Warnings: Ramsay, violence, explicit references to Sansa's traumatic past. Also Theon.

Sansa has trouble sleeping now that Ramsay is back in Winterfell. It doesn't matter that he's the one imprisoned now instead of her, it doesn't matter that she knows he's going to be dead in a few days. As long as he's here, she can't settle, she can't help the fear that grips her heart.

She's able to distract herself during the day, there are still petitions to hear, and there are new families arriving daily that she has to settle and discuss matters with. She has meals to plan, then seating plans to arrange and the meals to oversee, has to make sure no fights break out.

It's exhausting but when she falls into bed, her sister on one side, her brother on the other, sleep doesn't come.

She has her siblings with her and two direwolves protecting her, but she still doesn't feel safe.

One night, after Arya and Rickon are soundly asleep, Sansa slips out of bed. She puts a dressing gown on then layers a cloak over it, making sure to do up all the clasps so no one can see she's not in proper clothes.

"Nymeria," she whispers. "Nymeria, come."

The wolf lifts her head, sleepy but curious. Sansa only has to call her name once more before she rises and comes to Sansa's side.

Sansa's careful when she opens the door, not wanting to wake anyone. She and Nymeria go down to the dungeons, unnoticed until the guards outside Ramsay's cell see her.

"My lady!"

The four of them leap to their feet, knocking over the small table that held their wine and their cards. Coins scatter across the floor and the cards get soaked immediately in wine.

"May I have a moment with the prisoner?" Sansa asks.

"My lady, he's -" "It's quite late and -"

Sansa's look silences their protests. "It wasn't a request," she says.

"We can stay," the third guard says.

Sansa pats Nymeria's head. "He is in his cell, and I have Nymeria. You can stand at the end of the hall, and I will call you if I need assistance."

They shift, clearly nervous, and one of them darts a look at her stomach.

"Is his cell door locked?" Sansa asks.

The four nod.

"Does he have a weapon stashed in there?"

They shake their heads.

"Then what possible threat is he to me?"

"We'll wait by the door, my lady."

"Thank you."

Sansa waits until they clank and clamber down to the far side of the hall to finally face Ramsay. He appears to have been waiting as well. As soon as he realizes he has her attention, and only hers, he rises from the corner of the cell he was in. He no longer looks like a cowed prisoner.

He stands tall, swaggers to the bars of his cell, and only the clink of his chains reminds her that he's the one imprisoned and not her.

Coming here had been a mistake.

"A nighttime visit from the lady of the keep," Ramsay says in his same lilting voice. "To what do I owe this...pleasure?"

She will not let him frighten her in her own home. She - the words remind her of something else, someone else.

"You managed to escape with Theon," Sansa says, forcing her voice to stay light, "however short-lived that escape was, but there was someone else. A girl. She didn't escape the slaughter?"

Ramsay's eye twitches, the one sign she's got to him, before a slow smile spreads across his face. "Jealous?"

"Hardly," Sansa says. "You didn't answer my question. Did the Lannister forces get her? Or did she escape with you and get torn apart by the hounds sent to track you down?"

Ramsay stares steadily at her through the metal bars.

"It was the second, wasn't it?" Sansa says. "Ironic that the daughter of the houndmaster is killed by hounds."

Ramsay grabs the prison bars and presses his face as close to hers as he can. "How did you know about Myranda? Have you been keeping an eye on me? Do I interest you?"

"Your death interests me," Sansa tells him.

Ramsay relaxes, shifting away from the door. "And so did Myranda's? Why?"

"Was Myranda her name?" Sansa asks. "I didn't care enough to find out."

Ramsay studies her, evaluating, and she refuses to back down under his stare.

"And Reek's death?" Ramsay asks. "You'd know him as Theon. You interested in how he dies?"

"You won't know," Sansa says. "You've had your fun with him, and it's over."

