Daenerys came North to fight the White Walkers and the wights, when I hoped my brothers would take over the governance of the land... I was not trained to be Lady Paramount or Queen... I was trained to be the lady of a castle, the wife to some lord, the mother of children. Well, fate has decreed otherwise. I must do my best for my people. And rather than wed a fair-faced fool who would dishonour me with the first pretty peasant girl that caught his eye, or a cunning knave who would murder my family and myself, to crown himself King in the North in his own right, I’d rather wed you. We have seen the worst of each other; and we have seen each other grow. I could never imagine, in my wildest dreams, that you would go east to bring back the Targaryen queen. I am certain I could not imagine myself leading an army; perhaps I would not have done so, had not Grand-Uncle Brynden appeared in the Vale.”

She fell silent at this, and gazed out of the window. They had spent almost the entire night talking; there was little left to say as the day dawned.

“You have spoken of this to Daenerys?” he asked, feeling foolish.

“Yes, I have—she feels sending you North will be a good move. You have proved your loyalty to her; neither you nor I covet her throne. She will get Lord Davos as her Hand, and she will be glad of it. Doubtless, if you had been in court yesterday, my lord, you would have heard of it; I came here to let you know—the queen was all for surprising you with her decision, when you next appeared in court. She was certain you would stay away because of me. She even told Pod to pack all your things and put them in my room. At least that’s what he told me when I found him there. And that’s when I knew I had to talk to you—tell you that you had to come North and why.”

Chapter Text

Sansa was lying on the couch in his solar, napping; it was an hour or so before sunset, just before the entire family would sit down to supper. Both she and Tyrion were glad that it would just be the two of them and all the children today—usually they feast visiting bannermen and lords, from the North, the Vale, the Riverlands, the Westerlands, the Iron Islands, the Crownlands, Dorne, Essos, Skagos, Braavos, the Reach... the knights from King’s Landing, the men from the Night’s Watch…anyone and everyone and the friends of anyone and everyone she and he and her siblings met during their various adventures. She should really have gone up to her room, ordered a maid to draw her bath, changed her dress and come down, looking fresh and smelling sweet. Right now, she looked exhausted, after coping with yet another tantrum from Rickon, sobbing from Sweetrobin and tears from Tommen.

When she almost broke down trying to end the quarrel amongst the three boys, Arya took one look at her, ordered her to go to Tyrion’s solar and stay there till supper was served. Bran grinned and nodded. “He’s sitting there, reading some letters. I think he would like it if you were to sit with him,” he said.

Myrcella and Shireen joined Arya in their attempts to calm the boys—Rickon was angry because Shaggy had been sent to the kennels. Sweetrobin was still afraid of Shaggy, who had a tendency to chase Ser Pounce, Lady Whiskers, Boots and any bird he saw, not for play, but for food. Robin had seen him, only the other day, biting into a bird—and he was afraid of the direwolf. Tommen lived in fear for the lives of his kittens, all that was left to him after the loss of his kingdom and his mother and his wife, Margaery. As for Rickon, Shaggy and Osha had been all that was left for him when Bran sent him away. Sometimes, he even struck Bran, crying out that he hated him for that. Bran remained calm under his onslaught because he understood and forgave his little brother’s rage.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Tyrion called out. The door opened, revealing a chastened Rickon.

“Is Sansa here, Tyrion?” he asked, somewhat apologetic.

“Yes, she is—she’s lying down. I think she might be sleeping. But come inside—she will be glad to see you here when she wakes.”

Rickon pulled a stool up to the couch where Sansa lay. Her hair was a mess; it was no longer neatly braided and put up but was spread out on the cushion. She was smiling slightly in her sleep. Rickon bent down and gently kissed her cheek.

“Sansa, I’m sorry,” he whispered. She woke up and looked at him, not angrily, as he had expected, but with gentleness.

“Are you?” she asked him.

“Yes, I am. Arya told me I’d have to teach Shaggy to behave. I’ll have to tell him he’s safe; he doesn’t have to chase the birds or the kittens for food. She says to smack him every time he does so and give him a treat when he behaves. She says we can’t send Robin and Tommen and Myrcella from Winterfell; she says Robin is our cousin and Tommen and Myrcella are Tyrion’s nephew and niece and they will all stay here, with us. She says she saw too many orphans…in the Riverlands…during the war. “ Rickon stopped and swallowed, looking Sansa in the eye bravely.

“I notice you don’t seem to have anything against Shireen?” Sansa teased him, gently.

“Oh, no—she likes Shaggy. She says he reminds her of Ghost, Jon’s wolf. And then she turns pink.” He said innocently.

