A/N: This chapter could've been entitled: "Me? Projecting onto Sansa Stark? It's more likely than you think" but sadly that's not a lyric in The Great Comet :( If anything feels OOC that's why!

Trigger warnings: Ned's beheading. More graphic than most scenes in this fic, but if you made it through the Red Wedding I don't think it's nearly as bad as that? You can skip the section in present tense, which starts with "Sansa finds herself staring out over a shouting crowd," and jump straight to the section after without missing anything.

Sansa spent entirely too much of the journey back to Winterfell with her mind replaying her night (And morning) with her husband.

She hadn't even known that she could take the same pleasure from the act that a man could. She'd heard vague comments on the subject her entire life, mostly from Margaery and now Bella, but all of her actual schooling from Septa Mordane had been in regards to pregnancy.

She had no idea if she even could get pregnant. Ramsay's seed had never taken root, as far as she was aware; Septa Mordane said that in the early weeks, a woman could lose a babe she didn't even know she had. Plus, her current husband had been well known for whoring prior to their marriage and, as far as she knew, there were no bastards to speak of. Her council would surely love that, if she went and married a Southerner, giving them all a headache in the process, only for them both to be barren.

The North's independence was perhaps too strong of a word, after all. They wouldn't make it through winter without the Reach. Maesters, septons, and septas still trained in Oldtown or King's Landing. Both her husband and her heir were rulers of their own lands in the Six Kingdoms. She'd had no choice but to name Arya her temporary successor, and to leave Bran out of the succession entirely, lest the North fall back into the hands of the Six Kingdoms. Now that Arya was married, words that still felt odd to say aloud, the pressure would truly mount for an heir for the North.

She would get a month or so before it started in earnest. For all her council knew, she and Tyrion had laid together every night since his arrival moons ago, and those who weren't idiots knew it took a few weeks for the symptoms of pregnancy to present themselves, and even then women were likely to wait a few moons before saying anything. Once they realized she wasn't, the comments would start, innocent at first, until just before Tyrion's arrival they would become grave, serious, and blatant. She could already hear Lord Glover's voice, and she hated that he would be right.

Sansa flopped back against the pillow behind her, staring up at the wooden ceiling of her room in Winterfell. It was her first night back without him, and she missed him somehow more in this room than she did on the cabin on the boat or on the trek from White Harbor. If she ever did bear children, she was going to make one thing very clear to them: Life is not like the songs, sweetlings. It takes much more work.

Dear Tyrion,

I am safely returned to Winterfell. Lord Glover did not make any poor decisions while I was gone, thankfully. It is strange to be alone in our chambers again, and I miss Arya more than I did when she first left for Storm's End. Jon is staying for a few days, and I spoke to him about arranging a pardon with Bran only to learn that he was offered one mere weeks after his first banishment and he turned it down. I think you are right about him needing time.

Your wife,

Sansa

P.S. Just out of sheer curiosity, does anyone read your scrolls when they arrive? I've instructed Maester Wolkan to not peek at any correspondence marked with the Hand's seal.

Dear Sansa,

My letters are always given to me with the sender's seal unbroken. One of the benefits to our councils forgoing Masters of Whispers.

Why?

Your bewildered husband,

Tyrion

P.S. That is good about Lord Glover. I can still speak to Bran about Jon, if you'd like.

P.P.S. Yara has turned down our offer to join the Small Council. I fear the Iron Islands might attempt to go the way of the North.

Dear my bewildered husband,

With us having only spent one night and one morning together before your return to King's Landing, I thought there might perhaps be a way to continue such activities until you return to my bed. It may be unconventional, but I will try if you will.

I began speaking to my small council about this absolutely brilliant idea Mya had; I don't think I had time to tell you about it, since your silver tongue was rather occupied. She asked what it would be like if there was some sort of shelter, almost, for women being raped or abused by family or their husbands or brothel owners to seek out a new start. I believe Arya and Gendry will be embarking on a similar program in the Stormlands; you are welcome to encourage Bran to do the same in the Crownlands, if not the whole Six Kingdoms. Jonelle is really the only one as excited by the prospect as I am, and only Lord Magnar seems truly negative towards it. I suppose it is due to his Skagosi upbringing. Truly it's a wonder he's so good with numbers, based on all the tales Old Nan used to spin about the Skagosi.

