Gone North, To Die Chapter 24: Winter's Children, a game of thrones fanfic

Sandor ended his thoughts with a little chuckle, looking down out on the courtyard. It was the sight of his children that had set him off down this path, wondering if the gods had saw fit to make the new Stark family in the image of the old. However, that cast him in the part of Eddard Stark, not one that he was happy for in the slightest.

His sons, his boys, chased each other happily through the courtyard, doing their best to hit each other with wooden swords. So far, they had not been successful, and his eldest child, his daughter, called out insulting reminders of this from time to time as she worked with her horse in the yard.

AN: Well, here it is. The last chapter. I have a few things to say, before y'all dive in -

First and foremost, the biggest thank you to those who've read and reviewed, especially those every chapter. (You know who you are and you know I adore you.) This is my first long Sansan story and the reactions from you guys made me want to write more for the incredible group. (Maybe even too much, since I have a bunch of WIPs.)

If you ever come back and read this story, leave me a review and say hi. I am so grateful for everyone who's ever read, reviewed, shared this, all that jazz.

THANK YOU.

The first face he saw when he woke was his wife's. It was pale, pinched, and drawn, as though she hadn't eaten or seen the sun in too long. He gazed at her, as she sat in a chair and sewed. What was she sewing? He strained to see.

The gentle shift of the blankets made her look up, and for a second, nothing but shock crossed her face. Then in short order was disbelief, amazement, relief, and last of all, a terrible sort of joy. She launched herself at him, already sobbing. He caught her, a little alarmed.

"Little bird." His voice was raspy, and dry. She was sobbing, clinging to him tightly. "How… Long?"

"Weeks." She was still sobbing, so the rest came out like gibberish. Instead of trying to comprehend her, he inspected his injuries instead. His left side felt weak, like it was drained. His hair was long, but he was clean, and he supposed he had his wife to thank for that. He raised a trembling hand to stroke her hair, trying to soothe her.

"I'm alright. I'm here."

"You're never going anywhere again." Sansa declared, hanging tight to him. "Never, gods never."

"Alright." He agreed. "Here is fine." He settled back against his pillows, letting the reassuring weight of Sansa settle on his chest.

"Your ladyship, I—" The door opened and a maid stuck her head in, stopping in surprise at the sight of both of them, in the bed, Sandor awake.

"Yes?" Sansa sat up.

"They're awake." The maid stared at him in astonishment. "And if he is as well, should I go get someone?"

"Yes." Sansa got up, keeping a hand pressed to his shoulder. "I'll see them. Send in the Maester, let him rest. I want broth and wine brought up."

"Yes, m'lady." The maid curtsied and left with a swirl of skirts. Despite his haze, he remembered the most pressing question he had.

"Sansa!" He looked up at her desperately and she stopped in the doorway, wheeling around in alarm. "You—"

"What?" Nervous, she took a step towards him.

"Our child!" He felt a blinding headache coming on, angry and pounding, but this felt important. If it had been weeks, then surely she would've given birth by now. He had a brief flash of joy so bright it nearly hurt him that she seemed to be fine, but beneath his worry for her, the confusion, his half remembered thoughts of his brother and a final battle, there was something else that nagged at him. "The babe, is it—"

"Yes, my love." She crooned, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Give me a moment and I will tell you everything."

"Aye." He sat back and closed his eyes. He was absolutely weak, the weakest he'd ever been. If this was just a dream, or perhaps the afterlife, at least it was a peaceful one. He wanted rest. "That would be good."

"Sandor." Sansa's voice was soft in his ear and he blinked a couple times. When his eyes focused, he was stunned. Sansa stood in front of him, a smile on her face. And on one of her hips sat a beautiful little girl, round and rosy. She had a fuzz covering of deep red hair, and the bright blue eyes to match her mother. But the face was the sweet face of his little sister, all honest and true. On the other was a little boy, with grey eyes and dark hair. He was chewing on his chubby fist, the other holding tightly to the sleeve of Sansa's dress.

