She feels herself smile tenderly.
"Yes, my lord," she whispers close to him. "It is your Sansa: I have brought our children home. We have come back to you."
Her husband opens his eyes now and looks at her momentarily before reacting. Then she sees the recognition in his expression and he reaches his hands out to touch her, cupping her face tenderly.
"Sansa? It's truly you?"
"Yes. Yes, my lord…and Eddard and Serena too. Come children and greet your father," she tells them in a voice that is almost tearful with happiness.
Eddard runs forward and throws himself at his father to embrace him tightly. "Father," he cries out into his chest against the fur coverlet.
"Eddard, let me look at you boy." The Greatjon holds his youngest son by his shoulders and looks at with a proud appraisal. 'You're bigger," he enthuses, "and-" He breaks off suddenly to cough: a deep rattling cough that racks his body and turns his face even redder. Sansa reaches a hand out to him now in alarm; but he merely shakes his head at her and turns his attention back to their son. "Yes, you're bigger…and you look more sure of yourself; have you kept up your training, then?"
"Yes, Father," Eddard begins, "I- I practiced what you taught me…"
"Good, good," he pats his son now and looks at his daughter standing behind him. "Serena, do you not embrace your Da?
Serena wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. "Stinky," she replies flatly.
"Serena!" Sansa cries. "Do not speak to your father so rudely."
But the Greatjon is chuckling softly and coughs again. "It's this blasted mustard poultice," he says as he pushes down the coverlet and lifts his woolen shirt, revealing cheesecloth bandages smeared with the strong-smelling mixture. "It is stinky, Serena. You can embrace me when I wash it off."
Serena smiles coyly and swings her arms. "May-be I will."
Sansa looks to her husband apologetically. "Forgive her, my lord, but she has become willful. I pray that it is only temporary."
"She's an Umber, Sansa," he tells her with amusement in his voice, "she was bound to be stubborn. You will needs work hard to make her as gentle a lady as you are."
Sansa smiles at his words but then leans closer to him. "My lord, I am so very sorry for the loss of your younger sons," she tells him and he drops his eyes and his face settles into melancholy lines. "I grieve for them as you do, for they were your flesh and blood and so as dear to me as you are."
"I'm sorry too, Father," Eddard tells him.
He nods and coughs yet again. "Thank you…both of you. I- Thank you," he murmurs quietly.
There is a knock at the open door and Sansa turns to see Berena standing there.
"Forgive me milady, and milord," she bows her head to the Greatjon. "I've come to fetch the children: they should be abed soon."
"Very well, Berena. It is late, children: go to bed now and we will all break out fast together in the morning with your father. Would you like that? Good. Say goodnight now."
Eddard embraces his father again, and even Serena tiptoes closer to kiss his cheek and runs away giggling. Sansa kisses them each goodnight and tells them to sleep well. When they are gone, Sansa removes her cloak and pulls the stool from the dressing table up to sit facing her husband and takes his hands in hers. She lifts one now and places it against her cheek.
"I have missed you so very much, my lord; and I am pleased beyond words to be home with you once again."
"I've missed you too, Sansa," he coughs repeatedly now before speaking again. "Look at me now," he says somewhat hoarsely. "Gods be good, you are even more beautiful that I remembered. Come kiss me again," he growls hungrily.
Sansa leans in to him unhesitatingly and kisses him fully on the lips. He takes her face in his hands again and kisses her back, eventually lifting one hand away to stroke her hair. He breaks away to cough again and then kisses her forehead tenderly.
"Forgive me, Sansa. Blast this cold," he grumbles and coughs again, and she can feel the rattling deep in his chest.
"Lord Jon wrote that you had taken ill, my lord," Sansa tells him concernedly. "The cold has settled in your chest."
"Aye, in my lungs, the maester says and so I suffer his blasted poultices and hot herbal concoctions that taste the same as compost smells; at least he lets me chase them with mulled wine." He pats he shoulder now. "Best I move back to your old chamber to sleep, Sansa; you will not needs abide my blasted coughing all night that way."
