Sansa
Sansa felt light as air as she descended the steps from the roof of the Great Keep, as though some great burden she had been carrying around for the past few months had been lifted from her shoulders. She could still feel the imprint of his hand in the small of her back, strong and warm, where he had held her to him. Her lips still tingled from the pressure of his mouth on her own, and absently she lifted her hand to touch them, her fingers cool in contrast to the heat there. I must tell my family, she thought, though it brought with it an unexpected reluctance, as though hording her secrets could somehow protect her from their consequences. Childish. Still, it could wait a little while. There were other things she must do first.
She was not surprised to find Arya lingering at the bottom of the steps chewing nervously on her lip.
"I'm sorry, Sansa," Arya said quickly as soon as she saw her. "I didn't think, I mean, I didn't realise-"
She cut herself off as Sansa reached out and embraced her. "None of that," Sansa said gently. She drew back and kissed her sister's thin cheek. "I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have got upset, but I promise you it was not about Nymeria, not really."
"And you're not upset any more?" Arya asked cautiously, eyes flicking up to the steps Sansa had just descended. "Clegane made me wait down here. He said he knew what the trouble was."
"I'm not upset any more," Sansa agreed, a smile coming almost unbidden to her face. "Now, where is Nymeria? I must greet her properly."
Maester Jennion had already brought news of the white raven to Bran when they found him. Her brother sent the maester off to tell the servants while Sansa summoned Hodor and Arya dragged Rickon away from his drawing by the solar window. Then, together, the last four members of the Stark family, they descended to the godswood.
As the head of the family it should have been Bran's responsibility to lead them through the spring prayers, but he had not yet been born at last winter's end, and did not know the words. Pray for the dead at winter's end, pray for the living at start of spring, Sansa remembered, and for once the memory of her parents and Robb and Old Nan – her happy and blissfully sheltered childhood – did not cause her heart to clench.
Sansa knelt on the warm moss before the heart tree and gestured Rickon to sit beside her, Shaggydog prowling restlessly around the small pond beside the great weirwood, ears pricked and sniffing the air. Bran sat propped against an ancient root with Summer at his side, Arya sat next to him, cross-legged, Nymeria lingering warily behind the rest of them.
"Today is the last day of winter," Sansa began, "and as we say goodbye to the long dark we remember with love those who went before. Eddard Stark, Catelyn Stark, Robb Stark, Benjen Stark, Lysa Arryn, Robert Arryn, Brynden Tully, Hoster Tully. Maester Luwin, Old Nan, Rodrik Cassel, Jory Cassel, Septa Mordane, Jeyne Poole..." Sansa trailed off, overwhelmed for a moment at the sheer number of names.
"Osha," a small voice added.
"Jojen Reed," Bran murmured.
"Lady," Arya said. Sansa glanced over at her and their eyes met for a moment before Sansa nodded, and returned her gaze to the carved face of the heart tree.
"May they find peace in the darkness of the long beyond, and life eternal in our hearts and in our memories."
Her siblings repeated her words and Sansa allowed them a few moments of contemplative silence before continuing.
"Today is the first day of spring, and as we welcome light and life back into the world we pray with hope in our hearts for the health and happiness of our loved ones. Bran Stark, Arya Stark, Rickon Stark, Jon Snow, Edmure Tully, Roslin Tully, Minisa Tully, Brienne of Tarth, Daenerys Targaryen."
"Sansa Stark," Bran said. And then quietly, "Meera Reed."
"Bors Greenleaf," Arya said. "Gilly Snow, Samwell Snow, Alys Winterdale."
"Cook," Rickon said, "and Brother Sandor."
Sansa felt her cheeks colour at her little brother's innocent addition, though it was more appropriate than he knew.
"May their harvests be plentiful, their larders full and their lives filled with sunlight and joy, in the name of the old gods of the First Men."
Once again, Sansa waited for her siblings to repeat her words, her heart pounding as the silence stretched. Best do it now. At least the servants won't overhear out here.
"I have something to tell you all," she said. Arya, who had been rising, re-seated herself and gave Sansa a curious look. Rickon made an impatient sound in the back of his throat and shifted restlessly. Sansa took his hand and patted it, mainly to have something to do with her own hands. "I am to be married," she said.
Sansa saw Arya and Bran glancing at each other, and next to her Rickon huffed and pulled his hand out of hers. "You don't know that," he said scornfully. "You haven't been stolen yet."
Sansa couldn't help the corner of her mouth turning up, remembering Gilly's words. "That isn't the custom south of the Wall," she said. "Here, men and women agree together that a marriage will take place." Though not always the man and woman to be wed, she added silently.
