#formatting question

Option 1:

       One night later that week, Tyrion didn't make it back to their chambers until well past the midnight hour. When he did, he was shocked to find Sansa sitting up in bed awaiting his return. "Are you alright?" she asked, looking up from her needlepoint, seeing him nearly lose his footing in his hurried pace and aggravation.       "I'm so sorry, my love," he said, tired eyes half-closed as he walked toward the bed. "You needn't have waited up for me. But yes, I'm fine," he busied himself on undoing his doublet and flung it aside haphazardly in frustration, moving on to shed layer after layer before climbing into bed beside her. "One of the Mullendores is seeking to unseat Tommen, claiming that he's..." He paused momentarily, worry clouding his thoughts. The Mullendore knight in question seemed to think that, as his house had sworn allegiance to House Tyrell that he was obligated to rescue and marry Margaery entitled to make himself king. Tyrion certainly didn't want to worry Sansa over anything as unnecessary as that. "Well, it doesn't matter what he thinks he is, it won't happen. Either way, I had to come up with a way to thwart the boy before he gets too far ahead of himself." He slid in closer to her, enjoying the warmth she seemed to radiate.        Sansa replied with a simple, "You'll manage it." She stowed her sewing in her bedside table and turned back to her husband.        He took her hand gently, resting it against his chest. "I hope so."        "I know so," she affirmed.        Tyrion watched her, in awe of her placid confidence. She was every bit the regal ladywife, but somehow her sentiments didn't have the affected distance he'd seen in many wives. Her feelings were, seemingly, genuine. "How can you be so sure?" he asked, rolling onto his side to face her.        Smiling softly, she inched closer to him. "Because I know you," she stated, plain as fact. "I know your mind. Our kingdom is in good, capable hands." Sansa leaned forward, closing the distance between them to kiss his forehead.        He exhaled, feeling the frenetic energy of his day dissipate. "I love you, Sansa."        "I love you," she repeated, wrapping him in her arms and pressing a kiss into the crook of his neck.        The first day of the following week's court sessions was ushered in, as the first day of the week often is, with all sorts of foul attitudes. Even Sansa hadn't had much desire to attend that morning, wishing only to stay and dote on her son, but the nursemaid had insisted that she take a moment to herself. She'd dressed warmly and tucked her hair up into a tightly woven hairnet matching the green velvet of her dress. During the first recess, Tyrion descended from the dais to join Sansa in his free moment. As he did, a knight who'd been standing behind her all morning, regaling his companion of all the ladies of court he'd bedded since arriving in King's Landing, much to Sansa's chagrin, made a comment about her husband's assumed proclivities and the difficulty the half-man must have reached the only so-called worthy parts of a woman.        Able to bear no more of his mindless prattle, Sansa turned around to the man, still keeping her ear attuned to the hastening pace and lessening distance of Tyrion's gait. The knight blanched, placing the face of the woman before him instantly. "And yet, Ser Kelvin," she said sharply, gaze seemingly piercing through the man's soul, "somehow Lord Tyrion manages to reach heights that the likes of which you could never dream, while you choose to stoop lower than he would ever dare."        Gaze immediately dropping to the pale stone floor, "Yes, my lady," he agreed, stammering out a hurried, "I'm sorry, my lady."        The clack of the boots came to a halt beside her. Sansa's mouth curled up into a devious smile as she reached her left hand out to be met by the familiar warmth of Tyrion's right. "I believe it is my husband to whom you should be apologizing," she suggested.        Ser Kelvin's head shot up to find that he was, suddenly, face to face with Tyrion himself. "Yes, right. Deepest apologies, my lord," he said, quickly turning and to seek company further away from the woman's wrath.        "Why, Lady Stark-" Tyrion gasped, trying and failing to banish the mirth from his tone. He would never tire of his wife's protective nature.        Puffing out her chest proudly, Sansa corrected him, "Lady Lannister, I believe." The name had lost the disdain she'd previously held against it quite some time previously. In its place had grown an honor, connecting herself to her husband and son for all who made her acquaintance to recognize. "My husband's status demands that I be recognized by his name, does it not?"        Tyrion tutted, playing along with her importance. "Fine, Lady Lannister." He kissed her hand in a courtly greeting, watching the way the knight glanced over at them every few moments, seemingly terrified that they might follow. "I do believe you've frightened the poor lad," he laughed.        Sansa shrugged his concern off. "Good. Serves him right for insulting the man I love."        A fond memory crossed his mind. "There once was a time, the worst you'd have suggested was that we sheep shift his mattress," he teased.        Growing red around the ears, she pulled back, swatting him playfully, a broad smile creeping across her features. "I should never have told you that."        "Why?" he asked. Truthfully, it was one of his favorite anecdotes. It was the first time Sansa had truly granted him access to her private life. The only reason he teased about it was seeing the way she lit up when happier times were mentioned. Especially now that they were, themselves, happy and safe, the recollection of her lost family didn't seem to pain her so. If it did, the ability to remember them fondly without reproach helped...        "Because you'll never let go of it," she answered, beginning to follow him toward the dais to greet their family. "You're like a dog with a bone."        Tyrion tugged her close, nudging her side gently. "It's you I'll never let go of."

