Thanks for all the reviews and comments :) A special thanks to emmiemac for agreeing to sharing Sansa and Sandor's daughter's name from her lovely story, Everything to Lose.
Difficulties Arise
Each and every day since learning she is carrying twins, Sansa has been stirred from sleep by the feel of Sandor's rough cheek resting on her belly. In the early morning stillness she hears him rasping softly while gently caressing the swell of their unborn children with his calloused hands.
The former Hound is already a devoted father indeed, she smiles to herself. Quietly she watches her husband for several minutes before reaching down to run her hands through his long hair.
"Did I wake you, wife?" He rasps low, turning his head toward her.
"No, love, it is the babies who awakened me. They are quite restless this morning."
"You feel them inside you?" Sandor incredulously asks, his eyes widening.
"Yes, my love," she laughs softly, stroking his cheek. "They respond to the sound of your voice."
"Hmph," he mutters, turning away from her.
"I hear you whispering to them when you think I am asleep, my love," Sansa needles him, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "And I feel your breath against my skin."
Clicking his tongue against his teeth, he shakes his head. "Those are old wives' tales, Little bird. There's no way the babes can hear us. You put too much stock in what the peasant women around here tell you. I'll give them a tongue lashing for filling your head with such things."
"Come here," she sits up, placing his large hand low against her pelvic bone and guiding him toward the curve of her belly toward her hip.
"Sansa, what are you doing now? Trying to prove they are moving about in there? I don't feel anything," he growls low.
"You will in a moment," she smiles up at him.
"Look, wife, you're never going to make me believe such things, so-" He jerks his hand away, closely examining the area where his hand formerly rested.
"I felt a movement, something-what is that?!" Sandor stammers, staring at her with all his might.
"That is your child saying good morning to his father," Sansa laughs. "They both kick quite a bit when you speak, my love. When Mother was carrying Rickon Maester Luwin told us that babies know their parents voices even in the womb. We used to talk and sing to Rickon when she carried him. I wish our maester was here to see me through," Sansa smiles sadly. "He was so good to Mother."
"I'm sure he was, lass," Sandor agrees, settling himself behind her and reaching around her midsection while resting his hands on the other side of her belly.
"He knew so many fascinating things about the unborn. He told me, Jon and Robb so many wonderful things when Mother was pregnant with Rickon." Sansa sighs. "Remembering what he said, though, leads me to wonder if I am further along than the maester originally thought."
"Do you now?" Sandor frowns, the corner of his mouth twitching. "How much further along?"
"Perhaps I am at seven and a half moons, going on how active they are."
"How did you come to that time?" Sandor rasps in her ear and then places gentle kisses along the back of her neck.
"That was when you brought home the weirwood tree and we made love all afternoon, remember?" She sighs, reaching around to caress his neck. "And the rest of the night as well."
"Aye, love, of course I remember," he chuckles. Tilting her chin back to look at him, he asks, "Our son hears me, you say? How would you know that one of the babes is a boy?"
Shrugging, she smiles softly at him. "I do not know for certain, it's just…" she trails off with a smile.
"It's just-what? Tell me," Sandor nuzzles into her neck.
"Every night I dream of our son. He is a big strong lad and very tall with broad shoulders, a sharp nose and straight black hair just like you. He has my blue eyes."
"You don't say?" He smiles at her. "Have you thought of a name for him?"
"You should name our son. He is your heir," Sansa smiles up at him.
Drawing a deep breath, he says low, "We should name him Edric."
"Edric. Edric Clegane. I like it," she nods. "May I ask why?"
"Elder brother's given name is Edric. It is he who convinced me we could start over. He encouraged me to come to you and try again." Sandor sniffs and clears his throat. "What of the other pup? You see that one, too?"
"Oh yes, I see her."
"Her? We're going to have a boy and a girl?"
"Yes, praise the gods, if we are to go strictly by my dreams."
"A girl," he grins. "What is she like?"
"A tall, small-boned girl with pale skin and dark red hair, even darker than mine. She has deep gray eyes just like her father," she says, placing her hand over his resting at her waist. "She is very beautiful and refined and yet she enjoys riding horses with you."
"If she has half the beauty of her mother, I'll have my hands full with all the lads wanting her hand," he smirks. "The one that can whip me in the training yard can have her with my blessing."
