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Chapter Text

PART 1

SANDOR 1

The snow was coming down harder than of late when the Elder Brother’s mule appeared over the hill, followed by a second mule. It appeared to be a woman, but they were so thickly bundled and slumped over their mount, it was hard to know for certain. If he didn't know better, he might think it wasn't a person at all. He could spy no evidence of a human shape, or movement beneath all the furs. They must have been moving before, lest they be mistaken for a rock. It was by stroke of chance that one of the brothers spotted them attempting to cross the mudflats, and the Elder Brother had rushed to receive the stranger onto the island commune. 

The ground had quickly hardened with the early signs of Winter upon them, but there were still corpses to bury. It made the work twice as laborious, but Sandor didn’t mind. It kept him warm. It kept him busy. There were half as many corpses making it to their shores besides, now that fewer people were able to travel. He doubted fewer were dying.

Sandor was hard at work as the pair traveled a footpath through the snow to seek shelter. He moved around the grave so that he could watch their progression while he worked. The Quiet Isle occasionally saw a visitor or two, and while Sandor didn’t give two shits about any of them, it was still something to break up the monotony. People came to the refuge seeking many different things, but all for the same reason: because they were weak. He absentmindedly rubbed at the stiffness in his thigh. 

The fabrics worn by the newcomer were caked with mud and snow. They had been extremely fortunate to have survived the mudflats at all, without an escort. The Brothers said that only the faithful may cross safely on their own, but Sandor just called it luck. The mudflats were a treacherous crossing even in the best conditions; the tide could overwhelm you in an instant if you didn’t know when to expect it, if the quicksands didn’t swallow you up first. When the tides were up, the water was so deep and the expanse so great, the only passage was by ferry.

The snows were just below his knees now, but in the coming months, Sandor suspected they would pile so high that even a man twice his height would drown in them. The days were shorter, too. He was surprised more people weren’t coming to leech off this place.

Just like you are, dog.

“Gravedigger!” Sandor snapped his head up at the shout from the Elder Brother through the swirling snow. He was waving an arm to get his attention. Tossing the spade into the half-dug grave, Sandor limped over to where they were stopped. He always called him Gravedigger when they had guests. His fellow penitents had used the nickname first, and it stuck. Sandor Clegane was a name best kept confined to this place, as he was. 

“I appreciate your haste,” the Elder Brother greeted as he approached. He was off his mule now.

The Septon gestured to the figure slumped over the other mule's back. “Would you bring our guest to the women's cottages? She’s too weak to walk on her own.”

Sandor only nodded in reply. The men who dwelled on the Quiet Isle all took vows of silence, as penitence for their sins and crimes. The Elder Brother was the only one who spoke outside of confession, but he spoke enough for them all. The vow lasted ten years, and the Elder Brother had already done his time when Sandor came to this sanctuary long ago. Now the man devoted his life to his fellow penitents, and taking in every stray he found.

Sandor was little more than a guest himself, in truth. He had refused to take the vows, as he refused all vows. For this reason he still donned novice robes, despite his five years of service so far. He still attended confessions and bowed his head in a show of prayer in the sept, still tended the crops and chopped wood and dug graves for the sorry shits who washed up. It was far from the worst orders he had obeyed for the sake of a comfortable existence, and the least he could do for the man who saved his life. Sandor was free to leave as he wished, but as long as he was to stay here he would abide the lifestyle. He had no intentions of leaving. There was no place for him in that world. Elder Brother still hoped to convert him, Sandor suspected, and he had long ago abandoned insisting that such hopes were in vain.

All hopes are in vain. It had been some time since he’d lit a candle for anyone.

Confession was the only time Sandor spoke, and in those private moments with Elder Brother, he had confessed all. It hadn’t been easy at first, and every now and then he would still have an angry outburst. With time, however, silence and confession and hard work had done much to stay Sandor’s rage. There wasn't much to rage about in a place like this besides. There was still a hatred in him, but even that was difficult to maintain. The only person available to hate was himself, and so he did. It was far from a thrilling existence, but there was a fragile peace in it. 

Elder Brother wanted him to feel remorse for all the lives he’d snuffed out, and over time, he genuinely did. At times, however, Sandor felt remorse for all the lives he spared as well. They had a fundamental disagreement on that point, but for every butcher’s boy there was a Gregor. Or an Imp.

Sandor couldn’t see the girl’s face, obscured by the hood she wore, but brown locks of hair spilled out of it. Sandor had thought her unconscious at first, but then she turned her head to gaze up at him. Her face was still obscured under all the fur and hair, but he could see her eyes were blue.

Sandor scooped the girl up into his arms effortlessly; she felt lighter than he would have expected, even from such a small person. She was shivering all over, so hard that Sandor could feel it through all the layers she was bundled in.

“You’re going to be all right, child,” the Elder Brother assured her as he motioned for Sandor to follow, while another Brother came to take the mules back to the stables.

“We must hurry,” the man was saying as he led the way. “She’s half-starved, maybe wounded, if not frostbitten. She will be having a lengthy stay, I suspect. Poor thing.”

Sandor nodded in reply again, and they started up the hillside towards the women’s cottages. Women did not take up permanent residence at the Quiet Isle, but they did pay it a visit from time to time, to seek out Elder Brother’s healing powers or to deliver children. Women and men were not permitted to sleep under the same roof here without being wed, and thus their quarters were kept a good distance from the cloisters where the brothers slept.

“Our accommodations are modest, but I hope you'll find them comfortable,” he addressed the girl again. “But tell me, are you hurt?” The snow was whipping at their faces angrily, growing more intense as they trudged on.

Sandor felt the bundle shift in his arms as she shook her head in response. He looked downwards as the girl lowered her hood, clumps of snow falling from it as she did so. The hands were bone white and near as thin. She revealed a crown of mud brown hair, but with how the light of the setting sun bounced off it, it almost appeared red at the roots.

You see only what you will yourself to see, dog.

He turned his gaze forward again as her head moved to look up at him, and they reached the top of the hill.

“The Gods are good, then,” The Elder Brother declared. “Do you have a name, child?”

“Alayne," she murmured. “Alayne Stone.” A bastard’s name. The girl’s voice was dry and weak from disuse when she spoke, and thick with exhaustion. Her head slumped against Sandor’s chest while he carried her the rest of the way to her room, his limping gait seeming to lull her.

Ducking through the threshold, Sandor gently laid the girl on the pallet bed. With some effort she sat up on her own, and brushed the hair from her face to smile weakly at the two holy men before her. “Thank you,” she croaked in a tiny voice. “Thank the Gods.”

“We are here to serve,” the Elder Brother said, smiling gently at her. “Gravedigger, if you could fetch some accommodations for our guest, I believe she will be glad of some dry clothing, and is in desperate need of a hot meal. Heat up some wine as well.”

“Gravedigger?”

Sandor blinked and hurried out of the room in sudden haste, having only half-heard the request. He had never been so thankful for the length of wool that covered his mouth, for it had been hanging wide open from the moment he'd gotten a good look at Alayne’s face.

He had never met an Alayne in his life, but he knew her.

Sansa.

Chapter Text

ALAYNE 1

Once the large man left to fetch her food and dress, the other bent over the room’s small hearth and got a fire started. 

“What is this place?” She looked around the small room as her mind began to thaw. He wore the garb of a holy man, that much was plain to see. She felt herself relax somewhat; it was the best she could have hoped for, where strange men were concerned.

He was tall, Alayne noticed, now that the even taller one had gone. He also chose not to don a hood or cover his face, so she had a clear view of his bald head and strong features; he had a warrior’s build, but also all the sincerity and gentleness one would expect of a Septon.

“You are on the Quiet Isle,” he informed her. “We are a holy refuge, under the light of the Seven. You may call me Elder Brother; I oversee this place.”

Everything was such a blur. She still wasn’t quite sure if she was dreaming. Or maybe I died, she thought darkly. She hoped she would have made it farther than this. 

“I am blessed to have such a gracious host,” she bowed her head sincerely, although her voice was still raw and hoarse, her back slouched. But she still remembered her courtesies, and how much men liked hearing them. “I was utterly lost, but for the grace of the Gods that guided me to you.”

Alayne had just gotten past the Bloody Gate when the snows began to fall in earnest, and her descent down the Vale of Arryn had been torturous and slow. She had no idea how long she had been out there; for a week at the least, but she had brought no food or supplies for her journey. Her flight had been a spontaneous response rather than a calculated effort, and she had no survival skills besides. She had sustained herself mostly on snowfall and—out of pure desperation—bugs, and she didn’t know how to start a fire to warm herself. That much, at least, she had tried to prepare for. She had brought along every cloak and blanket she could carry, and by the end of it she had been wearing all of them in her attempt not to freeze to death.

The snow had nearly killed her, but it had saved her as well. It would slow the pursuit of her, or so she hoped. Nobody is going to be a in a hurry to brave the snows to find a bastard, are they? The mountain passage was treacherous under good conditions; the more it snowed, the more she hoped. Winter will save me.

"You will need disrobe so that I can check for frostbite," said the Septon. Noting her discomfort, he added gently, "You'll come to no harm at my hand, I promise you."

How many times had she been made that promise before? 

Still, she relented and began shrugging off her many layers, and the Elder Brother's mouth formed a hard line when she exposed the base layer of garments. It made her turn away from him, unwilling to explain. He seemed to intuit her wishes and respect them, for he made no comment, and she shrugged out of that too until she was down to her shift.

From there, he examined her for signs of frostbite, fever, and other injury. She flinched away from his touch at first, but he was gentle and patient and reassuring. Still, she had to squeeze her eyes shut against the invasion. He was a holy man, and she knew he eyed her nakedness only to ensure her well-being…but he was still a man. In her experience, a man’s manhood came before all else. A man would forsake a vow, his honor, the Gods themselves, if he wanted something bad enough. 

When he was finished prodding, he stood at his full height again and said, “You were very lucky to make it in this weather without losing a limb; I would like to monitor you over the next few days, however, to be sure the redness in your fingers and toes doesn’t turn black. You were fortunate indeed to find us here, praise the Gods; I am not a boastful man, but I must confess I am learned in the arts of healing. As good as any chained maester, and better than most.”

Alayne bowed her head solemnly. “I am even more fortunate than I knew, then.”

“It's a blessing to have found you alive, Alayne Stone. I hope our arrangements are to your liking. Is there anyone who I should write to—”

“No,” Alayne said at once. Perhaps too forcefully, but the Elder Brother only gave her a look of understanding. I should have thought of a different name, she scolded herself. She'd been too fatigued to think of it before, and now it was too late. 

“I will leave you to settle in, then. But please call for me should you need anything, or wish to talk. My brothers are vowed to silence, so great conversationalists they may not be; but they are great listeners. You are free to roam and pray and speak as you please here, child; we can’t offer much, but we hope it will suit you.”

Alayne put on a warm smile despite how cold she felt in her bones. “It is more than I could have asked for, Elder Brother; truly, I thank you. If there is any way I might contribute and lessen my burden on you, I should like to keep busy.”

The man’s eyes smiled when he did; it was refreshing. “It’s quite admirable for you to offer, and we will find a place for you wherever you seek it. Your first priority is to regain your strength, though. Gravedigger will return shortly with something to eat, and then I suspect you must be exhausted.”

He wasn’t wrong. Alayne curiously felt so starved that she had no appetite, but she was nonetheless anxious for food to come. Her entire body felt weak and sore from her journey, and her eyes were heavy with drowsiness, intensified by the blooming warmth the hearthfire spread through the small room. Her appearance must be a dreadful sight, she realized.

What good has beauty ever served me, anyway?

Still, in spite of herself, the thing Alayne wanted most in the world—after food and rest—was a hot bath.

The Elder Brother bade her goodnight, and Alayne glanced out the window to see the sun had indeed set by now. She slumped back onto the straw pallet, closing her eyes. It was so comfortable, so warm, she almost wept.

She had just started to doze off when she was joined again by the one who was called Gravedigger. In his massive arms he bore a tray topped with a bowl of crab stew, hard cheese, bread, hot tea and boiled wine, and an apple. Draped over his arms were several garments of simple fabrics, and even a pair of slippers to wear indoors in the crook of his arms.

The man set the tray down at her bedside, a little awkwardly for how far he had to stoop, and gently lay the clothing at the foot of the bed. He kept his head turned away, presumably to spare her any indignity for how scarcely she was dressed now. Alayne sat up again, the scent of a hot meal awakening her appetite in earnest. She was starving!

Forgetting all else and filled with new energy, Alayne took the bowl of stew in her hands and wolfed it down greedily, barely chewing. It was hot, but not so hot as to burn her. She felt the stew roll down her throat into her belly, filling her with warmth. She had almost forgotten what that felt like.

Broth ran down her chin and neck, but she paid it no mind, not releasing the bowl until she had emptied it. When she did, she was mortified to see that Gravedigger was still there, watching her.

Alayne fumbled around for a handkerchief, lest she further shame herself by using her clothing. Even by a bastard’s standards, it was unseemly. The brother seemed to understand, for he strode over and pulled a square of cloth from his pocket, holding it out to her.

“Thank you,” she said as she hastily wiped at her mouth and chin. When she finished, she looked up into the only part of his face she could see: his eyes. She could barely see them, for how deep he receded into the shadow of the hood, but they looked strangely approving.

“I apologize for my manner.” she said sheepishly. “Next time we meet, I hope I'll give you a better impression.”

He breathed heavily out of his nose, and Alayne sensed he was amused. His eyes were intense, yet not ungentle. He had a warrior’s build too, and she found herself wondering how many broken men ended up here, seeking peace after so much violence. She couldn’t blame them; she had seen enough violence for herself, and she was only a maid.

No. A bastard, wed and widowed.

Gravedigger gathered up Alayne’s soiled garments off the floor, presumably to have them washed. He too paused as he looked down at the bundle, before limping out of the room and closing the door behind him. She let herself relax and fall back onto the pillows, focusing her mind on her surroundings rather than allow it to travel back to the Vale.

She wasn’t sure anymore if the Gods really did answer her prayers, or if she had just gotten extremely lucky, but nonetheless she couldn’t stop a few tears escaping down her cheeks at the thought of what would have become of her had some force not intervened.

I’d rather be dead than there, she thought, for the thousandth time. It was a mantra that had kept her going when she felt her most hopeless. She had made her choice, and through the hunger and the exhaustion and the cold, she didn’t regret it.

Alayne put her mind back to the present, thoughts turning to the brothers she had just met. Elder Brother reminded her of her father. Sansa’s father. He was broad and strong, yet honorable, she could tell. He had come upon her just as she felt she would collapse and black out in the mud, and at first she had thought she was imagining it. She had heard of the Quiet Isle before, but in truth, she didn’t know much of it beyond a passing mention. All she knew was that she was still dangerously close to where she started.

All Alayne could observe of Gravedigger thus far were his eyes and imposing stature; he was so tall he had to duck through the doorway. There were only two people she knew before who had to do that: Hodor, and the Hound. The Mountain as well, to be sure, though she had never spent much time in his company. Sansa had known them, not Alayne, but she couldn’t help but wish the Hound could have found this place before he died. The Hound was supposedly last seen in Saltpans, not far from here, raping and pillaging. That was years ago now. Alayne knew that whoever was wearing the snarling hound’s head helm was not the true Hound, however; the rumor was absurd in her mind. The Mountain did those things, not the Hound. No, she had the truth of it: his helm had been stolen. And if it had indeed been stolen, Alayne knew there was only one way of doing it.

The Hound was dead.

She had come to this conclusion long ago, had shed some tears and lit some candles in his name, but she had made peace with the death now. She prayed he had found some for himself. She thought of him often—for comfort, for courage, for guidance—and in that way, Alayne felt she’d honored him, in the ways she honored everyone else Sansa Stark had lost. She dreamed of him too, sometimes. She had tried to push thoughts of those people away, bury them in the empty voids of her heart; but they always found their way back in her dreams. Alayne couldn’t let the fallen lie forgotten, even if they weren’t her people.

All of them were gone now, even Sansa. There was only Alayne Stone, the runaway bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish. She was utterly alone in this world, trapped in solitude even outside of the confines of the Quiet Isle. She wasn’t a man, could never take the vows of a brother, but mayhaps she would find some peace here for herself all the same.

Alayne reached for the apple, but her shrunken stomach protested at the idea. Exhaustion was ready to overtake her now, and she succumbed willingly, not having the strength to rise, let alone change her clothes. She fell into a deep sleep, feeling safer than she had in a long time.

Chapter Text

SANDOR 2

“Good morning, brothers,” the Elder Brother announced to the hall. A soft rumbling sound filled the air as the men tapped their cups lightly against the tables in response. He had the girl at his side this morning in the common hall where they all took their meals; she still looked frail and gaunt, but after being fed and rested and bathed, she was already beginning to glow again.

She had slept for three days. A torturous three days, to his mind; Sandor thought she might have taken ill, or frostbitten, or worse. Elder Brother had requested no new graves, at the least, and it was with that knowledge that Sandor had known any comfort at all. Elder Brother had been personally seeing to her care until he was sure she was stable, and he hadn't dared ask after her or volunteer his help. He'd never done so before.  

He remembered the night she arrived, how horribly pale she had been, how ravenous. He replayed that night over in his mind countless times.

Tears had sprung to his eyes unbidden the moment he’d exited the cottage to gather food and clothing for the girl, and he had allowed himself a moment to break down in earnest once he reached the kitchens; many emotions overwhelmed him in that moment, but most of all he felt relief.

Sandor never allowed himself to feel optimistic about the little bird’s survival in this war; even after he heard she'd run away, he thought it was only a matter of how far she’d get. She was pursued by the Crown itself, and all the fury of House Lannister. He remembered that moment from his former life. It all seemed so hopeless. He'd given up then, he later reflected.

But here she was. Here. Alive.

Seeing her face had struck him dumb, every bit as much like seeing a ghost. He almost convinced himself she was as such—that he was merely projecting onto this bastard girl—but his doubts were extinguished as he observed her inhaling stew like the hungry little wolf she was.

And now, here she was again, standing before him as real as the driftwood cup in his hand. Sansa Stark.

Sandor stared at her shamelessly from where he sat, but he wasn’t the only one. All eyes were on the girl who was now being introduced as Alayne Stone. She was taller now—tall for a woman, perhaps a few inches short of six feet. She had the shape of a woman too, albeit a malnourished one at present, full of lip, breast, and hip. Her face had lost the roundness of girlhood, her features sharper and better defined now. She was stunningly beautiful, even with the brown hair and dark-ringed eyes. How she ever convinced anyone she was commonborn was a mystery; nothing about that face was common. Sandor doubted there was ever an eye that was easily moved once it found her. Her eyes, for their part, were bright with interest as she took in her new surroundings. There was something missing as well. Sandor’s stomach tightened when he finally put his finger on it: there was not a shred of innocence to be found there. 

Wasn’t that what you wanted, dog? Wasn’t it you who tried so hard to shake it out of her once? She was a woman grown, and surely the years brought a woman's experiences as well.

“I want everyone to make Alayne feel welcome,” the Elder Brother continued, an arm draped over her shoulders. “She is to be staying with us for the foreseeable future.”

Everyone was tapping their cups to the table again, some bowing their heads as a welcoming gesture to the newcomer. The Elder Brother invited her to break her fast amongst them, and she accepted, her eyes searching for a place to sit. When her eyes found his, she smiled and started in his direction. Although he knew it was because he was the only one familiar to her so far, Sandor’s heart pounded in his chest as she approached.

She doesn’t know who she’s sitting next to, not truly. If she did, she would shrink away from him, as she always had. He hadn’t forgotten his last encounter with the girl, and surely she hadn’t forgotten it either.

He had confessed himself hoarse to the Elder Brother in his first year at the Quiet Isle, and Sansa had been a frequent topic of discussion; in truth, she still was. She was as good as a ghost, for how she haunted him. Many of his most grievous sins could be explained away by merely following orders, or surviving a cruel world by ensuring he was always the stronger foe. But not with her. No one had asked him to mistreat her the way he had, or put him on the edge of the unforgivable. He only had himself to blame for that. He suddenly felt the need to bolt from her presence as she closed the gap between them with each step.

Since the girl in his recollections had auburn hair and a different name, the Elder Brother had seemingly not recognized her. Good. Sandor knew he should tell him, should confess that the object of so much guilt and longing was taking her seat right next to him; but he would not. Could not. He might not permit him to be near her then. It would be the right thing to do, after all.

A few years prior, a beast of a woman had come here looking for the Stark girl; that much the Elder Brother had made him privy to. If the man were to find out who their guest truly was, surely he would contact the woman to come collect her, and Sansa would again be lost to him. Forever this time, he was sure. Scenarios such as this weren’t like to come again, and Sandor was in no hurry to squander it.

He knew it was selfish. He knew he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t know what he hoped to gain from it—he couldn’t even entertain the thought of revealing himself to her—all he knew was that he wasn’t prepared to watch her go. Not with the snows piling up, and a war presumably raging on. Surely this was the safest place for her to be. Where could that wench possibly take her that would be safer? 

Besides, she didn’t want her true name to be known. Smart little bird, he thought. In this way he could feel justified in the reasoning that he was protecting her. He relaxed somewhat at that thought. Soon there would be no way to guarantee safe passage anywhere in Westeros, and even if he discovered the truth, Elder Brother wouldn’t risk the girl’s life just to spare a Gravedigger some inner turmoil.

It’s bloody well likely he’ll find out sooner than later regardless, he thought as food was brought over to her. Elder Brother was dining with them this morning, and would surely take note of his interactions with her, notice the lack of cold disregard for her company. Would she make a habit of joining him at meals? In spite of himself, he hoped she would. He looked down at his own meal, realizing he wouldn’t be able to eat in front of her without risking her seeing his face. It mattered not. His concern over the Elder Brother—or when he took his meals—was no match for his desire to spend as much time as possible with her. To come to know her, in any capacity she would allow.

He turned to his right only enough to glance sidelong at her, careful not to reveal the ruin of the left side. The cowl he wore hid his burns well enough for them to go unnoticed under a passing glance, but under closer scrutiny, she would surely see. The fact that she could see his eyes at all made him vulnerable enough; how many times had he forced her to look into them? It had been years, though. Maybe she’d seen too many pairs of other eyes since then, wouldn’t remember his. Despite a distant twinge of discomfort at the thought, Sandor found it to be a secondary emotion. None of it mattered: She is alive.

Up close, she was impossibly more lovely than even he’d imagined she could be, and would be even prettier once her natural hair and skin color came back. He could see the faintest trace of freckles over her pale cheeks, and they formed shallow lines in them when she smiled. She was smiling at him now, and it struck him that he'd never quite seen her wear one like it before. It was full and sincere, not forced. It even touched her eyes.  In his memory, her eyes were always the most pitiful thing. Sad, and ringed in red as often as not.

“Good morning, brother Gravedigger,” she said in a polite whisper, as no one else in the room was speaking but for her now. Her voice sounded much better than when he heard it last. Sandor nodded a greeting, before putting a hand to his throat and giving her an inquiring look.

It took her a moment to take his meaning, but when she did, she beamed at him and said, “Oh, yes, thank you—I’m speaking a little more easily today.” She took a fork in hand and had a bite of eggs, savoring the taste of a decent meal.

When she saw him watching, she raised her fork and an eyebrow, and waved it a little. “I told you I would leave a better impression, didn’t I?”

Sandor wasn’t sure how to respond. Was she...jesting with him? There was no sign of fear, no struggle to find the right courtesy about her. On the contrary, she looked utterly and completely relaxed in her oversized woolen robes, unkempt hair, and slippers. Sandor had half-expected the little bird to have broken wings, to be the shy maid he deserted so long ago. He’d never expected for her to come to him with smiles and japes.

He'd formed a first impression without realizing it, Sandor reflected. It had been impossible not to. Now that he knew what she was running from—or part of it at least—after he had returned to her room that night, to see what she had been wearing under all of those cloaks and blankets...

His mind had jumped to the worst possible conclusions when he saw the ragged dress, embroidered with little birds and wolves around the collar; white, and far too elegant to be anything besides a wedding dress.

What happened to you, little bird? By all appearances she seemed fine, but why then had she risked her life fleeing from her wedding? Had they been worse than her first husband? Was that possible?

Sandor wasn’t sure how it got much worse than the Imp. Gregor, perhaps, but Elder Brother told him his brother had been killed long ago. It had only been with that news that Sandor began to find his peace in earnest, truth be told. He never learned the manner of his death, but in his dreams, it was always by fire.

For the longest time, Sandor sought vengeance against his brother, made it his life’s mission to slay him himself. When he’d been told of Gregor’s death, he expected himself to feel angry about being robbed of that. It came as a shock, then, when he felt queerly relieved instead. Mercy, Elder Brother had called it; to see an end to the suffering Gregor inflicted on the world. Most of all, though, to end the suffering of Sandor himself. In the end, it didn’t matter who killed him, or how. It only mattered that he was gone.

It was true that he had balked at every opportunity to kill Gregor; he hadn’t realized it until many discussions with Elder Brother, the same as he’d realized most things. Even at the Hand’s Tourney—the last time they’d squared off—Sandor had never struck a fatal blow against him. He wanted him dead with all his heart, but he didn’t want to swing the sword himself. Mercy, the Elder Brother called it. Craven, the voice in his head always hissed.

Sandor still harbored much hatred for himself, and knew he still had much to atone for. His rage, however, had quieted considerably. Elder Brother said it almost made all the difference. Rage had overtaken the ability to feel anything else, he said. Without it, he could truly pursue penitence.

In the end, Sandor settled on tapping his cup on the table as a show of appreciation for her skills at using cutlery. Many of the brothers spoke with their hands on the Quiet Isle, and Sandor had long ago learned the language; Sansa, however, wouldn’t be able to understand it.

She seemed to read his mind. “I think you’re going to have to teach me how to use your signs.”

Sandor studied her for a long moment. As much as he wanted to spend time near her, he knew it would be unwise. A part of him almost felt it immoral; not only to deceive Elder Brother, but to also deceive Sansa herself. That part of him—the part that didn’t give two shits about morality—was easier to control the longer he was here, but Sandor was skilled at suppressing his guilt. It would take more than five years to break that, if ever he would.

He nodded slowly. Yes, he most certainly would teach her. He showed her the hand signal for ‘yes’ as confirmation. She had all Winter to learn, and who was to say how long Winter would last?

“Yes,” she said aloud, mimicking the hand motion. She was smiling again. Secretly, he allowed himself a smile too.

For the remainder of the meal, the little bird chirped different words between bites, and Sandor showed her how to make them.

Chapter Text

ALAYNE 2

True to its name, the Quiet Isle was...quiet. It was so peaceful to Alayne, who never realized before just how nice the world could be when men ceased their endless chatter. It comforted her greatly, just being here. Away.

Free.

Alayne had spent the day becoming acquainted with her new surroundings. The Elder Brother gave her a tour of the commune and grounds, of the modest yet beautiful wooden sept, introducing her personally to all those who dwelled there as they came across them. So many of them kept their faces covered that Alayne feared she would never remember them all, but she would try. She even used a few of the words she had learned over breakfast to sign to them.

“I’m impressed by how quickly you learn, child." the Elder Brother told her approvingly as they walked along a footpath around the grounds. “I take it that you are feeling stronger today?”

“I am, thank you,” Alayne replied. “I can only remember a few words right now; but brother Gravedigger is a good teacher. He’s agreed to teach me more.”

“Very good,” the Elder Brother nodded in approval. “Gravedigger was a fast learner too, you know. Just be careful,” he leaned a little closer, feigning discretion. “Once you can understand them, they never stop talking.” He chuckled, and Alayne joined him.

“Why do you call him Gravedigger?” She asked, taking note of the consistent lack of formality. The others were always referred to as ‘brother’, and they had real names. Elder Brother considered that for a moment, as if selecting his words carefully. Selecting a lie, she thought mistrustfully.

“Those who come here sometimes choose new names, just as they choose a new path in life. Gravedigger forsook his old name, but never chose a new one either. He did choose to dig the graves, as a condition of his penitence, and as a result, the other brothers took to calling him Gravedigger; I suppose it stuck. Not the most seemly of names for a servant of the Seven I grant you, but it’s holy work, giving men a proper burial.”

“Indeed it is,” She nodded her agreement. “Too many have been robbed of that, left to feed the crows.

“Such is the nature of war,” Elder Brother said with a sigh. “We do what we can, with who we can find.” He turned to her and smiled. “I'm glad at least that you came to our shores alive. A welcome change, and boost to morale. Gravedigger is grateful most of all, I'm certain.” He chuckled. “Digging graves is harder work than ever these days.”

Alayne learned much about the Elder Brother on their tour. He explained that he used to be a knight, from a long line of knights. He had washed up on the Quiet Isle himself once—naked as his name day, which made her giggle—after the Battle of the Trident, taking an arrow in the thigh and foot. He had been presumed dead since. He wouldn’t give his true name, telling Alayne that Elder Brother was the only name he knew now. He had spent the next ten years in silence, as all brothers do when they take their vows.

He explained the value of silence and hard work, how much clearer your mind can be when you’re left alone with it. The men who dwelled here sought atonement for past sins and personal demons. Each had unique and tragic histories, but were not like to reveal them to guests. Alayne felt content with that; she’d had enough of tragedy for herself, and she wasn’t keen to bear the weight of others’ just now.

The Elder Brother decided to turn back once they reached the stables, noting that it was starting to get dark. Alayne would have liked to see the horses, but not so much as she was ready for dinner, so they started on their way back to the common hall.

After a moment of walking in silence, her companion asked in a more serious tone, “Alayne, is there anything you wish to talk about?”

Alayne took his meaning: what are you running from? She didn’t want to talk about it. Not now, anyway. Perhaps not ever. He had surely opened up to her so much in the hopes that she would reciprocate; but if he didn’t have to give his true name, neither did she. Your true name is Alayne, she reminded herself.

She did have one nagging worry, however, one she deemed this a good opportunity to give voice to.

“Forgive me, but I should not like to talk about myself; not yet at least,” she said apologetically. “But if it’s not too much, I would ask a favor of you.”

“What would that be, child?” he encouraged her.

“If anyone comes looking for me..." she trailed off, searching for the right words.

“I have never heard of you, of course.” replied the Elder Brother simply. They were at the door now, and he halted before going inside. He took Alayne’s hands in his own and spoke with the sincerity of a man taking a vow. “You need not worry about the toils of the world here, Alayne Stone. I assure you, you are safe. From whatever it is you’re fleeing from.”

Alayne softened at his words, but they didn’t comfort her. He doesn’t know Littlefinger.

Upon entering the dining area, with all its benches and tables, Alayne searched the room for Gravedigger, eager to learn more words. He hadn’t arrived yet. She felt absurdly disappointed by that, so she returned to the place she had sat this morning as one of the Brothers brought her a steaming bowl of crab stew. Brother Brandon, she remembered. It was an easy name for her to put to memory. She thanked him and began to eat.

Brothers filed into the room steadily as dinner began in earnest, and Gravedigger’s towering frame was easy to spot among them. When he saw her, she waved and motioned for him to join her.

Gravedigger lowered himself on the bench to her left, nodding his acknowledgment to her. He had been digging graves all afternoon; she had seen him at it during her tour of the grounds. Cutting into the Earth had appeared to be a great effort, even for a man his size. She would have expected him to have a stench about him as a result, but the scent of lavender informed her he had since bathed.

His eyes were already on her when she turned her face up to meet his, mostly obscured by the hood and cowl he wore. She gave him the sign for “hello”.

He returned the gesture. His gaze had that amused look to it again. He made another gesture, putting his hand to where his lips would be, before gesturing to her. Alayne understood. You can speak.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Alayne asked quietly, noting how the table remained empty in front of him. Now that she thought on it, he hadn’t eaten this morning either.

She watched as he searched for a way to respond that she would understand. Gravedigger then swept a hand over his shoulder, as though tossing something over it.

“You ate earlier?” she guessed. He nodded. “Then why did you come to dinner?”

In response, he placed a massive hand over her own and gave it a shake. It had only been for an instant, but Alayne flinched and jerked away at the contact. She felt ashamed at once, by the way her heart was racing in sudden panic; he had only been trying to tell her he intended to teach her some more, she realized, but the touch had taken her by surprise. I can’t even handle that much, she thought bitterly. The man seemed abashed by her discomfort, averting his gaze and putting his hands firmly in his lap.

“It’s all right,” she reassured him, putting on a smile. “It’s not you, it's…” She bit her lip. “I’m glad you came. I would like to learn some more words, if you'll teach me.” She intended to keep herself as distracted as possible, for as long as possible. Learning a new skill was a most welcome distraction.

His eyes were searching her. Alayne turned away hastily, feeling her face redden under the scrutiny. She was glad that most of these men could not speak. She wasn’t ready to confront what was likely searching for her outside of the Quiet Isle, let alone relate it to another; not that anyone would understand to begin with. She must be bold and brave and charming, that’s who Alayne was. She must keep her eyes forward, not on the past.

When she turned back to him, she smiled again and changed the subject. “Do you dig graves every day?” she asked. He shook his head before gesturing towards the window, where she could see snow falling outside.

“I suppose not,” she observed. “So what else do you do?”

She learned that he contributed in any way he was needed, but mostly with anything that required his strength—which he demonstrated by flexing one of his arms, which made her giggle. She also learned that Gravedigger had been with the commune for five years, after taking an injury to his leg. 

“Like the Elder Brother,” she pointed out. 'Yes,’ he motioned.

“Also at the Trident?” She jested. She raised her eyebrows in surprise when again he replied: ‘Yes.’

“Were you a knight too, then?” She asked next, wondering how close the connection ran. He seemed agitated by that, however, as though she’d said a foul word. He gave her a waspish ‘no’ with both his hand and a shake of the head. Alayne blushed a little guiltily.

When she remarked how tall the other man must have been to defeat him, he again shook his head, holding his palm over the ground to indicate a short stature. She had giggled at that, the mental image of someone half his size being a match for him in battle striking her as funny. It was hard to see if he shared in her amusement or not, but he didn’t seem to take offense this time.

Alayne went back and forth like that with him for the remainder of supper, and by the time it was over, Alayne realized that she hadn’t learned many new words at all, after all her questions. She thought perhaps what she did learn held just as much value, though.

While they were rising to leave the hall, she asked, “Do you think we could try again tomorrow?”

He bowed his head in agreement, and Alayne smiled. “I'll look forward to it.”

Alayne decided she liked this nameless brother with the intense eyes. In spite of herself, and all the ways she'd come to regret such thoughts before, she felt she had made a friend.

Chapter Text

SANDOR 3

"Don't," Sandor warned. "Don't go in there."

He was in his soot-black armor, and from his shoulders streamed a pristine white cloak. He was escorting the girl to the throne room, but when he looked down at her, he halted. She had been but a child when their progress started, sullen yet dutiful, but she was a woman now. Some strange recognition came to the edge of mind, but never fully revealed itself. All he knew was that he couldn't let her go beyond those doors, and see the fresh torment waiting for her there. Not this time. She was smiling at him.

She didn't seem to understand the danger she was in. She was all insolence when she replied, "You don't command me. No one does."

"I do today," he said gruffly, reaching for an arm. She sprang away, slipping out of his grasp.

"You can stop me," she said playfully. "If you can catch me."

With a swirl of silk skirts and auburn hair, Sansa spun from him and bolted towards the doors. Sandor gave chase; he was bigger and faster, even in plate, and he felt his heart quicken with the thrill of pursuit. When she threw open those doors, however, they were no longer in the castle. In an eyeblink, they were now in dense dark woods, and it didn't seem strange at all. She sprinted past a tree and out of sight, but he could hear her footfalls and girlish laughter ahead. He followed the sound.

He saw a figure ahead now, but it wasn't hers. It was a bright spot between the trees, and Sandor slowed as it came into sharper view. He almost mistook it for a statue, for how tall and still it sat. But no stonecarver could emulate fur in such detail, or the glint in the beast's eyes as the moon came out from behind the clouds. That intangible sense of familiarity plagued him once more as he approached the great Direwolf. He should be more cautious, he told himself. A beast like this could maul him to tatters, and more likely would than wouldn't. But somehow he knew this one meant him no harm. He bent to a knee, and reached out a hand. Only then did the wolf come alive, padding forward and accepting a scratch behind the ear. She had finer, softer fur than he might have expected of a wild animal. Her rich golden eyes were bright with interest, but also sad. 

A distant chorus of howling pulled Sandor's attention away, and he turned to peer through the trees. Their voices were sung together as one, but each distinct as well. It seemed to him that they were scattered all across the forest, not banded together as a pack, as they should be. Perhaps they were lost. He turned back to the she-wolf, and with a sudden start he lost his balance and fell backwards. 

The wolf was gone. In her place, Sansa was sat cross-legged, eyeing him curiously.

"The wolf," he stammered, scanning the trees. "Where's the wolf?"

Sansa gave a girlish laugh, as if he'd said something silly. "The only wolf in these woods is me," she declared. "All the rest are gone."

"They're not gone," Sandor rasped. "Didn't you hear them? Didn't you see her, the one that was just here?"

"They're only ghosts," Sansa replied, a little sadly. "They can't hurt you. I'm glad you've come, it can get so lonely sometimes. Could I ask something of you?"

Wordlessly, slowly, Sandor nodded. A sense of dread darkened the air around him. "Take me to Winterfell. I wish to be buried with the rest, not here. It's not my place." 

They were on the Quiet Isle now, and where trees once stood was a sea of fresh graves. Sandor looked around in bewilderment before turning back to Sansa. You're not dead yet, he might have said. But the words caught in his throat as a specter took shape from nothingness, taking on a form he recognized. He was silent, but did not belong here. His silence was a punishment, not an act of penitence. He strode up behind Sansa and drew the greatsword Ice, and as Ser Ilyn raised it overhead the moon caught the blade just so, and blinded him as he screamed a warning.

He awoke with a jolt, the light of the morning sun stinging his eyes as it streamed in through the window. He shaded them irritably with a hand, rising. Dreaming of the girl wasn't unusual; Sandor dreamed of her frequently enough. It was more frequent of late, now that she was here, and the dreams themselves were more unsettling than ever for it. He'd even dreamt of that wolf before, but it had been years since he could last recall doing so. Perhaps such dreams weren't so rare after all, he thought, as already the details of this one began to slip away as water through his fingers. 

A fortnight had passed since the girl came to the Quiet Isle, and Sandor had fallen into the routine of taking his meals early so that he could sit with her in the common hall, to teach her to speak with her hands. Each time he would enter the room, he half-expected her to finally have grown bored of his lessons, and sit with someone else for a change. Yet, each time, she was seated in the same place, eagerly beckoning him forth.

And, each night, before he dreamed of her he lay awake and restless, expecting that to be the night the search party would come. It never did. It did nothing to quench his anxiety. The dress had had wolves around the collar. Someone out there knew she wasn’t a bastard as well as he did, and they intended on marrying her. It was at the back of Sandor’s mind at all times, yet he didn’t broach the subject with the girl. The common hall was no place to ask such things. And she’ll only lie to me anyway.

The girl had thought up more than a fake name; she told him several tidbits about her past that he knew weren’t true already. She didn’t grow up in Gulltown, nor did she have a father with a scarred face. She was Catelyn Stark's daughter, raised up in Winterfell to be a lady, not some Braavosi woman’s bastard brought up to be a Septa. She never had a pet cat, and he doubted she enjoyed riding horses so much as she claimed; she hadn’t been to the stables once since she’d arrived. Not that he would encourage her, but her lack of interest was noted. 

If he didn’t know better, he would feel touched that she had opened up to him so much. She once told him she’d never even been to the capital, and it had taken great restraint on his part to not shout at her that she was full of shit. He was playing at mummery too, he had to remind himself, but his lies were only in what he did not tell her.

She was hiding her identity for a reason, and she was hiding something else with it. She had become an impressive liar; so much so that he almost believed her sometimes. If there were any truths embedded in these stories, they were indistinguishable. It disturbed him somewhat. Who had taught her this skill so well? 

Sandor wanted to know her secrets, not her lies. At the same time, however, he was blissful in his ignorance. Elder Brother had the right of that; he never made his brothers privy to the goings on outside, forcing them to keep their focus inward. It was easier, not knowing. Her smiles easier to take; all it would take from her was to name the men who haunted her, and all would be lost. He would make it his mission to end them, he knew. Even if one of those names is mine, he thought grimly.

And what would you do, dog? Sneered that inner voice. Limp them down? Shower them in the rust collected round your sword arm? Someone wealthy had ordered that wedding dress. Someone powerful. Someone who frightened her more than he ever did, and far more than she thought she let on.

The world was shit. It scared him sometimes, to think of how far he’d fall if he were to ever step back into it. Isolation was the best thing for him, even he could see that. It kept him here, even without taking the vows. The world was shit, but worse with him in it. He couldn’t imagine stepping back out into that world again. Yet, he hated the idea of her stepping back into it even more. It was inevitable. She was still only a young girl, and lies could only carry her so far. Women didn't take up permanent residence here, though. And eventually, someone would come searching. She couldn't have made it far from where she started.

Most of their interactions had been limited to teaching her the hand language, but it was enough. More than enough. She smiled when she saw him. Sometimes, he could even make her laugh. He liked that best of all.

Not you, dog. Gravedigger.

He had decided to teach her individual letters first, so that he could spell words to her if need be. She was far better at reading his hands than gesturing for herself, but she was catching on quickly enough. She had such pretty, graceful hands. He enjoyed watching her figure things out. Even when she made a mistake, Sandor had all the patience in the world for her. He encouraged her to repeat words over and over until she felt comfortable with them.

She wasn’t the only one catching on to something. Elder Brother was taking his meals in the common hall more frequently than usual, and he watched them constantly. The girl had no idea, of course. He was surprised the man hadn’t brought it up yet. Indeed, he kept his distance. Sandor had no desire to help him broach the subject. But he was overdue for confession, and knew it was only a matter of time.

He surely noticed the girl’s roots growing out as he did, surely took notice of other things, for all his staring. Sandor was determined to ignore him, but this morning his irritation got the better of him. He stared back defiantly as the girl ate beside him, and he showed her the sign for "gnat". Sandor had maintained the eye contact until Elder Brother got up to leave, an expression on his face that made Sandor apprehensive. It was decisive.

To fill up the rest of her days, the little bird had wasted no time setting herself to work. She washed and patched up many of the brothers’ old garments, but her own wardrobe saw the most improvement. She’d converted her oversized brown robes into dresses that fit her, with wide bell sleeves and a high collar. She’d embroidered them using threads from the now-ruined garments she had been wearing when she arrived, and the dress she wore this morning had little feathers around the sleeves, which were trimmed with shaggy white fur. Sandor had offered his compliments to these embellishments, gesturing to her that it suited her with a sweep of the hand and an approving nod, before teaching her the sign for ‘beautiful’.

She was a talent with a needle and thread; while the brothers weren’t to wear such adornments, she still earned their praises by stitching an extra layer of warmth into their clothes for them.

She helped in other ways as well; cleaning out the rushes, laying gravel on the walkways, preparing meals...wherever there was a job to be done, the little bird would flutter in and offer to help. Except for digging graves, of course. Not that it mattered; there hadn’t been a corpse to bury in over a week now. Many of the tasks he took to weren't the sort she was suited for. He tended the horses and goats and chickens, chopped wood, shoveled snow. Sandor spent much of his time outdoors and damp with sweat, even in the cold. Even so, he kept a keen awareness of her comings and goings, always conveniently positioned so that he would see where she fluttered to next.

His blind spot was the stables, which was set apart from the rest. He was there now. It was where his great warhorse Stranger lived, so he made himself a frequent visitor. He hated this place, Sandor knew; he couldn’t say he blamed the beast. It was too cold, too quiet for such an animal. Sandor might have made his peace with laying down his sword, but Stranger never did. He was bred for battle, yearned for it rather than suffer such serenity. Every day Sandor would assure him under his breath that they would be leaving soon, but after all these years, Stranger was no closer to believing it than Sandor was.

He was throwing a blanket over the stallion’s back when Elder Brother appeared at the stable door, leaning his arms upon it. Sandor looked up at him and bowed his head in stiff acknowledgment. There was a tension in the air, and Sandor knew the source. He’d been too bold this morning, had mocked the Elder Brother and confirmed his suspicions. At least he’d gotten a full two weeks, he reminded himself. Two weeks you didn’t deserve.

Stranger gave his own acknowledgment of the man’s presence; He lurched forward, ears pinned back and teeth bared. Elder Brother was forced to back away or risk losing his nose. The man chuckled in spite of himself, clutching his heart.

“That was almost lazy; perhaps he’s beginning to take a like to me?” he jested. Sandor grunted. Get to the point or leave.

Seeming to understand, Elder Brother sobered and cleared his throat. “I’d like for you to come with me, Sandor. We need to talk.”

Sandor gave him a scathing look. This was inevitable, but he wasn’t ready to hear whatever Elder Brother had to say. He was nothing if not obedient, however, so he brushed off his hands and followed the man to the cave they called the Hermit’s Hole. It was where Elder Brother lived, but also where he took confessions. It was the only place on the Isle where the men were permitted to speak freely. The hand gestures were useful for simple communication, but a hindrance when bearing one's soul and confessing one's sins. Elder Brother called for them in turn, as the moon turned. Sometimes more, if you sought him out yourself. It was the place he’d spilled his guts half a hundred times by now, to be sure. But his confessions mostly concerned the past, and that was easier.

When they arrived, Sandor kicked the snow from his boots before entering and took his usual seat at the long table inside of the dwelling. It was a warm and comfortable place, but not today. He felt on edge, made an effort not to show it. Closing the door behind them, Elder Brother took the seat opposite, his expression serious but not angry. That was a good start.

“I confess that I’ve had nothing to confess,” Sandor said nonchalantly once he was seated, removing the length of wool from his face. Elder Brother frowned.

“Don’t be tiresome,” he scolded. “You already know what this is about.”

And you already know I don‘t wish to talk about it, but that won’t stop you, will it?

“You took your time bringing it up. How long have you known?”

“I had my suspicions at the start,” admitted Elder Brother. “But it didn’t take me long to be certain; you typically avoid our visitors like a plague. You should have come to me.”

“Aye,” Sandor agreed. “But I didn’t.”

“Why?” The man’s eyes were fixed on his, scrutinizing him. Sandor shrugged.

“Didn’t come up.”

The Elder Brother let out a heavy sigh. “It isn’t only your well-being that hangs in the balance, surely you know this? She will be hunted, Sandor. There are probably men out looking for her right now, and not just the ones accusing her of regicide.” He knew all of this, of course. Had toiled over it.

“There’s no safer place for her than here,” he said, as though that would settle the matter.

“I should have been informed,” Elder Brother replied brusquely.

“It seems you already were.” 

“Formally,” he snapped impatiently. He considered Sandor for a moment before adding, “I thought you had more concern for her than this. For the Quiet Isle, too.”

That made Sandor bristle. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means,” Elder Brother explained, as though to a child, “she’s in danger, and you did her nor I any favors by withholding her identity. Her very presence here endangers us all.”

“No one’s come, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Yet." Elder Brother said darkly. He continued. “Aiding a runaway bastard is one thing. Aiding a highborn traitor is another entirely.”

“She is no traitor.”

“I know that. The world does not.” Elder Brother reminded him. “We have to have a plan of action, Sandor; the risk is too high to ignore. I must see to the safety of all who dwell here.”

“Is she not counted among them?”

“Have you even considered what might happen if she was discovered here?” His eyes were sharp, his tone ominous.

“She's only a bastard to us,” he shrugged. “We're only helping a runaway girl in Winter, none the wiser.”

“Until they try to take her, that is,” Elder Brother said pointedly. “That's if they would even believe us at all, that she hasn't told us the truth. Think, Sandor.”

“If anyone comes, we'll hide her then,” he made a dismissive gesture. 

“Where might we hide her?” The Septon laughed incredulously. “Under the bed?”

“Dress her up as one of us,” he supplied. “We all look the same.”

“You don't think they'll think of that? I would. They'll draw back every hood in this place. And then they'll open every throat.”

“So what do you propose, then? Toss her out to fend for herself, to save our own arses?” He asked, only half-mockingly this time as his stomach clenched up. Whatever Elder Brother had in mind, Sandor knew he wouldn’t like it.

“Not necessarily. But we cannot keep her here forever. Believe me, Sandor, I've given this a great deal of thought. A great deal more than I would have liked, given how the risk is greater with each day I stall. But...I would find it prudent to send her away from this place, yes.” Elder Brother confirmed slowly. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Sandor was already on his feet.

Placing his palms on the table and leaning forward, he snarled, “You toss her out, you toss me out. Believe that.”

He meant it as a threat, but the other man only leaned back and gave him a knowing look. It was a familiar expression to Sandor, and he hated it. The man never rose to meet his anger. The tension in the room seemed to lift somewhat, however, for Elder Brother had lost his frown.

“Do not think me heartless, Sandor,” Elder Brother also rose, walking to retrieve a flagon of wine and a pair of driftwood cups. His tone was casual now. “I do not wish to send the girl away if I don’t have to—she is safest here for the nonce—and the last thing I want is for her to be in danger. Winter is upon us. Soon, the snows will make all pursuit too treacherous, and if the Gods are good, she could wait out the Spring. But I cannot discount the possibility that we will be denied that luxury. There must be a plan. And I wouldn’t have her ‘fend for herself’, as you say.”

“How can you think to send her away in these conditions, under any circumstance?" He asked in disbelief. "Even if you supplied her with all she could need. She wouldn't last a day.”

“She lasted a great deal longer than that, on her own."

Sandor pounded the table, rattling the cups as he poured the wine. “She nearly froze to death!”

He finished the pour as if there was no disturbance. “I only wish to prepare for the worst case, should it arise. And I wouldn't send her off alone.” He slid one of the cups across the table.

Sandor stared at him in astonishment as he put two-and-two together. It was his turn to ask: “Why? ”

He thought he’d been brought here to be scolded. Punished, even.

Elder Brother considered him a moment. Thoughtfully, he said, “You may not believe in the Gods, Sandor, but I do. I know a sign when I see one.” Sandor snorted loudly at that, but it went ignored.

“You speak of this girl second-most only to Gregor, to the point that I feel I know her myself. I’ve now had the opportunity to observe the reality of her as well. I believe she would be up to the task.”

Sandor drained his cup in one go, setting it back on the table with more force than was necessary. “This place isn’t reality,” he retorted. “And you have been observing Alayne Stone, not Sansa Stark.”

Although Sandor relished her smiles and laughs and japes, he was no fool: she had something buried there, something she wouldn’t show. Holy men might detect signs from the Gods, but dogs could sniff out shallow graves just as well.

“Be that as it may, you are only proving my point.” Elder Brother spread his hands. “You know her best. And I know you best. I've observed the effect she's had on you. The way you choose the tasks that put you closest to her. The poor job you've done at them, might I add, for how much distraction it's caused. The way your posture changes when she's near, the demeanor I've seen you take with no one else—a kindly one, I might dare say.”

Sandor knew he'd been watching closely, but not so closely. “This is folly," he said sourly. "I'll separate myself from the girl, see after the distraction. But you cannot send her away. Especially not with the likes of me.”

“This is the right thing to do.” Elder Brother said firmly. “If her pursuers come, I have the skiff readied on the opposite bank. You will take her to it, and you will go with her. I believe you would ensure her safety above any other.”

Sandor was incredulous. “There’s a woman who not only swears those vows you’re so fond of, but has sworn a vow to her. What makes me more qualified than that?”

“Brienne would be a fine escort, it is true.” He conceded. “I could send ravens out on the morrow and send word for her. But who knows where she is? How far away? How long it would take her to receive my summons, and then to travel here?" He was pacing, pondering it all aloud. “Would she make it here alive, if she’s not already dead? In any case, should we need to act fast, how could I depend on Brienne if she is not here?”

Sandor gritted his teeth. It was no wonder it had taken Elder Brother so long to bring it up, for all the thinking he had done on the matter. Almost as much as me, he mused. Even still, he shook his head, but said nothing. He was still trying to wrap his mind around it all. It was simultaneously the last thing he wanted, and the thing he wanted most of all. The things he wanted tended to be wrong to have, however.

“Besides, I am a frugal man, Sandor.” Elder Brother ceased his pacing. "Why would I help one, when I can help two?” Sandor had to make an effort to rein in his outrage.

“You wouldn’t be helping me,” he spat. “You’d be enabling me. Just as you’re doing now.” He gestured to his now-empty cup. He hadn’t drunk a drop of wine since he’d come here, and now he was being invited to drink it freely.

Elder Brother softened a bit as he refilled it. “It will be freely available out there. I trust you'll have the necessary control over your cups now. And over your more…inappropriate thoughts.

He took his seat again. Sandor did the same, not taking his eyes off the man across him. “It’s a burden you’ll need bear in silence, which you are well capable of now. I trust you’d never act against the girl’s best interests; elsewise I would never consider this.”

Although he felt ashamed of himself for such desires, he also knew the Elder Brother was right about one thing: he would never let harm come to her, most especially by his own hand. He’d come dangerously close once before, and it haunted him ever since. He’d rather die a second time than repeat it. It still didn’t feel right to have someone else validate him. Especially on this. He always told himself the more sentimental feelings for her were a lie he told himself to justify the ugly ones. Or was it the other way around?

Sandor drank, and then asked baldly, “And what of her? Does she get any say in this, or do you mean to force her? What makes you think she'll go anywhere with a man who brought her nothing but torment?”

“The Hound tormented her,” Elder Brother replied simply, also drinking, albeit more politely.

“You think she’s going to make that distinction?”

Sandor had spoken at length about that night in his confessions. He never regretted deserting the King, and he’d do it again if he had the chance. It was deserting her he regretted. His moment of weakness which had almost ruined her; leaving her behind to suffer even more, and scarring her in the process. Of being too angry at the world to show compassion to the only person to have ever shown him any.

“If you’d like to prove me wrong, by all means, go to her tonight.” Elder Brother challenged. “Tell her everything; who you are, what I've planned. If she doesn’t want it, I would find another suitable solution.”

“I’m not doing that,” Sandor seethed. “Find another way; I’m not doing any of it.” He told himself he was sparing her some torment, but he knew it was only his own fragile ego he spared. He was too craven to face the rejection. To put fear in her eyes rather than smiles. He wouldn’t do that to her, he reasoned. Or myself, he secretly admitted.

“I think you underestimate the girl,” Elder Brother said calmly, ignoring his tone as much as his refusal. “I think that if you had done the damage you think you did, she would be weary about keeping company with large men.” Gesturing to Sandor’s person, he added, “Yet she seems to be drawn to the largest of us here. And you to her, I should point out, for all your protestations.”

Not having a good response for that, Sandor changed the subject. “And what of my purpose here? Does that mean nothing now?”

He had never taken the vows and was therefore free to leave at his whim, but Elder Brother had always urged him to serve his ten years, and Sandor intended to pay that price. On his terms, not the Gods. Actions are as good as vows, he always said. Did Elder Brother really mean to send him out early, now, after everything? He couldn’t shake the nagging discomfort the idea gave him. He wouldn’t admit it openly, but he didn’t feel ready.

“The men who come here...they come to find their purpose, not fulfill it,” he began. “Penitence is only part of that journey. You once thought your purpose was to kill, but that was a false purpose, designed to distract you from the will of the Gods. Your purpose here has been to reflect on your sins, the error of your ways. I do not wish to cut your time here short, but as I said before: I know a sign when I see one. Only the Gods themselves could speak to the timing, but I am not one to question the will of the Gods. This is your purpose, Sandor. You weren't equipped for it then. Now...”

Sandor barked out a laugh. “Your Gods don’t love me half so much as you would have me believe they do. What purpose would I have with her?”

“To protect her,” Elder Brother replied solemnly. “Keep her safe from those who wish her harm. Take her home, maybe.”

“Wouldn’t that involve that killing you’re so skittish about?” Sandor pointed out.

Elder Brother was observing him, his fingers steepled. “I wouldn’t propose it if I were not sure about it. I know that, now that you’ve seen her, you’d never recover from losing sight of her again; you barely did before. Not even I am capable of such healing. She cannot remain here forever, so nor can you.”

He suddenly resented this man; he’d seen him at his lowest, listened to his darkest secrets. And now he was using them against him. He felt mocked.

“And what of my atonement?” Sandor asked, mocking him, like the hypocrite he was. “Does this mean the Gods forgive my sins, and they mean to reward me for being a good dog?” He said the word with disgust.

Elder Brother‘s response had the sharp edge of impatience to it now. “Do not mistake this for a reward. This is but a next step; an opportunity to make right where you went wrong before, and perhaps even do something good in the world while you’re at it.” His tone turned imploring as he went on. “Atonement doesn’t begin and end here, Sandor; it is a lifelong pursuit, and it shall follow you long after you leave this place, whether it's tomorrow or another ten years from now. All I can do is start you on the path, and pray I’ve prepared you enough to walk it alone. I feel I have; no one punishes your sins more than you do yourself.”

“She deserves better than this.” Sandor rasped stubbornly. “Your confidence in me is touching, but misplaced.”

Considering him for a moment over the rim of his cup, Elder Brother then put it down gently and asked, “Do you know why I brought you here, Sandor? Truly?”

“Because of the ‘will of the Gods’, surely,” Sandor offered, snorting.

“No.” He replied shortly. “I brought you here because you reminded me of myself. A dying man, broken by the realization that none of it was worth it. It is the same reason I am having this conversation with you right now.”

Sandor rolled his eyes. “Spare me the heart to heart, I’m nothing like you.” He was a holy man, who had once been a knight. About as far opposite as you could get, Sandor thought. Elder Brother was a far better man than he could ever hope to be besides. He had his own sins, but it seemed to Sandor that he was far worthier of forgiveness. He was kinder, more disciplined and principled. I'll never be like that.

Elder Brother watched him thoughtfully as he spoke. “I wasn’t always a servant of the Gods. I was in love too, once. If she still lived, if she showed up here on the morrow…” His gaze unfocused for a moment, remembering, before he turned his eyes back on Sandor. “I just might risk my vows, and all seven Hells besides, just to be with her again. To keep her safe. I lost my chance, and I must live with that. I would not rob you of yours.”

He’d heard enough. Sandor emptied his cup and stood, his mouth twitching. There was a note of finality in his voice as he declared, “She isn’t going anywhere unless it’s necessary. And I don’t want her knowing who I am, unless it’s necessary .”

If he was going to go along with this madness, he would do it as Gravedigger. The girl needn’t know him. That would be easier.

Elder Brother nodded, never flinching from his harshness, but he took the hint that this conversation was coming to an end. “I accept those terms. And, should it be necessary, you will do as I ask? Keep her safe, no matter the cost? Put her interests above your own, and be selfless in the pursuit?”

Sandor took his meaning: Can you promise not to touch her her if I leave you alone with her? Would you be willing to die for her?

“You going to make me vow on it?” Sandor sneered nastily.

Elder Brother thought on that for a second. “Well—”

“Because I do,” Sandor cut across him, surprising them both. The words had come out before he knew what he was saying.

There was a moment of silence between them as they stared at each other.

“I swear it,” Sandor finished quietly.

Although he didn’t mean to say it, he found he’d never been surer about anything in his life. Protecting others was the only thing he was ever good at, and no life felt so precious as hers. He didn’t believe in Gods, or signs, or purpose, or even himself; but he believed in her. Perhaps he did love her, though he'd never known the feeling to know it for certain. Perhaps it was something else. Something deeper, more profound. He'd failed her before, had even participated in her suffering. Was he truly worthy of a second chance, or was this only to be repeated history? He would protect her, he told himself firmly, or he would die trying. Somebody has to.

Nonetheless, Sandor wished Elder Brother would wipe that shit-eating grin off his shit-eating face.

Chapter Text

ALAYNE 3

Alayne was spreading gravel out on the walkways when she saw Gravedigger trudging up to the stables to tend the horses, as was part of his duties. She liked being outdoors, despite the cold and snow. The cold didn’t bother Alayne so much, and she liked the scenery. She liked the look of icicles on tree branches, the mystery of footprints in the snow, and the feel of crisp air at her cheeks. Now that she had a moment to pause and appreciate her surroundings, rather than fight to survive in them, she found it all to be quite splendid. It was also a comfort that The Quiet Isle was so self-sufficient, and was properly provisioned for the harsh weather. Most comforting of all was knowing she could eat at their table without wondering what they wanted of her in return. It won't last, she knew. But it's nice while it does.

Once she was finished with the gravel, she allowed herself some free time. Deciding she wanted to remain outdoors, she sat down someplace off the main path and used the empty pail to gather snow, dumping it out in front of her. It was getting deeper by the day, the white walls on either side of her nearly reaching her waist now. She built lots of things, disassembling and reassembling them in turn. She sculpted a tower with a maid in the window, and then a Weirwood tree, with little nubs of gravel for a face. She crafted a crude rendition of The Wall, with a little snow-man on top. She pushed the snow around into the shape of a hare, then a fish, then a dragon. Then she started making a little town, with towers and houses and walkways, with tall snowy walls all around it, like the ones around her now. After a while, Alayne realized she was building a castle, one like she had made before, long ago. This one, however, wouldn’t be smashed this time. It’s safe to rebuild here.

Tears suddenly stung at her eyes as unwanted memories flooded her. Alayne blinked them away stubbornly while she quickly dismantled the sculpture, feeling like the stupid child she had once been. All of that was behind her now; it had to be. She would never see that castle again, or the people inside that made it a home. There was no use in remembering, only pain. Sansa was the one who had such fantasies, not Alayne. Alayne was realistic. She didn't cry over the past. She kept her eyes forward, and never looked back. I must not look back.

She sat there in the snow for awhile to clear her mind, not rising until she felt like a bastard once more.

Alayne was headed back to the women’s cottages to wash up for dinner when she spotted Gravedigger ducking out of the Hermit's Hole where the Elder Brother lived, easy to distinguish by his height and his limp. She had avoided taking up chores with him thus far, although she wanted to. She felt she burdened the man enough already with her lessons, and she tried to give all the brothers their space. She never got the sense that he felt annoyed by her, but all the same, he seemed a man who valued solitude. She never saw him approach anyone without needing to, and even Alayne had to wave him down before he’d join her at mealtimes. He never presumed, and never showed his face. Many of the brothers kept their faces concealed, and she supposed it might pair naturally with silence and atonement. Still, it was a difficult thing, to call one a friend without knowing their face or voice. He is not your friend. It sounded like Cersei's voice, snapping like a whip in her mind. He's but a captive audience.

Be that as it may, Alayne looked forward to the lessons most of all throughout the day. It gave her comfort to think maybe he looked forward to the company as much as she did. Sometimes, when he looked at her, it almost felt as though he was seeing someone else. Whoever it was, the sight appeared to please him. He reminded Alayne of someone else as well, though she banished those thoughts any time they came to her. She couldn't see his face, so she projected one onto him that was familiar to her. To Sansa, she scolded herself. She must remember to forget.

She walked briskly to meet Gravedigger now, deciding she would join him today. He was so concentrated on something that he didn’t notice her until he almost barreled into her, making her gasp.

His eyes were wide and haunted when he looked up, coming to an abrupt halt. He signed a hasty apology and put out a hand to steady her, but quickly drew it away. 'Are you all right?'

Alayne nodded. He had such huge, rough-looking hands. Each brother had their own unique style when it came to the hand-language, and Gravedigger’s style was very loose, almost casual; as though it was as natural as speaking the common tongue was to her. In that regard, his movements were graceful in their own way, but also not at all. It was mesmerizing.

Alayne hoped she would one day sign so easily, and it was with this in mind that she tried at every opportunity to use the skill she had been gaining over the last fortnight. It was useful to know individual letters, for she could spell out the words she didn’t know. Gravedigger would often show her the short-hand version after she spelled it, and she would repeat it until she became comfortable. She had learned many words this way.

'Are you alright?' she signed somewhat clumsily, mimicking his movements from before. He softened slightly at her efforts, and shook his head.

'No.'

Alayne frowned. She surmised he must have just come from a confession. She wondered what there must be to still confess after years and years. 'Can I help?'

He seemed amused by that, breathing heavily from the nose rather than laugh, as he always did. He considered her for a moment, thinking it over.

'Come with me,' he gestured, and began to walk.

Curious, Alayne did as she was bid, having to walk quickly to keep a pace with him even despite his hindered stride. She noticed they were heading for the cloisters where the brothers slept. She had never been there before; she looked up at him inquiringly. A part of her was nervous about visiting a man's sleeping quarters, even one under a vow of chastity. She'd never had any pleasant encounters in such a place, and vows were wind.

“What are we doing?” she asked, aloud this time, careful to keep the apprehension out of her voice. He looked down at her.

'Surprise,' he spelled out. Alayne felt her stomach flip over as he showed her the short-hand as well.

When they reached the door, presumably to his room, he halted her. 'Wait here,' he signaled. Alayne let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She was more comfortable on the outside. He dipped through the threshold and disappeared for a brief time before returning again, holding something in one of his overlarge hands.

Alayne tilted her head in curiosity, leaning forward to get a peek. He closed his hand around the object, moving it away from her.

'Early,' he spelled with his free hand. 'But it helps.'

Extending his other hand towards her and opening it, he revealed something carved from driftwood. Alayne felt her eyes burn with a sudden rush of emotion as she took it in her hands; she had revealed to him the week before that her eighteenth name-day was coming up soon, but she hadn't said when. It was two days from now.

It was a hairpiece, she realized. The bottom had comb teeth carved out for fixing into her hair. And the top…

When she saw the birds, it fell out of her hands suddenly as if it burned her, for the way they began to tremble. The fear took her breath away. Did he know her? It made no sense. 

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. He’d been watching her carefully, and seemed disturbed now by her expression. He took a step back. It wasn't the reaction he expected. 

“I'm sorry,” she said in a small voice. “I—”

Bowing his head, he waved her off and ducked back into the room, snapping the door closed between them.

She bent down to pick the hairpiece out of the snow, and felt her face redden. She was so stupid. It was a sparrow, that was all. Not a trick, or a threat. So what if it was a falcon besides? Stone was the name given to Vale bastards. Anyone could have surmised that. It looked nothing like a mockingbird, either, as it had a moment ago. 

Alayne felt a rush of shame. It had been so long since someone had done something kind for her, simply to be kind. For her last nameday, Alayne had been gifted a dress in fine blue velvet. It had birds on it too. Different ones. And he always wanted something in return. The finer the gift, the more liberties he was entitled to. She could almost smell the minty scent, even now. She shivered. 

It was such a small thing, the little hairpiece. It was a grand gesture to her. And it was lovely, she thought as she turned it over and admired it properly. Alayne tried the door, to apologize and thank him properly for the gift. But he gave no answer. Alayne resolved to find him at dinner later and put it right. She wasn't sure how she might explain her initial reaction. It hadn't been Alayne's. Alayne loved her father.

She brushed back her hair and fixed the comb into it, then went to the kitchens to help brother Brandon with the stew. He taught her a few words as they worked; she learned carrot as she chopped, and knife and onion. The onion made her eyes water so badly it looked like she was weeping, and he laughed lightly and took over while she shelled crabs instead. 

Some of the brothers she took up tasks with would draw their hoods back and bare their faces. Brandon was such a case, especially since the kitchens could become oppressive if he did not. He was a comely man, a bit older than her but still youthful. She wondered what he could have done that brought him here seeking atonement, though she knew better than to ask. Most of the penitents were older, grayer, and feebler. Brother Brandon had kind eyes and a friendly manner. She’d been skittish the first time he gave her a nudge of the elbow, but now it was a known expression of his amusement, one she returned from time to time.

Next she went to the chopping block and found brother Hugh hard at work, his breath steaming in the cold. Alayne wasn't useful for the chopping, but she took the logs as they fell to the ground and fed them to the pile. Hugh was a short, gray-haired and thick-bearded fellow with a sullen aspect about him. Occasionally a smile would touch his lips when Alayne gave him her wit, or fumbled over a task. She took a splinter from the wood, and he set down the axe and plucked it out for her.

Alayne arrived early to dinner that night, eager to make up for the way she’d reacted to the gift. Brothers came and went from the hall, but Gravedigger never came. The Elder Brother met her gaze from time to time, and she looked away, feeling as though he could pull out her thoughts through her eyes. She felt an absurd sense of rejection by the absence, and whenever he looked at her she felt her eyes begin to burn. You're being ridiculous, she scolded herself. 

She plucked the wooden piece from her hair and examined it again. The large sparrow in the center was flanked by little ones on either side, framed up with flowers and brambles. It was a delicate bit of carving, surprising coming from such large hands. She would cherish it always, she thought, regretting the way she’d spoiled the reception. It wasn't you, she wished she could say. I was only reminded of someone else.

She was reminded of something else as well, she thought, transfixed as she stared down at it. Something that had nothing to do with the bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish, or the sigil of Arryn. Another girl, another life, a different father...a different name.

Little Bird.

Chapter Text

SANDOR 4

The little bird had revealed her true face to him at last. But it wasn't in the way he would have wished. There she is, he thought bitterly when she looked up with that fearful look in her eye. Had she recognized him somehow, after all this time? Or was the gift simply too forward? He had fought with himself over whether to give it to her at all, in truth. He knew that it would be inappropriate for a silent brother to give a strange bastard girl any gift, especially for Gravedigger. He kept to himself, and was never fond of their guests.

Since coming to the Quiet Isle, Sandor had taken to wood carving in his spare time, at Elder Brother's suggestion. Many of the others did the same; anywhere you turned, there was bound to be something carved from driftwood nearby. It made an effective outlet to vent his frustrations upon, and had taught him patience as much as it had taught him technique. When she told Sandor her nameday was approaching, he knew it to be a truth; perhaps the first truth she had given him since coming here. She likely absorbed it as part of her new identity, but all the same, Sandor had clung to that truth, sought to acknowledge it.

Sandor had been at war with himself from the moment he left the Hermit’s Hole, having a life’s purpose unceremoniously dropped in his lap, unasked for. And unearned. But then he'd run into the girl, seen the frown at her face, and made his decision then. Sandor could protect her, and he would, whenever the time came. But Gravedigger could do something Sandor Clegane could not: make her smile.

Or so he thought.

If Sandor had doubts about Elder Brother's plans for them before, they were doubled now. It was foolish; if there was to be a scenario where they had to make a quick escape in the middle of Winter, they would be laughably unprepared. He had no coin, no armor, no sword, and nowhere to go. He didn’t even know where the war was currently being fought, or who was winning. Elder Brother didn’t bother his subjects with the toils of the outside world, but in this moment Sandor found it to be a fucking hindrance.

He had left the Hermit’s Hole with plans to discuss the matters in more detail at a later time, and thought about bringing these issues up to the man now, but Sandor was determined to avoid him. He was avoiding everyone. He didn't leave his cloister at all the next day, content to work on a driftwood chair that had gone half-finished for a fortnight now. He knew he would have to face her again, but he didn't wish to just now. Surely she had some lie prepared for him, and he didn’t wish to hear it. The isolation wasn't doing him any favors either. He suddenly resented this place; he didn't want to think on it, but all there was to do here was fucking think.

He could not stay holed up in hiding forever like some craven. Restless, Sandor resolved to take a mule down to the shore today and see what he could fish up. The Trident fed the shores of the Quiet Isle with resources aplenty, alongside the corpses. Driftwood was perhaps the most common, but other treasures weren’t rare either. The men here had no need of trinkets, of course, but they found uses for them all the same. Jewels, goblets, bolts of cloth and bits of armor all made their way through the current and deposited onto the shore. Once, Sandor had found a greatsword, and had been loath to hand it over. Elder Brother had melted it down and re-forged it into pots and pans. Food had lost its savor for a long while after that.

He hoped he would find another sword like it today. He was searching for items he could make use of or sell on the road, if it ever came to that. Sandor would be sure to pack them away before Elder Brother could lay them to waste this time.

He decided that he would forge ahead with making preparations, even if nothing came of them. He would pack some bags with food, clothing, and supplies, and store it in the empty stall next to Stranger, until such a time came when they were needed. He would have to practice saddling the horse up quickly as well, and get him used to wearing snowshoes. He won’t like that, Sandor mused. He didn’t know how he’d get Stranger to the other shore if they were to rely on the skiff, but he was determined he would find a way. He would speak to Elder Brother about ferrying him over, perhaps. He wouldn't like it, but he couldn't abandon him here.

The snows weren’t as deep by the shore, gradually sloping up the bank until it reached solid land, where it was its highest. He tied the mule to a post that had been erected for such excursions, and began to walk along the shore, shoveling snow out of the way as he went.

It was far colder and windier by the water, and Sandor could hear the wind howling in his ear as he walked. He spent hours combing the banks, but came up with very little. Some goblets, a dead cat, a rotted boot. The only thing of value he could find was a silver flute with a single small emerald inlaid in the handle.

He cursed the Winter for such a meager haul as he made his way back to the stable block to return the mule. If signs did exist, surely this was one. There's nothing for you out there, dog. What would become of him if set loose to roam the world again, a dog without a leash? He didn't trust himself, and the Elder Brother's trust would mean shit if he wasn't there to rein him in. What of her trust? What if he had made a vow he couldn't keep?

Sandor had been operating under the illusion that he was a better man on the Quiet Isle, but he'd caught a glimpse of the man he was when he put that fear in her eyes. What sort of man might he become—or worse, revert back into—once he put his back to this place? I’m not ready. And yet, he couldn't deny that a part of him was; he just couldn't be sure which part, or if it could be trusted.

He had been a man at peace, existing in a routine that effectively removed all hard decisions from his life, and all the lies and pain and disgusted stares that came with them. He wasn't happy here, but he never expected he would be. Contentment was the best a lame dog could hope for, and that was what he had achieved.

The Stark girl changed everything. In truth, she had changed him, long before he met Elder Brother. He had pondered on that many times. In all his efforts to rip the wool from her eyes, to tear out the innocence that had been his own undoing, she had instead—unbeknownst to them both—instilled in him a powerful sense of self-awareness. With it came guilt, shame, and a whole host of desires he hadn't felt or had want of since boyhood. She had punched a hole in his world, turned it upside-down, completely oblivious all the while. He'd hated her for that. He’d hated everything. But she planted a seed in him that overtook his hatred. He'd tried to drown it out in his cups, but Elder Brother revived it, just when he had given up at last. He hated him for that, sometimes. Death might have been easier.

Sandor never expected he would see her again. He carried her memory, lost sleep wondering what had become of her, rewrote the past and fabricated a future in his dreams, even lit candles for her from time to time...but he'd never let such things give way to hope that their paths might cross again. He certainly never expected he might be thrown onto the path with her. 

Despite all the turmoil he felt by their last encounter, he still found himself feeling more grateful than resentful. So what if he frightened her? He was frightening. She was alive. It was all that mattered. He wouldn't force her to take him with her, come what may; but he would ensure she was prepared. He thought on the woman who was out there, somewhere, searching for her. He should tell Elder Brother to write to her. To try, at least, to find her a suitable escort. One that didn't frighten her. 

He returned the mule into its stall and left the stable block in a huff, not giving much attention to his surroundings. If he had, he might have noticed footprints in the snow that were far too small to be his own.

Chapter Text

ALAYNE 4

Alayne screamed as she was struck in the face. She was running around the large windmill to escape her attacker as she was struck again—in the back this time—and her screams gave way to fits of laughter.

She had been helping brother Brandon clear snow off the footpaths when she mentioned how long it had been since she'd had a snowball fight. Moments later she heard his shovel fall to the ground, but it had been too late by the time she turned around. She took cover behind the windmill and drove her hands into the snow, packing it loosely between her palms as she stepped out and took aim. He was gathering more snow as well, and she launched it at him, giggling when it came into contact with the top of his head. He jerked up abruptly and flung another, but she ducked this time, springing back up to return the volley.

This went on until she was breathless and pink-cheeked, calling out a truce. Brother Brandon bowed low as a show of agreement as she stepped out from behind the windmill.

'I think we're done for today,' he signed to her, gesturing at the work they accomplished before the assault had begun. Eyes glittering with mischief, he added, 'watch your back tomorrow.'

Alayne laughed and returned, 'I'll wear some armor.'

Next to Gravedigger, Alayne had bonded most with brother Brandon, who worked primarily in the kitchens. It took all of their efforts to keep the walkways cleared, though. After spending time with him, she learned he was of the North, age eight-and-twenty, and could play the harp. He didn’t wear Novice’s robes, as Gravedigger did. He had arrived here after fighting in the war; Elder Brother had healed him, and in return, he devoted his life to the Seven. He had fought for the Starks, which had likened her to him most of all. He said no more on the subject, however, as most brothers wouldn’t. Atonement, brother Brandon had explained by signing, was a path one had to walk alone.

She would help him prepare meals sometimes, and took joy in learning this new skill in addition to the hand-language. Sansa had never prepared meals for herself before, and she found she enjoyed it. It even tasted better, knowing the effort that went into its making. She might have grown tired of crab stew by now, but after hours of cracking and peeling shells, she would never take it for granted. Alayne once told him in passing that her favorite dessert was lemon cakes, and the next day, he had surprised her with a whole handful of lemons, albeit small and well past their prime, and proceeded to show her how to make them. There had only been enough for a small batch, but they enjoyed them together while she told him stories that she had been told once, in a past life. The nice ones, not the scary ones.

He was retreating inside to begin preparations for dinner now, but Alayne wanted to remain outdoors. She looked around, searching for tasks she could put herself to as she shook snow from her hair. When her eyes fell upon the stables, she set out towards them. She hadn’t been to see the stables yet, and she spied Gravedigger heading that direction earlier. He had avoided her ever since the incident with the hairpiece. It was time she made amends, assure him that no offense had been taken or meant. She found she missed his presence, and held him in the back of her mind all throughout the day. 

For as much time as she spent around him, Alayne hadn't learned much about Gravedigger. Whenever she asked him personal questions, he either changed the subject or responded vaguely. Sometimes, he would just stare at her until she chose a new subject, such as the time she'd asked him what he prayed for. She had no details that a friend would have, nor did she have any of the playfulness she shared with brother Brandon, or the candor of Elder Brother; the most she got from Gravedigger was the occasional wit. But the way he looked at her…he cared, she knew. She'd never gotten a good look at his face, and could only barely make out the eyes for how deeply hooded he always was. She tried to peer into those shadowy depths, only for him to turn his head just as her eyes adjusted. Did he always take such care to hide himself, or was it just with her? 

She knew better than to trust a man with something to hide; but despite all that, she couldn't deny that she felt an inexplicable closeness to him, closer than the rest. More than anything, she felt at ease around him. Safe, in a way. She went to sleep each night with fear clutching her heart, anxious that tomorrow she would be discovered hiding here at last, and her time of peace would surely end as soon as it began. Each morning when she saw Gravedigger enter the common hall, she felt the fear go out of her. She was missing that of late.

The dreams he inspired in her were another matter, something she didn't enjoy. She hastened to let them slip from memory each morning as she braided her hair, as dreams were wont to do sometimes. She worked hard to rid herself of the bad habit of comparing everyone she met to everyone she knew. There were no connections to draw, only coincidences. Gravedigger was her friend. Alayne's friend. A new friend, not an old one, long dead by now. Even if it was only temporary, as all friends tended to be. 

When she reached the stables, Gravedigger was nowhere to be found. There were only a few stalls with mules inside, and many more stood empty. Disappointed, she walked down the row anyway, patting velvet noses as she went. She breathed deep, taking in the smell of hay and the stench of horses. When she reached the empty stalls, she looked inside each to see if maybe he was stooped down in one of them, cleaning. Maybe she would catch him unawares and spook him, to see if he would take humor in it. That might break the tension. But each stood just as empty as the one before.

Alayne loved to ride. She made a mental note to remember that, and would ask the Elder Brother if he would let her take a mule out next time she saw him. Maybe she could join in a visit to the shore to fetch the crabs.

She was nearing the stall in the back when she heard a deep, rough cry. The fear ran through her as sudden and intense as a flash of lightning. She shrieked in unison, although it carried none of the laughter from before. In front of her were dark eyes, angrily rimmed in white, and a mouth filled with long yellow teeth, striking out at her face. Alayne only barely reeled away in time, stumbling to the ground. Her heart raced in time with her breathing as she looked up at the jet black destrier that she hadn’t noticed standing there before in the shadows, its ears pinned back flat against its head. She was sprawled there for a moment, stunned, as the horse tossed its head and settled down, pawing the ground in frustration.

Alayne’s head was spinning as she stood up, slowly, so as to not spook the horse again. This beast was completely out of place among the others; this was an animal bred for war. She stared at it for a long moment, and it stared back, restless and suspicious. 

I recognize this horse, Alayne realized, her eyes widening. I have ridden beside him. I knew his master. All the pieces were putting themselves into place as Alayne stretched out a shaking hand toward the stallion. It eyed her warily.

“Stranger?” she whispered, so quietly she barely made a sound. It can’t be Stranger. That would be impossible.

As her hand made contact with his muzzle, tears welled unbidden in her eyes, the world seeming to shatter around her. The horse shook his head and snorted, but didn’t make a move to bite again.

What did this mean ?

Alayne took a step back. She had to get out of here, she realized, her heart racing once more. If he came back, now...

She wasn’t sure she could face the truth; not yet. Not here. She was utterly overwhelmed, and in no state for a confrontation. Seeming to sense her panic, Stranger struck out with a strong front hoof against the stable door, creating a hollow thunder so loud that she barely heard his soft nickering when she turned and ran.

She sprinted from the stable block, nearly slipping on the ice, but she didn’t stop until she reached her room in the women’s cottages. It was only once the door was shut behind her that she felt she could finally breathe again. Alayne frantically tried to collect her thoughts, but it was hard to keep them reined in and organized. It was like trying to chase cats, as her sister had once done. Not your sister, the voice in her head snapped.

The weight of the revelation was crashing down all around her, her mind flashing back over the last fortnight, going over every interaction...

The reasonable part of her was already pointing out that black horses were common enough, and that it was just a coincidence, like anything else. The part of Alayne that wasn’t Alayne, however, refused to entertain the notion. I know what I saw, it said. It couldn’t be a coincidence that a man that size, and a horse that wild, were in the same place without being connected. Her eyes fell on her dressing table, where the driftwood hairpiece lay. That couldn’t be a coincidence, either. She had the sudden urge to smash it, and all her new knowledge with it. This wasn't knowledge for Alayne to have, she never should have known in the first place. Was this what he hid from her? Why he avoided her? She had failed to forget, and now she was struggling to come to terms with it all.

She wondered how she had recognized his horse without recognizing the man himself, he who had been sitting at her side during every meal since she’d arrived. The left side, not the right, the voice that wasn’t Alayne’s pointed out. She’d looked into his eyes many times, but his burns were dark and black even in the best of light. Concealed by shadow…

Alayne slumped down on her pallet bed, running shaking hands through her hair. It now seemed so obvious. But she was sure he was dead, and she had been smothering those thoughts every time they came to her. She refused to let herself dwell on them, for they belonged in the past. And now they were sitting right here in the present, not dead after all, her friend. She had thought herself acting the child again, but realized now she had known all along, only admitting to it in dreams.

He must have recognized me, she thought. I look different, but not so much. The redness was even seeping through the brown now, more after each bath she took. He knows. But he didn't want her to know. Why? The Hound she knew would never hide his face. He always wanted me to look.

Through the hysteria, despite the confusion, one thing was certain: she was no longer alone in the world. There was only but a shred, a smoldering ember, but something had begun to awaken in her that she hadn’t realized was lost before: hope.

The longer she sat there, the more and more she could feel herself losing grasp on Alayne Stone. This was not Alayne's revelation, were not her memories that had brought it about. Alayne was not the one who felt safe in the presence of Gravedigger, and was certainly not the one he looked at with such intensity.

After a time, she stood. Secured the sparrows in her hair. It was almost time for dinner by now, and Sansa Stark would not let Sandor Clegane skip another lesson.

As she swept down the walkway to the common hall, her mind continued to whir, already trying to convince herself that this changed nothing. At the same time, however, it seemed to change everything .

She had prayed for this, among many things; for Sandor Clegane to find peace, to not be the reaver of Saltpans, to be alive and well and to gentle the rage inside him. Despite the staggering disorientation of it all, it seemed her prayers had revealed themselves to be answered just as she had begun to question her faith. In truth, Sansa hadn’t visited the sept once since she arrived, aside from the brief time she spent there during her tour. She hadn’t avoided it on purpose, but she had also not made it a priority. She wanted to skip dinner and go there now, and beg the Mother for forgiveness. She wished this place had a Weirwood tree as well. Sansa wanted to thank all the gods.

This wasn’t the only thing her epiphany changed. Sansa had felt safe here, it was true, but all the while she still had reality nagging at her: this wouldn’t last forever. Either Littlefinger would find her here himself, or he’d find her the moment she left this place. She couldn’t take up permanent residence here, and if she were honest to herself, she didn’t want to. In spite of all its comforts, this was no place for her to live. But, it seemed, there were no other places for her to live. There were only places to die.

That much had not changed. But if she weren’t alone, with the Hound of all people...No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them, he'd told her once.

Alayne was in the back of her head, laughing at her. Things are different now. He was promised to the Quiet Isle, and the Gods besides. His killing days were long done, it seemed to her. It should have made her glad, but she was oddly disappointed instead. The Hound was awful and hateful and cruel with his words, but he had protected her as well, in his way, and had never done her bodily harm. He was honest with her amidst a pit of liars, had even told her his deepest secret, and she'd kept to her word and never told a soul. And he kissed me. She'd never told a soul about that either, not even Myranda. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them, he'd told her once, before he yanked her close and pressed his lips down on hers. His mouth was hard, but there was something tender in it, too...before he grew angry again. His anger was terrible, and came on so suddenly. The song had doused it somehow, but she'd never seen him again after that. Only the cloak remained, but she'd lost that too. Not that it would have done her a bit of good. A cloak was only a symbol of protection, and nothing without a protector's shoulders.

The Gods had answered her prayers for Sandor Clegane, but the Gods were sometimes cruel as well. They took as much as they gave. I know that better than anyone. They would show her the proof that Sandor Clegane had been bestowed with the Mother's mercy and found some peace at last, but they would not let her keep him. She would need to be content with that.

She was surprised to find he was already seated there when Sansa entered the common hall, his eyes on the table, thoughtful. She thought she might have had to go bang on his door and force his company, but it seemed he was finally ready to face her again. 

She decided to sit at his left side tonight instead of the right, hoping to get a better glimpse and have the confirmation that he was who she thought he was. His discomfort was plain, judging by the way he stiffened, but Sansa already knew why.

He knows it’s me. She knew it for a certainty then. And he doesn’t want me to know it’s him. It’s why he doesn’t eat, or ever look me full in the face.

He glanced at her quickly before turning his eyes back to the table—obscuring the burned one—and signing a curt greeting.

This gave Sansa pause; if he couldn’t break his vows and he didn’t want her to know who he was, should she really act against his wishes by making him aware of her revelation? He had recognized her all along as Alayne, yet had never made mention of it. She wondered for a moment if he hated her, but quickly put it out of mind. He wouldn’t be sitting here if he did. He certainly wouldn’t look at her the way he usually did. She now knew that, when he seemed to see someone else behind her eyes, he had been seeing her.

Regardless, she felt the hope in her chest shrivel a little as she rose from the bench, feigning chagrin.

“Oh! I was wondering what felt so strange,” she said airily, walking around him to sit on his right side, cloaking herself in Alayne once more. “It’s been too long since you've joined me.”

He glanced sidelong at her and signed an apology. She smiled, and placed a hand over his. He flinched. “I'm sorry,” she told him. “It meant a lot to me, the gift.” She turned her head so he could see her wearing it. “I’m not accustomed to such things. You took me by surprise, is all. I hope you can forgive the way I reacted.”

She heard him sigh quietly, in relief or frustration she couldn't say. But then he waved a hand, and with it waved away the subject. He proceeded to resume their lessons, went over individual letters with her again before the food came, and spelled out new words while she picked at her plate. Alayne repeated them with her own hands, but Sansa was too distracted to put them to memory.

She couldn’t stop staring at him. How could she not? The new knowledge she had gained was still too fresh; so huge, it left no room for anything else. Learning hand signals suddenly seemed trivial, when she had learned something so much more significant. She felt absurdly vexed by it all. What was the point in this charade? Perhaps he thought she would be afraid; in any other context, maybe she would be. He was capable of the horrors at Saltpans, and if she discovered that he’d been responsible after all, she most certainly would fear and revile him. It wasn't him, she knew. He was here. In any case, she could observe nothing fearsome about him now. The years had changed her greatly. Why not him as well?

Dinner was nearly finished, and she had been staring at his eyes so intently that she didn’t realize she was doing it until he waved a hand between them to catch her attention. He’d been trying to show her a new word. She willed herself to snap out of it, but her curiosity was too great. How did I not recognize him before? She kept asking herself, over and over again, trying to put her finger on it. In dreams, his eyes were the most prominent feature she saw; she always supposed that, if nothing else, she could never forget that terrible look he had.

That was it. That’s what was missing. His eyes had always been so full of rage...she had never seen anything else there. Even when he was frustrated—as he now was, it seemed—it wasn’t terrible to behold.

It made all the difference.

As the brothers began to file out of the hall, the Hound also began to rise. Something possessed Sansa to put a hand on his arm to stop him.

“Are you going to sleep?” She asked. He appeared nonplussed as he shook his head ‘no’.

“Where are you going?” He hesitated, then steepled his fingers and signed a word he had taught her recently: Sept.

She couldn’t do it, she realized. She couldn’t play at Alayne when Sansa’s past was standing right in front of her. I won’t ask him to break his vows, but I can’t pretend I don’t know him, she reasoned. There would be no harm in that. She couldn't pretend to be a friend to Gravedigger, when it was the Hound she wanted to know. She wasn’t sure how he had been able to keep it to himself—not being allowed to speak surely helped—but she didn’t have his discipline.

She didn’t know how to approach it yet, but she didn’t know how not to.

“Might I join you?”

Chapter Text

SANDOR 5

The little bird’s behavior was strange tonight. Or was he imagining it?

Her eyes had been glued on his from the moment she’d sat down. And she was late. She completely ignored him at times, for all her blatant staring. The irony wasn’t lost on him. What had come over her?

Or was it he who was different now? He certainly felt different, in a way. After all, planning a future at her side was no longer just a distant fantasy. He'd resolved to face the possibility, to close the distance he'd put between them and determine if he could face the idea of revealing himself to her. He had been trapped inside his own head, trying to figure it all out; maybe he was wearing a queer expression that he wasn’t aware of.

Sandor was taken unawares when, at the end of supper, Sansa asked to accompany him. In truth, he had lied when he told her he meant to go to the Sept; his real plan had been to resume preparations, perhaps finally seek out Elder Brother to discuss the matter further. He wouldn’t deny her request, though, and already felt guilt for the lie. Tonight, his plans would have to wait.

He led her outside to the septry, holding a torch on high. It was especially frigid at nighttime, the wind howling angrily as it lashed at their faces. He walked in front of her to block some of it out, but it came from all sides.

When they got inside, Sansa took a moment to admire the wooden likenesses of the seven faces of God, each standing on its own plinth, a small cushioned bench in front at which to kneel in prayer. Once the door closed behind them, it was as if the world was suddenly void of all noise, but for the sound of their footsteps. Sandor lit a candle for each of them, holding one out for her. She held it to her chest as she considered the statues in silence, deliberating over which to go to. Sandor watched her, waiting. Finally, she approached the Crone, bending down and setting her candle before it. She lifted her face to look at it, her expression reverent and pleading.

Sandor’s first instinct would be to go to the Stranger, as he did each afternoon during the commune’s daily prayer, much to Elder Brother’s displeasure. He had noticed Sansa absent from all of them thus far; she wasn’t required to attend them as he was, of course, but he’d always taken her to be deeply religious. It occurred to him that this might be the first time she’d prayed since she got here, at least openly.

I’m not bloody crazy, something’s strange about her tonight.

Sandor ultimately decided on the Smith, for its proximity to the Crone directly to its right. It seemed like a choice someone his size would make besides, for men prayed to it for strength. Praying rather than doing, more like. Sandor had no desire to ask Gods for favors. Gravedigger did, however, so he would make a show of it.

He knelt before the statue, lacing his fingers together and bowing his head. The moment he did, he felt the girl’s eyes on him again. He kept his closed, ignoring her. He could tell she wanted to say something to him; he could practically hear her mind working. Courteous as ever, she was waiting for him to finish praying—to nothing, for nothing—before she spoke.

Having had enough of the staring, Sandor lifted his head and looked over at her, exasperated. Spit it out already. Moonlight and candlelight fought for dominance in her hair, and the sight softened him somewhat. She seemed to lose her nerve, however, for she said nothing.

Sandor gestured up to the Crone. ‘Guidance? ’ he guessed, his look inquiring.

She gazed around the room, at the other faces of God. “Who else would you have me pray to?”

Sandor wasn’t prepared for that question; without giving it much thought, he suggested the Maiden. It seemed to annoy her. “The Maiden is stupid,” she said flatly. Sandor didn’t disagree, although her response confirmed something he already knew: she was no maiden.

In truth, Sandor associated Sansa more closely with the Mother, with her compassion and her mercy, even for the blackest of villains. Sandor hated the Mother for giving him her mercy over the girl, but he suggested it next anyway.

She looked him in the eyes. “There’s no one left to beg mercy for; and I can’t bear to think on the dead at this hour.”

Sandor bowed his head back down, unable to think of a dignified response to that. She had something to say, but she was taking her time saying it. And making me feel like shit in the process, he thought sourly. She thought him a holy man; did she mean to have confession with him? It felt wrong.

She was silent for a time, and he closed his eyes, wondering how long he would have to sit here before she would say her piece. Maybe she didn’t want to say anything at all, and only wished to pray. So why then is she staring at me?

“Why do you never let your hood down?” she asked, breaking the silence, and the mounting tension with it.

He turned to look at her, searched for an answer that was honest. ‘Ugly,’ he decided.

She laughed, and it echoed off the walls around them. “I've seen plenty of ugliness. I assure you I can handle it.”

He made a gesture of emphasis. ‘Very ugly.'  Too ugly. A monster.

“Try me,” she challenged. Sandor shook his head, and bent it again. It was as good an opportunity as any, yet he couldn't bring himself to do it. It would only frighten her, or disgust her, or both. He found he couldn't stand the thought. That much, it seemed, had changed in him. Craven.

She fell into quiet contemplation again, and it seemed she was going to keep them there all night. Perhaps he should pray for some strength, he mused. His leg was stiff.

At long last, a whisper broke through the quiet, barely audible. “You remind me of someone I used to pray for.” 

Sandor kept his head down, but his eyes flew open, feeling suddenly vulnerable under her unrelenting gaze.

“I asked the Mother to gentle him,” she went on, her voice as light as feathers. “I believed she granted him death instead. The cruelest path to serenity, to be sure, but I accepted that perhaps it was the only way.”

He made no move or reply. Sandor didn't feel gentled. He was at war with himself.

“He was ugly, too. But it wasn't his face…he was so full of rage. He was never kind, but he protected me all the same. I know that, in his way, he had honor. More than all the knights.”

He felt the color drain from his face. She knows. She knows. A part of him had known this from the moment she sat down at dinner tonight. On the wrong side. 

Sandor lifted his head, but couldn’t face her. He stared up at the Smith before him instead.

“I think I remind you of someone, too.” Sandor felt his stomach drop, as if in freefall. Slowly, she rose from the floor, and the only sounds in the world were her soft footfalls as she closed the distance between them to stand at his side.

She continued, laying a hand gingerly on his shoulder. It felt like a sack of bricks. “She was a frightened little girl. Alone in a dangerous place. She wanted life to be like a song, but she didn't consider that some songs are sad. When she looks back on that time…it seems there was only one she could call a friend to her.”

Sandor’s shoulders shook with bitter mockery that went unvoiced. I was no friend to you.

“He was fearsome, and cruel, and terrible. But he never hurt me. He lied for me, never to me. I’ve dined endlessly on honeyed lies, and found myself longing for his cold and bitter truths. He told me secrets, too, and saved me from certain death more than once. No one ever asked him to. He was the first man to—to kiss me...” She trailed off, her voice catching in her throat. Sandor snapped his head around to look at her, certain he must have misheard. She bit her lip.

“All I ask is to look on his face again; to see him and know for certain that at least this one prayer was answered. To know it for myself that he is at peace.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, but he did not grant her wish. His arms were lead. Finally, the girl reached forward with trembling fingers, and slowly—to give him a chance to deny her, but he made no such move—slid the wool from his face. He took a deep, rasping breath and closed his burning eyes, unable to look upon the disgust that was sure to follow. He flinched when her fingers brushed his cheeks, and felt cool air at his neck as she lowered the hood. He suddenly felt a rush of agoraphobia by the exposure. He always kept his long black hair tied at the nape, but he regretted it now, for she would have a full view of everything.

I have to be dreaming, he thought wildly. Or perhaps it's a nightmare. He begged himself to wake up soon, before he found out which.

Every fibre of Sandor’s being wanted to flee, but he was carved from stone as soft hands cupped either side of his face. “Look at me,” she whispered.

He couldn’t look at her; how could he look at her? He didn’t want this, and yet here he sat, not doing a Gods-damned thing to stop it. And crying, like you’re having some sort of religious experience, he thought scathingly.

She was delusional about him; it was a special kind of trauma he hadn’t imagined possible, but delusional all the same. Had she faced such great atrocities that she had begun to romanticize him, of all people? She said he kissed her, when all he’d done was scare her and steal from her and desert her. Everything else was a warped version of the truth as well. Her version of events were a fantasy—a fantasy he shared, no doubt, yet he knew it for the untruth that it was.

“Please,” she supplicated. 

Reluctantly, he did as she bid. As his eyes slid open, he saw no trace of fear, or disgust; tears were rolling down her cheeks too. “I’m just trying to say...I’m glad you’re alive. And I’m glad you’re here. There’s no need to hide.”

Sandor was at a complete loss. Some instinct made him lift his hands to sign two words he had taught her individually: ‘Little Bird’

I’m glad you’re alive, too.

She let out a small sob and smiled, wrapping her arms around his neck and drawing herself forward, burying her face into his shoulder. It took him a long moment to return the embrace, as it dawned on him that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been hugged. It was unfamiliar and felt entirely too intimate, and yet he felt his misgivings slipping away as water through his fingers. 

He buried his face in her hair, and as he held her—until their tears had run dry, until she drifted off to sleep in his arms—Sandor wondered if he was delusional too.

Chapter Text

SANSA 5

Sansa awoke the next morning in her pallet bed, temporarily disoriented. She had half-expected to wake up still clinging to the Hound, and as she looked around the empty room, she almost convinced herself that she dreamt the whole thing. She had looked on his face, reached out and touched it...

She didn’t know what had been so frightening about it before. They were just scars; all warriors bore scars. She herself had scars, only ones that you couldn’t see. The Hound had two faces, but it wasn’t the same as the two faces Littlefinger wore. The Hound had been forced to bear them, for all the world to see. Against his will. Littlefinger, on the other hand, had carefully crafted his, and hid it so well that you couldn’t tell the difference.

All the world will see his ugliness soon enough, she thought darkly. She had seen to that.

It felt as though a burden had been lifted that she didn’t know she bore. She always wished she could say those things to him, and now, she had gotten her chance. By some wonderful order of events, she had found him, alive. Sansa wanted to bow before the gods, the old and the new—even the Stranger—and thank them for the opportunity; for restoring hope and faith when all had seemed so bleak. It wasn’t her family returned to her as she prayed, or Winterfell, or even an end to the war...but it was something. Something more powerful than she would have thought previously, and she wouldn’t take it for granted.

She thought back to how his arms had felt around her, and how comforted and safe she’d felt there, in ways she never expected she might feel in a man’s arms—or anyone’s arms ever again, for that matter. She had felt such a closeness with her friend Myranda Royce, it was true, but Myranda only knew Alayne Stone. Sansa knew she would never see her best friend again besides, just as she’d never seen Jeyne Poole again.

Sandor Clegane might be the only man alive who knew her for who she was, and would hug her for it rather than harm her or use her. Someone she could trust. Without all his anger, perhaps someone she could even come to see as a friend. Alayne had called Gravedigger her friend, after all. Had that just been a disguise, as Alayne had been? Or was that who the Hound was now? It had yet to be seen for a certainty, but she very much hoped so.

In turn, Sansa also hoped he wasn’t entirely like Gravedigger. The Hound had a ferocity to him that she appreciated, and now that her ears were less innocent, she even appreciated his crudeness, for at least it was honest. She hoped he had retained some of those qualities, just as she hoped to retain some of Alayne’s. It wasn’t all bad, she decided. Alayne made her less timid and afraid; Gravedigger might make the Hound less hateful and bitter. At her core, she was still Sansa Stark, and always would be. She could see that now. Maybe he could still be Sandor Clegane.

When I touched him, he wept. Just as the last time she’d done that. The circumstances were vastly different this time, but the result was the same. He’s the same. Yet so different.

Pulling on her boots and a fur cloak, Sansa trudged through the snow to break her fast. It had begun to snow in earnest, it seemed, and showed no signs of stopping. The wind howled all around her. The walkways were covered in snow up to her mid-calf, rendering all of yesterday’s work useless. The untouched snow at her sides came up to her neck now, and she shuddered to think of traveling in it. She had fled the Vale at the right time.

She heard the cutting and scraping of snow being shoveled ahead just as he faded into view, his figure dark and towering in the swirling snows. Sansa approached him, somewhat cautiously, uncertain of what his manner might be. She relaxed, however, when he saw her and took on a welcoming posture. He leaned on his spade and repeated his words from last night, confirming to Sansa that she hadn’t dreamt it: ‘Little Bird’

“Are you coming?” She asked. She frowned as he shook his head, gesturing to the walkways around them and signing, “Need to work.”

He needed to keep the walkways cleared or the snow would overtake them entirely. She could see that. Still, it was disappointing.

He could see her expression plainly, so he added, “Later.”

Sansa smiled. “Yes, later. I should like that.”

She touched his arm lightly as she left him to continue on to the common hall. On her way, she noticed more brothers were outside with shovels in the swirling haze of snow, digging out the walkways. The Isle was a small place in comparison to most, but still quite large on its own. There was much ground to cover, to be sure.

She gave each brother she encountered a greeting, which they returned. Brother Brandon was shoveling this morning as well, and she smiled at him as she passed.

A snowball struck Sansa in the back as she walked away from him, and she giggled as she spun around, ducking as he threw another. ‘Watch your back,’ he reminded her, and she dug her fingers into the snow and returned the attack, hitting him square in the chest. Thus ensued another impromptu snowball fight between the two of them, lasting until the truce was called, by brother Brandon this time.

Her hands were numb and tingling and her hair full of snow when at last she entered the common hall, laughter still in her throat. She found it sparsely populated; most of the brothers were outside still. She sat down by herself, a meal brought to her soon after. She began to pick at her food, alone with her thoughts. For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to ponder without abandon.

Sansa used to hate playing in the snow, she reflected as it melted in her hair; perhaps Alayne wouldn’t leave entirely after all. The thought pleased her. She liked being a lady, but she had also enjoyed the sort of freedom only bastardy could provide, imprisoned as she was in the Vale. Maybe she could be both, a lady of courtesy and bastard bold. Instinctively, her mind wandered to Jon Snow. It gave her pause.

He was dead too, now. News of the Lord Commander’s death had come, not too long ago, in an even more terrifying letter addressed to her father. Not your father. Alayne’s. He had laughed at it, calling it a desperate attempt by the Watch, who clearly just wanted their swords and supplies to last through the Winter. He had wanted to share in his mirth, asking Alayne to read it aloud before he tossed it in the flames.

“Grumpkins and Snarks,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “They take me for a fool.”

Alayne laughed with him, while Sansa thought back to all the tales Old Nan had told her; the scary ones, the ones Bran liked so much. She thought of Jon, and how many tears she knew she would shed for him once she was alone. Mutiny at the Wall. Lord Commander is dead. The Others are coming, and the long night follows. Send help, or all will be lost.

Winter had come. Sansa wondered how they had fared. Sansa hoped some of the other lords had taken the letter more seriously, whether the Others were real or no; it was the realm’s responsibility to supply the Watch, was it not? Was it not the one thing the Seven Kingdoms could agree to do together? Had the land been torn apart by war so badly that men would laugh in the face of a cry for help?

The raven who bore the message had still been perched on the window ledge, Sansa remembered. It mimicked Petyr’s last word, as ravens were sometimes wont to do, the clever ones at least: “Fool! Fool! Fool!” it screeched. It echoed in Sansa’s ears now, as it brought more memories to mind, memories she had been eager to stow away.

Ravens had become increasingly more clever in the Vale as of late, it seemed, for she’d never heard so many that could repeat words before. She hadn’t been the only one who noticed, but she alone took notice of it only happening when she was around. She started to pay attention to the birds eventually, and she was now sure that they had been her first sign, but not from the Seven Gods—this one came from the Old. Sansa knew the stories of the Children of the Forest, and their talking ravens. They hadn’t had to write letters back then, for the ravens could speak so well. It was said in the stories that such birds of today were long descended from that line.

Alayne hadn’t believed such nonsense at first, but for one time in particular—one word in particular—that had struck her. “Pool!” a bird had cried from a tree nearby, as Petyr told her a story about some exploit in Maidenpool. “Pool! Pool!” 

The word brought a name to her mind; a name she thought she had forgotten, or tried to, but never could. Petyr had grown annoyed of the cawing, sighing, “Stranger take those blasted birds, I’ve taken all I can stand of their interruptions as of late.”

“Taken!” the bird replied accusingly, flapping away from him as he swatted at it.

She hadn’t put the words together until later that night, in her dreams. She had dreamt of the day her world first crashed down around her, when she and Jeyne Poole were captured and kept in her bedchamber for days. She had been annoyed by all of Jeyne’s sobbing then, but she felt ashamed of it later, for she had never seen her best friend again. Sansa never discovered what became of her, but a realization did come to her in this dream; a passing comment, long forgotten, coming back to the surface in a rush. Littlefinger knew where she was. Littlefinger had offered to see her dealt with.

When Alayne woke, she knew only one thing: Whatever had happened to Jeyne Poole, it hadn’t been good. And Littlefinger was the reason.

That was when she knew, for the first time in her heart, that she would have to get herself out of this situation. There was no one to help her now, and Littlefinger was no friend of hers. She was a pawn in his schemes, not a partner as he would have her believe. She was just another Jeyne Poole, only more valuable. She’d always known this truth, deep down; but the reality had crashed over her in that instant, just as it had done yesterday in the stables. She had to get away, and soon. Before the long night came. Before she had a new name.

She’d spent those last months trying to strategize an escape in her mind, but no such opportunity presented itself. He was always a few steps ahead of her. Before she knew it, it was her wedding night. Again.

The entire affair was a sham, just as her previous marriage had been, and the one before that. Littlefinger said it wouldn’t matter in the end, but Sansa knew this marriage was a rushed affair, hastily stitched together at the last minute. This would be her third marriage now, having married Harry the Heir not long before he died in the Tourney of Winged Knights. A brutal accident, exactly as planned. That had taken place shortly before Sweetrobin stopped waking up. The Vale belonged to Petyr Baelish now. The Lord of Poison. A scavenger King.

Rumors had spread of a Dragon Queen crossing the Narrow Sea, sooner than Petyr expected, and he was eager to be in her good graces when she arrived. He told Sansa that this changed things, and he planned on being on the winning side. As his luck would have it, however, another Targaryen resurfaced, and a new strategy with it. Word reached them that the Martells intended to offer their own heir to him. Not to be outdone, Petyr offered the hand of Sansa Stark—although in truth she was Alayne Hardyng now. Petyr assured her that such charges as regicide wouldn’t matter once the Targaryens were restored, and she in their favor. The same would apply to her previous marriages. In any case, he conveniently left all that information out of his proposition. She remembered wondering what he was conveniently leaving out in his promises to her.

The North apparently appealed to the young Dragon more than Dorne, for he accepted, and came straight to the Gates of the Moon to marry her. Petyr failed to mention to him that they didn’t yet have the strength of the North at their backs, but said it too would matter little, for once news of Sansa Stark’s new marriage spread, her old one annulled, the North would come to them willingly. A name is a powerful thing, he told her. And there are still many who would rally behind the Targaryen name, just as much as Stark. Together, they would have greater strength and claim than anyone.

The marriage was planned mostly in secret, would take place in the late hours of the night. Only Petyr, a Septon, and the Targaryen’s envoy would bear witness and know of Sansa’s true identity. It would be safer to reveal who she was after the alliances had been made, not before. The secrecy also benefited the Targaryen prince, for he too was hunted; Petyr let him think it was his idea.

One of the Targaryen’s terms was that Sansa prove she was a maiden still, so she was inspected by the greasy old Septon the day she was to be wed, her maidenhead confirmed to remain intact. Alayne had gotten Harry too drunk to perform all three times he’d tried before his death; she had done it out of compassion for her friend Myranda—who, she knew, wanted him—but had also done it at Petyr’s suggestion, and to preserve her own virtue. She had not wished for Harry to die as he did, but she’d held no love for him either. He was a nasty, selfish man who only had love for himself. Even still, Alayne charmed him well enough, and convinced him they had indeed consummated.

