A/N: So hey there. I still exist. And so does this story. Sorry for the long wait, and I'm hoping I won't go so long without posting again. This semester just got pretty busy and I wanted to focus on one of my other stories that I had previously neglected. Anyway, this one is an AU in which Robert wins his rebellion and Sandor is taken as a ward by the Starks instead of Theon. Because of this, he doesn't have his burns, which isn't really mentioned, but still. And also I shortened the age gap between he and Sansa, so it's more like 5 years here. Yup. That's all. Enjoy reading, and review if you feel so inclined.

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to George R. R. Martin.

Rating: M for some strong language and crude humor.

There were three of them this time, all gathered in the Great Hall with grave expressions as they stood at their fathers' sides. Across from them, Sansa stood quietly between her mother and father, her gaze fixed demurely on the floor.

Since the passing of her sixteenth nameday, her life had been nothing but a continuous surge of interested suitors. So far, none of them had passed her inspection, and she knew that her mother hoped that one of the three before her would be the one to win her hand.

The one on the left was admittedly handsome, with long, soft waves of brown hair that fell to his shoulders and piercing blue eyes. Unfortunately, he seemed to be more focused on his well-manicured nails than the young lady before him.

The middle one was shorter, fatter, and uglier, but had a nice smile that almost made his previous flaws unnoticeable. Almost.

And the last was a mix between the two. He was average looking, but seemed kind and quiet in a way that was appealing rather than off-putting. Perhaps he stood a chance.

Her thoughts were broken by the sound of her father's deep voice.

"Welcome to Winterfell. I hope that your travels weren't too much trouble, and that one of you fine young lords can leave our walls with the promise of my daughter's hand. Ser Rodrik will show you to your rooms so that you can settle in. Your audiences with Lady Sansa will begin on the morrow."

As they walked from the hall, Sansa let out a sigh and Catelyn placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.

"Perhaps one of these three will become your lord husband," she soothed, smiling gently.

Sansa nodded, her eyes wandering to the window that overlooked the yard.

Perhaps.

"They won't last a week." It was said with such confidence that Sansa paused in her eating to raise an eyebrow at the young man beside her.

"And why is that?"

He snorted and shrugged his broad shoulders. "None of the others have."

From her other side, Arya nodded in agreement, loudly slurping up a spoonful of soup. "I second Sandor's motion."

Crossing her arms, Sansa huffed in disapproval. "You're both awful." The two exchanged wide grins and Sansa rolled her eyes, returning petulantly to her meal.

After a few minutes of silence, her friend gave a heavy sigh and looked back over at her. "Fine. So you think one of these puffed-up little lordlings will be your husband? Let's make a wager."

Sansa raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "What did you have in mind?"

Sandor shrugged again and finished off the last of his wine. "I don't know, little bird. What would you ask of me?"

She stayed silent for a long time, pondering her options. She could simply ask him to stop being so cruel to her all the time, but she knew that his jibes were most often in jest, so it would be a waste of a wager to ask for that. As would be asking him to stop calling her by that silly name. Though she would never admit it to him, she had grown rather fond of it.

Finally, she made up her mind and nodded, pleased with herself.

"If you win the tourney that's being held for their arrival, then you must crown me the Queen of Love and Beauty."

Sandor raised his eyebrows and seemed to consider it for a moment before nodding in acceptance. "Very well. So you accept?"

Sansa nodded, extending one of her hands. "I do."

Her friend's grin was feral when he shook her hand and it didn't shrink any when she nervously pulled away.

"May the best man or lady win."

Sandor Clegane had lived with the Starks since he was no more than a green boy, just barely made a squire for Jaime Lannister at the time of his capture. When the family he was sworn to found themselves on the losing side of Robert's Rebellion, Sandor had been taken to Winterfell as a ward, and there he had grown to manhood alongside the Stark children.

He was not treated as family by the lord and lady of the house, but they were kind to him nonetheless, and he was close to the children, for which he was grateful.

He found the first suitor in the quarters to which he had been assigned, preening in front of a full-length mirror. Sandor stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, trying not to roll his eyes.

"So you're hoping to win Lady Sansa's hand?"

The younger man glanced at him in the mirror, a derisive sneer pulling at his lips. "Of course. Why else would I be here?" He ran his fingers through his hair before frowning and gesturing vaguely toward the other side of the room. "Fetch my brush for me."

