Author's note: This is the final installment in this story. I hope you enjoyed, but do let me know what you think.

Chapter 8: Fall ~ Sansa

Sansa screamed as a figure came from the shadows and dealt Tyrion a blow to his head. He slumped and Sansa leapt toward him, but the figure caught her waist and threw her back. She hit a bookcase and fell to the ground.

"I thought I'd never catch you alone," the figure said. "I'd almost given up." Sansa saw the flash of a blade and she kicked, scooting herself away. She fussed in her skirts searching for the knife Quintyn had given her, but the figure was already on top of her.

"Brianne!" She screamed, and the figure laughed.

"She's sleeping right now," it said pulling Sansa to her feet. Tyrion moaned on the ground and tried to push himself to his feet. He saw Sansa tangled up with the figure and the figure raise his blade. Tyrion lunged with everything in him, crashing into the figure and knocking them both to the floor. They rolled away and Tyrion wobbled on his feet. He scanned the room for anything that could be used as a weapon, but the figure grabbed him and shoved him into a set of bookcases and raised the club over his head. Sansa found the hilt of her knife and yelled as she blindly ran toward the figure, running the blade through into it's shoulder. The figure grunted and brought the club down unto Tyrion's brow. The figure grabbed Sansa, spewing angry sounding words in a language Sansa did not understand. It spun her around so that she was facing away from him, and they both came face-to-face with another figure—one of Quintyn's servants. The figure holding onto Sansa froze, narrowing it's gaze at the servant girl. "Valar Morghulis," the figure said.

The servant tipped two fingers to her head with a slight bow. "Valar dohaeris," she said and then before Sansa or the figure could react, produced a blade and threw it, whizzing just passed Sansa's head, striking the figure between the eyes. Blood poured forth from the figure's had and mouth, and with a final sputter, the figure dropped, pulling Sansa to the ground.

Sansa cried out and struggled to free herself from the heavy wait of the assassin atop her. When she was finally freed, Sansa scrambled to where Tyrion still lie unconscious on the floor and looked up at the servant girl. "Get away from me!" Sansa yelled and moved close to Tyrion shaking his shoulder.

The servant girl laughed and tugged at the corner of her face. The face came off and Arya stood in the servant girl's stead. She smiled at Sansa gaping on the floor as Tyrion moaned and rolled over, a small bit of blood dotting the corner of his forehead. Sansa looked between Arya and Tyrion—disbelief and relief all flooding her face. Tyrion pushed himself to his knees and took ahold of Sansa's face with shaking hands, studying her for injuries. Sansa had been holding her breath, but now collapsed onto Tyrion's shoulder. He turned to Arya, "Took you long enough."

Arya tossed the mask on the floor near him. "I've been here for weeks," she said, "I came as soon as you sent for me."

Tyrion looked toward the door and his eyes grew wide. "You have to get to the prince!" he shouted. "We will find Brianne, now go!"

Arya surveyed the room, her eyes eventually resting on her sister slumped against Tyrion, her face buried in the collar of his shirt. "Sansa?" Arya said.

"I'm fine," Sansa responded, breathless, "you need to hurry." Arya nodded and sprinted toward the door. Tyrion took Sansa's face in his hands again and pulled her up to look at him. He opened his mouth to speak, and found himself again without words. "I know," she whispered and pulled his face down on hers, her lips connecting with his, her hunger enveloping him. He only hesitated for a moment before he too seized her. His fingers went into her hair and his mouth met hers with a fury to rival her own. He pulled away slightly and placed a flutter of kisses over her eyes, her brow, her cheeks and back to her lips.

"Be my wife," Tyrion whispered. "Let me be your husband. Everything you have here is yours to keep, I only want you."

"And I only want you."

Within weeks, Winterfell was in chaos. Arya had left immediately after murdering the two cut-throats who'd come to kill Sansa and Prince Quintyn. She'd find the others, she said, and dispatch them the same way. "You'll return for the wedding?" Sansa asked, more a command than a question. Arya hugged her sister—a glimpse of affection that was rare for her, but honest in that moment. She would try.

