Sansa had quickly sponged off her bedsheet when she had awoken to hide the stain left by their coupling the night before, and then made her own bed before any of the women who came to help her dress could see. That morning Lady Maege Mormont, head of House Mormont of Bear Island came to see her, followed by a plain-faced wildling named Squirrel who had been at Winterfell since Jon had sent Mance Raider to rescue the girl thought to be Arya from the Boltons. Sansa found Squirrel impudent at times but knew that she was a hard worker and got work out of most of the others as well. She all but ran the kitchen most days and Sansa, who knew how to run a household but did not know much about the most basic tasks involved, was grateful for her presence.
Squirrel set down a bowl of thin porridge and stepped to Sansa to help her finish dressing. She did not ask permission or even greet her but simply turned Sansa abruptly by her shoulder and yanked hard at her lacings.
"Mades yer own bed, I sees. Did'ye even sleep, girl?" she drawled.
"She's Lady Sansa, you wildling devil. If manners are too difficult for you to understand then keep your mouth shut at least," the She-Bear unbraided her.
"Our lady's part wildlin' 'erself, like th'young lord'd be," Squirrel chuckled, referring to the Stark's wildling ancestor Bael the Bard which earned her a huff of impatience from the formidable She-Bear warrior.
"Go on now, I need a word with our lady."
Maege Mormont's shrewd eyes glanced over at the bed as she approached Sansa now.
"Here, let me help you," she offered as she reached to tie off the back of Sansa's grey wool gown. "Gods, you've the look of you mother. She was a good woman, and strong, even though she was not of the North. You're more of the North than she was," the She-Bear nodded knowingly, "and you've your father in you as well. We're all behind you, my lady, never fear that: you and young Rickon. The North needs Starks in Winterfell," she finished.
"I thank you," Sansa replied. "We were taught that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell."
"There is still much to do to keep you here," the older woman replied briskly now. "Your shield Clegane has been up since dawn, greeting and gathering information from the scouts coming in. There are enemies in the woods and we needs plan an attack. Eat your porridge, my lady; then come to the hall."
….
It had snowed heavily overnight and into the morning and the yard was blanketed as Sansa crossed it to gather in the Great Hall of Winterfell with her brother Rickon, their great-uncle Blackfish Tully and the Northern lords and commanders. Sandor, as her sworn shield and now one of Rickon's commanders, was with them at the table nearest the hearth. It pained her sometimes still to see her father's home, the hall and keep, so bare of furnishings, scarred from fire and from being sacked and so cold and empty of the people she had known all her life. But those here now where her people, and her life: she was Warden of the North to them, and the Stark in Winterfell. She looked upon them and smiled in sincere gratitude.
"My lady."
Her lords and commanders all stood to greet her as she sat in a chair placed for her at the head of the table. Sandor stood at the far end, looking grimly determined. Sansa longed for anything from him, a glance, a nod, even a twich of his scarred mouth, something that would show he loved her; but she knew she would never have it, least of all in the presence of others.
She looked down now at the worn map that had been spread open on the table before her as the men explained to her how many men had been spotted and where.
"These are the most men we have tracked at one time, my lady; if they were stragglers then they have found each other and joined forces, or, more likely, the Boltons have sent more men from the Dreadfort."
"Mayhaps the kingslaying bastard and false-warden has grown a wee bit bolder since Stannis returned to the Wall and is testing us; but we'll flush them out by their…out of the woods, my lady," the Greatjon told her, nodding over his tankard.
"The new fallen snow makes them easy to track," said a man of House Condon.
"Aye," Sandor agreed, "but it will make us easy to track as well; we don't want them circling behind us and following in our own tracks to ambush our rear guard."
"Northmen know to track and fight in winter, Clegane," the man challenged him disparagingly.
"And if they are Bolton forces, they are also Northmen…even if they aren't loyal to the Starks," Sandor sneered dangerously. The Condons had fought under Roose Bolton until the Red Wedding and while most of their surviving members had fled to the Neck to wait to fight for the North again, some had remained loyal to the Bolton Overlord.
"Clegane has adapted perfectly well to fighting in winter, as I am sure Lord Umber will attest," the Blackfish interrupted smoothly in his smoky voice, "and he makes a valid point of strategy. Let us address it then."
"How are such sorties conducted, Lord Umber?" Sansa asked respectfully now. "Do you march in single file?"
The Greatjon's shrewd eyes wrinkled up as he smiled with delight. "You are true girl of the North, my lady. Men follow in each other's footsteps, horses follow the same path. The enemy cannot guess your numbers that way."
Sansa nodded her understanding, though Sandor had explained tracking to her on their way North to Winterfell. He had taught her many things so that she might survive if they were separated or he was killed. She had learned more of the North from a Westerman than from any instinct. Arya had been a natural, Sandor had told her and she was ashamed to have felt a peevish jealousy. She suspected that if Arya were with them, she would want to lead the sortie. She felt a sweet sadness whenever she thought of Arya, and sometimes asked Sandor to recount his stories of her sister from when they crossed the Riverlands.
"Shaggydog can track better than any man, even a Northman," Rickon piped up suddenly. "Let me and Shaggy find them: we'll kill them all."
Sansa smiled sweetly at her youngest brother: he was so wild and fearless and would be the next Lord Stark. Squirrel was not wrong about Rickon: he was very much still a wildling thanks to the care of the woman called Osha.
"You and your direwolf needs stay and guard your sister," Sandor rasped, "for I'm to lead this sortie."
A heavy silence followed in which only the crackling of the fire in the great hearth could be heard; this despite the rationed firewood at Winterfell.
"Why you, Clegane?"
"Because it's dangerous. We'll be moving in small groups, one after the other so that the enemy cannot double back on us; there will always be another group behind them if they do. We may catch them between groups and surround them. But if they come up behind the last group, or ambush the first, might be they'll outnumber us."
"We're all prepared to face danger, Clegane-" the Condon man interrupted sourly.
"Good: you can join the second group then. But I'm leading." His eyes swept those around the table, finally lighting on Sansa's before moving away. "I'm expendable. I'm not a lord, or family, or a Northerner; but I'll fight and die for you anyway. I've sworn to for my lady."
Everyman turned to look at Sansa. She sat rigidly still, fearful that she would tremble if she moved or spoke. But she knew she must speak.
"We are grateful, as ever, for your loyalty and your bravery Sandor Clegane." She spoke levelly and determinedly. "My Lord Umber, great-uncle Brynden: do you approve this sortie and the manner in which it will be led?"
"We do, my lady," the Blackfish murmured.
"Very well," she replied, "w-when will you leave?"
"By midday; we should reach the Wolfswood by dusk. We will hope they are hiding during the day so as not to be seen. If they have been scouting out Winterfell, we should pick up a trail inside of the tree line."
Sansa stood gracefully now and raised her chin. "My lords, my lady, commanders: I thank you for your council. I will pray for you and for your success and for the North."
"For the North," their voices echoed in the Great Hall.
Her eyes once more found Sandor's and then slid away. She left the Great Hall and, raising the hood on her cloak and wrapping it tightly around her against the heavy snowfall, she crossed the yard to enter the godswood.