A more private setting was called for, and so the chief rulers and advisors of the three allies met in the room Tommen had transformed into the small council chambers. Sansa sat between Jon and Tyrion, with Daenerys and her advisors to the left and Tommen's small council to her right along the round table.

"Our men in King's Landing will march for the North in three days," Jaime proposed.

"It will take a fortnight just to gather the supplies for the train—" One of the Lannister men at arms—Sansa believed his name was Lord Myren Serrett—protested. Jaime shook his head.

"We don't have a fortnight. If the North falls, we fall. Three days. Our remaining forces in the Riverlands will take the Riverroad east. We'll meet in Harroway's Town and march north together from there. Detachments will ride for every holding along the way and take what supplies each keep can spare. It will take some time for the men to reach Winterfell, but we will be there."

"If the Dothraki ride hard along the Kingsroad, they can be at Winterfell within a fortnight," Tyrion suggested with a frown. "We have enough ships to ferry the Unsullied to White Harbor, and then march onto Winterfell."

"Perhaps you should fly to Winterfell, your grace," Jorah suggested. "You have many enemies in the North. Thousands fell fighting your father. All it takes is one angry man with a crossbow… One well-placed bolt and he could be seen as a hero, the man who killed the conqueror."

"She has fewer enemies now. Prior to coming here, I attended the northern lords at Winterfell. They all understand their true priority. They won't risk attacking Queen Daenerys when her children might be our best hope in this war," Sansa countered. She looked to Tommen. "Your grace, it is my understanding that you wish for Ser Jaime to ride with the Lannister men."

"He's the commander of our armies," Tommen confirmed.

"Then his safety is more concerning than Queen Daenerys's."

"Me?" the man asked. The incredulity in his face disappeared as he considered it. "Yes, I can see why Northerners wouldn't like me much."

"If we're going to be allies in this war, it's important for us to be seen as allies. I would propose that Ser Jaime sail with us to White Harbor. He would arrive before his men, but I think seeing Lannister men-at-arms without Ser Jaime will be enough of a challenge for our bannermen. I trust my lords to hold their anger in check, but I am not a fool enough to think they'd extend that restraint onto each of their men."

"Ser Jaime?" Tommen asked, looking to his uncle. Jaime frowned as he considered.

"I am the commander of our forces. It will be difficult enough convincing our lords to give us their harvest. I'll take the risk and keep our men in check as we reach the North."

"Then Lady Brienne will travel with you," Sansa decided. "She spoke for me in meeting with King Tommen, as all my lords know. She met with my lords before coming to King's Landing. They will know her, and she will vouch for you as you travel."

Jaime had an odd expression on his face at Sansa's decision, but he nodded. Later Sansa would remember that this wouldn't be his first cross-Westeros trek with Lady Brienne at the orders of a Lady Stark, though the first was under much different circumstances. She hoped that he wouldn't lose his other hand on this journey; they needed every fighter they could get.

"That's reasonable. Lord Serrett, please relay that to your men as you gather supplies," Tommen ordered, nodding at the man. The lord, sensing the dismissal, nodded and murmured his goodbyes before leaving the room. With Serrett gone, Tommen's eyes moved to Jon. "You said these soldiers were killed by dragonglass. They are unaffected by steel and iron?"

"Yes. And steel shatters on a white walker's skin. Fire, dragonglass, and Valyrian steel are the only things we know of that have any affect. We have men working to mine dragonglass from Dragonstone, but it's slow-going. With what we've got, we'd be able to arm less than a few thousand men. It seems to be difficult to work with. Hit it incorrectly and the entire piece shatters uselessly. The men we have at it are improving at working with the material, but most of what is mined can barely be used for arrowheads," Tyrion reported tiredly.

"Qyburn," Tommen muttered to himself. "There's a man, a former maester, here with a rather varied education. Perhaps he can find a way to make this dragonglass easier to manipulate? Or perhaps find ways to weaponize it that don't necessitate large pieces as a sword does? If you can provide him some samples, I'm sure he'd find something worthwhile."

"Arrows would be good," Jon said suddenly, glancing at Jorah. "When we were north of the Wall, the scouting group we found had a white walker. When the white walker died, most of the wights following it did."

"We think that that walker was the one to turn them. When he died, the wights he brought back died too. If we can kill enough of the white walkers, the army should get smaller quickly," Jorah explained.

The talks continued as strategy was proposed and improved upon. When the meeting was finally ended, Sansa was giddy with relief at the progress they'd made. After months of sitting still, something was finally happening.

With the meeting over, the leaders of their associated groups began to separate, congregating away from the others and drifting away from the table and out of the room. Sansa was about to walk away herself, feet guiding her back to Tyrion, when a voice called out and stopped her.