Sandor clenched his jaw, but did as he was bid. He stopped for only a moment longer to watch the arrogant young man before shrugging and moving to the door.

"Well, best of luck to you, my lord. I'm not sure if Lady Sansa will find what she's looking for in a man like you, but," He shrugged again. "I could be wrong of course. Good day, my lord."

He was almost to the hallway when he heard the call from behind him. "What was that? What did you mean? Come back here."

Sandor's lips curved into a smirk and he strode back to the doorway, leaning in with his eyebrows raised. "Pardon me, my lord?"

The younger man turned to him, lips pursed in irritation. "You said that the Lady Sansa might not find what's she's looking for in a man like me. What did you mean by that?"

"Oh, it's probably nothing...I shouldn't have even mentioned it…"

"Tell me. Now."

Sighing heavily, Sandor looked about conspiratorially before stepping back into the room. "You didn't hear this from me, but…recently, Lady Sansa has become rather put off by all those courtesies that a lord like you is taught. She thinks it makes a man too feminine if he wipes his mouth at meals and opens doors for her. Things of that nature. I'm sure it's merely a passing phase, but she's been quite taken with the idea of late."

He could see the young lord carefully pondering his words before smiling dismissively. "Interesting. Thank you for this morsel of information. I believe it will be of great use. You may go now."

Bowing low, Sandor thanked the young lord-to-be for his willingness to listen before leaving him behind, a satisfied smile making its way across his face.

"Have you decided what you want from me if none of these three suitors proves worthy of my hand?"

She could hear him approach even before he spoke. As big as he was, it was difficult for Sandor to tread lightly.

He entered her field of vision and leaned against the weirwood tree, his arms crossed over his broad chest. "Hmm...I don't know, little bird. It's a big decision to make."

Sansa sighed and lifted her head to give him a decidedly unamused look. "Surely there can't be that many things you would want of me."

The look in his eyes shifted briefly from amused to serious at that before he shrugged and scuffed one of his boots in the fallen leaves. "I suppose I have thought of something."

Rising from her knees, Sansa brushed the dirt from her skirts and looked up at him, her eyebrows raised. "Very well then. What is it?"

His smile grew roughish and he took a step forward until he was all but pressed against her, his breath warm on her face. "If all three of them turn away at the end of this whole affair and your hand remains your own, then you must play a game with me."

Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion, a bright blush spreading to her cheeks. "A game?"

Sandor nodded, his eyes carefully roaming her features. "Aye. A game of Come into My Castle. Just the two of us."

Sansa frowned up at him suspiciously. "You hate that game."

Her friend shrugged noncommittally and stayed silent. Finally, Sansa acquiesced. "If that's what you want, then. Though I dare say we're a bit old for that now."

Suddenly, and rather without warning, Sandor began to laugh and there was a predatory gleam in his eyes when he met her gaze again. "Oh, Sansa...I dare say we're just old enough."

"Lady Sansa, I present to you Lord Edric of House Hightower."

It was the pretty one that entered, his hair brushed to a smooth shine and his outfit designed carefully to match the striking blue of his eyes. Sansa blushed slightly and dropped into a curtsey. "Good evening, my lord."

One eyebrow rose slightly at the gesture and he waved her away dismissively before taking his seat. "What has the cook prepared for us tonight?"

Flustered, Sansa gaped at him for a moment before hurrying to her seat. After a moment of struggling with her chair, her father rose and pulled it out for her, earning a grateful, albeit wholly confused, smile.

Looking just as puzzled as her daughter, Catelyn frowned slightly before replying. "Roasted duck, I believe."

The young man pursed his lips at that and shrugged slightly. "Well I hope it's good."

A long, uncomfortable silence followed and Sansa couldn't help but let out a small sigh of relief when the cook arrived with their meal.

"Mm...this looks delicious," she remarked with a smile, looking over at her guest for the evening. When he gave no sign of agreement, her smile faltered.

In an effort to salvage the evening, Eddard began to serve himself and the others followed suit in what would prove to be the only few pleasant moments of the night. Once their plates had been filled, Sansa and her mother lowered their heads, folded their hands, and began to pray.

