Author's Notes: This story has been brewing for a long, long time, starting from a LiveJournal's Sansa-Sandor's community's CommFicMeme prompt in August 2013 for a Groundhog Day AU – where Sansa or Sandor has to keep re-living a day until they get it right. After a shitty first draft I always wanted to get back to it, and did, many times. And finally concluded that if I don't start posting, I will never be incentivised enough to finish this… So here we go!

This first chapter is about the day how it originally pans out, before things start to get interesting… Let me know how you find it!

Day One

*BANG-CLATTER-CLANK*

A loud crash woke Sandor; the clatter and crash of tin mugs and claypots smashing against a stone floor.

He turned on his pallet trying to ignore the racket that followed; cries and shouts, the clumsy servant girl getting dressing down from her elder, and more clinks, rattles and sobs as the wretched wench tried to clean up the mess. Attempting to cling to the vestiges of deep slumber Sandor squeezed his eyes shut and curled his body into a tight coil. Even through the haze between sleep and wakefulness he knew that he didn't want to wake up just yet.

No more were his nights filled with abyss of dark horrors and impotent fury, only able to be conquered by stupor from drink or fatigue. These days his sleep was unperturbed, but even after many years the notion was still fresh for him and there were mornings when he woke up slowly, marvelling at the lack of nightmares.

Sometimes he wasn't sure what to do with himself, with this newfound freedom.

Nonetheless it was not the leisure of sleep that enticed him this morning, but the dread of the day ahead. Yet it was useless - his senses had been woken and his mind had already started to race ahead like a caged animal. Sandor cursed, pressed his face against the pillow and felt tension in his muscles increasing until he was taut as a bowstring.

Fuck!

Finally he gave up and took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. No two ways about it, time to start the day.

He pushed himself up, kicked the woollen blankets away and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. It was big and sturdy as was the man who slept in it, and as unadorned and practical. His chamber reflected its occupant in all aspects, the only furniture being the bed, a desk, a chair, a wash basin, two shelves on the wall for his small trinkets and two trunks in the corner holding his clothes and boots, as well as serving as seats should more of those be needed. Not that it was often – he seldom entertained guests, male or female.

Who would visit him, the man with no allegiances, no roots in this land and with these people?

Sandor was not in a hurry; another thing that had changed was the luxury of liberty he possessed. If he chose to sleep in, nobody would question him for it. He had duties to fulfil of course – everyone had to earn their keep in Winterfell - but no more was he at the peck and call for every whim of a spoiled boy king.

After flexing his upper arms in a cat-like stretch thus releasing the tension from his powerful shoulders he scratched his beard, absentmindedly. He didn't mind the least the distorted sight his face presented; one half tightly stretched burned skin, the other covered with a beard in a true northern style. Nobody cared how he looked like as long as he did his job, and although Sandor would have been hard-pressed to admit it, sometimes he missed the look of fear and shock in people's eyes. As long as his fate was to be an ugly bastard, at least he had gained dim satisfaction from being the ugliest. Yet in the North people didn't seem to be measured by the same standards as in the South and being disfigured was apparently not good enough reason to shun a person, he had discovered.

A few raspy coughs and he got on his feet. As dry as his throat might be, unlike many mornings in King's Landing it was not due too much wine the previous evening. His time in the Quiet Isle had cured his craving for drink, although since arriving to Winterfell several moons ago he sometimes wondered if that was a blessing or a curse. There were days when the thought of drowning himself to drink was tempting – and this day was one of those.

She is to wed today.

With a sigh he went to a wash basin in the corner of the room. Cold water splashed through his fingers and trickled down his face, leaving cool streaks in its wake. An act that was meant to refresh and make him more awake worked against him this very day; what he really wanted was to go back to bed and sleep through all that lied ahead.

What of it, dog?

Yes, the long-awaited wedding between Lady Sansa Stark and Ser Jaime Lannister was to take place that day after a long betrothal and weeks of planning. Nobody knew for sure if it was a love match or just a sensible joining of two powerful houses, the Lannister kingly house to the royalty of the North. The groom hadn't exactly been handed his bride on a plate but he had had to work for it; his role in returning Lady Stark to the North had been one of the reasons why his brother had stepped aside as graciously as his stumpy legs had allowed. Tyrion Lannister had declared in front of the Great Septon himself that their marriage had never been consummated and thus was not true before men or gods.

There had been many raised eyebrows at that but Sandor had almost choked to his drink when he had first heard of it. The Imp had left his wife untouched, had anyone ever heard of such thing? A fair maiden like Sansa? Nonetheless, Sansa had backed up his testimony and so it was that with no fuss the most eligible maiden in the Seven Kingdoms had been handed from one brother to another. Sansa hadn't objected, and why would she? A fair-looking capable knight to replace a misshapen cur?

