A/N

One small point, you'll see descriptions of Wintertown in this chapter which is one of the largest settlements in the North during winter. In the books it's really right outside the castle walls, but since this fic is technically in the show category, and we never see a town right outside of Winterfell in the show, I'm putting it located just a short ride from the castle.

As always thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Your reviews help keep me motivated!


Chapter 4

Revelation

-Sansa-

Sansa's heart was hammering in her chest as Sandor Clegane's self-satisfied gaze bore a hole through her.

The idea that he was now bound to her for life had given her a sudden and unexpected thrill which she was now trying her utmost to both understand and simultaneously repress. His wild, overgrown beard shifted slightly to accommodate a grin before he turned around and headed back to his seat, leaving Sansa standing alone and feeling incredibly exposed.

The room had fallen silent, punctuated only by heavy footsteps and the thump of a very large body collapsing back into his chair.

Sansa, in a desperate attempt to draw attention away from the awkward silence in which the Hound had left her, turned to Daenerys and resurrected their prior discussion.

"So are we to just wait in White Harbor for news of the outcome of the battle? What if there is no news?" Sansa moved closer to the table, placing a tense hand on the back of her chair for some much-needed stability in her rapidly spiraling world. "What if you are all defeated and we are attacked without warning by this dead dragon that was capable of taking down the Wall? How will we be any safer there than we are here?"

Perhaps this could be the key to changing their minds, the key to helping all of them realize that sending her away would serve no purpose.

Sansa raised an eyebrow, challenging the queen to refute her logic, "Are we to board the ships and just remain on them for months? And even then, what would prevent the dragon from following us out into the harbor and destroying our ships before we've even put out to sea?"

The silver-haired queen released a deep breath in an impatient huff, flashing Jon a look which seemed to concede to some victory on his part. Jon wore an expression which simply said "I-told-you-so," and he calmly folded his hands in front of him, making no move to intervene in the discussion. He seemed to be quite content in leaving the situation entirely to Daenerys' own powers of negotiation.

The young queen faced Sansa again and tilted her head in understanding, "Yes, we have considered this as well. I assure you, Lady Sansa, we are working through a solution. Jon and I will discuss the final decision with you shortly before your departure. For now, you will prepare to leave Winterfell as soon as possible."

Daenerys, despite her petite stature, was capable of portraying a very commanding presence when she needed to. Although Sansa's agitation was palpable, she thought it would be unwise to continue to challenge the Dragon Queen before the entire council, especially while she had no ally to support her cause.

Succumbing to her fate, she voided her expression and lifted her chin in proud resignation.

"Of course, your grace," Sansa replied curtly, without tremor or weakness in her voice, only steel resolve and a bitter taste in her mouth. "As there is no time to waste, you will be so kind as to excuse me."

Sansa was done with the discussion—with the entire situation—and an urgency to be alone as soon as possible soon overwhelmed her. Without waiting for permission or a formal dismissal, Sansa cast Jon a scathing look and swept from the room.


-Sandor-

"Clegane!"

Sandor recognized her voice immediately and scowled at his ill-luck. He'd hoped for a quiet ride into Wintertown to purchase some much needed clothing and other essentials for yet another journey which he must embark on, but a moment of solitude was apparently too much to ask for when it came to Brienne of Tarth.

Casting a reluctant glance over his shoulder, he growled a reply.

"Are you following me, wench?"

Brienne's mount closed the distance between them and she fell into pace by his side, her already unpleasant countenance set into an unbecoming scowl as she glared sideways at him.

"I'm not following you. I have business in the Winter town as well."

She was still upset with him, despite the fact that becoming Sansa's second shield had not been his idea. Her large, full lips were turned decidedly downward, and she tossed her cropped, straw-like hair out of her eyes impatiently.

"You have business that drove you to leave the castle exactly when I did, is that it?" Sandor chuckled sarcastically as he wrapped the reins tighter around one large, gloved hand. "Be honest, wench, do you mean to try and kill me so you can be the only one protecting your precious charge?"

