A/N: By the Light of the Seven, forgive me for the delay in posting! We had a huge storm here a while back that caused my computer to crash when we lost power, and as a result, I lost ALL of my finished story chapter docs for this little AU GOT fic of mine, and as a result of this accident, have had to start over basically from scratch, so I had to take some time to think about where I wanted the story to go from here, but I hope not to keep my lovely readers waiting so long for the next update, now that I have a few ideas as to where the plot is going for Sanrion and dealing with those damned insufferable Boltons. Anyway, these two have suffered a hell of a lot in my story, so I tried to make this one a little bit light and have some Sanrion fluff, though I feel like it was kind of awkward to write. (Looking at YOU, Ramsay)

Sansa

Sansa did not know why she and Tyrion had come to this place. Sansa told herself it was because that she wanted Lord Tyrion to see the beauty of the godswoods for himself, that to the best of her knowledge, he had never seen the weirwood tree, never looked upon her beauty, to see the carved faces within the bark, or if he had, he remained uncharacteristically tight-lipped and secretive.

What his motives were, as his husband, she failed to ascertain, but they were here now, though she herself was starting to question her decision to come.

Was it to escape the family of snakes, betrayers, currently residing in her family's home? To get away from Ramsay Bolton's penetrative stare that was powerful enough to burn a hole in the back of her skull, hot as Wildfire itself?

Was that it? Sansa knitted her brows together in a quandary and frowned, swiveling her head slowly and somewhat methodically as she knelt to the ground.

She did not like it that Lord Tyrion was so much shorter than her. She had come to terms with his dwarfism, but that did not mean she had to like it, per se.

Sansa had found that, over the weeks of their marriage to one another and bonding, she liked to be able to look the little lord in those brilliant green eyes of his. His eyes were every hue of the forest, rimmed coolly with moss.

Their lightness reminded Sansa of summertime when the sun-rays warmed each extended leaf. Next to the shade of his hair, that sandy blonde, though it darkened as time here in Winterfell dragged, he was alive in the same way birds are, casually wild. And Sansa decided that there was more than a small part of her that liked it.

That kind of green that pushed its way through the piles of gritty snow to remind you that spring was coming. The kind of green that budded on the prisoners of winter, bringing life back to their branches. That churning, passionate green that the ocean turns during a storm. That color of the forest after it rains.

The color of the tadpoles making ripples in the pond. That green color that brings hope and life no matter what has happened. And looking into those eyes, Sansa could see it. That he, as her husband, loved her. And he knew that she could. For that reason alone, Sansa liked him. Loved him, even, in her own way.

Maybe…maybe that was why they had come, to this holy, sacred place. For some semblance of peace, where it could be the two of them together, as it was supposed to be. And just for the moment, Sansa Stark cared not that Brienne was proving resistant to her and Tyrion's adamant request to 'take care of' Ramsay Bolton.

The Boltons in her home were a liability, one that she, as the last Wolf of Winterfell, could not afford, though, for the moment, she shoved aside all thoughts of Lord Roose and Ramsay Snow, not wanting to think of them for the moment.

Though before Lady Sansa could ponder what to do about those snakes, thinking that Boltons forces would not truly be able to be expelled from her family's home until their current Warden of the North and his bastard son were dealt with, Lord Tyrion spoke up, startling the young redhead out of her thoughts.

"You come here to pray often? I can see why. T'is truly beautiful, milady."

"Mmm." Sansa inclined her head and clasped her fingers together in front of her middle, allowing a lock of auburn hair to tumble in front of her face effectively shielding herself from her lion's gaze, though she could feel his staring.

"You disagree." Lord Tyrion's genuflecting voice held a trace of confusion within, and it was this confusion that caused Sansa to slowly lift her head, jutting out her chin just so to better meet the Imp's gaze. Tyrion's green eyes were glistening as he stared at her, perched on top of the spare cloak he had brought so that his wife would not have to sit on the frozen barren earth and soil her clothes.

Sansa shook her head slightly, indicating to Tyrion that she did not, in fact, disagree with her statement. "I do not, milord. I don't come here to pray," she sighed, emanating a tense exhale through her nose, and cocking her head to the side. She winced and ran her tongue along the top wall of her teeth as she actively averted Tyrion's pained gaze. "Not anymore. Not after…what happened to my family. This is the only place that I can come where people don't talk to me."

