Summary: Again Sandor searched Jaime's eyes and meeting them, they considered each other for a moment. Finally, as if by design, they shrugged their shoulders almost simultaneously. Why in hells not? If the little bird wants us both to guard her sleep, that's what we are going to do.


Sandor

Sandor had always taken pride in his pragmatism; the way he didn't allow his emotions to sway him from what needed to be done. Not when he was but a young boy preparing to leave the only home he had ever known to avoid further suffering; not when he had followed Cersei's or Joffrey's orders, no matter how distasteful they had been. Only once had he failed, on the night of the Blackwater. Yet even then a part of him knew that it was not only the hellish fire nor the urge driving him to the room of the northern girl that undid him. No, the battle had already been lost and any soldier worth his rations would have been a fool to continue futile resistance. How the fuck was he supposed to know that bloody Lord Tywin was about to ride to the rescue with the prickly rose of Tyrell in his host?

Hence when he was faced with a situation where he already knew himself to be totally engulfed in emotions, he relied on some degree of his old cool detachment to help him through. He anticipated difficulties; he expected to clench his fists and suppress his resentment seeing his little bird giving herself to another man.

Yet when the inevitable happened, it was not the hardship he had thought it to be. He, who had had absolutely nothing, and who by a strange twist of fate had received the only thing he had ever truly craved in his whole sodden life…well, he was not really in a position to be finicky about small details, was he? Besides, that the other man was Jaime was oddly comforting. To his surprise he felt neither petty jealousy nor doubts about the strength of the bond between himself and Sansa. First he was sceptical about his own reaction – or lack thereof - but in the end he shrugged his shoulders and accepted that if that was the way things stood, it was fine by him.

Yet it wasn't easy, initially. There were evenings filled with tension when he didn't know whether he would stay with Sansa or go back to his own room and into his narrow, lonely bed. Not knowing whether Sansa was sleeping on her own or whether Jaime sneaked into her room after he had left bothered him. Jaime also showed signs of irritation and on some evenings they snapped to each other about the smallest of matters.

After a while Sansa had enough of it and declared that she was tired of seeing them posturing around her like two peacocks. She dictated to them the days when she might invite Sandor to keep her company, and days when she might do the same with Jaime. And outside those days they were not to waste their energy in trying to charm her. And by the way, there were still no guarantees, as she resorted to the prerogative of a lady to change her mind if she so wished. And if either them had any issues with her decisions, then too bad for them. Sandor stared at her in wonder and admiration and knowing when he was defeated he acquiesced to her wishes. In truth he didn't have much choice. Seemingly Jaime had reached the same conclusion as he too bent his head in compliance.

And so gradually their life settled into the new routine and adapted to changed circumstances. Besides, just as any marriage is not only about passion and the delights of flesh, neither was this one; many nights that Sandor shared with Sansa were chaste and they only held each other, shared their thoughts and bickered about life's little annoyances. He suspected it was much the same with Jaime. The domesticity of the whole situation amused him, compared with some of the wilder tales making the rounds among the smallfolk.

Jaime had of course heard about their ride from Winter Town, but as Sandor had guessed, had not put much store in it. Sansa and Sandor relaxed their behaviour in public after that – not to the level of complete recklessness, but being tired of portraying their relationship as strictly formal, they stopped caring if they addressed each other familiarly, or if they engaged in private discussion in full view of others. They drew the line at touching or kissing in public and Jaime seemed content with that.

One day, after heavy rains had drenched Winterfell and the yard was just a field of mud and mire, Jaime, Sansa and Sandor had to cross it on their way to the Maester's Turret. Seeing their path blocked with deep puddles Sandor lifted Sansa in his arms and carried her gently across, Jaime walking alongside them engaging them both in discussion until they reached the other end and Sandor lowered his charge to the ground, her feet dry and clean.

It was such small incidents that eventually made their initially notorious conduct become just the way things were. One evening Sansa merrily shared with Sandor a tale Lenore had told her about a merchant who had just arrived at Winterfell. Seeing the informality between the lady of the keep and her shield, and the apparent forbearance of her husband, the man had incredulously asked what had happened to the proud House of Stark. The only reply he had received from the castlefolk had been stern advice to butt out of matters that were not his business and be mindful of the way he spoke about their good lady.