Sandor's hoarse laughter only deepened the frown lines on Brienne's face, which had been his intention. This brooding, awkward woman was far too easy to provoke, and Sandor couldn't help his bemusement at how easily she succumbed to mockery. It was a weakness which she surely should have overcome by now, having undoubtedly been the butt of many a joke in her lifetime.

"My name is Brienne." She took the bait readily, fixating him with her judgmental blue eyes, affronted just as easily as he'd anticipated. "And yes I did mean to speak with you. I figured now was as good a time as any, before we leave on the morrow for White Harbor."

Sandor grunted and spat, already wishing he could be rid of her. "All right, get on with it then. I ain't got all day."

For all of the woman's aggravating qualities, at least she wasted no time with empty words. Brienne was straight to the point.

"Any fool can see how pleased you were this morning with your new assignment, Clegane. My interest is in protecting the lady Sansa. Why her brother—cousin rather—would have chosen you of all the men he could have appointed as her shield is beyond my understanding."

Her words—so emphatically punctuated at regular intervals—were dripping with self-righteousness and the contempt which Sandor so often encountered by men, and apparently now women too, of "honor."

Sandor's mood darkened and he clenched his jaw in an attempt to stay the rage that she was beginning to provoke in him.

"Aye, of course I'm pleased," he spat back in reply. "Any fool would be pleased to get out of this fucking frozen wasteland and head in the opposite direction of that dead army."

He turned to Brienne, leaning over in his saddle and ensuring that she had a full visual of his scarred face. Using his fearsome countenance against an opponent was a habit of intimidation he had developed long ago whenever his anger was roused.

"You seen the army of the dead, wench? No? Then don't judge me for being pleased to get as far away from them as possible."

He growled and jerked the reins, a little too roughly for the poor beast who was by no means to blame for the stupid woman riding beside him.

Brienne was momentarily silenced by his harsh reply, having clearly not expected such a logical and succinct refutation of her assumptions. Her tongue traveled across her teeth in agitation behind her scowling lips as she worked to formulate an appropriate reply.

"Fine. That's a fair reason," she conceded lamely, while still trying to maintain a semblance of righteous indignation to justify her accusation against him. "But I believe you understand to what pleasure I am alluding. Lady Sansa has been running from the clutches of vile men for half of her life. She's finally rid herself of them and then Jon goes and assigns you, a man with—questionable motives and a past life serving her enemies in charge of her protection!"

Sandor growled darkly, his patience worn dangerously thin.

"You don't know shit about me, woman!" He snarled back at her with contempt. "I know what Sansa's been through, I stood there in King's Landing in my fucking white cloak and watched those shits beat her! You think I liked it? Ask her yourself who wanted to get her out of that shithole when Stannis attacked. Don't lecture me about what she's endured," he snapped, clenching his fists to suppress the overwhelming urge to knock her out.

Brienne's voice rose in pitch as her anger began to match his.

"Do you truly believe that what she endured in King's Landing was even the half of it—even a quarter of what that poor girl has been through? Do you know who Ramsay was?" Her eyes flashed a striking blue against the flush of her skin, as she challenged him with swelling outrage.

Sandor's confidence faltered slightly at that, and he did not immediately respond. Truth be told, he had already been feeling uneasy about what exactly that man had done to Sansa. He'd heard rumors, but nothing that had been confirmed—after all, men lied and exaggerated all the time. Now it became clear to him that he'd been clinging to a stupid, naive hope that maybe it was all just rumors and exaggeration.

Despite his uncertainty, Sandor feigned understanding to save face, "Aye, I know he was some bastard of Bolton. Some say he was cruel to her."

"Cruel?" Brienne laughed without mirth, a strange sound coming from someone as tightly wound as she. "That hardly does justice to the monster that he was." She narrowed her eyes, "You remember Theon? Surely as a man you've heard what was done to Theon Greyjoy at the hands of Ramsay?"