Shortly thereafter the king had arrived from the capitol and showed reverence for his sister, the Queen in the North and her betrothed. A large crowd gathered in the great hall to celebrate Bran's return and what they thought was to be Sansa's impending marriage to Quintyn Martell. That is until the prince rose a glass, "My best wishes to the Queen in the North. My her marriage be full of love, her halls warm and full of laugher, and her life long and full of adventure!" There were cheers among the court and confused chatter, and then the prince said, "Will we call you Lady Lannister now?"

The court's eyes all turned to Tyrion, and then erupted into angry shouts.

"My lords, my ladies," Sansa tried to quiet them. "I want the North to be prosperous—I will continue to fight to make it so. But I marry for love, not prosperity. My lord does not conspire to rule the north. He only wants to right his wrongs and serve our kingdoms and me as his wife."

The crowd jeered, and one said, "Your Lannister lord's home is at Casterly Rock; what will become of Winterfell?"

Sansa and Tyrion shared an uncomfortable glance and then she said, "a Stark will always be Lady of Winterfell. As your queen, you are just going to have to trust me." More chatter and Tyrion looked on, his brows drawn together and fingers to his lips.

"The Lannisters should all be dead!" Tyrion said finally, loud enough to quiet the room. "After me they will be. That castle was all I ever wanted. It was my father's pride and I wanted him to give it to me and tell me that I was his son," his face grew grim. "I don't want it anymore." To Sansa he said, "Casterly Rock will be a gift to our firstborn child, whose name will be Stark." She smiled at him and touched the side of his face. He placed a hand over hers and then his eyes searched hers for fear or doubt and found none there. "Let me kill the last Lannister once and for all," he said. "If it pleases my queen—we will marry and my name too will be Stark—from this day until my last day."

The court was stunned to silence. Then slowly a clap, and another and another.

And two nights later, King Bran led them to the godswood and stood with Tyrion at the foot of the weirwood heart tree at its center. Meera Reed stood nearby, her smile warmer than it had been in years. Bran had asked her to accompany him back to King's Landing. He looked her in the eyes when he said it and she believed, were it true or not, that Brandon Stark was alive.

Lanterns dotted the woods all around them, lighting the night like tethered fireflies. Tyrion was wrapped in a thick velvet cloak of smoky blues, silvers and cremes with a direwolf pattern stitched across the back—Sansa had made this for him to wear today. The crowd parted and Sansa stepped to the circle.

"Who comes before the Old Gods?" Bran asked.

"Sansa Stark," she answered, "a woman grown, trueborn and noble, comes to beg the blessing of the gods to marry."

"And who comes to claim her?" Bran asked.

Tyrion stepped forward, "I do."

Bran looked to Sansa, "Will you take this man?"

"I take this man," she whispered.

"Then kneel," Bran instructed them, and they both fell to their knees in the wet snow. To Tyrion, Bran said, "You knelt before me as Tyrion Lannister. Arise as Tyrion Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Casterly Rock and Consort to the Queen in the North."

Tyrion closed his eyes and smiled. He stood and removed him cloak, and draped it over Sansa's shoulders, and then took her hand and helped her to stand.

"You belong to her now," Bran said, and then to Sansa, "And you belong to him."

Sansa poured Tyrion a glass of wine and pulled the cloak off of her shoulders and then pulled the ribbon holding her tight braid together and let her hair fall. Tyrion, enraptured, stared at her. They were dressed in complementing Stark colors, and as her beautiful auburn hair scattered across the dark blue of her dress and over her long neck and shoulders, down to her back, Tyrion held his breath. He was suddenly nervous.

"I should tell you…I haven't been with a woman for…a long time," Tyrion said. Embarrassed he directed his eyes to the floor.

"You're impatient?" She asked him.

"Oh, no…I mean…yes, but no that's not what I meant. I meant that if I'm…if I seem overly excitable…there is a reason."

Sansa laughed, "I like that you get excited," she said. "I hope that I am the reason." She handed him the wine goblet.

"Without a doubt," he said. "And interestingly enough," he sloshed some wine on his hand before setting it aside on the table, "I think I'd like to be sober for this. Are you nervous?"

By way of reply, Sansa took his hand in hers and licked his fingers where the wine had spilled. Tyrion shook his head at her in disbelief. "No one has ever made love to you like I will, wife. I'm going to see that you know what it's like to sing before this night is over," he said as he pulled her into their marriage bed.