He didn't grudge her getting her handsome knight in the end, after all. He truly didn't. He swore to himself he didn't.

Sandor rubbed his face with still wet hands, feeling ridges of a deep frown on his forehead. He didn't really have anything against Jaime who was one of the better Lannisters and as close to a friend he might have. Being young King Tommen's 'uncle' – at that Sandor snorted – Jaime was in a position to do much good for the North. Aye, Sansa could have done worse.

Besides, House Stark needed a firm hand to guide it through the aftermaths of the recent wars. Not even the little wolf's recent return had changed it, because the long-lost real lord of Winterfell Rickon Stark was still a long way away from being of age and taking up his lordship in truth.

After drying his face Sandor dressed methodically as was his habit; simple woollen breeches, undershirt, tunic in Stark colours. It had felt strange at first to dress in normal clothes after having become accustomed to brown-and-dun robes of the brothers of the Seven, but it was just one of the physical manifestations of the change in his circumstances and he accepted it without a second thought.

She is to wed the Kingslayer.

Sandor had suspected something of a kind since the day he had seen the two of them sitting side by side in the Great Hall of Winterfell. Despite being unsure of how well he would be received in the ancestral halls of House Stark, he had stubbornly presented himself as had been his intention since leaving the brothers of the Faith behind him.

Why had he come, leaving the comfortable though monotonous life in the Quiet Isle behind him? Hells if he knew himself. The rumours had had it that House Stark was rising again, its eldest daughter having returned to the North. Why that saw him leaving the only peace he had ever had in his life had probably made some sense to him at the time.

Probably still did - he wasn't quite sure.

The little bird had gasped as if she had seen a ghost when Sandor had walked into the Great Hall that cold winter's day. He had been weary, he had been on his guard, he had been tense as a bowstring for reasons he couldn't have articulated had he tried. Something had driven him through snow and sleet on his faithful horse, and being so close to his goal his palms had sweated and rare uncertainty had overtaken him. Would she order his arrest on the spot? Would she send him away with polite but cold words?

Would she hate him?

As it was, Jaime had taken care of most of the talking, sitting on a high seat next to her as if being the lord of the keep already – and that had been as good proof as any about how things stood between them. Sansa hadn't said much but had gotten exceedingly pale as Sandor had responded to Jaime's questions while stealing looks in her direction. He still remembered it as if it had been yesterday; her face colourless and yet so beautiful, more beautiful than he had imagined in his lonely cot when he had allowed his thoughts to venture in such dangerous territories. Eventually she had weakly excused herself after giving her consent for Jaime to take Sandor into the service of Winterfell and had retreated to her rooms in the flurry of wide skirts, almost running.

Always knew she wouldn't be happy to see me again, Sandor had thought darkly.

As he had settled down and learned to know his way around the keep he had observed her often, unexpectedly appearing in the training yards, in the guards' hall or in the armoury when he least expected it. She was the lady of the keep and probably had good reasons to visit those places, but it unnerved Sandor to see her, day after day. She was pleasing to look at – her face had lost its youthful roundness but her body had obtained curves of a woman, and fear that had clouded her eyes before had left her.

And yet, after seeing her with Jaime – hells, he wasn't sure what he had expected! – Sandor had struggled with emotions he couldn't explain to himself. Disappointment, guilt, anger, humiliation. None of it had made any sense but he was not a man used to analyse his feelings and so he had avoided her and never approached her even if she stood there all alone, watching him as if expecting him to say something.

Only once had he spoken to her, knowing what he must do and what was right, and had told her about his travels with the little she-wolf. She had pressed him for every little detail and made him tell everything over and over again, drinking his words eagerly, gratefully. In the end Sandor had declared that he had nothing more to share as it would have been dishonest to pretend that he had been any kind of saviour for the little brat, and had almost ran away.

For some time more she had continued her attendance at odd places and times where he could see her, but he had stubbornly refused to acknowledge her presence.

And after a while she didn't come around anymore.

At first it had worked for Sandor and his time had been consumed in finding his place in the new order of the North. Tall men from the Vale, dark wildlings from beyond the Wall, swarthy warriors from what was left from the troops that had marched South with Lord Eddard – all brought together by the last of the Starks. Many had been suspicious of him and his motives but over time his unassuming manners and hard work had allayed most of them, judging from the gradual thawing of the men-at-arms with whom he spent his days as one of new men of Winterfell. That, and the word of Lady Sansa and the signs of trust Jaime bestowed on him.

