10. The Wife

"Fucker talks too much."

Sansa followed Sandor's glare back to Littlefinger, the lord whispering to a young boy now, probably some orphaned child he promised coin to in exchange for his eyes and ears. It crossed her mind more than once on how people like Littlefinger and Varys and Cersei were able to obtain poor souls to spy on them all across the world. Sansa wondered too if it were possible to get her own.

"A bit," Sansa said.

"Where's your big woman now? Isn't she supposed to keep distance between you and him?"

Sansa knew there was no love between Sandor and Littlefinger but couldn't help but question why he cared about Littlefinger's constant presence. "Clearly failing in her job. She prefers for most to keep their distance as well." She eyed him.

It wasn't true technically speaking, but she assumed it would be if Brienne came to notice how often Sansa and Sandor seemed to be in each other's company. She was a skeptical knight.

"You pop up just as much as Littlefinger. Only he doesn't drink as much."

The smell of sour wine and leather enveloped Sansa with every step that Sandor took toward her. She should be used to the smell. It was one of the constant elements of the Hound that carried over to Sandor Clegane of the Brotherhood. But the fragrance was different now. It was an odor before, heavy and sticky with overabundance and drowning. Now, it was subtle as though the liquid was only on his tongue instead of flowing fiercely through his veins. It was inviting rather than repelling.

"Maybe he should start. I imagine you have more to say on the topic of Lord Baelish? Everyone else does." Her last words escaped her mouth slightly more bitter than she anticipated.

Sandor relented to comment on the drinking statement, but he didn't say anything else either. This wasn't his normal silence. That was hard and sharp. He clearly wished to say something but finding a way to express whatever he wanted was stalling him.

"He shouldn't be here."

"One could argue he isn't the only one."

The never-knight probably thought she was talking about him, but Sandor was one of the few strangers that Sansa didn't mind in Winterfell—next to Brienne and Pod. It was everyone else not born in Winterfell that she wanted to leave. And when they did, the gates to Winterfell were going to close for a long time.

"He holds power over the Vale. No matter our feelings about the man, he's necessary to Jon's fight. Winterfell's fight. Besides, I want him here where I can see him."

"Stupid fucking plan."

"So everyone keeps reminding me."

Sandor arched a brow for a brief moment, risking a glance at the girl for less than a brief moment. She let him. He was one of many who felt the need to stare recently, to try and figure her out.

Littlefinger finished his hushed discussion with the young boy, glancing at Sansa once more before turning away. He ignored Sandor's presence completely. It was too much for anyone to assume that he'd fair Sandor with better courtesies now that both turned their backs on the Baratheon-Lannister family. The two's manner's toward each other had only soured in the north. Littlefinger disappeared within moments. He left behind a cautious faced child in his wake.

"I know who Littlefinger is, what he's done, what he wants."

"You might, but do they? Can't imagine how long he'd last if they did."

She rolled over her memories of Littlefinger, trying to remember how much she told of his involvement and to who she told them to. "Jon knows what he needs to."

"Screw the bastard. Your she-wolf sister's the one to be afraid of."

There was no argument there. Arya would have no trouble slicing the man's neck with her Needle if she knew all the gory details of their mother and father's betrayal done by their once thought of ally. Littlefinger prancing her back to Winterfell when it was still under Bolton rule, assuming right away that she'd marry for him, still raised bile in the back of her throat. Although, Sansa didn't know how much of that tale would really resonate with Arya as the death of their father did.

"Do you honestly think he'd still be breathing if Arya knew everything Littlefinger was capable of?" Sansa scoffed. "None of his reasons or whispers could save him then."

"Whatever is it, she knows something. She acts like it."

Sansa knew what he meant. Arya was always lurking around like Littlefinger but in the shadows where she was less likely to be noticed. But Sansa had noticed her. It seemed as though Sandor Clegane had as well. She wondered why the man was always so perceptive when it came to the Stark girls, but she knew to voice her question wouldn't get her any answers. She'd have to mull it over in her mind in silence.

