Disclaimer: I don't own Game of Thrones.

I wrote this before Season 7 came out.

Nothing Except a Rose

"Here."

As brusque as ever, even when presenting someone with a gift. The Hound squeezed the stem in his fist, and the rose drooped its heavy hand, as if in homage to the lady to whom it was being offered. The sight of it was so beautiful that Sansa had to blink. She wanted to be certain that she wasn't dreaming of its delicate, velvety petals, its soft blue hue. She'd come to believe that beauty existed only in her dreams now, as the rest of the world had gone as black and grey as the skies hanging above Winterfell. She didn't think the blue winter roses even grew in the North anymore.

"Where did you find it?" she asked. Ramsay, when he was still alive, had the glass gardens destroyed, deeming them useless and frivolous and too expensive to maintain. Perhaps in a way he was right, but they'd given Winterfell its only brush of colour, its only touch of glamour. Even the Tyrells couldn't grow blue roses in their splendid gardens. They needed the cold kiss of the North to thrive.

"Out in the woods." He pointed in the direction he'd come from, with his other hand. "It was the only one on its bush, a sad sight if I ever saw one. So I brought it back for you."

"For me? Especially for me?" A hint of a smile. Lately she come to enjoy teasing him, if only lightly. Somewhere on his journey from King's Landing to Winterfell he'd picked up something of a sense of humour and could take it in stride, unlike Bran, who was so serious now and never smiled, and unlike Jon, who was gone.

"Well, I'm not going to give it to fucking Brienne of Tarth." There was still animosity between him and Brienne, unresolved anger from the fight over Arya. Sansa found herself playing peacekeeper between the two, reminding them that Winterfell could not waste its time on a small, petty war within its walls when there were much greater battles approaching from both the south and further north. A sulky truce between the two warriors was the result of her efforts, and that was good enough for Sansa. They didn't need to be friends. They only needed to remember where their priorities lay and not let past quarrels get in the way of doing their duty for Winterfell, and the North. "So do you want it or not?"

"Yes. I do want it. Thank you." She reached out and took the rose from him, their fingers brushing during the exchange. They both had thick gloves on so there was no meeting of the skin, no bodily warmth passed between them. Nothing inappropriate whatsoever. Nothing except a rose.

Sansa brought it to her nose and inhaled its scent. It smelt sweet and fresh and clean, like new snow. Nothing had smelt so good to her in a long time. Even the smell of freshly baked lemon cakes paled in comparison; for the rest of her days she would always associate that smell with her Aunt Lysa's mad fit of jealousy over Petyr Baelish. The taste of lemon would always remind her of the confession Lysa tried to draw out of her, by sweetening her mouth first.

"It was good of you to think of me, Sandor. You're so— " She hesitated.

"I'm so what?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows. "So shit at making pretty gestures?"

"I wasgoing to say 'You're so kind' but I just remembered that you don't like compliments." She met his eyes, and there was a mischievous twinkle there. She was playing with him, like a cat with a mouse. Like a young bird flying circles around an old, grouchy dog who couldn't catch it. "You'll give me a speech about how no, you're not so kind, because you're a killer. You enjoy killing. The scene of blood is sweeter than any rose to you. Then you'll add something about how dogs usually piss on flowers, or—"

"Seven hells," he cut her off. "I bring you a present and this is what I get?"

She giggled, almost girlishly. For a moment, in his eyes, she was the girl who used to flirt to please Joffrey and then, later, placate him. "What's wrong? Did I hit the mark?"

"Give me that damn rose back," he growled, though his mouth was threatening to stretch into a smile as well. "I'll use it to scent my bath."

Sansa held the flower protectively against her chest, gently cupping its head in her hand as if it were her newborn babe." 's mine now. You gave it to me. You can't take back gifts. And besides, you don't take baths."

She turned and began to walk away with her precious prize, knowing that he, like any loyal guard dog, would follow. Sure enough, he did. A few strides and he caught up to her on his statuesque legs, his footprints gargantuan in comparison to hers in the snow. He slowed down his pace to match hers, which was leisurely, and watch her periodically lift the rose up to her face for another sniff. He noted, to himself, because he wouldn't dare say it aloud, that the rose's shade of blue matched her eyes, though hers were brighter. Prettier.

Once, she let the rose's petals rest on her cheek, and for a moment Sandor wondered if she were imagining its softness to be the caress of a gentle lover, a dream she'd had ripped from her when she was betrothed to that sickening little whore's spawn Joffrey, and then passed on to the Imp, and then passed on to the monster Ramsay Snow, whose bowels Sandor dreamed of ripping out with his bare hands, though he never met the bastard.

They walked in this manner for a short while before Sansa, unexpectedly, spoke up. "You know, the last person who gave me a rose helped frame me for Joffrey's murder."

"Ser Pisses Rosewater?" Sandor asked, thinking of the Hand's Tourney, where he'd watched silently as a young pink-clad Sansa was wooed by the paint and perfume meant to mask the sight and smell of the pile of shit that was Robert and Cersei's court.

"No, not him, though I don't doubt he was in on it too." She inwardly sighed, thinking of Loras Tyrell's handsome face, the foolish hopes she'd once cradled in her heart. "His sister, Margaery, gave me a rose too. She's dead now. Loras as well."

"Everyone dies, little bird," Those were a poor choice of words. Sansa's face grew hard and cold, becoming an ice sculpture in an instant. She silently stared straight ahead, seeing who knew what ghosts and demons in their path, which was beginning to move further away from the castle and into the white expanse that surrounded it.

Sandor scrambled to think of something that would make her smile again, or at least lure her mind away from his tactless remark. But he was no courtier or knight trained the art of pleasant and diverting conversation. He was a hardened soldier who knew nothing but the song of the blade, so he said, "If you makes you feel better, though I doubt it will…I won't be framing you for any murders. I take full credit for all my kills, however big or meaningless."

Miraculously, this seemed to work, as Sansa turned back to him again, her expression still stern but mildly amused. "Do you happily take credit for your kills?"

He shook his head. "No, little bird. Not happily. Not anymore."

"So what makes you happy now?" she asked.

"Nothing," he lied. He could never tell her.

The old Sansa Stark would have naively insisted "But there must be something!" This new, regal Sansa merely gave a little shrug and replied, "Fair enough."

She stopped walking, and looked up at him, holding up the rose so that its petals threatened to touch his chin. For a moment Sandor thought that she was returning it, until she said, ordered, "Smell."

He did so, to humour her more than anything. "It's nice," was his only verdict, before turning away and scratching his beard awkwardly.

"The last rose of Winterfell," Sansa sighed. Sandor reddened slightly. A different kind of man would, at this point, tell her that the fairest flower at Winterfell was her, but he would never be able to say such ridiculous words. And the woman his little bird had become wouldn't take them seriously even if he did.

FIN