While Sansa spent her days studying Valyrian and taking care of the day to day needs of the people, Sandor used his time inspecting every aspect of their new home. Despite the reassurances of the Elder Brother and the men at arms, her husband not only remained unimpressed by the defense strategies of the keep but had taken to searching out flaws, much to the distress of the people who served them.

At the very least, the people were leery of the former Lannister Hound, and at most, were downright afraid of him. Wearing all black, Sandor stalked the halls with a dangerous air, scowling at everyone except Sansa. It was both exciting and worrisome for Sansa, because she knew that in order for their household to run efficiently, it was important that the servants view him as their lord and not as the fearsome former sworn shield of their enemy.

"What is he doing now?" Arya asked Sansa as she and Gendry made their way to their lessons with the Elder Brother.

Turning, Sansa saw Sandor vigorously testing out the portcullis.

"He's just trying to make sure we're safe here, that's all." She uneasily clutched her textbook to her chest. It had been three moons since they arrived, and despite several long periods of inclement weather, Sandor had managed to find fault with the keep's defenses nearly every week and thus devilling the men.

Elder Brother stepped out into the courtyard. Immediately his attention was drawn to Sandor shouting swear words at the men on duty.

"He's being crazy, Sansa," Arya shook her head. "You need to talk to that man of yours. Elder brother, help us."

"What should I say to him?" Sansa asked, genuinely curious. She was absolutely at a loss as to how to help reassure her husband; not for the first time, Sansa wished her mother and father were there to advise her.

"Tell him to calm down!"

"You know as well as I do that just saying: 'Sandor, don't worry about our safety-just relax' will only aggravate the situation. You know how particular he is in such matters. There's nothing I could say that would stop him, Arya."

"Milady, if I may offer a suggestion?" Gendry lowered his eyes before speaking. The sound of his voice startled both Sansa and Arya, for the young man generally held his tongue around her.

"Yes, Gendry?"

"Clegane, well, he's lived as a man of action his entire life. He's trained with the best soldiers in Westeros. He's the most dangerous man in the Seven Kingdoms, second only to Gregor. I doubt a week's past that he hasn't known some sort of fighting, battle, plannings and the like since he was a boy. He's anxious for something to do."

"Gendry speaks truly. I was once a knight," Elder Brother offered, his words at once drawing Arya's curiosity. "To be a soldier requires a certain level of training that one becomes accustomed to. Mayhap your lord husband feels a bit, well, idle, staying with us inside the confines of the keep rather that cutting through your father's enemies with the Stark host."

"I believe you are right, Elder brother, Gendry. Thank you both," Sansa rubbed her hands together thoughtfully as she smiled at the men. Sandor had told her he killed his first man at twelve, and that he squired for Ser Amory Lorch as the sack of King's Landing progressed.

In the Red Keep, he had Joffrey to watch, and by extension, her. Even around the keep, he followed her as though he were still her body guard. She knew how deeply her husband's concerns ran; in truth it had very little to do with the actual security of the structure, but she kept that to herself.

He needs something that will make him feel as needed as he once did; he needs to feel as though he is doing his part. Biting her lip, Sansa added quietly: "I'll see what I can do to help him. Thank you too, Gendry."

"You're quite welcome, milady," Gendry dipped his head at her before urging Arya onward.

Once inside, Elder brother place a scroll in her hand. "We received a raven this morning, my lady."

Drawing a deep breath, Sansa traced her finger over the seal with care. "It could not have come at a better time."

He smiled and then quietly left her to the letter. Quickly she read the information within, a small smile playing on her mouth as she did so. No one pressed her to divulge its contents, and she did not offer. When she finished her lesson, Sandor was leaning against the wall outside the maester's quarters, waiting for her.

"Wife," he lifted her hand to his mouth, kissed it and then looped in through his arm. "How were your lessons?"

"Good," she smiled up at him anxiously. "How was training?"

His knuckles were purple and blooming. "Aye, good enough."

"Sandor, let us walk together for a bit and have a talk." When he hesitated, Sansa beckoned to him.

