"We don't have a choice, Sansa. The letters from the Watch are getting more and more ominous. We have to ride south and beg the queen for her help. If we don't act as soon as we're able, the Night King and his dead will spill over the Wall and into our lands. We won't be able to stop them, not without her dragons."
Her brother and Sam sat with her in Jon's solar; the room was warm, but they still sat near the fire, and so near to each other that their knees bumped.
"So you are leaving me here, again?" She hadn't meant for the words to sound so small and sad.
"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell," Jon told her, reaching for her hand. She gave it to him, but felt too weak to return his squeeze. "I shall write to you, and tell you everything that happens. I'll leave a good force of men to protect the walls..."
"You don't need to comfort me, Jon," Sansa whispered. "I only pray for a time that we can be a real family again."
She helped him fold his clothes properly, as he was always leaving his clothes in piles and wads. The snow was falling so heavily outside, it seemed she could hear it, like rain through layers of stone-but she realized as a drop hit the back of her hand it was the sound of her crying as quietly as she could.
Sansa saw her brother off before the sun rose the next morning. It was difficult to see him in the dark, as he was adorned all in black, but he still found her face in the dark and kissed her forehead so hard she felt his teeth press against her. "We'll ride hard and be back with the Dragon Queen's army."
"Be safe, my king," Sansa muttered, feeling useless as he climbed his horse and left their home once more. She knew how her mother felt when their father had left to fight-Jon was obviously not her husband, but even if she loved him, it was more frustrating to not be a part of these kinds of things. She experienced it rarely, but she wished she had been born a man, so that the anger deep in her heart could be sated and she would be justified in doing so.
Sandor was, of course, standing behind her as she lingered in the courtyard, keeping her eyes on the Stark banners waving enthusiastically as they galloped further and further away. "We should head inside, my lady," he grunted.
How long had it been since he called her 'little bird'? She wanted to clench her fists but decided instead to ignore him. Let the snow pile on her. Let it bury her.
"Sansa."
She closed her eyes at the sound of him uttering her name. Speak more, if only to incite action or reaction. How could she bear Jon's absence if Sandor would not speak to her? How long had she gone without speaking the words bouncing around in her skull?
She heard a heavy breath, like a sigh, before his fingers wrapped around her elbow, tugging her gently backwards. The Hound would have taken her back inside whether she wanted to or not, but Sandor brushed the snow from her shoulders with his other hand. "He'll be fine," he said in a low voice.
Sansa shook her head. "That's not..." She stopped herself, knowing his reaction might be mocking if she expressed her wish to fight. Shaking her head once more, she spun on her heel and brushed past her shield, the frustration burning between her ribs like a coal. The crunch of the snow behind Sansa told her that he was following her, and she quickened her pace with the intent to lose him. She knew this castle like she knew her stories and songs. Once inside, it was only a matter of seconds before she was alone and running through the halls like she was ten years old again, being chased by Theon and Robb. Sandor would find her, eventually-he was too clever, and he knew her more than anyone.
The pool underneath the weirwood tree was frozen, the ice black and smooth like obsidian. Sansa settled herself down beneath the leaves, her back pressed into the cold, hard bark. Her father would always come here in times of turmoil, seeking refuge with the gods his father and grandfather had worshiped. Being a neat child, she liked the ceremony and colors of the Seven, but what she really enjoyed was being with her mother, observing her as the Lady of Winterfell, dreaming of holding such a position one day. Thinking of it now made her stomach clench. Though, she supposed if she had never met Joffery, she might have been quite happy, married to some boring lord and giving birth far too early. The events in her past had changed her into a very different woman than she imagined herself being at eleven years old.
Some time passed before Sandor discovered her beneath the heart tree. Sansa's knees were beginning to shake underneath her skirts but she had her arms wrapped around her legs, to keep him from seeing. She probably looked diminutive and childish. He didn't appear vexed, though; he sat near her, looking so much like her father in stance and aura that her throat clamped shut to keep the sob in her chest.
