an: hey, i've had writer's block for, like, seven years, so if you could go easy on me, that would be great. i blended book and tv events because it's been a while since i read the books and i don't own physical copies of them so i can't exactly peruse them. lame. and i'm also terrible at staying consistent and linear, eep. oh, well. i acknowledge my errors. i just kinda feel like this will get me back on track, y'know?
i don't own this shit, man. it's grrm, man.
Sansa had never imagined a time in her life where she looked forward to the cold. The Vale could be frigid, surely, and King's Landing was hit with chilly airs from the ocean frequently; the snow would never highlight the trees and mountains like they did at Winterfell, and no where else in the world could silence exist like this. She often came out before the sun rose, to observe her home in the hours before it would be filled with people and noise. Sansa enjoyed the sound her boots made as she walked, crunching lightly, and felt much like a ghost at these times.
Winterfell at last. After years of turning her head North while others schemed and fought, she was finally back where she belonged. The smile that came to her face was sad, knowing that the Sansa that had left this place so many years ago walked through the gates feeling entirely different. How perturbing, to change so much, and yet be the same.
She caught sight of the sun, shimmering slightly on the horizon, through the wolf's wood. Even this far away, she felt she could see each individual leaf, and feel the briskness of the early breeze shuddering through the branches. She was a bit jealous of Arya and her brothers, then, for having ventured out when they were children. Spending so much time in the godswood at the Red Keep had given her a fondness for the protection of the forest.
Sansa was about to turn away, to make her way back to her rooms before anyone else woke up, but she heard wolves. Far away, but her heart began to thump in her chest and her hands went to grip her skirts. It was fancy, since she knew she was dead, but she imagined Lady in the woods, darting between trees, blood still shining on her muzzle from a fresh kill. Lady would never hurt anyone, not unless they would try to harm Sansa, but the image still gave her equal amounts of comfort and grief. She sometimes still would put her hand down at her side, expecting to feel the headiness of the direwolf's fur on her fingers.
Sansa stood and listened to them for a few more seconds before hurrying away, preparing herself for the day ahead of her.
"You look pale, princess."
"No paler than usual?" Sansa replied, looking down at her hands. In truth, she hadn't been sleeping well, not since Jon and Davos had left to seek men to build their army. As long as Littlefinger remained, the Vale would as well, but that alliance depended solely on Sansa, and neither she nor Jon trusted Littlefinger enough to offer any true endorsement. She was worried, since she knew there were still Bolton supporters in the North, and with Jon just recently proclaimed King-
"You aren't unwell, are you? Would you like me to draw you a bath, or maybe brew you some hot tea?"
Sansa gave the girl a tired smile. Evette was a sweet girl, and was very eager to please the lady of Winterfell, which could be indulging, if not exhausting. She had had a different girl when she was Lady Bolton, but she left that entire staff go, with money and recommendations enough to get them a fresh start. She could not bear to see anything that reminded her of him. She wanted to stay true to her words. He would disappear.
"No, my dear, I'm quite fine. You go ahead and break fast, I want to write a letter to my brother before I come down."
With Evette gone, she walked to the window and opened the shutters, leaning out slightly. It was faint, but she could still hear the howling. Or maybe it was just echoing in her head. Either way, she left the window open as she crossed the room to sit at her desk, to begin compiling a letter to Jon. There was never much to write, but it was more to remind him to write to her. They loved each other, but it was still hard to overcome that awkwardness that had existed between them as children.
Your Grace,
I am always so tempted to start these letters informally, but I cringe to hear my septa's voice in my head scolding me for addressing a king so. I look forward to the times when we can converse as brother and sister again, and I may call you by the name our father called you.
I heard wolves this morning, out beyond the gates, far into the woods. It sounded like dozens, although I know that is the trick behind their howling. I heard stories of a giant she-wolf, who eats man and sheep both and leads a pack almost too large to be believable. I wonder if she patrols our lands now, protecting the true rulers of the Northern kingdom.
Is it terrible of me to miss Ghost as much as you? You are so lucky, to still have your direwolf.
Petyr Baelish has taken to intercepting my walks along the battlements after dinner, and has been pressing his suit more frequently. I refuse him every single time, but he seems undeterred-he has shown to me, though, he has no understanding of women, however much he boasts and however clever he may actually be. What baffles me, is that he truly believes I still have interest in being queen, after Joffery, after Cersei. Ramsey. No, no, I am content to be your sister and the princess of Winterfell. Perhaps I should walk with a escort now.