Everything should have been fine; finally he was doing what he had been trained to do all his life, finally he was free of whims of egotistical sadistic little bastard, finally he had a place where he felt he fitted better than in the holy island of the religion that still rang hollow to him. Nonetheless, over time what had been left unsaid between him and the woman he had followed – whether Sandor admitted that to himself or not - churned his innards every time when he had a glimpse of her; that and the way they had parted. That terrible night when the whole world was in fire, his dagger on the girl's throat, his body pinning her down.

For a man who had lived his life as he had, full of dark deeds, why this one had stayed in his mind? What was wrong with him?

And yet, of all the mixed feelings guilt was the one that niggled him the most and finally, after weeks of increasing disquiet, Sandor had sought her out one day in the restored glass gardens and spoken his mind. Not apologising, as he wouldn't have known how to do it if he tried, but only telling her that he knew well how cruel he had been to her then and that he understood if she rather saw the back of him, no matter what the Kingslayer thought of it.

Sandor still remembered how time had slowed down and his heart had pumped loud in his chest when he had waited for her response. Sansa had been examining new shoots emerging from potted earth and had been playing with bright green tendrils of some plant or another with her slender fingers, taking her time before responding to Sandor's gruff speech.

Finally she had looked at him solemnly and answered softly that she harboured no ill feelings towards him, and that she had moved on from the ruin of what had been before and he too should think no further of the past.

"My thoughts of you have never been harsh," she had said and offered him her hand, dirt still stuck under her fingernails. Sandor had accepted it and held it awkwardly in his big palm. Her thoughts of me? The notion that he had ever been on her mind had felt strange and that evening he had allowed himself to wonder when that could have been. The little bird thinking of a mongrel like him?

Later Sandor had concluded that sometimes the need to forgive was as powerful as the need to be forgiven. That Sansa had granted him an absolution had quieted the storm in his head and he hoped that it had helped her too.

The training grounds that morning were busier than usually, wedding guests and their entourages seemingly keen to get some exercise before the festivities of the evening. Horses neighed, men shouted and servants stumbled about trying to do their duties. Winterfell had been restored almost to its previous grandeur, only scattered ruins and cobblestones here and there left as visible scars of earlier battles, and it was fully prepared to host the crowds a grand wedding like this called forward.

Sandor spotted Jaime in the middle of a large group where talk was lively and mood jovial, men shouting their advice to the bridegroom about how he should preserve his strength for the evening and not waste it in swordplay. Jaime basked in it, laughing and giving as good as he got. It was one of those rare days when everyone seemed to be in a good mood and the weather complied as well, sun shining from a clear blue sky uplifting already festive tempers even more. Sandor glared around him and all the cheerful people, and dwelled as he was in his dark mood, felt a complete outsider.

What the fuck is matter with me?

Nonetheless, when Jaime's second-in-command arrived the groom's tune suddenly changed and he hushed those who still tried to jape about his rampant manhood with a sharp gesture.

Sandor glanced at the warrior maid Brienne of Tarth, whom he had learned to respect as a capable warrior after getting over his initial surprise at the sight of her. He knew that she had grown a thick hide spending her days with men as she did, coordinating the defences of Winterfell by Jaime's side. Bawdy talk didn't usually bother her although she never participated in it herself. This time, however, she appeared uncomfortable, glancing at the men under her brow with a riled expression.

Quite unexpectedly Sandor felt satisfaction of having met possibly the only other person in Winterfell not infected with the ridiculous high humour.

Sandor made a quick work of his opponent of the morning, a knight from White Harbor. The exercise was a child's play for him and after disarming the man three times in a row and splintering his wooden sword in the process he got bored. His old trade was still deeply embedded into memory of his muscles and it had taken him no time to get back to his old fighting fitness after years spent digging graves and in meditation. He loved the feeling of exhaustion burning his arms and thighs and the satisfaction gained from successful manoeuvring aimed at finishing his opponent, even if it only meant submission in the face of bruising by a blunted practice sword. What he didn't miss was the taste of kill or the sight of life leaving eyes of a fallen foe. No, he had done his fair share of killing and desired no more of it.

No, all he wanted was… well, he wasn't actually sure what he wanted.

Grunting Sandor waved the man away and wandered between the other sparring grounds, each separated with a temporary rope fence, to see how other pairs were faring. Maybe he could learn a trick or two from the faraway travellers - one never knew.

