Soooo, uhhhh...hi guys...

LOOK, A NEW CHAPTER! :D okay so some of this isn't on target with the book, and some of it is, just LET IT GO. Shit's gotta change since the different shit happening is the POINT of this fic...

Something was different. He'd seen her at her weakest, and she'd seen him at his. She knew everything now. And it was obvious in the set of her husband's mouth, in the vulnerable gleam of his eyes, his worried brow. She knew everything, and still she had come back to him.

They hadn't lain together since before he left for battle, before the wedding that seemed ages ago. Everything was different now. Her fingers trembled as they touched his bare chest, her skin heating in an unfamiliar way. He didn't move, didn't quiver, but trained his eyes on her. There was something entirely unreadable in them as she ran her fingers gently down the soft tawny skin. She was so warm, her breath so slow.

Sansa knew what pleasure felt like. She'd had it forced upon her, she'd been pushed over shaking, painful orgasms, been brought to peak when she hardly knew what that meant. Oh, she'd agreed to the sex. She knew what her duty was. But Jaime was merciless. There had been no slow and easy introduction to pleasure, he merely shoved her beneath the waterfall.

He lay still, though, and let her touch him. Her hand spread over his chest, playing with the light golden hairs there, smoothing over his wide shoulder. She felt so agitated, so aware. A warm blush spread over her, and she pulled her hand back.

Jaime caught it in his left, his eyes remarkably gentle.

"It's okay," he whispered, letting go of her hand and moving it to her waist. He wrapped his arm around her hips and turned, pulling her on top of him. She flushed harder, but he merely stroked her exposed thigh. "Do whatever you want to." His hand stayed on her leg, the thumb playing with the hem of her nightgown.

Sansa let her hands wander. They touched his cheek, brushing the backs of her fingers over his high, aristocratic cheekbones. His catlike eyes seemed to glow in the darkness, reflecting light from the moon. She stroked his neck, his collarbone, his chest and abdomen. The hard muscle was wrapped in silky skin, and she loved the feel of it. When she ran her fingers over his lower abdomen, it flexed gently, along with something else.

Heat suddenly flooded her entire body. She gasped slightly, her thighs squeezing on either side of him. The sensation made him clench his eyes shut beneath her, breath hissing through his teeth. A harder flex; she ducked her head, her auburn curls hiding her face as her fingers curled over his stomach. Embarrassed, so embarrassed...they'd had sex before, but not like this. She had never been allowed to explore him like this. And now, with the reins in her hands, she felt self-conscious and unsure.

A hand brushed the hair back from her hidden face, tilted her chin up. Even her ears felt hot, but a different kind than the rest of her body. Embarrassment, mingled with unendurable arousal. He was propped up on his right elbow, left hand cupping her face. His expression was enough to melt the humiliation away.

"Don't hide," he said quietly. "You're beautiful. Everything you do is beautiful."

His hand left her face, but stroked down her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, her breast, her belly. It left a trail of fire wherever it touched, and finally Sansa couldn't take it anymore. Her hesitation, her shyness, it seemed to fade in the approach of something so much bigger and darker. Sansa was a lady, but Sansa's lady was a wolf.

Jaime always slept naked. Sansa's nails dug into Jaime's chest as she lifted herself, ready for him. If he wasn't excited before, the sharp pain of her nails brought a rush of blood to his manhood. His breath was fast now, his eyes fixed on her face as she felt excitement and dark desire fill her now. Her walls dropped away, and what Jaime saw was not what he expected.

She lowered herself onto his erection, her brow furrowing as a sigh escaped from her lips. Jaime almost lost it there, but he knew better than to dethrone his lovely wife. So long as he had the patience for it, he was in for a wild night.

She slowly pumped her hips up and down, wetting him until he was finally buried to the hilt. Jaime's fist clenched the sheets now, his neck arched back as he fought to control the urge to throw her down and ravage her.

Sansa rocked back and forth slowly, a satisfied, humming noise in the back of her throat. Her eyes were smoldering blue, her nails scratched down his chest. Jaime vehemently wished for his right hand back, if only to grab those luscious hips and hold her still while he hammered up into her. But she taunted him with her pace, with the agonizing slowness of it. He closed his eyes, relishing the sweet torture of patience.

