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    She smelt of sweetness and lemons, Sandor thought to himself as he nestled his face into her hair, taking in all the scents she would allow. The pale faced beauty peered up through her messy, tussled auburn hair and smiled. Only inches away from the  burned side of this face, her pale blue eyes were filled with love. “Papa, tell me again of how you won Mama‘s hand!”
     The scarred face turned up a snarling, toothy grin. “Not tonight Elinore, it’s late and you need to sleep before the tourney tomorrow.”
    Elinore punched a tiny fist into Sandor’s stony shoulder. He laughed out loud. “AGAIN,“ she cried. The petite 5 year old favored her mother in appearance, but her father in spirit.
     “Tomorrow little pup, I promise. But you won’t want to hear it after seeing all those knights fight for Queen and Country. Now go to sleep.”
    The girl rubbed her eyes and yawned. “Mama, make Papa tell me your story.”
    Sansa put her long arms around Sandor from behind and kissed his crown. “Mind your father sweetness. It’s a big day tomorrow and you need your rest.” Her hair fell around his face, as a wave of calm crashed over his broad muscles. It still surprised him to be surrounded by the love he’d never known before his life amongst the Wolves and Dragons.
     Sansa took the candle from the bedside, and caressed her daughter’s already sleeping face. “Goodnight precious.” She then turned to the crib near the doorway, and tucked the one year old Clegane heir into his deep dreams and smiled to herself. “And goodnight to you little Ned.”
    Exiting the tent was easy, but getting to the next tent before Sandor completely engulfed her was next to impossible. The candle snuffed out as she dropped it to the ground, his arms holding her tight as if to keep her there forever. His mouth overtook hers without warning. Sansa instinctively put her fingers through his dark locks, and yanked his head back after a moment partly so she could breathe, partly so she could see him in the moonlight.
    Walking backwards into the tent, she beckoned him to follow. His eyes glowed in the dim firelight. The servants knew not to make the fires very big, his fear had never fully left him, even with her constantly in his presence.
    Instead of letting his own hungry mouth take her again, he just pulled her into his arms and held her there. Sansa knew this ritual well. It was as if he wanted to make sure she was real, make sure she wouldn’t just disappear from his arms. Even though he hadn’t told the story again to Elinore, the events that led them to this moment still came to their minds. The Hound had worked hard for his lady love, stared into the flames of death and snarled, and proved to the world nothing would separate them again.

    It had been 12 years since the night of Blackwater. For every day since then he had regretted not just taking her away right then and there, but he wanted to be sure it was what she wanted, so he left her there. She had regretted not following him out the door, chasing him down and clinging to him, instead of clinging to the cloak he left behind.
    Now she was a bird of a different feather. No longer an heir to the north, she gave that up, let it pass to Jon when he took the Stark name that Robb had bequeathed before his untimely death. The now reigning queen of the seven kingdoms, the returned Targaryen, had seen that done. Sansa was now released from all obligations that had imprisoned her in one cage or another, kept her from knowing her own happiness.

     Sandor caressed her cheek with his strong hands, a gentleness that no one would suspect from someone who had taken so many lives so brutally. But Sansa knew, she’s known since the day he blotted the blood from her lip and kept her from killing Joffrey, which would have sentenced her to a fate worse than the near death she experienced over and over afterwards. He could be firm yet soft at the same time.
     Sansa pulled away from his grip and lifted his heavy wool tunic over Sandor’s  head. Scars upon scars covered his broad frame. She traced some of his deepest scars with her fingertips. He instantly took her hand into his, and raised it to his ruined lips, kissing softly. “Don’t even think of pain little bird, never think of it. I won’t allow it.” She smiled at his gesture, but they were both constant reminders to each other’s history of pain.

     When Sandor met Sansa he had accepted pain as a way of life for himself, and when he began to watch her receive her own pain, she began to accept it as her fate as well, taking all the pain she could handle, hardening her skin inch by inch, till all that was left was blood and steel.
    Her uphill torment with fate changed direction the day he returned to her, in the Vale. Beaten and bloodied like the night of the Blackwater. But that time instead of stealing a song and a kiss, he gave to her freely and willingly all that he had.

    Sandor lifted her yellow and black silken gown over her head. She had willingly taken up the Clegane colors as her own, but beneath she was still a wolf. She had grown tall and full of life since her days in King’s Landing. Her shift barely hid her curved features. Even after two children, she was still slender and petite in the shadow of Sandor’s muscular frame. He reached down behind her and lifted her with ease into his arms, wrapping her legs around his torso, she anchored herself into kissing him all over his face, no prejudice to the burned or whole side. Every night it was like they were making up for lost time.

    After having  been healed in the Quiet Isle, Sandor had taken up arms, helped the Dragon Queen reclaim the iron throne, and he had done it all in his little bird’s name. ‘I wanted to destroy the Lannisters for the Starks, for Sansa. A dog can only take being kicked so much.” Petyr could have no claim over her anymore either, for he was no match of a Targaryen loyal banner man.
    Daenerys had taken Westeros, defended the Seven Kingdoms from the northern threat, and taken the war hero Jon Stark as her right hand, she had given the two men their own lands back, given them titles, and a purpose… find the surviving Starks lost in the world.
    Stark and Clegane side by side searched the world over with only rumors and hints as to the whereabouts of the scattered direwolf clan. Finding Rickon was the easiest, Arya came second, hardened into a little warrior herself, she had been far from a damsel in distress. Next they found Bran, but in the clutches of the fallen Mountain, Gregor Clegane, now warped and reformed into the monster Robert Strong. Jon and Sandor both fought the soulless beast within an inch of their own lives, till the remaining Stark direwolves; Summer, Shaggydog, Ghost, and even the thought lost Nymeria returned from the wild, all led by Brandon Stark’s warg powers. They won the battle, they won the war. Sansa was the last piece, the one thing Sandor had worked for. In exchange for reuniting the family, Bran used his greenseeing powers to find Sansa. Sandor wasted to no time in  retrieving her himself.

