Author's Note: This chapter took a great deal longer to edit than I had hoped. I'm so sorry it's late. I have yet to start editing the next chapter, and I have no idea how long that one is going to take. If I can, I will have it posted next Monday, but it may take longer a little longer. Thank you all for your patience.

Chapter Thirty-one

Tyrion slept so soundly that night that he didn't even dream. It was a welcome change from the nightmares he was used to, and he had no desire to open his eyes when morning came. He could feel Sansa still wrapped in his arms, her breath shallow, her skin warm against his own. His right arm had gone numb sometime during the night, but he didn't care. He refused to move even an inch until she awoke. He didn't want to do anything to disturb her peace or to break the spell they were both under.

The night before had been a revelation! Although Tyrion hadn't doubted that he would find pleasure in Sansa's arms, he had never expected to find true intimacy. But once he'd sworn his fidelity on his mother's bones, everything had changed. Now, there was trust between him and Sansa again, something that had seemed impossible just a day before. Of course, it had come at a steep price, but Tyrion was glad for it. He hadn't wanted to keep fighting with Sansa. He had wanted to love her. And last night, he'd finally gotten his chance.

Tyrion opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, his fingers absently stroking Sansa's hair. He loved everything about her: her beauty, her bravery, her spirit. She was everything that he wasn't. She was good and kind and pure of heart. Tyrion wished he could be more like Sansa, but the world had left him far too jaded for that. When he'd been young, long before he'd ever set foot in King's Landing, he'd been something of an idealist himself, a dreamer like Sansa. But that had been a long time ago. It had been ages since Tyrion had believed in anything, but lying there in Sansa's bed, holding her in his arms, he could almost believe that the world was a beautiful place and that lovely young maidens could fall in love with bitter old dwarves.

And for the first time in his life, Tyrion felt like he truly belonged somewhere, like he was wanted. He had a family now, his own family, independent of his father and sister. He had a wonderful wife, a loving son. Even a pain-in-the-ass sister-in-law. It was everything he had ever wanted, even if he hadn't quite known it. He was happy for the first time in a long time, and he was afraid that something was going to ruin it. Sansa was still expecting him to leave for Casterly Rock at the end of the month. But what if he didn't? What if he decided to stay? Would she be amenable to the idea, or would it just cause more strife between them? After all, if he stayed, Winterfell would be his to command. Could Sansa truly give up her autonomy, or would she resent him for taking what was rightfully hers?

Tyrion didn't even want to think about it. There would be time to settle all of that before the month was through. For now, he just wanted to lie in bed and cherish the feel of his wife sleeping soundly in his arms. It was a dream from which he never wanted to wake. But unfortunately, the gods had other plans.

Tyrion heard footsteps racing down the corridor outside Sansa's bedchamber. Before he could even comprehend whose footsteps they were, the door burst open and Eddard barreled into the room, hurling himself at the bed with a running jump. "Good morning!" he shouted as he landed on top of both his parents.

Sansa was instantly awake. "Eddard!" she shrieked, clutching the furs and pulling them all the way up to her chin.

Tyrion sat up, grabbing Eddard about the waist and pulling him onto his lap so that Sansa could make a hasty retreat. She moved to the other side of the bed, sitting up against the headboard, her nakedness still shielded by the covers.

"What do you think you're doing?" Tyrion scolded. "That's no way to wake your mother."

"But Aunt Arya said I could."

Tyrion's eyes darted to the open doorway. There, casually leaning up against the doorjamb, was Arya, a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

"Oh, did she now?" Tyrion asked, his eyes never leaving Arya.

"She did. She said I should wake you both."

"Arya!" Sansa exclaimed, clearly horrified by her sister's behavior.

Arya just shrugged. "It's late. You've missed breakfast. We couldn't let you sleep the day away. Someone had to wake you."

"But not Eddard. Not like this."

Tyrion turned to look at Sansa. Her cheeks were bright red, and he could tell that she was utterly mortified. He knew he had to do something to save her before things got any worse, so he turned his attention back to Eddard. "Eddard, have you had your breakfast?"

Eddard nodded emphatically, his unruly curls bobbing all around his head.

"And have you had your morning sparring lesson with your Aunt Arya yet?"

"No, not yet. She wanted to wake you first."

"Well, we're awake now. You've done your duty like a good little lordling. You should get on with your training. All right?"