Sansa nodded, smiling. Jon Snow…no, Jon Targaryen, his aunt called him, was in King’s Landing, learning to be a prince and a king from Stannis Baratheon, Lord Hand to Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of Westeros. It had been a difficult thing to tear him away from the Wall and the Night’s Watch and his brothers, until she had told him he owed a duty to Stannis and Daenerys to do as they advised. They had fought alongside him against the White Walkers and the wights. She and Tyrion had kept all the people north of Darry fed, somehow, while Aegon and the Tyrells and Martells imagined they had won the game of thrones. Of course, by the time Aegon reached King’s Landing, the Iron Throne had already been smuggled out, in a manner only known to Davos Seaworth, now Master of Ships on Her Grace’s Small Council. He might tell (or he might not) how he’d managed to get it to the Inn at the Crossroads and into the hands of a certain blacksmith, who now worked in Winterfell’s forge, so that it could be broken apart and the Valyrian steel in it harvested for swords. Tyrion hoped he might talk some day—but at the same time, he could not forget that it was his chain and his wildfire that had caused the death of Davos’s sons.

“But what I really came to tell you,” Rickon suddenly spoke again, “is that supper is served and you must come to the Great Hall at once.”

“At once, you say?” asked Tyrion, laughing and getting up from his chair. “Did the cook make lemoncakes or honeycakes, Rickon? Do you know?”

“She made one of each,” said Rickon, with a grin, giving Sansa a hand up from the couch.

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He never knew why his clansmen had kept him alive—and he never cared to ask. He knew he was no fighter—nor was he big enough to steal a woman. He was, however, clever in his way; he could give his clan leader good advice. He’d learned a hard thing—to keep silent and only speak if he had something sensible to say. That’s what he’d learned from his foster-mother, who’d nursed him and brought him up, when his own mother died birthing him. She’d also taught him to keep his eyes and ears open for trouble, and to stay out of the way of men larger and more muscular than himself.

So it was rather strange that he did not follow her advice when it came to the little red-headed girl. Little was relative—she was a good ten years’ younger than Tyrion and as tall, if not as shapely, as a woman grown. She was Ygritte’s younger sister, and a sight to gladden any eye. She had several suitors, many of whom plotted to steal her from her sister’s side. Tyrion did not know why he kept a watch over the girl and found some way or the other to prevent the more unscrupulous men of the clan from stealing her.

There was the time when three of them planned to steal her as she came back from the well, both her hands weighed down with buckets filled with water. Tyrion climbed to almost the top of a tree that grew behind the rocks, where her would-be captors hid. His pockets were weighed down with stones and a slingshot, his favourite weapons. He struck the three men—thump, thump, thump—just as they were about to leap out at the girl walking up the path. She looked up when she heard the sound of stone striking flesh, and she saw him half-hidden in the branches of that tree. And then she looked at the three men, sprawled over the rocks, the backs of their heads slick with blood.

The next thing he knew, she’d invited him for a meal to her sister’s tent. She was not fond of hunting, she said, but she’d set a few traps, for rabbits and such-like small animals, in the woods. She provided a rabbit stew, thick with meat and the roots she’d gathered in the woods. When he thanked her, after partaking of the meal, and made to leave, she stopped him, drew the flap of the tent shut and gently drew him to a corner, where she’d spread her furs. She helped him take off his boots and drew him under the furs, promising to keep him warm for all the winters they should see together.

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Although Sansa was a red-head, like her sister Ygritte, she was not a warrior like her. She had a lovely sweet voice; Mance often took her with him, when he travelled disguised as a bard, to the castles and holdfasts throughout the north, to sing with him. She could build traps for small animals and hunt for roots, shoots and herbs in the woods and forests. She could fetch water and firewood, and keep a snug and clean tent, and she was a good needlewoman. Although she was young, she had several suitors, not least because of her hair.

However, Sansa had a dream that she had never spoken of even to Ygritte—she wanted to marry a lord and live in a castle, like the ladies described by southron singers. She wanted a nice and cosy home, where she could invite her sister to spend the long winter.

However, Sansa knew she was not strong enough to carry off a big, strapping northern lord—it was more likely the lord would either carry her off or kill her. So she had to look for a lord she could carry off easily, and one who would not mind it too much and make a noise. She thought she’d found the right candidate when she went with Mance to Winterfell; Mance went to see Lord Stark; his brother, the First Ranger; King Robert and his knights—Sansa was looking for a lord small enough for her to steal. And she found one, in King Robert’s youngest brother-in-law.

There was little she could do in Winterfell—the place was alive with soldiers and knights, those of the king, the Lannisters and the Starks. She was glad to learn that the little lord was to visit the Wall with Lord Benjen Stark and Jon Snow, Lord Stark’s son. She and Mance followed Lord Benjen’s men all the way to the Wall. And then Sansa told Mance she felt too ill to join him in the lands north of the Wall; she promised she would return when she felt better.

