Heavy snows descended on the Vale, keeping the occupants of the Wolf's Den cloistered indoors.Winter is coming, Lord Eddard's words returned to Sandor each morning. The weather had been steadily getting worse since they arrived at the keep.

Though he hated the title, being the lord of the Wolf's Den would keep Sansa safe, and he bloody well meant to do his best. Elder brother walked him through the grounds each day, drawing his attention to the needs of the people and in turn, Sandor would train with him in private.

Sandor also had taken up some of Elder Brother's books. In order to effectively run the keep, he needed to refresh the training his maester had given him so long ago. As with physical training, Sandor applied himself, though the man knew that this aspect was really more within Sansa's skill set.

One night after they made love, Sansa asked to join his studies, and so together they reviewed the inner workings of lordship each night. As much as he loved sharing these things with her, it disturbed Sandor that Sansa felt she would be of more use to him by learning to use a sword when her greatest asset was her ability to persuade the most hardened of rulers.

Sansa did not seem to appreciate the value of her diplomatic gift, and she doubted her unique intelligence and effectiveness. Regrettably Sandor knew his earlier treatment of her made him at least partly culpable for her lack of self-confidence.

Though he desperately longed for her to continue her studies with Elder brother, Sandor was not the sort of man to bully his wife into doing his will, nor would he have married a woman who he could order around. Ever dutiful, Sansa still had a mind of her own, though undoubtedly she would obey him if he insisted.

Sandor was at a loss; he need to make her understand that one day, the bloody war would be over, and when it was, she would need every advantage in dealing with whoever was left sitting on the Iron throne.

Indisputably the dragon bitch would prevail: according to Lord Eddard, she had unnerved everyone in the Seven kingdoms, and rightly so. Wisely his goodfather had foreseen the day when his family would require protection and he had the keep fashioned for just such an occasion.

Now it was up to Sandor to keep them safe. He trusted Stannis Baratheon no more than he did Daenerys Targaryen. According to Elder Brother, Stannis and his red witch followed the buggering lord of light with frightening fanaticism; but they were no match for a Targaryen with three dragons, both he and the holy man agreed to that.

It darkly amused Sandor that Stannis would undoubtedly meet his end by the very force of nature that he worshipped. A death by fire was pure death, the red witch said. When Daenerys Targaryen showed up with her fire breathing beasts, she would not be forgiving to the Usurper's family; then the two of them would undoubtedly experience such firsthand.

All of this weighed heavily on the man, but Sandor had no fucks to give about their safety; Sansa and her family was his only concern. He had been just a squire during Robert's Rebellion and Sandor saw little of Rhaegar Targaryen and the Mad King, but he knew enough of them to know Targaryens don't yield easily; when the time came for the Starks to go before her, Sansa would need every advantage to help her family. He meant to speak to her about it after practice.

In order to stay out of the weather, Sandor had the men at arms fashion the large glass covered atrium into an exercise arena. Sansa had remained determined to learn to use a sword, something that vexed Sandor greatly. Since she needed to work on her strength before taking up training, Sandor led Sansa through the prescribed exercises every morning, the man hoping she would change her mind.

But so far, his wife seemed to enjoy the exertions and grew more confident as she improved.

Arya wasn't surprised.

"She loves to dance and we used to have epic snowball fights," the little wolf shrugged. "She wasn't all finery and fluff."

"She doesn't belong in the training yard."

"True," Arya allowed, "but Sandor, you must understand that for Sansa, it's more than just exercise; it's about duty with her. She is a Stark, after all. You gotta let her do this."

He grudgingly admitted that much was true. After a moon's turn of hard exercise, Sandor deemed Sansa ready for the training yard.

When she entered the atrium, the soldiers all became very self-conscious at the sight of their lady among them.

Buggering bastards, who could blame them? Sandor smirked to himself, for Sansa looked good enough to eat in the tunic and leather breeches she wore. Fashioned after his own, Sandor could see Sansa had made her garments looser than he wore; yet with them adorning her lovely figure, she was enthralling to any red blooded man.