"Oh, my sweet wolf," he sighed, running his hand up her thigh, grabbing the hem of her gown and lifting it over her head with one sweep. He tossed it to the floor, discarded it in favor of the nude goddess enjoying her perch. Sansa's red curls ran wild down her back.

"My lion," she teased, leaning forward to bite his earlobe. Gods be good. Jaime touched her face, turning her for a kiss. It was unhurried, luxurious. She was so soft, so sweet. Everything about her tasted so sweet. Jaime groaned into her mouth, his hips pushing up into her. The heady pleasure was too much. His back arched, to throw her, but her teeth abruptly sank into his lower lip. He snarled in pain, distracted. Her eyes darkened, and she sat back heavily.

His toes twitched, his fingers twitched, and there was no mistaking the warning in his eyes. Sansa laughed lightly, but she too needed more. Bracing herself on his abdomen, she rocked her hips again, her teeth bared at the sharp pleasure. Again, and faster. Coils of heat wove through her as she moved, tempting her forward. She felt herself begin to lose control, and loving every second of it.

A guttural moan pushed through her lips, and she arched her back as the sound reverberated through her. Her head tipped lazily back, exposing her creamy throat. Jaime took the invitation and shot upright, his arms wrapping around her back as he sank his teeth into her. She squealed in surprise, but it was too late; his hand hooked over her shoulder and he pulled her down with him, his knees bent at just the right angle to power his painfully hard dick into her. She cried out, and he felt more than saw the goosebumps skitter over her skin.

He felt her lose it then. Her fists gripped the blankets by his head, and her eyes shone with ferocity he'd never seen before as she, there was just no other way to put it, fucked the shit out of him. He'd thought that the new position would give him some advantage, but never had he been more wrong. The bed was in her reach; it offered her a backing to her motion, and she absolutely took advantage of it. He was breathless beneath her, and slowly realized that the gasping breath invading his ears was his own.

Watching her ride him to her pleasure, seeing the wolf in his wife emerge, was intoxicating. Crouched over him, she was like a predator, dominating him. As her hips, slamming down on his, got harder and wilder, he matched his pace to hers. Soft cries emitted from her pink lips, growing louder and louder until she was suddenly shaking hard, her back arched and her teeth sinking into his neck, muffling her screaming. Jaime lost it too, following her with one of the most explosive orgasms he'd ever experienced.

Breathing hard and twitching slightly, he rested his head back against the pillow. She relaxed completely against him, her fingers uncurling in the sheets. They lay still, but Jaime soon grew uncomfortable, still sheathed inside of her.

"Sansa," he murmured, nudging her. She didn't move, her breath slow. Jaime laughed a little, and nudged her harder. "Sansa!" No response. Sighing, he rolled them both over, depositing her gently beside him. There wasn't much room on the single bed for them both, but he wouldn't complain. Not when it meant having that delicious body pressed against him. Pulling the blankets over them both, he settled down feeling significantly better about this than before.

Perhaps...we could raise the North together.

The thought passed briefly through his mind before he followed his young wife into sleep.

Sansa woke to the sound of a drawer slamming.

"Wha-" she looked up, bleary-eyed, as her husband quickly dressed. He glanced down at her, only to grab her arm and pull her forcefully from the bed. She yelped in indignation as he nearly deposited her on the floor, but her mouth closed as she saw the serious...and nervous...expression he wore. "What's going on?"

"They're following us," said Jaime grimly, lacing his boots. Sansa felt a cold chill run over her. They had only brought a small proportion of Lannister guards with them, and Cersei would know better than to send them more. Lannister guards would definitely choose Jaime, their commander, over his sister. But that means that she would either send Highgarden or King's Landing soldiers, neither of which would have any love for her husband, or her. And their forces would be significantly greater than this traveling army, just a guard really.

And if it was enough to make Jaime nervous, then it was definitely enough to worry Sansa. But she buried her worries and began to throw her clothes on, speaking aloud all the while.

"If we're being followed, then we have to make it to Winterfell in time. We have to take it back over with speed and force, oust whoever is inside of it and claim it rightfully, so that the people will stand for Winterfell when the soldiers arrive. They're probably broken enough as it is, but when we get back...Jon and I..." Sansa's voice faded, and she noticed that Jaime had stopped moving. Looking up, she saw a curious grin edging at his lips.

