It was early afternoon and yet it was still snowing. The news called it the storm of the century, a once in a lifetime freak of nature, but Sansa knew it was a sign from her father. Sign or no, she still had no idea how she would get to her apartment, and so Sansa decided to stay in prayer. So nervous was she that she could hardly focus on her worship, but she trusted her father was listening to her and that he intuitively knew what she longed to say. He will help us, Sansa repeated to herself. I must believe. The shaman said Grandmother Kokumthena and Gitche Manitou will watch over me along with Father. She decided she would go to the sept after the snow let up and speak to her again, and perhaps the shaman would find something to comfort Brienne as well.

Gazing at the unmade bed, Sansa felt a deep flush creep over her face as memories of the previous night swept over her once more. Given her affinity for cleanliness, the state of the room should have repulsed her, but it strangely enough, Sansa found she didn't mind. Her nerves frayed, she laid down on the side where Sandor slept and stared at the ceiling. His scent permeated the bedding, comforting her at once. Sighing, Sansa cuddled his pillow against her chest and inhaled deeply, taking strength in his masculine scent. When will he come back? And Brienne, how is she? Now that Sandor is home from his deployment, just what would he be able to do to help her? Does this mean Sandor might deploy earlier than originally planned?

Sandor did not say if Brienne had any family besides Jaime. If she does not, no wonder she turned to Sandor. Sansa understood all too well how excruciating separation from one's family could be, especially during troubling times. After her family passed on, the anguish of grief made remembering even small things difficult for Sansa while she stayed at the Red Mansion, and so it was that over time, she transformed from porcelain, to ivory, to steel. Steadfastly she swallowed down her anger and misery until her only expression was blank, barren of emotion. Sansa's only goal was to survive the Lannisters and becoming a wolf in sheep's clothing was the only way she knew to endure her captivity. Early on Sansa was determined that she would do just that, no matter the cost.

She wore that mask for the world to see, the mask of the perfect lady engaged to Joffrey, the one with perfect manners and perfect clothing and perfect hair, but deep inside, Sansa heard the howling of wolves whenever she was alone. They reminded her that she was still part of the pack, part of the Wolf Clan of the Ojibwe, even if they had been skinned and scattered to the four winds. At night her father's voice called to her and the young woman found comfort in speaking to him, often out loud and before long, she did it any time she wanted to do so. It was a gift from the old gods, Sansa knew, much like her visions and one her father had with his deceased sister Lyanna, though the Lannisters took a decidedly different view of her unorthodox behavior.

Disgusted, Joffrey thought her mad and often laughed at her but Sansa did as she liked while unrepentantly ignoring him. Before long, he would have his men beat her for it, thinking it would dissuade her. Still she persisted and grew stronger, more powerful as she reconnected with her pack. Sansa never explained her beliefs to anyone; if anything, she even encouraged the Lannisters supposition that she had lost her mind despite the painful consequences-the result of which Sandor had seen earlier in her swollen ribs.

Her mother's friend Petyr Baelish, who worked as a business manager and head accountant for the Lannisters, had warned her to stop. Having been raised with her mother, he did not understand her beliefs. Petyr had grey-green eyes that did not smile when his mouth did, and the man had a way of making her uneasy that Sansa felt but could not put into words. When a man shows you who he is, believe him, Maester Luwin's words came to her whenever Baelish spoke to her in his parroting way, and she avoided him at all costs.

A medicine man that served House Stark, Maester Luwin had gone to the afterlife not long after her parents, and she listened to his words and his alone, never confiding in Petyr Baelish despite his pleading, never trusting anyone. When he saw he was getting nowhere and Sansa persisted in speaking to the dead, he left her alone then. So successfully had Sansa played her part that during that period she oftentimes had wondered if she was, indeed, losing her hold on reality.

Her fiancé, however, was not easily put off. Time only made Joffrey intensify his efforts until he increased her beatings to a daily basis. One day, his uncle Tyrion came home and stopped it. In time, even Joffrey's mother Cersei became concerned about her behavior affecting the family's reputation, and Sansa's continued ruse eventually led the Lannisters to believe she had lost all hold on reality. Unable to tolerate Sansa's presence any longer, Robert sent her back to Alaska and out of the prying eyes of the media.

