13. Leaving

By the time Tyrion found Sansa sometime the day after her outburst, she had every line and curve and sharp edge of the Dragonstone map memorized. She had it unrolled before her, taking up much of the dark wood table placed within the library, and had done little else since Jon's announcement. She never planned on seeing the rock for herself but figured she knew it almost as good as she knew Winterfell at this point. But no matter how much she knew it, it didn't lift the feeling of dread she had about her people venturing there. Her eyes and mind were hurting and when she realized that the Lannister was standing before her, studying her as she studied the map, she gladly welcomed something new for her eyes to focus on.

"Tyrion Lannister."

"Sansa Stark." Tyrion gave her a tight mouthed smile that could barely be seen under the thick layer of beard. It didn't reach his eyes. "I see the name Lannister didn't find you well."

Sansa mustered a smile to humor him. "Take no offense. Neither did Bolton."

Tyrion's face soured despite Sansa's clear lack of emotion on the subject. He moved himself over to take a seat next to her as he spoke, "Littlefinger has done a lot over the years, much to impact your family, in particular, I might add, so when I heard that the man somehow managed to marry you off to Roose Bolton's bastard, I was surprised to realize he was still breathing."

He wasn't the only one, but Sansa knew there was no need to voice that. Littlefinger himself probably thought that same thing for many reasons as he takes breath each morning. "I could have said no. I did say no. But…"

Tyrion nodded. He also didn't need to be told that Littlefinger was good at saying what he needed to get what he wanted.

"One good thing did come out of the Bolton marriage though," Sansa stated.

Tyrion gave her a disbelieving expression.

"It won you best husband."

Something between a snort and laugh and gasping cry escaped the man's lips as he shook his head, glancing at Sansa with eyes almost ashamed to have found her statement amusing. "That's not comforting!" He shook his head. "Gods… Look at the two of us. Dare I say we're the two unluckiest souls around?"

Sansa shrugged. She agreed many might think them so. Perhaps she thought the same thing at one time or another, back when she had nothing but time to wallow in her own self-pity. Tyrion too might have done the same, behind his mask of sarcasm and cleverness, cursing his height and family and place in life. "I'm finally back home with my family. You're hand to a queen. I might consider us luckier than most."

Tyrion nodded. "We would have made such a mix-matched team."

With a sad smile, Sansa nodded, remembering her first short-lived marriage. She had been so worried about it when she was younger. Now, she wondered if staying in it might have saved her in the long run. "You really would have made a good husband. In another world, do you think we could have been happy?"

"Without a doubt." Tyrion grinned.

The two shared a common silence for a moment, a realization passing between them unspoken—they would have been happy together in the end. If only there hadn't been Joffrey or Cersei or White Walkers or murder or war or an Iron Throne. If only. Still, there was something satisfying about the notion, to know that there might have been a better ending for them in some different version of the universe.

Soon, Tyrion's somber smile started to dissipate slowly. It was time to get to the point of his visit. "You don't approve of her, do you?" There was no need to specify further.

Sansa glanced back at the maps before her. Dragonstone was ugly. Nothing but a lump of rock right in the middle of the sea. That being said, anything that wasn't home wasn't worth looking at. "I don't know her."

"Doesn't mean you don't have an opinion."

"Most people don't like my opinion."

"As we've come to learn, most people are idiots."

She trusted Tyrion might be the only one she could speak to that wouldn't look over her words with hast. And if anyone could change her mind, it would be the Little Lion of Lannister. So she spoke her opinion. "She's an outsider. She wants to be Queen. Of us."

"Surely not the worst circumstances. Yes, she hasn't set foot in Westeros since she was a child, but she was born here, Westerosi blood runs through her veins as much as yours. My sister was raised here, yet look what she's done with the world."

"We know Cersi. You and I know Cersi." Sansa motion in the air between them. "The way she thinks and acts. Hard to believe, but I can almost sleep with both eyes closed when it comes to your sister."

Tyrion mumbled, "I'm glad that you can."

"But this Targaryen?" Sansa shook her head. "At best, Jon goes back to Dragonstone and your queen is willing to aid us at the cost of the North's fealty. At worst, she says no, and there we are still at her mercy."

"Might I ask why you make the best case scenario seem so terrible? It seems like a solution to a problem. An army against my sister and dragons against this Night King of yours."

