"Come along, husband. There's children in need of a kiss and a bed to be warmed."
"The children's bed, your grace?" he asked in subtle rebuttal.
His wife and queen waved him a hand and turned her head to see if he followed her. He was always a step away from her presence and she smiled knowing that.
"Oh, you're quite charming and a bit drunk from your recent winning, husband, but I do mean OUR bed," she answered, smiling. She reached back for his mailed hand and tugged on him playfully to lead him to their children's shambers. He reluctantly followed.
Kissing his babes was for his wife to do, and he was bloody and sore, and sure their children will cry, scuttling to their mother's skirts at the sight of him. His hand squeezed then relaxed immediately, forgetting his wife's hand in his.
"You worry too much," Sansa duly noted. She kindly returned the gesture, though.
A passing-by guard gave a quick bow as the three passed each other. His watch was over and shortly another would take his place to watch the halls and the children and even the queen and her king.
"They'll see your return as a victory and leap into your arm, Sandor," she reassured him, quietly.
His pace quickened, not trailing behind her like a dog, but by Sansa's side as he sworn he would be, keeping an even pace; and she looped her hand on the crook of his elbow and rested her head on his plated arm. Sandor smiled wickedly.
"Careful, my Queen," Sandor gruffed, but not unkind. "Wouldn't want your pretty red hair dyed in blood."
"Thank you, Lord Husband," she quiped, her nose in the air. She matched her deep, blue eyes to his grey ones and smiled her gracious smile. "I'll remember the next time."
Sandor replied with a heavy laugh that echoed the long and endless hall. They felt in a world of their own. "Is my little bird singing another victory so soon? I've not time to rest nor bed my comely queen."
She leaned more tightly to his arm and nudged him a bit. "Then I'll gladly take your place and lead our vanguard to a quicker and sweeter victory, better and faster than what my seasoned Lord Husband could have done in all his years."
"My Queen is too kind."
"And my husband aging. Nonetheless, our babes require us and our love and your sweet tale."
"Shame to say, but this battle was fruitless in tales. I slept through most of the commotion," Sandor answered tirelessly. He leaned his head to her bright, sweet-smelling hair, and took in her fragrances.
"A win is a win."
The two reached their children's chamber and a bountiful of cheering and small threats muffled through the door. Sansa gave a look to her captain of her Queensgaurd and smiled endearingly. She stood aside as her husband opened the door and weened open to watch and praytell a quiet night.
A prancing, naked boy of age three, hair as red as his mother's and wild like a stallion, bolted out the room, and on instinct made room for their little boy to prance, but his father swooped him off his feet by under his arms, before he could make a long distance between them, and swung him in the air as if he was flying. The child gave bubbling laughs and shrieked in happiness at seeing from his father's eighty inch height. As Sandor eased the boy to his chest their son saw matching grey eyes and smiled widely.
"Father!" the child cried, fumbling his little hands to reach his father's face to hold or to hug.
"Hello, son," Sandor returned with a smirk. His face was far away for his little hands to touch; their son scratched open air, trying to escape his father's hold, but his chained and gloved hand held firmly until the maid held her own open for the boy.
He was dressed under the watch from his mother and father, and his two older sisters, and he kicked harder and screamed louder as the old maid washed his face.
"I beg your pardons, your grace," she said hurriedly, her face turning red. "If I knew you would be here early I would have had the young lord dressed and tired."
"No such thing, Meera. My son grows wild and restless; I pray he grows out of it, though."
Sandor laughed, taking a seat on the bed across their son's. Catelyn's bed, he knew. A daughter stayed on the bed with him and the other ran scuttling to her mother like he thought they would. Catelyn though, she's smart and warm and greeted her father with a kiss on the side of his nose and a wet cloth.
"My sweet daughter," he voiced, taking a look once over her, then to his wife who stood still with her hands on her stomach, and then back to the girl, Catelyn. Sandor patted his skin with the cloth. A few splatters here and there, and it was enough for his eldest daughter to pick at. The two stared at each other in dull amusement before Catelyn opened her mouth.
"Catelyn," she said, "if you've forgotten." Her pout was full and her eyes were as blue and round like her mother's, but her face, Catelyn's face, was his, and she was the most beautiful child in all the realm the gods have sent them. A strong jawline and a sharp nose. Hair as dark as the sky in a winter night. A head full of knowledge. Only thirteen and she out-witted many knights and jesters.
"Is that so, Catelyn of Winterfell? I remember another child of your stature, but not as beautiful as the one I look at now..."
Catelyn's pout soon turned to a grin and she flung her arms around her father's neck, soon being lifted off the bed. She too was flying and squealing, happy to see her father return safely and playing with her. She's too old to be swung around by her father, but he babied them dearly and Sandor would not hear the end of it if he spoke out loud of it. His children too.
Out of hiding behind her mother's skirts, the middle sister puckered her lips and puffed her red cheeks in front of her ser father and demanded to be lifted up too.
He so obliged to Lady Jonquil and was now playing with his daughters after a week long of battling, seeming to be replenished of his tire and ready to spend his night with his daughters and son.
"My husband will tire them soon," Sansa declared.
