Hiding in my own Godswood.

Sansa Stark sat on a felled log, deep in the Godswood, far from the glass gardens and the Heart Tree, in hopes that she would not be found. She felt like a child again, running away to avoid something that she did not wish to face. Ironically, she had rarely hidden from unpleasant duties as a child; hiding from unpleasant social situations had been more Arya's practice, but just now she was in no mood to be courted. She toyed with the end of her long braid, wondering how long she could keep this up without someone finding her.

Perhaps I should have gone for a long ride instead.

Sansa almost laughed at the desperation of her own thoughts. First, there was no way she would go unnoticed in the stables. Second, she was truly a weak rider and staying gone all day was not something she could commit to. She would have been seen, too, if she had tried to get away to the winter town for an extended period of time.

I could have hidden in the brothel, she thought, knowing that it was the last place anyone would look for her.

This was all Jon's fault, really. Though it was Rickon who was called Lord Stark, the youngest of her siblings cared little for lordship. He was fourteen years old - old enough that he should be taking his responsibilities more seriously if he'd had a normal childhood, but he hadn't, so Jon and Sansa tended to overlook much of his immaturity and had hope that he would still grow into his role one day. But for now, their bastard brother Jon Snow was assisting him.

Though he isn't our brother by blood or a bastard at all. She pushed those thoughts away. His birth name and the circumstances surrounding it mattered little now that Jon had made his choice to be who he'd always been – Ned Stark's bastard.

Except now, Jon was acting like a lord when Rickon fell short of the task; not least by suggesting that she should marry. He tried to handle the marriage issue delicately by gently prodding at her in an attempt to ascertain her plan.

"You're a young maiden, Sansa," he would say, giving her an apologetic look. "The amount of ravens we receive regarding a marriage with you is astounding. Do you not want children?"

Sansa had always found a polite way to change the subject, though it was beginning to wear on her. Sansa didn't think that Jon would ever make her choose, or worse, choose for her, but she knew that the barrage of inquiries regarding her hand was fraying his nerves. And now, to make matters worse, suitors were beginning to visit Winterfell to meet the most eligible unmarried woman in the North, and possibly the Seven Kingdoms.

Twenty-two years old, married twice, and still a maiden. If it weren't causing her so much annoyance lately, the situation would have made her laugh. Tyrion had never touched her and she had only seen him once since the wars had ended, at which time he had released her officially from the marriage with the assistance of the High Septon. Her second marriage, which technically took place before her annulment, may have never been legal in the first place. In any case, Harry had gotten too drunk at their wedding feast and then promptly picked a fight with the wrong person. He'd been mortally wounded and took days in dying, thus leaving that marriage unconsummated as well.

The sound of a throat being cleared startled Sansa so badly that she leapt off the log and nearly tripped on her skirts. Once she had righted herself, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment, she looked up to find her sworn shield standing not ten feet away, looking at her with something like amusement threatening to contort his usual stoic features.

Sansa stood up straight and lifted her chin, desperately trying to regain the appearance of grace and elegance. Her words to him didn't reflect that though. "What is it?" She said rudely.

Sandor Clegane's deep rumble of a laugh made her roll her eyes and she gave him a glare as he came to stand next to her.

"Little bird," he said, almost affectionately, "why are you hiding in the woods?"

Sansa bent to brush some invisible dirt off her skirts to avoid meeting his eyes. "I needed some peace and quiet, which you just happened to interrupt, ser."

His grey eyes narrowed at her and she felt a bit of triumphant joy at knowing exactly which tender spots to poke at to harmlessly annoy him. She smiled serenely at him, utterly ignoring his look, which she was sure he thought was terribly ferocious and frightening. She supposed it would be seen as such to most people, but she knew him better.

"When you need peace and quiet," he said, "you normally don't sneak away to find a dead tree to sit on. Usually that weirwood is good enough."

"Perhaps I was worried I'd be disturbed," she sniffed indignantly. "Seems as though that happened anyway."

Sandor Clegane crossed his massive arms over his chest and straightened to his full height, cocking his head to the side in a look that told her he believed she was full of dragon shit.

Sansa let out a very unladylike huff and looked away from him. "I've found that I don't wish to be hounded by Beren Tallhart or Larence Hornwood, or whoever else showed up the last couple of days."

