It was a sunny yet chilly afternoon when their families gathered in the yard of Winterfell to greet the Tyrells. Sansa wore a dark green gown and a jade green cloak trimmed with grey fur and stood next to Sandor who wore black from his doublet down to his polished boots, topped by his heavy black cloak. She wondered if his face had looked as stern when he had taken her from behind that morning, bending her over her dressing table and grunting as he had thrust rough and deep. She had urged him on with hotly whispered endearments and soft cries; needing the same shattering release he sought before this fraught day. Now as he rocked on his feet and grumbled impatiently, she had to suppress a wry smile when she thought fleetingly that he would look to the Tyrells like the Stranger himself, only somewhat less welcoming.

Their younger sons fidgeted and poked each other until Sandor stilled them with a fierce look of reprimand. Catya stood silently on his other side, dressed in an unadorned gown of deep wine-red wool beneath a grey cloak fastened with the gold Tyrell rose that Loras had gifted her. Her maid had pulled back her hair at the crown with a single ribbon, leaving it to hang loose down her back in a glossy dark fall. Sansa sensed her agitation, and saw her cheeks alternately flame and whiten and her hands tremble as she clutched them tightly together. Wordlessly, Sandor reached over and took one to hold in his as he kept his grey eyes fixed on the gate and Catya smiled gently, comforted.

Moments later, guards on horseback cantered through the gates carrying aloft house banners for Stark, Clegane and the gold roses on green of House Tyrell. Sansa was proud to see Ned rein his mount at the gate and bow to the Tyrells as he let them pass, and Rickon stepped forward and personally helped Lady Leonette dismount before welcoming Ser Garland and his wife to Winterfell. She smiled as she always did to see Rickon, her family's baby, acting as Lord Stark, but then she glimpsed her son Robb riding through the gates flanked by Willam and Ser Loras and suddenly lost sight of all else. Her hands flew to her throat to see him grown taller and more confident-looking, so like his namesake, her elder brother Robb when she had last seen him. Tears blurred her vision and she nearly sobbed from sheer happiness, and she could not resist breaking away and holding out her arms when her son ran to her.

"Mama!" he cried as he hugged her so tightly he lifted her from the ground. Sansa squeaked in surprise.

"Sorry, but I missed you, Mama." He smiled joyfully and turned to his father. "Papa-"

Sandor stepped forward. "Don't even think of lifting me, boy," he warned, his mouth twitching into a smile as he embraced his son. Then he straightened and arranged his face in a serious expression and walked forward to meet Garlan Tyrell.

"Lord Clegane," Ser Garlan held out his hand and clasped Sandor's heartily, "we are honoured that you have consented to join our houses, and truly delighted to see you and Lady Clegane again."

Sandor bowed. "Lord and Lady Tyrell," he rasped stiffly, "we are honoured to have our daughter wed your son."

"We are equally happy to see you all again," Sansa interjected warmly, "and pray you had a pleasant journey to Winterfell." She knew how much Sandor loathed formalities and so moved to put everyone at their ease; then her own gracious courtesy was shaken when she saw young Loras behind his parents. Like his father he was taller and broader than his namesake uncle, with the same chestnut brown hair and warm golden brown eyes as all the Tyrells, but she was momentarily taken aback to see him wearing a bandage and patch over one eye and to notice the red welt of a scar running down the side of his otherwise perfectly handsome face.

"Ser Loras," she managed finally.

"Lady Clegane," he bowed. "Pray forgive my appearance; the maester has assured me I will heal perfectly well in time." He offered his hand to Sandor. "Lord Clegane, I am honoured and overjoyed that you should accept my suit for your only daughter. I pledge to you and to her to keep her safe and happy, always."

"Ser Loras," Sandor drawled, "how is it that you are injured?"

"In a melee," Loras said dismissively, "A mere scratch; thank you for your kind inquiry, my lord."

He now turned to Catya with a warm smile, holding out both hands to take hers.

"Ser Loras," she murmured sweetly and curtsied.

"Lady Catya, I am pleased beyond words to see you again, and to know we shall be married. You are lovelier than I remembered," he gushed. "I am also honoured that you should wear my token today, my lady."