The Septon sent a request for annulment to the High Sparrow afterwards, though Sansa couldn’t be sure if it would reach him, or if he would even consider it legitimate. Surely it can’t be that simple. It was enough for Petyr, however, who didn’t intend on waiting to hear back. Since Harry the Heir technically married Alayne Stone, no such process had been deemed necessary then. Once they left the Vale, Littlefinger intended to spread the rumor that his daughter had tragically died. One less loose end to tie up.

Aegon had been a handsome man of an age with herself, with exotic blue hair that Sansa found charming. She remembered feeling confused by the whole thing, however, for she thought Petyr meant to take Winterfell by marrying her himself. It made her ill. She liked Aegon, although she had no love for him either, nor did she trust him. She knew that, if she were to marry him, surely he would be dead in a matter of time as well. Petyr still had bigger plans; he’d only altered them a bit to accommodate the new player who entered his game of thrones. Sansa pitied her, too, whoever this Dragon Queen was. Would dragons be a match for the kind of scheming that went on at court? If the skulls said to be kept below the Red Keep were any indicator, the answer was no.

Petyr’s possessiveness of her was confirmed in the design of her wedding dress, she noted as she looked on herself in a full-length mirror, handmaidens playing at her hair and lacing her bodice. Little wolves and mockingbirds decorated the collar, a subtle gesture that she was still his. Time was running out, and still she had no plan or opportunity.

Once she was married to Aegon, they would be returning to Winterfell. It made Alayne sick to think that Littlefinger might sit in her true father’s seat someday, and it was with that mental image that she knew she had to go, now, or die in the attempt. The time for waiting had run its course. She would deny him Winterfell. She had to. Even if she meant she would never see it again herself.

Her heart sank, then, when the door swung open, and Littlefinger entered the bedchamber. He sent the girls away, and Sansa remembered how hopeless it seemed when she heard the sound of metal and wood as the lock slid into place; he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight until the deed was done. She missed her chance, if she’d ever had one.

He had other intentions, however. As he poured them each a cup of wine, he instructed her that she needed to make her new prince happy. She wouldn’t get out of it with her clever tricks this time, for he intended for her to be wed for much longer. Since she had never laid properly with a man before, with the Septon having already inspected her, he intimated to her that the first time should be something special, and what was more special than the love he had for her? What better way to learn, than from one’s own father? He offered her a cup of wine then, to toast to the new life that was waiting for her, and to special occasions such as these.

Sansa stared at him, wondering if he truly thought her to be such a fool. He’s always underestimated me, she thought. She refused the wine, claiming to have an upset stomach from the tightness of her lacings. She did have an upset stomach, in truth, but the dress was not the cause. He offered to loosen it for her, setting Sansa’s skin to crawling.

It hadn’t mattered, in the end. Ultimately growing tired of her polite refusals, Littlefinger pushed her roughly down on the bed, crawling on top of her and kissing her. Silent tears ran down the sides of her face, knowing he didn’t plan on stopping at kissing. Not tonight.

She could have screamed, but what good would it have done her? Littlefinger would surely have lies prepared, would likely make it seem as though she initiated it. He didn’t act without forethought. It made sense to her now, how he always asked her to kiss him , rather than the other way around.

Completely at his mercy, Sansa almost accepted her fate and let it happen. Almost...

He had her wrists pinned to the bed, surprisingly strong for such a small man, although she gave him no struggle. She just laid there, frozen in her fear and despair. He was trailing wet kisses down her neck, and when he came back up to lick her ear, a whisper escaped his lips. “Cat."

That had been the straw that broke the horse’s back, disturbing Sansa so thoroughly that it jolted her to act. He once told her how he’d claimed the maidenheads of both her mother and her aunt Lysa; one of those, she knew, was a lie. It revolted her to think he would add hers to his collection. She would stick to her original plan: get out of here, or die in the attempt. She waited for him to shift in his position atop her, when she could gain enough momentum to knee him—hard—in the groin.

Everything happened so fast, then. She took advantage of his distraction as he howled in pain, shoving him off her onto the floor, and leapt off the bed to the other side. Heart hammering so hard she thought it might burst, she spied a knife on the cheese platter her handmaids had brought up earlier. She sprinted over and grabbed it, spun around, and held it out just as he was upon her again, the point threatening to pierce his throat if he came closer.

Then, time seemed to freeze as she looked into his eyes, and he looked into hers. He was furious, but not stupid; he lifted his arms in surrender.

“You surprise me, my sweet child,” he said in a sickeningly sweet voice. “Put the knife down, and we shall never speak of this again. How does that sound?”

He was smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It never reached his eyes.

“Have some wine,” she said, her voice quaking as much as her hands, betraying her. He protested at the idea, and Sansa drove the blade forward enough to puncture the skin.

“Drink. It.” She said through clenched teeth, in her attempt to hold back sobs. “Go to sleep. Or I will put you to sleep.”

She walked forward as he walked backward, until he bumped into the dressing table where he’d abandoned the goblets. “The other one,” she demanded when she saw him choose the one he’d poured for himself.

He tried to talk her out of it, made her empty promises and assured her he would make it up to her if she’d only put the knife away; but he never apologized. In the end, she’d drawn enough of his life’s blood to force him into it.

It worked so quickly, it surprised her. Littlefinger crumpled to the floor moments later. Curiously, however, he remained conscious. Paralyzed, she realized, her stomach churning. Only his eyes moved.

“My mother never loved you,” she told him, her voice thick with loathing. “And this is for Jeyne.”

Taking the knife, Sansa bent over him and carefully drew a deep gash down the center of his face, from forehead to chin. He was unable to scream, but his eyes were deafening. He could feel it. She drove the knife deepest when it reached his lips, not stopping until it scraped the teeth beneath. She split his tongue as well, for the snake he was. Grotesque and quartered, no one would ever want to kiss those lips again. Or trust the words that come out of them.

Still, she wrapped his face and set him on his side to keep him from bleeding to death, or choking on all the blood. She wasn’t sure how long it would take for someone to find him, or how long the poison would last. Surely, enough time for Petyr to feel confident in his endeavors; but not long enough to waste, either. It was nearing midnight; the wedding was expected to happen soon.

After that, time seemed to speed back up again. Shaken from the whole encounter, and horrified by what she’d done, Sansa fumbled around her bedroom and threw anything and everything she might find useful onto the bed. She held the knife in her sleeve and tied the blanket up around her things, tossing it out the window. She used her curtains as a rope to climb far enough down to drop safely, but she paused before she exited, looking back to where Petyr lay on the floor. She didn’t feel sorry. The world would now see his split face as clearly as she had seen his split personalities. He’s the true traitor.

“I wish you would spend this time in regret,” she told him quietly. “But I know you’ll only spend it thinking of lies.”

When she reached the ground, she slumped down against the wall and sobbed in earnest, muffling the sound with her hands. She was shaking all over, and her chest heaved as she struggled to breathe through all her panic.

“Go!” she thought she heard a bird screech from the roof. “Go! Go!”

She did go. And she didn’t look back.

Getting out of the Gates of the Moon had been easy after that, with how well she came to know the layout since the Eyrie had closed for Winter, and all her failed, secret schemes of escape. She knew all the best hiding places. She knew when and where the guards were stationed, what their habits were, how attentive they were to their post. It was the dead of night, besides. She was able to slip by them without notice.

When she reached the Bloody Gate, the guards asked where she was going, but didn’t question her further. She had donned a few extra cloaks to give herself a hunched appearance, her sack slung over her shoulder, her head down. She did her best to sound old and frail as she told them she was going to her daughter’s village before the snows piled too high, for she was to be a grandmother. She could have cried with relief when they gave her passage, congratulating her and wishing her a safe journey. It had been anything but, in truth, although she knew it could have been much worse. They could have found me .

It had been snowing when she left, but Sansa took care to try and cover her tracks, or misdirect them when she could by walking in a circle and then walking out from it in different directions. It slowed her progress considerably, but she hoped it would have the same effect on the search party.

She walked until her feet were numb and blistered, and then walked some more. She slept mostly in trees, when she could find ones with dense enough branches to hide her. She ate bugs, leaves, and snow. She shivered so hard she feared her bones might break. But she made it. She decided upon making human contact again that she must remain as Alayne, and would likely be Alayne until her death. She had been wrong, however…it felt as though she had been reborn.

Tears were in her eyes as she thought back on it all. It was the first time she’d properly reflected on the memory, and she found she was filled with a new strength for it. Things seemed so bleak before, but now...

The Gods were good, and although there were no wolves left, at least a dog had survived. It would never be enough, she thought sadly, but it was the best she could have hoped for.

The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

He had a pack of his own now, and he did not howl...but Jon Snow’s wolf had never howled either; a mute. She remembered the red of his eyes, the white of his fur, the face; he looked every bit like a Weirwood. Just as Sandor Clegane looked every bit a faithful servant of the Seven.

But Ghost was still a wolf, and perhaps Sandor Clegane was still a dog. He couldn’t come with her when she left this place, but if she was lucky, maybe he would impart on her some of his ferocity. She would need it on the path ahead.

Inside, she was not only Sansa Stark; she was Alayne, she was Myranda, she was Jeyne, she was Septa Mordane, she was Cersei, and Margaery, even Littlefinger...she was Arya, Jon, Robb, Bran, Rickon, her Father, her lady mother...a Stark. A lady. A wolf. Even a little bird. She carried pieces of everyone she knew inside her, wove them into her, and called on them when she needed them. In that way, she would never be alone, not truly.

She was pondering on that when the door to the common hall opened, snow swirling in as the Elder Brother crossed the threshold. He mostly took meals in his personal chambers, but every few days or so he would join the others here, sitting with a different brother each time; but she noticed that he had his eyes on her often. Sometimes he would come to her, and walk with her awhile and talk. Hoping she would open herself up to him more, she knew, but she guarded her secrets well.

He had been helping to clear the walkways, she observed, for he was glistening with sweat and covered in snow. He shook off the excess as he took notice of her, and came to sit across from her at the table.

“Winter is here in earnest, it would seem.” he said, shrugging off his heavy cloak. Snow still clung to his eyebrows. Sansa had finished her breakfast already, but felt contented to keep him company. He turned down a meal in favor of hot cider, and considered Sansa as he drank.

“What’s on your mind, child?” he asked, noting her expression.

“Nothing of consequence,” she lied. She changed the subject quickly. “I would like to join your prayers today, if it please you,” she said, “To pray for Spring.”

Elder Brother smiled at that. “You would be most welcome to join your prayers to ours, Alayne; I would be pleased to have you attend with us at long last.”

Sansa bowed her head slightly in apology. “I confess it, my faith was shaken.”

“Pray I ask what has restored it?” Sansa looked up at him, biting her lip.

She had the sharp instinct to tell him no, to go away. He always wanted to know things. He's not mining you for information, she told herself. All the same, trust came hard. Genuine as he seemed, Septons were no more likely to adhere to a vow than a Knight or King, and no less likely to take liberties with the vulnerable. She liked Elder Brother, but she had liked others too, just before they betrayed her.

“The Gods have shown me proof beyond doubt that they are with me,” she said after a moment. “The old and the new.”

“You worship all the Gods?” He asked, interested.

Sansa shook her head. “Not all. Just those.”

“I’ve heard it said that the more Gods you keep, the harder it is to have faith. You must be blessed indeed.”

Sansa laughed at the word. “Forgive me, but I would sooner call myself cursed, for all the challenges they seem like to face me with. I have renewed faith, and it gives me joy. But it has cost me greatly as well.”

The look in Elder Brother’s eyes was of empathy; perhaps he too felt cursed, although he didn’t say so. “The Gods reward the faithful, and they challenge the worthy, sweet child. Winter doesn’t last forever.”

“Only for the living,” she replied quietly.

The wind howled against the windows, and the Elder Brother considered her. “Surely you’ve heard that Dragons fly our skies, and the dead march in the far North. I wouldn’t think it so far-fetched to believe you will feel the Spring breeze upon your face again.”

Sansa smiled in spite of herself, for the thought of Dragons and restless dead frightened her, but none so much as Littlefinger. His wrath would be terrible if he ever found her.

“Indeed, it’s as though the songs and stories are coming true. But none of the ones that have happy endings.”

“Life’s not a song, or a story,” he said to her gently.

“I learned that lesson long ago,” Sansa replied dully. To my sorrow.  

The Elder Brother placed a hand over hers. “It seems to me that each have their own value to offer the other still. Life doesn’t need to be like the songs. You only need find something of your own to sing about.”

She raised her eyes, and they looked at each other for a long moment. Then, he rose from the table and said he looked forward to seeing her at prayer. He left, leaving Sansa alone to ponder on his words.

Chapter Text

SANDOR 6

The snows raged on over the course of the next two days, unrelenting. It was all he could do to continue his preparations in between all his other duties, as well as his distraction, which plagued him as much as the snows had since that night in the sept.

He had dreamt of her again last night. She’d been wearing the dress she arrived in. The wedding dress. It wasn’t ragged in his dream, however, but newly made and still magnificent. Blood red and blinding white, with long, wide-mouthed sleeves. Pearls crusted the bodice, and rubies were sewn in along the skirts. In his dream, she was facing away from him, and stood next to her was her husband-to-be. 

The man’s back was to him as well, and he was shorter than her. It looked unnatural; the whole scene was wrong. They weren't in a sept, or before a white tree. They were on the parapet, and where a Septon should be was instead Ned Stark, his head mounted up on a spike and looking down on them with sad dead eyes. It sent his blood to boiling. Sandor was standing at the other end of the long walk, wanting to stop it, but he could not speak. Then he felt it. At his side, there was a sword strapped at his hip. He looked down to see he wasn’t wearing his usual dun-and-brown robes, but his old armor instead. 

Instinctively, Sandor unsheathed the sword and strode forward, down the long aisle that seemed to grow longer as he progressed, raising it as he advanced. He knew what to do. It was too late by the time the man felt his presence and started to turn around. He brought the sword down on him without a second thought, cutting him from shoulder to navel. Sandor tried to see his face, but all he saw was red, red, red...

He turned to the girl, the redness of his rage dissolving as quickly as it came on. He expected her to be horrified by what he’d done, as he now was, to run screaming from his presence. Instead, she looked on him as though he had just pulled her from a burning building.

“I knew you’d come,” she breathed.

Still unable to speak, Sandor let his sword fall to the ground with a clatter, and she reached up to touch his face. He was cradling hers as well, he realized, and she pressed a cheek into his palm with a feline affection. He slid the flat of his thumb over her lips, and they parted to draw in a shuddering breath. Just as he bent to kiss them, he awoke.

It took Sandor a moment to realize he’d been dreaming, but when he did, he was flooded with familiar feelings of shame and disgust. His fantasies were getting more deranged after that night in the sept, but that wasn’t what he felt ashamed of most. Her words rang in his ears. I knew you’d come.

You never came for her, the voice in his head sneered. You left her, tail between your legs. All she had endured since then had been at least partially his fault. The dream served as a reminder of that. No matter how his subconscious tried, he would never be able to change the past.

"What is it about the Stark girl, that instills such regret in you?" Elder Brother had asked in a confession long ago. 

He had to give it some thought; regret wasn't a familiar feeling. After a time, he thought he settled on an explanation. "She was innocent. Truly innocent."

"You're no stranger to killing the innocent," Elder Brother pointed out. "Even children."

"Child," Sandor corrected roughly. "One who struck the Princeling I was charged to protect, who I remind you was a child as well. I rode him down, aye, and I would again. What do you think the Lannisters would've done to the boy, had I brought him back alive? Called it the folly of youth, sent him on his way?" He snorted. "They'd have given him worse than he got, I tell you."

"So it was for mercy, that you cut him near in two?" There was no judgment in his tone, but Sandor felt it all the same. He scowled. 

"If I didn't find him, one of them would have," he said. "The boy was no needle in a haystack. More like a big sitting duck on top of one."

"You cannot know how different things might've been, had you taken the other path," Elder Brother said calmly. "Just as you cannot know if the Stark girl's suffering would've been less, had you remained close. Only the Gods can speak to why things happen the way they do. But it seems to me, regardless of right and wrong, you try to choose the path of least suffering."

"What's it matter?" he asked bitterly. "They still suffer."

"It matters greatly. It means you belong here."

He had resumed eating at normal times in the common hall again, as well as continuing to teach the little bird his silent language. Neither of them spoke of the mutual recognition while others were around, but it was acknowledged in subtle ways—his eating in front of her, for one thing. For another, she attended the daily prayers now, and would take her place beside him in the sept.

She had taken to following him around everywhere, in fact. Scattering feed while he tended the animals, spreading gravel while he shoveled snow, and singing while she worked alongside him. Sandor was perplexed at first, to hear her sing around him so willingly, as she once promised she would when she was still innocent. He soon found himself keeping an ear open for the sound, though. Her voice was a warmth that cut through the swirling angry bite of Winter. Sometimes, he caught himself humming along.

Her chirping had also become more honest, now that she knew him. She still held back too many details, and he didn’t press her for more, but she confirmed she had been in the Vale during their time apart, posing as some Lord’s bastard daughter. She wouldn't speak his name. It was a nagging mystery. She was so close by this whole time, Sandor thought for the hundredth time. While he was healing, she had suffered, only a stone’s throw away. The injustice of that made him ill. He almost brought the little sister there, once...if he had known, he would have found his way up that fucking rock. If there were Gods, why did they needlessly heap their tests, as Elder Brother often characterized it, upon her?

The snows were piled up so high on either side of the walkways that they came to his chest now. The wind had hardened them into walls of ice, and today Sandor lifted the girl up to sit atop them, to get a better view of the landscape. That, too, had changed: she didn’t tense up when he touched her, as she had that first night. The way her eyes lit up at the sight of the open world before her sent Sandor’s chest to thumping. She had looked on him with a similar expression in his dream.

Soon, the temperatures would drop too low to spend so long outdoors, but it gave Sandor comfort to know that any parties out looking for the girl would surely be turning back now, not wanting to risk their own lives in the pursuit. Maybe they even thought her dead, since they hadn’t come sniffing around for her here yet. Perhaps he could start sleeping a little easier, although he knew he wouldn’t.

The wind howled constantly, and Sansa confided to him that it reminded her of home. He wanted to tell her that ‘home’ doesn’t exist for her anymore, but he didn’t see the benefit of reminding her; she likely already knew. She’s not a child anymore, he told himself. The only lessons she needed from him were the ones he was already giving her at mealtimes.

This place felt closer to a home than he’d ever known, but it still wasn’t where he belonged. Elder Brother was wrong about that. He’d always considered ‘home’ to be the grave he would one day be dumped into. Sandor had no home, it seemed to him, but it didn't bother him so much. Perhaps he found something better. A beating heart, a head full of songs, and a tormented existence that rivaled his own.

She thinks I kissed her. He couldn’t put it out of his mind. It hadn’t come up again, which was a relief just as much as it was a frustration. If I had kissed her, I would’ve known it, and I sure as shit wouldn’t have stopped there. 

He hadn't kissed her. He dreamed he had, countless times, in his mind's desperate attempts to overwrite the truth. But it wasn't so. He'd been broken by her. It was part of the reason he wound up here at all, Elder Brother had pointed out. Another mercy she bestowed, without ever knowing. And here she sat, thinking the Hound was the first man to kiss her. Seeming to think that was a good thing. It sickened him.

Once the walkways were clear again at last—for the day, at least—Sandor returned to where the little bird was perched. He signed that he was going to the stables, offering to lift her down so she could find something else to do, as she usually did this time of day. He intended on getting snowshoes on Stranger and seeing how he fared. The beast had never seen snows this high.

“Can I come?” She asked. Sandor hesitated. 'Horse dangerous,' he signed. The last thing he needed was for Stranger to bite off one of her ears.

She blushed a little as she said, “I know. I mean...that’s how I knew. Who you were.” She met his eyes. “I went to the stables to help, but you weren’t there. He was.”

That explains a lot, he thought, narrowing his eyes at her. If he had been more careful, he could have preserved the truth longer from her. He would be lying to himself if he said he would change it if he could, though. She never failed to meet his eyes, despite knowing him. In fact, she was spending more time around him because she knew him. He couldn't comprehend it, and was ever in two warring minds about it.

Was the rest worth withholding from her? The plan, the bags packed in the empty stall, the purpose for training his horse for these conditions? The thought of spelling it out for her with his hands was enough to decide that, no, he wouldn’t give her information she didn’t need. So long as he was here, and she was safe,  nothing needed to change or become more complicated. It was only a last resort, not a sure thing to stake expectations on.

He gave her his consent to come along, and she lifted her arms enough for him to take her by the waist and lower her to the ground. “He even let me pat him,” she said proudly as they walked, and he looked down at her. ‘Liar,’ he signed. She didn’t know that word, but seemed to gather his meaning from his expression.

“I’m being honest! I’ll show you,” she insisted. Sandor snorted, signing ‘no’, as in, no you won’t.

He regretted it at once. “You can stop me, if you can catch me,” she said defiantly, her expression playful. Before he could react, Sansa tore off down the walkway, disappearing around a corner.

A string of curses were at the tip of Sandor’s tongue as he half-ran after her, his lame leg betraying him. He walked often to keep the stiffness at bay, but running was an effort. He had none of his old speed, nor was it a pretty sight, and trying to do so now soured his mood. How was he supposed to take care of her when he couldn’t even keep up with her? He slowed to a walk as she came into view again, at the other end of the aisle from him already. She seemed to notice, for she stopped as she was about to round the next corner, and looked back at him.

Sandor felt more humiliated with every step as he lurched over to her, where she stood waiting, breathless. He didn’t hurry on her account, not wanting her to see him hobble any more than she needed to. As he got closer, he saw the apologetic look on her face. He put up a hand to silence her as she opened her mouth to placate him, and brushed past her, continuing onwards towards the stable block.

She walked quickly to keep a pace with him. “I’m sorry,” she said, and it was hard not to take her sincerity as pity. “I forgot.”

He only grunted in response, and the rest of the walk passed by in silence. When they reached Stranger’s stall, the horse walked forward to bring his head over the stable door, recognizing his master. To shift the tension away from his injured pride, he signed to Sansa that the brothers had re-named his horse ‘Driftwood’. She laughed at that, and in spite of himself, he secretly smiled with her. It was a ridiculous name.

“It doesn’t suit him,” she observed. Sandor grunted his agreement as he took the snowshoes from the wall and entered Stranger’s stall to fit them on him. As predicted, he didn’t like it much. He swatted Sandor in the face with his tail and jerked his feet away as he tried to grab them. Sansa was at the door watching, and giggling.

“Stranger is one of the seven faces of God,” she said thoughtfully after a few minutes, as Sandor was fastening the second shoe. He looked up to see her stroking the beast’s muzzle. Only because I’m sitting here, he assured himself.

She continued, “It’s strange, then, that he is held in such contempt even by the holiest men. If death is a part of life, why condemn him so?”

Because people only like pretty things, like you used to, he wanted to say. Instead, he settled on spelling out, ‘Fear’.

Sandor finished strapping the snowshoes onto Stranger’s hooves, and he stood to look it all over. The horse pawed the ground, displeased, but wasn’t trying to kick them off either. He took that as a good sign, and pointed to where the saddle and bridle were kept, asking Sansa to retrieve them, which she did.

“Do you mean to ride out into the villages with him?” She asked, a trace of apprehension to her voice. Was she afraid he was going to leave her?

‘No,’ he signaled, before spelling out, ‘training’. She relaxed somewhat, and Sandor led the now-bridled horse out of the stall by his reins. He would lead him around on foot at first before trying to ride; Sandor wasn’t even sure if the snow would hold up under both of their weight. It was hardened enough for the little bird to sit upon, but that wasn’t saying much.

Sansa giggled at the sight of Stranger walking in his snowshoes, lifting his feet up much higher than necessary due to the foreign objects strapped to them. Sandor mocked the horse too, shaking his reins a little and running a hand down his face. He had cleared out a ramp the night before, for Stranger to be able to get to that height more easily. He wouldn’t be able to run in these shoes, just as Sandor couldn’t run either. He felt a queer sense of solidarity with the horse over that.

Sansa wanted to join them atop the snow, but Sandor thought her tiny feet would send her to sinking, so he lifted her up onto the horse instead. Sitting side-saddle, she patted his mane as they progressed across the open field, Stranger still lifting his feet too high but adjusting all the same. His own feet sank more than the horse’s hooves did, and Sandor cursed inwardly at the thought of having to wear snowshoes himself. He decided to turn back for now, rather than risk a collapse; a spooked horse with a girl astride would be disaster. So he turned Stranger around and headed back for the ramp, contented to let the horse adjust to his new footing on solid ground, so that the girl could continue to ride.

“I told you he liked me,” she said, triumphant. Sandor rolled his eyes at her, but didn’t argue. He would let her have this victory. He led the horse around for awhile, who occasionally stomped his hooves and threw his head in protest, but remained calm otherwise.

Sansa was silent again, and Sandor could tell she was thinking. She always considered her words carefully before she said them, he knew. She’d had to. Where they had come from, the wrong words could mean your life.

“I wish you could speak,” she said finally, quietly. “Or that I understood more. I wish you could co—I wish I could know you better, before...” she trailed off, looking out over the landscape and biting her lip. “Before I’m on my own again.”

Sandor stopped walking, Stranger stopping with him. Sansa looked down at him, her eyes shining with tears she was holding back. He stared up at her incredulously. He wouldn’t expect her to know that he was intended to go with her, wherever it led, but the fact that she could want that was too much. 

With one hand still clutching the reins, he spelled out each word for her with the other: ‘I never kissed you.’

I’m not the man you think I am. It was unfair for him to mislead her into thinking him better than he was. No matter how good it felt. His mouth twitched.

She didn’t seem to comprehend at first, apparently not expecting that to be his response. “Yes, you did,” she insisted, a little indignantly. “I remember.”

‘Remember wrong,’ he signed. She shook her head.

“Stop it.” she snapped. “You did. You might feel ashamed by it, but don't deny it. A Lady remembers her first kiss.”

Sandor glared up at her, wanting to shake her out of the delusion. He sighed, gesturing to his face; it wasn’t visible, but she knew what lie underneath. Having to spell it out, he said, ‘Never kissed.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘Anyone. Ever.’

In truth, the only kisses Sandor had ever known were received from whores, but never on the mouth. He had laid with them to make himself feel like a man, but it never gave him that sensation. Kisses were never part of the transaction; his face was the death of arousal.

She looked lost at sea, for the look in her eyes. “But I remember…” She was thinking back on it, he knew, replaying the scene in her mind. He watched her expression as she mulled it over. Finally, after a time, she let out a sullen sigh.

“I remembered it so clearly,” she murmured, eyes on her hands. “It was something no one could take from me; even if everything else had been lost. I…wished it were true so badly, I made it so.” She raised her eyes to him; ashamed, of all things. 

‘Wish something else. Deserved better’, he signed, spelling out the words she didn’t know. 'Not a dog.'

He felt he had robbed her of something, but at the same time felt as though he had saved her from it as well. Sansa’s expression hardened however, and she looked almost affronted.

“You don’t get to tell me what I deserve,” she bristled. “No one does.”

Sandor raised his eyebrows at the sudden shift in demeanor, but made no retort. When Sansa spoke again, her tone had a conviction to it that he’d never heard before.

“I wished for a handsome prince, and I got one. And he beat me and murdered my father. Then I was promised to a crippled lord, and I wished for him as well. His family abandoned me the moment I wasn’t useful. I gave up wishing after that, I only wished to be left alone, but it didn't matter. They married me to the dwarf whose family murdered mine,” She was counting them off on her digits. “Then married a second time to a lordling who only cared about himself, only to be betrothed to another handsome prince, who only sought my claim.”

Five fingers, five suitors. Sandor felt sick.

“That night, when the Blackwater burned,” she went on. “I won’t deny it: you frightened me. You were so angry..." She reached out for him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “But I forgave you. I understood, in time. You were afraid too.” Sandor looked away, disgusted by the memory.

“Even on that terrible night, you never did me harm. I never forgot. The last time I saw this horse, you saved me. I thought you kissed me, and I clung to it all this time..." She trailed off again, and Sandor looked back up into her eyes. It was like staring into the sun, for how difficult it was.

“Perhaps because I’ve seen enough of this world to know...a wolf would take a kiss from a dog before a prince—every time—had she a choice in the matter.”

Sandor couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t stand here, listening to her acknowledge how horrible he was with one breath, while raising him up like some gallant knight from a story with another. He had shown her only the most basic decencies, but they were so foreign to her, she mistook them for honor. He cherished the lack of fear in her eyes when she looked at him now, but fear was what he’d earned. Not this...whatever it was. Fear was easier.

She gasped as he pulled her roughly from the saddle, pinning her against Stranger’s midsection. The horse threw his head and half-reared, but didn’t move.

He bent his face down to hers, his eyes blazing, a growl low in his throat. He wanted to scare her, willing her to see how wrong she was, to feel threatened by the ugly reality of him in her face. Does this look like the face of a man you want to be kissing you?

But she didn’t look even slightly afraid, for all her heavy breathing. Was she... excited?

Sandor’s grip on her slackened, nonplussed and disturbed. As he moved to back away from her, however, her hands flew forward.

She took hold of the wool covering his mouth, pulled him down and exposed him in the process. Sandor could have easily jerked out of her gasp, he knew, but his brain seemed disconnected from his body.

“You can’t frighten me,” she breathed, their faces inches apart. She seemed to be realizing it for herself in that moment, for the look on her face. So close, and impossibly beautiful. He could count her freckles from here, and her lashes too, fluttering over lids that went heavy. Without warning she yanked the wool again, and suddenly, her lips were pressed against his.

His eyes were wide in shock as she kissed him—not caring if he reciprocated or not, it seemed. Her hands grasped either side of his face, firm, as though to hold him there. Sandor told himself he should stop her, reminded himself he was bigger and stronger than her, that the consequences would be dire if he didn’t put an end to it. But the fire blazing in the pit of his stomach ignored it all; he was entirely powerless, where she was concerned.

All reason left him as he leaned into her and took soft hair in his hands, cradling her head gingerly as he kissed Sansa Stark back, feeling outside himself, giving every ounce of passion he received, until her lips were swelled and soft under his. Her hands loosened, coiled themselves around his neck. He found the small of her back and pressed her closer, eliciting a tiny whimper.

Then she bit his lip—hard—and with a jolt he drove his tongue into her mouth. She met him there, felt her smiling as her tongue slid against his. It tasted sweet like spiced cider, and he drank it desperately. He tipped her head back to reach her neck, felt a moan rise up it and into his ear. 

“Sandor,” she sighed. It nearly made him lose control, but he became suddenly aware. Of who he was, where he was.

Sandor broke away from her, his breath coming out in ragged plumes. She held fast, keeping him close. 

“Sansa,” he whispered, half a gasp, resting his forehead against hers. His mind was still numb and uncomprehending, but comfortably so, for this briefest moment.

The wind howled louder than ever. He did not belong here. It was truer now than ever. He didn't know if he belonged anywhere. And yet, for a heartbeat, he felt her arms around his neck, and they felt like home.

Chapter Text

SANSA 6

Sansa opted to walk the grounds by herself today, not offering herself up for any chores. She wanted this time to herself to think, and yet for all the thinking she had done already, she still felt just as conflicted as before—perhaps more.

She made it all the way to the docks where she first arrived at this place, gazing out over the water that had not been there when she’d made her crossing. Elder Brother told her the tide had swept in only moments after pulling her from the mud that day. I was meant to come here. I was meant to find him.

She felt much less claustrophobic here, on the shore. The world seemed to open up, outside the tall walls of snow and ice that only grew higher by the day. The brothers had set wooden beams across the tops of the walkways this morning, now that they were high enough to be traveled by the tallest of them. It kept the snow off the footpaths, but it was so dark that the brothers took to carrying lanterns around everywhere they went. She closed her eyes as the howling picked back up again, embracing the feel of the snow falling on her face.

Despite all the things she was feeling, Sansa didn’t feel shame. She knew what shame felt like, and this wasn’t it. She had misjudged Joffrey, and that had been shameful. She had betrayed her father, and that too filled her with shame. Trusting Cersei, the Tyrells, Dontos, Littlefinger...trusting everyone for their pretty words and never considering that they could be lies. All the things she'd done in the name of surviving, of taking a lesser evil, avoiding a beating. Shame. She was ashamed she didn't hug her brothers and sister more. She thought of Arya, and how bitterly they'd quarreled. It was all so trivial now. She was most likely dead now too, as the rest. And she most likely died hating me.

Sansa had since learned how to detect falsehoods and sow distrust. Her skin had thickened, her spine hardened. She was stronger now. Although it was too late in too many cases, she must not look back and dwell. Missteps are only an opportunity to adapt. His lessons were valuable, even if the implementation was evil. Only the things in front of her were within her control. I must believe in Spring. I was meant to come here.

It hadn’t been a first kiss, she had to concede, but it had been the best kiss. She touched her fingers to her lips, remembering. His mouth was rough on one side where the burn scars touched it, but not unpleasant. She could still feel his large nose pressed against hers, his hot breath over her neck, strong arms holding her close. His tongue, surprisingly soft and gentle. She couldn't describe the taste; it was simply his, and without a trace of mint.

Perhaps best and worst of all, he had broken his vows in her name—quite literally so. He spoke. Although an observer might call it sin, Sansa found it to be quite divine.

But then he had found himself again and broken away from her in earnest, signed her a stiff farewell and stalked off towards the stables to return Stranger, looking utterly dazed. Sansa hadn't followed him, much as she wanted to. She had been dazed as well.

It amused her at first, to put The Hound in such disarray. But it was unfair and unbecoming, she knew. She had taken the kiss from him, to make up for the one she thought he’d taken from her, and it wasn’t until he left her standing there in the snow that she realized just how selfish it had been. The guilt grew stronger when he missed dinner that night, and to break his fast this morning. If he was absent again, Sansa resolved to seek him out, find the words for a proper apology. Break his door down if I have to. She felt guilty for what she'd done, knowing how it went against the values he was sworn to uphold. But she didn't feel sorry.

Sansa had liked it. For the first time in her life, she felt what it was like to have a man grow weak for no other reason than because she was touching him; and not just any man. Sandor Clegane, the Hound.

When she pondered on it further, she realized that it was still a ‘first’ in other ways, ones that were perhaps more meaningful besides. If he were to be believed, it was the first time anyone had kissed him; Sansa couldn’t help herself feeling proud about that; powerful, in a way. Most importantly, however, it was the first kiss she had chosen to give. Nothing was at stake, no one had coerced her, or arranged it in advance; it had been hers to give, and it made all the difference.

It was the kind of kiss she’d always heard about in songs, but had never seen proof of for herself. Life isn’t a song, the words came back to her. But, she saw it for the reality it was as well, and she found it diminished nothing. It might even be worth singing about.

Before Alayne, before spending time in the company of Myranda Royce, Sansa never would have been so bold. A devious smile crept to her lips at that. Littlefinger sowed such boldness most of all, yet he will reap none of it. She wondered what he would think of that, but desperately hoped she would never find out. Littlefinger was easily the biggest danger to her now, and she would not come out victorious in any realistic confrontation with him. Not even with the Hound at her side; his strength would be no match for Littlefinger’s numbers. Or cunning, she had to admit. She didn’t think Sandor Clegane a dull man; quite the opposite, he was cleverer than he let on. But one clever man against Littlefinger’s sort of scheming was no match. Not that that would ever come to pass. He would remain here long after she was gone, and be the happier for it.

Sansa decided she was glad she had taken the chance while she had one. She had a real memory now, and far better than the one imagined. Perhaps one day he might feel glad for it, too, she thought hopefully. If he didn’t hate her for it. 

There had been a heat to the moment that possessed her. He wanted to frighten her, and it might have worked once. But there was no rage in his ferocity, and it cast a different light over his size and strength. It excited her, even, that perhaps his newfound faith hadn't rendered him completely docile. And she was already so taken by the mystery of what it would be like...

Something had changed after the dream from the night before. It had started out as a nightmare. It was her wedding night again, but instead of Aegon, she was marrying Littlefinger. Her father's mournful severed head watched in silence, forced to bear witness to his daughter's failure. But then he had come, cut him down right before her eyes. She had woken just as he bent to kiss her. That queer, inexplicable disappointment had followed her the entire day, and intensified with the revelation that he’d never kissed her at all...right up until she’d kissed him for herself.

She meant for the kiss to be quick and chaste, just enough to satisfy her own curiosity. But a strange ache had come over her, something she’d never felt before in the presence of anyone but for herself and her own midnight musings. It made her redden just to think of it. Myranda would be teasing her right now, but would also be proud. She wished so badly to have her friend about her; someone to talk to about it all.

With the knowledge that he wouldn’t hurt her—with his words or otherwise—she actually found some of his aspects more appealing than frightening. She wondered if that frustrated him, and it made her smile to think it did. His fearsome visage was his armor just as her courtesies had been hers. He had always seen through her armor, however. Now, she could see through his as well. Kissing was often done with eyes closed besides. He wasn't burned when she kissed him.

And he kissed me back. Surely some part of him was willing, to kiss her like that. Sansa had never reciprocated an unwanted kiss so well. She had already taken more than she should, she repeatedly chided herself. There could be no repeating it, despite the way she already yearned to. Once was wrong enough. They were on holy ground, he was a holy man, and he was promised to the Gods now, not to her. If the Elder Brother were to find out...

She told herself similar things while deciding whether to confront him about his identity, and yet it had changed her actions not at all. And now she had kissed him. I have to seize my moments, or I'll never have them. What would her own selfishness possess her to do next?

I was meant to find him. Even if she were to have her way, what realistic future was there? She was hunted by Littlefinger and the crown; even without those concerns, where would the Hound fit in? She might only drag him down to die with her, and was too highborn for it to be allowed otherwise.

Matches weren’t made for kisses. She distantly hoped to reclaim her family’s seat someday, now that there was no one left to but for herself. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. How could she win the hearts of her people if not for binding her house through a good marriage? The thought sickened her; had Cersei been right all along? Was her only means of power in this world tucked between her legs? Would she never have a choice in the matter, would her own merits never have worth, just because of her sex? Was it really she who was selfish, or those who put such importance on such matters?

Sansa had to halt herself. She had only wanted a kiss, and now she was thinking of marriage. How could I not? She’d been wed twice, betrothed thrice. She'd been taken down that path for less. When he had come to her in her dream, the sight of him standing there instead of Littlefinger—or anyone else—it had pleased her. Against all reason, she couldn't think of anyone else she might have preferred better.

Of course, outside of dreams, the notion was ridiculous; but it planted a dangerous idea all the same. After all her suitors, after all her experiences, after all her suffering…her stomach was fluttering. It had been so long since it did that. He was hard and fierce on the outside, but there was an inner warmth that ran through him as well. Like Winterfell. 

I was meant to find him. But not to keep him, it would seem. She was a selfish girl, but she was not quite that selfish; even if he had a choice in the matter, which he didn’t. Nor do I, in the end. He was promised here, and she was destined elsewhere; she would take care to put that particular idea out of her mind, and try to make the most of the time she had.

After all, marriage involved more than mere companionship; she was more than familiar with the concept, albeit not as yet intimately so. Sansa wasn’t capable of pondering such things without feeling thoroughly repulsed. Marriage was no longer an exciting prospect, not since she left Winterfell. But I might return to Winterfell; I have to. Then she thought of her father and her lady mother, and knew that her fantasies of love had some basis in reality. And yet, even their story ended in tragedy.

She stood abruptly. The howling was back; no, it had never stopped. Sansa noticed for the first time, however, that there was no wind. Snow was still falling steadily, but it drifted softly in her hair rather than whip at her face. She tried to peer through the trees on the opposite bank, so far away and yet the howling cut through the air so clearly. There had to be a whole pack of them, she thought. Hundreds. There were so many voices lost in the noise of it all, but one was deeper than the others and easier to pick out.

If the Hound were with her, Sansa knew he would point out that wolves were as common as bread and bastards; but it sent her hair standing on end all the same. Were they warning her, or beckoning her forth? If this was another sign from the Gods, she wished it would come to her more clearly. How was she supposed to separate the mundane from the benevolent?

She turned and headed back towards the commune. She was a Stark of Winterfell—the last of her name—and Winter had come. Wolves thrived in Winter. They grew thicker coats, and carried themselves on large paws to prowl atop the snow. Come Spring, things would change; but for now, she was thriving. Maybe she was selfish, but maybe Winter was the time to be so. And Winter showed no signs of stopping any time soon. Winter changed things. She wanted to be kissed like that again.

As the light of the common hall came into view at the end of the long, dark walkway, she noticed someone standing there. Elder Brother. Judging by his body language upon seeing her, he had been waiting for her there.

“I hope you are well, child,” he greeted her as she neared, coming to a stop before him. “If you wouldn’t mind, I would ask you to postpone supper tonight. I have need to speak with you.”

Sansa felt a fluttering in her stomach, but not the thrilling kind this time. “Of course, Elder Brother. I would be glad to join you. Could I ask after the meaning of your need?”

“No,” he replied bluntly. Then he added, “But all will be clear. Come, Lady Stark; we have much to discuss.”

Chapter Text

SANDOR 7

Sandor was pacing restlessly in the Hermit’s Hole, having come to confess to Elder Brother after the day’s prayers. He’d almost convinced himself not to bother, but the man had instilled a powerful sense of guilt in himself that was impossible to set aside. Especially in this.

“I kissed her,” he said through clenched teeth, once the door closed behind them. “Seven fucking Hells, I kissed her.”

That had taken Elder Brother aback, and it took much prying on his part to gather the full story. Sandor revealed all: the night in the Sept, her discovery at the stables, the imagined kiss, and finally, the real one. Even the dream came tumbling out.

The man took it all in without comment—and had the grace not to scold him—but he didn’t necessarily look pleased either.

“I suspected she had discovered you,” sighed Elder Brother. “She's been exceptionally attached to you of late, and I thought it only a matter of time before you came to me about it. But this was not the time nor the manner which I suspected, I admit.”

“No shit,” Sandor replied irritably. It was not the time nor the manner which I suspected, either.

Elder Brother spread his hands. “I think it’s appropriate we include the girl in our plans.”

Sandor balked at that. “There can be no plan,” he shot back, incredulous. “If I folded to temptation here, of all places, what do you think will happen when you turn us loose? Do you care for the girl so little? Send her out with brother Brandon, he’s bonded with the girl as well, but he at least wouldn’t touch her.”

“Brother Brandon has taken vows,” Elder Brother reminded him brusquely. “And so have you, now.”

“Fuck your vows,” He spat, “and fuck mine.” Keep her safe, came the sneer in his head, be selfless in the pursuit. There was nothing selfless in how he’d devoured her. Selfless was in how he separated himself from her now, lest he repeat it.

“Sandor, I do not condone your behavior,” the other man replied impatiently. “But if you tell it true, her choices must be taken into consideration as well; it seems she’s made a lot of them lately.”

“Don’t speak of her like this is her fault,” Sandor snapped, unappreciative of the jest in his tone.

“Of course it’s not her fault,” Elder Brother waved him off irritably. “I only wish to hear her side of this matter, and then we shall let her decide how to proceed. I will not have this go unaddressed, and she deserves to know of our intentions.”

After that, Sandor was instructed to wait as he fetched the girl, leaving him to ferment in his turmoil. He felt at such a loss, he almost prayed to the Crone for guidance. Sandor hadn’t slept well last night, warring with himself over whether to make this confession or not. Presently, he found it to be a mistake. Elder Brother was still going to give him exactly what he wanted.

He regretted coming here first, rather than have an honest discussion with the girl. He’d owed her that. Instead, he’d avoided her entirely, too craven and ashamed to face her, too revolted by what he'd done to leave his cloister at all. He’d attempted to calm his nerves by carving, as he always did, but each time he tried, he ended up with splinters instead. 

How many other men had she kissed to make her kiss like that? It made a chill go through him. The entire event had lost its savor; what little it had to start with .

Not only had he violated her...did she have any idea what she’d done to him? What she likely saw as tying up a loose end, to Sandor it was opening a door that would take all his strength to close again. 

He ceased his pacing as the door to the Hermit’s Hole swung open, Elder Brother stepping aside to see Sansa through the threshold. She looked as apprehensive as Sandor felt. She thinks we’re in trouble, he realized. He might have laughed, if he didn't feel so beside himself.

He hated the thundering in his chest as she took notice of him standing there, his face exposed. She had not flinched both times she’d seen it so far, it was true; nonetheless, it couldn't be a pleasing sight in any context, especially this one. She clearly hadn’t expected to see him.

“Please, take a seat,” Elder Brother instructed to them both. Sandor obeyed, and Sansa sat opposite him, while their mediator took the seat at the head of the long table. The girl’s mind was working fast, clearly trying to figure out how to respond before anything was said.

“Sandor came to me this afternoon with some interesting developments,” Elder Brother began, speaking to Sansa. “I would have the truth from you, my lady.”

Sansa’s eyes met his—the look of guilt matching how he felt—before turning to Elder Brother. “I...” She started, trying to find the words. “I am so deeply sorry for my behavior, Elder Brother. You clothe me, feed me, and shelter me...and I repay you by showing disrespect to your holy vows. Please, do not punish him for what I did. I am the one who initiated it, so it is I who should bear the consequences.” She looked at her hands before adding, “Just...please don’t send me back.”

“I do not deal in punishments here, nor do I seek retribution.” Elder Brother said gently. "The truth I would have of you is not of your actions, of which I have an accounting already. It's your motivations I'm interested in.”

Sansa looked up at him, blushing. Sandor noted that she was avoiding his eyes now.

“I cannot justify my actions,” she said softly, telling him what she thought he wished to hear. “I can only beg forgiveness for them.”

Sandor snorted. “Stop your hand-wringing, girl. You are not the one who needs beg for buggering forgiveness here.” She hadn't heard him speak in earnest all this time, and the sound visibly startled her. “This whole thing is folly.”

Elder Brother frowned at him. “Sandor, please, hold your tongue and let her speak.” Sandor sneered at him, but obeyed.

Turning back to Sansa, he asked, “I beg you to speak truly, my lady, for it will matter greatly. What is this man to you?”

The girl looked like a deer at arrow-point by the question. Sandor himself felt like an intruder on this conversation, although he would be lying if he said he wasn’t interested in what her answer might be. He stared at her intently, watching for lies.

“He’s...” her eyes darted to his, and then away, back to her hands. “Everything. Everything that’s left.” She said it in a whisper, but the word echoed loudly in Sandor’s ears. Everything.

No, little bird, that’s what you are to me. It didn’t work the other way around; she had much more potential than that.

She continued, her cheeks turning a deeper shade of red. “I have lost all who were dear to me. When I discovered the Hound to be among you, alive...I didn’t feel so alone." Tears were welling in her eyes, but then she seemed to remember herself and blinked them away.

Sandor knew what the next words out of Elder Brother’s mouth would be, for he’d said them so many times to the point of being tiresome.

“The Hound is dead,” he corrected her. “He died at the Trident, my Lady." Sansa blinked, looking up at Sandor as though seeing him for the first time. He shrugged in response.

“The old man is weak for his metaphors, that's all.”

Elder Brother gave him a withering look. "Forgive me, but my perspective appears to be incomplete. From all I've been told, I would think you'd sooner call Sandor a foe than friend. How does it happen that you would wish to kiss him rather than flee from him?"

Sansa shifted uncomfortably under the interrogation. "The H—Sandor was never my enemy. I couldn't quite name him a friend, either, but...there was understanding. There was something." Her eyes went to him again, but couldn't seem to linger long. "I behaved rashly, with consideration to none but my own desires, and for that I must again express my regrets.”

Desires.

Elder Brother regarded her thoughtfully. “I don’t wish for you to express regret on my account, or his.” He gestured to her person. “Do you have any regrets for your own sake?"

"Yes, of course," she said at once. "I regret that I would be the cause of any disruption, when I already impose so much. I didn't intend to—"

"That is still regretting on our accounts," the old man interrupted her, not unkindly. "Do you regret what has happened?"

Sansa's expression changed, as if slipping out of a mask. She looked defiant. "No, Elder Brother. I do not regret it at all."

Sandor's stomach lurched, as if in freefall. How could she say that? Elder Brother appeared satisfied by the answer, but he wasn't finished. "Good. So might it be fair to say that you bear no ill feeling for this man? Would you feel safe, if left alone with him again?"

The girl appeared impatient now, though she kept her tone polite. "Forgive me, but what is the purpose of all these questions?"

He smiled gently. "I'm sure you know, as well as I do, that you must leave us someday. I would be loath to send you away with nothing, least of all without escort. I would send you away with Sandor, if you will it. But only if you will it, my lady.”

Sansa gaped at him, but it was Sandor who spoke, unable to restrain himself. He dreaded this turn of the conversation. “Go ahead, choose between two evils,” he said through gritted teeth. “Go with a dog or go on your own, they’re both unfair.”

“Sandor, I will ask you to leave if you have another outburst,” Elder Brother warned. “You’ve said your piece, I would have Lady Stark speak hers.”

“Get on with it, then,” he muttered, then looked at Sansa. “But you've got your regrets all mixed up, seems to me. You don’t owe us shit, or the Gods for that matter.”

Elder Brother gave him a familiar look of disdain about his foul mouth. Sandor didn’t care. “Go on, child,” the Septon encouraged her.

“I’m not a child,” she said, dividing a sharp look between them both. Then her brow knitted up with concern. “What about his vows? Are you sending him away because he broke his vows?”

Elder Brother sighed, but he looked amused as he shook his head. “Try as I may, it seems I could never convince Sandor to swear any such vows,” he explained. Sansa made a sound of surprise. “He follows our rules, serves his penitence, shares in our worship...but as you surely know, Sandor is a willful man. In truth, it seems to me that the Gods had other plans for him, only it wasn’t clear to me until now.”

Sandor scoffed at that, but the glare Elder Brother shot at him made him think better of making comment. He already knew where he could shove the will of the Gods. Instead, he looked intently at the girl across the table, and he wasn’t sure what to make of her expression now, as she addressed him directly.

“What is your choice on this matter?” She asked. “You seem content here...I would not have you abandon this place on my account.”

Sandor looked over to Elder Brother, his expression mocking. Am I allowed to speak now? it asked.

“You’ve been addressed,” he waved a hand as though he was a bothersome gnat. “Answer the girl.”

Sandor leaned forward. “There's only one thing I ever abandoned and regretted it. But that’s not what’s being asked, is it? Bugger all to what everyone else wants.” Be selfish, like the hungry little wolf in the ragged wedding dress.

She blushed again, but held his gaze. “I already made my choice when I saw who you were. That hasn’t changed.”

Elder Brother looked pleased, but Sandor frowned, his heart breaking. It was everything he’d ever wanted to hear, yet he couldn’t bring himself to trust the words. This was a tainted choice.

“You’re desperate for familiarity, nothing more.” His tone was harsh. “What would your choice be if any Starks were around to run to instead?”

Sansa returned his frown. “We will never know,” she said coolly. “I prefer to consider the options realistic to me, and leave the dead in peace. But I believe I would still be glad I found you.”

“Open your eyes, then,” he rasped, imploring her to fear him again. To hate him, if she ever did. That was easier, and less confusing besides. “What if I had decided not to stop at kissing yesterday?”

“Enough,” Elder Brother snapped, but Sansa didn’t take her eyes off him.

“I’m faster than you, unless you’ve forgotten." She straightened, albeit unsettled by the comment. “You said once that you’d never hurt me. Is that not still the case?”

The little bird’s cheeping is beginning to sound more wolf-like. “Aye, I’d never hurt you,” he confessed, leaning back in his seat again. Not again. “But I’m no saint, either.”

“Good.” Sansa's voice took on a blunt edge. “I’ll have no need of saints, just as I’ll have no need of knights. It was the Hound’s wrath I feared, not his ferocity. Should I have a need to fear you now? Is the Hound truly dead?”

Sandor almost preferred not being allowed to speak. “Dead, aye. But a dog still.”

“What of it? You told me the story of your house once,” she replied emphatically. “Dogs are loyal, and honest. And far more honorable than lions.”

Sandor looked away, but said nothing. Somewhere along the way, the girl had grown a spine, but she had lost none of her sincerity. He had more nasty comebacks for her, but they stuck in his throat. The stubborn drive to change her mind was draining out of him.

It’s your mind that’s been changed, dog. And mayhaps it was. There was no use in fighting it. He knew for a certainty, then, that Elder Brother had pegged him right before. I'd never recover if I were to lose sight of her again. She was determined to see him as a better man than he was. As he looked at her, he decided that he would try his bloody damndest to live up to it. 

“The matter is settled, then.” Elder Brother spoke up, breaking the tension that had built up in the room. “Sandor has already begun making preparations, I believe, as have I. Now it needs to be decided where you would go, and when.”

The three of them deliberated over those points for the better portion of the evening.

Sandor first insisted on Winterfell, the obvious choice. Sansa argued that she would be expected there because it was obvious. Sandor countered that they could gather allies on the journey, before Elder Brother informed the both of them that the North was still too divided and war-torn for that plan to be a certainty, and Sandor was just as much an outlaw as Sansa besides. The Northerners wouldn’t warm to him easily, and would probably assume the worst about his intentions with the last remaining Stark. He couldn’t blame them.

Sansa suggested the Wall, but Sandor wouldn’t hear of it. The Wall is nothing but rapers and cravens, he’d asserted. That offended Sansa, who reminded him that her half-brother had been a brother of the Night’s Watch. Sandor didn’t miss the past-tense, but didn’t pursue the topic. In any case, Elder Brother turned down the idea as well, saying that the Wall was also a place of turmoil and therefore unsafe. Sansa seemed to know this already, despite it being her idea. The journey there would be the longest besides, and they were like to die to the elements before ever reaching it.

The Riverlands were too blooded, Bear Island too uncertain, and Clegane’s Keep too close to the Lannisters—and, to Sandor’s dismay, handed over to another lord in the absence of both its masters. Elder Brother informed them that the war would continue to get worse before it got better, with the Dragon Queen now upon them, last seen far in the North. It was only a matter of time before she turned her sights to the South.

Even if any of those options were viable, however, they couldn’t ignore the distance they would have to travel to reach any of them. It would be arduous enough in Summer, but with the snows so high and the temperatures so low at night, their chances at surviving any significant journey were slim indeed, especially without being able to risk sleeping in Inns. Sansa might be able to disguise herself, but Sandor was a sore thumb everywhere he went. A man and woman caught traveling alone would be considered easy prey besides, no matter how imposing the man may be.

Finally, Elder Brother came to a solution. “There is no place safe for you on this side of the world, it seems; at least, not now. Luckily for us, the world is divided into two halves. I would sooner send you across the Narrow Sea. Braavos would be the safest choice, I think.”

None could argue, though leaving the continent altogether made them both weary. However, Sandor had to admit he would be glad to be out of the way of Dragonfire. He did not wish to be around when the Targaryen cunt did make her descent.

They could board a ship from Saltpans, which would minimize their need to travel on foot, being so close by as to be visible on clear nights. From there, the hard part would be keeping their identities hidden until they reached the free city, where they would need find work for themselves and keep their heads low. There was the added benefit that the East did not see such harsh Winters as the West.

Once it was decided, Elder Brother let Sansa know that he meant to send them off at the first sign of a search party, or once the snows died down, whichever came first. Sansa surprised them both when she replied that she would sooner go before it came to that.

“I would have a head start on them if I could,” she said. “If we were caught unaware, and I was discovered here, they would put this place to the torch. I've put you at risk long enough already.”

She wouldn't budge, and so it was decided. They would take time to prepare, then head out for Saltpans. Elder Brother would provide them with enough coin for passage, and a little extra to get them on their feet. Sandor would remain in his brown-and-dun robes until they reached Braavos, and Sansa would need make herself a set of robes, for she would be posing as a Silent Sister. This would limit their need to speak with anything but their coin, and since most could not speak the hand-language, they wouldn’t bother to ask too many questions of them.

Sandor felt uneasy about the ruse; for every ten men who respected a holy man, there was one that would make a target of him. They would be vulnerable, would have to spend as little time among the other passengers as possible. And Sandor would need to spend this time shaking off some rust. Elder Brother agreed that he would help.

The whole ordeal would be a risk, but he had to admit that it was far less risky than their other options.

And, if he were truly honest with himself, he was looking forward to the journey.

Chapter Text

SANSA 7

The days spent preparing for their voyage had kept them so busy, they barely had time to take meals. One of the brothers was a skilled artist, so he drew Sansa the likeness of the robes the Silent Sisters wore, so that she could replicate them. She decided on making three sets; the travel by sea could take weeks in this weather, or longer if the winds weren’t in their favor.

She took to her task at the mouth of the stables; from there, she could watch Sandor and Elder Brother practice at sparring in the space in front, where they kept it clear of snow to exercise the mules. It was distracting at times, the ferocity with which they came at each other. She almost forgot that Elder Brother was a knight once, although his stature and his build were frequent reminders. He always seemed so kind and gentle, though...she never would suspect him of possessing such brutality, not still.

Nonetheless, it was Sandor who she watched most closely. At first, Elder Brother had been a match for him. He was of a height with Sandor, although none could match his broadness. Elder Brother would send him sprawling, or otherwise force his yield. Sansa couldn't suss out whether it was a prolonged lack of practice, or if perhaps he was holding back.

On the third day, however, it was Elder Brother who was catching his breath after being thrown to the ground. Sansa had stood and cheered for the victory, unable to conceal her bias. After that, something seemed to click for Sandor, for he never let Elder Brother best him again.

Distracting indeed. Sansa was fast at needlework, however. On the fourth afternoon, she had finished, and on the fifth she could dedicate her full attention to watching them.

She couldn’t believe it was actually happening. She was going to cross the Narrow Sea, and she wouldn’t be going alone. It felt too good to be true, and sometimes that gave her pause. For as excited as she was to make the voyage, she felt equally as apprehensive; would new evils await them in Braavos? There was no way to know for certain, but she felt safer knowing Sandor Clegane would be with her. She trusted him more than any other. She could speak her mind to him without fear, and he could touch her without setting her skin to crawling. Whatever the future had in store, she felt optimistic about her chances at facing it. The world is treacherous, but with him I might survive it. The Gods were good.

In turn, her apprehension extended to the proximity and seclusion she would have with her escort. She could not unkiss him. How would that color their interactions? He had certainly made no moves to repeat the act, and neither had she, but she could tell he wanted to. So do you, Myranda teased.

But it was all more than a distant fantasy now, or a last chance to act on or regret later…he was really coming with her. Would actually be in her future, whatever it entailed. There was no realistic way for him to exist in the space she had created. She would do well not to lead him into believing there was. Or yourself. She decided she would keep him at arm’s length, but wouldn’t be cold about it, either. They could be friends, and friends were comfortable with each other. She liked the thought of that.

There were other tasks to take care of before they would be prepared to take their leave. Stranger still needed more experience with his snowshoes, and they deliberated over and over again whether to bring him on board the ship to Braavos at all. In the end, Sandor won out over Elder Brother, refusing to leave his horse behind. He argued that he would be useful once they got to Braavos, and he was confident he could keep him calm on the ship. Sansa was not so confident, for the horse barely kept his calm with snowshoes strapped at his feet. How would he fare in cramped, rocking quarters? She knew the decision wasn’t a pragmatic one, but she supported it anyway. I wouldn’t have left Lady behind either, no matter what, if she were here.

When they set out for Saltpans, Sandor would have to walk beside the horse, for he would be too heavy to ride in the snow. He looked just as unhappy in his snowshoes as his horse did, and it amused Sansa to watch. He no longer wore his dun-and-brown robes while he trained, and he spoke more freely now, but he never said anything when he spied her holding back a laugh at his expense. Sometimes he would sign something at her with a sour look on his face—he’d never taught her those particular gestures, but she knew them to be foul words—and it only made it harder not to laugh. Sometimes, Sansa thought she saw his mouth twitch into a smile with her.

It was also decided that Sansa would need to re-dye her hair, for there could still be men who meant her harm across the Narrow Sea. It had only just started to look red again. She decided on black this time rather than the muddy brown of Alayne. She wouldn't be using that name anymore, so she shouldn't use that color. It would take some getting used to. Sandor didn’t like it, and told her as much. She looked like one of Robert’s bastards, he said. To which she replied it would be better than looking like a Stark. For a little while, at least.

Today was the last day before they were to start their journey. Elder Brother hosted a midday feast in their honor, although it was the quietest feast Sansa had ever attended. Afterwards, they were all gathered in the sept to pray for safe passage. Sansa made her personal farewells to all the brothers individually, thanking them for their kindness and generosity with her. It was hardest to say goodbye to brother Brandon, the only one whom she revealed her true identity to. He wept when she told him. When she came to him to say her final good-bye, he gifted her a single lemon cake, signing to her, ‘The North remembers’. She made sure to initiate one last snowball fight with him, wanting that last memory to be more cheerful.

Elder Brother arranged to have a private dinner together on that last day, where he implored her to at long last reveal what happened to her. Sansa had finally confronted the memories on her own, but still felt uneasy about relating them to another. She knew she could trust this man, but even so, her truths were never spoken so freely in her life. There were always consequences before. It took all her strength and all his encouragement to gather her accounts, beginning with Joffrey's wedding. He never interrupted her while she spoke, and soothed her as she cried. She understood now, the effects confessions must have had on the men who dwelled here. She felt lighter, in a way. She knew her secrets would never leave this room, and it gave her comfort as well.

The Elder Brother was shocked to learn what she had done to Petyr, but assured her she had done the right thing. “You displayed a great deal of mercy, to only mark the man rather than kill him,” he told her. “Sandor has told me much of this virtue in you; I am pleased to know he didn’t exaggerate.”

She asked him what else he said about her, genuinely curious. Elder Brother only laughed. “That would require more time than we have, sweet lady,” he said, “and confessions are a private matter besides.”

They would be leaving at first light on the morrow, and it was late by the time she rose to leave the Hermit's Hole. Elder Brother rose with her, taking her hands in his.

“Keep faith, child,” He said solemnly. “You still have friends in this world, even if you aren't aware of them. When you return, you may not find the world a better place than when you left it. But war doesn't last forever, and there will be a need of people like you for it to heal properly.”

Sansa felt touched by his words. “First I will have to heal myself,” she said sadly. “I hope your faith in me won't go misplaced.”

“It rarely is,” he assured her. “I believe the worst is behind you now, but there will still be challenges ahead. I assure you, you will not face them alone.”

“I know,” Sansa smiled, thinking of Sandor Clegane. “I can’t thank you enough for all you've done for me. Truly. I owe you a great debt.”

“To aid the helpless, and to bring faith to the hopeless, is to serve the Gods,” the man said, clasping his hands together. “There is no greater wealth than that. I am rich enough already, so there is no need for compensation.”

“I shall miss you, Elder Brother.” Sansa said, meaning it. How wise and humble and sincere this man was. This is the kind of man I wish to fill Winterfell with someday.

The man chuckled as he replied, “This is not a farewell, my lady; we will meet again. I am sure of it.” He pulled her to him, and she hugged him tightly. She had only just begun to warm to the Elder Brother in earnest this last week; leaving so soon was bittersweet, but she felt it was the right thing to do. The Quiet Isle was a safe place, but her very presence put it in danger. And if Winter were to stretch on as long as Summer, as it was often said, it might drive her mad as well. Safe as it was, it was not her place.

“You may find some lemons in Braavos,” he said in her ear, patting her softly on the back. “But lemon trees do not grow there. Remember that.”

When at last she left the Hermit's Hole, Sansa started on her way towards the women's cottages. She should sleep, she knew, but she didn't feel tired; her mind was galloping along full speed ahead, even as her limbs grew heavy. The anticipation was too great for sleep. She wondered if her companion faced the same dilemma, and it was with that thought that she turned towards the stable block instead.

The howling cut through the night air, never ending. As she wrapped her cloak more tightly about herself, Sansa wondered if the wolves could sense the prospect of a meal preparing to depart the Quiet Isle. She shivered at the thought. Surely that wasn't how her story ended. She was a wolf, after all, and wolves did not eat their own. She willed herself to believe that, to draw courage from it. To keep faith in her heart.

He was there when she reached the stables, as she sensed he might be. He was rising from the empty stall next to Stranger, but did not take notice of her standing there. He went to the stallion, taking his face in his hands.

“We're getting out of here,” he murmured somberly to the beast. In response, Stranger snorted, and the man laughed low in his throat. “Truly, this time. You'll see.”

Sansa had the absurd sensation that she was intruding on a private moment. He spoke with a tenderness that she'd never heard in him when speaking to a person. She was smiling when he turned to leave, and saw her.

He appeared surprised, but only for an instant. As he approached, he rasped, “Shouldn't you be in bed, little bird?”

“Shouldn't you?” 

“Aye, I suppose I should,” he conceded. “Just making sure we're ready.”

“Are we?” she asked, looking up at his uncovered face. He kept his hair parted predominantly over the burned half, but she could see his eyes. Presently, they were shaded by a furrowed brow.

“Are you?”

Sansa bit her lip. He still wasn't convinced she wanted this, she knew. But there will be plenty of time to do so.

“I am,” she said firmly. “Restless, but ready.”

His mouth twitched. “You'll regret it on the morrow, with no warm bed to sleep in,” he reminded her, as his breath came out in thick clouds; hers came out in wisps. “Come, I'll walk you back.”

He started forward, and Sansa reached out for his arm to stop him. “Wait,” she said, hesitant. He obeyed, turning back to face her. “Could you just...sit with me, for awhile?”

Sandor Clegane considered her thoughtfully for a moment. Then, wordlessly, he went to the nearest stall and lowered himself to sit against it, patting the ground beside him.

Sansa gave a small smile and joined him there, drawing her knees up to her chest. He sat with his forearms draped over his.  

They sat in silence for awhile, but there was no stiffness to it. The howling and the soft nickering in the stables were soothing sounds. It was cold, sitting on the ground, even covered in hay as it was. But it didn't bother her so much. Her thoughts provided ample distraction. She looked up at him. His unburnt side was facing her, but cast in silhouette against the light of the moon beyond. It was hard to make out his expression.

“We won't be able to speak so freely, once we're on the ship.” She sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. He glanced down at her.

“Aye, and your ears will be happier for it,” he mused. His whole body emanated heat, and rumbled when he spoke. Sansa found herself comforted by it.

“Tell me a story,” she yawned. “A nice one.” He snorted.

“I don't know many of those,” he murmured, his voice like boots on gravel. She liked the sound. It was just as she remembered, and she preferred it to the quiet.

"Tell me how you came to this place," she suggested. How you came to know such peace.

"That tale is uglier than it is nice," he replied. "And too long for telling in these temperatures."

“The story of your house, then.” The faint sound of howling persisting through the cold night air brought the memory of it to mind. “The dogs in the Autumn grass. That one's nice.”

He touched the back his head against the stable door, hesitant. Then, he raised the arm she leaned against, draping it over her shoulders to warm her, drawing her close. Laughing softly at her sigh of relief, he began to recite the story. Sansa’s eyes slid closed, listening. It wasn't a long story, but she didn't recall hearing the end of it.

The last memory she had before sleep overtook her in earnest was the feeling of strong arms as they lowered her into bed. That night she dreamed of howling, and lying in Autumn Grass with a dog who was a man.

Chapter Text

SANDOR 8

Elder Brother and the little bird were already waiting at the docks when Sandor arrived with Stranger, saddled up and in his snowshoes. A sled dragged behind, bearing their supplies for the journey. It would offset the weight and thus lower the risk of a collapse in the deep snows.

Every step he took was another step closer to the real world that lay beyond. The closer he got, the more intense the anxiety came on. His feet felt like lead. Was he ready? Truly ready?

“Good morrow,” Elder Brother greeted as he came into earshot. Sandor nodded an acknowledgement before coming to a stop before them.

Underneath her thick fur cloak, Sansa was clad in Silent Sister's robes, her face already covered. Sandor was back in his dun-and-brown ones as well. Her eyes smiled when she saw him; he would never understand it. His did as well, he knew.

It would take all day for them to reach Saltpans, but they couldn't be too careful. In addition to donning their disguises, they would be camping tonight just outside the city. Taking up residence in an inn was a comfort they couldn't afford. They still ran the risk of being recognized, especially Sandor himself. He was the one accused of raiding the place, after all; they were not like to be welcoming if he was discovered.

It was the early hours of the morning and still dark outside. Not that the sun would be much use once it did rise, for how constantly it snowed. The world was enveloped in an endless twilight these days, and the sun never broke through in earnest. Elder Brother approached him and clapped a hand to his shoulder.

“Take care, Sandor,” he said solemnly. “And be well.”

Sandor opened his mouth to mock him, but it never came to voice. It occurred to him that this may be the last time he would see this man again; he who had saved his life, heard his confessions, healed his wounds...and so much more. Given me a purpose. The only true brother I ever knew. Sandor felt a powerful sense of gratitude overtake him, for this religious fool who had given him everything he didn't deserve. He pulled the man into a rough embrace, clapping him on the back.

“You have my thanks,” he said quietly in his ear. “For everything.”

Elder Brother returned the gesture. “Keep her safe ,” he replied. “And stay on the path.”

He broke away quickly and a little awkwardly, but Elder Brother looked pleased. He turned to Sansa, taking her face in his hands. “You are stronger than you know, my Lady. Until we meet again, I shall keep you in my prayers.” He kissed her on the top of her covered head, and gestured for them to board the ferry that was waiting for them at the end of the dock.

“Let us not waste time,” he said. “You have a long journey ahead.”

Brother Randall was there to receive them, and Sandor had to yank Stranger's reins to keep him from snapping. It was the strangest feeling, stepping from solid land to the rocking surface of the deck. He looked back at Elder Brother, who would remain at the docks until they reached the other side.

He could turn back now, he knew. He still had a chance, could walk off this boat and back to familiar ground, to remain there until he was truly ready. This was madness . Could this really be happening? Should it? Sansa Stark was the key to the North; how could he be the one trusted with such responsibility? Just because he felt a different man, it didn’t make him a good one.

He was on the edge of panic when he felt a pressure at his left arm, half-numb from the angry burns he bore there, and looked down to see the girl standing at his side, squeezing it lightly. He felt himself relax, then, as though she were drawing his fear from him like poison from a snake bite.

“Are you ready?” she asked, muffled beneath her cowl.

Nothing could prepare me for this, he wanted to say. But nothing could make me abandon you now.

He gave her a short nod, and looked back up to where Elder Brother stood as the ferry lurched into motion, his stomach lurching with it.

“Don’t be afraid,” she whispered reassuringly, feeling him stiffen once more. 

Easier said than done, he thought contemptuously. Stranger threw his head beside him, and Sandor welcomed the distraction. He spent the ride soothing the animal, which in turn soothed his own nerves, if only temporarily.

When they reached the other side, Sandor lifted Sansa up onto the horse's back to sit side-saddle, and guided them onto solid ground once more. Sandor had to dig out another ramp for Stranger to climb, as he had done before on the Isle. Once he was sure they could make it, he strapped on snowshoes for himself and took one look back at the Quiet Isle. He could barely make it out through all the snow, but he saw the faint shape of Elder Brother still standing at the docks, waving a torch goodbye. He resisted the urge to wave back as he set off through the trees, turning his back on it.

It was queer, walking through the forest like this. The trees were all buried at their trunks, some of them almost buried entirely, their branches sticking up through the snow. He could easily reach the tops of many of them at this height.

The howling was louder than it had been before, but it wasn't the wind. Wolves. Sandor had taken notice of this days ago, but could not say when the shift in source occurred. It put him on guard. They had no weapons to protect themselves with, and the idea of dying that way made him uneasy. He had to ask himself again if they had been wise to leave at all, before it was necessary.

Sansa seemed to sense his disquiet, for she said, “They won't hurt us.” 

Sandor barked out a laugh. “You think they care what your sigil is, girl? We're all just meat to them.”

“I just know it,” she said simply. “Men are the ones we should fear, not the wolves.”

“It would be wiser to fear them both,” Sandor murmured.

They were silent for a long while after that, and Sandor concentrated on his footing as he guided them through the thick trees and snow. Progress was slow, but navigating was easy, for all they need do is stay within sight of the shoreline until they saw the lights of the town. It left Sandor to let his mind wander to other things, such as the night before. She had been just as restless as he had felt, although she'd drifted off quickly enough. He'd watched her sleep there for a time before returning her to bed. She looked so peaceful, with moonlight shining in her newly dyed hair, ever fixed up with the driftwood hairpiece. She'd drooled a little against his chest, he remembered, but she even did that prettily.

She had sought him out, for comfort of all things. Would it always be like this? Would she continue to seek him out for stories, and sleep so easily at his side? He couldn't tell if the idea terrified him or touched him.

After a while, Sansa began to squirm uncomfortably in the saddle. Sandor stopped the horse to look up at her.

“You need to make water, girl?” He asked bluntly. She reddened.

“I...yes,” she admitted, looking anywhere but at him. He snorted.

“Say so next time.” He walked to retrieve a pair of snowshoes. “Unless you want to piss the saddle, that is.” He laughed at the abashed look in her eyes as he strapped the shoes to her feet and lowered her to the ground.

“Be quick about it. I'll wait here,” he instructed, and watched as she made for the trees. Her bowlegged gait with the unfamiliar footwear was droll indeed. Once she was out of sight, he turned his back on her and leaned against the horse, picking at his fingernails to pass the time.

A few minutes had passed when he heard her cry out.

“Sandor!”

He jerked his head around. She was still out of his sight, and the forest had gone silent; even the wolves had ceased their howling. He felt fear rend at his heart as he hurried forward, towards the sound of her voice. She called out for him again.

“I'm coming!” he growled, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. He cursed the snow, cursed his leg, cursed her buggering bladder . Cursed himself for being too polite, letting her stray away too far.

When he reached her, he felt relief wash over him to see she was still alone, unharmed. It soon gave way to frustration.

“Seven buggering hells, girl; what is it? ”

She was pointing to something sticking out of the snow. “Look,” she instructed, her eyes wide.

Sandor did look. At a glance, it didn't seem like anything special; just a black shape protruding from the snow. He would have never noticed it had she not been pointing it out. He approached the object, and as he did, it took shape: a hand.

“Poor bastard,” he muttered, nudging it with the toe of his shoe. “Probably scores of them under there, scattered about.”

Sansa looked up at him. “Can we dig him up?” Sandor gaped at her.

“Don't tell me you want to give him a proper burial?” he replied, incredulous.

Sansa let out a frustrated sigh. “No, of course not. I want to see who sent him.”

The realization dawned on him. This could be one of her hunters. He instructed her to wait there while he fetched the horse, and returned moments later with Stranger at his side. He tied the reins to a nearby branch, though he trusted the horse not to run off, and retrieved the spade from the sled.

It didn't take long to uncover the gruesome corpse, and Sandor kept his back to Sansa in an attempt to keep her eyes off it.

“Poor bastard,” Sandor repeated as he looked down at him, although he felt no pity. His throat had been mutilated, the face rendered unrecognizable for all the teeth marks in it, revealing the skull underneath. The blood had long ago frozen and turned black, along with the flesh. The stench was familiar to Sandor, though that didn't make it any sweeter.

“What is it?” Sansa asked tentatively from behind.

“Your precious wolves got him, seems like,” he grunted as he yanked the corpse the rest of the way out of the snow, revealing a breastplate emblazoned with a crescent moon and falcon across the front. 

“And they might be your friends after all,” he remarked, raising his eyebrows.

She stepped forward to get a glimpse, and Sandor put out an arm to halt her. “Not a pretty sight for pretty eyes,” he warned. Sansa looked up at him defiantly.

“I've seen dead men before.”

Have it your way then, he thought as he wordlessly stepped aside. She went forward and stooped over the body, revulsion in her eyes. She looks a proper Silent Sister, Sandor mused as he watched her inspect the dead man.

“The Gods are good,” she whispered. “And so cruel.” Then she looked up at him. “Do you think this is why no one's come looking for me?”

Sandor shrugged. “Could be. Wolves have to eat too. I'd rather not stick around and find out if they play favorites, though.”

Sansa nodded and stood, and it was Sandor's turn to crouch down over the body. He was loath to leave the sword strapped to the man behind, but knew he wouldn't have a way to hide it among their things, especially if they were searched. He did, however, spy a dagger at his hip. He took it, thinking it was better than no protection at all, as well as a small yet fat coinpurse.

“Off we get,” he said roughly, standing and making his way back to Stranger. Sansa followed, raising her arms for him to lift her up. Once she was back in the saddle and the snowshoes off her feet, they set off again.

“I wonder how many men we would have found down there,” she pondered aloud as they walked. “How many parties he sent out that never came back...how many he let die like that...”

“Who?” Sandor blurted out, the topic unexpectedly striking a nerve. Sansa was silent, and he gazed up at her. He’d been careful not to press her for information she didn’t want to freely give, but his patience was beginning to run thin. He wanted the truth. He wanted to know. 

“Who?” he asked again, a little forcefully this time. She flinched, but said nothing.

Softening slightly, he sighed. She might seek his comforts, but it was only for the sake of safety. He was her shield, not a confidant. It made him bitter, but only half so much as it made him somber.

She’s right not to trust you, dog.

“Nevermind, little bird. Tell me if we need to stop again.”

They continued on in silence for a time, and Sandor could tell Sansa was just as lost in her thoughts as he was. They stopped a few more times—to eat and to relieve themselves, for they drank wine steadily as they went to keep warm—but they were never stopped for long. Sandor's hands and face were numb with cold, and crusted in snow, but he didn't wish to waste what little daylight they had. Moreover, he had the unshakable sensation that they were being watched. He wasn't keen on staying in one place for too long, to find out if his paranoia had any merit.

The sun was setting before either of them spoke again. “We're getting close,” Sandor rasped, pointing through the trees. Through the haze, he could make out the faint light of the town ahead. “We'll go a little further and make camp.”

Sansa's face lit up at that, and the tension from the day's ride seemed to lift. “I see it!” she exclaimed, leaning forward to get a better look. She was eager to get out of the saddle, Sandor knew, although she hadn't complained once throughout the day.

They would have to carve a shelter out of the snow, and having a fire would be too risky. “It's going to be a cold night,” he informed her. She didn't seem to mind. Yet.

Sandor made another ramp for the horse to walk down to the riverbank, and tethered him to a tree that would provide him with enough shelter from the snow for the night. Sansa set herself to brushing and blanketing Stranger while he dug out a makeshift cave in the snow big enough for them both to fit in. It was fully dark by the time he finished, and he stepped back to look it all over. It wouldn't be much, but it would be enough for the night.

Sansa joined him at his side and nodded her approval. Turning to him, she said, “I thank you for all you've done today; you must be exhausted.”

She wasn't wrong. Sandor's legs ached from all the awkward walking in the snowshoes, especially the left. Having not slept much the night before, he was like to pass out the moment he sat down. He didn't like the thought of that; the howling was back.

“It's been a long day for us both,” he muttered, gesturing for her to lead the way inside. She went in and sat down, and Sandor followed, seating himself on the opposite side of the cave from her.

“This is nice,” she lied, shivering. Sandor had lined the inside with furs and blankets to lay upon, but they would only be a small comfort against the cold. He decided on sleeping upright tonight, hoping it would prevent him from sleeping too deeply.

Crossing his arms over his chest and lowering his hood over his eyes, Sandor settled himself into his furs. “You'll have a proper bed to sleep in come the morrow. Proper enough, anyway. 'Til then, think warm thoughts.”

He heard her shifting around across from him, presumably laying down. “Winterfell has natural hot springs, did you know?” she asked. Sandor grunted in reply, nodding.

“You could keep warm in the castle without needing to light a fire, even on the coldest nights,” she continued, remembering. “The hot water ran through the walls, it was always warm...”

Sandor lifted his eyes from beneath his hood to gaze at her through the darkness. Her eyes were glittering, but Sandor was more concerned by the shivering. Her lips were probably bluer than her eyes. Without the sun, and with their proximity to the water, it was bitter cold. I’m twice her size, and I’m freezing my arse off. He ground his teeth, indecisive. Should he warm her, and contend with the discomfort of proximity? Or leave her alone to freeze all night? My comfort or hers.

“Here, girl,” he beckoned her over. “I won’t have you freezing to death while I watch.”

She sat up, but made no move to come over. “I’m all right,” she insisted, betrayed by how her voice quivered as she shivered. “I did this before, for l-longer.”

Sandor laughed, his breath coming out in thick white sheets. “It wasn’t near so cold then, little bird. You can keep your pride and keep warm, I won’t tell anyone.” He beckoned her again, more impatiently this time. “We’ll both sleep easier for it.”

Tentatively, she rose, draped in her furs and blankets. “Bring all of it,” he instructed her, pointing to the furs still on the ground. She obeyed and crawled over, and although he couldn’t make it out in the darkness, he knew she was blushing.

She had slept near him twice now, but those times hadn’t been intentional. It occurred to him that this might be a little more intimate than she was prepared for. She didn’t seem to have that problem when she kissed me, he thought wryly. He couldn’t blame her for regretting it, however, despite her insistence otherwise. It’s not like this is any more comfortable for me.

He took her by the wrist and guided her gently down onto his lap. “I won’t touch you,” he assured her.

“I know,” she replied softly, unflinching yet demure.

“Just try to keep warm.” Sandor wrapped the blankets over them both, and linked his arms over the thick bundle. Her shaking lessened considerably, and she allowed herself to relax, burying her face into his chest.

“I’m...sorry, about today,” she said after a time, rousing Sandor from half-sleep. “I will tell you everything...but only once we’re on the ship. I promise.”

Sandor snorted. She knew before he did, that if she had given him a name, he just might have turned Stranger up towards the Vale rather than stay on their course. “Don’t ever apologize to me, girl. You were wise not to tell me.”

She made no reply, but to wrap her arms about his middle and squirm around to find a comfortable position in which to lay. How the sweet fuck am I supposed to sleep like this? 

“How are you so warm?” She asked, voice already thick with exhaustion.

“I weigh more than a little bird, for starters,” Sandor remarked. Sobering, he added, “And I’m never cold, in dreams.”

“Why?”

Sandor pulled the hood back down over his eyes and rested his head against the cave wall. “Because I always dream of fire. Go to sleep now, girl.”

Chapter Text

SANSA 8

Sansa awoke in darkness, and it took her a moment to realize where she was. She had dreamt of him again, her heart still hammering rapidly with the intensity of it.

It had been the night the Blackwater burned. Instead of finding him in her chambers, however, she had been the one to find him. She found herself standing out on the battlefield, in the middle of it all. She stood there, taking it in, bewildered by the violence. She had never seen it for herself in reality, but it felt so real, it was as if she had.

There were bleeding men sobbing for their mothers, wounded men gasping for life as they tried in vain to pull their entrails back in, burning men howling themselves raw, finding no relief in the water, for it too burned. Everything burned. Everything was green, and loud, and terrible. Sansa walked through the carnage in a daze, no one seeming to notice her as they fought and died and screamed all around her. The world was cast in a ghoulish green glow, and her eyes burned with the brightness of it as much as the heat. Her eyes were wide with horror and brimming with boiling tears, a mere spectator to so much suffering. She wasn’t aware she was dreaming at the time, but also had the queer sensation that this couldn’t quite be reality, either.

She spied the familiar snarling helm of the Hound as he staggered out of the fray, frenzied and howling. His armor had caught fire, his streaming white cloak stained and bloody, also on fire. He threw himself against the nearest wall to smother the flames. Once they were out, he drove his battered sword into the ground and leaned upon the pommel, resting his head on his hands, heaving in a desperate attempt to breathe. Sansa approached him slowly, having eyes only for this particular warrior. He wouldn't be able to see her, but she would go to him all the same.

When she reached him, she noticed the left ear of the helm had been hacked clean off, and was badly battered besides. Sansa reached out, wondering if she would be able to touch him, or if she was like a ghost in this world. When her hand made contact with his shoulder, she leapt back as his head snapped up, already drawing his sword out of the ground to make an attack, his eyes wide and white like a cornered animal.

He saw her, and the incomprehension on his face mirrored her own as—thankfully—he slowly lowered the blade. Through the mouth of the helm, Sansa could see his face was white as milk on one side, and an open wound above his eye oozed blood down the burned one. “You shouldn't be here,” he growled, his voice raw and shaking.

“Neither should you,” Sansa replied softly, stunned.

“You're not real,” he was shaking his head, as though trying to shake her out of his sight. He threw his sword to the ground forcefully and stalked off. “I'm fucking done.”

Sansa had to run to catch up with him, but waited until they were further from the battle—and the fire—before she reached out for him again. The contact caused him to lash out, nearly striking her in the face as he swung an arm out to shake her off. He spun around to face her again, ready to fight. He seemed surprised, even fearful, to see her still standing there, having taken her for a foe again.

He thinks he's hallucinating, she realized. Maybe he is. Nobody else seemed to notice her.

Sansa went to him, reaching out for him a third time. He flinched but made no move to stop her, seeming to be frozen in either panic or disbelief. She went up on her toes as she took his helm into both hands and lifted it over his head. Once it was off, she let it fall to the dirt with a dull clang. 

“You're all right now,” she said, imploring him to believe her. She reached up with trembling hands and cupped his face, much as she remembered doing in another reality. Her fingers were wet with blood and sweat, and she felt afraid for him.

His face contorted in misery and agony as he sank to his knees, and she gasped as he drew her greedily to him. His shoulders were heaving, and Sansa's own vision swam with tears as she hugged his head to her. Even on his knees, Sandor Clegane was nearly of a height with herself, the top of his head coming to the base of her neck.

“You're all right,” she repeated, stroking hair damp with sweat. His grip on her tightened, so hard she felt short of breath.

“Don't leave me,” he sobbed into the flat of her chest, “Please...”

Sansa felt the tears escape down her cheeks as she lifted his head to meet her eyes. She'd never seen any person look so wild, so vulnerable and afraid. Not in such stark relief.  

“I'm here,” she whispered, at a loss for how else to calm him. The heat of the blazing battlefield was at her back, getting closer, reflecting in his eyes; they didn’t seem able to focus on anything else. She began to hum a soft lullaby, obscuring his view of the fire with her body. His flesh was melting in her hands when Sansa pressed her lips to his brow, her eyes sliding closed as his did. Everything suddenly became silent, as the darkness swallowed her up.

When she opened her eyes again, Sansa was awake once more. The ground beneath her was rising and falling, rumbling steadily in time with the sound of soft snores above her head. She quickly remembered where she was laying—or, more precisely, who she was laying on—and her initial waking feelings were of compassion for him. The dream had been terrible. If he had experienced even half of what she imagined…

“No,” she heard him mutter between snores. Sansa lifted her eyes up and pulled the blankets from overhead to look at him. A rush of cold air met her, but not nearly so cold as last night. Dim light filled the cave. He was slack with sleep, but not peaceful. It occurred to Sansa that she’d never seen him in such a state before. It was oddly...humanizing.

The wool over his mouth twitched as he opened it, sucking in a deep breath. “Don't...leave...” he let out another soft snore. "Me..."

Sansa blinked. Am I still dreaming, or could it be that I was sharing in his dream? No, that was absurd. But...it would explain how vividly she had experienced it, how he alone had been able to see her…she suddenly felt afraid for him once more. Rational or no.

Sitting up, Sansa pressed her hands into his chest and gently shook him. She could feel his heart pounding in his chest, as hers had. “Wake up,” she insisted, “Wake up, Wake up, Wa—”

His eyes flew open as he jolted awake, and for a fraction of a second they had that wild look to them again. When comprehension dawned on him, he relaxed somewhat, but his expression was haunted. “Everything all right?” he asked, looking around.

“You were having a nightmare,” she told him.

“No shit,” he rasped, hoarse from slumber. He hastily rubbed at his eyes before turning them on her. “Did I wake you?”

Sansa shook her head, but he took notice of the expression in her eyes. She must have seemed worried, and perhaps she was. What did this mean? Did I make it up, just like the kiss?  

“Is there anything you won’t distress over?” he asked irritably, nudging her lightly so he could rise. “They’re just dreams.” Sansa blushed as she crawled off him, also getting to her feet.

It wasn't just a dream, she wanted to say. I was there, I saw what you saw. It felt too ridiculous to say aloud, and she would rather him not know she’d dreamt of him at all. He would only mock her, she knew. Perhaps he was talking in his sleep before she woke, and it had influenced her dreams. It was the more fitting explanation.

“We'd better get moving,” he cut through her thoughts, standing at the mouth of the cave. “The ships will set sail before too long.”

Sansa only nodded, and they packed up in silence, although Sansa's inner council was enough to fill the void, chiming in at every thought. In her own nightmares, reality was more abstract or exaggerated, as dreams tended to be. This, however, had felt like a memory, a reliving of events exactly as they happened. As though it is already the worst possible version.

She blinked, turning her gaze over to where he was, tending to Stranger under the tree. The stallion was pawing and fidgeting this morning, restive. There was a definite edge to the air that put Sansa on alert for herself. The hairs at the back of her neck were on end, though she could not say why. Something was just...strange. Different, in a way. Even the air smelled peculiar, the wind blew on a changed course. The sounds of nature buzzed just slightly offbeat. Did he notice it, too? 

Was it her inner septa, scolding her for sleeping so closely to a man the night previous? The fact that she worried more after the dream than the reality was not lost on her. She didn’t care, however. When I was on my own, I would have slept next to Joffrey if it meant keeping warm. She knew her mind was doing some fine footwork, to justify the fact that she had enjoyed comforts beyond the warmth.

As her eyes fell back to her task, she spied some unusual impressions at the mouth of the cave. She moved closer on her hands and knees to inspect them, and cupped a hand to her covered mouth when she recognized them. Paw prints. They were massive, however, far larger than she would expect of a common wolf. But they’re undeniably canine. She called her companion over to look at them with her, and he bent over them, staring in silence for a long moment.

“The sooner we’re out of here, the better,” he said gruffly as he rose. He looked disturbed. “Stranger’s in a fit this morning, no bleeding wonder.”

The prints didn’t disturb Sansa. It didn’t hurt us, she thought. It could have, but it didn’t. She didn't say it, and had no logical explanation for it, but she was sure the prints belonged to a direwolf. She wished she could scoop the print out of the snow and take it with her, as she traced her fingers gingerly over its shape, awed, hoping to commit it to memory. This is what Lady’s paw would look like by now, surely. She had to take deep breaths to maintain her composure.

They finished packing up. Sandor left the sled behind, leaving a few things they wouldn’t need with it. He strapped the rest to the horse’s back and lifted her into the saddle, and they were off.

It didn't take long to reach the town. When they did, they found it bustling with people and far busier than Sansa would have expected it to be, this early in the day. Everyone was awake and outdoors this morning, it seemed, even babes and children. No one gave the two of them a second glance as they passed through the buzzing crowd. They were making straight for the docks, not wasting any time becoming acquainted with this place. They weren't the only ones; it seemed as though most people were desperate to board a ship to somewhere. Anywhere but here.

Just as it did at the camp, something felt odd. It was more intense here, and Sandor seemed to notice it too, for his movements were rigid as he quickened their pace.

She tapped him on the shoulder. 'What is it?' she signed when he looked up.

'Listen,' he replied, tapping the side of his head before turning his eyes forward once more.

Sansa strained her ears, trying to isolate individual voices among the crowd. Then, she started to hear.

“...Completely destroyed...”

“...reduced to rubble and ash...”

“...Dragonfire...”

“...But it was green...”

“...The Imp...”

“...The entire city...”

“...everyone dead...”

“...Huge and green, just like the fire…”

Sansa felt her stomach twist into knots as she tried to put it all together. She looked down, saw Sandor was watching her. 'King's Landing is gone,' he signed. 'Burned. Your husband.' He had a wicked look in his eyes. Revulsion, mixed with his style of cynical humor.

She was dazed and horrified for herself. Sansa hated the capital, had wished it destroyed many times out of spite. But not like this. How many people had died in the attack? Thousands, to be sure. Could there be any truth to it? The tales of the smallfolk tended to be taller than life. Could Tyrion do such a thing? Her husband. Was he still? Would it matter, one way or the other? The High Septon was surely dead now, after all…

What would happen if he found her? Was she hunted by more than Littlefinger now? Or was his wife’s whereabouts too small a matter to concern himself with now? If he’s destroyed the capital, he must have no interest in conquering. What would Winterfell mean to such a man? He did not love her. It was Winterfell he wanted from me, as all the rest.

Would he even care about the lives he'd ended, how gruesome their ends had surely been? Sansa had a hard time believing it; Tyrion was a Lannister, but he had been kind, in his own way. Surely this was an overblown rumor, just as the Hound's pillaging had been. Mayhaps dragons had indeed descended upon the capital, but without the devastation being described all around her.

These people seemed to believe it, though, and were desperate to flee before they met the same fate.

They stood in the queue for a time as they waited to board the ship. When they finally reached the front, a burly Braavosi man was waiting to search them and take their payment.

“It'll be extra for the horse, holy man,” he sneered up at Sandor, “And you'll have to clean up after it.”

Her companion only nodded, offering some gold by way of reply. The man took it, bit the metal, and gave an approving nod. “You'll be sharing a room. We're taking on extra passengers,” he informed them.

Sandor shook his head irritably, offering the coinpurse he'd taken off the corpse, though Sansa knew he had kept at least half of it back.

“The Lord’s cabin, then,” replied the man with a phlegmy laugh, taking the extra payment with a greedy expression and stashing it away in a pocket. Sansa felt a sudden guilt; their privacy meant denying passage to others who might need it. It wasn't the right thing to do, but she had to admit it was the smart thing. They could not risk being seen with their faces exposed in such tight quarters.

The burly man checked their things to make sure there was nothing amiss before rushing them along onto the ship. Sansa looked back, at all the people trying to board different ships to anywhere but here. She felt a stab of grief for a mother who was being dragged off, wailing as her children boarded an adjacent ship without her, unable to afford passage for them all.

She couldn’t wait to set sail. Even if all of Westeros pursued her, she would soon be far enough out of their reach that it would take them some time to locate her, let alone find her. It gave her some measure of peace amongst all the turmoil.

Stranger tried to throw his head, but Sandor yanked it down, cursing him under his breath. The ship to Braavos had reached capacity shortly after they came aboard, for the burly man appeared on the deck to draw up the ramp.

Soon after that, the ship lurched into motion as Sandor led them below deck to stable the horse. There were only a few small stalls with straw covering the floor; it would be cramped, but it would have to do. Sansa slid out of the saddle on her own, as Sandor had to keep the reins tight in hand, murmuring soothing words as he tried to coax the frightened horse into an open stall. It was no good. Stranger thrashed wildly, half-rearing and screaming, requiring all of his master's strength to hold him. It was too dark, too cramped, and too undulant for the beast to abide.

Sansa fidgeted nervously. The stallion was like to hurt himself in his frenzy, or one of them. She only knew of one way to gentle angry beasts; looking around to be sure they were alone, she came forward—careful to stay out of range of his wrath—and, tentatively, began to sing The Song of the Seven. Half a lullaby, half a prayer. The song she had hummed in her dream.

Sandor looked down at her standing beside him, distracted by the sudden intrusion. He recognizes it. It seemed to have the same effect on Stranger, however, for he ceased his screaming, and it gave her confidence. She was three verses in before Sandor tore his eyes from her and, taking advantage of the brief calm, led the horse into the stall and bolted the door behind him, panting as he turned to watch her once more. Sansa stepped forward to the stable door as she sang, quietly as she could, and the horse seemed to be straining to hear. She took Stranger's face in her hands, smiling at him. She could see the whites of his eyes still, but he made no move to bite.

“The Seven Gods who made us all,

Are listening if we should call.

So close your eyes, you shall not fall,

They see you, little children.

Just close your eyes, you shall not fall,

They see you, little children…”

Her voice trailed off as the song ended; Sansa drew down her cowl and went up on her toes to kiss Stranger between the eyes before backing away. The stallion looked as though he was like to start his thrashing again as she did so, but there wasn’t enough headroom for him to do much now. He settled finally, although he still shuffled around with his ears at half mast, nickering rebelliously. Sandor ignored it entirely, however. His eyes were on her. 

He came over, put a finger under her chin and lifted it up. His head tilted to one side, and for a fleeting moment, Sansa thought he meant to kiss her. When she would ponder on it later, she would decide that perhaps it wasn’t so outlandish an assumption to make. 

“Thank you,” he said with his words.

I love you, he said with his voice. 

Chapter Text

PART 2

SANDOR 9

The sleeping quarters were cramped, but it was to be expected. Sandor closed the door behind them and dropped their bags to the floor, scanning the room. It didn't take long. A washtub and a straw pallet were the only adornments, and the only light came from a tiny porthole. For a ship's passage, it was extravagant. It smelled strongly of the sea and mildew. Everything felt wet, even the air. The constant swaying was nauseating. Mayhaps the snow wasn’t so terrible after all.  

“At least we won’t freeze to death,” Sandor muttered, already beginning to unpack. It was beginning to sink in just how isolated they would be for so long, and it unsettled him. He'd nearly lost sight of his senses below deck, only moments into the voyage. 

How was he supposed to do this? 

Sansa crossed the room to peer out of the window. “It's perfect,” she said quietly, thinking aloud more than speaking to him directly. Even with her face covered, she was beautiful. Her eyes were unfocused, staring not at the sea but inside herself. 

“What's on your mind, girl?” He couldn't stop himself from asking. 

She turned slowly to look at him; her expression was hard to read, but there was an intensity to it that gave Sandor pause. Then, she seemed to snap out of it, slipping back into her mask. 

“Might we go above deck? Fresh air would be most welcome.” 

Sandor agreed; the stench was oppressive down here. 'No talking,' he reminded her before reaching for the door. She nodded, securing the wrappings around her head. 

Once above deck, they found a place to sit and Sandor went to fetch some wine. The ship was bustling with passengers, mostly common folk who were fleeing the destruction that dragonfire had brought upon the realm. A realm that doesn't give two shits if they live or die, so long as someone gets to rule the ashes. Sandor didn't blame them one bit; he might just have fled himself, Stark girl or no, had Elder Brother told him anything about dragons. Sandor had enough of fire for one lifetime; he was glad to have his back on it. The dreams were enough. 

He still couldn't believe what he was hearing all around him, however; was the capital truly reduced to rubble, as they said? It gave him a strange satisfaction to think of the throne being reduced to a molten pile of metal, after all the lives that had been lost in pursuit of it. Sandor wouldn't put it past the Imp, although the thought of him trying to mount a dragon was laughable; he could barely sit a horse. It was likely just an overblown rumor, but his hatred for the twisted little monster was enough for him to buy into it all the same. 

He was approached by desperate people seeking a holy man’s comforts, but he shrugged them all off irritably. He wore the costume, but he was no mummer, and was not inclined to play the part any more than necessary. 

The fresh air was the only good thing up here. He almost preferred the stench. After so long on the Quiet Isle, where it was true to its name and he was insulated from all the world's troubles, being thrust into it again was an assault to his senses. He never realized before how noisy everything was. The chatter, the sea slapping against the ship, sails flapping in the wind, the crying of birds and babies. There was so much movement around him and underfoot, it made him ill. He could barely hear his own thoughts, and that was the only good thing he could say about it.  

Sandor's mind wandered back to his dream from last night. He had dreamt of the little bird again, except this time it was on the battlefield, not the bedchamber. It was only a dream, but it seemed to him the girl was looking at him differently now. Had he done something? Or was he merely imagining it? 

She was transfixed on the water again when he returned with the wine. Sandor found a barrel and set the flagon and two cups down on it, pouring one for himself. Fresh water was a luxury on this ship; he would have to be careful with his pacing. That, too, was a state he would rather she not see him in again. 

She signed her thanks as he poured for her, lowering the cowl enough to drink. Her entire face contorted in disgust when it touched her lips, but she swallowed it down dutifully. Sandor breathed heavily from his nose in amusement. 

'Closer to piss than wine,' he agreed, taking a seat.

'What will we do when we get to Braavos?' she asked, fumbling slightly and slow, still having to spell out words more often than not. Sandor shrugged. 

'Work. Stay out of trouble, if we can.'

'What work?'

He hadn't given it much thought, in truth; he shrugged again. Sandor wasn't sure what to expect once they reached the free city, though he assumed there was always work to be done, no matter where in the world you were. He only knew one thing for certain: Keep her safe, and be selfless in the pursuit.  

'What will we tell people?' she asked next. 'How we know each other?'  

Sandor shrugged once again, irritably this time. 'Daughter, maybe,' he suggested, gesturing to where her now-black hair would be if it weren't covered up. She made a face similar to the one the wine had given her. 

'No.' she signed. 'No more fathers.'  

'Choose, then,' he replied, inclining his cup to her before he drank. It makes no bloody difference to me.  

She drank too; deeply, and with less disgust this time. 'Husb —?'  

Sandor nearly choked before she could finish spelling it out. Seven Hells. Coughing, he returned, 'No. No more husbands for you.'  

He heard quiet laughter, and saw she had eyes to match. She was jesting, he realized. He gave her a rueful look, which only seemed to amuse her more.

'Family friend. Of my father's,' she offered, genuinely this time. 'He died in the attack. You protect me now.'  

Sandor considered that, drinking again. 'That could serve,' he conceded. It would be close enough to the truth that it would be easy to remember. 'And what will you be calling yourself once we get there, I wonder?' 

She already had an answer prepared for that. He thought she might. 'Nedra.'  

He could have laughed. If there was such a thing as an afterlife, that headless bastard surely was. ‘It will serve,’ he signed again.  

'You?' 

'Don't know. Don't care.'  

Sansa huffed, rolled her eyes. ‘You have to choose.’

Sandor took a deep breath and swallowed his frustration. There was ample time between now and when they would need to concern themselves with such details. It didn’t take him long, however, to come up with an answer. ‘Conor.’

She seemed pleased by that. ‘After your father?’

He nodded.

‘What was he like?’

Sandor considered that. It was difficult to articulate an answer to such a question, for all the conflicting feelings it gave him. It had been some years since he thought too deeply about the man. ‘Complicated,’ he decided.

Conor Clegane was a good man, and honorable. But ambition and denial brought him low. His eldest had been his pride. He encouraged his ruthlessness, never realizing he would one day reap it for himself. House Clegane was still gaining its foothold in the world, and he had designs of being a great house one day. Gregor gaining his knighthood had been his proudest day. So he lied, to the world and to himself, about his son’s crueler nature. So what if some servants went missing, or some dogs turned craven in his presence? So what if fatal accidents seemed to continually befall their household? So what if the spare was horribly disfigured, would never rise to the ranks he coveted? He had his heir. So what, so what, so what.

Conor Clegane was a large man, as they all were, but none could stand up to Gregor. By the time he came around to accepting and rebuking what his eldest son was, it was too late. Gregor was a giant by then, and had no love for his sire. Or anyone. It was only a matter of time before some accident claimed him, too. Sandor could barely recall what he looked like anymore. He couldn't say if he hated the man, or pitied him.

They spent the rest of the afternoon above deck, draining and refilling cups of wine and going over more words of the hand language between conversation. The more they drank, the less she learned; but she laughed more, and that was just as well. It was getting dark by the time they rose to retreat below deck.

Sandor took the flagon and held out an arm, the little bird eagerly grasping onto it. She’d had quite a thirst, and it wouldn't do for a Silent Sister to be seen stumbling drunk above deck. 

Once they were safely below, Sandor led her over to the pallet bed and tossed a blanket over her. He went to the opposite side of the room and began making his own place to sleep from the furs they had brought along, when Sansa sat up, throwing the blankets off herself in a huff. 

“It's not time to sleep yet, is it?” She asked, pulling the wool away from her face. She’d said it quietly, but Sandor snapped at her to lower her voice all the same. It wouldn't do to be overheard should someone pass by their room. 

He sat heavily against the wall, trying to ignore the movement of the ship beneath him. “I don't care what you do, little bird, but that's what I mean to do.” 

“You don't have to sleep on the floor,” She said as she watched him free his own face. Sandor laughed under his breath. 

“I suppose I don't,” he agreed. “But I want to.” He settled down into the blankets, stomach churning. 

He heard the familiar shifting sound as she rose and padded over to where he lay. Sandor cracked opened one eye as she knelt down next to him. 

“I'm not telling you any damned stories,” he warned. 

“I think I'm ready to tell you mine,” she said, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed. Sandor propped himself up on his elbows. 

“You're drunk,” he pointed out brusquely. 

“So?” She snapped. “It'll be easier.” 

He couldn’t argue with that, and didn’t have the stomach to. “Chirp away, then.” 

She bit her lip. “I don't know where to start.”

“From the beginning,” Sandor waved a hand. “Where it ended. I know little and less of what happened when…” he trailed off. She knew the rest.

She seemed to accept that, for she shifted into a more comfortable position and began her telling. “Of course. That night, you offered to take me home. And I refused you.”

“I remember,” he replied. “You were right to.” Despite all his regrets after the fact, there was no denying he would have done her no favors, with the state he was in then. You cannot know if the other path would have been the better one, Elder Brother would remind him. His only claim to honor was that he was not the Imp. The lowest bar a man could clear. 

“I count it as one of my deepest regrets,” she disagreed. “For all that happened after…”

Sandor sat up a little straighter. “Tell me.”

Sansa took a breath. “I might have gone with you, no matter how you frightened me. I would have gone with anyone. I was desperate to be free of that place. Only…your offer came too late. Someone else had already made me that promise.” 

Sandor was puzzled by that, but made no interruption. He thought himself quite knowledgeable of the goings on in the Red Keep, most of all as it pertained to her. And yet she had her secrets, even then. 

“He left me a note under my pillow, said to meet him in the Godswood if I wanted to go home...” She looked disgusted by the memory. “My Florian.”

He was thinking back to every man in King’s Landing, and couldn’t think of a soul who would have helped her, and could have warranted such comparison. “Who was he?” 

“Ser Dontos,” she answered quietly. 

Sandor let out a laugh, more from surprise than mirth, forgetting for a moment where they were and who they were pretending to be. “That disgraced fool is who you were with this whole time?” He asked incredulously, lowering himself to a whisper once more. “I thought he could barely walk up a fight of stairs, let alone cook up schemes of rescue.” 

“You'd be right,” Sansa agreed, unamused. “I was the fool, in truth. I thought he might save me, as I had saved him. I believed mercy might beget mercy, but…he only meant to sell me, in the end.”

The scathing tone in her voice was enough to sober him. “He never got his payment,” she continued. “He was killed once the exchange was made. I had to watch him die...it was still hard, back then.” 

“Who bought you?” It came out as a growl.

She steadied herself with a hand as the ship lurched over a wave. Sandor's stomach threatened to empty itself on the spot, and despite the grim nature of her story, the sight of him retching seemed to lift her out of her sorrows. 

“You're so pale,” she observed with a guilty laugh. “If you're feeling too greensick—”

“Who bought you?” he repeated. Sansa looked up, as if searching through the memories. 

“I'm ahead of myself,” she shook her head. “It was some time still, between the Battle of the Blackwater and then. Plots and plots…I couldn't see it at the time. I was so entangled in them all.”

She told him of her brief friendship with the Tyrells, and their promise to wed her to their eldest. “I thought I might be free then, for Dontos was taking long in fulfilling his promises. But he sold my secrets too, and the Queen caught wind of the scheme. They wed me to Tyrion with impressive haste. The wedding was a humiliation ritual upon us both.”

The mention of Tyrion made him even more ill, if it was possible. He took a drink of wine, and handed the flagon over to the girl. She drank too, long and deep. “Did he hurt you?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

It surprised him, then, when she shook her head. “No. I hated being wed to him, and our wedding night was only more humiliation for us both, but he never harmed me.”

“I'm not a fool,” he snapped. “Tell it true.”

“I am,” she insisted, somehow getting even redder in the cheeks. “He wanted to…tried to…but the marriage was never consummated.”

Sandor stared at her in disgust to imagine it, though there was some relief as well. “Tried?”

Sandor remembered when the Imp had been married the first time; the tale of how he ended it made his skin crawl, even still. Lannister men had japed about it for weeks until Tywin put an end to it. He had given a barracks full of men a turn on the girl, taking her for himself last. She had never been seen or heard of again after that. He had always been a lustful, whoring little creature, even without the rape. He always imagined she met the same cruel fate. What other fate could there be?

“I shared his bed dutifully, but I think it shamed him, to know I did not want him. He hated my courtesies and the way I looked at him, near as much as you.”

Sandor's lip curled up. “I'm nothing like him.” 

“You were, in some ways; not in others,” she said gently. “He had a rage inside him, too…he never did me bodily harm, but do not take it to mean I do not grudge him for the part he played. Only that, when one is betrayed by every friend, it casts a different light to be spared by a foe.”

She drank some more. “I should have been there,” he murmured. It was the recurring thought that haunted him all these years. You should have kept her safe. Perhaps he could not know what might have become of that path. You should have taken it anyway.

“I found myself wishing you were, on the hard days,” she agreed. “You would have seen through it all…and been powerless to stop it. I'm glad you left. It led you here.” She rested her head on his shoulder now, sluggishly as it grew too heavy from the wine.

