Summary: Whatever it had been that had kept Sandor away was over; he was here now and was going to be with her forever. One way or another, she was sure of it.

Hence his words, when they came, took her so completely unaware.

Sansa

Sansa closed her eyes, took a deep breath and counted to ten. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. And then to twenty. She needed all the schooling she had had in the Red Keep about how to keep her true feelings in check and portray outwardly only what she wanted to, only what she needed to. Her nails dug into the soft skin of her palms as she clenched her hands in her lap, protected from sight by the table.

She had enjoyed the council meetings in the beginning, but as the talk in them turned more and more towards her future marriage she had started to detest them. This particular meeting had been one of the worst, the men in the room blithely ignoring her protestations and squawking about marriage and children as if things were that simple! From the corner of her eye she saw Sandor leaving the room, his large size making it impossible for him to sneak out unnoticed. She knew he too was weary of the talk but he had never raised the topic with her when they were alone.

She longed to follow him and could hardly wait until this farce of an evening was over and she would hear his soft scratching on her door and she could hold him in her arms once more. Sansa made a mental note to force the topic that evening, as unpleasant as it was. She had to let him know that she had no plans to marry and only listened to her lords out of politeness.

Yet when the hush fell over the castle and she waited, cocking her head for Sandor's steady footsteps, he didn't come.

Sansa's days were never idle, just like her lady mother's had never been. Cersei and Margaery and other ladies in the South might have had the luxury of indolence but in Winterfell everyone toiled, and after the sack and so much devastation, even more than before. Hence Sansa had hardly time to wonder about Sandor's absence the next day. Besides, they didn't spend every single night together anyway; both she and Sandor sometimes had duties that lasted long into the night.

Sansa worked on the handlooms weaving new covers and blankets to replace the ones lost in the turmoil of the war, and the monotony of the task gave her time to think. She wondered what had happened to Tyrion. Was he still alive or lying in an unmarked grave or in a ditch somewhere? Had the shrewdest of the Lannisters met his fate far away from his lands and family? As much as she had despised their union, she couldn't deny that Tyrion had shown at least some degree of decency towards her. She knew that he had hoped to find an ally in her, he in his own way also being a pawn for his powerful family. Nonetheless, he was still a Lannister and Sansa hadn't found it in her heart to forgive him that, nor how he had continued to strive towards advancing his family's fortunes, not caring if in the process it destroyed everything that was important to her. In the end he had killed his own father…the cruellest fate of all. A kinslayer. Sansa shuddered.

Suddenly she heard a soft voice next to her.

"My dear child, is something the matter?"

Queen Selyse was an odd woman and Sansa had never been able to completely relax in her company, but she was kind in her own way and meant well towards her so she didn't mind her strange ways.

"No, Your Grace, just a chill in the room," she responded, glancing at the figure sitting in the chair on the other side of the looms. Queens didn't weave but she was embroidering an elaborate cloth for her strange god, R'hllor.

"It is cold here, that is true, but at least you don't have the eternal wind from the sea," Selyse sighed. If she missed her old home she never showed it, always unfailingly patient and supportive of the two causes she believed in more than anything; her Lord of Light and her husband the King.

In a rare moment of feeling a sympathetic bond with the only woman in Winterfell who had shared a life similar to hers, filled with the obligations of a noble lady and an arranged marriage, Sansa raised her voice again.

"There is much talk about my marriage, as you may know, Your Grace. What are your thoughts on the matter, I wonder?"

The older woman stopped her task and looked at Sansa, contemplating.

"Marriage is a blessed state, especially if followed by children. Your lord husband being likely dead, I'd expect you to be looking forward to a more suitable union." Her features softened when she continued. "Aren't you, Lady Sansa? Longing for a babe of your own?"

"I am not sure if I in good conscience could marry another. Who would be a suitable candidate anyway? If ever even a sighting of Tyrion Lannister is confirmed, this man would cease being my husband and his children would become bastards. Not many men are ready to endure such uncertainty." Sansa felt she had to make somebody understand her predicament and be sympathetic to her position – even if her true motivations were different to those she professed.

