She could tell that it troubled Sandor, appearing weak in front of her. She read the frustration and fear in his body language and, as his queen, she extended her arm. No man refuses the arm of the queen. Her chivalry gave him leave to lean on her for support. They walked through the Great Keep in silence, Sansa finally speaking when they came to the smoke-stained, fire-damaged door of the Great Hall, the iron looking like a special kind of Northern filigree in the marked wood.

"If you are not ready to walk so far…?"

"I'm fine."

And, letting her go for only a moment, Sandor Clegane pushed the door open, holding it for her, taking her hand and helping her step out onto the icy stones at the foot of the door.

She led him north and they walked in silence for many paces, Sansa observing Sandor, how he pulled his cloak tighter about him, not accustomed to the cold. Sansa did not have her hood up. She liked the chill that reddened her ears, the snow that fell and then melted in her hair, which was a darker copper than it had been when she was in King's Landing. The cold she did not suffer, but she was having trouble walking the grounds. Foolishly, she had chosen a delicately heeled boot; Sansa approached this walk as an occasion to dress for, though she could not say why. Steadying herself, she wrapped her arm tighter around his and placed a hand on his bicep. He took in a deep breath. "Does this bother you?"

"No."

"Good."

Their silence resumed, Sansa stopping to make note of damages done to the East Gate. It would hold against any casual intruders, but she did not like the look of it. It faced the Kingsroad and would be dangerous if somehow Stannis were to march on it in the middle of the night. Sansa had watchers along the Kingsroad and along Winterfell's walls, yes, but the men she counted on were men once loyal to her father, men once loyal to Jon Arryn, men indebted to her brother Jon, men hungry for revenge on the Freys, men from the camps of those who had betrayed her, desperate to live. They were tired, weak, angry, and they were not truly hers. It would be foolish to trust them even in a thing as simple as keeping watch. In winter, men belong to their desperate bellies, to their cold hands. If she could keep them alive through this, they may someday belong to her, but not today.

Stannis Baratheon held the Barrowlands, Barrowton and Torrhen's Square being his, along with what remained of Moat Cailin. His forces were not great in number and their resolve was weakening, but it still would not do to have the walls of Winterfell breached. Men loyal to Baratheon had run on her as soon as she raised her banners in White Harbor. He might have defeated her, but by guilt or by love or by loyalty, the North men who had declared for Stannis after the murder of her brother Robb left him to serve the daughter of Eddard Stark and instead she was victorious. Sansa found it strange that her father could exist so vividly in the memory of those he was only lord to… they did not know Eddard the father, Eddard the husband, Eddard the storyteller, Eddard who gave the warmest hugs in the still-cold of the chamber she shared with Arya so long ago… yes, Sansa found it strange that they could love him by that face alone, so she counted herself lucky. The red wolf, they had called her, and they had bent the knee. Their she-wolf could have destroyed Stannis, but she let him go. She had tried to treat with him twice since then, to no avail. Sansa did not want the south. Even if she did, it was not important now. Winter was no longer coming, it was here, and it was so very important that the people be united, under one ruler or under two. The cold kills and should the White Walkers make it past the wall again… the Baratheon pride was as fierce in Stannis as it had been in Robert and Renly and though less vibrant it was no less stubborn. Sansa had hoped he would thank her for her mercy, that he would be grateful to her for destroying the Boltons, but that was not so. Pride leads the armies of men, Sansa knew that now. It had been her first lesson as queen. Her second had come when two of Stannis' men delivered Theon Greyjoy to her door. Stannis thought her womanly heart would be moved by the gesture and that in good faith she would bend the knee to him, bend the knee and bring him thousands of North men and men of the Vale, bend the knee and give him back the North mountain clans her brother had helped him to ally. Stannis thought wrong.

"Are you alright, Little Bird?"

Sandor's voice pulled her out of her head and back into the cold. "Yes… yes, I am alright. It is hard to be queen, that is all."

"I am here to help you… I will help you," he rasped, his voice colored by both determination and desperation.