She kept a careful lookout on the little lord she’d decided to steal; he kept close to the men of the Watch. But he did go off now and again, to examine the trees and the plants on the southron side of the Wall, and to cut bits off them—he carried a small book with him and wrote in it. She was able to follow him then; she noticed that he wandered about quite alone at those times. The two servants who had accompanied him did not guard his back; perhaps they felt he was safe this side of the Wall?

One day, she decided she had to take her chance—Mance and Ygritte would expect her back anytime soon. And she knew her sister would be wroth with her for not coming home with Mance. So she followed the little lord out that day, as he waddled about the wood, picking up berries and shoots. Eventually he grew weary of this, took off his cloak and sat down under a tree to eat his bread and meat, and drink his wine. She watched him, nibbling an apple all the while. He lay down on the cloak to nap without taking off his boots—she heard him snore. She waited a while, and then she crept up on him. She bundled him up in his own cloak, tied him hand and foot with the rope she’d wrapped around her waist and tossed him over her back, like a sack of potatoes. He’d had so much wine that he did not wake nor make a noise; just snored gently into her ear.

She had often accompanied Mance on his forays south of the Wall, to gather information, and she knew the route he had planned to use to get beyond the Wall to the free folk. She was on her way there, walking fast, when the little lord woke up, blinking and yawning. He was not pleased to find himself trussed up like a chicken going to market. He began asking questions.

“Why have you captured me?”

“I haven’t captured you—I’ve stolen you. I plan to marry you because I want to live snug and warm in a castle,” she said, looking into his mismatched eyes gravely.

He simply grunted. “Why in seven hells do you want to live in a castle?” he demanded.

“I’d like to live like a lady in the songs that your southron bards sing,” she began, “all ready for the long winter.”

He sniffed. “My father,” he said, “would never forgive you for stealing me. And he would never let you enter his castle. He is not a nice man—he will vent his rage on the Starks. You had better let me go. It would be best for all concerned.”

They were silent for a while, as she trudged on towards the place Mance had shown her, where she could get across the Wall. She spoke, “Your father must be an old man, must he not? He will not live forever. We can always go back to your castle. You will be welcome amongst my people. I will look after you and care for you...you have nothing to fear.”

He fidgeted a little across her back. “Who are your people and what will I do amongst them?”

“We are the free folk...we live beyond the Wall. We do not kneel to kings or knights or septons. We have our own laws and we make our own choices. I have chosen you. You might be little, but you seem to be very clever. You read a lot and seem to know the roots and shoots and plants and trees in the wood. I have seen you gathering them and writing about them. I can tell you much and more of what is to be found in the woods. We could learn much from you—perhaps you can advise Mance on what we can do for the long winter that is to come. As for the Starks—Lord Stark is the King’s friend, is he not? I think he has little to fear from your father. I will take good care of you, my little lord, never fear.” And she smiled at him.

They had reached the point at which they could easily cross to the other side of the Wall as she spoke. She laid him down and untied his hands and feet, and took off his boots. And then she gently massaged his wrists and ankles, so that sensation returned to his feet and hands. He watched her warily all the while out of his mismatched eyes. She helped him put on his boots, took his hands in hers and crossed the Wall to the other side and freedom.

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Sansa and Tyrion were riding in the Riverlands, and had somehow lost their escort. They could both imagine the Blackfish glaring at them--he had warned them they needed the men-at-arms, for there were many brigands on the roads. But it could not be helped; they had been busy talking, telling each other about their adventures when they had been so long apart... and had ridden ahead of the men as they talked to each other, utterly engrossed. And when they looked back, there was no one following them.

Tyrion simply shrugged his shoulders; the sun was high in the sky, he said, and the men would soon catch up to them. They remained optimistic, even as they rode on--but when no one came after them, Sansa began to worry. They needed to put up tents, build cook fires, get a meal...and yes, she wanted her bath, a hot bath, in the gold tub Tyrion had given her for her last name-day--she did not want to reek of horse in the bed she shared with her husband. But there was no help for it--something had caused their escort to fall behind and not catch up. And they were too far away to ride back and find out what it was.

It was also fortunate that, although the sept itself was a burnt ruin, its font was still flowing with clear water, which was cold and refreshing. So the two of them decided to freshen up a bit before sitting down to their dinner of cold venison, rolls, Dornish red, and ripe pears. And neither had a desire to reek of horse all night long. So they doffed their travelling clothes and got down to their shifts and shirts and smallclothes (almost!). There were some pots, left whole in all that ruin, which they filled with water to pour over their faces and limbs. And Sansa carried some towels in her saddlebags, which came in handy to wipe each other off. They decided, that since it was such a warm evening, they would put off the donning of their dresses and breeches and jerkins for the morning—they would dine and sleep in something more light and less bothersome in the heat.

