Sansa

Surprisingly, sleep had found Sansa well in the dead of night, mindfully listening to the floating footsteps passing her door, looms of warm light from the buds of dragonflies, and the snores of Arya, which, mind you, was far down the hall. Ladies do not snore, Lady Leanne always noted when Jeyne would nod off, they breathe in through the nose, and out through the throat. Silence is key, girls, and silence makes for a happy husband.

No handmaiden had rose her from sleep, not even the ruckus from the courtyard- swords clashing as knights gallantly retold stories of the previous nights visit to the brothel, but instead the desire to see Sandor again had the edge of her night slip sliding against the floor as she rushed to her closet.

Every color met her eyes; would yellow be too bright, and perhaps red to presumptuous? Just like you were with him before, she scolded herselfwith a stern glare in the mirror. A lady of the court should never be alone with a man, and she'd done it nonetheless. And even worse, enjoyed it.

His lips curved whenever he called her little bird, and in turn it curled her stomach in a delicious sense, one that Lady Leanne would frown upon, no doubt. Wanton is what she'd be called, as if being alone with a man sullied her virtue. Occasionally, more rarely than not, the absurdity of what it meant to be a lady bothered Sansa in a way that tickled her nose.

The blue dress ended up being the best and most fit for a day like this, and it matched her eyes.

Much to her surprise, the hall was empty. Usually at this bright hour, there were already handmaids or Maesters or Ladies of the Court mulling about. On the most dreadful occasion, Lord Baelish had found himself on the receiving end of her door, and his eyes had never strayed her own Tully blues. He was a family friend, everyone liked to say, but something about his eyes would turn anyone's stomach. Very mischievous, and she was grateful he rarely visited her rooms. Either to her face or retreating back, he'd murmur how she looked so much like her mother.

Deciding to not break her nightly fast was taken swiftly by her Queen Mother, Catelyn Stark. Tully sapphire eyes watched her eldest daughter with a harsh gaze, mouth downturned in a frown. Her deep auburn locks were braided up into a faux crown, unlike the long cascading crimson waves down Sansa's back; so alike yet so different.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry? I don't believe you've broken your fast."

"I'm not hungry this morning." Lying was a sin, and her grumbling stomach attested to that. "A midday meal will do me better, I suppose."

"Nonsense, dear, we can't have you withering away once winter truly sets in. Every lady must break her fast each and every morning, even if she is not hungry." Her mother offered an arm, "Come, let us see if your brothers have risen as well."

Taking a quick glance at the main doors, and sighing in defeat, Sansa took her mothers arm. Striding past servants and handmaidens whomst bowed at the regal Stark women, they entered with the Main Hall.

Robb sat where Ned would, one hand swirling a dagger while the other poked and prodded a bowl of various fruits. Bran was off the side with Summer, his dead legs splayed out in front with childlike mirth in his eyes. Arya was nowhere to be found, and Sansa tried not to purse her lips. She was probably already on the training field with Sandor, wooden sword in hand and trying to knock him down as best she could. It wasn't fair that Arya didn't have to join them, and Sansa felt a cloud of annoyance boil over her head.

Jon, their bastard brother, was nowhere to be found as well.

"Brandon, dear, what have I said about sitting on the floor? It's filthy, and disgusting, and not the place for a prince."

Bran smiled up at his mother, petting Summer's soft fur. "You said Summer couldn't sit with us at the table, so I'll sit with him down here. I don't want him to feel alone."

"He can see you when you sit in a chair, and he's never lonely."

"How would you know?" Bran asked. Hodor, a largely obtrusive man with a kind heart who lifted the youngest heir to Winterfell when need be, perked up from his spot by the door. "You don't even let Nymeria or Lady inside. They cry outside my room at night because they're cold."

Their mother sighed, "They're direwolves, sweetheart. They have pelts for warmth, just like us. In the North, when the air is too cold for us, we wear the skin of wolves to stay alive." Seeing that her youngest still did not agree, she conceded with a wave of her free arm, "Just try to stay clean. For me."

Nodding, Bran turned back to Summer, and Hodor fell back to sleep.

Sansa took place next to Robb, filling her plate with brightly colored fruits and one thick chunk of honeyed bread, moaning at the sweetness blossoming on her tongue. Sugar and sweets weren't meant to be eaten too much by a lady of six and ten, but Sansa had defied those rules for long now. Jeyne was excellent at buttering up Hot Pie, batting her lashes and whispering sweet things to the young boy. He practically melted on the spot, giving away lemon cake after lemon cake.