Do hurry home to Winterfell, the most beautiful of places. Your loving sister awaits you, and prays to the old gods every day for your safe return.
Sansa
She sealed the letter with the sigil of her house-oh, it felt so good to see those colors everywhere-and started to make her way towards the rookery. Winterfell was awake now; the sounds of metal on metal, men shouting, women humming, and the sweet smell of harvest. Their glass gardens were just beginning to produce, since the Boltons had destroyed them and never bothered to rebuild them, which angered Sansa as well as confused her. Disgusting as they well, they were northern, and they were aware of the hard reality of winter. Did they expect the Lannisters to provide everything?
She made it to the rookery, and pinched her nose up as she entered. She could never get accustomed to the smell of the ravens, but Sam didn't seem to mind. In fact, he seemed quite cheerful when he turned to greet her. "Good morning, princess," he bowed a little. "You look very lovely."
"So do you, maester," she teased. Sansa was a little perplexed that Jon had become so close with a person so unlike him, but he was such a charming boy, she understood their friendship quite well now. She was glad he had left him behind, if only to keep her company and give her counsel about the free folk.
"The cold really brings out the pink in my cheeks," he replied. "Is that a letter for Jon?"
"For our king, yes," she answered sternly, but smiled all the while.
"I'm about to send him one myself. Why not send both on the same raven? A double reminder to communicate with his loved ones."
Sansa laughed at that, and had to agree. She watched the raven fly off until it disappeared into the white mist that was winter, and then made her way down to break her fast with Sam and the others that were left behind.
"How long has our king been away? I fear for his safety," came the voice of Wyman Manderly from below her at supper later that night. "Is he to suffer the same fate as his brother, to never sit the throne that we proclaimed him for?"
"Have more faith in Jon Snow, merman," Tormund Giantsbane growled. "He beat that little Bastard Bolton down into the dirt. I saw it, and I'm sure those lords felt it shaking their stone walls."
The men laughed, but Sansa couldn't even bring herself to smile. Yes, Jon had beat Ramsey. Broken his nose, his jaw, every tooth in his narrow mouth, every vessel in his eyes. It was like looking at Joffery's body, only it was talking to her, mocking her.
Jon had beaten Ramsey, won against him, but Sansa was the one who killed him.
"Our king is only gathering loyal men to his cause," Sansa assured in a clear voice. "If anyone should attempt to do him harm, he has the best with him, and he is more than capable himself. I want him home, too, good men, more than you can imagine. We have been away as a family for so long. Even when he returns though, there shall be no time for rest. There is strife in all directions, with the two queens in the south and the evil storming down from the north. For now, we must prepare for winter, and pray to the gods to keep the King in the North safe."
There were some murmurs of agreement, but Sansa caught Littlefinger's eyes as she began to turn her attention back to her food. He was trying to assess her again, she supposed, but she had learned from the beginning what he wanted to see, and it was the easiest way to trick him. So she simply smiled sweetly at him and ate her pie.
After months of absense, Jon Snow was back, with more men than Sansa ever dreamed of seeing. Bolton deserters, refugees from the South, and with a joyful heart Sansa counted almost all the Northern banners (minus one, obviously) flying in the company that followed behind her brother. She was overcome with hopefulness, and flung herself into Jon's arms as soon as he stepped down from his horse. He grunted with her body hit his, and he smelled horrible, but Sansa was never so glad to see him, even that time in the Castle Black courtyard. "My prayers have been answered," she kissed him on both cheeks, not caring about the grime that covered his skin. "My brother has returned intact and so have his companions. The gods have also blessed you with your rightful army."
"It wasn't easy," the King in the North admitted, scratching at his head. "Involved a lot more diplomacy than I'm used to..."
"You're obviously charming enough," she replied, looking over his shoulder again. "I've prepared the Great Hall as best as I can. We've cleared out the snow from most of the surrounding yards and set up tents for your men. With winter beginning, there's not a lot to spare, but we can make due."
"I know we can. I think we'll all just be glad not to have a day full of marching." Jon grinned, but his face was so tired it broke Sansa's heart. It made her think of Robb.
"Come inside. Warm your bones. I know you will want to hear from my own mouth what is going on in the South."
