"...hopeless, Snow. The Wall is lost!"
"No! We cannot retreat!"
"Our casualties are too great! We must retreat! Please, Your Majesty-"
All around Sansa was a swirling mist of distress, filled with the voices of people she knew. Was she trapped in a nightmare? She could not control it-she was swept away in the despair, fear, hatred, and hopelessness. She was being dragged mercilessly through the muck of a soldier's terror. Wanting to weep but unable to, she let out a voiceless scream. This was different from her other dreams; her lack of control was incredibly unnerving. The princess was at the whim of a monstrous force.
"Will we be a march of impending death if we return to Winterfell?" she heard a grim voice say.
With a shock, Sansa realized she was hearing Jon's voice through the blizzard of emotion. She tried to call out but her voice became mist in her throat and disappeared. What was happening?
She awoke with a start. Alone in her room, with the fire burning low and emitting a pleasant heat. She was here, in Winterfell, which was whole and lovely and safe.
For how much longer? Shivering, she knew, even if she could not control it, she had just witnessed something happening far away, at the same time. Sansa knew they had failed at the Wall, that many men had already died, and that the Winter was coming for her now. It wanted Winterfell, it wanted her and her unborn child, it wanted the wildlings and the people of Winter Town, and everyone in the South. It was so hungry after so long. What can I do? What can I possibly do? I'm so weak. I lied to you, Sandor. I am still a creature made of porcelain. I need you here now, more than ever.
Sansa wept.
"I'm sure you've seen it, too." Sansa had invited Bran to her chambers, and they sat together near the fire. The princess was messing with her hands, a habit from King's Landing she never could drop. "I know we possess the same vision. I know you've seen...you've seen the Wall fall."
"Yes," her brother replied in his matter-of-fact way. "I have seen it."
Sansa could not stop it-she burst into tears. "W-W-What can we possibly do to defend this castle? Jon took all the best men with him! Sandor might be dead! By the time they reach us, the Winter will be chasing their heels and it will devour us! All these children, defenseless women and men, are all in my care and I can do nothing but fail them!" She couldn't help her hands going to stroke her stomach, which was now growing round. "I...I finally have something to live for...and it is about to be taken away from me-"
"Don't worry, Sansa," Bran cut her off, his voice calm and even. "You will see your son. You will see your Hound."
She looked up at him through her sobbing. Her little brother looked confident and assured, like there was absolutely nothing to be afraid of. Like there was nothing to lose.
"We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife: one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever..."
Brienne and Jaime stood underneath the heart tree, side by side, blonde and golden. Sansa and Tyrion stood a bit away, witnessing the ceremony and sharing a understanding silence.
"Let it be known that Ser Jaime Lannister and Lady Brienne Tarth are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder..."
"I have to admit, even I didn't see this coming," Tyrion whispered beside her. "You're sure Lady Brienne isn't-"
"Lord Tyrion, I would like to concentrate my heart and mind on the Old Gods, if you wouldn't mind being silent."
In truth, Sansa's heart and mind were far from the marriage happening in front of her, and even further from the Old Gods. No, she was thinking of Sandor, and how much she wished to be married under the heart tree, with Sam and Jon and Arya and Bran there, all the people she held dearest. It would not happen, now. Soon they would all be dead.
Jaime and Brienne kissed chastely, and disappeared into the castle. They did not emerge from their room for several days.
Sansa stood in front of the mirror again, nude, examining her stomach. The time had come where she could no longer hide it, no matter how voluminous her skirts were. The baby inside of her had begun to stretch his legs and cause her to toss and turn at night. Her morning walks became a distant memory, as she dozed through the sunrise and even through breakfast, too exhausted to do much of anything. Her legs and ankles were too swollen, anyway.
She sighed. She knew that this would happen eventually, but she dreaded it all the same. For a while, keeping this secret had made her feel...special? Different? She wasn't entirely sure. She only knew that now, her son would belong to everyone, not just her. Now, all of the North would know that Sansa Stark carried Sandor Clegane's child. Now, women would flock around her, touching her, men would give her conspiratory glances (like they knew), children would giggle at her as she waddled through the castle. You can be grateful for one thing. Littlefinger is not here to make his remarks. Indeed, he would not have another snide comment in this life. All the gods knew how much that horrid man had wished to put his own child in Sansa's belly. The thought made her shudder. How horribly different her life would be, if she had allowed herself to fall into the current of the people around her, all of whom were trying to control her.
Truly, she should be making a contrary announcement. There will be no new life. No baby to herald in a new age of Starks. No, only the end of life. The end of happiness. Everyone, return to your homes and spend what time you can with your families. That is what she wanted to say, but...Jon depended on her. What would he feel and think if he came back to an abandoned castle? All the men who had sworn to defend his sister and hold, gone?
