Sansa counted stitches by the light of the fire in her chambers. Midnight was well gone, but she couldn't sleep, not again before the sun rose. The nightmare had returned as it always did, the one with the flashing teeth and evil eyes, with Ramsey's screams that had turned to Robb's, Rickon's, her mother's, and then her own as she'd bolted upright in bed. She did not regret Ramsey's death, not for a moment, but she regretted the nightmares. So she counted stitches on the cloak Jon had requested before she'd left him with Daenerys, murmuring songs to herself as she worked. It was soothing to be able to lose herself in the pattern she was stitching, in the slow progress of nothing to something. It made her feel as though she were doing the same with herself, stitching in where first Joffrey, then Littlefinger, and finally Ramsey had torn at her threads and seams, pulling until she began to disappear. But she was still there, and the three of them were dead, never to come back. Only in her nightmares.

The knock at the door startled her needle into slipping and drew a drop of blood. She barely registered the twinge of pain, so little compared to the others. "Who is it?" she called, wiping away the droplet with her handkerchief before it could drip onto the green cloak she was using as a lap blanket. It had seen too much blood; it didn't need hers as well.

"Me," came the rough reply, and Sansa wondered whether Sandor could hear the jump in her pulse through the door. It was not fear, not truly, that did it. It was a sickly-sweet combination of nerves and aching, a gnawing in the belly that reminded her of eating too many lemon cakes in the gardens of the Red Keep.

"Come in, my lord," she said, rising to greet him like a proper lady. He hated that, she knew, hated when she acted a part, though it had often been necessary. He'd told her to act, so he couldn't very well blame her for doing so when she felt vulnerable, as she did with him.

"What are you doing?" he accused when he'd opened the door, his expression firm and vaguely weary.

"Stitching a cloak for Jon," she answered, keeping her voice even, level, ignoring his brusqueness. She remained standing while he inspected her, running his eyes over her morning robe and the simple shift beneath it, the cloak she'd set aside, the one she still held. She'd have flushed once under his inspection; no longer.

When it felt as though his gaze had lingered hard enough and long enough to bruise, he finally spoke. "Why aren't you sleeping?"

"I need to finish this work," she said and sat. When he didn't move from the doorway, she sighed internally. He had no qualms about arriving at her door in the dead of night but hesitated when common courtesy would bid him to sit beside her. She met his gaze, daring him. "Will you join me, my lord?"

She did not watch to see what he'd do, only spread the green cloak across her knees and then found where she'd left off in her design on the black one. After a moment she heard him settle in the chair across the hearth as she knew he would. He'd take a challenge, of that she had no question. But she wondered if he still took orders so easily. She counted twenty stitches to herself before he spoke again.

"You lied to me," he said.

She raised her head slowly and found him watching the flames beyond the fire screen. She'd learned he did well enough with fire when it was contained, when he was guarded against it. It was the fires that were unchained, wild, or open to the room that left him wary, even frightened. "Yes," she said. "I couldn't sleep; that's why I'm awake."

He grunted, almost scoffing at her. "I bloody knew that. Heard you scream."

She looked down at her lap, hiding the shame. If he had, who else? They would all think her weak. All she wanted was to be brave like Robb. Strong like Jon. Like Arya, Brienne. Like Daenerys. She could see it in the dragon woman. Why couldn't she possess that as well?

When she had steadied her hand, she managed seven more stitches before she found her voice. "I regret that I disturbed your sleep as well, my lord."

"Stop that," he barked, and her needle slipped again as she looked up in surprise, piercing the skin next to her thumbnail and making her pull in a sharp breath through her teeth. She pulled the needle away, wiping it first on the handkerchief, then pushing it through the work so she'd not lose it. She folded the handkerchief around her thumb, trying to stop the blood welling up. It was only a small wound, common really for a novice, and though she hadn't been a beginner in years, she remembered them well. It would have been nothing, but the ones near her nails always bled profusely.

Sandor's hands came to cradle hers, not gently, but with an insistence that had her relenting to the grasp. The callouses on his palms scraped against the back of her hands, but she couldn't care about the roughness. It was the first time he'd touched her, actually touched her, since their kiss in the hall. He'd stood by her, accompanied her when he could be spared, but he'd never mentioned, never hinted at that night's events. Sansa had not blushed under his gaze, but she felt the heat rising up the back of her neck at the brush of his fingers. "It's nothing," she assured him. "My septa called them 'women's wounds.'"

"Your septa sounds like a bloody idiot," he said. "You're bleeding. That's not nothing."

"She was. Not always, only occasionally," Sansa said. Then, thinking of the woman's calm protection, of the head upon one of Joffrey's spikes, added. "But she was often kind, and brave in her own way."