"I doubt that matters much. Being wed to the Lady of Winterfell and siring the future Lord Stark is its own reward for sure. Besides, you are a beautiful girl and many men like that in a woman, being ready to forget many other inconveniences because of that. There will be no lack of candidates when the time comes." Selyse leaned confidentially towards Sansa and lowered her voice.

"Or maybe there is already somebody in your mind and you are worried that he may not be ready to settle to the situation?" Her dark eyes glinted in the last rays of sunlight piercing through the window.

"Oh no, there is no one!" Sansa exclaimed before her curiosity got the better of her. "If there was, so what? Does it really matter whom I marry, high or low? Excuse my bluntness, Your Grace, but the matter boils down to the need for heirs to my house, and in that one man might be as good as another."

The queen looked at her thoughtfully for a while. "A man high or low? I have never thought of it that way. We nobles marry nobles, that's the way of the world." She let out a stifled noise. "If only my lord husband and I had been blessed with sons, one of them would have been a perfect candidate for you, and you a worthy bride for him." The woman's eyes misted over and Sansa shifted uncomfortably in her seat. After a while the queen seemed to have gathered herself and continued.

"Up here there are not many nobles, especially as men of these lands eschew the honours of knighthood. So you may not have much choice, my dear girl. Yet the lordship of House Stark follows the blood, so the next Lord Stark will still be the son you have with your lord husband, whoever he is. The Lord of Light blessing your union, of course."

The queen returned to her sewing after those words and missed the effect they had on Sansa, who sat up straighter, staring at the wall and the crumbling mortar between the aged stone slabs. She had never seriously considered anyone as her husband, only pushing the matter as far away from her mind as possible. Now she found herself thinking about it earnestly for the first time.

Sansa was not stupid; she knew as well as anyone else the hard facts of the situation. She had accepted that eventually, maybe years away, she would have to marry. She had been brought up her whole life knowing that her life was not truly her own, just like Robb's life's path had not been his to determine. Firstborns of noble houses learned those lessons early on, as did their younger siblings. If in her foolishness she had once dreamt of love and marriage with a perfect prince, she had always known it could also go the other way. Her own mother had been wedded to a man she had hardly known and her aunt to a man who was already old and settled in his ways before their union. One of them had been lucky, the other less so, but both of them had nonetheless been powerless to change the course of their lives.

While weaving hues of dun brown and earthy greens into a sturdy fabric, Sansa started to consider all the men she knew to be secretly positioning themselves as her future groom. With regret she had to dismiss Sandor soon enough, knowing how impossible that would be. He was not a Northerner and still only grudgingly tolerated by many, even after his tamed behaviour and many good deeds in the service of House Stark. Sighing and moving away from her lover Sansa estimated each and every other possible suitor by one criterion only; how likely it would be for her to be able to continue her liaison with Sandor after the marriage.

Anyone already in love with her would not do, as such a man could be possessive and demanding of her attentions. Maybe somebody old and kindly? Maybe Hellion Tallhart, who was a widower, a bulky man still only just past the prime of his life? He was thoughtful and considerate and not known ever to have lost his temper. Even better, he had two adult sons which proved that he could sire them. Or maybe Torstein Karstark, likewise an older man, never married but known to have baseborn children in his keep? Sansa blushed realising that she was assessing her bannermen as a farmer does bulls, based on their ability to breed. Yet she had to be realistic. If an heir was needed, surely it was better to marry someone who could produce one? As much as the blame for barrenness was mostly laid at a wife's feet, it was known that a husband had a role to play too. Many a maid didn't carry babes with their first husbands, but produced a brood of them after marrying another.

Yes, someone old and kind… Not so kind as to endure a liaison with another from his wife, she had to grudgingly admit, as that was surely unthinkable. Perhaps still kind enough to let her live her life on her own and only bother her to ensure the begetting of children?