Poor Edd was sulking on his bed finally quiet, and Sansa found herself laughing at the turn of events and so too was the maid.
She sat next to her son and placed a hand on his small back, rubbing up and down to sooth his tears.
"My son," she said softly, "don't fret."
"I am NOT!" Edd plopped back on the bed and crossed his arms over his chest and kicked his legs in the air. His mother grabbed for his little feet and gently tickled them until he swelled up with tears.
"I was wrong!" Sansa gasped. "See how you laugh!"
"Mother!" the young boy yelped, struggling against his mother's hand.
"Oh, my sad little boy!" Sansa laughed, lifting the boy by his underarms, soaring high to the air. He has grown so heavy, she thought as she turned him in circles. She planted a kiss to his pointy noise, then to his plump-from-baby-fat cheeks before settling him down in the bed. Sansa smoothed down his hair, staring at his blue eyes. "Kiss you father, Edd."
The boy gleemed happy and thrusted his hands in the air, waving them to his father who towed his daughters in his arms.
The girls jump0ed on their brother's bed after kissing their father and mother and faring them a well night. Edd was the last to send a kiss to his cheeks and Sandor returned one to his brow.
Sansa gave airy kisses to the girls and fared them a well night too.
The maid drew the covers to their chins and blew the candle. She closed their door and bowed to the Queen and King in the North.
"Meera," Sansa called before the maid could leave. "Bring us a squire please. Immediately."
"As you wish, your grace." And she hampered off without question or a wary glance.
Sandor shuffled from one foot to the other, seeing the maid go, grumbling. "I know damn well how to take off my own armor. Your grace."
Sansa raised and eyebrow and head, amused. "You know how, but you won't, I know that."
He snorted. "You never asked me to."
"I never had to," Sansa said, frowning. "I know when you don't want to take it off. That armor is like your second skin and who would remove such a thing? Are you hiding something?"
"Does your grace wish an answer?"
"My name is Sansa."
"Yes."
She heaved heavily. "Your mood has dampened," Sansa duly noted. "You were so happy to see your children, and they were the same." There was silence, and then, "Take off your armore, Sandor. Leave the tunic and breeches if you know what's good for you. And leave that bloody sword too," Sansa cursed scowling. She was mad at something-him-too. She made a few steps forward, leaving him behind, but a clank hit the floor and it was the most loudest noise in the night. Sansa turned, hair flying into her parted lips and Sandor was removing his mailed gloved and saw at his foot that it was his sword he threw down first. She narrowed her eyes but smiling.
"Come here, ser," she called.
He did so and stood with his chest plate to her face.
She placd a bare hand on the black direwold of his chest and pushed slightly, hard enough for him to get an idea and step back.
"Not near the children's chamber. You'll wake them."
"My queen," he said dearingly.
"Your grace," a young voice called, down the hall where Meera had left to call for the squire.
She did not return but had sent two squire boys for Sansa. For Sandor.
They bent low in a bow, pinching their lips thin, nervous.
"Rise," the queen said kindly, stealing a look at Sandor. His face remained passive and his stance still.
"Your grace," the two echoed. "Your graces," they corrected.
"Remove your king's armor," she commanded, "and be swift about it. The night has darkened and we all would like to be asleep." An ominous, silent "Winter is coming" lingered in the air.
They nodded, and she stood aside, approaching Sandor like they've done hundreds of times before and worked him out of his armor.
Sandor became irked at his wife as she stood against a wall and watched, a finger to her smooth lips. Eyes shined bright as the torches danced upon her clear eyes and sculpted face. Her hair was fire, growing brighter by the new year; for most of the time now these days Sandor was half-afraid of fire.
How cruel the gods are to let me suffer from her beauty, he thought craven.
Lastly as the time slowly eased by, the final metal of armor leaved his body and Sansa was finally able to see him skin and cloth.
"Thank you. You may leave now."
The squires left, taking back the armor to be cleaned and polished. One retreated back because he noticed the sword and gloves.
How smart the maid was to send two.
All was still and quiet and only the licking of the flames were allowed to parley.
"Oh, ser," Sansa breathed. She leapt off the wall and took kind, light steps to her knight, looping her arms around his shoulders.
"Sansa," he returned, finally saying her name. He crooked down to kiss her fair brow, her cheeks, and lips, holding her chin with hard, calloused fingers.
"What brough you that mood?" she asked innocently.
Sandor only shook his head, then, deciding to answer his queen, "War."
What a pounding that word sent her, even to Sandor. A fist to the gut more like it. Many fists.
Sansa moaned, kissing him back hard. "No," she pressed to his lips. She pullled back, putting her forhead to his chest. "No, no, no! Impossible," she hissed.
"I must return to battle," Sandor went on, holding back a fury.
The battle was too soon. It did end. Once. It ended when the Dragon Queen took back her Iron Throne, but it was not enough. Too many friends of her enemies uniting secretly, thinking they could kill dragons and take a bloody throne. The Dragon Queen was too kind to let them live. So many were loyal to dead kings; there would be no more King's Landing or a realm to rule, if she were to kill them all.
"You will not go," Sansa pleaded.
"If only your words were enough, my queen."
