The cold winter wind went right through her thick cloak, creeping in at her throat and wrists as well. The woolen dress she wore underneath did little to help, still soiled with wine and dried blood from her abduction nearly four days ago.

Sansa huddled in a ball, trying to stay still and not fall off of the Mad Mouse's horse. The knight himself sat in front, prodding the beast along the snowy roads. She sniffed, her nose as red and runny as Sweetrobin's had been before he died, his tiny frame giving one last seizure then laying still and pale.

The rest was a flash of steel and a spray of blood as Ser Shadrich and his cronies had carried her off. Down the Kingsroad, they had said, laughing while a dagger went through their backs, the Lannisters will pay well for this one.

Now it was just the two of them, all day long in the saddle. The white landscape passed by so slowly, each snowdrift passed revealed another, each naked tree heralding a dozen more.

She wondered how long they could go, the nag looked about ready to lay down and die and her captor was still nursing several wounds. The dark clouds overhead threatened more snow, and she pulled the cloak tighter around her hoping for warmth. If they were caught in the storm, would they make it? Perhaps they would turn to ice, like in the stories Old Nan used to tell. Frozen, she would wander the Seven Kingdoms until spring came and melted her away.

But that was just a story, Sansa thought, a story for children. She knew better now, she would be sold to the Lannisters and they would chop her head off. Maybe, if she was lucky, they would send her bones to Winterfell where she could rest with father and Lady.

The memory of her father and direwolf saddened her, and she wished one of them were there.

Ser Shadrick spurred the slow footed beast onward, and they trudged along another barren field. The peasants were no where to be seen, poor and nameless they may be, but Sansa was sure they were at least warm.

The snowflakes were starting to drift down when the horse was reigned in suddenly. Sansa was jolted out of her dozing, her eyes blearily trying to see around the man in front of her.

"Who's there?" he called out, one hand dropping to his longsword, "I can see you."

There was a shadow, she realized. Through the snow, a darker spot against the darkening sky on an outcropping near the road. It moved, awkwardly it seemed, though she was far away.

Another moved closer, though. Out from the trees to their left, the horse shied away, nearly knocking Sansa to the ground, "Hold!" a strong voice called out, although it sounded rather high pitched, probably from the cold, "Don't move or we'll feather you."

"Little chance of that."

A whistle and the Mad Mouse jerked to the side, bringing horse round as an arrow glanced off his armor harmlessly. The movement finally did make Sansa fall, the snow breaking her descent. She coughed snow and stood up, her legs rubbery and heart pounding.

The form was coming closer she saw, big but she couldn't make out many more details as the sky darkened and the snow fell more heavily. She saw Shadrick spur his horse into a run as best he could, his sword out and gleaming silver against the gray sky.

Another arrow caught the horse's flank, a misstep sent the knight to the ground.

She turned and ran, her legs plowing through the snow, desperation making her strong. She could run, run away from Ser Shadrick and the Lannisters, run from the groping lips and hands of Harry, run from the loneliness and fear that went to bed with her each night and woke up with her every morning.

But she couldn't run from the elements. Eventually the snow won and she collapsed to her knees, her legs shaking and her breath harshly gasping from her dry throat. She brushed her disheveled hair out of her eyes and glanced wildly around.

She could see even less now, the world had shrunk to glimpses between snowflakes, the dark falling around her like a veil. Grasping a nearby branch, Sansa stood slowly, her stance unsteady. She would have to keep going, she decided, she couldn't stop.

She would go north, to Winterfell, she smiled for the first time in a long time. It was a long hard road, she stumbled along a waist high boulder, the cold stone scraping her bare hands, but she would make it. Even alone, even if she had to crawl. She tumbled over a hidden root, her weary limbs finally unable to get her upright again.

She sat down, cold numbing her bottom, her ears, and the tip of her nose. She wanted to cry, but the tears just froze on her eyelashes. She was turning into an ice woman already, she wanted to laugh, but her voice came out raspy and deep and she felt the warmth of a large cloak before she blacked out.

