The next morning, after a long and sleepless night, Sansa assembled her advisors for a meeting to discuss what had been brought up last night in a very brief discussion.
"Thank you all for being here. It has come to my attention that between you, you have discussed my need to marry and subsequently produce heirs for the north, so I must ask, how long has this been in debate?"
Ser Darrick, the nervous man from last night, spoke up. "Not a week between us, Your Grace, though I canna deny we hav'na thought of it in our own minds."
"And how soon do you intend to take action on this plan?"
Another man stepped forward. "Your Grace, there is no tangible urgency on the matter, but I think we can all agree, the sooner, the better."
She nodded slowly, considering their advice. "And have you looked at any possible options for who I might marry? Because last I knew, everyone suitable is either dead or exiled."
"Robin Arryn!" Someone shouted, annoying Sansa exceedingly.
"My cousin is not competent to rule the north, nor any kingdom." She said blatantly. "Not to mention his pre-empt anxiety and tendency to impulsive decisions."
Ser Darrick spoke again. "Not Lord Arryn, then. Samwell Tarly of Hornhill?"
She laughed this time. "Do you intend to humour me, Ser? Sam is all but married with 2 children, Jon's best friend and in service to my brother as grand maester! He is not a possibility."
"Forgive me, Your Grace, I wasn't thinking. The Prince of Dorne, perhaps?" That suggestion seemed to peeve the entire room.
"A dornishman as King in the north?!" People shouted. "You may as well find her a husband from across the narrow sea!"
After that, it seemed people threw around all manner of illogical and inappropriate suggestions.
"Ser Podrick Payne!" was rebutted with "Too soft." "Ser Bronn of highgarden!" Was met with "Too old."
After what seemed hours of bickering, Sansa lost patience. "Enough!" She yelled, silencing the congregation. "Can not a single one of you suggest a legitimately suitable and alive candidate for a husband?" She looked to each one of them, but it seemed they were all but tongue-tied.
From the corner of the room, there came a soft chuckle. Ser Harrys, who had sidelined himself for this whole meeting, stepped forward, looking rather impressed with himself. "It seems, My Lords, you have forgotten yourselves. There is an obvious candidate with whom you are already, acquainted, I suppose, Your Grace." He mused.
"Who on earth are you talking about?" Sansa turned in her chair.
He smiled. "Hand to his Grace King Brandon, Lord Tyrion Lannister."
Sansa's heart dropped.
a/n - sorry this is short,, just wanted to set up the story a bit more! (also the reason why some words here were shortened to scottish/gaelic slang is because I guessed that is how they speak in the northern areas)