The shovels carved away at the blanket of snow in front of the Great Keep, creating an arena for the duel that was soon to begin. As Sansa stood upon the ramparts beside the other nobles of the North and the Vale, she listened to the men, young and old alike, place their bets.

To Sansa, the duel meant everything. But to the others, it was a mummer's act, a joust, a form of mere entertainment.

"A silver stag the Hound yields," Ser Lothor Brune said. "What an oaf to challenge a man with giant's blood."

Lord Yohn Royce guffawed. "The cold has gone to your head, ser. Sandor Clegane is not the sort of man to yield. His moniker is well earned."

"Ten golden dragons Clegane wins," Wylis Manderly announced, sitting atop the ramparts in an oaken chair much too small for his build. "Gareth Umber is a disgrace! A disgrace, I say!"

"Aye!" several of the northmen in the yard below concurred.

"As is the dog!" a northman shoveling snow griped. "Let the Others take him!"

"Watch your tongue, ser," Lady Jonelle said, with ice in her voice. "Sandor Clegane may very well be your liege lord."

The maid of castle Cerwyn turned to her and offered her a sympathetic smile.

Could she know? Sansa wondered. Perhaps it's a woman's intuition.

Despite the vast majority of northmen learning what Gareth Umber said and did when back were turned and ears were too far off in the distance, many rallied behind him, if for nothing else, due to their hatred for Sandor Clegane.

Jon was wrong, Sansa thought. As was Beric. I was supposed to have the support of all of the northmen when I wed Sandor. And if they were wrong about that…

"Lady Sansa cannot wed the Lannister's dog!" another shouted from down below. "He only wants to win her hand so he can pay off his own bounty!"

"Lady Sansa cannot wed a rapist!" Lord Glover passionately argued, though Sansa believed this was due to the fact that he had a son he'd sooner watch become the husband to the Queen in the North. A son younger than even Arya, Sansa thought sourly. "First the Boltons betray the Starks and now the Umbers!"

"Aye! The North has lost its way!" Lord Wylis bellowed. "The North—"

A door slammed, and the first weighty, clanking footstep demanded silence.

Exiting the Guest Keep with his usual swagger, visibly unbothered, was the Lord of the Last Hearth. While many of the men had been eager to denounce the lord for the brute he was in the absence of his presence, Sansa did not hear a single gripe upon his arrival.

They're all afraid of him, Sansa thought. All except Sandor.

To Sansa's dismay, Lord Beric had been right. Not only was Gareth donning a full suit of armor, but once he noisily climbed the stairs to the ramparts and began parading towards her, Sansa discerned the pristine steel plate was thick enough to prevent even the sharpest of blades from puncturing its surface. 'Impenetrable', that's what Arya said. But Sandor was not wrong when he said armor would make him slower, she thought, watching as every clanking step the lord took appeared to take a significant amount of effort.

If the old gods hear my prayers, Gareth Umber will have exhausted himself before the duel even begins.

Underneath his left arm was the largest, ugliest great helm she had ever seen, and in his right hand was the largest, ugliest greatsword to match, bigger than even her late father's stolen and destroyed Valyrian steel sword, Ice.

Heavy, clanking footsteps and shovels carving through snow were the only sounds she heard until the lord came to a halt.

Gareth Umber placed a steel plated hand underneath her chin and craned her head up, not gently. "Your pet mistook your kindness for affection, my queen." The lord's breath smelled of bitter ale. "But fear not, you will not be made to suffer marrying the dog, let alone sharing your bed with the savage."

But I already have, she wanted to say. I shared my bed with him at Castle Cerwyn. I've laid with him more times than I count on two hands. Sansa could feel the warmth collect in her smallclothes from where Sandor's seed was dripping out. She wanted to tell Gareth. She wanted him to know that he would die in vain. But Sansa made a promise, and a Stark's honor was everything.

"Not under any circumstance can Lord Umber know that you've been romantic with Sandor," Jon had said to her inside the solar. "Romantic and...intimate."

Bran, she had thought, shuddering with revulsion. Not only did he watch Sandor and I, but he told Jon.

"Should Lord Umber learn of this," Jon had continued, "he—"

"Will no longer duel Sandor for my hand?" The thought had been intriguing, a cruel temptation. Prophecies are dangerous, she had thought . I'd sooner there be no duel. "And why would that be the least bit awful?"

"Without the duel, on what grounds can we execute Lord Umber?" Just when she had opened her mouth to say something a bit devilish, Jon had quickly added, " Honorably ."

