Sansa Stark sat in a pool of sunlight in the godswood at Castle Darry, trying to read, though her eyes traveled over the same words and her mind drank in no meaning. On a rock nearby, Alle was bent over some mending, and beside Sansa, a sleeping Lemons gave a squeaky sneeze before snuggling closer into her lap.

She smiled despite herself and gave her a light scratch between the ears. At her feet, the little white sapling she had found at the base of Winterfell's weirwood tree seemed alight, its white bark gilded with the light and its tiny leaves glowing like embers.

She had escaped the company of the Darry women and the queen's ladies earlier in the day, excusing herself on the flimsy pretence of taking her sapling out to get some sun. Amma had only given her a patient look and let her go without a word, though she had stopped a mutinous-looking Lia from following, even when Sansa said she would welcome the company. Their mother knew Sansa could not keep her sister in line.

Poor Lia. Since her accident, their mother had been keeping a tight watch over her, rarely letting her ride ahead of their wheelhouse if she let her ride at all. When the king had gone out on a hunt that morning, her father and Arya had followed, but Amma had made Lia stay in the castle.

On that same matter, she felt badly for her mother too. Sansa should not have left her in the icy company of the queen, especially after the distress she and Arya had caused her that morning, but she could simply not stand the vile gossip Lady Darry's women were exchanging with the queen's ladies, or the pointed compliments they made about her appearance that did not feel like compliments at all.

Nor did she think she could weather another accusatory look from the queen herself and the sinking contrition that accompanied. She could not be in that chamber one moment more without squirming.

The castle was still humming, tight as a harp string, from Prince Joffrey's disastrous outburst the night before. That was the reason Sansa had escaped to the godswood. The king had bellowed and threatened and thrown furniture about the Great Hall before someone had had the good sense to summon Father, and by then there had been no salvaging of the situation.

This morning, the king had taken a hunting party out before sunrise, Prince Joffrey had taken ill to his rooms, and the queen had purple half-moons under her eyes. Avoidance of any mention of the previous night had hung thick in the sewing chamber, stifling, and it had been another reason that Sansa had needed to leave, no matter how rude.

She could not shake the guilt that she and Arya had taken things too far.

"He only received his due," Arya had declared last night, not at all repentant, but the plan had always been to scare him a little, not thoroughly humiliate the future king before his father and future vassals.

When Sansa had first heard of what happened between Arya and the prince, she could hardly believe her ears. Yet it had been the truth, and to her horror, Sansa had felt angry tears stinging her nose and bitter disappointment clog her chest. How could he do such a thing? Joffrey was supposed to be a prince, and Ser Sandor a knight. Arya might know how to wield a blade, but she was only a girl. Were knights and princes not supposed to protect litle girls? Was that not their sworn duty, avowed before the gods? Why had they intended to hurt her defenceless sister instead?

Perhaps Ser Sandor's actions could be forgiven. He was sworn to protect the Lannisters and the prince. Perhaps he had thought Arya might injure Joffrey and chosen one vow over another. Yet Joffrey himself…

Amma had instructed her to observe the prince carefully, in case she changed her mind about him. Oh, Sansa had most certainly changed her mind, but not for the better, which, she reflected now, was likely the outcome her mother had wanted. Joffrey's deeds were unconscionable to her, no matter his reasons. She did feel pity for him, for surely being savaged by a grown direwolf was too harsh a punishment for anyone, but Sansa had nonetheless contrived to stay as far from him as she could.

Yet, when Arya had come to her before they left home, looking more vulnerable than Sansa had ever seen her, she'd let herself be convinced to keep Prince Joffrey's company once more.

"Oh Sansa, I was so, so scared. I really thought he was going to run me through, and no matter what I did, I couldn't escape. Please, help me scare him, just a little? I can't bear that he will get away with this."

"Oh, Arya." She had pulled her sister into her arms, unable to look at her haunted eyes. She rarely saw Arya so young and frightened, and even more rarely did she plead with her for anything.

"I am so glad you're alright. It…it was despicable that he should threaten you so, but…surely he's been punished enough? I heard the direwolf mother tore a rather large hole in his chest. And there was a lot of blood."

Arya had pulled back to look up at her then, and there had been tears on her cheeks. Any protest Sansa may have had faded like smoke.

"Sansa, please, he was so cruel to me. I can't sleep at night knowing he does not suffer as I do."