They giggled like children—Sansa, in all her sheltered girlhood, had never had such an adventure…and later, when her life was less sheltered, such adventures as she had endured had been more like trials. As for Tyrion… he had spent time wandering with Jaime outside the walls of Casterly Rock, but Jaime had been the older, bigger brother… And his travels in Essos had, like Sansa’s adventures in her own homeland, been more in the nature of forced marches, to serve a purpose. So this was something new for him, too.

It began as they feasted on the pears. They were very hungry after their day-long ride across the Riverlands; they devoured the venison and bread and drank deeply of the Dornish red—even Sansa, who for once did not nibble at her food like a bird! They had no idea where they had reached or how they would get to Riverrun without an escort, but they were certain they would find a way. So they began to bite into the pears, so juicy and ripe, just after they finished dinner. And soon, their mouths and chins and hands and arms were covered in pear juice.

Sansa would have got up and gone to the font to draw more water for them to wash off the juice, but Tyrion seized her hand and began to lick the juice off her fingers, one by one. She giggled when he did that; his tongue was pleasantly rough on her fingers. She grabbed his other hand in hers and began licking the juice off. And before you could say a ‘Holy Mother, font of mercy…’ they were licking the juice off each other’s faces and chins and necks… as well as other parts of the body where the pear juice had failed to reach.

The licking soon changed to kissing; the shift and smallclothes and shirt were discarded and they were wrapped in each other’s arms, still alive even though they scarce exchanged a breath between one kiss and the next. They passed the night pleasantly, not even thinking (such careless summer children!) of building a fire to keep the animals away.

When they finally reached Riverrun the next day (after enquiring the way of one peasant and then another) they found their escort anxiously waiting for them to show up. Sansa’s Uncle Edmure was pacing the drawbridge anxiously, debating with Tyrion’s Aunt Genna the wisdom of sending a search party to look for them. Aunt Genna disagreed with him violently about search parties; she said the two of them had doubtless decided to spend some time together, getting to know each other, hopefully to give them all (Tully and Lannister) a litter of grand-nephews and nieces. All of which was said with a salacious wink and nudge, and all of which Uncle Edmure dared not contradict, for she was, after all, his good-sister by marriage! So when Tyrion and Sansa turned up, safe and sound, despite looking somewhat dishevelled for having spent the night in a ruin, he was relieved; he would not have to report a disaster to the Blackfish, and endure his uncle’s caustic remarks.

Chapter Text

For Tyrion Lannister, it was difficult to understand why the matter of Joffrey’s marriage had become a matter of raging controversy in his father, King Robert’s Small Council. Robert had proposed a marriage between his heir and the eldest daughter of his foster-brother, Lord Eddard Stark of the North. However, his proposal had been vehemently opposed by both his brothers, Renly and Stannis, as well as his wife, Queen Cersei. Renly had wanted an alliance with the Tyrells of the Reach; Cersei wanted an alliance with any suitable girl from the Lannister clan, while Stannis was ready to support an alliance with any lady who was not a Tyrell, a Stark or a Lannister.

As Tyrion saw it, the Stark alliance had one major virtue—it would unite the power of the Lannisters and Baratheons to that of the Starks. Since Lady Sansa Stark’s mother was a Tully, it would also bring their power to bear on the side of the throne. And since Lady Sansa’s aunt had married the Lord of the Vale, to whom she had borne one sickly heir, the Arryns, and their vassals would also support Joffrey, in case, as Robert feared, the Targaryens now exiled in Essos invaded Westeros. “And let us not forget the Iron Islands,” he reminded his brother Jaime, Cersei’s twin, as they sat drinking—for Balon Greyjoy’s only living son was fostered with the Starks. This was, in Tyrion’s view, a very desirable alliance indeed.

This matter of Joffrey’s marriage assumed importance when his father the king was killed hunting boar soon after the crown prince’s fifteenth name-day, and Jon Arryn, Robert’s foster-father and Hand, died of a fever almost simultaneously. Since Lord Tywin had been laid low after suffering a stroke a few moons before Tyrion’s thirteenth name-day some fifteen years ago, his lady mother sent him to King’s Landing to see how he could aid his sister in her hour of grief. Not that Cersei would ever turn to him for aid or comfort, he thought sourly; she already had Jaime at her side.

