Chapter 43
Sansa smoothed out her gown, turning to see the back in the mirror.
"Do you think the colour is right?" she asked.
"It's the day of your wedding, isn't it a bit late?"
Sansa bit her lip. "I like the grey, but do you think the blue would have been better?"
"The grey looks fine." Arya drew in a breath as if her next words would pain her. "You look beautiful Sansa – mother and father would be proud."
"I hope so, even if they wouldn't approve of my choices."
"Tyrion would grow on them eventually."
Sansa returned her attention to the mirror, carefully examining her outfit. The grey gown was well-fitted to her tall frame and featured white direwolves throughout the design that matched the white fur of her Stark cloak. Her red hair was neatly brushed and hung in a loose Northern style. A simple necklace completed the outfit – a necklace that had belonged to their mother. Arya had found it and had it fixed before presenting it to her, saying only that she'd come across it while investigating Winterfell and thought it was right for Sansa to have it. The gesture touched her, particularly coming from Arya.
"I suppose this gown will do," said Sansa.
"Do? You spent hours picking it and hours getting ready this morning."
"I know." Sansa bit her lip. "I think I'm just nervous."
"That's an understatement," said Arya. Her sister was dressed well, though far from a lady's style. She wore black trousers with a long dark grey tunic bearing the Stark direwolf. As usual, Needle was at her side. "You can still call it off. If you're not ready for marriage…"
Sansa narrowed her eyes. "No chance. I love Tyrion and I want to be his wife, I just…"
"Don't overthink the bedding. Tyrion will know what to do, and I'm sure my soon-to-be brother won't hurt you if he wants to live long enough to see Gerry grow up."
"He would never hurt me."
"If you know that, what are you worrying about?"
Sansa nodded, acknowledging the truth in Arya's words. That was the truth and she couldn't let her mind believe otherwise. She reached down, holding her hand out to Jenny. The little wolf came to her quickly, brushing against her hand.
It was the day she'd longed for in childhood. A day that had been forever marred by past experience. Today, was her chance to seize that childhood dream – her husband was waiting – this would be the true love marriage she'd dreamed of.
The air was crisp and fresh, about as pleasant as Tyrion thought it to get in the North. The rain had stayed away and a dusting of snow only added to the beauty of the Godswood. The gathering was modest for a royal wedding but Tyrion was grateful the crowd wasn't larger – he was nervous enough already.
He picked out the familiar face of lord Manderly and several of the other Northern lords who happened to be visiting at the right time to attend the wedding. The only lord who'd travelled was Cley Cerwyn whose castle was less than a day's ride away. He was a welcome sight at least, and had smiled encouragingly when Tyrion entered the Godswood with Jon, Godwin and Gerry. The only other friendly face was Yvette, whom he'd personally invited. The servant had positively beamed at the invitation and after helping him get ready she'd joined the Maester in attending the ceremony.
From what Tyrion understood of marriage before the Old Gods, the groom's father was supposed to conduct the ceremony with the bride's father escorting her to the Heart Tree, but this wasn't to be a traditional wedding. Jon had met him with Godwin at his chambers and brought him to the Godswood, where Jon stood ready to officiate the ceremony. Tyrion wished Jon's face wasn't predisposed to melancholy – it was only adding to the doubt that had plagued him these past two weeks. Godwin had offered some brief words of reassurance on their way down here but now stood in a respectful silence beside him. Even Gerry was surprisingly still, sitting patiently at his feet.
The whole wedding party was quiet as they waited for the Queen to arrive, giving Tyrion ample time to consider the recurring nightmares he'd had of this ceremony. What if Sansa had changed her mind? He fidgeted on the spot, double-checking the clasps on his plain navy doublet.
At least the first of his concerns was answered quickly. A hushed whisper brought Tyrion's attention to the path leading to the Heart Tree, where Sansa and Arya now approached from. The breath caught in his throat as he drank in the sight of Sansa Stark. The Queen was stunning in a grey gown and cloak that highlighted her fiery hair and ice-blue eyes. A simple crown of direwolves sat atop her head – where a crown had always meant to sit. She was both ice and fire, and Tyrion lost himself in the sight of her.
While Gerry stood with him, his three siblings followed Sansa with Jenny taking the lead, leaving Shadow and Night to follow behind. The effect was stunning. What could bless the Queen in the North's marriage more than the presence of new direwolf pups?
There was a sombreness to the Northern ceremony that wasn't present in the faith of the seven. Both Sansa and Arya wore equally serious looks and Tyrion found himself wishing Sansa would break tradition and offer him some reassuring sign.
"Who comes before the Old Gods this day?" asked Jon.
Arya answered. "Sansa Stark, a woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. The Queen in the North and Lady of Winterfell."
"Who comes to claim her?"
With the eyes of the wedding party on him, Tyrion stepped forward from Godwin. "I do. Tyrion of house Lannister. I cannot claim a Queen, but I offer myself to her. Who gives her?"
"Arya of house Stark, her sister." Arya turned to Sansa. "Do you take this man?"