"Lady Sansa—may I have a moment?" King Tommen looked uncertain, eyes drifting between where Sansa stood and where her posture directed her—towards the uncle who had killed Tommen's beloved grandfather—but he still looked at her. He was taller and he'd lost most of the roundness in his face that he'd had as a child, but this was, in many ways, the boy she remembered.

"Of course, your grace. I'll see you soon," Sansa said, sliding her gaze to Jon. The Snow watched as Sansa walked towards Tommen, protests in his eyes as his little sister joined the southern king, but he stayed silent.

"You've met with her before, haven't you?" Tommen's voice wasn't accusatory as he and Sansa walked away from the small council chamber, but Sansa still felt a bizarre urge to defend her actions.

"When a man or woman declares that they are the rightful ruler of your home, it'd be foolish to ignore them."

"Yes, but I was sent an emissary. You went to Daenerys yourself." Tommen glanced towards his walking companion and seemed startled by the scowl on Sansa's face. "I don't mean to insult you… I understand that you had very real reasons to avoid King's Landing. But I'm still curious."

"Curious about what?"

"About Daenerys Targaryen, the Breaker of Chains," Tommen said. He took the lead as the two walked through the Red Keep, following a path that Sansa didn't quite remember. "I've heard conflicting reports and I'm not sure if I should believe any of them."

"You're asking my opinion of her?"

"A wise man," Tommen began with a sad, wry smile, "once told me that a good king knows what he doesn't know, and that I should heed the advice of good councilors. I would hope that the wardeness of the north would grant me her counsel in this matter."

"She…" Sansa's voice drifted off as she considered what she knew and what she had seen of Daenerys Targaryen. She was a fierce woman, stubborn and prideful, but… Sansa remembered that day on the cliffs, telling the Dragon Queen about Lady. She remembered what Missandei had told her and Davos. She remembers all that Tyrion told her of his queen. "She stayed in Meereen when she could have come to Westeros years ago, all to ensure that those she had freed from slavery would stay free. She has an army in Essos now, all to maintain her peace."

"Those aren't your words. What do you think of her?"

"I… I hope she is able to create the world she envisions. She is ruthless, but her drive is born from passion, not anger. When I arrived at Dragonstone, she called upon me to bend the knee to prevent the toll on the North that an invasion would cause."

"And did you?"

"No, I didn't."

"Why not? She has three dragons, and more men than we do. Once the Great War is over, Daenerys will come for me, assuming I still sit her father's throne. And she will win. It is safe to side with her." Tommen spoke with such certainty, such detachment from the idea of his own death, that it shocked Sansa.

"Tommen—"

"It's true, Sansa," Tommen interrupted with a sad smile. "Your denial of it won't make it less true."

"Then why ask?"

"For a long time, I wasn't the king my people needed me to be. I failed them, and I will never escape that. Every crime my mother committed in my name, every life she ended… that blood is on my hands. And now, with this latest business with the Iron Bank, my mother's trial has been delayed again. Justice for the ones who have been trampled on, lives ruined by my family, has been delayed again. I ask you what sort of person Daenerys Targaryen is because I do not want to leave the throne to someone who would harm those that serve."

Sansa realized suddenly that the door before them let into Joffrey's chambers. Now, with Joffrey dead, she supposed they were Tommen's. He opened the door, gesturing for her to follow. She did, anxiety growing in her gut as she walked into the room with him and watched as Tommen took his crown between his hands and laid it onto a table.

"I stood here some months ago," he began suddenly, moving towards the window. "From this window, I watched as my city burned. The Sept was falling to pieces before my eyes and I was unable to move as the ash began to fall like snow. I could hear the screams from here. And I realized in that moment that I was not a good king. I realized then that I had been the king Robert had been, content to sit as others pulled the strings to their own ends."

Tommen's voice was hollow as he spoke, and Sansa's throat tightened as he continued.

"I took my crown—Joffrey's crown—in my hands and knew that I had failed. I'm not afraid to die, Sansa; I would have stepped from this window that day and joined Margaery, but something stopped me. One realization stood above the rest: whenever the crown is worn by a violent or weak mind, everyone loses. If I had died then, my mother would have been left as queen, and I couldn't allow that." He turned then, finally, to look at Sansa. "So, I ask you, not as your king but as your friend, what sort of woman Daenerys Targaryen is."

Her conversation with Tommen ringing in her ears, Sansa paid her destination no mind as her feet carried her away from the king's rooms. Still in a daze, she didn't consider quite where she was before she was opening a door and slipping inside a candle-lit room.

"Sansa?" The world was full of symmetries. Even after all this time, any distress that befell her in King's Landing seemed to draw her back to Tyrion like a moth to a flame. "Is everything okay?"

Tyrion was alone in the room, she realized as he leapt to his feet and moved towards her. It was a small study, with books and ledgers stacked up on the desk.