He did not answer her, only silently drew the handkerchief away, then drew the skin taut so he could see the cut. It really was small, but she said nothing to push him off as a bead of blood rose to the surface again. He rewrapped the handkerchief around her thumb, then held it with firm pressure for a dozen heartbeats, never lifting his gaze. When he drew the cloth back again, the bleeding had stopped. He did not drop his grip on her hands, but nor would he meet her eyes. When it seemed the silence would stretch forever, she said, "I'm never so clumsy, but that was the second time I've done that tonight."

"It's because you haven't slept in damn near a week," he said harshly, but when Sansa raised her chin to argue that he'd caused both wounds, he lifted his eyes and raised a hand to brush at the shadows beneath her lashes, quickly, so quickly she wondered if she'd imagined it.

"I'm quite well," she said, lying again. She was shaky with lack of sleep most days. He didn't make a comment, but he pulled back and fell into the other chair again. Sansa had to draw her composure back over several long moments but was gratified when her voice didn't crack. "Would you like some mulled wine, my lord?"

"Stop that," he said as she stood.

"Beg your pardon, my lord?" she asked with her back to him, pouring a small cup with hands that took an effort to hold steady. She thought it odd that she'd never been so volatile around Littlefinger, who made jabs and remarks that cut, nor around Ramsey, who had so destroyed her she hadn't fought back for long. Only Sandor could make her shake and bite back. Perhaps because he always broke through to her core, ignoring the outer trappings she kept on. Whatever the reason, he said nothing as she turned and brought the drink to him, but when she would have gone to fill her own, he caught her wrist. Could he feel her heart pounding there?

"Stop hiding behind those empty courtesies."

"I don't know what you mean, my lord," she murmured, knowing exactly what he meant. It kept him at a safe distance, where she would not be moved to fall into his arms.

"Little bird," he said, gently, as if reminding her that he knew her ways. It was then that she found the courage to meet his gaze. He was studying her, his grey eyes watchful and full of doubt, and if she did not know him better she would have said worry as well. "Why did you scream?"

"A nightmare, that is all," she said. "No need for concern."

He made some noise kin to a sigh and released her. She said nothing more as she poured a second cup and settled again, smoothing the deep green cloak—his cloak—across her lap. She studied the fire, not yet ready to take up a needle again, not yet ready to look at him nor to yearn just a small bit.

"You lied to me," he repeated, after the silence grew strained.

"I told you, it was only a nightmare."

"Not then," he said. "That hardly counts as a lie."

"Then when?" she asked, lifting her chin in defiance.

"You said Snow killed the bastard who hurt you. I've heard different now."

She wanted to look away, wanted to turn from that thought. It hunted her in her dreams, it did not need to hunt her in her restless nights as well. But she held his gaze, tried not to wonder what he must think of her. "He may as well have. Jon won the battle, captured him."

"Aye, he did. But you'd asked your brother not to kill him." She did not answer, only watched his face, looking for signs of disgust, pity. He continued, his voice slow, precise, as if he were talking to a dimwit. "You asked him to keep the bastard alive if he could."

"I did," she said.

"Why?"

"Seeing as you're here, asking me, you know why." She looked away then, unable to read his face any longer, or not wanting to. "The hounds needed to be put down after the battle. It seemed only fair to give them one last meal."

He said nothing, and Sansa watched the shadows the fire made on the wall, wondered if she stared long enough if any pictures would form.

"Does it bother you?" she asked. "What happened?"

"Yes."

She felt something more tear within her, some small piece that had not been damaged before, and pulled those empty courtesies back to act as a shield. "I'm sorry to have disappointed you, my lord."

"Sansa—" he said her name like a curse, bit it off, blew out a breath. "Do you think I'd not understand you killing him, even enjoying it? I understand perfectly. Me, I'd have done worse, but you… You, my little bird, were never meant to kill anyone," he said, surprising her.

She let silence fall again, and he did not object. They sat with only the crackling of the fire between them for a long time. When it began to die, she stood and laid a new log, knowing he'd not be able. When the flames caught and she'd moved the screen back into place, she stared down into the depths and spoke.

"It felt strong, freeing, to end it like that. He'd killed others the same way. It felt like justice for everything he did." She paused to swallow the memory of the screams. They'd been satisfying once, but now they were tainted by nightmares. "Now I wish Jon had just beaten him to death, as he wanted to."

"Why?" he asked when she did not continue.

"I see it again every night when I go to sleep. But instead of that monster, it's Robb. Or Rickon, or my mother and father. It's Jeyne, some nights. And then it's always me on the other side of the bars." She shuddered. "That's why you heard me."