Sandor winced, remembering exactly what the men had said about Theon's condition. He didn't want to accept the reality that Sansa truly had been at the mercy of a man like that. He'd been rejecting the idea ever since he'd first heard of Ramsay, though he hadn't realized why until now. Believing the horrible stories surrounding Sansa's experience with the Bolton bastard caused a sickening dread in the pit of his stomach, a feeling that he preferred to repress.

You're no better than the girl when she believed in knights and fairy tales. You didn't want to believe it because it was an ugly truth, a truth that hurt.

Brienne continued, incensed with her subject and oblivious to Sandor's inner turmoil.

"His torturer was the same man who married Sansa. Do you think he spared her any more than he spared Theon? Sansa was willing to jump from the walls of Winterfell to escape him, to flee into the frozen wilderness on foot to escape him. Do you understand how desperate a highborn lady would have to be to do such a thing?!"

Sandor's mind began to fog as he allowed Brienne's words to engulf him, fully impressing upon him the horror that had been Sansa's most recent marriage. He cringed inwardly as he envisioned the little bird falling from the castle walls, fleeing in desperation from a madman.

"I saw her at that point, I saw what he'd done to her. He tortured her just like he tortured Theon."

Brienne paused for emphasis, her chest heaving with emotion as she struggled to catch her breath and stay the tremor in her voice.

Sandor remained silent, sick with regret. If only he had taken her away with him from the capital…

"And before Ramsay it was Littlefinger. Can you imagine a beautiful, young maiden alone in the clutches of that pervert? If you think he spared her his advances you're wrong. He only needed her maidenhead to secure the alliance with the Boltons, that didn't prevent him from taking anything else. So when I tell you that you don't know what Sansa has endured, I mean you don't truly understand what that woman has been through. I have dedicated my life to ensuring that Sansa need never experience anything like that again, and I need to know now if I'll need to protect her from you as much as anyone else!"

Sandor had listened to the remainder of her diatribe in silence, too stunned and disgusted to reply. His thoughts went to Littlefinger putting his hands on Sansa, then selling her to a man who would torture and rape her.

He almost lost himself as the fury which filled him completely threatened to replace any cognizant thought that he might have had. Every moment he'd spent with Sansa since returning to Winterfell flashed through his mind as he reviewed her behavior in an entirely new light, feeling at once overwhelmed and furious and helpless.

Brienne shifted in her saddle beside him with a grunt of finality, rousing Sandor from his somber contemplation. His aggression toward the woman had dissipated into a kind of solidarity when he finally replied.

"You don't need to worry about me," he growled quietly, "I'm not my brother, though everyone would love to believe it. Sansa knows I always tried to spare her from Joffrey's rages from the moment they killed her father. Aye, I probably could have done more, but I was a Kingsguard, I'd been in service to the Lannisters most of my life. Defying them was not something I could have easily done." He pulled at the mane of his horse absently, trying to repress the feeling that he'd ultimately failed her by reminding himself of the times that he hadn't. "When the mob came for her I was the only one who went back for her. And if you think in all that time that I couldn't have easily taken from her whatever you're implying that I'm after, then you're a fool. Jon chose me because he knows I would never hurt Sansa."

Feeling uncomfortable at having shared more than he intended to with this woman, Sandor drew up to his full height and cleared his throat awkwardly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Brienne seemed to relax, fixing her gaze on the road ahead in solemn contemplation. They rode in this manner for several minutes, each in silent reflection, until they began entering the outskirts of the Winter town.

Brienne finally acknowledged him with a reluctant, yet sincere response.

"I am pleased to know that we understand one another. You'll forgive my insinuations, I needed to ensure that you were not a threat to Lady Sansa's safety." The incensed and fuming Brienne of minutes ago had been displaced by the honor-bound, tiresome woman that she'd always been. "I swore an oath to her mother that I would find her daughters and keep them safe, and I will die before I fail either of the Lady Starks."

