The Edge of War's End

[AUTHOR'S NOTE] The next phase in the story arrives! Enjoy!

Chapter 19:

Sansa

The last time Sansa walked toward the Weirwood tree in the Godswood, she'd been dressed in a lush, white ensemble worthy of any queen. Though no crown weighed over her temples, she'd become the Lady of Winterfell, her home and heritage.

What a waste it had all been. The maidenhood she'd clung to had once been her only armor—the last defense. When it was ripped away from within, a part of Sansa had withered against the fray.

Breathing life back into them, petals began flashing color again. Tyrion Lannister, in most ways, had brought her back to life. Tears brimmed in her bright eyes as a smile warmed her freezing skin the closer she walked toward him.

There were neither stools nor any capes. Their joining would be before the gods of her father, cultivating the long line of Stark blood running through her. Jon tucked her hand in his elbow as he ushered her toward the tree, while Bran sat close underneath, waiting for her alongside her Hand. Brienne and Podrick stood to her left, while Bronn stomped his way to his friend. Tyrion wore a red ensemble, tailor-made back in King's Landing and another gift by her strange king-brother.

Sansa was still out of earshot when her brother squeezed her gloved hand. "I'm sorry about earlier, Sansa."

Tearing her eyes from her intended, Sansa stopped, turning to face her brother. Brushing hair from his face, she raised to her toes even though she stood taller than him to kiss his forehead. "You are a Stark. Now and forever."

Jon stepped back, eyes watering as he inspected her. Though he'd seen her in the same gown since receiving their younger brother, he still looked at her like she was living, breathing Valyrian steel. "You look just like your mother, Your Grace." Inhaling, he smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing the plush fabrics there. Searching her eyes, Jon swallowed. "I don't like Tyrion, but I swear—here and now—to protect and care for you…as my sister and my queen."

Lifting her fingers to his chin, Sansa surveyed his dark eyes. The darkness couldn't hide the remorse and shame there. They could sort out their problems later, but she couldn't stop herself from chuckling as she threw herself into his arms, sharing an embrace similar to the one when they'd reunited. "Father would be proud of you, Jon."

His arms wrapped around her tightly as he lifted her off her feet. "I'm not sure if it's true."

She adjusted her cheek against his hair, closing her eyes and curling her fingers on the thick black fur covering his shoulders. Inhaling, she smelled sweat, iron, and snow on him. "I love you, Jon. Aegon Targaryen…whoever you are. I love you, brother."

Jon hushed her, stroking her back as he set her feet back on the ground. The snow crunched beneath her feet as she turned her body, slipping her arm back into his. He lifted his chin, and she nodded with a smile. "I want you to remember this moment, Sansa, for when you're feeling like shit or if you ever think back on…Ramsay."

Matching his step, Sansa settled her gaze back on Tyrion. "What do you remember when you feel…poorly."

Both of them slowed down when they were steps away from the others. Sighing, her brother looked to the sky. "Somewhere in time, there is a moment when I ride Rhaegal along the sky. For a brief moment, she's there with me in my arms, and I'm not alone."

"Take a few days to recover, brother. You will have my ear from then to the end of days," Sansa whispered, eyes slipping to Tyrion. "Now, I marry my Hand."

Brienne moved behind Bran, rolling him closer to Tyrion when Sansa and Jon completed their walk to the Weirwood tree. The queen stared at her Hand while her younger brother said, "Who comes before the Old Gods this night?"

Tyrion's eyes didn't move from hers. Her Hand didn't look to Jon when her Lord Commander replied, "Sansa of the House Stark, comes here to be wed. The trueborn Queen in the North and Lady of Winterfell. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?"

"Tyrion of House Lannister, the Hand of the Queen and the Lord of Nothing." Tyrion parted his mouth, a hint of a smile offered to his bride when he shook his head until he flashed his eyes to Jon. Stepping forward, Tyrion chuckled. "Oh, right. Who gives her?"

"Jon Snow, the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, Master of War, and…brother of the queen."

Bran focused on his sister. "Your Grace, do you take this man?"