"You've been in the capital less than a day and already you're trying to fix it," she commented vaguely. Tyrion quirked a smile at that, gesturing for her to sit in one of the chairs opposite the desk. "You're going to find yourself overworked if you attempt to run two kingdoms concurrently."

"Says the woman who has been leading two monarchs towards each other for months now," Tyrion replied blithely. "You can't play the fool for me, my lady. This parley is your doing."

"It would have happened without my involvement, I'm sure."

"Perhaps, but with a very different result, I'm sure. Wine?" His concern for her grew when she nodded at the offer, but he poured her a glass and passed it to her hand. "What happened? Is Tommen—"

"He's holding to his word, he's fine," Sansa assured him, though Tommen's words and the sight of his glazed eyes still clung to her thoughts. "He wanted to talk to me about Daenerys."

"About Daenerys?"

"Her personality, her aims for the Seven Kingdoms… He wanted to know what she planned to do with the kingdoms once she wins it from him." Her voice broke as she spoke, and Tyrion stilled. "If he is certain of her honest intentions towards the people of the Seven Kingdoms, he will peaceably abdicate the throne once the Great War has ended."

"That's great news, though, one less war to fight. What's wrong?"

"He… He doesn't plan to live long past Daenerys's coronation." At Sansa's words, Tyrion's hand clenched into a tight fist. Tenuous past aside, that was still his nephew.

"Gods…" All of Tyrion's witticisms left him. Tommen was only smart to abdicate the throne—an idiot could tell that Daenerys was going to sit the Iron Throne once the dust was settled—but there was no need for extremes. "Did he say—"

"Margaery." So simple. Tommen I still mourned for his queen, even after all this time. A mirthless laugh escaped Tyrion.

"Cersei always made miscalculation into an art form… Though this is far beyond anything I expected, even from her." His comment was light, perhaps intended as a joke, but Sansa still stared morosely into her wine. Tyrion could hardly blame her, though. After everything, she seemed destined to lose one more friend for no real reason. Desperate for something—anything—to change the subject to, Tyrion searched for something to say. "I suppose my queen won't have any reason to be displeased with me, then."

"Is she angry with you?" Sansa asked, eyes sharpening on her once-husband. "What happened?"

"I—" Mind catching up too slowly, Tyrion hid a wince as he realized that this topic was dangerously close to their prior thread of conversation. "I wanted to talk to her about who would sit the Iron Throne after she did. She's certain that she can't have children, but she refuses to talk about succession."

"You sound uncertain. You think she's lying?"

"I think that the mind is a tool against itself at times," Tyrion said slowly, carefully. "She believes she cannot have children because the witch who murdered her first husband told her as much."

"Her first husband?"

"Yes, the Khal Drogo. She later married Hizdahr zo Loraq, a nobleman in Meereen, to assuage the nobility after she freed their slaves," Tyrion explained. A stray thought entered Sansa's mind and she laughed. Tyrion, still frantic for anything happier than his nephew's apparently suicidal intent, latched onto the sound hungrily. "What are you thinking?"

"Just… The Targaryens couldn't get Dorne to kneel, so a Martell was married into House Targaryen to bring Dorne into the fold. If the North won't kneel after this war, we could marry Jon to Daenerys to cement the North's place."

"The Northern lords would never go for it. Reducing their king to a trophy of sorts?"

"I didn't say it was feasible. I thought it was funny. Jon and Daenerys marrying…" As Sansa said the words again, mulling them over, she considered the potential. If the two were to marry, the North could no longer be ignored and abused as they were by the Lannisters. Jon would never stand for it. On the other side, Jon was a king in his own right; for him to marry Daenerys, bending the knee to her, he'd lose esteem. In all of history, Sansa couldn't name a single king and queen that enjoyed equal powers. There was always one king and his wife—or wives, as was often the Targaryen tradition. But perhaps this new dynasty could change that; after all, Daenerys would be the first ruling queen of Westeros since the Dance of Dragons. "It's a shame the North has no other suitors to offer to the queen."

"You'd arrange a political marriage? Even when you know how poorly they can be made?"

"I was sold to the Boltons, not married. There is an important distinction, I think," Sansa murmured, taking a sip of her wine. "I remember my arranged marriage favorably."

"My lady?" Tyrion's voice was thick as Sansa took another sip of her wine before smiling weakly at him. When she didn't speak, Tyrion sighed. "I—"

"If you're about to apologize, please don't," Sansa interrupted, voice soft but her words pointed. Her glass of wine was empty. Sansa poured herself another glass of wine, topping off the hardly touched glass near Tyrion. "I don't know if I could stand it if you apologized again. You did me no wrongs, Tyrion. You were good to me, even if it was a marriage you wanted as little as I did."

