As their hips rocked together in a slow, even cadence, Sansa's soft, pale fingertips combed through the coarse, dark hair on her husband's chest, eliciting a throaty growl when they grazed over his nipple.

Sansa smiled against his mouth. "Do you like that?" she whispered, brushing her fingers over it again.

Sandor answered with a bass note that rolled in his throat, then pulled her in closer. His nipple stiffened.

He certainly does, she thought, as she continued to circle it with her thumb. She loved that about them; no matter how many times they lay together, there was always something to learn about one another - what they liked, what they loved, what they needed. Much like there was always a new way to lay with one another, limitless innovative positions that could only be conjured up by equally lascivious minds.

And, so far, this position was the most intimate of them all.

Facing one another with their lips passionately interlocked, they laid on their side with Sandor's arm firm around her waist and her leg straddling his hip. Each time he brought his pelvis forward, Sansa would meet him halfway and whimper into his mouth as her sex was filled. She was sore and tender, but every stroke satisfied her all the same. The pain reassured her that he was real, not a dream, nor an hallucination. Hips swiveling, cock sinking, cunt opening, the pain reassured her.

Her husband was real. Her husband was alive. Her husband was home.

Every morning, Sansa awoke to those two words: little bird. But when she heard him in the middle of the night and opened her eyes, it wasn't the canopy of the bed she was staring at, but him. She had been convinced that she was only dreaming until he entered her, then she had been convinced it was his shade that was fucking her, his ghost that had slipped through her latched door and surreptitiously positioned himself on top of her. It wasn't until she felt the warmth of his seed shoot inside her fiercely did she realize it was him, real and alive and home.

Something had overcome her then, needy and wanton. She wanted him so badly it hurt. She wanted it so badly she hated him for making her go three fortnights without his touch. Ever since becoming with child (that is, once she no longer became sick each morning), Sansa found herself in heat nearly every moment of the day. Pleasing herself took the edge off, but only for the briefest of moments. She had a hunger only Sandor could satiate. She had a need only Sandor could fulfill. And once she finally had a taste, she could not control herself.

She had been ravenous, cursing and crying and sweating, feeling her grief expel from her body as she came around his cock for the first time in months. He had spilled inside her again, a second reassurance. He's real, she had thought. Real. Alive. Home. Sansa lost count of how many times she repeated those three words to herself. If she spoke it into existence, surely it would remain true.

Afterward, when she guided his hand onto her growing belly, he had cried. Sansa had already been sniffling, but when he placed his lips onto the little swell and quietly said, "Catelyn," she wept.

Sansa utterly sobbed.

Real. Alive. Home.

They had bathed together in the tub that was much too small for the both of them, despite the water being cold. In order to manage the limited space, she had sat in his lap and scrubbed him clean, washed his long hair with the same fragrant oils she used, and then when his cock jutted upward against her cheeks, Sansa rode him until half the bath water ended up on the floor.

First light was trickling in through the shutters by the time they had returned to bed. They had talked for the better part of an hour, discussing all that had happened in the months apart, before he made his way down between her legs. According to him, every part of her tasted sweeter than before now that she was with child, and she lost track of how many times he commented on the size of her breasts. "They're so bloody big, I'm like to die," he had told her. Sansa couldn't remember a time she had ever laughed so hard.

After Sandor had made a feast of her sex, licking her until she cried and refusing to stop until she begged for it, she must have fallen asleep, because when she awoke she could not remember having cuddled up beside him underneath the furs. While listening to the plethora of sounds in the yard and watching him sleep, Sansa had decided it was her turn to surprise him by wrapping her leg around his waist, spitting into her palm, and working his cock until it was as stiff as iron in her hand.

He hadn't even opened his eyes before taking her waist and sliding inside, finding her mouth with his own as he delivered strokes so intimate she thought her heart might burst through her chest. Even then it felt like a dream, caressing his skin, stimulating his nipples, feeling their bodies move together as one. But no dream could ever be so sweet, nor feel so genuine. Not for this long.

He was real. He was alive. He was home.

Just as her pleasure was reaching its apex, Sandor released her waist. She gave a disapproving whimper, cursing the sudden chill on her skin, until his hand spanked her ass. She squealed and thought, Oh yes, much better. Sansa hooked her leg around him tighter and dug her heel into the back of his thigh. So intimate, she thought, so close. Listening to the soft, wet sounds that came with every rock of their hips was nothing short of cathartic. Sansa had been in such a state of serenity that when he burrowed his hand into the groove between her cheeks, her mouth parted open, gasping.