Evette helped dress her lady. The maid was silent, but wide-eyed, sensing Sansa's dark mood. She still said nothing, even as her night shift came down over her body and her rotund figure was revealed. "You must have suspected for a long time, Evette," Sansa said quietly. "But you never said anything, not to me or anyone else. You cannot comprehend how much that means to me. Your loyalty to House Stark will be rewarded, I promise you."
The young girl shook her head. "Begging your pardon, mistress, but I am only loyal to you. Not House Stark. I respect your great family, but..." She straightened her back. "I serve Lady Sansa, who is mystical and strong. I straighten her bed furs, I clean her gowns and shoes, I keep the fire the right temperature and keep spiced wine always by the hearth. I serve Lady Stark, who is kind to me and all others 'below her'." Evette nodded, almost to herself, as she fastened the stays on Sansa's dress. "I don't want a reward, my lady. Just to continue to be near you."
Her lovely words brought tears to the princess's eyes, and she could not help it-she embraced her servant, feeling so immensely grateful. A lot of cruel people have tried to force their way into your life, but look at you now. Surrounded by people who love you. "You've given me strength with your kind words. I feel I can face all those judgmental stares down in the great hall, now." Sansa took Evette's hands in hers. "You remind me of my old friend, Jeyne. She...died a long time ago, but you have the same gentle fire in you. It brings me comfort. Please, stay close to me in the days to come."
"I would never stray far, my lady."
And now, here she stood, Bran and Arya a few feet behind her. Jon, gone, Sandor, gone. Tormund, the Onion Knight, all the men from the major houses, gone. No one to support her but her maid and siblings. Below her were the remaining, the boys too young to fight, men too old or too injured. This was the force to bar Winterfell from the cold night. Jon had even taken most of the wildlings with him.
All eyes were upon her, and the child in her stomach. She had intentionally chosen a dress that would not hide her body. It took all the muscle in her body to keep from shaking, and to maintain a steady gaze over the people staring up at her. Tyrion stood in the back, his arms crossed over his narrow chest, looking at her with knowing eyes. A clever man like Tyrion had probably figured it out the second he got off his horse in the Winterfell courtyard, months ago.
She could barely comprehend the words that came out of her mouth. She knew she had said Sandor's name, had touched her stomach, had kept her back straight and her mouth from quivering. To her absolute horror, men started to stand up and leave the great hall, all of them muttering and casting her glances of fury. "Please," she whispered, but no one could hear her. "Don't leave us to die..."
They had only stayed because of Sansa. Because they thought they could marry her. They thought they would be the ones to put a child in her stomach, the one to inherit the North, the one to stand by her side. She realized this with such a shock, all the color drained from her face and body. It had never been about Jon Snow, or protecting Winterfell, or even honor. It had been about wealth and power, as it always has been.
Sansa turned and ran as fast as she could. Arya went to grab her arm but the silk slipped through her sister's fingers. She did not know where she would end up, but again, found herself by the heart tree, where Jaime and Brienne had married just a few days prior. Sansa struggled to catch her breath while staring up at the tree, still stark with bright red leaves. "Father...Mother..." the princess whispered, sinking to the ground. "I need you more than ever..."
"I see them both in you, you know." It was Tyrion Lannister's voice, who had yet again found her. "Your mother was stubborn and beautiful, full of conviction. You reminded me of her, standing up there, facing everyone's ridicule."
"My mother hated you," Sansa reminded him, gathering herself up and quickly wiping away any tears that had escaped.
"Most people hate me," he replied, looking content with the fact.
Awkwardly, he waddled over to join her near the silent pond. He scratched his destroyed face and looked a little lost for words for a moment, which made Sansa want to laugh-and she did, just a little, at his bewildered face.
"Are you thinking what everyone else is thinking, too?" she questioned, staring hard at him. "That I have rutted with a beast, that I have made a mistake, that I have been raped and tortured?"
"I have the...fortune of knowing Sandor Clegane quite well. In a way, he was part of my family long before he was part of yours." Tyrion scratched at his face again; Sansa realized it was a nervous habit. "He has never liked me, but again, not many people did or even do now. But I have always found him a contradictory fellow. Violent, for a certainty, but it was a directed kind of violence. Intentional, almost. I think he knew women were afraid of him, so he never treated them badly. We all witnessed that at court, with you." Sansa blinked at him. "I know Clegane was madly in love with you, from the second he saw you at the tourney for your father."
"W-what?" Sandor had never said such a thing to her. "I was a little girl, and so naive."
"But still very beautiful," Tyrion said. "You threw scraps of kindness down for a ravenous dog, and he greedily ate them up. He followed you around, hoping for more."
"Don't talk about Sandor like that," Sansa almost snapped. "He is no longer a dog, and he most definitely is no longer a Lannister dog."
"No, and thank all seven Gods for that."