"My, are you...are you strategizing?" his tone was incredulous, and Sansa took mild offense to that. Her hands found her hips, and she let out a sassy huff.

"My mother helped Rob to win battles," she growled. "There's nothing to say a woman can't-" Her sentence was cut off as her husband laughed and swept her off her feet. He swung her in a wide circle before kissing the tip of her nose.

"Yes I realize that, pretty wife. I'm related to the most underhanded, conniving, combative woman I've ever known. I say that because you're Sansa. Not because you're female." His teasing was light, and it put them both into better moods already. "Besides that, it was a good idea. We don't have enough forces to turn around, but the walls of Winterfell are famously cold." His smile was contagious, and Sansa couldn't help but mimic it.

"Let's get behind them, then." He let her down, and she finished dressing. Seeing him in such a state of undress roused her primal interests again, but a throb of pain told her it was probably not a good idea. She pulled a light dress on, and turned her back to Jaime, clearing her throat pointedly. He didn't respond, but continued buttoning his coat.

"Jaime?" she asked rather sharply. He jumped, and turned to see her smooth, milk-pale back, bared through the laces of her dress. Moving to her, he brushed the rich red curls from her neck and kissed it lightly. She huffed a breath and tried to step away from him, but he caught her with his good hand. "The laces, Jaime! Can you lace me up?"

"Wha-" he glanced down and in an instant, was resolved to do exactly not that. "There's a million of them! We don't have time for that, don't you have a simpler dress?" Sansa turned her head slightly,her gaze burning. No arguing with that look. "Fine. But don't get mad at me when they're botched up."

With some blind guidance from his sharp-tongued wife, Jaime managed to get it tight enough to cover her back, and it didn't look so bad. His eye twitched a little when she threw a foxfur shawl over her shoulders, covering his hard work, but he knew better than to pick this fight. Sansa's clothes were her own business. She could wear whatever she damn well pleased. Besides, they had much more to worry about.

Jaime's scout was on them the instant they left the inn. A young, thin boy, he rode one of the fastest horses in the group, a nervous chestnut. He was fairly trembling when he ran up to the pair and bowed.

"My lord and lady," he said respectfully, "we are a smaller group than they. We will beat them to Winterfell, but we must leave immediately. They are less than a day behind us." Sansa shot an alarmed look at Jaime. She hadn't expected that Cersei would take action so soon after they left. She must have appealed to the court immediately, or her father, for them to rouse a force that large to follow them. But Sansa did steal her lover, and a woman's fury had few limits.

"Then let's get mounted up," said a voice to Sansa's left. Jon was just finishing his breakfast, cold porridge and hard bread with honey. He stood, brushing the dust from his cloak, and stalked over to them. Sansa felt her heart stutter with...fear? Nerves? Guilt? She didn't know what it was exactly, but she didn't like it at all. Her hand rose, pleading silently with her brother. Jon shook his head slightly, and approached Jaime.

They were nearly of the same height, but that was the only thing shared between them. Jaime held the vivid glory of the sun, to the quiet handsomeness of Jon. Jon's black cloak looked almost shabby against Jaime's white and gold chain mail. Jaime's hair fell in curls now, and Jon's dark hair fell in straight sweeps. Sansa watched, agitated, as they sized each other up. Jaime looked serious for once; it probably wasn't a good sign.

"Listen to me now, Kingslayer," said Jon quietly. Jaime, for once, didn't make any quips. His eyebrow raised slightly, but no more. "I don't like you. We both know that. I don't like your family, and I don't like your attitude. But..." Jon paused, and turned to look painfully at Sansa. She flinched guiltily. "My sister loves you. She clearly sees something that I don't. We need you, and you need us, so...so welcome to the family, I guess." Jon stepped back after that, backing down. Jaime's eyebrows rose in surprise now, and his mouth opened slightly. He shot a glance at Sansa, who was equally stunned.

"Um...Jon?"

"Well, we don't have a father anymore, and someone's got to bless your marriage," said Jon in a rush, shrugging slightly. "And..and I'm the oldest son now, so I mean..."