They did just that, and after Jon had refreshed and changed into new leathers, they met at the Great Hall. Sansa was waiting for him, looking into the fires, thinking of a man who was afraid of them.
"Drink?" Sansa asked, and Jon nodded, running a hand through his curls, They sat together, in their father's and Sansa's mother's chairs, quiet for a moment, as Sansa poured them both a glass of spiced wine. The siblings sipped at their cups for a moment before Sansa turned herself to face Jon fully. "Jon," she began, looking into the eyes of her brother, so different from her own. "The Dragon Queen is in Westeros. She has been laying seige on King's Landing for weeks now, but Cersei will not yield. She is safe in Maegor's Keep while her people are starving, and Daenerys Targaryen is growing impatient."
"If this Daenerys has dragons, why not just bring down the Red Keep?" Jon asked.
"There are innocent people at court, Jon," Sansa whispered. "Children and women work in those kitchens and halls. I would imagine she does not want to harm them. If she wants to take Cersei's place as queen, she won't last long if her subjects hate her more than they hated a madwoman." She paused. "And Cersei will not surrender, ever. Daenerys will have to kill her, and she's running out of options."
"How can Cersei think there is way out for her?" Jon mumbled, taking a gulp of wine. "Surrounded on all sides. Dragons from the sea, Dorne and Highgarden from the South, and us above her. With Tywin dead and the Kingslayer missing, Casterly Rock has abandoned her."
"She's mad," Sansa replied simply. "That is all."
"What do you think we should do?" he asked her, looking up from his hands to her. She blinked at him, then turned to observe the flames again.
"I think...I think we need dragons on our side if we want to survive the winter, yes?"
With an army as large as this one, Sansa's morning walks became something else entirely. Most times she was still alone, but there was always some kind of business going on below her-anxious men pacing the fields, drunks stumbling into their tents or out of them to relieve themselves, and the sounds of training and orders being shouted had become commonplace. This was her army, the Stark's bannermen, and they would follow her commands as swiftly as they would Jon's. She gripped the stone with her palms as she leaned her weight into the wall, recalling how long it had been since Winterfell's yards were clear of soldiers and visiting lords and ladies.
Catelyn Stark would have taken to patrolling with the men, not watching over them from a far. As much as she wanted to be, she was not strong like her mother-the years had turned her into a different woman than her mother ever was.
She was just brushing the snow off her cloak when there was a knock on her door. "Come in," she called out calmly, but she was not expecting to see Jon Snow stride into her quarters, looking as if he had been awake for several hours like her. "Jon?" she inquired when he did not announce his intent; he was by her open window, watching the activity below, mirroring her actions from shortly before. Sansa went to go stand beside him, trying to assess his emotions. He looked...pensive. His brow was furrowed and she could see the way his shoulders were tense under his cloak. "What irks you so?" Sansa probed again.
Jon sighed, leaned a bit away from the draft that suddenly shifted both their clothing. "You would be much better at this than I am. You know that, right? I think everyone else knows it, too."
She was startled by his words. "Jon, that's not-"
"Even if you don't think it, I do. I know you would be more patient, and more thoughtful with your decisions-"
"Maybe I would be, but you are the king," Sansa said firmly, gripping his arm. "You look more a Stark than I ever will, besides. No men are loyal to me the way they are to you. I know nothing of war or the battlefield, and we are at war. The Boltons are gone, but we are not safe. You can protect us, Jon. More people will make it through the winter if you are the one leading us."
He sighed again, closing his eyes. "And marriage. Already I've been pestered about it. I loved Robb, but I won't make the same mistakes that he did-I can't have a wife in the North while I might die who knows where." Jon opened his black eyes and centered them on his sister. "And I won't have children until I have a true name."
"Everyone knows you are a Stark," Sansa smiled.
"Littlefinger approached me as well, about marrying you. How you can even stand to be around that man is beyond me, but I made it quite clear that I don't have any interest in joining our two families."
"I know how to handle Petyr."
"I know. I think even a six-year-old girl could fight off Petyr Baelish."
Sansa laughed, feeling a bit lighter. Her brother kissed her on the cheek, and she was completely overwhelmed, for a moment, by the feeling of being with her family again, and in her family's home; her vision misted over before Jon pulled away from her. "We've had refugees coming in from the south all day, either seeking shelter or wanting to join our cause. I've already ordered men to work on more ways to keep the people safe from the cold but there's only so much we have. I think we're going to need help soon."