"But I'd rather stay and cuddle with you." Then, without warning, Eddard squirmed from Tyrion's arms and tried to slip beneath the furs.

"No!" Sansa cried, clamping her hands down on either side of her body, holding the furs flat against the mattress to bar Eddard's way.

Tyrion grabbed the boy again, hoisting him up and planting him firmly on his lap. He held Eddard even tighter this time. "Your mother said no. That means no."

"But—"

"No, Eddard. You are to go to the yard and train with your Aunt Arya. That's an order. Do you understand?"

Eddard looked like he was on the verge of tears, and it almost broke Tyrion's heart. He had never disciplined the boy before, had never really felt it was his place. But now that he knew that Eddard was his trueborn son, he had to start acting like a real parent. He would be firm but gentle. Whatever he did, he would always be a kinder, more understanding father than Tywin Lannister. Had circumstances been different, Tyrion would have happily allowed Eddard to join them in bed, but both he and Sansa were still naked beneath the covers and it would have been highly inappropriate. So Tyrion remained stalwart. He turned his attention to Arya and said, "Lady Arya, please take Eddard out into the yard. I believe you've had enough fun for one day."

Arya's expression didn't change one bit. She'd gotten what she'd wanted. She had embarrassed them both, and she looked mighty pleased with herself. She held out a hand toward the bed. "Come, Eddard. Your lord father has given you a command, and apparently, you must obey."

Tyrion saw Eddard warring with himself. He could tell that the boy wanted to whine, to throw a tantrum to get his way, but he was the future Lord of Winterfell and his mother had taught him that his duty was more important than his own personal desires. Eventually, Eddard gave in and turned away from Tyrion, slipping from his arms and sliding off the bed to the floor. He walked toward Arya with slow, anguished steps, as if the weight of the world had been laid on his shoulders. He purposefully ignored both his parents, and Tyrion was quite impressed by just how dramatic he could be when he put his mind to it.

Eddard walked past Arya and straight out the door. The instant he was over the threshold, he sped down the corridor, no doubt headed to the yard on his own.

Arya raised an eyebrow, giving Tyrion a knowing look, but she didn't say anything more. She just closed the door behind her, leaving Tyrion and Sansa in awkward silence.

Tyrion turned to look at his wife. She was staring into the empty hearth, the fire having burned out hours ago. Her skin was still tinged pink, and he didn't think he had ever seen her look more mortified.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," Tyrion said softly, not knowing what else to say. "Would you like me to leave?"

Sansa turned her head, finally looking at him. She seemed surprised by the question. "Why would I want you to leave?"

Tyrion inhaled a long, slow breath, trying to think of a suitable answer. "I just thought that, perhaps, now that it's morning, you would like your privacy so that you can call your handmaiden to help you get ready for the day."

"Oh." The word was so small, and yet, so full of disappointment.

"Unless, of course, you'd prefer that I stay. I know we have work to do today, but it can't be that late." Tyrion glanced at the unshuttered windows, trying to discern the position of the sun. As far as he could tell, it was just after breakfast. When he looked at Sansa again, he said, "I imagine we have at least an hour before we have to be in the Great Hall."

"I would like you to stay, please."

Tyrion's heart swelled with joy, but he refused to let it show on his face. He didn't want Sansa to think he was getting his hopes up.

"In that case," Tyrion said, "what is it that you would like me to do? I can call for breakfast, if you like, since we seem to have missed it."

Sansa shook her head. "No, that's not what I want."

The air stilled in Tyrion's lungs as he stared up into his wife's striking blue eyes, hoping that he was the thing she wanted. "Then, what do you want?" he asked, surprised that his voice wasn't trembling.

"To lie with you a little longer, if that's all right."

Tyrion sighed in relief. "Yes, of course, that's fine." He lay back down on the bed, adjusting his position so that he could rest his head on the pillows.

Sansa finally let go of the furs, snuggling up next to him and resting her head against his chest. Tyrion could feel the heat of her flushed cheek against his own cool skin, and it felt wonderful! It felt wonderful to finally have her in his arms and to be able to comfort her after so many years of not having been there for her.

"Is your sister always like that?" Tyrion asked as he lazily ran his fingertips up and down her bare arm.

"Only every other day. She loves to torture and embarrass me. She always has."

"Yes, I remember," Tyrion said, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.