"Now it's your turn?" Ramsay's smirk is back. "I'm afraid he's missing a few important bits if fun's what you're looking for." His eyes stray down to her stomach. "But there's somewhere else you're getting fun."

Nymeria growls and snaps her teeth. Sansa pets her head, rewarding the behavior.

"What happens to Theon is none of your business."

"Theon's dead," Ramsay says, "I saw to that. You can kill Reek, but what's the fun in burning a hollowed-out corpse?"

Perhaps it's time for Sansa to go. She doesn't know what she hoped to accomplish by coming down here. She has confirmation, or as close to it as she's going to get, that Myranda is dead. She's seen with her own two eyes that Ramsay is securely trapped down here.

She wishes he was unhappier with his imprisonment, but she'll settle for soon to be dead.

"Don't leave," Ramsay says, "We've been having such a lovely conversation. A bit one-sided though. My turn to ask the questions. If I'm truly a bastard, less than nothing in your eyes, then why bother having me brought here? A bit of a waste, don't you think?"

Sansa lets a smile grow across her face. It is not a nice smile. "You are nothing, Ramsay Snow."

There's that little twitch of the eye again.

Sansa presses more. "How desperate your father must have been, to settle for you. Tell me, when did he legitimize you? After you rode on the Eyrie or before? It doesn't matter, of course, there's no record to be found that you're a Bolton. But, to satisfy my...interest."

"The Eyrie was going to be mine," Ramsay says. "There was a bitch to be wed and an heir waiting right there for me. The husband would be easy to kill. Flay him in front of the other two, and no one would dare defy me. The bitch turned out to be crazy - jumped out the window with her boy. I wanted to display their whole bodies on the cliffs, but there wasn't enough left of them."

As much as Sansa disliked her aunt and her cousin, they didn't deserve that kind of death. At least it was more merciful than what Ramsay would've given them.

"I didn't mourn," Ramsay tells her, "Why would I? If I was going to be a Lord, why settle for the Eyrie? After all, Winterfell still had a lady for me to wed."

Fear creeps down her spine, leaving goosebumps across her skin. She's glad for her cloak, because it hides it.

"You failed," Sansa tells him. "You won't get Winterfell, and you won't get me."

Not in this time. In this time, she triumphs over him.

"I'm still alive," Ramsay reminds her. "And I'm in Winterfell."

Sansa crouches beside Nymeria, rubs between her ears and the thick fur protecting her neck. "Nymeria, this is Ramsay."

Nymeria growls again and presses forward like she wishes she could get through the bars. Sansa's been telling her stories of Ramsay, teaching her to hate the name as much as Sansa does.

"Soon," Sansa promises, continuing to rub her fur. She looks up at Ramsay, smiles when she sees a hint of fear in his eyes. "Soon."

The Umbers and the Greyjoys arrive on the same day, the last two Houses to arrive. The Lords and Ladies of the other Houses join Sansa and her husband in the courtyard to greet them.

"Lord Greatjon," Sansa greets. "Lord Smalljon. It is good to see you both again."

"You have grown much," Lord Greatjon tells her. "Another child to bless Winterfell's halls?"

"The Seven be willing," Sansa says, touching her stomach. "You know my brother Rickon, of course. Thank you again for protecting him until he could return home." Sansa holds out a hand and Rickon steps forward and gives the Umbers a small wave.

"Good to see you healthy," Lord Greatjon says.

"And my sister," Sansa says, beckoning Arya and Tommen to step forward. "Arya Stark, betrothed to Tommen Baratheon, brother of the late King. Once they are of age and married, they will be your future Lord and Lady of the Eyrie."

Murmurs spread through the assembled crowd. Sansa hadn't shared that information yet.

"The retaking of the Eyrie is, of course, what has brought us all here together," Sansa says. "For when the Eyrie was reclaimed from its intruders, we gained possession of Ramsay Snow and Theon Greyjoy."

