Sandor resumed his seat. He nudged the man-at-arms next to him and said in an undertone, "Is this almost over?"

The man gave a pained look and shrugged.

Sandor stifled a groan.

Sandor had decided he'd have to take decisive yet discreet action. If Lord Stark or, worse, Lady Stark, got word of his designs on their daughter, he would, at best, be banished and have to slink off to some other house or go across the Narrow Seas and try his luck in foreign lands. He'd never been more interested in staying right where he was.

He had tried avoiding Sansa. He had tried getting over her. The only course of action left to him was to have her and, for that, he needed to get her on board with being with him. But how?

***

Unfortunately, Sandor lacked everything he thought Sansa might find enticing in a man. She didn't often watch the men in the yard so impressing her with his improved use of a war hammer was out. There were no tourneys coming up. Giving her the thrill of an outing on Stranger wasn't going to help since she still hadn't learned to love a good ride. He wasn't handsome. She didn't seem bothered by his scars, but he knew better than to assume the females of Winterfell were lusting after his looks. He didn't care about music or dancing or art or sewing or books or poetry. She didn't care about wine or cards or dice or fighting or taverns or armor. Sandor frowned. He had nothing.

No, it was worse than that. He had less than nothing because he didn't even have any ideas. He'd already given her a gift, which she seemed to like. He supposed he could get her another but . . . this was the north, not King's Landing. There was nothing in the market here that would be new to her. He could pay someone to write a song for her but he couldn't risk having her fall for the singer. He also didn't want to involve anyone else in his business lest she decline his advance and he make a fool of himself. He considered, briefly, after consuming a large quantity of ale, consulting Arya but . . . the thought was almost enough to make him shudder. He might as well just ask Lord Stark and the entire bloody household to tell Sansa of his interest by singing it in harmony from the ramparts. No, there were no suitable intermediaries. He would have to woo her himself.

The only thing, at all, that he could come up with that might be to his advantage was his belief that she appreciated his honesty. Maybe if he leveled with her . . .

"Sansa, now that you've flowered . . ." No.

"You look almost a woman . . . face, teats, and you're taller, too." Seven hells, no.

"Fucking is better than you might have heard." Sandor shook his head in disgust. He'd known her forever and could not think of a single, reasonable thing to say to her. He could think of no way to frame his interest such that she wouldn't take it as a lurid suggestion.

Sandor sighed. He was overthinking it. Just like in combat, sometimes it was best to trust your instincts in the moment.

As luck would have it, she sat down the table from him during the evening meal just a few days later. He kept his head down while she talked with the others. Fortunately, Cayn and Alyn were going on shift so they ate quickly and excused themselves. Sansa scooted a little closer.

Sandor cleared his throat. "Is that new lace on your dress?"

She looked down and then back up, confused. "No . . ."

He'd thought she might have used some of the lace he'd given her. It looked similar but what did he know? He looked down again. "Oh."

Sansa took a bite and chewed. After she swallowed, she said, "Why do you ask?"

He shrugged. "I thought maybe it was the lace . . ." He didn't want to make her feel bad about not using the gift he'd gotten her.

"Oh! No, I haven't used it just yet. I will, though." She gave him a tight smile.

"You don't have to."

"No, I will."

"Only if you want to. It might be ugly. You know lace better than I do."

Sansa's eyebrows drew together. "It's very pretty. I just haven't had anything to use it for yet."

"You don't have to use it at all, if you don't want to."

"I want to."

"Up to you."

"I meant it when I said I liked the things you gave me."

Sandor was regretting saying anything more and more with every word. "I believed you."

"Are you sure? Just because I haven't used it yet doesn't mean I don't like it."

"I said I believed you, little bird."

"I don't always like it when you call me that."

Sandor began to wish he'd just choke to death on his food already.

"I meant you were pretty like the birds there."

"You meant I was chirping nonsense."

"Aye, I meant that, too, but I don't mean it now. Now it's just what I call you."

Sansa looked at him, annoyed. He looked back, flummoxed.

He stumbled on. "Because you're pretty." He hoped those few words would convey all he really felt.

Instead, Sansa maintained her incensed look.

