The Calling - Chapter 6

"Lady Sansa … is something amiss? My lady?"

She forced her eyes from the walkway beyond the open doors and back to the bearded, grizzled faces gathered around her. Sansa wasn't certain which of the men had spoken. "I beg pardon, my lords. I cannot seem to pay proper attention just now. If we could finish this discussion later...?"

Almost as one, the small group uncomfortably murmured their assent and turned, bowing stiffly and filing out the door of the solar. All but her great-uncle, that is. Brynden Tully brought up the rear and paused as the room emptied. "You look pale, child. Perhaps you should rest this afternoon."

"Perhaps I will, Uncle. Thank you. You'll let me know if we receive any word?"

"Of course." He shut the door behind him as Sansa leaned her head against the chair back, her eyes slipping shut. She heard Mireille puttering around behind her and shortly after felt the woman's hand on her shoulder.

"Pay 'em no mind, love, they don't understand the way of it. Men ain't happy 'less they can fix a thing, and if they can't it makes them downright surly. Do you want for some tea, mayhaps a small bit o' something to nibble on?"

"I am not sure what I want," Sansa whispered, knowing it for a lie even as she said it. She started to rise and her companion - handmaid was too proper a title for the earthly clanswoman - hooked an arm under hers and helped her from the high-backed chair. "Perhaps I'll take some fresh air." She gently eased her arm from Mireille's. "I am not so fragile that I need help getting to the wallwalk. I think I'll have that cup of tea after all, if you don't mind the trip to the kitchens."

It wasn't really tea she longed for, but a moment or two to herself without someone - no matter how well-intentioned - flitting around her and trying to make right what could never be. Sansa heard the door close behind her as she stepped out onto the walkway and to the low parapet enclosing it. If it was truly fresh air she sought, she would not find it here, not even in this tower far above the courtyard. The small holdfast and its immediate surroundings were made redolent with the constant smoke of cooking fires, with the stench of illness and unwashed bodies, of hastily dug latrines and the detritus common to such camps. The Blackfish had likened it to the aftermath of a battle, and she supposed that was not far from the truth.

She looked out upon the bedraggled encampment half-filling the small courtyard and spilling out the open gates onto the valley floor. It was easy to become inured to it, seeing it day after day, and risk forgetting about the lives being carried out amongst the tents and lean-tos and the hastily built shanties, and so she narrowed her focus and studied for a time a woman squatting over a wash pail, scrubbing at thin garments. And then she watched a group of young boys tearing through the camp, weaving around the obstacles before them, screeching with delight as an equally enthusiastic threesome of hounds stayed hard on their heels. Her smile grew wan as she observed an older man lurch from his tent and glare up at the sky, a crudely carved crutch supporting his weight on the side where only half of a leg remained, mud brown breeches pinned up above his missing knee. They were hers now, each and every one of them; her army of smallfolk and nobles and wildlings. All of whom had willingly followed her, or had found her once she'd deemed the Hornwood castle adequate to their current needs, and acceptable enough to the wolves to stay a while. And all, man, woman and child, had pledged allegiance to Ned Stark's daughter and her formidable pack.

Less than a moon's turn from Sandor's home had found her already amassing a following in number to match her impressively large pack. As they zig-zagged across the vastness of the North, every day seeming to bring a change in their direction, she discovered the remnants of villages, and of settlements too small and too new to even have names, came upon battered down keeps and solitary crofter's cottages. And in each place, she had encountered the survivors. They kept their distance to start, spooked by the wolves and the way they circled the wagon, vigilant yet docile. And they would shout questions at her - once they were assured they were in no danger of having their throats torn out or their children carried off. Soon she stopped waiting for the inquiries and began announcing herself instead.

"I am Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, and his only surviving heir," she told them. "Come with me if you would see the North rise again."

