The hall was full to bursting with people, highborn and lowborn alike. There were lords bannermen and their wives as well as knights, squires, ladies maids, serving maids, stableboys, housekeepers, children, even smallfolk from Torrhen's Square and musicians.

Bugger the musicians, thought Sandor.

The music was so loud he felt his skull would surely split. Or maybe it was due to the wine. Or the heat of the hall. Fires had been lit, more in celebration than for heat, in the four great hearths of the hall. And there were too many thrice-damned people. His time on the Quiet Isle had only increased his appreciation for silence and solitude. He looked at his cup and could see the bottom. A frown formed on his brow and he reached for the jug on the table to pour himself another drink. He sniffed his cup and drank deeply. It was weak ale. He considered dumping the stuff onto the ground, but decided against it and kept drinking.

The music rose and fell in a madly spirited reel he did not recognize.

The smallfolk are having their turn. He grunted and took another gulp of the ale.

The evening had started as a fine and formal affair attended only by highborn lords and ladies. All harps and flutes and formal dances. But many of the highborn who'd begun the evening in finery had retired to their rooms well before the smallfolk were allowed to attend. The music playing now featured horns, fiddles, pipes, and drums. The music of taverns and of harvest feasts; the music of the smallfolk.

He rose from the table and filled his cup again.

"Clegane!" exclaimed Abelar Addam, a burly hedge knight with a long face and big black beard. The hedge knight had a very drunk, spindly smallfolk woman with a tousled braid of brown hair sitting on his lap. Addam held a wine cup in his right hand and had his left down the front of her bodice. "Have another drink! To Spring! And to victory!" The last word was shouted.

"To Spring! To victory!" the shout was picked up by others around them. "To Spring! To victory!"

"And to Sandor Clegane, the Wightsbane!"

He ignored them and walked, with a slight limp in his left leg, outside into the main bailey. Sandor walked across the yard to the wall, found an unoccupied corner and took a piss.

Seven bloody buggering hells, he fumed, Wightsbane. A few damned victories led on the winning side and they all clamber towards you with praise and names. He leaned his head against the cold stone wall in front of him. He'd almost preferred it when he'd only been a hound.

He sighed as the water left his belly. The cool stillness of the night air felt good after the stifling noise and crush of the hall. His head was beginning to feel better and lighter already.

Empty, he stuffed himself back into his britches and turned around. The moon was full and high in the black and cloudy sky. His eyes scanned the battlements atop the towers and the curtain wall. He had no trouble counting the guards on duty in the full moonlight. None he could see were asleep. That would do. The war was over but what was a castle for if not for guarding?

He took another drink of the ale and scanned his eyes around the yard. Nothing seemed amiss. He saw only others seeking the night's cover or coolness. A group of squires stood speaking and flirting awkwardly with a few simpering maids. An old man stood by the entrance to the hall, staring up at the moon and occasionally spitting gobs of sourleaf and spit. Three hedge knights stood whooping and cheering, wine cups in hand, over a fourth knight who was on all fours retching wine and his evening's meal. A wolfhound sniffed at a soldier coupling with a woman in a shadowed corner near the gate.

Sandor's gaze returned to the castle around him. The stones almost sparkled in the bright moonlight, they were that new. Victory and early spring had allowed for construction to begin. Much and more work remained but, on his insistence, the castle's main defences and services, such as the defensive walls, as well as kitchens, stables, and forge had been completed first. The main hall and the living quarters of the castle had only been recently completed.

The true spring. It's what they celebrated tonight. Though it doesn't bloody well seem to snow any less now that it's spring, he thought as he watched a few flakes fall from the sky. But he was not altogether bitter. War and winter had brought him fortune: lands and a keep of his own. He had refused their offers of titles.

Sandor returned to the hall, but stood as far from the fires and musicians as he could. A serving maid walked by him with a jug of wine which he yanked from her hands. She only smiled at him and said, "Milord." Before she nodded politely and walked away. He only sighed and kept drinking.

