Sandor

The wildling Tormund had introduced himself with a title near as long as the Dragon Queen's, and if even a quarter of it was factual then Sandor was a dwarf. For an opening conversational gambit, the man had tried to pinpoint the giant he maintained was in Sandor's ancestry, and when the Hound's sour discourtesy failed to still Tormund's tongue, he tried drinking the wildling under the table.

Sandor had to admit, the company made an agreeable change. It was rare he met a drinking companion who was unabashed by either his scars or his fearsome reputation. For all his white hair and joviality, it was plain that Tormund Thunderfist was as acquainted with violence with Sandor. He was not required to speak much, and in listening he learned a great deal - of Jon Snow's party, their purpose, and the boy himself, though nothing at all of the mysterious matter that had drawn him north. The Tall-talker dodged the topic like an acrobat.

"Your bunch might think we're all fools and cowards, but you don't know what it is to be hunted in the dark. And not hunted like an enemy, neither, but hunted like a beast. It took a lot for us to kneel to the crows, to defend that Wall we'd hated. They even asked for the last of our treasures. I told 'em my only treasure was twixt my legs so they had to make do with my armbands, but in the end I got those back too."

And it seemed that Tormund talked to everyone. Sandor learned that the fierce boy he'd sparred with in the yard was some leader of a mountain clan, who'd challenged Sandor at the sight of his burns; by rights, it seemed Sandor should have taken the lad's axe and his command when he put him flat on his back, but all Sandor had taken was his leave, and now the Burned Men were in disarray.

He almost laughed himself sick at that.

"The Imp won't be pleased at that," he rasped. "He's the one who got the goatfuckers down from the mountains."

"Is he, now?" Tormund looked to the high table with interest. "He don't look much of a warrior."

"He's not," said the Hound into his tankard, taking a deep draught of the dark, strong ale. Up on the dais, Tyrion was leaning close to whisper in Sansa's ear. From the look on her face, the girl was enthralled. She's become a better mummer, he thought approvingly.

"His member must be near as large as all the rest of him, to keep that pretty wife o' his."

"Can't be any bigger than his mouth."

"He sounds like a man after mine own heart."

They drank to that.

It didn't bother Sandor to be stationed so far from the little bird; that was simply the way of things. Yes, he missed being able to share her company at a meal, but at least from here he could keep an eye on the rest of the high table. The leers of the Ironborn, and especially their lord, did not escape his notice.

When he got up to piss, he nearly barrelled directly into the Imp himself.

"It's one thing if you want to drink yourself blind, Clegane," said the little man acidly, "but at least do Lady Sansa the courtesy of finding a sober guard to relieve you."

"Wouldn't want to forget my courtesies, my lord," he chuckled.

After the meal, Sandor found an alcove near the dais where he could wait for Sansa. The girl greeted every lady and lordling she passed, and had some thoughtful comment for each of them.

"Lady Sansa tells me she keeps you to do her fighting for her."

The speaker was the wildling princess, willowy and fair-haired. Val, he remembered. "That's right, my lady. Lady Sansa is more comfortable with a needle than a longaxe, and so I serve."

"She chose well. We could use fighters like you in the war to come, especially if that's dragonsteel you carry."

Before Sandor could think of a response, the girl had swept off, and Sansa was at his elbow.

"Might I take your arm? With this heat, I'm afraid the wine has gone to my head."

Sandor kept his face straight and his eyes forward all the way to her chamber, but he could tell by the way Sansa squeezed his arm that she was excited about something. Even when the door was shut and barred, she held her tongue. He slumped comfortably in the armchair in the corner of the antechamber and removed his boots. Through the open doorway, Sansa was shrugging off the burgundy dress.

"Did you learn anything interesting tonight, little bird?" he asked, trying to keep the slur from his voice. In the warmth, his leather jerkin felt heavy on his shoulders.

"Some. Val told me how the wildlings make their matches."

"Matches? I doubt they bother with vows and ceremonies and the like." He slipped the jerkin off and tossed it deftly onto his bench, where the exposed iron studs clattered on the wood.

"They don't," said Sansa. "Val said that when a man wants a woman, he has to steal her from her family. And she's expected to fight to get free, to make sure she's got the best man, who can give her the best home and strongest sons."

Sandor pondered that for a moment. They certainly like to get to the point. "So that's what the wildling girl meant about you having me to do your fighting."

In the next room, Sansa hummed her assent. The girl looked down at the dress that she that folded carefully over her arm. "You were right before, about how septas should teach girls to fight. That girls should learn, that is. At least a wildling maid would know how to deal with someone like Petyr, or the mouse-knight."

"Aye, and worse than them too. Don't worry, little bird. I won't be allowing any wild men to carry you off and fuck you senseless," he said, splashing water on his face. There was silence next door, and a thought struck him. "Unless... you want to be stolen."

He crossed to the doorway to see a hot blush in the Sansa's cheeks, and grinned. Gentle, gentle. Swiftly he seized her wrist and pulled her around, stepping in to face her. "I won't hurt you, little bird," he murmured in her ear, then bundled the girl over his shoulder and made for the featherbed.

Sansa

Three days after Euron's feast, Sansa lost a brother.

"Even my name is wrong, Sansa." Jon spoke lightly, but she could sense the pain under the arch tone. "Seems you had the right of it when we were children: I'm not your brother."

"You were always my brother," objected Sansa. "My half-brother, and a dear one. It makes no matter whether you are a brother or a cousin - we are blood, Jon."

"Don't be upset," he said with a sad smile. "If anything, I've gained kin. Daenerys is my blood, too."

