"Let it go, wife," Sandor said, finally alone together in her rooms. He was unlacing her stays, still amazed they were his to unwrap, a gift he'd never deserve. "You got her damned dragon back, you got to keep your damned husband – as far as I can tell you've managed to get everything you wanted, with no ill consequence." There was a bit of awe in his tone.

"She threatened you," Sansa seethed, ice and fire at once.

He had to admit, seeing her so incensed on his behalf warmed him in a way he'd never felt before. Before her, when had anyone cared if he'd been threatened or hurt? It was a way of life for him, in a family like his.

"And you put her in her place, little bird – backed down a queen and lived," he marveled. Appalled, astonished, unmistakably turned on.

It helped him forget how out of place he was in her chambers, a high lady's personal space, every inch of it finer than anything he'd ever called his own. He felt even more a dog among such finery.

But it was his now, along with the name she gave him. He was Sandor fucking Stark. Whoever that was, or would prove to be.

He seized her hands and dragged her toward him, toward the giant, canopied bed.

"Show me what it is wolves do to dogs," he cajoled, rough and uneven with want. "Show me how the Lady of Winterfell commands."

Sansa gasped, his request piercing straight through her anger, a bolt of fire struck true at her center.

He wanted her to ride him, to use him, to bend him to her will until she had all she wanted from him. It was as plain to her as the scars on his face. It excited her beyond reason – a man of such strength begging her to subdue him, to dominate, when those before him had wanted only her meek submission.

"Lie back," she demanded, steel in her tone, the voice she used to get her way with the Northern lords when they were especially unreasonable.

She put her hands to the center of his chest and shoved, which he allowed, letting himself drop back into the furs, splayed nearly-naked before her. Watching him obey lit a spark between her thighs, burning.

She dug through her chest on a whim, careless of the neatly-folded Summer silks, searching for scraps of fabric.

Her smile almost scared him, the cat who'd spied the canary, and could already taste the feathers.

She tied his wrists to the bedposts, one at a time, waiting for his nod of permission to proceed. By the look of things, he was as into the idea as she was.

She stayed in her stockings but nothing else, leaving her hair tied back out of her way. Slowly, she removed the rest of his clothing, following each piece with her fingertips, teasing and exploring, everywhere but where he most wanted, until he was all but begging her to touch him there.

"Yes," she said, nearly purring. "Ask nicely for what you want," she murmured in his ear, "and maybe I'll do it."

"Your mouth, Sansa," he panted.

"Use your courtesies," she rebuked him, merciless, breathless.

"Your mouth, please!"

She tried things she'd never wanted to before, tasting the most vulnerable parts of him, reveling in the exposed trust of a man who'd trusted no one. She tormented him with well-placed licks, ferreting out the most sensitive spots on which to consolidate her attacks, before finally taking the length of him in her mouth. She found more of her own enjoyment than she would have guessed, without the struggle or choking force. As she worked him, her own pleasure grew. She took her time, relishing each involuntary noise he gave her.

"Sansa, Sansa, stop," he finally gasped. Desperate. "Let me be in you–"

He broke off with a cry as she'd sheathed herself to the hilt before he finished speaking, watching him fight himself for control. She had mercy enough not to move until his eyes opened again, his breathing slowed.

"Heartless witch," he breathed, fondness in the words. "You're like to kill a man."

"Is this what you want, then?" She asked, voice dangerous velvet, as though she might deny him.

She began to move, tormenting both of them with the deliberate slowness of it, each rolling wave of her belly, hips, and thighs. She moved in a way her mind couldn't have conceived of days before, an undulation natural as breathing, now.

He pulled against the bonds, and she knew he wanted to grasp her hips, move her faster. He groaned at the restraint, flexing, enjoying every minute of it as his real strength would have ripped the fabric like paper.

"You wish you could touch me, don't you?" she observed, sliding her own hands up to ghost over her breasts, toying with each one as he gasped and groaned.

"Yes," he choked out. "Till you screamed for me," he promised, low and threatening.

He drove his hips up, impaling her, another tactic to increase her pace, but she withdrew completely – a reprimand, denying him, watching him writhe for want of her.

"We do this my way," she insisted, voice chill with the ring of command. "Isn't that right? Tell me you'll obey." Light fingers against him, unbearable touches, until he finally groaned in defeat, a victory for them both.

"Whatever you want," he managed. "Please!"

His cries when she sank down again were more like a man under torture than anything else. He gave in to her pace, the demand in her eyes, gave in to everything, and that final submission drove him right to the edge, nearly there–

"Fuck, I'm so close!" he shouted, every sinew pulled tight. "Coming so hard–"

When she wrested his climax from him, he could barely draw breath for sound, just the gasping echo of her name, a desperate man's prayer.

She kept riding him mercilessly, until they'd both be sore on the morrow, fiercely pleased he'd remember this moment with each twinge of pain, wherever the battle might take him.

She imagined driving her very essence into his skin, pierced by her nails, swallowed through his mouth, infusing his cock, until he'd never be free of her — forever carrying her love with him, a golden shield to keep him safe always. In the stories, true love kept knights alive, and he was hers, her own true love.

Out of nowhere, the fire in the hearth flared brighter, painting their skin the gleaming gold of her vision, and she came, and came again, until she thought it might never stop.

Come back to me. You'll always come back to me.

Arya had learned a thousand ways to kill a man, but not a single way to tell one her heart.

