Ch I

Sansa fled with the Hound when he asked her to, when the Blackwater was burning. She was petrified, terrified of the flames and the blood, and even of the man whose protection she was placing herself under, but leaving was better than staying in the hell of King's Landing without the one protector she had. She looked at the bloodied, scarred and angry Hound, compared him to Joffrey, and made her decision.

The escape from the city was a memory that would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life. Her distinctive red hair covered by the hood of her cloak, Sansa huddled closely to the Hound. Wildfire burned and the clash of swords rang in the air. 'Stay close, Little Bird,' he shouted over the din of the dying. A knight challenged them, recognising the huge bulk of Clegane. It was the last thing he ever did. The Hound's sword sliced through his neck as the world exploded in blood. Sansa closed her eyes and screamed. Memories of her father's death flashed through her mind and she screamed again. Sandor scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder, like a doll. 'We're nearly there, girl,' he said, running through the back streets and alleys. When he stopped, she found herself being lifted onto a horse – Stranger. The beautiful animal was frightened, tossing his head and showing the whites of his eyes. Sandor spoke softly to him before mounting up, and they tore headlong towards the gates.

The Hound had not lied when he said that they were all afraid of him. Soldiers threw themselves out of the way of his sword, and of Stranger's flying hooves. Sansa could barely breathe at the speed and force of it. She prayed that he wouldn't let her go, that he wouldn't be struck by a flying spear, that they both wouldn't be burned by the flames. And the flames! Never before had Sansa seen anything like them, and she hoped that she never would again. Could she ever have imagined when she first came to the South, so full of songs and stories and love, that her going from it would be in darkness, fire and blood? She closed her eyes and listened as the sounds of pain and chaos faded farther and farther away, until finally there was nothing but the pounding of the horse's hooves and the whipping of the wind. She did not open her eyes until a voice said gently in her ear, 'You're alright now, Little Bird, you're alright.'

Sansa had never slept rough before. She had always been pampered and protected. Her bed was always warm, her food plentiful, her clothes beautiful and neatly laid out. Servants waited on her every whim. The shock of going without what she thought of as these basic rights, was profound. In the rush to leave the Landing, Sansa had taken very little with her, and even less of it was practical. She probably should not have taken her doll, but she couldn't bear to leave her there to burn. Her father's final gift.

On that first night of panic and terror Sansa had been so exhausted that she had slept as soon as she hit the ground. Waking at dawn, she was stiff and sore from the ride and from the hardness of the earth. Cautiously, she looked over in the growing light at the Hound, who seemed to be sound asleep. If she moved quietly, she thought, he would not hear her. Almost as soon as she started to rise, a rough voice rasped, 'It is early yet, girl. Sleep while you can.' Obediently she complied, lying back down and pretending. How had he heard her? He hadn't even opened his eyes, and she had barely moved. Did he not sleep? Last night he had given her his cloak, unasked. Did he not feel the cold? Carefully, Sansa opened one eye and peered over at him again. His face was turned away from her. Does he feel anything, she wondered. He was frightened last night, so yes, he does. And yet he came for me. Why? It didn't make any sense. Nothing made sense anymore. I wish my father were here! Closing her eyes on the tears, she fell asleep.

Sansa woke again to the rough shaking of a huge, calloused hand. For a moment she did not know where she was. She thought her father was calling her. Her eyes opened instead to the sight of a burned and scarred face and she couldn't stop her gasp of shock. The Hound's eyes looked hurt, then angry. 'Still afraid of me, girl? No one like me in any of your songs or poems?' Turning away he snapped sharply at her, 'Your breakfast is over there. Eat quickly, unless you think the monster has poisoned it.' Sansa felt her face burn in shame. The Hound didn't deserve that. Rising slowly and painfully, she handed him his cloak. 'Thank you ser, for your kindness.' The broad, silent back did not respond.

Breakfast was a chunk of bread and a cup of water. No fruit, no juice, no lemon cakes? As if in respose to her silent question, he snarled sarcastically over his shoulder, ' We have enough bread for a couple of days. I hadn't time to go to the market before we left. Eat it and be thankful. I don't suppose you brought anything useful?'

Opening the small cloth satchel, Sansa laid out her goods for inspection. A few items of clothing, a brush and comb, some rags for her flowering, some jewellery. The scarred mouth twitched in a mocking smile. 'I thought women knew how to pack for a journey. Those dresses won't be much good for the road, although we could make some money from that necklace. I should have paid more attention to what you were doing, but I was drunk. What's your excuse?'

'I never packed for myself before.'

He opened his mouth, but stopped when his eyes fell on the little doll. Turning away from the sight of it, Sandor ate quietly before excusing himself.

'I will give you some privacy. Not much time, mind. No water near here so no washing today. You will hear me coming back,' and he was gone.

No washing? No bath? Of course there was no bath. What was she thinking? No mirror, no servant, no soap. Gods, what had she done? Fighting back the tears again, Sansa straightened her dress, ran the comb through the tangles in her hair and tied it simply. When she was done, she set her jaw, stood up straight and called out, 'I'm ready.'

Sometimes, when the road was hard and her heart was sick and the dreams were just too real, Sansa would give herself time to cry. She would wait until the Hound had left to give her privacy. Then, when she was sure he was gone, she would bury her face in her hands and sob. O, why did we ever leave Winterfell! When she suspected he was returning, she would quickly wash her face, drying it on her dress and standing up straight to face him calmly. Without the mirror she never knew that her washed face fooled him not one whit, or that he heard her crying in her sleep.

Ch II

He would have to get her a horse. A change of clothes, and a horse.

The Hound had always stood out. His brother had seen to that. The infamy of the King's Dog had made him instantly recognisable to every peasant and high lord in Westeros. That was of no concern to him. He was perfectly capable of splitting any challenger in two. But he wasn't travelling alone. Sandor was travelling with a girl whose beauty shone like a lamp. Her hair reminded him of an autumn sunset, making the mountains glow. Even after a week on the road, she still shone. He had been able to keep them out of sight so far, and had managed to buy a substantial store of food from an elderly farmer on his way to the market. Sandor had hidden his burned face in the hood of his cloak, while the Little Bird had stayed in the trees. But that was a once-off. He couldn't rely on luck forever, and he couldn't leave her unattended every time they needed supplies. He'd have to find – steal - some lowborn clothing. Not too lowborn, Little Bird was not born to wear rags. Something plain, dark and durable for the road. The duller it looked, the better, not like her beautiful, highborn gowns, especially not that blue one that matched her eyes. She'd also be needing some of those linen headscarf things women wore. That red hair needed hiding, especially when it glowed in the sun.

Sometimes Sandor had nightmares. In them, the Mountain's men would find Sansa, and in his dreams Sandor was always too late. Fear haunted him even in the daylight. She had to be kept hidden at all costs. Nothing could happen to his beautiful Little Bird.

They were not the only dreams that haunted him and kept him awake. Since fleeing the city, most of Sansa's waking hours were spent in Sandor's arms. He despised his own weakness. He snarled at and mocked his own stupidity when he trembled as she moved in his arms, trying to make herself more comfortable. Sandor was grateful for the leather and armour that stood between her and his heart. He was grateful that she couldn't see his face when he let himself stare at her, when he just had to rejoice in her, holding her, even if it would be for such a short time. In a few weeks he would be handing her over. She would run from him into her mother's arms, into her brother's protection. They would pay him and thank him. Little Bird would bid him farewell, turn away from him, and never think of him again. He'd seen the look of horror in her eyes that first morning. He would never cease to horrify her. No knights and fair ladies for the Hound. Sandor needed to get her a horse, a pony, something to take her out of his arms, before he went insane. He tried to tell himself it was for her comfort, not his, and that he wouldn't have to worry so much about washing when she wasn't so close to him, but the Hound was never very good at lying. Instead he was just gruffer and brusquer than ever with the girl. He kept the drawbridge up and the archers ready. He would never let the girl take his heart. Never.

If he kept saying it, he might eventually believe it.

Ch III

She couldn't understand him. She'd never understand him. It was like he was two different people – Sandor and the Hound. Sandor was kind. It was Sandor who had wiped her bloodied lip, who had wrapped his cloak around her, who had carried her to safety from the rioters at King's Landing. It was the Hound who sneered and snapped at her, and who had gutted the men who had attacked her. He was dangerous. There was no denying it. There were no songs or stories to soothe or smooth that fact away. The Hound had told her once that killing was the sweetest thing in the world. She had seen him do it often enough, and he was certainly skilled at it. Yet he didn't seem to go out of his way to seek violence. The Hound did as he was told, except when it came to her.

'You'll be glad of the hateful things I do someday, when you are Queen, and I am all that stands between you and your beloved King.'

Why? Why would he stand between her and the king? None of the others did. If all he cared about was killing, why bother helping her? He could have helped himself to her umpteen times already, and killed her into the bargain. So why did Sandor lift her gently onto his horse every morning and give her his cloak every night? Why did he show her kindness and almost immediately start snarling at her? Why did he have to cover up any desire to do good, as if it were a weakness?

He's afraid. The Hound is afraid to let Sandor come out.

Sansa was stunned at the realisation. The Hound didn't want to let Sandor come out! He wanted to hide Sandor away, where no one could see him. She wondered why. What harm could it do to be kind?

She smiled bitterly to herself. What harm had it done to her father to be kind?

What harm had it done to Sansa to be kind?

The world of King's Landing was a brutal one. Lies and lying. Snakes and flowers. It was a world for Hounds, not Sandors, and certainly not for Little Birds. Hadn't she learned in her time there to hide so much of who she was, to play the game? Then how much more had the Hound learned, whose life had been one of pain and violence? Sansa thought of the love shown to herself and Arya by her own brothers. Even Jon had loved them, and he was just a half brother. If one of them had turned on her like that, like the Hound's brother had turned on him – her mind shuddered away from it. Maybe she would have become a Hound herself. She had certainly become more of a wolf already. A part of her had died with her father, and the remainder was hardening. Perhaps she might, in time, truly understand the Hound.

She was spending the time during the Hound's absence thinking about him. How he would mock her if he knew! Well, she certainly wouldn't tell him.

Sansa was getting stiff again, but she was too afraid to move. Before he left, the Hound had warned her in very explicit language what would happen to her if the Mountain's men found her. There was a time when she would have been stunned speechless and would not have believed him. That was a long time ago. She knew now exactly what men, even knights, were capable of.

Her father had promised her a man who was brave, strong and gentle. Joffrey had looked the part. She had loved that monster with all her heart. Then there was the Hound, who looked like a monster and sometimes even acted like one, and yet was the closest thing to a true knight she had met since she left the North. Nothing was as it seemed. Nothing made sense any more.

She sighed. At least the cave was dry and sheltered from the wind outside. The Hound had found it and they were both delighted to sleep under some sort of a roof for at least one night. It was far too dangerous to stay at a public inn, or to enter a tavern. He wouldn't even light a fire in the cave, while she was alone in it. Sandor had discovered from the farmer who had sold them their food that the Lannisters had won the day at the Blackwater – how relieved Sansa was that she had left! But it meant that there would be no Stannis Baratheon to offer support to her family, and the Lannisters would now be focusing their attention even more on her brother's rebellion. O, what she would give to see Robb again! Her mother, all her brothers, and Arya. Where was her sister now?

In the distance, Sansa heard the sound of hooves. Stranger! She jumped up, then paused. Something wasn't right. There was more than one horse.

Oh no. NO.

Shooting to the back of the cave, Sansa huddled in the darkest shadows. Had they killed him? Had they killed her only protector? The horses stopped at the mouth of the cave. She held her breath. A man dismounted. Heavy footsteps entered the cave. Closing her eyes, Sansa prayed, 'Gentle Mother, don't let them find me. Gentle Mother, don't let him be dead.'

Silence.

'Little Bird?'

Then again, with a note of panic –

'Little Bird?'

She opened her eyes, before he called out again in undisguised fear, – 'Sansa!'

'Sandor, is that you?'

The man strode towards her in the dark, swearing loudly.

'Where are you, you stupid girl?' he shouted, rage now replacing his fear. 'Why didn't you answer me? What is wrong with you?'

Grabbing blindly, he found her arm and yanked her close. Grabbing both of her arms in his huge hands he held them tightly and shook her cruelly.

'Why didn't you answer me, you fool?'

'I heard two horses. I thought they had come for me so I hid, just like you said. Please let me go. You're hurting me!'

At those words, the Hound stepped back from her, breathing heavily. For a few moments that was all she could hear.

'You heard horses and you hid. You did right, girl. You listened and you did right. I am sorry. Did I hurt your arm?'

'N-no.' She stammered, shocked by the rapid succession of fear, relief, pain and relief again. 'No, I'm fine.'

'Don't lie to me, girl. You're soft as a peach. Come outside so I can see what I have done.'

Sansa blinked in the soft evening light and Sandor rolled up the sleeves of her gown, the one that brought out the colour of her eyes. On each arm, the mark of his fingers already stood out. Sandor held her arms as if they were bubbles, and then stepped back in horror at what he had done.

' I swore I'd protect you. I swore I'd never hurt you, and look what I have done.'

The horror in his voice made Sansa look up and into his face. The Hound was pale, his twitching scars all the more livid against the pallor. He covered his face with his hands.

'I'm nothing but a dog, nothing but the King's dog. I thought they had found you, I thought they had taken you, I thought – ' he broke off, choking.

Sansa couldn't believe it. Was he crying? Was the Hound, the killer, actually crying because he had bruised her arms? The Kingsguard who could gut a man like a fish? Emboldened by the discovery, Sansa stepped forward and slowly raised her hand to his, gently pulling it away from his face. He was crying. Her heart bled for him, the burned and broken brute of a man. Slowly and gently she cupped the burned side of his face and looked him calmly in the eye.

'It's alright. I was frightened too. I thought they had killed you. We're both alright now.'

Sandor gasped at the touch of her hand, and stood frozen to the spot for what seemed like an eternity, until a horse's neigh spun her around and sent his hand flying to his sword. A sturdy bay pony stood next to Stranger, watching them. Sansa turned to Sandor, looking at him quizzically.

'It's a pony.' he stammered.

'Yes,' said Sansa, still looking at him.

'She's yours. I was bringing her back for you. You need a pony of your own.' He was regaining his composure now. 'See, she even has her own saddle and bridle.'

Sansa smiled in delight. 'Where did you buy her?'

Sandor looked away, and then pointed out the bundle tied to the saddle. 'Open that.'

She shook open the bundle and looked confusedly at a nondescript brown dress.

'Put it on. You need some kind of disguise. You're too obviously highborn.' He was all business now. 'And there's a headscarf too. You can put them on now.'

Sansa stared at him until he got the hint. 'I'll get wood for the fire', he said, and disappeared into the forest. She stroked the soft muzzle of her new pony. 'I'll call you Queenie.' The little bay whickered.

The dress was no beauty, and for once Sansa was glad she didn't have a mirror. It was a couple of inches too wide at the waist and as for the hem... If she had her needle... but she didn't. 'At least there is no blood on it,' she thought dryly.

The headscarf covered her hair nicely, and her own cloak would cover it all. Still, Sansa was vain of her appearance. Fleeing the Lannisters was the only thing that could have persuaded her to wear such ugly clothes.

When Sandor returned, he looked her over and remarked, 'That'll do.' It must have been worse than she imagined. He set the fire and tended to the horses.

'You'll have to look after her yourself in future,' he growled, ' I can't be looking after girl's ponies. I have enough to do.' Sansa smiled quietly to herself. It was all an act. She knew that now.

In the cave, they ate silently, and then Sansa started braiding her hair. It had been too long since it had been washed. Perhaps the ugly scarf was a blessing in disguise. She raised her arms to coil the braids, and her sleeves slipped down, showing the bruises, livid in the firelight. Sandor winced.

'I'll never hurt you again. I'll cut my arms off first.'

'Please don't. You're no good to me armless.' He looked at her, and burst out laughing. It was a warm laugh, deep and ringing.

'I never heard you laugh before,' smiled Sansa, 'You should do it more often.'

'I will, if I keep looking at you in that dress.'

It was Sansa's turn to laugh. In fairness, he was not wrong. She smiled sadly at Sandor in the firelight.

'I have not laughed since Father died. We used to laugh so much at Winterfell. I don't think I ever really understood how happy we were, until we weren't.'

'We never laughed much in House Clegane. We were not a laughing people.' Sandor paused. 'Do you know, I envied you that. Your family. Father, mother, sister; brothers who don't fry your face. Servants who loved you. Even the bloody servants were happy to be there! It almost didn't seem real. If the King had never come to Winterfell you would all still be there, not knowing how happy you were.'

'And I would still be dreaming of knights and fair ladies, and of being queen. Sooner or later I would have ended up in the viper's nest. I have learned my lesson, though I have paid dearly for the knowledge.'

Sansa sat silently for a moment, before continuing, 'Sometimes I wonder if it isn't all my fault. If I'm paying for what happened to poor Mycah. We were all complicit in his death; Cersei, Robert, Joffrey, you and I. At least you can claim to have been following the king's orders. I cannot. I did what I thought was right. I defended my love. The truth is that I wasn't even completely sure what had happened. It all happened so fast, and Joffrey had given me so much wine. I never could have imagined what would happen as a result, but that's no excuse. Maybe it's all my punishment.'

'Nonsense, girl. If that were true, why am I still alive? I should be dead too.'

'I thought you were, for minute. I'm glad you are not.'

Sansa settled down to sleep, curled as always under Sandor's cloak.

'Good night, Sandor. Thank you for the pony.'

'Good night, Little Bird.'

Ch IV

Their days and nights took on a pattern that made it seem as if the road had always been theirs. Sansa could not believe that she had been a part of King's Landing only two weeks before. It was already like a bad dream, a child's nightmare from long ago. She no longer cried at night. There was now a sense of safety, rhythm and routine in her life that had been missing for so long. The days passed to the thud of horse's hooves, and her hands and muscles were hardening from riding all day. What would her mother say when she saw Sansa's hands?

'A lady's hands are always white, smooth and elegant.'

Sansa's hands were now cut and calloused by the reins. Perhaps Maester Luwin would have a salve for them, and for her saddle sores, if he was still at Winterfell.

Winterfell! The thought made her heart leap. O, to be home again after so long! To see her mother, Robb, Bran and Rickon! Maybe they would have news about Arya. Maybe Arya was already there. Feeling too much was dangerous, though. Hope was dangerous. Anything could happen. Sandor could be killed. Robb could be defeated in battle. No hoping, not until they reached Winterfell, not until her dreams became real.

Sandor rode before her always, his broad back a wall of defense. It gave her great comfort to see him there, day after day, now that her fear of him was gone. He was a truer knight than any of them. Sansa felt she was seeing more clearly now than she had ever done in her entire life. So many layers of blindness had been burned and peeled away, she wondered how much of her old self was left.

In the evening they would set up camp and fall into their routine – tend to the horses, light the fire, eat, drink. Sandor would do most of the work, scowl and snarl and say that she had better start making herself useful, he wasn't her septa, and then he'd insist on doing it all himself anyway. He went to great lengths to hide his kindness, and Sansa let him. After giving her privacy to wash and prepare for sleep, he would return to camp. It was then, in the half light, as the fire died down, that he would speak.

Night after night Sandor told her the story of his life, words pouring out of him like pus from a wound. Disappearing servants. Fear and cringing. His dead mother, dead father. The burning of his face, the betrayal of trust. He could never have spoken so boldly to her in the light of day. Under the gentle blanket of darkness, she couldn't see his weakness, and he couldn't see her face.

One night he spoke about his sister, a child he couldn't even remember.

'Her name was Robynne. A servant told me that she was a sweet little thing, sweet and pretty, with curly brown hair and big blue eyes. That she loved me and used to light up when she saw me. Every morning when she woke up she would demand to see me and would not be happy until she had been brought to see her little brother. She would pat me on the head and wake me up and we'd prattle away. Only then could she be persuaded to eat her breakfast. Hard to imagine, isn't it? Someone loving me and not fearing me? And patting me on the head? They'd laugh at that in King's Landing. Can you imagine any girl, never mind a pretty one, lighting up at the sight of me? Of all the things I've seen in my life, that's not one of them.' Sandor laughed bitterly.

'I wish I could have found out more about her, but that servant wasn't with us for much longer.' He paused.

'Robynne disappeared too. It was never explained, her death. To this day I don't know if her body really is buried in the family crypt, or if she's still lying wherever Gregor dumped her. Because that's what happened to her. I know he killed her, just as surely as I know he killed our father and burned my face. He would have killed me too, if I hadn't become too big too soon and learned to kill as well as he could. And our father covered it all up, betrayed the two of us so his champion could become a knight. Well, he paid the price.'

When he spoke again, Sandor's voice was little more than a rasping whisper.

'I couldn't save her. I can't even remember her. She loved me so much, like no one else since, and I can't even remember her face. Sometimes I dream about her, but she's only a voice in the darkness calling for help. She calls me and I can't save her.'

'Killing isn't really the sweetest thing, Little Bird. It's just so much easier than loving.'

It was no wonder, Sansa thought, that Sandor had become the Hound. How else would he have survived? Listening to his life night after night opened her eyes to horrors she had not imagined. Cersei was a monster, it was true, but she was a monster who loved her children. Would she have sacrificed Myrcella and Tommen for Joffrey? Sansa doubted it. Faced with the brutality and hypocrisy of his home and the corruption of King's Landing, it was no wonder the Hound became what he was. It didn't excuse the things he had done in the name of the king, but it certainly explained them. And yet he had never turned into a Meryn Trant, or another Mountain. He had never hit her, stripped her, or humiliated her, and had instead defied the king to save her. He had protected her even though his own father had never protected him. It occured to Sansa that Sandor must be very lonely, and very alone indeed.

'I have always known that I was loved,' she thought, 'I took it for granted for most of my life. I was so loved that even when I was alone and despised, that love was a well that strengthened and sustained me. He has a dried up desert of a life. How can anyone survive the loneliness? We would have loved him in Winterfell, if he had been born to us. Or had come to us, like Theon.'

One night when Sandor had finished speaking, she plucked up the courage to ask him, 'Why did you bring me with you from the city? I have done nothing but slow you down and get in the way since we left. Why did you risk your life wasting all that time waiting for me? You would have been much better off without me.'

'I've travelled with worse than you, girl.'

'I don't doubt it, but have you travelled with slower?'

'You're getting better and faster every day.'

'Sandor.'

'Why does it matter? You're here now, what difference does it make?'

'I wouldn't even be alive now without you. Why bother helping someone who cannot even help themselves?'

'Maybe, for once in my life, I wanted to do something good, for someone good, for no good reason. Now go to sleep girl, and stop annoying me, or I'll leave you and that nuisance pony to your own devices. Women don't know when to leave a man in peace.'

She had left him alone at that.

Sansa's heart rose as they came closer to Winterfell. She didn't care that it was growing colder as they travelled further north, though she might have done without Sandor's cloak to keep her warm. She would make sure he was well rewarded when they got home, and not just with gold. Winterfell could be his home too. Robb would need a kingsguard when he was King in the North. Sandor deserved to be in a place where people cared about him. They'd care when she told them all he'd done. She'd make them care. Even Arya.

Sansa never knew that as her heart rose with every step, Sandor's sank. Every step that brought her closer to home brought him closer to the end. When he handed her over he would be losing his only friend. They could never be like they were on the road. It would be the Hound and Lady Sansa again, no more Sandor and Sansa. No one else called him by his first name. She never did either, before now, and never would again, once she was among her own kind. She was the only person he trusted, though he could not have explained why. The night would be all the darker without her in it.

Something else was troubling him too. The previous day they had come across an isolated farmhouse, ransacked and burned to the ground. The smell and the sound of the flies made him hurry Sansa on from the spot. It had shocked Sansa deeply, but Sandor was worried. It was true that Eddard Stark was gone, that war had been declared, that darkness and death would inevitably follow. Still, Robb Stark was a good man and aimed to be a just ruler; would he not protect his people? Had his power slipped so much that these things could happen only a few day's ride from Winterfell? This and other signs troubled Sandor. Something was wrong.

Normally he would have been more informed on Westerosi news and politics. He would have stopped at inns and taverns and listened and learned. Varys himself could not top a band of smallfolk for useful information. Under the current circumstances, Sandor had avoided people like the plague, so he had no idea what was going on. He watched Sansa like a hawk, scanning the countryside for threats.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Ch V

Sansa galloped ahead of Sandor and rode through the gates of Winterfell, reckless with joy. Not until she entered the courtyard did she notice the silence. No family, no friends, no servants. No laughter, no barking, not even a raven croaking. Nothing but the sound of Queenie champing at the bit and snorting in fear. The sturdy pony skidded to a halt and fought Sansa hard in its frantic desire to escape. It was only then that Sansa noticed the blood seeping from the very walls of the castle, trickling down into the mud, the mud that was thick and red, and sucking Queenie's hooves down, down as the poor pony screamed and struggled, nearly throwing Sansa off. 'Sandor! Sandor!' she screamed, only to realise he wasn't there, no one was, and the gates were closing, surrounding her in walls of blood, walls of blood closing in on her, as the red mud shook and trembled and pulled her under –

'Little Bird, what is it, girl?' A big hand shook her roughly and Sansa juddered awake, gasping in panic.

'It was a dream, just a dream. You're alright now.' Her terrified eyes met his. She buried her face in her hands and breathed deeply until she calmed down.

'The blood. All the blood. Winterfell was covered in it. The mud was full of it and it sucked us down, and you weren't there –'

'I'm here, Little Bird. It's over now.'

Sansa calmed down enough to be embarrassed by her outburst.

'I'm so sorry. Scared by a dream, like a baby!'

'Older and tougher than you wake up screaming. I have done it myself. Tell that to anyone and I'll kill you.'

Sansa smiled.

'I shouldn't be having nightmares now, so close to home. I haven't been home in so long. I can't wait to see everybody. Dreaming of mud and blood!'

Sansa took a few deep breaths and steadied herself. She pulled herself up slowly and handed Sandor his cloak.

'Only one more night and you can have your own cloak back. You must be looking forward to the peace and quiet, not having to look after me all the time.'

Sandor didn't respond.

'Everyone will be so happy to see us. You will be the hero of Winterfell.'

'Have your breakfast. We have just about enough,' he said gruffly.

'He must be a bit annoyed with me for being such a baby.' The thought of disappointing him and the memory of the dreadful nightmare dampened her mood. She must have had that dream because of the terrible scene at the farmhouse. That would give anyone nightmares. Sandor had tried to shield her but she'd seen enough.

When thinking of wars and battles, Sansa had only ever considered knights and kings. What might happen to women in times of war had never occured to her. Cersei's charming picture of the fate of women at the Battle of the Blackwater had been a revelation. It was part of the reason she had fled with the Hound, the one man who had already protected her from such horrors. Now, Sansa wondered who protected the smallfolk. Men, women and children, not warriors, who were butchered for no other reason than that they were there. No one wrote songs about them. Did anyone care? If she were ever queen, or even just the lady of her own castle, Sansa would care. No one should suffer just because they were weak.

They rode in silence that day. Sandor seemed to be on edge, watchful and scowling. Sansa found herself looking over her shoulder, instead of pointing out landmarks and happy memories.

That afternoon she called out to Sandor, 'In a mile or so, at the top of that hill, we will catch sight of Winterfell in the distance.' He raised his hand to show her that he had heard. Sansa's heart leaped as they neared the crest of the hill. She urged Queenie on to catch up with Sandor so they could catch the first sight of Winterfell together.

They did. Both froze at exactly the same moment. In the distance, black clouds of smoke rose from the grey bulk of the castle.

Winterfell was burning.

Ch VI

They rode faster than they had done for the entire journey. Sandor had grabbed Queenie's reins and dragged the pony after him, before Sansa could charge headlong towards the ruins of her home. She had been frantic and screamed at him to let her go but sturdy little Queenie was no match for Stranger. Eventually, Sansa gave in.

Get her to safety. Get her away from the road.

The horses charged into the hills. Even there, there were signs of violence. Farm after farm, inn after inn; fire, bodies, blood. Something terrible had happened, something catastrophic. This wasn't just the usual terror raids. This was all out devastation. Men, women, children. In his heart Sandor suspected the truth. What would he tell Sansa?

No time for that now. He needed to find a place to hide her. Keep her safe. Keep her from the flames.

The further they got from Winterfell the more scattered the homesteads became. Evening was closing in when they reached a quiet farmhouse that had been raided, but not burned, probably because it was so ramshackle and poor to begin with. Sandor brought the horses to a halt and signalled to Sansa to stay silent. Sliding off Stranger, he crept towards the cabin. He could move like a cat when he had to.

Around the back of the house was an empty pig sty and chicken coop. Broken glass littered the ground, the door hung drunkenly open. No sound, no sign of life. Sandor stopped. Something caught his eye, up by the trees, a brown bundle of some sort. As he came closer he began to hear the flies. Just beyond the torn scraps of dress was the body of a girl. She had not died quickly.

Wincing at the sight, Sandor returned to the house. It was one-roomed and empty. He skirted around the corner of the house and into the front yard. It was chaos. Another couple of bodies. A teenage boy, cut through, and an older man propped up against a stump, head slumped on his chest. More blood, more flies, more death. Suddenly, the man's body moved. Sandor's hand flew to his sword. The old man slowly and painfully lifted his head. Struggling to focus, he squinted, breathing heavily from the effort. He studied Sandor for a moment.

'Have you come to finish what you started? Or to see if you forgot anything?'

Sandor stepped forward slowly, kneeling down next to him. The man had been stabbed in the gut, the gaping wound covered by his trembling hand. It was starting to smell.

'I'm not one of them. I was travelling to Winterfell when I saw the smoke and ran for the hills. I see you had visitors. What happened?'

'You must have been living underground if you don't know what horrors have been happening here. Greyjoy betrayed the Starks. Butchered the household, even the two Stark boys. Just children.'

He stopped for a minute, struggling to breathe.

'Bolton betrayed Greyjoy. Burned the castle. Took over. Flayed anyone who fought back. But that's not the worst of it.' He paused. 'Lady Stark, the Young Wolf, all of them, at the Red Wedding. The wedding of Edmure Tully to Frey's daughter. Freys killed them, every one. The Starks are gone. All of them.'

The old man coughed until his mouth was bloody. He wheezed and struggled for breath until he was able to continue.

'They have burned and raped and killed since then to break us. They killed my boy. At least I know that my Kyra got away. She ran towards the trees. I'll be dead by the time she comes back.'

Sandor knelt quietly by the broken wreck of a man, surrounded by the broken fragments of his life.

'Are you ready to go now?' Sandor asked, gently.

'Aye. I am.' He closed his eyes. 'Do it quick.' Sandor's knife slipped in and out in a flash, and he breathed his last.

Sandor closed the man's eyes, held his head in his hands, and sighed. What would he tell the girl? Standing up, he braced himself and returned to the horses.

'We'll stay here tonight, Little Bird. There's nothing left here for the soldiers now. Don't look around you.'

Gently as a mother, he lifted her from her pony and ushered her through the door. 'I'll look after the horses. Take some water. I'll be back in a little while.'

'I heard your voice. You were talking to someone. Was one of them alive? Did they have any news? What's happening?'

'Go inside, girl. I will tell you everything.'

She obeyed, wide eyed and white.

It took longer than usual for Sandor to see to the horses. He hesitated at the door, then squared his shoulders and went in, to break his Little Bird's heart.

Ch VII

He had never heard anything like the screams. They were worse than when her father was beheaded, worse than his own when his face was melted. Grief seared through her like wildfire. There was nothing Sandor could do in the face of such grief; no one he could fight, no one he could kill. He couldn't protect her from this. All he could think of was to pull her to him and hold her as gently as he could, rocking her back and forth as she screamed her way through her waking nightmare.

Slowly, her screams turned to sobs, sobs that shook and tore her like wolves. Her fingers clenched the fabric of his tunic as her body was tortured by wave after wave of grief. How he wished for someone to kill! To kill someone, smash something, do something violent that would comfort her! Flay a Bolton. Skewer Greyjoy on his own sword. Anything to make it stop. What did Sandor know about comfort or comforting? He had no words to say. He just kept rocking her gently back and forth until the sobs subsided into whimpers of sheer exhaustion. He carried her to the bed whose owner now lay dead in the woods. Sandor laid her down carefully but as soon as he tried to leave her she clung to him in panic and desperation.