"Do you like that, little bird?" The words sounded much more mischievous coming from him. Of course I do, she wanted to say, but could not manage a single word once he teased her opening with the tip of his finger, groaning when the walls of her sex clamped around him in response.

She felt so full. Sansa let loose, bucking her hips quicker and quicker until she was the one fucking him.

"Bloody hell." Sandor almost sounded afraid, but more than that he sounded like he fucking loved it. The response was all she needed; her movements grew languid as she climaxed, biting his lip and feeling a numbness develop in each of her limbs as she rode out her peak. He returned his hand to her hip and held her still, picking up the pace to chase his own peak. Gooseprickles rose on her skin when she heard him groan; no tune could ever sound so pleasant as the groan of the man she loved enthusiastically losing himself inside her.

Home.

Just as soon as their bodies grew still, a knock came at the door.

"Your Grace," said Maester Henly, the youngest of the maesters whom was visiting from House Slate. "The Lord Commander and Lady Arya have arrived at the south gate with their party."

He was stammering. Sansa wondered how much of that he heard.

"Thank you," she called out, her voice hoarse from sleep and sex. "Please inform them I'll be right down."

"Seven hells," Sandor cursed, eyes closed and unmoving. "What time is it?"

Sansa looked over her shoulder at the closed window and studied the direction of the sun rays that came in through the shutters. "Noon," she sighed, then begrudgingly pulled herself away from his embrace. He grunted as his cock fell out of her, slapping wet against his thigh; the emptiness that followed made her want to bawl. She would have sooner never left her bed, but she was a queen. Queens were seldom allowed to tumble their husbands all day - good queens, that is.

Once she and Sandor cleaned up and dressed, he picked up her crown from the table, a bronze and iron circlet much like the crowns worn by the Kings of Winter but surmounted with two direwolves in place of spikes. Sandor placed it onto her head, took a step back, and then examined her for a moment in silence.

"The Queen in the North," he said, slowly and with reverence, "but always my little bird."

Sansa dissolved into tears.

Minutes later after she gathered herself together, they walked hand in hand into the bustling courtyard outside the Great Keep. There were more people every single day. No matter where one looked, men were sparring with swords, and some of those spars were not spars at all but heated duels.

There's little else for them to do, thought Sansa. It's a game of waiting.

Men from all over Westeros came to swear their swords to House Stark and the North. Some came with a sense of duty, some came simply because they despised Cersei Lannister for what she had done to the Tyrells, but the majority came with the hopes of being knighted should they prove their valor in battle. The more help, the better, but more help meant more mouths to feed. The ever present threat of a food shortage was as stressful as the Others. According to Tyrion, Daenerys' armies would be bringing an abundance of provisions, but whether their queen would share those provisions remained uncertain.

Sansa found her little sister standing in the middle of the yard with her head tilted towards the sky. She looked unusually perplexed. Across the way, Sansa spotted Cregan's men stabling the horses along with Tormund (whom she would need to inform that her chambermaid was pregnant with his child), Edd Tollett, and Gendry. There was no sign of their brother.

She gave Arya a hug and a kiss, then perused the yard once more. "Where's Jon?"

"He went with her," Arya grumbled, wiping away the few flakes of snow that had landed on her face. "He took her to the solar."

"What, already?" Sansa could not say why she was surprised. Despite having never met him, Daenerys spoke of Jon every day, as if their souls had somehow already connected. It was curious, to be sure. "Sandor told me what happened beyond the Wall," she said, shivering at the thought of his encounter with the Others. "He needs to visit the maesters and have his leg attended to."

"He will," Sandor interposed, "once his cock has been attended to first."

Arya threw a fist against his chest. "You're fucking disgusting!"

Sansa wondered what she was trying to achieve by that. It was like watching a pebble being thrown at a castle wall.

He ignored that and fixed his gaze at the armory. "Ah, there's the bloody Kingslayer. Golden haired twat would show up while I'm gone." Sandor squinted. "Is that a woman with him or a man with teats?"

"That was unkind," Sansa reproached him gently. "That's Brienne of Tarth. I told you about her."

"I don't recall that, girl. Must have been when my face was buried between your thighs."

