AN; The beginning of this work might seem slow (and Gods know it does to me too), but I wanted to challenge myself. I hope you'll bear with me as I explore the missing scenes and the bits in between of Sansa's queer relationship with Sandor Clegane. And, if you'll allow me, how I invision that relationship will grow.

It is my wish that this work be enjoyed as I have enjoyed working on it and any comments or suggestions are not only welcomed but looked-forward-to! That being said, I hope I don't disgrace the SanSan community with my drivel, but sometimes you just need to let the feels out.

And lastly, to the loyal followers of this story I owe a very big apology. I've reworked the whole thing, and the first three chapters range from mildly altered to entirely different.

Prologue

Sandor Clegane shadowed silently, Stranger beneath him pawed at the hard-packed earth as he moved to follow the Prince. Even beneath his plate and boiled leather and lambswool he was cold to the bone. Why the fucking lot of us need to freeze our arses up here is beyond me, he thought absently. It had grown colder and colder as their procession had traveled up the Kingsroad and yet, those he spied that looked of the North seemed no colder than he when he'd donned his warmest and they their peasant garb.

The ride had been long, but none could say hard. The queen and her big wheelhouse stopped for every rock and tree and the ladies within were oft heard complaining. Let them ride a horse the rest of the way, the big man had thought while watching a trail of Southron girls stretch their legs and call to each other loudly about their stiffness. Or better yet me. He had smiled then, until he'd heard a shuffling of feet as the maidens three distanced themselves. And then he'd stopped smiling, taking on an ugly snarl as suited him.

Winterfell was grand enough, he supposed, in a much different way than Castelry Rock or King's Landing ever had been. Its walls were grey and worn and had seen one too many winters. But the castle was large, even if parts of it had succumbed to ruin and he'd been told it was warmed by springs hotter than a true Dornish Summer.

Passing into the courtyard the column stopped. Sandor reached for his helm, so cleverly shaped to resemble his namesake the Hound, and lifted the jaw-like visor. Even the courtyard had a bleak look. Perhaps the North had no Summer of its own and made due with stealing the warmth of the South. No. There was no warmth here. Grey and worn and one too many winters, he grimaced. Where King's Landing was paved and Casterly Rock cut from the rock itself, Winterfell was only earth and snow. It was not a beautiful place, he thought, but who was Sandor Clegane to complain of the sight of things?

All the house had come to greet the King, in the courtly best. Plain as it was all he saw was ice or earth or sky and dirt trimmed cloaks. Grey and worn and one too many winters. The great Lord Eddard Stark hardly looked his part, grim in his boiled leather. He eased Stranger to a stop, relaxing the reins in his hands. He knew enough of Kingly courts that some procedure was to be had. He could not dismount till the lard-king got off his sorry horse and welcomed himself. He knew enough of this King, though, that his court would not be long.

He chanced a glance over the house, though his fingers itched for a wineskin and his mouth a dark red sour. As King Robert stepped from his horse each one made to bend their knees. Hidden beneath grey furs were the five Stark children he ventured. They knelt in line next to the great ice lord and his fish wife. What a match that was, he grinned. A fish was not like to swim a frozen river.

Yes, he decided, though much indifferent. They were the Stark children, although their colouring was so unlike their father that he was suddenly reminded of Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen - blond where there father was dark - only here, the frozen fish were all red-brown hair and wide blue eyes. He saw that now, as they rose like skinny swords. Tully blood more than North. Frozen fish indeed. Only one child seemed to favor the Starks with her dark hair and staring grey eyes. And beside her a girl with hair the colour of fire stood smiling. He followed her eyes to the Prince, to see Joffrey returning with a grin. Though on his lips it seemed a smirk.

He caught his reflection then, in one of the muddied pools beneath Strangers hooves. A snarling dogs head helm with a man as ugly wearing it. His skin was taut on one side, red and twisted too. Burned. Disfigured and worn. A man of one too many winters.