"Little bird."
Sansa's tired eyes fluttered open to the memory of her husband's voice, as they did every morning.
Day twenty one, she thought, rolling over in bed to face the pillow beside her. The space was void of her husband, occupied by all she had left of him until he returned - his helm and his Kingsguard cloak.
She reached out and caressed the cool steel with her fingers, following the curve of the snarling hound's mouth. "We're halfway there," she whispered.
Her mornings began the same way. Sansa tossed the furs from her body to reveal her nakedness and placed the helm onto her breasts, gasping at how cold the steel felt against her skin. Once she secured the helm with her left hand, Sansa spread open her legs, bent them at the knees, and let her right hand meet the mound between her thighs.
She let out a groggy whimper and closed her eyes, recalling the many provocative memories she had of her husband. She revisited her favorite memory first, when she first gave herself to him inside the cave in the Neck. She thought of how he looked towering above her, how it felt to have him pin her down and spread her open wide. Then she recalled another, the time he bent her over in the snow while she was having her blood and how eagerly he took her from behind. Her sex had been so sensitive that night, as if it were a hundred times more receptive to every thrust; Sandor had never spent himself inside her so fast.
A moan escaped her as she circled two fingers over her nub a little faster, fostering her release. She thought of how his hair felt brushing her face, the sensation of her lips grazing his scars, the way he'd get behind her and massage her one opening with his thumb while sinking his cock into the other. The pressure built, and Sansa clutched the helm until one breast spilled into the snarling mouth. The steel was unforgiving against her delicate skin, but no pain had ever felt so sweet. Her legs extended, her toes curled, her head sank into the pillow, and then Sansa was moaning out his name, riding out her peak.
Afterward, she was a bit breathless, a bit tingly, a bit numb. She stared blankly at the canopy above her and let the helm gradually fall from her breast. The moment following her release was always a lucid one. She would lay there and think about what needed to be done that day, anticipating what new problems might arise. Every day it was something. The food shortage had been the first complication, a spreading chest cold the second, and then on the third day, her chambermaid had informed her that she was with child after laying with Tormund Giantsbane a month prior. Even so, no matter the dilemma, Sansa handled each of them with finesse.
First she sent a group of men to Castle Cerwyn upon Lady Jonelle's approval to gather more provisions, then she ordered all those were ill to be sectioned off into the First Keep until the maester deemed them well enough to return to their duties of repairing the castle or training in the yard, and then she allowed her chambermaid to have the mornings to herself to get some extra sleep (which worked in Sansa's favor, too, ensuring that she would not be interrupted while pleasuring herself).
And then once a minute passed and she had enough mulling over her duties as the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa would think of Sandor, sob, and rise from her bed.
While she was washing her hands and face in the water basin, a quick knock came at the door.
"Bran's already in the godswood!" Arya shouted, attempting to open the latched door. "Let's go!"
"Just a moment." Sansa dried off her face with a cloth, jolting when she heard Arya kick at the door.
"Hurry up!"
These Faceless Men in Braavos may have taught her how to kill, but they certainly did not teach her patience.
Sansa grabbed the white woolen cloak from the bed, wrapped it around her body, then let in her frowning sister before the door would come crashing down.
"Gods, Arya. You need to—"
"—learn some manners," Arya finished for her, in a mocking tone. "You sound just like the Hound."
She knew that it was meant as an insult, but it made her smile all the same. "Come in while I dress then instead of beating at the door."
As Sansa walked towards the chest at the end of her bed and picked out one of the several newly stitched gowns she had sewn together, Arya walked towards the window and opened the shutters. Dawn had yet to break.
"I said a prayer for them last night," Arya said pensively, as she looked out into the darkness. "I prayed that they wouldn't come across the Others. I prayed that they would find the horn today and come home."
Sansa did, too. It was all she had done the night prior — pray and wipe her tears away with Sandor's cloak. "All will be fine," she said, in an effort to ensure herself as well as her sister. "Bran says the horn is only half a day's ride from Castle Black."
"Bran also hasn't been able to see the Others since last week."
That was true - terrifyingly so. The further south the Others marched, the more limited Bran's abilities had become. According to him, there was a leader amongst the dead who he referred to as the Night's King. The King of the Others could awaken corpses out of the ground and add them to his army, an army of hundreds of thousands. The daunting reminder never failed to make her want to retch.
Much like there was ancient magic in Bran, there was ancient magic in the Night's King, and somehow the two interfered with one another. It had been six days since Bran was last able to see beyond the Wall, six days since he had last seen the Others. Fortunately, he could still see south of the Wall and was able to give them a measure of reassurance.