'It's alright Little Bird, it's alright. I won't leave you. I'll stay here.'

There wasn't enough room for both of them in the little bed, so Sandor had to rest one arm and leg on the floor. The cloak was in his bag on the other side of the room. Well, it would have to stay there. Sansa was not for letting go. Poor Little Bird. She clung to him like a lost soul. In truth, Sandor was a bit embarrassed. Holding her on Stranger in broad daylight was one thing. Beds were another story altogether. 'So the Hound is as prim and proper as an oldsepta,' he thought wryly. It would be funny if it wasn't all so awful. Eventually her whimpering and shuddering stopped, and her breathing told him that she had fallen asleep. He hoped it would be a long sleep. She'd have to face the nightmare all over again in the morning.

Sandor stared up at the rafters. What next? There was almost no food. It hadn't mattered this morning, but there had been a Winterfell then. There wasn't even a farm he could steal a few eggs from. He knew the rudiments of snaring, though it had been a very long time since he had tried it. A rabbit would be something. He was hungry, and Little Bird would be hungry too. And cold. He risked moving enough to tuck the miserable scrap of a blanket around her. Then what? Where would they go? What was left of her family? He should have brought her to the aunt at the Eyrie, but Winterfell was Sansa's home. She had wanted to go home, and if Sandor was completely honest with himself, he had wanted to keep her with him as long as possible. Gently and carefully, he wiped the tears from her exhausted little face. Poor Little Bird. My poor girl. His heart ached for the pain of another human being. It was not a feeling he was used to. He did not like it. Anger was so much easier. Anger and hate.

It was nearly dawn when Sandor finally fell asleep.

Sansa was still asleep when Sandor awoke. Restless and fitful, but still asleep. Her grip on his arm had relaxed, and he gently eased himself away, slipping a corner of the blanket into her hand.

He stretched stiffly and looked out the window into the grey dawn. Nothing moved. Sandor had worried about wolves during the night, but none had come. Unusual. There must be rich pickings elsewhere. He thought of Winterfell, and turned away.

They needed food. He would have set a snare last night but too much else had happened. He'd do that tonight, with whatever he could salvage from this place. But he needed something now. The woods were his only hope. Summer was gone, but autumn still lingered. Nuts and berries would do for today. With a last look at the sleeping girl, he crept out into the woods. She'd wake soon and he'd have to be back before she missed him.

The woods felt clean and pure after the horror and grief of the hovel. Sandor shook himself like a wet dog and started foraging. He hadn't picked berries since he was a child. One of the servants, a toothless old crone named Mags, used to take him out berrying sometimes. She taught him the difference between good and bad, poisonous and safe. It was a pity that picking people was not so simple.

By the time he got back to the house he had a fairly decent stash. They'd have to eat the berries now, but the nuts could be stuffed in the saddlebags for later.

She lay still under the blankets. Sandor hated to wake her, but they needed to get moving. Either wolves or soldiers would come, sooner or later. 'Little Bird,' he called gently, shaking her with a massive hand,'Wake up, girl.' She jumped, and slowly turned, wiping sleep from her eyes.

'Father?'

'No, girl.'

'Sandor? Are we in Winterfell?' She looked around confusedly.

'No, Little Bird.'

For a moment she looked at him blankly, before the realisation hit her full force all over again. No tears this time, she just curled up against the wall, gathering the blanket around her.

'We have to go soon, girl. It's not safe to stay longer. Here are some berries, and the last piece of bread. We'll get something better tomorrow. You need to eat something.' She shook her head and buried her face in her hands.

'You haven't eaten since yesterday morning. You'll faint.'

She shook her head again. What in the seven hells would he do now? He couldn't shove them down her throat.

'Please, Little Bird. Just these few. For me.'

She hesitated for a moment, then put out a trembling hand and he filled it with berries. She forced them down, one by one.

Her face was so very pale! Her beautiful hair was tangled, her clothes wrinkled, and she needed a hot bath almost as badly as he did, but it was her pale, tear – streaked face that cut through him like a knife. What he'd do to smash Roose Bolton's face in! Sandor shook with rage and his scars twitched. Calming himself, he told her to get ready and to gather her things while he saddled the horses .

When Queenie and Stranger were ready, Sandor knocked softly on the broken door and went in. Sansa was still curled up on the bed. She hadn't moved since he left. O ye gods.

'Please, Sansa, we have to go. Get up.'

He strapped his bags on Stranger and came back in. No move. Pity and frustration collided and Sandor raised his voice.

'I'll lift you out of that bed and onto that pony myself if I have to. We're going. Get up.'

'Leave me,' she whispered. 'They're all gone. Everyone. I have no-one. Everyone I love dies. Leave me and go.'

'You have no-one? Is that who I am to you? No one? After everything?' Years of rejection and rage exploded in him. 'Is that what you think of me? That I'd walk off and leave you there for rape and murder, like that girl in the woods? That I'm worse than any dog? Gods!' Sandor was furious. 'Because I'm burned and brutal I'm worse than any animal?'

She stared up at him, wide-eyed and pale.

'If you stay, I stay. If you die, I die. How do you feel about that?' He glared at her, face twitching in hurt and fury.

'Yes, Sandor.'

'Yes, what?'

'I'll get up now. I'm sorry.'

Sansa got up, staggered, and Sandor caught her arm. She closed her eyes and steadied herself.

'I don't want you to die,' she said softly.

The rage left him. 'I don't want you to die either,' he replied, fighting the urge to kiss her pale little forehead. He gathered up her things and lifted her onto her pony. They rode away into the hills, leaving the farmyard to the dead.

Ch VIII

Sandor struggled with the idea of lighting the fire that night, and decided against it. Though they hadn't met anyone on the long, silent ride that day, it still didn't feel safe enough to risk it. A fire at night was just too visible. If the snare he'd set did its job, he'd light the fire in the morning. Sansa would have his cloak and the old blanket from the hut to guard her against the cold. He would sleep as he was. He'd slept in worse.

What worried him now was where to go from here. War was closing in on them like the tide. Heading back south to Riverrun, or the Eyrie, would probably be too risky. Winterfell was lost to them. In light of the betrayals of Houses Frey and Bolton, going to any of the Stark's bannermen was out of the question. There was always the bastard brother at the Wall, if he was still alive. At the rate things were going, who knew? Starks seemed to be suffering from a shortened life expectancy at present. All except his own Stark, and he intended to keep her that way. Maybe the Wall was the answer. Castle Black was hardly the stuff of a young girl's dreams, but it was better than death.

She looked like death today. At times Sandor had wondered if she'd be able to stay on Queenie. She only ate her handful of nuts and stale bread to please him. It was clear that the girl hadn't much fight left in her. The shock of being the last wolf standing was simply too much. Sansa couldn't take much more. He needed to find someplace safe, and soon. But where? The question tormented him. He laid the ragged blanket on the ground for Sansa and put his cloak around her shoulders. 'That cloak is doing better work nowthan it ever did on my honoured Kingsguard shoulders,' he thought bitterly.

'Good night, Little Bird. Try to get some sleep.' He wouldn't get too much sleep himself.

Sandor lay down and stared up at the stars. Were the gods up there when Sansa's family was wiped out? Did they care? If so, could they tell him where to take her? 'Answer me!'

He heard a rustling behind him.

'What is it, Little Bird?'

Sansa pulled up her blanket and cloak and curled up next to him, her fingers clinging to his arm, just like the night before. For a moment, Sandor froze, and then he turned to her and gathered her close. She snuggled into him like a child, lost in his arms, and fell asleep. Sandor could barely breathe. How could she sleep with the sound of his heart hammering? He had tried so hard to keep her out, to protect himself from her, to snap and snarl, and now it was too late, she was in him blood and bone and she didn't even know it, didn't even care. Damn her! Damn her! O, Damn her to all of the seven hells! O, why hadn't he left her in the city? Why hadn't he gone alone? Be a sellsword somewhere, drink himself blind, fight and kill and be safe? No, he had to play the true knight and save the fair maiden from the tower. And he called her a fool for believing the old songs! And if the bastard brother took her, what then? Back to the emptiness, the loneliness, the pointlessness of it all? Because after what she had done to him, he could never go back. There would be nothing left for him once he gave her up.

Unless he didn't.

The thought hit him like lightning. What if he didn't give her up? What if he kept her for himself?

Why not? She had no-one left. Sansa had never been close to Jon Snow. There was no way the little sister was still alive. In the state Sansa was in now, it would be so easy to tell her they were going to hide in the hills until it was safe. Then he could tell her Jon Snow was dead and they needed to leave Westeros. He could tell her they were going dragon hunting right now and she'd believe him. Sellswords were always in demand, or better still, he could take his tourney money and her jewellery and buy someplace, anyplace, somewhere far away. He could snatch her away from all of this.

Snatch her away, like the monster in the fairy tale. Steal the princess and keep her in his lair. Seven hells!

'Well, why not? Why should I always be alone?' He screamed a silent scream to the stars, with all the ferocity of his starving heart. 'She would love me, eventually. Her protector, her true knight. No Knights of the bloody Pansies, with their golden hair and perfect faces to compete with. No princes or lords. Just me. And when she's ready, just us. And even if she never wanted me, not as a husband, I would be her knight, her protector, her friend. Her dog. Why not?'

The stars were silent, as always. Sandor looked straight up into the dark night sky and swore an oath. 'I give you three days. If you're there and you want to keep her, well, you do that. If not, after three days, she's mine.'

The Hound wrapped his arms tighter around his broken Little Bird, and slowly drifted to sleep.

Ch IX

The next two days passed in the same way. Each morning Sandor gutted, skinned and cooked the rabbit he had snared. He coaxed Sansa to eat a little. The leftovers, along with whatever he managed to scavenge from the woods, held them for the day.

Sansa did not speak. There were no night time talks, but both nights she curled up next to him and he put his arms around her. That was all the talk they needed.

Sandor had no idea where they were going, except that it was North. If the stars spoke, they would go to the Wall. If the stars stayed silent, he would take her away and never come back. The two days and nights crawled on and on and he became more and more anxious and testy, and the third day loomed and if he could only keep her for himself! The Hound was on a knife edge of hope, and he couldn't bear it.

On the third morning Sandor woke up, and as soon as his eyes opened he realised – just today. If nothing happens today, she's mine. No more misery. No more loneliness. A new life. Hope. He looked down at the sleeping girl in his arms and held her close, his heart swelling with tenderness and love until it hurt. 'O please, don't take her from me!' Sansa stirred in his arms and he pulled back, not wanting to wake her up, not wanting to end the magic. Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked up at him, unfocused with sleep.

'Is it time to wake up?'

'Yes, Little Bird.' No. Let's not. Let's never wake up. 'I'll go check the snare. Are you hungry?

'I will be. When it's ready. Can I help?'

'No, girl. Just ready yourself, and keep out of sight.' He let her go and slipped into the woods.

Sansa felt the cold as soon as he left her. With his cloak and his arms around her, she felt solid and safe. Without him, she felt herself slipping away into nothingness. He was just so strong and so real he made the monsters go away, even if just for a little while.

She was glad he hadn't wanted her to help. It was all she could do to wash her face and brush her hair. The simplest thing drained her now. Sansa knew she was a burden to him, but she couldn't be without him. Who would have thought that things would turn out the way they did, with Joffrey her tormentor and the Hound her dearest friend?

The Hound. She paused as she combed the tangles from her hair. It had been a while since she'd thought of him in that light. He was Sandor to her now. Over the last few days, she'd even forgotten his burned face. His scars didn't matter in the safety of his arms. Something else occured to her, through the fog of her grief. Sandor had changed. Yes, he was still a bit rough and harsh at times, but nothing like before, and since the terrible news had come, he'd been as gentle as a mother, and as patient. When was the last time she had seen him drunk? Not since the night they had fled. With a shock, Sansa realised that must have been well over a month ago. More. He hadn't had his beloved sour red in all that time, and it didn't seem to trouble him. How strange.

When Sandor came back with the rabbit, he set the fire. She watched him as he worked. Suddenly she asked, ' Don't you miss it?'

'Miss what?' he asked, confusedly.

'Wine.'

Sandor looked at her for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

'Wine? No, Little Bird, I don't miss it. In fact, if things turn out the way I hope they will, I may never need to get drunk again. Wine!' and he laughed again. 'Although, if you don't eat more than you did yesterday, I may take up drinking again.'

Sansa smiled at his happiness, though she couldn't understand what he meant. Sandor grinned back. It was so good to see her smile, especially when he was the cause of it. Sansa looked into his eyes.

'Thank you, Sandor.'

'For what, Little Bird?'

'For everything.'

Ch X

Sandor could never understand how he let it happen, how he had led them right into it. His watchfulness had failed him just when he needed it most. Drunk on hope and sure of success, he had been blinded by his dreams, and paid the price.

It was Sansa who spotted them first. She had stopped Queenie suddenly, calling out sharply, 'Who are they?' Sandor had snapped to attention, but it was too late. They had been spotted by a small group of men, clad in brown robes. One man led a heavy bay workhorse, others carried farm implements. Sandor put himself between them and Sansa, and scanned them swiftly, sword drawn, assessing the risk. They were a mixed bunch, young and old, but all wiry and tough from hard work. Enough to make themselves a nuisance, but not a real threat. They eyed him warily, bunching together, watching in a silence broken only by Stranger's snorting. Finally, the elder of the men stepped forward and spoke.

'Welcome to the lands of the Sept of the Stones, ser. Peace be with you and your lady. If you will put by your sword you are both welcome to partake of our hospitality.'

He stood still, taking in both Sandor and Sansa, betraying no emotion.

'Seven hells', thought Sandor, 'Septons. Bloody septons. Of all godsforsaken places to stumble on top of bloody septons. Of all times and places. Bugger them.'

He sheathed his sword and glared at them.

'We'll be on our way. We need no hospitality. I'm no 'ser', and you would do well to forget you ever saw us.'

The older man stood his ground.

'I am Septon Yohn, and the lady looks tired. You need not fear, we keep to ourselves, and keep a great many secrets.'

Sandor began to get angry. Could the old fool not take no for an answer? If Sansa had not been there watching, he would have silenced this Yohn. Get out of my way. You're spoiling everything.

'Sandor, they're right. We're both tired and we have hardly any food left. It would be good to have a roof over our heads for one night at least, if they will have us. Surely we will be safe among these holy men.'

He winced at the sound of his name. Bad enough that his hood had been down when he stumbled on them, now they knew his name. It was too late for the warning look he shot Sansa. Besides, she was right. Looking at the pale, tired face under the nondescript headscarf, he sighed bitterly. 'Alright, Little Bird, alright.' He was so angry he could have screamed. He had been so close, so close! Scar twitching, the Hound turned to the septons.

'The lady has spoken. We will go with you. Make one false move and it will be your last. Where is this sept?'

'We live in a community of peace, prayer and hard work and have no need for violence. Our home is only a short distance from here, over the hill. We keep guest quarters. If you will please follow us, I will introduce you to the head of our community, Septon Garston.'

'Bugger you and your community,' thought Sandor.

Sansa's courtesies did not fail her. She filled Sandor's angry silence.

' We thank you for your kindness and generosity. May it be returned sevenfold.'

'You are gracious, my lady. Please, follow us.'

They followed in silence, through land that was poor, rough and scrubby, stone-strewn and harsh. This made the size of the community all the more surprising. Surrounded by a high stone wall and a strong, solid wooden gate, the sept looked more like a holdfast. As they approached the gates, Sandor heard the sound of voices, the barking of dogs, the clanking of steel. It reminded him a little of Winterfell.

The septons stopped them at the gates.

'We do not have weapons in our halls. All instruments of violence are left here with our gatekeeper, Septon Royce. They will be kept safe until you collect them as you leave.'

Oh no. Sandor was not having that. There would be no Red Wedding here. Sansa sensed his rage and stepped in.

'Of course we would not wish to violate your peace. We will be happy to oblige.' She shot Sandor a pleading look. Damn you, girl.

'Alright,' he scowled. 'It doesn't matter. I could kill them with my bare hands, if necessary.'

Poor Sansa looked weary, the septons uneasy. After Septon Yohn took his sword, shield and knife – Yohn was sharp enough to check for that – they rode into the courtyard of the sept.

The similarity to Winterfell was striking, though on a much smaller scale. There was a smithy, stables, living quarters, a pig pen and chicken coop. A goat bleated out of sight, and the place was a hive of activity. It was definitely not what Sandor was expecting. Sansa looked a little overwhelmed.

'We are a self sufficient community. Our isolation means we have to produce almost everything we need. You will find it more peaceful around our living quarters and the sept.' Sansa smiled wanly.

Septon Yohn had excused himself and now returned with a man nearly as tall as Sandor himself. His face was harsh and angular, his eyes ice blue, yet not unkind for all that. It was clear this man was the High Septon of the community. He studied his guests in an open and leisurely fashion, utterly unembarrassed, with eyes that missed nothing.

'Welcome to the Sept of Stones. I am Septon Garston.' There was a silence. 'And you are - ?'

Septon Yohn stepped in. 'The knight's name is Sandor.' Garston didn't blink.

'And the lady?'

'Robynne. Her name is Robynne.' Sandor met the High Septon's sharp gaze and held it.

'Yes.' said Garston, 'I see.' He studied Sansa quietly before continuing.

'My lady, we forget our courtesies. I will send for our septas to come attend on you. You will want food, a bath and a good night's sleep after your long journey. Please, allow us to attend to your horses.'

Sansa began to dismount and nearly fell. Sandor leaped from Stranger and rushed to her side.

'I've got you, Little Bird, it's alright.'

She leaned against him for a moment. 'I'm sorry. I'm just so tired.'

'I know. You're alright. You can rest now.'

Septon Garston took it all in. Sandor wanted to hit him. Garston gestured to a septon. 'Go get Septa Anna.'

Anna was as short and round as her name, and was soon fussing over Sansa. Another older septa, drying her hands on a cloth, joined them, and Garston instructed them to care for their guest and to show her to her quarters. As they led her away, Sansa turned back to him. 'Sandor?'

'Go ahead, Little Bird. I will see you in the morning. You're safe.' Damn it all. Damn them all to all of the seven hells.

He watched until she disappeared into the guest quarters, then turned to glare at the High Septon.

'We will have food brought to your room, and hot water for bathing. I would like to speak to you before you retire.'

'I bet you would.' Sandor thought grimly.

'My men will see to your horses.'

'I will tend to Stranger myself, unless your 'men' want to die an unpleasant death. Don't worry, I'll come to you later. Before I retire.' He didn't bother hiding his sneer.

As he led the horses to the stables Sandor clenched his jaw in rage and frustration. So the gods said no, did they? They wanted her themselves, did they? After a lifetime of silence, they finally decided to speak? Well, bugger the gods. Bugger the septons. Bugger the Sept of Stones. And most of all, he cursed bitterly, bugger me.

Ch XI

The guest quarters were plain, comfortable and sparsely furnished. Septas Anna and Bryna soon had a fire roaring in the fireplace and were hauling in hot water for a bath. Sansa felt embarrassed handing over the dirty headscarf and the travel stained dress. At least she had no lice. That was something. What would they think when they saw her elegant dresses? Sansa had thought to hide her jewellery while the septas bustled in and out, but not her highborn gowns. Well, it was too late now.

Left to bathe in peace, Sansa sank gratefully into the hot, scented water. It darkened immediately. She would need another bath tomorrow, before she would feel completely clean. Her hair was stiff and lank with dirt. Sansa held her breath and sank under the water, where the world was nothing but kindness and warmth.

By the time she had dried and wrapped herself in the robe they had left on her bed, both Anna and Bryna had returned. They laid out a spread of cheese, bread, cold meat and apples, with a little spiced wine. Sansa combed her matted hair and started to dry it by the fire as she ate and Anna chatted. The little round septa was as lively as Bryna was silent, but it was the older woman who saw Sansa's need for quiet.

'Septa Anna and I will be back to clear up when you are done. Feel free to go to bed as soon as you are finished. There is a bed warmer in your bed, and here is your dreamwine. You should take some.' She touched Sansa's face gently, reminding the girl of her mother. Sansa could barely thank the woman through her tears.

The food was plain, plentiful and tasty. She had not realised just how hungry she was. The warmth of the fire seeped in to Sansa's bones. Listening to the crackling of the fire with closed eyes, she could have been in her old room at Winterfell, whispering with Arya. Fighting with her, more like.

Mother, father, sister, brothers, wolf, septa, servants, friends. All gone. All gone. Winterfell gone. She gave herself up to the grief and sobbed herself raw. No Sandor to hold her tonight. He was all she had left. Sansa got up slowly and moved towards the bed. How would she sleep without him near? She got her doll. Who cared if she was too old for dolls? There was no one to care. She stacked up some pillows and snuggled into them, but it wasn't the same. A pillow couldn't keep you safe. The fear began to seep into her again, the feeling of emptiness and nothingness with no knight to drive it away. I wish the Hound were here! In the end she remembered the dreamwine. It worked. The wine slipped softly through her veins and whispered her to sleep. 'You're alright now, little Bird, you're alright.'

Ch XII

Septon Garston's private quarters were sparsely furnished and pristine clean. Candlelight flickered on the stone walls and on the books stacked on the single shelf. Another door to the left led to what Sandor presumed must be a bedchamber. The High Septon himself sat behind a solid oak table covered with books, paper and quills. He leaned back in his chair, huge hands folded before him, his face half in shadows. Sandor would rather have seen his eyes. It was hard to sniff out a lie when you couldn't see their eyes. Though the septon was sunk in shadows, he had a clear view of Sandor. The Hound was uneasy.

'I hope you found everything to your satisfaction. I'm afraid we have few garments in your size, so you'll have to make do with mine until yours are cleaned.' There was a knock on the door, and Septon Yohn entered, set down a tray with a bottle and two goblets, and left. Without asking, Garston poured wine into both cups and handed one to Sandor. The Hound noted the man's broad shoulders, sure movements and powerful hands. 'More suited to a sword than a sept,' he thought, eyeing Garston warily. The septon leaned back into the shadows again.

'Who sent you here?' The question took Sandor by surprise.

'No one.'

'Someone sent you here. You didn't find this place on your own. Was it someone in King's Landing?'

'What would anyone in that hell-hole know about a pile of rocks in the middle of a gods-forsaken wilderness in the North? And why would they send me here, unless they wanted to punish me? And what makes you think I came from the Landing?'

Sandor took a long draught of wine. It was good. He'd had quite a lot already at dinner. It was beginning to show.

'Let us be frank with each other. I know perfectly well that you are the king's Hound, Sandor Clegane. I am not blind. I know you left the city under a cloud and that the king's men are looking for you, for desertion and treason. The only thing that would bring you to my sept is sanctuary, and for that you needed directions from a friend. You are safe here now. Do you really expect me to believe you just sauntered out here, guided by the gods?'

'Bugger the gods. Bugger all seven wth a red hot poker.' Sandor polished off the rest of his drink and poured another. 'And do you really expect me to believe that you are some blessed innocent septon? I know a killer when I see one. Whose sigil did you wear?'

Garston leaned forward, candlelight revealing his angular features. Their eyes met and held.

'Who I was before I came here is not important. Suffice it to say that I lived a very different life once. Now I live in peace, and live to protect the innocent. Not that I think for one minute that you are innocent, but she is. Now tell me, how did you find us? It is not every day that a hound and a wolf grace us with their presence.'

Sandor jumped to his feet, reaching for the sword that wasn't there. Swearing loudly, he grabbed for the septon and met empty air. Before he knew what was happening, his right arm was twisted behind his back and he was slammed, face down, on the table. Goblets and inkwells went flying.

'You shouldn't drink with someone so precious under your protection. If I thought for one minute that you had harmed that girl you would be dead. As she seems to care for you I will presume you have done her no injury. I am going to release you. If you try to attack me again, she will be without you. I am old, but I remember, and you are drunk.' Releasing his iron grip, the septon sat down again, and watched his opponent from the shadows. Cursing himself, Sandor flexed his arm. That would hurt for a few days.

'Who are you?'

'Septon Garston of the Sept of Stones. Who told you to come here?'

Sandor's laugh was bitter. 'You know, I haven't had a drop in weeks, not since I've been with her. I didn't need it. I had to keep her safe. Now that she's barely out of my sight, I'm too drunk to fight.' He raised the half empty wine bottle. 'Here's to the Red Wolf of Winterfell. To the Little Bird, preserver of sobriety!' He drank straight from the bottle. 'I took her with me. I climbed the tallest tower and rescued the fair maiden, like the truest of true knights. After a sweet song or two, I brought her through fire and blood, and forests and fields and kept her safe from harm. I kept her so well hidden we knew nothing of Freys or Boltons or weddings until we saw the smoke rising from Winterfell. And when I had to tell that poor, beautiful girl that everyone was gone, I kept her alive. I coaxed her to eat. I made Florian the Fool look like a plague rat. And do you know what I did then ?' He took another swig. 'I made a deal with your gods. I told them that since they were obviously so disinterested in her and her family, I would take her away from all this hell. I'd build her a castle and protect her and let her sing her little songs and dream her little dreams. And some day she might even love me. Three days I gave the bastards, three days and if they did not intervene, then she would be mine. And what do you think they did? You'll love this. On the final hour of the final day, we wander into your men. The bloody buggers of the bloody Sept of Stones. You can just imagine my delight. I should have killed them all, but she wouldn't have liked that. And she needed to rest. Poor Little Bird, with her broken wing. And now you have her.' Sandor finished the bottle. 'Are you happy now?'

The septon sat in silence for some time. Sandor was too tired to care.

'You were right to take her. Stannis Baratheon was defeated. The Tyrells have come to the Landing, and Margaery Tyrell is to wed Prince Joffrey. You can imagine what the lady's life would have been after that. It was reported that she had fled to Dragonstone with Stannis' soldiers, or, if you credit it, that she warged into a direwolf and disappeared. At any rate, it is not suspected that she is in the North, and certainly not with you. You have hidden her well.'

'How do you know all this?'

'I left the world, but the world did not leave me. I kept a small circle of friends who keep me informed. When people need to disappear, they are sent here. We know how to keep secrets. We are isolated, bleak, of little temptation to raiders, and we keep out of sight. That is why I asked who sent you. No one comes here by accident. Neither did you.' He paused. 'Where were you headed, if not here?'

'I had originally thought of taking her to the bastard brother on the Wall, before I came up with my other plan. The Tullys are at war. I thought of the aunt at the Eyrie, but it would be too difficult to reach.'

'And pointless. Her aunt is dead.'

That woke Sandor up.

'What happened?'

'She married Petyr Baelish.'

'Oh.' Sandor swore softly.

'You have no love for the man.' said Septon Garston, leaning forward from the shadows.

'Littlefinger is a snake, as bad as the rest of them. And now he controls the Vale. I wonder how long he was planning that?'

'I am inclined to wonder the same thing. I have heard many things about Lord Baelish, but that's for another time. You are tired from your journey. I wish you a good night, and we will speak further on the morrow.'

As they walked to the door, Sandor asked, 'Is she alright? Did she eat?'

The septon's face relaxed into a smile that softened his eyes. 'She did, and is sleeping now, clinging to a pile of pillows, poor thing.' He looked sidelong at Sandor. 'Septa Bryna gave her her special dreamwine, so we won't be seeing Lady Sansa for a couple of days at least. Goodnight, Sandor Clegane.'

'Lady Sansa,' Sandor thought to himself, as he made his way back to his room. 'Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. I will miss my Little Bird.'

Ch XIII

Sansa did not appear for two days. While she slept, Sandor skulked around the sept, impatiently watching and waiting. His watch was broken only by his visits to Stranger, and to Septon Garston. Sandor learned a great deal about the current state of Westerosi politics, and none of it was very encouraging. In a world beset by betrayals and violence, even the Wall was weathering an onslaught, this one of wildlings, led by yet another pretender king. There were rumours also of a force much darker, far more dangerous. And Winter was coming. You could already hear its whisper in the late autumn air. People would be hard pressed to find enough to eat. Garston had advised that Sandor and Sansa stay put for the foreseeable future. It was the safest place for the last of the trueborn Starks to be at present. Sandor was inclined to agree.

He was in the stables feeding Stranger when Septa Anna came in, all smiles. 'Your lady is awake and wishes to speak with you,' she beamed, before bouncing out the door again. Sandor raced out the door after her, before stopping and looking down at his mismatched, borrowed clothes. He considered running back to his room to change, but his need to see Sansa was too great. She'd seen him looking worse on the road. He made a pitiful attempt to smooth his hair and to walk with dignity to the guest quarters. The sight of her stopped him dead in his tracks.

Sansa stood in the cloister around which the quarters and the sept were built. She wore the beautiful blue gown that matched her eyes and her hair glowed in the sun. He was awed not just by her beauty, but by the quiet grief and strength that emanated from her. The confused, frightened girl of two days before was gone, as if she had never been. The young woman who stood before him now was harder, brighter and more beautiful. She was a queen. Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell. Her face lit up when she saw him, and she ran up to him and took his arm, smiling. Sandor felt awkward as a boy. 'I hope you are well, my lady', he mumbled.

'Sansa to you,' she said imperiously, 'at least until we start mixing with elegant society again. I got the feeling from Septa Anna that they expect us to stay here for a while. Is that true?'

'It is. The North is in chaos, as is much of Westeros. But you have just woken up, this can wait. You look much better than you did when I saw you last.'

'I feel much better, though I miss my headscarf.' She smiled up at him. 'A long sleep and a soft bed does work wonders. I must ask Septa Bryna what was in that dreamwine. I'm still a bit tired after it.'

She led Sandor to a rough wooden bench and sat down next to him. Silence sat gently between them, before Sansa finally spoke, her face serious and sad.

'Nothing will ever be the same. I still can't fully believe what has happened to my family, but it has, and I need to face it. I also need to look to the future. My father used to say that in winter, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. I must needs have a pack. But where to begin? Have you heard any news?'

Sandor updated her on recent events, ending with the death of her aunt Lysa. Sansa was stunned. 'But how? She was younger than my mother!'

'Her minstrel was thrown through the Moon Door for her murder, but there are rumours, believed to be well founded. Your aunt married Lord Baelish shortly before she was pushed through the Moon Door herself. He now controls the Vale of Arryn, and its armies.'

'But Littlefinger loved my mother, not Aunt Lysa.'

'Littlefinger loves no one but Littlefinger. If he loved your mother so much, why did he never help her daughter? And why did he marry so soon after her violent death? No. He's as foul a man as any in King's Landing, and that's saying something.'

'He cannot be that bad! He couldn't have harmed Lysa, they were raised together.'

Sandor shifted uncomfortably on the bench. 'There is something I never told you, Little Bird. Littlefinger betrayed your father. He held a knife to Lord Stark's throat when he was arrested. He mocked your father for trusting him.'

'Are you sure?'

'I am. I was there.'

There was a long, agonising silence. Sandor couldn't bring himself to look at her.

'Of course. You would have been there, following the King's orders. You were there when my father's men were slaughtered. It may even have been you who killed Jeyne Poole's father. All those men, all those good men. And poor Jeyne. You broke down her door with a war hammer. She was terrified. Where is she now? Do you know? They took her away.'

'I don't know, Little Bird. I think Littlefinger took her.'

There was another silence. 'He owns brothels, doesn't he?'

'Yes.'

'O, my poor Jeyne.'

Sansa covered her face with her hands and sat in silence. Sandor writhed in mute misery. More hurt and betrayal for her, and this time he was the cause. Surely she would dismiss him now.

After some time she stood up. 'Let's walk.' She led the way slowly around the quadrangle. He couldn't see her face.

'I forgive you.'

'What?'

'I forgive you. I forgive you for being part of my father's arrest, for being part of the force that killed our friends and followers. I won't ask if you killed Septa Mordane, but I forgive you if you did. You were following the King's orders. Not that that excuses what happened, but I have learned to distinguish between following evil orders, and being truly evil yourself. And you have changed, Sandor. You are not the King's Hound anymore. You left King's Landing for more than just fear of fire. There's more to you than just the Hound. If there wasn't I wouldn't have gone with you. I cannot forgive on behalf of Jeyne, my father, my septa or my father's men. That's a debt you owe to them, not to me. As for myself, I forgive you wholeheartedly. Now Sandor, I ask that you forgive me.'

