She has given him the room that once belonged to her mother. This room, she thinks, is the heart of Winterfell. The hot springs irrigate throughout the walls of her home, like so many veins bringing the warmth necessary for life, but here, this room… this is where the heat breaks to sigh. She hopes it might breathe life back into him.

It has been a fortnight since her men found his body. He was face down in the snow, they said. They saw him before he fell, great and lumbering. "If he had not fallen, my lady, I would have thought him a Wight."

I would not have, she thinks. Jon will not let them get so far. And I could never think him anyone but who he is…

She does not know how her men will react to the truth of her actions. Sansa has heard the whispers. They believe this to be a classic act of Stark honor. Our Queen is cold, but she is just. Our Queen is the Queen of Winter, but she is not cruel. They think she means to kill him once he is conscious enough to understand that he must die. They think she nurses him now to give him the chance to confess his crimes, to let him walk with the pride of a man who has faced his sins to Lady's gravestone, the stone their Queen in the North now uses for executions. As she gave this grace to Theon Greyjoy, they think she means to give it to Sandor Clegane.

And in some ways, they are right.

:::

"His fever has broken," Maester Samwell tells her. "And he tries to speak from time to time."

Sansa's small fingers are stroking the scarless side of his face and he does feel much cooler. She cannot help it; a small smile crosses her lips. She already knew that he tries to speak. From time to time, he seemed to dream, and he would let out a grunt or begin to scream. Sitting beside him, she would smooth his hair back and try to shush him, to soothe him. On good days, his groans would give way to gentler moans or piteous sighs. On the bad days, she lifts his face to her breast, hoping to bury the screams that will leave them as not to alarm her household. No matter what, it alarmed her. It tore at her heart and left her broken. All this time she had convinced herself he was what made her braver in King's Landing, yet here, in Winterfell, he felt like weakness.

"Do you think he will recover fully, Sam?" Sansa had never felt right calling him Maester. He was a Maester, that's true, one of the very best, Jon assured her, but his kind nature made Sansa love him as a brother and a friend. How could she call him Maester? Samwell was so genuinely Samwell.

"It is hard to say, your Grace. That leg of his… I don't know how he was wandering around on that at all, to be perfectly honest. It doesn't make any sense! I suppose if he can manage that, he can manage anything. I'll certainly do everything in my powers to help him."

"You say it as if I mean to keep him around."

"Well… you do, don't you? I mean, I've no right to assume… you're my queen. The queen can do as she pleases, but I think you mean to see him live. If... if not… I… I 'spose I could help with that, too, that is why Jon sent me, to serve you-"

"No, Sam… I… I do mean to keep him." Laughing, Sansa feels the Hound's forehead with the back of her hand. Clammy skin should not bring her so much joy, but it seemed that he would live.

Sansa felt Samwell Tarly's plump hand on her shoulder. "I still say you saved him, Sansa," he whispered. "I know it weighed hard on you, but letting me cauterize that cut through his shoulder… that saved him, I believe."

"Thank you." Sansa bowed her head and closed her eyes as Sam left her, hoping the tears that threatened to spill over would stay. I thought I had mastered the art of tears, but since he has been here…

She remembered the way Sandor Clegane had come to her again. It was snowing hard and fast and the granite floor was icing over. She was dressed in a grey dress, fashioned with the cloth roses she once made as a girl, the sleeves lined by white fur that she'd taken from the bits of clothing they'd found in the ruins of the Great Keep, white fur that had once warmed Arya and Bran and Rickon, a cloak that once belonged to Robb fastened around her, dressed for mourning, for remembrance, and for rebuilding. There were men, formerly sworn to the Boltons, kneeling before her, begging for her mercy. She had called them forth to find out if any of them could truly be loyal to her, or could at least be useful in the absence of a trusted castellan to help her; the Great Keep, though still strong, had been damaged here and there by the burning, and Sansa hoped that the Great Hall and her mother's Sept might be rebuilt to house those who would ordinarily depend on Winter's Town in this harsh time, and quickly. The matters at hand were pertinent, dire, and dear to Sansa's heart, but for some reason, she had been staring at the oak and iron door, the damage done to it by the fire obvious, the wood weakened and stripped, but somehow still standing…

And just like that, the double doors burst open. Harry the Heir leapt in front of her, drawing his sword, but Sansa grabbed his arm, "No…"

Four of her strongest men, struggling to hold him up, drug him into the ruins of her home. Sansa could not see his face, but knew him by his hands, his strong, gentle hands… Sandor Clegane murmured two words before succumbing to the grueling pain and blood loss of the deep cut that threatened to split his left arm from his body, "Little Bird."

He had been unconscious ever since, except for the harrowing moments when Sam had taken fire to his arm. His eyes had shot open and he had tried to fight them off. Sansa had Harry and three of his men that he trusted to keep quiet stand by, for she expected this. They pinned him down and she turned his face away from the fire and made his eyes meet her own. She told him he was safe, she told him he was fine, and when nothing else would calm him, she began to sing.

Six maids there were in a spring-fed pool…

"One was too lovely", spoke this fool,

"As I was watching, the girl fell down.

Cut her pretty knee,

And her face did frown."

A clean-cloak'ed knight too, was this fool,

Armored and armed, 'twas said, 'tis true.

"As I did help her, my walls fell down.

My heart then did flee,

My fate 'twas pronounced."

And with that, Sandor Clegane, the Hound, ceased to struggle and closed his eyes.

"Sam…" Shaking off the memory, she turned to him, pleading with her eyes. Queen she may be, but she considered her Maester her family and it was not in her to command her family.

"Yes?"

"Could we give him a dream drought? I check on him in the night and he… I think he has terrible nightmares. He shakes and screams."

"Yes… I have heard it. It is terrible. I'll get something for him."
Sansa gave Sam a nod and a smile, and then turned her attention back to the Hound. He let out a sigh, a soft, satisfied one as she fluffed the pillow behind him and tucked his blankets around him. She stood, smoothing out her dress. When she turned to leave, Sam was still standing in the doorway, staring at Sandor Clegane, a strange look in his eyes.

"Sam, what is it? If he is not truly well, tell me. Should I get him more blankets?"

"No, no, Sansa… no… I just… you have to wonder… what makes a big man like that scream out in the night."

:::