Would it really be so bad if the Iron Islands followed us? They are much different from the other kingdoms in similar ways that the North is, and that's why I desired it become independent. I know their navy is important, but the Iron Fleet has always been more under the jurisdiction of the Salt Throne than the Iron one, even if the Iron Throne exists no more. Even then, though, Yara might not want to spend so much time away from her home. She has been fighting for it for quite a long time, and she is the only Greyjoy left. Bad things seemed to happen to them when they leave their home, the same way it does when my family travels south.

Not that I don't think Bran and Arya aren't safe. I sleep easier at night knowing they are. I just…. I dreamed so long of home, and that meant all my family under one roof. I know it's not possible, and I'm starting to adjust, I promise.

I do miss you very much. Jon, who left yesterday, showed me the family records book he said he showed you, and we had a good cry as we recorded the deaths of my mother, Robb, his wife, their child, and Rickon. I added in Lyanna and Rhaegar's marriage as well as Robb and his wife's, but I stopped before adding ours because I didn't know which year to write, or if I should add my other one. It was never truly valid, I suppose, considering Baelish never annulled ours like he claimed, but it is part of the Stark history.

I'm rambling; I know. Can you tell I have boring reports to read? You were always so good at distracting me from them. I'm glad we've added another tactic in that regard.

Your procrastinating, randy wife,

Sansa

Dear my randy wife,

I can't imagine you writing such a letter, but I would be delighted to see you try.

Such an establishment would be interesting. I must confess I've never really thought about it before. I mentioned it to Bran and all he did was hum; fuck knows what that means. After spending so many months with you in which we actually truly talked about matters facing your kingdom, I find speaking to Bran tiresome, as he either knows what we will decide, or offers opinions of few words. I will admit that he is good with the smallfolk, even though they find him just as odd as the highborns do. His heart is almost as big as yours. Almost.

My greatest fear about the Iron Islands becoming independent is them laying siege to the rest of us, the Riverlands in particular. There is no love between them and the Mallisters, whom we thought of offering the Master of Ships position to, but after the Ironborn turned it down, I think we have no choice but to turn to the Redwynes, which will leave an abundance of Reachmen on the small council, but not much can be done about it considering the size of the Redwyne fleet in comparison to the rest of Westeros.

Put our marriage in for this year, since it is the year it was finally consummated, and don't let his name touch your book. You told him his name and house would disappear. As the victor, you get to control the narrative, so make it disappear. Don't forget to add your sister's marriage as well. Then we can work on marrying off your brother. We may no longer be passing the crown down the bloodline, but I think a queen would do him good. Maybe he would smile more. I certainly do when I think of you.

I will be back with you before you know it; I promise. Bran offered me a leave of absence after six months of service, which I am almost halfway through. I don't know how long it will be, but I plan to take it.

And don't doubt your own talents of distraction, wife. If you're going to insist on such letters, I expect a quite randy one about all the ways I would be driving you to distraction if I were there.

Your awaiting husband,

Tyrion

Dear my awaiting husband,

Is that a challenge?

Even after several years, the North had yet to fully recover from the War for the Dawn and the New Targaryean Conquest. Several keeps still sat empty as no one knew what to do with them- the Dreadfort and Karhold, most worryingly. It had been a small miracle to find Alysanne Mormont alive if not entirely well, securing Bear Island, and Jeyne Umber had only been spared from the massacre at Last Hearth because she'd been at Winterfell. After her nephew Ned had sworn Jon fealty following the Battle of the Bastards, she was one of the only members of his retinue to not return to their home. At the time, it had been a subject of debate if the woman, six and twenty and still unmarried, was attempting to woo Jon or merely one of the other Northern lords, but it spared her life regardless.

Sansa had been tempted to finally grant the justice on the Umber family Jon had denied her when he'd been king, but the woman lost her entire family, a feeling Sansa herself knew all too well. Plus, in the crypts at the Battle of Winterfell, Jeyne had fought as fiercely as anyone else, and even shielded Gilly and Little Sam. Sansa hadn't had it in her, then, and sent the woman off to Last Hearth with a steely reminder that the North remembers, and if House Umber stepped out of line again, she would swing the sword herself. People had begun to call her the Red Wolf for a reason, after all.