"Forgive me, milady. If I have offended you, I did not intend for it to happen. I should…I shall leave you to the gods in peace. May they bring you a small modicum of comfort in life that I, as your lord husband, cannot," Lord Tyrion murmured by way of response, and this time, it was Sansa who was taken aback.

She felt her head practically whiplash so sharply upward, that she winced and let out a pained yelp as she felt an incredible heat spiral its way up her neck as it sent a white-hot jolt of pain up her neck and curved around the shell of her ear. Sansa winced, gingerly rubbing her neck and pursed her lips in a thin line.

Sansa heard the soft shuffling of movement and before Lord Tyrion could stand to turn on the heel of his boot to leave her alone in tranquility and peace, her arm shot out and grabbed onto his shoulder in a firm vice grip, preventing him from leaving. "Don't," she pleaded, sticking out her bottom lip in a slight pout.

She lifted her chin and met Lord Tyrion's wide, unblinking, and confused green eyes with her own. She glanced down at her hand, her fingers wrapped in an ironclad fist around his arm, though she made no move to relinquish her hold.

"Do not leave me out here alone in these godswoods by myself, Lord Tyrion," Sansa murmured, hardening the edges of her voice just slightly, and there was a hint of steel in Lady Stark's voice that told the Imp that he must listen.

Tyrion blinked, still feeling confused by the sudden shift in Lady Sansa's countenance. Just a moment ago, she had seemed, by his judgment, indifferent to these woods, this holy place, and now, she was seated before him with a look of trepidation on her pale features, beads of sweat glistening on her brow, and he was not sure that he liked the sudden skittishness in her cobalt blue orbs at all, really.

Tyrion's heart was thrumming, pounding loudly against the confines of his chest, that damned stubborn corded muscle of mass and veins that pumped blood within, so fucking audibly loud that he was sure, he was sure, that Sansa heard it.

Though if she did or not, she gave off no inclination as to his own uncertainties. In truth, he was wondering why Lady Sansa had brought him here.

It seemed to take Lady Stark an eternity to find her voice, and when his wife did finally raise her head and look him square in the eye, her tone was softer, much more subdued, and uncertain than before. Sansa breathed in a deep breath and made to say her piece, and Tyrion thought the wisest course of action would be to listen.

She emanated a tense exhale through her nose and glanced down at her hands, which were resting idly in her lap, though Sansa had begun to fidget with them, nervously playing with her pinkish-tipped fingers to keep them warm from the biting, bitter winds of winter that was upon Winterfell in full force now.

"Before I married you, I had thought you to be a vicious, lustful pervert," she began uncertainly, cringing as she spoke the words, and she heard Lord Tyrion give off an audible gasp of surprise and flinched, turning away, though Sansa decided she was not having it as she ground her teeth in annoyance and reached out a hand and firmly cupped the dwarf's chin in her hand, tilting his head slightly upward and forcing the Imp of the Lannister family to meet her gaze.

Tyrion winced, green eyes shimmering with unshed moisture, though he did not blink, and he did not dare avert his gaze from his wife. Their marriage was entirely political, this much was true, though there had been a small part of him that had hoped, perhaps naively and foolishly so, that she would grow to care for him. Though as he looked upon her face, Tyrion wondered if that was naught but a foolish, romantic dream that he had been chasing all along these last few weeks.

But still, Tyrion could not help asking, and did not bother to quell the question as it tumbled unchecked from his lips. "And now, Lady Stark? What do you think of me, honestly? You…" He hesitated, biting his cheek. "You may be honest with me, wife. In fact, I would prefer it if you were, Lady Sansa. Tell me."

The second his statement left his lips, the dwarf cursed himself and could no longer contain his barely racing heart or his nearly frantic breaths. Whatever it was that Lady Sansa wanted of him, why she had brought him here to the godswoods, he had not anticipated they would have a conversation of this caliber.

Sansa, meanwhile, pondered over Lord Tyrion's question, suddenly feeling uneasy. She turned her head away and instead focused her attention on the weirwood tree during her process of thinking and allowed her mind to ruminate.

She huffed in frustration and rested her cheek in her fist. People, especially those amongst the Lannisters back in King's Landing, had just openly assumed that her opinion of her little lord husband was that she hated and reviled the Imp.