'I forgive you? For what, girl?'

'For being unable to look at you. For seeing only your scars for so long. For being afraid of you while the true monsters were all around me. You did more for me than I ever imagined. I want to thank you, and to ask for your forgiveness.'

Sandor's face was red and he muttered awkwardly, 'There's nothing to forgive, girl, not after all the terrible things I did. This is foolishness.'

'Please.'

This was too much. He couldn't handle it. Seven hells, this is too much.

'Sandor.'

His rasp was barely audible. 'I forgive you. Enough.'

She took his arm again. He couldn't look at her.

'Thank you. It is good to know.'

They walked in silence for a while.

'I hope my father and my sister will be so forgiving when I see them in the next world. I was loyal to my beloved king, instead of to them. I told Cersei of my father's plans, because I wanted to stay with my love. I just wanted to stay in the city, where my life would be a song. Silly girl, with silly dreams. You were right. They were all liars, and I didn't sniff them out until it was too late.'

'You were too young and innocent and with respect, your parents should have prepared you more. But then, they were honourable and judged others accordingly, a lethal mistake in King's Landing.'

'It's a pity you never really got to know them. I wish you had come to us, instead of Theon. You would never, ever have betrayed us. I know you wouldn't. I had it all planned, you know. When you brought me back to Winterfell you would have been a hero. I was going to make sure of it. I was going to get you a place in Robb's Kingsguard. Imagine the look on Joffrey's face when he heard! Robb would still be alive if you were protecting him. You always sniff out the lies. You could have been his adviser too, who knows more about the Lannisters than you? No one would ever call you dog again, and you could stay with us forever, if you liked. Everything could have worked out so well. It's so unfair!' For a moment she was a child again, before she took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. 'Well, no use crying over dead dreams. It's the future we need to talk about now. I cannot contact Riverrun or the Wall at present. We cannot ascertain who my true allies are right now, yet I need to get Winterfell back. From what you tell me, the High Septon is well informed. Can we trust him?'

'I believe we can. There is a lot more to him than meets the eye, but I think him to be true. He will want to speak to you tonight, after supper. That is when he summons me.'

'Good,' said Sansa. I need to speak to him too.'

Ch XIV

'It is good to see you up and about, my lady. I trust you slept well,' Septon Garston pulled up a chair for his visitor and sat behind his desk. Sandor stood behind Sansa.

'I did, thank you. I've never slept so deeply in my life. Please thank Septa Bryna for me.' Garston nodded. 'Sandor tells me that you advise we should stay for some time, and he agrees. I value his advice and I will comply. I must say though that it cannot be for very long. Winterfell cannot be reclaimed by hiding forever. Sooner rather than later I will have to go to Jon, and we will have to call the banners, whichever are left. Sandor tells me you are well informed. I need to know where I can start. I need to know who I can trust.'

The septon raised his eyebrows and studied the determined young woman more seriously. Sansa held his gaze steadily.

'Until the chaos settles, it would be madness to risk leaving here. Neither would I recommend sending any ravens to the Wall yet. Birds and other messengers are being intercepted. When things have settled a bit I will send to my contacts, but I must advise caution for now. Remember that your discovery will mean death for you both, not to mention this entire community. Your friend here worked a miracle getting you this far unnoticed. Let's keep it that way.'

Sansa nodded.

'Thank you for your hospitality, and for your advice. Allow me to do something to pay our way.' Sansa handed the septon a small cloth bag. He opened it and a gold chain spilled onto the table. When he lifted it, a golden lion glinted on a large medallion. His eyebrows lifted again.

'It is of some value. The sooner it is melted down and used for good, the better.' Sansa stood up. 'Thank you again, Septon Garston. I must excuse myself, I'm afraid I am still somewhat tired. We will speak again when I have regained more of my strength. I beg your pardon.'

'Of course, Lady Stark. You have suffered a great deal. I will keep you informed.' Sansa smiled her sweetest smile and left.

'I hope I wasn't rude,' she whispered to Sandor as they left, 'but I am not about to give any more information than I get. I trust your judgement, but I'd like to keep him at arm's length for now, as I am not yet thinking clearly enough to deal with a man as shrewd as he is. I had no control in King's Landing, but I do now.'

'You've changed, Little Bird.'

'I have. Not too much, I hope, but just enough. I will never be a pawn again and I will have justice for my family. I will have to be patient and smart. I also want to ask you something.'

'Yes, Little Bird?'

'You probably want to leave and go live your life. After all you have done already I would not blame you. No one else could have gotten me so far in safety. Right now you are the only person in Westeros I trust, and that is why I want you to stay with me. You are my only friend. Stay, and be my advisor and protector. Be my sworn shield.'

Sandor stood motionless. She hurried on.

'I know you have your tourney money. You could travel so quickly without me, go to Braavos, anywhere, start a new life somewhere safe, far away from all of this, where no one cares about Lannisters or Starks or kings. I understand. Just think about it please, Sandor. Take a few days, if you need it.' O please, don't leave me!

'Why would you want me to be your sworn shield? I abandoned my last charge. They're after me for treason. I was no friend to your father. Why would you want the King's Dog taking care of you?

'Because I trust you.'

Sandor winced. 'And what will your late father's bannermen think of your Lannister dog by your side?'

'They will think I must be worth following, if even the King's Hound turned his cloak for me.'

He laughed grimly at that, and paused for a long time, his face unreadable, his eyes guarded.

'I won't go, Little Bird. I'll stay as long as you need me. For as long as you want me to be, I'll be your shield.'

Tension drained from her face and her blue eyes shone up at him. 'Thank you, ser.'

'I'm no ser,' he growled. 'How many times do I have to tell you that?'

'Well, you are to me.' Sansa yawned. 'I'm sorry, I really am going to have to go back to my room. Bryna's dreamwine is very strong. I'll see you again tomorrow.'

'As you wish, Little Bird.'

She turned towards the guest quarters and then stopped.

'I'm not a lone wolf anymore. You're the first in my new pack.'

She smiled up at him as she left him in the yellow autumn light.

Ch XV

Sometimes grief felled her like a war hammer, stopping her in her tracks. Sometimes she felt it coming and could brace herself to face it. Others it slipped round her neck like a noose and held her down, helpless and hopeless.

Mornings were the worst for that. Sansa would wake to the faint sounds of distant voices and of ravens quorking and think she was back home in Winterfell. Then she would remember. It wasn't so bad when she could cry. It was worse when grief smothered her to the point that breathing became an effort. When her father died, she had taken to her bed for days on end, refusing to eat or wash. She was too old for that now. She had to get up.

It was said that when you freeze to death, your final moments are of warmth and peace. The snow becomes a kind and gentle blanket and you drift away in a dream. That was what Sansa wanted sometimes; to stop fighting the cold, to lie back down into it and never to rise again. To cross over to wherever her family was and to stay with them forever. It was not an option, though. She was no longer a child but a woman, and she was a Stark. Her business was justice, Winterfell and the North. There was no place for weakness.

Sometimes the nights were the worst. The distractions of the day slipped away with the light and left her alone with her ghosts. After the first few weeks Sansa had decided to give up the dreamwine as it was becoming a crutch. Better to face the darkness and its terrors alone. At least on the road she had had Sandor. The strong, solid arms of him, his bulk between her and the dark, driving away the demons in the night. But now that she was alone and without him she could see it all – her father's legs kicking, her brothers' flayed faces, her mutilated mother and the monstrous King in the North. Sandor had eventually agreed to tell her what had happened to Lady Stark and Robb. It was better coming from him, but the images drove her to the brink of madness alone in the darkness. When she felt close to the edge Sansa would put on her cloak, light her lamp and slip away to the sept. Going to Sandor was out of the question, they weren't on the road anymore.

The darkness was different in the sept. It was a comfort, and it kept the ghosts back. Sometimes she sat down before the Mother, sometimes the Maiden or the Warrior, but more and more often she found herself drawn to the Stranger. He was, after all, the one who had almost everyone she'd ever loved. 'Tell them I love them, I miss them, and that I will have justice before I see them again.' They stood together in the darkness, Sansa and the Stranger, cold comfort, until she slipped away at first light.

The bustle of daytime brought a kind of peace. She had work, plans, Sandor. Still, even days were not safe. Sansa had been quite happy sitting with Anna and Bryna one sunny afternoon, sewing and chatting, when it hit her. She was back in Winterfell again with Jeyne and Beth. Septa Mordane had just stepped out, leaving the girls to gossip and sew. The sun shone on the gloss of Jeyne's hair and on Beth's sweet smile, and they talked and giggled about their lives, their hopes and their dreams. O, they had been so happy, so young and so innocent! It had all seemed so real, so clear, that Sansa had been overwhelmed. She had had to leave the septas immediately and run to the shelter of her chamber. Bryna had followed her and held her quietly through the worst of her sobs. Then she had gently helped her to undress, covered her, built up the fire and left. No one had troubled her until the morning.

In the morning it all began again. Sansa had forced herself up and out of bed. She dressed and made ready to break her fast. She looked in the mirror and put on her armour.

'I am a daughter of Winterfell, and I will survive.'

Ch XVI

The silence of the forest was broken only by the thunk, thunk of Sandor's axe. The autumn sun glinted on the sharpened edge as he lifted and swung again and again in hypnotic rhythm. Sandor loved the activity. It was the closest thing to swinging a sword he was allowed to do in the sept. Septon Garston had been slow to permit him to leave the sept grounds, and slower still to arm him, but with winter approaching the brothers needed all the help they could get. It had been Sansa's idea to become involved in the work of the sept, and Sandor had agreed. It kept him from going soft and getting bored, if nothing else. If the septons didn't realise that he trained with the axe between loads, well, it wouldn't hurt them.

He straightened up and stretched his muscles, letting the sounds of the forest creep back while he caught his breath. The truth was, Sandor was happy. He could never have predicted it that first night, when he cursed the gods and threatened Garston, but he was really, truly happy; and he was afraid. Happiness, especially this happiness, could never last. This was a safe haven, a cocoon for them both, a time to heal. A time to be together, outside of the rest of the world. It couldn't last forever, it wouldn't, and the fear of waking up was the monster that gnawed at the edge of his dreams.

As Sansa had settled in, they had created their own rhythm together, as they had on the road. They would meet outside the refectory every morning and Sandor would escort her into the hall. Sitting together, Sandor would pour her wine and attend to her. When the jolly guestmaster had attempted to help her instead, a single glare had been enough to send the man scuttling away. The two septas had not been so easily frightened. Round and bouncy Anna seemed oblivious to his disdain, while quiet Bryna seemed not to care. That woman saw right through him. After breaking their fast, he would have some time alone with Sansa, talking and planning for the day, until she went to work with the septas and he with the septons. He had to do without her until dinner. The community had been hesitant about the Lady of Winterfell helping in their labours, but Sansa had insisted, and her skill as a seamstress soon made her as invaluable to them as Sandor's strength did.

He was so proud of her! She made everything so beautiful. Where he had always killed and destroyed, she created and beautified. Not that the majority of the sewing in the Sept of Stones called for beauty, but her skill made even the simplest of cloaks and garments elegant. They were stocking up on winter clothes and blankets for the community and the surrounding poor, and Sansa's work freed up Anna and Bryna for spinning and weaving. She had also tackled the long overdue task of making herself some new gowns. As the septas had subtly hinted, she needed clothes more suitable for the road. At least the septas were good for something, he thought to himself as the thunk, thunk of the axe began again.

One of the first things Sansa had made had been a tunic for him. He smiled even now at the memory. His own Little Bird. She had been so excited to show it to him, and so proud! He could see her now, her lovely face glowing and her eyes shining, so eager to show him what she had made especially for him! Sansa had gotten the measurements from his old King's Landing tunic and couldn't wait for him to try it on. Sandor had blushed and scowled and growled to hide his pleasure, and had fooled her not one whit. She was now working on a pair of trousers, although the septon's robes she had started on were holding them up. Bloody septons. She was also excited about some embroidery she had started to do for the sept – an altar cloth. It depended on her being able to get enough coloured thread. Sandor couldn't care less about coloured thread, but he cared very much about seeing her happy.

For a time he had worried about her, especially after she had stopped taking the dreamwine. On the outside she usually seemed calm and in control, but only Sandor – and maybe quiet Bryna – could see through it. He could feel her quiet despair almost as keenly as if it was his own. Sometimes it felt as if she were moving in his own skin. Sandor never really knew what to say, but he always knew what to do. Sometimes she just needed to get up and walk away, and he let her do it. Other times she just needed to sit quietly beside him and lean on his arm. He was more than happy to let her do it. Other times he scowled and scolded and showed no pity.

'What happened to that pony of yours? Who do you think is looking after her? Bad enough you gave her that poncy name, but then you abandon her? Get up girl, I'm not your stable boy. Come with me and look after that pony.'

Powerless to resist the iron hands that pushed her gently and firmly to the stables, she would do as she was told, and the pony's welcoming whicker would bring a smile to her solemn face, and Sandor's ceaseless scolding would put some sauce in her words. One day he frightened her witless by making her help him with Stranger. She still feared the horse, even after all the time on the road, and refused to touch him until Sandor took her hand in his and they stroked Stranger's midnight neck together. Stranger's ears snapped back and then flicked forward as Sandor spoke softly to him and he finally relaxed under Sansa's touch. Sandor stepped back and let her hand go, letting himself stare at her while her face was turned. 'He's used to you now. He likes you.'

Her face lit up and she turned and smiled up at Sandor, 'I won't be scared of him again.' Ever since she had brought a little treat for Stranger as well as for Queenie, and both horses would whicker when she entered the stables.

Spotting a splash of colour to his left, Sandor paused and put down his axe. Blackberries. He took out a clean linen handkerchief and filled it with them. Whenever he was out and about working he would keep an eye out for anything she might like. Fruit, nuts, flowers, once a piece of honeycomb they uncovered while harvesting millet. The septons had rejoiced at the unexpected treat, but no one had enjoyed it as much as Sansa when he presented a piece to her as soon as he got back. He had been as proud and excited as a child when he gave it to her, and she was soon laughing and giggling with delight as she savoured the sweetness while trying to save her gown from the drips. She had insisted on sharing with him, she always did. Rich and sweet, the honey had a red gold tint, like the auburn in her hair.

Every evening they would meet outside the refectory and go for dinner, and after they would sit and talk about all the events of their day. Sometimes, if the nightmares had been bad, she would tell him about them. Other times she would tell him about her plans for the future; for Winterfell and the North. He preferred to hear about her nightmares. Once they left this place and went back out into the world, all this happiness would be over. She would be Lady Stark, he would be the Hound, and the easy intimacy of their life here would be at an end. He would have to stand aside as suitable matches were discussed and debated, and one day he would have to watch as she married the handsome, highborn knight of her dreams and filled the halls of Winterfell with their children's laughter, while her friend Sandor became nothing more than the Hound again; the scarred, silent shadow at her back. Her husband would be the one to bring her gifts and hear her dreams. And wasn't that what Sandor was here for? To protect her and keep her safe, so she could have that very life? Wasn't it madness to dream of more? He poured his loneliness and frustration into a frenzy of chopping until the ache in his arms deadened the ache in his heart. Why ruin the pleasure of this golden time worrying about the future? Go back to the sept, give her the blackberries, enjoy them and her company. Listen to her stories and pretend that she's your lady, that this is your castle, and that you'll never be alone again.

Ch XVII

Days spilled into weeks and melted into months. The search for Sansa had not abated, but interest in Sandor was slowly dying down. Septon Garston had begun sending out ravens and had been waiting on replies for some time. When they finally came, long overdue, they carried unexpected news from both ends of Westeros.

'Black wings, black news,' he said, as his visitors settled themselves in his quarters. 'But I suppose the blackness of this news depends on the person hearing it.'

Sansa raised her eyebrows, Sandor regarded him impassively.

'The first piece of news I have has already sent shock waves around the kingdom. As you know, King Joffrey was to marry Margaery Tyrell. He did, but at the wedding feast he was poisoned.' He paused. 'Joffrey Baratheon is dead.'

Sansa gasped and put her hand over her mouth. 'O, poor Margaery!' After a moment's stunned silence, Sandor threw back his head and roared laughing.

'Poor Margaery! O, Little Bird!' and laughed until his eyes filled with tears. 'Only you could come up with it, girl.' When he composed himself, Sandor asked for the details. Septon Garston only knew that Joffrey had been poisoned at the wedding, and that his uncle Tyrion had been arrested for the murder. Sandor smirked at that, but Sansa was stunned. She argued that Tyrion would not have killed his own nephew. 'He is a Lannister, but he's not a kinslayer.'

'I beg to differ, my lady, as there is more. The Imp escaped his prison, and before leaving King's Landing, he dispatched his father with a crossbow. Tywin Lannister is also dead.'

Sandor and Sansa stared blankly at Garston, and then at each other. 'This is good for us, isn't it, Sandor? This means that we have one less dangerous enemy.'

Sandor studied Garston closely. 'Are you sure your sources are reliable?'

'They are. I must say, I thought you would feel some regret on the loss of your young charge. How many years did you protect Joffrey?'

'Long enough to learn his taste for cruelty, septon, and to turn my back on it. I chose the better path by far, and I am thankful for it. Do you want to take issue with it?'

'No, but you may take issue with my next piece of news. Tyrion demanded a trial by combat. He chose Oberyn Martell as his champion. You can guess why.'

'The Red Viper has been wanting revenge on Gregor almost as long as I have, and with even greater cause. Which of them won?'

'Neither. Gregor killed Martell, but not before the Viper stung him. Your brother died a long, slow and excruciating death. His head has been sent to Prince Doran.'

Sandor's face was utterly blank. Sansa put her hand on his shoulder. He patted it gently, before rising and leaving without ceremony. As she rose to follow him, Septon Garston called her back.

'There was a second raven, this one from the septon at the Wall. The battle with the wildlings has been won, thanks to Stannis Baratheon. Your brother, Lord Commander Snow, is hosting Stannis and his troops, as well as a host of wildling captives, at the Wall. Fom what I understand, it is not currently a safe place for a young lady. Your Lannister friend may also be unwelcome in Baratheon's eyes. Do you have any other allies we can call on? Any place better than the Wall, in case the Sept becomes unsafe?'

Sansa thought for a moment. 'There are the mountain clans, like the Liddles. My father spoke of them as proud and loyal people, and I believe we are kin to some of them – the Flints. Father said that Bran's love of climbing came from them. Then there are the Mormonts of Bear Island, but so many others may have changed allegience. Please, I must go to him now.'

'Of course, my lady.'

Sansa ran after Sandor, heading straight for the stables. He was there, stroking Stranger, the huge beast snuffling and nuzzling his master. She stood quietly and waited for him to speak.

'I have hated him for so long I can't believe he is gone. He wasn't supposed to die until I killed him.' He stroked Stranger's dark velvet nose in silence.

Sansa leaned against the stall door, her chin resting on her hands. 'Do you remember the day of the tourney, when you saved the Knight of Flowers? I thought it was all so brave and courageous, but my father noticed something I didn't. He said afterwards that although Gregor struck at your helm several times, you never once struck at his unprotected face. Not once. You could have killed him with a blow to the head, and no one would have blamed you. If you wanted him dead, why didn't you kill him then?'

'It wouldn't have been honourable. I'm nothing like Gregor.' He picked up Stranger's brush and began grooming him. The horse's eyes gradually shut and he gave a sigh. When Sandor eventually spoke, his voice was little more than a rasping whisper.

'Do you know what I wanted more than anything else, Little Bird? I wanted him to say he was sorry. To admit what he had done to me, and to say that he was sorry. He betrayed me. I hated him. He was my brother and he betrayed me. All these years, I just wanted the bastard to be sorry, to be my brother, and now he is gone. May he rot in all of the seven hells.' His scars twitched and he turned his face away from her. When he spoke again, his voice was controlled and steady. 'No one else knows this. Don't tell anyone. Not the septas, not your brother, no one.'

'Or you'll kill me?'

Sandor smiled in spite of himself. 'Go annoy a septa for a while, you nuisance of a wolf.'

Sansa slipped quietly into the stall, hugged him fiercely, and left him in peace.

Ch XVIII

When the end came, it came suddenly, on the cusp of winter. Sandor and Sansa were just leaving the refectory when Garston summoned them to his chambers. A raven had come, with news from the Wall.

'Your brother Jon has sent for you, my lady. War is afoot again, and Stannis Baratheon is assembling allies. His soldiers, the wildlings and the mountain clans you spoke of will be marching soon on Winterfell. The Karstarks of Karhold, under Lady Alys and her new wildling husband, have also declared for Stannis. The king has ordered that you come to the safety of the Wall, immediately, so that you cannot be used as a hostage by the Boltons, if you are discovered once war has started. I think you are well hidden here, but the king is adamant. It seems that Queen Selyse and Princess Shireen are now sheltered at Castle Black, so you will not be exposed to any great danger, being with them. You two will go disguised as a septa and a septon of our community, on a visit to the septon on the Wall. Bryna, Yohn and I will accompany you. Our orders are clear. We go today. You must see to your packing, my lady, the septas will bring you your new garments. The gods know, you have probably made them yourself.'

With that he whirled away, barking orders to a flurry of septons. Sansa stood motionless for a while.

'I didn't get to make the piece for the sept. I have hardly even started the embroidery.'

'What are you complaining about?' Sandor snapped, 'You're the one who's been waiting for this, to leave and save your precious Winterfell. Don't pretend you can't wait to leave all this behind.' His scar twitched and he tore off to his room, leaving Sansa hurt and stunned. What had she done? How could she have upset him? Her lip trembled and she went back to her room, troubled.

Once back in her room, she had little time for brooding. The place was a whirl of activity. Bustling Anna had packed most of her things and had laid out her septa's clothes.

'The men will carry most of the provisions, my lady, but I have laid aside some extra treats for you in that bag. If your flowering comes on the road, there are rags in this pouch, and Bryna will help you manage things, if you ask her. I must run to her now, she's going with you. One young septa on her own would look suspicious. Not that you'll be spending much time on the Kingsroad. Our Septon Garston knows every byway going. Now, I'm talking too much. I will be back again later, my lady.'

So, it's over, Sansa thought, as she sat on the bed. Much as she had wanted, even needed, to fight for her family, her freedom, and yes, for Winterfell, a part of her had loved this place and never wanted to leave. A part of her had loved her safe, warm cocoon with her own dear friend, and the thought of leaving it now left her feeling hollow and afraid. Back out there with the monsters. Maybe that was why Sandor was angry. Maybe he was frightened too. The septa's veil and gown were a well made version of the awkward diguise Sandor had given her. Memories of kindness, and of heartbreak.

In his own room, Sandor cursed and swore. He threw over the bed and smashed the empty chamberpot against the wall. Bugger the king, the bastard brother, the Wall, the Starks, the whole damn lot. Bugger the gods who dragged him here and were now taking it all away again. He let out an almighty roar. The noise of it ringing in the small chamber brought him to his senses. Feeling a sudden shame, Sandor tidied up the room as best as he could, and gathered up the shards of the broken chamberpot. He'd leave money in the room for the damage. No one came near him to help him pack. No one dared.

It wasn't long before he was ready and had both Queenie and Stranger saddled. Stranger was eager and excited, ears flicking and head tossing. Queenie was somewhat less impressed. Sandor sympathised. Swift as his own preparations has been, both Garston and Yohn had beaten him. 'Two old campaigners', he thought. 'I hope they remember all their skills so well.' Garston was on one of the sept's biggest workhorses, a powerful bay with feathered hooves, the other septon on a tough little black garron. Sandor felt the loss those two horses would be to the work of the sept. At least he knew that both he and Sansa had given back something to these people who had done so much for them.

Sansa looked every inch the demure young novice, under the care of her older mentor. Sandor felt a pang of guilt at the sight of her big, bewildered eyes. 'Here, Little Bird, let me help you,' and he lifted her gently onto her pony. She gave him a little sideways smile. He was forgiven.

Gods, girl, I didn't mean to hurt you. If only I could tell you that.

Bryna mounted another garron, unaided. 'Thank you for your help, kind ser,' she said dryly, the knowing look in her eye causing the Hound to flush and scowl.

The whole community had assembled to bid them farewell. Anna wept openly, the septons looked sombre. 'They are wondering if they will see their comrades again,' thought Sandor, 'and if the last trueborn Stark will make it to the Wall. I wonder it myself.'

Garston left his instructions, asked for their prayers, and bid them farewell. With no further ceremony, the small party headed out into the cold afternoon sun. They both looked back for a last glimpse at their place of refuge, before turning back into the unknown.

Ch XIX

The last gold of autumn was fading into the winter darkness. Every step further North brought them deeper into the cold. Sandor had never felt anything like it, but Sansa did not seem too troubled. The North was in her bones, and there was a steel in her that sometimes took him by surprise. She needed it now. The nights were so cold the whole group had to huddle together, with one standing sentry at all times. Bryna would sleep on one side of Sansa, Sandor on the other, sword drawn, just in case. He would have given anything to hold her, to keep the cold from her, but that was out of the question.

Garston knew every path and byway; even so, they had already had a near miss with some Freys, and they were all permanently on edge. Every tree, every stone, every gulley could hide an enemy. Every sound could mean approaching death, and one day it did. The snow had started to fall during the night, covering their blankets with a soft powder. The light powder soon became heavy flakes, and the path became harder to see through the swirling snow. In the gloom, two riders appeared over the crest of the hill. Garston swore. 'Scouts, by the Seven, carrying the sigil of the flayed man!'

'Seven hells!' It was too late. The two riders approached them, hands on their swords, and positioned themselves, one at the back, one at the front of the group.

'The blessings of the Seven upon you,' called Garston, 'And safe travels in this cruel weather!'

The taller of the two, a bald man with weasel eyes and a face pinched with cold, challenged them. 'What brings our holy men and women out for a ride in the winter wilderness?'

'We are going to visit our community in Greystones, ser.'

'Not anymore, you're not. We've been visiting them ourselves. Nothing left for you there now.' His face twisted into an ugly grin, baring black and broken teeth.

'They had no septas in Greystones, though. No young and pretty things like that one. Come here, girl. We'd like to make your acquaintance.' The other soldier laughed. Sandor put himself between Sansa and the sneering Bolton. 'We want no trouble,' said Garston. The bald Bolton ignored him. 'You're a big bastard,' he said, squinting up at Sandor. 'Take off that hood.'

With one swift movement Sandor skewered him on his sword and the Bolton died gurgling, choking on his own blood. Garston whirled on the remaining soldier and spattered the snow with his blood, but not before they heard the distant call of a warhorn.

'The Bolton raiding party. Go, go, go!'

They fled as fast as they could in the gathering storm, but the sounds of their pursuers grew louder. Sansa was terrified. She knew what the Boltons could do – would do – to her if they got her, to Bryna, and to – O, why had they left the sept! She cursed Stannis' arrogance as the wind whipped her face and her panic grew. O Father, Mother, please, please don't let them get us. Robb, please protect us!

Garston reined in his horse and turned to Sandor. 'We can't outrun them. We need to split up. You take the lady, take the way I told you about. We'll try to lead them on. Gods willing, they will follow the larger group. May the Seven bless you. And Sandor,' Garston grabbed his arm, his eyes fierce and piercing, 'Don't let them take her alive.' Sandor nodded, grabbed Queenie's reins, and galloped off. 'No, no, Bryna!' Sansa called, but the three were already disappearing in the driving snow.

Sandor drove the horses on to the point of exhaustion, until it was too dark to see. They sheltered in the shadow of a rock, not daring to make a fire. Sandor tethered the horses close to them, lay with his back to the rock and had Sansa lie with her back to him, his arms around her, the blankets wrapped tightly around them. Even so, they both shivered.

'Sandor, will they make it?'

'I don't know, Little Bird.'

He knew she was crying.

They rode from dawn to dusk for days, hardly stopping, watchful as hawks. The storm eventually eased and the skies slowly cleared, and when the first view of the Wall broke in the distance it took even Sandor's breath away.

A vast expanse of sparkling snow stretched out for miles before them and there, towering up like a great sapphire, blue and clear as her eyes; the Wall. Never in all his life had Sandor imagined anything so beautiful. He and Sansa looked at each other and smiled, as she reached for his hand.

As they rode through the half abandoned hamlets, Sandor could sense invisible eyes watching them, 'Snow's wildlings, or I'll be damned,' he thought, and hurried Sansa on. He saw the troop of black cloaks coming from a distance and reined in the horses. Too many to kill or outrun, but he knew what to do. He pulled out his sword and rode Stranger between Sansa and the approaching soldiers. Stranger's breath froze on the air as they waited and Sandor put on his helm. No more need for disguises.

When the soldiers reached them, the grizzled old man at their head, broad as an ox and missing an eye, called out, 'Identify yourselves.'

'You first,' snarled the Hound, raising his sword as Stranger reared.

'We are the Brothers of the Night's Watch, under the command of Lord Commander Snow. Who are you, that approaches the Wall?'

'This is Lord Sandor Clegane, my sworn shield,' said Sansa, as proudly as a queen on a throne, 'and I am Lady Sansa Stark, the last trueborn Stark, and Lady of Winterfell.'

'Welcome, my lady. Lord Commander Snow is expecting you. If it please my lady, follow me.'

ChXX

Sansa trembled as the gates of Castle Black groaned slowly open. Jon would be here. Jon. The only other wolf left. The grim faced Brothers of the Night's Watch escorted them in, and Sansa found herself and her shield the centre of attention for a savage looking group of wildlings. The one eyed brother barked an order. 'Tell His Grace and the Lord Commander that Lady Stark is here.'

Sandor alighted and helped Sansa from her horse, just as a group of men swept into the yard. Instinctively he stood between them and Little Bird, until he heard her say, 'Jon?' and he stood aside, taking off his helm.

The solemn faced young man was everything and nothing like the boy who had left Winterfell. The same long, serious face, the same sharp grey eyes; but he had grown taller, stronger and emanated authority. Gone was the sullen, brooding boy on the fringes of the Stark family. Sansa was momentarily nonplussed, until she looked into his eyes. Arya's eyes. Father's eyes. Her own eyes filled with tears as she stepped forward and whispered, 'Jon,' Shedding her dignity like a ragged cloak she ran to him sobbing, and the remnants of House Stark clung to each other in a fierce embrace. Hardened soldiers shuffled, sniffled and studied their feet. Even Stannis Baratheon was forced to deepen his frown. When the siblings finally parted, Sansa took Jon's hand. 'You look every inch the Lord Commander, my brother. It is so good to see you.'

'And you, Sansa. You make a sweet septa.' Sansa laughed and he continued in a voice hardly steady, 'Are you alright?'

'I am. We ran afoul of the Boltons. Our companions led them astray and I do not know what has become of them. San – Lord Clegane – kept me safe, as always.'

Jon nodded coolly at Sandor. 'My thanks, my Lord, for my sister's safety. Allow me to present you both to His Grace, King Stannis Baratheon.'

Remembering her courtesies, a flustered and emotional Sansa turned to Stannis, composed herself and curtseyed elegantly.

'My apologies, Your Grace, for presenting myself in such a dishevelled manner. It has been a grievous journey to get here, and I thank you for the honour of your protection. My sworn shield and I are grateful for your kindness and generosity.'

The corner of Jon's mouth twitched. Good for Sansa. She knew how to play the game. Stannis' cold eyes and sharp face were a little less flinty than usual as he graciously accepted her thanks. 'My wife and daughter wait on you, Lady Stark, but I dare say you would appreciate time to eat and bathe first, and speak with your brother.'

'Thank you, your Grace. I look forward to the honour of making their acquaintance.'

Stannis nodded his approval. 'Commander Snow, I leave you to make the arrangements. I look forward to your company later, my lady. And you too, - Lord Clegane.' There was a palpable chill as Stannis spoke her shield's name. Sansa didn't like it. She would have her work cut out for her there.

Sandor was led to his new quarters near Sansa's own, in the Queen's Tower. She and Jon went to the Lord Commander's rooms and talked for hours, years of pain and horror shared.

'We never should have left Winterfell' Jon said grimly, as Sansa finished her story. She nodded, staring into the fire.

'I have so many regrets, some of them about you. I was not kind to you, Jon, don't bother to deny it. I have had my eyes opened. Things, and people, are not always as they seem.'

'Like your Hound friend?'

'Exactly.'