Sandor was always determined before, to be unapologetic about what he was. He found himself resentful now, that it had taken all this time for him to take a different view. So much time wasted, and he was only barely better than when he started, and nowhere near what he should be, to have such faith put in him. Absentmindedly, Sandor put an arm around her. “What came next?” 

“Joffrey’s wedding,” she sighed, fatigued already from the recollections. She told him about the hairnet gifted to her by Ser Dontos, given to him by his secret master, with poison amethysts embedded within. It was a cowardly scheme, and she laughed humorlessly in agreement when he said so. 

“Dontos made good on his promise, then. Only when I was successfully implicated, and would have nowhere else to turn. I finally got a peek around the curtain to meet my puppeteer. And it would take me five years to escape him.”

Sandor felt himself tighten up like a bowstring. She counted this shadowy figure as the worst of them, he knew. 

He was a busy man. She told him he was behind the death of Jon Arryn. He'd orchestrated the murders of Joffrey, Ser Dontos, Lysa Arryn and her young son, and one Harry Hardyng as well, who was briefly married to her as Alayne, in an endless bid for power. 

“He rarely does the deed directly…he's a clever man. Evil, but clever.” Her voice had taken on a flat tone, as though recounting someone else's experiences.  

Sandor felt his blood boiling. He tipped her face up. “And what did he do to you ?” The others didn’t matter half so much. They were dead.

Sansa took a breath. “It was innocent enough, at first; I was almost happy, even. I was Alayne. It was his mother's name. And he was my father. I took care of my little cousin and had friends. He kept me close, taught me how to lie and negotiate and play the board in front of me. I almost felt free...but it was just another cage. I knew it all along, but accepted that some cages were better than others. So I played my part, and took my lessons.” 

She told him of her time as Alayne Stone, and the man who posed as her father. He used her to meet his ends, as he did everyone else. She spoke of attempted rapes and murders and cutting herself in her wedding bed. She spoke of touches and kisses and salacious comments, that grew more frequent and demanding as the years progressed. Of never getting a moment’s privacy, and how he ultimately took to poisoning her to make her pliant. He never dared to take her fully, but he found other ways to take his pleasures on her.

By the time she told him of yet another farce wedding planned in secret, and the attack that ensued, he was fully blind with rage. He couldn't remember the last time he felt it so intimately. Sandor had worked hard at suppressing it, then overcoming it. Over the years, he learned how to channel it into his hands. He couldn't take it anymore. He drove his fist into the nearest wall, making her jump. 

“St-stop it!” Sansa cried out, taking his fist in both of her hands before he could strike again. “They'll hear us. Please...” she hiccupped.

His first instinct was to shake her off, but then he saw her. Moonlight streamed in through the porthole, illuminating the look in her eyes. One he had tried to pry from her not so long ago, and yet it was the last thing he wished to put there now. Fear. 

He frowned, took a deep breath and forced himself to calm as she stroked his throbbing knuckles. He felt useless; he wanted to do something, but all he could manage was fury. Sandor didn’t know how to be comforting; nothing felt more insincere than forced sincerity. No words could fix what had been done to her, and his anger only frightened her. What good are you, dog?

Sandor snatched the hand away and found the wine. “Tell me who did all of this.”

Her eyes were shining now, but she did not weep. “Petyr Baelish,” she said quietly. Bitterly.

“Littlefinger?” He snarled, leaning forward. “Littlefinger is who took you? Who did...this...to you?”

Littlefinger always had his little finger in the schemes at court, but Sandor had never taken him for one to reach so far, or capable of such destruction. Depraved, to be sure, but not any more than the next snake in the pit, or so he believed. It was always for gold and secrets that he measured his worth. What want or need did he ever have with her? I should have known. Small men often cast the longest shadows, yet always went underestimated.

“Seven hells. You're always stuck with the worst,” He murmured, shaking his head. Joffrey, the Imp, Littlefinger...and now me.  

“I’m not stuck now,” She said, offering a lopsided smile. 

Sandor felt a rolling in his stomach that wasn't entirely from the nausea. And now she’s the one comforting you, the voice in his head sneered.

“How did you get away?” He asked, hoping to hear something less infuriating.  

Sansa tensed somewhat, but didn't come to the answer meekly. “He tried to poison me again. A different kind. He wanted more that time…but I fought him. I made him drink it instead. Do you remember when I told you my father had a scarred face?” 

Sandor laughed sardonically at that. Of course he remembered. He remembered all her lies. Pretty little lies from a pretty little bird. “If you made him look like me, you'll have done him a world of shame; good on you, girl.” 

Sansa moved forward again and took his face in her hands. Sandor recoiled, revolted for her. Her drunkenness only made her more sincere, not less. “You are nothing like him. Nothing.”  

Sandor could feel her fingers inching closer to exposed bone, and pulled the hand away. “Tell me the rest, little bird.” His throat was dry, and turned his voice to sawdust. She described in detail her fight and flight from Littlefinger’s clutches, and how she had split his face in two.  

“You should've split his throat in two while you were at it,” he snarled. 

“I want him to live with it,” she replied, with uncharacteristic coldness. “Death isn't always the answer.” 

“It was when he conspired to kill your true father,” He spat, remembering the day Littlefinger had aided in seizing Ned Stark, putting the dagger to his throat himself. He softened somewhat, to see how hard the words hit her.

“I thought you’d know,” he muttered.  

“I should have known,” she whispered. 

“He will answer for it one day, mark me,” Sandor promised. “And everything else. Now, I want you to listen to me.” He shifted, and it was his turn to take her by the face.  

“I'm proud of you, Sansa.” It was overwhelming, how much he meant it. “You never should've been left there alone, and I will never stop in the pursuit of making that up to you. But you never needed me. When this world chews you up, the world breaks its teeth.”

He admired her for that, truth be told. He couldn’t say the same for himself. He had tried so hard to break her spirits before the world did, for he always believed it was the only way to survive. But he was wrong. She had none of her former innocence, and every reason to be hopeless and mistrusting and hateful as he was. But she refused. She was made of stronger stuff. 

Sansa smiled through her tears, letting loose when she blinked. “Maybe I didn't need you then. But I do now. Not to survive. Something better.”

She leaned forward, a little clumsily, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. He had to fight every muscle in his body not to kiss her back. Too much wine.  

“Time for bed now, little bird.” 

They lay on opposite sides of the room, and it took a long while before sleep found either of them. When it did, Sandor dreamt he was at her side, stroking her auburn hair and reassuring her that no one would ever lay unwanted hands on her again. In his dream, she told him the only hands she wanted were his. Ignorant in that abstract reality of dreams, he almost believed her.

Chapter Text

SANSA 9

“Come on, I'll lead!” 

“Not a fucking chance,” he growled, shaking his arm roughly from her grip. “Put a barrel of wine in me, I’ll think about it.”

Sansa was dressed splendidly in a gown made of deep blue silks, to match her eyes. Thick auburn curls spilled over her shoulders and down her back, and for the first time in a long while, she felt beautiful. He, on the other hand, wore simple clothing with his hair hanging in his eyes, looking quite himself and out of place; he hadn’t thought to change his attire with the scenery. He isn’t aware that he can.

Sansa had never been denied a dance before, but she was determined to charm him. She was practiced in the art, and he was her ultimate test. If I can charm Sandor Clegane, I could charm anyone.

“Too scared?” She taunted, with her wicked bastard's smile, coming around to walk backwards in the face of his retreat. 

“That won't work on me,” he scolded her. But there was a glint in his eyes that betrayed him. 

“It's cruel to reject a lady's request to a dance,” she informed him. “Everyone says so.”

“It's a mercy, I promise you,” said Sandor. “Do I look like the frolicking sort to you?”

“So you are afraid.” Sansa added a little skip to her steps that were timed to the tune that was playing from some unseen source. “Afraid to look a little silly, but a man never looks silly with a lady in his arms.”

“Is that what everyone says?”

She grinned. “Of course.” It was a lie, of course. But he knew that already.

“‘Everyone’ is a dullard or a cunt, seems to me. I leave it to them.”

“Are you the dullard, or the cunt?” She wondered, tilting her head. She shrieked when he lunged forward, quick as a whip, and caught her by the arms. She was laughing, and saw his mouth quirk into a grin as well.

“Could be I'm both, where you're concerned,” he said in a low voice. 

“You'll dance twice as well, then,” she pointed out. His hold on her was loose, and she drew her hands up the length of his arms until they found his shoulders. She could hear a quiet rumbling in his chest. I only need to touch him, and he is mine.

Sansa took a step back, and he came with her. Smiling, she swayed to one side. He spun her, but not to music. Just away from him.

“That was a good try,” he said wryly. “It still won't work.”

“I know you know how.” Sansa took to circling him, and he was circling as well, to keep her in view.

“Never said I didn't,” replied Sandor. “Only that I don't.”

Sansa circled in close, and he bent his head to gaze down on her as she took her skirts in one hand and held up the other, bent at the elbow with an open palm, meant for him to meet with his own. “You do now,” she declared. 

“Why do you insist so much?” He asked irritably, turning with her but keeping his hands firmly at his side. 

“Why do you resist so much?” She countered. “It’s only you and I.”  

He opened his mouth to call her a liar, but when he looked around, he saw she had the truth of it. Sandor ceased the pacing, nonplussed. Moments before, they had been standing in amidst a swarm of other revelers, causing a great ruckus all around them. Now the hall was void of all people, and the only sound was the music. Sansa laughed at the confusion writ all over his face. 

“Dance with me.” Sansa gave an impatient wave of her hand. “Or I shall have to dream up someone who will.”

His expression was sour, but to her delight, his palm was large and rough as he pressed it against hers. They were circling again, eyes locked on one another. He had no limp, but his steps were clumsier than hers, and he didn’t bother with the footwork. Still, true to his word, he did know the steps. He knew when to switch directions and when to break away, when to lift her hand to allow her to twirl around him in a flourish of skirts. 

“You're a better dancer than you think,” she said approvingly. 

“Spare me,” he snorted, snatching her up by the waist and lifting her. When her feet touched the ground again, his hands lingered there. She could see every detail in his burned face. The song was drawing to its conclusion, and the partners were meant to bow and curtsy to one another, as he surely knew. Yet he made no move to release her, and Sansa made no move to release herself. Her stomach was fluttering again. 

“Shall we go again?” 

“We shant,” Sandor declared with derision. “I’ve indulged you enough already. You know what I would rather be doing.” 

She felt the color rising to her cheeks. “Would you? You come awake every time you try.” 

He couldn’t understand what she meant, so he took it as an invitation instead. Sansa braced herself for what would come. He brought his great head down and covered her mouth with his. And then away he went, and down she fell, falling through the floor, falling and falling and falling forever... 

Sansa’s eyes fluttered open to the dim, dank chambers she shared with Sandor Clegane below deck of the Summer Wind. They had been traveling for days now, and she awoke with a sense of disappointment that was becoming all too familiar as of late. Time moved differently on this ship. It stretched on and on. 

Since that night she had dreamt of him at the Blackwater—had suspected that they shared the same dream—she had begun paying special attention to her dreams, to determine if it was imagined or not. She was now certain it wasn’t. She had found him in his dreams more often than not, almost always nightmares. Some nights, she would have nightmares too.  

Her most recent revelation was that she could wake herself up within the dreams, and with such awareness found that she could change them. She could control everything about them, except for him. He was not aware as she was, she knew. To Sandor, they were merely dreams. He never let on that his nightmares had lessened, but she could see a shift in his demeanor, and could tell he awoke with the same frustration she felt now. It was better than the bitterness. And all the fire.

Sansa was uncertain how she was doing it, and couldn’t make it happen with consistency. But she laid her head down with intention now, which seemed to help. Yet whenever Sandor would move to embrace her, he would disappear, and the dream would end. She found that she wanted him to, and it vexed her that he wouldn't. It’s for the best, she would tell herself. She was to keep him as her friend and nothing more, that was her intention. 

But that was before. It changed things, in many ways she couldn’t articulate. He was always honest with her in waking, but always held something back. Something she was desperate to be shown, with understanding that it could never see the light of day. He loves me. In the true way, without condition or motive. He lusted for her, too, she knew; but he did not impose it on her, and even in slumber had built a wall around it. It didn’t lurk behind every word or stalk her from behind eyes feigning kindness, or wait for her in her cups. It was a burden for him. Something he would change if he could. Sansa couldn’t explain to herself why she wished to unburden him so much. Perhaps I am burdened as well.

She wanted to tell him of this ability she’d discovered, but always stopped short of it when she gathered the courage to do so. The dreams were pleasant in ways she might never experience in waking. If he knew, he would surely spoil it. If he believed me at all. It would complicate things that needn’t be complicated, she told herself. And she was still so confused by it all besides. What it meant, what she wanted. She decided she needed to find more answers before creating more questions. 

He came so close this time. Their lips had touched, and she could still feel the sensation of it as she sat up. He was awake too, staring up at the ceiling. She wanted to go back to sleep, to try again, but it was no good. He was already rising, pulling his long hair back as he did each morning before donning his cowl. Sansa reluctantly followed suit, sitting up and braiding her hair. “How did you sleep?” she asked, as she did every morning. 

“Well enough,” he murmured. “I'm going below to tend to Stranger. I'll have water drawn up for a bath; call for me when you're finished.” 

Sansa nodded her agreement, looking forward to the prospect of fresh skin. They would only get one tub of lukewarm seawater to clean themselves with, which was a luxury other passengers didn’t know, and he gave her the first turn. 

He ducked out of the room, and Sansa donned her own face coverings as she waited for the water to come. It didn't take long before there was a knock at the door, and she wasted no time once the tub was filled and the men were gone. The water soothed her bones and cleared her mind; she could lay in it all day if she didn't feel the obligation to leave some warm water for her companion. 

She made sure to wash up quickly so that she could allow herself time to soak. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, smiling as she thought back on the dream. She had convinced him to dance with her; it gave her a sense of triumph. She'd been bolder last night. They were so confined on the ship…she was restless and bored, and there was naught to do but test his limits. It had been nice, while it lasted. She wondered if she would ever feel so carefree again in her waking life, or if she would have to be content forever to dream up a better one. Perhaps she was still only a silly girl at her heart, and always would be. 

They almost never left the cabin. More often than not, Sandor would make her stay behind while he fetched meals or cleaned up after Stranger, bearing no trust for their fellow passengers. It was for the better, despite how restive she felt. The Silent Sisters primarily prepared the dead for burial, and were often referred to as the Stranger’s wives. She was given a wide berth. Most of the passengers wouldn’t even look Sansa in the face; many considered it a bad omen to do so. It was refreshing to be free of the hungry stares men usually troubled her with, but isolating too, and it took the savor out of the fresh air when she did venture out. She had never dressed a corpse, but had seen her fair share of them now. She couldn't help wondering if that sense of death followed her everywhere she went, disguise or no. 

As such, they slept a lot to pass the time. The sea did not agree with Sandor, even less so with the turbulent storms that had slowed their progress. He spent much of the time battling his own stomach, and oftentimes losing. He had taken to sleeping several times each day, to escape the nausea. It didn’t bother her so much now. She took to sleeping more as well. It provided ample opportunity to practice her newfound ability. 

When she was awake, there was little and less to do, but Sansa challenged herself to find the good in the situation. It was far better than the Vale, that was easy enough to acknowledge. Less comfortable than the Quiet Isle, but there was a certain freedom that came with it despite being so confined. She wasn’t a guest here, but the master of her own fate. Learning the hand-language was more enjoyable in this setting as well. Sandor could speak the words he taught her, and made it a habit to sign everything he said. She mimicked him as best she could, although she got tripped up in her words sometimes. It was difficult for her to concentrate on both languages at once. In truth, he made it hard to concentrate on anything. 

Sansa submerged herself under the water, not coming up until she couldn't take it anymore. What had possessed her lately? Had she become so overly familiar with him in their seclusion that she forgot what handsome looked like? Or did it simply not matter?

Even without the black and twisted burns that made a ruin of half his face, he was plain at best. She could see that. He had a heavy brow, a large hooked nose, a thin mouth made for frowns, and, more recently, he had grown whiskers that didn't quite come in on the left side. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost his left ear entirely, what little of it he ever had to start with. The scars occasionally oozed, even still, and were so threadbare in one place that the bone was visible. He had to part his hair differently to give the illusion that any hair grew there at all, though it was convincing enough, and his leg wound gave him the gait of a man half-crippled. He always turned away from the subject of how he came by it, even in dreams. By any standard, he was a grotesquery. 

And yet...and yet, she had grown fond of all his features, even the ugly ones. They were uniquely his, and made him who he was. If given the choice, Sansa doubted she would change them. All things considered, he was still twice as nice to look upon as Tyrion Lannister, and his lips infinitely sweeter than Littlefinger’s, even before she’d quartered them. Any time she’d been kissed before, her mind always took her back to the one she imagined. When Sansa reflected on that, she determined it was her way of seeking his protection, even when he wasn’t there. Sandor never prevented her suffering, not entirely. But he did soften the blow. And so had that memory. Perhaps I was protecting him as well, in a way. 

Sansa always tried to find the good, and he had some appealing features as well. What hair did grow came in thick and black, and came down to his elbow. Sansa suspected he hadn’t cut it once in these five years. His stormy gray eyes, brooding and intense and sometimes hard, but no longer clouded with hatred. The ungraceful grace with which he moved, even with the limp in his step. Even his voice, rough as the crunch of gravel underfoot, was welcome in her ear. 

He reminded her of home; Sandor could pass as a Northman. Such men hadn’t appealed to her before, and she would beg her father not to make her marry one someday. Yet she thought of blonde curls and unblemished skin now, and felt nothing. I have no taste for green boys in velvet. She thought of Ser Loras, who she had once thought astonishingly handsome and gallant. He’d given her a red rose, and praised her beauty, and taken her breath away. And the next time they’d met, he didn’t even remember who she was. All of it was pageantry. All of it.

Sandor emanated strength and masculinity, and it appalled Sansa to feel so stirred by it. She liked his size, perhaps best of all. Sansa had always been taller than any man she'd been matched to, but this man absolutely dwarfed her, and he could lift her as though she weighed nothing at all. Somewhere along the way, she had acquired a taste for sweated brows and callused hands and foul mouths. It made her shiver.  

And, Gods be good, he was impossibly gentle for all that. His hands were rough, but never his touch. There was always an underlying restraint, as though she were made of glass and he feared he might break her. He still had a ferocity about him—she had seen it while he sparred with Elder Brother—but she was never the object of it. She wondered if perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if she was. I'm not made of glass, after all. She shivered again.

She couldn't help but think there was something deeper, something neither of them could understand or control. After all, their dreams were tethered together, and seemingly more strongly given their proximity. It wasn't normal. What had caused it? Certainly, there was something at play; but what? What did it mean? Why him, and why her? When exactly had such a bond been forged, what purpose did it serve? How long had the Gods seen it fit to connect her both physically and mentally to this man? Was this always the plan, was this always the path? Did he have any idea at all? Surely, he must have, even if he wouldn't admit it to himself. He must know, deep down. 

Once she was dressed, she went down below to find him. He was in the stall with Stranger, spreading fresh straw along the floor. The horse had become accustomed to his new surroundings, but he still had no love for them. He was restless and cooped up as she was; Sansa felt sad for him. She would often sing to him when she was sure no one else was around, for it seemed to calm him as much as it did his master. 

Sandor took notice of her as he stood, signing a greeting. 

'Your turn,' she signed in reply, knowing he could use the bath more than herself, for all the upkeep Stranger required. He brushed off his hands and patted the stallion before exiting the stall. He gave Sansa a pat on the head too, before limping away up the stairs. He trusted her to be alone with him now. She smiled, walking over to keep the horse company while she waited. She felt exposed being alone outside of the confines of the cabin, but Stranger’s presence gave her a sense of safety. He was gentle as a lamb for his master, and he extended it to her as well. Anyone else was his blackest enemy. 

“I’ve added a new verse for you,” she whispered to him, stroking his muzzle. “Would you like to hear it?” He nickered softly and she smiled, taking that as approval. Sansa liked to sing him the Song of the Seven; it was a pleasant lullaby, and it soothed him best. She had been reconsidering the Stranger a lot lately, and she felt it unfair that he wasn’t included in the song. It can’t be called the Song of the Seven if only six are mentioned, can it?  

She started the song from the beginning, singing as quietly as possible. Stranger’s head was heavy in her hands, closing his eyes. When she came to where the last verse was usually sung, however, she sung her new verse instead: 

“The Stranger guides us to the other side,
Upon his horse all men must ride,
There’s no need to fear, no need to hide,
He won’t harm the little childr— “ 

Sansa quieted down abruptly when she heard the sound of heavy footfalls descending the stairs. Stranger snapped his head up as well. It was too soon for it to be Sandor, she knew, and too clumsy besides. It carried none of the familiar rhythm of his gait. It was with that knowledge that she stiffened somewhat, weary about strangers who were not associated with Gods or the stallion standing before her. 

Moments later, a filthy, scrawny man stumbled into view. Drunk, Sansa knew. Of course he was; all there was to drink was wine, and all there was to do was drink. Taking notice of her, the man gave her a wide grin full of rotten teeth and sauntered towards her. “I thought I heard singin',” he said, tilting his head. “I thought you holy folk didn't do that?” 

Sansa wasn't sure how to respond; he wouldn't understand the hand-language as she did. She shook her head, denying it. 

He chuckled. “C'mon, sweet sister, don’t be shy; surely you've got more to say than that? Only God out here is the Drowned one.” 

Sansa shook her head again, keeping one hand on Stranger's muzzle as he shifted restlessly in his stall. “That your horse?” he asked. 

She could smell him from here, the stench of bodily odor and stale vomit coming off him so strongly that she could almost taste it. Sansa nodded slowly. Just leave me alone, she thought. What do you want? 

“What's a sweet sister like yourself doing with a beast like that?” 

Sansa shrugged. What does he expect me to say? The man moved closer. 

'No,' Sansa signed, also shaking her head. She gestured to the horse and shook her head vigorously, hoping he would take her meaning. Danger. 

His laughter was like grinding rocks in grease. “It's not the horse I mean to pet.” 

Sansa felt her stomach flip over, but she didn't feel afraid. Not with Stranger here. He'll regret it if he comes closer. I won't stop him, either.  

“I came here for some quiet, but it seems the Gods have seen it fit to give me something more,” he gushed, coming closer. “Tell me, sweet sister, you may not talk…but can you scream?” 

He was close, much too close. She felt pity for him; most of the smallfolk aboard the ship couldn't afford their own rooms, having to sleep on the deck or wherever they could find a space to lay. He was surely such a man; life was unfair for them, she knew. But life isn't fair to anyone; that doesn't make it right to be cruel. 

The man quickened his pace and reached out to grab her, but Sansa's reflexes were sharper, and she backed away out of his grasp. His folly was a certainty now. His proximity to her also brought him in proximity to the great black destrier stabled there, who was already agitated from his restlessness, who never took kindly to others… 

The man yowled in agony as Stranger brought his great head forward and tore at the side of his face, ripping an ear off in one bite. It didn't go cleanly. Sansa squeezed her eyes shut as blood spattered across her face. The stallion was already poised to strike again, but the man had reeled backwards, clutching the side of his head and screaming. His agony soon gave way to fury, as Sansa thought it might; she plastered herself to the stall door as he came at her again, but this time he had drawn a dagger. She opened her mouth to scream, but he was too drunk to strike first, and Stranger was ready for him: he sunk his teeth into the man’s shoulder and tore at it viciously. 

He let out an ear-splitting howl, and Stranger lifted him bodily from the floor, thrashing him about as though he were filled with straw. Blood went everywhere, but Sansa was rooted to the spot, stunned by the sheer brutality of it all. She had never seen a horse behave this way, or known they were capable of such strength.  

Despite the chaos, the man had not lost his grip on the dagger. He was now raising it, making to stab at the beast. No , Sansa's mind reeled, afraid now for the first time. She snapped out of her stupor and grabbed his arm, wrenching at it with all her might. She over-anticipated his strength in his state, however. His arm sprang back more easily than she expected, and a sharp pain followed as the blade slashed over her. Stranger shook him again and the blade clattered to the floor, followed by the sound of thunder and renewed screams. 

Sansa looked up to see three Braavosi crewman had arrived on the scene, to see what was causing such an uproar below deck. It all happened so fast, Sansa couldn't say exactly how the scrawny man came free from the horse's jaws, but soon he was being propped up by two of the men as the third approached her. 

“What is the meaning of this?” He demanded. Sansa didn't know what to do, still too stunned to make a reply. Her entire chest was wet, and her knees felt like pudding. She put out an arm and braced herself against the stable door, having to blink rapidly to focus.  

“Bitch sent her horse on me!” The bleeding man cried from behind, his breathing labored as his wounds gushed blood down his front. 

Sansa shook her head desperately; how she wished she could speak! But even in this state, she dare not. She pointed at the dagger lying on the floor.  

They seemed to understand; the third crewman took the dagger in hand, turning on the bleeding man. “You bring weapons on our ship?” he asked accusingly. “You try to attack a servant of the Gods, on our ship?” 

“That's not what happened!” He lied. “She attacked me, I was defending meself!” 

“This man takes us for fools,” The man guffawed, and his companions joined in his laughter. He waved at them dismissively, as though sending away a particularly bad meal. “Throw this drunkard overboard. He can take his depravities to someone else's ship.” 

They dragged him roughly away, kicking and screaming all the while. Sansa was shaking like a leaf as the leader turned back to her. She put a hand out to halt him, not wanting there to be any more casualties.  

“I know that beast is wild,” He said in his thick accent. “Nearly took my own ear when you first boarded. I am deeply sorry, Sister,” he said earnestly as he took notice of the gash the dagger had made. Sansa seemed to notice it for the first time herself as she looked down, and with awareness and loss of urgency came a sharp, stinging, pulsing pain. She whimpered, feeling it from the middle of her chest to the tips of her fingers on her left hand. 

“We confiscate all weaponry; I do not know how that fool managed to slip one by us. It will not happen again, I assure you. We are going to inspect every inch of this ship. Are you all right?” 

She looked up and, shakily, she nodded. She bowed her head and put her hands together as a show of thanks. 

“Nothing more vile than preying on the defenseless.” He spat. “Praise the Gods that you were not killed. I will have men sent to your room for that cut immediately, it is a deep one I think. Do you need help getting there?” 

Sansa shook her head, and the man bowed before hurrying back up the stairs to fetch the men he promised. From behind, Stranger nudged her in the back and whickered. She turned, pressed her lips into his blood-soaked nose. “Thank you.”

She walked up the stairs in a daze, still shaking, her footing clumsy and heavy. She didn't know how long it took her to find the room, but it felt like eternity. The corridor seemed to grow longer with every step, and she nearly lost her balance as the ship rocked back and forth. She walked the rest of the way slumped against the wall, paying no mind to the smear of blood that trailed behind. Once she got to the room at last, she pushed the door open and stumbled inside.

“Oi!” she heard the shout as she crossed the threshold, but it was too late. She froze, mouth agape beneath her cowl. Surely she was a shocking sight, with all the blood, but so was he. He had stood—instinctively, as an intruder barged into the room unannounced—taking her for an enemy, as he always did when he was taken unaware. 

“Oh...” she breathed, eyes wide and dazed as she stared at him. He stared back. She leaned on the door handle to keep from fainting. 

His face had gone white as milk, and the expression there looked equally as aghast as she felt. Sansa could feel her face burning as it flushed the same color as the blood spattered across it. He hadn't yet finished his bath, and he stood there in the water, dripping wet and naked as his name day.

Chapter Text

SANDOR 10

“Close the door, damn you!” Sandor roared once he found his voice again. She squeaked and obeyed, spinning around and shutting the door behind her, latching it for good measure. 

Heart hammering, he snatched his robes up off the floor, beside himself in the sudden assault on his privacy. He was already on his feet and ready for a fight when he realized what he was seeing. Not a threat. Something worse. So much worse. 

He shrugged into the robe and closed the space between them in three steps, spinning her around to face him. His stomach turned over at the sight. Her eyeful of his nakedness paled in comparison to all the blood. Sandor’s head swam in a barely contained rage at the sight. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to rein it in; he wouldn't be able to speak without absolutely screaming at her, he knew, and now wasn't the time. Later. He needed to keep his head; no, she needed him to. 

'What happened?' he signed, his movements waspish and shaking.

Tears sprung up in her eyes as she opened her mouth, but she was speechless.  

He tried a different approach. 'Are you all right?'  

It was a stupid question. Of course she wasn't all right. Gods, the blood…  

“Y-yes,” she stammered. “It hurts, but...I'm really sorry I didn't knock!” She burst into tears then, burying her face in her hands. 

At first, Sandor was dumbstruck. Once he took her meaning, however, he took hold of her wrists and pulled them away from her face. She kept her eyes on the ground, but for once, he didn't take it personally. 

“What did I tell you before?” He broke his silence now that he was sure he could keep his wits, though it still came out as a snarl. “Don't ever apologize to me, girl. I don't care about that. What happened ? Who did this to you?” The desperation in his voice was impossible to hide; he would find them and kill them with his bare hands. 

“He's being thrown o-overboard...” She looked up at him, suddenly fearful. “I should have stopped them, he was drunk, he d-doesn't deserve to die—“ 

“Yes he does,” Sandor cut in harshly, shaking her. “He deserves worse, you hear me?” 

“St-stranger saved me,” she said between sobs. “Th-this is small compared to what he got.” Good. He hoped some of that blood belonged to them. “I tried to w-warn him, but he just kept c-coming...he tried to hurt Stranger...I grabbed him...and...” 

“Stupid girl,” he muttered, but his tone had lost its bite as he slid the wool off her face, her breathing rapid and labored. “You should have let the horse take the cut. He's seen worse.” Stranger would have a claim to all the sugar he could eat, once he could find some. And if I ever see Elder Brother again, I'll make him eat crow for wanting me to leave him behind.  

“I wasn't afraid,” she insisted, although she still shook. 

“Is this the worst of it?” He gingerly took her shoulder in-hand again, careful not to touch the wound. She nodded. 

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” 

“N-no…they're s-sending someone...and you have to get rid of that dagger you took,” She suddenly looked fearful again. “They're going to inspect the ship.”

“Don't worry about that,” Sandor replied irritably, leading her over to the bed to sit her down, stooping down in front. “I decided not to risk it; I left it behind.” She looked relieved, wincing as he peeled the cloth away from her wound. 

Sandor sucked in a breath at the sight. “Fuck me, it's deep.” In one swift motion, he ripped the blanket she was seated upon. Deeper than I thought. And bigger. He needed to stop the bleeding; it was hard to see through the blood and her flushing, but she was horribly pale. She was probably in shock, he realized. He shouldn't have wasted time asking her questions. She doesn’t know how serious it is. The gash extended from her left shoulder over her chest. He frowned, tracing the path with a finger. “You're going to have a scar. Lie back.”

You said you'd protect her, dog. You swore.  

She obeyed, and Sandor put the cloth to her chest and pressed it down. She tried to keep a brave face, but a whimper managed to escape. “I know,” he said softly. “It hurts like seven hells. Try to think of something else.” 

She blinked up at him, smiling weakly. “This is nothing...” She slid a hand under his left sleeve, grasping the forearm ravaged by burns from wrist to elbow. The girl had never seen more of him than the skin of his face and hands, before today. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. There was barely any part of him that was unmarred by old wounds. 

“I earned that with a sword in my hand, that's the difference.” He said roughly. A knock came at the door then. He placed her good hand over the cloth and instructed her to keep the pressure on as he rose, covering his face before unlatching the door and throwing it open. 

Two crewmembers had arrived; one bore a tray with hot wine, milk of the poppy, a basin of hot seawater, and washtowels. Sandor’s blood ran cold to look upon the second crewmember, who carried a stone basin by the handle. It was filled with burning red coals, an iron poker thrust into it. He had expected needle and thread. Elder Brother always used needle and thread. 

“The captain sends his sympathies, and his regrets,” the one in front said, bowing. “We have come to see to your wounded.” Sandor grunted in response, taking the tray and nodding in approval, while the second crewmember brought the basin bedside. Sandor then shooed them away roughly, ignoring all their protests and slamming the door after them. This was his mess to clean up. He doubted they would have seen such prompt care if they'd been one of the sorry shits sleeping out on the deck. Probably think they’ve offended the Gods—or the Stranger.  

He returned to his position at her side, seeing the look of horror on her face at the sight of the coals. It matched how he felt. 

“Drink this, for the pain.” He tried to keep his voice even as he sat her up to drink the milk of the poppy. For good measure, he made her wash it down with some of the wine. Once she was finished, he ripped open the cloth around her wound to allow better access. She gasped, but he ignored it. It would have been better to change her out of the robe altogether, but time was of the essence; any delay and he might just lose his nerve.  

“This part is going to hurt, little bird. Take my hand, squeeze it as hard as you can. Try to break it.” He placed her right hand over his left as he dipped a cloth into the wine. Quickly. He needed to move quickly. 

She looked about to protest, but when the cloth made contact, she cried out and clenched at him, hard, her nails digging into into his skin. “That's it,” He encouraged her. “Don't go easy on me, I won't go easy on you.” He pressed the wine-soaked cloth into her again, and she gripped his hand so hard it almost hurt, grinding her teeth as she bit back sobs, drawing his blood. 

Once he was finished cleaning it, Sandor laid her back down and turned his attention towards the stone basin. Of all the things he ever wanted to do to her, burning her was the very last thing. Next to killing her. The thought of it nearly made him physically ill, and he had to choke back bile as it ran up his throat.  

He turned back to her, hesitating. “How's the pain?” 

“Better,” she sighed with unfocused eyes. 

“Good. Tell me when you can't feel it at all.” She rolled her head over to watch him as he put the pressure back on and dipped the cloth into the seawater, contented to wipe her face clean. 

“I feel like Stranger,” she slurred, laughing weakly. If he weren't so beside himself, he might have laughed with her. Her eyelids were heavy; it was setting in.

“Will you...stay...with me?” she murmured, each word coming out with great effort as her eyes fluttered, fighting to stay open. 

“I've nowhere else to go, do I?” Unfortunately for you. “Hush now, little bird. And keep still.” 

“Did you…like dancing?” She ignored him, grasping his hand more weakly now. He could have wept. 

“I don’t dance. Hush now, I said.” 

Her chest heaved feebly as she tried to laugh again. “Liar.” She swallowed. “Sandor?” 

“What is it?” He asked impatiently, yet not unkindly. 

“I can't...you can...I'm ready.” 

I'm not, he thought warily. But it was now or never. “It's still going to hurt.” He placed one of the wash towels between her teeth. “A lot. Bite down, it will help.” 

“Not...afraid…” she sighed under it. At least one of us isn’t. Sandor took a deep breath to steady his hands. The sight of her blood on them made it an impossible task. 

He held the wound together in one hand, and shakily reached for the iron with the other. She didn't seem to feel the pain anymore. She stared up at him with dreamy eyes, smiling drunkenly. 

“You...” She swallowed again, eyes sliding closed. “love...me...” 

More than air. Sandor frowned, but made no reply. She was slipping off now, and didn’t know what she was saying, not truly. 

Will she still think that after you scald her, dog?  

“I…and I think I…” 

Sandor pressed the poker into her flesh and she screamed, fresh tears springing from her eyes. He had to blink to focus his own vision, but he didn't give her time to recover, wanting it to be over quick. I'm so sorry, little bird, I'm so sorry. He repeated the mantra in his head as he pressed it down again, and again and again, until he'd cauterized and sealed the entire length of the cut. It had taken only moments, but it was an eternity to his mind. She wailed all the while, and he knew the sound would always haunt him; they were not nearly as loud as her cries from before, but they were twice as distressed. The stench of cooking flesh filled the room, and he very nearly blacked out from it. 

Her breathing deepened, indicating that she'd succumbed to the poppy at last. Or fainted from the pain. Sandor let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He dabbed more wine over the wound to lower her risk of infection, shaking so badly that he nearly dumped it all over her. 

Now that the urgency of the situation passed, Sandor was left to himself. Self-loathing began to rise up in him once more, and he emptied his stomach into the nearest basin. I swore to protect her. Something had felt wrong, he felt it in his gut while he bathed. But he didn’t act—had written it off as paranoia as he daydreamed—and now here she lay, with a cut so deep he had seen bone; and scorched, the flesh around it already beginning to turn a violent shade of purple. Elder Brother would have done it more cleanly, he knew. He'd promised to never hurt her, but she would be in a world of it once she woke. Not even Littlefinger let her suffer like this. Not even the Imp…  

He knelt at her side for a long while, head in his hands as his shame poured out of him. After a time, anguish gave way to rage. He rose, letting out a furious howl as he drove his fist into the wall, then the other—again and again and again—until his knuckles were raw and bleeding and he had no strength left to keep going. He didn’t care if someone heard, didn’t care if the girl wouldn’t approve. He had failed her. Left her alone. Again. 

Sandor slumped to the floor. What did it matter if he loved her? His love had done her no favors, was not the kind they wrote about in songs. He had sworn to keep her safe, not love her. There was no version of himself that would ever be good enough for that. Dogs weren’t made to run with wolves, and would only ever break little birds. Dogs might dream of dancing, but they could only bite and bark in waking. His sort of love was a tainted thing; a mockery of the word. He looked down at his raw and bleeding hands, at the little crescent moon shapes her fingernails had made.

Pain is the bedfellow of healing, Elder Brother had told him once. But he was a fool. And so am I. Sandor reflected how wrong he'd been, to think he didn't belong on the Quiet Isle. It was the only place he belonged. A sword in its scabbard. Useless, but harmless.  

Sandor didn’t sleep; he couldn’t sleep. He sat on the opposite side of the room, never taking his eyes off her, drinking until he was numb. What did it matter if he shamed himself in his cups? He’d already shamed himself out of them. 

She was fitful all the while. Every now and then, she would murmur in her sleep. Searching for something, or someone.

I'll help you find them, little bird. When I do, I'll show you the mercy you deserve. I’ll set you free.

Chapter Text

SANSA 10

The pain came before consciousness did, and both precluded memory. She moaned, putting a hand to her throbbing chest. The pain shot all the way across her. It was rough to the touch, and an intense soreness bloomed out from it. 

She heard a stumbling from across the room, and then a heavy sound at her bedside. “Are you awake, little bird? Are you all right?” 

The concern in his voice concerned her in turn. She flitted her eyes open for only a second before squeezing them shut again, stinging from even the dim light of the room. Her head was pounding. Memories began to come back to her rapidly then, all at once. Singing, stinking, biting, pain…the drunk man, the naked one, bloody hands, a dreamy haze, the pain…darkness, fear, loneliness, pain…

A shadow moved in front of the window, and the stench of wine and stale vomit assaulted her. For a brief moment of panic, she thought it was the drunkard, back to finish what he started. Sansa opened her eyes again, and his covered face slowly came into focus. She could only see his eyes, but they were bloodshot and glassy, heavy-lidded and circled with exhaustion as they stared back at her. He was white as a sheet; even the burned side was pale. 

“You look awful,” She croaked. 

“Here,” he ignored her, lifting her head up and bringing a cup to her lips. Sansa suddenly realized how parched she felt, how cracked her lips were. She drank eagerly, but nearly spat it out on her first mouthful; she expected wine, but somehow he had found fresh water instead. She gulped it ravenously after that. 

“How long has it been?” She asked once she drank her fill, head sinking back into the pillows. 

“A day. Two, maybe.” He shrugged, his shoulders sagging. Sansa frowned as she observed him in earnest, the fog of sleep beginning to clear. 

“You're drunk. And you haven't slept.” It wasn't a question. She had been unable to find him in her dreams, which had given way to nightmares; now she knew why. 

“That’s none of your concern,” he muttered dismissively, gingerly parting the cloth at her chest to check the wound.  

“I'm not concerned.” Sansa was glaring up at him. “I'm angry.” He glared back before returning his attention to her chest. 

"Good. You ought to be." His voice was raw, and dry as sand. And his eyes... 

"What has become of you?" She had not expected this to be his manner upon waking. 

"Sense," he grunted. 

"Is that what you call it?" 

She followed his line of sight to the wound, dark and long and violently bruised. It was painful, far more painful today than when it was fresh, and even the slightest touch made her wince. That much was to be expected, however.

“Tell me,” He said, his voice carrying none of the tenderness she had come to expect. “How's that arm feel?” 

Sansa looked at him, confused. She made to raise her left arm, but it felt half-numb and tingly, and the effort sent pain shooting up the length of it. She rubbed her fingers together at her side, barely feeling it. 

Sansa looked up at him again. "It feels strange." 

Sandor’s sudden burst of laughter took her by surprise. "How do you like that, my lady? " He asked scathingly. "Nerve damage. I thought it might be. As if cutting and bleeding and burning and scarring weren't already enough. How do you feel about your sodding choices now?" He laughed again, slumping clumsily back against the wall, arms draped over his knees. She noticed his hands for the first time, in far worse shape than she had left them. 

What has happened to him? Sansa thought wildly. She felt outraged by the sight of him like this. Nevermind my nerves.

"Did you truly spend this whole time feeling sorry for yourself?" 

"You're the one I feel sorry for," he snapped, but she knew she had wounded him.  

"Spare me," she said, mocking him with his own maxim. "You think this is your fault?" 

Sandor was shaded beneath the hood, but his voice was thick with loathing; not for her. "You shouldn’t have been left alone." 

"You're stupid, then." Sansa said coldly, glaring at the ceiling. “You put yourself in your cups, just like the man who attacked me did, and that also makes you a hypocrite. You're making this all about yourself, and that makes you selfish too.” 

She flinched at the loud bang her empty water cup made as he hurled it across the room. "I was supposed to protect you, not melt you back together.” The fact that he didn't have the strength to yell disturbed Sansa most of all. “You never should have been out of my sight." 

"What would you propose, then?" She asked. "Shall we stop bathing? Or shall we bathe together from now on?" 

He fell into a brooding silence, too stubborn to admit the point was valid. 

"You won't be able to save me from everything," she went on, taking advantage of his lapse in raving. "No one can. I'm not a child, and I refuse to be fussed over like one. You punish yourself for nothing, and in turn you punish me as well." 

"You'll bear that scar your whole life," he pointed at it accusingly, as if he hadn't heard anything she’d said. "And you may never have full use of that arm again." 

"I don’t care," She said sharply. "Do you think me so vapid as that?” She put her eyes back to the ceiling, frustrated tears filling them. “I would take a hundred scars like it, over the ones I bear around my heart. I would make that trade in an instant." 

“Now you’ll have both,” He sneered, laughing low in his throat. He had to catch himself from falling as the ship lurched over a wave, and seemed to catch bile as it rose up his throat as well. 

Sansa set her jaw and looked back over at him. He was too out of his mind for reason. Trying to speak to him like this was no good at all, and she would not lie prisoner to his bitterness. She put her weight on her good arm and began to push herself up. The pain shot through her like a bolt of lightning, but she gritted her teeth, unwilling to let him see it to its fullest extent.  

His mirth curdled up at once. Sandor moved forward, but she jerked herself away. “Don't touch me,” she hissed, getting to her feet, feeling slightly dizzy by the effort. 

“You can't be out of bed,” he said roughly, also rising; he was expecting her to fall, she knew. But he swayed more than she did.  

“Watch me,” She said defiantly, snatching a cloak up off the floor and making for the door. 

He made to follow, and she put her good arm out to shove him away, sending him stumbling back a few paces. She winced again, but was determined not to look as feeble as she felt. “If you're not sleeping off this disgrace when I return, I will take to sleeping on the deck, I swear it. I won't dignify such folly any longer.” 

Sansa wrenched the door open. “Don't—” he started, coming forward again; she heard a trace of remorse in it. Nonetheless, she stepped swiftly out of the threshold and slammed the door in his face. She heard a soft thump against the other side, where his head would be. “Please,” he said, so quietly she almost didn't hear it. Sansa felt the anger go out of her at once, feeling somber instead as she heard him slide down to the floor. 

It's for your own good, she thought sadly. She couldn’t speak to him like this, but he would succumb to sleep soon enough, and she hoped would be more receptive in his dreams.

Chapter Text

SANDOR 11

Sandor didn't remember when he rose, or how he got to the bed; he didn't remember much of anything, truth be told. Nothing was clear. It all bled together in his stupor as much as his vision did. He'd been sick half a dozen times, and he felt he would be sick again, yet it would provide no relief. The world still spun and swam and blurred around him. 

She was right to leave. When did she become so right? Wasn't it he who had lived longer, he who knew more things? Why was he so wrong, and how was she so right?

She was wrong not to blame him, that much was certain. But I shouldn't have been cruel to her, either. Shouldn't have gotten too drunk to follow her…he realized for the first time just how entirely blind with drink he was, and how very tired, and nauseated besides. Everything ached. He wanted to die. 

He already caused her enough pain, and had only caused her more. She shouldn't be out of bed. I shouldn't be the one laying in it. I shouldn't be here at all.  

He didn't wish to sleep, and he fought it with all the strength he had left to him. He wanted her to come back. He didn’t want to face her. His eyes slid closed involuntarily, and he found himself unable to open them again. I shouldn't be here, but I am. I should've protected her, but I didn't. I should've been there for her, but I wasn't. He wasn’t capable of doing the right thing; he never had been. Stupid, selfish hypocrite.  

Sandor was in his white cloak, watching them beat her. Again and again. He was forcing her head up, relishing the fear in her eyes as much as loathing it. He was drunk again, forcing her to sing for her life. He was in his Novice's robes, shoving his cruel tongue in her mouth. He was at her bedside, a red hot iron in his hand, burning her, burning her, burning her… 

Each moment looped back on itself in turn, again and again, reliving his crimes. Crimes he never atoned for, and never could. Crimes he couldn't stop repeating. Over and over it went. Red hair, brown hair, black hair...it didn't matter. It would never stop. It always ended up here. 

He did not know how long he had been stuck in the cycle before it broke. He was burning her again, her agonized cries filling his ears and the scent of flesh in his nostrils, when he heard a hushed voice from behind. 

“This is what you see?” 

He turned to look at her, and suddenly he wasn't on the ship anymore. They were in King's Landing; the turmoil all around them was familiar. He stood, confused. She was next to him, pointing. 

"Look through my eyes now," She said softly. 

It was a strange sensation, watching himself from this perspective. Through the mob of angry peasants he saw another version of himself slice a man's arm off—the one pulling at a younger Sansa's—before he pushed her back in the saddle and challenged anyone else to try him. 

The scene shifted in an eyeblink, and now they were at the ramparts, Ned Stark's head mounted upon the wall. Sandor's other self knelt before her and wiped blood from her lip before she could reach the King and forfeit her life.  

Now they were in the throne room. “Someone give the girl something to cover herself with,” the Imp was saying. Without hesitation, he was stepping forward, unclasping the white cloak and tossing it to the half-naked girl on the floor. She clutched at it like a starving man might clutch at a heel of bread. 

Everything was happening so fast. The scene shifted again, a tourney now. They were spectating, and there were two versions of Sansa standing next to him—the new and the old. The taller of the two watched him directly, while the smaller one watched the version of himself in the tilt, eyes wide and fearful. When Jaime Lannister was sent rolling in the dust, he heard the latter let out a breath. “I knew the Hound would win.” 

In the Great Sept of Baelor, the girl was alone, praying among the rest of the commoners who filled the hall. 

"He is no true knight, but he saved me all the same," she was whispering to the Mother. "Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him." 

And now they were in her bedchamber, the sky a dull green outside. He wasn't there in duplicate this time, however. It was only her, as she climbed down from the bed and found the tarnished cloak bunched up on the floor. She wrapped herself up in it, shivering. 

Sandor blinked, and the scenes began to shift more rapidly now. Alayne Stone walking away as she clutched a wooden hairpiece to her chest; the sounds of muffled sobs filled the air as they held each other in the sept; Sansa was declaring her lack of fear as she pulled his face down on hers; he looked upon his own nakedness as the color drained from him; his voice was soft and gentle as he tended to her wound... 

"Stop it," he moaned, sinking to his knees and clutching his head. "Stop it, I'm not that man..." How many of these memories were preambled by her suffering, his inaction? Too many.

She bent down before him, taking one of his hands in hers and holding it to her chest. "You are," she breathed. "Let these old wounds heal. Please...or mine won't heal either." 

He raised his eyes to her, miserable. He could feel the laceration beneath the cloth, and he stroked it gingerly with his thumb. "Healing,” he said with contempt. “That's not what one like me deserves."

"I don't care what you deserve,” Sansa said imploringly. “I choose you all the same, and you choose me too. Look around you, Sandor. The Gods themselves have forged our paths into one."

There are no Gods, he thought scornfully. Hadn't she figured that out by now? Was she still so naive? “Your Gods are of cruel humor, then. All paths you walk with me will only lead to death, and fire. Is that what you want?" 

"I understand now," she said solemnly. "It's the fire that undid you, the same as before. I didn’t see it then, but I do now. Sandor..." she took his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. Her large blue eyes were flitting back and forth as she attempted to look into both of his at once, searching him. “I'm grateful for this burn." 

He shook his head in disbelief, pulling roughly out of her grasp. "It's not just the fire,” he said through clenched teeth. “It’s all of it. I swore I would keep you safe from harm; I looked a man in the eye and said the words...the only vow I ever made, and see how long that lasted before I broke it." And burned her in the process. If there was such a thing as signs, surely this was one. An omen.  

She looked touched, which irritated him further. “You swore?” 

“Aye,” He sneered. “For all the good it did.” 

Sansa sighed. “You can't protect me from everything. I wouldn’t want you to; I want to live. Truly live, even if it’s sometimes painful.” 

“What about when it kills you?” Sandor asked darkly. 

“It kills us all eventually. Before I was pulled out of that mud, I was content to die. And I am still, before I’d go back in a cage.” Sansa’s voice was firm. “I don't think Elder Brother expected you to prevent all my cuts and scrapes. Nothing has changed." 

“This isn’t a mere scrape, girl,” he pointed out. “That arm may never be the same again, you will wear that scar for all the world to see any time you wear one of your pretty dresses. And the world will know exactly who allowed that to happen. Maybe they would even write songs about it, you’d like that.” 

"I’m right-handed,” Sansa said, matter-of-fact. “And I will adjust. It’s extraordinary how skilled I am at adjusting to things.” She bit her lip then, thinking. “When the world sees this scar,” she began, slowly at first. “I will tell them it would have been much worse if not for Sandor Clegane. I’m alive, because of Sandor Clegane. Can’t you see?” 

Sandor had never felt so blind in his life. She saw the incomprehension on his face, and huffed. “When I look at this scar, I will be reminded of how Stranger protected me, but also of how you healed me. You can’t prevent every mishap, but you can see me through it. And you did. When I look down, and recall the memory…” she turned pink. “My attacker’s face will fade, in time. It’s yours and Stranger’s bravery I’ll remember best.” 

Sandor’s mouth twitched. I’m never letting her near a Maester, lest she start thinking him a hero as well.  

"I didn’t heal you," he murmured. "Not truly. Scars never heal." 

“But the pain subsides.” She bowed her head. "Life has been cruel to you. But it was your rage and your hatred that made you fearsome, not your scars...not to me. Not anymore. When you're kind..." the color on her cheeks deepened. “I think I find you quite comely.” 

"Don't patronize me," Sandor said bitterly, moving away from her as she reached out for him again. "Not you. Kill me before you pity me." He felt claustrophobic by the way she looked at him. “This isn’t like your songs, girl. Stop trying to fit me into one.” 

Sansa sighed again—it was a controlled sigh, not a frustrated one. She put a hand over his, still bearing the bruises from his episode. “The only one who pities you, is you.” Sandor tilted his head, watching her carefully. The words weren’t said with any malice, and somehow that shamed him more. “I can abide the pain, and even your cynicism, much as it may plague every attempt at kindness.” She drew herself up to sit a little taller. “But I’m no longer the little girl you knew, and cannot abide you taking me to be so fragile and tender-headed. You do us both a disrespect by thinking it. I see you as you are. It’s time you saw me as well.”  

Sandor was staring her in the eyes, and couldn’t believe she could stand to look back into his. He wanted to find the flaw in her armor—a glimmer of weakness to exploit—but he found no such thing. She was defiant and sincere all at once. It wasn’t her armor that was defective, but his. 

He had told himself he would be the man she thought he was...where had he gone so wrong? He had failed her, it was true. Rather than put it right, he had succumbed to it, drowned himself in it entirely. Just like he always did. He always made things worse, just because he could. And the cycle never ends. Because he was a craven, and stubborn, and because it was easy. 

Things had been different on the Quiet Isle; there were no opportunities for fresh guilt, and he had Elder Brother there to rein him in. The ones he buried were already dead, through no fault of his own. There were no risks, no regrets. No future in his sights. Only reflections of the past, and the task at hand. 

But he was different now. Wasn’t he? He had to be. He never wanted her to stop looking at him like that.  

He couldn't change the past; he could only change how he responded to it. Words he’d heard half a hundred times, that only now felt like they had any substance. He didn’t deserve her, but here she was anyway, begging him to see her as his equal. She was right, she was not so fragile; but she was also wrong, for they were not equals either. She was better than him, and far stronger. Smarter and funnier and wiser and, Gods, so beautiful.  

It was as though a dam was breaking. He was not her savior; she was his. She was everything he wanted, and everything he wished he could be. She didn’t have a head full of songs, she was the song. He realized in that moment that he was dreaming, and it was the strangest feeling in the world. It changed his epiphany not at all, however. The source of his revelation mattered not, the conclusions drawn from it remained the same. Nothing would ever be easy, as it pertained to her. He had to carry on anyway. He had to be the man she saw him as. He had to see her as the woman she was. 

She was watching him, waiting for him to respond. He didn't have much to say, but he hoped it would be enough. 

“You won’t see me like this again,” Sandor said solemnly. As a show of his sincerity, he returned to the habit of signing what he spoke. “I swear it.” He would be sure to tell her person as well. 

Her face split into the prettiest smile. “Don’t wake up,” she said, also signing. 

“I won't,” he returned, half a laugh at the confirmation that he was still inside his own head. 

She crawled over to him and lifted herself into his lap. Arousal hit Sandor like a punch in the face. “What happened to respect?” He muttered, putting the question to himself more than to her. Sansa had the audacity to laugh. 

“You love me,” she said, combing her fingers through his hair. 

“Aye,” Sandor confessed, half a groan. 

She pulled him forward, and Sandor didn't hesitate this time, covering her mouth with his own. He was safe in his head, and he had been dreaming of kissing her for so long, with no relief in sight. And—Gods be good—the lucidity of it diminished none of its realism. 

He slid his arms around her and pressed her close. The screams and stench of burning flesh were forgotten in the moment, replaced by the smell of her hair and the sounds of her desire. Sandor kissed every part of her face before returning to her lips, feeling her smiling into them. He smiled too. The girl was gone; this was a woman. And she made him feel like a man. 

He wished he would never have to wake up, would never have to stop kissing her. He was on fire, and for the first time in his life, Sandor Clegane was happy to burn.

Chapter Text

SANSA 11

Sansa's eyes flew open, her heart racing wildly. The pain returned abruptly, but she quickly pretended to still be asleep when she felt him stirring awake beside her. She didn't know why, but she didn't want to be the first one to rise.  

Yes you do, a voice in her head taunted her, sounding exactly like Myranda. You know exactly why. Sansa hated the way her face reddened. When she returned to the room to find him in the bed, she had deliberated over the indecency of joining him there at all, rather than the sensible option of going to his side of the room. 

Boldness had won out over modesty in the end. He looked so fitful and vulnerable when he slept, and that drove her impulses too. As cross as she felt with him, she also felt compassion. So she changed out of her ruined robes into one of her spares, covering her face and all—as though that would make it more acceptable, she scolded herself—and settled down beside him.

She was lying flat on her back now, and had awoken with a heavy weight pinning her to the bed, that she now knew belonged to the arm draped over her at the breast. Meanwhile, she had her right arm draped clumsily over his face. And, perhaps most indecent of all, she could feel a stiffness pressing into her leg. Myranda's voice was still in her head, giggling and teasing, as he groaned languidly in her ear and squeezed her closer with the arm. Sansa was desperate to look natural as he roused, for her face to stop burning. She felt him freeze, taking in his surroundings. Then, with a sudden jolt, he scrambled so fast away from her that she almost forgot the pain in her chest in her attempt not to burst out laughing at it all. 

Sansa found her amusement puzzling; she expected to feel more embarrassed than this, or even afraid. The kissing in their dream had been so passionate and unrestrained it made her dizzy. She still felt that rare but familiar ache from it as she lay there, and was thankful that she was a woman, for her arousal didn't manifest in such an obvious fashion. 

The kissing had almost gone too far, however. He had taken her into one arm, and soon she was on the ground—now a thick grass, in the dream—and he lowered himself on top of her, a low growl in his throat. It thrilled Sansa as she pulled him down lower, his curtain of dark hair shrouding them both in darkness. 

That was when she felt the stiffness for the first time, as he began to move against her. Sansa blushed deeper as she remembered the utterly vulgar sound that had escaped her then. He had laughed, a lusty one she'd never heard before. He supported himself with one hand, his other at the nape of her neck, holding her head to his as he kissed her, so fiercely she could still feel the tingling in her lips, could still taste it. 

It was when a hand began to travel over her body that Sansa awoke, having felt suddenly overwhelmed. She lay there with her racing heart and aching loins, realizing she wasn't prepared for what came after kissing. 

She was embarrassed to admit that she hadn't even considered it, for all her attempts to kiss him in her dreams lately. Not truly. It all happened too fast. The idea of such things had always repulsed Sansa besides; she only knew it to be an unpleasant experience, or otherwise a duty for making heirs, meant only for a marriage bed. Kisses were nice, and pleasant. And the rest…she thought she should feel the skin-crawling sensation it had always given her, but this was different. Brought on by her own impulses; reciprocal. It was disturbing to her, the sudden curiosity that was taking the place of fear and loathing, but it was hilarious to her inner council. 

He was out of the bed, and after some shuffling around, Sansa heard the door open and close. She cracked an eye open and saw that he had gone. Now that she was alone, she was unable to hold it in. She burst out into fits of laughter, for all her conflicted feelings were temporarily no match for how his face must have looked when he woke up like that. He doesn't know I dreamed it too. As far as he knew, she was still upset with him. If she felt chagrined and confused, he must be twice as much. 

Sansa scolded herself for the cruelty of her amusement, even as her eyes went wet with mirth. She would be sure to pretend she had only just awoken, and spare him from feeling his guilt. In truth, she felt a small bit guilty for herself. It sobered her a little. He wouldn't know that his dream had, in its way, been real. She should tell him, she knew. And she would. Later. It would either disturb him, which would make him sullen and distant; or it would make him angry, which would also make him sullen and distant. It was frustratingly complicated.  

Womanhood makes everything complicated, Sansa reflected bitterly. She had chosen him in her heart, she decided, whether it was sensible or no. But there was more at stake when it came to choosing a man for her bed. If I'll ever get to choose. Yet the idea of men in her bed who weren't in her heart was no good either. Would she ever take another man in her heart? Would she ever be so profoundly connected to anyone else? It put her at an impasse.  

Maybe I'll never take a husband, she thought. She pushed herself up to sit—the effort bringing the pain back in earnest—but her mind was working. Or maybe the Gods intend for me to marry Sandor after all. She allowed herself to think through such a scenario, imagining the board before her as she was taught to. It wouldn’t serve politically, she knew. Sandor was a known deserter, and a second son to a minor house. Well I’m a traitor, too. Accused of worse than him. And a daughter is even lower than a second son.

Such a match would strengthen no bonds, create no new alliances, curry no favor. Yet, what good had political betrothals done her so far? The Stark name still meant something in the North. Perhaps The Stark name is all I need. The North is all I need. She had no ambitions or love for Southron games. She knew how to play, but none of the desire.

Politics aside, she thought of what sort of husband a man like Sandor might make. He was strong and brave and honest, and gentle too, for all his size. The years had given him a temperance she never thought possible, and a strong sense of right and wrong. He had all the qualities she might dream of in a husband, except perhaps appearances, but that didn't feel so important now. He was flawed in other ways as well. He was quick to anger, and sometimes his brooding was tiresome, no matter how much she understood. It was a marked difference in her other suitors, who were all so steeped in self-satisfaction. 

Most of all, Sandor Clegane didn't wish to own or conquer her. He desired her. Sansa, and nothing more. The others looked at her and only saw holdings and heirs.  

He came back in the room then, and she quickly cast all the thoughts out to sea, as if they were filthy secrets and he might be able to read them on her face. She was getting ahead of herself besides. Only foolish little girls ponder marriage over a couple of kisses.  

Sandor still looked sleep deprived and pallid, but alert. She wondered if he still brooded, or if the dream might have made an impact to his demeanor. He had changed into fresh clothing, Sansa noticed, and he came bearing food and drink for them both. It was a good start. 

“Did you sleep well?” She asked as he came over, also signing it. That seemed to ease him, as she hoped it might; his shoulders relaxed somewhat. 

He set the tray down at her side, stooping with it so they were at eye-level. His expression was serious. “I was a cunt yesterday,” he said, also signing. “You won't see me like that again. You have my word on that.” 

She wanted to kiss him again. “I forgive you,” she smiled. “You look much better.” 

“Couldn't have looked worse,” he retorted, but she could see the relief in his eyes. “Eat, now. You look half-starved.” He took his own rations before setting the tray on her lap, and Sansa took it hungrily; she realized she hadn't had a proper meal in days. 

They ate in silence, but Sansa could feel his eyes on her. Was he remembering the dream, as she was? There was an unspoken tension in the air, but it wasn't uncomfortable. He wasn't sullen; it was something softer. Peaceful. 

“How's the pain?” he asked after a time, no longer able to see the wound under her fresh clothing. 

“Awful,” she admitted. Her left arm still tingled as well. “But it's nothing I can't handle.” 

“Good,” he said gruffly. Sansa looked him over, at his hands. 

“And you?”

He followed her line of sight, shook his head. “Never better.” 

It surprised her how sincere that sounded. She shifted so that she could face him while she picked at a heel of bread. “We should go see Stranger,” she said. “I owe him my thanks.” 

“And I owe him a clean stall,” Sandor nodded. “And you could use some fresh air. We'll go when you're done nibbling.” 

As a show of finality, she put the bread down and removed the tray from her lap. He stood in response, offering a hand to help her to her feet. Sansa took it gladly, drawing herself up close to him and turning pink. The contact had brought the fluttering back. 

For the way he looked at her, she seemed to inspire a similar effect. It was such a contrast to how she had seen him last, it almost felt like she was looking at a different person altogether.   

My true Florian, Sansa thought as they exited the cabin. He was no knight and no fool, but sometimes he brushed close enough to each that it made no difference. Life wasn't exactly like the stories besides. This one will have a better ending.

Chapter Text

SANDOR 12

'Gregor,' Sandor signed. Sansa frowned as she traced a scar along his ribs. It made him twitch. He spied her wicked smile, caught her by the wrists. 

“Don't you dare,” he warned, and she laughed. 

He smiled with her; even in dreams, he was unable to control her. Sandor liked that. Ever since his drunken episode, he had become inexplicably aware in his dreams, and as a result they had become more intimate. He could kiss her, but any time he tried to touch her further, she disappeared and he would wake. It seemed he was unable to disgrace her even in his mind; she was still a lady, and a maid besides. He quickly abandoned such attempts, content to stay asleep as long as possible. 

In this dream, they were lying next to each other in the tall grass. These were his favorite dreams; he could almost trick himself into believing he was getting fresh air, laying upon solid ground. The greensickness didn't afflict him here. She did. She had asked him to tell her stories.

“Enough with the stories,” he complained. “I have none for you.”

He hadn't led a life worth telling stories about. He wasn't well traveled, hadn't been a hero of any great battles. His only tourney victory was handed to him, not earned. Before the Quiet Isle, he was little more than a sot wearing a white cloak, sullied in winesinks and brothels, a participant and spectator to torment and injustice.

“Sure you do,” she replied. “Everyone does.”

“None that you would like to hear.” He rolled his head around to see her better. 

“You told me how you came into your face once,” she said, staring at it up close now. “It's not a happy story, but I'm glad I know it.”

“What else do you want to know, then,” he asked irritably. He'd never meant to tell her that story. He was drunk, and she had called him Ser. It had bothered him more than ever, somehow. All of it did. The way she pretended, the words she recited. Never knowing how easy a target it all made her.

She propped herself up on an elbow, put a hand on his arm. “Tell me how you came into the rest.” 

He snorted at that, telling her there were stories she might like better. “I want to know your story,” she insisted. “I told you mine.” 

Sandor argued some more, but then she slid a hand under his tunic. He wasn't hard to convince after that. He pulled it off and lay back down, asking her where she wished to start. 

He wondered what sick corner of his mind he'd ended up in; this didn't feel like a fantasy of his own designs, though they must come from somewhere. The dreams were always dictated by this version of her. And he always relented under her touch. He supposed this might be his twisted way of justifying it. He tried not to think on it too much. That was Elder Brother's job, and he wasn't here to bother him about it.

She was straddling him now, pointing at different scars in turn. Any time one had come from his brother, Sandor only signed the name, not willing to dignify it any further than that. The last thing he wanted to talk about was Gregor, especially in this bizarre un-reality. She would ask questions after every detail, but didn't pursue them when that name came up.

Her hands slid down his chest, over coarse hair until she found another one just above the navel, a long diagonal slash. He groaned. “Nothing special about that one,” he said, wishing the hands hadn't halted. “A disagreement gone sour, and daggers came out. He opened my belly, but not enough. I showed him how it was done.” He laughed. 

“What was the disagreement about?” Sansa asked, the area growing taut as she traced it with her finger.

“Something trivial.” He waved a hand. “We were in our cups; I don’t remember how it started. Only how it ended. I had to find a new alehouse after that.”

She didn't offer him a lecture, for which he was grateful. Elder Brother had already given it. It was a poor way to settle the matter, he said. He might have had people who depended on him. A wife, children. His life had value. Sandor said he should have thought about that before picking fights he couldn't win. But in the end, he knew he was right about one thing: Sandor had dispensed butchery, not justice. And he had taken pleasure in it, to exert some measure of power in this world. There wasn't much pleasure in the memory now. The man hadn't died well, or quick.  

She saved the burn on his forearm for last, though it was the one she wished to learn about most, he could tell. “Tell me how you got that,” she instructed. “Was it the Blackwater?” 

Sandor hesitated, though he couldn't be sure why. She's not real.  

“No. After.”

“Tell me.”

“It was my own doing, truth be told,” He said bitterly. “Drank myself blind after I left the city, which was a lucky day for the band of self-righteous cunts who captured me.” He absentmindedly stroked a thigh with his thumb as he spoke. “Too useless to capture the real thing, they put me on trial for my brother's crimes. Then for one of mine.” Knowing she'd ask, he added, “That butcher's boy.”

She looked confused by that, knitting her eyebrows together. “Queen Cersei ordered you to do that. She should have been the one on trial.” 

He laughed. You are so different from her. “Believe it or not, that wasn't good enough. Their true targets were out of reach, I was the next best thing; the man who swung the sword.” Who laughed about it after. That bit of butchery had come to haunt him more than any other. She had seen to that. 

He sometimes wondered, after so much reflection, if it was the catalyzing event that had led him to the Quiet Isle at all. He’d spoken of her near as much as Sansa during his time there. The two sisters had haunted him relentlessly. Changed him. Broke me beyond repair. The mighty Hound, undone by two little girls. 

“Why the butcher's boy? Was one of his kin among them?” 

“Not kin, no.” Sandor eyed her carefully. “But a friend of his was there, aye.” 

“And they burned you, as punishment?” She asked, running her fingers along the skin. Sandor barely felt it, but was relieved by the shift in focus. 

“I was granted a trial by combat,” he answered. “Though whether it was a fair trial is up for argument. We were given sword and shield each, but my opponent’s steel was ablaze, the coward.” He turned his head and spat. “The shield upon my arm was little more than kindling.” She gasped, which amused him. “You can see where the straps were,” He pointed to the only places on his forearm that were untouched. “There, and there.” 

Her eyes were wide, imagining it. “That's awful,” she breathed. “Who were you against?” 

“Beric Dondarrion,” Sandor said in disgust. She recognized the name. 

“My friend Jeyne was so in love with him,” she said with awe. She was a good audience for stories, Sandor mused. She had a reaction for everything. 

“She wouldn't have favored him half so much when I got to him,” He laughed. “He was in worse shape than I, even before I put my sword through him.” 

Sansa seemed to get an idea. “Can you show me?” He stared at her with narrowed eyes, propping himself up on his elbows. 

“Neither of us would like that,” he said churlishly, reaching for his tunic. She put a hand out to halt him. 

“I'm sorry,” she bit her lip. “I wasn't thinking. So you won your trial, and they let you go, just like that?” 

He was tired of the questions. Sandor sat up, bringing his face close to hers. “They kept my gold; that made things difficult. Otherwise, aye. Just like that.” His voice was low and suggestive, putting color on her face. That's better. He took her hair in his hands and kissed her. 

After a time, Sansa pulled away from him. “Can I ask about one more?” 

Sandor huffed, frustrated. “Which one?” 

She shifted back so that she could put a hand on his thigh. Under any other circumstance, it would have stirred him. “What happened?” 

“That's a tale for waking,” Sandor told her. He frowned. “All of it is.” 

It soured him to be reminded that he was just talking to himself; why was he fantasizing about this, of all things? Why was he determined to re-live his memories of one sister, when it was the one sitting before him he wanted to think about? Was it his own guilt nagging at him, the kind instilled in him over so many years? It hadn't come up before, and he didn't want to admit another failure in her name. 

“You can tell me now,” she said. Sandor laughed harshly. 

“Piss off. The stories are for her.” 

Sandor awoke then, seeing that as good a stopping point as any. He sat up, shaking himself from the disorientation that came between sleep and waking. She was stirring as well; she always seemed to wake up when he did. 

I have to tell her, he decided. They would arrive in Braavos soon, and he owed it to her. His own conscience made that clear enough. 

She was sitting up now. Sandor rose and went to her bedside, wanting to get it over with. “I have to confess something to you,” he said, signing as always.  

Sansa looked up at him—eyebrows knitted in thought—but she had a decisive look on her face. “I have something to confess as well.”

Chapter Text

SANSA 12

He snorted. “You have to do something wrong in order to confess.” Sansa lowered her eyes. 

“I know,” she said softly. His expression was of amused skepticism, not taking her seriously whatsoever. She felt only half so frustrated by that as she felt contrite; she had realized he was now aware in his dreams as she was, but he thought she was a mere figment of his own imagining. It wasn't right. His awareness made him reflect differently on what he was dreaming than how she did.  

“I'll go first,” he was saying. She snapped her eyes back up. 

“I'm going first.” This is bigger than a leg scar. He raised his heavy brow at her, as he usually did when she defied him. She was never punished or scolded for it. In fact, her insolence seemed to make him queerly proud, for the glint in his eyes. She could say that about no one else. 

“As you wish, my lady, ” he sneered. Sansa noted that he was calling her that more often lately, although he always said it with a mocking edge. It had been days since she was called a little bird, when before it so often punctuated his sentences. 

She took a deep breath. “You've been dreaming about me lately, have you not?”

The question took him off his guard. Sandor blinked. “Sometimes. What of it?”

Just speak plainly. Dancing around the subject would get her nowhere, she knew. “I've been dreaming about you, too. The same dreams. Shared dreams.” 

It was unbelievable, and he wasn't going to believe it at first. She had anticipated that.

“Has the sea scrambled your head?” He snorted. “Now, I had something serious I wanted to talk to you–” 

“I saw you at the Blackwater,” she said over him. “I've danced with you, I've laid with you in the grass, and Gods be good, I've kissed you too.” 

That gave him pause. But it didn’t take him long to rationalize it to himself. “Similar is not the same. I talk in my sleep, I’ve been told. I’ll put a gag in, if it’s afflicting you.” 

Sansa huffed. Without warning, she yanked his robes open at the chest, making him shout in surprise. 

She jabbed a finger at the scar there. “Ser Gregor did that. And this one,” She found another, speaking in a rush before he could interrupt her. “You earned that one when you were my age, against a man your age.” 

“Easy guesses,” he sneered, but she could see his armor had begun to crack. 

She yanked up the sleeve of his left arm with her good right arm. “You can see where the straps were. There, and there. It was me you told.” 

The color drained from his face. “I don’t…” he looked at a loss. “All this time?” 

“At least since we left the Quiet Isle,” She admitted. “I wasn’t certain at first. And I’m still not sure how it works. Only that it’s happening more frequently now.” 

His face twisted then, and he stood so abruptly that it made her gasp. He was pacing. Sansa watched him from the bed, tentatively as he went over all of it in his head, occasionally muttering curses under his breath. 

When he stopped, he looked aghast. “I never—I wouldn't have—not you—Seven hells...” He turned away again. 

Sansa rose, meeting him in the middle of the room. It was almost amusing, how inarticulate he was. For once. “I know,” she said gently. “I should have told you before. It was wrong, only…I didn’t think you’d believe me. And I didn’t want it to stop.” 

He was looking at her like she had two heads. “I don't understand.” 

“I don't fully understand, either,” Sansa replied. “But we are connected, and I think that means something.” 

“That's not what I meant,” He snapped impatiently. “Why wouldn’t you want it to stop?” 

“I like dreaming with you,” she said, as though it were simple as that. 

“You’re not stupid.” Sandor was pinching the bridge of his nose. “Stop playing at it.”

Sansa willed herself not to look away. To speak a risky truth. “I like kissing you, too.” 

His laughter was a bitter thing. “You haven't been kissed enough, then.” 

“I've been kissed more than you have.” she bit back at him. Way more. That chased the mirth off his face. It quickly turned to anger, as she feared it might, once the shock of it wore off.

“You had no right to be in my mind!” He flared, clenching his teeth in the effort to keep his voice down. 

She suddenly felt so small, under his wroth. Under his accusation. “I don't know how to turn it off, or if it’s even possible.”

“Have you tried?”

Sansa looked away. He scoffed. “Well you'd better bloody well start.” He turned away from her, muttering curses again.

“I know you desire me,” she said to his back. “So what if I desire you too?”

She saw him tense up, and there was disgust in his voice as he said, “I should get a say in whether I act on it or not.”

Sansa felt as if a knife was thrust into her heart. It hadn't seemed so sinister to her before, the secret she kept. Wrong by omission, yes, but still mutually wanted, and so it seemed innocent enough. But now she saw it for what it was: a violation. “I’m no better than Littlefinger, am I?” She thought aloud, her eyes filling with tears. 

He looked dumbstruck when he turned to look at her. “That's not what I’m getting at.” When the tears came loose, he grasped her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. “You’re no monster, and I’m no victim of yours. What you are, is a stupid girl who fights to make a fantasy of everything. But this isn't one of your little stories. I’m still a man, and one with a lot pent up besides. Do you know what a starved dog does when you offer it a bone? It’s like to take your hand off.”

“You should have had a say,” she repeated, feeling numb. “And I’ve never given you one.” Not on the Quiet Isle, not in the dreams. Something had awakened in her that she still couldn’t quite comprehend. It made her heedless. And it made her greedy. She turned her eyes up to him. “Wolves will take your hand off just as quick, I think.”

The anger was dying down now, she saw. Sandor let out a heavy sigh. “Best we keep them to ourselves from now on, then,” he replied. “If you can't control this…being in my head…” It was still an outlandish concept to him. “We must still control the rest.”

“I will,” she promised. “If that is your wish.”

His mouth twitched, and he turned away from her to stare out the porthole, forehead to forearm. He was silent for a long time, lost in thought. Sansa wondered if he considered the matter finished, and felt an awkwardness come over her. She hugged her arms around herself, wondering if she should leave him alone to his thoughts. I could go sit with Stranger, she thought. That would provide some comfort.  

“So, what then?” He asked quietly, still gazing out over the sea. “What does all this mean?” 

Sansa wrung her hands together. “Everything else aside,” she said tentatively. “I believe this is a sign.” She believed it was bigger than that, but she didn’t want to overburden him with sentimentality just now. 

“A sign?” He sneered, glancing sidelong at her. “From whom, the Gods ?”  

“What would your explanation for it be?” 

“Search me,” He shrugged irritably. “But I don't take every oddity as divine intervention, either.” 

Sansa crossed the room to stand at his elbow. “We have a secret language, with both our hands and our minds. I think we're intended to speak it.” 

“I don't think they intended you to speak it in the manner you have been,” he said sourly. “Or perhaps you want a man in your head to distract you from whatever one ends up in your bed next.”

The words stung. She inclined her chin, unwilling to dignify the insult by showing it. “I’d sooner never marry again.”

“What makes you think that decision will be yours to make?” He asked darkly, turning away from the window and towering over her. “You know better than that by now, surely.” 

“You'll cut the arm off any man who tries,” she declared, resting a hand on one of his massive shoulders. Or I’ll take my own life. She would keep that part to herself. 

“I don’t trust any of this,” he said with a shake of the head. “What you think is the work of Gods, I think is the work of men.”

Sansa gave him a puzzled look. “Men? How could men do something like this? And why?”

“Dragons fly the skies again, and you wonder if men could toy with dreams?” He shrugged away from her. 

“But why would someone want to bewitch us?” Sansa pressed. “Us? ” Anyone interested in her whereabouts would sooner capture or kill her, not bind their dreams together. “To what end would that benefit our enemies?”

“How would I bloody know?” He rasped. “Have you considered that we’re not the only ones who can see what we see? Might be someone is using us to gather information.”

That made her laugh. “Well, if there’s any truth to that, we’ve deprived them of anything useful thus far.”

Sandor didn’t think it was quite so funny. “They’ll know where we’re headed. What we look like. They’ll know our weaknesses.”

Sansa considered that, yet she refused to believe it; her instincts told her there was nothing to fear, and she trusted instinct more than all else. “Let them know, then,” she told him. “Let them come. Let us be ready for them when they do, and let them feel sorry they ever tried.”

“Bold words,” he sneered. “They’ll only get you so far.”

“I don’t care,” She said stubbornly. “I refuse to live by someone else’s terms. Not anymore.”

“A little bird’s tasted freedom, and now she won’t go back in her cage. Is that it?”

“Precisely,” Sansa replied. “And the same could be said for dogs.”

“Aye, the same for dogs,” he agreed with a quirk of the mouth. Sandor resumed his pacing from before, growing thoughtful again. 

“Fuck me,” he said softly, running a hand through his hair. “I should have gone first.” 

Sansa blinked. She had forgotten he too had a confession to make. “I'm sure it won't be half so hard a cup to swallow,” She japed, hoping to lighten him. It didn't. 

“Sit down,” he instructed. Sansa obeyed, lowering herself onto the foot of the bed. He stooped in front, a stern look about him. 

“Since you know half the story already, I'll just come out with it.” Sansa watched him with mounting curiosity. 

“The butcher's boy's friend, at my trial. Any guesses?” 

A name came to mind, of course, but it seemed too absurd to entertain. “I didn't know many of his friends.” 

“You knew one.” He eyed her knowingly, waiting for her to come to it on her own. Could it truly be?  

“She was there?” She asked in a hushed voice. Her ears were ringing. “What happened? Tell me everything. She was alive? Is she still?” 

“I don't know where she is now, or if she lives.” He admitted. “I got this,” he pulled back the sleeve over his burns. “Before I took her, and this,” He put a hand at his thigh. “Before she left me to die.” He laughed. “One sister grants me mercy, the other refuses it.” 

Sansa gaped at him, almost not hearing the words properly. “I don't understand; tell me all of it. You took her?” 

“Aye,” he agreed. “I wanted my coin, and interest for my arm. So, after Dondarrion released me, I circled back. I never got the coin or my revenge, but I found her out in the woods, sneaking off. So I took her instead.” He snorted. “She didn't like it much. Never got over me killing that friend of hers, trial or no.” 

That sounded like her sister. It made her heart ache. “Why’d you take her?” 

“You know why.” I would want him to keep her safe. “To her mind, she was only a ransom. It wasn't untrue; she would fetch a high price and I was newly penniless. I meant to take her to your mother, and brother. And I meant to join them, if they'd have me. Join the war, on the right side this time. Even if it wasn’t the winning one.” 

“What happened?” Sansa's eyes were wide, hanging onto his every word. He wanted to fight for Robb.  

“They died.” He scowled at the memory. “I got her there just in time to watch it all go to shit. I had to put the blunt of an axe to the girl’s head before I could get her out of there, else another Stark be slain at that bloody banquet.” 

It was still painful to hear, even after all this time. Fresh grief tugged at her heart. Would that wound ever close? And they had been there...had seen it happen first-hand. Receiving the news by word of mouth had been enough to break Sansa down to rubble. What must it have done to her sister, to live it? “Oh, Arya…”  

He continued. “Couldn't take her to Riverrun, couldn't get to the Eyrie either. We went from village to village, just to keep food in our bellies and rain off our backs. I failed her as I failed you, in the end. War cut off every option; there was nowhere to go.” 

“You didn't fail me,” Sansa put in, but he ignored her. 

“We ran into a couple of Gregor's men. That was the day I learned…anyway,” Sandor seemed to shake himself back on track. “We made it out with our lives, but not without taking my share of licks.” He gestured to the leg. “Damn thing got so infected I couldn't even sit my horse. Not a dignified way to die, or quick. I grew delirious with fever. I wanted her to end it. I taught her how. So I told her everything, gave her every reason…” his face spasmed. “She refused, in the end. Rode off, who knows where. Elder Brother found me soon after that. Saved my sorry life, but not the leg.” He laughed low in his throat. “She would shit herself twice if she knew I still live. That would teach her a hard lesson in mercy, wouldn't it?” 

“If she's alive at all...” Sansa whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks now. “She was always so willful, she never should have gone on her own.” It was painful, to think of how different things might be, had her sister remained with Sandor. If only she’d waited a little while longer. Elder Brother would have found them both, and we’d be together again now. Would her sister even want that? They’d never gotten along very well, had been quarrelling bitterly the last they saw one another. As different as the Sun and the Moon, their father had once said. Yet the same blood flows through our veins. 

Sandor nodded. “Willful, aye, and wild. She wanted vengeance, not safety. The little wolf bitch can hold her own, though. Might be she’s still prowling out there, somewhere.” 

“Don't call her that,” Sansa blurted. “If she is alive…I must find her. Somehow.” She knew it wasn’t rational. The world was a large place and she was a very small person in it. Yet the idea that Arya was out there on her own was enough to give in to wishful thoughts.  

“Once you return home, I wager she'd find you. The girl can manage on her own; she does more than mark the men she puts a blade to. You could learn a thing or two there,” he added pointedly. 

“She's killed?” Sansa asked, somewhat disturbed. “She's only a little girl...”

“That one’s more wolf than girl,” Sandor remarked. “And no stranger to the taste of blood.” 

Sansa bit her lip. “I want to see her as you did. Could you show me, in the dreams? We can skip the fire,” She added hastily when his face began to split into a frown. 

He was silent for a moment, thinking it over. “You might come to see me as she did.” For once, it didn't seem like something he wished. 

“Have faith in me,” she said solemnly. 

Sandor shook his head with a gravelly laugh. “I suppose I should. Despite all the reasons I give you to run, there you sit. I'll never understand.” 

“Yes you will,” She smiled. “I have faith in you, too.” 

He scoffed. “Keep your faith for someone who deserves it better.” 

“No one ever gets what they deserve. I'd rather get what I want.” 

“Is this what you want?” He rasped, ever distrustful. “Truly? Is it you who chooses, or your Gods?” 

“Me,” Sansa answered at once. “The Gods only open doors. I must make the choice of when to pass through them.”

Chapter Text

SANDOR 13

They spent that last day aboard the ship above deck, for Sansa didn't want to miss seeing the Titan of Braavos when they arrived. Her wound was still fresh, but the risk of infection had passed; she didn’t pay it much mind, but Sandor knew it pained her when she didn’t think he was looking. Her arm was still clumsy, too. She couldn't quite make a fist. She mended her ruined robes for practice, but it had been an effort. She spent most of it frowning at her stitching—starting over any time she didn't get one straight—or when she pricked her numb fingers without realizing it. 

Sandor gripped the railing hard, trying to stop his stomach from churning. He couldn't be sure if he was feeling seasick or anxious. Or both.  

How rapidly his life had changed in only a couple of moon turns. He never would have believed this would be what it would amount to; who it would amount with. That she would want him, in any sense of the word. Or any of this.  

He had spent the last few nights showing her the sister in dreams; he'd been altogether reluctant to do so before, but now...it was safer. Sandor had taken advantage of the opportunity to shift the focus of the dreams, and showed her every small thing he remembered, even if it was only a memory of them riding in silence for hours. He dreaded running out. He wondered how long she would tolerate reliving his time at the Quiet Isle; that had been even more monotonous. 

Reliving the sister did something to Sansa, but it did something to Sandor as well, to view it from a different vantage point. A spectator, not a participant. He wondered if the girl ever figured out how much he cared for her. He hadn’t realized it himself, at the time. Nor shown it. Yet, even at his lowest, Sandor cared, and did still. He didn’t tell Sansa, but he had other reasons for capturing the sister, beyond gold or his twisted feelings for her. He saw himself in those woods, angry and willful and still so fucking naive. There were worse things than him in those woods; harder choices in life than running down butcher’s boys, and crueler ways to die. Did she ever come to realize that? Did she ever find peace in her method of justice? Could she have possibly lived long enough to? Or had she turned a darker leaf, in her efforts to survive? As I did.

A welcome distraction, indeed. It was difficult for Sandor to face Arya Stark in the dreams, and the wine-addled version of himself he once was. But it was even worse to confront what he’d done with Sansa in them. They had been something harmless before, something secret and sacred. It shamed him that he'd let his guard down, even in slumber. Any sense of security is false, his father had said once. Or had it been Tywin? When he pictured them in his mind, they had the same face.

As much as he preferred the dreams, he was burdened with a sense of right and wrong, which was stronger now than it had ever been. Elder Brother put his faith in him; wasn't that worth something, for the man who had granted him a second chance at life? What would that old man think, if Sandor acted on his desires and lost sight of his duty?

She thought it was all the work of benevolent Gods, but Sandor’s thinking landed on something more sinister. Gods weren't real, but magic…? He'd seen Beric Dondarrion rise again after having his sword ran through him. They credited that to a God as well, but Sandor knew better. It was more likely that their dreams were arranged by some unseen puppetmaster than by some deity extending a loving hand. Sandor would starve them of information, and so all talk of the outside world was forbidden in dreaming, the same as it was on the Quiet Isle.

Yet…if there was such a thing as Gods, Sandor was certain there was no one worthier of their gifts than her.

No matter how awful the memory of his past self was, the recollections of her sister did not sour the girl to him at all; it made him feel equal parts frustration and relief. He felt just as unworthy of her as Gregor was of knighthood; would that be the legacy of his house? Men getting what they want regardless of earning it? It felt like a slap in the face to his forebears; empty and unfair. Sometimes, however, he almost believed her when she said it was right. It felt as natural as breathing, it was true; simultaneously, it felt as unnatural as a dog walking on its hind legs. 

She saw the monster he was, yet never asked him to apologize for it. Sometimes, obscenely, she even seemed thrilled by it. He had bitten into her neck in one of his dreams, and the sound she'd made, Gods...and she would bite him, too. Sandor had thought it was a version of Sansa he'd made up—a fantasy and nothing more—but then he'd come to find that it was the same Sansa standing next to him, gazing out over the choppy water, clutching a cloak about her for warmth. How could she look so pure—be so pure—while also being such a little beast? How did she do it? He had a difficult time reconciling the two. 

He would never be good enough for her; but he would never deny her anything she wanted of him, either, if she asked it. Within reason. And he would never take from her anything she wasn't ready to give. Whatever came next, he would confront it when he came to it. We cross the bridges before us, said Elder Brother. We do not trouble ourselves with bridges unseen. Sandor had never been the one leading them, not truly. She held the reins. He would continue to follow her, to the end of the world if need be.  

I love her more than I hate myself, he realized as he watched her. To say that the feeling was strange would be an understatement, but it was profound as well. She turned to face him, feeling his stare. Her eyes were large and blue and smiling; she was eager to make landfall, he knew. 

'I can't wait to be off this ship,' she signed. He snorted. 

'You and I both,' he agreed. He looked forward to being rid of the unending nausea. 'Stranger too, poor bastard.'  

There would be no fields for him to run free in, even once they were on solid ground again. Braavos was mostly stone and sea, with hundreds of tiny islands separated by narrow canals. It would be better than the ship, but only by a small margin.

The closer they got, the more Sandor began to think about their situation. A new bridge to cross. The slash at her chest was a grim reminder that he wouldn't always be able to prevent her suffering, and he was reminded every time he looked on her. Their world was about to get a lot more populated, and they still had enemies besides, possibly meddling with their minds. What was it she had said? Let them come. Let us be ready for them when they do. Sandor tended to agree, so he decided he would teach the girl something new. Still with her hands, but the gestures would be different. I can’t always protect her. But I can prepare her. She liked dancing. He would teach her the one he knew best.

Suddenly there was pressure at his arm, and Sandor looked down to see Sansa gripping it with one hand and pointing excitedly at the horizon with the other. He peered into the distance to find the source of her excitement, and there it was: the Titan of Braavos. Merely a speck on the horizon, but it quickly began to take shape as they drew closer. Sandor looked down again as she linked her left arm through his right, leaning her head against him and sighing. Sandor almost pushed her away—not thinking it appropriate behavior for a Silent Sister—but they were close to the end of their journey now. The ruse was almost over. This one, anyway. They would slip into new identities soon enough. 

'Won't be long now, Nedra,' He signed, using her new name. It felt foreign and wrong, but he’d have to get used to it. She shook lightly with silent amusement. 

'What will Stranger's new name be?'  

'Driftwood, of course.' Elder Brother would like that. 

Awhile later, Sansa let out an audible 'Oh…' as they passed under the massive stone Titan; Sandor was in awe as well, despite himself. He’d never seen something so grandly built, the warrior’s sword extending beyond their view into the clouds above. He watched her take in her new surroundings as they drifted towards Ragman's Harbor, where they would disembark at last. The city always seemed small on maps, but in person it felt quite massive. The Braavosi wasted no inch of land, it would seem, for the buildings were so close together you could barely fit a horse between them, or otherwise butted up against one another completely. Everything was stone and water and fog here, but for the look on her face, one would think Sansa saw a splendid field of wildflowers before her. 

'Come,' Sandor instructed. 'Let's gather our things.' 

By the time they had packed up and retrieved Stranger, the ship was pulling into the harbor. Most of the passengers and crewmen were on deck, anxious as they were to see the end of the voyage. It hadn't been a smooth one for any of them. Sandor made to lift Sansa into the saddle, but she protested, signing that she wished to walk. 'Don't wander off, then.' he signed back. 

In reply, she linked an arm through his again. He rolled his eyes at her before gripping the reins tighter in his free hand, leading the horse off the ship in the midst of the other passengers. Stranger tried to snap a few times, but Sandor kept him in check, and everyone made it to land with their ears intact. 

As the girl looked around in interest, Sandor kept a shrewd eye on his surroundings; there could still be plenty of Westerosi about who might recognize them. More than usual, even. He thought it might be easier to blend in once they extended farther into the city, but as he looked around he realized that was a foolish assumption. Braavosi were built smaller than men of the West, it would seem, and Sandor was already tall by those standards. He towered over this crowd. And there was no concealing the distinct burns on his face; he would have to be mindful. He hoped most would be convinced by his story that the dragonfire was the culprit behind the burns; surely there were more burned men walking the world today than before. 

The harbor was buzzing with activity; merchants boasting about their wares, naked children being chased by their mothers, fishermen hauling in the catch of the day. None gave them a passing glance, save for a great black and white cat that hissed down at him from a post on the pier. 

“First thing we do,” He said low in his throat, as both arms were taken by his companions. “Find an alley, get out of these robes. Then we'll find an inn.” 

Finding an alley was easy enough. Sandor led Stranger into one that was vacant, and they silently undid their robes, revealing the common clothes donned underneath. They each only had one spare outfit to them, but that wouldn't be a problem for long. Sandor untied his hair and hastily brushed it over the burned side with his fingers, as Sansa re-braided hers. 

Once the robes were stuffed into their bags, Sandor shrugged into a cloak, then draped one over her shoulders. “Ready?” 

Sansa was distracted, looking at something behind him. She quickly snapped out of it and smiled, taking his arm again. Sandor eyed her questioningly as she looked over her shoulder once more before they cleared the alley. 

“Spy something shiny?” He asked.  

“Just an urchin,” Sansa replied, turning her eyes forward again. “They had their hood up…but they were a pitiful thing.” 

“Get used to seeing them,” Sandor told her. “Don't go thinking you can help them, either. They won't get anything from us.” He didn't feel pity for complete strangers the way she did. They barely had enough coin to put a roof over their own heads for a few nights; it was pointless to worry after others. They were only just barely better off than they were. “But they have the right of it. Hoods up, girl.” 

They swept off down the narrow lane, losing themselves in the bustling crowd. The disgusted stares would return, now that his face was on display to the world once more, yet he was surprised to realize that it bothered him not at all. All Sandor had to do was look down, and he’d find the only eyes that mattered.

Chapter Text

SANSA 13

It had taken them some time to find an inn to stay at. There was a language barrier to contend with, and vacancies were lower than ever. The best Inns were full, and too expensive besides. The cheap ones were cheap for good reason, and Sandor declared he would rather sleep on the streets. They ultimately took up residence in the Inn of the Green Eel, for it was clean but still modest. They only had a single room to offer, but Sansa didn’t mind. She felt safer with him nearby, and was accustomed to the close quarters by now. 

It was also a benefit that the Innkeeper had a daughter who spoke the common tongue. Her name was Aneesa, and of an age with Sansa. Nedra. She had dark hair and dark eyes, with rich bronze skin. Her father doted on her, she saw. It made her smile. They spoke briefly when her companion left to stable the horse, and she decided she liked her.

They would take this night to settle in and wash up, and on the morrow Sandor—Conor now—would seek some work. Once inside the room, she felt free to be herself. It felt nice to take her mask off, even if only at night. 

Sansa allowed herself to fall heavily onto the bed, relishing the comfort of it. “It has a frame and everything,” she sighed, eyes sliding closed. “I didn't think I would miss that so much.”

“Might be you could even get used to it,” said Sandor, absentmindedly opening drawers and touching things as he inspected the new space. The accommodations were modest, but comfortable. There was a dressing table and mirror, a small table with a chair pushed underneath, and a hearth. And a proper bed!

Sitting up, Sansa patted the spot next to her, feet dangling over the edge. “Come, sit. It's wonderful.”

He gazed over at her, amusement in his eyes as he defied her, pulling out the chair and taking his place there instead. “I'll take your word for it,” he remarked.

“Don’t be absurd,” Sansa laughed, taking his meaning. “There is room enough for two here, and you’ve slept on the floor too long already.”

“It agrees with my back,” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

“But not with your leg.” They glared at each other.

He had been keeping her at arm's length since learning about the dreams, as Sansa suspected he might. It frustrated her, for the distance only made her more... what? Distantly, Mya and Myranda’s girlish laughter could be heard. It was the proper thing, for him to keep to the floor. Yet there was no telling how long they would be here; it would be cruel as well. Correct, but not right.

He had dragged his recollections of her sister out on purpose, she knew. He would show her absurdly long scenes of mundane events, and barely speak all the while. She understood, however, and had no complaints about spending more time seeing Arya. It made her feel closer to her, somehow. 

Things with Sandor were different now. He wasn't ungentle or unkind, but he’d put up a wall between them. She didn’t know what she wanted, but she didn’t want it to be like this. Not here. Not now. Not ever, maybe…

She chewed her lip. Once they returned to Westeros, there was no telling what might become of them. Only the dreams would be certain. When Sansa put her eyes on the future, she thought about Winterfell. She thought about the war. She thought about rebuilding broken things, healing broken men. She thought, with a stab of fear in her heart, about being taken captive again, by Littlefinger or Cersei or Tyrion. Or someone new. She thought about the possibility that there was no future at all, how she might regret not taking advantage of every simple pleasure she could seize for herself in the present. She felt so very starved for it, and feared a day might come where she was starved once more. Alone, or worse.

“I’ve slept by your side before,” she pointed out. “What makes this so different?”

“The difference between want and need,” he said brusquely. “It matters. And it’s inappropriate.”

Sansa couldn’t stop herself; she had to laugh. “When have you ever cared about what’s appropriate?”

He did not share in her mirth. Sandor was scowling at her as he said, “Right around the time you stopped, seems to me.”

Her smile faded. “I have been the subject of much that I would call inappropriate,” she said sharply, for he had cut her. “Nobody cared about it then. Give them what they want, you told me. And I did. What about what I want? It seems to me that what the world deems appropriate is wrong.”

“Be that as it may,” he rose, but went for the door rather than to her. He had lost his bite, but none of his austerity. “The world is wrong, but so are you. Now drop it, girl; a bath will be drawn up for you soon.”

Sansa opened her mouth to argue, but he ducked out of the room before she could frame a sentence. She flung herself back on the bed, a frustrated shriek muffled in her throat. He was so…so stubborn. Did he still think her a child, the fragile little bird? It didn’t seem so, but why then was he so thoroughly against something so simple, that they both so clearly wanted? She was selfish, she knew, but she learned that she would have to be if she ever wanted anything for herself. And I can be stubborn, too.

The water arrived after a time, and Sansa sighed as she lowered herself into it. The warmth was so soothing, it seemed to draw the frustration right out of her. And I can soak as long as I like, she thought, smiling. They wouldn’t need to share the water this time. This place felt like a luxurious palace in contrast to the ship. She didn’t hold any ill will for those accommodations, however; she would do it all over again, exactly the same way. Even this, she thought as she put a hand gingerly to her chest. It still ached horribly with every move she made, and itched to the point of madness. But it was healing, and she would bear it as a symbol of her strength.

It’s inappropriate. The words still nettled her. Had they not surpassed the boundary between appropriate and inappropriate long before now? In truth, each time they had, it had been because of Sansa’s own impulses; but she knew he desired her, and it made her bold. Since the first time she had kissed him, pinned against Stranger’s middle, the line had been crossed. She had continued to draw new lines thereafter, and then crossed those as well. Even so, it never felt wrong. Not truly. Sansa had only her instincts to guide her now, ever since she fled the Vale. They had not steered her wrong so far. 

Where was his line, though? She had never thought to ask. Maybe she should...and yet, the lines he drew for himself didn’t have a basis in sense. Everything has to be deserved, she thought bitterly. He obsessed over that notion the way she had obsessed over her stories. He thinks he knows what I deserve better than I do. Well, he knows nothing.

No one had ever called her marriage to Tyrion Lannister inappropriate, when there had been nothing about it that was. No one had ever told Petyr Baelish that kissing his daughter the way he did was inappropriate. Only Tyrion had ever made a move to acknowledge the inappropriate ways Joffrey treated her, but he didn’t stop his torment of her. Only ladies were ever criticized for their inappropriate behaviors, it seemed, while men were free to act as they pleased, free of scorn. How inappropriate is that? If anything was ever inappropriate, Sansa put sharing a bed with a man who loved her—who wouldn’t harm her—at the bottom of that list. Certainly, the Gods were with her on this matter besides; they wouldn’t bring them together in the ways they had, if only for the singular purpose of his protection. Would they?  

Of course, she was not so naive either; she understood that there was more to it than sleeping proximity, perhaps more than she was prepared to address. Perhaps he was right to deny her in their dreams, and resist her in waking…but he was also wrong to deny himself a simple bodily comfort. She saw the way he had to coax the stiffness from his leg each morning. She did not fear him touching her in any way she wouldn’t want him to. But he does.

Sansa tenderly traced the rough, purple line that ran across her chest. That day seemed an eternity ago, and simultaneously as though it were yesterday. She had told him she would look on this scar and remember how he had taken care of her, but that was only half of the truth. As her fingers brushed over it, she also saw flesh ravaged by old wounds, a broad chest thick with hair, hair that plummeted down in a dark line, down, down…

She had never seen anything like it before, for all her close encounters. The sight had been jarring, but perhaps even more unsettling was how decidedly not unsettled she was by the memory of it. On the contrary, she felt she knew him better for it. She had seen him—all of him, inside and out—and it had extinguished nothing. She wasn’t sure if she felt ready to let him see her, nor was she sure she was ready to see him like that again; but there was a tentative curiosity there now, opening her mind to thoughts she had always cringed away from before.

She did know she wanted everything else; his touch, his warmth, his mouth on hers…she shivered. Would she stop him next time he tried? Would he try? The thought of wanting him to put her at a war with herself. Some voices were scornful, some were teasing, some were mocking. Some giggled, shouted, jeered. She didn’t know how to sort it out through all the noise. It was still a decision she didn’t know how to make, and set off a riot in her mind. A lady is chaste and demure, and waits to be courted, she could hear Septa Mordane saying. As a flower awaits the bee. To which Mya would reply, You’ll never get what you want that way. 

And Sansa didn't want to be the flower. 

As Sansa wrung out her hair and dressed, she decided she would let him make up his own mind when it came to these matters. She would address them when she came to them, not force the subject. But she would not let him sleep on the floor like a dog.

She descended the stairs to the common area, where she found him sitting alone with an empty plate before him, a cup of ale in hand. When he saw her, he rose. “Nedra,” he said, inclining his head in a stiff greeting. She had been a long time bathing, and half-expected him to be drunk, but he seemed to have his wits about him still.

“Conor,” she returned, more kindly, meeting him at the table. “You’ll fetch me when you’re done?”

“I won’t be long,” he replied gruffly. “I should be done by the time you finish supper. Knock first,” he added, narrowing his eyes at her. She suppressed a laugh.

He turned to go upstairs, but Sansa took him by the arm to halt him. “I sleep where you sleep.” She said, tone low but firm. “I’ll let you decide where that might be.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue, but then he closed it again, glaring around the busy room and then at her. Wordlessly, he shrugged roughly out of her grip and tore off up the stairs. Sansa's lips split into a small, victorious smile. He can choose where he lays his head, but he can’t choose where I lay mine.

Chapter Text

SANDOR 14

The girl was bolder than he'd known her to be, but since when had she become this fucking bold, and insolent besides? Sandor splashed water on his face, unable to relax in the hot water. Half of him was on high alert, expecting her to burst into the room again, covered in blood. The other half was agitated, and thought it might be easier if she did.

He never thought he would be in a situation where he was having to turn her advances down. It was a cruel temptation. She didn't see the forest for the trees, he knew. She had stopped to pick the flowers.

Could she not see how easily one thing led to another? Could she not understand that their purpose here was to lay low and stay safe, not to play at lovers? That if he had her—truly had her—that he might never bear letting her go? The dreams were already more than difficult for him to contend with; if it began to bleed over into his reality…

The fact that Sandor was thinking so much farther ahead than she likely was—taking it so much more seriously—only made him more resolved in his refusal. He’d been her age once. He knew how hot the blood could run. He washed up quickly, and set to work laying out his place on the floor, away from both the bed and the hearth. She won't sleep on the floor, because I won't let her, he told himself. She was willful, but he practically defined the word, and was far more experienced in the art. He would meet her with resistance. He had to.

He was pretending to sleep when the knock at the door came. She knocked again, and he continued to ignore her. Eventually, he heard the door slowly creak open. The room was dim, the only light emanating from the smoldering embers in the hearth. He heard her sigh as she closed and latched the door behind, heard her cross the room to the bed; heard the rustling of bedsheets. That's right, he thought triumphantly. Just go to sleep, damn you.

Then, suddenly, there came a heavy thump and whoosh of air from behind as she threw the blankets onto the floor, padding swiftly after them. Sandor clenched his teeth as she fidgeted around, smoothing them out and lying down with another loud and pointed sigh.

He laid there in rigid silence for a time, head buzzing with agitation. This was not a victory for her to have. And she knows I'm not sleeping.

Sandor sat up abruptly, not giving her time to react as he spun around and scooped her up, blankets and all. She cried out and squirmed in protest, and he was half-tempted to throw her bodily onto the bed from across the sodding room. He was mindful of her still-healing wound, however, so he took the few paces forward and placed her there, but was sure to give it some measure of force.

“You stay there,” he growled, jabbing a finger at her.

“How do you mean to make me?” She huffed, untangling herself and sitting up. He glared at her, going over the possibilities. 

I could club you in the head, the way I did your sister, he thought darkly. I could press down on your pretty windpipe until you passed out, would that be gallant?

He would have made those threats, once. Might have even made good on them, too. But now they stuck in his throat. Sandor could make her do anything he wanted her to. He had that ability. But he also had that choice now, and that guilt. He would have to spend his life convincing her if he wanted her to obey; she would never be forced. Not by me, not by anyone.  

“I'll sleep over there,” he jabbed a thumb at his side of the room, still visibly irritated. “Until we can get separate rooms.” He threw his hands up. “So enough with this, I'm sick of it.”

The insolence went out of her. “We don't need separate rooms.”

“And we don't need to share a bed.”

She bit her lip. “We don't want separate rooms.”

“We don't always get what we want,” he replied nastily. “Even little lords and ladies.”

“I know that.” Her voice was a whip. She looked down at her hands. “But it doesn't stop one from wanting.”

Sandor felt his stomach twisting into knots. “And what is it that you are in want of exactly, my lady?”

She had the grace to blush. “I want to be free, even if it's only for a little while.”

“You'll never be free,” he rasped. “And it shouldn’t come at the cost of reason. We still have our roles to play, and a dog is no fit bedfellow besides.”

“You’re not a dog,” she rolled her eyes. “I prefer it when you’re close. I’ll sleep more soundly for it.”

“That's a tragedy, not a point of pride,” snapped Sandor. “Only you no longer know the difference.”

“It's neither,” Sansa corrected him. “Only the truth.”

Sandor’s face darkened. “The truth? ” He asked grimly. “I'll show you truth.” He pushed her down again, this time avoiding the left side. He lowered himself so that he was looming over her. He had no knife this time, so in its place he pressed a hand against her throat. 

“Don’t you remember the last time you had me in your bed?” He all but snarled at her. “The real version, not the one you made up to make yourself feel better? I’m not so different, even now. In the dreams you fly away, but you can't do that here. Do you understand me?” 

Freedom was what she yearned for, yet for Sandor it meant something very different. Freedom was dangerous. The feeling of fear that had gripped him as he watched the Quiet Isle grow smaller in the snow, it never left him. The Hound was dead, but he still required a very tight leash. She held the leash now, not Elder Brother. And she’d cast it to the ground. 

Sansa was taken aback by the abrupt intensity, but not fearful. What she appeared to be feeling instead disturbed him. “You’re not so different,” she agreed. “I remember. You won’t hurt me.”

A hand crept towards his face, but he slapped it away at once. “Bugger you,” he snapped. “Bugger it all; the dreams are enough without this too.” He released her and drew himself back to his feet. Sansa sat up, never taking eyes off him. 

Sandor raked his fingers through his hair, muttering curses under his breath. She’d seen too much to fear him now; it'd been foolish to try it again. It was the only strategy he ever needed before, and the first thing he reached for. He would need to find another way. 

He knelt at the bedside, so that he would now look up at her. “I want you to want better things. You hear me? This isn't one of your stories, girl. And it's not how yours should be told. This is only but a chapter in it, and not a time for foolish risks that would follow you to the end.”

He realized how very short their time together like this would be, even if she did not. She still had much to do, to experience. Things would change once she returned to her family’s seat, he knew. If. It would not be out of maliciousness—she did not have a malicious bone in her body—but that nearly made it worse. Nothing lasts forever. Her enchantment with him certainly could not. It would give way to indifference someday, at best. What if these dreams were also only temporary? What then?

Her face was contorting, and Sandor almost expected her to start weeping. Her eyes, however, were glittering with something else. She was smiling at him, he realized. She was watching him with her lips pressed tightly together as he stared back. His head fell slightly to the side in his bemusement, and at that she burst out laughing, throwing her head back.

“What in the seven hells is so funny?” He barked, temper flaring up again at the mockery. 

Sansa was able to compose herself abruptly, although she still smiled. “Why Sandor,” She said with bright eyes, even as storms raged in his own. “It seems to me that you believe in stories as much as I do, for how often you bring them up.” She reached down for his hands, and he had the urge to snatch them away from her out of spite. 

She took them in her own, her tone more sincere now. “I don’t wish for life to be like a story; I mean to make my own. It wasn’t always the case. Life was a horror, and I wanted it to end. There was nothing to live for, not even Winterfell…it all seemed so hopeless to me then. Finding you there…seeing how things can change, that second chances are possible…you’ve given me more than I can say. And I do not wish to take from you anymore than I have already.”

She pulled at his arms, beckoning him to rise. The left hand had a far weaker grip than the right. And it always will. Slowly, he did rise, watching her wearily.

She grew somber, as somber as he felt, but her tone was resolved. “Sleep in this bed, and I will ask no more of you, even in dreams. Take it as a demand if you must. But I cannot allow you to sleep on the floor, for Gods know how long. I don't care if it's inappropriate.”