The Gates of the Moon were in uproar.

The main hall was filled, servants and pages and squires and sellswords and knights and lords. Each crowding the tables, jostling for a better view from the doorways or by the hearth. Their voices were a earsplitting cacophony, raising higher and higher as the arguments continued.

Sansa sat underneath warm blankets, a cup of warmed brandy in her hands. She shivered, the chill not quite gone even though her chair was next to the huge fireplaces.

Her great-uncle Brynden stood next to her, half listening to the lords of the Vale while hovering protectively over her. He hadn't left her side since his search party had found them on the road, speaking softly to her the entire way, "Are you chilled, child?" he asked for the umpteenth time, "Gretchel could fetch some food."

The brandy was making her light headed and sleepy, but she didn't want anything yet, "No," she replied, "Just a bath and sleep."

"Maddy will come when it's ready," he reassured her, "Just be still."

He needn't ask her twice, she thought comfortably. There was really little else she could do at the moment. The trek through the snowy plains had exhausted her.

Of course that same trek had ignited those around her. First the feast where she had been outed, her abduction, and finally her return. Sansa Stark had been found in the Vale. Raven's dark wings beat through the snowy landscape, half the Seven Kingdoms would know by now, the other half soon to find out. There would be no hiding, not anymore.

That suited many in the Vale just fine, she could see. Their voices calling for her support. They wanted troops and sellswords hired, were ready to call their banners at once. They wanted in the war.

Bronze Yohn Royce and his son Ser Andar led the former Lords Declarant, downing ale and making grand promises one after another. Their animosity forgotten, they gathered around the new Lord Arynn, the Young Falcon Harry.

Sandy haired and with a swagger to his step, Harry was flush with wine and his favorite thing, attention. He toasted his lord bannermen and their swornswords, his knights and footmen, even Queen Cersei got a mention in there somewhere. Sansa watched him with contempt, he reminded her of Joffrey- the disdainful look, the undeserved arrogance.

He had met them when they returned, the epitome of chivalry when he helped her off her horse shouting for the maester to bring his potions. He held her arm as he led her away into the castle, saying soothing lies and nonsense while she looked over her shoulder frowning.

The Blackfish was reigning in with the rest of the search party, shouting orders to everyone in sight. Stableboys led the horses away to be rubbed down and fed, squires and pages were bringing out warmed ciders for their lieges, "Ser Marwyn," he called, "We have returned with three more than expected. They are bound, but have sworn they mean no harm."

Sansa stopped, ignoring Harry's urging. Would he let them pass? she wondered, looking eagerly past the many people crowding into the hall. She saw Brienne first, the big woman frowning through her loose straw like hair. Pod stepped out partially from behind her, glancing around nervously like everything he did. Then Sandor, scowling before he caught sight of her from across the hall.

The captain of the guards appeared from the throng, "The woman and boy I don't know," he answered, "But, this one," he eyed Sandor with disgust, "This one will have to answer for his crimes in the Saltpans."

Sandor snorted in derision, "I only get accused of things I didn't do," a bitter laugh, "You're barking up the wrong tree Ser, it was someone else."

"Of course you would deny your wrongdoings," a motion, "Seize him."

"No!" Sansa shouted, pushing her way through the crowd, "He speaks the truth," she affirmed, "Another did those dreadful things. Brienne, tell him."

"I had it from the Elder Brother on the Quiet Isle," Brienne confirmed softly, "And later I killed Rorge, the man who wore the hound helm. And now one of the Brotherhood without Banners wears the helm, a singer turned outlaw."

Sansa had heard the tales from Myranda and others, the Hound was riding. Pillaging and raping and killing. Atrocities that she had never heard their equal. But she couldn't believe them.

Ser Marwyn was not so sure, "Two women vouch for you, I will require more proof."

"Watch your tongue," the Blackfish reminded him sternly, "That is the Lady Sansa Stark. The other is Brienne the Maid of Tarth. Hardly two gossiping washerwomen."

The captain was trapped, "Very well," he ground out, "But I will still hold him for questioning."