"Gareth Umber spoke of raping me, Jon," she had seethed, her wolf blood coursing through her veins. "This morning when I woke, he was groping me. Yes, you heard me. He would have taken me at Castle Cerwyn, he would have taken me in the snow in front of all his men had it been up to him, all because you and Bran thought you were being so clever!"

That had angered him. That had stirred his own wolf blood. " Clever ? I told you what would have happened if I never sent Lord Umber to the Riverlands!"

"If Bran knew that Gareth was as dishonest as he is vile, why did you have to use Sandor and I to reveal that? Why couldn't you hold council with the lords and—"

"Bran is a twelve, Sansa!" Jon had all but breathed fire from his mouth. "He lived Beyond the Wall for years! Most of the northern lords think he is mad for refusing to be the Lord of Winterfell! They would have never trusted his word to the extent of executing the Greatjon's heir! Not only did betrothing you give Lord Umber a false sense of confidence that will be his downfall, but that treasonous scum will die without you needing to scathe your family name by putting his head on a block for words alone!" Jon had paused for a brief moment to collect himself. That had been the first time she witnessed Jon act nothing like their late lord father. "Everything that happened needed to happen. On the morrow, Sandor will win and the two of you may do as you wish. But until then, Lord Umber cannot know."

Swallowing her rage, she had said, "I'll see Sandor before the duel."

"You cannot."

Sansa had given him a cautious look. "Jon…"

And he had returned it tenfold. "Sansa…"

"The First Keep," she had suggested. "No one will hear, no one will see. Please, Jon."

The bastard of Winterfell had sat there in silence, looking like a grieving father. "The First Keep. Late. But Lord Umber can't—"

"Know." Sansa had kissed Ghost on the top of his head before departing the solar, victorious. "I promise."

I should have never made that promise, she thought, staring at the heinous lord's smug face.

"May you be as strong as you are chivalrous, my lord," said Sansa.

She had never seen a smirk fall quite so fast. By the grace of the old gods, Jon ascended the ramparts before the visibly befuddled lord might have decided to lean down and press his repulsive lips to hers.

"It's time, Lord Umber," Jon said.

"Aye, the sooner it begins, the sooner it ends."

Yes, Sansa prayed. The sooner it ends for you.

Soon after Gareth Umber had departed the ramparts to enter the yard, her younger brother was wheeled in beside her by Meera Reed.

Jon's here and Bran, but where's…

Impassively staring ahead, Bran read her mind and said, "There's Arya."

Sansa's heart fluttered inside her chest as she looked ahead, watching as Sandor strode out into the yard with her little sister who was carrying his longsword for him.

Arya has become his little squire, Sansa thought, giggling to herself. Gareth might find that suspicious if he weren't too simple to notice.

It felt like taking a glimpse into the past, espying Sandor Clegane crossing the yard in a full suit of dark plated armor. As soon as she spotted the dog's head helm underneath his arm, Sansa's sex, still tender and wet, clenched with longing, sparking her to reflect on their intimate moment from a little over an hour ago.

Inside the empty First Keep upon donning his helm, Sandor had taken her from behind with a voraciousness that lit her soul aflame. While on her hands and knees, Sandor had dominated her in the raunchiest, most provocative of ways, and had done so under the guise of the Hound.

The very helm that once frightened me has now become my muse.

The mere thought stiffened her nipples.

Sansa had looked over her shoulder with a perverse eagerness as he took her from behind, relishing the sight of him wearing the iconic steel — and naught else. The firelight from the brazier had accentuated every sculpted muscle in his body, delivering her the most deviant of visual pleasures. His guttural moans of pleasure had echoed inside his helm, and then echoed again inside the hollow tower. The sound alone had been enough to make her peak. Once she had felt the Hound start to spill inside her, Sansa had dropped her head onto the ground and surrendered to her own riveting release.

And then they had done it again, that time with Sansa on top. Had there not been any duel, Sandor might have taken her in every possible position with his helm on.

Sansa bit her lip. Oh, that helm…

A hand touched her shoulder, startling her.

"Lord Beric," Sansa greeted, praying she did not appear too flushed. "Forgive me, I was lost in my thoughts."

"There is nothing for me to forgive, Lady Sansa." He smiled, but something about the way he looked troubled her. "I only wanted to bid you good morning before I join the others in the yard."

"You are more than welcome to watch from the ramparts."

"The yard is better suited for me, my lady." Beric Dondarrion kissed her hand before departing. As he descended the steps, Sansa returned her gaze to Sandor and was left to wonder what he meant by that.

