In the following days, Sansa kept to their room as much as she could. They finished moving the stores that Sandor had squirreled away, stowing them in the basement of the inn. With each trip into Winterfell, Sansa grew more assured and yet, more wary. Fear of being recognized was all but forgotten. Sandor was right to say that so many people crowded together would bring trouble: there had been murders, she wasn't sure how many. So far, it seemed to be all soldiers. But the tense feeling had turned brittle and sharp, everyone could feel it. The gates had been barred and no one was allowed in or out but with Lord Bolton's leave. Everyone was waiting for something, though no one could say what. And still the snow continued to fall.
It took both of them by surprise: Sansa had never been alive for a true winter and Sandor had never been so far north during one. The snow fell heavy and wet, turning the world into a mass of grey and white. It was a bleak and miserable world, made all the worse by the haunting sound of a woman crying. Sansa longed to go to Jeyne and comfort her, to help her escape from Ramsay Bolton as Sandor had once helped her; but she couldn't. As though in counterpoint to the wailing woman in the tower, warhorns sounded night and day. Sansa hadn't seen the host outside Winterfell's gates, but Sandor had scouted during one of his trips and brought back news: a contingent of men bearing the Umber giant camped to the west of the keep. Days later, they split and shifted their camp, tormenting the south. In the past few days they rejoined and harried the northern wall, their trumpets blowing in an irregular pattern night and day.
It was hard to know whether the Umbers' presence should comfort her, but somehow it did. She stood, listening to the faint wail in the wind, leaning against the broken wall of the First Keep. There was a gargoyle grinning down from above her and she smiled back at it, remembering how Bran would climb and clamber over the stones. She was meant to be keeping watch while Sandor sent the last crates of supplies down the stone stairs with ropes. Dawn was coming, although it was nearly impossible to tell. The clouds would not part, no matter the time of day, and the snow continued to grow.
Suddenly, there was grip on her elbow that sent sharp pains shooting along her arm. "My lord," she whispered, "you're hurting me."
Instead of Sandor's gruff apology or snarled retort, a young boy's voice sneered, " 'My lord', is it? What lord's been slinking around with a scullery maid?"
Sansa turned to find a broad, greasy youth at her side. Before she could speak, he twisted his grip on her elbow and she twitched in pain. "Am I hurting you?" he asked in a mocking sweet voice.
"Yes! Release me!" she ordered. Although the boy couldn't be older than ten, he was nearly as tall as she was and had a grip like iron. He sneered, his face twisting into an ugly, cruel smile.
"Do you find my grip strong?" he pressed, pushing her back to the wall. "Lord Ramsay says a man needs strong hands if he wants to be powerful. I've been practicing. Squeezing rocks."
She pulled, twisting to free herself but he only increased the pressure of his grip. Gasping, she bent over to protect her elbow. When she tried to peel his fingers off, he slapped her across the face.
"I've been practicing that too. But I'm better at this," he boasted, digging his thumb into her. "I can snap a cat's neck with one hand now!"
She gasped, horrified, but stilled. "Won't you let me go? I'm certainly no match for you," she asked politely, hoping to stroke his ego.
Without a word, he bent and picked her up over his shoulder. As tall as she was, it was an awkward carry, but he managed to start out across the yard. "Lord Ramsay will want a hunt soon," he told her. "He promised that I could ride out with him next time. Maybe he'll even let me have you, after he's done. Have to put you in the dungeons until he deals with Stannis, though."
Squirming as she was, he didn't notice when her hand slid between her skirts. The dagger caught him between the buttock and the bottom of the ribs. He stumbled and she fell to her feet, swinging wildly. Her second stroke caught his throat and cut so deep she thought she could see the bones of his neck.
She watched as he bled out within seconds, the snow under him turning a sickly crimson. She might have stayed there for eternity, rooted to the spot, had Sandor not stomped out to find her. His big hand turned her chin toward him. "Where are you hurt?" he demanded quietly.
