Arya Stark was not stupid.
She had known that she was missing something earlier when she had spoken with her sister about her terrible plan to drive away her suitors. She didn't understand what she wasn't grasping then. She had been too caught up in the revelation that Sansa was open to committing a scandal just to damage her reputation enough that it would scare away Lords Hornwood and Tallhart.
But after her conversation with the Hound, the fog had lifted and suddenly she was seeing everything clearly.
Sansa loved the Hound. Or, rather, Sandor, she corrected herself, knowing Sansa wouldn't appreciate Arya calling him his old moniker. Because she loved him, obviously. All the clues had been right in front of her face, and it had taken talking to Sandor for Arya to put the pieces together.
Sansa would never lie with anyone who wasn't her husband, unless she loved him. It was so easy. So obvious. She felt like she should have realized it before that moment. It wasn't as though Sansa was incredibly obvious in her affections - though to be fair, she couldn't be. But Arya still should've picked up on it.
She'd almost spilled the beans to the Hound at supper time, told him that his lady was in love with him, and that was surely the biggest reason why she didn't want to marry anyone else. But she stopped because...well, it wasn't as though Sandor loved Sansa too. Not like that. He loved killing, and drinking, and whoring.
Although, he hadn't killed anyone in a while. He drank, of course, but not to excess. And come to think of it, Arya wasn't sure that she'd actually heard of him frequenting the brothel in the winter town.
Fine, so the Hound had changed. She knew that, of course. He had taken care of her for a long time, and even before then, he'd watched out for Sansa. But he wasn't in love with Sansa. He simply wanted to protect her because he knew what could happen to an innocent maiden in a dangerous place. It was the same reason he'd protected her as they'd traveled through the Riverlands and he certainly wasn't in love with Arya.
She shuddered at the thought.
"Cold?" Gendry mumbled into her neck. His arms wrapped tighter around her waist and he pulled her closer to his chest.
Arya rolled her eyes, though he couldn't see her. "I'm not cold. If anything, I'm keeping you warm. Just had an unpleasant thought, that's all."
He made some sleepy noise against the back of her head. Then, "Do they ever wonder where you go in the night?"
"My sister knows," Arya said. "Jon doesn't obviously."
"Figured as much. No one's come for my head yet."
Arya smirked to herself, then wiggled until she could turn around in his arms, tucking her head beneath his chin. "Jon wouldn't cut off your stupid head."
"No?" She could see his brows furrowing.
"No," she told him confidently. "He would cut off your cock and bollocks."
Gendry groaned and Arya hid her smile against his chest.
The rising sun woke Sansa from a fitful sleep. Her head was pounding and she knew it was a result from all the crying she'd done the night before. She was embarrassed by her behavior too. She'd poured her heart out to her sworn shield, crying about how unfair her life was. He probably thought she was ridiculous. After everything she had gone through, after the hell that had been her life until she was reunited with her siblings and back in Winterfell, this was what she cried over. Part of her wanted to accept defeat and just randomly choose one of the two lords who was sure to ask for her hand. Another part of her wanted to dig in her heels and insist she wait for someone that she had a better connection with.
It's never going to happen, a voice in her head whispered. She stuffed her head beneath a pillow and groaned. Through her clouded emotions, she tried to piece together the conversation she'd had with Sandor last night. He'd told her that not everyone was meant for love and it had been that statement that had broken her. She had held onto a small hope that perhaps he felt something for her other than duty and obligation and occasional lust.
But then, she wasn't even sure he felt lust anymore. He had kissed her, she remembered that much. He had hovered over her that night as though he wanted to do more than kiss her. But he'd left in the end and she would never know. When he had found her again only days before her wedding to Harry, she hadn't thought to question him about it. She'd been too heartsick over the fact that she was marrying Harry while Sandor was alive.
Afterward, when Sandor had pledged his sword and helped her retake Winterfell, it had seemed improper to bring up considering their professional relationship. It hadn't occurred to her until much later, after he'd sworn his sword to her, that by allowing him to do so ensured that they could not have any kind of romantic relationship. But she'd been desperate at the time – desperate to keep him with her, worried that he might disappear again.
