She awoke to the sound of dripping water, the even rhythm luring her into yet another sleep.

It couldn't have been longer than an hour since she was last awake, for her dream was far too short. Sansa dreamt of a little boy with auburn hair playing with Ghost. And then, in the span of a flap of a raven's wing, that little boy was a man grown, tall and broad shouldered, eyes sharp and grey, bearing a crown of bronze and iron spikes. A woman kissed his cheek, crying, hair dark and long, her eyes the same color as her own. "The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North!" Sansa heard, then drip, drip, drip …

It was the sound of dawn. The sun was rising, the ice was melting, and the water was trickling from the roof of the Great Keep to form puddles atop the thin layer of snow that frosted the earth. Dawn brought beautiful sounds, its own little symphony. And this dawn, in particular, brought the most superlative of those beautiful, symphonic sounds.

A warmer day, Sansa thought, listening as the water dribbled faster now. Winter is going.

Outside, a child was giggling and calling out for his father, replacing the usual song of swords.

It was the promise of spring.

Drip, drip, drip. Sansa's eyes submitted and gradually opened. The shutters were still closed, but let in enough sunlight for her to survey the bedchamber. She was still laying on her left side upon waking, finding comfort in sleeping in the same position Sandor had made love to her an hour ago: right leg hiked up, left leg stretched out, left arm underneath the pillow, while her right arm wrapped itself around her heavy belly.

Truthfully, it was the only comfortable position left, though it did not make the sex any less sweet.

This was the eighth turn of the moon since becoming with child. Only one remained before Sansa would lay on her back in this very bed and give birth to their firstborn - their daughter.

Much like she dreamed of the little auburn haired boy minutes ago, she dreamed of their little girl often. In every dream, she looked different. Months ago, Bran had said she'd have a boy matching the description of the one she saw in her dream, auburn of hair and grey of eye. However, out of all her unusual dreams since becoming with child, that had been the first she'd ever seen of a boy. More often than not, it was their daughter she dreamt about. That had to mean something - a maternal instinct, perhaps.

I pray we do have a boy, thought Sansa. Someday. But first, we will have a girl, the same little girl Sandor saw in the flames.

Catelyn.

Sansa stretched out her legs and then bent them, then she stretched them out again; they were restless. They were always restless. Being with child was a blessing, to be sure, but there was little beauty about it aside from fostering a new life. Sansa's breasts had become heavy and impossibly sensitive, and would leak ever slightly each time she and Sandor became intimate. Not that he ever complained.

Her belly had grown quickly, too quickly, leaving her with the faintest red marks on her skin as it stretched - permanent marks, she knew. Sandor never complained about those either. He liked them just as much as her milky nipples. But the sickness, the emotional instability, the burning of her chest, the frequent trips to the privy, and legs that seemed to never rest were the things he wished she didn't have. And, for her, the symptoms were more than enough to make a second pregnancy sound absolutely out of the question.

"You'll forget it all once you birth the babe," said every mother she spoke to in the North. After the war, one woman from Winter Town explained how she had become with child for the second time when her firstborn was only four months old. Sansa wondered if that would happen to her. Considering how often she and Sandor found themselves tumbling one another in the sheets (and in the snow...and once or twice inside an emptied Great Hall), she'd be with child every year.

Sandor did say he'd give her a castle full of children. Of course, that was easy for him to say when he wouldn't be the one carrying and birthing them.

She was suddenly in a foul mood. Sansa emitted a long sigh.

Emotional instability.

After their early morning tumble, Sandor had departed the castle before first light to lead a hunting party into the Wolfswood (including her restless little sister). It wasn't fair of her to be irritated by that, given she had been the one who encouraged him to go. In fact, Sandor had been very adamant about not leaving, claiming he needed to be there for her and the babe. But, considering Sansa still had a little over a moon turn to go, she had convinced him to oversee the task (primarily in hopes he'd acquaint himself with the northmen who remained in Winterfell after the war). The warmer weather meant that game would be returning to Wolfswood, and hunting game meant a solution to the winter food shortages, something that had continued to be a dilemma, even after the hundreds of casualties sustained by the North.

Sansa could still remember the smell of the burning bodies. There had been thousands of them, Dothraki and Unsullied and northmen and valemen, the wights...those women and children they needed to burn in the crypt. It was a sickening, terrible smell that lingered in the nose, its stench a reminder that while the war in the North may have been won, it had come at a great cost.