Her hold on Skagos was shaky as always, even with Lord Magnar on the small council. She knew that her move with Tyrion had been bold, even reckless. Asking her people, especially those who had sent family south with Robb and lost them, to accept her Lannister husband took more trust than perhaps she'd truly earned, not to mention the slight on the Northern lords already angling for her hand.

She didn't regret it at all, but it meant her steps were a little more cautious than she felt they should be at this point in her reign. It wasn't quite so with her council, those who had watched the two of them in the months he'd been at Winterfell, but the rest of her lords and ladies weren't necessarily as trusting.

The night Arya returned from her voyage stuck in her mind. Her skin was darker, she herself older still than Sansa ever expected to see her, and Arya's eyes shone as she told Sansa tales of the faraway lands of Essos. Tyrion had written little of them to her, in passing while discussing trade and taxes, but they sounded less foreign in Arya's stories than they had in his letters. Her sister had paused in one of her tales to drink, and Sansa had seized the moment to ask if she would join her small council as her Master of Whispers.

Arya had laughed at her.

She'd let Sansa explain her reasoning, of course, though they both knew exactly why she wanted her sister to do it: Arya's ability to wear faces, the way she'd tricked Baelish, the fact that, besides Artya, there was only one other person in the world Sansa trusted to protect her and Brienne served her brother instead, in a position the knight could never refuse, not even for Sansa. Arya had stared at her for a long time, and Sansa wondered so desperately to this day what her sister had seen in her face.

"Gendry proposed to me, the night he was legitimized. I met him in King's Landing the day Father died. We traveled together. He figured out first that I was a girl. He made me feel things I'd never felt before, even after we were reunited here. He asked me to be his lady, and I said no. I ran away across the world. I don't regret it. I regret hurting him, and leaving you alone, but I don't regret going. I had something to live for. Sandor- the Hound, I traveled with him, too, you know, even though I'd put him on my list- he didn't want me to become like him. I don't think he realized I already was. It's always been something for so long- finish my list, come home, kill the White Walkers, discover the world. One day I woke up in Essos and it felt like it did the first time I decided to come home. I just couldn't be there anymore. But this time I didn't have a next step, really. 'Go home' didn't encompass anything.

"There are women in Essos like me, who want revenge and who can fight and want to be more. And there are women in Essos like you, or how you used to be, anyway, content to cook and clean and mind their families. And there are women in Essos who do both, or neither. I met them all, saw them all, and something told me that I could have that, if I wanted it. A real home, not just an idea of one. I haven't had that in so long. Winterfell doesn't even feel quite like it, anymore. I want to have a life."

Sansa remembered watching her sister take a deep, shuddering breath, before she had murmured, "And if I do this for you, I don't think I'll have one again."

That was why she'd sent her sister to Storm's End. Because Arya was right. Her life would have become consumed with protecting Sansa to the point where she wouldn't get her own. Varys, Sansa remembered from her days in the Red Keep, always had somewhere to be, someone to meet with, information to uncover, pieces to move. Petyr was much the same, and he had other work to do. Just because she expected it of Arya didn't mean she had to do it. Why else would she bring up all those women in Essos, why else would she bring up Gendry and the life he'd asked her to embark on? Her sister wanted stability and roots and the chance to really live, so Sansa gave it to her. She didn't let anyone else shoulder the weight she had to bear.

Jonelle tried, though; she tried so hard. Cley Cerwyn had written to Sansa and asked her to consider Jonelle for a position on the council, and after five minutes of conversation with the woman she'd offered her the Hand position. Jonelle was smart and sharp and not afraid to go toe-to-toe with anyone, but she was also kind and fiercely protective of her people. She knew a bit about everything and everyone; she knew perhaps more about Sansa than anyone else in Winterfell right now, and she wasn't even in Winterfell at the moment, but home dealing with the family who thought her time on the council should be over and she should return home to marry.

If Sansa had a Master of Whispers, she might not need to step so lightly, since she'd know exactly what her people thought of Tyrion, but she didn't trust anyone else enough to protect her. She knew Jonelle and Alran were doing their best to field all the information they could because she couldn't, and that made her certain she'd picked the right people as her Hand and Lord Commander.