Option 2:

       One night later that week, Tyrion didn't make it back to their chambers until well past the midnight hour. When he did, he was shocked to find Sansa sitting up in bed awaiting his return. "Are you alright?" she asked, looking up from her needlepoint, seeing him nearly lose his footing in his hurried pace and aggravation.

      "I'm so sorry, my love," he said, tired eyes half-closed as he walked toward the bed. "You needn't have waited up for me. But yes, I'm fine," he busied himself on undoing his doublet and flung it aside haphazardly in frustration, moving on to shed layer after layer before climbing into bed beside her. "One of the Mullendores is seeking to unseat Tommen, claiming that he's..." He paused momentarily, worry clouding his thoughts. The Mullendore knight in question seemed to think that, as his house had sworn allegiance to House Tyrell that he was obligated to rescue and marry Margaery entitled to make himself king. Tyrion certainly didn't want to worry Sansa over anything as unnecessary as that. "Well, it doesn't matter what he thinks he is, it won't happen. Either way, I had to come up with a way to thwart the boy before he gets too far ahead of himself." He slid in closer to her, enjoying the warmth she seemed to radiate.

       Sansa replied with a simple, "You'll manage it." She stowed her sewing in her bedside table and turned back to her husband.

       He took her hand gently, resting it against his chest. "I hope so."

       "I know so," she affirmed.

       Tyrion watched her, in awe of her placid confidence. She was every bit the regal ladywife, but somehow her sentiments didn't have the affected distance he'd seen in many wives. Her feelings were, seemingly, genuine. "How can you be so sure?" he asked, rolling onto his side to face her.

       Smiling softly, she inched closer to him. "Because I know you," she stated, plain as fact. "I know your mind. Our kingdom is in good, capable hands." Sansa leaned forward, closing the distance between them to kiss his forehead.

       He exhaled, feeling the frenetic energy of his day dissipate. "I love you, Sansa."

       "I love you," she repeated, wrapping him in her arms and pressing a kiss into the crook of his neck.

       The first day of the following week's court sessions was ushered in, as the first day of the week often is, with all sorts of foul attitudes. Even Sansa hadn't had much desire to attend that morning, wishing only to stay and dote on her son, but the nursemaid had insisted that she take a moment to herself. She'd dressed warmly and tucked her hair up into a tightly woven hairnet matching the green velvet of her dress. During the first recess, Tyrion descended from the dais to join Sansa in his free moment. As he did, a knight who'd been standing behind her all morning, regaling his companion of all the ladies of court he'd bedded since arriving in King's Landing, much to Sansa's chagrin, made a comment about her husband's assumed proclivities and the difficulty the half-man must have reached the only so-called worthy parts of a woman.

       Able to bear no more of his mindless prattle, Sansa turned around to the man, still keeping her ear attuned to the hastening pace and lessening distance of Tyrion's gait. The knight blanched, placing the face of the woman before him instantly. "And yet, Ser Kelvin," she said sharply, gaze seemingly piercing through the man's soul, "somehow Lord Tyrion manages to reach heights that the likes of which you could never dream, while you choose to stoop lower than he would ever dare."