Sansa discovered the depth of her own feelings too late. The truth had been staring her in the face for years, but she had failed to look back. Now, when she thought of every interaction she had, she remembered the tension, the emotion, and the undeniable bond. Even before there was attraction, there had been inexplicable chemistry. She knew that Sandor hadn't initially seen her as an object of desire, not in the carnal sense at least. That was another mystery that had taken her years to piece together.
He protected me all those years ago because I was like him. I reminded him of himself when he was a child. He hated me, but still felt the need to protect me too.
A chance meeting on the serpentine was what alerted Sansa to the fact that Sandor may be attracted to her. In truth, he had unlikely ever been attracted to her until that night. He had drunkenly accosted her and teased her about her love of songs, but he had also made mention of her teets, among other things. Sansa had been so shaken up at being caught and then so relieved later on that Sandor hadn't told Joffrey where she'd been, that she hadn't analyzed their interaction until much later.
Similarly, the night the Blackwater burned, Sansa had been terrified by the battle, by the fire, by Sandor's presence in her chamber. She had been too frightened to leave with him, thinking that they would surely be caught and killed on the spot. Sandor had been out of his mind with drink and fear and had not acted in such a way that left Sansa feeling any safer. Again, it was only much later that she realized how true her own words to him were. You won't hurt me. He wouldn't have. Even if Sansa's fear had won out that night and she had been unable to sing, she knew now without a doubt that the blade pressed against her throat was no danger to her. He was terrified of the fire, terrified of the consequences of his desertion, terrified at the thought that the one person he thought could see him as something other than a monster didn't, and he had wanted to scare her. Sansa understood it perhaps better than Sandor did. They had never discussed it. Sansa had never waited around for an apology because she had forgiven him almost immediately.
After he left, she found her thoughts turning to him at odd times, or at least, at times that seemed strange to her back then. She thought of him when Margaery and her cousins were giggling about stealing kisses, thinking herself superior because she had been kissed by a fierce warrior rather than a pretty little boy. She had thought about him during her wedding to Tyrion. It seemed the more time passed, the more she thought of him.
On two different occasions while hiding in the Vale as Alayne Stone, Sansa had heard bits of news that had startled her. First, Petyr had mentioned that there had been reports from Saltpans that the Hound was terrorizing its people, razing businesses and raping maids. Sansa had fought to keep the shock from her face.
It can't be. He wouldn't do that. He's not a monster. And since Alayne was much worldlier than Sansa, it occurred to her that it was likely a rumor. She had become quite familiar with how a tale could be twisted. She ignored it, putting it to the back of her mind.
Later, another piece of news had rattled her even more. A man called the Elder Brother, who lived on an island near Saltpans, had written letters to numerous lords and the high septon explaining that the attack on Saltpans had not been Sandor Clegane. This Elder Brother, who Sansa had never heard of, explained that the rapist of Saltpans had indeed worn a hound's helm, but that it was the stolen helmet of the true Hound. He explained that he knew this to be true because the real Hound had died in his presence near the Trident.
Sansa had barely kept it together. Petyr had been reading the missive with interest, clearly intrigued with such a tale. Clever as he was, Petyr had never known that Sansa and Sandor had a relationship outside what was necessary as Joffrey's betrothed and Joffrey's sword shield. She had left Petyr with his missive and disappeared to her room. She had soaked her pillow with tears, though she couldn't say why.
He was cruel. He was a killer. He was no knight. She told herself those things over and over again. She told herself all the things that had allowed her to keep a distance from him. He was cruel. He was a killer. He was no knight.
But the only thing truly cruel about him had been his words. And though he was a killer, he often did it at someone else's bidding. He was no knight, but Sansa was beginning to hate knights anyway.
Sandor had been her one true friend in King's Landing. Everyone else - Tyrion, Margaery, Shae - they were only decent to her when it benefited themselves. But Sandor had no reason to be on her side, but he was. After she'd learned of his death, Sansa spent a lot of time thinking about every little interaction they'd ever had. He may not have been capable of being kind, exactly, but he was protective of her.
And she'd realized it too late.
