When Sansa returned to her rooms Sandor was peering blearily from the furs, scars pale against his rumpled hair. "Where were you?"

"Arya's room." She slipped out of her robe and nightgown and slid back into the cocoon of warmth under the covers. "I needed to speak to her."

Sandor grunted as he wrapped his arms around her. "So, is the Hero of Winterfell waiting outside to kill me for ravishing her sister?"

"No. You're safe."

"Thank all the fucking gods for that." He nuzzled her hair, and something warm and hard poked her hip. "We don't have to get up just yet."

No, they didn't. Her maid wouldn't arrive for another hour, if then. Sansa gave herself over to her new husband's kisses and warm, calloused hands roaming everywhere on her body. She claimed that privilege as well, running her fingertips over his shoulders, the thick, crisp hair on his chest and belly, feeling the hard rises and dips of muscle underneath. She even dared to reach around and squeeze the firm rounds of his bottom. They were covered with a fine down, more delicate than the hair covering the rest of him, and she liked how it felt like coarse velvet against her palms.

He grinned at her blatantly possessive grip. "Never had a woman do that to me before."

She squeezed again, loving the feel of him. "And no other woman had best do it to you in the future, or I'll have her hands cut off."

"Fierce little wolf, aren't you?

"I'm glad you noticed." She claimed his mouth, sucking on his lower lip before letting it slide from her mouth with a soft pop. "You're mine, Lord Stark, and I keep what's mine."

"Good." He flipped her onto her back, nudging her legs open with one thick thigh before nestling between them. "Because I feel the same way, Lady Stark."

She was slightly sore from the previous night but that was to be expected. His hungry kisses and sensual touches had set off the now-familiar heat low in her belly, and she was wet and ready for him when he eased inside her.

"Mmph. This is the best way to wake up," he muttered, taking an experimental thrust. "Buried in your lady's sweet, hot, tight quim."

She couldn't disagree with that. The ache was already dissolving, replaced by a delicious friction as he settled into a rolling thrust. She wrapped her legs around his hips, clinging to him, and remembered her dream of them lying together in the dark after escaping King's Landing. But reality is so much better.

His breath was hot on her cheek as he rocked into her, groaning under his breath. Her pleasure caught and began to rise, stoked by his enjoyment and the wondrous feeling of being filled by him, his cock stretching her inner muscles in the most luscious way.

He panted in her ear as he sped up, shuddering towards his own peak. "Sansa. My beautiful little bird. Fly for me."

She did, clutching him close as the pleasure rolled through her like a storm. Yes, I want this forever, I want you inside me, with me, love me—

He roared out his own joy as he poured into her. Somehow this caused another, smaller crest to shudder through her and she bit his shoulder to stop herself from screaming.

Their panting slowed but he stayed where he was, careful to keep his weight off her, and gave her a grin that turned his scarred face almost handsome. "If that didn't get you in pup, nothing will," he said in satisfaction.

She had to agree with him. "Proud of yourself, my lord?"

He glanced at the oval of tooth marks on his shoulder. "Very much so, my lady."

Much as she would have preferred to spend the rest of the morning in bed with her new husband, that wasn't to be. Soon after they finished her maid tapped respectfully on the door. "My lady, there's a message from Queen Daenerys," came through the thick wood.

Dragging herself from her post-coital haze, Sansa slid from the bed and threw on her robe to take the note. When she read it, she wished she had some of her husband's skills in cursing. "I need to get dressed now."

The maid curtsied and bustled off. "What's wrong?" Sandor asked, sitting up.

"The dragon queen's holding a war council at midday." She went to the wardrobe and selected a black leather bodice. The maid came back in with a clean skirt and undergarments, shooing Sansa to the dressing table to brush and plait her hair. "I have to attend. Knowing her, she'll want to leave for the south immediately."

She could see Sandor make a face in the mirror's reflection. "I don't have to go, do I?"

"To the meeting? You're a Stark and my consort, now—you're entitled."

But she wasn't surprised when he shook his head. "I'm not one for strategy and planning. I'm better at taking orders and killing people. You can tell me about it afterwards."

