"Sandor, Sandor, please," she banged on his door repeatedly, waited outside of his chamber for what must have been an hour. She was watching a spider crawl along the crevice between stones when Maester Samwell approached.

"Your grace."

"Hello, Sam," she rose to her feet as gracefully as she could, her legs gone numb from the cold and lack of comfort.

"Are you well," he moved to help her up. "I know you have not been sleeping much. I could make something for you."

She smiled, "Thank you, but I think I will be fine. Did you need something?"

The broad, great man's eyes scanned the floor as he responded, "More letters have come, Sansa. About Rickon."

Her jaw clenched as she watched Samwell turn grey, something he had no tdone since his early days with her, since he told her about Jon… "Yes?"

"I think we will have to bring him home," Sansa clutched at her chest, relieved that Rickon was still alive, a rare occurrence when receiving news of her family. "He grows wilder every day and has started asking questions."

"Leave the letters in my solar, Sam. I will see to them shortly."

"Your grace?"

"Yes."

"We think… There is reason to believe, from sources… unverified… but many… Arya…"

"She is dead," she closed her eyes, feeling foolish for the sigh of relief after Rickon was confirmed fine.

"No, your grace. She is in Westeros."

Sansa tried desperately to sleep, for hours, but rest would not come. Over and over, she dreamed… of Arya who was not safe while she and Jeyne were tucked away in the Keep. Arya who was not safe ever again, she thought. Arya and her sword. Angry. Angry with me. If Sansa felt like she was dying in her cage, what had Arya's life been? Out there? The small pieces of information she had from Sandor, the inferences from Jon, before he went away… Arya, Arya, Arya. Winterfell burning. Rickon crying, Rickon howling. And blood on her hands.

Giving up on rest, she found herself tip toeing back into her solar, wearing only her grown, furs thrown haphazardly around her shoulders. Sitting in a chair with wood worn from her father's weight, Sansa tries, at least twenty times, to write a letter to the Manderly's Septa, trying to say that Rickon could come home, that she was ready, that she would be able to soothe and tame him… it is a lie. She was so tired of lying.

There was still no word of Edmure, of Blackfish…

If I marry a Lannister, would they come running? To stop me? To hate me? If I marry a Lannister, will there be no end to Rickon's fits of rage? If Arya has come home, will she use that small sword of hers, run me through?

Sansa thought about finding Jaime, continuing their conversation. She had ordered some of her ladies to see to it that he was bathed and clothed (though it turned her stomach to give him clothes that had once belonged to her brothers); He was not abused by the Tyrells but he was smelly, his hair mangled, knotted, and his clothes worn and hardly appropriate for Winterfell, even in the spring.

Will it matter? If I marry Jaime, will Cersei know she has lost? If Tyrion is still alive, will he laugh? Or be bitter? Does the North love their queen enough to never kill a Lannister again, if I say so, if my own children are Lannisters? Will having a child with claim to the North and the South keep the Tyrells in their place? And what of Dorne, who has no reason to love anyone?

She crept into the hallway, telling herself she would get to know Jaime Lannister, in his own words, but thinking of Jon, of where he was, if he truly was at all anymore. She thought of rumors, more a threat to Winterfell, to Westeros, than anything Arya or Rickon might become… of a silver haired woman, of an age with Sansa, who rode dragons, and was followed by an army of savages.

Following her feet, she found herself outside of a chamber. It was not Jaime's. She had been to this door before. Nearly knocking, she thought better of it and turned to go, but the door opened and she was caught.

"Where are you going, little bird?"

"To bed. I… I was going to check in. It seems I offended you. I thought I'd clear the air. But I realized how late it was."

"I was going for more wine."

She could hear it in his voice, the drunken stupor he was working himself up to, but it was not frightening or unhinged the way it used to be. This time, it was a choice. And she wondered why. She wondered why she felt so terrible, she wondered why she cared… They stood in silence, she half turned away from him, he holding the door slightly ajar, looking down at her, suspect. The creaks of the oldest parts of Winterfell sang out in the night and the newly built parts were still aching, learning how to settle, still accepting the cold. Sandor's room had been her mother's, and if you were quiet enough you could hear the hiss of the hot springs below… Snow muffled every sound of the outside world; The clearest sound of all was their breathing. She was taking a step forward, away, when he cleared his throat.

"You could come in. Warmer in here."

Sansa nodded in acceptance, wondering why she did not hide her smile as much as she was wondering why she had smiled at all. He did not hold the door open for her, but stepped away to make room for her. She closed it behind her and looked around the room. He had accepted the furnishing she sent for him, but the shelves and table tops were bare. Does he care for nothing or is he still too scared to keep a token?