Mother, thank you for this meal, and may it help me to grow up healthy and even more beautiful each day. Father—

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of metal on porcelain and she opened her eyes to find the young Lord Hightower with his fork in a balled fist, tearing apart the meat on his plate and shoving it unceremoniously in his mouth.

Beside him, Ned's own fork had stopped halfway to his mouth and Catelyn's typically schooled gaze was openly incredulous. Embarrassed and confused, Sansa tried to keep the tears from her eyes as he continued to ravage his meal and after what seemed like a lifetime, he finally finished, putting an end to the horrid sounds of chewing with an open mouth.

"Did you...enjoy your meal, my lord?" After his grotesque performance, her own appetite had been thoroughly ruined.

Edric nodded and turned to face her, but when he opened his mouth to speak, all that came out was a loud and rancid belch.

Shoving herself away from the table in horror, Sansa struggled to even her breathing and keep the bile from rising in her throat as she spoke. "I...I...I don't feel well!"

And with that, she fled.

"So, how was the honorable Lord Edric of Hightower?"

Sansa sniffled and tried to wipe the tears from her cheeks, turning her back on her unwanted company. "He was horrid."

"Horrid? That's a rather strong word you've chosen, Lady Sansa."

Whirling around, she stared up at Sandor in disbelief and balled her hands into fists. "You weren't there! He was horrid! Horrid I tell you! He acted with absolutely none of the courtesies expected for a man of his standing, ate like a barbarian, and then, when I tried to salvage the evening he...he belched. Right at me!"

Wrapping her arms around her waist, she began sobbing anew. "Can you even imagine?"

Chuckling quietly, her friend nodded, his arms crossed over his broad chest. "Yes, I think I can as a matter of fact."

When Sansa glared up at him he sighed and lowered himself onto the bench beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "I'm sorry that he upset you so, little bird, but aren't you glad that you found out now and not on the night of your wedding?"

Sniffing, Sansa leaned into his touch and shook her head vehemently. "If the others are anything like him then I swear to the Seven I'll become a Silent Sister. I would rather live a life such as that than marry a lord like him."

Her crying began to quiet as she rested her head beneath Sandor's chin and it was as her breathing began to even that she heard him murmur against her hair.

"And that would be such a shame."

The second was Lord Patrek Vance, a rotund young man with a constant flush and a bad set of lungs. Sandor found him watching wistfully from the edge of the yard as two guards circled each other in a sparring match.

"Do you fight, my lord?" He asked, leaning against the fence and cocking an eyebrow at the little lordling.

Patrek looked up at the tall, muscular older man beside him and shook his head with a sigh. "No. I'd give anything to be able to though. At least then there would be something interesting about me to tell Lady Sansa."

Sandor hummed absently in response and pretended to watch the two men before replying. "Yes, Lady Sansa does love a man who can hold a sword. More than that though she just likes one who can speak well of his accomplishments."

"Oh?" The younger man looked positively distraught, and Sandor almost had to feel sorry for him.

"Oh yes," he replied, keeping his expression even. "One of the other lords who tried for her hand spent all of his days talking about himself and how much better he was than everyone else, and she fell head over heels for him. The only reason they didn't get betrothed is because they found him fooling around with one of the kitchen staff and sent him away. Scandalous as that was, she didn't seem to mind knowing that he was experienced in such things."

Patrek's frown deepened and his cheeks colored slightly at the insinuation. "Are you certain?"

"Certain as can be," Sandor said, crossing a finger over his chest where his heart lay. "I would never think to lead you astray, my lord. I wish only the best for Lady Sansa."

And may the best be the one to win her hand.

"Tell me about yourself, Lord Patrek," Sansa said with a smile, lifting a lemon cake from the plate between them and taking a small bite.

After the disaster with Lord Edric at dinner, Sansa had opted for a light midday meal instead, by the window in her father's solar. It was a pleasant day, and the sunshine lighting up the room already had her in high spirits. Patrek Vance may not have been a handsome, man, but she was sure that he was kind enough to make up for it.

"What about myself?" He responded, lifting one leg onto the window seat and resting an elbow upon it and his chin upon his fist to stare out at the yard below.

Sansa's brow furrowed slightly in confusion, but she maintained her friendly smile. "Tell me about your interests," she prompted.

