Chapter 9: Four Starks
The muted scrape of metal at the door did not wake her, but the sudden loss of Sandor's warmth did. The heavy arm around her lifted away, the chest at her back retreated, and the legs against hers vanished. Cool air washed over her where once he had touched her, coaxing goose pimples from her skin.
The bed dipped, and Sansa rolled into the depression his body left behind. She burrowed under the furs, not yet ready to leave the warm nest they had made. Robb had been in her dream, whole and windswept from the ride home, and she wanted nothing more than to wade back into the sweetness of sleep, where she could return his smile and pretend he was not long dead.
When she knew that she would not descend into slumber again, she grieved. I hardly ever dream of him.
The quiet scratching sound came again, and this time she recognized that it was unnatural; someone sought entry and did not wish to knock.
Sansa's eyes snapped open and fixed upon the door. She sat up, her hair spilling around her bare shoulders, clutching the furs to her chest.
On the other side of her, she heard the rustle of cloth, and turned her head in time to see Sandor hitch his breeches over his hips. He glanced at her as he laced them, his expression unreadable, but the sound came a third time and his gaze moved to the wooden door.
A long, wicked knife gleamed on the bedside table, and he caught it up before striding across the room on bare feet.
One yank and the door was open. Around the bulk of Sandor's body she could not see their visitor's face, but the slender sword tucked through a belt loop told her enough. Needle. Sansa thought of her nightgown, and stretched questing toes toward the foot of the bed.
"Why do none of you Starks know how to knock?" Sandor growled. "Was your septa fond of drink?"
Sansa's foot touched the crumpled nightgown and she threw the furs over her head. She gripped the garment with her toes and drew it to her hand.
"Wolves don't knock," came the answer. "Is she here?"
"Is who here?" Sandor said, sounding bored.
It was no good; the nightgown was a crumpled mess. She fumbled with it, but without light could make neither heads nor tails of it.
"Don't pretend; it doesn't work on me. Let me in."
"No."
Sansa heard a grunt and the clatter of the knife hitting the floor, and her head emerged from under the furs in time to see Arya dart around him. Sandor grimaced, pressing the heel of his hand to the center of his chest. "Little wolf bitch," he said.
The covers were tucked under her arms and she nearly had the nightgown sorted out, but it was far too late. Sansa watched as her sister's eyes took in the bed, her bare shoulders, and her mussed hair.
The dark eyebrows drew together, but Arya said nothing.
Behind her, Sandor retrieved his knife and leaned against the door, rubbing his chest.
"Arya," she said, with as much dignity as she could muster. Finally the nightgown was turned the correct way, and she ducked her head into it, wriggling, and hoped she wasn't giving her sister too much of a show.
When her head popped out of the neck of the gown, Arya said, "What did you do to her face?"
What's wrong with my face? She touched her chin; the skin there felt sensitive.
She met Sandor's gaze over Arya's head. When I met him, he had the angriest eyes I'd ever seen. Now it was like a different person looked at her; someone steady and strong.
"We'll have to powder that, you're all red." The dark-haired girl looked around the room. "Where's your cloak? Bran wants us."
"Arya," she said.
"We're leaving later, we're to ride at night. They only attack then." Arya got on one knee and looked under the bed.
"Arya," Sansa said again. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and pulled the nightgown down past her knees.
Her sister let the bed curtains fall and glanced up at her. Sansa could see the reluctance in the awkward movement of her body as she stood. She expects me to ask questions. To chastise her. The gray eyes were wary and unhappy. They flicked to the side and down, and she understood at once that her sister was very aware of Sandor's presence behind her.
I swore to myself that if I saw her again I would tell her at once, that I would not wait.
She stood and pulled her sister's stiff, unyielding body into an embrace.
"I've wanted to tell you for so long, how sorry I am," Sansa whispered into her ear. Her fingers curled around around a bony shoulder. "For lying to King Robert. About what happened at the river, with Joffrey and Nymeria and your friend."
Arya's silky hair brushed against her cheek. "Our direwolves, both lost—because of me. And I blamed you for it. I was so selfish and stupid, so sure I was right. But I wasn't. I'm truly sorry."