Finally, Sansa looked at him, though her expression was unreadable. "I take this man."
Tyrion offered his good hand to Sansa and the Queen took it, though the cool air had stolen her familiar warmth. Every eye in the Godswood followed them as they knelt before the Heart Tree. Tyrion had read as much on the ceremony as he could and knew this time was for silent prayer and reflection. His thoughts refused to co-operate. All he could think about was the fresh snow seeping into his breeches, the ache of his weaker leg and most importantly, what came next.
As soon as Sansa let go of his hand and stood, Tyrion's heart began to pound. This was it – the moment in his dreams when laughter fills the Godswood and he's left alone in the snow. He could picture Sansa's expression when he turned to her, a sneer twisting her beautiful features.
'You really thought I'd marry you?'
The dream had repeated with consistent accuracy these past nights. Tyrion was so consumed with listening for the first laughs that he almost forgot what Sansa was doing until a heavy cloak fell around his shoulders.
The laughter never came and Tyrion realised he was a Lannister no more. Sansa took her time settling the cloak around him, letting her hand brush his now damp cheek as she reached around him to fasten the cloak with a silver direwolf pin – the sigil of his new house. She said nothing, but her actions spoke volumes. She understood how this felt better than anyone. He was far from a young maid marrying a stranger, but it was still strange to feel his identity shift. No matter how long he'd thrown aside the Lannister name and titles, this brought with it finality.
He was born a Lannister, but he would die a Stark.
Sansa stepped back and Tyrion forced his shaky legs into action. She took his hand as they turned to the crowd and Tyrion found himself smiling as the weight of the Stark cloak settled around him. It was heavy, but not unwelcome.
Cheers rang out as the sombre mood turned jubilant now the ceremony had completed. Sansa squeezed his hand, drawing his attention to her smiling face. Her blue eyes shone as she looked at him, filled with such warmth and affection he was ashamed for ever dreaming any differently.
Sansa made the first move but Tyrion gladly met her halfway, suddenly hungry to kiss his new wife.
The anxiety that had plagued him for days faded to a whisper, driven out by the excitement of the moment and all that it meant. He was married to Sansa Stark – this was where he belonged.
Sansa didn't think she would ever tire of the happy look on her husband's face. The uncertainty that had followed him in the approach to the marriage had been obvious, but Sansa was never entirely sure what he was doubting, whether it was his ability to rule, his place in their family or both. It didn't matter which – Tyrion had no need to doubt either – and now the ceremony had passed he seemed far more relaxed.
She let her eyes follow him as he talked with Cley Cerwyn. The navy cloak and direwolf pin suited him perfectly, and she hoped in time he would see that too. She'd moved slowly in cloaking him, knowing full well how it felt to be taken into another house. It was part of the ceremony she'd known worried Tyrion. In their early conversations about the wedding, he'd expressed some hesitation.
"I'm perfectly happy to remain a Hill," he said.
"Our children will need to carry the Stark name."
"Of course, that was never in question."
Sansa chewed her inside cheek, searching for a way to broach the subject. "I don't think you should be a Hill. You are trueborn and will be Prince Consort."
"A name doesn't matter to me," he said. "I love you, and I'm happy to be your paramour. I can hide in the shadows, a nameless mystery who fathers your children."
Sansa shook her head softly. "I need you with me, Tyrion, in all things."
At once his mood sobered. "Then that is where I'll be. I gave up the Lannister name."
"You gave up your titles and call yourself Hill, but the name is still yours to use. I'm happy to marry you as a Lannister."
"I can't," he said, "I can't be a Lannister again and take that name."
"Then take mine."
It was a simple solution as far as Sansa had been concerned. As Queen, she would not change her name from Stark and Tyrion would not continue with the Lannister name, nor could she let him carry on as the father of her children with a bastard's name. Tyrion was marrying a Queen – there was no shame in him taking her name, though Tyrion's hesitation was born from feeling unworthy of it.
It had taken time and a lot of reassurance to convince Tyrion he was worthy of the name and more than welcome to take it. Eventually, he'd agreed it was for the best and that he would be honoured to be a Stark. It was a decision Sansa would never regret. Tyrion already looked so happy and more confident in himself. As insistent as he'd been on keeping the name Hill, this was what he'd needed. The Stark name gave him a sense of belonging a bastard name never would.
"Your parents would be proud," said Jon, coming up behind her.
"I think father would be surprised I had a Northern wedding, considering how desperate I was to get away from here as a child."
Jon smiled. "Aye, but not as surprised as he'd be in your husband."
"If he knew Tyrion like us I think he'd like him. Mother would be more difficult."
"She'd probably still like him more than me."
Sansa laughed. "True."
The Great Hall sang with more life than Sansa could remember as the wedding feast continued. Music filled the hall and Northerners were only too happy to celebrate their Queen's marriage. It pleased many of the lords that Tyrion had taken the Stark name, seeing it as another sign he was committed to his new life in the North. That hadn't been Sansa's intention in proposing the idea, but it was a welcome bonus.
Arya threaded her way through the crowd to join them, a smirk on her face. "Lord Stark seems to be enjoying himself."