"If we supply our troops to the Dragon Queen..."
"Soon. I want to make sure we can survive the journey. We're no use to anyone travel-weary and sick."
"Pray to the gods for them to make a quick recovery, then, because winter is already here."
Sansa's dreams were feverish, and full of bright color. One second she was pounding through the forest, the undergrowth damp under her paws, and then she was North, even further than the Wall, watching a massive army inch its way across the icy fields. She was too far away to tell what banner they flew, but for some reason, the sight of them gave her heart a reason to skip. Sansa turned on her heel in the snow, and when she looked elsewhere she was back in the court at King's Landing, only her father sat on the throne with his head sitting on his lap, still dripping his blood down his trousers on onto the marble steps. She wanted to run, but someone grabbed the back of her dress and pulled, ripping it and exposing her. Before she could even protest, the scene had changed, and she was back at Winterfell, only in the camps below her tower. She was walking amongst them, but she passed through their bodies like mist.
Sansa wasn't sure where she was going, but her feet seemed to-before she knew it she was in front of a tent, and there was a voice inside that tent, the reason she had been led her. She went to open the flap even though she couldn't physically touch it, but whoever was inside had their back turned to her. Jon was there-why?-and he had a hand on the pommel of his sword, though he didn't seem to be in danger. His mouth was moving but the words coming out blended together, and Sansa couldn't understand him, no matter how hard she concentrated.
Then the other man turned around, and looked straight at her. She awoke abruptly, covered in sweat, her hair sticking to her neck and cheeks. She lay there for a moment longer, too afraid to move for some reason. Somehow, she knew it was not a normal dream-that some of the things that she had seen were physical, even if she was not.
And the man's eyes...they were the color of wet stone.
Sansa let out a shaky breath, sitting up. Even if the dreams were strange, there was no use dwelling on it, and as the Lady of Winterfell, she couldn't afford to be paralyzed in her bed. She looked down at her hands clutching the furs, and forced herself to relax; suffering nightmares the first few weeks of sleeping in this room alone, she had become quite adept at settling her nerves before going about her day. She hated Ramsey for turning a room that had once been safe into a source of anxiety, but she shoved him down before he could surface through tears or anger. Besides, she didn't dream of him anymore, not really. If his face was there when she closed her eyes, it was usually in the jaws of his hounds.
If the Hound were here, he would have killed Ramsey.
She furrowed her brow, not having thought of Sandor Clegane as often as she used to. He was always lurking in the back of her mind, whispering his harsh advice to her, hovering at the corners of her bed. Pretending to be Alayne, someone who would have never been in King's Landing, let alone mingled with lords and knights, she didn't really allow herself recollections of him. Except the few yearning times she would wish he would nearby, because she knew he would protect her.
Sandor Clegane was dead, if the tales from the south were true. Sansa had a hard time believing what she heard, though, so only the gods truly knew whether or not the Hound lived. Old or new, no god had ever taken the time to answer Sansa before, but she offered up a quick prayer anyway, feeling a bit guilty that he had been so absent from her mind. She was certain that no one else prayed for the Hound.
There were birds outside; so used to the quiet of winter, Sansa was startled to hear them. Normally she did not hear their songs, not unless the sun shone bright in the day. Little bird, he used to say.
Sansa couldn't bear to listen to their sounds.
Jon and Sansa were seated side by side, listening as man and woman expressed concerns over the winter. Jon was certainly listening attentively, as their father would have, but Sansa was restless this afternoon, having had more peculiar dreams the night before. She offered counsel when spoken to, but otherwise looked out the window, following the steady downward drift of the snow with her eyes. It was not until she heard the sudden sound of swords being unsheathed, and she came to full attention, whipping her head around to take the scene in full. Jon was still sitting, seemingly unthreatened, but many men had moved from their posts and were facing one figure, who had presented themself to the Stark siblings.
"It's a Lannister dog!" spat one guard.
Their eyes met for the briefest second before Sansa looked down at the table, feeling her mouth go dry. Sandor Clegane is dead, she thought, so dizzy she thought she might faint. Why is he standing in front of me now?
"Joffery Baratheon is in the ground," came his voice, deeper and harsher than she remembered. "And anyone left fighting for the Lannisters are dead men and bloody fools. I'm no one's dog, now."