"Sansa," he said, but she did not turn.

"You were right all those years ago," she said. "I am weak."

"I was damn stupid to think so," he said over the sound of his chair moving backward as he stood. He made her look at him with a hand on her shoulder. "Even then, I was damn stupid."

"I cannot sleep, I cannot even face most days without a shadow of my past haunting me. If that is not weakness—"

"And yet you still get up, play the lady."

"So I am a fool."

"No," he said.

"I cannot do this forever; I cannot keep losing sleep, keep letting those things drag at my thoughts. I will go mad, or worse."

"It'll fade," he said, and Sansa wondered why he whispered.

"It won't fade tonight," she said, almost desperately, loudly. The quieter, gentler he grew, the more agitated she felt. Why, why was he so gentle when she wanted anger? "I just want to sleep, or to wake up from this nightmare where I have nothing happy in my memory."

He only watched her, his hand on her shoulder softening. She closed her eyes, trying to will time to turn back to when Robert Baratheon had ridden through the gates. She'd change her father's mind, make him stay in the North, where it had once been safe. But, no, she knew that girl she'd been would not have believed the horrors. She would have begged to go south, just the same.

"I need to finish my stitching," she whispered hoarsely past the ache in her throat.

"If you think it'll help, little bird," he said, in much the same tone, and he let go of her and returned to his seat as she did. She didn't tell him that she knew it wouldn't help, but that it'd keep her awake, away from the horrors in her head. She let the rhythm of the needle and the sound of his breathing relax her, then found herself humming the Mother's Song. He said nothing, but she could feel his eyes on her bowed head. She kept humming regardless, finding Jonquil's ballad sprang to mind, and then another after that, all the songs he told her were only fantasy. She needed a bit of fantasy just then. When she paused in her humming to bite through the thread to end a section of the embroidery, he spoke.

"Did you make that green one as well?"

"No," she said, "I only did the alterations."

"What alterations does a cloak need?" he said with a hint of derision.

"Well, the color was one. I dyed the cloth. White was too impractical, and this green hid the stains," she answered levelly, despite the pounding in her ears. She paused to thread a new color onto her needle to give the embroidery more depth. "Then I shortened it. It was much too long for me, so I used the excess to make a hood. I did save the needlework. It was too lovely to take out. I added my own here and there, as well."

He stood, the chair scraping against the floor, and knelt in front of her before she had time to react. He took up a swath of the cloak, inspecting the embroidery along the edge. The gold swords and crowns that had made up the edging had been turned green in the dye-bath as well, but she had no doubt he'd recognize them. After all, he'd worn the thing every day, and a man like him noticed details.

He stared at the hound's head she'd stitched along the edge, just where her fingers brushed, for a long time, holding the fabric loosely in his large hands. Sansa had paused her needle, waiting for him to move, to speak, to act. The waiting was torture.

"You kept it?" he asked. "You wear it?"

She could only nod and think of the way she'd reach for that dog to steady her fingers when she'd been hurting. No one paid it much mind, thinking it her own sigil, but she knew.

"Why?"

She lowered her gaze from his face to look at his hands clutching the fabric. "I thought it might protect me, as you had. And when it could not, it kept you close."

"Why would you want me close, my little bird?" he asked, his voice quiet, almost dangerous. She lifted her eyes to meet his again and said nothing, only let the full field of her emotions go for one moment, so that he might read them on her face as he must have the night they'd met on the walls. She had been hiding behind courtesy since then, she knew, because she'd been afraid of being a fool again. He made her feel so, but she desperately wanted him to think otherwise.

"You were always afraid of me," he said.

"I should not have been."

"And why not? I was cruel to you, hateful. Hideous," he said with a sneer of hatred. Not for her, she knew, but for all the words people had called him, including herself once. Hadn't she thought those same things, so many times?

"No," she said, taking one of his hands in hers, rubbing her thumb over the scarred knuckles.

"No, what?"

"You're none of those things. Not truly."

"And you know that for certain?"

"Yes," she said. "I've seen it." She lifted her hand to his cheek then, ran her fingers over the bumps and divots. The skin was smooth like any scar, though it looked rough. He caught her hand against it, held her still while searching her face.

"You know I'm a monster," he said.

"No." She paused. "I've met monsters, known them. You're only a man."

He made to stand, to back away from her, but Sansa didn't want to lose the closeness they'd shared. It was time to act the fool, or she'd lose him to that distant place courtesy demanded she leave him. She rose as well, standing before him again, reaching to touch him.

