The queen drums her jeweled fingers on the marble tabletop. She then heaves a sign of exasperation and turns to the leader of her Unsullied.

"Grey Worm, go and find him. Bring him here at the point of your spear if you must."

The captain of the Unsullied bows his head. "I go now, my queen."

But before he can leave the council room, the door opens and the small man waddles in at his slow pace.

"Forgive me, your Grace, and my lords: there was a raven-" he begins somberly.

"Dark wings, dark words is that te saying, my lord Hand?"

"It is, your Grace," he tells her grimly and pauses.

"Well," Daenerys tells him and then glances to her left as she sees Lord Varys enter the chamber from behind her, padding in silently in soft slippers. He bows graciously.

Tyrion Lannister swallows hard and looks down to the scroll he carries. "The Lady Sansa Umber is dead, your Grace."

She turns to look at her late brother Prince Rhaegar's good-brother, Prince Oberyn who suddenly sits up attentively.

"Dead? But how?'

"Poison, your Grace; she died at her own hand, it would seem."

"Can this be true? It is such a terrible waste," Prince Oberyn shakes his head sadly. "So much beauty lost to the world."

"Yes, to the world…and to my court," Daenerys tells him. "How is it possible that this should have happened…Lord Varys?"

"I cannot say, your Grace: Lord Umber arranged for a ship to bring Lady Sansa from Karhold to Kings Landing, but then soldiers from Last Hearth and Karhold met the ship and told the captain that she was dead. My spies report that they heard Lady Sansa's daughter was wild with grief and her little wildling ward hid for some time before she could be found. At Winterfell, her family spends their days in their godswood."

"How would she have obtained poison? Not from a maester, surely."

He hesitates slightly. "Apparently, the Dowager Lady Umber was well-versed in herblore, and there are deep forests around the Last Hearth and Karhold. Whatever poison it was…it was a horrible end, your Grace. They say the sheet that she lay on was all blackened: rot must have set it very quickly. Only her bones will be returned for burial."

The queen shuts her eyes and wrinkles her nose. "That is quite enough detail, Lord Varys. Well, what is your council now: do we call the daughter to court, or the son?"

"Your Grace…If I may? I fear this would not be wise: the Northerners will blame Lady Sansa's death on her summons to court," Varys advises her. "It is said that she was heartbroken to leave her children…and the Last Hearth; she reputedly spent inordinate time in the crypt at the grave of her late lord…the Greatjon."

"But he was an old man, you said," the queen accuses Tyrion. "My lord Hand, you said this woman would be pleased to leave the wilds of the far North and come to court. We need more Northerners in the capitol to placate those from other regions. Now I learn that your counsel, and my kinsman's," she glances significantly at Prince Oberyn, "could turn the Northerners against me."

Lord Tyrion smirks and tosses the scroll on the table. "I remember Lady Sansa was a great romantic, fond of silks and songs and chivalry and handsome knights. I truly believed that she would welcome the chance to return to court. This…this was the sort of misguided and over-emotional gesture one would have expected of her as a young girl; it would appear that she had not grown up very much, nor learned anything of real life."

"The Northerners have always been a strange, primitive lot, your Grace," Varys offers now, "given to superstitions and dark moods and violent tempers. I remember well her late father's tendency to brood and his worship of ancient trees… Might I suggest instead: Robb Stark has two daughters-"

"No," the queen rejects the suggestion firmly. "Their mother is a Frey, and we have enough Freys," she rules, "more than enough. And they were once princesses: we do not want to give other nobles ideas of raising them again with their sons as their consorts. They will stay in Winterfell and wed in the North."

"That is wise, your Grace; after all, nothing good has ever come of Starks coming South…"

….

Dusk has fallen when they see their intended destination in the distance. Their horses' hooves crunch in the snow and then still as they stop.

"Oakenshield ahead," Maege Mormont announces.

Alysane Mormont puts her hand over her sword hilt when she sees a rider approach, a big man dressed in furs who puts his hands up to show that he means no harm. He nods as he reins his mount.