There were those who would turn away at her words, muttering and cursing under their breath, full of disdain. But more than not remained, and listened. And of those, a few and then a few more gave pledge, gathered what few belongings they had and followed. Truth be told, Sansa had no adequate answers for them about what lie ahead. She had no way of knowing what each day would bring or where her pack might lead them next. But it didn't seem to matter overmuch to those who chose to travel with her, and so she chalked it up to grace and put her faith in the burgeoning conviction that when she required less tenuous answers, they would be provided. And they had been: both large and small, of grave consequence and of little.

She was settling into the most forgiving of the chairs in the solar when the knock came at her door. Rather than Mireille, it was the Blackfish who pushed it open, bearing a tray with tea pot and cups, and a small dish of shortbread dusted with cinnamon and sugar.

"It's good to see you've taken my advice to heart and are resting," he said, setting the tray on a side table. His tone was wry and he flashed her a quick smile, softening the rebuke as he took the seat across from her. "Your father was the same way. He would welcome advice, but was not always so eager to put it to use. Stubborn, he was, sometimes to a fault. But he meant well. He was a good man." He leaned forward and covered Sansa's hand with his own. "How are you, truly?"

She looked up and into eyes she suspected had once been as blue as her own, but had paled with age and the toll of wars fought and survived, one after the other. How he had ended up in the North was a story she'd yet to ask, and he hadn't offered. He had simply ridden into the crowded camp one morning and announced himself to her as she'd chopped turnips for a watery soup, out there in a field in the middle of nowhere. It had not taken Sansa long to ascertain he was who he claimed to be, and she had accepted her uncle's fealty without hesitation. Riverrun was gone, as were so many of the great castles and cities in Westeros, casualties of the years-long winter and the war between the Others and the dragons of the Targaryen queen. The Others had brought down the Wall, and with it their murderous cold, and soon after the dragons had come to destroy them. Ice and fire had lain waste to the entire country, save Dorne and a small part of the Eyrie, and no place worse than in the North.

"I am as well as I can be," Sansa told him. "But surely there are greater concerns just now than those of my wellbeing." It was a deflection and not a very good one at that - as proven by the Blackfish's response.

"The young maester - Ferryn, is it? – sought me out this morning." Her uncle waved away the offer of tea and sat back, grunting as he crossed one reluctant leg over the other. "He says if you still intend to make for Winterfell it must be soon, or not at all. You haven't much time left, Sansa, and the journey more dangerous for you with each day that passes." His eyes flicked over her in a circumspect study. She said nothing, waiting for his gaze to reconnect with hers, giving him time to utter the words that would match what she knew was uppermost in his mind.

She had grown used to the furtive glances cast her way, the snatches of whispered conversations that seemed to follow her through each day, as she wandered like a ghost within the rooms of the castle. They had grown in number and frequency over the past few months and she supposed it was only to be expected. But no one, not while she'd been on the journey here, not even after they had taken the castle as temporary respite, had ventured to look her straight in the eye and simply ask. Nor, it seemed, would her uncle, now.

Did they think her mind addled and that she was somehow unaware of her condition? Surely not. Were they afraid of the answer she might give, not knowing the circumstances that'd led to it? Perhaps that was what it was. Or was it that they saw something in her face, something behind her eyes that bespoke her frailty, and they simply wished to not cause more suffering?

"There is still time," she told her uncle. "And I will not leave until I know for certain that help from the Vale is coming. The fields are almost picked clean, the forests nearly empty of game. My wolves must venture further and further each time they hunt. I will not abandon these people to starve. I cannot."

"The supply train will arrive, my lady, it is only a matter of hours now. Word has just reached us from White Harbor that they passed there nearly a week ago. I've already sent scouts to meet them."

"Then I shall await their arrival."

He scolded her. "That was not the plan."

"Tell me, uncle," she gently retorted, "is it not wise, when one is making strategic decisions, to always factor in the possibility that plans may need to be changed, depending upon the circumstances one is faced with?"

