Chapter Text
She was standing on one of the walkways when Tyrion found her, looking down at the courtyard where Arya and this Gendry Waters were emphatically not flirting, not in any way, shape or form.
Well. Honestly they weren't flirting in any recognisable form. Arya had never been good at that, and was only worse now. Still. Sansa knew her sister. She wasn't blind. She knew exactly what was happening down there.
What she didn't know was how she felt about it.
She would have liked to say she hadn't noticed Tyrion approaching her. He wasn't loud about it. He wasn't harsh or intrusive. He simply drifted up to the railing beside her, arms across his chest and hands hidden in his sleeves against the chill, and peered down through the slats to see what she was looking at. He didn't comment, mercifully. Maybe her expression forbade it. There was a tension to her these days. An awareness, a knowledge of who was moving around her. It showed. She knew it did. She just couldn't seem to help it much.
Tyrion, as he always did, attempted to spare her, to deflect away from it. He affected lightness and a lack of awareness, just as he always had. Sansa didn't know if she was warmed by that, or despaired that it was still so necessary. Now more than ever.
"A nice afternoon for a stroll," he commented, in blatant defiance of the snow on his eyelashes or the way he was huddled down into his cloak. Sansa felt her lips curl slightly in spite of herself. He saw it, when he glanced at her. His face creased in an answering, rueful smile. "Oh hush, my lady. Not all of us are hardy Northerners, you know. Some of us prefer milder climates, where a man won't freeze to death trying to get out of bed in the morning."
It was said lightly, a gentle tease, but he was huddled so tightly in his cloak. Sansa felt a flicker of concern for him. "Is your room too cold, my lord?" she asked quietly. They could be, for people not used to the chill. And he'd been given one of the bigger ones, as befit the Hand of a Queen. That was a compliment, to southern sensibilities, but also a liability when winter came. The more space, the more cold there was to fill it. Once the fire ran low, a large room could leech heat away from a body very easily.
Some of that knowledge, that concern, must have carried in her tone. He glanced at her, startled, and then smiled again. More warmly. More genuinely. He leaned against the railing to look up at her, and shook his head.
"Not in any way I think you could help, my lady," he said. "I suspect it's simply a matter of getting used to it. I've spent a lot of my time lately in much hotter surroundings. Don't you worry. Give me a week, and I'll be ready to jump up and down in the snow like the worst of you northern barbarians."
That last was said lightly, warmly, to take the sting out of it. A tease, not a condemnation, though Sansa hadn't really expected anything else. She lifted her lip in an answering smirk. "Well," she said. "If it does become too much for your delicate southern sensibilities, my lord, do let me know. This northern barbarian will be happy to help if she can."
He laughed, bright and happy, and she felt her shoulders ease a little bit. She felt some of her perpetual tension ease away. It was good to tease with him. She didn't tease much with anyone anymore, not caring to risk it, but with Tyrion it had always been safe. With Tyrion she had always been safe. Even alone and surrounded by enemies, she could be sure he wouldn't hurt her, wouldn't take offence to something she said and lash out. He'd proven that.
It made him, oddly, safer for her than almost anyone else. Maybe even family, in some ways. For them she had to be strong, had to help them take back and hold what was theirs. She had to show them her strength, had to show them that she was still a Stark where it counted, when all the North might sometimes doubt it. But Tyrion ... Tyrion had already seen her at her weakest. He'd seen her foolish and alone, too stupid to realise the monsters that surrounded her until it was too late. He'd seen her hated and derided, mocked at every turn, beaten and threatened. And he'd ... he'd seen her strength, even then. He'd admired her for it.
She felt her eyes sting at the thought. She turned, rapidly, turned to look out over the courtyard instead, her gloved hands tight on the railing. She felt more than saw his stir of concern in response. Below them, moved by some alien instinct, Arya glanced up at her as well.
She didn't want that. She didn't want it from either of them. She didn't want to be weak.
"... My lady?" he asked. So very quietly. So very gently. Sansa bit her lip and lifted her eyes up into the snow instead. Hoping, vaguely, that it would wash everything else out, wash it away. Her concern for her sister, fear for her sister, for this love of hers that Sansa didn't know and couldn't trust. Her own weakness, her own longing ... longing for trust. Longing for ...