Every morning and evening, she and Arya would meet with him inside the godswood where he would inform them of the men's progress, along with any setbacks they might have encountered along the way. They were subjected to many cruel storms which caused them to lose hours of travel, but that was expected. What was not expected was when Bran had told her that Sandor and Jon were getting along very well.
That had sounded far too good to be true.
Why would he lie? Sansa asked herself. Bran may have proven to be quite cryptic and selective with what he tells us, but he has never said anything that wasn't true.
It elated her to know that there was no longer bad blood between Sandor and Jon. She wondered what had changed that but Bran didn't have an answer for her. Perhaps the other men had forced them to set aside their differences, or perhaps they had decided it was best not to argue every waking moment for three fortnights straight. Whatever it had been, Sansa was eternally grateful.
"By the end of today, they will have found the horn," Sansa declared, hoping to speak it into existence.
"I can't believe Gendry went," Arya grumbled under her breath.
Sansa sighed. Her sister never went longer than an hour without repeating that.
As Sansa slid on her smallclothes, Arya looked away from the window and stared at her for a moment. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course," she said, while stepping into a grey woolen gown. "You're my sister."
Before traveling south, Sansa would never have said such a thing. Years ago, Sansa would have sooner forgotten that Arya was her sister. But the time apart had made them closer than ever, though they did still argue quite a lot. No amount of time would ever change that.
"What's it like to…" Arya trailed off, almost looking embarrassed.
"To what?"
"To...be with a man."
Sansa blinked at her, entirely taken aback. "Arya, you're three-and-ten."
"I'm not saying I'm going to do it. I've just been having these thoughts...and…" Arya squinched up her face, as if the words tasted like acid. "These...feelings…"
Much like I started to when I was three-and-ten, Sansa thought, suddenly feeling empathetic. How often did I find myself having indecent thoughts about Sandor in the Red Keep? How often did I wonder what it would be like to lay with him while living in the Vale?
Sansa sat on the edge of the bed as she laced up her bodice. "With the right man, it's wonderful," she admitted.
"How many have you been with?" When Sansa glowered at her, Arya snorted a laugh. "Sorry. Just Harry and the Hound?"
Thinking of the times she laid with a man besides Sandor made her stomach ache. "Yes."
"Well, you wedded Harry, so you had to lay with him. But why the Hound? He's not exactly what the whores would call a smallclothes dropper."
"Arya!" Sansa picked up her boot from the ground and threw it at her. A second later, they both submitted to a fit of laughter. Feeling suddenly faint, Sansa made her way over to the window to join her sister and savored the fresh, crisp air as it entered her lungs. "Sandor is more comely to me than any man I've ever met. But that's not why I chose to lay with him."
"So you did it because you love him?"
Sansa looked at her sister, feeling more maternal than sororal. "Because I love him and because I trust him."
Arya tapped her fingers on the window sill. "I trust Gendry."
"How old is Gendry?"
"Five-and-ten."
It must be the long hours spent inside the forge that have given him the build of a man of eight-and-ten, Sansa thought. "Is he pressuring you?" As soon as the words left her mouth, she added, "Of course he's not, else you would have stuck him with your sword."
"I was just curious," Arya said defensively. "I trust him, but I don't love him."
Not even her Faceless Men training could prevent Sansa from detecting that lie. She took her sister's hands in her own and looked her in the eye. "I'm not mother, and even if I was, no one besides you can make that decision. I trust you know what can happen when you lay with a man."
"You mean what has happened to you?" Arya said, lowering her eyes. "Your titties look huge."
Sansa looked down at her cleavage. "No they don't."
"Well, your titties are big in the first place, but I just saw them while you were dressing and they're definitely bigger." Arya pulled her hands away and gently poked her in the belly. "The Hound was right - you are carrying his pup."
Not a day went by that Sansa didn't pray to the old gods to bless her with a child, the daughter Sandor saw in the flames. By the grace of the old gods, my belly will be a little rounder once he returns. "If I do not have my moon's blood in a week, I'll inform the maester."
"We should ask Bran," Arya suggested, before taking eager strides towards the door. "He might know."
Sansa looked out the window and admired the sun as it rose in the east, wondering if Sandor was watching it, too. "Yes, we should."
The lone weirwood was weeping that morning, fresh red sap dripping from the crevices of its carved face.
