Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Sansa had barely been back from The Gift a week, before the plans for her removal to Riverrun began in earnest.

It was decided that they all would go to Riverrun as the first stop on their journey to King's Landing, leaving Sansa behind with the Tullys.

Lord Stark determined that his family would leave Winterfell in two moons, with the exception of Bran, who would remain at home, along with little Rickon, who did not quite have the manners, as yet, to be seen at court.

No one could see any harm in this plan, with the exception of Lord Stark. Any removal of himself from the North and his people and at such a time made him uneasy.

Rescue came in the guise of their uncle, Benjen, which caused Lord Stark’s worries to calm considerably. With permission from the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch to extend his post-war leave, Benjen agreed to remain and advise his nephew and keep a watchful eye upon the North.

Robb was very keen to see the south. He had heard from all his new Southron friends just how handsome and charming the young ladies were, and Sansa, very much by chance, heard her mother whisper to her father that Robb was likely now determined to find himself a wife.

She had always assumed her brother, a great lover of the North, would find his bride amongst the Northern noble families, choosing a sensible, helpful and sturdy helpmate to assist in the challenge of living in so rugged a northern landscape. But then, she quickly remembered that he was just like any other young man, likely wanting no more than a comely face and a delicate figure to come up North and freeze along with the rest of them.

Arya continued in health, though with a little of her natural spirits lost. Her little sister compensated for her recent disappointment by sparring with Lady Brienne twice as much, practicing at her archery, pestering their father to either write to the Ladies Mormont or to the Martell’s in Dorne about taking her on to foster, and complaining to anyone who would listen that all boys were idiots.

-----

Sansa observed that the journey down to Riverrun was hardly much longer than the journey up to The Gift had been and they were all welcomed by Lord Tully and the new Lady Tully with exclamations of delight.

Their uncle Edmure took a special shine to his handsome young nephew, so similar to himself in height and resemblance, and held many dinners during their stay for the purpose of introducing him to the Riverland's finest families, several of which who had eligible daughters.

Sansa and Arya were very taken with Riverrun, but especially with the river. Lady Brienne, herself brought up on an island surrounded by water, followed them down to the river every day and with the assistance of the people who worked on the water, showed them both the delights of boating.

This led to the girls spending most of their days with skirts or breeches hiked, barefooted, haphazardly floating on the small boats which their uncle had lent them, meandering down the lazy tributaries of the Red Fork river, laying upon their backs, and staring up at the beautiful blue sky while Robb, their father and uncle fished along the shore.

Lady Catelyn spent the entire moon's turn at her ancestral home assisting her new good-sister. Roslin, brought up without such daunting responsibilities at The Twins, was eager to learn the finer points of management of the vast Riverrun estates, now under her care.

However, when her lessons became a little too much, Lady Roslin, still somewhat intimidated by so regal a lady as Lady Stark, would slip away and happily join her new nieces down on the river, pretending to be a carefree girl of ten again.

Sansa was often scolded for arriving back at the castle with muddy skirt hems, dirty toes, and bedraggled hair. How Arya got away with coming back in the exact same state, and without comment, was a mystery which Roslin could never quite solve.

Sansa’s days of girlhood were growing shorter by the moment and she intended to follow her Aunt Lyanna’s advice and bask joyfully in the last days of freedom, before marriage, duty, and court life became her daily obligation.

-----

The departure of the Starks to King's Landing led immediately to the arrival at Riverrun of two of Lady Roslin’s younger brothers. And Sansa had never before been in company so lacking in manners and male beauty that it made the ragtag soldiers returning from the Northern wars seem like courtly Princes by comparison.

Olyvar, and his younger half-brother, Wendel, were a constant trial upon her nerves and her patience. If it wasn’t the infantile tricks played upon her (frogs in her bed, rocks in her shoes) it was the constant need for discussions about her sister.

“How strange that we should miss knowing your sister by barely a half turn of the moon,” said Wendel.

“Oh, really? How is that strange?” asked Sansa, apprehensively.

“My father has written to your father, Lord Stark. My father says that your father will soon accept his request for the hand of your sister, Lady Arya, to be my wife.”

“I highly doubt it,” replied Sansa, fighting to hold back a sneer before the weaselly Wendel.

“My father says, you Stark’s think you are so high and mighty now that you have a King in the family. I am to teach your sister how a real man behaves.”

“And you are a real man, are you?’ She didn’t even try to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

“Yes! Of course, I am. We Frey men know how to treat our womenfolk. Father says women need men to take charge. Father says women need a firm hand and a hard—”

“That is enough, Wendel! Go and find your brother! NOW!”

Roslin, had appeared right on time. She always seemed to sense when Sansa had had quite enough.

Wendel skulked off, in a strop, mumbling obscenities along the way.

“I am very sorry, Sansa,” said Roslin, a little embarrassed and red in the face. “Just one more week and off they go back to The Twins.” She then rushed to add: “I hope you understand that I promised my father I would let them have a visit; I could not refuse. Father so wants Olyvar to squire for your uncle and he hoped that a visit would lead to Edmure taking a liking to him. But that has not worked out as my father intended: Edmure cannot endure him any more than you can.”

“Oh, Aunt, I did not mean to give—”

“No, Sansa, it is true; I grew up with them – I can tolerate them better. If I had not been allowed to visit my Rosby cousins and learn what few manners that I was so fortunate as to obtain, I would likely be exactly like them. But enough of that; my brothers are to be packed off soon and my duty to my father is done.”

She sat down with her niece. They had both begun a little tradition between them: Sitting together in the late afternoon to share a pot of tea. Lady Tully signaled her servant to bring in the tray and Sansa was delighted to see something very special make an appearance that day.

“Strawberries? It has been ages since I have seen strawberries. How did you know?”

“I cannot give away all my secrets, now, can I? I will only say that the North is crawling with my spies.”

Sansa laughed, charmed.

“Oh, Aunt, how you spoil me.”

“It has nothing to do with spoiling. The gardener simply said that they were finally ripe enough to eat and I decided to serve them with our tea before my greedy brothers discovered them when passing through the gardens.”

The two had a good laugh as Sansa placed several plump berries on her plate as her aunt poured the tea.

“Now, Sansa, I have something very interesting to tell you. Surprisingly and very much out of the blue, your uncle has been invited down to Highgarden for a visit. I must tell you, we were both quite shocked, but Edmure is determined to go, if for no other reason than to solidify a good relationship with the Lord of The Reach.”

Sansa thought on this development for several moments.

“Does the Riverlands do much trade with The Reach?”

“Not so very much, I understand. The Riverlands are quite as fertile as The Reach, but perhaps not on such a large scale. However, Edmure believes it is best that we remain on good terms with all the Lord Paramount’s, especially after so long a war when no one was able to visit or foster alliances”

“Yes, I suppose that does make sense.”

“Your uncle intends that the entire journey shall be accomplished by river. And we so want you to be our companion. Edmure intends to send his Ravens announcing the visit the morning of our departure to both your father and the King.”

Sansa grinned.

“How very sly my uncle is. I assume any objections must come after we are well on our way.” Sansa giggled.

“Please say you wish to come?”

“I have every wish to come! You could not keep me away even if you desired it. How I have longed to see more of Westeros.”

“Then it is settled and I will inform your uncle of your agreement.” Roslin took a sip of her tea and nibbled on a strawberry. “I don’t suppose you have ever made a journey by riverboat?”

“Oh, heavens, no, not at all. Of course, my mother spoke of it from her time here. I have been told that it is very pleasant.”

“Yes, and the Tully Riverboat is the best of all. Of course, we used smaller craft at the Twins, but they were no more than glorified rafts. Edmure’s river boat has two bedchambers, small, but very comfortable. Unfortunately, there will be no extra room for servants. Edmure has heard talk of lingering Ironborn in the Westerlands still, so he will need what room there is left to bring along more guards. So, I was wondering if you would have any objection if we help each other during the journey.

“Oh, no Aunt, no. I became quite self-sufficient during the wars. The maids were needed for other, more important things, so I learned to do my own hair and dress myself.”

“Yes, myself, as well. Good; I think we will muddle along very well without all the extra fuss.”

Chapter Text

Sansa thoroughly enjoyed the novel experience of a river journey. She made friends with the crew, speaking to them about their jobs and their families. She even got to steer the riverboat once when the old river pilot urged her to take the wheel.

She could not wait to write to her sister to tell her all about it, knowing Arya would likely be cross that Sansa got to experience something which she did not.

Each night, they either anchored in the middle of the river or pulled alongside the dock of one of the river castles.

At one such dock at Hornvale, they had the very great honor of being met by Lord Brax himself, who eagerly extended an invitation for them all to rest for a few more days and was keen, he said himself, to entertain the Lord of the Trident, his new bride and the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

“I wish—" Sansa paused as they strolled along the deck aboard the riverboat days later, resuming their sail down to Highgarden.

“You wish--?” asked Lady Tully.

“I don’t want to sound ungrateful for Lord Brax’s hospitality, he was very kind to us, but his presumption about certain matters was a little--? I am speaking of the Prince and myself. I am certain my father told you and my uncle that though talked of with the King, we have no formal betrothal in place.”

Roslin’s pretty, doe-like face grew serious.

“News travels fast in Westeros. You must know that I was only half-joking about the spies. I am sure there are such people in every household in the Kingdom. And when the King’s proclamation came to all of Westeros, saying that the daughter of the Warden of North has been made the ward of the crown, it is not so very great a leap to understand the King’s intention with that great honor. Get used to it, Sansa, my dear.” She then smiled as a sudden though came to her. “When you are crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, I shall be very grateful for any small notice to deign to show me, though, surely to be out of pity for taking you with me on a riverboat once.”

“Aunt Roslin,” said Sansa, laughing at the jape. “You have no worry on that score, I assure you. I love you and my uncle so very dearly for unknowingly aiding me in my escape from Kings Landing where I must be a proper future princess and grow solemn and be on constant display. How cross Father was at the mere thought of going South when the North needed such seeing to. The King gave him three turns of the moon to show his face in court, and you will notice that my father made sure that it was three turns of the moon to the very day.”

“But seriously, my dear Sansa, is the Prince so very bad? Of course, a Frey has no right to decline any marriage offer to anyone disagreeable or not—but all accounts of him are that he is so very fine and brave.”

“Yes, to both of those things—he is just—he is so like Robb to me in my eyes—almost like another brother.”

“Surely not. Did he spend very much time with you growing up?”

“We all saw him enough, though, in later years, not so very much and in the last three, none at all. He--he kissed me once, not long before I came to stay with you. I could not help but think—there should be something more, should there not? A fire... a feeling?”

With her eyes, Sansa beseeched her aunt silently to share whatever wisdom she could, hoping she understood her concerns.

“Sansa, I assure you, it will come in time, this feeling. Though I should leave it there. Your mother and your Septa will not thank me if I told you more. But I assure you, it is very pleasant and enjoyable to share intimacies with a man who cares for you and your heart. When you are closer to marriage, I could counsel you on what you should expect. Septas are perhaps not the best source of information in such cases.”

“Oh, on that score, you can have no worry. Not long ago, we were visited at Winterfell by a young Free Folk woman—”

“Free Folk?”

“We once called them Wildlings in the North, but they prefer Free Folk—anyway, she had come to seek aid from my father. She made free with her thoughts on that score. She laughed at the very thought of me having had no lover at my age and made sure to tell me exactly what I was missing.”

“I imagine she knew nothing of our Westerosi ways.”

“Oh, yes. I expect I am quite a child in her eyes and her only being one or two years older. I am not ashamed to admit that I wish I could have had at least one experience, not from duty, but for the understanding of it, just to see what it would be like to have a man take me in his arms and kiss me with passion. But who wants to take liberties with the daughter of the Warden of the North, with the very certain possibility of losing their head on the sharpened edge of Ice--all while the undead were trying to come over our wall.”