That answered her next question. She had been worried that he would leave while she was speaking with Daenerys, Jon, and the others about the next steps. The maid finished and she nodded her dismissal before turning to Sandor. "You'll stay until I get back?"

"I will. But then I need to go. It's a long road to the Red Keep."

She remembered Arya's promise. "You don't have to go alone. Arya's going, as well."

His face grew grim as she told him of her sister's plans. "She may be the only one who can get close enough to kill Cersei, true enough," he admitted. "And I suppose two swords are better than one. I'll ride with her." He gave her a dour smile. "And make sure she gets back in one piece."

I want both of you to come back in one piece. She went to the bed, wishing that she could crawl back and stay there, pretend that the horrors of the world weren't happening. Instead, she sat on the edge and took his hand, drawing strength from it. "Thank you. And I'm sorry about having our morning interrupted like this."

Heavy shoulders shrugged. "It's what rulers have to do. And you're a ruler now, little bird." He leaned over, capturing her mouth in a hot, sweet kiss. "Go get dressed and let the dragon queen know what the Lady of Winterfell thinks."

Once Sansa was gone her maid poked her head back in, a bundle of something in her hands. "Would you like breakfast to be brought up, my lord?"

Sandor had to give the woman credit for not blinking at his face or half-exposed body. "I'll get something from the kitchens."

"Very well, my lord." She deposited the bundle on the bench at the foot of the bed. "I brought up your clothes from your old room. I hope that's all right."

He was about to mutter something dismissive when it felt like Sansa poked him again, only in his mind. Be polite, you miserable old shit. "Thank you."

That was the right thing to say because the maid curtsied and left. Naked, he got out of bed, picking up the old linen shirt on top of the laundered clothes. Someone had carefully re-mended all the various tears and rips he'd clumsily sewn during his travels. Curious, he sniffed it. It smelled like laundry soap and something herbal, a cool green scent he associated with Sansa.

Good. I'll carry her with me this way. He finished dressing and strapped on his sword, then wandered down to the kitchens. Like most of the cooks he'd known, the ruler of the Winterfell kitchen liked those with big appetites and was happy enough to supply him with thick slices of fresh bread, cheese, and a hot, crispy slice of mutton, as well as a flagon of ale. He layered the food into a clumsy sandwich, taking big bites as he walked around the keep. Some hallways were still impassable, dusty and choked with broken stone, and he'd had to double back more than once. But it wouldn't last—the workers he saw were already busy clearing away rubble and beginning the task of repairing Winterfell. He'd been around enough lords to know that he should be talking with them, finding out the extent of the damage, but his new rank still didn't seem real.

I'm Sansa's husband. No, that didn't seem real, either, although he could still feel the warm weight of her breasts in his palms and her long, lean body under his. He'd gone from being a second son to the lord of a pissant little tower house on the west coast, to Joffrey's sworn shield, a member of the Kingsguard, a forsworn sellsword, the beleaguered companion of Arya Stark, a member of Ray's congregation, a reluctant soldier in the Brotherhood without Banners, a warrior in the Great War, and finally third in command of the largest kingdom in Westeros behind Sansa and Jon (and in that order; his mopey pup of a brother-in-law might be Warden of the North, but Sansa held the real power).

So what do I do now? He'd promised Sansa that he wouldn't leave until she got back, but he didn't want to walk around the battered halls like some stupid lost boy, and he didn't want to brood in their room. Where else does everyone here go when their mind's a muddle?

The answer came to him. I can hear you laughing at me, Ray, you old cunt. Fine. The godswood it is.

After getting his coat, he headed out to the sacred grove at the side of the main keep. In the day it looked surprisingly welcoming, with the trees iced with white snow and squirrels darting here and there between the trunks. What he didn't expect was to find the Stark clan gathered under the huge weirwood tree in their furs and black leather, tense as green recruits before a battle.

They all turned to stare at him. He held up his hands quickly. "I'll go."

"No." That was Sansa, stern and lovely. "You're my consort and a Stark. You'll stay."