    Sandor laid Sansa down into the bed, but she wasn’t going to be put to rest easily. Not letting loose the grip of her legs around him, she levered him sideways, leading Sandor onto his back and putting herself into a straddle above him. “My turn tonight, wolf beats hound.” He surrendered by laughing heartily and crossing his arms behind his head, propping himself up to see her beauty before him.
     She slid backwards down his legs, yanking his breeches off in one swift motion. She immediately started nipping at the soft skin inside his thighs. The teasing made his manhood twitch. The fire in her own south grew to a feverish heat quickly, so she quenched her thirst by drinking him in fully, mouth over pike, till his fire raged as strong as hers.
     He gently pulled her up at her shoulders, beaconing her into kissing his mouth instead. She complied. Wasting no more time she combined their heat and moisture beneath her shift, taking his member completely into herself. The shift peeled off easily and Sandor tossed aside. Her breasts, small in his hands, yet they were still full from the birth of their son a year ago. He kneaded them between his fingers, heightening her pleasure as she rode toward their combined ecstasy.
     Sandor suddenly and unexpectedly lifted his hips, pushing Sansa high above the bed and driving himself as deep as he could go inside her. She arched her back as he impacted her very core, causing her to clinch down on every inch of him. Sandor growled with pleasure in time with her own song, collapsing back down onto the bed, and her falling on top of him. Their bodies, sweat and skin, pressed close and raw against each other. Sansa began to cry, a ritual Sandor also knew all too well. He held her close in his arms, and stroked her hair.

    Hidden away in the Eyrie, Sansa cried behind closed doors constantly. The fake father in Littlefinger kept himself from taking her by force, but he wouldn’t relent in his attempts at affection either. The threat of marriage after marriage loomed over her. Just before Sandor showed up she had almost accepted that her own death was the only way to stop the fate of being a pawn in the game.
    It was in that state of accepted death that he found her and took Sansa to her new fate. She admitted to him on the first night of their journey home that she had dreamed of him since the beginning. She admitted on the second night that she had never been taken, willingly or by force. On the third night she offered her maiden head, but he refused. Not to reject her, but to prove his intentions to her. There was no denying he wanted her. He had killed for her, he would do anything for her. But he did not want to hold any claim over her.
    It wasn’t till Daenerys took Jon Stark as the Hand of the Queen, and brought all who had apposed her to justice, that she and Jon released Sansa from her own family claim. Bran was officially declared the Lord of the North, the prophetic Sitting King, and had heirs in Rickon and Arya to continue the Stark line. There were no lands that came with Sansa's name. Only then Sandor consented, wedded and bedded her. He had a title and lands of his own to keep her safe in, but truly she was all he needed.

    Sansa closed her fists in his dark hair, wiped her tears into his chest, and went back to kissing him all over. She could feel his heart beat in his chest, calming her own nerves. They learned early in their marriage that she would have uncontrollable bursts of emotion. At first he had been worried it meant she was unhappy, but Sandor eventually understood that there was no stopping it, she deserved to let the feelings out that she’s spent more than half her life hiding just to survive. In exchange for his understanding Sansa opened her heart to him, kept him close, and gave him the truest love he had never known.
     “Big day tomorrow, rest now little bird.” He pulled the sheet up around them and she settled into his side, nuzzling his neck with a few more tiny kisses.
     “Yes Ser,” she mocked him as she fell out of consciousness and into her own dreams. No matter what the dream may be, there was nothing, she had decided, better than where she was, who she was with, and who she had become. Sansa Clegane, wife to Lord of Clegane’s Keep, proud mother to Elinor and Eddard Clegane, a Stark and Tully born beauty, and a woman free to do what she pleases.

Chapter Text

     "Papa look!" Little Elinore was pulling Sandors massive arm as hard as she could, pointing at all the bright streamers and coat of arms on flags littering the sky. In the middle of them all flashed one of bright yellow with three black snarling dogs.
     Sandor had never truly been proud of his sigil till he had a family of his own to honor with it. Sansa stood beside him in a matching yellow silk gown, with little Ned in her arms, Sandor cradling her into his own. He now felt he had something to be proud of.

     The ground was cold and hard, even with the pallet spread over the leaves, Sansa could feel every twig and rock beneath her. She gazed up at the stars. The northern stars. She was finally going home. To what might be left of it anyway. The embers of the fire were fading to an orange glow, and beyond them the snoring body of her scarred savior. Sansa couldn't help but laugh at it all. She could have been here so many years ago, this very spot, if she had just followed him past the fire, pushed beyond the false promises of lying lions, birds, spiders, and into his arms instead.
     Her laughs had obviously roused him, now silent, Sandor stared at her through the embers, eyes wide and seeming to pierce her very soul. Sansa felt all the air escape her at once. They could have been staring at each other for a few moments, or eternity, it didn't matter. All that mattered was now.
     Sansa decided then and there she was going to confess, and not let another second go by without the truth being spoken. But she couldn't bare to look at him when she said it, perhaps for fear of rejection, or perhaps the fear of acceptance, she wasn't sure.
     They had only been reunited for one day, how to say this without sounding like a foolish stupid girl? The stars sparkled in her eyes, fighting back the tears of regret and pain. "I would dream... I dreamed... When I was to be married to Joffry, I thought I would be happy. I would have dreams of happiness, but those dreams never came true. Then they married me to Tyrion. Still, I dreamt of a great knight and a happy rescue, but that never came either. Then I sat high above the world, away from the danger, but never truly escaping it. Petyr always watching, always stopping me from getting any further then a dream. But I could still dream, and I did. I dreamt of you Sandor." She held her breath, waiting to hear some kind of reaction. His breathing had seemed to stop as well.
     Sansa's heart continued to pound in her ears, the trickle of truth became a downpour. "At first it was dreams of leaving with you that night when the Blackwater Bay burned. Then I dreamt you had taken me away on a ship instead of Littlefinger, to some far off land I've never seen." Still no reaction. The confession now a swelling typhoon. "Then when I was told you were dead, instead of loosing the dreams all together, they instead became my only escape. I saw you in the clouds, the godswood where nothing grew, the water, when I was asleep or awake, it didn't matter. It was as if I could feel you, with me, giving me the strength I didn't want, to keep going."
     Finally a reaction. Sandor rolled over, away from her, and instantly began snoring again. Had he heard any of it? Was he toying with her, rejecting her confession as the ramblings of a broken girl of a broken kingdom? What would be the harm of continuing if he had already made up his mind, or if he had been asleep the whole time? "I dreamt of you the night before you came to the Eyre, I thought I was going to die there, or be married again to someone who would never be you. Then you were there, real, flesh and bone. Here you are. I'm not dreaming, not anymore."
     Silence. The fire was out now, and the chill had taken hold of Sansa. She wrapped her furs tightly around herself to keep the draft out, and tried to force herself to sleep like Sandor.
But, beyond her gaze, turned away from her, the ruined and unblemished sides of his face both dug deep into his bedding, Sandor was wide awake, and at a complete loss of what to do but continue forward, on the journey to reunite her with the remains of her family. There she would want to stay, he was certain of it. There she would forget about these dreams, and find her future, without him.