"At your leisure," her great-uncle said while several guards took Sandor away. Sansa watched until they disappeared. Brynden saw her, "Not to worry, Ser Marwyn knows his place. Your unlikely rescuer will come to no harm."

Sansa sipped her brandy, glad for Maddy's plain face when she took her to her bath. Warm soapy water soothed her, the faint scent of carnations filled the room. The soiled dress was replaced with a soft flannel nightgown, the nights truly too cold to rely on bedsheets alone.

The moment her head hit the pillow she fell asleep, grateful for the blissful nothingness.

The halls were deserted, her booted feet echoing off the cold stones. The dim weak winter sun filtered through the narrow high slit windows, halfway filled with snow. A thick cloak lined with mink and fastened with a mother-of-pearl brooch kept her warm, but Sansa was still shaking.

Today was the Trial.

Her tummy was in flutters and her mind raced. Sansa has tossed and turned all night, waking up restless and nauseous. Nothing has stayed down, a weak broth ending up her breakfast.

She came to the door unbolted it and pushed the heavy oak open, the hinges creaking. The room was small and nondescript, only the scuffling sounds of armor distinguishing it from any other. The two people inside looking up at her entrance. Pod glanced up and then stared at his toes, but Sandor snorted and resumed putting on his greaves, "The little bird is spying on us."

"I came to speak to you," she said, "Pod, could you leave us?"

The shy boy left, his eyes never lifting beyond her boots, "O-Of course, my lady," he stammered out, laying the cloak down before closing the door behind him.

She stood still for a moment, not sure how to say what she needed to. Her thoughts were interrupted by Sandor's deep rasp, "I hope you know how to put on armor, since you just sent away the boy."

Her brow creased delicately before she stepped forward. Sansa had seen men in armor nearly everyday of her life, but had never opportune to don one, "If you tell me," she offered.

He looked at her like she had grown a second head but instructed her all the same. It had been magnificent armor, once gold plated and engraved, and belonging to the Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister. They had taken it with the owner only a week past, coming up the Kingsroad. However, now it was stretched, better to fit the larger Sandor, as his own soot gray was buried by the Trident.

He will need the protection, she thought, buckling another leather strap. The Kingslayer was not the only one to come up the Kingsroad, and was followed by the red and gold banners of his house and his sister. Even though Queen Cersei had lost her regency and honor, her claws still reached the Vale. Raping and pillaging through the countryside, her monstrous champion plowed through the snow to lay accusations at her feet. Regicide, treason, she frowned, her eyes lowering.

Then her eyes narrowed, she would never forgive Joffrey.

"That's tight enough," Sandor removed his arm from her surprisingly strong grip, adjusting the gauntlet, "I still need to hold a sword."

"How is your leg?" she asked, moving away slightly to let him check the mobility of his joints.

A scowl, "Well enough," he answered, "But it's a bit late to worry about that now, unless you want someone else."

She shook her head, "No," Sansa replied honestly, "But a champion should have a favor."

"Keep your ribbons, little bird. They won't fancy up this sword."

"It's only proper," she protested, holding the pale blue velvet.

When he didn't say anything she tied it in a loose knot around his upper arm. Sandor glanced over and grumbled, "A bow? Tie it so there aren't loose ends."

"I can't see well enough."

"Get a chair."

She did, standing on a worn wooden bench. It was rather strange to be eye to eye with him, so used to him looming over her. Sansa tied the ribbon more firmly, wrapping it around several times before knotting the very ends, "I know you don't want a favor."

Sandor snorted, "That's truth enough."

"So," she continued, dropping her hands to her sides, "I will give you something you asked for a long time ago."

He looked over, his brow furrowed, "What?"

"A song," she smiled.

So she sang the song of Florian and Jonquil, the knight that wasn't -that was the greatest knight of them all and his sweet lady. Her voice rose and fell melodically, no hesitation this time, she had been practicing.

Her last note echoed in the empty room when she finished, and she took a deep breath. Her chest was fluttering, but she didn't know why. Looking up from under her lashes, Sansa's eyes widened.