The celebrating was still in full swing. His eyes roamed towards the dais. The King in the North, Rickon Stark the Winter King, still sat at the high table speaking with the noble lords at his sides. His huge direwolf Shaggy sat behind him, watching everything. The beast was always apprehensive, but cunning and fierce. At fourteen, Rickon Stark was like none other his age and no child. The boy was near a wildling himself, having spent several years on the run in the wilds of the north raised by a wildling woman named Osha. The Winter King was raised in blood and tears, amongst snow and pine. Rickon was just and efficient, but terribly impatient and did not care for pomp or fanfare. His foes knew him as fierce and unrelenting. Sandor liked this king. But tonight, even the Winter King was laughing.

"They should have called you Sandor the Surly instead." A woman's voice drew him from his thoughts.

He turned to see Sansa Stark standing behind him. Her bright blue eye glittered with mirth and firelight. She was dressed simply. Even the thin braided steel circlet that sat atop her head was rather plain. And yet, despite the simplicity of her dress, everything about her was lustrous as was black onyx, as was burnished copper, as was moonlit snow. Sansa's auburn hair was pleated with black velvet ribbon and draped over her shoulder, hanging down to her waist. It rested on a fine fur mantel of snow fox. Her gown was made of grey wool, but embroidered with birds in flight and leaves. The embroidery was not typical of northern dress and was surely inspired by the colourful gowns of the south, but everything else about her was of the North. Grey, white, and black; these were the Stark colours.

Sansa Stark's husband, the Lannister Imp, had never been found after he was found guilty of murdering Joffery Baratheon There were only rumours regarding his whereabouts. Once the Starks had regained decisive power in the North and the Lannister's fall from power a few hushed meetings had been held between septons and Starks regarding the issue, but no lord in the north had dared mention the subject publicly. Rickon Stark maintained the Old Gods in the North as had his father and the wildling Osha, so he declared the validity of his sister's marriage, which had been designed by Lannisters and consecrated by the Southron Seven, as nul and void in the North. None in the North dared repeat the rumours of her involvement in Joffery's murder either. Nevertheless, many northern lords still sought to gain her hand and yet, though her twenty-fourth name day had approached, she remained unmarried.

She had been the first to return to the North after time spent in the Eyrie. There had even been talk of a Queen in the North for a time, but when Rickon had been found she'd immediately taken up the cause to secure his rightful place as King in the North.

"They can call me Sandor the Bloody Blessed if they want," he snorted derisively. "I don't give a damn."

She did not flinch at his words. Instead, she turned her hands to reveal their palms and raised her shoulder, as if in defeat and said, in a slightly mocking tone, "Heroic deeds merit a hero's honours my lord. The people of Westeros honour you, Ser." She grinned and, before he could reply she turned and walked back in the direction of the dais, her skirts swirling.

He swallowed his frustration and returned to his seat near Abelar Addam. Many were now well into their cups and conversed in raucous shouts and whoops of laughter. Addam and other knights around him were recounting war stories.

"And after the battle my heart beat so fierce I thought it would burst. I tell you I got my money's worth from the whore I found afterwards!" he said and jerked his hips in rapid motions, making the woman sitting on his lap bounce up and down.

"Ah! Here he is!" exclaimed Morello Artis, as Sandor sat down. Artis was young Pentoshi sellsword with a dyed green beard who'd come for war but had stayed for a woman.

Artis peered into Sandor's cup and said, "Such a man should never have an empty cup! Here! Some wine for our friend!"

Artis poured wine into the cup and Sandor drank its contents in a few gulps, not concerned with savouring the vintage.

"And tell us again, how you came to be called Wightsbane," said the squire Brian Hunt.

"Yes! Tell us the story Clegane! You should be nearer the dais! Lords should mix with their own kind," Grinned Addam, who knew full well how Sandor felt about lordlings and knights.

"You all bloody well know the story," replied Sandor as he reached for the jug of wine to refill his cup. "And even someone with a turnip for a brain could guess how I came to have such a name. Besides, so far I've only heard you tell of your success in the whorehouse Addam. Paying for something doesn't make it a victory."