     "It looks fine up there, as fine as any other sigil." The voice boomed over the sound of the crowd and Elinore shrieked, "Uncle Jon!"
     Jon Stark, hand of the Queen, bent to one knee and threw his arms out to embrace the wild eyed girl. "You've grown so big! Sansa, what do you feed this girl?" He was talking to his sister, but at the same time making a silent nod to his once battle companion. Just as back then, the two men rarely exchanged words, but always seemed to have an understanding.
     "Whatever she'll eat when she sits still long enough." Sansa passed Ned into Sandor's arms so she could embrace her brother courteously. Sandor chuckled at her, still never forgetting her manners.
     "Sounds like another sister of mine. Have you seen Arya yet?"
     Sansa shook her head. "Not yet, late as usual. How's her majesty?"
     "Fine thank you, she regrets you didn't accept her invitation to stay in the city but understands your distaste for returning to the keep."
     Sansa bowed her head in embarrassment. "Thank you brother, I just can't bare it again."                                       Sandor lightly put his hand on Sansa's for the strength she needed to pull herself beyond the memories. It worked, and she was back to smiles. "And here is your nephew, little Eddard."
     Jon looked at the child with both pain and love in his eyes, his own bitter suite memories flooding his mind. He pushed past them in his mind and took the babe from Sandor's arms.
     "Hello wee Ned. You're mother wrote to me all about you. You're right Sansa, he does have the Tully eyes, but he has his father's brow, very serious." Jon and Sansa chuckled at Sandor, who true to form, seemed unamused.
     A squire approached Sandor and bowed, then whispered something unheard by the rest. Sandor then kissed Sansa on the brow and took his leave with only a nod. Sansa didn't take her eyes off him till he was out of sight amidst the crowd. She did not like parting with him but knew it came with being the wife of a royal bannerman. "Off to inspect the Clegane banner fighter I'm sure. He's been out almost every day training him."
     "Training whom?" Jon asked.
     "You know I haven't met him, I assume some land owners son, to represent our house."      
     Jon's face went white and a wash on concern filled Sansa with dread. "What is it?"
     "Sansa, Sandor has his name in the tourney, he's representing his own house. He didn't tell you?"
     "I'm going to kill him!"

     The second night on the journey to Winterfell was colder than the first. Sandor felt tiny hands and feet press in close to him. He pulled what little furs he had for himself off and over the frail body that had invaded his space and was clinging to his side on the cold pallet. "Little Bird," it was the first thing he'd said to her since asking if she wanted to go home and leave the Vale with him. It was all he needed to say. It meant everything to her at that point. Rolling onto his side they were face to face. Only in his own dreams had he been this close to her again, smelling her fear, feeling her skin so close to his. He was afraid for himself in that moment, fear that he might make it to Winterfell, return her to her family, and truly never see her again.     A long breath finally escaped his lips.
     Sansa seized the moment for herself and kissed his mouth, her little lips pressing hard into his ruined face. Her hand caressed his burnt cheek, warm from the unseen flush she created when she surprised him. He lightly traced her hand with his fingers, then pulled away. She had her eyes closed tight. "My whole life kisses were stolen from me. I vow to steal my own kisses from now on. Or give them freely to whom I choose." With that she opened her eyes, silently asking him to kiss her back.
     He swallowed hard. "Seven hells girl. What did he do to you? I should have killed that slime."
     "No, Littlefinger can't hurt me anymore. He never... he tried, but no one ever, I am still..." She began to cry intensely.
     Sandor pulled her into his chest and kissed her crown. "You're right Little Bird, no one will ever hurt you again. I'll keep you safe."

     The horses bucked and neyed at the shouting. The squires, knights and lords all tried to avert their eyes but everyone could hear the Lady Clegane's scolding, and she didn't care. "You've been planning this for how long? And when were you going to tell me?"
     "Seven hells woman, it was going to be a suprise."
     "Suprise? To see you get hurt or bloodied, to make your children see that?"
     "You don't think I could win? I've won it before. Or don't you remember?" His words were rough and cold, stinging at Sansa's heart. She began to back down, but her chest was still pounding.
     "Of course I think you can win, but I don't want to think that I might lose you."
     "Sansa, I haven't seen a battlefield for ages, this is boys with sticks and plate armor. I'll be fine. The Queen asked me personally, for our honor. For your honor."
     She couldn't argue with that. The woman had given her a husband she loved and a freedom she'd never known. Targaryan honor was a privilege she'd been given in spades, allowing her husband to show off his now legendary skills in this tourney was the least she could do. She finally surrendered.
     "You always gave up too easily in a fight. Just like a girl." They both turned to see Arya, clad in leathers, pants, tall boots, and a rapier on her side. Sansa smiled a big grin, some things never change.
     Sandor gruffed and went back to inspecting his steed and armor while the Stark sisters embraced. "Nice to see you too Hound." He waived her off like a buzzing fly. Sansa tried to distract her. "How is Winterfell? How are Rickon and Brann? You never write."
    Arya rolled her eyes. "Too much to do, Brann is always needed somewhere. For a cripple he has to go everywhere!"
     "Arya, don't call him that!"
     "I can call him what I like, he's the most capable King in the North, in Westros. Far from helpless. Rickon is here with me, we've both been couped up for too long keeping the border safe. There's no danger left, we're just there for show at this point. Besides, Brann can see the future, he said to come see you instead, so here we are!"
     "Well I'm glad for it. You must see Elinore, she takes after you so much, it scares me sometimes." Sansa began to walk out with her sister, but first stopped and approached her husband one last time before 'battle'. "Win this tourney, I'll be cheering for you in the stands. Waiting for you to give me the rose this time." Recalling the first time she saw him fight, leaving the flower knight to bestow his favor. She kissed him passionately. Arya looked away, she was glad to see her sister happy, but it still turned her stomach to see it with him, who will always be in some part of her mind the murderous Lannister Dog. But there were no more Lannisters around for him to serve, he had done his best to be a good man, and once Sansa had taken him as her husband to replace the last trace of Lannister influence on her family name, she had no choice but try to forgive, if not forget.

