Author's Notes: Hey'a all you lovely people who have followed this story for this long - thank you for your patience and your company during the journey! And most of all thank you for all your lovely comments and feedback - as you know, they are currency more valuable than gold in fanfic writers world...
Yet this is not quite the last chapter, as I have one more to go to wrap up things. But indeed, it seems that our beloved characters are starting to reach a stage where we can leave them safely on their own... There are many other lovely and powerful stories written about how their life turns out in the North, so I feel they are in safe hands to be soon left on their own devices.
Summary: As she was getting dressed, settling on one of her finest dresses as armour to support her through the day, her anger found a new target: Sandor. He came to me and told me what he was going to do. He had already made up his mind. Where was the consultation with me? When did he ask me for my opinion?
Sansa
Otherworldly hollowness ate into Sansa's soul and hurt her more than any physical pain had ever done. She thought she should have gotten used it by now, having lived through it over and over again. Her whole family, her childhood home and all the anchors of her existence cruelly taken away from her, one after another.
Sansa cried. Her shoulders shaking from muffled sobs she curled inside her bedding like a wounded animal crawls into a hole to lick its wounds. It would not change anything or change what was to follow, that much she had learned, but when the tears came she had no strength to deny them. Once a man had come and pulled her away from her cocoon of pain, a stranger then but with a gentle touch, but now that very same man was the one who made her shed these bitter tears.
The next day Sansa's head was heavy and her eyes swollen and nothing could have persuaded her to get up and attend to her duties. At least this time she had the prerogative to make her own decisions on that so she sent her maids away, pulled the window shutters closed and lay in darkness trying to think nothing. Maybe those previous experiences had taught her something after all; if she shut her mind from the reality it made her moment-to-moment existence more tolerable. She had become quite good at it in the end, denying that anything was wrong or that anything could move her. Yet they were lessons she had hoped she would never have to resort to again.
By the next morning Sansa had to accept that life moved on and Winterfell still needed her. Her people wanted her, if not for anything else, as their symbol of stability and for carrying the much needed heir for the North.
Anger roused inside her because of the unfairness of the situation. Yes, her life had never been her own and she knew better than most the obligations of rank. Yet surely there were ways to reconcile the many needs? As much as she detested Petyr she had learned from him too; if negotiations stalled because of two opposing views about the correct means to an end, it was time to stop to think of what was really at stake. Maybe those ends could be achieved by means other than originally thought?
As she was getting dressed, settling on one of her finest dresses as armour to support her through the day, her anger found a new target: Sandor. He came to me and told me what he was going to do. He had already made up his mind. Where was the consultation with me? When did he ask me for my opinion?
In the hall her eyes instinctively sought Sandor and there he was; sullen and brooding at the end of the room. A dull pain thudded in Sansa's chest but besides that there was something else, a childish desire to hurt him as he had hurt her. Gods forbid, she had begged him not to go. She had pleaded with him. So she turned away from him and pretended that he was not there. If he noticed that she couldn't be sure as the next time she peeped in his direction he was gone. And stayed away.
Gradually Sansa's days returned to normal. Nothing had really changed in them, at least not outwardly. If she missed seeing her lover even from a distance, longed for a glance, a smirk, a private jest that only the two of them understood, she at least had her many tasks to distract her. Wall hangings in the Great Hall were progressing well, she having prioritised them in order to establish the might of her house in the eyes of visitors. Whoever walked through the grand doors had to believe that House Stark had recovered from the ravages of war and treachery and was still very much in control. Appearances counted, she had realised in her time in the Vale, and she needed people to believe that the wolves were back – for good.