"My interests..." The look of assumed pensiveness seemed strange on his pudgy features. "I'm interested in many things, Lady Sansa. My strengths lie in jousting, song, poetry, swordplay, and making love."

Sansa's eyebrows rose and she stopped with her lemon cake halfway to her lips, her cheeks coloring with embarrassment. "You're...awfully forward about your...strengths, my lord."

He cast her a brief glance, his expression haughty. "Shouldn't I be? I'm the best at what I do. Set me against any man and I'll prove it to you. I could even beat your man Clegane in the sword."

Sansa looked out to the window to where Sandor was sparring with Robb, his muscular chest tanned and gleaming with sweat. As though aware of her gaze, his eyes rose for a moment, and a half-smile graced his lips before he focused on the fight once more. Sansa looked away and took a sip of water, suddenly warm.

"You said poetry, did you not?" she asked politely, trying in vain to steer him away from his gloating.

"Why yes, my lady," Patrek replied, finally taking a seat across from her. "Would you like me to compose a poem for you?"

Relieved, Sansa nodded. "Yes, please, my lord. That would be simply charming!"

Nodding, Lord Vance cleared his throat and began to speak. "Lady Sansa, with your face so fair. You are as pretty as my father's best mare. Graceful, kind, and full of poise, I'm sure that you could get all of the boys."

Sansa's expression had shifted from delight to confusion and incredulity during the course of the young lord's "poem" and she managed a weak smile when he flashed her a self-satisfied grin.

"Is that all? That was...lovely," she replied rather lamely, eating the rest of her lemon cake as an excuse to refrain from further comment.

As he launched into a musical rendition of the same piece, far too out of tune to be considered even decent, Sansa sighed and gazed out the window once more, wondering if perhaps she had missed her chance with Lord Edric.

"Lord Vance looked rather glum when he passed by earlier." Robb had taken a break to retrieve a pitcher of water and Sandor moseyed over to where Sansa sat in the wooden stands beside the yard, leaning against the fence. "Did your lunch not go well?"

Sansa sighed and continued to embroider sullenly. "I'm afraid not. He spent the entire time bragging about how talented he was, and then as if that wasn't bad enough, when he demonstrated his so called strengths, he was horrible! Just...awful. I've never heard such terrible poetry or song in my life, and I had to practically hold him back to keep him from marching down here and challenging you to a fight!"

Sandor laughed and pushed his hair back from his forehead, watching as Sansa's gaze followed the movement before returning to her stitching.

"I should have liked to see him try."

Sighing again, Sansa shook her head sadly and then blushed before looking up again, her expression one of disbelief. "You know what else he did? He actually had the nerve to tell me that he was gifted in..." Her blush deepened and she lowered her voice slightly. "Making love."

Trying her hardest not to smile, she shushed Sandor as he guffawed loudly and then rolled her eyes. "It was like Lord Davros all over again. Do you remember him? The one that got caught with Bessa, the kitchen maid?"

Sandor's mouth quirked up in a smirk and he nodded. "Yes, I do remember him."

"Taking a break, eh, Clegane?" Robb called out as he returned to the yard, shaking out his wet hair and downing a glass of water. "Too tired to continue?"

Raising his eyebrows, Sandor glanced over his shoulder before shrugging and turning back to Sansa. "My apologizes, Lady Sansa, but I do believe your brother needs a good beating. May the last lord prove better than the rest."

Sandor was just getting dressed after a bath when he heard a knock at his chamber door and he abandoned the lacing of his tunic to go answer it. When he opened it to find the last visitor standing outside, his expression shifted to one of surprise. For once, he hadn't had to seek out the suitor himself.

"May I help you?"

"Yes," the younger man replied. His name was Lord Desmond Piper, if Sandor remembered correctly. "I was told by Lady Arya that you were the one to talk to about Lady Sansa. You were raised as their brother were you not?" His voice was quiet, soft, and entirely too nice.

Sandor's expression soured slightly. He had certainly never thought of Sansa as his sister.

"I suppose you could say that," he responded drily. "What is it you wanted to know?"

"Well," he began quietly. "The other two lords have already been sent away and I would say that doesn't bode well for me. I was wondering if you knew what it is that Lady Sansa looks for in a...a partner, I suppose. Well, in a man."