Her state of mind changed again. Now, she was crying.

A knock came at the door, forcing her to wipe her tears away on the pillow.

It was time to be a queen.

"Your Grace," Maester Rhodry said through the door, "a raven arrived from King's Landing."

A message from the king.

"Please, come in," Sansa answered, her voice hoarse from sleep. The furs were tangled around her legs, leaving her nude from the belly up. She lazily kicked her feet to unwrap it, then pulled it up to her chest. It was not necessary to be so modest. Maester Rhodry would be seeing far more than her breasts when she delivered the babe in a moon turn's time. And besides, Sansa was practically stuck on her side, the weight of her belly preventing her from sitting up without pain.

The maester entered with his usual genial smile, wearing a clean grey robe and his chain of many colored links. Before the war, he was in service to House Cerwyn, but afterward, Lady Jonelle had given him leave to remain at Winterfell and sent for a new maester to replace him from the Citadel. It was, in a way, a gift. House Stark did not have a designated maester since the death of Maester Luwin, and Sansa needed an experienced, trusted maester when it came time to push in the birthing bed. He'd be honored to serve House Stark. However, there were some days his smile did not reach his eyes, not in the absence of kindness, but in the presence of concern.

Upon entering the bedchamber, he handed her the neatly rolled parchment. Still laying on her side, Sansa squinted and observed the red wax. The seal was unopened, its left half imprinted with the head of a dragon, its right half imprinted with the head of a direwolf, each baring its teeth.

Targaryen and Stark - the King of the Six Kingdoms.

Maester Rhodry gave a bow and left. His decision to leave before the message was read was not very promising.

Still, she peeled the seal and unrolled the parchment. It was her duty as queen, no matter the content inside.

My dearest Sansa,

By the time this letter reaches you, the remainder of the Dothraki and Unsullied will have set sail for Essos. The ships took longer than expected to build. Cersei left little behind after burning the Golden Company's fleet. Her surrenderance of the Iron Throne was more destructive than I could have ever anticipated. It will be years before the Kingswood is anything besides ashes and embers. Luckily, Lord Tyrion provided the coin to import resources outside of the capital, and Lady Asha Greyjoy provided the overseeing as the ships were being built.

We named one Queen Sansa, and another Queen Daenerys.

Rickon continues to acclimate. He teaches me Skagosi from time to time, but has yet to grow comfortable with Westerosi customs. He may be my cousin by blood, but some days it feels as though I have a son. Once he has been trained by my master-at-arms and taught letters and numbers by Sam, my maester, he will be ready to come home.

As my Hand, Tyrion encourages me to wed the princess of Dorne, Arianne Martell. I hear many things about her - her wit, her beauty, her charm. Lord Varys thinks it to be a wise decision as well and, when faced with my refusal, reminded me of one word - duty.

Arianne can be the wittiest, most beautiful, most charming woman in the Known World, but she will never be Daenerys.

A fortnight ago, I received a letter from Lord Yohn Royce informing me of the happenings in the Vale. A good choice, I think, for the Lords of the Vale to give him the lordship of your late husband. The Eyrie is in good hands, even if no longer in yours.

Drogon and Rhaegal have not returned since the Last War. They continue to mourn her, as do I. It is a pain that recedes, only to wash up again fiercer than before. I pray to the old gods, but the old gods do not hear me here.

Pray for me.

Give my regards to your husband and to your Hand, Lord Umber. To this day, I am grateful the northmen did not need to ride south. Cersei always knew she'd lose and spilled more wildfire throughout the city streets than I care to recount to you in this letter. Now, I can only reflect and wish it hadn't come to that.

I do hope you will visit once the city finishes rebuilding. Perhaps on your child's first nameday.

Muss up Arya's hair for me, tell Bran that I love him, and scratch Ghost behind the ear the next time he visits from beyond where the Wall used to be.

I miss you all.

When the babe is born, I will ride north. I have a feeling it is a boy. Until then, take care Sansa.

Your brother once, your brother always.

Jon

A teardrop fell on the parchment, blurring out the name given to him by her father. It was not his true name, not anymore. Jon Snow was a guise he had unknowingly been under all those years. The bastard of Winterfell existed now only in memory, but they would be memories Sansa would cherish until the end of her days.