Sansa shuddered again. The thought of any other man touching her, no matter how nice or gentle, filled her with revulsion. Sandor had been her first and only lover and the pleasure and contentment she experienced in his arms had made her incompatible with anyone else. Without noticing it her weave started to get denser and denser as she worked through her frustration with her hands, and sighing deeply she finally had to undo large parts of the cloth. She winced at the stiff handiwork so unlike her usual soft and pliable product.

Oh well. There is still time. I won't think about this now, she finally concluded, then set aside her looms and started to count the time until she could retire to her chambers. Surely Sandor would come to her this evening?

Their time together lately had been so harmonious and joyful - like a peaceful haven after all the struggles it had taken for them to get there. During the days Sansa longed to see Sandor in the evening, and during the nights she wished she could be by his side in the daylight. His imposing presence in the yard or in the hall sent sparkles of happiness traveling through her body and sometimes she had to turn to hide the smile that spread across her face at the sight of her lover.

Although Sandor never told her that he loved her, Sansa didn't begrudge him that. Nor did she regret her own confession. He was still so much like the hound in Howland Reed's story; wary and cautious, unsure whether he could really believe the way his life had turned. Sansa just had to give him more time and show him her love and maybe in time he would start to feel more comfortable about those things. Moreover, who needed the words when his every act spoke of his feelings loud and clear?

Despite her confidence, as days passed and Sandor stayed away, Sansa couldn't avoid getting worried. He was still there, his presence constant and reassuring, but also a reminder to her that something was not quite right. She followed him with her gaze in the Great Hall during the evening meals, one of the few times they were assured of being in the same room at the same time.

She couldn't move her eyes away from his large hands tearing into a chunk of bread, squeezing and ripping, showing both delicacy and force. As he does with me. She observed the way he raised a goblet to his lips and drank deeply, the way his braid rested on his shoulder, a few wisps of dark hair brushing his cheeks and forehead. The corners of his eyes wrinkling when he looked up at something on the other side of the hall – but never at Sansa, always turning away if by coincidence their eyes met. Sansa could have walked to him and demanded his attention, but the notion disturbed her. Why is he not coming to me? What has changed?

She tried to find situations where she could approach him in private, as few and far between they were. One day her steps took her into the training yard where the clang of steel and thudding sounds of wooden swords and war hammers drifted into the castle air from sunrise til sundown. Winterfell's troops were reforming and there were many wet-behind-the-ear recruits who needed to be taught how to defend their lands. Sandor had taken much of the training upon himself after becoming annoyed by the ineptitude of the youngsters.

He was there, as Sansa had expected, barking orders and foul-mouthed curses to anyone who didn't respond to his instructions in the way he deemed adequate. She stopped next to the middle section of the fence separating the practice area from the walkway, but if Sandor saw her, he didn't give any indication of it.

Once again Sansa was captivated by the way he moved, almost impossibly graceful considering his size. Young boys much lighter and with nimble limbs looked like wooden mummer's dolls with their jerking movements and slow reactions compared to the dark warrior who ducked and weaved, turned and lunged with the elegance and force of a wild animal. How he could do that was a mystery to Sansa.

As she stood there, shivering slightly in the early evening chill in her shawl, she suddenly heard a deep voice next to her.

"So it takes a Southerner to show the men of the North how 'tis done, does it?"

Sansa startled and threw a quick look at the speaker, recognising him as one of the senior men-of-arms, Roddel; one of the few she remembered seeing in Winterfell before…everything. Then he had been just one of many amongst the troops, but over the years by the grace of his skills and undoubtedly just by pure luck he had stayed alive through the Young Wolf's campaigns and returned to Winterfell with the few other survivors of the Red Wedding. He was now one of the captains of the garrison and widely respected by all.

"He is not exactly a Southerner, but hails from the Westerlands," Sansa offered mildly, wondering if Roddel's statement had been intended as a rebuke.