He was staring at her. Just staring.

Was it wrong? she wondered confused, not understanding. She had been so sure, why wasn't he doing anything? He wasn't even saying anything, she noted. She frowned, anger and disappointment welling in her.

"Sansa," he finally rasped out.

And the disappointment disappeared. A shiver started in her chest and flew outward, tingling to the ends of her fingers. I was right.

Leaning forward, she kissed him. Lightly though, just barely brushing up against his mouth. Stubble and scars, and his nose bumped hers before the kiss deepened. Her breath caught in her throat, and his hand pressed against her neck.

The rattle of the bolt in its socket started her, and Sansa turned abruptly just in time to see her great uncle Brynden come through the door. Her mouth hung open a moment before she composed herself, "Uncle?" she asked, ignoring Sandor turning away next to her.

The Blackfish caught her eye, "It's time," he said pointedly, but something in his tone suggested words left unsaid, "We're waiting."

"It will not be much longer," she assured him.

Brynden nodded and left, and Sansa let out the breath she didn't know she was holding.

Pausing, she opened her mouth and blurted out, "His side," she said, "The man said that his side was weak."

"What are you chirping about?" Sandor grunted.

Should she explain? It had been so real, the dream, "The queen's champion," she said earnestly, "Your brother," she said softly, "He is missing a piece of his side."

She didn't want to think about how Gregor could walk with such an injury, she had seen and heard so many things that had only happened in songs before. Horrible things that came with the harsh chill of winter. She shivered.

Sandor narrowed his eyes, "How do you know that?"

She frowned, she could almost hear his rasping laughter before she even spoke, but she had to convince him anyway, "I heard the disgraced maester speak of it," she made no mention of the rest of the dream, the way she seemed to fly through the air on wings of her own, or the way she reached down to capture a raven in her taloned hands, "The one with the queer eyes," she continued.

He didn't laugh, but his mouth twitched, "Which side?"

"His shield arm."

Sandor nodded his brow drawn together, but said nothing else on the matter, "It's time."

Sansa stepped down from the bench and took a deep breath, composing herself. She must not show her fear- one way or another she would face her decision. She would not cower like some little girl, she was a Stark of Winterfell. The blood of the First Men flowed through her veins. Her dead father and mother and brothers and sister would rest peacefully only when she was restored to the North.

She opened her eyes, "Let us go."

The Trial was to be held outside the Gates of the Moon, as the small castle had no suitable courtyard. Piles of white snow reached high above even the deep banks, too carefully sculpted to be natural. And indeed servants and laborers had been working for days to complete the structure, a castle built of snow.

Sansa's heart clutched painfully for a moment, a sudden memory of a day seemingly so long ago clear in her mind before the shouts and filth were noticeable.

Lords and knights crowded the snow stands, wool tents around them to keep them warm, their colors displayed gaily like they were at a tourney. The others were not so fortunate, huddling together under blankets. Only a few stood in the center, herself and Sandor and her greatuncle Brynden on one side- Brienne and Pod nearer the exit. In the stands were her supporters, Bronze Yohn Royce and his brother Lord Nestor and their households. Harry Arryn, the Young Falcon sat in his newly acquired moon and falcon colors, pretending the role of great lord.

And across the frozen ground the strange maester stood beside a monster.

The disgraced queen's champion was enormous, wearing armor no normal man could don, carrying a broadsword so large Sansa was sure it was bigger than herself. A cold shiver ran through her, just looking at him. And she clutched the sharp edge of the dagger she had hidden in her bodice, drawing her hand away quickly when she felt the warm blood on her fingers.

The Lannister queen's host filled the rest of the stands- red and gold interspersed with the other colors of bannermen. She didn't bother identifying the heralds.

Brynden stepped forward, "You have come with serious charges against my niece," he said loudly, his voice carrying easily through the clear air, "What say you?"

The maester answered, "Regicide of his Highness, King Joffrey," Qyburn was his name, "So the dowager Queen Cersei accuses."