Addam and the others laughed and kept on with their ribald jests and embellished stories. They were used to Sandor's dour and bristly nature. Though a jug of wine had been placed at the table he reached for the weak ale.

Sandor soon tired of their jests and vapid conversation. He stood, but before he left looked over his shoulder towards the dais and saw the Lady Stark laughing with Alys Karstark, who was big with her third child, while Jayne Poole stood listening, gaunt and serious.

He grabbed a jug of wine from a serving maid, walked back outside and looked up at the sky. The snow was coming down more steadily now as he made for the stables. He'd often visit Stranger during the nights he couldn't sleep. The big black beast was older now, but no less spirited. The horse was Sandor's best companion.

As Sandor sat on a stool opposite Stranger's stall, he thought back on the Lady Sansa. She was nothing if not a proper lady; she always listened patiently when someone spoke, she never rose her voice, and was always polite. She also never revealed an emotion she didn't wish others to see. When Rickon was found she had supported her youngest brother with unwavering love and patience. She an excellent judge of character and always knew how to make the most of a person's strengths or flaws whether that person knew it themselves. Her patience and love had helped soften Rickon's wildness, while her knowledge of politics and intrigue had helped raise a strong and goodly king.

She was certainly no longer the little girl with a head full of nonsense and dangerous falsehoods; stories of gallant knights and fair maidens where the hero always conquered the monster. Sandor had found her all too easy to scare in Kings Landing. He had loved mocking her whenever she'd chirp all the pretty words her parents and septa had taught her. These were the same words she hadn't fully understood but had repeated just like a beautiful little trained bird from the summer isles. But all that had been years ago and Sansa Stark had learned her lessons harshly.

The honourable Ned Stark and his lady wife hadn't presumed to teach their precious daughter to arm herself with her own wits or abilities, but the girl had learned on her own. But the Starks had paid the price for their ignorance; the parents had paid with their lives while Sansa had paid with her innocence.

Sansa had learned her lessons in Kings Landing and in the Eyrie and remembered them well. Later, Petyr Baelish had suffered the consequences for underestimating Sansa. When she'd learned he'd betrayed Ned Stark, his demise had come quickly enough. The Lord Protector of the Vale had paid with his life. And now here she was, the Lady Sansa Stark, whom the smallfolk called the Snow Hawk, back in Winterfell, her family's ancestral seat. She was a King's most trusted advisor as well as his beloved sister. When the bards sung about her, they had more to sing about than just her beauty and good manners.

While Sansa had still been in the Vale, Sandor had left the Quiet Isle to follow the Maid of Tarth's path once he'd learned of her mission to find Sansa. Besides, he'd been growing restless and missed the feel of sharpened steel in his hand. His wounds had mostly healed by then, though his leg, the one he'd wounded during that stupid business with the Tickler, would never cease to trouble him.

Winter had only just begun to draw its claws and he'd forgotten the feel and ferocity of the season's bite, but finally he'd found the Maid of Tarth who'd been entangled within a plot set forward by the Brotherhood without Banners. Though the Brotherhood's mission might once have been honourable it had by then been marred by black sentiments of revenge set forth by unnatural means. Ferocity and sheer bloody determination won out and Sandor and Brienne had been free to find Sansa Stark.

They'd finally found Sansa after lengthy toil and many trials under the protection of Lord Howland Reed at Greywater Watch. They didn't know how Sansa had come to travel from the Eyrie to Greywater Watch and the details could not be extracted from her. Nearly ten years had passed since then but the Lady Stark had yet to share her secrets.

Once Sansa was found the North had rallied once more to support the last known surviving Stark and, following Rickon's return, the Wolf King. Sandor and Brienne had been commended for their acts of valour for the North. The latter had disappeared soon after to search for Sansa's younger sister Arya, who still had yet to be found. Winter had Westeros fully caught within its jowls by then and the fight for the North had been slow.

