A/N: Full disclosure, I've been watching Gilmore Girls and I think the Palladino rhythm crept into this but it kind of worked so I didn't have the heart to fully eradicate it. Sorry for the tonal shift in the last chapter.

Sansa shifted in bed again, trying to ease the pain in her back. If she was having this much trouble falling asleep when she had the whole bed at her disposal, she wasn't sure what, exactly, would be left for Tyrion when he returned. Maybe they would have to sleep in separate beds for once.

Somehow the thought made her skin crawl. She wasn't quite sure why. Ramsay slept in a separate room, but even back in King's Landing she and Tyrion shared chambers. Perhaps that was it. Guilt from the early days of their marriage, all those years ago. Almost ten, actually. Had that much time really passed?

The babe kicked against the side of her bump, distracting her. A lot had changed in ten years, in them and with them. And now they were going to be parents. She shook her head a bit at the thought. Why did it feel like such a foreign concept? She'd been raised on the idea that she would one day be a mother, bare heirs for her husband. One of her earliest memories was feeling Bran kick against her hand, resting on the swell of her mother's stomach the way her own now rested on hers. The only time she'd actively prayed not to have children was during her marriage with Ramsay and on the road with Theon, Pod, and Brienne, awaiting her next moonblood.

It was the papers on her desk giving her the real pause. The documents Lord Glover had drawn up, and at her insistence; she brought all this anxiety and restlessness on herself, but she couldn't not have them. She had a kingdom to think about. She had to leave them in good hands.

She stood up with a sigh, her back protesting, and made her way to her solar. Her letter to Jon lay half-finished on the desk, abandoned when exhaustion had pulled her to her bed, but now, hours later yet still well before the sun would rise, it beckoned her back. She lit a candle to re-read it.

Dear Jon,

I haven't heard back from you yet, so maybe my raven got blown off course or maybe you've just been away from Castle Black, but Tyrion and I are expecting a child in a few moons. Two and half, Maester Wolkan thinks.

There are certain considerations that need to be taken into account, and one of them is

It stopped there. Writing the words made them real. She wondered if Tyrion's quill had stilled when he wrote them to her, expressing all of his fears. The babe kicked again, like they knew she was thinking of their father. She had fears, too, and dying was one of them. It was hard not to feel like the odds were stacked against her. Her grandmother and her aunt had both died in childbirth, and so did Tyrion's mother. It had been on her mind well before Tyrion had brought it up, or she'd started making arrangements with the council. There was so much she had yet to do, and that included being a mother.

But she was steel. She could finish the letter to Jon, send one to Arya and Bran, too. Tyrion, Pod, and Ser Zane would arrive within the fortnight, so they would be able to talk in person about it. They would understand, all of them, and it was a precaution, nothing more.

Tyrion was enamored with her new figure. It made her both happy and feel a little like she was on display. With the way he worshipped her, she certainly didn't feel like she'd lost her favored beauty; her hair was the shiniest it had ever been and her skin smooth and bright. Talya seemed unable to comment on her appearance without saying something about glowing.

She and her handmaiden had abandoned her corset a few moons ago, but only now was it truly visible underneath her dresses. Everyone in the keep had known-she hadn't felt right making a formal announcement without Tyrion, but she'd allowed Talya, Alran, and Jonelle to spread the news, and they had. It didn't stop the looks of surprise when they saw her actually, visibly pregnant for the first time.

Her husband did not have such a look; he looked at her the same or, if anything, with newfound awe. He'd become attuned to her in mere hours, knowing what she needed almost the second she had the thought.

Their first night, she had him go to his own chambers so he could actually rest after his long journey, but she barely lasted an hour before grabbing some of her pillows and trekking down the hall like a child. Ser Hectar, on guard outside her door, gave her a look as she exited, but a slap on the arm from Alran sent him dutifully following her down the hall, several paces behind, of course. She'd never met her brother's Ser Zane before, but he winked at her as she entered Tyrion's chambers and Ser Hectar moved to stand next to him outside the door. Tyrion didn't even stir as she crawled into the bed. She slept over the covers, a sea of pillows separating her from her husband, but for the first time in several weeks, her back and the babe let her rest, fingers knotted up with Tyrion's.