"Good," said Sansa, "I know he was nervous about this."
"It's not like it's the first wedding for either of you."
"No, but it's the first real one."
Earlier in the feast, Sansa had been far more comfortable but the hour was growing late and some of the lords were beginning to glance in her direction. She stuck close to Jon and Arya for a while, ignoring the guilt for doing so. She should be with her husband, enjoying their wedding party, but the later the hour grew the more she avoided him.
Tyrion was doing so well considering how he'd largely avoided crowds since Kings Landing. After eating, she'd encouraged him to mingle and he'd truly tried, spending time with Cley Cerwyn and then branching out to lord Manderly and the other minor lords keen to speak to their new liege lord. Sansa bit her lip as she watched him with lord Cerwyn and Godwin. More than once she'd felt his eyes on her and her guilt grew for avoiding him – it wasn't his fault she feared what came next.
When Arya and Jon began giving her strange looks, Sansa knew it was time to make a move. She caught Tyrion's eye, offering him a smile. A minute later he came to join them, hesitating only once on his approach, as if unsure whether he was welcome to do so. Sansa's stomach dropped as she nodded encouragingly. Had it been so obvious she was avoiding him?
"Enjoying the feast?" asked Jon.
"More than I thought I would," said Tyrion, turning his eyes to her. "Are you enjoying yourself?"
"It's been lovely," said Sansa, forcing a smile, "but I'm getting a bit tired."
Awkwardness fell upon them, mostly on Jon and Tyrion who flushed at her words. Arya shook her head, muttering beside her. "You'd think they were both maidens."
Fortunately, Tyrion recovered quickly, understanding blooming in his eyes. "Only if you're ready."
Sansa loved Tyrion, and she loved him even more for the double meaning in his words. He wouldn't force himself on her – he never would. If she didn't want to consummate the marriage, Tyrion would respect that…yet that wasn't an option. There needed to be heirs and when she wasn't faced with the prospect of bedding she did desire Tyrion. How many times had kissing him sent tingles through her body?
She held on to that thought as she took his hand. "Let's go, I've not spent nearly enough time with my husband today."
Tyrion's biggest concern may have been the ceremony, but Sansa's was the bedroom. She'd been perfectly happy when they left the Godswood and began the feast in the Great Hall. It was only as the afternoon turned to evening that she suggested he mingle with the lords and then avoided him. At first, he'd feared he'd done something to upset her, particularly when he saw her with Jon and Arya. His mind had quickly imagined Sansa having second thoughts, and in the moment, the Stark cloak wrapped around him couldn't soothe his panic
It was, surprisingly, one of his new bannermen addressing him as ''lord Stark' that brought him back to reality. He was a Stark now, and Sansa wasn't fickle. The truth of her avoidance had quickly become apparent when he rejoined her.
Sweet Sansa, his beautiful wife, was afraid of consummating their marriage.
The truth had only become more obvious when they left the Great Hall for Sansa's chambers. Servants had arranged the room for the wedding night, with fresh flowers in the window, the hearth burning and a flagon of the North's best wine waiting. Since arriving in the room, Sansa had poured them each a glass of wine and hadn't taken a moment to pause since – she paced the room with nervous energy, making idle conversation about the wedding feast and their guests.
"I think the wedding went well, don't you?" he asked.
A smile flitted over her face. "It's been a lovely day."
"But tonight is bothering you."
"No, Tyrion…it's not that."
He put his wine down, reaching for her hand. "It's alright, I understand. You have nothing to fear from me Sansa. Tell me when you are ready for bed and I will return to my chambers."
Panic flashed in her blue eyes. "These are your chambers, I want you to stay here."
"My dear wife, it's making you uncomfortable."
"Do you not want to bed me? We agreed on children."
"And I still agree, but it needn't be tonight if you are not ready. We have plenty of time."
Sansa chewed her lip, her fingers closing around his as if afraid he might slip away. "I want a real wedding night, Tyrion. Please…I just…need help."
The last words were spoken softly and Tyrion suspected it had been a long time since Sansa asked for help like this.
"I'll stay as long as you like," he said, glancing towards the bed. An odd lump of cushions on the left side of the bed caught his eye and he grinned at Sansa. "Were you getting ready for me?"
He'd meant the joke to lighten Sansa's mood but the red rapidly colouring her cheeks told him he'd unexpectedly hit on the truth. His face fell as understanding set in, but a vicious anger took root in his heart. He'd give anything to bring Ramsay to life, just to kill him himself.
"I was practising," she admitted. "I thought it might help me get used to having someone in bed with me."
Tyrion squeezed her hand, rubbing his thumb into the back of it. "Don't worry Sansa. When you're ready for me to sleep in the bed with you, I promise I won't take up any more space than those pillows."
Sansa stayed quiet for several moments, but when she spoke she dragged all her courage together. "You're sleeping there tonight. You are."
"If that's what you want, but if you'd prefer I go to my chambers or sleep on the chaise, I will happily do so."
"You can't, I've had the bed taken out of your room."
"What?"