Sansa had come from the Eyrie with a falcon named Dagger. The bird was a dark copper colour and had been gifted to Sansa by Lord Nestor Royce during her stay at the Gates of the Moon in the early stages of winter while the Eyrie was closed. The bird was so dear to her it had a perch in her own chambers. Sansa hunted with the creature every day the weather permitted.

Once, when Sandor had been summoned by the King to Winterfell for council, he'd come upon Sansa hunting with her hawk. She had been standing in the fields beyond the walls of Winterfell surrounded by her lady's maids and a few household knights. Her long auburn hair and forest green skirts had flitted in the wind. Small game had laid scattered dead at her feet. Sandor watched as one of Sansa's maids picked up the game from the ground into a basket on her arm and thought he saw a single mockingbird resting amongst a few rabbits and ducks.

It was then that one of Sandor's own hounds had barked. Sansa's hawk had been perched on the thick leather hawking glove she wore. Bird and master had looked at Sandor sharply. Blue eyes and gold eyes had stared at him without surprise, almost as if they'd expected to see him.

"What a pretty little bird, Lady Stark!" He'd shouted, laughing into the wind before spurring Stranger on towards Winterfell. Yes. A pretty little bird with keen eyes and sharp talons.

But all that had been before the Others. The Others had changed everything. Most of Westeros had been caught by surprise, so focused were they on their own squabbles. But warring factions had abandoned their grudges to save their skins and to fight the cold and darkness. Those who hadn't had been quick to die.

Luckily, the Night's Watch had known of the impending attack and had long prepared for the onslaught. The arrival of the Dragon Queen had also aided Westeros, as had some secrets hidden forgotten long ago in the scrolls of long dead maesters at the Citadel, had also helped save the realms of Men.

Sheer bloody terror had also served to spur their cause. Even he, Sandor Clegane, who'd mocked death and the gods every time he took sword in hand and whose own horse was named Stranger, had been afraid; he'd been afraid and so terribly, terribly cold. Even now, still feeling too warm from the heat in the Great Hall, Sandor shivered and tried to push the memories of the terror of the Long Night to the furthermost recesses of his mind. He drank deeply from his cup.

No wars plagued Westeros at present and for once in his life he was grateful for peace as he could enjoy his rewards. The keep the Starks had awarded him, called Longhall, was a few leagues north of Winterfell in the Lonely Hills overlooking the pine forests and Long Lake. Though Longhall was near the Kingsroad it was a quiet place and he had learned to enjoy silence during his time on the Quiet Isle. He shared Longhall with only his hounds and a few servants and was content so long as he had hot food and wine in his belly as well a sharp blade and a roof over his head. But sometimes the place grew too quiet, even for him.

Sandor thought of the hearth in his small hall at Longhall where he'd sit late into the night staring into the fire while his hounds slept and the northern winter gales wailed outside. The Lonely Hills indeed, he thought and immediately snorted at his own weakness.

But at least he had earned Longhall for himself and it was his very own. It didn't reek of his monstrous brother Gregor as would have Clegane's Keep. When Gregor had died, someone had thought to send the Mountain's sword to Sandor. He remembered the day it had arrived; he'd still been on campaign with the King in the North's army against the Others somewhere in the North, perhaps Lasthearth. The blade had been too bloody large for any other man but Gregor the Mountain to wield. Sandor had walked directly to the nearest forge, thrown the blade right onto the flaming coals and pushed aside an apprentice to work the bellows himself. He'd watched intently as the metal burned and melted into nothing. Would that Sandor could melt that blade a thousand times again.

Sandor stood, rubbed the flat of his palm over the velvet of Stranger's nose and walked out of the stables towards the tower abutting the South Gate. After long years at war, habit made him prefer to sleep in a room of tactical significance; he'd be among the first to wake if the castle were attacked.

He climbed the darkened and winding staircase to the third floor. His pace was slow because of the ache in his leg, but finally he reached his room and opened the door. A servant had lit a fire some time ago and only embers remained in the hearth, casting the room in a red glow.

"I had begun to think you would not come, Sandor Clegane," spoke a voice from the shadows.

Sandor remained silent, but clenched his fists. Rage roiled in his gut. He almost pitied the intruder.