It wasn't a magical cure-all, but they developed a good rhythm. They got creative with their couplings, he rubbed her feet and her back if she asked him to, and when she did, eventually, have to start forcing him to his chambers with some regularity because she needed the whole bed to sprawl across, he did so gracefully.

She wasn't an expert in marital relations, but even she feared it could just be a calm before the storm.

About a month after his arrival, they had to actually talk about the 'it' she could barely think of without losing her breath a bit. She could no longer see the tips of her toes peeking out from under her stomach, unless she bent over; Tyrion heard petitions alone because the chair was so uncomfortable on her back; and the euphoric dreams had faded into vivid nightmares that made her already elusive sleep more so. Tyrion, bless him, let her complain, but also held her close and she'd even caught him whispering to the babe in her stomach a few times, the scratch of his beard against her bare stomach rousing her to semi-consciousness.

They-she-had decided to take their evening meal alone in their chambers, after a visit to Maester Wolkan. He confirmed everything looked normal, and they probably had a few more weeks, if not more than a month, before the babe arrived. A midwife would soon be coming to stay in the keep as well. If the realization that it was all so soon hadn't been enough of a reminder of the conversation they needed to have, Maester Wolkan also had a letter for her. From Jon.

She could feel Tyrion's eyes on her as they walked back to their chambers. He often looked at her these days, but this was a probing look. He knew that a letter from Jon was normally something she looked forward to, trying to pry out hints of how he was from between the lines of his general reports. He'd gotten better at being less evasive about it, but not much. It was like a little game. A game she was known to enjoy. But she knew for a fact that this letter would be blunt and to the point. Arya's certainly had been, and Sansa had just barely been able to hide it from her husband. Bran hadn't sent her anything, and she didn't know how to feel about that.

Talya was just finishing laying out the food when they arrived. Sansa let her and Tyrion make the small talk that was becoming less and less stilted between them and opened the letter. She wouldn't be able to stop thinking about it if she didn't.

Dear Sansa,

I do not accept. I await the news of your safe and successful delivery.

All my love,

Jon

She couldn't help but snort at it. Arya's letter had been much longer. She should've known that, while equally blunt, Jon's would be succinct. It was the kind of anger her father would get, that cold, hard look, while Arya's ran hotter, like their mother's.

"What does he say?" Tyrion asked. Sansa looked up. She hadn't even heard Talya leave. It wasn't like Jon had written her the type of letter one could get lost in. Maybe the babe was messing with her brain as well as her body.

"He declined me naming him as my heir," she said bluntly, hopefully diplomatically, and began making herself a plate. She'd been craving venison, and the cook always did such a good job with it.

"What?" Tyrion said, which was fair. Context was important.

"Lord Glover has been helping me draft a will."

"A will?" Tyrion repeated, and the confusion had been replaced with something that could very well edge into hysteria if not controlled. His eyes widened, too, but he quickly schooled his features, and seemed to come to much the same conclusion she had months ago when she'd approached Lord Glover in the first place. "If we have this discussion now, can we be done with it?"

"Yes," she said, nodding for emphasis, and he did the same.

"Alright then. What is in your will?" He didn't look at her when he asked, just filled his own plate. She took a bite of the venison, and swallowed, stalling, but she set her fork down and placed a hand on her stomach. She could do this.

"That if I die, our child becomes king or queen and you are recognized as regent. If we both die, Jon is my heir and will be released from his indenture at the Wall."

"But Jon rejected this proposal," Tyrion said after a moment. His face was blank. She'd gotten much better at reading him, but now he had on this perfect mask that reminded her more of Bran than her husband.

"Yes."

He went quiet again. The mask shifted, slightly, to confusion, but other than that it remained impassive. She picked up her fork again.

"I thought Arya was your heir?" he asked. Now he had picked up his fork, but he just stared at his plate like it could provide him the answer.

