Sansa propped herself on her elbows. Tyrion sat on the settle in front of the hearth, staring into the glowing coals of the fire. He brooded quite often of late, but insisted he was perfectly well, thank you. Sansa knew better. Tyrion talked when he was well. He even talked when he was unwell. But as the swell of their child grew, he spoke less and less. She moved the furs aside and crossed the room, then lowered herself to the settle next to him. 'All is not well,' she stated.

Tyrion inhaled slowly. 'No.' He scooted closer to Sansa and laid a hand over her abdomen. He was soon rewarded with a vigorous kick against his palm. 'What if…' he trailed off and folded his hands together. 'What if the child is… like.. is like… me?' he asked quietly.

'Kind? Thoughtful? Clever?' Sansa ventured.

Tyrion gave her a heartrending look. 'Little,' he managed.

'I never...' Sansa stammered. 'It never occurred to me,' she admitted. She pushed herself to her feet and added a few sticks of wood to the fire. 'Your stature does not define you. It certainly is not the first thing that comes to mind when asked to describe you.' She stretched, arching her back, the silhouette of the advanced pregnancy visible under her bed gown. 'I've never considered that it might be a concern for you,' she said to her evident chagrin.

'I appreciate the attempt to put my mind at ease,' Tyrion told her. 'But I cannot believe it hasn't invaded your thoughts.'

'It truly hasn't.' Sansa returned to the settle and cupped Tyrion's face between her hands. 'Come back to bed.'

'It was always the first insult Cersei threw at me. Monster. Imp,' he mused. 'My own father wanted to throw me into the sea when I was born so I would drown and never be an embarrassment to the Lannister name.'

Sansa reached for one of Tyrion's hands and pressed it to her belly. 'If this child is little,' she began, 'it will have two parents who will love it. And that is all that matters.'

Tyrion tilted his head back to look Sansa in the eye. 'And if it kills you like I did my mother?'

'You didn't kill your mother,' Sansa replied, more sharply than she'd intended. 'It wasn't as if you made a conscious decision as a newborn.' She bit her lip. Dying in childbirth was never far from her mind, despite her mother's five successful pregnancies. Her aunt Lyanna had died giving birth to Jon. She'd been terrified Brienne would die, recalling the older woman's bloodcurdling screams during her labors. 'Women die in childbirth all the time. If I do, then our child will have a father who will love it and fight to the death to protect it.' Sansa lowered her forehead to rest against Tyrion's. 'Come back to bed,' she repeated.

Tyrion slid off the settle and allowed her to lead him back to their bed. 'How can you not worry?'

Sansa climbed into the bed, and curled onto her side. 'There are things I can control and things I cannot. I choose to worry about the things I can control.' She closed her eyes. 'I have no say over whether our child is a dwarf or not. I can control what I do if it is. That is what I worry about.'