Chapter Text
“I think the amount of grain could be reduced in the future. Once the North can begin harvesting again, I’d request to renegotiate.” Sansa says thoughtfully, signing off on the agreement they’d spend the afternoon hammering out.
“I’d expect nothing less.” He assures her, with no small amount of enthusiasm in his voice. Pleased as she was with the agreements they’d brokered.
Tyrion doesn’t notice it, but here alone with him, her lip curls up at that.
Leaning back, the Queen looks out the window to see it almost dark. Soon, her handmaid would be in to start a fire before the cold set in. Their meeting today had been a particularly long one, but it saw the last of the issues handled at last, specifically the necessary trade between their kingdoms. The trade, while more than what she’d liked initially, was fair when considering how much rebuilding was still being done after over a year, and would support the growth she planned for. In the near term, the agreements they’d made suited her perfectly.
“That must be the last of it, right?” She asks. Recalling they’d not planned to speak on anything else in his visit.
“Well. There is one more thing. Less important, and perhaps…more personal than the rest.” Tyrion shifts in his chair and for a moment avoids her gaze.
Sansa had felt it coming during his weeks here, somehow. A part of her knew buried in the list of things Tyrion had been sent to work on between Bran’s six kingdoms and hers, the looming existence of their past marriage was put in ink to be handled without enemies to fight.
So it was unsurprising, once they had signed the last of the trade agreements, the border markers and other important things that he would bring it up to settle. Sansa doesn’t expect, however, to pull out a worn document from the bottom and show her a vaguely familiar marriage license. The very one that bound them together until Joffrey's wedding. Raising her brow, she takes the piece of paper, reading it as he explains.
“As it turns out, our marriage is still legal. Despite being the sham it was, and you being married to the Bolten bastard…Bran handed me this before I left, and suggested it be settled before I return.” Tyrion explains matter of factly while she inspects every word of the paper, just to be sure it is the true and genuine thing. Littlefinger had told her such a thing had been ripped to shreds. Sansa isn’t surprised. If anyone could lie from the grave, it was Littlefinger.
Before she can ask another question, he slides another paper over to her. This one a much newer-looking annulment agreement.
“I didn’t have a choice then, neither of us did. But I do now.” Is all he utters.
The idea sends her thoughts spinning, dread filling her like a cup. A feeling she hadn’t felt in some time. The distinct urge of not wanting something, wanting anything but what the two papers in her hand gave her the power to do.
At first she settles herself thinking it was only due to their time the last few months, in Winterfell working together. She’d taken full advantage of a friendly, trustworthy face around and many nights had been spent in front of a fire with him. He was a pleasant person, that made her laugh and could truly be trusted. Why would she want to be so separated from him? Tyrion had never been like the other Lannisters and had indeed been the best husband she could have hoped for.
She also reasoned that the pressure from her small council also played a part, for a moment. Since her coronation, her advisors pleaded with her to take a husband, to have an heir for the North to count on once she was gone. If she was married to Tyrion, it would guarantee her a husband she could be sure would never move to harm her. That much Sansa knew well.
But those things don’t hold water as he waits for her to reply. She had many friends, close ones she’s come to adore here in Winterfell. Wylla Glover, Meera Reed, and even Yon Royce had become a kind of companion as the beginning of her rule took shape. And though it was desired she have children to succeed her, she was ultimately the Queen, and no one yet had pressed her very hard. Not to mention though her sister would rail against it, Arya and Bran ensured the North would not be lost if motherhood wasn’t in her future.
No. The way she looked at these papers, and wanted nothing more than to toss the second into a fire was something else entirely.
The more Sansa thinks, the more she tugs and pulls at it the knot of her feelings and thoughts become tighter. Instead of fighting to untangle them, she takes the papers he’d handed her and stands. Tucking them neatly into the pocket of her dress while steeling herself.
“I thank you, Tyrion. Would you allow me time to look over these?” Sansa says softly, hoping to assure him the question isn’t founded on any anger, or irritation from her. The wind picks up outside just as she pauses, and the excuse forms itself. The snow, which had been falling all day, has intensified into a full storm from their view from inside. “It doesn’t seem you’d be headed south for several days anyhow. Stay in Winterfell till this storm clears, we can finish this discussion then.”
Tyrion agrees with a polite nod before leaving, and her eyes follow his movements until the door closes shut behind him.
The papers burn in her pockets, so when she returns to her room Sansa places them on the small desk she keeps there until the matter can be sorted in her mind. It helps little if at all, as even as she undresses and prepares to sleep they consume her thoughts. Reading doesn’t help, nor does writing Jon a letter.
Admitting defeat, she stands and sits at the wooden desk and lets her eyes pick both apart.
In the past, it would have been all too easy. The silly, naive girl that had once been married to Tyrion Lannister would have not spared a second thought to taking ink and signing her name to be done with it. Now it was as complicated as it would have been simple those years ago, knowing that husbands like Tyrion had been weren’t guaranteed.
Maybe we should have stayed married, he had said in the crypts.
It took all she could in that quiet moment to remind herself that his loyalties were not with her. To remind the part of her that wanted so much to hope that things didn’t happen as they did in songs.
But Tyrion saw what Daenerys was when Kings Landing fell, and encouraged Jon to do the right thing. So much for the divided loyalties she had been so convinced he had. Maybe somewhere he knew, maybe not consciously but deeply, that they still were tied like this. She’d long since settled on friendship, one with an abundance of trust to define what was between them. But it doesn’t explain why she is so hesitant to sign the annulment. It would change nothing between them if she did, aside from in the eyes of the law. Tyrion had accepted her turning away from these vows before, with no ill will to speak of.
With some hesitation, she lets herself consider it. Marriage to Tyrion would, purely politically, be more than a little advantageous. It would seal a further strong tie to the rest of the kingdoms. Ensure cooperation and help should it be needed, but increase others' reliance on the North at the same time. Any child they conceived would have a claim in both the Westerlands and the North. If they had more, their family could potentially rule both.
Life with him as a husband was the other consideration. He would never force her into anything, as time had proven. Tyrion was kind, and witty. Spending her days with him at her side- much like she had in the last few months, with his mission here- did not sound unnerving or unpleasant in the slightest. The idea of having someone with his mind at her side, listening and helping where he could as she ruled was not a thing she disliked either. Instead she gets lost in the idea altogether for a moment like being briefly swept by waves.
She could trust him. In all the years since their marriage, he’d only ever proven that.
The knot of her thoughts seemed to loosen, enough to give her peace even if only enough to drift off when she attempted to sleep again. There was still a decision to be made, even if she had begun to make up her own mind.