More guests kept on arriving and she harboured no illusions about the motives of many. Blustering young men, cautious widowers, bold fathers pushing forward their adult sons. The word of the Lady of Winterfell's approaching entry to the marriage market had spread like wildfire and as much as it annoyed Sansa, she knew she couldn't turn away any of her allies. So she smiled at them, invited them to her table and walked with them on the grounds of Winterfell, using her supreme skills of feigning interest when she felt nothing of the sort. To Sansa's surprise it wasn't nearly as hard as she had expected and she had to admit that she actually liked most of them, finding their straightforwardness and honesty like a breath of fresh air after the intrigues of the South. Even the clumsiest suitor at least showed her respect as a person and as the head of her house; a concept she still sometimes found novel and intoxicating. For so many years she had been nothing but a prisoner or an instrument to fulfil the ambitions of others.
At the end of the day she fell exhausted into her bed and wondered out loud to her maids how it was possible that there were so many eligible men still left in the North, surely they should have been married already long ago?
Lysandra only smiled at her and offered to rub her back and comb her hair. She was one of the few women who had been in Winterfell already before its ruin, and not long ago Sansa had sought her out from the seamstresses' rooms as her personal maid. She was calm and practical and Sansa longed for that more than for the breathless admiration offered by her other helpers.
It was Lysandra whom Sansa asked discreetly to find out Sandor's whereabouts when on the third day she still hadn't seen any sign of him. She felt confident that he wouldn't have left for good without letting her know. Not only had he promised to seek her out, and if anything, he kept his word – but surely he also needed the coin for his services for his journey?
The news were more or less what she had expected; so typical for Sandor to immerse himself in action, but how atypical for him to stay away. He was not a craven and for sure Sansa had done nothing to wake his displeasure? And so it was that his absence told Sansa more than his words had. No, Sandor didn't take leaving lightly either, but he was also dogged and stubborn when he had made up his mind.
That night when Sansa was putting on her nightshift despair came back to grip her stronger than it had for days. It had been simmering under her carefully constructed façade all her days and nights, but she had mostly succeeded in pushing it away lest she completely drowned in it all over again. She hugged herself and despite the chill creeping up her legs from standing too long on a cold stone floor she couldn't move. If Sandor should leave now when she had finally established herself where she belonged, when they had finally settled comfortably into their odd relationship that defied all logic and sense… The feeling of helplessness transformed her back to the powerless girl kept against her will by cruel captors – and she hated that feeling!
The resentment was also still there, only a small flame flickering, almost as if doubting the reason for its existence, but each day Sansa's growing bitterness at how blithely Sandor had ignored her say in the matter fed the fire. In time it grew into a blaze that forced itself to be recognised.
Yet Sansa couldn't find it in herself to hate him – only the manner of his actions. She missed Sandor in a way she could remember missing her family; not less nor more but the longing was different. She missed her companion, her confidant and her lover. If she could only…
The words of the man in the yard, Roddel, suddenly came back to her as she lay in her bed …we support you. 'Whatever you decide, it will be for all the right reasons, I have no doubts about it. Neither do the lords, soldiers or the small folk.' Hadn't he also said that when the winter is coming it's not the titles or the grandness of the house that keeps trouble at bay, but strong arms and the steady head?
Sansa sat up, gasping. The simplicity of the solution that offered itself to her was so obvious that she chastised herself for not considering it before. Of course!
She stood up and wrapped herself in a long shawl and started to pace the room deep in thought. She went through her exchange with the old man-at-arms again, her discussion with Queen Selyse and the many meetings of the council where the matter had been argued. Never had there been a specific debate about the identity of her future lord husband. As a matter of fact, it had almost been glossed over altogether, the presumed but not articulated assumption being that it was to be somebody from the North, someone whose loyalties resoundingly lay only with the Starks and with nobody else.
I could marry Sandor!
The thought had crossed her mind before but she had always dismissed it as an impossibility. Even that horrible night she had asked him to marry her, but that had been only a reflex, an act of desperate mind – and that's exactly how Sandor had taken it. Accused her of being soft in the head, told her how her lords would not allow it.
The more Sansa thought about it, the more excited she became. If she could not find a way to marry another man and keep Sandor as her lover, why not find a novel solution and marry Sandor instead?