Bran sat in his chair beside the heart tree, running his hand slowly down the bone white bark. "They will reach the Wall in two hour's time," he began, the moment she and Arya were within hearing distance, "but I cannot follow them beyond the tunnel at Castle Black."
Of course not, Sansa thought, vexed. That would be far too simple, and when has anything ever been simple?
"Based on what you've said before, the Others should still be days away from the Wall," Sansa thought out loud. "There's no possible way they'll cross paths."
"It would be unlikely," Bran concurred. His implication that the opposite could happen rose gooseprickles on her skin. "I'll know on the morrow."
"If you don't see them south of the Wall by first light tomorrow, we're sending a raven to the dragon queen," said Arya.
Sansa stared at the lamenting tree. "There won't be any need. They'll find the horn, and then they'll come home," Sansa demanded it of the carved face. She closed her eyes and began a prayer, until she heard the sound of snow crunching underneath quick feet. When Sansa opened her eyes, she found her sister crouched down beside Bran.
"Have you seen Sansa's pup?" she asked him. "I mean, her daughter?"
Though Arya had been the one to ask the question, Bran turned his face towards Sansa. "No."
Sansa hung her head and looked at her belly. So I'm not with child after all, she thought, swallowing the lump growing in her throat. Sandor and I can try again when he comes home. He will come home. He must come home.
"I saw a boy," Bran added, his voice a hollow whisper inside the godswood, "grey of eye and auburn of hair. A prince."
"A boy?" Her and Arya looked at one another and knitted their brow. "But, Sandor saw a-"
"The gates, Sansa," he interrupted.
Before she could ask him what he meant by that, a Winterfell guard ran into the godswood. "My lady! Riders!"
It can't be Sandor, she knew, but that didn't stop her from weaving her way through the ancient sentinels, oaks, and ironwoods and running into the yard with the hope of reuniting with her husband.
There were only four men, neither of whom were carrying a standard, but the identity of one of them did not remain a mystery for long. Upon the men riding through the gates, Sansa heard that unmistakable name chiming throughout the yard as nearby northmen greeted the young lord.
"Seven hells," Arya said, their minds in sync with one another, "that's another Umber."
"Cregan Umber," she whispered back. The last living son of the Greatjon.
It had not been innocent nor a coincidence that Jon had taken her into the stables to say his farewells before riding for the Wall. As soon as they were alone, Jon had informed her that he had sent a raven to the Crownlands, cleverly guided by their little brother, to inform the heir of the Last Hearth of his elder brother's death.
"Why do you keep making decisions without me?" Sansa had asked him, enraged. "Am I not the Lady of Winterfell?"
"You are, but you were...with your husband," Jon had responded with audible disgust. "It needed to be done."
The only thing that had kept her from further chastising him like a child was the fact that she would not see him for two months. "I assumed Gareth's elder sister would be the heir of the Last Hearth. He never mentioned a younger brother."
"That doesn't surprise me — the two were estranged."
That had piqued her interest. "Estranged why?"
Jon had given her a curious look. "All they have in common is their blood. I have never met two brothers more different from one another than Gareth and Cregan Umber."
"Hence why you sent the younger one away."
"Yes, upon defeating the Boltons, I sent him and three of his men to the Crownlands. Once his father was rescued from the Twins, he rode east to mitigate any trouble: Cersei's men, outlaws, brigands...whoever posed a threat riding north along the Kingsroad."
"That was clever."
"I expect him to return while we are gone," Jon had said.
Sansa had stared at him incredulously. "What, here?"
"He's the Lord of the Last Hearth. His place is here in the North, amongst his men."
"I will not suffer another Umber. And Sandor—"
"—will not blame him for his brother's sins. As I said, the boy is not like Gareth."
"Boy?" That had taken her by surprise. "How old is Cregan Umber?"
"Six-and-ten," Jon had answered, perplexingly. "The same age as you."
I should have told Sandor, she thought, watching as the last son of Jon Umber spotted her across the yard. But how dreadful of a farewell it would have been had I mentioned the name Umber around him. And if he and Jon are getting along, that means Jon hasn't told him either...
Her sister tugged on her sleeve as he started to approach; Sansa knew why without a word needing to be said.
At six-and-ten, Cregan Umber was built like a warrior of five-and-twenty. He was leaner than Gareth, and shorter, too, but not without the identifying features of his family. He had the Umber's dark brown hair, though he wore it short, and sported a well-trimmed beard. Once he stood no further than a step away from her, Sansa observed the color of his eyes - grey, like the hazy sky above her.
