ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thank you to G.R.R.M. for writing this wonderful series that has inspired me so much and provided me with many hours of enjoyment and emotional catharsis. Special thanks to anyone who takes the time to read and review this fic; your feedback and support are greatly appreciated!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire series or have anything to do with its creation or publication. This is simply a fantasy of mine I wanted to share with other fans. To reiterate, I do not own the characters in this story, the setting, or anything else worth mentioning. I simply recombined the elements for the sake of fantasy and I make no money from doing so.

With that said, if you are in any way affiliated with the writing or publication of the novels OR the HBO series A Game of Thrones YOU MAY NOT READ THIS FIC! Please turn back now.

So without further ado let's start:

PART 1
THE WEDDING

Sansa Stark stood naked in front of the largest full-length mirror in the castle. Her Tully red hair fell to the middle of her back in ringlets, though the weight of it pulled it straight around the crown of her head. Her nipples stood out pink against the full-moon shape of her white breasts.

She was young, only two years past the Westerosi age of consent, though by all accounts delayed in getting married. In fact she had been married once before, and this was her third engagement, but those relationships had not been by her own choice. Now it finally was. She was about to try on her wedding dress for her marriage to Sandor Clegane.

Her hips were slim, though wide enough to bear children without difficulty, she hoped. The hair between her legs was bare, having been plucked out two days before by her maids. Her waist was tiny-the dressmaker had set it down at twenty-three inches, but cut the dress to twenty-five so she could eat a little something at the feast. Her maids had spent the morning washing, powdering, and perfuming her, and now fitted her into that dress.

It was white satin with silver sequins sewn over the bodice and a skirt layered with lace. The train went on for several feet behind her and the long sleeves dropped like icicles from her wrists. She had to admit that her breasts, which she sometimes felt were so large that they appeared clumsy, looked good forced up together in the low-cut, rounded neckline. Sansa felt like a queen of winter in that dress.

Her favorite part was the shoes. Silver and pointed, with crystals sewn into them to catch the light, they added four inches to Sansa's height so she stood five-foot-nine. At her first marriage she'd worn slippers and her husband wore heels, but now that marriage had been annulled and she wore heels to better match her groom's height. And he was tall. He would still be a head taller than her even in the shoes. Sansa found she liked that very much.

The maids lifted up the front of her skirt and she slipped her feet into them. There was no strap, but they fit snug and she liked the way her leg met her ankle in an unbroken line. She didn't think they would come off while she was walking, or, more accurately, shuffling down the aisle. The front of her dress was too long and no matter how she gathered her skirt up she tripped over it. She would have to take the steps by inches to keep from stumbling. She didn't like that, and no one would be able to see her shoes.

She was frowning over this and her handmaids were arranging the petticoat beneath the satin when the door opened and a skinny girl with dark hair entered the room. She was so quiet that if Sansa had not seen the door opening in the mirror she would not have known someone was there. But she had been waiting for this moment and spun around much to the chagrin and surprise of her maids, who viewed the girl with shock akin to seeing a ghost materialize.

"Arya!" Sansa only managed a few steps before her little sister nearly bowled her over in a rush to embrace her. Sansa kissed her and they both cried. Arya hugged her so fiercely that Sansa was a bit worried a sequin would pop off her bodice when they pulled apart, but none did. There was still time before the ceremony to fix that sort of thing, anyway.

"Arya, I'm so glad you made it, I'm so glad to see you! I didn't know if you would come...I didn't even know, for the longest time, if you were even alive. I thought I would never see you again after King's Landing."

"I came as soon as I heard about it." Arya had developed a quiet, husky voice. "I couldn't miss your wedding, Sansa. I know how important these things are to you."

"You're important to me," she said, and a fresh stream of tears ran down her cheeks. "Oh Arya, my little sister. You've grown so much."

"So have you," Arya said, eyeing Sansa's bodice.

"We'll all be together again." Well, for the most part. "Jon is coming, too!"

"Jon..."

She gave her another hug. "You'll stay here, won't you? With me, in the castle?"

Arya took a step back. "I can't stay. I just came to see you get married."

"What? Why not?" Sansa realized she'd been terribly rude not asking about her sister at all. "Where have you been? Where did you come from?"

Arya shook her head. "I don't want to talk about that now. Another time."

How mysterious. She hoped Arya hadn't gotten herself into very much trouble. "That's all right. We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. I've just been so worried about you."

"You don't have to worry about me," Arya replied, and then, in a bid to change the subject, "That's, uhm, a really nice dress. Is that your wedding dress?"

"Yes, but it's a terrible bother. I can barely get around in it, and it entirely covers up these gorgeous shoes." Sansa worked hand over lace to lift her skirt enough that Arya could see them.

"I thought you seemed taller."

"I am taller."

"Well, taller than you were like to get."

Sansa gave a derisive snort.

"I think I know a way to fix that dress for you."

"How?"

Arya pulled out a dagger. Sansa's young handmaid stifled a cry.

"How did you bring that in here? You're supposed to leave your weapons at the gate."