But he did go to King’s Landing, organized Joffrey’s coronation and, when Lord Stark and his eldest son came to proclaim their loyalty to the Iron Throne, quickly got them to agree to a speedy betrothal and wedding between Joffrey and the fourteen-year-old Sansa. When Cersei and the Baratheon brothers objected vociferously, he reminded them how firmly Robert had been in favor of this union. And he reminded the king that by agreeing to this alliance, he would honor the memory of his recently deceased father. Joffrey rather sullenly agreed, only demanding to see a portrait of the girl. Tyrion sent a Braavosi artist to accompany Lord Stark to Winterfell, to paint Lady Sansa’s portrait and ship it to King’s Landing.

The portrait, which arrived a few moons later, depicted a tall, slender, delicately featured auburn-haired girl, dressed in white and silver. The king was sufficiently pleased with the portrait to proclaim her his betrothed, a statement which led Tyrion to advise Lord Stark to send his daughter by the safest and shortest route to King’s Landing and her destined bridegroom.

However, it was several moons after this message was sent that she reached Darry. Tyrion rode forth to meet her, accompanied by Jaime and Ser Barristan Selmy. He’d heard disturbing rumors in the meanwhile— a rebellion by a vassal, raids by Ironmen on the Stony Shore, Lord Stark being wounded or near to death. Lady Joanna, who had provided aid to the Starks during the present crisis, was able to give Tyrion the complete picture—Lord Stark and his household, while hunting one day, caught the bastard son of one of his bannermen chasing a peasant girl with his dogs in full cry. The young man and his servant were caught and tried before all the lords of the North, including the boy’s father. Lord Stark pronounced the death sentence—the girl spoke of several others who had gone missing from Lord Bolton’s lands due to the activities of Ramsay Snow—and carried it out himself. Some weeks later, when he was traveling to the Wall to inspect the Night’s Watch, his retinue was attacked en route and his ward, Theon Greyjoy, was killed. The attackers were repelled; Lord Bolton, who had led the attack (which was meant to be an assassination) was killed while attempting to flee. Theon’s accidental death was sufficient excuse for the Iron Islands to attack the North—upon which, Lady Joanna, who had not forgotten the destruction of the Lannister fleet by the Greyjoys in their previous rebellion, sent forth a flotilla led by Gerion Lannister to attack the Iron Islands. This aid from the Lannisters enabled the Starks to beat back the Ironmen—it even led to an alliance between Lord Gerion of House Lannister and Lady Asha Greyjoy. Of course, sending Lady Sansa forth when matters were so unsettled were out of the question; hence the delay in her arrival south.

Tyrion was both relieved and surprised to discover that he did not have to introduce himself or his companions to the lady, who greeted them warmly and pleasantly by name and title. They rested a night at Darry before setting off for the capital—her retinue of Northern warriors and knights from the Riverlands and the Vale surrounding Lady Sansa, her septa, and her companion, Jeyne Poole.

Tyrion hoped that when he reached the Red Keep, he would find His Grace in good humor. Joffrey had always spent his days surrounded by Lannister men-at-arms when he was the crown prince—they had seen it as their duty to flatter him beyond all reason. He was now surrounded by youthful knights and their ladies from the Reach and the Stormlands, who continued this practice and encouraged him to gamble, drink and make himself odious to the good citizens of his capital by outraging the modesty of their womenfolk. The time taken by Lady Sansa to travel south had only encouraged these tendencies. Although Tyrion had done his best to curb his nephew’s excesses, using the good offices of Jaime, Cersei, and Stannis (Renly refused to take this matter seriously), he did not think Joffrey really listened to good advice when given it. He and Jaime had given Sandor Clegane, who remained Joffrey’s sworn shield, leave to not permit the more debauched of his evening companions to contact the king.

Tyrion, Jaime and Ser Barristan had escorted Lady Sansa and her entourage to Hayford, a mere day’s ride from the capital. She would rest there this evening and be entertained by her five-year-old hostess, Lady Ermesande. She would then ride into the city, escorted by Lannister and Baratheon men-at-arms. She and her ladies would stay at Baelor’s Sept, as guests of His High Holiness, before the wedding took place the next day.

It was after the evening feast at Hayford, at which Lady Ermesande had sat formally as hostess and spoken to the future queen of the seven kingdoms of dolls, games and such childish amusements, a conversation that Lady Sansa had delighted in, that the mummers arrived. They had come, so they told the steward, to entertain their future liege lady with songs and dances if she would deign to watch. She said she would be delighted to do so; upon which Jaime and Tyrion said they would accompany her, as did the rest of their escort. Lady Ermesande refused to go to bed and would not leave Sansa’s side. So, they all went to the castle’s practice yard to watch the mummers.