The cousins had been promising to visit for a while now and wound up arriving at the same time. The two got on well, considering they were competing for the hand of the same lady. There had been a conflict amongst them some time ago over which of the two would inherit the Hornwood lands. Stannis Baratheon had legitimized Halys Hornwood's bastard son, who promptly claimed his father's titles. The Tallharts, who were in opposition to this and felt that their son, Beren, had the better claim as the late Lady Donella's nephew, were placated when Rickon (Jon) offered Beren the Dreadfort since House Bolton was extinct. The compromise had gone over well and the cousins had become friends and seemed to delight in their friendly competition over Sansa.

Sandor snorted at the word "hounded" and gave her what might have been a terrifying grin, had she not known better. "But you're fine with being hounded by the Hound?"

"Only sometimes," she quipped. "And you aren't tormenting me about marriage. You're only doing your job." She thought for a moment and then added, "And you are no longer the Hound."

He nodded in agreement, then gave her an expectant look. "Done with hiding, Lady Stark?"

"No," she said defiantly. "Go tell Jon you couldn't find me."

He shook his head in amusement, but didn't leave. Instead he sat down on the felled log, his long legs comically bent to his chest. When he noticed Sansa watching him in amusement, he frowned at her and straightened his legs out.

"That can't be comfortable, ser," she said happily.

"Don't need comfort," he grunted, pulling out his dagger to clean under his nails. "My job is to watch you, so that's what I'll do."

"I ordered you away," she protested jokingly.

He shrugged. "Job is to protect you, even from your own stupid plans."

"I doubt anyone within these walls will cause me harm."

He shrugged again. "I guard you outside the walls, inside the walls, and even within the keep. Terminate my service if it bothers you, my lady," he sneered.

Again, had she not known him, she might think he was truly being hateful. Being that Sansa was utterly familiar with all of his mannerisms, she wasn't affected in the slightest, outside of amusement. She heaved a great sigh and walked back to the log to sit beside him.

"How long do you think they will stay?" Sansa asked him.

"Until you speak with them," Sandor said, still busily picking under his nails.

"Do you think that if I told them to go away and never come back that they would listen?"

"That's not very courteous," he said, cutting his eyes to the side to look at her, the burnt corner of his mouth twitching in what Sansa suspected was amusement.

"You're truly unhelpful," she complained.

Sandor sheathed his dagger and looked over at her. "Why the aversion to all the pretty little lords coming to see you?"

"I've already been married twice," she said unnecessarily. "Why should I have to do it again?"

"Haven't been truly married," Sandor remarked. If it had been any other man-at-arms in her service, she might have blushed at the implication that the words carried. She didn't blush.

"What if I want to be an old maid?" Sansa asked thoughtfully.

Sandor shook his head. "I've seen you with children, little bird. If for nothing else, that's why you should be more open to marriage."

He was right about the children of course, though she wasn't about to tell him that. Sansa took every opportunity available to get her hands on a baby or a small child. She had been seen kissing the cheeks of the baby that had belonged to one of the women who worked in the kitchen. She had run and played in the Godswood with the kennel master's small children. Any time she ventured into the winter town she always found a baby to hold whose mother was more than happy to indulge Ned Stark's eldest daughter.

"I can spoil Rickon's children," she said, trying to ignore the fact that her baby brother was not ready for marriage. While he was old enough by society's standards, his maturity issues left a lot to be desired when it came to finding him a wife. Jon was not married either, and since he had chosen to remain a bastard, he didn't have very many prospects, nor did he want any.

"Or the she-wolf's," Sandor deadpanned.

Sansa snickered. "Arya would gut you if she heard you say such."

"She could try."

Sansa was quiet for a moment, wondering if she shouldn't just take Sandor's advice and pick a husband already. Jon had begged her to just get to know the men. "You won't know if you like them until you give them a chance," Jon often told her. Sansa imagined that being the sister of the Warden of the North truly made her an attractive marriage prospect. The fact that she was still a maid only made her more enticing.

"Who all has arrived?" Sansa turned to him, knowing that he understood what she meant.

"It's just the two you named, Tallhart and Hornwood, though Lord Stark mentioned others who might visit. Two from the Riverlands whose names I recognized. Patrek Mallister is one. The other is Hoster Blackwood."

"Doesn't Patrek Mallister have a reputation…?"

"For whoring and drinking? Aye, he does."

"Do you know anything of Hoster Blackwood?"

"Lord Stark said he was bookish," he thought for a moment. "Probably weak."

"That's unkind," Sansa said. "You don't know that he's weak just because he likes books."

"If he's too busy reading books, he has no time to train," Sandor grunted. "Might be you like the bookish sort?" He raised an eyebrow at her and she watched the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement.

"Might be I do," Sansa said haughtily. But after a few moments, she was back to complaining. "I suppose I'll have to entertain them at dinner?"