Her father had found them smelling saccharine sweet and covered in pale sugar, begging not to tell anyone of what they'd done.

"How goes your womanly classes, dear sister? Are they as enlightening as Talisa says?"

Sansa chuckled, "I suppose one would say the spectacle by Arya is enlightening as anything. But I suppose Talisa has more than enough to share with you." Robb smirked at his sister, fingering the dagger in his hand, spinning a hole into the table.

He picked at a piece of ripe delicious green apple, "She mentioned Father removing you early. Does it have anything to do with Arya's new training lessons with the Hound? I can't imagine you'd want to be a spectacle for such a thing. Most women faint at the sight of blood."

If only he knew how much she wanted to see Sandor swing his sword and sweat in the daylight, only for her eyes. "Father asked that I watch over Arya until his return, and I've graciously accepted the opportunity."

"Why?"

"If there is anyone in Westeros who can best Arya, it would be Sandor Clegane. It might be interesting to see how she fares against a worthy opponent." Seeing a look of trepidation on Robb's face, she asked, "Have I said something wrong?"

"Why do you not call him the Hound?" Robb shrugged. "I've noticed he prefers it on occasion to the title of Ser."

"I'm merely calling him his name, I didn't think it was a crime." Robb realized he'd spoken wrongly to his sweet sister and quickly tried to rectify his situation, "And it's not, Sansa. But do not burden yourself with the names and titles of men so far beneath your status. You are to be Queen someday, not some broodmare for a dog."

"Most would tell your lover that she is to be a whore, not a Queen as well."

Nearly choking on his bite of apple, while also making sure their mother hadn't heard such a claim, he deeply glared at Sansa. "You promised you wouldn't say anything. Do not turn away from me now."

Lowering her voice, she whispered "I have not told a soul of what you two have been doing, but I implore you, Robb, do not plan to keep it a secret forever." Reaching over, she squeezed his hand with sisterly care. "She loves you, worships you, and you treat her like a bedside whore by hiding her."

"I have not-"

"You are." Turning back to her fruit, she chewed on a bite of overripe peach. "You've yet to tell our family, or announce any betrothal."

An idea sparked in her head, "Perhaps for the Maiden's Day festival, you could announce your claim on her. No one would question or doubt your devotion to her… and it would be quite romantic." She tried not to picture Sandor and her in the same situation.

As if struck by lightning, Robb lurched up from his chair and kissed Sansa on the cheek, "You're brilliant, Sansa! Brilliant!" And he was off, abandoning the half eaten fruit while their Mother shook her head. Smiling to herself, Sansa finished off her honeyed bread and a few pieces of juicy fruit, excusing herself with a curtsy to the room. Only when the door had shut behind her did she sprint outside and into the morning air, only to knock directly into Jon.

"Jon!" She cried, "I'm so sorry, I didn't see you coming. Are you alright?"

Sprawled on his back, he stared up at his sister. Trying to shake away the thoughts of how beautiful she looked, he began to stand. "It's alright, I should've been more careful, My Lady."

"Please, just Sansa will do." Taking in his coverings better fit for training with a sword, she asked, "Where are you off to? We had already begun to break our fast."

"I was not hungry this morning." He rubbed the back of his neck, "And I wanted to make sure Arya knew what she was getting into."

"Oh?"

"She seemed confident in herself, which is good, but against a man like Clegane… confidence isn't much to go by."

Once they stood toe to toe, and it was clear that Jon was waiting for her to make the first move, Sansa began to stroll aside Jon. "You don't think he'll actually hurt her, right? I don't believe our Father would've entrusted someone with Arya if she were truly in danger."

"Your Father," He corrected. "And Lord Stark's judgment is blinded by love. He longs to make Arya happy, and if the price is Clegane's input, then he would happily pay it."

"I suppose the price for happiness is a costly one, brother."

He didn't correct her on the untrue title of brother, "I would say so, Sansa." Continuing their walk past the stable boys and squires, they looked to the bright rising sun as it awoke Winterfell. People began to fill the empty space, and Jon kept one hand on his sword, eyeing the shifty eyed peasants that watched his sweet sister.

"Do you ever plan to marry, Jon?" Sansa inquired while sidestepping a mud puddle. "I think you would make some maiden a very happy wife."

"I haven't really thought of that, if I'm being honest. Lady Stark tells me I shouldn't think of such things, but I fear Lord Stark intends to send me away." Looking to the Northern Sky, Jon frowned, "The Wall turns good men… cruel. And no one would marry a bastard, anyway."