"Aye, alright," Sandor suspiciously raised his eyebrow at her. "What is this about?"

She took his hands in her own. "I have long wanted you to feel you belong here, that this is as much your keep as it is mine."

Tossing his head back, Sandor rolled his eyes before laughing long and hard, the frightening sound echoing in the yard. She could feel the anger rolling off of him in waves as he leaned in close to her ear.

"You're a sweet little bird for true, wife, but I can promise you that your lord father doesn't see it that way."

"It matters not," Sansa squeezed his hands, willing him to feel her sincerity. "This is our home, yours and mine. He gave it to me and in turn, I wish it to belong to you."

"As you say." He sniffed, the man clearly doubtful.

"Sandor, please, if you are not happy with anything here, do not hesitate to make any changes you see fit. And if you are unhappy here, we will leave."

"Quit chirping." He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, his face unreadable. "Are you giving me permission to take you away from here?"

"No, of course not. You do not need my permission," Sansa kissed his hands. "I just want you to understand that I do not expect you to look at me as the lady of the keep. You are my equal and we will oversee it together. And if that is not what you want, my place is with you. I will follow you wherever you go."

"We cannot go anywhere, wife, you know that as well as I do." Sandor sighed deeply and uneasily ran his hands down the front of his breeches. Nymeria lumbered up and rested her huge head on his knee, to which Sandor began scratching her under her chin as he brooded silently.

Briefly Sansa wondered if he ever regretted marrying her, considering the burden he took on in doing so. He could have just as easily married a pretty maiden with modest connections and lived a peaceful life. Knowing Sandor, he would rather be fighting on the field with her father and Robb and Stannis. But thanks to her and Arya, the ferocious Hound was stuck in a mountain keep at the top of the world with only her, a bastard blacksmith, a holy man and a feisty tomboy for company.

"Do you regret not going with the host?" Sansa could not help but ask.

Quickly his demeanor darkened. "How can you even ask me that, Little bird?"

"I know you are unhappy here," Sansa fidgeted with her handkerchief. "I know you to be a man of war ever since you were a boy. I-I thought you might rather be fighting instead of milling about this keep with me. I do not want to make you unhappy."

"I am many things, Sansa-you knew that when you bedded me. But I am not unhappy." Sandor picked at an imaginary piece of lint on her cloak so he could avoid her gaze. "You are the last person who would make me such."

"How do you see yourself, then?" She asked carefully, the young woman realizing she was treading dangerous ground.

He paused. "What does it matter? I'm a soldier, a seasoned warrior, a highly valued butcher, if you will. But foremost I am your husband, lass." Sandor struggled to still his anger as he cupped her face in his hands. "You are mine, Little bird; that makes me happy. You are all I need in the gods-forsaken life."

Unable to hide her smile, Sansa beamed up at him.

Clearing his throat, Sandor added: "I didn't go through the trouble of taking a wife to spend my nights alone. Even if you lord father had asked me to go with them, I would have insisted you accompany me."

Stunned by his admission, Sansa shook her head. "But only the lower born wives and…other sorts of women go with the train."

Glaring, Sandor rasped low. "You would refuse to go with me?"

"No, I-I would go with you of course," Sansa wrung her hands, "but it would not be appropriate for the sister of the king to travel with-" her words trailed off.

"Camp followers?" He snorted. "Aye, they are the only females who travel with the men. Scared of them, are you?" Sandor pinched her chin so Sansa could not look away.

"No." She shook her head. "I am a wolf."

"That you are," Sandor chuckled in spite of himself. "But nevertheless, you should fear them, lass. Desperation follows soldier trains and make no mistake. Men who like to beat little girls, men who like to rape them and women who'll gladly hand them over for coin. Any one of those would do you a harm for the promise of a stag, believe that."

Her face fell, for Sansa had never considered that there were dangers for her among her brother's own men.

"Hear my words and remember them true: you are my wife and I'll not be separated from you." Sandor ran two fingers through a lock of her hair. "I'll entrust you to no one but myself, and I'll not fight while you're hidden away in some keep at the mercy of whatever buggering bastards reside within. Understand?"