Sandor could only stare at them, then back at Sansa. She was watching him carefully, something in her deep blue eyes that seemed to him like apprehension. It made a bubble of worry rise up in him. So much had gone wrong for them for so long, Sandor couldn't help but assume that this would be another such moment. What was wrong? What more did they have to fight? He looked between the children, panic growing deep within his chest. What was it that he couldn't see that was causing his wife to pause?

"Is she- He—" He went to ask, but Sansa was already depositing the little girl in his arms. He looked at her, alarmed, but the baby didn't make a face. She reached up, with a smile, cooing and babbling. He watched her, astonished, as she patted his face, scars and all. "She's not scared of me?"

"No, of course not." Sansa eased into the bed beside him, setting the little boy on her lap. He leaned back against her and let go of her hair to reach for Sandor's dark locks, so like his own. "She knows her father. They both do. I brought them to you, every day. You got here when they were a few months old, and while they healed you I would hold them over you and tell them, Arietta, Malin. Arietta, this is your father, this is the man who saved me. Malin, he is a good man and an honest man and a wonderful man. He is your father and he loves you more than anything."

"Arietta." He looked at her in wonder. She was perfect and when she looked up at him and a smile went across her face, he found that tears were running down his cheeks. "Malin?" He turned to the little boy, who kicked his feet and made a noise that seemed something like delight, waving his hands. Sandor caught one in astonishment, rubbing his thumb across the smooth skin.

"They loves their father." Sansa whispered, curling up beside him. "Arietta especially loves you, more than anything. She'll always settle when I lay her beside you."

"She's healthy?" He looked at her, at her chubby cheeks. "And him?" Arietta cooed and he leaned forward, kissing her forehead. She seemed like heaven, and some part of him recalled having smelled her sweet scent while he had been dreaming.

"They're both perfect." Sansa stroked Malin's head, smoothing back his dark hair. "They were born in the midst of the biggest blizzard so far. I was holding Malin the night I got news of you, that they were bringing you back here. He had a fever, and his father was hurt, broken. I held him and I sobbed for thinking that our children may never hear their father speak, or know your laugh, understand how much you loved me and him and her. I wanted them to meet you, so once you were strong enough, I brought them to you and made sure to tell our son and daughter who you were, every single day."

"And you, my wife?" He reached a hand out to her. Every inch of him that hurt was forgotten; she was the best balm there was. He was too shocked to feel the joy of his children yet. He was still half in disbelief that he'd survived anything at all to understand them, but Sansa he knew. He knew that being with her was what had made everything worth it. And if she was alright, then he would be too, not matter what came. He only needed her, and perhaps now their children too. Their boy and girl. "How are you?"

"My husband is awake. My home is warm. My daughter and son are healthy. My people are fed. My family lives, here, in Winterfell once again. The winter may be long, but the war is won, and I have you. No matter what happens, ever again, I have you and we have them." Sansa kissed Arietta and Mailn's heads and then him.

"We will do it all together. Forever." He promised her, holding her and his children close to him.

Once he was strong enough, Sansa told him everything that had happened. When they had gone south for the Night King, they'd been attacked. Winterfell had nearly fallen to the White Walkers, but then came the Red Woman, who had burned herself and the dead with her, and bought them enough time to throw them back long enough for the Night King to be killed, and for the dead to fall.

He never felt recovered from his battle with his brother, not truly. His left side was always weaker than his right, but it didn't matter. After the long and brutal winter, no one wanted to fight. They wanted to grow crops and recover from the battles. Dany and Jon ruled from Kings Landing, with their dragons and their court and their children. Tyrion was Hand and for the winter, the people knew peace.

Arya disappeared again, but a long while, but Sansa had no worries for her. Her explanation was that Arya would come back when she was ready, truly ready, and that there was nothing they could do before. Sandor wasn't sure what she meant by any of it, but he grudgingly admitted that he missed the little wolf as much as Sansa did.

Bran disappeared as well, from everyone but his family. The world wasn't ready for him yet, he explained, and so he went North, to what remained of the wall, and tried to piece back together what needed to be done with the wall, the wildlings, the Night's Watch, and the domain of it all.