He was disgustingly comely.
The lord smiled; his teeth were perfect, too. "My ladies," he greeted with a bow of his head.
Cregan's voice was polished and smooth, much kinder to the ear than Gareth's, but that did nothing to settle her nerves. If the years had taught her anything, it was that the most beautiful of people could be the worst. Cersei Lannister was a prime example of that, as was Sansa's late husband, Harrold Hardyng. Still, she was the Lady of Winterfell, and duty demanded that she speak cordially with the lord, despite her reservations.
Sansa lowered her eyes to stare at the onyx brooch that fastened his cloak, thankful he had not taken her hand. "My lord, allow me to offer my condolences for-"
"No need, Lady Sansa," he said at once. "Gareth was an arrogant boor of a man, and that's coming from an Umber."
Sansa smiled, though the Umber name would forever be a dissonant sound to her ears. "Even so, he was your blood. Losing a brother is never easy."
"Is your lord husband around?" he asked, surveying the yard. "I'd like to thank the man who did what I never could for fear of being called a kinslayer."
Sansa found herself squinting at him. Has there ever been an Umber so well-spoken? It's no wonder he and Gareth did not get along. She took a quick glance at Arya whose lips were parted open in awe, as if she were watching a captivating mummer's show.
"My husband is not in Winterfell, but he will return in a little over a fortnight."
And may the old gods be with you once he does.
Cregan peered around some more, then asked, "And the Lord Commander? Where might I find him?"
"Jon went along with my husband."
Cregan rubbed the back of his neck. "I see."
"You're the Lord of the Last Hearth now," Arya blurted out. It was almost amusing to watch her sister act like a girl of three-and-ten considering she typically carried herself with the demeanor of a stone-faced assassin.
"So I am," he said with a smile that cut like a knife.
Sansa looked away from him again, not because she was shy or smitten, but because looking at him felt...wrong. I should have told Sandor. The guilt was gnawing at her. "There will be a meeting inside the Great Hall this afternoon with the northern lords and ladies, if you would like to attend," she said stoutly.
"I have a choice, then?"
"Beg pardon?"
"You said if I would like to attend. Perhaps I wouldn't." Sansa was at a complete loss for words, until he let out a soft chuckle. "Forgive me, Lady Sansa. By all means, I'll attend."
"Lord Cregan!" one of his men shouted from the stables, waving him over.
"If you'll excuse me, my ladies." He smiled at her, gave a bow, then departed with an easy swagger.
Arya leaned over and whispered, "Now he's what the whores would call a smallclothes dropper."
Sansa quickly looked away from the lord and glared down at her. "Stop being crude."
"Is the Hound still the most comely man you've ever seen?"
Sansa smacked her on the head, much like Sandor would have done had he been there instead of risking his life beyond the Wall. "He is and always will be," she hissed, then turned on her heel to finish her prayer inside the godswood.
There was little promise that the day would improve.
The meeting inside the Great Hall began an hour past noon, with the head of every house in attendance, along with her former husband, Tyrion Lannister. In the past three weeks, Tyrion and his jokes had become quite beloved amongst the lords and ladies. Perhaps it was because entertainment around the castle was scarce. That is, entertainment aside from gambling and brawling. Winterfell and Winter Town were not built to host so many men for so long. The sooner Bran saw Sandor and the others return from beyond the Wall, the sooner Sansa could allow the lords to return to their individual castles.
Aside from Tyrion, Cregan Umber was proving to be just as popular - amongst the ladies.
While sitting alone on the dais, Sansa watched in amusement as the serving girls filled up cups of wine with their heads permanently turned in his direction. There was not one woman inside the hall, besides herself, who was not utterly charmed by the young northern lord. One of the serving girls tripped over her own feet and spilled a flagon onto the floor when Cregan took out his dagger and stroked the flat of the blade up and down with a cloth. Lady Alys Karstark, a wedded woman carrying the Magnar of Thenn's child, stole a few glances his way, and even Lady Jonelle Cerwyn was undressing the lord with her eyes despite being old enough to be his mother. The sight was so amusing that Sansa placed a hand over her mouth to mask her giggle.
But her humor did not last very long. That's how foolish I must have looked when I met Ser Waymar Royce and Loras Tyrell and Arys Oakheart….even Joffrey, she thought. The reminder of her past naivete was thoroughly revolting. Comely he may be, but the only man who can ever enthrall me is Sandor.