Aemon Targaryen, the King of the Six Kingdoms, was beloved by those who survived Cersei's tyranny. Even so, no throne nor crown could replace what he had lost. Sansa had hoped having Rickon stay with him in the Red Keep might help, after he had been rescued from Skagos. And perhaps it did provide a measure of comfort to have family around. But underneath the titles and responsibilities, he was a grieving widower.

There were those who had seen what had happened that night, when Jon fought and defeated the Night's King, and then there were those who had only seen the aftermath. Sandor and Arya had been amongst those. When the battle was over, Sandor could hardly recount what it was he had witnessed in the yard.

As smoke drifted off the castle walls and fire scorched the earth, Jon rocked Daenerys' lifeless body in his arms.

It was haunting the way he had described it. Not only the description of Jon's grief, but the way Sandor had looked at her as he said it. The way he had held her tightly in his arms and wouldn't let go.

He was fearful it could have been me, she knew. Sansa set the parchment down on the bedside table and then placed her hands on her belly. The babe was kicking again, little feet battering against her ribs. Sansa winced. And he is fearful it still might.

There had been something he wasn't telling her, something lurking in the back of his mind that kept his expression as worried as Jon's. He almost looked like a true northman, solemn and brooding about. During Winterfell's reconstruction, Sansa had made it a priority to learn why.

Bran had been the one to tell her. He had explained to her why she could not wed Gareth Umber: she would have died giving birth to his son. Sandor had heard of that prophecy from Jon, and, not surprisingly, hosted a similar fear when it came to her birthing his child. It did not help how big she had gotten. Some days she wondered how she would survive pushing the babe out. But much like him, she did not voice her concerns. If she would die in the birthing bed, surely Bran would tell her.

Wouldn't he?

Sansa wondered, then she prayed.

Outside, the yard was growing lively. If Sansa could muster up the strength, she'd walk over to the window and open the shutters.

The East Wall should be nearly finished, by now. Or so she hoped.

Despite victory against the Others and Jon's victory in taking the Iron Throne out of the clutches of Cersei Lannister, the ambience in Winterfell was not very pleasant. Many lives had been lost that night the white walkers invaded Winterfell's walls, many fathers and brothers and sons had been burned in the days following. And those who did not die likely sustained an injury. Gendry had been one of those. Sandor had found him buried underneath a pile of rubble with his left shoulder cut so deep he was still recovering after nearly half a year later. No, the healing would take time. Physically, mentally, spiritually, everyone would need to heal. And so, too, did the castle.

As the walls and keeps were being rebuilt, gossip spread like an angry swarm of wasps.

The stories varied depending on the source, and there were no shortage of downright lies. When Sansa had asked Jon about what had happened that night, he had only stared blankly at her and said, "Daenerys wanted us to live."

Sansa had heard the whispers claiming Jon had driven his sword through Daenerys himself, not the Night's King, and when he pulled it out, it was alive with flame, much like the magical sword Lightbringer. And not only did Jon murder his own wife, but he did so on her command.

How did Daenerys know the sacrifice would work? Sansa had wondered. How did Jon? It was not until a week later did she learn Bran had spoken to Daenerys just before the battle.

Daenerys knew that she would die. She knew that she must. And she died selflessly, for her people, like a good queen should.

Could I have done the same?

Sansa thought so. Sansa hoped so.

After reading Jon's letter and concluding her morning ritual of reminiscing and pondering and making herself become ill-at-ease, Sansa had fallen back asleep to the ambient sound of ice melting from the roof. A knock on her door had awoken her that time. At some point, she had rolled over onto her back while she slept, with a pressure so deep between her thighs it felt as if something was sitting in her lap. Sansa looked down but could see nothing over the roundness of her bare belly. The dripping noises outside had come to an end. Another hour or so must have passed and the ice on the roof fully melted.

A warmer day. Barely winter. Nearly spring.

"Your Grace," Cregan Umber called through the oak-and-iron door. "May I come in?"

Sansa rubbed her heavy eyes, suddenly not knowing what time it was. She assumed her Hand had left with Sandor and the others to hunt that morning, therefore his presence was a bit confounding. Then again, everything confused her as of late, because pregnancy.

"Yes, you may," she answered. It took her the entire time of him entering and pulling up a chair beside her to sit up on the bed. She was breathless from the effort. "You did not wish to hunt today?"

There were dark circles underneath his grey eyes. "Not today, Your Grace. I want to oversee the construction of the First Keep. With Sandor gone, half the men out there are dawdling about."

"Let them," she said, wincing as the babe kicked and jabbed, much lower now. "It sounds like it is a lovely day."