Stepping forward, Sansa looked at nothing but her Hand. Dragging her brows toward her nose, a smile twitched her mouth. "I take this man."

— — — — — — — — — — —

With the food stores lacking the supplies worthy enough for a king's feast, Sansa wanted no fanfare or drama—not like the last time they were wed. Servants swayed from one end of the castle to the other as Tyrion escorted Sansa to her room—their room now, she supposed. None of his things were there because their wedding hadn't been formally announced. Only hours had been provided to the few people who knew about it, so no time had been spared on bothering with decorations or other special expenses.

The North couldn't afford much. That ended once she'd accepted Tyrion as her husband. When she saw her parents again, Sansa would need to explain so much to them—if that stuff mattered in death, of course.

Upon concluding the ceremony, Tyrion had plucked her hand and stolen her from Jon, rushing back toward the castle. There was nothing quicker than a Northern wedding. She'd never seen Tyrion walk quite so quickly as he did now. Biting the growing smile, the queen chuckled when he waved off several servants who bowed to them. None of the servants quite knew what to do with him. Was he Lord Hand or My Lord? In reality, he was both the Hand of the queen and Lord of Winterfell.

"Enough." Tyrion pulled her around another set of bowing servants.

Giggling for the first time in years, Sansa readjusted her hand in his. "I thought you'd be used to being a Lord by now, husband."

"I am the Lord of nothing."

"You've married the Lady of Winterfell, did you not, my little Lord of Nothing?"

Tyrion stopped them, eyes dark as he walked her backward against the wall. "When we reach our room, I might shock you when you discover I'm not all that little."

Sansa squirmed against the wall. Brows flattening, she exhaled, parting her mouth. Looking around, the queen searched for any stray ears. A few servants remained along the dark hall, so Sansa kept the retort in her mind, sealed underneath a blush warming her features.

Silence wasn't her preference, but there were those who conspired for her life about. More than that, the spy network that had been loyal to her had been more than compromised. Those responsible had successfully cut the North off from the south. The common spy or thief would understand totally what a warg was.

"Tonight we are husband and wife. The rest of what we are or whatever titles we hold may sweep us away in the morning," Tyrion whispered, sealing his words with a kiss on her gloved hands. Slipping the leather from her fingers, he waited until her skin palm was bare before nipping her thumb with his teeth. "Let me give my wife the wedding night she always deserved."

Staring down at him until her skin scalded, Sansa swallowed. Biting her bottom lip, the quick air passing her throat filled her lungs until she expunged it all out with as much haste. The queen's palm dampened as she winced, the tingling fingertips prickling up her arm until her toes curled. Mouth parting, she stared at their joined hands, while she conjured thought back into her mind. She was not practiced with flirtatious flattery like the women who'd showed her a woman's secret weapon. Cersei and Margaery were better suited to talking and seducing men.

"Sansa?" The queen flicked her eyes to his. Tyrion smiled up at her, clasping his other hand between his. Checking down the hall, he stepped closer, lowering his voice before he whispered, "We're no longer sneaking around. We're married now. Don't think about anyone else but us tonight. If you want to shake the castle down tonight, my lady lion shall roar."

Lifting her skirt, Sansa knelt down and shivered. "What if others hear?"

Tyrion shrugged. "It's part of the fun," he said, brow lifting with his lopsided grin. "Besides, you're the queen."

"It's not me…"

Tyrion cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her earlobe. "Do you know who you are?" he asked, pressing his mouth to hers, her husband pulled away only an inch or two. Their breath tangled. "Not as a Stark. Nor as a queen. Who is Sansa?" She shook her head, and clutched his coat near his heart.

Gulping, the queen exhaled, loosening her fingers on his coat until she slid them to his stomach. Wrist shaking, Sansa dropped her eyes to look at where she had him. Licking her lips, she narrowed her eyes. "I don't know," she admitted. "I wish I could let go, but I don't know how."

Tyrion pressed his hand against the metal caging her chest. "It's time to set the Little Dove free."

— — — — — — — — — — —

The stairs leading up to her quarters were lit brighter than the rest of the castle. Two candles on each step on either side, Sansa gasped, smiling when she stopped. She eyed up the rest of the steps before laughing. "What's all this?" she asked Tyrion, who moved in front of her up the steps.