"You remember?" Sansa propped herself up on one elbow so that she could look down at him. "What do you mean, you remember? Before you returned to Winterfell, you hardly ever saw us together. In fact, I don't think you even noticed either one of us when you first visited Winterfell all those years ago."

"I'm not talking about when I first visited Winterfell. I'm talking about what you told me that day in the garden. Remember? Sheep shift?"

Sansa's cheeks burned an even darker crimson, and Tyrion was certain she remembered the moment quite clearly. "I honestly thought—"

"Yes, I know what you thought, and it was absolutely adorable."

"I was such a silly, naïve little girl. I've learned a lot since then."

"Yes, you have."

Sansa gazed down at Tyrion's chest, her fingers idly tracing patterns against his skin. "You've taught me a great deal. You know that, don't you?"

Tyrion exhaled a shaky breath. "I've taught you a lot of painful lessons. I'm sorry about that."

"Life has taught me a lot of painful lessons. It's not just you."

"Sansa." Tyrion reached out, taking her hand and stilling her fingers. "Look at me, please."

Sansa raised her eyes to Tyrion's. There was pain there, a pain he knew had nothing to do with him. A deeper pain than anything she had suffered at his hands.

There was something that Tyrion had wanted to ask Sansa for some time, but the moment had never presented itself before. But now was his chance. "Tell me something, Sansa. Tell me what Littlefinger did to you."

Sansa tried to pull her hand away, but Tyrion refused to let her go. He knew he was asking a great deal, but he needed to know the truth. He had abandoned her five long years ago, run off to Essos to protect himself, without ever looking back. It was his fault that Littlefinger had absconded with her and his fault that she'd been left to find her way back to Winterfell on her own.

"I don't . . . I don't want to talk about it," Sansa said. "I can't."

Tyrion's hand tensed around Sansa's, fear of what she must have suffered overwhelming him for a moment. She had never given him the slightest indication that Littlefinger had abused her in any way, but now, Tyrion worried that she had endured more than he had ever imagined. He didn't want to push her too far, but there were things he needed to know.

"Sansa—"

"Please, Tyrion. Not this. I . . . I just want to forget all of it. It's like a nightmare I can't wake from, and I try never to think about it."

"Don't you think it might help to talk?"

Sansa shook her head. "No. It was a dark time in my life. Everything that happened after I left Winterfell was dark and tragic and traumatic. I've moved on from that now, and I don't ever let myself dwell on the past. If I did, I might crumble under the weight of it."

Tyrion stared up into Sansa's eyes, stunned silent by her words. Although she wouldn't tell him what had happened with Littlefinger, she had shared something else with him, a little piece of herself that she had never shared before, and it meant more to Tyrion than he could ever express. He let go of her fingers and reached up to gently stroke her hair. She was so beautiful, and at moments like this, so impossibly vulnerable. He was so used to her pretending to be strong that seeing her like this touched him deeply. It made him want to protect her, to shield and comfort her, for the rest of his days.

"I'm sorry, Sansa," Tyrion said softly. "I wish I could have spared you some of that pain."

"You did. You protected me from Joffrey. Had you not bedded me when I asked you to, he might have forced himself on me and Eddard might have been his child, not yours. And for that alone, I will always be grateful to you."

It seemed such a ridiculous thing for her to be grateful for. She had asked him to bed her, and he had done it, not because he was some noble knight, but because he was a man and she was a beautiful woman and he'd selfishly wanted her even then. There was nothing altruistic in what he'd done, no matter how much she had romanticized their encounter in the intervening years.

"I'm glad that I was able to give you what you needed at the time," Tyrion said, not sure how else to respond.

"You did. And that's exactly what you're doing now, giving me what I need."

"A baby. Yes, I know."

Sansa didn't say anything. She stared at Tyrion for a long moment, then leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss against his lips. When she broke away, she lowered herself back down to the bed, resting her head against his chest again and sighing contentedly.

Tyrion continued to stroke Sansa's hair. He liked being close to her. He liked touching her, even in innocent ways. Just having her in his arms gave him greater joy than he had ever known. And now, more than ever, he wished that he had believed her about Eddard from the first day of his arrival. It would have saved them both a lot of heartache, and they could have spent more time making love and less time arguing.

Sansa was quiet for so long that Tyrion thought she might have fallen asleep, but suddenly, she surprised him by breaking the silence, her words low and quiet. So quiet, in fact, that if she hadn't been lying so close to him, he wouldn't have heard them at all. "He sent someone to fetch me at Joffrey and Margaery's wedding," she said.