A cloaked figure rose from the corner opposite him, by the fireplace. The intruder stood before the curtained arrowslit which was the room's only window.

"You will speak your business wraith," he rasped.

The figure drew its hood back.

"Seven buggering hells woman. What madness has brought you here?" He was looking at Sansa Stark. His rage remained, though it was now motivated by frustration rather than surprise.

"I apologize for the intrusion, Ser."

Sandor knew she took pleasure in insisting on calling him Ser though she bloody well knew better. He would not please her by acknowledging the jibe. Sandor took long strides towards her and quickly closed the gap between them. Though the room was hot already he leant and grasped a log and flung it brusquely onto the embers. Sparks flew. Sansa did not flinch.

Pale slender fingers reached up to undo the clasp of her cloak, which she draped over a chair by the fireplace. Uninvited, she sat in the chair by the hearth facing him. The way she carried herself, as though they were still in the Great Hall and not in his room well past midnight, enraged him.

"Shall I fetch milady some cheese, figs, and sweet tarts too?" he asked in an acid tone. After his time on the Quiet Isle, he had learned to hold his tongue, if not his anger, in most situations. But he never maintained pretenses. And he was no bloody mute besides.

She ignored his sarcasm and said only, "I would be grateful for a cup of wine, thank you." She undid the clasp to her mantle and let it fall onto the back of the chair. Unlike the southron dresses, Sansa's collar was in the northern style, with a higher neckline, but despite this, he could see the unblemished pale skin of her collarbone. "The Hall was warm and my throat is dry." Blue eyes, deep as pools on a sunny day, looked up at him through long lashes and a sly smile played on her lips. She's enjoying this.

Growling, he grabbed a jug of wine from a side table and poured into a goblet, which he then shoved in front of her face. Sansa took the cup from his large hand and sipped gracefully as her eyes looked about the sparsely furnished room. Apart from the two chairs by the hearth, the room had only Sandor's traveling chest, a small table, and a simple canopied bed. Her eyes stopped on the bed and only turned towards him, her back straightening.

"You are comfortable here?" she asked politely.

Sandor dropped himself into the chair opposite her. Through clenched teeth he said, "Why are you here? Why did you not speak to me before? You sneak around like that bloody eunuch the Spider."

"There is a matter I wish to discuss with you in private." She shrugged and took another sip of wine. "And your choice of accommodations allowed for a private meeting away from prying eyes and ears. No one shall bother us here."

When he said nothing, she went on. "I've come to propose to you a bride, a lady for Longhall."

His anger evaporated and he laughed loudly. "A wife. For me?! Are you daft?" The idea was laughable, ludicrous. He knew most lords took wives in order to produce heirs to safeguard the family's lands, titles, and holdings, but Sandor Clegane was not most men.

When Sansa did not reply, Sandor looked at her and the laughter died instantly in his chest. He saw that, for the first time in a long time, Sansa seemed nervous. Comprehension washed over him.

"You?" he rasped.

"Yes," she replied simply.

No, he thought. She has lost her mind and does not know what she asks. He could not let her want this.

"You have truly lost your mind girl. Look at me! I'm a killer. It's what I've always done. You should know that." The anger had returned. He curled his fingers into a fist, which he pounded down onto the side table. The impact sent the wine jug crashing onto the floor.

"Others yes, but never me. And I learned long ago to judge a man by his deeds and not by his words or the look of his face," she spoke firmly, confidently.

Silence hung between them.

Frustration still roiled within him and he fell back into the chair, crossing his arms over his chest brusquely. He cocked his head to give her a withering look.

"What? Do you think me handsome?" the words were sneered, mocking.

"Of course not. Do not mock me," she replied immediately.

Sandor snorted and stood to loom over her, huge and imposing, "Ah! The little bird has a sharp beak. Finally, she speaks true!" He growled the words.

Unexpectedly, Sansa stood as well, defiant despite the fact that he towered over her. Her lips drew into a hard thin line and a red blotchy flush was creeping up her pale skin from her chest. After years of mockery, intimidation and fear, he had never seen her furious as she was now.

