A/N: Co-written with K_R_Closson.

Warnings: I'm going to leave a general warning here for references to Sansa's traumatic past and past sexual assault. If a chapter is particularly intense, i will leave an extra warning with that chapter, as well as any other specific warnings that may be relevant.

This chapter contains non-graphic descriptions of childbirth and breastfeeding.

Canon note: This story is based solely on the TV show, up through the end of Season 5. It will become increasingly apparent that we got creative with the way the magic system works and backstory details that didn't make it into the show.


Sansa insists on riding a horse into Winterfell despite the prominent swell of her belly.

"I will ride sidesaddle," she promises. "We will go slow."

"My lady," Tyrion begins.

"We can see Winterfell from here," Sansa snaps. "It is a short trip, and I am going to be on a horse when we walk through her gates."

She has grown more irritable throughout her pregnancy, but she blames it completely on the trip and the fact that there is nothing for anyone to do but fuss over her.

She gets her way.

She sits sidesaddle, her cloaks draped around her to hide her condition as their party slowly approaches the gates to Winterfell.

She can feel the unease as it settles over the men, everyone in the group aware that they might not get a warm welcome here. It's important that Sansa is the first person recognized, not Tyrion, and Sansa beckons Brienne closer under the guise of having a soldier at her side but in reality to shield her husband from view.

When they reach the gates their procession stops, and Sansa can hear commotion from inside the Keep as people race to figure out what to do with the visitors.

Finally, the window in the gate is opened. "Who seeks permission to enter our walls?" a man demands.

Sansa lowers the hood of her cloak, her red hair spilling out of its confines and catching in the light of the sun.

"Do you truly not recognize me, ser?" Sansa asks, and through the window she can see the man's eyes widen. "I am Lady Sansa of Winterfell, and I am not here to ask permission to enter. I am here to tell you to open your gates to me and my men."

"Lady Sansa!" The man exclaims.

Through the gates, Sansa can hear the whispers spread, her name repeated over and over until the gates swing open.

"My lady," the man says, bowing deeply.

It takes Sansa a moment to place him. He is the master of horses. There must be very few personnel in Winterfell if he is answering the gate.

"Hullen," Sansa greets, her tone warm. "Thank you for keeping Winterfell safe while I was away."

"My lady, I'm sorry there wasn't more I could do. I -"

"I do not hold you responsible," Sansa promises. "But I assure you that Winterfell will see her revenge. I have brought with me trained men, provisions, and new ravens so Winterfell is no longer cut off from the rest of the kingdoms."

"Trained men?" Hullen asks.

A crowd has grown in the square, and Sansa has the sad thought that this is all that's left of Winterfell's once large population. She sees men and women in dirty clothes, children without the joy on their faces all children should have. Her home has suffered while she's been away, and she intends to change that.

"Hear me through before you reach for your weapons," Sansa tells him. Tells everyone, really. "I have come from King's Landing with my husband, Tyrion Lannister, and some of his father's men."

"Lannisters?" Hullen hisses, before he can help himself.

Immediately, he pales. Around him, the crowd murmurs, displeased.

"You thought I would return on my own?" Sansa asks. "I am a Lannister by marriage and a Stark by birth. I am here because my father told me there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Do you deny the truth of his words?"

"No," Hullen hurriedly assures her. "Of course not. But, pardon me, my lady. Lannisters have not been kind to those in these parts."

"Nor have they all been kind to me," Sansa reminds him. "My husband, however, is bound to me by the law and by the promises we made before the gods. I expect him to be treated with the same respect as I am."

"Of course," Hullen says. "There will be people who are unhappy with this, my lady. Not us. We stand behind you. Winterfell is yours. But we do not speak for the North."

"Let those who disagree take their disagreements up with me personally," Sansa says. "We shall restore the Great Hall, and I will begin to hear petitions. Let the Houses of the North come here and see for themselves that there is once again a Stark in Winterfell and let them recommit their pledge to this House."

"And if they don't?" Hullen asks.

Sansa's smile is not friendly. "Then I shall have to rely on my second name, Lannister, to convince them. It should be no trouble for my father by marriage to send soldiers to enforce loyalty that my father by birth cannot."

