Mid April, 300 AC

Sansa awoke to her door creaking open.

She sat up, her fists clenching the blankets. The curtains were drawn, leaving her nearly blind in the darkness. She took a deep breath, hoping to calm her racing heart. That was when she smelled the sour wine.

"Little bird," a voice rasped. She clutched the covers up to her neck as a hand pulled back the curtains.

His scars shone in the moonlight, like deep craters in black stone. The Hound's shadow swallowed her up entirely as he loomed over her bed.

"You should be guarding the door," Sansa said. Her voice shook.

"Is the little bird frightened? You were brave enough in the throne room. And what a song you sung." He laughed.

"Why are you here?" Sansa shivered, her skin covered with gooseprickles. She always slept bare; she would never again make that mistake.

"Can't you guess? I've come to take you away."

"Away?" She said stupidly.

"Away, before your pretty little head gets lopped off. I'll return you to your kingly brother if he's still alive, or to your aunt in the Vale if he's not." Her bed groaned as Sandor Clegane sat his bulk upon the feather mattress, his armor hard against her leg.

"I have a champion. The gods will give me justice."

"Just as the gods saved Elia Martell and her babes? Gregor kills who he likes, and that Dornish stripling is next in line."

The gods helped me warn her, but it wasn't enough to save the children, Sansa thought sadly. What if the Hound was right? Sir Ilyn Payne would take her head as she'd feared since the day she laid eyes on him.

He could take me to Robb. It would be so sweet to see his face again, to hug Arya and gossip with Jeyne and Meri. And then they would go north to Winterfell, to baby Rickon and Old Nan; perhaps they could even visit Jon Snow at the Wall and find Bran together.

Sansa looked up. The Hound was watching her, his burnt lip twisted.

"I'd protect you, little bird," he rasped gently, one finger reaching out to stroke her cheek. "No one would dare lay a hand on you, or I'd cut it off."

There was pity in his eyes, but hunger too, a hunger she did not understand. I spoke the truth before half the court, I looked Lord Tywin in the eye and did not falter; why is it now that I cannot find my words?

"You are no Florian," She finally said, her tongue half tied in knots.

Sandor Clegane pulled his hand away and stood, armor clinking. There was despair in his face and his eyes were wet.

"I'm all you have. Did you think Ser Ryam Redwyne would come riding out of the songs? Or perhaps Prince Aemon the Dragonknight? Spare me. Your Dornish boy is no Dragonknight, no more than I'm the Knight of Flowers."

"He's still brave," Sansa whispered. Olyvar Sand's angry looks might scare her, but he had championed her when no one else would. She had to believe that he could best the Mountain; all the songs couldn't be lies.

The Hound laughed bitterly. "Brave, oh yes. That brave Dornish boy will soon be a dead Dornish boy. Sleep well, girl, for it will be the last sleep of your little life."

Then he was gone, the door thudding as it fell shut behind him. Sansa rose to pull on a shift then huddled under her blankets, wishing for sleep that never came. Dawn crept through her window, the velvety darkness turning from amethyst to rose to gold.

Maids arrived to help Sansa bathe and dress, their hands as soft as their eyes. Even so her growing breasts felt oddly tender, almost swollen. Shae gave her an odd look before scrubbing her down with soap, chattering even more than usual. There had been been a tavern riot last night after a singer performed "The Honest Hand" and "The Red Wolf;" he'd been halfway through "The Wolf Who Outwitted the Lion" when the goldcloaks appeared to arrest him. The commons had thrown chairs at the goldcloaks while the singer escaped out the back. Sansa was too nervous to laugh, and Shae finally fell silent as she sluiced warm water over her head.

For her gown Sansa chose a silvery satin trimmed with ice-white Myrish lace. She had considered a gown of pure blue, the color of the Maiden, of innocence, but in the end she set it aside. Sansa was a Stark, and she would meet her fate in her father's colors. Lord Eddard stood on the steps of Baelor and never faltered, not even when they threw him down to cut off his head.

Shae offered her necklaces, but she waved them away. She did not want a necklace dangling if she must lower her head to the block. Her tummy flipped nervously as Sansa hung pearls at her ears. They had been a nameday gift from her mother when she turned eleven; the last nameday gift Lady Catelyn would ever give her.