"Sansa," he said again. More firmly this time, reaching up to touch her arm and draw her towards him. Gently, even still. He didn't drag at her, didn't demand. He only touched her enough to draw her eyes back down. "Sansa, my lady," he said, his face creased in confusion and concern. "What's wrong?"
Because he wouldn't know, would he? Why should he? As far as he could tell, she'd simply started crying over nothing.
"I'm sorry, my lord," she managed, drawing herself up and dashing a hand quickly beneath her eyes. She turned to him, tried to fix her face into that mask of composure that had served her so well in King's Landing. A moment later, looking at him, she didn't know why she'd tried that. He saw through it as easily now as he had then. His expression softened further, a glimmer of old pain floating upwards through it. He stepped back. Unwilling, now as then, to press her weakness any further.
In the courtyard, from the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Arya wordlessly turn and head for the stairs. She saw her sister set out to rescue her, to stalk silently up and put paid to old demons once and for all, exactly as she'd done for Littlefinger.
But Tyrion wasn't an old demon. He wasn't a demon at all. And Sansa couldn't bear it suddenly.
"Will you come with me, my lord?" she said. More than a little abruptly, to judge by his startled expression. Sansa ignored that. She only barely waited for his flustered nod before she seized his hand and drew him along with her. Away from Arya. Back into the castle itself, where they might ... where they might have a little privacy. She could apologise to Arya later. Right now, she needed a little time to figure out for herself what, exactly, she wanted from them both.
Tyrion, to his credit, didn't protest being towed along in her wake. He had to come along at something of a stumbling run, her height and her stride too much for him without a warning, and Sansa stopped abruptly with a flush of shame. He staggered, by now heartily confused, and she grimaced at him in apology. She looked back, checked to see if Arya had followed them, and when she saw only her sister standing still, looking curiously after them but not following, she changed her grip on his hand and drew him along again at a more reasonable pace. He arched his eyebrows up at her, but followed gamely enough.
She wasn't sure where to take him, once they'd made the relative safety of the interior hall. She wasn't even sure why she was taking him anywhere. He was Daenerys' Hand now, he wasn't hers to drag about as she pleased. If he ever had been. But she wanted ... she just wanted. Something. With him, now. She wanted.
Her room, then. Just for privacy. Just for safety. And be damned to anyone who thought to question who she brought there and why.
He kept his peace along the way. She could feel him glancing at her, from time to time, his expression still that mask of concern and confusion. Well. More worry, now, than anything. But he kept his peace. He waited until she slid closed the door of her chamber behind them. He waited a minute longer, even, to watch her as she leaned against it and pressed her forehead desperately into the wood.
"... Sansa?" he asked finally. Reaching out, very gently, to touch her sleeve. She rolled her head, still pressed against the door, to look down at him. He looked back, his green eyes wide and worried. "Are you ... Have I upset you? I didn't mean to."
She almost laughed. Almost clapped her hand over her mouth to stop herself. She managed to avoid both, if barely. She straightened up and shook her head instead.
"No," she said softly. "No you haven't, my lord. It wasn't ... I'm sorry. It wasn't you. I shouldn't have dragged you here. I just ..." She stopped. Bit her lip, looked helplessly around the room as though it might help her. Unsurprisingly, it didn't. But she looked back at him, and the patience in his expression did. "I'm sorry," she said again. "Could I ... Might I have your advice, my lord? On a personal matter. Could I ask you a question?"
He blinked at her, nonplussed, but when her expression didn't change he nodded slowly. He glanced around quickly himself and, spotting the bench beneath the window, took her hand carefully in his and drew her towards it. Sansa followed him. Much more hesitantly than he'd had the chance to follow her.
"What is it, my lady?" he asked, when they'd managed to settled themselves as comfortably as they were able. He looked awkward, sitting there, his fur cloak snow-dampened and bunched up around his ears. He also looked solemn, and as gentle as he'd always been. Sansa bit her lip, and reached out to settle his cloak more easily across his shoulders.