The fire crackled and snapped. A sleepy raven quorked. Jon continued. 'There is something you should know. A few things, actually. It is hard to know where to begin. As you know, we march on Winterfell. What you don't know is that Ramsay Bolton has recently married, and the girl he married is supposedly our sister Arya.'

'Arya is dead.'

'Not according to the Boltons. They have cemented their claim to our home by marrying into our family. Whether or not she really is our sister remains to be seen. A part of me hopes that she is alive and in Winterfell, but most of me prays she is dead and buried, rather than suffering hell with that monster.' He ran his fingers through his dark hair. 'There's another monster with her. Theon Greyjoy. Though I hear there is considerably less of him there now than there used to be.'

They sat in silence for a while.

'I hate Theon,' he continued, 'But I hope we capture him alive. There's something I need to ask him. One of the Flints came to me in private. A good man. Honest. Loyal. He was hunting one night in the mountains and took shelter with a small group of strangers. Two crannog folk, a giant man, a crippled boy and a direwolf. They never gave their names and he never asked, but he got the impression they were headed north. The North is full of dark haired young girls the Boltons can use to their benefit, but how many cripples with Hodors and direwolves do you think there are?'

The world trembled under Sansa's feet. She had to get away from the heat of the fire. Leaning on the windowsill, she flung open the shutters and breathed in a few blasts of cold night air. The cold stone soothed her throbbing head. Bran. Summer. It was too much to hope for.

'Jon, if Bran was alive then, and Theon didn't kill him, then whose children did he kill? And if Bran really is alive, then – '

'Rickon could be too.'

XXI

The Great Hall was blazing with light and sound as Sandor and Lady Stark walked in. Bench after bench of stern faced men turned as they entered, and rose to greet the Lady of Winterfell.

She had chosen her favourite blue gown which shimmered under her dark winter cloak. The gold of her direwolf pendant – she could wear it openly now – glimmered at her throat, and her thick auburn hair glowed in the torchlight. More queenly than the Queen herself, thought Sandor proudly, taking in Selyse's pinched face and narrowed eyes. Sansa in turn noted how her sworn shield dwarfed every man in the hall.

Jon had warned her about the prickly Selyse and the Red Priestess Melisandre, and Sansa had passed on the information to Sandor. 'If I could handle the Lannisters, I can handle anything,' he snorted. She hoped that was true, as hundreds of eyes bored into their backs. Sansa fell into a graceful curtsey as Sandor bent the knee behind her, and they were formally introduced to the Queen and Princess Shireen. Sansa noted the marks on the little girl's face, but also the warmth in her eyes, a warmth that was lacking in her mother's.

'It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Lady Stark. How relieved we all are to have you here, safe at last.' Selyse smiled, but her smile lost its warmth on the way to her eyes. Looking at Sandor, her eyes hardened further. 'How surprised we all were to discover you in the company of a Lannister lackey. Joffrey's dog, no less.'

Sansa could sense his scars twitch behind her.

'Lord Clegane has been true to his word and kept me safe. I would not be alive without him.'

'Lord Clegane?'

'Yes, Your Grace. Since his brother's death, the title is his.'

'Ah yes. The infamous Mountain, killer and brute. What a service it was to the Seven Kingdoms when Martell finished him off. How long does Lord Clegane intend to stay with us?'

Sansa's back straightened and she raised her head. 'Your Grace, he is my sworn shield, and will stay with me indefinitely.'

Selyse's laugh was like a whiplash. 'You don't mean to keep that thug as your sworn shield! You may select someone suitable from among my men, and dismiss the dog when you have done so. I'm sure he will be happier among his own kind.' The queen waved her hand dismissively at Sandor.

Face taut, eyes glittering, Sansa rose to her feet. Looking the queen straight in the eyes, her voice was terrifying in its gentleness.

'Thank you, Your Grace, for your kind offer, but my shield stays with me. I would not be alive without him. When I was surrounded by lions, he protected me. When the Kingsguard beat and stripped me, he cried 'Enough!' When the mob dragged me from my horse, the 'dog' was the one who saved me from death, and from far worse. When he could have left me surrounded by enemies, he brought me from King's Landing, and when my family died he kept me alive, when even I no longer wanted to live. So many times he could have abandoned me, sold me, abused me, yet he saved me instead. The Starks remember, Your Grace, we remember our loyal friends. If he goes, I go. I will die in the snow with him before I will betray him. I thank Your Grace again for your gracious generosity, but my shield stays with me.'

Selyse looked as if she had been slapped. The tension in the hall was palpable, the silence only broken by the crackling of the fires. Sansa caught a glimpse of Jon's alarmed face as Stannis leaned forward in his seat. A woman appeared from the shadows behind the King's chair, so suddenly that Sansa jumped. The lady glowed red from head to foot, the closest thing to a living flame Sansa had ever seen. Putting a hand glowing with garnets on the king's shoulder, her voice filled the hall with its warmth.

'The red wolf has fire in her, Your Grace, and she has teeth. She is indeed a Stark. And she has chosen her shield wisely. For a hound will die for you, but never lie to you, and he'll look you straight in the face.' This time, both Sansa and Sandor jumped. 'Such loyalty will be invaluable in the struggle to come.' Her voice flowed like molten gold, enveloping the king. Sansa realised that Jon had been right. Melisandre, not Selyse, was the true Queen. Stannis looked down at Sansa appraisingly and nodded.

'Be seated, one and all. Let the feast begin.'

Sansa took her seat next to Jon, while Sandor took his place near her.

'Seven hells, Sansa, you have changed,' Jon whispered to her, admiringly.

'I have also made an enemy of the Queen and a friend of the Red Woman. I wonder which is worse.'

XXII

'If he goes, I go.'

The Little Bird had said it. Openly, in defiance of the queen, before all the King's men. Sandor played it over and over in his head, seeing her straight back and glowing hair, declaring her allegiance to him before them all.

'I will die in the snow with him, before I will betray him.'

She had said it, and she had meant it. Sandor began to let himself hope. He heard her voice in his dreams as he tossed and turned each night, saying over and over – 'My shield stays with me.' If only he could get her alone! There was never a moment when they could be together in peace. Whether by accident or design, they were never alone. Both Sandor and Sansa were summoned to the King's war councils. Sometimes Sandor was summoned to help train the men. He liked that, especially when the Little Bird was watching. Sometimes Sansa was summoned away from him to attend upon the Queen, or to amuse the Princess Shireen. Her brother commanded a great deal of her time, which Sandor did not begrudge. Jon was the last of her family, and since Ghost had taken a liking to Sandor, Jon had grown less suspicious. But there were no quiet times together; no talks, no easy daily routine. For all any outsider would know, he really was nothing more to her than her sworn shield. Sandor would have thought as much himself, were it not for her defiant words ringing in his ears.

Time was running out. Soon Stannis' armies would march on Winterfell, and Sandor would be with them, as part of the Lord Commander's guard. That had stunned his Little Bird. She had presumed he would be staying with her, but Sandor had always known he wouldn't. Every sword was needed, especially an infamous fighter like the Hound. Just the sight of his dog's head helm would strike fear into their enemies. The Night's Watch and the Queensguard would protect Sansa. The Hound had been ordered elsewhere.

The night before they left, Stannis ordered a great feast. Jon was less than impressed. The Night's Watch would be hard pressed to feed themselves through the winter, without wasting food on feasting. Still, Stannis was not to be gainsaid. The food, the wine, it all turned to ashes in Sandor's mouth as his frustration grew. Not a moment, not a word did he have with Sansa, not until just before she left with the Queen and the Princess. Putting her hand on his arm, she whispered, 'Wait for me in the Knight's Hall,' and slipped away with the ladies. Only the Red Priestess stayed with Stannis, as the hall grew more rowdy.

Having waited long enough to deflect suspicion, Sandor slid quietly out of the hall, across the courtyard, and into the shadows of the abandoned Knight's Hall. She was there before him, shimmering in the lamplight. Heart hammering, he went to her. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself and asked gently, 'What is it, Little Bird?' She looked so solemn and so serious!

'You'll be leaving in the morning and we haven't had a moment to speak. The farewell tomorrow will be public, formal and cold. I have had time with my brother, but not with my friend. I cannot bid you farewell as if you were just another stranger, not after all we've been through together. I have something for you.' She reached behind her neck and took off her direwolf pendant. 'My father had six made, one for each of us. It is all I have left of Winterfell, so if I give it to you, you have to bring it back. You have to come back.'

'You cannot give me that, girl. It is too precious.'

'You will give it back to me, here or at Winterfell.' She raised her hands to fasten it around his neck. He bent down to her, and felt the softness of her silken arms, smelled the scent of her perfume. The pendant was warm from her skin. My lady's favour, he thought, for her true knight. She looked up at him, eyes wide and shining.

Now. Do it now.

He leaned towards her, his eyes full of love, his intent clear.

She froze.

Startled, frightened, she shut her eyes.

He stopped, shocked, as the bottom fell out of his world.

After all she had said, after what she had just given him, she still didn't love him! Duty, friendship, loyalty; that was all she felt for him. His scar twitched, but instead of rage, all he felt was weariness; weariness, and a terrible grief. With all the tenderness in his broken heart, he reached out with both hands and cupped her beautiful, precious, Little Bird face, and kissed her pale forehead. His gentleness woke something in Sansa. She opened her eyes, and for one timeless moment she saw his soul; his beautiful, broken, burned soul. Eyes widening, she put her hands over his own. 'Little Bird,' he whispered, and he leaned towards her again - just as the hall door swung open. The spell was broken. Sansa gasped and jumped back as Sandor whirled around in a blazing fury.

'Seven hells!' he roared, 'What now?'

Melisandre emerged from the shadows. She smiled, unperturbed, at the enraged Hound. 'His Grace requests your presence, Lord Clegane, before you retire. How kind of you to take Lady Sansa on a night time tour of the hall. Never fear, I will escort her safely to her chambers. His Grace awaits.' He looked back at Sansa, eyes burning, and tore out of the hall.

'My lady,' said Melisandre, 'after you.' Sansa never so much as looked at the Red Woman, and returned in silence to her room. Trembling, she closed her eyes and leaned against the door. She saw his eyes, felt his touch as he leaned towards her in the lamplight; and though she never slept a wink all night, Sansa still couldn't tell whether Melisandre's interruption had given her relief – or regret.

The morning's farewell was as cold as Sansa had predicted. Only Sandor's eyes gave the lie to the stiff formality of their parting. Sansa saw the glint of gold before it disappeared beneath the hound's head helm, and then they were gone; her brother, her dearest friend, and line after line of king's men. How many of them would ever return? Sansa watched them long after the Queen's retinue had retired, until the black gates were pulled to, and slammed shut.

Ch XXIII

The cold seeped into Sansa's bones until they felt like shards of ice. The wind howled and the ice glowered, its shimmering blue now stony grey. The snow Sansa remembered was the snow of Winterfell – the snow of innocence. What fell at the Wall was different. There was darkness and fear in it. The Wall was a place where Old Nan's darkest stories became real. Melisandre spoke to Sansa of the Others. She needn't have bothered. Sansa could feel their menace in her dreams.

If Sandor had been there she would not have been so fearful. Why would she be, safe in the fortress of his arms? She blushed now to remember the nights she had slept so close to him. How could she have been so blind? Crazed with grief as she had been, how could she not have seen what she was doing to him? There was no point denying it – her shield was in love with her, and a man like Sandor did not fall lightly. Love in a heart like his would grow slowly and root deeply, so deep even he couldn't pull it out, and Sansa did not doubt that he had tried. What a stupid, foolish, selfish girl she had been, to have led him on like that! What must he have felt, and what must he think of her now? She cringed to recall the eagerness with which he had leaned in to kiss her, the passion – yes, passion – in his eyes, and how she had cowered away, eyes closed. O Gods, how she had hurt her friend! They could never be together, not like that. The last trueborn Stark of Winterfell and the grandson of a kennelmaster? It was out of the question. Yet living without him was unthinkable. Her throat closed and her chest tightened at the mere suggestion. But that was just because he was her dear friend.

Some day she would marry her own prince. Her own true knight who would have loved her even without Winterfell. He would be handsome, strong, gentle and loving. Their marriage would be a celebrated alliance of two powerful high houses.

Like Lysa and John Arryn. Or Rhaegar and Elia.

No, not like them. Stannis had dropped some blunt hints about strategic future alliances, one of which was with Harry the Heir, who would inherit the Eyrie, should her sickly cousin die. As little Robert's health had disimproved dramatically since his mother's death, it seemed increasingly likely that Harry would inherit multiple castles, lands and titles. Handsome, charming and accomplished, Harry had two baseborn children already. It was likely he would continue to be just as fruitful after they were married.

Like Robert and Cersei.

No! Sansa couldn't bear that. One bastard child, maybe, but many? No, there would be no marriage with Harry. She wanted a marriage like her parents'. Apart from Jon's mother, Ned had been loyal, loving, gentle and respectful and would do anything to protect the woman he loved.

Just like Sandor.

No, no, no! It could not be. She and Sandor were just friends, no matter what he might want. He would have to forget all that, though Sansa knew that her shield was not the forgetting kind. And neither was she. Night after night Sansa dreamt of their kiss. She felt again her panic, the warmth of his touch, her awakening passion. Again she felt the lightning shock when she opened her eyes and saw everything she ever needed in his beautiful grey eyes, burning with such passion and longing and love as he leaned in close and whispered her name. She melted into his arms and wanted the kiss to last forever and night after night she woke up breathless and trembling until she was no longer certain whether she really had kissed him - or only wished she had.

She couldn't possibly be in love with him. She couldn't.

Ch XXIV

Blood and fury. Fire and ice. Sword and flame. The weary weeks of siege were over, the bloody onslaught about to begin. Regiments waited for their signal, silent as wights, breath freezing in the night. Stranger pawed the crusted snow, eager for the fight. Sandor quietly fingered a gold pendant, and when the signal came, he kissed it quickly, tucked it under his armour, and snapped the helm shut.

For you, my Little Bird. All for you.

When the killing was over and Winterfell was won, Jon sent the raven to the Wall:

'The Boltons are defeated. Winterfell is ours. His Grace King Stannis summons his priestess Melisandre and the Lady Sansa at once. Welcome home, my dear sister. Your brother and your shield await you.'

After months of waiting, Sansa's joy was unbounded. Jon and Sandor were alive, and she was going home. There was no mention of Arya, another cause to rejoice. Arya was at peace, or if not, wherever she was would be better than being a Bolton wife. Sansa tore through her room, packing faster than she'd done even on the night of the Blackwater, when she had fled fire, not ice. She and Melisandre would have the comfort of a carriage and the safety of an armed guard, but Sansa would have preferred Sandor.

It was all she could do to feign regret at parting from the Queen and her retinue. When it came to Shireen however, Sansa did not have to pretend. She would miss the princess and her kindness. If Shireen ever made it to the Iron Throne, she would make a good and just queen. It seemed odd that Stannis had summoned only Melisandre, but Sansa had other things on her mind. During her months at the Wall, Sansa had filled the loneliness and the boredom with plans for Winterfell; plans to restore the castle, to build up food stocks and to feed the North. She feared it was already too late to gather enough food to save everyone, but there were ways and means to save as many of their people as possible, and Sansa had thought of a few. Imports from places like Braavos, food from the relatively untouched Vale. This would mean contact with Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale, betrayer of her family. Sansa had discussed the possibilities with Jon and Stannis, but had not revealed all she knew about Lord Baelish. That would happen when the time was right.

Despite her longing for Winterfell, her homecoming was a bitter one. From a distance the castle looked beautiful, but the scars were clear close up. Shattered buildings, barren fields, bones picked clean. 'The North bleeds,' Sansa thought, as she remembered the golden autumn day when she had left her happy home. Mother, Father, sister, brothers, septa, Lady, Jeyne, Beth, all gone. Maester Luwin, Jory, Ser Rodrik, Mikken, Old Nan – Sansa choked back sobs as Melisandre studied her with unblinking eyes. 'I would tell you that it goes away, but it does not. It does get easier. Wipe your eyes and sit up straight. Winterfell awaits its lady.'

It was a calm and composed Lady Stark who alighted from her carriage to the rapturous cheers of strangers. 'The Lady of Winterfell! The wolves are back!' Sansa smiled and laughed and looked for one familiar face in the crowd and found only Jon. She threw her arms around her brother and then hugged Ghost, to a renewed round of cheers. Melisandre's alighting from the carriage cooled them somewhat, and Jon formally invited them to dine with him.

It was late that night before Sansa got to speak alone with Jon. Sansa paced impatiently while the servant built up the fire, and turned to her brother for news as soon as he left.

'It wasn't Arya, thank the gods.' Jon said, 'She didn't even have grey eyes, the poor girl. I'll never forget it, Sansa. I'll never forget what she looked like when we found her. I've seen things since I left Winterfell, sister. There are men at the Wall – rapers, killers – I could tell you stories; but nothing, nothing, could have prepared me for what Ramsay had done to her.' Jon buried his face in his hands. For a moment he was silent, then he wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. 'Bolton tried to kill her but Theon stood between them. The one good thing he's done in a long time. She told me her story and Sansa, I will never tell you all of it. We got her out of here, Stannis and I. We pretended she was dead and got her to safety. It was your shield who thought of the right place for her, the Sept of Stones. He said she'd be safe there. That's where he is now, escorting her. She was terrified of him at first, but we couldn't risk her being discovered here. You may like to know that although Septon Yohn was killed by the Boltons, both Garston and Bryna made it back. Sansa, sit down.'

Sansa obeyed, shaken by Yohn's death and a little frightened by her brother's emotion. She had never once seen him cry.

'It wasn't Arya, Sansa, but she was someone you know and love well. It was your friend, your sweet little friend Jeyne Poole. Vayon's girl.'

Jon paused. Sansa stared at him blankly. Numbness claimed her. She saw herself and Jeyne on the castle steps in King's Landing, giggling and gossiping and eating strawberry pie. 'It can't be,' she babbled inanely, 'Jeyne wanted to marry Beric Dondarrion. She's a good girl. She's not for Bolton. You're wrong. You must be wrong!' Her voice began to rise hysterically. Jon grabbed her hand as her throat closed and she gasped for air. He wrapped his arms around her until the waves of horror subsided. 'She went South to be with me. It was to be an honour, a fairy tale come true. O Jon!' Her brother stroked her hair gently, and then continued.

'The Lannisters gave her to Baelish and he kept her in his brothels, beating and terrifying her into submission. She was then – trained. It would seem the Lannisters intended to sell off Arya, but decided that in her absence, Jeyne would do. Baelish sold her on to the Boltons. You may be damn sure he was well paid, and that his plans went further than the Boltons imagined. Jeyne was obviously not expected to live long after producing an heir. We had to get her out. Baelish would have had her killed. She knows too much. Sandor said that Septon Garston would protect her as he did you. A safe, out of the way place to heal, with those kind septas.' He released Sansa and went back to his seat. 'There is much and more we need to talk about; about Baelish, the Lannisters and Winterfell, but I think you've had enough for one night. We will speak of it more tomorrow.'

Brother and sister sat silently as the fire died down to a red glow.

'Theon?'

'Dead. He took a mortal wound saving Jeyne. He admitted to killing the miller's sons and wife, and to letting Ramsay mutilate the boys in order to hide the fact that our brothers had escaped. He didn't live long enough to explain much more, like why he destroyed our family.'

'Are any of the others alive? Any of the servants? Beth? Anyone?'

'Some were taken as hostage to the Dreadfort. Beth was among them. If she is lucky, she is dead. The king is there now, and I am awaiting his orders. Do not hope for happy news there.'

'Sandor?'

'He is to head to the Twins with his men as soon as his duties to Jeyne are fulfilled. You will not be seeing him for some time.'

Sansa seemed to grow smaller at the news. Jon studied his sister. He clenched his jaw, stood up, took an envelope from his pocket, and handed it to Sansa. She saw her name written on it in a strong, firm hand she had never seen before but recognised immediately. She sat up, cheeks flushing.

'Sansa, is there something I should know about?'

She looked at her brother in silence, eyes wide in her pale face. Jon nodded and patted her shoulder. 'It will keep. Sleep, sister. Get some rest. And Sansa,' Jon gave her a giant bear hug, 'Welcome home.'

Back in her old room, dawn had begun to filter through the shutters. Sansa undressed, drank the dreamwine and studied the unopened letter. Was Sandor declaring his love? Or was he bidding her farewell? She couldn't bear any more bad news, not tonight. The dreamwine worked quickly on her exhausted mind. Sinking gratefully into a fog of numbness Sansa fell asleep, clutching the precious letter to her heart.

Ch XXV

Little Bird,

If you are reading this you are back in Winterfell with Jon. It was a bitter homecoming for you. I wanted to be there with you, but I have been sent to our place with your friend. I am glad to do it, I owe her much and more for what she has suffered. I do not know when I will be back. There is much I have to say to you.

I will not apologise for what happened in the Knight's Hall. I am only sorry that the red witch came between us, may she burn in the Seven Hells. I love you, Sansa. I have never loved anyone before and I am possessed by it. I am possessed by you, girl, you are in me night, noon and morning and you torment me. I never want it to stop. Don't lie and pretend you don't feel the same. I saw it in your eyes – you're frightened but you want me too. I'm frightened, and what frightens me most is that I may never see your face again. Every part of me screams for you and I cannot be at peace until I am beside you again.

Do not marry any of them, Little Bird. Don't sell yourself to some prancing pansy who only wants your name, your face and your inheritance. Not that blonde Harry weasel breeding bastards like rabbits. Please, girl. Even if it can never be me, don't marry one of those simpering snakes. They will lie to you and betray you and I will have to stand by and watch it.

No one will love you as I do. None of them has a heart like mine. None of them knows you as well as I do, or owes you so much. You killed the Hound, my wolf. You broke my black and bitter heart and you gave me love and hope. I know now I can never be without you. It is a hard knowing.

Every night I dream the same dream. Your hair glows in the torchlight, your blue eyes look into mine and I see our shared passion in them. I pull you towards me and I kiss you until you are trembling as much as I am. Please, please tell me you dream the same dream! Please, when I return, don't look away.

I will stay with you no matter what you decide. There is no life for me without you. Remember who you are, Sansa Stark of Winterfell. You owe nothing to any of them. Make no man your master. No matter what happens, remember that I love you.

Your faithful shield always,

SC

PS – Go talk to the kennel master. I left something for you. For a hound will die for you, but never lie to you.

Sansa leaned forward in her chair and rested her head on her knees. He did not have to kiss her to make her tremble. Over and over she read the letter, over and over she heard his voice saying; 'I love you... You want me too..' O Gods! She got up and paced the room. What she would give for a friend to talk to! Jeyne or Beth or – Gods help us – even Arya! She felt frantic. Throwing open the window, the blast of cold air shocked her to her senses. What would Sandor say if he could see her now? 'Get dressed girl, and pull yourself together. I'm not your septa.' She laughed and felt a stab of excitement. What had he left for her? Getting dressed quickly and tying back her hair simply, Sansa slipped quickly to the kennels.

The kennelmaster appeared, looking grizzled and sleepy. 'My apologies, my lady, I wasn't expecting you so early. You have come for your gift. Follow me, if you please.' He led her further into the kennels. 'You wouldn't know me, my lady, I'm Conn. I wasn't here in your father's time, but my cousin Mikken was. I came to take on the kennels when His Grace and your brother took back Winterfell, Gods be praised. Dark times, my lady, but I don't need to tell you that.' He paused in fron of a kennel holding three almost full grown pups. 'Here we are.' He opened the door and two of the pups bounded out happily, leaping all over their friend. The third, a large black pup with dark brown eyes, sat still and considered her carefully.

'These are direct descendants of the old Winterfell hounds. My cousin Mikken was given a couple of pups by your father, Gods be good to him, and Mikken gave one to me. Most of the dogs were killed by the ironborn scum, but not mine. These pups are hers. Lord Clegane chose the black one for you. He said you would need a protector you could trust in his absence, and had him trained to be your especial guard. His name is Wolf. Lord Clegane said you were to keep that name and not to give him some poncy fairy tale name. His words, my lady, not mine. He's not as pettish as the others, but he's intelligent and loyal.'

Sansa knelt in the straw and called him softly. The dog's ears folded back and the tip of his tail moved. 'Here, Wolf,' She called again, and this time he got up and went to her, head low and tail wagging. After sniffing her hand carefully, his decision was made. Wolf butted her with his head, demanding pats. Sansa laughed. He was no Lady, but Wolf would serve her well.

'I'm glad you like him, my lady. Come as often as you can to see him. The better he knows you, the better he'll be.'

'A hound from the Hound, to a wolf,' she murmured softly, smiling.

After breakfast, Sansa explored the wreck of her home. While the main living quarters were relatively untouched and the heating system mercifully intact, so much else had been burned and blasted. The glasshouse had many panes smashed. There would be no buying glass until the wars were over, so Jon had had them blocked with wood and the vegetables replanted. The stables, kennels, chicken coops and barns were among the first buildings to be rebuilt, but the library – o, the library! All those precious, beautiful books! And her mother's beautiful sept! All desecrated, all broken, like so much else. There were years of work left to do in Winterfell. Sansa was already compiling lists and organising plans in her head. It was to discuss these plans and others that she went to Jon's solar – she still thought of it as her father's – but Jon had other concerns on his mind. He turned to his sister, grey eyes solemn.

'I heard about your new pet,' he said, holding her in his steady gaze, 'A letter and a gift. I have never heard of such attentions from a sworn shield. What is going on, Sansa?

'He must feel guilty at having to leave me when he promised – '

'Don't. Don't treat me as if you didn't trust me. I'm not Joffrey. I know you, sister, and I have come to know a little of your friend. He is no mere shield to you, and you are more than all to him. So tell me truly, Sansa, if there something I need to know?'

Sansa burst into tears. Jon looked shocked, then drew his chair over to hers. 'I didn't mean to upset you, I just need to know.'

'I don't know what to tell you Jon, I just don't know! Everything I said to the Queen was true. I owe him my life and I would die for him. He protected me when there was no reason for him to. There was a time when he terrified me; now I am terrified to be without him. I know now that he loves me, and I think I – O Jon, I don't know, but please don't let Stannis take him away from me! Everyone I love goes away.'

'I haven't.'

Sansa took her brother's hand and they sat in silence for a few moments.

'I would give anything to speak to my mother again.'

'What do you think Lady Stark would say if she knew that your shield loved you, and you him?'

Sansa gave a bitter laugh. 'She would have sent him away immediately, and married me off most advantageously.'

'Do you think she would have been wrong?'

'There was a time when I would have agreed with her.' She released Jon's hand and stood by the fire, her face sad and weary. 'It is my duty, she would tell me, to marry for the honour of my family. She sold Arya to the Freys, didn't she, to access the Twins? I understand why she did it, but what a miserable marriage Arya would have had, what a miserable life.' She looked up at Jon, eyes glittering, 'How many "honourable" marriages have brought nothing but misery and ruin? Look at Stannis and Selyse, Aunt Lysa and John Arryn, look at Robert and Cersei and Aunt Lyanna. How many thousands died because Rhaegar didn't love his sweet, pretty wife? Is there so much dishonour in loving a less noble man, if he truly loves you?

'It is not always as simple as that.'

'It was when you loved your wildling wife.'

Jon winced. 'True, but I was a bastard on the Wall, not the last trueborn Stark.'

'I'm sorry, please forgive me, I didn't mean to make light of your grief. I know you are right, but the truth is I just don't know what to do.'

'Well, you won't be seeing him for a while, so that gives you time to think, but be advised. There is a great deal at stake, and your attachment has been noticed. It's all very well and good in romantic songs and stories, but in real life scandal is dangerous, Sansa.'

The old feeling of suffocation began to overwhelm her. Was she not safe even in her old home? Was Winterfell too so full of spiders and shadows?

'There is one advantage to your Lord Clegane.' Jon leaned back in his chair. 'If a woman of a noble high house marries a man from a lesser one, her children may take on her name, if her husband allows it. They rarely do, but if he does, and the banners accept him, you may have a hope. The thought of another generation of Starks in Winterfell may cancel out any other objections.'

'Where did you hear that?'

'From Melisandre. She brought it up in front of Stannis, back on the Wall. I don't know what her game is, or why she's here, but I feel that we are all pieces in her little puzzle, and she seems to want to fit you two together. Your Hound has other talents too. His military expertise makes him invaluable. His infamy would make Winterfell's enemies think twice about leading a force against him. As most of his life was spent in court, he knows well how to behave, and how to navigate court politics. I must admit, Sansa, he surprised me. To my great displeasure, I found myself respecting him.' His stern mouth melted into a smile, so like their father's it tore at Sansa's heart. 'One day, I may even grow to like him.'

Sansa laughed. Jon's words warmed her, and gave her hope.

'Think about what I have said, Sansa. Now, we have other matters to discuss.'

The weeks flew by. Sansa spent most of her time with Jon; planning, organising, ordering. Watching Cersei, Stannis and Selyse, Septon Garston, even Bryna and Anna, had given Sansa an insight in to running an institution. Indeed, watching Cersei had given her many lessons in how not to lead. Jon, however, taught her much more. The Lord Commander taught her about true leadership. In him her father's integrity was married to a harder, more ruthless force. Jon would not be tricked as Ned had. Everything Sansa absorbed coloured her mind, like wine through water, and reshaped her.

When she was not with Jon, Sansa was getting to know the new people of Winterfell. How could she run her old home if everyone in it was a stranger? After a week she could address all of the servants by name, in two she could ask after their families and ailments. Conn's face would light up when she came to visit Wolf, and he would regale her with tales of his canine exploits. The dog had taken an unfortunate liking to the castle chickens. 'I have to knock that nonsense on the head, my lady, or he'll eat every bloody chicken in this place.' Sansa's interest in the smallfolk was genuine, but also wise. She knew the value of loyalty, and of love. The Lady of Winterfell would need plenty of both.

As it was, Winterfell was haunted for Sansa. Every room, every doorway, every turn of every corner; each held a memory. Ghosts turned to smile at her. She went to speak to Maester Luwin and the sight of his replacement shook her. The little son of the new cook reminded her of Rickon. Septa Mordane called her to her lessons. There were days when Sansa would retreat briefly to her room to escape the echoes of the past, and there was no Sandor there to keep the ghosts at bay.

Soon, the time came for Jon to join His Grace, to march on the Twins. Winterfell rang with shouts, curses and the neighing of horses. Sansa stayed calm and composed as she stood beside Melisandre and took leave of her brother, perhaps for the last time. Back straight, head held high, she graciously farewelled the men, and stood watching among strangers once more as the soldiers disappeared. She felt the empty space at her back where her shield should be, and when the sea of expectant faces turned to her it was all she could do to order them back to work.

'Winterfell must be ready when his Grace and the Lord Commander return. Let us make sure that it is.'

CH XXV

Little Bird,

It has been so many months since I have seen you, and the ache of it is with me always. The nights are all the darker and colder without you in them and I would give my very soul to hold you again.

Everything I do here is for you - not for your brother, not for the king, only for you. When the Twins fall, and they will, every Frey I kill will be one less enemy for you. I will avenge your family and offer you this justice like flowers of blood.

I am no true knight, but I am your knight. Remember that, my Lady Stark.

Yours now and always,

SC

Sansa read and re-read each letter, thrilled and frightened by the way his words seared through her like wildfire. Her Sandor was a part of her now and she longed for his return.

Stannis had left behind a number of kingsmen to defend the Walls of Winterfell. Sansa would have preferred more of her own loyal Northerners, people like Morgan Liddle. Jon had appointed him as Sansa's personal bodyguard until Sandor's return. An honest, blunt Northener, both he and Wolf were with her in the Great Hall when the screaming began.

The Lady of Winterfell had been listening to petitions from smallfolk when the doors of the Hall slammed open and a group of servants and soldiers dragged in a member of the King's Men, flinging him at Sansa's feet. Sansa stood up as Morgan Liddle jumped before her, sword drawn, and Wolf snarled.

'What is the meaning of this?'

Conn stepped forward. 'Forgive me, my lady, but this man has raped a woman of Winterfell.'

Sansa's blood froze. 'Continue.'

'He forced himself on Anya, my niece. My lady, there must be justice.'