She could hardly contain the bubble of excitement building up inside her, the thrill of it lightening her steps and making her head dizzy. Just for a moment she allowed herself to dwell in a dream; Sandor wrapping his cloak across her shoulders in the Godswood and the whole keep cheering for the happiness of their lady and her lord and shouting them their blessings… Then she shook her head and returned to reality.
Yes, the more she thought about it the more it made sense. Sandor's loyalty was to her and House Stark alone. Even if anyone doubted it they could be sure that he had no allegiances to anyone else, the Lannisters least of all. It was well known that the lions had offered a reward for his head, attached or removed from his body, it hadn't mattered. His own house had been taken back and joined with Casterly Rock lands again, the short-lived dream of House Clegane so soon quenched.
He would never presume to be the leader of the North, and if he would give her a son… Sansa's thoughts turned to a little boy with dark hair and grey eyes and a hunger stronger than she had ever experienced seized her. A boy… strong and sensible as his sire, and then a little girl, thoughtful and brave… Sansa almost cried from a desire to hold her babes – her and Sandor's babes. They would be perfect, and they would grow up loved and safe and no horrors such as those visited upon their parents would ever get near them. Relishing this fantasy, she succumbed again to a moment of daydreaming, smiling to herself as she did so.
By the morning Sansa had thought it all through.
Getting up before sunrise she was dressed and ready long before the keep woke up to its daily routines, and she had to try her hardest to constrain the restless energy that was driving her. She could hardly wait; to put her plan in action, to make her dream to come true, to remove all obstacles in her way.
"A word if you may, my lords," she addressed Lords Umber and Ryswell after the morning meal.
"Certainly, Lady Sansa," they echoed each other and followed her to a small solar at the ground floor, where she sometimes met with petitioners and other visitors. She had chosen the two because neither of them had eligible sons, nephews or other relatives to throw into the race for her hand, so she trusted them to be objective about the matter.
"As you know, the word has gotten out that I may be looking for a husband soon." The great lords avoided her gaze, an expression akin to embarrassment on their faces. No official decisions had been made and no timetable agreed for the course of events. They might have thought to subtly force Sansa's hand on the matter by leaking the information, but she didn't have the heart to blame them for that. Had she not formed the allegiance with Sandor she would have seen the proceedings as perfectly natural herself. She would have accepted them as a much better option than what she had been afforded so far.
"As you also know, I have been reluctant to do so for reasons that have been discussed abundantly already so no need to repeat them here."
Both of them stirred as if to say something, but before they did, Sansa continued.
"However, I have a good mind to wait at least two more years before going ahead with this, to make sure that my marriage to Lord Tyrion will not come back to haunt me. Two years sounds prudent, doesn't it?"
The lords spluttered at the news, Greatjon waving his hands and Rickard Ryswell getting up from his chair.
"My lady, I understand your reluctance, but two whole years!" he protested. Sansa understood him well; two more years of uncertainty, the risk of pestilence and accidents lurking around the corner. Young women in their prime were known to succumb to fevers and womanly ailments and mishaps could not be ruled out either.
"The reality is that I see courting for my hand at this very moment creating unnecessary tension among my retainers. The man who will become my lord husband will be the first among many, and it is difficult to find a house to whom I should afford this privilege." From the darkened countenances of her companions Sansa knew that she had hit a sore spot.
"It is true. The selection will have to be made very carefully, deliberating all possible considerations prudently. All the lords could have their say…"
"ENOUGH!"
Sansa hit the table with her fist and what the gesture lacked in sound and power it gained in surprise. The men's wide-eyed stares would have amused Sansa in other circumstances but not now. Too much was at stake.
"My lords, have you forgotten that I was betrothed to a monster when I was but a young girl? And married to a mortal enemy of my house when I was scarcely older? Furthermore, that while still being married I was plotted to marry yet another man who was far removed from my best interests and those of my house? Also, do you not remember that I am the head of House Stark now, a woman fully grown, and I am not to be bartered away by a congregation of lords, no matter how wise and loyal?" She spoke in low voice, punctuating her message with meaningful breaks – a combination of Littlefinger's negotiation tactics and Sandor's straightforward command style with an addition of her own courteous manners.