The raven came from the South telling about the upcoming arrival of a new master craftsman in their midst; a master smith from King's Landing. Sandor was curious; he too had heard about the man who had forged Jaime's marvellous new weapon, which he had named Traitorsbane. Some though the name hypocritical or at least highly questionable in light of the Kingslayer's reputation, but Sandor knew that was exactly why Jaime had named it so. One big jape, one that he had chuckled about while sharing it with Sandor.

The sword was truly as impressive as everybody said. He had tried to swing it, but it was not of the right height or weight and the grip was all wrong, as it had been custom-made to fit Jaime and Jaime alone. Sandor wondered if he could get the new smith to forge one as well fitting to him. Yet despite the man's obvious talents he didn't understand why Jaime was so stirred about the news. Although the message stated that it would still take many moons for the man to settle matters, close his shop and slowly travel across the sea and land with his belongings, Jaime had started to organise his new abode and smithy as he was to arrive in weeks. Besides, since when did the lords bother themselves with simple craftsmen, no matter how good their skills were?

He complained about just that to Sansa one evening, when Jaime had cancelled their practice in order to go and inspect some bloody barn near the stables to see if that could be made into a new smithy. A barn! Turned into a smithy!

Sansa soothed his bad mood with soft words. The man was truly a master of his profession, Winterfell would be lucky to have him, the extra work brought in by an expert of such reputation would call for bigger premises.

"I can see all that. Yet isn't it up to the castellan to take care of such things, not the bloody lord of the keep?" Sandor laid on the bed, his hands clasped behind his neck as he watched Sansa undressing and getting ready for the night. He was still fully clothed, having arrived tired and grumpy from the Great Hall after being detained there to sort out a stupid argument between some of the squires. That, and the irritation of having missed a session his sword-hand badly needed, frustrated him. He knew how unfair it was to unburden himself to Sansa, but whenever he tried to hide his foul mood Sansa sensed it anyway and didn't rest before she had it out of him – so he might as well spit it out and get it over with.

"Yes, I know that it is how it usually happens. But Jaime personally invited this man here and feels he owes him a warm welcome as he is leaving behind so much in order to come here," Sansa finished tying the ribbons of her shift and approached the bed. She too looked tired and just a bit uneasy. Something in her demeanour troubled Sandor and his bad mood gave way to apprehension.

"What is it then - is there something you don't like about this? Jaime didn't invite him without consulting you, did he? Bloody hells, he should know better than that. You are still the Warden of the North, not him," he grumbled, a new surge of annoyance riling him. Sansa smiled reassuringly and shook her head.

"He did consult me and I agreed to it. Everything is quite fine and I am looking forward to the arrival of this man - Meryn is his name." She lifted the covers and stared pointedly in Sandor's direction, who understood her meaning quickly enough and stood up. He undressed hastily, throwing his clothes on a floor, but another look from Sansa saw him gathering them up again and placing them on top of a nearby chest.

"Does the sun shine out of his ass? Why is everyone in this bloody keep so hyped up about this smith?" He slipped under the covers and curled his arm around Sansa's shoulders to pull her closer. She settled her head on his chest and started to ply her fingers through its dark hair.

"He and Jaime became quite good friends in King's Landing – that's how he started to make the sword for him." Her voice was muffled, but it was what she said that caught Sandor by surprise. He was very well aware of how few true friends Jaime had – and it was not common for men to forge strong friendships across the boundaries of class. In war, yes, among soldiers it happened, but in times of peace and between men who were not even working together, it was not usual. Besides, if they had become such good friends, how come Jaime had never even mentioned his name to him before this?

"How good friends? Is that why he asked him here?"

Sansa's fingers worked tirelessly against his chest and she avoided looking at him. Sandor glimpsed down and shook her gently in order to get her attention.

"You could ask Jaime that yourself, I am not sure if I could tell you much about it," she said and pressed her lips against his skin. It might or might not have been a deliberate attempt to distract him – in either case it worked and he pushed Jaime and the unknown smith out of his mind and concentrated on the feel of her moist mouth traveling down his body.


Sandor remembered the discussion again the next day, when after the rescheduled practice session he and Jaime were sitting in a hot bath. Exhausted, they leaned against the wall and enjoyed the effect of the heat on their muscles.