Sansa threw herself at her brother, tears prickling at her eyes. For everything that she'd put her family through, for the suffering she'd put Jon through, she knew that she didn't deserve a brother like him. Now, he was sacrificing his own pride to welcome her marriage.

"Sansa, come on," grunted Jon, hiding a smile. "We're being chased, we've got to leave." She untangled her arms around his neck, smiling through tears. She knew she didn't need words. Of course Jon understood her gratitude. He sobered slightly, when Jaime Lannister approached him.

"Your father was a good man," said Jaime quietly. "Thank you." He held out a hand, his left one, and Jon hesitated slightly, then shook it. Sansa turned and mounted her black mare, shaking her head. This might be peace now, but those boys might never stop fighting.

"To Winterfell," she murmured. And she prayed she would never leave it again.

"The Queen of the North is coming!"

"She's not a queen, it's Stark's oldest daughter."

"I thought she was dead."

"I thought she married a dwarf."

"No, it was the other brother, don't you remember? The handsome one."

"Well, she should be the queen. Better her than any of the other whores at King's Landing."

"I don't think she's coming at all. Nobody is coming for us."

Sansa was tired of riding. The cold wind tore into her skin as she rode, much harsher than she had remembered. They were definitely closer now; she'd had to wear her grey cloak when she rode now. The Lannister guards were shaking on their horses, fingers tight on leather and buried in manes. They ducked their heads against the merciless wind.

Where there was once talk, there was silence now. Not even Jaime and Jon had the energy to spare bantering. Sometimes, if it was too cold, she'd ride double with one of her boys, to share body heat. She'd fallen asleep at Jaime's back once though, and nearly slipped off the horse; from then on, she'd tried to stay on her own black.

They had to gallop when possible, but the fast pace was paying off. Information traveled by hawk, and Jaime's spies within the enemy ranks sent message nightly. Sansa was sure that Cersei had spies within Jaime's troops too, but there was nothing they could do about the pace. Anybody dragging down the speed of the whole was left behind, Jaime didn't care. If they could take Winterfell swiftly, then they would have all the manpower they needed. And somehow, Sansa knew that they waited for her.

Every day was a worse day of travel than the last, but it put hope into Sansa's heart. During the day, they rode hard; the wind was cruel, and flakes of snow soon accompanied the hostile chill. Sansa had never been so glad to see snow in her life, and she cried with brokenhearted joy the first day she'd seen it. The men had looked away respectfully as she fell from her horse to the ground, stumbling, and raised her hands to the wonderful snowflakes.

At night, she shared tent with Jaime. Protected from the wind and wrapped in skins, they kept each other warm. Sansa looked forward to those nights now, to gently exploring her husband. Some nights they would lie together in the dark, whispering to each other. It seemed that Jaime had dropped his walls, too. Though he did tease her still. But she didn't mind it so much anymore.

Jaime noticed a change in Sansa, too. As they neared her home, it was as though she was shedding her protective barriers. Oh, not the barriers of a Stark; she shed the barriers that she created herself, the cold and frightened girl that he had been forced to wed. Beneath that lay the true Sansa Stark, the woman who had grown inside of her protective skin while she cowered in the dark corners of King's Landing. Every day she grew bolder, her eyes harder. Some days, he could swear that Eddard Stark stared back at him through her blue eyes. Though they had their mother's color, they were her father's shape, the deadly eyes of a wolf.

But the eeriest thing was what happened when they approached the border of the icy kingdom.

It happened on the first night, hardly noticeable. Wolves had been near for almost the entire trip, their tracks not uncommon and their howls sometimes echoing through distant lands. They had gotten louder as the party approached, but it was to be expected; Winterfell housed most of the wolf population in Westeros.

But there was just no excuse for what happened when they crossed the border.

To Jaime's, and everyone's, utter astonishment, wolves began to run with them. It was hard to tell, due to the thickness of the forest beside the road, but lean shapes could be seen moving alongside the travelers. Most obviously, they would often belt howls as they ran, which spooked the horses for the first few days, though they got accustomed to it eventually. The travelers, though, were more spooked.