"I'm not sure where to start," she said, focusing on her task and not on him. Ignoring the concern on his face as he allowed it. "I know I've behaved ... very oddly. I'm sorry for that. I didn't mean to ... I'm not sure what came over me."
She meant to take her hands back, there. She meant to pull away. She couldn't quite manage it. So she sat there instead, her eyes downcast, her gloved hands on his cloaked shoulders. She might have sat there for quite a long time, if he hadn't leaned forward slightly, just enough to catch her eyes, and asked carefully:
"Is it your sister? Has something happened to worry you?"
And at that question, so incisive and yet ever-so-slightly off the mark, Sansa felt her breath sigh out of her in relief, and some measure of composure slip back in and straighten her spine. She could start with that, yes. She could lead in towards her own weakness that way.
"Yes," she said, sitting back now, able to look at him. "Sort of. It's just ... It is a personal matter, my lord. You will remember that, I trust? You will ... treat it with confidence?"
He smiled lopsidedly at her, a tired sort of look in his eyes. "I am my Queen's Hand," he said softly, "not her spy. I would not tell her your secrets, Sansa, nor try to harm you by them. Not unless those secrets meant to harm us first."
"No," she said quickly. Promised him. "I wouldn't harm you either, my lord. I wouldn't tell you something to tear you between us. I wouldn't use you that way."
His expression faltered at that. Something very startled, very wounded, staggered across his face, and he took his turn to look away abruptly. He took his chance to stare out across the room until he'd managed to gather his emotions safely back inside his chest.
Sansa understood this one, though. She knew all about being used. She knew all about wanting to trust in promises that you wouldn't be.
"... Do you believe in love, my lord?" she asked eventually, carefully, and his head swung back around in startlement. His eyes bore into hers, suddenly, and Sansa took care not to armour herself in the face of them. A reward, a tribute to his own gentility. She left herself open, and asked the question honestly, if still obliquely. "I ... I think Arya loves someone. I think she wants to be with him. I want ... Do you still believe things like that can happen? Love. For ... For people as damaged as ..."
As Arya. As him. As her. Could love still happen, for people as damaged as them?
And he struggled with it. She could see it. She could see his expression soften, could see his desire to reassure, but she could see the grimace behind it as well. She could see the downward flicker of his eyes, the doubt and the cynicism and the despair. She'd seen it first the night they married, though she hadn't known him well enough to understand it then. She understood it now, as much through her own experiences as through his.
Love was a pretty thing to believe in. If only it wouldn't betray you.
"... I would like to hope so," was what he finally said. Taking her hands gently, looking up at her with an expression that was rueful and solemn and sad. "I'm not ... You have to understand, my lady, I'm not a good person to ask for that. Love has never gone particularly well, in my case. But you ... Your sister, I mean. For someone like that, I ... I would hope it would go better."
"... Why?" Sansa asked. Her eyes were stinging again, so she lifted her face towards the ceiling. Her voice was thick and cold. She could hear it. "Because we're ... what? More innocent? Better, somehow?"
More foolish, rather. More weak. Her, at least. Maybe not Arya. But definitely her.
"Because you deserve it," he answered instead, and fiercely. Holding her hands, tugging them towards him until she looked at him once more. "Sansa. My lady. You deserve it. You and your sister both. I ... You've been through so much. Both of you. I should know. My family caused most of it. You've suffered so much. After all that, if anyone deserved ..." He stopped, and drew a careful breath. "What I mean is, if there was any justice in the world, you of all people would find happiness. As would the rest of your family."
And she was crying, she knew. She could feel the tears sliding softly down her cheeks. He stared at her, nearly desperate. Willing her to believe it. Willing her to believe in something he didn't believe in himself, because he hoped that maybe for her it would be true.
Why? Why had he always ... He'd tried to comfort her when her heart was broken. He'd tried to shield her when she was bleeding. He'd tried to shelter her when she was despised. She'd been forced on him as much as he on her, and he'd tried to shelter her regardless. He'd tried to do right by her, even when she'd despised him for it. When he'd been as badly wounded as she. She didn't know why. She'd been so stupid then. So blind and so petty and so weak. And he'd admired her anyway. She still didn't understand.
