"There's only one thing that would make me happy."

Sansa remembers asking him what that thing was, and if he had been any other man in Westeros perhaps he would have gotten the hint and spirited her away to some dark corner to make love to her and swear his undying loyalty. But this was Sandor so all she received was him yapping at her like some old arthritic hound.

Sansa couldn't help but indulge the fantasies she had of him, after all, he'd been the closest thing to a savior she had which is quite pathetic and telling of the tragedy of her life because he spent most of their time together mocking and sneering at her. Still, he'd been the only one who had helped her purely of his own will with no demands of her in return. For that reason his soiled Kingsguard cloak and handkerchief dotted with her blood were among her most cherished possessions; for that reason, Sansa had wanted to be the thing that would make him happy.

She recalled when she was that "thing". When it appeared as if the world was alight with emerald fire and he could no longer stomach the flames, it was her room he had sought. It was her safety he had thought of, it was her that was the object of his lust drenched eyes, and it was her that he offered his protection to. They had called him a turncloak after, but the truth was he turned his back on the Lannisters the moment he stopped her from shoving Joffrey off the battlements without a word to anyone.

Years have gone by, and she wasn't his little bird anymore. Maybe he had only loved her innocence. Maybe he never loved her at all. Maybe he did love her but the temptation of his brother was too much. Maybe the hatred had eaten away at everything else inside of him. Who is to say? She can speculate all she wants, Sandor has always been an impossible man and had never been especially chatty. He wasn't like Tyrion, a couple of goblets of Dornish red and suddenly you were privy to his every trial and tribulation.

She'd been tricked when he didn't leave with Jon and the other Northmen the day they all rode South. A small spark of hope had kindled in her that he would stay after all, but it was quickly stamped out when she had spotted him headed towards the stables with a bedroll in hand a few days later.

It was early in the morning and Sansa was one of the few people awake. Winterfell was in need of extensive repairs and morale was low. The war against the dead had taken many and Jon's queen had immediately launched them into another war that would take many more. Therefore, the Lady of Winterfell's nights were short and her days were longer. She made her way over to him and the stable boy he was barking at. "Give him one of our finest," she called out from behind him.

Sandor turned around as the stable boy bowed to her and scurried inside the stables, "I don't need one of your gussied up horses."

"Please don't be so disagreeable, you've done so much for Arya and I this is the least I can do."

"You don't owe me anything," he spat.

Sansa stepped closer to him, "I owe you much more than a horse and I've offered more, but you seem intent on refusing my attempts of gratitude."

Sandor shot her a look of confusion, "The fuck are you going on about?"

Sansa quirked a brow, "The feast?" she said trying to jog his memory.

"What about the bloody feast?"

Sansa gave a small huff of exasperation, "I touched your hand and gave you a look."

"A look?"

"Yes, a come hither look."

"What the fuck is a come hither look?"

"It's a look that says come hither," Sansa explained in a forceful tone.

"Hither where?"

"I thought you were supposed to be the smarter of the two of us."

Sandor gave her a grating chuckle and a warm look, "Guess things have changed."

Sansa returned his look with one of longing as the sound of a horse crunching through snow grew closer to them, "I suppose so."

She examined the horse the boy had picked out, it was tall and black with feathering around the hooves. Sandor ran a hand along the side of the horse, "And a fine beast it is."

The stable boy then made the mistake of taking it upon himself to load Sandor's packs onto the horse for him. If it were any other man in Westeros this would be routine and welcomed but again, this was Sandor. He grabbed the pack and snarled at the boy, "I'll do it myself!"

Sansa gave the boy a piteous look, "I believe that's fresh bread I smell coming from the kitchens, you should get something to eat. Ser Sandor seems more than capable of packing his own horse."

The stable boy gave her an appreciative look before practically running away. "Not a ser," Sandor grumbled familiarly.

"If you're going to frighten my servants at the crack of dawn I'll call you ser."

Sandor began to arrange the bundles on his horse, picking them up as if they were nothing, "I came North with Robert. I went South with Robert. I came North with that bitch sister of yours and those fucking fire worshippers. I went to the fuck all North with your brother. Sailed South with your brother. Sailed back North with your brother. This is the last time I'm making this fucking trip, and I'm not going to let some green boy who's barely off his mother's tit fuck it up."

"You're off to kill your brother I take it."

"You know me well," Sandor rasped.

"I could say the same of you, curious how that happened."

Sandor gave her a sorrowful look, "Pain is a lot for two people to have in common little bird."

Sandor cupped the side of her head with one of his large hands and Sansa fought back tears, "And you're certain you'll die?"

"Gregor's got two feet on me and head to toe steel armor."

"So you're going to get yourself killed killing someone who is already dead?" Sansa asked in a not so kind tone.

Sandor gripped the side of her neck and gave her an angry gaze, "Don't judge me, you of all people should know why this is so important. Why I have to be the one to do it."

"Then perhaps you should listen to my reason of all people," Sansa countered.

"My purpose in this life was set the moment Gregor shoved my face into the fire, nothing else matters," Sandor said releasing her from his hold.

"Whatever you say so you can march to your death without any thought of the life you're throwing away."

They held each other's gaze until Sandor eventually looked away. For all his griping in King's Landing, he didn't like her looking at him after all. Figuring that if she was going to attempt to administer any level of affection to this man before he left it would be best to catch him off guard, Sansa stood on her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck. He stiffened and then slowly unwound himself until she felt an arm around her neck, another at her back, and the uneven ridges of his face pressing against her smooth skin.

Sansa felt her whole body go warm and hum with happiness. She wished her life could end at this moment, and that she wouldn't have to deal with Daenerys and her dragons, or Cersei, just Sandor holding her. "A child's wish," she thought as she pulled away from him slightly.

She took his face in her hands, looking anywhere but his eyes, and kissed him on the ruined side of his face. "If you survive, or realize halfway there how idiotic this whole idea is, you'll always have a home here."

Sandor was avoiding her eyes as well. He took a piece of her hair, rubbing it between his thumb and index finger, "I always did like your hair."

His eyes finally met hers, "Reminds me of fire."