"Sandor," she chides gently.
"You should name her, wife. What say you?"
"Well, in my heart I already have," she shyly looks at him. "I call her Catya."
"That's a fine name." Grinning, his eyes grow large as he runs his hands over her belly. "She must like the name, too, lass. I felt another big one, like a kick."
"Yes, so did I," she winces, and at her words Sandor begins rubbing the spot gently. "Husband, I do not wish to complain, since you have already done so much for us on this trip," Sansa begins hesitantly.
"Yes?" He says, tilting her face up to his. "Speak freely, Little bird."
"It is just that, well, I am most uncomfortable. I do not relish the thought of traveling." she sighs again, rubbing her belly and struggling to sit up. "My love, please would you help me? I need to visit the garderrobe and I cannot get up on my own."
"We best write Jon and the queen," Sandor rasps low, helping her out of bed. "Before I do that, I'm going to find a healer from one of the nearby clans."
"Sandor, I don't think-"
"No arguments, wife," Sandor growls when she returns to the bedroom, kissing her cheek and leading her to the washbasin. "I helped Elder brother care for enough peasant women who were with child to know that you need someone to help you."
After bathing and dressing, Sansa finds Sandor in the solar with a clan healer. "Look after her while I attend some business here," he barks, showing him into the bedroom. "Leave the door open to the bedroom, you hear?"
"Yes of course." When the healer finishes, he and Sansa return to the solar to find Sandor slumped over their writing table, rubbing his temples.
"Seven buggering hells," he mutters, crumpling the parchment before him and tossing it into the growing fire.
When Sansa emerges from the bedroom, Sandor anxiously rises to his feet. "How is she?"
"Your wife is in excellent health, Sandor. However, she is right about the date-she is nearly at the eighth moon of being with child. They are both big for twins, and very active. The old gods have blessed you both."
Sandor nods, a bit dazed.
"However, she needs to mind the swelling and something to relieve the back aches as well. You know how it is done?"
"Aye," Sandor nods again."I'll find a tub for the wife to soak in after I'm through here. On the Quiet Isle I learned a bit of healing, you recall," Sandor rasps thoughtfully. "We'll add sea salt to it-that will help with the pain and swelling."
"You need plenty of dandelion tea to draw it out as well," the healer adds, handing Sansa a large jar. "I'll check back at the weeks' end." Sandor hands the man a bag of coin and nods toward the door.
"Come here, lass," he says, beckoning her to sit on his knee once the man is gone. "How are you feeling? Do you think any harm will come to you or the pups should the queen insist we travel?"
"Well, you heard the maester and the healer: they both have said I am strong and the babies are healthy," Sansa smiles up at him.
"Bugger that. Neither of them has ever carried a child, let alone two at once. I want to know how you feel."
"Husband, I feel quite well, considering my condition. I just tire much easier now," Sansa says, absently rubbing her stomach. "And I am so off balance I need help getting out of bed and such. My back aches terribly by the end of the day."
Setting her in the chair, Sandor bends down and examines each of her ankles.
"My legs have grown as large as yours," she teases lightly.
"You're holding a lot of water," he comments, massaging her legs. "We need to fix that." Sighing, he looks up at her. "Say the word, lass, and we'll stay here until the pups come."
"Well," she begins uncertainly, "I would like to stay a bit longer but what of Jon and Daenerys?"
Caressing her cheek with his knuckle, his face turns serious. "Jon would not want you to risk yourself or the pups-not now or ever, wife. You know that. And you best believe I wouldn't give seven bloody hells even if he did," he rasps low, placing his large hand on her belly. "I'll see our family safe first, Little bird, and everyone else can bugger off. I'll get that raven off at once."
Laughing softly, Sansa leans against his cheek and nuzzles into his beard. "I know, Sandor, and I love you for it. Come to think of it, Daenerys was with child when her husband was wounded and she lost the baby. I think she will understand, dearest, don't you?"
"Aye that she would, if she isn't as crazy as the rest of the Targaryens."
"Shall I write it for you, love? I was trained by my lady mother and septa on the proper way to address formal correspondence."
"No, damn it, I'll write it. News such as this should come from the father, don't you think?