These mummers were not as polished as the Braavosis Tyrion had seen when he had gone to Oldtown, to the Citadel, after his thirteenth name-day. There was a sweet-voiced lad who sang all the songs so well-known and loved in Westeros, and a group of actors who suited their actions to his words. Not mumming at all, Tyrion decided, disappointed. But neither Lady Sansa, who stood to his left, nor Jaime or Ser Barristan, who stood to her left, nor the others watching, seemed to mind. The most unselfconscious sang along with the lad, while the others clapped to keep time.

He would have let his mind wander then, far away from the here and now and to happier times. But then he heard a gasp and a cry from Lady Sansa, and a scream from Lady Ermesande. When he turned, he saw a cloaked figure grasping and attempting to kiss Lady Sansa, a move she was resisting heroically. He pulled out the dagger he always carried and thrust its tip against the person’s stomach. “Let the lady go and I’ll refrain from spilling your guts here and now.”

He saw the cloaked person’s hands drop and then a familiar voice drawled, “If you fulfill your threats, Uncle, you will commit the grave sins of kinslaying as well as kingslaying.” With these words, he threw off his cloak, and Tyrion found himself gazing in astonishment into the face of his nephew, the king.

Joffrey’s unexpected arrival in Hayford led to much astonishment and delight—most of the men-at-arms and servants immediately deciding that the king was so impatient to meet his betrothed that he arranged for the mummers as a distraction to meet her informally. The ladies, including Sansa, Ermesande, Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, immediately dipped into deep curtsies, while the men bowed just as deeply. Lady Ermesande’s steward immediately offered the mummers and the king the hospitality of the house, which the king accepted as a matter of right.

The ladies sat with the king and his companions while they ate and drank, the king laughing at having fooled both his uncles and the captain of his Kingsguard. However, Lady Ermesande had begun to look very sleepy; on seeing which Lady Sansa requested the king’s permission for herself and the other ladies to retire. He gave his permission, which was a signal for the other members of their escort to make similar requests. Soon, Joffrey was left in the hall with only the mummers, sitting far from the high table, and both his uncles and Ser Barristan, seated around him. This was when Tyrion began to ask a few questions.

“Where is Sandor Clegane?” he asked without any preamble.

“I gave him leave for the night. He’ll have a busy day tomorrow.” Said his nephew, looking amused.

“Whose idea was this… mummery?” was the next question.

“Lord Petyr Baelish suggested it and arranged for those fellows.” (waving at the mummers, who were eating their fill.)

“Did you speak to the Queen Mother of your plans?” demanded Ser Jaime, who was finally getting the drift of Tyrion’s questions.

“No, I did not, Ser—I am no longer a child but of age, anointed king of Westeros and about to be married tomorrow,” snapped the king irritably.

“So, Your Grace did not think it proper to have a few of my Kingsguard knights disguise themselves and accompany you here?” asked Ser Barristan gently and courteously.

The king’s expression of astonishment revealed that he had not thought of this at all. Ser Barristan continued quietly, “If, the gods forbid, Your Grace’s enemies had thought to lie in wait for such a night as this, and attacked your party on the road from Kings Landing to Hayford, would these mummers have been able to protect you?”

The king merely glared at the three men confronting him. “I would suggest,” said Ser Barristan, “that Your Grace spend the night here. Tomorrow, I will ride with Your Grace to the capital—your uncles will escort your betrothed.”

That was when the king spoke again. “Talking of my betrothed—I was most displeased with her. No one told me she was so tall and gawky. And so very cold—she did not welcome my advances. And she showed no desire for my company—she was the first to request permission to retire!”

“She isn’t tall and gawky—she’s just the right height for Your Grace,“ said Tyrion, trying not to lose his temper. “She did not welcome your advances—for all she knew, you were some stable boy or apprentice trying to steal a kiss. And she asked leave to retire because her hostess was falling off to sleep.”

“Who? That silly brat? Why should my betrothed care for the whims and fancies of a five-year-old?”

“Perhaps because that five-year-old is a direct vassal of the Crown, Your Grace?” Tyrion remarked acerbically.

The evening ended on that note; the Hayford steward found beds for Joffrey and his followers and Ser Barristan arranged to ride out with them to the city in the morning. Jaime and Tyrion retired to their beds, the latter to lie awake for a while, thinking of ways of helping the new Queen cope with her new role.

Lady Sansa’s entry into the capital was greeted with some curiosity. The people of King’s Landing had seen her father, brother and their escort ride into the capital only a year and a half ago. And the sight of the Northern lord, with his flowing locks and beard, clad in furs and boiled leather, with his greatsword strapped to his back, had fascinated the smallfolk, as had their first glimpse of his eldest son, muscular and powerful, with his fiery red hair and beard and cold blue eyes. Many a young girl must have sighed over him, just as many an apprentice, walking to his place of work, exclaimed at his sister’s beauty and sweet smiles. Of course, the Northmen were different from most Westerosi; they worshipped trees, did not go to the sept and were rumoured to be fierce and savage fighters, but were a sight more popular than Ironmen, who were feared for their piracy, and the Dornish, who were feared for their guerrilla tactics as fighters.