In one of the prominent spots he saw Jaime fighting with Brienne, sword against sword, darting around the sandy pit, eyeing each other's weak spots and lunging at them. Their fight was like a dance; a series of orchestrated movements by two opponents who were equally matched and who knew each other too well. Fluid motion and unexpected grace in the midst of crude slashing and ungainly lumbering. Rarely was it possible to see such elegance in sword fighting as when Jaime and Brienne went head-to-head, and Sandor noticed that he was not the only one who had stopped to admire their skills.

Then one of Brienne's attacks hit home and she succeeded in striking Jaime in the thigh. As they used only blunted practice swords no blood was drawn but a voice from the crowd jeered nonetheless. "Careful there, commander, not too close to the wedding tackle! You don't want to be satisfying your lady wife tonight only with your golden hand, do you!"

The jest was crude, even vulgar, but nothing that couldn't be expected in the company of soldiers. Yet Sandor saw Brienne stopping in her tracks, just for a fraction of a second, but that was enough for Jaime to get his counterstroke in and whack her between the shoulder blades. The hit didn't appear overly harsh, but Brienne recoiled and dropped her sword. The crowd jeered and instead of getting her weapon back and mounting a counterattack, the lady warrior mumbled something about yielding and hastened towards the armoury. Her face was flushed and distorted and her shoulders slumped and for a moment Sandor wondered if she had hurt herself for true. Yet Jaime's strike had been no worse than she had received before – it didn't make any sense that she would yield so easily. If Sandor had learned anything about the wench it was that she was as stubborn as a mule and as persistent – many bruises and nicks in his own hide had taught him that in a hard way.

Nobody else seemed to pay heed to the improbability of the outcome except for Jaime who stood still, tapping his sword steadily against his thigh and staring at where Brienne had disappeared in deep contemplation.

Years had treated the Kingslayer kindly, only creases in the corners of his eyes showing that he was not a spring lamb anymore but a man of mature age. His confidence and arrogance somewhat subdued he was a rare example of one who had emerged from the depths of the War of the Five Kings better man as when had entered it. Still devilishly handsome with a smoothly shaven face, golden hair and piercing green eyes, it was however not his looks that commanded attention but the air of authority he exuded. Sandor himself was immune to it, but sometimes he thought bitterly how it was no wonder that Lady Sansa had so readily agreed to the betrothal. Why wouldn't she? A handsome knight, member of a noble house, redeemed by his actions after the war. Any maiden would be fool not to want him for a groom – and Sansa Stark was not a fool.

It would have been easier for Sandor if he could have detested the Kingslayer – but he had always treated Sandor fairly and as much as Sandor hated the thought of him being the one to marry Sansa, he still couldn't truly grudge the man his good fortune.

Almost.

While waiting for the crowd to disperse so he could have a few words with the commander, Sandor eventually saw Brienne the Blue returning only after most of the men had already disappeared to their various duties. She didn't stop but strode hastily by – she must have been more occupied than usual not to acknowledge Sandor's presence. The two warriors were in amicable terms if not exactly bosom buddies, so he would have expected at least a nod, but that was clearly not forthcoming.

Finally Sandor approached Jaime. Having succumbed to his exhortations one evening after too many flagons of wine he had agreed – foolishly – to oversee the wedding procession, weaving its way from the re-built Lady Catelyn's Sept to the Great Hall. At the time it had seemed just a small task focussed more on logistics of controlling the crowds than anything else, but later Sandor had realised the irony of his task. To help Lady Sansa Stark tie herself to another man. And yet…

What it was to him? Nothing. Why would the thought make him cringe? No sense in it at all.

"What was that about? Didn't think you hit her too hard."

Jaime was still staring in the direction where Brienne had disappeared. "I wish I knew. I only tapped her lightly – I have seen the wench putting up with much worse with no ill effect."

"Women. Who knows?"

Jaime raised his eyebrow. "Not many things usually attributed to women apply to her, as you well know."

"Mayhap not." Sandor wasn't really interested in the vagaries of women, even one as formidable as Brienne.

"I hope she will be well enough to attend tonight." Brienne's place was in the honour guard with Sandor, two of the tallest warriors assigned to lead the procession.

"Talking of which, how do you want to…"

They went through the arrangements for a while, after which Jaime took his leave, scooping something from the ground as he went; something looking like a piece of cloth. Thinking nothing of it – who was he to care about the quirks of the Kingslayer? - Sandor went to deposit his broken sword on a rack next to a small woodsmith's shack. There, on a bench leaning against the wall sat the tall figure of Brienne, still as a statue, looking at Jaime's retreating back until he disappeared from sight. Even then she kept on staring at the spot, finally sighing so heavily that her heavily muscled shoulders heaved, before wearily getting up and starting to walk towards the bath-house.

