Author's Note 9/12/12: this story is dedicated to all the people who left me a wonderful review…but especially to Kat, whose guest review is probably the best one I've gotten.
When Lady Sansa Stark sat at the head of the rebuilt Winterfell, the people of the north were stunned to find the Hound at her feet. They knew of no reason for him to be there, and wondered what could have brought him back from his assumed death. They speculated that he served because the Lady's long-annulled marriage had been to a Lannister, or alternately because a dog was more at home among Wolves than Lions or Stags.
But though no answer was forthcoming to his purpose, the smallfolk and lords alike soon saw that he was even more devoted to his Lady than he had ever been to his former King. And since Sansa was kind and fair to her people, they knew that there was no reason to fear that the Hound would bite…without reason.
As the spring came back to the land, it became apparent that Sansa loved her Sandor Clegane, and there were those who were disgusted, unable to imagine how she could spare such affection for a killer with no visible softness in visage or manner. When they saw he loved her, they wisely said no more. The relationship between Lady and knight never crossed what was seen in public, and there was no other cause for complaint.
Winterfell once again became a stronghold, the power of the North, and the direwolf flew proud from the tops of its towers.
It could not be forgotten that the wolf was female, though, and soon the lords and their progeny crammed the halls, each more eager than the last to obtain the keep and the hand of its Lady. They pledged alliances, gold and gifts to sway her, and every one of them was couteously and firmly refused.
There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and until she could collect her wild siblings home, Sansa vowed to take no husband, and take no other name. The lords who still had chances for other fine matches left, usually with many a fine promise of awaiting her raven should she change her mind. The stubborn ones stayed, and brought forth ever more handsome sons and heirs in an attempt to tempt her with the courtly love she had once idolized.
There were limits to the extents they would go to court her though, always mindful of the Hound that dogged her footsteps, and loved her better than his own life. But when a couple years passed without the fearsome man even once drawing his sword, they became bolder. One knight in particular was quick to claim that love had dulled the Hound's teeth, and tamed his wild strength.
It was that Ser who marched into the main hall with his men behind him, and demanded the Lady's hand and surrender in exchange for her and her people's safety. It was that Ser who bragged that her Hound was no more than a lovesick pup, a mewling lapdog whose only use was to perform tricks for a treat.
And it was that Ser's head that rolled a few feet down the hall when it was cut from his shoulders so fast that neither he nor his men had a chance to draw their swords.
Sandor Clegane knelt at the feet of his little bird, his scarred face void of emotion even as he angled his blade so it would not drip blood where she might step, and looked toward the severed head.
"Shall I fetch it for you, m'lady?"