Author's Note:

So this chapter…well, I think I should just admit straight out that I can ship Sansa with pretty much any man in her orbit. Except maybe Joffrey and Ramsay, who were just the worst. But yeah, Jonsa shippers – I get it. The aesthetic is too pretty to ignore (like, they paired Jon with a red-head for a reason). And Tyrion/Sansa fans, yes, let's continue to explore this path. But also um, SanSan? Yeah, okay that one just happens naturally, doesn't it? I mean, seriously, you write a chapter with absolutely no intention of setting your story up with a love triangle, and oh look, the Hound being all astonishingly sweet and gentle again…

We'll be back to the regularly scheduled Jorah/Dany morning after events shortly. Thanks for reading! To those who leave comments/faves, you're amazing! Xo

Sansa

Sansa didn't pray anymore.

Not to the Old Gods, for she wasn't entirely convinced that her brother wouldn't be one of the beings she was praying to. It felt too strange to ask for their abstract mercy and grace when Bran lived and breathed beneath her roof. And besides, if the Old Ones were to favor them it would be through Bran's intercession, not her own.

She didn't pray to the foreign Fire God whose scarlet-clad priestesses murdered children and proclaimed new saviors as soon as the old ones fell. With Jon and Daenerys both gone, Sansa cynically wondered who the next prince that was promised would be. She would likely have to wait until winter was over to find out as Westeros was currently short on red priests. Thoros had died above the Wall and the Lady Melisandre had met her end here, in these very halls.

Sansa had shed no tears over the Red Woman when Ser Davos came to her, confessing himself Melisandre's murderer even before the body had been discovered. During the battle, he found her in the Stark catacombs. She was whispering foreign words to the dead, making mischief, as always. Ser Davos strangled her with his one good hand and watched the life's blood drain from her comely face with no pleasure. But it was necessary, for Shireen's sake. The priestess rapidly aged before his eyes, he said, all that false beauty coming loose in death.

When they searched the catacombs, they found only dust.

No, Sansa didn't pray. Not even to the Seven, who had proved themselves no better than pawns in the game of thrones, and no better than stone statues in the game between the living and the dead. Her mother had prayed to them daily. Catelyn had Ned build her a sept at Winterfell, though it was common knowledge that the Seven never traveled so far north. They never answered Catelyn Stark. They never answered Sansa. And Cersei had blown up the Sept of Baelor without consequence. Either they were too weak to protest, or they never lived at all.

Still, Sansa found she liked the quiet of her mother's sept and went there often. The cares of the castle were many. Men twice her age were looking to her for direction on a daily basis. She had made certain their provisions would carry them through and that their storehouses were full before the storms came, but who was she to know what was enough? And who was she to lead them through the long winter?

You are Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell. She reminded herself, but in a voice that had no authority, and too much of Petyr Baelish's cunning whisperings in it. Sometimes, she wondered if he was really gone at all, despite having watched him die. His ghost haunted her life with lingering whispers and old schemes that she couldn't seem to shake out. She wouldn't be surprised to glance over and find him hovering in the doorway, in his dark brown mantle, neck closed up by his mockingbird pin.

It would be like Littlefinger to find a way to crawl back from the pit of death and seek her out again, waiting patiently for her to finish her prayers before stirring her up into more chaos, adding rungs to his accursed ladder.

Except Sansa didn't pray anymore. And Littlefinger couldn't play his games anymore. Not unless she played them for him.

She sighed as she rose from the candle-lit alcove where she had knelt, before a small, bronze image of the Maiden and turned to leave the sept. It was late and she was tired and she didn't want to let her thoughts wander back to Petyr Baelish. She had spent enough time with that man, before and after his death. She'd told him once that Ramsey Bolton had left his mark on her for good. But if she was being honest, Ramsey's scars were fading. Just as Joffrey's had faded before him.

It was Littlefinger's influence that lingered. It was Littlefinger's voice that haunted her thoughts. And how could she be Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, with a mockingbird's false voice in her head?

The stone arches which formed the sept's entrance were lit with flickering torches but there were shadows everywhere. As Sansa rounded the corner, eyes downcast and wringing her hands in deep thought, she started suddenly as she nearly ran into the massive figure entering under the archway.