"My apologies, Lady Sansa, for barging into your presence like this." The man made a sweeping but unsteady bow, the kind that would have earned giggles and sneers in King's Landing, but which Sansa received with a genuine smile and a gracious nod of her head. Sometimes it amused her how people thought that she needed to be treated like a highborn lady with sweeps and curtseys. She was one, of course, but no amount of bowing or scraping would increase it or take it away. She knew none of that came naturally to the folk of Winterfell and hence she was especially touched when they made the effort for her benefit.

"I saw you looked a bit cold and I thought this might be useful." He presented her with a woollen cloak and after Sansa's affirmation draped it around her shoulders. It was heavy and smelled of outdoors and horse but it was warm and Sansa wrapped it tightly around her, grateful for the thoughtfulness it conveyed.

Instead of moving away, Roddel stayed where he stood. They both stared into the middle of the yard where Sandor commanded the whole enclosure with his towering presence.

"He may be from the West but your man is becoming one of the North."

Sansa turned to her companion, delighted to hear someone speaking favourably of Sandor. How he had been received still sometimes smarted, the unfairness of it.

"So he is – although he is not exactly my man, but a man of Winterfell."

Roddel looked at her oddly but said nothing. Sansa ignored it in favour of fulfilling her curiosity.

"Still, what makes you say so?"

"I am not blind. He came here with a reputation, and a poor one at that. A craven, a turn-cloak, a brutal butcher, a Lannister lackey." Seeing Sansa's brow furrow Roddel raised his hands in supplication before hastily continuing, "Yet we have now seen the man for what he is. You know as well as I, my lady, that here in the North we prefer to judge a man for his deeds and words, not for the idle wagging of many tongues that can speak many things for many reasons."

Sansa observed the dark brown eyes, the stubble of his greying beard and light brown short-cropped hair and in him she saw the honestly and truthfulness she had missed during her years in the South. Roddel looked her straight in the eye when he spoke and she knew that he told the truth.

"I am glad to hear that. He was not exactly welcomed when he first came here."

Roddel spat on the ground, a big glob that landed perfectly across the fence posts to the sand on the other side. As if realising his uncouth behaviour he shuffled on his feet and threw an apologetic look at Sansa.

"'Tis true, my lady. But minds have changed since then. The men respect him and his skills. A coarse man he is, foul-mouthed and hard to please, but he is fair and he puts his body on the line as not many men in his position would."

"What exactly is his position, pray tell? You do know that he has never taken knightly vows and is no lord of any lands?"

For a moment it looked like Roddel was about to spit again, but thinking it over he restrained himself, only snorting his scorn through his nose.

"Knights! We don't really care about them here. There's a few of them around, most knighted in good Lord Ned's campaigns during the Robert's Rebellion, and some of them knighted their sons and bannermen in turn. Nah, that doesn't matter."

"What about lordship or the prominence of his house?"

Roddel seemed to think of it for a second. "From what I have heard about Clegane's Keep, it sounds mightily bigger than many of the wooden hovels some of your bannermen north and east and west from here hold, and that has nothing to do with their standing. Nor if they are second sons, or third. If a man is a good sort, that's all that matters."

He turned to look at Sansa and his expression was serious. "When the winter is coming it's not the titles or the grandness of the house, especially if it is far away, that keeps trouble at bay. No, it is the strong arms and the steady head."

A rush of satisfaction flooded over Sansa at those words. She had been right in insisting that Sandor stayed – and he had been right in insisting that he fight with the men to establish his standing among them. Yet it was one thing what the men-at-arms thought, and another what the opinions of high lords were.

"Do you know if these are the views also shared by the lords of the North? I am not always sure if they are as free with their words with me as they should. Many think me only a young woman, naïve in the ways of the world." She smiled to lighten the meaning of her words but pricked her ears to pay close attention to what the man next to her would say.

He was silent for a while and Sansa wondered if he, too, was attempting to formulate something polite but dismissive as a response. Finally he cleared his throat.