Despite all the attention he was receiving, Cregan did not appear to notice any of it, and if he did, he certainly was not relishing in it. He laughed at Tyrion's jokes, told a few of his own, and when the other lords spoke, he listened with utter reverence.
Jon was right, Sansa thought, he is entirely unlike his brother.
When it was well past time to put an end to the japing and gawking taking place inside the hall, Sansa spoke up and informed her bannermen what was expected of them going forward. That certainly did put an end to the laughter, but being a lady was seldom about being the most amusing person in the hall.
"Your loyalty and commitment during these trying times will not be forgotten," she began. "Once my brother confirms that the Horn of Winter has been found, you may return home until we receive word from Daenerys Targaryen."
Lord Glover was the first to frown. "This dragon queen asks too much of us. She must be as mad as her bloody father. How many men must we sacrifice to win back a throne we no longer bow the knee to?"
"It is in your best interest," Tyrion interjected. "Queen Daenerys has agreed to grant the North its independence in exchange for your...sacrifices."
"And if she loses this war?" asked Lyanna Mormont, the fierce young lady of Bear Island.
"She won't," Sansa said, with conviction. "Daenerys has three mature dragons and an army of Unsullied and Dothraki."
"And my sweet sister has Lannister soldiers and sellswords," Tyrion added, with a twisted smile. He scratched at his nose, despite it no longer being there after Mandon Moore sliced it off during the Battle of the Blackwater. "The war is won."
"The war is won?" Lord Wylis Manderly's guffaw echoed above in the rafters. "Then what does your queen need our men for?"
"Your attendance is an act of good faith going forward, much like sending me to your lovely frozen lands was an act of good faith on her part." Tyrion gulped his wine and tossed the cup to the serving girl he had been leering at the past half hour. Had she not been engrossed by Cregan Umber, she might have caught it. "While the North will be granted its independence, Queen Daenerys wishes to remain allies. And nothing brings friends closer together quite like going to war. Besides, Lord Manderly, your men could use a southbound journey - there's far less snow."
"Snow?" Wylis' face grew red with rage. "I'd sooner see snow than dragon fire pouring from the sky! We are northmen!"
The lords and ladies joined in all at once, each raucously offering their opinion on the matter. Once there sounded to be a consensus of dissent, Sansa arose from her seat in the center of the dais and stared out at the zealous northern leaders.
"And northmen are brave and honorable." She spoke emphatically, stealing the attention of everyone inside the hall. The following pronouncement came to her like words spoken in a dream, predestined and out of her control. "We must not allow our pride to make an enemy of Daenerys Targaryen. When the time comes, we will travel south - all of us, including me. I will not send your men as well as my own to fight in a war while I stay five hundred leagues away. Let Cersei Lannister see the north outside her walls. Let us seek justice for all she has done. Or have you forgotten?"
"The north remembers!" Lord Glover bellowed.
Wylis Manderly was next, pounding his meaty fist atop the table. "The north remembers!" he shouted, inciting the others to do the same.
"The north remembers! The north remembers! The north remembers!"
"Oh, Lady Sansa, you are your father's daughter!" Tyrion announced over the impassioned clamor, grinning from ear to ear. "You and Daenerys will be a force to be reckoned with!"
While the lords spoke with fervor amongst themselves, Sansa noticed Cregan eyeing her in silence from across the hall with the same reverence he had given the lords. "Lord Umber," she called out, loud enough to prompt the others to quieten, "did you wish to say something?"
"Yes, Lady Sansa." Cregan Umber rose smoothly from his seat, the youngest and tallest of the lords inside the hall, and withdrew the massive sword that once belonged to his brother and his father before him, the same sword that had killed her husband three weeks ago. "My lords and ladies, we speak of one queen, but we have yet to crown our own." The hall was deathly silent as he approached the dais, save for his heavy footsteps against the stone. He knelt in front of her and laid the ancestral greatsword of House Umber onto the ground. "I bow my knee to you, Your Grace, from this day until my last," he said, gazing up at her with deference. "The first Queen of Winter! The Queen in the North!"
The lords and ladies appeared to stand in unison, making their way forward to kneel in front of the dais.
Then the shouts came and endured.
"The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North!"
Like the drums on her wedding night, the five words reverberated off the walls, threatening to shatter the windows. The twenty voices sounded like a thousand, each one in cadence with the other, as if they had it rehearsed. Sansa stood there, crowned by the very son of the man who crowned her brother king, and in between the shouts, all she could think was, Sandor should be here...Sandor should be here….Sandor should be here.