Nights like this were when she missed Tyrion the most, the nights when all she could do was worry over who were truly her allies and who would turncloak should anything happen. The nights she wanted someone to hold her and tell her everything would be alright, that she was doing the right thing for her kingdom. Perhaps it was because she'd been yanked away from her mother so young, or because she'd yet to be in love, but sometimes she just wanted to be held and reassured and she felt so weak admitting it. It was why she wanted to be Queen in the North so badly, why she'd bartered for the independence that sometimes felt like more of a joke than a reality; a crown on her head, people chanting for her in the hall, memories she could look back on and say They chose me, they follow me, they trust me, they love me.

Sometimes it was enough to quiet the demons and ghosts in her head. Sometimes it wasn't. Tonight it wasn't, and so she did the next best thing to being held and reassured: She wrote a letter to Tyrion.

She re-read it again, blushing as she did so, and decided it was good enough to send. She didn't, admittedly, quite know what she was talking about, but she had a feeling he wouldn't mind all that much. It was a comfort to know, even though he was leagues and leagues away from her, that he cared for her, and would no matter what she did or how dumb it made her look.

My wife,

You are positively trying to kill me. The weeks until we reunite are going to become much harder to get through.

Lord Redwyne accepted and the world has not burned down yet with a council full of Reachmen, though calling Bronn a 'Reachman' is a kindness he might not deserve. He wanted a castle for quite a while, but I can sense him growing restless with all the responsibility. I would not be surprised if he resigned his post on the council soon. With Davos officially gone, I think it's making all of us start to think about how long we want to do this, and what comes next. This isn't a letter telling you I'm resigning my post, yet, but I've been thinking of your mother's words, the way you so eloquently put them about Jon: That you don't take your duty to your family lightly. I don't take my duty to mine lightly, either, and I hope you know that, but it bares repeating. Hear me roar, and all that, which really are pitiful words. At least 'winter is coming' means something.

On your advice, I talked to Bran about having a queen. He said even less than usual, but what he did say was that 'Meera will do better things in the North than here with me. Tell Sansa to remember the ladies, and be more generous and favorable to them.' I'm not sure what the connection is, but perhaps you know it.

All is quiet here, really. It's a little unnerving. As long as it holds until I can leave for Winterfell, I don't care much. I miss you dearly, even more so after your letter. It's hard to believe that a year ago I'd never once kissed you, and now it's all I can think of doing.

Your fond husband,

Tyrion

And suddenly, Sansa knew exactly what to do with the Dreadfort. She quickly wrote out a letter to Meera Reed, hoping her brother was right.

She thought she'd done a good job of pretending like she wasn't daydreaming about what she and Tyrion could get up to that night and was instead listening very intently to Alran and Lord Glover discuss how best to deal with the bandits plaguing the Dustins' land. Jonelle's repeated kicking of her leg under the table meant absolutely nothing, she was sure.

Evin had been given permission to interrupt the meeting if Tyrion arrived, but he didn't, which made her stomach queasy. He'd sent a letter when he arrived at White Harbor, and by her calculations he should be arriving that day. Of course, her anxiety meant that the meeting seemed to drag on and on and it became harder and harder to pay attention. Jonelle kicked her again and this time she kicked her back, sharing a grin with her Hand, who huffed quietly but grinned all the same.

When it was over, she retreated to her chambers and jumped when she found Tyrion in her solar, sitting at her desk and calmly reading a book. A scoff escaped her lips and she put her hands on her hips, staring at him sternly.

"It's rude to just barge into my chambers like this."

"I thought they were mine, too?" he said, marking his page and then looking up at her, a twinkle in his eyes. By the Gods, she missed him. It was unfortunate he was so much shorter than her and he couldn't exactly take her against the wall without some quick alterations.

He could on her desk, though.

"Oh, I suppose I can make an exception then," she said, and she walked over and sat down firmly on his lap, her knees brushing against the armrests of the chair. Then she kissed him greedily. "Welcome home."

She hadn't quite meant to say it, didn't think he quite thought of Winterfell as his home, but he smiled and kissed her nonetheless, and soon she was quite distracted from anything other than the man in front of her.

