The bastard stared out the window of the solar, displeased and brooding, looking like some king scrutinizing a crowd of outraged peasants in the yard below.

The albino beast sitting beside Jon Snow bared its teeth and growled, not at Sandor, but in the direction of the latched door where Gareth Umber stood on the opposite side, grouching away.

"I don't want that dog near my queen, do you hear me, Snow?" the Lord of the Last Hearth thundered. "Lock him in the cells until the duel! If he touches my—"

Snapping his head towards the door, Jon said, "Lord Umber, enough! I will send my steward for you when I am finished speaking with Clegane!"

"You're fucking dead, Hound!" When Gareth slammed a fist against the ironwood door, Ghost sprinted towards it and took on a predatory stance. "The north remembers!"

As the stomping footsteps retreated, the bastard eyed him much like the little she-wolf would when she couldn't stand the sight of him and returned to peer out the window, unspeaking.

Sandor stood against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, listening to the familiar clamor of steel meeting steel and hammers crashing against anvils coming from the yard. While waiting for the bastard to speak, he thought of Sansa and how horrified she looked when he challenged Gareth Umber to a duel.

How was I supposed to wait for her to speak with the bastard? Even Beric suggested that I wait, but how could I when that giant fucker was one minute away from raping her this morning?

The sight of her shaking her head, silently begging him not to kill the lord who had his hand on her bare thigh, was all that saved him from making that fatal mistake. It was much like my dream, he thought, shuddering at the memory. And had I arrived one minute later...

"I used to think being a bastard was the worst thing one could be in this world, but I was wrong. There's something worse."

Sensing the insinuation, Sandor snorted. "Let me guess: being a Clegane?"

Jon Snow turned from the window. "Being a woman."

Fuck the gods, this one is a poetic talker just like Beric. "What are you going on about?"

Turning towards the thin, dour man preoccupied with a mug of ale in the corner of the solar, Jon said, "Edd, find Wylis Manderly and bring him here."

"Will do, so long as I don't need to carry the lord," the steward from the Night's Watch muttered into his cup as he stood from the chair. "If I had a coin to bet, I'd bet it on me finding him yabbering in the Great Hall. And eating. Yabbering and eating. I'll look for him there."

Once left alone with the bastard and his pet, the poetic talk continued, much to Sandor's frustration. "What is the scratch of a blade compared to the pain women face birthing a child? What is our fear before battle compared to a woman's dread laying with a man she doesn't love?" Jon Snow paused to release a sigh. "The world is not fair to women. Expectations are set for them that no man could ever abide by — remain chaste, remain courteous, remain obedient, and when the time comes, wed a man who has only ever done the opposite, let him into your bed, willingly or not..." Jon enthroned himself behind his desk and clasped his hands together atop a blank parchment. Quite unexpectedly, he asked, "How many women have you raped?"

"Not one."

"How many have you killed?"

Sandor hesitated. "However many the Lannisters needed me to kill."

"How many outside of your duty?"

"None."

The bastard leaned back in his chair slowly with unyielding scrutiny. "Sansa always had a trusting nature, but I see something in her now that I didn't before — the North. Although she favors her mother, Sansa is as Stark as our late brother, Robb, as Stark as our sister, Arya; she is a northern woman, a northern lady, and, soon, she will be a northern queen. But before all else, she is my little sister." Jon looked at him with a piercing stare. "She's my blood."

Growing impatient, Sandor said, "I'm hearing words come out your mouth and not one is making a lick of sense."

"The world is cruel to women, Clegane, and it has been more than cruel to Sansa. I'll not see my sister suffer any longer."

Sandor chuckled with contempt. "You don't want to see her suffer any longer so you promised her hand to Gareth fucking Umber?"

"I did."

He furrowed his brow at the bastard. "Are you blind or as thick as a bloody aurochs? Umber is no better than those useless cunts who were sent to you at the Wall!"

"I know."