"I am Torwynd, son of Tormund," he tells them. "You are the Bear women? My father waits with the Lord Commander o' the Crows. Follow me."

Instead of the castle on the Wall, they are led to a nearby croft. Firelight can be seen from a window and the smell of smoke from a wood fire drifts through the air, promising warmth and shelter. Other men emerge to help them dismount and lead their horses into the rustic stable. There are several saddled horses tied up outside the small cottage. The leader of the wildlings stands in the doorway.

"Come inside now, and get warm. You're safe here but no sense taking chances. I bet you weren't fixing to lay eyes on old Tormond Tall-talker again, har!" he exults enthusiastically. "Here's the Lord Crow to greet you proper!"

Jon Snow steps forward cautiously to address a tall figure beneath a dark hooded cloak.

"Sansa?"

She lifts her head to look at him, then pushes her hood back.

"Jon," she breathes with relief. It is so sweet to see him again; but he is looking at her hair with wide eyes.

"Well," he says finally, "I guess there's more than one way to take the black…"

Sansa self-consciously runs a hand down the braid over her shoulder. "I thought it best to darken my hair…in case we should be seen. Arya helped me. I fear we made a terrible mess...it was all over the bedlinens." She tries to smile but fails.

"I'm sorry, Sansa. I'm sorry that you had to leave your children; but we'll help you as best we can. There's no one in the entire North that wants to see you have to return to Kings Landing… still, it's best that you remain hidden, even up here."

"Har, all the help you and your lord and Lord Stark arranged mean that wagon-loads of supplies pass through here up the Kingsroad and from Eastwatch…so we gets our share of kneelers up here," Tormund tells her, then he smiles almost triumphantly. "Told you I'd not be forgetting all you did for us, didn't I? Har!"

"Yes, Lord Tormund… you did indeed," Sansa replies. "But please accept my gratitude-"

He waves a big hand dismissively. "You can never owe me or mine what we owe you, sweet lady; so no more o' that, har! I'm only sorry you and your lord never had chance to visit me at my seat, so that I could repay you. Good man, the Greatjon," he tells her.

Sansa can only nod.

"Come sit then," a big wilding woman tells them, "You must be tired and hungry after your journey."

Sansa sits at the wooden table with Alysane and Maege Mormont who have brought her to the Gift from Karhold. As they eat the simple fare before them, they tells Jon the story of how the women left Last Hearth to return to Bear Island after Sansa had left, but then left the Kingsroad to travel through the woods to Karhold and wait for Sansa to be brought out to them from the castle at night by Harrion.

"He brought me out a side gate, near the kitchen, where they were waiting for me in the nearby woods."

"And were you dressed like that?" Jon asks archly.

Sansa looks down to her dirty breeches and roughspun wool tunic over a heavy shirt and her leather boots and nods timidly.

"No wonder no one knew you then," he cannot help jesting. "Forgive me, Sansa: I know that you have had a long and hard journey here. How are your children? You must miss them."

She nods again and bites her lip. "I miss them terribly. They knew of course, just as Bran and Rickon and Mother will soon know…I had insisted that they know; my children have already lost their father and so I could not bear to have them think that they had lost me as well, as least not forever…I hope," she breaks suddenly to compose herself again. "They were told that they would needs pretend, though we were all of us unhappy enough just to be separated that grief came easily enough." She drops her head in her hands now and almost sobs. "Oh gods, Jon, it is unbearable to be apart from them. Have I done the right thing? Please tell me that I have," she laments.

"I'm sure you have, Sansa," he assures her haltingly. We'll make it right for you…somehow; but it may be some time before you will be able to see them again…" he furrows his brow when she raises tearful eyes to him. "To be safe, Sansa; then Tormund can invite Lord Umber to visit with them, or they can go to the Thenns with Arya and her lord to visit Lady Alys. We'll find a way, Sansa: I promise. But for now, we need to keep you hidden. You can't stay too close to the Wall: there's men from all over the seven kingdoms in the Watch, and some that may see a chance at a pardon for the crimes that brought them here. I thought to send you to across the Narrow Sea for a while but-"

"Too dangerous," a long-forgotten voice rasps firmly from deep in the darkest corner of the small room inside cottage.