On the eve of violence, Sansa took a moment to appreciate the tranquility of the weather. A light snow was falling, a pleasant breeze was blowing, and the clouds parted just enough to permit the morning rays of sun into the shoveled arena, illuminating the contest about to take place before her. Sansa stared at the winter sun until her eyes could take no more, then looked out into the yard.

Fully armored with their swords at the ready, Sansa's two suitors awaited the signal to commence. When none came, their impatience sparked a different sort of bout, one of callous banter.

"A comely morning to put down a disobedient dog," Gareth said, his deep voice even deeper inside his grotesque helm. "I hope you savored your last waking hour, Hound."

"Oh, I savored it." Sandor's words were tinged with malice. "I savored it twice."

Sansa's chest flushed red, as mutters passed through the thick crowd encircling the yard. Off in the distance, a group of wildings roared with laughter.

Jon released a heavy exhale, then took a step forward. "Lord Umber, you have accepted Sandor Clegane's challenge to duel for my sister's hand, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. Before the duel commences, I must ask, do either of you wish to yield?"

Gareth gave a quick, mirthless laugh. "Not I, but perhaps the dog might have come to his senses."

Sandor Clegane stood there and tapped the earth with his sword, wordless.

"Very well, then. The duel will conclude upon the first man's concession, or the first man's death."

And that will be yours, Gareth Umber, Sansa thought, scowling.

"And the victor, whomever that shall be, may wed the lady, as honor demands," Jon added, brooding.

An unintelligible uproar in the crowd ensued, instigated by those words, and the raucous outcries served as the signal for the duel to commence.

When the first swing came down, the northern winds wailed.

Sandor parried Gareth's blow without a second's hesitation, followed by delivering his own. Gareth blocked the attack with a thunderous grunt and lifted his sword once again. Hack and slash and thrust and slice, there was not a moment's rest. Each time their swords met Sansa gripped onto the railing tighter, and when Gareth's sword landed a cut against Sandor's side, prompting the audience to curse and gasp and shout, she nearly fell right over.

Sandor swiftly took several paces back and glanced down to inspect the damage. There was a deep dent from the blow, but his armor remained intact.

"You'd be dead were it not for that armor, dog!" Gareth taunted. He began to circle the yard, audibly panting.

He's exhausted, Sansa realized with hidden glee.

Rather than take the opportunity to circle his opponent and catch his breath, Sandor lumbered ahead and met the lord, landing a fierce cut to his chest. Despite his sword slicing across the surface of Gareth's breastplate, producing a harsh, teeth-jarring noise that screamed over the crowd's growing clamor, the attack produced little more than a superficial scratch.

Sansa's hands became limp atop the railing, unable to believe her eyes.

Arya was right. He's impenetrable.

"Were it not for your armor, you'd be dead, too, you slow stupid giant bastard."

The jeer fueled Gareth's rage, prompting the swords to resume their dance with unabating ferocity. Every swing and counterattack was accompanied by a sharp grunt or a muffled curse, tainting the pleasant wintry air with a poisonous energy. The clangor of swords endured for some unknown length of time before the unexpected happened; with one great matched blow, Sandor Clegane and Gareth Umber lost control of their weapons. The crowd responded with a gasp, but Sansa couldn't even manage that in her state of sickened shock. In opposite directions, the two swords crashed into the earth and rested uselessly in the thickening sheet of snow.

Neither man went to pick up his steel, but rather went for the other's head. The duel with swords had become a brawl with fists, punching and seizing and grappling and tugging. Although Gareth was slower, he had the weight advantage, and tackled Sandor down onto the ground, pinning his chest to the ground with one massive knee. The lord's hands seized either side of Sandor's helm, then yanked the once.

Upon the sight of Sandor's hair sprawling out across the pale snow like a thousand thin shadows, Sansa felt her blood run cold.

"There's the dog!" Gareth exclaimed with a nasty chortle, throwing the helm that had become her muse into the boisterous crowd. He swung his fist in an arc to plant it in Sandor's face, but before it could land, Sandor stopped it with both hands, twisted, and contorted the lord's arm. Gareth groaned in pain as his knee slid off Sandor's armor, losing his foothold, and fell over onto his side.

And then came an exhilarating sight. Sandor shot up from the ground and placed Gareth into a chokehold, ripping off the great helm one-handed and hurling it into the audience. He's no longer impenetrable, Sansa thought, watching the lord's face grow scarlet with fury and exertion, but neither is Sandor.

Rather than return to a grappling position, Sandor kicked in the back of the lord's knee and turned in the opposite direction to retrieve his sword. Gareth was slow easing himself onto his feet, but found his steel all the same. While he managed to get his sword up in time to parry Sandor's first swing, the lord was not as fortunate with the second; Sandor's low, crooked cut seeped the point of his blade into the space between Gareth's greaves.

