Chapter Text
TYRION
The North greeted them the way Cersei always did him—with a chill sharp enough to draw blood.
Halfway up the Kingsroad, the wind had changed, picking up the bite of true Northern winter. It cut through Tyrion’s cloak, through his boots, through the last of the wine still warming his stomach. Now, Winterfell rose ahead of them, not pretty, not polished—no courtly nonsense carved into its bones. It was a fortress that had earned its name. Stone as old as old gets, squatting in the frost like an ancient beast that had seen kingdoms rise and fall and found them all unimpressive.
Janna rode ahead of him, foxfur brushing her chin, golden curls whipping in the wind. She was smiling—freely, wholeheartedly—despite the cold reddening her cheeks. Poor girl had always been too sincere for her own good. A quality Cersei detested in others, and absolutely forbid in herself.
Cersei, who'd just abandoned her cart for fresh air, scowled at the massive structure as though it were a personal insult. “Do stop gawking. It’s only a drafty pile of stone fit for wolves and mold.”
Janna turned, eyes bright as lanterns in winter fog. “I think it’s marvelous.”
“You would,” Cersei bit back. “You're young. Youth forgives poor taste.”
Jaime smirked, reins loose in one gloved hand. “She's not wrong, sister. I rather like it too. There's a gravity to it. Like walking into your own burial.”
Tyrion nudged his pony forward. “Lovely imagery, brother. I’ll quote you at your funeral.”
Janna glanced down at him. “He is rather poetic.”
Cersei sighed in a way that meant she wished the gods had granted her silence instead of siblings. “Let us pray poetry isn’t hereditary.”
The statement, though casually delivered, didn't escape Tyrion's attention.
Winterfell’s gates opened, and the Stark honor guard received them with the stony silence of men who had never heard of a joke, much less told one. No smiles, no warmth—just measured civility. Lord Stark was all somber courtesy, his voice like water over iron. Lady Stark’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes when she greeted them, but her hands were warm, and she held their hands longer than custom demanded.
Janna glowed. She had that way about her—not shining like Cersei, but glowing as if something inside her believed in the kindness of the world and had not yet been punished for it. She greeted each Stark child in turn, complimented the wolfhounds, and laughed when Arya asked if Lannister girls wore lion fangs. “Only on special occasions,” Janna replied. “Usually weddings.” Sansa laughed, and so did Lady Stark. Cersei did not.
That night, Tyrion found her on a balcony overlooking the godswood, a pale flame burning behind her in the moonlight.
“You’ve made an impression,” he said. “Remarkably few of them recoiled when you introduced yourself.”
Janna smiled softly, hugging her cloak tighter. “They’ve been… kind.”
“Kindness,” Tyrion said, hoisting himself onto the stone ledge beside her, “is simply manners wrapped around suspicion. Northerners excel at that sort of packaging.”
“I don’t think they mind me.”
“Oh, they mind all of us.” Tyrion flicked a bit of frost off the railing. “They’re simply unsure what to blame you for yet.”
She looked down, cheeks warming. The girl was hopeless. Sweet as lemon cakes and twice as easy to read.
“Ah,” he added, “So that’s why you stammered through dinner. And here I thought you were choking on the turnips. It’s the Young Wolf, isn’t it?”
She blushed. Saints above, she blushed.
Janna looked away, her voice soft. “He’s very… steady.”
“He’s very Northern. Which means he has no idea what to do with a girl like you.” Tyrion nudged her elbow with his thumb. “Be gentle. Don’t break him.”
She laughed then—light, a real sound—and he stored it away like treasure.