"Yes, indeed," she smiles at him, glancing over at the fireplace. "But it's a shame all those lesson should go to waste, not to mention such a great amount of parchment. Daenerys will never be the wiser, I promise you."
"I'm going to write that fucking message myself or be hanged, one," he growls. "And bugger their fancy etiquette. That dragon queen lived among the Dothraki, Little bird, and from what I heard her dead husband makes me look like the Flowers Knight. I doubt she'll be offended if I leave out some bloody word an arrogant high lord with a sword up his arse would use."
Giggling, Sansa nods. "You are right, dearest. Please, word it however you like."
"Queen Daenerys to see you, Your Grace," Ser Barristan announces at the entryway.
"Yes, please show her in," Jon says, rising from his chair, the title still new and unsettling to him.
"Jon," Daenerys enters, her lavender eyes sparkling as her gaze falls on him. "I have just received the most wonderful news from Winterfell!"
"Truly? What is it?" He asks a bit apprehensively. In truth, Jon could use some good news.
The events of the past few months weigh heavily on the young man. Repairing Castle Black and Winterfell has been a major undertaking, nearly overwhelming him. Since the remaining members of the Baratheon army have bended the knee to Daenerys, they have assisted his men in the restoration work, which has lightened the burden. Still, it is a heavy load for him to bear without the support of the Stark side of his family.
So far, Jon is very uncomfortable in his new role as the Targaryen prince and heir to the Iron Throne, though Daenerys has given him a choice of duties and supports his decisions without question. The Lord Commander has had little time to ponder the shocking discovery that he is in fact both Stark and Targaryen.
Even more disturbing, he receives regular updates from Winterfell about Melisandre's constant prophecies declaring him being Azor Ahai reborn. With no immediate Stark family members nearby, he also has no one around him with which he feels free to discuss it.
As for his aunt, she is kind and beautiful and he finds she slowly is growing on him though he cannot say as of yet whether she will ever truly feel like family to him. He longs for the easy conversation and affection he has with Sansa, for Arya's teasing and acceptance and the brotherly camaraderie and banter he will never again have with Robb. His brothers of the Night's Watch all treat him with fearful regard now; in fact, it is only Ghost who still treats him as he did before the battle.
The sulfur pits burn day and night, reducing of the bodies of the fallen men and White Walkers alike to ash. Jon does not like giving his men the same end as the Others but feels he has no choice; the risk of returning as wights is too great.
After much discussion with Ser Barristan and the queen he decides to separate the Rangers from the Others during cremation. Daenerys suggests having a small service to honor them for their heroic sacrifice and he agrees, arranging for the memorial to take place after Sansa and Sandor return to Winterfell.
Stannis was found dead among the deceased the day following the battle, his body frozen beneath the Others he had slain, as hard and unyielding in death as he was in life. Ser Barristan personally brought the news of Stannis' death to Shireen Baratheon and Davos Seaworth, who traveled to Winterfell from White Harbor to welcome Sansa and Sandor's return a month past.
Stannis' remains were cremated separately from the rest of the men by Drogon himself. The queen then preserved his ashes inside a dragonglass urn forged from the sandy shale on which Jon made his last stand and smelted by Drogon's dragon fire.
He and Daenerys are due to receive their guests later in the afternoon. "Here, Jon, read this! It is the best kind of news." She beams, handing him the message a raven from Winterfell brought.
"It is from my goodbrother," Jon says, surprised. Laughing, his eyes grow wide as he reads the contents. "It is about my sister, Sansa. By the old gods, she's having twins?!"
Tears sting his eyes, not for the first time since learning he has more family. "Twins? Imagine that!" He beams. "Sansa will make an excellent mother; she is so very kind and patient."
Smiling, Daenerys nods. "It is just wonderful to see our family expanding. I cannot wait to meet your brothers and sisters, Jon."
Frowning, he turns the page over. "Sandor is requesting permission to delay their return. They are in White Harbor at present." Jon says tentatively, glancing at the queen.
"Of course, Jon. I would not press your sister to come sooner than she is able. I remember how difficult it was to travel when I was carrying Rhaego," she smiles sadly, unconsciously running her hand over her stomach at the memory. "The children's safety must come first. Please, offer my congratulations and tell her Winterfell will be ready to receive her and her children as soon as may be."