"Lower your swords," Jon commanded. "We are in no danger from Clegane. He comes to us on peaceful terms."
"Aye," he agreed, glancing from Jon to Sansa. "It's been a couple of years since Starks sat in those chairs, I imagine. Coming here, seeing it, feels like justice."
At those words, everyone backed down, and Sansa took in his face, so unchanged (except the beard), so familiar it seemed ludicrous for her to ever be afraid of it. She knew she was always more afraid of the words he would say rather than if he would hurt her. His armor was dented, his gloves ripped and his boots worn, but his eyes were bright and clear like a wolf. She watched him as he knelt down before them on one knee, noticing that he seemed to struggle with the action a bit, and sucked in a breath when he said, "I rode hard from the Quiet Isle when I heard tales of a Stark army rising up again, and a new King in the North. I knew from the very beginning that I was fighting for the wrong side-Joffery was a twat, but he had a cruel streak I'd only seen in real brutes, like my brother. You're no thin-lipped brat, and I think it's safe to say you don't get off on beating little girls. I'm not a knight, but I'm better with a sword than any perfumed lord with a 'ser' to his name. Let me fight for you in the wars to come."
When she looked at Jon, she was expecting to see surprise, confusion, contemplation, but he looked so complacent that she realized-her dream, him in the tent, it was real, and they had already discussed this in private before making it official. Why had Jon not told her? She hadn't told him about the Hound, though, to be fair, she hadn't told anyone about the Hound. Everyone who didn't know him cursed his name, but she kept his secret.
"They were calling you the Mad Dog of Saltpans," Sansa said to him, her voice so quiet she was almost sure Sandor didn't hear her. His eyes, however, met hers the second he heard her speaking to him, and they both took stock of each other briefly before Sansa continued. "They said you were riding with a band of men, reeving and raiding. Raping. But they also said you were dead, and here you are. Am I to trust the other parts of these tales are false as well?"
"Aye, you can count on it," Sandor affirmed. "Some bastard stole my helm and let people call him Hound. He was welcome to the name, and he did me the favor of burying it as well."
Sansa glanced at Jon, who was already turned in her direction. "They may have named me King in the North, but I'm still not a Stark, not really. You are the lady of Winterfell. I know you might not feel safe with someone connected to the Lannisters being here..."
She wanted to laugh at this words, but such a thing would be strange to the men present. Instead, she drew in a deep breath, and stood with her palms flat on the long table. "This man was the only one in King's Landing that treated me with any semblance of kindness. When Cersei and Joffery delighted in tormenting me, he would do what he could to ease my pain. And he never, never laid a hand on me. I want the company gathered here to know this, though I know others will say what they will." Sansa lifted her chin, defiant to let him know she was no longer a scared girl. "You are welcome here, Sandor Clegane."
He was never really one for shows of formality, so he dipped his head to her instead of bowing. "Thank you," he rumbled.
Sansa didn't catch him alone until a few days after. She followed him down the stairs and across the yard, watched him enter the stables to tend to Stranger (the stableboy almost lost two fingers trying to feed the animal), and slipped in behind him. Sandor was scratching the warhorse between its eyes and murmuring endearments to it while the other hand fed him feed from a small bucket. It was odd to see him in such a quiet environment, since all her memories of him were at the Red Keep-even odder that he was here in her home, though.
He noticed her instantly, as she expected him to. "The little bird becomes more like a wolf each day," he rasped. "I nearly didn't hear you behind me the whole way."
She blushed a little, more from hearing him call her 'little bird' again than him catching her stalking him. "It's hard to move quietly in snow," she replied, shaking the stuff from the hem of her skirt and from her braid.
"There's a bloody lot of it, to be sure," he growled, finishing his task and turning away from Stranger to set down the feed. The horse seemed content with Sandor near, but kept its eyes on Sansa. She'd never been this close to his horse before, so she kept her distance. "Not used to this cold. Stranger isn't either, poor bastard. I'd take him out to warm his legs but best we could do would be a trot round your yard, and there might be causalities if that's attempted."