"A pretty little bi-"

She struck him across the face, the burned part of his face, with the full weight of her body before he could finish his jibe. The slap made a sharp "crack!" and his head jerked from the blow.

"I am no. Little. Bird," she hissed, her chest heaving from the effort of the slap as well as rage. "And I belong in no man's cage."

They glared at each other a moment before she dropped herself back into her chair. With her left hand she reached for the wine goblet while her right stayed in her lap. She drank long from the cup and stared into the fire, avoiding his gaze. Her hand trembled slightly. She looks ashamed, ashamed that she hadn't behaved like a true lady. It was the look she'd sometimes had in King's Landing after she'd scrapped with that wolf pup of a sister.

In a voice that was almost a whisper, he said, "You see what folly such talk leads to? I am old. I am battered, and broken besides." Years of fighting had left him with innumerable ugly scars all over his body. And his face... Yes, I would make a fine bridegroom indeed, he thought bitterly. But then, briefly, he thought of his silent hall, of his single seat by the hearth at Longhall. I am a lonely old dog, he thought, angry at his own madness.

It seemed she had not heard him. She was looking down at the hand in her lap, the one with which she'd struck him. Blood glistened in the firelight on her palm. It was smeared with blood, with his blood. She had struck him on the burned side of his face and though the ruined flesh had not felt the sting of the blow, it had opened one of the oozing fissures. He felt a warm trickle run down his neck.

When next she spoke, her voice was not that of the Lady Stark, but that of a tired and sad young woman, "My own flesh does not reveal my scars, but you do know I have them. Like you, I am no perfect creature."

She looked back up at him then and he saw that the fury had left her eyes though they were indeed now heavy and weary. And beautiful. A woman's face. "We are not so different from each other, you and I," she continued.

This he could not accept. "I am a beast, Sansa. A dog. I am no man." He turned the burned side of his face towards her so she could better see the blackened skin, the glistening pocks of burned flesh, the hint of bone.

The ruin of his face garnered no reaction. She had likely grown accustomed to it by now. From her sleeve she produced a kerchief and made to reach for the blood on his neck. In that moment Sandor felt weak. He felt powerless. He flinched from her touch and she withdrew her hand.

In a small, but steady voice she pressed, "A beast would not have done as you have." Her eyes were intent as they sought his own, "A beast would have searched for the Stark and not for Sansa. And-" she hesitate, "a beast would not have kissed me such as you did."

He made no reply. Ah, so she does remember.

When he and the Maid of Tarth had finally found Greywater Watch, Sansa Stark had been wretchedly ill. Because of her passing through the swamps in winter, the Reeds had said. A wracking cough and aggressive fever had the girl bedridden. When Sandor and Brienne had been presented to Sansa, the young woman had not even been capable of rising from her bed. Over the next week, her sickness had only gotten worse.

They'd all taken turns watching over the girl, as Greywater Watch only had two servants. Late one night, he'd sat by the fire in Sansa's room, rethinking on his time on the Quiet Isle, of his flight from King's Landing, of his time serving the Lannisters. Suddenly, he'd known fear: a fear of losing her had overwhelmed him. It had been a strange feeling to which he'd been unaccustomed.

He'd walked over to Sansa's bed and looked down at what had then been the last known living Stark. Winterfell's daughter. The figure in the bed had been a young woman, so changed from the little girl he'd known in King's Landing. Despite the gauntness brought on by the sickness, her face had lost its childish features and her body was that of a slender, but ample young maid's. The sheer nightgown she'd worn had been imbibed with sweat and her skin had been pale, paler than he'd ever seen. Wisps of hair had clung to her neck and brow despite the fact that someone had pleated it in an effort to keep most of it away from her face. Even on the brink of death, she is the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. Before that night he'd only known beauty as a weapon used by those who possessed it to corrupt and sway those around its possessor. Cersei Lannister had been a great beauty, but vile and a creature of low cunning. Meanwhile, Sansa Stark still managed – often to his great annoyance – to insist on loving others and to hope for a future without suffering, almost unaware of the potential power her own beauty. As he'd looked down on her, he'd then noticed that some of her hair was still brown from the dye she'd used in the Eyrie. Bile and rage had boiled up from his chest then at the sight before him. My fault. This is my fault. I have failed her.