And so, along the King's Road, Sansa had found herself riding next to Prince Joffrey every day. Arya had been right that the prince would request her company—"he looks at you like a tender piece of meat; he won't be able to keep away," she'd said—and reluctantly, Sansa had agreed. Gone were her early fantasies about the golden prince who had ridden through Winterfell's gates. Prince Joffrey's gaze upon her was not unfamiliar, but it was by far the most insistent and unyielding, and it made her feel greasy and foul.

Sansa had spent days telling him a mix of Old Nan's stories and nonsense Arya had concocted for this very jape. She had not expected his reactions. The plan had been to frighten him with tales of direwolf retribution, and then create the illusion that there were indeed wolves after him at night.

Yet, from that first day, Sansa had seen a white-hot interest spark in his eyes when she spoke of the gore and savagery that turned her own stomach. Over the next days, it had grown into a look she could only conclude was glee. It had been all too easy. The prince was eager to fill his mind with the horrid tales, and Sansa, at Arya's instruction, had provided them in hoards.

"You have to be convincing when you tell them," Arya had insisted, and so Sansa swallowed down her shudders and tried her best to be engaging. It had worked. She knew it had. The prince had been enthralled by the stories, and Sansa knew that they were always swimming at the from of his mind. Then, later, when she had turned the tales to that of vengeance for the Starks, she had clearly seen the hesitant fear that flashed in his eyes.

Most disturbingly, she found that there were moments when she rather enjoyed seeing that fear. It was for Arya's sake, this manipulation, but Sansa would be lying if she said she did not prefer Prince Joffrey to think of the blood-sucking demon rather than stare at her breasts.

Arya would rouse Sansa in the middle of the night, and the two would sneak from the tent they shared, their direwolves following close behind. They had not told Arthur or Elia of their plan, for Amma was ever watchful over the twins these days, yet Mouse would join in their little party as they slipped towards the royal camp, better behaved than either Lem or Nymeria.

Each night, they would bid their wolves sneak silently past the Lannister guards and walk circles around the prince's tent with strategically-thrown sticks. And then, on their return, they encouraged them to howl in rounds just as they'd trained them to do at Winterfell.

After a fortnight, Joffrey had stopped asking Sansa to ride with him.

"I think we are done, are we not?" Sansa had asked Arya one night when Arya had woken her once more. "Surely you've seen the fatigue in Prince Joffrey's face. He can't even bear to look at Lem anymore."

Arya had narrowed her eyes.

"It has not been so very long. I say we must keep this up until we cross the Neck at the very least."

It was Arya's justice, after all, and Sansa had acquiesced, for she had agreed to help. Arya was looking perkier and more like herself by the day, so Sansa supposed it could not hurt to scare the prince for a while longer.

Then, at Darry, Arya had pulled her away from the welcoming feast as soon as they were finished eating, and it was only until they were back in their rooms that Arya would tell her of her anything at all. She had produced a fungus that resembled translucent hydrangea clusters, a smile so wicked dotting her face that Sansa felt a tingle run down her spine.

"I found out from Arthur that this fungus glows green when you light it. Come, help me gather it up. And do you have the tinderbox with you?"

"Arya, what on…" There was a little mountain of the stuff to one corner of Arya's trunk. "Where did all this come from? And what use could you possibly have with a green bonfire?"

"Mycah helped me gather it when we were passing the Neck." She shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. "As for what we're doing with it, just follow me, and you'll find out."

Ah. Mycah. The son of the man who worked the butcher's cart that followed the royal retinue. Arya and Lia were always good at making friends. He seemed a pleasant sort, always smiling and not at all shy around nobles, and Sansa did not mind his company when he joined them. Yet now she bit her lip, for Sansa had found them behind the washing trolleys one night, Arya dressed in coarse-spun clothes, Mycah's hands all over her backside.

"Arya…"

"Ugh, Sansa, now is entirely the wrong time to lecture me. And I've already told you. We've only been kissing. He's pretty good at that."

Sansa frowned, and Arya sighed.

"I said I'd be careful, and I have been, I swear. No one is going to see. And again. Only kissing. Now, come on, this is the last part of the jape, and it's going to be spectacular."

They had wrapped up the fungus in their spare shifts, and Arya had led her down to the kennels where their direwolves had been put up for their stay. Promising to only take them to the godswood, Arya had easily talked her way past the hound hands, then taken their little party around the castle.