She couldn't help but laugh at that, covering her mouth with her hand. He stared hard at her for a moment, and she fought the urge to hide herself. It was difficult to break those habits. He's nothing like Ramsey, or Petyr, or Joffery, or Dontos, she thought, even as she thought back to the only time he kissed her, that night the Blackwater was on fire. She was going to lie down and let him do what he wanted, but there were tears on his cheeks as he ripped off his Kingsguard cloak and left it at the foot of her bed, a heap on the floor. Sansa wanted so badly to ask him about that night, to ask if he remembered the song he was going to take from her, but he spoke first. "Well, if you followed me, you must want something. Spit it out, girl." He took a few steps towards her, limping just slightly, and gods, he was so tall. She forgot about it after all these years. Even if she had grown, and even if she had never been short for a girl to begin with, he towered over her. It was intimidating and exhilarating to have to look up to really meet him face to face.
"I'm a girl no longer," Sansa retorted, letting her eyes bravely jump to both sides of his face. "You know that."
"Aye, the Imp saw to that, I heard," he muttered, his voice surprisingly bitter.
"Tyrion and I never...I was never his wife, not entirely," she whispered. No, Ramsey is the only husband I've truly had. But do not say such things to him. It will anger him. "He was good to me, like you were."
Sandor let out a gravely laugh. "Which would you have preferred, little bird? The shrunken pervert or the ugly murderer?"
Even as he words stung her, she recalled her dreams of him, of him crawling into her marriage bed instead of her short husband. "Do not think ill of him, please."
"That'll be easy as long as he's far away," he allowed. "Now tell me why you're here."
"I only...I only wanted to speak to you. Privately, without Jon or soldiers around. To ask-to ask you what became of you when you left King's Landing. I," she inhaled, "missed you, and thought of you often."
He said nothing for a moment, and it seemed like her words caused him physical pain. His eyes were so sad that she wanted to reach out, but before she could they were as cold as the stone they resembled. "Your thoughts were wasted on me, little bird. You should have been thinking about prettier things."
"I was surrounded by enemies, no matter where I fled. I thought Petyr would keep me safe in the Vale, but I had to pretend to be his bastard. My aunt almost killed me, before Petyr killed her. And then I was given to the Boltons, who were no friends to my family. Forgive me for fixating on the one person who did not seek to harm me." She hadn't meant to sound so harsh, but she sucked in a breath before he could interrupt her. "I should have gone with you. I regret that more than anything. I might have made it to my mother and brother before..."
"You'd just be dead," Sandor said. "No point in dwelling." His hand twitched like he wanted to reach out and touch her, but it stayed down by his side. "I had meant to talk to you eventually, just not in a bloody stable. You don't normally meet ladies where horses shit."
Years ago, Sansa would have flinched at his vulgarities, but she'd been in war camps for too long, and around that ginger-bearded man enough to know every combination possible. "We could...go somewhere more comfortable."
Sandor laughed, turning slightly to give Stranger a good scratch behind his ear. It was like she remembered-like letting gravel fall between your fingers and hit the hard ground. "I'll follow you wherever you go, little bird."
His words made her chest flutter, but she just smiled at him and sat down on a bench against the wall, arranging her skirts around her legs appropriately. She noticed that he almost looked a lord, in his fine leather boots and new tunic. "Still so proper," he commented, watching her hands smooth down her thighs. "So, masquerading as a bastard didn't rob you of your delicate manners?"
The question was posed in a teasing manner-Sansa felt heat rise to her face, so used to his quips being cruel or self-deprecating. "I had to deal with a lot more than a lady would have had to."
"You would have been dragging your blistered feet through the woods, if you'd followed me," Sandor told her. "You wouldn't have your silk dresses or your hot baths. No shiny knights with white teeth. Just me."
She paused for a second. "It would have been better."
I would have been with you.
"You're sure?"
Sansa had met Jon in his rooms, and he was still taking his breakfast when Sansa put her request before him. She watched her half-brother pick at his food, noting how listless he seemed to be sometimes.
"Yes, Jon. There's not a single man I trust here more, save for you."
"And...he's already agreed to it?" Jon asked, cutting his meat into small pieces instead of eating it.
"He offered me his sword, and his life. There is no one more capable of protecting us, believe me."
"You've attracted quite the following," Jon commented, putting down his fork and knife. She noted the lines under his dark eyes, and how the curl in his hair was limp-had the red woman's magic poisoned him somehow? Or was something weighing heavily on his mind? "First Lady Brienne, now the Hound. I think it's safe to say we don't ever have to worry about your well-being."
She did have to agree with him. It was hard to imagine anyone ever hurting her again with such fearsome people loyal to her.