Sandor had the urge to argue, the desire was going out of him. Demands were more easily met than desires besides. I’m just a dog, doing as it’s told.

“Very well,” he yielded, but not without a mocking bow. “As my lady commands.” He walked around the bed and slowly lowered himself onto it. Sandor would do as he was told, but that didn’t mean he would indulge her. He was lying so close to the edge of the bed that his right leg hung over it, foot planted on the floor. Even still, he took up a sizable portion of the damned thing. Sansa seemed unphased by his reluctance, spreading out the blankets before lying down herself; when she did so, she crawled over and curled up under his arm. The arm went rigid, though he said nothing, glaring up at the ceiling. 

They lay there in silence for a long time, so long that it became deafening. The air was stiff with their wakefulness. Things were so damn quiet here at night, there wasn't anything else to focus on. Sandor wished she would drift off first, though he couldn't say why it mattered. He found no comfort in the soft mattress; he realized he had never felt so uncomfortable in his life. It was usually he who made others feel so ill at ease; it did not go the other way. This was too intimate, too real; the air was stirring with how he tried to ignore it. This is indecent. It was not in the way he liked. 

“Sandor?” she whispered into the void, as though to check if he were awake, knowing he was. He made a rumbling sound in reply, inexplicably anxious by her tone. 

She turned her head up to look at him. “I know the roles we must play...and I will. But I don't wish to wear the mask like skin. Not anymore. Sometimes...I should like to take it off.”

“Is that what you call this?” He chuffed, not taking his eyes off the ceiling. 

“Yes,” she whispered. “And I wish the same for you. I see no reason to ignore the truth, when doors are closed.”

That word again. “We have different ideas about the truth, it seems to me.”

She propped herself up on an elbow. “Call it what you wish. But…” There was a pause, as if hesitating on the edge of her words. “Love was always the lie given to me; the mask concealing sinister intentions. It’s the other way around with you. You wish to hide it from me, afraid perhaps that it’s unrequited. Well, I—”

“Don't,” he rasped, his voice harsh. Don't tell me what I want to hear, just because you think I want to hear it. 

Her deadened arm rested upon his chest, and he wondered if she could feel the war drums there. “I want to. Please—”

“You said you’d ask no more,” Sandor flared. “Your word is shit. Why should I need hear anything more you have to say?”

The sudden burst of anger had robbed her of grace. “I,” she stammered, looking all contrite. “You’re right.”

It was a relief that she wasn’t going to battle him on this; for once. Yet his mood had already soured, and there was nothing to be done for it. “Now let me get some bloody damned rest, we’ve got a long day ahead.” He began to settle himself back down, adding, “And keep to your side. And your head, for that matter.”

She dutifully moved away, but it did nothing for his restlessness. She had tried to confess something to him that he would never be willing to hear. The girl was delusional, looking for love in the very worst place. Sandor lay awake a long time, imagining an alternate reality wherein he heard the words, could take her in his arms and say them back. It only angered him more; he could never know that reality. What was the use of thinking about it? And yet, he was powerless to stop.

He stole a sideways glance, saw her frame silhouetted against the window. Her measured breathing indicated sleep evaded her as well. This was such a foolish endeavor; what made Elder Brother think it would ever work? What made him think it would? The path ahead was so unclear, and as he lay there, Sandor Clegane did feel afraid. Afraid of where it might lead, and afraid of going astray.

Chapter Text

SANSA 14

Sansa sat in the Common Room at the Inn of the Green Eel, breaking her fast. He was seated across from her, and they resumed their hand language lessons as they ate. He was Conor now, she had to remind herself. 

She hadn’t slept much last night. Neither of them had. She had not expected it to go that way, but she supposed she should have. She’d been heedless, and a little selfish too. Again. Getting him off the floor should have been enough, but she’d overreached. Bringing down his walls would be a lengthy siege; brick by brick, not a dragon laying waste to the city outright. Sandor Clegane had a spent a lifetime building those walls. She hoped it would not take a lifetime to fell them, but Sansa understood the need for patience. Had she not built walls of her own? It seemed to her that she had made a postern gate in hers, for how easily he had come through.

The Innkeep's daughter came over to see to their needs, and her companion looked up at her. His face made her uncomfortable, but she was dutiful to all her patrons, Nedra saw. 

“Do you have need of extra hands around here, girl?” He asked, dispensing with any pleasantry. 

Aneesa gave him a questioning look. “It is mostly my father and me here. And the cook, and the stable boy.”

“I saw your father,” he said, remarking on the older man they met yesterday. He was older, gray haired and well wrinkled, and he walked with a heavy limp that required the assistance of a cane. “We'll be taking up residence here for the forseeable future. I can fix what breaks, fetch your supplies and shipments. Deal with your unruly tenants, maybe. And see to the horses too. Your stable boy will have a sorry time with mine.”

“You are generous to offer,” the girl said apprehensively. “But we do not have much coin for payment.”

“Just in exchange for the room, then,” he said brusquely. “I’ll get the extra coin another way.”

Noticing the hesitation that passed over the girl’s face, Nedra put in, “It would please me to assist you as well. I can see how busy you are. I can wash linens and dishes and change rushes, and I can cook a little too. Anything you need.”

“No,” Conor scolded her. ‘You're to stay here and keep your head down.’

“And do what?” She said aloud. “I would like to make myself useful, if I can. Better than lingering in boredom.”

Aneesa took on a different demeanor when she addressed Nedra. It was friendlier. “You shall never be bored in Braavos,” she smiled. “But I will speak to my father about your offer.”

“Very well,” Conor said, rising. “I'll take my leave, then.” He took Nedra by the chin. “Be careful,” he told her sternly. “Do not leave this place while I am out, understand?”

Nedra made a face at him. “As my lord commands.” Nedra had Alayne’s boldness, she’d decided. She would have her whole life to remember her courtesies.

Sandor took a step back, mouth twitching. “I’ll return by dusk."

He turned and strode off, and Nedra went to the window seat to watch him go. Stranger—now Driftwood once more—would be glad to get some exercise, she thought as she watched him pass by the window moments later with his master astride him. 

Now that she was alone, Nedra rested her head on a hand and absentmindedly watched the people milling around outside. It was fascinating viewing, after so long removed from people in proper. Much more colorful than the Quiet Isle, and not so oppressive as on the ship. She was taken by the thought that all who passed by had lives of their own, entire worlds just as full and complicated as her own. But also very different, she knew. She occupied herself by imagining up stories for them, giving them names and aspirations and closely-guarded secrets.

Movement caught her eye then—or, more accurately, a lack of movement. Amidst the bustle stood a solitary figure, as still as stone. She squinted, trying to make out the face. It was sprinkling rain this morning, and foggy besides; it was no use. They were small, and the cloak they wore was little more than an oversized rag. The legs supporting the poor creature were twig-like and pale. Inexplicably, the hairs on the back of her neck went up, and a chill ran down her spine.

"That is a pretty piece in your hair," Came a warm voice, thick with the Braavosi accent. Startled, she spun around to see Aneesa standing behind her, smiling. "I like the birds."

Nedra remembered herself, returning the smile. "Thank you," she said. "It was a gift from Conor."

"Is he your father?" 

"My true father is dead," she replied gently. "Conor promised him he would keep me safe, though." She returned her gaze to the street, but the figure had gone. In its place there was only a fat orange cat, cleaning itself. Nedra turned her full attention to the innkeeper's daughter now, pleased to have some company. 

Aneesa bowed her head. "I am sorry; I assumed."

Nedra reached out, covering the girl's hand with her own and smiling encouragingly. "It was a fair assumption, and caused no harm. Let us speak of happier things." 

The girl was of an age with herself, yet still she had that spark of innocence in her eyes, something that had so long ago been snatched from her own. She was happy for her. She envied her.

"What has brought you two to Braavos?" the girl asked next, drawing her feet up into the seat with her. 

Nedra was prepared for such questions; she had discussed them with her companion in advance.

"Between war and Winter, Westeros is an unkind place for folk such as us," she said, not untruthfully. "You might have heard that our capital was burned; that was our home. My father perished there, and it was only by a stroke of chance that I was away from the city that day, visiting an aunt at her village. We have no home now, so I don’t know how long we will stay; mayhaps forever.”

Aneesa seemed pleased by that. "I hope you do stay awhile at least.” A little sheepishly she added, “It is not often that our visitors make for good company, is all. I am very sorry for your losses.” 

“Good company is in rare supply,” Nedra agreed, smiling. She supposed it wasn’t often that young girls visited this inn; it was mostly sea-weary men and traveling merchants among them now. “I would be glad of yours.”

From there, their discussion shifted to more conversational topics. Aneesa related to Nedra that her father had once been a Bravo, then explained what a Bravo was. In recent years he'd lost his strength to gout, and slept a lot these days. It was mostly up to Aneesa to keep the Inn in operation as of late, and she sometimes even had to confront men for payment herself. Once, she told Nedra in the hushed tones of a secret, she had to use her father's old sword, although she didn't know how to swing it. 

"He did not know that, though!" She laughed, and Nedra laughed as well, though it sounded more frightening than funny.

"Conor says he's to teach me how to use a blade," she said. "Mayhaps he could teach us both." Aneesa laughed again. 

"I intend no offense, but your brutish style of the West is of little use here," she said, tossing a sheet of dark hair over one shoulder. "My father always says so."

Nedra scoffed playfully at that. "Conor could dance circles around your Bravos," she said matter-of-factly. 

"Your Conor might be strong,” Aneesa conceded. “But if he tried to dance?” She laughed. “The water dance is grace and speed, and he would be full of holes before he could lift one of your absurdly large blades. They make everything too big across the sea, it seems." 

Nedra turned her nose up. “Your Bravos would put themselves at a disadvantage to underestimate him out of hand. The greatest fighters adapt to any style besides. Conor is such a fighter." She had seen that for herself. If he could face a flaming sword and win, he could face a dancing Bravo.

They argued back and forth, though it held no animosity. Smiling and giggling all the while, they countered each other's points on the merits of the different styles of fighting, despite neither of them boasting any intimate knowledge of the skill to start with. 

Along the way, Sansa learned much about the Bravos, and determined they were as close as the Braavosi came to Westerosi Knights. They dressed in flamboyant colors and swaggered through the streets, always looking for a challenge, for they were the most skilled fighters. Aneesa said that anyone who was seen outside with a sword after dark was offering themselves up for such a challenge, and Bravos fought to the death. Nedra would have to warn her companion of this bit of culture.

"Let us talk no more of fighting," she suggested. "What else can you tell me of this place? It is so different from what I am accustomed to."

Aneesa was thrilled by the opportunity to talk about her home, for she had never known anything else, though she’d heard much and more. She was interested in knowing how Nedra's experiences differed, and they exchanged stories for hours as the rain poured in earnest outside. Every God had a place of worship here, and the canals ran through the city like veins. They boasted some of the best bathhouses and winesinks in the world, she claimed, and mummers came from all over the world to perform in their playhouses.

Nedra found herself most taken by stories about the Bravos and Courtesans, the latter of which were most different from the womanly customs of Westeros. According to Aneesa, they held a high status among the people, when the Westerosi equivalent was held to the lowest. In fact, Nedra supposed Westeros had no equivalent, for surely Braavos still had pleasure houses. No woman could ascend to such prestige without a man standing in front of her. Hadn’t Cersei been a living testament to that? It saddened her that a Courtesan was perhaps the highest station a woman could reach on her own, and yet it still relied on the approval of men. 

Aneesa's father brought them a flagon of wine and a platter of cheese and bread. He kissed his daughter atop the head before going to sit before the fire, listening to them talk, though he understood little of the common tongue. 

The Common Room was buzzing with other visitors as well, mostly tired men who had come to find lodging after long sea travel. She took note of their faces, for she was wary of spies, even here. If a face became too familiar, she would need watch them. 

"My father cannot offer much," Aneesa said thoughtfully, circling back to their offer from before. "But we could always make use of extra hands, especially now with this swell of travelers. And most of our hired help are not half so clean. Or pretty," She giggled, and Nedra joined her, although her mind wandered back to the children begging out in the streets. 

“I shall tell Conor of the compliment,” she said, teasing. Aneesa shifted uncomfortably, but smiled politely.

"I will talk to father," she vowed. 

Aneesa would occasionally rise to fetch food or drink for someone, then return to her seat with Nedra to resume their discussions. The girl was very fluent in the common tongue; she explained that she had grown up in this Inn, and had absorbed several languages over the years. Nedra found that to be quite impressive, and showed her the only other language she knew: the hand language. They traded different words in different languages for a time, giggling whenever a crude one was offered. They eventually had become too ribald to be allowed, bellies aching from suppressed fits of laughter.

“And you have arrived at a very good time of year,” Aneesa was saying now, sobering. 

“Why is that?” Nedra asked, thinking that any time of year that was Winter couldn't be terribly popular. But the snows didn't stick here so much as at home. Not so close to the sea. And it was raining more than it was snowing, though it was just as cold.

“The Uncloaking is soon,” Aneesa explained passionately. “It’s a festival. Each year, for ten days, Braavos is a shining jewel of merriment and lantern light in all the canals. Everyone wears masks, and there are feast tables and dancing in every square.”

Nedra’s eyes lit up at the thought of that, and for a second she was Sansa again. “That sounds splendid,” she said with wonder. “What is the festival for? When does it start?”

“A moon’s turn from now. It is a celebration of the day Braavos revealed itself to the world, 111 years after its founding. At midnight on the tenth day, everyone removes their masks together as one, in honor of that event.”

“That’s beautiful,” Sansa breathed, clutching her chest. “Oh, I hope to go!” She would need to convince Sandor first, however, as he was keen to keep her shuttered away inside this inn.

Aneesa laughed. “It will be all around you! You will not miss it. I shall help you with your mask as well, for the best masks cannot be bought.”

Nedra was flush with wine and laughter when the door to the Inn opened and Conor ducked inside, dripping wet from the rain. Right on time. It was fully dark outside. Aneesa draped an arm over her seat to watch as she rose, crossed the room to meet him. 

“You look half drowned,” she laughed. “Did you find any success?”

“Aye,” He confirmed as he stepped more fully into the room, shrugging out of his cloak and draping it over an arm. “Found some work on the docks quickly enough. Only every few days, and only so long as I keep my face covered. Bloody fine by me.” He went to the table she had come from, nodding to Aneesa and taking the flagon, drinking straight from it. 

“Where were you this whole time, then?” 

“Riding, mostly,” he said baldly. “We both needed to stretch our legs, damn us. Was I gone overlong?” He asked, looking between the two girls inquiringly as he pulled a chair over for himself. 

“Not at all,” Nedra replied, resuming her seat. “Aneesa here was fine company.”

“Good,” He grunted, emptying the wine and setting it back down, placing a coin down with it. "Fetch me more of that, and something to eat, would you?" He said to Aneesa. She obeyed, rising and setting off to the kitchen. 

"I learned much about the city today," she told him conversationally as he wrung out his hair on the floor. He stopped suddenly, face hardening.

“I thought I told you to stay here.” 

“I did,” she said with a roll of the eyes. “Aneesa told me things. I will like working here with her, I think."

"That's not necessary," he said gruffly, though he relaxed considerably. "Don't let these people make a servant of you."

"I want to," she insisted. "Valar Dohaeris, they say here. It means, ‘all men must serve.’”

“Good thing you’re not a man, then.”

“I will go mad if I do nothing," Sansa complained. 

He snorted. "You're already mad."

Aneesa returned then. Conor muttered a word of thanks, wasting no time with courtesies as he tucked in. Her new friend left them to join her father at the fire, speaking to him in her native Braavosi tongue. Every now and then, she would gesture to them, and he would glance over at her and Conor sitting there. 

When she returned, she was smiling. "My father says he would be delighted by your help." Nedra thought her father looked more indifferent than pleased, but she made no remark. “In exchange for the room, and a little coin when we can spare it.”

"I am delighted to hear it," she said brightly. “Give him our thanks.”

"I shall leave you, then," said Aneesa. Nedra could see that her companion put the girl ill at ease. "Tomorrow we will talk more!"

Conor wiped his mouth with a sleeve and turned in his seat, putting out a hand to halt her. "You'll not work the girl too hard," he declared. “And you'll send her out on no errands.” Aneesa smiled nervously. While his limp hair covered most of it, Nedra noticed how her eyes lingered on the burned half.  

"Of course, ser Conor." She bowed her head. He sneered. 

"Save the sers, I'm no knight." He drained his cup and rose, seeming to take note of her discomfort as well. "And the night is still young; don’t let me spoil your merriment. I need to dry off."

He bade them both good-night, giving Nedra a touch on the shoulder before trudging off up the stairs, dripping water all the way. Once he was out of sight, Aneesa began to giggle. 

“What is it?” Nedra asked.

The girl resumed her seat across from her, losing all traces of discomfort. “You are so lovely, you would probably make a fine Courtesan if you wanted to. Yet he is perhaps the ugliest man I have ever seen. You make an odd pair, is all.” She laughed again. Nedra did not.

“That is unkind,” she said coolly. You've never seen Littlefinger, or Tyrion Lannister. 

Her new friend sobered at that, apology all over her face. “I am sorry, I did not mean it that way—”

“Yes you did.” she interrupted. “I thought the same way, once. But I would be dead were it not for him. He sacrificed all to see me here. He is a good man."

“Of course,” Aneesa bowed her head. 

The moment was an awkward one, but it passed quickly. Nedra could not fault her for her first impressions, so she bore her no ill will for them, and soon changed the conversation to something lighter. They spent the rest of the evening taking turns braiding each other’s hair while Aneesa told her more about the upcoming festival. 

It was late when Nedra ascended the stairs at last, slipping back into Sansa once more. Her stomach fluttered as she reached out for the door to their room. She decided she should knock.

Sandor was sitting in front of the fire when she entered, clad in his Novice’s robes as his soaked clothing hung over a chair to dry. He had his carving knife out, a pile of shavings at his feet as he chipped away at the wood in his hands. He ceased his progress as she approached, looking up at her. 

“They didn’t have you down there scrubbing the floors, did they?”

Sansa smiled. “It wasn’t needed tonight, you wetted them well enough. What are you making?” She came closer, interested. 

When she came within his reach, Sandor grabbed her by the arm and pulled her close, and she felt her heartbeat quicken. “Why don’t you see for yourself?” He covered her hand with his own, and when he pulled it away, there was a piece of wood in her palm.

She blinked, holding the object aloft. “A dagger?” It was still rough and crudely shaped, but it was easy to recognize.

“Everyone trains with wood before steel, and so shall you.”

She laughed, the intensity from moments before gone as soon as it hit her. “Are lessons really necessary? Wouldn’t I just…” She made a jabbing motion. He laughed. 

“That’s part of it,” he conceded. “But that tactic will only take you so far. Go ahead,” he spread his arms out. “Try to poke me.” 

Sansa eyed him with uncertainty, then the wooden dagger in her hand. She looked back at him. This is silly, she thought. But the wicked part of her wanted to rid his eyes of that gloating look. She pulled the dagger back, and threw all of her weight forward. They were both laughing when he caught her wrist, quick as a snake, but the sudden halt in momentum made her stumble; she put a hand out to catch herself from caroming into him, but that arm was weak, and buckled at the elbow. Now their faces were mere inches apart. She had an intruding thought that she could count his eyelashes from here; she'd never really taken notice of them before. 

The laughter faded, though there was still mirth in his eyes. “You went for it,” he said, looking proud. "A good start; needs practice, though.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” She said defensively. 

“Couldn’t,” he corrected. “But we’ll fix that.” The way he said it almost made her shudder; or was it imagined? She wanted nothing more than for him to lean forward and close the gap. He only had to move the smallest bit.

He seemed to notice he was still holding her wrist then, for he released it suddenly. The fog began to clear as Sansa drew herself back to her feet and returned the unfinished carving.

“It’s coming along nicely,” she commented. “You’re quite talented.”

“Courteous as ever,” he chuffed under his breath as he resumed whittling, seemingly more out of habit than genuine irritation. 

Sansa moved to the fire, content to sit and watch him work. It was warm, and the rhythmic sounds of the dagger scraping against wood lulled her. It wasn’t long before she laid her head down on the floor and drifted to sleep, and the next thing she knew she was in a brightly-lit canal, surrounded by laughing, dancing people in masks. She laughed and danced, too, enveloped in a blur of color and noise and warmth. 

Then, over a shoulder she spied a swath of gray. She was being spun around and around by her partner, but the figure caught her eye on every pass, a spot of darkness amid a sea of light. They were not wearing a mask but Sansa could not see their face, for it was obscured by the shadow of their hood. They were watching her, still as stone, and suddenly the people surrounding her were oppressive; too close, too rough. The dancers had turned to rioters, pressing in around her, shoving and clawing at each other. She tried to keep her eye on the figure but now she was being jostled this way and that by the tide, and she found herself unable to breathe, unable to move. 

Gasping, she turned to her partner for help, to beg for them to move, to set her free. But when she tore away their mask, it was Joffrey’s face sneering back at her. Sansa turned away in a panic, grasping at another mask, but when it came away it was Tyrion Lannister, leering with his hungry mismatched eyes and seeping hole where a nose should have been. Again and again Sansa scrambled in the crowd, and soon the faces were closing in on her. Queen Cersei, Ser Ilyn Payne, Ser Meryn, Margaery Tyrell and her brother Ser Loras, Ser Dontos, her aunt Lysa with her cousin Robert suckling obscenely at her breast, blood dribbling down his chin. Her father’s cold dead eyes were staring down at her from a spike, held aloft by her mother, with skin and hair as white as milk. Sansa saw a flash of fur darting through the fray. Lady, she thought desperately. But as she wrestled her way to her she lost her footing and fell, and suddenly there was nothing but open sky below her as she grasped the edge of the Moon Door. Through the crowd came the bloody and swollen face of Petyr Baelish, his tongue long and forked like a snake’s as it protruded out to graze her cheek. “Only Cat,” he hissed, and he threw her hands off the ledge. When she looked down, the world was aflame, and the heat was almost unbearable. I'm falling into Hell.

Sansa awoke with the scream still in her throat, a face yelling back at her. Still in the throes of the dream, she scrambled backwards, unable to parse friend from foe. 

“Get off of me! Get off!” She sobbed, thrashing wildly in attempt to free herself, punching and kicking at them. 

Strong hands had her by the shoulders, shaking her, but now they caught her wrists. “It’s me!” he was shouting over her as he pried them away. “Sansa, wake up! It’s me!” 

For a moment, everything went quiet as reality began to settle in around her. She was on solid ground, not tumbling out of the Moon Door. It was Sandor’s face looming over her, not Littlefinger’s. She was half a world away, her hair was black. Sansa began to sob anew, but this time it was in relief.

“It was only a nightmare,” Sandor was saying now, pulling her up to sit. His face was grim and pale. “A bloody bad one. Nearly threw yourself into the fire.” 

“I was drowning,” she replied. “They closed in all around me and I was drowning, and their faces…” she could still see them, grotesque and sinister. “It felt so real.”

“They always do,” Sandor rasped. He got to his feet and extended a hand to pull Sansa to hers. “You're shaking like a leaf, girl. But you're safe now.” 

She wasn’t so sure. The veil between dreams and reality had become so threadbare...how could she be? As if sensing her thoughts, a hand took her by the chin, forced her gaze up. His eyes were stern. “It wasn’t real. None of them are. Here is all that matters.”

Fresh sobs gripped her by the throat, and Sansa buried her face in his chest. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t just a dream. None of them are just dreams. “You don't understand,” she said. “I think someone else was there. I…felt them.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I think you were right, about the dreams. I don't think we're alone. I think I'm being pursued.”

Sansa expected some smart remark—No shit you're being pursued, it's why we're here. Or, I told you so. But it didn't come. Sandor's expression was serious, thoughtful.

“We will just have to remain as careful in dreams as in waking,” came his reply. “But no harm will come to you there.”

“It sounds exhausting,” Sansa lamented. She had always felt safest inside her own mind. The thought of anyone being there who she didn't permit felt…violating. The thought that it wasn't a special connection only she and Sandor shared was a devastation. Stupid, naive little dove, she could hear Cerseis's voice say.

Sandor put away his whittling for the evening and resolved that they should try to align their sleeping as much as possible going forward. It seemed to pull them away from their personal hells when they dreamed together besides. “And I'll keep watch,” he assured her.

When they lowered themselves into the bed that night, Sansa remained dutifully on her side, lying awake with her thoughts and the memory of the nightmare. It hadn't been especially worse than ones she'd had before, but someone else was there. It nagged at her relentlessly. Who are you? Why had she never felt this extra presence before now? Sansa had wondered before if the shared dreams were a matter of proximity; she hadn't started having them until she'd come to the Quiet Isle, and they were more frequent and easy to control the closer she was to Sandor. It was a terrifying thought, then, that whoever was with her in that nightmare might also be with them here.

It must have been keeping Sandor awake, too. After some time, she heard him make a grumbling sound as a massive arm came over her, rolled her over and pulled her to him. It wasn't unwelcome, and she closed what little space was left as she nestled into his warmth.

Out of the darkness he said, “Try to rest now, little bird.” Whether he was relenting for her sake or his, she could not say, but sleep did come more easily then for them both. And when she dreamed, they sat beneath a great Weirwood, its white branches populated by ravens watching down on them in silence. Four great direwolves stood guard in the surrounding trees, though only their eyes were clearly seen. Snow fell thick and soft from the sky. Sandor’s arms were around her. And she was safe.

Chapter Text

SANDOR 15

A full moon had passed since they arrived in the free city of Braavos. Sandor had shed his pious skin, and he still couldn't put a name to what emerged from the molt, but things were different now and so was he. 

You were different before I found you, he recalled Elder Brother telling him once, in his usual tone of condescending wisdom. That seed was planted long ago; a seed does not become a sprout overnight, takes even longer to bear fruit. He had gone on about the hard work one must put into tending a garden, as though he were one, and how important his penitence would be when it came time for harvest. Surely, he hadn't bore this current arrangement in mind when he spoke of sowing and reaping, but nonetheless, the result was the same: Sandor felt closer to something than he’d ever felt in his life . He had no means of describing it. He might have called it happiness.

The days were cold and dark, but there was warmth in his arms when he rose to meet it. The dreams were nothing compared to that. It was something tangible, something real. He spent a good deal of time in the girl’s head now. Much of the time, they were reliving memories or otherwise simply existing in a peaceful place. She liked the Winterfell dreams best. Sandor liked them, too. He knew the castle near as well as the Red Keep by now. He might have showed her Clegane Keep, but he could scarcely remember the place. All he had were bad memories there besides.

Since Sansa’s nightmare, they had taken to sleeping like this. Sandor still had his reservations, but couldn't deny the sense of comfort it seemed to provide them both. He convinced himself it was a necessary evil. A lesser evil. It unnerved him, how natural and not evil it felt. Sandor had never known the sensation of other legs tangled up in his, of a woman’s willing body pressed flush against him. It therefore surprised him, how quickly he’d grown accustomed to it. If there was a garden in his soul, it had been little more than a nest of weeds and brambles. But then she came, uprooted it all. She saw good soil there, and was growing things inside of him he didn’t know were possible.

They had slipped into a routine since arriving in Braavos. Sandor would rise to the sight of her curled up in his arms. They would break their fast and speak with their hands, then they would set about their work for the day. Some days Sandor spent around the Inn, tending the horses and carrying heavy loads and chopping wood. Other days he spent at the docks, careful to keep his face covered as he loaded and unloaded the ships. They would come together again for a midday meal before taking her around the back of the Inn for her sparring lessons. If you could call it that. Truth be told, he spent more of that time laughing than she did learning. It occurred to him that it wasn't fair to expect her to get much closer to poking him; even if he weren't already twice as skilled and thrice as strong, he could still anticipate her too easily. Their bond bled over into waking, it seemed to him. She’d never be a master swordsman, but she took to the fundamentals well enough. 

Some evenings, they would take Stranger out to walk the city. Sandor couldn't keep the girl locked in the Inn at all times; they had quarreled over it bitterly before he relented. “I am going out, with or without you,” she threatened. “If someone recognizes me, so be it. I can't be caged up in here forever.”

So they would explore, at night and with their faces covered against the cold, while she explained to him all the things she learned of the city from her new friend, the Innkeep's daughter. She could name individual shopkeepers just by their descriptions, knew their children's names and what they sold, how they met their wives. She was always hungry for new information, and she absorbed all. They rode by ornate temples and tossed coppers in fountains, and once or twice visited a playhouse to watch the mummers, or an alehouse to lighten their heads and moods.

When they returned to the Inn for supper, she would help with the scrubbing and serving for a while longer before joining him at the fire. He had unofficially claimed this spot in the common room, and his fellow patrons were happy to let him have it. Sandor still didn't approve of the way the girl was being put to work, but it seemed to give her a sense of purpose, and he couldn’t fault her for feeling restless. 

Her little friend would sometimes join them there at the hearth, but Sandor knew he put her ill at ease. She kept a safe distance from him, and any time he glanced in her direction, her eyes happened to dart anywhere else. Sandor had no desire to change her opinion one way or the other; perhaps it was good that she feared him, so that she would think twice before taking advantage of his companion’s softer nature. 

At the end of the day, they would retire to their chamber for sleep. He still grappled with himself in the evenings. It brought him peace and turmoil in equal measure. Sometimes he would lie awake, worrying; there would be no going back from what should happen if he slipped, he knew.

Thankfully, the girl seemed satisfied with this arrangement. If she wasn't, she made no fuss about it. She had been too occupied with this Braavosi festival to dwell on much else, which was all to the better. Would that there could be a festival all the time. Sandor was grateful for the time to himself, to observe without having to participate. He wondered what it would be like once the festival was behind them, though. What she would turn her focus on once she got bored again.

This day marked the first day of the festival she’d been pining for. She and the Innkeeper's daughter had been working on their masks at night by the fire, and she made him one as well. Sandor had no desire to frolic, but he would not have her attend the festivities alone either, so he would don his mask and watch her frolic enough for the both of them, as he had been doing in dreams as she practiced the steps to Braavosi dances. He hadn't agreed to it without a fair amount of argument, however.

They would attend the festival at nighttime, for they must still fulfill their duties during the day. Sandor was content during his time on the docks, helping to unload crates and steer horses. It rained often here, and was bitter cold, but there were plenty of distractions to keep him occupied. He could tell the new arrivals from the residents now, for there were some people he saw every day. The men he worked alongside, to be sure. There were also the same mothers and merchants that traveled the canals each day, the strolling whores and tired fisherfolk bringing in their haul, the men paddling small boats down the canals, and the vagrants begging for coin along them. And an awful black-and-white cat, which always seemed to want to bother him when it wasn’t prowling for scraps. It seemed determined to kill him, for the way it put itself underfoot as he carried heavy loads to and fro. But whenever he bent to pet the damned thing, it hissed and spat and slapped. 

Sandor spent his first wages on some new clothing for the girl, and a little for himself. The girl called Aneesa was too short to share her wardrobe, and he didn't want her to have to. He bought simple fabrics appropriate for their simple identities, brought her dresses in black and brown and white, as well as some embellishments for her to play with. She could make any fabric look pretty just by wearing it, but she was glad to have the practice at stitching with her dulled left hand, as well as the simple pleasure it brought her. 

Sansa wasted no time embellishing the dress she meant to wear to the festival—a white one—with ribbons and colorful thread, and feathers about the shoulders and sleeves. He’d gotten her a dagger as well, a real one. He would next save his coin to buy a sword at last—a good one, not some piece of shit steel—but seeing her bear the fruits of his labor was more satisfying for the time-being. Sandor didn’t savor the thought of carrying one again, if he were honest with himself, but he saw it as a necessity. That, too, was a dangerous crossing. 

There were ribbons in her hair now as he descended the steps into the Common Room, where she was playing at Aneesa's hair and braiding ribbons into hers to match. Those were Northern braids. Was there a soul on this side of the world who would recognize them as such? She had the driftwood hairpiece fixed into it at the crown. She didn’t wear it often. For special occasions, she said, although it was little more than junk wood.

It was growing dark outside, and the girls were all a flutter in their excitement to get in the middle of it all. They weren’t the only ones, it would seem. The common room was packed with masked patrons in their finest clothing, excited chatter buzzing all around him. The city had come alive that morning as he worked, revelers already out in the streets in their masks and children chasing each other in colorful garb. Lanterns were erected all through the canals and the air was polluted with noise. Instruments of all kinds were in play, and there was singing, and shrieking and laughing. There was no reprieve from it. It was chaos. 

When she saw him, Sansa beckoned him over. "We’re almost ready," she beamed, her hands busy in Aneesa's long black hair. "And the rain has stopped, did you see?"

He did see. "For now, anyway," he snorted, taking a seat. 

"There's a great feast in the square, and even free meals for the poor," Aneesa was saying. "Not anything we would want to eat, though. The biggest feasts occur on the first and last days of the festival, wait until you see it!"

Every detail sent Sansa to gushing, although Sandor couldn't understand the bother. He had been to countless feasts and festivals, and she had surely seen enough of them herself. He couldn't remember one that had ever ended as well as it had begun. 

Their masks were laid out on the table before him, the ones Sansa had crafted in addition to the one her friend would wear. The one intended for the Braavosi girl was in the shape of an owl, with feathers blooming out from around the eyes and a small wooden beak over the nose. Plumes of feathers sprouted up from the top of it, embellished with little pearls. The masks Sansa had crafted for them were a matching pair, in the likeness of cats. His was black and white, for the one he complained to her about. Thick black ribbon hung from the bottom, and he knew it was intended to conceal his burns. He was thankful that she had shown some restraint in the design; her mask was leagues more flamboyant. Decorated with colorful red and orange feathers over the top half and pristine white along the bottom, she had also used gold thread to create an intricate swirling pattern over the whole thing. The gold thread shimmered along the bottom as well, acting as a veil to match his.

For lack of anything better to bide his time, Sandor reached out and took the largest mask in his hands, turning it over to observe her handiwork more closely. The base of the thing was molded from some mixture of mud and clay, but it was surprisingly lightweight. The snout of it was longer and larger than the one on hers, and he took a moment to appreciate how she had given it a more fearsome look. It seemed to be snarling, with small stone teeth pressed into it as it dried. It was finely made, just for him, by her own hands. Still, he dreaded having to wear the damn thing at all; it would be a comfort knowing he wouldn’t be recognized or stared at, but he would look a fool still. The fool I am. Misery was best with company, it was said, and all of Braavos was happy to join him this night, and all the nights to come.

“Do you like it?” She asked, watching him closely. He shifted his gaze to her, and nodded. 

“I’ll like it best ten days from now.”

The girl rolled her eyes, putting them back on the other girl’s hair. “You’ll have a nice time,” she said airily, for the hundredth time. “He’s a better dancer than he seems,” she added, speaking to her friend. His scowl at that sent them both to giggling. He had a feeling he would be hearing a lot more of that soon. The sound would have grated at him once, but now it was the noise he liked best, even when it was at his expense. She has cause to laugh. Surely that meant he was doing something right.

Sandor sometimes wondered if he would wake up one day on the Quiet Isle, and learn that this entire thing had been a fever dream. Elder Brother would look down on him with that look of pity while he burned alive from the inside out, gasping her name before the infection finished him.

“Finished!” Sansa said proudly, tying off the girl’s hair. It was much more regal than a girl of her supposed station should be familiar with, but if anyone questioned it, they made no comment. 

“Finally,” he remarked, rising. 

They stepped out into the street, donning the masks. Sansa linked her arm through his own as they swept through the canals. He was glad for that; he hoped to keep her close, and the mask obscured him at the periphery. This whole thing put Sandor on edge. It was too loud, too crowded, too anonymous. Anyone could be hiding here, in plain sight. As we are. It was a perfect climate for revelry, but also for thievery. Or worse. Sandor carried the dagger tonight, well-concealed. Just in case.

Aneesa was ahead of them, leading the way and greeting people she recognized as they passed by. There seemed to be a lot of them, as they stopped countless times on the way and hastily introduced to strangers Sandor would never put to memory. 

When do we find the ale? It was a festival, after all; Sandor did not fancy such events as this, but there were aspects that he did enjoy. Some aspects helped him enjoy others. Eventually they did arrive at a large town square, lined with long tables on one end and filled with masked dancers on the other. The entire square was shrouded in brightly colored canopies to shield it from the elements, lantern light and torch light filling the space with a warm glow despite the Winter chill. 

Both Sandor and Aneesa were more interested in seeing Sansa’s reaction to the sight than the sight itself; it did not disappoint. Her eyes grew wide underneath her painted mask, glowing in the lantern light as though she were a blind man seeing for the first time. Her free hand was at her chest, the beauty of it making her gasp like a proper maiden.

“Oh, how splendid! So much more than I imagined!” 

She was right about that much; she had imagined it dozens of times while they slept, and it was certainly up to standard. To Sandor’s mind, it was a total sensory overload. How do people enjoy this? It was louder than he would have believed, laughs and screams and chatter assaulting him from all sides. The sound of drums rumbled at his feet, and for a fleeting moment he almost felt he was on a battlefield. The scents of food and bodily odor were at war with each other, and there were so many people crammed into the space it made him dizzy. Where did they all come from? He thought he’d shaken loose of his rust around crowds by now, but there were simply too many to keep an eye on, and nowhere to step that didn’t put him in contact with a shoulder or elbow. 

“There are many squares like this one,” their guide was chattering on. “This night, all of Braavos is in the streets. It is less as much on the nights in between,” She admitted, shrugging. “But the last night, you will not believe it. It is even more than this!”

She was spreading her hands out animatedly, and Sansa responded equally as enthusiastically, shouting her delight. She was a great audience, after all. 

“Shall we?” Sansa suggested, stepping forward and bringing him with her. 

“We shan’t,” he snorted, undoing his arm from hers. “Go, dance with your little friend,” he made a shooing motion. “Just don’t leave my sight.”  

She had the grace to not press him on it. “We won’t,” she smiled. 

Before she traded his arm for the Braavosi girl’s, however, she turned back and signed to him. ‘Find me if you change your mind’.

‘In your dreams,’ Sandor returned, setting off in search of ale.

Chapter Text

SANSA 15

For every cup of wine she had enjoyed, it would seem Conor had thrice as much, and her head was already buzzing dreamily. How is he still able to sit upright? 

She had spent many of the nights dancing, practicing the steps with Aneesa before breaking off to trade partners. Braavosi dances were more complex than she was used to, but she found them to be brilliant, especially when observed in motion amidst a large crowd. It transformed the square into a shimmering sea of color. Every now and then they would join Conor to get some refreshment for themselves, but they were soon off again, wasting no time. 

He was content to sit, and Nedra was content to let him. For now. He had been brooding and stiff earlier, so she was surprised to look over now and see him roaring with laughter, the men sitting around him on the benches in similar fits of mirth. She could not see his face behind the mask, but his movements suggested he was free of his usual restraint and discomfort. 

She should need slow his drinking soon, she knew, but it made her smile to see him look so unburdened. It was the tenth and final night of the festival, and true to Aneesa’s promises it was a grand affair. Even her companion was allowing himself a little merriment for once. 

Nedra was enjoying herself thoroughly; everything was a blur of color and painted masks. These ten days passed by so fast. She had been dreaming of merriment such as this, had longed for it. It felt like an answered prayer, although she had never prayed for it. Nedra had never hoped to find such treasures in her new surroundings, yet here they were. She had made a friend, was dancing and feasting, was loved.

I will make a festival just like this one when Winterfell is restored, she thought, unbidden. And it will be celebrated every year, just like this one. The thought made her smile, but it also made her sad. What if Winterfell was never restored? What if she never saw it again at all? What if Braavos was her new home, and this celebration was the last she would ever know? 

Perhaps it was the wine making her sentimental. She felt guilt twist at her happiness, not for the first time; sometimes, it felt like betrayal. How could she dance when her father’s murder still had no justice? How could she sing while her mother and brothers lie dead and broken? How could she sip wine while her sister could be out in the world somewhere, starving? How could she be Nedra, when there were no Starks left to bear the name but her? I do not belong here. There was still a hole inside her, one she may never fill. I will go home, she promised herself. I will. I'll never abandon Winterfell. 

Partners were trading off again, and Nedra found her arm linked with a child this time as she willed herself to snap out of the melancholy. There was nothing she could do for now, and why should she wait in sorrow? It was a familiar reminder. 

With the mask and hood drawn up, she could not say whether her partner was a girl or boy. They were shorter than her, however, and scrawny as a child would be. Scrawnier, she thought sadly. They didn’t smell foul, but their plain and dirty clothing suggested a life on the streets all the same. She was glad, at least, that they could partake in such festivities as an equal, if only for ten days. Her partner was looking up at her, but Nedra could not see into the abnormally small eyeholes in the crudely made wooden mask. 

“Are you having a pleasant time at the festival?” She asked kindly in crude Braavosi, hoping she would be understood. Her command at the language was poor, but she made an attempt with phrases her friend taught her. She put a similar question to all of her partners. It was as good a way as any to open up a conversation. 

They made no reply, other than to clumsily bump into Nedra and trod on her foot. She laughed as the child let out a frustrated huff. “You’re left-handed?” she asked gently, in the common tongue this time, recognizing the folly. The child merely inclined their head and stared, but she knew she had guessed right.

Something about this child felt familiar, as all of them had. All of the ragged little children she spied watching her, through the window at the Inn, or down the lane during the walks with Stranger, or disappearing down an alley once while sparring. Could this possibly be the same child? It seemed absurd, but it still unsettled her. This is only a child, she scolded herself. Not a monster from a nightmare. 

The child lifted a hand and brought it over to her chest, tracing the open neckline where her scar was exposed, for she had discarded her heavy cloak hours past. The audacity of it made her gasp. “That’s rude,” she said sternly, brushing the hand away. 

At that, they broke away from her suddenly, sprinting off into the crowd before she could make a move. Nedra called out for them anyway, but they were gone. Bemused, she wandered back over to Conor, who had apparently learned the words to some Braavosi song, for he was belting it out with the group of men gathered around him at the table, more shouting than singing, in truth. It was a night for strangeness, it seemed. Yet she couldn’t help but laugh as she approached.

He saw her and ceased the singing, though he didn’t seem embarrassed to be caught. The other men carried on as he rose, a little clumsily. 

“Bugger, the wine is strong,” he laughed, straightening his mask and stooping to her eye level. 

“Quantity and quality make a fine match every time,” she remarked.

“I’ve had no more than four.” He held up five fingers. 

She laughed. Four flagons, mayhaps. “I’m pleased to see you enjoying yourself.” Nedra held out an arm. “I do believe you are the only person in this city I haven’t danced with.” He came his full height, and without protest he took her arm, surprising her.

“The last is all that counts,” he said as they walked. He brought her to him as they reached the crowd, and gave her a furtive grin. “Everyone says so.”

She couldn’t remember hearing that being said by anyone before, but was glad of the mask then. He was half-stumbling in his state, but also agreeable; this opportunity could not be squandered. 

She had to remind herself that she was Nedra when Aneesa found them amidst the dancing, smiling. “I think I am going to head back,” she said, breathless. “It is nearly midnight. Father will be waiting up for me, and we always uncloak together.”

“Should you walk alone?” Conor asked over her head, swaying slightly. 

“I walk these streets alone every day, I do not need escorts,” Aneesa laughed. She turned to Nedra, who broke away from her partner long enough to give her an embrace of farewell. “Enjoy the festival," she said. "It will probably outlast us all this night.”

“It’s been wonderful,” Nedra replied earnestly.

Aneesa took her leave, bouncing away through the crowd. Nedra turned back to Conor, who was already pulling her to him again. It was starting to rain, but they scarcely took notice.

"It seems you're the one who will need an escort tonight," she laughed.

He snorted in reply, lifting her exactly when the dance called for it, a sea of masked women and children taking to the sky all at once. He lowered her gently, and she continued to lead them. "Don't you worry after me," he said, squeezing her waist. "I've had my eye on you. If anyone gave you trouble, I would be giving more than a little laldy."

"Imagine my surprise that you didn't anyway," she replied, thinking back on all the strange men she had danced with over the course of these nights.

He laughed. "Bugger that. Better that you have partners to frolic with, so long as I don't have to." 

“You're frolicking now,” Nedra pointed out with a laugh. Conor looked down, as if noticing what they were doing for the first time. 

“It would seem that way,” he agreed. “It would seem you let me drink too much.”

“How dreadful,” she said with feigned despair. It was, in fact, delightful to see him this way. Nedra determined that the drink didn’t spoil her companion’s demeanor, it merely lifted whatever mood he was already in. Anger and sullenness were strangers to him tonight. Dare she say he was even having fun?

They danced for awhile longer, until the rain had soaked them through and Nedra declared her feet could take no more. His lame leg had been bothering him moreso, she could tell, though he never would have said as much. When midnight came, bells tolled throughout the city, and a great roar from the Titan followed, and all the masks went up as one. It took her breath away. These were not her people, but a sense of unity filled her all the same. Happy faces were all around, even Conor’s. He had a clearer vantage over the crowd, standing taller than the rest. But, unburdened of his mask, his eyes were turned down on her. The intensity made her turn away, blushing.

They shared a last cup of wine together before donning their cloaks and setting off for the inn. The streets weren't nearly so full now as they had been, but there was still a smattering of revelers about as they made their way back. 

"I'm pleased you enjoyed yourself a little," Nedra told him, giggling as he stumbled over a cobblestone. He walked with his right arm draped over her shoulders, leaning more heavily than he would normally.

“It’s you I enjoy,” he rasped, bending down to her ear as if to be heard. The sudden shift in tone made her skin prickle up. 

As Nedra, she did not know what to say. It certainly was not Conor who spoke. “And I you, Conor.” She said his name for emphasis. “You’ve indulged me dutifully these long nights. I'm glad you've finally allowed yourself some as well.”

She looked at him, and something about the way he was looking back at her was indecent. She averted her gaze, quickened her pace. Perhaps if we can return in time, the moment won't pass me by.

He was determined to make it difficult, however. He limped more than usual over the cobbled lane, and his weight pressing down on her made walking a tedious affair. His face was so close now, she could feel his voice as he asked, “I’ve never told you, have I?”

It made her go stiff. He was drunk and babbling, she reminded herself, and she did not think he’d remember this fondly later. If at all. 

Still, she heard herself respond: “Told me what?”

The heart that raced in her chest did not belong to Nedra, and for a moment, she abandoned the ruse. Do I need to hear it so badly? He went silent, as if deep in thought. 

“So many things,” he said quietly. 

Before she knew it she was being pulled into the nearest alley, pressed clumsily into the wall. Her chin went up and his face came down, and then he was kissing her. He was kissing her so ardently that, for a moment, she forgot herself completely. Sansa was kissing him too.

It was only a moment, however. It was exactly what she wanted, but the time and place were all wrong. Awareness of her surroundings came back in full force, and she knew it was too reckless to be allowed. Still, she was tempted. Would he ever be this reckless again? Is that a wise thing to wish for? She could barely taste him under all the wine. 

"Sandor," she whispered, half a whine. "Please...not here."

Sandor Clegane pulled back only so much as he needed to to give reply. “There’s nowhere else,” he murmured.

That confounded her. “There’s—”

“There’s nowhere else that matters,” he said over her, impatient.

And then he was kissing her again.

He didn’t entirely trust the dreams, she knew. What she saw as a way to escape reality, he saw as a lie, craven almost. But she too could see the difference; feel the difference. Does he think I would prefer it this way?

Sansa pulled away more decisively this time, though her body screamed in protest. “What if we’re seen?”

Sandor wasn't pleased, that much was plain. “What if we are?” He gestured broadly. “Do you see anyone you recognize here? Anyone who might recognize you, even with these sodding masks?”

"Your senses have truly left you." She was incredulous. Though their only companion in the alley was a cat lazing in a discarded crate, he knew as well as her how quickly things could change. 

“Sense,” he snorted. “None of this makes sense. But I have instincts. And every time I look at you I fight them with everything I have, in the name of sense.” He brought his twisted lips down on hers once more, spoke into them. “Bugger sense.” It made her ache.

However, maddeningly, his lack of caution only heightened hers. After spending so much time in isolation, it had been an exhilarating feeling to be surrounded by people and music and color. Now that the crowds had thinned out and the music had quieted down, she was suddenly feeling very exposed, and couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on her. Was she becoming paranoid as he was? Normally, anyway. She pulled away again. Sandor growled a protest. 

He put a finger to her chin, pushed it skyward. “Only the stars are watching us. Let them see.”

When he came forward to kiss her this time, there was almost a tenderness to it. He pulled her into him, one hand at the small of her back and the other cupping the side of her face. Sansa almost didn’t come back from it. Yet, inevitably, her mind began to work again and once again, the moment was lost to her.

When she pulled away, she gave him a gentle but decisive shove to the chest. She hated how sober she felt now. She wished she could join him in this fleeting moment of madness, wished they could just be two lovers kissing at a festival, wished she could banish the nagging thoughts that were spoiling everything. 

She couldn't, though. “This is folly, Sandor. We should head back. Please.”

“Folly,” he rasped, as if the word brought him back from somewhere. He looked down at himself, then back to her. “Damn me. Too much to drink...I promised you wouldn’t see me like this again, didn’t I? Damn me.”

“None of that,” she chided, hoping to cut his guilt off before it gathered momentum. Sansa’s thoughts traveled back to a time when he did not know about the dreams, and she smiled, almost sadly. “It’s nice sometimes,” she told him. “To be heedless. B—” 

"But not today," came the reply. 

It did not come from Sandor.

Chapter Text

SANDOR 16

All of this was Elder Brother’s fault. He was supposed to lead Sandor down the path of penitence, but instead had abandoned him someplace completely uncharted. It was overgrown and uneven, and the old man had sent Sandor stumbling down it with reckless abandon. Or sick amusement. The old man knew not what he’d done. What he’s enabled. In his stupor he'd abandoned his wits completely, only now making a sharp return. Folly. There wouldn't be time to dwell on it, though.

Sandor and Sansa were looking at each other, locked very briefly in a moment of confusion as to where the new voice had come from. Then came the touch of cold steel at the nape of his neck. It wasn’t Sandor’s first robbery; he came to his full height, lifted his chin defiantly in an effort to communicate that he would not be an easy target. 

Their assailant responded by walking around to his side, tracing a faint red path around his neck until the blade came to rest at his lifeline. They stepped just barely into his periphery, and Sandor strained his eyes to glance sidelong in their direction. The coward was masked, which came as no surprise. They were short for a man. Even drunk as he was, he knew he could overpower them, pull free the dagger he carried. He only had to find the right opening, lest they open his throat in the struggle.

When he looked back to the girl, there was a silent sort of panic in her eyes that reminded him of a deer hearing a branch snap. But Sandor wasn’t afraid. An old thrill was coming over him. It had been some time since he'd been underestimated enough to be on the receiving end of assault.

"Leave him alone!" Sansa was unable to contain herself, breaking the spell of silence that had fallen over the three. “Take whatever you want, and go away!” 

"Shut up, Sansa!"

“Quiet, girl.”

The words were barked at her, but they were barked in unison. They all looked at each other in that briefest of bewildered moments. This attacker knew her name, and it sobered him a great deal as he came alert. It was not a random shakedown as he assumed it to be. It changed things. The thrill vanished in an instant, and fury took its place. The mask he wore over fear.

“Who sends a boy to do a man's work?” He asked roughly.

“No one,” they answered. “And everyone, it would seem.”

“Do you mean to kill me by confounding me with riddles?” he rasped. “Or will you face me like a man?”

“What do you know about being a man?” They taunted. “You never pick on ones your own size.”

“Leave him alone!” Sansa shouted again, as the blade twitched and cut him some more. “You're left-handed. It was you I saw at the festival before. It's me you want, so leave him be and I’ll go with you willingly.”

“They know as well as you, little bird, that I'll die before I allow that.” Sandor said.

“Third time's the victor,” they remarked. 

That struck Sandor as strange. Blinking, his eyes shifted their focus to the blade, which was the more pressing matter. It was a strange weapon for an assassin, even a Braavosi one, and it wasn’t long before Sandor’s eyes widened in sudden recognition. I know that steel. No, it couldn't be. He was filling in the gaps wrong. He blinked again. They're left-handed, too. A coincidence. But the voice…

It had no trace of the Braavosi accent to it. He knew the voice. Had the sound of it fresh in his mind, from the dreams. It was different now, but only so much as one might expect it to be, as she came into maturity. 

I’d turn the world upside down to find her, Sandor recalled a conversation he’d had with Elder Brother, long enough ago that he’d nearly forgotten it. The old man liked to discuss hypotheticals, and it didn’t take long for Sandor to like discussing them too. It was the only time he was permitted to speak on the Isle, and there was something about him that made conversation flow out of him. The sister, too. Keep them safe...take them home. Where they belong.

And why would you do such a thing? Elder Brother wanted to know. Even for the sister who left you to die a slow and agonizing death?

Sandor hadn’t known, either. At the time, he had confessed both to himself and Elder Brother the way he felt for Sansa Stark. It had taken him a bit longer to understand that perhaps he loved the little sister as well, in her own right, albeit in a different way. Perhaps a better way. Admired her, even. She had been correct to hate him, smart to mistrust him. Cruel to abandon him to die, but he’d been cruel as well, and the world was crueler still.

The whole scenario was too much to bear. Sandor threw his head back and laughed. 

It startled them both, causing the blade to prick him in the neck, but he made no notice as the blood trickled out. He was laughing so loudly that it was sure to wake the entire city. Sansa was staring at him in shock and horror, and while it was perfectly reasonable, it only made him laugh harder. Perhaps he hadn't sobered as much as he thought.

"What did I tell you?" He asked between ragged breaths. "Didn't I tell you?" I knew she would find you.

"I don't..." She began. "Please, don't hurt him!" She appealed to the other instead. That renewed his laughter. 

“Fuck me, I am too drunk for this,” he rattled with mirth. 

"Little surprise there," said the assailant, ignoring her sister entirely. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

"Supposed to be, aye," agreed Sandor. “Would be, had you done as you were asked.” She held the blade firm, so it dragged along his skin when he turned to face her, cutting him further around the neck. Sansa was the only one who seemed affected by it, for she alone made any cry of pain. 

Sandor had learned much at the Quiet Isle. One of his most important lessons had been in perspective. What some might see as being left to a painful death, others could see as being given the gift of time. The Gods spared your life when you were put on trial. They spared you again when they sent me to find you on the banks of the Trident. They have a purpose for you, Sandor. 

Sandor had sneered at such a suggestion, then. If the divine was present at that farce trial, it was the Red one that he abhorred, and Sandor told him as much. His only purpose to the Gods was as their plaything, it seemed to him. They took pleasure in his torment, nothing more. Death was the only peace he might ever find, but they wouldn’t allow him to rob them of such entertainment.

In this moment, Sandor wondered if perhaps he did have a grander purpose. Elder Brother had no way of knowing what might happen down this path. He’d taken a leap of faith, and now Sandor was wondering, for the first time, if maybe he wasn’t such a fool after all for having any. After all...how could something such as this be a mere coincidence? There were so many things that had to happen in just the right way, at just the right time, in order to lead them all here. 

Sandor often lamented his early departure from the Quiet Isle as something reckless; selfishly done, and pathetically executed. He didn't believe in fate, but he struggled to find a better word. I was meant to be here.

He spread his arms. "If memory serves, I was denied your mercy. So what are you waiting for?” his voice was mocking. “Finish what you started, wolf bitch. Or did you want to finish my collar first?”

Chapter Text

SANSA 16

Sansa was reeling at what was playing out before her. She was stuck somewhere between absolute terror and bewilderment. They were in danger, and Sandor was laughing. Sansa barely heard what he was saying for the pounding in her ears. And now he was offering himself to be executed right here in the street. What had happened to protecting her to the death? Was it possible he was that drunk?

The intruder obliged his offer to an open chest, lowering their skinny blade to rest over his heart. It was too much. If he was going to do nothing, Sansa would have to act. She cried out, stepping forward and shoving them as hard as she could. She knew better than anyone that size didn't always decide a fight, but they were both decidedly bigger than this person, and outnumbered them besides. 

The swordbearer staggered somewhat, clearly not expecting Sansa to move first, but they quickly regained their composure. Finally, Sandor made a quick move of his own to grab them, but held on to nothing but air as they danced easily out of the way. A water dancer, Sansa observed. They weren't dressed flamboyantly as to be a Bravo, but she recognized the graceful style as described by Aneesa. Would Sandor be a match for it, unarmed and in this state? 

“Go away!” Sansa cried, the only words she could manage, feeling stupid as she yelled them.

“You idiot, he was hurting you!” The stranger barked at her, tearing off the mask they wore. 

Sansa blinked. That voice. That face. Gods, that sword. She hadn't put any of it together. It had made more sense to assume it was an assassin sent to kill her. Sansa blinked again, not sure if what she was seeing could possibly be real. Maybe I’m too drunk, too. She looked different than when they saw each other last. She wasn’t a little girl anymore, as she wasn’t. She’d be six and ten by now . All her features had matured, and there would be no mistaking her for a little boy now, as she once was. If she were cleaned up properly, Sansa thought she’d make a proper lady, even. 

“Arya?” She whispered, astonished.

Sandor laughed again, had to brace himself against the brick wall of the alleyway to keep from stumbling. 

“I'm not called that anymore,” the girl said. She retrained her sword on Sandor. “But I won't let The Hound have his way with you.”

“Arya, he wasn't hurting me,” Sansa pleaded, stepping forward. The girl looked half feral, for the look of abject mistrust in her eyes. She recognized the anger in them, too. Sandor used to wear those eyes. “The Hound is dead.”

Clearly thinking Sansa was touched in the head, Arya rounded on Sandor again. “You've more lives than a cat, it would seem. I should have snuffed you out when I had the chance. This is sick, even for you.”

“You've been watching since we arrived,” Sandor observed, ignoring her. “Following us around. Just a lone pup following the scent of her pack, not an assassin.”

“I wouldn't be so sure about that,” Arya snapped. “I've claimed more lives than you by now, I think.”

His mouth twitched. “Don't be so proud of that, girl. You might end up like me one day.”

She bristled. “I could never be like you.”

Sansa was growing impatient with this. Shouldn't this be a happy occasion? She reached a hand forward to cover her sister's sword hand. She was stone beneath her fingers, and didn't take her eyes off Sandor.

“Please, Arya,” she implored. “I can explain everything. Sandor would never harm me, or you. I know our enemies; he isn't one of them.”

“Stop lying for him! I saw your chest,” Arya gave a sidelong nod to the exposed wound that still had yet to fade fully into a scar. “I've seen him holding you captive ever since you arrived, saw him violating you in the street like some mongrel. You might not see it, but I've seen enough.”

“You're blind, then,” Sansa snapped. “I'm not some kept girl. Sandor came here with me, not the other way around. Put down that damned sword, Arya!” 

The last part came out shrill as a sob rose up her throat. She simply couldn't stand it any longer. Here stood her sister, right in front of her. Not a dream. Alive. She was too overcome with pure dumb emotion to keep trying to appeal to reason, or argue. Sansa threw out a hand and slapped the blade aside, not caring as it cut her across the palm. 

“Get out of the way!” Arya shouted in anger and shock. Sandor shouted something similar, as blood ran down her fingertips.

Sansa stepped in front of Sandor before the blade could train itself on him again. “Trust me, sister,” she pleaded. “Or you’ll have to kill us both.”

“Maybe I should,” she replied darkly. “It might be kinder.”

Sansa felt fear prick at her once more. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’ve come to a dangerous place,” she said. “And someone powerful seeks you out.”

Several names came top of mind. But how would Arya know of any of it? It was Sandor who spoke. “No shit,” he sneered. “Why else would we be here?”

“There’s nowhere you can run, once the price is paid,” she said ominously. 

“What price?” Sansa demanded. “Who pays it?”

To her relief, Arya lowered the blade, though her expression was grim as she slid the wooden mask over it. “Come,” she said. 

She shouldered past them without another word, and they followed as the rain began to pour in earnest. She led them down a series of winding pathways until they reached a small hole in the wall of a house.  It was one of many places she slept, she explained, and never in the same one twice. “So don't get any ideas,” she warned Sandor, still having no trust in his intentions. 

It was a single room, enough space for only a pallet bed and a table with two chairs. But it was private. A place to speak freely. And dry. Arya shuttered the window and lit the sconce on the wall, and then they were all standing in the cramped space staring at each other. No one seemed to know who should speak first. They were all eyeing each other, now that they were alone and in better light. Sansa ultimately broke the silence.

“I can’t believe it’s really you,” she said in an awed voice, taking in the sight of her sister more properly now. Arya’s face was sharp and hard, and her eyes betrayed nothing. “How is this possible? How are you here?”

“I would ask the same,” Arya said. “I thought you were with the Lannisters.” She looked at Sandor. “And I thought you were dead.”

He had taken up residence in a shadowy corner of the room, as if hoping to fade into the background of this reunion. He was still visibly drunk as he shrugged his massive shoulders. “Thought wrong,” he rasped.

“We all have much to explain, it would seem,” Sansa said wearily. It was overwhelming to think about how much would need be done. She didn’t want to talk, didn’t know how to find the words for it just now. She wanted to take her sister in her arms and hug her and kiss her cheeks and never let her go. She wanted to rid her face of the emotionless mask she wore. She wanted to go home together, hand in hand.

She moved forward and took her sister’s face in her hands, and held firm as she tried to flinch away. Fortunately, she didn’t fight too hard, only looking irritated by the contact. “The Gods are good,” she breathed. “Do you feel it too, Arya?”

“Feel what?”

“Hope.”

Arya’s face softened, only for an eyeblink. “Only the God of Death sees to us,” she said bitterly. “And they’re not done with House Stark.”

“Then we will face it together,” said Sansa. 

“You know nothing,” Arya replied.

“I don’t care.” Sansa pulled the small girl into her arms and hugged her tightly. She squirmed against her, but didn’t resort to violence, and she held firm. “I don’t care,” Sansa repeated into her hair. She was crying, she realized. Arya seemed to relent then, as she felt arms come around her waist. 

“I never thought I’d see you again,” she confessed in a whisper. “I never let myself think…”

“Nor did I,” Sansa murmured. “But we’re together again, despite it all. It’s all that matters now.”

Arya pulled away at that. Her expression was serious, but she could see her eyes were shining more than before in the dim light of the room. “It’s not all that matters. What have you done?”

Sansa blinked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You must have done something. The price on your head is enormous. If it’s accepted…”

“Who pays it?” Sandor spoke up from the shadows. 

“I don’t know,” Arya admitted. “And I can’t tell you much of what I do, so there's no use in prying. Only that someone must be desperate to find you, to have turned to the methods they have.”

“What do you mean, if it’s accepted?” Sansa asked, puzzled. “It hasn’t been?”

“What have you done?” Arya demanded.

“Queen Cersei believes I killed Joffrey,” Sansa admitted tentatively. Then, hastily she said, “But I didn’t. I swear it.”

“The Crown never had the gold, and the capital is destroyed besides,” Arya snapped. “What else?”

“There is nothing else,” Sandor growled. “What is this, girl? Are you putting your own flesh and blood on trial now?”

Arya turned on him then. “For all the good a trial does? No. But someone will die in this.” She returned her gaze on Sansa. “I need to know if I’m sparing the right one.”

Sansa was dumbstruck. None of it made sense. “Have you been sent to kill me?” she asked quietly.

“Tell me what you’ve done,” She repeated.

She could see in her sister’s eyes that she wasn’t the innocent little girl she’d once known. If I know her at all, anymore. She was a killer now. It was the price she’d paid to survive.

“I know who sends the daggers. I’ve expected them.” He drew his origins from Braavos. She should have known he would have some connections still to this place, even if he didn’t have the means to chase her here himself. He certainly had the gold. “My only crime is my resemblance to our mother. If you’re going to kill me, I hope it bankrupts him at least. I’ll gladly make that trade.”

Arya was staring at her. Reading her for lies. “Speak the name.”

“Petyr Baelish.”

Chapter Text

SANDOR 17

The girl was a proper woman now, Sandor observed. Well, not proper. She looked every bit a Stark, and the sisters looked more related than ever with Sansa's hair dyed black as it was, but she had none of the elder’s grace or beauty. She took her father’s looks, sharp and stern and brooding. He mused at how well she'd fared on her own all this time, all things considered. She was skinny, but not malnourished. Dirty about the face, but not stinking like a vagrant. She'd been watching them since the moment they stepped foot off that ship, he had realized. Had she been in the right place at the right time? Or had she known they were coming? None of it made sense.

The girls were seated across from each other now. Sansa was recounting the years that passed since their paths took different directions, and how Petyr Baelish presided over it all. Much of it passed in a blur to Sandor’s hearing, try as he might to listen. Of all the nights to get into my cups, he chided himself. His mind repeatedly wandered back to that alleyway, filling him with a sense of yearning and shame in equal measure. He’d been a mere spectator over the ten days of the festival, and he would have done well to keep it that way. Somehow, the festive spirit had gotten into him today. The noise of it all had felt a little less chaotic, the crowd a little less claustrophobic. Even the wine had tasted sweeter. And then some Braavosi men started up a drinking game next to him, pulled him into it. One cup turned to three, then five, then he lost count. And then he was kissing her. And then the sister turned up.

“And then I found the Quiet Isle,” Sansa was saying now. “It’s where I found Sandor.”

“What is the Quiet Isle?” Arya asked.

“A refuge, of sorts,” Sansa explained. “The men who live there are penitents. They take vows of silence in service to the Seven. The Elder Brother is a Septon and a healer, and it was he who found Sandor after you parted ways, saved his life. It’s where he remained, until now.”

Arya glanced over at him. “You took a vow of silence?” 

As if to illustrate the point, Sandor made no reply but to sneer at her. She snorted. “They should have added a vow of chastity. Maybe then The Hound wouldn’t presume to run off and make you his whore.”

Sansa flinched at that remark as if struck, but didn't let it fluster her. “Sandor is a good man, and I trust him completely. He’s with me because I wished it, not as his captive.”

“Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe,” replied the sister with a stubborn petulance. “As a former captive myself.”

“Sandor has told me of the time you spent traveling together,” she said gently. More than told, in truth, but she didn’t burden the girl with those details. “Surely even you know, deep down, it wasn't just for gold that he took you.”

Arya met his eyes again. Sarcastically she said, “Tell me, then. What was your noble reason for kidnapping me?”

“There was nothing noble in it,” Sandor said dismissively. “But you were as good as dead on your own in those woods.”

“You were saving me? That's what you call it?” Arya laughed without humor. “That truly is delusional.”

“I wanted you safe,” Sandor clarified. 

“You wanted the gold,” she snapped.

“Aye, it would have been a fine reward,” he agreed. “I wanted to take you home and claim it.”

“Yet you turned craven when the opportunity arose.”

“And I’d do it again,” he growled. “Do you think your mother would have praised my bravery for bringing you to her, only to watch you die with the rest?”

Arya scowled. “So I should be grateful, then?”

“Keep your gratitude, it makes no difference to me. I make no claim to doing you any favors. But if you think we could have stormed in there and saved anyone, you’re the one who is delusional.”

The memory still pained the girl greatly, try as she might to hide it behind her scowl. “I hated you," she said, hatefully. "But I thought you were stronger than anyone, and fearless. I thought, if anyone could save them…but you were no different than any other man, in the end. I realized that on the Trident. All men bleed, and die. Even the mighty Hound.”

True as it was, some part of him was wounded to hear it. “That’s right,” he said. “So you can grudge me for it all you like, I did what I could. Better a grudge than a grave.”

She didn’t seem to have a retort for that, for she turned back to Sansa. “I thought you must have been corrupted, by the Lannisters or by the Hound or both. To have such a bounty put on you. But if all you’ve said is true…” she chewed her lip. “I wasn’t going to intervene, not even for a Stark. Not if it was just. I put aside my name long ago. Tried…but ever since I saw you come off that ship, it’s been hard.”

Sansa smiled sadly. “I thought I might never take my name again, either. Until I, too, was confronted with someone from my past.” She gazed over at Sandor. “Arya, who are these assassins? How are you involved with them?”

“I can’t tell you any of that,” the girl said. “But the price will not be accepted, you can take my word on that.”

“Can we?” Sandor blurted, unable to contain the anger he felt. “From a girl who would murder her own kin? I had a brother who did deserve it, and even I couldn’t bring myself so low. Perhaps you didn’t end up like me. You ended up worse.”

Arya shot out of her seat, crossed the two paces it took to reach him, and slapped him. If his face wasn’t half numb from all the wine, it might have stung more. Even so, he did make a cry of surprise. “You should have killed him!” she shouted. “It would have spared a lot of lives if you did. I can see the forest for the trees, and I’m not a craven like you.”

It was remarkable, the way she sounded exactly like the voice in his head. He bent his face down to sneer into hers. “The saying is easier than the doing. How long has this bounty been up for consideration, I wonder? Probably at least as long as we’ve been around. You’ve been stalling, haven’t you? You didn’t have the belly for it, either.”

Her eyes burned hatefully. “You’re the one who stalls. I’ve seen you linger in front of the smith a dozen times now, never going in. You fancy yourself my sister’s protector, but what means do you have of that? You’d have watched her die long before now, were it not for me. You should go back to your little island and be quiet. You’re no use to anyone if you’re not willing to fight.”

Sandor opened his mouth to reply, but Sansa was on her feet now and shouting over them. “Enough of this!” She pressed her sister at the shoulder to make some space between them. “Put whatever it is behind you and be done with this squabbling. We’re all on the same side, Arya, can’t you see that by now?”

“I can see perfectly,” she snapped. “He wants to keep you here for himself, not take you home.”

That made Sansa laugh. “How many times do I need to say it? I’m a woman grown, and I chose all of this for myself. You can stop worrying after it, touching as it might be. We will go home, I’m more sure of it now than ever. But you don’t know what it’s like. The snows in the West are over all our heads now, and Winterfell is still out of our reach besides. Even with a sword and all his fighting strength, Sandor is but one man against an army. There’s no telling how long it will take, but until such an opportunity presents itself, I see no reason to live every day fearfully looking over my shoulder.”

“You could stand to be a little more cautious, at least,” Arya replied. 

“I’m already as cautious as I can stand,” said Sansa. “I almost never leave that Inn, and when I do I’m covered head to heel. I spend much of my days memorizing the faces and names around me. What else would you have me do?”

“You should move around more,” Arya suggested, as though it were obvious. “You’re easy to spy on, sitting in one place. And you always venture out at the same time, at the same interval every few days. You have a predictable routine. And you’ve formed attachments; that friend of yours at the Inn. I doubt it would take much to bribe her into poisoning your supper one night. It’s how I’d do it.”

Sandor was both impressed and disquieted by the observations. But Sansa only put her nose up. “Aneesa would never do that. And I like it there. Moving around would only expose us more, not less. If the daggers come, I would rather die with some shred of happiness to my name than endlessly scurrying around.”

“You’re a fool, then,” said Arya. “Both of you.”

“So be it,” Sansa shrugged. “Arya, come stay with us. We’ll be stronger together.”

“No,” she said at once. “My eyes are sharper at a distance. But I’m never far.”

No amount of argument made the girl budge. Sandor accepted it better than Sansa did. However she managed it, Arya was capable of her own survival, that was clear enough. And she’s a killer now. Perhaps she was right about him. Maybe that part of him had died on the Trident too. Or before that. Maybe it was true that he lost his belly for fighting after the Blackwater. But it wasn’t the battle, or the fire that had done it. A girl, and a song.  

When the time came for them to part ways, Sandor couldn’t say what ungodly hour it must have been. His head still swam from the wine, but he was sobered enough, and his leg ached mutinously. 

“Be seeing you, wolf girl,” he said. Loath as he was to leave her, the prospect of sleep was winning out just now.

“Be watching you, dog,” she warned. 

“I hope you will,” Sansa said. She went up on her toes and kissed Sandor’s ruined side.

Arya made a face. “Your taste in men is atrocious.”

That made her laugh. “We never agreed on anything before. I don't see a reason why we should start now.”

Chapter Text

SANSA 17

As they were leaving the dwelling, Arya called for Sansa to stay back. 

“I won’t be stopping by to socialize,” Arya said quietly. “But if you need me…” she cast a glance over her shoulder to Sandor, the implication clear as she lowered her voice so low he couldn’t hear, slipping something smooth and cold into Sansa’s palm. “Offer this to the skinny one near the docks. You know the one. And say the name.”

With that, she dipped away down an alley that led somewhere unknown. Sansa opened her hand to reveal a large silver coin, blooded from the cut in her palm. Valar Morghulis, it read. 

Sansa felt half dazed, half giddy about all that had transpired. The details seemed irrelevant to the fact that her sister was alive. It was enough.

“Did she give you instructions on how to escape my clutches?” Sandor asked when she rejoined him, and they continued on their way.

“In a sense,” she confirmed. “So you’d do well to be on your best behavior.” 

She’d meant it as a jape, but Sandor grew serious then, and halted her with a touch to the shoulder. “Earlier…” he searched for how to articulate himself. “It was wrong, what I did. To persist in it. To drink so damned much.”

“Arya was the only one you frightened, it seems,” Sansa teased. “Perhaps it’s her you should make an apology to.” 

“I’m sorry, anyway,” he waved a hand to dismiss her attempt at levity. “To you.”

“I hate that she did that,” Sansa traced the thin cut Needle had made about his neck. “I’ll dress it when we get inside.”

They continued onwards in silence until they entered the room they shared at the Inn. Sansa reflected on the night as she found something to clean and bandage Sandor’s neck with. Today had gone so perfectly, she couldn’t help but wonder what horrors awaited her now. The Gods took as much as they gave, it seemed to her, and they surely couldn’t abide the imbalance long. I should make the most of it, while it lasts. 

Sandor sat for her dutifully as she patched him up, making no arguments besides calling it unnecessary. When she was done, she let a hand linger at the nape. 

“I liked it,” she said. “Earlier. I could have kissed you all night in that alleyway, under different circumstances.” She flushed as he stared up at her. 

“That’s enough.” He made to rise, but Sansa moved her hand firmly to a shoulder, pressed it down. 

“It isn’t,” she told him. She didn’t know what came over her. “If we both died tomorrow, would it have been enough?”

“It would have to be,” he replied with irritating pragmatism. 

“Well, it wouldn’t be for me,” She said sharply. I was meant to be here, she thought, not for the first time that night. I was meant to be here, meant to find her. I was meant to be here with him. To be this close. Sansa had never felt closer to him than she did now, had never felt so sure that none of it was wrong. She lowered herself into his lap. Sandor stiffened all over.

“You said you wouldn’t ask for more,” he reminded her, his expression stern. “You promised.”

“You crossed the line first,” Sansa pointed out. “Moved it.” He scowled.

“I apologized for that.”

“I didn’t forgive you.” Sansa covered his mouth with hers, insistent and audacious as she wrapped her arms around his neck in the hopes that he wouldn't push her away. To her delight, Sandor’s instincts overtook his sense once more. His hands rose up her back, giving her a shiver as his tongue found hers. Then he was turning her in his lap so that she was fully straddling him in the seat before the dimly-lit hearth. They groaned together.

She had wildfire in her belly. Sansa kissed him so desperately it made her lips go numb. The air itself seemed to hang thick and tangible around them, making it hard to breathe. He had been weary and tired before, but now he was fully alert, matching her passion. She couldn’t say how long they kissed like this, but it was ravenous, untamed. Her nails dug a little deeper, her teeth raked a little sharper over his neck. Sansa drank the wine still on his tongue, drank it deep, until he tasted of himself again. She realized they were moving rhythmically against each other, how firm his lap had grown to sit upon. He realized it too. Chairlegs scraped against stone and Sandor stood, taking her with him as if she weighed nothing at all, never taking his mouth off hers. 

He lowered her into the bed and was on top of her now, kissing and humming and moving to a beat of their own making. She felt incapable of forming a coherent thought; she wanted him. It was all she could muster. I want him. She tugged the hem of his tunic upward, and Sandor obliged without a word, reaching up to the back of his neck and pulling it the rest of the way off. When he turned back to her, Sansa saw eyes darkened with lust. 

“Please,” he rasped. “Tell me to stop.” 

“Don’t you dare.”

He was kissing her again, hard, as if he must seize this moment before it was ripped from him. She felt a draft run up her skirts, a hot rough hand against her thigh. 

“Tell me to stop,” he repeated.

“Don’t,” she breathed. The small panic had returned, in truth, but it was won out by the ache. She’d never gotten farther than this, didn’t know what came next. But she’d never felt this willing to find out.

Perhaps he has the small panic as well. She noticed the way his hands trembled over her skin, as they traveled up, smoothing over her abdomen before starting work at her smallclothes. She was shaking too. But I'm not afraid. When the hand found her womanhood, he cursed. 

“Is something wrong?” She asked, feeling suddenly vulnerable under his touch. Sandor slid a finger over her sex, made a rumbling sound in his chest. 

“You're wet, is all,” he rasped. “So fucking wet.”

“Is that bad?”

“No, Little Bird,” he murmured, half a laugh. “It's the sweetest thing there is. Honest, too. Do you like that?”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly. Whatever he was doing with his hands, she didn't want it to stop. It had her heart hammering in her loins. 

Sandor lowered his head and kissed her gingerly. Everything about him had gone gentle, even his voice. It was as if he were soothing a frightened animal. Though she was no such thing, it put her at ease all the same.  

“Have you ever been kissed here?” He asked, slipping a digit inside. Sansa let out a moan.

“No,” she whimpered.

He pulled away, laughed at the gasp of surprise that came out of her when her skirts went up. “Don’t tell me you’re going demure on me now.”

Despite how far beyond the point of return she was willing to go, being so exposed still brought back old fears. The small panic was a larger panic now; she was alone up here, and only shrewd old Septons had shared such a vantage point. She hadn't expected this. Still, she was determined to see it through. I cannot be afraid.

“Do it,” she demanded.

Huge hands slid up her thighs as he bowed his head between them. Sansa had her head craned forward to watch, but when he made contact she sunk back into the pillows. The panic turned to pleasure. She took a handful of long black hair and held it in a savage grip; he didn't seem to mind the pain, if she inflicted any. 

“Sandor,” she whined. 

He responded with fervor, kissing her so deeply it almost made her sob. She could feel something building inside her, threatening to burst free, seizing every muscle in her body and pulling it taut. 

“That's—” she stammered, but the rest died in her throat. She was half-shouting as the wave swallowed her up. She'd never felt anything like it before; there was nothing else like it. It was pure euphoria. It was bliss.

And then, just as suddenly, it was gone. The area was too sensitive to touch now, making her twitch and squirm and push him away. Sandor shamelessly wiped his face with her skirts and returned to her, pulling her close. 

“You sing prettily,” he told her. She felt her face burn. There was nothing pretty about the noises she’d made. 

Then he was kissing her again, and she felt her insecurities melting away like Summer snow. Her blood was too hot for that. She ran her hands from chest to navel, found his waist, set to work at the fastenings. He caught her wrist.

“That's enough,” he said into her lips. "There's no need to keep going."

“I want to.” So do you. She could feel it for a certainty pressed against her, even as he hesitated over his words.

“I don't want to hurt you.”

Sansa flushed. Why did that excite her? “I don’t care.”

“You aren’t dying tomorrow. You’ll have to live with it for a long time yet.”

“Shut up, Sandor,” Sansa let out a laugh, pulling him forward by the waist, stirring him to action once more.

The next moments were a blur of discarded clothing and kissing and fumbling hands. It was nearly fully dark in the room now, the hearthfire reduced to embers. In the dark, I am the Knight of Flowers, Tyrion had once said. But it wasn't true then, and it wasn't true now. He still felt like Sandor, and there was no one else she would rather him be. She felt him arrive at her entrance. She shuddered. He was cursing again.

He didn’t offer to stop this time, yet there was a long space of stillness where Sansa knew he was expecting her to ask him to. For all his proclamations about losing control, he was exerting a great deal of it now. But she wasn’t stupid, even in her state of recklessness. She knew it was no small risk she took. Men fought and died in wars for what she was offering to Sandor. It made and broke alliances. It shaped kingdoms. How powerful it felt, then, to deprive anyone else of ever having it.

It was hers to give, not his to take. She sat up. Wordlessly, she took him by the shoulders to move him off her, and he moved easily despite being made of stone. She heard him sigh, from relief or disappointment or both as he fell to lay on his back. Whatever he felt, it was short lived. She swung herself overtop him, and even in the darkness she saw the white of his eyes as they widened. He made a strangled sound, perhaps a word, but it was incoherent if so. Sansa bent down to kiss him again, felt how rigid he'd gone. He’s the one who is afraid. It made her brave.

“I’ll stop if you wish,” she whispered. “Just don’t wish it on my account.”

Sansa took him by the wrists and pulled him with her as she rose. She pressed his hands against her chest and moved against him without any friction at all. She saw his eyes slide closed. “I’ll burn in all seven Hells for this,” he groaned. It wasn’t a refusal.

“I’ll burn with you gladly, then.”

She reached down and found his manhood, took it in her hand. Sandor sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth as she lowered herself tentatively over it.

It was an odd sensation at first, and a little awkward to adjust to. She was concentrating so hard that she forgot about the pleasures of it; moving slowly at first, not taking the full length of him, going deeper a bit at a time until she felt the resistance that was surely her maidenhead. The cause of all her troubles. The object of so many greedy hands clawing at her. She would finally be free of it. 

Sansa took a breath and closed her eyes, steeling herself. Just do it, and do it quickly. There were no voices echoing in her mind but her own now, no inner council to guide or scold her. There's no one else in the world but for us. She let her weight down. She heard it break, felt the sharp sting as it did. The smallest gasp escaped her, and Sandor’s grip tightened like a vice. Just like that, it was done. It seemed almost a disappointment; she’d expected it to hurt more. I’ve felt much worse pain than this. There were no dramatics, no sobbing or shouting. It was pressure more than it was pain. 

She tried moving, and found it came much more easily. She then brought herself down on him fully, heard him gasp her name. It wasn’t entirely pleasant, she had to admit, but not unpleasant either. The first time was hardest for every woman, she knew, as the pain grew stronger. Still, she expected it to be worse. She moved her hips back and forth, felt the stiffness inside her more fully. She didn’t know how a woman was supposed to move. Myranda called it riding, but she never explained how it worked, and it was never Sansa’s strong suit. She tried quickening her pace, and the soreness intensified with it. She slowed again, and felt hands slide up her hips.

She looked at Sandor, momentarily having forgotten him in her explorations. He was watching her with incredible intensity. He’s holding back, she could see. He'd never looked so focused on anything before, his brow tight and deeply creased. She watched his face now as he guided her, slowly, up and down. The scent of blood and sweat perfumed the air, filled her lungs, and there were two different aches in her loins warring for dominance. She felt a profound connection to him in that moment; despite the pain and discomfort and sheer temerity of it all, she had the sense that this was where he belonged. Inside of me, mind and body. One flesh, one heart, one soul.

A thumb at her cheek brought her back. “Are you all right?” 

Sansa realized she was crying. She smiled. Kissed his brow, felt it soften. “I love you, Sandor.”

She heard him make an incomprehensible sound again, and with a sudden movement Sandor took her in an arm and flipped her over so that she was on her back. His breath was hot against her neck as he hastily resumed his place inside her. She moaned. It felt different like this. It felt good. Her head went empty again. He moved in and out slowly, carefully. He wasn’t giving all of himself, and for the time-being Sansa was grateful for it. The area was tender now, but the sensation was like no other. 

She found his hips as he had done, and guided him until she found a pace she liked. Once she felt accustomed, she pulled him forward so that he would fill her completely again. Momentarily, she forgot the pain. She had found the pleasure again. He felt it too. Every thrust had them gasping now, and with every one he touched a place inside her that was almost unbearable, for the jolt it sent through her. She urged him on faster, free of all restraint, so that he would touch it more, again and again and again, until suddenly that feeling overtook her entire body and she tightened up like a bowstring, clawing at him, all but howling as it crashed over her for the second time.

It was over soon after that. Sandor made an unseemly sound, then made a quick move out and away from her. She knew what it meant. Despite how languid she felt, she sat up to meet him. He was a hulking silhouette at the foot of the bed. She didn’t know how someone could look so imposing and so vulnerable at the same time. 

“Sansa,” he said so quietly she almost couldn’t hear. But she could tell he wept. “I love you. I always have.”

Chapter Text

SANDOR 18

Braavos wasn’t an ideal place to live, he had to admit. Stranger certainly misliked it dearly. There were no forests here, no grassy paddocks to run free in. It was bitter cold, windy and foggy and raining near every day. It was Winter, after all. What Braavos did have in mass quantities was salt, and the snows were no match for it. It crunched underfoot everywhere they went. That much was mercy. Summer had lasted more than a decade. Sandor wondered if what they said was true, if Winter would last just as long. 

A part of him hoped so. If he was to wait out the Winter here, with her, he was content to live out this delusion forever, in this gloomy place, and never face the disapproving looks and lectures that were sure to come. They had whispered relentlessly in his ear, but he was learning to shut them out.

The weeks that passed since the Uncloaking festival had taken a turn. Sandor had spent a period of time in brooding, that first time. He toiled over his failure to maintain control, for soiling her, dishonoring her. Hurting her. Possibly putting a bastard in her. The rightful solution, under normal circumstances, would be to marry her. That was an even crueler jape than fucking her. 

It had taken time for his walls to come down entirely, for the guilt to give up chase. After the first time, he’d told himself it was a one-time fit of madness, brought on by the many factors of a day that got the blood too hot. Never again, he swore to himself. His attempt at apology, rehearsed all day, had been silenced forcefully. And then he was inside her again. Try as he might to punish himself for what he’d done, he couldn’t bring himself to stop repeating it. Over and over. An addict with an endless supply; she was addicted too, it would seem.

Sometimes he had to face himself in the mirror just to remind himself he was still monstrously ugly. The way she looked at him, one might think he was the Knight of Flowers. The corner of his lips twisted by burns didn’t disgust her, his half-crippled leg didn’t weaken him in her eyes. If he was delusional, she was twice as much. 

The sister made herself scarce, at first. Appearing to them every now and again just to let them know she was watching, but never approaching. A wild wolf with no trust for humans. Sansa had figured out that she could connect to more than just Sandor in dreams, that her pursuer from before hadn’t been pursuing her at all, but was only a stray she’d swept up by accident. He wondered what else this strange power was capable of. It meant, however, that the dreams couldn’t be trusted as a refuge of solitude anymore, if ever they had been. Their room in the Green Eel would take its place, and while sleeping Sansa would pay visits to her sister, search for a way to reach her in waking.

Sandor didn’t approve of the subterfuge at first, yet he conceded it was only fair, for how she spied on them by day. They hadn’t learned much of the girl’s life. Arya dreamed often of being a wolf, stalking through the woods with a great pack around her. Other times she dreamt of people neither of them knew, doing unspeakable things. A blind girl, a whore, a skinny vagrant at the docks. She never seemed to dream up her own experiences.

Sometimes, Sansa would pull her into her own dreams. It clearly unsettled the girl, but Sansa hoped to build her trust this way–subconsciously. Sansa reasoned that her sister would never be convinced by anyone but herself; through the dreams, she would think she came around on her own. She wanted Arya to come to trust Sandor as she did, and he played his part dutifully. He showed her what transpired after she rode off on that horse, and the man he was still trying to become. 

Finally, the day came that their efforts bore fruit. Sandor was sparring with Sansa out back of the Green Eel, as they did most days. She had made great improvement, and he trusted her with live steel now. She still trained with wood most of the time, but he wanted her to be accustomed to the weight of it. He would train her without any weapons at all, too, sometimes. Those lessons proved less productive, however.

“You’re teaching her wrong,” called the spectator. Sandor misliked how easily she snuck up on them. Was he losing his touch?

He turned to the girl. “Is that so?”

She crossed her arms haughtily over her chest. “You’re teaching her as if she’s a man your size. According to your strengths, not hers.”

“You’ve learned a thing or two about how to swing that thing now, have you?” He inclined his head at the skinny blade at her hip. “By all means, show me. Come give me a try, wolf girl.” 

She was happy to oblige, hopping over the fence and drawing her steel. Sandor felt an old excitement ignite in him; he had nothing to defend himself with, but he stepped swiftly out of her path as she came at him. She spun gracefully and thrust the blade at his head, and Sandor ducked away from it. She danced circles around him, using his size and leg against him, forcing him to exhaust himself. She brought the blade forward again, and Sandor whirled, coming around so he was behind her now, and hooked an arm around her neck. With his other arm he caught her sword arm in an iron grip. Sansa cried out not to hurt her, as if he would.

“My strengths are what a girl needs to understand,” he told her in a low voice. “If she’s ever to overcome them.”

“You’d be dead, not having accounted for mine,” Arya replied. Sandor felt the point of a dagger, concealed until now, press against the soft tissue under his jaw. He grinned.

“Very good.” He released his hold on her. “But how would you fare without any tricks up your sleeve?”

Arya turned to face him, and with a look of sheer insolence she cast her steel to the ground. “I invite you to find out, Hound.”

It was absurd. She was a third his size. A skinny little thing; he could break her like a twig. But he went at her anyway, lurching forward despite the protest in his leg. She danced easily out of his path, and he spun to face her once more. 

“Are you going to fight me, or do I frighten you too much?” Sandor taunted.

“You may fight me,” Arya called back. “When you can catch me.”

She was quick as a snake, and about as slippery too. Any time Sandor came close to grappling her, she slid easily away, danced them in dizzying circles. He hesitated to try landing blows on her, in case one did make contact. He didn’t want to hurt her, and she took advantage of his restraint. 

“Come, Hound. Have you fully lost your belly for fighting?” She skipped away from him once more. “Try to hit me.”

Sandor growled, and disregarding the pain that came with it he charged at the girl. She made to leap out of the way, but he anticipated her movements this time. He halted on the spot, and leapt with her. He saw the look of surprise on her face, not having expected him capable of being spry enough to follow, and before she could make another leap out of his reach he threw out both arms and shoved the girl bodily to the ground. The air went out of her as she landed hard on her back, and she glared up at him as he came to stand over her, casting her in shadow.

“You’re damn hard to catch,” Sandor told her. “But you’d still die under my boot, in the end.”

“It’s my boot you should watch for.”

She thrust a foot upward and struck him between the legs. Hard. The pain was instant, and Sandor sank to his knees, gasping and seeing stars. He could hear the girls shouting at each other over the ringing in his ears.

“Arya! That was poorly done!”

“All’s fair in a fight!” 

“You should have yielded!”

“He should have kept his guard!”

“You lost!”

“I’m not the one in the dirt, am I?” She was laughing now. “Men are easy to bring low. If they’re not stampeding forward like an Aurochs, they’re gloating before they’ve won.”

Sandor’s vision was clearing again, could see the girl was on her feet and facing her sister. He took one of her ankles and yanked it from under her, sending her collapsing down on her arse. It was his turn to laugh, though it was strained.

“Now we’re both in the dirt, punished for our hubris.” He looked up at Sansa, whose hands were on her hips, her expression exasperated.

“Are you two quite done?”

Sandor caught Arya’s eye then, and for the briefest of moments he thought he saw something that didn’t resemble scorn. “That depends. Did you learn anything, my lady?”

“Only that I’m surrounded by stubborn fools,” she replied sharply, though her face began to betray her. “Are you all right?”

“Never better,” Sandor brushed himself off as he got to his feet. The girl did the same. His groin would be sore for good while yet, in truth, and there was no hiding the grimace that arrested his features when he made to walk. But it earned a laugh from the little wolf, and it blunted the blow to his pride. 

From that day forward, the wolf girl began to join in on their sparring sessions, and Sandor would spectate more often than not while the sisters became reacquainted. Slowly, steadily, she eased into more aspects of their day. Sometimes she would be at the stables when Sandor came to tend Stranger, and sometimes she was at the docks, would pester him with questions as he worked. She wanted to know if her dreams about him had any basis in reality, he knew. He was happy to confirm it, but careful to make her feel as though she were prying it from him. Once or twice, she even came into the Inn and let them feed her. She still kept guard over her secrets, demanding answers but never giving any of her own. When she didn’t think he noticed, Sandor sometimes spied a haunted look about her. He wondered what horrors she could have endured, and if she might ever fully escape them, or if she'd ever come to trust them enough to share them.

For now, it was enough that she was here. In the flesh, in his sight. Two sisters, who couldn’t be more different, yet so much the same as well. He was a dog running with wolves, yet it came closer than he’d ever felt to having a pack of his own.

On the docks, Sandor collected rumors from the West. Much of it was unbelievable, but he’d become much more open minded in recent memory. The stories about King’s Landing remained unchanged. Sandor was starting to believe them. 

More information poured in from across the sea. Notable deaths, but also notable absences. No word of Petyr Baelish, who Sandor kept his ears strained for most of all. The Dragon Queen had taken up with The Imp, it seemed, and a Dragon King had appeared from nowhere, supposedly the babe Aegon, alive after all and squirreled away all these years. Sansa had told him as much. He’d taken up with Dorne in her absence. The boy didn’t have real dragons, however, and he burned with the rest. It was said that the situation in the North had grown dire, with the Night's Watch begging for help in every corner of the realm. Winterfell had belonged to the Boltons for some time, and the word was that Arya was wed to the lord who stole it, and had whelped a child for him. That amused Sandor a great deal, knowing the lie of it. Sansa not so much. 

The news he was hearing today put Sandor in a conflict with himself. If word coming off the docks today was true, the Boltons had lost their grip on Winterfell. Stannis Baratheon smashed their army, pushed the Freys back to the Twins with tails between legs. Stannis and his Red Witch. The King Who Cared, they called him. Sandor had no high view of Stannis, and doubted it was for any great sentiment that he answered the call from the North. He was not a man of caring. But he did have honor, in his way. 

Sandor didn’t know how to relay the information to Sansa. He typically kept her informed on all he heard, whether he believed it or not. But, gods be damned, he already knew what came next if he told her.

She’d want to go home. 

They’d been preparing for it, of course. It was always the goal. He always knew this was temporary, and was careful to never grow too comfortable. Yet you have. You damned stupid fool, you have.

Sandor had saved enough coin for plate and steel, but heretofore had stalled in acquiring any. He sharply rejected examining it further whenever his mind landed on it. We cross the bridges before us. He found himself standing at one now, far sooner than he would have liked, and the prospect of crossing terrorized him.

Returning to Westeros was a bitter drink to swallow. There would probably be fighting, he would probably die. Who would become her captor then? An image of The Imp pulling Sansa onto a dragon’s back as he burned alive came to mind. She would insist on the risk. It was her bloody home. He could hear her already. Stannis would want a Stark to hold Winterfell. He would be our ally. Sandor doubted it would be so easy as that. There was no love lost between him and Ned Stark, to be certain. Yet he couldn’t deny that Stannis would likely be their best chance, as far as reclamation went. He didn’t believe Stannis would want Winterfell for himself, cold and hard as he might be. Couldn’t deny the timing was right in every way but for his own selfish desires. 

The bothersome black cat was watching him from its usual perch upon the pier post. It hadn't swatted him in some time, yet he hadn't tried to pet it either. He stared back at it, and had the ridiculous thought that he'd miss seeing it around. He would miss everything about this place. Even the imperfections, but the perfections most of all.

When Sandor returned to the Inn that evening, he was resolved to tell her. He would put it all aside, take her home. Lose her in the process, in the ways he never deserved to have her in the first place, and be manful about it. It was always the plan. Stannis had only expedited it by a great deal. The bastard.

When he got there, however, he found Sansa was already joined by two companions in the common room, and neither of them were Arya. He didn’t know how he missed their arrival, perhaps too distracted by his own thoughts. Perhaps because they looked so different than when he last saw them. Perhaps because they had arrived a week ago, and only just now found their mark.

Regardless, they had gotten past him, found Sansa with maddeningly little effort. The look on her face when she spied him ducking into the Green Eel was all the confirmation he needed, to know that their time here had indeed reached its bitter end.

Chapter Text

SANSA 18

The day had begun completely ordinarily. Sansa liked ordinary, had even begun to allow herself to grow accustomed to it. She loved her new ordinary. She loved working with Aneesa by day as Nedra, with Arya at her daggers, with Sandor by night with her signs. Sometimes at more. They made time for leisure as well, and they were afforded plenty of privacy for it. She couldn't have hoped for a better companion; strong yet gentle, fierce yet clever, honest and brave and even humorous, when he wanted to be. How did this happen?

She felt a sense of calm here that she hadn't allowed herself to feel for a long time. No one knew or cared about who she was. No one wanted anything from her that she wasn’t willing to give. She had her sister. She had Sandor. And yet, she still had a void in her as well. 

Lemons do not grow here, Elder Brother’s voice reminded her. If she didn't remind herself, she was truly lost. She must keep her eyes on Spring. Her heart on Winterfell. She was thankful to be removed from the horrors at long last, but it still didn’t sit right. How many died pointlessly while she sang at night? How many more would, before she dared return? Would there be anything left to claim? 

Sansa wondered if Arya felt this way. She dreamed of Wolves often enough. Surely she would come home with them, when the time came. She won’t have the same pressures to marry, she thought, almost bitterly. Would that any of their brothers lived, so they could both be free. To marry for love, or not at all, without risk or scrutiny. The thought of her brothers all being gone made her heart sink. She willed herself to focus on something else.

Sansa was hard at work sweeping the floors when the door to the Inn opened, a rush of wind and dirt and dust coming with it. She sighed in frustration; it never ends! She paid no mind to the newcomers as she went to the back, deciding to give up on sweeping in search of something else more productive to do.

“If this isn't the one, I cant take it,” said one of the men who had just entered the Inn and sullied her floors. Sansa stiffened all over; he was of the West.

It wasn't unheard of, of course. Many of her fellow residents here were. But she knew that particular accent anywhere, had heard many of her enemies speak with it. She strained her ears. He didn't travel alone.

“I will knock at every door in this city if I have to,” said his companion. A woman's voice.

Aneesa found them then. Or they found her, it made no difference. “Can I get you a room?” Her voice had an apprehensive tone to it, similar to the one she addressed Sandor with once. 

“We're looking for someone, actually,” said the woman's voice. She spoke more gently to Aneesa than the man. “We were told we might find them here.”

“I will help how I can,” said Aneesa, “but our guests are entitled to a measure of privacy.”

“Of course,” the woman replied, not unkindly. She seemed to be the pair’s chosen speaker. “We seek a girl—around your age. She's Westerosi, black of hair. Travels with a man with burn scars on his face.”

There was a long pause, then. Sansa’s stomach was ice.

“That sounds familiar,” Aneesa said slowly. “But I have not seen them in some time, I fear. It was a long time ago.”

Sansa let out her breath, swelling with gratitude. She's lying for me. 

The disappointment in the woman's voice was palpable as she said, “Could you tell me anything about where they might have gone?”

“We're willing to pay,” supplied the man with the familiar accent that nearly sent her bolting like a spooked horse. Of course you are, she thought bitterly. Gold is the only language you people speak.

Aneesa was determined to be unhelpful, though, to Sansa's great relief. “I am sorry,” she said with genuine regret. “It is a large city, and I spend most of my time here.”

The man made a scoffing noise. The woman addressed the girl. “Thank you. It is helpful to know they were here once, at least. If they do return,” she paused. “Please let the girl know she has friends here who are looking for her.” Sansa rolled her eyes from her hiding spot. Friends.  

The woman continued. “Tell her the Elder Brother sent us. Tell her that I knew her mother before that. I swore to her that I would bring her home.”

Sansa felt paralyzed. By fear, by something else. They knew the Elder Brother sent them here. It could only mean one of two things. The Elder Brother had genuinely sent for them, or he was dead, the information tortured out of him. She swallowed hard. She knew what was more likely if a Lannister was involved. Was the mention of her mother simply a cruel jape, to add insult to injury?

There was one thing Sansa felt certain of. They know Aneesa is lying. She could hear it in the woman's tone as she left her message. She knows she can deliver it. She became afraid, then. Was Aneesa unknowingly risking her life for the sake of an unconvincing lie? Sansa couldn't bear the thought. She stepped out from the back room.

“Wait.”

The sight of the pair stunned Sansa nearly as much as she stunned them. Aneesa was looking between them all in confusion and concern. Sansa placed a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you,” she said. “You did the right thing, but I must speak to them.”

The newcomers were not how she expected them to appear at all. The woman was near as tall as Sandor, and the ruinous scars down one side of her face were eerily reminiscent as well. They weren’t burns, but something more savage. She wouldn't have been beautiful without them, but it was no small wonder that Aneesa had that nervous pitch to her voice when speaking to her before. She must think Westeros is full of disfigurments and cripples. At this point, would she be wrong? The woman wore armor, which struck Sansa as odd.

It gave Sansa a start to recognize Jaime Lannister as the woman's companion, nearly unrecognizable. What had once been one of the most handsome men in the seven kingdoms—with his golden hair and emerald eyes and gleaming white plate—stood now as a shell of former glory. His eyes had sunken considerably, and his golden mane was shorn near to the scalp. He wore a thick golden beard now, and had some visible scars of his own. His clothing was plain and half-ragged and bore no trace of his heraldry. If it weren’t for his manner of speaking, Sansa might not believe it was him at all. She had only seen him briefly when he returned to the capital short a hand; the mental image she kept of him was from before, and he looked even worse for wear now.

“My lady,” the woman strode forward and knelt with all the reverence of a knight before his king. “I've found you, at long last.”

Sansa was in a state of bewilderment. A Lannister, whose family had been her captors and tormentors. And this strange giant woman, who showed her open reverence, who reminded her too much of Sandor.

“Get up,” Sansa hissed, looking around awkwardly. “You're making a scene.”

The woman rose, and Sansa could see she had tears in her eyes—shockingly blue. “Of course,” she said. “Got ahead of myself. I heard you were using an alias. Alayne, is it?”

Sansa reddened. “Nedra, now.”

Jaime laughed. “Subtle.”

Aneesa bowed her head and disappeared into a back room. It pained Sansa’s heart; she hated for her to discover the truth this way.

“Watch your tongue,” hissed the woman. “Please, sit with us my lady. I'm sure we've overwhelmed you enough, but there's much to discuss.”

Sansa eyed them both with mistrust, but curiosity as well. “We will sit. But I'd like to save the discussions. Sandor should be back soon, and I don't even know your name.”

“I'm Brienne,” she supplied at once, as they made their way to a table at the back of the room. “Of Tarth. And this is—”

“I know who he is,” Sansa said, much more rudely than she intended.

Jaime was unbothered. “Good. We can dispense with awkward introductions.” She flinched as he brought his heavy golden hand down on the table. 

“How is The Hound, anyway?” 

Sansa held his gaze as he crossed the threshold, paid no mind to the dirt and muddy water he tracked in with his boots. Her expression was grim as she replied, “Ask him yourself.”

Chapter Text

SANDOR 19

It gave Sandor no surprise at all to learn Elder Brother had sent the Tarth woman to find them. But Jaime Lannister? It made no sense. He resolved he would make it make sense before the day was done. I'll beat it out of him if I have to.

Jaime had always been Sandor’s least hated of his brood, true enough. They'd nearly been friends once. Being of an age with one another, they'd trained together in the yard as boys. At court, they'd spent plenty of time together as men too. They’d even worn and sullied white cloaks, though not together.

“Seems we're all a little worse for wear,” the man japed when Sandor joined them, noting his limp. 

“Some worse than others,” Sandor rasped in reply, noting the false appendage. It gave him a measure of peace to know Jaime Lannister was short a sword hand. That must have taken him down about a dozen notches. It was his most prized asset.

“Now that we're all here,” said Brienne, ignoring the cock-waving. She had eyes only for Sansa. “My lady, I cannot tell you what it means to see you alive and well. I've been a long time searching for you.” That much, Sandor knew, was true. Five years at the least.

“In service to my mother,” Sansa said flatly, not fully believing.

“Your mother, yes. I was…” she traded a glance with Jaime. “Your mother released Jaime from captivity with the promise that his life would be traded for her daughters. I vowed to return you to her, only…”

“We got a bit held up,” Jaime raised his golden hand. “By the time we arrived back in King’s Landing, well. Things had changed.”

“Your father had my family slaughtered, you mean,” said Sansa hatefully. “Convenient.”

“Must I always answer to the sins of the father who disowned me?” Jaime asked lazily. 

“So what do you want with the girl now?” Sandor cut in. “One thing hasn't changed: her mother still lies dead, and every other relative besides. Who do you mean to bring her to in order to honor your sorry oath?” Sandor caught the two making another loaded glance to one another. 

Two could play at that game. ‘Hiding something,’ he motioned.

‘I know,’ came her reply.

They regarded the signals with curious eyes, but made no remark. It was the hideous woman who spoke now. “I mean to take Sansa home. Winterfell has fallen from Bolton control. Stannis Baratheon holds the castle now.”

Sandor learned as much already, but Sansa gave a gasp. “Stannis? What reason would he have to take Winterfell?”

“It's a long story,” Brienne said wearily, “and I won't pretend conditions are ideal. I have no love for Stannis Baratheon, but we do believe he would relinquish the castle to a trueborn Stark.”

“For a price, of course,” Jaime added. “And only so long as we make haste.”

“Price?” Sandor pressed. Of course there's a bloody price.

“Naturally, he insists upon having your support in his bid for the throne,” Jaime said.

“What fucking throne?” Sandor asked incredulously. “Does he mean to sit on molten iron? I’d like to see that.”

The other man spread his hands and laughed. “You'll have to ask him yourself, I suppose.”

Sandor turned his head and spat. “I don't like it.”

“It's not your opinion that matters,” the woman said, turning her attention to Sansa. 

Feeling all eyes on her suddenly, Sansa chewed her lip. “It all sounds too good to be true. How can you be so sure it would be that simple? That Stannis would restore Winterfell to me without bloodshed, or more than my word of support?”

“Stannis has no desire for Winterfell,” Brienne said. “He wants to forge strong alliances as he works towards his ultimate goal. After what he's witnessed in the North...I think he better appreciates the value of a Stark in Winterfell.”

"What has he witnessed?" asked Sansa.

“Has anyone actually spoken to Stannis?” asked Sandor, brusquely. “You seem so sure. I say you're full of shit.”

Jaime sighed. “We know people who know people. But the truth is, even if Stannis wants a fight, his host is weakened and the Stark name has much more support behind it than you realize. Should Sansa emerge alive—”

“She has just as many enemies,” Sandor interrupted. “Your dear sister, for a start. Your twisted Imp brother too. And he's got himself a dragon now, I hear. You may have sworn to find the girl, transport her, but I've vowed to keep her safe. I'm not staking her life on your fucking hunches.”

Brienne spoke directly to the girl, clearly taking her for more malleable. “My lady, we were contacted shortly after you departed the Quiet Isle. It took some time for his word to reach us, and more for us to reach him. Through the snows, through the dragonfire, we did." A shadow passed over both faces, and Sandor saw the journey had taken a toll. "We would not have come all this way if I did not feel confident the time was right. The world is still in turmoil, it's true, but reclaiming your family's seat will never come without a measure of risk. Despite what he believes,” she shot a look at Sandor. “I would lay my life down to ensure your safety. Your mother loved you dearly. I wish to honor her.”

Sansa's eyes were shining with tears, and Sandor knew he wasn't going to win this battle. He knew it before he even stepped foot in the Inn. But it nettled him to have these two swooping in, out of nowhere, to deliver this news. I would have managed it fine. It occurred to him, then, that perhaps Elder Brother hadn't trusted him to bring Sansa home again, of his own will. It made him indignant, resentful. 

“I'm appreciative of all you've been through, and all you've done in service to the oath you made my mother,” Sansa said, all sincere. “If The Elder Brother sent you—truly—then I would like to trust you. But,” she continued, putting a hand on his forearm. “Trust comes hard. Sandor is the only person who has earned mine. I will not agree to any plan of action which he does not.”

Sandor's mouth twitched. The odd pair before them were trading glances again. It was going to get annoying fast.

“I don't like it,” he repeated, rising abruptly. “I need to think.”

“Be quick about it, Clegane,” called Jaime, somewhat seriously. “The sooner we can get moving, the better.”

Sandor held out a hand to Sansa, who he refused to put out of his sight with these two around, lest they steal her in the night. He ignored the man entirely, unwilling to be ordered around by a Lannister. Not anymore. 

When they reached the safety of their room, Sandor was overcome by a desperate need to touch her. Hold her, as if it would be the last time he’d get the chance. It very well might be. Kiss her, taste her, smell her. All of it.

“We have to go with them,” Sansa said breathlessly between kisses.

“I know,” he rasped. 

“We have to find Arya.”

“I know.”

“Aneesa must be so confused.”

“I don’t care.”

“We should run Stranger before we go.”

“We shall.”

“I can’t believe J–”

“Enough,” Sandor quieted her. “There’s plenty of time for that. Tomorrow.”

She seemed to relax. “Tomorrow.”

Sandor hated tomorrow. Hated Jaime and the ugly bitch he brought with him, hated Elder Brother most of all for sending them. For not trusting him to do what was right without them. Hated himself for wondering if he would have, for the reminder of just how far off the planned path he’d strayed. This wasn’t wrong, he’d decided long ago. It’s the world that’s wrong. Now they’d have to go face it again. It felt like the eve of some great battle, and there was a sensation in his chest he almost didn’t recognize. He felt his heart breaking.