"These people will never agree to that. They're proud and stubborn and cautious. She has to know that."

There was a particular look that floated over Tyrion's face at that moment. It was subtle but Sansa caught a glimpse of… something. His eyebrow arched and the corner of his mouth twitched in a conspicuous way. His eyes darted away from her gaze, to over her shoulder to scan the walls of the library, then the free books lying separate from their home on the shelf. Only when Tyrion came back to connect with her did Sansa understand the hesitation.

"But she doesn't, does she?" It took restrain not to laugh. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. So what did that mean for Winterfell? They were asking for her aid, of course, she would want them to back her claim as Queen, but there was no way to justify a way to expect it. She was a stranger from a family with a dark past and fire breathing dragons ready to kill on command. It would be a hard pill to swallow for anyone. "What's going to happen with Daenerys, Tyrion? Can you tell me?"

Tyrion gave her a tight, closed-mouthed smiled. He patted the map on the table as if comforting it like an old friend. He scooted off the edge of the chair and placed a supportive hand on Sansa's arm in reassurance. "Whatever it is, dear Sansa is better than the alternative I'm afraid."

•••

Less than five days after his announcement, Jon gathered a group of men, supplies, and let it be known to those staying behind that this was not a decision he made lightly. He was convinced that going to Dragonstone, seeing Daenerys, pleading his case, was the right call. The only call. The only way for any progress in the war to come. The men grumbled here and there as he spoke, as anyone with half a brain would expect, but not a single one spoke up against the King in the North. No, soon they were nodding their heads as if finally seeing the same conclusion as their leader did. The hall was in agreement, ever it be a small and fleeting moment. Seeing the acceptance from the men, Jon looked to his siblings for the same reaction. He naturally lingered on Sansa the longest. She still didn't see what Jon did, but she didn't want to be that spoiled child Sandor claimed her to be or opt for the worse situation that Tyrion feared would come to pass should she resist. So she let go of her resistance. For the moment.

Outside, the courtyard was as busy as ever. Men and squires alike were running between horses, wagons, and other men and squires. Even Tyrion and his men were there. Most looked anxious, itching to finally leave the wind and snow behind for warmer temps and any color other than white and gray.

From the looks of things, they would be off soon. That's why Sansa was there, weaving her way through any space she could. Jon only requested the number of men necessary to make the trip yet it seemed like three times that many were helping them to depart. So it wasn't a surprise when she bumped into a few of them. An arm here, a shoulder there. She eventually found herself up against someone's back, one large enough to block the path she was taking. A step to the side was all it would take to continue on, and she would have, not taking any extra notice to those around her, had it not been for the voice she heard coming from the one blocking her way.

"Are you deaf? Turn the fuck around."

"P-please…"

Sansa looked up. It was Sandor standing before her, but he didn't seem to have noticed her, as he was far too preoccupied with what was going on in front of him to care what was behind him. Looking passed him stood a young man, or teen more so, one of the stable hands often seen mucking stables and feeding horses. He was slim, but lean, muscles made from lifting and pushing and carrying anything and everything that had to do with caring for the animals. His dark hair was untidy and in much need of a haircut, but he was overall pleasant to look at. He warranted nothing that would seemingly cause anger from Sandor Clegane. Then again, Sandor Clegane didn't always need a cause.

Her body acting before her brain made up her mind, Sansa placed a hand on Sandor's arm in an attempt to angle his attention even an inch away from the boy. It took a moment for Sansa to realize that Sandor held reins in his hand. His horse stood next to him. Not as magnificent as his old, but just as large and intimidating in size and stature. Why did he have his horse? No one said anything about the Brotherhood leaving as well. "You're not going with them, are you?" She found herself sounding too concerned and hoped no one was the wiser.

"To get eaten by a fucking dragon?" Sandor scowled when he looked at her. A look of disgust at the thought covered his face. "I'd rather drag my ass naked across this icy hell."

Sansa looked between the two. "Then what's the problem?"

"This bastard thinks he can take my horse. Your brother doesn't have enough of his own, he thinks he gets to take mine?"