"Sansa—"

"Sandor," she replied, only partly mocking, ignoring his desperate exasperation. She seemed to catch him off guard, and he hesitated long enough for her to catch his brown tunic in her grasp, lightly but possessively. He stood as still as a statue until she was close enough to rest her cheek upon his chest, her hands upon his waist.

"I cannot let you do this, my little bird." His voice was nearly a croak, almost tortured. She wondered if anyone else had ever shown him such affection. She didn't deem it likely, and all because his brother was one of those monsters he feared he'd become.

"And why not?" She repeated his own words. "As you say yourself, I'm already yours."

He said nothing, hardly moved. She couldn't push him any further. She knew she'd been pushing at him, this night and the other, trying to tear down his defenses. It was unladylike to be so forward, and she knew he'd doubt her, but she remembered the nights when she'd lain sleepless, wondering what had happened to him, the days she'd sought comfort in a cloak that had long since lost any trace of his scent.

When his arms finally came around her, one at the small of her back, the other around her shoulders, she turned her face into his tunic and breathed him in. It was just as before; earthy scents clung to him, bringing to mind the godswood in the summer.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," she said, the words muffled against him. He did scoff at that, but he didn't let go. It took him another moment to weave his fingers through her loose hair, for him to tilt her head back. He did look worried, she noticed, so she let a smile through, weak though it was. It didn't clear the expression from his eyes, but he leaned down to press a hesitant kiss to her forehead. He'd lied to her when he said he had no tenderness, no gentleness. Here it was again, in the dead of night.

When he pulled away, she rose onto her toes, bringing their lips within inches, letting their noses brush slightly, but leaving the last gap for him to cross. She wouldn't steal another kiss, only invite him to take, her eyes closed in anticipation. She held her breath, waiting, not wanting to move and shatter the moment. She nearly let it go on a sigh after a few seconds, but then she felt the warmth of his lips press to hers, cautious, unpracticed. His arms, his hands were rough, but here he was soft. When she did not pull back, he drew her closer, held her steady against him, pressed deeper into the kiss. When she dared to peek through her lashes, she saw his eyes shut tight, his face a mask of tortured want, and closed her own again to not break the spell. She moved her hands up his back, held tight to the wool there, refusing to let him leave her this time. When he pulled back, one hand tight in her hair, it was only to brush her cheek with his thumb, to breathe.

She'd dreamt of moments like this, she knew, before the nightmares had swallowed her.

She'd dreamt of what came after kisses like that, too, but the thought made her tremble now. What if it was always like Ramsey? She knew it could not be, or why else would people enjoy it enough for pleasure houses? That knowledge did not stop the fear coursing through her, not of Sandor, but of what could be coming from kisses like the ones they shared. It was such an unnecessary fear, she knew, as it was not logical, but it existed. She'd never forget her first bedding. Never. When she could not contain the shudder the memory drew from her, he drew away, watched her face, wary.

"Finally come to your senses?" he asked.

"What?" The word was breathless as she clung to him, trying to hide the shiver in her stomach by holding herself against the solidness of his body.

"You're shaking. I've scared you."

"No," she said, weakly at first, and then stronger. "No, not you."

He studied her another moment, and then in one swift motion lifted her off her feet and settled in a chair with her nestled against him. She made to protest but he cut her off. "It's enough for one night."

So she said nothing, only rested her head on his shoulder and watched the flames dance until her eyes grew heavy, until her nose was filled with his heady scent. She meant only to close them for a moment, but they didn't open again until he rose with her still cradled in his arms and carried her through the door to her bedchamber. When he'd laid her in her bed, he bent to kiss her forehead again, then brushed the shadows on her cheeks. "Sleep, my little bird."

She was too tired to remember why she was meant to sleep alone, why she should allow him to leave, why she should hide what she felt. She reached for his arm when he pulled away. "Will you stay? Please?"

He paused, then nodded stiffly, so she shifted, giving him room to stretch out beside her. He lay down, settling slowly, but when he had, she moved in next to him and rested an arm across his waist, just wanting to feel he was there. She didn't even hear his exasperated sigh as she drifted back to sleep.

It was not a restful night.

"Sansa," he said gently when the first nightmare struck, one with shifting white shadows and her dead friends coming to find her. She jolted awake, tightened her hand in his tunic.

"I'm sorry. Did I scream?"

"No," he said, "you were not quite there yet."

She nodded against him and he folded an arm around her back, held her tight. She tried not to fall back to sleep, but the wave of exhaustion had caught up with her and it swept her under again.

The second time he woke her, he did it with a touch to her cheek and a soft 'little bird.' It had been Meryn Trant and Joffrey—his face still purple—safe beyond the bars of the kennels, watching as the dogs had descended upon her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again, her voice still shaky. He only held her and smoothed her hair away from her face. It took her longer to fade that time, but he stayed, his quiet presence so overwhelmingly comforting that she could not believe she'd ever thought him unkind.

