16. Stay

The smiths were busy by the next day's midafternoon, making last-minute workings on the Brotherhood's weapons. No sword was too sharp until the slightest touch of the blade on skin was enough to draw blood, crimson, and in waves. It was true that it would do little to protect them against the White Walkers, but surely the gods counted it worth something. As such, with less than a day to go, Beric Dondarrian and his men would set off to Eastwatch to join Jon beyond the wall.

But it wasn't just the preparations for the Brotherhood that had Sansa spending a portion of her day around smiths and fire and steel. The winds and snow were only gaining in strength in the north and would continue to worsen day by day with little care that there was a war in need of strong and healthy and warm men to fight in it. Warm coursing blood froze in the veins of men and strong bones felt as fragile as stained glass windows. Both were easy to shatter, hard to put back together, and never the same once broken. Leather-bound armor wasn't much compared to the frigid temps, but it was as much as any could expect with the limited room and resources they had.

"I'll send Lord Royce to see you as soon as he's able," Sansa nodded, noting everything the smiths needed of her to continue working. Some wishes were steeper than others, but it had to be done. "He'll secure what you need."

They thanked her and resumed their work.

Sansa exited to the courtyard with plans to head straight to The Great Keep without delay. Despite the decision being made, there were still men questioning the reason behind Jon's choice. They didn't shy away from bringing it to Sansa's attention when she looked less than busy. Sansa knew better to hope that they'd go along with the ruling in silence, but had at least prayed that they'd keep their reserve to themselves and their peers. She was done dealing with their questions and complaints, searching for answers that would not result in disagreement with one side of the situation or the other. It didn't work well.

She had found several ways to disband the conversation that sprung with the noblemen within the walls of Winterfell. Each time she felt like she was walking in circles. Roaming around and around the same set of topics with pre-rehearsed lines to make them stand down if even more a moment longer. She had no will to lie and stand firmly with Jon's motivation nor did she wish to negate him all the same, knowing he was doing what he thought best. They attempted to push her all the same.

In the open of the courtyard, it was easy for her eyes to wander from the entrance to the kitchen to the armory to the stables. Scanning the faces of the men as they shifted their cloaks against the wind and kicked frozen mud from their boots. It shouldn't have been a surprise to Sansa when she finally spotted Sandor at the entrance of the stables.

He was watching her.

Sandor hadn't spared a glance in her direction since the night before, much less spoken to her. She hardly expected him to. And she steered away from approaching him with questions of why he was at her room at late hours or what his reaction was to seeing her naked as the day she was born. There was no need to make whatever relationship they had even more obscure between them. But that hadn't meant she secretly didn't want answers to both. The notion made her feel like a ridiculous schoolgirl pulling flower petals. Do he or does he not. Little did she care these days what others thought about her - it hadn't done much to protect or favor her in the years before - but it mattered now. His opinion mattered now.

She could only imagine the ridicule Sandor would grant her if he found out.

Sansa hadn't thought of what to expect once Sandor did acknowledge her once again. A squire boy would blush and hide his gaze, nervous about the situation he found himself in. A man prideful in his ways would smirk and wink, puffing out his chest in triumph. She didn't expect either reaction. Maybe in the back of her mind, she concluded that he'd never look her way again, never speak to her again, never seek her presence. That conclusion was worse than any other reaction she could come up with and that's why it stayed in the back of her mind. No, instead, his eyes wrapped around her whole body. Did he see her without her dress and furs? Was that all that would cross his mind when he laid eyes on her? The notion both terrified and excited her.

Her need to escape any northerners approaching her suddenly vanished, twisting into an urge to stay within Sandor's burning gaze. Sansa turned her body and her feet quickly moved to meet him.

Sandor was wrapped in a new, heavier cloak. It was covered in different shades of black and grey fur, swallowing him up. The cloak made him look even larger in size than Sansa had ever seen him before as it hit the ground below and danced in the air around him. The pigments were too dark for him, Sansa decided. She thought back to the white cloak of the Kingsguard that he used to not-so-proudly wear all those years ago - the one he used to protect her against Joffrey's torment. He deserved another one.

"You're ready to leave." Sansa could see the saddles lined up in the stables behind him, each in front of their respective horses.

Sandor nodded, shrugging his shoulders to maneuver the cloak around his neck. He seemed uneasy with the weight but he'd soon appreciate it where he was going. "Your brother wants us north. Dondarrian and that red priest of his do too. I don't see the fucking point but there's no arguing with the bastards. They're determined to kill us."