It seemed to work judging by the chastened faces of her lords.
"Forgive him, Lady Sansa. He spoke in haste and was out of line. Of course you will make your own decisions on the matter. I trust Ned's daughter to make the right choice," Greatjon Umber grumbled, throwing sideway glances at his fellow lord.
"Absolutely, my apologies. I only wished to be of assistance," the humbled Ryswell muttered.
"No harm done, my lords, and trust that I will seek your counsel if I feel I need it. For example, I would be curious to hear your thoughts about what manner of man from what manner of house would best serve this purpose? Speak freely, my lords."
Sansa's question was a calculated risk, but she took it based on what she knew about the men. Both of them were old blood and of high standing, and should a member of only a slightly lesser house be raised above them by a virtue of a marriage…she counted on them being uncomfortable about it. Although power struggles were not as pronounced in the North as they were in the South, people were people everywhere and hardly anyone could stay completely immune to the trappings of respect, status and eminence.
Her liegemen furrowed their brows and rubbed their chins and eventually Greatjon started.
"As you have rightly said, your lord husband will not wield power himself but is there to assist you in your duties as Lady Stark, and in due course, to help your sons to become the next lords and heirs. So it does not really matter if his house is powerful or small. Might even be better if it is a modest one, so his loyalty will not be divided."
"Indeed so. An upstanding man, young enough to be a good father and capable enough to earn the respect of other houses, is my recommendation."
Sansa pretended to ponder the advice, tapping her fingers against the table, hardly believing how easy it had been to get these men to tell her exactly what she wanted to hear.
"Hmmm… your advice is sound and along the lines I have considered myself. Maybe I should consider this earlier than in a two years' time after all." Her statement was met with relief. "If I do that – consider a marriage, that is, maybe even find a suitable husband – can I trust your support in this, no matter where my choice falls?"
"Of course you can. Your annulment is just a matter of King Stannis saying the word and the maester drawing up a parchment to be sent to the High Septon. We could be celebrating your marriage before the next moon!" Greatjon was pleased and wrung his hands gleefully together. Ryswell nodded his acquiescence and Sansa let them go with polite words of thanks.
Why is it that I always have to assert myself to my lords when it comes to Sandor, Sansa sighed when they were gone. Yet the satisfaction of the success of her strategy so far stayed with her for the rest of the day.
Another meeting with King Stannis, who was preparing to leave Winterfell to go back to Storm's End, assured her that she would get her annulment as soon as she wanted, and that Stannis himself didn't have any particular interest in interfering with her choice of a husband.
That evening Sansa was happier than she had been for a long time, until a dark cloud appeared on her blue sky. Sandor.
How to get him to go along with her plan?
Sansa had heard snippets of Sandor's whereabouts and new routines from here and there and had concluded that his absence was as intentional as it was methodical. Could it mean that he was only biding his time and planning to leave for good once he was sure that she would not arrange another hysterical scene in departing? Sansa blushed with embarrassment when she remembered her own behaviour that night – yet she couldn't regret it. Sandor had delivered the cruellest blow and done it selfishly. He had even taken her and let her love him while knowing what he was going to say next, bless Mother and Maiden!
Sansa couldn't believe that he didn't have feelings for her. She had learned to know the man behind the mask of a hound and many mysteries behind him had started to make sense to her. An idealistic young boy turned to a cynical man by the betrayal of his own kin, further moulded by the twisted manipulations of Lord Tywin and his brood. Yet none of that had succeeded in altogether quenching what was true and honest in him, and his passions – although under his iron control for most of the time – ran deep as a stream under the mountain; not seen, not heard, but still there, feeding life.
First Sansa considered simply ordering him into her presence and telling him her suggestion in private. Well, I certainly never expected to ask for a man's hand, she chuckled for a moment before getting serious again.
He will refuse. He will tell me I am dreaming, that I am just a stupid little girl. Sansa hated to admit it but thinking it through she knew this to be the likeliest outcome of such meeting. And she most certainly would not beg him for a second time.