Sansa began to laugh. It was an offer she had once dreamed of, an offer she was using as an excuse to let the Lannister's dog live on, an offer that, before he said it aloud just now, had touched her heart and made the memory of their interactions in King's Landing glow and swirl like never before, but now, in the harsh light of day, in the unforgiving cold of the North, it made her laugh. He looked at her, the familiar sneer covering his face for the first time since they'd been reunited again. That only made Sansa laugh harder. An angry dog and a mad bird once more.

"I am sorry, forgive me," she spoke through the laughter, wiping tears from her eyes. "It is just… what could you possibly do?"

He let fly a harsh laugh. "I…"

"No, no, do not answer that. I'm being horrible, but I just… I just can't stop laughing."

And so she kept laughing, to the point of clutching her gut and bending, to the point of needing to lean against the stone wall of Winterfell, feeling worse as more and more anger grew on Sandor's face.

"I know I'm not as strong as I used to be, but I did risk my life to get here!"

His sudden roar silenced her, but only for a moment. She let out a guffaw before saying, "So did I."

Sandor took in a deep breath, his nostrils flaring, and turned away from her. Sansa collected herself and leaned against the cold wall for support.

"I am sorry… how do you mean to help?" Sansa bit her lip trying to hold back the giggle that threatened to escape. It is horrible, truly, all of this, who we were, who we are, how dead I feel… but can't he see how funny it is?

He turned back to her and Sansa knew she'd been caught. "Fuck you, girl." He spit and began to walk away from her, surprisingly fast considering his state, but Sansa supposed long legs did help. Even free of injury, she doubted she could catch up to his long strides with any ease and she herself was considered tall.

"Is that how you speak to your queen?"

"That is how I speak to a giggling child," he yelled back at her, not looking, and then she was chasing after him.

"You do not get to walk away from me!"

"Seems I do."

"I am the Queen in the North! You live by my mercy alone! You have promised to help me!"

He turned then and Sansa bumped into him, almost falling back, but a strong hand grabbed her by the cloak and set her upright. He leaned his face down to hers, still holding onto her cloak, and bellowed inches from her face, "And you have laughed in my face! But thank the gods you're not too cowardly to look at it anymore!"

He walked away from her again and she stood, stunned, for some moments before she was after him again. "You would hold that against me?"

Sandor didn't answer. He merely growled. He was slowing down now, clutching at his arm. Sansa could see past his anger and see that he was hurt, hurt physically, hurt emotionally, but she could not find it in her to be kind. She caught up and looked up at him as they walked, her heel sinking into the snow, making her footing unsure and awkward. "There are things I could hold against you! Sandor! I could… I could."

He snorted and sped up again. Sansa was shaking with anger. The blush was running hot up her face, so hot that she could feel it happening. She realized her hands were gripped tight into tiny fists. She charged after him, but then Sansa stopped. If he wants to go, I'll let him. Leave him to the questions, the ridicule, perhaps even the violence he would meet upon returning to the Great Hall without her. Sansa recalled the riot he had saved her from, how easily he had torn that man's arm from his body, and suddenly she felt very bad for the Northmen who would try him in her absence. Putting her people over her pride, she decided to catch up with him once again, but she would not spare him.

"You didn't save me." It came out not as a yell, but as a low growl, a tone that surprised herself.

"What in seven hells are you on about?"

"I… I had thought you would… do you know how I left King's Landing?"

"Heard you turned into a wolf with wings and flew off, but I'm more like to believe the scheming Littlefinger version of the tale."

"He was behind it, yes. But it was Ser Dontos."

He slowed then, so it was easy for her to match his strides. "That fool?"

"Yes."

Sandor laughed. "I never took him for a bad man, but not a good one either."

"You were right. He was being paid. But he helped me. He said he meant to be my Florian." Angry tears welled behind her eyelids and Sansa let out a sharp cry of laughter.

"Gods, you and-"

"He left a note on my pillow… telling me to meet him in the Godswood… it was unsigned, of course."

"Of course." He stopped walking and turned her to him, his large hand pleasantly heavy on her shoulder and she felt the anger melt like so much snow covering the hard ice of suffering and sadness. "What is this about, Little bird? What?"

