1.

Sansa

She woke with first light these days, slow and languorous, yawning like a cat as she stretched in the sheets. It was two years into summer and the gold that spilled over the windowsill was molten and warm. Soft liquid fire, she thought, though she would find another way to describe it to her husband.

It was not the first morning into which she smiled as she stretched, slowly half sitting up in preparation for the bolder move of actually sitting up. I'm Queen of all the North she thought, chastising herself with a smile – waking up should not be such a slow process.

She remembered all those years of sleeping for as long as she could, not waking until she knew she would otherwise be called; Kings Landing, The Eyrie, all of her various prisons. She had slept for as long as she could to pass the time more quickly. Dreams had been better than real life back then. She had started to lose hope that it would ever be otherwise.

And here she was. Years of this life had not made her used to it. She had never started to take it for granted, to assume that nothing bad would happen. She knew she should. If she could not trust in herself to keep herself safe she should surely trust in Sandor. When they argued, half the time it was about this – and every time it was over soon with kisses; she never had enjoyed an argument and he, it seemed, was done with shouting at the world.

She turned her head to look at him asleep and dropped a still heavy head down beside his on the pillow. Her fingers lightly traced his face, from nose to the ear nearest her. He had grumbled at her just the other night that she only slept on the side she did because she still could not really stand to look at the other side of his face. She had almost been infuriated; after all this time she thought, after everything I've said and done but he had not quite meant it and she had not quite become cross.

She would never forget that day towards the end of winter. Winterfell was still under threat and even though they knew that they were winning she had still not fought off the last of The Bastard's men. They had made one last hurried attempt to take back the castle and somehow she had found herself chased into a corner, on her back on the floor with a group of men laughing at her claim to the North and asking how she'd manage it without her skin.

It's not fair, she vividly remembered thinking, childish though it was. In that second she had wondered what she had even been trying to do, how indeed she had ever thought that she could do this – it's not fair, I got so far! And then a hot spray of blood had hit her in the face and the first man crumpled like the broken toy of a giant. One by one each man who had threatened her was neatly broken and dropped and she had looked up, struggling back to her feet to see who had rescued her. It was the stranger who had come and offered his services as Winterfell's new kennel master. They had had to get new people for everything in the early days of re-establishing their stake on the castle and so she had said yes without much thought. He was a Brother from the Quiet Isle, he said, and at that time she had not been fussy enough to mind that he was so heavily hooded at all times that she never saw his face.

Still that voice – and the size of him – something had pulled at the back of her mind. Just a few days before she had gone to speak at him down at the kennels.

"Do I know you, ser?" He had made a noise that was almost a laugh;

"Surely the Queen in the North does not call a kennel master Ser?" It had not helped the niggling feeling.

"You remind me of someone," she had frowned.

He had made a half querying grunting sound, never looking at her –

"Some true knight of yours, no doubt."

"No –" she could feel the frown lines running across her forehead – "No knight – but true –" she sighed, remembering – "Truer than anyone I ever met". Her eyes went misty and when she looked back at him he looked quickly away from her, not to show that he had been watching or listening to the faraway dreaminess that had crept into her voice – "But he died," she finished heavily, wondering why it still hurt her heart to say so. She shook her head, shaking off the dream she had never quite been able to fully form anyway – "Good day to you."

She had felt him watching her as she walked away and the feeling that she was missing something had not left her.

And now he stood over her, reaching out his hand and pulling her to her feet and if the deja vu was not enough she heard him rasp softly –

"You're alright now, little bird." Her eyes went wide as she stood up beside him and she stared at him as though she had seen a ghost and it seemed to her she might have done –

"Sandor?" she whispered – "That's impossible."

"Not impossible little bird," he returned, letting her reach and slip her fingers beneath the hood of his cloak and push it back – "Just –" he did not know what else to say, overwhelmed at hearing her say his name like that, at having her this delighted to see him. Her face broke into a smile like a burst of sunlight on the snow and she reached to touch the burned side of his face as if that more than anything convinced her he was real.

And she, unable to stop herself, when she had spent so long holding herself back from everyone and everything had thrown her arms around him as much as they would reach, standing on tiptoe to cover his face with kisses. It had been an easier step than she could have ever imagined between that moment and marriage.

And now, lying in bed beside him, more convinced than she had once imagined she could be that he really would always be the one to keep her safe, she kissed his face again. It made her smile how at this angle he looked undamaged – beautiful even – and she never stopped wanting to trace the lines of him in fascination. Then at some point he would always turn over and she would find the poor scarred side of his face just as beautiful and kiss that twice as much.

When she took a moment to blink between kisses she giggled to see that he was squinting at her from one eye;

"Little bird –" he growled softly, and she thought he was going to say something sweet and affectionate but all that followed was "It's too fucking early to have you pecking at my face."

She kissed him lightly again, quickly, more like a peck than ever.

"The sun's up and it's a beautiful day!" she beamed, all the more cheerfully because she knew it would annoy him. He closed his eyes in pain;

"Stop your bloody chirping already!" She grinned in the comfort of this early morning routine, all the familiar words that meant love and happiness in their language.

"It's a beautiful day and there's a dragon at the window!" she added. He followed where she was looking and swore violently. The dragon had one claw curled around the window ledge, scales glistening black and rainbow in the early morning light. It snaked its head just a little inside when Sansa smiled at it and she could have sworn it was smiling benignly at them.

Sandor swore violently again.

"Oh what's wrong?" she laughed – "It's only Bran."

_x_

So, my beloved and I were talking last night, coming up with an ending for everyone that was so happy it was almost crack. I didn't sleep for a long time thinking about this and how I could actually work it into a story that was sweet but not complete crack. Actually it could be a very long story, even if it does just cover one day. This is the story in which everyone you love is fine, all will be explained and yes, I swear it makes sense that Bran is a dragon!