Cregan stood up to open the shutters, inviting the sun to fill the room. The sky was the brightest of blues, and the clouds were the softest of greys. "Look for yourself, Your Grace. We can go to the godswood, if you'd like. Maester Rhodry says that-"

"-walking will lessen the pain," Sansa all but groaned. "I remember." He's also not the one carrying a small giant in his belly. While watching him stare pensively out the window, she said, "Is everything alright?"

He returned to the chair and rubbed the back of his neck. "Lord Glover wants me to wed his daughter."

"Oh, no."

"As does Lord Wylis."

"Wylla?"

He nodded. "Now that she's no longer betrothed to a Frey, he wants me to visit White Harbor."

That was not surprising. Every northern lord would want their daughter married to the Hand of the Queen in the North. Besides, Cregan was the last Umber, a respected family if one ignores brigands and monsters like Gareth Umber. She sympathized with Cregan, but it was not sympathy he needed. Westeros needed to change. Sansa wouldn't just pray that it did, she'd do everything in her power to see that it did.

Before she could continue to lend him an ear, her lower back felt as if it were caving in. Sansa audibly whimpered and clutched the fur blanket with both hands. Perhaps I should go for a walk, she thought, anything to alleviate this.

Sansa held out her hand and said, "Please, my lord. I would enjoy a visit to the godswood. Perhaps we can stop by the First Keep to see how my men are choosing to dawdle around."

Cregan stood from the chair, chuckling. "If they see you coming their way, they'll have the Keep completed by noon."

As he helped her onto her feet, the furs fell away and tumbled to the floor. Sansa closed her eyes and groaned, the sudden weight shift sending a thousand knives through her groin. When the pain subsided, she opened her eyes and found Cregan Umber staring at the floor with his mouth agape.

She felt it then, a warm trickle down her leg, as if she had become incontinent. Sansa glanced down to inspect, but her belly got in the way of that, too.

"Queen Sansa," her Hand stammered, then helped her down onto the edge of the bed. His tired eyes were as wide as saucers. "Wait here," he said, as if she had any other choice. "I'll return at once with Maester Rhodry."

In a blur, Cregan darted out of the bedchamber, leaving Sansa to sit there alone on the edge of the bed while a warm puddle collected underneath her on the sheets.

No, she thought, clutching her belly. It was as firm as stone. It's too early.

Early or not, the pain persisted. "Ah!" The cramping sensation was a thousand times worse than that she experienced during her moon blood. It was a pain that demanded to be felt all over, an agony that deepened with every passing second. Her bump grew tighter and tighter, until finally it ebbed.

Sansa exhaled then, not realizing she had been holding her breath that entire time. Her hands were shaking, her breath was quivering; Sansa was pining for her husband.

She could no longer deny it.

Today is the day I give birth.

It felt like an hour had gone by before Cregan was sprinting back inside the bedchamber. She was sitting right where he had left her, still holding onto her taut belly and crying.

"Maester Rhodry is coming," he told her, helping her onto her back. The feather bed might as well have been made out of spikes for all the comfort it provided.

"Sandor won't make it in time," she sobbed.

"He might. I sent a raven."

That confused her. "A raven? To the Wolfswood?"

"Bran will find him, Your Grace."

Of course...Bran. How did she not think of that? The pain. The pain will not allow me to think.

And the pain only became worse. Much worse. Each time she thought nothing could possibly hurt more, the next wave of pain left her screaming louder than before. The minutes started to fade into one another, and then the hours, each spent breathing her way through the waves of agonizing pain. She took it one at a time, as the maester suggested. It was all she could do. Her pain had become the world. A wave, a recession, another wave, another recession, again and again, all the while the maester was prodding around inside her with cold steel tools.

The door must have opened and closed half a hundred times. She no longer bothered to see who it was coming and going to assist Maester Rhodry - none that came and went were Sandor. The only thing keeping her from losing her mind was Cregan. The only times he left her side was when he'd occasionally run to the window and peer out into the bright yard to see if the hunting party had returned.

They still had not.

Some more time passed and then, as Maester Rhodry examined her with two of his fingers, he said the words she had been dreading. "Your Grace, the babe will be here within the hour."

He spoke the words with his thin lips turned up in a smile, but all Sansa could think was, Sandor...I need Sandor.

