A/N: Speedy update!

Chapter 12


The glass gardens of Winterfell had always been a place of refuge and silent reflection and so Sansa was eager to see them rebuilt. Lady Catelyn had banned the young Stark children from entering the gardens but that didn't mean they didn't sneak the odd blackberry out. One time she and Jeyne Poole had been lamenting over the beautiful blue roses so Robb and Theon dared to sneak inside and they came back with a whole armful. She'd never been so pleased. She walked among the ruins now, her grey skirts trailing through the dead plants and shattered glass. Beside her walked Tyrion Lannister who surveyed the damage while taking notes.

"We can't afford to rebuild it before the kitchens," Sansa admitted. "But perhaps we could plant some seeds. By the time they're grown the kitchens ought to be done." It would be a good source of fruit and vegetables during the long winter and Maester Samwell assured her it would greatly benefit the men's health.

"What sort of plants did you have in mind?"

"Blackberries," she answered immediately, running her fingers across a bench of dead ferns. "All sorts of fruits and vegetables. We can save the flowers for later, they aren't really a necessity."

"The glass gardens of Casterly Rock only grew flowers. Stiff perfect things that never really looked real," Tyrion replied lightly and Sansa glanced back at him. For a Lannister he wasn't truly terrible. He had saved her once, in his own way, all those years ago in King's Landing and she would never forget it. He usually refrained from talking about his family, especially around Daenerys, but Sansa suspected that inside he was torn. He had already petitioned to have Tommen and Myrcella Baratheon spared but the queen was determined to have the Kingslayer's head and it was rumoured that the Lannister brothers were close.

"You'll be Lord of Casterly Rock when this is all done, perhaps you can change it," Sansa pointed out gently. "Or will you continue to serve as the Queen's Hand?"

"I don't have the stomach to face those ghosts. I will stay with the queen in whatever capacity she'll have me...and I take up little room." He was looking down at his sketches intently to avoid her gaze but the shaking of his hands betrayed his true feelings. Sansa was tempted to reach out and comfort him but the Lannister Imp was proud and would not want her sympathy.

"You should stop running away from them. I have. For a long time I thought the queen – Cersei, rather - would have my head," Sansa admitted. "You aren't like them."

She heard him swallow and he awkwardly rubbed at the scar on his nose. "I should have protected you more. I knew the kingsguard beat you and yet I did nothing."

She waved her hand. "Hush. You did more than most." And in this day and age that counted for something.

There was an awkward pause and she left him to finish his sketches alone. As she walked through the castle several of the workmen shouted down to her and she replied with cheerful greetings. She was beginning to feel at home among these – her – people. This morning she had been summoned to a birth but no matter how much the mother and Maester Samwell laboured the child was lost. It saddened Sansa's heart more than she cared to admit, even if she still officially condoned pregnancies. However impractical, the idea of a baby among this wreckage was a sweet one and she would secretly look forward to the first birth. A baby signalled life and new beginnings. The poor mother was still being tended to and Sansa made sure to check in on her way to her solar.

The solar had once belonged to her lady mother. It was smaller than that of Eddard Stark's but warmer and cosier with a large hearth – no doubt a gallant gesture on her father's part to make his southeron lady feel more at home. Parchment and letters were scattered across the desk – some baring news from scouts while others contained so called sightings of her missing brothers. Sansa shifted through them quickly but her heart was not in it. Ever since returning to the North she had dreamt tirelessly of her brothers. Her brave brother Robb was lost to her, his handsome head sawn mercilessly from his body, and she was beginning to think that she would never see Bran or Rickon again either. In her dreams they would plead for her, calling her name over and over like a chant. She sat in her mother's high backed chair, one of the few things to survive the sack, and poured herself a cup of sweet wine before summoning Theon Greyjoy.

He looked even worse in the stark light of day. He had been scrubbed from head to foot and given fresh garb to wear but still seemed to smell of decay. His once pleasant face was gaunt and dark shadows hung beneath his eyes. They were blank and revealed nothing. What has happened to you? She wanted to ask. Before leaving Jon Snow had spoken about Ramsey Snow's vicious treatment and his fondness for flaying. "He has been whipped, flayed, and mutilated beyond repair. Treated like a dog."

"Let me see your hand," she commanded, firmly setting her cup aside.

Hesitantly, with a sharp grimace of pain, Theon peeled off his gloves and held out a battered hand. Three of the fingers had been cut off at the knuckle and the surviving skin was raw and festered. Sansa leant forward to examine them but pulled away when he let out another hiss of pain.

"They haven't been treated. What of your teeth?"

He opened his mouth and once again she viewed the wreck that was his mouth. She felt a need to wretch.

"I should have you killed. You'd be better off, I think."

Theon remained silent and she felt the sudden urge to shake his shoulders. "You saved Jeyne Poole. Why?" The poor girl had turned up on their march north and Sansa's heart went out to her. Gone was the pretty girl of her childhood and in her place stood a skinny battered girl, whose nose had succumbed to frostbite. Sansa initially felt awkward around the girl, feeling guilty that she had not checked on her earlier, but her sobs had been enough to warrant an embrace. She now spent most of her time tending to the wounded with Maester Sam but every now and then accompanied Sansa. She had apologised to Arya for stealing her name but they all knew it had not been her idea.