Sansa finds herself staring out over a shouting crowd. She feels sweat beading on her brow, and her head feels heavy like it did when she wore her hair pinned up in that ridiculous fashion Cersei used to wear. A statue of Baelor the Blessed stares back at her. When she dares to turn her head, she sees exactly what she expects: Cersei, Joffrey, Ilyn Payne, and her father. She sees Arya in the crowd, and her mother is there, and Robb, and Rickon, and Bran, and Jon. They are all pushing forward, trying to get up the steps, even Rickon, clinging to Bran's chair.

Joffrey speaks of sending her father to the Night's Watch and Jon's face momentarily brightens; she wonders idly what would have happened had the two gotten to serve together. But the sentence does not change, and she can't make herself move, this time, and she hears Arya berate her for it, decrying the pretty dress she's wearing like she did when they first reunited.

She recognizes that this is when she normally wakes up, but today Joffrey calls for the next prisoner. His face darkens to purple, but he can speak just fine, not the choking she vaguely remembers.

It is her husband who is now pressed down onto the steps of the sept, and this time she does scream. She shouts to Jon for help, to Arya, to Bran, but they ignore her. Her mother, Robb, and Rickon are bleeding; her mother's throat drips while her brothers are stabbed with arrows. The jeers are louder, calling for his death. Her mother and Robb are joining them; the rest of her family is just watching. Bran looks the most sympathetic, but he doesn't move.

Joffrey sentences Tyrion to death for the murders of the handmaiden Shae and Tywin Lannister, for being an accomplice to the murder of Daenerys Targaryean, for freeing Jaime Lannister, but his voice sounds more Northern than that of the Joffrey she remembers. This time she does lunge forward, trying to get to him, but she is held back by the cold hands of the Kingsgauard.

Except even in her dreams she would know that grip anywhere, and as Ilyn Payne beheads her husband, Ramsay Bolton whispers in her ear, "Don't fret, my pretty wife. I'm here now."

She bolted awake with a scream, and she could still feel Ramsay touching her, but it was softer, lighter. It took her a minute to realize it was Tyrion, whispering her name and touching her anywhere he could reach in hopes of calming her.

The door burst open and Alran and Ser Erock came in, Erock's sword out, Alran with his hand on his hilt, and Tyrion swore to them nothing had happened, that it was just a nightmare. The two, used to such occurrences from her like all of her Queensguard, gave her a onceover before nodding and returning to their post.

"They're quite efficient, aren't they?" Tyrion asked her, but she was still trying to get her heartbeat to slow and air to fill her lungs. She caught his hand on her cheek, holding it in place as she took deep breaths. He rested his other hand on her waist, speaking nonsense words of comfort, and he continued until her breath was back under control.

She hadn't been comforted from a nightmare in a while. The first few times they happened loud enough to gain her guards' notice, whoever was there would wake Talya to sit with her. On nights it didn't capture anyone's attention, she would either manage to calm herself enough to sleep, or she would work in her solar. Her handmaiden had long ago stopped being surprised by the sight of Sansa working by candlelight in her solar at early hours of the morning.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, and she shook her head quickly.

"I just have the Dreadfort and Boltons on my mind, I think. Meera's accompanying her father to the landowner's council so we can talk more about using the keep as the women's haven."

"So that's what Bran meant," Tyrion said with a smile, and she nodded. "Why not Karhold? It wouldn't affect your dreams quite so much."

"I like the irony. Plus it's more central. Not by much, of course, but it's somewhat closer to the Kingsroad and White Harbor, and it's on a river while Karhold is in a forest." She knew what he was doing, considering she'd shared her reasoning with him in one of the last letters she'd sent before he'd left King's Landing, and it made her smile. She tilted her head to kiss his wrist and then let him go. He left the hand on her waist, though, anchoring her to reality. "Thank you," she whispered.

"You're safe now, Sansa," he replied.

Her stomach dropped at the thought that he might not be, but she ignored it, and pushed him back into bed.

A/N: "Remember the ladies" is a quote from Abigail Adams, the wife of President John Adams. John was serving as a delegate to the Second Continental Congress in Philadelphia while she was in their home state of Massachusetts, and they wrote each other a fuck ton of letters. This particular letter is dated late March, just as he was beginning to push the Congress to formally declare independence, which they eventually did on July 4. Their letters often discussed matters of political import the same way Sansa and Tyrion's do, so it feels only fitting it gains inclusion. There's your US history for the day.

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