"You know?" he roared, ripping himself away from the wall. "And you promised him your sister's hand?" The direwolf bared its teeth as he approached, but Sandor was too enraged to heed the threat.

"I had no choice," Jon said sternly.

"You did have a choice!"

The bastard erupted from his chair, shouting, "Not if I wanted to keep her alive!"

Sandor halted in place, suddenly feeling sick. "What the bloody hell do you mean by that?"

Jon commanded his wolf to stand down and returned to his seat. "Our brother, Bran, has a gift, an ability. I don't fully understand it, but he can revisit the past, he can observe what is happening presently, and…" Jon trailed off and gestured towards the chairs in front of him. Though Sandor preferred to stand, it became clear that the bastard would not continue until he was seated. Once he was, Jon added, "And Bran can see things that have yet to happen."

First it was Beric and Thoros with their flames, and now the Stark boy has visions of his own. "And what is it the boy saw?"

Jon drew in a long breath. "Bran didn't just tell me Sansa was alone in the Vale. He was the one who told me to send Lord Umber. He was the one who advised me to promise him her hand."

Dumbfounded, Sandor sat there and listened to the array of noises coming from the yard. "A child gave her hand away," was all he could say.

"To save her life."

"How the fuck does her marrying him save her life?"

"Sansa will never marry him," Jon said with conviction.

Suspecting a mutual hatred for the giant northern lord, Sandor leaned back in his chair and considered the bastard, intrigued. "You lied to Umber, then, is that it? I thought you were supposed to be honorable."

"I didn't lie," Jon said, almost defensively. "I knew the risk, but I trusted my brother."

"So why send Umber? Why promise him her hand?"

"Had Lord Umber not traveled to the Riverlands with the promise of a bride, the northmen would have never seen him for what he is."

He rubbed his temples. "Spare me the vague horse shite and make your buggering point."

Jon gave him a dire look. "Here's my point, the clearest I can make it, Clegane: If Sansa returned with only you by her side, there would be nothing that she, Arya, nor myself could say to keep the northmen from killing you. With you dead, Sansa would have wedded Gareth Umber, who would have still had the support of every man and woman in the north. And once wedded...Sansa would die birthing his son."

Sandor's chest grew tight to the point of breathlessness. In a stupor, he said, "The boy saw her…"

"Die," Jon brooded. "And I did what was necessary to prevent that. I did what Bran said to do whether I understood it or not. You heard how the northmen rallied out there for Lord Umber. Well, it won't be like that on the morrow. Take a moment to think about the men I sent along with him — two men pledged to each noble northern house. That was not mere coincidence. Now not one lord nor lady will be able to refuse to believe the truth."

"What truth?"

"That Gareth Umber deserves to die in the duel." Jon Snow reached across the desk and grabbed a charred rasher of bacon from the plate. When he tossed it onto the floor, his wolf attacked it with a ferociousness unlike any Sandor had ever seen. "And you don't."

The door to the solar swung open just then, and the pessimistic steward returned along with the fleshy son of the even fleshier Lord Manderly.

A rush of cool air entered along with them, chilling the sweat that had collected on the back of Sandor's neck.

"By gods, you have no shortage of steps in this castle, Lord Commander," Wylis Manderly puffed out. "Little wonder your father kept so lean."

Jon gestured towards the chair beside Sandor. "Lord Wylis, please sit."

The lord collapsed into the chair, causing the wooden legs to creak. While wiping the sweat off his brow with a food stained cloth, the lord surveyed him and said, "So, a Clegane is in our midst." A breathy laugh followed. "Better you than your brother."

Jon gave a short sigh. "Lord Wylis, what do your men say?"

"Ah, I'm afraid that your ill-timed reservations hold merit." Wylis folded his hands on top of his belly. "Gareth Umber is a disgrace to his family name."

Sandor could not trust his ears. The northmen are turning on him.

"Relay to me what was said," Jon commanded.