After a long silence, he spoke out into the cold air, "My family didn't keep a godswood. Didn't even have a sept on the grounds."
"That doesn't surprise me. My father had our sept built so my mother would feel more at home. Not every family acknowledges both."
"If there had been a corner like this in my keep, I'd never bloody leave."
Silence again. Sansa wanted to fill the space between them with more words, but mostly she just wanted to press herself into his side and be warm.
"Tell me why you're trying to freeze to death before Snow comes back." Even his gentlest of tones had a gravelly edge to it.
Sansa wanted to say he wouldn't understand, but she knew that to be untrue. She thinned her lips and looked at him from under her eyelashes. "I'll go mad here," she whispered, willing her eyes to stay dry. "I am the Lady of Winterfell, but what else is there to do besides make sure everyone is fed and warm? I know it is important, but after seeing what I have, fighting for as long as I have, it makes me feel irrelevant to stay here." Letting out a long exhale, she turned her vision up towards the red leaves of the weirwood. "Jon is no good at negotiation, or compromise. His nobility is admirable, but it gives him tunnel-vision. I...I could be a mediator, something." Sansa felt tears well up. "I fled my own home twice because I felt like the walls were keeping me from somewhere better. Now that it is mine, and mostly rebuilt... I only want to leave it again."
"Little bird."
Hearing him call her that once more broke her resistance. Sansa wept without making a sound, something she had perfected with years of practice. Joffery and Ramsey only wanted to hit her more when she made noise. Sandor seemed unaware of her response, and continued to speak. "There will be a time for fighting. For now, we prepare for the winter and for the wars ahead. For now, you wear your pretty skirts and be the lady of the castle. Poor folk need to see a Stark on the throne and know that the fucking skinners are gone for good." A short pause. "You hate it, but you're damn good at it, being a lady. Always have been, even when you had songs in your head."
They're still there.
"Isn't this what you wanted, little bird?"
She could not answer, at least, not truthfully. While she had Jon, Winterfell, and Sandor, so many pieces were missing. Arya and Bran were still missing, and Rickon lay moldering next to their father's bones. Ramsey had not even received a grave, as there had been nothing left to bury, but she was still known to be a widow. Soon, suitors would begin arriving, and as a princess, she would have to choose one of them, or risk losing an alliance. If she told Jon she wanted to marry for love, she was sure he would not force her into anything, but she already knew the reactions of the other noble houses. Years ago, she would have been ecstatic at the prospect of suitors lining up to win her favor, but now...
"Sansa."
"We should return to the castle. I'm sure someone is looking for me," she whispered, managing to wipe her tears with the long sleeves of her cloak without him noticing them frosting on her eyelashes. She did not even have to look at him, to feel the anger rolling off his person, another trait picked up from years of living with abusers. He surprised her again by not reacting physically the way the Hound would have; he called after her as she began to walk out of the clearing, "No one's looking for you. Sun has set. This isn't King's Landing, where you have to sew your fucking mouth shut before you get it full of blood."
She only shook her head and left him.
Sister,
I apologize for the lull of communication. Despite yours and Sam's lectures upon my previous arrival, my shortsightedness when it comes to writing letters has not improved. We finally have a brief moment today, and our maester kindly reminded me to send word to my sister back home.
I already have three letters from you, so I can only imagine how eventful it is in Winterfell. I am envious of your busy but calm days. Since meeting the queen and combining our armies, the Red Keep is crowded and King's Landing is full of soldiers and refugees. It is strange to see Dothraki here, but they seem more perplexed by us, with our furs. Ghost is popular, at least.
The Dragon Queen gave Cersei a proper funeral, which I found odd, but I've come to understand that she has a gentle heart. Knowing you as I do, however, I am aware such a trait is not inherent of weakness. She has put out a warrent for Ser Jamie, but there's been no sighting of him since his campaign to Riverrun. Tyrion is her Hand (he sends his regards, though I know not how this will effect you), and he's doing an honorable job of adjusting the remaining noble houses to the new status quo. All the rotten seeds in Cersei's garden have been uprooted, and I hope new and better things take their place.