Tyrion's whole body tensed, and he silently prayed that Sansa hadn't noticed. She was talking about Littlefinger, that much was obvious, and he didn't want to give her any reason to stop. He wanted to know everything.

"Ser Dontos," Sansa continued. "I should have known then that Littlefinger was involved in Joffrey's murder. Why else would he have had an escape already planned for me? But I was young and stupid. Mostly stupid. I followed him blindly, believed every word he said. He killed Ser Dontos right in front of me. Told me the man was a liar who only wanted to do me harm. But he wasn't the only one who was a liar. I just didn't know it then."

Sansa's fingers began to move against Tyrion's chest again, skimming lightly along his flesh, but he barely felt it. Every nerve in his body was fixated on Sansa's voice, waiting in painful anticipation of what was to come.

"He took me to the Eyrie, and once we were there, he married and murdered my Aunt Lysa. And still, I trusted him," Sansa said, her voice breaking with emotion. "I trusted him. He wanted to marry me off to Roose Bolton's bastard – Roose Bolton, who had already taken Winterfell for himself. Littlefinger was furious when he learned that I was pregnant and that his plans had been thwarted. He pretended he wasn't, but I could tell that he was. He hated Eddard, wouldn't even look at him, thought he looked too much like a Lannister and not enough like a Stark. In retrospect, I'm surprised he didn't try to kill Eddard. But perhaps he knew I'd never recover from such a loss. Or perhaps he wanted to keep Eddard alive in hopes that he might one day inherit Casterly Rock."

Tyrion didn't want to know what Littlefinger's plans for Eddard had been. The very thought made the blood burn in his veins, but he forced himself to remain outwardly calm. He listened to Sansa without interrupting, still rhythmically caressing her hair. He wanted her to feel safe. He wanted her to feel like she wasn't being judged, like she could tell him anything.

"When Jon came and we were finally able to retake Winterfell, Littlefinger became my trusted advisor. I thought he was my friend. I thought he cared about me and the fate of my entire family, but I couldn't have been more wrong. He tried to turn me against Arya, and I almost let him because, even though I was a grown woman, a mother and the Lady of Winterfell, I was still a stupid little girl who trusted Littlefinger implicitly. If it hadn't been for Bran—" Sansa inhaled a shuddering breath, and Tyrion finally realized that she was fighting back tears. "If it hadn't been for Bran, if he hadn't told me the truth, I would have kept on believing Littlefinger, and I might have destroyed my own family in the process."

Sansa stopped then, her hand stilling against Tyrion's chest. Her breathing was uneven, and he knew she was in distress. He wanted to say something to comfort her, but he struggled to find the words. What could he say that wouldn't make matters worse? She obviously felt as if everything that had ever happened to her at Littlefinger's hands was her own fault. She blamed herself for not having realized the truth sooner, but as far as Tyrion was concerned, she was completely blameless.

"It isn't your fault," Tyrion said. "You know that, don't you? You couldn't have known."

"Oh, yes, I could have. I just refused to see what was right in front of me because I didn't want to. I didn't want to think ill of Littlefinger. He had been a friend of my mother's, and I thought . . . well, I thought he cared about her and me, but of course, I was wrong."

"And yet, you survived, and here you are now, the Lady of Winterfell. Things could have been considerably worse."

"Yes, but they could also have been considerably better. I'll never forget the lessons Littlefinger taught me, and I'll never forgive myself for believing in him either. He tried to kill my brother. He murdered my aunt. He betrayed my father. He started the conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters. Every terrible thing that has ever happened to me has been a direct result of Littlefinger's machinations, and I would never have even seen it if it wasn't for Bran. Sometimes, I don't think I am fit to be the Lady of Winterfell. Sometimes, I feel like little more than an imposter."

Tyrion finally stopped stroking Sansa's hair. He wrapped both arms around her and held her tightly. "You're not an imposter, Sansa. You have every right to be called the Lady of Winterfell. You are every bit the lady that your mother was, and I know she would be proud of you if she could see you now."

Sansa shook her head. "No. My mother was a smart, shrewd woman. She would never have been deceived as I was. I am not worthy to stand in her stead."

