a/n: EEP I AM TERRIBLE AHHH

The sickness took Sansa swiftly, and in a way, she was grateful. It gave her plenty of time to ponder and worry in peace. Untouched parchment sat on her desk; she felt too weak even to lift a pen to write, so resolutely avoided writing Sandor. Her maid certainly suspected but wisely said nothing, merely changing her lady's sweat-soaked sheets and keeping the fire low and warm.

She still was in awe. She was certain she would never have children, she had already come to terms with the idea and lived as peacefully as she could with it. Now, a miracle. Or a curse, her fear whispered in the back of her mind. If Sandor died, she was not sure she could bear to raise their son alone. What was worse, if the undead marched on Winterfell, there was a lot more for her to lose.

Her food refused to stay down. Sam had come to check up on her-a cloth was dabbing at her forehead, clearing it of sweat as she breathed shallowly to avoid throwing up. "You're obviously very stressed, my lady," the young maester observed. "It's too early to really tell how the baby is doing, but I don't think there are any problems. I can get you some herbs to chew that help with sickness." He made a move to stand up and leave her, but hesitated.

"What is it, Sam?" Sansa asked in a cracking voice, knowing what words were about to leave his lips.

"My lady...you don't have to tell me-"

"I carry Sandor Clegane's child," she told him, pushing herself up in bed slightly to look him square in the eyes. "This is another secret. We are not married, obviously. We plan to once he returns." If he returns. "Jon does not know. Please, do not tell him."

Sam smiled at her, which was not the reaction she was expecting. "I'm pleased for you, my lady. You suit each other well."

Sansa did not hide her surprise-Sam laughed at her face, and left her to mull over his words.

Sansa,

I'm sorry my letters are scarce. The further north we go, the harsher the snows become. Our ravens are having a hard time even taking flight.

Last Hearth was full of undead. The Queen burnt the whole castle down, with all the wights in it. I watched as stone melted into liquid. House Umber truly is no more, and it felt like it was my doing...though I know, it is the Night King's. We took what weapons, clothes, and food were left after the fires finally died down.

It was a disheartening sight, one I don't think did well for morale. Many of the men have never seen a white walker or a wight. They were not prepared to see children and women burn like that. The entire camp is noiseless except for the wind-everyone is keeping their eyes towards the distant north, where they know worse is to come. I would be lying if I said I didn't share their fears. It doesn't seem to matter how many I kill, how many times I survive. My hands tremble a little when I grip my sword facing one.

Daenerys sends her affections. She does not fare well in this climate. She stays in her tent as much as possible, so much so that some men doubt her existence. Her dragons, though, are undeniably real. In a sense, they are the only reason they keep marching forward. They are a sort of miracle.

I know Winterfell will be safe under your guidance. You've already protected it once from invaders. I have absolute faith in you.

Your Brother,

Jon

Such a short letter, but Sansa could feel Jon's exhaustion through his handwriting. She read it in bed, curled up on her side like a small girl. Her brother and her lover had both written her letters, yet she still could not face the idea of picking up her pen and putting to words what was happening. At this point, it was difficult to tell if her nausea was from the baby or her boiling emotions.

It would be months, maybe even years, before their army returned. She trusted Sam to not tell Jon in his own letters, but by the time she saw her brother again, she would not be able to hide it. She was going to have to tell him. Why did the idea fill her with so much dread? Jon would never force her to marry someone she did not want, just as he would never force her to not marry someone she did. Jon respected Sandor, liked him even.

She could handle Arya's disbelief; she was quite used to her sister's volatile opinions, especially concerning her lover. She could not handle Jon's. The thought of him disapproving of her made her stomach turn. He was the first Stark she had seen after years of being alone; their bond was special, and they were the eldest.

I thought I would be overjoyed, Sansa thought, letting a few, small tears fall before wiping them away roughly. Pregnancy is supposed to make you happy, isn't it? She never felt more alone, though. She had so few people to lean on, and she did not have her mother to guide her. In her future-her imagined, perfect future-Catelyn Stark was always there, helping her birth her children and helping to raise them.

More than anything, Sansa wanted her Hound back home. Still, she left her parchment blank.

A fever dream. Sansa knew her body lay in her bed, but she was far away from it now. Sharp wind was slicing open her cheeks and stealing the breath from her lungs. She could not even open her eyes; they were forced shut from the mere force of the storm she stood in. Willing one foot in front of the other, Sansa inched forward until, finally, her eyelids managed to struggle open.

Ahead of her, she could see fire, and she could hear the familiar sounds of a war camp. Sandor . He was close, her whole being knew it. Sansa strode with purpose, the sounds of her footsteps going unnoticed by the soldiers lingering to stay warm. The wolf in her chest seemed to be straining itself against her ribcage, pulling her in the right direction.

A large tent, the flap pulled slightly to the side, the murmur of concerned voices. Sansa slipped inside and tucked away in the back, observing as she often did before Winterfell had become hers again. Jon, Daenerys, and the Hound were inside-her lover kept a good distance from the heat of the fire built, despite the intense cold. "This storm keeps killing our men every night. We're going to burn our entire army before we even reach The Wall," her brother said in a depressed voice.

"Is there anything we can do?" his lover murmured, staring into the fire, the light making her hair white as the snow on the ground.