"Do you like my outfit? I made it after your own. Does seem appropriate?" She shyly asked as he gaped at her, speechless. "I don't want to dishonor you-"

Sandor barely heard her. He stared at her with all his might, his eyes taking in the way the material accentuated every movement of her beautiful breasts and the curve of her perfect hips and bottom. Her body on display excited him, sending a heated thrum of desire through Sandor so powerful that he felt weak in the knees at the sight of her. Watching her shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other shook him out of his haze.

"You could drive any sane man to his knees, wife," Sandor had replied huskily before hurriedly dragging her back to their rooms while she giggled. Once inside, he presented her with a new breastplate Gendry crafted for her.

"Oh, Sandor it is beautiful!" Sansa cooed while admiring the intricate wolf and bird detailing. Grunting, Sandor adjusted the straps until the metal plate set flat against her chest, the man more concerned with fit than finery.

"It is necessary, lass, even in the training yard." Sandor then unsheathed a small short sword Gendry had fashioned for her.

"But you wouldn't hurt me." Sansa answered jovially.

Sandor grasped her arms. "No I wouldn't. I can't say the same for whatever opponent you will meet in real combat." She turned serious at his words. "Here is your weapon." It was a smaller, lighter version of his own longsword.

Sansa was thrilled by it. Reverently she held out the blade. "Thank you husband. I did not expect you to go through this trouble for me."

Shrugging, Sandor's mouth twitched at her, the man well pleased by her response. "Use it wisely, wife." Almost tenderly, he strapped the sheath at her side and stepped back to look at her. "It fits perfectly. Gendry did a bloody good job, as good as a castle smith."

Proudly Sansa smiled at him as she stared at her reflection. "I know you don't like this idea, Sandor, but I am very grateful for all you have done."

"I don't like it for true," Sandor drew in a deep breath, his mouthing drawing into a taut line. "But since you are determined, you might as well learn to use them right."

"Is it really so disagreeable to you?" Turning to face him, Sansa's hands went up to his shoulders, squeezing him lightly. The disappointment written on her face cut straight to his heart.

"Yes, lass," Sandor admitted as he traced his finger over her cheek. "A knife is one matter, a sword another. Anyone who comes here will view you in a far different light now that you're armed." Sandor patted the weapon at her hip. "You won't be a woman with a jeweled blade. You'll be a fair opponent. They will fight to kill, not just subdue."

"You're worried. I understand, truly I do. But you must believe, I only mean to use it to protect you and the rest of the family," Sansa sadly cupped his cheek. "I do not wish to be a warrior like Arya or Lady Brienne."

"And that troubles me more still," Sandor gravely stared into her eyes. "For it tells me you'll never be ready for the kind of men you're like to meet." He ran his hand through the length of his hair.

"So in the event we are attacked, what would you have me do, Sandor?" Sansa asked irritably, her face flushing pink. "Stay hidden and hope you'll rescue me in time?"

"Sansa, don't fucking fill my mouth with your words. I would have you train, if that is your desire. But for fuck's sake, don't challenge men in battle, do you hear me? Only use it as a last resort." He pinched her chin, almost painfully. "Do you agree?"

Pursing her lips, Sansa nodded reluctantly. She opened her mouth and then closed it quickly.

"But?" Sandor barked, bring his face closer.

"But I want to be respected in the way I see the men respect Arya. The way Father and you and Jaime respect Lady Brienne."

His anger abating, Sandor ground his teeth hard to keep from scoffing so she would continue. Gently she held his face, her expression earnest.

"I saw the fear in the Freys and Boltons. They recognized Brienne for the danger she is. I want others to see me as a true wolf."

"And you think no one looks at you that way, do you?" Sandor rasped.

Sansa lowered her eyes. "No. Why would they? Arya's the fighter. I'm just a lady."

"Aye you're a lady, just like that wolf of yours was. You are calm and collected but you can bear your teeth and rip and man's heart out if need be." Sandor pulled her close. "You are respected by all, lass. Besides, you have skills a brute like me could never hope to possess."

"For shame, Sandor," she swatted him. "You are much smarter than I am."

