Several weeks had passed in a blur of confusion. In the mayhem following the incident on the dais Tyrion had been hastily locked in a cell, told gruffly that he would be dealt with later. Everything else he knew he had had to piece together from the whispering of his guards – the situation was enough to cause loose-lipped chatter among even the most seasoned of them, it seemed. If their rumors could be believed, Daenerys had locked herself in the Red Keep, refusing to admit any but Grey Worm. Drogon had flown off and settled, apparently willingly, in the dragonpit, where he had been in a fitful stupor, eyes sometimes blue, sometimes with their usual color, and sometimes glazed over with a milky white sheen. The maesters who had dared go near had reported that the dragon seemed still to be alive – "not that these Southron maesters would know anything about it," sneered one Stark guard to another.

And neither did any of you, until a short time ago, Tyrion thought. Or any of the rest of us. The terrors of the North were as good as uncharted territory to all of them. While quite glad not to be dead, he was chafing with the endless frustration of not being told what was going on. He had dreamt up a hundred explanations, most of them unsettling and none of them satisfactory. Execution would at least have been easier than the interminable agony of not knowing, he thought now, aimlessly kicking at the floor with his boot. How long had it been exactly? He had lost track.

There were footsteps outside the cell, maybe the changing of the guard. But this sounded a bit different, he thought, pricking up his ears. There were a few terse exchanges, and then the door abruptly opened and Jon walked in.

He looked maybe worse than Tyrion felt. He looked hunched over, defeated, older than his years. His hair was disheveled, as if he had entirely stopped caring what it looked like, and his clothing was askew. But it was his eyes that were really different, looking haunted out of the dark circles etched in his face.

Tyrion was on his feet in an instant. "What's happening?"

Jon looked like he could barely speak. He managed five words: "The Night King is back."

Tyrion's breath caught in his throat. This had been among his guesses – one he had hoped was wrong. "Where? How?"

This time Jon really seemed like he was about to break down. It was a moment before he spoke, and when he did it was a whisper. "Bran."

"What about him?" Tyrion pressed. "What did he see?"

Jon shook his head. "He's - gone."

"Gone?" Tyrion's stomach dropped. "The Night King killed him?"

"No, I - " Jon seemed like he was struggling with the words. "Bran's not – he is the Night King, now. Sansa - she used magic - to turn him."

This made no sense at all. Tyrion turned it over in his mind, trying to piece it together. "It has to be part of a plan," he said finally. "Sansa is playing a game with you, don't you understand? She knows Daenerys will continue conquering here unless she has something more important to fight. Sansa always was the cleverest of us all."

Jon shook his head wearily. "It's not a trick." He pulled a handful of paper scraps from his cloak and handed them to Tyrion.

They were messages, brought by ravens from Winterfell. Tyrion shuffled them around, comparing them. The hand was clearly recognizable as Sansa's, but lacking her usual precise flourishes, as if written hurriedly. He begin reading the letters, which told a strange tale, explaining the how and why of what Jon said had happened. The last one read:

"I beg of you, do not share this with anyone in whom you do not have the utmost trust. I cannot tell anyone here of this or there would be chaos. Ser Brienne and Podrick are guarding the godswood, sworn to secrecy, and even they do not know all. But you must tell Daenerys. Tell her to lay down arms or there will be another Great War. Words cannot convey how much I wish it had not come to this, but believe me – and Bran – that this was the only way. Please, for the sake of everything, convince Daenerys to make peace."

Tyrion stared for a second at her blotted signature, and then put down the letters, trying to let the enormity of this all sink in. He knew Sansa well enough to read deception between the lines, and here there was none. He had to conclude that she, and Bran, had indeed been driven to desperate actions.

"You spoke with Bran in Winterfell, before the battle," Jon said, looking at him searchingly. "Did he say anything about this?"

Tyrion shook his head, trying to recall. Their conversation by the fireside felt like ages ago. "He mostly talked of – legends. Of heroes, and villains, and the necessity of a central purpose. A story, drawing people together." In retrospect, he wondered how much of that had been the start of an idea in Bran's mind. Should he have questioned it? But no, it was impossible to have guessed this was where it would lead. He rubbed his hands over his face. The entire situation was beyond belief, and yet, as Sansa explained it, he could see the method to the madness. There was a grim sort of poetry to it. "Did you show Daenerys?"

"She has read the letters," Jon said, hesitantly. "Grey Worm brought them to her."

"And?"

"She sent him back with a message claiming Sansa and Bran were traitors and that she would go to Winterfell to kill them both."

Daenerys was even farther gone than he had thought. "She can't," Tyrion said, stunned. "You saw what happened on the dais. She'll never be able to win. She'll die trying, and how many more with her? You need to speak to her. She has always valued you and your advice. Convince her to change her mind."

"And how am I supposed to do that?"

"I don't know," Tyrion admitted. "But she loves you. And I think that you also love her. Which means you're the only one who even possibly has a chance."

Jon looked at him, for a moment seeming almost about to refuse again. But then he nodded grimly and squared his shoulders, fetching the guard to open the lock again. And with the clang of metal behind him, he strode out the door.