Bronn! Her heart sank in fear. He used to be Tyrion's enforcer. Sansa clutched Sandor's pillow tighter still. Grabbing her phone, she wanted to tell Sandor right away but she was unsure how he would react. How had he ended up out of the Lannister household and in the American military, since he, too, came from Scotland? Would he show up at Sandor's place? Worse yet-would Joffrey come to help his aunt? After much deliberation, Sansa doubted that would happen.

After her prayers, she texted Margaery to come by Sandor's place and then went about cleaning the house to alleviate her anxiety. Afterward, Sansa hurriedly showered and dressed in the yoga pants, hoodie, long sleeved tee and Ugg boots she brought from home. She had just stripped the bedding and put it in the machine to soak when Margaery knocked on the door.

"Oooh, nice place to play house!" She whistled, glancing around the room. She set down Lady's carrier and her litter box in the living room. "She's been yowling for you."

"Oh my poor darling," Sansa lifted the cat out of the carrier and set her down on the floor. Immediately Lady jumped into her lap. "I shouldn't have left her for so long."

"What, overnight?" Margaery rolled her eyes. "She's a cat, you know, not a child."

"She's my baby." Smiling, Sansa picked up Lady and gave Margaery a tour of the small house and then offered her coffee and donuts.

Eagerly Margaery dove into the donuts, dipping them in her coffee with relish. "So, you feel any different?"

Did she? Yes and no, but Sansa wasn't sure she wanted to talk about it with Margaery. "Somewhat," she demurred. "I guess so."

Laughing, Margaery nodded. "I knew you would. It's all good, Sansa. So, where is the big man?"

She drew a deep breath. "You remember my friend Brienne?"

Eyes widening, Margaery nodded.

"Her husband is missing overseas. Sandor took her to the base to see what could be done to find him."

Deflated, Margaery shook her head sadly. "Oh gods, that's terrible. Do they think he's been captured or is he just missing?"

"He may be captured, but please, not a word to anyone."

"Oh I know the drill, not a word." Margaery simulated pulling a zipper across her mouth. "Poor guy. That's what happened to Renly."

Sansa heart began pounding furiously. Margaery must have noticed her changed demeanor, for she leaned forward and rested her hand on Sansa's arm. "Your man will find him, Sansa."

Heavy heartedly, Sansa nodded. She didn't have to tell Margaery that she touched on the very thing she feared most: that Sandor would return to Afghanistan in some covert operation to save his friend. Swallowing hard, she whispered, "I know. I'm just not ready to be parted from him so soon."

Shrugging, Margaery helped herself to another donut. "Such is the way of loving a serviceman, Sansa."

"I suppose that's true," she allowed quietly. "But I wish it wasn't."

"Don't we all?" Margaery smirked. "Well you've got plenty of clothes here and now your cat has moved in. Remember what I said about your independence?"

"Yes," Sansa wrung her hands uncertainly. "But I don't know how to do both. How can I be independent and yet be with Sandor as I want to be?"

Margaery sighed and leaned in close. "Keep your job. Keep going to school. Keep your apartment, even if you're never there; you never know when you might need it. Understand? Keep your own bank account, your own things separate from him."

"Okay, I think I understand."

"Good. Don't let him change your personality or your goals, either, with talk of marriage and babies and whatever." Margaery shuddered. "And if you find out in the end that it's just too hard, Sansa, then maybe it isn't meant to be."

"Alright," Sansa assented while absently chewing on her lemon filled donut. "I see what you're saying. Keep me in line, will you? If you see me, you know, disappearing too much, tell me, okay?"

"You can count on it," Margaery laughed. "Listen lady, I've got to go, but try not to worry too much, okay?" She kissed Sansa on each cheek. "Damn, you look good today. Love certainly agrees with you. Have I ever told you that I sometimes wish you were into girls?"

Laughing, Sansa swatted her arm. "Yes, too many times to count! Thanks for coming by."

After Margaery left, Sansa went about setting up Lady's litterbox and feeding area. To her pleasure, her normally skittish kitty seemed most comfortable and Sansa had to shoo her off the bed so she could change the bedding. For some reason, she just could not bring herself to change Sandor's pillow case. Cuddling it close to her chest, Sansa then laid down and took a nap.