Sandor eyed Lord Piper carefully. He was average looking, but not unattractive, and seemed gentle, kind, and well-bred. Exactly what Sansa tended to look for in a man.

"Well..." Sandor began. "Lady Sansa considers herself an intellectual above all else. She reads almost every night, prides herself on her skills in cyvasse, and has nearly every love song and story memorized, as well as many of the family histories of Westeros."

At that, the young man smiled, his expression becoming hopeful. "I read quite often as well!" He remarked happily. "And I've beaten my father at a game or two of cyvasse. I'm afraid I don't know many of the love songs, but I do know quite a few of the family histories. Perhaps I didn't need to worry after all."

He turned to go, but Sandor yanked him back by his tunic, pulling him forward and forcing him onto his toes to accommodate for the older man's superior height. "I wasn't finished."

Desmond sank back to his feet and brushed off his tunic. "Oh. Of…of course. My apologies."

Sandor waved him off and leaned against his doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. "Like I said, Lady Sansa considers herself an intellectual, and she isn't keen on a man who knows more than she does. She likes to feel well-read and worldly, and looks for a man that she can teach, not one that can learn with her."

Lord Piper frowned deeply. "You mean she likes her men..."

"Dumb as a bag of rocks," Sandor finished for him. "The more times he's been hit in the head while sparring, the better. It makes her feel more like a lady to be able to spread her knowledge. Otherwise she'll see you as a threat of sorts."

Sighing heavily, the young lord nodded in understanding, his expression sad, but resigned. "Very well. Thank you for your time, ser."

"Not a ser," Sandor grumbled as he retreated back to his room and closed the door, though not even the incorrect address could dampen his spirits.

Two out of the three had already been sent on their way and the third was soon to follow. He was very much beginning to look forward to their game.

Sansa paced anxiously across her father's study, wringing her hands and glancing at the door every few seconds. As hopeful as she wished she could be, she was simply dreading meeting with the final suitor. Every good thing about the other two had not been enough to outweigh their glaring character flaws, and she couldn't help but be afraid that it would prove to be the same for Lord Desmond Piper.

Sandor was off gloating somewhere, of that she had no doubt, and she had long since lost her hope of being crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty. The insufferable man was winning by a long shot, and though she knew it was petty, she resented him for it. Just thinking about his self-satisfied smirk had her cheeks coloring with rage.

Yes, it was rage that she felt when she thought of her family's ward, nothing else. Just deep, justifiable anger. Or so she told herself over and over when any other thoughts of him tried to invade her mind.

The door opened, interrupting her thoughts, and Lord Desmond entered, looking slightly more handsome than usual in a powder blue tunic.

"Good morrow, Lord Piper," Sansa said with a smile, dropping into a curtsey.

He returned the sentiment and bowed low, smiling back.

Perhaps he'll be the one after all, Sansa thought to herself, but somehow, she didn't feel as though that were true.

"Would you be interested in a game of cyvasse, perhaps?" She asked politely, taking a seat on one side of the board. "If you know how to play. It's a game from Dorne, so I understand if you don't know it."

Desmond shook his head and smiled. "I've played before, my lady. Once or twice."

Relieved, Sansa's smile grew. "Splendid! Let's begin then shall we?"

Carefully and strategically, she set up her half of the board, and when Lord Piper announced that he had finished, they revealed their respective starting positions.

As Sansa analyzed his choice, her heart began to sink. Everyone who had ever played cyvasse at least understood that it was the capture of the opponent's king that ended the game, and yet, Lord Desmond's sat front and center, its painted face grinning stupidly.

"I guess I'll begin then," she said weakly. Several minutes passed as she looked over the board, but in the end, she couldn't bring herself to play badly and she moved her dragon to capture Desmond's king on the first turn.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, giving him an apologetic smile. "Perhaps I should have explained the game better first. It's been a long while since you've played, hasn't it?"

"No," the young lord responded with a vacant smile. "I played my father just last week."

Sansa's face fell for a moment before she hastily smiled again. "Oh. Well then, perhaps you just didn't remember that this piece was your king."

Desmond raised his eyebrows and laughed. "He does have a crown on, my lady…" He looked at her as though she were simple and she felt her cheeks begin to redden.

"Yes, he does," she responded through clenched teeth. "And I've captured him, which means I've won. Shall we play again?"

