Authors Notes: Here we go, one more step… still a way to go Sandor! Sorry about posting in these short spurts - I seriously overestimated my ability to focus on this, and to my dismay haven't been able to dedicate as much time to it as I hoped... RL and work mostly in the way, bleh. But the warm reception and lovely comments to this fic really inspire and spurn me on!


Sandor left towards Sansa's chambers earlier than before hoping to find something, anything, which might help him in his task. The route was familiar by now and the prospect of some time alone with her filled him with cautious confidence. Sansa was a sensible woman after all, grown out of foolish girly notions that had filled her head years ago – surely she would see the logic of his suggestion?

A suggestion of deserting her intended on the day of their long-awaited wedding with no reason whatsoever? Sure, makes perfect sense, a voice inside his head sneered at him but he chose to ignore it.

He passed hoardes of harried servants clutching to their packs and parcels of food, linen, flagons of wine, crockery and fresh branches of pine brought indoors bringing with them a tangy scent of forest. The keep was alive, its heart thumping fast and furious all around him. The sounds and smells and sights of so many strangers agitated him and for a moment he longed back to simpler times and the monotonous existence on the island dedicated to the Seven. It passed soon, however, when his focus snapped back at the task at hands.

Sandor approached her door silently, seeing it to be ajar. The maid was still with her, he knew, so he retreated against the wall and waited. The stony wall against his back was warm and right there angled to form a nook, following the lines that had accommodated an entry to a chamber since vanished leaving only the recess in the wall as an indication of a long-gone door.

His plan was simple and his mind calmed by it. He was going to reason with Sansa, tell her all the reasons why the marriage was not necessary anymore, mayhap even hint to Jaime's inclinations elsewhere. That would be a low blow but he was ready to do that if it would make Sansa to change her mind.

"What is this horrible old thing? Yuck, it's the dirtiest thing I have ever seen! …and is it soot and ash? And my, is that blood?" The maid's loud voice carried across the corridor and Sandor leaned cautiously forward to peek through the doorframe. The maid was lifting a heavy cloth from the top of a wooden chest with one hand, keeping it as far away from her as possible, looking at it with disgusted expression.

"No! Leave it be!" Sansa rushed from her bedchamber to the solar grabbing the cloth from the maid's hands. She pressed it against her chest and turned aside as if suspecting the maid being ready to forcibly remove it from her grasp. The girl had of course no notions of such, only staring at Sansa with her mouth agape. The lady of the keep rarely raised her voice preferring to maintain calm demeanour at all times – having learned how to do that in the hard way in King's Landing, no doubt. To hear her so ruffled intrigued Sandor and curiously he focussed on the object of all the fuss.

Something in the shape and size of it looked familiar – it had been white once, and had clasps to tie it… then Sandor realised what it was.

The fuck?

His old Kingsguard cloak, the one he had left on Sansa's floor on that terrible night so long ago – right after he had threatened her with his dagger and demanded a song from her.

She has it still.

Why?

The maid acknowledged her defeat by huffing and going to Sansa's bedchamber carrying a pile of other, less contentious clothes. Sansa just stood there – and after a while, to Sandor's amazement, she sat down on top of the chest and pressed her face against the cloth. Dirty it was, smudged with smoke, blood and Sandor preferred not to think what else – but she didn't shy away from any of it.

And when she lifted her head there were tears in her eyes.

Sandor had to take a hold of the cold stones to stay upright, his knees suddenly having turned to jelly. His own words came back to haunt him. Why would a grown man sniff and stare at the clothing of a woman unless he had feelings for her?

No.

As soon as the thought flitted through his mind, he rejected it. Something had made the little bird hold on to the sodden cloak; mayhap her way of processing painful past, to show that she had overcome it. Tears – brought upon by Jaime's idiotic scheme and suggestion that Sandor would escort her to the Godswood. No wonder she had been flushed that first day, having forced to go face-to-face with the man who had…

Bloody hells!

Should he abandon his quest and retreat quietly, find another men to take his place and make up an excuse to Jaime? Sandor's fists clenched and he closed his eyes trying to overcome the turmoil this unexpected discover had thrown him into. He swayed on his spot searching for an answer. To stay – or to go?

The maid left the room not noticing him in the shadows of the recess and he knew he had to make his move one way or another.

Fuck it.

He knew what he had to do - and nothing could avert him from his task. He pushed himself away from the wall and headed to her door.


As before, their walk towards the Godswood was quiet, Sandor threading a few steps behind Sansa. She had gathered herself, but having witnessed what he had made it easy for Sandor to recognise the reddening of her eyes as a proof of her recent tears.