She ordered a soldier to send the maester to Anya. Sansa knew Anya, a sweet sixteen year old betrothed to one of the stable boys. Stepping out from behind her bodyguard, her eyes were cold and hard as she addressed the accused man.

'What is your name, ser?'

'I am Ser Donry Cheswick, free rider in the service of His Grace, King Stannis Baratheon.' The knight's arrogance was almost as overwhelming as the smell of wine on his breath.

'You stand accused of rape, ser. How do you plead?'

'Plead?' He threw back his head and laughed, 'I am a Kingsman. I serve your king. I "plead" nothing.'

Sansa took in the man's broad shoulders and muscled arms. Poor little Anya never stood a chance.

'Consider your words, ser. Contrition brings mercy. You could live out your days at the Wall.'

Ser Donry's laugh was like a slap in the face. 'The Wall? Over a little peasant slut? Wait until the king hears about this!' He struggled with his captors, drink making him reckless. Wolf exploded into a black blaze of snarling rage, snapping the knight back to his senses. Sansa stepped towards him, Liddle on one side and Wolf on the other. She kept her hands behind her back.

'You have one last chance, ser. How do you plead?'

Ser Donry sneered at her, and spat at her feet.

Sansa's face was a cold, blank mask as she whispered something in her bodyguard's ear. Liddle left quickly and Sansa snapped an order. 'Take him outside.'

The crowd gathered in the courtyard in the winter cold. Silence settled like snow as the people of Winterfell watched for the justice of their lady. Sansa stroked Wolf's snarling head until the dog calmed.

'I offered you mercy. You could have lived a life of service on the Wall. Of course, that is no longer possible. I'm sure you can see that now.'

Ser Donry's smirk melted into horror when he saw what Morgan Liddle was carrying and laying at Sansa's feet.

'My father always carried out the executions himself, but I'm afraid I would make a terrible, long drawn out mess of it. Ser Donry, you are to be executed for the rape of Anya, a servant of Winterfell, and for disrespect to the authority of the Lady of Winterfell. May the Seven have mercy on your soul.'

She nodded to Liddle and stepped back. Ser Donry struggled and screamed as his head was forced down on the block. 'She was nobody! She was nobody! She was -

His legs danced in the sudden silence. Sansa felt sick. Forcing down the nausea, she thanked the executioner, and turned to Conn, 'The maester will tend to your niece's injuries. I will visit her myself tomorrow, if she is able. Whatever you need will be yours.' Her eyes swept coldly over the crowd. 'Will there be anyone else?'

'No, my lady.' 'Seven hells, no.'

'Good. Let the fate of rapers be known. This had better all be gone when I return.' Sansa swept back into the hall, Wolf and Liddle in her wake.

The rest of the day passed in a fog of numbness. Sansa stood outside her own body and watched while a blank-faced stranger coolly and calmly dispensed justice and advice to petitioner after petitioner, showing no sign of the horror she had just witnessed. The smallfolk looked up at her with a mixture of fear and admiration. 'They respect me more for killing that man than if I had hand fed every child in Westeros,' she thought bitterly.

By the time she left the Great Hall the body and the blood had been removed. It was only then that Sansa realised she should have sent a raven to the king. She was nearly at the maester's door when Melisandre stopped her. 'I've already sent a raven to His Grace. He will be glad to hear of your decisiveness in meting out justice. Never regret the death of an evil man.'

'It is easy to dole out death, and impossible to restore life. We should always regret a death, even if the life taken was of little worth. Thank you for your kind service, Lady Melisandre.' The priestess smiled and walked away, a flame flickering against the walls of Winterfell.

Back in her room that night Sansa vomited in the privy. She made sure to wash it down carefully and to crush dried lavender in the room. The servants must never suspect. She sat down by the fire, too weary even to cry. Her mind was full of memories – legs kicking, heads on spikes, a rough, calloused hand gently wiping blood from a broken lip. I wish the Hound were here, she sighed, before falling asleep, fully clothed, on the bed.

Ch XXVI

My dear sister,

We have captured the Twins, and every Frey who took part in the Red Wedding has been executed. The power of the Boltons and the Freys is broken. Without the support of the Freys the siege of Riverrun is over and your uncle Edmure is free. The North is ours, Sansa.

We have recovered a number of hostages from the Red Wedding, the Greatjon among them. Your shield has garnered praise from lords and smallfolk alike; his courage and ferocity has earned him the title 'Hound of the North' among the men. I'm sure his sovereign is proud to have inspired such devotion and loyalty.

We leave soon for Winterfell, though I had rather make for the Wall. I will see you in a few weeks. Be prepared to feed a large force.

Your Brother,

Jon

Sansa read the latest missive with mixed feelings. While she rejoiced at the victory and the return of the men she understood Jon's eagerness to face the enemy at the Wall. Stannis did not seem to understand how vital it was to strike; Melisandre seemed to have filled him with false confidence. On the other hand, the army would be exhausted. Some time camped at Winterfell might be the very thing they needed to regain their strength, before facing the Others. How the king's southron knights would feel about a winter's trek back to the Wall was for the King to worry about, not her. What was her concern was how to feed them all. It seemed that just as she had built up food stores for her people, the army was coming back to clean them out again. There would also be a feast – for such a joyless man, Stannis was fond of feasting.

Sansa was also eager to speak to the king about other matters, matters concerning Lord Baelish and the Vale. The raven from the Twins was not the first Sansa had received. Watching from his perch in the Eyrie, the Lord Protector of the Vale had seen the fall of Winterfell's enemies and how the Silver Queen was closing in on King's Landing. No longer a mere rumour, the Mother of Dragons was cutting a swathe of death and flame in the Lannister's direction. Cersei's stupidity and cruelty had lost her the support of the Tyrells and the Martells, and Baelish knew a sinking ship when he saw one. The cloying flattery of his letter had fooled Sansa not one whit. In offering his services to Stannis and the Starks, Petyr Baelish was allying himself with the winning side, nothing more. Well, Stannis would be grateful for the Knights of the Vale, and Sansa for the chance to lure Littlefinger from the safety of the Eyrie. She just hoped that his arrival would coincide with Stannis'. Sansa did not want to deal with this snake alone.

Alone. Soon, she wouldn't be alone. He was returning. The Hound of the North. Smiling, she stroked Wolf's head. How would it be when he returned , a hero of some standing? Would he sweep her off her feet and propose before the assembly, like a hero in a song? Fight Harry the Heir in single combat? She snorted with laughter and Wolf jumped. That would be a short battle. Maybe he wouldn't say very much. Eloquent on paper, Sandor was much more reticent in person. Maybe he would just rasp, 'Marry me, girl', throw her over his shoulder and carry her to the sept. That was much more realistic. Or maybe he wouldn't say anything at all. He had not seen her in months. She had not written to him; there was too great a risk of her letters going to Jon or Stannis. What if he had grown tired of waiting and had found some pretty little nobleman's daughter with no responsibilities, griefs or complications, someone he hadn't seen – or smelled – at her worst? 'O, for pity's sake!' Sansa jumped up and paced around the room, 'Enough. There is a kingdom to run. If Sandor could hear my nonsense!' Wolf patiently watched his mistress' human antics, wagged his tail in support, and fell asleep.

Sansa stood at the battlements and watched wave after wave of soldiers swarming along the kingsroad until she could pick out the figure of Stannis at their head, before joining Melisandre in the courtyard, with Wolf and Liddle by her side. 'No need to be nervous, my lady,' purred the priestess. Sansa shot her a look before standing even straighter to greet the king. Hooves clattering, mail clinking, leather creaking, the men poured into Winterfell, the grim faced Stannis at their head, solemn Jon behind him, his face breaking into a boyish grin at the sight of his sister. Sansa lit up, nerves forgotten, and joyfully welcomed the victorious king. She gave she knew not what courtesies and pleasantries until the king cracked the barest of smiles and Jon jumped down from his horse, enveloping his sister in a Stark bear hug, to the cheers and claps of the men. Wolf growled uneasily while she stroked his head and scanned the crowd. Where is he?

'I thank you for your courteous welcome, Lady Stark, and for your generosity. We look forward to celebrating our victory at tonight's feast. The enemies of the North are vanquished and some old friends are recovered.'

At that the king indicated an enormous cloaked figure behind him. If Jon hadn't whispered in her ear, she would never have recognised the shell of the Greatjon. Huge as ever, the lord of the Umbers had faded to little more than a giant skeleton. The haunted look in his eyes broke her heart. He saw my mother's end. He saw my brother's end. He saw them all die. She stepped towards him, eyes filling with tears.

'It is an honour to host my brother Robb's right hand. Welcome back to Winterfell, Lord Umber.' The Greatjon got off his horse and bent the knee before her. Gods help him, where is the roaring giant we once knew? Instinctively, she put her hand on his shrunken shoulder and kissed his cheek. He bowed his head, and sensing that he too was close to tears, Sansa forced herself to smile.

'We will have to fatten you up, my lord. You will eat us out of house and home.'

Umber threw back his head in a ghost of his old laugh. 'That I will, my saucy lady!' The laugh rippled through the crowd, and again Sansa looked around, failing to find her friend. Where is he? Melisandre stepped forward and asked what Sansa could not.

'And where is our brave new hero, the famous Hound of the North? Lady Stark will want to welcome her sworn shield, and thank him personally for his service.'

Lady Stark barely retained her composure as the rows of men pulled back to allow Stranger to pass. Dark and imposing in Winterfell black, dark haired and grey eyed as a Northener, those grey eyes burned through her and swallowed her whole. Sansa was momentarily speechless as she stared up at this silent stranger, who was her companion and friend. Dismounting, Sandor bent the knee before her. 'My Lady Stark,' he rasped, 'I am at your service.' Her heart leaped as he looked her straight in the eye. Wolf filled the silence by dancing up to his old friend, tail wagging. Sansa pulled herself together, along with her courtesies. 'Welcome back, Lord Clegane. Winterfell and the North is indebted to you.'

'It is my pleasure and honour to serve my lady.'

A flush was creeping up Sansa's neck as she quickly began giving orders to servants to lead men to their quarters, and asked leave to direct Stannis to his own. The Greatjon gave a shadow of his old roguish smile as she left with the king, hands clasped demurely before her to hide their trembling.

In her room that night, after she had dismissed her ladies in waiting, Sansa sat down on her bed, breathing deeply, trying to calm herself before showing her face at the feast. This was not how she had imagined it. This was not how she thought it would feel. Their reunion was not one of poetic romance, or of gentle friendship. It was no song. Sansa was terrified; she was terrified of Sandor. How could she be frightened of the man who had saved her, protected her, held her in his arms? She felt like she was seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time. Her dreams and fantasies of him since the Knight's Hall had all been safe, at a distance from the reality of him, like a sweet song; like her girlish dreams of Joffrey and Loras had been. But the Hound of the North was no Knight of the Flowers, and the way he had looked at her... Sansa was a woman grown and flowered, she had been told of the ways of the marriage bed, but, O Gods, she was not ready for this! Why did he have to spoil everything? Why couldn't things have stayed the way they were – safe and warm and friendly? She did not want to feel like this. He was spoiling everything.

Sandor paced his quarters like a caged animal. Seven hells. Seven hells! He would never forget his first sight of her as he rode into Winterfell, heart hammering. Gods, she was beautiful! Tall, slender, radiant in her rich winter cloak, she was Winter's Queen, embracing her brother and greeting the King. He had almost torn back through the gates and back to the tavern in Winterton to get roaring drunk. What a fool he had been to think that the daughter of the Starks could love a dog like him! How he cringed to think of what he had written to her, the things he had said! No wonder she turned pale and could barely look at him. And that bitch of a red witch dragging him up before Sansa, making fools of them both before the king. His scar twitched. And he had even hinted at marriage in his first letter. Hells! You fool. He glared at himself in the mirror. You stupid, scarred fool.

The Great Hall of Winterfell rang to the sound of good cheer and soon became raucous with joy. Sandor strode up to the dais, glared at Liddle and reclaimed his place as sworn shield. Sansa's skin tingled at the once familiar nearness of him and she felt the air crackling around them as she pretended to laugh and smile with the king and his lords who jostled for her attention. More troubling were the servant girls who jostled for her shield's attention. They flirted and smiled at the Hound of the North, who once they would have run a mile from. Sansa's glare sent them scuttling away. It was misery and she couldn't wait for the whole farce to be over. After the feast finished the tables were cleared away and the king's minstrel began to play. Melisandre spoke up. 'My Lady Stark, I believe you are a gifted songbird. Would you grace our king with a sweet song of love and romance?'

Seven hells, does that woman ever shut up? Trapped now, Sansa had no choice. 'As His Grace wishes,' she said courteously,and she began the only song that came into her head.

'High in the halls of the kings who are gone,

Jenny would dance with her ghosts;

The ones she had lost and the ones she had found,

And the ones who had loved her the most.'

She sang for her family and friends, for Septon Yohn, for Jeyne, for Winterfell, for the soldiers who had died for her and would keep on dying, for everything that was lost and gone for ever, for Sandor. When the last note faded away there was a long silence in the hall, broken only when a rough, red haired man, one of Jon's wildlings, stood up and addressed her directly.

'My lady, that was a song of true beauty that will stay with us until we leave this world. You and I, Lady Stark, are both kissed by fire, and we understand the deeper feelings. It would be my great honour if you would dance the first dance with me, and we will show these tamer souls how it is done.'

Sansa burst out laughing at the sheer audacity of the man. Jon hid a smirk behind his hand as his sister accepted Tormund's challenge and took to the floor. Men grabbed every serving girl they could find until the floor was filled and the music soared. It had been so long since Sansa had danced! She gave herself up to the pure joy of it, twirling and spinning with the rogue of a wildling until the music stopped and the minstrel took up a slower piece. Sansa thanked Tormund and he led her back to the dais, grinning ear to ear.

'And what about my good friend Sandor? You too are kissed by fire, you too should dance with our gracious lady!' Sansa's heart stopped. Sandor's face was unreadable. Stepping forward slowly, unsmiling and serious, he did the single bravest thing he had ever done in his life. The Hound bowed his head, stretched out his hand and asked his lady to dance. Wordlessly, she placed her hand in his and turned back to the floor.

The other couples fell into place. Sandor bowed and Sansa curtseyed and the dance began, stately and elegant. He moved with a grace and control that surprised her, but then, why should it? He was the same when he was fighting; weaving in and out, advancing and retreating with rhythm and skill, never taking his eyes off his opponent. Sansa smiled and nodded at the other dancers but could barely bring herself to look at her own partner, her stranger-friend whose eyes sought hers, begging for an answer to the question she couldn't bear to hear. When the dance ended she curtseyed and thanked him politely, but he did not release her hand. 'Sansa, please,' he whispered fiercely, and was promptly interrupted by yet another lord wishing to dance with the Lady of Winterfell. Before Sansa could react, Sandor had turned on his heel and returned to the dais. Dance after dance, lord after lord, his stricken eyes followed her until Sansa could bear it no longer. Laughing and feigning exhaustion, she returned to her seat. His anguish went through her like a knife. Jon's seat beside her was empty and Melisandre was absorbed in the king. Slowly, surreptitiously, Sansa reached around the back of her chair, stretching her hand towards her shield. Almost immediately his fingers slid between hers and he enfolded them in his firm, strong grip. 'Little Bird,' she heard him whisper in a voice full of love and longing, and for a few moments they were alone in the eye of their own private storm. Then Jon called her and it was over. She squeezed his hand gently, before slipping away from him again.

Back in her room that night, unsettled and unsure, Sansa prayed one prayer.

Gentle Mother, font of mercy,

Still my mind, Show me my way.

Gentle Mother, strength of women,

Still my fear, Light my way.

Ch XXVII

The sound of scratching woke Sansa but when she opened the door, it was Lady and not Wolf who was outside. Sansa cried out in joy and relief, burying her face in her beloved wolf's neck. 'You're alive!' she sobbed, as Lady whined and danced her welcome. When she finally released Lady she called the wolf into her room, but Lady refused, pattering away from the chamber, looking back at Sansa. Grabbing her robe and shoes, Sansa followed her down the shadowy corridors, through the unlocked door, and across the courtyard into the glasshouse. Following Lady into the building, Sansa was momentarily blinded by a sudden rush of light. The entire glasshouse was flooded with warm summer sunlight and growing things. 'Lady?' she called – but her wolf was gone. A movement caught Sansa's eye, and she turned to see Sandor, his broad back turned to her, his reflection in the glass unclear. 'Sandor?' He did not respond. She was about to call him again when a young girl's voice rang out – 'Ned! Ned, where are you?' Sandor turned around, but it wasn't Sandor; the boy who faced her had the height and build of the Hound of the North but his face was the face of a Stark, a serious face that broke into a gentle smile as he called out – 'I'm coming,' - and walked straight through her.

Sansa woke calling the boy's name. She sat on the edge of the bed for some time, staring into the darkness. Thank you, Mother. I know now what I must do.

The morning's council had ended earlier than expected, probably due to the number of sore heads. Sansa took the time to go to the stables. Stranger and Queenie whickered as she gave them their treats and fussed over them.

'I see you have not forgotten all of your old friends.'

She spun around, face flushing. 'I have not forgotten any of them.'

Sandor laughed bitterly. 'You could have fooled me. You have barely looked at me, and when you did – ' his scar twitched, 'it was like being back in King's Landing again. You danced with and smiled at them all, every bloody jackanapes, but you couldn't bear to look at me. You're afraid of me. After everything, we're back to that again. Gods, girl!' He gave up trying to sneer and the hurt in his eyes cut through her. 'How can you be so afraid of me?'

'It's not like that, I – '

'Don't lie to me! No empty courtesies, please, not that!'

'Let me explain, I hardly know how, I've never – '

'It's my own fault, I pushed too far. I should never have written what I wrote. I meant every word but I should have kept my mouth shut, like a good dog.' Sansa winced at his bitterness. 'Here, take this back. You should never have given it to me. You should never have given me so much hope.' He fumbled with the chain around his neck, cursing and angry.

'Wait, please, not here, not like this.'

'Why not? Are you afraid of being seen with me?'

'O Sandor please, don't be angry with me, I'm trying, I can't help it.'

'No, Little Bird, I won't be angry with you. I can't stay angry with you, no matter how much you hurt me.'

Sansa turned away with a sob. What a mess! Composing herself, she turned back to him. 'Follow me.'

He sighed. 'Yes, my lady.'

She led him to the only place they could have any peace and quiet – the godswood. At the heart tree she stopped and made herself look him in the eye, 'No one will trouble us here.' The silence stretched out between them, empty and endless. All the things she needed to say to him huddled round them like wraiths, mute and miserable. Wordlessly, he removed the pendant and handed it to her. She turned away from him and bowed her head, pulling down the collar of her cloak. Sandor hesitated, then gently and carefully put the pendant around her neck. Her hair had all been braided and coiled and it glinted like icy flame. He fumbled with the catch and swore softly until it finally caught. Her skin was soft and warm, like it had been that night in the Knight's Hall. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he gently stroked the back of her neck. She gasped, but didn't pull away.

'Sansa.'

Leaning down, he kissed the curve of her neck so gently, so tenderly, again and again, and buried his face in her shoulder, breathing in her perfume. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close, enveloping her.

'Sansa, Sansa, please, I love you.'

She wrapped her arms around his and closed her eyes, barely able to breathe. She took his hand in hers – so big and strong in her slender hand! – and held it to her face, before gathering all the courage she had and slowly turning to face him. She was visibly shaking now.

'Look at me, Little Bird.'

When she raised her eyes to his, in all their beauty and vulnerability, he suddenly understood. 'My Little Bird. My own beautiful Little Bird.'

Sandor cupped her face gently, rejoicing in every precious line and curve. She closed her eyes as he kissed her forehead, her cheek, her neck and then gently, so gently, her lips. Almost shyly at first, his kisses became firmer, more passionate, as she began to respond to him, her longing rivalling his. Sansa melted into him, wanting this moment to last forever. When he finally released her, breathless and trembling, she leaned into him and he gathered her close, kissing the top of her head.

'Sandor. I love you. I love you so much.'

He put his hand under her chin.

'Look at me.' He pointed at the burned, scarred side of his face. 'Can you really love this?'

Standing up on tiptoes, Sansa kissed his scars, every one.

'I love your scars and you love mine. We can't help it.'

He enveloped her again, laughing his deep, warm laugh. She snuggled into him, hearing the beating of his heart; and had never felt so at home.

'O Sansa, what are we going to do?'

'There is only one thing we can do, Sandor. Marry me.'

'What?'

'What else can we do? Pretence is no longer an option. You leaving me is out of the question, so what is left to us? Should I marry someone else and degrade our love to the level of sneaking around stealing kisses in quiet corners until some night we lose control? We could pass off our children as my husband's, would you like that? See, your scar is twitching at the mere thought of it! I am yours and you are mine. We must go to Stannis and tell him. Jon will back us.'

'Stannis will never agree.'

'He will. You have made yourself invaluable to him. Plus, his priestess has his ear and she wants us together, though the gods alone know what game she is playing. If he feels it is his idea and his decree, Stannis will agree.'

'And the banners?'

'They see you now as the Hound of the North. There are some who would already be happy to call you the Lord of Winterfell, and more would join them if we do as Melisandre has suggested.' Sansa outlined the possibility of continuing the Stark name. 'What do you think?'

'Like any man, I would always have presumed that my children would bear my name. I would have liked that, but it is many years since I gave up hope of a love and a family of my own, never mind with a queen of love and beauty like you. Aye, I will agree to your terms, my wise and wonderful woman.' Sandor got down on one knee and took his lady's hand.

'Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, my Little Bird, will you give me your hand in marriage? Will you share your life with me, and let me love you and keep you safe?'

'Yes Sandor, my only love, with all my heart.'

With a wild whoop Sandor threw his arms around his betrothed and kissed her passionately in the winter snow.

Ch XXVIII

Sansa had the right of it, when it came to Stannis. Once Melisandre had convinced him it was the will of R'hllor, their betrothal became the king's command. Her predictions about the banners were accurate too. The prospect of another generation of Starks in Winterfell convinced most of them, especially when Sansa announced that she would name her first son Eddard. They could hardly have been more excited if she had produced the child on the spot. A few young – and not so young – lords were sour at the news, fancying themselves more suitable companions for the Lady of Winterfell. It mattered little to Sansa. They would hardly dare challenge the king, or the Hound of the North.

Winterfell rang with joy and preparation. The happy couple would have preferred a quiet and private wedding, and Sansa was counting the cost of yet another feast, but it was out of their hands. Sansa rejoiced when, days before the wedding, a dear friend was announced.

'Septon Garston to see you, my lady.'

Lighting up with joy she ran to the tall, broad septon, whose eyes smiled warmly at her when she took his hand.

'I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you, Septon Garston. I was afraid you wouldn't make it in time for the wedding.'

'I was already preparing to leave when your raven arrived, my lady. It was not the summons I was expecting, but it is a joyful one.'

'I wasn't sure you would approve.'

'I do. Your lord is a changed man. I knew he loved you from the first, but your feelings I was not so sure of. May the Seven bless and keep you both, and all those you love.'

Sansa could only squeeze his hand in response.

'As for our other business, everything is in hand. Littlefinger is not here yet, I believe?'

'No, and while I hope he arrives before the king leaves, I doubt he will. He'll want to get me alone. I'm not so worried about that now you are here. Tell me, how is Jeyne?

Garston lowered his voice. 'As well as she can be, my lady. How anyone can survive what she has suffered is beyond me. She bid me wish you and Sandor joy and love.'

'Poor Jeyne, she deserved so much better than she got, and I pray that some day I can make it up to her. And to you, for the loss of the brave Septon Yohn. I owe so much to so many. Please, let me show you to your room. I will have the servant prepare a meal and a hot bath for you. I had a hard time persuading Stannis to let you officiate. He wanted Melisandre to do it all in the ways of the Red God. Sandor and I wanted to give respect to the old gods and to the Seven. Our compromise is to allow the red priestess her way and then to go to the sept. I hope you don't mind.'

'We do what we must, my lady. Where is Lord Clegane?'

'Training the men. Their greatest challenge lies ahead. Jon is eager to face it. I cannot bear to think of it.'

'Then don't . Don't spoil the happiness of today with tomorrow's fears.'

The night before the wedding, Sandor and Sansa walked hand in hand in the godswood, footsteps crunching on the moonlit snow.

'I can't believe this is real. When we were hiding at the Sept of Stones I used to pretend you were my lady and the sept was our castle. Smile all you want, Little Bird, but it was the happiest time of my life. Until now.' Sandor kissed her coronet of braids. 'I knew that in the end you would marry and have children and leave me in the shadows. Pretending made it all so much easier. Now, I'm afraid that I'll wake up and discover it's all just another dream, or that you'll wake up and realise you've made such a dreadful mistake –

Sansa interrupted him with a fierce hug and lifted her face to his to be kissed. His passion left her breathless and longing for more.

'I wish we could just disappear, you and I, and leave the sound and fury behind us, even for just a little while. You'll be leaving for the Wall soon, and I'll be alone. I know now what my mother felt when it happened to her. O Sandor, I wish my family were here, and that you were staying!'

He held his lady tenderly and they walked back slowly to the castle.

'Do you remember the first time you walked me back to my chamber in the dead of night?'

'The night of the tourney. I was drunk and awful.'

'You were, but you kept me safe. You have always kept me safe, Sandor. It had been a long and strange journey so far, but I'm glad I'm here with you. I'm glad I'm yours, and you are mine, and that tomorrow we will be as one.' She stood up on tiptoe to kiss him.

'Good night, my Hound.'

'Good night, my Wolf.'

Ch XXIX

The day of their wedding dawned cold and clear. Sandor was a tangled mass of curses, scowls and jangled nerves until his lady appeared on her brother's arm. As soon as their eyes met, his face was transformed. Little Bird.

Sansa had never been more beautiful. Her auburn waves had been burnished to an autumn glory and shone in the sun. She wore it the way Sandor loved best – a crown of braids at the top, flowing long and loose to her waist at the back. Her gown was of silver trimmed with Tully blue, her cloak winter white with an embroidered silver direwolf; but it was the radiance of her face that Sandor remembered for the rest of his life. No one had ever looked at him like that – like I'm her true knight. While he went through the motions of Melisandre's fire ceremony, all he could think was – I would die for you, girl. You are all the world to me. O gods, make me worthy of her!

In the rainbow light of the sept, he carefully and gently replaced her direwolf cloak with the sigil of the three hounds.

'With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.'

'With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife.'

Garston smiled as they kissed. 'I do solemnly proclaim Sandor of House Clegane and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife; one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.'

'Cursed is right!' rasped Sandor, and swept his laughing wife into his arms. The whole assembly burst into cheers and wild applause as the new Lord and Lady of Winterfell joined hands and turned to greet them.

Pale winter sun spilled through the cracks in the shutters and spread its rays over the bed. In the half light of the morning Sansa gazed on the face of her sleeping husband. Three days they had been granted for their honeymoon, three days in which they had slept but little. Sansa could never have imagined such love or such passion and her heart ached with the wonder of it. She whispered the wonder out loud – my husband. There was a world unimagined in those two words. She would never be just Sansa again.

Was it like this for all other brides? Did they ache, body and soul, for their husbands? Had her mother felt this way?

His arm was around her, his hand warm between her shoulder blades. I never want to leave. I never want us to wake up. But wake up they must. She gently stroked the firm line of his jaw.

'Sandor.'

Slowly, his eyes opened and focused. 'Little Bird,' he whispered in wonder and disbelief, then in boyish, unbridled joy, 'My own Little Bird!'

'We must get up. We must go to the king.'

His kiss was passionate and deep as he pulled her to him.

'Sandor, we must – ' but she had forgotten what she had meant to say.

The Lord and Lady of Winterfell joined the King's Council much later than expected and were greeted with a volley of cheers and ribald comment, led by the Greatjon. Sansa blushed and Sandor could only muster up a poor attempt at a scowl. It was Stannis' glare that restored order. 'Now that everyone is here – finally – we have some serious matters to discuss.'

The first issue was that of dragonglass. Stannis had supplied large quantities, most of which were at the Wall, along with some ancient stashes discovered by Jon. They had been fashioned into weapons and some brought to Winterfell for the men to practice with. What Stannis did not, and would not know, was that a small stash had been hidden in Winterfell by Jon and Sandor. They had held a secret meeting with Sansa in the godswood during the chaos of the wedding preparations. In case Stannis failed to defeat the Others, Sansa was to distribute the knives.

'If the Others arrive at the gates,' Jon had warned, 'we have all been lost. Light the pyres, take up the knives. Kill the children first and do it all quickly.'

All of the North was united under Stannis, along with the banners of Riverrun and now the Knights of the Vale, so they had a hope. Still, it was nothing more than a hope, despite the King's blind belief.

'I received a raven from the usurper in King's Landing,' he said, 'There will be no help from that quarter.' The king handed Sansa the letter. Its content was no surprise to her.

'Cersei models herself on Tywin, your Grace. She considers herself to be as cunning and ruthless as he was, and as intelligent as Tyrion. She is one of those things, anyway. If she thinks that the Others will ignore the South and that she can defeat the Silver Queen, she is a fool indeed.'

'Do you consider the Targaryen girl to be such a threat?'

'After the Others, she is the greatest threat you face, Your Grace. She is a brilliant tactician and a born conqueror. Even if she was neither, anyone with three dragons can do as they will. King Torrhen knew that. In a way I had hoped that she would be of help against the Others, but I am relieved that she and her dragons will be a thousand miles away, for now at least.'

'You admire her.'

'Yes and no. She is wise beyond her years in warfare, and unlike most leaders, she at least tries to protect women from rape. Despite all this, I do not think that she will be a great ruler. From what I gather, she leaves chaos in her wake. Of more concern is the fact that she is the daughter and sister of madmen, that she has three dragons, and that she is heading to Westeros.'

'It may ease your mind, my lady, to know that she now has only two dragons, thanks to the Ironborn and the power of R'hllor.'

Sansa smiled politely. 'That is a comfort, Your Grace.'

The rest of the council passed peacefully, dealing with winter food stocks and deliveries, and disbanded for dinner.

It was their first public dinner as man and wife and Sansa savoured every moment of it. She and Sandor sat together openly on the dais, smiling and talking before the entire assembly, Wolf at their feet. Her husband wore the look of a delighted child who has woken up to discover that his dream was real. Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, my wife! As they waited between courses, he wound tendrils of her hair between his fingers. It was all she could do to maintain her composure until they returned to their chamber.

The knowledge that their time together was short intensified every moment. Every second apart was bitter – even sleep was an enemy. In her non-existent spare time Sansa made her husband a heavy black fur-lined cloak. Her Sandor would not freeze. If she could save him from nothing else, she could save him from that. Every touch, every kiss, every smile was cherished as if they were the last, and in the end, the last day came.

Sansa lay in their bed, watching the man she loved so much dress for the march north. Every movement broke her heart. She forced herself to get up, to help him buckle and button and fasten when all she wanted to do was drag him back to bed and keep him safe. When his new cloak was fastened on his broad shoulders she could no longer contain her sobs. Sandor drew her close and wrapped her in the fortress of his arms.

'Little Bird. My own Little Bird.'

She had never thought that so many men could be so silent. The Lady of Winterfell stood in the courtyard, flanked by Garston, Liddle and the Greatjon, faithful Wolf at her feet. The king and the men had been respectfully farewelled, her brother bear hugged, her own dear husband shamelessly embraced. She held her head high, her back straight as Melisandre approached to say goodbye.

'Farewell, Lady Stark. We shall not meet again. Do not be afraid. You will slay a viper here, lead a kingdom, and renew your family.' She put a warm glowing hand on Sansa's stomach and whispered, 'He will live to see his son.' Sansa's eyes filled with tears.

'Thank you, Melisandre.'

'You are welcome, Sansa Stark.'

Row by row the soldiers left, soft winter snow melting in their hair, the grey mist of fear in their breath. How many would never return? Sansa ran up to the ramparts, watching Sandor turning in his saddle until she could see him no more.

That night she curled up in the emptiness of their wedding bed, wrapped herself in his old white cloak, and cried herself to sleep.

My love, my life, my wife,

I can tell you how I feel in writing, I can show you how I feel in our bed, but I can rarely find the courage to say it to your face. My words melt like snow when I look in your eyes, and so I take the craven's way and put it in a letter.