Arya didn't even bother hitting him that time, but instead rolled her eyes and stomped off towards the stable.

"Thank the gods." Sandor took her hand and led her through the chaotic yard. "Come, little bird. Time for you and the little one to break your fast."

Sansa giggled. "It's an hour past noon."

"All the more reason you need to eat."

"I know what I'd like to eat," she said, with a coquettish smile.

All at once, Sansa was being lifted into the air. She screamed with delight, attracting the attention of every person in the yard, though in that moment she could have sworn they were the only two people in the Known World. He cradled her in his arms, just as he had on their wedding night, and said, "Keep talking like that and I'll bend you over the nearest table and put another child in you."

Inside the Great Hall, they lunched on beef and barley stew, carrots, and fresh baked bread. It was not much, but to her it felt as extravagant as a southern wedding feast. Her appetite had been all but nonexistent with Sandor gone, not to mention the aversions to food she had experienced weeks ago that often ended up with her leaning over a bucket. But just then, in the company of her husband, Sansa ate better than she had in three fortnights.

Home.

Being together again made her feel as if she had not truly been alive during his absence, only breathing and getting by with the bare minimum of food and sleep. But with him, she was thriving. Sansa couldn't remember a time in her life that she had felt so content, so blessed by the old gods, so…

The Others. The reminder gave her considerable pause. Bran. Cersei…

Somehow, she had forgotten. Somehow, the darker part of reality had briefly slipped away. There were still two wars to be fought, both of which would occur on an uncertain timeline. With Bran still unconscious and Daenerys' dragons hunting gods know how many leagues away, no one could say if the Others did manage to resurrect the fallen dragon Viserion, nor could anyone say if the Others found a way to pass the Wall without Joramun's horn. Nevertheless, they prepared, for it was either prepare for the worst or rue the day their doubt would doom all of humanity. Daenerys' armies were expected to arrive within a week's time, and from there…

Sansa had become so lost in her thoughts, mindlessly pushing a carrot around the plate with her fork, that she jolted in her seat when Sandor shouted, "Umber!"

The men and women seated inside the hall hushed at once. It wasn't until Cregan approached the dais with a smile and the two men patted each other on the back did the muttering resume.

Sandor did not lie, she thought. They really do get along.

It was the strangest thing to witness, like a wolf walking on its hind legs. Much like she had initially been skeptical about the younger brother of Gareth Umber, she did not doubt that Sandor would be, too - more than skeptical. Yet, by the grace of the old gods, the two spoke to one another as if they were brothers; it was sweet, in the saddest sense, to know that they bonded over a mutual past of heinous, unforgivable acts committed by their elder brothers.

The lord bowed to her. "Your Grace."

"Good afternoon, Lord Umber. You lived up to your word," she said, brushing Sandor's hand with her own. "And I will never forget it."

"What my queen requires, I shall provide."

Sandor snorted. "You sound like a bloody Hand."

She dropped her fork onto her plate, greeted with an epiphany.

"I would not be worthy," Cregan said, before she could consider it any longer. "Queen Sansa, I was sent by the Lord Commander. He wishes to speak with you and your husband inside the solar."

"Snow's ordering us around, eh?" Sandor asked, before chugging a cup full of water. "He's Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, not a bloody king."

"His leg is injured," Cregan reminded him, a bit defensively. "Maester Rhodry is finishing up with him as we speak."

"Good. Carry him over here, then."

Sansa bit her lip to keep from laughing, until she noticed the Lord of the Last Hearth lower his eyes, blushing.

"Seven fucking hells," Sandor said under his breath, "you want to fuck Snow, is that it?"

"Sandor!" she chided.

Cregan rubbed the back of his neck. "It's all right, Your Grace. No, I do not desire to...lay with the Lord Commander. He-"

"Likes cunt?"

"Sandor!"

"He and Daenerys Targaryen…" Lord Umber trailed off, sighing. "Forgive me, that is not for me to discuss."

Quite abruptly, Sandor stood from his chair and placed a hand on Cregan's shoulder. "You can do better than Snow, boy. He broods too much and talks in riddles."

Sansa tilted her head. "Talks in riddles?"

"Riddles, poems. I'll mention it next time he does, little bird."

A smile played on her lips. Sandor will be a wonderful father, she thought, running her hands along her tiny bump.

Cregan laughed. "He does brood quite a lot, I suppose. Well, if you do not show up to the solar, he will be brooding."