Sandor grunted, but didn't bother with a reply, knowing that this was as close as he would get to Brienne accepting him as Sansa's new shield.

The people of Wintertown began casting suspicious and fearful glances at the two strange figures riding past them. Children stopped their play to whisper at each other, or run for the safety of their hovels while women averted their gaze whenever they beheld his countenance. Reactions like this were nothing new for Sandor, and he hardly noticed them as he remained lost in thought. Finally, he turned to Brienne.

"You said Baelish needed her maidenhead, yet she was a woman wedded and bedded by the Imp at that point," he grimaced at the mere mention of the fact, one that had torn at him since he'd first learned of their marriage years ago before he'd promptly drowned himself in wine and nearly died as a result.

Brienne was stoic by this point and responded almost dryly. "Wedded, yes. But Lord Tyrion was kind enough to spare Sansa his marriage bed. A courtesy that was not extended to her by Ramsay. As I understand, he raped her the night of their wedding and forced Greyjoy to watch."

A gutteral sound left Sandor's throat as he clenched his jaw so tightly he feared he'd break a tooth.

As an afterthought, Brienne assessed him warily, "You'll not repeat any of this. I have only told you so that you might understand my...concern for Sansa."

Sandor remained silent for a moment to allow his rage to dissipate before he trusted himself to speak coherently.

"That Ramsay." The name felt like a curse on his tongue, like bile in his mouth and he wished it could somehow be made tangible so that he could exact his fury upon it. "Whatever happened to him? I was only told that he was executed."

Brienne raised her eyebrows, the question apparently taking her by surprise. She looked at him strangely for a moment before understanding finally spread across her face, along with a reluctant grin.

"Sansa had him chained in the kennels and then set his own dogs on him."

There was a tinge of maternal pride in her tone as she nudged her beast into a trot, inclining her head toward Sandor in the smallest gesture of solidarity before she disappeared into the throng of people who were rushing about as they prepared to leave their entire lives behind.

A chill traveled down his spine as Sandor pictured sweet, polite Lady Sansa carrying out such a unique and violent sentence against her abuser. He allowed a smile of cruel satisfaction to bloom as he imagined the man torn apart by dogs with Sansa watching on in silence. The poetic justice was almost too sweet, and he felt as if she'd somehow allowed him to take his vengeance with her chosen method of execution.

A dog to do your killing, is that what you like, girl? How appropriate. Sandor chuckled to himself and headed for the market.


-Sansa-

The decision had been made and there was now no use dwelling upon it. Sansa might have put up more of a fight, might have insisted upon remaining in Winterfell at any cost, but for what purpose?

Jon was right—leadership was not only something that Sansa was destined for, it was something she excelled in. She'd learned just enough from both Cersei and Littlefinger to think like the enemy, always expecting betrayal or foul play, yet she'd been raised in the North where values of honor and duty were of high importance. She was the ideal combination of her mother's caution and her father's integrity.

Even if she'd wanted to oppose the decision further than she had, Sansa had been cornered by both Jon and Daenerys, a king and queen in their own rights, who had already conferred with their closest advisors on the subject. She would have been going against the rulers, against their council and with what defense? "I don't want to go?" She hadn't been prepared with a convincing argument to rebut their decision and by staunchly refusing to leave, she would have only succeeded in portraying herself as both craven and dishonorable.

Sansa had made the only choice she'd felt she had in the moment; she'd accepted her fate.

The prospect of leaving Winterfell, as frightening as it was for Sansa, had been emotionally upstaged by the unexpected appointment of her new sworn shield. While she did not fear Sandor Clegane by any means, she was beginning to fear his apparent influence upon her. He unraveled her in a way that no one else had since she'd escaped from Ramsay's custody.

