A/N: Thank you all for your kind words and continued interest in this story! I've been having a lot of fun with it, and we're wrapping things up now.

With Sansa in a small council meeting, Tyrion retreated to their chambers after breakfast. Ser Erock still stood at the door. He wondered, idly, if the man had been out there all night; he must've been.

"Begging your pardon, your grace, over last night. The Queen has not had such a nightmare in a long time, and, well, pardon me again for being so forward, but your coupling isn't usually quite so… desperate sounding, if it even reaches us," the knight said, blushing as much as Podrick had in his early days. Ser Erock couldn't be much older than his former squire was now, really. "We assumed that something must have happened. Either someone had snuck in, or..."

Ser Erock did not meet his eyes when he said that part, and that was when Tyrion knew that, despite his and Sansa's best efforts, the North had not welcomed him quite yet.

The next week was filled with arrivals from all of the North's landowners for an annual meeting Sansa had organized shortly after taking her throne. It had started as literally a discussion on what keeps remained empty, who needed help rebuilding, and how they would truly form an independent North. This would be their third such conference, and as he held the title 'Lord of Winterfell,' he was expected to positively contribute.

He had spent most of his time in the North pouring over accounts, histories, and stocks with Evin and Maester Wolkan whenever he could. If he wasn't eating or fucking his wife, he was in the library, though he had combined both of those activities with his daily sessions at least once. Like they had during his first months here, he and Sansa often dined with various members of the household in her father's tradition, but he was listening to everything with much more rapt attention than he had before.

Ser Erock's words hadn't left him quite so easily as he'd hoped, and he'd been hesitant to discuss it with Sansa, or even Jonelle, who had been giving him odd looks over breakfast the past few days. Perhaps Sansa had said something to her, or she, in her unofficial capacity as Master of Whispers, had received wind of some plot to strike against him.

It would be his first time in front of such a delegation of Northmen, after all. This council had only just ended when he arrived with Bran, and he still had yet to meet some of them, and others he hadn't seen since departing Winterfell to march on King's Landing with the Dragon Queen. He'd been practically an enemy then, and he had truly no idea what awaited him now. Whether or not they'd been terrorized by the Long Night, most, if not all, of Sansa's bannerman had family who marched with Robb Stark, who had died at one of the many battles between then and the Red Wedding. As they loved to remind people, Northmen did not easily forget.

He'd truly thought he'd put much of these anxieties to rest by the time of Arya and Gendry's wedding, that the fact he was still alive meant that he had been forgiven, but now that he started to realize just how few of the lords and ladies he'd actually interacted with, they'd returned, as did the whispers in his mind of Kinslayer and Queenslayer.

His night terrors, at least, were much more subtle than his wife's. There'd been no screaming or crying out this past week, but twice since she'd woken him by her thrashing and mumbled words he couldn't quite make out. She hadn't woken herself, and he'd managed to calm her enough with soothing words and touches. Last night, though, she'd stayed up much later than usual, as if exhausting herself would quiet her restless mind. He didn't want her to recount an itemized list of every trauma served to her, both in his absence and his presence, but he wanted to know what was keeping her awake, and why so suddenly, too, if it was at all sudden. Ser Erock said she hadn't had "such a nightmare in a long time." That didn't mean she wasn't having them. What had he missed while he'd been in King's Landing? Had she left hints of troubles in her letters and he'd just flown right by them? Perhaps the Seven Hells stood empty, and all her devils were here.

His certainly were.

He memorized the seating chart, because of course the meeting had a seating chart. It was held in a much grander solar than he'd ever been in. He assumed it was where she had her small council meetings, but many more chairs had been placed around the incredibly long table. Really, why not just meet in the Main Hall? The distance would be no different.

Sansa sat at one head and Jonelle at the other. He was seated on Sansa's left. Cley Cerwyn was across from him, and Eddara Tallhart on his left. The seating was somewhat dependent on the distance from each keep to Winterfell. Somewhat. It meant, though, that he was surrounded by people he could most easily converse with, considering Cley's sister and Eddara's cousin were two important members of his wife's small council. Loyalty from them did not concern him.