"It's unnatural," whispered the men. Sansa and Jon did not seem to know what to make of it either. They rode with the direwolf banner alongside the lion, but these were beasts. There was no decent explanation for their behavior, until...

"Nymeria!" they agreed solemnly. Talk flew among the men of one great wolf that led the pack, the biggest wolf that they had ever seen, half the size of a horse. Jon and Sansa hadn't seen such a wolf, but the description put both of them at ease suddenly, and they shared secret smiles when the wolves cried.

"Nymeria?" Jaime had asked. Sansa finished the story for him, of when her direwolf was put to death at King's Landing, and Sansa had released her own wolf, so that she might be spared.

"She would have come back to Winterfell eventually," said Sansa confidently, a little smile playing around her mouth. "I know it."

Jaime wasn't so sure about that, but it was a better theory than assuming the wolves had gained sentience.

Regardless, the pack grew in size the closer they got to Winterfell. As it grew in size, it also grew in noise. Jaime was annoyed that they had no chance whatsoever at a surprise assault of the castle, what with the singing wolves around them all day and night. Some of the men thought they'd go mad, but it was almost a comforting sound to him, like a battle hymn. They paced in circles around the nightly camps, and ran beside the horses during the day. Eventually they abandoned nightly watches; the wolves had better ears, and were vocal when it came to intruders. A thief had stumbled upon their camp, and Jaime had found his remains the next day.

But as the pack grew in size and noise, something else happened too. The villagers living on the outskirts of the territory were informed of their approach, and they emerged from their huts and farms to see Sansa Lannister and Jon Stark in full Stark regalia, as they had begun to dress. They rode swiftly and solemnly, in cloaks of grey and white, obvious among the gold and red of Lannister. Wolves bellowed of the approach, and Jaime felt a keen thrill of the land's acceptance of the true rulers. He'd never experienced a welcome like this.

As the farms grew thicker, their approach was thunderous. The pack seemed unfazed by crowds, because they continued their run straight through the villages with the growing battalion of soldiers. And it was growing; as word spread of the approach of the Lady Sansa, and as the screams of the wolves penetrated every corner of the North, the citizens took up arms and mounted their farmhorses, or took foot to the castle.

Their approach was swift and furious. Farmers, blacksmiths, merchants, all took up arms as they crossed through villages, all joined the assault party. One morning, while riding, Jaime caught sight of a massive wolf; she dwarfed all of the rest, her shoulders easily reaching his horse's belly. His heart flew into his mouth as she turned her head to stare at him with a yellow eye, baring enormous teeth. A chill ran through his body, at the awareness in this beast's eye. But she ducked away, and disappeared from sight. Jaime remembered those wolf pups, the eerie way they'd look at you.

Though this beast did not seem friendly, Jaime felt almost at ease.

And when they finally reached Winterfell, it was with a horde of snarling wolves and armed civilians behind them.

"The flayed man," whispered Sansa in horror. She recognized the banner of House Bolton immediately, and to be honest she could not be terribly surprised. House Bolton had historically been their enemies; why not now, when House Stark was at its weakest? She looked up at Jaime, and then Jon, and felt stronger. We are not children anymore.

They were waiting for them. The flayed men stood atop the great, never breached walls, arrows drawn. Ramsay Bolton stood at the forefront, looking unsure of whether he should duck or call an attack. Sansa suddenly felt a rush of disdain, that this man had violated their beloved castle of Winterfell. But Ramsay looked significantly less confident when he realized how many northmen had taken up arms with their Lady.

"You have no rights to this castle," he called in a high, reedy voice. It trembled slightly, and Sansa scoffed. "I'm the rightful Warden of the North! I wedded Arya Stark, you have no right!"

Sansa felt her breath leave her body; she remembered meeting Ramsay once, when she was very young, and it was not an event that she thought kindly of. The very idea of Arya being wedded to Ramsay Bolton was...well, horrifying. But Jaime's steady hand, touching hers, calmed her.

"Let's see her, then," called Jaime. Sansa frowned and looked at her husband, but Ramsay remained silent. Everything was silent. Even the wolves stood like statues around them. Jaime laughed softly, and then he began to scream. "I am Jaime Lannister, firstborn son of Tyrell and brother to the Queen. Sansa Stark, the eldest Stark living, is the next in line for that castle you hide behind, you red worm. Even if you were married to Arya Stark, our claim uproots yours. And you are not!"Sansa jumped at the word roared from her husband's mouth. Jaime turned to face the Northmen, to face their stunned gasps and outraged cries.