"Be that as it may, your plan was a sound one. It made good sense to split our forces and send the most robust, the craftsmen and laborers, to Winterfell to make it habitable. All reports confirm that the work is progressing well ahead of schedule. There is no need for you to stay on here. It is you who have stressed to me time and again that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Why do you hesitate now, Sansa, when time is running out?"

She had no fit answer for him, only a feeling that was like a throbbing in her veins, achy and tender, the sort that came with a deep bruise. And so she found herself studying the threadbare carpet at her feet instead, her head filled with the notion that she was like to come apart at the seams soon. The Blackfish left shortly after, with matters remaining unresolved. Sansa folded her hands neatly on her stomach and remained where she was, her only concession to movement coming as she reached to swipe away the occasional rebellious tear.

...

When darkness fell, after she had supped alone in her solar, Sansa found herself drawn back to the tower's wallwalk. It was night fires that burned in the courtyard now, and in the valley beyond, and on torches set in rings around the perimeter of the castle wall. Trails of smoke drifted upward on the breeze, translucent, ghostly fingers struggling to reach the vast bowl of ebony sky above her head, dying away before they could grasp the stars. Sansa turned until she spotted the moon, no more than a thin crescent hanging whitely against its velvet backdrop. She let out a sound at the sight of it, breathy and low, more a sigh than true laughter.

It had been under a moon just like this when one of the larger answers had come to her, unforeseen and enormous in its implications. She had been lying on a pallet in the back of her wagon, the encampment surrounding her much smaller than what it had grown to be, in the end. The air was filled with the sounds of crickets and men snoring, fires crackling and the occasional half-heard snippet of quiet conversation. She had been thinking of Sandor, as she so often did, and missing him terribly.

Sansa found it was not just the large parts of their life that she recalled with such keen emotion, but the little ones as well. Not simply falling asleep in his arms, but lying in the bed come morning and watching him moving stealthy around the small room as he dressed, trying hard not to wake her. And then exchanging quick and easy grins as he discovered she wasn't asleep at all. It wasn't just sharing afternoons in the cottage to escape the worst of the day's heat and working at small, mundane tasks. It was her marvel at watching his large fingers so delicately repairing the nets he used to trap small game, and blushing as it called to mind the magic those same fingers worked on her. She found she even missed the brooding silences he would sometimes fall into, and the hard, appraising looks she found cast her way.

As she lay there with those thoughts tangling in her mind, she wondered how long it had been since she'd left him, and how far she still might have to go. She remembered that her first night at his cottage had shown a crescent moon much like the one she was looking at. And she recalled the dull ache in her belly and the throbbing pain of her back as she'd warily approached the timbered bungalow, her wolves gathered not far behind. Her moonblood had come upon her three days earlier and she'd wished more than anything for a real mattress beneath her and a strong cup of yarrow tea.

Her moonblood.

She sat up so suddenly that she spooked her wolves and they came to their feet growling low in their throats, twisting madly to locate the source of her alarm. She quickly shushed them and stared unseeingly into the night, frantically trying to recall when last she'd bled, only knowing it had been too long. She thought back on the afternoon she and Sandor had spent in the meadow making love, and the fleeting moment of bonding that had gone far deeper than the mere joining of their bodies; a startling and unique connection that had never happened since. And then as clearly as if whispered in her ear, her father's words came back to her.

You carry within you the seed of our rebirth …

Sansa had clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a sudden outburst of inexplicable laughter. And then bit at her palm as the mirth shifted to fresh anguish. Oh, my love, you were wrong! You were so much more than just a stop along the way, so much more important than we knew. We've created a child, you and I, an extraordinary child. But Sandor was not there to know it. And it was that realization which caused her to bury her face in her hands and weep, raging silently at the cruelty of gods who would give such large blessings with one hand, and yet take away equally with the other.

