CHAPTER 39

SANSA

Up inside a room in Winterfell's solar, Sansa paced in front of a pile of letters on her varnished pinewood desk. They brought her news from all over the Seven Kingdoms; details about the turmoil in the south, reports of the Ironborn plundering western shores, and ongoing negotiations with Lord Manderly to form a trade route between Winterfell and White Harbor. The Lannisters had doubled their bounty on her and placed a large one on Sandor, and Brienne had sent her first letter back from Moat Cailin. Sansa could concentrate on none of it.

The rooms of Winterfell's solar had been converted from family bedrooms and play areas to Sansa's quarters, servants' rooms, and a study. It had not been easy as she and Jeyne fell too often to weeping over the childish trinkets and personal things they threw away. She paced in what used to be Bran and Rickon's room, now the study. It was next to her parents, which she had taken as her own, at the end of the thin hallway. Hers and Arya's old room was now Jeyne's. Across was the boys' room—where Robb, Jon, and Theon had slept—Sansa meant to give it to Sandor, as her Master-at-Arms, if he would have it. The process of repurposing the rooms had proved emotionally difficult for Sansa; she felt that her family's deaths were made real all over again by the change.

It was a new era—this was her time to heal and rule the North. The unattended letters on her desk were a reminder of that. Sansa had made an ally of her brother Jon—she had repaid him for his help in sending Val and the Wildlings, gotten the Bolton's dreadful men out of her dungeon, and took her seat with little bloodshed. But sending Sandor to the Wall had been a ploy—a way to quell the rumors that there was something going on between them. News of him being sent to the Wall would spread to any ears that cared to hear it, and when Jon sent him back both she and Sandor would look blameless. Jon had worked this out for her—but now her mind raced and she wrung her hands together.

Was he angry with her? Would he want to stay after she lied to him? She had coldly rejected him in front of everyone and made it out to be an honor. How did he feel about her deviousness, knowing that he would follow along so loyally and keeping the plan from him? Maybe he wouldn't want to deal with it. Maybe he will just want to leave. If so, she couldn't blame him. In truth, the obstacles to them being together were still here. She had to marry—she could hold it off until spring, but no longer than that.

The watchman at the gatehouse blew the trumpet to signal approaching riders. Sansa's chest constricted painfully. Now was the moment of truth for her. She made her way down to the yard, trying to look happy and excited, and not the fearful mess she was.

With the exodus of her lords, Winterfell was much emptier, but it felt lively now that everyone gathered in the yard. Each lord had left a few people to help Sansa with rebuilding and there were many smallfolk. They had put a banner over Winterfell's gate with a poorly embroidered dog on it—the smallfolk loved Sandor, since he was the one who had brought Sansa here from the Eyrie, and they loved him all the more for his ferocious reputation that could match the Boltons'. They were vulnerable and wanted someone tough on their side to protect them—Sansa was torn up imagining how they would feel if Sandor left.

People chatted animatedly as the riders came through the gate with excited folk from Wintertown crowding around behind them. It almost felt like a parade—but Sandor front and center on a shaggy, bandy-legged garron looked a far cry from the knight he appeared to be astride his big black war horse. Sansa guessed this sad-looking pony was all Jon could spare from the Wall, and Sandor dwarfed it—although he looked more gaunt and thinner than Sansa remembered. His red-rimmed eyes looked dark set deep in his head, like he had seen a ghost.

His countenance was in glaring contrast to the men of the Night's Watch that rode with him—six northerners with kin at Wintertown whom Jon Snow had allowed this journey in reward for their hard work and loyal service. A respite from the Wall and a chance to see their families. Several people shouted—there were exclamations and tears of joy as women and children ran to greet the riders. The men slid off their garrons and embraced their kinsmen.

Sandor dismounted—it looked to Sansa that some of his energy had left him—and she couldn't help herself, she ran to him and flung her arms around his neck. The smallfolk clapped and cheered, but Sansa marked that Sandor drew back from her stiffly and set her on the ground. The men of the Night's Watch approached her now, joyfully shaking off their families and coming to greet her. There were a lot of introductions. Every man had to tell her one thing or another about who he was, who his kin were here in the North—some whom she already knew and some who greeted her shyly—why he'd been sent to the Wall, offer some praise for her brother Jon, or speak a little of her father and how they knew him. Sansa's throat felt tight and she was afraid that she would cry so she listened even more courteously and attentively than usual. Sandor loosed his horse's packs and slipped away in the commotion to take it to the stable and, she guessed, to check on his dogs.