A glint of humour came into her face. "That's for tomorrow. Tonight, I want you to claim your rights as my husband…I trust you, Tyrion."
Responsibility settled heavily around Tyrion, but it wasn't unwelcome in this instance. He knew how to please a woman. It had been a long time since he had, but he was still confident enough that he could give Sansa a pleasant experience. Sansa's nervousness was obvious, but she wanted to proceed and he wanted to help her heal as she'd done for him so many times.
"If my wife insists," he said, leading Sansa to the wine. "You're far too tense my dear. Some wine by the hearth will do wonders for you, I'm sure."
Varys folded his hands in his robe, watching the King from the balcony of the throne room. Beside Bran stood Meera – the new Hand of the King. Both faced the iron throne, conversing in low voices. The young woman had arrived earlier this afternoon and was quickly taken to see Bran.
"Do you miss it?"
Varys shuddered at the voice as Bronn appeared behind him, a smirk on his face. "Miss what?"
"Being Hand."
"It was only ever temporary," said Varys. "Bran wanted Tyrion as his first choice but it became obvious Tyrion would never accept that offer if it were made."
"Aye, lucky shit is a Prince now."
"It's hardly luck. He has that position because Sansa Stark fell in love with him. He'll be far happier in the North with her than he would ever be as Bran's Hand."
Bronn moved closer, leaning over the railing. "Do you reckon she'll be happy as Hand to him?"
"They are old friends. From what Bran has told us, Meera is intelligent, loyal and believes in serving the people. She is a unique choice of Hand, particularly given the North is now independent, but that may be for the best."
"And what have you found out about her?" asked Bronn, lifting an eyebrow.
Varys tutted, but couldn't deny it. "Not much more. She is the only child of Howland Reed following the death of her brother Jojen. Howland Reed was a trusted ally of Ned Stark. They are an honourable family and Meera is quite skilled with a spear."
"Brienne mentioned that. I think she's hoping to test how skilled."
"That will be interesting," said Varys. He let himself watch Bran and Meera for a few more moments before turning away. "Come Bronn, I believe it's time we relaxed. For once the Six Kingdoms are in good hands, and the North is securing its future tonight."
Bronn grinned. "Do you reckon she let Tyrion into her bed, or is he on the chaise like last time?"
"I'm certain it's none of our business, but Sansa will want heirs."
"Lucky little bastard."
Sansa curled her legs beneath her, resting her cheek on Tyrion's shoulder as he told her stories of his adventures. They'd drank some more wine, but to Sansa's relief, Tyrion wasn't drinking enough to get drunk like he had on their first wedding night. Since then, they'd sat on the chaise together with Tyrion taking the lead in their evening.
Gradually, the anxiety at sharing a bed with Tyrion had been worn away by his calm, steady presence. She'd relaxed enough to move closer to him on the chaise until she was leaning on him, enjoying the closeness. She breathed in and out, drinking in the safety her husband offered. Tyrion was her husband, not Ramsay. She couldn't let a ghost control her – Tyrion was her future, and he deserved everything.
She cuddled closer, letting her hand wander to the direwolf pin still pinning his Stark cloak in place. It was strange he hadn't taken his cloak off yet, but perhaps that could be the first step.
"It suits you," she said. "My golden wolf."
"I hope I'm worthy of it."
"You are more than worthy. You're a Stark of Winterfell now." She softened her voice. "I know how it feels to have your name – your identity changed – it's okay to miss being a Lannister."
"I don't miss it," he said quickly. He paused as if debating how much more to say. "I-I've had nightmares the last few days. It all seems ridiculous now, but I kept dreaming it was our wedding and when I knelt before the Heart Tree, waiting to be cloaked, everyone laughed. It was like the streets of Kings Landing…"
"You dreamed I'd change my mind?"
"I had nightmares it was all a cruel joke," he said before his mouth lifted into a smile. "And then I felt your hand brush past me and the cloak fall over me – no one laughed. I know who I am now. I'm a Stark, and I'll make you proud."
"I'm already so proud of you," she said, though her mind was stirring at the information. It couldn't be, could it? Two weeks had passed. "Tyrion, if you're willing, maybe we can try going to bed? I would like a real wedding night."
"Then you shall have that as long as you want it. Just promise you'll talk to me? If you're uncomfortable at all, tell me."
She kissed his cheek. "I promise. Perhaps we should get this cloak off you first."
With something to focus on besides her own fear, Sansa found confidence enough to pull Tyrion from the chaise and towards the bed. He didn't protest as she pulled the pin from the cloak, and drew both away from him, though his face fell.
"I'll put these in your draws for you," she said, "I emptied out the set near the left side of the bed and had some extra shelves put in for you."
"You didn't need to do that."
"These are your chambers," she said, setting aside the cloak and pin. "Where else would your possessions be?"
In preparing for tonight, the bed wasn't the only thing she'd had moved from Tyrion's chambers, though how few things he possessed had saddened her. That would change in time. She hoped Tyrion would soon see these rooms as his too and gradually fill them with his personality. For now, she returned to her husband and cupped his face.