Her bones chilled at the thought of The Wall, stopping in her tracks; "Has father voiced this to you? I will not allow you to be sent to your death on that godforsaken wall."

"It is not in your hands."

Seeing that the courtyard was close, and no one of importance was in sight, Sansa pulled her bastard brother close. "If you think I'll allow them to send you away, you really must know nothing, Jon Snow."

Then she was out of his arms and striding away, knowing his eyes were boring into her back. Rarely did her bastard brother boil her blood like this. He was foolish, truly, to think he'd be sent away. He belonged here; he was a Stark just as much as she was.

Clashing swords echoed through the air, and fairly quickly, she spotted them. Various pairs had already begun training. They ranged from young versus old, strong versus weak, quick and fast versus slow and lazy. Only a few pairs worked with real steel swords, and most, rightfully so, used wooden. No use losing an ear in a practice fight.

Finally, she stood before them, and frowned. Sandor looked the same; his armor that helped in his intimidating stance, hair hung to his shoulders, and burns on display in the sun. But Arya-

"Are those breeches?"

Her little sister smirked, nodding. "Father had them made for me, better for my footwork. A dress would just get in my way. I need all the room I can to kill this dog."

Finally, Sandor goaded, "I guess you'll be killing me with a wooden sword, girlie. I'd like to see you try."

Turning away from the worst Stark sibling, he bowed to his favorite, muttering "Little Bird" for just her ears. To which she blushed, cheeks matching her locks, curtsying to Sandor.

"Can we start already?" Arya was impatient, and Sansa nodded. She walked to the small set of wooden stands a few feet away, sitting down and observing. Unfortunately, unless they yelled, which she was certain they would be doing, their words were out of her reach. Her round nails tapped against the material of blue dress, fingering the silk fabric as they began to fight. Arya was fast, slipping around the end of Sandor's wooden sword, but it didn't seem to deter Sandor a bit, as he knocked her out from underneath her feet.

For such a large man, Sandor was exceptionally fast. She could see the precision in his moves, the eagerness to continue to knock Arya down again and again, and she began to pity her sister. Hitting the dirt that many times must've been painful. She could already imagine the bruises her sister would have.

Around the time the sun reached its peak, Arya called for a break. Her nose had nearly cracked after one failed duck from Sandor's sword, but surprisingly, he donned a few scratches himself. Truthfully, her sister was better than when they'd begun, but had a ways to go. The two of them had gone to procure some sort of snack, and Sansa had chosen to remain on the wooden bench, enjoying the sunlight,

Which may have been the wrong thing to do.

"Sweetling," Petyr Baelish stood at the base of the steps, hands clasped behind his back with a smile on his face. "You look stunning as ever, Sansa. So much like your Mother."

"Lord Baelish, what brings you here today?" She hoped he couldn't hear the tremble in her voice, not notice the nervous twitch of her hands as she stepped up to sit next to her.

"Please, call me Petyr. Only my business friends call me Lord Baelish, and I like to think we're closer than that, Sansa." Shyly, his hand landed on her blue clothed thigh. "May I ask as to why you're out here, alone? Not one of your brothers or Cat in sight, which I find odd. You are the jewel of the Starks, and jewels are protected."

"I…I'm here watching Arya train, that's all. I'm not even sure my Mother knows I'm out here." She confessed, hoping he wouldn't run and tell on her. "You won't tell her, will you, Lord- Petyr?"

Smirking, Petyr assured her, "I would never, sweet girl. You have my word." Boldly grasping her hand, he kissed her knuckles while looking into her Tully blue eyes. Stunning, he thought, longing to kiss her small red lips.

"Arya should be back soon," Sansa supplied, noticing him looking around for the youngest Stark. "She did not break her fast with the rest of us. You don't need to waste your time here."

"I think the ladies of my establishment can handle themselves for the time being." Being bold, Petyr asked, "Have you ever been with a man, Sansa?" Still rubbing her thigh, he dared to inch it up.

Her eyes went wide. She felt frozen as he rubbed her warm skin, "No-No I haven't Lord
Baelish, I don't think-"

"Petyr," He whispered while leaning in. "My lady friends call me Petyr as well." Leaning in, he took a heavy lungful of her sweet smell, wishing he owned the girl under his hand. His hands dared to slip under her dress, and finally, she clamped down on the offending appendage.

"I'm a maiden, Lord Baelish. This is highly inappropriate for a woman of my status." Squeezing his hand, "If you would please remove yourself-"

"Littlefinger!"