"She's now married to Gendry. Lady of Storm's End. The whole point is to maintain an independent North. Bran's King of all of it. The Night's Watch swears off all holds, but we looked; it's not unheard of for them to take up a House that's lost its heirs. Very, very rare, but not unheard of."

"Right," he said, nodding along. He wasn't angry or resigned. That was good.

"And you're the prince consort. You have no true claim to the throne, or even a bed in Winterfell. That's part of why I named you regent, so that you couldn't just be sent crawling back to Bran, not now," she added. That was the part she was most dreading talking about, the what happened to him if he lost her. She'd already made Jonelle promise to remain Hand, whether it was Tyrion or Jon in charge, and she trusted the North with no one else.

"I see. And why did Jon reject you?" With that, he finally looked at her, and the pain in his eyes was clear, tugging at something in her, and the words came spilling out in one breath.

"Because he doesn't want to think about me dying. Arya doesn't, either, and I don't know why Bran's so quiet on the matter but I would hope he feels the same. And I know you probably don't and I certainly don't, but we have to have an answer. We have to think about it. I don't want to just be a footnote in that stupid book of Sam's. I want the North to survive and thrive and I need to know that if something happens to me, whether it's now or fifty years from now, that I left it in good hands." She reached out blindly and there was his hand, and she clutched it, vice-like. "Arya has Gendry. Bran has Brienne and Sam and Pod. If we both don't make it, I want you and Jon to have each other."

Tears were swimming in his eyes, just like she could feel in hers, and he pressed a kiss to her hand, and he'd done that plenty since the crypts, but this time it felt like it had then, like an apology and a goodbye. She let out a breath as he released her hand.

"Alright," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "And with that, we're not going to talk about it again."

"Alright," she agreed. Needing to lighten the conversation, she continued, "I was looking through the family book today, for name inspiration." Tyrion paused, his fork suspended in midair, and looked at her. She furrowed her brow back at him and asked, "What?"

"I assumed the child would be named after your parents. Or perhaps Robb or Rickon."

"I'm not decided, just yet. I feel… I don't want to imagine my parents every time I hold my child. Or have the babe think I want them to grow up to replace my dead family. But that's what's done in the North; you name children after family members and friends and great kings."

"In the Westerlands, families often have similar names. Tytos had Tywin who had Tyrion. Strong Lannister names, the three of them," he said. She was unable to contain her snort, and he grinned at her, all traces of their previous conversation gone from his face. "I suppose they, too, where handed down. There was some variation, of course, as to which syllables appeared where in the family. Tyrion, for example, can be traced to both Tywin and my uncle Gerion. Then it was our second name that was usually directly after someone else."

"Well, I found a name that I quite like, if we have a boy. We could still call him Ned, if we wanted, but it's perhaps more fitting for our son than 'Eddard.'"

"What's the name?"

"Edderion. He was a King in the North, back before the Targaryean conquest. They called him the Bridegroom because he had six wives over the course of his reign, before the Boltons flayed him. But there have been a few Edderions since, mostly distant cousins and the like. It seems like a good way to combine our families. To honor our pasts while creating our future."

He smiled, and she smiled, and she knew they were on the same page on this, on that, on everything.

"I love you," she said. It had slipped out of her early in the mornings or in the bliss of sex, but she had yet to say it, intentionally, to his face like she'd promised.

"I love you," he replied, and this warmth was what the song spoke of, all those years ago, and that realization almost made her cry.

Edderion Brandon Stark arrived in the early hours of a hot summer night, after over a day of laboring. Tyrion didn't leave her side, even when she started bleeding quite a bit and the midwife and Maester Wolkan were talking quickly to each other in hushed words, but it did stop, and she and Ned were okay.

Her son had ten fingers and ten toes, and, to Tyrion's pure relief, proportional features. The fuzz on his head was a dark blonde, and his eyes were just a shade bluer than her own. She wouldn't be surprised if they lightened to the blue-grey of the Starks, rather than the greens and browns of the Lannisters.

As the heir to the North, it wasn't a question that Ned would be a Stark, and her husband didn't seem at all offended by it. And she wanted to honor Tyrion's heritage still, with a second name, and who better to get them name from than the man who brought them together, not once but twice?