     The third night of the journey north. One more day's travel, they could be in Winterfell before midnight the next. It would be a full moon no less, perfect ending to the longest journey Sandor felt he'd ever experienced. Sansa had felt the full reality of it herself, with thoughts of childhood happiness and sweet memories of her family flooding her mind. Sandor had prepared the pallets once again on opposite sides of the campfire, but after settling the horse up for the night, he returned to find the pallets pushed together and Sansa already nestled between them and the furs. He shook his head at her fantasies, at his own, for he was certain one more night and she'd be ready to forget him.
     Silly girl he thought to himself, and yet now she was a woman, tall and beautiful, strength of a new kind hidden behind her eyes. It was next to impossible for him to accept that she in fact had dreamt of him before he found her, even harder to accept that she was forcing him to be as close as possible to her, day and night. Mimicking the day's ride, he slid in behind her once more and held her tightly in his arms, reveling in her feel and sent. Sansa shivered from the chill air, and the tingling sensation of his touch, shooting from her skin all the way through her core.
     "Thank you," the words escaped her lips as a whisper, but echoed like a shout in his mind.
     Silently he cursed himself for wanting her in any way more than this. But instead he replied out loud with, "don't need your thanks Little Bird, lets just get you home."
     She rolled in his arms to face him, she could feel is breath was hotter than his touch and it made her skin scream for more. The face she could barely look at years ago was once again within her grasp, and she didn't want to ever let it leave again. "It's a new world now, Queens and Dragons. The dead and the living, how do I go on from here. How did you do it? How did you come back from the dead?"
     Sandor cleared his throat, here was possibly his chance to win her tonight or loose her forever. "The Targaryan woman came to reclaim her throne. She found me on the Quiet Isle, digging the graves for the fallen whom no one cared about, sure I would dig my own one day and just be done with it all. That bitch of Tarth told her about me, told her how to find me. She asked me who I would fight for, what was worth fighting for. I've never had anything worth fighting for other than my own life. Now I didn't even have that. She promised me land, titles, glory, but nothing worth my life. I said no. I'm no knight. Still she asked me."
     His throat ran dry. Suddenly he wished for a flaggon of wine, 'keep going man' he internally barked at himself. "One night, in a dream, I was visited by the vision of a boy with legs of a wolf and instead of arms he had the blackened wings of a great bird. He told me you were alive, and I was meant to save him and find you. It was your brother Brann, he showed me something I never thought I'd see again. You Sansa, he showed me you, alive and hidden away from the rest of the madness. So I accepted my life after death and left to save the Starks, to find you, and live again. You Little Bird, the answer is you."
     Sandor immidiately cursed himself as he watched her pale face turn bright red and become overwhelmed with tears. He knew it was too good to be true, thoughts of being an old man with her by his side. There was another man out there, a knight, a legend. Someone other than HIM
     Sansa wiped her tears into his shirt, digging her face so deep in his chest she could breathe his heartbeats. Loud and strong, she let them guide her thoughts, calm her mind. Sandor's rough hand gently lifted her face up into his gaze. "I dreamt of you too." She stole another kiss as the night before, and his breath, and another kiss, and another. Without thinking about it, a fever overtook both of them. Sansa's heart sang as Sandor's hands laced into her hair and tugged lightly, she was on her back now, with him overtop. Beneath the furs she explored his body, muscles and scars. She really had no idea where she was going, but she definately knew where she was
     Sandor was helpless to his own needs, tugging and tearing at what little clothes she had to keep the night's chill out. He took her mouth, her neck, her teats, the curves of her hips, the warmth of her thighs.
     He stopped himself, hearing her gasps and tiny cries. "Please Sandor. I want you. I want to be yours!"
     "Little Bird," his own song for hers, but no. This wasn't right. Not yet. He was a bannerman of a new Queen who could take it all away with a word if she wished. He hadn't even brought Sansa home yet. What if her family had a need of her, a need greater than his? After all, he was just a man, she was still a Lady.
     Before he realized it, she was back in his arms, side by side instead of overtaking her. She was crying again. "You don't want me?"
     He bellowed a laugh that warmed both their hearts. "More than you know Little Bird, I want you more than you know. But your family wants you more, and the Queen wants me." Sansa blushed at his remarks.
     "I mean she made me a promise. Lets get you home first, then we'll see where the future brings us. Hell, maybe your brother can see it for us."  
     Sansa squirmed like an impatient child against Sandor's tensed frame, slick with sweat. "I still need you." She shot him a glance beneath heavy eyelids that lit what little chill was left in him on fire.
     Sandor grinned from ear to burn, raven hair shading his sinful expression from her gaze.
     That night he took her pleasure, but not her still intact maidenhead. That he would wait for. Now, it was time to worship her as she deserved.

Chapter Text

     Sansa took her son Ned Clegane from the arms of their Septa and passed him to Rickon, practically glowing with happiness. The youngest Stark boy was the spitting image of their father, and as tall as Robb had been.
     Arya and Jon laughed at Elinore while she pouted,jealous of all the attention her baby brother was getting. It wasn't the same family portrait as so many years before in Winterfell, there were pieces missing that could never be replaced, but the hints of reflection were still present.

     Glass shattered on the cold stone floor, but it could barely be heard above the sobs of Sansa. She couldn't bare to hear any more of the family history she had missed while being locked away. Brandon was so serious and cold in his descriptions, Sansa had given into the urge to throw the closest breakable thing. It was a rare moment for Sansa to choose destruction to express herself, but at this point there didn't seem to be anything holding her back."Why! Why would the gods do this to us?"
     She threw herself into Sandor's arms.
     Jon Snow couldn't contain his laughter at his naive sister. "You think the gods even cared about us?"
     Sandor shot him a look seeded with the desire to tear his soul in two. "Don't mock your sister."
     He shook his head, "I wish I were my friend. It's been up to us since the beginning, to break free of the darkness. No one was ever going to help us but US."
     Rickon and Arya were in the corner, clinging to their surviving direwolves, silent in their own misery. It was not the happy reunion Sansa had imagined. No joy could be found in the remains of the castle of the Starks, not today.
     "There is one who helped us, and she is coming with restitution." The meaning of Bran's cryptic words were clear almost instantly when a piercing shriek echoed from beyond the walls. A great wind swelled outside. The Dragon had come to collect.