It didn't help his mood or his mission.

Sandor knew he didn't have much time but the events had squashed the threads of confidence he had felt earlier and he could hardly think straight. And yet he must. But mayhap better to wait until they were in the Godswood and she had said her prayers?

He followed the way how the hem of Sansa's skirts swayed side by side as she walked, smooth wool gliding above the ground, a glimpse of her practical ankle boots peeking below every now and then. There was something hypnotic and soothing in the rhythm; right, left, right, left. As before, Sansa gave him a few sideways looks as if she wanted to say something – but she didn't.

The third time it happened Sandor couldn't help himself.

"Have something to say, little bird? Out with it, then." He immediately regretted his harsh tone and tried to salvage the situation belatedly. "You have a question, do you? As if you do, I'll gladly answer."

Sansa blushed, crimson hue spreading on her face until the tips of hear ears glowed pink.

"I am sorry if I stared. I didn't mean to."

"My face will not wear out if you do. Stare as much as you want."

Sansa slowed her pace so they were walking side to side but instead of accepting his invitation – of a kind – she watched the ground ahead of her, the soft matt of pine needles and low evergreen shrubs lining the packed earth of the path. Sandor tried again.

"Did you want to say something?"

"I was just wondering why did you accept Jaime's request. To escort me."

"Hells, I told him he better ask your approval. And find a more suited person for the task."

"No, no – that's not at all what I mean! I was only curious… I haven't see you for months, not alone, and then this… I know you have deliberately avoided me and I don't understand why. So you see, my curiosity had good reasons."

Sandor grunted but he had no real answer to give, only a feeble excuse.

"Jaime asked me." Studiously side-stepping the real question, why had he avoided Sansa.

"I see," she said, her tone however suggested otherwise.

They had reached the edge of the Godswood and Sandor abandoned his earlier plan to wait until after her prayers. The discussion was veering to an unfamiliar territory and he needed to gain back his ground.

"You know that you don't have to marry the Kingslayer, do you?"

That got Sansa's attention. She stopped, turned to face him and stared at him blankly. All the logical arguments Sandor had devised disappeared in front of that blue gaze but he plodded on nonetheless.

"Rickon being back and becoming the next Lord of Winterfell takes the edge out of all that nonsense about the lack of strong lord, need for heirs to continue the bloodline and necessity of protection by Lannisters because of you being a woman. It changed everything."

Still she stared, deep frown between her eyebrows. Finally she spoke.

"Why would you say something like that?"

"Because that is the truth and somebody needs to tell it to you."

"Why?"

"Because…so that you know that you don't have to go ahead with this foolish wedding."

Sansa turned, crossed her arms across her chest and continued walking at a brisk pace. Sandor followed, having no difficulties in catching up with her with his long strides. The path they had chosen was wide enough for two astride but just barely, forcing him to saunter so close to her that her skirts brushed his legs.

Too close.

"What is it to you if I go ahead with it?"

Her voice was so low that Sandor had to prick up his ears to hear her. The answer though…what could he say?

The events of the last few days – the same and yet so different – flashed in front of him. The way she had looked at him in the Godswood when he had asked about her regrets and his later ponderings about what she could have meant. How she had stayed her hand on top of his in the bridal chamber the first night – and followed him with her gaze out the door. Those peculiar words and the emphasis on one of them the second night; 'Why do you ask? You of all people?' How she had rushed to his room full of worry, when thinking him ill. And the cloak.

That bloody cloak.

The truth was that Sandor didn't know what to think. That she might not detest him after all or consider him a bleak reminder of the past sorrowful days he was ready to admit – but any other possible conclusions were so unthinkable he didn't want – he couldn't - give in to that temptation, not for a second.

Unthinkable.

What would she say if he told her that he didn't want her to marry the Kingslayer because he was sure the old gods were against it and had placed him into the position to ensure it didn't happen? She had not heard of 'The Gods' Will' – would she believe him if he told her? Or would she look at him as if he had lost his senses, disappointed, mayhap thinking he was playing a cruel jest on her religion? Would he have to argue with her about his conclusions, would she refuse the logic of it?

What would she say if he confessed that he didn't want her to marry the Kingslayer because he was…jealous? What…

"You haven't answered my question."

Arms still crossed, staring straight ahead at the old heart tree that was coming into view Sansa's voice didn't betray her emotions. Calm and collected, as always. Almost always.

Thus interrupted in his musings Sandor struggled to choose his words.

Unthinkable.

He chose the path of logic.