"He won't just be my shield. He can be yours as well. He can lead your men, and train boys to fight."
"Is he as good as people say he is? I haven't ever seen the man in a battle, but I shan't be the first to test his abilities," Jon chuckled a little, "gods have pity on the man that does."
As her sworn shield, Sandor took post at her door at night. Sansa had no idea when the man slept, because he was awake when she bid him good night, and he was still standing there in the bright morning. She was too shy now to take her morning walks, so she stayed in her room during those restless hours, drinking in the cold air from her window. Organized her clothes by color, dusted the surfaces, made her bed, shook out the curtains, swept the stone. Evette was beginning to complain that there was naught for her to do after dressing her lady.
She could not stand it today, and opened the door to a shocked Sandor, who raised his eyebrow at her informal appearance. "Thought you were still dreaming, little bird," he said. "There a reason you're about to leave in your nightgown?"
It was a very modest gown, but she had still wrapped herself in a robe as well, mostly to shield herself from the winds. Sandor seemed fascinated by her, though, even reaching forward to pull on a ribbon at her collar. "Seems a useless thing."
"Some pretty things are," she admitted, wanting to touch his hand as he pulled it away from her. "As of late I've been an early riser. Walking in the crispness without too many layers helps chase the fogginess from my mind." She hesitated for just a second. "Join me?"
He laughed. "I'm to follow you anyway, Lady Stark."
He meant it as a jape, but it still gave her great pleasure to hear him call her by her family name, as everyone was meant to. Sansa gave him a bright smile, which caught him off guard, and brushed past him silently. He did as he said and followed closely behind her. She could almost feel the heat he radiated, and it felt good, right, to have him by her shoulder as she paused to look out over the camps surrounding her home. She heard noise from below, but it was indistinct. She was concentrating hard on the snow melting under her slippers when she felt Sandor's fingers wrap around her braid, fingering the loose hair at the end.
"I heard some of the wildling folk say that your king's campaign is bound to win because his sister is 'kissed by fire'. Seems everyone has a fancy for red hair, north or south."
She blushed and turned to face him, feeling it tug on her scalp as her braid pulled from his grasp. "They regard it as a sign of good luck," Sansa whispered. "Only because it is rare, though."
Sandor stepped closer, and she felt more heat rise to her face. Some small part of her wanted to press herself back against the stone behind her and turn her face away, but she clenched her fists and stayed put. He is not Ramsey. He took her braid in his hands again, and smirked a little. "Ironic, then," he mumbled, and her heart clenched. Before he would inevitably draw away from her, she reached up and grasped his hand in hers, looking up at him with her blue eyes wide open, hoping he would be able to see into her mind. She could say the words bouncing around in her skull. I am sorry you did not get to kill your brother. I am sorry people have laughed at you or cursed you. I am sorry the fire kissed you.
He was leaning down to her; Sansa closed her eyes, seeing wildfire and feeling the knife on her throat, but just as she could feel his breath on her mouth, a wolf howled in the distance, long and mournful. For some reason, it made Sansa's throat close up. When she opened her eyes, he had let her go, and had left to begin his routine without her.
Sandor remained by her side, but deflected her attempts at conversation most times. She was surprised at how much it stung in her gut whenever he would say "Yes, Lady Stark," and nothing more-the unguarded speech between them had always been a sort of comfort, even when she was too young and soft to handle his tone and language. He had not even kissed her, but he acted as if he had violated her.
He had taken to training young boys from both the freefolk and Winter's Town, barking at them early in the morning until the sun began to descend for dusk. Mothers and fathers alike grumbled a bit at the bruises and scrapes that adorned the children at the end of the day, but their bright eyes and exclamations prevented any real conflict. It gave her pleasure to watch over the lessons at dawn, hiding away in one of the many corners of her castle (gods, how it still felt strange to call it 'hers'). Sandor only really came alive when he was fighting, it seemed to her; his lips curled upwards more, and his tone, while always brash, contained a level of ease that made the boys relax. Sansa kept a close eye on his leg, wondering if a brace of some sort could be made for him.
One morning, she had peeked her head out and the wind blew some of her hair loose. The sudden red against white caught his eye and he, almost eerily, snapped his gaze to her post. The princess only stared back at him, and quickly ducked down and left as quietly as she could. She felt shame, not knowing why.