As Roslin contemplated this new discovery about her very prim niece, Sansa glanced over the riverboat’s railing to look upon the golden, rolling hills beyond, with the sun low enough in the sky to illuminate the horizon. She took a deep, satisfied breath, imagining herself on a castle balcony watching that very setting sun for the rest of her days.

“It is so very beautiful here in the Riverlands. I could live here my whole life and never tire of it.”

“Oh no, dearest, this is no longer the Riverlands. For a Northerner, such as yourself, it is easy to confuse the fact since it is so very near the Riverlands border. What you have been admiring is the Westerlands. We are in the Lannister’s dominion now.”

Sansa was shocked that she did not know this after so careful a tutelage under Maester Luwin.

“Our Sworn Shield, Lady Brienne, has no great love for Lord Jaime Lannister. For her sake, I hope we pass through Lannister lands without drawing his notice.”

Roslin lowered her voice. “I have always wanted to have a look at him, though. “They say he is quite the handsomest man in all the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Who is the handsomest man?” asked Lord Tully, coming upon the two, silently, smiling mischievously.

“You are, of course, my dear,” said Roslin, returning his smile, slyly.

“There is no need to be coy, my love. And I apologize for intruding upon a lady’s private conversation. But, thank you for the compliment, although I know you were not speaking of me.”

“Sansa and I were wondering if we could pass so near to Casterley Rock without drawing Lannister notice?”

“I am certain Lord Brax is a dutiful bannerman and informed Lord Lannister, by Raven, as soon as his watchmen first saw the Tully banners approach his shore. However, since no herald came in the two days of our visit, I suspect the Lannisters do not care to entertain—never been a sociable lot—so, not surprising. No, I expect we have passed it by now and our next stop of consequence will be High Garden and The Reach and then there will be something to see. After the Riverlands, it is said to be the most beautiful land's in the kingdom.”

“Sansa is already very smitten with the Westerlands. She is determined to spend the rest of her life here, so she tells me.”

“No chance of that, I’m afraid, unless our King grants the Prince lands somewhere hereabouts. It is the Crownlands or Dragonstone, for you, my dear, and, unfortunately, they are nothing to look at.”

-----

Their sojourn at High Garden proved more interesting than they all imagined.

Her aunt and uncle were entertained as befit their station and toured about and treated to the magnificence of the Reach by both the gregarious and the gracious Lord and Lady Tyrell and all their particular friends and relations.

Sansa was thrown into a merry party exclusively made up of the young lords and ladies of every significant house of the region, having all been invited up, she soon learned, for her visit, especially.

There were flirtatious Fossoways and jolly Redwyne’s, but there was also one very shy young Tarly man, whom Sansa secretly admitted to her Aunt that she preferred his learned company simply because she could tuck herself away for an hour or so in the library looking over great tomes or to hear an interesting story. That was, before Lady Margery Tyrell found her out, led her away, and paraded her, once again, before an endless line of vapid young men.

With Lady Margery as her companion, there was not a day without a picnic with games or a theatrical acted out by village players or a musical evening with dancing and Sansa knew she had never been so well looked after in all her life.

And yet, there was something very odd in all the attention she was showered with, which she could not make out for the life of her. And she said as much to Lord Samwell Tarly, whom she felt she could trust a bit, even after a few weeks.

“Well, it makes sense, in a way, don’t you think?”

Both early risers, she and Samwell had found a way to circumvent Lady Margery’s patronage by taking morning walks together in the early hours before breakfast through the impressive gardens.

“What exactly makes sense?”

“Forgive me for speculating at your expense, but you are to be the Queen one day, are you not?

Sansa blushed that her secret was so well known.

“Didn’t you think it passing strange for the Lord of the Riverlands to receive an invitation from the Lord of the Reach for a visit here?”

“I expect that they had some sort of business to discuss. Trade perhaps or some future betrothal.”

“The Riverlands are fertile. The Reach is very fertile. And no offense intended, but what could they possibly have to trade? Your uncle's fish for our barley or your uncle's barley, for our fish? A betrothal to your uncle’s non-existent children?” He laughed. “No, Lady Sansa, I suspect the invitation was meant solely to get you here.”

“Me,” Sansa scoffed, “a simple girl from the North who has had no opportunity to mix socially with anyone. I am sure Lady Margery and all her friends find me a great bore. How would they even know of my stay with my aunt and uncle.”

“Gossip is a currency many are willing to spend here in the south. I suspect someone is placed in one of your family's households, most likely in The Red Keep itself. One conversation in front of the right person and there: all your secrets are known. Little birds they call them—little birds who report regularly to their masters.”

Sansa felt so naive. They would all eat her alive in King's Landing.

“I do not doubt you, Lord Samwell, but I am boring. Very boring. No one out there wants to hear about the White Walkers trying to kill me and my family or about the endless bowls of porridge we all ate every morning just to stay alive.”

“I find your stories very fascinating, Lady Sansa.”

“Well, you were very kind to listen.”

“It wasn't mere kindness, they are the histories that should be heard by all and written down. One day, two-hundred years from now, some little girl will want to know how the brave Queen Sansa fought off the roving undead hordes to save the Land of Westeros from certain death.”

“I am sure,” said Sansa, rolling her eyes while smiling. “But that still makes me very boring to the little girls now.”

“Well then, think about it this way, Lady Sansa: if you make friends with all of the young people of The Reach, who will one day make up your court, you will always be disposed to favor the Reach in the future and use your influence on your husband. Add to it the fact that you have eligible brothers and a sister—heavens, eligible royal cousins whom you are close to. It makes perfect sense. It is all political intrigue wrapped up in social niceties.”

“I hope you know that my friendship with you is sincere. And I will favor you as my friend and not because you are some High Lord from The Reach who was very nice to me once.”

“Which is precisely why I have been invited here, and for no other reason, because everyone here thinks that I will one day be Lord of Horn Hill, which, I am happy to say that I will not.”

Sansa gasped in astonishment.

“Forgive my curiosity, but how is that so? You are the eldest son of Lord Tarly, are you not?”

“Yes, the eldest, but I have found that I do not have it within me to be a high Lord. Imagine me settling disputes between my tenants. Riding to hunt all day--every day. No, books and learning have always been my one desire. I shall make a very fine Maester, will I not? Oh, but please do not say anything, I have not revealed the news to my Lord father.”

Sansa gave a weak smile and placed her hand gently on his arm to assure him of her silence. She liked Samwell immensely, but to be a Maester? To be dressed in drab robes and to carry a long chain for the rest of your life. It actually saddened her.

“Yes, Lord Samwell; I believe you will make a very fine Maester one day.”

Chapter Text

With Lord Samwell’s commentary in her ear, Sansa paid closer attention over the succeeding days, most especially to Lady Margaery’s grandmother.

Sansa had always taken Lady Olenna's sharp eyes and even sharper witticisms as that of an old person used to having their own way. But as she paid closer attention, she soon realized that the lady had been pulling her into the strangest conversations. There were always hints at some sort of closer family alignment or a narrow questioning about both her marriage-eligible sibling’s prospects.

“The Ned Stark I knew long ago was always rather honorable.”

“Yes, my father may still claim such a title and is beloved by all the families in the North.”

“Your late uncle Brandon was quite the handsome fellow. Reckless, but handsome, which I find is the usual way with handsome young men. I would not call Lord Eddard handsome in any way.”

Before Sansa could form a suitable response, Lady Oleanna would go on.

“Who does your brother favor? And for clarity, I mean your eldest brother, Lord Robb. Does he favor his severe Stark father or his lovely Tully mother?”

“I believe he is the perfect mixture of both, although his hair is a little darker than mine… a deep auburn, really.”

Lady Oleanna cut her eyes to her granddaughter, and Margery shrugged indifferently as she bit into her pear.

Even though Robb was her brother and was what she thought might be considered handsome to other ladies, in that moment she had no thoughts of reassuring the Tyrells on that score.

Margaery, though charming in her colorful silks and chiffons and all that was lovely would be like all delicate flowers and soon wilt in the forbidding northern climate. She did not have the robust, practical or useful sort of quality in a woman that she always suspected her brother would need.

So, if Margaery was destined for Robb, then that meant...

“And your sister, Lady Arla--.”

“Arya."

“Yes, yes, Lady Ayra,” Lady Olenna said, impatiently, “What is she like?”

Sansa smiled broadly: she knew exactly what needed to be said.

“Well, I will admit, she is not at all like me. She is black of hair and has my father's gray eyes. She loves nothing more than sword fighting and archery and riding her horse very fast. She even spars with the other men in the yard sometimes, which is humorous if you knew her, for she is the tiniest little thing, the size of a young boy and twice as dirty. Oh, and she wears breeches, as well.”

Sansa had to suppress a smile as Lady Oleanna clutched the pearls at her neck upon hearing such an outrageous description. And really Arya herself would reject the Tyrell heirs all on her own accord if she ever met them. Lord Willis, somewhat infirmed, was rather closed off and had seriously formal manners and limited conversation on subjects she herself could not quite understand. Ser Loras was very vain and often seemed bored with her conversation. When they spoke, Sansa watched in disbelief as his eyes darted rapidly about the room as she spoke to him on a subject of conversation which he himself had initiated with her. No, Arya and a Tyrell match would be doomed from the start.

When released from tea—or her interrogation, as she liked to think of it-- she caught up with her aunt and uncle just back from touring Lord Tyrell's newly built granary, which Sansa understood was very modern and such a sight to behold, as Lord Tyrell himself had mentioned the previous day—and at breakfast-- and just as they all headed out the door.

She did not reveal her new discoveries with her aunt and uncle. She believed it would be a poor payment for their kindness to know that they were only an excuse to get her here. And anyway, they would be leaving in a few days and Roslin was currently tired and had a slight headache. Sansa summoned a servant to make up a cold compress, which she pressed to her aunt’s eyes as she herself attended to her.

After a little tea and a sweet biscuit, Roslin felt more like herself and spent the remaining hour before dinner discussing their stay.

“Lady Tyrell's carriage dress was quite fine today. Our Riverlands merchants never seem to have quite the same quality of fabrics, I find.”

“Oh, I do so love all the fabrics here. The hangings in my chamber here at Highgarden is something I would love to have repeated in my chambers at Winterfell when I return—” and then Sansa stopped speaking as she caught herself, realizing with a drop in her belly that Winterfell would never be her home again.

Roslin, could guess by the sudden stricken look on Sansa's face what she was feeling and reached over and took Sansa's hand.

Hearing all this, Lord Tully came up with a plan. “What say you, my dear, to taking a different route home, then?”

“What route are you considering?”

“If it is agreeable to you ladies, I say we take a detour up to Lannisport for a time. It being a large harbor city on the coast, it will have a great variety of merchants and you can both shop to your heart's content. It will be our treat for dear Sansa. She can buy some things for her trousseau and show the Targaryens that the Tullys can outfit their ladies in style and are not quite the country bumpkins they believe us to be.”

Sansa laughingly rolled her eyes.

“My uncle Rhaegar does not think you are country bumpkins. Although I once heard him call the North a frozen wasteland, but only once, mind. Aunt Lyanna did not especially appreciate that, and told him so... most enthusiastically.”

“Those Targaryens”, scoffed her uncle.

He was always referring to them as those Targaryens whenever Sansa brought up her other kin. He went back to the subject of their altered trip.

“It should only add one or two more weeks to our sojourn. We could even dock the riverboat at Deep Den, home of the Lydden family with whom Roslin is related—they would surely watch over the riverboat for us and perhaps even grant us the use of the Lydden wheelhouse. Once there, we can take the Gold Road down to the port.”

“I have no objection,” said Roslin, smilingly, excited at the idea. “Sansa?”

“I have no objection other than that which I have spoken of before: a disinclination to come to the Lannister’s notice.”