"You looked particularly fine in the Godswood," she said. "This colour suits you nicely."
"Yvette thought the navy was best."
"She was very right."
"I thought you were beautiful when we married in Kings Landing," he said, running his fingers down her arm, "but when I saw you enter the Godswood I mistook you for the maiden in flesh."
The action sent warmth tingling through Sansa, and rather than let her desire startle her, she held on to the feeling, pushing herself to continue with her goal. She moved her hands to the clasps of his doublet, silently asking his permission.
A hint of insecurity crept into his face, as if what lay beneath his clothing might somehow turn her away from him. Still, he nodded and Sansa knew it was for her benefit. Her sweet husband would put his own unease aside to help hers.
If she found what she thought she would beneath his clothes, then perhaps she could help his insecurity.
The doublet was soon discarded, leaving Tyrion in just his shift and breaches. She reached for the hem of his shift, gently untucking it.
"May I?" she asked, toying with the edge.
"Some clothing might help your desire," he said. "A little mystery to intrigue you-"
Sansa leaned forward, silencing him with a kiss. When she pulled back, her heart thrummed. "I want you, and I'd like to see all of you."
Tyrion didn't protest as she started to lift his shift until he was standing in just his breaches. Instantly, he dropped his gaze to the floor, waiting for a rejection that would never come. She caught his jaw, guiding him to look at her. "You've no need to hide from me…and I won't hide from you."
"You're the first woman who wasn't paid to love me."
A lump formed in Sansa's throat. "And you're the first man who saw me as more than a name."
It wasn't exactly how she'd thought tonight would go, but it was a different kind of intimacy and if anything, it made Sansa more secure in her decision to push forward. Facing the marriage bed was her challenge, but first to help her husband.
She ran her hand over the tattoo on his ribs. The word imp was gone, replaced by an abstract pattern that covered the original word completely and extended further down his side. Similar designs now adorned the back of his shoulder and his hip. Sansa could see the winding pattern stretching up from the left side of his breaches. In changing the tattoos, Uhlan hadn't simply covered the originals but turned them into small pieces of art. Bigger than what was there, yes, but the tattoos looked like choices and it was less obvious than covering only the words would have been. Sansa had helped to choose the designs, but Uhlan's skill had matched them to Tyrion, suiting them to his body shape until they looked personal.
"They look good," she said softly. "What do you think?"
"Better than I thought they would. You can't see the words at all."
She moved her hand to his chest. "What about this one?"
"Oh…it was bigger than the others. I thought it needed more time."
The hard shell covering the tattoo on his chest was cracked and close to falling off. Sansa's nose wrinkled. Tyrion had obviously washed several times with it on and taken care to ensure it stayed there. Uhlan had told them salt water was the best way to remove them but this one was long past the point it should have been on. Surely Yvette had noticed in helping him get dressed? The woman probably had, and had surely suggested removing it, but she might have thought it a conversation better had by Sansa. Tonight, she was grateful for that – it gave her a perfect opportunity.
"I think it needs to come off," said Sansa, noticing Tyrion wince at the suggestion.
"It can wait. Tonight is about your pleasure, my Queen."
"And yours, my Prince." She smiled, taking his hands in hers. "Trust me?"
"Always."
Sansa guided Tyrion to stand in front of her full-length mirror, leaving him for a few moments, only to return with a small bowl of water and a cloth. Green eyes looked at her pleadingly, but he remained true to his word of trusting her.
"Close your eyes," she said, quickly kissing his cheek.
"Do I get another kiss, If I do?"
Sansa giggled. "Yes, and another if you keep them closed until I tell you."
"Very well," he said closing his eyes, "the thought of your lips will sustain me until then, I suppose."
It took little effort for the water to wash away the hardened paste from Tyrion's chest, though Sansa made sure to properly clean the area. He fidgeted at her touch but it was a lack of familiarity – when he was awake and aware at least. That was something they both needed to learn; to comfort each other freely and openly. When the paste was all gone, Sansa knelt behind Tyrion, facing the mirror. She wound her arms around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder.
Tilting her head, she kissed his cheek, her voice soft. "Open your eyes."
Sansa watched his expression change, moving from apprehensive to surprised.
"Your sigil," he whispered. "A direwolf."
She squeezed him against her. "Our sigil."
"But…how did you…you knew I'd say yes?"
"I knew it didn't matter whether you married me or not, you would always be part of my family. Uhlan suggested covering it with a lion, but I knew you wouldn't want that. I hope you don't mind I chose the wolf for you."
Sansa could see instantly that Tyrion didn't mind at all that the Stark direwolf now covered the left side of his chest, with no trace of the hand of the Queen badge to be seen. Since having the tattoos fixed, she'd asked Tyrion a few times how they were healing and such but she'd avoided asking him directly what he thought of them, knowing it was a sensitive subject. It had seemed strange for him to not comment on the direwolf though, but now she knew it was because he hadn't risked looking at it.
"You see," she said, "you were already a Stark before I cloaked you in the Godswood."
"All that worry for nothing," he said.