When he'd made his reappearance into her life, Sansa had told herself that he would no longer unsettle her like he used to do in the capital. She'd only been a frightened child then, after all, and she was now a woman grown, with experiences that most women could only imagine in their worst nightmares. She had determined that she would no longer stammer and shiver under his intensity like a scared little bird.

Yet, despite everything that had changed in her life since she'd last known him, Sansa found to her annoyance that his presence still disrupted her peace of mind nearly as much as it used to in the Red Keep. She had always assumed that her reactions to him in the capital had been borne of fear—fear of his harsh words and the ever-brewing anger just beneath the surface of his scarred, foreboding countenance.

But now that his effect upon her was proving to be almost the same as it had always been, she began to wonder what it could possibly mean. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she did not fear him—Ramsay had taught Sansa what it meant to truly be afraid—yet why else would he unsettle her so?

Sansa found that she could make no sense of it at all and the uncertainty was highly discomfiting. The complications which Sandor Clegane introduced into her current situation only further increased her agitation about being sent away. She had so relished the feeling of control which she'd exercised over herself and her circumstances in the past months, and now it was all unraveling before her—from the moment she'd first laid eyes on the Hound in the courtyard of Winterfell.

Sighing her worrisome thoughts away for the moment, Sansa picked up the small, engraved chest which contained her sewing necessities and headed to the door of her chambers. She had to get away from the mind-numbing tedium of packing, if only for just a few minutes of fresh air.

"Milady, let me take it for you," her handmaid interjected, scrambling to her feet from where she'd been kneeling on the other side of Sansa's chambers, dutifully folding linens. "It's nearly dark, you needn't trouble yourself." She reached for Sansa's burden but was quickly waved away.

"No, thank you, Mery, but I need to get out of this room for a few minutes. I desperately need a change of scenery, to look at something that isn't piles of clothing and canvas sacks for at least a moment or two."

She smiled reassuringly at the young woman who hesitated briefly before bowing and returning to her chore.

Sansa loved the bite of the crisp, Northern wind sweeping over her exposed skin every time she stepped out of doors. The frigid air revitalized her completely as she filled her lungs with a deep breath of the winter evening, allowing a smile for the first time since she'd learned she'd be forced to leave her home.

Her boots thudded loudly on the wooden planks of the upper level as she hurried toward the courtyard, the chest tucked securely beneath one arm as the other lifted her skirts so that she could move more freely. She knew she would find the wayns in the stables, still being prepared and loaded with provisions and supplies for their journey.

The caravan leaving Winterfell on the morrow would be a very large one, and even worse, would be comprised only of the very old or very young—of children younger than twelve and their great-grandparents. Of women great with child or still nursing their infants and others who would be unable to fight due to illness or disability.

It would be a caravan of the weak, with Sansa as its leader.

She grimaced at the unglamorous task to which she'd been assigned. At least they would have some men-at-arms to accompany them, though few and far between. It was better than nothing.

Sansa packed the chest carefully onto her personal wayn, making sure to keep it readily accessible for when boredom would undoubtedly overtake her on the journey south. When she was satisfied with its placement, she stepped back and surveyed the very real and tangible evidence of her eviction.

She would be leaving Winterfell at first light, venturing away from the safety of her home and family into the unknown where the cruel world would take everything from her once more, just as it had done the last time she'd left the safety of its walls for the merciless South.

The cold tendrils of fear began to wrap around Sansa's chest, threatening to suffocate her in a panic-driven episode of hysteria, but she squeezed her eyes in resistance. She had learned over time to be strong, to stave off the weakness of allowing herself to fall into a state of unbridled emotional distress. She pressed a palm against her stomach as she slowly inhaled a shuddering breath, releasing it methodically through pursed lips.

Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she turned to begin the walk back to her chambers. Despite her best efforts, Sansa's vision blurred with unshed tears, obscuring the stack of items placed beside the wayn just enough for her boot to catch on it.

