I struggle. I juggle. I could just throw a line to you,

But I should let sleeping dogs lie 'cause I know better, baby.

I write it. Erase it. Repeat it.

But what good will it do to reopen the wound?

-Katy Perry, Save As Draft

My Dear Husband, the lady of Winterfell wrote, shook her head, then started her letter anew. She sliced the topmost piece of the parchment off and tossed it into the pile of scraps. The sun diligently made its retreat hours before, and she'd been attempting this letter for hours even then. Sansa dipped her quill into the well and closed her eyes. Tyrion, she began, I hope this letter finds My Lord Husband and Hand of the Queen well. Months have passed, now, since the victory at Winterfell and your departure. Of late, as the hours grow small, I find myself wandering the crypts and thinking of our union. She paused, heart racing curiously. Was that what she wanted to say? When Tyrion spoke of it, he did say marriage. Union seemed so cold, but marriage seemed all too fond. She decided that, for lack of a better word, it would have to do. If it didn't, she might never get this damned letter finished. If it please, my lord, I should appreciate a visit from you so that perhaps, after all this time, we may discuss as equals what has passed and what is to come. Good, she coached herself. What now? What is your goal here, Sansa? Whatever your decision, your arrival will be expected at any time. Arrange it with Our Queen and make haste. A letter need not return with this raven. Only you. Please come to me, Husband. Yours, Sansa. She sat in front of the fireplace in her new bedchamber a moment more. Her mind wandered to another life, it seemed, and another woman who may have sat in that very spot in that very chamber and written to her husband, the Hand, asking for his return. She reread her words. That woman would never have struggled to find the words for her husband. That woman, she was sure, didn't feel a lump in her throat every time she imagined the face and word attached. But Sansa was not Lady Catelyn, and Tyrion Lannister was indeed not Ned Stark. She tied the parchment and went to bed. The letter was written. Now, all she had to do was decide whether or not she truly wanted to send it.

The gates to Winterfell opened, allowing for Tyrion Lannister and his escorts to enter its walls. For all the damage that had been done, he couldn't help but notice that the repairs were coming along nicely. The North bore him no love lost, but even he could admit that its people certainly did what needed to be done. That was one trait he could say added comfort to his visits. He allowed himself only a brief moment to entertain the thought of building a life here before dismissing it completely. He was here to be asked for an annulment. He knew it.

The plan was to sneak into the back as Lady Sansa, Lady Arya, and Lord Bran held court. That way, the maester would still be nearby and witnesses for both parties available so that he would then be able to return to the new Queen's Landing as soon as possible. The plan, that is, until his horse no longer responded to his articulations. He leaned forward and whispered to the animal. "If you're going to kill me, Lord Stark, tell my wife that I would have appreciated her presence." The horse shook its head and came to a stop near the stable. Tyrion looked around and was pleasantly surprised to find Sansa sitting upon a hay bale. His smile, however, didn't reach his eyes. She didn't owe him any kindness, so he steeled himself for the blow.

Winter had nearly finished its first turn and showed no signs of spring. It's too fucking cold here anyway, he thought. He pulled his cloak tighter upon dismounting his horse. "My lady," he greeted, reaching a hand forward.

"My lord," she answered, offering hers to him. "I believe that is the standard response."
Tyrion's expression softened at her recollection. So sharp. He assessed her for a moment. She seemed to be at a loss, so he decided to, just this once, take the lead. "Shall we find someplace warm to do all of this discussing?" he asked, closing her hand in both of his.

With a nod in the direction of the house, Sansa led him into the kitchen. "When I was a girl, I'd come down here when Arya was being a pest." She smiled to herself as Tyrion pulled her chair out for her. "It's the warmest spot in Winterfell, save perhaps near to the forge." That was true. Tyrion even shrugged off his cloak. The pair sat in silence for a moment while they gathered their thoughts. Despite having the better part of a month to plan his parting words to the wife he'd never expected to be so reluctant to leave, he still couldn't find them. Sansa, however, had had many months to think this through. "What if," she started, more sure than ever that she was making the right decision. "What if you stayed here?" When Tyrion didn't answer, she continued. "You were right. Perhaps we should have stayed married. And technically, we did," her low voice dropped to just above a whisper, and she leaned in to him. "What if you came to Winterfell? I know it's not King's..." she corrected herself, "Queen's Landing, but I doubt that was ever home. It certainly wasn't to me. Except, nearly, with you." She straightened back in her chair. "At the very least, our public union could be mutually advantageous..."

"Mutually advantageous?" Tyrion repeated, finally finding words, and much to his surprise, they weren't as gentle as he'd always hoped for. "My Lady, do you know what you're asking of me?" He palmed at the table for a moment before continuing. "And as what, may I ask, would I be staying? Your ward? Your slave?"

