Author's Note:

Final chapter, m'dears (though look for the promised epilogue in a few weeks)...the multi-shipping continues lol. Because hey, I don't really have to make a final decision on Sansa's love life until I write the sequel to "Winter's Child", do I? Crisis delayed ;)

But, in any case, Sansa has definitely won my heart, despite all those years of muttering at my TV, "please for the love of god, Sansa, stop it with the trusting people." Cold, calm, #fierceSansa is my favorite version of Sansa. And other than collecting more Jorah/Dany moments to rewatch a thousand times, she's the main reason I'm looking forward to S8.

All Hail Sansa Stark, the Glorious Queen of Winter Xo

Sansa

"Lord Tyrion is asking for an audience with you."

Sansa was standing on the frosted balcony that overlooked the crystal white courtyard of Winterfell. She'd been standing there for some time, alone, when Arya suddenly appeared by her sister's side.

This was the same spot upon which Ned and Catelyn Stark had stood years ago, before the war, before winter, side by side, watching Bran learn how to shoot arrows with the older boys. If Sansa closed her eyes, she could picture Bran, taking a deep breath, while Jon and Robb looked on down below, encouraging their little brother, but suppressing their laughter too, as Bran's arrow didn't just miss its mark, but went wildly beyond the target.

They were still so young. They were all so young.

Here, on the balcony, she could almost hear the old echoes of her father's deep voice and see her mother's sweet face, the memory deeply imprinted in the beams of the castle itself.

And which one of you was a marksman at ten? Keep practicing, Bran.

And just as she had that long-ago day, Arya appeared suddenly, with a cat's agility, on quiet steps and with an assassin's skill of coming out of the shadows unnoticed.

Sansa was getting used to it, finally. She didn't jump at Arya's unexpected voice or give her that same old glare, resurrected from their childhood, which said she'd rather Arya…didn't. Those talents that her sister learned so well at the House of Black and White in Braavos were grimdark in a way that would never rub off.

It was no less than what Sansa learned at the hands of Joffrey and Ramsay Bolton, she supposed. The sisters had both changed from who they were as little girls. There was no getting around that. But Arya had changed so much—her mannerisms, the shadowy intelligence sparking behind her wide, observant eyes, that faceless man sense of mystery and menace that clung to her, like briars on fabric.

They never squabbled now. Not like they used. How could they? A silent truce was made between them the day Jon died and Winterfell was nearly overrun by dead men. Or perhaps it came even before that, when Arya used the same dagger that had sliced into their mother's soft palm to slit Petyr Baelish's unworthy throat.

Do you deny it, Lord Baelish?

In Sansa's nightmares, that man still came to her—whispering, plotting, his long fingers reaching out to touch her red hair. She froze in those nightmares, as if she were a child once more, paralyzed by his ghostly touch, closing her eyes slowly, ignoring his desperate whispers until she was able to wake herself up.

Too bad Arya couldn't slay the Littlefinger that lived in her dreams as well.

But her little sister could banish away a certain strand of loneliness that sometimes snaked its way into Sansa's soul, trying to eat away at her with a constant appetite. Sansa and Arya were all that was left of the Starks of Winterfell.

And Bran, she amended in her head. But if the Bran she knew, who climbed castle walls and listened to Old Nan's stories with rapt attention, lived within the Three-Eyed Raven's all-knowing gaze, Sansa couldn't see it.

And so she was always fortified by her little sister's appearance beside her. No matter how sudden or unexpected that appearance was. Because no matter how deep the fissures between them or the differences in personality that had plagued them in their younger years, they had survived where Father, Mother, Rob, Jon, Rickon and Bran did not.

They were all each other had left.

"Again?" Sansa mused at Arya's words, her tone flat and betraying none of her true feelings on the matter.

"He begs for an audience," Arya added, grinning slyly. Her grin was cat-like too, as she knew too well how her sister would react to the request.

"I don't care," Sansa muttered, her frosted breath hovering on the sigh that followed. She continued, "He thinks now that Brienne has returned, I should forgive him for sending her away in the first place."

"Winter's a long season to hold a grudge," Arya shrugged. Her words held little weight, as they both knew how long she'd held onto her long list of names.

"He should have considered that before he sent her away without my permission," Sansa replied, bitterness coloring her tone.

"Brienne agreed to go," Arya pointed out, sensibly. Part of Sansa wondered if she made the point only to be contrary…but she doubted it. They were far beyond those old games. But Arya added, "And she didn't ask your permission either."

Sansa turned that same old glare on Arya, after all. Her little sister took no offense. She even held up her hands as a peace offering.

"You know the Imp better than I," Arya conceded, her sister's feelings of more concern to her than the dwarf's. "But I don't think he would ever intentionally undermine you, Sansa. You should talk to him."

Sansa remained silent, brooding as bad as Jon. In an effort to lighten her mood, Arya's sly, cat-like grin returned.

"Unless you would rather talk to Sandor Clegane?"

Sansa refused to blush. She regretted telling Arya anything about her midnight visit to Sandor's chambers. And she hadn't told her sister all. Enough, but not all. And not that anything had happened.

But not that it hadn't…she resisted the sudden urge to raise her fingers up against her lips.

Her feelings regarding the Hound were complicated. They had been complicated for years, since the night Tyrion's pyromancers set the Blackwater on fire, maybe even before. But those feelings went deep, down a dark pit that Sansa wasn't sure she could climb down. Or should climb down. For where would she emerge?