"My lady, I hope you don't mind me being blunt, but the day you returned to Winterfell many might have thought exactly that. You hadn't been seen here for years, and the last time you were, you were just a young girl, polite and well-behaved but more interested in dresses and cakes than anything else. Not that there is anything wrong with that." Unexpectedly he smiled. "I have two girls of my own, two-and-ten and nine years of age, and I know exactly how frivolous and fleeting a young maid's mind can be."

"Oh," was all Sansa could think of to say.

"Yet that was then and things are different now. Indeed, if you don't mind an old man speaking his mind, sometimes it is like Lord Eddard himself has returned to us, with you at the head of matters now. He was never one of those lords who had to rant and rave to make things happen. He was quiet, but when he needed something done, there was no mistaking that it was done exactly as he wanted. You, my lady, are the same. Just like your father, you have not led us astray yet and I can't see that happening in the future either. I am not alone in this, mind you, all your lords feel the same although some of them might be rather embarrassed to admit it."

Roddel rocked back on his heels with his hands behind his back, a satisfied expression on his face after having delivered his verdict.

Sansa couldn't help blushing slightly out of pleasure at hearing his words.

"It pleases me greatly to hear you say these things. As my father, I too strive towards the good of my house, my bannermen and all the people in the North."

"We know that, my lady, and we support you. Whatever you decide, it will be for all the right reasons, I have no doubts about it. Neither do the lords, soldiers or the small folk."

Silence ensued after that, leaving Sansa to cherish the man's words in her mind, thrilled about the amount of respect they conveyed.

"'Tis a shame if he leaves, having settled here so well." Roddel finally commented, still observing the men in their exercises.

She raised her head and blinked in confusion. Who, what?

"What do you mean?"

Roddel pointed at Sandor, who had taken up a wooden sword and was now facing three opponents at once, shouting instructions to them how to best attack him. His face was sweaty from the strain of exercise and he flicked his hair back without letting his eyes leave his opponents. Sansa glanced at him in confusion.

"The saddler told me he has ordered a set of saddle bags and a new saddle and brought his foul-tempered horse's bridle and reins in for repair. Looks like preparations for a journey. Are you sending him on a mission then?"

Sansa felt a wave of nausea in the pit of her stomach. She lifted her hand to her throat, which was suddenly dry as parchment.

"No, no missions planned nor is he going to go anywhere. I am sure it is just normal maintenance," she managed to say.

"Hmph, that is good to hear. As I said, he's a good sort and we need men like him."

They stayed there for a while longer until darkness started to seep in and the men in the yard started to gather their things. Sansa had planned to wait until Sandor returned to the keep and walk there with him, but suddenly she felt she was not ready for that. She turned away, handed the cloak back to Roddel with her thanks and walked briskly back to her rooms.

The more she thought about Roddel's words, the calmer she became. Of course Sandor was not going to go anywhere! She remembered him grumbling about the poor state of his horse's leathers, and here he finally had a chance to look into it. He also had coin, a fair reward for fair work, so there was nothing unusual in him actually attending to those matters.

After what they had now there was no way he would be leaving without telling her. Yes, admittedly he had been behaving oddly lately, but by now Sansa had guessed the reason for it; it must have been because of those annoying demands for her to get married! She remembered him sneaking away from the hall after one especially loud argument about the matter, and after that he had kept his distance. Surely he can't think I am seriously considering it?

Sansa decided she had to take action to sort the matter before the situation grew any worse. The next day she wrote a neat note with her own hand addressed to Sandor Clegane.

A matter of great importance has come to my attention and I require your assistance in resolving the issue. I trust your knowledge and skills will aid me in this and hence this request. This matter is both urgent and confidential and I ask you to respond to it at your earliest convenience.

She signed the note with flourishing initials "SS", folded it into a tight square and handed it to a servant boy with instructions to deliver it to Sandor Clegane's own hand as soon as possible. To sweeten the deal, knowing how children were still frightened of Sandor's fearsome appearance and intense stare she gave the boy a small coin as a reward. She stared at the retreating back of the boy, hopping and skipping in his delight of an unexpected boon, hoping that Sandor would understand what she hadn't been able to write. To my chambers, tonight.