"I'm sure she does." Sansa turned her body toward Sandor. She was sick of watching the courtyard. It was the same as it was that morning and the morning before. It hardly ever changed. She needed something different to focus on. Sandor's figure would have to do that trick. "But all of that will have to wait until after Tyrion Lannister comes calling for our men."

She didn't try to cover her bitterness. She did less and less of that lately and there was no point in stopping now.

Sandor wasn't in the Great Hall when Jon let go of the news, but that didn't mean that he didn't know. It would have been impossible. Normal news traveled fast these days, but news that outrageous and unforeseen as this took an instant to spark concerns and agitated feelings. None of that was displayed to Jon outright, his very expression after the fact said that what they thought wouldn't change anything, but that didn't keep men from talking. Late night fires and floods of ale saw to that.

"Better than calling you back to his bed," Sandor sought to remind her. He leaned against the balcony pillar and crossed his arms. "I'm sure your husband is looking forward to that again."

"Tyrion never touched me."

Sandor grunted, "Doesn't mean he never thought about it. Like any man, he won't let a lack of fucking you keep him from taking you back as his wife."

Even at the young age she was on her wedding night to Tyrion, Sansa wasn't naive enough to think that the Lannister didn't have an interest in bedding her. The lust was there when she began to undress, drunk and muddled, but undoubtedly there. His last name alone gave him the power to make her his, her feelings meaning all but nothing, but he said he would wait for herfor her consent. At that moment, consent seemed impossible, but in hindsight of knowing husbands could be worse, Sansa pondered if time would have been able to sway her.

"Is that what you would do? Make a wife who wanted little to do with you?" It was a personal question, a far more personal question than what Sansa would ask anyone much less someone such as Sandor Clegane.

He said nothing. He gave no words or passive aggressive noises mainly because Sansa almost chuckled at the idea she brought up. This seemed to surprise him enough to speak. "Something funny?"

The subject of the question in and of itself was absurd. She figured he must have felt the same as he didn't answer her. Or perhaps he didn't answer because she wouldn't like what he would say. Sandor Clegane was who he was—angry and bloodthirsty, broken and formidable—all creating a man very hard to diagnose. He wasn't per se a good man. His morals were far from pointing north, but Sansa knew he wasn't nearly as terrible as he thought himself to be. In the end, and pertaining to this particular question, none of that mattered for one specific reason.

"I never thought about you taking a wife."

"What's so damn good about a wife?"

Sansa shook her head. A light wind picked up and sent wisps of tangled red hair flying out of her plait. She thought to leave them, let them dance wild in the air, but after a couple hits to her eye, Sansa took a gloved hand to place them back behind her ear. "I couldn't tell you, as I'm sure you've heard, I don't have the best track record at being one."

Being a wife had been one of her most cherished dreams as a child. To love a nobleman and marry into his family and share his bed. To bear his children and have a happy life of their own away from the land she sought to escape from. Would she have made a good wife? She once thought so—she'd love and comfort and praise. She would have been the perfect wife then, but what about now? She'd had three engagements, two marriages, and one dead husband. Two of the worst families' last names were placed behind hers. If that didn't stain her destiny as a future wife, she didn't know what could. Stark or not, she couldn't imagine many willing to forget any of that just yet. And she wasn't sure she wanted them to.

"And to think Tyrion was the best of my husbands."

"Lucky dwarf."

Lucky indeed. The man was shackled to a loveless marriage to a child bride of an enemy family all because his hateful relatives resented him for being too short.

"Doesn't matter," Sandor took a step closer to her, positioning his body to face over the animals and men. Not a single one below took notice to the two of them. That was preferred. "There are plenty of rich assholes ready to marry an equally pretty face with a name."

It's no secret that men with half a brain and squabbling children set into motion ways of intertwining their bloodlines with high, noble, and suitable families. Whatever it takes to keep both their land and legacies thriving. Any of the legitimate children of Eddard and Catelyn Stark wouldn't want to be missed. Rob would have been the first obvious choice for any man with appropriate daughters. Who wouldn't want the chance to send their daughter off to live underneath the roof of Warden of the North, knowing that Rob Stark would one day be named to rule the largest piece of land in the Seven Kingdoms? He would have made a great husband—kind, courageous, and handsome as he was. His title as a husband was cut too short to the sister Sansa never got to lay eyes on.