"Of course, my lady," her opponent replied, removing his pieces and beginning to reorganize them.

When the time came to begin once more, little had changed. The position of his mountains were different, but the king remained, dumb and vulnerable on the front lines.

Sansa didn't hesitate to capture it that time, swiping the piece angrily from the board and letting out a heavy sigh. As much as she hated for Sandor to win their wager, she would much rather be forced to play a silly children's game with him than be married to a complete dullard for the rest of her life.

A lengthy silence fell between them as Sansa looked down at the king clenched in her fist, and in the end, it was Lord Piper who broke it.

"Lady Sansa...?" He sounded hesitant and shy, and she looked up to meet his gaze, seeing only confusion and embarrassment.

"Yes?" She asked, suddenly feeling a bit confused herself.

"May I be honest with you?"

Raising her eyebrows, Sansa nodded slowly. "Yes. Please do."

"Well..." He blushed slightly and avoided her gaze. "I wasn't sure if I was the type of man that a lady like you would want to be betrothed to, so I went to Lady Arya to ask her about you, and she sent me to speak with your ward, Sandor Clegane. She said that he knew you well."

Sansa tried to keep her expression even as she exhaled forcefully through her nostrils. "And what did he tell you?"

"That you prefer men that are..." He shrugged slightly. "Dumb, frankly. That you found an intelligent man a threat to your own intellectuality. But I have to say that I'm not sure if he was right about that. You appeared to be getting frustrated when I blatantly disregarded the rules of cyvasse, and—"

"He told you that?" she asked, cutting him off. She could feel the blood pounding in her ears as her hands clenched tightly into fists. The strange behavior of the other suitors certainly made sense now.

Lurching to her feet when he nodded, she gave Desmond a tight smile before moving to the door. "Pardon me, Lord Piper. I need to have a word with Sandor Clegane."

"You are a liar and a cheat!"

Sandor grinned to himself and then schooled his features as he turned to face the irate young woman behind him.

"Lady Sansa. How good of you to come by."

All but blowing smoke from her bright red ears, she jabbed a finger into his chest. "You tricked me!"

Sandor cocked an eyebrow and frowned. "I did no such thing. I did trick your suitors though and I have to say they proved to be far less perceptive than you, my lady."

"You deliberately sabotaged their attempts to win my hand!" She continued, her tirade still unfinished. "It's almost as if you don't want me married at all! Is that it? Do you want me to die a maiden?"

"Certainly not," he replied, and that was the truth. "But you can hardly call their attempts ruined. You're here now which means Lord Desmond Piper can't play the fool as well as I had hoped. Is he to be your lord husband, little bird?"

Sansa paused for a moment before replying. "No. I sent him away. He is far too gullible and willing to break confidence."

Sandor laughed loudly at that and her ire returned with a vengeance.

"Our wager is forfeit, Sandor. And I expect a sincere apology."

Sandor opened his mouth to argue, but she was already storming off, yelling once more over her shoulder.

"Forfeit!"

"Sansa,"

She was already dressed for bed and was carefully brushing through her long auburn hair when Arya made her way to their chambers.

"Do you remember that silly game of manners that Septa Mordane used to make us play? Come into My Castle?"

Sansa glared at her reflection in the looking glass and yanked the brush through her hair, still angry at Sandor for his role in her failed betrothal.

"Yes," she replied tersely. "I can recall it quite clearly."

Arya nodded, oblivious to her sister's sudden change in demeanor, and flopped down across their bed.

"Well, I heard Robb and Sandor discussing it in the yard and apparently, grown men use it to refer to fucking without ladies realizing it."

Sansa's brush clattered to the floor and a bright blush rose to her cheeks. "Arya! Don't be so rude!"

Rolling her eyes, Arya huffed loudly and mocked her elder sister's voice. "My apologies. They use it to refer to "making love"."

Arya's feigned gag was drowned out by the sound of laughter from outside their chambers and Sansa's gaze moved to the door that her sister had left ajar, meeting a familiar pair of steel grey eyes.

He flashed her a grin and a wink and Sansa felt her entire body flush crimson.

That vulgar, conniving, treacherous, disgraceful, perfect bastard.

Liar or no, all three suitors were far from Winterfell, just as he had predicted.

Perhaps he had won the wager after all.