The dragons are...well. There are ten million words I could use. Being near them is the closest I can imagine one feels being next to a god. With Daenerys near, they are mostly complacent, and they oddly seem to prefer Tyrion's company when she's absent (I would never say it to his face, but it's quite funny to see him standing next to such large creatures). The black one tends to be restless, and spends most of its time flying over the ocean, catching anything of size that it can grab. Its siblings, green and gold and much more mild-tempered, seem to only enjoy playing with each other or drowsing. One would think them dull, but a single look in their eyes is enough to tell you-there's as much going on in its mind as yours. I get the same feeling with Ghost.
I've spoken highly of you to the queen, and she seems quite interested in meeting you. There are still matters to settle here, but we will be returning before the worst of the winter with Daenerys Stormborn and her dragons. I know you will enjoy her company. She reminds me a great deal of you.
I shall send another letter as soon as time permits, so forgive me for any delays.
Jon
Such a short letter, after so long a time. Sansa sat alone in the great hall, the parchment laid flat in front of her on the table, while the fire burned low and softly behind her. Everyone had long since gone to bed, but the princess remained in her mother's seat, staring straight ahead of her. So many terrible and beautiful things had happened in this room, but she mostly longed for her mother again. It felt sinful to be sitting there, but she was Lady Stark now. Sansa's fingers clenched the armrests, thinking of Jon in the Red Keep. The lions had been cleaned out, certainly, but there were so many shadows for enemies to hide in. Was he safe in such a place, even if Daenerys ruled now? If only she were there, to advice caution. She could only write, and pray to the old gods and the new.
"The lady seems pensive."
Petyr. His voice was always so distinctive, sliding through the air like oil on top of water. More than like, he had been watching her for a while, which put her on edge. Sansa tilted her head towards the direction of his voice, but deigned not to reply. With Sandor close by, he could no longer intervene on her walks, and there seemed to be a mutual understanding that Sandor would not react kindly to his presence-it had been a relief, but it was only a matter of time before he cornered her again.
"Our King seems forthcoming with his activities. Perhaps he is engaged in much that does not require your knowing," Littlefinger cooed, stepping out from his hiding spot. Always so slim and straight-backed. Eleven-year-old Sansa had swooned at his clever words, but she knew the rotten flesh he hid behind shiny pomades.
"Your insinuation eludes me," she replied coldly.
"He should have sent you to the capital city, you know it was a mistake for him to go." He slipped through the rows of benches to get closer to her-Sansa lifted her chin a bit, reminding him of her superior position. The skinny man stopped in front of the table, as if he were officially addressing her. "Is he keeping you here for a reason? Is there something going on that he doesn't want you to interfere in?"
"You are hardly in a position to insult my brother in such a way, considering you have no evidence of any foul play on his part," Sansa said, her eyes hard and narrow. "And you insult me by assuming I know nothing. From the beginning you have tried to create a rift between me and Jon. You want the North."
"I want you," he corrected.
Sansa stood. "They are the same to you. Land and titles and power, with the face of Catelyn Tully. I am not naive enough to think you love me for any other reason than I am my mother's daughter, and you want the influence that my house will give you if you marry me. I saw how you manipulated my aunt with my own eyes. You made her believe you loved her, when you only wanted the Eryie." She suddenly felt very tired, and sat back down, closing her eyes. "I do not want to marry you, and I do not want the Seven Kingdoms. You have guest-welcome here, Lord Baelish, and my gratitude for your help in reclaiming my home. But nothing more than that. Please leave me."
She was certain he had a rebuke, but he only gave her a sweeping bow and a quiet, "my lady," before retreating back into the darkness where he was most at ease. Only the crackling of the fire and the ice forming in her heart kept her company.