"He was hurting her. She kept crying...She - she would not remember her name."

"And yet you killed two little boys," her voice was sharper than she'd intended.

"Those were the miller boys. I had to. Bran and Rickon ran away."

"You were like a brother to them. I used to watch you train with Robb and Jon in the courtyard. You were handsome then..."

She felt the tears at last. They ran silently down her cheeks and she tasted salt when they met her lips. It was only then did Theon move. He took an unsteady step forwards but the glare she sent him stopped him right in his tracks. If Lady had still been alive she would be ringing his neck by now. Sansa felt ashamed when she struck him and her hand stung from the impact.

"Go to the maester and get something for your fingers. Tell him I sent you."

His stench lingered and she curled herself up on the chair, fingering the armrests. She thought about the Theon Greyjoy she'd known and lost; the cocky smile and playful voice. Was he really telling the truth? Jon Snow seemed to think so, as did Lord Davos. Sandor had been his usual blunt self, "If she can hatch three bloody dragons than anything is possible." She supposed that was true, at least.

About two months after their departure Daenerys returned with her first victory. Her dragons had burnt the White Walkers into a crisp in a second field of fire and reported that for now the Wall was secure. Her beautiful face lit up in delight as she relayed the news and called for a feast to celebrate. "A feast to mark the beginning of a new age," she insisted and her warriors cheered at the promise of drink.

Sansa was more than a little put out, seeing as their stocks were still low and there was news of a dreadful snow storm on its way. However, the young queen would not be put off and so for a week rebuilding was paused as they prepared for a grand feast. The only good thing about it, as far as Sansa could see, was that it drew Sandor home. He arrived back that very evening with a dozen black cloaked riders and she met him in the courtyard. Snow was falling and she noticed that he had snowflakes in his matted hair.

"So you've killed your wildlings and come crawling back for a feast," she kept her arms crossed and ignored the fluttering in her belly. "We have no room for more hungry mouths."

Sandor smirked as he dismounted. "Sansa, little bird, hush. I've been securing your bloody Winterfell. You could at least pour me a horn of mulled wine."

"Jeyne!" she called and the girl appeared at her side huddled in furs. "Find a skin of water for Sandor. The poor thing is parched." And with that she turned on her heel and went back inside to check on the kitchens.

She had enough to do without those silly feelings in her stomach. She had thought long and hard about it during the previous night and come to the conclusion that she would ignore it. It was foolish to think about butterflies when there were people around her starving. She was a Stark and she had duties to attend to. Family, duty, honour. She questioned the women in the kitchens about the fare for the feast and they all looked uncomfortable. "Please, m'lady, we have hardly enough for ourselves." That was true enough. The kitchens were only partially rebuilt and the women openly grumbled about the dragon queen's tall request. Beneath their breaths they muttered about what right she had to demand things of Winterfell in the first place.

"Send out Luka and the boys for whatever they can catch. Arya will help. Do we have enough ale?"

"Plenty of that, m'lady."

"Well at least that's something. Maybe if we get them blind drunk they'll forget about what they're eating."

Luka was a youngish man of two and one who had a knack for hunting and Arya was always quick with her eyes. Luckily they arrived back that evening with several pheasants and a great big goose. Even the little stable boy managed to catch a dozen pigeons with his nets. The fare was less than expected for a great feast but with hard work they managed to turn it into a passable offering. Pigeon pies packed with vegetables and gravy, charred pheasants, and hollowed out loaves of bread filled with gravy were passed down the long tables with the stuffed goose sent straight to Daenerys at the head table. The young queen seemed bemused by the northern fare but ate everything with a polite smile, no doubt dreaming of the rich food she was used to.

Only once she was seated behind the dais did Sansa begin to relax. The feasting people in the hall looked cheerful and giddy as they knocked back the ale and shoved each other playfully. She was seated between Ser Barristan and Sandor and enjoyed their gentle teasing as they begged her to stop worrying. There were no musicians in Winterfell (but then that was nothing new) but several of the men knew how to strum a lute and once the alcohol began to set in there were loud renditions of all the old bawdy songs. Sansa clapped and cheered along with the rest when they finished the Lusty Lad and struck up the Bear and Maiden Fair. Unlike Daenerys, who was dressed in a lavish gown of black and red velvet, Sansa was dressed in a simple woollen gown of light blue with her hair hanging loose around her shoulder. She thought she would miss the exotic loose dresses of the Free Cities but it was simply too cold here to really notice. At least the dress she was wearing was moderately new and she had spent all afternoon scrubbing the mud from the hem. For the first time in her life, for she had been still a child before Braavos, she was expected to wear a corset and she found it both uncomfortable and impractical.

A cheer rose up when Asha Greyjoy spurned the advances of Luka by knocking him over and she laughed. She noticed that Sandor was drinking and sent him a playful scowl. "It's a feast," he shrugged, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Lighten up and get that down you," he said, gesturing to her own cup. Sansa sipped at the foul liquid but eventually it started to warm up her insides and she felt her cheeks flush. She was only used to a cup or two of sweet wine. Soon enough dancing was called for and the long tables were pushed back against the walls to make room. She was reminded of the feast for King Robert all those years ago and felt satisfied that things were getting back to normal...

