"She says "wake up, it's no use pretending"

I'll keep stealing, breathing her.

Birds are leaving over autumn's ending

One of us will die inside these arms

Eyes wide open, naked as we came"

Blinking away the blurred lines of boredom from her eyes Sansa shifts uncomfortably in her chair, the babe forcing painful pressure on her pelvis. Hushed voices of the Queen Regent and her lady's maids can be heard behind her. They are sitting relaxed at her ornate dining table, and the candle's amber gleam softens the severe angles of her face. The wine has flowed freely, as is her custom, and Cersei is in an unusually cheerful mood. Her haughty laugh grates on her ears. The Queen Mother has been preening since Sansa arrived four days ago. She was almost motherly towards her when she stepped out of her carriage, greeting her as she would one of her own children. It gave her the sense that she was playing the fool, that there was some trick she had stored up her sleeve that would dash away her sincere comfort in returning to King's Landing. I am a true traitor to the North, she thought. In a strange way, feeling the warm sun on her face and seeing the Red Keep familiarly perched atop Aegon's hill, made her feel like she had returned home.

But after three days of niceties and congratulations on widowhood, Sansa could hardly contain her thinly veiled venom. She imagined it spewing out of her like a snake, but she felt none of the perceptive glares stem from Cersei's cold blue eyes. There was no jealousy or grievance present there. Everything had changed, and Sansa found it baffling that one man's demise could have brought her such utter happiness. Of course she was not going to ruin it by telling her that he died of natural causes. When she arrived she discovered that Petyr's plan had extended beyond her, his meager wife. King's Landing was notified of his death, but the only information sent by Raven was that he had died by poisoning. There were no further details so the Queen took this to mean that Sansa had succeeded in her scheme. The two women were heroes in outsmarting the man who couldn't be had. Sansa almost laughed at the confounded gapes peering at them at court when the news was announced publicly. Sansa was congratulated on her cunning, and awarded the title Wardeness of the North, as well as a very beautiful estate for when she felt the need to visit the capitol. She would be welcomed freely at court as she pleased.

Sansa felt no need to disclose the fact that Littlefinger was in fact alive and well, maybe not well, in the Fingers doing whatever it is Littlefinger did with his time these days. It took twenty-five dreadful, sickening days rolling about in a carriage and replaying the moment in her head. The smell of lemons, and musk returns to her nostrils, and she can taste the mint. The deafening crackle of the fire is the only thing that breaks the silence between them, and the one thing she wishes for is to see those eyes. Why didn't I look into them just one more time? Maybe it would have changed something. She repeated the last words she said to him, remembered the silence from behind the headboard of that bed, and remembered the smell of sick that emanated from him, his legs lifelessly propped on a pillow. Sansa had turned it over and over in her mind and envisioned it so many different ways that by the time she reached King's Landing she wasn't sure what was real and what was only her tortured imaginings.

Her thoughts are interrupted by a stabbing, achy pain that radiates from her lower back. She sucks in a deep breath of air as it silences her train of thought. She tries again to shift in her chair when it subsides, and her hand immediately finds her protruding belly. She blushes at how much time she spent at night in her chambers just staring at it. The babe preferred to move as soon as she laid down to rest. She saw it has the Gods' way of getting her prepared for the many sleepless nights ahead with her little one in her arms. But she found the movement fascinating. To see it shift in her womb, the skin of her belly swell like a wave and she could feel its tiny bottom push to the top of her stomach. It made her smile to watch the life move inside her, and she would playfully press back on her tummy, and then wait for a reply. This simple joy was a wanted distraction to everything else, especially those gray-green eyes; even if it was just for a short period. But as soon as she closed her eyes at night they would re-appear, calling her back to him.

Then again, the sharp pain returns and clenches her. She sucks a deep breath once more, and in her haste to move her hand to her stomach she knocks over the gold chalice resting on the small table next to her. It gracelessly clanks on the ground, staining the stone blood red.

Cersei hears the commotion, "Little Dove?" she calls to the back of her chair, "Is everything well?"

"I'm….I'm not sure." Sansa's voice rasps, "I'm having pain." Before she can turn to face Cersei another contraction bites at her womb. "I think this is it…." She sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. "…The pain is great…"

A pause to compose herself, "I was told it would be many minutes in between each pain. This seems so quick."