He means to reassure me. Smiling, she lowered her eyes from his. "I think I do, Sandor." Lightly she turned and kissed his cheek. "Then we will stay here. You will be the lord of this keep."

"Stannis has not offered such and neither has your father. Besides, I have no use for flowery titles, girl." Sandor narrowed his eyes. "Who put such nonsense in your head?"

"Stannis Baratheon." Sansa produced the rolled scroll and handed it to him.

Gritting his teeth, Sandor refrained from opening it. "The place is no less mine because you are the lady of the keep. I needs no titles, wife." He was staring at her so intently that Sansa had to force herself not to look away from him. "Being your husband is enough to suit me."

"It is not a title given by men whom you despise," Sansa leaned up and caressed his face.

"I have no love for Stannis, believe that-"

"It is from me." Sansa's eyes welled up. "Please do not be angry with me. I requested it from father before we left, as a gift to you."

"What it bloody hells?" Sandor gripped his head with both hands, drawing them back through the length of his hair. "What do I have to say to get through to you, girl? I spit on knights and their vows-"

"Please, Sandor calm yourself," Sansa rested her hands on his massive shoulders. "He will not make you a knight. It is a lordship of this keep that he offers at the behest of my father."

"Sansa for fuck's sake, why would you think I would even want such a thing?" Sandor's face flushed red and his breathing labored. "Who did your father have to soft soap to get it?"

"The very man to whom he bends the knee. Sandor, it is for us. It is to show everyone that you are no longer a Lannister man. It is an open proclamation that you are a recognized, honored member of House Stark in the eyes of both Stannis Baratheon and House Stark." Sansa's tears flowed freely then.

She had to make him understand.

"That doesn't mean shite to me," he hissed. "You highborns and your buggering airs-"

Lightly she held her fingers to his mouth. "It announces to the world that you are my family. Death could separate us, Sandor, but you will be forever recognized as part of House Stark if you accept."

Paling, he pulled her tightly against him. Turning her wrist, Sandor surprised her by kissing her palm, though his eyes flashed when he met her gaze.

"You have always taken pride in protecting me, caring for me, keeping me safe." Sansa spoke soothingly and brushed her hands through his hair. "The title acknowledges that, nothing more."

"Fuck that nonsense, lass." Sandor averted his eyes. "A title doesn't make a man a good protector."

"Sandor, no one knows better than I how empty such titles can be, especially after my time in the Red Keep," Sansa took his hands in her own once more. "But doesn't receiving a title for caring for me and Arya make for a very different circumstance than what was given to you in King's Landing?"

She watched him take a long moment to consider.

"Aye, it does at that." Sandor finally assented, the man rising abruptly and pacing as he did so. "Have it your way, Little bird; I'll take the bloody lordship but only if it comes from you, wife, you and no other. I swear no vows to anyone but you, you hear me?"

"I know, my love," she said quietly, all the while wondering what Stannis would say to that. "And I would wish it with all my heart but such titles are not mine to give." She took the scroll from his hand and pointed to the carefully stamped seal featuring a red heart of the Lord of Light with the stag of House Baratheon in the middle.

"I, Stannis of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, as part of his acceptance of the fealty of Lord Eddard Stark and his son, Robb Stark, he former King in the North, hereby reinstate the former as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

Secondly, I gift to his eldest daughter the keep bequeathed to her by Jon Arryn at the time of her father's marriage to Catelyn Tully.

Her husband, Sandor Clegane, in exchange for renouncing his vows to House Lannister and for his deeds of bravery at Riverrun in service to Lord Eddard Stark and Ser Bryndan Tully, is now named Lord Clegane of said keep, to be named by the couple at their earliest leisure."

After reading it aloud, Sandor's mouth twitched for several moments. He patted her hand.

"Is this what you want?" His steely gaze searched her own.

"Yes, it is." Sansa shyly looked up at him.