Sansa clutches at his hands now. "No, my lord, I beg you! We have been so long apart; do not deny me your company. I would lie beside you this night even if I needs lie awake," she pleads to him. "Do not leave me here alone."
The maester comes in then and stops when he sees Sansa. "Forgive me my lady," he bows his head. "Shall I return later?"
"No," the Greatjon tells him bluntly. "You needs get his poultice off me. It stinks. My own daughter would not come near me, but my lady wife will not leave me, it seems," he looks at Sansa admiringly. "She has grown braver, I suspect."
"Lady Umber has always proven herself to be brave and dutiful, if you will permit me to say, my lord. And may I say how happy I am to see you home again in Last Hearth, my lady: you have been sorely missed by the entire household."
"I thank you, maester. Please tell me of my lord's illness. It is a chest cold?"
"It is, my lady, and it was quite severe though the men of the Watch have seen the likes before and treated him well and so he is recovering as well as can be expected," he says almost indulgently, but Sansa sees that he glances between her and her husband uncertainly.
"He likes to fuss at me, just like an old woman; and he won't let me train in the yard-" the Greatjon complains.
"It is still far too soon for you to exert yourself in such cold weather, my lord," the maester explains.
"Yes, yes," he dismisses him testily. "Just fix this damnable cough so I can hold my breath long enough to kiss my wife properly!" He thunders with furrowed brows, which makes Sansa duck her head and blush happily. "There, you see: she wants me to kiss her too!"
"Alas, my lord, your affliction is quite severe and it will take some more time to recover completely, however I can bring you more licorice root tea with honey, if it please you."
"It does not please me but if it helps me I will drink it," he grumbles as the maester bows and leaves their chamber.
"Please tell me how I can help you, my lord," Sansa asks gently.
"You are here with me now, Sansa," he says looking her over as though she is a dream realized, "and that is all I would ask of you. But tell me: how fares your family with…with news of the king? May the old gods give him rest," he intones solemnly.
"Queen-" and she stops herself. "Roslin is desolate, of course; and she feels that she has failed in that she did not have a son. But she is strong despite her grief," Sansa tells him, "and I believe that your condolences helped to embolden her strength, my lord. She is quite resolved to stay in Winterfell and to raise Robb's daughters in the North."
He nods at her words. "She is…she was a fine queen; she…they did not have enough time: that is all. It was not enough time," he repeats dispiritedly. "The King of the North is no more."
Sansa squeezes his hands tightly. "I know how very much Robb valued your loyalty, my lord. You were his fiercest and most true bannerman."
"He was my king," he replies simply. "I knew that before he called himself so; and so I called him that myself. Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again, I asked; and they all agreed. The King in the North," he repeats reverently.
Sansa drops her eyes and pulls her hand away to wipe a tear from her cheek. When she does her husband reaches to lift her chin and look at him. "Forgive me, Sansa," he tells her gently, "he was your brother; not just a king."
Sansa sniffles, "He was your good-brother, just as your sons were my good-sons. We have both lost family, as well as our king; just as so many have lost family and good men. But we can comfort each other as best we can, my lord: I- I feel that our lives have been full of losses and that is the best we can hope to do for each other."
He leans forward to embrace her now and she clings to him as she whispers closely: "I thank the gods that I have not lost you, and that we are together again with our children, my lord. I- I was so very distraught when I received word that you were missing. Had it not been for the children… I would not have wanted to be without you, my lord."
"Sh-sh, Sansa: do not think on it now. I am sorry that you were frightened; but you promised me that you would carry on, did you not?" he reminds her and she nods obediently even as she clutches the edges of his heavy shirt. As she does, she feels a thread come loose at the neck and looks to see what damage she has done.
"What is it, Sansa?" the Greatjon asks as she plucks at the heavy thread; but as she draws it between her fingers, she sees that he has a cord tied around his neck. She runs her fingers down the cord until she discovers a small leather pouch hanging from around his neck. She looks at him quizzically now. She has never known him to sport any such thing before.
"My lord?"
He smiles at her. "Don't you remember, Sansa? It's your heart. You bid me keep it close and guard it well," he murmurs closely, "and I have not parted with it since you left."
