Once he regained the command of his body, he resumed his duties as Master of Arms at Winterfell. Sansa's days were no longer preoccupied with his welfare, but her months as his nursemaid nurtured in her an easy, unconscious, liberty with his body. He would play all of the moments again in his head so that he spent his awaking hours in a mist halfway between the fantasies and the realities of being near her. The walks he had with her in the halls of Winterfell, her hands on his forearm, her body pressed so close to his that he could smell her - a sweet fragrance with a hint of lemon under the smell of flowers. That time her legs brushed against his when they swarm in the hot pools in the godswood to ease the torturous aching of his cramped muscles. Or when she brushed his hair from his face after he made her guffaw with his mimicry of that too-pleased-with-himself prick, Harrold Hardyng. Their shared physical intimacies where chaster than kisses, and yet each carried more power and attraction than any of the couplings he had experienced with another.

Since the King in the North, Brandon Stark was unmarried, the duties of the lady of the great estate fell to Sansa. Sandor saw her rarely as the demands of preparing Winterfell for the visit of Targaryen King and Queen fell upon her shoulders most heavily. Aegon and Daenerys were coming to Winterfell in two months time to return Widow's Wail. The Starks already possessed Oathkeeper and Sandor knew that it was Sansa's most fervent desire that her father's greatsword Ice be reforged from those two halves.

Knowing her obligations, he was surprised when he received an invitation to dine with her in her rooms that night. He ate with the Starks every so often, but it was not a singular honor, for they routinely dined in private with men in their employ, in order to learn about their daily concerns. As he entered her rooms, he realized this occassion was exceptional for she informed him blithely that no other Starks would be in attendance.

It was an unexpected pleasure and he sat down to enjoy the evening with her, eager to regain the quiet good fellowship that they had shared when he was bedridden. But as their meal progressed, his efforts to please her seemed to miss the mark. He told her jokes but they must have been the wrong ones, for she did not laugh. He made serious remarks, but she merely nodded distractedly without engaging him further. Perhaps finally sensing his distress at his inability to please her, she roused herself and with a gaiety he knew was forced, she spoke,

"I have a gift for you Sandor, one that will surely please you. Bran means to grant you the Hornwood lands in gratitude for your service to us. I've not seen the estate but Minisa says there are only few repairs needed."

The Hornwood lands had reverted back to the Crown after the death of its last lord, Ramsay Bolton. It was a great prize that many Stark retainers had hoped to win. He never expected that it should be granted to him, a Westerman.

As for Minisa Liddle, she was the daughter of a minor Northern lord who had gone King Branon a great service once. She had no mother and Sansa had taken her to foster in gratitude. Minisa was passably fair and would have been pretty if not for the pockmarks on her face. She boldly asked him to dance once which raised a few eyebrows at Winterfell. He felt clumsy and shy around her, as he did around all highborn women, but she put him at ease eventually with her courteous manner and shared interest in the rearing of dogs.

"Minisa is there now at my behest readying the keep for your inspection. How do you like that Sandor?"

He did not reply for a long moment. He was not yet thirty when he gave up on ever having lands and a wife. He remembered the exact moment. It was when he joined the Kingsguard at Joffrey's instigation. It came back to him now:

The king and council have determined that no man in the Seven Kingdoms is more fit to guard and protect His Grace than his sworn shield, Sandor Clegane. How do you like that dog?

Sandor took a long moment to respond to Joffrey and he felt the eyes of all those assembled in the Great Hall of the Red Keep upon him. When he finally spoke, he was surprised at what came out of his mouth: Why not? I have no lands nor wife to forsake, and who'd care if I did?

It was in that long moment that his most secret desire had revealed itself to him, he had not known it before he gave voice to it. And then he put it aside as a child puts aside a beloved toy he had outgrown and now considered silly and foolish.

He didn't think anyone had given a second thought to his peculiar reply to Joffrey. But someone had, someone witnessed that moment and guessed and pitied him for his secret sorrow. That it should be his Little Bird, then only a girl of twelve, moved him indescribably.

Sansa had again reached a height of intuitive strength that unnerved him. He raised his glass to her.

"To you, Little Bird."She toasted him in return, momentarily pleased with her machinations on his behalf.

"Now tell me what's wrong with you. Don't lie, I can smell it," he said, suddenly weary of sitting and watching her, guessing at what was going on underneath.

She turned away and when she faced him again he could tell she had weighed the words she spoke next carefully, "I am nervous about the Targaryen visit to Winterfell. They have a greater purpose than delivering Widow's Wail... Aegon has been courting me by letter for several months. He's come to Winterfell to press his suit."

His thoughts must have shown on his face for she continued, "Oh you look as scandalized as any septa, but the Targaryen Kings have taken more than one wife before and Aegon needs must have another wife now. Daenerys is barren."

He was taken aback, her words felt like a hard blow to his gut. "I need a drink," he rasped. The wine she served with dinner would not suffice.

He could not look at her or else he would lose his composure. Sansa got up and walked away from him. He suddenly felt very old and his body ached with the memory of past injuries. He started rubbing the tense muscles in the back of his neck. She returned with a flagon of Dornish sour, dark and strong like he liked it. She poured him a full glass before placing the flagon on the table besides him. But Sansa made no move to return to her seat. Instead she stood behind him and kneaded his neck and shoulders in silence as he drank his wine and stared intently into the the flames of the burning fire. The minutes past and he saw the years unfold before him.

He would become a Northern lord, conforming to the truest image of that title as if he was born to it. He would be a loyal bannerman to his Stark King and a harsh but fair master to his retainers. Minisa Liddle would give him sons and daughters whom he would love. Their marriage would be affectionate, but not passionate.

And Sansa would be a Queen, the Younger Queen to Daenerys' Elder. She would make Aegon and Daenerys a good consort. Her children would rule the Five Kingdoms and inter-marry with the Kings of Winter and Princes of Dorne. The smallfolk would love her and she would become a great patronness of the arts and learning. She would spend her life away from him, with people he did not know, in a society that was richer and more stimulating than the North could provide.

Their future lives ready and waiting, they merely needed to step into them like stepping into a pair of boots molded to one's foot.