Half a year had gone, and Jon was still not home. His letters remained brief, and the worsening weather kept him from returning with haste. Sansa tried to remain bright, but she could not help but linger on what would happen if he were to die. Would she become Queen? Worse, would the houses that had gathered disperse because they would be unwilling to follow a woman? Her dreams became increasingly realistic-she could see her brother burning another three men after the cold stole them in their sleep, and the Night's Watch struggling to keep the wights from crossing over and under the Wall. She often visited Sandor while he slept, and wished she sneak under the covers and let his size comfort her, like it had when she had slept with her father as a girl.
That evening she sat by her open window, in naught but a slip, letting the frosty air encircle her. A letter to Jon lay on her desk, but she could barely think of what to write. Part of her just wanted to send a page full of I miss yous, but it seemed a bit too extreme. The wolves were quiet this evening. Perhaps they felt as subdued as she did.
There was a knock on her door, and she called out a welcome, thinking it would be Evette, but the heavy footsteps told a different story. Sansa turned around to see her shield standing in her room, looking queer without his armor. He had never entered her quarters before; her heart began to beat a little faster as he closed the door behind him and took a couple steps towards the middle of the room.
He grunted. "Fucking cold in here."
It felt like such a long time since they had been alone together, and before she could reason herself out of her, she was up and across the room to him. Sandor took a step back like he was afraid of her, but she wrapped her arms around his torso anyway, reveling in the scent of leather and musk. "Little bird-" he started, his voice tight and uncomfortable.
"I am sorry," Sansa whispered. "I am only lonely."
Sandor paused, and slowly returned her embrace. Sansa tried to quell the dread in her stomach; before she could stop it, it came spilling out of her mouth in a torrent. Her heart was wild with worry for Jon, and her desire to ride out into the blizzards that ceaselessly divided them increased with every week. With no news of Bran or Arya, still, she would be the only Stark left in the world, and everyone would be clamoring to claim her land and title before she grew old. Marriage was always in the corner of her mind-Petyr made sure of that, though his proposals had become more vague and scattered. She would have to marry eventually, but she could not bear the thought of having a man chosen for her, even if it was Jon who did the choosing. When his fingers tightened on her arms, she realized that such talk was making him angry. Looking at his face, though, she could see it was not directed at her.
"It is selfish to worry about my future when my brother's life is at risk," she finished meekly. "Forgive my outburst-"
"Don't," Sandor snapped. He pulled her away from him so he could gaze down at her properly, which made her want to simultaneously hide and display herself. "Put a bloody robe on," he murmured. "You'll get sick."
He let her go, and she did as he commanded, grateful for his reaction. There were multiple violent reactions from Ramsey she could expect if she wore something like that in front of him. As she pulled the long sleeves on, she heard him settling down into a chair-it protested under his weight, used to Sansa's lithe frame. She sat opposite him, observing him in his awkward position, much too big for her furniture; such a sight made her want to smile, but she figured doing so would vex him.
Sandor was nervous, though, she could tell. A hard man like him, who had cut down women and children, was anxious to be alone in a lady's room. The inclination to smile came twice. He glanced towards the window, watching the snow sneak in and dust the stone floor. The silence was taut, but not uncomfortable. Sansa was content to sit, but he began to speak again: "Jon isn't your damn father. He might be King in the North, but he's no right over your choices. And even if he dies, there's still no one ordering you to do anything."
"You don't understand," she mumbled miserably. "Even if no one commands me to, the implication will always be there. Women will sneer, men will laugh, maesters will shake their head."
"Aren't you done giving a shit what people think of you?"
"I..." The princess hung her head. "I wish I could be."
There was silence again, and she had the feeling there was much in his mind he wanted to voice. Sandor only sighed, though, running a hand through his black hair and leaning back into his chair. "What am I even doing in here?" he muttered. "Couldn't sleep, and somehow, I knew you couldn't either."
Sansa felt a small thrill run up her spine, wondering if he really did feel her while she was dreaming in his room, but she only tilted her head at him. "You stopped drinking?" she asked.
"Aye," grunted Sandor, looking a tiny bit depressed about it. "Vow of silence came with a vow of sobriety. Dug a lot of graves to keep myself from going completely mad."