Sansa held her head high, "The king died not by my hand," she said loudly, no quaver in her voice, "So I swear by the Seven."

"Well, Septon?" Qyburn bared his teeth in what must have been a smile, "We have one word against the other. What to the gods say?"

Poor Septon Lucos looked out of his small eyes like a terrified rabbit, "A-A trial!" he declared, "Only... only a trial may decide the truth."

"I have the queen's champion," Qyburn motioned, "Ser Gregor Clegane will defend her honor."

"And my champion is beside me," Sansa answered back, "Sandor Clegane."

Murmurs rose through the crowd- brothers fighting in a trial? If one conceded then no life's blood would be shed, otherwise only death could decide the outcome. One brother would be branded kinslayer. Surely the gods would not allow this.

"Two brothers h-have stepped forth," Lucos glanced from side to side nervously, "The Seven torment those called kinslayer."

"Ser Gregor has no objections."

The septon turned towards the hound in golden armor, "And you? W-Would you carry the title?"

Sandor's barking laugh was answer enough, "The Mother herself couldn't stop me."

Sweat shined off of Lucos' face, "Then the trial will commence."

Qyburn slunk into the shadows behind Gregor, while Lucos scurried off. Brynden rested a large hand on her shoulder, "May the Seven show us the all the truth," he said softly.

Sandor scowled, "When it's over don't thank the Seven."

"Her life rests in your hands," Brynden replied, stepping back.

Sansa spoke, "I didn't kill Joffrey."

Looking down, Sandor regarded he a moment, "You should have- would have gotten away with it," he said, snapping shut his visor and drawing his own sword.

Sansa stepped back to the company of her greatuncle, his presence comforting. There was nothing left but to let the gods determine her fate. She raised her eyes and watched.

The Mountain that Rides was down.

A pile of stone gray armor that leaked out red blood, crimson on the white snow underneath. One arm pinned down with a sword driven straight through, the helm knocked off during the fall. The shocked gasps rose around her, a cacophony that drowned out her greatuncle reaching for her elbow as she stepped forward for a better look.

The red blood turned black.

It gushed out of Gregor's arm and side and mouth, thick and foul, "What is the meaning of this?" she heard Brynden say in disbelief behind her.

Sandor took off his own helm, his scarred face shining with sweat, "This is not my brother," he rasped out, gray eyes narrowed at Qyburn.

The maester glanced about, "Ser Gregor-"

"Died once already," Brynden challenged, "As the word from King's Landing and Dorne had it. It seems that the truth is as black as the raven's who brought it."

Sansa was closer now, could see the horrible shadow that was Ser Gregor once. Could the tales about the maester be true? A shiver ran down her spine.

She faintly heard Qyburn's response as Sandor circled the fallen knight like a dog, scowling all the while. She went closer, but not too close. If Ser Gregor was able to get up from death once, perhaps he could do so again, "Is it over?"

A sharp nod, Sandor nudged the monstrous bulk with a foot, "Aye," he seemed to have caught his breath, and Sansa felt relief. Now the kingdoms would know her innocence, the Seven had watched over her.

A cackling hiss.

She turned, her eyes wide. Was it still...?

It was. Bubbling through the thick black gushing, it exhaled. She shrank back, her hands flying to her mouth in horror as it tried to get back up. A flopping motion was all it managed, that cackling hiss never stopping even as Sandor stomped down on it's other arm with a crunch, the limb laying lifeless.

"By the Seven..." she heard Lucos mutter, his body trembling.

Brynden shouted, "That unholy thing was sent here to champion your queen? Take the maester into custody!"

Marwyn moved to do as bid, even the Lannister bannermen making no motion to stop him as his guardsmen bound Qyburn and took him away. Sansa took deep breaths to calm herself, but to little avail as that drowning hiss rang in her ears.

It was like the story Old Nan had told her so long ago in the halls of Winterfell. About the others who lived far beyond the Wall, the ice rivers, and snow covered mountains in the far northern reaches. Beyond the wildlings and giants and mammoths. In the heart of winter, they turned dead men to life. Dead men who rose again and again in the cold winter, their bodies rotting away.

