Epilogue

The candle at her bedside was burning low, and so Sansa lit a fresh one before wrapping her woollen shawl about her shoulders and slipping from her bedchamber.

The fire in the hearth of her bower was reduced to glowing embers when she entered, and Sansa spent some minutes building it back up until flames licked around the base of the copper kettle hanging above. She boiled the water within and then, wrapping a cloth around its handle so as not to scald her skin, removed it from the heat to cool. The little bunches of dried herbs Maester Jennion had given her back in Winterfell were fragrant, but the tea they made was all but tasteless. That was all right, however: Sansa didn't drink it for the taste.

When the drink had brewed sufficiently, Sansa poured it into a pewter goblet and made herself comfortable in the chair by her loom. Sandor did not know about the moon tea. It wasn't a secret as such – she would tell him if he asked – but finding the right words to simply drop into conversation the reason she did not yet wish to bear him children... she was still searching for them. She did not think he would mind, at the least. Sansa secretly suspected that the thought of children terrified her husband to very depths of his soul.

And as for Sansa herself... It would soon be a year since her marriage and the move to the Shieldfort, and still she found herself capable of looking at Sandor, catching his eye across the yard or watching the rise and fall of his chest as he slept, and being caught breathless with love for him. She cherished that. Children would come, inevitably, and she looked forward to that day, but for now she was jealous of his company, and not ready for their solitude to be intruded upon. She was still only eight-and-ten, after all – a year full younger than her lady mother had been when she birthed Robb. There would be plenty of time for all that.

Sansa cupped her hands around the goblet for warmth and sipped the flavourless tea, before sitting back and looking up at her loom. She had begun a tapestry for their hall some months ago, and it was now nearing completion. At first she had meant it to be a tribute to her family, her mother and father and eldest brother, but however she thought on it, that tale ended in pain and death. Perhaps she would still weave that work in days to come, but Sansa's heart was wrapped up in happiness for the first time in her adult life, and could not dwell for long on such hurts.

Instead, she had turned her focus inwards and produced something altogether more fanciful. The tale began on the left most edge of the tapestry, where Sansa had woven a demure maid with auburn hair picking flowers in her garden while birds sang overheard. That scene ran into a long journey on horseback, richly dressed women and handsome men all about, the maid riding beside a golden prince, beguiled by his beauty. But behind his back the prince hid a dagger that, in the next scene, he brandished at the helpless maid. But there, between the maid and the prince, a knight in soot-grey armour stood, shielding the maid from harm.

Further along, the lady offered the knight her favour as he knelt before her, but he had removed his helm to reveal the dreadful scars upon his face, and the maid's expression was caught in a look of terror. There, they parted, the lady running from him in fright. Along the top of the tapestry, Sansa had woven the maid's misadventures, kidnapped and locked away atop a mountain by a mockingbird, looking hopelessly from her tower for her protector, eventually taking matters into her own hands and stealing away in the dead of night disguised as a septa. Along the bottom, separated from the maid by a vine of white winter daisies, the knight roamed the seven kingdoms, angry and violent, losing his way until, wounded and dying, a kindly septon carried him to a holy place. Restored to health, his spirits renewed, the knight set out once more, and here the two halves rejoined, the knight and lady reunited. This time, when the knight knelt before her, the auburn-haired maid bent to bestow him with a chaste kiss. Yet even as she did, danger threatened, the mockingbird come to reclaim his bright prize, though of course at the end, the knight stood victorious with his lady by his side. The last scene of the tapestry showed the knight draping his cloak about his lady's shoulders while the wedding party looked on with benevolent expressions, the maid smiling up at her protector, wearing a crown of winter daisies.

Sansa looked on her work and smiled. In truth, she would rather hang it in her bedchamber, for the pleasure of Sandor's expression every morning when he awoke to the sight of it. But aside from any other consideration, it was far too large, and the hall was in desperate need of ornamentation.

I need a singer, Sansa thought as she finished her tea and set the cup on the floor, a bard to put this tale to music. The thought amused her sufficiently that she laughed aloud, soft and low. I am sure Sandor would love that even better. Lady Manderly had written recently that a bard had sailed in to White Harbour and graced their halls for nigh on a month. Perhaps I will invite him further north, Sansa thought.

The tapestry was not yet complete, however. The borders needed finishing and trimming, and she was not fully satisfied with the detail on the maid's bride cloak. And it needed a name: just as all the best swords had their names, so did the greatest artworks. Sansa frowned in thought but it was late and she was tired, her body suddenly longing for Sandor's solid warmth.

Leaving her bower behind, Sansa climbed the stairs back up to their bedchamber. Sandor was asleep as she had left him, his body curved in invitation around the space she had left behind. He stirred as she slipped beneath the covers, wrapping his arms around her body, and Sansa sank into his embrace with a deep satisfaction.

"Your feet are cold," he complained, voice rough with sleep, breath warm against her neck. The sensation sent a pleasant shiver down her back and the distant ache that their earlier lovemaking had left between her thighs began to heighten.

Sansa pushed back against him, wondering if he could be roused once more. "Pardons, my love. I went down to look on my tapestry."

Sandor laughed low in his throat, the sound curling hotly in Sansa's belly. "Such a vain little bird."

Sansa tutted, running her hands along his forearms, the heavy muscle of his biceps. "It isn't vanity to take pride in one's work."

He was stiffening against her, shifting distractedly against her hip. "As you say," was all he said, before turning her over and pulling her bodily on top of him, kissing her deeply.

Afterwards, Sansa lay half-sprawled across his broad chest, drifting on the edge of sleep as he stroked her hair.

"Have you named it yet?" he asked.

"Mmm?" she said, stifling a yawn.

"Your tapestry. Have you named it yet?"

Sansa ran her fingers over the scarred skin of his stomach, the dark line of hair that ran to his navel, and smiled. "Yes," she said with sudden certainty. "It's called The Lord and Lady of the Gift."