A/N: I own nothing of G.R.R. Martin. This is purely for guilty pleasure.
Sansa fought the urge to tremble and knocked with a firm hand. The old wood of the lower rooms did little to prevent her hearing the rustling of furs thrown back and the padding of bare feet that followed.
When he opened the door, his face was stern from the unexpected wakening. He had not once revealed the shock or awe that had illuminated both sides of his face when he had entered the gates of Winterfell for the second time in his life – when his eyes had fallen on her waiting amongst the new fallen snow some weeks ago.
There were no longer day breaks or sunsets, no way to gauge the time as the storms grew and the air dropped its temperatures. But Sansa felt herself flush at the sight of him. She had never visited him so late, never seen him without blade or armor. He had taken up Brienne's role since her former sworn shield had left with Arya for the Great War at the Wall. Jon had given him a new position to suit his deeds beyond Eastwatch, for saving the King in the North in the capital, from the monster who had once been the Mountain that Rides.
Sansa had not received a raven for weeks since Jon had amassed the greatest army in the history of the world. She remained at Winterfell, in the dark and cold, spending her candle lit hours sewing warm clothes for those that remained in the keep, maintaining the dwindling winter stores. Her shield was never more than a step away.
But never had she the audacity to appear at his personal quarters.
She strode past him, her shoulder brushed his bare arm. She did not turn until she heard the latch of the door fall into place.
"What is it, Lady Stark?" he rasped, his arms against his broad chest.
It was a wonder he did not freeze without a roaring fire in the hearth. The room was dark save for a fresh lit candle in the corner, casting shadows all around. She glanced at the bed she had commissioned for his cumbersome frame. The extra blanket she had sewn and delivered without pomp had not gone unused. She prided herself over the late hours and fine furs she'd removed from her unnecessary wardrobe to create the heartfelt gift.
"Sansa," she corrected him.
His voice was a growl. "Sansa," the word slow and untested from his lips and tongue.
"The Long Night continues and winds become colder," she broached. "The ravens no longer come."
"Dawn must come eventually," he responded as he let his arms fall to his sides.
"If the night does not end, and you could have anything before we become part of the Night King's army, what would it be, Sandor?" She stepped closer, her face illuminated by the flickering candle.
"I would not say, my lady."
"So courteous," she teased, "Like a pretty bird from the Summer Isles." Her sullen face for a moment amused. "I'll tell you mine." He stared, waiting for her to continue. "I would know what it is like to lay with a strong, gentle man, to be held as a woman, not a title or a hole to be coveted. To be loved."
He pursed his uneven lips together for a beat. "You've reached the wrong room, my lady."
"Sansa," she corrected once more. "Have I? Sandor, I have dreamt your face for years, since even before the Blackwater burned. I have seen your looks, felt your calloused hands tenderly on my body, and worn your given cloaks. What do we have now to fear? The end is near, and I would not die without a taste of truth, of happiness."
And suddenly his lips are pressed against hers, his warmth a part of hers, defying everything the Long Night and the army of the dead stood for in their relentless war.
"Sansa," he breathed against her upturned face. "I have loved you since I first saw you standing at the gates of Winterfell. I will love you still if the Wall should fall and we find ourselves with blue eyes and iced skin. If we must die, know that."
"I can die a happy woman," she replied with a sad smile, a tear slipped past the icy façade of her face she worked so hard to perfect over the years. "Tell me your wish."
He laughed, steel on stone. "To have kissed your lips." He kissed her once more before his nose trailed over her cheek and to her ear. He murmured, "and to have your freely gifted song."
"I promised it to you," she gasped as he trailed open mouthed kisses down her slender neck, his hands pulled at the ties of her plain woolen gown. "I would have it be the last song I sing."