Tyrion wondered if he should point out that Catelyn Stark had been deceived by Littlefinger as well, but he feared that Sansa would take it as a slight against her beloved mother and not simply as an illustration of the extent of Lord Baelish's treachery. "Your mother was an admirable woman," Tyrion said, treading carefully, "but she trusted Littlefinger just as you did. She had no reason not to trust him."

"But I had reason not to trust him. I had more than enough reason. Even when he . . ." Sansa buried her face against Tyrion's chest and groaned in frustration, refusing to finish the thought.

But Tyrion needed to know what she'd been going to say. "Even when he what?"

Sansa shook her head again. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does matter." Tyrion loosened his arms around her, hoping that she might draw back and look at him again. "Sansa, look at me, please."

"No." She turned her head so that her cheek was flat against his chest again, gazing off somewhere into the distance. "I can't."

"Why can't you?"

"Because I am guilty of what I accused you of, and I hate myself for it."

Tyrion's blood instantly flushed cold. His limbs felt weak, and had he been standing, he was sure he would have collapsed. Had Sansa lain with Littlefinger after all? She had sworn on her father's bones that no other man had ever shared her bed, but now, her words seemed to contradict that vow. Was it true? And if it was, why had she chosen to tell him now?

"What . . . what do you mean?" Tyrion asked, his voice trembling despite his best efforts.

"I was unfaithful, though I didn't mean to be. I didn't want to be. But Littlefinger didn't seem to care that I was married. He said that you were never coming back for me, so it didn't matter."

The breath caught in Tyrion's throat, and he lay there deathly still. Everything he'd thought he knew about his wife was suddenly thrown into question, and the shock was overpowering. She had said that she hadn't meant to be unfaithful, that she hadn't wanted to be unfaithful. Had Littlefinger forced her? Had he raped her and let her believe that it was her fault? Tyrion hoped that wasn't the case. As devastated as he was by the idea of Sansa giving herself to Petyr Baelish, he knew he would be even more devastated to discover that Littlefinger had forced her against her will.

"Sansa—"

"I'm sorry, Tyrion. I didn't mean for it to happen. I really didn't. But I never expected him to kiss me, not while we were in the Vale, not after he had married my Aunt Lysa. But he came to me in the garden one afternoon, and suddenly, he was kissing me, and I just stood there and I let him. I was so in shock that I just let him."

"And then?" Tyrion asked, afraid to even say the words.

"And then, he did it again in the crypts beneath Winterfell. I don't know what he truly wanted from me. Bran says he loved mother and that's why he did it, but it seems a sick, twisted reason to make a married woman break her vows."

Tyrion was confused. He was waiting for something more, but Sansa's story seemed to have ended, and he was left with more questions than answers. "Sansa?" he asked, his tone far less strained than before, "what else did Littlefinger do to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you said you were unfaithful. Did you lie with him?"

"What?" Sansa finally pulled back so that she could look down at Tyrion. "How can you even ask that?"

"You said you were unfaithful."

"Yes, I broke my vow. I let another man kiss me. If that isn't breaking faith, I don't know what is."

Tyrion suddenly laughed, unable to stop himself.

"It isn't funny," Sansa said, a scowl marring her pretty face.

"Yes, it is."

"No, it isn't. I have dishonored myself, and I can never make it up to you."

Tyrion smiled at her softly. She was so impossibly sweet and earnest. Everything about her was endearing, and he couldn't have loved her more at that moment if he had tried. "You don't have anything to be sorry for, Sansa. They were just stolen kisses, nothing more. I thought you meant that Littlefinger had bedded you. In fact, for a moment, I thought perhaps he had forced you."

"No, never. He never went that far, and I never would have allowed it. I wish I had stopped him from kissing me, but—"

"Don't," Tyrion said. "It's not your fault. I know how manipulative Lord Baelish could be."

"But you have been faithful to me, and I have betrayed you."

Tyrion screwed up his face in distaste, wondering if he should tell Sansa the absolute truth since they were both being so brutally honest with each other. Honesty in a relationship was a novelty for Tyrion, and he was tempted to see just how far he could go before Sansa threw him out of her bed. "Well," he said, deciding to test his fortune, "that isn't entirely true."

"You mean you have kissed someone else since we've been wed."

"No, no, not that," Tyrion said, trying to find the words to explain. "But I have . . . touched another woman since we've been wed, though it wasn't my intention to do so either."

Sansa looked away, staring at his chest with a blank expression. "It was Shae, wasn't it?"