After they stitched her up, they left her, Tyrion, and Ned alone. She had dozed for a bit after feeding him, but very lightly, and she could hear Tyrion speaking to him in a low, quiet voice, but she couldn't make out most of the words, drifting in and out as she was. She eventually gave up, pushing herself up, wincing a bit at the soreness between her legs, and angling herself so that her head rested on Tyrion's shoulder. He kissed her hair.

"I'm so proud of you," he whispered, and she shot him a tired smile, running her hand across Ned's blanket. He had fallen asleep much better than she had, clearly exhausted by the ordeal of being born. "He looks a lot like you."

"He was born less than a day ago; I don't think he looks much like anyone."

"No, see. His nose looks just like yours, thank the gods, and he purses his lips while he sleeps just like you do," Tyrion said.

"He has your eyes, though. I mean, I know they look like mine, but the shape, the eyebrows, even the eyelashes… that's all you. His face is long, too; mine is short and points out at the bottom," she replied, pushing herself closer to him. Tyrion, apparently still attuned to her every need even though their son was now right between them, passed him over to her, carefully making sure he wasn't jostled. He didn't wake up, but he stretched a bit, making them both pause.

"Do you think they're happy for us?" she whispered, knowing he would know exactly what she meant. He kissed her hair again, adjusting himself slightly so that he could tilt towards her instead of the other way around.

"They're happy we're happy. Though I doubt your mother would approve."

"And your father would hate that he's a Stark," she said, chuckling. She never thought she could chuckle over anything to do with Tywin Lannister.

"Well, we owe him something, I suppose. Ned wouldn't be here without him." Sansa wrinkled her nose.

"Let's not discuss your father in our marriage bed ever again." She felt more than heard his laughter, with his chest pressed against hers as it was.

"Agreed."

"I don't think that's true, though. That Ned wouldn't be here without him."

"Oh?"

"We chose each other. That's why Ned's here. He wouldn't be him if we'd had him back then. It's the same way that I don't know if I would be as happy as I am with you if we'd stayed in King's Landing, or gone to Casterly Rock, but here, now, in this moment...I am. And I love you."

She'd always been the romantic between them, after all. She hadn't felt like one in a long time. But sitting here, with her husband, and her son… There would be a family in Winterfell again. One filled with love and laughter and she couldn't wait for it all.

"You're going to be a wonderful mother, you know."

"And you a wonderful father. I know it in my bones. Let's just tune out everything for the rest of the day, okay? Just us."

"Just us," he agreed. He wrapped his arms around her, and she could tell he was thinking about kissing her again.

Ned wriggled in her arms, diverting her attention from her affectionate husband to quiet him. He rooted against her chest and she brought one of her hands up to loosen the laces. A wetnurse was practical, of course, because she had meetings to attend and people to see, but she didn't want anyone to leave her right now, and besides, she'd fed Ned earlier and she'd quite enjoyed it. Maybe they wouldn't need one after all.

He latched on without any real difficulty and she rested her head back against Tyrion's shoulder, watching Ned as he looked up at the two of them and sucked happily. This was what she'd dreamed of as a child. It felt so strange to have it, now, after so long of thinking she never would.

"Did I mention your tits are wonderful, too?"

She couldn't exactly shove him with Ned in her arms, so she settled for butting her head against his, and they laughed together. Her laughter faded into a yawn, but she couldn't sleep. Despite her exhaustion, she'd never felt more awake than here, with them. She'd waited so long to have a family in the halls of Winterfell again. She would thank the gods every day that it had finally come.

A/N: Edderion the Bridgegroom is a canonical King in the North who was flayed by the Boltons; I stole the explanation of his nickname from Henry VIII.

Well folks, that's it. Thank you so much for coming along on this ride with me. I don't know if there will be more in this series, but I hope you've enjoyed what there is. Leave a review if you enjoyed this fic; it's awesome hearing from you, and you can come talk to me over on Tumblr at yetanotheremptypage. *waves*