That evening, the announcement of Sansa's in absentia marriage during the royal wedded feast dealt the final blow to the king's already dismal, joyless affair. Robb and Jeyne appeared anything but happy, offering the barest civilities to the guests. Mother, her great uncle and Arya all wore similar solemn countenances.
Observing the shocked expressions of her brother's bannermen gave Sansa a perverse sense of satisfaction Why shouldn't they be as surprised by my brother's behavior as I am? His decision to join houses with the Boltons may very well endanger his position more than he imagines, she dismally concluded as the evening wore on.
Outwardly, Sansa endured the stilted wedded blessings the men offered with her usual grace, carefully guarding her manner throughout the evening. It is a necessary evil, she reminded herself, if Great Uncle Brynden's plan is to go undiscovered by Robb and Mother.
For his part, the Blackfish stayed devotedly by her side, eschewing the exaggerated attentions of the serving wenches in favor of readily refilling her cups. He shooed away overeager well-wishers when necessary and his mere presence discouraged the traditional humor that accompanied such announcements. For perhaps the first time in her life, Sansa drank readily and deeply, and before long her disillusionment drowned in the warmth of fine Arbor gold.
The next morning, the resulting illness provided an opportune, albeit unpleasant, excuse from the maester which freed her from the obligation of attending Robb's departure. After drinking the tonics the maester provided, Sansa spent the rest of the day in bed hugging her pillow and daydreaming of her reunion with Sandor.
As she blankly watched the snowflakes blanketing her balcony, the empty void of Sandor's absence weighed heavily upon her. It was far more than the newfound physical pleasures for which she longed; since the escape from the Red Keep, her sworn shield turned lover ensconced himself as a fixture of her everyday life. Without him, the young woman felt empty, exposed, and adrift amongst people she once trusted.
The days blended into weeks and still Sandor did not come for her. During his absence, the unbearable uncertainty of his safety and whereabouts robbed the young woman of peace, and Sansa began spending her days in quiet worship in the godswood. She declined the diversions she previously enjoyed, and her former associations as well in favor of praying for his safe return.
Lady Catelyn actively implored Sansa to see the maester, believing a melancholic affliction settled over her daughter as a result of her forced marriage to Ramsay. Sansa grew thinner each day, having lost the taste of sharing meals at the family table with Jeyne and her mother, and took to lounging in bed until late morning and retiring early in the evening. Curling around the pillow on which Sandor had slept, she closed her eyes and inhaled the remains of his scent while imagining he was with her once again.
Before long she abandoning her daily routine altogether, and Sansa began spending the better part of each day begging the old gods for his safe return to Winterfell. Arya took to accompanying her to the godswood with Nymeria in tow, practicing her sword strokes and napping beside the massive direwolf while Sansa prayed nearby.
"We could sic Nymeria on him, you know, when he comes to Winterfell," her little sister whispered conspiratorially as they approached the heart tree. "The old gods wouldn't blame us."
"We will do no such thing," Sansa fought back a smile, not wanting Arya to take her laughter for approval of the plan. "But I love you for what you are trying to do for me, dearest, truly I do."
"Sansa, if you don't mind, Nymeria and I are gonna head back now," Arya grinned, pulling away from her embrace. "A storm is brewing, and Milly promised if it snowed she would make lemoncakes."
"Alright Arya. Save some for me, will you?"
"I can't make any promises," she called, already moving swiftly up the path toward the castle.
It was late afternoon when her uncle came to her in the godswood. Trembling, Sansa's heart came into her throat at his sudden appearance as she took his hands into her own. The Blackfish's relaxed, easy demeanor soon sent her worries to flight.
"Sansa child, do you have your warmest things ready?"
"Yes, Ser," she anxiously stood and brushed the leaves from her gown. "Is it time?"
"Soon, lass," Brynden placed a folded blue bloodied cloth bearing the silver trout naiant of his sigil. "Your brother offered Ramsay Bolton your maiden's blood, and now I bring you his blood in return. You were never his in truth, child and now you are free in the sight of the old gods and the new."
Gasping, she clutched his neck and whispered close to his ear. "Great Uncle-truly? You killed Ramsay?"
"I arranged it, aye," The Blackfish brushed a lock of hair from her face. "I would do it again, a thousand times, if it meant your safety. So would the man who put the bastard of Bolton to the sword."
Sansa knitted her brow and stared down at their entwined fingers. Brynden tipped her chin up to him questioningly. "You'll not ask me with whom I entrusted the deed?"
In spite of everything, Sansa dared not offer Sandor's name to her uncle. Meekly she whispered, "I would not presume to know the identity of your choice, Great Uncle."
"That's my good girl," he chuckled, leading her deeper into the wood. "All in good time. Very soon I'll allow the man tell you himself."
Sandor. Her tummy twisted as she clutched the bloody cloth to her chest and stifled a smile. "Is this dear man nearby?"
"Aye, that he is. Now tuck that into your skirts; I'll turn away," The Blackfish cleared his throat. "No one must see it; promise me child, not even the maid."
"I promise." Sansa nervously looked about the forest and then whispered, "Do the others know of Ramsay's fate?"
"No, not yet. Only Rodrik, the Greatjon and Clegane; he came at dawn bearing word, as the man wisely did not entrust the matter to another. Hurry now."
Sandor is safe, and I am free of Ramsay! "The old gods bless him, Great Uncle." After gathering Sandor's favor into her bodice, Sansa meticulously smoothed the front of her gown. "I must admit I am surprised by your willingness to discuss such matters with me, Great Uncle."