Sansa put her at arm's length and looked, but her sister's face showed no hint of the feelings behind it. After a few moments, Arya half-glanced behind her, toward Sandor.
"Do you have a spare cloak?" the girl said over her shoulder.
Sansa bowed her head. Perhaps she just doesn't wish to speak in front of him, she thought, but an echo of the hurt from the evening before shivered through her nonetheless. She watched Sandor drop gracefully into a squat and rummage through his saddlebags, and as she looked at him the cold feeling passed.
He found what he was looking for, a plain, dark green cloak, and came to her. Sansa let him swing it around her shoulders. It was more than long enough to cover her bare toes, and the hood hid most of her face.
This is the third time he has given me a cloak, she thought, and looked up at him.
"You'll ride with us later?" Sansa asked.
"Yes," he said, pushing her hair under the cloak. His thumb brushed her cheek, and her hand rose of its own accord and wrapped its fingers around his heavy wrist.
"We need to go," Arya said, pointedly.
Sansa sighed and let her hand drop. When she stepped around him to join her sister, she did not fail to see the roll of her eyes. You should have knocked, if you didn't want to see, she thought, and was almost glad to feel her temper rise.
In the hallway, a chilly silence fell between them. She kept her eyes on the floor, marking each step. The hood of the cloak blocked Arya from her view, and she was glad of it.
As they reached the stairs to the family wing, Sansa said, "I hope he's off that list of yours." She set her foot upon the step and climbed, indifferent to her sister's silence.
The corridor of the family wing was empty, and she looked forward to being in her own room again. She hoped the smell was gone.
"They would have killed the direwolves in King's Landing no matter what," said Arya suddenly.
"At least on the kingsroad one was able to get away."
Sansa stopped at her chamber door and depressed the latch. She stood in the doorway, torn between telling her sister to go away and offering a kinder response.
"Do you think Nymeria's alive?" she said eventually, as she stepped into her room.
Arya followed her inside. "She is. I dream of her all the time."
I dream of the dead almost every night. It never made any of them alive; not her mother, or her father, or her brothers, or Lady. She sat on a chair, comb in hand, and began tugging at her hair.
Arya must have seen the doubt on her face. "Nymeria's alive. Here, let me do that."
"Then she's the last one," Sansa said, as her sister snatched the comb from her hand. She thought of the day the boys brought home the pups. The wolf she would later name Lady had sweetly licked the fluffy face of one of her littermates, and that was how she had known that the girl pup was meant for her. "They're all gone, and most of our family, too. I sometimes wonder if we're cursed."
"We might be," Arya said, gently tugging at a tangle. "Maybe one of our ancestors did something bad, and the gods are punishing us."
"Our lord grandfather was cooked in his own armor. Whose sin was he paying for?"
"Don't know. I feel sorry for whoever has to pay for mine."
Sansa laughed. "You're fifteen. It can't be that bad."
But Arya looked solemn. "You don't know."
Sandor had said nearly the same words to her, not long ago. You don't know what I've done. What I am.
She waited, but Arya did not offer more. The tangles were gone from her hair, and her sister had not pulled it even once. Sansa braided it into a thick rope, then lifted her chin when Arya appeared in front of her with a pot of powder and a brush.
"He told me you killed people," Sansa said. The brush paused in its sweeping, and Arya's eyes met hers for a moment before moving back to her chin. "I killed people, too."
This time it was Arya who looked doubtful.
"I did. I fed my husband to his own dogs. Ask Jon if you don't believe me."
"So that's what that meant."
"What?"
"The letter, from the Hound. Where he said he liked the story of the last man to cross you."
"You read my letters?"
"Of course. I had to know what was going on, didn't I?"
"But they were locked up!"
"Not very well. I could have picked that lock with a spoon."
"Arya," she said, feeling scandalized. "It's not polite to break into people's things and read their letters."
"I know," her sister said, gesturing with the brush. "But I had to. And besides, I killed Littlefinger for you, doesn't that make up for it?"
"You didn't kill Petyr," Sansa said.
"Yes, I did."
"No, you didn't," she said. "He fell from his horse—"
"How do you think his horse slipped—"
"I smothered him with a pillow."
"You could've just waited, he would've died on his own," she said scornfully. "And if he didn't, I would've taken care of it. You didn't have to do anything."