Chapter Text

SANSA 19

Her loins still ached from the urgency of his lovemaking. It was a good ache. Sansa watched him, now at the window they typically kept shuttered. The hour was early, but he wouldn’t be leaving her this morning. That time had come to an end. Sansa pulled the bedcovers closer to her chest. 

“Come back to bed,” she beckoned. “Just a little longer.”

Sandor continued to stare out the window, his brow knitted together in deep thought. It was no good, she knew. They hadn't slept a wink last night, and spent very little of it talking. We'll have plenty of time for that on the ship. But not for this.

“Where do we start?” Sansa asked.

“I suspect we should find your sister,” Sandor muttered. “Before she takes Jaime’s head off. As much as I’d be loath to stop her.” He looked at her. “Can’t be far. She probably tailed them the moment they got off that bloody boat.”

Sansa tended to agree. Arya seemed to know everything that happened around here, though she wasn’t forthcoming about it. They dressed in silence. It didn’t take long to pack their things; they hadn’t collected much. There was a tension in the air. She was eager to head for home, but all the uncertainty gave her a great deal of apprehension as well. And there was a part of her that was loath to leave. So much would change. So much would have to be left behind. They both knew it. They both mourned it.

They would take today to tie up their loose ends, and catch the first ship to White Harbor they could find. Sandor hesitated at the door. 

“They’re going to be down there. Waiting.” His tone was bitter. Sansa knew he resented their presence. She raised herself up on tiptoe to kiss him.

“Let them wait. They’re with us, not the other way around.”

Sure enough, as they reached the Common Room they found Jaime and Brienne sat in the same position as they left them the night before. Sansa had the absurd thought that they hadn’t moved at all.

Brienne rose to greet her. Jaime did so more lazily. “Lady Sansa,” she said reverently. “I hope you rested well, and have come to a decision.”

Not so much well-rested Sansa replied, “We have decided you will accompany us West. We’ve matters to attend to first, but we won’t take long. You may make yourselves comfortable here.”

The look of relief that seemed to overcome the armor-clad woman was palpable. “Very well, my lady. We’ve already secured a ship to White Harbor, it leaves at first light on the morrow. Is this enough time?”

“We will meet you here by nightfall,” Sansa promised. They would need to get some rest tonight, but Sansa didn’t count on it. She nodded for Sandor to lead them out, and he obeyed. They hadn’t discussed it, but there was a silent understanding between them that they had parts to play in the present company. Sansa would have to don her armor once more, as Sandor would eventually don his. It didn’t fit her as naturally as it once did. She certainly hadn’t wielded authority such as this before. She didn’t fully trust the pair, especially Jaime Lannister, of all people; but Brienne was every bit the loyal servant, not the hostile captor. That much, she knew in her heart, was not a ruse. But who is it she truly serves?  

Sansa scanned for the skinny vagrant that typically posted up outside the Inn each day. They weren’t always there, but it was often enough as to be reliable. As expected, they were stood dutifully in their usual spot. Sansa rarely saw them without the hood drawn up, but the face was just as skinny and dirty as the rest of them, with ragged blonde hair the consistency of straw. Sansa approached them now, with Sandor keeping his distance. She stooped down to the balls of her feet to be of a height with them, and held up the silver coin for them to see. The one Arya had pressed into her palm that night which felt an eternity ago now, as a way to summon her.

“I don’t have any names to give,” Sansa said kindly. “Tell her we’re going home. Tell her to hurry.” She pressed the coin into the skinny little fingers, closed her own hand around it. When she looked back up into the sunken face, she found it wasn’t sunken at all now. It gave Sansa such a start, she staggered back and fell, right on her backside. 

That wasn’t the face she’d looked into only moments before. “Arya?” she gasped. 

“Keep your voice down,” her sister hissed. She looked around, pulling the hood forward more in an effort to conceal her face. “Follow me.”

To Sansa’s surprise, Arya lead them to the stable where Stranger was kept. It was deserted, and the horse didn’t rail against her presence at all. It occurred to Sansa that perhaps he had an extra visitor for quite some time now, for he hadn’t seemed as starved for attention as when they first arrived.

“You’re leaving with Jaime Lannister?” She wasted no time on small talk once it was clear they were alone. She was incredulous. Furious.

“We have reason to trust what news he and the woman came with. Do not take it to mean I trust Lannisters.”

“You weren’t there,” Arya said darkly. “You didn’t see what they did. We should open his throat and dump him naked into the canals. Even that would be too much a mercy for the likes of him.”

Sansa chewed her lip. She knew this wouldn’t be easy to accept, and was still shaken by the way her sister’s face had transformed seemingly in an instant. What sort of magic was it?

“Do not presume I don’t know the Lannisters,” Sansa said. “I know them better than you. We mustn’t let our guard down. It’s why I need you at my side. Please, come with us. If Jaime makes a move of betrayal, it will be his last. But if what they claim is true…”

“Stannis holds Winterfell,” Arya said knowingly. “We don’t need Jaime Lannister for that.”

“I agree,” Sandor put in from his stooped position inside the stall.

“Not for that,” she agreed. “But Cersei and Tyrion may still live. They could become troublesome, even with Winterfell restored to us.” Us, she emphasized.

Arya seemed to catch her meaning. Unless we have something valuable to bargain with. Someone. “Who’s the woman?”

“She’s called Brienne,” Sansa replied. “She claims to have made an oath to our mother, to return her daughters to safety.”

That made Arya laugh darkly. “She’s a bit late.”

Sansa couldn’t help but share in the sentiment. “I can’t speak to her true motives, but she could be an ally to us. We’ll need as many as we can get.” When is she going to correct me from saying ‘we’?

“When do you depart?”

“First thing on the morrow.”

“Very well.” Arya had a serious look to her. Decisive. One long mulled over. “You’ll be joined by one more. But it won’t be Arya Stark. Arya Stark is dead. I won’t be treated like some little girl, or worse, a woman.”

With that, Arya wasn’t Arya anymore. Sansa blinked, wondering if she’d gone mad. Sandor, who had dutifully faded into the background as they talked, flinched violently at the transformation. “Seven hells,” he cursed. 

Where Arya had stood, there was now a man she’d never seen. He was handsome, with long straight hair that was red on one side, white on the other. “A man will meet you, first thing on the morrow.”

Chapter Text

INTERLUDE I

THE WEARY WENCH

Brienne’s hands trembled as she read the letter again. 

I've found what you seek. Make haste and be well. EB

She didn't know how many times she'd read it by now. The raven had reached her at exactly the time she needed it to. She rubbed her throat absentmindedly, still bruised and hoarse from the hempen rope that had nearly marked her end. Brienne was despairing over the current task at hand, at odds with her oath and her heart.

Could it be that she could salvage both?

It was with great disappointment, then, that by the time she reached The Quiet Isle, there was no trace of Sansa Stark. Elder Brother had something much more complicated in store for her, when Brienne felt so close to giving up and breaking down already. She couldn’t bear another fruitless chase. But that’s what he meant to send her on.

The Elder Brother informed her that he knew where the Stark girl was kept, that she was safe for the nonce, though it was proving more difficult than planned to extract her. He flatly refused to divulge more than that.

“I brought you here because I know you’ve a genuine interest in the girl’s welfare, and how ardently you’ve searched for her. You do not seek her out for personal gain, and the more allies she has, the better. The more allies she has united, to the best.”

“I don’t understand,” Brienne had said. “What am I to do, then?”

“Wait, mostly,” he admitted. “Travel some. I’ve got seeds planted in certain places. I could use your help sowing a few. I need remain here for the time-being, but people whisper in taverns and inns. Tongues loosen and ears open. There are more moving parts in play than I would trouble you with.”

“I don’t have that kind of time,” Brienne blurted, despairing. He doesn’t have that kind of time. She doubted she would be given the grace of a lengthy timeline to deliver the Stark girl or Jaime’s head, whichever made itself available first, as she dallied around in inns and taverns. They would grow tired of waiting, and a hostage would become dead weight. It would have been for nothing that she took the sword. Podrick’s fate was in her hands. Jaime’s too. She hoped to save them both by coming here, and found only another dead end. The Elder Brother’s plans could take months, and Winter was bearing down upon them besides.

Soon, the whole story was spilling out of her. The Brotherhood Without Banners, the vengeful spirit who led them, the vow she’d made and the ultimatum she now faced from the corpse. How close she’d come to joining her in death, if not for the sake of her squire, who was innocent in it all. The fate he still had looming over him, as she sat in a peaceful place drinking wine. The choice she now faced, of killing an innocent boy or betraying a man she believed in. She was disgusted with herself.

“It’s too much,” Brienne swallowed back tears. “I’ve only ever tried to do what’s right…but all I see before me are wrong choices. None I can live with.”

“An impossible choice,” The Elder Brother agreed gently. “The Brotherhood…outlaws, to be sure, but their cause was just once, under the leadership of Dondarrion.” He looked disturbed, but thoughtful. “I’ll see what can be done.”

There would be no reasoning with their new leader, Brienne knew. It was with only a glimmer of hope that the Elder Brother knew what he was doing that Brienne made the decision to fetch Jaime Lannister. It was Jaime who the Brotherhood wanted, and it would be best to keep him close, lest they grow impatient and find him on their own.

Elder Brother had supplied her with the lie, and to her surprise it had worked. The Hound has taken Sansa, she’d feigned such urgency. We must go alone, lest he kills her. It had almost felt too easy. Was it because he genuinely cared about the Stark girl’s fate in the hands of The Hound? Or was it because he trusted her, would have followed her no matter how she asked?

Brienne would think back on it one day and wonder if The Elder Brother had the gift of foresight, or was an expert at cyvasse. 

Jaime had been furious about the lie, at first. Brienne took his anger with stiff acceptance; was it not deserved? Still, she had explained after, it was lie or die. Stoneheart meant to claim his head, had named her a Lannister loyalist, had put her at odds with herself as the oaths piled up. 

It softened Jaime somewhat. He of all people understood. He was open to executing any plan that would save two birds with a single stone–Podrick and the Stark girl.

“And you, if the gods are good,” Brienne added. 

“I’m a lion, not a bird,” he said easily. “If worst comes to worst, I will confront this Stoneheart myself; die if I have to, but she wouldn’t take me without a fight.”

He was half the swordsman he once was since his maiming, but he’d been twice the swordsman to most men before, and with training Brienne supposed the ground was simply more level now. She wondered if he would ever be as gifted with the left hand as the right; he worked hard at it. She would train with him as they traveled. The ferocity with which he came at her sometimes sent her stomach fluttering. 

Jaime sometimes grew impatient with the tedious task of information gathering and spreading; he wanted to take their fight to the Brotherhood, to put it to an end. They wouldn’t let you die with a sword in your hand, she thought grimly. There would be no glory in it. The thought of Jaime dangling from that tree, feet kicking the air uselessly…it was unbearable. She would do it the Elder Brother’s way. The slow way. Have faith, he’d told her. She prayed it wouldn’t be for naught.

So they traveled. Jaime was unrecognizable to most, was careful to keep his right hand covered and out of sight when possible. They spread the messages Elder Brother supplied, and put a finger on the pulse of the common folk, listening. They didn’t dare travel too far South; the political climate was volatile, and Jaime seemed eager to have as much distance from his sister as possible. It gave Brienne the absurd feeling of hope again.

The messages Elder Brother armed them with were of Stark restoration being the key to the end of the war; The Imp acted alone in slaying the King; The Gods themselves were punishing the Kingdom, would purge it with fire before freezing it in Winter; That Stannis needed support in The North, regardless of if he was supported as King; Petyr Baelish was surrounded by suspicious, convenient deaths. Half of it was treasonous, half of it felt fanatical. But Brienne whispered them anyway, she and Jaime both, donning hoods and disguises, traveling from inn to inn, village to village, careful to stay out of the large ones. Eventually, they started to hear their own rumors whispered back to them, debated over tankards around them.

The snows began to fall. Travel grew more difficult to manage, and the pair found themselves staying put in places longer than usual. Less distracted by constant movement. They held each other’s gaze longer. Swapped less and less insults. The ferocity they traded during training kept them warm. And then one day he told her to rise, and called her Ser. And then his were arms around her, his mouth on hers, their bodies pressed close. 

And then the news came. Wildfire in the capital. King’s Landing gone. Dragons. Purged by fire. Their seeds grew wildly after that. Jaime was stricken by the news, near inconsolable. 

“I didn’t save them,” he’d said in his cups one night. “I only delayed the inevitable. My own brother… ”

Everything had felt pointless to him, then. He made an attempt to run off, to offer his sorry life to Stoneheart, to put it all to rest. Brienne made an attempt to restrain him, saw a ferocity that didn’t give her the fluttering. 

It had come to blows between them, then. He barbed his words with venom and offered her his fist. In reply Brienne had given him her hard head, sending him slumping to the floor in one blow. 

It had taken some time to overcome. He hadn’t tried to run off again, nor had he made to hit her again. But he was distant; his eyes were always far off when he didn’t think she noticed. She wondered, sometimes, if it was the people he mourned or his sister. He claimed he bore no love for his twin anymore, but words were wind. He told Brienne he bore her no love, either, that night. I was merely bored, and there was nothing else to do. 

Despite how little sense it made, he knew Cersei lived. Said he could feel it. Their twinly connection still held strong no matter how he tried to sever it. Jaime tried to pretend he wasn’t, but Brienne knew part of him was relieved. He didn’t lose everything, it would seem. It made her sullen, despite herself. When Jaime would ask to train, she found she didn’t have the desire. Brienne wished she could be alone, but the snows raged on, and it would be a long time still before the raven would come, offer any reprieve from it all.

The bird was perched upon the window sill to her room in an Inn near Maidenpool, where they’d taken up semi-permanent residence as travel became treacherous. It announced its arrival with a chorus of cawing, and Brienne realized the tree outside her window was filled with ravens, all screaming down at her. Gods help me if they all bear letters, she thought.

The Elder Brother’s summons was short and vague, as before. It’s time. Make haste and be well. EB

“Time!” the bird in the window cried. “Time! Time!”

Brienne had endured months of Jaime Lannister’s grief, and then her own. The letter would free them both. “The time is right to collect the girl, it would seem,” she informed him that night in the privacy of her room. It had been some time since they’d shared one.

“At last,” he said, “I should be glad to see this saga come to an end.”

“Me as well. With the girl in hand, I suspect I will be able to trade her for your life–as was always intended from the start. This is where we part ways.”

Jaime blinked. “Pardon?”

“You’re free to go,” she said simply. 

“Go? Where would I go?” He asked with mounting irritation.

“Go find your sister, perhaps,” Brienne replied coolly.

His laughter was cruel. “Jealousy doesn’t become you, wench. How many times have I told you I do not want her?”

“You say a lot of things that aren’t true,” she reminded him.

Jaime shook his head bitterly. “I thought, all this time, you shared in my grief. You grieved only yourself.”

“Don’t presume to know what I grieve for, or whom,” she bristled. 

“I’ll tell you what I grieved,” He took a step forward. “All those people, dead. Burned. And I get to keep living, me and my dear siblings. I breathe deep, and all I can smell is their ashes. The charred meat. I grieved how all the choices that put me here in this Inn never mattered, in the end, because they all burned anyway. That in my–perhaps misguided–attempt to put it right, I hurt the only woman who might have ever truly loved me. Oh yes, I grieved you as well, wench.” He spited the look that must have come over her face then. 

Brienne lifted her chin defiantly. “Your pity is wasted on me.”

“Then stop wallowing,” he said sharply. 

“Wallowing?” She couldn’t help but laugh. “I should fetch you a mirror. You’ve barely spoken to me since that night. Or at all! The things you said…” his insults had been vicious. She knew in her mind that he hadn’t meant them, but her heart had yearned to hear him take them back. He never had. “I grieve all the same things as you, and more. Including myself, yes. It gives me grief that I am doomed to love such a cruel and bitter man.”

“Perhaps it gives me grief to love such a sentimental wench,” He said, though his voice had lost its bite. He was advancing on her, slowly, and she made no attempt at retreat.

Hours later, they were rising together with the sun, pulling on boots and strapping on armor. “We're seeing this through,” Jaime told her. “Together, so long as we don’t kill each other first.”

Her third trip to the Quiet Isle was, yet again, a disappointing endeavor. Sansa, yet again, was not there. She nearly lost her patience with the Elder Brother this time. He told them about the girl finding her way to the Quiet Isle all on her own, how he’d pulled her from the mud and restored her to good health, before sending her off again, across the Narrow Sea.

“Why didn’t you write to me the moment she washed up here?” Brienne was beside herself. “Why send her away?”

“The time wasn’t right for you to take her home then,” said Elder Brother. 

“What’s changed?” Jaime wondered. 

“Winterfell has fallen to the Baratheon host,” he informed them. “My sources tell me the dragons have turned to the far North, where an even larger threat looms large. If the girl is to return home, it won’t be without its risks. But the opportunity to reclaim the castle should be seized promptly. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, as they say.”

“What makes you think she is safe in Braavos?” Jaime said bitterly. “Last I checked, young women meet foul ends there, same as anywhere else. This feels like another fruitless chase.”

“She is safe,” Elder Brother said confidently. “She did not go alone.” After a moment of pause in which Jaime and Brienne only stared at him he added, “Sandor Clegane accompanies her.”

She and Jaime both had balked at that. “You told me he was dead!” she all but screamed at him as she shot to her feet. “You’ve no idea how dangerous–”

“I told you The Hound was dead. I did not lie,” he said sternly. “He died in my arms, and is Hound no longer. Sandor Clegane found peace and penitence here, under my eye, for half a decade. He will protect the girl fiercely; I promise you, she could not be in safer hands. He will not welcome you, I expect, but he will see reason.”

“And what of the small matter of The Brotherhood?” Jaime put in. 

“You were right that they are less inclined to reason,” Elder Brother admitted. “But your squire is safe, my lady. For their part, they’ve kept busy. I expect you will find them once you return the girl North, and you can fulfill your oaths to this Stoneheart who leads them.”

With that, he set them to their task.

Chapter Text

INTERLUDE II

THE LONE WOLF

The more she tried to suppress the dreams, the more intense they seemed to become. They were more than dreams, she knew by now. But the girl who dreamed them was supposed to be gone. Dead, even, but she’d never had the courage to go through with it.

You are no one.

It wasn’t no one who had lured Raff the Sweetling to her chambers that night. It wasn’t no one who had fed the Night’s Watch deserter to the eels. It wasn’t no one who grieved so deeply for the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch that it still made her heart ache when she dwelled on it. The news was still fresh, and she vowed to one day make justice for it. 

But not today.

You are no one.

The girl was set to her current task, and she wasn’t a girl at all. She was fully a woman, tall and slender. Dark skinned and dark eyed, she was beautiful, even for a Courtesan. It was a powerful man she had eyes for, and it needed to look natural. Luckily he was old, rich, and lustful. 

She had watched him for some time before choosing a face; learned his preferences, what his appetite was like. It was always the tall ones. He was barely over five feet. 

His eyes were roving over her now, hungry for the seclusion of her barge. It would be a long night before that, though. First she must suffer some formal event with wine and music and dancing. She must be seen, her wrist must be kissed, her silk skirts must twirl, though she would be careful to minimize that part; this wasn't the type of dancing she was skilled at. She must put on a great big spectacle in service of this man’s ego, and she had other methods.

She was experienced with mummery, and played the part easily. She found no joy in it, though. This was exactly the thing she would have loved. The sister who wasn’t her sister. She would be long dead by now. If Jon Snow was gone, surely Sansa was as well. All of them are gone. Her eyes would have gone big as saucers to be standing in this room. It was overwhelmingly elaborate, and there was enough food to feed the entire city at the feast. Food that polite women were expected to waste, lest they thicken their waist. She took note of just how many of the men were fat in comparison.

Hours later, she rested her sore feet on the lap of her old, rich, lustful suitor in the privacy of her barge. He was stiffening already, she could see. She smiled. The wine had hit him fast. So easily seduced, so trusting. He had gulped it down greedily, like an oaf. Now he stared at her from unseeing eyes, somehow still so full of confusion. His rosy complexion was turning white as the blood ceased its course through his veins. She undressed him, got him into bed, and settled down next to him. It would be good to sleep; she was exhausted, and she had a heart attack to report in the morning.

Tonight, the wolf caught a scent they couldn’t shake. Arya stalked the snowy landscape, following prints that took a meandering path, sometimes crossing back in on themselves, confusing to follow if one only had eyes as a guide. But the scent kept her on course. She knew this scent. Couldn’t describe it if she tried, and it was a little different than she remembered. But she was certain of its familiarity.

She loped along the treeline as the path became sloppier, until the trail fell into the river below. Where she expected water, there was only a muddy, exposed riverbed. The great direwolf peered out from the cover of trees, could barely make out the shape crawling in the muck, but the scent of her was strong on the wind now. She threw her head back and howled. Soon, the chorus of the pack joined in.

It was a howl of elation. A howl of triumph.

She was alive. She had to let them know. The two-legged ones who dwelled close by. She called out until she saw firelight crest the hill and wander down the bank. She howled herself hoarse.

Arya had awoken next to the corpse in a state of complete disorientation, her throat felt raw. It took her a moment to comprehend her surroundings. She wasn't Arya, or a wolf. She was no one, and she had a dead man in her bed. A man she had killed, one who was short and fat and deserved it.

Sansa is alive. 

She wasn't well. She had smelled of death. But she wasn't dead yet. She's alive!

She dreamed of her again after that. The wolf dreams showed her glimpses. Not much, for she was a great distance from the shore, but she knew it was her. Could smell it on the wind. She tried to call out, but all she produced were howls. Easy prey came to her in the dreams as well. Hunters, who became hunted. The pack feasted upon falcons for many a night, and Arya would awake with the taste of blood still in her mouth. 

When she dreamed of her next, the wolf tracked the scent to a crudely carved hole in a snowbank. She slept, but she wasn’t alone. She knew her captor, she realized. He was my captor too, once. She might have ripped his throat out right then. She couldn't say why she didn't. But from that day forward, Arya spent a lot of time sitting at the docks. Waiting. Listening. The news that came from the West was terrible. It always was, but it was in competition with itself these days. The Imp had made ruin of King’s Landing from dragonback, they'd have her believe. It was a lie. A distortion of the truth, surely. 

She wasn't sure if they'd ever come. But she trusted the dreams, and the smell of the sea meant surely her captor meant to steal her by ship. And, sure as rain, the day arrived. They concealed their faces, but Arya couldn't be fooled by such things. Today she was an urchin, no more than 8. She was rarely perceived like this. It gave her pleasure to see the mighty Hound’s gait marred by lameness. It would provide her an advantage in a fight.

From the moment they stepped foot ashore, Arya knew things would change, could feel the change inside her already. Yet she felt frozen by indecision, and perhaps fear as well. Arya was supposed to be dead. All Arya Stark wanted in this world was to go home, but she had no home. She was better off dead. She was supposed to be no one. She belonged here now, not there. She told herself this over and over, even as she found herself at the place where Needle was hidden. Hidden, but safe. She drew the sword out. It was all she had to remember him by.

The Kindly Man couldn’t be so kindly as to let his apprentice leave his service so easily. She knew too much, had done too much. She broached the subject anyway. 

“What three new things have you learned today?” he asked, as he did every day.

“I learned the price of fish is rising with the influx of Westermen,” she said. 

“Very good. What else?”

She chewed her lip. “I learned that Sansa Stark lives, and is here, in Braavos.”

He regarded her thoughtfully. “Interesting news indeed. And the third thing?”

“I learned Arya Stark lives as well.”

He smiled down at her. “It took you quite some time to learn this, but it was information I already knew.”

Arya was nonplussed. “What will you do to me, then?”

“Do to you?” The Kindly Man chuckled. “You make a fine student, but you’ll never fully give yourself over to the Many-Faced God. You still keep your Old Gods, your old name. I have known this all along.”

“Then what have you been training me for?” she asked. She expected him to threaten her, put up some sort of fight to force her to stay. Somehow, the fact that he didn’t angered her.

“Do you know the most valuable commodity in the world?” 

“Information,” she said without hesitation.

“That’s right,” he said affably. “You’ve gathered a great deal of it for us. You didn’t need to rise above an apprenticeship for that. In return,” his tone changed only slightly, but Arya felt it instantly. The room itself seemed to grow cold. “You’ve provided us another valuable commodity, one that could prove to be a very powerful bargaining tool, once the time is right.”

Arya felt afraid to ask, but she did anyway. “What is that?”

“You, of course,” answered The Kindly Man. “Even now, there is such a clamoring for a legitimate Stark with which to claim Winterfell.”

“I will kill anyone who tries to bargain me!” she shouted, taking his meaning. Arya would not allow herself to have her hand and home forcefully taken from her. “You’ve lied to me all this time? I was always just a means to an end?”

“Please, child, do not think me cruel. Only pragmatic,” he was still smiling down at her. It made her sick. “This information about your sister changes things somewhat besides. She’s older. Her claim to Winterfell would be stronger.”

“What do you care about Winterfell, or who claims it?”

“A great deal,” he replied easily. “Our interests span far wider than you will ever know. One of those interests pertains to the Crown’s considerable debt to the Iron Bank. As you surely know, the current situation is…complicated, as it relates to collecting repayment. But there is a viable King vying for rule, one who could be trusted to pay back these debts. As it happens, his focus is currently trained on Winterfell. Don’t you see, child? We could all help each other.”

“I don’t see how I benefit from any of it,” Arya snapped. “You’d just marry me off to some lord, make me his brood mare. Winterfell would be his in all but name.”

“I admit, I didn’t expect you to go along with it willingly. But you may be free of such things, now that your sister has made herself apparent. But,” his tone darkened somewhat. Arya bit her lip. “We are not the only ones in want of her, it seems. She fetches a handsome price, if we give her instead to the Many-Faced God. How serendipitous, that she should find herself here in Braavos, and spare us from laborious travel.”

Arya’s stomach was ice. “What's the price?”

“You ask the wrong questions,” he scolded her. “It's who, and why, that you should ask.”

“You wouldn't tell me if I did,” she said flatly. He chuckled again.

“So why do you think I would share the price? That is not for you to know. But what I've been offered for this little girl…usually such a sum is reserved for kings and mighty lords. Try to imagine it, and you may not still come close. My question to you is, why should I refuse it?”

“You don’t care about money,” she knew. “What is it you want from me, in order to spare her?” What has she done, that needs sparing from?

“Now you are asking good questions.” The Kindly Man’s voice remained less kindly than she’d ever heard it. “House Stark still owes a debt to the Many-Faced God. If you are to spare the sister, you must pay the debt.”

She scowled. “Has the Many-Faced God not already gorged himself on Stark souls?”

“This soul does not take the name of Stark,” he said kindly. “One. Only one, and you may put your back on our order forever. You will know them when you see them. When you go home.”

A chill ran through Arya, even as hope swelled in her chest. I'm going home. But is it worth the cost? He refused to give her more details than that. Only that she would make the Many-Faced God whole, one way or another. 

“The target. Or the sister. Or you. You must choose.”

He called to her one last time as she made her leave. “Speak word of our secrets to anyone, and…well, you know how we operate. You will regret it very much. So will any ear you whisper into. Be well, child.”

Arya had continued to use the faces, mostly the urchin’s. She watched the Inn where her sister was kept with increasing restlessness. She wanted to act, but how? How could she make that connection and not blurt out everything she knew? Arya needed to help her; as much as she knew Sansa used to dream of making a good wife and mother, she imagined that after Joffrey or The Imp, she’d prefer more of a say in the matter now.

Sansa faced a more pressing problem besides: she was held captive by The Hound. How did he fit into all this? How had he survived? He was inches from death when she saw him last. Nothing made sense. So she watched. Waited. Took her time, as she was taught to.

She saw the way he holed her up in that Inn, only letting her out when he could supervise her closely. Arya took to following him around next, and found he had taken up working the docks, loading and unloading cargo. It was all very bizarre. Normal, even. She would have to reveal her true face to kill him. It gave her a strange satisfaction to imagine the surprise in his eyes when she did. The timing would have to be right. She’d have to get him alone.

The opportunity arose. In truth, Arya had hoped there would have been more time, though she'd stalled enough already. What if Sansa hated her? Surely she would, if she ever learned all the things she’d done. She should hate me. Sansa was the only family left to her, and the thought of her rejection was near unbearable. Despite her blackened hair she still looked every bit like their mother, beautiful and graceful. It was in harsh contrast to The Hound, who drank himself stupid on that final day of The Uncloaking celebrations. Arya had chanced to approach her sister, who traded partners frequently as she danced. Arya stepped in, as the urchin in her mask, and was disturbed to see her looking so happy. How was she happy? 

Sansa did not reject the urchin, did not scoff at her left-handed clumsiness or tell her she was too dirty to touch her. She smiled. It made no sense. She was a caged bird, and had taken a serious wound, recently it would seem. Was she delusional? Or was she simply a fine actress?

It was hours before the pair made to return to the Inn. Arya followed at a distance, until The Hound and Sansa disappeared into an alley. She caught a glimpse of her sister thrown against the wall, and The Hound forcing himself upon her. The eyes she watched through weren’t her own, but she saw enough. She ran, hard as she could, to fetch Needle.

All Arya Stark wanted in the world was to go home. Finally, it was possible, within her reach. She found she didn’t care about it so much now. Sansa was alive. She’d lost hope of ever seeing her kin again. Even if she’d done something terrible. I’ve done terrible things, too. What had she done? She was always so gentle and kind, before. What would she be like now? Would she hate her, be disgusted by her? Why was she with The Hound? What had he done to her?

She thought of a play she’d been in once. The Bloody Hand. She’d played the part of the Maid. Red of hair and extremely naive, for comedic effect. She’d been raped in the second act. She wouldn’t let it happen again.

Chapter Text

PART 3

SANDOR 20

Sansa helped buckle Sandor into his armor the morning they were to board the ship for White Harbor. He had finally spent the coin the evening prior; if he was going to call himself her protector, he needed to look the part. A sword as well. It hung heavy at his hip. 

They found the ship going West far less populated than the one that had brought them East. There was space enough for the five of them to have cabins to themselves. Jaime paid them handsomely besides, and their effects weren't confiscated this time. The great ugly wench seemed determined to monopolize Sansa's time, and Sandor grudgingly let her. She can’t run off with her here, at the least.

The sister, now disguised as a Lorathi man named Jaqen, was making herself scarce as well. They’d boarded the ship as another passenger, a stranger among them. The transformation had nearly shocked him out of his skin, and he still felt shaken by it. Where had she learned such magic? Who had taught it to her? She’d refused all explanations. A man could not tell you, even if he wanted to, they said, using their new voice. Most importantly, who else was capable of such abilities? Sandor found himself casting a weary eye on every stranger he saw now. Were their two new companions even who they said they were, or assassins in disguise?

If they were, he had to admit, they were damn convincing. Sandor was sat on the deck, nursing a cup of wine and brooding over all the possibilities that awaited them in Westeros. His world was about to become much more populated, and not by strangers this time. Their enemies would press in on all sides. Dragons would circle their heads. If Tyrion Lannister lived, he would surely make a claim on his wife. Littlefinger would plot further retribution for his maiming, the supposed assassination attempt being a failure. There was no small matter of regicide. He himself was a known deserter to the crown. Not that there is a crown to speak of, now, he thought. Sandor wondered if perhaps all would be too preoccupied with royal succession to bother with their crimes, real or perceived. He knew how foolish it would be to hope for it.

“Should only be a matter of days, if the wind is good,” said Jaime Lannister as he claimed the seat across from Sandor, pulling him away from his ruminations. The wind hadn't been good on their first journey, and for his stomach's sake hoped it would have more mercy on him this go around.

Sandor only eyed the man up and down, grunted in response before turning his attention back to sea. Jaime was bored, and Sandor had no interest in entertaining him. 

“Of all people,” he went on. “I never expected to find the girl with the fearsome Sandor Clegane, and live to tell the tale. How did that come to pass?”

Sandor shrugged, his face expressionless. I guarded your sister loyally enough, he thought bitterly. Your bastards, too. Was he truly surprised he kept the girl safe, or was it a sorry attempt at small talk? 

“Elder Brother warned me you weren’t a man of many words these days,” Jaime laughed to himself. “I admit, I didn’t believe him. Some might call it an improvement, but I haven't decided yet. It can be tiring, talking to oneself. It was much the same during the time I spent with Ser Ilyn, learning to get this useless thing up to strength.” He held up the hand made of flesh and bone. “He, at least, had no choice in the matter, being short a tongue.”

Sandor grunted again. Was he to insist on pestering him?

“You served the girl well; the wench and I are more grateful than you could know. I was beginning to think this an endless, pointless endeavor.” He snorted. “She speaks of you as highly as if you were the Dragonknight reborn.”

Sandor turned hateful eyes on Jaime. “After what you and yours inflicted on the girl, I may as well be.” He was the farthest thing from a dragon or a knight. But there were worse things to be accused of. I’m no lion.

“So he does speak,” Jaime said with a feigned astonishment. “I’ve half a mind to retire to the Quiet Isle myself, once this business is done. It seems to have worked some miracles on you.”

“If it would shut you up,” Sandor murmured dismissively. For a glorious space of time, Jaime did shut up. He seemed pensive. 

“Do you remember when we were boys, training together with Ser Ranold?” When that fetched him no reply, he ploughed on anyway. “I never had a brother to train with, but at the time I thought of you as close as one.” Sandor’s face spasmed slightly. The memory was ancient history, but it was as far back as one needed to go to find a fond one between the two. For what purpose was he making this pitiful attempt at camaraderie? 

“He pushed us hard, you even harder,” Jaime continued. “Because he could get away with it, to be sure. He was particularly terrible to you…but we took him down a peg, do you remember? We put pig shit in his helm.” He laughed. “His wroth was terrible, when he slammed it down over that bald head of his and got a face full.”

“What do you know of wroth?” Sandor growled. “I was whipped, and made to sleep with the pigs for a week. You got some stern words from your father. Like brothers, indeed. Mine own never had to answer for his wrongs either, Kingslayer.”

Jaime’s eyes fell to his hands; lingered on the golden one. “Many of them caught up with me, if it pleases you to hear it,” he said soberly. “My debts are finding me with interest. They found your brother, too.”

“I doubt the punishment fit the crime,” he replied sourly. Gregor always got off too easy. “How'd that happen, anyway?” Sandor inclined his head to the hand.

“Oh, that's a long telling,” he sighed heavily. “And long ago, now. But my butcher paid his debts with interest as well, I promise you. It was Ser Gregor who saw to that, in fact.”

“So it was butchery for butchery, then,” Sandor gave a dry laugh. “And yours was poorer more than a hand when it was done, to be sure.”

“To be sure,” Jaime nodded. “My father's wroth was always given life through Ser Gregor. He was loyal as he was brutal. As you once were.”

“Kick a dog enough, it's bound to run off.” Sandor spat. “Would've liked to see you kick my brother. None of you ever had the bollocks for that, though.”

Jaime gave him a puzzled look. “Why would one kick a dog who does what it's told? I don't recall there being any kicking besides. You were paid well, fed and clothed and sheltered, free to drink and whore with the best of them. Entrusted with the life of a King. Even given a white cloak for your troubles, perhaps the highest honor a man of your stature could reach.” Sandor could see it writ on his face, how little he felt he deserved it. He felt no desire to convince him otherwise, despite the hypocrisy of it. “Tell me, Clegane. How was it that we kicked you?”

“Think I should count myself grateful for all that, do you?” He laughed bitterly. “A cheap existence and a worthless scrap of cloth.” In truth, it hadn't started to feel so much like kicking until it was a little bird on the receiving end of the boot. 

“You were part of the family,” Jaime said with an amiable flourish of his false hand. “The dog we kept inside. We never let your brother eat at our table. You should be grateful, yes.”

The words rankled. “You have an affection for me, do you? Is that why you’re fucking that beast of a woman?” Sandor leaned forward. “Does she remind you of me, Lannister? I know how you like a familial bond.”

Jaime’s eyes snapped up at him, suddenly furious. “Careful now, Clegane. She has more honor than all of us combined on this ship. I will not hear ill words spoken of her, least of all from you.”

“It’s not her honor I question,” Sandor replied, glad to see the grin wiped off his face. “Though I’ve yet to see it tested. But I’ve eyes to see. I’ve only ever seen you look at one woman like that.”

Jaime forced a calm demeanor, but irritation emanated out of him. He leaned back in his seat, eyed Sandor thoughtfully. “Ever observant,” he said. “All the best servants are, after all. Yet I have eyes as well. I’ve never seen you look at any woman the way you look at Sansa Stark.”

Sandor chuffed. “Best keep your eyes to yourself, then. They only see what they wish to.”

Jaime didn’t avert his gaze. His green eyes had gone cold, and in a low voice he said, “You might be different from when we last met, but you don't seem so different to me, and you're no less a man besides. It wasn't for any great noble gesture you attached yourself to the girl. She's as beautiful as she is eager to please; what's not to like? How long have you been fucking her?”

Sandor found it a great effort to keep his expression still. Beneath the table, his fist was tightly clenched in yearning for a throat. He knew that Jaime was only poking around in the dark, had no inkling how close to the truth he was hitting. He didn't like the sinister light it was cast in, but it served as a reminder of why it couldn't continue. This is how the world will see it.  

“Not everyone is as weak-willed as you,” he lied. “Best start accepting that.”

“My brother will be glad to hear it.” Jaime's eyes narrowed. “He never had the chance to consummate his marriage, I've been told. I wonder if—”

Sandor lost his fragile command of restraint in an instant; he lunged forward, took the man by the gorget and pulled their faces within inches of each other. 

“I will kill your demon imp brother,” he snarled. “I’ll kill you, too, if you ever think to touch her. She has nothing to prove to any of you.”

Jaime met him with a sickening grin. “We understand each other, then.”

“What is this?” Came a voice emerging from below deck. Sandor and Jaime glanced sideways together to see Brienne and Sansa approaching, the larger of the two putting a hand over her swordhilt. Sandor shoved Jaime back into his seat.

“Just getting reacquainted,” Jaime said smoothly, resuming a casual posture. “Sandor and I have much in common, it turns out.”

I will cut you in half, he thought. If you utter another word.

Sansa gave them each a curious look, but fixed her expression on pleasantry as she said, “I’m glad to hear it. The Lady Brienne and I have been getting acquainted as well.” She smiled up at the woman, then turned her gaze to Jaime. “She flatters you in her tellings, ser. I only hope she speaks true.”

“The wench is honest to a fault,” Jaime said easily. “The only one she lies to is herself.”

“I’d like for you to walk with me, then,” she replied. “If you and Sandor are quite done measuring your manhood, that is.”

“I think I’ve got the measure well enough,” he said amiably, rising. “I’d be delighted to walk, my lady. I might even find some pleasure in your company.” With an audacity cloaked in courtesy, he kissed her fingers and put a hand to the small of her back as he led the way below.

Brienne assumed her companion’s seat across from Sandor, pulling the flagon of wine to her and helping herself to a cup. She had striking blue eyes which were regarding him with interest. She was going to strike up some small talk, he knew. Sandor hated small talk. Liked large talk even less.

“Elder Brother sends his regards,” she said at last. “He holds a high view of you. As does Lady Stark.”

“They’d be the only two who would,” he muttered. Everyone was so eager to tell him what others thought of him. As if he was supposed to convince them of the validity. 

She laughed, shook her head. “There aren’t many who would speak highly of me, either.”

He snorted. “Faces like ours aren't made for first impressions.”

“Precisely.” She took a long pull of wine. “I admit, trust comes to me with difficulty. Elder Brother assures me that you have honor, but I'm still struggling to understand your motives in all this. The Quiet Isle seemed a fitting place for a half-crippled deserter. Where do you fit into the Stark restoration, Sandor Clegane? What's in it for you?”

She didn't tiptoe around her point; he had to appreciate that much at least, even as his lip curled in contempt. “I might ask you the same. You name me a half-crippled deserter as though you aren’t shacked up with one of your own. Where do Lannisters fit in to the Stark restoration, wench? Or do you need a history lesson?”

“I know Jaime Lannister,” she said coolly. “That’s the difference.”

You know the shape of his cock, more like . He leaned forward. “Make whatever assumptions you wish of my motives, I don’t look to you for absolution. And I trust you about as far as I could spit.” He turned his head and made it a demonstration. “I’ve answered for my crimes, to those who needed answering. Has Jaime? Have you?”

It gave him satisfaction, the way her eyes darted to the table. “We will,” she said quietly. 

“That’ll be the day,” he mused. “If Jaime Lannister is half the man you seem to think he is, he’ll be on his knees begging the girl for her mercy. But I know Jaime Lannister as well as you, or better. And I know Lannister pride. He’d sooner eat his other hand.”

Chapter Text

SANSA 20

It hadn’t surprised Sansa to find the men at each other’s throats, much as she wished it different. Sandor was on edge, and had no love for his former masters. Nor did Sansa. Brienne implored her to reconsider Jaime, however; fed her a tale of heroism in a bear pit to convince her. Sansa could tell she had a good heart. Whether it was clouded by naivete, as hers once was, remained to be seen. 

“Jaime gave me this sword,” Brienne had told her. “It’s called Oathkeeper now, and by all appearances a Lannister blade. But it wasn’t his to give, in truth. I return it to its rightful owner.”

Sansa fought back tears as the woman unsheathed the Valyrian steel, knelt and held it aloft. She knew it to be all that was left of her father’s greatsword Ice. It pained her to see it in this state. It has a better name than Widow’s Wail, at least. Sansa ran her fingers gingerly along the flat of the blade, then laid the hand upon the woman’s shoulder.

“You touch me deeply,” she said softly. “I boast no skill at arms, however. I would ask you to keep it awhile longer.”

“I would ask you to take me into your service, then,” said Brienne. “To wield it in your name.”

“That will serve,” Sansa replied kindly, despite how sick she felt as the ship rocked and swayed. “Rise, now. I’m eager to know how a woman comes to be a Knight.”

She was walking with Jaime now, having learned much and more of his companion to the point of satisfaction. Sansa regarded the Lannister with a larger share of apprehension. The Kingslayer had overseen her suffering the least, true enough, but only because he’d been away from the capital, trying to kill her brother instead. But Robb bested him. And so shall I, if it comes to that.

“I do hope the voyage has been kind to you,” she said with her hands clasped at her back. “Ser Brienne told me of all you both endured since my mother released you from captivity. It was incredibly gallant of you, to save her from that bear pit.”

“I doubt she gave you the half of it,” he replied lightly. “Let us not dance around the bushes, Lady Sansa. We’re not at court. You may speak plainly.”

“May I?” she inquired with an edge to her voice. “Very well, then. Ser Brienne is a good woman, so far as I can tell. But she’s yours first before she’s mine, despite what she might have me believe. Forgive me if I struggle to trust I’d ever have your loyalty, when you still have kin remaining to you. Ones who would see me in chains, at best.”

“You’d be a fool to trust me outright,” Jaime agreed. “I can’t say what it would be like, should I come to face my brother or sister again. There’s much left unfinished in my house.” He paused, as if in thought. “My word means very little, so I won’t bother with making promises to you. Brienne’s word, though…she’s as true as Arthur Dayne. You can be sure that if I were to ever make a move of betrayal against you, she’d be first to cut me down.”

After Sandor was finished with you, that is. “She’s fiercely loyal to you.”

He laughed. “She believes in me, Gods know why. It would grieve her, but it’s you she’s loyal to. And the vow made to your mother.”

“And who are you loyal to?” She asked bluntly. 

“I’m still figuring that out,” he replied. “I wish to do what’s right, come what may. Starting with fulfilling this bothersome vow once and for all.” Jaime looked to her with amusement. “You’ve amassed a whole host of cripples and monsters at your back.” 

“You’ve yet to join any host, it would seem to me,” Sansa pointed out. “You’ve yet to offer yourself to me formally. And if you cannot promise me loyalty, what need do I have of you? I’m quite done sleeping with one eye open.”

Jaime’s eyes were weary. “I’ve fallen out of favor with making vows. So what would you have me do?”

“I don’t need your vows, and I’d know better than to take stock in yours besides. So I’m at an impasse; what can you offer me?”

“Little and less,” he admitted. “Gold, perhaps. My sword, less effective in my left hand but not entirely useless. And my pride, which is all I have left that’s truly mine. But Lannisters pay their debts, my lady. Me and mine are in quite the deficit, where you’re concerned.”

“Pay it, then.” Sansa commanded. “Show me a sacrifice of pride, in exchange for my trust.”

Jaime made an incredulous sound. “Shall I don motley and perform some foolery? Or strip naked and run through the ship?”

“If that’s what it would take,” she shrugged. “I leave it to you.”

“Well, I didn't bring any motley with me. And I fear if I were to get naked, I might damage the pride of others.” 

“You'll have to think of something else, then,” Sansa told him, a stone wall against his humor. 

“You Starks are a stubborn lot,” he groused. He cast a look around, as if looking for inspiration, or to see if they were being observed. “Very well, then.” 

Ser Jaime cleared his throat. “I don’t regret opening King Aerys’ throat, and I’d do it again. But there are other things…things I regret, and hope to make my amends for. I count the crimes against your family in that, my lady.” With an air of discomfort, Jaime Lannister sunk to one knee. “I can’t promise I’ll ever be a good man, and I’ll never live up to the Knights I set out to emulate when I was young. But I’m trying…trying, to become a better one. A just one. Take me into your service, and I will never lie to you, or do you harm. And if I ever think to do you false, it won’t be from behind your back.”

“If you ever think to do me false,” Sansa replied in an even tone. “It will be to your great dismay.”

“Then I shall hope to never have cause to do so,” said Jaime. “If you are what you seem to be–and I must acknowledge, so few people are–then it will not come to that.”

She noted the way he put his loyalty on condition of her deserving it, not being entitled to it. All to the better, she thought to herself. I should never feel entitled. Sansa intended to earn her loyalties, and maintain them often. As her father had.

“And what of the sort of man are you trying to be, Ser Jaime?” Sansa asked placidly. “It’s easy to wish for, and a different matter entirely to achieve. What incentive do you have to burden yourself with any of it?” 

She saw it, then. His pride. Jaime’s mouth went into a hard line. “It took losing a hand to humble me, and it might have humbled me to death. That hand was the very essence of my manhood, and what was I without it? It took a woman to show me. The hand didn’t make the man, and I wasn’t half the man I thought I was when I was whole.” His eyes unfocused as he reflected upon it. Distantly he said, “She is the Northern star I follow now.” 

“You love her,” Sansa observed with fascination. Even in his current state of disarray, even short a hand, he would never have a claim to ugliness. And Brienne would never have a claim to beauty. Such love could never be accused of being superficial. What Jaime Lannister confessed to her was more profound than he could know. I am not the only one who found warmth this Winter, in the most unlikely of places.

“I’ve done my most terrible deeds in the name of love,” he said. “In that, too, she is different. Made me different.”

“And if Brienne were to die?” She asked. "What would become of you, were she not around to guide you?”

He gazed up at her, and considered the question thoughtfully. “I am different because of her, not for her. But Brienne will never die, so long as I live. She would haunt my every misdeed, I fear.”

In spite of herself, she smiled. She knew better than to allow herself to be swept up by such tales of romance, yet it seemed to her that it was the purest form of honor. It made a Lannister put aside his pride. It tamed a hound. Sansa laid a hand on his shoulder. “Then rise, Ser Jaime. I would accept your offer of service.” But I will not trust you so easily.

Jaime brushed himself down as he got to his feet. As if flipping a switch, he resumed his usual easy manner. “My lady is gracious,” he said with a courtesy couched in mockery, not unlike the way Sandor expressed such sentiment. He put his cold golden hand under her chin. “And so beautiful…how the lords will come clamoring. How will you choose, I wonder?”

Sansa didn’t like the way he was looking at her, as if he knew something she did not. “If you mean to offer your hand, forgive me for saying so but I’ve had my fill of Lannisters for one lifetime.” She gently shrugged away from him.

“Of course,” Jaime said. “I know Joffrey tormented you greatly. I thought perhaps Tyrion was a torment as well, albeit kinder. Yet you seem capable of seeing past a man’s disfigurements.” Sansa felt her stomach tighten, but she maintained control over her expression. “So long as we’re speaking honestly to one another, I must ask: was it at your request that one slew the other?”

Sansa halted, and so did Jaime. His green eyes bore into hers, as if reading them for lies. Accusations danced there. “You surprise me, ser. Tyrion thought highly of you; perhaps higher than any other. Do you really think he was capable of slaying your son?” Sansa would not feign ignorance of Joffrey’s parentage.

“Why not? He slew our Lord father. He set an entire city to the torch.”

“Be that as it may. He was innocent in Joffrey’s murder, as I am.”

He snorted. “I can't say I could grudge you for it too harshly; I might even call it a score settled, for all your losses. I might have sired the boy, but he was no son of mine; I do not mourn his passing.” Jaime’s tone darkened, then. “But do not lie to me. Tyrion confessed the crime to me himself.”

She looked at him with puzzlement. Littlefinger arranged Joffrey’s death, carefully framed them both. He’d confessed it with pride. Why, then, would Tyrion have taken the blame to Jaime when he hadn’t at his trial? “I can’t claim to know how Tyrion’s mind operates. But he’s the one who lied, however mystifying his reasons.” She wondered if perhaps the rumors of his setting King’s Landing to ruin might have another version of truth to them as well.

“Who, then?” Jaime wondered. “Name the true killer.”

She swallowed. How many times would she have to relive this tale? Say this name? “Petyr Baelish.” 

That made him bark out a laugh. “Petyr wasn't even there, girl.”

With a sigh she said, “You're all just as simple as he said you were. Your lord father didn't attend my uncle's wedding, either. In the right hands, a quill can be just as deadly as a sword. Or poison.”

That information quieted him. He looked distant, as if running through a memory. “What motive would Petyr have? He enjoyed power and privilege beyond his station, under Lannister reign.”

Sansa shrugged. “Not enough. And he didn't act alone.” Speaking of him at all was filling her with dread, and she felt desperate for a change of subject. Jaime was not a fit audience for her story today. She resumed their walk. “I'm glad Joffrey's dead. I wish someone had cared for me enough to kill him for my sake. You'll find no peace on the matter from me. Of Petyr’s crimes, I grudge him for that one the least.”

Jaime regarded her with interest. “I was wondering if there was ever a wolf in there. She finally bares her teeth.” He showed her his own when he grinned.

“Mine are long and sharp, my lord,” Sansa replied defiantly. “As long and sharp as yours.”

“Careful now, my lady. You know how that song ends. And with your house in such precarious shape…” he clicked his tongue. 

“Yours doesn't fare much better,” Sansa reminded him. “All the more reason to put our focus on forging alliances, wouldn't you agree?”

Jamie’s grin became a wicked smirk. “Shall we join our houses then? Third time’s the victor, as they say.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, and he laughed. She had a small smile to spare as well. “I fear it’s not meant to be,” she said airily. “I’m not to your tastes.”

“No, I suppose you’re not,” he yielded with a tilt of the head. “Nor am I to yours. It seems to me we’ve been cursed with similar tastes, beyond all reason.”

Sansa kept her eyes forward, determined not to betray any admission to the suggestion. It was no good, though. Jaime stood a little straighter, puffed up with gratification. “It’s good that you don’t deny it. It’s important that we don’t imperil our budding alliances with lies.”

There was no use in denying it, she knew. Try as she might to put up a wall in mixed company, Jaime was too familiar with her companion, had easily seen through his. Was it any wonder she had caught them at each other’s throats? Still, it was discomforting. The less he knew, the better. “I care for Sandor deeply, I’m not ashamed to say it. He endeavors for finding a better way, as you do. And he’s never done me harm. It's to his credit that I believe you might be capable of change at all. Meet half his measure, and we very well might make a fine alliance.”

Later that evening, the four of them shared a table together, drinking wine and talking. Sansa made Brienne recount the story of the bear pit again, and she told them of Braavos, and the Uncloaking festival—the parts that were safe to share. They kept conversation light. Sansa did, anyway; Sandor barely spoke, taking his cups in a stiff silence. 

Arya sat alone, keeping them in sight without drawing attention to herself. Sansa fought the urge to stare at the hooded figure, still in disbelief that that man was her sister at all. She could not fault her for wishing to keep her identity concealed. Would that I could do the same. 

Brienne had helped her to scrub the dye from her hair earlier that day, and though it would take several more washes before it fully faded, the red was already shining through under the setting sun. Sandor signed a gesture of approval when he saw it. Otherwise, he paid her very little attention at all, despite being sat right next to her. She and Jaime were the more talkative of the group, though even Brienne made an effort. He misliked the company, she knew. But as Sansa saw it, allies were in short supply. She would take all that she could get. 

Would Petyr know she was coming to stake her claim on Winterfell? He had spies and assassins in every corner of the world, it would seem. He might have some waiting for me there already.

I'm going home. It was the thought that banished any other dark for fearful thought that came to mind. I'm going home. It made her feel almost giddy. Or was that the wine?

The hour grew late, and they were all a little looser with drink. “Let's play a game,” Sansa suggested, as conversation lulled and yawns went around the table. “I'm not ready to turn in just yet.”

“What does my lady have in mind?” Asked Brienne.

“There’s a game I played with the Innkeep’s daughter in Braavos, when we were getting to know each other,” Sansa explained. Saying goodbye to Aneesa had been hard; she had taken the truth as well as could be expected, but there was some measure of betrayal that couldn’t be helped. She missed her already. “We would take turns telling of an assumption we had made about one another, or about our culture. If it was right, they drank. If it was wrong, you drank.”

“Sounds simple enough,” Jaime said agreeably. 

“I'll begin,” Sansa volunteered, turning to Brienne. “Ser Brienne. I assume you have never been to Dorne.”

She drank. “I'd very much like to, someday. My lady, I assume you have a love of horses, for the way that great black beast down there gentles for you.”

“Drink,” Sansa smiled. “Stranger is a friend, but he’s an exception. Riding just gets you dirty and sore, and the stable is all foul smells and flies.” The smell had almost made her ill when she’d visited him earlier, and recalling it turned her stomach now. There were no smells on this ship that didn’t send her stomach churning, in truth. It was all mildew and salt and dung and sweat. Even the wine stank, but there was nothing else to drink.

“I’ll be fully drunk by the end of this game,” Brienne said as she drank, and Sansa motioned to Jaime that it was his turn. 

“Very well,” he swirled the wine around in his cup thoughtfully. “Sansa. I assume you favor the taste of sour things, despite your sweet demeanor.”

She held his gaze as she drank. “Lemoncakes are both, in truth, and that’s what makes them a favorite. But I’ll accept it.” She turned to Brienne. “I assume you to be a woman of ceaseless patience, to withstand so much of Ser Jaime’s company.”

She laughed, and she drank. “More than you could know, my lady.” She cast a weary eye to Sandor, who so far had received no assumptions. She must have felt obliged to include him, though he gave no hint that he wished it. “I’m told you wore a white cloak, yet never took a Knight’s oaths. I assume it to be because you wished to distance yourself from your brother, Ser Gregor.”

Sandor placed his cup firmly on the table. “I never took a Knight's oaths because Knights are full of shit. My brother was no outlier. Their oaths are meaningless.” He turned his scorn on Jaime. “You'd know that better than anyone.”

Brienne drank. Silence fell over the table, as Sansa shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “You'd be next, Sandor.”

He chuffed. “I don't wish to play.”

“Come now,” Jaime insisted. “It's all in good spirits. Make an assumption.”

“Assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups,” Sandor rasped, draining his cup for good measure. “I’ve had enough of them for one lifetime. I'm off to bed.”

He rose, and Sansa made no move to stop him. It was poorly done to bring up Gregor, she knew. Whether it was innocent or intentional, it made no matter. Probably the latter. The two seemed determined to test Sandor’s temper.

“His disposition is just as sunny as I remembered,” Jaime remarked as the other man disappeared below deck. “A sour thing indeed.”

She turned back to the pair before her. “Sandor is preoccupied, is all,” she said. “He anticipates trouble ahead. As should I. But it's good to be going home. I prefer to savor that thought, and trouble myself with the rest later.”

Brienne and Jaime shared a loaded glance, seeming to communicate in silence. They did this often, Sansa noticed. Brienne reached across the table, found Sansa's hand.

“My lady,” she began. “I've searched for a way to broach the topic, but there's something I—we—wish to discuss with you. About going home.”

Sansa blinked. Were they trying to get me alone? “Speak freely and be heard, ser.”

“There’s much that has happened in recent months, much that even Jaime and myself will be unaware of. The situation in the North changes by the hour, it seems. But since your mother’s death, a band of men have taken up the cause of seeking justice for the crime. Their leader…” she put a hand absentmindedly to her neck, and Sansa noticed the faintest traces of a scar there. “Any Frey or Lannister they find is hanged. Loyalists as well.”

Sansa’s expression was stone. “Seems a noble cause,” she said. At least someone is out there seeking justice.

“Indeed,” Brienne said. “I had the misfortune of running across them myself. Oathkeeper marked me as a Lannister loyalist. My squire as well. I assure you, my lady, I am not.”

“You must have convinced them,” Sansa offered. “You still live.”

She shifted uncomfortably. Jaime sighed. “It’s me they want. I’m to beg you to beg them to spare my life.”

“Finally, your true motivations come out.” Sansa said flatly, feeling oddly betrayed. For all the talk of service, it was only for want of favors. “Go on, then, Ser Jaime. Beg. What can you offer the world, should you keep walking it?”

“I can’t say the world is better off with me in it,” Jaime replied. “Only that I wish to die for my own crimes, not someone else’s.”

“Would that my house was given such deference,” Sansa said coldly. “It was your crimes my father died for, was it not?” Your bastard who gave the command.

“Please, my lady,” Brienne said emphatically. “My ultimate goal is to return you safely home, and I would serve you loyally thereafter, if you’d still have me. I know it's not fair to ask, and I wouldn’t ask it, if you weren’t the only one living who could do it. Their leader will listen to no one else. And it is not only Jaime's life you would save in the effort. My squire, his name is Podrick. Podrick Payne. He's a good lad, and innocent. They hold him as collateral.”

Payne. The name gave her a chill, even after all this time. But she had known of him, during the time she spent as Tyrion's wife. He'd belonged to him then, and she wondered at how he'd come into Brienne's service. Surely after the trial. It was no wonder the Brotherhood took her for a Lannister creature; she carried their steel, took their loyalists to squire, fell in love with their heir. But Podrick was alike to Ser Ilyn in name only, she knew. He was of an age with her, and was as frightened as she had been. 

“Who leads this brotherhood, that I would hold such influence?” She asked. The two exchanged another glance. She sighed. “The time for secrets is well past, don't you think?”

“I think it best to meet them for yourself,” said Brienne. “But you will know them, and understand.”

It irritated her. She’d get no answers, she knew. She’d provide none in return. She felt sick, and suddenly tired. “I will consider your request, then. But the hour is late. I bid you good evening, sers.”

Chapter Text

SANDOR 21

“I knew they had other motives,” Sandor rasped when Sansa recounted the secret task that the two Knights had asked of her. He shouldn’t have left her alone with them. He’d been so irritable in their presence, and having to abruptly restrain the part of him that had been loosed in Braavos only irritated him further. “A Lannister always has self-interest up their sleeve. You owe him nothing.”

They slept in separate cabins aboard the ship, but in dreams they were reunited, and the restraints came off. The girl had become skilled at controlling them; they’d taken on no more strays in some time. It was the two of them, alone. It was bliss.

Sansa tended to agree, but she was hesitant. “I don’t want this choice…but won’t it be my duty to make such choices? Won’t my people look to me to pass judgment?”

“Pass it, then,” Sandor said dismissively. It was an easy choice, to his mind. “No one deserves to hang more than Jaime Lannister.”

“Brienne believes in him,” Sansa said thoughtfully. “She believes he’s a better man. Who am I to say he isn’t, or can’t be? I may find myself in her place sooner than late, making the same case for you.”

Sandor’s mouth twitched. He dearly misliked being associated with the Lannister lot, though he knew it was only reasonable. Would a day ever come that he wouldn’t be? “What makes them think these men will listen to a word you say? They may take you as a Stark pretender, for all we know. You’ll be turning up with a Lannister, a woman carrying Lannister steel, and the Lannister’s dog. Might be we’ll all hang.”

“I find myself wondering the same,” Sansa replied. “They said I would know their leader, though. It assumes they will know me as well.”

“Games of assumptions are dangerous,” he warned. “We know nothing, and they’re leading you to danger. I say we stay out of it, leave them to their fate. His life is of no concern to you.”

“I doubt it would be so simple,” Sansa murmured. She changed the dream, and now they were standing before a Weirwood. It was a familiar setting; Winterfell’s godswood. It brought her comfort.

“We have other matters to discuss,” Sansa said, back to him as she stared into the tree’s sullen wooden face. 

Her tone troubled him. It was too controlled, as if she were fighting to keep it that way. Sandor came up behind her, placed his hands upon her shoulders. “What is it, little bird?”

“Do you love me, Sandor?” She asked. “Truly? Unconditionally? Do you trust me completely?”

The line of questioning took him off his guard. “Have I given you cause to think otherwise?”

He felt her shoulders tighten somewhat beneath his palms. “No,” she said quietly. “And my love for you is just as deeply felt. You believe me, don’t you?”

“None of this,” Sandor gave her a gentle squeeze. “I shouldn’t have let them get me out of sorts. I’ll make a better effort at it.”

“What if I don’t want you to?” Sansa asked in a thin voice. “What if you didn’t need to?”

“‘What if’ is the refrain of lunatics,” he reminded her. “What’s eating you, girl? You’re trembling.”

“I’ve taken ill,” she said. “I’ve fought bile in my throat all day, and even now I sleep fitfully.”

“I get greensick, too,” Sandor replied. “All this damned swaying doesn’t agree with me. We’ll be on solid ground soon enough.”

“I’ve never been greensick.”

“It can come on at random,” he assured her as well as himself. “It will pass.”

“In time, yes,” she whispered. She reached up for his hands, lowered them, wrapped them around her middle. “I have more than Jaime’s life in my hands, now.” 

If he weren’t already asleep, he might have fell faint. What did you expect, dog? Sandor had been careful, as careful as could be managed without the assurance of moon tea. Not careful enough. 

“It’s the sea, nothing more. It will pass,” he insisted. The alternative was more than he could bear to speak aloud.

“I haven't had my blood. It's been weeks.” Sansa turned to face him, her deep blue eyes full of determination. “Surely you've noticed.”

Sandor's mouth went dry. He didn't have any words for that. He’d taken note of it, of course. He’d never been so tuned in to the way the moon turned as he was lately. He always drove the thoughts away, though. There were other explanations for the delay. Explanations he preferred.

“What have I done?” he heard himself say as he felt the color drain from his face. 

“I know this is a bitter cup to swallow.” Sansa put her hands gingerly on his chest. “I need you to believe me when I say I accept this outcome, free of regret or fear. Sandor, it opened my eyes to something I’ve known in my heart all along. Something I’ve pondered as a choice, long before it became a necessity.”

“No.” Sandor broke away from her, lest she see the grief that twisted his face. “You’ve enough problems facing you now. There are other ways to deal with these things.”

“What would you suggest?” She asked gently. 

“We’ll find a Maester,” Sandor said. “They have their methods.”

“My method is simpler,” Sansa replied. “Happier, too.”

“Happier?” He asked incredulously. “You’re not near so naive as to truly believe that.”

“It's not naivete that compels me to say it,” she agreed, with a sense of calm that made him want to scream. “It's for all the love we bear one another. Wed me, Sandor. It is the better way.”

“A pity, then, that love is the last thing marriages are arranged for.” Sandor's lip curled with contempt. “In every other respect, it's outlandish.”

“Is it?” Sansa reached for his hands. “I've been matched to power, and gold, and beauty. What good has any of it done me? You're who I want. I am yours already, in all but name. So wed me, and make it so.” She smiled, and it curdled his stomach. He hated the way that, even now, he wanted only to kiss her and feel her against him. Your impulses will be her doom.

“Open your eyes,” he begged her. “We’ve tread this ground already, and this doesn’t change it.” 

He lowered himself to sit on the felled log before the heart tree, and gazed down at his reflection in the still pool. His mind was racing, and simultaneously felt mired in molasses. He ran a shaking hand down his face. “I should've never let it come to this.”

Sansa knelt down before him, blocking his view of the monster in the water. “It took two to play,” she reminded him. “Heaping all the blame upon yourself is a tiresome exercise. There needs be no blame, or shame, or guilt, only a choice. A simple choice, my love. No more worrying after what others might think. No more hiding what is so plain to see. Wed me, cloak me in your protection forever.”

“Protection.” The word was a bitter taste. “I've done you a world of harm. It very well may kill you, too.” The thought was almost too much to bear. He could not allow it to come to that. “Elder Brother might be able to help…better than a Maester. He won't approve, but his discretion could be counted upon.”

The thought of confessing to the old man filled him with a dread deeper than he'd ever felt. But it would need be done. If there was any protection he could offer her, it was this. It's me she needs protecting from. And herself.

“There is no need for that.” Sansa took his hands again. “Wed me, and we can declare our love before the Old Gods and the New. Lay down your sword, trade it for my hand. A babe in your arms. A better life.”

“There is no better life!” He roared, exploding with a sudden fury as he snatched his hands away as quickly as if scalded. “That ship is sailing, do you understand? You’d have me shackle you to disgrace forever. The child, too.” 

She wasn’t thinking straight. This was all some grand story to her. Somehow he’d gotten swept up in it, but now harsh reality was making its advance. The world was awful, but it was the world they lived in. They had to play by its rules, not make up their own. Bringing a child into it was cruel enough, but inflicting him as father upon it was even crueler.

“We each have our own disgraces to answer for,” she reminded him. “Wed me, and we will show them all our true measure. Together.”

He was on his feet now, and pacing around the clearing. “You don’t know what you’re asking. I'm not fit for such things.”

“Who is, then? Name him.” She had her hands at her hips, and gestured for his suggestion.

“That isn’t for me to decide,” he said scornfully. “But this is. And I’ll make it right, I swear it.”

“You stubborn fool,” she sighed her frustrations. “To make it right, you must first accept that it isn’t wrong. Please, Sandor…” 

“I said no!” He gave the flat of his hand to the nearest tree, with a bang that sent a flock of ravens screeching into the sky. She flinched, and halted her advance.

He resumed the pacing. “I’ll write to Elder Brother. He’ll come. Stay the damage. I'll return to the Quiet Isle, take the vows…he’d accept that trade. Would set it right.” 

He felt a sharp sting in the cheek as she slapped him. Her eyes shone with tears. “Stop it!” She said shrilly. “Don’t you dare abandon me now. Would you rob me of having a say in the matter?”

Sandor touched the cheek she'd struck. He felt too numb for pain, but the anger remained as he pointed at her accusingly. “Your say has been had, every damned step of the way.” He pounded his chest. “What of mine? Do I get a say?”

Sansa pressed her lips together, glaring at him. “Say what you will, then.”

“I say,” he sneered, “This folly cannot continue. It never should have begun, but I can't put the cork back in that bottle. So let me do the right thing for once, damn you. The reasonable thing. You might even thank me one day, but I won't hold my breath. You'd be better off to hate me.”

“I'll never hate you,” Sansa said firmly. “I’ll mourn you, and pity you too, the fool you are. You'll have to live with that. I'm not drinking any poisons, either. If you refuse to take your place at my side, I will raise your bastard alone. I will not punish them to satisfy your need to punish yourself.”

“You call it punishment,” Sandor’s face darkened. “I call it mercy.”

“I call it craven,” she said sharply. “And stupid. Spare the both of us your mercy, and turn it on yourself.”

He took her by the chin, brought his face close. “Might be it does make me craven. It should scare you too. And it might, eventually. Only when it’s too late.” 

Her eyes were defiant as she looked at him now. “The thought of naming you husband and bearing your heir fills me with joy, not fear. It makes me feel whole.” Sansa closed the space between them, little as it was, and touched his cheek with a more delicate hand. “Fear is wasted here. I ask you to think it through, Sandor. Take your time, but don't take too long; I won't be able to hide the truth forever. You know my wishes. The choice is yours.”

She kissed him lightly, and then she was gone. Sandor awoke as well. Alone. He was glad for the solitude. He put his head in his hands, and wept.

Chapter Text

SANSA 21

Sansa pulled her cloak tightly around herself as the ship lurched into the harbor. The time had come. 

The final days of the voyage had passed quietly, but not quickly; Sandor remained distant, and she left him to his own dreams at night. She would have him face her in the flesh or not at all. 

The whole thing vexed her so; she hadn't expected the discussion to go smoothly, and regretted not coming to the revelation sooner. Before the added complication. But the development made everything so much more clear, to her viewing. She had erected a wall between her head and her heart before, and accepted it must be so. But now it seemed absurd, and the wall had vanished with her moon’s blood. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and I will not live forever. The legacy was hers to continue, and no one she would rather continue it with.

He wouldn't have taken it any better, then or now, she thought bitterly. She knew he would always take the most difficult path available, yet felt betrayed by his reaction all the same. She thought his love for her might transcend all his doubts and fears. Perhaps I'm as naive as he says. Despairing, Sansa considered perhaps he didn’t love her as much as she thought. Maybe he’d prefer the Quiet Isle to you.

Brienne had kept her company well enough, but she would have preferred solitude; it was a great effort masking her sickness. She would excuse herself to make water only to empty her stomach. Every scent was an affront, and every meal a battle. 

They were all gathered on the deck, even Arya, who kept a safe distance. Sansa wondered if she intended to remain a man forever, if she would ever see her sister's face again. Only time would tell. It was enough, for now, to know she was close. How she wished she could confide in her, though. She doubted her sister would take it any better than he had. Sansa felt so troubled, and so long as Sandor brooded, she felt utterly alone. 

The chill of Winter was colder than Sansa had ever felt, and the snow fell thick upon her cheeks. It was always nighttime now, and always snowing. White Harbor had a frosted, ethereal look about it. Most of the buildings were swallowed up so that only the rooftops were visible, and similar to the Quiet Isle, tunnels had been made in the deep snowfall for foot travel. 

As they disembarked, they found a small party of Manderly guards waiting to receive them. One among them did not bear the Merman upon his breast, however, or any sigil at all. Upon their approach, the man drew back his hood, revealing a familiar face that overwhelmed Sansa with emotion. 

“Elder Brother!” She all but sobbed as she ran to him, threw herself into his arms. He hugged her tightly. 

“It is good to see you again, my dear lady,” he said. “Didn't I tell you we would meet again?”

She buried her face into his furs. It was the warmest welcome she could have hoped for. “I thought it would be a long time yet.”

“I trust you've been well?” He laughed as they broke apart, holding her at arm's length to get a good look at her. Sandor came up from behind. He was more reluctant to show his affections, but Elder Brother clapped his shoulder all the same. “You as well, Sandor. I hope you've fared well these months. I must admit, your absence has been sorely felt on the Isle.”

“Might be you won't feel it much longer,” he murmured. That earned the pair a questioning glance, but Elder Brother made no comment on Sansa's face as it fell, moving on to greet Jaime and Brienne. Suddenly, the septon's presence filled her with dread. Would he take Sandor South, when she went North?

He and their escort brought them to the Merman's Court, the splendid seat of Wyman Manderly, who awaited them from his throne at the end of the hall. Sansa had never been to White Harbor herself or met the lord who ruled here, but she knew them to be fiercely loyal to her father. She was among friends. Still, she was careful to keep her guard about her. 

The Lord of White Harbor was overlarge, and had a booming voice to match. “Lady Sansa Stark, it is my deepest pleasure to welcome you to White Harbor!” He called. 

She dipped a curtsy. “The pleasure is mine, Lord Wyman. You have my sincerest gratitude for receiving us. I hope you're faring well, given the conditions.”

To his right was a young girl. She had green braided hair and pale blonde brows, and was trotting down the steps to meet her now. 

“This is my dear daughter Wylla,” Wyman announced, and at the introduction she gave Sansa a bow, took her hands in her own. 

“It is an honor to meet you at long last, Lady Sansa. We’ve eagerly awaited your arrival.” She spared a glance over her shoulder, to her companions. Such a warm welcome did not extend to them, it would seem. 

“I must apologize for the lack of an audience,” Wyman said. “I've sent all the men I can spare to aid the conflict in the North, and these damnable snows keep most of the rest of us shuttered up most days. When all of this is over, you must return and experience White Harbor at its proper glory.”

“I shall,” Sansa promised. “If it pleases my lord, I find myself at a disadvantage for information. What news comes from the North?”

Father and daughter both donned grim expressions. “Much of it is unbelievable, my lady. I would not trouble you with the details here. I have a modest feast in preparation for your arrival. That should make a more agreeable setting.”

“Come with me, my lady,” Wylla beckoned. “I'll show you to your guest chamber, where you may get washed up and rest after your long travels. I have some dresses I think will fit you nicely as well, I'll have them brought up.”

Sansa smiled. “That would be delightful. What of my escort?”

Wylla's smile faltered only slightly. “They are to receive all the hospitality White Harbor has to offer.”

The room set aside for her was extravagant, immaculately decorated with nautical carvings and tapestries, and provided every bodily comfort she could wish for. A fire roared in a massive stone hearth, and the four poster featherbed could have fit a man Wyman’s size twice over. A hot bath was drawn up, and Sansa soaked in it until the water turned cold. Wylla had dresses brought up as promised, and Sansa chose one in sea green. She almost didn't recognize the girl in the mirror when she looked herself over. I look a proper lady again. It was a strange feeling. 

She smoothed her hands down over the bodice, lingering over her stomach. She thought she should feel afraid, or sad, or ashamed. She didn't, though. Sansa had already made her peace with this outcome, had long understood the possibilities that came with the choice she made in sharing her flesh. Did he think us immune? 

Sansa couldn't comprehend his refusal. The man had no love for oaths and vows, and was determined he wasn't worthy of her hand. Yet he'd taken a vow in her name, had accepted much more than a hand. He confounded her. He will come around.

When she found her way to the feasting hall at last, she saw everyone was accounted for save for Arya. She had disembarked separate from them, with the promise she'd rejoin them upon their departure for Winterfell. Sansa wondered where she must have gone. Not far, surely. Not in the snows. 

The setting was an intimate one, and the food on offer was plentiful despite the claims of modesty. The scent of fish threatened Sansa's appetite. She would need put on a brave face and suffer through it. At the far end of the table sat Wyman and Wylla. Sandor and Elder Brother were seated across from each other, speaking with their hands. Sansa observed how quickly and fluidly they signed; far too fast for her to keep up with. Sandor had a petulant look about him, and Elder Brother seemed none too pleased besides. She had a strong notion as to why. Next to them came Jaime and Brienne, several spaces down from the rest. They were fish out of water here, Sansa knew. The Lannister was tolerated, not welcome.

“Ah, there she is!” Wyman called cheerfully when he spied her, rising to his feet. Wylla did the same. Sandor and the Elder Brother ceased their silent bickering, also rising. Jaime was the last to find his feet.

“I hope I didn't keep you waiting,” she said as she approached.

“Don't be absurd,” he said cheerfully. “We were becoming acquainted. And you are a quite a vision,” Wyman observed as she claimed the seat adjacent him, with Elder Brother sat to her right. A servant came by to pour her wine. “That color agrees with you.”

“You're kind to say so,” she smiled. “You've been exceedingly generous in my accommodations. I should hope my escort was made equally as comfortable?” She cast a look around the table. Everyone looked bathed and clothed, at least.

“Of course,” said Wylla. “Any friend of yours is a friend to us. Though I must admit, it's not the sort of company I would expect. It took much assurance on the Elder Brother's part to convince us to open our gates for all these lions at all.”

“There's only one Lion among us,” Sansa corrected. “And I add my voice to his; as I understand it, we face bigger threats.”

“Aye, on that we agree.” Wyman said gravely. Still, he jabbed his fork in Jaime's direction. “But the North Remembers, Lannister. Eat your fill, while you can. Lady Stoneheart will see to you, else I might consider showing you the same hospitality yours showed mine at the Twins.”

Jaime and Brienne exchanged one of their famous glances, and Sansa looked between them with confusion. “Lady Stoneheart?”

“She waits for you as well, child,” Wyman's manner softened as he put a massive hand over hers. “I cannot claim to have met her myself, but if the rumors are to be believed…” he exchanged a look with his daughter. “Strange times. And dark. Gods, where do I begin?”

“There is some good news,” Wylla offered. “We could start there, father.”

“Yes, that serves. The girl has dined enough on grief.”

“As it happens, you aren't the only Stark who found their way home,” Wylla told her. Sansa quickly fought to regain control over her features as her eyes went wide with surprise. Had Arya been discovered? 

“How could that be?” She asked, feigning ignorance. “All my kin are dead.”

“Not all. And not only Starks. Your half brother, Jon Snow, was rumored to be murdered in a mutiny, but he in fact lives.” That made Sansa gasp in astonishment. She could have leapt out of her seat with the sudden rush of joy she felt. 

“Truly?” She breathed. “Jon is alive?” 

“By all accounts,” Wylla confirmed. “They say he commands a wildling army and carries a flaming sword, and flies a dragon too. A great white one, like his wolf. It all sounds like a fable, but as my father says…strange times, my lady.”

“A dragon? Jon?” She gaped between the two Manderlys. “How is that possible?”

“Much has happened, it's difficult to know where to start. A girl came from the East, with a great host of savages and eunuchs, calling herself the last living Targaryen. She very well might be; she looks the part, and the three dragons she rode in with all but confirm it. She flies upon one, Jon another. The third…”

“I heard,” Sansa said gravely. “So it's true? Tyrion Lannister rides a dragon, destroyed Kings Landing?”

“True enough,” Wyman nodded. “Only, it seems the Imp acted against his Dragon Queen's wishes. She came to claim the throne, not destroy it. She's taken him prisoner, and that dragon goes riderless now. He awaits judgment as we speak, but it's become a secondary matter now. Turn him over to Stoneheart's mercy too, I say.”

“Hear hear,” Sandor growled, startling them all. 

Wyman chuckled, taking a healthy drink of wine. “The Hound bears no love for the masters who kicked him, I take it.”

Sandor made no reply but to grunt his agreement. Down the table, she saw Jaime make a droll face.

“There's more,” Wylla said to Sansa. “Brandon and Rickon, too, were found alive. Though…” She turned sorrowful eyes to her father, and Sansa felt the hope die in her chest as fast as it had ignited. “I'm sorry, my lady. With good news comes the bad, still. Bran lives, but he's…different. They say he's picked up some strange sorcery in the far North. He knows things he shouldn't, and sees things too.”

Sansa stared at her, uncomprehending. “Sorcery? Bran?” One brother a dragonrider, the other a sorcerer. Arya could change her face, and Sansa could change her dreams. The world she was returning to was as strange as it was wonderful. 

“Another thing you will need see for yourself, I would say,” Wyman declared. “But the boy is alive and well, by all accounts, crippled as he is.”

“And Rickon?” 

Wyman's chins quivered as his expression fell. “It pains me near too greatly to speak aloud. It's still a fresh wound. I took the boy into my protection, and I failed him.”

“Don't say that, father.” Wylla put in. “You did the best you could.”

He sighed, setting down the half chicken he was working on. “I doubt the boy could have ever made his way back to a civilized life, if I'm truthful. He was closer to that wolf of his than human. Barely knew a word of the common tongue, only had the taste for raw meat. Perhaps his was the kinder fate. Still, we shouldn't have let him go…”

“No,” Sansa breathed. She felt she was losing him twice. “He was just a boy.”

“We thought he would be safe in Winterfell, once Stannis reclaimed the castle. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, as you well know. Jon cannot inherit, and Bran had not yet made himself apparent. Things have developed rapidly of late, my lady. Surely they develop still as we sit at this table. Each day dark words come as the raven flies.”

“What has happened, Lord Wyman?” Sansa bit back her tears. “What happened to my baby brother?”

“War.” He said in a low voice. “But it's not men who come down from the far North. They say the dead walk, and every man who falls in battle rises again for the other side. Their eyes turn bluer than that one's.” He gave a sharp nod in Brienne's direction. “The only way to destroy them is with fire, or obsidian. Your brother…he was young, and wild, but he was a fighter. And fearless. When The Wall came down…he stowed away with the rest of the men as they made their march. He defended Winterfell with his life.”

It was too much to bear, and impossible to process. “I should have been there. I should be there now.” I could have stopped him. Kept him close.

“Sweet girl, you're no warrior. You must remain here with us, until such time we hear word that it's safe.”

“And what if the word never comes, Lord Wyman?” She asked sharply. “If this army made it past the Wall, why not Winterfell as well? What happens when the dead march on White Harbor, with naught but a skeleton crew to defend it?”

The large man’s expression was severe. “I ponder after that outcome with every breath I take, and pray with all the faith left to me that we will prevail. Do not think me craven; we must all play to our strengths. Winterfell is all that stands between us and certain doom, it's true. And I will not send another Stark into it to die, not again. You're safe here, for as long as all men are safe.”

“If I am to die,” Sansa said, “I will do so defending my home, with the family that remains to me. I'm no warrior, but it takes more than steel to win wars. I cannot sit idly by.” She was reminded of the night Stannis pressed his attack on King's Landing, and the helpless feeling of sitting like a duck as the women awaited the outcome. I am a wolf, not a duck. 

“You've a noble heart,” Wyman said gently. “You look so strikingly like your mother, but you're every bit Ned's girl as well. Still, it's for that reason I cannot let you go into that Hell, child. Ned's ghost would haunt me forever if I did. One brother cannot inherit, the other cannot reproduce. You're the last hope for your house's survival.”

Across from her, Sandor slammed his cup down on the table, making Sansa jump in her seat. “So we're to sit at table and ignore it, then?” He rasped. “For the sake of preserving good breeding stock?”

“Hold your tongue, Sandor,” Elder Brother hissed.

“You of all people should be glad to sit at this table, Hound,” Lord Wyman said darkly. He had no kindly demeanor to spare him. “If the battle of the Blackwater was enough to tuck your tail, the battle up North would make you fill your boots with piss. Then we'd have to burn the rest of you just to make sure you were dead. Not that it wouldn't give me pleasure to do so.”

Sandor shot out of his seat, and at once the Manderly guard drew their steel and advanced. Wylla was on her feet too, and Elder Brother. They were all shouting at once, and it was impossible to parse what anyone was saying. The noise was unbearable to Sansa's ears, and she found herself standing too.

“Shut up!! All of you!” She screamed. To her surprise, the shouting ceased. She felt all the eyes in the room fixed on her. She looked at them all in turn, with her eyes landing on Sandor last. He was glowering at her.

“Lord Wyman, I understand your desire for caution. I don't take it lightly. But what I believe Sandor was trying to say, is I won't accept inaction in such a dire time. No matter the cost. And he would be correct in that.” She lowered herself into her seat, took the man's great hands in her own. “I'm grateful for your hospitality, and your loyalty to my father is a debt I will spend a lifetime hoping to repay. But you cannot keep me here against my will. I cannot stay.”

He considered her for a long moment. “You damned wolves are so stubborn,” he complained. “You may come and go as you please, of course. Just don't say I didn't warn you. And if death comes for Winterfell…you best tell your father I tried.”

Chapter Text

SANDOR 22

The world was awful. From the moment they stepped foot off the ship, Sandor felt the familiar hostility press in. It gave him a strange satisfaction. I'm awful too. If he couldn't convince the girl, might be that everyone else would. She'll see.

There was one person who didn't regard Sandor with disgust, and looking him in the eye felt like a knife twisting in his gut. That would change soon enough. He knew he would have to make his confession to the Elder Brother, would need beg his mercy. Anger clouded his contrition, though. He shares in the blame. 

Despite the stiff reception from their hosts, they were accommodated generously. Sansa was ushered off to a different part of the castle, while he, Jaime, Brienne, and Elder Brother were led to a cluster of guest rooms, presumably more modest than the ones reserved for nobility. Still, it had all the comforts he could ask for, and fresh clothing was brought in as well. Sandor bathed quickly before dressing in them. His hair was still wet and dripping when a knock came at his door. 

“Enter,” he muttered as he finished the lacings of his breeches. 

“I hope I'm not intruding,” Elder Brother said as he came in, donning his familiar brown robes.

Sandor didn't savor the thought of facing the man just now. Or ever. But he knew they weren't like to get many opportunities at privacy here. 

“I knew you'd come,” He rasped. “Let’s get on with it.”

“We’re not on the Quiet Isle, Sandor,” he chuckled as he came fully into the room, closing the door behind him. “I come as a friend, not seeking confession. Though you did make an insinuation before which might have overjoyed me once.”

“You don’t wish me to return?” he wondered with wry amusement. “Was I really so unbearable?”

“You’ve merely done all the work you can, under my guidance,” said Elder Brother. “Your path of penitence takes you in a different direction.”

“You’re wrong,” Sandor said bitterly. “I’ve only found more penitence to seek. It was folly to cast me out. I’m as good as a Lannister here, or worse. This damned leg slows me down in a fight. The wench can protect the girl better than I. I've no place in this world.”

“The girl looks healthy and content enough to me,” said Elder Brother. “That isn't Brienne’s doing.”

“The truth of it will have you choking on those words.” 

“Give it, then,” said the old man, claiming a chair before the hearth and motioning for Sandor to take the other. “If it's confession you need, I will hear it.”

Sandor did take the seat, but he would not hear this confession. The risk of being overheard was always present in a castle such as this, especially with such mistrustful hosts. Speaking the truth aloud felt more shameful besides. 

‘She was wounded,’ Sandor gestured with his hands, drawing a line across his chest where the girl was cut. ‘On the ship to Braavos.’ It was as good a place as any to begin.

Elder Brother had a thoughtful look. ‘By you?’

Sandor glared at him, but shook his head. ‘On my watch.’

‘How did you respond?’

‘Poorly.’ He detailed the event, and the aftermath. The cauterization, how he turned to his cups. How her left arm was weaker for it. The hand gestures with which they communicated didn’t allow for complete sentences, but rather a series of words which could be interpreted as such to a practiced mind.

‘It took courage to heal her in that way. You shouldn't have punished yourself for it.’

‘Should have thrown myself overboard, for what came after.’

Elder Brother motioned for him to proceed. Sandor could feel his hands trembling, railing against being his messengers. Sandor took a deep, shuddering breath. This man was used to hearing a man’s sins, often took them with grace. But the Elder Brother wasn’t a soft fat septon, he was a man hardened by life experience. He never minced his words to Sandor. He would do him the same respect now.

‘She’s a maid no longer.’ 

“Sandor,” Elder Brother spoke aloud, unable to contain himself. “You great fool.”

“Aye, I am. And so are you,” Sandor rasped. 

“Is that what this is about? Were you so determined to prove me wrong?”

Sandor scowled. “None of it was about you.”

‘Did the girl consent?’ he asked, returning to gestures. Sandor wanted to scream at him. Despite admitting to not being the man he thought he was, to be questioned on this aspect still dealt him a blow.

‘Does it matter?’

‘Greatly.’

‘Not to me.’

“Enough,” Elder Brother snapped. “Tell me true.”

'Every time,’ Sandor signed, his expression grim.

“Gods be good,” he frowned. ‘You repeated this folly?’

He gave a stiff nod. It was difficult to look the man in the eye, but he forced himself to anyway. ‘I would return, take your vows,’ he promised. ‘But I would make only one request of you. Help her out of the mess I've made for her. You’re the only one who can.’

Elder Brother ran a hand down his face, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me I am drawing the wrong conclusions, Sandor. I beg you.”

‘I cannot.’

He took a deep breath to steady his patience. ‘And what does the girl make of all this?’

‘She pays no heed to consequences. She wishes to keep it…’ Sandor hesitated. The idea still repulsed him. ‘And she would see us wed. Make her see reason. She might heed your council better than mine.’

Elder Brother contemplated that with a stony silence. ‘Can you blame her? The solution you would ask of me is nasty business.’

‘Temporary pain,’ Sandor signed. ‘Weighed against a lifetime.’

‘You cannot know that.’ He wore a grave expression. ‘The pain is the least of it. Once the womb quickens in earnest, such concoctions could render a woman infertile, or make future pregnancies troubled.’

Sandor put his head in his hands. There's no way out. He thought he'd reached his lowest point, only to find even greater depths. “What would you have me do, then?”

“I cannot make your choices for you, Sandor,” Elder Brother said, sounding exhausted. “You’ve made that clear enough. You cannot turn back time, so you have only two options, so far as I can tell.” 

When he didn't elaborate, Sandor lifted his face to look at him.

‘A marriage, or a bastard,’ he signed. 

Sandor felt utterly lost. ‘There has to be another way.’

‘What did you expect was going to come of your actions?’

‘I don't think straight, where she's concerned.’ He had pondered it, of course. Many times. But his resolve was weak in the face of a woman who wanted him, and eventually he had put it out of mind altogether. He'd taken care not to spill his seed in her, and he'd taken that to be enough.

The Elder Brother's anger seemed to go out of him somewhat. ‘A starving man will gorge himself to death if you take him to feast. It's the same with love, and you both were starved. I took that risk. And I would take it again. It was not safe for her there.’

Sandor stared at him. ‘Safer than this, surely.’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘A search party did make its way to our shores. Petyr Baelish himself among them.’ He exhaled heavily out the nose, displeased by the memory. ‘Turned the whole place upside down before they were satisfied that she wasn't hiding there.’

Sandor felt numb with rage. ‘Was anyone hurt?’

‘No casualties,’ he replied. ‘I shredded up that dress of hers, scattered it in the woods for them to find. By all reason, they assume her dead, but the word will get out soon enough. His wroth is terrible, despite his attempts to hide it. He has his pride, and she maimed him. The snows will buy some time; there’s no chance he can make it off that mountain now. But snow melts eventually, and ravens still take wing.’

‘She should have killed him. You should have.’

‘She’s no killer; nor am I. She needs you now more than ever, Sandor. You saw to that.’ He sighed. ‘You'll need to find your own way through, that you can live with. Even so, there are greater dangers present, despite your best efforts. Greater even than a man scorned. Greater than you could imagine.’

Sleep evaded Sandor that night. All that they had learned from Wyman, all that loomed over him with the girl. The sister, with her strange shapeshifting magic, who was off on her own somewhere. The brothers, who too commanded some strange magic it seemed. Sansa had her own kind of power, one that she ceased sharing with him of late. So much was out of his control. The world had come up at him fast, and he found his knees buckling under the pressures of it. He’d lost sight of the future in Braavos. Of reality. Slipped into a routine, took each moment as it came, letting the future fall into obscurity. He wished to be there still. He’d grasped at happiness, and now it drained away as water through his fingers. 

A marriage, or a bastard. It was all he was in control of now. Want, or need. His desires would be their doom if he continued giving in to them. A bastard would be better. When the time came, he could confess to forcing himself on her, and accept what came next. If there were Gods, if they were good, it might be enough to keep her honor in tact. It has to be enough.

Chapter Text

SANSA 22

The journey to Winterfell would take a fortnight at least. Longer, most likely, as the snows raged on. It would not be a smooth journey, and haste was of the essence. The road would be burdensome to travel, and the elements would hammer them all the way. Wyman and the surrounding towns did their best to keep a path open along the White Knife, but it was a great labor, a constant battle fought every day. The snows fell unrelenting. They would need make it to the Kingsroad, which it was said was kept the clearest. 

Their host provisioned them as generously as he could, and supplied horses to those who did not have one. An additional horse carried the weight of extra supplies in a sled; wagons would not be up to the task. He spared a couple of his household guards for her as well, despite her protests. “The elements will your biggest threat out there,” he’d told her. “But I would provide you all the swords I can, in case you run into the other kind of trouble.”

“Your kindness will not be forgotten,” she told him now, as they prepared to make their leave at dawnbreak. “They will sing songs of your loyalty to House Stark.”

“I will keep my ear out for them,” he chuckled. “Travel safe, my dear girl. I will scarcely be able to sleep a wink, I fear. Please do a worried old man the favor of sending a raven upon your arrival.”

“I shall,” she promised. “Keep faith, Lord Wyman. I’m a Stark. We survive the Winter.”

The snows fell more lightly this morning, but progress was slow from the very start. The horses trudged on in depths up to their knees, and the snowdrifts on either side of the path were tall as trees. They decided they would have to make camp directly in the road. Sansa didn’t expect they would run into many travelers; it was eerily quiet. The snows pressing in around them created a void for sound. She would occasionally hear wolf’s distant howl. Or was it the wind in her ears? She couldn’t tell for certain.

Arya still hadn’t turned up. Sansa wondered where she could be. She’d spied the man with the white and red hair in the yard this morning, watching from a distance. Perhaps she was following behind, just out of sight. She would look up from time to time, wondering if she stalked the woods instead. When she found her sister in dreams, she was always a wolf. She’s close, Sansa was certain. She couldn’t explain it but she could feel her presence.

The path didn’t allow for them to ride in groups, making conversation too tedious to bother with. The Manderly men rode out in front, followed by Jaime and Brienne. Sansa rode in the middle, followed by Elder Brother, Sandor, and the supply horse. They rode single-file in silence, except to call to halt their progress when an obstacle needed cleared or someone needed to tend to bodily needs. Sansa found herself squirming in the saddle more frequently than not, but was determined to ignore it as much as possible. They could not afford to slow their progress more.

There was no line between day and night, and the bitter cold sent her teeth to chattering. The white of snow illuminated the world around them in the moonlight, and the men in front carried torches, yet the path ahead was swallowed up by darkness. She was grateful to dismount when the call came to halt for the night, guided only by the fatigue of their mounts. It would be a long journey yet, and she was already sore from the saddle. 

The party set to the task of clearing out space enough for a fire and digging into the snowdrifts for shelter, as Sandor had when they made for Saltpans. They all worked in silence, too exhausted for talk. She helped in the small ways she could; unloading supplies, handing out waterskins and rations. After some time, the seven of them found themselves standing around the fire, clutching at thick fur cloaks. Two at a time would keep watch in the night, it was decided, excluding Sansa herself. First the guards, then Jaime and Brienne, then Elder Brother and Sandor. Sansa barely slept, though. She doubted any of them did, with the cold. She awoke each time the guard changed, and had to make water each time she woke. She would take the opportunity to warm herself at the fire, exchange a few words with whoever sat at it before returning to her furs. 

How she wished for Sandor’s warmth, despite his coldness towards her. Recent developments had put the thought of marriage out of mind for now, but she could not stop the growth inside her. It would be some time before it would become apparent, she knew, but what then? He seemed content to ignore her altogether.

When the guard changed over for the final time that night, Sansa awoke to relieve herself and joined them at the fire, same as with the others. They sat upon furs in the snow, making conversation with their hands. Upon Sansa’s approach, Elder Brother signed her a greeting, smiling warmly.

She signed one back. ‘I hope you’ve rested well enough,’ she added. 

“You’ve been practicing,” he said, nodding his approval. “You sign well, my lady.”

“I’ve had a patient teacher,” she replied. Sandor kept his eyes on the fire. 

“Indeed,” Elder Brother said. “Sansa, would you walk with me awhile? This old man’s legs are stiff as Valyrian steel.”

She felt oddly apprehensive, though she knew he meant her no ill will. Sandor said nothing, but his mouth twitched his discomfort. He’s confessed, she knew. She wondered what his version of the story must have been. It would be good to give hers. The true account.

“Certainly,” she agreed. “I could stretch my legs as well.”

“Stay close,” Sandor murmured. “Wolves are about.”

They walked until they were out of range of both fire and earshot. Sansa shivered.

“I won’t keep you long,” said Elder Brother, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “These aren’t ideal conditions for lengthy conversation.”

“I know why you wish to have it,” Sansa said. “I’m sure Sandor has given you plenty of cause for concern.”

“Should I not be concerned?” He wondered.

“I am not,” she said firmly. 

“You must be brave, then, as you are heedless.” Sansa was taken aback by his tone. 

“I knew the risk, when I took it.” She said, matching his coolness. “I will not make apology for it, or beg your approval.”

“I do not wish for you to do any such things on my account,” he replied. “That’s between you and the Gods now.”

“The Gods are who led me down this path, are they not?”

He sighed, his breath billowing out in a large cloud. “That is the great flaw of man. We all take different meanings from their signs. The deed is done, there are no words I can offer to change it.”

“Good. I wouldn’t wish it changed, even if you could.” 

“Even if it dooms you both to a blacker repute than you already face?”

She shrugged stubbornly. “Look around us, Elder Brother. Existence itself is a fight. Forgive me if I consider reputation to be a small matter, especially ones built on lies. I only regret that it couldn’t happen in the proper order, but it will not disturb my sleep. If I don’t make it through this Winter, I will not go to my grave with regret. Not for this.”

The Gods are on my side in this matter besides, she thought to herself, thinking of the dreams. Thinking of Arya, who might never have been found otherwise.

“Dying with indiscretion is easy,” he pontificated. “Living with it is the more difficult task.”

“I’m no stranger to life being difficult,” she snapped. 

He softened. “How far along are you, my lady?”

Her stomach squirmed, as if in response. “Not long,” she whispered. “Barely long enough to know it for certain.” 

“Can you be certain you’ve thought this through? That it has yet to set in fully? It is no temporary thing, a child. A marriage.”

Sansa looked him in his eyes. He expected her to be fearful, she knew. A small part of her was, but only in the ways all women feared the childbed. “I’ve thought it through a hundred times, a hundred ways.” The board before her had a fog over it that was impossible to see through, but the way forward was clear enough to her. “We were happy, in Braavos. More than I ever dared hope to be. I love him. Why should that be temporary?”

Elder Brother gave her a sad smile. “You know as well as I that nothing in life is so simple. You see how the Manderlys regarded him. You may meet the same or greater resistance from the rest.”

“Yet they offered their hospitality all the same,” Sansa pointed out. “It’s my hand, not theirs. If I’m truly the only hope for the survival of my house, I would offer it to no one else.”

“Two hands make a marriage,” he said. “And Sandor is insistent upon returning to the Quiet Isle and taking his vows.”

“My heart breaks to hear it.” Sansa lowered her gaze, pressing her lips together in a hard line. “But I would not stop him, if that’s his wish.”

“What of the babe, if it comes to that?”

Sansa shook her head. She knew what must have been asked of him, and it made her incredulous. “I’ll accept no poison you offer me,” she told him sharply. “I don’t need him here, much as I’d grieve his absence. So he can return to the Quiet Isle, and continue dwelling over his regrets, adding this one to the pile. But I pray you never let him think it for penitence that he does so. It’s certainly not for honor, either, or any great concern for me.” She felt angry, fed up. “So I will raise his bastard alone, and never let them be shamed by the word. My half brother is a bastard, and he’s a hero. There are worse things one can be.”

The septon took in her words, and gave a solemn nod of his head. “I’m grateful for your candor, Lady Sansa. I will pray for a resolution all can be contented with. Come, now,” He touched her shoulder. “Let us return to the fire, get some rest. We’ve a long journey ahead yet.”

Before they made it to the camp in proper, Sansa halted him. “Life isn't a song, Elder Brother...but I found something to sing about. Love. I refuse to call it sin. The Hound never could have been capable of that.”

The Elder Brother ruminated upon that for a moment. “The Hound did love you,” he corrected, with a sadness in his voice. “He only didn’t know how.”

Chapter Text

SANDOR 23

The first six days of the journey passed with relatively little issue, if not gruelingly slow. On the seventh day came a blizzard, with its blinding snows and cutting winds. They dared not stop, for fear the snows would build too much and overtake them. They had no choice but to press on through the storm, though it was torturous work. Stranger misliked it a great deal; Sandor had to give him his spurs frequently to keep him moving. 

Most of this party was large and muscled, and the freezing winds cut even them. Sansa was the smallest among them, and she appeared little more than a pile of blankets upon her horse. He thought back to when he’d first seen her brought up the banks of the Quiet Isle. She had appeared much the same then. It felt so long ago now. She was so thin and frail and colorless. Was that what she looked like, again, under all those furs? She swayed more in the saddle today, he saw. Elder Brother noticed too; he turned back in his saddle, and though Sandor couldn’t see his expression, he knew it was concern he wore. To match his own.

She had refused the aid a healer could offer. Poison, she called it. It put a foul taste in his mouth. Littlefinger had poisoned her. So have I. It was the kind that wouldn’t wear off after an evening. Not to be outdone, he had given her one that would last a lifetime. 

Sandor kept a careful distance, but watched over her always. Everyone kept a distance, it seemed. She was a highborn lady, and they were all her servants, but they were little more than strangers too. Sandor knew her best among this lot. Too well, some might say. Not enough, said a voice, before he silenced it. 

When they halted to take care of bodily needs, her skin looked almost blue beneath her hood and cowl as she passed him by. It made him decisive, as it once had an eternity ago. My comfort, or hers. Sandor swung down to relieve himself as the rest, but when he returned, he waited. When she came stumbling back through the fog, Sandor wordlessly took the girl about the waist and lifted her onto Stranger.

“What is this?” she asked. Others had stopped to stare as well. 

“You ride with me today,” Sandor said brusquely, coming up to sit behind her. More loudly he added, “Lest we let you freeze to death.”

He nodded for their procession to continue, and they did so wordlessly. They understood; all of them had beards and brows caked in ice. Still, Sandor hadn’t allowed himself to be this close to her in days, and felt that old discomfort that he was doing something wrong. He wouldn’t have her share in any other saddle, however. Whether it was pragmatism or a convenient excuse, it felt good to put his arms around her again.

“Thank you,” she said into his chest as they continued onward. “I could have managed on my own. But this is better.”

“You could have managed to catch a chill on your own, mayhaps,” he rasped. Sandor turned his eye down to peer at her. “And who would torment me then?”

Her laughter was quiet music. “I've missed you, Sandor.”

He made a rumbling sound in reply, turning his eyes back on the path ahead. I’ve missed you as well, little bird. So much so that it pained him. I'll miss you forever. This miserable journey couldn’t end soon enough, but the closer they came to Winterfell, the closer they came to goodbye. He had no inkling of what was in store for them there, or how long it would be before they made the journey South again. But it would come.  

“I've been thinking a lot lately,” she said, breaking a long silence. He could feel her shivering. “About our disagreement.”

It nearly made him laugh, to boil the crisis they'd created down to a mere disagreement. He'd tried to think about anything else. The matter was settled. She wouldn't like it, and it would do no good to waste time arguing it. He was content to steal what moments like this remained to him, before returning to his rightful place. 

“Keep your thoughts,” he said. “We've more pressing matters ahead.”

As usual, she would not heed him. “I couldn't bear it if you returned to the Quiet Isle.”

“Elder Brother's been in your ear, then,” he said sourly. He didn’t make him privy to all they discussed those nights past, but he sussed it out well enough. Elder Brother didn’t press him to choose one way or another, but he took a harder lean when they signed by the fire at night. Your absence will not make the problem disappear, he said. The world takes no high view of you, but it might be worth the effort to show them a different one.

She scoffed. “As you've been in his, telling tales of dishonor.”

“I've never met a bastard who was made with honor.” 

“It doesn't need to be that way,” she insisted. “Why do you care so much about what others think?”

“I care what they think of you,” he snapped. “One of us needs to.”

“Court me, then,” she suggested. “Starting now. It was chivalrous for you to take me into your saddle to share your warmth. Let them see. Leave no room to doubt why I might offer my hand to a man who is gentle, strong, and kind. Win my favor before our captive audience.”

She'd been rehearsing this, he could tell. “We're riding into a warzone, and you would have me play at courtly love,” he muttered irritably. 

“I only ask that you stop withholding it from me for the sake of appearances. The world, for that matter. And see for yourself if it creates a kind of gossip you could live with.”

“How would the Lady Sansa wish to be courted?” He sneered, despite the part of him that truly wanted to know.

“Warm me when I'm cold,” she pressed herself into him, making Sandor stiffen up. “Aid me when I'm hurt. Cover me when I am shamed. Teach me new things. Dance with me in times of celebration. Give me cause to laugh and sing.  Make me beautiful gifts by your own hand—”

“Enough,” Sandor said quietly. “I hear you.” You've courted her already. All along. He slid an arm more tightly about her waist, his hand resting over the womb where all his troubles grew. And, for just a moment, the frigid winds and blistering cold were not so much a bother. His contempt faded, and beneath he found the version of himself he was trying to bury alive. 

“Kingsroad ahead!” Came the call from the front of the pack. There were some cheers that followed, muffled in the howling air around them. The Kingsroad would speed their progress, it was said. As he led Stranger onto it, it did provide some relief from all the beast’s highstepping. But not by a lot. The snow was still gathered high enough, not aided by the fresh snowfall that had yet to be cleared. 

The storm raged on until they were forced to stop due to blindness and exhaustion. The group set out to their tasks as they did each night. Sandor rounded up the horses and blanketed them. Elder Brother gathered the wood for a fire; some that they had brought, but they gathered fell branches and logs when they could as well. Brienne and the two Manderly men got to shoveling, and Sandor would grab a spade and assist when he finished with the horses. Jaime set out the furs and bedrolls, Sansa fetched wine and rations. 

The snows had calmed somewhat by the time they'd finished, but it was like to keep at it through the night. Their guard shifts would see a fair amount of shoveling. It might break up the monotony of it, at least, and keep them warm. He and Elder Brother signed conversations at the fire, but more often than not they sat in silence. It was too damn cold, and even the small gestures became too much effort at the end of a long day. 

When it came time for the group to disperse from the fire and rest, Sansa spoke up. “Everyone huddles together tonight,” she declared, though her authority was undermined by how her teeth chattered. “I’ll have none of us freezing on my account.”

No one made any argument. All the faces around the fire were a little more hollow and pale than usual. Brienne settled in next to the girl in the crude alcove they’d created, but it was Sandor at her other side who Sansa leaned into for warmth. He draped an arm over Elder Brother as well, and they laughed at the absurdity of it. But they were all warmer as well.

That night, Sansa pulled all of them into her dreams. Only Sandor was the wiser that it was more than a dream, of course, but even he was fooled into feeling warm Summer wind upon his face instead of the bitter cold their bodies endured in the real world. Even the sister was there, he was pleased to see. Wearing her true face. He wondered how she must be faring on her own, but she was alive at least. Sansa took her aside and spent the dream someplace private, and Sandor was content to observe the rest. Elder Brother imagined a sept to pray at. Even at his most vulnerable, the man was irritatingly consistent. Jaime and Brienne traded blows with swords, but soon enough they were trading kisses. I knew it, Sandor thought with amusement. He wondered if it looked half so absurd when he kissed Sansa. They both were whole in dreams, he saw. His leg was strong in them as well, but it had never occurred to Sandor that he could be free of his disfigurements in this reality; they’d been with him so long, he couldn’t even imagine his face without them. 

They all awoke when the guard changed over, and she woke. The snows never stopped, but Sansa kept them deluded so long as they slept. When it was Sandor’s turn to take the watch, he went to the fire dutifully as the girl crept away to relieve herself for the third time that night. As she did every night. Covered all over save for his eyes, the wind still hammered at him, chilled him and Elder Brother to the bone. The man never complained. 

Absentmindedly he grabbed a scrap of wood, and took to the old habit he’d picked up from the Quiet Isle. Originally an exercise of patience and calm, which he now found a small measure of enjoyment in. It had all started with a wooden toy. A knight, pegged at the joints so you could make him fight. Sandor wasn’t half so skilled as that, and he made nothing resembling knights. He glanced over at Stranger every now and again as he worked, taking inspiration from a nobler beast.

The storm raged on the following day, blinding them in a world enveloped by eternal darkness. They would have to press on anyway. When they finished breaking down the camp and saddling the horses, Sandor took Sansa as she tried to make her way past him, lifted her into Stranger’s saddle again. Her horse would go riderless another day, and from now on, if the storms didn’t let up. The Kingsroad was no longer the easier path, but just as arduous as the one before. All riders kept their heads bowed against the onslaught, and today they all carried torches in a feeble attempt to combat the cold. 

Not long into their progress, a call for a halt came from the front. “What is it?” Sansa asked from his chest, leaning in the saddle to get a look. 

“Probably something in the way,” Sandor murmured. They’d cleared their fair share of trees and branches that obstructed the path. “I’ll have a look.” 

“I’m coming too,” Sansa said hastily as he swung down from the saddle. He pushed her back into it. 

“You stay there.” 

“I know what it is,” she said, giving him a knowing look. He didn’t comprehend, but relented as she insistently came down to join him.

When they found the head of the procession, the Manderly guards were helping a young girl to her feet in the snow. She was a tiny thing, swallowed up in oversized furs. He spied the blonde of her hair, and realized he recognized the face. The urchin from Braavos. Arya.

“We don’t know how this one’s found herself out here,” said the Manderly knight known as Ser Gareth. “But we don’t have time to escort the girl back to her village.”

“We’ll take her with us,” Sansa said, going to the girl. “We’ll worry about where she’s from later.”

“My lady,” the other, Ser Wyatt, protested. “We cannot guarantee her safety there. It might be kinder to leave her to find her way home.”

“We’re not leaving her,” Sansa said sharply. 