There's a muffled sound from beyond the Umbers, and Sansa hides her satisfied smile.

"Lord Balon Greyjoy," she calls, "There's no need to hide. You've been invited here as guests and unlike some in the North, we honor guest right here."

Lord Balon pushes forward, a young woman at his side. Not wife, Sansa thinks, trying to remember her lessons. Daughter. Asha Greyjoy. His heir given Theon's...condition.

"Not hiding," he says, voice gruff.

"Simply waiting our turn," Asha says, smoothly stepping in front of her father.

Sansa smiles at the woman. "Lady Asha, welcome to Winterfell."

"Captain, if it pleases you," Asha says, "If you're a lady then I certainly cannot be one."

There is scattered laughter throughout the crowd, and Sansa can see the hate in Lord Balon's eyes, the way Asha draws herself up tall. Greyjoys have their pride, Sansa reminds herself, and they will be impossible to deal with if they feel it's wounded.

"You laugh at a woman captaining a ship?" Sansa asks, turning to speak to the crowd. "Have you not seen Arya in the practice grounds? Do you laugh at a woman wielding a sword? Surely you heard of the ruin Winterfell was left in, and now you have seen it rebuilt to its former glory. Do you laugh at a woman who can run a Keep? So why is it so odd to you that a woman may captain a ship?"

The courtyard falls silent.

"The Greyjoys are my guests, just as all of you are." Sansa looks out over the assembled people, from the Karstarks to the Umbers, from the Mormonts to the Reeds. There are over a dozen Houses here, and she intends for them all to know who has the authority of the North.

"Tomorrow morning we will settle the matter of the prisoners," Sansa says. "Tonight, we will dine together. Lord Greatjon, Lord Balon, someone will escort you to your rooms so you can freshen up before dinner."

Excitement over, the crowd begins to disperse, and Sansa herself is preparing to leave when Asha approaches her.

"My lady," Asha says, stiff, like she isn't used to formal addresses.

"Yes, Captain?"

A small smile flits across her face. "Might my father and I see my brother before we go to our rooms?"

"Of course," Sansa says. "I'll bring you to where he's staying."

Sansa leads the small party, and Ser Sandor brings up the rear, her ever-present shadow. She suspects he's disappointed with the lack of conflict recently, and she has a deeper suspicion that he hopes to be the one to execute Ramsay tomorrow. She'll have to think of something else to grant him.

Ramsay is hers.

"A room?" Asha asks when they reach the guards. "I had expected a cell."

Sansa blocks the door. "Had I found him before I realized he didn't succeed in burning my brothers alive, his fate would have been much different. But finding my brother softened my heart. As did -" Sansa looks at the closed door then at the Greyjoys.

"Your brother was mistreated at the hands of the Boltons," Sansa says. "I decided he would not be mistreated at ours."

"Except for when your father kidnapped him?" Lord Balon asks.

Asha winces but still reaches towards her weapon when Sansa steps forward.

"My father brought Theon into our home and raised him as one of his sons," Sansa says. "I always thought it was strange that he would reward your family for your betrayal. I tell you now, Lord Balon, I am not my father. The Greyjoys will not betray my family a third time."

"Please forgive my father," Asha says, each word sounding like it's being pulled from her mouth. Sansa wonders if this is what Arya will sound like in ten years when she's trying to be diplomatic - unnatural, forced. "He thought he lost all of his sons until recently."

"I did lose all of my sons. I don't know what Theon is anymore, but he's not a man."

So they do have some idea of what happened, Sansa thinks.

"The Boltons sent us a gift," Asha says, mouth twisted in a grimace, "and I launched an attempted rescue of my brother. I know what to expect beyond that door."

Sansa steps aside. "Then your brother is yours to see. But," Sansa says, and both Greyjoys immediately turn their attention to her, "he is mine to punish. Should something happen to him, a different Greyjoy will have to bear the cost of his betrayal. Do you understand me?"

