a/n: I SUCK!

It was quiet in Winterfell. The men had either drank through the night or paced in their tents in fear, and now, an hour before the sun would rise, all were finally asleep. Except for Sansa, of course. She was too intent on Sandor Clegane's heartbeat to sleep. She was committing it to memory, like a song-the sounds of his slumber, all together a wonderful symphony. It was one thing to witness him asleep in her dreams, quite another to see it with her own eyes. He was naked, barely covered by her furs, having kicked them off during the night. Sansa admired him, feeling that wolf in her chest stir at the sight of him. Let him rest a little while longer, she thought. He had many long days of riding ahead of him.

She could not resist touching her lips to his though. Gently, so as not to disturb him. He shocked her when he slid his arms around her waist and pulled her flush to him, returning her kiss languidly. This is what it is like. Images of her mother and father, looking so pleased and content with each other, flashed through her mind as she arched herself into him. To be husband and wife. The gods had granted her a small taste before sending her love away to fight. "Insatiable," Sandor muttered against her mouth. "You'll kill me before the bloody undead can, little bird."

"Don't," she replied harshly. "If you die, I die."

She expected him to roll his eyes at her, scoff, but he wrapped an arm around her back and pulled her up on top of him, making her gasp. "I won't die," he stated simply. "I have to see Tyrion Lannister's face when I make you my wife. A hundred thousand undead couldn't keep me from seeing that."

Sansa could not help but giggle a bit at the sight. Sandor's expression became very serious; he gently entwined his fingers in her loose, red hair. "I'd kill a million if it meant I got to make you laugh a million more times." His grip tightened as he pulled her down to kiss him. "Kiss you a million more times." He ground his erection into her roughly, making her cry out. "Fuck you a million more times."

He was inside of her before she could even gasp. Her cunt was sore from his attention but she was wet-the pain was different from Ramsey, it was deep inside her. Every time Sandor kissed her the ache between her legs faded away and became ecstasy. He was fucking her intensely, it was all she could do to hold onto his arms and stay astride him.

"Tell me you love me," he hissed, sounding desperate and a little frightened, like he was still unsure of her answer. Sansa could see a glint in his eyes like he was about to cry, and she could not bear the sight of him in pain.

"I love you," she told him, and he filled her womb up hearing it.

The horn sounded, signalling the rising of the sun. Sandor slipped out of her quarters silently, and Sansa watched him go from her window, his semen dripping slowly down her thighs.

Part of her could not bear seeing Jon leave again. It was worse this time-Daenerys would be leaving, and she was taking almost everybody with her. Arya would stay (she protested and protested but Jon backed her down), Bran would stay, but-

Sandor was leaving, and she did not know when she would see him next. Her belly was still warm with his seed as she stood in her formal procession, going through the motions like a corpse. She could barely concentrate on anything else but his face. It took all her strength not to burst out into tears and cling to him. Arya knew, somehow; she reached out and grabbed Sansa's hand under her cloak, squeezing it tightly. It hurt but she was grateful for it.

Some words were exchanged between Tyrion and Daenerys, something encouraging and hopeful, but it was all wind to Sansa. She was feeling angry, mournful, and terrified. She wanted to get married in the godswood, start a family, live peacefully. It seemed there would never be an end to these battles. Her vision misted with tears and she let them fall as she watched their horses trot into the early morning fog.

Suddenly, she was racing after them, her feet sinking into deep snow and soaking her skirts to her skin. "Sandor!" she was screaming at the top of her lungs, praying her voice would carry through the howling gale. Her lungs were burning as she ran as fast as she could. She knew she would never catch up to them, but she had to try. She couldn't stand in that courtyard feeling useless again.

There was a single horse galloping towards her, and she knew it was him. She sunk to her knees, exhausted, as he swung himself off Stranger and scooped her off the ground. "Fucking idiot," he barked at her while she looked up at him with wide eyes. "Do you mean to chase us all the way to the Wall? Has your pretty head finally gone totally soft?"

"Don't go," she whimpered.

"You're being a child, Sansa. I have to go."

"Take me with you."

"Sansa-"

She was weeping before she could stop herself. Was she only ever allowed brief tastes of happiness in her life? Was the only person she ever loved about to be taken away from her? Were the weeks to come to be filled with dread and sadness? Was there nothing more for her? Sandor's shoulders were tense as he held onto her and let her sob into his chest. She could tell he wanted to yell at her, shake her, but the man he was now resisted.

"Promise me," she whispered.

"I won't lie-"

"Promise me."

"Little bird." He pulled her up, sat her on Stranger's back, put his hand on her thigh and stared up at her with the most somber expression he could muster. "Did I not make myself clear last night? You know I'll return to you. Stop acting like a bloody fool. I love you, even when you're acting fucking mad."

Hearing him say those words for the first time stilled her heaving chest. You know he's right. She had always had the utmost faith in her Hound, and now she was doubting him. He had never lost to anything but fire, and he was fighting ice.

"You…" Sansa sniffed, her nose dripping a bit. "You love me?"

He rolled his eyes at her and mounted Stranger. "Little bird, you may have grown a woman's body, but you're still a girl."