Sandor saw all this and wondered. He was mildly curious about the unusual behaviour of otherwise so sensible maid, but concluding that it was not his business he shrug his shoulders and started towards his own room for a change of attire. Never one for fineries, this day however was an exception. Without intending to, he had found himself playing a much bigger role in the proceedings than he would have preferred, and his appearance had to fit the role. That meant new clothes and changing into them after practice, whether he wanted or not.

However, his progress was distracted by the swarm of men gathered around one of the yards, and edging closer he recognised the Knight of Flowers sparring with one of the youths from Winterfell's garrison. Having recovered from his wounds from the siege of Dragonstone Loras Tyrell had resumed his position as the supreme fighter of the realm. His good looks had been lost to the flames for ever but it didn't seem to bother him. The brash, vain youth had given way to a serious man even Sandor could respect, especially his skills with a sword.

His opponent was a youth never likely to be acknowledged for his looks; short, swarthy, close-set eyes and a grin lacking several teeth – but Yrin hailed from the Gift and possessed abundance of the brute cunning and skill of the wildlings. It seemed to be enough to match the sword skills of his veneered adversary, and so he had persisted in the fight surprisingly well so far.

The crowd shouted its support for the fighters and betting was already in full swing. Men hollered and offered coppers, stags and even dragons to back the best knight in all the Seven Kingdoms, and by the time Sandor arrived, the pot had already grown to a significant size. He stopped for a moment to observe and just then the wildling surprised everyone with one of his bold movements and the unthinkable happened: his opponent fell and lost his sword. Hushed silence fell upon the crowd and men looked at each other, still hardly believing that an unknown boy could do what the most experienced warriors had rarely succeeded in. Loras looked every bit stunned as everyone else but gathered his dignity soon enough, graciously slapping the winner at the back and congratulating him for a worthy fight.

Curiously, when the winner of the betting was sought out it was discovered that nobody actually had dared to bet against the seemingly inevitable conclusion, and the money from the pot was grudgingly returned to its owners. Sandor continued his trip sneering, amused by the notion that the Northerners could still show a thing or two to the Southerners.

When he passed the Great Hall, the solitary form of Jaime sitting in a corner staring at something in his hands caught his eye. Another glance told him it to be the cloth he had picked from the ground. The commander's bearing did not invite company, his back turned against the door, so despite feeling more than ready for a flagon of ale despite the early hour, Sandor let him be and went straight to his room.

His dark mood followed him.

At the midday meal Jaime approached Sandor's table and sat down next to him. The garrison guard seated next to them shifted along the bench, bowing to the man whom everyone saw as the immediate lord consort of the North.

"Sandor, may I ask you one more favour?"

Sandor grunted non-committedly, chewing a piece of coarse rye bread, waiting for Jaime to continue.

"Lady Sansa is planning to go to the Godswood to pray before the heart tree before the festivities; something about honouring the old gods for the last time as an unmarried maiden." Jaime scanned the big hall teeming with people, furrowing his brow. "She assures me she is perfectly safe alone, but I would feel better if someone was with her. With all these visitors around…it would ease my mind to know she is well protected. Could you go with her?"

"Why me? Why not one of the household guards?" Sandor was taken aback. He had never served the lady of the keep in such manner – why now? He was not a sworn shield nor one of the trusted men-at-arms in the inner circles of the Stark household. As a matter of fact, he had exchanged hardly more than a few sentences with her since… ever since the meeting in the glass gardens when she had released him from his burden.

When she had laid her hand on his, dirt under her fingernails.

The memory of it made him squirm – the dark weight he had carried around for years had been so embedded in him that only when she had lifted it had he realised how much it had weighed him down. And she had done it with a few chosen words, a smile, a touch.

A fool he had been, to be so affected by a maid. A fool he was still.

"All the other men are busy – besides, she likes her privacy and I know that you can blend into the shadows like a cat - or should I say a dog? A skill quite surprising for a big man like you." Jaime flashed his teeth in a wide grin. "All I ask is for you to just follow her from a discreet distance and let her have her moment with the gods. I doubt there is any real danger, but still, I would prefer to be cautious."

Sandor could see the sense on what he said. A big event like this brought with it all kinds of unscrupulous characters and many had started festivities already days ago, strongwine and mead flowing freely in some quarters. Even without ill intent it was not right for a young maiden to be accosted by men in their cups. And still… Sandor tried to think of a polite way to decline the request. Not now, not this very day, surely there was someone else Jaime could trust? Jaime stared at him expectantly and Sandor knew that there was no way out of it.