She looked up instantly to find Sandor Clegane staring back. There was ice in his beard and his cheeks were wind-burned, as he must have just come inside from the snow drifts. He carried a large, heavy bundle on his shoulder, wrapped in deerskin. It was the size of a grown man.

"Ser?" Sansa managed, catching her breath.

"I didn't mean to frighten you, little bird," the Hound said with his customary growl. His words carried more weight than perhaps he meant. There was a time when his mere presence frightened her. Back when she still referred to him as the Hound in her head and meant it in every way. She hadn't forgotten the way she had once recoiled from him, his burned features, his crass manner, his sharp words—and neither had he. He added, as if to remind her, "And I'm no ser."

"I know," Sansa answered, softening her voice, knowing how he felt about the false title. "And you didn't. Frighten me, I mean. You haven't frightened me in a long time. I just—I didn't expect anyone, that's all."

Sandor didn't believe her. More than any other man alive, he knew what he was. And he knew what Sansa was. The lady and the cur—the old songs and stories never mention that particular tale, which was probably for the best. If Sandor Clegane ever guessed that Sansa Stark occasionally had the fleeting impulse to read such a story, well, who knows how it might play out.

But for now, she was more curious about the bundle that Sandor carried than anything else. Her eyes betrayed her interest and flickered to the burdensome weight on his shoulder. Again, she recognized that the bundle was the size of a man. And Sandor had been outside the gates of Winterfell. When she met his gaze, Sandor gave her a long look that spoke volumes.

Jon…

"Set him down here," Sansa instructed, leading Sandor back into the sept, near the altar. She blinked back a few errant tears, weeks-old grief suddenly renewed and briefly turned away as Sandor laid the body on the altar of the Warrior, which was appropriate, in its way. The Hound pulled back the deerskin coverings gently and laid the body out with more reverence than one would expect from a dog.

Sansa was worried the fall might have smashed him beyond recognition. She couldn't bear it if his familiar features were twisted and grotesque. Part of her didn't want to look. But part of her had to see him. She'd have no peace until she looked on his face one last time. That's why she sent Tyrion out in the snow to find him. That's why Sandor went out into the snow to bring him back.

When he was finished laying Jon out, Sandor held out his hand, "Come, little bird. He won't frighten you either."

Sansa turned back slowly, not glancing at Jon's body. Not yet. After a moment's hesitation, she took Sandor's offered hand and let him draw her near the altar. The rustling sound of her skirt as she took those two steps was the only noise in the sept. Her breath caught in her throat as she suppressed the memory of black grief, still rough-hewn, of standing on the Winterfell battlements and watching her brother (he wasn't your brother, Sansa) fall from the sky.

She finally looked down at the man lying on the altar.

"Oh, Jon…," she murmured, her voice breaking and colored with affection.

The snow had cushioned his fall. The cold had preserved his body. He was whole. His face remained unmarked, except for old battle scars. His eyes, thanks to Sandor, were closed on the world of the living. If not for the frosty, grey pallor of his skin, he might have been sleeping.

Sansa was tempted to try and shake him awake.

She would remember forever, riding through the gates of Castle Black, broken, shattered and so alone. She would remember catching sight of a young man on the ramparts, his coal black hair and that astonished look breaking over his usually brooding features. She would remember feeling his arms enclose around her and her head buried in his shoulder. It was only then that she knew everything would be all right, despite the horrors she'd faced for years as the plaything of Joffrey Baratheon and Ramsay Bolton. It was only then that she could stop running and pretending and breathe free air for the first time since she was a child.

"We'll bury him in the crypt, with Father and Robb, near Aunt Lyanna…his mother," Sansa said softly, her hand carefully slipping out of Sandor's, to reach out and push a lock of Jon's hair away from his face. Her fingers lingered against his ashen brow. She insisted, "He'll be with his family."

Sandor just nodded. He stood beside her solemnly, unspeaking, guarding the little bird as she slowly leaned over the dead man and pressed a parting kiss to his forehead.