Since that night she had reached for him a hundred times and more, trying to reestablish what had been a tenuous connection to begin with. And though she could sense the wolf she'd left behind, muted and at a great distance, of Sandor there was nothing. As the months had flown by and the life within her quickened, she'd desperately prayed to those same gods, old and new, that Sandor should somehow know and come to her. But he never had. And now, with only a few short weeks to go, she had grudgingly accepted that he likely never would. Her uncle was right: there was no sensible reason to stay where she was. She hadn't the least idea what her future held, she only knew that the babe she carried must be born in Winterfell. Returning to her chambers and calling Mireille to help her prepare for bed, she made up her mind that she would leave as soon as circumstances allowed. It was time to go home.

…

The following afternoon heralded the arrival of the supply train. From her perch on the tower wallwalk, Sansa watched the long line of wagons slowly wind their way through the valley and toward the castle, her heart lightened by the sight of them. Her people would eat well today, and for many days to come. She peered down into the courtyard and watched as her own wagons were loaded with provisions for the trip to Winterfell. The yard was abuzz with activity, smallfolk and nobles alike boisterous and carefree, exchanging playful japes and toothsome grins as they awaited the gifts from the Vale. Some of her pack were weaving between the groups, tails held high, caught up in the excitement.

Sansa's hands flew to her distended belly as the child kicked. She had spent most of the previous night tossing and turning and the babe was in no small way responsible: it was the child's restlessness that'd kept her awake. It had always been active - a good sign, Maester Ferryn had said - but never so much as now. Sansa hoped this didn't signal a premature onset of her labor. Now that she had given up hope of a reunion with Sandor and made up her mind to move on to Winterfell, she was even more convinced the birth must happen there. "Just a bit longer, little one" she murmured, rubbing small circles over a spot where she swore she could feel the shape of a tiny foot. She received another kick in response, and this one strong enough to make her wince.

Just as she had with Sandor, she'd reached for the life within her many and more times, wondering if such a connection was even possible. Despite her doubts, she'd had to try - the child was a part of her and she yearned to know it in a way her other senses could not provide. But as with its father, there had been nothing in response- a silence rather than an answering call.

Sansa looked toward the gates as the first of the outriders rode into the courtyard, their horses lathered from their exertions. Soon enough some of the mounts turned skittish, unnerved by the presence of her wolves roaming freely amongst them. She watched as a few of her guard shooed the members of her pack toward a corner of the bailey and under a low hanging eave. And then came more riders, along with several wagons loaded with the foodstuffs that would be carried down into the cool pantries underground. One of the wagon's drivers had turned in his seat and was tossing apples at the children from a deep basket in the back. He carelessly lobbed one straight over the head of a small girl, but as she turned to follow its trajectory, a wolf leapt nimbly into the air and snapped up the apple in its jaws. Sansa's heart lay suddenly in her throat. For it was the gray who'd caught it, the very one she'd left with Sandor so many moons past.

And the world stopped.

No longer could she hear the cacophony from the courtyard below. There was only the rush of the pulse pounding in her ears. Her heart fluttered in her chest, fast as the wings of a hummingbird. She grasped the edge of the parapet, nails scraping soundlessly against the rough stone, and came up on her toes to lean as far as she could, eyes darting across the whole of the bailey, the child ceaselessly twisting and kicking within her.

There!

At the far end of the courtyard, opposite where her wolves had been rounded up, a man in a hooded cloak was dismounting an ivory courser. Once on his feet, she could clearly see that he towered over the other men. He stood with his back to her and she took in the breadth of his shoulders and followed the straight line of his back all the way down to the booted feet planted widely apart, a stance as familiar to her as her own reflection. "Turn," she ordered under her breath.

It was then that a strong gust of wind kicked up and circled around the yard, ruffling the tattered fabric awnings at the windows and snatching caps from the heads of several of the men. It caught the left edge of the rider's cloak and lifted it away, allowing her a brief glimpse of the longsword at his hip. And there, tied around the grip of the blade, was a ribbon of lilac silk.

Sansa pulled a breath into empty lungs and whispered, "He has come, my child. Your father has come." She nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand land on her shoulder. She spun and found herself staring into Mireille's wide, startled eyes.