“No worries there: I will not fly my banners and we will take fewer men—four should be enough-- leaving the rest on the boat. That should keep us undetectable and we will look like all the other travelers on the road. Besides, Casterley Rock is a good few miles away from Lannisport. I can assure you: you will not be seeing Jaime Lannister.”

Chapter Text

When they made landfall at the dock at Deep Den in the early hours of the morning, as promised, the younger Lord Luton Lydden greeted them himself, apologized for the absence of his father, Lord Lewys (away on Lannister business) and kissed his aunt Jeyne's niece on the cheek and called her cousin.

He was just bidding them to stay at the keep for the next day or two, but once introduced to and struck by the beauty of Lady Sansa Stark, they were all then entreated to stay the full week, given their choice of wheelhouse to use and horses from his father’s stable for both Lord Tully and Lady Sansa to ride for their journey to Lannisport.

Lord Tully, instantly alert to the violently rosy cheeks and boyish stuttering of the young man, thanked his host for his generosity, but insisted that their party must be on the road early the next morning.

----

Once onto the Gold road, they made excellent progress. The roads were dry and remarkably free from ruts, and the travelers coming from the opposite direction paid them little to no mind, keeping their heads down and their pace steady.

They were fortunate in the Westerlands and all the inns they came upon were of excellent quality, no doubt owing to the prosperous nature of the Westerlands.

However, on the third day, a bold man passed Sansa on her horse and, turning in his saddle, gave her a long assessing look. Sansa felt uneasy and, apparently so did her uncle. And he rode up to ride alongside of her for the rest of the afternoon.

After the incident with the rider, they made it to the next village without further incident, and since it was well past midday, Edmure suggested that they all take their midday meal in the tap room in relative comfort.

“You’ll be coming down from Deep Den, I reckon?”

At Edmure’s suspicious look at the old woman inquiring into his concerns, the innkeeper sought to put him at their ease.

“The bridge is out further up the Gold road. If you’re thinking of making for Lannisport, you’ll need to go up the hill pass.”

“How long will that put us out of our way?”

“Oh, at least another day, depending on your beasts. And it will be dark afore long.”

“Uncle,” said Sansa, as she entered through the inn's door. “Might I have a word?”

A large hooded man sitting alone at a far table suddenly turned his head to look at them. Sansa, having no ability to make out his face in the darkened corner, felt a little uneasy, as if she was purposely being watched and over-listened to for nefarious purposes.

“Uncle,” she lowered her voice, “Might we stop for the night a little early. My aunt never complains, but even you must have noticed she seems especially tired today. Might we trouble this good lady for rooms for tonight.”

The innkeeper, who was actually eavesdropping herself and with a good eye for the quality, knew how to land this particular transaction.

“If you’re still thinking of taking your chances upon the road, best be careful—it will be dark before you make it to Lannisport--all sorts of odd men about, these days, Ironborn stragglers and cast-offs, the rumors all say, passing through on their way to nobody knows where. Best look sharp about yourselves.”

That made up Lord Tully’s mind. It was best if everyone was well-rested and sharp for the next day.

“We’ll take heed of your good advice and rooms for the night. And food and stabling for my men and horses, if you please.

The innkeeper nodded to a young lad who ran out the door to set things in motion.

“You wait here, Sansa,” said her uncle. “Let me talk to Devan and my other guards and help your aunt inside.”

Sansa glanced around and began removing her riding gloves, looking once more in the direction of the strange hooded man. And yet, when she turned her head to look at him directly, he was staring down into his tankard of ale.

“Oh, Sansa,” said her aunt, coming through the door. “It will be so nice to rest early tonight, will it not?” Sansa smiled and took her aunt's arm as the innkeeper took up her keys to lead them up the stairs.

Sansa thought to look back one last time, but it was to see that the hooded man had already abandoned his ale and was exiting through the door.

------

It seemed that no sooner had Sansa ate her dinner, washed, and closed her eyes for the night, there was someone instantly shaking her awake.

“Sansa, dearest, wake up; your uncle wants to get an early start.”

“I’m up, I’m up.” Sansa yawned and stretched. “I must have been more tired than I realized.”

“I’ll be back in a moment to help you with your laces,” said her aunt, still in curl papers and robe, hurrying out the door.

Sansa stood and looked to the window. It was getting light out, but just barely. Hurrying to ready herself, she washed her face, cleaned her teeth, brushed her hair, and plaited a simple braid. She was just pulling her riding dress over her head when her aunt popped back in.

Helping each other lace up, the two ladies were dressed and sitting down to breakfast in no time.

They were served a hearty porridge with fruit and nuts, fresh-baked bread, and a good, strong tea. The innkeeper’s daughter-in-law, who had assisted them with their baths the night before, pressed a wrapped package into Lady Tully’s hands.

“Shortbread, for the road, Milady.”

“How kind, thank you.”

The woman then smiled, curtsied, and went away, back to the kitchens. Edmure was quick to comment.

“I think we have been discovered. I am sure the stable boy heard one of my men call me Lord Tully last night. So, now they all know who we are. They are, I am sure, being extra hospitable, ensuring no bad reports reach their Lord’s ear.”

He turned the conversation.

“What offense to your good Lady Brienne did Jaime Lannister inflict? Is she better than him with the sword?, asked her uncle, smilingly. “He is, after all, a most arrogant man.”

“He ridiculed her for her chosen life--made a jape of her during her time in the southern war. Naturally, Ayra especially, and I, will not hear of her being slighted. The north owes her so much: her skill at the hunt kept many of us in fresh meat when there was nothing to fill our bellies but rotted potatoes and half-spoiled turnips. And her sword protected a countless number of Winterfell’s good people from certain death. No, I will hear no slights on that good Lady’s behalf from anyone, even a Lord Paramount.”

“I begin to wonder if he has a disinclination towards all women, regardless of their stripe.”

“Edmure, my love, what can you possibly mean?”

“Well, he has never married, which is very odd, as I have always heard women say he is most handsome.” This said with a wink at his wife. “Come to think of it, neither of the Lannister brothers are married. Old Lord Tywin must be spinning in his grave at the thought of a lack of Lannister heirs.”

“Oh? But they have three nephews, said Sansa. “And a niece through their sister. I have met Lord Gendry.”

“True. And I always forget about the younger sons. The eldest Baratheon son is to be the Lord of Storms End—and the other one, at this rate, will likely be the Lord of Casterley Rock. With two Baratheons as Lord Paramounts and as cousins to the Targaryens, though distantly, the Baratheons will be the second most powerful family in Westeros, it seems. I’m surprised your father did not betroth you to the elder son; Lord Baratheon is his best friend, after all.”

Sansa laughed.

“But that would leave Arya to wed the Prince. I love my sister dearly, but I cannot see her doing well at court. She pestered Prince Jon something fierce for sword fighting lessons and horse races and has no qualms about telling people how she really feels about anything and everything. She would be a disaster at court and my mother and father well know it.”

“She sounds a lot like Lyanna when she was young. She will likely grow out of it. It’s her Wolf’s blood, I heard it called.”

“Yes, but Aunt Lyanna has the good fortune to have elegance and charm combined; Arya, unfortunately, does not. She will need a husband who does not mind letting her have her way. Jon—Prince Jonaerys, as I should say, for all his goodness and kind heart… well, I cannot see a Prince and eventually a King putting up with such manners and still have the respect of his people at his command.”

Marking the sun now fully risen, they hurriedly finished their meal. When her uncle had settled up with the innkeeper, they moved out into the yard.

“Sansa,” said Lord Tully, with a gravity about his voice which Sansa had never heard before. “When we leave the inn, I want you to ride in the wheelhouse with your aunt. Nestor has already tied your horse to the back of it.”

Sansa, with her Wildling experience near the Gift fresh in her brain, nodded obediently, not dreaming of gainsaying her uncle’s command, knowing that he was heeding the innkeeper’s warnings from the previous day.

Chapter Text

Despite the early morning spring chill still in the air, the inside of the Wheelhouse was hot and stuffy as they rattled along the road.

After mid-morning, her aunt was dozing off, so Sansa opened the wooden slats, used as a makeshift window, in order to capture a bit of the breeze. She closed her eyes, enjoying it blowing across her face and must have eventually nodded off herself because the sound of Devan’s shouting suddenly woke her.

“Sansa,” cried her aunt, awakening, “What is it? What is going on?”

“I do not know, Aunt.”

The Wheelhouse lurched to a stop and the vibrations of many horse's hooves surrounding them could be heard intermingled with raucous laughter. The sound of a horse’s distressed naying caused Sansa to peek through the slats, just in time to see a dirty man with black teeth, throw a rope around her uncle and drag him off of his horse.

Her uncle's distraught and pained cry made Roslin sit up from her seat to peer through the slats herself, this time seeing a man pressing a knife at her husband’s throat.

Nestor, was on the ground, out cold and Devan and the other two of their guards were corralled at the tree line and were being held off by several more men wielding swords. They could do nothing without further endangering their Lord.

The one who pulled her uncle off of his horse made for the wheelhouse.

Roslin looked to her, distress in every feature.

“Brave, Sansa, you must be very brave,” said Roslin.

Knowing instantly what her aunt meant, tears sprang to Sansa's eyes as they clasped hands and huddled together. The door was violently thrown open.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” The man grinned, his horrible teeth glinting in the sunlight.

They both could see Edmure writhing in pain and Devan’s helpless face in light of the ladies particular type of danger.

“If it’s gold you want…” shouted Edmure, struggling to rise from the ground.

“Oh aye, it’s the gold we want, for sure.”

“Then take it and be on your way!”

“Aye, we’ll get that too, after we’ve had our fun with these two, eh?”

Black Teeth got ahold of Sansa’s cloak next and dragged her out. One of the raiders came forward and pulled at her Aunt’s arm, but Roslin was putting up a good struggle.

Another man began pressing his own blade into her uncle’s cheek and was laughing like the situation was the funniest thing in the world to him.

“I bet you’d like to watch while we take our turns, eh Lord Fancy Pants. I always liked a red-head and this one is a pretty young thing. I bet her cunt tastes of plum jelly.”

Black teeth, who had hold of her, hearing that, laughed loudly while he ran his hand up her abdomen and would next have grabbed her left breast if it was not for the rapid flash of live steel and the warm splatter of fresh blood across Sansa’s suddenly startled face.

-----

Sansa had no idea where the great roar had come from. It was at once behind her, to the side of her, and was also coming from all around her. But such a frightful sound was not what had made her scream. No, it was the two severed heads, belonging to the one who had been struggling with her aunt and the one with the prominent black teeth, rolling to a stop at her feet. She instantly made a noise so shrill as to wake the dead from the crypts of Winterfell.

The startled eyes and the unbelieving expression in the face stared up at her from the ground below. Sansa turned, bent over, and retched up the entirety of the morning's breakfast.

Another man's eyes widened in shock as he was seized by his throat and was hoisted high above the ground while simultaneously being disemboweled.

Two of the three guarding her uncle's men scurried to their horses, but both received, in rapid succession, knives thrown into their backs with deadly precision, one after the other.

The last one stood there quaking in his boots while their rescuer stood still and studied him. The man shakily lifted his dull sword and immediately wet himself. Sansa heard a long, tired sigh before the outlaw was swiftly beheaded.

There was something familiar about the hooded figure, which caused Sansa to recall seeing just such a person from the inn the night before.

The man stepped forward, braced his large foot on each of the dead outlaw's backs before pulling out his knives and wiping them off by cleaning both blades on one of the dead men’s clothing.

With all of the bandits vanquished, Devan and his men instantly collected their weapons and pointed their swords towards their rescuer, unsure of his motives.

The large figure of a man dropped his hood.

“I've just killed six fucking cunts all on my own! You lot can try me if like; that is, if you have nothing more than shit for brains!”