Though she knew this now not to be the case, however, now that the dwarf himself was asking her the same question, Sansa could not help but feel a bit perturbed. Though it spoke volumes of the man's character that he was asking her, as his wife, for the unvarnished truth, not caring how blunt she would be in answering. Sansa was well aware that there were few people in all of Westeros who could directly ask such a question to her, though the man did not seem afraid.

Perhaps it was because of this, and given the nature that she was, like it or not, the Imp's wife, that caused Sansa to decide to answer the dwarf honestly. More important than that, however, Sansa wanted to answer Tyrion honestly.

Sansa paused for a moment to ponder her best choice of words, finally turning her head back around to regard Lord Tyrion, who, she could tell, was growing impatient by her lack of response, though not one to forget proper edict, was not about to comment on it, for which Sansa felt immensely grateful for.

"You have saved my life now at least a total of four times, Tyrion," she stated quietly, having to tick them all off on her fingers. In truth, it was probably more than four by now, considering the number of times that boy-king Joffrey had her in his sights (May the Seven bless his soul, never!) And now, from Ramsay.

Who admittedly, was still very much a problem in their lives, both he and Lord Roose. Like flies that they could not swat, though they were hoping, in time, with the arrival of Ser Jaimie to Winterfell, it would spark within Brienne of Tarth that ember flame within her chest to give the knight the courage to do the deed.

For she had heard from Lord Tyrion himself how his older brother would get this 'look' in his eyes whenever Brienne was mentioned, and in Brienne, Sansa could see every time the gilded golden-haired knight's name was mentioned, how her entire countenance shifted, and the woman would begin to grow nervous.

It was evident the two harbored unresolved feelings for one another, and it had taken a conversation between herself, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, and Tyrion to decide to send a raven to King's Landing and request Jaimie come.

It was, admittedly, perhaps not the best course of action that they could have chosen to take, but it was better than sitting here within Winterfell's walls and allowing the Bolton family to continue to resume control over the entire North. Sansa's brows furrowed in a slight frown as she waved away thoughts of both knights for now and forced her mind to refocus her attention on the question that her little lord husband had just posed to her. She sighed and continued speaking.

"It is no easy feat, to go against our former King Joffrey and now, the bastard of Bolton as you have been doing," Sansa began hesitantly, fully aware that Tyrion never once averted his gaze from hers as she spoke. "And that is enough to tell me that, while our marriage may not be what either of us wanted, at first, that there is a small part of you that does care for me, in your own way, milord, but you…"

There was a pause. A beat and Sansa swallowed down hard past the growing lump in her throat as it hollowed and constricted, feeling like it was cutting off much-needed air to her passageways, and she felt dizzy all of a sudden, though she swallowed again and forced herself to continue. Tyrion needed to hear this.

"You will not allow yourself to feel it, milord. It does not take a maester or a scholar to see that you have been burying your pains of life in drink and whores."

Sansa watched as Tyrion flinched at her cold words, knowing they were true, though she did not back down from her resolve. If anything, it strengthened.

And finally, Sansa emanated a tense exhale through her nose as she asked the one question of her husband that she knew she needed an answer to, though there was a larger part of her brain that was terrified to hear the man's response.

"Do you hate me, Tyrion?" She swallowed as she heard the faltering crack and dip in her voice, and for a moment, though she could not bear to look the Imp in the eyes, to see his pained expression and look of rancor within his eyes.

But neither could she bring herself to pull away. So, here she sat, trapped in his gaze, and waiting between these two very different worlds. The world of the godswood, and her little world of Winterfell and the North, waiting for them to reconcile, or at the very least, come to a mutual understanding with each other as husband and wife. Sansa wasn't even aware that she was biting down hard on her bottom lip, hard enough for the delicate skin of her lips to crack and bleed.

At least, not until Tyrion reached up a hand and swatted her own hand away as she started to pick out of it out of restless agitation and utter nervousness.

"No," Tyrion answered immediately, drifting one of his stout hands to fall overtop of hers as she saw no other choice but to rest them uncomfortably in her lap. "I could never hate you, Lady Sansa. I hope that you do not hate me, either."