Rickon frowned and refused to meet her eyes, so Sansa tried her older siblings. Arya wore a resigned expression when she asked, "Who is it?"
Sansa's stomach lurched alarmingly, but she kept her expression neutral. "Sandor Clegane," she said.
"Brother Sandor?" Rickon piped, head snapping back to look at her aghast. "But he can't marry you, he's godsworn!"
"He never took septon's vows," Sansa told him. "There was no obligation to remain in the Faith."
"But..." Rickon started, looking utterly confused. "But Elder Brother said..."
"Sometimes our lives don't follow the path we intended them to take," Bran said gravely to their brother, and then to Sansa, "Are you sure about this?"
Sansa nodded. "It's what I want."
Arya sighed. "I hope you understand that if I thought I could talk you out of this, I would be trying right now."
"But..." Rickon said again, still trying to wrap his head around it, "But why?"
Sansa took his chin gently and made him look up at her. "I love you all dearly," she said, "but this is Bran's castle, Bran's lands to rule, and he no longer has any need of me. It is time for me to move on." To Bran, she added, "It will mean I can take up Jon's offer of the Shieldfort." To Arya, she said simply, "I trust him."
No one said anything. The sun shone on them through the bare branches of the heart tree, the gentlest touch of warmth on their faces. Rickon's breathing came shallow and quick, and Sansa didn't dare look in case she saw that he was crying. The wind gusted, swaying the trees that surrounded them, and then finally Bran spoke.
"I am happy for you, sister," he said, his smile faint but, Sansa hoped, genuine.
Arya sighed again, then lifted her chin. "As am I," she said, and though the words sounded horribly forced, Sansa appreciated them nonetheless.
"Is it like Florian and Jonquil?" Rickon asked in a small, bewildered voice.
Sansa touched his auburn hair tenderly, so like her own. "Life is not a song, sweetling."
She was reminded of those words later that night, when Rickon refused to be parted from her side, crying and thrashing at Gilly when she tried to take him up to his bed. Flooded with guilt, Sansa indulged him, though it took all the patience she had learnt from dealing with Sweetrobin to coax him to sleep. It was past midnight when she finally collapsed into her own bed, sliding in precariously around Arya's sprawled limbs, thinking wryly that none of the romances she had loved as a girl had taught her to expect anything like this. The wrath of beasts and kings to overcome, yes, but nothing about a confused little brother who didn't know how to let her go.
She took Rickon up to bed herself the following night to avoid exposing the rest of the Great Hall to such a scene again. She sang to him and stroked his hair and sat in the chair by his bedside holding his hand so that even with his eyes closed he would know she was there.
It was late and her own head was nodding when she felt a strong hand on her shoulder, jolting her back to wakefulness.
"Quiet," Sandor Clegane warned at her gasp of surprise, "unless you want to go through that whole mummer's farce again."
"It's my fault he's acting like this," she explained as they climbed the spiral steps of the Great Keep, his hand a warm pressure on her shoulder, guiding her on. "He fears everyone will abandon him, as they did when he was a child."
"You are abandoning him," Sandor observed.
"Yes," Sansa agreed tiredly. "But then I always was a self-obsessed little creature." She paused, but when no response was forthcoming, she added, "Isn't that the sort of thing you would say?" And then, "Oh," as she realised he had brought her up to the Bower.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to a chair by the hearth with the flagon of wine he carried in his other hand. She poured herself a cup and drank it straight down while he set about lighting the fire. Only the one cup, she noticed, he does not intend to break that vow at the least. She was not sure how that made her feel, and so refilled her cup to avoid thinking about it.
"Thank you," she said when the fire was crackling and Sandor Clegane had seated himself before her.
"For what?"
"The fire. The wine."
He grimaced. "You weren't the only one in need of escape."
Sansa tried and failed to suppress a smile. When she had come up from dinner she had abandoned him to her brother and sister.
"Did Arya threaten you?" Sansa asked, allowing a little of her amusement to show through. He seemed... at ease. Or at least, the most at ease she had seen him since his arrival at Winterfell, and it was pleasant indeed to look upon his face and not be met with his customary hardness.
"Aye," he said, his voice a low rumble that might have been a chuckle. "But not at the table."
Sansa nodded in approval. "Such things are generally best saved for dark corners, I am told."
"I can deal with your sister, little bird, that was not the worst of it. That brother of yours chirps almost as much nonsense as you."
