GOT: The Great — Chapter 153 - Sansa Drogo — Heartbreak

The tower top of Storm's End was Tyrion's favorite place.

From up here, the whole bay spread out before him. Gray-green water pounded the reefs, a few fishing boats pitched on the swells, and the horizon dissolved into haze.

It was the only time of day he didn't have to face the blank, cold stares of the Unsullied. Didn't have to brush shoulders with Dothraki in the corridors.

He could even piss off the edge, if he wanted to.

He had, in fact, considered it.

He stepped to the battlements and peered down. Hundreds of feet below: rubble and weeds.

Wind funneled up through his trousers. He shivered and thought better of it.

"If one of Drogo's wives saw me, and word got back to Drogo, that horse lord would probably cut off my manhood and pickle it in wine."

He'd once heard Varys mention, in one of their idle conversations, that people in Essos believed a dwarf's manhood carried magical properties.

He was just turning to head back down when movement caught his eye on the Kingsroad below.

Three dark shapes on horseback, moving toward Storm's End.

The one in front was tall and broad, riding a chestnut horse, sitting in the saddle stiff as a wooden post. Behind came a gray horse with a stocky young man aboard. Further back, a bay horse, the rider wrapped in a pale cloak. The wind caught the hood and blew it back, and a black braid spilled out.

Something about the figure was familiar. Tyrion narrowed his eyes.

The tall one was Brienne of Tarth.

And the woman on the bay — the wind peeled back a corner of her cloak, and he saw it. A pale green hem. A black braid.

Shae.

Tyrion's breath stopped.

Then he turned and ran.

His short legs hammered down the stone steps, boots cracking against each stair. He flew down from the tower, through the corridor, swung into the main hall, and nearly bowled over a servant carrying a water basin. He twisted past and kept going.

The gates of Storm's End were right there.

He got one foot past the threshold before two spears crossed in front of him.

The Unsullied's faces were hidden behind their iron helms. No expression. But their eyes were flat and cold and absolute.

"Move!" Tyrion barked.

The Unsullied didn't move.

"I am a guest of Khal Drogo! Move!"

The spear shafts didn't move.

He was drawing breath to roar again when he caught movement at the corner of his eye. Below the steps, outside the gate. Shae had already dismounted. She stood on the flagstones, dark eyes wide, staring at the dwarf pinned behind two crossed spears.

"Tyrion!" she called.

She ran for the gate. He dropped to a crouch on the stone steps and opened his arms, and she crashed into him, wrapping tight around his back.

His nose knocked against her shoulder. His eyes stung.

"You've gotten thinner." Her voice was muffled, chin resting on top of his head.

"You've gotten fatter." His voice was muffled too, face buried in the crook of her neck.

"Liar."

"You still smell the same."

They both laughed.

He raised his head. She lowered hers.

When their lips met, Tyrion had exactly one thought: to hell with the horse lord. To hell with the Unsullied. To hell with Storm's End.

Right there in the castle gateway, in full view of dozens of Dothraki riders and Unsullied soldiers, he kissed his mistress.

Shae's hands pushed into his hair. His fingers bunched the fabric at her waist. Some of the Dothraki whistled. They never found public kissing strange — they'd always preferred doing things unfit for children under the open sky, with the heavens as their witness.

They kissed for a long time.

Long enough that Tyrion's lips went numb.

He finally let go, caught his breath, and noticed there was still someone standing on the steps.

Brienne of Tarth.

Her gaze had moved past the two of them and settled somewhere deeper in the courtyard.

Tyrion followed it.

Sansa Stark stood inside the castle walls. No surprise on her face. No displeasure. Just calm, watching.

Shae saw her too.

The color rose fast. It started at the base of her neck and climbed, burning across her cheekbones, reaching the tips of her ears.

She let go of Tyrion and stepped back quickly, wiping both hands on her skirt.

"I'm sorry, Lady Sansa."

Tyrion looked at Sansa. "She's not called Sansa Lannister anymore."

Shae's head came up. She looked at Tyrion, then at Sansa, confusion plain on her face.

"Then... what is she called?"

Tyrion thought for a moment. The corner of his mouth curved, somewhere between a bitter smile and something he couldn't quite name.

"Sansa Drogo."

Shae's eyes went wide. Her lips moved several times. Finally she got out one word: "Oh."

That single syllable held a great deal. Shock. Confusion. Understanding, arriving slowly.

Sansa didn't acknowledge Shae's expression. She walked out through the gate, one step at a time.

Tyrion knew where she was going. The godswood.

When Stannis took Storm's End, he'd burned the heart tree down to a charred stump. But Sansa still went every day to stand before the ashes for a while.

Tyrion didn't understand what she found there. Maybe just a place where no one would bother her.

Brienne moved to intercept her, stopping 3 paces away.

Then she drew her sword.

The blade came free with a clean metallic ring. She drove the tip into the ground and dropped to one knee.

"Lady Sansa. I am Brienne of Tarth."

Her freckled face was unreadable, but her eyes held something fixed and stubborn.

"In your lady mother's lifetime, I was her sworn sword. I swore I would find you and protect you. I will keep you safe, serve as your counsel, and give my life if it comes to that. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

Sansa looked down at her.

"You were my mother's sworn sword?" A pause. "When?"

"After Renly was killed," Brienne said.

"You were accused of killing him."

"I tried to save him."

"But you were accused."

"Those who accused me weren't there. They didn't see what happened."

"Then what did happen?"

"He was killed by a shadow." Brienne rose. "A shadow wearing the face of Stannis Baratheon."

Sansa was quiet for a moment. "A shadow."

"Lady Sansa, if I could speak with you alone..." Something crept into Brienne's voice that hadn't been there before. A plea.

"Forget it."

"Please, my lady. Let me explain—"

"I saw you at Joffrey's wedding." Sansa cut her off. "You were bowing before the king. Presenting gifts."

"Neither of us wanted to be there."

"Go," Sansa said.

Two words, and they closed like a door in Brienne's face.

Tyrion had been watching from the side long enough. He stepped forward, hands spread, playing the peacemaker.

"Lady Sansa, please." He moved closer. "She was Catelyn Stark's sworn sword. Your mother commanded her to escort my brother Jaime back to King's Landing and to bring you and your sister home safely. Only before that could happen..."

He paused.

"She and your brother Robb died at the Red Wedding."

He looked at Brienne. Then back at Sansa.

"How did someone put it? Her loyalty is beyond price."

The wind came in off the bay and pressed Sansa's skirt flat against her calves.

She said nothing for a very long time.

➤ Next: Sansa’s Sworn Sword