Asha is the first to nod and, after a nudge from his daughter, Lord Balon nods as well.

Sansa smiles. "I will see you at dinner then."

Sansa wakes up before Rickon and Arya do, desperate for the chamber pot. She'd somehow forgotten how pregnancy makes her bladder exceptionally small. Once she relieves herself, she doesn't see the point in going back to sleep.

The sun has begun to rise, and today is her big day.

She lights a candle and dresses herself as quietly as she can so she doesn't wake her siblings. She wears a deep blue dress and covers it with her finest cloak, using one of her father's direwolf clasps to hold it in place. She pins her hair back using her mother's pins, and even though they've gone to be with the Seven, she feels them watching over her.

Father, be proud of me, she prays, before snapping her fingers to wake Nymeria from her sleep.

The direwolf follows Sansa out to the courtyard where the snow looks blue in the early morning light. Today, she's going to stain some of the snow red.

"Good wolf," she tells Nymeria, kneeling by her in the snow. It's tough work kneeling without falling over, working around how absolutely massive her stomach has gotten, and now that she's on the ground, she's worried she's not going to be able to get herself back up.

"You going to be a good wolf today?"

Nymeria gently butts her head against Sansa's shoulder.

"I know you are," Sansa says. She pulls a small scrap of cloth from one of her pockets. "Smell this, Nymeria."

She holds it up to the direwolf's nose.

"This is Ramsay's," Sansa says. She had one of the guards cut a piece of his shirt for her.

Nymeria growls and tries to rip the fabric away. Sansa lets her.

"Good wolf. I want you to remember that smell. You're going to need to, okay. And remember everything I told you about him. You can do that, right?"

Nymeria tosses her head.

"Good," Sansa says. "Good. If I hug you now, will you bite me?"

She knows you can't tame a direwolf, knows that they'll always be wild, but she also knows she herself can't ever be tamed, and she hopes Nymeria can recognize a kindred spirit in Sansa.

Nymeria nudges Sansa's shoulder again, and Sansa wraps her arm around the wolf's body.

"We belong in the North," she tells Nymeria. "And the North belongs to us."

She doesn't know how long she kneels there in the snow, Nymeria at her side, but it's long enough that the cold begins to seep through her cloak. Long enough that the sky is brightening around her.

"Stuck, my lady?"

She looks up to see Tyrion standing next to her. She didn't notice him coming outside. Neither did Nymeria; or, at the very least, Nymeria didn't think he was enough of a threat to warn Sansa. It's that thought that makes Sansa smile and hold a hand out to her husband.

"Yes," she says, "and I could use some help."

Between the two of them, Sansa gets back on her feet, and she shakes the snow off her cloak.

"Trouble sleeping?" Tyrion asks.

"The baby decided we'd slept enough," Sansa says, "And I didn't want to disturb Arya or Rickon. They deserve all the peace they can get."

"Implying that you don't deserve peace?" Tyrion asks.

Sansa sometimes forgets how clever her husband is. "Today I'm going to earn my peace," she says. "Will you stand by my side, no matter what happens? No matter what I do?"

Tyrion grasps both her hands in his and holds them tight. "You're my wife. We're together until the Seven part us."

"I'm afraid," Sansa admits, the words sounding too loud in the quiet of the morning. "I'm afraid of what I have to do, and I'm afraid of who I'll be when I do it, and I'm afraid of what will happen if I don't."

"Is it something I can help you with?" Tyrion asks.

Sansa shakes her head. "I need to do this. I need to see it done. I -" she can't explain why this is so important, why she has to be the one to sentence Ramsay to die, why she has to watch it happen, make sure it happens.

"For your friend," he says.

She hesitates. She's been waiting for him to say something about that since she first asked for Ramsay to be brought here. Is he going to press her? She's not sure how much scrutiny her story can take.