Behind them, a horse neighed from deep within the stables and a stableboy shouted in surprise. It sounded like several buckets fell to the hard and frozen ground. One could imagine what was in the buckets. Poor stableboy.

"Still," Sansa started, ignoring the commotion behind them. She crossed her arms to shield herself from the cold and to study the man before her with more conviction, "I am surprised to know that Sandor Clegane is willing to follow more orders. Especially orders from another king. A King in the North no less. The gods truly do work miracles." She couldn't help but tease him. Odd how easy it was, talking to him, despite her earlier concern.

The man snorted with both annoyance and amusement, strutting past her further into the yard. "Fuck your gods. Next, you'll say you pray for my safe return."

Sansa smiled as she ran after him. His long strides quickly covered more ground than she could. "I must admit I think more about your companions. You'll be away for such a time you might all become friends by the end of your journey."

"Friends?" He spat the word like it was made of pure venom. When he glared at her, Sansa did her best to hold in a laugh.

"How disappointed they'll be when they discover the truth."

"And what the fucks that?" Sandor stopped short and turned to look at her. He tried to look angry but fell flat. He was as unthreatening as a wet nurse.

The sudden stall in their stride hadn't given her enough time to halt her steps quickly enough, causing her to almost collide with him. Almost. They stood just inches away from each other now, the closest they had been since their time in the capital, and Sansa could only imagine what the onlookers were thinking. She could have stepped back to survey her surroundings but chose to stand her ground instead. She enjoyed the close proximity and smirked almost too sweetly when she gazed up at him. She wore the smile to cover the increasing thump of her heart in her chest. Ignoring his question, she said, "Tormund seems like an adequate companion, although his attachments are already spoken for it seems."

"Fuck that ginger wildling."

Sansa nodded slightly in agreement. "Not friends. Good." Sandor narrowed his eyes in confusion. "As far as anyone is concerned, I'm the only redhead you're allowed to like."

The bark of Sandor's laugh echoed through the walls of Winterfell. No shock would it be if the sound caught a ride on the wind and traveled to the furthest reaches beyond the wall. The dead would know the sound of Sandor Clegane. "The Lady of Winterfell should watch herself. The pack might not like you acting familiar."

Surprisingly, what her brothers and sisters thought about her friendship with the former shield didn't cross her mind. Brienne had had her opinions, Sansa knew, and she'd be a fool to think Littlefinger wasn't taking notes from the shadows. But what would Jon say? He was all honor and duty and hadn't a mean bone in his body. It was unlikely that he would understand what Sansa saw in Sandor. Arya no longer wished to kill the Hound but no longer wishing to see him dead was far from seeing him as an ally.

"We're past familiar at this point, wouldn't you agree?" Sansa smirked as Sandor snorted in disbelief.

The stableboy that caused so much commotion in the stables finally took leave of the building with a saddle heavy in his arms. His face was partly covered in shaggy brown hair but a strained expression could still be seen as he struggled under the weight. Ignoring the two of them completely, he waddled past across the yard, stopping and going as the crowd allowed. Beric Dondarrion was one. As he stepped aside for the boy, he caught Sansa's eye. He swept over her as if he were able to easily translate every question and desire she'd ever had. She shivered, and it wasn't from the cold.

He glanced from her to Sandor then back to her and nodded respectfully.

"And I will pray, despite your disapproval, for your safe return." She took hold of his arm, still watching Dondarrion. He was nothing but kind toward Sansa, but that did little to ease her fear of him leading a group of men beyond the wall. He was a magic man in the simplest terms, he and Thoros. That could be just as dangerous as the creatures they were hunting for.

"I would have thought you learned your lesson about your gods. Damn good they do."

Sansa snapped her gaze back to Sandor, tightening her grip on him. She would not let him leave without hearing him say it. It might not make it a guarantee, but she'd pretend all the same. "Just say you will be careful. That you'll come back." Come back to me.

He looked down to her hand on his arm, staring at it for a moment without saying anything. Then it looked like he was calculating something, not just her words but Sansa as a whole. If he stared any harder Sansa was sure he'd see all the thoughts running through her head. He blinked and his intense stare shifted into something one could almost describe as soft. "Aye, my lady. I'll come back."

••••

No matter how hard she tried, Sansa couldn't sleep.

