Shades of Winterfell

Winter ~ Tyrion

And so it goes. Bran the Broken accepted his crown and it was done. With their new ruler would come a new, more enlightened age for Westeros—lords and ladies, kings and queens, and commoners alike—the world would be better. The council asked what Tyrion thought, and when he named Bran, they didn't laugh. This wise council wanted Bran—some because they thought it best to name a man with no desires or ambitions, some because they didn't understand him or what he was and therefor feared him. Others thought he was weak and saw him as someone who could be easily controlled or overthrown. Those, Tyrion saw plain and knew they would be the ones to watch.

When Bran named Tyrion his hand, it was not meant as a reward or any sort of high honor. Tyrion was once a brilliant politician—he knew how to read people and he loved to play the game. When the game was worth playing. When the stakes were high. When he still believed he could affect some good in the world.

And of course, when his rulers where not all seeing, all knowing, magical beings. But now the life he was consigned to would be one of drudgery and loneliness. Fixing what he'd broken.

Days had passed since the Great Council, and the lords and ladies of Westeros were beginning to disperse, heading back to their own little corners of the world. When word came that the khalasar would make for Vas Dothrak and the Unsullied too would depart for the south, there was a collective breath of relief. This uneasy alliance would go on, but from afar, and the Dothroki would never again cross the Narrow Sea. Tyrion helped see Jon Snow—the name he was given and the name he chose to keep—off to the wall, with a half-promise to see him again. It was a small blessing to be rid of him as well. For Tryion, to even look at Jon was to be reminded of what they had done—the queen they both loved and the queen they both conspired to murder. Jon wondered if what they did was right. Tyrion knew it could be no other way, but his heart was broken all the same.

Tyrion had been given Casterly Rock, of course. He was the last living Lannister and it was his birthright. His in name only, of course; King's Landing was to be his home now. That is, once he attended to one final bit of business.

He stepped into the sept, his head low and fists clinched tight at his sides. Sparse light from candles lining the walls illuminated their bodies, which lay side-by-side in the middle of the ornate room, as the Silent Sisters were preparing their dressings for transport. The bodies of his siblings had been housed here for weeks, but Tyrion decided that they didn't belong in King's Landing—he was going to take them home.

When he saw them, wrapped head to toe in dark linens, he clutched his chest as the breath left his body and he stumbled to a nearby pew and fell into it. He felt a sob rise in his chest but choked it back. He remembered how he'd embraced his brother on that last night. Had he known then that sending him to rescue their sister was sending him to his death? Jamie might still be alive if Tyrion had left him in chains. He pressed his palms into his eyes and winced. What a useless little lecher he turned out to be.

"Lord Tyrion," came a soft voice behind him. Tyrion's head snapped up and he swiped at his cheeks as he stood from the pew and turned to face Sansa Stark, and a pace behind her, Brianne of Tarth.

Sansa regarded him for a moment and then turned her head to Brianne asking her to give them a moment. Brianne's eyes were fixed on Jamie, but she nodded dutifully and stepped out of the sept.

"Forgive me, my lady." Tyrion said, his eyes still stung and his face blushed. "I am so used to having to seek you out; I was not expecting you to come looking for me. How can I serve you?"

Sansa took several steps toward him and slid into the pew, beckoning him to sit beside her and he did. They sat in silence for several long moments. Tyrion didn't know what to say to her. She hated Cersei as he did, but she also understood how difficult and confusing and demanding familial love could be.

It was Sansa who broke the silence. "I said goodbye to Jon this morning," she said as if reading his thoughts. "I hope sending him away was the right choice."

Tyrion chanced a glance at her. "Do you regret that Jon is not the king?"

"No," she said in that confident, disinterested tone, "Jon would not have made a good king."

He gaped at her, "but you used what you knew about his true identity to manipulate me into…"

"There needed to be the hope, the prospect of someone else. It didn't have to be him, but I wanted you to believe it could be someone, anyone else."

"And Varys lost his life for it."

Sansa pulled her lips together and looked down to meet his eyes. "At Winterfell I told you that your queen would come between us." Tyrion's eyes widened. He was too raw, too full of remorse to speak of Daenerys right now. "You and Jon couldn't reach her in time to stop the slaughter of this city, but you've saved millions. I hope you know that."

Tyrion's pulse quickened. He scanned the sept, looking anywhere but at her. "I'd love to tell you that I don't regret it."

Sansa surprised him by taking his hand in hers. He looked between them where her delicate fingers gripped his. "You've lost so much," she said and then she brought his hand to her lips, "but you haven't lost everything, my Lord."

Tyrion closed his eyes again and shook his head. He wanted to weep, but he wouldn't. Not here, not now. Mercifully, she released him, and stood up, smoothing out her dress. He followed her lead and stood.

"I suppose you're for Winterfell now?" He said softly. He rubbed a thumb over the back of his hand, where her kiss still hummed.

She nodded, "I don't have many fond memories of King's Landing; my place is in the north."

Tyrion felt a pang—part of her time in King's Landing was married to him. Not the best of marriages, he'd admit, but, as Sansa had alluded in the Winterfell crypts, it wasn't the worst—for either of them. "And then I suppose we'll call you Queen of the North before too long."

Sansa clasped her hands behind her back—she already had a response prepared for this question. "The lords of the north will choose their own ruler. If they call for me to serve, I hope I will do them justice."

Tyrion stared up at her. "You are a remarkable woman, Sansa. Probably the smartest I've ever known, truth be told."

"I bet you never imagined that to be the case when we were married," she allowed him a small smile. She was being gentle with him—he couldn't help but feel she was working him somehow, but he was too fraught at the moment to be suspicious of her.

"Honestly, no. You were a child then and you were scared. But you were always so strong, and the fact that you survived my sister, and Joffery and Little Finger and…" he didn't name Ramsey Bolton—he couldn't say for sure if she really did survive all that.

She stared hard at Cersei's body. "Your sister and the rest," she said, "they taught me many lessons. They opened my eyes to what the world can be when evil rules. I can play their games, but I'm not like them," she looked away from Cersei and stepped toward Tyrion. "And neither are you, my lord." She stepped around him and walked to the door of the sept and then turned back. "Brianne will accompany you to Casterly Rock to lay your brother and sister to rest. Then she will return to King's Landing. She will serve the new king however you see fit. My gift to the realm."

Tyrion was started by this. "Lady Brianne is your protector—"

"Lady Brianne is a knight and a trusted friend," she said, "I have more than enough protectors in the north; she wants to be where her talents are more useful—I can't blame her for that." She regarded him for a moment and then, "Goodbye, Lord Tyrion."

He stared after her blankly as she turned back toward the door. "Goodbye, Lady Stark," he choked. Sansa paused but did not turn around. She nodded to Brianne and then walked out of the sept.