A/N: This is a somewhat horter chapter but I hit everything I wanted to hit, so here we are.

Sansa didn't wake when he extracted himself from behind her, the sun just beginning to shine through their window. She made a noise and rolled over, like she was seeking the warmth of his body, but she didn't stir any more than that.

He'd never pictured himself as a cuddler, but Sansa almost always managed to wrap herself around him in the night, regardless of whether or not they started that way. More often than not, her hair gets in his mouth, or his arms go numb, or he pitches a tent against her thigh that they don't often have time to deal with, but he didn't care all that much. Her breath, even in the morning when it reeks, mingling with his own, her hand over his heart like she could memorize his heartbeat, it all felt more intimate than he thought it ever would. He knew that, tomorrow morning, on the road with Pod and Ser Ellion, the feel of waking up without her would feel more painful than the numbness of his arm ever could.

When did he become such a sentimental romantic?

He, Pod, and Ellion were joined by Cley Cerwyn and no one else in the main hall, most nursing headaches or asleep like his wife up in their rooms. Sansa still wasn't awake when he returned, and he gathered his things and pressed a kiss to her hairline. He noticed a stack of parchment and a quill in the corner, and he walked over to it and wrote a quick note, explaining that he'd left and that he would miss her.

And that he loved her.

He hadn't even realized he'd done it until he stood in the hall, the door shut behind him. It stopped him in his tracks. Could it really be that simple?

Ellion appeared then, asking him if he was ready, and Tyrion said yes, and he did not leave it in a note because he was a coward, but knowing that she couldn't refute it certainly made him feel stronger as he mounted his horse in the yard and set off for the kingsroad.

With just the three of them, and no snow in sight, it was perhaps the quickest journey he'd ever made. They stayed at inns, because the thought of the three of them sharing a tent or taking watch in shifts reminded them all too much of the war. Besides, it keeps coin flowing through the kingdoms, and Bronn's made it very clear that coin should always be flowing.

He sent a letter to Sansa informing her of his arrival, but he got a response from her in only a day, which could only mean that she'd written to him well before he to her. He expected it to be one of the letters she liked to send meant to welcome him home, but this one was short, straightforward, nothing about gossip or missing him or genuine concerns for the kingdom he sometimes forgot was his now, too.

The first thing he did after reading it was get drunk. The lack of Jaime suddenly felt like a hot poking iron, branding every inch of his skin, in a way it hadn't even felt when he'd dug him out of the rubble of the Red Keep, or when Tyrion mourned him, alone, locked away in a cell plotting regicide- how much of that had been out of fear of Jon becoming his brother, Jon throwing it all away on a mad queen, Sansa having to lose someone else?

Jaime, the only person in the world who understood what Tyrion had been through at Casterly Rock, who knew the fear of a woman you loved perhaps suffering the same fate as your mother. It made him regret the fact that he hadn't been in King's Landing much when Cersei was pregnant, that he didn't even have a memory of how Jaime had acted around her.

When he'd agreed with Sansa over having children, he knew there were possibilities with this pregnancy he simply couldn't ignore, but he had no idea how to bring them up to her. Her letter was frantic, barely four sentences long, scribbled out to him in between somethings, but he hadn't been gone from the North that long. Either something had happened, or she couldn't bring herself to write any more, and he didn't know which one made more sense, which would quiet his mind, because right now it was running amok. All the horrible, bloody images he'd conjured in his brain of what his birth must've been like. All the times he'd cursed his stature or people had cursed him for it. All the people he'd killed. All the times he'd had a thought that reminded him too much of his father.

He knew how to play the game. He knew how to bend knees and trick people. He didn't know how to love, did he? He was trying, so hard, with Sansa, but that was different. She was just as broken as he was. A child-their child-would be new, in tact, perfect, maybe, even.

He couldn't tell her all that, though. Not when she was so clearly worried herself.