"How was I supposed to know that? I didn't know you were here!"
They glared at each other, and after a few moments Arya began to look sheepish. "That's true, I guess," she admitted.
She felt the corners of her mouth turn up. Arya smiled back at her for a moment, before her eyes dropped. Her sister looked hesitant, as though she was considering saying more. As badly as Sansa wanted to know what had happened to her, she knew better than to ask. So she waited, and tried to look kind.
But when Arya spoke she only said, "He is. Off the list, I mean." The brush in her hand smoothed over Sansa's chin very gently. "I swear it."
Two soldiers stood guard in the hallway outside Jon's chambers. The Maid of Tarth lingered there as well, and her eyes raked Sansa from head to heel so violently when she noticed her lady's approach that she was very glad for the powder pot.
Podrick Payne waited as well, a little to the side. As usual, he stared at the floor, but his posture was stiff and his lips pressed together in a firm line. Sansa felt bemused at the sight of anger on the face of one so gentle, until she noticed her sister's matching frown and averted gaze. Then she remembered Miri on the battlements, holding the squire's hand, and she felt her own mouth tighten. That was not kind of her, she thought.
None of them tried to speak to the two Stark women, and the blast of heat that pressed against her face when she stepped into the room made Sansa wish she had not already dressed for winter riding.
Her brothers sat in chairs before the roaring fire, and Meera Reed hovered uncertainly over Bran's shoulder. His look was warm, and the girl offered Sansa a hesitant smile, which she returned.
Jon did not look at all; he stared into the flames as if they were the only thing he ever wanted to see again.
"Four Starks in one room," said Bran. "It has been long and long."
His solemn words seemed to rise into the air and unfurl like a summoning. For a moment the room felt crowded, as though their lost family stood in the gaps between the living siblings. Sansa could almost feel the presence of the Starks who had died, and for a moment thought she heard the click of direwolf nails on the floor; but when she looked around in startlement nothing was there. It was only the fire popping, she told herself.
"Come and sit, sisters. We have little time, and I have news."
Arya chose the chair next to the king's; she drew her knees up and hugged them. Like her brother, she gazed into the fire, but where Jon's expression was distant and grim, Arya's was almost dreamy. She is happy, Sansa thought, as she lowered herself into the next chair. The fire did not interest Sansa; she turned to Bran.
"What news?"
"Some the two of you will like very much, though the first fact of it is not all that relevant to the north: Cersei Lannister is dead. King's Landing has fallen."
Sansa sighed, and when she slid her gaze to the side and met her sister's, she found Arya's dreamy look had narrowed and become joyful; her eyes glinted in the firelight, and Sansa thought she looked half-feral. Satisfaction glowed within her own breast, and she turned back to Bran with a smile.
"Glad news indeed," she said.
"Who killed her? How did she die?" demanded Arya.
"She was strangled," he said. "But as for who, there is another who should hear that tale, and we have other business first."
Arya muttered something under her breath, though Bran ignored her.
"Westeros knows a new queen. Daenerys Stormborn," he said, his eyes on Jon, "of House Targaryen. The First of her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, and Queen of Mereen. The Unburnt. The Mother of Dragons."
Jon finally tore his eyes from the fire to look at his brother. A muscle jumped in his cheek, and Sansa thought if his teeth clenched any harder they might shatter. Anger informed the set of his shoulders, and she was glad he spent his furious gaze on Bran and not her.
"Euron Crow's Eye set a snare for the dragon Viserion, hoping to steal him," said her younger brother, his own gaze serene. "He did not know that only Valyrian blood could work that magic. His horn failed, and he lost his life. But the dragon died, too, drowned in the sea. Only two remain: black Drogon, and Rhaegal, who was named for—"
"Don't," said Jon, rising out of the chair. His hands curled into fists.
"Who was named for your father."
Ned was our father, thought Sansa. She did not understand.
"I'm a Stark," snapped Jon, who had always protested that he was not.
"You are," agreed Bran. "And a dragon, too."
"Aunt Lyanna," gasped Arya.
And then understanding finally came to Sansa. Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped her, and raped her. Father knew… She inhaled sharply and covered her mouth with her hand. "Cousin," she said, her eyes on the man she had thought was her brother.
