A/N: A lot of my Storm's End headcanons come from various Gendrya fics, but I think the most prominent one in these chapters is probably persuade_me's fic Butterflies over on AO3. 10/10 would recommend if Gendrya is also your jam.

Also, I upped the rating, mostly because I'm paranoid, but some things are starting to work their way in that I felt warranted the shift.

Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own. All titles taken from "No One Else" from Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812.

Trigger warning: Non-explicit references to Ramsay's treatment of Sansa.

Waking Sansa up the next morning proved to be more of a challenge than he thought it would. For such a tall woman, it seemed she could not hold her drink.

He started by pulling the shades and letting the sunlight filter in, though it was the Stormlands, and overcast was their version of clear skies. It worked enough, though, because Sansa groaned and rolled over in bed.

"Come along, wife," he said, brushing hair out of her face.

"No," she grumbled, opening her eyes only to quickly shut them again. "I am your Queen. Leave me."

"You dragged me down the coast of Westeros for your only sister's wedding, remember?"

"Yes," she said with a huff, but she did not move. She pouted at him instead. "Will I have to do anything other than smile and clap?"

"You may be asked to dance at tonight's feast, but you will have much time to recuperate before then."

"What will you give me if I get up?"

"Do you desire something more than food, merriment, and time with your family?"

"For the pain to leave my head?"

"Well, you'll have to follow my lead and not drink quite so much in the future."

"How could you possibly like this feeling?"

"Hangovers are the price paid for the feeling of being drunk, my dear, not the other way around. Now, come along; the maidservant will be in any minute to help you dress." She groaned again, but this time sat up and put her feet on the floor.

"Don't let me do that again."

"Of course," he said, fighting to keep amusement out of his voice.

"Don't let me kill Arya, either. We are done with deaths at weddings."

The handmaiden knocked on their door then, and the two readied themselves in silence. He didn't ask how much of her night she remembered and she didn't volunteer any of it. They left for the main hall at the same time as Davos and Marya, who were staying in the room across from them. The two women chattered animatedly and Davos watched them with a smile.

Bella looked equally worse for wear when they arrived for the wedding breakfast. He and Sansa took their same seats from last night while Davos and Marya sat at a lower table. It appeared that Mya and Bella had switched, though, likely because the seat Mya now occupied was in more direct sunlight than her seat from the night before. Mya, clearly aware that he'd reached such a conclusion, winked at him.

"You'll want a hearty meal, your grace," she added, and Sansa rolled her eyes.

"If you were under my jurisdiction, I could have you arrested for… defamation, or something," his wife said primly, filling her plate with bread and meat and a couple lemon cakes. He hid his smirk by taking a sip from his goblet.

"Of course, your grace," Mya said with a smirk of her own.

The breakfast was quick, with no gift presentation. Davos led a toast to the happy couple, and Arya stood and made a toast to loved ones who could not be present. She didn't name a list, but she didn't have to.

Sansa, though, under her breath next to him, murmured, "To Mother, Father, Robb, Rickon, and Theon," before taking a sip from her drink.

After that, his wife disappeared to ready Arya. He was not entirely sure what his role was in all of this. He didn't remember helping Robert ready himself before his wedding to Cersei, while Jaime had almost certainly stood outside Cersei's door 'guarding' it. So, he decided to return to his chambers, as he saw many others do. He could read more of the book, which was currently focusing on the lead up to the Red Wedding now that it had passed Blackwater.

He had only just stepped onto the staircase when a clear voice called, "Tyrion," and he turned and bowed to his king, who nodded at him "Come. We have business to discuss."

Brienne turned his chair and set out into the back courtyard, leaving Tyrion no choice but to follow. They stopped at a tree with two benches. She set Bran's chair in front of the tree and then stepped back a few paces so they could have ostensible privacy. Bran gestured to the bench overlooking Shipbreaker Bay, and Tyrion sat, watching him expectantly.

"Ser Davos has decided to return home permanently and vacate his post as the Master of Ships."

"So soon?" Tyrion asked, but then when he thought about it, it had been almost three years since the Dragon Queen's death and the start of the new age. Sansa always spoke of the North like it was new, and it was, in a way, but more time had passed than perhaps either of them had fully realized.