Sandor stepped forward. “The girl is half dead already. To leave her would be to kill her.”

Everyone was off their horses by now. Sandor looked to Brienne. “You’ll take the lady,” he told her. “I’ll ride double with this one.”

Sansa looked to him gratefully. “That is kind of you, Sandor.”

As he took the tiny thing in his arms, he shook his head. “It’s mercy I offer.”

The girl in the furs glared up at him. It must have made a great blow to her pride to seek them out like this. Desperation, encouraged by Sansa in the night. He hoisted her into Stranger’s saddle. 

“Never thought it would come to this again,” She said petulantly as they set off once more. Sandor laughed. He felt strangely content, and not even a blizzard could sour him today. He’d worried after the sister far more than he realized, and it was a weight off his chest to have her close again. 

“You were smart to trade your face,” he said. “One day I’d like to know how you perform such magic.”

“It’s not magic,” she said. “But I’ll never betray such secrets to you.”

“Keep your secrets, then,” he rasped. “It’s good you’ve joined us. Your sister’s worried herself sick after you.”

“I can take care of myself.” She said stubbornly. “I only found it too difficult to keep up on foot is all.”

“Liar,” Sandor said. “But that can remain a secret too.”

“How much longer until we get to Winterfell?” she asked. 

“Not long, under normal conditions,” he shrugged. “No telling, in this shit. The Kingsroad marked our halfway point. I expect we’ll be in Cerwyn lands soon enough. Manderly sent word ahead of our passing. We’ll find clearer roads there.”

“Can they be trusted?” Arya wondered.

“How should I know?” Sandor gave Stranger his spurs as the beast hesitated. “Manderly seems to think so. That’s good enough for me, for now.”

“Is it true, what they say?” She piped up again after a lull. “About Jon, and Bran?”

“Aye, they live. For now, at least.” Sandor peered down at her. “We’re not marching into safety.”

“I know.” she whispered. “I heard. It’s all the people talked about in the Inn.” She chewed her lip. “They will be there. They will prevail.”

“I hope you’re right, girl. One brother is a sorcerer, the other has a dragon, if word is to be believed. Seems all the Stark brood have picked up some magic or another.”

“What magic does Sansa have?” 

Sandor glanced at her. “I think you can suss that one out for yourself. You’re far too stubborn to have come to us on your own.”

Arya pondered that, and comprehension came across her face. “Sansa has dreams too?”

He gave her a curious look. “You have them too?”

“Sort of,” Arya admitted. “But not the same. Sansa is herself, but I dream as a wolf. As Nymeria...she’ll be waiting for us in the North. But Sansa’s wolf is dead.”

“You Starks continue to confound me,” Sandor replied. “I cannot claim to understand how any of it works.”

“The pack survives,” she whispered.

“Aye,” he said, his mind unwittingly traveling to the seed he’d sowed. Could be mine survives as well.

“I had a sister once, did you know?” He heard himself saying. He didn’t know why; perhaps it was a desperate attempt to distract himself from the cold. It had been so long since he’d thought of her, hadn’t even spoken of her to Sansa. But when he looked down at Arya, he could almost remember her face. 

“I thought it was only you and Gregor.”

“She died young,” Sandor murmured. “She was older than I, but only by moments.”

“You were a twin?” she sounded astonished. 

“It’s common in the West,” he shrugged. “She was near as insolent as you, even at that age. But not half so tolerated.” Sandor’s mouth twitched. She had never known him, in truth. She was gone by the time he was burned. 

“What happened to her?”

“An accident. That’s what they told everyone. All in House Clegane were so prone to accidents.” He ground his teeth. “Gregor hated her. He couldn’t stand the sound of laughter, and she would laugh and laugh, even louder when he was around, just to spite him. It amused her to make him wroth, as all siblings take pleasure in tormenting one another. Gregor didn’t see it that way.” He turned his head and spat. “He was the one laughing when it was done. He laughed and laughed.”

“Your father did nothing?” Arya was incredulous. “He let it happen?”

“Even as a boy, none could withstand the Mountain,” Sandor said roughly. “My father always had a blind eye for him besides. I think he forced himself to believe in accidents. He met one of his own, one day.”

“Was your face also an accident?”

Sandor had only ever told two souls the truth of that. He felt himself nodding, making three.

“What was her name? Your sister.” 

“Ellinor. Elle, as I called her. When she made me wroth, I’d call her Seven Elles.” He shook his head. “I’d almost forgotten that.”

“Ellinor,” she repeated solemnly. Then her eyes darkened. “What do you think Ellinor would have made of you hunting children for sport?”

Sandor went rigid with sudden irritation. “We’ll never know, will we? She’s dead. Just like your butcher’s boy. You should thank me for getting to him before Gregor, but instead you whine at me incessantly about it. What will it take for you to get past it, girl? Shall I have another trial? Or would you have me die again? Might be you’ll get your wish soon enough. Might be I’ll rise again, as they say the dead are wont to do these days. Burn me whole, and might be I’ll stay down this time. Would that be enough for you?”

That seemed to shut her up. They rode on in silence for hours after that. 

When they halted next, Sandor came down from the saddle to take a piss. His leg was stiff as ice, and the pain shot through him as it hit the ground. Sansa found him, took him by the arm. 

“How is she?” she asked. 

“A nightmare, as usual.” Sandor muttered. “How are you faring with the wench?”

“She’s a good woman,” Sansa chastised him. Under her breath she added, “Still, I would like it if you’d stall her. She insists upon following me, and I need to be sick.”

Sandor looked over her shoulder to see Brienne making her way towards them. He motioned for Sansa to go, and stood in the wench’s path. “How does the lady fare?” he asked her. Only her eyes were visible, same as the rest. They were the only pretty thing about her. Were she not so broad all over, she might even look beautiful like this.

“She takes the cold without complaint,” said Brienne. “Now if you’ll excuse me–” 

“Let the girl piss in peace,” Sandor said. “She’s managed well enough without your help until now.” 

Brienne regarded him coldly. “Not for lack of trying, Hound. You would isolate her from the rest of us.”

“Yet even I grant her privacy when it’s called for,” he said roughly. “Now–”

All heads snapped around suddenly as a cry came from the fog beyond, where Sansa had disappeared to. He couldn’t make out what she said, but Sandor and the rest soon saw for themselves what she did. A hulking black shadow descended from the clouds. Green, not black. It was close, too close. It could scoop them up in its claws, he thought, as it flew overhead. A dragon. Fire made flesh. It was too dark to see its rider, but the beast was massive. Sandor found himself stricken by fear. It flew out ahead, away from them, and for a moment he could breathe again. 

“Gods be good,” Elder Brother declared. “They do exist.”

If they were under attack, the rider was toying with them first. Sansa came running back through the snow, her eyes wide and white. “Who commands it?” She asked.

“I can’t tell,” Sandor said absentmindedly, keeping his eyes fixed to the sky. 

The dragon was coming back around, but this time when it came past them, it opened its massive jaws, and bellowed a pillar of flame, bathing them all in blinding light. Sandor was overcome with a sudden panic. A strangled scream escaped him, and he had to hold fast to Stranger’s reins to keep from buckling. But the fire did not envelop them. When he opened his eyes, the dragon was disappearing down the road, fading into the fog of the storm. It was gone as quickly as it had come. Everything was dark again. They all stared after it, waiting, but it did not return. 

Ser Wyatt was whooping. “Cleared the way, they did!” he called. “Make haste, everyone. They’re expecting us.”

Chapter Text

SANSA 23

Despite how the blizzard raged on without end, the morale of the group had increased dramatically. Everyone burst into chatter about the sight they’d just witnessed. The snows were reduced to puddles along the Kingsroad, and despite Winter’s best efforts, they would be able to reach Winterfell now before they had a chance to build up too much again. 

Sansa continued to ride double with Brienne, sharing in her warmth. The dragon hadn't done anything for the bitter cold that still clawed at them, but it ensured they would be exposed to it less. 

Still, it was days before they would reach the castle. The group eventually fell back into their quiet progress and nightly rituals. The snows never let up for a moment of the remaining journey. Sansa did what she could for them at night, giving the travelers warm dreams of the Summer sun and hot springs. She had been surprised to find Arya come up to her and pinch her one night within them, and chastise her for not telling her the truth. She reminded her sister that she wasn't the only one with secret powers. She put up no more argument from there, but she seemed to grow more open hearted.

Well over a fortnight had passed when, at long last, the familiar stone walls of Winterfell came into view. The tears froze upon Sansa's cheeks as she stared up at them.

“You're home at last, my lady,” said Brienne from behind. “How does it feel?”

“I feel too much to put to words,” Sansa said, her throat tight. “I can scarcely believe my eyes.”

“Please remember my request, from before,” she said. “About Jaime's fate. You've traveled with us for long enough, that hopefully you will find him worthy of saving.”

Sansa turned to look at her. “Who is this Stoneheart? Why should they heed my judgment?”

Brienne's brilliant blue eyes were haunted. “You're the Lady of Winterfell. If they're capable of reason at all, they will heed you.”

“If that's so,” Sansa said, a little uneasy about the way everyone seemed to avoid the subject of Stoneheart's identity. “I will beg mercy for Ser Jaime. You have my word.”

“You have my gratitude,” she said sincerely. “I wouldn't ask it if it weren't deserved.”

“I know,” Sansa said warmly. She had seen them as they dreamed, ignorant of her presence. She would not see these lovers pulled apart, if she had a say. Would that I had such sway for myself.

She didn't know what to expect when those gates opened, but Sansa felt her heart hammering in her chest when they did, as their procession made its way through. 

There was no fanfare, no great reception party to greet them. Only some Northmen standing guard, various sigils at their breasts. Manderly, Mormont, Cerwyn. Stark men would be in short supply, she supposed, but she spied some of them as well. The castle itself was a shell of its former glory. Walls still bore the scorch marks of its sacking, towers were crumbling or completely demolished. It was almost unrecognizable. As I am, surely. As we all must be.

All faces that peered up at Sansa as she passed were hollow, haunted things. Broken men populated her broken castle now. Missing limbs, eyes, and other disfigurements marked every third of them at least. The women and children, too. Few had made it through unscathed. My escort fits in perfectly here. She thought of how insulting it might have seemed, if they arrived clean and unblemished and finely clothed instead.

They halted at the main entrance of the castle, and Sansa all but leapt from the saddle. A man approached her bearing a badge she recognized well. A lizard-lion upon a grey-green field. House Reed. Their Lord, Howland, had been one of her father's closest friends, she knew, though she had never met the man himself.

“Lady Sansa,” said the Reed man, bowing. He was covered except for his eyes, like the rest. They were a vibrant green, smiling at her. He was short in stature, as the Crannogmen were known to be. If she didn’t know better she might have taken him for a child, for how she towered over him. “It is my great honor to finally make your acquaintance, though we’ve met before. Only, we had different names then.”

Sansa stared at him in puzzlement. But he didn’t allow her to linger in the mystery long; he lowered his hood and cowl, revealing a shock of orange hair and a face she recognized at once. It made her gasp, stumble back a few paces. She backed into Brienne, who was coming up behind them with the others. She, too, had an instant recognition.

“Get back, my lady,” Brienne growled as she pushed her way forward and tore Oathkeeper from its scabbard. “This is no friend of yours. This is a hedge knight called Ser Shadrich, and he seeks the queen’s bounty.”

The other guards drew their steel in answer to Brienne's threat, and Sansa found herself frozen both in shock and fear. “I know him by the same name,” she said, dazed. “You're Lord Baelish's man.” 

Did this mean Petyr was near? Was he about to emerge from the large front doors of her home, with her brother's heads on spikes? Would he seize her, kill her escort in front of her?

The man laughed. “I'm as much Petyr's man as you are his daughter, girl.” He had made no move to draw his own blade. He was cocksure as she remembered. “You may hate me still, and you'd be justified, for all my failed attempts to extract you from that place. But Ser Shadrich was a fiction. My true name is Howland Reed. And Ned’s girl found her own way home, without my help.”

Sansa's eyes went wide, but she made no move, unwilling to be made a fool of by believing him outright. Brienne certainly did not. “The true Howland Reed knew my father best,” she said, as bravely as she could muster. “Tell me something about him only a friend would know.”

“I'll do you one better,” he said with his easy smile. “I'll show you, if you’ll come along. You may think me Ser Shadrich for now, if it please you, and keep your guards about you. Or simply ask your Elder Brother there, he knows me well enough.” He waved a hand dismissively, as Sansa turned back to stare at the holy man in disbelief.

“He tells it true, my lady,” Elder Brother shifted his weight awkwardly. “I've known Lord Howland for many years; The Quiet Isle is a frequent stop in his travels. Not for some time, though.”

“If you're satisfied enough with that, put that damn thing away and follow me.” He gave a nod in Brienne's direction, then turned on a heel and threw open the castle doors. The men at arms sheathed their steel as Brienne did, and all followed.

“Apologies for the lack of welcome, as befits the arrival of the Lady of Winterfell,” he said as they walked. “Our priorities are required elsewhere, as I’m sure you understand. Every able bodied warrior fights against a night that never ends.”

“What did you mean when you said you tried to extract me?” Sansa asked, too preoccupied with the revelation for courtesies. Ser Shadrich had never been her creature. “You only ever did what Petyr told you to.”

“I played my part, to earn his trust,” Lord Howland replied. “As you played yours. Timing is a crucial thing, and a greedy bitch too. I even tried to get you to the Elder Brother myself, once, when your cousin fell ill. Petyr was having none of it, though.”

“Five years, Lord Howland.” Sansa said coldly. “You did nothing for five years.”

When he looked up at her, his expression didn’t have such arrogance in it now. She might have slapped him if it did. “I’ve kept my finger on the pulse of this realm. The Vale was the safest place for you, I assure you.”

Sansa gave him a look of disgust. “You’re wrong.”

“I regret the things he put you through,” he said wearily. “I did what I could, when I could. It was little and less, I know. We’ve all been made to suffer for the cause, I’m afraid.” 

“What cause did I suffer for, exactly?”

“This one,” he said with a sweeping gesture as they turned up a staircase. “Petyr had designs after Winterfell, and it was then that I was going to make my move against him. Only once on the road, with fewer swords to protect him. Most of them were mine by then, unbeknownst to him. Only, he continuously stalled on the plan, always finding something new and shiny to busy himself with.”

“You stalled as well. And would have let me die in King’s Landing with the rest.”

His eyes were sharp. “That was never going to happen, I promise you.” He resumed a more casual manner. “I was among the first to volunteer to find you, you know. The search effort was snuffed out, set upon by wolves. I’ve never seen so many in one pack, and it’s a wonder I survived it. I thought surely you met that fate. Imagine my relief to know you did not.”

“With no thanks to you,” she said pointedly, not taking any comfort in his words. 

“Aye, no thanks to me.” He sighed. “I may never make your amends, Lady Sansa. But I hope you may come to forgive me in your heart one day. Your father was dear to me, and your aunt Lyanna before that. I only ever wanted to do what was best for you, in a time where there were no happy outcomes.”

“Where are you taking us?” She asked, with a sudden need for a change in subject, unwilling to make any such promise of forgiveness. She hadn’t been paying mind to the path they traveled.

“Most of the castle is empty, away in the fighting as I said,” Lord Howland replied. “But there's one straggler you might be interested to meet.”

“Stoneheart?” Sansa wondered. Howland gave her a sidelong glance, had that same look in his eye everyone had when they spoke of her.

“No, not her,” he seemed disquieted, but only for a moment. “Two stragglers, then. I can show your guests to their rooms first—”

“I'd prefer they remain with me,” Sansa said hastily. “Any who wish to, that is.” 

Howland stopped, looked around at the group at large. They had followed in silence, and none spoke a word of dissent now. “Very well. Come, all of you. I'm sure the winged wolf will be pleased to receive you, offer his gratitude for the hard travel you’ve made.”

Sansa didn't recognize the styling, though there were few it could be matched to. Could it be Jon, who took to dragonback? She was trembling, she realized. She turned to find Sandor taking up the rear, Arya at his side in her false face. How she wished she could take her sister's hand and face this moment together. 

She recognized the path they took now. The halls weren’t so different than she remembered, and it was as if her feet carried her there without needing guidance. They were heading towards her father's solar. 

Howland opened the door, and there he sat. Not Jon. Bran. He sat in their lord father's chair before the hearth, a large and well cushioned one. Sansa had fond memories of sitting in that chair as a girl. It was big enough for her to curl up and sleep in, back then, lulled by the scratchings of quill on parchment.

Her brother looked so small in it, despite being nearly a man grown now. His legs were shrunken and stick-thin from misuse. She’d never seen him after the fall, and in her mind he would still run and climb, despite knowing better. It made her sad, to see it in person. From the waist up he was a normal boy, if not a skinny one. His auburn hair had grown down past his shoulders, and his eyes…Sansa could not make out what it was about them, but they seemed to look through her, and like they could see things she could not. 

He was different. But he was Bran. She ran to him at once, threw her arms around him. He was her brother still, the only trueborn one left to her. “Bran,” she spoke his name aloud, touching his face, combing his hair with her fingers. “I never dreamed I would see you again.” And she hadn’t. She’d never dared.

“Sansa,” he replied softly. “I’ve dreamed of this day for a long time now.”

She went to her knees, so as to be of a height with him. “I can scarcely believe you’re real.” She let out a sob. “Oh, the Gods are good.”

“They aren't good,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Nor are they bad. But they do have a purpose…” He scanned the room. “I've so looked forward to seeing you again, sister. Both of you.” His eyes landed on Arya, who wasn't Arya. She shifted uncomfortably, clearly at war with herself, even as tears filled her eyes.

“There's no need for hiding,” he said gently. “Not anymore. Show yourself, Arya.” 

There were shouts of surprise when the little girl broke away from the throng to run to Bran for herself, embrace him as Sansa had. She was Arya, not the little blonde girl. The words of disbelief were background noise; Sansa only had ears for Bran. 

“Where have you been, all this time?” She asked, taking one of his hands in her own. Arya held fast to the other, kneeling beside her.

“Far in the North,” he replied. Bran's voice had deepened, and he spoke with the tone of a man many years beyond his age. “I found something out there…terrible, wondrous things. I found the truth. I even found you as well, sister. Arya was harder to find. But in the end we all came home. Those of us who could.”

“How did you make it?” Asked Arya in astonishment. “Your legs…”

“Do not pity me,” he smiled. “I've found ways to get around. And I can fly, too.” 

“I don't understand,” Arya said.

“Don't you? Nymeria found her way home, with an army of her own to help our cause. You've played a part in that. She’s rejoined her pack, as you have.” He leaned closer. “And she’s seen our lady in the woods as well. You’ve seen her, too.”

“What does he mean?” Sansa turned to her sister. 

Arya was chewing her lip. “I pulled her from the river. I never thought…I didn’t know…I never wanted…”

“You are not to blame,” he said gently, his deep blue eyes carrying more knowing than he should be capable. “But she needs you now, more than ever. The many-faced God is not yet finished with our house.”

Arya put her gaze to the floor, and she saw a tear loose down her cheek. Sansa looked between them, feeling at a disadvantage. “What is this?” Bran’s haunting eyes pierced her now.

“No one is willing to tell you, because none can be sure if she truly is our mother anymore or not. The truth is, yes and no. You will see, Sansa. Even if you will not hear.”

“Stoneheart?” She asked, bewildered. He nodded. “Our mother? How can that be?”

“The dead are restless,” he replied. “They've many methods of coming back. But never the same. Some, more different than others. Mother returned to us as Stoneheart. Jon, a dragon.”

Arya's eyes went wide. “Jon lives, truly? And he died, truly? Where is he now?”

“You will see him again, sister. In good time.” His gaze turned up to their audience. “Jaime Lannister. It's been quite a long time.”

Sansa turned to look. She was desperate to stay on the subject of their mother, of Jon; but Jaime’s appearance gave her pause. His face had turned white as milk, and his good hand trembled upon the hilt of his sword. His mouth was a hard line. He was preparing for a fight.

“You've come a long way since you were last in Winterfell. Some might even call it bold, to show your face here again. But I’m glad you’ve come. I see now that everything that happened was how it had to happen; I wanted to tell you I forgive you. My legs, your hand. It was a fair trade.”

That caused somewhat of an uproar, not least of which came from Sansa and Arya, who sprang to their feet and began shouting.

“You?” Sansa screamed. “You pushed him from that tower? I thought I could trust you!”

“I'll kill you for this!” Arya was screaming over her. “I'll take your legs off first!” 

Brienne had stepped in front of Jaime to protect him, leaving Sansa feeling utterly betrayed. “You knew, didn’t you?” 

Howland had moved forward to restrain the girls. “Enough!” he bellowed, though they paid him no heed. “That's enough!”

“Sisters, stop this,” Bran raised his voice only enough to be heard. “None in this room are without their secrets, their misdeeds.”

“How can you let him step foot in this room?” Arya rounded on him. “After what he did to you!”

“He deceived us all,” Sansa agreed. “Both of them did.”

“Jaime still has his purpose to serve,” Bran said calmly. “And you should know better than anyone, the way a man can change.” He was looking at her. “Should you not, Sansa?”

She stared at him. “Sandor isn't—”

“What is the difference between pushing a boy out of a tower for a queen, or cutting one down for her?” Bran wondered. “I forgive my good brother for that as well. As should you.” He fixed his eyes on Arya. Then he turned to the Elder Brother. “Sandor’s heart did stop beating in your attempts to heal him, did it not?” 

The septon looked aghast by all he was witnessing here, his bald head reddened. He nodded, though. Found his voice. “Indeed he did. I was able to get it started again, but he did die in my arms as I've described.”

“The Hound is dead indeed. And they never come back the same. Sandor, you're one of the fortunate few; you didn't have to pay such a heavy price as others. A purer method reaps a cleaner revival, I think.”

“I tend to disagree,” he growled. 

“Beric Dondarrion might not,” he said lightly. He moved on. “Elder Brother, you harbor secrets as well. Knew more than you ever let on, never sharing. And you've killed children too, have you not? So you gave your life over to penitence. You're a good man who once did terrible things, but found a better way.”

Elder Brother bowed his head, and under his breath he prayed. And silently, he wept. How does he know so much? Sansa wondered. How could it be possible?

“War, obedience, love…we all have reasons,” he went on. “I've done terrible things as well. Brienne may be the one among you with the cleanest conscience…but she has loose ends aplenty.”

Brienne stepped forward with all the posture of a Knight. “I will accept my lord’s judgment, and my lady’s as well. But I would trade my life for Jaime’s.”

“I know,” said Bran kindly. Sadly. “I would clean the slate here and now, were it up to me. Alas, it’s not. Things must happen as they must happen, and the only way out is up. Our true enemies press in on us from the North, and it’s what demands my attention now. She awaits you in the Godswood.”

“You won't come with us?” Arya asked. 

“I'm already there, dear sister,” he replied. Sansa felt a chill go through her. “I always have been.”

With that, his eyes rolled up until all that remained was white. “He's gone now,” Howland announced. “I will remain with him, in case there's any word. Off you get.” 

Howland had an easygoing presence, but Sansa could tell he was troubled. He was hesitant for them to go. But he had orders and he would obey, and made no move to stop them.

Sansa and Arya led the way, knowing it best. She always imagined this would be a moment of triumph and joy, but instead she only felt numb. Was her mother truly alive? It should make her overjoyed. She had been a vibrant, loving woman in life. Could death have truly changed her so much, to make men’s blood run cold at the mere mention of her? Even Arya looked uneasy. As they reached the treeline, she felt a small hand take hold of her own, grasp it hard. Sansa returned the pressure. 

Sansa saw the wolves first. Three of them, massive hulking things loping around beneath the Weirwood, larger than she ever could have imagined possible. She knew them as easily as she knew their masters. Summer, Nymeria, Shaggydog. Shaggydog, the black, was largest of all. He had to be near as tall as her, and his great green eyes seemed to recognize her as well. All of them did, sniffing the air. They advanced. The others took steps back, but Sansa and Arya weren’t afraid. Arya hugged her Direwolf tightly about the neck when it reached her, and Sansa took Shaggydog’s great head in her hands. He opened his jaws, and lashed her cheek with a massive wet tongue. It seemed to break the unease she felt, and she heard herself laughing, letting Summer kiss her other cheek. 

It wasn’t only the wolves in the clearing, though. There were men standing guard, lots of them. They were a gaunt and tired lot, and offered no reaction to their arrival. Sansa looked around to find their master. She jolted when she did spy her; she was sat at the foot of the Weirwood, camouflaged against it. Sansa had mistaken her face for the tree’s.

“Arya,” Sansa whispered, taking her hand once more. “Gods be good.”

It looked nothing like their mother, but Sansa knew her all the same. White as a ghost and garbed in gray robes blanketed by snowfall, everything about her was pale and white. Except for the parts that weren’t. The ruin of her cheeks and neck were a contrast to the rest. Her eyes were terrible, clouded in white. The warmth had gone out of them long ago.

“Mother?” Sansa stepped forward. Arya hesitated in coming, but Sansa refused to release her grip. “What have they done to you?”

“She’s Lady Stoneheart, now,” Said a man at her shoulder. “But she’s pleased to see Winterfell’s sons and daughters home again.”

She didn’t look pleased to Sansa. She didn’t look like she felt anything. Sansa came closer, willing herself to be brave. Arya would make her brave. She shuddered as the face came into sharper focus. But she saw her mother’s cheeks were wet, not with blood. Sansa’s cheeks were wet as well. It is my mother. it has to be.

“I thought I would be alone when I found this place again,” she smiled. “But four remain of seven. Jon, too. The Gods are good.”

The woman said nothing, but made a gesture of beckoning to Sansa. She closed the distance and knelt, much as she did with Bran. A cold pale hand rose, found her cheek. It was colder than ice. The other found Arya. “My…” her voice was near incomprehensible, and like broken glass. “Girls…”

She choked on a sob, and covered her mother’s hand with her own, hoping to warm it. “We’re here now,” she whispered. They could be a family again, she thought. Worse for wear, but together. 

Sansa didn't notice the object in her mother’s lap before, until she was reaching for it with bony hands and lowering it down over Sansa's brow. A crown. Robb's crown. It was an overwhelming feeling. Sansa closed her eyes and let the tears fall without abandon. 

“This crown is meant for Bran,” she said softly. “Not me.”

At the mention of Bran, the haunting pale eyes flicked upwards, over Sansa's head. And they were filled with hatred. She raised a hand and pointed a finger. Croaked a word. “Three.”

“No,” said Sansa, suddenly remembering their purpose here. She looked around more properly at the men gathered around the woods, saw the more matured but familiar face of Podrick Payne, bound at the wrist with rope and white in the face. “Mother, they’re with us. They saw us home, reunited us. No one else needs to hang now.”

She didn’t seem to hear. Her mother’s eyes never moved, and she repeated the word. “Three.”

At once, there was a struggle from behind. Sansa spun around to see Jaime, Brienne, and Sandor were being wrestled into restraints. Three nooses went up and over one of the Weirwood’s great branches. Everything was happening so fast. Everyone was shouting, and the three captives put up a valiant struggle, breaking a few noses and sending more stumbling into the snow. Sandor and Brienne had managed to get their steel out, but it was the Direwolves who betrayed them in the end, who forced them to yield. They surrounded them with teeth bared, urging them toward their fate. Terror gripped Sansa’s heart. She’d expected to argue for Jaime’s life, not all three. Not Sandor too. 

Brienne was pleading with Stoneheart now. “Please, my Lady. I saw your daughters home. We all did. I kept my word. I would hang, but let the others live. I beg you. Let Podrick go, and let them live.”

Sansa joined her voice to Brienne’s. She spoke in a rush. “Mother, you can’t. Brienne is honorable and good, and Jaime has joined my service. Sandor has no loyalty to Lannisters, he deserted them long ago, he’s sworn himself to me. Please!” She shrieked, as nooses were fitted around necks.

If her words stirred the gray woman’s heart, she gave no sign of it. She gave a motion to her men, and they readied themselves. Sansa rounded on her.

“This is blind vengeance, not justice!” She said desperately. “Please, my mother was good and kind, she had an open heart, not one made of stone. She would hear my pleas for mercy!”

“It’s not our mother,” Arya said dully, her eyes filled with tears. “Not anymore.” She was conflicted, Sansa knew. Arya had no love for the three, and perhaps would have been happy to see them hanged herself, once. She didn’t seem so sure now, as she looked up at them. “I pulled her from the river, me and Nymeria. Denied the God his due.”

Sansa turned away from the ramblings, back to the grey ghost wearing her mother’s face. “This is blasphemy!” She cried. “You sully sacred ground with this. Father would be horrified. If you have any love for him left in you at all, you would cease this senseless violence.” 

Stoneheart regarded her with cold silence. Then, she nodded to the men at the ropes. “If you have any final words, best speak them now,” said one. 

“Stop this at once!” she screamed. “I command it!”

“It’s all right, my lady,” said Jaime Lannister. “I’m grateful that you tried.”

Brienne kept a brave face. “I do not fear death. I’m at peace, knowing both of you girls made it safely home.”

“Third time’s the victor, aye girl?” Sandor said to Arya. She averted her eyes in shame. When his eyes found Sansa’s, the mirth went out of them. “Little bird…”

Stoneheart made a croaking sound, and three pairs of legs flew up. “No!” Sansa screamed.

Elder Brother was shouting, too. And Podrick, begging for Brienne’s life. They were held firmly in place, though, and the words were wind. Arya seemed in a daze. Her eyes were unseeing and far off. Mixed into all the pleas and protests were the strangled sounds of slow deaths. 

She tore the bronze crown from her head and threw it at the woman’s feet. “I’m the one who should hang,” she sobbed, furious. “I’m the one who betrayed father to Cersei. I killed him, and so I killed you and Robb as well. Me, not them. Let them go!”

Stoneheart’s eyes turned slowly to meet hers. “No,” she said. Then she was watching them die again. 

Their faces had all turned purple, eyes rolling as they struggled for air. “You’re a monster. And all of you who follow her! Monsters, all of you!”

“All Freys and Lannisters must hang,” said the man nearest to them. 

“I was a Lannister, too. Where is the line, I ask you? Shall I hang as well? Answer me!”

Lady Stoneheart did not answer. She didn’t even look at her.

Sansa had had enough. She reached into her cloak and pulled out the dagger she carried. “I will cut them down myself,” She declared. She rushed to Sandor first, made a desperate attempt to reach the rope from which he hung, but it was high above her, and the men closed in, pulled her away by the waist. Sansa slashed at them wildly, forgetting all she had been taught. Steel kissed arms and chests. 

“Get off of me!” she screamed as they grabbed for her. She felt crazed. She reached feebly for Sandor’s bindings, but it was no good. Kicking legs were reduced to twitching now. She collapsed to her knees.

“You all will sit in judgment for this,” she cried. “You insult our Gods by making them party to murder!”

As if in answer, a deafening sound like the crack of thunder rang out. Sansa only barely threw herself aside in time as the branch splintered and broke from the tree. The three fell with it, crumpled to the ground gasping and choking. Sansa scrambled to them at once; the branch had missed crushing them all by inches. By all reason, it had been sturdy enough to bear their weight. She glanced at the carved face in the trunk, and somehow she knew its eyes could see her. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. She threw herself over Sandor’s chest and sobbed. “Thank you…”

“Again,” Stoneheart croaked. Sansa lifted her head to look around at the men who surrounded her, hardly able to make out their faces through her grief. Many of them looked shaken to her, but already more were coming forward with fresh rope. 

“The Gods themselves have spoken against this,” Sansa shouted, gripping the dagger with a shaking hand and offering it to any who might try to advance. “I will claim every head in these woods if you make a move to disgrace them again.”

Sansa turned her eyes back to Stoneheart. “And you,” she sobbed, voice thick with disgust and grief. “You are not my mother.”

Arya was approaching her. “You’re not our mother,” she repeated in a hollow voice, as if it was a mantra. She found a ruined cheek with a shaking hand. “But if any part of her remains…I grant her mercy.” And then her Needle appeared in her left hand, and with a sudden movement had buried itself in the corpse’s heart. It happened so fast, and the woman never made an expression that might betray an emotion. It was only when her shoulders sagged that it could be determined that she was truly dead at all. 

The wolves began to howl, a mournful chorus. Other wolves unseen took up the cry, and soon it became a cacophony of noise. Sansa went to her sister, threw her arms around her. She was frozen as she stared down at what she’d done. “She wasn’t our mother,” the girl repeated hollowly, desperate to believe it. “It had to be done.”

Sansa squeezed her tightly. “She wasn’t our mother,” she agreed, though there was a grief that took her, as she gazed at the limp frame under the tree. It was her mother’s body. Perhaps it had her mother’s memories. But it did not have her mother’s heart.

Without their leader, the band of men in the clearing seemed to accept the branch breaking as an act of the Gods. They were shaken and unsure of how to proceed, but made no move to continue with the execution. Sensing there would be no stopping him now, Elder Brother gave the men subduing him his elbows and rushed forward. He knelt down over the three, checked their breathing and felt each neck for breakages. “Get them back to the castle,” he barked, looking around. “Now!”

“I’m sorry about Sandor,” Arya said dully, looking over as the holy man fussed over them. “Brienne, too. They didn’t deserve to hang. Jaime…” she held no such regret for his suffering. “I would see him brought to justice still.”

“Bran forgives him,” Sansa said quietly. “And Brienne would lay her life down for his. We must have faith that the Gods have spared him for a reason, with the rest.”

“There is only the god of death,” Arya said bitterly. “The branch was weak, that’s all. They were too heavy.” 

They both turned their eyes up to look at the severed limb of the Weirwood, dripping sap from its wound as dark and red as blood. 

Chapter Text

SANDOR 24

The hours that passed between the noose and now had been a blur, a state of limbo between sleep and waking, never fully coming into either one. He strongly suspected he’d been fed milk of the poppy, but it clouded his memory if so. He felt drunk. He felt sick. He felt his entire body had been battered. 

As his mind began to clear a little, Sandor made a move to sit up, only for a large hand to press him back down. “Rest, Sandor,” said Elder Brother’s familiar voice. Sandor blinked a few times to focus his vision, and the bald man’s head swam into view. “You’ll be all right, but you were without air for far too long. You had a hard fall as well, but nothing’s broken. 

His head was pounding, barely taking in the account. “Sansa.” he found his voice came out far more roughly than usual, and barely surpassed a whisper. He swallowed hard, and it was a dagger to the throat. “Where is Sansa?”

“Try not to speak,” Elder Brother said gently. “She’s close. She hasn't left you long but to make her rounds seeing to the others.” He looked shaken. “The girl fought for you fiercely. None would heed her, save for the Gods. I saw the tree shed its limb myself…it was not the natural way a branch gives out. I swear to you, it chose to release you.”

“I’m sure you believe that.” Sandor closed his eyes. 

The moment the rope had tightened around his neck, each second was agonizing eternity. He had heard it said of near-death encounters that a man would see his life play out before his eyes. Sandor had had such encounters beyond counting now, and found it to be horse shit. But, for a moment as he thought he might finally face his own mortality, Sandor thought he might have glimpsed the future. The potential that lay to waste as everything grew darker. He saw a future where he stood under that tree, rather than swinging from it. Put his cloak around her shoulders and swore. Held a babe in his arms. Made love under full moons in hot springs. Grew withered and old, left a legacy behind he felt proud of. Wolves and dogs running together through yellow grass. It was almost too much to bear, to think about it now. How much he found he wanted it.

“How's the pain?” He heard Elder Brother ask. He cracked an eye open.

“Better than burning,” he said with a voice like sawdust. “Better than fever, too.”

“It must be terrible, still,” he said. “For the way it brings you to tears.”

Sandor hadn’t noticed. He brought a hand up to dry his face. “The poppy doesn't agree with me,” he said quietly. “You know it as well as I.”

The man smiled knowingly. “Of course.”

The door crept open, and Sansa peeked her head in. 

“Come, my lady,” Elder Brother beckoned. “He's coming to. He's still foggy from the poppy.”

She entered the room, and tilted her head as she drew near. “We didn't give them milk of the poppy, did we? Should we?”

Elder Brother laughed, and Sansa joined in, once she realized. Sandor let his eyes slide closed again. “Bugger you both.”

“You sound awful,” Sansa lowered herself to sit on the bed beside him. She covered his cheek with a hand. “I'm so sorry, Sandor.”

“I've a proper collar now.” Laughter rumbled in his chest, but was too painful to escape. “Your sister will be pleased.”

“She worries after you, too, near as much as I,” Sansa chided. “She'd perform a mass execution tonight, if she had it her way.”

“Let me know if she gets it,” he rasped. “I'd like to watch.”

“I'll leave you,” said Elder Brother. “I must check on the others.”

“Wait.” Sandor's hand went out, caught him by the forearm. He pulled himself up to sit, the effort of it making him wince. Then he turned to Sansa. “Is it still your wish, to be wed?” 

She was looking at him in astonishment. She turned to Elder Brother. “Are you certain you didn't give him milk of the poppy?”

“I'm serious,” he snapped, though his voice was too weak to carry a bite. 

Her lips broke into a smile. “Nothing’s changed.”

No, little bird. Everything has changed. He’d brushed up against losing her forever. In the real way. It was hard enough to take in the oblivion of death, but the regret that came before was worse. His final thought before the rope went taut was of how he'd spent those precious final days with his back turned on her. Time was the most valuable thing he had, and he’d squandered it. She had offered him eternity, and he was too stricken and stubborn and stupid to take it. But he had another chance. Surely they gave me something, he thought. He felt so beside himself.

“I can’t promise you a better life, nor even a good one,” he said. “That’s the way of the world. And I can’t promise you I’ll make a good husband. I’m still trying to figure out how to be a good man. In all my life, I’ve never believed in anything, least of all myself. You make me believe it's possible. And I love you with every damned part of me. So if that’s enough, I would ask your hand in marriage. Finish what we started.” No more running.

Sansa took his hand in hers, eyes wet with tears. “It is enough. We cannot change the world, but you make my little place in it better. And my love for you is just as deeply felt. So I accept your hand with a happy heart, Sandor Clegane. And may what we started never be finished.”

“We’ll be wed, then.” He settled back down to his elbows. It was so strange to say aloud. “When the time seems right. I’d ask you to bear witness,” he looked up at Elder Brother. The man made a hasty swipe at his eyes and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I would take it as an honor,” he said solemnly. “It will be good to have something to celebrate. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He bowed his head and left them. 

Sansa was upon him at once, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him. His entire body ached in protest, but he wouldn’t make her privy to it, lest she stop. He pulled himself upright again, wrapped his arms around her and covered her mouth with his.

“Husband,” she whispered into his lips, smiling.

“Not yet,” Sandor whispered back, though it was the finest styling he’d ever been given. “I mean to court you first.” She giggled.

“How would my lord hope to win me?” 

“I shouldn’t have much trouble. My lady’s standards are dreadful low.”

She bit him, and he gave a quiet laugh. The strain of it seemed to bring her back somewhat. “No more talking,” she said. She rose and went to the door. Sandor watched with disappointment, expecting she was leaving him to rest. 

She slid the bolt to the locked position.

Sandor awoke the following morning with her still in his arms. They were naked, and he felt a breast in one hand and the small of her belly in the other. For an eyeblink, he wondered if they were still in Braavos. But then the pain returned, gave him the truth of it. 

She was stirring awake as well, in sync as always. They were dreaming together again. He realized how empty it had felt of late, to be without it. Would this truly be how he could expect to greet every day, forevermore? She made a small, languid sound as she pressed herself closer to him.

“We should be dressed,” She whined.

He didn’t wish to leave this bed, but knew they must. The matter of her mother and the Brotherhood still needed tended to, the snows still beat at the windows overhead, and there was no small matter of a war. Surely the day would provide some new surprises besides. Sandor helped the girl into a dress, and she buckled him into his armor. Both legs were stiff and sore this morning, but it was his throat that pained him most of all.

“Are you sure you don’t need to rest more?” She asked, not for the first time since waking.

“I’m with you.” It came out as half a croak. He rubbed at his neck and cleared it. “I’m fine.” He looked to her with a serious expression. “Are you?”

She had recounted for him, what happened with her mother. She had been a terrible sight, like something out of a nightmare. And the sister gave her mercy. Sansa was in pain as well, but not bodily as he was. She averted her gaze.

“I would like to keep busy today, I think.”

They made it to table without issue, and saw the feasting hall sparsely populated. The only one Sandor recognized outright was Elder Brother, his square bald head and broad shoulders a contrast to folk turned lean from war and winter. He turned to greet them as they approached.

“You should still be resting,” he said gruffly to Sandor. “I would’ve had food brought to your chambers, if I could have gotten into them.” His eyes knew too much.

‘I value my privacy,’ Sandor signed, giving up on his voice for now.

‘You’re not wed yet,’ he returned with a glance between them.

Sansa laughed. ‘I was up all night sick with worry, that’s all.’

“Far be it from me to fuss after the lady’s comings and goings,” Elder Brother sighed, gesturing for them to sit. “Everyone else has taken breakfast in their chambers this morning, so far as I can tell.”

“I would prefer to take my meals here, more often than not,” Sansa said as she picked at a strip of bacon. Meat wasn’t agreeing with her, it seemed. She made a face and put it down, choosing some dried fruit and hard cheese instead. “Like my father. He wanted his people to know him.”

“He was a good man indeed,” Elder Brother agreed. “Loyalty doesn’t always win battles, but it can decide wars.”

“I hope it’s enough,” She said thoughtfully. “I feel restless to sit at table while there’s fighting just outside these walls. I would see my people today, at least.”

It was going to be a long day, Sandor knew. Perhaps I should have stayed abed. Standing and holding court for hours would be an arduous task, but it would be a balm to her grief. And, if he was to truly carve out a life for himself here, perhaps the people should get used to seeing him as well. 

Once the girl ate her fill, she decided she should seek out the brother first. The boy made Sandor uneasy. He didn’t know what to make of him, putting him at a disadvantage. He seemed to know everything. He called me goodbrother, yesterday. Having been a silent brother of the Quiet Isle, it hadn’t stuck out as odd. But Sandor wondered just how much this boy could know. 

His eyes were white when they were let into his chambers, but upon their approach he quickly rolled them back into place and smiled. “Sister,” he greeted. “Sandor. I apologize for my mother’s manner last evening. I hope we all can find some peace in her passing. Her most of all.”

“She wasn’t our mother,” Sansa said quietly.

“She was, and wasn’t,” he corrected. “Grief and rage were her final moments, and it consumed her when she rose again…justice and vengeance are two sides of the same coin. She hanged many who deserved it. And many who did not.”

“Let us turn to something else for now,” Sansa suggested, struggling for composure. “What news comes from the fighting?” She lowered herself into the seat across from him. Sandor remained near the door, content to be a shadow on the wall. The less the boy noticed him, the better. 

Two wolves were sat dutifully at his side, and the great black one padded over and sniffed at his boots. He offered a hand to test the beast’s disposition, and drew it back wet with slobber. He wiped it off with a pat to its head, mouth twitching in amusement. This one was the friendlier of the pack, he observed, despite being the largest and meanest in appearance.

“He likes you.” Bran was watching him with interest. “That’s high praise, coming from him. He doesn’t like anyone.”

Sandor chuffed. “He’d still rip my throat out if you told him to.”

Bran made a small smile of confirmation. Then he turned back to his sister. “They’re close,” he said. “Nymeria and mother’s men march out to meet them now. They stall our destruction as I search. I’ve glimpsed many possible futures, sister. If they breach these walls, this night will never end. That much I know for certain.”

“What are you searching for?” Sansa asked. 

“The Others aren’t so different from men. They seek to expand and reproduce, to conquer and rule the world as they see fit. They can be negotiated with. I just have to find the heart.”

“The heart?”

“The source of their power,” he explained. “Not unlike our Weirwoods. I’ve glimpsed it once before. It’s almost too beautiful to behold, let alone destroy…but if that’s what it takes, I would.”

“We have dragons,” Sansa said. “Does that not put the battle in our favor?”

“It helps,” Bran shrugged. “But they have a dragon, too. And spiders, big as hounds. Giants and bears and mammoths too.”

Sansa’s chuckle was a nervous thing. “That sounds like one of Old Nan’s stories.”

“Some stories are true,” the boy replied ominously. 

“Why does it always have to be the horrible ones?” 

“We’ll make better ones,” he promised. “But no happy ending comes without conflict, I’m afraid. I think I’m close to finding the Heart of Winter. I can feel it. I must leave you, sister, and keep searching. I trust you will be a great comfort to the people here. Go to them, and hear them.” He reached over to something resting on the side table. The bronze crown of Robb Stark. He offered it to the girl. 

She took the crown with reverence, but a healthy measure of hesitation too. “This crown belongs to you, brother.”

He smiled. “I’m merely borrowing it. So shall you. Winterfell needs your presence, in my absence. You’ll wear it well.”

Sansa lowered the crown over her auburn curls. In her fine gray dress and thick furs, she looked every bit the part. 

Before the boy's eyes went white again, they turned to Sandor. He said nothing, but the look he gave him would haunt the back of his mind all day. The girl sat her father's high seat and held court for much of it. He stood there for hours, and thought she must have met every single person within the walls. 

He kept himself still and quiet, and was hardly noticed at all. Despite his size and appearance, Sandor was quite adept at blending in and keeping his head low. Some petitioners questioned the presence of The Hound, and Sansa was all too eager to tell them of his good deeds and exploits. But most were concerned only about themselves, their own lives. Sansa herself struck an impressive sight, and she commanded every eye in the room.

Sansa had assurances and comforting words for them all. She swore to them that the sun would come out again, if only they kept their faith. She urged prayer in the Godswood, and to keep good spirits. She encouraged little children to make snow forts, the women to sew clothing and craft spears and arrows. She promised to join them in their work. She kissed the brows of wounded men and thanked them for their sacrifice. Promised gold to the smiths supplying the army. She blessed newborn babes and passed judgment in myriad disputes. 

Her people had styled her The Red Wolf. But they had other names for her, too. Winterfell’s daughter. The Lion Tamer, for the escort she'd arrived with. Even Queen in the North, though she wasn't. Sandor wondered what sort of names they would make for her once she bound herself to him in marriage. He couldn't imagine they would be half so flattering. It would take effort on his part to give people a higher view of him, so that they might not think less of her, or the child he got on her. He wasn't sure he was up to that task. But he was resolved to try.

It was hard to determine the time of day when she stepped down from her seat at last. It was always so damned dark outside. But the hour was late enough for dinner to be in preparation.

“I'll be dining among the people tonight,” she said to him as they crossed the yard. The snows that had been cleared this morning were already piled back up near to Sandor’s knees. 

“I thought as much,” he said, still hoarse. 

“How do you fare?” She noted how he sounded and how he limped, despite his effort to hide it. His legs cried out for relief and his neck still throbbed, but she had heard complaints all day. He wouldn't burden her with his own.

“Better than most, it would seem,” he replied. “Where are we going?” Sandor noticed they were heading away from the castle.

“The Godswood,” she said. “I wish to pray, if you'll indulge me. I want them to see me go there.”

He knew they would find it empty this time. Still, it gave him a strange feeling in his gut to return. “Of course.”

She’d brought him here countless times in their dreams. But the real thing was completely different. The air was eerily quiet in these woods, even in the throes of a blizzard. The thick trees kept the ground clearer than everywhere else, and every hair stood on end from the moment he stepped foot there. There was real power in these woods, beyond his comprehending. 

The remnants of last night's scene were still in evidence. The ropes had been taken away, but the massive branch which had been his doom and salvation still lay there, thick red sap pooled and frozen at its broken end. The carved face in the trunk wept with it, and it seemed to Sandor that its expression was slightly different than he remembered. The girl knelt before it and bowed her head in reverence. Sandor went over to the felled limb and sat.

The girl spoke her prayers to the tree directly. She prayed for victory against the Others, for the safe return of the brave warriors who held them back. She prayed for Bran to find the Heart so that dawn might come again. She prayed for guidance in leading those who remained in the castle. She begged for peace for her mother, and that she might rest easily in her place beside her father in the crypts. She thanked the tree for sparing the lives of Sandor, Brienne, and Jaime, and wished for their recovery. She prayed for her bastard brother Jon to make it home, and for the brothers she'd lost to watch over him. She even prayed for the Direwolves, Lord Manderly, and her little friend back in Braavos.

If prayer worked, Sansa would have cured the world. He held his tongue, though. The tree could not answer her, but Sandor had the strange sensation that it did listen. He ran a hand along the bark upon which he sat. Was it true, what people were saying? It seemed ridiculous to believe a tree could make choices. He didn't know what made him so damned important that it would maim itself to save him, either. Still, he heard himself muttering a word of gratitude under his breath.

When they reached the castle, the scent of roasting meat greeted them as they came inside. Sandor felt famished, he realized, his stomach seeming to come awake. He looked down at Sansa, who had a hand to her mouth.

“I think I'll take dinner in my chambers tonight after all,” she said wearily. “If I can eat at all.” 

“Fine by me,” Sandor shrugged. 

“You should go,” she said. “Be seen, and be my eyes as well.”

Sandor misliked the thought of letting her out of his sight, irrational as it was. You can't keep her to yourself all the time. “Very well,” he nodded. “But make sure you eat something. Choke it down if needbe.” With that, he took her hand, bent and kissed it for anyone to see. It was with satisfaction that he found he could still make her blush.

She smiled. “I’ll find you later.”

Sandor found the great hall well populated. He scanned the room for familiar faces, but Elder Brother wasn't among them. Arya hadn't been seen all day either, he reflected. The business with the mother had surely taken a toll on the girl. She had been the one to do the deed, and she was not so ruthless a killer as she'd have him believe. He had the thought that he should go find her, though he had no inkling of what he might say. The wolf girl wished to be alone, as he would in her place. She'll come out when she's ready to.

Sandor was surprised to spy Jaime and Brienne at table, far away from the rest. The Payne boy was with them, too, sullen and silent. They were regarded less warmly than even he was, he knew. He found himself joining them.

Jaime grunted a greeting as Sandor lowered himself on the bench beside him. His voice was as weak as expected, and all three bore the mark of last night's encounter, still bruised and raw.

“Will the Lady Sansa be joining us?” Asked Brienne. 

“No,” Sandor murmured. “She held court all day. She's earned some peace and quiet.”

“I heard,” the wench replied. “I would like to attend her at the next one.”

“I'm sure she'd like that.” Sandor felt ravenous, but the act of eating was tedious work. Every swallow was torturous. He found himself giving up on it quickly, and found the other two had as well.

“It's good to be alive,” Jaime broke a long silence. “Pity that we can't savor it fully.”

“What do you intend to do now that your debt is paid?” Sandor wondered. Jaime shrugged.

“Hadn't given it much thought, truth be told. It might be the world is ending soon, according to the way people talk.” He rubbed his throat. “I'm taking each moment as it comes, for now.”

“I would join the fighting,” said Brienne. “And if I survive it, I would enter the lady’s service if she'd still have me.”

“Might be I’d join the wench,” Jaime waved his useless golden hand. “I'm curious to see what all this doom and gloom is about. If there's any truth to it.”

“The corpse of Catelyn Stark wasn't enough proof for you?” Sandor remarked. 

“What of you, Sandor? What place does a dog have among wolves?”

The highest one there is. “I like wolves better than lions. Wolves like dogs better than lions, too.”

Jaime eyed him curiously. “Perhaps you're right. The girl seems quite taken by you. But you'll always be a lion to the rest. Last night was proof enough of that.”

It was a fear he shared once. Sandor found it didn't concern him quite so much now. “Do I look like I give a shit for what people think, Lannister?” He gave him a good look at his face. “Have I ever?”

“I hope I'm not interrupting an intimate moment,” came a voice from behind. Sandor turned to see the orange haired man called Howland Reed standing over them. 

“You came just in time,” Brienne answered. “I feared the men were like to pull their cocks out soon. They cannot resist the urge, it seems.”

“Far be it from me to discourage a good contest,” said Howland. “One I would surely win, mind.” He winked. 

“I admire such confidence as much as I pity it,” Jaime said with his easy smile, noting the man's small stature. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

Howland grinned, ignored the jab. “My lord requests your audience.”

Sandor noticed that Howland was addressing him directly. “What is it my lord requires?” It was strange to address a crippled young boy as such. 

“That isn't for me to say,” he replied. 

Sandor rose, followed the man down the familiar path to the lord’s solar. Found the boy at his usual place before the hearth. He looked so frail, yet he could feel the change in the air when he entered the room, not unlike the tree at which these Northerners made their prayers heard. 

“Sandor Clegane,” the boy addressed him. “Please, sit.”

“I'll stand, if it please you,” Sandor said. 

“A more fragile man than I might take that as an insult,” Bran replied. Sandor shifted uncomfortably, and it made the boy laugh. He's japing with me. It sounded odd, coming from him. It was more human than he thought him capable. 

“Leave us, Howland,” Bran commanded. “Once Sandor leaves this room, none are to enter it again until he returns. Have Summer and Shaggydog brought up, and stand your guard.”

Howland obeyed without a word, bowing his head and slipping out of sight. Sandor glared at the boy before the fire. “What is this?”

“There's a serious matter I would discuss with you,” he was saying, his auburn curls like molten copper in the firelight. “Sit or stand, it makes no matter. But our deliberations might take some time, and I understand your leg pains you even when not recovering from a hanging.”

“Deliberations?” Sandor asked. “Whatever it is you think I'm guilty of, I would tell you I've paid my price for it. I won't beg for my life to anyone, so get on with it, and spare me your deliberations.”

The boy smiled sadly. “You misunderstand, Sandor. You've stood before Old Gods and New, and the Red one as well. I wouldn't question their judgment. It's your strength I require. The world requires it.”

“If you mean to have me join the fighting, I'll go without argument,” he rasped. “I'm prepared to give my life over, too. If it comes to that.” He knew Sansa wouldn't like to hear it. He didn't like it much, either. But he was no craven, and if his steel was the difference between dawn and doom, he would make that choice. He would fight like hell to survive, though.

“Your skill at arms remains impressive, despite your injury.” The boy's eyes were impossibly intense. “But it's your strength of mind and spirit I would ask you to put on the line for our cause.”

“Speak plainly, little lord,” he said irritably. Irritatingly, he smiled again.

“Little Lord…indeed I am. I've found the Heart of Winter. And yet I'm in no fit state to confront our enemies. I would have you go in my place, to treat with them.”

Sandor gaped at him. “I'm no diplomat. I'd sooner make the conflict worse than better. You've picked the wrong man for that job.”

“I've picked the only man for it,” said Bran.

“I can hardly talk,” Sandor rasped, as if in demonstration. “Let alone know what to say.”

“You need not concern yourself with that. I would do the talking.”

He stared at him in bemusement. “You said I was to go in your place.”

“You would be present in body, but I would command the mind,” Bran explained. “Wearing a man's skin…it's a delicate thing. I don't take it lightly.”

Talk of wearing his skin made Sandor's crawl. It might have made him laugh once; it was an absurdity. But after all he’d seen, he believed the boy was capable of such an abomination. “You don't want to be in this skin, I promise you.”

“Neither of us will like it,” the boy said ominously. “But it must be done.”

“What makes you think I’m the one to do it?”

“Wearing the skin of a human is the most difficult and dangerous form of skinchanging,” Bran explained. “It requires the vessel to possess a strong will to withstand, and even then it could break the strongest mind beyond repair. Stronger minds are more difficult to control, though, making it imperative to have full cooperation. I ask no small task of you, I know.”

Somehow, the thought of losing his mind seemed a worse fate than losing his life. At least there could be some measure of honor in a warrior’s death. Sandor found the chair across from the boy and sat. “Say it true, boy. You stoke my ego about strength, but we both know how weak I am. I put a bastard in your sister, did you see that in your visions? Perhaps you did, and this is the punishment you make for me. I'm an expendable life, one that won't be missed.”

“My sister will bear no bastards,” he replied smoothly. “You love her, as I know she loves you. She may never forgive me for this act, but I hope that one day she will understand. Your bond is precisely how I know you're capable of meeting this task.”

Sandor chuffed. “Love dulls a man’s mind. It doesn’t strengthen it.”

“You'd be wrong about that. But it's the dreams I speak of.”

He could feel the color drain from his face as his blood ran cold. How could he know about the dreams? Was there nowhere safe from those prying eyes of his?

“All of us Starks command a power to enter minds,” Bran went on, as if seeing his thoughts as well. “Aside from myself, Sansa seems to be uniquely able to enter the minds of men. But only while they're vulnerable, only while they sleep. She's primed you for this without ever knowing it. Your lucidity is something most men wouldn’t be capable of, but she's awakened your mind, one that was already possessed of great strength.” 

The boy leaned forward, firelight dancing in eyes that saw too much. Eyes that looked so much like his sister's, and yet not at all. He spoke with a detachment that was unsettling, but it wasn't cold or unfeeling. “You've wondered at your purpose in this world, Sandor Clegane. Felt unworthy of greater things all your life. You've spent it withstanding scornful glances and cruel masters. It's taken years to gain control over your rage, learn patience and take responsibility for your sins. You've faced judgment, suffered greatly for it. And you've opened your heart to love. There's no thing a man will fight harder for. And it will be a fight, I assure you. The hardest one you'll ever face. But it has to be your choice.”

Sandor looked up at him, his brow drawn. “If I refuse?”

“Then I would need to find another vessel. It would almost certainly destroy them, but that's the choice I must face, and a sacrifice that must be made if there's any hope for humanity’s survival. The men who fight only serve to stall the inevitable. The sooner I can get to the Heart, the more lives we'll save.”

“Then there is no choice,” Sandor murmured, his mouth a hard line. “Tell me what will happen, boy. You can see the future. Tell me true, how this plays out.”

“I cannot see the future,” he corrected. “Only potential futures, molded by potential choices. Only the past is absolute.”

“So what makes you so certain of my role in this?”

“I could perform this task using any man’s skin in this castle. Only a precious few have the potential to come away from it in tact. I aim to prevent losses where I can.”

“Who else has this potential?” Sandor demanded. “Ask it of them.”

“Say the word and I shall. I assume you would rather I ask you, though, before I ask it of my sisters.”

Sandor felt the weight of that come down on him. He was a cornered animal. “You'd be right about that,” he heard himself say. There is no choice. 

Bran wore that sad smile again. “Shall I prepare you, then?”

Sandor nodded gravely. “Tell me what to do. It will be done.”

Bran gazed into the flames. “You will be present, but not in control. Your inner demons will claw their way up, desperate to regain it. Your grip on reality and sanity will grow brittle as bad steel. You'll need to fight a war within yourself to keep it, and all your most vulnerable parts will be laid bare to me. There will be nowhere for you to hide. You'll have a glimpse into my mind as well, and I too will have to fight to keep you from getting lost there. You will be tempted, but you'll get no respite in my mind I assure you. I urge you to face your own as much as you can withstand. If you slip, you are lost. You would return to this place a shell of yourself.” He turned his eyes to stare at him. “I have faith you will not slip, Sandor. Still, it will not be without cost. Our time together will not be brief, and even after I leave you, your battle will not be done. Your mind will attempt to drown itself in delirium. You will have to find your way out. Might be you'll come away stronger for it…but not without unimaginable torment first. If you've ever wondered what Hell is like, you will not linger in the mystery long.”

Sandor was staring at him. Sardonically he asked, “Is that all?” 

“I tell you all of this because you must be willing, if there's any hope of you overcoming it,” said Bran. “Truly willing. You must understand the risk, and face it with courage.”

Sandor couldn't say if it was courage he felt, or if he was capable of the strength the boy believed he had. “If I do this…the war will end?”

“One way or another,” he said gravely. “Yes.”

“I’ll do it, then,” he decided. “I’d like a final word, though. In case I slip.”

Bran gave him a mournful look. “I'm afraid I couldn't allow it, Sandor. My sister would delay us at best, and disrupt us at worst. For all the love we both bear her, we can't afford it. It has to happen now.”

I'll find you later. It had been the last words she spoke to him. Will there be anything left to find? He wondered if he would ever see her again. He ran his hands through his hair, found them trembling. 

“If I am lost, after this…” He said, pleading. “Give me a good death. Don't let a mindless imposter take my place. And tell her…” Sandor hesitated. It felt like giving up, to finish the sentiment. He swallowed it down. I'll tell her myself, or not at all. 

“Tell her I'm sorry.”

Chapter Text

SANSA 24

Sansa choked down her dinner with determination. The sickness was getting worse of late, and most foods spoiled her appetite just to smell them. The babe in her belly was fitful today, had tested her all day long as she sat court. They're like to turn out as willful as he is, she thought as she gave up on the rest of her meal. It was no use. I won't have to hide you much longer, she told them silently. Be patient, little pup.

She yawned. It would be good to sleep. She hoped to find Sandor there, but when she dreamed she could not find him. Perhaps he had found some good company that kept him up late, she reasoned, content to make different dreams. She found her sister, after a time, when Sandor still didn't make himself apparent, nor anyone else. Not Bran, not even Elder Brother. She dreamed of Tyrion and Littlefinger before she found someone more agreeable. She hadn't seen her person since the hangings.

Arya was dreaming of their mother tonight. Their true mother, not the vengeful spirit she'd become. “She would be glad you gave her mercy,” Sansa said softly, putting a hand on Arya's shoulder. The girl had eyes full of tears when she looked up at her.

She brushed an arm over her eyes. “She was so beautiful. I always wondered if I was a bastard, like Jon. I didn't look like her the way everyone else did.”

“You took father's looks,” Sansa said gently. “There’s no shame in that. But you were just as much her daughter as I. And she loved you just as fiercely.” She took her face in her hands, gave an encouraging smile. “Despite your best efforts.”

Her bones would be put to rest in the crypts, alongside their father. The crypts of Winterfell were typically reserved for the lords only, but her aunt and uncle had been interred there against tradition. Why not her mother as well? She deserved to rest alongside the husband who loved her, and the son she died with. 

“I wish I could bring her back,” she sniffed. “The real her, not like that. It's not fair. Beric Dondarrion came back from the dead too, but he still had his mind. Why did she have to come back so different?”

She remembered the memories Sandor had relived for her. Beric bore his grievous wounds, but didn't look as decomposed as Lady Stoneheart had been. “We cannot know,” she said sadly. “We can only learn. Grief cannot turn our hearts to stone, lest we end up the same.”

“They never should have brought her back,” Arya said with dismay. “I never should have pulled her from the river.”

“We cannot look back and count our regrets, sister,” Sansa told her. “It is a time for looking ahead. Together. You, me, and Bran. Jon, too, if the Gods are good.”

The mention of Jon made Arya's eyes fill up with tears again. “What if Jon came back wrong, too?”

Sansa hugged the girl tightly to her. “We cross the bridges before us,” she said. “But we have to hope.”

“It was you or her,” Arya whispered, after a silence. “There was a price on you, and I begged them not to take it. One Stark to pay for the other, they told me. The God of Death always gets his due. I paid the price. I told myself it wasn't her, to get it done. But it was, wasn't it? She saw us, and she knew us, and she wept. And I killed her.”

Sansa pulled away, held her at arms length. Arya almost looked like a girl again, the little sister she remembered. “The Freys killed her, Arya. And the Lannisters. Not you. You ended her suffering, and with it you saved more lives than you took.”

She closed her eyes, spilling bitter tears over her cheeks. “You’d hate me, if you knew the truth. I've taken so much more than I've saved.”

“I will never hate you,” she said firmly, giving her sister a gentle shake. “It's as Bran said: none of us are without sin. I would wipe the slate clean, start anew. If we are to have that opportunity at all.”

The thought of the threats they presently faced brought their thoughts back to Jon. “I've seen what Nymeria sees,” Arya said, a chill in her voice. “It's horrible. Unimaginable. If Jon cannot defeat them…”

“He will,” Sansa insisted, as much to her as to herself. “He has to.”

She awoke hours later, the sky dark as ever. It could be morning or it could be night, it was hard to say how long she slept. She left her chamber in search of anything that would give an answer, and to find Sandor as well. Wherever he was, he didn't sleep. Still, she went to his chambers first, found them empty. His sword and armor were missing, indicating he was still up and about somewhere. 

She went to the great hall. Dinner would surely be long passed by now, but she checked anyway, found it empty. In the hall, she stopped a serving girl as she went about her business. “What hour is it?”

“The hour of the nightingale, m’lady,” she curtsied. “It's nearly morning. The hour at least, if not the sky. Did you wish for me to fetch you breakfast?”

“No, that's not necessary, thank you,” she said kindly. “Tell me…have you seen Sandor Clegane about? He's a tall man, with a burned face.”

“I know of him, m’lady,” she replied. “Hard to miss, or mistake for another. They say he flew off during the hour of the bat last night.”

“Flew off?” Her face contorted, confused. “Who says this?”

“Everyone who was there, I s’pose,” she shrugged. “The green dragon landed in the yard last night, and Lord Clegane climbed onto it as easily as a horse, they say. It was quite a spectacle, m’lady. He ventures North, to join the fighting.”

Sansa couldn't comprehend what she was hearing. Surely they had made a mistake. Or was this girl making a mockery of her? Sandor hated dragons. Feared them, even. She heard herself laughing incredulously. “Tell me truly, now,” she said, putting a hand to her chest.

Fear crossed over the girl's face. “I wouldn’t lie, m’lady. Please, it's only what I heard.”

She recognized that look. She'd worn it so many times before. It occurred to her that she was on the other end of that dynamic now. She softened. “I believe you,” she said. “I believe that's what you heard.”

She dismissed the girl, and all but ran to find her father's solar. She felt the panic rise up her chest as she went, despite how ridiculous it all was to believe. Surely it was a mistake, someone else had climbed that dragon. Word of mouth was as unreliable as paper shoes. If anyone knew the comings and goings of those creatures, it was her brother. One thought nagged her all the way there. Sandor did not sleep. 

Sansa halted abruptly when she rounded the corner, met by Lord Howland and her brother's two massive direwolves standing guard at the door.

“What is the meaning of this?” she asked sharply.

“I can't let you in, my lady,” he said, looking contrite. “Your brother's orders.”

“Did my brother order Sandor Clegane to take off on a dragon last night?”

“So you've heard.” He stared at her with his bright green eyes, and there was no hint of his usual cocksuredness in them now. They wore a weariness she'd never imagined the man capable of, as Ser Shadrich. “Sandor accepted his lord's request willingly.”

Sansa was stunned by the confirmation. “That doesn't make any sense. Let me in, I would have the truth of this—”

The wolves bared their teeth and growled, blocking her path to the door. The betrayal was a knife to her heart.

“Please, my lady,” said Lord Howland gently. “I like it no better than you do. He will return, and if the Gods are good it'll be with the sun at his back. He would return a hero.”

“Bran knows where the Heart is?” Sansa asked. Howland nodded. “Why send Sandor? Why the secrecy in the night, Lord Howland? I thought I was worthy of more respect than this, than to be fed my information through the rumor mill.”

“I have no claim to every detail,” he answered. “Only that it had to happen this way. Have fai—”

“Damn your faith!” She shouted. Sansa wanted to scream at him. The wolves were growling again. She wanted to scream at them, too, the traitors. “This is folly! This is a disgrace! My brother betrays me by cover of night, and threatens me with his pets. And now he is too craven to answer to me himself? I thought you had honor, Lord Howland.”

“You cannot speak with Brandon,” he said stiffly, “Because he has gone as well.”

“Liar,” Sansa hissed, jabbing a finger at the door. “I know he's in there. You don't guard an empty room. And he's a coward, and whatever he said to Sandor to convince him to leave was surely a lie as well!” She gasped back a sob in her throat, breathing hard.

“I'll say no more,” Howland told her, looking older than his years. “You'll have answers upon their return. Go now, my lady. Find yourself a good distraction, and keep your eyes to the sky.”

Sansa was beside herself as her legs carried her away from the castle. Anger, grief, and disbelief hammered at her heart, but she would not wear it on her face. Not in front of her people. They will not see me crumble. Cannot.

None of it made sense. What need did Bran have of Sandor? What could he have possibly said to him, to convince him to mount a dragon? To leave me here, alone, without a parting word. She felt betrayed by them both. She felt helpless, restless. Useless.

Sansa threw herself down before the Weirwood and sobbed, pounding at its roots. She let the rage and despair come out in screams as the tree looked on, unflinching and uncaring. “Have we not suffered enough?” She cried as snow fell and died on her cheeks. “What more must be taken from me before you'll be satisfied?”

Sansa didn't move for a long time, until her sobbing calmed and she felt the tears turning to ice, and only the whisperings of the wind to console her. She lifted her head to stare at its face. “Please, send him home to me. Whatever need you have of him…I need him, too.”

In times of turmoil, Sansa’s head usually came alive with different echoes from her past. But none of those voices were present now. She realized it had been some time since they gave her council, and found herself searching for someone, anyone to guide her. She rejected the one that might have been Elder Brother’s, refusing to hear him tell her to keep faith. Sandor might tell her he wasn't worthy of such worry, and she rejected that too. She strained to hear her father or mother, but she wasn't quite sure what they might tell her at a time like this, and it only made her heart ache more.

“I thought I'd find you here,” said a voice from behind. It was Arya’s voice. “I saw.”

Sansa spun around. She must have had a look of insanity to her, for her messy hair and face swelled with grief. “What did you see, Arya? Tell me.”

Arya came forward and took Sansa's hands to bring her to her feet. She was chewing her lip. “It's true, what you've heard. I watched Sandor climb onto a dragon as easily as a horse. It was his eyes that troubled me most, though.”

“What was wrong with his eyes?” 

“They were…different,” she struggled to describe it. “Wrong. They didn't move, or blink.”

“I knew it,” Sansa felt the anger returning. “I was told he went of his own will, but he's been bewitched somehow. And it's Bran's doing.”

“Why would he bewitch Sandor?” Arya wondered.

“You'd need to, to get him near as dragon,” Sansa said ruefully. “It's wanton cruelty, and he's in no fit state for fighting besides. Gods be good, he was hanged only two days past now.” She paced around before the heart tree. “Howland says his efforts might bring an end to the Long Night. But why should Sandor need to make that sacrifice? Why should I?”

“We must trust Bran to do what's right,” Arya said. “He knows the Others better than anyone. If he needs Sandor to defeat them, then Sandor would have gone willingly, as you were told.”

Sansa felt absurdly betrayed by the way she took their side. “So now you think him honorable and brave, do you? Only when it suits you to think it, to justify it when it kills him?”

“You haven't seen what it's like, in the fighting. I have.” Arya's expression was hard, but haunted too. “And if there's one thing I know Sandor will never shy from, it's death. Especially if it means keeping it far from you.”

“Howland told me he'd return a hero,” Sansa said bitterly. “But he didn't tell me he would return alive, or safe. I know what happens to heroes.”

“Have you tried to dream of him? Or Bran?”

“Of course I have. I can't find them. What if they're dead already?” She was sobbing again. “I can't bear this!”

Arya took her by the shoulders, gave her a shake. “Pull yourself together, Sansa. You're not alone in missing someone, worrying if they'll come home. Every person in these walls shares in your pain. You have to be their strength.”

Sansa had never felt less strong. “I know,” she said quietly. “I'm just so tired, Arya. Every time I grasp at happiness…”

“Stop grasping,” said her sister forcefully. “Take what you can get, when you can get it, but never expect it to last. Sandor would tell you the same.”

Despite herself, Sansa laughed. A pitiful thing, thickened by her sorrows, but she felt strangely comforted all the same. 

“I truly have surrounded myself by cynics, haven't I?”

Three days came and went. Sansa had maintained her composure at court and continued her duties around the castle, and stole away to the Godswood to pray when she couldn't sleep. It was more for the time away to herself than a strong presence of faith. Sansa didn’t speak much to anyone, no more than she needed to. It was dark all the time, and bitterly cold. As dark and cold as she felt.

Brienne was ever at her side, but Sansa felt absurdly resentful by it. Brienne only did her duty, she reminded herself, and she was a good woman. But she is not who I want at my side. She hated the thought of having to get used to it being this way. If he doesn't return…

She had begged Arya to show her what she had seen, in dreams. But her sister refused, and that almost made it worse. What horrors did she spare her from? Did she think it would snuff what little hope remained to her? Does she think me so weak? Perhaps she was. Her resolve felt so brittle as of late, despite how she urged herself to stay strong. Mine is the easier task, compared to the rest. 

Elder Brother offered her the most comfort in these three days. Not with his words, but with his shared understanding, and genuine horror he felt about the situation. He made her feel less alone, and Sansa took to sitting with him at table, speaking as freely as she pleased with her hands.

Sleep came fitfully; unable to find her brother or Sandor in dreams, Sansa would awaken in frustration. Every time she reached out for them, she only found faces she wished to forget, and she succumbed to nightmares. The babe growing inside her was fitful, too. She felt ravenously hungry all the time, but when food came her appetite left her completely.

On the rise of the fourth day, Sansa was making her best effort to chew and swallow and make polite conversation in the Great Hall when a great clamoring was heard from without. She was on her feet at once, heart in her throat. Brienne shot to her feet as well, hand at her hip. She couldn't make out what the shouting was about, and it had captured the attention of her fellow diners as well. Had the dragon returned? Or had the Others breached their walls? Surely a scout would have seen, would have found me. There had been torturously little news of what was going on without Bran present. She felt like a sitting duck.

“I will investigate the disruption, my lady,” said Brienne.

“I shall see it myself,” Sansa replied sharply. She was caught somewhere between hope and fear, and wasn't content to sit in it.

They strode down the hall together and threw open the doors. She had to put a hand up to shield her eyes from the brightness that met her, and for a heartbeat she thought the castle was on fire.

The shouting was deafening. Gleeful shouting. The sun was back, she realized with awe. “They did it,” she breathed. “They fought back the night.” Even the snows fell more gently now. Yet the sky remained empty. 

Sansa stood in the yard all day, looking up. Arya came to join her and Brienne there. Jaime and Elder Brother too, and everyone in Winterfell it seemed. The sisters were both looking for dragons, hoping for different riders. Sansa ached to see Jon just as much, but it was different too. She was desperate to see green.

They were stood there for hours before the fresh shouts took up their chorus again. “Dragons approaching!” The scouts cried from the walls. Moments later, they became visible to the rest. Two massive black shapes cast their shadows over the yard, circled their descent and sent the smallfolk scurrying. A white dragon, and a green.

Arya was gripping her hand so hard as the beasts touched down that she thought she might break it, but she didn't dare pull away. She gripped just as hard.

“Jon,” Arya whispered as the white’s rider dismounted, and Sansa saw she was crying. “Jon!” She broke away and ran. Sansa ran, too, but for the green dragon, paying no heed to the danger it might pose.

“Sandor!” She cried out as he climbed down from the beast’s back. “Sandor, thank the Gods—”

He put a hand out to stop her before she could throw herself into him. His eyes were exactly as Arya described, blank and unblinking. His hands twitched at his side. Over his shoulder, Arya and Jon were having a far warmer reunion. They were touching each other’s faces like blind men trying to identify one another, and then he was embracing her, picking her up off her feet and spinning her around and around.

“Come, Sansa,” Sandor rasped. It was his voice, but it sounded nothing like him somehow. He strode off towards the castle without any further fanfare. Sansa followed, and Brienne and Elder Brother came up behind them. Sandor halted to face them. “Only Sansa,” he said firmly. 

“Not a chance,” said Brienne. “I go where the lady goes.”

“It’s all right, Brienne,” Sansa said gently. “Please, be my eyes and ears out here. Find me if there's any trouble.”

Elder Brother was staring at Sandor with profound concern, but was more willing to obey. He watched them wordlessly as they disappeared into the castle, his mouth a hard line.

Sandor led them to the room where Howland and the wolves stood their guard. She noticed his gait was different, too. He did not limp. Howland wore deep rings around his eyes, and offered none of his usual charisma when they approached. Sansa wondered if he had slept at all these three days.

The sight of them seemed to bring him back to life somewhat. “My lord,” he bowed at Sandor. “I’m glad to see you've returned in one piece.”

“Rest now, Lord Howland,” Sandor said in his odd inflections. “Your service to me has been invaluable, and will be rewarded.”

“I heard the sun is out again,” he said. “That is all the reward I require.” Still, he bowed and walked off. The wolves were docile as dogs again as they followed them into the solar. 

As Sansa suspected, Bran was still sat in the chair before the hearth. His eyes were white, and Sandor stood to observe him for a moment.

“So much power,” he murmured. “But not enough to command my own two legs.”

“What is this?” Sansa demanded, slamming the door behind her. “What have you done?”

Sandor turned to face her, drawing down the hood he wore. His skin was white as milk, even the burned side. “I’m going to let him rest now. His mind is strong, but he’s at his limits. Do not try to wake him. It will not work.”

He strode into their father’s bedchamber. He unbuckled his sword, shrugged out of furs limp with melting snow, and lowered himself onto the mattress. For what might be the first time in days, his eyes slid closed. 

“Sansa.” the voice was Bran’s now, coming from the other room. “Leave him.”

Sandor was fitful, his eyes dancing wildly beneath the lids. Sansa put a hand to his face, and it was ice beneath her fingers. “What have you done?” She repeated, feeling the anger rising in her chest.

“Only what was necessary,” she heard him say.

Sansa stormed into the solar. “Necessary? This is an abomination! What did you do to him?”

She already knew, of course, though she couldn't comprehend it. She knew her brother had the power to command beasts, could even see events he wasn't present for. But this felt like a bridge too far. A power no man should ever know. It enraged her. It frightened her.

“Some men sacrifice their bodies for a greater cause. Many have, as you know. Sandor sacrificed his mind, so that I might have a body to wield, in our hour of need.”

“He’s a person, not a sword!” she shouted.

Bran remained infuriatingly calm, though his expression was apologetic. “I couldn't reach the heart in dreams, it was too well protected. Their physical forces were pulled away to fight, and couldn't forsee my coming. It was the only way, sister.”

“Was Jon's body not able enough?” She asked angrily. 

“Jon was there,” he replied. “He had his part to play, his own sacrifices to make. But only I know the Others. Who they are, what they want. How they communicate. I needed to be there.”

“Why Sandor, then? Of everyone, Bran. Why?”

He looked at her with his solemn blue eyes. “I know you love him. I regret that I had to exploit it, even for a greater good. It pains me to do you harm.”

“Don't you dare spin me tales of the power of love,” she said, voice thick with disgust. “I’m no child, I'm older than you are. Speak to me truthfully.”

“I am,” said Bran. “The bond you've formed…you don't understand the power you wield, Sansa. You've entered his mind night after night, moon over moon now. Perhaps even longer than you realize. Opened his eyes in ways few men are capable of.”

Sansa gaped at him. “The dreams…how could you know? How could this be my doing?”

“I dream, too. All of us do…did. Ours is an ancient power, strengthened by our connection with the wolves. When we die, we live on in them. It goes both ways. Lady died, but the connection was never severed. She's been with you, all this time. Slowly she fades away, becoming one with you.”

Sansa's gaze fell onto the great black Direwolf that had belonged to Rickon. Its eyes seemed to hold more understanding than she had taken notice of before. Bran's eyes followed, and he gave a nod. “He's with us still. Slowly fading, and becoming one.”

“I…” she stammered, at a loss for words. “How…”

As if to comfort her, Shaggydog padded forth and pressed his massive head into her palm. She smoothed a shaking hand behind his ears, and swore she could feel the soul beneath. She couldn't decide if it broke her heart or swelled it.

She looked back at Bran. “We all dream. But how could you know about Sandor?”

“You have the power to pull anyone into a dream. Sometimes, you do it without knowing. I see all the Weirwoods see, and more. Even when you dream of them.”

It disquieted her. She'd dreamt the Weirwood dreams perhaps most of all. He had seen so much, private moments never meant for another's eyes. 

He must have seen the way she reddened, for he continued. “Most will awaken and forget what they've seen, or laugh it off. Such awareness is rare, and like armor against the battle of wearing a man's skin. Few men have a third eye, and even fewer than that will ever open it. When I saw Sandor come awake…a fog was lifted. At long last, I saw a path to triumph. I found my way home, hoping against hope you would make it here as well. You armed Sandor for this, and gave him something to fight for as well. Love. It does have power. And made for a final piece in the puzzle that saved us all.”

Sansa sunk into the chair opposite her brother. Her legs felt too weak to stand. “I'm the dreamer, not him. Why couldn't it have been me?”

“It could have been,” he said. “You, or Arya. The body's strength was near as important as the mind, though. Sandor matched best to both, and preferred to go in your place.”

“Of course he did, the great fool.” Sansa felt so outside herself. “I never would have done this to him, had I known.”

“I know,” he said gently. “You have a good heart. You would never use your considerable power of influence to do harm. But nothing is insignificant in this world, Sansa. Thousands of paths had to twist, turn, and converge at just the right time to take back the dawn.”

The exuberance the words should have made her feel was ash in her heart. Was she really so blinded by love that she would sacrifice the fate of the world for the life of one man? It was impossible to reconcile. 

“What becomes of him now?” She was afraid to hear the answer.

“I cannot know,” Bran said regretfully. “He will not wake for some time yet. When he does…only fate can decide. But he dreams now, and you may be able to reach him there. It won't be easy. His mind rails against reality. Even you would struggle to bring it back to order. I cannot prepare you for what you might see…but it will not be pleasant. His love for you is strong, but weighed against a lifetime of hatred.”

“I will sleep, then,” she said at once, rising. “I won't lose him like this. Later, we will have more words about this…this monstrosity.”

“Sleep well, sister,” he called as she stalked away.

She returned to the room where Sandor slept. He was still in his armor, Sansa saw. It wasn't right. Bran should have removed it first. She worked at the buckles and straps as he twitched and struggled against unseen foes. He was too heavy for her to move, and she only managed to free his limbs of their burdens. She let out a frustrated sob, and rested her head on his chest. I'm not even strong enough to free his body. What hope do I have of freeing his mind?

She didn't know how long she lay there, but sleep evaded her all the while. It was the most infuriating feeling.

“I confess it, I never expected to meet The Hound at the edge of the world,” said a voice from the doorway. “I didn't think I could be surprised by anything anymore.”

Sansa’s eyes flew open and she turned her head around in recognition. She might have run across the room to embrace him, but his appearance was a shock. He was nothing like she remembered. 

“Jon?” She whispered, stunned.

He smiled. The smile touched his eyes, but there was something cold and haunted there too. He was worse for wear, and also pale as Sandor had been. Paler, even. His skin was white as bone, and warmth didn't seem to be returning color to it the way it was with the man on the bed. His hair, once the same dark color as their father’s, had turned white as well. It made a sharp contrast of his eyes, which were also changed. They were a deep, blood red.

Jon Snow crossed the room and offered a hand to help Sansa to her feet. She took it, and he pulled her into a tight embrace. He was clammy as a corpse, and looked like one as well, but it brought her comfort still. Sansa hugged him tightly, and they stood that way for a long moment, silent as she cried into his chest.

“Let me help,” he said gently when they broke apart, noting the pieces of armor strewn on the floor she had managed to remove. Jon was able to push Sandor’s dead weight into a seated position so Sansa could remove his breastplate and gorget, and the boiled leather beneath. His undershirt was damp with sweat, and he did not wake as Jon lowered him back down.

“Thank you,” she said when they were done. 

“He’s stronger than you know,” Jon put a hand to her shoulder. “He will pull through.”

“I pray you're right.” She turned to him, looked at him properly. In this light, his sunken eyes had dark shadows cast over them. His skin was translucent, and she could see dark veins sprawling over his neck and cheeks. It might have frightened her once. She would have taken him for a monster, but she could see past such frightening visages now. It wasn’t like her mother, though she could sense a darkness in Jon as well. 

“Are you all right, Jon?”

“I've been better,” he admitted. “But the fighting is done. There's still much work to do, but for now I think we all could use some rest.”

“Would that I could,” she said bitterly. She softened somewhat before adding, “I'm happy you're home. When I heard you'd died…I felt regret. You're as much my brother as Robb or Bran or Rickon. I wished I could have told you that. I'm glad I can now.”

Jon smiled again, mussed her hair as he always did with Arya. “I would love to call you ‘sister,’” he said. “But we will have to settle for ‘cousin’, now.”

Sansa’s brow tightened in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Eddard Stark never sired a bastard, as it happens.” His voice carried the same exhaustion hers did, when recounting a story for the umpteenth time. “Bran discovered the truth. Lord Howland confirmed it. The world will know soon enough.” He didn't seem to relish the thought. The haunted look had returned.

“Why would father lie about such a thing?” She asked, astonished. 

“To keep a promise,” he replied. “to protect his sister’s son.”

Her eyes went wide. “Aunt Lyanna was your mother?” Slowly, he nodded. “What did it serve, to lie to protect her honor? Would it not have been better to raise a sister’s bastard than claim it as his own?”

“I’m no bastard, either,” Jon sighed. It was still hard for him to believe as well. “King Robert would have put me to the sword, if he knew. Eddard Stark knew as much; he knew him best. I'm a living insult to his love for my mother, and hatred for my father.”

Sansa blinked. She could scarcely believe the truth of his mother, but the insinuation after the father shook her to her core. She had heard the story dozens of times. She let out an incredulous, nervous laugh. “You can't mean…” 

“Prince Rhaegar didn't steal Lyanna. He wed her. And Ned Stark sacrificed his honor to keep me safe, to keep the realm from descending back into war. I understand it, as much as I resent it.”

“That makes you the rightful king of Westeros,” Sansa said in a hushed voice. “You never belonged at The Wall, never deserved mother’s scorn.”

“I did belong there,” Jon corrected her firmly. “I don't wish to be a King. But…I will do my duty. When the time comes. After a good long rest, maybe.” he smiled. Sansa smiled too.

“It’s well deserved, your grace.”

Jon mussed her hair again. “None of that.” He looked over her shoulder. “I’ll have some tea brought up for you. To help you sleep.” he inclined his head to Sandor, which brought Sansa back to down to the reality of the situation. 

“He'll pull through,” Jon assured her, noting the way her expression fell. “And when he does, I will be fascinated to hear how a girl obsessed with handsome princes came to be a wolf who loves a hound.”

Chapter Text

SANDOR 25

Nothing could have prepared Sandor for what it would feel like to share his mind and body, give over control of it to another. Every instinct screamed for him to fight it, to buck the intruder out as a wild stallion rejects a rider. He saw his body move, but his limbs no longer belonged to him, and his skin felt oppressive and claustrophobic. He wanted to crawl out of it. The flesh repulsed him. It was like being trapped inside a burning building.

The veil between visible reality and internal perception quickly became indistinguishable, even as he tried his damndest to keep it straight. Was he riding a dragon, or was he already losing his wits? Or perhaps he was the dragon. 

He felt the cold pierce his flesh as fire threatened to consume his mind. He looked out over the horizon, saw a great green curtain of light. It was wildfire, he thought in a panic, and he was flying right into it. He willed his mouth to scream and his hands to cover his face, but they did not heed his call. They no longer belonged to him.

Green light blended into red. The blood soaked his hands, and there were only flames to cleanse them. “Promise me,” he heard a woman's plea echoing in his ear. Was it Sansa? He smelled the coppery scent of death, the wailing of a newborn babe. “Promise me.”

He never saw her face. There came a growl, and he turned to see a Direwolf, the gray and white, snarling at him. A warning. Go away, it seemed to say. Only he didn't know where to go. 

It lunged, and he stumbled back. When he opened his eyes again, Sandor was standing before a wall of faces. No, not a wall. He looked up, saw it was a tree. It was the biggest he had ever seen; as big as a castle, with white bark and blue crystalline leaves. Thousands of faces were carved into its trunk, thousands upon thousands, staring down in eternal judgment. 

He saw his brother's face, too, and it grew and grew until it towered over him. Sandor was the size of an ant under Gregor's boot, as he brought it up and crushed him underfoot. When it came away, he was kneeling over a little girl, her face unrecognizable after the accident. The accident that never was. Sandor looked up to curse him, but Gregor was already dead. His head rolled off his shoulders, consuming him in a wave of thick black blood. The wave carried him to the banks of the Trident, where he lay dying and gasping her name.

Sansa. There were two of them now. He almost couldn't recognize them; they weren’t the girl he knew. One was young, still a girl of twelve. The other was older, perhaps a few years more than what he was used to. 

“You were too early,” said the younger, a pity in her voice. Her long soft hair had been shorn roughly to her ears, and her mouth was red with blood when she spoke. It dribbled down her chin, stained the fine dress she wore. She put her hands to her abdomen, and Sandor was horrified to find a dagger embedded there.

“You were too late,” said the elder. She still had all her hair, but it was brown, not red. She had a long, deep gash that ran diagonal down her face from forehead to chin. It marred the corner of her mouth and claimed the sight in her right eye, leaving it milky white. When those eyes saw him, they hated him.

“Out!” Shouted the younger. “Get out!”

“This is not for you to see,” the elder told him. “Not the path you took.”

And then he was looking upon tall blue creatures. They were shaped like men, but they weren't human. They had skin like ice and elegant sharp faces, with eyes that shone like blue flame. Their armor reflected the world around them as clearly as a mirror, and he could see himself reflected back in it. But it wasn't him. It was an imposter. He cried out for them to free him from this prison, but the words came out in a dialect he couldn't comprehend. His rasping voice sounded like ice cracking underfoot. 

The ethereal blue faces morphed into ones more familiar then, three of them, and each wore crowns white as bone upon their brows. The one in the middle opened his mouth and shouted for him to stay away, and the way it boomed sent him reeling backwards into open air. He was falling off a tower, and he saw Jaime's face watching him impassively from the window. Time seemed to slow as he fell, as if sinking in water. A crow appeared and began pecking angrily at his eyes. “Away!” It cried. “I said away!”

When he hit the ground at last, he was on the banks of the Trident, burning again, cooking from the inside out. It has all been a dream, he thought wildly. The fever is boiling my brain, and soon I'll be dead. He had merely imagined the Quiet Isle, had hallucinated a version of himself who might not be remembered as a monster in a white cloak. 

The white cloak flapped at his back as strong winter wind whipped it about. It wrapped itself around his neck, and then he was flying up, up, up. He could see so much from here. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't speak. Yet it was almost peaceful. The darkness swallowed him up, and when he opened his eyes again he saw a man and woman kissing with trembling lips, whispering tender words he could not hear. Then the man pulled away and she sunk to her knees, and a flaming sword buried itself into her heart, and the tears on their cheeks were ice.

He was a tree, and a girl was pounding at his roots. Sansa. Sandor willed his arms to reach out and touch her, but he had none. A spectator to grief. I’m sorry, he tried to scream, but he had no voice as well. Then she was gone, but he was still a tree, and he saw a thousand things all at once, over the span of a thousand years. He screamed as the axes bit into him, cut him down hundreds of times over, robbing him of sight, but still not a soul would hear him. Only the crow seemed to recognize him, and it was attacking him again. “Remember!” it cried, pecking him savagely in the top of his head. “Remember who you are!” When he gasped her name, thick red sap sputtered from his lips.

Sansa. Sandor was in her bedchamber now, and he pulled her face forward to look at him. He frightened her, could see it in the green glow of her eyes. He kissed her anyway, pressed his mouth down hard over her trembling lips. He had no right to kiss her. He had already stolen a song. But he was fading to fever and it was his dying wish. 

Sandor understood everything, and nothing at all. Their otherworldly foes weren't monsters, not truly. Not any more than man was. They were beings who never asked to exist, wished to carve out their place in the world. They wanted peace, freedom, power. Just like men, but they were nothing like men. They reviled men, had built a wall to keep them out. Men had broken their ancient pact, invaded their home, claimed it as theirs. It was always men they took. But a woman would do. The heart must be preserved.

Blue faded into green, cold into heat. It swallowed him whole, and he screamed on the banks of the Trident, and with his last breath he gasped her name. Sansa.

Sandor wasn't in control. He never had been. He drowned in a red sea of wine, and it turned to blood in his mouth. He drank and he sank, and all he saw was red. Red like her hair. He buried his face in it, breathed deep and smelled lemons and salt. The rays of the morning light made it shine like copper. He turned her over to see her face, to greet the day with a kiss he didn't have to steal, never again. He turned her over, and her flesh was blue as her eyes, and hard as ice. Blood began to seep from her ears and eyes, and she brought her hands up and gestured a word. Husband.  

He was standing in front of the tree, the great big blue one, but Sansa was there now. He saw himself draping a cloak over her in the colors of his house. But when he did, laughter erupted from all around him. The faces in the tree were howling and cackling, thick sap sputtering from their obscene mouths. He tore the cloak off her in sudden shame, and found her naked underneath. The laughter grew louder as she tried in vain to cover herself, and it was the Imp who brought her relief, cloaking her in crimson to a deafening cacophony.

Sandor made to draw his sword, but when he reached for it he found his fingers curled around a dagger. He looked down in his confusion, saw he was holding it to her throat as the sky burned green. His skin sloughed off his face and covered her in blood, and he tried to wipe it away with his white cloak, but her face came away with the effort too, and underneath it was the sister, her eyes boiling with hatred. 

“You should have saved my mother,” she snarled. Then she was a wolf, and she ripped his throat out, leaving him to choke upon his own blood on the banks of the trident.

A man found him dying there, but when he stepped out from in front of the sun it was his elder brother who stooped over him. “You can't die on me now,” he said with amusement. “I will never let you get off that easy.” Then he gripped him by the scalp and dragged him to the shore and shoved his face down into the water. It was so hot as to be bubbling and boiling, and the pain blinded him until he fainted. 

When he opened his eyes again, he was whittling little wooden sparrows and wondering if she would like it. Huge hands snatched the thing from him, and he turned to beg his brother for mercy, but his brother had no head to hear. He gripped his scalp, and he was burning again. It was a relief when the noose tightened around his neck and pulled him away, and with his last breath he gasped her name. Sansa.

His voice was crackling like ice again, and he felt the winds whistle in his ears. He felt so cold, he almost wished to burn again. It was so cold as to be the same sensation. There were so many of these blue eyed creatures here now, not corpses as people described them to be. They were beautiful and terrible to behold as the woman's corpse they were bending over, already growing blue. With her silver hair, she looked almost like one of them. Ned Stark's bastard was bent over her, too. Sobbing words of remorse. He loved her. Sandor understood. You always hurt the ones you love the most. 

Her screams roared in his ears as he brought down the hot iron to her flesh. It smelled of cooking meat, and vomit rose up his throat. “Sing for your little life,” he growled. And then she did sing, sounds of desire filling his unworthy ears as he burned her. She put her hands to his chest and ripped it open, pulled out his still-beating heart and laughed. “Do you know where the heart is?” She jeered, as her face transformed into Arya's once again. “What about your belly?”

Elder Brother stooped before him on the banks of the Trident. His face was twisted with disgust. “I should have kept on walking,” he snarled. “Look at you. You're a monster.” Sandor could see himself reflected in his armor, but it wasn’t his face that peered back at him. It was Gregor's. 

No, Sandor tried to say. I'm not him. I'm nothing like him. Please, I'll do anything. I'll show you.

One of the beings put a hand to the dead woman's chest, and her eyes flew open. When she rose, Sandor saw her eyes were a brilliant blue. The blood around her heart was like rubies as it crystallized in the cold. The flaming sword had cauterized the cut. It smelled familiar. The beings accepted their new Queen, lowered a shimmering crown over her brow. 

For the briefest moment, Sandor remembered. His mind was being shared. Brandon Stark wore his skin. He flew here on a dragon, and was witnessing the end of a war. Ending as so many wars did, in blood and compromise. The mountainous tree was only one of thousands, he noticed, only this one made dwarves of the rest. It was almost too beautiful to behold, and if his eyes belonged to him, he might have wept. But his unworthy eyes beheld it dryly, in perfect clarity. 

“You’ve served me well, my loyal dog,” Bran was saying to him from the face of a Weirwood tree, a familiar one. “For your reward, I give you a bitch to breed.” Sansa stepped out from behind the trunk, fully nude and blushing. Sandor pulled off his cloak to cover her, but she recoiled from him. He saw the white fabric was already stained with her maiden’s blood, and her belly was great with child. 

“I think I will call him Gregor,” she said, smearing a bloody hand over the swell. “It’s a noble name.”

Elder Brother stepped into view again. But Sandor faced him with resolve. I'll show you, he thought. I'm not him. I'm better. I am. I have to be. For her. He was cooking alive with fever. He had to remember he was dreaming. He was dreaming he could be better, but he was only a broken man drowning in delirium. He'd seen it before. It was the only way to cope with oblivion. He was a dying man, wishing he wasn't a monster and gasping her name.

Sansa. She thought he kissed her. But she was kissing him. She pulled down his cowl and kissed his horrible mouth, and nothing in this life had ever been quite so sweet. And it never would be, because this path was only a dying man's fantasy. Remember. This path took him to the edge of the world and froze him to his bones and made him fly on a dragon. 

He was flying again, he noticed. The air was ice, and Jaime Lannister watched him fall from a tower window. When he hit the ground, he was thrashing about, crying, shouting a phrase. A desperate plea. “Hold the door!” He screamed. But no one who gathered around him seemed to understand, they had such pitying looks in their eyes. Don’t pity me, he thought. Pity her. Pity the bastard in her belly.

The pity transformed to scorn, and suddenly the onlookers were an angry mob. “Get out!” They shrieked at him, faces twisted into obscene and hateful masks. 

“Be gone from here!” 

“You do not belong!”

“You shame us all,” said his father’s voice, his eyes burning hatefully as he looked at him, with the girl stood at his side. Her belly was swollen grotesquely large, enough to hold three at least. 

“You lost your belly, and gave it to me,” she complained. “But Ser Gregor will make it right.”

At the mention of him, Gregor appeared. He sliced Sansa open with a single swing of the sword, and she laughed as she died, unborn puppies spilling out of her in a gush of thick red blood. 

“All runts.” His brother was laughing, too. “Just like their father.”

Sandor sunk to his knees to help her, but the ground fell out from under him, and he was falling again. No, flying. A voice that was not his own urged him to stay strong, that he would soon be free. Sandor wished that could be true. He would give anything to be free, in control again. You never had control, said another voice. You never took it. 

A young boy with green eyes and golden curls was grinning up at him, and in his hands he held aloft the remains of the cat he'd killed. "I learned it from you," he beamed. "I'll be like you when I grow up!"

"You didn't learn that from me," Sandor said, stricken. "It wasn't me." When he took a step back, he tripped over something and fell. The grisly corpse of the Butcher's Boy lay before him, his dead eyes staring at him accusingly. When he looked up at the other boy again, he was older now, and standing on the parapet next to the severed head of Ned Stark. 

"You were like a father to me. Are you proud?" he asked. 

He could feel himself falling, falling from a tower window. The noose broke his fall, and he awoke in a tree again. A girl who looked like Arya was kissing Prince Rhaegar and saying a sacred vow, and he bore witness as he felt the blood pool in his face. Then the rope snapped, and when he hit the ground it was he who stood before the tree, and Sansa was looking up at him expectantly. He made the sacred vow, but she did not hear the words. She pulled away from him and screamed, and when he looked into her eyes he saw Gregor's face reflected there. He squeezed his eyes shut until the screaming stopped. 

When he opened them again, he saw Winterfell through eyes that weren’t his. Sansa came running, but he pushed her away. He screamed at himself, his traitor body. He fought his captor with all his might, but it was no good. He wasn't in control, and never had been.

He was being lowered into a grave, and when he looked up he saw himself tossing dirt over him with a spade, in his Novice's robes. He hoped no one would remember him. It was for the best. He could rest in peace, if his sins could be forgotten. The Hound is dead, we buried him beneath a mountain.

You're dead. It was Gregor’s voice, as the wooden toy was ripped from him. His face went down into the coals, and he spent a lifetime there. He didn't faint this time. He screamed and smelled his own flesh cooking, and screamed. He screamed her name. She screamed back. It was her flesh cooking now, he was the one who burned her. He looked up, and instead of a mirror he saw himself reflected in the waters of the trident. And it was Gregor snarling back at him.

A foot splashed in the water, stamping out his brother’s head. Sandor looked up, and it was her. A part of him knew he wasn't dying when he saw her. He opened his mouth to say her name, but all that came out was blood. The look of horror on her face was washed away as the Trident became a sea of red that swallowed them up, made them choke and struggle. The noose was around his neck, and to his dismay it was around hers too. They flew upwards together, and he watched her hands claw uselessly at the rope. She squeezed her eyes shut, and then the branch snapped, and they tumbled to the ground.

“Sandor,” she gasped, crawling over to him. But the ground became melting flesh, and she was but a fly on his cheek. He plucked her off and held her in the palm of his hand. She scrambled to her feet, afraid of what she saw. Can't stand to look. Why should she?

The scene transformed, put him back to a normal size and surrounded him in autumn grass. Sansa was with him still. “Sandor,” she repeated. He fell to his knees, and on the ground before him were her remains, unrecognizable after the accident. But Gregor's horse went where he wanted it to go, he knew. Gregor didn't do anything by accident. He could hear her laughter echoing in his ears. The laughter which had been her doom.

The remains were different now, though. A boy, not a girl. And he was turning purple in his arms, strangling and not understanding as he looked up at him with rolling green eyes. 

"You were supposed to protect me," he sputtered. "I was only a child. You shaped me in your image, then abandoned me."

A hand touched his shoulder. “Sandor,” she said, her voice trembling. “It's me. Don't listen to him.”

He turned his eyes up to look at her, but when he did he was met by the blinding sun. No. Fire. It was green and hot as he burned, his entire body immolating in her bedchamber as she screamed for it to stop. His skin fell off in sheets, and as they fell to the ground he was falling again, in open sky. She fell, too. But they landed in a cloud of snow, and for a moment there was peace as Sandor glimpsed the Heart of Winter with its countless faces. Had he dreamed it? He could barely comprehend it, let alone imagine it. He touched his cheek, wet with tears, and came away with fingers dripping thick blue sap.

Sansa was staring up at it, a look of awe on her face. Then she turned to him. “Is this where you were?” Her tone was similar to one he might use to calm Stranger. And then Stranger was there, and he had her pinned against him on the Quiet Isle. She was looking around in surprise, not kissing him. Why would she? It never happened. He imagined it. 

Recognition came over her face then, and she reached out to grab the cowl which covered his mouth. But the sudden movement jerked them both forward, and Sandor stumbled into a cave, and when he regained his footing he felt the weight of sword and shield on his arms. He barely had time to react as Beric's flaming steel came down on him. The shield erupted into flame, and it spread over him like he was covered in lamp oil. 

Then he was at a festival, the girl was in his arms as they danced. He peered at her from behind a mask, and he picked her up at the right moment, because he had paid attention and learned the steps, just in case. 

But when he did, the ground beneath them became snow once more, and the bastard was plunging his sword into a woman's heart. Sandor blinked, and the woman stood before them in her crown, her eyes a blinding blue. He blinked again, and he was sitting in an inn, and the Imp was there with his horrible cloak, holding it aloft for Sansa to take. It was a mercy that she recoiled. She turned to him and shook him at the elbow. “You will wed me, Sandor. You! But you have to wake up. Please!”

“I am awake,” he rasped. “And I am dreaming. It's all the same, isn’t it?” He heard himself laugh, a maniacal one, a noise he didn't recognize. He didn't stop even as his face was pressed into the coals again. The laughs came out in shrieks, but he couldn't stop. This would never stop. 

Hands gripped him by the collar and pulled him out of the fire. And then they were on a ship, and he held a hot iron in his hand. She caught his wrist as he brought it down. The scenes changed from peace to horror in rapid succession, folding over each other again and again like Valyrian steel. 

After moments or a lifetime, he found himself in the Green Eel, and she was sat on his lap before the fire. 

“Look at me,” she said. When he didn't obey, she took his face in both hands and forced it up. She was wide-eyed and severe. “Look! Sit with me. Just sit, and be still.”

Sandor looked into her eyes, and seemed to see her properly for the first time. “Are you real?” He asked.

“Yes,” she said, more gently. “I'm with you. I will see you through. Stay with me, Sandor.”

He looked around. He hated it. “This is a lie.”

“You're in Winterfell. Sleeping. Your mind is fighting itself for control, tearing itself apart. You must listen to me now. Think of a memory that makes you happy.”

The room around them shook. Floorboards splintered, the hearthfire roared to renewed life. Objects began to tumble from shelves and table and the windows cracked. Sandor wanted to scream at her. What was happiness? What were memories, what were lies? Everything blended together. Sansa pressed her forehead into his. “Don't do this. Think!” 

Sandor squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them again he had tears in them. Luckily his head and face were covered, and she did not see. She did not know him, but he knew her. She’d been found stuck in the mud, half starved and freezing. But she was alive. Sansa Stark was alive. 

The girl in the bed smiled. “This memory makes me happy, too. I didn't know at the time, just how fortunate I was. Think of another.” 

He didn't understand. But he had to get out of this room, so she would not see him. He threw the door open and found himself standing in a stable, the one in Braavos as he tended Stranger's hooves. Sansa was stood at the door, observing as she liked to do. “I think I know this one,” she laughed, and the sound was music. “You were sat at his hind quarters, and when you lifted his foot he—” she burst out laughing as Sandor did so, and the horse raised its tail and showered him in dung. 

Sandor laughed as well, standing up and cursing the beast. “You can get in here and tend him next,” he said, and he came to the stall door and threatened to pull her to him and share in his mess. She shrieked and danced away giggling. 

From a safe distance she said, “I laughed so hard it brought me to tears. And that tunic was never the same. I dragged you inside and helped you out of it, though.”

It can't be real, a voice hissed. You're in the final stages now. It won't be long. He felt the rope tighten around his neck, and the girl cried out.

“Stop it!” She cried. “You have to fight your way out of this. Don't leave me.”

“I’ve lost my belly for fighting,” he confessed sullenly.

The icy beings were watching him, gathered all around with their piercing gaze. He saw himself in their armor, like so many mirrors, dangling from the tree as she shouted for him to come down. As if it were that simple. He saw something else there. A massive figure shambling forth, headless and oozing blood. She didn't see. He cried out, but all that came out was the sounds of crackling ice. Each breastplate reflected a different outcome. The giant smashed her head into a tree, over and over. It ran her through with a sword. It fell to its knees, engulfed in flame. It snapped Sandor's spine. It hoisted her over a massive shoulder and carried her off. 

He wouldn't let him hurt her. It was he who was the object of his torment, not her. He fell to his knees as the rope snapped, and he threw her behind him. But when he looked around, there was nothing there. Gregor, the blue eyes were gone. Only the tree remained, and when he looked at the face he recognized it. Choose, it whispered.

Sandor sunk to the ground and held his head in his hands. How could he choose, if he had no control? I lost it. He was afraid. He couldn't lose her, which meant she couldn't lose him. Yet he felt so utterly lost. 

He was going to court her. He'd forgotten. Wed me, Sandor. She had called him husband, but he said he would court her first. Would earn it, not take it. But then he'd bargained it all. Had it been worth it? Was it over? Was he dead and rotting on the Trident? Was he a drooling fool who lost his wits? Was he in hell? 

A hand touched his back gingerly. “I've been in a sorry state since you left. Angry that you did it, despairing that I may never get to say goodbye…or that I might have to. I grieved for a child that may never know its father, and to be widowed once more before I can even be wed. I would languish here with you forever, until I wasted away in bed…but I must go, Sandor. For a little while. I beg you to join me there, and see the world you helped make better. I will find you again. I love you.”

He peered up at her. She was crying as she bent down and touched her lips on his. And then she was gone. No, he thought. “No!” he screamed.

Chapter Text

SANSA 25

Sansa’s eyes came open. It was dark in the bedroom. There was no telling how much time had passed. Sandor twitched fitfully at her side, and her heart felt heavy. She felt betrayed by her body, waking her as it had. She had a sharp pain in her bladder, and knew sleep would not come again any time soon. 

His mind was in a worse state than she could have imagined. He had lost himself in it, but she refused to believe he would stay there. She had broken through, if only a little. It frightened her to think of losing all that progress now. She pondered taking sweet sleep to return to him again, but it would risk the babe, she knew. She had the thought that it might be worth the risk. But she couldn't bring herself to do it. What if I lost them both?

Still, Sansa rejoined him once her bladder was emptied. Sleep or no, she would be there if he awoke. When he awakes. Not if. She bent down and kissed him, and laid her head upon his chest. “I'm still here,” she whispered. “If you can hear me…I'm still here. You're not alone. I will find you again.”

Jon had carried Bran off to a different chamber for the time-being. She wished he was there now, could tell her what she could do. She could still feel the sensation of drowning, and rope at her neck. She rubbed at it absentmindedly. He wasn't only reliving his torment, it was exaggerated and surreal and unending; it was enough to drive anyone to madness. 

She thought about some of the visions that were new to her, of the towering blue heart tree that rivaled any castle standing. Its innumerable faces peering down from it, and the blue eyes twinkling around its roots. It was haunting and beautiful all at once. Jon had slain a woman there, and seen her rise again as one of them. They had not defeated the Others. They had treated with them. She felt sick. 

She couldn't dwell on it now. Sansa drew the curtains as the sun started to come up, and climbed into the bed and curled up under his arm. Sandor's brow was beaded with sweat, and he was hot all over. Sansa hummed a lullaby in attempt to find sleep again, to find him and face his nightmares. 

