Sansa sat huddled on her bed until dawn, praying that the nausea that had plagued her would pass this morning and that and her moon's blood would arrive late, only late. When finally she could not help herself from retching into her basin, she succumbed to tears of helplessness.
Oh Sandor, I'm so sorry.
Steeling herself, she rose and dressed, donning her fur-lined cloak and boots to set out to the outer walls of Winterfell. Walking the halls and stairwells of her late father's castle comforted her, even with its broken, crumbling towers and soot-darkened ceilings and damaged, splintered doors, Sansa felt a deep sense of relief and even peace that she was, at long last, home.
She thought of her terrified panic when she had her first moon's blood in the Red Keep, when she realized that she had flowered and could be married to Joffrey, the prince who had ordered her father executed and had let her be publicly stripped and beaten by his Kingsguard. She had tried to burn the evidence by putting her sheets and even her mattress on the fire. But there was no panic now; only a dull resignation and a sense of emptiness and loss from knowing that Sandor would be angry with her, that he would no longer trust her…and that he would leave her.
She also bore the burden of knowing that she had lost her chance to help her people by making an alliance. Sansa may not have liked the idea of selling herself in marriage, in truth it left her almost as bereft as she felt knowing that she had disappointed Sandor; but as she nodded in greeting to each shivering soldier that she passed standing sentinel at his post behind crennels, she understood the strategic necessity of having a lord husband with an army at his back.
Strategic necessity. She scoffed sadly at herself. Listen to yourself now, little bird... You truly are the Lady of Winterfell, aren't you? Sandor had said.
Sansa stopped to look out to the wolfswood and then buried her head in her hands. A lady. How could she possibly consider herself a lady now? She loved Sandor with all her heart but he was a soldier in her family's service, little more than a sellsword, and she had opened her legs for him and gotten a bastard child against his wishes. Sansa thought of her kind father, her proud lady mother, and even Septa Mordane; she cringed to remember hearing of Cersei's walk of punishment: having to parade naked through the streets of King's Landing as an adulteress.
But she wasn't in King's Landing; she was in the North, she remembered as she raised her head again. Alysanne Mormont had bastards and was heir to Bear Island. Sansa did not like to think of herself as being anything like Alysanne Mormont though she had to accept that she was now, in some way; but at least the Northmen accepted her. Since Rickon was heir to Winterfell and destined to be Warden of the North; mayhaps her great-uncle Blackfish or Lord Umber would advise him if she were made to step down. She prayed her bannermen would not desert her, though they may no longer respect her, and would remember that they were fighting for themselves and the North after all.
"My lady, are you well?" the maester spoke from behind her.
Sansa hastily brushed away her tears and feigned a smile. "Good morning maester, I find that the cold air is quite invigorating," she rubbed the cold tip of her nose with her palm.
"Indeed it is, my lady. What brings you up to the walls? The air is just as invigorating in the yard, I find."
"I- maester, I wished to draw strength from looking out on my father's lands and seeing what we are fighting for. I like to remember where I am from, for it helps to remind me who I am, and why I must do the things I must do," she told him firmly.
"Ah," he nodded, "our lady is a philosopher too. But you are too modest to think so, therefore I will simply say that you are thoughtful and dedicated," he smiled. "But I fear for your weakened health, my lady. Allow me to escort you down to the yard, if I may?"
"I thank you, maester," she acquiesced, taking his arm. "Forgive me, maester, but…the girl who died…troubles me-"
"Naturally, my lady: the happenings of the bloody bed are the most troubling for a woman," he lectured.
"What she did, or what was done to her: you said this poisoned her? I don't understand, I'm afraid."
"When a child dies within the womb but is not expelled," he explained delicately, "it rots like any dead thing, and so fouls a woman's body and blood. You observed festering wounds on the soldiers and how they required amputation before the poisoning of the blood can spread?"
"I see, maester; and if the child had been expelled from her body, then-"
"One cannot say for certain, my lady: bleeding out a child can also cost a woman her life, if she bleeds too much. Even those who survive are thereafter oftentimes barren, my lady."
The word resounded in Sansa's ears like a horrible curse. Barren. Even if she were to marry to secure their position, her lord husband would expect sons from her; and to endure a loveless marriage without the comfort of children struck her as too much to bear.
"In King's Landing, maester, I…I heard from women in the Red Keep of tea that can-"
"Moon tea, my lady: tansy and pennyroyal are known for their efficacy in such matters, but the risk of bleeding to excess is still considerable once a woman has quickened. Many who use it do not understand the necessity of a proper dosage, and even those who do may err, to unfortunate effect." He lowered his voice confidingly: "I believe you will find most women use this tea as a preventive measure."