In her dreams, Sansa was floating, no, she was flying high above a desert landscape. Had she indeed turned into the little bird to whom Sandor so often likened her? No, one look at herself in the reflection of the water told Sansa that she was a raven: a beautiful raven with silky black feathers. Below, Sansa saw a hulking grey wolf, the likes of which she had only seen once in the far north. Dark charcoal in color with a silver mane around his neck, the animal had deep, familiar gray eyes. The wolf led her to a remote enclave in the mountains where a fierce firefight was taking place. Squinting, she could not see who was fighting, and soon she no longer cared, for Sansa noticed a young male lion lying injured among the fray. An enormous snarling wolfhound entered the scene, tearing and snapping at anyone who dared approach him before snatching up the young lion in his immense jaws and then hurdling out of sight.

"Do you see what happened, Sansa?" The grey wolf woofed softly but when he spoke Sansa heard her father's voice.

"Yes, Father." Sansa answered him, though to her own ears she only heard the soft chirping of birdsong, the noise coming from her throat bearing little resemblance to the cawing of the ravens from home. "The dog survived and rescued the lion. What does it mean?"

Briefly she was afraid her father would not understand her reply until he answered: "The Hound will survive, my little lemoncake; your husband will survive and he will save Jaime, the Lannister lion."

Her mind raced with questions. "Sandor-he is not my husband in truth, not yet anyway," Sansa stammered, staring with all her might at the wolf. She could not remember any Ojibwe fables about wolves and lions. "Forgive me but you already know this. Why did you show me these animals, Father?"

"You lost your wolf, my sweet girl, and so I sent you a dog, a Hound, to be your companion, to keep you safe and to love you as he will never lover another. Now you are bonded with him in the way of our people. But Sansa, be aware that you must have faith that he will return to you in order for it to happen. You must believe in the old gods of the forest for them to help you."

"I-I do believe, Father," Sansa desperately cried out. "I do! I believe in what you have shown me. Please, tell me what to do! I-I have so many questions! How do I help him? Please, tell me. We both have so many wounds, please-"

"You must make Sandor believe, Sansa, if he is to survive. You are the raven, you must deliver the message from the old gods to him. Sandor is meant to survive, meant for greater things, too, and he will indeed live if he believes, if he has faith in the truth of your words. You must make him, Sansa."

"How?" Sansa tearfully asked. "Please tell me."

"Listen to your instincts, Sansa; they served you well in the Red Mansion. They serve you now. You are wolf-blooded. You must be strong."

"I will be strong, Father, for you and for Sandor." Sansa paused. "What of Mother's gods?"

"Her gods don't live here, Sansa." The wolf turned toward the sloped base and soon faded into the snowy vastness of the mountains.

Fear clutched at her throat. "Father! Father, please don't leave me!"

"I have never left you, Sansa," She heard him answer. "I am always with you."

Strong arms grasped her shoulders. "You're shaking, girl." For a moment Sansa thought it was her father, but when she opened her eyes it was Sandor's burned face she saw, his mouth twisting into a small smile. "I'm glad you stayed."

Relieved, Sansa smiled and held out her arms to him. Readily he climbed into bed beside her and gathered her into his arms. "I wouldn't just leave, especially under these conditions."

"I see your cat has made herself at home," he nodded toward his side of the bed, where Lady peacefully lay snoozing on his pajama bottoms. "And you've been cleaning again."

Sansa giggled. "What time is it?" Her eyes struggled to focus on the alarm clock on the nightstand.

"Suppertime," Sandor nuzzled into her neck. "You slept all day?

"Hmm." She nodded, rubbing her eyes. "I cleaned up and Margaery brought over Lady but then, yes, I went to sleep. Waste of a day." In truth it had been so long since Sansa felt as safe and secure as she did with Sandor that it seemed her body was trying to catch up on rest.

"Not a waste if you need it." Sandor looked her over carefully. As if sensing her next question, he went on: "Brienne's better now. I left her at the base with Elder brother."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Sansa snuggled into him. "Do you know what happened to her husband?"

"He was captured while going after a deserter from our unit."

"A deserter?" Sansa turned to face him. "Why did he desert? Does anyone know?"

"The man had some kind of breakdown, just walked away." Sandor shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. "Fucking unbelievable. He walked right off the base. He deserted in the middle of Afghanistan to go and find the Taliban. Jaime and a few others went after him to save his life."

"Maybe he has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder." Sansa sat up, watching him warily.

His head snapped up to her, his eyes glittering angrily, but Sandor merely nodded. "Aye. He hadn't slept in a week and the man acted numb, no response to anything, according to Bronn. We're trained to know the symptoms, look out for each other. They should have medevac'd him out before it came to that."