"Aye, I'll do it. Does she know you are asking this of me? Don't want to go frightening her."

"I will let her know. I know she will not object; she thinks highly of you, and that's another reason for my request. I wouldn't want just any man following her around." With that Jaime got up and left, clapping Sandor on the shoulder in passing.

Sandor stared after him deep in thought. Thinks highly of me? Why the little bird would have said such a thing to the Kingslayer, baffled him. Courteous she was still, always a smile or a few nice words to those around her, but to compliment a man who had done so much evil and hadn't lifted a finger to help her when she had needed it the most… No, it must have been just a turn of phrase Jaime had used. Snorting, he finished his meal and got up to take care of the task so unexpectedly thrown at his lap.

Sandor almost collided with the girl he knew to be Sansa's lady's maid at the door leading to the family's personal quarters. Ignoring the girl's curious look he ducked under the low doorway and made his way to her lady's door. It was open but he knocked on it nonetheless; once, twice, thrice, the old wood pleasantly worn and smooth under his knuckles.

It was not the first time he was there; he had come to her door once or twice before, always in the Kingslayer's company. Then he had felt calm, slinking to the background as had been his position all those years in the Lannister service, not expecting to be noticed or spoken to. Lady Sansa had broken the form though, courteously enquiring after his wellbeing and how he liked the North. Still, Jaime's presence had meant that all that had been required from him had been some muttered platitudes before withdrawing to himself again.

In the background, in the shadows – as he had lived his life and was like to do until the end of his days.

This time there was no Kingslayer, no maid – only the two of them. Just the thought of it made Sandor's palms sweat and he wished there was a way out of it. After receiving his absolution from her lips he had thought his peace of mind would return to him – but quite the opposite had happened. The more he had seen of her, gliding through the keep, nibbling at her meals in the Great Hall, walking in the parapets among her people, the more difficult he had found to look away. And yet look away he must.

So he had done the only thing he could think of – he had continued to make it his matter to avoid her as much as he could. It had proved to be surprisingly easy in such a busy household, as only at meal times he was forced into her presence, and even then it was possible to stay in one of the lower tables and ignore the goings-on in the high table.

Sandor was distracted from his musings by the sound of light steps approaching the door. Sansa peeked through the opening, a flash of red hair and crimson cheeks.

"Here I am. Commander's orders," Sandor grunted, hoping that Jaime had kept his word and informed her about who had been assigned as her escort.

"Yes. I knew you were coming. I…" She looked out of breath and her hands were shaking and Sandor wondered why. "I'll be ready in a moment."

True to her word she soon stepped into the corridor pulling a warm green cloak across her shoulders.

"Godswood, is it?" Of course it is Godswood you dimwit! Hoping he would have kept his mouth shut Sandor fell on a step behind her.

"Yes, Godswood, if it please you." Sansa glanced around her shoulder and once again there was something furtive in her behaviour. Had the Kingslayer been wrong after all about Sansa's level of confidence when it came to his company? Mayhap she didn't want an old dog reminding her of the bad old days lumbering behind her on a day that was supposed to be every maiden's dream?

The way down the corridor and across the yard seemed to take an eternity and Sandor took good care to make sure that he stayed at least a few paces behind his charge at all times – as was prudent for a guard escorting his lady. It was made easier by the fact that Sansa didn't seem to expect conversation, which was fine with him.

Silence continued during their journey to the Godswood. It was a clear, crisp day and the air was rich with smells of decomposing leaves and open earth, and the only sounds around them were hushed calls of an occasional bird or rustling of a squirrel scurrying up a tree trunk. After the mayhem in the keep Sandor felt the tranquillity of the ancient place of worship sooth him and he breathed in deeply and steadily, focussing on the rhythm of it and aligning it with the pace of his long strides.

Every now and then Sandor noticed Sansa giving him a sideways look, and once he was sure she was going to say something – but at the last minute she closed her mouth and looked away. For some reason she looked agitated and Sandor felt a stir of frustration. Jaime should have never asked him this, or he should have never agreed. It was clear the girl wanted nothing to do with him.

At the heart tree Sandor left a wide space between them when Sansa sank onto the ground in front of the ancient weirwood and stayed that way for a long time. She didn't pray out loud as that was not the Northern way, nor did she prostrate herself in front of the tree; she only sat there, eyes closed, her arms by her side, hands flattened against the undergrowth of the forest floor.

Not having anything else to do while waiting Sandor feasted his eyes on her knowing the opportunity to be rare and unlikely to occur again. She was truly an image of a forest goddess; auburn hair trailing down her back, her body in graceful posture. The dress she wore was a simple blue gown of the northern style and bore no adornments, and he thought her beautiful. Her lips trembled and opened as if in anticipation of words and yet nothing came out – whatever her communication with the old gods was, she obviously thought it better left unsaid.