Sansa nodded vaguely, showing that she understood. Efficacy, unfortunate effect: I fear I could enlighten you as well, maester, she thought dully.
"Desperate women will try all manner of things, my lady: falls, hard riding, squatting over baths of onions or mustard; some men have beaten babes from their mother's bodies. These are all dangerous, my lady, but I am afraid they are all practiced widely and always have been. Perhaps it is not fair, though I find little in life is fair, but it is the woman's lot to be burdened with the consequences of…well, forgive me if I have been too frank, my lady."
'Not at all, maester: I feel responsible for those in Winterfell, and in particular the young girls. It helps me that I mayhaps am able to counsel them in turn," she thanked him.
"A pity we could not have counseled the poor waif. I have naught here at my disposal that could have ended her childbearing but at least we could have seen her through her fears and mayhaps helped her birth a healthy babe; though she was so very young."
Sansa spent the rest of the day closeted in her father's solar. As she sat listlessly overlooking a table full of maps and ledgers and her untouched midday meal, Sansa thought about what the maester had told her. Any means she may think to use to rid herself of a child could possibly cost her life, and she was simply not willing to take that risk. She had promised Rickon that she would stay with him, and if she failed him she knew that another loss might devastate him and make him furiously wild and angry. He may even run away, back to Skagos or to the wall to be with Jon, and then the Stark line would end. She thought of her family, of their love and her parents' hard work and devotion to their children who were meant to carry on once they were gone : a legacy eight thousand years old would be lost forever.
The shadows lengthened across the worn floor as the weak sunlight faded. Sansa tried to remember her father's face now but closed her eyes in pain when all that appeared before her was his head on a spike.
They tried to ruin us, to put an end to the Starks forever. I am trying, father, mother: I am trying so very hard. I failed you in King's Landing, father, and then I chose to trust Petyr, mother, because he said he loved you, but I was wrong. I could have run away with Sandor but I came home, for you, for Rickon, and for the North. Help me, I beg you: help me to know what is right now.
"Little bird?"
Sansa's heart stopped. The familiar rasp, the wonderful endearment: her heart broke to know it was all lost. She could not even bring herself to look towards him. She absently straightened the maps on the battered table though she knew they had no order.
"Little bird, is this where you have been hiding all day? I thought that you were ill again," he walked into the solar and she heard his footsteps approach where she was sitting. Sansa felt herself tremble and her tongue grew thick in her mouth. She searched and then reached for the flagon of water but Sandor picked it up first, holding it until she glanced in his direction, though she still would not meet his eyes.
"You're angry with me, it that it? I left you last night because you were so tired, little bird, not because I don't want to be with you," he rasped gently.
She bit her lip to control herself, so desperately did she want to break down and cry, to throw herself in his arms and beg his forgiveness. Instead she took in a sharp breath.
"I- I fear…that you will no longer want to be with me anymore, Sandor," she spoke in a quavering voice.
He huffed a short laugh. "What in buggering hells do you mean? Of course I will." He set the flagon down with a thump.
Sansa reached for it with trembling hands, and nearly spilled it trying to pour some into her cup.
"Here, let me do that. What in seven hells is wrong? Sansa?"
He hardly ever used her name. I t was enough to make her look up slowly. As soon as she met his eyes, her own filled with tears.
"I'm sorry, Sandor," she whispered.
His heavy brow furrowed deeply and his scarred mouth twisted in confusion. "What for? What's happened?" Suddenly his eyes widened in realization and his mouth turned grim. He stood tall and straight: the posture of her sworn shield.
"I see. I has heard that you went up to the walls with the maester. Was there a raven? There's been an offer, hasn't there? You'll needs marry soon and so you must tell me that we cannot be together anymore, is that it?"
Sansa swallowed with difficulty and shook her head slowly.
"No, Sandor, there is no offer," her voice broke and squeaked, "nor will there be. I-" She looked down at her hands, twisting in her lap: the knuckles white and her nails digging into her own palms. "I have…there is…something has gone wrong…I-" she failed to stifle a gasping sob.
Suddenly Sandor leaned over and put his large hands on her shoulders. "Look at me! What has happened? What did the maester tell you? Are you truly ill? By the Seven, little bird," his teachings from the Quiet Isle came out unbidden, "tell me what is wrong!"
She had looked up when he had ordered her to and saw the fear and worry in his eyes: wide, dark grey eyes filled with loving concern for her. Her heart clenched painfully inside her chest for when she told him, she knew that love would be gone. Her courage deserted her for she could not bear to see it. She dropped her eyes again and her voice came out a hoarse whisper.
"I- I am with child."