"If you'd told me you were having nightmares I would have made sure you saw this earlier. I didn't realise you hadn't seen it at all."
"I knew it would be big," he said, his voice wavering. "I saw the others and they were fine, but I was too nervous to look at that particular one."
"Are you happy?"
"More than you could ever imagine." He lifted his hand, brushing his fingers over the tattoo, before turning to face her. "Why wouldn't I be happy? I'm married to the greatest woman I've ever met."
She kept her arms around him, holding him close. "You're too kind, husband."
When they kissed there was nothing forced about it, nor any apprehension holding Sansa back. Tyrion wasn't a stranger she'd been married off to but her best friend – the one she loved the most in the world. It gave her the confidence to guide his good hand to the back of her gown.
He pulled back from their kissing, his face flushed. "You're sure?"
"I want you," she said, lightly tracing the direwolf tattoo. "Just, please don't be too disappointed."
"What do you mean?"
She swallowed. "There are scars. I'm sorry I'm coming to you used…"
"Don't ever say that again," he said, wrapping his arms around her. His good hand toyed with the lace of her gown. "I will never judge you for your scars. Gods know you manage to look past mine."
"They don't define you."
"Exactly," he said, his breath brushing her cheek. "Would you prefer to move to the bed? Kneeling down can't be comfortable for you."
Sansa's apprehension of sharing a bed had faded to a tiny ember of excitement. She loved Tyrion and his natural warmth was soothing, but it was in understanding intimacy that she let go of some of her fear. She knew Tyrion and he knew her – physically was the only domain they were unfamiliar with.
The move from in front of the mirror to the bed was far from graceful and included far more blushing than Sansa thought it might. Tyrion undid the lace of her gown but with only one good hand he was increasingly frustrated by his clumsiness in undressing her. Likewise, Sansa was nervous to unlace Tyrion's breaches and he was just as wary of the prospect. In the end, they decided to undress themselves and meet in the bed. Sansa was grateful for the cover of the sheets as she slid beneath, with Tyrion joining her a moment later. Her face burned at her unladylike position and the vulnerability of it, but Tyrion's familiar green eyes held only adoration.
He pulled the two cushions out from beneath the sheets, lifting an eyebrow. "Is this my competition then? I must satisfy you more than these two pillows."
"They are very satisfying pillows."
"Let's see if I can do better," he said. After waiting a moment, Tyrion shuffled closer to her in the bed, until she could feel the warmth of his body against hers. He brushed her cheek awkwardly with his damaged hand, drawing her in for a kiss.
Sansa smiled. "That's a definite improvement."
It was difficult to recall when their kissing turned to making love. Sansa only remembered the first of Tyrion's touches clearly, and then when his kisses trailed down her neck to her breasts. Thrills of pleasure stole her breath and her attention as Tyrion took the lead. All thoughts that she wouldn't know what to do faded as instinct took over, urging her to explore her husband and learn how to make love.
When Tyrion positioned himself above her, it was at her urging for him to continue. Fully prepared for her husband to join with her, Sansa felt no fear as he eased his way inside and only completeness as he continued his attentions to her.
Sansa gripped his shoulders, soothing the insecurity from his face with kisses when he fumbled to support himself with his bad hand, and mumbled his name as he brought her pleasure. Tyrion looked glorious. His golden hair ruffled and his face glistened as he breathed her name in her ear.
When they reached the end, Tyrion moved to slip off to the side of her, but Sansa drew him against her instead.
"You are mine and I am yours," she whispered.
"Do you think Sansa went through with it?" asked Arya, ruffling Shadow's fur.
Jon sighed, rubbing his face. "It isn't our business what they did last night."
"Why does bedding embarrass you so much? You're almost as bad as Sansa."
"Arya …" he warned, knowing it would fall on deaf ears.
To give Sansa and Tyrion some privacy, Gerry and Jenny had spent the night in Jon's room with Night and it was barely breakfast time when Arya and Shadow came to join him. Perhaps Arya had spent too long in the castle – her favourite subject of discussion appeared to be their sister and her love life.
"We could have a nephew or niece in nine moons," said Arya.
"Or we might not."
"Sansa needs an heir."
Jon shrugged. "It will happen when the time is right."
"Not a time we can wait for."
Ah, so this was where Arya's thoughts were going. While it wasn't something they regularly discussed, both he and Arya wouldn't stay at Winterfell forever. He needed to go beyond the wall, and Arya had plans of her own – to find what lay west of Westeros.
"Sansa will be fine without us," said Arya, more to herself than him. "She's got Tyrion where she wanted him. Hells, we could come back to Winterfell and a dozen nieces and nephews."
"I quite like the sound of that."
Arya paused, her voice quieting. "So do I."
Sunlight was barely reaching into the room, but Sansa Stark was already wide awake. Propped on one side, she watched the steady rise and fall of her husband's chest. He was fast asleep, but Sansa was half-tempted to wake him.