She stumbled, yet before she quite knew what had happened, a strong arm reached out from the shadows, catching her by the elbow and righting her.

"Ain't the first time I've saved you from falling on your face, is it?"

Sandor's husky laugh caught Sansa's attention immediately and she stifled a gasp of surprise just before it escaped her lips. Struggling to regain her composure quickly, she drew up to her full height and discreetly wiped the moisture from her eyes with her fingertips.

"I—thank you. No, it isn't." Sansa flipped her hair casually, mentally refusing to allow herself to be unsettled by him. "Perhaps it's your fault I lose my balance. You always startle me." She looked up at him and frowned. "Are you following me?"

Sandor chuckled again and leaned against the wayn casually.

"Would it be out of place if I were? I'm your shield now. That's kind of my job." He grinned and crossed his arms across his broad chest.

He was right and Sansa felt as if he'd taken the wind from her sails, but she would not give in so easily.

"Well. I wouldn't say it's strictly necessary while we're still inside the walls of my castle." She fussed with her clothing, straightening out her skirts while trying to devise the best way to remove herself from his presence which, despite her resolution from only moments ago, was already proving to be alarmingly nerve-wracking.

What in the seven hells is wrong with me?

"Isn't it? You don't think you might have ever needed greater protection within the walls of this castle?" His deep, rasping voice held a specific inference in it as he subtly probed to learn more about the sensitive topic which he had just so brazenly resurrected.

Sansa went rigid. Clenching her jaw so tightly that her teeth began to protest, she surveyed him with new suspicion before slowly giving reply.

"I don't know where you learned of that, but—"

"Is it true you killed him?"

He didn't seem at all apologetic for interrupting her as he drew himself up from his relaxed stance, unfolding his arms and taking a step toward her.

Sansa's hands balled into fists at his audacity, but she faced him boldly and lifted her chin higher.

"Yes. It is."

Sandor cocked his head, clearly amused. "We're both killers now then. Didn't I once tell you that killing was the sweetest thing there is?" He had drawn so close to her that Sansa thought she could feel the vibrations from his rasping voice traveling down her spine. "You didn't much like that then. And how do you feel now?"

She narrowed her eyes, remembering the instance to which he was referring. She knew that he had her.

How was this the only man who knew so well how to unravel her? Even Lord Baelish, though he might have flattered himself into thinking he controlled her, had never truly had power over her.

"When the killing is justice—," Sansa looked down at her hands, pondering what she'd done and thinking of the blood that would forever be on them. She gathered them into fists and tilted her face back up to his. "Yes, then it is sweet."

As she glared into the steel gray eyes which had always had unrivaled powers of penetration, Sansa suddenly realized that she shared something with this man that could not be said of any of her other companions. There was a deep understanding between them—the Hound had been her unofficial ally once, the only one who'd looked out for her at a time in her life when she'd been utterly alone and friendless.

Now as she beheld his face in the near-darkness of the winter twilight, Sansa found that the scars which had once disgusted her were almost a comforting sight. The Hound and she had a past that was known only in truth to themselves.

The realization of this bond that they unwittingly shared startled her and Sansa faltered. She blinked nervously and averted her eyes, finding that she was unable to hold his gaze any longer. Sansa stared down at her hands once again as they fidgeted restlessly in the narrow space that he'd left between their bodies. She became acutely aware of his breathing pattern, of his eyes boring a hole into the top of her head and she felt that she was becoming panicked. He was very close to her now.

Too close.

"He hurt you, little bird?"

Sansa's head snapped back up at the warmth in the unexpected question, spoken with a gentleness and concern that was surprising in a man like the Hound. She searched his eyes in confusion for a moment before he dropped his gaze, slowly taking hold of her hand and drawing it up between them.

Sansa gasped softly as he pulled the fabric of her sleeve back from her wrist just enough to fully reveal the long scar which traveled dangerously close to a vital vein.