Then, thank the gods, Beth came and sat with them. Sansa gave the girl her full attention and Sandor wished he could vanish.

"Beth, do you think I should replace the lace on this dress?"

They all looked at Sansa's neckline. Sandor didn't notice any lace at all.

Beth considered. "No, but you know what would look really pretty with that dress? The broach King Joffrey gave you."

"The fuck?" Sandor muttered, feeling incensed himself.

"Pardon?" asked Sansa.

Beth seemed not to have heard. "That color would really show off the emeralds."

"The king gave you a broach?" Sandor spat out, thinking his gift even worse than before. What was some crap satin trim when she was being given jewels from the fucking royal vault or wherever the fuck that fucking little shit had gotten them?

"He wasn't the king then," Sansa said evenly.

Sandor looked away with an eye roll and drained his wine. He got up, accidentally banged his knee on the underside of the table, which made all the dishes and silverware clang together and all the people jump, and stomped out of the hall.

Sandor couldn't compete with precious gems from a golden-haired, spoiled sovereign, but he came back to the gift idea again and again. He'd noticed some dragon's breath growing in the woods and liked the dark red color. It reminded him of the highlights in Sansa's hair. He thought to bring her some or maybe leave them in her chambers as a surprise. Maybe the simplicity of it would win him some favor.

He gathered up a handful of the flowers and was walking back to Stranger when he heard riders approaching. A moment later Sansa and Cley Cerwyn came into the clearing.

What is he doing here? Sandor thought, not without noticing that Sansa was on horseback a good way from the castle.

"Picking flowers, Clegane?" the Cerwyn brat intoned snidely.

Sandor thrust the incriminating blooms at Stranger and mentally screamed, EAT!

Stranger sniffed the flowers, snorted, and turned away.

Traitor.

"You're a long way from the yard, Lady Sansa," Sandor said, ignoring the pretty-boy on his palfrey.

"The Cerwyns have come for a visit," she said, as though that explained her unchaperoned trot into the middle of nowhere.

"It's generous of you to show your guest the distant woods. The trees are so different from the ones near the keep."

Sansa opened her mouth to respond but the group's attention was drawn to the arrival of more riders. Arya, Bran, Rickon, and a plump, unattractive girl came into the clearing.

"Lady Jonelle, this is Sandor Clegane, one of our most loyal men-at-arms," Sansa said. "Sandor, surely you remember Lady Jonelle Cerwyn."

Sandor could have spat. "Lady," he said, wishing he could throw the flowers aside without anyone noticing and kicking himself for not doing so earlier.

"Are you checking traps?" Bran asked while Arya smirked.

Sandor had always found Bran to have a dreamy quality to his thoughts, like he was preoccupied and only half attending what was happening in front of him. "All empty at the moment, Lord Bran," he answered while mounting Stranger. He was once again taller than all of them and felt much more at ease atop his heavy courser. It also allowed him to drop his hand to the side and hide the flowers behind Stranger. "And where are you all off to?"

"Riding!" Rickon said.

"It's such a nice day, Cley suggested we go get some air," Sansa said.

"Castle Cerwyn is half a day's ride from here. That's not air enough?"

Cley said, "A race is what I suggested, actually, but the ladies preferred a slower pace."

"I didn't," muttered Arya.

"Won't you join us?" Sansa asked.

"Thank you, no," Sandor said. "I have to get back."

"Before those flowers wilt," Arya murmured as she nudged her horse past him.

"Another time then," Cley said.

Just after never, Sandor thought.

The group started to move out. Sandor sat still and let them file past. Sansa turned around and looked quizzically at the flowers that felt glued to Sandor's hand. Sandor wished he'd just given them to her. It would have been the confident move. A vanguard tactic rather than a rearguard one. He could catch up with her in an instant but . . . the moment had passed.