By dawn the Brotherhood would set off to Eastwatch, meet with Jon, and follow him into the unknown beyond the wall. And Sandor would be with them and no matter how much she tried to convince herself it didn't bother her more than appropriate, it did. A lot. For more than one reason. One of course being his life could be at risk. The likelihood of everyone coming back alive and one piece was dismal and that wasn't a secret. Each member knew the warning signs and took it upon themselves to go anyway.

Some did it for glory. Tormund seemed to fit on that list. He was Tormund Giantsbane: leader and raider of the Free Folk. He didn't seem the type to run from a fight, and he was loyal to Jon. He knew for a fact what was out there in the blistering and blinding cold, knew others needed to know as well, and would die fighting if the situation called for it. The small chance to impress Brienne, too, wasn't entirely lost on him.

On the other side of the coin, some task the journey upon themselves for the knowledge and purpose of a higher power. She didn't know too much about the Lord of Light or the power it held over Beric Dondarrian and Thoros of Myr, but they were believers. Believers far rougher around the edges than the septs Sansa had grown up with. They were no stranger to drinking, lying, killing, but that did not stagger what path they followed. The White Walkers were their calling. They did as their Lord bid.

Sandor wasn't looking for glory nor any god's goodwill. He was simply following orders. Beric Dondarrion's orders. Jon's orders. And as much as she wished it didn't, that was her second reason.

There were still several hours left until sunrise and Sansa knew musing over her thoughts would find her little rest. Deciding on what would relieve her, she slipped out of bed, threw on a robe, and stepped into the dimly lit and empty hallway. Often at this hour some of the men were huddled around fires drinking and swapping war stories far exaggerated. But not Sandor Clegane. Sansa would find him in his humble chambers, surely nursing a pouch of wine before diving into sleep.

Sansa wasted no time in finding his room. And because she didn't wish for curious or gossiping minds, she looked several times down the hallways before knocking. No one was there. There was not a sound beside her breathing, but that didn't mean she wasn't cautious.

Her first set of knocks were soft - too soft. Anyone would either think they had imagined the sound or decided that whoever was on the other side wasn't eager enough to warrant an answer. They'd ignore them. Sandor would most definitely ignore them. She knocked again, harder. The sounds echoed down the empty corridor and she hoped the sound echoed inside the room as well. He needed to answer the door. She needed him to answer the door. And each second that went by that he didn't felt like an eternity. Still, she'd wait.

She didn't have to do too long. Before she knew it, the large wooden door flung open and there stood Sandor Clegane. Loud and disheveled and, after five seconds to realize who was standing before him, confused.

"What the fuc-" He stopped midsentence as he locked eyes with Sansa. She was no doubt one of the last people he expected to see waiting outside his bed chambers late at night. He opened his mouth to correct himself, but Sansa rapidly cut him off.

"Don't go with the Brotherhood."

The words came tumbling out of her mouth without a second thought to what her mind might think. She intended to question his motives, see why he chose to put his life in danger to find some fantastical undead creature that he probably didn't even think was real. What came out was nothing more but a desperate plea because, in the end, she didn't care. That was nothing more than an excuse to muster up the courage to stand before him. Whatever kind of man people thought he was, he did have a code. A vow, if for no one other than himself. And his self was telling him that following orders north was the right choice, and here she was attempting to derail that.

He didn't speak right away, which only fueled the thick tension that began to rise in the air. Instead, the corner of his mouth twitched downward, almost impossible to notice under his thickening beard. Was he upset? Annoyed? Sansa couldn't tell. His furrowed brow gave way that he was thinking, considering what his next best course of action was. "You should go back to your room."

Sansa blinked. Whatever shock he felt at seeing her show up uninvited this late in the night was nothing to the awe that dug deep in her chest. He wanted her to leave? The shock was replaced with irritation. "That's all you have to say? After everything?"

He removed the hand that had remained on the door as if he sensed that this conversation would be a tad longer than he expected. He lifted it to rub his face and closed his eyes for just a moment longer than normal. Sleep was reaching for him. "Dammit, woman."

She stepped closer to him, suddenly aware that his grey tunic hung open and low on his chest. Dark hair peeked from underneath and it took more effort than usual to keep her eyes on his. She was upset and needed to stay focused if she was going to get anything out of this encounter. "Does it mean that much to you? Finding the White Walkers?"

"I don't give two shits about your damn White Walkers. I'm just doing what that fire fucker and your brother want." Her irritation was spreading to Sandor. Day would arrive before they knew it and he probably didn't want to spend it bickering with her. "Now what the hell are you trying to get at? I'd like to sleep before I die."