Pursing her lips together, Sansa meant to keep quiet but her father's words returned to her. "So, you believe his fellow soldiers were responsible for making sure he got medical treatment?"

"Aye, I do. If they had done their job this wouldn't have fucking happened."

Wrapping her arms around his waist, Sansa stared into his eyes. "Then I should do the same."

Clearly puzzled, Sandor stared at her.

"You need help, Sandor, for you are suffering from it too; I am certain of it."

Gritting his teeth, Sandor hastily moved away from her. "You-you don't know what the fuck you're talking about!"

Sansa sadly watched him as he began pacing the room like a caged animal. "You know that I do. I have both experienced it personally and also learned about it in school. I got help; I still go from time to time to see the doctor, especially when I have a relapse. You must do the same, Sandor, before you are the one who is endangering both yourself and others." Gently she moved beside him and rested her hand on his shoulder. "Let me help you."

"Sansa, you mean well, lass, but I've got to go help Jaime-I can't deal with my own shit right now."

"You mean Elder brother won't give you medical clearance if you go to him for help now, is that it?" Sansa folded her arms and glared at him. "You aren't ready and we both know it. You must help yourself before you can help Jaime."

"Fuck that noise-" Sandor spat out angrily.

"Sandor, I just heard you lay the blame on your unit for failing to help a fellow soldier and in so doing they risked the lives of others." Sansa interrupted him. "Jaime is paying the price for it as we speak. What if the same thing happens to you once you are over there? What prevents you from wandering out into the Afghan desert too?"

Ashen, Sandor bit his lip until it bled as he stared at her, and then without a word he stormed out of the house.

Tearfully Sansa slumped down on the bed and began praying to her father. She heard Sandor outside, cursing as he chopped and stacked wood. After a while, everything became quiet. She peeked out the door and saw the light on in the garage. I'll leave him be, let him work out his anger. He'll come to me when he's ready.

Sighing, Sansa went into the den. The gun rack was open she noticed, and only a rifle remained inside. He must be cleaning his guns now. Though the thought sent a wave of nerves to her stomach, this was one behavior Sansa understood, for her father often cleaned his guns and rifles as a way of clearing his head.

If he's going to act like my father, then I will treat Sandor in the same manner as my mother treated my father when he acted in such a way. With a shake of her head, Sansa then went about finding something to make for dinner. She found pork chops in his refrigerator and a can of bacon drippings, so Sansa fried up onions in it and then made milk gravy. When it was seasoned to her liking, she then browned the chops and placed everything together in a cast iron Dutch oven to slow cook on the top of the stove. Afterward she rolled out two batches of cathead biscuits and put them in the oven to bake.

If these aromas don't bring him back into the house, nothing will, she mused to herself. Soon enough, she heard Sandor come in the back door, and Sansa had to fight the smile creeping onto her face at her victory.

"You making biscuits and gravy?" He sheepishly stared at his feet, shuffling from side to side as he waited for her response.

Just like a little boy, this one. "Yes, and I smothered the chops I found in the fridge. I was just about to make apple sauce, too. Are you hungry?" Sansa smiled as though nothing had happened. Turning away from him, she methodically cored and peeled the apples while waiting for him to reply.

"Might be. Could be." Sandor ran his toe along the tiles of the floor. "We'll go tomorrow. Together."

"Hmm?" Sansa glanced up at him through her lashed, feigning ignorance. He needs to tell me outright. No more sulking. No more temper he hesitated, she made herself busy putting the apples on to cook.

"I already made an appointment with Elder brother for us tomorrow." He began, his words forced. "I'll tell him then."

"Tell him?" She raised her brow.

"About the nightmares. About the sleeping in the bedroom thing, too." Sandor ran his thumbnail over the grout in the tile. "We'll work this out."

Standing on her toes, Sansa kissed his cheek. "Alright then. Sit down and I'll fix you a plate."

They spoke no more of it during supper. Afterward Sandor returned to the sanctuary of the garage while Sansa cleaned up after the meal. Just as she was finishing up, she heard a loud rapping on the door. "Clegane? Hound? Open up to me now, it's me, Bronn. Come on now."

Good gods, Sansa swallowed hard, glancing toward the garage. Sandor will never hear him out there. Suddenly she heard the front door swing open and the man stepped inside. What if he is on orders from Tyrion? What if he's come to take me back to Joffrey? Sansa thought wildly. It seemed unlikely but she decided to protect herself just to be safe. Like all northern girls, Sansa had learned how to shoot weapons from the time she was old enough to hold a small gun, and she learned how to clean and care for them, too. And beyond that, Sansa wasn't about to let anyone, let alone a former Lannister lackey, just walk into her house uninvited.