There was another beat. A pause in his wife's response was admittedly nothing that Lord Tyrion could have hoped for, but then— "How, milord?" Sansa breathed, her cobalt blue eyes wide and round as she desperately searched the Imp's for any semblance of the honest truth, though she knew he was not lying.

Lord Tyrion had never once led her astray, forced her to do anything that she was not comfortable with, though their combined efforts over the last several weeks of being trapped within Winterfell's wall to procure a child growing within Sansa's belly were proving for naught, and Sansa knew that Tyrion was troubled.

That he thought himself impotent, that something was wrong, though what that thing or things might be, neither of them knew, and neither one had wanted to seek Maester Qyburn's council on how to rectify their growing little problem.

"How what?" Tyrion asked, blinking at Sansa, feeling dazed and confused as to how their conversation had ended up shifting and taking this sudden turn.

Sansa made a noise that sounded like a sniff and shook her head in disappointment, a lock of wavy auburn hair bouncing slightly as she did so. "How could I possibly hate you, Lord Tyrion?" The very concept of such an idea seemed to greatly disturb Sansa Stark, for her already pale face worsened as what little color was left within her rosy cheeks drained and she looked stricken suddenly, her lips agape in shock and she looked as though the dwarf had slapped her. "Because you, out of all of the Lannisters, were truly the best of them? After the horrible way that I treated you when I—when we first met, you still treat me as though I possess the status of a Queen when I do not deserve your affection. Why is it that you believe yourself to be at fault, milord? You. Are. Not. Tyrion."

Tyrion ran his tongue over the wall of his teeth as he struggled to think of an apt response to the question his wife had just posted to him, but Sansa was not quite finished yet, and as a result, he had no time to formulate his next sentence.

"Aye, but husband, you are a difficult man to hate. I see that now. You have saved my life, more times than I can count now or even care to admit. You are a good man," she murmured, glancing down at their now-joined hands as they rested in her lap. "Kind, even to those like me who do not deserve your unfailing kindness nor your mercy," Sansa scowled, a dark look crossing over her features, and Tyrion knew without even having to ask her that she was thinking of Ramsay. "Even when you do not have to be, and that is the thing that makes you beautiful."

Sansa shook her head and sighed, and when she lifted her chin, Tyrion was surprised to see the beginnings of tears prick at the corners of her eyes, stinging and blurring her vision. "But you are incapable of seeing yourself as I do, milord."

Stillness filled the air between them as Lord Tyrion could not help but stare at his wife, at an utter loss, perhaps for the first time in his entire life, his mouth open, though nothing was coming to him as he struggled to think of something—anything—to say in response to his wife's statement. Never once in his life had someone spoken to him in this regard, not even Shae had said such things to him.

Tyrion raised his eyebrows at Sansa, they shot so far up onto his forehead that they almost disappeared into his mop of curly light brown hair. His first natural instinct was to brush off Lady Stark's remarks and deny everything she had just said, but the darkening look resting in Sansa's cobalt blue orbs as they darkened in color, almost cerulean in color the more upset that she got over this, warned him against it.

In fact, in the months now that they had been husband and wife, Tyrion could not for the life of him recall ever seeing such a strange look on Lady Sansa's face. Intermingling on her features was a potent mixture of sadness, uneasiness, sincerity, and…something else, a foreign emotion he didn't know what she might be feeling at this moment, here with him, under the weirwood tree.

If he was being completely honest with himself, it both frightened him and held him captivated and enthralled by her gaze, unable to tear his gaze away.

"You have sad eyes, milord," Sansa pointed out, a pained expression on her face. "You see yourself as immoral, something not right because of…this," she murmured, gesturing to her husband's short stature with a curt wave of her hand. "This…horrible anger that you feel, you keep it bottled within, this coldness that is not like you at all. It's all directed towards yourself, and this world that both of us live in that treats neither one of us as fairly as we deserve. You do not care for yourself."

Tyrion looked away and lowered his head in shame as her words hit him like a chunk of ice or a dagger pierced straight through his heart, twisting in his chest as a fiery heat. Sansa bit her lip, able to tell that her little lion lord husband did not want to accept her words as fact, though he must. Sansa heaved a small sigh of frustration as the young woman realized what she'd just said wasn't enough.

She dared to scoot a fraction of an inch closer on the spare cloak Lord Tyrion had brought, and if she were any closer by this point in their conversation, Sansa would practically be straddling the Imp's lap. She was briefly tempted to.