"M'lady, are you all right?"

Sansa twisted back around, fingers digging deeply into the woman's arm to drag her to her side. She pointed with her free hand. "There! Do you see him? The man in the gray cloak, the one with his hood pulled up. Do you see him?" She cut her eyes to Mireille long enough to catch her nod.

"Aye, I think so. The big one? I see 'im. What-"

"Have him brought to me."

"M'lady?"

"There is no time to explain. Have the guard bring him to the hall. Go, quickly, before he is lost in the crowd!" She snatched the woman back just as she was turning to leave. "He is not to be harmed, do you understand? Now go!"

She slowly paced her chamber after Mireille left, taking deep breaths and trying to calm her racing heart. She must take care, she knew, for she was made clumsy by the burgeoning life within her, and there were so many stairs to descend.

The long walk down was accomplished as if in a dream. One hand was fisted in the folds of her gown, lifting it high enough so she wouldn't trip on the hem. The other hand skimmed along the wall to her right, her palm encountering bumps and crevices in the stone, her fingertips brushing against the abrasiveness of the grout holding them solid. She kept her eyes trained on her slippered feet, and found herself whispering prayers as she went. The babe had gone oddly still, as though understanding the need for some small measure of calm. Her stomach was in knots and her mouth cottony. Her heart stayed lodged in her throat, a heady mixture of anxiousness and joy trapping it there, and she swallowed hard against it.

Sansa entered the hall through the lord's door at the back just as the front doors were opening, and she stepped up onto the dais where once had sat the dining table of Lady Hornwood. Most of the platform had been given over to piles of useable items scavenged from the wreckage of the castle, there waiting to be repaired or disassembled to create something else. A large group composed of guardsmen and smallfolk burst into the hall, accompanied by harsh shouts in a dozen different voices. But there was only one she heard, and it came several seconds before she caught sight of the man it belonged to.

"Get your buggering hands off me! I've done nothing wrong! What's happened to my wolf? You, with the pimply face, you think you're a man because you've a sword strapped to your side? Let me go and we'll see if you've any hair on those balls of yours. Bloody whoresons!"

The first through the door parted to let the smaller group move closer and then he was before her, twisting against the men holding him: two at each arm and another two behind him. He was still snarling curses from beneath the hood of his cloak when Sansa spoke.

"Let him go." It was quietly said but his head snapped up at the sound. He ceased his struggles and seemed to sag against the guardsmen for the briefest moment. Sansa could see little more than his eyes within the hood, and they were narrowed and dark with anger. But they locked onto hers as he stood straight, yanking one arm free of its restraints.

"You heard the lady," he growled. "You'll be taking your hands off me now, if you mean to keep them much longer."

Tristopher, who at ten and five was the youngest of her guard, glanced up at her and then back, his brow furrowed in confusion. "M'lady?"

"Let him go," she repeated.

She was aware of the men stepping away from him, watching with trepidation, their hands hovering above their swords. But she could only see him. She stood as tall as she could and let herself be looked at, watched his eyes settle on her swollen belly. When they again met hers, their gray depths spoke of something she was hard-pressed to name at first, for she had seen it in him so rarely. But then she knew it for what it was: pride. And her heart soared.

"Are these the sort you've taken as your guards, then?" He asked the question as boldly as if they were alone. "Young boys and old men? I've scraped shit off my boots more capable than this lot."

That brought an outburst from the men surrounding him. Sansa waited until the volley of colorful insults began to die down. "If you would speak ill of my loyal guards, I would ask that you do it as an honorable man should. Remove your hood, ser, for I would look upon your face."

Her words were in many ways a challenge - and she could see that he took them as such. Scant seconds later he reached and pushed back the hood and she felt the whole of her lift with her sudden intake of breath. The hall echoed with proclamations both whispered and not, as the men got their first good look at Sandor Clegane.