Dear Sansa,

I wish our timing was much better, and I could be there to hold your hand and kiss you. Because what if I never get to again?When do you think you are due? I will start to make arrangements with Bran and the council as to when I can return home. Hopefully before the birth. Would I rather watch you die or hear it from a letter?Have you told anyone else? Do you want me to tell anyone else? How certain are you?

I love you. Are you scared? I'm terrified. What if it kills you? What if grows up and kills me?

How are Jonelle and Erock adjusting? Have they returned to Winterfell? Are you alone? Don't be alone. Oh, and have you gotten any more out of Meera about why Bran mentioned her as his wife? Can you tell I'm distracting you? Is it working?

Yours,

Tyrion

Dear Tyrion,

I told the council today. Everyone was very congratulatory. I think they all meant it, too. Lord Manderly thinks we should prepare a tourney for the birth, make announcements across the kingdom and to our major allies. Does that happen in the south? I was too young, obviously, for the births of Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen. In the North, letters are usually sent once the babe is safely delivered and lived a few weeks, just to be certain all is well. I don't want to tempt fate. The gods have given me an almost idyllic few years in comparison to what happened before. I can't lose it.

Oh. There's this feeling in my stomach- it's not bad, I promise, it's like… fluttering. You know how your stomach feels when you get nervous, sometimes? Kind of like that. I think they're quickening, Tyrion. I mean, I'm starting to show, even in my normal dresses-Talya took a few out yesterday, and we've all but abandoned my corset-and I've felt sick and tired and sore, but… now it feels so much more real.

I can't feel it on the outside, so I doubt you would be able to, but I wish you were here. My dreams are starting to get… interesting, to say the least. I might need another naughty letter or two.

I meant to write more, but I can feel myself getting teary and I don't want to drip on the letter. I almost cried when Talya brushed my hair yesterday. She does it every day; I don't know what came over me, but Maester Wolkan says it's common. I suppose I'll have to trust him. He's only a maester, after all.

I miss you. You leave in two moons, correct? I'm glad we'll have some time together before the babe arries. I really, really miss you.

Yours,

Sansa

Bran and Ellion found him on the balcony looking out over King's Landing. Ellion merely deposited Bran and then left. His king normally didn't trek up to the Tower of the Hand, what with all the stairs, but Ellion was built much like the Mountain, and when Bran did make the trek, it was with him.

"What do I owe the pleasure, your grace?" Tyrion asked, setting Sansa's letter aside. Bran followed his movement, then looked into his face. Bran always looked like he was lost in time, watching a dozent things at once, but now that probing look was trained solely on Tyrion's face. It reminded him so much of his wife that he almost shivered.

"What did my sister have to say?" Bran answered, though Bronn had lectured him a lot on answering a question with a question.

But that was yet another thing; Sansa had told him several letters ago that she was fairly certain, and that he could tell people, if he wanted, but he hadn't. He assumed Bran knew, being Bran and all, but he still couldn't say the words out loud, quite yet. They were either the greatest or the most terrifying in the Common tongue.

"She, uh," he found himself saying, then stopped, reaching for his wine and taking a sip. Bran continued to watch him with that same look. He didn't like this Present Bran. He much preferred the Three-Eyed Raven that left him alone. "She felt the babe move today. Or, well, the day she wrote me."

"She's pregnant?" Bran said, and there was something in his tone that Tyrion couldn't quite pick out. Not shock or surprise, not even probing, just… compassion. He'd never heard Bran speak like that.

"Yes." He took another sip of wine, liquid courage, and said, for the first time, "She is with child. Our child."

"And you are unhappy?" Yes, definitely not the smug all-knowing of the Three-Eyed Raven. The care of a friend. Of a brother, even.

"I am not not happy. I am conflicted, is all." Bran hummed, like he understood emotions. There'd been much debate, behind his back of course, as to if he still could really feel, or if he just went through the motions of empathy and caring.

"Why am I king, Tyrion?" he asked in a steady, low voice, one much lower than the child who'd scaled the walls of Winterfell all those years ago, who was broken by the recklessness and madness of Tyrion's own siblings, who has traveled both figuratively and literally further than any of them has ever dared.