He didn't like the way Barbrey Dustin looked at his wife. He didn't like Barbrey Dustin, period, because from what he could tell, she basically ruled a land she had no claim to and she sided with the Boltons. Sansa spoke often of justice and the long memory of the North, but she seemed to have granted more pardons than she didn't. But hadn't Bran done much the same? Ruffle as few feathers as possible, advocate for stability over the lack of it. It wasn't spring just yet, though it was coming, and soon.

They'd all assumed the death of the White Walkers would lead to a shorter winter than called for, but it hadn't eased up yet, though everyone said it was much milder than they remembered a winter being, especially those up here. He didn't quite believe that

Lady Dustin's father, Rodrik Ryswell, eyed his wife in a similar manner. Harwood Stout and Ondrew Locke eyed Tyrion far more than Sansa, though his wife got her share of looks from them. He had a feeling these were Lord Glover's compatriots on the questions of marriage and succession. Not that they weren't important, genuine questions, but still.

Most of the other lords and ladies were content to whisper amongst each other. Mostly even between the genders, he noticed, which was not surprising. The South likely boasted a similar split in who ruled which houses. Howland Reed was perhaps the only one not participating in any such conversations. He, too, stared at Tyrion, but in a different way that he couldn't quite explain any other way than it reminded him of Bran.

Sansa called them all to attention, and, beginning with Lord Manderly, had them all go around and report on the current state of their lands and keeps. Some of those present were vassals of larger houses, and thus their reports were more short and succinct. He wanted to pay attention to what everyone had to say, but he found his eyes mostly on his lady wife.

Outside of petitions, Tyrion had not truly seen his wife interact with her people, especially the lords, and she was magnificent. Jonelle had been tasked with taking notes, but his wife still diligently noted down the points that were most important to her. She asked very good questions and could tell if someone was holding back information. Lady Tallhart was clearly shy, and Sansa gently probed her in a way that did not feel rude. Lord Ryswell made some sort of muttered comment to Lady Slate, and Sansa immediately called him on it and got him to apologize. It didn't take the look off his face, but from Tyrion's seat he could see her write down the man's name.

He was suddenly reminded of her asking him why he remembered the names of the men who mocked of him. In those first days together, before the Red Wedding, when they'd both tried so hard, they walked together through the gardens quite often. Sometimes in silence, sometimes not. He remembered her smile as they japed this day in particular, how she sat down to be able to speak with him better, the whisper of her voice as she talked about vulgar words for dung. He had to bite his lip to stop a smile from overtaking his face as Lady Mormont discussed rumors of pirates around Bear Island. Normally, he chalked his wife's brilliance up to her time spent observing Cersei and Littlefinger, and twisting their tactics to her own advantage. Perhaps he had more of an effect on her than he'd thought.

"And Winterfell, your grace?" Sansa asked, glancing to him. There was a gleam in her eyes, and he couldn't tell if it was because she was in her element, or because she was going to tease him in front of everyone assembled. The second seemed quite unlike her, but he swallowed in nervousness regardless.

"Our stores remain strong. Our household staff is filled out to what it used to be-"

"What would you know of how Winterfell used to be?" Lord Locke asked with a scoff.

"Lord Locke, you are addressing the queen's consort, and you will treat him with the same courtesy and respect you show me. Besides, I don't remember you visiting Winterfell when I was a child, my lord. Are you any better informed than Prince Tyrion, who in fact did?"

He'd gotten used to being addressed as 'your grace' when he was up here, but hearing the words 'Prince Tyrion' was still something rather foreign to him. He schooled his features, not wanting to give the man another reason to challenge him. Most everyone had already seen how he had to climb into the chair, and the silence had been deafening. The blocks Sansa had made for him were helpful, but when they openly watched him as he used them, it could be just as humiliating as not having them.

Lord Locke had nothing more to say, and Sansa, even as she reached for her quill, nodded to Tyrion to continue.