"It doesn't matter," roared Jon. "They're all dead: my father, the father I thought I had, my mother. It was over years ago. It changes nothing."
"It does," Bran said in a voice like steel. "Daenerys is sweeping north, she is in the Riverlands now, heading this way. You must send her terms, or we will be crushed between her army and the dead."
"Terms. There's no need for that. I'll kneel." The words should have been bitter, but Sansa saw a light in his eye, the same one she had seen when he had spoken of taking her south from the Wall, to a warm place. He wants to wash his hands of it all, and this is his chance. No one will blame him, the north has submitted to dragons before.
"You will not. You are a warg. A Targaryen warg. Your Stark blood gives you the ability, your Targaryen blood gives you the right."
All three of them stared at Bran.
"Get within reach. Claim Rhaegal. With him you have a weapon against the dead army and a shield against Daenerys both. She will not dare move against you, with a dragon's life at stake; she knows the pain of that loss too well. The north will remain free: dragons do not bow to dragons."
All of Old Nan's stories are coming to life, thought Sansa. Wargs had been a favorite among her brothers, second only to tales of deep winter and the Others. A younger Sansa would have scoffed, but she had seen the wonder of magic herself in her sister's face; if Bran said Jon was a warg, then he was.
"I don't want a dragon," Jon said.
"Jon," said Arya with barely concealed impatience. "It's a dragon."
"It could work," breathed Sansa. "If we had a dragon…" Hope flared inside her, as hot and powerful as the dragonsbreath of her imagination, and the thought that they might actually live was so stunning that she hardly noticed the cool look Jon cast her way.
"I'm not the only warg here," he said, but the light in his eye was nearly gone; duty was wrapping its chains around him again; he slumped in the chair. "You're better than I am. You do it."
"I'm not a Targaryen," Bran smiled. "I don't know if I even could. Besides, I won't be there."
Arya frowned. "Where will you be?"
"Here."
"What do you mean, 'here?' Aren't you coming with us?" Sansa heard her voice go high, and swallowed.
His look was gentle, and she did not like it. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."
"That's just a saying," said Arya.
"No. It's much more than that."
A tense silence grew in the room. Sansa's imagination showed her Bran propped against the heart tree in the godswood, alone, watching the dead creep toward him between the sentinel trees and soldier pines. He still won't be able to walk, after. He'll drag himself by the arms, when they turn him. The thought was too much. I couldn't bear to live, if it means Bran dies.
"Then let me stay," she said. Sansa had spent the last few days expecting to die, and live again, chained by the Night King. It was not so difficult to set hope for her own life aside knowing that a dragon might save the rest of those she loved. "I'm not a warg, and I don't control any magic; I'm the least valuable. Let it be me who stays, if someone must."
Bran shook his head. "There is work to be done here, and I am the only one who can do it."
"What work?" she said. She stood, and her split riding skirts whirled around her legs. "The work of dying? Do we come together after years of suffering to have only these few hours?" Her hands clenched into fists at her side. "You told me once that you knew we would see each other again. Tell me now: if we leave you, will we meet again?"
Bran looked at her with love and pity on his face, and Sansa hated him at that moment, for the answer she knew he would give.
"I cannot say."
"We could just tie him to a horse and make him come," Arya said. "It's not like he could fight us."
"Leave it," said Jon. He was staring into the fire again. "It's his choice."
"It is," agreed Bran. "And you could not fight me." His eyes rolled back into his head, and Sansa heard a gasp from Arya. When she looked, her sister was shaking in the chair with gritted teeth, her own eyes showing white. A trembling hand rose from her knee, and mussed her own hair. Then her body relaxed, and her eyes looked normal again.
Arya glared at her younger brother.
Bran laughed, and for the first time he sounded like the child he had been in Sansa's memory. I must remember this, she told herself. It may be the last time I hear my brother's laugh.
The sound defeated her; her resistance melted away like icicles in a spring rain. She lowered herself back into her chair as Bran gestured and Meera bent over him. Sansa did not hear what he murmured to her, but the girl slipped from the room.
A few moments later, the door opened again. It was not Meera, but Brienne of Tarth who stepped into the room. The tall woman looked at the four Starks with their faces all turned to her, then gave a low bow.