"Where are you taking us?"

In the moonlight, Arya's sharp tooth had glistened like a sliver of the moon.

"I saw Joffrey leave the feast a while back. Seemed tired. I'd say he's retired for the night. Let's have our direwolves keep him company."

Arya had somehow located Joffrey's window from the outside. They crouched in the shade of the low garden trees nearby, watching the single candle flicker from within, Sansa asking more than a few times if Arya was sure this was truly a good idea.

"How do you even know it will work, this trick of the light?"

"I don't. We'll have to experiment. But Mycah tells me he played this trick on his little siblings once, and they were scared into wetting the bed."

"How unkind! And to his little siblings! He really did such a thing?"

Arya gave her a sideways look.

"He does say he feels badly about it. I suppose it was ill-done of him, but he was thirteen."

"Well, if he is contrite now…" Thirteen truly was an age of unthinking action. At thirteen, Arya had nearly burned down their granary in some elaborate scheme to get back at Robb for one slight or other. Sansa had been horrified, naturally, but half the things Arya did seemed to horrify her, a fact that made Sansa question if she was the one with the weak constitution.

She had always been aware that she was the only one of her siblings who had never gone with Father to witness his executions. She could hide behind her arguments that proper ladies would never wish to view such a thing, but she knew that one day, she would have to preside over such carrying out of justice. She was only being cowardly by shying away from the world for as long as she could, yet the very notion of watching a man's head leave his body in a red burst made her see black spots before her eyes.

Her thoughts had been interrupted by Arya's sharp gasp.

"Look," she hissed, pointing at the newly darkened window. "He's surely gone abed. Come, the clearing just here will do nicely."

Working quickly, they piled the fungus into a little pyre in the cleaning, nudging away Nymeria's curious snout. Lemons sat quickly by Sansa's side, brilliant eyes slightly narrowed, while Mouse slowly paced before the castle.

"That's perfect, Mouse. You just keep walking like that," said Arya as she struck the flintstones together, sending sparks into the fungus. "The fungus only burns a few moments, so we'll need to be fast."

A moment of glittering silence as the embers settled, and then the clearing bloomed with green light so bright Sansa had to shield her eyes.

Arya was on her feet at once, beckoning their wolves between the fire and the window.

"Slow now, Nymeria, Lem, walk back and forth—yes, precisely, good girl. Yes, another go, perfect!"

Sansa squinted up at the window, but everything was pulsing behind her eyes, and she could hardly see a thing. For some moments, all she heard were the direwolves' muted steps and Arya's voice. Just as the fungus fire was beginning to dim, however, a blood-curdling scream had pierced the air, coming unmistakably from that newly-darkened chamber.

Over the last flickering embers of the green fire, Arya had given Sansa a smile that so resembled Nymeria's predatory sneer it made Sansa's blood slow.

"Now, sis, I think we're done."

000

"Should we head back in, milady? The sun's dropping. It'll be getting dark soon."

Sansa looked up from her book. The sun had deepened in hue on the grass. She had forgotten the hour. Nodding, Sansa handed her book to Alle, then bent to gather up her weirwood sapling.

On one of her last mornings at Winterfell, Sansa had awakened to whisperings in her ear, and somehow, she had known she needed to go to the godswood. Wrapped in furs and cloaks over her dressing gown, Sansa had braved the morning chill, her feet crunching over the frost that covered the humus-laden ground. Before the heart tree, she had gasped in the pale-white silence.

At the base of the vast trunk was a smaller shoot, its main stem barely as thick as her finger. Tiny red leaves opened from the top like rubies. In an instant, she had been on her knees, hands sinking into the hard dirt, digging up the shoot and wrapping it with a large ball of soil in an old cloak. She had known that this was meant for her, this tiny little sapling. It would be a glimpse of home amid the Red Mountains of Dorne.

The sapling had grown in the moons they were on the road. She had planted it in a clay pot, and while there was still plenty of space for its expansion, the trunk was now as thick as two of her fingers, and it was beginning to ease into that place in her heart where Lem had so easily burrowed.

"What's this you were reading, milady?" asked Alle as they made their way through the yellowing trees. "The times I looked up your nose was near touching the pages." Sansa gave her a small smile and a shrug.

"Just some stories about a tournament a thousand years ago," she said, hoping Alle would not ask for details, for she had none to give. For once, Sansa was glad that Alle had no interest in learning how to read.