The heir to White Harbor hesitated for a moment. "If these men tell it true, which I hold no doubt, Lord Umber spoke of taking Lady Sansa by force on more than one occasion. Disgraceful, absolutely disgraceful. I have two daughters of my own, you know."

The bastard opened and closed his sword hand atop the desk. "Continue."

"He spoke ill of your brother, worse of your father, and said things about the lady that I dare not repeat to her kin." Wylis shook his chins frivolously. "A proud northman he may be, but Lord Umber has little love for the Starks. Apparently he feels that he is owed a debt for the loss of his brother and father, a debt that you've paid back with the hand of Lady Sansa."

"That will not be happening," Jon said coolly. "Once Lord Umber retires for the night, we'll hold a private meeting with the other northern lords and ladies. The less support he has on the morrow, the better."

Wylis turned his head an inch to regard Sandor. "But my men spoke highly of you. When I heard that raucous outside, that you mean to duel for the lady's hand, I was so shocked that I nearly choked on my food! Northmen do not have short memories. Who you were and what you've done will never be forgotten. But, neither will it be forgotten how you protected the lady."

"Will you accept him as your liege lord?" asked Jon.

Manderly coughed a laugh. "I've gone mad, haven't I? Aye, after hearing my men tell it, I will. He's better than the Imp, better than that upjumped squire from the Vale, and better than a man who speaks of raping the very daughter of Eddard Stark, referring to her as a broodmare!" He shook his chins again. "What an absolute disgrace to his family name."

"Will there be no duel on the morrow, then?" the steward chimed in with a huff. "Well there goes my last hope for entertainment before the Others tear me into pieces."

"Oh, I'm dueling him," Sandor exclaimed. "Even if every northern lord scorns the fucker."

Jon nodded. "As you must. Honor demands—"

"Bugger your honor. That's not why I'm killing him."

"I hope you're as good with a sword as they say, Clegane," Wylis muttered, stroking his mustache. "The Umbers may seem simple in the head, but they're deadly in combat."

"The duel is to the death?" Edd scratched his head, peering out the window. "That's a high price for a lady's hand. That's a high price for a lady's anything."

"It need not be to the death, but Gareth Umber is not a man you want left alive after stealing away his bride," Wylis Manderly explained. "I heard a rumor once that Gareth spent a fortnight tracking down some lad for having laid with a whore he meant to claim. They say that once Gareth found him, he tied the lad up in his home, took his own wife in front of him, then paid her a penny afterwards. Although he denies it, I no longer doubt the tale like I once did before. Come to think of it, not even his father would comment on it."

I knew Umber was a sick bastard, Sandor thought, but I didn't know he could contend with my own bloody brother.

"Was the wife a whore, too?" Edd asked.

"No, she wasn't a whore!"

Jon hit the desk with a clenched fist, knocking over an unlit tallow candle. "That will be enough!" He took a deep breath. "Edd, Lord Wylis, leave us."

It took two minutes for Wylis Manderly to rise from his seat and depart the solar. Once alone with the bastard again, a pensive silence lingered. While Jon scratched his wolf's fur and brooded, Sandor found himself returning into a stupor, unable to do anything besides listen to the sounds coming from the open window: men cursing and laughing, swords striking, hammers clanking against anvils.

He would have given anything to hear Sansa's voice or her laugh...

Or her moan, he thought. My wife…

Just when his thoughts were becoming immensely vulgar, the bastard said, "I'm placing you in the Guard's Hall tonight."

Sandor shook his head. "Too far."

Jon gave him a warning look. "Surely you don't expect to be in the same tower as Sansa, let alone in the same bedchamber."

"Surely you know her and I..."

The bastard's face turned as white as his wolf's coat. "Bran never mentioned that," he muttered to himself. "Gods…"

The boy must not be as all-knowing as he claims, Sandor thought.

"What did he mention, then?"