She couldn't speak. Her spine was going to split in half, she was certain. The pressure was worse than the burning, until that burning progressed into a searing sensation right there. It felt like being branded, like hot iron being pressed flush against her sex. Her throat was raw from crying and screaming, and then made worse when she leaned over the edge of the bed and retched up stomach bile. She had memorized the pattern of weirwood leaves embroidered on the canopy above her. She must have been staring at it for several hours now, either at it or the back of her eyelids.

And then it came, the sudden urge to push.

It was the exact same sensation she felt before desperately needing to visit the privy. It was awful.

While watching Maester Rhodry rinse his hands in a basin of water as he prepared for the imminent delivery, she heard the most beautiful words to ever bless her ears come from the yard.

"Get the fuck out of my way!"

A chill washed over her.

He's home.

Sandor's voice was as potent as milk of the poppy just then, providing her a measure of relief for the first time in some unknown amount of hours.

Cregan lumbered towards the door. One merciless contraction later, the man kneeling beside her was not her Hand, but the father of the child she was minutes away from birthing.

Sandor was sweating as profusely as her, his hair an unkempt mess. No man had ever looked so handsome. While he took a moment to catch his breath, Sandor grabbed her hand and wiped away the stray hairs that stuck to her face.

"You naughty little bird," he rasped. "I knew you'd try to do this without me."

He meant to be amusing, she knew, but Sansa could not help but give him a pained scowl as she felt the opening of her canal on the verge of tearing open.

As visibly tense as he was, he laughed. "You don't look happy to see me, girl."

"It. Hurts."

"Next time I'll spill in your mouth, then."

Someone gave an obnoxious groan. When Sansa looked over to her left, Arya was standing there, her hair and face a sweaty mess from their hasty return.

The old gods listened to my prayers. Overwhelmed with gratitude, Sansa broke into tears.

Sandor kissed her quivering lips half a dozen times. "We're going to be parents, you and I."

"I'm scared," she found herself saying, in between sobs.

"Why? You're going to be the best mother ever," Arya added. Even she looked distressed, but Sansa assumed that was because she was staring long and hard at the sight between her legs.

Another wave of pain came, dragging her back to hell. Her eyes closed tightly, her jaw clenched shut. Mindlessly, she dug her fingernails into Sandor's hand, eliciting a pained grunt.

"Bloody hell, you are a wolf," he growled.

Sansa wanted to laugh, but couldn't. All she could do was anticipate the sound of her spine breaking in half.

Sandor and Maester Rhodry were speaking to one another, but Sansa was not able to make out what they were saying over her screaming. When that contraction ended, her husband said, abruptly, "A game. Bugger the coat of arms. House words. I'll go first. Family, Duty, Honor."

She was so grateful she married him. So grateful. Sansa managed the smallest smile and said, "My..mother's house. Tully."

"You clever little bird." There were tears in his eyes. Fear. "Your turn, girl."

Sansa tried to think, but it was no good. The pain returned as soon as it left.

"I can't remember any," she wept. "Oh gods, I can't do this."

He kissed her with the same burning intensity as the one below. "You can, little bird. You're stronger than anyone I've ever met."

Sansa looked down between her legs, certain there were flames beating against her entrance. No fire, only the maester prodding inside her some more.

She tossed her head back against the pillow. "Fuck!"

Sandor barked a laugh, but it did not sound the same. Not in the presence of fear. "Watch your mouth, little bird."

She felt the strongest urge to push yet and looked at Maester Rhodry.

He nodded, as if reading her mind. "Once the next pain comes, you will take in a deep breath and push as hard as you can, Your Grace."

"Fuck," Sandor muttered.

It did not take long for that next hellish sensation to come. As she began to scream, Maester Rhodry calmly yet firmly instructed her to push, push, push.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and lifted her upper back with the assistance of Sandor's hand. She did as she was told, pushing, pushing, pushing, and entered yet another uncharted territory in the vast expanse that was physical pain.

Maester Rhodry was counting, Sandor was kissing her hand as her nails broke his skin, and Arya was encouraging her to push, push, push.

Sansa tried, tried, tried, but was on the brink of passing out, giving up on the count of seven. She fell back against Sandor's hand with her eyes still closed, feeling more dead than alive.

"Seven hells!" Arya gasped. "That looks like it fucking hurts!"

"Shut your bloody mouth before I throw you out of here!" Sandor shouted.

"Your Grace, you need to push longer next time," Maester Rhodry informed her.

Sansa wanted to smack all three of them. But more than that, she wanted the pain to end.