"They always seem hurried dear when they are actually happening. Last longer too." Her voice is calm and complacent. Cersei heads in her direction and sends two of her ladies to fetch the Maester and midwife. Once she's upon her she grabs her waist and confidently leads her to her chambers. As they traverse down the dark hall the only noise is the rustling of their hurried skirts and a dallying guard's armor clashing about as he followed behind them. Sansa must stop momentarily halfway and she searches the wall for support while another contraction grips her body. She closes her eyes and her mind blanks as the pain takes hold of her. All she can focus on his her breathing, the sharp inhalation of air in and out of her lungs. Cersei is a calm presence at her side, still guiding her gently down the hall to her rooms. She is an expert after all, she thinks. Just then, an immense fear takes hold of her as she realizes this is only the beginning.

Before she knows it, Cersei has had her favorite lady's maid undress her, then braid her hair and tie it back. They force her to keep upright and walk around. "It helps the baby's passage," says the midwife.

When the strongest contraction she's had yet convulses through her belly she screams out in pain for the first time. She is already exhausted and dripping with sweat. Her hair is wet at her temples and she is desperate for water. Her plea is steadfastly met with a bucket and drinking spoon shoved straight at her face. They pour it down her throat and wipe her brow, cooing at her calmly. Their gentle hands make her desperately wish for her mother's smooth fingers to comb through her hair and caress her cheek with her kind whispers.

"Aaaaaahhhhhhh, I can't do anymore….I can't! I can't!" she screams and pleads with the midwife and Maester as they peer at her once secret place. Her shift is soaked through with sweat and the gauzy cotton transparent. The tie at the front has come undone and she viciously pulls the fabric away from her neck, desperate for air. Her now full bosom glistening with sweat as it peaked out of the nightdress.

After walking for another hour until she felt she could no longer hold herself up, she was instructed to sit on a birthing chair Cersei insisted they brought from the Maester's chamber far below, downstairs. She swore it was the key to her three successful births. All Sansa could think on from that sentence was the hideous number three. Three successful births, she sneered to herself. And to think those were only the successful ones. She almost fainted at the thought.

She sat on it willingly even though she dreaded these people seeing her in such an awkward state. After some long moments she couldn't bear to be on it any longer. She wanted to curse Cersei for even wasting her time. Now she rested on the bed again, her back supported by pillows and two ladies maids at each knee spreading them as far as they would go. She felt so exposed and was in such pain. And I am alone. His eyes reach her mind for only a moment, and then vanish as the next push swallows her mind. The babe's head causes a pressure on her pelvis and opening, and she feels as if she'll tear apart! Her bowels feel loose and her heart is racing. She screams with every push and tears rush down her face. Then, to her astonishment, she feels the exact moment when the head pushes through and the rest, along with her consciousness, seems to fall away. The moment the child is gently thrown into her arms feels as if she is outside herself; it has a hyper sense of reality. Everything goes black for an instant, and when she comes to she looks down see the most perfect babe has been placed in her arms. It is all dark hair and large eyes, its nose swollen, and its delicate skin battered and spotty red from the rough journey through her pelvis. Its mouth is round and wide as a full-hearted cry rushes from its lips. The sound immediately causes her to cry, and instinctually bring the child to her chest.

The Maester is at her side looking down on the tiny creature, "It's a girl." He says quietly, a small smile melting part of his severe face. "She's very healthy looking." He adds.

But Sansa only partially hears him as she returns to looking at her child. The midwife suddenly puts her hand under the babe's head as if to carry her away. Sansa gravely glares at her, and tries to move her away from the woman's grasp. Before the little thing is out of the midwife's reach the woman brings one practiced hand to hers and guides it to her breast, cupping it in a crescent hold while the other hand brings the babe to her nipple. Her little mouth instinctively opens into an "O", frantically rooting for her breast. It is an odd sensation as she suckles her, and Sansa is surprised by how strong she is.

"That's a good start. She most certainly is a healthy babe. Wait a fortnight and you'll both be well-practiced. There will be pain, my child, but it will subside and your milk will flow as long as she requires."

"What shall you name her?" the midwife asks as she releases her hand.

She paused a moment. She had always thought she would name her daughter Catelyn. As a child it just seemed proper, but now, given the man she was married to. It seemed wrong to name her after the person who caused him so much anguish.

"I think I shall call her Levina. Levina Catelyn Baelish."

Sansa deemed it a fitting name. The name met 'bright flash', and the way Sansa felt, that was how she came to her. She was the ethereal white that caught in the peripherals of her eyes as the warm wave of pleasure coursed through her body, burning from the bottom of her toes and out through her chest when he consumed her with himself. Sansa can still remember that night of passion; her womanly intuition had told her the moment it happened, that specific second when his seed had found its home in her womb. No matter what happened between her and Baelish, it would never change the fact that this magnificent, delicate creature was born out of that unequivocal breath of blissful love between two people who shared as perfect a moment together as anyone could hope for in this life.