The snow beneath Gareth's right leg reddened, and the crowd grew wild once again.

Sandor pulled his sword out just in time to take a pace back, avoiding a sloppy attack from a frenzied Lord Umber. The sweating, panting men stood ten feet apart, helmless, armor glinting in the sun, and then the lord began to circle the yard with a limp.

"Bloody hard to bed your bride with one good knee," Gareth seethed.

Sandor spat rich color into the snow and matched the lord's pace. "You don't need to worry about that, Umber."

Gareth halted with a perturbing grin. "Right you are, dog. We both saw how well the lady rides a horse." His giant fists were choking the hilt of his sword. "I'll lay there and let her bed me."

Sansa felt a stab of pain in her gut. It was clear to her what the lord's intentions were. Gareth can no longer rush at him, so he'll provoke Sandor to get him close enough to…

Just as Sandor made to charge across the yard, Sansa leaned over the railing and shouted louder than all the rest, "SANDOR, DON'T!"

The two words left her, never to be unsaid, never to be unheard, and every eye in the yard lifted to focus on her.

The Lord of the Last Hearth was the last to face the ramparts, but once he did, his eyes were piercing into her own, as sharp as his sword's edge. "It appears that another Stark has betrayed the North," Gareth declared. "Ned Stark sacrificed northern lives traveling south, Robb Stark sacrificed northern lives thinking with his cock, and now our very own lady, our queen, means to sacrifice more by sharing her cunt with the Lannister's dog!"

The silence lingering inside the fortress ended, replaced by utter mayhem.

Jon had unsheathed his steel beside her, as did northmen and valemen all throughout the yard. That time when she shouted, Sandor did not hear, or perhaps he did hear and only refused to listen. Ripping up the snow beneath his feet, he stormed forward and swung his steel at the giant beast. Gareth quickly parried, even on his weakened leg, and the swords returned to hacking at one another noisily, composing the Stranger's song. And interspersed between the cuts and the blows and the stumbling of feet was a second duel — a duel of words.

"For each time you stuck your cock into what was mine, I'll slice your bloody throat!"

Sandor gave an impish laugh. "You'd be slicing all day, Umber."

The distance between the men vanished, and for the hundredth time that morning, the air rang with the mournful cry of clashing swords. Gareth was slower than Sandor, much slower, and the angrier he became, the less skilled that he was. Gareth's injured pride was wielding his sword, not his training. Sansa smiled. The duel had become a battle of who was the quickest, and Sandor was quicker. For every hack, Sandor parried it. For every stab, Sandor shifted away just in time. All she saw, all she heard, was the two men fighting to the death in the yard below, and Sandor was winning.

Suddenly, Sansa felt something touch her hand and, acting on instinct, lowered her eyes.

Bran had placed his frail leather-clad hand on top of hers, as gentle as the morning snow.

In that one second, if it had even been a second at all, the sound of men yelping, flesh ripping, bone cracking, steel splitting, and earth crumbling polluted the air. The sea of onlookers gasped in unison, stealing away the last of the pleasant air.

Sansa was suffocating, and her eyes shot up.

The Lord of the Last Hearth had collapsed onto his back, unmoving, a giant, massive beast deposited in the middle of the yard. From his temple down to his chin, Gareth Umber's face had been carved open so deeply that Sansa could see the paleness of bone.

Several feet away, Sandor had fallen down onto one knee, facing away from the ramparts. With the assistance of his sword, he anchored the wet, bloody point into the ground and pulled himself up to standing. As he gingerly turned around, Sansa noticed that he was clutching his abdomen.

And then, before she could rejoice, Sandor Clegane fell.

Sansa darted towards the stairs, insensible to the bodies she was crashing into along the way. Jostling her way through knights and nobles alike, Sansa descended the stairs in a blur of perpetual motion. The spectators in the yard cleared a path for her as she approached, silent enough for her to hear the pulse roaring inside her ears.

Sansa sprinted into the snow-dusted, blood-splattered arena and threw herself onto the ground beside Sandor. The front of his armor was carved open much like Gareth Umber's face, jagged and deep, with a river of blood spilling through the crevice.

"Oh, no, no, no," Sansa vocalized. She placed her trembling hands to where the steel had been split open and pressed down to close the gap. It was no good. The more she pressed, the quicker the blood seeped out. And the quicker the blood seeped out…

"You won, Sandor," she breathed. Sansa removed her bloody hands from the damaged steel and took his languid hand in hers, shaking. "You won."

Sandor clutched his stomach with his other arm and chuckled. The sound of it dripped with agony. "Say it, little bird...go on."