By the time the winter was over, there were new Starks in Winterfell. Arietta, who grew strong and true, and who's skill with horses outshone her beauty. Malin, honest and smart, who had all the makings of a great leader. Harding, who trained nearly as hard at the sword as his father had as a youth. Andrik, who while still a young mischievous boy, brought light and laughter to them all. When spring came, Sansa had one more girl. Their Posy, their sweet spring child, who brought sun and warmth with her birth.

Sometimes Sandor Clegane wondered if there was such thing as time at all. Certainly, some days, it didn't seem like there was. On days when he fell to musing, getting lost inside his own mind, he was sure that his wife's gods, the old or the new— either, it didn't matter— didn't create new puppets from themselves to play with, just reused old ones. Gave them new names, refined their plots a little bit, and went on. All that was had already been, it was nothing but a wheel, turning, and they moved in circles, only to…

They were winter's children. He was a westerman, an outsider, but his children were every bit as northern as their mother, and grandfather before them. Sansa had made sure of that. They'd been raised Starks. Even now, as winter drew near once more, none of them seemed bothered by the chill. Other things marked them as true Starks. Their coloring, with grey eyes and the long faces. The way that his boys, even at 13, 10, and 8, held themselves with more solemnness than any grown lad from the south. The way none of them seemed to be bothered by the faces of the gods that peered out upon them.

There was one other thing that marked them as northern children, Starks, and it never failed to amaze and confuse him in equal measure. It was unheard of, even to the maester's knowledge, but he knew better than to question the ways of the old gods now. He'd asked something of them, once, and saw something in a fire, once. He hadn't known it would come to pass, even if it would. But it had.

For when his youngest, his little sweet girl, had been no more than three, a massive wolf had arrived at the gates. Half the men were ready to ride out to kill it, the other half scared witless. Sansa had stopped them all with a single word, a stunned look of disbelief and wild joy on her face.

"Nymeria."

She'd gone then, out the gates, each of the children with her. He'd been atop the wall, sick with worry, but she had told him, with a smile he didn't understand, that the wolf wouldn't hurt them. And she hadn't. The beast had sniffed each of the children, then padded along behind Sansa, as docile as a lamb. Sansa had taken her to the godswood, and it was there that Nymeria had given birth to her litter of pups. Five, one for each child.

She'd gone in the middle of the night, leaving her pups behind. He'd been bewildered, but Sansa had known what to do. She'd placed each pup in the laps of the children and had told them that these were their wolves. They would train them, love them, feed them, and raise them. It was their duty, as Starks.

He'd made a comment once long ago, an offhanded quip. It had been the first time he'd seen Sansa with her wolf, when they'd been going south, and she was still a child. He'd said that Stark's used direwolves as nursemaids. He wondered if the gods had heard that comment. He wondered if this was their way of giving his justice.

For when he looked out over the yard at his playing children, the direwolves attracted more of his attention than anything else at all. Each was massive, in prettily dappled fur. Ice was slobbering over a bone, one eye still carefully following the way Malin was trying to balance atop a water barrel and hack at his brother.

Cassi was loping alongside Arietta, her red fur rippling in the wind. She was the prettiest of the wolves, he always thought, thought Sansa always said that no direwolf was ever prettier than the other. But Cassi had something rather foxlike about her, and he thought it fit his clever Arietta. Those two were inseparable, and he didn't mind that a few of Arietta's southern suitors had stopped in their tracks at the sight of the wolf sitting beside his daughter, teeth flashing at those she didn't like. Sansa made sure that her children knew to heed their direwolves.

Tamaxis bit at Harding's heels, eager to play with the two boys. His fur, so grey it nearly seemed a blue hue in the right light, shone in the afternoon light, and when Harding tripped and fell, his wolf pounced on him, licking him eagerly around the neck and ears. It was a disconcerting site to watch, and Sandor didn't think he'd truly ever stop thinking of fangs ripping the soft flesh of his child, even if he knew that Tamaxis would sooner chew off his own foot than hurt Harding.