She opened her eyes, and knew she had drifted off. The bedchamber was gone, and she was on the bank of the Trident. She knew it well now, but the scene was all wrong. It was snowing, and when Sansa found the tree with the man dying under it, the tree was massive and blue with a thousand faces. And he wasn't a man. It was a little boy, with his head covered in red and brown bandages. And it was Gregor who towered over him now, not Elder Brother, casting him in shadows as dark as night. 

It broke Sansa’s heart to see the child, and know Sandor had been so small and afraid once. How small and afraid he still felt. She banished the giant into a puff of smoke, and stooped down on her knees. “Gregor is dead,” she told him firmly. “He can't hurt you anymore.” 

Only one eye was visible beneath all the bandages, peering up at her. In his small unmatured voice he said, “We’re all dead down here.” 

He started tearing at the bandages, ripping them away violently. Sansa was too stunned to stop him. When the bandages were gone, he tore at the flesh beneath, clawing it away in gruesome ribbons. She cried out, tried to pull his hands away, but he fought her with surprising strength as he laughed and laughed. 

Sansa felt fear stabbing her heart. Had he gone completely mad in her absence? There was no telling how deep his delusion had taken him in this time. She slapped him hard about the face. It made a sickening sound, and her hand came away wet and red. “Stop this!” She screamed at him.

It seemed to work, for a moment at least. He was a man again, but his face was wrong, almost unrecognizable. The face was free of any burn or blemish, and his hair was full and parted down the middle. It disturbed her nearly as much as the gore that had come before it. She would have found him more comely this way once, but it was like looking at a stranger now. It wasn't him. 

He was squinting at her. “Do I know you?” 

It made her go cold all over. Even his voice was wrong. It was clear and smooth as still water. “It's me. It's Sansa. Please. You have to remember.”

“Sansa,” he said. “That's a pretty name. What's mine?”

“Sandor. Your name is Sandor.” That made him laugh. An easy laugh, filled with good humor. It wasn’t his.

“That's ridiculous. You're making it up! It's too similar to the other name. What was it again? Sandra?”

She shoved him hard in the chest, and he stumbled backwards into the throne room. I will walk him through every memory I have, if I have to. He looked around in bewilderment. “Isn't this fancy,” he remarked. 

Sansa could not say how many times she shoved him into a new memory. But she wouldn't relent until she found one that would bring him back. She skipped around between the old and new, hoping for a spark of recognition. Sometimes she saw it pass over him, but then he would blink a few times and forget again. He seemed to reject the good memories most, she noticed. He had receded so far that he didn't even recognize himself in them.

So she tried to conjure up the bad ones. Closing her wound on the ship. All his horrible comments. Riding into camp with the child he ran down. His telling of how he came to be burned. It was affecting him, she could see. She took him to the green room, the night he felt most ashamed of. 

“I don't wish to see this,” he said, turning away. But Sansa flipped the room to keep it in his view. He let out a cry of frustration every time she did. “Stop!” he growled, shaking her roughly. 

“Remember,” she growled back. 

“I can't!” his eyes were wide and white. “I won't!”

“You must!” She shouted. 

He was gripping his hair so tight Sansa thought he might scalp himself. “It's too much,” he said through clenched teeth. “The torment. I cut it out. Leave me be!”

“I'm not leaving you, Sandor,” she took him by the wrists. “You have to be strong. You have to remember. It's echoes of the past, nothing more. You cannot change it but—”

He tore away from her. “You wouldn't put your father’s head back on, if you could? Wouldn't close your mother's throat, your brother's bleeding heart?”

Sansa's eyes met the floor. It was hard to say how she might feel, if forced to relive her pain repeatedly as he had done. If she had to feel her face melt over and over, she might do anything to make it stop. When she looked back up at him, her eyes widened in horror. 

His burns were back, but he was still wrong. His skin was hard and polished, and his arms hung at odd angles. The burns were blackened coal, not flesh. Sansa realized he was made of wood, and his limbs were fixed on strings. Her gaze followed them up, and giant hands loomed overhead. The puppetmaster's massive face came into view. Bran's face, lit from below as if stood over some great fire, his eyes rolled up to whites. 

“I can make him fight,” he jeered. “Want to see?”

“No,” she said, as Sandor’s arm jerked unnaturally at his hip and drew his sword. His joints made sickening scraping sounds as he came at her, his movements inhuman as the strings guided him forward. He raised the sword overhead with both hands, and as he brought it down Sansa reeled backwards, squeezing her eyes shut and willing herself to think of something, anything.

She landed bodily in a darkened bedroom, and Sandor stumbled down on top of her. It was the room they slept in, the real one, at this moment. Their duplicates lay before them. 

Sandor scrambled off her, didn't seem to take notice of his surroundings. He was stricken, but looked himself again. “I didn't mean—I almost—” he looked down at her. “I don't want it!” He roared. “I can't make it stop! Give me peace, damn you!”

The intensity shocked her into silence. Sandor chuffed. “I don't know what's real anymore. But what does it matter, I ask you? I served my purpose. I'm finished.”

Sansa found her voice again. “Don't say that. You sacrificed it all. It was a noble purpose. But this isn't where it ends.”

“My noble purpose ,” he said bitterly. “Having legs.”

“The only way out is through, Sandor.” Sansa was desperate to appeal to him. He was angry, but he was talking, and looked as he should. He remembers. She had to count it as progress. “I know it causes you suffering, but it's the only way. You have to face it, not hide from it.”

“You've never been burned,” he growled. “Not in the real way. You don’t know. I've had about all I can stand of it.”

“Is that what it would take?” She asked sharply. “Shall I take a burn as well? Would you heed me then?” It was the thought of her suffering that had brought him back this much, she realized. The bad memories. It was a cause worth suffering for.

His eyes were bright with scorn. “Might be it would make you heed me. Might be you'd go mad too, would you like that?”

“Let us see.” Sansa lifted a hand, and with it the hearth roared to life. “Shall you do it, or shall I?”

Sandor sneered at her, though he had taken a step back. “Do not mock me, girl. Not you.”

“That's the last thing I would do,” she said sincerely. “But I'm desperate, Sandor. I'll try anything to wake you from this nightmare. Even if it means creating new ones.”

She turned, crawled across the stone floor towards the hearth. The boldness that had come over her faltered as the heat bloomed over her face. It's not real, she told herself. But it will feel real, she knew. She'd lose her nerve if she thought too much. Just do it. She looked into the flames, and bent her head forward.

The heat had grown intense, but the flame only licked her cheek before she heard a howl, and then she was being pulled roughly away. The force of it sent him stumbling to the ground, gripping her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. 

“You stupid girl!” he shouted, but not in anger. He was sobbing as he gripped her by the chin to inspect her face, turning it this way and that with shaking fingers. The part that was kissed by the fire stung, but he'd moved impossibly fast to intervene, too fast to burn her the real way. Sansa felt a secret relief that it hadn't come to that. 

When he found the mark on her cheek, it seemed to break him down more than provide any relief of his own. He held her to his chest and wept in earnest. Sansa didn't understand. She expected anger before this. The sound of it broke her heart, and she wondered if she'd only made things worse. Have I only armed him with fresh horrors to torment himself with?

“I'm okay,” she assured him. “It isn't real.”

“It is,” he spoke raggedly into her hair. “I know you. I forgot, I wanted to forget. I'm sorry, I'm sorry…”

The room began to shake and crumble around them. Sansa put her hands at his chest, knowing he was about to slip again. She needed to keep him talking. Anger him. Anything to distract him. 

“Look at me, Sandor. It’s my fault you're here. You'd still be on the Quiet Isle, if not for me. You would have normal dreams and have your peace. I robbed you of that. I'm sorry.”

Sandor put his forehead on hers, closed his eyes. The room went calm. “You gave more than you stole, little bird.”

“You great fool,” Sansa sighed. “Be angry with me. I put you here. I'm the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.”

“You're the only good thing that's happened to me,” he said, in the hushed tones of a secret. “The only good thing.”

“Elder Brother might be dismayed to hear that.”

“He gave me peace, aye. Corpses have as much.”

“Then pull yourself together, Sandor. You're not dead yet. You're so close to figuring it out.”

Sansa had to blink away the disorientation that came as the scene changed. They were in the Green Eel now, and he whistled as he whittled before the fire. The object in his hands wasn't a dagger, but a wooden knight. The only sounds in the room was the soft shnk, shnk, shnk of steel scraping wood. Sansa felt the fear rise up in her chest as the fire sputtered and grew, and a molten figure began to take shape there, rising up out of it. He's slipping again.

“Sandor,” she pleaded, coming forward. He put out a hand to stop her progress, not taking his eyes off the flames. Then he resumed his whistling and whittling, as the grotesque thing began clawing its way up.

“Sandor,” Sansa repeated. She tried to change the room, but she was unsuccessful. He was stopping her, she realized. He'd never done that before.

“All I ever wanted was to not be him,” Sandor said absentmindedly as he worked, and an arm emerged from the hearth. Shnk, shnk, shnk. “I let that consume me. And I ended up no better than him for it. Less than, by some standards.”

“Not mine,” she told him.

Sandor put the dagger to the wooden knight's throat and snapped off its head. “No, little bird. Not yours.” He threw the toy into the fire. “Take the damn thing,” he growled. The creature shrieked and recoiled, and the fire calmed down to normal. 

Now they were in an alleyway, and the sounds of a festival were muffled from without. Sansa was against the wall, with his face inches from hers. “It's not enough. I see that now. I'm not him, and I accepted that once before. And I felt nothing. It wasn't enough.”

“What is?” She asked quietly.

“I was content with peace for peace's sake too, once. A man can't crave a dish he's never tasted. Give a vagrant a morsel of herb crusted lamb, though, and he will yearn after it all his life.” His dark gray eyes had such yearning in them now. “I love you, Sansa. I wanted to tell you, before…” he trailed off. “There wasn't time. If I'm a dead man dreaming, I won't dig my grave in his shadow.”

“You must stop digging,” she whispered. “You're in control now. You shape your own fate.”

“Was it true, what you said before?” He asked. “You'd have kissed me all night here, under different circumstances.”

“Yes,” Sansa breathed. He was so close now. “Here, and anywhere.”

“Foolish girl,” he said. “I mean to court you first.”

“Court me later,” she told him, pulling him to her. 

As her mouth covered his, they began to fall. It didn't break them apart, and Sansa scarcely noticed as they tumbled through different points in time. A room bathed in green, a snowy stable, a weirwood with a broken limb. They blurred together in rapid succession, never hitting the ground but falling into the next place instead. The Red Keep, the Quiet Isle, Braavos, the sea, White Harbor, Winterfell. She never stopped kissing him, and he clung to her with steel fingers. They fell and fell, but Sansa had the sensation that they were falling upwards, not down. And then her eyes flew open with a jolt.

It was dark in the room. Sansa sat up, disoriented. it felt as though she'd fallen bodily onto the bed. She was awake again, cold sweat on her brow. She fumbled in the dark and found him lying there, could feel his face beneath her fingers. A burned one, made of flesh. A man. He flinched at the sudden contact, and brought a hand up to swat at her. 

“You're awake,” she gasped. He made a low sound in his chest. 

“Am I?” He rattled groggily.

“Despite your best efforts,” Sansa said, her voice breaking.

“Why are you weeping?” He felt around until he found her face, and brushed at her cheek with a thumb. 

“Happy tears.” she pressed her cheek into his hand. “You've been sorely missed.”

He cursed, lifted himself up to sit. “How long has it been?”

“You were gone three days. Abed, I'm not sure. Two, maybe.”

He pondered that, as the fog seemed to clear and he began to remember. “You shouldn’t have joined me in that place. The things I put you through…”

He found her cheek again, and she knew he was feeling for the burn there. Sansa covered his hand with her own. “I told you I'd find you.”

Sandor had suffered in the recesses of his mind, feasting itself on his torment. The only balm he found was to wipe the slate clean entirely, and she’d almost lost him forever. But he could not abide watching me suffer. Love brought him home.

“Is it over? The war. Is it done?” He wanted to know if it was all worth it. 

“By all accounts,” she replied. “The long night is ended.”

“It seems alive and well to me,” he murmured, noting the way they could scarcely see their own hand before their faces. She laughed. 

“The sun will come up in the morning. We'll watch it rise together.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “How can I know if this is real?” 

“You'd never dream up something so mundane as this,” Sansa said lightly.

“I suppose you're right about that,” he conceded, shifting around. “My eyes play tricks on me still, when I close them. Remind me to stay on your brother's good side.”

“You have nothing to fear from Bran. I promise you that.”

He grunted. “The only power that boy won't possess is the ability to walk. And what if he decides he wants that, too?”

“He won't,” Sansa said firmly. “Bran has a good heart.” She had to believe it, despite how raw she still felt with him. 

Sandor made no reply. She wondered what he was thinking about. Or reliving. They would surely have much to discuss in the days to come, but for now she was content with silence, and the comforts of the calm dark.

She nestled herself close to him. He put an arm around her and held her tightly. And when the sun came up at last, she could see he was still haunted by the ordeal. His eyes were strained, ringed by dark circles. His mouth twitched a little more than usual. He looked exhausted, but weary of falling prey to his own mind again, she knew. She felt weary too.

But the hard part is over, Sansa thought. It was enough. She would take the happiness she could get, when she could get it.

Chapter Text

SANDOR 26

The world Sandor came back to was the difference between night and day. An apt comparison, as the Sun shone down over Winterfell after so long in darkness.

It was difficult to contend with this new world, and all that he'd seen while the little lord wore his skin. He'd not only supped on suffering, but he'd glimpsed the boy's mind as well. He saw what his trees had seen, and the knowledge was a jumble in his mind. It was too much to comprehend, but some scenes stood out. Sandor had also seen that he wasn't the first man he'd driven mad. Unfortunately for him, he hadn't recovered when he slipped. And he wasn't willing.

Sandor might have holed up in solitude forever, but being alone with his thoughts was a burden. He didn't wish to talk about them either. He dreaded facing Elder Brother. He feared he might look at him the same way he had in his visions. And he was afraid to sleep. He hated how much fear he felt now. Even the fire in the hearth made him weary, for all he could see was Sansa lowering herself down into it.

All the things he thought he made peace with had reared their ugly heads once more. He wondered if he'd ever find it again. You must. This is the path. He'd glimpsed what he now understood to be possible alternatives, in the boy's mind. It almost overwhelmed him, just to look at her. To know she might have died young, or grown into someone hateful and bitter and broken. Like me.

It was all worth the cost, he told himself. The war was done. The men at arms would arrive home today, after a long travel on foot. Sansa declared she must be there to meet them, and Sandor knew it was right to. He wasn't the only one who had suffered for the cause. It brought him a measure of comfort, and shame as well. Everything that happened was only in my mind. He thought he should be grateful for that; that it'd be easier to overcome. Many men would return from their service to nothing, and Sandor had everything he didn't deserve. She was right to greet them, he knew. If nothing else, they deserved a hero's welcome.

Sandor ultimately settled on a stiff lip. He wouldn't hide himself away like a craven. He couldn't let that boy see how much he'd weakened him, and he was loath to be left alone. Sansa helped buckle him into his plate, fussing after him all the while. Are you sure, she asked. You can rest. This, that, and more. Sandor understood her concern. He’d barely spoken since he woke, too unwilling to give voice to visions that still danced before his eyes. She had the grace not to press him for details, though he could tell the questions were ever on the tip of her tongue.

He would persist. Normalcy was appealing, though he wasn't quite sure what normal was anymore. He assured the girl he was fine, to stop tittering. If it was a lie, it was as much to himself as to her. I'm fine. 

Sandor took his place in the solar, making himself a shadow on the wall as Sansa took her seat at the modest table which would typically dine a modest lord's family. Today, it was a council chamber.

Eventually, the rest began to file in. The bastard Jon Snow, looking so much like his namesake now with his white hair. The sister, Arya, glued to his side. Brienne, the wench who had named herself Sansa's shield. To his displeasure, she took her place at his side rather than at table. Elder Brother showed up, in the absence of a Maester presumably. Sandor diverted his gaze when the man looked at him, unwilling to give away any sign of how troubled he felt. Finally, Howland Reed came into the room, flanked by the two massive direwolves and carrying the little lord, placing him at the head of the table before taking his own seat. 

The boy met his gaze as easily as if they were old friends, and Sandor felt his blood run cold. Sandor feared him, too. He knew what he could do now, and felt a primal desire to flee from his sight, irrational as it was. The boy was a helpless cripple. And running wouldn't stop him.

Bran cleared his throat. “Thank you all for convening this morning. I'll be the first to say…it's good to see so much of my kin around this table. Jon, Sansa, Arya.” He nodded to each in turn. “It's been a long journey home for us all. May we count the blessings that brought us here, and honor those who could not make it.”

The boy placed a hand on the head of the huge black beast which was the largest of the pack, who had belonged to the smallest among them.

“Our numbers are threadbare, but today we'll be made whole,” Bran continued. “Our men are returning home.” There was a smattering of approving comments around the table, but it quieted quickly. 

“Sandor Clegane,” he said suddenly. His eyes snapped up to see everyone turning to look at him. It was a discomfort; he was an observer, not a participant. 

His mouth twitched. “My lord?”

Bran gestured to the seat at his right with a sweeping motion. “Please. I would have you join us. You’ve more than earned your place here.”

Sandor didn't move. “I’m happy to observe,” he rasped, wondering if the boy could smell fear, the wolf he was. “I’ve little to offer your council.”

“On that I would disagree, but very well.” He turned to Elder Brother. “Do ravens bring any news?”

The bald man cleared his throat. “Word comes from the East; Theon and Jeyne have made it safely to Lys."

Sansa blinked rapidly. "Theon and Jeyne?"

"I'm glad to hear it," Bran ignored her. "They may have a chance at a better life, free of all they suffered here."

"It makes no sense," Sansa blurted. "Inform me, brother."

He turned to Sansa. "I know Jeyne was a friend of yours. We will discuss it another time; the telling is too sad, and not quite relevant to this audience. But she is in a better place, now. What else, Elder Brother?"

He shifted in his seat. "Maester Samwell sends word of high morale among the men, but there is some trouble in the Baratheon camp. Without their King and no heir to succeed him, they quarrel amongst themselves.”

“What happened to Stannis?” Sansa demanded, still reeling from the first bit of news.

“He fell,” said Jon, in the distant tones of memory. 

“He had a daughter to succeed him, did he not?” Sansa looked around. Jon’s eyes went to the floor.

“He did,” Bran answered. “Troubling news indeed. Perhaps we can help the men choose their new lord, before it comes to bloodshed.”

“What of his hand?” Jon asked. “Lord Davos. He trusted him best, and he was instrumental to our success.”

“He would serve,” Bran agreed. “But his men aren't Iike to accept one of such humble birth easily. They’re more likely to name one of Robert’s bastards as an heir. We'll come back to it upon their arrival.” 

When there was no argument, the boy went on. “Daenerys Targaryen's sacrifice in the far North pains us all. She was a great ally in our fight against the Others, and she put her duty to the realm before the desire for power. She and Stannis answered our call when all else below the Neck turned deaf to it. They were each rightful heirs to the seven kingdoms, once. I think they both would be honored if Jon were to succeed them.”

Sandor's brow tightened in confusion. Brienne and Elder Brother's did as well, but the rest of the room seemed unphased, even Sansa. Jon Snow, the bastard sworn to the Night's Watch, a King? It made no sense, but Sandor didn’t make any disruption.

It was Elder Brother who gave voice. “If I may, my lord,” he said. “I seem to be the one lacking in information now.”

Bran's eyes moved without turning his head. “Of course; not all in this room have sat in every council. It should become widely known and accepted that Jon's true parents, Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, were wed before the Old Gods. He was born legitimate, and thus is the rightful heir.”

Sandor blinked, and recalled the girl who looked like Arya, kissing Rhaegar and saying vows. The boy was speaking truly. Jon had set his jaw, not particularly swelling with pride. Sandor hadn’t had a proper look at him until now; he was pale skinned and red-eyed, with dark veins creeping up his neck. He looked every bit the corpse he was rumored to be, and nothing like a King ought to.

“Could this be true?” Elder Brother was asking in astonishment. “And what of your vows to the Night's Watch, son?”

Jon gazed down at him with hard eyes. “My watch ended when I was murdered by my own men,” he said. “Hadn't you heard?”

Elder Brother nodded gravely. “No such loophole would have been enough to put aside my vows, though.”

Jon's expression darkened. “Do you question my honor, holy man? Would that we could all be so righteous. Some of us have had to make harder choices than deciding which statue to grovel at today.”

“Elder Brother means you no offense, Jon,” Sansa joined in. “But he raises a point you will surely hear often if you're to make your claim. We should speak freely in council, so that we may be prepared against opposition.”

“Sansa tells it true,” Bran agreed. “None in this room should fear to speak. But there is no loophole, Elder Brother. The Wall is in ruins, the Night’s Watch is no more. All the black brothers are freed from their vows.”

“Where will they go?” Arya asked. “Where will we send the realm’s criminals henceforth?”

“We will need to find a place for them, to be sure,” answered Bran. “It will be for the King to decide.”

All eyes went to Jon. “The Night’s Watch was never meant to be a dumping ground for bastards and bandits,” he said brusquely. “But I will see to the matter, as Bran says.”

“What happened to the Dragon Queen, anyway?” Sansa looked meaningfully at her brothers. 

“She died,” Jon replied with his hard eyes, making no move to elaborate. Sandor studied him thoughtfully. The boy had incredible control over himself. Despite how clear his anger was, it was only a taste of how deeply he felt it. And his grief. Sandor didn’t know the reason Jon killed the woman he loved, only that he had. A part of him died with her, he knew. But he swallowed it down, and clipped his words.

Sansa wasn’t satisfied. “What was the manner of her death, cousin? History should remember her sacrifice.”

Jon’s eyes seemed even redder, almost. “History will remember her as the queen who brought the dawn.” Sandor saw the image of the pale dead woman with the blue eyes and crystal crown, standing with a hand on the boy’s shoulder. It seemed so real. He blinked, banished it away.

“Is that all you’re going to tell us?” Arya snapped. “Do we not get to know how you ended the war? Us, your closest kin?” Her frustration told him she’d tread this ground already, and so did Jon’s exasperation.

“What you know is all you need to know,” he said.

Bran put a hand over his sister’s. “It’s not for lack of trust, Arya. It’s better this way.”

She snatched her hand away. “Horse shit!” She turned to Sandor. “You’ll tell us, won’t you?”

Sandor had seen, but still didn’t comprehend. And when he found Bran’s eyes, they told him to keep his tongue. Grudgingly, he would obey. He shrugged. “We all have our secrets to guard, wolf girl. You know that better than anyone.”

Her eyes hated him before they darted to the table. She crossed her arms over her chest and receded into sullen silence.

Howland shifted in his seat. “It might prove difficult to spread tales of valor, so long as she remains associated with the ruin of King’s Landing,” he said. “What shall we do with her prisoner, your grace?”

It was odd to style the boy as such, Sandor thought. He’d been a bastard only a moment ago. Jon turned his attention to him, welcoming the shift in focus. “Tyrion Lannister will confess to his crime as an independent act done in vengeance, not at his queen’s orders. And then I will put him to the sword myself.”

“You’ll be hard pressed to have it both ways,” said Howland. “The Imp remains a proud soul, no matter how sharply we question him. He knows better than to give us what we want without receiving anything in return.”

“Do you mean to suggest we let him live?” Jon asked irritably. 

“Tyrion Lannister is here?” Sansa cut in. “Why wasn’t I informed of this? Is there anything else you've kept from me in my own home?”

“We had more pressing matters,” Howland spread his hands, looking apologetic. “And if the Imp knew you were here…well, it might complicate the matter further, my lady. We need not arm him with more information than is necessary.”

Sandor’s hands were fists at his side. He heard himself speaking out of turn, unable to contain himself. “Bargaining with the Imp is a fool’s endeavor. Be done with it and free us all of his nuisance.”

“I tend to agree,” nodded Howland. “A public confession would soften the blow, but taking him down a head might provide the people justice at least. Daenerys should have done it the moment she apprehended him, but she wavered over his insistence that it was an accident.”

“Daenerys trusted him,” Jon said resentfully. “As did I. But I will speak with him myself. If he will not confess, I will do my duty.”

“I would speak with him,” said Sansa. She continued as Howland opened his mouth to protest. “The matter is already complicated. If you are to take his head anyway, I see no harm in it.”

“To what end?” Sandor demanded. She turned in her seat to face him, and he swore he saw her cloaked in crimson. But he blinked, and it was only her hair that spilled down her back.

“Because I’m the only one in this room who doesn’t see a monster where a man should be. I would hear Tyrion’s account for myself, and give him one of my own.”

“You owe him nothing,” Sandor said roughly. “Even if he spoke truly for once in his life and he burned them all by some accident. He still burned them. It makes no difference.”

“It does to me,” she said. She turned to Jon. “What if it was an accident? What did Daenerys mean to do with him?”

“She thought to give him a fair trial,” Jon answered. “Or give him to her dragons for all to see. She hadn’t decided before the larger threat called us North.”

“The people of King’s Landing didn’t get a fair trial,” Arya said angrily. “I tend to agree with Sandor; the world is better off without him.”

“King’s Landing deserves its justice,” said Jon. “And Winter is coming for the South. Once we are whole, we will call the great houses together to greet their new King, and justice will be served to Tyrion, and to all.”

Sansa stared at him. “You’d begin your reign with mass execution?” 

“Only to those who deserve it,” he said gravely. “And to those who refuse to bend the knee.”

“You’d throw us all into war again,” Sansa scoffed. “It would bleed the realm dry, and it's our forces that bleed the most at present.”

“What would you have me do? Let our enemies live another day to plot and scheme?”

“New schemers would only take their place,” she pointed out. “I only ask to show restraint, where we can. A King who shows mercy will win more hearts than one who does bloody vengeance. There has to be a different path to fealty.”

“What mercy do you mean to show to Petyr Baelish?” Sandor growled. Sansa stiffened in her seat as glances went around the table.

“If you’re going to speak as part of this council, Sandor,” She said. “Then take your place at this table, or hold your tongue.”

Sandor chewed that for a moment, then clenched his teeth, and stalked around the table and claimed the seat offered to him at the start, chair legs scraping the air of the quiet room. He put the question to her again with his eyes, trying to ignore the way his skin crawled at being so close to the boy.

“Taking Petyr’s head would be mercy,” she answered coldly.

“Littlefinger?” Jon asked, looking around. “What crime does he stand accused of?”

“All,” Bran said. “But Littlefinger's damage is done, and he poses little threat to us now. Justice is mercy, as my sister points out. We will not deal in wanton violence. I believe we can come to terms that most great houses will find agreeable, and a way to deal with Tyrion as well.”

Sandor looked across the table as Bran spoke, and saw Sansa’s hands moving waspishly, realized they were forming words. ‘Stop undermining me’

He brought his hands up in response. ‘What of speaking freely?’

She glared at him, but put her hands in her lap and returned her attention to the room, ignoring the curious glances. “That's all I ask,” she said to her little brother.

“Should I prepare the ravens?” Elder Brother broke the silence. “I can write to the great houses at once, if the details are already decided.”

“We've much and more to discuss, so we may go into such a scenario aligned,” said Bran. “We’ll wait for the rest of our strength to make their return first, welcome them home and feast them. They'll be arriving soon. Samwell Tarly is a trained maester; you may accompany him when such time arises. Or you may return to the Quiet Isle if you wish.”

“It would be an honor to see it through,” Elder Brother bowed his head. 

It was interesting to Sandor, that despite Jon being the rightful King, this room deferred to Bran first. He was smallest and weakest among them, yet he commanded the most power. It came as no surprise for him, but it seemed the rest sensed it too. 

“Very good,” Bran said. “I think we're done for now.” As bodies rose from chairs, Bran turned to him. “Sandor, would you mind talking with me a moment?”

Howland was hovering, prepared to carry him. Bran waved a hand in dismissal. “Sandor will bring me,” he said. “Leave us.”

Sandor kept his seat, a sense of dead filling him as the people drained from the room. Sansa touched his shoulder as she passed, and he hoped it to be a sign of good will despite the way he'd vexed her. 

Once they were alone but for the wolves which were ever at his side, Bran wasted no time in formality. “I know you must be weary of me now. But I'd like to think we're closer for it, too. You're to be my goodbrother, after all. I was happy to see you of sound mind at council today.”

Not quite so sound as I’d like. “What is it you require of me now?” Sandor asked, also dispensing with formality. 

“It was you who the smallfolk saw fly North. It was you who they saw return with Jon, and our triumph.” he was staring at him intently. “You should not correct them when they attribute it to you. I was never there.”

“That's absurd,” Sandor replied. “What would I tell them? I hardly know what happened myself.”

“You need only acknowledge that you were there, which you were. Frame it however you wish. But the matter of my wearing your skin must stay out of any histories.” 

“So you might be free to repeat it?”

“So that others might not think to.”

A chill ran through him, to think of anyone else wielding such abilities. Yet the thought of claiming credit for something he didn’t do also made him ill. “I've no desire to be in history books. That's not what I agreed to.”

Bran leaned forward. “Even if it would mean ascending higher than mountains? Being worthy of a marriage so far above your station?”

Sandor leaned forward to meet him. “I don't need you for that.”

The boy returned to his comfortable position, conceding with a nod. “It would help. Already the people praise your deeds. Regardless, you know it's the right thing. Speaking of marriage…we will be embarking on a long journey South, sooner than late. It would be a long journey back North as well.”

Sandor understood the implication. The babe won't stop growing. He couldn't explain why, but he resented the need for haste. But he couldn't argue with it. 

“Seems an inappropriate time for a wedding,” Sandor said grudgingly. “But I hear you. We will do it before. Quietly.”

“Nonsense,” Bran said at once, waving a hand in dismissal. “My sister’s been wed twice in a manner not to her liking. Let her savor the occasion, loud enough for all to hear. The people will be happy for an excuse at merriment besides.”

Sandor’s mouth twitched. He misliked the reminder of her previous marriages, almost as much as he misliked being the centerpiece of any occasion. “Do you Starks get off on my torment?”

As if in answer, the hulking black Direwolf rested its head in Sandor’s lap. Bran smiled. “Welcome to the family.” 

The boy was light as a bundle of straw in his arms as he carried him to the yard, where they would join the rest. The furs he wore were heavier than he was. It felt strange; they were opposites, in a way. Strong where the boy was weak, weak where the boy was strong. But Sandor's leg was half crippled, and perhaps his mind was half as strong as well. 

A chair had been brought for the boy, and Sandor lowered him into it before taking his place at Sansa's side. The yard was full of bodies this morning, and excited chatter pressed in around them. The reception party consisted of the four Starks– no, three Starks and a Targaryen– the two Direwolves, and Howland Reed. Elder Brother, Brienne, and Jaime were stood among the press together, ever watchful.

‘What did Bran want?’ Sansa signed. 

‘For me to play at mummery,’ Sandor returned. ‘And for us to hasten our plans of marriage. Before our travels.’

She absentmindedly put her hands to her midsection. ‘You'll need to court me quickly, then.’ She was grinning when he found her face, and he gave her a sneer.

When the gates came open, the yard erupted into cheers as men poured in. They were tired and worse for wear, but they had their heads high. Women ran to husbands, brothers embraced brothers. Sandor identified many of the Northern house's sigils at their breasts, and the only one he saw from the South was Stannis’, and a smattering of River houses. Cowards all, he thought of the absentees. Many and more wore no sigils at all, freefolk and foreigners, and there was a large number of women among them.

At the head of the press was a host of people whose names he didn't know, but would come to learn later. And two more massive direwolves, one who bolted up to Arya and bowled her over. Sandor flinched forward in sudden panic, but the wolf was licking the girl's face instead of eating it. The other, the albino, loped to his master's side dutifully and received a pat on the head for his service. 

Jon was loved among these people, and for once he saw the King in him. They cried his name, called him savior, styled him The White Wolf. To them, he was the one who flew off on a dragon and brought back the dawn three days later, making the opposing army retreat. Sandor wished for him to have the lion’s share of glory, did not relish the thought of pretending to have played an equal part in it. 

The Lord of Winterfell welcomed them all, and touched hands and greeted soldiers as they came through. A feast was being prepared, tents were going up. It was surreal to feel such exuberance in the air, to stand among the Stark household as if he might be one of them. To know that he soon would be. 

The Starks were greeted with reverence, and Sandor had the thought that Sansa’s hand might fall off if it was kissed one more time. It was a mixed reception he was met with; some were confused by his presence here, or regarded him with a familiar disgust. Others called him Branchbreaker. The Brotherhood had spread the tale once they joined the fighting, it seemed. They also named him Sandor the Stray, and he supposed he was. He’d found himself far from home, and taken in by new masters. One especially jovial man, who Sandor learned was a Freefolk called Giantsbane, remarked on Sansa being kissed by fire, told her it was a symbol of good fortune. Then he roared a laugh when he got to Sandor, for he was kissed by fire too. 

Every bench in the Great Hall was filled that night, and Sandor sat upon the dais with the Lord’s household. There hadn’t been a moment of solitude from the moment he left that bedchamber that day, and it was just as well. His mind remained too occupied for dwelling. The feast’s offerings were modest by the highest standards, and perhaps couldn't be considered a feast at all. But by Winter’s standards it was a lavish spread. White Harbor helped to keep them well supplied with fish and imported goods from across the sea, and in his opening remarks Bran praised them for it. 

“All in this room sit in my highest regard for your loyalty, your service, and your sacrifice to the good of our cause,” he was saying now. “It’s to you that I credit the end of this Long Night. House Stark owes a debt of gratitude to you all; nay, the Realm. Let this hot meal be only the first of many repayments.”

The sound of cheers and banging cups rang throughout the hall. When it settled down, Bran went on. “Also worthy of our gratitude is Jon, of my blood, who rallied the Freefolk to our ranks and pushed back the night. Daenerys Targaryen, whose ultimate sacrifice bars her from joining us, who brought dragons to our cause and turned the tides of victory in our favor. And Sandor Clegane, with his warrior’s heart, uncontented to sit in the dark, claimed a dragon and joined the confrontation at the edge of the world. I honor them all, and hold them, too, in highest regard.”

The cheers went up again, and people cheered the three names. “Praise the White Wolf!” shouted some. “To the Mother of Dragons!” shouted others. “Sandor Clegane, the Stranger’s Bane!”

Sansa put a hand on his forearm and smiled. “Stranger’s bane indeed,” she said. “He must be cross with you, leaving him to the stable boys these days past.”

“It’s the stable boys who will be cross,” Sandor murmured. He turned to her. “Are you cross with me? About earlier.”

It took her a moment to recognize his meaning. “It passed quickly. You were right; you should always speak freely, even when I don’t wish to hear.”

“I was angry, spoke out of turn. But I stand firm on this. You should stay far away from that imp.”

“If we’re to be wed, I need a different sort of confession from him,” said Sansa. “Petyr had our marriage dissolved, but who around can speak to that? Petyr certainly will not back that claim.”

He scoffed. “His death will serve well enough for that.”

“It’s not enough,” Sansa disagreed. “I want it known that I never surrendered my virtue to him. That you came second to no one.”

“What makes you think he would grant you that?” Sandor rasped. “What would he stand to gain?”

“Leave that to me to find out.” She said a word of thanks to a serving girl as food was brought out, and the feasting began in earnest. 

Sandor was a dog with a bone. “None will question your virtue in my hearing.”

“No,” she agreed. “They'll do it in private.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me.”

He clenched his teeth. “It's a fool’s errand you insist upon. Your virtue was never his to give, and he'll only try to take something else from you.”

“I'll consider your council,” Sansa said, reaching for a chicken. “Let us discuss this another time.” 

He noticed she was eating meat again. Only the meat, it seemed. ‘The pup’s tastes have changed,’ he noted silently. She seemed to take notice of it herself for the first time. She smiled.

‘They might be a wolf after all,’ she returned.

Sandor found himself far less stricken by her condition, despite the horrific visions he still couldn’t quite shake. Of all the things he feared, it had fallen in rank. There was time to work out the matter of what sort of father he might make. But he knew she would be an excellent mother.

When all courses had been served, Bran called for quiet once more to address the hall. “I know you all must be tired, and weary from war. In just over seven days from now, the majority of you shall embark for home and leave us, and more will venture South to Harrenhal, where a great council will take place. All are free to join us, and bear witness as a new King is crowned. Until such time, let us carve out a moment of respite. Celebration, too. On the seventh day, I intend to feast you all again, as my sister, the Lady Sansa, extends her hand to Sandor Clegane in marriage.”

Sandor must have made a face like a smacked arse; he hadn’t expected such a public declaration, and such a hastened timeline as this. What he expected even less was the sounds of approval from their audience. Sansa was getting to her feet to acknowledge the announcement, and she nudged Sandor to rise as well. He felt outside himself as she took his hand and curtsied, and he bowed to her and raised her hand to kiss it. 

Bran called for music, and Sandor was grateful for the distraction as bodies rose from benches and filled the floor. The Wildling King took up a lute and began to sing. Howland’s daughter approached the table to join her father and Bran, and Jon came down from it to join his men. Sansa hadn’t released his hand, and was tugging at it now. He drained his wine, and followed. 

Sandor wasn’t much for dancing, but he would follow her anywhere she led them. Still, he felt utterly exposed as they joined the throng, and he wasn’t possessed of grace besides. It was different than in dreams, or in Braavos. People knew him here; took special notice of his presence among them. Might be I’ll need to acquire a taste for such foolishness, he couldn’t help but think. He liked to see her face like this. He looked around the room for the other faces he recognized. Arya was at the dais, shooing away a dark-haired lad who was asking her to dance. Jaime and his wench remained at table, locked in conversation with one another. Elder Brother was dancing with an older common woman, smiling and laughing with her easily. Jon had taken the hand of one of his wildling women, a pretty blonde one, and Sandor mused that he must have a specific taste. 

“It was poorly done, for Bran to blindside us,” Sansa said, bringing his focus back down on her. “But it’s a relief as well. Do you still think you might be dreaming?”

She said it as a jape, but the concept didn’t seem all that absurd. He had to truly think about it before he could give an answer. “Even I could never dream up something so miserable as this.”

He spun her as the rest of the ladies in the room spun, sending skirts whirling like pinwheels over the floor. She was laughing when he pulled her close again. “You sacrifice much for my indulgence,” she said in feigned dramatics. “Perhaps there will be time to indulge you as well.”

Sandor was a torn man when he spun her next, sending her spinning into the arms of her next partner as a Wildling woman spun into his. He wanted to dance with no one else, but she was like to make him do something indecent if she kept looking at him like that.

The Wildling woman was as wild looking as the name suggested, and she was even less graceful than he was. She didn’t know a single step of these dances, and she was drunk besides. He preferred such a partner; she didn’t flinch at the ruin of his face. Indeed, she lit up at the sight of it. 

“I was hopin’ to get a look at you up close,” she said, openly staring at the left side, and the fading bruise around his neck. “Is it true what folk say, that old gods and new tried to eat you up, only to choke and spit you out?”

Sandor barked a laugh. “Is that how they're telling it? The Brotherhood lacks in bollocks as much as banners, then.”

That made her laugh, a hideous cackle of a thing. “They’re calling you unlikable as much as unkillable, m’lord. But I like you well enough, for a kneeler.”

“Don't bond yourself to first impressions,” Sandor said. “You'll find me in a rare mood tonight.”

“No small wonder,” the woman nodded. “A pretty thing, she is, and kissed by fire too. It's lucky for you that you claimed her when you did, else one of ours might have thought to steal her.”

Sandor's rare mood soured in an instant. He tightened his grip on the woman to the point that she winced, though it didn't seem to frighten her. “You and yours best keep your thievery under control, so long as you're South of the Wall. Else I'll steal something too.” 

“Ferocious,” she said suggestively. “A pity you're not the stealing type.”

Sandor was glad to be rid of her, when the shift came. He lost his mood for dancing, if it ever existed, but suffered it anyway for her sake. He had to endure three more partners, finding them not as eager to endure him either, before the little bird flew back into his arms, flushed and smiling.

“I half expected you to have gone by now,” she said. “I'm glad you didn't.”

“The things I do for love,” he said wryly. That amused her, even as it gave him the vague sensation of falling.

“Shall we retire?”

“Where to?”

She made no answer but to pull him along as she removed them from the crowd, took them out of the Great Hall and into the cold, moonlit yard. When Sandor recognized the direction in which they headed, he came to a stop.

“The Godswood?” he asked, incredulous. “I'd sooner dance than pray just now.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “It's a big place. Now come along; there will be no praying.”

He relented, followed her into the thick mass of sentinels and ironwoods, stepped carefully over roots and felled branches. They were deep in the wood before they found a break in the trees. Deep pools of water steamed against the cold of night, and even the air here seemed warmer for it.

Sansa began to shrug out of her furs, and Sandor gripped her by the shoulder to keep them on. “What are you doing?”

“Indulging,” she laughed. 

“Are you mad? You'll freeze.”

“The water will keep us warm. I’ve been colder besides.” she came close, spread her hands over his chest. “And so have you, my lord.”

Sandor helped her out of her furs as he kissed her, and she unburdened him from his. His eyes feasted the sight of her more openly than ever in the pale moonlight, without skirt or bedsheet to obscure it. She walked around the pool without a single shiver, found a spot to lower herself in. Sandor joined her with a splash. The water kept them warm as promised, while the falling snow kept it from growing too hot.

He kissed her there for what could have been minutes or hours; his sense of time was unreliable after sharing his skin. He was desperate to feel in control of it again. Desperate to know if she saw him differently now, after all she'd seen and experienced in his mind. He wondered if she might prefer the unburnt man she'd met there, or if she could, would start over and have it different. Sandor discovered the truth, in that moment. She wished nothing different. And he found he wouldn't have changed a thing, either, if it would have prevented this. He would endure it all again. It felt like peace.

He lifted her out of the water by the waist and sat her on the pool's edge, kissed her breasts, her belly, the length of her legs. He opened them and bowed his head as if at altar, made her call out to her gods. When she sank back into the water she claimed his lap, and for the first time they made no attempt at secrecy or discretion. Sandor had liked her little noises well enough, but the big ones were greater still.

“Sandor?” She asked when things went quiet again, head against his chest. She turned her face up at him. “What happened up there? Why all the secrecy?”

He brushed damp hair from her cheek. “I will never keep secrets from you,” he said in a low voice. “Never. What you saw…it’s all I know. Your brothers have their reasons, and I'm not the one to question it. I would unsee it if I could. I don't care about any of it. Only that it's over.” 

Their skin was pruned and steaming by the time they rose from the water. Sandor was loath to go their separate ways when they did. Only seven days from now . He found himself weary to sleep. It was the first time that day he'd been truly alone with his thoughts. Everything was already rushing back, and his skin started to feel like a prison once more. 

But she would always find him, he told himself. He might call himself ‘protector’, but it was the other way around. And, true enough, when he dreamed that night, there she was. Pulling him to the water's edge, as though they’d never left it.

Chapter Text

SANSA 26

The morning council meeting had lasted hours. With more seated among them requiring more chairs be brought up, and the matter of calling a great council ahead of them, there were many details and perspectives to sort out. 

Sansa, Arya, Bran, Jon, Howland, Sandor, Elder Brother, and Brienne were now joined by Lord Davos, Meera Reed, Mance Rayder, Samwell Tarly, Wylis Manderly, Alysane Mormont, Greatjon Umber, Robett Glover, Jonelle Cerwyn, Hoster Blackwood, Asha Greyjoy, and even Jaime Lannister. The twenty of them plus the four direwolves made the solar feel small and cramped. It wasn't made to host such large numbers, but these were strange times indeed. 

Bran seemed confident that all in the room's loyalty could be trusted, but it took some convincing as it pertained to the others. Wildlings mixed with Lannisters, and Starks with Greyjoys, who had stolen their home. Jon's parentage was revealed to them all, and the intention to make Harrenhal the new seat to the crown. But there would be no crown as the world had known it, Bran said. He left it at that for now.

With the dissolution of The Night's Watch, The Gift was to become the new home to the Wildlings, ending at the ruins of The Wall. That had created plenty of debate, but in the end it was agreed upon that none were to remain beyond the Wall, and compromises would need be made to accommodate the Wildling's cooperation and acceptance into the civilized world. 

The meeting ended with more questions than answers, which Bran assured them all would come. “All that is important now is that we remain unified,” he said. “The North is larger than all the other kingdoms. It is our greatest strength.”

Samwell and Elder Brother were given names for ravens, with instruction to summon the great lords from all corners of the Kingdom to Black Harren's haunted old castle for a great council, and to greet their new liege. Refusal would bring dragons on them, but that wasn't stated in the letters. 

The thought of Jon living in a place like Harrenhal made Sansa shiver; it was a cursed, uninviting place, and massive besides. Large enough to convene a great council of thousands comfortably, but too large to manage. Everyone said so. Perhaps if it were the crown's seat, people might flock to it and give it life again. Or they might all become cursed and meet their doom. 

Sansa had taken the seat next to her betrothed at council. At some point he'd grown bored of the proceedings, and amused himself by signing different words in his lap, ones intended to make Sansa blush and break from her serious posture.

“You're horrible,” she was scolding him now as they left the room, betrayed by the laughter in her voice. “Those were important matters we discussed.”

“Aye, and in a moon's turn we will be made to suffer the same discussions again,” Sandor rasped dismissively. “You can catch any detail you might have missed then.”

“If you behave, perhaps.” She put an arm through his as they walked together. “Will you be visiting Stranger today?”

“Aye,” he answered. “I was going to take him for a run, burn off some of his wroth. Would you care to come, little bird?”

“I'll give him my regards,” Sansa said. “But a gallop might not agree with me just now.” 

He took her meaning and nodded his understanding. “Keep your wench close while I'm gone, then. I've got time to make up for.”

Sansa walked with him to the stables, kissed the horse on his velvet nose and Sandor as well, before bidding them both farewell. She would only have a couple of hours to act uninterrupted, she knew. It was an opportunity she would have to take; none were going to grant it. 

She picked up her skirts and glided into the castle, taking care to pass by the kitchen for a flagon of wine. She met Elder Brother along the way, on his way to her mother's sept. Then she took a path she hadn't treaded much as a girl, but she knew where it led all the same.

It was dark as night down here, and colder than the rest. She lifted a sconce from the wall to light her way, peering into this cell and that. She found them all empty. 

“Who pays the demon his visit today?” called the familiar voice, all the way at the end. It was weak with a lack of hospitality, but no less proud for it.

Sansa raised the sconce and illuminated the cell where two small hands grasped the bars, and the shadow of a face tried in vain to peer out of them. Why did she feel so anxious? He can't hurt me. She wondered if he would, if given the chance. Accident or no. They still burned, She could hear Sandor saying. 

Sansa willed her legs to carry her the rest of the way. She held her head high, and took careful control over her expression. He would not see her cringe.

He made a sound of surprise as she stepped before him, turning to fix the sconce into place upon the wall. “Do mine eyes deceive me? They like to do that down here. Is that truly you, Sansa Stark?”

“It is,” she murmured. She’d seen his face so many times in dreams, but the real thing still made her stomach twist uncomfortably. Still, it wasn't half so horrible as Petyr’s, she thought. Or Illyn Payne, or Ser Gregor.

“You look well, my little wife. Do you have a kiss to spare your lord husband? Before you frame me for your next crime, I'd like a kiss first. Or have you come to ride my cock and take an heir from me? That's what I would do, if i were you. A Lannister heir would be valuable. And I'd be glad to let you. I never found where whores go, and it's been so long since I've felt a woman's touch. Might be it was Winterfell all along!”

He was half mad, it seemed to her. Or he wished to make her recoil in disgust. She'd give him no such satisfaction. She lowered herself to sit in front of his cell, so that she might be able to see him better. She placed the flagon on the stone floor beside her, and saw he eyed it hungrily. 

His hair was matted and dirty, caked with old blood from past questionings. The hole where his nose once was seeped grotesquely, and he sported a new scar or two about the face since she'd seen him last.

“Where is Daenerys?” he demanded. “It’s her I wish to see, not you.”

“She’s dead,” Sansa told him. According to the stories they tell, at least. That took the wind from Tyrion’s sails. He slumped to the floor. 

“I’ll join her soon, then. Do they send you to me to gloat on that? Will you be my executioner? Some poisoned wine for parched lips?”

“Your execution will be a public affair, if it’s to happen at all.” As a show of good faith, she tipped the flagon to her lips and drank.

“I only request you choose a manner different from my dear nephew,” he said with droll contempt. “Hack off my head, rather than kill me slow. I’d accept a feast first, though.”

“I played no part in Joffrey's death,” Sansa said calmly. None that I was made privy to. Tryion came up to the bars at that, his mismatched eyes dark with loathing.

“Liar,” he hissed. “I cannot say I blame you for wanting to be free of me and mine, but do not do me the insult of feigning innocence. You’re a snake in wolf’s clothing.”

The intensity of his hatred was terrible. She had the thought that he would strangle her to death then and there, were it not for the bars between them. 

“I'm not innocent,” she assured him. “But I am in this. I never wished to be your wife, it's true. But you never hurt me, and it was never my wish to hurt you either. I was as much a pawn in that scheme as you.”

He snorted. “I see. Is that why you conveniently disappeared when the blame went out? I've never seen a pawn move so strategically.”

“A pawn doesn't move by itself,” Sansa said. “You know nothing of the board you played.”

“That seems clear to me now,” he said wryly. “Enlighten me, then.”

“You first. Tell me what happened.” He scoffed with incredulity. 

“I’ve confessed a hundred times by now. Do they send you down here to nag a different story from me? I'd rather suffer the beatings.”

“I don't want a different story,” she said patiently. “I want the truth. I would hear it in your own words.”

He spread his arms out, as if to rouse a crowd that wasn't there. “Why, I burned them all, beloved. And I called it mercy. Now stop playing with your food. Grant me some mercy, too. Either play with my cock or take my head off, whichever pleases you best. Just give me the wine first, so that I might not know the difference.”

Sansa ignored that. “I've heard tales that it wasn't done in malice, or with intention. Is there any truth to that?”

“Does it matter?” He asked, sounding so much like Sandor.

“To me it does,” she said firmly. “I'll grant you truth for truth.”

That intrigued him somewhat. “What truth could you offer a dying man in a cage, that would bring him any sort of satisfaction?”

“I offer the truth of Joffrey’s death,” she said. “I'll tell you who truly conspired against you.” That made him laugh.

“Do you think I care about that now?” He asked, his eyes wide and white with madness. “What difference does it make?”

“I think you do care about it, for all the resentment you bear me. It angers you still. I know other truths besides.”

“Give me one,” he said, eyeing her with interest. 

Sansa had dreamed of Tyrion during the days Sandor was in the North and out of reach. She realized now that they hadn't been her own dreams at all. “I know you loved your first wife, more than you could’ve ever loved me. Shae as well. Your father earned his fate. ”She could still recall the way the crossbow thrummed.

His face twisted with scorn. “How could you know that?”

Sansa put her nose up. “Truth for truth.”

“I gave you the truth already,” he said angrily. “I burned them all. And it was mercy.”

“Tell me more,” Sansa demanded. “Make me understand.”

He pounded the bars in frustration. “I told Queen Daenerys to continue North, when we heard the usurper had claimed her throne. I knew the boy, you see, and was confident I could make him vacate the thing with some diplomacy. Maybe a promise of marriage, in the Targaryen custom.”

Sansa watched him thoughtfully as he paced before the bars like a caged predator. “What then?” She wondered.

“I found the city in a sorry state. The boy calling himself Aegon had taken the throne, oh yes, but he never had the people. My sister saw to that. Winter had come, worse than I've ever seen it so far South. War and frost made food scarce, and there’s no one more dangerous than a starving man, as you might intimately recall.”

Sansa nodded. She would never forget the bread riots. “And it was worse than that.” His scowl deepened with the memory. “Grayscale blighted one in every ten men that I saw.”

Sansa was horrified. “Grayscale? How could you be certain of that?”

“I’ve seen it up close,” he said darkly. “Still, I only wished to find the usurper and have his audience. I never did find him. Not before the riots broke out in earnest, and I lost control.”

“Tell me,” Sansa pressed him. “Tell me what happened.”

“I tire of this tale,” he complained. “It makes the throat go dry.”

Sansa took the flagon and drank. “You should finish the telling quickly, then. Overlong stories do build a thirst.”

Tyrion's mouth quirked. “I made the mistake of landing, before I realized how dire the state of things truly was. I expected a dragon to send the smallfolk scattering in fear, but starving people fear nothing. All they saw was a feast in their midst. They took up anything they could throw. Rocks, rotten food, their own shit. They brought chains and ropes to tether me down with. That was when the dragon grew wroth, belched flame on our attackers without my bidding. I do not grudge him; he saved our lives, and did not know how deep the Mad King’s madness went. No one did.”

“What do you mean?” Sansa asked, hanging on to his every word.

“Wildfire was discovered beneath the city, once. In great caches. Aerys would rather destroy his throne than give it up, you see. The pyromancers cleared what they could find, but there were always more. The fire Rhaegal started…it set off a chain reaction, and the entire city went up in flame. We only barely got off the ground in time. Would that my sister was there at least, but I learned she fled the moment the usurper stepped foot at the gates.”

“So it was an accident,” Sansa said. “Truly.”

Tyrion approached the bars again, the look of madness returning to his black and green eyes. “Only if you can trust the word of a wicked imp,” he said.

“I believe you,” she said solemnly. She took up the flagon and brought it to the bars, and he tipped his head up and drank it greedily as she poured it into his mouth as best as she could manage.

“That would make one of you,” he said bitterly as she took it away, and he wiped his chin with an arm. “But there you have it, my truth, for all it's worth. Give me your truth, then, my little wife.”

“I'm your wife no longer,” she told him plainly. “I was inspected by a septon and our marriage dissolved. There were other plans for my hand. And other murders to implicate me in, too.”

“Now who would go through all that trouble?” he asked, genuine curiosity touching his face. “The Tyrells?”

“You’d have the half of it,” she confirmed with a nod. “But they didn’t act alone. I know you to be an intelligent mind; I wonder if you can piece it together from there.”

“I’ve been wasting away in a dungeon for who knows how long,” he snapped. “My mind isn’t up to the task of such games.”

“Very well,” said Sansa. “But I grow weary of repeating this tale as well, so I’ll just tell you that it was Petyr Baelish who saw Joffrey poisoned, and you’ll have to trust my word on that. He took me to the Vale, out of reach and under his control.”

“Littlefinger.” Tyrion repeated to himself in the tones of epiphany. “I knew he had his own schemes…I should have had a closer eye on him, ever since he spun that lie about the dagger. I find it a bigger humiliation than rotting in this cell, that he slipped through my little fingers.”

“So you believe me?” Sansa asked. Tyrion put his face to the bars, gave her a good long look. She didn't look away.

“I would know if you lied,” he said. “It was never your strong suit.”

“I wouldn't be so sure,” Sansa told him. “But I didn't come down here to test such talents on you.”

“What did you come down here for?” He was studying her with interest. 

“To see if you're the monster they all say you are.” She eyed him shrewdly. “Or the man I thought you once to be.”

“And what is your judgment?”

“It's still to be determined. I came for truth, but a favor as well.”

“Of course you did,” Tyrion mused. “I fear I’m in no position or mood for favors, though. You’ve caught me at a bad time, you see.”

“I won’t ask much of you,” she promised. “Only for your written word. A declaration that we never consummated our marriage.”

He squinted at her. “What need do you have of that, if your septon already did the writing?” he grinned. “Perhaps you are a convincing liar.”

“I fear the proof of our annulment died with everyone else in King's Landing, no thanks to you, accident or no. And Petyr is no friend of mine; he will deny it was ever done. So I ask you to put the matter to rest once and for all, if ever you had a regard for my happiness.”

A revelation dawned on him with that. He gave her a sickening smile, one of a man with an upper hand. “If a septon were to inspect you now, he would have interesting news to share, wouldn't he?”

She made no reply but to keep his gaze. He hooted at the confirmation. “She's wanton, not dishonored. If it were the latter, you wouldn't be running to me to preserve your virtue. Who is he, then?”

“Annul our marriage, formally, to a septon.” Sansa told him. “Leave no room for doubt that our marriage was never consummated, and I will do all I can to ensure your freedom. If you do not, I will watch them execute you and it will be all the same to me. Those are the terms.”

“The lady wounds my pride,” Tyrion complained. “I know I'm not a handsome man, but I've never had a woman so desperate to declare I had not bedded her. Perhaps I should have. Perhaps you'd be here begging for another ride instead.”

The thought was enough to make her skin crawl, but Sansa spared him the indignity of showing it. “Perhaps I would, in a different life. If you courted me properly, as a woman grown.”

“Do not pretend you'd be any less disgusted to look at me,” he said with contempt. “Even now I see it, despite your attempts to hide it.”

“Perhaps it's your own disgust you see,” she replied. “Monster or man. What's your choice?”

“What makes you think I wish to live so badly? Or that you could possibly have the power to spare my life? I'm not your prisoner, and despite my intentions the world still knows I burned them all.”

“Leave it to me to argue for your life. I would leave it to you to figure out how to live it. It’s the only chance you have besides.”

In truth, Sansa couldn't say how she might make that argument. And she knew Sandor’s anger would be terrible once he learned of her bargain. But in her heart she didn't find Tyrion guilty, and that would have to be enough.

Tyrion was thoughtful, tormented. “Send me a septon,” he sighed irritably. “I will tell him the truth of it. And if you let them kill me, if there's anything after this life, know that it will be spent haunting you the rest of yours.”

Sansa smiled, and brought the flagon to his lips again. As it dribbled down his throat and chin she said, “It will not come to that.”

She took the sconce and left him. She found Elder Brother waiting around the corner as requested, and handed him the flame. “Were you satisfied with his confession?” She asked quietly.

“If you trust his words, I would as well,” he said solemnly. “But you've set quite a task for yourself, to convince the world of his innocence. It might have been cleaner for you both to let him die.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But if he will rid me of my false impressions, it is only right I rid him of his as well.”

“You might bring a different stain upon your honor,” he warned. “He's still a kinslayer, regardless of his guilt for the city.”

She thought of the nightmares she'd seen, and the ones she'd lived at the feet of Tywin Lannister. “It's a time to wipe slates clean where we can. Where it's deserved. Will you record his written confession?”

“It will be done, my lady. And may the Gods continue to show you as much mercy as you're willing to extend to others. We’ll both be in need of it, where your betrothed is concerned.”

When Sansa emerged from the depths, she was met with a different disapproval. Jon was waiting for her, arms crossed over his chest. “You've grown insolent as Arya,” he said.

“I'll take it as a compliment, then.” Sansa walked up to him. “You cannot execute him for this crime. You know as well as I that he speaks truly of his involvement in it.”

He sighed. “You have a good heart, Sansa. But the world is cruel. Haven't you learned that by now?”

“And what of the King?”

“I know little and less of that. I did not wish for this. But a leader must be pragmatic, and doesn't have the luxury of relying on heart alone. The matter of it being an accident will never be accepted, the damage is too great. To pardon this crime would make all other crimes meaningless.”

“What would become such pragmatism, if it had been Daenerys on that dragon instead? It very well could have been.”

“Then it would not be my problem to bother with,” he said sourly. “She'd be alive, or more likely, we'd all be too dead to care.”

“So we play the board before us,” Sansa replied. “Daenerys trusted him. And I think he could be more useful to us alive, grateful for our mercy.”

“If you can convince the world of that, I would be glad to stay my blade. But I won't flinch away from my duty, when that day comes. I urge you to steel your heart to it.”

She touched his arm. “My heart is steel already. I've only learned when it’s safe to open it.”

She excused herself, and found Brienne before she set herself to her other tasks. She visited with the people camped out around the castle grounds, took praise and complaints from them in equal measure, held a dozen little courts as she went. She visited the women hard at work sewing her commissions, only having a week to complete them. She found herself at the crypts, and found herself still unable to walk down those steps.

She threw sticks for Shaggydog to chase, who among the direwolves was particularly playful in company he liked. When without, his temper was the foulest of them all. She wondered where the wolf ended, and the boy began. She couldn't determine if it was a blessing or a tragedy that one could live on this way.

As they approached Stranger's empty stable, Sansa turned to her companion. “Brienne, if you knew someone did awful things but didn't do them with an evil heart, would you condemn them or offer them forgiveness?”

She looked at Sansa thoughtfully. She was always so serious, but sincere as well. She looked into the empty stable, at the sword on her hip. “It's complicated, my lady. Some choices have no clear right or wrong answer. I think it's the same with people, too. The more you know someone's heart, the harder it is to judge them. Perhaps it's why Kings and Queens keep their distance.”

Sansa nodded. “A wise answer. If I were a Queen, I'd want to know the heart of everyone I passed judgment on, to be sure that it was fair.”

The woman smiled kindly. She had a pretty smile, despite the ruin that was her face. “Even if time afforded it, that would be enough to drive anyone to madness,” she said. “It's how a man takes responsibility that proves his measure, and even then...second chances have two edges.”

Sansa wondered what a man like Tyrion would do with a second chance, for all his pride. Sandor was proof that it was possible to change. But he's not Sandor. “Complicated indeed,” she said, as the man in question rode into view. “I don't envy Jon, for the choices he must make. What does Ser Jaime make of his brother's actions?”

Brienne appeared surprised, as if by a shift in subject. “Tyrion?”

Sansa nodded. “Jaime killed a King once, one he was sworn to protect. He got a second chance, and didn't learn a better way until he lost his hand, it seems to me. What does he make of Tyrion?”

She looked discomforted by that. “That is complicated too, my lady. And not an answer for me to give.”

“Very well,” said Sansa. “I value your honesty as ever, ser. My lord approaches; you may take your leave.”

As Sandor swung down from his horse and limped over to her, Sansa decided to table the subject of Tyrion for a different day. She didn't wish to keep it a secret from him. But his embrace was comfort, and the way he looked at her made all thought of hard conversations die in her throat.

Chapter Text

SANDOR 27

“Both of you, now,” Sandor called, his eyes bright with fervor. “Come.”

They rushed forward with their dull steel, and the sound of it crashing into his rang throughout the bailey. He almost forgot the pain in his thigh as he channeled his focus into the skirmish. He'd caught Jaime and Brienne sparring together this morning, and thought to give them a try. He found his sword hand disturbingly rusty; even Jaime had bested him the first few rounds. If a man with only one hand could send him reeling, what hope did he have against a real threat?

They took turns, sweating in the snow like it was the dead of Summer. Their breath came out in thick clouds as they fought to keep it. Brienne was a formidable foe; a grudging respect sprung up in him, that perhaps she was worthy of being such a persistent presence by the little bird's side. She watched them from the parapet overlooking the training yard, with Elder Brother, Howland, and Bran from his seat. Before too long they'd attracted a proper audience, shouting and cheering as if at tourney. Jon and Arya had joined the spectators for a time, but before too long they came down and were having duels of their own.

Sandor was determined to best the wench, and had shaken off enough of the rust to send her sprawling during their last bout. Now he challenged them both at once, hot blooded and baring his teeth.

Sandor knew Jaime to be the weaker of the two, and he used his size advantage to take his feet from him. He had to move quickly in response to a flurry of blows from Brienne, who came at him with the force of two men on her own. He kept Jaime in the periphery as he lost ground to her, and threw up his shield just in time as he rejoined the fray. In the end, it wasn't enough, and he was forced to yield as the two brought him low. His ego took only a soft blow; he hadn't expected victory, in truth, after so long out of practice. It was good enough for now, to spar with practiced swords, and know that he could still give them trouble.

Jaime put out his good hand and pulled Sandor to his feet, grinning. “I thought you had given up the sword, and I thought that a pity. You fight well, for a cripple.”

It was odd to hear a compliment from him. Sandor patted the dirt from his knees. “You as well,” he said. "For a cripple."

Truth be told, he didn’t have the belly for fighting he’d once claimed. The thought of killing no longer brought him pleasure, if it ever had. The feel of steel in his hand did, however. It was the only thing he ever felt truly good at. He thought perhaps if he ever took a life again it would be for a nobler cause at least. To keep her safe. To further her cause. For her. Only for her.

“Shall we go again?” Brienne asked, coming up to them. She had a seemingly endless supply of energy. She's eager to prove herself, as a woman. Jaime declared that he was too tired out to make a worthy opponent, and Sandor lifted his gaze to where she watched.

“Again, then.” He agreed, spinning the tourney blade in one hand and casting the shield aside from the other. Brienne readied her blade in answer, serious as ever as they circled each other. He had the absurd thought that he was looking into a mirror. She was of a size with him, and just as ugly. She didn't have a woman's shape, no teats to speak of. In armor, she was indistinguishable from a man. The ruinous scars down her cheek only made the comparison more apt, and more absurd.

She was the first to lunge, and Sandor swept around her and swung savagely at her rear. But she was quicker on her feet, was already making her reply. Steel clanged on steel, and then it came to blows, over and over until his arm grew fatigued. He gave up ground to recover, and she seemed grateful for some reprieve as well. They repeated the bouts, and Sandor took notice of how much ground she tried to cover, taking advantage of his lameness. He was the lesser of the two, when forced to move. She knew it.

They circled again, and Sandor made the first move this time, making to raise his arm high. But he quickly switched his position at the last moment, baiting her into opening herself up at the ribs as she moved to deflect him. He swung low at her midsection, knocking the breath loose from her. Then he gave her his shoulder, sent her stumbling back. The stubborn wench kept her feet, though, and roared with ferocity as she charged at him again.

It was Sandor's turn to falter; she was surprisingly strong, and her clear blue eyes blazed as she slammed her sword into his with renewed fervor. He felt himself grinning, even as his leg began to protest and threaten to betray him. She had something to prove, but so did he. 

They were whirling around each other, hoping to exploit any weakness or blind spot. She was hoping to tire him out, he knew, and to his dismay it was working. If he didn't end her soon, his end would become inevitable. With her next blow, Sandor sunk down to one knee, feigning the weakness she was looking for. Thinking she had won, she made to bring her sword to his chest and call for his yield. Then Sandor threw out his free hand, took her by the wrist and twisted, forcing her fingers to open and drop her steel. 

He drew himself up, tossed his own sword to the ground over hers. She took his intention, and squared herself for a fight. The shouts in the yard boomed in approval as they sparred, but despite her strength, she was at a disadvantage to Sandor in this regard. It wasn’t long before she was rolling in the snow, and Sandor pinned her down there. 

“I yield, I yield,” she called. Sandor stood, extended a hand to her. 

She took it with good nature. “I've never seen a woman fight so fiercely,” he told her. “Better than most men.”

“You fight better than most women as well,” she replied crisply. “I would have had you, had we kept our swords,”

“I know,” Sandor admitted easily, wiping damp hair from his eyes. “And it wouldn't have mattered at all, in a real fight.”

“I'll take the lesson,” she said, “and the satisfaction of besting you half a dozen times before now.”

“Bugger your satisfaction,” he laughed. “I'll be back to reclaim my pride.”

There were renewed shouts around the yard as Arya and Jon did something to impress them. He and Brienne walked off, giving them the crowd's full attention. Sansa came up to meet them as Jaime did.

“You all fought impressively,” Sansa said, courteous as ever. 

“These people must be desperate for entertainment,” Jaime observed, looking around. “I’ve never seen a training yard so vibrant.”

“They've had little to cheer for,” Brienne replied, trading the tourney sword for her Valyrian one as her squire brought it forth. “Even the simple pleasures must feel grander now.”

“Indeed,” said Sansa. “When all is done, a tourney will be a fine way to mark a return to normalcy.”

Brienne and Jaime left them to clean up, and Sandor had half a mind to do the same, as Sansa made to move a lock of hair that had fallen over his eyes. He shrugged away from her.

“I'm sweating like a bull,” he said, moving the stray himself. “And I stink like one too.”

“I like you stinking,” she replied, her tone indecent. She lifted herself on her toes and kissed his cheek. In his ear she whispered, “I only hope you didn't push yourself too hard, and have some ferocity to spare.”

It made him ache; he made a low sound in his throat. “Careful, girl, or I'll spare you some right here in front of all these people.”

She smiled, lowering herself back down to her heels. “Walk with me, then. I've something to show you.”

She led him to her chambers, and for a moment he thought she meant to show him something he'd already seen before, though it was far from unwelcome. It was disappointing, then, when she went to her cedar chest and pulled a garment from it instead. It was soft golden yellow wool, and she unfurled it to reveal a cloak bearing the sigil and colors of his house. 

“They finished it this morning,” she said, beaming. She offered it to him, and he took it in hand. He admired the embroidery, but moreso he was suddenly overwhelmed by what it meant. 

It was a tangible representation of something that so often slipped into the back of his mind as an abstraction. And as he looked at the three black dogs now, he felt oddly disconnected from them. The hounds of his house had died protecting a master he no longer served, or felt loyal to. Loyalty and Service. The words had resonated with him once. 

“Are you pleased?” She asked when he made no remark. She was watching him anxiously. 

“It's fine work,” he rasped. “I might make an alteration, though.”

She was abashed, and came around to see what he saw. “I inspected it myself, I didn't notice any flaw.”

“No flaws,” he murmured. “Only…my house carries a different legacy now. And it's down to me to decide what that is.”

“What would you change?” She asked.

“That one should be a wolf,” he indicated the topmost. “and that one.” He said of the bottom. “For the two wolves who caught a dog dying in the grass, and made him want to live instead.”

Sansa covered a hand with hers. “I’ll see it done.”

“The words, too,” he blurted as she began to gather up the cloak. He put a hand to her abdomen. “I would bring them up on words I still believe in.” 

He swore he could feel movement beneath his palm, that her belly had grown just the slightest bit more round there. This, too, had been allowed to slip into abstraction more often than not. He'd dreaded their coming before. Feared and reviled it, even. In this moment, he found himself eager to meet them, determined to show them a better life than he had known. A better man to emulate as well. To believe that it was possible.

Sandor still believed in loyalty, but not the blind sort he’d been raised on. He still believed in service, too, but not at the whims of cruel masters. These things were conditional, not a creed to be carved in stone. Truth. Mercy. Honor. Loyalty. Service. All of it was meaningless if not for one crucial element. It came to him then, and she was waiting for him to say it. 

“Our Heart is Our Measure.”

Sansa clutched the cloak to hers. “Lovely words. Ones worthy of you.”

“Not me,” he said, giving her middle a gentle squeeze. “Them. You. That’s where my heart is.”

She set the cloak down, traded it for his hair, still damp with sweat. “Yours is mine, mine is yours.”

He kissed her, softly at first. But then she pulled away from him, asked after his ferocity. So he gave it to her, and she matched him. He took ground from her until she was backing into her dressing table, and he lifted her onto it as she gave his lip her canines. 

He was on the edge of ripping her out of her dress when the knock came at the door. He let out a growl of frustration as they hastily attempted to regain composure; he was grateful for the armor which covered the part of him he couldn’t tame.

“Come,” Sansa called, smoothing out her skirts. There was nothing to be done for her blushing. The door came open, and a shock of orange hair greeted them. 

“I hope I haven’t interrupted anything,” said Howland Reed, in the tones of a man who knew full well he had. Sansa reached down for the cloak. 

“I was only showing Sandor his groom’s cloak,” she said. The man’s green eyes had a mischievous cast to them, but he made no remark. “What business brings you, my lord?”

“Your brother requests your audience,” he answered, stepping aside to give her passage. When Sandor came forward, he put a hand to his chest. “Starks only, I’m afraid. Lord Brandon left something for you in your chambers, though. Said you’d know what to do with it, during our long travels ahead.”

Sandor was loath to part, but intrigued nonetheless. He signed a word of farewell to the little bird and stalked off in the direction of his chambers, but halfway there had a change of mind, and made his way to the bathhouse instead. One thing that Winterfell had over other castles was its hot springs which fed into its very walls–most of them, anyway, as some had been damaged in its sacking, yet to be repaired. The springs also fed a modest bathing room, bypassing the need to heat the water manually. Nobles preserved their modesty by bathing in private, but he was no such noble yet, and he was in no mood to wait on servants to fill a tub for him.

It was a popular place; the large pool in the middle of the room was well crowded, and the smaller ones were where the women liked to wash, pouring hot water over each other's hair and gossiping. Sandor spied the Wildling woman he'd danced with at the reception feast, and tried to avoid making eye contact, lest she come bother him. There were a fair few Wildlings here, he saw. He wondered if any of them had ever had a hot bath, if they ever bathed at all. 

Sandor spied a familiar face in the fray. He was waving him over with the stump that usually bore a golden replica of a hand. 

“Well met,” said Jaime easily as Sandor lowered himself into the hot water. The relief in his aching thigh was immediate. “We were of a similar mind, I see.”

“Aye,” Sandor's eyes slid closed. He wasn't much in a mood for talking, as his mind took him back to that dressing table. 

“When did you take that burn?” Jaime was asking. Sandor cracked an eye open to see him noticing the length of arm that was so rarely exposed. 

Sandor grunted. “I'm trying to relax, Lannister.”

“Unlucky,” he said, ignoring him. “But your luck has turned around, it seems. Winning glory, marrying into a great house…”

“Don't tell me you're jealous,” he gave a lazy laugh. 

“Me? Certainly not. I still have my stunning good looks, and perhaps should claim The Rock after all. My father would like that too much, though, when I'm so determined to disappoint him.”

Sandor chuffed. “A Lannister without ambitions is like a dog without a master, seems to me.”

“Useless?”

“Free,” he said. 

“What of your ambitions, Sandor?” Jaime wanted to know. “This Castle already has its lord…will you remain here, or bring your bride South?”

“Clegane Keep isn't a proper castle,” Sandor waved a hand. “And the Little Lord could use his sister's help around this place.” In truth, Sandor was almost relieved that Sansa wasn’t to become the lady of the castle, though in many regards she still was. He was content to remain in obscurity as much as possible. 

Jaime was studying him. “The younger sister could manage here. You could restore the Keep—”

“Fuck the Keep,” Sandor snapped. “I was two and ten the last time I darkened that doorway, and I've no designs of inflicting myself on the people there again.” He returned to a relaxed position. “She wouldn't be happy there besides.”

“Will you be happy here?” Jaime asked, unphased. “Or her? Truly? Such a gloomy place…even for you.”

Sandor tended to agree that Northerners were harder and sterner than others, but he didn't mislike it. It was the weather that made the North particularly miserable; it demanded toughness from its people. But it was peaceful, too. People ruined a place more than weather. 

Sansa had told him tales of the Eyrie, and he knew if circumstances were different she would have preferred it there. She might have loved King’s Landing, too. She was fashioned for the South, it seemed to him, but she was just as much a wolf. She didn't flinch from the cold, took a wound with a stiffer lip than any lady of her station ought to. Has no taste for perfumed princes.  

“Leave it to me, to worry after her happiness,” Sandor said. “What of you, Lannister? Are you going to wed that wench, or do you have a fetish for secrets?”

Jaime's face spasmed as if he'd been slapped. To his credit, he didn't scramble for denials. “She's a highborn lady in her own right; she doesn't need the taint of The Kingslayer dragging her down. It nearly got her killed twice already.”

Sandor made a face, and Jaime bristled. “What?”

“You sound like me,” he replied. “You sound like a cunt. She's a woman, capable of making choices for herself. Be a man.”

“Easy for you to say,” Jaime pointed out. “You've managed to win these people over. How did you manage to get on that dragon, anyway?”

I didn't do shit, He might have said. I was merely a vessel, and it nearly stayed that way. But he thought of what Bran had told him. No one can ever know.  

“It's not much different than climbing a horse,” he shrugged. “You can't show fear.”

Jaime gave an incredulous laugh. “A dragon is flame made flesh. You’re telling me you had no fear?”

“I didn’t show it, I said.” No matter how hard I tried.

“What happened up there? What was it like?”

Sandor looked around. None were paying much mind to them, though he caught men looking when they thought he didn’t notice. He hadn’t yet determined how he was to frame his part in all this. He’d lied many times about how he’d come into his burns, or otherwise evaded the questioning; this shouldn’t be much different. 

“It was cold,” he shrugged. “Colder than anything you’ve ever felt. I thought my entire bloody body would turn black from frostbite.”

“You’ve your own fetish for secrets,” Jaime said knowingly. 

“All that matters is that it’s over.”

“It’s far from over, from where I sit. This great council is going to be a fascinating affair.”

“The sooner that’s behind us, the better,” he agreed. He’d rather remain behind; Sansa’s place was here, so far as he could tell. There was no great need for her to be present, but she was insistent upon bearing witness, and so were the rest of them. The Starks must be seen as a unified force, it was decided. Harrenhal was currently held by Petyr Baelish besides, and he was sure to turn up to make his claim. The only claim he has is to swift justice. Sandor would be glad to see his head come off. Even moreso if he could swing the sword.

Jaime opened his mouth to say something else, but was interrupted by a man entering the pool, sitting squarely between them. He had a long, dour face and a head of shaggy gray hair. He was skinny and underfed as well, and were it not for the head on his shoulders Sandor might have mistaken him for a boy.

“Pardon my intrusion, m’lords,” he said, his voice as dour as his face. “It’s crowded in here, so I’ve got to sit next to someone, aye? Might as well sit next to someone new, I figure. Why not the Kingslayer and the Stray?”

“And you are?” Jaime asked. 

“Edd Tollett, if it please you. It doesn’t please many. They call me Dolorous Edd. I’m of the Night’s Watch. Or was. It’s all a confusion right now, isn’t it? Might be I should find a woman before they make up their mind.”

Good luck with that, Sandor thought derisively. Seeing this man joining them seemed to be taken as an open invitation, for the pool became a little more crowded as others began shuffling in closer. One of them, a raven-haired lad with clear blue eyes and muscled like an aurochs, sidled in on Sandor’s other side. He introduced himself as Gendry, and Sandor recognized him from the Brotherhood, the one pestering Arya at the feast. 

He held no love for his company, and it must have been written on his face. “I know you must think little of the Brotherhood,” he said. “But I've taken command of the men now. And I wanted to thank you, for your part in everything. We’re in your debt.”

“If I never have to run across your sorry lot again, I’d consider it paid,” Sandor said irritably. 

“I’d sooner lend you my talents,” he said. “I’m a trained blacksmith, apprenticed with Tobho Mott himself. I could make you a finer blade than the one you carry now, or ever did. Armor, too. I’m rather skilled in helms especially. I could furnish you with one in the shape of a hound’s head, as you once wore. But better, stronger, and more fearsome to behold.”

“Would you still be making such lavish offers if I hadn’t gone North, I wonder?” he gave the boy a scowl. “What debt do you mean to pay for stringing me from that tree? Or the others?”

Gendry’s eyes darted between him and Jaime, who was watching with amused interest as Dolorous Edd prattled on with some self-deprecating remark. The marks around their necks hadn’t yet faded completely. “I regret it. We all do. We lost our way…following orders. It fragmented us. The Brotherhood was close to being no more, in truth.”

“That would be a mercy to us all,” Sandor muttered. “You’ve no business gallivanting around pretending it’s justice you deal. True Knights, all. And that’s no compliment, boy.”

“The Brotherhood’s noble cause will be restored,” he said defiantly. “You’ll see.”

“That’ll be the day,” he remarked. Another approached, then, another raven-headed lad with dark eyes and feminine features. 

“Leave these men alone, Edd,” he said lightly. “We’re all trying to relax here, not get swept up in your gloom.”

“Another black brother, I take it?” Jaime asked. “It’s hard to tell, when we’ve all got our pale white cocks out.”

“I was Steward to the Lord Commander himself,” he said proudly. “Name’s Satin. Not sure what I am now, but it’s good to eat a hot meal and have a hot bath. Can’t remember the last time I’ve had either.”

“I remember my last hot bath well,” said Edd. “Only I was the third to have the water, and it wasn’t hot at all by the time I got to it. And I left it dirtier than when I started.”

“It wasn’t a hot bath, then, was it?” Satin rolled his eyes. 

“Hotter than the snow, at least,” he replied. 

Sandor was suddenly uncomfortably aware of all the bodies he shared the water with, and how close they were pressing in, hoping to claim some of his attention. The Wildling he knew as Tormund was coming over now, flanked by two others he didn’t know.

“He’s a human after all!” he said in his booming voice. “I didn’t think kneeler lords shared bathwater with their lessers.”

“I see no lessers here,” Sandor said. No man who faced the dead and stood his ground could be seen as such, not even the boy blacksmith and his brotherhood, he thought grudgingly. “And I’m no lord over any of you.”

“That’s true enough. Nor are you our equal, though. We’d have all met oblivion, were it not for you, and the She-Dragon and the White Wolf.”

“The White Wolf!” cried the wildlings within earshot, and then the bathhouse took up the call. “The White Wolf!”

Sandor resented sharing in the praise, wished for nothing more than to correct him harshly. He clenched his teeth and swallowed it down. “You and yours had the harder task, I promise you.”

“Aye, I believe that,” he said, and for only a moment a shadow passed over his eyes. “But our gratitude is deeply felt. Whatever you three did up there, it saved our sorry hides. We couldn’t keep up with our losses adding to their numbers for much longer.”

Jaime was eyeing them with curiosity. “What does a Wildling make of remaining so far South?”

Tormund looked openly at the man’s stump, then to his face. “We’ll never give up our freedom, if that’s what you mean. We’d sooner take our chances with the dead.”

“That should be received well,” Jaime said dryly. “Soon everyone will be hoping to enjoy your style of freedom, and the realm will descend to chaos.”

“Has it not already?” Sandor remarked. Laughter went around the group.

“And amidst the chaos, a wedding,” Satin said airily. “I've never attended a royal wedding before, or any at all for that matter.”

Sandor tensed somewhat. Marrying Sansa was the highest honor he could ever know, something too sacred to gossip about in murky waters with strangers. “It will be far from a royal affair,” he replied. “And all the better for it, I tell you.”

“I saw them preparing for the feast this morning,” Gendry said. “Lord Manderly himself makes haste to be in attendance, they say, and with him he brings enough fish and spice to feed us all.”

Sandor doubted it would feed all of the thousands camping out around the castle; more likely it was enough to feast the numbers in the Great Hall, and the rest would get their usual watery stews and bread. But he didn't point it out, for the way the men longed for a proper meal.

“What I want to know,” said one of the Wildling men at Tormund’s shoulder, “Is how a big ugly brute such as you takes such a pretty thing to wife, without stealing her!” He guffawed. Sandor might have taken offense, but the man was near as ugly as himself. He was missing teeth and several fingers, and half bald, his thin hair clinging to his scalp in whisps. 

“She stole me, in truth,” Sandor told the Wildling. 

He roared a laugh. “Now that would be a sight to see! I expect you didn't put up much of a fight, aye?”

Sandor’s mouth twitched. “It was a lengthy siege.”

“Then there's still hope left for the rest of us ugly brutes,” said the ugly brute. “Gods, I need a woman.”

“I saw him when he walked in here,” said Satin, brushing dark curls behind an ear. “I suspect it’s not the face she's weak for.”

That earned some hearty laughter. Sandor made no remark, knowing that any protest would only encourage more bawdiness. It was better than talks of heroism besides. They could have their japes, so long as they were at his expense.

“She’s too pretty for me,” said the one at Tormund's other shoulder. He wasn't half so ugly, and of a size with himself. “I’d like to steal that one you was crossin’ swords with, though. I like my women tough.” He punched the water.

Sandor glanced sideways at Jaime, and grinned. “She’d cut you down before you could get her out the door,” he said. “She’s a highborn lady besides. That one’s meant for a lord, if one around had the good sense to claim her.”

“How does one become a lord, then?” Another bout of laughter went out. Tormund gave him a shove. “Sorry, Giantsbane, but a woman like that might make a kneeler out of me!”

“It seems the blood of war still runs hot,” Jaime said, not half so amused as the rest. “I might recommend you find a whore to cool it a bit.”

The man made a face. “The Others take me before I pay for a woman's touch.”

“They might, if you think to touch that one,” said Jaime.

“This one's lost his humor with that hand o’ his,” the Wildling had narrowed his eyes. “Lucky for you I don't beat on cripples, as a rule.”

“I paid for a woman once,” Edd put in, disturbing the tension. “She said it was the quietest lay she ever had. It didn't occur to me to make it noisy.”

The man was odd, Sandor thought. But he was grateful for his timing. “Well, I can't say I feel clean, but I've had about all I can stand.” Sandor pushed himself up out of the pool, and Jaime stood as well.

“Couldn't have said it better.”

Sandor collected his things and dressed, regretting his decision to not bring a fresh change of clothing. He made off for his chambers to correct the error. 

When he pushed open the door, he was met with the sight of several sizable blocks of white wood at the foot of the bed. He'd forgotten Howland telling him Bran had left it. Atop the pile was a small sack, and when he took it in hand and looked inside, red glittered up at him.

You'll know what to do with it. It was surely the remnants of the branch that had broken free, and the ruby-crusted wedding dress Sansa abandoned on the Quiet Isle. 

He ran a hand along the smooth pale surface, and the memory came to him as clear as if he was back in the throes of delusion. The vision of the three looming over him, each bearing white crowns on their brows. He saw them in detail, and didn't know what it meant, but he knew he was meant to craft them.

Chapter Text

SANSA 27

Arya attended Sansa and her handmaidens as they worked at her hair. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting her turn. Both girls were deep in thought. Today was the herald of new beginnings. And ends. Sansa had happiness and sorrow in her heart, in equal measure. Tomorrow they would begin a long endeavor South. And, for the second time, Sansa would not be returning North. She wished there could be more time. She hadn’t expected her wedding night to be her farewell.

Bran had collected the four of them together deep in Winterfell’s crypts. Sansa avoided the place since returning to Winterfell; she couldn’t justify to herself why. It was a solemn place, and cold. And it’s where her parents lay, eternal in the darkness. Robb and Rickon, too. She would grieve them all longer than she knew them. Forever.

“You have such lovely hair,” said one of the handmaidens, tugging her away from memory. “It braids together without a fuss.”

“You’re kind to say so,” Sansa smiled. Red hair, not brown or black. 

“Why don’t the men have to do all this primping?” Arya complained. “Sandor’s probably drinking wine and sitting around doing nothing right now.”

“That sounds dreadfully dull to me. And we have wine as well,” Sansa tipped her head to the table, where bread and cheese and drink were available. “Besides, Elder Brother declared he was to see to it he cleaned up properly. He’s surely suffering just as much as you.”

Sandor had gone white when she told him what was discussed in those crypts. He’d be getting more than he ever bargained for with this marriage, when it had already been a step too high for his liking. It was for love that he was still going through with it at all, she knew. She loved him for it. But he would have a much bigger part to play, if he was to be her husband. She’d given him the chance to walk away, as much as it broke her heart to do so, only for him to offer her the same. 

“I’m less worthy of you than I’ve ever been; you only need say the word, and I’d free you to find one who is.”

“I want you by my side,” she told him. “It’s your decision, mine is made. I know you’re right for this, so long as you can believe it too.”

He’d toiled after that, as Arya was toiling now. She went to the table and poured herself some wine. Her sister was happy to remain in Winterfell, but less than thrilled when she understood what it meant. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. She, too, would have to marry someday. Sansa wondered who he would be, what he’d be like. If Sandor’s heart is capable of coming open, surely hers is as well.  

The four had talked for long hours into the night about the matter of the succession. It had been a simple matter before Jon made his declaration. Bran was to be Lord of Winterfell, and his inability to reproduce would mean it would one day pass to Sansa and the heirs she would bear with Sandor. Jon would be King, and Arya would live as wild and free as she pleased. 

Jon had other plans, though. And Bran had been prepared for them. When Sansa grew wroth with him for holding his tongue on such designs, he only said, “Jon had to make this choice himself.”

“What of our choice?” Arya appealed to Jon, and he gave her that sad smile she’d come to see so often now. 

“I’ll only rule the realm for a day, and already my subjects curse my decisions.”

Arya went to the cloak which hung from the wall, the one that would pass to her one day. It was magnificently made, white velvet trimmed with fur, the great Direwolf of their house embroidered in the center with silver thread and beaded ivory. Arya’s wolf was with them in the room, lying on the bed and taking up most of it with her massive size. Nymeria was a queen in her own right, commanding a great pack which had become the subject of songs already. Sansa smiled at her in the mirror. 

“This place was always meant for you, sister.”

“It was meant for Robb,” she said quietly. “I was the last one it was meant for.”

Sansa reached for her sister’s hand, pulled her close as the finishing touches were done to her hair. “Aegon the Fifth was a good King, despite being so far down in the succession that he was never groomed for it. They’ll call you Arya the Unlikely, Winterfell’s strength.”

Jon had been pacing restlessly when they met him in the crypts, wrestling to articulate a decision long mulled over. “By rights, the crown passes to me. But I’ve no wish to wear it; my loyalty and duty is only to the North. The pact we made with The Others…I cannot serve it and the realm in tandem.”

He still would not tell them of this pact he made, and Bran kept his tongue as well. Jon declared he would abdicate his throne to Bran at the council, for all to hear. “He is more fit to rule a Kingdom than I.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Bran said at last. “You are fit to rule a Kingdom…not seven. No Southron Lord has ever understood our customs, been hard enough to withstand our Winters, understanding of the threats we hold back so that the realm may be free to play its games. You will be a King, Jon. The one you are fit to be. The King in the North.”

Sansa looked herself over in the mirror when her hair was finished. Her long auburn hair was braided and bound with Weirwood leaves, with the length left free to spill down her back and shoulders. At her crown was perched the driftwood hairpiece, only to be worn on special occasions.

She stood, and directed her sister into the seat. Arya staunchly refused to wear a dress this day, or any other, but had relented on the matter of having her hair styled as a lady. She was to be the one to pull the maiden’s cloak off her shoulders and give her away to Sandor, and she must look her best.

The rest of the handmaids immediately went to the task of fitting Sansa into her gown. As the cloak, it was a fine ivory fabric trimmed in gray furs, the wide sleeves splitting at the elbow. Sansa had helped to bead and embroider the garment herself, though she didn’t work nearly as fast as the seamstresses could. She made a fist with her left hand, still unable to clench it as tightly as the other. The dress had a wide neckline which exposed the scar that spanned her chest and shoulder. She hadn’t wished to hide it. None of us came away unscathed. I bear my scars with pride.

As King, Bran meant to divide the land into separate Kingdoms. Not seven, but three. Dorne would reclaim its independence, too, for it was just as ungovernable to outsiders as the North. The rest, Bran declared, would henceforth become the Heart. And Sansa was to be its Queen.

“This is a time for unity, not fragmentation,” Sansa had argued. 

“Only freedom can bring unity,” Bran said. 

“And what if the other Great Houses wish for theirs?”

“I expect they will,” he replied. “But you’ve won more allies than you know, sister. The rest will come to see the sense in it. And the three Kingdoms will not be strangers to one another.”

Jon would take his Wildlings and settle them in The Gift, and build his Kingdom in the abandoned ruins of Queenscrown. He would not hear of Winterfell, insisting that it pass to Arya. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and I am no Stark.” Nor would he be Targaryen, either, he had decided. “Rhaegar sired me, but Ned Stark was my true father.” Jon would call himself Tarstark, and take the white wolf as his sigil, with red eyes upon a black field. 

“You look lovely,” Arya commented, watching Sansa in the mirror as a girl struggled with the tangle of her hair. “You look like mother.”

“And you look like father,” she smiled. “Only prettier.”

Arya made a face, and they shared a laugh. Sansa took the seat at the foot of the bed, scratched Nymeria behind the ears. The great she-wolf eyed her lazily. “I hate that we must soon go our separate ways.”

“You’ll have Bran with you, at least.” Arya winced as a particularly tough knot was pulled free. “I’ll be alone again.”

“Jon won’t be far. I’m sure he’ll visit often on his dragon.”

“Will you visit, too?”

“We will,” Sansa promised. “Sandor mislikes leaving you here as much as I. He’ll be eager to make the trip.” In a sense, anyhow. They would have a dragon as well, but it was only Bran who could command it.

“I still can’t believe you’d make him my brother,” Arya said.

“Is it really so terrible?”

“No,” she admitted. “If I’m to take a husband, I hope he isn’t half so ugly, though.”

Sansa gave a gasp of feigned offense. “You’ll learn as I did, sister. The most comely man in the world is the one who treats you well. I’ll look forward to meeting your monster one day.”

When her sister’s hair was finished, she dressed in a doublet of gray velvet, a Direwolf emblazoned across the chest. She wore black breeches and soft leather boots, but there would never be any mistaking her for a boy. Arya had a pretty face, and with her hair tamed and braided she looked a proper woman. Sansa embraced her, tears pricking the back of her eyes. 

“You look lovely. Do you remember the words?”

“I think so.”

It was well past midday when they departed the room to make their way to the Godswood, where Sandor and Elder Brother were waiting, with Jon and Bran too. Brienne waited for them at her post by the door, and took up Sansa’s skirts as they stepped out into the yard. Nymeria loped faithfully behind, for her brothers waited as well. The ceremony was to be a blending of the rituals of the Old Gods and the New. The heart tree would hear their words and Elder Brother would speak for the Seven. 

For the first time in recent memory, it wasn’t snowing today. The skies were clear overhead as they passed through a throng of well-wishers, Northmen and Wildlings alike. They would not join them in the woods, but all looked forward to the prospect of a feast, and would be the first to greet her as a married woman when she emerged. 

The Godswood was quiet as ever as they crossed into the shadow of the sentinels. Sansa found she had to make a conscious effort to breathe, lest she forget to. The new beginning was only a short walk away now. Could this really be for her? She half expected to wake up from some long, wonderful dream. That she was perhaps still in The Vale with Petyr, and he’d managed to poison her after all. She might wake up in her old nightmare, be forced into a different marriage. 

“Is everything all right, my lady?” Brienne asked, and Sansa realized she had halted. She took stock of her surroundings, how she could feel the cool air on her cheeks. Arya took her hand, and it was warm. Sansa smiled.

“Yes,” she said. “I was only taking in the moment.”

Brienne hung back, then, for only her kin would be present as witnesses. Nymeria pulled ahead of them as they neared the clearing where the heart tree stood, letting out a howl as she went. Her brothers took up the call, filling the still air with their song. They quieted back down only when Sansa came into their view, and they into hers. 

Jon stood in his black furs, aside Bran seated upon a log. Beneath the tree her groom waited for her with Elder Brother, and true to his word he’d cleaned him up remarkably. Sandor was dressed in a fine doublet of black and gold brocade, with a high velvet collar and capped at the shoulder. It was fastened up the front with golden buttons and a leather belt at the waist, and a delicate white fabric sleeved his arms. The cloak of his house, bearing the new sigil, flapped softly in the wind at his back. But it was his face that pleased Sansa best. It had been shaved to smoothness, and his long black hair which had grown down to the elbow was now cut just above the shoulder. It seemed fuller to her, without the added weight. He still wore it parted, but it didn’t hang down over his face today. And when his cool gray eyes saw her, they turned to glass.

“Who comes before the Gods this day?” Elder Brother called. And so the ritual began.

“Sansa,” Arya answered. “Of House Stark, daughter of Winterfell, trueborn and noble and with an open heart, comes before Gods Old and New, and the eyes of her kin, to be wed. Who comes to claim her?”

Sandor stepped forward. “I, Sandor of House Clegane, Lord and Heir of Clegane Keep, with an open heart I claim her. Who gives her?”

“Arya, of House Stark, heir to Winterfell and sister to the bride, in place of our father, Eddard Stark. He is no longer with us to give her, though his presence is felt in these woods, and he smiles down on us all.” The sisters faced each other, as they had rehearsed. “Lady Sansa, will you take this man?”

“I will,” she said, and she felt herself smiling. Sandor was watching her with such intensity as Elder Brother beckoned her forward, she thought it might blow her over. Arya went around her and unfastened the white velvet from her shoulders, and Sansa turned to kiss her brow before she took her place beneath the tree. 

Sandor took her hands in his as Elder Brother continued his sermons. Even those had been scrubbed clean, without a spot of dirt to be found in the nailbeds. There would be no singing and praying in the style of a traditional ceremony of the Faith, no crystal scepters or candles. But they afforded Elder Brother a reading from the book of the Seven before the cloaking.

When he was done, Sandor reached up to his collar and Sansa turned her back to him dutifully. “With this cloak,” he said hoarsely, and she realized he fought to keep his tone even. “I take you into my protection. For this day, and all days yet to come.” It bathed her in his warmth as he swept it over her, and when he leaned forward to fasten the clasp, he touched her cheek with a tender kiss, and placed his hands firmly about her shoulders. “I vow before Gods and men to love you, honor you, and hold you above all others. I’ll never lie to you or cause you harm. And I’ll be ever at your side, in all things.”

Sansa turned to face him then, her cheeks wet as his were. She took his hands, repeated the vow back to him, then continued: “With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.”

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” he recited. “And take you for my lady and wife.” Sandor bent down and found the nape of her neck, pulled her close and kissed her. She threw her arms around him. It was the sweetest kiss she’d ever known.

“Here in the sight of gods and men,” Elder Brother was saying. “I solemnly proclaim Sandor of the House Clegane and Sansa of the House Stark to be man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.”

The wolves took up their howling once more, and previously unseen ravens burst forth from the Weirwood, taking wing with a chorus of cawing. She scarcely heard it, though. Their faces remained close even as they broke apart, and Sansa brushed his cheeks with her thumbs. The worries of tomorrow were lost to her, in this moment. She only felt happiness swelling within, and his warmth without. 

Sandor brought her fully into his embrace, resting his head on top of hers. Making her farewells to Winterfell made her sad, but it was not her home, she realized. Her home was not a castle. It was two arms, wrapped lovingly around her. 

“Congratulations are in order,” she heard Elder Brother say, placing a hand at a shoulder each. “I daresay there may not be a dry eye in these woods today. You make a stunning bride, my lady.”

Sansa traded Sandor’s arms for his, thanked him for all he’d done in service to them. “You’re a blessing to us both,” she told him. “Please join us at the high table tonight.”

“You honor me,” he bowed his head. 

Sansa took Sandor by the hand and led the way to where Arya, Jon, and Bran were gathered to trade congratulatory remarks and embraces. Arya admired the updated heraldry at her back, and Sandor told her of her place in its inspiration. She put her arms around him, then, and called him brother.

Jon led the way out of the Godswood with Bran in his arms, and Arya close behind with Elder Brother. Sansa walked hand-in-hand with Sandor, with the four Direwolves tailing them. 

It was like walking headfirst into a wall of noise as they broke through the trees. Hundreds had turned up to watch their progress, showering them with snowfall from around their feet. It was as Sansa had always dreamed a wedding should feel. Twice she’d been denied it, and for a time had lost hope in it altogether, thinking it must be just another lie that singers told. A cruel jape played on women to trick them into cages. She didn’t feel caged now, though. I’m freer than I’ve ever been. She was free to speak and walk about and love all out in the open, and not a soul would deny her.

The procession led to the Great Hall, filled wall to wall with their guests. They were stopped here and there to receive well wishes and requests to dance, to admire her dress and praise her beauty. Lord Wyman Manderly was seated near the front of the hall, so large he took the space of three men upon the bench. He rose to his feet as they neared, kissed Sansa’s fingers. 

“My dear girl, I’m abashed,” he said, turning to put a hand at Sandor’s shoulder. “I regret my manner upon our last meeting. Had I known you were betrothed…”

Sandor waved him off. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. Even Sandor had no malice to spare today, it seemed. “I’m told you brought a generous bounty to share. We’re grateful.”

“My gift to you,” he replied amiably, putting a hand to his belly. “A man of my appetite would be rude to come empty-handed besides.”

“We’re honored by your presence,” Sansa curtsied. “And ever grateful, as my Lord husband said.”

It was a tremendous feast. Venison pies roasted with carrots, charred mutton on a bed of onions, stewed boar in a thick brown gravy with mushrooms and turnips, salt fish from White Harbor, with crabs and mussels and clams too. There was warm bread and baked apples and winter squash, and even lemon cakes were served at the dais, which Sansa was almost too full to eat by the time they came, and found she had little taste for them lately besides. Flagons of hot spiced wine and black stout and Arbor gold washed it all down and loosened all in attendance up for revelry. 

The singers played all her favorite songs as they ate, the happy ones. They sang the great love songs, Oh, Lay My Sweet Lass Down in the Grass and Six Maids in a Pool. Two Hearts That Beat as One and Let Me Drink Your Beauty. And the more upbeat and bawdy ones, The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown and The Bear and the Maiden Fair and Bessa the Barmaid, all of which got the hall rowdy and singing along.

As the feasting wound down, Bran called the hall’s attention. “It’s my pleasure to have you all gathered here as we celebrate the marriage of my sister, Sansa Stark, to her new Lord husband, Sandor Clegane. Eat, drink, and frolic to your heart’s content; on the morrow many of us will embark on a long journey South. But tonight is yours, dear sister and goodbrother." He raised his cup. "Let them hear Winterfell’s jubilations from The Wall to Sunspear!”

A great cry went up in reply, and then the tables were being pushed aside to make room as the singers and musicians started up again. Sandor was the first to rise this time, and Sansa suspected he’d steeled himself all day for this. But he played the part as if it was his nature, bowing to her with his hand outstretched. Sansa took it gladly, and they took the floor alone before the rest would join them. 

The dance began with them circling one another, once, twice, thrice. Then Sandor outstretched an arm, and Sansa met it in the middle, and he took her hand and spun her into him.

“Elder Brother did a fine job on you,” she remarked, pressing herself close. “You wear it well.”

“I look like a twat,” he rattled a laugh. “But I should get used to it, shouldn’t I?”

“A King Consort can wear what he likes,” she replied. “But I think you’d grow accustomed to it. He spared you the perfume at least.”

“It’s where I draw the line,” Sandor spun her away, then advanced. When he brought her close again he said, “If you prefer it, though…the line is yours to move.”

“I like your smell,” she smiled. He lifted her off her feet, and when she touched the floor again he bowed low and kissed her fingers. She put a hand to her forehead and spun away, and he came after her, coming up from behind and burying his nose in her hair as his hands slid down her arms. Sansa shuddered, and turned to face him.

“You’re near too beautiful to behold today,” Sandor said, the intensity returned in his eyes. “I’m the envy of this room. Of the bloody world.”

“Kiss her, you cunt!” Cried a man in the crowd, to a great roar of laughter and cheering. They laughed with them, and Sandor did as bid, one hand braced at the small of her back as the other took her face, and he kissed her deeply for all to see. 

There was applause and whistling as their dance came to an end. Jon and Arya stepped down from the dais, then. Jon went to Sansa, and Arya to Sandor as the rest of the crowd found partners and filled the floor.

“Your happiness lights up the entire hall,” Jon smiled down at her with his blood red eyes. His hand in hers was cold as ever, and white as bone as well. Yet his manner was warm, and he glided easily with her over the floor. “Are you still cross with me?”

“Only a little,” she teased. “I wish I could have been privy to your decision before you made it. I don't know if I’m prepared for the responsibility you'd pass down on me.”

“The people will thank me one day, for making you their Queen. I’ve never stepped foot there. I couldn’t even name half the houses. You've known them all by heart since you were six, their sigils and words too. You and Bran both.”

Sansa glanced at her younger brother, so small in his seat at the long table. She wished he could share a dance with her as well. It made her sad. Perhaps she would find him in a dream, and make it up to him. “Will you ever tell me what transpired up there?”

Jon’s smile faltered somewhat. “No one can ever know. No matter how badly I wish to confide it…the less you know the better, trust me in this. Your husband already saw too much.”

Sandor was grinning down at Arya, making some unheard jest as she fumbled over her steps. She was a head shorter than Sansa, and Sansa more than a head shorter than Sandor. 

Sansa turned her eyes back to her partner. “I do trust you, Jon. I’ll put it to rest…for now. Can I look forward to attending your wedding anytime soon?”

Jon laughed. “Not for a good long while, I expect. I'll give you time to settle into your new home first.”

“But you have your eye on someone, don't you?” she prodded. “That pretty blonde Wildling woman.”

“That's…complicated,” he said with discomfort. “But I am fond of her.”

“You must write to me when you figure it out, then,” Sansa smiled. “I do enjoy a good love story.”

“I couldn't be sure you were my sister if you didn't,” he laughed. “Cousin, I mean.”

“I prefer sister.”

For the next song Sansa found Elder Brother. And then Ser Jaime requested her hand. Then Lord Wyman. Then a grizzled Wildling called Tormund, Lord Howland, the Maester Samwell, who looked utterly frightened of dancing despite having faced horrors beyond imagining. Lord Davos, Greatjon Umber, Hos Blackwood, a Night's Watchman called Satin, Ser Gendry. Sansa thought she must have danced with every man in attendance, and Sandor with every woman as well, for when she looked around he was still among them. 

When she returned to his arms at last, they were both drunk and covered in a sheen of sweat, laughing at their clumsiness. 

Then came the call. “The bride and groom have found each other again!” It was declared. “It's well past time for the bedding!”

Their drunken guests buzzed with renewed excitement. Sandor’s grip tightened, his expression sobered somewhat. They'd discussed it before, days ago. It was a far off concept at the time, though. Sansa had insisted upon it, despite the unease it gave her. It was the custom, after all. This was not a throne room, but a happy occasion. And I’m not a child.  

Still, she felt herself tense up all the same. Saying and doing were different matters completely. “You don't have to,” Sandor told her. “I’ll call it off.”

She thought of her wedding to Tyrion; he’d called it off, and she was grateful for it then. Their wedding was a sham, and a bedding unseemly. Harry Hardyng had not called it off, despite it being a sham just as much. Petyr had taken the most liberties of anyone, paying no mind to how it appeared for a father to touch his daughter that way. It sent a chill through her. Petyr is not here, though. Jon would be there, and Howland and even Jaime too, who had no carnal taste for her. The Wildling men were rowdy and untame, to be sure, but the former would ensure her safety, her honor. Baring her nakedness wasn't something she felt shamed by; it was by whom, and why.

She willed herself to be brave. A lady was chaste and demure, but she was a wolf of the North as well, and made of harder stuff. The wine certainly helped. “I'm not afraid. It will spare us from having to fumble at it ourselves besides.”

They were pressing in now, the women tugging at Sandor’s elbow as the men came for Sansa. His mouth was a hard line, but he relented to her wishes.

“That's a noble woman you're handling,” Sandor warned loudly. “Any hand that touches her dishonorably will be removed. You'll want to show her extra respect, Lannister, you've only got the one to spare.”

That caused a ruckus of laughter as Sansa was pulled away and all but carried off down a separate path from Sandor and the cackling women.

The stench of sweat and winebreath filled her lungs, and her ears were given over to bawdy japes and comments. It was all a blur, in truth, as they stumbled through this corridor and that, the laces at her dress coming loose and the cloak coming unfastened from her shoulders. Even her shoes were forfeit. Jon stayed firmly at her elbow with his eyes dutifully forward, though she heard him warn a man or two about his manner. She was grateful for his presence. Even as she was stripped and gawked at, Sansa felt safe. Safe enough, even, to have a laugh or two herself. The wine surely helped.

Even her hair was undone by the time they reached her chamber door, and Sandor came from the other side, bare chested and bare footed, his breeches unfastened and loose about the hips. Sansa giggled when she saw his face, looking utterly ready to be free from the wenches that pawed at him. Arya kept a position firmly in the back, she saw, and that made her laugh some more. Sansa looked down and saw her breasts were out, the dress threatening to fall free down her backside. Someone came up and pulled it down for her, and not to be outdone, the same was done to Sandor.

The hall was noisy as ever as her fully naked husband strode forward to collect his fully naked wife, pushing the door open between them. It wasn't so bad as she might have feared, she thought; she still felt giddy from the day, and it pleased her to consummate this marriage openly for all to see. She looked over her shoulder to the men, and curtsied. Sandor gave her backside a slap, and hurried her inside to wave of jeers and whistles. 

The noise was extinguished to a muffle as the door closed behind them. Sandor let out a breath. “That was awful.”

“Be glad you'll only ever do it once,” said Sansa. She meant it as a teasing remark, but he took a different meaning. 

“You'll never do that again,” he promised, burying fingers in her hair.

“I know.”

“Did any of them touch you? More than is reasonable, I mean.”

“Jon kept them in line.” It made him relax somewhat. Sansa spread her hands over the coarseness of his bare chest. “But who will keep your touch respectful, my lord?”

That seemed to bring him back to the moment at hand. Arousal rumbled beneath her fingers as he took in the sight of her properly, cupped her breasts. She let her hands slide down his stomach, his hips. He kissed her, swept her feet from her, and carried her to bed.

“Not a soul,” he growled.

Chapter Text

SANDOR 28

They hadn't slept much that night. Yet even when they did, they found each other again. It was a night spent loving her, and all a blur of noise and color. When his eyes came open, he had to remind himself that it all was a shameful secret no longer. It is my rightful place.

Coming awake was torture. His leg ached mutinously from overuse, his head pounded from too much drink. And they would be setting off just after first light; they’d loaded their things up in wagons two nights past, and the caravan was like to be getting assembled as they stirred. 