Upon leaving the Great Hall, Sandor once again led her once through the buzzing yard to reenter the Great Keep. They found her half-brother sitting at the head of the table inside the solar with Maester Rhodry seated to his left. Jon's leg was elevated in the maester's lap where he was finishing up with the stitches.

Dark brown hair tousled, face paler than her own, and visibly thinner than he was when he had left, the sight of him filled her with deep concern. "Oh, let me see." Sansa knelt down beside him, no longer bothered by cuts or wounds or blood, not since she was a child. The gash on his calf was several inches long, but clean and neatly sewn up. "How long will it take to heal?"

"Several months, Your Grace," the maester answered. "Lord Commander Snow must needs keep off his leg as much as possible. I recommend that he use a walking cane to get by, only when it is absolutely necessary."

He will not be able to fight, was Sansa's first impulsive thought, though she did not dare say that aloud. It was clear in Jon's doleful eyes that he knew it, too.

As the maester lowered Jon's foot onto the ground and walked over to the hearth, she and Sandor sat beside one another at the table. For whatever reason, likely about Cregan, if she had to guess, Sandor snorted a laugh. She immediately gave her husband a sidelong glance.

Sandor, for the love of all the gods, do not say anything clever. He would have seen her silent plea had his eyes not been fixated on her cleavage.

Jon sat up straighter and feigned a cough, masking a groan of pain. "Sansa, I would first like to offer you my congratulations. Maester Rhodry informed me that you are with child. It has been years since I've received news that has brought me such joy. You, more than any woman, will be a caring, loving mother. You-"

Sandor leaned in closer to her and whispered, "Riddles and poems."

Despite herself, Sansa broke into laughter.

Jon brooded. "Did I miss something, Clegane?"

"No," Sandor said, so serious. "My wife was eating when you summoned us. Go on and say what it is you need to say."

"Very well. I spoke with Daenerys," he began. "She-"

Sandor snorted. "Judging by the appearance of your hair, I'd wager you did more than just speak." Sansa might have laughed at that, too, had it not been the truth.

Color rose to Jon's face. "As I was saying, she has agreed to ride no further than the Gift to survey the Wall once her dragons return from hunting."

"And what did you need to do to reach that agreement, Snow?" her husband persisted.

Sandor is enjoying this too much. Sansa gave him a threatening sideways glance, but his smirk revealed that he enjoyed that, too.

"In addition," Jon went on, "she has agreed to put her armies in the vanguard of the battle against the Others. She says the Unsullied fear nothing and the Dothraki fear no one. That being said, I believe it is only honorable that the northmen reciprocate and lead the attack in King's Landing."

Sansa had to fight to keep herself from furrowing her brow. You are a fool if you think the northern lords will take such a risk to win a throne they no longer bow the knee to, she wanted to say, but said instead, "For now, let us focus on the war here. I can discuss your proposal with the northern lords once we travel south."

Sandor's head snapped so quickly in her direction she thought he might fall out of his seat. "We?"

She blinked at him. We never did get around to discussing that.

"I must go - I am their queen. It is my duty to lead my men to war."

He chuckled as if she had told a jape. "I'd sooner gouge out my eyes than watch you step foot outside this castle."

"It is admirable of you, Sansa," said Jon, "but the journey is far too demanding."

Out of the things she hated, being spoken to in a condescending manner was what she loathed the most. Sansa clasped her hands atop the table. "Pardon me, but I've ridden south."

"Not with child," Sandor swiftly added.

"We will bring along several maesters. If the concern is that I should not ride on horseback, I can arrange to have a wheelhouse built like that awful one I rode in with Cersei years ago."

Jon turned to the maester who was soaking bloodied cloths in a pot that hung in the hearth. "Maester Rhodry, what would you advise?"

The old man lifted his head, the deep wrinkles on his face bunching together into a mask of pity; she knew the answer at once. "It would be most wise to remain here, Your Grace. For your health, as well as for the child's."

"The northmen will understand," stated Jon. "And Sandor will lead in your stead."

"No!" she exclaimed at once. "It will be several months before you return and I will not suffer the distance any longer! Every time Sandor and I are together something comes along to rip us apart."

Jon winced. "It will only be once more." There was something in the tone of his voice that convinced her that would not be the case.

"I say we don't go at all," Sandor broke in. "Bugger your dragon queen and bugger the Iron Throne."