"Sansa!" Jon's gaze whipped between the two of them. "He's not family. And he's been forsworn before."

"He is family." That from Arya, and he couldn't have been more surprised if the Maiden had leaned down from her heaven and kissed him on the lips right then and there. "He's killed to protect me. He'll kill or die to protect Sansa. He fought with us against the Night King, and he's Sansa's husband now. That makes him one of us."

"As for being forsworn, he won't do it again." Sansa's blue Tully eyes were sharp as they turned to him. "Sandor, Jon is about to tell us something. Swear that you won't tell another living soul."

He studied her, then the Warden of the North. Whatever it was, it was eating the other man alive. "I swear it," he said, joining Sansa and resting a hand on her shoulder.

Surrendering, Jon nodded at his younger brother. "Tell them."

Bran's chin came up. "Jon isn't the bastard son of Ned Stark. He's the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. I saw them wed, and I saw his birth. He isn't our brother—he's our cousin, Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, and the rightful heir to the Iron Throne."

Sandor felt his wife's body go rigid under his palm. "What?"

"It's true," Jon said. He sounded miserable about it. "Samwell Tarley found proof in a maester's diary. Rhaegar and Lyanna were secretly married before my birth. He didn't rape her—he loved her, and she loved him back. And I'm their trueborn son."

Sansa shook her head, winter sunlight glinting in her hair. "Then … that makes you the rightful king—"

"I don't want it!" Jon burst out. "The throne belongs to Daenerys. She's my queen."

"She's your aunt," Sansa retorted. "Your claim is the better one, and you know it."

"I don't want it!" The shout echoed through the godswood, sending a flock of small birds whirring up towards the pale winter sky. "I'm only telling you so that you know your father never broke his marriage vow. He said I was his bastard to protect me from Robert Baratheon. He never betrayed your mother."

Sandor saw emotion run through the three Stark siblings like lighting along a battlement's edge. Even Bran seemed taken aback by this truth, staring at his sisters warily.

"Thank you, Jon," Arya finally said. "It shouldn't matter now, not after what we've all been through, but it's still good to know."

"Yes, it is," Sansa agreed quietly. "But it doesn't change the fact that you're the rightful heir to the throne, not Daenerys."

Jon shook his shaggy head. "She is my queen. I don't want the damned throne. I will always bend the knee to her—"

"Because you're fucking her." The words left Sandor's mouth before he could stop them.

Bran didn't react but both Arya and Sansa gasped. "You can't," Sansa breathed. "You can't be, Jon. I know you love her, but please, please say you didn't."

"I didn't know." Jon had gone the color of his former bastard name, bruises and cuts standing out like rocks in an ice-covered stream. "When we started, I didn't know. Since I found out I haven't touched her, I swear."

"Oh, gods." Sandor felt Sansa tremble and slipped this arm around her shoulders to steady her. "Jon, that's incest."

"Don't you think I know that?" Both of the warden's fists were clenched and he looked like he was about to puke his guts out onto the snow. "How do you think I feel, knowing what I've done with her?"

"She won't care." Arya's cold words cut through the air, a faint accent on the she. "She's a Targaryen—they've always bred with their own. Does she know?"

Jon nodded. "I told her before the battle."

"And what was her reaction?"

For the first time since they'd met, Sandor felt sorry for the poor bastard. "She didn't want me to tell anyone," Jon admitted.

"Of course she didn't." Sansa's tone was cutting. "She doesn't want to give up her throne."

"She's not going to. And none of you can tell anyone. You've sworn it in front of the heart tree." Jon threw a sudden, wary glance at him. "All of you."

Sandor didn't put much faith in any gods, old or new, but he wasn't going to be forsworn again. "I'm not going to say anything," he growled. "I don't care whose ass winds up on the Iron Throne, yours or the little blonde's. That's for you to deal with. My job is to protect this family."

Sansa's gloved hand came up to cover his own. "We've sworn that we won't tell anyone," she said. "Thank you for letting us know that Father didn't betray Mother."