The Cerwyns returned home. On horseback. With presumably enough air for even Cley's thirsty lungs. Sandor was glad. He had no reason to suspect Sansa had feelings for the Cerwyn kid but the removal of a potential suitor could only help him. Except he wasn't getting anywhere. He almost wished Arya would say something - either to Sansa privately or in front of both of them - and force his hand. But that was craven and, anyway, the girl had suddenly become circumspect or distracted and didn't say anything at all. Sandor knew that if he wanted to make a declaration, he should just make it already. But when he'd told her he thought she was pretty, she'd only frowned at him. It wasn't much to go on.

He was leaning on the rail of the upper walkway that overlooked the yard, occasionally sipping a flagon and trying to look relaxed. Ser Rodrik was running a training exercise with the younger boys and Sandor was watching, both to see who had promise and how Ser Rodrik managed it. The man wasn't doddering but he wasn't getting any younger and Sandor had half a mind to take over his position one day. That seemed as good a plan as any. Or, it had, until he'd developed feelings for the girl whose parents controlled his fate in large measure. His mind ranged over recent events and he was frequently startled back into the present by a command shouted by Ser Rodrik or the racket made by the boys.

He was startled again when he heard a voice quite close to him.

"Did she like them?" Sansa asked quietly.

"Did who like what?" Sandor snapped, irritated with himself for not realizing she was there. "How long have you been standing here?"

"Not long. You didn't notice?"

He gestured toward the yard below. "I was watching them."

"I see."

For a moment they both gazed down. The boys were in groups, attacking and defending as directed by Ser Rodrik.

Sandor was tense from head to toe. They'd not exchanged more than brief greetings in passing since that day in the woods. He'd spent his time brooding. And now she'd snuck up on him again and he was rattled.

"Sandor?"

His mind fell back to the present. "What?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"What question?"

Sansa looked at him like he was being willfully dense. "Did she like them?" she said, articulating each word.

He looked down at her. "Did who like what?" he answered in the same tone.

"The flowers. Whoever you picked them for."

He considered saying Septon Chayle had wanted to study them for medicinal purposes, but he didn't want to lie. The fact that she thought he was picking flowers for another woman was, quite possibly, the worst thing she could think. Why hadn't he just handed her the damn things? "I didn't give them to anyone."

"You picked them."

"I didn't give them to anyone," he said in a tone he hoped would stop her from questioning him further.

"Oh. I just thought you might be seeing someone."

"I'm not."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

Sandor glared in the direction of the yard without seeing it. Why did every single encounter have to go wrong? Because you're a bloody fool, that's why, thinking you can have Sansa Stark. His mood darkened even more. If Sansa thought he was seeing other women and didn't care, then it was clear she didn't and wouldn't have feelings for him. It stung in the most awful, raw, painful way.

"Since when do you care what's happening in the yard?" he asked.

"Since when do you snap at me all the time?"

"I don't." He tipped his flagon into his mouth, the corner of which was twitching.

Sansa watched him take a few gulps. "It seems you're always drinking lately."

Sandor wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Is that so?"

"Am I wrong?"

Sandor hadn't thought much about it one way or another. All he knew was that wine helped quell the turbulence that was constantly churning within him since he'd been to the capital. "It's not my place to tell you if you are."

"So you think I'm wrong."

"I didn't say that."

"You're not saying much of anything."

"I'm talking to you right now."

"You're arguing with me."

"Maybe you're arguing with me."

"I just thought you might have a reason to be happy."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"You haven't."

"Oh, no?"

Sansa eyed him as he took another drink, a movement he hadn't even consciously made. Her lips were pursed. "I'll leave you to it, then."

Sandor waited until she walked away to mutter an oath of frustration. Another conversation blown.

Days and days and days went by. Sandor spent most of them beating himself up. He drank less, but he told himself it wasn't because Sansa had said anything about it. He got drunk only once so, naturally, that was when he'd encountered her. She'd blatantly been avoiding him and it both gnawed at him and brought him relief. His luck ran out, though, when he staggered out of the hall one night with a few of the junior men at arms. Sansa was passing by and the group stood straighter. "Lady Sansa," they mumbled. Someone in the back belched under his breath. The man to his right swayed and grabbed at the stone wall. Sandor felt he could not have been seen in poorer company. They were good men, and skilled, but he knew instinctively that Sansa would not be impressed. Why should I care what she thinks? he thought hollowly. When she met his eye, he raised his flagon in a mock toast and took a swig. She whipped her head around and stalked away, leaving Sandor without an ounce of satisfaction.