"Your brother and mother still view you a child but we know better, don't we?" He winked at her.
Does he suspect that I have been intimate with a man? No surely not. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as Sansa bit her lip and waited for his next words.
"Flowering, wedding, bedding and child bearing are not the only things which mold a girl into a woman, Sansa."
"Indeed," she murmured dejectedly. At times, it seemed those portions of life were the most important offerings afforded by the gods to a highborn woman. None of the women in her life ever prepared her for the harsh realities that life inevitably held, and the only man who suggested life would be anything but a fairy tale was Sandor. Now it seemed her uncle shared his view that life was not a song.
"A few months past, a bit of Dornish sour loosened the tongues of the Kingslayer and the Hound, child, and finally they told me of the treatment you endured in King's Landing. Hard ways for you to grow up, and not the way your mother and father would have chosen for you."
"Yes, it is true, but I have come to believe Father sent Sandor Clegane to protect me after his death." Sansa frowned. "While he was no true knight, he did what he could, Great Uncle, although his actions largely have gone unappreciated by the family."
"I know he did, lass, I know," he muttered, looking toward the sky. "And gods save me, the Hound still does his best by you."
Turning sharply, she stared into his eyes. "Whatever do you mean?"
"Clegane routed the Dreadfort to get to Ramsay, child. Rodrik Cassel said that when the Hound put the steel into the bastard of Bolton, he shouted that it was for you." Laughing at her stunned expression, the Blackfish patted her hand. "His ferocity reached such a level all the men fled from him, save Jaime Lannister."
For a moment Sansa remembered the day of the riots. The way the crowd howled, the man who had tried to pull her from her horse, the cruel pinch of fingers on her wrist as she lost her balance and began to fall. Sandor leapt at them, his sword a blur of steel that trailed red mist, and when the people to escape him, he had laughed, his burned face for a moment transformed.
Perhaps Nymeria would have given Ramsay a kinder death, at that. Shivering, she imagined the ferocious Hound plunging his sword into Ramsay, his face twisted into the same familiar and yet frightening expression. Sansa hugged herself, suddenly cold; what she wouldn't give to feel the warmth of his powerful arms surrounding her now, his tender caresses that stirred her from within.
The Blackfish eyed her somber gaze quizzically, then asked in a hushed tone, "Sansa, have you never wondered at his devotion?"
"No," she answered honestly. Like so many other things, Sandor's loyalty was another constant in Sansa's life that she had taken for granted; she would not make that mistake again.
"Your brother should have rewarded him with your hand before this mess with the Boltons and the Freys. I dare say House Clegane's reputation is no worse than that of those men."
Her uncle's implication was beyond belief, leaving Sansa light-headed, almost feverish. "What are you saying?"
"Don't play the highborn coquette with me, child," Brynden grimly tilted her face up to him once more. "Despite his face and manner, the man is unquestioningly devoted to you, and though he has made no offer, I think I know why he is so with you. I would hope you are not the kind to allow his fearsome scars blind you to his steadfast nature."
"Certainly not, Great Uncle," she shook her head. "Joffrey taught me not to judge others based solely on appearance long ago."
The Blackfish gritted his teeth. "Clegane would never hurt you, Sansa; and coarse though he may be, I do believe he cares for you in his own way."
"I know he would never hurt me," she finally whispered softly. "And he does care for me, it is true, and I for him."
"You must listen to me: leave with Clegane, child, do not hesitate. Is the only way to guarantee your safety."
Swallowing hard, Sansa tightened her grip on his arm. "But what of Arya? I cannot leave Winterfell without the assurance that she will not be forced to make amends for me. I-I would not do to her what Robb did to me."
"Such will not be asked of her, cub. She is still a wee lass and a hellion besides," he chuckled. "Arya will be protected from such nonsense for a time yet, mark my word."
"That eases my mind greatly," Sansa paused. "When will you send him for me?"
"I cannot say just yet. I dispatched a raven to Robb stating you will need to an escort to meet with Ramsay at the Dreadfort, as he has fallen ill. Your brother will undoubtedly give his consent. Play your part, cub, and gods willing, all will go well."
She leaned close and squeezed his arm. "I am ready to do whatever you ask."
The Blackfish nodded. "Once word is out that Ramsay is dead, there will be an endless stream of suitors coming for you, Sansa. More men who will only want your claim."
She knew that all too well, and his admonishment churned up sickening dread within her. "I know."
"And as much as I would like to," he tweaked her nose, "I can't very well have Clegane kill them all."
Sandor would not hesitate to kill anyone who stood in the way of their escape, and would be more than willing to take her away as long as need be, of that she was certain. It was a heady feeling, knowing a man as powerful and fierce as Sandor Clegane was ready to die to keep her safe, and her mind raced with a curious blend of excitement and trepidation. "Indeed you cannot," she laughed softly, "And neither can Sandor. How will his deed go undiscovered, do you suppose?"
"Clegane handled it all, child, I would not burden you with the gory details," Brynden darkly intoned in her ear. "Ramsay's body will never be found, I assure you. Hush now," he whispered, "in order for our plan to succeed, you must stay as silent as the grave until the thing is done, understand?"
"Pray forgive me," she wrung her hands. "I am certain you know what is best, Great Uncle."
"It warms my heart to hear you say such," the Blackfish kissed her hand. "So much like your mother, you are, and every bit as dear to my heart. Let us go back now."