He truly wasn't that surprised about Davos being the first to leave, though. The man was rarely in King's Landing, spending much of his time in the Stormlands with both his wife and Gendry, helping the young lad learn how to be a lord. All but one of the man's seven children had lived past the age of five, and that one had died at Blackwater. Despite all that, he took in those needing a father without a second thought. It would be good for him to return home.

"It is time. He is needed elsewhere, as you will be someday," Bran said, "But now we must find a replacement."

"Indeed. Who has come to you?" he asked. He thought that must be the best way to ask who would be taking over the post, since Bran surely knew who it would be already.

"Who do you think?" Bran responded, and it took everything in him not to roll his eyes.

"Lord Redwyne or Lady Yara would be an obvious choice. Perhaps Lord Mallister, from the Riverlands? The Reach is represented by both Bronn and Sam on the Council, so perhaps reaching out to Lady Yara is the best decision. Keeping the Iron Islands under your thumb will be prudent, even with your sight."

"Yes," Bran said, but it wasn't much of an answer, really, if you thought about it too much. "Our contingent will set North tomorrow. You will join us?"

"Tomorrow, your grace?" he asked in surprise. Sansa would be staying two more days past that. She was not quite as ready to leave Arya as she pretended.

"Yes. My sister will understand."

Understand, yes, but she wouldn't like it. Did most husbands come to know their wives better than their brothers, even brothers who serve as the Three-Eyed Raven?

"You will have leave to visit her in six months, if you so desire it. You are of course welcome to stay in King's Landing, but I doubt you will. Divided loyalties can be dangerous, Tyrion. You must tread lightly."

He felt a coldness wash over him. Was Bran really asking him to pick a side, so soon after taking him North?

"Yes, your grace," he replied.

Arya and Gendry married in the sept just as the sun began to set. Jon walked Arya down the aisle dressed in a garment similar to one of Sansa's riding habits. A long straight skirt flowed down around a pair of breeches, all Stark gray. It had a white bodice with a high collar along the sides, but the top of her chest was bare save for some sort of necklace that he thought had a wolf on it. The belt around her waist was black with words embroidered around the middle; he would later realize they said Ours is the fury.

He'd forgotten all the fuss of Southern weddings, all the prayers and boring rituals. He watched Arya smirk as Gendry cloaked her, some secret meaning between the two of them he couldn't crack. They spent the whole ceremony like that, teasing each other and sharing secrets for just the two of them. He glanced at Sansa and found her watching him, not them. He wondered if she was thinking of their own ceremony, where they'd barely looked at each other. She had a smile on her face, though; not quite one of pure happiness, but of contentment.

After the ceremony, most of the guests headed to the main hall, but Sansa tugged on his hand and nodded in the opposite direction. The immediate family, Brienne, pushing Bran's chair, Jonelle, and the Seaworths followed the bride and groom out to the godswood. It was much smaller than the one at Winterfell, with just a lone heart tree surrounded by a few other trees, and a small stone circle bordered it off.

Brienne pushed Bran so his chair sat in front of the weirwood, facing them. Gendry stood on his left and did the same. Sansa pulled Tyrion over to stand in front of them and to the right, where Brienne, Jon, and Jonelle joined them. Mya, Bella, Edric, and the Seaworths stood on the left. Arya, alone, stood in the middle of them all. He assumed this all meant Gendry and Arya were having a Northern ceremony as well, and he had to agree with Sansa; this intimacy suited the two of them much more than all the fanfare marriages in a sept required.

"Who comes before the Old Gods this night?" Bran asked. It was barely after sundown, so 'night' was, perhaps, a bit of a stretch.

Sansa gripped Tyrion's hand with somewhat more force than he expected, and he glanced up at her to see her standing very, very still. Realization crashed over him; this was how she and the Bolton bastard had been married. He squeezed her hand in understanding, and she looked down to him briefly before back to Arya.

"Arya, of the House Stark, Princess in the North and of the Six Kingdoms, Bringer of the Dawn, comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?" Arya asked, standing straight and tall, much more like the warrior he remembered than the girl he'd seen walk into the sept that day.