Is that really so wrong? Sansa clung to her naivety because it had kept her safe for so long. She wrapped her arms around Sandor's waist and buried her face between his shoulder blades, not answering him. He dug his heels into Stranger's sides and off they went at full speed. She could feel his anger through his skin, and clung to him tighter.

"I-I'm sorry," Sansa whispered once they passed through the gate and into the empty courtyard. "P-Please tell J-Jon that as w-w-well." Her dress was wet and clinging to her skin. The discomfort was draining the fear from her and making her ill at ease. Sandor could tell, of course, and could also feel her quivering from the chill setting into her. He quickly pulled her off his horse and carried her out of the wind, into the stables; he set her down on the bench and knelt in front of her, peeling her soaked cloak from her shoulders.

It was silent for a long time. Sansa could only hear her breathing and the occasional huff of a horse. "I don't want to leave you," Sandor finally said in a pained voice. "I swore an oath to your brother. I want to be a better man. Believe me, I want to run away from all this fucking nonsense. I want to steal you away in the middle of the night, hide you somewhere where no one could ever find us, and live my life by your side every day. I've seen these monsters, so you have you. I won't get to marry you if we don't kill every last one of them. There's no chance of living the life we want if I don't leave."

"I know." Sansa could not meet his gaze. She had only been following the wolf in her chest. Like any animal, it loathed to be parted with its mate. She had not told Sandor yet though, could not really explain. "Go." Still, more tears fell.

"Bloody fool," he growled again, abruptly leaning forward and slamming his mouth against hers. His tongue was slipping past her lips and brushing past her teeth, shocking and thrilling her. Sandor's hands were ripping open the front of her bodice-she could hear a few buttons rip and fall to the ground below them, but she did not care. He twisted her nipples, making Sansa cry out. One of his hands was pushing up her damp skirts, fingers gripping at her flesh tight enough to bruise. "Stop acting like a little girl, Sansa Stark." Her lover's tone was dark. "You're the bloody Lady of Winterfell. You've won battles and killed men. You speak and fuck like a grown woman. Look at me." Her eyes had closed, but they snapped open at his command. "Tell me who you are."

"I'm-" He slid two fingers inside of her, and she noiselessly gasped at the intrusion. "I'm S-Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Princess in the North-!" He barely had to touch her to make her wet, and he knew it, too. It only took a few turns of his wrist to make her knees start trembling.

"Don't take your eyes off of me," Sandor ordered. It took all her mental strength to keep his gaze while she came. He pulled his fingers out, nudged her thighs further apart with his own leg and pushed his cock into her in their place. It was almost too much after coming so soon, and Sandor was not gentle. It felt like he was touching the deepest place inside of her; it felt so good and hurt so horribly that she bit her lip hard enough to bleed to keep from screaming. All the while, she obeyed and stared back at Sandor, whose eyes had not wandered from her face for a second.

He almost roared as he came, but still he would not turn his eyes from Sansa. Her tears had dried. He withdrew from her and stepped back, tucking himself away and smoothing himself down. Sansa lay there with her skirt up around her waist, her breasts exposed from her torn dress, expression dazed. "Go back to your tower, little bird," he told her, "and wait for me."

The Hound rode off once again, riding hard to catch up. She stumbled to the door to watch him go, covering herself with her cloak. Wait for him, Sansa thought forlornly, the thrill of the moment gone now. I am always waiting.

"You'll have to write a letter to the Hound today," Bran said to Sansa casually one day, three weeks later. The princess was tending some plants in one of the glass houses, and Bran had deigned to join her, slowly following behind her in his chair. Tyrion had made improvements, and now Bran barely needed anyone's help to get around. She did miss the sight of her little brother being carried like a baby by Hodor, though.

"Why is that?" she asked, not looking up from her flower. She had grown quite used to Bran's cryptic language, and waited patiently.

"You're pregnant," Bran said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Sansa froze, completely. No, that's impossible. She was sure it wasn't possible after Ramsey's abuse, and after all, he had never managed to get an heir from her after many tries. Her moonsblood was late, but she hadn't put much thought into it, keeping herself as busy as possible to keep from brooding over Sandor. There were shelters to build and repair, weapons to smith and disperse, crops to be harvested and food to be given. The days were getting colder and she needed to do all she could to make sure everyone survived. It was easier to think about than Sandor and Jon fighting those horrible wights, easier to sew blankets and clothes until her wrists ached than to think they might be dead.

"That's impossible," Sansa voiced her thought out loud. "How could you know?"

"I can see everything," Bran replied, again in that simple tone. "It's a boy."

"I'm not pregnant, Bran," she told him calmly. "I would know."

Later, as she was eating with Arya in her chambers, she was overcome quickly with the urge to vomit. It started out tiny, one little wave in the pit of her stomach that spread all the way up her ribs and throat and out her mouth. It was violent-she was gagging even after her stomach was empty, and her face and back were drenched in sweat. Not now, Sansa prayed, not when the father is fighting a war. How much she felt like Catelyn Tully then, with child and alone and scared.

Sansa went to see Sam early the next day. She entered his quarters with her head ducked down, red in the face and neck. "My lady," he greeted her, looking concerned. "What's wrong? Are you feverish?"

"Sam, my dear friend...can you keep a secret?"