When she was ready the Hound escorted her to the godswood. Sansa said a prayer to the old gods, spilling her blood on the roots of the heart tree before singing the wound shut. Tears welled in her eyes as she pressed a hand to the bark, wishing she had her pack for comfort. Sansa? The tree asked in Bran's voice. I am going mad. Sansa nearly fell in her haste to get away. Sparrows cheeped at her, confused by her distress. Sansa scattered seeds for them before Sandor Clegane took her back to her tower cell.

A serving maid she did not know brought food to break her fast. Kella had been sent away a few weeks ago, but someone had put a perfect lemon cake on the tray besides the boiled eggs and warm bread. Sansa nibbled at the cake as she waited, trying and failing to appreciate the tart sweetness.

Finally it was time. I should be weeping, she thought as Ser Lyn Corbray and Ser Jaime Lannister led her to the outer ward where the combat would take place. Instead she felt numb and dreamy, as if some other girl's life hung in the balance.

There had to be over a thousand people crammed in to watch the combat. Sansa could smell their breath, whether foul with wine or freshened with clove or mint. Lords and ladies, knights and squires, cooks and serving girls, washerwomen and stableboys, falconers and bedmaids, on and on and on they went. They stood packed elbow to elbow in the yard; they leaned out of windows; they filled the balconies and roofs; even the bridges and the steps of the keeps and towers were covered with people. Some had spilled into the yard itself, barely kept back by the goldcloaks. A dwarf with a bulbous nose stood at the very front, garbed in the brown roughspun robes of a holy brother, the iron hammer of the Smith dangling down about his thick neck.

Across the yard a man was hawking roasted nuts; another boasted sweet grapes and figs and plums. Children babbled with excitement as they begged their parents for a treat. Sansa should hate them, but had she been any different when she watched the Hand's Tourney? Jeyne Poole had wept buckets for the young squire Ser Gregor killed, but Sansa had not wept at all. She could not even recall his name.

For the thousandth time Sansa wished she knew why the Dornish youth had declared himself her champion. According to Shae, the lordlings seemed to think Olyvar Sand was either desperate to get into her skirts, desperate to prove himself the equal of his infamous father, or both. The serving girls disagreed, believing him to have been struck by the pangs of love upon looking at her sweet face.

"What do you think?" Sansa had asked. Shae looked about before leaning in close, her lips almost tickling Sansa's ear.

"I think he has ten bastard sisters, and them Dornish would sooner gut a Lannister than kneel for him."

Sansa did not know which rumors to believe. She had not been permitted to see him. The queen had quite smugly denied her request to share the Dornishmen's pavilion as they waited for the combat to begin. Sansa breathed deeply, tuning out the clamor of the crowd until she could dimly hear the Red Viper murmuring advice as he dressed his son for battle.

"— wish I had my spear." The boy's voice was surly.

"Alas, your favorite spear is in Dorne. We did not bring it because you were not supposed to be fighting anyone!"

Sansa heard a light slapping noise, as if the Red Viper had cuffed his natural son upside the head.

"Stop that," said Ellaria Sand. "Ser Daemon, you have another spear and a sword ready, yes?"

"I won't let him break my spear, mother Ellaria," Olyvar said grimly. "I'll be careful, I promise."

"Have you got a throwing knife in each boot?" That was Lady Nym.

"Yes, sister, now leave me be," he snapped.

"Hush," said Ellaria. All was quiet for a moment.

"Warrior, we ask your blessing." A dozen Dornish voices softly echoed Ellaria's prayer. "Warrior, lend your strength to his arm…" Sansa said the rest of the words with them quietly under her breath.

Her heart sank when the prayer ended and Olyvar emerged from the pavilion. Although Olyvar Sand was the same age as Ser Loras Tyrell, his appearance was younger. The Red Viper's baseborn son shared his golden brown skin and dark hair, but had none of his father's good looks. His boyish face was plain and unremarkable but for the murderous stare.

And for his eyes. They were a deep purple, with rings of amber about the pupils, the gift of the Lyseni courtesan who bore him. Though his beautiful eyes were easily overwhelmed by eyebrows thick as caterpillars. If only his beard grew so well , Sansa thought. While the Red Viper had a handsome mustache and beard, his son boasted only a few wispy hairs on his chin.

