It was good to be back in Winterfell. Harry still had not spoken to her more than civility required; Sansa told herself it was because he was so preoccupied with Margaery. I will miss having a brother, but at least I now have a sister here with me. She had returned with them while her father and his men stayed behind, bringing with her only two to attend her, more girls than women.

"They were orphaned, starving, and the first eyes that met mine after… after," she'd whispered, unable to finish the sentence. After the trial. After Loras was slain. She had enough afters of her own to pass judgment or press. Sansa was glad that Margaery's kindness had managed to survive and to have confirmation that it was not just a game. The kinship I felt was real. It made her even more grateful.

The dining hall was a lonely place. The warmth Margaery provided was more than welcome in Winterfell but it could not stop the gnawing in the pit of her stomach that came whenever she thought of Arya. When Margaery was an active distraction, eyes on Sansa, her hand patting her wrist lovingly or her arm wrapped through Sansa's own, she could pretend that all was well. For now, her newly betrothed took all of her attention, and Sansa traded the sweet lie of sisterhood for the stern truth of queendom. In her childhood she had imagined the kind of honor she might feel sitting as a queen at a high table. The despair and the weight of it… she had not imagined that. She had not imagined that the seat she took would be absent of a king beside her. She had not imagined that she would sit a queen in her father's own hall. This is not who they raised me to be, she thought, her mind trying to imagine details of her mother's face, her touch. Sansa had always done anything she was asked, just to see approval in those eyes. Almost my own eyes. Petyr Baelish told her that so often. Others told her too... but it was the voice of Littlefinger that caused her to shut her eyes and try to shake it all away.

"You might get some rest, girl."

The gravel of Sandor's voice was warm light in the damp blackness of her mind, the Alayne mind, the one Petyr made, or tried to…

"We all need rest," she responded. She knew he sensed that she was falling apart after visiting the Twins. Sansa had not said a word to him and Margaery had orchestrated tale and distraction enough to keep those who served House Stark and Tyrell alike from seeing any weakness in their queen; Sandor Clegane was as fooled by Margaery's diplomatic charm on those grounds as he was hers in King's Landing.

"What good does it do to sit like a ghost up here?"

"I have guests I cannot leave. It would look uncaring. Even weak."

"Harry thinks the sun shines out of your ass, I don't think Lady Margaery is like to begrudge you sleep-"

"That's not the point."

"Your northmen and spares alike worship you, you put food in their mouths-"

"Sandor."

"Let me walk you to your chamber."

"I know where my chamber is," smiling, she turned just enough to see him give a roll of his eyes in response to her mock tone of offense.

"Aye… I did not ask to be your bloody shield."

"Are you resigning?"

"Will the heartache of it put a bit of sense in you?"

"No."

"'Spose I'll keep the job then."

A laugh left her, full and free, and she thought her sworn shield was nearing a smile himself.

There was a kinship between them that she could not understand. His kindness and protection had always been in the dark and had always come with sharp edges, juxtaposed to Margaery's public acknowledgements of Sansa's humanity and her genuine tokens of caring. In King's Landing she had dreamed much more of being whisked away to Highgarden, living a life in a Tyrell garden, than of being anything or anywhere at the hands of him, so why did she not feel the same kind of pull to Margaery?

I could never let her bear the weight of it, of being a Stark, of surviving Lannisters. Margaery knew now, first hand, what that golden house was capable of, but it had come down on her so swiftly that Sansa could not bring herself to confide in her fully. Or… I do not know what it is… I do not know why it matters to know…

Something like guilt took hold of her and she felt foolish for wanting him by her side. They were both trapped there, they were both filling a role, they were both losing themselves, yes… but Sansa knew that whatever lay between them now (or perhaps just with me) began on that night. That night. The green sky. So close their bodies pressed against one another. The way he twisted her onto the bed. The knife at her throat… the kiss...

"You bracing for battle?"