"Don't make me out to be some saint. I'm far from virtuous."

"I would hope that a partnership doesn't require matchless virtue." There was a peculiar light in Sansa's eyes, but it was gone before Tyrion could identify it. "Forgive me, my lord. My brother will be looking for me."

"Sansa—" Tyrion was on his feet as she turned away from him, and his hand caught Sansa's before she could step away. Her hand was warm to the touch. "Please."

Tyrion wasn't sure what he was asking for, but he supposed it didn't really matter. Daenerys was right to question his loyalties; while he'd always known that Sansa had captured his heart when she hardly more than a girl, this Sansa—the strong and striking woman he'd always seen beneath her meekness—had his mind just as surely.

Sansa knelt before Tyrion, that look in her sapphire eyes again. She didn't look away this time, though, and Tyrion cautiously tried to identify the emotion. He must have had more wine than he'd thought; she couldn't seriously be looking on him, a scarred monster, with affection, could she?

"Sansa." His voice was barely louder than a breath as he suddenly realized just how close she was to him and how hot the room had become without his notice. On her knees, Sansa's face was so near to Tyrion's that he could smell the wine on her breath and he shivered. He stared levelly into her gaze, unable to move, unwilling to break whatever spell had brought her so close.

It was a long process of recovery, Sansa supposed. She was still horrifically scarred from her time in Ramsay's vicelike grip, but the tension that had long-since set in her shoulders faded away as Tyrion's hand tightened around her own. His fingers were laced into hers, his thumb gently brushing against her wrist. Even as soon as a few months ago, she probably would have flinched away from his touch. Or, on further reflection, she probably wouldn't have. This was Tyrion, the one man to offer her protection simply because he could. He didn't offer safety in exchange of anything, and he had continued sheltering her as he could even when she was at her most unforgiving.

Sansa wasn't sure what she was doing, exactly, but she'd spent so much time mourning opportunities she hadn't seen through and words she'd left unsaid that she didn't want to add more weight on her conscience. She had plenty of regrets, but perhaps she could avoid adding to that list.

When she had left him on Dragonstone, she had forbidden him to die in this war. Even with, as he had put it, one less war to fight, her inexplicable desire to have him close, to keep him safe, was impossible to ignore. She could no longer pretend that whatever she felt for him was a simple gratitude for his kindness in the past. Sansa Stark wasn't quite sure what love was and was even less sure that she'd ever find it, but she was certain that whatever she felt for Tyrion Lannister was as close to love as she could manage. And so, regardless of his scars and her fears, she closed the distance between them in a hesitant, uncertain kiss.

He tasted of wine. Or perhaps she did, Sansa wasn't sure. What she was sure of was that her desire to have him closer didn't fade away as their lips met. It roared upside her, insistent and desperate, and she found herself haltingly deepening the kiss, threading her free hand through Tyrion's locks. Tyrion's own hand found its way to her jawline, cradling her face gently as if he were afraid of breaking her in his touch.

Tyrion was positively terrified, but the longer Sansa's hand was wrapped in his hair the faster his fears faded away. Of everything he had imagined when the door to this tiny office had been opened, this was beyond his meager imagination. Some distant part of his mind urged him to stop this before something—their personal relationship, the relationship between Daenerys and Sansa, the tentative trust Tyrion had built with Sansa's brother—could be damaged, but he was far too intoxicated by her to reign himself in.

"I—" Reality threatened to creep in when Sansa pulled away, a light blush dusting her pale cheeks, but Tyrion was far too distracted to return his attention to something so mundane as the world beyond this room. She really was beautiful. "I think my queen will be displeased with me again… I don't think I'll be able to devote my mind to strategy if you are within a hundred miles of me." The blush darkened slightly, and Tyrion drank in the sight hungrily. "I can't give you what you deserve."

"You don't know what I deserve, Tyrion, but I know what I want." Her voice was low and challenging, her hand tightening in his hair. A groan escaped his throat as Sansa leaned into him again, pulling him close for another kiss, this one sure and searing.

It wasn't as it was with Ramsay, who had been so destructive and cruel. Tyrion's hands were deft but gentle as he explored her body. His eyes skirted over her pale skin as if she were a treasure, not a trophy, and she shivered under his gaze with something that wasn't fear. Still, Sansa was glad for the flickering light of the candles as her clothes fell away. The dancing shadows helped to hide the fading but visible scars that Ramsay had littered her body with. As Tyrion's hands, surprisingly calloused for a man who spent more time with books than a sword, ghosted over her skin, the scars fell from her mind.

The Great War was a thousand miles away. Here, in the safety of this too-small room, she was safe. Tomorrow would bring new concerns to be dealt with, new negotiations to navigate, but she would have this moment with Tyrion for all the dark days to come.

Posted 20:46, 6.05.20