"You feel powerless, husband," Sansa spoke, raking her fingers through his mop of curly hair, and she bit the inside wall of her cheek as a shudder of…something traveled down Tyrion's spine, though he made no effort to remove her hand. Sansa wasn't at all surprised when his hands gripped onto her waist tightly, though the glower he shot her suggested he looked like a defensive caged beast ready to sink its claws into her flesh if she dared to cross this boundary did.

"You punish yourself for your condition, milord," she whispered, reaching up a hand to card back a stray curl that had fallen in front of his eyes. "You still do. But you cannot help that you were born a dwarf. As such, it makes you feel as though you lack purpose in this world. But we all feel like this at times, husband."

"Like what?" Lord Tyrion asked, furrowing his brows into a small frown.

Sansa's voice had faltered halfway through her speech to her little lord husband and trailed off, because she had soon come to the realization that she had, in fact, been speaking of herself. Quick to recognize her sudden mistake, Sansa turned away and sighed. They were much alike.

They both felt the same things. Wanted the same thing. At least, she hoped that they did. Sansa emanated a tense exhale through her nose and swiveled her head back around to regard Tyrion, whose light green eyes had darkened with such intensity, glistening with some unspoken emotion that she wasn't sure what he might be feeling at this moment. "You have…you've been burying your pain, Tyrion," Sansa whispered by way of responding to his question.

"Pain?" Lord Tyrion repeated, sounding as though he could not believe her words. "Who said I was in pain?" Lord Tyrion spoke again, his voice solemn.

Sansa merely proceeded to say nothing and instead offered a sad smile and rested her cheek in her hand. "You did not have to say it. Your expression speaks for yourself. You have sad eyes." A pause in response was nothing she could have hoped for, as Tyrion closed his eyes as if he were fighting back against something terrible and losing. They stayed closed as if he could not bear to look upon her.

Sansa felt her brows knit together in confusion as she processed the hurt she felt inside at the man's silence to her what should have been an obvious statement, but could not understand for the life of her why she felt so disappointed by his sullenness. "Sansa…" murmured Tyrion, his fingers on her waist tightening slightly, sending a spiraling heat through Sansa's system. "After…after what happened in the library, then…you must know that I…" His voice trailed off in silence.

Sansa felt her light blue eyes widen in shock as she looked up, Tyrion still continuing to keep his eyes closed and his jaw clenched shut with the effort to restrain himself from doing…something, though what that was, she didn't know.

Was he…was he talking about what she thought he was talking about? "Know what?" she whispered hoarsely in response, and Tyrion was no fool.

Far from it. He was perhaps one of the cleverest men in all of Westeros that Sansa had ever met. He knew Sansa was not ignorant of the fact that ever since that moment in the library, there had been that look exchanged between the two of them, though no words were spoken, and it was then that something had changed. And all the anxiety Tyrion had felt for the past several weeks had inevitably led up to this moment, the two of them alone, and uninterrupted for a change.

Tyrion's gaze drifted down towards her lips, thinking that they had never been this close before, and as he allowed his wretched sight to ghost across the features of his wife's pale face, he realized tonight Lady Sansa Stark wore a different expression, and it hit him square in the chest, this painful realization that Tyrion soon recognized that his greatest fear had perhaps come true. She did feel the unimaginable foreign thing that had churned inside of him now for weeks.

Tyrion wasn't even if sure if either of them knew what it was, but both of them knew they were broaching the point of no return, and neither seemed compelled to walk away first. "Don't you know, Sansa? Don't you?" he tried again, lowering his voice, and deepening it slightly so that only his wife could hear.

"K—know what?" stammered Sansa, suddenly, it was she who was at a loss for words. Was…was he talking about what she thought that he was referring to?

Though whatever was on Tyrion's mind, Sansa did not get a chance to follow up with an apt response, as, before her courage failed her, she made up her mind. "Tyrion?" Sansa spoke his name with such gentle grace, her voice barely above a whisper, and just the sound of his name on her tongue caused his heart to thrum erratically against his chest, and he swallowed down hard past the growing lump in his throat, and he looked up briefly, only to accidentally brush his nose against hers. He could swear he could see his incredulous expression reflected in the young woman's glistening sky-blue orbs, and it felt like he was going to implode if he did not do something about this problem soon. He knew she didn't care for him back, but he couldn't resist.