And then Sandor felt something; a tremor, a shudder, a vibration in the air.

He looked around, fully alert, but saw nothing but the old forest, its peace undisturbed. Sansa had not moved but sat still, her features serene and unperturbed. Whatever the disturbance had been – if there had been any - was gone and slowly the tension left Sandor's body. He felt a bit foolish, actually – he must have only imagined it, being spooked by nothing.

The presence of the old gods, mayhap.

After a long time, during which Sandor resumed his guarding stance, Sansa got up and brushed her skirts. Whatever she had prayed seemed to have eased her mind as she was more composed and even smiled at him faintly when Sandor pushed some low-hanging branches aside to let her pass. They returned to the keep as they had left, in silence, but after escorting Sansa to her door and turning to leave Sandor was stopped by her light touch.

"You have my thanks; you were very kind to do this, Sandor," she said, her hand light as a feather on his sleeve. Sandor felt a jolt from that touch – or maybe it was the way his name sounded when she said it, softly, no hostility evident in her tone.

Then she removed her hand, stepped into her room and was gone. And the spark died down, leaving only a cold trail in its wake. The thought of her wearing the Kingslayer's cloak that night and stepping into his bed twisted somewhere deep in Sandor's guts, but he tried to shut it out of his mind.

Not my business.

He turned and walked away.

The ceremony in the Winterfell Sept was solemn and dignified. Even though everyone knew Lady Sansa to have transferred her allegiance back to the religion of her forefathers, the wedding was not witnessed by the old gods. It was in front of the Seven the couple exchanged their vows, their voices steady and unwavering.

Sandor followed the proceedings from his place in the honour guard, bile rising in his throat at the sight of the Kingslayer's hands clasping his cloak around Sansa's shoulders. Brienne of Tarth stood opposite him, a glum look on her face. She was not a beauty by any definition, her manly features made even less attractive by the horrible scar across her cheek, but on a good day she had softness about her which combined with the sapphire blue of her eyes reminded a casual observer that she was indeed a maid, and a young one still. None of that was visible now though, a deep frown hardening her face into a cold, hard mask.

And yet, as they turned around to make way for the newlyweds Sandor saw her swipe a tear from the corner of her eye. It surprised him; so it seemed that even warrior maids were not immune to womanly emotions when it came to weddings?

The wedding feast itself was all it had been promised to be; good food, good drink and plenty of it, musicians plucking, drumming and blowing their instruments and convivial feeling encasing the whole hall and its inhabitants. Sandor sat in his allotted seat and observed the festivities, glancing at the dais every now and then. Jaime appeared cheerful enough, but his lady was quiet, staring at her lap and hardly touching her food. She cut a fine figure in her magnificent new dress, her hair piled high on top of her head in a complicated structure with silken threads and flowers weaved into it. Sandor tried to look away, well-practiced in it as he was, but this night of all nights he found that even his formidable willpower was not enough. Despite her splendid appearance and all the fineries decorating her he found that the simple maid in the woods was more to his liking.

As if it matters what I like, Sandor sighed and directed his attention back to his meal.

Despite the revelries trepidation started to pool in Sandor's belly as the evening progressed. He knew what lay ahead; a ceremony as old as time but one he didn't really want to see.

"Bedding, bedding, bedding!" the crowd started to chant banging on tables, laughing and jesting. Sandor saw Sansa looking around with the expression of a forest animal caught in torchlight before pursing her lips together in a thin line and lifting her head defiantly. Tradition called for her to submit to it and she was, if anything, mindful of the customs of the North. It was bad enough for her to wed a Southron in front of the Seven so she was not going to throw all conventions out the window, Jaime had informed Sandor beforehand. They both knew that ambitions of the Northern lords had suffered badly from Sansa's choice and that she had worked tirelessly ever since to patch up any friction.

The most daring of the young knights rushed to lift her onto a seat formed by their crossed hands and started to carry her across the hall, stopping every now and then to allow a piece of cloth to be grasped or an intricate twist of the coiled hair released.

Sandor clenched his fists and stayed on the bench, glancing daggers towards those who dared to touch Sansa. There went her slipper, there the ribbons from her hair. A laughing squire dared to unbutton her dress from the back and it started to fall down, revealing a lacy shift and a perfect curve of a rounded shoulder. Sansa struggled to stay upright on her moving seat but smiled determinedly, clearly prepared to endure the ordeal in good cheer.