"That's right. I saw this 'Arya Stark' at King's Landing, and it's an imposter! You have been played for fools!" screamed Jaime, now at the Northmen. They screamed their rage back at him, raising swords and axes and scythes, and just about anything they could get hands on. Some of the former soldiers held swords and spears, alongside Jaime's own forces.

"And this man!" Jaime's sword swung to point at Ramsay, who looked considerably shaken at this point, "This child has been slaughtering your soldiers, torturing them like a Bolton, behind his walls!" The battle cries of the men were joined by wolf howls, and Ramsay was all but hiding behind a pillar. "But the cavalry is here, and the time of judgment is at hand." Jaime's voice lowered to a threatening snarl, but all heard him. Sansa was breathless; Jaime was a warrior at heart, and never before had she seen him this way.

"Shoot at them!" cried Ramsay, not sounding so sure anymore. His archers, Bolton through and through, drew their arrows. But, suddenly, the enormous gate began to open.

"Jeyne!" cried Sansa brokenly, recognizing her friend. Jeyne was sporting a magnificent black eye, and her arm was bandaged, but otherwise she appeared to be in decent condition. Two men that she did not recognize were with her; farmhands, they looked like, but cloaked in the Bolton House colors. Clearly they were not allied with them, because they held bloodied swords and the gatesmen lay dead.

"Charge!" cried Jaime, and the thundering hooves was hint enough to Jeyne to throw herself to the side.

Everything was chaos inside. But Ramsay had never stood a chance. Wolves ran inside the castle walls with the soldiers, and they went berserk on anybody inside. Villagers armed with farming tools and a purpose unleashed fury on the invading house, and Jaime's soldiers made short work of Ramsay's men.

So much screaming, so much noise...Sansa dismounted, trying to figure out what was going on in the mayhem. She saw two soldiers chasing a serving girl through the courtyard she had loved as a child. She saw four wolves tearing a man to pieces. She coughed. Smoke? What was on fire? She tried to find Jaime, to find her brother, but Jon was swept up in the excitement too. Turning, Sansa saw Ramsay Bolton, his neck broken from when he fell off of the castle wall.

Jeyne was gone, and people were slaughtering each other. But for what? Sansa stared at Ramsay's body, the broken body that once housed the Bastard of Dreadfort. Their lord was dead. What were they fighting for? Roose had no other children to send here, the Bolton line was ended until Roose had another child.

Where was Roose? Sansa looked around carefully. There were remarkably few soldiers, when she had thought that the most of the Bolton host would be here. The soldiers that did fight were either too old or too young...either way, they weren't in good enough condition to fight back. The takeover was shockingly easy.

How did Jeyne manage to open the gate? Shouldn't there be more soldiers? She caught sight of Jaime, cutting down two more soldiers as he traveled, calling orders.

"Jaime!" she cried, and he came to her, his armor bloody. He looked concerned, and began to drag her towards a house, away from the road. "No, Jaime, where is everybody?"

"Stannis," panted Jaime, glancing around. Soldiers ran through the roads fighting. Horses ran too, wild without their masters. "Stannis was here already. Roose chased him from the gate, then pursued Stannis's army with his own. This is just who he left behind." Sansa nodded, suddenly afraid. That meant that this wasn't over yet. But, Sansa hoped. She knew that Roose didn't have allies like her father did. The other Houses would not kneel to him. That meant that up to half of Bolton's forces could turn on him, and he would know it too.

Their odds certainly looked better. Sansa looked around. "Well, we'd better shut the gate and take up post, then." Jaime nodded, and began to rally his men around the courtyard. She watched him with a small smile.

What was left of Roose's defensive force was obliterated in under an hour. They were cowards, who fell when they saw their lord's son fall from the wall. They had lost when they trembled at the sight of the true heir to Winterfell, at the wolves around her and the Northmen cheering her on. Sansa sighed as she looked around, at the destroyed towers and burned halls. And the dungeons...with the Bolton reputation, she wasn't sure she had the stomach to find out who was suffering in the bowels of Winterfell.