When Sandor showed up in the Vale - alive and dressed as a monk of all things - Sansa had seen it as a second chance to gain his friendship. He spoke roughly to her, but she took it in stride, hardly blinking when he growled at her. He tried to tell her that he was a changed man and that he had no business interfering with her affairs, but Sansa was persistent.
At some point, Sansa was startled to learn that she was attracted to him.
It had been at her wedding feast - Sandor was willing to help her get home, but had no idea how to stop the wedding, so Sansa had married Harry and had every intention of convincing her husband to take his forces North to help her win back Winterfell. Her husband had been dancing with one pretty girl after another and Sansa had let him, unable to muster any jealousy.
She had been scanning the room, taking note of their guests when her eyes landed on Sandor. He had lost his rough-spun robe and cowl and replaced it with light, leather armor over a dark grey tunic. His attire looked decent enough for someone who probably had to scavenge his clothing. But Sansa couldn't take her eyes off him.
It was confusing because, while by that time, she had acknowledged she had some confusing feelings for him, she hadn't yet unraveled whether or not they were tied up in gratitude, friendship, or having survived King's Landing together. But at that moment she found herself admiring how very large he was - how the definition of his muscular arms could be seen through his tunic. His hair was long, and dark, and shining from a recent bath, and she wondered how soft it might be to the touch. And his eyes were clear and focused, absent of rage, and she found she quite liked the calm color of them.
And that's when she realized that whatever she'd been feeling for him was not strictly innocent.
Sansa fared no better in the few years since that realization. What she thought might be an infatuation carried over from her childhood had proven to be something else entirely. She had hoped, for a while, that maybe the physical attraction to him was a passing whim that she would get over eventually.
She hadn't.
She became more consumed with thoughts of him as time went on. And he wasn't helping the situation.
Sandor was still gruff, still brutally honest, still a bit crude, but he was also gentler with her, respectful of her, and very protective. It only made Sansa want him more, but the longer she carried feelings for him, the more sure she became that Sandor saw her as a duty to fulfill.
She was in love with him. She'd admitted that to herself some time ago. Who knew how long she'd actually been in love with him. She was quite efficient at lying to herself, so the fact was that she may have been in love with him since before he showed up in the Vale.
Part of her hoped that one day he might fall in love with her too - he had kissed her after all - but so far, Sandor hadn't shown any interest in her.
Sansa pulled herself out of bed and called to her maids to help her dress. She cleaned her teeth and washed her face and waited on Sandor to escort her to breakfast. He watched her warily, probably worried that she'd start crying in front of him again. Sandor hated crying women and she was sorry she'd exposed him to that.
"Feel better, my lady?" He asked as he pulled her chair out from the table on the dais.
Sansa winced at the formality. He didn't often address her as such except when in the presence of guests, but Sansa didn't care for it at all.
Lord Hornwood looked up from his plate. "Oh, of course, you missed dinner," he said, remembering that Sansa had been absent from the evening meal. "Are you well now, my lady?"
She hadn't answered Sandor because surely he knew that she felt no better about her situation, but to ignore Lord Hornwood would be rude. "Better today than yesterday," she lied, pulling a smile that wasn't genuine.
It was a lie. She felt worse today than she did yesterday, and she was starting to realize that it wasn't marriage in particular that had her in such a terrible mood. She turned slightly and cut her eyes so that she could see him. He was standing against the wall, his gaze settled on her because that was his job. When he found her looking back, he tilted his head in a silent query, as though to make sure she was alright.
Beren Tallhart decided that since his cousin had been offered a walk in the godswood that he wanted one as well, so Sansa agreed to walk with him. After breakfast, as they made their way through the bailey towards the Godswood entrance, Lord Tallhart seemed to realize they were being followed.
"Clegane," he said, spinning around with surprise as though he'd just noticed him. "I know you're only trying to perform your duties, but I doubt Lady Sansa needs a guard in her own godswood."
Wrong thing to say, Sansa thought, shooting worried glance at Beren before looking back to Sandor, who was no glowering at the young lord.
"Aye, I'm performing my duties, and it's my call whether or not Lady Sansa needs a guard in her Godswood. Lady Sansa doesn't wander around alone when Winterfell has guests. If you take issue with it, speak with Lord Snow."