The duo turned to see Sandor Clegane furiously marching their way. Petyr surged up and righted his coat, refusing to be intimidated by a beast of a man. Sansa remained seated, praising the Seven for having Sandor arrive before Lord Baelish could get any further. For a small man, he was quite frightening, and she tried to calm her racing heart. As a man from the Fingers who'd been tormented for his size as a child, there was a lurking confidence in his every step. Knowledge was power, Sansa knew, and Petyr was a smart man.

Once Sandor was close enough to see the righteous scowl on his face, she eyed the angry scars on his cheek. They bulged and veined with his every step, eyes drawn hard to the man so confidently standing near her. Shockingly, there was not an ounce of fear in her bones- it was staring at a serpent with bared fangs yet continuing to dance around its tail- and her heart thumped loudly in her chest.

Stepping down to meet the raging mutt, Petyr smiled, "Clegane, a pleasure, as always. What brings a Kingsguard to the training fields?"

"The fuck you doing here, Littlefinger?" growled Sandor. "I've been instructed by the King to train his youngest Stark."

"Ah, Ned Stark has seen it fit to place you in a position better suited for a man of your tastes. How gracious of him."

"Why don't you fuck off to your whores and coin?"

"Is that any way to speak with a maiden present?" Petyr turned to Sansa with a saccharine smirk. "You'll have to excuse his language, Sansa, I don't believe that House Clegane ever invested in the ways to treat their women. I, on the other hand, know more than enough."

Ignoring his vulgar implications, she stood and began to make her way between the two men. It would ruin the day if blood were to be split for her honor. "Lord Baelish, I believe your presence is no longer needed at the moment. Sandor is more than enough protection I need."

"Then tell me why I came upon you alone, Sansa?" inquired Petyr. "Any man or Wildling could've snatched up a beautiful maiden such as yourself."

"I'd like to see one try," challenged Sandor. His eyes hadn't dared stray from Littlefinger, and he inched closer to the hilt of his sword. "I'll slit any man's throat who tries to touch the Stark girl, yourself included."

"Is that a threat, Hound?" goaded Petyr, licking his lips. "I'm a very important man to your King, and I do not take kindly to rabid dogs with idle words. I could see you losing your head."

Finally, not being able to stomach their violent words and threaded insults, Sansa declared "Enough." Turning to Lord Baelish, she glared, "Leave us. Now."

Her hands clenched in the fabric of her dress, not breaking away from Lord Baelish's hateful sage green eyes. There was no pride to be had in seeing him break away first with a glance over her shoulder, where assumedly Sandor was wearing a nasty glare, but she did let her shoulders relax when he stalked away. Such a vile man, she thought.

Turning around and seeing Sandor stock still, his hand finally slipping from white knuckling his sword, she thanked him, "Thank you for coming, Sandor. I don't… I do not enjoy his presence as much as family does." She sighed while stepping closer to him. "In his mind, he compares me to my Mother, and I've heard stories that he'd longed for her when they were young."

"As long as I breathe, he won't touch you, Little Bird. I swear to it."

She eyed the large man towering over here. His lips were in a straight line, but the hard crease on his brow had fled with Lord Baelish. Whispers always flew through Winterfell that Gregor Clegane had been the one to give him his scars, had melted the flesh away with glee. It churned her stomach to think of his older brother; Sandor was nothing like him.

Stepping closer to his hulking form, the chainmail of his armor chilled her bare skin, but she didn't back away. It felt nice to be this close to him, under his form and protected against anyone and anything. Warmth spread through her chest, and feeling a courageous leap in her throat, she reached up faster than he could react and pecked his scarred cheek. The flesh under her lips felt rough and mangled, yet warm to the touch. Many would assume it'd taste of burnt flesh or bone, but only salt remained on her lips.

Spying Arya running back with a mutton chop in her hand, Sansa quickly backed away from Sandor, blushing at his wide eyes and gaping mouth. Had he ever been kissed before? Not as whores do with men like Petyr Baelish, but with intentions as pure as hers?

Had Sandor ever been loved?

"I'm ready!" belted Arya, tearing into her mutton like a ferocious direwolf. Septa Mordane would've pinched her ear for that. "I've got it this time. I'll knock you on your ass." The youngest Stark noted the look on Clegane's face, "The hell's the matter with you? D'you hit your head or something? What'd you do to him, Sansa?"

Smiling while carefully stepping back to her previous seat on the wooden bench, she replied, "Nothing at all."