Author's Notes: Some calm before the storm...the last carefree moments for the Stark sisters. Or are they completely care-free? Thank you to all who follow this tale. I shrink in shame when I remember that this was supposed to be holiday season gift and ideally completed and posted around Christmas time, but as usual, the story ran away with a me a bit. Oh well, we'll get there!


Sandor & Arya

"So you couldn't keep one bloody secret for one bloody day!?"

"What do you mean?"

"Hells girl, don't play dumb with me. You told your sister, didn't you?"

"What if I did? I swore her to secrecy, and she promised."

"What next – you are going to rattle it to Lord Ned himself? He would be too bloody honourable not to let King Robert know, and there will be a hell to pay for me then."

"No! I will not tell my father. He will be better off not knowing. I am not stupid, and neither is Sansa."

"Well, what did she say?"

"About what?"

"About how well do I play fucking harp. About that big bloody secret, of course."

"Oh. She was surprised. She said she hoped that Lady would have been given to you."

"Hmmmphh."

"How did you find out? That she knew?"

"Easy. One look at her and it was clear; that girl's mind is as easy to guess as a whore's plans on the soldier's payday. Bloody hells, she almost thanked me! That would have been all I needed."

'She was grateful, even if it was just an intent. To save Lady, I mean."

"I don't need her chirping."

"She is not chirping - I know she means it."

"You do, now?"

"I do. She is… she is not quit as stupid as she was. I think she is starting to see what Joffrey is."

"That is her misfortune."

"What do you mean?

"Nothing. Now, can I trust you not to go spilling my secrets to anyone else?"


Sansa

Sansa yawned and stretched herself in her soft feather bed. One of the advantages of being the royal bride was that she could take her lessons with Princess Myrcella – and those lessons started much later than those in Winterfell with Maester Luwin had. That meant that she could sleep in, an unprecedented luxury.

She didn't hurry to get up, preferring to lie there and evoke the memories of all the wonderful colours, sights and excitement of the tourney held in the honour of Lord Eddard, the Hand of the King. It had been the first tourney she had ever participated in and it had been wonderful!

Things had been all around better since they had finally arrived to King's Landing. Sansa still felt the hollowness left behind by Lady and she missed her terribly, but their new rooms in the Tower of the Hand were the most luxurious she had ever lived in, she had found even more new friends among the young ladies of the court, and every day brought in new adventures. She and Arya got along well after their shared secrets, although there were always bound to be some tensions between them simply because of their differing preferences. Life overall was harmonious and good.

Sansa had almost succeeded in burying her disappointment at Joffrey's and Queen Cersei's behaviour. Joffrey was afraid and simply lost his temper, she had told herself. Why the prince of the realm would be afraid of a little girl and a peasant boy, she however refused to consider in too much detail.

Yes, she had had to accept that Joffrey was not the golden prince she had thought him to be. Yet he was still her betrothed and it was up to her to make their marriage work. Her mother hadn't known her father before their wedding and wouldn't have picked him as her lord husband – and they were happy now. Surely she could do the same? So determined was Sansa to make sure that everything would be fine that she had been genuinely disappointed by her dismissal in the first evening of the tourney. Joffrey had flicked her away like a buzzing insect, ordering his sworn shield to see to her.

Sansa buried herself deeper under the covers, floating on a cloud of softest down and feather. The Hound.

He had been very drunk and despite Sansa's renewed trust in him after Arya's confessions she had felt herself woefully out of depth with the seething man walking silently beside her. And then, completely out of the blue, he had spilled the story of his scars to her, leaving Sansa shocked, sad and uncertain. Why had he done it? She had been utterly at loss of what to say and finally she had simply voiced what she really thought; how his brother was not a true knight. A true knight would not do such a horrid thing.

Sansa squirmed when the Hound's face, contorted into an even more grotesque sneer than usually, formed in front of her mind's eye. He had laughed at knightly values, a hollow bitter laugh, but in the depth of his eyes Sansa had seen pain that burned him from the inside. Not only physical pain, although it must have been excruciating for a young boy, but a pain of betrayal, a pain of rejection, a pain of being forced to become an object of scorn and horror in people's eyes. For a brief moment when her hand had rested on his broad shoulder Sansa had felt true sympathy for that broken man.

And then he had spoiled everything by threatening to kill her if she told anyone. As if she would! Yet Sansa couldn't help thinking that it was not only about his scars, but also about the other secret. Arya had told her that the Hound knew she had told Sansa - maybe the threat had been his way to ensure that she would indeed keep all his secrets to herself?

Sansa wiggled her toes and yawned once more, knowing it was time to get up. Why was she thinking about the Hound anyway? On the last days of their journey he had become an odd sort of beacon to her, she always making sure that he was nearby when she discoursed with Joffrey. His presence, previously so unsettling and unwelcome, had instead become reassuring and comforting.

Something else had changed too. Previously Sansa had been interested in young boys near her own age, back in the days when she had giggled and shared girlish fancies with Jeyne Poole. Joffrey had been a perfect epitome of her fantasies – but he had lost his lustre for her a long time ago. Since then she had seen more; she had seen real men, knights and lords and full-grown men who looked at her in a completely different way than the youths she had liked before – and that had woken something new inside her. And of all the men she had observed, nobody was as strong and masculine as the Hound…

Sansa huffed, irritated at the direction her mind was going. The whole notion was ludicrous. Ridiculous. Laughable.

