Despite the awkwardness of the embrace, Sansa found the worn mail and the scent of damp wool and leather straps and sword belt reassuring because they reminded her of Sandor; but the strong arms that held her where not his and she gave a heartfelt last sob. Gathering herself, she resolutely pulled away.

"Forgive me, Lady Mormont," she dabbed at her eyes as she spoke, "I am overwrought it seems. I am grateful for your kindness." Sansa gave her a weak but genuine smile.

"You miss him of course," Maege Mormont remarked lightly, glancing over at Sansa's bed. "No doubt such a strong presence as his chases the nightmares away for you, and bad memories of having to share a bed with others."

Sansa stiffened instinctively. Her pride would not permit her to keep silent.

"I-I have never been with another man, my lady: Lord Tyrion and I did not have a true marriage, and Littlefinger wished me to marry another, for an alliance…though I know now that he had other plans for me as well," she trailed off darkly.

"Is he dead?" The She-Bear asked bluntly, and Sansa merely nodded, though without looking at her.

"Good," Lady Mormont replied simply. "No doubt he deserved it. But tell me child, how long do you plan to carry on as you are with Clegane? Surely even if you had not upset the jar, you would not have enough tea to see you through winter. I cannot be sure we will be able to find you more: little grows under our snows, as you well know, and no trading comes to Winterfell now. It would be a great risk to send a rider to the Neck, or Deepwood Motte or- "

Sansa looked wistfully towards the empty cup again. "I think I wish I had spilled it all, Lady Mormont. What…what if he should not return from this sortie; you heard him tell how dangerous it may be…and I have forever lost my chance to have some part of him with me always? I fear that I shall regret it all of my days."

Maege Mormont stared levelly at her. "You wish for a life with him," she concluded shrewdly, "but you cannot make a man marry you, nor love you, nor even want you: men do as they please and always have. My late lord," she recounted dryly, "wanted sons, and so he tried to get them off other women when I gave him only daughters. Died on top of one of them," she almost laughed, though bitterly, "served him right. Well, it wasn't long after that my nephew Jorah disgraced himself the final time for that fancy southron wife of his. And so I became Lady of Bear Island, and we took back the Mormont name." She nodded in satisfaction. "Best he's forgotten now, though my Dacey favoured him with her height and dark hair," she seemed almost wistful herself for a moment. "A good-looking man, and strapping too, but piss-poor and could never hope to do better than his lord's sister," she shrugged. "But the Starks are line eight thousand years in the North, and the Cleganes are Westermen and upstarts…though Jeyne Westerling was herself from low stock on her mother's side despite her father's name. Even if he did want to marry you, do you think he would be accepted as your lord husband; any more than the Imp?"

Though Sansa felt stung by this blunt appraisal of both her brother Robb's wife and Sandor, she answered truthfully.

"I should be as proud as I would be happy to marry Commander Clegane, Lady Mormont; but, regretfully, he shares your view, and doubtless that of others, that he is not trusted here, nor is he worthy of a Stark…" she trailed off, reluctant to speak further.

"And? What else do you hold back, child? Is there truth to the stories of Saltpans? Is he wanted for worse than desertion?"

Sansa almost laughed. "I am wanted for regicide, Lady Mormont: what in this world could be worse than that? But there is no truth to any of the stories, though he did desert the Kingsguard and…King Joffrey," Sansa finds it is still difficult to speak the name of the boy who treated her so cruelly, and who had her father killed before her eyes. She turned back to Maege Mormont.

"Commander Clegane feels that- that the fighting may grow worse and that I may needs make…an alliance…through marriage for our victory, possibly even for our survival." Sansa swallowed hard before continuing. "He fears that if the Targaryen girl, the one with dragons, should conquer the Seven Kingdoms…that I may needs return to- to my- to Lord Tyrion as an assurance of the Stark loyalty. It is said that he is one of her closest advisors," she finished shakily.