She watched as the people partnered up and began to dance to some sort of jig. There was a distinct lack of ladies to partner up with so Daenerys and Sansa were called upon to join in. There were no real steps but Sansa's partner simply moved them to the music and she began to loosen up and enjoy it. Afterwards an idea struck her, and she beckoned to Sandor.

"You promised me this dance, remember."

"Not now," he shook his head and drained the rest of his tankard. "I can't."

"Yes now." She held out her hands, albeit a little clumsily. The ale was making her giddier than usual but not so much that she couldn't dance. Eventually she convinced him and they took to the dance floor.

The floor was crowded and hot. She felt sweat trickle down her back but amongst the other dancers she didn't care. When she and Sandor came together she grinned and tightly held onto his hands. For once he wasn't scowling, but looking down at her with an unreadable expression.

Always so serious.

Just then she recalled their first dance back in Braavos, just before he'd fled. Fled to one day come back with an army. He'd dressed up for her especially in a splendid blue tunic while she wore a tantalising white shift. She remembered the warmth of his hands as he held her. That time she had been merry and utterly oblivious, but this time there was a new sort of heat. Every touch left a trail of fire and the smile slid off her face. They were pushed close together in the dance and she swore she could feel his heartbeat against her breast. This was certainly new...

Feeling more bold than wise she leant up and once again kissed his cheek. Only this time he turned his head and fiercely captured her lips with his own.

She tasted sour ale. She tasted warmth.

She wasn't sure who pushed who away first. He was glancing up at the dais nervously and then pulling her away from the feast. She stumbled after him, still reeling from the shock of what had happened. The music was fainter out in the hall and further along she could make out the lines of several embracing couples.

"I don't think they saw," she murmured, her voice sounding hoarse. He tried to hold her but she felt nervous of watchful eyes. One or two of the couples were gawking at them. "Wait..."

"Sansa."

Behind him she heard the doors to the banquet open and quickly disentangled herself, leading him up the stairs to an old tower. It was little more than rubble with a partially open stone wall. It was snowing outside and she instantly felt the cold shake her limbs. Goose pimples spread across her arms. "They'll be looking for me."

"I want you," Sandor rasped. "I want you in my bed. Every day and every night, cursing my name into my ear." He had a hold on the back of her head and she could feel him clutching onto her hair. As though trying to anchor her down. Her heartbeat was racing. "I would never have you leave it."

"How could this happen?"

"Say you want me too. Don't you dare lie to me. I have wanted this for so long," he murmured and he tried to kiss her again. "Too many days. Far too many nights."

They're all liars here...and every one better than you.

"I...I do. I think I do..."

He pulled away then and the look on his face was suddenly hateful. His dark eyes looked almost black. "You're playing with me?"

"No! I'm not, I swear..." He pushed her up against the crumbling wall and the rough surface scratched her skin. She felt his hardness against her thigh and the thought terrified her.

He cupped her cheek. "Then say it."

Suddenly the face of her father flashed before her eyes, his grey eyes reproaching. And then the face of her mother...her scowl cold and disapproving. Could she really want this man? He was everything wild and coarse. Even his caresses were rough. She watched as his face slowly dropped but couldn't find the words to fix it. She couldn't. She was a Stark of Winterfell. Made from ice and snow. She would not behave like a back alley whore.

I can't.

"They'll be looking for me..." she whispered. It was so cold that her breath looked like smoke. "I have to go."

She slipped from his grip but before leaving she risked looking back. The look he gave her reminded her of a wounded animal and she felt a stab of pity. She knew she was being unfair to him. In hindsight she should never have brought him up here but she had been confused and afraid of being seen.

"Fly away, little bird," he murmured.

She gave him a timid smile and he returned it reluctantly.

At least there's that.

That night she dreamt of Lyanna Stark, the aunt she had never known. Just a girl, really. No older than herself. How she had lost everything to run away with the man she thought she loved and in doing so dragged the Seven Kingdoms into civil war. Have you never experienced passion? Aye, one day you'll feel it. You'll want something so much that you can hardly breathe. You'll kill for them. Risk a kingdom for them. She shied away from the familiar words, feeling them stab through her chest like a knife. "Like my aunt Lyanna? That's what the crown prince Rheagar did. He abducted her and ruined her. There's nothing virtuous in that." There was no virtue in the impulsive. That was what she had been taught. Family, duty, honour. Winter is coming.

And yet she still ached. She slowly dipped a hand between her legs and found herself warm and willing. She'd been told what to do by her Braavosi handmaidens but never tried it properly before. She began to gently brush herself, feeling at once both shame and elation. She thought about what happened in the marriage bed and tried to picture Sandor's scarred face hovering above her now. What would that feel like?

No, she would not succumb to Lyanna's mistakes. She stopped and hugged her pillow to her chest instead, waiting for her heartbeat to steady. It was some time before she dropped off to sleep.


A/N: Hope that was okay... Suggestions and critique are always welcome.