Sansa jumps and turns suddenly. No, it cannot be…

He stands to his full height as he walks closer into the firelight and he smirks down at her looking up at him in astonishment.

"Do I still frighten you, girl? Might be I don't. Least you can look at me straight in the face now," he mocks.

He the same, but not. The scars are the same, and his dark hair is still brushed forward to cover his burned scalp and ear; but the grey eyes are not as hard, nor are they bloodshot, and his expression while mocking is not so fierce and angry as she remembers. He is no longer hateful, or at least he does not appear to be.

Sansa gulps and braces herself on the back of her chair to stand shakily. "S-Sandor Clegane, I- I- Forgive me…I never expected…I had never thought to see you again. But I am glad, because I hadn't the chance to thank you…for saving me, and for standing guard the night the Red Keep fell to Lord Renly…so long ago now. I owe you my life," she tells him hoarsely, "and I have not forgotten."

He scoffs at that. "You already thanked me, little bird: in the throne room when you spoke for me and asked them to spare my life…glad it worked that time," he tells her, "though it got me exiled, but it had to be better than losing my head alongside those cunts in their white cloaks who beat you. Well, I'll spare you the loss of your life again when I tell you that you can't go to Essos. I told the Lord Commander," he gestures to Jon, "there's sickness coming, could be it's already there but they don't know it yet; but it will be coming and it will be bad. Near all the sellswords that I recruited for the Night's Watch on behalf of your lord brother were fleeing the East because of the pale mare. It's been spreading from the East from as far as Yunkai and Meereen; and lords in Pentos and Braavos and the rest won't hire soldiers from there for fear they're carrying it with them. They'll shut their city gates to them soon enough, but by then it will already be too late. You were right not to go to Kings Landing," he tells Sansa now, "you can be assured of that: port cities will be the first places it turns up in Westeros, especially the Southron ones," he explains to them all.

"What is this pale mare?" Maege Mormont asks him indignantly.

"Bloody flux," he replies shortly, looking her up and down in her breeches, mail and swordbelt. "Makes you shit yourself to death," he adds.

"Aye, I've known it to spread through army camps: usually from rotten food or from corpses fouling the water," the She-bear acknowledges.

"Whatever bloody caused it, it's spread far and wiped out near whole armies and some cities as well. Might be it's a kind they've not seen before, but it's killing near all in its path."

"Flux can be treated with boiled oak leaves, or a tincture of blackthorn bark and berries," Sansa tells them, and they all turns to stare at her. Finally Sandor Clegane throws his head back and laughs: a harsh sound like steel on stone that makes her shiver to remember.

"Now there's something I'll wager your septa never taught you to say, little bird," he mocks her again.

"Is she a woods-witch?" the wildling woman asks with guarded curiosity.

"I- I have studied herblore," Sansa replies, embarrassed. When no one says anything, she continues: "And midwifery." She notices something familiar about the older woman now who is looking at her appraisingly. Finally the wildling steps forward and speaks to Sansa directly:

"You and I are kin…through your late lord: he was my cousin-" But before she can finish speaking, Sansa gasps in sudden realization.

"You are Uncle Mors' daughter! I –I see the resemblance…you're an Umber."

"Aye, by birth," she concedes, "but I've not been an Umber for many years now. Still….Tormund thought it best to bring you to me. I needed to learn to live among the wildlings; and now so will you, Lady Sansa."

"Please call me Sansa, I-"

"Best not to use your name either, Sansa," Jon warns her. "You'll needs chose another for now."