Arya shrugged. "They didn't check."

Apparently her little sister was not much of one for the honor system. "They're not supposed to have to search you, you're my sister."

Arya ignored her and knelt down. "I'll just cut a box in front so you're not tripping over it," she said.

"You mean like this?" Sansa bunched the dress up so that her feet were exposed. She rather liked the idea of cutting some material off the front. "I don't want to shorten the back though," she added, fearful of damaging the train.

"I won't touch the back," Arya shook her head, "and I'll cut underneath the lace so you won't be able to see where I made the cut." She was already fingering the satin, trying to find the best layer to remove.

Sansa looked longingly at her silver shoes. "I don't know . . . What if you make a mistake and we have to sew it back together? No offense, but do you really know all that much about needlework?"

"Needlework is my best subject."

Sansa didn't know if that was true, but the more she imagined the dress open in the front the more she liked it. "Well, all right. But not too high up, okay?"

The words were scarcely out of her mouth when she heard the knife ripping through her dress. Her sister's gray eyes flashed and Sansa had the panicky thought that her sister just wanted to cut something. It only took her about three seconds to make two vertical cuts and slice the strip free at the top.

"Oh, Arya, you cut through the lace!" she whined.

"I didn't cut it as much."

Even before she turned to the mirror, Sansa turned on her handmaid. "Can you fix it?"

The old woman hesitated before answering, "I cannot sew lace, my lady."

"You haven't even looked at it yet!" Arya squealed. "You hate it and you haven't even looked at it!"

Sansa crossed to the mirror in one stride.

"See," Arya moaned. "You couldn't even walk before."

That was true, but the lower layer of satin was cut way too short. It didn't even cover her knees. The lace did, but that was transparent.

"It's too short," Sansa complained.

"It is not. I cut it that way on purpose." Arya scowled at her through the mirror. "You can't see through the lace from far away, only when you're up close."

"Yeah, well you really shouldn't have cut into it at all . . . " Sansa started, but she turned to each side, considering what her sister had said. Even then it was still too short, but at least it fell below her knees. Arya hadn't made a very wide slit and even with the bustle on her legs would be covered in profile. It really wasn't that immodest.

She turned back to Arya with a smile, but her little sister's face was contorted. She was crying. "Just sew it back then!" She sounded desperate. "You hate me because I ruined it!"

"Arya! No!" Sansa hurried to her and wrapped her in her arms.

"I haven't seen you in forever and I always thought you were stupid for wanting to get married and now you are and I cut your dress and ruined it and you hate me!"

"Stop it right now. You didn't ruin my dress, but you will if you cry all over it. See how fast I got over here? I couldn't even walk before. You helped me."

At her sister's insistence, Arya choked back her sobs, pulling her wet face away from Sansa's bosom. "I still don't think it's too short," she managed.

"It is too short, but I like it," Sansa told her. The fabric layered in front led attractively to the long train behind her. Sansa reached for the satin beneath. "There's a few threads you could snip off here and here . . ." she said, hoping to show some more regard for her sister's talent, but that got the old handmaid to do the unthinkable and interrupt. She had watched the whole exchange in muted horror and thought it best to step forward before this girl with the knife caused irreparable damage. "Best leave the finishing touches to the seamstress, my lady. Please."

"All right. But keep the cut just where it is," Sansa instructed.

"No one will be able to see, anyway. They won't be standing close enough," Arya sniffled.

Sansa laughed while her maids pulled the dress off over her head. "Except the septon, and the members of the wedding party, and my husband-to-be." And everyone in the front row, too, probably.

"He won't care," Arya said, talking about the last on Sansa's list. "He'll like it, and wish I cut it even shorter." Sansa had to laugh again. The maids left her in her underwear and scurried out.

"He will," Arya insisted. "He's nasty. You should have heard the way he talked about you."

"He talked about me? Really? What did he say?" She couldn't imagine what it had been like for the two of them to travel together. He never detailed it, but it was only through him that Sansa had got any word of Arya at all. Now she was burning curious to get word of him through Arya.

Her sister shrugged off her pressing questions. "Uh, you know, that you were a proper lady and all that."

"Oh." Sansa felt a little disappointed. "Anything else?"

"He said that you sang for him," Arya's expression was somewhere between disbelief and disgust. "He talked about that a lot."

Sansa lowered her eyes, remembering. "That's true," she conceded.

"And that he wanted to fuck you."

"What?"

Now it was Arya's turn to laugh-at her sister's shocked expression. "He said he wanted to fuck you bloody."

"Arya!" Sansa couldn't believe what she was hearing: the language coming from her sister's mouth. "What does that even mean."

Arya giggled uncontrollably. "It means he wants to fuck you until you bleed, and while you're bleeding, and until you get a nosebleed."

"That's not funny. That's disgusting. Stop it."

"And now you're going to MARRY HIM!" Arya rolled on the floor and roared with laughter. Sansa felt embarrassed and was glad her timid maids had left and wouldn't be spreading this gossip around the castle.