After all this time, she still didn't know why he, of all people, could make her feel so safe. Why he, of all of them, could make her feel so strong.
"I'm not a good person," she whispered, leaning close to offer it like the secret she needed it to be. "Tyrion. I'm not good. I never was, and I'm certainly not now. I didn't ... I've done things. I've survived things. I'm not ... Good things don't happen to people like me. Like us. I want ... I want to believe they can. I want to think that ... that he'll look at my sister, and love her, and treat her well. I want to believe that he'll never betray her. I want to believe that things like that are possible. But I don't ... I don't know if I ..."
Because that's what happened. They lied, they pretended, they waited until they had you close, had you bound, and then they showed you what they really were. They waited until they had you trapped, and then they showed you what monsters lay beneath their skin.
And Arya wasn't like her, Arya was a thousand times stronger than her, but that didn't ... that didn't matter. It didn't matter if Arya would slit his throat the second he tried anything, if she would gut him the instant he betrayed her. He'd still have done it. He'd still have lied to her, and let her hope, and shattered her heart from under her first. Sansa didn't know this Gendry, she didn't know anything beyond that Jon and Arya both liked him and trusted him, and that wasn't enough. Not for her. Not anymore.
But it wasn't her place to say anything. It wasn't her decision. It was Arya's, only Arya's, and all Sansa could hope to do was be there for her if it all went wrong.
All she could do was pray desperately that it wouldn't.
Because it ... it mightn't. Good things could still sometimes happen. Even if you were stupid. Even if you were weak. Even if you were alone among enemies, with no one left to lean against. She did ... She knew that too. She hadn't appreciated it then, but she did now. Good things could still happen.
Good men could still exist.
He looked at her now. Tyrion. Pained and gentle and earnest, even still, even after all this time. Trying to shelter her. Trying to give her hope. Almost in spite of itself, her heart lightened.
"My lady," he said, rubbing her hands with his fingers. "I ... I don't know the boy. I don't know if he will or he won't be good to her. All I can say is that he should be. He should ... He should look at her, and know what a glory he has in her, and he should treat her accordingly. And if he doesn't. If he betrays her. Then he deserves any fate that either of you could call upon him. It won't be her fault. It won't be because she deserved it. She doesn't. None of you deserve that. None of you should have to bear it."
And he looked so sad. He looked so battered and despairing. Because it wasn't about deserving. It never had been, never would be. They both knew that. So well. They knew it better than just about anyone.
Sansa bit her lip. She felt her hand move, felt it tug itself out from beneath his fingers. Felt it drift up to touch his cheek instead. She smiled at him, as lopsided as any he'd ever offered her.
"I wish I'd been a better wife to you," she said. "I wish I'd had the chance. I ... I'd like to think that we could been good for each other. That we could have ... could have found ..."
And her voice faltered, and she couldn't say it. Couldn't hope, not even that much. His eyes closed. His head bowed. She could feel the grief and the regret and the despair, feel it as deeply as if it were her own. Because it was, in a way. It was hers. It was his and it was hers, and she couldn't bear it either way. Suddenly, ferociously, she couldn't bear it.
His eyes flew open as she kissed him. He froze, stunned and startled, as her lips pressed softly against his. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see any sudden revulsion. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her sleeves dampening from his still-wet cloak, and focused on nothing but the feel of his lips, the taste of her tears pressed between them. For an achingly long second, nothing else happened. For a terrifying moment, he gave no response.
And then, ever so gently, she felt his hands touch at her ribs. She felt his arms come around her, so careful and hesitant, and his mouth open up beneath hers. She felt a half-second of horror, a surge of blind terror, and then she remembered that it was Tyrion. Then she remembered that with him, she had always been safe.
She pulled away from the kiss after a minute, pulled away and dropped down to hide her face in the fur of his cloak instead. Her cheeks were flaming, she knew. Her eyes were wet, and her breath panted in her chest. But he didn't ask of her. He didn't demand. She'd ... she'd known he wouldn't. He held her, gently, and he waited.
"... I'm sorry," she managed finally. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Don't be," he said, and it was light again, he was deflecting again to shield her. To shield them both, maybe. "A man is never sorry for a beautiful lady's kiss. It's ... It's all right, Sansa. I don't mind. I would never hurt you. It's all right."