Yet his youth and plainness concerned Sansa far less than his size. Lady Brienne was the same age, and far plainer, but she was built like the Warrior himself, six and half feet of strength; more importantly, she had defeated dozens of men to claim her place in Renly's Rainbow Guard. Olyvar was just shy of six feet, and where Prince Oberyn was muscular, his son was wiry. Ser Loras was slender as a lance, but Sansa had seen his power and speed at the tourney held in her father's honor so long ago; his skill had already been the stuff of legends. This Dornishman was unproven, unknighted, unknown, and her only hope.

Sansa's mouth went dry as she glanced from her champion to the towering beast who waited across the yard. The Mountain seemed even taller than Sansa remembered, like a giant out of Old Nan's stories. His plate armor shone in the sun, scarred with a hundred dents from the blows of men he had slain. Steel guarded Ser Gregor Clegane from head to toe, his helm boasting only the narrowest slit to permit him to see.

Olyvar looked nearly naked by comparison. Over his flowing scarlet silks and supple leather he wore only greaves, vambraces, gorget, and spaulder. The scales he wore over his hauberk were gleaming copper, as was his half helm and his round shield.

The Hound would never dare face his brother with so little protection. Sandor Clegane was an experienced killer, as brutal as the storm. "No one would dare lay a hand on you," he had said, and she believed him, but… she could not run like a thief in the night. They would say she was afraid, that she knew the gods would let her die. And the way the Hound had looked at her…

Her thoughts were blown away as a dozen trumpeters blasted a fanfare to silence the crowd. Hundreds of sparrows, starlings, and doves that had been perched around the outer ward took flight before settling back down. Snowwing was among the doves, and Sansa called to her, thanking her for all her aid. She wished she'd thought to ask a maid to keep feeding the birds who visited her windows.

Lord Tywin watched coldly from a platform beside the Tower of the Hand, Ser Kevan at his right hand. Lord Mace Tyrell sat beside them, stroking his pointed beard. Little King Tommen was nowhere to be seen. Sansa was grateful for that; the sweet boy should not have to watch what was about to happen.

The High Septon began to pray, and Sansa bowed her head. She asked the Father Above for justice, for her father, for Merissa, for Elia and her babes. She asked the Mother to guard Olyvar from harm; she begged the Warrior and the Smith to lend their courage and strength to her champion and his weapons. Last she prayed to the Stranger, pleading that if he should take her champion's life, that he take it quickly and without suffering.

A light breeze fluttered through the outer ward, and Sansa noted that a cloth fluttered at Olyvar's left arm. So Shae kept her word. The maid had promised to take Sansa's favor to the Dornish boy while the Kingsguard escorted her to the outer ward. Her token was a pale grey handscarf that she had embroidered herself, covering it with direwolves and crimson weirwood leaves.

The High Septon finished his prayer, the bright sun firing rainbows off his tall crystal crown. Ser Gregor Clegane's greatsword shone in the light, six feet of deep grey steel. His sword is taller than my champion. Olyvar Sand's spear was also taller than he was, eight feet long. The shaft was made of hardwood; the leaf-shaped spearhead gleamed blue-black.

Olyvar's breaths echoed in her ears, slow and steady. As Ser Osmund Kettleblack strapped a massive shield on the Mountain's left arm, she heard Olyvar exhale.

"For Sansa," he breathed. "For Aunt Elia. For the children." The boy raised his spear.

And the deadly dance began.

Ser Gregor strode forward, inexorable. Her champion did not move a muscle but stood his ground, watching. The Mountain raised his sword for a vicious blow— and Olyvar slipped to the side. Rather than cleaving the boy in twain the great sword cleft the earth.

Olyvar did not wait for an invitation. He jabbed the sharp tip of his spear at the inside of the Mountain's elbow, then darted away as the Mountain raised his sword again. The boy's spear gave him reach, and he used it to his advantage, keeping as far away from Ser Gregor as possible.

Ser Gregor did not like that. He grunted like a bull as he made a ponderous charge to hack at the Dornishman's head. Olyvar dodged, thrusting his spear at Ser Gregor's armpit, aiming for the gap in his plate armor. He missed, the spearhead screeching as it glanced off. Suddenly Sansa was back in the godswood, hiding in the bushes as her father's men screamed and died. She bit her lip until it bled, forcing herself to watch the battle before her eyes.