Sansa uttered a stunned gasp: she would know that deep, sarcastic voice anywhere.

“Ser Sandor!” she breathlessly exclaimed. And fainted dead away.

Chapter Text

He had not been settled back home at Clegane Keep a week when a raven arrived from the Lord Paramount of the West, Lord Jamie Lannister.

The missive was brief and to the point. It warned of outlaws in the area and charged the bannermen near the Gold Road to send out routine patrols and be on their guard.

By rights, this duty fell to his elder brother, Gregor, to organize and execute. However, Gregor was nowhere to be found and close questioning of all those attached to the Keep was enough to truly see how things actually stood where the fucking Master of the Manor was concerned.

His good-for-nothing brother had not shown his face there in well over a year and had taken what meagre group of worthless men-at-arms he could scrounge and every decent horse about the place, to fight his wars alongside him.

Even with the war with the Ironborn officially over, Gregor and his men were still out there roaming wherever only the gods knew, and likely being a menace, or, more than likely, behaving in a manner very like the actual bandits the entirety of the Westerlands were searching for.

Sandor cursed under his breath having to take on such a responsibility almost as soon as arriving home. Gregor was a shit, had always been a shit, and would likely remain a shit until his dying day.

And patrols? Who did Jaime Fucking Lannister think he was talking to? There was no one on the bloody place to give swords to but old, broken-down servants or simple-minded groundmen and stable lads, as green as the day was long and not enough common-sense between any of them to saddle a horse.

He was it: he was the patrol.

Every other day, for weeks, he would ride the boundary alone, his only company: the intrusive thoughts of the long red hair of the beautiful woman left behind, far, far away in the cold and snow.

Sometimes he rode a little beyond Clegane lands, sleeping under the canopy of stars with nothing but a bedroll, a bit of dried beef, and a half empty wineskin.

But most often he would return home in the late evening, tired, soaking wet from either rain or sweat, and ravenously hungry.

There would always be a hearty meal awaiting him, along with a generous pour of Dornish Sour, and even a little company before the evening fire--only for him to arise early in the morning to repeat his lonely ride all over again.

However, one afternoon he found himself hungry and very close to the Gold Road and The Prancing Man Inn.

Old Bartha, the innkeeper and busy-body that she was, watched him closely when he walked in. Gregor, when home, was often known to be in her tap room causing drunken brawls, so, it was a miracle that the innkeep didn’t throw him out at first sight based on family reputation alone.

The old woman knew everybody thereabouts, and if there was any talk of a bad element in the area to be had, she would likely know it even before all the local nobles who where tasked to see to the problem, the same up-jumped local nobles who thought themselves too high for the likes of a Clegane to mix with.

Well-knowing what he preferred, she cocked her head to a dark and quiet corner where he could lower his hood, be left in peace, and pay the other drunks in the place absolutely no never mind at all.

However, apparently, Bartha, a shrewd and near toothless hag of a woman, would be a talker today. She nudged the boy sweeping the floor out of the way and approached.

“Well look what the cat dragged in. Haven’t seen you round here in a long while. I was just saying to my eldest, Gertie, just last week, I says, Gert, wonder what become of them Brothers Clegane? And here one of ye be.”

He sighed and continued untying his old cloak and removing it from round his shoulders before sitting down.

“Fighting other people’s wars tend to keep people away, now, don’t they?” he said, tiredly.

“But you wasn’t fighting our war with the Ironborn, though, were you, now? Heard tale you pulled the short straw and them Lannisters sent you off to fight the dead men up North instead.”

“Aye. Westeros is fortunate enough that there were two big Clegane fuckers to spread around.”

“Heh, that be true enough. Glad you’re not dead.”

“Big fuckers are tough to kill.”

“Aye, you have the right of it there. You back home, then? For good?”

“Just until what’s left of my gold runs out or my brother runs me off. The latter will likely happen long before the former.”

The mere mention of gold had her eying him closer and in a very particular and interesting way.

“Ain’t seen The Mountain almost as long as I ain’t seen you. Not many travelers stopping in lately with the bridge being out these two weeks. His Lordship had the men working on it straight away, but hells they been slow about it and running off all my business. That means I gots plenty beds, if you looking for one?”

“Ain’t looking for a bed.”

“Well, I don’t have a girl for you, anyway, so there’s that. Ain’t been one working round ‘ere since the wars started and the men all went off, but then, you never was one for those poxy girls, anyway, now was you? You probably fancy Wildlings now.”

There was a harsh cackle as she laughed at him before she paused and became thoughtful, and her beady eyes shifted to the opposite side of the room then back on him.

“My son, Dennis, got ideas in his head that he was some sort of soldier and took off when his Lordship made the call. Never did come back from fighting the Ironmen. Hannah over there’d make you a good woman if you have a mind to take her to wife. She’d give you fine sons—not that she ever gave my Dennis none—she won’t care about your face.”

Sandor would have growled at her to step away if he thought it would work.

“God dammit, old woman, will you leave me be? Stew. I just came in for some fucking stew! Can you manage that?”

“Hannah, stew!” she called over to her good-daughter.

“And ale,” he called after her.

Hannah, a pale and homely sort of woman, gave him a gentle, though apologetic smile when she brought him bread, ale, and stew.

Once the last crust of bread was dragged across his empty plate, and he’d finished off a fair few tankards of the inn’s potent homebrew, Hannah cleared away. She then walked over to the window, rubbed her tired back, and peered out.

“Looks like we got some fancy folk coming in, Mother.”

“And who might they be?”

“Well, I see the Lydden sigil on the wheelhouse, but aint’ never knowed no red-haired Lyddens in all me life.” Then she giggled. “You ain’t supposed they stoled it, do ya?”

Sandor rolled his eyes when the innkeeper gave a wheezy, calculating laugh and went off to her perch near the door to lay in wait for her new customers and accost them for their coin when they entered… whether Lyddens or thieves. The door squeaked open and after a beat, she pounced.

“You’ll be coming down from Deep Den, I reckon?” said Old Bartha, eagerly and with a greedy gleam to her eyes.

Curious, Sandor lifted his eyes and studied the man and his clothing after he came through the door. Although his cloak has dusty from the road, Sandor had seen enough pouncy, puffed up lords in his lifetime that he was in no doubt that this man was rich, but just a little too fine to be one of those sons of whores Lydden’s.

Not many families south of The Wall could boast that color hair and definitely none in the Westerlands—not since--. And yet, curiously, through his drunken haze and blurry eyes, the man reminded him, oddly enough, a little like Robb Stark.

“The bridge is out further up the Gold road. If you’re thinking of making for Lannisport you’ll need to go up the hill pass.”

“How long will that put us out of our way?” said the man, in his cultured tones.

“Oh, at least another day, depending on your beasts. And it will be dark afore long.”

Sandor returned to his ale, forgetting about the auburn headed stranger and his concerns. It was no never mind to him what the cunt did this late in the day.

“Uncle, might I have a word?”

Sandor froze when he heard the woman’s voice. Slowly, he lifted his head and stared uncomprehendingly.

The fuck?

THE FUCK?!?

Lady Sansa Stark—she was several feet in front of him and she was saying—the fuck he knew what she was talking about—but there she was, in the flesh and gods she was just so fucking—the fuck?!

His blurriness in his eyes began to clear, not completely, but just enough to recognize the delicate curve of her cheeks and the pink perfection of her full lips.

“Might we stop for the night a little early. My aunt never complains, but even you must have noticed she seems especially tired today. Might we trouble this good lady for rooms for tonight?”

Uncle? Aunt? His addled brain began to speculate. With that hair color, it could never be a Stark relation, and the only other family he had seen with his own eyes were the silver haired-Targaryen bunch. He knew almost nothing about the Arryns, other than he had seen John Arryn once from a distance, and knew he didn’t have red hair. No, this could only be her Tully kin.

With this now settled, he rapidly contemplated what he should do next.

It was only right and proper that he stand up then and there and present himself out of politeness and courtesy. But he was a brute whom no one ever expected politeness and courtesy from. And besides: who was he fooling? He had been out riding all day and surely smelled of horse, and ale, and shit and sweat; his hair hung in greasy lanks plastered to his skull and his cloths were filthy—and—and was the pouncy fucker seriously thinking of making for Lannisport—tonight—with Lady Sansa?

The fuck?

THE FUCK?!?

Old Bartha, the nuisance that she was, leaned in, and laid her spiel on thick.

“If you’re still thinking of taking your chances upon the road, best be careful—it will be dark before you make it to Lannisport--all sorts of odd men about, these days, Ironborn stragglers, and cast-offs, the rumors all say, passing through on their way to nobody knows where. Best look sharp about yourselves.”

Yes, yes, listen to the dumb bitch--stay the night. Sansa needs—she needs--.

“We’ll take heed of your good advice and rooms for the night. And food and stabling for my men and horses, if you please.”

As her boy ran by to set things in motion, Sandor let out a breath: the man actually had sense after all.

“You wait here, Sansa. Let me talk to Devan and my other guards and help your aunt inside.”

He was never so grateful now than he was for the darkened corner. He pulled his hood on and down closer as Lady Sansa stood there looking about herself.

He was never more grateful in the moment then to know that Bartha kept a clean and orderly inn. He did not want to contemplate an unruly tap room full of his brother’s rowdy men-at-arms or some dirty peasant accosting her at the moment where he would definitely have to step in and reveal himself.

He was far too busy reeling from the fact that she was no more than a few feet away, when she cast her eyes over him. He quickly looked down into his tankard. No, he could not meet her now stinking and dirty. Besides, he had drank far too much, probably and his head was feeling the effects—or was it her mere presence that was taking all of his sense from him.

No, he could not approach her looking the way he did. He would ride home, wash himself, sleep off the ale and come back first thing in the morning where he could, with some credit, greet her and her family and not shame himself or all the Westerlands.

Lady Sansa turned away suddenly when a pretty, but slight, dark-haired woman, only a bit older than Lady Sansa herself entered the inn.

“Oh, Sansa, it will be so nice to rest early tonight, will it not?” she said in a grateful tone.

Lady Sansa smiled at her and by the gentle, proprietary way she took the woman’s arm, made him wonder if the woman was actually ill. They followed old Bartha up the stairs and out of sight and he took his opportunity to make his escape.

Scooping up his cloak and throwing a few coins on the table, he practically ran out the door, keeping his hood up and eyes alert. Once out in the yard he came to a complete halt at the ridiculousness of the sight before him: Four Men and the wheelhouse driver?

Was that it? Was that all the Tully bastard had brought with him into the Westerlands?

Four fucking Men-At-Arms? Four?

The fuck?

The FUCK?!?

Chapter Text

His mind could find no rest just knowing that Lady Sansa Stark was so very near to Clegane Keep, a little over an hour’s ride if he took the back trails down to the inn.

Now that he had washed the stink of cheap ale and the fragrant aroma of horse and sweat from his body, he would go and present himself so that he might have the opportunity to speak to her, to look upon her face one last time, and perhaps even touch her hand in greeting. It must be enough--enough for him before all thoughts of her must cease and all he had to look forward to in future was her waving from a balcony, high up above in the Red Keep, down to all the peasants, such as himself, far below.

He ruminated over what possible circumstances could have put her on the Gold Road to Lannisport of all places. He had overheard talk from her Prince to her brother while up in The Gift that she was to visit her kin at Riverrun for a moon’s turn, but a moons turn had come and gone, and it was nigh on close to five moons since he had seen her last.

He could not believe that her beloved prince would let her out of his sights for so long. Yes, Jon was his friend--his bosom friend, but what was that fool boy thinking? If Lord Stark had ever granted him the hand of Lady Sansa to take care of, and that was a big if, especially for the likes of a Clegane, he would have her tucked up somewhere safe, somewhere where her delicate kind of northern beauty could roam free and be appreciated, not around those hard sons of bitches Northmen who do nothing but scratch their balls and trudge through dirty snow. Nor have her anywhere near those snakes and cutthroats that people Kings Landing. He would protect her, love her, cherish Lady Sansa like she ought to be!