She was relieved that he did show at the feast a few hours later. He looked cleaner and even a little bit rested, wearing a brown leather doublet she'd had the servants make for him since he didn't have any proper clothes. She'd left the seat next to her at the high table open for him and the rest occupied by the Brothers of the Night's Watch. He took it wordlessly. There was much merriment between everyone, so the silence between them went unnoticed. The smallfolk who prepared the food had asked Sansa's permission to include some rare morsels and treats for this special occasion, so these delicacies were the main point of conversation as the underfed Brothers gorged themselves in between requests for narratively charged renditions of what befell the Boltons and other news of the North.

This brought the conversation to the Wall and gave Sansa the opportunity to pull out her letter from Jon Snow. She made a show of opening it so that people like her Maester, who cared about such gossip, would pay attention. The letter had puzzled her, and she read it to herself again before reading it aloud.

To my dear sister, Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Princess in stead of our brother, who was called King Robb;

Thank you for the men you have sent to the Wall. This invaluable gift will provide me with the substantial support I need to man Castle Black and continue to allow the Night's Watch to fulfill our duty as the shield that guards the realms of men. As you know, the night is dark and full of terrors.

Of the Seven Kingdoms, only you, our friend in the North, has seen fit to assist us and help garrison the Wall. Let those who hear my words mark that it is the North's generosity that keeps you safe in your beds at night. I can only pray that other rulers follow your example, for if they do, Westeros has a chance to survive this winter. Mark my words—a chance.

For the Long Night has come, and we on the Wall are all that stands against it.

Signed,

Lord Commander Jon Snow

And scrawled at the bottom:

Of the men you sent there is one I cannot accept, Sandor Clegane. The reason being he will not say vows, and I cannot accept such a man into my brotherhood. Even though he was a volunteer I normally would have killed him, so consider it a favor in light of your courteous gift that I return him to you. Also, our most effective weapon against the terrors of the night is fire, and Sandor is afraid of it.

Sansa mulled speechlessly over this strange letter for some time, until a few of the Brothers whispered "Read it! Read it!" and Sansa jumped to attention. She recited the letter, letting Sandor save some face by leaving off the last sentence about fire. People nodded understandably, and the Brothers espoused their commander's mercy at letting Clegane go free before entertaining their families with tales of their exploits beyond the Wall. Sandor did not seem too glib, and Sansa wondered what had happened to make Jon write such specific things about his fear. She kept part of her attention on him, and the mood was high throughout the room, so she eventually saw that he ate heartily. That drew a little of her worry away.

Her guests were happy as the talked and sang and ate, the ale flowing. She could go to bed and they wouldn't miss her. Sansa excused herself, assuring everyone that they were welcome to enjoy the feast and Winterfell's hospitality for as long as they wanted. She bent at the waist to whisper to Sandor as discreetly as she could before she took her leave.

"Meet me in the Godswood after midnight."

The only sign that he had heard her was that his eyes went around the table to see if anyone was looking at them. Then he turned his eyes back to his plate and shoveled more venison into his mouth.

Sansa stood by awkwardly for a moment waiting for Sandor to acknowledge her, but he didn't, so she dashed to her room. Jeyne helped bundle her in warm clothes and Sansa, unable to contain herself, spilled her anxieties to her friend. Jeyne nodded sympathetically as she pinned Sansa's braids to the side of her head before ushering her out, pointing out that midnight was near.

Sansa snuck to the Godswood unnoticed. The distant sounds of the feast gave way to total silence here. The snow-covered ground looked blue and white with the stars spilled like silver sand across the black sky above. The Godswood's red leaves were purple in the night sky, spread out as though they were fingers on the serene heart tree.

Sansa bowed her head and prayed, focusing on Winterfell, her family's souls, and peace as her breath came out in white puffs. She was desperate to push away her own wishes in favor of prayers for wisdom and the Gods' blessing of peace in the North. If Sandor doesn't come, she thought, please let it only be your will for greater bounty in the North. She knew she shouldn't try to bargain with fate, but she couldn't bear for him to leave her and tried to rationalize what it would mean if he did.