Instead, she inched closer in the bed, carefully laying her head on the pillow beside him and draping her arm across him so she cuddled into his side. He looked so perfect like this. Untroubled and resting comfortably in his new chambers. Sansa remained still, enjoying his closeness with the memory of last night still bright in her mind. It was nothing like Sansa had imagined possible. At best, she'd thought it might not hurt, but she'd never imagined it could give so much pleasure.
Tyrion had treated her with such tenderness and respect, never hurting but almost worshipping her as he made love. She cuddled closer, lightly brushing her fingers over the direwolf tattoo.
In a way, Sansa was glad he hadn't first seen it alone. The look on his face when he realised he'd been given a forever place in their family before agreeing to a marriage was a memory she would cherish forever. It would be naive to think last night alone would cure Tyrion of his insecurities, but when they'd consummated the marriage, Sansa had only wanted to be closer to Tyrion and he'd agreed with only a half-hearted offer to put a shift on. It had felt perfectly natural to be naked with him last night, and while some awkwardness had returned this morning she was keen to make the most of the situation.
Sansa lay there until the room was bright and the day needed to begin. With Tyrion no closer to waking, it was time to take action. She started placing soft kisses around his face, lightly stroking his chest.
"Lord Stark, you must wake up at once, your wife has need of you," she said, testing the new name on her tongue. It was hard to not think of Tyrion as a lion, but it was important to reinforce that he was a wolf now. Doing so would help both Tyrion and the rest of the North adjust.
His eyes opened, blinking groggily at her. "Sansa, it's morning?"
"It is indeed, my Prince."
He groaned, a smile on his face. "I can't get used to that title."
"Well, you have two to choose from, lord Stark. I suspect our bannermen will use them interchangeably unless you have a particular preference."
"Lord Stark," he repeated. "That will take some getting used to as well."
"You suit them both very well, but I rather like the title 'husband' for you."
"That is better, though not something I'd want lord Manderly to call me."
She laughed lightly, kissing his cheek. "You're all mine."
"That suits me perfectly, dear wife," he said. Sansa felt his good hand move behind her, stroking through the ends of her hair. "Did you sleep well?"
"Very."
"I didn't disturb you?"
"Not at all."
Her apprehension at sharing a bed had soon dissolved after what they shared last night, and Tyrion had been true to his word – she'd barely noticed his presence. This morning she'd found him resting peacefully near the far edge of the bed, a position he'd likely taken in anticipation of her waking and wanting space. The opposite was true.
"You're much better than a pillow," said Sansa, "my only complaint would be that you were too far from me this morning."
"I wasn't sure you would want the same closeness this morning that you did last night."
"I do. I'm not saying I'm suddenly over my fears, but I want to heal from them – and with you is the best way to do that."
"So you don't want me to sleep on the chaise?"
"Absolutely not," she said. "These are your chambers as much as mine. I had your few possessions brought here and cleared a set of draws for you."
"Thank you, Sansa. I'm only small though, I won't take up much room."
"You'll take as much as you like." She nodded towards the drawers and new shelves on the side of the room, her eyes focusing on the chest in the corner. "Everything is in your trunk, and your blanket is on top for now. I'll repair the developing holes and have it ready for you later."
"Sansa, you needn't trouble yourself…"
"It's no trouble, and I insist."
He smiled, and it struck Sansa how relaxed and comfortable Tyrion was now, and how this had seemed a distant dream all those months ago in Kings Landing.
"Everything alright?" he asked, noticing her staring.
Sansa's breath caught in her throat before her mouth stretched into a smile to rival his. "Perfect. I was just thinking about something."
"Oh?"
She nodded. "How I love you so very much, and should have told you before now."
Green eyes brightened, beginning to glisten. "You've told me in so many ways. I love you too, Sansa, more than you could ever know."
Sansa had woken Tyrion with the intention of starting the day, but that could wait a little longer. As she pressed her mouth against his, nothing else mattered.
The first morning of his life as Tyrion Stark flew past in a series of wonderful moments, beginning from when he first woke up to find Sansa curled against him. Her enjoyment of last night had been obvious, but part of him had worried it would fade by morning, returning to her usual reserved manner. It was a huge step for Sansa to have allowed him into her bed and he took some pride in knowing she'd enjoyed the experience and his company.
The next surprise had come about unexpectedly, when he opened the set of draws that Sansa insisted were now his, only to find all his plain doublets replaced by new ones that all bore the Stark wolf.
"You didn't have to do this," he'd said.
"It's your sigil, isn't it? The Prince of the North should wear it proudly."
Proud he was. That Sansa had chosen him as her husband defied belief, but for her to have chosen him as family before that filled his heart with more joy than it had ever known. Some could call it cowardice, but he hadn't managed to face the final tattoo before his wedding night. The shells covering the other three had all dropped off at some point over the last week, starting with the one on his hip and then his back. To his relief, the tattoos were detailed, abstract patterns that obliterated the vile words and looked like fine art. The only one he'd removed himself was on his ribs, and that was half-hanging off anyway and beginning to itch.
The hand of the Queen badge was completely gone, replaced by the Stark direwolf instead. Even now, his eyes stung thinking about it. Sansa had given up so much time to help him with the tattoos. She could have chosen any abstract pattern like the others to go on his chest, but instead, she'd placed her family's sigil there, giving a home and identity to him who'd thrown away his old one.
