A/N: A selection of Sansa/Tyrion AU drabbles which I may or may not continue, written in response to a lovely edit I saw the other night on Tumblr. I haven't read all the books yet so please don't hate me for this- I just adore the idea of these two finally gaining a happy ending!

Disclaimer: I am sadly not George R.R Martin or the author of the edit from which I stole the names of the children and so cannot lay claim to anything that seems remotely familiar. I am simply a student trying to get back into writing fanfiction again- please don't sue me!

Ink On Paper

i)

Their firstborn, Gerion, was everything that Tyrion had hoped for. Everything that he knew his father had hoped for in both of his sons and had only got in one. Had hoped for and had seen in his brother Jaime, before he lost his hand.

He was a tall, slim boy with a mop of flaxen hair and deep, aqua blue eyes that held such a hopeful intensity within them that often Tyrion would find himself losing himself within the boys' gaze before coming back to himself and pulling him away.

Gerion was as sweet, as kind as Sansa had been as he remembered her back before she was spirited to Kings' Landing and fed on the corrupting cocktail of lies and poison administrated by Cersei. He was considerate to his younger siblings, compassionate to his mother and yet sometimes he would become distant and brooding, falling into moods that often lasted days at a time. It was easier to leave him then, they found out; leave him and wait for him to emerge kicking and spluttering from the depths of his mind; eyes wide and scared, mouth crying for his mother.

ii)

Sansa had often watched her second son, Robb, practice with wooden swords in the tilting yard under the watchful eye of the armourer. There was much of the North in him; that wild, savage, pride that flared up in odd moments; leaping behind his eyes; cackling in his crown of chestnut curls.

It was at these times that Sansa sometimes forgot that she was a woman grown and saw herself as a wide eyed girl from the North; revelling in the lights and lustre of Kings' Landing before the rot set in and began to eat away at the glittering city's core.

Unlike her other children, the spirit of the North; of her father, her mother, her brothers, even of Ayra seemed to have embedded itself deep within Robb's very soul. Dimly, Sansa remembers holding him when he had first drawn breath; red faced and squawling; his whole body radiating with the northern energy she so remembers from her long lost father and brothers, even the bastard Jon Snow. She sees Robb practice at the tilting yard with Gerion and is suddenly transported back to another yard; to the icy bite of early spring where the haw frost still lay on the ground where, under the beady eye of Septa Mordane and the blushing, whispered giggles of Jeyne Poole, she snatched glances at her brothers' sword play.

iii)

Joanna was named after his mother. Sansa had planned it, not long after the midwives realised she was carrying a girl, her first daughter. He could do little to resist her now, or resist the name choice; after all, it would be a way of remembering the mother he never knew. Remember the mother who, when he was a child, had been the stuff of Cersei's rages when she flew at him in a red faced, tear blinded temper and blamed him for killing her. Blamed him for ripping her open and allowing her to bleed to death; the sharp pin pricks of pain from her finger nails still leaving a phantom pain to his scalp as she dug in as hard as she could and spat all her hatred into his ear.

Joanna was full of joy to them. It was her laughter that filled the halls even on the hardest of days, when the road seemed to go on forever, or when the cloud cast by Gerion's moods never seemed to lift. She had Sansa's hair and Tyrion's eyes; bright and bold and beautiful, forever getting into scrapes with Robb; their play tumbling on forever in a never-ending whirlwind of dream filled magic.

iv)

Their smallest, Lyanna, was Sansa's special girl. Not her favourite; she tried hard not to hold favourites amongst her children and yet Lyanna reminded her so much of her Mother and Ayra combined, that it was hard not for her Northern heart to warm to her. On days when Joanna was supposedly studying and Tyrion was supervising the boys at their lessons, she would sit in the gardens; watching the dappled light filter through the trees in a blaze of burnished gold.

Sometimes she would be joined by her other children; tumbling through the grasses with tangled clothes and wide, guiless smiles full of hope for a future she prayed would not be as fraught with uncertainty as her own had been when her Father had been named Hand of the King and summoned to Kings' Landing. Every day, she hoped, prayed, dreamt of a life away from court; away from the scheming backstabbers, the constant mob of whispers and lies pressing down on her from all four corners of the hell ridden cess-pit of a city. Sometimes she hoped, selfishly, she knew, that they would never have to go back there; that this sun soaked utopia would last forever, but she also knew that that wish was foolish. That one day, that dreaded day that seemed such a long way off and yet far too soon, the boys would be fostered by one of the Lannister bannermen and the girls…

She doesn't want to think about the girls' fates. Doesn't want to think about the marriage proposals that will sooner or later be coming in for Joanna, think about the suitors, the hours of pouring over pacts with bannermen on which squires would come into fostering, think about having to let go…

v)

'Sansa?' She turns. blinking in the slowly setting sun. Tyrion stands across from her on the terrace; the dappled fire of the sinking sun catching on his auburn curls and setting them aglow. Tyrion. The Imp. Casting him a sideways glance, she remembers how much she loathed him in the weeks before their arranged marriage. How she had blamed him for her incarceration in Kings' Landing and her struggle to carry on, to continue to wear the armoured mask of perfect courtesy in front of all those who mocked her.

She remembers his words when she had refused to eat; the stubby fingers pushing across a platter full of lemon cakes oozing with sugar across the trestle table as far below them; the waves smashed against the cliffs, continuously smashing away her hopes.

'Your mother would want you to carry on'.

The sensation of a hand reaching up to touch her arm. She turns sharply; expecting to see one of the servant girls or the boys but instead finds herself looking down into the mismatched eyes of Tyrion. Looking past him, she can see that the door to the terrace is now ajar; a long, snaking shadow slicing away the sunlight like a knife.

Is it really that late?

She can feel Tyrion's eyes on her again; feel the genuine sense of warmth and affection radiating from the inky pupils as he watches her ponder.

'The boys have finished their sword practice', he says finally, by way of conversation. 'Fine marksmen, both of them. Gerion might even make the Kingsguard when he comes of age'.

It's a lie and they both know it.

It's a lie because Gerion is the oldest, the one that will take Tyrion's name and title, the eldest who will inherit and become second fiddle to Jaime's children if he ever has any. It's a lie because they both know what the other thinks about the Kingsgard.

'Not yet', she finds herself whispering, her hands almost clutching almost convulsively at the fabric of her gown to steady the suddenly tumultuous earth; spoken almost to herself. 'Not yet, by all the Seven. Not yet.'

The weight of the hand she feels being laid on her own is enough to tell her that time is still on their side.

Fin

A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, questions, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!

Much love and enjoy x