They are! Sandor-" Sansa took his arm suddenly, running. He looked behind her in search of danger, but there was not one he sensed. Sansa had dragged him to their chambers, their conversation was not for the ears of a night guard standing still and bored a few doors down from them. She pushed him first through and stood panting on the closed door. Sandor waited for her to finish her words. the bad of his legs touched their bed and he chose to not to sit and so did Sansa.
"You have just returned! Who called for this war, and why should you dare answer?! Your place is here, Sandor! By me!"
"Sansa," he began, but his throat closed and his eyes hardened. Not this time, he said to himself. Not again. "The Dragon Queen calls and we all must answer."
Those words were repeated so many damn times and they will for however long the Targaryens live. Damn Jon Snow, her bastard bro-cousin, and heir to the Iron Throne.
He took the black so many moons ago, and vowed never to hold land, not anything a king is allowed. Daenerys could hardly care. She took her Iron Throne and needs a Targaryen to keep it.
"You answer to no one but me!" Sansa became a child now, unruly of the ways that should bend to her, but they do not. "You vowed to me, Sandor Clegane. When you became my knight, my captain of my Queensguard, when we married! Those children are much of mine as they are yours. They need their father and I need my husband."
"Aye. I need my wife," he agreed.
Sansa ran to his arms, holding tightly to his chest. She moaned in his wool.
"I'll send a word to the queen. We need you here to hold the North. Winter is coming."
"Winter is coming," Sandor echoed, running his fingers through her hair. He kissed the crown of her head. She wore it only once. On her crowning day.
Thinking of her words, he only heard it as Sansa only needed him to stay. She held Winterfell just as well as any lord before her. Her father, his father, and his father's father.
A word hung loose on Sansa's tongue, urging to fall out. It stayed until Sansa and Sandor were in bed, coiled around each other. She thought he was asleep seeing his breathing even and his body still. When she whispered her word and army of questions tackled her mind. Her eyes squeezed shut tight, groaning.
"My loyalties are to my Queen in the North," Sandor announced at once. Sansa almost jumped out his arms. "And I will lay with her in bed until the Dragon Queen's bloody war is over."
How dutiful he is, Sansa thought, pushing herself up with one arm to look over his face. But what does he know of loyalty?
"Who wages this war?"
"Queen Stormborn," Sandor replied mockingly.
Of course.
There was no love for the Southron Dragon Queen and her dragons from Sandor, much less the North. She gave them free reign over the North lands and a crown, but they've always had that. Her protection as well was a gift, for protecting her nephew all those years. Sansa and Sandor cared less as long as the Targaryens hold the throne and leave matters to themselves. Sansa was sick of war and the remembrance of King's Landing; Sandor made spite at the constant warring as well. He mocked the Queen of the Realm. Sansa Stark was his true and only queen, and the North only mattered to him now.
"Queen Stormborn is as mad as King Aerys," Sansa said in the quiet. Her fingers traced his nose and lips, and lightly over his pink scars. Sandor took her hand and kissed it. "You'll be mad for going."
Sandor snorted, pushing Sansa on top of his chest. "I shall not, little bird. If you're the one giving me leave you're the mad one."
She sighed, resting her head comfortably in the crook of his neck.
"We'll speak of it during the small council to know full well of our queen's intent. How do you know of this war before I did?"
"You're the queen," Sandor swiftly retorted.
"Of rock and snow. I have a duty. I must know more of this battle she's waging. She'll scorch the lands before she can discover all their beauty."
Sandor started to gently pet her hair, the perfumes wafting off her.
"A shame she has never come up this far north."
"I thought the same of you."
"She is not me."
"She does not know her people; some even remained loyal to her father after King Robert made himself king. The most, these people still have faith in more than one king, dead kings. and she'll win them all the same."
Her husband rose and she rose with him, sitting in his legs surprised. "Your grace has never spoken so gravely of anyone," Sandor cared to say. He cupped her cheek, kissing those lips that spoke those words.
"I must apologize then."
"Don't," he said, not unkind.
Sansa smiled shyly, a twinkle in her eye. The moon shone bright through their window and it washed the room in a cold, pale blue glow. Her hair was a shining blue and her eyes even bluer. Just like the Sapphire Isles. She laughed for an uncertain reason. Maybe it was Sandor. His eyes fell to wash a calm over her.
Sandor kissed her once more before taking her in his arms in a long embrace.
"Sansa," he breathed into her neck. There was worry in his voice...and possibly terror.
She heard it and she felt guilty. She might send him. Or the queen will force him. She'll find a way for her lords and smaller kings to fight for her three-headed dragon banner. Sansa wished she became friends with the woman. She was strong for her young age, when she was across the seas. Sansa wished she was like that when she was a hostage in King's Landing. She shuddered cold in his arms and Sandor hugged tighter, warming her. "We'll be well," Sansa heard herself say. "We'll be well in our cold castle, and with our children, and our council and people of Winterfell."
"And a damn fire."
A laugh leapt out Sansa's mouth and she was surprised to hear it. Sandor joined in too with his deep throaty laugh. It was going to be a long night, staying up just to speak. It has been too long though.