Hanging in the shadows unseen, she watched the young smith at his work, unwilling to waste her last night before the war, but at a loss as to how to proceed.

The old Arya Stark would have gone straight in with the most direct approach possible, but she who'd been no one had too many angles to examine, too many ways she might fail.

He had left her, before. She wasn't sure she'd forgiven him yet.

But they were out of time.

And you're still wasting it!

In the end maybe old Arya Stark's approach was best. She stepped into the forge's glow, dropping her guard, leaving her heart bare.

"Are you going to hammer that thing all night?"

"There's a war tomorrow, you might have noticed," he said, though not in a mean way.

"We've weapons enough," she returned. "If we can't win with what we have, a few more blades won't matter."

"I don't know what else to do with myself tonight," he admitted. "Can't sleep."

Now, Arya. Don't be a craven. "I have some ideas."

He finally looked up from the red-hot metal. "What?"

"Quench that and come here," she demanded.

Eyes wide, he plunged the blade into the bucket between them, changing the night into steam, stealing a bit of Winter's chill. The fog filled the shop, pierced only by stars and muted torchlight, dulling every sound but the roaring of her own heart in her ears. In this mist, only the two of them existed, had ever existed, would ever exist.

He stood in front of her, a frown on his comely face, hands awkward without hammer or ingot to fill them.

She'd loved him since he'd known Arry's secret and promised to keep it.

She slipped under his guard, into his space, but instead of picking his pocket, she stole his lips with her own.

He hesitated, she could feel the battle in his mind, until he gave in and kissed her back. He tasted her mouth like he'd done this before; she wondered how many girls in King's Landing knew his kisses, how many deaths she should daydream.

"Good boy," she gasped, when he freed her lips to mouth at her neck. "I belong to no one but me, this is no one's business but ours."

"Not going to argue," he said, "but–"

"If you call me a lady I'll hit you," she promised, and dragged his hand inside her shirt, to cup the breasts that had until this very moment been only a nuisance, something to slow her movement unless she bound them.

He shuddered and gasped with her in his hand, as though it was the first and finest nipple he'd ever touched, and she removed the faceless Southern girls from her list with a fierce joy. He was hers, only hers.

Jon hadn't known it was possible for Winter to get even colder, but a thousand feet above the ground he felt every part of him would soon be frozen.

Again.

He signaled to Daenerys, asking for an end to their flight. She pulled up alongside him, the dragons facing each other, near as they could get while airborne.

Everything around him was ice – Viserion, the wind, the sky, land as far as he could see – but her eyes were fire, a blaze for him that would never die, a violet inferno poised to consume him as soon as they were aground.

Against the crystal dark of midnight sky, a crown of stars shone in hair, the crown she should already have. He knew he'd die to see it there for real.

Tomorrow.

Tyrion walked the battlements alone, nerves fraying in a way he'd usually dose liberally with wine, but tonight of all nights he would not dull his wits. He couldn't sleep, but he couldn't drink, either.

There was too much that could happen, too many things that could go wrong, too many things they still did not know. How would the Night King react to losing Viserion? Why was the army of the dead bypassing Winterfell to make straight for the Southern Kingdoms? Was it only to avoid the dragons, or had there been some other reason they'd left it alone?

Daenerys and Jon had taken to the skies with their dragons, who called to each other in what seemed like happy tones to Tyrion, though most would have said all dragon calls sound the same.

Rhaegal echoed their calls from the ground, somewhere outside the keep, and to Tyrion's ear it was less joyful, almost forlorn.

Tyrion knew to stay clear of Drogon, but he'd wanted to approach the two smaller dragons ever since he'd gone to free them from the dungeons of Meereen, and they'd let him. A strong sense of self-preservation had always prevented him.

But now — well, he could die tomorrow as easily as tonight. And he didn't really think he'd die tonight.

What did one bring a dragon? They were already on hard rations, even the dragons, and meat was scarce in Winter.

Well, there will be fewer mouths to feed tomorrow no matter the outcome. A black thought, but true.

The kitchens were abandoned, all of Winterfell making the most of its last night before war. He stole the largest cut of meat he could carry, an offering to a beast that might eat him anyway.

Rhaegal was settled near a rocky outcropping where the springs under Winterfell vented, patches of stone warmed enough to melt the ice sheeted thickly over everything else. His nostrils flared at Tyrion's approach, wings half-raised, until he seemed to shrug and say Oh, you again, and resettle.

"It's not fair, is it?" Tyrion said, carefully placing the raw haunch close to the dragon, but not too close. He retreated to a rock a bit further out of reach, still close enough to be warmed by the steam.

"What've they done to deserve finding their riders before you?"

"I was always picked last too. Being a dwarf, and all," he said, as though this was some secret they shared.

Rhaegal chewed in silence, a better listener than Tyrion had expected a dragon to be.

Once the wyrm swallowed, his golden eye sharpened, iris scintillating, a miniature sun mesmerizing Tyrion until he found himself moving forward without conscious thought or control.

He's going to eat me after all, Tyrion lamented, not as upset as he'd expected to be. Didn't know dragons could ensorcell people, that wasn't in any of the books—

But instead of the great maw swallowing him whole, the massive head came down upon his own, more gentle than a dragon had any right to be, and that was the last thought he'd ever have belonging solely to himself.

The scales beneath his fingertips felt nothing like he'd imagined, rough but warm. For the first time in his life, Tyrion felt fully seen, fully known.

He belonged to Rhaegal.

Rhaegal belonged to him.