Sansa did not know how long she had been sitting against that rock in the Darry godswood, her unsighted eyes fixed to the page before her. Over and over she told herself that she must not feel too badly for the prince, that he had threatened Arya's life, that he deserved this painful lesson. Yet, he was only sixteen, just as she was. Gods only knew that Sansa made mistakes all the time. He was only misled, surely, and did not deserve to be so publicly berated and humiliated. Alle had repeated King Robert's words to her the next morning. They had been most merciless.

Her mind flew to another terrible boy and the vicious things he had said to her. Gerold Dayne had tormented Sansa for the months she had been at Starfall all those years ago, and eventually had succeeded in making her cry. Yet she had seen he was only that way because he was hurting, for his eyes were haunted, and he flinched at the lightest outburst. He needed someone to lash out his pain on, and she had been an easy target. Sansa could not see such wounds in the prince, to be sure, but surely they were there. Surely he suffered somehow, to be so eager to cause Arya harm. And she had only made him suffer more.

In a way, Sansa was glad that Amma had sensed their involvement. At least there would be some punishment for her deeds, and somehow that felt like a balm on her guilt. Their mother had pulled her and Arya into her chambers in the pale morning hours, pinning them with her expectant purple gaze until Arya finally broke.

"Fine, fine. It was my doing. I lit some green fungus outside his chambers and made Nymeria walk in front of it. That cast a shadow and frightened the wits out of him. He deserved it! You said so yourself! You said you and Father could not do any more, so I took the task into my own hands."

Their mother frowned and rubbed her temple.

"Arya, love, how could—oh, gods help me, Elia's giving me enough grief as it is. Do you have any idea what would have happened if you were caught? What the queen would have insisted the king do to you—"

"It wasn't just Arya!" Her mother and sister both snapped their gaze to her, and Amma's eyes had gone huge.

"What?"

"It wasn't just Arya," Sansa said. "We…well, 'twas a long game, this, and I played a much bigger part than Arya did. Last night was only the cumulation, and in that, too, I helped."

"I…" Their mother was lost for words. Never had Sansa been involved in a scheme like this.

Finally, she had sighed and closed her eyes, and Sansa had felt her stomach sink as another weight of contrition was added on her conscience. Amma was right. She was worried enough over Lia and Arya. Sansa did not need to be another burden, and yet here she was.

It was a long while before their mother spoke, but neither Sansa nor Arya could bring themselves to speak out again in their own defence. It had been risky and reckless. So many people could have seen them. They had not thought it through in the moment, but looking back…

"Girls, do you remember all the stories I've told you? Of the masks people wear in King's Landing? Of the subtle politics and the horrible fates that await at the end of a single wrong turn?"

They nodded.

"Did you think they were tales I contrived to scare you? They were real, real things that I saw happen when I was nearly as young as you. People died horrible deaths because one wrong word spoken in private was whispered to the king. King Robert is no Mad Aerys, but court has not changed, and neither has the cruelty of royal blood. There will always be eyes on you, ears fixed to your walls, no matter where you are, do you understand?

We are not at home any longer. You must think twice and twice again before you act, and you must ensure no one can trace any wrongdoing back to you, especially in the next months in King's Landing. But take heed, for it is true for Sunspear too, Arya, even if you are surrounded by family.

And Sansa, you must take care to learn all you can from your uncle, do you hear me? Even as far as Starfall, there are always people who listen and watch, and rumours can cut deeper than swords. The two of you can never be so reckless again."

"Yes, Amma."

"I'm sorry," Sansa heard herself whisper, and their mother had sighed again and run her thumb across Sansa's burning cheek.

"Sansa, you'll refuse sweets and dessert until we arrive at King's Landing. Arya, I will be spending the rest of the journey in the wheelhouse with Yli, and so will you."

Arya's eyes had gone wide, but Sansa wished to make no protest. It was the mildest of punishments, even as she thought longingly of the beautiful cherry tarts from the evening before.

"I want you girls to remember this lesson well. Hopefully, this prolonged punishment will scorch this day into your heads."

"Oh, but Amma, I will surely start growing mould. Why…why can't I also skip dessert?"

Their mother raised her eyebrows.

"When was the last time you ate more than a bite of something sweet? Do you take your mother for a fool?"

"No, but—ugh fine, very well, but I make no promises I won't upset Yli's nerves."