"I'm asking you to stay!" It came out in a rush again, hushed but stern. Her eyes lowered to his chest, eye level with her gaze, and felt the heat rise to her cheeks. Then her whole body. The dark corridor was cold but a sudden shift in the doorway engulfed her with warmth as if the fireplace was about to explode and burn them all. If it wasn't the fireplace that would burn them, it was bound to be something else entirely. At this moment, Sansa wasn't sure she could withstand the wound. "With me."

She wondered if this is what her mother felt like when her father left to fight King Robert's war all those years ago. Scared and confused and a bit ashamed that while there was so much at risk for their country and their people, she could only think about what she wanted. And while there was little chance of Sandor fathering a bastard on his expedition north, there was a bigger chance of him not returning at all. "Would you consider it? Staying here if I were to demand it?"

"You got the Tarth woman to guard you." His voice was neither mocking nor chastising. Just factual. And rather soft for being so hostile just moments before. "I'm no use here. Your brother needs fighters. That I'm useful for."

When Sansa lifted her head, she was surprised to see some form of regret in Sandor's eyes, as if he truly was sorry that he had to leave her behind. Because he was going to leave. He was going to follow the order he was given, follow the Brotherhood into the freezing tundra, and come face to face with whatever beings took refuge there. She wanted to mention that he could fight for her or drink for her or whatever else he wanted to do. As long as it was for her. That was useful to her. But the longer she stared at him, watching as he seemed to wrestle with his thoughts, she knew that the result would be the same.

She tentatively lifted her hand, reaching out to place it against the unburned half of Sandor's face. Sansa felt his jaw tense under her touch, but he didn't flinch away. Her finger slowly began to caress his cheek, his beard, and just barely, the corner of his mouth. It was only the second time she'd touched him like this, the first being at the Battle of the Blackwater. For however long ago that night was, it felt even longer.

Then almost whispering, she said, "Once at King's Landing you asked me to leave with you. Now here I am asking that you stay with me. Never the right time for us it seems."

Sansa dropped her hand to her side, already missing the warmth of him under her fingertips. She wondered if he could still feel them pressed against his cheek, like phantom kisses in the dark. Had she taken an extra moment to glance at Sandor, Sansa might have noticed the change in him. Narrowed eyes. Hitched breath. Clenched fist. She barely turned away from him when she felt his hand grasp her wrist, forcing her to face him again. There was no time for her to express her surprise because before she knew it, he used his other hand to cup the back of her neck and brought her lips to his.

She'd been kissed a few times before, Joffrey and Ramsey and Littlefinger, all by terrible men that left her feeling hollow and ill. Their pecks were nothing like the romantic scenes she'd expected growing up with her stories and her truly in love parents.

This wasn't like that either.

Sandor's grip on her was ironclad. There would be nowhere to go had she wanted to. So it was a good thing she didn't. Instead, Sansa closed her eyes and leaned into him, unknowingly deepening the kiss without trying. She placed her free hand on his chest and gripped the loose collar of his shirt, creating her own unwavering hold on him. He began to tangle his fingers through her hair, and when he did finally release her wrist his hand moved to her waist, pulling her body so close to his she envisioned they were one and the same. With nothing but their nightclothes between them they almost were. The two relished in the moment. Tasting each other for the first time, moving on feelings of passion and fear and wanting. Moving to each other.

It was only a single kiss, but by the time the two pulled apart, Sansa was warm to her toes and breathless with shock. On more than one occasion she had let her mind wander to what sharing a moment with Sandor Clegane would be like, but never did she think it'd happen. Her mind tried to tell her she was crazy but she was too preoccupied with the fact that neither had she removed her hand from Sandor's chest nor did Sandor remove his from her waist. Too was she immersed in the way Sandor was still gazing at her more intently than ever before. His confidence caused her to cast down her head to hide. She expected an action as brazen as his would cause him to shy away from her if for no other reason than unfamiliarity. The lack thereof took her off guard.

Sandor lifted his free hand to lift her chin up to connect with his eyes once again. They were still so close the air between them was shared as they breathed. One in. The other out. He was the first to speak. His tone was low and sultry and seeped into all of Sansa's being. "I will return to you."

It took several seconds for Sansa to find her voice. When she did, she found it shaky and quiet and full of a want she didn't know she could still muster. "And I'll be waiting here for you until you do."