"You did not… offend me."

Sansa looked up at him, waiting to follow his lead, unwilling to tread on his private space. As queen, she could, perhaps even should, state her case and reprimand him, regardless of their surroundings, but his trust in here was as important to her as it was out there. Bird and Hound, Queen and Shield, it made no matter to her. She wanted the quiet comfort and she wanted it in both of those roles.

"Bloody sit if you want to, I'm don't know how to run a household, do as you will."

She crossed to a chaise by a fire and took a seat, watching as he shook the last of the wine from a wineskin he must have been keeping just in case. The door leading to his bedchamber was slightly ajar and she saw that no fire burned in there. I hope the hot springs keep him warm enough.

"Sandor," she said, softly, a voice between girl and queen, "why… why did you act the way you did tonight?"

"Act like I always do."

"No. No, you did not."

He swallowed the last of the wine in one big gulp.

"Oh," he said. "Should've offered. Not very proper was it?"

"I don't care about your wine. You know that."

"Funny."

"What's funny?"

He sat in a chair diagonally from her and she watched the flicker of the fire within the cracks and edges of the charred side of his face. "Funny I'm supposed know what you do or do not care about."

"I would think that's at least partly your duty, my sworn shield."

"Bugger off."

"Fine. I'll go."

"S'not what I meant," he was on his feet, his hand clasping her wrist.

"Then what did you mean?"

"Sworn shield, this and that. What I did to you… what I let them do to you…"

"That's behind us."

"Is it, little bird? Is it? Sansa… why do you keep me here?"

"I did not know you felt kept. I did not realize I was some monster trapping you."

"Aren't you?"

"I think I should go, this was a mistake."

"What do you want from me?"

"What does that mean?"

"You got away, Sansa. From all of it. And now… now you'll marry yourself to a Lannister?"

"I know how it must feel, for you to be around a Lannister again-"

"Fuck me, girl. I don't want pity. How's it feel for you?"

"If Starks and Lannisters are united, there could be peace."

"At what cost? Why is it your life that pays the price?"

"It's not any of your business," Sansa was shaking, her face flushed. "I am your Queen. I am a leader. I have to make choices that you cannot possibly understand."

"I'm just a stupid dog, I know this song, girl."

"I'm not a girl."

He walked as if he would move through her but instead he lifted her then pressed her against the wall, the furs on her shoulders falling to the ground, so that the only thing that separated their skin was the thin fabric of nightclothes. He had her right hand pressed above her head and his own right hand rested on her hip, his fingers wrapped to the small of her back. She could have gotten away, wriggled free, returned to her chamber. But she stayed. She let him move closer.

"No? Then what is it you want, Sansa?"

His face was inches from her and again, she remembered, a green sky, spilling in through her curtains, and a knife to her throat.

"Answer me, little bird. You want to marry that golden fool? You want to bear him sons? Raise his pretty children in your father's keep?"

"I… it's not about what I want."

"You're a queen. Make it that way."

She freed her pinned arm, slipping her hand from under his, and placed it on the back of his neck. He held both her hips now and she felt the pressure of his fingertips, bearing into her.

"What do you want," he asked again, his voice like stone, pressing into her.

She could feel the heat of him, feel his breath on her. Goosepimples prickled her skin and she felt like she might cry. She looked into his eyes, longer than she ever had, and moved her hands to his face, touching either side, unafraid, reckless.

And she leaned into him, pulled his mouth to hers, and she kissed him, felt the surprising softness of his lips in contrast to the leathery remains of what once was. It was soft, delicate, but she wanted more. He tried to move away, but she pulled him in again, found his tongue with her own, heard him whimper, heard her own sigh. He gripped her harder and she rocked against him. She felt his teeth nip at her bottom lip, and hungrily she dug into the back of his neck, but his hands threw hers down, pushed her away.

"Go."

"Sandor…"

"Go."

He walked away, like a dog with his tail between his legs, eyes on the ground, as if she had never been there.

"Sandor."

He walked into his bedchamber and closed the door. She paced, not knowing what to do, the weight of what they had just shared fanning the flames of shame, of anger. How dare he? How dare he? Again, again, again.

She was tired of being left by him. She picked up his wine glass and threw it at his door. With a thump and a shatter, he was there again.

"Seven hells, Sansa! I'm letting you walk away!"

"You said you would keep me safe! That night! You said you would so do it!"

"I have! Haven't I? I cannot bloody well travel back in time, I am keeping you safe now!"

"From what?"

"From me!"

"No, no, you do not get to do this."

"Go to bed, little bird."

"No, talk to me."