Arya had sighed and grumbled all the way back to their shared chambers, though she did include a "thanks, sis" for Sansa not abandoning her to their mother's reprimands. Sansa had barely heard her.

It had not seemed real, before: leaving home, going to the capital, starting on her way to Starfall with only Alle for company, this time well and truly for the rest of her life.

Yet now the fact rose before her, garish and stark. She could be a child no longer, no matter how keenly she already felt the loss of Winterfell. No, she must be strong, and she must be wise with her actions. Her mother had been right. She had been too reckless. It must never happen again. She must not disappoint her mother, not again.

000

Sansa and Alle had returned Lem to the abandoned kennels by the time the sun began to deepen to a rich bloody orange at the edge of the sky. Lem had seemed to frown up at her when Sansa locked the grate, making the pitiful whining at the back of her throat. Sansa had felt tears prick and was in half a mind to sneak her direwolf up to her chambers. Nymeria had gone on the hunt with Arya, and Mouse and Dawn were faring just fine as they wrestled in the corner, but it seemed that Lem had been missing her, cooped up here in these old buildings. Just thinking about her here, sad and wilted, made her heart ache.

"We'll be on the road soon, I promise," Sansa had said, hoping she sounded reassuring. The sooner they left this place, the better.

As they made their way across the abandoned yards, Sansa let her thoughts wander once more, and so it was with a sharp start that she looked up to find a wall of plate armour looming above her, blocking out the light. Her sharp gasp stung the back of her throat.

Ser Sandor Clegane stood before her, his face twisted in an uneven scowl, the patches of burn scars marring one side burning deep red and angry. Sansa shivered despite herself, imagining the acrid pain he must have endured. She averted her eyes and hoped she had not caused him embarrassment with her staring. Her mother would not have stared so.

"Ser, I beg your pardon," she said, bobbing a curtsey and making to walk around him. He took one lumbering step to the side and blocked her path once more. Sansa looked up at him in question, though she focused her eyes on his neck. Behind her, she could feel Alle stiffen.

"I beg your pardon," she said again, clutching the clay pot tighter in her hands. He spoke before she could move.

"You should not have done that." His voice sounded scorched too, raspy and dry and low.

"Not have done…sorry?"

"Last night. During this entire journey. Do not think I did not see what you and your sister did."

Sansa bit her tongue against the shock. It was just as their mother had said. People were always watching in the shadows.

What will he do? she wondered, suddenly very frightened. Surely he had not breathed a word to the prince or the queen. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps he wished for something in exchange for his silence. The very notion felt wrong for a knight, but had not that day at Winterfell proved Ser Sandor did not hold his knightly vows above all else?

"Alle?"

Her handmaiden scampered up behind her. Sansa turned to hand her the pot.

"Take my sapling and start back. I'd have a word with Ser Sandor."

"But milady—"

"I'll be but a moment. 'Tis light out yet. I can find my way back."

Sansa gave her a pointed look then, hoping she understood that she did not truly intend for Alle to abandon her here, only to step away so this errant knight could speak his piece. It took a moment, but Alle nodded, took her pot, and began a slow walk back across the yard.

"Please, ser, if you would speak to me, do so plainly."

Over the past weeks on the road, Sansa had heard all about the life of Ser Sandor Clegane. It was said that he had fallen into the fire when he had been but a child. Sansa had not been able to sleep the first night she had heard the tale, imagining over and over a little boy, smaller even than Arthur, his screams ripping through his throat as he beat against the flames.

He was almost as tall as his brother, the escaped Ser Gregor, people whispered, and since the age of twelve Sandor Clegane had been most feared on the battlefield—least of all for his scarred face.

Since Gregor Clegane's escape from justice all those years ago, it was Ser Sandor who ruled his family lands. Yet, unlike most landed knights, he did not spend his time at home, preferring to stay in the queen's service and visiting his lands only infrequently. No one knew why, and who would dare ask? It was for this reason they called him the Hound though, for like a loyal dog, he stayed close to his masters.

Yet if he were truly so loyal, surely he would have told the queen his suspicions. Why did he stand before her now?

For a long while, Ser Sandor was silent. Just as Sansa thought she ought to speak once more, he interrupted her thoughts.

"You can't even look at me, can you?"