She does not need think long because she remembers the Greatjon speaking in her ear. "Arrana," she tells them, and she sees Jon's mouth lift on one side: a wry half-smile. Like Serena, Arrana had been the name of a Stark girl who had married an Umber lord. They both remember their lessons of House Stark from Maester Luwin.

"My wildling husband gave me the name Heather and that is what I now call myself, Arrana," the woman tells her.

"Heather," Sansa repeats respectfully. She feels grateful and comforted to be with someone of Umber blood, who knew her Greatjon. "My- my lord spoke of you…and I know that he deeply regretted your loss to his uncle and to Last Hearth," she says as she remembers all that Berena had told her of her abduction as a young girl.

Heather nods her acknowledgement. "He told me so when I saw him again… Would my father could have been so welcoming but he couldn't forgive me; but for the Greatjon's sake I am happy to help you. You will stay with me and my son's family until we can find you another home, closer to forests or hills and far from roads. We'll need to find a way to bring you food and supplies," the woman Heather ventures.

"I'll bring them to her," Sandor Clegane announces with finality.

"You, Clegane?" Jon asks him with surprise now.

"Why not? Don't think I'm going back to Braavos or Pentos with the sickness coming. Fuck that, I'll stay here to watch over the little bird…I expect there's little chance in seven hells you know to use that dagger you're wearing on your hip, girl; and I'm as good a man as any to protect the high-born. Been doing it for most of my life."

Sansa lifts her chin and squares her shoulders now. "I am no longer a girl, Sandor Clegane: I have been a wife and mother and the lady of a castle for nigh ten years and am now a widow. I have borne two children and lost one. I-" I have betrayed a man and taken a man's head and killed a man who would have killed me, she thinks but she has also fled the queen's summons to court and needed to entrust her children's care to her family and to servants. She does not know how to live alone and she does not know how to fight; but he does.

I could keep you safe, he had rasped. They're all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them.

She looks him straight in the face as he had said she should that night, the night the Blackwater had burned and he had protected her.

"You…you once told me that if I could not protect myself that I should die and get out of the way of those who can… Well, I have died…" she says wryly, "because I could not protect myself…and so I accept your offer of protection, of sharp steel and strong arms, Sandor Clegane, and I am again grateful," she tells him humbly.

He gazes at her steadily, and she sees that he is remembering as well; then he bows his head to her with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"With your skills, we could use a man like you in the Night's Watch, Clegane; Tormund can find men to guard my sister," Jon offers.

"I'll not take your vows; and more than I was willing to take a knight's vows. Besides, I never rightly asked to return to Westeros…might be your dragon queen will come for me as well. Best I get out of the way, and stay out of sight too," he rasps firmly.

"Now that's decided, we'll needs return to Bear Island. We'll pass through the mountains on our way west and can ask among the clans for a place for you to live," Maege Mormont tells Sansa now. "The Flints are your father's kin; they'll be willing to shelter you," she states. "We'll start with them. We'll have them send someone for you here when they've found you a place."

Sansa shakes her head now. If she is not to stay with the wildlings or to flee to Essos, then she knows exactly where she would wish to be. She thinks of the Umber hunting cottage, far off the Kingsroad and deep in the forests of what is still Umber lands. It is safe and secluded and only two days ride from her children. It was her Greatjon's favourite place in the world and where he was happiest, he had told her.

"I never thought I would want to run away here with a lady…my own lady wife, but I wanted it to be just us, Sansa."

It will not be just the two of them, but it will be her new home. She has run away, but he will still be with her and she will be safe. She will have Jon send word to Lord Jon somehow; and Sandor Clegane will once again protect her. She almost smiles, but is more from relief.

"You are kind to offer, Maege, and I thank you for all that you have done for me; but it is not necessary…you see, I already know of a place to live."

AN: The remedies that Sansa mentions are actually for dysentery and not entirely accurate but she is more read in herblore than practiced at this point.

The name Heather for Uncle Mors' daughter is based on the names of wildling spearwives in ADWD who all have names based on plants: Willow, Rowan, Myrtle; and so I kept with the practice for her.