Summary: He notices then that there are no troops surrounding them, not even the king's household guards, who usually escort him wherever he goes. It appears that he has arrived all by himself, his sweaty and foaming horse a small distance away, drooping its head.

Sandor

Sandor wakes up, Sansa still curled against him in his arms, sleeping peacefully, her hand stretched across his chest and her legs entwined with his. He is not sure what alerted him, but he strains his ears nonetheless. The roads have become safer now that Robb's hold on the Kingdom of the North has stabilised and his troops patrol the main roads regularly, but he doesn't rely on external protection only. Before they retired for the night, he set a series of cleverly disguised traps in the vicinity of the tent, which will alert them with their sounds about anyone daring to approach.

Then he hears it; a faint tingle of one of the outer snares; someone is coming. He rouses Sansa gently and presses his finger on his lips to make her stay quiet.

"Sansa! Are you there? Clegane!"

They freeze; it is Robb's voice. His mind scrambles; how has the king been able to reach them so quickly? The have ridden fast and he estimated them to be already in White Harbor before any troops sent from Winterfell would have had a chance to reach them.

Sansa looks calm and rises into a seated position. "It is Robb. Let me deal with him." While he looks on she gets up, crouching in the low tent.

"Robb, I am here! Give me a moment, I am coming out!" she shouts, leans towards him and kisses him on the lips. Then she takes his head between her hands and guides it against her throat, to the pulse point he often kisses when they enjoy each other.

"Kiss me there, now." He is confused but does as he is asked. If they are to be caught and separated, is this what she wants to take with her, memory of his lips on her? He refuses to believe that it could come to that, but acquiesces nonetheless and kisses her throat and neck, tasting faint traces of salt. She presses his face firmer against her.

"Harder! I want you leave your mark on me!" Again he does as she asks and renews his efforts. Normally he doesn't want to leave marks on her unblemished skin, recalling still too well the angry bruises Joffrey's Kingsguard left on her. Sometimes, however, their passion runs too high - but knowing them to be signs of their love makes them less troubling.

Too soon she withdraws, pulls the warm dress she slept in over her head, leaving only her thin shift, and removes the woollen socks from her feet. She musses her hair and pulls the shift down from her other shoulder, revealing its perfect roundness in an enticing pose. The marks of his heated kiss are just starting to show up, red and still slick with his saliva. All this he follows with increasing puzzlement until he realises what she is doing. He recognises it as a risky strategy – but one that could pay out, and he can't help admiring her pluck.

"Robb, you have come a long way!" She clambers out of the tent and draws up to her full height. He follows, and looking at her in the light of the day sees what she clearly wanted Robb to see: a wanton woman, dishevelled and languid after a night of passionate lovemaking. Despite the direness of the situation he feels himself getting aroused. Hells, not now!

Robb stares at her mouth agape, then reddens and takes his own cloak and hands it to her, muttering something about cold morning air.

He notices then that there are no troops surrounding them, not even the king's household guards, who usually escort him wherever he goes. It appears that he has arrived all by himself, his sweaty and foaming horse a small distance away, drooping its head.

"Sansa…" Robb licks his dry lips and seems unsure what to say. Sansa looks at him with narrowed eyes and waits.

"Sansa," he tries again, "come home. I can't allow – I mean, I can't bear to think of you here, on your way to Braavos. You belong to the North, you belong to Winterfell."

Sansa says nothing and he wonders if she is considering her brother's plea. The he realises that Robb had mentioned Braavos. How in bloody hells does he know about it? Anyone in their right mind would expect them to aim for White Harbor, that being the biggest harbor town and access to anywhere in the known world, but how had he known into which particular city they were planning to go?

"You know my terms," she says quietly, clutching her brother's cloak around her shoulders. She hasn't fully closed it so her thin shift is still visible, revealing the outlines of her body. She looks like a maiden of the forest, except maidenly doesn't exactly describe her current appearance.

Robb shifts on his feet. "I know. And I agree to them."

Sansa draws a quick breath. "And mother?"

"She also. And Jeyne, and Arya, and I will take care of my bannermen and the Northern lords and anyone else who might have anything to say about the matter. Just come home." He turns to Sandor and addresses him.

"Clegane, I accept your proposal for the hand of my sister. You will be wed as soon as you wish. Which may be soon." He glances at Sansa's dishevelled form and it is clear that he thinks there may already be a babe in her belly.

"And what then?" he grunts, startled at the turn of events but satisfied that his little bird doesn't have to fly too far away from her nest after all.

"And then whatever we decide. I haven't made out all the details yet. Gods forbid man, I am offering you the hand of the noblest and most beautiful lady of the realm, be it one or six or seven kingdoms, the most sought after marriage alliance since Rhaegar Targaryen was in the market for a bride, and you ask me what then?!"

Despite his harsh words a smile starts to spread on Robb's boyish face and after a while Sandor feels his own mouth twitching. Soon their smiles turn into chortles and before long all three of them are laughing out loud, relieved beyond measure. The stress of the last few days has taken its toll on them and now that it is finally released, they simply can't stop laughing. Robb's weary horse looks up as if questioning Is this what we rode like devils for?, and seeing that only increases Sandor's mirth.

Their return trip takes considerably longer than their onward journey did, but Sandor doesn't mind. Sansa is happy, sparkling cheerfulness and joy, and the looks she directs at him are pleased and proud and even though he is unsure of what he should think of it, slightly mischievous.

On a wide stretch of the road he rides closer to her and mutters under his breath, "Did you plan this all along, little bird? Is that why you suggested elopement in the first place?"

Sansa's smile widens but then she turns serious. "I…hoped for this outcome. Yet I couldn't be sure." She looks at him under her lashes. "I told Jeyne where we were going, but I swore her to secrecy until we had had a good head start. She is on our side; she knows what it is to marry for love and not for political gain. I suspect she also felt bad that Robb had to try to find political benefits through me, having failed in it himself."

"Aye, she has it right there. Always thought Robb had some nerve to talk about your marriage as a means to alliances," he curses. "That was still a risky move. What if they had sent soldiers after us, without intent to yield to your terms?"

"Then they would have had to drag me back to Winterfell in chains. Jeyne knew that. And I couldn't see Robb wanting to do that to me, nor my mother, I know them well enough."

He still can't let it be. The plan had been audacious, but also dangerous.

"What if they hadn't followed you at all? Decided to let you loose?"

Sansa turns to look at him and despite her earlier bashfulness she is now solemn and regal as the princess of the North she is.

"Then I wold have lived happily with you in Braavos, or in any other place we would have decided to settle. I told you once and I tell you again; I rather live with you across the Narrow Sea than stay in the North without you. So despite of what you think, there was no real risk in my plan."

"What about that mummer's play at the tent? You care so little about your reputation?" Had Robb arrived with a group of soldiers, the story of his sister's ruin would have travelled through the keep faster than a mouse's tail disappears through a crack in the wall.

Sansa smirks. "I had to give him a reason to hurry, didn't I? No king wants his sister to give birth to a bastard and I wanted to make sure that our marriage will not be delayed in a hope that I would change my mind."

Others take me! Sandor eyes her with admiration but also with slight trepidation. If he ever had entertained notions about being stronger in this relationship, he realises that this innocent girl, turned to a brilliant strategist, does in the end defeat him easily. Yet instead of it making him feel less of a man, it compels him to straighten up in his saddle, proud.

She chose me. Me.