A/N: Thoughts about unlikely characters being the little spoon in a cuddling situation. Came up with this! Enjoy! Please review :)

As Lady of Winterfell, at least until Rickon came of age, there was indubitably going to be talk about Sansa. Talk about her charm, her beauty, her grace-but most importantly the wealth and land that came with her. Naturally, all of her father's old bannermen had shipped their most eligible sons to Winterfell at the first rumors of Lady Sansa's reappearance.

Much like the traveling bards Sansa had once loved so dearly, the young lordlings all had a song to sing too. They served her father and brother faithfully. Never did they give up hope that she, or any of the other Stark children, was still alive. All the young men swore love, loyalty, and lands. Hers eternally, if she'd have them.

She sent every single one of them home with a smile on their face, satisfied in knowing that they had successfully avoided an unsuitable match. For who ,she reasoned ,could want the former wife of the Imp?

"Surely no man who wishes to keep his reputation would want a woman so disgraced," Sansa would say. "You must want better for yourself!"

If they persisted with their oaths, Sansa would coo, " Oh you brave man! it is more than I could endure to have to deal with the ridicule of the common folk. And even more so, the ladies and lords at court!"

"Why, a man who would take the kin-slaying Imp's wife for his own is certainly not a respectable man ," here she would glance down at his nether regions and the young lording would heartily blush. "of any sort."

She always felt like Petyr when she said this next part. Silently, she would remind herself that although she would use the tools he gave her, she would never be a monster like him.

"You are kind ser, too kind. I thank you ser, for your offer is a merciful one, but it would be too much to ask of you to marry one as soiled as me."

Usually around this time, the young suitor would exuberantly agree and thank the lady for her time-then rush as fast as he could to the door.

If he continued, Sandor would appear beside Sansa and grasp his sword nonchalantly. Any idiots who did not take the hint would promptly be thrown out of Winterfell's great hall by the Hound.

Always the protector. That was him. Her Sandor, her mostly silent guardian, always by her side. He protected her from all of her waking nightmares, from unwanted suitors to attempted assassins. Sandor was wonderful. He wasn't the romantic type, at least not in the way of the songs. But then again, her life had never been exactly the song she planned on singing.

But each night, after all the suitors had been sent on their merry way and Winterfell's business completed, Sansa would find herself in Sandor's bed singing a song she never thought herself capable of. A song of gasps and moans and breathy whispers. When she reached that spot of ecstasy, he would growl, "Sing for me, little bird."

She would, loud and clear and music to his ears.

Afterwards, they would fall asleep together; his head resting between her breasts and her arms wrapped tightly around him. For in that moment, their roles were reversed. She would protect him from becoming the monster he dreaded and he would rely on her to keep the nightmares away.