She watches as distrust turns to awe, but what brings a smile to her lips is the small noise of surprise from behind her. Her husband is proud of what she's said. She may be able to rule here after all.

She shifts in her saddle, wincing because she has begun to lose feeling in her buttocks.

"Lady Brienne," Sansa says. "Come help me from my horse. I am ready to see my home again."

"Of course, my lady." Brienne is at her side in a moment, easing her from the saddle.

She keeps her grip on Brienne's gauntlet even once her feet are under her. She doesn't feel stable quite yet. When she moves, her cloaks part and another gasp goes through the crowd.

"Ah, yes," Sansa says looking down. "I forgot to mention that I intend to keep a Stark in Winterfell."

"A baby!" one woman exclaims. She is an elderly servant, Nora, who once attended to Sansa's rooms. Ramsay had had her killed. But this is a different time, and Sansa will see her protected. "My lady, let us get your rooms ready. You must be exhausted from your travels."

Sansa's free hand comes to hold her belly, to ease some of the weight off her back. "I am. Thank you. I know that this isn't what any of you imagined when you thought of a Stark returning to Winterfell, but I remember you all. You have served my family faithfully all these years, and I ask you to continue doing so. There is chaos in the North, chaos that we will resolve. Winterfell will once again become the stronghold of the North, and we will bring peace to our lands."

"In bed with Lannisters," someone in the crowd mutters.

She can feel her men tense behind her, and she forces herself to laugh, lighter than she feels. "How else do you think I got this child in my belly?" she asks.

There are a few scattered laughs throughout the assembled crowd, and she definitely recognizes Bronn's snort of laughter.

But - power plays will have to wait for another day. Her back is already aching. She needs to lie down.

"My rooms?" She asks.

"Of course," Nora says. "If my lady would come with me. And my lord?"

She's hesitant when she includes Tyrion, but Sansa dismisses him with a wave of her hand. "I'm sure he has matters to attend to with his men."

Nora's smile is missing teeth and her, "Of course, my lady," sounds happier than her last statement had.

Sansa, Wynn, and Lady Brienne follow Nora to the chambers Sansa's parents had shared when they had been Lord and Lady of Winterfell.

"We are glad of your return," Nora says as she airs out Sansa's bed. Another servant is busy getting a fire lit. "The North remembers."

"So do I," Sansa promises. "Lady Brienne, now that you know the way to my chambers, might I trouble you to arrange for my things to be brought up?"

"Of course," Brienne says. She sketches a quick bow and goes to do as she's told.

Nora spares a glance at Wynn.

"You can speak before her," Sansa says.

"Should we prepare this room for two?" Nora asks.

Sansa allows herself to smile. "My husband will have his own chambers."

She can see the wheels turn in Nora's head as she works through what that means, reworks alliances and allegiances.

"Nora," Sansa says, her voice firm, "He is my husband, and it was a matched marriage and we have not yet found love, but I want the opportunity to find love with him, the way my mother and father did."

Basically, do not kill my husband.

She can't be sure that Tyrion will come to no harm here, and it would not be good for her or the North if he did, but this is the best she can do at the moment to protect him. She must find a way to gain the trust of her people without making her husband a sacrifice. It's a complicated game set up before her, but she has been prepared for this by her time in the capital.

And while she doesn't trust her husband in her bed, or her heart, she does trust in his deviousness, and his sense of self-preservation. He knows how precarious his position is here, and he will put all his considerable attention to keeping himself out of trouble, which means supporting her completely. Perhaps it will be enough to keep him busy.

"And Nora?" Sansa adds casually, a mere afterthought. "If he uses the privacy of his chambers to invite women into them, I give you my permission to instruct his servants to be less than attentive in their duties."

"My lady?" Nora asks.

Sansa smiles. "And if they are particularly beautiful women then you have my permission to sheep shift his bed. See how many women want to frequent it when it stinks of dung."

Nora smiles as well. "Yes, my lady."

"I wish to retire now," Sansa says. She presses her hands to her back. "I also wish for this baby to depart my body, but I can only have one of those right now."

Wynn laughs, used to Sansa's increasing complaints. "You'll have a little lord or lady soon."