"Captain Boyce, take the archers to the roof!" called Jaime authoritatively. "Captain Redwood, you will go with John Snow and set up formations at the gate, in case Roose breaks through. And let's not have anybody letting them in, shall we?" Jaime grinned, and Sansa saw with relief that behind him cowered Jeyne Poole, her relief at the rescue nearly outweighing her terror.

Jon didn't fight with Jaime now, didn't bother reminding him that he had more right to order the Northmen around. Both he and Sansa knew that Jaime's battle tactics were unparalleled, and he was a famous warrior long before he was the Warden of the North. Besides, it would do him good to fight alongside her men. Now was a good time to forge that trust.

But to her surprise, Jaime didn't go with them. He came back to her, brushed the curls from her face, and kissed her. Sansa melted into the kiss, allowing herself to relax into his arms. She was home.

"Roose won't be back for a while. He has at least a full day's worth of travel ahead of him, and he still has to rest his men and tend to his wounded. We have at least a few days, so we'll have our men camp at the walls." He ran his hand over her hair and pressed her face into his shoulder, feeling her tremble with emotion.

"I thought he had Arya," she whispered, allowing her fear to manifest in her mind, and releasing it. "Gods, Jaime, I thought he had Arya..."

"She'd be better off dead," said Jaime in a low voice. Sansa nodded into his shoulder, her arms tight around his waist.

"Sansa?"

Sansa turned, to see her childhood friend, Jeyne Poole. She rushed to her, caught her friend's shaking hands in her own. It was only here, up close, that Sansa could see how gaunt and pale Jeyne had become.

"The...the master bedroom is...not in a good state," whispered Jeyne. "You can take my room if you want. Ramsay l-let me stay there most of the time." Sansa smiled, pulling her friend close. Jeyne's body shook with weakness. Sansa felt that her own pain was nothing to her friend's, her time with the Lannisters was nothing...

"But where would you stay?" asked Sansa sadly. Jeyne laughed a little.

"There are rooms in the servant quarters. I'd really rather stay there." Sansa nodded understandingly. She knew that when she was in King's Landing under Joffrey's rule, there were many instances where she wished she could hide away in the servants' quarters. There was no point in depriving Jeyne of a little privacy now. "And...Sansa?"

Jeyne pulled away, her eyes suddenly deeper and darker than before. Her face lost what little color it had, and her thin hands tightened almost painfully over Sansa's. Frightened, Sansa tried to pull away and failed.

"You can't let them win," pleaded Jeyne quietly, tearfully. Sansa nodded, but Jeyne shook her head. "No. If they win, cut your throat, because by the time you die you'll wish you had listened to me." Sansa's mouth dropped, but Jeyne had already turned away, and began wandering over to the servants' quarters. Sansa stood in the cold, her cloak tight over her shoulders, protecting her from the fat snowflakes. By tomorrow, the bodies would be covered with a blanket of snow.

The towers were burned and collapsed, and the castle looked hardly fit to live in. Sansa held back tears, wishing dearly for things to be as they were. For the grass to be green and for the wolf puppies that played within the castle, not these beasts that tore men apart.

Was she truly home? Sansa turned to face the walls, where hundreds lay down their bedrolls for the night, lighting fires to keep warm. Could they hold against Roose? She knew now that Jaime had been counting on traitors. He had no plan for breaching the wall, he had no plan for defeating Roose Bolton's men. But he had counted on his own silver words, and the legitimacy of his wife, to get him through those walls.

Perhaps Jaime's silver tongue could get them through another battle.

"Sansa!" Jaime trotted over, discarding his red cloak. It was tattered and blood-soaked; he handed it to an approaching servant, one from his own troops. "Let's get some sleep, shall we?"

"Jaime!" she gasped, pointing to his arm. He glanced down to see it dripping dark red, and sighed. Someone's sword had cut just below the sleeve of chainmail, opening a deep flesh wound. Sansa grabbed his hand and led him into the nearest door, the door that she knew would take them to Jeyne's old room. She led him up the stairs, and finally stopped at the large stone bathroom. Opening a cabinet, she pulled out a roll of bandaging and a bowl. Filling the bowl with warm water from the hot springs, she dipped a cloth into it and turned back to her husband, who had seated himself at the edge of the tub, a lazy grin on his handsome face.