When had he had the time to arrange such a small splendor?

Tyrion faced her, his features gentle and relaxed. Reaching for both of her hands, he kissed both of her wrists before bringing her hands to his chest. Up two steps from her, Sansa had a better view of his tender eyes, which searched hers. "A-a thousand candles—all representing the days we spent apart," he muttered, voice weak. His features trembled as he spun back around and slowly took the rest of the steps. When they reached the long hall leading to her room, wax dripped along the floor as a legion of burning candles raged against the usually grim corridor. His hands shook in hers as he led them toward her room.

The door of her room was open, and even in their distance the light spilling from the room and into the hall nearly blinded her. Though her mouth parted and she held a breath, no words poured between her lips. Sansa swallowed, trailing behind her husband. When they reached the threshold, Tyrion turned around and walked backwards into the room, dragging her and kicking the door closed. The fireplace raged, but two standing pits roared from either side of it. "And the gathered flames to mark each night we'll spend together. From this night, until the end of my days."

Sansa glanced over to the blazing fireplace, noticing furs splayed out over another until they stacked as high as her mattress along with a pitcher of wine and two goblets. "It's beautiful."

"I'm glad you approve." Behind her, Tyrion tore his cloak off of him and threw it on the bed. "It's the best I could do given the lack of time we had."

A shadow halved her face when she looked to him. A laugh tickled her throat, and she met her hands on her waist, looking down at them as she played with the metal encaging her torso. "I don't know why I'm still so nervous…"

"Why are you?"

Sansa's cheeks warmed. Looking into the fire, the queen sighed. "I'm sure you wouldn't want to hear me blather on…"

Tyrion moved to her, resting his hands on her hips and kissing the black iron around her body. Raising his hands, he searched around her back and sides for the release. When he found it, he smiled gently up at her. "You can tell me anything, Sansa," he said, slipping the cage from her body and walking it over to the bed.

The queen's shoulders slid forward as she slouched. She'd been in it for hours. How Cersei had worn them for long stretches of time was a feat. The furs looked rather comfortable, but her real prize was the wine just behind them. Her boots clicked against the floor until she lowered to her knees gracefully on the pelts. She poured herself a glass of wine, asking, "Where is Winter?"

"I've had him put elsewhere for the night," Tyrion murmured, his voice growing louder the longer he talked. Eventually, his footsteps disappeared, and he was right behind her.

Back to him, the queen threw her head back and took a few sips before setting the goblet down to busy herself with her boots. "It's quiet up here without him."

"Somehow I doubt that will last for much longer."

Sliding out of one of her boots, Sansa paused until she collected her senses and worked on the other. The front of her dress was where her stays and ties were. Yet, it was her back that faced him.

Tyrion guided her hair over a shoulder and slipped against her back, pressing his mouth to her long neck. "Sansa, please tell me what's the matter." He rubbed her back, his hands soothing away a sliver of nerves.

"This feels different than last night…and this morning," Sansa whispered, a gasp catching in her throat as he ran his fingers over her shoulder and down to her breast.

Tyrion kissed her ear, moaning. When he couldn't reach the gown's ties, he groaned and reached under her arms. Her narrow waist made it possible for him to clutch onto the strings. "Yes, all five times."

Color warmed her cheeks, but Sansa leaned her head back against his. "Tyrion, how do I let go?" The heat from the fire surrounding them made her skin glisten, and she'd never wanted to be stripped bare more in her whole life.

Fumbling with the last tie, Tyrion kissed her temple as his hands eased the thick gown off her shoulders. Her underclothes compressed her chest, her breasts feeling more sensitive than they ever had against the tight fabric. Sansa lifted up as he moved the gown out from under her, casting it to their side. "Your wounds need healing," he said, the meaning lost on his wife.

"Face me," he instructed. When she did, Tyrion busied himself with the fastenings of her undergarments. "I've never seen a body quite like yours, Sansa." Tyrion's hands trembled against her arms, fingers tracing each scar as they passed over them. He withdrew from her and tore off his coat. When he stripped himself down to his undershirt, Tyrion paused, trailing his hands over her breasts before he eased the fabric apart.

