Edited by the very supportive and generous LadyCyprus: I can't thank her enough for the help she gave me with this fic!
LadyCyprus also told me this epilogue looked more like a happy ending and less like an open one to her: maybe this will convince some of you that this story is not as sad as it seems (especially after the previous chapter).

I'm amazed to have your attention after all this time... But more about this at the end of this chapter.

Home. Again.

A draft tousles young Rickon's unruly hair as he stands still, guarded and solemn at the end of the hallway. Her youngest brother, their great-uncle and a direwolf wait for her, on the threshold of the solar. The cold kiss of the draft on the back of her neck prompts her to hurry towards them and towards the warmth promised by the fireplace inside.

Their reunion, earlier, in what remains of the yard of Winterfell, was brief yet filled with emotion. Sansa knows she has to tell them what Wyman Manderly has already guessed. The sooner the better. The fact Rickon has not yet turned ten doesn't undermine her decision. He saw and heard far worse, didn't he?

The creaking of the door is a nice change after the visit to the dilapidated Library Tower. At least, there are doors in this part of the castle. "You asked if we could have a word in the solar, Sansa. What is it?" Brynden Tully's voice is tinged with concern. "I thought you were tired after the long ride."

He sits himself in one of the folding seats Sansa examines suspiciously, wondering if they belong to the Boltons. In the meanwhile, Rickon settles himself opposite to his great-uncle, his direwolf at his feet. Between them, there's a long and large table of solid oak; further, a fire burns in the fireplace, not as low as she has feared after seeing the state of disrepair Winterfell is in; it's warm enough to shrug off her heavy cloak. She places both her hands on her belly and watches her great-uncle intently until he gapes.

"I am with child," she announces without further ado. This time he left me with more than a bloody cloak or the dream of a kiss. So much more. I will be strong.

"May I ask-" Brynden begins.

Rickon jumps from his chair. "Did someone hurt you?"

At this very moment, Sansa could forget herself and cry as the little boy who is now known as the Stark of Winterfell runs to her, ready to kill whoever dishonored his sister; he unsheathes his dagger and gives her an inquiring look. Lifting her hand ever so slightly, she stops him. "No need for that, Rickon. Nobody hurt me."

Judging by Brynden's agitation on his seat, she can tell he understands, yet… In for a penny, in for a stag. I owe them the truth.

"Sandor Clegane sired this child; he doesn't know any of this though because he left before I found out... He didn't wish to settle in the North, despite my many offers."

Even if she doesn't explain what transpired between Sandor and her, it's hard to talk about what feels like a rejection. She gazes down at Rickon, whose blue eyes are settled on her still flat belly.

"No one can tell for now," he observes.

He's the practical one. "It's only been two moons. At first I thought I was seasick, then I blamed my weakness on the after-effects of our journey." Then she addresses her uncle: "It is my wish to keep this child."

Brynden runs his hand down his wrinkled forehead, hardly looking at her. When he finally talks, he sounds weary and even downhearted. "Do you realize what it means? Sansa-"

I know what you're about to say: Family, Duty, Honor. To Sansa's surprise, Brynden lapses into silence and there's only the sinister howling of the wind. She turns her head towards the white stained-glass window. Old Nan said the last months of winter are the hardest; spring will be here soon.

Exhaling deeply, Sansa sits down and demurely folds her hands in her lap. That's when Brynden starts talking about the risks, the sacrifices they all made so that they could be in Winterfell again today. Sansa hardly listens to his lecture; she will not take moontea nor any of the poisons women use to get rid of an unborn child. The child is all that I've left. I'd gladly give up my honor for him. Or her. Something tells her it's a boy, although she knows she wouldn't be the first woman to be mistaken.

Mute and pouty, her brother caresses his direwolf's head and Sansa's heart sinks when she remembers her own direwolf, whose fur was thick and soft under her fingers. However her thoughts quickly turn to the child growing inside her: she can't help it these days. Will my child look like Rickon?

"What are we going to tell the Stark bannermen?" Brynden asks.

He won battles, he got away from his enemies more than once, but Sansa feels she's asking him too much today. She's been looking for a solution since she discovered she was with child; she found none, so far, but she will have to. I will have this child and I will raise him or her even if it means shutting myself away to protect House Stark. If it means leaving Winterfell again, well…

"A direwolf." Sansa and her uncle turn to Rickon, whose hand disappears in Shaggydog's fur. "There are direwolves in the woods. Packs coming and going. Hunting. Mating."

"Rickon, what-"

"You asked us what we will tell our bannermen about the babe. We prayed to the Old Gods and the New - you, me, Sansa - to give us back our strength and to make the Stark family powerful again: the Gods heard us." He gets on his feet: in two strides, he's by Sansa. "My sister rode through the woods to come back to Winterfell. She mated with a direwolf."

Brynden looks at him in disbelief, then his eyes drift towards his niece. "Rickon..." he tries again.

"The Queen is called the Mother of Dragons, uncle. This child will be the direwolf's get." Rickon locks eyes with Sansa. "What does this man look like? I heard tales about him. People say he's a mighty warrior."