"We now field a full staff, Lord Locke. There was a small outbreak of sickness at the winter town, but Maester Wolkan has assured me he has it well within control." Much of what the other, nearer keeps had reported maintained true for Winterfell, and he didn't feel he needed to elaborate much more.

"Thank you, Prince Tyrion. Now, this morning I received a raven from the Citadel. Spring is on its way. I think it's time we look to fill our empty keeps. Lady Meera Reed and I have been discussing an idea for the Dreadfort."

As he knew most of his wife's plans and ideas, he contented himself with watching her work rather than debating. He had a feeling most of the lords and ladies wouldn't care much for his ideas anyways. Besides, he didn't know enough about his people to decide who should be granted lands or titles or both. Her idea for the Dreadfort wasn't outright opposed, either, which was much better than he expected. Lady Mormont in particular championed it, as did Lady Flint of Flint's Finger. Lord Whitehill was the only lord to speak in support of it, but no one as of yet was actively against it. Sansa promised them all a formal proposal on it at a later date, once she and Meera had more time to discuss it.

She stood, signaling the end of today's meeting, and they all quickly followed suit. He, of course, was the last one out of his seat, even with the block there for him stand on. Lady Tallhart's gaze was firmly on him, but it didn't seem like anyone else had noticed. Sansa nodded to her lords and ladies and left the room in a swirl of skirts. Jonelle quickly followed.

Tomorrow, they would break into smaller groups: Lord Manderly would meet with all those contributing to the North's navy, Lord Magnar would go over finances, and so on. It really was a brilliant system. Perhaps he could speak with Bran about it.

"Prince Tyrion," someone called, and he turned. Lord Stout had approached him, Lady Umber and Lord Glover just behind him. "We trust you for her sake. If anything we tell you winds up being used against us by your king, we won't be slow to retaliate."

They seemed to forget that his king was both a Stark and the Three-Eyed Raven, but he nodded regardless and walked to their chambers. Talya met him in the hall and said Sansa had called her. She carried some sort of gray dress in her arms, so Tyrion opened the door to the solar and the door to their rooms for her. Jonelle was sitting in the solar and nodded to them as they passed.

"That went well, I think," he said to Sansa as he entered their personal chambers, who merely nodded, brushing out her hair. It had been in a traditional Northern braid most of the day, but now it hung loose around her face as she attempted to straighten it out with her brush.

"I have the dress, your grace," Talya said before Sansa could answer him, laying it out on the bed. His wife jumped to her feet, abandoning her brush on the table.

"Excellent. I'll change now, if you don't mind." The handmaiden nodded and picked the dress back up, following Sansa behind the screen.

"Jonelle is in the solar," he added, not sure what else would be an appropriate conversation with Talya there.

"Yes, she and I will need to speak for a bit, I'm afraid, and then we'll have a meeting with the small council before the feast," Sansa answered. "And Lady Meera and I will need to speak as well, though perhaps we can find time tomorrow."

"You sound busy, then. Would you like me to gather the dung for you?"

He heard Talya snicker even as Sansa popped her head out from behind the screen, frowning at him. He merely grinned back at her.

"Why do I need dung?"

"I noticed you wrote down Lord Ryswell and Lord Locke's names, and I naturally assumed you and Jonelle would be sheep shifting their beds. Or are you going to take my advice and look into their perversions instead?"

Recognition filled her face and she rolled her eyes, returning behind the screen.

"Tyrion, I swear to the Old Gods and the New, if I hear from anyone that their rooms smell like dung, you won't be welcome in my bed for a week. You'll be stuck in your own chambers."

"I have my own chambers?" he teased. Evin had actually put his things there upon his return, and he'd had to request them be moved. He'd made it through with a straight face, while poor Evin had turned scarlet. Lord Whitehill had certainly been informed of his and his wife's relationship, adding one more potential ally.

Sansa didn't acknowledge his jest as she stepped out from behind the screen in a rather long gray dress. The bodice was black, almost like armor, similar to what he remembered her wearing during the war. While all of her dresses were quite nice, this one looked less lived in. He didn't think he'd seen her wear it before.

