Winterfell became unsettlingly quiet. Sansa busied herself with harvest and storage and building; unrelenting, the dread sat heavily in her stomach, like a hot coal. Is that fear, or your son? He had grown exceptionally over the past few weeks. There was no ignoring it, or disassociating from it now-Sansa Stark was pregnant, and monstrously so. When did this happen? she thought as she gripped at the chair in her solar, suddenly beset with weariness. It is like this occurred overnight, in secret. Like someone stole into my bedroom and put him in my belly. She collapsed into the welcoming cushions of her chair that she was clinging to like a lifeline-even that motion took the breath out of her.
A knock on her door caused her to groan out. Was there never to be rest for her? But before she could struggle to her feet, the door to her chambers opened up and her sister came through the door, clutching a piece of paper in her hands. "Arya," Sansa sighed, settling back down. "Did Jon write?"
Arya shook her head, looking a little pale. "No. You know how he gets. I haven't gotten a letter from him in moons. No, this letter is from the Hound."
Sansa shot up, all her fatigue suddenly vanishing with the pounding of her heart. Like Arya, she had not heard from Jon or her husband-to-be in many, many weeks. She knew what was happening, though. There was no true need for letters. But still, she felt her body go warm at the thought of touching his letter, imagining his smell still clinging to it...
"You...you read it?"
"Not really... I skimmed it. Looking for information." Arya crossed the distance to Sansa and handed her the letter. "You'd better read it yourself."
So she did:
Little bird,
By the time this letter reaches your hands, I'll be halfway back to Winterfell. Your kingly brother gave me leave to return to you, only because they'll be hot on my trail soon after. We lost. Nothing else to it. Unprepared, unaware, unorganized. Once one of the Targaryen girl's dragons fell, it became chaos. I'll spare your lady-like heart the more gruesome details. No choice now but to fall back on the one fortified place in the North. We'll die, but we can die together.
Can't say I'm surprised. I knew I'd live through this to see you again, just didn't expect it to be the last time. It looks like our future is being stolen from us. That's only fitting though, right? Our lives have been nothing but shit. We've been the only good things to happen to each other. That's why I'm pushing Stranger and myself through the storms. That's why I begged (yes, begged, put that picture in your pretty head) your brother to return to you before it was too late. I told him everything. Didn't have much of a choice. Since you want to know, he didn't give a single shit. Like I said, we're all going to die anyway. What does it matter if his sister wants to marry a lowly, ugly second son?
What a strange feeling. Being cushioned by life and death. I'm running towards you as fast as I can, with a cold void chasing me. Our son is inside of you. I want to meet him. I don't think I will. Still, the thought pushes me forward.
Expect me before the next full moon. What's left of your brother's army will be following shortly behind.
I love you.
What to feel? What to say? Sansa clutched the letter so tightly to her chest, it crumpled and ruined. Arya stood silently in front of her, awkward, shifting from foot to foot. "What do we do?" her sister muttered, looking, for once, despaired. "When Jon returns to find that everyone has abandoned us..."
"We-we must do everything we can," Sansa replied, though her heart was cold as ice. "I will send out ravens. I will beg, if I must. Barter, bargain. Everything Littlefinger taught me." The princess rose shakily. "We are still the wealthiest family in the North. That must count for something."
"What can I do?"
"You're asking me to give you orders?"
Arya looked a little annoyed but stood her ground. "Yes."
"Right now, you and Brienne are the best fighters we have. Use what time we have left to rally and train the boys and men left in Winter Town, and any wildings willing to pick up a sword." Sansa struggled to her writing desk and collapsed at it. "I have many, many letters to write before the day is out."
Sansa could not say how many weeks passed, constricted in her duties as she was. The ravens she sent out that made it through the storms returned with men and boys of no consequence. "They wish to die in their own castles," Tyrion Lannister sneered, noticing, like Sansa, that no lords had joined the company.
"They only insult me in turn," Sansa whispered. "But we must do what we can with what we have."
The untrained certainly kept Arya and Brienne busy-even Jamie, still wobbly with a sword, helped teach wildlings and northmen alike. Tyrion took over much of the direction of Winterfell as Sansa's pregnancy sapped her strength, but she still gave orders from her bed. Mill down the wheat to grain, fortify any weakness in the walls, patrol the woods and keep men on the battlements, smith whatever dragonglass was left behind to the best of their ability-gods, it went on and on and on. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Now, there were three, and they were all trying so hard to prepare the home they loved for destruction. Bran spent most of his time with Sansa, sharing in her inability to move, with nervous Meera by the door.