She felt herself frown. She had not been looking at his face for the sake of courtesy, but that contempt lacing his voice rankled. Deliberately, she raised her eyes to meet his, letting him see her take in the silvery webbed scars that clawed angrily at his eye and missing ear, the once-broken nose, the wiry hair that grew only on one side and covered the other. Her suddenly unflinching gaze seemed to shock him, and Sansa had a moment to see that his eyes were…his eyes were like Father's, somehow. They were terrible and sharp, and yet…that soft grey, just like Father's.

"My apologies if I've caused you offence," she said. "I did not wish you to think I gawked."

The sneer was back, contorting his face, for the scarred half could not move.

"So courteous, aren't you? You and that mother of yours both, hiding behind your polished words."

His words were angry and harsh, yet there was a crack of resignation there too.

Sansa felt her jaw tighten, and she did not know if it was indignation, fear, or grudging understanding that this man sought only to protect himself with this callous shell.

"I hide behind nothing, ser. If you've nothing else to say, I must return to the castle."

"Do not be a damn fool again."

She had turned away from him, making to leave, but his words drew her gaze back to him.

"You and that hare-brained sister of yours. Just because most are too far up their own arses to notice doesn't mean I did not. You'll get yourselves killed sooner or later, playing your hand against the prince and the Lannisters, two helpless little chits as you are. Don't forget that."

Sansa felt her eyes narrow.

"If you thought my sister so helpless, why did you lift her by the shirt collar and make her a target for the prince's blade? Are you not a knight? Have you not sworn to protect?"

A still moment, and then Ser Sandor threw his head back and roared with terrible laughter.

"You really think he could have hurt her? Joffrey? With all your Stark men about?"

"That is hardly the—"

"You really think the prince was going to yield? To a girl half his size? You weren't there. You don't know him. Your sister was a bleeding fool to point her sword at the future king, and you're just as empty-headed for dancing so close to the lion's bloody mouth."

He was right, naturally. Father had spoken stern words to Arya on the matter, Sansa knew, and with this recent jape both she and Arya had been most reckless. Yet, that this man, who was of no relation to her family, would express such concern…And to stand before her now, telling her of what he knew, yet making no threats to expose their schemes…

Sansa felt her face soften into a small smile.

"That was a kindness you did my sister then, ser. And today. This is another kindness. I thank you."

He stared at her as if stung, but then something black and savage passed over his face, and Sansa felt her stomach clench, even as she knew now that this was a good man, at his core. She had seen the break in his shell. A truly heartless man would not be here, speaking with her, warning her.

"I am not kind," he sneered, his voice hissing like water on hot coals. "Don't you dare say—don't look at me like that, girl. You don't know what I'm capable of."

She peered up at him, eyes softly sweeping his heartbreaking scars. There was a notch on his jaw, a place where flesh had been burned away so deeply that the bone showed beneath. She wanted to place her hand against his scarred face, wanted to tell him that she would not shrink away from this cruel facade that he wore like armour. There was hurt behind it all. Deep, festering wounds that must pain him every moment of his life. She did not know what they were, but she knew they were there.

"I know you have fought in battles, and no doubt you have killed men. 'Tis the unfortunate way of the world, even if I wish it were not so. Yet you are kind, and good, ser. I know you must suffer greatly, and not from the wounds of your flesh. I see it now, no matter that you might believe you conceal it well, and I am sorry that you must bear such pain."

She smiled again, pouring all the warmth she could manage into to her face, and used his shocked silence to thank him once more before leaving with a curtsey.

000

Much to Sansa's disappointment, the king and the hunting party did not return that evening, and so at Castle Darry they remained. After the midday meal, Sansa once again excused herself from the women and their sewing, and, feeling Lia's aggrieved glare on her back, made her way to the kennels. There, however, she learned that Arthur had come not an hour hence, taking all three direwolves to the godswood so they might stretch their legs.

As she and Alle walked to join them, Sansa could not help thinking how thoroughly unjust it was that all their wolves seemed to heed Arthur and Lia. Artie could lead all three direwolves, and none would run out of line. Any time Sansa tried to give an order to Mouse or Dawn, all either ever did was stare back at her, or worse, offer her a blatantly mocking yip.

Castle Darry was quiet, just as it had been yesterday. There was still something humming and dissonant in the air, and the few servants Sansa passed all spoke in shuttered voices. Just as she crossed the central bailey, however, booming calls and the clomping of trotting horses shattered the silence. Sansa flinched. At the gates were five Lannister men on horseback. The man in the middle was unmistakably Ser Sandor Clegane.

