The cool air inside the bedchamber hit her lungs with an intensity fiercer than the fists of Joffrey's Kingsguard.
Sansa opened her eyes in a panic, and before she could see, she remembered.
My child, the blood, the pain, Sandor…
Despite the flooding memories of agonizing pain, she no longer felt it, and when her vision focused on the figure towering above her, she saw it was Sandor, staring at her in bewilderment.
Sandor. You lived. You told me to stay in the crypt, but I didn't listen, and our child…
"Where is she?" Sansa's voice was hoarse, her throat as dry as her cracked lips. Sandor looked at her as if she were a ghost. There was a brief moment of silence and stillness between husband and wife before he managed to move.
"Little bird," he breathed out, placing a hand on her cheek. "Gods, you are-" he cried. Sansa lifted her hand to caress the scars on his face and noticed that he was covered in blood.
You told me to stay in the crypt, if I had waited...
"Sandor, where is she?" she whispered. His face winced as he took in a deep breath.
"It was a boy, little bird. He...was too early."
"A boy?" she asked as she sat up on the bed. Sandor moved his hand behind her to support her back before she observed Beric's lifeless body on the ground. She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand that smelled of blood.
"Easy, girl," Sandor grunted as he shifted beside her. "You just gave birth, and the blood…"
"What happened? Why is Lord Beric dead? Where is our boy?" She surveyed the room for the child. Too early, he said. He was born too early. Sansa looked at Sandor before weeping into his chest that was still covered in armor. "What has happened, Sandor? I felt the pain, I remember all of it, but I have no physical pains of bearing a child," she looked down between her legs and touched herself to find any indication that she had given birth but it felt as if it never happened. No blood, no soreness, not a trace of anything.
Sandor watched as she touched herself, as unbelieving of her healing as she was. "You were gone. You died right here underneath me. Beric, he gave his life for yours. But our son, he never lived...gods he was the smallest child I have ever seen," he groaned, running his fingers through the length of her hair.
If I had stayed in the crypt…
"Oh," she sobbed. None of it made sense to her. The more he spoke, the more disoriented she became. Beric was dead, her child dead, and Sandor...gods, he told me to stay in the crypt. I killed our son. As if he had heard her thoughts, Sandor brought her into his arms as he sat against the headboard and straddled her legs over his lap. She noticed him grunt when her weight shifted forward onto his chest. He lifted her chin with a bloody hand and placed a deep kiss onto her lips, the tears on their faces mingling together. The embrace made her breathless, but she pulled her away and shook her head. "It's my fault, Sandor. I left the crypt. I can't remember why...I can't remember what happened. All I remember is seeing you out there in the yard, coming here, and the pain…" she cried.
"No, little bird. Gregor and his man were approaching the crypts when they found you. They knew you would be there. You can't think like-"
Sandor grimaced again and Sansa noticed the frequency of his groans growing. He is hurting somewhere. Why has he not said anything? The confusion and grief she felt from losing her child, seeing Beric dead on the floor beside her, and learning that she herself had been dead had made her blind to Sandor's own trauma.
"What is it?" she gasped, anxiously removing the remaining armor off his body. He grunted again deeply when she touched his chest. Upon lifting his tunic off of him, the sight underneath it made her ill. "Sandor, where's the maester?" The bruising covered the majority of his torso and began to darken into a deep shade of purple.
"What can a maester do for broken ribs and a broken leg that I can't do myself? I'll be fine, girl," he groaned.
"Your leg?" Sansa looked over her shoulder, peering down at the legs she sat on. She reached back and felt through the length of his trousers. His lower right leg was swollen, but she did not feel a bone sticking out. When she turned back around, she saw a fragileness in him that she had never seen before. "I'll go. I'll go get the maester," before she could step off the bed, he grabbed her waist gently to sit her back onto his lap.
"Gods, look at you. You are really here," his eyes inspected over her bare body. "You don't feel the pain?"
"No," she said. "I feel tired and like my thoughts are missing, but I am not hurting."