"Forgive me, but at the rate things are progressing, Winterfell will be nowhere near ready for them," Jon says, shaking his head. "Without Stannis, there is no one to oversee the work on site at present."
"We will go as soon as matters are finished here," she says after some minutes of thought. "Gendry, I wish you to travel to Winterfell at first light. I will send papers with you releasing treasury coin for the repairs. You will oversee the work."
"Yes, my queen. I would like that very much," the young man smiles and Ser Barristan nods proudly at him.
"I am sure your friend Arya will be most grateful that you took the lead in repairing her family home," Dany responds with a smile. "For this service you are rendering I will grant any request."
Gendry pauses a moment, looking at Jon. "I would ask His Grace for permission to court his sister Arya to wed, should she be willing," he answers nervously.
"You want to wed Arya?" Jon asks in disbelief. He cannot imagine his scruffy little sister as a woman grown, let alone desiring a husband.She would kill me if she thought I agreed to marry her off without her consent.
"It has been a long time since we traveled together, your Grace, but I have never forgotten her. We were a family, of sorts. She said we were a pack, that she could be my family and I would like to see what may come of it-with your permission of course."
They were a pack-yes, that sounds like Arya, Jon thinks with a smile, remembering the day he gave her Needle.
"What say you, Jon? Is that agreeable?" Daenerys asks quietly.
"If she is willing, then yes, certainly," Jon shakes his hand. "I must warn you, Gendry, she is most willful."
"Yes, I know," Gendry laughs softly. "But there is no other woman like her."
Jon nods in assent, recalling he felt the same way about Ygritte. "We'll see what she says when she arrives at Winterfell-it should be any day now, as a matter of fact."
"Thank you," he says.
"You are free to go, Gendry," Daenerys nods with a gentle smile.
After they finish speaking to him, Podrick brings word that Melisandre has traveled to Castle Black with the Onion knight and Shireen Baratheon. The queen agrees to meet with them after the noon meal in the main courtyard with Jon, the Night's Watch and the surviving Baratheon soldiers in attendance.
"I will see the red priestess first," Daenerys says to Ser Barristan with a nod."Keep the young princess away until I call for her, please."
"You will allow her to continue being a princess?"
"Yes, of course. I will speak to her first to see her mind frame but if she is agreeable I will certainly offer it to her."
Watching the queen warily, Jon is most uncomfortable at his place beside her on the dais and is even more unsettled over her demeanor. She changed into her Dothraki clothing and the immense pelt of a white lion, looking every bit the queen.
The young woman wears an emotionless, commanding expression, narrowing her eyes as the red priestess walks the path through the soldiers toward them. "I do not like her," she says low.
"Neither do I," Jon says. "One of the servants told me she stated to my goodbrother Sandor that death by fire is the purest death, even after seeing his scars. My sister was most upset."
"I can just imagine, poor Sansa. That was cruel," Daenerys hisses. "This red priestess will pay for it."
Ser Barristan exchanges glances with the queen as they approach her and Daenerys motions for them to draw closer.
Gendry announces, "She wishes me to introduce her as Melisandre of Assai, the red priestess of R'hllor, spiritual advisor to the one true king, Stannis Baratheon."
Jon watches the queen set her jaw and nod, surveying the woman before her.
"Melissandre of Assai, you are in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir of the Seven Kingdoms and Queen on the Iron Throne, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons."
"Kneel." She commands as Melisandre draws close.
The priestess looks around her cautiously and bows her head. "You Grace, I am honored you would see me."
"Are you?" Dany asks suspiciously. "You have delayed in receiving me. Why should I extend such a courtesy to you is truthfully beyond me. If you had not traveled with the princess I would not have even considered it."
"Yes, your Grace. Pray, where are your dragons?"
"I did not want them to frighten the young princess Shireen and so I freed them to hunt this afternoon. Is that why you requested to speak with me?" Raising her eyebrow, she adds archly, "If you wanted to see them you should have been present for my arrival. Kneel."
Ser Barristan and Gendry step forward with swords drawn.
Sensing Jon's discomfort, Daenerys turns and asks, "Do you wish to hear her?"