"You'll be expected to entertain them outside dinner," Sandor reminded her, his brow creasing distractedly. "They'll want you to go riding with them, give them a tour of the Godswood and the hot springs, travel with them into the winter town."

Sansa nodded, swallowing back a sick feeling. She could easily say that she refused to do those things, but then her need to be courteous was so strong that she doubted she could follow through with it.

"Why can't I be more like Arya?" She wondered aloud. She could feel his eyes on her when he turned, and she knew he must be giving her a quizzical look. "Arya doesn't care what anyone else wants out of her. Arya would send them away without a second thought."

"Aye," Sandor agreed. "Your brother knows it too. Why do you think he's never pressed the marriage issue with her?" There was a bitter note to his voice that Sansa didn't quite understand.

Arya had a lover who lived in the winter town, Sansa knew that. She imagined that Sandor knew too, given how close the two of them were. He was a handsome young blacksmith who, at one time, had been offered a position at Winterfell. He had declined, but he'd settled near enough to the castle. Arya had eventually admitted to the affair, and Sansa had felt a little scandalized that her sister was being so open about such intimate matters. She thought Arya would embarrass herself further once she had moved on from the blacksmith, but surprisingly, Arya kept only to his bed.

The fact that Arya had a history with the handsome armorer had only been explained later. Once Sansa pieced together that Arya was in love with the blacksmith, she had felt guilty about her judgment of Arya's activities. It was actually quite romantic. Apparently Arya and the man, Gendry, had traveled together for some time after Eddard Stark had been executed. When the former traveling companions had found one another years later, the bond between them was still strong.

Sansa's eyes flicked to Sandor, who was staring off into the forest, looking bored. She knew that Arya had traveled with him as well and that they had become friends since reuniting. Arya had grown into a beauty – a wild beauty, yes, but Sansa imagined that Sandor would admire those kinds of qualities, being a bit wild himself. She had noted his bitterness when they had spoken of Arya and wondered if he was bitter because Arya was so devoted to her blacksmith.

Sansa had no trouble admitting that she was jealous of Arya. Her little sister had everything that she had dreamed of as a girl, even if it was disguised under a different surface. Sansa had dreamed of romance, it was true. Joffrey had destroyed her dreams rather quickly, but a part of her always held onto the hope that she would find love. There had been times when she had almost given up on her dream because of the terrible things she had been through, but still she held to it, believing that if her parents could have it, maybe she could as well.

Arya had never wanted any such thing, but here she was, sneaking away to the winter town most days to see her lover. Sansa had seen them together on only a handful of occasions, but she had noticed immediately the difference in Arya. Around Gendry, Arya was less angry, less hard, less cold…she bloomed like a flower in his presence and her smiles came so much easier. Sansa was overcome with happiness for her sister, truly, but she was jealous as well.

Sansa had only ever felt the first stirrings of what might have been love, but had immediately tamped it down. Because the one person who stirred those feelings in her was a lost cause, and she just couldn't face the longing or rejection that would come with chasing that feeling. And so, Sansa had found happiness in other things, and secretly hoped she could get over her lovesick bout so that one day she could find someone else that might stir those feelings in her.

So far, it had not happened, and so she sat next to her sworn shield, pondering how and if she could get out of this mess.

Sansa finally stood from her seat on the log and dusted off the back of her skirts. Sandor rose with her, his grey eyes studying her intently as though he was trying to puzzle out what she would do. She lowered her eyes and began her trek through the Godswood, her shield following a pace behind her. She noticed the additional men that had come along with their lords as she passed through the yard. Several of them murmured in greeting, their eyes wide with appreciation.

It hardly affected Sansa anymore that people thought her beautiful. Beauty had only ever caused her trouble and so she fought the urge to be sour about their ogling and instead offered a smile. She climbed the stairs up to her chambers. Sandor's feet made no noise as he walked behind her, and not for the first time, she was impressed at how such a large man could move so quietly.

Sandor nodded to her even as she opened her mouth to dismiss him, but something on her face must have stopped him because he turned back to her, concern sparking in his eyes.

"My lady?" He rasped. She knew he used the title only for the benefit of anyone who may be lurking.

She shook her head. "It's nothing. I just…don't want to do this."

He blinked in confusion, clearly not understanding why it sounded like she was pleading with him. "I can't help you with this, little bird."

Sansa breathed out heavily and turned back to her room, shutting the door before she could look at him again. Tears stung her eyes and she furiously scrubbed at her face.

You're the only one in the world who could help me.