No Dawning Day

Rating: T
Summary: They are in the middle of the war against the Others, and the world may very well be ending, and the only thing she will regret are the things she never said.

Warnings: character death

"Sansa! Where do you think you are going?"

She paid no mind to the calls coming from her brother as she resolutely ran towards the rundown stables. Her dress and hair were all in disarray, and her cheeks were red and tear-streaked, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered to her, except the fact that he hadn't come back. After what seemed like a century to her, she reached her horse, and had just finished saddling her when she felt a strong hand taking her forearm. She turned, angry and stern.

"Jon, let go of me."

Jon Snow stared back, his heavy eyes and brow serious. His black clothes were almost white with soot and only the gods knew what else.

"You cannot possibly go out there. We did not defeat the Others and their wights, merely pushed them back. It's too dangerous!"

"I don't care!" she bellowed, and with a hard shove she freed her arm from his hold. "He's out there! I know he is! I have to find him!"

"He's dead," Jon answered, his voice grave but hard, "every man behind those doors is dead and if you leave now you'll just add to the body count. I am not sending more of my men to die looking for you if you go through with this folly."

Sansa looked at him, angry, but her eyes brimmed with unshed tears. Without another word, she climbed onto her saddle and took the bridles. It was then she spoke.

"So be it."

She took off into the night without a second glance.

Sansa rode faster than she had ever ridden in her entire life. When she entered the abandoned battlefield, she halted to a stop, and there was only one thing she could think of: if the seven hells existed, they must surely look something like this. The skies were brown and she could barely see ahead from all the grey smoke coming from the burning bodies scattered all over the ground. Some of the flames were still burning, giving the night an orange hue, and the smell… burning flesh, blood, and smoke. She had to go on. Sandor might be hurt, or worse, and this had to be a nightmare made real for someone like him. I'm coming. I'll find you.

She climbed down the horse and started walking slowly; checking as well as she could for a single sign of movement, a sound, something, anything. Her breathing was becoming laboured from the smoke, so she ripped the hem from her dress and tied it around her mouth. She clutched her dragonglass dagger with one hand and took a burning torch with the other. She was terrified, but the only person that made her feel safe just happened to be the one she was looking for, so she forced herself to keep walking.

I should have told him. Before they rode away. I should have said something.

After what seemed an eternity, she saw some movement through the smoke. And heard a cough. Wights don't breath, she thought, elated, and she ran.

"Little…bird"

She wanted to cry, she wanted to laugh, she wanted to scream and jump. She had found him. He was lying on the ground, his clothes bloody and his breathing slow, but alive.

"Sandor!"

She threw the torch away, ran and knelt beside him, taking his hand.

"Fever…dream?"

With a slow movement, she wiped the hair from his face, taking in his pale and exhausted expression. His deep grey eyes, once so angry and forceful, were now almost… dim. Even his scars seemed softened.

"No, I'm here. I'm really here, Sandor. It's all right; you are going to be fine."

At this, he let out a strangled laugh, which he quickly finished with a cough.

"No…I'm not…"

Sansa quickly looked over his body, mangled and soot-covered, and to her horror, saw two deep piercing wounds, one below his chest, and the other on his side.

"It's just a flesh wound," she whispered, trying to convince them both, "if you just stand up, we can go…"

"It's useless, girl… I know death… when I see it. Besides… you can't carry me…" He laughed again, "too bloody…heavy… for you."

Trying to ignore him, to ignore reality, she stood up and tried to move him, at least to drag him, but he gave a loud grunt of pain, and she didn't dare do more. She knelt beside him once more and could feel more tears gathering behind her eyes. Not like this… please. What do I do? What can I do?

"The heart…" he whispered. "The gift of mercy. Do it."

Destiny must be laughing at them, the irony of it, she thought, his second time asking for mercy from one of the Stark sisters. But she couldn't do it, just as Arya hadn't done it before, but for entirely different reasons.

"Don't ask me… I can't, Sandor, I can't!" She placed his head on her lap, and leaned until her lips were on his forehead. "I love you too much to do it."

She had done it. She had finally said the words she had kept inside her chest for almost two years. His hand slowly found its way to her cheek, and he raised his eyes to her slowly as he whispered in return. "No, you don't… "

She cried again as she pressed her face to his hand, turning it, and kissing it. "But I do. I love you. I have loved you since… I can barely tell since when!" She closed her eyes, smiling sadly at the memory. "I've often thought it was that moment, when we entered Winterfell for the first time, after travelling for so long… You knelt in front of me, jesting, 'Your castle, Lady Stark', you said… but now I think I must have loved you from an even earlier moment… perhaps even before you left"

She looked at him. His black hair was damp and pressed against his forehead. His skin was cool and clammy. His eyes were closed, and there was a queer smile on his face.

"Crazy, silly little bird… your mind is going…" his tired eyes locked with hers, and in them she saw a tenderness she had seldom seen before. "Yet… I'm glad you're here… a good death… in your arms. Couldn't ask for more."

"You are not going to die!" she forcefully replied, clutching his hand more strongly, "You can't! You'll be fine, you'll see. Jon's men will come for us and they will make you alright!"

Just like in one of your songs, little bird, she could almost hear him say.

"It's alright, Sansa…" and he was queerly calm about it, she noticed, "wish I had… properly kissed you, like… a good little lady should be kissed… or not so properly, I guess…" At this he laughed and she couldn't help but smile through her tears. She leaned down, and for the first time, she pressed her lips on his. It was a short kiss, but heartfelt, entirely different from that kiss she had imagined a different life ago. His lips were soft, even the burnt side of them, and she cursed her shyness, and the time they lost, when they could have been kissing all the while. She cursed the thousand different kisses that they missed.

"You will be fine," she stressed, his head on her lap, as she pressed her hand to his chest. His heart was beating fast, and she couldn't tell if that was a good or a bad thing. "We will get out of here. Someone will come for us, and once we get back to Castle Black, the Maester will heal you. You will be perfectly fine and fighting again in no time, and once this war is over, we will go back to Winterfell."

"Keep going," he murmured, taking hold of her hand and holding it above his heart.

"Once we are home," she smiled down to him, trying to ignore his shallow breathing, "Bran will make you a Lord, for all your efforts in battle. He will give you lands, a castle, and the hand of his sister, should you ask for it." He squeezed her hand with little strength, and she kept going. For him, and for her.

"We will be married in the Godswood, in front of the old gods, and we will have a magnificent banquet. Arya will get slightly drunk during the celebrations and so will you, and when the time for the bedding comes, every lord will be too scared to even take a ribbon from my hair."

His heart was now beating slower, and she felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. Her cheeks were wet, and her eyes swollen, but she kept going.

"We will have five children, or maybe six. They will be as tall as you, and as brave and loyal. We will have three girls and three boys, and they will be close and they will care for each other deeply."

She heard faint footsteps at a distance. They could be allies, or they could be wights, getting ready for a new onslaught. It wouldn't matter, she thought, it wouldn't matter at all if they were.

"We will be so happy, Sandor, the bards will sing songs of our love," his hand wasn't holding hers anymore, "we will live in our very own castle," she closed her eyes, her voice hoarse, "no one would dare part us," no heartbeat. "And when we are old…" she choked on her tears. "When we are old…"

All sound seemed to be muted as her words echoed in the beginning of dawn, remains of a promise broken before it was ever made.