My life began when you loved me. Everything before that was a mummer's farce; the lies, the snakes, the blood, the death, the mask I wore to hide and stay alive. You tore away at my defences from the moment we met. I thought I was saving you, but you forced me to see what it was I had become and gods, it hurt, for how could such a lady ever love a dog like me? I had to break and remake myself to be anything like worthy of you, and I pray that some day I will be.

These last few weeks have been more than I could ever have dreamed of, even as a child before my world went up in flames. You gave me my life again, and if by giving up that life now I can save yours, then it is worth it.

I will never forget the way you looked at me on our wedding day, as if I was your one true knight. I will carry that image in my soul from this life into the next and I fear neither death nor flame with your love beside me.

My love, my wife, my own Wolf Queen, you are more to me than my life and I long to see you again. If I do not return, live at peace and know that I love you. If none of us return, you know what you have to do. I will be waiting for you on the other side of Death.

With all my love eternal,

Your own true knight,

Sandor Clegane

Ch XXX

The visitor was not the one she had been expecting.

It was Wolf who had warned her first. As they walked across the courtyard he had frozen in his tracks, hackles raised, and gone into a frenzy of barking. Soon, every hound in the castle was frantic. A sentry at the gate shouted – 'Direwolf!' – and Sansa knew. Running to the gate, she grabbed Wolf's collar and held it tightly as the strange little group approached Winterfell – a huge direwolf, and a young man on a sled being pulled by a girl.

It can't be.

She closed her eyes and opened them again. They were still there.

Bran. It was Bran! Propped up and wrapped in furs, his wasted legs covered in blankets, his face was still as familiar to her as her own. She calmed Wolf and the sentry held his collar as she hugged her brother tightly.

'O Bran, where have you been? How did you survive?'

She held his face between her hands, feeling the bristles on the once smooth baby face, the face that was blurring now in her tears. Bran smiled, his eyes warm yet distant.

'You look beautiful, sister. Command suits you. Marriage too. This is my dear friend Meera Reed, daughter of Howland Reed. I would not be alive without her.'

The elfin girl with the dark curling hair curtseyed to Sansa.

'Please, come in, I will arrange rooms for you both, everything you need, Summer too, I just can't believe you are here!'

'Before you do anything else, Sansa, send a raven to the king immediately. Hard on my heels is a visitor who is not so pleased with your choice of husband. He has sent an assassin, hidden among the Knights of the Vale, to kill your lord. It is to be done as soon as they reach the Wall. They are only a week behind the King's men. Go now to the maester.'

'Who – '

'I think you know.'

'Littlefinger.'

'That is why I am here.'

They were closeted together in the solar until dawn. Bran had told her much and more of his life since he had seen her last; of the last days of Winterfell, of Hodor and Jojen. Most of all, he spoke of his own destiny and of the Three Eyed Raven.

'I can never be Lord of Winterfell, a husband or a father. Even though I love Meera, I will lose her to another. I am the memory of Westeros, and as time goes by I will be less and less myself and more and more the Raven. My business is to be here with you as you lead the North. Summon Garston, Liddle and the Greatjon, no more. There are things they need to know, and a trap we need to prepare.'

By the time their council had adjourned it was morning, and before the three men rose, eyes bloodshot and tired, to leave the siblings alone again, Bran addressed them.

'Lady Stark and I rely on you to bring this plan to fruition. Her life, the life of her child, the future of the North and of Westeros itself depends on your service and silence.'

'You may rely on us, my Lord.'

'Garston, leave now and bring the lady and her men here. Give her this pendant please, and my sister's letter if she doubts your word.' Garston nodded and left.

The Greatjon stopped and turned. 'I was angry to be left behind by the king, but now I think that a trip to the Wall would have been more restful for an old man. All the action is here.'

When they had gone Sansa closed the door and sat down heavily. She said nothing for a long time, and when a servant entered, she waved him away. Staring blankly into the dying embers, she asked in a dull, empty voice, 'Are you sure it is her?'

'Yes, Sansa. What is left of her.'

'And she must be part of it all?'

'Yes.'

Sansa closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands. When she finally stood up, dry eyed and pale, she was calm and in control again.

'Thank you Bran for your wisdom and advice. I am somewhat overwhelmed. If anyone asks for me I am indisposed and will be up again by dinner. Take some rest, brother.'

Back in her room, she looked out the window and over the silent sea of snow. Sansa remembered a time when she had dreamed of sleeping in its icy waves. Now she had Sandor, but he was gone back to the Wall. Bran was back, but he wasn't Bran anymore and in time he would be hardly human. Arya, he had told her, was alive and gone to the Wall also, but she too was changed – a trained killer. Sandor had warned her that her husband and sons would be killers. He had never mentioned her little sister. Rickon, thank the gods, was alive, but he and Shaggydog were on Skagos. Bran could not, or would not, tell her when Rickon would come back, or what would be left of his soul when he did. And as for Jon, Bran had told her what Jon himself did not yet know – he was not their brother, and he was no bastard. Jon was the trueborn son of Aunt Lyanna and Rhaegar Targaryen, and heir to the Iron Throne. The Silver Queen would be thrilled to hear that. She would roast him alive with her remaining dragons. Seven hells! And then the lady –

Cold clamminess crept over her skin, black and silver shimmered before her eyes. Sansa clawed her way to the bed and lay down, breathing deeply, until the weakness passed. Enough. There was too much to think of, too many lives at risk. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, curled up and fell asleep.

At dinner the Lady of Winterfell was all composure, charm and courtesies. She marvelled at the brave and wonderful Meera. Meera had done for Bran what Sandor had done for Sansa, but Bran would not get his happy ending. Sansa sincerely hoped the bright and beautiful crannog girl did not love Bran. She had suffered enough. No, don't think of that. Let them all enjoy this calm and peaceful night.

Littlefinger would come in the morning.

Ch XXXI

Nothing had changed about the man. In a world that had been turned upside down he was turned out perfectly – the same pointed beard, the same mockingbird pin, the same minty tang on his breath. He touched her face as he had done at the tourney so long ago, before the world caved in.

'You are so like your mother.'

'My condolences, my lord, on the death of your lady, and in such dreadful circumstances too. I wish I could have known Aunt Lysa better. Now I never will. How is my cousin Robert?'

'He grows ever weaker, my lady. He sends his regards and hopes he may soon be strong enough to come to see you. I would offer you condolences on the death of your beloved king, but you seem to have recovered. My congratulations on your wedding, Lady Stark. I believe you intend to keep your own name?'

'We wanted another generation of Starks in Winterfell.'

'How lovely. I'm sure it made your choice of husband more – palatable to your family's loyal supporters. Allow me to introduce Ser Lothar Brune, a freerider in my service. I have brought only a small number of men with me, the rest ride to the Wall, under the command of Bronze Yohn Royce. I hear your brother Bran has also returned.'

'Yes, but he is very unwell and keeps to his room. Bran has renounced his claim to lordship in my favour.'

'Excellent.' The look in Littlefinger's eyes chilled her to the bone.

The whole atmosphere of Winterfell changed at the arrival of Petyr Baelish. Sansa could feel the very stones groaning, as if every Stark in the crypt strained to tear at his throat. His poison spread as cold and wide as his smile, every conversation a dance on a knife edge. Liddle, the Greatjon and Wolf shadowed her every step, but Sansa still felt the threat of his presence. One night at dinner, his eyes lingered on pretty Meera.

'Is this your brother's little friend? No wonder he keeps to his room. She would earn a great deal in one of my brothels.'

Sansa saw Jeyne, happy and smiling, eating strawberry pie, and she clenched her fists under the table.

'You forget yourself, my lord.'

'Forgive me, Lady Stark. A mere jest, I assure you.'

A joust, more like, every conversation testing her, seeing how much of the naive innocent was left. Sansa prayed for the strength to hold her tongue and play her part. If Sandor could do it for most of his life, she could do it now. She made sure to get Baelish to sign over the remainder of the promised food stocks to Winterfell. It suited his purpose. She didn't need the Three Eyed Raven to tell her the future he planned for himself and Winterfell's lady. Her skin crawled. O gods, I wish the Hound were here!

One night, Ser Lothar Brune approached her. He had evidently been waiting for her in the shadows of a doorway. Liddle drew his sword, but Sansa stayed his hand. She had made a friend of Lothor, listening to his drunken heartbreak over a girl named Mya Stone. He had also revealed to her the level of derision and suspicion in which Baelish was held by most of his men. She would hear what he had to say.

'My lady, you are in danger. You will be given a drink tonight before you go to bed. Don't drink it. There will be tansy in it. Your lady in waiting, Daria, has betrayed you. She noticed you have not bled. Lord Baelish has bought her and she follows him.'

'How do you know this?'

'I was drunk and fell asleep in one of the storerooms. She was – bedding – with my lord in there. Afterwards she told him you were with child, and he said that she was to give you the tansy in your drink. Please, my lady, he wants Winterfell and he won't stop until he has it, and you.'

'Thank you, Ser Brune. Your loyalty shall not go unrewarded. Go now, before you are missed.'

After he had left, Liddle whispered, 'You knew this already, from the Raven.'

'Yes, but not that it would happen tonight. We will have to act quickly. Bring the Greatjon.'

Sansa sat quietly by the fire in her room, dreamily humming and brushing her hair.

'Here is your warm spiced milk, my lady.'

'Thank you, Daria. Did you make sure everything is in it?'

'My lady?'

'All the things I like? Cloves, cinnamon, tansy?'

Daria's face paled. 'My lady, I – '

'Stop. Stop now and take heed. Denial is futile. I know everything. You sold yourself to the pimp of Flea Bottom and offered him the life of my child. What did he promise you, you fool? Don't you realise he will kill you as soon as he is done with you?'

Daria ran for the door, only to find the Greatjon standing outside it. Turning back into the room, she opened her mouth to scream before a huge hand was clapped over it.

'The next sound you make will be your last,' he growled, 'Liddle is keeping your pimp occupied, he's not watching out for you.'

Sansa stood up and faced her child's betrayer, eyes cold and flinty.

'You will do as I say. You will tell him that I drank, and in the morning you will show him the blood soaked sheets I give you. You will then spread the story that I am unwell, and when I appear, pale and unhappy, Baelish will be none the wiser. If you so much as think of doing otherwise, you will hang as a traitor.'

Daria nodded, her wide, frightened eyes fixed on Sansa.

'Get out of my sight.'

Daria scuttled away, terrified.

When Sansa finally emerged from her chamber looking truly unwell, Littlefinger's concern was almost convincing. Sansa hoped her act was just as good. Morgan Liddle became her shadow and Wolf slept by her bed. She and Bran were tightening the nets. They were waiting for the lady.

Late one night there was a knock on her door. Morgan stood outside.

'They are here. We have hidden them in the crypts until morning, as you ordered.'

Sansa nodded and closed the door.

The next day Sansa summoned an assembly in the Great Hall. She specifically asked for Littlefinger's assistance.

'It's a delicate and complicated matter, my lord, it requires a level of political acumen I do not yet possess. Please assist me in my judgement.'

The cold smile slithered across his face. 'I am pleased to be of assistance to my lady.'

A large crowd had gathered in the hall – Baelish's men, the small garrison of King's men and Northeners, the servants of Winterfell and some smallfolk. Bran sat on the dais next to Sansa's empty seat. The Greatjon and Liddle stood on either side of the siblings. Tension in the hall was high as the Lady of Winterfell took her seat.

'Where will I sit, my lady?'

'You may stand where you are. You stand accused of murder. You stand accused of treason. How do you plead, Lord Baelish?'

The smile evaporated from Littlefinger's face as a hall full of eyes bored into him. 'My lady, what charges? I do not understand.'

'There are many. You stand accused of creating the conflict between the Lannisters and the Starks by manipulating my Aunt Lysa. You had her kill her husband with Tears of Lys and then write to my mother blaming the Lannisters.

You stand accused of betraying my father to his death in King's Landing.

You stand accused of torturing and abusing Jeyne Poole, who you then sold to the Boltons, so they could use her to impersonate Arya to cement their claim to Winterfell.

You stand accused of plotting with the Freys, Boltons and Lannisters to destroy my family at the Red Wedding.

You stand accused of killing my Aunt Lysa by pushing her through the Moon Door, and of poisoning her son Robert in order to claim the Vale.'

'My lady, he interrupted, face flushed and angry, 'Who makes these claims?'

'We have statements from my aunt's maids, from Jeyne Poole, from the maester at the Vale, from – '

'Whores and servants! Lady Sansa, can you truly believe such lies? Surely you are not so naive as that.'

'I also have the testimony of my brother, the Three Eyed Raven. You have heard of the Three Eyed Raven, my lord?'

Bran fixed the little man with a cold, emotionless stare.

'You held a knife to my father's throat. You said, 'I did warn you not to trust me.' Have you nothing to say about that, Lord Baelish?'

Littlefinger was pale, his mouth flapping like a fish. Bran continued, 'Chaos is a ladder, my lord. Can you not climb your way out of this?'

'My lady, I can explain – '

'There is more. You stand accused of attempting to kill my unborn son with tansy administered by my maid, Daria. Do you deny it?'

'Attempting?'

'That was not my blood on those sheets, Lord Baelish. I was aware of your plans.'

'I was trying to save you, my lady. You had made such a dreadful mistake – '

'You stand accused of attempting to assassinate my husband, the Hound of the North and Lord of Winterfell, Sandor Clegane. We have received a raven from the Wall. Your assassin was apprehended and has confessed. How do you plead?'

The mask fell from Petyr's face and the sheer evil of the man lay naked and exposed. His eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a snarl.

'Your husband, the Lord of the Dogs. You stupid little fool! You threw yourself away just like your mother did. If she had married me she would still be alive. I was smarter than your idiot of a father. None of this would have happened.'

'You betrayed my mother to her death.'

'She wasn't supposed to die, she was to have been taken prisoner. And your Raven could be lying, prove that there was a letter from your aunt.'

Sansa turned and nodded to a motley group standing in a corner of the hall – two men, a tall woman, and a cloaked lady. The cloaked lady stepped forward, stood before the assembly, and removed her hood. The people gasped and cried out in horror. The woman who stood before them was a travesty of a human being. Her throat was slit, her face torn, her skin pale and flaking. A closer thing to a wight had never been seen south of the Wall. And yet, to those who had known and loved her in her happier days, it was clear who she was.

Petyr Baelish fell to his knees. He made several attempts to speak before he croaked out a single word – 'Cat!'

Sansa brought the crowd to order and addressed what was left of her mother in a voice that was barely steady, 'Lady Stark, did you receive a letter from your sister blaming the Lannisters for Jon Arryn's death?

The horror nodded.

'Did this man, among others, betray you and your son Robb Stark, the King in the North, to your deaths at the Red Wedding?'

Again, a nod.

'Were you once Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell, brought back from the dead by Beric Dondarrion? Were you once my mother?'

She nodded again, tears in her cloudy eyes.

Sansa rose. 'Then I pronounce judgement on you, Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale, traitor, murderer and spy. You are to be executed forthwith for your crimes. Do you have any last words?'

Petyr Baelish looked up in helpless horror at the remains of the woman he had loved and betrayed, and said nothing.

'Mother, he is yours. Lord Baelish, Sandor sends his regards.'

At her daughter's command, Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell stood behind her childhood friend and betrayer of her family, pulled back his head, and slit his throat.

Ch XXXII

Snow swirled softly through the godswood and the wind sobbed through the branches of the heart tree. Sansa and her mother stood beneath its branches, Bran seated beside them, Harwin and Brienne standing further off.

Harwin had told Sansa the whole story – of meeting and losing Arya on the road, finding Lady Stark's body, begging Thoros and Beric Dondarrion to revive her, the latter giving his life to do so.

'I thought she'd come back as herself, my lady. When she didn't, I regretted what I had done, but now I am glad. We have killed so many Freys, that monster Baelish, and now – well, I am glad.'

It hurt Sansa to see him, the only living face from their happy past.

'Stay with us, Harwin. There is no need for you to go. We need one of the old faces at Winterfell.'

But Harwin was firm. 'I won't leave her, Lady Sansa, not until it's over. But I promise you, If I live, I will return.'

Brienne, the lady Knight, was also as devoted to Lady Stark and to her mission. The Maid of Tarth reminded Sansa of herself – idealistic, still dreaming of knights, heroes and honour, in spite of all the horrors she had seen. Both Brienne and Harwin would accompany their lady on her final journey. Garston would stay in Winterfell.

The three Starks stood in silence. What could they say? What words are there for so many things that are broken? With a shrivelled hand Lady Catelyn touched her eldest daughter's hair, tucking a stray tendril behind her ear. She took Sansa's hand, fingering the new wedding ring, and made a croaking sound. 'She is asking if you are happy,' Bran said softly.

'Yes, Mother, I am. It has been a long and terrible journey to get home, and I miss you all dreadfully, but I love my husband and he loves me. When he comes home we will raise our children to be honourable, wise and strong, and we will love one another. You need not worry about me.'

Lady Stark put her hand on Sansa's stomach and gave her a questioning look.

'Yes, Mother,' she replied, her voice quivering, 'Your first grandchild. His name will be Eddard Stark.'

The clouded eyes filled with tears which spilled down her torn cheeks. Sansa steeled herself and reached out to wipe the tears away. Lady Stark then turned to her son, her special child by whose bedside she had watched for so long as he hung between life and death. Bran took her hand.

'I am the Three Eyed Raven now, Mother. Don't trouble yourself about me. I will help look after our family and our people. Do your duty with an easy mind.'

His mother croaked a response that Bran did not translate, but Sansa saw a ripple of emotion cross his frozen face and her heart bled.

'Must she go?' she whispered to her brother.

'Yes. She's the only one who can do it. Only the dead can kill the dead, Sansa, and every moment counts.'

Sansa nodded, standing back. 'Then we must let her go.'

Lady Stark spoke again, and this time her daughter understood.

'It is time, and I am happy. My Ned is waiting.'

Their final farewell was too much to ever be put into words. Years later, Sansa could hardly bring herself to even think of it. She and Bran watched the three head North, knowing that they would never see their mother again, in any form. When she finally disappeared from view forever, they returned to the castle in silence.

In her letter to Jon, Sansa told him of the execution of Littlefinger, and how it was accomplished, before outlining Bran's plan.

'We are now sending her to you at the Wall. Bran says that she is your only hope for victory. Only the dead can kill the dead. Flush out the Wight King, and she will kill him.

Prepare yourself, Jon, and please prepare Arya. Lady Catelyn is not what she was, and it will go very hard on our sister to see what remains of her mother. I know it went hard on me. We will speak of these things when you are home. Until then, you remain in my prayers and I remain

Your Sister,

Sansa

My love,

Littlefinger is dead, and it was done so strangely I can hardly tell you. Jon will tell you of that and of our mother; I cannot bring myself to write of it again. Bran and I send you victory – I pray to the gods that she gets there in time.

Our bed is so cold and empty without you. I sleep each each night in your old Kingsguard cloak that still smells of you and if I close my eyes I can almost pretend you are still here and that I am safe in the strength of your arms. Nothing is real without you. I long for your love, and for you.

I must tell you of something I suspected but am sure of now. I am carrying our child, Sandor. Our son, our Ned, the child of our love. You are to be a father. How I long to meet him, and to see him in your arms for the first time! Please come home safely, my one true knight. You have two now who love you and need you so much.

Your loving wife, now and always,

Sansa

My dear sister,

I am glad to hear of the traitor's death, and gladder still to hear of the hope you send us.

I will not lie to you, we are fighting a losing battle. Our men die day after die and we seem to be having very little impact on the Others. Fear infects us all. Only Stannis seems unshakeable, and the Red Woman sends her flames among the Dead. She is all that stands between us and annihilation. Thank the gods the king sent his women home to Dragonstone.

Your lord fights valiantly and leads the men among death and flame. There is nothing he wouldn't face to protect you, nothing he wouldn't do to get home to you.

I wish Ygritte were here.

Tell none of this in Winterfell. If the lady succeeds we will see you again, but if not, Sansa, have the pyres ready.

Your Brother Always,

Jon

CH XXXIII

Winterfell held its breath. Sansa made sure to keep the North running like clockwork, as if there was no question of not living to see the spring. After Jon's last letter she had had the pyres prepared and had told the people that they were to drive away any stray Others who might escape the wrath of Stannis. She hoped they didn't suspect the truth. Ravens were sent to the representatives of the heads of the high houses of the North, instructing them to do likewise and swearing them to silence. There was nothing left to do but wait.

The cold grew more intense, the icy mists closing in on them like a frozen fist. Bran said that it was the power of the Others growing. Fear spread like the plague but the Lady of Winterfell stood firm. The gates were thrown open to the poor, the destitute, the homeless. With so many households fatherless, the castle was filled with women and children. Hardly a storeroom remained empty. The warmth of the castle and the steady food supply would save many lives. Sansa had ordered that the banners should do the same for their smallfolk.

Some days she would wrap herself in her fur lined cloak and, with Wolf and Liddle by her side, she would ride into Winterton. A lady who hid in her castle could not inspire courage, or hope. Neither could she help the most helpless of all, those who could not face the trek to Winterfell to petition their lady.

'She comes to us in the depths of winter, even though she is with child. Truly, she is a Stark, and Mother of the North.'

None of the smallfolk who said this of their lady saw the fear and dread beneath the calm and smiling exterior. Sansa made sure of it.

On quiet evenings when the day's work was done she would sit with Meera and Anya in the solar or in her chamber, and sew. Anya was now Sansa's new lady-in-waiting. Daria had been sent to work in the kitchens of the inn in Winterton – Sansa could not bring herself to throw the girl out into the winter snow – and the kennelmaster's niece had taken her place. Still broken and shaken after the rape, the honour bestowed on her by the Lady of Winterfell had brought little Anya back to life. Conn had come to thank Sansa and had dissolved into tears.

'The honour is mine, Conn, to have such a steady and trustworthy girl as Anya, who would never betray me. I owe her the thanks.' Sansa would never forget what is felt like to be a victim, or her promise that no one should suffer just because they were weak.

She cherished these evenings. Nothing could ever bring back the old days, but gods, it was good to sit sewing and talking with friends! Sansa was making baby clothes – such a joy in such a dark time! – and the two girls were helping. Meera was not gifted with a needle, but she was a quick study and became quite good at plain work, leaving Sansa more time to embroider and embellish. It gave her such joy to make things beautiful. If only Sandor were there, he would be so proud!

Sometimes Bran would join them in the solar, bringing his books and Summer, much to Wolf's disgust. He did not fool Sansa, who saw the way her brother's eyes often strayed from his book to Meera's pretty, elfin face. It hurt to see her brother's pain and to think how it would be for him when Meera finally left. For all the power he had been given, it had been paid for dearly; too dearly. What a knight he would have made, and what a wonderful wife he would have had in Meera! Sansa cursed again both the Lannisters and the day they had brought their poison to Winterfell.

At night Sansa would go to the sept, where the threat of the Others stopped at the door. In the silence she would sit quietly before the repaired statues and light her seven candles. Sometimes she sang the hymn to the Mother for all the mothers' sons at the Wall, and for her own dear son, stirring in her womb. Still, it was the Stranger that she was drawn to time and time again, standing before him in wordless communion. Before leaving, she would whisper to him –

'Only the dead can kill the dead.

Please, guide her hand.'

Ch XXXIV

Sandor gathered his cloak closer around him, burying his face in its collar of fur. For a while it had still smelled of her perfume, the scent of her clinging to it long after their last embrace. Weeks of wear had finally erased it, but still her love lingered in every stitch and that was what sustained him. He needed all the strength he could get.

The Hound had never feared anything but fire, and his opponents not at all, but these – things! There were no words for the horror of their soulless hate, their inexorable advance. The men went like lambs to the slaughter. The memory of their one and only sortie would haunt his dreams until death. Even Gregor would have shuddered – Enough! Sandor steadied himself. It was hard enough to stand firm against the fear. Where would the men be if even their leaders succumbed to the waking terrors? Several soldiers had already lost their wits, and there had been suicides. Stannis had ordered them to keep to the Wall. He did not have to say it twice. Only the fires of the Red Witch kept the sea of wights at bay. Dragonglass was all very well and good but you had to get close to use it and once you got too close...

That was what they were going to do now. Get close. Draw out the Wight King . In the guise of a last desperate sortie they would lay themselves out like choice morsels for his consumption – King Stannis, the Lord Commander, the Hound of the North and the Red Witch. They would lure him out and when he was distracted, the lady would kill him.

The lady. The horror that was left of Catelyn Stark. Even Stannis had been shaken at the sight of her. Arya had been devastated. Sandor had envied Eddard Stark his family and his beautiful wife, and this is what the world had done to them. His new mother in law had not been enamoured of him, Harwin even less so, and Sandor did not blame them. Still, death has a way of bringing the living together. Even Arya had come to accept him. This was no place for old grudges. Not now, as they stood together one last time, men and women, to save everyone they loved.

My wife. My son. My family.

Sandor kissed the pendant around his neck.

For you, Little Bird. All for you.

Ghost's howl rang out in the darkness and Jon and Sandor exchanged glances. It was time. Wordlessly, Stannis led them beyond the Wall, and into the endless night.

CHXXXV

It was too quiet.

Fear stalked Winterfell. In the stables horses stamped and whinnied nervously. Dogs tucked their tails and ducked into the shadows. Wolf followed his mistress as she paced the solar, his hackles raised. Sansa had shed her mask of composure before her brother. Her face was taut and haggard as she turned to Bran.

'It will be tonight. I can feel it.'

'Yes. They are going out soon. I have seen them.'

'Mother?'

'She is ready. Arya too.'

'Arya! How is she, is she alright?'

'She is a killer, Sansa, as dangerous as any of them. She has no need of our concern, believe me.'

'Sandor?'

'He stands strong and firm. Like you, he hides his fear inside him. He is wearing your cloak.'

Sansa burst into sobs. She crumpled to the ground, incoherent with grief.

'O Bran, I love him so much! Our child – o gods – Why?' She wrapped her arms protectively around her stomach. Wolf whined and snuffled and tried to lick the tears from her face. Sansa buried her face in the hound's neck. Lady, where are you? I wish we were all here, I wish we were all here safe together!'

There was a knock on the door. Sansa jumped up from the floor, wiped her face, and stood facing the fire. Steeling herself she called out calmly, 'Enter.'

It was Morgan Liddle. 'The people are restless, my lady. The elders are saying that evil is brewing. What shall I tell them?'

'Tell them to keep indoors and to shutter the windows, there is a storm coming.'

'Yes, my lady. Begging your pardon, but it will happen tonight, won't it?

'Yes. Tonight will decide the fate of us all. I will let you know when it is over what needs to be done. Tell Garston to pray. Gods know, we need it.'

'My Lady.' Liddle bowed and left.

'There is nothing for us to do now, sister, but wait.'

Darkness tightened on Winterfell like an iron fist. The first peal of thunder shook the castle, followed by the whiplash crack of lightning. The wind, which had been slowly rising all night suddenly leaped into a frenzied scream. Wolf and Summer howled and Sansa could hear the smallfolk's panic. There was nothing she could do to help them now.

The solar's shutters shuddered under the force of a hailstorm violent as claws raking across the windows.

'Bran, it's like something is trying to get in.'

'That's because it is.'

'What do you mean, is – '

Sansa's voice trailed off in horror. 'Bran, look.'

Ice crystals were spreading inside the shutters and around the windowsills. The fire guttered and faltered.

'O gods Bran, what's happening?'

'They're winning.'

The shutters burst open. Sansa jumped back, speechless with terror. Taking shape in the outer darkness, in the ice and snow, was a face – a face of infinite malice with eyes of ice blue. The lightning lit the world a blinding white and the face disappeared. Sansa threw herself full force against the shutters, struggling against the storm. A hailstone smashed through the glass, cutting her cheek. 'No, you will not have my son!' With a frenzied prayer to the Warrior she wrestled the shutters shut. Breathless she turned to her brother.

The Three Eyed Raven sat motionless in his chair, knuckles and eyes white, rigid with tension as Winterfell and the Wall united in the fight. Sansa sank to the floor beside him. ' Gentle Mother, font of mercy – Gentle Mother, strength of women – Stranger – Only the dead can kill the dead – Guide her hand –'

Time lost all meaning as the wind rose and the cold spread and Sansa prayed and the world seemed ready to end. The wind rose shrieking to a final triumphant scream – a scream that was suddenly cut short – a deafening silence – and then a roaring boom that shook the castle to its very foundations. Summer howled,and Sansa screamed.

Silence.

When Sansa opened her eyes, the fire glowed softly in the grate. The shutters hung drunkenly from the broken window and her cheek throbbed. She touched it with a trembling hand and felt the crust of dried blood. Wolf crawled up to her, whining and shivering. Summer stared calmly at his master. The Lady of Winterfell looked up at her brother. 'Bran?'

He looked back at her with dark, fathomless eyes.

'Send ravens to spread the news. It's over.'

Jon.

We are alive. It was an evil night. Bran has told me but I need to hear it from you.

Sansa

Sansa,

The Wight King is dead. So too is Stannis, your mother and the Witch. Your husband is alive, but is injured. I owe him my life. Harwin and Brienne will stay with him until he can travel. I will see you in Winterfell soon.

Jon

CHXXXVI

'She knew all along. Melisandre knew for months that Stannis was not the one, but she used him anyway to put me on the throne. She looked him in the eye, flattered him, led him on, and all the time she knew who I was, and that she was leading him to his death. Seven hells, Sansa. I can't, I just can't fathom – ' Jon jumped up and paced the solar. He found it hard to sit still since the Wall.

Sansa leaned forward in her seat. 'When did she know?'

'When they were at the Wall the first time her visions were all of me, and of snow. It took a while for her to figure it out, but when she did she went behind the king's back to get proof.' He nodded towards the parchment in Sansa's hand. 'The Silver Queen would not necessarily accept the word of a Raven who is, after all, a Stark and my own broth- my cousin. Gods, I'm not even who I thought I was! I'm a Targaryen and I'm only your cousin, the only surviving child of Rhaegar Targaryen.'

'You will always be a Stark, and my brother.' Sansa reached out for Jon's hand. Their eyes met and held, and his angry face softened into a smile. Sitting back into his chair, he laughed. 'Now that you're not so annoying, you're a pretty decent sister.'

'Tell me what happened, Jon. All of it.'

Sighing, he rubbed his face and continued. 'We went out that night into sure and certain death. I cannot and will not describe to you what it is like to see your men picked off by things not even human. The plan was that such a concentration of leaders would draw out the Wight King and it did – eventually. It went on for hours Sansa, and he never appeared. I began to think that he never would.'

'That is because he was trying the walls of Winterfell, but Bran was able to withstand him.'

'And so were you.' Jon traced the scar on his sister-cousin's face. 'We should have known that he would try for you, Bran and the child. Well, when Bran pushed him back, he came for us, but he didn't head for Stannis. He made for me.' Jon shook his head in disbelief. 'I was stunned, but I don't think Stannis understood, even then. Sandor threw himself in front of me. He saved my life, and when the Wight King defeated him it was Arya who saved Sandor. Not something I would have predicted.' Jon gave a wry laugh. 'It was chaos after that. Stannis charged at the Wight King like a bull. He was skewered before we knew what had happened. I thought it was over then, but Melisandre had it all planned. She lit a circle of fire around us – Brienne, Harwin, Arya, Sandor, Lady Catelyn – trapping the king inside it with us, and in a heartbeat it was over. Your mother moved like lightning, drove the dragonglass between his ribs as he drove his sword between hers. The last thing she saw before she died was the Wight King shatter into splinters before her eyes along with his entire army. I never heard anything like the noise. It knocked us all flat.' Jon paused for a while, staring into the dancing flames. ' When I stood up I saw the bodies strewn and scattered – my brothers, southron knights, Northern soldiers, such misery, such death! I saw our dead king, shock stamped on his face, your mother with such a look of peace on hers, Arya holding her and crying, Sandor writhing in agony, and in the midst of it all the Red Witch walked up to and bent the knee to Jon Targaryen, Heir to the Iron Throne. Sansa, there are no words. Brienne and Harwin helped me bring Sandor to the maester. We gathered up the wounded and burned the dead, and already the cold was easing and the wind was gentling. Later, Melisandre told me all and gave me that parchment proving my lineage and legitimacy, told me that her mission was over, and walked out into the snow. She took off that choker of hers and she just, well, she just disintegrated. That's all of it, Sansa. Everything. Sandor was too badly injured to move. All who were able to, came home, and now I must plan what to do next.'