The maester nearly tripped over his grey robes as he was scurrying towards the door.

Jon waited for elderly man to exit before continuing, his eyes flashing with anger. "We've spoken about this, Clegane. Many of Daenerys' men will die defending us against the Others. Would you not repay the debt?"

Sansa sighed, knowing where this was going. It was no longer good fun and teasing - it was personal. As cordial as good-brothers go, Sandor told me. How is this cordial?

"Repay the debt," Sandor mocked. "What do I look like to you, a bloody Lannister? It's not as if our men won't die," he pointed out, mouth twitching. "Besides, Snow, she would need to destroy the Others if she hopes to rule her six precious kingdoms. This is her war just as much as it is ours. The way I see it, we're the ones helping her."

"Daenerys could have decided to address the threat of the Others after securing the Iron Throne. If it were up to her, she would be at war with Cersei Lannister as opposed to having her armies travel north."

"Let her go, then."

Jon looked at him, askance. "You saw them! We have no chance of defeating the Others without Queen Daenerys!"

QueenDaenerys, Sansa noted. There it is.

Exasperation exuded from her husband. Suddenly, the air in the room felt too thick to enter her lungs. "We found the bloody horn! We wouldn't need to battle the Others had she not flown over the Wall!"

"Do you think she expected her dragon to be harpooned with ice? She was searching for us!"

"She was searching for you!"

Mindlessly, Sansa clutched her belly upon listening to the bickering and shouts. Sandor was the first to apologize to her, though he did so while frowning over at Jon.

Jon flexed his fingers on his sword hand. "Sansa, would you mind giving us a moment to speak alone?"

Oh no.

Sandor was seething. "You're asking my pregnant queen wife to stand up and-"

She quickly cupped his cheek with her hand, hoping it would be enough to subdue his anger. When the muscles in his jaw loosened, Sansa thought, That worked...for now.

"It's all right, I could use some fresh air," she told him.

Although Sansa had no intention of actually leaving the keep, it was not a lie. The solar had become so uncomfortably sweltering she felt as though she might faint. Sandor yielded with a sigh through his nose and escorted her towards the door.

Once she stood inside the corridor, he straightened her crown and whispered, "Tonight, you on top, you wear this, I wear my helm."

Sansa forgot to breathe. "Oh."

"A queen and her hound," he said with menace. "Would you like that, little bird?"

She might have been a queen, but all she could do was stare up into his eyes and nod her head up and down submissively. Sandor sent her off with a tongue kiss and then closed the door.

Sansa knew that she should give them privacy, but a truer instinct told her to stay. Forgive me, she thought, and gently pressed her ear to the door.

"...expect me to go to King's Landing?" she heard Sandor rasp.

"You would not be the first man to leave his pregnant wife to go to war. My father left to fight in Robert's Rebellion when his lady wife was with child."

"When he ran off and fathered you?"

Had Sansa been inside the solar, she might have slapped him for that.

The wind outside was howling away. It had only occurred to her then she had not seen Ghost. She took a glance at the open window at the far end of the corridor. The snow was falling heavily, sideways and swirling. Strange, thought Sansa, it hasn't stormed in weeks.

"My father is Sansa's father and your child's grandfather," Jon scolded him. "I suggest you remember that before disrespecting him, especially in front of his bastard."

"Whether your father had one bastard or a hundred, it's no hair off my arse. The point is we're different, he and I. Ned Stark may have left his pregnant wife to help Robert remove a Targaryen from the throne, but I'm not doing the same to put one back on."

There was a long pause. She listened as the wind whistled through the window, the storm continuing to brew. She counted the passing seconds and made it to seven, before Jon said, "You will. Sansa will be here when you return, as will your child."

"If I return."

The words tied her stomach in knots.

"You mentioned you saw the three of you in the flames," said Jon. "You, Sansa, and your daughter. That means you must live."

Catelyn, Sansa thought. We'll name her Catelyn.

"I don't know what I saw anymore," she heard Sandor confess, his tone almost gentle. "Arya told me your brother saw Sansa give birth to a boy."

"Perhaps you saw your second child." Some seconds passed but there was no response. "There may not be any casualties at all, Clegane," Jon went on, revisiting the subject of war. "Once Cersei Lannister sees Daenerys' armies and dragons, I expect her to surrender."

"Then what the buggering hell do we need to go for?"