"It seems your brother and father have reached them safe enough." Sandor paused once more. "Alright, wife, I'll agree to this. But as for the rest of the bloody lords, let them have their lands and their gods and their gold. Let them have their sers. So long as I have this," he patted the hilt of his sword, "there's no man on earth I need fear. And my wedded vows are the only I will ever take. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Sandor." She folded her hands in her lap and looked down so as to hide her smile.

"There is nothing I won't do to keep you safe, you and your sister, believe that," Sandor held her face tightly. "I'll use that title to do such, lass." Grunting, he gave her a quick kiss. "Let's tell your sister that the family reached Stannis safely."

"What should we call the keep?" Sansa asked her husband.

Sandor shrugged. "The Wolf Keep."

The name brought a smile to her lips. "The Wolf Keep it is."


Despite the lordship and the efforts of the men at arms to reassure Sandor, he still would not take his ease, much to Sansa's distress. As the newly installed Lord of The Wolf Keep, he would patrol with the watchmen and check all the doors and windows personally before he would retire for the night. Sandor not only took it upon himself to order added defensive measures installed to the outer walls but personally trained the complement of soldiers, drilling them with a ferocity that soon became a spectacle among the people.

Unless the weather interfered, Sandor rarely miss a day of training in the yard with the men. Sansa had hoped he would learn to relax, and once the keep's defenses met his approval, eventually Sandor did. Occasionally he would allow himself a day to lounge in bed with her, stroking her skin, brushing her hair. He would send her maid away, draw her bath himself and then carefully bathe her and wash her hair as though she were a child.

Her wedded life with him had revealed Sandor Clegane to be far more than the Hound that he showed the world, far more than the exacting Lord of The Wolf Keep. He was an unusual blend of gentleness and raw masculine strength, and while the realm saw the latter side of the man, the former was the one part of him that only she was allowed to see. His intense vulnerability in caring for her most basic needs touched Sansa far more deeply than any flowery words or speeches from him ever could.

After a while, Sansa understood that these demonstrations were Sandor's way of telling her that he loved and cherished her. It was the same with his efforts to secure the keep, for actions had always meant more to him than words. One day, as he lay in her arms spent after such attentions led to an especially tender lovemaking session, he had let slip that his sister had taken care of him in such ways when he was burned. It was in this way that Sansa discerned that actions were the only way he knew how to express his emotions, for words often failed her stoic mate.

As dawn ascended, Sandor sent her maid away and then massaged every inch of her chilled body. After they bathed, he conscientiously helped her dress and then brushed out her hair in long, deliberate strokes. Having Sandor care for her was so very different than when the maids attended her. His attentions both touched, embarrassed and flattered her in equal measure and she happily submitted to his ministrations.

"Would you accompany me to the training yard today?" Sandor gruffly asked as we watched her wrap her robe. This was the first time he had ever asked it of her.

"Do you want me to?" Sansa nervously wrung her hands, for she could see in his eyes that she had offended him but was at a loss to know how it had come to that. In truth she never dreamed he wanted her to watch him with the men at arms. In King's Landing, he had scolded her for going to the training yard unaccompanied with Arya and Jeyne.

"I thought you needed no invitation, but you never come on your own." Sandor's eyes settled on her own.

"I would love to watch you, husband," Sansa turned her chin up at him with a mischievous grin. "I have not come as of yet because you used to tell me in King's Landing that it would lead to trouble. I wasn't sure if you felt safe enough here for me to do so."

"This may not be as secure a place as I would wish for you, but bloody hells, it isn't King's Landing, lass." Sandor snorted, folding his arms as he glared at her.

"What do you wish for me? A host of dragons to guard me?" She giggled and twisted the end of her hair at him.

"You'll never be safer than you are with me," Sandor gripped her chin, "or have you lost your faith in me?"

"Of course not," Sansa took his hands in her own. "I was only teasing. Forgive me, I meant no offense." Confused by his abruptness, she watched him closely.

Sandor's gaze gleamed with a blend of anger and mischief, and so she added: "You must admit, husband, that it is almost entirely your own doing that I have not come to watch you train. After all, the pleasurable manner in which you start my days gives me very little incentive to leave the comforts of our chambers."