"Yes, your Grace, I would like to hear her out, if it pleases you." He says nervously. Drogon, Rhaegol and Viserion circle overhead, casting long shadows over the courtyard, and Jon knows the red priestess' behavior does not bode well.
"Indeed nephew. What pleases you, pleases me," she smiles softly at him before turning her hardened glare back on Melisandre.
"Why did you request an audience with Queen Daenerys, my lady?"
"I came only to bear witness to R'hllor's message to her." Turning to Daenerys, she says, "I do not fear a death by fire, your Grace. Stannis was R'hllor's choice to rule Westeros and his cooperation with you lead to his death. The red god takes what is his and he demands a life for a life. You owe him your own life for leading his chosen one astray."
The sky darkens over the dais as Drogon drops low and circles above, staring intently at the queen as he passes over them. "I don't think that is a wise demand, my lady," Jon begins, noticing the Daenerys' hardened expression and grasping that it is only a matter of time before Drogon senses her agitation. "Would not her ability to withstand fire-"
"Our ability to withstand fire, dear nephew," Daenerys gently corrects him, glaring at the priestess. Drogon circles once more before landing nearby, snorting smoke and then moving cautiously toward Daenerys and Jon.
"Yes, forgive me. Allow me to rephrase my statement: would not our family's ability to withstand fire be seen as a blessing from the god of fire himself?" Jon asks. "It seems logical to me that since the dragons breathe fire, they would be rather highly favored in your worship." Out of the corner of his eye he sees Ser Barristan and Gendry warily look at each other.
Melisandre watches the dragon closely. "Your northern reasoning and gift of talk does not change the fact that R'hllor will not tolerate Daenerys Targaryen on the Iron Throne. Her course is not to be borne, Jon Snow. She has the madness of her forefathers in abundance, bred through centuries of unnatural unions within her own family line. Her possession of those unholy beasts does not change that."
Rhaegol lands nearby and slowly approaches Jon's side of the dais beside Drogon.
"You will not speak to me of what is natural and what is not," Daenerys answers. "You birthed a smoke wraith to kill your king's brother and thus subvert his claim to the Iron throne without war. King Renly was a gentle, kind man, or so I have been told." Daenerys' eyes glitter with anger. "Perhaps R'hllor punished Stannis for such an atrocity. None of the gods approve kinslaying, excepting that of a true monster. The fact that you were able to conjure such a creature to do the work for you is not proof of your god's approval."
"I mean to finish what my king started, your Grace," Melisandre says softly. "I will secure the Iron throne for his heir."
"Then we have nothing more to discuss." Drogon moves behind Daenerys and Jon's seat, roaring a deafening warning to the red priestess over their heads. The queen smiles and watches him a moment, then rises to stroke his neck.
Ser Barristan steps forward while Gendry quickly moves the assembled men away from the royal seat. Drogon moves still closer to Jon and Daenerys, wrapping his tail around them while glowering at the red priestess.
"Valar Morghulis, your Grace," Melisandre bows, her eyes narrowing. Jon sees a fiery glow suddenly emitting from the palms of her hands.
"Yes, but we are not men," Daenerys responds, patting Drogon and watching Melisandre's hands.
"You speak Valyrian?" The red priestess asks, surprised.
"I am the blood of old Valyria. I am the dragon's daughter. Valyrian is my mother tongue," the queen icily responds, all the while stroking Drogon's neck.
"It was reported to me that while my nephew's sister and goodbrother stayed at Winterfell, you told them death by fire is the purest death. Is that not so?"
"The man is scarred, he has tasted fire at the hands of the lord of light-"
"Yes," Daenerys interrupts, her tone cold and calculated. "And yet knowing this you made such a statement to him," she says casting her eyes to Jon. "And to His Grace's sister as well-in her own home, no less."
Drogon positions himself in front of the queen, snorting smoke and lowing deep in his throat.
Melisandre defiantly stands before Daenerys, raising her hands. "I do not fear death by fire. You will not hear me scream."
Shrugging, Daenerys says, "I have heard such before. You may not fear death by fire, but death by dragonfire is another matter entirely," she responds, standing. "Dracarys."
Drogon and Rhaegol both unleash a torrent of dragonfire upon the red priestess, effectively putting an end to plans of rebellion once and for all.