He would buy her a sweet little keep near the sea and take on only the best of servants for her to command. He had the coin for it, years of tourneys and the bashing in of breast plates of more cunts than he could count had seen to that.

Yes, he would take her where he could see the wind in her glorious hair and the pink in her cheeks come alive. And she would then smile at him and he would give her anything she wanted, anything she asked for. Hell, he would happily beggar himself, fifty times over if he must, just to see her smile at him like she meant it--just once, just one time in his miserable, meaningless life—and then he could die a happy man.

Gods!

What was he thinking? Beggar himself? Die happy? When did you become so pathetic, Clegane?

Disgusting!

He rolled over in his bed and tried to purge such thoughts, but no matter how many times he kept seeking to quiet them, those same thoughts kept rolling around in his head, over and over and over again: Sansa. Sansa! SANSA!

“Oh, for fucks sake!”

Near dawn, he gave up all hope of sleep and threw back the coverings of his bed.

The room was sparce, consisting of merely a bed, only just large enough for his frame, a few tired looking tapestries that hung limply on the walls, a small table and chair for writing letters that he never had reason to use, an old worn wool rug barely sufficient to warm his feet, and the same autumn gold hangings around the room, the ones he had long ago grown to despise during his unhappy convalescence.

He scratched at the burns on his face at the remembrance.

“Yes, great job, Gregor,” he thought sarcastically. “Love what you’ve done to the place. Mother and Father would be so fucking proud.

He scoffed. What did he expect? Fucking Gregor would no more keep his room up then he would care to come home for more than a day to see to his holdngs, preferring to ride across all of Westeros doing the Lannister’s bidding like the obedient mutt that he was.

In the last few months since coming back home, he had used his own coin to make some small improvements just to make the keep a little more comfortable, but it was not enough. His only consolation, the servants did have a pride about themselves that kept the nicer rooms, such as his mother’s old chamber and the public places, such as the great hall and the grounds looking decent and well-tended to.

Stepping into the dressing room adjacent to his sleep chamber, he quickly reached into his clothes cupboard and donned a pair of clean britches up under his sleep shirt and began rummaging around in his clothes cupboard for a particular tunic. Not finding the one he wanted, he set off for downstairs, ready to rouse every servant about Clegane Keep if he deemed it necessary.

His first stop was the scullery. He did not enter it, but he did hear someone moving about on the far side of the room, so he shouted through the doorway to get the laundress’s attention, telling her to find his green shirt.

Next, he rounded the corner to enter the kitchens and on through to the servants dining hall, where he immediately barked at all the lads still lingering over empty breakfast plates and laughing with the cook, sending the three boys scurrying off to make ready his horse.

Stomping back up the stairs to his rooms, he slammed the door shut, before removing his sleep shirt. However, in the next moment, he spun around when he heard the sound of his door opening.

He growled at the sudden appearance of the certain woman, Maggie, the nursery keeper from his youth who still had the run of the place for some reason and who had entered his bed chamber, like she always did, uninvited, and after he had removed his sleep shirt and was standing there bare chested and exposed.

“Don’t you ever knock?”

The woman rolled her eyes at him and scoffed.

“You’ve nothing I haven’t seen before,” said the middle aged woman who had been almost like a mother to him longer than the one he was born to.

She began walking about his chamber, tsking at what she saw, then tidying up his various messes and piles of discarded clothes.

“Knock next time or I’ll knock you—"

“And another thing,” she said, purposely cutting him off before he could begin his rant. “Just because you’re bigger than me now and in charge of everything with your brother away, I’ll not have you stomping and cursing about the place so early in the morning, Sandor Clegane. I don’t know who you think you are.”

“I think I’m the godsdamn—"

He wasn’t allowed to fully answer when one of the surlier maids, and who was he kidding, with such a master as Gregor about, they were all surly, entered his chambers through the door Maggie had not closed, again, uninvited and without knocking, walked past him and into his dressing room before coming back out with his brown shirt laying across her arms. His irritation ignited.

“I told that lazy bitch down in the laundry that I wanted the green one, girl, the green! Do any of the simple-minded fools working in this house even listen to me? Where in the hell did my brother find you lot?”

The servant, highly offended, scoffed.

“From down the village, where’d you think? Been living within site of this keep just as long as you; you just aint never noticed. Me Mams the cook.”

“Figures that the meanest one of you lot would have a daughter like you.”

“You try being agreeable when the likes of your brother, The Mountain, is here at home. He don’t mess with me, though; he never messes with us mean ones.” And to put a point on it, she grabbed the handle of a small dagger hidden in the pocket of her apron.

Incredulous, he pounced.

“What’s that sassy speech of yours got to do with you bringing me my green shirt?”

“I was told to tell you that the green one was still in the mending basket,” said the maid, primly. “I was then told to come up to your chamber and fetch you the brown one from the bottom drawer on account of it being already mended and clean.”

He raised his finger to point out to her that she was to do as she was told and not to talk back, but in this he was thwarted by his old nurse, once again.

“Answer me, Sandor Clegane,” said the nurse, pulling his attention back in her direction. “What’s gotten into you? You come back here from that tavern last night with your eyes wild as if the Warrior himself was on your heels, stinking of that cheap ale old Bartha probably makes from horse piss and ordering hot water just as all of us were sitting down to supper. Now here you are, waking everyone up before the crack of dawn with more cursing and demands. I’ll not have you upending the order of this house, I will not!”

“Last I looked you’re not the boss of me, the mistress here, nor my mother!”

“Washed your ass enough times before you were ten year old to make me damn near as. What’s this all about, anyway? You been acting strange.”

“It’s nothing about nothing!” he snapped. “And you,” he exclaimed, turning back around to the maid, “make yourself useful and bring me another shirt. I look like a cunt when I wear that old brown patched thing.”

The maid made a face full of astonishment.

“Why you all particular this morning? You aint never cared before what you were wearing when you was out riding patrol. Why you care how you look all of a sudden like?”

“I never said I cared how I looked!”

“You said, and Maggie heard it too; you said that you didn’t want to look like a cunt? We heard ya.”

“I don’t care what you thought you heard; I just don’t want to wear my old brown shirt. And why do you choose now to listen to everything I say, when you ignore me most any other time? Just get me another shirt and that’s enough lip out of you for one day!”

The maid signed loudly and tiredly, but did as she was bid and went back to find another shirt. And to his absolute horror, she returned with his new black shirt, the fancy one with the intricate autumn gold embroidery all along the chest and the edges which Lady Sansa Stark had made for him, which he was sure was at the very back of his drawer and out of sight.

“You won’t look like a cunt wearing this one, I’d wager. You’ll look like a right proper lord.”

”Put that back,” he shouted.

“A bit too fine to be out riding in, if you ask me.”

“Nobody asked you!”

His nurse had been silent and watchful of this entire exchange, and he could see her eyes taking it all in and her mouth winding up for questions.

“That’s a mighty fine garment if you ask me—mighty fine. And just where did you get such a fine thing as all that, Sandor Clegane?” she asked.

But it was the maid who answered.

“Was there in his bag when I unpacked for him when he came home from the wars. Although, I never pushed it all the way to the back, like it were a dirty rag he wanted to ignore. Maggie, just look at them pretty, little stitches. And done up in his house colors, too, by a fine lady, who was educated up in one of them fine houses, no doubt.”

“Nobody fucking asked you!”

The nurse reached out to finger the garment, before she turned her eyes up to him, searchingly, her brows knitting together in deep thought.

“Are you off to court someone?” Maggie asked suddenly, but carefully.

He looked heavenward to beseech the seven gods he did not believe in.

“Which one of you cunts thought to curse me with this lot?”

“That’s not the answer to the question I asked.”

He sneeringly replied, “No, I’m not off to court anyone!”

Maggie put a hand on her hip and grinned at him knowingly.

“It better not be that Hannah down the inn. I don’t know what your poor late mother would say if you brought back a serving wench to be mistress here in her place. But then, no tavern wench stitched this. It is true enough: a fine lady stitched this. A Lady with a Septa, and likely a Lady mother, and prospects. Are you one of them prospects. Hope you got the coin for her.”

“Would you shut you hole?”

“Funny thing, I been seeing something in the runes. Can’t say yet what it is exactly, but I been seeing something to do with you. I see red. Lots and lots of red, it’s not blood, though. That mean something to you?”

“For the love of--.”

“Let’s see now, she has to be within a day’s ride. So, that rules out the young ladies in Crakehall, Hornvale, and The Crag. That leaves House Swift down in Cornfield. Then there’s Lannisport—

“No, Maggie, no!” said the maid. “Theys all stuck up bitches down in Lannisport! We don’t want no Lannisport mistress up in here, telling us what to do.”

Maggie cocked her eyebrow in thought before nodding her agreement.

“True enough. Well then, Silver Hill is possible, but that be a push, more like two days ride. Besides, I heard tale that the Serrett daughter is an old maid and nigh on thirty-two and gone off to be companion to her married sister down in Ashford.”

Sandor was growing increasing uncomfortable with all this talk.

“You’re both missing one very any important thing. You forget who’s the actual master in the godsforsaken Keep? Go and pester Gregor, if he ever comes home, with all your talk and prognostications. Just see how much he likes it, if you are brave enough to flap your gums in his face. And anyway, who said anything about a new mistress needing to come from the West?”

He stiffened when those last words came pouring from his mouth. Maggie turned knowing eyes upon him, then. He cursed under his breathe to be so caught out.

“So, she’s not from the Westerlands, then, your lady, I mean?”

“There’s—there is no lady!”

“Is she pretty?” asked Maggie.

“There is no lady.”

“Come from a good family?” asked the maid.

THERE IS NO LADY!”

“Well,” said Maggie, finally, “why didn’t you say so? You let me run on and on like that.”

He wanted to shout, to rail, to scream at them, but it was useless. He merely balled up his fists in silent anger.

“We’re done here!” He snatched his black shirt from the maid’s hands and pointed to the door. “OUT! The both of you! NOW!”

And just as Maggie closed the door, he heard the maid say in a loud whisper, “I hope she’s not stuck up.”

Chapter Text

The servants of Clegane Keep were not the only thing that fucked up his morning. For upon arriving at the Prancing Man inn, he was told that the Tully’s and their entire retinue were long gone!

“OH, FOR FUCKS SAKE!!”

Old Bartha had looked at him narrowly, the wheels of her mind visibly turning and likely wondering why he was in such a hurry to see them, when he had undoubtedly seen them all the night before.

However, before she could put two and two together to come up with any more probing questions, he spun on his heel, re-mounted and once again set off.

Sometime later, he was making his way down a narrow trail carved into the side of a hill, an incline usually only navigated by animals too dumb to know the danger and generally not by men with more than shit for brains and a raging desire to have their decomposed body turn up long after the next winters snows. This shortcut, he was certain, would lead him to come across the Tully party any time now.

The way he figured, Tully had a wheelhouse trailing behind him---with a steep hill to climb—and ladies. And didn’t they—ladies--like to stop, to admire a view—to rest and take tea—and then, after all that tea drinking, stop to take a piss like everyone else?

But what would he say when he met them—to make it not so obvious that he knew they were in the area and that he had been following—no, he had happened upon them… by chance --in the middle of the bloody Westerlands like a cunt that he was?

He practiced his greeting… out loud.

“Why, you’re a long way away from Winterfell, Lady Sansa.”

This he followed up with an attempt at a smile--which immediately ended in a groan when he felt how idiotic he was being. He tried again.

“Hello, Lady Sansa. Welcome to the Westerlands.” And then smile… keep smiling…

He groaned again. He didn’t even need to see his reflection in a looking glass to know that it was in no way convincing.