"He's also a brute," Brynden says, as Sansa wipes her wet cheek.

"But what about his looks?"

"Tall, muscular…" Brynden trails off.

That's not what Rickon wants to know and Sansa gets it. "Dark hair, gray eyes," she whispers, trying not to lose her composure as memories wash over her.

Rickon nods. "Your child will either look like a Tully if he or she takes after you, or like a Stark. A true Northerner. Til the day I have children of my own, this child will be my heir."

She reaches out to take his not so little hand and she squeezes it, finding calluses on his palm. Their plan doesn't soothe Brynden's anxiety, far from it: he shifts on his seat, visibly confused. "Your bannermen expect banns, they're waiting for a wedding feast and you want them to swallow this… tale? Your bannermen will laugh at us!" he warns them.

"Our loyal bannermen will not doubt this," Sansa intervenes.

"Whoever insults this child insults me and House Stark." Rickon's voice is cutting and suddenly full of the violence Sansa knows he probably experienced in Skagos.

"In your last message, uncle, you said you didn't know where some of our bannermen's loyalty lied. I say, whoever doesn't believe my brother's word about this child is a traitor…"

"... and we'll fight them," Rickon concludes, clutching to his sister's hand.

Sansa then stands up, taking in Brynden's weary look. She feels Rickon's arm around her waist, as if he wanted to make sure she's real; she doesn't say anything, too happy to have someone on her side. His unconditional support is all she needs. Her uncle's eyes drift from Rickon's face to hers, then to her waistline and finally to the tiled floor: he's confused and clearly out of his depth.

We're in charge, now, she muses. Brynden will keep commanding men and training them, but he's done taking decisions. Sandor had foreseen it. All he's done to make sure I'll be stronger and able to rule the North, during these months in Essos, will be useful.

Their great-uncle now cradles his head in his hands. "Sansa… You said Clegane doesn't know… Do you want to send him a raven? Do you even know where he is?"

"He must be back in Essos, by now. He was headed to Tyrosh, where a merchant hired him as a sellsword," she states, ill-at-ease.

"We need warriors." Rickon's resolute voice makes her jump. "Your decision, sister. We need warriors, that's all I'm saying."

She fights back tears, bites her lip, then answers: "I don't know yet."

As she utters these words, memories flood in: Sandor kissing her back before exiting her bedroom in the New Castle of White Harbor, the look of despair on his face she mistook for arrogance when they argued, the smell of his skin, and his eyes, gray and penetrating, sometimes unreadable… Deep down she knows and she has already made her decision. She will try to reach him even if it's the last thing she does. In the end, it's all about forgiveness. The feelings she nurtures for Sandor Clegane have little to do with revenge. Yes, he did hurt her - like Girri once predicted - but grudge is too heavy a burden for her. Her revenge over life, over the rules of the world she belongs to, might be here, inside her womb, fragile yet stubborn.

"Fine," the boy says, rousing her from her thoughts. "Come with me to the Godswood, sister. We must thank the Gods for giving you this child."

It wouldn't be the first time her prayers are answered. She prayed for Joffrey's death - several times - and he died. She asked for a knight to save her and Sandor came to whisk her away from the Vale. Years ago she begged the Gods to gentle the rage beside him; some of the rage remains, otherwise he would be there with her, but apparently the Gods need more time to soothe a man's troubled heart than to take a tyrant's life. Her last prayer to the Gods was about the same man's troubled heart and how she could make him stay with her. Is this child the Gods' answer? Sansa is well-aware she helped them by not taking moontea during the last weeks of her stay in Tyrosh, then on the boat. Gods can make miracles if only we lend them a hand. The icy North wind makes her shudder under her heavy cloak as they cross the yard.

Snow makes their walk to the godswood uneasy and more than once, Rickon glances at her over his shoulder, afraid to see her trip. She could lean on him, but a sense of pride forbids it and she keeps walking. A gust of wind brings tears to her eyes - or so she convinces herself. Crying didn't prevent him from leaving her ; perhaps a child will bring him back.

They stop in front of the weirwood. Have the bone-white trunk and the face carved in the wood changed since she last saw them?

Rickon suddenly grabs his sister's gloved hand. "I don't remember any prayer," he confesses after a while. "It's been too long."

"It doesn't have to be a prayer, Rickon. It's only about gratitude, today."

Somewhere north of Winterfell, a howling makes them turn their head. Is it a dog? A wolf?

"What did you say, sister?"

"This, our fathers' faith..." she gestures at the weirwood. "... is mostly about gratitude." She pauses, suddenly overwhelmed. A deep inhale and she goes on : "Despite all the things we went through, despite all the difficulties that lay ahead, today we are grateful, aren't we?"

If you're reading this, you're one of the awesome people who didn't give up on this story despite my mistakes (I'm still working hard to improve my English, excusez-moi) and my inability to post on a regular basis. I'm so grateful for the reviews I received on this fic, so THANK YOU!

Burning Bridges is the kind of story I've wanted to write since I discovered fanfiction and it would have been impossible to complete it without my beta's help and without your support :)