A fighter, that's what she always was.

The rowdy procession entered the corridor leading to the wedding chamber and Sandor couldn't help himself any longer – he jumped up and followed it. Jaime was not there to protect the dignity of his bride and judging from the increasingly boisterous behaviour of the crowd there was better to be someone there for her.

The groom was likewise being escorted out of the hall in a parade of giggling and bawdy women. Tongues had been wagging for weeks among the women of the keep, keen to snatch a peek at the handsome Kingslayer's physique under the disguise of wedding revelries. Sandor saw Brienne among them and despite her sullen looks she didn't seem to be completely immune to the golden lion's charms, side-eyeing Jaime's bare upper torso as the women guided him along. The lion was herded between them as if he was a steer being led to slaughter; a steer that didn't seem to mind his fate as he laughed out loud even as he tried to avoid too eager hands.

A sound of fabric tearing alerted Sandor and before anyone else had time to react, he pushed himself next to Sansa whose shift had been torn. A mishap or not, it didn't matter, when her whole back had been revealed to all and sundry, pale and fragile in the flickering light of torches lining the walkway. A memory from another time and another place flicked through his mind and he knew that Sansa must have felt it too.

And he had been present on both of those occasions. Last time he had nothing, but now…

"That's enough. Get your filthy hands off her or I shall cut them off and feed them to the dogs, throw them like bones I will!" Sandor's blood boiled and he pushed the revellers aside scooping Sansa into his arms and carried her away. The other men knew that they had stepped across the line and let them go, trailing behind to joke and laugh but not attempting to catch up.

Sandor's long strides took the two of them towards the bridal chamber. At first Sansa threw her head around and gave a faint struggle but glancing up and recognising her saviour's determined face she quietened and settled in his arms, still tense. Shoulders hunched and arms crossed across her chest in a protective gesture she trembled against his chest, like a little bird fallen out of its nest. That the louts had frightened her so soured Sandor's mood and he would have curse had he not thought that to unsettle his precious cargo even more.

Reaching the room, he laid her gently on top of the wide bed already set with fine linen and lace, flowers sprinkled on top of the covers. He had hardly registered her weight when he had carried her but when it was taken away his arms felt suddenly unbearably empty.

Sansa stared at him wordlessly and instead of moving away from him, as Sandor tried to get up she stopped him by placing her hand on his arm. He paused, watching her as she rested her head against the pillow, her hair fanned around her as rays of sun. Fire of many candles glinted in her curls brandishing them dark copper, different to her usual light auburn. They looked so soft, her face so young and vulnerable. That the Kingslayer should have her soon… Sandor cursed silently.

Don't think of it. Never think of it.

"Thank you," she whispered breathlessly but didn't let go. Sandor could have moved any time he wished but it was not her strength that checked him, but her eyes. They were searching his, flicking between them, not turning away. Was it sadness he saw in them? How could that be? The weight of her scrutiny was almost unbearable and again Sandor was reminded of King's Landing. Then he had desired above anything else for her to look at him like that – just look, with no fear or disgust in her eyes.

And now the directness he had not seen before captured him and didn't let go. They stayed like that, transfixed in each other's gaze, until noises from the corridor got nearer and Jaime bolted in, banging the door shut behind him and panting from the effort of trying to outrun his assailants.

"Finally! I swear I thought some of those ladies were ready to take me right then and there in the corridor." He stopped, only now truly noticing the scene before him. "Sandor, thank you for seeing my bride here in one piece. I heard about the commotion."

He moved closer, dressed just in his breeches with undone laces that had severely suffered under the women's onslaught. Sandor stood up, feeling stupid for lingering where he clearly was not welcome. He didn't need Jaime's glance towards Sansa to tell him that he was a third wheel in a wedding chamber with newlyweds. Instead of eagerness he would have expected Jaime's face was suddenly shrouded in an odd melancholy and he went to the table in the back of the room and poured himself a goblet of wine.

"Some wine?"

Sandor shook his head in refusal and retreated towards the exit, leaving Jaime with the goblet in his hand. As he stepped out to the corridor he took one last look towards the slowly closing door. Jaime was still standing, shoulders hunched, back to his bride, and Sansa's head was still turned in his direction rather than that of her lord husband. He felt her eyes burning like small flames into his back as he turned away and shut the door firmly behind him.

He might have said no to Jaime's offer, but now all he wanted was to drink himself into a stupor to wipe the image of her big eyes and sad face out of his mind.

Dornish red it is.

When Sandor eventually stumbled into his room hours later, too drunk to walk straight, and fell on his bed like a log, his mission had been well and truly accomplished.