One of the other men spotted her and dipped his head in greeting. Before Sansa could decide if she should take her leave from afar or approach to greet them, they had ridden up near her, dismounting as stable hands rushed forward to take their reins. It was only then that she noticed the large sacks they bore on the backs of their horses.

"My lords," she said, and caught some of their grinning bows as she curtseyed. Ser Sandor did not smile.

Sansa should not have said any more. She should not have asked any questions. What these men did were none of her concern, and yet she was ever her mother's daughter. They were all like this—all of her siblings. Curiosity won out. Every single time.

"Did you ride out to meet the hunt? Are they returning?"

The smiles faded. A nervous sort of air swirled about them, the men looking at one another as if suddenly unsure what to say.

"Don't know if the hunt's returning, my lady," said the youngest man, likely younger than she. A fine dusting of hair covered his chin—no doubt his attempt at a beard. "We didn't ride out to meet them."

"Oh." Sansa blinked, peering curiously at the sacks they carried. "Those are not deer, then?"

"No."

It was not the young man who answered. That was the voice of Sandor Clegane.

"No, little lady," he rasped, making the word lady sound like a taunt. "That's spoils of a different sort of hunt." Slowly, he stalked towards her.

"Clegane…"

Another man—Ser Addam?—placed a hand on his shoulder, but Ser Sandor shook him off and turned to glare.

"Clegane, this is hardly suitable for a lady—"

"The lady seems curious enough."

Sansa still had no notion of what either man was speaking, yet Ser Sandor was at his horse once more, tugging his great bundle from its back and throwing it to the dusty ground. It landed with a leaden thunc. Sansa felt her stomach turn.

With his toe, Sandor Clegane flung open the rough wrappings. A body lay within. The body of a young man, his midsection nearly severed, rusty blood caked to the gash. Putrid pink intestines half spilled from the wound, glistening dully like raw sausages in the afternoon sun.

"By order of Prince Joffrey, this is what we hunted today—weavers of spells intended to drive him to insanity. Grievous traitors to the crown, these. I'd watch yourself, little lady, lest you be accused as well. I believe you knew this one here."

And she did. For it was Mycah, Arya's butcher friend.

He stood close to her now, so close she could smell the gamy mix of sweat and ripe blood radiating off his body in hot waves.

"I did tell you I was not kind."

The next thing she knew, Sansa was heaving the contents of her midday meal into the gardrobe.

000

She could not bring herself to attend dinner that evening. She could not move from her bed.

Late in the night, her mother slipped into her room, backlit by the warm glow of torches in the hall.

Sansa watched, silent and still, as her mother came to sit by her bed and placed a little bundle on her trunk.

"If you get hungry in the night," she said, holding her candle close and unwrapping it to reveal two cherry tarts, glistening like bloody gems.

Numbly, Sansa looked up at her. Her mother leaned down to kiss her forehead.

"I should think you and Arya have been punished enough."

I'd like to emphasise that Sansa has literally been going around Castle Darry carrying a wee potted weirwood tree all day. Just…picture that for a second. If I could draw/paint at all there would be so many funny portraits of my fic so far, you guys don't even now.

Haha sorry that this chapter just kept expanding. Could I have done it in two separate chapters? Yeah, probably. That might have been better. As it is, 6,000 words might be a bit of Sansa Stark overload. That said, there was actually about 3,000 words of material I cut for a later chapter, so just be thankful it's not even longer. Anyway, I hope it was somewhat enlightening. Poor Sansa. I feel bad for taking away her rose-coloured glasses like this, but someone had to.

Also, just so we're clear: this fic will not be SanSan. Like…just no. This is not a Sandor Clegane redemption story, and there will be zero romantic attachments in that quarter. Now, if you CAN guess the ship I'm building, kudos to you. I like redemption arcs in general. I'm just not that into writing Sandor Clegane's If said ship upsets you, well, you have plenty of time before it sails.

Oh, and lastly, I thought I'd start recommending other fics at the end of my chapters, especially as I got to reading quite a few new ones recently while procrastinating. So, if you haven't yet read "Stannis the Black Stag" by IronT, do yourself a favour and read it. Like now. Fantastic, baddass, but still realistic young Stannis. Plus, it's Elia/Stannis, a ship that hardly exists, but definitely needs to be a huge thing. It's only on AO3, but definitely worth heading over to check it out.