"No, I'm not, wife." Ashamed, Sandor gazed into her eyes. "You only believe such because so many have told you otherwise."

He grabbed her hand. "Come now, let's practice."


"Sis, you look so much better in breeches than your usual frippery," Arya eyed her sister approvingly.

"Agreed," Sandor grinned at her. Sansa blushed deeply.

"Gendry's armor and sword came out really good," Arya looked over her new things. "Now let's see what my goodbrother's been teaching you."

"Thank you so much, Gendry, the workmanship is just beautiful," Sansa took him by the hand. "I'm honored to wear it."

Gendry blushed crimson and averted his eyes while the rest of the men either openly ogled her or tried to avoid her altogether.

"Perhaps this wasn't a good idea," she began. "It seems I am out of place."

The old fear returned to Sansa's face as she uneasily looked around her, enraging Sandor.

"Bugger that, Little bird! This is our keep. Our atrium. If anyone disrespects you, they will taste my steel or find themselves thrown over the mountainside, one. Is that understood?" Sandor stared down every man.

All remained silent.

"You will treat your lady with honor or I'll cut you down. Any challengers best step forward now."

The men fearfully kept their eyes averted.

"Come on, who wants to die?" Sandor spat out, brandishing his short sword.

"That goes for me too," Arya unsheathed Needle. "You say anything gross about my sister and I'll kill you."

Gendry also unsheathed his own sword, the young man nervously looking around.

Elder brother cleared his throat. "My lord, shall we begin?"

"Aye." Glowering, Sandor took Sansa by the hand and leading her to a secluded area. "Come on now, Little bird, do like I showed you."

Sansa carefully took her stance.

"Get him, Sansa!" Arya cheered and clapped her hands.

Circling one another, Sandor kept his eyes locked on his wife. Secretly he was proud of her, for though the Little bird would never be a fighter like her sister, she was well on her way to being able to use her weapons effectively.

Steel against steel, their swords clashed together, ringing against the steep granite walls of the atrium. Almost gently, Sandor pushed Sansa's blade back with his own, challenging her.

Pivoting, Sansa's cold blade met his with a sharp ring, while Sandor easily spiraled back, as graceful on his feet as if he were dancing with her instead of engaging in swordplay.

"Good. Again." Sandor grinned at her.

Staring intently at each other, the couple readied their stances once more. He nodded for her to advance and held his sword aloft.

Sansa met his blade easily enough but Sandor brought his short sword down in a hard arc as he whirled aside, knocking the sword from her hand. She stumbled toward Sandor, who twisted around and captured her around the waist.

Sandor's bare chest rose and fell as his arms pulled her flush against him as he brought the edge of his blade a safe distance from her neck. They held there, eye to eye, motionless. Slowly he lowered his weapon and tossed it aside.

"So, Little bird, tell me: how did I beat you?"

"I forgot my footing," Sansa huffed out, his wife clearly annoyed that he had disarmed her so easily.

"And what is the first lesson in sword play?" Sandor rasped low. His fingers ran slick over the light sheen of sweat on her neck until he felt her pulse fluttering under his touch.

"You're distracting me, Sandor," Sansa whispered with a shiver. "That's not fair."

"Seven hells, get a room," Arya rolled her eyes. "I'm here to train, not watch you two get all googly-eyed at each other."

Ignoring Arya, Sandor breathed back against Sansa's neck, gently nipping at her earlobe before pulling away.

"What did I teach you, Little bird?"

"Footing is crucial; always maintain it," Sansa dutifully, albeit distractedly, replied. "The man who falls is the man who dies."

"And?"

"Watch your opponent's body, not their eyes." Sansa leaned into him. "The shoulders and feet cannot lie."

Elder brother hurried over to them. "My lord, Jory Cassel, Jaime Lannister and Lady Brienne have found their way to the keep."

"Open the portcullis," Sandor ordered. "Sansa, meet me in the main hall."


"We could not risk sending a raven in this weather, my lord," Jory shook the snow off his cloak. "Lord Eddard gave me this for you." He placed the scroll in Sandor's hands.