I birthed a small child, bled out, and died. And yet I live, unhurt, while my son is dead and Sandor suffers. If I had stayed in the crypt...
"Get over here," he pulled her into another kiss, grunting as her weight fell on top of him. Despite the pain she knew he felt, he chose to ignore it as he placed his tongue into her mouth. Sansa's hands moved gently onto his shoulders and pushed, urging him to stop. He ignored that, too. "Seven fucking hells, I thought I lost you," he breathed over her mouth before pushing his lips back onto hers.
"Sandor, stop," she struggled to say. She pushed harder on him this time, making every effort to avoid the massive bruising on his torso.
"Your heart stopped, you were so bloody cold. I held you in my arms and you were gone," he grunted into her neck. His hands met her bare back and pulled her closer to him, squeezing her breasts against his broken chest. "I fucking love you."
Sansa could feel his cock hardening from underneath her and began to push harder against his chest. "Stop it. This isn't right," she whimpered. "I need to get the maester, I need to see our son."
Neither the words nor the pushing seemed to reach him. She needed to see her child and to learn what happened at Winterfell: how the Others were defeated, where Bran, Arya, and Jon were if they managed to survive, how Sandor killed his brother...
Sansa's thoughts were interrupted as he began to release himself from the confines of his trousers. She reached behind her to stop his hand but he pushed it away just as quickly. Something about this moment reminded her of a time long ago, back in a castle...where was it? Her memory failed her. The Red Keep, she recalled. He was in my room, he kissed me, he meant to have me. He had been scared, crying, why? She tried to remember as Sandor moved his mouth to her breasts, resulting in her pushing away harder. It was the battle, the wildfire. They say he turned craven, and he came to me. He ran, turning his back against those he swore his sword to all because he thought he would die there. He was scared and confused, and he came to me. He wanted to have me. And is that not what he is now? Scared? Confused? Grieving?
Her muscles began to exhaust from exerting her strength to push him away. In any other circumstance, she would never have denied him. But this was not right; his urgency was from wanting his fear, confusion, and pain to go away and she wanted to see her son, to get Sandor the care he needed, and to find her family. Once he began to lift her on top of his manhood, she could not contain herself.
"I said no!" she shouted at the top of her lungs.
The hand on his manhood stilled with the head of his cock resting outside of her entrance. He removed his grasp slowly as his forehead rested between her breasts. At first she thought he was laughing, feeling his body spasm, but when she lifted his face into her hands, she saw that he was crying.
"Go," he grimaced. "Get yourself away from me." He eased her off his lap and laid flat on his back with his eyes shut. For the first time, Sansa did not know what to say to him. A moment passed before she started towards the edge of the bed.
"I am going to the maester. You need to let him help you, please," her voice broke. It was difficult for her to see Sandor in despair. She had seen him like this once before, disgusted with himself, the day he had disrespected her in the yard. More words came to her but she decided against voicing them.
Sansa crawled to the opposite edge of the bed where Beric did not lie. He died for me, she thought. And I will not let him have died in vain. When Sansa stepped onto the floor, she felt weak but the pain and blood that had been present in the childbed were gone, as if it had all been a terrible dream. She placed her hands on her bare stomach and the swell was gone. She wanted to mourn, but instead she gripped the skin on her belly so tightly with her fingers she drew blood.
My son would still be growing inside me if only I hadn't left the crypt. If only I listened...
Sansa found her dress beside the bed underneath wooden splinters from a broken chair, but it was sliced down the middle from the Mountain's man who had cut it off of her. She turned towards the chest at the end of the bed and opened it. Whoever stayed in this guest chamber must have had a wife, daughter, or whore with them, for Sansa found a modest green woolen dress. It was much too loose on her and also too short, but it did not matter. She found a cloak inside as well, a man's cloak that she had to bundle into her hand to keep herself from tripping. Lastly, she laced her boots that had managed to make it to the chambers in fair condition.