The next time he saw her, she looked glowingly happy. He couldn't ask her about it, things were just too awkward, so he asked Arya.

"What's going on? Why is your sister so happy?"

"Because you're here."

Sandor's heart stopped.

Arya laughed. "You should see the look on your face!"

"You buggering little –"

"You really don't pay attention, do you?"

Sandor glared at her.

"A singer has come!"

"A singer."

"Yes."

"When's the performance?"

"You've been putting on one for quite a while."

"Mind your tongue, girl."

"Or else what?"

"Try it and see."

Arya smirked, immune to his threats.

"So when is it?"

"Tomorrow."

Tomorrow. Sandor didn't have to ask if Sansa would be there. The competition sharpened his focus. He'd made such a mess of things lately that he knew he'd have to capitalize while Sansa was in a good mood. He had to say something personal, something that tapped into their shared history, something that some worthless singer couldn't do because they didn't live here, with her, day after day, within the scope of her notice but outside the sphere of her particular concern.

The depressing memories of his failed attempts to manage his attraction to Sansa came to an abrupt end when the hall erupted in applause and whistles. Finally! The singing was over! Sandor lumbered to his feet. It was time. His brain felt foggy but he had a plan: compliment her dress. Tell her she looks nice. Maybe offer to escort her to her chambers. No! Ask if she'd like to take a walk. Yes. That could work. Pleased that a plan was finally coming together, he stepped into the aisle and made to move to the front of the room. Except he couldn't because a cluster of women stopped dead in front of him, intent on chattering en masse. He tried to edge around them but they were an impenetrable bulwark. He turned around and walked down the length of the tables to the far side of the hall and chose another aisle. A few of his fellow men-at-arms stopped him and asked if he wanted to shoot dice with them once the hall cleared out. Sandor hurriedly declined and had to step over several benches to reach the main aisle where two young girls were escorting their elderly grandmother out of the hall. They were moving at a pace unlikely to get the old woman to the door during her remaining lifetime. Sandor shoved a table aside and stepped into the aisle behind them.

His blood pressure increased. He looked around. Sansa was no longer at her table. Fuck. Even with his height, it was hard to see through the throngs of people. Had she left already? His head swiveled as he tried to pick her out. If he couldn't find her, he couldn't set his plan into motion and, if he couldn't set his plan into motion, their eternal separation seemed the only possible result. He took a few steps forward and looked around again. Nothing. Failing to see her, he looked for Beth and Jeyne and the other girls. The crowd had seemingly swallowed them up. He was moving toward the table where she'd been sitting when he heard her laugh. She was at the front of the room, talking to the too-smooth-by-half singer and his leering band of third-rate string-pluckers. Sandor was sure if they hadn't been holding their instruments, they'd be groping every female in sight, starting with Sansa. He started to make his way to the front but then saw Lord and Lady Stark were also part of the conversation. He couldn't say anything in front of them. He felt frozen. She was right there and yet entirely unapproachable.

The crowd began to ebb toward the doors and Sandor knew it would look odd if he lingered. He had no reputation as a music-lover. He dawdled a few moments more under the pretense of handing a few flagons to one of the serving girls. His chance was passing him by. He'd made up his mind, he had a plan, and now he wasn't going to be able to execute it. He'd have to suffer some more and who knew how long it would be until another opportunity like this came again. When he could no longer delay his exit, he took another glace at the front of the room and saw Sansa. She was positively aglow with pleasure. His heart fell into the heels of his boots. He'd never made her look like that. He'd suffered through that interminable caterwauling and for what? To prove to himself again that he was a fool? He trudged out the hall, succumbing to his funk, when he heard a few skipping steps and felt a hand take his arm. He spun to spew venom at whoever it was when he brought himself up short.

"Wasn't that wonderful?" Sansa asked, beaming at him with a happiness he couldn't inspire. "That last song especially! Do you think the knight in the song will ever confess his devotion to his lady love?"

Sandor jerked his arm out of her grip and turned to face her square. "How the fuck should I know?"