A familiar soft scratch on her door confirmed for her that he had.

Sansa opened the door and for a moment her heart fluttered at the sight him on her doorstep after so many nights away. She would have never imagined such a thought crossing her mind even a few months ago, but as she took in Sandor's appearance she couldn't help thinking how handsome he looked. Tall, muscular, strong features softened by a dense beard and darks strands of hair, and above all the misty grey eyes that didn't carry the old rage in them anymore. His scars were the only feature that marred the overall look but even they didn't matter to Sansa.

He looked ill at ease but Sansa decided to ignore that. Yes, he was annoyed and maybe even angry – but that mattered little now that he finally was here. They had not discussed the threat of her marriage properly and she resolved to clear away any misunderstandings about it in case that was the issue – but not now. Later.

For now she took his hand and pulled him with her to the bed, and not waiting for him even to stop and remove his boots she pushed him against the sideboard so Sandor lost his balance and fell on his back. He landed heavily, his vast mass making the bed boards creak alarmingly, but she followed and fell on top of him. Her weight was easily absorbed by his bulk and she shifted to a comfortable position, her hands crossed under her chin. She studied his face, its familiar lines and cracks, the shape of his nose and his eyes under his prominent eyebrows. Their grey was dark and intense and they stared back at her, giving nothing away.

"What is it, Sandor? Why have you been avoiding me?"

Sandor blinked and made a feeble attempt to rise, but Sansa didn't allow it.

"Don't tell me. I think I know what it is and I don't want to discuss it. I will not marry another and that is that. Come closer, rest by my side and let's forget all that foolishness."

Just being near him seemed to flush away all the worries from her mind and Sansa sighed contentedly. When she was with Sandor, everything was right in the world. All her troubles seemed smaller and all her joys seemed bigger when she was able to share them with the one who had grown so close to her, no matter how much he might snort or laugh at her. The sense of feeling all alone in the world and being the only one left from a loving family, which had followed her every day since her father's beheading, seemed to recede when she was with him. He was now her family, her pack, and the satisfaction Sansa felt went much, much deeper than a simple passion of the flesh could ever do.

Yet she couldn't deny that part of their relationship either. She never got tired of his body and the reactions he raised in her. She had become much surer of herself and her desires and had learned more about his, and so it was that she had no hesitation in starting the provocation that was as old as the world itself; a wandering hand, teasing fingers, strategic positioning of her body to press subtly against his groin, a slow swirling motion of her hips… Sansa enjoyed being the one to initiate the act, as it fed into her wanton desire to dominate this large man with his unsurpassable strength, relying on nothing but the power of his feelings and desire for her.

Soon Sandor roused to her game and responded, sighing and grunting but otherwise wordlessly turning her on her back, removing her nightshift with a few sure movements and exploring her curves with his large hands and intense gaze. He invested such care and attention in his mission it felt almost as he was seeing her for the very first time. It amused and delighted Sansa, squirming under his touch. He has missed me too! He is just too stubborn to admit it or come to me after first staying away. She hid the curve of her lips lest he saw it and asked her about it; she was happy to let him think that he was not quite as plain for her to read as he was.

When he entered her it was slow, teasingly so, stopping after every few pushes, and it was then that Sansa could feel Sandor's whole body trembling, taut as a bowstring under her hands. Why he should torture himself – and her – so, she couldn't understand, and she whispered soft words into his ear, partly encouraging, partly pleading. When she eventually felt all of him inside her, she sighed and formed silent words with her mouth, not releasing a sound of them but repeating them over and over again just the same. I love you, I love you, I love you.

If she had been worried about his foul mood affecting their lovemaking she was soon proven wrong. Sandor was tender, attentive, his hands and mouth were everywhere and the depth of his need was overwhelming to her. She responded in earnest and once the peaks of their passion had overtaken them both she curled against him and felt happier than she could ever remember being. Whatever it had been that had kept Sandor away was over; he was here now and was going to be with her forever. One way or another, she was sure of it.

