AN: Sorry for the very late update, I just realized that I haven't posted this chapter yet here.

The pain was unlike anything she had experienced before.

It was a thousand times worst than Daenerys' birth and even more agonizing than her time with Aerys. Her whole body burned, from the strands of her graying, silver hair down to the tip of her toes; every inch, every vein, every muscle. It was as though she was drenched in wildfire, the very ones her family was once obsessed, and she feels like she can almost smell the scent of burning flesh, her own flesh.

Was this what Rickard Stark felt when her mad King of a husband set him on fire? She had asked herself.

But she can barely think of an answer, for her mind was spinning, eyes a blur that she didn't notice people filling in the room, her handmaidens and the maester hovering over her; faces in panic, exchanging nervous and hushed words. Her lips were chapped, her tongue despaired for another soothing touch of the milk of poppy to help her dull the unbearable torment inside.

Another spasm hit and she choked back a sob. Tears had started rolling down her cheeks; she wanted it to stop, she can't do it, no, she doesn't want to do it. She was certain she was dying, her breathing was ragged and was her heart even beating? She doesn't know.

Perhaps this is her last moment in this cruel world, she won't be able to live and see another day. Perhaps if she doesn't answer to the maester's desperate pleas for her to push and move, they'll cut her open in order to save the child. The Lannister heir, Tywin Lannister craved. Her child.

No!

Her thoughts suddenly stopped and her mind was filled with images. Memories of the past, her past life; in the Red Keep while being Queen, in Dragonstone a prisoner of her own husband, her with her Targaryen children, the ones who died and those who lived. It showed her new life. Here in Casterly Rock; as it's Lady, wife to the cold, stoic Tywin. With Tyrion, poor Tyrion who had already seen her as a dear friend, a good companion and perhaps a surrogate mother. And of a child.

Her child. Daughter. Sansa. Sansa.

A babe with Lannister hair and Targaryen eyes. Her eyes. She'll have chubby cheeks and an adorable toothy grin. She might look like a female version of Rhaegar or mayhaps she'll take after her own mother.

Daenerys, Viserys. Her other children, the ones she left. The ones she vowed to see again.

Sansa. Her new babe.

And as if by some miracle, the cold winter air harshly entered her lungs and she gasped taken by surprise. She took it in, breathed it in as if a woman starved of air. Her amethyst eyes, still quite clouded, then met those scared dark ones of the maester, who was standing in between her legs, shaking like a man meeting his death.

"My lady. Lady Rhaella."

Her handmaiden, Elen, the one holding her hand, suddenly called and Rhaella turned, silver brows furrowed as she tightened her grip and looked at the girl quizzically, not quite sure why she was called.

"What?" She gasped, confused.

Elen, whose eyelids were pink from worry and fear for her lady, answered in a quivering voice, "My Lady, you need to push. Please." The girl begged.

The former queen, whose mind was still a bit afloat, nodded and returned her gaze to the maester who gave a quick tilt of the head as though to signal her to prepare. He waved his wrinkled hand and another handmaiden had rushed to her side, to support her back and hold her other hand. While another moved to press a warm cloth on her forehead.

The fire was still there.

The pain had refreshed and now focused on her lower body, it had wrapped itself around her legs like thorned veins while her upper body had turned numb, hindering her to do her task. However, the thoughts of a Lannister hair child with Targaryen eyes had overtaken Rhaella's heart and mind. It gave her force, strong enough to give one last push. She finally had the determination give birth, to bring this child, safe and alive, out to meet the world.

The muscles of her womb worked; moving, stretching. Her teeth clenched and her hands coiled around those of her handmaidens; long nails digging into the flesh of their palms. Sweat formed on the sides of her head, which was quickly wiped by the handmaiden, and she hissed as she started to feel another contraction.

"I-I can see the head now, my lady!" The maester exclaimed. "A little bit more."

And she let it out, the scream that she had suppressed for so long, came, and she shrieked like a banshee calling for her prey. It echoed throughout the halls of the castle and every inhabitant, even the Lord, and his son, shivered, the hairs on their neck standing straight.

The air had once again left her lungs, and the fire was quickly replaced by the feeling of ice, like the winter they are now trapped in, freezing every muscle she had. But she was undaunted, for she had been born of fire and it melts the ice it touches.

She gritted her teeth and with another powerful scream, she pushed.

Birthing a babe was never a beautiful thing, it wasn't something you can compare to art. It was dirty, disgusting, a bloody affair. It can be traumatic. Some women die, some survive and some, they never recover from the fear and trauma it brought that they promise to never have children again.

Rhaella Targaryen-Lannister, however, had survived eight births whilst she was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. All of them had been difficult and only three children survived. Now, she was Lady of Casterly Rock, and she just delivered her twelfth child.

"A girl, my lady." The Maester said when he handed Rhaella the babe. "I will have Lord Tywin informed at once."

There was a disappointment in his voice, but Rhaella didn't notice it, for her world had focused on the precious bundle in her arms.

"A girl." She repeatedly absently as she gently traced the wisps of golden-red hair on the child's head. The baby cooed, as if knowing her Mother's touch, and slowly she opened her eyes, showing Rhaella the most beautiful pair of Targaryen eyes she had ever seen.

"Sansa," Rhaella whispered, pressing a kiss on the baby's cheek. "My winter child."