"Her hand, some say," Maege Mormont remarked easily as she stood to take the pot back to the mantle over the hearth. "He's a shrewd man, Commander Clegane: you're a pretty prize for some man, my lady, and worth fighting for. And you won't be the first nor the last woman who needed to give up her personal happiness for the advantage of a political marriage, I am sorry to say, but it is what high-born women have always done. You're strong, you've proven that, and you can do what needs to be done," she encouraged Sansa.

Despite this encouragement, Sansa instead felt dishearteded that this woman who sympathized with her should feel that Sandor had the right of her fate.

"Well then," the She-Bear began again, "if he thinks you're too good for the likes of him, mayhaps he'll do for my Alysane. She'll need legitimate heirs for Bear Island unless she wants the land and title to pass to her sisters, and he seems well-suited for the North. Their firstborn will needs take the Mormont name however and I can't see a fierce man like him taking that with any grace," she jested before continuing with her plans with her back turned to Sansa as she stoked the small fire.

Sansa sat eerily still in her chair, stunned by the She Bear's callousness and by the violence of her own feelings. She could feel her rage mounting within her and her lips nearly curling into a snarl as she balled her fists in the folds of her skirt.

Mine!

Her mind seemed to swirl and grow hot as she saw red before her, and she wished the She-Bear up on the walls of Winterfell where she belonged…so that she could push her off into the deep, enveloping snow that reached more than halfway up the outer wall, so that she would never be heard from again and her intentions could never be realized. Just the image of her terrible thoughts shocked her out of her vengeful reverie.

She cleared her throat. "Commander Clegane has promised that he would stay as a guardian to Rickon if I should needs leave Winterfell, Lady Mormont. My lord brother has grown very attached to him and admires him above all men, even our great-uncle who is family to him."

He thinks of Sandor as a brother: do not think to take him so easily from Rickon as you would take him from me.

"Of course," Sansa added as she cast her eyes downward, "men will do as they would do, as you well know, my lady."

Maege Mormont seemed to consider her words. "It is his loyalty to young Rickon as well as yourself, my lady, that has earned him the trust of the Northern lords: I could not ask him to betray that, not while the fighting continues and gods know we need him here for that as well," she remarked grimly.

She seemed to notice Sansa's fierce countenance now. "Oh, we'll win, my lady, don't you fear about that. We'll kill them all…for your lord father, your lady mother, King Robb and my Dacey. For the North, my lady," she nodded resolutely though her voice was quiet, and Sansa felt a stirring of kinship with the She-Bear again.

"For the North," she replied.

"And for the North, I had best return to the walls. I bid you good night now, my lady." Maege Mormont strode to the door and walked out, confident and determined with her mail and swordbelt as any soldier or lord.

Sansa rose and walked to retrieve the stone jar of tea from the mantle and hide it once again beneath the floorboards.

….

Sansa tossed and turned restlessly all night. She would throw her covers off in frustration only to burrow back underneath the furs as soon as she felt the cold air of her chamber through her wool nightdress. She had sworn to Sandor that she would do what was necessary of her to secure an alliance or peace for Winterfell, and now she was tormented by the terrible thought of having to give herself to another man and share his bed. She shuddered to remember Joffrey's wormy lips and his furtive attempts to grope and humiliate her. She pushed aside memories of Tyrion's eyes looking her over hungrily, of his stunted hands and his twisted body and how she had even thought his manhood was ugly with its bulging veins and purple head.

He is even uglier than the Hound,she had told herself when she had kissed him at the altar in the Great Sept of Baelor; and she knew not whether to laugh or cry at the memory for there was no man more desirable in her eyes now than Sandor Clegane. She thought yearningly of him, of how much she loved his strong body and his strong, angular face, even with its burn scars. She loved how fiercely and how tenderly he could look at her: his eyes had lost their once-frightful rage and she could gaze into them, grey as storm clouds, and see how much he cared for her and how much he wanted her.