Half of the host would make for White Harbor, including Sansa and himself. They would cut the trip short by taking ships to Saltpans. Jon would take the dragons, and with them would bring a quantity of supplies; not only to support the oncoming population, but settlement supplies as well. The rest would take the Kingsroad, and Sandor did not envy them. He'd made that long trip once before, a lifetime ago. When he was The Hound. When his leg didn't nag at him. When he'd been only a member of the household guard, with a chip on his shoulder that rivaled the Wall itself. 

Life seemed to be all a jumble when he tried to think of the steps it took to land him naked in this bed, married to the woman he loved and soon to be King Consort to half the realm. Sandor placed a hand at her abdomen, spoke into her ear. “We should get moving, little bird.”

She groaned. The sickness was on her as well. “Can't they send for us when we're ready to depart?”

“I'm sure they would,” he rasped. “Your Lady is probably already waiting at the bloody door.”

Brienne was nothing if not attentive. When he'd been in his cups and danced with her last night, he'd told her how he admired that. Today, it was once again a nuisance. 

“Let her wait, then,” Sansa said sleepily, rolling over and making herself more comfortable against his chest. “They won’t leave without us.”

As if on cue, the moment the sun broke over the horizon there came a knock at the door. Sansa grumbled all the while, but she answered the call and they got themselves dressed and armored. She hesitated when they made for the door.

“I’m going to miss this place,” she said. Sandor placed a hand at her shoulder. 

“We’ll be back,” he promised. “If your little sister doesn’t bring the place to ruin, that is.”

It was snowing again this morning as he saddled Stranger up and brought him to the front of the line. But the cold didn't bite so hard. When their half of the procession broke off for White Harbor, they would be joined by their usual companions: Jamie, Brienne, Elder Brother, Arya. Plus Bran, Howland and Meera Reed, Houses Manderly and Cerwyn and Blackwood, Stannis’ men, and, to his dismay, the prisoner Tyrion Lannister. The Imp was brought forward in an iron cage and shackled at the wrist. The light of the morning sun stung his eyes after so long in the dark of the dungeons, and his skin was paler for it. It was near as white as the mop of hair on his head. 

When Tyrion spied him, in escort with Sansa, he called out. Sandor gave him a deaf ear as he pressed the girl forward and out of his sight. 

“Might we ride together?” She asked as he led her to her horse. “I hate riding alone. It’s dreadfully dull.”

“You might prefer to join your brother,” he suggested. Bran, unable to reliably sit a horse, would ride in a wheelhouse. “You’d be shielded from the elements besides.”

“Perhaps I will,” she replied. “But I’d prefer to ride with you this morning.” He preferred it, too, so he lifted her into Stranger’s saddle without further argument and swung in behind. Arya pulled up next to them, her great wolf loping at her heels, and made a face.

“You’re going to make me queasy,” she commented. “Attached at the hip, you are.”

“We’re only newly married, sister,” Sansa leaned into him and wrapped herself tightly in her furs. “I will enjoy my husband’s company as much as he can stand.”

Jon rode ahead on his great white dragon and bathed the roads in flame to clear the way. He’d be doing the same along the Kingsroad before touching down in Harrenhal. The green dragon flew riderless overhead to aid in the effort, but Sandor knew who truly commanded the beast now. The boy would never walk again, but he could fly.

It was long days in the saddle, but Sansa never complained. She never expressed a desire for the comforts of the wheelhouse, either, preferring the comforts of whispered suggestions and roaming hands beneath the furs. 

When they made camp at night, it was a much more comfortable arrangement than the one that had brought them North. There were more hands to clear the snows, and tents went up all throughout the woods. Not all could be afforded the luxury, and in a different life Sandor wouldn’t have been one of them. As a man and wife, they were afforded a private tent. 

The best time of day was at night. She would laugh and sing at the fires with the men after supper, and Sandor would work at his whittling and listen. When they turned in, they rubbed the soreness from each other’s legs before moving to other parts, which weren't so sore but gladly touched. Some nights the sickness took her, and he’d hold her close until she dreamed. The babe had grown restless on the road, as if it missed Winterfell as much as she did.

When their corner of the wood was secured this night, Sandor went to collect Sansa and get her settled in. The way back passed them by the Imp’s cage, who was little more than a lump of furs within. Sandor had taken care so far to give the prisoner a wide berth; he especially didn't wish for him to have any opportunities to bother his wife.

“Is that truly you, Hound? I thought perhaps I saw a ghost before. I expected you must be in a ditch somewhere, wasted away to consumption.”

“Don’t,” Sansa said quietly. Sandor didn’t heed, strode up to the bars in a sudden abandonment of grace. 

“I’d expected the same of you, Imp, but I should've known better. Worms thrive in the dirt.”

“Ooh, the dog still snarls and snaps,” he jeered, his head popping up out of the bundle to look at him properly. His face was a grotesquery. “But does he fight? Or does he still flee when he faces danger?”

Sandor gave the bars the flat of his hand, making a loud bang. “I might mistake you for the dog, caged as you are. But dogs are nobler. It will give me pleasure to see them take your head off.”

“I plan to keep my head,” Tyrion said, his beady eyes peering around him as Sansa came forward. “If my former wife keeps her promises, that is.”

Sandor’s head snapped around to glare down at her. “What promises?” he demanded. 

Her face was all contrite, and he felt the sting of deception. “I was going to tell you…”

“What did you do?” Sandor suddenly felt beside himself, as the realization came. “You weren’t to speak with him!”

“You speak out of turn, Hound,” Tyrion scolded. “You've no say in who a lady speaks to.”

“Silence yourself,” he snarled. “Or I'll rip you from there and do it for you.”

“I'd like that, actually. I've had to piss for hours, and my legs are all cramped up.”

Sandor fumed his frustrations out the nose when he turned back to Sansa, attempting to control his tone. “What did you do?” he asked, more calmly.

She was wringing her hands. “I heard his confession,” she admitted. “And he told me the truth, you must believe that. Tyrion agreed to dissolve our marriage formally, Elder Brother recorded it–”

“Elder Brother?” Sandor felt the incredulity return in a flash. “He’s wrapped up in this…this scheme? This farce?”

“Enough, Sandor,” she said pointedly. “We’ll discuss it more when you’re not shouting for the whole camp to hear.” She gave him the sign for ‘dreams’.

He glared at her, but took another steadying breath. She had the right of it; he wouldn’t stand here and give the Imp the pleasure of seeing them argue. He signed back a gesture of assent with an agitated hand.

Tyrion was watching them with fascination. “The wolf has tamed the Hound,” he said with amusement. “She even commands him with hand signals! Even we never trained him so well. Tell me, do you reward him with treats?”

Sansa put her arm through his. “You'll take care to watch your manner, Tyrion,” she said. “I will honor our agreement, but make no promises after how my Lord husband might respond to such offense.”

That took Tyrion quite aback. For a moment he gaped at them, and for that moment Sandor’s anger turned to satisfaction, to see the wind knocked out of him. When he found his tongue again he said, “So this is who you wished to spare your honor for. You could have given me a thousand guesses, and I would have never come close.”

“There’s much you don’t know,” said Sansa. “Perhaps you're not as clever as you think.”

“Perhaps not. A mind turns to rust in a dungeon. Tell me, Sansa. Where did you acquire such a taste for monsters? You didn't have it when we were wed. A pity, too. I would've been a good monster to you.”

Sandor felt sickened by the suggestion. He reached in and snatched him by the collar, slamming him against the bars and bringing his face close. “At my worst day, I was never half so monstrous as you on your best.” Tyrion winced, but eyed him with an infuriating grin on his face. 

“Enough,” said Sansa, pulling at his elbow. “Stop this foolishness.”

“Listen to your wife, Hound,” taunted the Imp. “She might send a septon to you next.”

Sandor wished for nothing more than to reduce him to pulp against the bars. But he clenched his teeth and released him with a shove, sending the little man sprawling backward. 

“The Hound is dead,” Sansa declared. “You’ll address him properly.”

“He seems alive and well to me.” Tyrion wiped at his split lip with the back of a sleeve. “But I do hear the dead don’t like to stay down these days.” His smile was red. “You have to burn them.”

Sandor’s face twisted in disgust. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh yes, much and more. Does that upset you, Hound?” he leered at him.

“They should burn you before they take your head off,” Sandor growled. “And it still wouldn’t be enough for you.”

“I agree.” The voice came from behind. Sandor stepped aside to reveal Jaime Lannister, his expression hard and loathing. “Don’t bother crossing words with this one, Sandor. He’s merely bored, and looking to ruffle you up for his amusement.”

“Perhaps I learned to take such amusements from you, brother,” Tyrion said darkly, taking hold of the bars. As if he would kill him, if only he wasn't held back by them. Sandor had the thought that he'd like to see him try.

Jaime gave him nothing. He stalked away without a word.

“He has the right of it,” said Sandor. “I’ll not waste another breath on the likes of you. Pathetic cunt.” He spat on the ground, and stalked off after Jaime, hating the limp in his gait more than ever as it undermined him.

Sansa jogged to keep a pace with him. “I’ll explain everything,” she promised.

There is no explanation, he thought angrily. The barbed exchange didn’t ruffle him half so much as the secret promise she’d made. He halted, pulled her chin up to look at him. “You kept this from me. Explain that.”

Her deep blue eyes were filled with regret. “I shouldn’t have. I was…”

“Afraid?” It somehow made him angrier, how it wounded him. Her eyes began to fill with tears, and he released her irritably. He couldn’t abide weeping just now.

“You don’t frighten me,” she said pleadingly. “I was afraid to upset you, it’s true, but–”

“Those are the same!” he roared at her, and he loathed the way her expression flinched. He took a breath before he had another outburst. “Secrets are lies, and fear is the death of trust. Dream of something else tonight. Lest I give you nightmares.”

He gave her his back, head buzzing furiously as he made his way back to camp. He snatched up the sack he’d set outside the tent, pulled a block of wood from it and settled down by the fire. He was in need of something to do with his hands.

After a time, he felt a presence take the space at his side. Sandor kept his eyes down, hoping to send the message that he was to be left alone. 

“Marital troubles already?” they asked. “That was fast.”

Sandor chipped away at the block with agitated hands. “Away from me, wolf girl,” he muttered. “I don’t need you yapping at me just now.”

“I heard you let Tyrion Lannister of all people get up under your skin. I thought it was thicker than that.”

“Away from me, I said.”

“You don’t get to say where I sit,” she said insolently. In answer, Sandor gathered up his things and moved to the other side of the fire. 

The pup rose too. She planted herself right in front of him, blocking his light. He glared up at her. “What do you want?”

“What it is that gets a man like you pouting like a baby.”

He threw the block down. “Surely you know already. I seem to be the last to.”

She looked at him with curiosity, silhouetted against the flame. “Know what?”

“Your sister intends to free that…that monster,” Sandor jabbed his dagger in the general direction of their prisoner. “Worse, I had to learn of it from him. Of all people.”

“She what?” Arya was incredulous. Finally, someone of my mind. “Why?”

“Ask her yourself,” he grumbled, snatching up the block again. “Leave me to my thoughts; or pouting, I don’t care what you call it.”

Arya moved out of his light, but not away. She sat quietly at his shoulder for awhile and watched him work. “What are you making?”

“A reminder,” he muttered. “Of where the power is. Who should be feared.” The last word was all but spat out of him.

She contemplated that as she observed the round shape the block had taken, as he began picking out the center. “Sansa is easily frightened. She always has been.”

“Not always,” Sandor said under his breath. Not of me.

“How is she supposed to react, when you yell at her?”

“How am I supposed to react,” He asked, glaring sidelong at her. “When I’ve been betrayed?”

Arya shrugged, sighed. “I’ve half a mind to yell at her myself. Tyrion Lannister has to die for what he did. It won't matter, though. Jon will kill him.”

“She has a merciful heart,” Sandor returned to his attention to the weirwood. He loved that about her, most of the time. “But to sneak off and make secret bargains with that Imp…” 

“She knew you'd be wroth,” said a new voice from behind. Elder Brother stood over him. “I knew it, too.”

“Spare me your sermons,” Sandor said roughly. 

“There's no need. You already know what I'd say.”

“Anger is armor,” He said mockingly under his breath. He’d heard it a hundred times. Anger is your armor, it protects you from feeling pain, confronting what you truly feel. Let go of anger, and you will see things more clearly. What does it look like I'm doing?  

“I’m glad you remember. And that you're trying.” He sat on Sandor’s other side to appraise his work. “She'll make many and more decisions without your leave, and ones you do not like. If she's to be a Queen.”

“Gods, you can be insufferable. Both of you. Do you think I give a shit about that?” He looked from Arya to Elder Brother in turn. “Am I not permitted a disagreement with mine own wife, without having my ear assaulted by mindless chatter?”

He slammed the dagger back into its sheath and stood. “Pontificate at each other. I'm done with it.”

Sandor stalked into the tent, dropping the unfinished crown unceremoniously into its sack. It would be a long while before sleep would find him, though. He could hear the muffled voices of Arya and Elder Brother at the fire, but couldn't make sense of the words. He didn't care to.

Anger was armor, but it was cheaply made; he felt the all the things it was supposed to protect him from just as well. Would that he could just feel angry. It was better. She'd be coming to bed soon, he knew. He didn't want to be angry with her. He wasn't ready not to be.

Sandor was on the edge of sleep when she ducked into the tent. It had gone dark and quiet without. It must be late. He almost forgot about it all, in his drowsing. She smoothed out a place to lay, and every instinct told him to pull her close. So he did. 

She made a small sound of surprise, but nestled against him without protest. She didn't speak.

“You should never have cause to fear me,” Sandor said quietly. “Never.”

“I don't,” she whispered. “Please believe me.”

“I would never make a move of retribution towards you. No matter how much you might vex me. Do you know that?”

“Of course I do.” Sansa reached for his face, but he quickly brushed it away. “It wasn't that kind of fear that chased the subject from me, for all my intentions of broaching it.”

“The result is the same,” he rasped. “What other well-intentioned secrets will you keep from me? What must I do to earn your trust?”

“It was a mistake, not for lack of trust. Surely you know that.”

“Do I?” He sat up. “Do you think I don't fear causing you pain, angering you? I will always risk it anyway, over leaving you in the dark.”

She rose to meet him. “I won't keep anything from you again,” she promised. “I regret not telling you before; you deserved to hear it from me, only…I couldn't bear to spoil things. It's a risk I will take, henceforth. Will you forgive me?”

His mouth twitched irritably. Looking at her was dousing water over the fire in his belly, when it fought so hard to stay alight. Hadn't she forgiven him, for sins much fouler? Anger came to him so easily before. Now, it was the more difficult thing to maintain.

“There's nothing to forgive, little bird,” he yielded. “Only so long as you tell it true. I'd rather put this marriage aside than build it on secrets. But this matter with the Imp…I told you he would demand more than he gave. It makes no difference if I'm the first or the tenth. Your honor is not above the lives of all those people.”

“I believe his accounting,” Sansa said stubbornly. “Your hatred for him clouds your judgment. But if he speaks it true, he deserves to have it heard, and must be judged accordingly.”

“You accept his lies only because you wished to hear them,” he hissed, making great effort to keep his tone low even as anger rose up once more. “If you do manage to spare his sorry life, all suffering he inflicts afterwards will be in your name. Our name. You robbed me of having a say in that. That is what I cannot forgive just now.” 

“Let us see the truth ourselves,” Sansa suggested. “I'd put us in his dreams tonight. It's what I should have done before, only I don't wish to make a habit of using my gifts this way.”

That was the last place Sandor wished to be. But he saw the good sense in it, and felt confident that it would bring some to her as well. “Very well,” he said. “Show me. See for yourself.”

“And if his confession to me was true?” She wondered. “Will you still question my judgment so harshly?”

He pondered it. “The Imp was still a monster before they burned.”

“We will look as deep into his heart as needed, then,” she said. “But you must keep yours open, and not interfere. No matter what we see.”

I know the Imp better than you, Sandor thought darkly, remembering what had happened to his first wife. You won't like what you see.

The next morning, Sandor and Sansa awoke with minds in turmoil. The scene at King's Landing aligned with the accounting given, and it was true enough that Sandor couldn’t name him butcher for it outright. It had been a harrowing memory. She showed him their secret meeting, too.

The other memories, though…Sansa couldn't quite put ‘monster’ aside, either. The whore in his father's bed, as he strangled the life from her. The slave girl in a brothel, with red hair and freckles so similar to her own. The wife he'd sworn to protect, given to a barracks full of men, and to him last. 

He'd served Daenerys honorably enough. And from the way he remembered her, Sandor knew he desired her. Loved her, even, but it went unrequited. Sansa thought it showed a man trying to be better. Sandor didn't see it that way. He would have raped her, too, had he found an opportunity.  

Tyrion's memories displayed a man tormented by his own kin, brought up on a world that viewed him with disgust before being given the chance to earn it. It was discomforting to relate to so deeply. He was a shrewd politician, and that was the kindest thing Sandor could muster. Tyrion had never known atonement, and Sandor didn't think he had it in him to admit it was needed, let alone seek it. Would you have, if you hadn't been found dying under that tree?

They gathered up their things and climbed into Stranger's saddle without a word. It was only once they were on the move that Sandor broached the subject.

“What do you think of your bargain now?” He murmured quietly in her ear. 

“Conflicted,” she admitted. “I must keep my promise, though.”

His mouth twitched irritably. “No you don't. You owe him nothing, how many times must I tell you that? A man with any shred of honor would have given you what was requested, and accepted his fate for the rest.”

“For the crime he stands accused of, mercy is warranted. For the others…” she was less certain on that. “There must be a path to atonement.”

“He should be gelded,” Sandor suggested. “If there's a world where we're to suffer him to live.”

“It's not out of the question,” she agreed. “Sandor?”

He gazed down at her. “We won't always agree on these matters. I hope you can trust me enough to accept my judgment, as I should have trusted you to receive it.”

“I will be at your side in all things,” he reminded her, sullen as he was. “I cannot promise to always take the cleanest path to it, though.”

“I know the man I married.” A smile touched her lips. And then his touched hers. Arya pulled up beside them, and made a face.

“I liked it better when you were fighting,” she groaned.

Chapter Text

SANSA 28

Sansa had read about the legendary castle of Harrenhal, could name all its towers and all the lords who held it. But no reading could have prepared her for the imposing reality of this place. It was truly larger than any structure she'd ever seen. The very air around it seemed to stir a little differently here, the wind blew just a little colder. And it was to become her home, if all things went according to plan. How will I ever make this place a home?

The reality of their business here began to set in as it came up to meet them. Jaime told her of the men he'd left to garrison the castle. They were called The Holy Hundred, and he spoke of their piety and honor. But that had been years ago. And Petyr Baelish was the sitting Lord of this castle, in name if not in person. She felt fear coiling up in her at the thought of the gates coming open, being met by his terrible split face.

She banished such thoughts away. I have a whole host of men at my back, and Sandor too. He is the one who should be afraid.

When the castle gate came open, they were greeted by Jon, not Petyr. The Holy Hundred had indeed held the castle successfully all this time, just as Jaime predicted. “Harrenhal is hard to breach,” he said. “Unless you have dragons, of course.”

Jon’s dragons didn't look quite so massive in this castle’s yard. At Winterfell, they'd been kept outside the walls. Here they fit comfortably, and there was enough room to fit an army still. 

“Bloody hells,” she heard Sandor say behind her as he took it in. Such murmurings were heard from all around her.

“I hate this place,” said Arya. 

“As do I,” replied Brienne.

They were the first to arrive, of many who would be coming to witness the great council. Ravens had gone out to all the great houses, and they were invited to bring as many of their vassals as they could afford to feed. Word would spread, and Sansa suspected the castle would be full even by its standards by the time all had made the journey.

Much of the castle had fallen into disrepair, to dragons and to time. Only two of the five great towers were inhabited, and of those two only the lower portions were in use. Still, there was more room to spare than most castles for all that. Sansa couldn't conceive of filling a place like this, even if it could be restored to its former glory. Its hubris.

Jon showed Sansa and Sandor the master apartments, where they would henceforth build their life. His white wolf was ever at his side, and Shaggydog had taken to Sansa's more of late, as if he understood when Bran told her he would remain with them in Harrenhal. He stalked around the rooms, sniffing around and jumping up onto beds. That one still had the energy of a pup, it seemed to her. Rickon was little more than a babe himself when he claimed his wolf, and they all took after their masters. 

The Solar was not the modest chamber of her father, and it dwarfed even the small council chamber of the Red Keep. The bedrooms boasted the largest beds she’d ever seen, yet they seemed a normal size in the space that accommodated them.

“How will we ever make this place a home?” she wondered again, looking around. 

“You've an eye for beauty,” Jon smiled, scratching his white wolf behind an ear. “You'll put some life and color back in these walls, if it ever had any at all. We all have places to rebuild; Arya in Winterfell, and me in the Gift…I expect I’ll have to start from the ground up, for my part. It's no easy task, but I know you'll meet it.”

“Your tasks aren't near so tall as this place,” Sandor pointed out, absentmindedly running hands along dusty surfaces and appraising the massive stone hearths, near tall enough for him to stand in. “I don't believe in curses…but this place is haunted.”

Sansa couldn't be sure that curses weren't real. But as she walked around, she already began to have visions of its potential, with a tapestry here and a more inviting seat there, some bright curtains and carpets. Their entire household would have room to grow in these apartments, and never run out of space. She put a hand to her middle. I'll surely lose them here. If I don't get lost myself.

“When will the rest arrive?” she asked.

“Any day now, I expect our guests will begin to trickle in. The rest of our host will take longest, perhaps a fortnight or more. So make yourself comfortable, sister. Get to know your new home.”

He left them to see after Arya and Bran; they all would take up residence in the Lord’s apartments. Their companions, too. Their more esteemed guests would take the lower chambers, and camps would be set up outside for the rest. 

Once they were alone, Sansa went to the comfort of her husband’s arms, to remind herself of where she truly belonged. “I don't want to get accustomed to this place until this council is ended. What if they don't accept our rule?”

He shared the same thoughts, she knew, for his thoughtful silence. “We’ll take each day as it comes.” He peered down at her. “You've nothing to fear.”

“Petyr will come.” She trembled despite all her self assurances. 

“I look forward to it,” Sandor said in a low voice. He pulled away, put a hand under her chin. “He's only a man. Still…stay close to me, all right? I've no trust for anyone coming through these gates.”

“I will,” she promised. 

“And keep that one close as well,” he nodded in the direction where Shaggydog was sniffing around in the empty hearth, and came away sneezing. She smiled. 

“Stranger, Shaggydog, Sandor…my great black protectors.”

In the days that followed, lords from all over the seven kingdoms began to arrive with their entourages. It seemed impossible to host them all, even here. Sandor had furnished Jon with a crown made of weirwood, with intricate carvings of wolf heads inlaid with rubies for the eyes. He looked a proper King when he wore it, though it caused a great deal of confusion in their guests. But then they would see the dragons, and it instilled in them a sudden patience for the council to come. 

Sansa preferred to watch the gates from the safe distance of a window seat in the common area that connected the master apartments. My solar. She didn't wish to be in reach when the Vale procession turned up. Nor did she have any desire to trade empty courtesies with the likes of the Tyrells or the Westermen, who were among the first to arrive. 

Arya had taken to wearing her other face again, moving through the yard unnoticed with her two-toned hair spilling down her shoulders. She never would speak of how she came to such abilities, but they were of great value to them now. When they met at night—the four Starks and their closest companions—she would tell them of what she learned. 

Bran would join her at the window. Summer too, and they passed the time talking. There was no dearth of topics to cover. Occasionally his eyes would roll up, and she knew he was somewhere else, getting a better view. This place made her feel stronger somehow. She wondered if the others felt it. Even the wolves seemed to have heightened senses. They were growling now, as the gates came open and Jon stood waiting with Ghost and the dragons. 

“Do not fear, sister,” said Bran as his eyes returned to their deep blue, so much like her own. She froze when the horses came into view, their Vale banners held high. Sandor sat up a little straighter too. Royce, Corbray, Waynwood. Riding in the front was a hooded man whose banners were the falcon of Arryn quartered with the Titan's head of Braavos, with silver mockingbirds in the corners. 

He talked with Jon for a long time. They seemed to be trading stiff words. Ghost’s fur was standing up. And then Jon stepped aside, permitted them through. 

“Should've thrown him in shackles,” Sandor muttered. 

“The people must see him for who he is,” Bran said. “His men do not love him. He's more alone than he knows.” 

Arya was following at a distance, she saw. It made her relax somewhat. “Will he try to come here?”

Bran turned to look at her. “Word is slow to travel. He doesn't know yet that you are among us, though he suspects. He’ll hear of it soon enough, but it will be too late. He's lost his key to the North, with Jon and I alive. He already plots his next move to rid us from the board.”

“What shall you do about it?”

“Nothing,” he said simply. “He holds no power here. It's a little sad, really. Did you ever hear the tale of how he challenged our Uncle Brandon for mother's hand?”

“Yes,” she said distantly as her gaze tracked his movements. She felt such a hatred in her heart. Not for what he had done to her. To Jeyne. Bran had told her about Jeyne Poole, at long last. What Petyr had done to her, the suffering she'd endured, far greater than any she had ever known. It was almost unbearable to imagine; Winterfell was supposed to be a safe place. Their home. And it had become her prison. Theon's, too. By the end of the telling, Sansa even had some pity to spare for him. She hoped it was true what Bran said, that they had a chance at a better life across the sea. Had she not done the same for herself?

“He went headfirst into a losing battle, blinded by his own obsessions," Bran went on. "It's not unlike that now. Mother begged his life to be spared…never knowing it would one day be her doom.”

Sansa tore her eyes away and glared at him. “None of this was her fault.”

“I would never suggest it,” Bran replied placidly. “Mother's mercy changed the course of history. For better or worse, that's a difficult thing to judge. Better for some, worse for others.”

“It needs not all be so bleak, surely,” she said stubbornly, the pressures of her newfound responsibilities weighing heavy in her chest. “I cannot look back on every decision wondering if I've altered the course of time, doomed the fate of one person or another.”

“Nor should you. But every decision is a drop of rain that ripples the pool. For what it's worth, I think so far you’ve chosen well. You see a man's potential, no matter how black his repute. And you know a lost cause when you see it, too. You'll make a fine Queen, sister.”

Her eyes fell on Myranda Royce when she glanced down into the yard again. She sat up a little straighter, heart swelling to see a familiar face that didn’t feel like an enemy. She couldn’t say she could trust her completely, as Sansa Stark; she’d spent years lying to her face, and there was no telling what lies Petyr had sowed in her absence. But she knew what must be done if there was any hope for the Vale’s support.

“Have Myranda Royce brought to me,” Sansa said to her brother. “I would speak with her ahead of the council.” Her eyes swept the yard again, searching for another familiar banner. The time for empty courtesies was done, but the loose ends remained. “Willas Tyrell, too.” 

Sansa was restless by the time the first day of The Council was to be convened. She had confined herself to her rooms, sewing and watching at the window, even taking meals in solitude. Bran and Sandor and the wolves were her constant companions, and Brienne guarded the entrance faithfully, trading off with Howland and Jaime in shifts. The only guests who glimpsed her presence were the ones she called upon, and her talks with them had been interesting indeed. When Myranda left her, it was as a friend. The air between her and Willas was a good deal colder, but House Tyrell was blooded as hers was. Used to be. He and his brother Garlan were the last Tyrells standing, and his leg was lamer than Sandor’s. When he left her, it was with a choice. She would learn of his decision today.

Today, she would step out of the shadows of this grim place and face her fears at last. She would also be making the appeal for Tyrion's life. She thought about it often. What she might say, how she might justify saying it. Tyrion wasn't an innocent man, in many things. And they all still burned. But an unexplainable instinct told her his life still had value. She hoped she was choosing correctly in sparing it, that it wouldn't ripple out into something worse.

Sansa had sewn herself an elegant dress in fabrics gifted to her at her wedding, cloth of gold with a black Direwolf across the chest. She wore her wedding cloak as well; she would signal to them all that her appeal for Tyrion's life was not in service to a marriage long ago dissolved. Sandor was in finer fabrics himself, and he too wore a cloak bearing the sigil of his house. Our house. 

He fastened his sword at the hip and scooped her brother up into his arms. They made their way to the great hall with Summer and Shaggydog at their heels. Arya met them on the way with her wolf, wearing her true face and mirroring Sandor's grim expression. 

The great hall of Harrenhal was large enough to feed a thousand men, it seemed to Sansa. It was filled today, and five times their number were camped without. Such large company attracted merchants and performers, and thieves and rapers too. The reports poured in each day of scenes of bedlam taking place, and the efforts made to keep the peace. It didn't help that they were dealing with mixed company on an unprecedented scale. The conflicts that existed between the great lords were a small matter compared to the ones brought by the cultural divide between the Wildlings and Dothraki and Eunuchs that remained of Jon and Daenerys’ armies. Assimilation seemed an impossible endeavor. 

She couldn't trouble herself with it now. She felt a million eyes on her as they stepped into the room. 

“Presenting Brandon of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell,” announced Howland, who she hadn't noticed standing at the door. He was all of five feet tall, but demonstrated he was capable of a booming voice. It sent the hall to chattering. “And his sister the Lady Sansa, of House Stark, Heir to Winterfell, with her Lord and Husband, Sandor of House Clegane.” The buzzing grew louder. “And his younger sister, the Lady Arya of House Stark.”

Once they were seated at the dais and the chatter died down, Lord Howland spoke up again. “Presenting Jon Tarstark, of Houses Stark and Targaryen, former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the White Wolf, The Prince Who Was Promised, the Savior to The Realm, and Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

Jon was stood at the end of the hall, dressed all in black, with his new sigil emblazoned over his chest. The spitting image of the beast at his side. He struck an imposing figure, Sansa thought. He had no easy smile, or even a sad one today. His eyes were stone in a wall of ice. The hall erupted with renewed murmurings, and it was hard to say if it was angry or exuberant. Perhaps both. The Wildlings permitted to sit among them cheered over the noise loudest of all. 

Jon joined them at the top seat, called for silence. It did not come at first. 

“This is surely an elaborate jape,” said one Lord, getting to his feet. “Eddard Stark's bastard presumes to drag us all here and name himself King?”

Sansa recognized the cluster of grapes on his breast, and from his age surmised he must be Paxter Redwine, Lord of the Arbor. She leaned over and whispered it to Jon. He gave a curt nod and cleared his throat. 

“Lord Paxter, I understand your confusion.” Jon was staring at him with cold regard. “Perhaps you would be more informed, had you responded to the dozen or so ravens you received, calling for your aid to address the dire threat in the North.”

“Perhaps it is you who has been uninformed, boy,” he sniffed. “We've had our own problems to deal with, bigger than grumpkins.”

Greatjon Umber shot to his feet then. “You'd eat those words and then piss them down your leg, if you faced what we did,” he snarled. “You Southron Lords should be on your knees, groveling to His Grace and begging his mercy. How do you like the feel of the sun on your face, Redwyne? You have him, and us, to thank for that. If Winter didn’t claim you all, the dead surely would have.”

That brought up a wall of noise from the Northern side of the room. Sansa had to shake herself to come back to the moment. She could feel his eyes on her. Watching her every move. Probing for a way to exploit her, surely. I'll give him nothing. She was determined to keep him in periphery. That reveals a weakness, too, she could almost hear him saying, clicking his tongue, fragrant with mint. 

Jon was calling for silence over the arguing that had broken out over the crowd. “It is widely known that Prince Rhaegar Targaryen stole Lyanna Stark. It is less widely known that they were wed in the Northern custom, before a heart tree. Eddard Stark kept this secret at the cost of his own honor, to protect me from a King who wished to end the Targaryen line.”

“Where is the proof of this?” A woman stood, a beautiful one with bronze skin and long dark curls.  “Prince Rhaegar was already married to another. Or are you too young to remember?”

She was of Sunspear, and could only be Arianne Martell. Sansa leaned over to Jon once more to inform him. Jon regarded the woman with new understanding. “I regret the Prince’s subterfuge as much as you surely detest it. But he did take my mother to wife, by the precedent set by Targaryen Kings before him.”

“I heard it from them myself,” said Lord Howland at the back of the hall. All turned to look at him. “I was there, at the Tower where Lyanna died in childbed. Rhaegar was there as well, and insistent upon calling a great council himself to settle the matter, once the war was done. But we all know what happened next.”

“And I have seen it for myself,” said Bran, so small yet so Lordly in his seat. “Dragons have awoken once more, and so have the Greenseers. I've seen all that has occurred before the Weirwoods.”

“This is an absurdity,” said a handsome young Westerman with a burning tree on his chest. “Grumpkins, snarks, and now magic cripples and trees?” He scoffed. “I didn’t come here to listen to children's stories.”

“You might have said the same of dragons, not too long ago,” Jon reminded him.

“I can see those with mine own eyes, can’t I?” the man snapped. “Tall claims require proof, boy.”

Jaime stood. “The boy speaks true, Ser Addam,” he said. “There’s no bigger skeptic than I, old friend. I would scoff with the rest of you, had I not witnessed such things myself. Unlike many in this room, I’ve been in the North during these strange times.” He swept his golden hand in a gesture to the high table. “Lord Brandon Stark commands the power of his Old Gods, and His Grace commands the dragons. And the dead did walk among us, before they put them to heel. Best start believing in children’s stories, I say.”

Ser Addam was surprised by the declaration, but his pride was still in tact. “As much as I value your word, Ser Jaime, it is not proof. You ask us to accept a fable. Certainly you might believe what you think you’ve seen, but it is not enough.”

“If you desire proof, go tell the tree outside a secret,” Jaime offered. “All of you. Make it a good one, I’d be amused to hear it. Or swear your fealty now and spare us all the hours of deliberation.”

At that, the Greatjon stood once more. “Jon is our rightful King, not only in name but in action too. There would be no Realm left to bicker over, were it not for him. The North swears its fealty.”

Other Northern Lords went to their knees, repeating the Greatjon’s pledge. Jaime went to his knee next.

“As heir to Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, I swear fealty to the rightful King, Jon Targaryen. May his reign bring peace and justice to our weary kingdom.” Not all of Jaime's bannermen knelt willingly, or quickly as the Northern vassals. But they did heed their liege lord and kneel, one by reluctant one. Ser Addam did not test the tree with his secrets.

Another stood, and Sansa recognized her uncle Edmure at once. “Lord Blackwood speaks of your service to the realm, and I regret that we did not have more men to spare in your hour of need. I speak for all the Riverlands when I declare fealty, as a debt gladly paid for salvation.” He sunk to a knee, and his bannermen followed. 

Asha Greyjoy stood next, declared fealty for the Iron Islands. Her bannermen were not so quick to join her, as Jaime's weren't, but after some hushed discussion they fell in line. Then Lord Eldon Eastermont stood and declared for the Stormlands, and in Stannis’ name, proclaiming to have seen Jon's heroism himself. The young Lord of Driftmark, Monterys Velaryon, stood for the Crownlands, waxing poetic about their ancient bond to House Targaryen.

The Vale, Reach, and Dorne were the only ones left firmly in their seats. Sansa eyed Willas, whose expression was conflicted. When his eyes met hers, he gave a curt nod, and found his feet. 

“A King cannot hope to hold these lands without The Reach, I should remind you. My people are weary, sick and wounded. We grieve our dead and our losses go beyond counting. Yet we would gladly let your dragons scorch the earth that feeds you, before swearing fealty to a tyrant. Our knees bend only on the condition of peace. Can you promise that?”

Jon took the question thoughtfully before giving answer. “I can only make promises after my own intentions, but I have no thirst for more bloodshed. I did not call you all here to make threats or demands, despite the wrongs done to mine. A King must deal in mercy before bloody vengeance.” He spared a sidelong glance to Sansa. “But if there is ever to be peace, there must first be unity. Swear your fealty, and my solemn promise to you all is that you will never know tyranny again, not so long as me or mine have a say in the matter; I mean to break chains, not forge them.”

A man got to his feet, then, and Sansa’s jaw went rigid. Petyr Baelish lowered his hood, revealing a smooth white porcelain mask that obscured half his face, concealing the long thin scar that ran down the middle. His lips were forever quartered from the knife she cut them with, and when he spoke it came out with a little slur, for the way his tongue had never quite healed properly. That much, he could not hide, and it gave her satisfaction. To speak must be a humiliation, and yet he was compelled to do so, as he watched so many falling in line around him.

“Ath Lord Protector of The Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn, I cannot entertain this farce any longer. In my own cathle, no less! The only debt I pay to you is my hothpitality, and you should be glad of that much. I remind Ther Tyrell, and all lords gathered in attendance, that there is no proof for this claim to the throne but for the claimant’s own thworn men and kin. What reason doth anyone in this room have to declare fealty to you, bathtard?”

“You should tread lightly, Lord Baelish,” Sansa heard herself say. “You speak words of treason before this court.”

He had the audacity to laugh. “Treathon? Why, my Lady Thansa, you know it better than I. It's no small wonder the Kingthlayer took up your cause; birds of a feather, I would say.”

A hush went over the room. Sansa put a hand on Sandor's arm, for the way he stirred beside her. She signed for him to hold his tongue. She might have felt infuriated by the way he twisted the truth, but Sansa saw it for what it was: a desperate shot in the dark. He had no cunning plan, had not been afforded time to react to what awaited him here. And he’s utterly friendless, she thought as she met Myranda’s gaze.  

She got to her feet. “Good people of the realm, hear me. I’ve heard you all speak of your losses, your broken families, your ravaged lands. The Starks share in your grief. It will take generations to stay the bleeding this war has done to us all. All but one.” She swept a hand out in his direction. “Take note of the way Lord Baelish is the one among you who seems to have benefitted so greatly from this war; how high he’s managed to climb, conquering our tallest mountains and largest castles, defying all precedent or reason. Hear me, good people, when I tell you that it is not by coincidence, but his designs. If there was ever a man you could call the blackest villain, he stands among you now. He spread the crumbs of war, and has since gorged himself on your blood.”

Petyr scoffed. “The girl thpouts fables just ath well as the bastard,” he said with a chuckle. 

“Lord Baelish oversaw the beggaring of the Realm as Master of Coin.” Sansa refused to address him directly. It was not his mind that needed convincing. “He seduced my Aunt Lysa, convincing her that her husband and Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, was an obstacle to be removed. One by one, Arryns continued to die until none were left. He conspired to turn Starks and Lannisters against one another, to great success. But it wasn’t a Lannister who sent daggers after my brother, nor who dropped poison into King Joffrey’s cup.”

“My lady, Petyr Baelish was nowhere near those crimes,” said Lord Paxter. 

“Petyr Baelish is cunning as he is craven,” Sansa agreed. “Another hand always holds the blade, the poison, the quill. But the whisperer is always the same. So long as fealty is given, his co-conspirators will be granted pardons.” She found Ser Willas, still standing, leaning on his cane. His eyes fell to the floor. “And I know all of this because I was the most recent object of his schemes. I might have remained Petyr’s captive and catspaw forever, too, had I not escaped. Or did you all truly think a thirteen year old girl managed a regicide and flight from capture all on her own? Surely my good Lords and Ladies of the Vale received my parting message. Lord Baelish wears two faces.”

The hall was ringing in response to all her claims. Sansa found her old friend in the crowd. Myranda kept her hands neatly in her lap and her face impassive as Bronze Yohn Royce rose to his feet beside her. “I've a mind to believe the Lady's claims. We in the Vale have long been suspicious of all the corpses in Petyr Baelish's wake, that cleared his path to claiming our highest seat. And we are not fools; we saw through the ruse of Alayne Stone. We only thought you were part of his designs, my lady. Not at the mercy of them. But we did get your message. We heard it loud and clear.”

For the first time, Petyr Baelish lacked for composure. His eyes were wide as he turned to his bannerman. “Surely you don't believe these outrageouth lies. I wath holding the girl on the crown's orders, until thuch time as the Imp wath apprehended.”

“You held her, aye,” Bronze Yohn replied gruffly. “A little too snugly, at times. You have a queer way of detaining traitors, my lord, what with arranging them marriages and dressing them in your late wife’s fabrics.” He looked up at Jon. “You are the namesake of our Lord Arryn, whose noble House has been rendered extinct by these vile conspiracies. I always thought it an insult that Ned gave the name to a bastard…perhaps he still had honor after all. Do the King's justice, and The Vale is yours.”

Jon eyed Petyr with disgust. “Justice will be done.” 

The lords all around Littlefinger sank to a knee, and with a nod of the head Jon had him apprehended and dragged from the hall, screaming accusations all the while. They were drowned out by all the chatter it caused. Sansa felt as if a great weight was lifted as she watched him disappear. Nothing that came next would matter. I’m free.

It didn't take long, after that, for the Reach to fall in line. Dorne was always going to meet them with the most resistance; Jon had plans of speaking to the Princess in private, to speak of Independence in the North and South. He would not press the matter today.

“As King, I will not deal in bloody vengeance,” he repeated. “But justice will be served. To Petyr Baelish, to Tyrion Lannister, and to anyone who acts against the interests of the Realm.” 

He nodded again, and the doors of the hall swung open to receive two guards dragging the dwarf between them, shackled at wrist and ankle. The hall became a nest of angry hornets as they booed and cursed the prisoner. He was shoved roughly down before the dais, and Tyrion looked up at Jon with a defiance in his mismatched eyes.

“Tyrion Lannister, you stand accused of murder and destruction on a scale not seen since the Conquest. In a direct betrayal of orders given to you by your Queen, Daenerys of House Targaryen, you turned a mission of peace into an unspeakable slaughter, which rendered the city of King's Landing a smoking ruin. I would sentence you to death, and even that would be too gentle a punishment.”

“You got most of it right, your Grace,” Tyrion somehow shaped the title into mockery. “But there are a few details you’ve gotten wrong. It was the dragon who betrayed its Queen, and the city was in ruin well before I got there. Why, you should ask the Dornish Princess. There is only one way she could have survived the carnage, and that's if her pretender husband sent her away for her safety.”

All eyes went to Arianne Martell. Sansa watched her with interest, not knowing she had ended up married to the false Aegon who had almost been her husband first. She was seething with hatred as she looked at Tyrion; the Martell's sentiment towards Lannisters was well known.

“It was a vile place, thanks to the works of your vile sister,” Arianne spat.

“Come now,” Tyrion said. “Give your belated husband some credit! Cersei starved the capital, true enough, but she did not blight it with grayscale. I had a lot of time in my captivity, to think about what might have caused it. And then it came to me! I spent time with the young prince myself, pretender as he was, and find it to be no mere coincidence that we were set upon by stone men just before he reached our shores.”

There were hushed, almost panicked whispers in response to that. Tyrion gave a bitter laugh. “I didn't catch it, you fools, or I would be a gargoyle myself by now. But one among those men surely did. His gift to Westeros. You all should be thanking me, for purging such a plague before it let loose on the kingdom at large. You call it butchery, but I'd sooner call it mercy.”

Jon called for quiet. “Even if that were true, it was not for you to decide their fate, or bring them to such a brutal end. The smallfolk deserved a kinder mercy.”

“As a small folk myself, I tend to agree,” Tyrion declared. “But none of us ever truly get what we deserve, do we? It was not my plan to burn them, as I said. Our dear departed King Aerys laid those plans long ago, and your dragon that loosed them at long last. It’s only my incredible luck that made me the rider that bore witness to it.”

“A dragon does as it's commanded,” he said coldly. “Are you so craven as to refuse all accountability for this crime?”

“Not all,” Tyrion replied. “But enough that I think I should not have to lose my head for it, unless of course you mean to take Rhaegal's too.”

Sansa stood once more. “Your Grace, if I may. I heard Tyrion's confession myself, and I believe he speaks truly that the Wildfire was planted by King Aerys, and that Rhaegal reacted in instinct against a desperate mob. They did not deserve to die. But the blame is not his alone to bear. I would ask if there is a more fitting punishment for this crime.”

Jon was glaring at her, and it made her feel like a frightened little girl. “Would you deny the people justice?”

“No,” Sansa said at once. “But this was a tragedy, not a butchery. Tyrion’s head will not bring them back, or bring comfort to their surviving kin.”

“It would not end their grief,” Jon agreed darkly. “But it would make a fine start.” There were cries of approval throughout the hall. They wanted blood, Sansa knew. She looked helplessly to Tyrion, who was watching her thoughtfully. 

“We must offer a path to penitence, where it’s attainable. I believe it is, in this case. I would stake my honor upon it that he will never do harm again.”

“What penitence would you propose, that gives you such confidence?” Jon asked. “There is no longer a Night’s Watch to send such a man away to.”

“I would have him give his life over to service,” she said. “Travel the kingdom, rebuild broken castles and work the land and live among our smallfolk, so that he might better understand their value.”

“The Butcher of King's Landing doesn't deserve to walk among our smallfolk!” Cried a lord from the back of the room. Others took up the cry, shouting Kinslayer, Demon, Murderer. 

“Enough!” Jon shouted, restoring order. “Your merciful heart is admirable, cousin. But there is no penitence for such a monstrous crime. Sometimes, intent does not excuse the sin.”

It was hopeless. Sansa felt weak at the knees as Tyrion looked up at her. She had one more final, desperate plea to make. It sickened her to make it, but it was the only way.

“If Tyrion Lannister is truly guilty, surely the Gods will be on your side. Let them have their say. He should be granted a fair trial, and let their judgment be heard by all.”

Tyrion's eyes lit up. “Lady Sansa has the right of it. The Gods will judge me fairly, where men will not. I demand a trial by combat!”

There was a mixture of outrage and amusement at the demand. “Very well,” said Jon. “That is your right. I call on a volunteer to act as champion to the realm in this matter.”

Sansa lowered herself back in her seat. Sandor's expression was hard and furious, but he placed a hand over hers all the same. She gripped it tightly. 

“I would take pleasure in serving justice to House Lannister in Dorne's name,” said a woman who came forward to kneel before the dais. “For the second time.”

“Speak your name, my lady,” Jon commanded. 

“Obara Sand, eldest of Oberyn Martell’s natural born daughters. Lannisters are a blight upon the world. I would claim the justice my father was denied.”

“You serve the realm nobly and honorably, Obara Sand. Do we have any volunteers for Tyrion Lannister’s champion?”

There was a long silence. If no one stepped forward, Tyrion would need to fight for himself. When no one spoke, Jon looked down at Tyrion. “May the Gods—”

“I'll do it,” said a man lazily from the middle of the room. He stood. “Bronn of the Blackwater and Lord of Stokeworth, if it please you. I'm not above fighting a woman. I'll be the Imp's champion. A second time.”

Tyrion looked as though he could kiss this Bronn. The angry buzzing filled the hall again. Whoresbane Umber stood. “Bugger that. I won't sit here and watch a woman display bigger bollocks than all the able swords in this room. The Imp's crime was an affront to all seven kingdoms. Make this a trial of seven, your Grace, and I would gladly put my sword in for the North.”

There was raucous support for the suggestion, and Jon accepted. Not to be outdone, knights shot to their feet and offered their swords. In the end, the champions of the realm were Obara Sand of Dorne, Whoresbane Umber of the North, Ser Garlan Tyrell of the Reach, Ser Brynden Tully of the Riverlands, Ser Richard Lonmouth of the Stormlands, Ser Harras Harlaw of the Iron Islands, and Ser Donnel Waynwood of the Vale. 

Tyrion's champions formed up much more slowly and hesitantly. It started with Jaime, getting reluctantly to his feet. “There's no love lost between my sweet brother and I,” he announced. “But I would not watch him die for Aerys’ sins. And a Lion still has its pride.”

After that, Brienne stepped up as well. It was for love of Jaime, Sansa knew, not Tyrion. Still, the thought of either of the two Knights dying for this made her heart ache. Then Daven Lannister, his hair grown wild and shaggy down past his bottom, declared his loyalty to their House. Then Grey Worm, one of Daenerys’ eunuch warriors who had remained with Jon, offered himself up, solemn in his word that Tyrion showed his Queen nothing but loyalty. Lastly, Podrick Payne stepped forward, despite fierce protest from Brienne. “I was Lord Tyrion's squire,” he said, “and he always treated me honorably. And my lady, Brienne, is the truest Knight in the realm. I would trade my life either, if the Gods will it.”

There were only six. Tyrion would be forced to fight. Sansa felt sick; no matter the outcome, this would be bloody business. And it was all at her behest.

“Very well, then,” Jon said in the tones of finality. "On the morrow, the Gods will cast their judgment. Onto the next. Recall Lord Baelish.”

Tyrion was dragged away, and Petyr dragged back in. Jon wasted no time. “Petyr Baelish, you stand accused of high treason against the realm, of murder, of kidnapping my Lady Cousin—”

“I demand a trial by combat!” Petyr said at once. “I will not waste my breath begging to the like of you, bathtard. Or you, lying whore,” he spat at Sansa. 

Sandor was unable to contain himself any longer, it seemed. He shot up and said, “Make me your champion, your Grace. It would give me great pleasure to serve justice to him myself.”

Sansa whipped her head around in sudden panic. “Sandor, no! He is not worth risking your life for. Jon, you must—”

“I insist upon it,” Sandor rasped over her loudly. “None would fight harder than I. Anyone thinking to champion this craven should know it, too.”

“Make it another trial by seven, and Sandor won't stand alone,” said Arya from her other side. Sansa's eyes filled with frustrated tears.

“I won't hear of this!” she shouted. “Is there not enough blood yet to be spilled? Are you both really so eager to add to my grief?”

No one seemed to hear her. The Wildling called Giantsbane rose to his feet. “I too would stand with The Stray! For the White Wolf! For the Dawnbringers!” The other wildlings shouted their agreement.

Hos Blackwood, Nestor Royce, and Garth Hightower offered their swords as well. Jon looked around, then gave Sansa his sad smile. “I would make the Seventh,” he announced. “For the dishonor done to my kin. And the realm.”

Three Kettleblacks and two sellswords took up Petyr Baelish's cause. Sansa prayed under her breath for every man remaining to keep his seat. Six challengers were needed for the trial to take place, and Petyr had only five. His guilt is assured without a sixth. Bloodshed can yet be avoided.

Jon gave it a fair length of time. No more than these five proved willing to die for Petyr Baelish, it seemed. Sansa could have fainted from relief, to hear him declare the trial moot, and to see the look that came over Petyr’s face. 

“Petyr Baelish, the Gods abandon you in your hour of need, much as you abandoned the North in ours. I declare you guilty, and on the morrow the King’s justice will be done.”

Sansa cleared her throat. “I would sooner let Petyr keep his head.”

Jon gave her an incredulous look. “Surely you don't mean to plead for mercy on his behalf.”

Sansa gazed down at Petyr; the way he looked hopeful, if only for a moment. It reminded her of that brief hope she’d felt, thinking that Ser Dontos had come to save her. 

As Queen, Sansa was determined to rule with a kinder heart. But when she looked at Petyr, it turned to stone in her chest. Death is mercy, she thought.

“Words are Petyr's weapons. They nearly destroyed a kingdom, for only his own amusement. He is not worthy of a clean death, and The Gods deserve better offerings, too. I would strip him of power, not life." She almost didn't recognize her own voice, for how cold it had become. "Remove his tongue. Let him come into his name properly, and shorten all his fingers too. Imprison him in his own mind, and perhaps he may yet find a path to penitence. Or madness, but that would be just as well. So long as his lies never see the light of day again. Disarm him, and set him loose with only the clothes on his back. Let him beg and scrape for someone else's mercy.”

The people seemed to approve of that. It was carnage they wanted, after all. She could feel Sandor's eyes on her, but she refused to look at him. She felt only fury where fear had been. 

“I accept this sentence,” Jon was saying. “Petyr Baelish, do you have any final words to say to this court?”

“Pleathe, my lady,” he appealed to Sansa. “Thweet Thansa, I loved you, and your mother. She would weep if she saw such cruelty coming from you.”

It made her heart grow even harder to watch him switch to his other face, only when his hopes of a trial had been dashed. “You knew nothing about my mother,” Sansa said coldly. “And it is only half so cruel as the fate you handed to Jeyne."

When Petyr was removed from the hall, his true final words were drowned out by the shouts and curses that followed him. How silly it felt now, to have feared this day. In the dark, Petyr Baelish was more powerful and dangerous than anyone. But he shriveled up into a harmless worm when exposed to the light. And all could see him now.

Everyone remained at table as a feast was served to mark the end of the first day. Tomorrow, the true deliberations after the future of the realm would begin. Sansa felt herself trembling all over by the time the food came out; she had been plagued by this day for so long, and now it was behind her. The worst is at my back now. He will never be a threat to me again.

Once they found the familiar refuge of their rooms that night, alone but for Shaggydog, Sandor took her gently by the arm. “Are you all right?” She'd barely touched her food, nor said a word beyond clipped courtesies, and he had taken notice.

The anger that was building in her all the while finally swelled and loosed itself. Sansa threw back her free hand and slapped him. It took him entirely by surprise. “What—”

“Never do that to me again!” she said shrilly, bursting with emotion she'd carefully kept contained. “What were you thinking?”

It took him a moment to find his senses again, to comprehend what she meant. “I wouldn’t have failed you,” Sandor assured her. “If the Gods were ever on my side in anything, it would have been in this.”

“You don't even believe in Gods!” she cried. “You refuse to accept that your leg hinders you, and it could have cost everything! If that sixth had stepped forward…” Her eyes filled with tears, though from anger or anguish she could not say. 

Sandor moved to console her, but she felt entirely inconsolable. She slammed her fists into his chest as he wrestled to hold her still. He was stronger, but Sansa was angry. She shoved away from him, hastily clawing hair out of her face.

“You claim you wouldn't seek retribution against me, but what am I to think of this? Was this my punishment? To undermine my wishes, the way I did yours?”

His brow tightened. “I would never spite you.” Sandor threw up his hands. “He insulted you. And so much worse before that. If anyone was to kill him, I was going to be damned if it wasn’t me. My leg can be damned, too. If Jaime can manage with one hand, I can manage with half a leg.”

“It's not a contest!” The tears were spilling down her cheeks now. Sandor came forward again, gave her the flat of his thumbs. She shuddered a sigh. “It's painful enough that I might have to watch the others die. I couldn't bear it if you were among them. Promise me you'll never bargain your life like that again.”

He gave her a long look. “I cannot,” he rasped. “I promised to protect and honor you for all my days.”

Anger flared in her again. “You can do neither if you're dead, Sandor!”

“A man who won't defend his lady's honor is no man at all. Enough of this,” it came out as half a laugh, not in mockery, as she began to sob in earnest. Sandor ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her solemnly. 

She pulled away stubbornly, refusing the attempt at distracting her. “You’re a fool. And I can protect my own honor.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “Put me in motley, before asking me not to champion your cause.”

“Perhaps I shall,” she told him. “Before you put yourself in the ground for stupid pride.”

“Have faith in me, little bird. You’ll suffer me a long time yet.” He was kissing her again. 

“The last time I traveled South, I lost everyone I loved,” she said into his mouth. “It never ends well, when a Stark comes South. The thought that you might leave me alone in this place…I can't remember the last time I felt so frightened.”

His eyes were so close to hers, and they gentled. “I’m sorry I frightened you,” he said quietly, touching his forehead to hers. “I will take care not to die without your leave.”

“That's all I ask,” she murmured. 

Sandor smoothed his hands down her arms. “I like this color on you.”

Despite herself, Sansa smiled. “Flatterer.”

Chapter Text

SANDOR 29

Today's council would begin in the bear Pit in Harrenhal's middle ward. The girl had slept restlessly, waking up throughout the night; to relieve herself she claimed, but Sandor knew the truth. She was afraid for them. He didn't relish the thought of so many dying in the dwarf's name, either. He especially didn't look forward to seeing Jaime and Brienne throw their lives away. The crown's side outmatched them almost sword for sword. It wasn't going to be a fair fight…but he didn't say it, for her sake. Nor would he give her words of false hope. It was difficult to be of any comfort; he opted instead to just listen as she worried.

Sansa was in Stark colors today, her hair in a long red braid slung over one shoulder. They took their place in the lowest of the marble benches that encircled the pit, with Jon and the rest. The King had a grim look about him this morning. It was a contrast to his subjects, who were eager to see the spectacle. 

The two groups of seven were forming up now. The crown’s side emanated confidence, and why shouldn't they? They were up against a dwarf, a squire, a cripple, a woman, a eunuch, and an upjumped sellsword. At least Daven Lannister had the good sense to tame his wild mane today, wearing it in a long braid down his back. It will still be easy to grab hold of, though. It's what I’d do.

“The trial is to the death or to the yield,” Jon announced. “And it ends when only one side is left standing. May the Gods have mercy on you all.”

One of the Holy Hundred came forward to pray to the Father and Warrior, droning on about granting strength to the side whose cause was just. At his other side, Elder Brother bowed his head and prayed, too.

“Shouldn't you be pleased?” Sandor remarked upon the priest’s dismayed demeanor. 

“I mislike killing.”

“Your Gods like it well enough. A Trial of Seven is the holiest form of judgment there is.”

“The Gods will cast their judgment. And the man will grieve the losses. As I would have grieved yours, by the way. It was foolish of you to stand to champion at Lord Baelish's trial.”

“So I've been told,” Sandor muttered. 

The crown side strategically focused on the strongest of the accused’s side, before picking off the weaker ones. It was a mistake, Sandor thought. Just kill the Imp and be done with it. They estimated the strongest incorrectly besides, and even the weak ones still had sharp steel in-hand. It was Daven and Bronn they came for, not Brienne and Jaime. Even without his sword hand, Jaime was a force. And Brienne's womanhood was no hindrance. The eunuch, too, was underestimated. Not for long, but not before he put his sword through Harris Harlaw's belly. 

Sansa didn't look away when they died, as they fell to the ground in agony and choked on blood. She was determined to keep a brave face, even as she held Sandor's hand in a crushing grip. Sandor held tightly, too, but from frustration. Kill the Imp, you righteous fools.

Brienne took Donnel Waynwood, but not before he slew the boy squire, Podrick Payne. The boy had stood his ground honorably, but he was no match for this lot. Bronn cut Obara Sand near in half, and Jaime was dancing fiercely with Tyrell. The Blackfish took hold of Daven Lannister’s braid and threw him to the ground before putting his sword through his heart. Whoresbane Umber took off the Eunuch's head, having fought on the same side of battle only a moon's turn ago.

Tyrion, who posed the smallest threat, was most underestimated of all. And, outrageously, it proved to be the downfall of Ser Lonmouth. Tyrion slashed him at the back of the knees as he tried to go two-on-one against Jaime, and then opened his throat when it brought him low. 

It seemed to bring the remaining fighters back to their senses. They seemed to hear Sandor's thoughts then. Tyrell, Umber, and Blackfish all went after the dwarf together. Brienne, Jaime, and Bronn formed a wall around him. The surprise in Bronn's eyes as the steel ran through his belly was matched only by Tyrell's as Jaime took his arm off at the shoulder. The clash of steel rang through the pit as Brienne danced with Umber and Jaime with the Blackfish. When Umber went down, Brynden Tully continued the fight at a disadvantage, faced it bravely and fiercely to the very last.

“Yield,” Sansa begged under her breath. “Yield, you proud old fool.”

Honor, hubris, and pride was the downfall for every last one. Sandor pinched the bridge of his nose when the steel sunk into his chest. There were tears in Jaime's eyes when he pulled it away. Sandor could have screamed. The Imp had managed to slip his noose. Again.

Jon stood amidst the angry shouting of the crowd. “The Gods have spoken,” he announced, looking none too pleased himself. “They have judged Tyrion Lannister innocent in the crime of which he stands accused. May the sacrifices made by our noble champions not be in vain. Let the bloodshed here today be known as the last battle which ushered in a time of peace.”

The look of satisfaction on the Imp's face made Sandor's blood boil. He watched as Jaime went to him, and after some stiff words, the brothers embraced as the bodies around them were hauled away. Traitor, Sandor thought. 

“I didn't think it was possible,” Sansa said in astonishment. 

“You got what you wished for,” he replied sourly. 

Her expression sharpened. “My way was without bloodshed.”

"My way was less," he muttered. “At least one is getting what he deserves today.” Petyr Baelish was brought forward, and Jon was making his way into the pit to meet him. Sansa got to her feet, too. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Stay here. It was my sentence. I intend to see it done.”

She walked off, revealing Bran who was sitting on her other side. He was staring at him. “Don't fret, goodbrother. Present disappointments beget future blessings.”

“I don't need your riddles just now,” he rasped. Bran laughed. 

“It's unintended. Just…some monsters don't stay that way forever. Sometimes all it takes is for one person to not see them as one.”

Sandor's mouth twitched in disgust. “Some monsters do stay that way. Were born that way.”

The boy was looking almost through him as Petyr's tongue was removed with a hot knife, and his screams filled the bear pit to thundering applause. “You've more common ground with him than you know. More than your brother.”

“Is that supposed to be a comfort?” He asked irritably. 

“Just reality,” he shrugged. Bran looked down into the pit as the fingers were removed, down to the first joint. “My sister hasn't faced the last of her demons. Nor have you, Sandor. You will face them together now. Best keep your eyes up…not down.”

“I said I don't need your riddles,” Sandor grumbled. It was satisfying, at least, to see one get his due today. Petyr was shackled and escorted away. He wondered where they'd drop him off. Far away from here, he knew. Petyr Baelish would never darken these halls again. A part of him hoped he'd try, though. He would be happy to end him.

When Sansa returned to him, she wore her mask of stone. It was only when she led them to the safety of an abandoned stairwell that she cracked, buried her face into his chest and cried.

“Don’t weep for him,” Sandor said into her hair. 

“It's not for him,” she sniffed. “I hated watching them all die.”

“Would that it wasn't all for nothing,” he muttered.

“Don't say that!” she cried harder. Sandor didn't know what to say. He held her more tightly, saying nothing.  

“It's my fault,” she lamented. “They died at my urging.”

Sandor gave her a little shake. “They died at their own urging,” he said roughly. “You forced no one to lift a sword. They all knew the risk they took, as I did when I offered mine.”

“Why are men always so ready to die?”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “Not always,” he replied. “Only when one has a cause he believes in.”

“I should have let them kill Petyr, too.” Sansa pulled away to wipe hastily at her eyes and try to recompose herself. “It was cruel, what I did.”

“He got off easy.” Sandor bent his head down to look at her properly. “Silence isn't so terrible. And he should be grateful you didn't put the fingers up his arse.”

Through the tears she gave a weak laugh. Sandor offered her an encouraging grin. “We don't assemble again until midday. Shall we retire?” He didn't have any way with comforting words, but there were other paths he was more suited to. 

Her cheeks turned the shade of pink he liked. “Elder Brother was going to come check on the babe—”

“Bugger that,” he dismissed the idea. “He checked you twice this week already. What's he so worried about?”

“I think he believes in the curse,” she whispered. “He’s been quite on edge since we arrived. It comforts him, to ensure our health.”

“And what of your comfort?” he asked in a low voice, advancing so that she walked backwards up a couple steps and was now of a height with him. “How am I to tend to my wife’s despair with clergy in the room?”

Her reluctant laughter rang like little bells in the stairwell. “I’ll send him away,” she promised. 

When the sun was at its highest, all reconvened in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. Jon cleared his throat, spoke some words about honoring the brave champions who fought and died. Sandor let his mind wander as he moved on to other topics, looking over the faces more closely around the hall. 

There were nobles in their finest dress, wildlings stinking in little more than rags, eunuchs left over from the Targaryen host, hooded and dirty common folk there to spectate. He’d never seen such an absurd assembly before in his life. And there were so many of them. Thousands. The hall was massive, and every bench filled. Many had to stand. 

Elder Brother was near the back. He'd declined to sit in front. “I have no place in these matters,” he said. “I only bear witness.” The farther back one was seated, the less important they were. It was where the Wildlings sat, too. Except their King, Mance Rayder, and the blonde one. They were sat closer, much to the dismay of every lord around them. Tyrion sat among them now, too, much to Sandor's dismay. Whatever animosity existed between he and Jaime seemed to die in that bear pit.

Jon was telling them about the war against the Others now. It was met with a mix of skepticism and horrified belief. His version of the way it ended he kept vague enough. He told them he defeated them with a flaming sword and with he and Daenerys at his side, and only then was it possible to make peace with them. That no man was to ever travel North of the Wall again lest they forfeit their life.

“The Realm ends at the Wall,” Jon declared. “No King or Queen has the power to protect you there, and no Watch besides.”

“Why didn't you just kill them all?” asked someone Sandor couldn't name. Sansa could, though, and she leaned over to her cousin for the hundredth time to tell him.

“Lord Hightower, it is about as possible to kill every one of them as it is to kill every one of us. Even one survivor would ensure generations of hatred would fester, making another war inevitable.”

“And what becomes us when they regather their strength, and decide they're entitled to more of our land?”

Jon's jaw twitched. “We will always face threats from without,” he said. “So long as we remain united from within, no force will withstand us. Making sure the North remains strong and our fragile peace is maintained must be my utmost priority as King. Because of this, I understand I cannot serve your everyday interests in the South as faithfully as you all deserve. It is with that consideration that I would abdicate my throne to my brother, Bran.”

He produced the second crown Sandor had made to thunderous noise; much like the first, but Bran’s design was more a bramble of weirwood than an intricate carving of wolves, with rubies that resembled leaves. He lowered it over the boy’s auburn curls, ignoring the uproar it caused. 

“Bran, first of his name, the Winged Wolf, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

“I know what you all must think,” Bran said as the room got called to order and quieted down. “How can a cripple hope to rule a Kingdom? The truth is…I cannot. Jon, I would name you King still. The King in the North, as it was before the conquest. The North requires your strength and leadership, and has its own priorities and challenges to tend to. And Dorne,” he found where the Princess was sat. “Long has Dorne fought to remain sovereign. As the North, only one of the South is fit to serve its interests. I would name you Queen, Arianne Martell. But do not mistake the independence in North and South to mean the realm is any less united; let our Kingdoms thrive with each other’s trust, cooperation, and council. Three Kings and Queens, not one. Standing together, for the good of Westeros.”

Jon and Arianne were on their feet. The Dornish woman made her way to the front of the room and joined them upon the dais. It was all happening according to plan. Sandor felt his stomach tightening at what he knew would be coming next.

“As for the rest…” Bran went on, looking around the room. “You are the Heart of Westeros. I fear I do not know your hearts as a good King should. And none of you know mine. I cannot visit your homes, to walk your lands and bless your children. I cannot even traverse these halls. I cannot produce heirs.” His smile did not match his eyes, which were melancholy. “My only request as King would be to restore the trees of our Old Gods to the places they were removed. Old Gods and New can coexist harmoniously, and there is no better example of that than my sister, Sansa.”

Bran turned to face her, and the smile did touch his eyes now. “I abdicate my throne to you, Sansa, of houses Stark and Clegane. First of her name, born and wed under Old Gods and New, Blood of the First Men and the North. I name you Queen to the Seven Kingdoms of the Heart of Westeros.”

A hush fell over the room as Jon produced the final crown. It was the finest and most delicate of the three; it was intricately carved with flowers and sparrows and crusted with rubies, forming a heart in the center which dipped down over her brow. The points were formed by the wings that rose up around the rim. Sansa looked every bit the queen he'd dreamed of as she stood. 

“Good people of the realm, I hope you find this decision agreeable.” She took a steadying breath. Many did not, judging by the pitch of the chatter. “I know there are many in this room who will object to a woman's rule, either silently or aloud. Perhaps you will reject it no matter what I do, but I will not force any of you to love me; I intend to earn it. All I would ask of you, good people, is time.”

She came forward, her voice strong as she made her appeal. “Never again will the highest seat be the fodder of dynasties. Never again will your fates be handed down as inheritance. Never again will you be asked to die for children unfit to command your lives. Only the worthy should be chosen for this honor, not born into it. I would ask you to give me the chance to make that possible. In ten years’ time, there will be a Great Council once more, and if seen fit by majority, will be free to name a new King or Queen of your choosing. It might be me, or my heir. Or it might be one of you. I would step down graciously, if that is the outcome. And so it will go every ten years, ever after. Too many wars have been fought for the unworthy, who lost sight of their service to the realm over the generations. No King or Queen should ever sit comfortably while their people sit in discontent. This, my good Lords and Ladies, is my solemn promise to you. Can you accept me as your Queen?”

One by one, her vassals sunk to their knees and pledged fealty. Some took longer than others, hung up between their options of a cripple or a woman; Sandor took note of them, but they did kneel after enough pressure mounted. There would be more deliberations to come, and the matter of choosing the members of her council and Queensguard. Once the babe came, she had decided, there would be a tourney.

Once she had their fealty, Sansa went on. “It’s said this castle is a cursed, evil place; I only see something broken. Neglected. I see the potential for beauty in it. Harrenhal can be more than its history, and so can our people. I ask you all to put aside the conflicts of our past so that we might build a better future. Together. United.” Sansa smiled.

“Let such dreams start here. Harrenhal needs hands and bodies to fill it. I would ask you all to provide me men and women. Keep your strongest and most beloved. Send me your widows. Your elderly. Your weary and broken. Your bastards. All the extra mouths you can't afford to feed, and if you wish it, send your sons and daughters to ward as well. I welcome all who come willingly. Help me mend this broken castle, and I will help you to heal as well. Let the words of House Clegane be our rallying cry: Our Heart is Our Measure.”

Sansa was more lively company at dinner tonight, though she spent more time talking with the Dornish Queen than him. It didn't give him bother; Sandor traded jibes with the little sister instead, and talked to her about her plans with Winterfell. She wouldn't be with them much longer. It was good to make her scowl a little.

Sandor almost didn't notice when someone approached the high table. They were only barely tall enough to see over top of it. “Your Grace,” the dwarf addressed Sansa. “I wanted to thank you again, for sparing my life. It's a shame you weren't Queen yet; you could have given me a royal pardon and been done with it.”

“We both know that wouldn't have served,” she informed him. “As much as it grieves me, it was better this way. None can doubt the judgment of the Gods. The people will accept it.”

“They'll never accept me, but I've grown accustomed to it after a lifetime.” He grinned. 

“We all have our burdens to bear,” Sansa agreed lightly. “Not all of us get a second chance. How will you use yours, I wonder?”

Tyrion eyed her thoughtfully. “I was hoping to discuss that very thing with you, as it happens. I've been pondering your words from before, about service. Would my Queen take a walk with me?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” Sandor blurted. 

Sansa ignored him. “I would be delighted. What my Lord Husband means to say,” she said with an edge to her voice. “Is that he is fiercely protective, and until I find my Queensguard, he mislikes my wandering off alone.”

Tyrion narrowed his mismatched eyes at him. Sandor's weren't any friendlier. “Of course, how rude of me,” he said in mocking courtesy. “My dear Consort, would you wish to tag along?”

“I insist upon it,” he growled. 

When they rose to leave the hall, Brienne took notice and rose with them, and stepped in line behind them. Once they were outside, Sansa gave Sandor a hand gesture telling him to fall back with the wench, and so he did. He kept a respectable distance, enough so that he couldn't hear every word of what they discussed, but close enough that he would know it if he needed to intervene. 

The Godswood of Harrenhal was expansive, and they walked along the stream that ran throughout. It was a peaceful night; the snows fell lightly, and the trees shielded them against the wind. Brienne made her own attempts at small talk, but Sandor was too focused on trying to listen in on what the Imp was saying to be a lively conversationalist. 

“She's going to make a fine Queen,” Brienne was saying. “It would be an honor if she would name me to her Queensguard.”

Sandor glanced sidelong at her. “Thought you'd return with Jaime to the Rock.”

She appeared discomforted by that. “I've no place there.”

“He hasn't asked,” Sandor observed. “Has he?”

“No,” Brienne admitted.

“Dodgy cunt,” he rasped. “If it's any consolation, I know at least a few wildlings who are taken by you. And the Queen would be foolish to deny you a place in her guard, if that's your wish.”

“As much as that flatters me, I—” she halted, as Sansa and Tyrion came to an abrupt halt ahead. Sandor came forward in an instant.

“Is everything—” 

“Shh,” Sansa put a hand on his arm and nodded towards the trees ahead. Voices could be heard.

“I never thought I'd see you again.” It was a woman's voice.

“How did you get in?” Asked the man. “Have you been recognized?”

“I only kept my hood drawn,” she said impatiently. “My Robert took refuge in a wagon, none were the wiser.”

Sandor knew the voices as well as his own. Jaime's twin sister had slithered her way in. But to what end, he could not make sense of. She hadn't spoken a word of objection during the council, and would have been seized if she were discovered besides. She was guilty of her own crimes.

“I could feel your presence,” Jaime told her. “It's been so strong lately. Why did you wait to reveal yourself to me?”

Cersei's voice grew hateful. “You abandoned me when I needed you to champion me. And yet you stood for Tyrion without hesitation. He killed our father, our son. An entire city. And this is how you thank him.”

“Tyrion didn't kill Joffrey,” said Jaime. “He had no intent after the city. And Tywin Lannister was no longer a father to me when he died, so I cannot claim any grudges on his behalf. Tyrion has always been loyal to me. More loyal than you.”

“You cannot be serious!” She hissed. “I have loved you—”

“And Lancel, and Osmund Kettleblack, and Moon Boy for all I know.” There was a tense pause from the twins when the voice interrupted them. Tyrion was trembling with rage as he stepped forward to meet them as they emerged from the trees. Jaime went white to see them all standing there.

Cersei Lannister was a little rougher for wear, similar to her brother, but still had a fire in her bright green eyes. Her hair had been shorn at some point, only coming down to her cheekbones. She wore a sword at her hip with a golden pommel and dressed in roughspun wool. It was an absurd sight.

“You.” her voice was venom as she stared at Tyrion. She looked around. “All of you. Traitors. Betrayers. Thieves.”

"And what does that make you, sweet sister?" Tyrion wondered.

“Enough,” Jaime said roughly. “You must leave this place, Cersei.”

“I will leave,” she promised. “But not without paying my debts.” she threw back her head and cried, “Ser Robert! To me, my champion!”

Through the woods lumbered a man in Kingsguard plate, near eight feet tall and wide as three men. He knew that armor, and the shape of the wearer. But he’s dead, his mind reeled, as he went cold all over. They cut his head off.

The giant before them was concealed beneath his helm. She called him Robert. It cannot be him. You're slipping again.

Sansa was backing away in horror. Sandor and Brienne moved in front of her. “What is the meaning of this?” Jaime demanded. “You cannot mean to threaten a Queen in her home.”

“She is no Queen!” Cersei screamed. “I am the rightful Queen! No one else! Ser Robert, cast her down!”

The giant drew a greatsword, as long as a normal man was tall. He knew that steel. She gave him Gregor's things, that’s all, he tried to reason as he ripped his own sword from its scabbard, and Brienne did the same. Jaime had turned on his sister, who pulled out her own steel. It was Valyrian. It was absurd. Jaime knocked it from her hand as easily as from a child's, but that was the last he saw before the fight was upon them in earnest.

Sansa was screaming as the sword came down at them, as Tyrion tried to drag her away. Sandor and Brienne both had to throw themselves to the ground and roll away to avoid the blow. 

“Get her out of here!” Sandor roared at the Imp.

“No!” Sansa shoved Tyrion away as he made the attempt. “I won't leave you!”

Sandor was on his feet again, and together with Brienne they traded blows, losing ground all the while. He was too strong, and his reach too wide to get close. The man made not a single sound as they fought. Not a grunt, not even a heavy breath could be heard beneath the helm. Nothing. Silence. How was that possible? 

The man had eyes only for Sansa, it seemed, and only fought them enough to clear the path towards her. Sandor was able to exploit this enough to get behind him and deal a savage blow at the neck. For a heartbeat, he was sure it was over then. The helm flew off his shoulders as easily as if he'd cut through butter. Too easily. There was no spray of blood. And the helm that clattered to the ground was empty.

Sandor felt paralyzed by what he saw. He's dead. And not even that was enough to stop him. I cannot stop him. 

Brienne had been momentarily stunned by what she was seeing as well. And it was all that was needed. She was knocked bodily to the ground as the giant plowed forward. Sansa tried to run, but she was too late in the decision. Tyrion took off through the woods as fast as his stunted legs could carry him, and a huge iron fist caught a handful of thick red hair. She screamed, and Sandor came back into his body. No, no, no…

It was raising its sword arm. Sandor slashed at it with all his strength, taking it off at the elbow. It only seemed to anger the thing more; silently, it released her hair and dealt Sansa a backhanded blow to the side of the head, slamming her into a nearby tree. She slumped to the ground, bleeding from nose and ear.

Sandor screamed, tried to go to her. But the hand remaining caught him by the throat and lifted him bodily from the ground. It was a familiar feeling, and worse than the noose. And then a sword punched through the plate, where the heart would be. It sprayed him with black blood, and though it did not kill the thing, it did cause the hand to release him, throwing him gasping to the ground. 

Through bleary eyes Sandor saw Jaime rip the valyrian blade from the torso as the giant bent to reclaim its steel, paying no mind to the missing sword arm. Jaime and Brienne took up the assault as Sandor crawled to Sansa and lifted her into his lap. 

“No,” he said hoarsely. “Wake up, Sansa. You have to wake up.” He shook her desperately, but she was limp as a corpse. “Please…”

“Sandor!!” The shout brought him back in time to throw them both out of the way as the greatsword slammed into the earth where he'd cradled her. 

Sandor scrambled to his feet, standing guard over the lifeless body. He felt the fear squeezing his heart again as his brother towered over him. Sandor could almost envision the head he lacked for, his lips twisted into that evil smile. 

“Fuck you,” he snarled as the sword went up. Sandor was unarmed, but he would not go down without a fight, as he had so many times before by those very hands. He threw himself into him with all the strength he could muster, sending them both tumbling to the ground. 

“Fuck you!!” He repeated, screaming and slamming his fists uselessly into the plate of his chest. The sword had fallen out of its grasp as they fell, so it was a heavy metal fist that slammed into Sandor's face now. And then the beast was on top of him, and began pummeling him. 

Perhaps Harrenhal truly was cursed, Sandor thought deliriously as he felt his ribs break. Or perhaps it's only me. He hoped she would survive this. He hoped she wouldn't hate him for his weakness. He'd climbed so far, the fall was more painful this time. Sandor could hear someone calling his name, but it was little more than a distant echo. And then he felt the weight come off him. Brienne's face swam into view for a moment as she continued the onslaught. Jaime was on the ground behind her, slumped against a tree.

Sandor rolled over in sudden panic. He had to find her. She was still lying there behind him, and her eyes were fluttering open. Thank the Gods, Sandor thought, overcome with relief. And then the world went dark.

Chapter Text

SANSA 29

“Sandor,” Sansa said weakly as his eyes slid closed, his face bloody and swollen as he lost consciousness. She looked around in bewilderment. Brienne was fighting the giant alone, Jaime was sat in a pool of his own blood. Sandor was still breathing, she was relieved to see, but he was in dire condition. All Sansa could hear was the ringing in her ears, and her head felt as though it was split wide open. The pain was blinding. Or was it the light? 

She put a hand up to shield her eyes as the torch came up close to her face. It came away, revealing the face of Tyrion Lannister. It frightened her at first, and she scrambled backwards as his mouth opened and closed with a gnashing of teeth. He was shouting at her, she realized, and offering the torch to her. He had a second torch in his other hand. He was shouting and pointing. She couldn't comprehend it, though. She squinted, trying to read his lips. 

Burn him, she realized. She blinked. Yes, you have to burn them. This was no man they fought. He was a corpse, like the white walkers. Not like Beric Dondarrion or her mother. A sword wasn't enough. She took the torch in a shaking hand and nodded. 

The corpse was taking slashes and stabs from Brienne without flinching. She was crying, Sansa saw. And losing ground. She came up from behind and pressed the torch against its ragged white cloak. The fabric took the flame hungrily, sprawling up the Mountain's back like a waterfall in reverse.

The Mountain spun around, clawing at its clasp with one hand. Sansa plunged the torch into its open neck, igniting the blood and infuriating it. Just die, she thought desperately. Die, die, die for good. It slammed a fist into her and knocked her breathless, sending her reeling backwards and stumbling over Sandor’s body, hitting her head hard against the ground.

As she fell, she saw the cloak come loose from its shoulders, but the torch in its neck was enough to bring it to its knees. Sansa didn't hear what Tyrion and Brienne were shouting, only felt the heat of the fire lick at her skin as it spread. Brienne kicked the monster from behind and sent it stumbling as it tried to reach her. It was the last thing Sansa remembered.

“Sansa,” he said when she opened her eyes again. His voice was more ragged than ever. “I thought I lost you both. And to him…”

His face swam into view. It was drained of all color as he pulled her into his chest. They were still in the Godswood, but it was only the two of them now. And his face was unscathed, his body unbroken. We are dreaming.

“I thought I was losing you, too.” she sat up, her head feeling clear again. “I fear I might still. You looked awful, Sandor.” She stroked his cheek.

“I thought I was having a waking nightmare, at first,” he admitted. “An echo, from…well, you know. It all happened so fast. I don't know how Cersei brought him back…it's abominable, even for her. And he struck you. Hard—” his voice broke as he inspected her face, though it was a useless endeavor. She didn't carry the wounds with her into the dream.

“I'll be all right,” she promised. “Tyrion brought fire. I think we killed him. I hope.”

“I'm sorry…I wasn't strong enough to withstand him. I never was.”

“You were, Sandor,” she said sharply. “Any normal man, even Gregor himself, would have been finished after losing an arm. Or a head, for that matter. You did all you could, my love. And you saved my life. All of you did.”

Fear was nagging at the back of her mind. She didn't want to wake up. She was filled with dread at what would be waiting for her on the other side, of leaving him alone on this one should she wake first. All the pain. The losses. She didn't wish to face any of it yet. She banished the dark cloud that was forming around them, and the massive shape that was beginning to take form there.

Sansa changed the world around them to Spring grass, as far as the eye could see, and climbed fully into his lap. “What are you doing?”

“I refuse to let him spoil our dreams,” she said softly. “Stop thinking about him.”

His eyes slid closed, and his heavy brow was knitted in the middle. “I cannot,” he rasped.

“You must.” she kissed his trembling lips. Sandor held her tightly, running gentle hands up her spine until reaching the nape of her neck. It made her shudder and sigh. He kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her brow. 

“Would that this was reality, and the dream was…” He took a ragged breath. She shushed him softly.

“This is reality. Ours. No one can hurt us here.”

“I can't bear to think of what he did to you.”

“So don't.”

“I cannot!” He shouted. Sandor detangled himself from her and got to his feet. They were back in the Godswood, and the hulking visage of Gregor Clegane loomed over them, only he had a head on his shoulders now. Sansa went to Sandor and shook him by his.

“Stop this!” she cried. “He’s gone. Gone for good. Let him go.”

She'd never seen the brother this close up before. He looked so much like Sandor…only bigger, meaner, more frightening, even when compared to The Hound. His brow was so thick it cast an eternal shadow down over his steel gray eyes, and it gave him the look of a man who didn't possess much intelligence. He made up for it in physical strength, she knew. Just the sight of him, knowing full well he could not harm her, still filled Sansa with a primal fear. Sandor had endured a lifetime in this shadow.

His head was in his hands. She pulled them away. “Look at him,” she said. “Take one last look. Then let him go.”

Sandor lifted his eyes slowly. The pain in them was a knife to her heart. “I see him every time I look in a mirror,” he confessed. “He will not let me go. He torments me for sport, even in death.”

“You see him because you will it. He is no reflection of you. Cast him aside.”

Sandor looked at him for a long time. Different emotions passed over his face, lost in thought or memory or both. She didn't dare disturb him. 

“When I died…” He murmured at long last. “I only saw what was taken from me; my leg, my voice, my purpose. But in the end, I was set free. Free to choose, to…” He shook his head. “Gregor was tormented too, you know. All his life. Drank milk of the poppy like wine, to keep the headaches at bay. Laughter set him off the most. I thought he had it easy. I would've gladly traded my suffering for his, once.”

Sandor turned his eyes on Sansa. “In life, we were more similar than you could know. Naught to live for but the beck and call of our masters. No satisfaction save for the fear we could instill in others. Our only claim to glory was our strength. No purpose but to kill.”

“You were never like him,” Sansa disagreed. “Gregor would have watched the rioters rip me limb from limb. He would have laughed when they stripped me before the court. He would have raped me that night in my bedroom.”

Sandor winced as though he'd been slapped. And then his eyes went hard. “Do you truly believe I wasn't capable of the same? That I didn't have such thoughts cross my mind?”

“Do you think Gregor was capable of the remorse, the regret, the restraint that prevented it?”

“I don't wish to tread this ground again,” he said brusquely. He gazed up at the phantom looming overhead. “Death showed us who we are. It changed me…finished what you started, in truth. Not him. He was the same tonight as he always was. A slave to his master. Rotten to his core. A monster in gleaming white plate.”

Sandor's eyes slid closed, and the phantom blew away in the wind like leaves. “He will always haunt me, Sansa. What he's taken from us…I don't know how I know it. But I can feel it. I know you can feel it, too. I don't wish to be distracted, or comforted.” The words were a foul taste in his mouth. “There is no escape from this. I would rather face our grief together.”

Tears were welling up in her eyes. How did he know? Sansa had been determined to ignore that empty feeling, desperate not to believe it until she could see it for herself. As strong hands found her waist and the tears fell loose, she knew it to be the truth. Her chest hurt so much she felt it might burst open. 

The babe was gone. 

“I…” her lips trembled. “I should have run. I wasn't thinking…”

“It's not your fault,” he took her in his arms and stroked her hair. “If the Imp didn't—”

“It isn't his fault, either,” She said incredulously. “He didn't bring The Mountain to our door. If it weren't for him, we might all have died.”

“What did he need to discuss with you that was so damned important?” He demanded, putting her at arm's length. “From where I stand, he knew Cersei was in those woods, and used you as an excuse to follow Jaime to her. Probably wanted you to die, too.”

Sansa thought back to their conversation before the attack. “Tyrion wanted to ask for a place on our council. To what end would my death benefit him now? He could have let us die, and he didn't.”

“No,” Sandor agreed. “He wanted to be the hero, and indebt you to him. I don't believe in coincidences.”

She bit her lip. Sandor was blinded by his grudges. Am I blinded by my need to see the good in him? “It doesn't make sense. I was prepared to accept his offer.” Then she added hastily, “after I discussed it with you, of course.”

The wind blew the godswood away, and now they were in the common room of The Green Eel. Sansa blinked at the sudden shift as Sandor sat in a nearby chair, and exhaled deeply. “We'll discuss it later. Come,” he beckoned. She came over, and he pulled her down into his lap.

“I'm to blame, in truth,” he said quietly. “They shouldn't have...I shouldn't have…not before we were wed.”

She pressed her forehead to his. “None of that. We cannot turn to punishing ourselves for want of someone to blame.”

Sandor's mouth twitched. “I wish we had never left, sometimes. It was simpler.”

“It wasn't a life for us.” She said gently. “We would have been bored to death by it.”

“You could never bore me.”

“We weren't made for sweeping floors and shoveling stables. It was no life for a child, either.”

“Now we'll never know.”

They sat together for a long time in silence. In Sansa’s mind, she bore him a son. He looked like his father, and took the best of both of them. He was gentle and kind and laughed easily. He was strong, and willful too, but he never vexed her too much. They taught him to speak with his hands, and he taught them how to be patient. She realized she was crying as Sandor tightened his arms around her. 

“I will never know them,” she said. “But I miss them anyway.”

“As do I,” he said.

When Sansa’s eyes opened, she was in her bedchamber. The room was lit, but all was quiet. Her clothes had been changed, and she could feel the blood between her legs. The pain in her belly was matched only by the searing pain in her head. Her eyes were swollen so badly she could scarcely open them, and blinking sent needles shooting through her face. She turned her head and saw Sandor was laid beside her, his chest bare and bandaged. His face was, too. 

Sansa lifted an arm to reach for him, and was startled when someone took her wrist. She hadn't heard anyone come in. She whipped her head round, and regretted it instantly. The movement was agony. 

Elder Brother was standing over her, mouthing something she couldn't understand. His eyes were red and tired, and every line in his face seemed deeper than she remembered. She strained to understand, but it was silent in the room. He turned his head and mouthed something else, then turned back to her. He brought his face closer, and was mouthing wordlessly again. Sansa squinted at him, uncomprehending.

Jon and Arya rushed into view, and they were mouthing something too. Her head felt full of wool. “I don't understand,” she tried to say. She felt the words in her chest, but nothing seemed to come out. She felt afraid, then. What was happening? Was this another dream, one she couldn't control?

Elder Brother lifted his hands. ‘Can you hear us?’

A tear slid out of the corner of her eye as she shook her head. He frowned, and said something to the others. They frowned with him. Arya was crying angry tears, and Jon looked furious as well. 

‘What is happening?’ She signed with weak and trembling fingers.

‘You took a grievous blow,’ he answered. ‘I'm sorry. It took your hearing. And…’ he froze over the next part, but Sansa already knew it. She finished for him.

‘The babe is lost.’ He nodded, and hung his head.

‘I did all I could.’

‘Is Sandor all right?’

‘He will be,’ Elder Brother looked over at him with his weary eyes. ‘Broken bones, mostly. But he is strong.’

Jon put a hand on the man's shoulder and spoke to him. Sansa willed her ears to hear him, but they would not obey. Elder Brother turned back to her. ‘Jon wants to know if Tyrion betrayed you.’

Sansa looked at her brother and shook her head. ‘I do not believe so. Tyrion saved us.’

She felt a stirring at her side, and all eyes in the room looked over her. Sandor was rousing. She felt afraid again. Afraid for him, and the rude awakening he was sure to be met with. Would she ever hear his voice again? Would she ever have hers? 

Elder Brother got up and moved to his side, and she turned her head to follow. He was talking to him, but he didn't seem to hear either. Sandor tried to sit up, but the pain was too great; he fell back into the mattress. His face was as swollen as hers must have been. The remorse in his eyes was almost too much to bear when he saw her, and he put a hand over her abdomen and said some words she couldn't hear. 

He spun his head around when Elder Brother told him. When he turned back, his eyes were wet and wide. She recognized her name on his lips, and she bit back a sob. 

It was a helpless feeling. Unable to hear, unable to move. Everyone was arguing around her, but all of it was swallowed up by silence. She wanted to scream, but it would bring no satisfaction to do so. Sandor winced as he turned to speak to Elder Brother. For her sake, he used his hands as well now. ‘Will she recover?’

Elder Brother sighed. ‘I cannot say,’ he said and signed. 

‘Will she bear children again?’

‘Only time will tell.’

‘What of the others?’ Sansa asked. Elder Brother voiced the question, and she felt a weight sink into the mattress at her side. It was Jon. Arya was with him, a hand over her mouth. 

He spoke to her, and she had to look across the bed for a translation. ‘Brienne is recovering. She took some cuts, but will be all right. Jaime was found dead. He took Cersei with him, though. Found with his golden hand still lodged in her throat. Tyrion unharmed. The knight burned and beheaded.’

Sansa sobbed, and couldn't tell if it made any noise at all. Jaime’s life had been spared just that morning. And now it was lost with the rest. Brienne loved him, she knew. She never said it, but she never needed to. She only ever looked at him that way. 

Sandor turned to Elder Brother and signed his brother's name. But he did not speak it. That made the man go white with disbelief. He put a hand on Sandor’s shoulder, and they traded some words that would remain a secret to her.

Arya was leaning over her now. She was speaking slowly, as if that would help. She could only make out some of the words. Sorry, and with you. She held her hand tightly, and nodded.

Soon after that, Elder Brother was shooing everyone from the room and feeding them milk of the poppy. ‘Rest now,’ he told her. ‘Everything will be all right.’

Sansa welcomed the sleep. It was too quiet here, too painful. She was whole in her dreams. Harrenhal's curse could not reach her there.

Chapter Text

EPILOGUE

SANDOR 30

10 YEARS LATER

“Slow down, now, or you're going to break your neck,” Sandor called to the black courser galloping by. “Not even Elder Brother will be able to fix that.”

The boy only laughed, gave a rude gesture and galloped on. That is, until his horse splashed into a deep puddle from last night's rain, showering the young prince in mud. Sandor laughed as he reined up next to him.

“You've a lot to learn,” he said. “Firstmost, how to explain that to your mother.”

“It's just clothes,” he said, wiping mud from his eyes. 

“That's not how she'll see it,” he replied mildly. The boy was Sandor writ small, in appearance and demeanor both. Newly nine years of age, he took his dark hair and gray eyes and his insolence. And he towered over every boy his age. He had his mother in him, too. Certain expressions could transform his face into hers in an instant, and he had her grace. They named him Santhor.

“Race me, father,” he was demanding now. “I bet I could reach that bend first.”

“Might be you could,” Sandor agreed. “But there’d be no glory in beating an old man, would there?” He gave his mount a clap on the neck. Stranger was growing gray about the face these days. You and I both, he thought, brushing a well-salted lock of hair aside. Stranger still had his warrior’s spirit, but his strength was failing him. He was no match for the lively young stallion.

Santhor had been gifted the horse for his nameday, and he was all pride and smiles today for his first real ride away from the castle. He'd been on a pony the last time they took this trip, like his siblings were now. 

Sandor turned, looked back at them. The twins, Arynor and Elynor, were of Sansa's coloring, all blue eyed and auburn. They were growing tall, too, but more slender than their brother. They were seven now, and always plotting mischief. They were a perfect prince and princess when at court, but not for obedience sake; they simply liked to be doted on, and their mother taught them every courtesy to win it. They were the delight to all the lords and ladies and smallfolk they encountered, and the menace of everyone in their household and employ. Sandor loved them dearly.

They rode on either side of Lady Commander Brienne today, astride her brilliant silver mare. Those two kept her busy, tottering along on the ponies and straying off the path when they spied something of interest. She'd tethered them both to her now, as they bickered and grumbled their discontent.

He turned to Santhor, threw his head in their direction. “A good lad would help that poor woman with those two. They mind you better than anyone.”

He made a face. “I want to ride with you, at the front. It's not my fault you didn't make them ride with mother.”

Sandor snorted. “You don't think she has her hands full enough as it is?”

He couldn't argue that. “Ser Brienne slayed a giant once. I think she can handle Ary and Elly.”

The youngest, a boy of three, rode in the wheelhouse with his mother. After the twins, Sandor had been content with the children they had, but after a few years she had the yearning upon her again. Carrying the twins had been hard on her, and the labors even worse. He'd almost lost all three, were it not for Elder Brother. He'd delivered all their children, and he trusted no one else with the task. 

So, for the last moon of her pregnancies, they made the short ride to the Quiet Isle and enjoyed some peace before the storm. It was where they were headed now. The fifth would be with them soon, or so he hoped. The fear was ever at the back of mind during this time, though he tried to keep a brave face for her sake. For the children, too. 

Sandor relented on letting the boy ride with him. “Just don't go running off again. You stay with me.” As his face fell somewhat, Sandor smirked and added, “If you can keep up.”

He gave Stranger his spurs, and the old destrier perked up his ears and went to a gallop. He could hear the pup’s gales of laughter as he hastened to follow.

“Where are you going!” Brienne called after them.

“We'll meet you there!” Sandor called back.

The journey was only a few hours' ride, and they could do with some wind and laughter before the solemn times ahead. The children liked the Quiet Isle well enough; they were all raised on the hand language, and delighted in being surrounded by others who knew it too. But it wasn't a place for horseplay. It was the only time and place that Sandor knelt before the Gods and prayed. And it was the only place where they all experienced a taste of Sansa’s silent world.

She never recovered her hearing. Never heard their children laugh but in dreams. It had fallen to Sandor to tell them stories and sing them to sleep, in those fragile first years. It was a long while before grief faded into normalcy. In time, she was even able to find her words again. Sandor was her translator by day, and by night they practiced at her voice in private. It had been like learning to talk all over again, but she was determined. She was skilled at reading lips now besides, and could carry a conversation as well as anyone, so long as she could see them. The loss of her hearing had sharpened her other senses like Valyrian steel. Nothing got past her. It was often said she had eyes in the back of her head, and the nose of a hound. 

It had taken a long time before people stopped whispering about curses. Harrenhal had given them plenty to whisper about in their attempts to restore it; one freak accident after another claimed more than a few builders. There hadn't been an incident in years, though. They'd gotten all five of its towers back in use, but the upper portions of all remained abandoned. The twins liked to venture up there and try to talk to the ghosts, much to their mother’s dismay. A sprawling city had even sprouted up outside the walls, thriving with trade and craft and leisure.

The Cursed Queen was slowly becoming known as The Cursebreaker. Names such as The Silent Wolf and The Ghost of Harrenhal were giving way to kinder stylings. Good Queen Sansa. The Heart’s Delight. She didn't need her hearing to be beloved by her people, to make good choices and navigate the hard ones. She had the dreams, too; she rarely dreamt for political gain, but there were times it came in useful. Sansa surrounded herself by advisors she trusted; it had taken Sandor a long time to trust in them, too. Tyrion most of all. When she named him Hand, it had been the hardest they ever fought. The quarrel had even made its way into local legend, much to his dismay. It was years before Sandor grudgingly admitted that the dwarf was good at these things. He’d never say as much aloud, though.

As they pulled up on the shore across from the Quiet Isle, Sandor looked at his son and wondered, as he always did when times were good, if it was possible he was still dreaming. Still dying under a tree not far from here.

“It's smaller than I remembered,” Santhor said as he peered across the way.

“That's because you're bigger now,” Sandor rasped. “Big as a castle wall, and thick as one too sometimes.”

“Did you really live here?” 

“Aye, for a little while.”

“And you didn't talk at all?”

“Only to make confessions.”

“What did you confess to?”

He rolled his eyes. “Clobbering your ear, if you keep up with all the questions.” He reached over and mussed his hair. He'd asked all the same things last time, but he was younger then and didn’t remember. “I'll tell you someday, maybe. But don't go around asking the brothers about their sins. A man's confessions are between him and the Elder Brother.” with derision he added, “And the Gods.”

“I understand,” he said, sitting taller, trying to look manful. “Are all the silent brothers sinners?”

“We’re all sinners, Santhor,” Sandor replied. “The silent brothers are penitents. The Quiet Isle is not like The Wall of old.” That was before his time, but he knew the stories well. “Men aren't sent here as punishment, nor against their will. This place serves a different purpose.”

“Like Mercy,” he said with reverence. Sandor’s mouth twitched. The longsword at his hip was a heavy burden he was rarely without. Its sister, recovered from the confrontation with Cersei all those years ago, resided with Arya in Winterfell. Justice, she'd named it. Ned Stark’s Ghost, he called them. Ever watchful over his girls.

Sandor had argued for the two swords to be made into one again, but Sansa wouldn't hear of it. “Two swords. Two sisters. The only ones left to carry the legacy of House Stark. It was meant to be this way.”

Sandor had carried it ever since. It would pass through him to Santhor one day, and he tried to instill in the boy the weight of what it meant. The steel was over four hundred years old; priceless, not a toy or a fancy trinket. It was a symbol more than it was a weapon. Mercy wasn't just a name, or a hollow conceit. It was at the heart of everything.

One day, he would be old enough to understand. And, if he did things right, man enough to wield it. 

Elder Brother was waiting for them when they stepped off the dock. He went to each of them in turn with a joyful word of greeting.

“Your Grace, you're as lovely as ever.” He kissed Sansa’s cheeks.

“Please, no ‘your graces’ here,” she reminded him. “Just Sansa The Great.” They laughed together.

“I hope the ride was a smooth one.” He signed as he spoke, as they all did in her presence.

“The road was smooth. The babe was not.” She drew a hand over her roundness and let out a breath. The other hand was around the youngest, and Elder Brother stooped to meet him at his level.

“Eldor,” he guffawed. “My little namesake. How old are you now?”

He looked up at his mother for guidance, and she gave him a gentle shake of the shoulder. “Go on, sweet one. Elder Brother is family, and you won't be the youngest for long. Remember what we spoke about before, about being brave?”

The babe bobbed his head, then returned his gaze to the septon. “Three,” he mumbled timidly, not remembering the man who brought him squawling into the world. 

Eldor was black and gray like him, but he took his mother’s face. He was a lively one on his own territory, but strangers were a newer concept, and this was his first foray away from home. Santhor had been similarly shy at his age. The twins had never known the feeling.

“Three!” Elder Brother proclaimed. “Where do the years go? Do you like stories, lad?” The pup nodded, not fully trusting but interested. “That's good. I’ve got some thrilling ones I'll bet you haven’t heard yet.”

He stood, turned to Santhor. Appraising his muddy clothes he said, “Trying to look like me, are you?”

“If that will spare my mother's wroth, then aye,” the boy replied with a grin.

“It won't,” Sansa said pointedly, but it was directed at Sandor. 

“It’s just clothes,” he shrugged. 

“I was sorry to miss your nameday,” Elder Brother clapped his shoulder. “Seven help us, you're going to be taller than your father if you don't stop growing, my prince.” The boy beamed with pride. “You’ll make a fearsome Knight one day.”

“I don’t need to be a Knight to be fearsome,” Santhor replied, standing a little taller. “Father never was.”

“Right you are,” laughed the Septon. “It seems there are two pairs of twins in this lot.” 

It pleased the son to be likened to his father. It was a strange feeling; he never knew the bitter, hateful Hound. That man was little more than a monster from a story now. 

“I’m going to be a Knight!” Arynor declared. 

“Me too,” said Elynor. “Like Brienne!”

A small smile touched the woman’s face, one that said all the grief those two gave her was worth it. Elder Brother went to them and put his hands to his knees.

“Is that so? You’ll make a gallant pair. The Twin Flames, they’ll call you.”

“The Twin Fools, more like,” Santhor teased. “The Headaches of Harrenhal.” Sandor nudged the lad with an elbow, despite the amusement plain on his face. 

“I trust you two were well behaved on the road?” he asked furtively. “Gave the Lady Commander no trouble at all?” 

“Of course,” lied Elynor. “And we saw a wolf!”

“Did not,” Arynor snapped. “It was a shadowcat, and it would have eaten us if I didn't scare it off!”

“How frightening,” the old man replied with an exaggerated gasp. 

Brienne leaned over and lowered her voice. “It was a fox. And they had every intention of capturing it, but the beast did the smart thing and ran off. So that much is true.”

Sansa, who was taking in the tale with a look of concern, softened. She gestured a word of thanks, and then of apology to the woman for looking after them.

“I hear you've acquired a taste for honeycakes,” Elder Brother was saying now. “I've had some prepared special for you.”

Their eyes lit up. “I love honeycakes!” Elynor exclaimed.

Arynor glanced at his mother and then bowed. “My lord is a good host,” he recited in his tiny voice.

Elder Brother chuckled. He was no lord, but didn't correct the boy as he practiced at his courtesies. “It is my great honor to receive you, as always,” he said, returning the bow. 

He turned to Sandor now. His face had a few more lines etched into it, but it had lost none of its sincerity. “My old friend.” They embraced as brothers. “And I do mean old,” he grinned as they broke apart, patting him on a cheek. “You’re graying up on me.”

“Might be I’ll shave it off, and become a wrinkled old egg like you.”

“I doubt you’d wear it half so well as me.” Elder Brother smiled. “It's always good to have you on the Isle again.”

“Always,” he replied solemnly. 

Standing on this ground always brought him back in time. Dredged up old memories, old sins. He always took time to make confession when he was here, help out where he could. His sins would never leave him, not fully. He would never consider his atonement finished. It was every day, every action, every choice. It was in how he raised his sons to be good men, if not willful, and his daughter to be strong and sharp. It was in Sansa, who put that first crack in his armor all those years ago. She who refused to accept a cruel world, who had a gift for pulling a man out by his potential. 

The preparations for the next Great Council were already under way, and though she would still be recovering from her labors when it convened, Sandor had every confidence that she would keep her seat. Sansa had a lord from every major house in her council, so that they could know her and have a voice at her table. 

She’d filled Harrenhal with a blend of people from every region, and in that way united them all under her banners. She saw their widows and maidens married, their elders given purpose and comfort, their broken men peace and healing. The Quiet Isle was where she sent her penitent sinners, and the impenitent ones saw exile or the block. She’d kept order in the realm, though it wasn’t without its battles and schemes from rebellious lords who still resented a woman’s rule; that much would never change. It was the way of the world. But she had the hearts of the smallfolk, understood that they were the backbone of her kindgom. She made it a point to know them, to sit with them at table and listen, even though she could not hear.

Her taxes were fair, and her tourneys were an inspiration for singers everywhere. She’d changed the laws of succession to give a lord the freedom to choose their heir, even if it was a woman or a younger son. More of them were in seats of power these days, adding to Sansa’s own legitimacy. Many still stuck to the old way, but it prevented more trouble than it caused. Sansa had presided over ten years of peace, and a Spring that had no end.

The remaining Starks were scarcely seen, but frequently heard from. Bran was the closest of all, but he never left the Isle of Faces which sat at the center of the lake at Harrenhal’s southern wall. None who sought to venture to that island ever made it there. Its mysteries were well guarded, its secrets were his alone. Every now and then he would appear to Sansa in a dream, or as a raven upon her windowsill. She had no Master of Whispers, in any official capacity, but in private that’s what they called him. 

Jon, far in the North, had settled his Wildlings in the Gift and married their customs with the Northern way; he’d married a Wildling himself as well. A proper castle had been erected up there, overtaking Winterfell in size. Jon had pups of his own now, two of them; Eddard and Samwell. It was said a third was expected, but they would not be named until the age of two, in the Wildling custom.

Deep in the South, Sansa maintained a warm relationship with the Dornish Queen. They’d even made the trip to Sunspear on a couple of occasions, and to this day she still gushed after it. It was a uniquely vibrant place, and afterwards Harrenhal had taken some inspiration from its aesthetic. For her nameday each year, Arianne would send her some new trinket or adornment to aid in the effort. It was a gray, foreboding place before. But, slowly, it was taking on a more welcoming cast.

Arya still had yet to claim a husband for herself, and Sandor doubted she ever would. Sansa called it willfulness, but he called it honest. The girl had no taste for men, if she had a taste for carnal pleasures at all. She had no use for a husband besides; she was perfectly capable in seeing to Winterfell and its people without one, and she seemed happier that way. She’d done her duty enough to produce a single bastard, then petitioned them legitimized them as a Stark. She named him Jon.

Elder Brother and Brienne accompanied the children to the hall to feed and entertain them, leaving Sandor and Sansa to get settled in the modest cottage they always occupied during their stay. The same one he'd carried her to, all those years ago when she'd been pulled from snow and mud, neither the wiser to how much it would change everything.

“Alone at last,” he remarked, pulling her close. “Shall we begin?”

In answer, Sansa smiled, took his head in her hands and kissed him. So began the little ritual they had performed since their firstborn was expected to arrive. 

Sandor kissed her tenderly and removed her crown, combed fingers through her hair until all the elegant braids came loose and long auburn curls tumbled down her back. He slid his hands down until he found lacings, and undid those too. He freed her from the ornate and oppressive dress that made her look so regal, gently kissing her cheeks and neck and collar as he went.

He sat her naked on the bed and took to his knees. ‘I'm an aurochs,’ she signed, struggling to find a comfortable position.  

‘You're blind as you are deaf, then,’ he returned with a teasing sneer, offering her a cup of sweetmilk.

She never felt beautiful at this stage, even less so after a fifth time. But she was. Every version of her was more beautiful than the last, every mark leftover a testament to her strength. Every time he sat her on this bed, it was his duty to convince her.

Sandor kissed her breasts, her swollen belly. He worked his way down her thighs, knees, ankles. Then he pulled over a basin of water, washed her feet and rubbed the soreness from them with scented oils. He brought her a soft wool dress of plain ivory, drew it overhead and laid her down. He joined her there, pulling her head onto his chest and smoothing a hand over her middle. Together they breathed a sigh of contentment. 

He felt the kicking beneath his fingers and wondered at what kind of person they would turn out to be. Sansa would know the gender soon; she always dreamed of the babe in this last moon, and only then would she choose the name. This one they were calling their little horse, the way they kicked and kicked. They were eager to be born. Elder Brother said such activity was a good omen of quick delivery. He hoped he was right. A woman going to childbed was like a man going to war. You never knew if they would return, no matter how seasoned and strong the warrior. That much was out of his hands, and it scared him shitless. But he would never send her off feeling unwanted or unfulfilled. 

He was no great singer, but he would hum to her and that was just as well; she could feel the melody vibrating in his chest, and she hummed it too. Their song, The Beating Heart of Harrenhal.

After a time, humming gave way to soft snoring, signaling that she succumbed to sleep at last. When he joined her in the dream, she would be unburdened. She would be able to hear him tell her how beautiful she was, and then she would be the one doing the singing.

Life wasn’t perfect, but it was more than he ever dreamed it could be. The path that led him here was long, and winding, and hard. He would have preferred to take a different route, but he didn’t dwell on it so often these days. Not when there was so much to look forward to. He and Sansa had found peace on the other side of torment, and cleared the way for their pups to tread on past them. He had everything he once believed was beyond his reach, beyond his own capabilities. A legacy. Happiness. Love. 

Home.