NOTE
Tyrion is Hand of the Queen, but he spends a lot of time in Casterly Rock. Jon is acting Hand when Tyrion is not in the Capital.
This story happens 2 years after chapter 8 of "Maiden". You don't need to read the Arya/Sandor smutty story if you don't want to.
SPOILERS for chapter 8 of "Maiden".
What you need to know is that at the end of their quest, after Arya killed the undead dragon Viserion, she has to marry Lord Redwyne, who rules the Arbor all the way in the South of the Seven Kingdoms and who has the only fleet available. House Stark is sworn to help Danaerys and Jon to the Iron Throne, so they need to provide a fleet to carry their troops. Arya marries the old lord to secure the alliance between House Redwyne and House Stark.
Sansa
Spring came to Westeros with a slew of problems. Sometimes when the annoyance reached high enough levels, she tended to snap at people. The Wardeness of the North cut short her meeting with one of her lords before she said something she shouldn't.
It didn't do anyone any good to show her irritation, most of all to Sansa herself who at such moments she heard Petyr's voice most loudly.
'Calm yourself, sweetling. This man is under your power. Don't change his loyalty into resentment.'
'Fuck off, Lord Baelish.'
She almost laughed at the formality with which she addressed her two years dead mentor.
She retired to her sewing room, alone, and started working on another dress. She wasn't even wearing all of them, but needle and thread worked wonders when it came to soothing her nerves.
She was anxious about the administrative problems of Winterfell, and downright annoyed about the looming shadow of a scuffle with the Warden of the South. The Reach, who had not borne the hardships of the Great War, had the audacity to threaten her to withhold grains if she didn't agree to pay more for them.
She was tempted to change the politics of the East, and increase what the South paid for the fruits and other things they got from the Vale of Arryn. As long as Sweetrobin was Lord of the Eyrie, Sansa controlled the East. She held more power in her hand than the South and West combined.
The more accustomed she got to wielding power, the more she thought back at Petyr's teachings.
A timid knock on the door interrupted her musings.
"Enter."
"A raven from the Arbor, my lady," the young maid said.
"Thank you, Elayne," she said dismissing the girl.
Sansa opened the message immediately. Arya's letters were one of the few joys of her dreary life. Their correspondence over the years had brought them closer than either of them expected. But ravens were never good news. If her sister needed to send her a quick message, something big had happened.
From the first words, Sansa jumped to her feet.
"She's coming home!"
She ran out of her room, reading and rereading Arya's message. Old Lord Redwyne had died peacefully, in his sleep.
When it had become clear that Lord Redwyne and Arya were not going to have children, they had adopted Rickon and made him heir to the Arbor, with the condition that he would marry into another Great House from the South. Rickon married into another formal vassal of House Tyrell, and he was beloved by the people of the Arbor as if he was a Redwyne by blood, not by law. Arya had made sure of that.
Rickon was the new Lord Redwyne, and Arya's wifely duties were over. She was on a ship headed north.
Although her sister was still days away, Sansa shook all the Winterfell staff out of their lull, preparing for her arrival more thoroughly than when the Queen and her husband announced that their dragons would be landing outside the walls the next day.
It was late into the night when Sansa retired to her chamber. A small stack of books waited for her on the bed. The maids had learned to put them back after they made her bed. Inside the topmost book, Tyrion's latest letter waited half read.
Sansa's correspondence with her ex-husband was almost as dear to her as the one with her sister. Arya's letters were always full of action and adventure – she had made the most out of being married to the Head of the House with the largest commercial fleet in the Seven Kingdoms. Tyrion's letters were full of ideas and emotions. He was the only man who could still make her laugh. She missed that.
It took me two years, but I finally resolved to deal with the sewage system of the castle. Too many people know how to get into Casterly Rock, and no one tried since I moved in. It put a serious dent in my self-esteem.
She smiled. Not so long ago, Tyrion Lannister was wanted dead by many Great Houses, starting with his own.
She had a drawer full of half finished letters in which she told him she wanted to visit him. If Petyr hadn't interfered, she'd be the lady of Casterly Rock. She never sent those letters.