"That smith, Sansa tells me he is a friend of yours." Sandor observed Jaime through half-closed eyes and saw him stiffen, and his arms, resting on the ledge of the bath, tensing. Yet he said nothing.

As the silence continued Sandor appraised Jaime's reaction. Why didn't he want to acknowledge the issue; surely he knew that Sandor didn't find friendships with common folk odd. Unless… All of a sudden his stomach clenched and a strange sensation flooded him. A friend.

"Nevermind, not my business," he grunted and closed his eyes again. Fine, he can keep his bloody secrets.

"I met him at an inn, of all places," Jaime said in a low voice. "As a matter of fact, I only met him twice. Not much of a friendship, would you agree?"

"Yet he is going to leave his business in the capital to come here? I am sure King's Landing still has enough customers for good steel. The Dragon Queen's foreign soldiers must need new weapons as much as old King Robert's troops. And for what; smithing horseshoes and cooking utensils to the Northern folk? Or is there something else here – a friend, perhaps - that is worth leaving everything behind for?"

Sandor tasted bitterness in his mouth as he speculated on the nature of the friendship.

Jaime looked hurt, his lips pressing tightly together. "You know there is a great need for good arms here; not only for us but for the Night's Watch and for the wildlings populating the Gift. In King's Landing the Street of Steel is full of other smiths, whereas here he will have less competition. So this is a professional decision for him."

"Bugger this." Sandor got up and stepped out of the bath, dripping water onto the floor as he strode to the door, grabbing his clothes and pulling them on without bothering to dry himself. He needed to get out of there, back to his room, Jaime's presence and what he had just heard suffocating him. He ignored Jaime's calls to him and hurried to the yard only in his breeches, pulling on his tunic while braving the cold on his way to his room.

When finally there he threw himself on the bed and tried to analyse what in hells had just happened. So, Jaime had met a man, obviously something had taken place between them and now the man was on his way to Winterfell. What was it to him?

He scrubbed his hand across his face and cursed, feeling the remnants of what he had felt that one day long, long ago when he had questioned if anything had happened between Sansa and Jaime in Greywater Watch. The same hollow sensation and odd pain in his guts.

Fucking hells!

Sandor stayed in his room for a long time, dissecting his emotions. He couldn't be jealous, could he? He didn't think of Jaime that way, so it didn't make any sense. Eventually he had to admit to himself that he had been foolish, childish even. Jaime deserved better. He also made up his mind that when the smith finally arrived, he would make sure that he would not take advantage of Jaime, hoping to worm himself into his good graces and easy living based on some foolish notions Jaime might have. That's what friends did for each other.

The next day Sandor did something he had rarely done; he apologised to Jaime. In halting words he told Jaime that none of the whole buggering matter was his business and he had been a bloody fool and it was completely up to Jaime what he wanted to do. When Jaime looked at him straight in the eyes and touched his arm without gloating he knew that they were good again.


Yet another raven arrived, this time with bigger news that carried weight across the whole realm. Queen Daenerys was getting married.

The groom was a somewhat unexpected choice; Willas Tyrell from Highgarden. Yet the more people pondered it, the more it made sense. The Reach was one the largest regions in Westeros and although House Tyrell had submitted to Dragon rule, having one of them raised high ensured their future loyalty. Sandor sneered; the old Queen of Thorns Olenna Tyrell finally had what she had wanted for so long; her descendant on the Iron Throne – or next to it.

The wedding was to be celebrated with all pomp and ceremony in the Great Sept of Baelor, and all great houses loyal to the throne were encouraged to raise a toast on the night to the future happiness of the couple. It had been a while since any notable feasts had been arranged in Winterfell and Sansa took it as an excuse to organise one, just to keep the spirits of her people up. Besides, this was good news for all; anything that stabilised the realm was good for them.

So once again the Great Hall was decorated, musicians called, food prepared. The feast was to be smaller than those celebrated for the victory and Sansa and Jaime's wedding, but everyone looked forward to it just the same.