"Or is this your work?"

His calloused fingers gently traced the mark along the sensitive skin, sending her pulse racing wildly.

When he lifted his eyes to hers again, she began to pull away instinctively, shocked by the depth of feeling she saw in them. Her confidence wavered as unexpected and rivaling sensations coursed through her body without warning. She suddenly felt dizzy and rather disoriented.

Snatching her hand from his grasp, Sansa breathlessly tucked it against her breast and attempted to gather her wits as best she could. She could no longer meet his gaze as she stammered an excuse to flee from him.

"I—that's—that's not a topic up for discussion. Excuse me, Clegane, I still have much to do before dawn."

She spun on her heel and fled as quickly as she could. The tears returned, but this time she did not bother to wipe them away.


-Sandor-

She was already astride her mount, a spirited, dove gray mare with hair as black as Stranger had been. It suited her—gray for Stark and the black which seemed to match her mood this morning.

Small sections of her hair was drawn back at the temples in simple braids drawing the attention to her piercing blue eyes which were set in the iciest expression he'd ever beheld on Sansa's lovely face.

Their conversation from the night before came back to Sandor vividly as his own horse fell into step behind hers, trotting through the main gatehouse of Winterfell. When he'd drawn attention to the scar, she'd closed up tighter than a virgin's cunt before fleeing from him as quickly as she could manage.

The behavior was very like that first night in the corridor when he'd escorted her to her room. The girl was running from her demons, unwilling to face any reminders which brought her back to that wretched time in her life.

He couldn't really blame her, but he also couldn't place exactly why he felt the need to continue to dredge up Sansa's past. There was something unsettled there, some unresolved issue that was eating away at him ever since he'd been reunited with her. He'd already apologized for his behavior the night of the Blackwater, but there was something beyond that single incident that he felt responsible for. He hoped that she wouldn't continue to shut him out on the entire journey south.

Sansa had already said her farewells before first light and now he and Brienne flanked her as she cantered to the front of the column where Jon and Daenerys were inspecting the caravan and giving final instructions to the men-at-arms who were to accompany them. The vast, open sky above the moors was swiftly changing from the dark blue of minutes ago to a lighter gray streaked with pink and orange as dawn approached.

Jon's horse stamped and blew impatiently where he and Daenerys—a picture of serenity on her pale, silver mare before the rising sun—waited for Sansa at the head of the great caravan of Northerners preparing to embark on their mass exodus.

When the trio reached the young king and queen, they pulled the horses to a halt and Sansa inclined her head coldly to them.

"Your grace," she spoke through clenched teeth and with forced civility as she nodded to each of them in turn, "Jon."

Sansa clasped her heavy fur cloak with a gloved hand and drew it tighter around her shoulders against the driving wind which sent tendrils of auburn hair swirling around her pink cheeks.

Jon gave her an apologetic smile, "I am forever indebted to you, Sansa, for agreeing to see our people to safety."

The words did little to thaw Sansa's icy exterior, but she forced a smile as the queen extended a sealed letter toward her.

"Lady Sansa, this document has my seal and instructions for those who will greet you on your arrival. It will ensure that you have a warm reception at your final destination."

Sansa glanced down at the parchment with a supercilious expression.

"Your grace, meaning no offense, but Westeros has not accepted you as their queen yet. Why should any lord welcome our people by your request?" She met the queen's gaze resolutely, arching one elegant brow.

Daenerys lifted her chin slightly, shifting on her silver mare and stealing a quick knowing glance at Jon.

"You are certainly not lacking in powers of observation, Lady Sansa, which is always a good quality in a leader." She took a deep breath which became a sigh as she gave Sansa a pained half-smile. "You will not be staying in Westeros."

The sun chose that moment to appear on the horizon, the first rays lighting the sky behind Sansa in fiery splendor as her hands clenched the parchment more tightly. She set her jaw for the final blow.

"You are going to Meereen."