"It's the Hound!" she heard. And, "It can't be - he's long dead." And, "The Butcher of Saltpans, that's who he is." "What's he doing here?" "Served the fucking Lannisters, he did!" "What does he want?" It didn't matter what any of them said. He was only Sandor, the man she loved and the father of her child - the one chosen by the gods and bestowed upon her in order to ensure the continuation of the Stark bloodline.

He stood before her now, road-filthy, unshaven, entirely unkempt, with mud splattered up to his knees and his long, dark hair twisted in an unruly knot at the back of his head. The scars on his face stood out plain and fearsome, even in the dim hall. He would never be any girl's dream of a knight from the songs and stories, magically brought to life. But Sansa was a woman now, and to her he was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen.

"I would remind you," she gently rebuked, "that these men you insult are the same who restrained you and brought you here before me. Perhaps you are too quick to vilify them."

"You think they wouldn't be dead, every man of them, if I was of a mind to have it so?" This time when the ruckus took up again, he simply directed hard and level eyes at the men near him. Then he shifted that same look to her. "Whose bloody brilliant idea was it to keep the gates wide open and unguarded? It makes no matter you're taking in provisions. Each of those wagons needs be checked. You've got wildlings and peasants traipsing through the yard like they own the buggering place. And why are your wolves not with you? Where are they - where is my wolf?"

Sansa glanced around the room, waiting for some kind of answer. She noticed the Blackfish had entered the hall and was leaning against one of the open doors, arms folded loosely across his chest. Their eyes held until one of the men spoke up. "M'lady, they're being kept out of the way, the wolves are, them that's inside the gates. This one's," he gestured at Sandor and received a black look in return, "it's with the others. Went right to 'em, just like that. Saw it myself."

"Thank you, Cullen. As to rest," she said, addressing Sandor, "the gates are kept open on my orders. I will not turn away anyone who chooses to join us. And these good folk are free to come and go as they like."

"I thought you'd learned better," he spat back, and Sansa quickly gathered this was no longer an easy repartee between them, if ever it had been. It was no jape on his part: Sandor was clearly furious. "I've been riding through this gods-forsaken land for months now, following your trail. You think I haven't heard talk from those who declined your generous offer, listened as they drank their courage from cups of goat piss? There's men out there who'd slit your throat, little bird, just so they could say they did. And you've been kind enough to leave the doors open for them."

It wasn't that she saw the folly of her ways, for she believed her decisions had been sound, and necessary. It wasn't even that she did not want to argue with him, here in front of her men. In the end, it was his term of endearment that decided her.

"Leave us," she abruptly ordered. There followed a moment of confusion and disbelief, broken when the Blackfish spoke from the back of the hall.

"Come along, lads, we've work to see to. Do as the lady says." He caught her eye and then quite deliberately cast a look toward Sandor. Giving her a knowing tilt of his head, he ushered the men out and closed the doors behind him.

Sansa found herself lacking anything to say, now that they were alone. Silence settled into the hall, the bustle outside scarcely heard through the thick stone walls. Sandor reached up and opened the clasp of his cloak, shrugging it off and tossing it onto a table next to him. Turning back, he studied her for a long while, his gaze lingering on the full swell of her stomach.

"Did you know," he asked, "when you left?"

"No."

A second question hung unspoken between them and she was aware it would stay that way. He knew as well as she did that it wouldn't have made a difference even if she had known. She would have answered the calling anyway – she'd had no choice. A hundred things she wanted to say to him sprung to mind as the seconds ticked by. But none of them seemed the proper ones. They were either too rough or too flowery, or simply not weighty enough to serve their purpose. It wasn't until his gaze dropped and he looked aside, as though in defeat, that the words came of their own volition. They were choked as they left her mouth. "I've missed you so."

Glancing down at the steps leading off the dais, Sansa gathered her skirts to go to him. But before she could even move he was there, lifting her and setting her on the lowest step, burying his face in the curve of her neck. She heard a fragment of a whimper leave him as he carefully wrapped her in his arms. She smoothed her hands down his back and turned to kiss him wherever she could reach. As he lifted his head, Sansa cupped his face and brought it to hers, peppering more kisses there, until his hands mirrored hers and stilled her, capturing her mouth under his and kissing her long and hard and deep.