Upon dressing, Sansa turned towards the bed and saw that Sandor was watching her. His eyes were heavy and it had become apparent that his injuries were taking its toll. She walked beside him slowly and leaned down to place a kiss on his scars. "I love you," she whispered.
"Gods be good," a Northman bowed to her. "Lady Stark, we thought you were-"
"Show me to the maester," she interrupted. Sansa had not even looked at the man; her focus was on the ruin that surrounded her. The fresh falling snow had yet to cover up the blood soaked into the ground. Several men were in the yard, carrying the dead onto wagons and driving them outside of the walls. The sounds of mourning were soft but they seemed to be coming from every direction. It was very late in the night and only a mere day had passed since her birthing her son.
My son. If I had stayed in the crypts...
"Follow me, my Lady," the man bowed again, dropping the debris he meant to clean up back onto the fresh snow.
He led her into the Great Hall which had transitioned into a place of healing, full of wounded men all awaiting for clean linen for their wounds, milk of the poppy, or perhaps even a dagger to the heart to end their suffering. As she entered, the hall grew silent aside from the groaning of dying men. Every able eye was on her, mouths gaping open, and more courtesies were uttered to her than she could stand to bear at the moment.
The maester was at the far end of the hall instructing some other young men how to treat the others. When his sight fell on her, he nearly doubled over.
"The old gods have heard our prayers," he began to weep. "Lady Stark, it should not be possible. I saw the blood myself. You have been blessed by the old gods, and to walk so soon after-"
"Where is my son?" she asked coolly.
The hall grew even quieter somehow. The maester wiped his tears and reached to grab her hand into his. "Come, my Lady. Lads, do what you can for your brothers. And someone, go let Lady Stark's family know she is well," he gestured towards the help.
The maester led her into a corridor behind the great hall with a room at the far end. As they walked in, she noticed it had become his new maester's chambers since the destruction of many of the other towers in Winterfell. Herbs were spilled onto the floor, several parchments were scattered across the desk, but all else vanished from her sight when she saw a bundle of black silk in the smallest wooden box atop the bed.
"Your sister wanted to bury the child on the morrow," he walked towards the bundle. "A Stark of Winterfell, my lady, shall always be buried in the crypts."
My son, to be buried in the crypts of Winterfell, because I chose not to stay in them.
"I want to see him," she whispered. "Please."
The maester gave her an uncertain look before easing the silk apart with unsteady hands. Once folded open, Sansa moved closer, looking down on the small, lifeless boy.
The smallest child I have ever seen, just like Sandor said.
She wanted to wail, but something inside of her prevented her from falling onto her knees and beating the floor bloody in front of the maester. He gave her a curious look when all she did was stare at the child. But on the inside, she mourned louder than any mother could ever do for a child. She peered down closer and placed her finger alongside his tiny cheek. Even though small and premature, he looked like Sandor. How Sandor might have looked when he was in the womb, without the burns or scars. She leaned further down again and placed a tender kiss on the child's forehead. When she rose from her son, she looked at the maester, feigning her composure.
"Please, go to my lord husband at once. He is severely injured. I've told him not to refuse your help," she turned back towards the door but hesitated a moment before exiting. "Thank you. For everything. We will bury my son tomorrow at dusk," her voice quivered at the end and she exited.
Sansa pulled the large hood of the man's cloak over her face as she walked towards the godswood. It was late and the only men in the yard were busy shoveling bodies or weeping. She also noticed that she had not seen a single living Dothraki or Unsullied in the yard. Has Daenerys already left? What all happened as I was dying? She made it successfully to her destination without being seen, like she was a ghost. Perhaps I am, she thought.
Inside the godswood, all appeared calm and pure. It was as if no battle between the living and dead had ever occurred just one day ago. She contemplated how that could be possible before sitting underneath the tree on the stone bench. Sansa looked up at the carved face and it had never looked more like her father as it did in that very moment. In the presence of the old gods and the face resembling her father, every tear, cry, scream, curse, and wail that she held inside the maester's chambers had escaped.