"It was. She tried to seduce me, but I resisted. For a lot of reasons. After that, I tried to send her away. Cersei knew that I had someone, that I'd been involved with someone before we were wed, and if she had discovered it was Shae, she would have had her killed." Tyrion laughed bitterly. "Ironic, isn't it? There I was, worrying about Cersei killing Shae when I was the one who would ultimately end her life. I think I may be the one who is unworthy of their position here at Winterfell."

Tyrion suddenly felt uncomfortable being in Sansa's bed. After everything he had done, he didn't feel worthy of being in her presence any longer. He let go of her and quietly slipped from the mattress, reaching the floor before she could even speak.

"Where are you going?" Sansa asked.

Tyrion turned around to look up at her. She was sitting on the bed now, holding the covers up against her chest. Her face was flushed and her eyes looked pained, and he wondered if she was hurt because he was leaving or because she felt betrayed.

"It's getting late," Tyrion said, "and I think we've both had enough truth for one morning. If you will excuse me, my lady."

Tyrion didn't wait for a reply. He turned away and searched the floor for his nightshirt, knowing he couldn't walk the halls of Winterfell without a stitch of clothing on. When he finally found it, he shrugged it over his head with a defeated sigh. Then, he turned back toward the bed and retrieved his robe, slipping it on as well. When he finally looked up at Sansa again, he realized that she hadn't moved an inch, and he knew she'd been watching him the entire time.

"I'm sorry, Sansa. Truly, I am. I didn't mean to—"

"It doesn't matter," she said. And at first, Tyrion wasn't quite sure what she meant. He thought she meant his apology, but he soon discovered he was wrong. "What happened back in the Red Keep doesn't matter. You said you didn't lie with Shae after we were wed?"

"I didn't."

"Then there is no harm done."

Tyrion stepped toward the bed. He reached for Sansa's hands, taking them in his own, and he was surprised when she didn't pull away. "There is only no harm done if you concede that your supposed infidelity wasn't much of an infidelity either."

"But I—"

"No. You can't have it both ways. Either we're both miserable cheats, or neither one of us is. That's it. There's not one moral standard for you and another for me. All right?"

Sansa nodded. "All right."

"Good." Tyrion lifted her right hand and placed a gentle kiss against her knuckles. Then, he did the same with her left hand. "Now," he said, looking up at her again. "I must leave you. We've lingered here far too long, and the hour is waning. We do have responsibilities we both must tend to. I will see you in the Great Hall in a little while."

Tyrion tried to pull his hands away, but Sansa wouldn't let him go.

"What is it?" he asked, fearing that something had gone horribly wrong.

"There's something I need from you before you go."

Tyrion stared up at her quizzically. "Name it, my lady, and it is yours."

"This," Sansa said, leaning forward and kissing him softly.

Tyrion's whole body flushed with warmth, and his cock began to stir. He wished he had the time to love her properly, but the morning was already slipping away.

When Sansa pulled back, there was an unmistakable fire in her eyes, and Tyrion knew that if he climbed back into bed, they'd spend the rest of the morning making love. But he resisted the urge, knowing they had more pressing duties to attend to.

"Yes, well," Tyrion said, nearly tripping over the words, "I will see you in the Great Hall."

"Until then, my lord."

"Until then."

Tyrion turned around quickly, before his treacherous body could make him do something stupid. He crossed the room without another glance back, knowing that if he so much as caught another glimpse of his wife, he'd end up in her bed again. He left the room quietly, resisting the urge to stop in the hall to catch his breath. Everything had changed between him and Sansa since he'd entered her room the night before, and he was still reeling from it. He didn't know what it all meant exactly, but it could only be for the better, even if she still expected him to leave at the end of the month.

Tyrion headed straight for his room, his legs shaking, his knees weak. He was so desperately in love with his wife that he almost felt giddy. He wished he could tell her, but he feared the words would scare her away. He would bide his time and see if her feelings for him changed. There was more than a fortnight left before he was scheduled to leave. Perhaps, in the intervening days, he could convince Sansa to let him stay. Or better yet, maybe she would ask him to stay of her own accord. It was no longer beyond the realm of possibility, and Tyrion chose to hope for the best. He wasn't used to being optimistic anymore, but under the circumstances, he couldn't quite help himself. He felt closer to Sansa now than he ever had before, and he was starting to believe that they just might get their happy ending after all.