Besides, she hardly saw him anymore in King's Landing, not with Winterfell men looking after Lord Eddard and his family, and the members of the Kingsguard and gold cloaks ensuring the safety of the royal family. Only once had their paths crossed, when she had been on her way to the Godswood and he had materialised seemingly from thin air to her side. He had not offered to walk her there – of course he hadn't, that would have been bizarre – but they had walked there side by side nonetheless. If that had been unusual, even stranger had been how restrained he had been. They hadn't discoursed about anything too controversial, but the Hound had told her about the Red Keep and the secret tunnels on top of which it was built, and for once his tone hadn't carried its customary mockery or ire. Sansa had been so fascinated by the tales that she, too, had forgotten her usual apprehension in his presence. When they had reached their destination she had genuinely thanked him for his company and had been rewarded by a rare sight of a slight turn of his lips – almost like a smile. Then he had spoiled it though by growling her to run to see her tree-gods – but she didn't really mind.

Sighing Sansa got up and dressed in a simple morning dress. It was new, soft fabric of the colour of bluebells that attenuated her developing curves. She had grown into a young woman's shape and she knew that others had noticed that too. Sometimes the looks she received made her uneasy but she would have lied to herself had she not admitted that sometimes she revelled in appreciation they conveyed.

The last twist of the fabric to make it settle nicely on her hips and she was ready to face the world.


When she entered the Hand's solar she saw Arya stuffing last pieces of bread into her mouth, halfway out of the chair in readiness to get out her merry way.

"Good morrow to you, Arya. Have you seen Father?" Sansa sat down and took a small honeyed cake which she proceeded to break into dainty pieces in her fingers.

"No, he has already been up since before the dawn and left to his business," Arya declared.

"He works too hard. I hardly see him anymore." Sansa frowned remembering the deep bags under their father's eyes.

"Not only that, he is really, really stressed too. I have never seen him this unhappy." Arya wrinkled her nose in distaste. "He should have never accepted this task. King Robert is just a lazy fat man who wants Father to run his kingdom for him. It is unfair!"

Sansa didn't have wherewith to deny Arya's harsh statement, mainly because it was true. Their father spent most evenings in his study until late and during the day hurried from one meeting to another, never having time with his daughters anymore. And not only that, lately he had also started to look more and more troubled and deep lines had appeared on his face. Sansa was worried about him, but what could she do?

"What are you going to do today?" she asked out of politeness. She wasn't truly interested in what Arya was up to; it was going to be something uninteresting in any case.

"I am having more dancing lessons with Syrio Forell," Arya announced excitedly. Sansa couldn't help rolling her eyes. Dancing! Arya! What had father thought when he had appointed somebody for such ungrateful task?

"I am glad to hear that you are finally getting into more ladylike pursuits. Do you still practice swordplay with the Hound?" Arya had told her about their lessons – ran mostly in secret because the Hound didn't want anyone to find out that he spent his time in such undignified pursuits.

Sansa hadn't shared with her what the Hound had told her – although Arya had spilled his secret to her earlier, it was not only the Hound's threat that had stayed her. No, his confession had seemed altogether too personal – if he wanted Arya to know, he surely had enough chances to tell her himself. What she had shared with her sister though was her new appreciation of the man who had so disturbed her before.

"Yeah, whenever he has time. He has been busy as well with that stupid Joffrey demanding him to follow him everywhere."

Sansa didn't even rise to the bait anymore, simply ignoring Arya's insults.

"Well, enjoy your lessons. I'll see you at the dinner then."

"I will, don't worry." Arya ran away humming to herself happily. Sansa stared after her for a long time, envying her for her happy disposition and carefree life without worries. Suddenly she felt older than her years and her shoulders sank at the weight of the future that had seemed so bright just such a short time ago.


On her way to her lessons through the quiet corridors of the Red Keep she spotted the Hound walking towards her. It was the first time she saw him since the memorable meeting during the tourney.

Sansa's first reaction was to stiffen; she was unsure whether she was seeing the angry Hound threatening to kill her, or the calm and collected Hound, surprisingly genial when he wanted to, no matter how hard he might reject the notion.

Yet she had no option. Turning away and walking in another direction now that he had seen her was out of the question. So was just passing him without an acknowledgment.

Her decision was made for her when it was he who spoke first. He slowed his progress and the sound of the clank of his armour subsided.

"Lady Sansa." Had Sansa blinked her eyes she would have almost certainly missed it, his almost imperceptible nod in her direction.

"My lord." Sansa's throat was dry and the sound of her voice weak and feeble.

Neither of them said a word for a while although both had now stopped. Sansa's eyes flittered between the stone wall behind him, the span of his broad shoulders and the cruel looking dagger hanging from his sword belt. Then they spoke at the same time.

"I want to assure you that I will never reveal anyone what I have heard from you or from Arya."

"I was drunk as a dog that night. I spoke harshly."

Then there was silence again, so thick that it could have been cut through with a knife. Finally it was the Hound who cleared his throat.

"I believe you, girl. If nothing else, you Northerners are trustworthy they say."

A relief washed over Sansa – much stronger she would have expected. What was it to her, the future queen, what one of the court retainers thought of her? Yet she realised that she desperately wanted him to think kindly of her – why, she couldn't fathom.

"I am glad of that. I'd hate to think there was any mistrust between us. After all, you are one of the most valued members in my betrothed's household." The lines that normally would have sounded perfectly fitting suddenly tasted hollow and fatuous in her mouth.

The Hound regarded her thoughtfully.

"Head still in the clouds, eh?"

"I am not sure I understand your meaning," Sansa muttered.

"You'll see one day when you hit the ground." His expression changed and all of a sudden it was almost if he had become angry at something Sansa had said. His gaze turned cold and he shifted, raising his hand on the hilt of his sword. Sansa was transfixed at the sight of his fingers curling around it and squeezing until his knuckles turned white.

Then he walked away without a word, leaving Sansa standing in the middle of the corridor feeling stupid. It was her turn to follow his retreating back, wondering if she would ever understand that man and the demons that drove him.