She shut her eyes, seeing nothing but the windswept barren wasteland of snow and ice. The land of always winter burned into her mind, she could almost feel the harsh biting cold of it- the dread emptiness.

And then she was there. For a moment the snow swirled around her, clinging to her, sending her hair whipping across her face. An empty sky arced above her for a moment before hidden away by the gray mist. Blue spires of ice rose tall, jagged and sharp in the sunless land and death was upon her. The air gone from her as the overwhelming white light burned her tears to her skin where they froze.

She was going to die.

And then the soft fur of Lady was under her fingertips, a gentle solid presence of her dead direwolf as she licked her hand- the warmth spreading through her, melting her.

And life filled her once again.

She opened her eyes, the scene in front of her seemed to be far away. The yelling of the guards, the shouts of the throng, the praying of the septon. Lady walked away from her side, passing by the prone form of what was left of Ser Gregor. A quick snap at it's throat, and then her faint apparition disappearing as she passed by a scowling Sandor. And a sudden heat filled Sansa, the dagger she had hidden burning against her skin.

She pulled it out from her bodice. She had grabbed it from the armory without second thought, the clear black surface of the blade reflected the weak sunlight, but she looked closer. There... a flicker, a flame perhaps? It was there, on the inside of the blade.

A frozen flame to melt away the fervid ice.

Maester Luwin had called it obsidian, she distantly remembered, but a clearer memory resurfaced- dragonglass.

And the gurgling hiss seemed to tear at her ears.

"Buggering monster," she heard Sandor growl out, throwing down his shield, "Aren't you dead yet?"

Brynden came forward, "You need not worry," he rarely spoke directly to Sandor, "The Seven will take care of him. A kinslayer would not be fit to be in Lady Sansa's service."

"He came back once- I'd rather not chance it."

Her greatuncle shook his head, his tone weary, "Then I will do it," he drew his own sword and walked to Ser Gregor's feeble form. There was no hesitation as Brynden thrust the blade through the knight's neck in a grim mimic of the Mountain's own actions so long ago. A stern look, and a quick wipe of the black dripping edge on the snow, "May the Father judge him fairly."

Sandor's mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

Brynden walked back, his boots crunching the snow underneath. But before he could reach them, that eerily familiar hiss rang loudly through the stands.

And the dragonglass dagger burned in her hands. Sansa gasped, her blue eyes widening as understanding crashed down upon her like an avalanche, sending her swaying.

Frowning, Sandor glanced between the remains of his brother and her, uncertain for only the barest moment, "Watch yourself," he laid a heavy hand on her shoulder gently, his scarred profile turning away, "He came back."

Brynden seemed to age ten years, "So he did."

Sandor seemed unsatisfied with his answer, "What about you, septon?" he called, "What would you have us do to kill it?"

Lucos was petrified, "Ser-"

"I'm no knight-"

"The maester would know-"

"Stop!" Sansa called, her voice carrying clearly as she drew herself up straight, "This is no work of the Seven."

"M-my Lady..."

She held out the dragonglass, the black blade trapped flames within, "Fire can melt away ice," striding towards the stone armor, her feet seemingly moving on their own. She had seen the cold winter- felt the icy desolation. She had seen Lady fight back, fire and life.

But Lady was gone now, and Sandor had done his part. The rest was up to her.

Before Brynden or Sandor or Marwyn could stop her, Sansa knelt down and slid the dragonglass blade across Ser Gregor's throat. The sharp edge met no resistance, the rotted flesh seemed to give way from the slightest touch. Black blood covering her hands, burning with cold.

The horrible gurgling gave one desperate last hiss and then stopped.

Disclaimer: ASOIAF is not mine.

A/N: So this is a kinda prequel to Stay, elaborating on the set up for that oneshot. I also tried to incorporate Bran's premonition, Sandor and Sansa's projected growth, where Brynden would end up, and Sansa's warging abilities.