"Say what?"

"You said I could get hurt." He grimaced. "I should have...known to listen to a clever little bird like you."

Something warm began to creep onto her legs. Sansa looked down and discovered that she was sitting in a growing crimson puddle of Sandor's blood.

Prophecies are dangerous...prophecies are dangerous...prophecies are —

"Look at me," he whispered.

Though Sansa could not see him beyond her burning tears, she did.

"You're all I want to see before I die."

"Y- you're not….dying," she sobbed. Sansa wiped the tears from her eyes and peered down. She could see it now. Inside the split armor, Sansa could see his entrails. "You'll be all right, the maester—"

"Don't," he groaned. "Don't lie to me...not you."

He hates liars. Sansa wept harder. "I won't."

"Do you remember...that game?"

A few steps away, standing beside Gareth Umber's corpse, Jon shouted to the crowd, "Take him away! His corpse must needs be burned before he reawakens."

Sansa quivered. "W- Which game? We've played so many."

Sandor laughed feebly. "Aye. The one where you hid from me in the woods."

"Yes, I remember."

"I saw you within seconds. You were so...bloody terrible at that game." They both sobbed a laugh, and then he groaned. "But I didn't want it to end. I hid and...watched you look for me. Gods...you looked so beautiful. You always look so...innocent. You're so bloody innocent."

She collapsed into tears. He only ever knew me as innocent. Sansa lowered her head to kiss his lips, tasting the blood that had dried there, and brushed away the hair that stuck to the sweat on his face.

"Little bird."

"Yes?"

Seconds had passed, and all without a response. Sansa lifted her head an inch and found that he had closed his eyes.

"Sandor." Her voice broke. Sansa cupped either side of his face and brushed his scars with her thumb. "I don't like this game," she found herself saying, kissing his parted lips, licking his motionless tongue. "Three dogs on a yellow field…House Clegane," Sansa wept. "Let's play that game instead, Sandor. I- I don't like this game...I don't—"

Sansa blinked and his face was no longer in her hands. She was being pulled away.

"Let me go!" She didn't need to glance behind her to know who it was. Sansa looked up and saw Arya across the yard crying into Gendry's shoulder. "Jon, don't! You can't!"

"Carry him away," Jon Snow ordered the silent crowd. "Take him with Umber."

"No! You can't burn him!" Sansa screamed. "He hates fire! He—"

Delirious with grief, Sansa pulled herself loose from Jon's grip. With one vicious swing of her hand, Sansa slapped her bastard brother across the face. Just as frantically, Sansa scurried to where Sandor Clegane laid in the snow, discovering that Beric was kneeled down just beside him.

Sansa tossed herself on top of Sandor's body and clutched her arms around his steel plated torso, placing her mouth just beside his. The scars made by fire were cold as ice. "Don't touch him!"

"Lady Sansa, it's time," said Beric, calmly. "The northmen have seen what they needed to see. You need to let go."

"I'd sooner die!"

"No, my lady. I will."

Her sobbing paused all at once. Sansa regarded the lord. "What?"

"Seven lives is six too many, Lady Sansa, and the Lord of Light has need of him now, not me. When he wakes, tell him it was R'hllor who brought him back." His lips turned up in a smile — a genuine smile.

He is eager to die, Sansa knew. He is ready to truly die.

Sansa slid off Sandor's body, but kept herself nuzzled against his side. Beric Dondarrion was not speaking in the Common Tongue. The words sounded rich and ancient, a chant written by a god. As her ears listened to the string of foreign words, her eyes were fixed on Sandor's face; she dared not even blink. Sansa ran her finger in circles over his cheek, traced the profile of his nose, memorizing every detail should Beric's prayer not work.

Sansa dissolved into tears again, despite herself, and closed her eyes. "I'll never wed, Sandor," she whispered into his ear. "I'll never lay with another man. I'll never...I'll never forget you." She repeated it over and over, her own heartfelt chant in tandem with Beric's. "I'll never wed. I'll never have children," she sobbed. "I'll never wed, not ever. I'll never have children. I'll—"

The louder of the chants ceased, and then something hit the earth. Sansa lifted her head and found Lord Beric Dondarrion resting lifeless in the snow, at peace at last.

"You will wed, little bird."

Her heart reawoke. Had she been standing, she might have fainted. Once she lowered her gaze onto the man beneath her, Sansa was met with two grey watchful eyes.

"Oh."

"You'll wed me." Sandor Clegane licked his dry, cracked lips, then pulled her in for the liveliest of kisses. "And I'm giving you a castle full of children."