“FUCK! Why is this so fucking hard?”

He knew that he was utterly useless at this sort of thing. Absolutely hopeless. He was only good for one thing: killing! And maiming! And breaking the bones of cunts who deserved their bones broken. Lot and lots of broken brokens. But women? He never knew what to say to any of them—and then when he managed to say something to them, he invariably said the wrong thing… especially to one Lady Sansa.

“Greetings, Lady Sansa.”

No, you idiot, don’t say that, say…

“Hello, Lady Sansa. Welcome to the Westerlands. What a coincidence. I didn’t expect to see you… on this road… and quite near to where I live. Over that ridge, actually. What are the odds of me riding up on you and your kin?”

Zero! The answer is zero, you idiot! She’s going figure it out… she's going to know that you’ve been tracking her--following her like the fucking cunt you are!

Wait, he thought, an epiphany coming to him suddenly.

Why do I even have to greet Lady Sansa to begin with? By rights, I should greet Lord Tully first. Yes, that’s it… he would maybe talk to Tully a bit... and his wife too. He would be pleasant! Well, he would try to be pleasant and if that went well, he would then turn to Lady Sansa and say—he would say…

And that when he heard it… a lady’s scream... up ahead… men laughing loudly… with that particular kind of laugh that did not bode well…

Threatening. Sinister. Roguish.

Dangerous!

With a brother like Gregor about, he knew that kind of laugh, he’d heard that kind of malicious laughter his entire life.

He dismounted and led his horse down from the rocky tract and into the tree line and tied the animal to a nearby tree, the rustle of leaves and wind covering any sound from him and his horse, to where it was dense enough in places to keep him and his mount well hidden.

And there they were, surrounding the very same Lydden wheelhouse he was looking for, and likely the very outlaws half the Westerlands had been trying to find for the last few moons.

Tully was on the ground, his leg bleeding from a knife wound. The other lady was struggling with her accoster, trying to wrench herself away. But then his eyes had locked onto Lady Sansa. She was frozen, petrified with fear--and the man who had her in his grip was touching her, his dirty, filthy hands groping her in the very worst way.

Binding rage filled his vision.

He reached out to grab the sword strapped to his horse, years of practice having aided him in locating the weapon without looking. And then he acted, he was done with useless, unnecessary words. His blade would henceforth do the talking for him.

-----

When it was all over, he stared down at Lady Sansa, who had fainted to the ground. He touched her shoulder and shook her slightly.

Slowly she blinked her eyes open, squinting from the sun before he moved his large body over slightly to block the light shining in her eyes.

She was staring up at him in that way people do when waking up after a long sleep and being momentarily puzzled by their surroundings. If the situation had not been so very serious he would have laughed at the confounded face she was making on her beautiful, lovely, confused face.

He stood up and stepped back and reached out with his hand to assist her in standing. Once on her feet, she drew back a little herself, seemingly embarrassed to have fainted.

“Did he hurt you?” he asked. “Are you alright?”

Lady Sansa, at first, nodded dumbly before shaking her head in the negative.

He so wanted to smile, but had the feeling that she would not appreciate being laughed at just then. So, he said nothing about her contradiction, but did not let her off so easily.

“I would think after last time you would have learned your lesson. What happened your little knee to the nuts trick?”

“In the moment, Ser, I believe I was more worried for Roslin. And so much was happening at once and I--I just—forgot,” she finished lamely.

“Oh aye, forgot, did you? I guess you were just going to let him rape you and that other woman then? You should be very glad that I am good at killing.”

“No.”

He scoffed.

“What? You’re not glad that I’m a killer. Thought if you asked that cunt nicely enough, he’d just stop?”

She began shaking her head.

“No,” said Lady Sansa. “That is not what I mean. I meant; she is not merely some Lady. She is my aunt—my aunt, Lady Tully.”

Said Lady Tully was frantically attending to her husband, but in that moment, hearing her name, she glanced up.

“Sansa?” said Lady Tully, with a tense, frightened question in her voice.

“It is all right, Aunt.” Sansa finally glanced around, seeing her uncle’s men still on high alert. “Uncle, please have your men lower their weapons. He is a—a friend, a friend of my brother, Robb. His name is Ser--Sandor Clegane. Ser Sandor, may I introduce my aunt and uncle, Lord and Lady Tully?”

He let the Ser honorific go for the moment, especially when he could see that Lady Sansa’s voice was high-pitched from strain and her hand and lip were trembling a bit. He turned to the Tully’s to reassure them.

“Aye, have no fear, my Lord Tully, My Lady.” He bowed his head slightly, though awkwardly. “The Clegane’s are bannermen of the Lannister’s, if that settles your nerves. You’re safe with me. Lady Sansa,” he turned back to check her over once more, “is safe with me." He then addressed the injured man. “Lord Tully, I can see that you are in no shape to give orders, so, if you would permit me, I will take charge of your men.”

At his weak nod, Lady Sansa ran over to assist her aunt as best she could by holding her uncle’s head in her lap.

“We are very grateful to you good Ser Knight and owe you our lives,” said Lady Tully.

She began ripping at her underskirts to use to bind the bleeding leg wound and nodded as politely as she was able, but he could see her own distress and distraction, as well. He went on.

“I need to get you all off this road. You never know who’s still out there lurking about. I will see you all to my family's keep where you would be safe and seen to; it’s not very far. My old nurse, Maggie, is a fair healer. She’ll see to your wounded. The village near to the house has an old Maester who can be sent for to help, as well.”

He directed the Tully men to gather up the weapons, rouse the one guard still out cold, and to get the horses (theirs and the outlaws) and wheelhouse in order. He didn’t touch the bandits, telling the men to leave them to the crows as a warning to others.

He then directed the Tully guards to get their lord into the wheelhouse. Lord Tully, still overcome from his pains, was carefully and immediately loaded in, followed by his wife.

Clegane then walked over to where Lady Sansa stood, produced a small bit of rough but clean cloth out of his pocket, and began to wipe the blood and bile from her face as carefully as he could. Lady Sansa still seemed too stunned to object.

“I thank you, Ser.”

“Still not a Ser,” he whispered lowly, his voice deep and soft and for her alone as he concentrated on cleaning her face as gently as he could.

Satisfied that he had removed most of the gore, he stepped back and stared at her for the longest moment, before suddenly turning away and setting off into the tree line and emerged moments later riding his large black horse.

He approached Lady Sansa, who was looking around, seeming as though she was not quite sure of what to do. He reached down, got her about the waist, and lifted her up to sit sideways in front of him on his own horse.

“Mount up,” he shouted out to the Tully men.

Lady Sansa was staring at him, aghast.

“What?” he queried, always knowing what she was thinking.

“I have my own horse, Ser. I believe I am well enough to ride.”

“Oh, you do, do you?”

“Yes, of course I can.”

“Let me see you hand?”

“What do you mean by ‘Let me see your hand?’”

“It means: hold out your hand.”

Confused, she presented him her hand, only to watch him watching it. Even she could see the tremble there. She snatched it back and hid it under her other hand on her lap.

He scoffed again, kicking his horse in the flank to get him moving.

“You still look as if you could faint dead away at any moment. Besides, I don’t trust this lot of green boys to protect you.” She was about to open her mouth again to insist, but he cut her off. “You will ride with me where I can keep an eye on you.”

“I do not think—”

“Your first mistake.”

“It would be better if--”

“Better for whom? Not better for me if something happens to you with your uncle laid up. Lord Stark will never take my head with that big-ass Valyrian Steel sword of his, if I can help. But first, I’d have to get pass Jamie Fucking Lannister for bringing shame upon the Westerlands. Oh, and then that Princely cousin of yours: he would get in his licks, followed by the King who would burn me more than I already am, with that damned dragon of his. I have never, in my life, met a woman so fucking in need of protection as you. So, if you don’t mind, you’ll sit right here, and you will like it.”

Chapter Text

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Sansa sat in front of Sandor Clegane, upon his terrifying black horse, as his ancestral home came into view... which shocked her to her very core.

Clegane Keep stood imposing and stately, sitting on the high horizon, backlit by bright sunshine, deep blue skies, and large, puffy white clouds.

As the horse drew nearer, Sansa turned her head this way and that way, stunned by everything she beheld: a winding stream swelled into a gorgeous blue lake and a stand of beautiful woods expanded into an enormous forest, which extended into the high woody hills looming majestically in the background.

This was no simple tower house, which she had expected from so minor a landed family. It’s light gray stone and black accents made the home appear far more modern and well-kept than Sansa would have ever suspected. Clegane Keep was nothing on the scale of Riverrun or Winterfell, but there were few that were. And yet, she found that it was well built, sturdy, and very pleasant to look upon and showed the Clegane’s to be a prosperous family; more prosperous than Sansa had imagined.

She turned her head to say something to Clegane on the very subject, but to what end she knew not, and found Sandor Clegane’s eyes already upon her as if he already anticipated some astonished questioning on her part. Not wanting to give him ammunition for his usual cutting replies, she closed her mouth and faced forward once again.

After the party made it over the drawbridge, Sansa took in the expansive and orderly walled courtyard, edged with plantations with what Sansa assumed were topiary fruit trees in late spring bloom.

Several neatly dressed servants, no doubt alerted by someone on watch, as to the size of the party approaching, stood waiting in the courtyard to either assist or to stand by and await a command.

When they stopped, Sansa glanced down when a stableboy rushed over and took up the reins of Clegane’s horse. Once dismounted, Sandor Clegane began loudly barking orders, and several servants leapt into action.

There were stable hands to tend to their horses, house servants guiding her aunt, and burly grounds men aiding the Tully guard to carefully support her uncle down from the wheelhouse.

Finished with issuing orders, he glanced at her with his hands held upward, posing a silent question. And with her silent nod he was helping her down from his horse.

“Izzy,” he called sharply, “over here!”

A tall, raven-haired young woman, standing on the stone steps near the entrance, and who had been staring wide-eyed and mesmerized by the comings and goings in the yard, scurried down obediently.

“There’s been some trouble on the road,” said Clegane, flatly, as if it was a regular occurrence which he saw every day. “Tell Gwynne to make up the mistress’s chamber for our guests, Lord and Lady Tully.” The young woman nodded, quickly glancing at the strangers being led into the house, before her attention was drawn back to Clegane. “Put this one here next to you, and make sure she has everything she needs. Also, tell Maggie to look her over in a bit. I’ll see Lord Tully settled in the sickroom myself.”

Obviously having no more need of her, Clegane turned and stomped off in the direction the manor’s entrance. Sansa glanced at the broadness of his retreating back, a little put out at not being properly introduced. She next glanced at the young woman. She was modestly dressed, but her clothing was not the simple clothing of a servant, and she was far too young to be the housekeeper.”

Blue eyes regarded gray for a long moment, each unsure what to do next. When it appeared that the young woman had nothing whatsoever to say, Sansa spoke first.

“My appearance must be very shocking to you; just as Ser Sandor says, there has been some trouble on the road. And now that I think about it, this is not the first time he has come to my aid while traveling.”

The girl’s eyes widened in shock. She spoke, her voice shy, soft and low.

“Do you—do you know my brother? You were riding with him on his horse, and you seemed—at ease in his presence.”

“You are his sister?” was Sansa’s surprised response. “Forgive me, but I am quite astonished. I did not know he had—he never said--.”

“Oh, please, please forgive him,” the girl rushed to say. “He does not mean to be--oh and forgive me, I should have introduced myself and welcomed you properly.” She curtsied demurely. “W-Welcome to Clegane Hall. I am Isador Clegane.”

Lady Isador then gestured to a servant off to the side, who approached with a small tray of bread and salt. After Sansa had partaken, though in truth, she could barely swallow it for the rancid taste of bile still lingering in her mouth, she smiled self-consciously.