"Gendry, of the House Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. Who gives her?"

"She gives herself, with the blessing of her brothers and sister," Arya replied, and Tyrion smiled; he doubted that was the traditional response.

"Arya, will you take this man?" Bran asked.

"I take this man," she said, and she stepped forward and grasped Gendry's hand. He smiled at her just like he had in the sept, full of love and desire and maybe even awe, and the two, still grasping hands, kneeled before the tree. Jon, Bran, Jonelle, and Sansa all immediately inclined their heads, and he watched as most of the others followed suit, though Edric, like him, kept his head up. He wondered if the boy had converted to R'hllor or some other Essosi religion in his time away, and he was so devoted to the point that he couldn't bring himself to even pretend to pray to the Old Gods. Tyrion himself did not really believe in any gods, even after witnessing all the Lord of Light did, but he was more focused on the vice grip Sansa was continuing to give his hand.

Arya and Gendry stood, and she undid the Stark cloak Sansa had made and wrapped it over Gendry's Baratheon cloak. He hadn't even noticed the boy was back in his own again, and he smiled. His goodsister had clearly made some concessions for the sept ceremony.

Bella started up the applause, and the group was all smiles and congratulations as they walked back to the keep. Sansa offered to take the cloaks up to their chambers, and Arya agreed, elbowing Gendry so he would hand them over.

She didn't ask him to, but Tyrion followed her up the steps to Gendry's chambers anyways. He opened to the door for her, and she smiled thinly at him. The room had a bench carved into the stone underneath one of the windows, and she laid the cloaks down there. When she turned back towards him, he noticed the tremors in her hands and he strode forward quickly, sitting her down on the bench next to the cloaks.

"I didn't think it was going to affect me like that," she whispered, watching her hands as they continued to shake. He kissed each hand, trying to bring her back to him. Her eyes looked vacant, like she wasn't quite all there. "I've told myself for so long that I couldn't have known. But I should have. I think I was so blinded by my hatred for Theon that I didn't think about what had happened to him. What had been done to him. And the way he looked at me in the godswood. I thought maybe it was just desire, but it wasn't. Or, at least, not desire for me, but what he could do for me. I told him that his memory would disappear, but it won't, will it? He'll be in that bloody book. And even if he wasn't, I'll always carry it with me."

"Yes, you will," he agreed, "But you'll think about it less and less. You're so unbelievably strong, Sansa; you have been for as long as I have known you, even when you think you weren't. Your resilience is unparalleled." She nodded, and looked back to him. Color had returned to her skin and her eyes were brighter, and he felt himself calm slightly.

"I've been telling myself for so long that being married would be a hindrance, that I couldn't be strong if I was, but Arya told me shortly before you arrived that she'd thought that, too, and was starting to think we'd been taught all wrong. So she told me to talk to you. I'm really glad she did. I meant what I said last night. I think I could fall in love with you. Maybe I already am. I don't know if I'm ready for love yet, but you are kind and gentle and true, all the things my father wanted for me. What I want for myself."

"I feel the same," he said. He hadn't been sure she would remember her drunken musings, and hadn't wanted to push the issue. Feeling bold, he leaned forward and kissed her, hard and long and injecting every emotion he felt for her into it. She responded just as eagerly, easily moving her lips against his and exploring his mouth with her tongue.

He pulled away first for breath and found her staring at him in a way he couldn't quite follow. It reminded him of how she sometimes looked when reading reports or when talking proposals with him, like she was doing sums in her mind.

"We should go to the feast, my dear," he said, and she nodded, standing.

The feast was in full swing when they arrived, with Gendry and Arya spinning around the floor with some of the other lords. Sansa laughed at the sight, and he couldn't blame her; having seen Arya's water dancing in the yards of Winterfell, he knew she was graceful, but Gendry was nowhere near it. It seemed rather like his goodsister was leading her husband through the steps than the other way around. Almost immediately, Lord Edmure invited Sansa to dance, and she gracefully took the floor with her uncle as Tyrion made his way up to the dais and made them both a plate of food for when she returned.

