There. It was done. Sandor was amazed he was able to get his proposal out of his anxiety-parched throat. Knowing she was not fit for a man as low born as he, Sandor had long given up the idea of having Sansa for himself. Though he desired her body and soul, he instead learned to content himself with her kisses and embraces and be grateful for whatever little attentions she saw fit to give him.

Sandor was not blind to Jon's predicament. Many men still wanted her claim to strengthen their own as the north rebuilt. More than that, the queen needed her to cement new alliances and gain the trust of the people. If her prince of a brother had any sense, he would turn him down flat. After all, Sandor was only the lord of whatever remained of Clegane Keep, and the man knew his broken down claim would not likely satisfy the queen or her brother.

He was not sure how Sansa would even react to the idea of marrying him. She seemed happy enough when they were together. Not wanting to give her false hope, he had never even told her he loved her, though he did his best to show it in a myriad of ways. One day he came across a Tyroshi merchant offering the finest yellow silk Sandor had ever seen. He bought an entire bolt of the material on the spot and gave it to her as a nameday present, secretly hoping she would agree to wear the colors of his house.

A week later she came to watch him in the training yard wearing a lovely yellow gown made from his gift. When she stood up to applaud, he immediately noticed she wore a black velvet sash at her tiny waist. The sight of her filled him with pride, an emotion the man felt precious few times in his life. Sandor never fought harder than he did that day, brutally pummeling every man who challenged him if only to hear her sweet voice calling his name as she cheered him on.

Raising his eyes, he frowned as he expectantly regarded Jon, the man one day he hoped to call his goodbrother. If it were any other man gaping at him, he would have laughed outright or snarled in the buggering bastard's face, depending on his mood. However, the dumbstruck look on Jon's face held no humor for him now.

Taken aback, the prince stepped closer. "I need to hear you pledge your sincerity. I need you to tell me that this is not just some ruse to take her from here."

A rush of anger swept over Sandor. Though his words rasped out even harsher than usual, he managed to hold himself in check. "Your Grace, I would never play false with your sister. I meant my words, though I admit I'm not the sort a man in your position would wish for his sister."

"Forgive me; you have never given me reason to doubt your word. Have you asked her yourself?" Jon cautiously probed, sensing Sandor was affronted by his remark. The man was one of his finest soldiers and he could not risk alienating him over a trifle.

"Not as yet. I thought it best to approach you first." Sandor answered flatly, his already limited patience wearing thinner by the moment.

After several moments spent deep in thought, Jon suggested, "I am sure you would agree Sansa has had far too many people arrange marriages for her without her consent in her young life. I give you leave to go to her first, Sandor, and ask for her hand. If she is agreeable, I will do my best to convince the queen of the match."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Sandor bows stiffly before turning toward Sansa's rooms. For perhaps the first time in his life, a sudden lightness flooded the man's senses. From their first kiss, all of his interactions with Sansa- even their expressions of affection-were plagued by doubt, longing, and the deep seated fear of losing her to another.

Now that was replaced with a unique, altogether unfamiliar sensation the scarred man could hardly identify. Was it happiness? As he knocked on her door, Sandor decided that if had to name it, he would call the new feeling hope.

After several moments, her maid Jenny answered the door. "She ain't here, milord. She went to the godswood not a quarter of an hour past. Said if you came by to say she wishes to meet you there."

After her prayers Sansa seated herself on a low bough of the immense weirwood and waited for Sandor. Wrapping her arms around the trunk, she leaned back and stared up through the crimson canopy above her, imagining she was back at Winterfell once more. It was a diversion of fantasy Sansa liked to imagine whenever she came to worship. She would stay until it became real to her, until she could will the warm breeze wafting into the forest to become a chilled flurry carried down from the Frostfangs.

Sansa heard Sandor enter the godswood, the dried leaves underneath his shuffling gate breaking the stillness. A small smile played across her face, her heart quickening at the familiar sound. "I see my sworn shield has found me at last," she giggled softly as his powerful arms came around her waist. She had worn her hair up in the style her mother taught her for Robert's feast at Winterfell, and Sandor wasted no time taking advantage of her exposed skin.

"Damn it, you ought to have waited for me, Sansa," he rasped against her neck, his warm breath sending tingles throughout her body. "Fuck, it's not safe for the likes of you out here alone. Don't ever do that again."

She shrugged. "I knew you would be on your way to find me once you spoke to my brother." Glancing over her shoulder, she cast him a questioning look.

Sandor pulled her closer still, spanning her abdomen with his large hand while steadying her against him. "Always the proper lady," he snorted, bringing her back against his body. "Go on, ask me. You bloody well know you want to know."

Knitting her brows, Sansa felt torn; as much as she wanted to know what Sandor was up to, she knew it would be unladylike to ask him for the details of a private conversation between her brother and sworn shield.

As if reading her thoughts, Sandor chuckled low and tilted her head to the side. He brought his other hand around her collarbone, lightly tracing his calloused fingers over her smooth flesh before running his tongue along the pulse point just below her ear.

"Ask me." His deep voice murmured against her neck.

In the back of her mind Sansa could hear her septa's voice saying that such kisses where not proper for a lady to allow, especially before marriage. But the feel of his fingers warmly splayed across her midsection paired with his kisses threatened to overwhelm her. She could feel him slowly beginning to trace his fingers over her belly. Any resolve she had to put an end to his attentions evaporated at his touch.

Swallowing hard, Sansa struggled to find her voice. "Why did you talk to Jon? What-what was it about?"

He ran his fingers over the neckline of her gown and pulled the material away, exposing the tender skin untouched by the sun. "I told him I want to take you away from here. Take you north with me," he muttered before lowering his mouth to her shoulder, lightly sipping on her skin.

Her soft body and warm scent intoxicated him. Sandor wanted to mark her there, and show everyone that she belonged to him. He sensed his desire was on the cusp of overtaking his reason, and so with great difficulty he lifted his head and rested it in her hair.

The heat of his touch was overpowering, rendering Sansa unsteady. "North?" She whispered thickly, leaning against him further. Did she hear him right? He asked Jon to let her go north with him? Surely her brother would never agree to such a thing.

"Yes, North. The little bird still repeats what she hears." He brushed his cheek against her neck and slowly ran his fingers along her collarbone.

"I would like that very much." Sansa dazedly replied, tilting her head to the side.

Sandor found her response to him irresistible; he nuzzled into her shoulder and inhaled deeply. "That's not all."

There was more? A deep sigh of pleasure escaped her lips before she asked, "What else did you say to him?"

"I told him I mean to take you as my lady wife," he rasped against her neck before his warm tongue descended upon her skin once more.