     Pleasantries were interrupted with the Queen's fan fair of trumpets. That was Jon's cue and he took his leave, but not without beckoning his family to follow.
     A wooden chair the size of the iron throne already had the tiny Queen perched upon it, greeting her guests one by one. Sansa noticed her regal demeanor turn upside down when she locked eyes with Jon. Although to the public they were Queen and Hand, she had found in him not only a true knight but a faithful companion. Both orphans of a war fought by their fathers, searching for homes and instead building a new one.
     Arya and Rickon bowed as Jon presented them. "Highness, you remember..."
     "Lord Rickon, of course, my how you've grown. And I didn't see the Direwolf head up on the tourney list. Will we not get to see your fine sparing skills I've heard so much about?" The Targaryen tried in vein to hid any sign of excitement she might have had at the possibility of seeing men fight for her honor.
     Rickon darted his focus back and forth from all the interested parties watching him. "Your Highness, if you command..."
     "Nonsense, I'm asking! Not everything I say is a decree. Arya darling, don't slouch." Dany didn't even stop to look at her. "So will you fight for honor and glory, on a minor scale of course?"
     Sansa chuckled as she watched Arya pout and Rickon fumble. Once again, some things never change. The Queen shifted her focus to Sansa and her family.
     "My Lady Clegane, welcome back to King's Landing. I've been so looking forward to seeing you and your dear husband again. And meet your children. Is this the new little lord?" She nodded to the baby cooing at all the activity.
     Sansa bowed to the woman barely 2 years older than her, yet seemingly aged 10 times more in grace and wisdom. "Your Grace. You honor us so, I can't thank you enough. I present Eddard Clegane."
     Again, Elinore pouted at the misdirected attention, mimicing her aunt Arya. However she seemed to get better results. "Little Lady Clegane, they say your father won one a tournament such as this before. He is already a champion to me in many ways, do you think he'll win this battle as well?"
     The wild eyed girl nodded excitedly, "papa always wins!"
     Everyone laughed, and Dany smiled a warm expression to the girl. "Yes, that seems to be the case." Then she looked to Sansa and winked, a private thank you for having been the unknowing bargaining chip she needed for Sandor to fight for Queen and Country. "Will you sit with me Lady Elinore, and enjoy the games? I bet you know all your father's stories, will you tell them to me?"
     Elinore gasped, reaching for her mother's hand. Sansa patted her tiny daughter's shoulders for comfort, and lightly pushed her forward. She nodded in approval as the nervous girl approached the Queen and climbed into the massive seat with her, still with room to spare.
     Sansa noticed Jon smiling at the scene of his niece embracing his royal companion. There were times she questioned why he didn't take her hand in marriage, become her other half as she had done with Sandor. But logic ruled the Targaryan mind above the heart. Dany will have no children, the house has no born descendants. There were rumors that the legitimized Stark had actually been the lost child of the very union that tore the kingdoms apart so many years ago, but none of that really mattered now. It was a different path, a brave new world. Sansa suspected that if Jon ever married someone, Dany would legitimize any children he might have as the chosen Targaryan heirs, but not yet. Now, SHE was Queen, and the world seemed to rejoice for it.
     The trumpets blared again and the crowd began to take their places in the stands. The procession of knights, lords, and vassals began to feed down the fields. Full armor, helms, bright coat of arms, and lances by their sides. Horses prancing, stomping at the ground and stirring the dust. Sansa didn't really see any of them, except for one. Sandor donned the snarling Hound shaped helm he'd worn the first time she's laid eyes on him at Winterfell. It was like he was stepping out of her dreams, high on his mighty steed, and once again coming to her rescue. She half expected herself to cry, but instead she just applauded with the rest of the crowd, and rose when he approached the royal box.
     If it were any other man, those in the stands would have had to look down at him to see, but Sandor's frame upon the massive horse stood to almost eye to eye with the Queen. Reaching with his free hand, he opened the toothy grin of his helm. His ruined face was bathed in the sunlight, and the joy of the people, and the love of his family.

     Once long ago in the history of Westros, Torrhen Stark, the Last King in the North, surrendered his crown to the new King Aegon Targaryen, the First of His Name. That crown had since been lost, and only one had been made to replace it, but it too was lost with the head of Robb Stark. Now history would take a turn, the Queen Daenerys Targaryen presented the Starks, with a new crown of iron and steel, nine spires as it had been before, but with wolves molded into it instead of runes of old. The wolves looked to the future now, not backwards.
     "I have never been too proud to ask for help when I was in need of it. I come with a crown and I mean to restore the Starks rule of the North. It was a mistake to set one person in charge of so vast a landscape."
     With the found decree to make Jon the Stark heir, kept safe in secret and honored by the newly crowned Queen, Sandor assumed Jon would rule, and release Sansa from the succession. But those dreams were shattered when Dany immidiately asked for Jon to take the new Hand of the Queen position in Kings Landing instead, and forefit the Stark inheritance for a place at her side. The Dragon didn't want a lord at her side, she wanted a man. Jon had devoted himself to her cause, and now he was free of any obligation. The choice was his, and he chose her.
     Sandor waited for his turn to speak. But it never came. The rights of sucsession were turned upside down, and the queen had a crown in her hands that could go on anyones head. Sandor instantly expected it to go on Sansa's. The girl had been raised to become a queen after all. Why wouldn't a Queen choose another Queen, strong and young like herself.
     "Sandor Clegane," the queen commanded his attention. "You once asked me for something in exchange for your service. Alas, I can not give it. It is not mine to give. It is not my choice, nor yours."
     Sandor was ready to kill again,  but he couldn't find the strength.  He left their royal presence. Sansa and her family could work out the details without him. Had everything been for nothing?
     No, Sansa was free now. He had already accepted that this could have been a possability. What would the Queen of the North have use for an old dog?
     He saddled his horse, ready to leave. He wondered what would come next? Would the Littebird come running after him? She wasn't a bird anymore. She's an heir to a once again royal house, proud and powerful. She was the wolf.