"I left the cape piece in the trunk, your grace. I'll bring it to you before the feast," Talya said, straightening the skirt around her.

"I suppose it would be a bit elaborate for a day dress, wouldn't it? Even with all the lords and ladies here. Thank you, Talya."

"Do you need help with your hair?"

"No, thank you." Talya curtseyed and left. Sansa turned to face Tyrion, but kept her gaze mostly on her dress. "I haven't worn this since my coronation. Does it fit alright?"

She really hadn't changed that much in three and a half years, and he shook his head, watching her smile when he did. Moving back to her vanity, she sat back down at the table. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen her hair entirely free before. She wasn't even pinning pieces of it the way he'd seen Cersei and Margaery do, and remembered Sansa once doing the same.

"It looks better with the cape. I look like a real Stark in it. Wolf fur, weirwood leaves. If it wasn't so heavy and hot I would wear it more often," she said, pulling the brush through her hair. He couldn't take his eyes off her.

"Why wear it tonight?"

"To remind them all that I am still the woman they put on the throne. I am still the daughter of Eddard Stark." She looked up at him through the mirror. "I don't know what he would say about the two of us, but I do know that he would want me happy, and he would trust my judgement. I need them all to do so, too."

The rest of the meetings went off without a hitch, and as the final lords departed, he expected to see more of his wife. She remained distant, however, mentioning meetings with a household member or with Jonelle that she rarely discussed with him. She'd been much slower in the mornings, too, insisting on having a bath or otherwise finding some reason for him to head down to breakfast before her.

By the fifth day, he was growing concerned. She'd said she had another discussion with Jonelle after dinner, but when he went to the library to read, Jonelle was there, emerging from one of the stacks with a new book for herself. The woman clearly wasn't aware that Sansa had used her as an alibi, and the two had a brief discussion about a Northern spring. It didn't seem much different than winter had, to him, at least.

Jonelle bid him good night and left. He counted to twenty before doing the same. Sansa hadn't been in their chambers when he left, and he doubted she'd been waiting for him to return. Just to make sure he was right, he walked all the way through the library, but she wasn't there. He checked some of her favorite hidden spots in the keep, the small council chamber, and the sewing room. With a sigh, he returned to their chambers for his cloak. If she wasn't in the godswood or the yard, he was going to have to raise the alarm. His legs ached and it was cold out, but it was much easier to focus on the annoyance of those two things than the fear that something had happened to her.

He grabbed a torch from the yard as headed towards the godswood, his heartbeat as loud as his footsteps. Someone sat in front of the heart tree, and he picked up the pace, sighing in relief as the torchlight hit her red hair.

"Sansa, what are you doing?" he called, and she jumped, turning to look at him. Her face glistened in the torchlight, with what looked like tear tracks on her face. He wiped them away, looking at her. Maybe he should've said something as soon as he noticed she was avoiding him, but he could do something now.

"Can't a queen pray for her people?" she said, but he saw right through her.

"She can, but that's not what you're doing right now. What's troubling you, my dear?"

"It's stupid."

"Sansa, you are many things, but stupid is not one of them, and therefore none of your troubles are stupid."

"I didn't get my moonblood." The air left his lungs, and he sat down next to her, not caring that he might not be able to get up without her help. He knew enough about women to know what that meant. "I think it was merely off. It happens every now and then, more so when I was younger, but. All week I held my breath. In fear and…I think anticipation. When it finally happened today, I cried, but I don't think it was in relief."

Her tone was too hard for placations like 'I think'; he took her hand, and that was all she needed to add, "I was disappointed. I haven't- we see each other twice a year. Getting pregnant would be-"

"Hard, perhaps, but not impossible. Do you want children, not for succession? Just to want them?" he asked. When he agreed to marry her, he knew they would be expected to have children together, as much as it terrified him, but he would do it for her in a heartbeat. So many choices had been taken away from her, and he would give her this one, because he would simply go south and continue to do his work and get a letter when she was safely delivered. She would have to continue her duties as questions and rumors and hatred swirled and then she would enter the birthing chamber, and would she even exit it alive and whole? And their child-

She nodded so imperceptibly he almost didn't see it in the torchlight. Then she squeezed his hand and said softly, "Yes, I do."

