This is not a disclaimer, just to clarify…in case anyone was looking for one.
As the sky had slowly spun from darkness to dawn, Sansa had been lulled to sleep by the sway of the saddle, waking only when the horse stomped his hoof impatiently, reins holding him from advancing. Snow was still falling while the black horse danced left and then right, chomping at his bit. Sandor stood in the stirrups and pulled his hood off, craning to look behind them. Sansa desperately grabbed onto his hips through his robes when Stranger suddenly hopped to the side, pulling the giant man back down to his saddle.
"I'm sorry," she whispered fervently when he turned around, looking positively enraged. He settled back into the saddle, massaging his bad leg. "I need to tell you," she said quietly, "that if you are headed towards Heart's Home, you will not find a warm welcome for us there. Lord Corbray loyalties were last purchased by my good father for gold and promises. His men would most certainly return me to my betrothed."
"Gulltown would be the quickest, but everyone will guess that we would go there. We could make for Old Anchor or skirt the shores to Wickenden," he mused out loud while Stranger was given his head and slowly plodded aimlessly through the snow.
"I'm at your leisure," Sansa chirped.
Sandor groaned, rubbing his leg again. "We've got to get somewhere soon. This storm is coming in faster than I thought." He pulled his hood back on, spurring Stranger forward. "I'll even take a damned cave," he grumbled.
For hours while they twisted through the woods and steep terrain, snow creeping further and further up Stranger's legs. When Sandor had refused the eel jerky Sansa had offered, she denied herself the same. His mood progressively darkened as the day continued and his leg pain had caused him to alternately flex his gloved fists, rub the offending wound and murmur a line of curses.
Theories of dying in the snow had blossomed in her mind when the snow drift had reached Stranger's knees until Sandor pointed out a cave. Sansa dismounted and immediately went to work gathering low-hanging, dead branches while Sandor checked the cave for unwanted visitors. A pile of ashes revealed that it had obviously been used by a traveler some time ago, but it was otherwise clear and very small. With a fire started, the large entrance barely had enough room for the hefty stallion, leaving the other two occupants sitting leg to leg, backs against the wall.
"Cozy." Sansa tried to make light of the situation, but soon realized that Sandor's pain was overwhelming him, eyes glazed and practically pawing at his trousers to alleviate the discomfort. "The heat should help," she offered. Shuffling in the small space, Sansa carefully kept the fire stoked, occasionally pushing past the black horse to retrieve more wood in the fleeting daylight.
When the winds picked up, Sandor had Sansa blanket Stranger to keep the beast warm and act as a door. The smoke rose along the roof of the cave towards the opening and the clever horse kept his head lowered. Her stomach rumbled a protest so loudly that Sandor suggested a meal. They ate in silence, Sansa watching her companion to try and figure out what was going through his head, concluding that she would go on foot alone if he turned back.
Later, when the world outside had fallen dark and they lay side by side on their bedrolls, knees bent for lack of space, Sansa declared, "Did you know that my bethrothed has already fathered children and that his family has married into the Freys, the same ones that slaughtered my mother and brother?" There were so many things left unsaid that she was desperate to engage him in conversation, no matter how one-sided. She felt him move next to her, blatantly touching her hand with his own. Sansa caught her breath and lay stone still.
"I can't believe you still have this old thing." His hand left hers and she felt Sandor poke at her makeshift pillow.
She turned towards him, his eyes shifting back to the cave ceiling, careful not to make eye contact. "This old thing was my reminder of what I gave up. It inspired me to make the hard decisions, face uncertainty and be brave in my darkest hours." Sansa's hand stroked the worn white cloak, blood having turned black years before. The feel of the fabric on her skin centered her; many nights she reached deep into her cedar chest just to touch the Kingsguard cloak after Petyr had passionately cried out for Catelyn.
The dying flames in the cave made Sandor's face appear more horrifying, as if the scars were melting. "I was taught that with my mother's beauty and Littlefinger's wits, I could make my own world," Sansa continued, recalling her good father's eyes close, unable to fight the sweet sleep laced wine. "So I did just that: began to maneuver my own destiny. I am finally free of Joffrey, the Lannisters, and Littlefinger. I'm done been traded, thrown away and used and I'll have no more of it, thank you."
"You are still married to the Imp." Sansa had never heard his voice sound so small.
"I am, if he lives. As much as his person repulsed me, he was kind and considerate and never forced me into anything, not even our marriage." Sansa realized that she actually respected Tyrion for that bit of decency. "However," she persisted, with a smile dancing on her lips, "you were the first to put your mantle on my shoulders."