'And what will the King of the Seven Kingdoms do next?'

Jon scowled and jumped up again. 'I am not the heir to the Seven Kingdoms. You are the Queen of the North. What right have Targaryens to the North? What claim have incestuous invaders, foreign conquerors, to our land? No. If I get to the Iron Throne, the independance of the North is guaranteed. Don't get me wrong. I intend to take the Throne if I can at all. Targaryens have no right to any part of Westeros, but Starks do. The South owes us a debt of blood. But how to get the Throne? The Lannisters will fall to Daenerys, but how can we conquer dragons? The Breaker of Chains has no qualms about using fire and blood to forge new chains, when it suits her.'

'She is your aunt. She may be open to negotiate with her only family. An alliance – '

'Of marriage, perhaps? Wouldn't that be romantic?' Jon's face twisted in disgust. 'I will send her a raven, but I am not hopeful. And how can I defeat her? You saw what is left of our army. There is no way I can ask our Northern allies to march South and fight, not after all they have suffered. With your permission I will dismiss the Northeners to their homes while we still have some men left to go home.'

Sansa nodded. 'If you need to fight, who will be left to fight for you?'

'Stannis' allies will transfer their allegiance to me over the Silver Queen. Riverrun and the Eyrie will stay loyal. Honestly Sansa, if she refuses to share power, I don't think it would matter if every man in Westeros backed me. Those dragons could blast all of us into all of the seven hells. Better to take the route of King Torrhen and save thousands of lives – as you have done.' Jon looked at his sister in undisguised admiration. 'You have looked after our people as no one else could have done. Father would be proud of you.'

Tears welled in her eyes. 'Thank you Jon. He would be proud of us both. I hope we live to see you on the Iron Throne. The North could have no better friend.'

XXXVII

The sound of steel on steel cut through the icy air. Sansa watched the whip-thin warrior in the practice yard cut and parry with Septon Garston. Arya had already made short work of Morgan Liddle, but she was having a harder time with the steel-eyed Septon. When she eventually bested him, she stepped back, panting.

'Who are you?'

'Your brother-in-law asked me the same question. I am Septon Garston, of the Sept of Stones. And who are you?'

Arya's mouth curled up in a wolfish grin. 'I am no-one.'

Garston returned the smile. 'I thought as much.'

Watching Arya gave Sansa a sense of deep unease. She loved her sister and thanked the gods for her safe return. They had made up so many of their differences and shared their loss and pain. Sansa felt that neither of them could have survived the other's journey back to Winterfell. Still, something had stayed firm in Sansa that had shattered in Arya. While the Lady of Winterfell rebelled against killing, Arya relished it. Killing really did seem to be the sweetest thing for her in a way that it hadn't been even for Sandor. Bran had advised Sansa not to voice her concerns to their sister. Arya's journey was not over yet. Well, so be it. Sansa still worried.

A raven had arrived from the Wall with news of her husband. Sandor's leg was healing well and the infection had cleared. As the worst of winter had ended with the defeat of the Others, Harwin and Brienne would escort Sandor and some others home in just a few weeks. Sansa wrapped her arms around the swell of her stomach. Home. My love is coming home to the fortress of my arms.

There had been another raven, less loving, from the South. Jon had been incandescent. 'Bend the knee? Bend the knee! She is the one with the dragons, so I must bend the knee? The foreigner who knows nothing of Westeros and even less of the North, and the true heir must bend the knee?' She had never seen Jon in such a rage. Even Ghost was nonplussed. It seemed to Sansa that there was more of the Targaryen in her brother than he realised.

Bran had counselled patience, that Jon should wait until the Lannisters had finished with Daenerys and then make his move. Sansa was inclined to agree. Tywin and Joffrey may be dead, Tyrion and Jamie missing, the Martells and the Tyrells now their sworn enemies, but Cersei had the sting of a dying wasp. Sansa knew in her heart that she would be saving something dreadful for her beautiful rival. Poor young Tommen had been killed in the siege of King's Landing. It hadn't taken Cersei long to retaliate by arranging the death of Viserion with one of Pycelle's specially designed crossbows. Each queen was now down to one offspring. Endgame was coming.

A fortnight later another raven arrived from the South, this time from one of Garston's contacts. It announced the defeat of King's Landing by Daenarys' army, and the imminent peace talks between the queens. Jon decided to leave at that point, gathering only his most trusted advisers. Sansa sent ravens to her cousin at the Eyrie and her uncle at Riverrun. Though the heir to the Iron Throne did not want to wage war against a dragon, he wanted his aunt to know where the people's loyalty lay, North and South. Lothor Brune looked forward to seeing his beloved Mya before going on with the White Wolf's army to the Landing. 'She may love me when she sees what I am doing and what I have done. She loves courage, your Grace, she is so courageous herself.'

Arya would follow and protect her beloved brother. Once more Sansa found herself bidding farewell to family, praying for their safe return. She stood next to Bran as Jon, Arya and the host disappeared from view.

'Will it ever end, Bran?'

Her brother only smiled sadly, and took her hand.

Ch XXXVII

He winced as he shifted in the saddle, rubbing his throbbing leg. It had been a long, hard ride to get home, but he didn't care. He would ride through each of the Seven Hells to get to her. Just a little while now, just another few miles, and he would see Winterfell. He would be home.

When the first view of the castle appeared over the crest of the hill, the three riders stopped. He remembered another view of Winterfell, a darker one, filled with death, grief and flames. Not this time. Harwin's voice broke through his thoughts. 'It's a sight for sore eyes, Winterfell. So many times I've thought I would never see it again. We never should have left. When all this is over, I will never leave again.' He wiped tears from his exhausted, grizzled face. Brienne was silent.

Stranger tossed his head and champed at the bit, pawing the ground impatiently. Sandor urged him on. There was only one person he wanted to be with right now, so badly it hurt. Sandor's heart was pounding as he entered the gates of the castle, straining to see her, nervous and tense. He wouldn't truly believe she was safe, not until he'd seen her, touched her, held her in his arms.

There she was, red-gold in the snow. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of her, as it had every time since the day he first laid eyes on her. Little Bird. My own Little Bird. Trembling, he dismounted, his wounded leg nearly buckling under his weight. She rushed over to him. 'It's alright love, I have you, you're alright now.' Wordlessly, he drank in the love from her eyes and traced the line of a fading scar on her cheek. Closing her eyes she nestled her face into his hand, his strong hand, and let the tears flow. He kissed them away, every one, before kneeling before her and kissing the swell of her stomach, holding her close in the fortress of his arms. Home.

Neither of them cared that the castle was full of people and that each and every last one of them was watching.

They established their own rhythm, just as they had on the road. The Lord and Lady of Winterfell would take breakfast in their chamber, where no-one would come between them. Sometimes it happened that the Lady would be late going to the Great Hall, and the Lord to training. Sansa would spend the mornings dealing with the requests and troubles of petitioners, and with ravens from the banners and from the South. Sandor quickly built up the strength in his ravaged leg, and along with Harwin and Brienne had already begun training an elite force for Winterfell. They would then dine together, this time with Bran and Meera, discussing the day's issues. Sandor would suffer no-one else to wait on his lady, much to the chagrin of Anya and the wonder of Meera. If he had had his own way there would never be anyone but himself and his Little Bird, but that would never happen. Sometimes he would catch Bran's deep, fathomless eyes studying him and he would scowl. His strange brother-in-law could see right through him.

After that there was always more work – Sandor had taken responsibility for the ongoing repair and renovation of Winterfell, as well as for training the soldiers. For the first time in his life people looked up to him and respected him, and the Hound of the North was thriving on it. Sometimes he even had to remind himself to scowl. Sansa had her hands full organising the rationing and distribution of the food supplies. The lack of men made it harder to get food to everyone who needed it and money was exceptionally tight. It tormented her that she couldn't save everyone, that only so many people could cram into the safety of the castle. The people loved their Mother of the North, but she was far too hard on herself, and it tore at her husband's heart.

Dinner was public, on the dais of the Great Hall, where the Lord and Lady of Winterfell would entertain visiting nobles and friends by torchlight. Sansa was determined that the North would become a centre of culture, beginning with Winterfell, and musicians and singers had been enticed to take up residence in the castle. Pay was mostly in food and lodging, but in the nightmare of war and Winter, beggars could not be choosers. Sometimes Sansa herself would sing and Sandor would sit there in Eddard Stark's old seat, beside his beautiful, brave and talented lady, and wonder how this had all come about. How could it all be real, was it not just some beautiful fever dream? Would he not wake up soon? The hall would darken as night came in, and sometimes Sandor would, when no-one was watching, twirl tendrils of his wife's glowing hair around his fingers, knowing full well that she would rise and politely bid the company goodnight, maintaining her composure until they reached their chamber.

The nights – o the nights were theirs alone.

CH XXXIX

Sansa,

The queens are both dead. I am sending on swift riders with details too long for a raven. Sansa, I am King of the Six Kingdoms, and you are Queen of the North!

King Jon Stark – Targaryen

Sansa dropped the letter in shock and ran as fast as her swelling belly would allow, Wolf at her heels. She threw open the door of the solar, where Bran was reading. He didn't even look up from his books.

'Yes, they are dead and he is king. The official recognition of the independence of the North and your promotion to Queen is on the way. Congratulations, Your Grace. Will Sandor be King, or Queen Consort?'

Sansa stared back at him, open-mouthed.

'A queen-to-be shouldn't stand around slack-jawed, Your Grace. What would Mother have said?' Sansa's mouth snapped shut.

'I – what – I –' She looked helplessly around the room, staring blankly at Summer, as if the direwolf held the answer to her incoherent question.

'What happened and how? Jon has gone to the trouble of writing a very long and dignified letter, one royal to another. Would you not rather wait? Sit down Sansa, this excitement is not good in your condition.' She obeyed like a well trained child.

'Very well. As you correctly surmised, Cersei had a plan. If she couldn't have King's Landing, no-one could. In her triumph and arrogance, the Silver Queen granted the Golden one far too much leeway, considering her to be as vanquished as a toothless, clawless cat. She allowed Cersei, poor conquered queen, to schedule the time and place of the peace talks. You, Sandor and Arya know well that the walls of the Red Keep are full of secret passageways, but no-one knew that as well as Cersei. Daenerys should have known better. Well guarded by her Unsullied and Dothraki, Drogon outside, she took the seat of honour before a beautiful tapestry depicting the victories of her ancestors. She never knew that there was a door behind the tapestry, and that behind that door was a monstrous thing created by Pycelle. In truth, sister, the resurrected and monstrous remains of your brother-in-law, Gregor. He stepped forward at the appointed time and snapped the Silver Queen's neck before her guards could react, but not before Daenerys realised in the final second of her life that she had lost. In the final seconds of hers, before a Dothraki took her head, Cersei rejoiced in her final triumph as the Thing retreated behind the door to detonate the wildfire. Those who survived the wildfire and the destruction wrought by the grief of Drogon huddled in the ruins of King's Landing, where the Red Keep was laid as low as Flea Bottom. By the time Jon arrived with his men, Drogon had gone, Daenerys' army was in disarray,and most of the Dothraki had already gone, lost without their Khaleesi. Jon stepped straight into the vacuum. The Tyrells and the Martells restored shipping lines and food is being distributed. The city is in utter ruins but that is no harm, Jon can reshape it in his own way. He is already rebuilding using soldiers and what is left of the populace. The Unsullied have been given the option of serving him or returning peacefully to Essos. Most have chosen the former. The new King has strengthened his position and defused opposition by requesting and being granted a betrothal. When she is of age, Jon will marry Shireen Baratheon and they will share power on the Iron Throne.'

It took a while for the truth to sink in. Sansa sat quietly for some time.

'So it is true. He truly is King of the Six Kingdoms. The North is free again and I am the Queen.'

'You were always meant to be Queen, Sansa. The Red Witch knew that. Nothing could stop that from happening, one way or another.'

'And Jon will marry Shireen. She will make a wise and caring Queen, and a wonderful wife, but he does not love her, Bran, and I don't believe he ever will. Respect, friendship and admiration, yes, but love?'

'Jon's love died and was buried beyond the Wall. Shireen will have to make do.'

Sansa heard the bitterness in Bran's voice and was silent. She felt the ghosts of Winterfell gathering around her. We died for this. Our sacrifice has not been in vain. She turned to her brother.

'At last, it is over.'

'Never.'

The word fell like an axe. 'It will never be over. You and your children and your children's children and thousands of years of Starks will make a brighter and a better future for the North but no, it will never be over. Winter will still come and evil will still grow in the dark places of the heart. You and your descendants will always be on the watch, lest you end up like Father and see all goodness lost. That is the price you must pay, the sacrifice we all must make for the sake of all that is good.'

The cold blankness of his face dissolved into the ghost of his boyhood smile. 'The Mother of the North will soon be a mother herself, and bring even more joy into her life and into the lives of others. Do not be afraid. Those who love you are with you.' Sansa wrapped in brother in a bear hug and he gave a rare, golden laugh.

'Go. Tell you husband the good news. Share your joy with the man you love and be happy.'

Sansa smiled and slipped out of the room to go to her love, leaving her brother behind her. The door clicked shut in the silence, and Bran was alone once more.

Ch XL

The warmth of him seeped through her veins. Snuggling in tighter to him, she nestled her head over his heart, soothed by its strong and steady beat. There was no other sound but the crackle of the fire and the distant whisper of voices. My Sandor, my love. Let's stay here forever and never wake up. She twirled the hem of his tunic through her fingers as he kissed the top of her head.

'What happens now, Your Grace,' he asked, 'now that you are Queen? Must I bend the knee every time we go to bed?' Sansa feigned horror as Sandor laughed and kissed her shoulder.

'Saucy wretch!' she hit his arm playfully, 'A loyal subject would not have stopped rocking this chair.'

'As my Queen commands,' he murmured, kissing her again and settling her more comfortably on his knee. The gentle motion of the rocking chair and the beat of his heart lulled her. Sansa lay her husband's hand on her stomach.

'You are rocking us both to sleep.'

'How is my boy today? Is he minding his lady mother, or must I teach him some manners?'

'He's a good boy today,' she smiled, 'Less kicking, and he's much less saucy than his father.' Sandor laughed again, enveloping his wife in his arms. Sometimes she loved him so much that it hurt. Tears welled in her eyes as the attack of love burned through her.

'I love you so much. Please don't ever go away.'

'Gods girl, where would I go?'

They rocked together in happy silence, savouring their rare moment of peace.

'I'm sorry about your brother.'

'Don't be. He was dead already. Whatever that thing was, it wasn't him. Don't concern yourself with Gregor, dead or alive. He was never worth it.'

'And Jon will marry Shireen. Sandor, do you think he will ever love her?'

'No, girl. His mate is dead, and wolves mate for life.'

'Yes, we do.' Her eyes glowed up at him and his heart ached with love. He kissed her breathless, until the knock came at the door. Sandor groaned, tightening his arms around his wife. 'Seven hells! Can't you all leave us alone for one minute?'

Sansa, recognising the knock, remembered her courtesies.

'Come in, Lord Umber, if it is important.'

The giant strode in boldly. 'That delivery has arrived, my lady, but they refuse to treat with me or your brother or anyone but you. My apologies for interrupting.'

'Thank you, my lord. We will be there shortly.'

Turning at the door, the Greatjon winked. 'You'd think you two would wait until the first child was born before starting on the second.' Sansa burst out laughing as Sandor swore and flung a cushion at the closing door.

'Will that scourge of a man ever go home? Gods know, they probably don't want him, he's eating all around him.'

'You know he wasn't able, and he's been a great help here, not to mention his loyal service to Robb. But you're right, the time will soon come for him to leave, and Meera and Garston too. I want them all at the coronation though, and that can't happen for a while yet. I'm not going to mention Jon's decree until everything is sure and certain.' Sighing, she reluctantly raised herself up from her temporary paradise.

'Well, my Lord of Winterfell and King of the North, let's see what nonsense we need to deal with now.'

Sansa straightened her husband's tunic and tidied his hair as Sandor smiled in tender pride. Bowing, he offered his arm to his wife. 'Your Grace.' His Queen accepted and smiled graciously as her king escorted her from their chamber.

XLI

The room rang with her screams. Sandor groaned and leaned his head against the door. How much longer would the torture go on? How much more could she take? Anya darted in and out of the room, pale and frightened. The maester had warned them that the first was always the worst, but this was worse than Sandor could ever have imagined.

The whole of Winterfell was silent. People spoke in whispers and hushed their children. Her cries rang out all the louder in the silence. He saw it in their faces – the smallfolk, the soldiers, Conn, Meera, Harwin – they were all afraid. It had gone on for far too long.

Another agonised cry. This was all his fault. He had taken his pleasure and she was paying for it. No one could bear the agony she was suffering. If he lost her, if she died! O Gods, take me. I'm nothing, take me. Please, spare my beautiful girl. She doesn't deserve this. Please! Sansa cried out for her mother. O Gods! Anya ran out of the room again and Sandor grabbed her arm.

'What in the seven hells is happening to my wife?'

Anya backed away from his wild – eyed desperation. 'Please, my Lord, I must get something for the maester –' He let her go. What could he do? There was nothing he could do. Wolf had been tied up in the kennels and his howls echoed his mistresses'. They should have tied me up too, with my equals. O, my poor Little Bird!

'Sandor!' The cry was no sooner out of her mouth than her husband had burst through the door. She lay in the bed in a welter of blood and pain, her face a tortured white. The world shook under his feet. No time for weakness. The Little Bird needed him. He wrapped his arms around her torn and bloody body. 'I'm here girl, I'm here. I'll always be here.'

'O Sandor, O gods Sandor, I can't, I can't take anymore, I can't, I need my mother, make it stop, I can't !' Another scream as her body writhed in agony. Her fingers dug into his arm.

'You can, love, and you will. You can survive anything. You survived the Lannisters, the Freys, the Boltons. You survived death and blood and horror. You survived Littlefinger and you are the Queen in the North. The Red Wolf of Winterfell can survive anything. I am with you.' As he spoke, her eyes hardened and her jaw clenched. Sansa nodded with grim determination, though she trembled with pain. The maester stepped forward. 'It will be soon, my lady. One more time.' She nodded again and braced herself.

It may have been minutes, it may have been hours, but Sandor had never seen such a bloody and brutal battle, nor such grim courage. He held her, helpless and useless, until with one final scream little Eddard Stark slid into the world in a rush of blood and pain. His cry mingled with his mother's as she sobbed with joy and pain and relief. The maester barked orders and Anya rushed around.

'Is he alright? Is my baby alright?'

'His lungs certainly are,' the maester smiled.

'O give him to me, give me my boy!'

Sansa held her precious son to her breast, shaking with shock and pain and love, as Sandor held her silently, numb and overwhelmed. He watched from a distance as in a dream as the maester tended to his wife, cut the cord and persuaded Sansa to release her son long enough for him to be washed and swaddled.

'O Sandor, Look at him. He is perfect, so perfect! Our little boy. Our little Ned.'

Somewhere in the distance a cheer arose and Winterfell rejoiced. The maester returned the baby to his mother. 'No wonder it was so difficult, my lady. He's the biggest baby I ever delivered. I never saw such a battle. You would have made a ferocious knight, Lady Stark.'

The baby fed as Sansa's eyes drank him in, greedy with love.

'Sandor, look at him. He's so beautiful.' But Sandor had eyes only for his wife. The woman who had screamed in agony only minutes before now happily suckled her child, glowing with exhausted joy. He marvelled at her. 'Women, ye gods. Women!'

He stayed with her until both she and their boy were asleep, and then he went to face the people, disoriented and stunned.

'Well, who does he look like?' demanded a face in the crowd.

'Like a scalded squirrel.' The words slipped out before Sandor could stop them. There was a stunned silence, followed by a loud cheer. 'Three cheers for the Scalded Squirrel! And the Red Wolf of Winterfell! And the Hound of the North!'

Harwin grabbed his arm. 'Come celebrate with us, my lord. The Starks are back!'

'I will,' Sandor stammered. 'In a moment. Go ahead, I will catch up.' The crowd surged to the Great Hall, chanting 'Stark, Stark, Stark!'

Sandor turned to see Bran and Meera smiling up at him. 'My sister will not thank you for that description of her firstborn, my lord.' Sandor stared blankly. 'I can see you need a moment to yourself. I will keep an eye on the celebrations and make sure they don't set the place on fire. They are drunk enough for it already. Join us when you are ready.' Meera wheeled Bran away and Sandor stood alone, breath freezing in the night air. He paused in the silence before striding towards the sept and pushing open the door. He hadn't been there since the day of his wedding. The candleabras glowed with candles lit by the faithful for his family. Sandor looked around at the faces flickering in their light – Mother, Maiden, Crone, Father, Warrior, Smith, Stranger.

'Which one of you do I speak to now? Which one do I thank? It has been so long, it has been a lifetime, I don't know how, I...' and the Hound of the North burst into sobs.

XLII

Sansa looked quizzically at the letter in her hand, and then at her husband's guarded face. Before she could say anything, he bowed stiffly and left the room. Open mouthed, she watched his broad back disappearing. What new nonsense was this? A husband delivering a letter written in his own hand, to his own wife, in his own home, and with such a look as that on his face? Sandor had been behaving strangely towards her in recent months, so scowling and guarded, and at a time when he should be at his happiest! She had not seen him like this since King's Landing. As if she didn't have enough to be worried about; running Winterfell, ruling the North and raising a new baby, but a sulking husband on top of that?

A sound from the cradle distracted her. Dropping the letter on the bed, she rushed to baby Ned. The newest Stark was a big, sturdy baby, the pride of Winterfell and the marvel of his mother's heart. Already she could trace her father's features in his sweet, solemn face, and his own father's strength in his sturdy frame. Ned had Sandor's black hair too, and Sansa could see nothing yet of herself in her son. She lifted up her boy and sat in the rocking chair by the fire to nurse him, heart aching with love as he drank. Love, and fear. My precious boy. I will always keep you safe. No one will hurt you, my child, or I will kill them. Sated and full, Ned smiled up at his mother as she sang him softly to sleep, before laying him gently back in his cradle again. She drank in the beauty of her son's sleeping face, before remembering there was something she should be doing. Ah yes, the letter. Sansa took it up from the bed and sat back into the chair.

My Lady,

As I have always been better with a pen than with words, and as you never have time to listen to me anymore, I have decided to write you this letter. You may find time to read it when you have nothing better to do.

It has been many weeks since we last sat down to speak of something other than politics, work, or Ned. It has been months, so many months, since we last lay together. I ache for you, body and soul, every minute of every day. I know it wasn't possible for you for a long time. Only a brute could have expected anything after what you went through, but now that you are healed and whole again you still don't want me. You don't kiss me, touch me, look at me or even speak to me unless you have some urgent business for me to attend to. I may as well be that fool Umber for all you care. Wolf gets more love from you than I do. Yesterday when I twined your beautiful hair through my fingers you batted me away. Batted me away! There was a time when it would have driven you wild, but you shooed me away like a fly. Do you know how much that hurt me?

I feel like a stranger to my own wife and I admit it, I am jealous of my own son. I love him dearly, I would die for my child, but I love you more, and you care for nothing and no one but him. Ned has a nanny, but she spends her days in boredom in the kitchen because you cannot put him down for one minute. I can't even get near the boy, it seems I am too big and rough to be trusted. Is that it? Are you afraid to trust the Hound with his own son? Or are you done with me? You have your throne and your Ned, do you really need your common, ugly husband?

You have always been loved. Even in the horrors of the Landing you knew there were people who loved you. No one ever loved me, no one but you, and if I have lost your love there is nothing left for me. I can't go back to that empty life now, not when I have known what it is to be loved by you, my own beautiful Little Bird.

I can't take it anymore. I can't go back to being nothing more than your dog.

Let me know what I must do.

S

Sansa sat motionless in the chair, frozen with shock. At first she had been furious with Sandor. How dare he say she wouldn't listen! How dare he say that they hadn't talked in weeks? Hadn't they spoken only yesterday about – well, about Winterfell; but before that, they had spoken about – well, food stocks and repairs, and – Sansa racked her brains trying to remember when they had last shared anything that wasn't work, and found that she could not. Sobered, she took up the letter again.

'You don't kiss me, touch me, look at me – It has been many months since we last lay together –'

Gods, he was right. Had she really batted him away? Her face burned in shame. She must have done, Sandor never lied to her. Ogods, my poor husband! He really thought she could do without him! And who could blame him for thinking so? How had things gotten so bad? Sandor was right, they needed to speak. Sansa summoned Anya.

'Please tell Nanny that I want her to take Ned for the rest of the evening. When she is gone, will you please tell my lord that I wish to speak with him? Thank you.'

When Sandor re entered the chamber, he couldn't look his wife in the eye. Scowling and glaring at his feet, he looked every inch the sulky, petulant child. Sansa felt irritation rising in her again until the truth hit her. He is a child. A hurt, angry, rejected, heartbroken child. The elegant speech she had prepared melted away like snow in the sun as she walked up to her beloved husband and kissed the burned side of his face.

'My Sandor.'

He looked at her sidelong with eyes full of cautious hope, then joy and wild desire. Growling desperate endearments, he swept his wife up in his arms and carried her to their bed.

Deep in the night, their passion spent, Sansa confided in her husband. 'I'm so afraid, Sandor. I can't let him out of my sight. The more I love him, the more I fear for him. Look what happened to my family. Look what happened to us. If you take your eyes off your children, they suffer, they die. What can I do?'

'Woman, we are all here to protect him, within the walls of Winterfell. Look around you at your allies, your soldiers, your friends. There is no safer place for our son.'

'We lived here too, remember, surrounded by soldiers and allies and friends. Our mother was Lady Stark, a Tully of Riverrun, our father was Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King. They couldn't protect us. They made mistakes, and look what happened. Look what happened to Jeyne too, and all loyal servants of the Starks. You can't take your eyes off your children, Sandor. I can't take my eyes off my son.'

Sandor kissed the top of her head and wrapped her in his arms. It was a while before he spoke.

'I understand your fear and I'm sorry I let you down. I couldn't look beyond my own hurt to see how you felt. Sansa, I promise I will never let you feel so alone and so frightened again. Please girl, come to me when you feel afraid. I'm your husband, let me help you. You have worked yourself to exhaustion. Let me take Ned sometimes, and let Nanny too. What else is she here for? Meera and Anya are only itching to spend time with him. Let them. It would do our son good to start playing with the castle children. Let him. We need time alone too, just us, like it was before Ned was born. '

'I'll try, Sandor.' She twined her fingers in his and kissed his hand. 'I have missed you. I had forgotten, until your letter reminded me. Please forgive me.'

'There is nothing to forgive.'

She snuggled into the comfort of his strong arms. 'Tomorrow I will tell Bran to take over my duties for the day. Nanny can watch Ned for a while. We will have some time to ourselves. It will take me a while to change, but I promise I will try.'

Drowsiness began to take her.

'Sandor?'

'Hmm?'

'I love you.'

'I love you too, Little Bird'

'Sandor?'

She tightened her arms around him.

'I'm sorry I batted you away.'

He smiled as she drifted off to sleep. His Little Bird loved him again, and all was right with the world.

XLIII

Ned threw up his pudgy little hands and gurgled with delight as his father entered the room 'Da-da! Da-da!' he squealed, bouncing and shining up at Sandor. His father swept him up off the floor and into the air as his little son screamed in happy terror.

'Be careful!' Sansa laughed. 'We've just dressed him. All we need is for him to vomit all over his fine clothes. Bad enough his mother is likely to do just that herself.' Sandor cuddled his little boy, growling at him like a bear, provoking another bout of squealing. Ned snuggled into his father's shoulder as Sandor kissed Sansa's forehead.

'How are you feeling today, love?'

'Not as bad as yesterday,' she grimaced. 'I managed a bit of toast. Hopefully my stomach will have settled by the time we go to the sept. Wouldn't that make a pretty picture? The Puking Wolf of Winterfell. I can hear the ballads now. It's all your fault, of course.'

'I should hope so.' Sandor murmured, as he nuzzled her ear. A derisory snort cut the loving scene short.

'If you two don't stop, I'm going to vomit.' Arya's grey eyes snapped with amusement and irritation. 'Having to wear these flounces and fripperies is bad enough.'

'You'll be wearing them again for your wedding, if reports are correct,' was Sansa's quick retort.

Arya's eye roll fooled no one. Sandor raised an eyebrow at her. 'Don't you start,' she scowled.

The sisters were dressing together for Sansa's coronation, Anya in full flight between them. Arya had arrived with King Jon, Uncle Edmure and his family, and cousin Robert Arryn. Sansa had been wild with joy. Even Arya had been moved to tears. She turned now to her sister and said reassuringly, 'You'll be fine, and no one will see that your stomach is swelling. You're an excellent seamstress.'

Sansa smiled. Arya was trying so hard. They would always be very different people, but they were sisters and that would never change. She took Arya's hand.

'Thank you.'

There was a knock on the door and Meera's pretty dark head looked in. 'How are things here, my lady? May I be of any help?'

'Everything is under control here Meera, thank you. Please tell Septon Garston and Bran that we'll be ready soon. Oh, and let me see your gown!'

Meera stepped into the room and twirled, laughing her beautiful, sparkling laugh.

'Meera, you look so lovely. Red is your colour.'

'Thank you, Your Grace. I will see you at the sept,' and she danced out the door and away.

'Bran will be lost without her,' said Sandor.

Sansa nodded, face falling. 'His heart will break.'

'Is there no hope?' Arya asked.

'No. You know Bran cannot be a husband, not since the fall. And though Meera loves him, it is only as a brother, especially since Jojen died. Her father tells me that he has arranged a marriage for her with a man she has known all her life, and she has told me herself that she is happy with the match. She intends to call her first son Bran.' Sansa's eyes filled with tears.

'Oh please, Little Bird, don't. Please. No crying, not today.' Sandor hugged her tightly and little Ned looked solemn. 'Ma-ma!'

'Here, come to Mama, my little pet.'

Ned scrunched up his little face and clung to his father. 'Da-da!'

His mother and aunt burst out laughing. 'The little traitor! He has no time for me since I weaned him. It is easy to see whose son he is now! Take him, Sandor, and give him to Nanny. We'll be down shortly.'

'Yes, my Queen.' He kissed her coronet of braids and she closed her eyes and leaned into him. Sandor left, closing the door quietly.

Arya studied her sister for a moment. 'When did you know?'

'Know what?'

Arya nodded at the door. 'Him.'

'It's hard to say. It was so slow in coming, and my feelings changed so much, and even then I was so afraid. I prayed and was guided. In the end, I came to realise that I needed him, and couldn't do without him. Love is a leap into the dark, but if it was with him...' She paused. 'Father promised me a man who was brave and gentle and strong. I believe that man to be Sandor, though there was a time neither Father nor I would have dreamt of the Hound as a husband for me!'

Arya smiled, then lapsed into silence again.

'Tell me about him, Arya.'

Arya scowled, then shrugged. 'Gendry Baratheon. Robert's son. He's a blacksmith and a fighter. Jon legitimised him.'

Sansa knew this much already. Jon had legitimised all of Robert's bastards, including Mya Stone. Mya had responded by marrying the lord who wouldn't look at her when she was only a bastard. Poor Ser Lothor had been crushed.

Arya continued. 'He's, he's, well, he's –' she struggled, then said, fighting tears, 'He's brave and gentle and strong.' Sansa hugged her sister, both of them crying for their loved ones dead and gone. Anya gasped, 'Your Grace! My Lady! Your gowns, your hair!'

Sansa pulled back and Arya laughed, both wiping away the tears.

'Marry him, Arya. You love him. Our parents did want a Lady Baratheon in the family, after all. I suppose it will have to be you.' Sansa straightened her dress and smoothed her hair, then turned to her sister, admiring her dark, wild beauty. 'You look beautiful, Arya, like Aunt Lyanna in the songs.'

'You look lovely too, Sansa.'

'My wedding dress, with a few adjustments for the little one,' she said, patting her stomach. 'It's so hard to believe it's been over two years since we wed. Life has brought us all to some dark places, Arya, but I think that all shall be well. Spring is coming.'