But he lets it go. "I know well your resolve, my lady," he says. "If a thing needs doing, then you will see it done. And I'll stand by your side while you do, and, if this is something you can gain strength from, I will hold you tonight when it's over, when it is only the two of us and you feel safe to express your true feelings."

"I would like that," Sansa says. It's an understatement, but she doesn't know how to express the swell of feelings in her heart. "I am almost tempted to kiss you where you stand."

"Oh?" Tyrion asks. "And why not?"

"It's morning," she says. "Kissing is for nighttime."

Tyrion smiles, soft, private, just for her. "Of course," he says. "Should we see if Gage is awake yet? You're going to need your strength for today, and if breakfast is anything like dinner last night then I'm afraid I won't have much of an appetite."

There had been too many people and too much bad blood at the table last night. Thankfully, no actual blood was drawn, but there were several times Sansa thought they were close to such an outcome.

"I am ready for Winterfell to be ours again," Sansa says.

"So am I," Tyrion says.

He lets go of her hands, but takes her arm and turns her towards the kitchens. Sansa spares one look back at Nymeria, and the wolf is still trying to shred the small scrap of Ramsay's shirt. Everything is in place, Sansa thinks, now she just has to begin the show.

She takes a deep breath and walks with her husband into the warmth of the Keep.

Everyone is on the ramparts to bear witness to Sansa's judgment. She wonders if this is how her father felt every time he had to draw his sword to dispense justice; shaky, a touch remorseful, but above all, centered. Righteous.

She has the Greyjoys on her left and the Karstarks on her right, because this is a lesson to them above all, and she wants to see their reactions.

There are Lannister men scattered throughout the representatives from the various Houses, and Bronn stands tall and armored behind Sansa and her husband in case anyone takes exception to what Sansa intends.

Her husband is a comforting presence at her side, and Arya and Rickon stand on the other side, but Sansa isn't as comforted by them. Further down, she knows that 10 year old Lyanna Mormont stands with her mother.

Sansa had pulled Lady Maege aside after breakfast and told her there would be no repercussions if little Lyanna didn't attend today's…activities.

Lady Maege had met Sansa's gaze with her own, steady eyes and asked, "Did your father shield you from what he did as Lord of Winterfell? Do you intend to shield your brother and sister?"

When Sansa answered no, Lady Maege had smiled, a touch sad, and gone to fetch her daughter from the table where the children ate.

And now here they all are.

Outside the gates of Winterfell, just a few feet beyond the entrance, Ser Sandor stands with the prisoner. Ramsay is still chained and the blanket he had in his cell has been fashioned into a poor imitation of a cloak. Sansa can't imagine it is keeping him very warm.

"Ramsay Snow," Sansa says, her voice carrying easily to all those who need to hear it. "You have been charged with betraying the Warden and Wardenness of the North, first committing crimes against my father, Lord Eddard Stark, and now myself. You have marched on the Eyrie and taken what didn't belong to you, and killed those related to me by blood and by marriage."

"Didn't just kill them," Ramsay says cheerfully.

Sansa doesn't let him faze her. She's in Winterfell, and no one can frighten her in her own home. Not ever again. "Flaying is forbidden in the North, yet another crime you are being charged with. For your betrayal of me, my House, and the North, you shall pay with your life."

"You going to have your beast do it?" Ramsay asks, tilting his head towards Ser Sandor. "Or are you going to be a true Lady of Winterfell and kill me with your own hands?"

"Ser Sandor," Sansa says.

She cherishes the flash of fear in Ramsay's eyes, the proof that he isn't as unshakeable as he'd like to pretend. Even more, she cherishes the moment Ser Sandor releases Ramsay's chains and the boy stands there, gaping like a fish.

"My father taught me mercy just as he taught me justice," Sansa says, as Ser Sandor walks back towards the gates. He's the only one who knows of her plans, because she can't bear to touch Ramsay, and someone had to escort and unchain him.