"It's just a scratch," he insisted, but she wiped it clean nonetheless. No need to let it get dirty and fester. Her hands shook hard, and finally she dropped the cloth back into the bowl, where the red blood seeped through the clean water. She huffed and dumped the bowl into the tub, unraveling the bandaging. "Darling, it's a scratch."

"You can't die now," she burst, louder than she had meant to. Jaime stopped talking abruptly, realizing how serious his little wife was. Her shoulders trembled, though there were no tears in her eyes; only fierce anger. "You can't bring me home, into this disaster, and then die on me. Okay?!" Her tone was harsh, and Jaime's hand was gentle on her face.

"I had no intention of dying," he said seriously. Sansa still trembled, the realization of their utter luck crashing over her again and again. What if Stannis hadn't gotten here first, and driven Bolton from the castle? What if Jeyne hadn't opened the gate? What if Ramsay hadn't waited to speak, but shot them full of arrows as they approached?

"Sansa." She looked up, angry and confused. He kissed her firmly on the mouth, then on each cheek. When he pulled away, that stupid trademark smile was back. "We'll make it. We have to."

She sighed, slipping her arms around him. She noticed that the wound was dripping again, and pushed him away so that she could wrap it. He rolled his eyes, but held his arm out obediently; she noticed it was the same one as the golden hand. And she could have sworn that she heard him muttering something about 'cutting the whole thing off.'

What kind of son could she raise in a world like this?

"What are we going to do, Jaime?"

Her words were quiet against his chest. They laid together in Jeyne's bed, but tonight held no sleep for either of them. Despite the intoxicating lovemaking, she couldn't distract herself with anything but the war. All Sansa wanted was to kick everybody out of Winterfell, and raise her unborn child in peace. Her child...her hand wandered over her belly. She would begin showing soon.

"Hold Winterfell. It's really that simple." He chuckled into her hair, but she could hear the anxiety beneath the smooth veneer of his voice. Jaime rode the waves of luck now. They both knew that Roose's forces were likely to turn on each other, once they discovered Sansa's presence. But Cersei's approaching force was something else altogether. Jaime must also be depending on enough of Roose's army allying with him, and surviving, to have any hope of making it through this alive.

"Do we have any allies?"

"Um...doesn't your aunt rule the Vale?"

"Oh gods, we're dead, aren't we..."

Jaime laughed, and ran his hand through her hair. Sansa had taken a hot bath before bed, and she smelled like wild pine and cherries. Delicious. He tipped her head back and kissed her tenderly.

"Well, we'll die at each other's hands before we die under Roose Bolton. And if Cersei breaches the North...I don't know how you'll fare, but I think I'll make it out alright." Sansa glowered at him as he laughed at his own joke. A hard thump on his chest brought a cough from his lungs. "Alright, alright, too soon..." Sansa's eyes were beginning to drift shut though. It was very late, and she didn't know if she'd live to fall asleep in her husband's arms again.

"Jaime."

"Hm."

"Don't let Roose Bolton flay me."

"He'll have to peel his way through me, darling."

"...that's not funny."

So I'm back! Sorry for the long delay :/ I kinda lost my mojo for this fic, and got a little bit into some other ones, but I've been trying to propel myself through this one again, and I think I'm back on the horse! Thanks for the endless support from everybody! You have no idea how much it means to me!

So, one of my theories (unofficial, I just theorize...) about the books is that WAIT FOR IT...Jon Snow is the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen! Since Rhaegar kidnapped Lyanna, and it's never clear what happened, but Ed just returns with a son, and won't say who the mother is? Also, it would explain Jon's looks, since he looks more like Eddard than Catelyn's sons, but so does Arya (look more like her father), and Eddard also says that she reminds him of Lyanna? Anybody else think this?

And when Danaerys gets back to Westeros, she's TOTALLY going to marry Jon, because he'd then technically be her nephew and they're cool with incest...

Anyways, if that happens, I just want to be able to prove that I saw it coming :) probably a lot of people think this, but I'm super excited to find out about Jon's heritage!