She heard him step forward and felt his fingers touch the back of her neck, slinking behind the single braid down her back. Tension she did not know she carried gave way a little and the heat of his hand gave her comfort, amplified by how cool her neck had become from walking the yard less than an hour before. Sansa prayed he could not see the flush that kept up her porcelain features.

"Jaime Lannister might begrudge me if I left the hall," she said, fighting the silly thoughts and useless shame of a girl she used to be, being the queen once again.

He sat at a table separate from the others. Two men stood guard of him, though they did not loom or threaten; She made sure to choose two men new enough to the north, men with no prior allegiance to House Stark. Sansa could not bring herself to treat him so cruelly. There were moments before she was the woman, the Queen in the North, she was now when she would imagine how it might feel to make a Lannister feel as afraid as she. He was nothing of his father in Riverrun, he was not cruel. That was more than she could ever say for Cersei. Tyrion had not been a monster either. It had been so long since she had thought of Tyrion. My husband, she thought. A laugh almost left her but it died instead. There are times when humor won't last.

"Fuck Jaime Lannister."

"He is my guest."

"His feet are still shackled."

"What would you have me do?"

"I don't bloody well care. This is about you and your peace. I have no need for Lannisters."

Sandor did not leave the hall- he would not abandon her even in these safe conditions- but he stalked to a wall some five hundred measures away. Jaime was not one of my nightmares… She felt foolish that she did not consider that he might have been one for the Hound. Is he still the Hound?

She did not think so. Or rather… he was as much the Hound as she was Alayne. We all have parts to play… What was Jaime's?

As she walked to the table where the Lannister was seated, Sansa tried to catch Sandor's eyes but he would not look at her. Cold out there, colder in here. She tossed it from her mind and made sure she rose to her full height as she approached the table. The guards gave her a slight bow as Jaime looked up, his green eyes lazily lidded, his angles more harsh than they had been eight years earlier in this hall, but still beautiful. He is so like Cersei in feature. She did not feel ill in his presence despite it. His gaze did not leave hers as she looked him over. She took her time, trying to read his eyes (she had never seen so much sadness with so little anger), examining the stump where his hand had once been. It was not she that broke the silence.

"Queen in the North," he said, tilting his head to the left, a smirk gracing his face that was betrayed by his eyes.

"Queen in the North."

"What can I do for you, Queen Sansa?"

"I aim for peace, Jaime. Can you believe that?"

"An aim for peace got your father killed," Jaime almost laughed.

"Are you calling me stupid?"

"I am only stating facts."

"I like to think that perhaps the death of my father and the near destruction of my family line will not all be in vain."

"I know a thing or two about vanity. It does not seem a trait of your house."

"And what are the traits of your house?"

"You ask me that while you have that dog skulking just behind you wherever you go? I thought I was looking at a ghost when Mace brought me to you… but you, little wolf, you really took in a stray."

She turned at his nod and saw that Sandor still stood, his back to the wall, looking not at her, but through her. Jaime's laugh was parts cruel and jovial, but Sansa knew enough about being a liar to hear the truth of it. He is scared. He is tired of fighting.

"A Queen needs a shield. Cersei had you for a time. I will never have my brothers."

"I am sorry. I hope you know-"

"I do not care for your pity or guilt, Lannister."

"Lannister. From you, Sansa, I cannot imagine a graver insult."

She took a breath and sat in front of him. My enemy. No… I have to think beyond that.

"Peace, Jaime. What is the one thing that has ever given Westeros any peace?"

"I am afraid I was never more than a stupid swordsman. I have no mind for diplomacy"

"You played at more than swords iin Riverrun."

"Are we to speak of Riverrun now? Surely you have heard all the details by now."

"Marriage."

"I don't follow."

"Marriage, Jaime. That is what brings peace."

Jaime made to speak, leaning towards her, a stray blond lock flitting down over his eyes, but stopped. Sansa saw the shadow as he did. At the end of the table stood Sandor, anger flashing in his eyes, twitching on his lips. He growled as he narrowed his eyes at her, then left.

"He never was well trained," Jaime called after her as she sped after him.