Andrik was trying to trip Malin, but Ony was going to alert the other boys to his plan. He was barking lowly, a sort of soft woof that threatened to grow into a full yip, but hadn't quite yet. Ony was the darkest of the wolves, nearly back, with golden eyes that never left Andrik's form. Sansa claimed that half the trouble Andrik would get into was diverted by the wolf alerting her to any danger.

Then there was Posy, was sat at the edge of the yard, watching her siblings and cheering with gusto. Her wolf was the smallest, naturally, and had a golden hue to her fur, with deep brown eyes. Via, while undoubtedly the sweetest of the wolves, watched over Posy better than perhaps even he did. Posy had also inherited her mother's look, fair and sweet, pretty enough that even at five years old she was commented on. Sansa had once remarked that Posy was meant to scare away their demons with her sunshine, and Sandor adored her for it.

He stood, watching his children, as the wind picked up. Soon they would be called to their lessons, brought back inside. The girls would learn to sew, the boys to lead and rule, and he would go back to being the Lord of the castle. But then he spotted Sansa leaving the godswood, and went to meet her. She walked across the muddy courtyard, glancing around and noting what her children were up to within a moment.

"Malin, do not hit your brother in the head or I will break that sword over your backside." She said sternly, when Malin's blow only missed Andrik's ear by a fraction. Sandor chortled as Malin bowed his head, a little abashed, and Andrik used the opening to try to tackle his older brother around the waist. Sansa looked up from scolding their sons to smile at Sandor from where he was watching the boys, under an awning.

"They need to learn to fight." He told her, with a smile, and she rolled her eyes even as her arm slid around his waist. That had been her refrain for the first years, when he thought that Arietta and Malin would die for any little thing. She had reminded him that their children needed to learn to walk, to run, to fall, to climb, to laugh, to argue, to love.

"They can learn to fight just fine, but they don't need to fight each other." She said wryly. "They do that enough without the swords."

"Aye." He agreed, and they both watched as Arietta, astride her horse, came through the courtyard and over to them, her hair braided back. Of all their children, only she had the auburn locks of Sansa, the true shade of it. The rest of her children had the darker hair of Sandor, but Sansa had passed her bright blue eyes onto Arietta, Andrik, and Posy, while Malin and Harding carried on his slate eyes.

"Do you see how good I'm getting?" Arietta asked breathlessly, proudly showing off and Sandor smiled, catching the reigns of her mount. One of Stranger and Birdie's line, a good solid horse that was far better tempered than the old stallion had been. It seemed to take after Birdie, much like he and Sansa's children took more after their mother than they did him. Each was sweeter than Sandor could ever remember being, and he sheltered them fiercely from anything in their world that might change that.

"You're doing wonderfully." Sansa agreed, reaching up and brushing snowflakes off the horse's mane.

"Does that mean I am good enough to ride north and see Uncle Tormund and Aunt Brienne at Bear's Belly?" Arietta asked with a mischievous twinkle. Sansa laughed, gently patted her daughter's leg and shaking her head. Tormund was one of their most loyal bannermen, and once he'd convinced Brienne to fall in love with him, Sansa had granted them lands to the north. It wasn't a particularly long or hard ride, but one that she wouldn't allow their daughter to do alone, even if she was a better horsewoman than any of her brothers.

"Not with winter coming. You'll see them for your name day." Sansa promised and Arietta's clever face grinned.

"And Aunt Arya too?" Arietta asked, and the name stopped the boys from fighting, turning to look eagerly at them. "Will she be coming up to see us?"

"I'll check the ravens." Sansa said graciously. "I haven't heard anything yet."

"She'll come." Malin said confidently, swinging Posy up onto his hip. Her little face had lit up at the mention of their aunt, and Malin was her favorite brother, least likely to be bothered by all her questions. "She always does."