"And then I'll have to begin the process of acquiring another," Sansa says. She groans. "Nora, when you select chambers for my husband, make sure they are not too far from mine."

"Of course, my lady."

Sansa lets Wynn change her into bedclothes, and she climbs into a bed too large for one person. Designed for a couple, she thinks. She pushes the thought away.

Winter is coming. There is now a Stark in Winterfell.

She smiles and pulls her blankets up to ward off the chill of the North.


The next morning, her spirits high after a sleep in a real bed and a real meal in the dining room of her childhood, Sansa instructs every person at Winterfell to convene at the Great Hall.

She is not surprised to see the servants huddled on one side of the room, wary of the soldiers that take up the other side. Sansa herself is seated at the high table, Tyrion on her right. Behind them stand Brienne and Bronn, two very different but very capable bodyguards.

Someone, she will have to ask Nora who, was thoughtful enough to put a cushion on Sansa's seat to ease the discomfort of sitting.

She tries to find a position where the table doesn't press uncomfortably against her growing belly, hoping her nervousness isn't obvious. She only has one chance to make a first impression as a ruler, and she wants to do well. She fretted over what to say the whole, long journey North. She had spent her girlhood dreaming of a fairy tale life in the capital, and resented every time her father put his foot down and insisted she sit her turn in the halls at his side.

She appreciates that insistence now.

She takes a deep breath.

"I will not keep you long," Sansa says, "because I know you all have duties to attend to, important duties that allow the castle to operate. But yesterday held a lot of excitement, and I would like to say a few things. First, I want you all to look around you."

She waits until they have obeyed. "The people in this room are Winterfell. It is a new Winterfell, yes, but these are new times. Starks and Lannisters have come together," she touches the pronounced swell of her belly, "and we will be stronger for it."

"I will hear petitions," Sansa says. "From any of you. From any of the people of the North. My husband will hear them with me. But I want you to know that this is a place where your voices will be heard, regardless of your petition or your station or the station of those you quarrel with." She shifts in her seat, the baby moving and making every position uncomfortable. "Are there petitions to be heard today?"

The hall is silent, and Sansa finds she must call on her capital face to keep from showing her disappointment that they don't trust her. Or her worry that if she can't bring them together then this will all fall apart. Perhaps she'll be betrayed just as her brother was, and the Starks will go down in history as the family destroyed by the Lannisters and their own people.

The baby kicks, vicious, like it doesn't approve of her thoughts.

"M-my lady?" An older man approaches, his back stooped as he shuffles forward. "I am Geran, if it please you, and I am in charge of overseeing the maintenance of Winterfell."

"Speak, Geran," Sansa tells him. "How can we help you?"

"Winterfell has seen abuse at the hands of the Greyjoys and others who seek to take us while we're weak. We have few builders and even fewer materials, but we need to bolster her defense. Especially with you here now to protect."

Sansa is glad to help rebuild her home. "How convenient, then, that I have brought with me a company of strong, able-bodied men."

There are murmurs of discord amongst the Lannister men. Sansa gives them her full attention and a few of them shy away from it.

"Winterfell is your home now," she tells them. "Do you not wish to protect your home?"

No one dares answer.

Sansa allows herself to smile. "How many men would you like, Geran? We will need some to scout the nearby woods for trouble and others to form hunting parties, but will twenty do?"

Geran falls to his knees before her. "Thank you, my lady. Thank you."

"Rise, Geran," Sansa says, uncomfortable with the display. "You do not need to thank me for your protection. That is my duty as your lady. My duty as Wardenness of the North. We begin with Winterfell, and when we are well fortified we will begin to spread to the rest of the North. Ser Marvin, pick twenty men to assist with the rebuilding."

"If I might make a suggestion?" Lord Tyrion says, his voice a surprise to Sansa. She had forgotten he was here.

She nods, making it clear to their audience that she welcomes his counsel.

"Ser Marvin oversaw the rebuilding of King's Landing after the siege. Perhaps he should be one of the twenty he suggests."

Ser Marvin, who had been displeased with Sansa's order, nods in deference to Tyrion's suggestion. "Of course, my lord. My lady."

Sansa, relieved that they have overcome their first hurdle, turns back to the room. "Next."