"And Sandor isn't just a guard," Sansa threw in, a bit haughtily. "Sandor is my sworn shield."
Beren looked between the two of them, clearly at a loss for words, then nodded and swept an arm towards the Godswood. "Lead the way, my lady."
As much as Sansa loved the godswood, she quickly became bored in Beren's company. He spoke of hunting and asked if she'd ever been, to which his answer came with a look of disgust.
"Pardon, my lady...I just thought...I know that Lady Arya…"
Sansa suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. This poor fool was clearly enamored of Arya and had no chance with her. She peeked over her shoulder and was a little distressed to find Sandor so far behind them. He was visible and could clearly get to her if she needed him, but he was keeping far enough away that he couldn't hear their quiet conversation.
He was likely trying to be respectful, but Sansa didn't like the distance between them, as silly as it was.
She managed to convince Lord Tallhart that she was tired and that he should take a ride outside the gates. She declined when he asked her to accompany him, falling back on her weak riding skills. As they stood at the edge of the Godswood, Sansa waiting for him to leave so she could complain to her sworn shield some more, Lord Tallhart leaned down and brushed an innocent kiss against her mouth, and then quickly spun around, walking briskly to the stables.
Don't kill him, don't kill him, Sansa thought as Sandor approached. It wasn't so much that she could hear him coming - because of the disturbingly quiet way he moved around - but she could almost feel him approaching somehow. When he stopped at her side, she looked at him from the corner of her eye.
He was scowling - likely because he'd just seen Beren Tallhart kiss her.
Sansa's heart rate picked up and she wondered - was he jealous? Kissing wasn't strictly forbidden among possible suitors, and Lord Tallhart clearly had no impure intentions since he performed the act with Sandor mere feet away, but Sandor looked very agitated.
She peered up at him. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he growled, staring off after Beren Tallhart.
"Did Lord Tallhart offend you?"
A muscle ticked in Sandor's jaw. "No. Did he offend you?"
"Not at all." The kiss was nothing to get excited over. It had been as passionless as it was innocent.
"He shouldn't have done that."
"Why not?"
Grey eyes snapped to hers and for just a moment, the anger was taken over by confusion. He hid it very quickly and said, "Lord Snow wouldn't appreciate it."
"On the contrary, I believe Jon would consider it progress. He does want me to get married and you were urging me to be more open-minded about my prospects…"
"Beginning to warm up to him then?" Sandor practically growled.
"Not at all. It's just that you seem to be more upset about that kiss than I am."
His jaw was working as he ground his teeth. "Sansa, I don't care who you kiss."
"Why did you kiss me then?" Her words seemed to echo through the empty Godswood and she instantly regretted giving voice to them. She had the urge to slap a hand over her mouth, but she refrained; instead, she straightened her spine and lifted her chin and forced herself to look in his eyes.
He was startled, she could tell that much. His normally stoic demeanor had been rattled by her loud demand and now his grey eyes stared back at her, wide and disbelieving, as though he could hardly believe she could bring it up.
Sansa took a calming breath and tried to adopt a composed, reasonable countenance. "Perhaps it isn't something that means anything to you now and that's understandable, but clearly you cared about me at some point…"
He was distracting her, his stunned expression fading into one of irritation for every word she said. His brows creased and the corners of his mouth had turned down and he looked…well, kind of mad.
He held up a hand to stop her talking, though she had already faded off, bemused by his expression.
"First," he growled at her, "Caring about you and caring about who you kiss are two different things."
She opened her mouth to argue, then realized he was right and snapped her mouth closed again. Heat rushed to her cheeks and she could no longer look at him, her eyes falling on the black pool behind him just to have something else to look at.
"Second," he continued, stepping a bit closer to her and taking her chin between his fingers, forcing her to look back up at him. "I never kissed you, so what in the buggering hells are you talking about?"
Sansa's embarrassment was quickly replaced by rage, which was a relatively foreign emotion for her. Her hand encircled his wrist and tugged it away from her face and she snarled at him, "Yes, you did! How dare you act like it didn't happen!"
The next thing he did only stoked the fire of her anger. He barked a laugh and shook his head as though he couldn't believe the words coming from her mouth. "And when did I kiss you, hmm?"