Her toes involuntarily curled at the memory of their last encounter, in which he had brought her such pleasure that Arya later scolded her for shouting loud enough for the whole keep to hear her. Sansa had been so mortified that she was loathe to leave their rooms for days after, despite the fact that no one besides Arya mentioned it.

The movement drew his eyes to her bare feet. Kneeling, he began massaging her soles. Blushingly Sansa reached out to play with the strings on his tunic. She felt his rough index finger tip her face up to his, and meeting his intense gaze brought a fresh wave of heat to her cheeks.

Barking out his rasping laugh at her response to him, the last vestiges of Sandor's anger dissipated as he lowered his eyes to hers. "True enough, that. You should know well enough by now, Little Bird, that I enjoy you in my bed more than anything in this world. Believe me, even if you choose not to go, knowing you are waiting here naked and wet and willing for me gets my blood boiling hotter than wildfire, lass."

Sandor nibbled lightly on her each of her toes and then raised up on his forearms and pressed his lips against the shell of her ear. "I won't complain. But today I needs you to come."

"Of course. I would love to watch you," Sansa patted his cheek. "Let me get the fox cloak you made for me."

"I will get it," Sandor growled into her ear, then disappeared into her closet. After several minutes and a litany of swears, he held out the garment. "Take care, wife. You mustn't get chilled."

"Sandor, I am a product of the north. I have the blood of the First Men. I can take chiller weather than you can, I dare say."

"Might be, could be." His mouth curled into a smile. "A proper wolf you are."

Sandor had a way of looking at her that made Sansa feel as though he could see straight through her clothing. Emboldened, she reached up to his neckline and ran her fingers through the coarse black hair peeking through the lacings. "Do not fret; I will warm you up in a way that has proven very popular in the past." Unable to stop herself, Sansa blushed at her own daring.

As Sansa and Sandor entered the stands, they saw Arya and Gendry sparring with blunted swords.

Sandor installed her in between his legs on the bench in front of him so that she was veritably surrounded by him. The warmth from his body radiated through his leather pants and suede tunic.

"Strike harder, wolf bitch," Sandor yelled at her. Gendry dipped his sword, providing her with an opening.

"Harder now!" Sandor jumped to his feet. "Get in there!"

With renewed determination, Arya struck several blows at Gendry, all of which he easily deflected.

"You're quick enough but you need to build strength, girl," Sandor grinned at her. "Bravery will only take you so far in a fight. You need to set about lifting heavier things." He nodded over toward the feed bags in the stables. "I'll fill some lighter for you to lift. Do that every day and in a moon's turn you'll give us all a licking we won't soon forget."

"But I don't need to be muscled like a boy for water dancing."

Secretly pleased with his praise, Arya turned toward Sandor and then hissed as she buckled under another relatively light blow from Gendry.

"Think so, huh? Never turn your back on your opponent, lass. And always stay on your feet. The man who falls is the man who dies."

"But we are not men," Arya growled and jabbed Gendry solidly in the ribs, bringing the young man to his knees. "Are we, Sansa?"

"No, we are not," Sansa couldn't help but giggle at the startled expression on Gendry's face.

Quickly he pivoted onto his side and knocked Arya off her feet.

"She shouldn't train with Gendry," Sansa softly commented as her eyes travelled over the young blacksmith's muscular chest and arms. "He's very big and powerfully built from blacksmithing."

Scowling, Sandor squinted at her, the corner of his mouth twitching ominously as he did so. "You'd be noticing that of all things, Little Bird?"

He's jealous, Sansa realized, her heart beating wildly in her chest at the idea. Hurriedly she slipped her hand into his own. "You've mistake my meaning, Sandor. What I meant to say is that he is not an experienced enough swordsman to know how to temper his strength as you do when training with Arya, my love."

Sandor's face softened slightly.

"In his inexperience, he might accidentally hurt her." Sansa knitted her brows and squeezed his massive bicep with both hands.

"Aye," Sandor rubbed his chin. "You speak truly. Arya," he waved toward her. "Come sit with your sister."