The more Sansa pondered her situation the more hopeless it seemed. Oh, to have everything else lined up so well, only to be thwarted by very person who would gain the most out of it…only because of his pride and his self-depreciation!
She went through their last discussion over and over again in her head – as much as she could remember. There had been moments when she hadn't paid much attention to what Sandor had said, having been in such a state of shock. He had sounded so final, so convinced that it was the way things had to be. Unyielding and immovable. Had he only discussed the matter with her first, before making his decision… Once Sandor's mind was made it was much harder to change it, Sansa had learned. A soldier's training, perhaps. In those matters a man could not afford to be seen as prevaricating and any to-ing and fro-ing about a decision could cost lives.
Sansa pressed her hands on her forehead and rubbed them slowly, closing her eyes and concentrating hard. '…do you think I WANT to leave? Yet leave I must.' Had he really said that? The bright spark that followed that memory was soon quenched by another, the sight of Sandor looking down at her so starkly, his features closed and hard. How he had closed by saying that his actions were best for everyone, as if he really and truly believed it.
If she only could have talked with him about this before! If she just could somehow make him open up his mind and consider the matter again!
Then another little snippet pushed through her blurred memory, something about Sandor saying that he could reconsider his decision. What was that? When had he said it and in what context? Focussing extra hard, sitting at the edge of her bed and swaying back and forth as if that would aid her memory, Sansa recreated the moment in her mind; she was kneeling on the floor holding onto his legs, his voice had been low and cruel… 'It wouldn't help if you crawled all the way from Winterfell to Wintertown, that wouldn't make any difference. Or mayhap it would, mayhap I would reconsider after that. Would you want that?'
She sighed, he had only been cruel! What Sandor had meant was that he would not reconsider his decision; that it was impossible. As impossible as…
Sansa opened her eyes wide and blinked. No, that was plain stupid. She surely was a witless little bird for even thinking about it.
She crawled under the blankets and resigned to think of a solution the next day. Maybe she could contrive to meet with Sandor and gauge from his reactions whether she could try to convince him one way or another.
Her sleep was restless and in it she saw Sandor's back, retreating from her, and no matter how fast she walked, then ran, he was always ahead and didn't turn to look at her. Eventually she fell down on the ground on all fours, panting and crying.
The next morning Sansa got up completely drained of energy despite many hours spent in bed. Lysandra delivered her the news of Sandor's whereabouts as she had done for a few days, not querying her reasons beyond what Sansa had told her; that she had asked Sandor to do some inspections on her behalf and she wanted to keep up with his progress.
"Clegane was seen in the Forest Camp yesterday. The men who arrived with masters Tallhart and Glover from the south said so. They broke bread with him and told him why they were coming here."
"So we have two new visitors? Where do they all fit?"
"Not a worry, my lady. These were only small parties, on the same mission as everyone else." The maid leaned closer to Sansa's ear as she was combing her hair up. "Many wonder when you will be making your decision, my lady? Strong and hearty these two, no better or worse than the others."
Maiden's wail! The men had told Sandor about them coming to Winterfell to ask for her hand? That would make it even more difficult for her to get through to him, Sansa moped. He was sure to see her suggestion as even weaker after witnessing all the suitors from powerful houses of the North congregating around her. What she really needed was a wake-up call, something that would convey to Sandor that she was not just a thoughtless young girl; that she really had thought things through and meant what she said.
Impatiently Sansa got up from her seat and wandered to the window. Men and horses in the yard, dogs barking, servants scurrying around – all so harmonious. She rested her head against the cold stone. What can I do to make him pay attention, when he even refuses to be around? How can I send him a message?
The same outrageous thought that had briefly flashed in her mind the previous day returned. What if she were to take him literally? Sandor had said the words. Not for a moment meaning them, but he had said them nonetheless. Surely he couldn't refuse it if she did as he had bidden?