"Is that a rhetorical question?" Tyrion said, having no other answer for this Three-Eyed Raven, who knew all, had known what Tyrion would say better than any of them.

"The last time I had rule over anything, my castle was taken out from under me. My only knowledge of the War of the Five Kings and everything that came after is from either the view of a child or what I am able to see in the weirwood trees. I have no knowledge of how to wield weapons or steer a ship or even negotiate. Yet my story earned me the title over seasoned lords and commanders and sailors. So why am I king?"

He'd spent so much time recently reflecting back on that cell, on every thought that had swirled through his head as it became more and more clear that Daenerys would have to die. He knew they wouldn't let Jon take the throne after that; Jaime's name was only spoken about in connection to the Iron Throne as being found sitting on it, Aerys' corpse at his feet. Sansa had the brains, but she needed to be in the North; he would no sooner return her to King's Landing than he would return to Casterly Rock. Edmure Tully had been a prisoner for so long, and had really only ruled Riverrun for a few months; he was untrained. Davos would never take the throne. Yara was fit to rule the Salt Throne, but she was too much of a battle commander for the Seven Kingdoms. He'd never even heard of the new prince of Dorne, and Robin Arryn was a wildcard. Lord Royce was just learning how to get through to him.

Oh, but Bran Stark. Bran the Broken. Tyrion knew his story from Sansa, who'd confided it to him one night at Winterfell, after the battle but before everything went to shit again, grieving Theon and wanting her brother back. A blank slate, with all of the knowledge in the world at his fingertips.

"Because I knew you could learn all of those things. You could be molded."

"Yes. But omniscience is not the same thing as understanding. The Six Kingdoms are in need of molding as much as I am. We are trying to break something that we have known far longer than anything else. Even I do not know if we will succeed, if we even can." Bran paused; had he always had a flair for the dramatic? Jaime said he'd arrived in Winterfell to the boy-the man-waiting for him, as if to remind him of what he'd one the last time he'd been within Winterfell's walls. "But I have faith in you, and Bronn, and Brienne and all the rest of them that, even if we can't, we can make something new. Who better to start over with than the Three-Eyed Raven?"

"And the faith makes it possible, does it?" Tyrion asked, swirling the wine around in his glass.

"Yes. And Sansa has faith in you."

And there it was.

"And I in her," Tyrion said, because if she survived, then yes, he knew Sansa would be a good mother. She would raise the good and kind and intelligent children she dreamed of, that the world deserved.

"Then why not in yourself? Do you know why I summon you to me whenever I can? Because you are one of the cleverest men I have ever met. I don't know what I'm doing half the time, but I know what I can do, and I know that you will help me make the right decisions. I will never have children, but I do know that you do not raise children alone, and I also know that no one knows what they are doing, that everyone is terrified in one way or another. Yes, even your father. Where do you think your brother got the idea to be at your sister's side in her birthing chamber?"

Tyrion sputtered; he'd never heard Bran speak so much, so quickly, and with such passion. How long had he been hiding this? And why did Tywin fucking Lannister have to be the thing that set him off?

"What are you trying to tell me? That his willingness to be at my mother's side indicated fear of being a good parent?" Tyrion said. He set his glass back down, because he could feel his hands shaking and had no desire to wear his wine.

"I am saying your father was a cold and calculating man who would not hesitate to order someone to death for himself and his family, who loved his wife fiercely. Does that sound familiar?"

Halfman, demon monkey, imp, Queenslayer, kinslayer-

He pressed his hand to his head with more force than strictly necessary, like he could manually make his brain stop turning, and bit out, venom on his tongue, king or no king, "Your grace, if this is supposed to make me feel better-"

"But your father craved the power the wheel afforded him. Would he dare to break it?" Bran asked, all the emotion gone from his voice. It was that probing again that he got when asking you a question he knew- or at least pretended he knew- the answer to.

"No."

"You have. And if you can convince some of the smartest, fiercest, most skilled lords and ladies of Westeros that a crippled boy can be king, you can be a good father. You will mold them as well as you have molded me."