She startled at the sound of a fist slamming on the table. "For honor!"

"For honor? Or for you to get some Targaryen cunt?"

Her mouth dropped open. Sansa squeezed the handle, anticipating to barge in the moment the sound of steel leaving its scabbard could be heard, but the only noises on the other side of the door were a drawn out breath and fingers drumming against wood.

"You remember the words I heard after I died," Jon finally said. "I'm doing what is necessary to prevent that. We will march south. We must."

Another silence was born, save for the howling wind. Sansa wondered what it was that Jon had heard. It had to be profoundly grave to keep a man like Sandor quiet for so long.

And apparently, it was alarming enough to make him reconsider. "If I die, I'm going to haunt your bastard arse the rest of your bloody days."

Jon was muttering something in response, but he spoke so quietly she could not make out the words. Continuing to eavesdrop without shame, Sansa took off her crown and pressed her ear painfully close to the door. It was no good. By the time she had done so, he stopped speaking.

Whatever it was he had said, it made Sandor bellow out laugh, and then Jon joined in soon after. They were good laughs, genuine laughs, laughs without the slightest note of derision. As she listened, the corners of her mouth turned up in a smile. Cordial enough, she thought.

Sansa had been so engrossed by the sound of her husband and brother getting along that she didn't hear the sound of approaching footsteps, nor the sound of wooden wheels turning against the stone.

Almost drowned out by the storm's winds, a voice as soft as the rustling of leaves said, "Hello, Sansa."

She gasped and nearly dropped her crown, turning around to discover her little brother in his wheeled chair, with Meera Reed just behind him. Her eyes were as wide as her own.

"Bran...gods be good." Sansa did not know whether she wanted to laugh or cry, so she knelt down and wrapped her arms around him tightly, placing several kisses on his hollow cheek. "Oh gods, I thought you'd never wake." With Sandor's arrival, she had forgotten the guilt she had been harboring; it returned just then like a punch in the gut. "I'm so sorry, Bran. Oh gods, I'm so sorry. I should have never asked you to go beyond the Wall."

"Your Grace," Meera began, her voice trembling ever slightly, "I was reading to him and the next thing I knew he was awake. He told me he needed to speak with you at once."

She's terrified, Sansa realized. "Thank you, Meera. Please inform the maesters."

The crannogwoman gave a quick nod, then took off down the corridor.

Sansa stood up and wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand that held her crown. She attempted to read her little brother's expression, but there was nothing to read. There never was, not anymore.

"What happened, Bran?"

"I was in Rhaegal," he said, casually. And then there it was: a smile. Not on his lips, but in his eyes. Blue eyes, much like her own, smiling up at her.

"Rhaegal...how...the dragon?" Sansa tilted her head to the side and felt an overwhelming sense of vertigo. "Truly? Where?"

"I flew west to Bear Island and then east to Skagos."

What? Could he have come back all this time? she wondered. Could the weeks of grieving for my husband have been avoided? Was Daenerys coming to Winterfell all for naught?

"And then I flew north," he added.

Sansa looked at him, incredulous. "To the Wall?"

Bran's eyes darkened, no longer smiling. "There is no Wall."

The words were piercing, like a knife twisting in her gut. She wrapped her arms around her belly, regretting not having gone outside, winter storm or not. The heat inside the corridor was as oppressive as it was inside the solar, despite the icy air rushing in through the window. When she felt like she was about to become sick, she inhaled deeply through her nose.

"The Others march south, then," Sansa said with her exhale. It was not a question, only an acknowledgement of what they all knew was inevitable.

"Led by the Night's King who has mounted Viserion. But Aemon is Azor Ahai reborn, and it is he who will defeat the Others."

"Aemon?" Sweating and all but gasping for air, Sansa fanned herself with her hand, but all that did was make her sweat more. "Bran, you're not making any sense."

"Jon is not a bastard," he informed her, his face so still it could have been carved out of salt. "He is Aemon Targaryen, the legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen and our aunt, Lyanna Stark. And it is he, not Daenerys, who will conquer the Iron Throne."

The corridor spun round and round, as a chill ran through her as cold as ice. Her crown fell from her hand and tumbled noisily onto the stone, her eyes shutting upon the impact. Even in the darkness behind closed lids, she felt as if she were spinning in circles. The last thing Sansa heard was the door to the solar opening before falling back and fainting in her husband's arms.