"Built your own cage, I am sure it's lovely, go to bed."

He turned away from her again and she felt desperation rising in her throat, "You asked me what I want! I will tell you."

Laughing, he stopped, but did not face her. "Go on then."

"You," she was crying. Every breath had to be calculated, her body had forgotten how to go on, and she felt like the walls would crumble around her. "I want you."

"No. No, no, no. Whatever you made me out to be, I'm not that." He turned to her and walked forward, almost reaching out for her, but then dropping his arms stiffly to his sides. "You don't want me, Sansa."

"Be brave."

"What?"

"Stop being a coward. And let me want you."

"A coward? That's rich. Oh, that's good."

He laughed, pacing the room, and Sansa stood and watched. She did not fear him, did not fear any insult he could throw. She was the one with the power. She knew that now. He saw her for what she was and stepped outside of himself to save her, but she saw him first. Not the Hound, but the man. It was she who set them on this path. He placed his fist against the wall and held his head to his hand.

"A coward, a coward," he was whispering to himself. He finally turned, like she knew he would, holding anger in his eyes, like she knew he would. And for the first time in a long time, she felt fear. For him, more than of him.

"Is this what you want, girl? Is this what you're after?"

Sandor pulled his shirt over his head.

"The rest of me is just as ugly, see?"

He threw his arms open, daring her to touch him. Sansa was afraid, but more than that, she was saddened… saddened that he had no idea how beautiful he was to her. His body was corded with muscle on top of muscle… he was broad at the shoulders and tapered in at his middle, but still, even at the navel, he was solid as stone. She suddenly felt small and foolish before him in her nightgown, a girl again. She folded her arms in front of her breasts and, turning her head away, she hid her tears. She bit her lip to keep it from quivering.

He barked a cruel laugh. "That's what I thought. Queen in the North or not, your head's still full of songs. You don't want to fuck a dog. You want some pretty little prince…"

And somehow she was biting her lip from anger…

"…some golden haired youth…"

Hadn't he heard a word of what she'd said? Hadn't he seen how she'd changed?

"…put some pretty roses on your head, fuck you gently before he rides off to save the meek and feed the poor…"

Didn't he know her at all? Know how she cared for him?

"…leave a baby in your belly and make the smallfolk and ladies alike swoon with jealousy because they all just want to be his Qu-"

Sandor had to swallow the last word because she was on him. She wrapped her left hand around the back of his neck and placed the right over his shoulder and lifted herself to his mouth. He was shocked, but he did not move. He pulled back to look at her, brushing the hair from her face, and Sansa noticed that his eyes glistened. He spoke softer now, "You don't want me, Little Bird…"

She took his hand from her hair and kissed each of his knuckles. "I do… I truly do."

She gently pried apart his lips, her tongue tangling with his as his large, strong hands lifted her at her thighs and pulled her hard against him. She wrapped her legs around his middle and twined her fingers in his hair as she felt a shock travel through her spine. Already, she was wet, opening to him, ready for him. He turned, pressing her back against the cold stones, lifting her gown above her head, laughing his steely laugh when he saw that she wore no smallclothes. She undid the lace of his breeches as he bit the curve of her neck and shoulder, slid her hand down to grasp his swelling manhood as she felt his tongue travel up to her ear, rocked into him and squeezed the breadth of him, sliding her hand up and up as he sucked on her earlobe. And then he whispered to her, the softest she'd ever heard him speak, his fingers digging hard into the under of her thighs, bruising her winter pale skin no doubt, "Sansa…"

"Yes?"

He pulled her hand from his breeches. "Is this… do you really want this?"

Sansa let out a small laugh. "How can I make it more clear?"

She saw the concern on his face, the fear, and her smile faded, though not completely. She lightly traced the scarred side of his face, analyzing the wrinkles of his brow, the tightness of his lip, and the fog of emotion in his grey eyes, and then she kissed him, lightly, not seductively, not hungrily, only enough to touch lip to lip, to be joined. She wrapped her arms around his neck again and hugged him tightly. "Damn you, Sandor. Damn you, you are the truest man I know."

She pulled back and pushed his chest lightly. He gently set her down.

"I understand," he said through gritted teeth, staring down at her, but through her somehow.

"No, Sandor… you don't."

"Gods be damned, girl, what are you saying?"

"I want you. I want all of you. Now."