Bran cleared his throat, and suddenly Ellion appeared and picked him up, carrying him away. Tyrion turned around in his chair. He could've sworn Ellion had left the room entirely. How much had he heard? If Ellion told Pod, then the whole council would know by tomorrow evening, and he really didn't want to have to talk about all of this with Bronn, though perhaps he should talk to Sam, spend some time playing with Little Sam and Joanna and baby Dickon.

But first he owed his wife a letter.

Dear Sansa,

I must confess a great number of things to you. First, I am absolutely petrified about raising a child, children, together. Secondly, I take back everything I've ever said about throttling your brother. I'll explain...

Dear my honest husband,

Thank you for telling me all of this. I'm rather scared too, actually, and I'm glad I'm not alone. I know I can't assuage all of your fears, especially in writing, but believe me, I will do everything in my power to make it through the birth alive and whole.

As for having a dwarf, why shouldn't I want a child who reminds me so much of their father? The way your father treated you was inexcusable, Tyrion, and I would never allow anyone to treat our child, including you or me, that way. I know it all probably feels much more abstract for you, but everyday that passes the babe becomes more and more real to me, and I find myself talking to them and falling in love with them. I understand your sister, I understand why you thought she might change her mind, I understand my mother. We won't make their mistakes.

I love you. I should've said it letters ago, but I was afraid that maybe it had just slipped out of you and you hadn't meant it, but it's true, and you need to hear it. I can't wait to say it to your face and kiss you senseless and make good on all the dreams I've been having because by the gods, do I have some good ideas.

Your loving wife,

Sansa

For lack of her, he kissed her letter. It even smelled like the lotions she put in her hair. Had she known he would do this?

Maybe they ruined each other, but he would gladly let it happen for her.

"Thank you all," Tyrion said, bringing the council meeting to a close. Everyone, save Bran, inclined their heads.

"There is one more matter we need discuss," Bran said, halting those who had already gotten to their feet. "I am in need of a new Hand."

"Your grace, I am only leaving temporarily," Tyrion said like he was explaining something to a child. He'd gotten in some practice, with Little Sam and Joanna, and nothing bad had happened to them. Dickon was so new that Gilly didn't let him out of her sight, just yet, but if he could handle the fully sentient age of children, he was starting to think a baby that could only shit itself or cry or eat would be easy.

"I, Bran the Broken, The Three-Eyed Raven, First of My Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, hereby dismiss you, Tyrion Lannister, Prince Consort in the North, Lord of Winterfell, Lord of Casterly Rock, and Warden of the West, from your post as the Hand of the King. Your service has been invaluable and you have proven yourself to be a worthy citizen of this country. Your indenture for your crimes is completed, and you may return to your home."

Bronn started the applause, but soon the council chamber was filled with it. Tyrion barely heard it. All he could think about was returning to his wife and their child and spending the rest of his days freezing his ass off surrounded by those he loved most.

My wonderful wife,

Bran has dismissed me as Hand. I can now officially spend the rest of my life in the North with you, raising fearsome little wolf cubs. I leave on the morrow.

If all goes well, this shall be the last letter I ever am forced to write you. I will still write you letters, of course, because I love seeing your lips twitch as you read the vulgar ones in polite company, I love the feel of your lips on mine after the emotional ones alone in our bedchambers, and I love the furrow of your brow as you read the more boring ones and try to work out how best to implement my brilliant ideas or how to rebuke the less brilliant ones. And I hope you will still write to me. I've saved every one you sent me since well before we were married; an entire drawer in both my desk here in the Tower and in my solar in Winterfell are filled with them. Perhaps one day, our children will find them and gaze into what I think is the most romantic, song-like story to ever exist: The brave, intelligent woman who went through the Seven Hells and came out stronger than steel and made the small dwarf of Lannister question everything he had ever believed in to fall at her knees, and she grew to love him in return.

Prepare your bed. I'm afraid there are urgent matters there that I will settle upon my arrival.

Your free husband,

Tyrion