Pouting, she frowned at him. "But-"

"Do as I say now and don't give me any lip, either, or I'll let him crack open your head for true," Sandor snarled at her.

"Sandor, please." Sansa reprimanded softly.

"Now go on up there and watch with your sister," Sandor tempered his tone with great effort. "I'll show you how it's done, girl." As he passed Arya in the stands, he added: "There may come a time again where I needs you to fight beside me as an equal. I'm going to train you right. Keep your eyes on me now."

"Yes, Hound," Arya smiled at him, pride written plainly on her face. Sandor pulled a lock of her hair when she turned her back to him to sit beside Sansa.

"Must you do that?" Sansa shook her head at him.

"Aye, and this, too," He kissed her softly, then climbed down the stands two steps at a time and hastily pulled off his shirt.

Gasping, Sansa blushed deeply at the sight of his heavily muscled physique suddenly on display.

Gendry followed Sandor's example and pulled off his own tunic, revealing a well-developed chest covered in thick black hair more plentiful than what covered Sandor's substantially larger build.

"Oh gross!" Arya rolled her eyes. "You guys look like two bears fighting, there's so much fur."

"One day you might not mind it," Sansa said absently as her eyes continued to travel the line of hair that traversed his rippled abdomen and then disappeared beneath Sandor's lacings.

Several of the washerwomen had come out into the yard. Sansa could hear them murmuring approvingly and giggling behind her, much to her indignation. A hot wave of jealousy washed over her. Angrily she cast her gaze over toward them, but as they were intent of watching the sport of the spectacle, they paid her no mind.

Her face flushing hotly, she turned back toward the baily, where she saw Sandor was watching her with a wicked grin. Smirking, he arched his back and flexed his pectorals in a languid stretch while eying her closely.

Her husband was equal parts ferocious warrior and yet he moved as agile as a dancer, and Sandor easily swiveled out of Gendry's sword stroke and then circled around him like a shadow cat. Tossing his head, Sandor's black hair fell lank against his bare skin, damply clinging to his face and shoulders. Daily training without a shirt left his skin tanned. The sweat glistening on his chest ever so slowly trickled downward, following the line of fine black hair covering his rippled abdomen. A heated flush rose to her cheeks, but still Sansa did not turn away.

Swallowing hard, she allowed her eyes to follow the line of hair from Sandor's chiseled stomach to the thickly roped groin muscles at his hips, which bared with each turn. His narrow waist was accentuated by well-fitting, low slung black leather breeches that clung provocatively to his hips. Every now and then he would glance her direction, the man clearly enjoying the sight of her admiring him. Mercilessly he beat down Gendry until the boy shouted: "Yield, milord!"

"Don't hurt him, Hound!" Arya shouted beside her, breaking Sansa's reverie.

"I'm not hurt," Gendry hissed out.

"No, but you will be later," Sandor laughed, his eyes never leaving Sansa. "That'll teach you to pummel the wolf bitch. Now mind your strength or I'll lick you for true." Without waiting for a reply, he climbed back toward her. One glance below his navel plainly showed that Sandor was very aroused.

Tossing her over his shoulder, the huge man swatted her playfully on the backside. "Come on wife. I needs tending."

Rather than cooling his ardor, the harder Sandor trained, the more he desired her, and Sansa eagerly indulged him. She should have suspected he had ulterior motives for bringing her with him.

Blushingly she struggled to get away but to no avail. "Sandor, not in front of everyone, please-"

"Why do you think I brought you here, wife?" Sandor laughed at her pitiful wriggling. "I get my workout, then you get yours."

Equally embarrassed and aroused, Sansa could not help giggling at his words.

"Oh yuck!" Sansa heard Arya shout behind them as Sandor kicked the door to their chambers open and laid her on the bed.

"Come wife, your lord husband needs you." He growled at her, the sound bringing shivers of delight to Sansa as Sandor crawled into her waiting arms.

A sudden knock interrupted them.

"My Lord Clegane, a raven just arrived," Elder brother's voice echoed through the door. "You needs come at once."