She was dizzy from the taste of him when he leaned away and gazed down his nose at her. She tipped her forehead, resting it in the hollow of his throat. "I feared I might never see you again, that you would never know. I called to you, reached for you, countless times and more. But I couldn't feel you and I thought…" She raised her head and pressed her mouth to the pulse in his throat and he pulled her as close as he could. Nestled between them, their child shifted languidly within her womb. "I was wrong. You heard - you really did."

"Aye, I did," he rasped as he stepped a little away. "But it was not your calling I heard." Reaching to tenderly cradle her belly in his hands, his eyes slipped shut and the most tranquil expression she had ever seen settled over his features, making serene what was normally so harsh. And he whispered, "Hello, my son."

With this unexpected revelation it all became too much, and her knees buckled under her. He caught her up and eased them both down onto the dais, pulling her into his lap. "Are you all right?" he asked, brushing the hair from her face.

She sobbed and laughed and patted his chest. "I have never been better. Oh, Sandor, do you have any least idea of what we've done?"

"Do I look a bloody fool to you?" he gently retorted. She laid her cheek against his chest and felt the low rumble as he spoke. "We've made a son, you and I. One day he'll be king in the North." They fell quiet for a time, content to hold and be held, becoming reacquainted through small touches and letting those speak for them. Sandor's massive hand began smoothing up and down her belly and she felt the peacefulness of his touch passing through her and to their child. "I'll not have my son raised a bastard," he suddenly blurted. "Have they made you … have you taken a husband?"

She smiled and turned to nuzzle against his chest. "I have. He holds us in his arms."

That elicited a short, fierce embrace and she returned it as he told her, "All for the better, then. I don't relish the notion of killing to take back what's mine. But I would, if need be."

"I have no doubt of that."

Sandor kissed the crown of her head and announced, "We'll set out for Winterfell on the morrow, before it's too late. The babe must be born there. You know that, don't you?"

"I do. But it is this very day that we'll leave. Preparations are underway even now. If you had been any later in coming …"

"It makes no matter. I would've found you – both of you. I should have come with you from the start." He loosened his grip on her and raised her chin in his fingers, until he could look in her eyes. "I'm a bloody stubborn and prideful man. It almost cost me what I hold most dear. That will not happen again. I mean to do it right this time, little bird, I swear it." Dipping his head, he claimed her mouth once more.

They were just drawing apart as the doors of the hall came open and the Blackfish stepped inside. Sansa watched as he blinked and squinted, his eyes adjusting to the relative twilight, and wondered what he must be thinking as he took in the sight of her intimately cradled on the lap of such a notorious and fearsome warrior. And then discovered she didn't much care.

"The wagons are loaded, my lady. We'll leave whenever you're ready." His gaze grew steely when it shifted to Sandor. "And you," he warned, "if ever you do anything to hurt her or that child, it'll be me removing your head and displaying it on a pike. Is that clear?" Without waiting for a response, he spun on his heel and left the hall. They exchanged a glance and Sansa smiled at the expression on Sandor's face.

"The bloody hells was that?" he asked.

"You've just had the honor of being threatened by my lady mother's uncle."

"The Blackfish?"

"Yes."

He grunted disdainfully. "Well, if that's the best he can do …"

She playfully pushed at him and chided, "Hush, now. He is a good man and means well."

"Might be he does, but he agreed to this inexcusable lack of security, I'll wager. Am I right?" Sandor didn't wait for a response, tucking her close instead. "It don't matter, it's my watch now, and will be for the all the days to come." He pressed a kiss to her hair. "So tell me, little bird, is this as good as one of your songs or one of those bloody fairy tales you love so well?"

"No," she answered him with the utmost sincerity. "It is better."