He tugs at the opening now with his great hands and pinches the contents of the pouch between his finger and thumb. When he withdraws his hand, Sansa sees that it is the braided lock of hair and scroll she had left on his bolster. Her hands fly to her face to cover her mouth as she gasps in astonishment. Her great big, loud and rough husband has suddenly shown her all the romantic devotion that she had once dreamed of when she was a girl. She had thought then it would have come from a gallant prince or a pretty knight in painted armor, with flowery word of declaration and delicate affection; but she had been wrong. She realizes that she has never felt so loved as a woman as she does at this moment. She wishes to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him passionately; but he sputters now and begins to cough again and so turns his head away from her until he subsides.
"Blast," he mutters again. "Where's that maester?"
But she does not answer him; Sansa only gazes at him speechlessly until he chuckles again.
"You think me a fool," he mocks himself softly, "and I expect that I am. Here, Sansa," he says as he reaches to remove the pouch, "you said you would claim it from me when you returned home-"
"…where my heart dwells," she finishes softly. She looks at the pouch when he presses it into her hand, and then brushes it with her thumb. "Will- will you not keep it, my lord? You needs not, or course…to have my heart: you shall have that always," she whispers as she reaches to stroke her fingers down his bearded face.
The Greatjon turns his head to kiss her hand but then raises his eyes to the doorway.
"Ah, there he is," he observes. "Come get this mess off me, man: I feel like a haunch of meat being seasoned for roasting."
As he leans forward to remove his shirt for the maester, Sansa rises and walks to their bed where she hangs the little pouch from the knob of her bedpost by winding the string around it. Even from across the room, she sees the twinkle in her husband's eyes as she turns back to him. She walks to the washstand to empty water from the pitcher into the basin and then soaks and wrings out a towel before walking back to the hearth.
The maester has finished removing the strips of cheesecloth covered in the messy poultice and has gathered them in an empty basin. The Greatjon finishes the tea the man has brought him, and makes a sour face as he hands him back the cup.
"The wine and ale merchants have naught to fear from that boiled horse piss," he grumbles. "Begging your pardon, Sansa," he adds. "Their trade is safe as long as that wretched concoction is the alternative."
Sansa smiles to see that he is still very much himself despite his illness, and nods her agreement.
"You may leave us," she tells the maester, "I will help my lord to clean up."
The master bows his head and takes his leave of them. When Sansa turns back to her husband, he is looking at her with raised brows.
"Do not look upon me so strangely, my lord. I merely wish to have your company all to myself after so very long."
"Very well, Sansa, but you needn't tend me like a nurse. Gods be good, I still have the strength to wash myself."
"Do you still have the strength to stop me from tending you, my lord?" she teases him as she sets to washing his back with slow and gentle circles. He rumbles appreciatively and stretches forward.
"I may have the strength but I seem to have quite suddenly lost the will," he murmurs as she continues her ministrations. She rubs his skin down gently but firmly with the damp cloth, continuing to make slowly circles up his back and around his neck. She sits in front of him again and strokes the cloth slowly across his chest and further down his abdomen. Sansa glances up occasionally to meet his eyes as he gazes at her longingly but then he suddenly grabs her wrists and startles her.
"Sansa," he begins and stops. He looks ill-at-ease.
"Is there something wrong, my lord?"
"I- The illness…" he huffs in exasperation and embarrassment. "Sansa…I am not strong enough yet to…to be a husband to you…as I would like."
"Oh," she realizes suddenly. "Forgive me, my lord…I…I still wish to tend you," she tells him though she is finished washing him of the poultice. She grips the cloth: a gesture of futility. "You…you will not leave me though? I still long to lie next to you…in our bed."
He smiles wanly. "If you like, Sansa. I hope that my coughing will not disturb your sleep."
She shakes her head now. "It will not. Mayhaps if we both lie awake…we can talk of our time apart," she takes his hand encouragingly now. She wants to tell him of Arya's baby, of Nymeria, of Bran's greensight and of Theon's attack on Winterfell. She wants to tell him of her study of midwifery and share all that she has learned.
But his eyes dart away to look emptily into the middle distance.
"The things I have seen, Sansa…you do not wish to hear about."