Sansa stared at him in open shock, feeling too many emotions at once to get a handle on any of them. Anger, yes, that was the prominent one; but also shock, and hurt, and disbelief at his behavior.
"You don't remember," she accused him, albeit in a soft voice.
He nodded in agreement and sneered down at her, "Aye, it must have slipped my mind."
With a shriek of frustration, Sansa stepped forward and shoved at his chest. Disappointingly, he did not so much as sway under the force of her weight.
"Slipped your mind?" She hissed through gritted teeth. She lifted her hands, intent on thumping her fists against his massive chest, but he caught her wrists in his hands and leaned down.
"That's what I said," he growled, glaring at her. "Or mayhaps you misremembered who it was you kissed."
"I didn't kiss anyone," she hollered at him. "You kissed me, you great brute!"
He only rolled his eyes at that, still holding her wrists. "I didn't kiss you," he said again.
Sansa jerked at her wrists, no longer wanting to be near him. "I suppose you were just too drunk," she huffed, still twisting at her wrists in a bid to get away from him. "I suppose you remember nothing of the night the Blackwater burned!"
His hands tightened on her wrists and he jerked her closer to him. His glare was menacing and he bared his teeth as he leaned down into her space. "Wrong, little bird. I remember everything."
"Clearly not!" She snapped back.
"Oh, I do," he rumbled, his voice low and dangerous sounding. "I remember everything – my men burning around me, the buggering Imp demanding I run back into the fire over and over again, the blood…I remember stumbling to your room," his voice was shaking now, but Sansa didn't know if it was anger or the trauma of reliving the horror of that night. "I wanted comfort, to be around the one person who made me feel like a person instead of a dog to be kicked." He released her wrists and stepped back from her, his fierce gaze dropping to the leaf-covered floor of the Godswood. "I remember fucking that up too, scaring you out of your wits, threatening you with a blade…"
Something in his tone made Sansa want to comfort him, just as she had that night, but her anger was still too fresh, so she just stood staring at him quietly, waiting for him to continue.
He lifted his eyes back to hers, some of the anger drained out. "But I didn't kiss you. I would remember."
"You were drunk," she said flatly. "Who do you think has the more reliable memory?"
He blew out an exasperated breath, frustrated, and closed his eyes as though to keep from losing his temper. "Sansa, I swear, if I had kissed you, I would know."
She didn't believe him and was angry that he would even argue with her about this considering how intoxicated he'd been. But it was clear that he was just as firm in his assertions as she was in hers. Her argument fell flat in the face of his denial though, so Sansa was left speechless.
His mouth twitched a little and he said, "If I had so much as tried to kiss you, you would've screamed in terror. We both know it's true."
She shook her head. "But I didn't. I just…I closed my eyes and let you…"
His stare was curious and calculating. "You closed your eyes and let me kiss you?" His voice was incredulous.
"Well, yes…"
"Why would you let me kiss you?"
"It's not as though I could stop you!" She said exasperatedly. "You're quite a bit larger than I am and I was pinned to the bed…"
"You closed your eyes," he rumbled, his eyes seeming distant now, as though he was remembering, and Sansa almost sighed in relief, sure that he was finally remembering his actions. But then he shook his head and repeated, "You closed your eyes and I told you to look at me…and I told you to sing. You sang the Mother's Hymn and I…" He sighed heavily, scratching at his cheek thoughtfully. "I tore off my cloak."
"Yes," Sansa said. "All that happened, but…" How strange, she thought suddenly. He remembered everything that she did – everything except the kiss. "You kissed me…"
"When?" He asked, his one good brow shooting up as he questioned her. "Walk me through it, my lady. Tell me when it happened."
She frowned at him, his tone doing nothing to improve her mood. "You leaned over me, held the dagger to my throat-" she said calmly, simply recounting the events, but he almost flinched. She would address that particular reaction later. "You asked me to sing and then you…"
"Then I listened to you sing," he cut in.
Sansa opened her mouth to argue, but came up short. She had sung to him. She remembered that well enough and always had.
"And then I left you," he said softly.
Sansa shook her head, trying to hold onto her memory of that night as she'd remembered it for years. He had leaned over her, she had closed her eyes, and he had…
"Still can't bear to look, can you?"