She danced with several more partners as the night wore on- her cousin Robin, Jon, Edric, some of the Stormlords- but just as the pigeon pie was to be cut she returned to him, flushed and smiling, and kissed him.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked, and she nodded, but then she took his hand with a smile.

"But now I am content to spend time with you and my family," she said, "But mostly you."

He still had trouble believing this lovely young woman could want to do anything with him. He couldn't dance with her like that, spin her around and hold her close. Why would she want someone like him?

As if she could sense his thoughts, she leaned in and kissed him again. They spoke with lords and ladies who came to speak with them, they made fun of the drunken antics of Lord Buckler, they held hands under the table, and Tyrion couldn't stop staring at his wife, the way the torchlight caught her hair and the way she smiled at her sister and Gendry.

The calls for a bedding ceremony were quickly squashed by Gendry, who yelled, "Has everyone forgotten that she killed the Night King?" Such an announcement seemed to scare most of the men as to what Arya would do to them should they attempt to undress her, but the happy couple took it as their cue anyway, and exited the hall to many jeers and shouts.

"You know," Sansa said, and she began to run her fingers up his arm, "Theirs doesn't have to be the only bedding tonight."

He looked at her, his heartbeat pounding in his ribcage. He looked for traces of drink in her eyes but didn't find any, as he knew he would. He looked at the faint blush on her cheeks.

"Sansa-"

"My first night in our chambers, after I was first crowned, I slept in the solar because I couldn't stop thinking of what he'd done to me in that room. The second night, I told myself that I was braver than he would ever be, and I could sleep in my own bed without fear. I battled nightmares for weeks but I overcame them. I won't let him own me anymore. I trust you. I care for you. Let your watch end, Tyrion."

"Are you truly ready, or just ready to be free of him?" were the only words he trusted himself to say.

"Aren't they the same thing?"

"I don't think so."

"Then I'm ready. Truly ready."

He found no trace of dishonesty in her expression, and not so much fear as perhaps a touch of anxiety, for no matter how ready she was, he doubted she would not be able to erase that.

He swallowed thickly, then said, "Then I will be your Knight of Flowers."

"No. Be Tyrion. And I'll be Sansa. Just two people coming together, with no expectations."

Oh, he had expectations. Not of her, though; of him. He wanted her to never have to associate coupling with Ramsay Bolton ever again.

Bella winked at them as they slipped out of the hall, but other than that they made it out undetected. They kissed and kissed and kissed. She was hesitant, despite all her bravado in the hall. He went more gently than he ever had before, asked questions when he normally just gestured, waited for a verbal yes when a nod usually sufficed. Every gasp and moan made him bolder. He brought her over the edge with just his fingers and he could tell from the look on her face that not only had anyone ever fingered her before, but that she'd never felt that way before. It gave him more satisfaction than perhaps it should have that he would be the only one to ever have her this way. He held back until she'd crashed a second time before pulling out of her, spilling his seed into his hand, watching her face for any sign of demon or memory, but there was none.

After they'd tidied themselves, they lay side by side in the bed, staring up at the ceiling. They didn't lie together like they often did, merely side by side. He waited for her to move, to say something, and almost lost himself in memories of the few times he'd braved the bed over the settee in King's Landing. Even that first night in Winterfell, she'd turned herself into him. Did she regret what they had done? If she didn't want to do it again, he would respect her. He'd done it before, after all. He could do it again.

She slipped her hand into his, interlacing their fingers, and he turned his head to look at her. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, and he wanted to pull away, thinking he'd stepped too far, but then she smiled.

"Thank you," she whispered, and she kissed him before letting go of his hand. She still didn't curl up against him, merely turned and pulled her arms against her and shut her eyes. He watched her for a long time, wondering what in the Seven hells he'd done that led him here, with Sansa Stark's wetness still clinging to his hands and a Hand of the King badge pinned to his discarded doublet.

If this was repenting, he wasn't sure he ever wanted to stop.

A/N: Smut is NOT my forte, so that's gonna be about as explicit as things get.

Arya's dress is inspired by one of Snow White's warrior outfits, specifically the "Lady of the Lake" episode, with some tweaks.

Thank you to everyone who reviews, favorites, and follows! I love hearing from you guys; it helps motivate me to keep writing and posting!