Deep in thought, Sansa dismissed Lysandra and sat down to think about it in truth.
Later that day she called her maid to her room.
"Lysandra, I have asked you here because I have a special favour to ask of you." Sansa had practiced her speech many times. She knew she could order her maid to do as she wished, but she needed something more than just blind obedience. What she was planning was going to be highly controversial and shocking, and she needed someone on her side.
"Yes, my lady, anything you need."
"I have a task I have to do, and it is very unconventional. I can't explain to you why, but trust me when I tell you that I have very good reasons. And I need some help."
"I will gladly give it to you, whatever it is."
Sansa took a deep breath. "What I want you to do is…"
It took them half a day to make the preparations; find suitable attire for Sansa, arrange the cart to be ready the next day, ask the old woman known to be able to tell the weather what the next day was going to look like and many other little things. Sansa practiced crawling in her rooms, finding activity she had not indulged in since being a babe strange and foreign.
Lysandra had been shocked at first, but seeing her mistress's determination had soon come to accept that she had good reasons. Sansa had deliberately decided not to tell anyone else about her plans, and not to organise an escort to support her on her journey – that would have only complicated matters. Better to deal with the others as the time came and she had already started.
She wondered whether people would think she had lost her mind. Yes, the activity she was going to undertake didn't make any sense, but as long she executed it rationally and sensibly there was no reason to assume that her senses had been clouded, she reasoned to herself. It was not as if she was planning to run around aimlessly in her nightshift, blabbering nonsense.
It didn't even matter that Sandor was not going to be there. On the contrary, it was better he wasn't, as he might be prone to do something foolish. He would hear about it in due course and realise that she had done her bit and it was up to him to do his. It gave Sansa wicked pleasure to imagine his reaction upon hearing the news; if he had thought he had had the last word in the matter, how wrong he would be proven!
The next day Sansa dressed up meticulously: a squire's leather pants Lysandra had secured from the soldier's barracks, sturdy woollen dress and a belt, simple loose top with a tightly laced neckline – Sansa didn't cherish the prospect of wandering eyes being able to see into her blouse. Leather boots and gloves completed the picture, as well as a loose tunic she was planning on wearing until it got too warm.
When they walked through the gate Sansa shivered with anticipation and nerves. She knew that the journey would not be easy. She had sometimes walked the distance and it had taken her almost an hour – it was bound to be at least two or more for her to do it this way. She knew her muscles were going to be aching afterwards and she would have to endure people's doubts and misgivings. It was not going to be easy, but if it made Sandor take her seriously, it would be worth it.
Sansa had considered long and hard if Sandor would take her gesture as a sign of weakness as he had implied; abasing herself by crawling in front of him. Yet she couldn't believe that would be the case. Firstly, she wouldn't be doing it in front of him. Secondly, it was just a practical transaction; she wanted him to do something, he had said he'd do it for a price – it must appeal to his pragmatic mind!
Some ten paces away from the gate Sansa took a deep breath, lowered herself to the ground on her hands and knees, threw a glance at Lysandra who smiled at her reassuringly and gave a weak grin.
"Here I go."
And so it started. Hand-knee-hand-knee. Hardly had she reached the start of the path when the first people ran to her; the guards from the gate.
"My lady, what happened? Can we help you?" Their clumsiness was endearing as they hovered above her, unsure if they could reach down and touch their lady.
"Just let me be on my way, good men, I know exactly what I am doing," Sansa replied but didn't stop. She left it for Lysandra to tell the men about her mission; well-practiced verses about its secret nature and its importance, and how Lady Sansa had empowered her confidant to tell them that anyone trying to apprehend her against her will would be sent to Winterfell's cells. The men eyed both of them warily and tried to argue with the maid, but a resounding "Let her be and move away!" from Sansa put them in their places. Muttering, they retreated back to the gate.
As she had guessed, it didn't take long before others followed. The same exchange was had over and over again, and for a moment Sansa wondered whether she would have been better off to take one of the captains of the guard into her confidence to prevent such intrusions. She was still finding it somewhat difficult to find her rhythm, and interruptions didn't help.