Joffrey was the first son to be offered to Sansa. She had been so excited and her father had agreed but only because the request came from the mouth of his friend and king. Were there others around that time who thought about asking her father permission to wed her to their son in the future? Were those same fathers considering her now? She doubted it, no matter how confident Sandor was.

None of it mattered anyhow. "I won't be marrying again." Ever. She didn't intend to say what she did out loud to where someone could hear and respond, but the truth spilled out before she could pull the reins back to secure them. They kicked her and bucked her and left her out of control. They also left her painfully honest.

As he often did, Sandor shielded his expression, but Sansa found herself wishing for the first time that he'd bark out a laugh or tease her for being naive. His silence embarrassed her more than the risk of harsh words. And she wanted to know what he really thought about her choice. Jon would nod and say he understood considering what she's been through. Perhaps he'd tell her to keep an open mind for she was still young. Brienne would express how strong women can still be without the ties of marriage and husbands. Although she hit Sansa as a romantic at heart. Sansa couldn't imagine Sandor Clegane encouraging her to keep her heart available but knew that he'd have some sort of opinion about the matter. She wanted to know what it was, but he was a blank, closed book unwilling to reveal a thing.

"Lord Baelish will be disappointed," Sansa continued. She counted herself smug about the idea, letting the tiniest of a small inch across her lips. There weren't many victories to place under her belt of late—she'd revel in this one.

"Won't keep him from trying either."

"I'd almost be disappointed if he didn't."

A holler and a whistle from below caused both Sansa and Sandor to place their attention elsewhere. It came from a member of the Brotherhood, although Sansa couldn't put a name to the face. Unless one of them was Sandor, Beric, or Thoros, she paid them little mind. He looked as all the others did—clothed in a dark trouser and matching tunic, a darker fur cloak wrapped around his shoulders, disgruntled expression carved into his face. He didn't seem concerned that he was pointing and shouting commands to a man with the ability to easily chop his head off. The unnamed man gave Sandor another gesture and headed off, the hand he just used to signal now used to scratch his loins as he spat onto the ground. Whatever the task, he couldn't find it in him to make sure Sandor followed through with it.

Sandor grunted his frustrations but made moves to do as he was bid. Years ago he would piss on the man attempting to command him. "All this for the Lannister."

"Whatever it takes to make some sort of impression, although it is a bit underwhelming." Sansa didn't necessarily want to see him go but there wasn't a reason for him to stay. Someone would come back to look for him if he was kept any longer.

Sandor turned to go without a word for his exit. His feet thumped against the frozen wood, making it creak aggressively under his weight as he left a path of interrupted snow with his large, lagging footsteps. Only the graceful flow of his cloak could offset his rigid manner. He was almost around the nearest corner, rounding it to where the stairs leading down to the courtyard started when she stopped him.

"Let's try to make it a good one, shall we?" She caught herself almost teasing. She couldn't tell if it was to Sandor, herself, or to the whole jaded idea of everything. Maybe a bit of all three. "As what's so good about a wife if to not give a good impression?"

Are you ready? At this moment, it's about T minus an hour until the premiere of season 8 starts! I will be watching excitingly as I eat my limited edition Game of Thrones-themed Oreos.

I've come back after watching that episode to get something very important off my chest: I hate Danaerys and her stupid, smug, self-righteous face.

Whew, I've been holding that in since season 1.

I know. Unpopular opinion, but I'm serious. I. Just. Cannot. Even. With. Her. And Jon making out with her? *Projectile vomits at their love*

Agree? Disagree? X'D "But I am her queen," Danaerys says. Uhm, nah. #longlivequeensansa

...you pissed off Samwell Tarly... ...you def fucked up when you pissed off Samwell Tarly...

I'll stop now.