Winterfell's needs are great, and Sansa hardly gets moment's peace their first days there. She finally gets time for a quiet meal with her husband, but still they are not alone. Podrick and Wynn are serving, and the baby is here, of course. Sansa is in constant discomfort; if it isn't her feet it's her back, and if it isn't her back it's her stomach. Nothing brings relief, and she is beginning to forget how it feels not to be nauseous and aching.

Nora is here too, poking at a fire that needs no attention. Sansa understands, and she's sure Tyrion does too, that she's here searching for answers to report to the others. How close are Sansa and Tyrion? Can Tyrion be trusted? Can Sansa?

Their survival depends on Sansa convincing Nora that they can both be trusted.

"You find your chambers satisfactory?" Sansa asks, bringing her soup spoon to her mouth. She doesn't invite many to dine with her these days, unwilling to force her companions to share the bland food that's the only thing she can stomach.

Even this soup, made from chicken stock and consisting only of broth and softened vegetables, seems too much. Her stomach protests, and she puts the spoon down before she is sick on the table. Again.

She hasn't touched a lemon cake or any other sweet in what seems like years. How she misses them.

"Yes, thank you," Tyrion says.

She has never seen him quite so at a loss for words, as out of control as he is here, in her territory. In some ways, he is now the prisoner in their marriage. She isn't sure how to feel about that. She resolves not to dwell on it.

"The repairs are coming along nicely," Sansa says.

"They are. Ser Marvin does good work. And our scouting parties return with no news, which is good news. I'm afraid we won't have peace for long, but we'll spend the time wisely, fortifying for when that peace breaks."

"We won't see too much trouble, will we?" Sansa asks. "I know the Freys betrayed us. And the Boltons. And the Greyjoys, of course. But the other Houses are loyal."

"The Boltons and Greyjoys are two large enemies to have," Tyrion answers. "The Freys should, hopefully, leave us be until we are ready to engage them. But the Karstarks will have to be dealt with. My brother killed their heir and your brother killed their lord. They will look on neither of us with kindness."

"Three major threats," Sansa says. "We must begin developing a plan. Theon's treachery will not gain Winterfell for his family. And I will burn the North before I allow the Boltons to step foot in this place."

"Strong words, my lady."

Sansa doesn't try to hide her hate. "I will punish anyone who has betrayed my family. I will return to their hearts a fear of the North. I will -" she gasps, stomach clenching painfully, "I will make the North safe for my family again."

"My lady?" Tyrion pushes his chair away, rushing to her side.

Sansa can't hide her grimace, pain wracking her body again. "I -" something wet spills between her legs, and she casts a desperate look at her handmaiden. "Wynn," she says. "Wynn!"

Wynn sees the stain on her dress and reacts immediately. "Nora, get the midwife to the birthing chamber. Lord Tyrion, fetch Lady Brienne and anyone else you trust to guard your wife while she labors. The baby is coming."

"The baby," Tyrion murmurs and Wynn forgets herself enough to give him a shove towards the door. He runs out, Podrick close behind him, and Sansa groans.

"He'd better hurry."

"The babe won't come that quick," Wynn promises. "You will wish it, but it's a long process, my lady."

"It has been a long process," Sansa grits out. "I want it done."

"Of course, my lady. Now come, it will be good for you to walk a bit."


There are no men allowed in the birthing chamber, and Brienne guards the door to keep them out.

It takes the whole night and most of the next day, but Sansa gives birth to a healthy baby boy.

She collapses back against the bed as soon as the midwife eases him from her body, and the sheets are cool, damp with sweat. She's exhausted, her voice hoarse from screaming, and she wants nothing but to sleep for a sennight.

"My lady," the midwife says. She holds out Sansa's son, clean now and wrapped in a blanket. "What will you call him?"

This, Sansa knows. She takes the baby in her arms.

"Eddard."


Her recovery sleep is interrupted by the apologetic midwife.

"There are no wet nurses here," she says, handing a squalling Eddard to his mother.

"But," Sansa takes the baby but flounders afterwards, "what do I do?"

Even with the two of them helping him, he doesn't seem to understand that relief is right in front of him. Sansa is on the verge of crying herself when he finally starts suckling, and like everything else child-related, it's uncomfortable.