"Then we will find a way," he said, and she looked at him with such love in her eyes that all his fears vanished for the moment, and all he could think of was taking her back to her chambers and fucking her senseless, spilling his seed in her, and when she reached out to cup his cheek his skin jolted at the touch.

"You will be a wonderful father," she said, and he smiled, because that was what he did when she said things like that to him. "You will," she repeated, as if she could read his mind.

"I did have a great example in what not to do, I suppose," he said lightly, and she laughed, but there was very little mirth in it.

"We will raise children who know that we would lay down our lives for them. Who love fiercely and follow their hearts, who are kind and good and intelligent. We won't let them be anything else."

"We won't," he agreed, because while his skills as a father were debatable, they could agree on that. He glanced away from the power of the emotion on her face, and locked eyes instead on the face of the weirwood tree, watching him, staring into his soul. He hoped that Bran wasn't in there, actually staring into his soul. Sansa said he could do that, once. "The weirwood tree looks more frightening in the dark than it does in the day."

"It does," she agreed without looking at it, and he cursed himself for somehow forgetting that this is where Ramsay Bolton had tied himself to her and her torment began. She hadn't come out here for peace and the old gods; she'd come out here to hide, to feel close with her family. He remembered her grip in his hand at Storm's End all those moons ago, and it gave him an idea.

"You know," he said, hoping that this wasn't a stupid idea, because he hated having those, "We never said our vows before the heart tree."

"You were at Arya and Gendry's ceremony; there aren't really vows to say."

"Well still. How can I be married to the Queen in the North if the Old Gods have never blessed us?"

She looked at him, glowing in the dim of his torchlight, without saying anything, before standing and pulling him to his feet. She positioned him at the front of the weirwood, then walked back a few paces.

"Sansa, of House Stark, Queen in the North and the Lady of Winterfell, a woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, comes before the Old Gods this night. Who comes to claim her?"

"Tyrion, of House Lannister, Prince Consort in the North, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King to Bran Stark, First of His Name. Who gives her?" She smirked a little at all of his titles, even without tacking on his Lannister ones, and he felt better about this idea.

"I give myself, and I will take this man." She strode forward and took his hand before kneeling back down in front of him and inclining her head in prayer. He just watched her, trying to memorize everything about this moment. So much of their first wedding was crowded in shame, drink, and guilt. This could be new, pure, untouched. It was, in fact, a better idea then he'd thought.

When she looked back up, she said, "Now you wrap me in your cloak, and it is done."

"It truly is quite easy, these Northern ceremonies," he said, and even though he knew he would regret it immediately and it was much too short for her, he passed her the torch and unfastened his cloak before wrapping it around her. She kissed him once he had. "That wasn't in the script."

"I improvised."

They kissed until he could no longer keep his lips from chattering. She took pity on him and returned his cloak. Then they walked back to the keep hand in hand, the only noise the crunch of snow under their feet.

Ser Alran just about fainted when he spotted them, and gave them both a long lecture on sneaking away, which they pretended to listen to before walking back to their chambers giggling and stumbling as if they were drunk on something other than each other.

They made love slowly, savoring every second, and once he'd brought her to the edge, he sped up until he spilled himself inside her, grunting her name. Her fingers cascaded through his hair, and he pressed a kiss to her stomach. He'd done it before, but this time her fingers tightened in his hair before outright tugging him back up her. Neither of them said it, but the feeling that bloomed in his chest as he worshipped her all over again felt an awful lot like love.

A/N: Mr. Shakespeare, I'm so sorry I appropriated "hell is empty and all the devils are here" but once I had the idea I couldn't not do it.

Hopefully the next chapter will be up next Thursday; my writing has slowed down a lot due to real life stuff and I'm not quite happy with what I've got cooking.