As it happened, she was able to convince – with Lysandra's assistance – one of the captains who had rushed to her side about the legitimacy of her mission and order him to arrange some kind of protection for her trail on the go, and after that things settled down somewhat. She couldn't prevent curious crowds following her and didn't in truth even care to. What was the harm as everyone would know about her adventure soon anyway? Better for them to see her as she was, lucid and serious, rather than make stories later without having seen the reality of it.
When the lords Umber and Karstark arrived, Sansa knew she had to offer them something else. Stopping for a moment – during which she could luxuriously stretch her back – she told them how this was something she had promised to do but could not expose the details.
She didn't even have to bring the old gods into the discussion as Greatjon raised it first. "Is this something for which even a prayer in the Godswood is not sufficient?"
Yes, that's it – let them think that if that is their mind, Sansa thought, but out loud she said, "There are things so great that prayer alone is not enough," and let them believe what they wished. She could have prayed for Sandor's change of mind, but after so many of her prayers to the old gods and new had gone unanswered before, she felt infinitely better about taking matters into her own hands.
Knee-hand-knee-hand. She had found her rhythm and progress was as good as it could be, when another commotion alerted her.
Sandor!
How was he there now? He was supposed to stay away as he had all the other days, scattered thoughts flashed through Sansa's mind. He couldn't, she couldn't let this end now, she hadn't made her point yet!
In the few short moments before she had to address him, Sansa gathered her wits. This is not between you and him now – not yet. Now he is only in the way.
Sansa gained grim satisfaction from seeing him so uncomfortable. She had to play with him the same tune she had with the others, there being so many onlookers to their exchange. Of course she knew that Sandor was well aware of what was going on and why, and to see his broad shoulders slumped in rare uncertainty gave her twisted pleasure. As far as Sansa was concerned he could do whatever he wanted as long as he didn't try to stop her, but just in case she glanced around to ensure that the men-at-arms were not far away. Surely Sandor would not dare to defy her in public? Yet if he did, she had to make sure her warnings to others would apply to him as well.
At first it seemed that he had resigned, but what happened next was so fast that Sansa hardly had time to register it when she found herself alone with Sandor. Well, as alone as it was possible while still being surrounded by dozens of people further away.
"What the fuck is this really about, little bird?"
"Why do you ask? You know it better than anyone."
"If this is about what I said the other night – gods, woman, you know they were just thoughtless words! I didn't mean any of it, surely you realised that."
"You mean you lied to me? You told me something that wasn't true, made me a promise you had no intention of keeping?" Sansa wasn't proud of herself but it did feel good to throw Sandor's words back at him after the way he had treated her.
"Bloody hells! Since when have you taken my curses for real?! You are not a silly girl anymore. If you ever were."
Was it the piercing pain through her palm or the anger that had simmered in her for days that finally made Sansa to lose her control? She hadn't intended to do it, preferring to talk with him after his submission to the terms of their 'agreement', but Sandor's indignant tone broke her restraint. There was nobody close enough to hear them so Sansa lashed out at how unfair his behaviour had been and how he had left her no other choice. If you see me hurting it is your doing, she was telling him.
It was surprisingly easy to make Sandor accept his defeat. You won, little bird, he told her.
The words she had hoped to hear made Sansa's heart flutter. He really means it, she registered while studying him, not being able to detect a tone suggesting he was only trying to placate her with empty words. He looked so terribly serious, eyes narrowed and a frown across his forehead. Even more, the burned corner of his mouth was twitching, a clear sign of his internal turmoil. For a moment she wanted to throw herself into his arms and ask him to take her away, to end this wearisome task…
No, I must not do that. I have started this, and I must finish this. So Sansa hardened her heart. She was not a child who threw a tantrum when she didn't get what she wanted, only to be easily swayed by promises. She let him know that and moved ahead, pushing his hands away from her shoulders. A tense moment followed but thank the gods Sandor seemed to accept his loss in this too and withdrew.