The wedding took place the very next day, in the morning. Lady Sansa wore a beautiful white dress, sewn all over with pearls, with a grey cloak bearing the Stark direwolf, her beautiful auburn hair flowing down her back. The wedding and the feast went off well; when the call came to bed the bride and groom, she had her uncle and great-uncle to take her, clad only in her shift and smallclothes, to the royal bedchamber, while the female members of the court undressed Joffrey.

The next day, Tyrion had expected Joffrey to joke about having travelled all the way to the North, by way of the Riverlands, when the court broke its fast, but it was not to be. Joffrey was sulky and angry by turns; eventually, when his uncles followed him into his solar, they learned that the marriage had not been consummated. Of course, the king blamed his young bride for this failure; it seemed that she was less apt at the arts of love, compared to the women he normally consorted with on his nightly jaunts. He refused to say any more on the subject and Tyrion decided to ask Lady Sansa what had happened in the bedchamber.

When he arrived in the royal apartments, it was to find Lady Sansa, her companion and her septa sitting quietly, sewing. Upon his arrival, the septa and Jeyne Poole got up to leave, but Lady Sansa bade them stay. She offered him a cup of wine and some cakes, and sat silent until he had eaten. When he looked at her expectantly, she finally spoke up.

“My lord, has the king sent you here to speak to me?”

“No, my lady; I came here of my own accord. But he did seem to be disappointed by what occurred last night in the royal bedchamber. If you, my lady, would be kind enough to confide in me, perhaps I can help?”

Lady Sansa was silent for a moment and then she spoke. “I have little knowledge of what takes place between a man and a woman, my lord; I was taught to obey my lord husband and do as I was bid. Last night, when His Grace entered the bedchamber, I had already lain down under the covers. When he approached me to… to make me his, (her face was as red as her hair, but she continued to speak) I waited for him to tell me what to do, for I know nothing of these matters. He kissed and embraced me, and I returned his kisses and embraces, but it did not… it was not enough.” She fell silent then.

Tyrion cleared his throat. “What happened next?” he asked.

“His Grace let go of me and said he was tired and wished to sleep.”

In his desperation, Tyrion wondered what he should say next. “And this morning?” he asked, feeling embarrassed.

“He bade me good morning and left the chamber,” she said quietly.

He cleared his throat and spoke again. “Last night… they tore your wedding dress off you, but you still had your shift on.” He could feel his face burning with embarrassment, but he continued to speak. “Did you, my lady… take it off before you got under the covers?”

She shook her head. “I did not,” she said quietly. “I did not want His Grace to think me immodest. If I had known him better,” she sounded almost regretful, “I would have known what to do. I decided to err on the side of caution.”

He nodded his head, pursing his lips, and then he spoke. “Perhaps tonight, you could be a little bold. The king, my lady, should be convinced that you want this marriage as much as he does.”

She nodded her head in silence, and then he spoke again, discussing other matters related to the setting up of her household, such as the other ladies who would join her court. He would have to report this conversation to Joffrey and Cersei, but he would be certain to do her justice, laying great emphasis on her youth and inexperience, as well as her desire to please the king.

However, he soon realized that Joffrey was determined to find fault with his bride. If she tried to show him wifely affection, he complained to his uncles of her immodest behaviour; if she rose each morning to visit the sept, he complained of her excess of piety; if she welcomed his aunt Selyse and cousin Shireen into her household as her companions, he complained of the ugliness of her ladies, saying that she selected them only to show of her own “so-called” good looks; if she and Jeyne Poole sought to entertain him with music, he spoke of their performance with disdain. He disliked her septa, whom he wanted sent away from the court, arguing that, as a woman wedded, she did not need a religious woman in her household. “After all, it is not as if she has children who need to be educated in the faith!” he said with a loud guffaw. If she sought to invite the wives of Lord Edmure Tully and Lord Kevan Lannister, as also Tyrion’s widowed Aunt Darlessa, into her household, he complained that she was jealous of younger and more sprightly women, which is why she surrounded herself with such old harridans. If she invited Lord Nestor Royce’s young and pretty daughter, Myranda, to court, Joffrey complained that he had heard tales of her lechery that made her unfit to serve at court.