Tyrion pushed back from his desk, letting his gaze wander around his last surprise again before he left. When Sansa told him last night she'd had the bed taken out of his chambers he'd thought she was joking. If it made Sansa more comfortable he wouldn't have minded maintaining separate rooms, but this morning had proven Sansa was fully committed to moving him into her chambers.
"Close your eyes," said Sansa, slowing her pace as they reached the door to what had been his chambers.
"Hmm, alright."
"You sound suspicious."
"I am. I don't know what you're planning, but I'm sure I won't know how you found time for it between everything else."
"A skill I learned from my mother." She took hold of his hand, watching him expectantly. "Now close your eyes."
"As my wife wishes."
It was only a few steps into his room and he could hear the patter of paws ahead of him as Gerry and Jenny ran into the room. Sansa led him to what he guessed to be the middle of the space before telling him to open his eyes. At first glance, the room was familiar. The chaise and armchair were still in position by the hearth as was the large table in the centre of the room where he and Sansa had spent so many hours. The biggest change was where the bed had once been. In its place was a grand desk, fit for a lord, with the direwolf sigil carved in the front of it.
Tyrion gazed around him in wonder, taking in the new desk and then noticing the details. A new seal and ink sat on the desk and there was a new bookcase along the side of the room. A set of draws filled the rest of the space, but it was the tone of the room that took his breath. It was reminiscent of how he'd felt first stepping into the tower of the Hand and realising how much power and responsibility now sat on his shoulders.
He smiled. "You're moving to a new study – it's lovely."
"Not mine, yours."
His forehead creased. "What?"
"I use my father's study, and I love it. I thought this would make a suitable study for my Prince."
"Sansa, it's wonderful, but it's too much…"
"Nonsense. I thought you might like a study and we spent so much time in this room – I thought we could still work together if you like." Sansa led him by the hand around the room. "I filled these draws with new drawing supplies for you. I expect you to continue with your art, and I'll hear no excuses why not. It's so good for you and you're amazing at it…"
Sansa had stayed for a short time before leaving him to prepare for his day and moving on to her own meeting with local merchants. Gerry had settled into the room quickly, lazing in front of the hearth, but Tyrion had sat at his new desk and stared at it for far too long. It was all too good to be true. This life was so much more than he could have ever dreamed. Those dark days alone in the black cells had convinced him that life was pain and suffering, but these past months had changed everything in ways he'd have never dared to dream.
Now, he forced himself out of the room with Gerry quickly following at his heels.
Guarding this room was no longer necessary as he shared the chambers with Sansa, but there were still plenty of guards walking the corridors around the family rooms as he made his way towards the Great Hall. Guards and servants alike stopped to greet him, some more wary than others of the new lord of Winterfell, but in time that would change.
By the time Tyrion reached the Great Hall, he was on the verge of being late and that wouldn't do for his first day. As arranged, Godwin met him at the door.
"I was beginning to worry, my Prince."
"Yes, well, it was Gerry. I couldn't pull him away from the fire."
The direwolf lifted his head as if realising he was getting the blame for his master's tardiness.
"Are there many here yet?" asked Tyrion.
"A fairly large turnout. Queen Sansa has been so busy establishing the North's independence that she hasn't been able to see the small folk as often as she would like."
Tyrion nodded. This was why Sansa needed a partner – someone to share the burden with her – someone she could lean on.
"You have your dagger?" asked Godwin.
"Yes, when I saw Arya earlier she insisted I start wearing it regularly."
"Always good practice, though I'm certain you'll have little use for it." Godwin tilted his head towards the door. "Are you ready?"
Tyrion straightened his back, curling his good hand into a fist and letting his thumb brush the direwolf ring on his finger. For so many months he'd clung to the ring as a sign that he was welcome in Winterfell, but now it seemed silly. Every one of Sansa's actions towards him spoke her promise loudly and had done for months. This morning she'd found the words, but Tyrion already knew she loved him – the truth had been staring at him for so long and was written on him forever.
He lifted an eyebrow at Godwin. "Come on then, what are you waiting for?"
As soon as the door opened, quiet fell over the bustling Great Hall. Maester Wolkan was already in position in front of the head table, and Tyrion felt every eye in the hall on him as he assumed the high-backed chair in the centre.
Maester Wolkan's voice broke the silence. "You stand before Tyrion of house Stark, lord of Winterfell and Prince Consort of the North. Those of you who have petitions may bring them before him today."
For a moment, Tyrion froze in the face of the expectant small folk. A voice echoed through his mind, telling him he would fail, he wasn't good or clever enough – that he was an imposter. That voice soon lost power as stronger voices stole his attention. His allies old and new. His newfound family of the Starks. Most of all, he heard Sansa, and every kind word she'd spoken to him. Every time she promised he was enough.
Tyrion sat forward in the chair, lifting his voice. "Let's begin."
A/N - Thanks for reading everyone. Only the epilogue to go!