Another wave. She drew in a longer breath that time but exerted it all within the first second of pushing. It did not matter. Sansa persisted. Sansa screamed. Sansa pushed, pushed, pushed...

"Oh gods!" she cursed, upon the sensation of a blade as sharp as Valyrian steel scraping her entrance.

"The babe will be here on the next push," Maester Rhodry informed her, softly.

Sweet words, soothing words.

She opened her eyes. Her chest was beaded with sweat. Sansa met Sandor's anxious gaze just before feeling herself approach another apex of pain.

Sansa pushed and pushed and pushed, and then the worst of the pain was over.

A slippery wet sensation replaced the searing one, followed by the sound of her sister gasping. It was all the confirmation she needed to know that it was over.

Sansa dropped back as she experienced the rush, savoring the sweet taste of relief for the first time in half a day. Her head sank onto the pillow once Sandor removed his arm. He said nothing, only kissed her still, numb lips in a rapid manner.

"Oh gods!" Arya exclaimed. "It's a boy! Bran was right, Sansa! It's a boy!"

A boy. With her next shallow breath, a babe's crying filled the room. The most powerful instinct took over then, the sound of her son's first cries awaking her back to life.

Sansa opened her eyes.

"A prince," Maester Rhodry confirmed, beaming with joy, then placed the newborn on her breast.

He was so little, so red, so beautiful. On his head was a wisp of hair, auburn like hers. Sansa ran her fingers through it and could not comprehend its soft texture. It was unlike anything. The babe's crying ended the moment he was placed on her skin - he knew her, his mother. Sansa met Sandor's bewildered gaze and cried tears of joy, at a loss for words.

Not a girl. A boy. Our son.

She'd have a million of his children. All the suffering had been worth it, every minute of it. Every sharp, shooting, burning pain. Every sleepless night. Every...

"Ah!" Sansa squealed.

Sandor's face immediately became pale. "What is it?" He looked over at the maester. "What are you doing to her?!"

The taste of victory was washed out from her mouth. She wanted to scream, but could not get the words to leave the bottom of her throat.

Maester Rhodry wiped the sweat off his wrinkled brow with a cloth. The sleeves of his robe were stained with blood. "It appears the little prince will have a sibling, Your Grace."

Sansa did not understand, despite feeling the sudden need to push again. Her hand was frozen on her son's little bottom, with Sandor's hand just on top.

There was no time to ask questions, no time to speak to her sister or her husband. The sensation to push grew and grew, and then she managed to say, "Sandor, take him."

He looked at her incredulously for a few passing seconds, before picking the babe off her breast and holding him against his own.

The process started again. If it were just as long and painful as the first, Sansa did not know how she would survive. Despite the surprise, she somehow found the last of her energy and filled her lungs with air, determined to birth the second babe.

The pressure and searing pain were present, but much lesser than before. The stretching was familiar, the burning an old, hated acquaintance. Arya helped lift her upper back that time, assisting her as she pushed and pushed and pushed once again.

Push! she encouraged herself. The maester counted. "One, two, three, four, five," then Sansa gave up. Gods, I can't do it! No longer was the pain the hardest part, it was the exhaustion. Her limbs felt numb, her breathing was all but absent, and black spots filled her vision.

Then came hope. Under his breath, Sandor was muttering a prayer. She needn't look at him to hear. He uttered Beric's name and Thoros', then the Lord of Light and old gods and the new. Sansa even heard him mention something about her father and mother and Robb. He was praying to anyone who might hear.

He was praying for her, like she always did for him. Truly praying.

It gave her strength when she needed it the most. A contraction, a long, steady push, and then...relief, again, even better than before.

The second babe exiting her canal was a sensation as sweet as honey, as deep as the ocean, as blinding as the sun.

It was unforgettable. It was worth it.

That time, as Arya knelt down beside her and sniffled, Sandor made the observation first.

"A girl," he said in one heavy breath. "A boy and a girl."

Even the maester was shedding a tear, as he wiped off the babe before setting her down atop her breast. A wisp of hair tickled Sansa's cheek, the babe's soft strands the same color as her father's. Sandor placed their son just beside their daughter, allowing the newborns to nuzzle up against each other.

Speechless, Sansa placed a hand on either tiny back, then brushed her fingertips over skin as soft as the petal of a winter rose.

Twins.

A son and a daughter.

A boy, auburn of hair. A girl, dark of hair.

The prince and princess of the North.