"What was it like, living with the monks?" She had never thought to inquire, being so engulfed in his return.
The tall man shrugged, scratching at the unburnt side of his face. "Simple life. Lot of hard work that needed to be done-most of them were getting old and their knees were shite. If you think I was reciting prayers and kneeling for five hours every day, you're not as clever as I thought." Sansa pouted a bit, but he continued. "I'll admit that it was good for me, in the end, but no way in seven Hells would I ever choose that life. Old man could ramble on and on about the gods but all I wanted was wine."
"If you left, there's nothing stopping you from having some," she pointed out, eyeing the pitcher that was kept near the fire, spiced and warm.
"Suppose that's true, but I've grown used to compensating."
They said nothing again for a while; Sansa rose to fill two glasses of the red for them, and she felt Sandor's eyes on her back the whole time. He had always watched her differently than the other men in her life. Certainly his gaze could be lustful, but it never crossed the line to be leering or strange. He seemed to pay more attention to her hair and face than her body, unless she was in something like this, where, without the robe, the outline of her body could be seen if she stood near the fire. She handed him his glass, but did not return to her seat. Part of her was enjoying the fact that his eyes would be on her if she were moving. Sansa crossed to the window to close it, but was pulled back in by the sounds and smells of the winter night. It was so different from King's Landing. The scent of the ocean made the air humid, and it seemed even if she wore the lightest silk, it would stick to her skin eventually; now, she was gifted with the most absolute silence she could imagine. Feet of snow absorbed almost all the regular evening noises, and the frigid air made her feel clean and awake. She absently took a sip of her mulled wine, feeling it settle in her tummy.
"You're a proper woman, little bird," Sansa heard her shield say behind her. "You keep your shoulders straight now."
Such a compliment warmed her. His admiration was worth more than any man's love.
"It's not without effort," she whispered out the window, not thinking he would hear her. Distracted by her wine, she didn't notice that he had left his seat and came to stand by her. He reached across her to close the window-his proximity made her heart jump, but she managed to keep her appearance calm.
"Don't doubt it," he replied. "But you've never been stronger, have you?"
She considered all the times she hid in her room from Joffery's punishments, all the times she had laid there thinking of killing herself rather than paying attention to what Ramsey was doing. "No, I haven't."
Sandor stepped in between the closed window and her, forcing her back a couple of paces to maintain distance. He had a look on his face that was...unfamiliar. His features were too soft, they seemed to blend together a tiny bit. It made the soles of her feet tingle, so she spun around and returned to the fire, gulping down the rest of her cup like she had been drinking her whole life. She refilled her glass and took another deep drink. "You remember the night you came to me, the night the Blackwater was burning?" Sansa inquired, gazing into the hearth. "The smell was horrific, but what was worse was knowing Joff would live through it all. It would've been the perfect time to escape-everyone thought the castle would fall, and for once no one seemed to be looking at me at all. But you," she turned her head to see him observing her with that same odd expression, "you came to me because I was the only one who knew your secret."
"I wish I could erase that," he hissed quietly. "You were a child, and I had a knife to your throat and dark thoughts in my mind."
She ignored him. "I kept your Kingsguard cloak with me for years. It was a great comfort in the Eryie, but I had to get rid of it before I married Ramsey. Littlefinger had found it, and-" Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, trying to forget his anger that she might love someone else than him. "-I burned it, which seems ironic now. I always dream of that night, over and over, each second slowed down and sped up and repeated. I could taste your tears when you kissed me."
That caught his attention. Immediately, he took a step towards her and his expression changed to something more familiar. "I didn't kiss you," he growled. "I wanted to do much worse than that."
She rose her chin at him. "But you did. Your mouth had blood in it, and I could smell the wine on your breath."
Sandor looked rightly angry now. "I couldn't even bear the sound of your tiny, childish voice singing that fucking hymn. It made me want to run straight into that unnatural, gods-damned fire. Were you really fantasizing all these years about me forcing myself on you?"