"You can see it now," the girl whispered, almost too low for Sansa and Bran to hear. "Just beyond the pines. An unnatural blizzard."
Despite it all, Sansa's heart skipped a beat. The closer the undead came, the closer her lover came as well.
"Jojen saw this, years ago. I never understood it, until now. I never understood the costs."
Meera's words were so bitter, it sliced into Sansa. Neither her nor Bran had any words of comfort to offer. No one had any words to say besides, "Keep your sword up!"
The fire was low. The occasional pop of a spark was the only noise left in the night, as Sansa lay on her back staring up at the canopy of her bed. How many quiet nights were left? She cupped her belly, feeling her son move, no doubt feeding off of her restlessness. They both longed for his father.
You could go to him... Sansa shook her head, leaning back into her pillows. If only she could sleep, then she would. The constant state of anxiety she stayed in kept her from dreaming. There must be a way. After all, she had called the wolves to her twice now. Surely there was some magic in her.
She wasn't sure where to begin, so she simply closed her eyes and began breathing deeply and slowly. Trying her best to clear her mind, she laid her arms by her sides and spread her fingers over the soft furs that were spread beneath her. The same furs Sandor had been wrapped in, the night before he departed, naked and glorious and hers. She willed the connection they had to form a bridge between them, willed her spirit to cross that bridge and find him through the snow and ice. It was a curious feeling, floating above your own body. Sansa knew, of course, that her body remained in her bed, but her soul was reaching out through the ether to find her chosen partner. Her mate.
Suddenly, she found him-she was in his tent, somehow still feeling the cold and shivering from it. Sandor was seated next to a small table with a single candle lit, his back turned to her. The slow, slithering sound of steel against stone told her that he was sharpening his weapons. Sansa crossed the distance between them and touched his shoulder, thrilled to find flesh beneath her hand.
Her lover started and spun on her, the knife in his hand going to her throat and his other hand gripping the hair at the back of her head. She let out a cry before she could stop herself, and Sandor realized then who she was. "You-" He released her and took a step back to take stock of her, obviously shocked. "How in all the seven hells are you here?"
"My heart called out to you," Sansa answered. "I followed the reply of yours through the miles. I came here on the wind."
"Are you a ghost?" Sandor whispered, not touching her but wanting to.
"No," Sansa said, taking the bull by the horns and stepping into him, flush, wrapping her arms around his wide torso. "And yes."
He kissed her fiercely and abruptly, lifting her off the floor and into his embrace. She returned each kiss with fervor, so hungry for him her vision was going red. The wolf in her was starving, starving for sweat and cum and for Sandor, most of all. "Are you a witch?" he murmured against her mouth. "What kind of fucking spell have you cast?" He shoved her up against a post of the tent, and she gasped against his mouth. He ripped the front of her dress open, violently-buttons flew off and hit the ground with soft plunks. "I'm so close to Winterfell. To you. To our son. But you couldn't wait, could you?"
Sansa didn't want to speak. She wanted to devour. She leaned forward and bit the side of his neck, pressing her breasts into him. He growled and pushed her back again, returning the favor by swooping down and slipping a nipple into his mouth, teasing her with his teeth. She groaned. Not enough.
Sandor was fumbling with her skirts, until he let out a frustrated sound and ripped them as well, exposing her legs to the cold. Sansa looked like a woman ravaged, and she was. Unashamedly, she thrust herself against him, whining like a bitch in heat. Not enough.
"I don't care how you're doing this," Sandor said in her ear, brushing his hard cock against the entrance of her, causing her to moan in anticipation. "I don't care if you're a witch or a bloody ghost. I'm going to fuck you like I've been dreaming about for months."
Finally, no more words were said. Time became irrelevant. While the storm raged outside the flaps of Sandor's tent, they spent every second revering each other. This version of Sansa didn't grow tired-she only wanted more and more and more. After an eternity, they lay together, panting, covered in sweat, wrapped around each other. The sunlight was starting to peak through the cracks in Sandor's tent, and she knew she had to return to Winterfell. Her lover was drifting off; the sight of his relaxed face filled her heart with absolute joy. How she had missed him! How soon she would hold him in her arms, in the flesh, no magic needed. How soon he would see her swollen with his child. The idea filled her with so much pleasure, she completely forgot about the impending battle and their inevitable demise.
Sansa kissed him gently on the corner of his mouth, whispering her goodbyes while he slipped away into sleep. She returned to her own body, like crashing through the surface of water, and gasped. She pushed herself up and struggled to the window, throwing open the covers and leaning out into the night air. Sandor was somewhere out there, in the low light of the morning. The fact filled her with strength, and she began her day determined to survive the winter.