First thing she does when she gets out of this bed, she's finding a wet nurse. Even if she has to go all the way back to King's Landing to find one.

Eddard occupies all her attention for a time, but they both eventually settle enough that Sansa notices the midwife is politely waiting to be noticed. "There's something else?"

"My lady, your husband is most concerned about you. He has been pacing outside your chambers without stop. We showed him the baby, but it only assuaged some of his fears."

Sansa looks to Nora for confirmation. She nods. "The Lady Brienne had to keep him from entering the room several times when your cries grew especially loud. He was worried for both you and the babe."

Sansa, exhausted but feeling magnanimous with a healthy son in her arms, nods. "Let him in."

As soon as the door is opened, Tyrion rushes to her side, touching her forehead, her cheek, then her neck, like he must see that the blood still runs through her body in order to be sure that she's okay.

"We are both healthy," Sansa tells Tyrion. "And he, apparently, is quite hungry."

"Good," Tyrion says. "Good. My mother -" he cuts himself off. "You are healthy and that's all that matters."

"I've been told you've met little Eddard?" Sansa asks. She didn't ask him for input on what to name their son. He can name their next child.

"I'm sure he'll be worthy of his namesake," Tyrion says, either choosing not to rise to the challenge or just accepting her right to the naming. "But you - no lingering pain? No fever?" The second question is directed to the midwife.

"She needs rest and food, but she'll be fine. Your wife is truly of the North. Strong."

Sansa smiles, glad as Eddard's suckling begins to slow. "I think his belly is finally full." She looks over at Tyrion. "Would you like to hold your son? I'm afraid I will not stay awake for much longer."

"May I?" Tyrion asks cautiously, like he thinks this is a cruel joke.

Sansa eases her child from her breast and hands him over. His mouth continues to move, suckling at the air before it closes on a tiny sigh, his eyes slipping closed. Little Eddard has the right idea, Sansa thinks, letting hers close as well.


She is confined to her bed, and Tyrion remains at her side except for when he must sit as Lord and hear petitions. He joins her for every meal, and he makes sure he's by her side when she falls asleep at night.

It's rather...nice.

"Word from King's Landing," Tyrion says over lunch, four days after Eddard's birth.

"Good news, I hope," she says.

"Of course," Tyrion tells her. "I would ease you into it if it weren't. You're still recovering."

Her husband has been most attentive since the birth, and she's surprised that he appears to be at least as concerned about her as he is about their son. She hadn't realized he cared so.

"You're not the only one to have given birth to a son," Tyrion says. "Prince Briar Baratheon was born just a few days before Eddard."

"Briar?" Sansa asks. She is happy for Margaery, but really. Briar.

"It appears so," Tyrion says. "According to Varys, the King, in the habit of his father, went on a hunt when his wife fell into labor. Since he wasn't there when the child was birthed, she named him herself. It is a fitting name for a child of Highgarden."

Sansa is reminded that her husband stayed close to her as she labored, and has been faultlessly attentive since, even when she is tired and sore and grumpy and Eddard refuses to just cooperate and eat. Once again, she is glad she married Tyrion and not Joffrey.

"I didn't name Eddard because I thought you neglectful," she says, because it's important for him to know.

Tyrion smiles at her over their lunch. "I'm glad. And it's a fitting name. He'll grow into it, I'm sure."

"He's eating enough certainly," Sansa says. She feels like she spends all her time sleeping or feeding her son. "But I like the sound of it, Lord Eddard of Winterfell."

She cautions herself against too much hope. She knows the rule of the North. Do not get attached until your baby has survived their first winter.

They eat in companionable silence, Sansa taking the time to really enjoy her food. The meat is tender and the fruit is sweet, and she eats past being full. The midwife tells her another four weeks to regain her strength and allow her body to fully heal, then she can begin to lie with her husband again.

One son is good. Two is better.


A week after the birth of her son, Sansa attends the Great Hall with her husband.

A goat herder is their first petition of the day. "Wolves keep running off with my flock, and I have not the skill to fight them off."

"We can spare one of our guard," Tyrion says, "In exchange for four of your flock."

The goat herder hesitates.

"We will, of course," Tyrion continues, "give you two of the kids your goats birth for us. We want your flock to prosper as well as the one we're building here."