The evening was a success and everyone had a good time. Sansa especially seemed to enjoy herself; Sandor noticed her downing several goblets of wine in fast succession, saw a red flush creeping over her cheeks and heard the chime of her voice as she laughed and japed with people around her. She insisted that Jaime accompany her on the dance floor and she twirled and spun, bowed and bounced and was such a delight to look at that Sandor couldn't take his eyes off her. She came and tried to incite him as well, but he declined. He didn't dance, never had - hopping around to the tune of music in front of everyone was not his notion of fun.

Eventually people started to nod off, the musicians let go of their instruments and started a feast of their own by attacking the remaining food and drink. Sansa was still in high spirits and cajoled Sandor and Jaime into joining her in her rooms, where they could continue the merriment. They gave in and followed her as she skipped and hopped along the corridor like a small girl.

Sansa had called Lenore to bring more drink and food into her rooms and despite Sandor offering her water, she resisted it and insisted on wine. Jaime was in a good mood as well, having spent half the evening teasing Sansa over how crestfallen she must be to have lost her one-time almost betrothed to such a noble rival. Sansa had only laughed and told them what a fool she had been to ever listen to Margaery and Olenna Tyrell and their false words back in King's Landing, and how she wouldn't change what she had now for any amount of roses or warm winds at the Reach.

Sansa stood up and gave them a rendition of 'The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown', acting the parts of both the king and the queen, and at the end of it both Jaime and Sandor laughed helplessly, holding their sides. Sansa grinned and bowed to them, twirling around a few more times before stopping, taking a deep breath and muttering, "I think I need to lie down for a moment."

She hurried to the bedroom and the men followed her, concerned.

"Mayhap it is better if one of us stays with her tonight. She might be sick after all this," Sandor muttered, glancing at Jaime. He was still laughing, also a bit in his cups.

"I don't mind either way, if you want to do it that is fine by me." Jaime smiled as he looked at Sansa who had thrown herself on her bed, still humming the tune of the song and waving her hands in front of her as if she was still acting the part of the queen.

Sandor walked to the bed and assessed that although Sansa was clearly tipsy, she didn't seem to be in imminent danger of throwing up. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. It was time to call the evening over. Seeing him, Sansa turned towards him and grabbed his hand.

"Oh Sandor, lie down with me! We need to rest, tomorrow is another big day. I have to make sure that the hall is cleaned, the leftover food given to the poor and…" her voice trailed off as she tugged Sandor. Jaime shook his head, walked to the bed and leaned over Sansa.

"I bid my good night to you, dear lady. Sleep well and don't make too big of a mess if you wake up in the middle of the night feeling poorly." He smirked and tried to press a kiss to Sansa's forehead. Before he succeeded Sansa turned to him and seized his arm, pulling him down.

"Jaime, don't go, stay here. Lie by my side, why would you be going to that lonely chamber of yours?"

Jaime threw a look at Sandor who started to get up. If Sansa wanted Jaime tonight, fine, he could live with that. It was not as if he had expected to do more than sleep, and maybe hold her head above a basin if indeed she started to feel queasy. He had rarely seen Sansa as intoxicated as she was now; she usually drank only in moderation. He actually found it very amusing but concluded that this was not the right time to tell Sansa that. Mayhap afterwards he could tease her at will.

Before he had fully risen, Sansa's hold on his arm tightened.

"You too, don't go anywhere! Why don't we all just lie here? It would be like the good old times." She pouted, her pretty little mouth pressed into a firm bud. "Or maybe not so good, with all the tribulations, not knowing what awaited us in Winterfell." Then she brightened. "But here we are now and all is well and we can only think of the good times! I never felt so safe as when I was sleeping with you two, so don't leave me now…"

Again Sandor searched Jaime's eyes and meeting them, they considered each other for a moment. Finally, as if by design, they shrugged their shoulders almost simultaneously. Why in hells not? If the little bird wants us both to guard her sleep, that's what we are going to do.

Sandor got up, fetched the wash basin from a side table – just in case – and removed his boots and tunic. He slipped under the covers, noticing Jaime helping Sansa loosen the laces of her dress. She didn't bother to remove it and only sighed contentedly when she reclined back on the bed, both her men by her side.

Crazy little bird, Sandor thought, but felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. As Sansa had said, they had slept together like this countless times before – except that then he had been the one in the middle, not Sansa. He laid himself down, closed his eyes and sleep soon took over him.