Sansa shook her head and gestured with the dagger to the body on the ground. "It's all his?" he pressed. When she nodded, he took the blade from her hand, digging it in the boy's neck once again, and then threw it down the path. As he'd hoped, it left droplets of blood and gore as it flew, leaving an obvious trail for anyone who cared to follow it. He rubbed his hand on the boy's tunic before pulling the bottom of Sansa's gown up to pat her own arm dry. "Don't want to leave any signs," he muttered in explanation. "Snow'll cover our steps quick enough."
Once he was sure she wouldn't drip blood, he led the silent girl back to the keep, backtracking and confusing their trail to be safe before barring the ivy-covered door behind them. Down they went, through the circular room and into the tunnel. When he figured they were about halfway back to the inn, he pulled her to him and stared at her, waiting.
Although she followed where he led, her eyes were glazed over, her lips a tight line across her face. "You going to be sick?" he asked sympathetically. "Many are the first time they kill."
She shook her head and seemed to notice for the first time that they were in the tunnel. "What happened?" he demanded gently, shaking her slightly when she didn't respond.
She blinked slowly and sucked in a deep breath. "He was hurting me. He was going to take me to Ramsay Bolton for a hunt."
Sandor grunted as his gorge rose. "You did right, to kill him."
He knew what to expect. He'd seen many a squire or common boy kill for the first time, even a few women who had taken up arms to protect themselves or their homes. They vomited, cried, or threw themselves into the fray with a new confidence.
But here she stood: his little bird, the girl who could recite any romantic story ever written on command, who believed in honor and love above all things. She was quiet, and distant, but she was on her feet.
"Do you know who that was?" she asked. "That boy I murdered?"
"Some Frey. Snow's squire."
"He said he was practicing his grip. That he could snap a cat's neck with one hand."
"Gods. Well, that one eats from his master's plate, that's for fucking sure," he rubbed his hand over his face. "Well? Are you alright?"
She nodded solemnly. "He was a little boy," she said slowly, "but he was dangerous."
"Yes," he agreed. "And he's the spawn of one of the fucking traitorous cunts that killed your brother and mother."
"Oh," she said thoughtfully.
"Blood was owed for your side, make no mistake. And don't call it a murder. You killed him because he would have hurt you, that's not murder."
She was quiet a while longer before taking a deep breath and sighing. "He will haunt my dreams tonight," she confided.
"Yes," he admitted. "Maybe for a long time yet."
"He deserves tonight, at least," she muttered. "I want his blood off my skin. Can I have a bath?"
He nodded and pulled her along side him as they walked back to the inn together. She shook in his arms, but never shed a tear, nor turned green.
"Would it displease you for me to say I admire the kill?" he asked, teasing her gently. "It was a quick death."
She looked at him askance. "I ripped his throat out. Quick, perhaps. But brutal."
"Like a wolf."
"Yes," she said, smiling faintly for the first time. "I suppose so."
Once they were back in their room and hot water had been ordered, she stripped down, pushing the bloodied clothes into a pile to deal with later. It was then, as she settled herself in the steaming water, that she cried.
"I feel horrible," she told him later as he wiped the blood from her face with a wet rag. "It was a terrible moment that I wished undone the moment it was done."
He grunted and continued to bathe her.
"Would you have killed him, had you gotten there before I got my knife?" she asked, cocking her head to one side to look at him.
"Without a second thought."
"I am having lots of second thoughts," she confessed.
"It's done," he told her firmly. "You can repent, you can regret, but you cannot undo. So don't let it simmer. He was a rabid little ferret."
She dragged her fingers through the water, watching the tiny waves rush to fill the furrows her fingers left behind. " 'This world is made by killers'," she quoted.
"I'll find you a new dagger," he said, uncertain what she needed.
But she smiled and murmured her assent and when he was done bathing her, they curled up together on the bed, waiting for the dreams to come.