Sansa sighed another sigh of relief, tinged with pain brought upon her with renewed assaults to her already sore hands and knees.
And so she continued, each stride heavier than the previous. Hand-knee-hand-knee. At least she was not bothered by pebbles and hard-edged stones anymore, thanks to Sandor's administrations, for which she was secretly grateful. So typical for him to spring into action and take care of practical things others had not even considered, Sansa smiled internally.
A thousand fires burned in Sansa's back and muscles whose existence she had not previously even been aware of ached all over her body. Despite the double layer of leather on her hands the soft pads of her palms were chafed and painful, but at least the pads of her knees were blissfully numb. Nothing but an image of a hot bath and soothing oils had kept her going for a last while, as well as the dream of finally being able to straighten herself. A warm bed, feather pillows…
I did it!
An overwhelming sense of satisfaction swept over Sansa as she rested on the platform of an old well, eyes sweeping across the crowd. So many faces, some curious, some doubtful, some shaking their heads. Not a negative word had been uttered as far as she was aware of, but she had heard many blessings and well-wishes. She was almost ashamed of deceiving her people this way, allowing them to believe that her journey had had an ulterior motive to do with the gods. Yet, did it really matter what the real reason was as long as she had shown her commitment to a cause? A good cause for all of them if she were to be successful, to marry the man of her choosing, raise a family and ensure the blood of the wolf carried on in Winterfell for the future?
She had already turned towards the cart Lysandra had pointed to her when she felt strong arms encircling her.
"You have done enough, even you must admit that your task is done properly and fairly. Now I'll take you home," a familiar voice rumbled next to her ear. Sansa felt herself being lifted as easily as if she weighed nothing and it felt wonderful to let go and be carried. For a fleeting moment she considered resisting and insisting that she return to the keep in a manner of her choosing, but Sandor's embrace was so strong and warm and his body against her so soothing that any words of rejection were soon forgotten.
Being back on Stranger's back felt so familiar and comforting in an odd and ridiculous way, and soon Sansa found herself slipping into a drowsy rest against Sandor. She had no energy for words, and what they had to talk about was too big and too important anyway, so she didn't even bother to try. The steady gait, Sandor's hands holding her and brushing her shoulders, the warm cocoon between his arms lulled Sansa, making her almost forget her soreness.
Only when Sandor gently pushed her away from him and murmured into her ear the question about when she wanted to talk did she rouse from her stupor. Winterfell was already in sight and she shifted further, knowing that when they entered the gate there were going to be curious eyes welcoming her back from her strange journey.
Sansa wanted to settle matters with him as soon as possible, but she had to be well rested and in a condition to do so. Tentatively she straightened her back and changed her hold from around his waist to his shoulder and the flash of pain traveling down her body made her gasp. Maybe not tonight. Tomorrow.
As she had known, as soon as they entered the great courtyard eager people started to mill around them.
"Make way for Lady Sansa!" Sandor shouted and pushed ahead, taking Stranger all the way to the door closest to her rooms, dismounting there and carrying her in. Sansa smiled wearily to those in the yard, trying to behave as regally as possible considering her current situation. Her two young maids rushed to her and clucked like hens, trying to get Sandor to lower his precious cargo and he ignored their attempt. Sansa couldn't stand the idea of walking herself and so it was that Sandor carried her all the way to her rooms and only lowered her next to a steaming hot bath, ignoring the maids' scandalised looks.
"This is fine, I can manage now. Thank you for your help," she managed to say, even waving her hand to him in an attempt to appear gracious. Sandor bowed his head slightly and then looked back at her, and his eyes burned hotter than the steam from the bath.
"At your service, my lady," he said, and mouthed so the maids could not hear 'little bird'. One more intense look and he left.
Sansa peeled the dirty clothes off with some help and sank herself into the bath, both blessing and cursing the sting of water. She relaxed only when she was submerged in it all the way to her neck. Her plan was progressing well, one more obstacle overcome.
Sansa smiled to herself.