"Too right you are." Sansa kissed his head, then Posy's. "Now run inside and change. I don't want you tracking mud into your lessons. Go, go, no complaining." She stated, a pointed look at Arietta. She sighed, swinging down and giving her father a kiss on the cheek before herding her brothers in. Posy waited until both Sandor and Sansa had kissed her cheeks before allowing Malin to carry her into the castle.

"Do you think she'll come?" He asked Sansa, who took a deep breath and looked around. Though she'd gotten older, and the creases around her eyes had deepened, she was no less beautiful than she had been when he had married her in the godswood in the deepest heart of winter. He knew that Sansa knew where her sister was, but for the most part, Arya remained a mystery to all of them. Last he heard, she was in the Stormlands, making sure that one of Robert's heirs was granted Storm's End through means Sansa refused to speak on.

"Arya?" She looked up at him then sighed. "I would hope so. It's Arietta and Malin's name day, and they'll be fourteen. That's big, especially for a girl. Soon she'll have suitors and offers of—" His growl stopped her and she gave him a baleful look. Any conversation of marriage had ended similarly before, and he could tell it was pressing Sansa's patience slightly, but he didn't care.

"Let some cunt try to marry her." He growled. "Let them try."

"Stop it." Sansa slid her arm in with his, pressing her warm body flush with his. It was welcome, in the cooling air. "She's going to be a woman soon. We won't let her leave the north until this winter is over, and Bran says it will last a couple years at least. You know she won't marry a man she doesn't love, and one we don't like. Her and Malin both. We'll let them have a say in who they marry, but they need to meet acceptable suitors. It's the way of things Sandor."

"I'd prefer to keep her here. Safe. With us. Forever. Malin too." He muttered and Sansa's kiss to his scarred cheek was soft and sweet.

"I know." She whispered. "But they deserve a life and happiness, like we did. We have to let them find it."

"Arietta stays in the north." He declared firmly. His first daughter was his greatest joy. Of all his children, he was closest to her. Arietta had been his shadow since she was little, always following him around the castle. He always feared for his daughters more than his boys. He'd taught them to defend themselves, but there was still a part of him that remembered Sansa, along and friendless, surrounded by lions and vipers in the court, and he wanted nothing more than to keep all his children within the walls of Winterfell. "And I want Malin to find a wife from a good family, not a fucking Umber. I don't fucking trust them, not after last spring. Whoever they pick comes here, stays with us for a bit. So we can make sure it's a good match. And if fucking King Jon says—"

"Jon supports us in whatever we do." Sansa assured him. "My love, I know. I know. We discussed all these things. They'll be happy, we will see to it. And we still have time with her, and the others." She took his hand.

"I know." He said softly, as they found a quiet corner to speak in. His hands found her waist, and he found comfort in her nearness as he always did. "She's my firstborn daughter Sansa, and I thought I'd never…"

"I know." Sansa brought his head down so their foreheads touched. "So much heartache for us, for so long. I know my live, I know. But their lives are different. Better. We fought a war from them. And we won."

"Yes, I know." He gave her a soft kiss.

"You should get back to your men." She remarked, sliding an arm around his neck and keeping him more firmly pressed to her.

"They'll keep." He muttered, kissing her again. "The children are at lessons. Come to bed with me wife."

"I have duties to do." She said coyly and he laughed, a little roughly.

"Still chirping, my little bird?"

"Perhaps." She kissed his neck, making the hair on his arms rise. "But I will sing a pretty song for you tonight, my love, if you'll have it."

"I will have all of your songs, gladly." He held her close. "Forever and all of time, Sansa. I love you."

"And I you." She whispered back and for a moment, there in Winterfell, he remembered all that was good and right.

And so it was there, in the North, that Sandor Clegane and Sansa Stark raised their children. He'd gone north once, many years ago, sure it had been to his death. And it had been in Winterfell, at an old age, beside his beloved wife, surrounded by his children and grandchildren, that Sandor Clegane died.

AN: I hope it was everything you ever dreamed off. Reviews are blessings and angel kisses and better than chocolate. This story is near and dear to me, so I hope you all loved reading it as much as I loved writing it.

More Sansan is coming friends. Can't wait to share it with you.

THANK YOU!