Sansa took time to look closer. The girl was tall and slender, with a delicately pale complexion off set by jet black hair, even darker than her elder brother’s, which tumbled down her shoulders, faming her face and making her appear almost childlike, if not for her well-formed womanly figure.

She was very pretty, could not be more than fifteen or sixteen and seemed unused to welcoming guests going by her obvious shyness, uncertainty, and deeply pinked cheeks.

“Thank you for your kind welcome, Lady Isador. I am Lady Sansa Stark.”

The girl returned Sansa’s cutesy without additional comment on who she was or anything for which Sansa was extremely grateful.

“Shall I show you to your room, Lady Sansa?”

“I would like that, but first, may I see where they have placed my uncle, Lord Tully? I wish to see for myself, so I know where he is.”

Isador nodded and led Sansa up the front steps, through the door, into the receiving hall, past numerous servants running to and fro, up a wide staircase and down a long corridor into the left wing and up to the first door.

The door was fully open and looking inside Sansa could see several people bustling about a bed, getting her uncle settled, with a woman of a similar age to her mother, issuing commands to the other servants as if she were the Lord Commander herself while Roslin was helping her husband out of his clothes.

“Who is that?” whispered Sansa, nodding to the woman.

“That is Maggie. I do not rightly know what to call her, for she does many things for us, but she was my nurserymaid when I was younger, so I call her that,” Isador whispered to Sansa. “I’m too old for a nurse now, but she has taken care of me ever since my mother died.”

“Off with you both,” the woman snapped upon noticing her audience. “This is no place for chattering little birds.”

Sansa, not used to being commanded by servants, hesitated and glanced to her aunt for guidance.

“Aunt?”

Roslin’s focus had all been on her husband, so she was still partially distracted when she responded.

“We will be fine here, Sansa. Ser Sandor spoke of providing rooms for us all, so go and get yourself settled. You look quite done in. Your uncle seems in good hands here. I will come and find you after the examination, when I have more news.”

Sansa suddenly realized how tired she felt and how unkempt she must look to her hostess. Isador smiled shyly at her and led her back down the hall in the opposite direction.

They came to the middle portion of the house, the tower section, which Lady Isador was sure to point out.

“And that will be your aunt’s chamber… so you know where to find it--when she is ready for it, I mean. It-it was my mother’s chamber. It is the nicest in the house, close enough to the sick room so your aunt can look in. And across the hall, is the Lord’s Chamber, but he is never here.”

“Your father, Lord Clegane,” Sansa questioned, confused, having never heard Sandor Clegane mention any connections whatsoever, let alone a father or a sister.

“Oh no, not my father. My father is also dead. I mean my elder brother, although he is a Knight and not a Lord—they just call it the lord's chamber.”

Sansa was shocked. “You have another brother?”

“Oh yes. Gregor. He’s the master here now with Father gone. But he’s always out on Lannister business--chasing Kraken--as he calls it.”

“I see.”

They walked along the corridor in silence for a moment or two after they turned down another hall and Lady Isador spoke again.

“For now, Sandor is master here since Gregor is often away. I miss him terribly when he is gone, and I so love it when he comes home. He is the absolute best brother imaginable.”

Sansa's forehead wrinkled in confusion, wondering which brother she actually meant. She took a guess.

“Ser Gregor sounds like an ideal elder brother, then?”

Lady Isador burst out with a shy smile.

“Oh, I was speaking of my brother, Sandor.” Her countenance turned reflective, and she became slightly hesitant. “Gregor is not so—he prefers—his service to the Lannister’s often keeps him from home for--” she tapered off when they came to stand before a door at the end of the passage. “This will be your chamber, Lady Sansa,” Isador said, coming to stand before a door. “You are next to me,” she pointed at a door on the left. "I hope you don’t mind. I mean, I don’t make much noise. Well, I hope you don’t find that I make too much noise.”

Isador opened the door, and they entered just as several servants were bringing up the trunks. Sansa indicated which one was hers and Isador directed the men to take the others to the Mistresses chambers.

Isador stood there, thoughtful, for several long moments as Sansa glanced about, before she seemed to recollect the next logical thing.

“I expect you might like a bath? And one for your aunt, as well? I will see to it. I will send Gwynne—one of our maids--up to you. Oh, and I’m afraid we will have to share her—I hope you don’t mind. Gregor says I have no need of a personal handmaiden way out here, so Gwynne—even though she is one of the house servants, serves me as best she can. She’s not very good with hair, I’m afraid. But I have no call for fancy hair because I never see anyone way out here and now look, we now have Lord and Lady Tully,” she finished, breathily.

Isador suddenly swallowed nervously as if the gravity of hosting the Lord Paramount of the Trident suddenly caught up with her.

“I nearly forgot to ask: would you like some food sent up, Lady Sansa? I’m afraid it is past the time for the midday meal, and I am certain you want no more then to rest and to regain your strength. I can have the kitchen make up a tray.”

Sansa smiled. The shy young woman was trying so very hard to make her comfortable and put her at ease.

“Please, please do call me Sansa. And may I call you Isador?”

The girl seemed astonished at the prospect of such an honor.

“Yes! Yes! Please do. I am not so used to being called a Lady. I would be very pleased to call you Sansa, if you wish.”

“Then it is settled. And, truly, I am not so very hungry,” she said, thinking about her still dedicate stomach. “But, if it is not too much trouble, might I have some tea?”

Lady Isador suddenly looked very disappointed in herself.

“Of course, tea! I apologize; I should have thought of that first. I will leave you now to arrange it and some for your aunt and uncle, as well?” She curtsied suddenly, as if just then remembering that she was supposed to and hurried out the door.

Soon after, a serving girl arrived with a basket of firewood and kindling. She herself bobbed a curtsy and began to make up the fire. Sansa, once again, took these moments to glance around the room. It was small but tastefully furnished in shades of cream and lavender with what appeared a comfortable bed.

She stepped over to the looking glass and immediately recoiled. She looked positively wild. She still had traces of blood on her cheeks and her hair had obviously come undone a while ago. Her cloak she must give up as ruined; it was filthy from the pool of mud she had fainted into, torn at the shoulder where the ruffian had grabbed her, and the hem was both extremely muddy and bloody. She instantly undid the clasp and dropped it into a heap beside the fireplace.

“You are--?” she questioned the servant.

The servant, a plump, plain-faced girl, bent over the fire, glanced up before standing and bobbing another curtsy. “Gwynne, milady.”

“Gwynne, would you be so good as to take my cloak away to be burned. It is covered in our attacker’s blood and I cannot--I have no wish to wear it again.”

Gwynne smilingly nodded in understanding.

“Master Sandor always been that good with his sword,” she stated proudly. “The name Clegane means something in these parts. Must have been either the Kraken still meddling about or outlaws not from the Westlands. Unusual to have men making trouble way out here where the Clegane brothers are known to be out and about—they must not be knowing that. You’ve been a very lucky lady today that Master Sandor just happened by when he did.”

The girl then giggled, eyeing her in an interesting way.

That brought Sansa up short. How did Sandor Clegane, of all people, just happen to be on that stretch of road at that precise time? She then recalled the large man in the hood in the inn. But if it was him, then why—however, before she could let herself get worked up, for, she knew not what and had no certainty about, Gwynne spoke again.

“I’ll just cut this bit off, then,” said Gwen rubbing her thumb across the Direwolf clasp that held the cloak closed. “I suspect you’ll be wanting to purchase a length of warm cloth to make up another cloak before you leave. No wool merchants down in the village, on account of it being so small. You’ll be needing to send down to Lannisport, then? The Master sends the wagon down to Lannisport regular for supplies and such, only, I expect that Young Dan be going in the wagon in the morning now, on account of us having guests in the house.”

“Yes! Yes, that will be perfect,” said Sansa, smiling. “As soon as I am unpacked, I will put the coin in your hands for the cloth myself. There is no need for anything beyond something warm and sturdy… in a gray if the merchant has gray… or brown would do, if the gray cannot be had.”

“Very good, milady.”

After Gwynne bundled up the ruined cloak and was gone, Sansa inspected her traveling gown in the looking glass. It could be saved. Yes, it was dirty, but it could be laundered to free it from most of the ravages from the road.

The sweet sound of birds merrily chirping, pulled her attention away from her soiled gown to the large window in her chamber. She peered out and was fascinated by what she saw. Her rooms overlooked a beautiful side garden in full Spring bloom. There was such a perfusion of pinks and yellows and reds that it quite took her breath away.

Sansa sighed and leaned her forehead against the cool glass and closed her eyes. The awful events of the morning had now begun to catch up with her and a tear slipped out before she could stop it.

It wasn’t lost on her that once again, Sandor Clegane had rescued her from one of the worst things a woman could experience. She felt ashamed of always thinking negatively about him, even though he sometimes provoked her from the things he sometimes said.

However, she made up her mind in the very moment: going forward, she would be grateful--she would be humble—she would be kind… no matter the hateful things he said.

Chapter Text

The door to her bedchamber was still open, so, sometime later, when her kind hostess knocked and was granted admittance, she found that Lady Isador had brought up the tea tray by herself.

“The servants are all busy at the moment, Sansa, and I did not want you to wait.”

“You are very kind, Isador. Please come in and join me.”

Isador shut the door, laid the tray on a small table at the foot of the bed, sat down, asked Sansa how she took her tea, and prepared the cup as she liked. Sansa sipped and was delighted to discover that it was a tea she was very familiar with from her uncle’s household: a blend both exotic and spicy and absolutely delicious. Almost as if reading her thoughts, Isador spoke.

“It is a special blend from Pentos. Sandor ordered it for me from Lannisport two moons ago. He is so good to me; I don’t deserve it. I am sure it is shockingly expensive. But Sandor says that since I am a Lady now, a Lady must have nice things and now that we have you as our guest, I have something to serve you. Although, as you can probably imagine, since we are so far out, we do not often have guests.”

Sansa’s heart clenched. To meet this sweet young woman, isolated so far in the countryside with no one that she could see often for company, but two much older brothers and servants, went straight to her heart.

Sansa asked cautiously. “Has your Septa left you?”

“S-She died in the Summer sickness—nearly four years ago--the same one that claimed my father. Gregor said that I had had enough training up by then, so I did not have another Septa after that.”

Although having never met the man, Sansa was increasingly convinced that Ser Gregor, like his brother, would likely make it to her list of the most annoying men in all of Westeros--only to pause, and to think of the promise she had just made to herself to be on friendlier terms with Sandor Clegane after that day’s service.

Someone knocked upon the door very loudly.

“That will be the servants bringing up the bath.”

Isador ran to the door and flung it open, only, it was not the servants. It was her brother, Sandor.

Sansa watched as he stood in the doorway, filling up the entirely of the frame, staring at her sitting down at the tea table, and by the terrified look on his face, appearing very alarmed at the thought of walking into her room.

“You may enter, Ser.”

He hesitated before taking one step—and only one step--into the chamber. He looked around at nothing in particular for a moment or two before he spoke.

“Lady Sansa, I have determined it best to send a raven to Lord Jamie Lannister, explaining to him about what happened hereabouts today. He will make sure someone deals with the bodies I left on the side of the road as warning to anyone else thinking about making trouble along the hill pass.”

She nodded. Far be it from her, as her uncle had said, to prevent the actions of a good bannerman in keeping his Lord appraised of events of significance—and an attack upon a Lord Paramount in another Lord Paramount’s dominion was a very serious matter. Wars had been started for less.

“And this one,” he held out another length of parchment to her, “will go to your Lord Father at Winterfell. It says practically the same thing, but if you would like to add a few lines--”

Sansa started at such a revelation and stood abruptly.

“Oh no, no! Please, Ser. I thank you for the thought, however, I do not see how writing to my father is really all that necessary.”

Sandor Clegane looked absolutely stunned for a moment, before he scoffed angrily and shook his head as if aghast.

“Lady Sansa, what did I say to you not that long ago, about me keeping my head?”