     Sandor's muscles were sore already. 3 lances were broken, 3 men unhorsed. The day was just getting started. There was already a deep dent in his breastplate. The squire nervously removed it and left to have the smith pound it out. Waiting for him was a flagon of wine. His second favorite vice.
     His first favorite vice walked into the tent. Sansa stood in the doorway, chest heaving from running to him after the last match. The dent had obviously alarmed her, but seeing him standing there drinking stopped her in tracks.
     Within seconds they collided in the center of the tent, his hands immediately thrust into her hair, her arms thrown over his shoulders. Their mouths pressed together, hungry for each other as if they'd never been fed.
     He used her grip around his neck to lift her up, and placed her gently on a chair. Still kissing, she struggled to unhinge his remaining armor without looking at what she was doing. Sandor finally pulled his mouth away from hers to throw off what she couldn't remove. He knelt before her, and encircled her ankles with his blistered and calloused hands.
     With a slow and steady pace he traced the edge of her legs up to her knees, peeling the silk gown back.
     She bit her lip in reply, silently begging him to keep going. His hands continued beneath her skirts, up to her hips, and stopped there. With his arms at her sides, he found his placed his head gently sideways in her lap. Resting there, he closed his eyes, rubbing his burnt cheek against her thigh.
     She lightly tucked the sweat soaked hair covering his face back behind his good ear. She leaned forward and whispered, lips caressing his flesh, "my Florian."
     He needed no more prompting, like a wild animal he took her mouth again, lifting her up in his arms. He propped her up, her back against the nearest pole holding up the tent. He tore at her underclothes until he exposed the warmth he was searching for.
     Sandor's breeches barely staying up around his hips, yet he did not take the time to remove them. He entered her haphazardly, 'like a boy finding his first cunt' he cursed to himself. Her eyes widened with the sensation. He was hot and heavy, she was wet and ready. Although beaconing for more below, she pushed hard above with her arms, outstretched and stiff against his chest. She dug her nails into his jerkin, tearing and shoving at things made to withstand the most brutal impacts.
     Sansa whimpered and sighed, attempting in vain to keep from drawing unwanted attention to the tent. Sandor himself was having trouble keeping his exertions from being more than the occasional grunt and moan as he sucked air in and out between his gritted teeth.
     With newfound strength he lifted her up again, and held her tight into his chest. He left the actual movement to her now, using her legs wrapped around his hips to move him in and out at her own pace. Her skirts dragged the ground while he lifted her up and down one more time before grunting a forceful release. Sansa inhaled sharply as she in turn felt her own sweet bliss.
     The day was barely half over, yet Sandor already felt the victor. And Sansa his Queen of Love and Beauty. He didn't want to put her down, she still clung to him, arms tight around his neck. They kissed deeply once more. "my Jonquil," he breathed. 'Mine,' he thought. 'She is mine.'

     The dragon Queen was smaller than half his size, yet still commanded his presence. Sandor was forced to listen, but he wasn't forced to obey. "you seek to defy me?"
     "Yes I defy you. I told you before Highness, I didn't fight for you." He began to lead his horse out of the stables, towards the gate.
     "I'm returning Clegane's Keep to you, your rightful inheritance. I mean to honor both my champions, you and Jon. I need a new lord of the Westerlands. I mean for you to rule them for me."
     Sandor didn't stop. "Fuck your lands. I'm no lord, nor knight, nor champion. Leave me alone. There is nothing for me here, there, or in King's Landing. I should have never have left that damn isle."
     "You can not refuse your rewards, no matter how hard you resist them." She was steady in her voice, but she no longer pursued him. Dany stood behind as he walked his horse to the closed gate.
     The gate didn't open. He banged a fist against the battered wood. "Let me out, is there anyone manning this thing?" He pushed hard, but it didn't budge.
     "Where will we go?" The sing-song voice of Sansa made him stop forcing.
     Sandor turned to the pale face staring back at him. "Where would you have me go?"
     She slowly shook her head from side to side, never taking her own eyes off his. "I told you Sandor, I dreamt of you. I won't be separated again. Where you go, I go."
     "You don't want me here Littlebird. A dog has no place with a direwolf." With that he couldn't bare to look at her anymore.
     She was back to a face full of tears once again. "On the contrary, hounds and wolves are the perfect match, don't you think? You told me you fought for me, searched for me, almost died for me. Or has it all been a lie."
     "I would never lie to you Sansa. But I have no place with a Queen. Rule your lands and forget about me."
     She laughed at him. "Silly brute! I'm no Queen. Bran is crowned, I am not next in line. I think she meant to ask me, but I asked for you Sandor. I asked for your freedom, and for mine to follow you."
     Once again Sandor was stunned. She was free to choose her future, and she was choosing him. "You... have no claim?"
     "None." Jon is now a Stark, Brandon is a King, Rickon will be a lord and knight. Even if Sansa was asked a million times, she was certain she would still chose HIM.
     Sandor took a step forward, unsure he wasn't dreaming. "How long?"
     Sansa took a step back, slightly frightened by his sudden turn of forward motion. "What?"
     "How long will you want to remain?" He stepped forward again.
     She stepped back once more. "remain where?"
     Third step left mere inches between them. "with me?"
     Her breath caught in her throat. She choked on her own thoughts. She was certain he knew her reply, but she was afraid he might leave forever if she gave the wrong answer. She straightened her posture and firmly replied, "forever, I mean to be yours forever."
     With that he kissed her, long and softly. When he finally replied with the words she longed to hear. "Then I am yours, my lady. Now I'm yours... now and forever."

Chapter Text

     The mid day sun shone down on the fair grounds in the outskirts of King's Landing. The crowd was bustling with excitement from the tourney's activity so far. Sansa found herself idly wondering from person to person, smiling at all the faces, seeing the beauty in everyone and everything. It had taken some convincing to get her to come back this close to the city, but the world was different now, no more mobs, no more terror.
     On her way to the Clegane tent where her family's Septa was putting her son and daughter down for a nap, Sansa tripped and stumbled over her own feet. After her recent private encounter with Sandor she was having trouble keeping all her toes on the ground. A passerby caught her wrist and asked if she was alright. She just smiled and curtsied. She couldn't even speak, she was so full of joy. It wasn't till he was already more than halfway turned away that she caught a glimpse of his weathered face.
     Sansa's heart was beating so fast she almost forgot how to breathe. 'Ser Meryn Trant?'
     She wasn't sure if she'd even have recognized him not in the King's Guard armor and white cloak. Memories of beatings and blood flooded her thoughts.
      He was already woven into the crowd before she could even open her mouth. She stood on her tiptoes to try and keep a line of sight on his path. The man entered a tent with dark blue banners and the silhouette of a hanged knight sprawled across. She still couldn't belive her own eyes. Meryn WAS here, and appeared to be a fighting bannerman no less.