"I… I had thought… hoped it was you… and it wasn't…"

They looked at each other then, really looked at each other. His eyes are the same grey as the sky. Night had begun to fall around them, but the glow that snow brings still hung on the air, fading the deep, clear blue of the day to a still grey. His eyes glittered in the setting sun and Sansa did not even balk at the way the glare emphasized the grotesque scars that covered his face and throat. He pulled her cloak back over her shoulders and clasped it more firmly. She could scream at him some more. She could tell him to leave. She could have him executed for his crimes. She could ask him why he let them beat her, ask him why he did not take her kicking and screaming out of the Keep, before Tyrion could leave her burdened with pity and hatred, before Littlefinger could pry her mouth open with his tongue, before poor Sweet Robin… but Sansa knew that, truly, none of it was his fault. The special place in her heart she bore for him she bore because she knew that, sharp steel and strong arms or no, he was just as trapped as she was.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"For what?"

"For not saving you."

"Other men did."

"No… what they've done to you… no."

Sansa stepped closer to him and placed her hands on his chest. "There were prices I had to pay… but… I'm free now…"

Tears slid from her eyes against her desire. Sandor wiped them away. "No, Little bird, don't do that now…"

She stepped back and regained her composure. He continued speaking, still softly. "I remember when I realized I was free… it hurts."

She nodded.

"I can listen, Sansa. That I can do."

"If I tell you… there are things that will make you ashamed of me-"

"NO." The boom of his voice made her jump. "I… I would never blame you, for anything, anything you did, anything done to you. You didn't choose any of this. The first time I spoke to you I knew you didn't decide a damn thing."

He held her by the chin and pulled her face to his. She had never seen so much kindness in his eyes. She could not recall the last time anyone had looked at her so kindly… and Sansa realized, as a chill ran up her spine, that he was looking at her. He can see me. It was not pity for the last wolf of Winterfell. It was not devotion to her father, happy to have found a purpose again. It was not fear of winter seeking out the red wolf. It was not desperation clinging to the fresh hope of the Queen in the North. It was Sandor Clegane looking into the eyes of Sansa Stark and feeling for her, feeling anything for her. Sansa lost herself then and she wept, quiet and clean, turning her back to him. After a time, she felt Sandor step behind her and pull her back against his chest. He couldn't see her face, but she covered it anyway. She felt his kindness and so, for the first time since her father had died, Sansa felt everything. The truth came pouring out of her, a chaotic list of the weights she bore.

"They have Rickon… the Manderlys… they got him back, safe and sound… and...to have them swear to me I had to leave him as a ward… and he… he remembered me… oh gods… but I could not see him… they tell me he is well, wild, but well… but I cannot see him… because I am not strong enough not to take him home, I know it…

I killed Theon Greyjoy. He taught me to lace my boots and I killed him. He sometimes carried me to my chambers when I fell asleep in father's chair by the fire… and I let Harry cut off his head… He was my dear, sweet Robb's best friend, his brother… my brother… and he betrayed him, but he was so broken… and I killed him…

I killed Littlefinger. Petyr Baelish, who loved my mother… once… who saved me… but only after he destroyed my family… I killed him, too. I chained him and made him walk North, made him believe he could talk and promise his way back into my heart… but I knew, I knew I was going to end him. I just wanted him to feel terror…

And I am horrible. I am glad. And there is so much more vengeance that I want. But I have to be smart. I have to be smart… and… and I have to keep playing this game, I never meant to play this game, oh gods."

And somehow, she had curled into him. And then, he had picked her up and was carrying her, carrying her as she struggled to breathe through the cries she had held inside of her for years, her full grown weight still nothing to him, not even with a lame leg and a newly wounded arm that may never heal. He was silent, but she took comfort in it. It was not the cold she felt in the Eyrie. It was the still cold nights when her mother would brush her hair for the longest, the still cold of a chamber that held Arya's laughter and hugs from her father, the still cold night that invited mischief from her brothers and Theon. Sansa realized they were close to the gate.

"Put me down now. I won't have my people see me like this."

And, her head held high, Sandor Clegane silently behind her, holding her secrets where he had only moments before held her, Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, walked back inside the walls of Winterfell, the walls of her home, and she smiled and nodded to the men who a mere month before had served Ramsay Bolton and had no doubt hoped to see her dead. After all, Sansa Stark, was a queen, first of her name, and Queens did not cry. At least not where people could see.