"So, I offer you the mercy of the North," Sansa says. There are gasps and outraged mutters around her. She ignores them as easily as she ignored Ramsay. "I know how much you enjoy a good hunt, so here is my sentence and my mercy. If Nymeria hasn't dragged your pathetic corpse to my feet by dawn then your life is yours to keep."

Ramsay's eyes grow wide, fear pushing every other emotion out, and Sansa's lips curl into a smile. She's found that those who are the cruelest don't know what to do when that cruelty is turned on them.

"You might want to start running," Sansa tells him. "Ser Sandor? Release Nymeria."

Ramsay doesn't move, as if his feet are frozen to the ground. Nymeria bolts out of the Keep, a blur of white like the blizzards that sweep through the North. She knocks Ramsay to the ground with a growl and then she digs her teeth into his throat and rips.

Blood sprays and stains the snow and shreds of skin get flung as Nymeria tears his body apart, but Sansa doesn't look away. This is her sentence, and she will see it through.

Sansa doesn't know how much time passes - a minute? five? - before Nymeria finally stops. She sits beside the body but looks up at Sansa as if to ask did I do well?

The answer, of course, is yes, and Sansa will clean Nymeria herself and spoil her at dinner tonight.

Throughout his death, Ramsay didn't make a sound.

Sansa takes a steadying breath and turns to her left. That is only one prisoner dealt with.

She insisted on Theon watching what happened to Ramsay, and when she steps towards the boy, his sister takes a step toward him like she intends to protect him from Sansa. Four Lannister men step forward as well, but Sansa ignores them all.

She touches her hand to Theon's unshaven face, cups his cheek and turns his face towards hers. "Did you see what I did to him?" she asks.

She can feel the tremble in Theon's body. He nods, a jerky movement that almost knocks her hand away.

"The boy who tortured you will never lay a finger on you again," Sansa says. She turns Theon's face to the bloody mess in the snow. "He will never hurt another soul."

You and I are safe, Sansa thinks. We have escaped his nightmare at last.

"Th-thank you," Theon says.

Sansa pats his cheek and then turns away. "We will reconvene in the Great Hall and see if there are any petitions to be heard today."

She leads the assembled crowd down the stairs and not a single person utters a sound as they follow her. The silence continues as they arrange themselves in the Great Hall, and Sansa enjoys the way it grows, the way everyone looks to her to break it.

But she only has eyes for the Greyjoys, and she stares Lord Balon down, challenging him to break first and speak.

There is only one person who might bring petition to her today, and everyone in the room knows it. Only one person in this room has something they want that badly.

Honestly, after the display she just put on, she expected Lord Balon to break sooner. She underestimated the stubbornness of Greyjoys.

But break he does, just not how she expected.

"If you think I'll beg for that miserable wretch's life," he begins, jabbing a finger at his son.

"I don't," Sansa interrupts smoothly, willing to speak now that he's spoken first. She allows a smile to grace her lips at Lord Balon's surprise. "Everyone here knows of the Greyjoys and their pride. It's that pride that's landed you in this situation. Pride that caused you to rebel against my father, caused you to lose two sons to death and one to your enemy's house. Pride that caused you to yet again to rebel, this time against my brother. You seem to have difficulty learning from your mistakes, Lord Balon. What will this latest rebellion cost your House?"

Her eyes stray towards Theon. It's obvious what this latest rebellion has cost. He has a shell of a son, an heir that can't continue the family line. What Ramsay has done to the Greyjoys is worse than anything Sansa could do.

She would thank him but...well, she's already killed him.

Instead, she addresses Lord Balon again. "The Seven have seen to show you the cost of betrayal. Your son turned on those who had welcomed him as family, and he was betrayed in turn by Ramsay Snow. Who am I to say the gods were not thorough enough in their punishment? Your son's life is yours. No begging required."

Lord Balon splutters, but Sansa cuts him off as easily as she did the last time.