Hence his words, when they came, took her so completely unaware.

Sansa's first reaction was not so much a reaction but a lack of one; it was as if time stopped and she just lay there and a terrible cold dread engulfed her, leaving her utterly frozen and still.

I have to leave Winterfell.

She rejected the words, willed them to go away, refused to accept them. It didn't help though. She could sense that Sandor, too, lay motionless by her side and held his breath. Was he expecting her to reply? How could she respond to something like that?

"Why would you say such a thing?" Her throat was constricted and she felt she could hardly breathe – no wonder her words were hardly audible. This must be a misunderstanding. He means he has to leave for a while, he has something he has to do. Maybe he wants to visit the Quiet Isle again. Yes, it must be that. He will just go somewhere and be back soon again.

Sansa's mind raced, one thought chasing another, going back to Roddel's earlier comment: 'Looks like preparations for a journey'. She hardly registered Sandor next words – but one of them caught her attention. Marry.

That gave her the presence of mind to respond. That was after all what she had planned to do in any case. No marriage for her, not for a long time. You see, you don't have to go.

Her courage grew as she spoke, and for a brief moment so did her anger. Yet as soon as Sandor got up and started to don his clothes, all that bravery drained away and she was left only with the sight of the man she loved moving away from her, his wall - so thoroughly constructed over decades - falling back in place, piece by piece, along with the clothes he retrieved from the floor. Smallclothes hiding his manhood and his passions. Breeches and tunic covering his human form, and alongside his stern expression transforming him into somebody she didn't know anymore.

Sansa's eyes filled with tears and overflowed, forming wet trails on her cheeks as she buried her knees against her breasts and curled into a fetal position to protect herself from the blow.

Sandor turned and watched her sitting there but he didn't come closer, only continuing to dress. One boot, then another, then his belt where a small dagger dangled – he never went anywhere without some kind of a weapon, not even to Sansa's chambers – and bit by bit her confidant and companion changed into a steely-eyed warrior who looked at her with a stranger's cold hard eyes. The Hound. Is back. she registered dully.

There was only one thing to do and Sansa lunged, not knowing exactly how, but her desperation gave her the strength to seize him, wrap her arms around his waist and hold on to him for dear life. Sandor spoke and his voice was cold but all the words flew over Sansa's head as she clutched him as hard as she could. That was useless though, as his firm grip took hold of her arms, one after another, and peeled them away from him as if he was swatting a fly.

Sansa sank down Sandor's body trying to clasp anything, anything at all that would prevent him from leaving. His thighs, his knees, his calves. A pain like a thousand daggers twisted in her belly past the initial numbness, and once again she found herself on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor when her father's head was cut off; in the Great Hall in the Red Keep when the messengers brought the news about the Ironborn sacking Winterfell and murdering her young brothers; in her rooms with Tyrion Lannister when she first heard about the Red Wedding and the deaths of her mother and brother. The same shock, the same pain, the same horrible sinking feeling that left her terribly hollow and empty and the knowledge that she had lost something she could never get back.

She sobbed and pleaded and didn't care about anything, not the harsh words he threw at her, not the indignity of her situation. All she cared about was holding on and not letting go.

However, her efforts were useless. Sandor yanked her to her feet and carried her like a ragdoll back into the bed and pushed her under the blankets - as if anything in the world could warm her after the ice-cold hit to her core he had just delivered.

Sansa was past crying. She was quiet and listless and maybe it was the shreds of self-preservation that prevented her feeling anything at all, not properly registering even the touch of his scarred lips on her forehead. A slight touch, then it was gone – and after the sound of a closing door, so was he.

Sansa burrowed deeper and deeper into the mattress, hoping she could burrow all the way to the point of non-existence. She shut her mind and refused to let the horrible truth come back to her, but the pain remained.

And that was the way she remained for the rest of that awful night.