"Lady Brienne. Welcome," said Bran.
"My lord," she said. 'My ladies. Your Grace."
Her brother gestured at the chair next to him, and the Maid of Tarth made her way around the ring of chairs and took her seat. She huddled in the chair, and kept her eyes downcast.
"My lady," Bran said. "We have news that you will want to hear. Cersei Lannister is dead. A new queen has conquered the south."
The woman's head snapped up, and she looked at Bran with wide blue eyes. "What happened?"
"Cersei spent months placing caches of wildfire all around the city: in the slums of Fleabottom; under houses and stables and taverns; even under the Red Keep itself." The inflection of Bran's words was odd, as though he was quoting someone. "When Mad King Aerys's daughter stormed the gates, Ser Jaime Lannister begged her to surrender. Instead, she told her Hand to burn them all, and let Daenerys Targaryen be the queen of ashes. I think you can guess what happened next."
"Jaime," whispered Brienne. Her face went white, and her hand rose to cover her mouth.
"Queenslayer," Bran agreed.
"Does he live?"
"For now, though he wears chains. The queen's Hand—his brother—ordered him confined in King's Landing. Queen Daenerys had other, more pressing matters to deal with at the time. At some point, of course, she will return, and even I cannot tell you what she will decide to do with her father's killer then."
His brother. Tyrion is the Hand of the Queen. It was odd to think that she might soon see her first husband, if Jon met with Queen Daenerys to discuss terms. The thought was not a happy one; Tyrion had not been cruel, but she had no desire to ever spend another moment in his company.
Immersed in her own thoughts, she had not noticed Brienne leave her seat. She stood tall before her, and for once showed no signs of awkwardness. In Sansa's experience, the Maid of Tarth disliked making eye contact and avoided it whenever possible, but her pretty blue eyes were clear and calm, and met her own without any hesitation.
The tall woman knelt before her. Brienne unbuckled her sword from its belt, and looked down at the pommel of Oathkeeper. As Sansa watched, the Maid of Tarth rubbed her thumb over the golden lion's mane, and then laid scabbard and sword at Sansa's feet.
"My lady," she said. "I swore to shield your back and keep your counsel. I swore to give my life for yours if it was necessary. It has been an honor serving you; your kindness has meant more to me than I can say. But I owe a debt to another. I don't know if I can save him, but honor compels me to try. I fulfilled my oath to your mother: both her daughters are alive and returned to Winterfell. Now I ask you to release me from my vows to you."
Sansa glanced at Bran, who nodded.
"You've served me well, Brienne. If this is what you wish, go in peace. If a time ever comes when you have need of me, I am at your disposal."
"Thank you, my lady. Oathkeeper—"
"Must stay," said Bran.
"I know." Brienne nodded. "You have need of it." Her blue eyes gleamed with wetness, and Sansa guessed how hard the moment was for her.
"You may take whatever supplies you feel you need for your journey south," said Bran. "And we will give you a writ of safe passage. It will get you through Moat Cailin safely. In return, we ask that you consent to carry a letter to Queen Daenerys from the King in the North. "
"I will. I swear it." She stood and raised her eyes from the sword. Sansa saw no fear in her face, only determination. "If you'll send for me as soon as it's ready… I'd like to leave at once."
When she was gone, Sansa bent over and picked up the sword. The tooled scabbard was as fine as the pommel. The Lannisters do nothing by halves. She pulled the sword out a few inches and looked at the ripples in the steel.
"The remains of Ice," she murmured. The red sheen of the blade still offended her, for all that the sword had been wielded in her service for some time.
"Who will carry it?" said Bran.
"Someone loyal," said Jon. "Tormund, or someone from the Night's Watch. I'll think on it."
"No," said Sansa. "This is Stark steel, whatever it looks like now, and sworn to defend its daughters. He who defended us will carry it." She looked up from the red gleaming of the metal. A faint smile played about Bran's mouth, and Arya looked thoughtful.
When she met Jon's gaze, her stomach sank. This time she could not ignore his cold look of dislike. He is angry with me. Very angry.
"Add Widow's Wail to your terms," she said. "After the war we'll hire a master blacksmith, and reforge our family's sword."
