Sansa sat at her desk in the solar with her brow furrowed in concentration over the accounts of the castle. Though she was not so scattered about sums as she had been as a girl; not after her time in the Vale as the Eyrie's lady under the tutelage of Littlefinger, the castle did more business in trade now than in coin, and many tradesmen were still owed for their work on the castle. She prayed for a good first harvest come the spring and for better weather that would allow goods to move between castles and villages and other parts of the Seven Kingdoms as well as across the Narrow Sea with Essos so that the North could be prosperous again. She was proud of herself that she had learned to live with privation and to manage the castle as well she had with the help of the maester and her advisors and of course with Sandor. But the girl she had once been still wished for pretty clothes of velvet and silk, dreamt of fine doublets and leather boots and gloves for Sandor, and soft linens for her daughter and their babe yet to be born. Sometimes when Rose brushed and braided her hair she found that she wanted ribbons, or perfume and oils for her bath, or soft doeskin slippers and dozens of skeins of fine silk thread for embroidery.
She opened her eyes from her reveries. "Stupid little bird," she murmured, scolding herself. She moved the candle closer to the ledger.
A shadow fell across the table and she looked up to see her Great-uncle Brynden. She immediately looked down again from embarrassment before peeping up at him again.
"Great-uncle Brynden," she greeted him.
He wore a rueful smile. "I'm so sorry, Sansa, that you saw what you saw earlier." Now he could not look at her. "You must think me a foolish old man, or worse-"
"No, Great-uncle, I think you neither bad nor foolish. Please, I am married now and I understand such things…such needs," she blushed, knowing she sometimes liked for Sandor to take her roughly: it make her feel wanted.
"The wildlings are aptly named," he jested; then he shook his head to apologize for his crude remark. "Forgive me, child; I've spent too much time with soldiers."
Sansa's blush crept back into her cheeks. "Squirrel is a wildling, Great-uncle; but she is also a woman and has a woman's heart. I pray that you do not take that too lightly."
"As I have said, Sansa, I have been a soldier all my life and it is the only life I wanted. I care for family, believe me I do; but I have never yearned for one of my own. I feared it was not important enough to me to be a good husband and father; and that is not something anyone should take too lightly, but I fear many men do."
Sansa twirled the quill in her hand and bit her lip. "Are you saying a soldier has not the makings of a good husband and father?" she asked tentatively.
The Blackfish tilted his head curiously at her question. "Not at all: your father was excellent at both," he smiled faintly, reassuringly. "He took all his responsibilities very seriously, though I believe he also loved those to do with his family, Sansa."
She looked down at the ledger again. "Do you think that…he would have married my mother if he had not felt honor-bound to do so?"
"I think your father would have married the girl his father told him to marry...unlike me," he scoffed. Refusing to marry the girl his brother Hoster Tully had chosen for him was the reason he was called 'Blackfish': the maverick of the Tully family. "What is this about, child?" he asked gently.
She hesitated before speaking, fearing that she was being disloyal. "Sandor," she replied finally, "has always been a soldier: I worry mayhaps I have asked too much of him…" she confided.
Brynden Tully rolled his eyes. "Gods, child, you did not force Sandor Clegane to marry you," he began.
"Didn't I?" she countered swiftly, her eyes meeting his sharply before she dropped them again.
He sighed, knowing of what she spoke: everyone who had been present when they wed in the Godswood had pointedly ignored her swelling middle. Thank the gods for winter cloaks, he had thought then. "He loves you, Sansa: never doubt that, but he has never had a place in life as he has here; except as a dog. He may not be the man your father was but he needs to get used to being married and having a family, likely he never thought he would marry until he had you." He winced at his choice of words. "Does he not try?" he asked her.
Tears welled up when she thought of how he had sung to Catya. He had been gruff and stern but he had sung softly and had held and carried her so gently that her heart had filled so that she could scarcely breathe. Not trusting her voice at this moment, she merely nodded.
"Yes," she finally whispered, "he does."
"Your mother stayed on at Riverrun for nigh over a year after she was wedded and bedded, and then came here," he looked around the nearly empty room lit only by her sole candle and the rationed hearth light, "to find your father had another son and to hear the servants talk of Jon's mother…"
"Did my father love Lady Ashara?" she asked him. Everyone then had gossiped that she had borne Eddard Stark's bastard.
The Blackfish shook his head. "Child, every man in Westeros who set eyes on Lady Ashara Dayne fell in love with her; but the truth is your father did not know Ashara Dayne, not as he came to know, and love, Cat, your mother. That comes with time, Sansa: give Clegane time. He already knows and loves you, let him learn to love being a husband and a father," he finished in his smokey voice.
Sansa smiled sweetly at him. "You did not lie, Great-uncle: you do care about family; and I am grateful."
The Blackfish looked around suddenly, his brow furrowed and his mouth set into stern lines.
"How is it you are here alone, Sansa? I had hoped to speak with you privately but now I wonder at how easily I crept up on you. I don't like it at all, I will speak to Sandor-"
"Oh, no, Great-uncle; do not trouble Sandor any more than he already is. This is all so vexing for him, and I can see the strain it has caused him," she implored him. "Surely he cannot spare soldiers from the garrison for me."
'You're the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa. It cannot be that you are unprotected in your own castle; I will find someone suitable myself if you do not wish for me to speak with Sandor; but you will not fight me on this."
"Very well," she relented, "though I think it unnecessary in the castle, Great-uncle. Mayhaps I can have Squirrel, though she has proven tireless at organizing the kitchen; she may wish to handle a spear again."
"Well, she'll not handle mine anymore, I promise you that; not if she is to guard you," he told her.