Nodding, Jon headed back towards the keep. Even under the large fur cape, Sandor could see his shoulders sag as if all the worries in the world were heaped on them. Not too far from the truth, belike. The Targaryen doesn't seem like someone who'll fancy sharing power, even with her nephew.

Sansa's attention turned to Bran. "You knew about this?"

"Yes," the implacable young man said.

"And you didn't think to tell us?"

"No."

"Why?"

"You didn't ask."

Two burning patches of color flamed to life in her cheeks. "Is there anything else important about our family that we should know, Bran?"

His head bowed slightly. "That's an impossible question to answer, Sansa. It all depends on what you consider important."

Sandor actually heard her jaw grind, she clenched her teeth so hard. Before she could say anything, Arya stepped between her siblings. "It doesn't matter, now. What matters is getting rid of Cersei without losing too many of our men or letting Daenerys Targaryen run rampant over the North. You can grill Bran later once we're gone." Arya glanced at him. "I'll see you on the Kingsroad, brother."

The smallest Stark gave her sister a quick embrace, then Bran, before jogging after Jon. A whimsical little urge came to Sandor and he called, "No hug for me, then?"

She shot him an obscene Braavosi gesture over her shoulder. That's my girl.

"I'll give you one." Sansa slid her arms around his waist, pulling him close to her. "I'm going to worry about both of you every moment while you're down there," she whispered against his jacket.

"I know, and I'm sorry." He rested his scarred cheek on the cool silk of her hair. "I'll make sure she gets home."

"Make sure you both get home, my lord." She held him as tightly as she could for another moment, then let him go. "I'll go talk to the kitchens, make sure they have some travel food for the both of you. I'll meet you in the stables."

He watched her go, tall and brave and so fucking beautiful it hurt his heart. Dragging his gaze from Sansa's retreating form, he turned to Bran. "Now that we're alone, I need to know. Am I coming back?"

That calm, implacable face made him want to put a fist through it. "It depends."

"On what?"

"I can't tell you. That could change things."

"What fucking use are you, then?"

Something about the still young man's expression seemed amused. "Enough to warn you all about the Night King, and to act as bait for him."

You're still a man, then, for all your Three-Eyed Raven bullshit. "Can you give me any sort of help?"

Bran blinked once, slowly. "Assistance will come from no one."

Like that's a fucking surprise. "You call that helpful?"

"Actually, I would."

Cursing under his breath, Sandor stalked off towards the keep. Fucking seers and their fucking nonsense…

The keep was already abuzz with the news that the army would march north the next day. Sansa was stopped by so many people to answer questions about what should be sent with them, who should stay behind, what would Winterfell do once the dragon queen's army was gone, etcetera, that she'd developed a headache by the time she reached the kitchens.

The cook, luckily, knew what was needed. "Lady Arya's already been here, m'lady," she said, loading a leather bag with bread, cheese, dried meat, and other foodstuffs that would keep on the road. "I made sure she had everything she needed. The new lord won't be going hungry any time soon, either."

"Thank you," Sansa said gratefully, hefting the stuffed bag. She headed to the stables, half-afraid that Sandor would have left already.

She needn't have worried. He was already back in his armor, his battered but thick quilted coat and travel cape layered over it to keep him warm. She hung back for a moment, trying to memorize everything she could about him. How his hair was significantly lighter than his beard, and both were lighter than that one remaining fierce eyebrow. How he moved with a muscular grace that belied the heavy armor he wore. How his large hands were elegant as they deftly tightened the saddle's straps. He has elegant feet, as well. I hadn't expected that.

I think I'm falling in love with him. I hadn't expected that at all.

He turned, spotting her. "That the food?" he said, nodding at the bag in her hands.

She spurred herself to move, handing it to him. He stuffed it in a saddlebag and tied it shut, then pulled her into his arms. "What are you going to do about Jon?" he murmured into her ear.

"I don't know." Her headache wasn't helped by that shocking news. "He would make a good king."

"Would he?" Her husband's eyes narrowed in thought. "He's a good man, Sansa. That type doesn't last long, especially when they have crowns crammed on their heads."

She knew that as well, but if it came down to Jon—Aegon—or Daenerys, she knew who she was going to choose. "Perhaps he'd be the first."