Jon grunted and turned back to the fire. Sansa felt uneasy; she did not understand his hostility toward her. She looked away from his rigid profile, pushed the blade back into the scabbard, and stood.
"Are you not staying?" said Bran. "Meera is fetching food."
"No." Leaving Bran's presence in the last few hours he might ever be near her was the last thing she wished to do, but she did not know if she could bear to receive another accusing look from Jon just yet. "Best to settle this now. I'll return before we ride."
Sandor's room was vacant when she arrived. She thought of waiting for him, but her stomach was painfully empty and she could not recall when she had last eaten.
Climbing the stairs back to her room, Sansa was grateful for Valyrian steel's lightness; a normal sword's weight would have been been a considerable burden, and she was already very tired.
Her chambers were just as she had left them. She stood just inside the door and breathed in gently. The awful smell that had permeated the air the night before seemed to be gone. After setting Oathkeeper onto the chest at the foot of her bed, she checked her reflection in the murky glass atop her vanity.
The skin around her eyes looked red and dark, despite the powder. I look as exhausted as I feel. I should eat, and try to sleep a little, if we are to ride all night. She took up her gloves for the walk across the courtyard, and settled the hood of her cloak over her hair.
Outside, the sky was dull and gray. The air was a little warmer than it had been when the Wall's defenders rode home, but snow still dusted the ground and a few flakes flew with the gusting wind.
The courtyard was full of wagons. Soldiers and wildlings and black brothers crossed and recrossed the flagstones, loading the waiting wagons with sacks, barrels, and oddly shaped packages. She supposed they would strip Winterfell of nearly every scrap of food and fodder for the journey.
Sansa opened the kitchen doors and stepped into heat and noise. The ovens were all fired, and a dozen young men manned them, pulling trays of hard bread out and preparing the next ones. The cooking soldiers were so intent on their tasks that they did not notice her.
Six cauldrons hung in niches along the wall, bubbling with the inevitable stew. Someone had stacked trencher breads high along a block bench nearby, and Sansa helped herself. She considered trekking back across the courtyard to eat her meal in privacy, but her stomach growled at the smell of food. It's warm here, and no one has noticed me anyway.
She slipped around the bench and found a small stool to sit on. The stew was swimming with carrots and onions, and for once the meat was fresh and abundant. They must have slaughtered overnight. She would have wolfed it down had it not been so hot.
As she ate, she listened to the sounds of the kitchen: the snapping of the fire, the squeal of the oven hinges, the clatter of pans, the voices of young men joking with each other. A queer sense of invisibility stole over her; she was mostly hidden by the burdened table, and knew that the men would not have spoken so naturally if they had known of her presence. I wonder what it's like to have friends, she thought, as a wave of laughter rolled around the kitchen. She'd had a friend once, Jeyne Poole, but could no longer remember what it felt like.
The warmth of the air and the meal inside her drew her eyelids down, and she drowsed for a few moments, feeling oddly safe. Arya's face swam into her mind's inner vision, and she thought that perhaps she understood a little better why her sister had chosen not to reveal herself in Winterfell.
Only when she dropped the fork onto the floor did she realize that sleep was rolling over her, implacable and unconcerned with her location. Her stomach was very full, and her eyelids felt as heavy as iron. Little red sparks seemed to float at the corners of her vision, and she stood and thrust the wayward fork haphazardly on the table.
The air outside failed to revive her. The rushing wind swept the warmth from her without refreshing her; she clutched her useless cloak close and staggered toward the keep. Her eyes burned, and felt grainy.
Her weariness was so pervasive that when the toe of her boot landed on the uneven join of two flagstones, she would have tripped over the tiny obstacle and fallen had a strong hand not seized her arm.
Bewildered, she looked at the hand, and then realized it was Sandor beside her. Neither of them spoke. Sansa dragged herself upright, and they went forward together.
"My room," she said when they were inside the castle doors. He did not relinquish her arm, and she was grateful for its strength as they walked together up the stairs that had once hardly attracted her notice, but now seemed almost insurmountable. Her knee ached, and with each step pain shot up her thigh and down her calf.
At last she leaned against her own door. Instead of pushing, she let her weight open it. She half-fell into the room and limped toward the nearest chair, leaving the door for Sandor to close. She put her elbow on the table and leaned her head on her hand. Her eyes closed at once.