"I'll have that song. Florian and Jonquil, you said. Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life."
And Sansa had sung for him, but not about the fool and his cunt, as Sandor had called them. She sang him the Mother's Hymn.
And yes, then he left.
"You- you didn't…?" She felt almost dizzy, thrown by her realization. It shifted her reality, made her question everything that had ever happened. "Oh, gods."
She covered her gaping mouth as she looked at him. Thankfully, he didn't look smug or justified that his own memory had been the correct one, mostly he just looked...confused.
"You imagined I kissed you." His voice was a quiet rumble.
Sansa swallowed against the lump in her throat. "I did."
There was something in those silver grey eyes of his, a question maybe, but Sansa was still too shaken to properly examine it. She was inclined to apologize, but that seemed silly. She hadn't done anything. Well, except accuse him of impropriety, but that hardly seemed like something Sandor would care about. After all, he wasn't her sworn shield at the time, just a broken warrior seeking comfort on the worst night of his life.
"I should have apologized," Sandor rasped, looking away from her.
Sansa's brow furrowed and she lowered the hand from her mouth. "For what?" We've established you didn't kiss me, and I'd be offended if you even tried to apologize for that.
His eyes snapped back to her and he looked at her like she was insane. "For holding a dagger to your pretty little neck. For scaring you out of your mind," his eyes fell to the ground, and to the melting snow, he said, "For showing up to your room in the first place."
"I covered myself in your cloak," Sansa blurted, and she felt herself flush when his eyes snapped back to her face. But she pressed onward. "When you left, you tore off your cloak and I-" She swallowed against a lump in her throat as she remembered how she felt that night. "I crawled beneath the cloak and slept. It made me feel safe."
His grey eyes bore into her and he muttered, "You are one crazy little bird."
"I must be," she conceded. "To believe in something that never happened, to remember it over and over again in such vivid detail that I…"
That I compared everyone else I've kissed since to you.
"You imagined I kissed you," he said again, still sounding so confused. "Yet you let me into your service."
"Well, it was just a kiss," Sansa sniffed. "Nothing too terribly inappropriate."
Sandor snorted. "A sweet, chaste kiss like the songs then?"
Sansa shot him a glare. "Yes. I suppose if it's coming from my imagination it would only make sense that it would be like the songs."
Sandor was quiet for several long moments, and Sansa's glare turned into a worried frown. She couldn't place the look in his eyes as he stepped into her space.
"Sansa," he rasped, and there was a touch of affection in his voice.
"Hmm?" His proximity was messing with her head, but she couldn't bring herself to back away.
"I wouldn't have given you a courtly kiss like your precious knights."
"Oh," she murmured. That made sense. Perhaps if she'd examined that aspect more she would have discovered the truth sooner. She lifted her chin to look at him, then tilted her head, curiosity getting the better of her. "Then how would you have kissed me?"
She was worried he would back away, that he would get mad at her, scold her for impropriety. But she desperately wanted him to answer her, wanted him to tell her how he would have kissed her had he been so inclined.
He said nothing.
But his arms came around her waist and he hauled her against him, dipped his head, his lips barely brushing against her. "Like this," he whispered against her mouth.
And then he kissed her.
His mouth wasn't cruel, as she'd remembered once, but hungry. He kissed her like he wanted to devour her. His hands squeezed at her as he bent to change the angle, nipping at her mouth.
Sansa's body finally caught up to what was going on. Her hands crept to his shoulders, and she parted her lips for him, swallowing the groan she elicited. She touched her tongue to his and his hands moved from her waist, sliding up her back and over her shoulders before settling near her neck, his fingers a little cold against her heated skin. His thumbs brushed tenderly along either side of her jaw.
Too soon, far too soon, he moved his face away. Sansa's eyes remained closed for a moment, trying to hold onto those precious moments. But then his hands fell away from her face and the warmth of his body retreated and she knew he'd stepped away. She slowly opened her eyes.
His face was inscrutable, even as his chest heaved a little.
She reached up with her fingers and touched her kiss-swollen lips. She wanted to tell him to come back and do it again. She wanted to ask him to never stop.