Her breasts were small, and she didn't know if that was good or bad. It wasn't just her breasts exposed to him. Dozens of small and deep scars traversed her body as he drank the sight of her in. No matter how much of her he'd already seen, Sansa crossed her arms over her chest until she met his gaze. "What does that mean?"

Instead of answering, Tyrion eased her back and ran his mouth over every area of her body available to him. He sucked on her skin until it pinched, spending several seconds to a minute everywhere his mouth trailed. As he worked down her body, he shoved her undergarments lower until they gathered at her knees.

Sansa gasped when he neared her sex, disappointed when he moved back up her body. His mouth ghosted over where he'd already spoiled with small pecks and bites, rising higher until he reached her neck. Sansa wore garments with high necklines, and he knew that. Latching at her throat, Tyrion rocked against her body, permitting her to stifle a moan. "We have nothing to hide, Sansa. You're my wife and my lion," he said against her skin, pulling away to look at her. "Roar, if that is what you wish."

— — — — — — — — — — —

The morning light burned her eyelids. Grumbling, Sansa reached for her husband, feeling only pelts. Brows flattening, the queen patted the furs on both sides, realizing Tyrion was not with her. Opening her eyes, she slid a hand atop the fur covering her body over her breasts, unused to the cool air hitting her naked body.

"Tyrion?"

Sitting up, the queen looked around the room. Her husband was nowhere to be found in her vicinity. However, a plate of lemoncakes along with a note lingered just off the pelts. A smile stretched her lips. Yanking a treat from the tray, Sansa lifted the letter, scanning her eyes over the familiar script.

'My Lion, I woke up earlier than you and couldn't wait any longer. Take as long as you need before you come looking for me. I'm sorting out the matter of my inheritance and supposed bannermen with Bran. It should take a few hours. Rest, my love. Your Wolf.'

Wild hair spilling over her shoulders, Sansa closed her eyes and bit into treat before sighing with a smile. Stretching, the queen stood up, seeing her underclothes already laid out on the bed for her. Walking from the furs, Sansa trailed her fingertips over the inside of her arm. Humming something, she began to dress, eventually settling on a gown she could slip in and out of quickly should her husband find her later.

When she was ready, she twisted her hair in a loose side braid and slid her Valyrian dagger in the hidden pocket of her cloak. Hands gripping the door handle, Sansa opened the door, stepping outside. Once she was beyond the threshold, someone slid behind her and clamped their hand over her mouth and held her arms down.

Her scream was muffled. Not even an echo carried through the surrounding area. Writhing against the strong body behind her, she tried to move her head loose, but the attempt failed. Tears gathered in her bright eyes, and she tried stopping the man by planting her feet to the floor, but he just pushed her forward no matter how much force she used in her knees. Walking backward against his force, Sansa wriggled again in his hold, causing him to stumble closer to the wall, where a table with an old vase sat.

The queen bumped into the small table, knocking over the vase until it shattered on the floor. Sansa grabbed onto the man's clothes as he moved closer to two of her guards further down the hallway. Tears fell over her face as she wailed out another subdued scream. Neither of them were bloody, but she didn't know if the darts in their necks carried lethal poison or not. He carried her body down the stairway and approached a hall, where intense growling erupted to their side.

Checking her left, Sansa saw Winter, who rushed toward them, howling until it nearly deafened her. Covering her ears, Sansa stumbled away from her captor when he pushed her away, her direwolf toppling over the man. Hands shaking, she felt around for her dagger until she unsheathed it and whipped it out in front of her.

"Help!" Sansa cried as she ran further down where Winter had come. The further she went, the more guards lay prone on the cold stone castle floor.

Hands caught her arm, and she whirled around, flinging her knife at whoever touched her. "Watch it, Your Grace!" Spinner seethed, teeth bared. Checking around the corner, he wiped her face and checked her body over. "You need to come with me!"

"Tyrion!"