He leaned in a little closer, their foreheads touching. Dear Light of the Seven above help him, he couldn't fight against the thoughts that were going through him. Her very smell was flooding his senses now... But he had no chance to ponder over this before Sansa Stark promptly closed her eyes and pressed her lips against his. Tyrion froze at the unexpected intimacy, the line she had just crossed, his light green eyes wide and unblinking in shock.

He completely expected Sansa to recoil away in disgust and explain away the slip in her balance at any second.

But that second for him never came.

She leaned up and captured his mouth without warning, giving him virtually no time to think or react, but they fit so perfectly together, it was like they were made for one another, and he could swear he heard the Lion within the confines of his chest practically purring in pleasure, and Tyrion could not help but let out a sigh, thinking that he really did care for her. whenever he made love to her, sweat gleaming on her skin, her delicate hands curled into fists and her eyes screwed tight.

He loved the way that his wife was tight and hot and drew him in, the way that her mouth was soft as she panted for breath.

Slowly, he ran his hands down her glorious body. Her skin was so flawless, smooth, and perfect, soft on her hips as he spread her thighs with his lean fingers and the first moan escaped her lips, the sound half-muffled. He lowered his lips to hers, capturing her mouth in a greedy kiss.

"It's been a few days, Lady Stark," he whispered devilishly, a smirk on his handsome features. "I've missed our time together, love," he said tenderly and quietly. His wife opened his mouth to speak, but he stopped her. "Shush, don't speak, just let me..." he commanded, raising a gentle finger to her lips, shushing her. He continued with his efforts to please her, leaving a gentle trail of kisses down her neck and to her collarbones, hearing her whimpers and feeling her body shift beneath his. Sansa's breathing became uneven, cracking, and she jerked forward as she climaxed, the stars becoming novae in her eyes.

His wife twitched slightly as he drew away, rolling her head to one side, exposing the curve of her neck, the beautiful shell of her ear, shuddering as he gently nipped her earlobe and whispered promises to her, promises of what's to come in their moment. Her thighs were still parted beneath him as he entered her, thrusting greedily, her body wrapped around his shaft, all heat, and moisture.

Sansa made a muted little sound in the back of her throat but this time, just this time, he does not listen as he claimed her for himself and himself alone, his ire and wrath that had been pent up towards Bolton's treatment of his wife, coming out in the form of aggression as he nipped, bit, and thrust into his wife harder than he meant to, hearing her small cries of pain, though this did not slow his movements, his hands wound tightly on the edges of the cloak before drifting to the back of her head, finding purchase in her hair, his fingers entangled in her auburn wavy tresses, his hair falling in his eyes and shading everything. His wife panted for breath, her breasts hitching with each breath she drew in, her body reacting to his touch, moving in sync with each of his thrusts. He cried out as he peaked as he felt his essence, his seed pour into her and pulsate as he finished in shallow half thrusts, hoping that this time would be the time.

The possibility of a Lannister son growing within his wife's belly was perhaps the only thing that would for now, keep fucking Ramsay Bolton away from his wife.

For a moment, he stayed over his wife, his arms trembling slightly, then drew away and glanced down to see their bodies mingling in fluid form upon the cloak he'd laid on top of the frigid winter ground to protect it from their time together. He raked his hand down her thigh gently, feeling her tremble as his touch left a static frenzy in their wake, as he leaned down and kissed her gently.

"Love me, husband?" she whispered, a lascivious smile that he can't help but smile back at and return lovingly.

"Always," he promised lovingly, leaning down to kiss her again. "I wouldn't have it any other way. I'll always love you. Until the world ends, and after." And that, Sansa, supposed…that was good enough for her.

As the pair straightened their clothes and attempted to brush off the stray leaves and flecks of snow from their shoulders in a vain attempt to draw prying eyes away from the Bolton soldiers and other interested parties back at the castle, as Sansa allowed Lord Tyrion to escort her back to Winterfell, the two were so engrossed in conversation amongst themselves that they failed to notice a shadow of movement dart beneath the trees.

Both parties, it should be noted, were unaware of Ramsay Bolton lingering in the shadows…