"Thank you, Ser Loras, you are too kind." Though she smiled at him, she blushed deeply under his warm gaze.

"Mama, Caty's all red!" Benjen blurted.

"What is all this now?" Sandor asked gruffly, noticing the activity between Ned and Rickon and the steward of Winterfell at the gate. Everyone turned and Catya's embarrassment was forgotten as Garlan Tyrell caught on to Sandor's diversion.

"The Reach has been blessed with the most bountiful harvest in memory, my lord; as I told Lord Stark we wished to share our good fortune with Winterfell…rather than simply descend upon you like swarms of locusts just before winter," he laughed modestly.

"Winter stores, Papa: barrels and barrels in wagon after wagon of grain, dried fruit and salt fish and Arbor wines," Robb enthused. "And livestock too: it is being driven here behind us from the second ship."

"Most generous of you, Lord Tyrell" Sandor nodded.

"Garlan, if it please you. We are all family now: Clegane, Stark and Tyrell, and so what it ours is also yours." He turned to Catya with a gallant bow. "Though I fear, we can never give equal to that which we are gaining," he intoned solemnly.

Loras raised her hand to kiss it now, and she blushed again.

"Pray come inside," Rickon called now, "and rest after your long journey." He offered his arm to Leonette while Garlan took Ayme's, and so Sansa wrapped both hands around Sandor's elbow and smiled up at him.

He stared straight ahead and his mouth twitched.

….

The welcoming feast was a great success, Sansa observed from the high table where she still sat with Ayme and Leonette once the servants stopped serving the courses and began circulating more flagons of wine. The ladies talked idly of their children and those Northerners expected in the coming days as wedding guests. Her older children and the Tyrell boys sat together at the end of the table, talking and laughing, and she was pleased to see Catya appear more at ease with her betrothed. The men were circulating amongst the tables, sharing jests and raising their goblets. She noticed Sandor eyeing Loras now as he walked between tables to stand below the high table.

"Ser Loras!" He called out loudly so that the hall quieted to hear him. "Tell us of your melee, if you would; your first as a knight, I believe." He raised his wine and drank, his eyes fixed on his daughter's intended.

"It was, my lord. I was knighted before the tourney however," he clarified, "certainly not because of it, as everyone can see." He gestured to his bandage, self-deprecatingly, and those assembled laughed appreciatively at his humility.

"No, you were knighted for a brave deed," Sandor rasped respectfully. "Even here in the North, we heard of how you and the knight for whom you were squiring saved young girls from the Mander when a barge overturned."

Cheers and toasts sounded in the hall but Loras shifted uncomfortably.

"You are too kind, all of you; however we did only what is required of decent men. You see, the merchant was more concerned with saving his wares than his daughters," he recounted bitterly. "I am only thankful that we should have been there. We brought them to the nearest castle for shelter and care, and the lord saw fit to knight me. And there you have it," he announced, "not Ser Barristan the Bold by any means but an honour for my family."

"Here-here" many called while Catya gazed proudly at him.

"Hm, better to be knighted at tourneys or on the battlefield, you believe?" Sandor continued.

"Certainly our history's most celebrated knights were raised that way, my lord. But-"

"But?" Sandor prompted.

"Westeros is at still at peace after many years of war, gods be good, my lord; and even tourneys fell out of fashion for many years afterward."

"Fashion?" Sandor mocked. "Yes, it is all very fashionable to be a knight, whether you are saving maidens or slaying monsters, Ser Loras-"

He was interrupted when the Blackfish suddenly stood up beside him with his arms full.

"Forgive me, my lord: just a fallen soldier who needs be put to bed," he jested lightly.

Sandor looked down to see Benjen dozing, his face a mess of crumbs and a sticky cake still clutched in his fingers. His mouth twitched into a smile.

"Boy can't hold his Arbor wine, it seems," Sandor announced and he saw the Blackfish eye him shrewdly. "Let me take him then," he offered, taking the excuse to remove himself from the hall. "I've fallen at feasts a few times myself," he rasped.

"Lords and ladies, continue your feasting," Rickon called when he saw all eyes were on Sandor. "Musicians, play!"

Sandor turned from the high table with his youngest son in his arms, ignoring the round-eyed stares of his wife and daughter.