Her eyes went wide. "I...I'm not. It truly happened."
"If I had kissed you, Sansa, I would have remembered it," he told her sharply. "I'd be the one dreaming of it at night if that were the case."
The princess couldn't think of a response, so she only dejectedly put her attention back on her wine, nursing it in silence while Sandor fumed. After a moment, he spoke again. "Why even bring it up?"
Sansa hesitated. "Because...I was expecting a different reaction to the memory." She blushed when his brow furrowed at her, and some of his irritation melted away at the sight. Sandor exhaled through his nose, running one hand through his hair, looking as handsome as he could in the firelight (enough for Sansa). "I wasn't trying to accuse you. I'm sorry if it seemed that way, Sandor."
She watched his shoulders relax. "You kept that bloody cloak?"
"You were the only good thing in King's Landing. I wanted to keep you as close as I could."
"But you went with Littlefinger."
"I know. He loved my mother, so I thought he would be loyal to me. I quickly learned that was naive, and that Petyr is loyal to no one but himself and his interests." Such a thing was obvious when he married her to Ramsey. "I'm not sure where I would be right now if I did end up going with you that night, but I know I wouldn't change my decision, now that we're here."
She finished her third glass (when had that happened?) and moved to refill it when Sandor shook his head. "Your cheeks are flushed, little bird." He brushed past her to take her cup and set it down next to the pitcher. Sansa noted that he hadn't even touched the wine she had given him, despite voicing frustration at not drinking it anymore. Such a soldier, in all ways of his life. When he turned to return to his seat, she neglected to move out of his way, and was struck at the difference in their heights. Sansa was tall for a woman, certainly, but her chin tilted up to look him in the eye. She felt small, but in a pleasant way, so unlike all the other times in her life before where she had wished to shrink until no one could see her. Small as in precious, and handled with care and love.
Before he could stop himself, Sandor reached up to feel her cheek, and the coolness of his fingers in contrast with the heat from her skin gave her goosepimples. By the look in his eyes, she knew he was thinking on what she said earlier, about the un-kiss. She wished ardently that he would actually kiss her now; when she closed her eyes, however, his hand drew away from her, and it was difficult not to let out a disappointed sigh. Instead, she whispered, "You've changed so much, it's dizzying."
"You've surprised me a couple of times so far," he replied. His voice was farther away-when she opened her eyes, he was halfway across the room, bringing his full cup to his mouth to gulp it down. Some of it dripped down his beard, and it glittered in the firelight before he wiped it away with his sleeve. So much for restraint, Sansa thought. "Should be heading back now. I've been here too long."
"I thought you didn't give a shit what people think?" she teased, repeating his words from earlier, and he raised both his eyebrows at her vulgarity.
"Aye, but you're a princess now, little bird. There are lines I can't cross."
Yes, you can. You are only afraid to.
"I wish you would stay," she blurted out, the wine making her feel a little too bold. "Talk with me more, pass the rest of the night in each other's company."
"You don't mean that," Sandor snapped, but he sounded more sullen than angry.
"I do."
He took in a deep breath, and clenched both his fists before spinning on his heels to walk to her door. Following him would seem foolish, even if she wanted to do it anyway. She stayed by the fire, though, feeling rather dejected as the door closed behind him. She listened to his heavy footsteps, and traced his route back to his room in her mind. She knew his routine intimately, having observed him in her dreams countless times. He would pop his neck and back, pull his tunic up over his head and scratch his scalp. Sandor always struggled taking off his boots, still not used to the higher grade and intricate buckles and laces. As a ghost, she would kneel before him and pretend that she was taking them off for him after a long day. His bed was a little too small for him, but she assumed he was used to it, because he never grumbled about it. She thought about her bed, with all the space that seemed to swallow her.
As she crawled under her furs, a single wolf cried out in the darkness. Somehow, she knew it was a female, and that it meant something, something she couldn't comprehend yet. Sansa could only ponder it in her sleep.