The goat herder bows. "Thank you, my lord."

"Next," Tyrion calls.

Sansa sits back in her chair and watches her husband rule. He is better at it than she thought he would be, and clearly he has been doing good work while she's been gone, because the people trust him with their problems and they trust him to be fair.

In addition to the goats, he secures promises of chickens from three different farmers in exchange for help building defenses against foxes. He tells her between petitioners that he has already arranged for two cows.

He may be a Southerner, but he understands about preparing for winter.

Sansa's heart swells with pride.

The next petitioner's approach is interrupted by Eddard's outraged wails. Nora hurries with him to Sansa's side.

"Apologies, my lady, but the little lord is hungry, and he does not want to wait."

"He is more like Arya than my father," Sansa says, but she takes the babe and puts him to her breast.

The petitioner hovers uncertainly.

She rolls her eyes. "I am feeding my son, your future lord. If anyone here has a problem with that then the petitions you have brought here are clearly not as important as you think."

Tyrion hides a laugh behind his hand. "You may speak," he tells the man before them.


Sansa is beginning to feel settled in Winterfell when they get three ravens from the Capital.

"This doesn't bode well," Tyrion says. "A message from my father, from Varys, and one from Margaery."

He hands the third message to her. Sansa tears it open, eyes scanning the parchment. Relief washes through her, and she takes a deep breath as she lets it drop to the breakfast table.

"Joffrey is dead," she says.

"What?" Tyrion drops his father's message, which he's been brooding over, and rips open the one from Lord Varys. His eyes scan the words then work their way up to the top to read them again. "Joffrey is dead."

"Long live King Briar," Sansa murmurs.

She picks Margaery's note up again. She is distraught at the loss of her beloved husband, fearful for her fatherless boy, and she longs for her dear aunt and friend to return to the capital to personally support her through this trying time.

"Margaery wants us there for the funeral."

"Even if we had dragons we couldn't make it there that fast," Tyrion says. He's studying his father's missive now. "But you will get to see her; my father has summoned us both. If we leave in the next few days, we should arrive in time for young Briar's coronation."

"Do they say what happened?" Sansa asks. "Margaery didn't include any details." She's not sure she wants to go to King's Landing. They just got to Winterfell. Their position here is precarious, and it wouldn't be good to abandon their people.

"My father is as close-mouthed as ever. Varys only says that there are things he needs to tell me in person, which is ominous." Tyrion sighs and looks at their assorted scraps of paper. "We just made this trip."

"I'm not well enough for extended travel on horseback," Sansa says.

Tyrion rubs his eyes. "If I remember, there's a river nearby that will take us to the ocean. We could travel to King's Landing by boat and, if you're well enough, ride on horseback back to Winterfell."

"You think it's safe to leave Winterfell so soon?"

"We don't have a choice," Tyrion says. "We'll leave most of the men, and I'll have a word with them about the kind of behavior I expect. And this will give us an opportunity to bring more supplies back. A maester, some craftsmen, more livestock. Will Eddard come with us?"

"He still needs me to feed him," Sansa says. "And he's too young to be without his mother."

"Alright," Tyrion says. "I'll begin preparations for our trip." Sensing Sansa's worry he adds, "Winterfell will wait for us to come back. It waited longer for you the first time."

Sansa nods, even though she can't help worrying that the capital will try to trap her again. She has finally come home, and she doesn't want to risk losing it.


"Leaving us so soon?" Nora asks, as she banks Sansa's fire that night.

"I must," Sansa says. "I need to see the King's dead body with my own eyes."

Nora looks her way, surprised.

"He tormented me my whole time in the capital," Sansa says. "He beheaded my father. I feel no sadness for his death. We'll all be safer once he is ensconced in the catacombs."

"There will be a new king," Nora says.

"Yes, but his mother is my dear friend. She will raise him well. He'll be a good king."

Nora doesn't seem convinced.

"We will be back," Sansa promises. "Lord Eddard belongs in Winterfell, not King's Landing. We'll leave our men to protect you. I have just gotten Winterfell back, and I will not give it up without a fight."

Nora smiles as she places one last log on the fire. "She'll be waiting for you to come back."