"Is that why she wants to marry you too? Keeping the bloodline pure?"

"Keeping a rival close by."

Jon and his companions had been given rooms in the Kingspyre Tower. They drank tea in a cavernous solar that stank of cheap tallow and mildewed tapestries. Jon cleared his throat.

"We'll be marching on King's Landing at the new moon," he said, "and I needed to speak to you about your... domestic arrangements. You are the heir to Winterfell. Rickon is five - it could be twenty years before he has an heir of his own. After you it's Arya, but we have no idea where she is. Daenerys wants to annul your marriage with Tyrion."

"Val said that it bodes ill for the kingdom to have high lords marrying into each other's houses. I understand."

"Yet, at the same time, you are heir to Winterfell."

"And so I must be married to someone." There was a ringing in Sansa's ears. Who will it be this time? she wondered. Silence yawned awkwardly between them, and Sansa hoped desperately that Val had had the right of it.

"Politics," said Jon resignedly. "I'm sorry it has to be this way. For whatever it may be worth, I won't see you married off against your will. Dany agrees on that – the choice is to be yours alone."

Sansa smoothed down her dress as she tried to master herself. "Does that mean you have options for me, or is it a free choice?"

"A free choice, or near enough as makes no matter. Provided you choose a husband from a minor house, one that isn't in line for any of the great lordships."

"You make it sound so straightforward," Sansa smiled, reaching for her tea. Her shaky hands caused the cup to rattle wildly in its saucer, and when she set it back down she smoothed her silk skirt again.

"Would it be… easier for you if we found a few options?" asked Jon, sounding hesitant.

Sansa gave him the briefest, tightest of smiles this time. "I don't know," she replied. "I've only wed the once, and all the arrangements were made for me then." She sipped the tea again, hoping her next comment would sound nonchalant. "You said to choose from a minor house. Need that be a northern house, or would any be suitable?"

"You don't need to worry about strengthening ties with our bannermen, if that's what you're worried about. Any lord or knight would do." Jon paused as if weighing up his words, then thinking better of them. He reached for a cup himself.

"I will think on it," said Sansa graciously.

"Her Grace spoke with Tyrion this morning. She has given him until the spring to find a bride, though sooner is better."

"To be the lady of Casterly Rock is quite a position," said Sansa, "and Tyrion is a kind man, in his way. He may not need to wait long."

She spotted a flash of doubt in Jon's eyes, but it melted away to mirth as he said, "I'll wager he'll wait longer than you, Lady Sansa. Every knight in Westeros will be vying for your hand, and then we'll never get this war finished."

When the interview was over, Sansa hurried back towards the courtyard. The Hound fell into step at Sansa's shoulder at the foot of the spiral steps.

"We will need to stop by the laundry on the way back," she said sternly, trying too hard to keep the mirth from her voice. "I'd like to wear my yellow silk tonight, if it's ready."

"What's going on?" Sandor rumbled, only just loud enough for Sansa to hear. "You're bothered about something. What did he want?"

As they climbed the stair in their own tower, Sansa spun and dropped the mask of indifference, fixing him with soft-eyed gaze she usually saved for their moments alone. "He said I'm to have a new husband before the winter's out."

Muscles worked in the Hound's face. The writhing scars gave a sinister cast to the burnt half of his face, but on the undamaged side he just looked confused.

"My choice," she elaborated happily, "and the less highborn, the better."

Soon, she thought, stroking his hair, he'll be my husband. Embracing him like this will be nothing novel, nothing extraordinary.

Even in a world that contained dragons and ice-warriors, she could scarcely accept the truth of such a wonder. He raised his head from her neck, soft-eyed and spent, and she kissed him eagerly. After a long moment, they disentangled from one another and Sansa went to the washstand. Her thoughts went to the brown envelope tucked into her cloak, secreted there by a resourceful washerwoman. The herbs tasted quite different from those Maester Berrill had prepared for her, but that mattered little as long as it worked; the task could wait until morning.

Sheets rustled and she felt Sandor's eyes on her. She felt as though she must be glowing contentment; that there should be a blush covering her whole body.

"How soon can I marry you, little bird?"

Sansa considered teasing him, but only briefly.

"When we reach Winterfell, I hope." She pulled on her shift and returned to the bed. He looked down at her with a slight frown as Sansa curled into his chest.

"You hope?"

"I would involve as few people as possible," she explained.

"Wise choice. A dangerous business, weddings," Sandor mused.

Sansa smiled sadly. "I don't want to give anyone a chance to object. You don't know what it was like, after Joffrey set me aside."

"After I left King's Landing," said Sandor with a tinge of bitterness. "No, little bird. But I can guess."

"I was just a small piece in games I didn't understand, if I even knew about them. We need to get away from the royal court. I don't know whether I'm still important to their games, but it's a nest of vipers all the same."

"Vipers that breathe fire," Sandor grunted. "Aye, might be you have the right of it. I'd welcome a bit of breathing-space again."

"I'd like to sleep beside you the whole night."

"I'd like to sit next to you at feasts."

Sansa gazed up at him. Flat black hair fell across his scars, brushing his shoulders; from the shoulders to the hips, he was seamed all over with old wounds, coarse hair, and sharply-defined muscle. His hand, lazily caressing her hip, was rough with calluses. This man - this hard, brusque, brutal man - missed her when he was at table. She laid her hand over his and planted a kiss on his chest.

"I'd like that too."

He'd have return to his blankets before morning, but she didn't need to be asleep to dream. Quietly, contentedly, Sansa began to hum.

My featherbed is deep and soft, and there I'll lay you down...