And yet…

She wouldn't admit it to Arya, but oh yes, part of her wanted to run to the Hound that moment and ask him to hold her close and wrap his arms around her shoulders. She would close her eyes against his chest and feel his strong arms encircle her, blocking out the darkness and Ramsay's cruel sneers, Joffrey's raging tantrums, Littlefinger's ghostly whispers, keeping out the entire world, the past, present and future collapsing into a single moment in time.

Nothing can hurt you here, little bird.

There was danger in these thoughts, she knew. She was Lady Stark of Winterfell and the Queen of Winter. Her people needed her. She had to be strong. She had to be the phoenix, her red wings outstretched and fierce. The little songbird would run off with her loyal dog, singing any songs he might ask for. And in return, wouldn't he would protect her, love her and keep her safe?

But she must not give into that voice. For if she did, would she have the strength to get through winter?

And Tyrion.

What of Tyrion? He knew what it was like to put duty before inclination. He knew that the things we want aren't always the things we can have. Once, she thought they understood each other.

After all, the dwarf had been her husband once. Arya was right. She couldn't ignore him forever.

"Fine," she relented. "I'll talk to Tyrion."

"You asked to see me?" Sansa found him in the glass house, wearing gardening gloves and pruning a winter rose bush. The roses caught her eye, blooming despite the snow piled up against the windows a few yards away. Her demeanor, hard and unyielding as she stepped through the glass house door, instantly softened at the unexpected sight of those blue flowers.

She murmured, "You got them to bloom…"

Tyrion looked up at her voice, surprised that she'd answered his summons. She'd ignored so many of the others. He had words planned out for this moment—apologies, explanations, entreaties. But instead, he found himself just nodding, "They're beautiful. I can see why your Aunt Lyanna's head was turned."

Unexpectedly, Sansa smirked at the implication.

"I think that had more to do with the man who gave her the flowers," she replied, taking a step closer and raising her hand up to touch the sky blue, frost-painted bud under her fingertips. Her red hair, framed against those green leaves and blue petals took Tyrion's breath away.

He recovered after a long moment, saying, with feeling, "I wish you would..."

She looked away from the flowers, meeting his gaze for the first time in months. He seemed so broken by her unwillingness to forgive him. She wondered why it should mean so much? He had dealt with far worse at the hands of his own family. From the first, his own father and sister blamed him for his mother's death…

And there it was.

She blinked, suddenly reading the deeply-rooted pain in his eyes for what it actually was. He hid pain so well usually, behind drink or witty words. But it was fear, wasn't it? The kind she knew when she was stranded in King's Landing, her father dead, her sister missing—a lone wolf surrounded by lions that wished to claw out her throat.

He was alone.

More so than she had ever been. For, even in the darkest moments, she had memories of a mother and father who loved her dearly and brothers and sisters who, despite their differences, would do anythingfor each other. Tyrion's mother had never known him and his father would have rather he expired the moment he took his first breath. His sister hunted him and would have seen him torn apart, limb from limb, had she managed it.

And now, in the bleak mid-winter, Sansa found herself at home, with Arya, even with Bran, and certainly with sweet memories which would sustain her for many years to come. But what did Tyrion have?

You. His eyes said it for him. I have you.

"I can't…," she began, taking her hand down from the rose bud slowly. I could…should. The echoes of old words rang in her ears. She tried again, "I can't pretend to understand why you did it. But I…think I could trust that you had your reasons, even if you can't share them with me."

"I want to, Sansa," he assured her, his voice going hoarse on her name. "But I can't."

She wondered at those words, and the secrets they implied, but she didn't press further. They couldn't go back, but they could start again. Her gaze drifted around the glass house, teeming with green things.

The promise of new beginnings.

"The glass houses are beautiful," she said, as a peace offering. It was true and she'd thought it for a long time, since the moment he and Sam started the project. He smiled at her, not that smarmy grin that wine could elicit from him so easily but something more genuine, warm…and familiar.

"As are you, my lady," he answered, without hope or agenda. It was just a compliment, plain and simple. And she could hear the depth in his tone—he didn't just mean her pretty face.

"Thank you, Tyrion," she replied.

She would have said more. She would say more soon enough. Arya was right. Winter was too long to hold onto a grudge. Life was too short. And the darkness of the world was too willing to eat away at the bright spots, unless it was held back.

By flowers blooming in a glass house. By a gentle word and a caring heart.

Before she could say anything further, Sam Tarly entered the glass house, his cheeks red from the frosty walk across the castle grounds. He had been in the aviary all morning and was now clutching a raven's message in his hand.

The raven's message was marked by the bear seal of House Mormont—the first message from Bear Island that had arrived since the battle at Winterfell, over a year before.

"Lady Sansa, Lord Tyrion!" Sam's excitement couldn't be contained. He was out of breath and could manage little else, waving off their anxious glances, too often expecting bad news, and just handed the message over into Sansa's hands.

She unrolled the parchment quickly, noting Lyanna Mormont's distinctive handwriting and brusque style, going speechless at the astonishing news.

We trust the Starks survive at Winterfell. Bear Island abides. Ser Jorah has returned to us and Lady Daenerys has borne his daughter – a winter's child with her mother's features and her father's eyes. Thanks be to the Old Gods and the New. – L. Mormont

Sansa handed the parchment to Tyrion, who just smiled and said, "Thanks be, indeed."