     The news of the return of the King in the North didn't come without some resistance. Many houses had fought to save Westros, a hand full of the survivors thought they might have claim to the lands and rule. Before Queen Daenerys had even come to power it had been unclear the Stark's house had even survived, so of course the news was challenged.
     As he had once before, Sandor Clegane fought alongside Jon Stark, this time to show there was no weakness in the restored house. Although brief, the skirmishes proved no less dangerous than the war had been.
     Sansa waited in Winterfell for her knight to return, helping Bran establish a new rule. The castle walls rebuilt and stronger than ever. while Arya trained Rickon in fighting skills he'd only imagined. It was slow, but together the North was made whole again.
     King Brandon also showed he was far from helpless by his presence on the frontlines of battle through his own advanced warg powers. The Sitting King kept his family safe, and made the Lord's bow in respect and honor.
     Finally, when they were satisfied all things were finally safe to leave behind, Sansa wed her Sandor in the same Godswoods she had prayed in so many years before for a strong and noble husband. A small ceremony, simple. No royal pomp and circumstances. Quiet in the chill of the evening.
     Sandor had seemed the most nervous of anyone present. If he had run away mid ceremony, no one would have been surprised. The sweat poured from him, making the chill even worse on his imposing physique. By the end of the evening Sansa was certain he was ill. Even with four flaggons of wine in him, he  shook violently from fever.
     It proved for the best they did not have a bedding ceremony. The wedding night was far from his own expectations. Sandor passed out cursing himself in Sansa's arms, bundled up together in the marriage bed. She herself fell asleep singing to him lullabies she thought she had originally forgotten. There was plenty of time. The next day they would begin the journey to the Keep far south in the Westlands. It was time for Lord Clegane to return home, and bring his Lady with him.

     "No, you can't! I won't let you!!!" Sansa overheard the all too familiar sound of her sister Arya shouting at the top of her lungs. Sansa approached the opening of the nearest tent the clamoring was coming from. Inside she found Arya and Rickon in a makeshift armory. Rick was dressed in a set of shining armor so bright it was clear it had never been used. It obviously wasn't made for him, but still cut a strong figure. Arya was pushing stands of various weapons over onto the ground. "I said I won't allow it!"
     Sansa stood still, pale from her run in with her past. Arya didn't seem to notice her sister's distress over her own.
     "Sansa! Tell him not to do this. Tell him he's being foolish. This whole show is disgusting. Fighting isn't a contest, it's death and destruction." Arya had grown into a battle hardened warrior who no longer found joy in simple displays of combat skills. And she obviously didn't want her youngest brother to take part.
     "But the Queen," finally Rickon noticed. "Sansa! You look terrible. Does it bother you that much if I fight?"
     No one was letting her speak. "Of course it does! Look at her. That's the look of death. How dare you do that to her. Now take that armor off this instant." Arya slapped her hands on her hips as she talked. All the movement made Sansa dizzy.
     She struggled the words out of her mouth, afraid of the very sound they would make. "Ser Meryn."
     Arya finally shut up and focused on her sister. "What did you say?"
     "Meryn Trant is here. He's fighting in the tourney. He's here!" The look of terror spread over both women's faces.
     "Who is Meryn Trant?" Rickon waited for explanation,  but only got a yell from Arya that could pierce the heavens.
     "That God damned Targaryen. She can't allow this!" Arya stormed out of the tent, obviously on her way to give the Queen a breakdown of how she thought things should be.
     Sansa looked at Rickon in his shining armor. He looked so hopeful and handsome, it broke her heart to tell him the stories. It broke his as well.

     Sandor was still feverish on the initial jaunt down the King's Road. During the nights Sansa had fed him stew and swaddled his head. She had thought to ask him to put off the journey, but letters from the Queen requesting aid in his homelands couldn't keep Sandor away any longer.
     He could tell Sansa was distressed, but there was something about seeing her adapt to taking care of someone so naturally that made him feel an emotion he could only describe as good. He slowly realized he had never had someone truly care for him before, have someone worry about him. Someone that loved him.
     Finally, one morning, with the Littlebird in his arms, Sandor felt whole and well again. She was sleeping soundly, an eyelash clinging to her cheek. With the same delicacy he always showed her, he plucked it from her face. He held it there for a moment and reveled in the reality of his situation. He couldn't help but thank whatever Gods he didn't belive in that this perfect creature had chosen him, and was now his wife. HIS wife. 'My wife.'
     She yawned in reply, stretching the night away with the promise of a new day.
     Sandor stopped his breath in response to her stirring. He gritted his own snarl back with the toothy grin of sin. He found his hands traveling up and down her hips, around her waist, behind her shoulders. She smiled sweetly, eyes still closed.
     Sandor wove his hands in her auburn locks, pushing her face as close to his without actually colliding. He let her initiate the first kiss.
     His breath was warm and inviting, tickling the chill away from her nose and lips. Sansa still kept her eyes shut, but smiled sweetly at his closeness. The moment they had both longed for was here, it was right. Now.
     She kissed his lips with a reserved sweetness at first, but she grew bolder as their hands explored each other's bodies. She opened her mouth slightly to let his tongue slip inside. The sensation was intoxicating.
      Arms and legs completely entwined, there was no space left between them. She could feel his stiffness press against her. A fluttering sensation in her stomach was growing, and traveling downward.
     She opened her eyes, but instead of the look of love she was expecting, his eyes were darting away from her.
     Twigs snapped and horses neighed.
     Sandor leapt up to his feet, Sansa clamoring behind him. The closest weapon had only been a boot dagger, but Sandor grabbed it without hesitation, and intended to use it if needed.
     "Well well, what are the chances?" The slender hand of Petyr Baelish held tight on his horse's reigns. Two more horses approached with brutal looking men dressed in simple armor, definitely sellswords in the guise of body guards. Littlefinger definitely needed them.
     Sandor had thought of looking for him a few times, but every time Sansa begged him to remain with her and let the past go.
     Sansa gasped, hoping it was a bad dream, "go away Petyr. Just go away."
     He smiled his expressive smile at her. "My dear Sansa, is that anyway to treat your foster father and protector. Alayne?"
     Sandor tucked her behind his silhouette. she was standing her ground, but he could feel her hands tremble as they held tight to his waist. He had no doubt he would die before he would ever let anyone take her again, especially THIS man.
     "That's MY wife you're speaking to now, Lady Clegane, and I suggest you leave before I cut the tongue out of your head and give it to her as a gift."
     Littlefinger didn't seem afraid."Wife? Now that IS interesting."