"Why is the kingslayer here?" Sandor barked out, fury flashing through him. "Is he your prisoner?"

"No, Lord Clegane." Brienne shifted uncomfortably. "He was not well received in King's Landing and requested to be returned to the Baratheon host."

"You would serve Stannis, and stand against your own…nephew?"

"It was your goodfather's idea, Lord Clegane," Jaime sneered. "The details are inside, I'm sure." Hs green eyes glittered with amusement.

Sandor exchanged glances with his wife but the man chose to keep his thoughts to himself. He could see Sansa was impatient to read the contents but to her credit as the lady of the keep, she held herself in check in front of their guests.

Her eyes icily travelled over Jaime, who smiled at her in return. Tanned and muscular with short, sun bleached hair, the man looked far different than the last time they had seen him.

"Ser Jaime, I am glad to see you looking so well. King's Landing must agree with you."

"Leaving King's Landing agrees with me, my lady."

Sansa curtseyed. "My husband will see to you."

"Many thanks," he bowed in return. Sandor didn't care for the way the lion looked at his wife, so abruptly he moved between them.

"Sansa," Sandor held up the scroll, "You and I will read this together in private after we see to our company."

"Very good, husband," she smiled broadly at him before turning toward Jory and Brienne. "Come, let us get you both to your rooms," Sansa held her hands out to them. "You must be wet through after such a trip. We will have hot meals and warm spiced wine sent up to you at once."

"Lady Brienne, allow me to help you with your cloak." Arya eagerly stepped forward, her eyes glowing at the female knight.

"Thank you my lady, but I can manage." Brienne softly smiled when Arya began grappling with the heavy garment.

"My ladies we are sent here by your lord father to do your bidding," Jory bowed and then offered each arm to Sansa and Arya.

"You're our friend," Arya rolled her eyes. "Enough with that lady stuff."

"Come now," Jory needled her belly, "what would your father say?"

Laughing, the young women eagerly accepted his arms while Brienne followed after them.

Their arrival was surprisingly appreciated by Sandor, for while the men at arms were well trained, he discovered they were woefully inexperienced in battle.

Though she was welcoming and kind to their guests, Sansa was not pleased. He would not keep them there if she was unhappy, but after some discussion, Sandor convinced her that the more experienced soldiers they had with them, the safer the keep would be.

"Once our guests have rested and refreshed themselves, I believe you should meet with them in private to see why they have come," Sansa folded her hands. "Father would not have sent Jory and Brienne with Jaime if it wasn't important."

"Agreed," Sandor pulled her close. "I want you there, wife."

"You don't-" Flustered, she turned away.

Sandor took her by the hand. "I do need you there. Sansa, you understand things in a way I cannot. You make those dry books come alive. Wife, I want you by my side."

"Well, I don't know how much help I can be to you." Sansa tried to look away.

"More than you know." Sandor held her face in his hands. "You don't know how deeply I regret calling you stupid, lass. You are one of the most intelligent people I have ever met. Forgive me."

"I did, long ago."

"Then join me, Sansa. I need your advice, wife; I need your insight, your instruction, your council. I'm a bloody soldier at heart; I cannot be a lord without you by my side at every turn. Say you will run this place with me as my equal."

Sandor watched her swallow hard as she stared at him with eyes full of joy and disbelief. Solemnly she took his hands into her own. "Yes, Sandor, I will help you."

"You'll do more than help." Sandor insisted. "You will rule the Wolf's Den as my equal and my lady."

"Yes, Sandor, I would love to rule our home with you." Uncertainly Sansa looked down at their entwined fingers. "But this arrangement breaks all conventions for certain."

"Bugger that," Sandor pulled her into his arms. "You know I don't give two fucks what anyone thinks. I only care about you, Sansa; only you."

Beaming, Sansa buried her face into his neck and kissed him soundly. "I love you."

"And I you. I need you to keep studying with me," Sandor whispered into her hair. "I need you to keep up with Valyrian. Will you?"

"I will," Sansa promised. "I will do all I can to help keep us safe and make this place a home."

"That's my girl," Sandor nibbled on her neck. "Now let's nap for a bit."