"But if any of you think I am being soft because I am a woman, listen carefully to what I say next. You will not send Theon to one of your small islands to be forgotten. Theon is your son, your heir, and you will continue to treat him as such. He will be at every banquet, every wedding, every Council you have. Anyone who comes to the Iron Islands will see him and see the price for breaking your allegiance to the Starks."

Sansa didn't think the hall could grow quieter but somehow it does. She wonders if this is what power feels like, so many eyes on you, so many breaths held as they wait to hear what you have to say.

"Theon Greyjoy will be a living reminder to his family and others to honor the oaths you make to Winterfell," Sansa says. She spares a glance at the Karstarks. They have gone quite pale.

Good.

"Now," Sansa says. "We're having an early lunch today. I know the Karstarks have been at Winterfell long enough and must be anxious to return to Karhold. And after missing your son for so long, Lord Balon, you must be eager to return home with him."

Neither family dares to disagree with her. It fills her with satisfaction but also makes her a bit queasy. She understands that a certain amount of fear is needed in order to rule, but the amount of fear in the room is overwhelming. She doesn't know how Joffrey and Cersei did it.

She stands and holds her arm out for her husband. "Escort me to lunch, my lord?"

"It would be my pleasure, my lady," Tyrion tells her.

She risks a look at her husband, something in her loosening when she sees nothing but respect and a touch of awe in his eyes. She smiles, something genuine, no malice lurking in its corners, and feels herself relax.

Together they can rule the North.

No one is eager to linger in Winterfell after Sansa's display, and she has to admit, she welcomes the quiet once it's just her family in the Keep.

The respect from the Lannister men, the respect from Ser Sandor is also welcome, even if it's a little strange. She wonders how many letters Lord Tywin is going to get recounting her actions on the ramparts of Winterfell.

"We've brought peace to the North," Sansa tells her husband as their breakfast winds down.

Truly, they finished eating some time ago, but Sansa feels enormous lately, and the thought of getting out of her chair seems like too much effort. Much easier to pick the sugar off her pastry and pretend she hasn't finished eating.

"And not a moment too soon," Tyrion tells her. He waves a raven scroll.

Sansa wants to say no, wants to close her eyes and cover her ears and ignore whatever dire warning they've just been given. Haven't they earned their peace?

She sighs. "What catastrophe requires our attention now?"

"Word from the Wall," Tyrion says and Sansa struggles upright in her chair, feels a moment of regret for all the letters she meant to write Jon and never got around to. "From the Lord Commander Jon Snow."

"Lord Commander?" Sansa asks. "He's done well for himself."

Tyrion shrugs. "It's a plea for help. He's been Beyond the Wall. The wildlings are amassing an army, and they're marching on Castle Black."

Sansa makes the sign of the Seven. "Winter is coming, then. And they're trying to flee from it."

"The Wall doesn't have enough men to hold them off," Tyrion tells her. "Your brother wants anyone we can spare."

"Can we spare anyone?" Sansa asks. "Everyone's been cowed for the moment, but if they sense weakness they'll strike. But if we sit and protect ourselves and let the Wall be overrun then there will be no one to stand against the winter."

She looks to Tyrion for the answer even though she knows he won't have it. There isn't an easy solution here.

"Even if we sent half our men it wouldn't make a difference," Tyrion tells her, "Not if the rumors I've been hearing are true. The wildlings have united for the first time in their history. There's something out there that scares them more than their hatred for each other."

Winter is coming, Sansa thinks. She knows it in her heart. Her family has been warning of it for decades, and now that it is finally here, everyone is too divided to make the stand they need.

"We have to send people," Sansa says. The baby pushes, hard, like it wants to get out and help. "The Wall cannot fall. We -" she presses a hand to her stomach - "we need to write Lord Tywin. The Wall cannot fall."

Sansa groans, her body clenching then releasing. "But first," she says, gritting her teeth. "I think I need to get to the birthing room."