Just at first light, she woke again, this time of her own volition, to find his hand interlaced with hers on his chest and his face as restful as she'd ever seen it. She wondered, if his brother had not shoved his face into a brazier, if he'd be there with her. She didn't think it likely. He may have turned into a monster of his own, if no one had to look past a scar to find him. The world would not have seemed so terrible then, and he'd not have wanted to teach her how horrible it could be. She'd not be there either; she'd not have survived if he hadn't cared enough to save her from Joffrey or to try despite his loyalties.

She felt the rise and fall of his chest under her head, the slight jumping in his muscles that were the only indication he dreamed. She deemed him far enough into sleep that she could tell him things she wouldn't dare to say to his face, not so soon, and not when he still scoffed at songs and tales.

"You were my only friend in that awful place," she murmured. It would break you, Arya whispered in her memory. "And when you left, I was lost—a ghost. And when I left… well, I was more than alone. I'd dream of you, and wonder what had happened to you. And I'd wish for you to come save me like the songs, even though you're not a knight. I didn't want a knight; I wanted you." Apt, Sansa thought.

She let her fingers dance lightly over the hollow of his chest, feeling the drumming beneath. "I was in the Eyrie when you tried to bring Arya to Aunt Lyssa. I was there. If you'd only pressed on—" she cut off that thought. "If you'd been only days earlier, you'd have found me. I'd have left with you then. I wonder where we would have gone—you, me, and Arya."

She lost herself in imaginings for a few moments, wondering if Jon would have left the Wall, if Daenerys would know about the Walkers. She didn't let the worries through for long, instead trying to imagine living in the Free Cities, Braavos, wherever Sandor could find work in a sellsword company. She'd have kept a house, taken a new name, written to Jon, mourned their brothers, argued with Arya, lived. Loved.

"I wonder if we would have been happy then," she said.

"Go back to sleep," Sandor rasped, and she jumped in her skin a little.

"I thought you were dreaming," she said by way of apology, and to hide her embarrassment. How much had he heard?

"I was. You talk too much," he said in his version of a grumble. "Sleep."

"It's first light," she said, trying not to feel foolish, exposed. "I never sleep past it."

He cracked his eyelids, flicked a glance down at her. "Then have mercy on someone who does, and shut it."

She couldn't help the smirk; he was still harsh, despite her fool notions. Perhaps he hadn't heard her at all. She started to rise, meaning to bring her embroidery to the window to use the fresh light, dim though it was. When she sat up, however, he grabbed her wrist. "Where are you going?"

"I was going to let you sleep while I worked on the cloak," she said, reaching down with her free hand to adjust the morning robe that had become disheveled while they'd slept. His eyes followed her fingers, but he did not move to act on what shone in his gaze. His grip only tightened minutely, then relaxed.

"No," he said.

"I thought you wanted rest," she protested.

"I do. But you need it as well. Lay down."

"Sandor, really—"

"Do you ever stop talking?" he asked, then pulled her down next to him, holding her close to his side. He buried his nose in her hair and, almost too softly for her ears, whispered, "Your sister always wanted to go to Braavos."

"She did go." Sansa closed her eyes against the rising emotion, unfathomable in its depth, and turned her face further into him. He had heard and he hadn't thought her childish. The relief, the embarrassment, the yearning, they were all too much and settled in a confused tangle beneath her throat. She managed to speak past it, in a whisper to match his own. "Her dancing master was Braavosi."

"Is that who taught her that damned fancy shite with the sword, then?" he asked in a tired, half-there voice.

She said nothing, only hummed her assent, mindful of how much she did talk. He did not fall back asleep, however. Instead, he turned towards her, held her close, and ran his hands over her shoulders, her back, her arms, slowly, soothing. Her hands stayed solidly on his chest, not pushing, not pulling, just resting where she could feel the movement of his blood, the draw of his lungs, the heat of him. When he'd seemed to memorize every inch, he just pulled her closer, sighed against her hair. She lifted her face to brush her nose, then her lips, against the soft skin of his neck, just below his jaw. Then, because she wondered, she did the same to his scar.

The shudder ripped through him and his arms tightened around her. "What do you want with me?" he murmured, as he had that night in the hall.

This time, Sansa found the words to tell him, though he still did not seem to expect an answer. "Just you," she whispered.

This would have been out sooner, had I not been knocked sideways by a brutal work-week and now a brain-numbing cold. I hope you all enjoy, the next one should be along shortly!