In her dreams, Petyr sometimes threw her through the moon door when she sent the letter to Tyrion. Or when she set her foot inside Casterly Rock, Ramsay showed up instead of Tyrion, smiling. Either way, she woke up screaming.
I saw autumn and winter in Winterfell. I reach for a thicker cloak just thinking about that weather. I hope spring is treating you kindly, my lady.
Pages and pages between them over the years, and even with Littlefinger's thorough training, Sansa couldn't find a single attempt of manipulation from Tyrion in those letters. The never talked politics or economy. The mention of a wedding between Houses, a child born to their vassals or the other Wardens, or the passing comment about the harvest were as close as they ever got.
Ser Sandor is doing wonders with the orphans. The Cleganes have bread hounds for decades, but this one seems to be training wolves. You were right about him, my lady. He has changed much since he was Joffrey's dog.
How many years had passed since the time both she and Sandor were bound to that monster?
Sandor
He sat silent in his corner of the tavern while the boys around him made crude but harmless jokes. They were laughing. They acted like brothers, though no two of them shared a mother or a father as far as they knew.
Like real brothers. Not like him and Gregor. He sometimes wondered why he had brought his brother's bones back. Why he buried him in their cemetery, next to their father.
When he retired to Keep Clegane, all he wanted was to set up the kennel again, and provide Lord Tyrion with the best hunting dogs in the Seven Kingdoms.
He was good with animals. He'd always preferred them to people. And now he was surrounded by boys who could be his sons if he hadn't spent most of his youth avoiding the company of women.
Spring weather didn't agree with him. The rains were good for harvest, but they made his joints ache. The sudden silence at the table drew him out of his thoughts.
A tavern wench stood next to him, with a pitcher of ale her hands. The way the boys looked at her, she must be young and pretty. He didn't raise his eyes above her waist. She was slender and her narrow hips reminded him of Arya.
He held out his cup and looked at her while she poured. She was young and pretty and definitely not Arya. She flustered when he thanked her gruffly.
"That one likes you, Ser," one of the boys said.
Sandor didn't bother replying. The people of the Keep had received him with the fear inspired in them by Gregor, but they ended up treating him like a war hero all too soon. Being popular didn't sit well with him. They were asking his opinion about anything from crops to marriages. All had started when took in the boys and started teaching them.
He huffed. He should have turned away that first orphan boy who ended up at his door, starved and beaten half to death. Across the table from him, that boy looked at him, respect and gratitude shining in his big brown eyes.
He left them to enjoy the ale and each other's company. He wanted to instill in them a spirit of camaraderie that usually lacked from any army had ever been a part of. He remained outside the inn after passing water.
He looked up into the clear sky. Full moon tonight.
"Why did you never marry?"
The girl who served him beer stepped out of the shadow as if she had been at one with them. His heart lurched with the memory of Arya's stealthy movements.
"Go back inside, girl," he said, turning his eyes back to the sky.
"Don't you like women?" she asked.
Brazen little thing. But he ignored her, like he would ignore a pup that yapped at him in the yard.
"You always come in alone," she said. "You never take anyone to bed."
He turned his head to look at her again. He squinted in the pale moonlight, trying to remember her from any other visits to the tavern.
"I haven't seen you here before," he said.
"You haven't seen me," she said, and sat down next to him on the bale of hay. "But I saw you."
He must be getting old. She was pretty enough, and the resemblance to Arya should have stuck in his mind. Even the swell of her breast as he looked down into her shirt reminded him of her.
"What do you want, girl?" he asked.
"A husband."
He laughed. "Plenty of boys inside who would have you."
"I don't want a boy. I want a man."
That got to him a little. It would be so easy to take what she offered. Bed her. Maybe even marry her. Who was he saving himself for anyway? Lady Arya Redwyne?
"Run away now. You're bothering me."
She touched the back of his hand with her fingers. "I hope so."
"I'm in no mood for games," he said swatting her hand away. "Take care who you offer yourself next time. Someone worse than me will take more than you're offering."
He left her there, ignoring the way his body reacted to her proximity. Maybe he should take a wife. Not this slip of a girl. A woman who could handle him.
He didn't have to love the wench. He'd be kind to her and she'd warm his bed. Give him strong, healthy sons.