She closed her eyes, and wrapped her arms around his chest. "I want to believe," she whispered, a ragged, desperate plea. "I want to believe in him. In her. I want to believe in me. I want ... I want to believe that love is still possible. That someone like me might still have it. Even after ... Even as ruined as I am."
"You're not ruined," he said immediately. His hand smoothed lightly over her hair. "You're not ruined, Sansa. You survived. All of us, all of them. You survived it all. You outlasted them. You won. They can't touch you for that. They can't have you anymore. And you ... you can have anything you want, after that. You've earned anything you want in this world."
She caught her breath. Caught it, held it. Did he mean ...?
And it would be foolish, of course. So foolish. They both knew that as well. She'd already promised not to use him, not to tear him between two sides, and what could this do besides that? What else could either of them hope for? But Jon and Daenerys were already ...
Couldn't she have something? Couldn't she have just one thing? And him too as well. If ... If he wanted it. Her. Couldn't he, too, have that as well?
She leaned back. She needed to see him, to see his face. She sat up and leaned back, mopping at her face with both hands. They shook, both of them. Tyrion reached up to steady them, and clean the last few tears from her cheeks himself. Her breath caught again. She found herself staring at him. At his face. Sad. Sad, and tired, and not hopeful at all.
So she asked him, bluntly, because she couldn't bear that.
"What if I wanted you?" she asked, her hands knotting together in her lap. And he looked away, he grimaced and ducked his head, and she couldn't allow that. She couldn't let him. She lifted his chin, gently, and she asked him. "Tyrion. My lord husband. What if I wanted you?"
"Do you?" he asked, and there was a raw, ragged thing inside it. An anger, almost, a ripe and bitter hatred. His hands clenched, a tremor of rage and despair shaking through him. "My lady, you ... You've been through a lot. You've been hurt a lot. You don't have to ..."
"Have to what?" she cut him off. Harshly in her turn. "Have to settle? Have to latch on to the first person who crosses my path? Is that what you think I've done?"
He looked away. Stared fiercely down at his knees. Sansa felt a terrible fury start to fill her. A rage, as raw and shaking as his own. At him, for thinking that of her. And at everyone else, who had betrayed him and left him able to think nothing else. Her own hands clenched. She hunched forward, and spat her answer to that directly into his face.
"I will not have anyone," she whispered furiously. "I will never give myself to just anyone. Never, ever again. Do you understand? I will never have anyone's hands on me that I do not want there. I will die first. I swear to you, I will die first. If you think I ... that I would just ... throw myself at ..."
That moved him. That stunned him backwards from his self-pity. He looked up, horrified, and raised his hands in sudden supplication. "No!" he said, rapidly and desperately. "Sansa, no. I didn't ... That wasn't what I meant. It's not ..." He cut off, shook his head in despair. "It's not that. I'm sorry. It wasn't that. I just ... I just don't know why ..."
And all at once, the rage ran out of her. It slipped away, and left only exhaustion in its wake.
"Why not?" she asked tiredly. Oh, so romantically. "Why shouldn't I want you? I trust you. I trust you more than I trust almost anyone. And you ... You know, my father promised me once. He promised me he'd find me someone brave and gentle and strong. And I dismissed him, because I was still stupid and swooning over Joffrey. I said I didn't want someone like that. But I do. Now, after everything, I do. And you ..." She had to pause, crying again, but she made it through. She forged ahead. "You are those things. You were always those things. Even with me. Even when I was stupid. Why can't I want that? Why can't I ..."
And gods, they couldn't go two minutes in this conversation without one of them having to look away from the other. Without one of them weeping. Mostly her. But she didn't mind it so much. Not with him. She wasn't so afraid to be weak around him.
"Sansa," he said quietly. Leaning towards her, reaching hesitantly to touch her. "Sansa, I ..."