"Perhaps, if you were the fist behind his reign. Are you ready to take on that duty?"

Hadn't she already? Jon was the Warden of the North, but she was the Lady of Winterfell. The northern lords looked to her for help, food, information. "If I have to," she said softly. "It isn't what I wanted, but…"

"It's what you're good at." He nodded. "You've been through the fires, little bird. You know how to play this game as well as anyone, and better than most." His gaze turned contemplative. "But protect what's yours first. Let Cersei and her hired sellswords fight with Daenerys and her armies until King's Landing is a pile of smoking ash. I wouldn't piss on it to put it out, as long as I knew that Winterfell still stood with you in it."

She had to smile at that. "Spoken like a true northerner."

"Well, I've got the fur for it, anyhow."

He bent to her and their lips met once more, a gentle press that spoke of regret and deferred desires, a promise asked and given. When they parted, Sansa cupped his scarred cheek. "You're not the Lannisters' Hound any more. You're a Stark wolf, and you're mine. Remember that, and come back to me."

He nodded. "As my lady commands."

She followed as he led Stranger out of the stable, finding a quiet corner of the courtyard before swinging up into the saddle. The giant warhorse shook its head, snorting and clearly eager to be on the road again. Sandor glanced down at her one last time, dark eyes finally free of the old bitterness they'd carried. Now they were full of determination and something else, something that sent a sweet pain through her.

Tell him you love him. Even if you're not sure yet, let him have this, tell him—

She opened her mouth just as he gave Stranger the signal to walk. Man and horse clopped out of the courtyard, towards the path that would lead to the Kingsroad. Surrounded by the bustle of the keep's people, Sansa remained calm as she watched him go, ivory to porcelain to steel, the perfect Lady of Winterfell.

Inside, however, she mourned.

Sandor kept Stranger at an easy walk, not wanting to risk his warhorse's footing on the rutted cart path's snowy surface, and wondered when his companion would show up.

"Took you long enough."

He glowered at Arya as she rode out from a copse. "For fuck's sake. Can't I say goodbye to my wife?"

"You did that last night. At least twice, from what I could hear. And this morning."

Nosy little bitch. But the memory of Sansa clutching him, teeth sinking into his shoulder as she reached her peak, was something he would treasure. "Surprised I didn't hear you and your smith," he sniped back. "Don't know why you're not staying with him in Winterfell. They all think you're a big hero there."

She shrugged. "Don't like heroes."

Well, he couldn't blame her on that. As far as he was concerned, heroes were killers that just happened to be popular with the right people. "Must have felt good sticking a knife in that horned fucker, though."

"Felt better than dying."

The familiar pattern of sarcasm settled around them, comfortable as an old doublet. "Sansa says you're going to King's Landing to kill your brother," Arya continued.

"Mm. We have unfinished business, him and me."

"Me, too, with Cersei. I don't think I'm coming back, though."

That surprised him. "Not even for your smith?"

Her battered face went chilly. "He's not my smith."

You're a fool if you think that, girl. You hold his heart in your cruel little hands. He glanced around at the snow-choked trees and fields. He never thought he'd come back here, but Sansa had changed everything with her proposal. Perhaps the little wolf would change her mind, as well.

But he knew better than to bring it up now. "Gonna leave me to die again if I get hurt?"

A corner of Arya's mouth curled. "Probably."

He shook his head, amused. At least she's honest. "Fine. Once we get to King's Landing, I kill my brother and you kill Cersei. We're probably both die in the doing of it, but at least we'll take them with us."

"Sounds like a plan." Her grey eyes flickered, cold as the landscape around them. "When we get close, can we stop off at the Crossroads Inn? I've got a taste for chicken."

"Oh, fuck off." But he smiled at the pale blue winter sky.

Sansa stood on the battlements, watching Daenerys and her two dragons spiral up into the sky. They would fly to White Harbor where Tyrion, Varys, Missandei, Grey Worm and the remnants of the Unsullied and Dothraki would take ship to Dragonstone while Jon and the northern army would start down the Kingsroad. She'd listened to Tyrion try to convince her to work with Daenerys, that all the little Valyrian queen wanted was to make the world a better place, that Jon would be safe in King's Landing.