"And did you speak your disapproval so bluntly to him as you are accustomed to with me?" The words came out before she had thought about them, and immediately she regretted it. They were to be married, but... she did not yet know him well enough to be so familiar. That, and he had not liked her teasing, before.
To her relief, however, he gave another low laugh and said, "Never did have the knack for all that courtly bollocks."
Sansa felt her eyebrows rising in surprise at his coarse language, and attempted to cover her reaction by taking a sip of wine, but her cup was empty again. Rising, she made to cross the room to refill it, but he caught her wrist as she passed him, almost lazily.
"Always such a busy little bird," he rumbled. "Just sit down for a few minutes and let a man look at you."
Sansa met his eyes and saw... not warmth exactly, but perhaps heat. Something she wanted to be closer to. Carefully, deliberately, she set her cup down on a nearby table before planting herself demurely across his lap. Petyr had sometimes liked to seat her on his knee in this fashion, but he had been a small man and it had not been long before she overtopped him by several inches sitting thus. Being near him had never been as pleasing an experience, however. Sandor's eyes widened slightly in surprise as she sat, before he laughed softly once more.
"Not what you meant?" Sansa asked lightly. His body exuded heat, yet she could feel her skin prickling into gooseflesh.
"Not what I expected," he answered. Sansa didn't move, and after a moment, Sandor brought one hand up to rest on her waist, lightly running his fingers through her hair with the other. Sansa sighed and let her eyes fall closed.
"My lady mother used to brush my hair herself," she said absently.
"I'm not your mother, girl."
"Nevertheless," Sansa said, hearing in distant astonishment her own voice become low and intimate. "It feels nice." Was she drunk? She had not had that much wine, but perhaps she had drunk it a little quickly.
His fingers hovered by her neck, fingertips grazing skin that was suddenly sensitive to his every touch. "Aye? What else feels nice?" he asked, a growl of warm breath in her ear. Sansa shivered. Even at the best of times his voice was harsh and rasping – damaged in the fire that took his face, she had always supposed – and yet somehow it seemed to touch her, somewhere deep in her belly.
"Yes, that," she whispered as his lips grazed the shell of her ear. As he moved down her jaw Sansa tipped her head away, exposing her neck, breath hitching as he placed his mouth there.
"And that?"
"Yes," she gasped, and then again as the hand on her waist moved up, brushing the edge of her breast through her bodice. She did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed when he did not take her fully in his hand, but continued up her body instead to tease her with fingertips at her throat, her collarbone, the curved top of her breasts, rising and falling as she breathed. Should it surprise her that he was capable of such gentleness, she wondered? He had rarely troubled himself to speak kindly to her, it was true, but she had often felt that his actions were much the more important thing, and he had always handled her with care.
"Look at me," he said, his voice sending another shiver through Sansa, and she opened her eyes to look up at him, half-dazed with wine and arousal. He made a sound then, low in his throat and leaned forward to kiss her. It was a good kiss, strong but not ungentle, and when he finally moved his hand to cup her breast Sansa moaned into his mouth. She could feel his desire pressing against her bottom through his breeches, and the thought came to her that this was most improper. But it was a distant thought, and soon forgotten when he pushed his tongue against hers.
She did not break the kiss until some minutes later, when a sudden release in pressure told her he had somehow managed to loosen the lacing on the front of her bodice. She jerked in surprise and brought both hands up to stop the fabric falling away. Sandor made a sound that could have been a bark of laughter or a growl of frustration and Sansa blushed crimson.
"I... I do not think..." she started, fumbling with her laces. He didn't try to stop her, simply watched in open amusement.
"You blush so prettily," he said, running a thumb along the line of one cheekbone. "Just like a maid. Did Littlefinger teach you that?"
Sansa frowned, knotting the laces more firmly than was strictly necessary. "That was unkind," she said, and tried not to show her disappointment that he had clearly heard all that Petyr had said of her. Just like everyone else.
"It was unkind to tease a man with no intention of bringing him relief," Sandor said.
Sansa looked at him. His hands were resting safely on the arms of the chair and she became aware of how very much she wanted him to touch her again. But he was right – despite everything, certain principles must be adhered to.
"I will happily perform my marriage duties whenever you should desire, my lord," she said. "All I ask is that you wait until the bedding."
He did not look surprised. "You had best go, then," he said, but when she made to stand he clamped both hands on her waist, a grip like iron, and kissed her hard.
Then he stood, taking her with him momentarily before lowering her to the ground. Sansa stumbled when he finally released her, head swimming.
"Fly away, little bird," he said, guiding her towards the door with one big hand at the small of her back.
But not too far, Sansa thought. And not for too long.