"I know you mightn't want me," she interrupted softly. Looking back at him, now, looking into the sadness and confusion and wariness in his expression. Feeling, suddenly, a desperate desire to be gentle in her turn. "I know that. I know I was forced on you as much as you were on me. I know there's no reason for you to want me, and plenty of good ones not to. Your Queen, not least of them. I don't mean to ... I wouldn't force you, my lord. I will never, ever force you. Not again. I just ... I feel safe with you, as with no one else. I feel hope with you."
He couldn't answer that. She could see him trying, could see him reaching for the words, but none came. Oddly, she felt a twinge of pride at that. It wasn't often that someone managed to stun Tyrion Lannister into silence. More than that, though, she felt tender. She felt soft.
"Maybe," she started, a little hesitantly. "Maybe you could think about it? Just think. I know I ... I just pulled you along today without warning. Without thought. I didn't know myself what I meant to do. If I ... If I ever meant to do this. I know we both have a lot to think about. You're the Hand of a Targaryen Queen, and I am a Stark of Winterfell. There's ... There's a lot to consider. But I ... If you wanted to, I would ..."
She would try to be a better wife, this time. She thought she might manage it now. They understood each other better. They'd both been through so much. They both knew about using and being used, about being betrayed, about trying to hope in spite of it. They both knew the value of being gentle, of making a space where it was safe to be weak. They were better now, both of them. It wouldn't have worked before. Back then, when they'd both been struggling to keep their heads above water, neither able to help the other very much. Maybe nothing that came out of King's Landing could ever really have worked.
But they weren't in King's Landing now. They were in Winterfell. Her home, that she'd suffered and bled for and won. Her home, that she could build something from. Her home, where she could do her best to keep him warm and keep him safe in his turn.
Her home, that she could wrap like a cloak around him, and promise her protection in turn.
Gods, but she did hope when she was with him, didn't she? With him, with her family around her, she let herself hope for the most childish and foolish of things. But why not, hmm? Why not? She already knew the worst that could happen.
And this time, at least, she wouldn't face it alone.
She breathed out, then. She let it fall away from her, all the tension and terror and desperation and hope. She breathed it out and let it go. And then she stood, carefully, and looked down at him. Her lord husband, once upon a time, the Hand of the Queen, sitting sodden and bewildered on her bench, staring up at her in naked confusion and despair. She smiled at him, gently, and touched her gloved hand to his cheek.
"I'm sorry for hurting you, Tyrion," she said softly. "I'm sorry for ... asking this of you out of the blue, all of a sudden. You do deserve better than that. But, I do mean it. If you ... If you want to think about it."
She turned away then. Turned to go ... oh, somewhere. Anywhere. To see Arya, maybe, and offer some oblique blessing towards her sister's hoped-for love. To see Arya, and talk her down from killing Tyrion, extremely unjustly, all things considered. To see Arya and apologise. For ... so many things. She turned to leave, and nearly stumbled when she felt a hand catch gently at her cloak.
"... I would love you," Tyrion said, so softly she almost couldn't hear it. He looked up at her, the strangest, wariest expression on his face. "If you truly wanted it, I ... I would love you, Sansa. So easily. You should be careful making offers, my lady. I would dearly love to answer them."
And oh, her heart tripped. Tumbled. Exulted. She felt a rush of ... of something fearsome, something savage and delighted, and something gentle too. Something so soft and ravaged and sweet. She moved back to him. She returned to him by nothing but pure instinct. She cupped her hand about his cheek.
"I would want you to," she said. Promised. "I swear it, Tyrion. I would want nothing more, so long as you wanted it too."
And he nodded at that. He closed his eyes, his hand clenching in her cloak, and he nodded.
"I need to think," he said, when he opened them again. "I do need to think. I have to consider my Queen. And your brother, too. There are political ... I do have to think. How to say it, how to arrange it. How not to get killed in the process. But I ... I would like ..."
"I know," Sansa said, nearly breathless, her heart caught in her throat. "I know. I would too."
One thing. Just this one thing. And she would fight for it too. He'd been her husband once. She would have him for one again. She would have him safe, and warm, and hers. And this time, this time, she would do it right.
"All right, then." He smiled at her. Rueful, lopsided, but this time not so sad. "As you wish, my lady wife. As you wish it, so shall it be."
Yes. Yes, for once in her life. As she wished it, so should it be.