It was soon evident to Tyrion, and the rest of the court, that the king had taken a dislike to the woman he had married. Although Tyrion tried to get at the root of the matter, asking Jaime and Cersei for their aid in rescuing this alliance, the king refused to heed them. Instead, he spent more time with his friends from the Reach and the Stormlands, visiting the brothels of the capital.

In the meantime, Lord Renly Baratheon, who refused to assist Tyrion in making his nephew behave, returned to the court after marrying the charming Lady Margaery Tyrell, who was accompanied by an entire train of Tyrell cousins, relatives and daughters of bannermen, to add to her consequence. In comparison, Lady Sansa’s arrival, accompanied solely by her septa and one lady, that too a mere steward’s daughter, seemed almost dismal in comparison. Of course, Lady Margaery joined the queen’s ladies and outshone them all. She was a young woman who had been taught to captivate and charm, to get her way, even as a child. She used these skills on all whom she met, including the king, who was soon smitten with her. The court remarked upon the fact that Lady Margaery was a favorite with the king, and wondered what would become of it. Lord Renly did not object to their friendship; he made every effort to be as warm and welcoming to his royal nephew as he knew how. And this made Tyrion’s job all the harder.

It was not that Lady Sansa was not accomplished; Tyrion had heard her sing and play, seen her finely embroidered cushions in her solar and even admired her skills at sketching and painting. She was, as her septa proudly assured him, much better than her older brothers with her pen and fond of reading too. However, as Septa Mordane told him, with a sigh, these accomplishments were come by with difficulty in the North, which boasted very few musicians, singers or artists. Lady Sansa learned from elderly men who visited the north at the end of their careers, but she worked hard at her lessons. She was also, Tyrion noted, very kind to those of her ladies who were less good-looking or accomplished than herself. She helped Lady Shireen Baratheon dress her hair in such a manner that it distracted the viewer’s attention from the greyscale that still marked half her face. She was warm and welcoming to all the ladies who had come to wait on her and often encouraged them to speak of their homes, describe the lands and the people amongst whom they had spent their lives. He gathered that she was keen to know more about the people she ruled.

Jaime soon revealed to him what he had learned of the king’s state of mind at second hand, from Cersei. It appeared His Grace was angered at not being received warmly enough at Hayford by Lady Sansa. “He feels she should have welcomed his advances with open arms,” Jaime said, “instead of which she was less than welcoming and went to bed at the same time as her hostess.”

“Is there no way to help this marriage along?” Tyrion asked him.

“I do not think so,” Jaime responded. “There have been many ravens from the north, describing a war the Night’s Watch is engaged in fighting. It appears Lord Stark has need of money and men. It’s very likely the king will think of annulling this marriage so that he does not have to contribute anything substantial to the war in the North.”

It did not take long for a messenger from the Night’s Watch to reach the court—he was also related (on the wrong side of the blanket) to the newly married queen. Those who had known Robert and his penchant for loving and leaving members of the fairer sex were hardly shocked to learn that his foster brother had that one baseborn son who was brought up alongside his trueborn siblings, but Joffrey was not among those people. His mother had kept her husband’s tendencies (and the knowledge that he had fathered several baseborn children) a secret from Joffrey and his siblings. So, Jon Snow’s arrival at court and the warm welcome he received from his half-sister displeased the king so much that he decided to annul his marriage to her immediately.

When Tyrion protested the unjust treatment given to the young queen, Joffrey threatened him with decapitation for his pains. When Tyrion turned to other members of the royal family—his sister Cersei or the Baratheon brothers for aid—the king, growing wroth, informed him that both he and the queen would be punished appropriately. He blamed Tyrion for arranging the marriage, complaining that the portrait made by the Braavosi artist Tyrion had commissioned was not a true representation of the lady he married, who was, he claimed, tall, awkward, gawky, red-haired, sharp-featured and bad-tempered. None of these accusations, Tyrion assured him hotly, were true.

Upon which the king, having lost all patience with his uncle, who continued to defend a wife he was determined to set aside, stated in court that he would force his uncle to wed the woman he had himself rejected. Although Tyrion was shaken to see this instance of royal tyranny, he was surprised to note that Lady Sansa remained calm, even serene, as the king vented his rage. The annulment did go through, with the reason given being the non-consummation of the union. The king informed Lady Sansa that she would be permitted to leave the court, along with the ladies who had accompanied her, only if she agreed to wed his uncle, Lord Tyrion Lannister. Otherwise, he assured her, he would have her sent to the silent sisters and have his uncle executed. She agreed to the marriage at once.

Tyrion’s marriage to Lady Sansa followed soon upon the annulment; they were ordered to leave the court and the capital the very next day. When they settled into their life at the Rock, Tyrion was surprised and delighted to discover that the woman he had married was glad, even grateful, to be his wife.