     Sansa and Rickon approached the royal tent conservatively despite their urgency. Arya had already pushed her way inside which had made the royal guards on edge. Jon saw them in the doorway and motioned for them to approach, in some hope they could shed light on the reason his sister was asking for blood so persistently.
     The Queen was shaking her head. "My dear, I believe you when you say he obeyed the Lannisters, but he was a King's Guard. He's since given up his vows and been pardoned. He's still a knight. I can't banish him from his own few remaining rights."
     Arya found it impossible to lower her voice. "You don't understand. I swore to kill him for what he's done. If you don't, I will."
     "She's right. He was following orders he was sworn to uphold. So was Sandor in the service of Joffrey. There are no more Lannisters around to obey, he's made his peace so why can't Ser Meryn?"
     Everyone was stunned at her reply, especially Arya. "Sansa! You said he stripped you bare and beat you in court! He captured our father and lead him to his death. He killed Syrio Forel when he tried to capture me, he killed my friend!"
     Sansa was sharp in her reply. "So did Sandor!"
     Arya shot a glance down at her feet. She realized she was acting exactly the same way she did when she originally begged for Sandor's head the day he fought and won against the Lightning Lord in repentance for killing Mycah, the baker's boy, based on Joffry's own demands. "That's different. I've seen him pay for that with my own eyes."
     "What makes you think Meryn hasn't paid for his?" Sansa even seemed to surprise herself that she was taking this stance on the matter. But she's had years to make her peace with the past, step by step she leaned on Sandor, and he on her. Together they healed, and she was strong enough to know when to fight, and when to move on.
     Arya crossed her arms. "I'm telling the Hound, he'll understand. He'll agree with me. This will not stand!"
     Jon looked up from the scrolls he was shuffling through. "You may not have to." He turned the freshly painted parchment towards the Starks. It was the determinations of the next round of matches for the tourney. The three dogs were placed directly across the hanged kight. There was no avoiding it, Sandor was going to fight Meryn. Sansa just hoped it would be for the right reasons.

     Sansa was using the bedding furs to cover her body draped in her woolen night shift, but she felt naked in the eyes of Petyr. She had hoped she would never have to see him again, yet here he was staring at her, aloft his stead, hiding up there from the sharp knife and vengeful rage Sandor was waiting to unleash.
     "So the beautiful wolf married the ugly hound. How romantic. Did he deflower you immediately after stealing you away from me, or did he toy with you first I wonder? A woman's flower isn't something to waste, as you know I taught you Sansa." He seemed to be looking for ways to enrage both of them. At least for Sandor, it was working.
     "I didn't..." Sansa had a head full of things she wanted to say to him, but Sandor wanted control of the situation instead.
     "Come down here and I'll show you how I deflower a woman." Sandor gruffed.
     The two slimy sellswords took that as their prompt to dismount and approach the newlyweds. "My men don't like your humor, Hound. You never were a very good court fool. Or were you the best? It's so hard to tell."
     Sandor was backing up, pushing Sansa with him. Back towards their own horses tied up to a nearby tree. He had a sword there, which was his ultimate goal, but would they make it? He readied his knife in hand to slash the throat of the first man to make a move.
     Sansa couldn't let that happen. "Stop this Baelish! I am now Lady Clegane, of Clegane's Keep, wife of the Westeros Queen's bannerman, and sister to the King in the North. You will not bully me anymore."
     Sandor and Petyr both gawked at her for a moment. She had commanded their presence, and for a moment they all obeyed.
     Clegane snapped his focus back to the task of protection, and pulled her into himself again, but this time at his side instead of behind. She was holding her own well enough without him. But he wasn't going to let her take on all three at once. He planned to leave Littlefinger to her once he dispatched the other two men.
     He finally dismounted and began approaching. Unarmed it seemed. His eyes were set aflame though."King in the North. Queen of Westeros. Lord of Clegane's rotting hole in the ground. None of these titles mean anything to me, thanks to you and your abandonment."
     He was getting closer, and Sandor wondered if he could reach with a quick grab or slash, end the whole scene. "And yet here you are. Perhaps if I returned to King's Landing with so delightful a prize, the new Queen would want to reward me. For rescuing you from a life with this monster."
     Sandor couldn't wait any longer, "you're the monster here," lunging forward, swinging the dagger hard, other hand grasping at empty air. Petyr jumped back and the men in turn swung their swords to push Sandor back.
     Petyr's cool composure left him for a moment, but he quickly regained it to gloat. "The old dog still has teeth it seems."

     There was still time before the match. Sansa had collected the Clegane heir from their bedding tent, little Ned was groggy and hungry. She could tell he was going to cry out at any moment, but she didn't have time to coddle him. She felt she had to reach Sandor to warn him, and then to reason with him, to gentle his rage that would echo Arya and her outcry for vengeance.
     She reached the Clegane fighter tent, but she was too late, even the squire was nowhere to be seen. She continued to hurry around the fairgrounds. He should be in the starting area, but if she could make it in time was the challenge.
     Her heart raced again to find him, as it had earlier in the day. Sandor getting in a fistfight on this day was the last thing she wanted her children to see, and she was hoping he'd feel the same, although she thoroughly doubted it.
     She finally found him, about to mount the armored horse. "Sandor! Stop!"
     He tore off the snarling dog helm and turned to her. His eyes were ablaze with the rage she knew all too well still existed deep inside him. He knew.
     "Sandor, please." She held Ned tight as he wailed in her arms. She had thought the presence of their son would gentle that rage, but in his crying state now she wasn't so sure. "He's not worth it."
     "Take Ned and go back to the stands Littlebird. The field is no place for a woman or a child." He was cold to her, yet his scar flushed fiery red with the tension of muscles beneath.
     "You and I both have made our peace with the past my love, don't declare war on it again. You won that battle, remember?" She motioned Ned towards him, reminding him of what they had built together. What he had earned with his own sacrifices.
     "Seven hells woman, it's a contest. If Meryn gets hurt it'll not be by my fault but his own. Or you think me the same rabid dog everyone else does." The rage in his tone was not subsiding.
     Her own rage finally emerged in response. "How dare you. I am your wife! When I look at you, I see a man who is loyal and true. That's who I chose to love. And that is who I'm begging right now to show mercy and forfeit this contest. You don't need to prove anything. Not for me, and not for them." Again she held up Ned and kissed his brow, still crying.
     She waited for a reply.
     A gauntlet covered hand softly cupped her cheek. The cold steel cooled her skin. When her eyes met his, she finally saw his expression change. "Don't cry Littlebird. I... I didn't mean..." He moved his hand from her face to Ned's head. The sensation started to calm the child's wails.
     Before either could say anything else, the crowd roared. The match must be starting, but Sandor wasn't even on his horse yet. They looked down the alley towards the main field, where two horses were prancing into place.
     They locked eyes and shook their heads at each other, both unclear of what exactly was taking place out there. Arya approached hurriedly, trying to yell over the cheers and shouts of the audience. Sansa mouthed 'what' to get her to repeat the message.
     "Rickon had the Queen order a change to the matches. He's taking your place Sandor. Rickon is jousting against Ser Meryn."
     The horses were rearing, the crowd was clamoring, her son was crying.
     Sansa stood with her mouth agape, unsure what to do next.

Chapter Text