Sansa heard the scrape of the chair next to hers as he pulled it away from the table. His leather armor creaked as he sat.
"How was the family reunion?"
She grimaced, and shook her head a little. What should have been joyful had been sad, unsettling, and brief. She would have told him how different it had been from what she had imagined all those years spent apart from them, but she was too tired.
"Brienne's leaving," she said instead.
"Going south."
"Yes." She sighed, and opened her eyes to look at him. Sandor had pushed up his sleeve, and held a leather vambrace in his hands. She watched him adjust the twist near one of the eyeholes until the laces lay flat. "She's not coming back."
He grunted, and slipped the sheath back over his forearm. His eyes flicked up and met hers. They were unreadable, and not for the first time she wished that she knew what he was thinking. He isn't guarded, exactly. It's just that I have no idea how his mind works.
"So, will you?" she said, not knowing any other way to put it.
"Will I what?" He yanked at the laces and tied them off, flexing his forearm to make sure of a good fit.
"Be my shield. I need one, you know."
"Do you? I thought we were all about to die."
"Apparently not," she said, wondering if it was at all possible that he was teasing her. "Or rather, maybe not. They have a… plan, I suppose. An idea, at least."
Sandor leaned back in his chair and studied her. "You know what happened last time I was someone's shield."
"It was only the fire," she said, before realizing that he might take offense to her words. But he looked the same as ever: stern, and slightly irritated. "And Joffrey was a shit," she added.
"True enough, but we both know there's fire where we're headed."
Sansa shrugged, and stood up. Three steps took her to the bed, and to Oathkeeper. She took it in both hands and returned to him. "This time if you run, I'll run too," she said, and offered him the blade.
He took it from her, and slowly unsheathed it. The scabbard he set upon the table with hardly a glance, but he examined the steel minutely. Sansa sat back down and watched him look at the ripples in the steel. He ran his fingertips along the length of the blade, careful not to touch the edge, and she had a strong, sudden recollection of those same fingers trailing along her bare skin.
After some time he stood, and hefted the sword to judge its weight. Then he knelt, and placed it at her feet.
"I offer my services, Lady Stark," he rasped. "I will shield your back, and keep your counsel—"
"No," she said, alarmed. He'd gotten halfway through the thing before she'd realized what he was doing. "You don't have to swear."
They looked at each other, he on one knee, she wringing her hands in her lap. The thought of Sandor swearing a vow to her made her desperately sad, and she couldn't articulate why.
"I would," he said, "for you."
"I know," she said. "But—please, get up," she said wretchedly. She couldn't stand looking at him down there, with his eyes hot on hers.
He did, and sat again in his chair, frowning at her.
"I don't need a vow to trust you," she tried to explain. "And if I didn't, a vow wouldn't make me do so. Words are wind. I already know you'll do what's needed, because you always have." She knew she was babbling, but could not seem to stop. "I'll never ask you to swear, ever. For any reason. I swear it. Oh, bloody hells."
Sandor's laugh sounded like a rolling boulder, and she looked at him in astonishment. He looks so different when he smiles, she thought. She admired the straight teeth in the wide mouth, and her own mouth curled up in response.
"Mad little bird," he said. "You're reeling. Time to sleep."
It was true. Sansa could not remember ever being so weary.
She stood, and her new shield helped her out of her cloak. He guided her, his hand at the small of her back, and when she climbed onto the bed he bent once more and removed her boots. The sight of him kneeling at her feet again warmed her, and she wondered how long it might be before they saw a bed again. If only I wasn't so tired…
Soon she was in the bed, fully dressed. She wondered if he would hold her, as he had before, but he only draped the furs over her and looked down at her.
"Kiss me," she said.
Sandor bent and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. She closed her eyes, and thought she felt his fingers touch her hair, so lightly that she was not sure it had happened at all.
"No," she said. "Kiss me."
This time he obeyed her, and she sighed against his mouth. When he retreated, she did not bother to try and open her eyes. Her head was buzzing with exhaustion, but she still heard the scrape of the chair as he dragged it to her bedside. His hand touched hers, and the last thing she did before melting into the warm darkness of sleep was twine her fingers with his.