Sansa looked at him crossly. He hadn't missed the split second of hurt that had skittered across her face first, though. He knew he'd ruined her mood and that worsened his mood and now the night was a complete disaster. "They're not real," he said, hating the way he sounded. "So it doesn't matter."

Even with her face squinched up in annoyance, she was still the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen.

"That's not . . ." She stopped and took the high road like she always damn did. "Sandor, I know you don't care for music but . . . when songs are sung so passionately . . ." She sighed and looked up as she pressed her hands to her chest, apparently overcome by the memory of the singer and his libidinous lyrics. "I thought maybe even you would appreciate the sentiment . . ." Her voice trailed off as her questioning eyes fell to him.

A right hook from Hodor would have been less painful. All he'd wanted to tell her was that he liked her dress. That's it. It was his last stand. And he did like her dress. Her young body had a resiliency that made him believe she could endure a brute like him. The only time he felt truly confident was when he was holding a sword. Or when he was on his horse. He felt like the Stranger then, dealing out fate and pain as he saw fit. But Sansa didn't care. She didn't care for horsemanship and she didn't linger in the yard like Arya did and she was surrounded by men who'd give their lives for her and so, big and tall and strong as he was, he remained insignificant, diminished and shamed by her lack of notice.

"Guess not," he said.

She frowned.

"It's late. You must be tired. Come on." She didn't look tired but Sandor was. He was tired, so very tired, of failing to be acceptable to her.

He offered her his arm but she didn't take it. They walked down the hall, each in a huff. "Take my arm," he said, wanting her to touch him again.

"No." She glared at him and looked away, matching his strides.

"I'm escorting you." He tried to keep the edge off his voice though frustration was getting the better of him again. Damn it, just take my arm already before someone notices!

"No, you aren't. I just happen to be walking this way, too."

"You took my arm before." They turned a corner and were almost to the Starks' wing.

"I was happy about the song! I thought you might have enjoyed this performance if none of the others, for once! But no. You enjoy nothing but whatever's in your stupid flagon!"

"I enjoy that dress on you."

Sansa stopped and looked at him like he'd exposed himself to her. "What?"

He could have banged his head against the granite walls. Why had he wasted the only feeble compliment he'd come up with? "Nothing."

"You pick a fight with me and then tell me you like my dress? Are you even sober?"

"I'm -"

"You're drunk. Again."

"I'm not." She'd killed whatever buzz he had going.

"You're -"

"You're wrong!" he growled at her.

They stalked on in silence until he heard her sniff. Sandor reached out and grabbed her arm, turning her to face him. "Are you crying?"

Tears had welled up in her eyes. She shook off his hand, snapped her head around, and then took off running down the hall. It was only a few yards to the next hall where her room was. She was around the corner and her door was banging shut before Sandor registered any of it. All he saw were the tears.

He looked up and down the corridor. For once, no one was around. That was good. He didn't need the gods damned servants carrying tales. He thought about going to Sansa's door and apologizing but he didn't know what to say. Everything he said was the wrong thing. He wasn't going to plead like some lovelorn idiot. He wasn't going to try to tease her into laughter and forgiveness like one of her brothers might. He wasn't going to do anything because he wasn't anything - at least to her.

Sandor hated to retreat to his room with his tail tucked between his legs but he was out of ideas and this encounter with Sansa had drained the last of his energy. Pursuing her had been a mistake. He'd thought he might be able to . . . he didn't even know what. Entice her? Appeal to her? Attract her enough to overcome all possible obstacles? He sipped at the flagon he'd taken from the hall. He didn't even feel like getting drunk. He sat at his table and felt the weight of his disappointment cloak him in gloom. Maybe he'd take the night shift again for a while. Sandor wasn't very social at the best of times but having to make inane chitchat while nursing his private defeat was just going to be too much. He got up. Might as well make the offer now. Cayn was currently in charge on nights and would probably welcome a break. Sandor knocked back a gulp of wine, crossed the room, and opened the door. Sansa was standing on the other side of it, her fist poised to knock, the hem of her nightgown showing beneath her cloak.