"Only so many fires we can burn. Further north we go, less wood there is to cut." Hearing Sandor's low voice made her insides squeeze with longing and anxiety. She crossed the length of the tent to hover near his shoulder, observing the burnt side of his face that he hated so much. His snarl, his bumpy ear, the swirl and dancing of his newly formed skin was all so familiar and dear to her. Sansa knew she shouldn't, but she reached out and touched his cheekbone. It startled him and her-she had stroked him thinking he wouldn't feel her, but he clearly had. His head snapped in her direction and stared straight through her. He knows . She had never explained her dreams to him, partly because she knew there was no need to. The looks he gave her, especially after their joined dreams, were full of wonder and wondering.

Seeing his face, his eyes, gave her a strength she had been missing for weeks. Brave now, she touched his face again, leaned close, and whispered near his ear. "You will have a son, Sandor Clegane." Her Hound's brow furrowed in confusion-he had heard her, but could not understand her.

Sansa awoke in the middle of the night, and did not stop writing her letter to Sandor until the dawn broke the horizon.

Sandor,

For weeks, I have struggled writing this letter to you. I am sure you noticed my lack of response, and I can only apologize for my negligence. I treasure your letters, and keep them as close to me as I can-is it childish that I want to fold them away, tuck them into the bodice of my dress, so that I may take them out and read them whenever I choose? But at the same time, I want to hide them away in a secret place, so they never grow yellow with age and your words remain the same for all of time. You know me well enough to know, my life thrives on dichotomy. I think this is why I love you as I do. You are gentle, but rough as stone. Warm and loving, but hardened. Gods, I miss you, and I revel in knowing that you miss me just the same.

Winter is in full effect here; we are getting the brunt end of the storms, but they are enough to kill and destroy. The wildings are, unsurprisingly, completely unfazed by the howling gales and harsh chill. Their loyalty to Jon, not to me, is what keeps them here and what spurs them to help. I care not for their rumors and their superstitions about my red hair; I get stares whenever I walk past them. But I am grateful for them, and do what I can to keep them comfortable. As is my role, as lady of Winterfell. I am trying to keep your words in mind, my love, and make the most of my position and power to help those around me. It is much easier to do so, with Littlefinger dead and gone and my siblings returned. Arya has taken your place, teaching the young boys how to fight. Her style is very different from yours, and she insists that the more ways you know how to kill, the more likely you are to survive. I often wonder if she would be willing to teach me to wield a knife, or a skinny shortsword like her Needle. If that shewolf had not come for me, Littlefinger would have raped me and kidnapped me.

I will admit that I have been dishonest with you. I have kept secrets, fearing your reaction. It is hard for me still, to speak my mind fully, especially around men. You should be exempt from this, though. You are my husband-to-be, the man I love totally. I should never keep anything from you. You have proven to me, over and over, that I can trust you. So I shall trust you now.

I have been visiting you in my dreams. I have some sort of strange power, where I can slip out of my body at will while I sleep. I can travel great distances and see things far away as they are happening. But...that's not all. Like a warg, I can slip inside the body of a wolf. The pack that stalks the wolfswood, I can become their leader. I have hunted and killed, drank blood and eaten flesh. It was how I was able to warn Jon of the wights, and how I knew Bran was alive. I know the blizzard you are in is ten times what we are facing here in the south, and I know you burn more men every morning. I know that, the closer you get to the Wall, the less chance you have. My days are full of dread, and I worry and pray for you, my brother and our Queen.

These dreams have been happening for a long time, but as a child I did not dwell too much on it. I focused mainly on what was in front of me at that moment-avoiding Joff's torturous displays, navigating around Cersei, marrying Tyrion, fleeing the capital. I was not ready to admit that I was in love with you, still full of naivety, even as I dreamt of you being my husband, rather than Tyrion (I'm sure that will please you to no end). Now that I am older, I wonder how many of those dreams were really just dreams, or if we have always been thinking of each other and connecting. You had already taken me before that night you crept into my bedroom.

How I wish I could speak to you. How I wish you could hold me in your arms, and make me feel small. I love you. I love you. I love you.

And how I wish I was there now, to tell you what I need to tell you. Sandor, you are going to be a father. Sam has confirmed it, though I would not need his help in that regard. I have been ill for weeks, barely able to keep down food or water. I can feel my hips and stomach beginning to stretch around what is growing. I am full of fear, that you will not be present when I give birth. I want more than anything to feel your hand gripping mine then. I did debate not telling you at all, which would be incredibly foolish. I worry that you may ask to leave and return, or you will be emotional and lose your head during battle. All I want is for you to return safely, with my brother in tow.

Please, do not tell Jon, or the Queen. It is news I will have to deliver myself, and I plan to.

It is a boy. Bran told me, and I suppose I have to trust this all-seeing power he has, since I have a power of my own. A son, Sandor. You have an heir. A new Stark will be born, a new beginning for my family. It is all because of you. Thank you, thank you for loving me and giving me this gift. I can never repay you, except to be the most wonderful mother and wife that I can be. I dream of those days, where we live on our own and do as we please day to day. I dream of having you, whenever I want you. Ah, you were right, I am insatiable. And that is your fault, you know. You tease me too much.

Hurry back, and win this war. Fight with all your heart, knowing that you will come home to a family of your own. We will marry in the godswood, with all the Old Gods as witnesses. They already approve of us, though. Bran told me, but I already knew from the way the weirwood tree whispers when the wind blows. It is how I know we are meant to be together.

Yours,

Sansa

She watched the raven fly into the distance until she could no longer pinpoint its black feathers against the white sky; even though she had not grown, Sansa still pressed her hands into her stomach.