The moon took a step across the sky before she heard the footsteps of a heavy figure treading lightly behind her. Sansa turned around and saw a man coming towards her out of the darkness; it was Sandor, stopping beside her in front of the heart tree. They faced each other framed by its wide branches. Sandor's face was impassive as Sansa struggled over what to say to him, so many pointless introductions and meaningless courtesies falling flat and useless on her tongue.

Finally, she kept her voice low, but it sounded clear in the silence. "Please know I never meant to be rid of you. When I sent you to the Wall, it was already planned that you would return to me."

Sandor's low voice was a growl. "You could have told me about it."

"I didn't want you to lie for me."

"You didn't think I could lie for you."

He was right, and Sansa dropped her head, filled with guilt. "You're not a good liar."

He did not say anything.

"There were so many rumors about us!" Sansa beseeched him. And now we cannot even look at one another! "Even those who supported me were suspicious of you. I thought it would give it away if you knew about our plan. Your shock quelled the rumors well enough. And this way, I bought us a little more time . . ."

"You knew I would take your prisoners to the Wall. You knew I'd stay, if ordered."

Sansa answered. Ashamed, but she answered. "Yes."

Sandor turned away towards the tree. "The Night's Watch. The shield that guards the realms of men. Even if I stayed there, I'd be guarding you still, wouldn't I?"

As though of their own volition her hands grasped the sides of his cloak and pulled her to him, but Sandor remained focused on the heart tree. She felt that she was losing him. "It was not like that! Sandor, I'm so sorry. I was able to remind everyone that they have a duty to the realm. If you hadn't shared their pain, they wouldn't have believed it. Jon and I planned for you to return to me, but this way, it looks like his choice—"

"Jon Snow," he interrupted her. "He said only the North sent men to guard the Wall, though it's the whole realm's duty. The most honorable men in a damned a prison colony."

"Please, I never meant for you to stay there. You must know that."

"And above the Wall. The Land of Always Winter. Always cold. Dead. How did the Wildlings ever survive there?"

"I know. Please, Sandor. I wanted you to come back."

"There's something beyond the Wall. Something, Sansa. Some magic. It makes dead men come back to life and walk, mad with bloodlust. They rise up out of the ground, skeletons and corpses with bright glowing eyes. They can't even be killed like normal men." He scoffed, his laugh like a bark. "How can you kill what's already dead?"

Sansa looked up at him and blinked. Why is he bringing this up?

"They can only be killed by fire," he struggled to say, "and Valyrian steel like your brother's sword. And if the Wall falls, then what? Will the dead rise here as well?"

What did Jon say to him? she wondered, feeling angry at her brother despite his favor. "Sandor, you're talking about the Others. Those are just bedtime stories to scare children . . ." She trailed off, confused, while Sandor stared at the heart tree. It almost looked as though it were laughing at them. Maybe this is his ploy, she thought, her heart sinking. A way to get out of the mess we are in. "I understand if you want to leave," she whispered. "You don't have to make anything up about why. I'll give you anything I can spare to get you safely wherever you want to go."

Sandor was so distant. He was thinking of lands far away, she knew.

"I don't want you to go," she whispered. "The Gods can see my heart, but I know you find my actions worse than my secret desires. How can you not?" she sniffled, her nose starting to run. "You brought me to Winterfell. You've given me everything, more than I could ever hope to gain. And how did I repay you?" She started to cry, the tears falling down her cheeks unbidden. "I used you. And we both know that I must marry. Suitors will come to me, and I can't refuse them all for you. I will put it off as long as I can, even the whole winter. But there are no more Starks. I must marry and have children. Oh, Sandor! Even thinking about it makes me want to die! Maybe I did want you to stay at the Wall, as a mercy to myself." She broke down, crying openly until she felt his strong arms around her. She was sure that this was the last time he would hold her. "I won't begrudge you if you leave," she whispered, and her voice sounded pained and twisted even to her own ears. "But I want you to stay. Please—if it is too much—go. Don't stay just to serve me again, after I deceived you." He was still looking at the heart tree, and she cried. "I have never been so bitter to have the loyal knight I dreamed of as a girl. Please, Sandor—you could have a wife, children—"

He snapped back to attention, turning from the tree to look at her with amazement as though he had just discovered her there in his arms, sobbing with tears running down her face. "You stupid girl," he said, gathering her face in the palms of his hands as his eyes searched hers. "What did the Wildlings tell you? I already have a wife."