"It's not your little husband my boss wants!" Spinner hissed, covering her mouth. "He just wants to talk." Reaching in his pocket, he withdrew a cloth, muttering a lazy apology before taking hold of her until her attempt to shout dwindled as the world turned black.

— — — — — — — — — — —

The world felt shaky the more it slipped beyond her subconscious. Sansa felt her throat vibrate before she heard her groan. Her ears rang, but the small candle by her bedside nearly blinded her as she opened her eyes. Cringing back into the bed she lay in, she shoved her face into the scratchy pillow. Lifting herself from the mattress, she rubbed her eyes, waiting for anything to slip back into her memory.

Shooting up from the bed, Sansa squinted around at the dark room, tucking her legs to the side as she felt around for anything she could use as a weapon. "No. No…please." Stretching, she felt the handle of a fork, immediately grasping it and throwing her arm out before her. Throwing the blanket off her body, she struggled to her feet, using the nearby wall to steady her until her mind sharpened.

Someone had striped her of her pelts, gown, and boots. Whole body nursing a shiver from her skull down to her toes, Sansa swallowed. "H-hello?" she whispered. A muffled noise sounded from somewhere on the same level. Taking the candle, Sansa bit her trembling lip and shoved the dim light toward the direction, illuminating a door further along the room. Setting the fork on a nearby table, Sansa moved the light close to her body, checking her undergarments for tears or stains.

Nothing.

Turning toward the door, Sansa clutched the fork again. Quick, shallow breaths made her head feel fuzzy, and she closed her hanging, rattling mouth to try and dull the noise she unconsciously made. Her bare skin prickled where the thin fabric did not cover, but she would escape with or without her belongings if she needed to.

As she took each step, the muscles in her body tensed, cramping as if to stop her from going any further. Tears spilled down her face. Footsteps from a floor above her made her freeze. Sansa was not a knight, an assassin, or a soldier. If a fight should be required, she had to be careful of how stupid she would need to be. If a child grew in her womb, Sansa couldn't run around risking being hit too much.

Someone rushed down rickety wooden steps to her level, and Sansa blew out the candle, and her eyes adjusted to the darkness as the steps stopped just outside her door. She tiptoed against the wall off to the side of the door. Readjusting her grip on the fork, she held it to her side, though her shaky fingers made it hard for her to leverage her proper strength.

The door swung open, and someone stepped inside. Sansa stepped behind, thrusting the fork at their back, but they spun around, wrapping their strong arms around her body. A warm mouth grazed her ear, and a man whispered, "You're safe here, Your Grace." The voice was soft like velvet, warm like burning embers, and smooth like the silks she'd worn in King's Landing.

"Impossible…" Sansa whimpered as she lost feeling in her knees.

The room he moved them through was not quite as dark, and as he guided them up the stairs, Sansa saw the glow of a bright fire under the threshold of the door at the top of them, where the man pounded on the door three times. Once it opened, her captor released Sansa, who stumbled into the room. Checking her side, the queen recognized Spinner sitting at a table next to a closed door, perhaps to another room. Her back remained to the man.

"Sometimes, when I try to understand a person's motives, I play a little game…" the man whispered, walking closer toward her until she stepped forward.

Sansa fidgeted her shoulders, feeling her captor's body warmth behind her. "I said that in front of a few dozen people…tell me something only he and I would know."

A hand caught her bare arm above her elbow, thumb rubbing the cold skin there as she nursed a shiver down her body. Sansa slowly closed her eyes as she swallowed, cringing from him where his hands touched. The man brought her back against him, and her lip trembled. "There is no justice in this world," he murmured into her hair. "Not unless we make it." His voice broke.

Sansa tore herself away from him, walking toward the fire. "Where are my clothes?"

"Spinner deposited them in the opposite direction," her captor said. Clearing his throat, he continued. "Your assassins aren't quite as smart as they believe they are."

Whirling around, Sansa rushed toward the man, the back of her hand slapping his skin. The impact caused her hand to squeeze in agony until she rubbed it generously. "Neither are you…Petyr."

[A/N] Did any of you suspect this twist? Leave me your thoughts about what you think may happen next! See you in the next chapter!

Please review!