Carefully she crept over to the gun rack and took down Sandor's rifle, loaded the bullets and then rested the weapon on her shoulder, getting a feel for it. It had been years since she fired one, but Sansa was confident she still could do so with a fair amount of accuracy. She was never as good as her sister with weapons but that didn't matter; Sansa was surprised how much had come back to her in a moment of fear.

"Clegane?" Bronn's thick brogue echoed through the house.

"Not Clegane, his girlfriend, Sansa," Sansa stepped out while holding the rifle at her side. "You would be Bronn, Tyrion Lannister's man. I remember you." Her eyes narrowed at him. "I don't want any trouble."

"I remember you too. No trouble, I swear it on me mother's grave." Bronn held up his hands. He didn't try to advance forward, she was pleased to see. "Put down the rifle, love, I'm not going to hurt you. Come on, then, there's a good lass; put it down before you get hurt."

"I'm not the one who will end up hurt." Sansa said quietly, the young woman neither putting down nor raising her weapon. "I learned to use one of these when I was twelve. And if you don't want people pointing rifles at you, you shouldn't walk into their homes uninvited. My sister would have shot you for doing such. "

"Aye, true enough, that." He eagerly nodded.

"Now, then, Sandor is in the garage so you just go out the way you came in and go on around to see him."

"Okay, love, I will. Don't shoot me, now." Bronn edged out of the door.

"I'm not going to shoot you unless you try to hurt me." Her voice quivered at the last word.

Bronn's gray eyes crinkled in the corners at her words. "I never hurt you, not back there, and I won't hurt you now, you must believe that."

"What in bloody hells is going on?!" Sandor shouted at the top of his voice. "Bronn, what the fuck did you do to her?"

"Me?" Bronn kept his hands up. "Your new girlfriend has me cornered like a opossum. Call her off, will you?"

Sandor stepped in between Sansa and Bronn, so she at once lowered the rifle. "I've got this, Sansa; I'll keep you safe. Let me see the rifle, lass. It's a tricky weapon."

Meekly Sansa handed it to him, and Sandor checked the chamber and then removed the bullets.

Bronn heaved a sigh of relief but still he didn't move.

Clearly pleased by what he saw, Sandor grinned at her. "You loaded it very well, Sansa; and you hold it right, too. Where'd you learn such?"

"My father," Sansa released a breath she didn't know she was holding. "He taught all of us. I know it isn't ladylike or whatever and many people frown on it here, but one needs to know how to use firearms in the north, what with wild animals and all. It is a necessity."

"That'll teach you to surprise my woman," Sneering, Sandor shook hands with him. "Bronn, this is Sansa Stark."

"How do, miss."

"Sansa, this is Bronn. We've served together for five years now."

"We've already met," Sansa said coolly. "When he worked for Tyrion Lannister."

His eyes darkening, Sandor nodded once at her in recognition, a frightening gleam taking over his gaze as his eyes fell on Bronn once more. "That so?"

Sansa nodded.

"A story I expect Bronn will tell me forthwith."

"Aye, Hound, 'tis just as she says. I worked for Tyrion while his family kept her at the Red Mansion against her will. I never hurt her," Bronn turned to Sansa with a pleading look. "You tell 'im, lass. Saved you from Meryn a few times, I did."

Fury rolled off of Sandor in waves. Frowning, he cast Sansa a questioning look. "Is that the way of it?"

"It's true, he never beat me and he did stop Meryn from doing so at Tyrion's orders." Sansa softly confirmed. I'm sure if Tyrion ordered you to hit me, you would have, she added silently.

"Hmph," Sandor snorted. "So, what are you doing here at this time of night, Bronn?"

"We got our orders." He handed Sandor a sealed envelope and then glanced between them nervously. "I'll just be outside."

Sighing, Sandor fingered the envelope for a moment and then closed his eyes. She waited, holding her breath, until finally he turned to her. "I'll be back in directly, Sansa," Sandor kissed her softly on the mouth. "You did right, lass, getting the rifle when you heard someone come in the house."

I got the rifle because I knew who it was, Sansa thought to herself, but she said nothing. After she smiled into his kiss, Samsa turned him loose and then retired to the bedroom to pray to her father once more.