And with that Sansa pulled off his breeches and worked him in her hands until he was as hard as he was before. He closed his eyes and let out a low hum. Sansa dropped to her knees, carefully, quietly, so he would not notice, and then she slid her tongue across the slit of his cock, wiping away the moisture that had gathered there. He made a fist, "Girl…"

She slid her hands down his shaft and moved to let one cup his balls, squeezing them slightly in rhythm with the hand that worked the bottom of his shaft in slight turns as she took the head of his cock into her mouth. She moved her tongue in equal pressure, under, up, then around, proud of the airy moan that left him, before she sucked down hard then took in more of him, her hands still working him. Gently, she massaged his balls, tickling him in the middle, and then tracing a single finger up the large vein that throbbed throughout. She took him out of her mouth, and worked a single fist over the head of his cock, then down, placing a gentle kiss on his tip. Then swiftly, she jerked hard from the middle of his shaft over his the head, three times, counted off by his grunts, uh uh uh. And then she stood, running her fingers up the battle scars that covered his torso, kissing his chest.

"Sandor… do you believe I want you now," she asked, placing a final kiss between his pectorals.

His answer: a hand at her throat and a tongue in her mouth and she welcomed them both. Soon, he had her pinned to the cold floor, her skin covered in goose pimples, her nipples hardened from pleasure and from the cold. Sandor grabbed each of her wrists and pinned her arms above her head. She licked her lips and gave him a smile, laughing. He licked swiftly across her lips, and then kissed her nose, "What's so funny, Little Bird?"

"Nothing, nothing. Only…"

"Only what?" he asked, kissing down her stomach.

"Only I've dreamed of this so many times… and you're here."

He brought his face to hers and kissed her lightly.

"Aye, I'm here. And I'll go nowhere."

And then he was kissing down her chest, twirling his tongue around her left nipple, freeing her wrist to cup her other breast, making gentle circles with his rough thumb. He looked up at her, his grey eyes glossed over with a trusting lust and he placed his thumb in her mouth. She bit it, gently, and then sucked. His mouth came to hers once again and as he moved his hand to her lower lips, he sucked in her upper lip slowly and gently. Sansa took in his bottom lip and let her tongue flicker across it, from cruel scar to smooth skin, and as she felt his thumb, moistened by her mouth, rub against her clit she bit down hard. He moaned, plunging his tongue in her mouth and two fingers in her slit, his thumb still working the hard nub in little swirls. As he pulled away from her, traveling down her stomach with tiny kisses, his fingers traced her opening, slick with anticipation. Breathing deeply, Sansa tried to calm herself down, but the feel of his hot breath on her cold skin added an extra spark to the primitive hum of her body and she was shaking ever so slightly. He moved his hands down to her thighs, pulling her down, closer to him, bending her knees. He gently kissed the skin of her inner thigh, moving painfully close to that sweet spot, so close she could feel his breath, then moving on to the opposite thigh. He kissed slowly up her outer lips, and then pressed his tongue against her clit, putting just the right amount of pressure, then sucking. She felt herself getting harder and harder as he switched between sucking and pulsing his tongue against it. Then he released her, just as she felt that pleasant yawn begin and she groaned. He laughed, his gruff voice vibrating the core of her.

"Now, Sansa," he chided mockingly, taking a big, lazy lap that gently touched on all of her most tender spots and drove her crazy, "do not be rude."

Playfully, she kicked at him and he caught her leg in his hand. He kissed her softly from ankle to thigh, then bent her knees again and spread her open. Sandor was down again, his tongue in and out of her as two of his fingers massaged her clit in slow circles. Sansa's breath deepened and quickened and she found that she was clawing into the cold stone floor. She was right on the edge of ecstasy and then Sandor pushed her closer, running his tongue slow and hard along the bottom of her most sensitive spot, the pressure driving her mad, and yet, somehow, he was barely touching her. A wild, staccato gasping took over her then, and Sandor reached up and clasped his hands around hers. She intertwined her fingers with his as he sucked her clitoris into his mouth, holding it gently between his lips, sucking ever so lightly as he worked his tongue up, around, and across, over and over, faster and faster. Sansa felt as if she were leaving her body, soaring above the ground. Every nerve in her tingled and at once she felt almost numb. Each breath she took felt cold and clear, as pure as the first fall of snow, and seemed to stretch her out, seemed to make her infinite. She was bucking her hips against his face now, unable to control it. She could feel how very open she was, more than ever before, and she felt her own moisture seeping out of her. And then the pleasure turned, becoming almost a pain, but the greatest thing she'd ever felt. She let out a song of soft whimpers and moans as her body tried to almost fight against how good she felt, her legs shaking, her back arching up and up and up, her hips bucking in no certain rhythm now, giving way to spasms of pleasure. Sansa realized that she was beginning to cry, but she did not bother to fight against it. She was safe and warm and alive and invincible and flying, she felt like she was flying.