She rolled onto her other side and reached her hand out to trace her fingers on the bolster where he lay his head when he came to her bed. She bit her lip, and though now of his lips, of his mouth on hers and on her body when he kissed her in places that made her writhe and melt and to gasp for breath until she pulled him to her and begged him not to stop. She loved his hands, large and strong and callused, and how gently he would brush the curve of her cheek or run them through her hair, how he would touch her intimately and caress her body and even grab and squeeze her when he reached his peak or simply forgot his own strength in the midst of their sometimes overwhelming passion.

Sansa flopped over on her tummy, almost hiding from embarrassment at her lustful thoughts; but that did not still her mind as it made her think now of how he coupled with her from behind, grasping her hips and raising her bottom so he could take her like a dog. This is what dogs do to wolves he teased her, rasping in her ear as he bent over her to hold onto her shoulders. Sansa had felt uncertain the first time, and certainly unladylike with her behind in the air, but his deep thrusting had felt so good, so maddeningly good that she has whined and clawed at the headboard before she had arched her back to push against him and bent her head down, stifling her cries in the bolster. She pounded the very same bolster now in helpless vexation. How could she ever let another man touch her and do these same things to her? How could she betray her own heart and body so completely? She would always think of Sandor and always want him. She would always be his.

Sansa once again threw back her covers and left her bed to huddle before her hearth fire. She spotted the cup from which she had taken her moon tea, and she knocked it from the mantle but it did not break; it probably had not even chipped, she reflected petulantly. She knew she was acting childishly but she could not seem to help herself. After so many years of hiding her feelings, Sansa wished to revel in them and to be free to show her love for Sandor; or, at least, not to hide it as though it were shameful, and not have to lose it because she needs carry the weight of Winterfell and the North's future on her shoulders…or between her legs. She knew it was an ugly thought, something Cersei would say and certainly unworthy of a lady; but she did not feel like a lady when she thought of selling herself in marriage. Others may call her a pawn; but she felt even less than a whore. But as horrible as she had thought her future misery could be, it was not until Maege Mormont had spoken that she had realized that she may not be the only one taking another to their bed.

Sansa could possibly have scoffed at the thought that Sandor could love Alysane Mormont, but she realized that if she left him and Winterfell to marry another, his position at Winterfell could be tenuous. Though some had learned to respect him, there were still many soldiers who considered him an interloper and an upstart. Without a home or the prospect of entering into service, Bear Island and the younger She-Bear would not be an unwelcome offer; even if Alysane was a stocky woman with big thighs and large, sagging breasts and callused hands who wore mail and had two bastard children. If she were to needs marry another for convenience, why not Sandor?

Sansa remembered how gently Sandor had treated her when they first became lovers, how he had thought her delicate and how easily he had lifter her in his arms. He often traced the contours of her narrow waist and covered her rounded, firm breasts with his hands. He would run his rough palms the length of her long limbs and kiss her slender hands and even her feet, remarking how soft her skin was. She ran her own hands over the contours of her body as she knelt before the fire and felt how thin she had become since returning to Winterfell and surviving on the same rations as all the others. She no longer filled in her gowns, most of which were of plain, rough wool and under which she wore woolen smallclothes and heavy knit stockings. Her hands were becoming cracked and dried from cold and from kitchen work and her feet were growing calluses from worn boots. She had one faded hair ribbon left to her name and her few jewels where kept hidden in her satchel under the floorboards with her remaining coin and the moon tea.

Soon I shall be as plain and rough and stringy as the wildling women, and it will not matter to him if he beds them or me, or Alysane Mormont, who will inherit a title and lands while I will have nothing but my name. But I am as strong as them all: I am a Stark of Winterfell and I have survived thus far, and will continue to do so, and to be a lady even if I don't have him. I will not cry nor beg nor shame him into leaving Winterfell. I will be Sansa Stark and not his little bird anymore.

Sansa wiped her eyes, and climbed back into bed. She would stay strong, whatever happened; she would stay strong for Rickon and for the North.

"For the North," she whispered as she settled a final time that night beneath her furs.