Sansa blushed again. "Just tell me that you were careful, Great-uncle; I – I know I am not the right person to say so at the moment," she said, lacing her fingers together over her belly, "but we do not need extra mouths to feed."
"Don't fret, child: there's always moon tea," he said standing up to leave.
Sansa watched him walk away. Not always, she thought, not enough.
….
As she later walked to her chambers, Sansa saw shadows on the wall of what appeared to be two people struggling. She pulled her dagger again and turned the corner quietly where, to her horror, she saw Rose fighting off a soldier.
"Stop! I command you!" She shouted as loud as she could, as Sandor had taught her. Fuck soft-spoken, little bird: let them hear you across all Seven Kingdoms.
The soldier turned suddenly and she saw he was a young man. "M'lady," he released Rose and bowed his head.
"M'lady," Rose said as well.
Sansa was confused. "What are you doing?" she questioned.
"Practicing," Rose answered, embarrassed, "what I learned at training. I don'a think the Lord Commander was pleased wit' me, m'lady."
Sansa sheathed her dagger yet again, feeling foolish yet again. "That is very diligent of you, Rose; however, I could have stabbed the young man to death in your defense. Mayhaps you should practice in the yard; or with the wildling women when they train. They are quite fierce to behold."
"Yes, m'lady; I'm sure they are."
"Will you attend me now, Rose? I am very tired," Sansa requested softly, though it was understood that the Lady of Winterfell's requests were to be followed as orders. Still, Sansa believed a lady never forgot her courtesies.
"Yes. m'lady. Thank'e, Kit."
"Kit?" Sansa repeated.
"Kit Snow, m'lady," he bowed again. He seemed of an age with Rose, and had a handsome face: round like a boy's but for the dark sheen of stubble, and with a head of curly, dark hair. Sansa thought mayhaps a beard would make him look older, and less pretty.
"Good night, Kit Snow," she acknowledged him pleasantly.
"G'night, m'lady."
After Rose undressed her and put her in her nightdress, Sansa perched on the stool again to have her hair brushed.
"Is Kit Snow from the winter town, Rose?" she asked.
"I expec' so, m'lady. He was raised wit' orphans afore Lord Eddard sent'im to some crofters to work as a boy. Then they disappeared, m'lady; soon after he joined the fightin' an's been wit' a garrison ever since."
"A garrison? Not this one?"
"Th'Boltons was here then, m'lady," she said quietly, "so's he joined th'Umbers who were for Lord Stannis, then came t'Winterfell when he heards Lord Rickon was to be back, an' yerself coming up frum the Neck wit' Lord Reed. Says'e owned it t'Lord Stark, m'lady."
Sansa smiled faintly. "That is nice to hear, Rose."
"Knew my Flyn a lit'l as well, m'lady, an' asks about my boy Tom."
"I am pleased that you have made a friend here, Rose; I hope your life will be easier soon. I pray that all our lives will be easier come the spring," She rose from her stool. "Good night, Rose."
"Shall I stay until Lord Clegane comes, m'lady?" Rose asked.
Sansa shook her head, making her long auburn hair swirl around her shoulders. "My lord has gone out with the patrol and will not return until much later. I'll be fine, Rose; please spend some time with your son before retiring."
"G'night, m'lady."
As soon as Rose left, Sansa pulled her nightdress back over her head and left it draped on Sandor's wooden bench. Then she turned and climbed in to his side of the bed though it was farther from the hearth. He will be colder outside tonight than I will be on his side of the bed. She had every intention of warming his blood when he returned. She burrowed deeper under the furs and smiled against his bolster and waited.
….
"All quiet, Clegane?"
He turned Stranger around when he heard the voice of the Blackfish. He was accompanied by another soldier.
"Aye, first time I've ever been sorry for it. I want to catch this bloody killer, Blackfish, almost as much as I've wanted anything."
Not as much as he wanted to kill Gregor, though he'd been denied that satisfaction by Oberon Martell. He couldn't grudge the man wanting his brother dead as much as he had; the Mountain has murdered his sister, the princess Elia, and her whelp in the Tower of the Red Keep. Sandor sometimes wondered if any woman was safe in the bloody place; certainly he had not known any who were. He wouldn't tell Sansa that though, not with the Wolf Bitch as the Dragon Queen's guest. But Sansa already knew, and knew that guests were not always safe, and not just in the Red Keep either. Barristan Selmy had better be good to his word; at least they had the comfort that he always had been honourable, even Sandor gave him his due in that respect.
"I'm of the same mind as you, Clegane; but you needs go back to the castle and sleep. You'll be training the men early tomorrow."
He sighed heavily, his breath fogging in the damp cold. "Aye, sleep is what I need, but it doesn't come so easy now."
With a nod, he spurred Stranger to a gallop towards the gates of Winterfell.
….
Quiet-like this night, it is, the innkeeper remarked to his wife.
Aye, his wife whispered closely, the lord's patrollin' t'night an'those what believes the smith is inside wit' barred doors, shittin' theyselves. Th'true shit be comin' out they big mouths, y'asks me.
It's them wildlin's, who else can git around in the snow withouts any seein' or hearin' em: they's silent an' deadly, the tanner hissed.
Aye, likes yer farts.
The innkeeper's wife laughed at her own ribald humour, and her bosom heaved against her tightly laced dress.
….
The soldier atop the outer wall of Winterfell recognized the lord commander and his great black courser galloping across the drawbridge toward the inner yard. He was about to straighten up from leaning over the wall between the merlons when he felt a hand pushing at the back of his head and a stinging cold sharpness across his neck. He heard a hiss of air and watched with bewilderment as warm, dark blood seemed to pour out over his gloved hands and down the wall.
Oh.
He hadn't even breath left to scream as he tumbled over the edge.