Eventually Arya settled down. "I laughed so much . . . I haven't laughed that much. . . at all, really . . . in years." She clutched her spasming chest and Sansa had to smile. Even if the joke had been at her expense, it was good to see her little sister acting like herself. "Well," Arya wiped her tears away with the flat of her hand, "I guess he will tonight."

Sansa looked to make sure her maids had shut the door. "Actually, he won't," she leaned close and spoke in a low voice. "That's already happened."

"Really?" Arya remembered her manners and shut her gaping mouth.

"Yes."

"I didn't think you were the type to give it up so easily," she giggled again.

Sansa frowned. "You can't tell anyone. It would be horribly scandalous if anyone found out." She scowled. "They'd say I'm only marrying him to preserve my innocence."

"Well, are you?"

"No! It's true we've already had sex, but that's not why . . ." How could she explain why they were getting married, when lies were bundled up with reason and the truth hid behind propriety. "No, Arya, it's because I love him."

"Don't worry." Arya reached up to take her sister's hand in her own. "I can keep a secret."

Sansa's father and her full brothers were all dead, so her bastard brother Jon Snow came down from The Wall to walk her down the aisle. The afternoon light streamed in through the arched windows onto the people seated in the pews, casting a fierce golden haze over all of them. Their faces were warm, Jon Snow a matte shadow beside her, and Sansa radiant as the light bounced off her white and silver raiment. She had to walk slowly to keep her knees under her dress, but knew that each time she took a step her shoes peeked out, and that gave her confidence. The crystals shimmered like stars and caught the light to cast square bursts of rainbows on the walls.

Sandor Clegane waited for her at the head of the church. His eyes went to her legs before her face, and Sansa feared his disapproval, but when he looked at her he smiled. They turned as one to the Septon, whose fish-wide eyes shifted from Sansa's legs to his book as quick as child caught stealing drops his prize. He cleared his throat and began the ceremony in a pinched voice.

Sansa stood to Sandor's left, so the burned side of his face was turned to her and in profile that was all she could see. That side of his face was difficult to look at. When she met him as a little girl, she had been frightened by the sight of it. It is better this way, she thought. It left her with no illusions about the man she was marrying.

The Septon droned on, but Sansa found she was not really listening to him. That was all right because she knew the words by heart anyway, having dreamed of her wedding from the time she was a little girl. It seemed to her she had waited her entire life for this moment, but instead of excitement, a dreary calm settled over her as she reflected on the events that had led her to stand here.

When she was betrothed to Joffrey, she never would have believed that she would come to love his dog, but he had been more loyal to her than any other man. She gave her heart to the prince expecting him to be gallant, but he had tortured and humiliated her without cause. He set his knights to beat her-all but The Hound, who never beat her. She swallowed as she realized he must have stood up to Joffrey; some exchange had passed between them to keep his fists off her. What danger he had put himself in for her, again and again-the starving crowd at King's Landing came to mind. She'd thought him cruel for laughing as he cut a path through the rioting peasants, but it was he who'd been unhorsed so that she could ride to safety. A clammy fear overcame her whenever she remembered that day and what would have happened if she had been the one unhorsed.

The other men in her life had used her as a pawn and plaything. She regarded her marriage to Tyrion as the lowest depths of misery; though it could have been a far worse situation for her, nothing the Lannisters could have done could have shown her with a more final certainty that she was no more than a pawn to them in their bid for power. For Sandor it was a retributive punishment that when he fled the Battle at Blackwater Rush the girl he loved married the battle commander.

How much he has suffered to love me, she thought, and realized the same was true of herself. She had lost a lot to stand here today. Her wolf. Her father. Her naive dreams of finding a man whose political power was commensurate with his love for her, for it seemed to her men did not have room in their hearts for both. So too her dreams of gallant knights were crushed, as she had met too many for her childish images of them to remain intact. Ironically the man she knew as being the most chivalrous of all fighting men was no knight at all.

But it seemed to Sansa that the most impossible dream to hold on to-that one could marry for love-was the one that would come true for her. As a child she had just taken it for granted that she would love whichever man stood beside her on her wedding day, but each passing year and experience had driven the notion further from her hopes. It was a silly thing and every fibre in her being knew that it was stupid to marry for love. Sansa was the heir to Winterfell and there were certain responsibilities to be attended to, or rather, forced upon her. She was a lady of high birth and Sandor was not even a knight, as he was quick to correct anyone who thought otherwise. She was definitely marrying down. But without all of the pain they had went through, they wouldn't be the people they were today, and they wouldn't be in love. She knew she might not be doing the right thing by marrying him, but she didn't care. She wanted this.

Tears ran down Sansa's cheeks. They fell as lightly as her breath was even, and she did not choke or sob upon them. She closed her eyes when he draped the cloak of protection over her shoulders, and she knew that this was just ceremony and that he had really put it on her long ago. He fastened it and brushed his lips against her neck. Sansa trembled, remembering the wishes of her girlhood. When she opened her eyes to face him, she saw that he was crying, too.