His raspy laughter filled the small void of the cave. "Bugger that. Go to sleep now, Little Bird. Hopefully this storm will pass and we will be on our way to Old Anchor in the morning." Noisily, he turned his back to her but scooted so that they were touching. Sansa turned her body towards the fire, moving back until her spine met with his.
"Good night, Sandor."
"Good night, Little Bird." Within minutes, his snoring started and even in her exhaustion, Sansa could not fall asleep through the noise. She bounced herself against the solid length of his back to see if it would shift him and cease the snoring. Suddenly, he rolled over, almost crushing her; a giant arm landing across her shoulders and protectively pulling her closer, unconsciously pushing his head down across the top of her own. Although uncomfortable from the weight of his arm pressing her shoulder into the ground, Sansa was powerless to move. His breathing deepened and Sansa felt herself drift to sleep.
She could smell and taste the ashes before she opened her eyes. Struggling to sit, the soot in the air caused her to cough violently, her eyes filling with tears after realizing that she was back in her room at Winterfell. Lady lay silently next to Sansa's bed, her eyes closed in sleep. Sansa reached to stroke the grey fur and watched, horrified, as her direwolf crumbled into a heap of ashes. "Lady," Sansa sobbed, "I am so sorry!" Her fingers longingly carded through the powder, seeking forgiveness.
A sigh escaped her lips before she closed her heavy eyelids again. She snapped them open again, hearing a low growl, finding herself standing in the godswood before the heart tree. When yellow eyes peered at her from behind a tree, Sansa recognized them and called out to Grey Wind. The direwolf slowly emerged, then rose on his back legs until Sansa realized it wasn't Grey Wind, but Robb with Grey Wind's head sewn to his shoulders. Trying to back away, she slipped on the snow and fell, finding that the snow had turned to ashes. Robb approached, Grey Wind's eyes boring into Sansa's.
"Queen of the North." Robb spoke, although his wolf's head didn't move. Terrified, Sansa found that she couldn't reply, as if her lips were sealed shut. "Sansa, Queen of the North," he repeated.
She shook her head back and forth at him and felt something heavy biting into her scalp, through her hair. Sansa's tentatively reached for her head and stiffened when she felt an icy, metal crown with tall spikes that pricked her finger when she touched the tip. She pulled her bloody finger down and watched as a drop of blood splashed into the ashes.
"Family, duty, honor," Robb reminded her. When she looked back at her dead brother, his handsome face was returned with a sad smile as he offered his hand to help her up. "Queen of the North, arise."
Sansa put her small hand into her brother's cold, calloused one. Their twin blue eyes met before he embraced her in a hug. Sansa wept with sorrow for her dead brother and king. He stroked her hair before whispering, "Winter is coming…the North will never forget." She nodded into his black cloak, his arms flexing and tightening their embrace until he was squeezing the air from her lungs.
"Robb!" Her lips unsealed, Sansa writhed against his hold. "Please, Robb, let go!"
"Queen of the North!" he roared into her ears. "Family! Duty! Honor!"
"Let me go!" His grip tightened, Sansa barely able to take in more than a small gasp. Bursts of light crowded her vision; the crown burrowed into her skin, blood running down her face.
"Winter is coming, Lady Stark, Queen of the North. The North will never forget." A deep growl rumbled in her ears and Sansa's last sight was Grey Wind's yellow eyes staring at her before she lost consciousness.
She woke with a jerk to her body, staring into the embers of the dying fire. Crawling out from under Sandor's arm, Sansa sat and stretched her aching body before rekindling the fire. Sleep evaded her after the dream as she tried to wrap her head around the meaning of it. She sat back down on her bedroll, leaning against the slumbering giant's stomach, smiling as it pushed her back and forth with his breathing.
Fatigue's gentle fingers pulled at the eldest living Stark while she unbraided her faded, dyed hair. For years Sansa had hoped that she would see Winterfell again, hoping when praying to the gods became useless and she learned that life was not a song. The man she rested against was the only one she trusted with her life; his promise to kill for her was as certain as the copper hair that rejected the black dye.
Reclining once more, Sansa studied Sandor's face as he slept. She remembered the day he had dabbed her bleeding lip, when he had thrown his cloak around her shoulders after refusing to beat her and his crassness when he recounted the women he had raped and killed. Long ago, Sansa had wondered what contradictions were hidden behind the anger. Here before her was the man, Sandor Clegane, the Hound long dead and buried on the Saltpans, the gravedigger having lived on. The relaxed lips just beyond her own, the same ones that had stolen a kiss, tempted her to steal her own. When she finally worked up the courage and followed through, he slept on, uninterrupted.