Jon wiped his hands down his face. With a long exhale, he said, "Only that you and Sansa love one another."

That created another silence.

Fuck. Sansa's not like to thank me for revealing that I've been lifting up her skirts.

Remembering the lie he had told Umber about skirts and proper ladies, Sandor eyed the wolf staring at him from across the desk and changed the subject. "I don't trust Umber, not for one bloody second."

"Lord Umber will stay in the Guest Keep tonight, not in the Great Keep."

"Umber has two long legs that can take him to the Great Keep."

"I'll post guards outside her bedchamber…several."

"Do you think I trust them?" Sandor scoffed. "They may not be as cruel as Umber, but if you heard how they speak of her, you'd have your wolf rip out their tongues."

Ghost perked up and tilted his head.

"If I did that, the North would be full of mutes," Jon sighed. "I'll guard Sansa's bedchamber tonight after I meet with the northern lords."

Although he would have sooner had the bastard yield to letting him sleep with her, Sandor gave a curt nod.

Better him shield her door than men who dream of sniffing her cunt.

Jon rose from the desk and approached the window to close the shutters. Even then Sandor could hear the men and the swords and the hammers, every sound from everything and everyone, except for Sansa.

"Before Lord Umber left Winterfell to search for Sansa, Bran assured me that you'd protect her," Jon began. "He also assured me that you will win the duel on the morrow, meaning my honor will demand that I allow you to wed my sister. But make no mistake, Clegane." The bastard turned around to face him with his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, a pommel of pale stone, carved in the shape of a wolf's head. "If you make Sansa suffer more than she already has, not even my honor can save you."

In Winterfell, inside the Guard's Hall, Sandor awoke to a dark, chilly room.

Not yet first light, he thought miserably, lifting up an inch to look out the open window. Snow was falling, as delicate as Sansa's touch. He threw his head back atop the pillow and groaned. Not yet time to kill Gareth bloody Umber.

The persistent hammering that had been coming from the smithy had stopped, he realized. Sandor had half a mind to kill the men who had been working so late in the night. If they were still there, he might have actually done it. Despite knowing that the northmen would turn on one of their own lords, despite knowing that he would win the duel, Sandor's mood was foul, at best. With every minute spent separate from Sansa Stark, his mood worsened like some ruthless winter storm.

I haven't seen the little bird since our arrival, he thought, shifting irritably in the bed. Gods, is she upset with me for challenging Umber without allowing her to speak to the bastard first? Does she know that I foolishly informed him I've been lifting up her skirts? Will I at least have the chance to see her before the duel?

Lying on his back, staring up into the darkness, Sandor imagined her. He thought of the way her thighs looked on top of his when she straddled him, how her hands would press against his chest as she rode his cock, how she would toss her head back once she reached that pinnacle of pleasure…

A minute had gone by and all of his blood rushed south.

Much like the journey to the North had started, Sandor lowered his trousers and stroked himself to those vivid thoughts, no longer contrived from pure fantasy, but authentic memories of the times he fucked her.

And he let those thoughts run wild.

Just as Sandor was imagining her bending over on the bed to let him shove his face in her arse, a loud clunk and thud came from beside his door.

Fuck the gods, he thought, as Sansa and his climax drifted away. Fuck them all.

When a knock came, Sandor resentfully slid up his trousers and snatched open the door, dropping his eyes to observe his short visitor.

I should have known.

"What bloody time is it?"

Arya's hair was a fright. "Late...early." She rubbed her eyes and kicked the bag she had dropped onto the floor. "Here, take it."

Sandor picked up the bag, cracking a smile once he realized what it was inside. "So, the she-wolf has brought me armor."

Yawning, she said, "A full suit. It should fit. My friend Gendry didn't have to start from scratch. I was with him while he salvaged it; I guess someone as tall as you died during the battle against the Boltons."