       Gaze immediately dropping to the pale stone floor, "Yes, my lady," he agreed, stammering out a hurried, "I'm sorry, my lady."

       The clack of the boots came to a halt beside her. Sansa's mouth curled up into a devious smile as she reached her left hand out to be met by the familiar warmth of Tyrion's right. "I believe it is my husband to whom you should be apologizing," she suggested.

       Ser Kelvin's head shot up to find that he was, suddenly, face to face with Tyrion himself. "Yes, right. Deepest apologies, my lord," he said, quickly turning and to seek company further away from the woman's wrath.

       "Why, Lady Stark-" Tyrion gasped, trying and failing to banish the mirth from his tone. He would never tire of his wife's protective nature.

       Puffing out her chest proudly, Sansa corrected him, "Lady Lannister, I believe." The name had lost the disdain she'd previously held against it quite some time previously. In its place had grown an honor, connecting herself to her husband and son for all who made her acquaintance to recognize. "My husband's status demands that I be recognized by his name, does it not?"

       Tyrion tutted, playing along with her importance. "Fine, Lady Lannister." He kissed her hand in a courtly greeting, watching the way the knight glanced over at them every few moments, seemingly terrified that they might follow. "I do believe you've frightened the poor lad," he laughed.

       Sansa shrugged his concern off. "Good. Serves him right for insulting the man I love."

       A fond memory crossed his mind. "There once was a time, the worst you'd have suggested was that we sheep shift his mattress," he teased.

       Growing red around the ears, she pulled back, swatting him playfully, a broad smile creeping across her features. "I should never have told you that."

       "Why?" he asked. Truthfully, it was one of his favorite anecdotes. It was the first time Sansa had truly granted him access to her private life. The only reason he teased about it was seeing the way she lit up when happier times were mentioned. Especially now that they were, themselves, happy and safe, the recollection of her lost family didn't seem to pain her so. If it did, the ability to remember them fondly without reproach helped...

       "Because you'll never let go of it," she answered, beginning to follow him toward the dais to greet their family. "You're like a dog with a bone."

       Tyrion tugged her close, nudging her side gently. "It's you I'll never let go of."

Option 3:

       One night later that week, Tyrion didn't make it back to their chambers until well past the midnight hour. When he did, he was shocked to find Sansa sitting up in bed awaiting his return. "Are you alright?" she asked, looking up from her needlepoint, seeing him nearly lose his footing in his hurried pace and aggravation.       "I'm so sorry, my love," he said, tired eyes half-closed as he walked toward the bed. "You needn't have waited up for me. But yes, I'm fine," he busied himself on undoing his doublet and flung it aside haphazardly in frustration, moving on to shed layer after layer before climbing into bed beside her. "One of the Mullendores is seeking to unseat Tommen, claiming that he's..." He paused momentarily, worry clouding his thoughts. The Mullendore knight in question seemed to think that, as his house had sworn allegiance to House Tyrell that he was obligated to rescue and marry Margaery entitled to make himself king. Tyrion certainly didn't want to worry Sansa over anything as unnecessary as that. "Well, it doesn't matter what he thinks he is, it won't happen. Either way, I had to come up with a way to thwart the boy before he gets too far ahead of himself." He slid in closer to her, enjoying the warmth she seemed to radiate.        Sansa replied with a simple, "You'll manage it." She stowed her sewing in her bedside table and turned back to her husband.        He took her hand gently, resting it against his chest. "I hope so."        "I know so," she affirmed.        Tyrion watched her, in awe of her placid confidence. She was every bit the regal ladywife, but somehow her sentiments didn't have the affected distance he'd seen in many wives. Her feelings were, seemingly, genuine. "How can you be so sure?" he asked, rolling onto his side to face her.        Smiling softly, she inched closer to him. "Because I know you," she stated, plain as fact. "I know your mind. Our kingdom is in good, capable hands." Sansa leaned forward, closing the distance between them to kiss his forehead.        He exhaled, feeling the frenetic energy of his day dissipate. "I love you, Sansa."        "I love you," she repeated, wrapping him in her arms and pressing a kiss into the crook of his neck.