"I – I promise never to leave you again. Do you hear me? I will rip the throats out of those that would hurt you. You have my word, girl." The words had come out hoarse from both disuse and emotion. He'd grown angrier when he'd felt tears threaten at the corners of his eyes.

For the first time in his life, he knew in that very moment what it was to love another. He'd leaned over and kissed Sansa on her fevered brow, then had turned away to sit once more in the chair by the hearth until sunrise when the Maid of Tarth had relieved him from his post.

But slowly, Sansa had strayed from the Stranger's path and had regained her health. Now here she was, sitting before him healthy, with flushed cheeks.

Sandor only nodded in confirmation, keeping his gaze steady on hers. "Greywater Watch. Yes," he admitted.

"And in King's Landing." She added.

The feeling of solemnity broke and he barked a laugh, "King's Landing! When?"

Briefly, a look of bewilderment passed over Sansa's face and then was gone. She shook her head, auburn hair glinting in the firelight, and continued, hesitant, "I've – I've long thought of you."

"Why? Sansa. Why would you want me?"

"I can have anyone I please. You are the only one who ever told me the truth about this life." She raised her arms, gesturing to the world around them. "That this life to which we dance is set to the Stranger's tune."

This statement, Sansa Stark speaking of the Stranger, surprised him. He knew that this young woman had more experience with the Stranger's powers than most highborn ladies her own age.

"You speak of defeat and death, girl. You wish to marry me and hide in Longhall. Well, I can't blame you, but it doesn't mean I'll let you."

"No." She was flustered again, frustrated. The flush had returned to her cheeks. Alone in this room she shows her true emotions, he realized. "I speak of life, Sandor. I have one life to live. I will not let others decide my fate."

A twitch on the burned side of his mouth was his only reply. The old Sandor would have mocked her, would have snorted derisively. But the Sandor he now was would not belittle her in this. He only turned his gaze towards the fire and reached for another log, which he then added to the flames. The Sansa of King's Landing would not have come to his room in the dead of night, would not have addressed him with confidence, would not have challenged him. He'd thought her very much changed since her return from the Eyrie, but to hear her speak thusly fully confirmed his suspicions. Long moments passed and the only sound in the room was the crackling of the flames. She has learned to play the game, she is a patient creature. He thought again of the chatty, scared little bird in King's Landing and then of Cersei, of Joffrey, of Littlefinger. They'd thought themselves great players of the game and yet... All dead, he thought, while Sansa lives, is sister to a king and is now the one to play us all. Sandor laughed despite himself.

When finally he spoke, his voice was low and hoarse. "I have never dared to want anything since – since," he thought of the brazier, of Gregor, of the sister he barely remembered. He shook his head and went on, "since I was a boy. Wanting something means a person's got something to lose, and having something to lose makes a person weak." The words were running from him. Perhaps he was weak. Or just tired. He wished he hadn't spilled all the wine.

"What of your brother, the King? He would consent that his beloved sister wed an old dog?" The notion was a weak one, he knew.

Her blue eyes glimmered and her lips drew in a wicked smile, "Rickon would not deny me anything."

Sandor knew she was right. In this the fight has left me, he realized. The faint jealousy he'd buried deep inside him, the rage he'd felt whenever he'd seen her laugh and jest with noble lords rose up from his chest. He thought back on that night in Greywater Watch all those years ago when he thought was sure to die. Damn me. Damn me to the deepest depths of the Seven Hells. I want her. When her eyes caught his, the look on her face told him she knew she'd won. She's caught me, just as easily as when her bird catches a rabbit. She extended an arm, offering him her goblet and he saw the glint of dark red wine. He looked back up at the woman seated before him; the most beautiful woman in Westeros. My thirst.