Sansa was hurt by the accusation. "As my husband," she answered. "Why else would I have asked you to travel all the way to Winterfell, if not for that? If I'd wanted you for anything else, I could have sent men to fetch you. But I would never, Tyrion." He steeled his strong jaw, taken aback by the intimacy in her use of his name. She closed her eyes and shook her head, steadying her suddenly ragged breath. "Even this far to the North, we hear stories of what the plans of Our Queen hold for Her Hand. There's one thing in the way of you being married off to some Lady of the Court again." Her face grew cold again. "Me."

Rubbing the bridge of his nose with his right hand, Tyrion asked Sansa the one question he was afraid to hear the answer to. "What do you want from me?"

Moving from her chair and kneeling in front of her husband, black skirts spread out along her legs, she rested upon her heels. "Nothing," she stated. "Just be you. Here." Sansa placed her right hand atop Tyrion's left. "You are intelligent. You're witty. You've never been anything but kind to me. Things between us are good. They're safe. We could be left to ourselves."

Tyrion sighed, looking around the kitchen once before settling on his wife's eyes, eyes he had seen so sad and so broken down, but never before so gentle and so trained on him with something so positively sure. "I was sure you brought me all the way up here to have our marriage annulled," he said, voice more breath than tone. He ran his thumb along the outside of her hand.

"You are my husband," she said, shaking her head. "I've seen what other men are like. I don't want anyone else." She realized how selfish it sounded but she couldn't bring herself to add that she didn't want to see him with anyone else, either. She didn't know much else but those two facts.

Unsure of what else he could have wanted, he supposed this was as close to the little tenderness he'd held the hope of and so readily dismissed. In the better part of the last decade, when he'd allowed himself the thought of a life with Sansa, he'd hoped for more than settling on convenience and protection. Still, it was better than nothing. "And if I agree? If I come to Winterfell?"

Offering little more than a shrug of her shoulders, Sansa felt her heartbeat quicken. Was that a yes? She thought for a moment of the possibilities she'd prepared for- her least favorite being the one where he walked out, never to be seen again- and the one she'd spent the least amount of time entertaining seemed to, of course, be the one playing out in front of her. "Time will tell," she said more meekly than she'd hoped.

"My Lady, are you sure?" Tyrion asked. She nodded wordlessly. "Then, I am yours," he said, moving their hands together off the table, kissing hers lightly, and helping her off the floor.

Finally, Sansa relaxed, easing up into her chair. "I believe, then, a feast is in order."

Sansa busied herself on the task at hand and Tyrion tried to piece together what had just happened. He found a spare length of parchment in his satchel and began writing a letter that would explain his pending absence to the Queen. He stared at Sansa who, at the moment, was readying a guest list and already discussing a menu with one of the cooks. She glanced back at him and smiled before turning back to the help. For that instant, she was the girl in the garden, helping him plot revenge on the bastards of Court who laughed at him. He'd move Heaven and Earth to stay in this moment. Easy. Comfortable. Normal. She deserved so much more than that, he thought. She deserved love and happiness, but this... This was more than he expected from the hand life had dealt him.

Your Grace, he began, As well you know, I have been called away by my Lady Wife on pressing business in Winterfell. At this point, my presence is required here indefinitely. In my stead, I ask that Your Grace seek counsel in Lord Snow. Please excuse this inconvenience, my Queen, he grimaced, fearing momentarily that his letter would appear impertinent, but what was he if not impertinent? Seeing as I have been removed from My Lady's presence for some time now, attention must be paid to our house. "Are we to invite the Queen for the festivities, My Lady?" Tyrion asked, pausing for a moment and gauging her response for her truest answer.

"I think, at this point, Sansa is the name you're looking for," she said gently. "Of course, we should invite the Queen. And Jon. Though perhaps not jointly," she mused.

He shook his head a little. If you have the time, Your Grace, and this letter finds you with haste, on the start of the next moon, we shall have a feast here at Winterfell announcing our union. Lady Sansa will be sending a more formal invitation, but I wanted to extend one as well. We would be only too happy for Winterfell to see your return. We. He marveled at how easily he seemed to use the word. Such heft, those two letters carried. We. Us. My Wife and I. The Lady and Lord of Winterfell. Again, I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. I can only hope for your understanding. I remain, faithfully- Yours, Tyrion Lannister. He tied off the scroll and excused himself to see it off.

"So, this is home, then," Tyrion mused, staring up at the crisp wintry sky. He thought back to the first time he saw Winterfell some ten years earlier. How the times had changed.