The Dornish boy seemed more interested in running than fighting. He circled the Mountain, jabbing, thrusting, then fleeing out of reach. The Mountain's sword seemed to be growing heavier, his steps slow and ominous as he pursued his prey. Sansa was beginning to feel hopeful when Olyvar's foot caught on a rock. He stumbled, then regained his feet. His hesitation had lasted only a second, but it was too long. In a single blow Ser Gregor slashed his spear in two.

"Life is not a song, sweetling," Lord Baelish mocked. Gone was the murderous stare; Olyvar's eyes were wide and full of terror as he screamed for a spear, defenceless but for his copper shield. The Mountain brought down his greatsword, a savage blow aimed at the head.

The strike was so powerful that the greatsword nearly sheared the shield in two. The Mountain grunted as he tried to free his blade from the copper shield. Olyvar's left arm was caught in the straps, but his right hand was free to pull a dagger from his boot, jamming it under the Mountain's raised arm. Ser Gregor roared in pain and Olyvar saw his chance. He yanked his arm free of the straps and scrambled away, left arm dangling uselessly.

The Mountain wrenched his sword free of the shield, bellowing with rage. With a cry of pain Olyvar pushed himself to his feet and ran for the edge of the yard, ran for Ser Daemon and the spear in his hand. Ser Gregor pursued his prey with speed unnatural for a man of his size, a great beast driven by rage. He won't reach the spear in time. The crowd was screaming and Sansa was screaming, her heart in her throat. Please, help him, someone, anyone!

And then the birds were screaming too. Starlings and sparrows shrieked their rage as they dived at the Mountain. He faltered, confused, bellowing as he swiped at the birds with his greatsword. Olyvar reached Ser Daemon, grabbed the spear, and spun to charge at his foe. The Mountain was still twisting and turning, his narrow eyeslit pointed up toward the attacking birds as he hacked and slashed.

Olyvar's spear took him in the back of the knee.

The boy shoved with the whole weight of his body, the blade piercing through chain and leather until it reached flesh. Only then did the boy yank the spearhead out. A gush of hot blood poured from the wound, a red river dripping down the steel plate. The Mountain reeled, swayed, then collapsed face first on the ground. His huge sword went flying from his hand. Slowly, ponderously, he rolled onto his back.

A knight's plate armor arched over the groin, a sheer necessity if a man wished to sit ahorse. A skirt of chainmail served to cover the gap, protecting the lower belly and groin. Usually the spot was well-hidden behind the saddle, and most men were too squeamish to aim for such a target.

Olyvar Sand was not most men. He charged with a shout of fury and drove his spear through the Mountain's groin. The crowd was in an uproar all around her but Sansa saw nothing but the two men, the giant grunting in the dirt, the slim boy standing over him.

Olyvar's left arm flopped at his side as he pulled out the spearhead, this time jamming it below one arm, then the other, still keeping well clear of the Mountain's reach. Ser Gregor was still moving, his great mailed fists reaching out as if to swat the gnat who had stung him. Blood pooled on the dirt as Olyvar pierced the inside of each elbow, then thrust his spear through the Mountain's lower belly.

The Mountain had stopped moving. With a grunt of effort Olyvar pushed his spear at Ser Gregor's great helm, pushing and prodding until the helm rolled away to reveal the brutish face beneath.

The Mountain's greatsword lay abandoned. The boy could barely lift it, his one good arm shaking and straining, the tip dragging on the ground. The crowd roared as he raised it, his stroke aimed at the Mountain's throat—

Clegane's hand shot up, grabbing the boy's useless arm in a crushing grip. Olyvar screamed, letting go of the greatsword as the Mountain pulled him down. His right hand scrabbled at his boot—

Steel flashed, and it was over.

The crowd roared as one. Olyvar had slit the Mountain's throat from ear to ear, blood spurting into the boy's face. He pried himself loose of the crushing grip, dagger still clutched in his hand. He was shouting something but Sansa could not hear, it was all she could do to stay on her feet.

Ser Daemon ran into the yard, sword in hand. Olyvar took the sword, and with two hacks he took the Mountain's head clean off. His face contorted in pain as he lifted the Mountain's head by the hair with his left hand, his right still holding the sword. He approached Sansa on shaking legs, dropping the head before kneeling and laying his sword at her feet.

"Justice," the boy mumbled, his white smile ghastly against his bloodsmeared face. He was still smiling when he collapsed into Sansa's arms.