She knew better. And when the little Hand of the Queen repeated Jon's fateful words that he wasn't a Stark, she made her decision. I swore an oath to my brother Jon, not to my cousin Aegon. What I do now, I do for the good of us all.

"What if there was someone else?" she said out loud. "Someone better?"

Tyrion shook his head. "Such as?"

"The trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, born after their secret marriage."

Tyrion's jaw dropped open. "What are you talking about?"

"Samwell Tarley found proof of it in a maester's diary, and Bran confirmed it. Rhaegar and Lyanna married and had a trueborn son. Lyanna begged my father to protect him, which he did at great personal cost. That son was raised as a Stark. He became commander of the Night's Watch, fought in the Battle of the Bastards, and is now the only other person in the world who can ride a dragon." She pursed her lips. "Really, we were all absolutely blind not to notice that. Dragons don't like anyone other than Targaryens."

The Hand's mouth worked silently for a moment. "Jon," he finally managed.

"Yes." Bran's words came to her. "Or to give him his proper name, Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, rightful heir to the Iron Throne."

Tyrion began to pace, scrubbing at his beard. The sound of it was raspy on the cold air. "Does ... does Daenerys know?"

"Yes, since before the battle. She didn't want him to tell anyone."

"I'm not surprised," he muttered. "But he told you."

"And Arya, and Sandor. He wanted us to know that Father had never betrayed Mother after all."

The little man stopped abruptly, looking like he wanted to curl up in a ball on the snowy flagstones. "Oh, I need a drink. Jon Snow is a secret Targaryen prince, and the queen knows, and they've been—" He shut up, giving her a horrified glance.

"I know," she said shortly. "Jon told me. They can't marry because of that."

"It never stopped a Targaryen before," Tyrion shot back. "And we're about to wage war on my mad sister. No, I don't need a drink—I need a barrel. Two barrels." He glared at her, suddenly suspicious. "You're putting me in a very difficult position by telling me this, Sansa. Why?"

And finally the cleverest man in Westeros returns. "I'm telling you—" Because you're the only one who can possibly talk Daenerys out of killing Jon once she decides he's a threat. And she will. "—because I thought you should know, as her Hand."

"And you don't think she'd tell me this herself."

"She's known since the Battle of Winterfell. Has she said anything to you?"

"No, but—wait. You said 'someone better.'" His oversized head twisted away but his gaze remained on her. "Oh. no. No, no, no. Please tell me you're not trying to get me to put your former bastard brother on the throne."

And why shouldn't I? "I think he's a better choice, yes, and not only because his claim is stronger. But I admit to being prejudiced."

"Yes, you are." It was said sharply. "I have faith in our queen, my lady. She'll be a good ruler. That's all she ever wanted to be."

She wanted to shake the man. Can't you see what's in front of you? She refuses to let our men rest. She had her dragon burn Sam's father and brother to death because they wouldn't bend the knee. She wants to pull Cersei out root and stem, and I don't think she cares who she hurts in the process. These aren't the actions of a good queen—or a sane one, for that matter.

But Tyrion was still firmly in Daenerys's camp. She would have to wait until he saw the truth for himself. "I'll have to take your word for it," she said aloud. "I shouldn't keep you any longer—you have a long trip ahead of you. Safe travels, my lord."

Still wary, he nodded. "I can't exactly thank you for telling me this, my lady, but I appreciate the information nonetheless. I hate being blindsided." He sketched a bow to her, then hurried off.

It had been the right decision, she knew that. Tyrion's best positioned to help us all. I couldn't send him south without telling him. But a flicker of guilt gnawed at her. What would the dragon queen do to him if she found out he knew Jon's secret? And what would the old gods do to someone who broke an oath sworn in front of a heart tree?

One hand resting on her belly, she watched as the dragon queen flew off. I won't let you hurt anyone I love, Daenerys. Even if I have to die in your beast's flames to do it.