He dumped the bag's contents out onto the bed. Using the little of the light that seeped into the bedchamber from the corridor, Sandor inspected the steel plate armor, nearly as dark as what he wore in King's Landing. There were scratches on its surface and dents that had been repaired, though many had been too large to remove in its entirety. But, flaws and all, it was certainly like to fit. He thought of hugging the little she-wolf until he noticed a key piece missing.

"A full suit, eh?" Sandor glanced over at her and discovered that she was sitting on the floor, half asleep. "Where's the helm?"

"In the First Keep," Arya said, rolling her sleepy eyes, "with my sister."

He found her inside the empty, abandoned round drum tower — Winterfell's ancient, unused First Keep.

Sansa Stark sat beside a warmly lit brazier with furs wrapped around her shoulders, enveloping her entire body. Her hair cascaded down her back in brilliant auburn waves, providing the most strikingly beautiful of contrasts against the jet black fur.

So much for the bastard shielding her door, he thought bitterly. Here she is, alone, and without a guard in sight. The thought of Gareth Umber finding her like this made his stomach clench.

Without taking her eyes away the flames as he stalked towards her, Sansa said, "The Hound."

The name sounded foreign coming from her, echoing inside the hollow tower much like when they had been inside that cave south of the Neck. "...Hound...Hound...Hound…"

"Little bird."

"Does it anger you when people call you that?"

Sandor took one last step and towered over her. "No."

Eyes blazing with the flames, Sansa glanced up at him, as if confirming the truth of that answer. The sight of her sitting there beneath him, staring at those blue eyes that were as innocent as they were longing, stiffened his cock in mere seconds.

Sansa's eyes dropped, stopping when they met the bulge that she had created inside his trousers. A shy smile turned up on her lips as she returned her gaze to the brazier.

"Years ago, you rode in the south gate with King Robert's retinue wearing a helm shaped in a snarling dog's head. I was terrified of it. 'That's the Hound,' I heard my brothers whisper to each other. Even Arya had heard of you. But not me. I only ever cared for stories of gallant knights and lords and princes; you were unlike anything I had ever seen. And then I watched you take off your helm. I knew it was discourteous, but I couldn't bring myself to look at you." Sansa's eyes lifted and bored deeply into his own. "But then there came a time I couldn't stop looking.

"In the Vale, I had dreams about you," she confessed. "I would wake up and think, 'I wish the Hound were here' and wonder what had become of you after you left King's Landing. As I grew older, I would wake from those dreams and pleasure myself. Many times I took your Kingsguard cloak from where I kept it hidden and held it to my face as I touched myself so I could pretend that you were there with me. When I heard that you died, I touched myself that night and cried for hours afterwards. The night of my wedding with Harry, I closed my eyes and imagined that it was you taking my maidenhead. And I did that every time after. I would imagine that it was the Hound inside me, not him."

The string of confessions left him rabid with lust. Just when he made to fuck her senseless inside that hollow tower, Sansa sat up straighter and the furs slipped off her shoulders.

Underneath, she was as naked as her nameday. And in her bare lap, covering her cunt from his eager eyes, was his helm.

As overcome with awe as he was with desire, Sandor kneeled down before her. "Where did you get this?"

"I gave Arya's friend a sketch of your helm from memory," she said, seductively grazing the steel with her fingers. "It's not a perfect replica, but it's your helm all the same."

Some of the details were off, he noticed, as were some of the proportions, but it was his helm — a snarling hound's head, freshly forged, glinting in the firelight.

And Sansa Stark remembered it.

His eyes met her breasts before they lifted onto her face. With one vicious tug, Sandor yanked her arm, tasting the sweetness of her tongue before dawn would break.

She pulled her mouth away and pressed the helm against his chest. "See if it fits."

He grabbed a handful of her hair, demanding that her lips return to his. "If I put that on, I won't be able to kiss you, little bird."

"I don't want you to kiss me in it," Sansa said, in that final hour before first light, in that final hour before the duel. "I want you to fuck me in it."