She turned to her lady in waiting. 'Tell them we're on our way.' Anya curtsied and left. The sisters hugged, linked arms, and left the chamber.

The rainbow light in the sept played tricks with Sansa's hair, dappling it red, blue and yellow and bathing her in its light. As Septon Garston said the words she barely heard and placed the crown on her head, Sansa sensed her family and friends all around her. The pride and joy of her parents and Robb, the excitement of Beth, Septa Mordane's beaming approval. Glowing with joy and grief, Sansa turned to the assembly, smiling through her tears. King Jon strode up to her, bowed his head,and addressed the crowd.

'I present to you Her Grace, Queen Sansa Stark, first of her name, Winter's Queen and Mother of the North'

The assembly, both within and without the sept, burst into cheers and applause. Jon wrapped his arms around his sister - cousin in a bear hug, both of them laughing and crying at once. Arya joined them in their embrace, then Bran, as Meera and Sandor stood back to allow the surviving Starks their sacred moment. The people of Winterfell wept with their Queen, mourning and rejoicing together.

When the Starks finally released each other, Queen Sansa and Queen Consort Sandor Clegane stepped out into the light, Ned in his father's arms, to face their future, and the future of the North.

Spring

Nothing lasts forever, and the time came for Jon, Arya, Meera, the Greatjon, uncle Edmure and her cousins to leave. Sansa had sworn to never again go farther south than Riverrun and knew it would be years before she would see Jon again. She would not be at his wedding, nor at her sister's.

The farewell between Bran and Meera was worse. Her brother wore his mask of friendship and gentility until the woman he loved disappeared into the snow with her father and their people, to join the man she would love and spend her life with. Harwin had wheeled him back to his chamber, the chamber Bran did not leave for some weeks. When he did eventually emerge, his face blanker and colder, Sansa saw that a precious part of her brother had died, and her heart wept for it.

Still, the day came when Sandor brought her the first snowdrops of Spring, and winter slowly loosened its grip. What should have been the longest Winter in history became the shortest, thanks to Lady Catelyn, Killer of the Wight King and Hammer of the Others. In spite of all the suffering and death, there was also new life; in Sansa's family, and in her country.

Sansa's first duty to the North was to rebuild and her gift for organising was badly needed. A generation of young men had been wiped out just when the country had recovered from the bloodshed of Robert's Rebellion. It was a time when the strength of women came to the fore and women's hands took to the plough and the planting. They resurrected homes, barns and holdfasts from smouldering ruins and the rebirth began, a labour that would take years.

There would be other changes too. Sansa had sworn to protect the most vulnerable in her kingdom, especially women and smallfolk. The Mother of the North knew what it was to suffer just because you were weak. Prima Nocta was the first thing to go. The Queen's decree was not universally well received. Though the majority of lords were happy to comply with a Queen who was a capable leader, there were those who were loath to relinquish what they saw as their long-held right. The Queen of the North convicted them of rape, and they learned the hard way how that would end. Their rebellion was short lived.

The rebellion of the Ironborn was more worrying. With the coming of Spring and the melting of snows they took to the seas again, wild for rape and plunder. The Lady Asha saw her opportunity to seize power in the Iron Islands and she grabbed it with bloody hands. The Queen and the Hound of the North were swift in their retribution. Sansa, well informed by Garston and Bran, and by her own newly formed network, was not taken entirely by surprise, and neither was King Jon. The forces of the North were strengthened with Southern troops and fleets, and with Jon's wildling allies. The Ironborn were soon driven back to the islands, but it was clear that Lady Asha would not stop there. Queen Sansa decided to give the Ironborn the opportunity to treat with her and to negotiate a truce. Strength lay in mercy, not tyranny – she was no Cersei – and so Lady Asha and her advisers were invited to negotiations in Winterfell while the Islands were occupied by King Jon's men.

The Lady Asha was as brash and boastful as Theon had been and utterly unabashed by the display of Northern power before her. Negotiations did not go well. Sansa despised Asha almost as much as she despised Cersei. Both women had modelled themselves on the worst kind of man and sought to grab power through brutality and force, dismissing the sufferings of those who got in their way. As discussions became more heated, Sansa accused Asha of standing by while her men raped, murdered and tortured her fellow women. Asha had jumped to her feet, exclaiming, 'They were weak. I am no weakling. This axe is my husband, this knife is my suckling child.'

Sansa had practically launched herself at Asha, a blaze of fury.

' And you know where you can shove them!'

The shocked silence was broken only by the Hound's roar of laughter.

'That's my Wolf! That's my Little Bird! Go tell that one in the Iron Islands!'

Tell it they did. The Red Bitch of Winterfell was universally hated by the Ironborn for many years, especially after the death of their lady. Shamed by her defeat, the Lady Asha and her allies organised one last hopeless rebellion; in truth, a suicide mission. After it was crushed, Queen Sansa ordered the burning of the Ironborn fleet and that the Islands be permanently occupied by a Northern garrison under Mormont command. As compensation for all they had suffered at Ironborn hands, all taxes and tributes from the Iron Islands were to be paid directly to Bear Island. The tormentors of the coast now had to sow and reap for themselves, and to trade with the coastal people they would simply have robbed and butchered before. As the years passed, many of the younger people moved to the better land of the mainland and married and settled there. The Queen and the Hound were revered by these coastal people, who could now live in peace for the first time in their history.

Peace was, however, hard won, and for some time, hard kept. Though most of the Freys had been killed in the siege of the Twins, and while loyal Olyvar and a few others swore fealty and meant it, there was still a nest of old Walder's bastards who decided to strike back to reclaim the Twins. Again, King Jon sent his support and strengthened Northern troops, which were led by the Hound of the North and his elite Winterfell Wolves. The battle was bloody and brief. It was at that battle that Sansa's precious Ned was blooded at the age of fifteen. She remembered Sandor's words from long ago – Your sons will be killers – and when she saw the changed face of her firstborn son returning through the gates of the castle, her heart broke.

The peace and prosperity of the North depended not just on warfare, but on justice, politics and information. Bran and Septon Garston kept Winterfell a step ahead of its enemies, as did Sansa's own network. She would never make the mistake her father made, she would never turn her back on her enemies. Not just the Freys and the Ironborn were well watched. So too were others, including Myrcella Lannister. Stripped of her titles and designated a bastard, Myrcella had married into the lower echelons of Dornish nobility and was living quietly in an isolated backwater with her husband and many sons. Much as Sansa liked and pitied her, she knew that where there were sons, there was potential for trouble. Myrcella had no idea that a few members of her husband's household were loyal to Winterfell. Of Jamie Lannister there was no sign. Bran had remarked cryptically that Lady Catelyn and Brienne knew what had happened to the Kingslayer and where he was buried, and would say no more. Of Tyrion there was likewise no trace. Bran declared him to be a threat no longer and Sansa was relieved. He was a Lannister and he had done nothing to help her to escape her misery, despite his fine words. Still, he had been by far the kindest and the best of his family. She hoped that he was living at peace in the world, with someone who could truly love him.

In all of her struggles, the Queen of the North had Sandor by her side, and between them they built and loved not just their country, but their family.

Little Ned wasn't little for long. Tall, broad and black haired like his father, with the grey eyes and solemn features of his namesake, young Ned Stark's imposing presence hid a gentle heart and fierce intelligence. The Young Hound who was lethal with a sword also loved music and had a voice that rivalled his mother's. Sansa had worried for her eldest son, knowing the burden of expectation he had carried since before he was born. Ned was quiet, but he observed, and he learned. Like his father, he could sniff out liars from an early age and he built up a small but loyal group of friends who became, with his brother Robb, his most loyal bannermen. From his parents Ned learned how to rule, and he sat with his mother and uncle in council from the age of twelve. Combining his father's physical skill and strength with his mother's diplomacy and courtesies made him loved throughout the North years before he ever took the throne. When he married his beloved, brave and beautiful Lyanna, niece of the Lady of Bear Island, the North rejoiced, and so did Sansa. The Queen's children should have the joy in marriage that she had. When Ned and Lyanna named their firstborn son and heir Sandor Stark, it was one of the few times in his life that the Hound of the North cried.

Next came the Tully twins. If Ned was his father's child, the twins were their mother's. Robb Hoster Stark and Robynne Arya Stark were tall and red haired with eyes of Tully blue. Robb was a laughing, loving rogue of a boy whose charming lightheartedness hid a hot temper and a fierce, deep loyalty to those he loved. What he lacked in swordsmanship he made up for in courage and horsemanship, and was his brother's most loyal bannerman. Flirtatious and popular with the girls, Sansa had warned him that should he father a bastard, he would marry the mother, however lowborn she may be. She needn't have worried. At the age of sixteen Robb met Rose Umber, granddaughter of the Greatjon, and was lost to all others. The Greatjon did not live to see the wedding but his joy was unbounded at the news of the betrothal. He had wished for the marriage of an Umber to Robb the Young Wolf; now, a generation later, his dream came true.

Young Robynne, the image of her mother and the apple of her father's eye, was the Flower of Winterfell. Like her brothers she was trained for leadership from an early age and excelled in diplomacy and statecraft, inheriting her mother's intelligence and courtesies. Robynne also inherited her mother's love of poetry and music and was soon noted for the beauty of her voice and of her compositions. Along with the Queen, she played a vital role in making Winterfell a centre of culture and music. Like her grandaunt Lyanna, Robynne was also a gifted horsewoman, and for all her gentleness, she was capable of outriding any man who dared to challenge her. More unexpected was her skill at archery, a skill that made her an excellent huntress. Both Sandor and Sansa had been adamant that their daughter should be able to defend herself and the only method that appealed to the girl turned out to be one that she excelled at. Initially shocked to see a lady of such high birth engaging in such unladylike pursuits, the high houses of the North began to imitate their Queen in training their daughters the rudiments of self defence, along with embroidery and dance.

It was while out hunting that Robynne met her husband, Rickard Karstark. Flinty of face and by nature, the tall, stern young man fell wildly and deeply in love with the glowing, red haired beauty of Winterfell the moment he laid eyes on her, and had no peace until his precious Robynne loved him back. Sandor was furious, and ranted to his wife,

'How can my beautiful ray of sunshine love that grim, dark, scowling streak of misery? She could have had anyone she wanted!'

'She wants him, and he loves her. He doesn't scowl when she is around. It is a love match, as well as one that will heal old wounds between the families. Plus, as he is a second son he is willing to live with our daughter here, in Winterfell.'

'For the gods' sake, Sansa, look at him!'

'That's what they used to say about us.'

Momentarily stunned into silence, Sandor burst out laughing, and hugged his wife.

'And so they did, my own Little Bird.'

The Tully Twins, like Ned, had spent time with their cousins at Riverrun and the Eyrie, and vice versa. Sansa wanted the families to be close, as much for political as for personal reasons. With the same aim in mind, she and Jon had also cultivated close ties between North and South. Though Sansa would never allow her babies to go farther south than Riverrun, Jon had no such qualms about going North and he and Shireen sent each of their children – Eddard, Stannis and Arya Stark-Targaryen - to stay in Winterfell as soon as they were old enough. The southern cousins soon learned to love the North and to see Winterfell as their second home.

Next was Brynden Benjen Stark, the Blackwolf. Named after his great granduncle, the Blackfish Tully, young Brynden did not resemble his siblings in anything other than height. With green eyes and fair hair, and features no one could place in any Stark or Tully ancestor, Sansa concluded that her youngest son must be a throwback to a distant Clegane relative, or to one of Sandor's mother's people. Neither did his personality much resemble any of his relatives. While his grim and serious aspect was not out of place in Winterfell, Brynden lacked the warmth and humour of his family and had no interest in music or poetry. Likewise unskilled in martial arts, he was however unrivalled in warcraft and politics and became both a skilled negotiator, and a dreaded enemy. His mind was forever working, looking around corners and weaving webs, and sometimes his mother would be chilled by the thought that he resembled Littlefinger far more than any of his own people. Sandor couldn't understand his youngest son, and sometimes his breath would catch in his throat when he thought he caught a glimpse of Gregor in his boy's eyes. This was not entirely fair. Cold and calculating as Brynden could be, he was also rigidly honest, more a Stannis than a Gregor. He learned everything he could from his parents and then moved on to his uncle Bran, briefly considering becoming a maester until he realised he could aim higher. Neither parent was surprised when he asked to go live with his uncle King Jon in King's Landing, and eventually they gave their consent. Sansa wept as her teenage son blithely turned his back on Winterfell. She clung to Sandor as she sobbed and he seethed at the boy's calm, dry eyes. Both knew that their son would be in no hurry back.

King Jon reported back on the boy's intelligence and astounding political acumen, while Shireen kept her beloved sister-in-law informed about his health and happiness, hiding all the while how disappointed his cousins were in his cold obsession with power. In time, the Blackwolf became the youngest ever Hand of the King. Jon reassured his sister that his nephew was unlikely to meet the fate of previous Hands – he was far too dangerous himself. Brynden bought back the Clegane land and holdfast that his father had sold, and married a Tyrell of Highgarden. The Blackwolf was the only one of Sansa's children who married solely for politics, not love.

Little Catelyn Sansa Stark was born and died on the same day. Sansa's last pregnancy had been difficult from the start, in a way none of the others had been, and the birth itself had rivalled Ned's. It was immediately clear that the pale little doll of a child could not live long, and her heartbroken parents held and cuddled her for the short hours of her precious little life, until she slipped away quietly home. Sandor was devastated; Sansa was destroyed. All the fears that had assailed her after Ned's birth, all the terrors and nightmares that had tortured her when her family died, all returned with a vengeance, and the waves of darkness threatened to swallow her whole. The Red Wolf of Winterfell kept to her chamber, unable to leave her bed. Bran and Sandor took over her duties and hid her illness from the people as much as they possibly could. The medicines Bran and the maesters mixed met with limited success, and only Sandor's strong arms kept her from falling into the dark. Arya could not be summoned. She could not even be told, as she was expecting a child of her own. Sandor didn't always know what to say, but he always knew what to do, and when his wife kept slipping, he sent a raven from Winterfell.

On a clear spring day a small group of septas were ushered into the Queen's private chambers. Sansa cried out with joy as she embraced Anna and Bryna and did not notice the third septa for some time. When the young woman stepped forward, Sansa looked at her blankly for a moment, before her eyes widened, filling with tears.

'Jeyne! Oh, Jeyne!'

The two older septas left the room as Sansa and Jeyne hugged each other tightly, crying in each other's arms as they had done so many years ago, when their world was torn apart. Sandor had known that if anyone could understand suffering and loss it was Jeyne, and he was right. Years of pain were shared between them; and Sansa found that she could speak of her fear of the darkness to her old friend. Slowly, she began to heal. The three septas, Anya and Sansa would sit together in the Queen's chambers and work on the large and intricate altarcloth that Sansa had promised and started work on years before in the Sept of Stones. They embroidered the story of Winterfell, its joy and sorrow and triumph. Sansa sewed the likenesses of Anna and Bryna as well as Septa Mordane, whose courtesies had been Sansa's armour for so long; Jeyne included Beth, their sweet and innocent friend. All of their lost loved ones found their way into the beautiful work of love, including baby Catelyn. When after a number of months Anna and Bryna left for the sept carrying the finished work, Jeyne stayed. She had never taken her final vows, and found now that her place was back in Winterfell. Sansa was overjoyed, as was Sandor, who had spotted something his grieving wife had not.

About a year before the birth of Catelyn, Rickon had returned to Winterfell. The consternation caused by his arrival was considerable, though short lived. For a few weeks there was a serious threat to the newly won stability of the North. Should the Red Wolf step down for the true male heir? There were heated arguments in inns, hovels and great halls, until it became clear that young Rickon was incapable of ruling anything. Traumatised and half-feral, the surly teenager was more likely to be found wandering the woods or cringing in the crypts than sitting with his sister on the dais of the Great Hall. The terrors and rages of the young man and of his direwolf became legendary and it often took all the strength of Sandor, Harwin and Summer combined to control them. The queen was at her wits' end. Sometimes Rickon would cuddle up to her like the baby brother she had known and loved; others, she couldn't trust him near her children. Sansa could feel his pain and fear, but couldn't get him to confide in her. Sandor understood.

'You have suffered terrible things, but you have not done terrible things. He has. Things he can never bring himself to tell you. Bran knows, and that is why Rickon cannot bring himself to look his brother in the eye. I've done terrible things and the boy can sense it. That is why he is easier around me than around you. I don't know what will happen, we'll just have to be patient.'

Young Rickon had begun to be known as the Mad Wolf by the time Jeyne Poole returned to Winterfell. Wrapped in the winter of her own grief, Sansa had not noticed the small, subtle changes in her brother. One day, well into her recovery, Sansa and Sandor walked around the practise yard, watching Sandor's Wolves training. Jeyne and Rickon walked together towards the godswood, Shaggy trailing quietly behind them. Rickon was remarkably calm.

'Jeyne has such a good influence on poor Rickon. She's so motherly with him. I'm so glad she's staying.'

Sandor looked sideways at her. 'I know you haven't been yourself, Little Bird, but I think you should take a closer look at your brother and your friend. I know she's older than him, but I wouldn't call their relationship motherly, any more than ours was. Really look at them, Little Bird.'

Sansa stopped in her tracks, staring open-mouthed at her husband.

'What are you saying?'

'Jeyne has suffered terrible things, and was forced to do terrible things. No one understands pain and shame like she does, no one has as much strength and understanding as she does. No one, not even his own family, can know and understand what Rickon has lived through like she can. They know and love each other like no one else could.'

'Love - ?'

Sandor tucked a stray strand of red gold behind his Little Bird's ear.

'She loves his scars and he loves hers. They can't help it.'

Sansa's eyes filled with tears as she walked on, holding her husband's arm.

When Rickon came before his regal sister and brother-in-law to announce his betrothal to Jeyne Poole, daughter of the old steward of Winterfell, his eyes were full of defiance and of pleading. Sansa could hardly refuse them, having married 'down' herself. Without Jeyne, Rickon would still be wandering Winterfell like a wild thing, and she herself would still be wallowing in grief. It was a quiet wedding with only the immediate family present, and the new couple left shortly afterwards for their new home - the Dreadfort. Sansa had been completely blindsided when they had asked for possession of the old Bolton stronghold. It had been under the stewardship of the Flints and Sansa had been struggling to find someone suitable to install in the awful place, but the thought of Jeyne and Rickon had never occured to her.

'Are you sure? After everything?'

Jeyne smiled her sweet, sad smile.

'Sometimes being happy is the best revenge. Being happy while taking their land is even better. We intend to rename it the Wolfsfort.'

And so they did. The banner of the direwolf hung where the flayed man once did and Shaggydog wandered the kennels that were once home to Bolton's hell hounds. The names, the words, even the memory of the Boltons quickly faded under the rule of the new young Wolves and their Flint stewards. No one sought to challenge them. The smallfolk – women in particular – had rejoiced in the stewardship of the Flints, and were doubly thrilled that a Stark now held the fort. After generations of hell, culminating in the depravity of Roose and Ramsay, these previously powerless people would give their lives' blood for any Stark, mad or otherwise. The Mad Wolf cut an imposing figure, tall and handsome with his mighty direwolf, and as he healed he showed great skill as a leader. Still, it was Jeyne who was the true power in the Wolfsfort, and she had learned much from the Queen. Her old childish adoration of Sansa had died with her childhood innocence but her admiration and respect for her friend had grown. Jeyne had watched Sansa in the Great Hall and had seen how she dealt with smallfolk and high lords alike, and she modelled herself on her queen. There were many wounds to be healed in the lands of the Boltons, and no one understood that like Jeyne Poole.

Rickon and Jeyne had one child, a son named Vayon Stark. Sansa was his godmother and loved her godson almost as much as her own children. One of Ned's inner circle, Vayon established a strong and loyal scion of the Stark family at the Wolfsfort, and ties with their cousins in Winterfell were tight.

If there is vengeance in a name, then Eddard Stark was well avenged. North and South, the ruling families were peppered with Eddards and Neds, and at one point there would be one of each ruling North and South at the same time. It was the same with Catelyn. Arya and Gendry named two of their rowdy, riotous clan Ned and Catelyn, the two others were named Robert and Lyanna.

Arya struggled at first to find her place in this new world. The world of her childhood had been shattered in blood and violence, and blood and violence had become her world. Like Rickon, there were things she could never share with her family, not even with Gendry, and there were times when her bold gaze faltered under Bran's probing stare. Sansa had hesitated at first to support the Tully's decision to place Arya and Gendry in the Twins. Though she desperately needed trustworthy allies in such a key Southern position, and though her uncle Edmure was strongly in favour of his niece, the Queen in the North feared her sister's volatile, cavalier attitude to violence. She took advice from Bran before making her decision to back Arya. It was a decision Sansa never regretted. The Stark-Baratheons established their own new house at the Twins, flying the new sigil of the stag and the direwolf over Walder Frey's old stronghold. Gendry, for all his quiet deference to his lady, was a strong character and as well able to stand up to his wife as he was to give her her way.

Lady Stark-Baratheon she may have been, wife and mother, but that was not enough for Arya. Her dream had been to establish a military school for female knights, a dream that died in the harsh light of reality. No high lord wanted his daughters to be killers, nor did the daughters care much for it either. It was Sandor who came up with the idea that Arya should train an elite force of knights at the Twins, knights who would be sworn to protect the high houses of the South. Arya threw herself into the project with gusto, and with the help of Brienne of Tarth she established such a high reputation for her trainees that King Jon himself recruited the best of them for his own Kingsguard.

Arya then spearheaded another project. Inspired by how Sansa had had Sandor train young Robynne in self defense, Lady Baratheon decided to train women to act as bodyguards for young noble women, and to teach their charges the rudiments of self defence. Queen Sansa had subtly supported her sister's enterprise, telling noble families how appropriate it was that a young lady be shadowed by a woman, instead of a handsome young man. A number of the best families followed her suggestion. It was not the school of female knights that Arya had dreamed of, but it was a start.

Though she had started life as the niece of a kennelmaster, little Anya had become more of a friend to Sansa than a mere servant. After Jeyne left for the Wolfsfort and poor Beth's death had been confirmed, Anya became the replacement for the friends of Sansa's childhood. Happy though Anya was in her role as handmaid to the Queen, Sansa could feel the sadness in her friend. Anya's betrothed had abandoned her after the rape and her loyal, loving heart had never recovered. She could never bring herself to smile on another man, but Sansa saw the way she lit up when she held little Ned or the twins and understood the heart of her friend. The Queen racked her brains for a long time to find a match worthy of Anya and had almost despaired of finding one, until the answer came to her very door.

One beautiful spring day while Sansa took petitions in the Great Hall, Morgan Liddle brought her the message that Ser Lothar Brune was waiting for an audience with the Queen. He had returned to offer his sword to Sansa, and happy as she was to accept, she was shocked by the change in the man. Hollow-eyed and haunted, the loss of Mya had broken his heart. That night in her chamber, Sansa had confided her concerns to Anya, emphasising Ser Lothar's kindness and loyalty and the betrayal of his love. She watched slyly as Anya's eyes widened in sympathy with the knight's sufferings. Whenever she got Ser Lothor alone, Sansa would regale him with tales of her beautiful, kind and intelligent handmaid, and how her life had been blighted by violence and betrayal. Where would Sansa find a man who would never betray Anya's beautiful, loyal heart? She watched quietly as sympathy and understanding dawned in the kind knight's sad eyes, and watched those same eyes start to follow Anya with affection and interest. It was no surprise to Sansa when the two lonely souls began to spend more time together, and when Anya started to bring up Ser Lothor's name in conversation, blushing all the while.

A few months after his arrival, Ser Lothor Brune came before Sandor and Sansa, awkward and shuffling, to ask for the hand of his beloved Anya. The wedding was at Winterfell and was attended by the royal family. The bride's uncle Conn was drunk with joy and disbelief that his beloved niece was now Lady Anya Brune, Lady-in-Waiting to the Queen. As the happy couple left the godswood for their wedding feast, Sandor put his arm around his wife and kissed her.

'This is all you doing, my sly little Wolf! Don't try to tell me otherwise.'

And what of the Hound of the North and Winter's Queen? Did Sandor and his Little Bird live happily ever after?

Nothing is ever perfect. Running a kingdom and a family is never easy, neither is facing grief and loss. When both lovers have so many scars between them it can either bind them together or tear them apart. Sansa had to learn that she couldn't take her husband's love for granted and bury herself in her work. Her Hound could be just as adept at leadership as herself, and as loving a parent, and she learned to let him show it. Sandor had to learn not to cling so possessively to the only woman who had ever loved him, and not to succumb to jealousy and insecurity. He learned that although he could never be the handsome, charming Prince of Sansa's girlish dreams, he could show his love in his own way. If there was a lemon cake to be found anywhere in the kingdom, Sandor would find it for his Little Bird. When she needed her husband to stand by her side, he was there. When the nightmares woke her in the dark, her knight was there to keep her safe. Always better with a pen than he was with speech, Sandor took to leaving little messages for his wife. Sometimes on her pillow, sometimes in her pocket, Sansa would discover scraps of paper with words of love on them. Some made her laugh, some made her blush, others brought tears to her eyes. Every precious one of them, and of his letters, was kept in her wooden treasure box, along with locks of her children's hair, a baby girl's dress, an old white cloak and a little child's doll.

It was to that box that Sansa turned when, decades later, Sandor had died in his sleep, in his Little Bird's arms. Broken and bereft and half wild with grief, Sansa had pulled out the box from under their bed, weeping over her father's doll and her dead baby's dress before wrapping herself in her beloved's musty, discoloured old cloak. Fists bunched in the scratchy old fabric, she had sobbed and sobbed until she heard his voice, loud and clear, in her ear.

'Enough. I'll keep you safe. No one will hurt you again or I'll kill them. I love you so much, my own beautiful Little Bird!'

Eyes widening, she reached behind her – into empty air. Steadying herself, she took several deep breaths before taking the bundles of paper, some yellowed with age, out of the box. Sitting down in the lonely rocking chair, she began to read.

It was dawn before Sansa finished reading the record of their long years of love. She sat quietly by the dying fire, its light playing on her greying hair, before going to the table and taking up her quill and parchment. The Queen kept to her chamber for several days. When she emerged she went straight to her daughter Robynne and handed her the sheafs of parchment, to put them to music. The love of the father, the poetry of the mother and the music of the daughter were all woven together to create the most beautiful cycle of love songs and poetry the Seven Kingdoms had ever known. Songs like The Lay of the Hound and the Wolf and The Song of Ice and Fire were minstrels' favourites, rivalling even the compositions of Rhaegar Targaryen. Sansa, listening with tears in her eyes, would wonder what her Sandor would say if he could hear his words being sung all over Westeros, and beyond. The man who had despised all the old songs was now a greater hero than Florian himself. How he would have scowled - and laughed.

O gods, I wish the Hound were here!'

Not long after her husband's death, Sansa began to pull back from her duties as Queen. Ned had been well trained, and he had waited long enough. His time had come. She still sat with her son in the Great Hall and continued to advise him, but the Queen had fulfilled her duty. She had done what she was born to do.

Sansa waited patiently with her ghosts, for her Sandor to come and take her home.

Epilogue

Shafts of light shimmered and shifted through the canopy of blood – red leaves, and the summer breeze made them sigh and quiver. Dappled with sunlight, the bark of the heart tree glowed white and seemed to shiver in the rippling light.

The woman lying at the roots of the tree was like a living, breathing part of it, her fair skin bark-white and her red hair spread around her in the silence. Life flowed quietly in the weirwood, and Sansa drifted deeper into it, far from the chaos of the castle.

She felt him coming before she heard him. He could move like a cat when he wanted to. Eyes still shut, a soft smile playing around her mouth, she reached her hand out for his as he settled himself down beside her. Sansa whispered,

'They are looking for me.'

'Yes, my love.'

'Let's hide a little while longer.'

Silence wrapped itself around them like a blanket. Let's never leave. Let's never wake up.

Finally Sansa spoke. 'Sandor?' She opened her eyes and turned to face him, her fingers twining in his. 'Do you know what day it is today?'

'It's the day before Ned's wedding, of course.'

'And what else?'

The Hound's brow furrowed. 'It's not our anniversary, and it's not your birthday.' His eyes shot open in sudden panic. 'It's not one of the children's birthdays, is it? Or Ned's lady's? You know you're supposed to remind me!'

Sansa laughed. 'No, love. Think.' Her beautiful blue eyes met his grey ones as she gently stroked the firm line of his jaw.

'How can I think,' he murmured fiercely, 'with you lying right next to me?' He cupped her beautiful face and traced the laughter lines around her eyes, and the ghost of a scar on her cheek. 'My own Little Bird. My own beautiful Little Bird.' His strong arms drew her closer and he buried his face in her neck. She kissed the top of his head and stroked his hair, streaks of steel in its once raven black. 'You still haven't guessed,' she whispered. His only answer was to kiss her.

'On this day, twenty years ago, was the Battle of the Blackwater, when the sky burned and the men screamed. On this night you came to my chamber, frightened and bloody, and offered to take me home. Twenty years, Sandor. Everything that has happened in our lives since then has depended on that moment when I said, 'Yes'. Everything. Our love, our marriage, our children. Winterfell. The North. Gods, Sandor, what would have happened if I had said no? I came so close to refusing, you frightened me so much.'

'I would have come back for you, no matter what. King's Landing, the Eyrie, beyond the Wall itself, I would have gone anywhere and braved anything to find you again, and to take you safely home. You were all I had to live for, the only thing that made sense. I still can't believe that it all happened, I still can't believe that you said yes, but I still thank the gods for it, over and over, every day, my beautiful, wonderful Wolf Queen.'

Sandor drew his wife close and kissed her until they were both trembling. He twined his fingers through her glowing hair, and Sansa pulled back with a gasp. 'Sandor, not here! In the godswood, under the heart tree itself?'

Sandor groaned. 'When then?'

His wife smiled a roguish smile. 'Tonight we celebrate the Blackwater.'

'I'll have a song from you then, my Little Bird.'

'I will sing it for you, gladly.'

Sandor laughed and kissed her. The lovers were interrupted by an exasperated sigh. Jumping and blushing like two guilty children, the Queen and the Hound of the North faced the disapproving eyes of their daughter.

'Uncle Jon and Aunt Shireen are looking for you both. Aunt Arya and Lady Mormont are sparring in the practice yard. Uncle Rickon is scaring everyone with Shaggydog and Aunt Jeyne is furious, and here you both are – cavorting!' Robynne screwed up her pretty little face into a look of utter horror. 'It's so, so – inappropriate!'

Her father burst out laughing. 'There's your daughter, Little Bird!'

Sansa spoke sternly.

'Tell Jon and Shireen that we will be there shortly. I'm sure you can handle things yourself for a while. And as for 'cavorting', I'm watching you and young Karstark, Robynne. Remember that.'

It was Robynne's turn to blush. 'Yes, my lady,' she stammered, abashed, and she scuttled back to the castle. Sandor scowled, his scar twitching. 'Bloody Karstark.'

'Well, he'll be our son-in-law yet, mark my words. Let's forget him for now.' He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her glowing hair.

'Sandor, we are both of us older now than my parents were when they died. I always think of them as being so much older and wiser than I am, and they weren't. I was only Robynne's age when I saw Father killed before me, and not much older when you saved me from King's Landing. They should all be here today; Mother, Father, Robb, baby Catelyn, all of them.'

'I know, my love, I know. But we are here. I am here, and I will always love you and keep you safe. No one will hurt you or yours again, or I will kill them.'

'Promise me, Sandor. Promise me please, that you will always come for me, like you did that night. No matter what happens, you'll always come for me and take me home.'

'I promise you, Your Grace, as your love and your one true knight, that I will always come for you and take you home.'

Sansa sighed and nestled into the fortress of his arms as he rocked his beloved gently beneath the heart tree. Eventually, she opened her eyes.

'We had better go and manage our friends and family, before they burn Winterfell down.'

'As my Queen commands.'

Sandor gently helped his wife to her feet, his eyes glowing proudly and softly at his Little Bird as she took his arm and they walked slowly back to the castle.

Silence settled softly back on the godswood. The heart tree sighed and its blood leaves quivered. Many generations of Starks had lain beneath its branches before, and many generations more would lie there again.

FINIS

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