All this for a horse? Men had fought over less, it was true. So much for not getting attached. But it must have been more than that. Sandor Clegane lost everything when he ran from King's Landing, his status, his reputation, his home, despite it all not being much. His actual horse along the way. Perhaps he just couldn't lose something else.

"I'm sorry, my lady," the stable hand finally spoke up, his voice a bit sturdier now that someone of familiarity was around to set things straight. He looked only at Sansa now. "I must have gone to the wrong stall. I was asked to fetch the horse. They looked similar."

Sansa smiled. "Anyone could have made the same mistake. But could you please return Sandor's horse to the stables. I'm sure he would appreciate it greatly."

The face he wore begged a differ.

The boy gave her a small, relieved smile as he nodded. He didn't seem to want to look Sandor's way, but he needed the reins to do as Sansa had asked. Reins someone wasn't currently handing over.

Sansa looked up at Sandor. He was still glaring at the poor stableboy. "Unless you'd rather he take the horse after all?"

He shoved the reins over with more strength than needed. The horse was quickly led away, being weaved in and out of the now thinning crowd of men and animals. The group was close to leaving.

"Did you have to be so harsh with him?"

"Shouldn't have taken my horse." The annoyance in his voice was gone but remained low and gruff. Sandor eyed her and motioned to his side. "Afraid an old dog's about to run?"

Her hand was still on his arm. Hardly embarrassed, she removed her hand to rub her fingers together, feigning that the cold had gripped her suddenly. She has forgotten gloves after all.

The two hadn't talked since their discussion in the Godswood. But that didn't stop Sansa from thinking about it more often than one would like. It did little more than add on to thoughts of Sandor and his promise of protection that he offered so long ago.

"Afraid of what?" Sansa asked. He was thinking back to her outburst, accusing him of leaving her behind again. But there were no flames yet. "There's wine here. You're not going anywhere."

"Any shithole has wine."

"And still you're here." Sansa eyed him as she turned around. "Our wine must be better."

Now tightening the saddle onto his horse, Sansa finally spotted Jon at the head of the convoy. He looked stoic and focused and perhaps a bit uncertain. He wasn't casually leaving home after all. Meeting with a dragon queen was bound to be nerve-wracking. The horse nudged him after the saddle was secure as if trying to encourage Jon and ensure him all would be well. It seemed the horse knew something nobody else did.

"Jon," Sansa called over, taking only a few steps away from Sandor before stopping.

"Make sure everyone's ready to go. If we want to make any headway by dark we need to leave now," Jon explained to a group of men nearby before heading toward Sansa. A small smile crossed his lips. "A proper sendoff this time? I'm honored."

Did she not say goodbye to him when he left for the Knight's Watch? Apparently not, though she couldn't rightly remember.

Sansa reciprocated with a grin. "Making up for lost time, although I seem to be the last one. Arya and Bran I saw this morning beat me to it."

"Ah, better late than never I suppose."

"Just be careful, okay? Make sure to come home in one piece."

Jon pulled Sansa into a hug. He smelled of fire smoke and leather and his embrace warmed her heart as well as her body. Jon's hugs reminded her of her father's.

He held her tight in reassurance as he said, "I'll be back before you know it."

That was easy to believe in theory but the Stark family didn't have the best track record at returning from anything unscathed. So as Sansa watched Jon lead his men out of Winterfell, she hoped beyond hope that whatever curse befell them for all these years was lifted.

"The snow king leaves his castle." Sandor was next to her again.

"You're the second person to say something like that to me."

No surprise the first had been Littlefinger. He was already awaiting her in her chambers by the time Sansa returned from the Godswood, all sly smiles and cunning words that tried to be encouraging despite dripping in secret agendas. He cautioned her of Jon's plans. It took little time to question how thoroughly the oldest Stark thought through seeking out Daenerys Targaryen and wondered how exactly the North would fit into her plans. He was purposely echoing what he figured her worries were out in the open.

Then he said what he really wanted to.

"The King in the North is now a king leaving the north." Littlefinger didn't even attempt to cover his emotions, practically an adolescent girl oozing with giddiness.

A shifting Sandor pulled Sansa out of her conversation with Littlefinger for a moment. When she turned to hold his gaze, she found something fleeting in his eyes. Was it a hint of pride? He searched her face as if sizing whether or not to say he wanted to next. "The north falls to the Lady of Winterfell."