His insinuation infuriated her and reflected in her icy tone of voice.

“My father would no more take your head, then he would take mine,” she exclaimed. “And I wish you would not say such things. He is known everywhere for his fairness and honor, and you well know it!”

“And what of my honor?” he replied, hotly. “I have my duty, Lady Sansa, and I intend to perform it whether you like it or not. If my own sister found herself nearly raped and beaten on the side of the road, her family injured, and their lives threatened, I would want to hear about it immediately?” he pointed his finger accusingly in her face. “If you don’t believe that, your heads not on straight!”

As she stood there watching the color rise up in his neck and his heavy breathing, she recognized that she had made him very angry and so soon after she had promised herself to be reasonable. She lowered her eyes, contrite and sighed.

“Of course you are correct. Please forgive me, Ser Sandor. The day’s events, it would appear, must be my excuse for my careless tongue. I did not mean to suggest such a thing and I should not have said it in the first place.”

He blinked, stunned.

“So--you agree, then?” he asked. “You agree to write a few lines to your father so that I can send it off to Winterfell?”

Now she became a little embarrassed at what she now must admit.

“In truth, Ser, my father is not at Winterfell, at present. He is in Kings Landing with all my family. Besides, I must now confess the real reason for my hesitancy since it seems you have not heard my news. I have been made my uncle’s ward.”

Puzzled, Clegane glanced down the hall towards the sick room containing Lord Tully.

“Beg pardon, Ser. It is not Lord Tully of whom I speak. I am now the King’s ward.”

Lady Isador looked at her sharply—worriedly—likely because of this newly discovered situation of her guest.

His voice dropped low when he heard this and he cleared his throat.

“Is-is that so?”

“The decision was made very recently and a proclamation went out across the land a short time ago.”

“Well that is—that was to be expected considering--.” He stopped abruptly, breathed deeply for a few moments, then continued. “Besides, the Clegane’s don’t rate amongst all you high lords and ladies of the land. If a raven was sent, it was likely not sent to the likes us—or, if so, it may be sitting on my brother’s desk unopened.”

He glanced at his sister for confirmation and she shook her head in the negative, still appearing a little shocked to be hosting a King’s niece.

“There is also one other little matter, Ser Sandor.”

He shook his head tiredly.

“Out with it, then.”

“Well, you see, when you discovered us on the road to Lannisport, we were travelling back from The Reach--Highgarden to be precise.”

“What of it?”

“Well, you see, I did not exactly ask the King’s permission to travel to Highgarden in the first place. So, you see, he only gave me permission to travel as far as Riverrun.”

“Not my problem.”

“But don’t you see? With the exception of Lord Arryn, you have recently met all my uncles—and of those three, whom do you think will be the most cross? My uncle Rhaegar so dislikes disobedience. I’ll likely be sent for—immediately--and I will not abandon my aunt and uncle now, in their hour of need, on any account.”

Sandor Clegane looked heavenward and sighed long and tiredly before he dragged the palm of his right hand down his entire face. Resting his long fingers across his mouth as he contemplated this new development, he eyed his sister standing there taking in the entire episode.

“What about you, Iz? Think you’ll like having a brother with his head on a spike?”

Isador looked back and forth between the other two before determining what to say.

“I think Sansa—”

“So, it’s Sansa now, is it?” he mocked.

“I think we should help Sansa, if we can.”

“You would. And what’s all this we horse-shit? You’re not going to be the one charged with treason.”

Sansa watched as he turned back to face her, his aspect, severe. He continued.

“I will send a raven to Kings Landing for both your father and the King, but I will not lie!”

Sansa stepped forward and reached out to touch his arm in entreaty, only to pull her hand back in uncertainty.

“And I am not asking you to lie,” she wheedled. “Just—perhaps do not mention those men.” His one eyebrow raised slow and high. “--or their intentions. You could say—just say—”

Lady Isador came up with the rest.

“Say that there was a small mishap upon the road, and that Lord Tully, Lady Tully and Lady Sansa are safe.”

Sansa had a slight modification. “No, we can say: we are well—saying the word safe would imply true danger.”

Sandor Clegane sneered and grew sarcastic.

“But you were in true danger—of being raped and murdered—by those fucking men on the side of the fucking road, but you don’t want me mention that to the Lord Paramount of the North and the King of the bloody Seven Kingdoms!”

Sansa just ignored him and went on confidently.

“And you also will have to rewrite the Raven meant for Lord Lannister along the same lines, as well.”

He scoffed. “Oh, I will, will I?”

Sansa took another step forward.

“I would be very grateful, Ser.”

“Is that even possible for you?” He groused.

“There is no need to be hateful, Ser,” said Sansa, primly.

“Oh really,” he scoffed. “Seems to me that you would have reason to appreciate the hateful things I do.”

As the two stared each other down, Isador had been looking back and forth between them both, very confused by this unusual conversation and the intensity in her brother’s eyes coupled with Lady Sansa’s fearless way of speaking to her large, imposing, warrior of a brother.

Two male servants arrived with the tub carried between them, along with three maids carrying pails of hot water. Sandor Clegane recalled what he was about, cleared his throat, nodded his head jerkily, and turned to go.

As the servants began filling the tub, Sansa, still frustrated, excused herself from her hostess, and ran after him out into the hall.

“Ser Sandor, please wait.”

He stopped but didn’t turn around.

“Still not a bloody Ser.”

Sansa snapped at him.

“You do realize that I’ve got to call you something? I am not calling you Clegane forever and ever, and even my kind-hearted uncle would take issue with my calling you by your first name alone. So, until you can come up with something much better, can you please, for now, just find it within yourself to endure me calling you Ser?”

He breathed deeply.

“Fine!” He snapped right back and made to walk off again.

“Ser Sandor.”

“What?”

“Could you--would you just turn around for a moment?”

He did turn, but seemed to be avoiding her eye, looking in the general direction of Sansa’s left ear. His face was also quite stern; he seemed even more angry, but to Sansa, displeasure seemed to be his perpetual companion.

“I apologize, again, Ser, for the scene just now. It is not you. I am just so—I promise to be a better guest tomorrow.” He nodded and seemed ready to flee once again, so she rushed to add. “Also, I have been remiss, Ser, in giving you your due. I just wanted to thank you for coming to our aid and for welcoming us into your home. If my uncle and aunt were able at this moment, I am certain you would also receive their thanks, as well. So, in their stead, please let me say that we are very appreciative. I am very appreciative.”

Sansa then gave a very low, deferential curtsy.

Swallowing, his throat worked for a moment. Unable to find the words, he said nothing and only nodded once, before continuing on his way.

When Sansa returned to Lady Isador, the girl seemed puzzled by something.

“Forgive me Lady Sansa, for asking, but you and my brother seem—you seem--”

“Always at each other throats? Yes, I must admit that we are not the best of friends.”

At Isador’s large, round, and shocked eyes, Sansa rushed to explain.

“But I do hope you know, I am very, very, grateful for your brother’s assistance on the road today. He was very brave—gallant, even--a true knight—which,” Sansa smiled suddenly, “he always seems to take issue with whenever I try to call him one.”

Isador brightened as if finally understanding.

“Yes, now I understand. I will admit, he grows very cross whenever someone assumes he is a knight. He says he has his reasons; I don't know what they are. But please know this, Sansa, he really is the best brother and the very best of men.”

Chapter Text

Sandor found himself at the back of the house near the kitchens, hiding himself like a coward in a dark narrow passage which led to the staircase down to the cellar. His sister would certainly come along that way when she left her guest, likely on her way to the kitchens to order their dinners.

As he waited, he paced back and forth, cursing himself both out loud and under his breath while grinding his jaw in agitation.

Gods! Sansa Stark… in his house and with her high lord of an uncle! Why hadn’t he taken them all back to the inn? Why hadn’t he taken them all down to Lannisport? And going by what the thrice damned Maester had begun to say about Lord Tully's recovery, it was going to be weeks of absolute torture--not for Lord Tully--but for him alone.

And Sansa Stark thanked him—bloody thanked him, and like the good puppy that he was, he was only too happy to accept her fucking pats on his head like some over-eager, faithful hound.

“Fuck!”

It was the very last thing he wanted from her: her fucking thanks--he didn’t want her fucking gratitude—he wanted her far away—he wanted her in his arms—to wanted to be permitted to kiss all her cares away…

…and he absolutely despised himself for wanting anything and everything from the likes of her, a woman so far above him and, by rights, a woman that he should not even be allowed to look upon let alone touch.

A noise on the staircase had him peering around corners. Seeing the object of his search, his hand shot out, grabbing his sister’s elbow, and pulling her into his hiding place.

“Sandor!” she exclaimed, “you gave me such a fright!” Glancing around the partially hidden alcove her brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you do here, brother?”

Sandor heard another step upon the stairs above before Gwynne appeared, passing by, her arms full, a laundry basket tucked up under one arm and something bloody under the other. Spotting them both at that very moment, Gwynne paused briefly and gave them both curious glances.

“What do you have there, girl?” He asked.

“Laundry," she said as it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"No, that," he said pointing to the other arm.

"Oh, her ladyships ruined cloak. She don’t fancy wearing it no more on account of the blood and wants to send down to Lannisport for a new one. I told her about Dan.”

Isador looked alarmed.

“Dan?” she exclaimed.”

“I mean, I only said that Young Dan likely be going to Lannisport in the morning.”

“Oh, well, that is fine then.”

She looked back and forth between then again.

“Might I be getting on then?”

“Oh yes, carry on,” his sister said politely.

“Yes, fuck off,” he said.

“Sandor!” Isador admonished.

Gwynne, used to his ill humors and bad temper, turned up her nose at him and moved along.

He watched as the servant moved away, and when she was out of earshot, he pulled his sister further back into the dark passage.

“Lady Sansa,” he asked, “Is she—is she well?”

Isador nodded.

“I believe so, brother. Maggie says she will see to her after her bath, but I am sure some hot food and a long rest is all she requires, don’t you think?”

“I am very sure she doesn’t care one bit what I think,” he mumbled.

But Isador went on, as if she didn’t hear him.

“I think she is very brave. I would have been so terrified. Even though it is only a brief acquaintance, I find that I like her. I never imagined it-- to let me address her as Sansa, after only just meeting her.”

He could see his sister was well on her way to being very delighted with their guest already.

“Yes, yes, all very interesting. Listen Iz, I think I must go away for a few days.”

Isador grew alarmed.

“Away?”

“Just a few days—no more than three. Lady Tully tells me that they left a riverboat full of their other men and horses back at Deep Den. Plus, there’s the matter of the Lyddens—their cousins, she told me. It was their horses and their wheelhouse that the Tully’s were borrowing--I told her that I would see that they were informed of the happenings here.”

“But why must you go away? Send Dan--or one of the other men.”

“No, Iz, no; don’t you see? I must do things right and proper. You know who Lord Tully is—how important Lord Tully is. I must do this myself. But you’ll look after her—I mean, them, alright? Make sure she—I mean, they, have everything they need.”

He watched his sister get a terrified look in her eyes.

“But brother, you must know, I have never hosted anyone before. Surely—surely--?”

He grasped her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes.

“You’ll do fine, love—I’ll be back before you even know it. Lady Sansa is a very good—very kind-hearted lady. To everyone—not so high in the step as she has a right to be—you’ll see. We—she and I, did not quite get off on the right foot--all my fault, really—I said some things—. But, Izzy, we need to take care of her—them—we can’t let anything happen to the King’s niece on our lands. Do you understand? She is important, will be very important one day to—to the King’s son, if you take my meaning.”

He watched his sister as she took this all in worriedly--but she did nod.

“I will try my very best, Brother. I will not bring shame upon our name. I promise.”

He kissed her forehead, before pulling her close and breathed out a deep breath of relief.

”That’s all I ask.”