Author's note:

So, this is it, the end of this story. I hope you all have enjoyed the ride and I would be more than happy to know your thoughts about it.

Special thanks to all those who have supported this story by reviewing each and ever chapter, Magnus especially. If ever you want me to write something you'd like to see in a story, don't hesitate to contact me.

Chapter 25: Walking Away

Sansa had imagined a headless flight from the city, but as always, things didn't turn out as she imagined.

"I could carry you," Sandor offered as he was opening the door leading out of the room that had been her prison. "So you could close your eyes."

He steadily held her gaze while he was asking, but she saw the hint of fear in his eyes.

"No," she said, shaking her head and preceding him out of the room, steeling herself for whatever she would find outside. He'd killed for her, the least she could do was see with open eyes the carnage he had wrought in his desperate attempt to get to her in time.

"It's not quite as bad as back at the Blackwater," he said, sounding almost apologetic as Sansa fought to remain standing at the sight of all the blood and gore she found downstairs. There had to be at least ten men, staring sightlessly at the chaos around them, one of them even from a severed head.

"Why didn't I hear any of this?" she asked, trying to have her voice sound steadier than she felt.

Sandor shrugged.

"It's the ground floor and you were two stairs up, besides, it didn't take all that long."

After the door shut behind them and they were back on the street, Sansa found herself accosted by Betsy, who was completely dissolved into tears.

"Oh my lady, thank the Seven you are in one piece, we were so very worried about you!"

Sansa returned Betsy's fierce embrace and afterwards nodded to Eric who stood next to her, turning his cap nervously around in his hands.

"We owe your rescue to those two," Sandor said, surprising her. "Betsy kept an eye on me and freed me from where Kettleblack had me tucked away, and Eric tracked Baelish and you to this house."

Sansa's eyes widened.

"How did you... why…," she stuttered, not quite clear what she truly wanted to ask.

"After all we knew, Eric and I," Betsy began, giving Eric a smile that made the boy blush, "was that you were literally walking into the lion's den, you and His Lordship."

Eric nodded gravely.

"We figured it best if we kept our eyes peeled for anything unusual going on and sure enough, lots of strange things happened."

"Eric, I...," Sansa began but the boy just waved away what she had been trying to say.

"Don't underestimate your own part in it, my lady," he said. "You made such a fuss when they took you, it wasn't at all hard to find you."

Again Sansa opened her mouth to thank those two, when both Eric's and Betsy's eyes widened and the clatter of many hooves could be heard behind them.

Sandor and her both turned to meet the sight of a whole group of Gold Cloaks, at least twenty men, armed to the teeth, led – surprisingly – by Loras Tyrell.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw how Eric unobtrusively took Betsy's hand and they both sort of melted into the background.

Next to her, Sandor tried to shove her behind himself, his body tensing into what she thought was battle readiness.

"Lord Clegane, Lady Sansa," Loras said, nodding politely, "we're here to arrest the man responsible for the murder of King Joffrey."

Then why are you still free? Sansa wondered sardonically.

"We've reason to believe Petyr Baelish planned and executed this foul deed. Have you by any chance seen him?"

Sansa thought of the bleeding body lying in the upstairs bedroom, not without a certain grim satisfaction.

"In a manner of speaking," Sandor said before she could and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from laughing as satisfaction suddenly turned to inappropriate hilarity.

"Meaning?" Loras asked, patience noticeably waning.

"He's dead."

Unsurprised, or at least striving to appear so, Loras nodded.

"In this case, I'd like for both you and Lady Sansa to accompany me to Maegor's holdfast, the small council wishes to speak with you."

Although spoken like a request, Sansa knew there was no option to politely decline what Loras was asking.

The corner of Sandor's mouth twitched as he contemplated his answer for a moment.

"Aye," he finally said. "We'll come with you."

…

Sandor wondered for a short moment if Sansa would at one point start to complain about the death grip he had on her hand while they were making their way from the stables to Maegor's. He had not even started to get over the blood-freezing terror of knowing Sansa in Baelish's clutches and his stomach had not yet settled from the sight of Baelish kneeling between her legs, ready to stick his prick into her.

After the Blackwater, he had fervently hoped to never again fall prey to the rage that had made him mindlessly butcher all those men, but when it came over him as he had frantically looked for her, he had welcomed it, revelled in the power of cutting his way through to his woman, no matter who stood in his path.

But in spite of how powerful it had made him feel, even now when the rage had ebbed, he was not physically able to let go of her hand, let alone let her out of his sight. It was doubtful he ever would be.

She had been snatched from under his nose this one time, it would never happen again, no matter who did the trying.

Another thought that still whipped him, now even more intensely as they were on their way to whatever it was that awaited them, was that he had been an idiot for staying with Sansa in King's Landing. He should've taken her and gone somewhere out of the Lannister's reach. Fuck his money, his title and his lands, none of this was worth her life.

He thought of protesting when two Tyrell men insisted on having him hand over his sword before he entered the small council's chamber, but decided against it. Any threat in there was probably a battle fought with words and lies rather than steel.

As they stepped through the door and looked around, the only council members in attendance were a dazed looking Pycelle and Mace Tyrell, but the room was full nonetheless.

To the side, perching on a high chair like a shrivelled old crow, sat Olenna Tyrell, smiling benevolently at them as Loras walked towards her, kissed her cheek and positioned himself next to his grandmother.

On a chair by the window, biting her lip and folding the material of her dress nervously in her hands, sat the Queen, looking out of the window as if completely bored by the proceedings. Behind her, Lady Alerie stood like a protective mother hen. Ser Garlan and his wife Leonette quietly conversed in one remote corner of the room.

The only one missing was Willas to have the whole family complete.

"Lady Sansa," Olenna Tyrell said with enthusiasm as she saw Sansa, "so good to see you in one piece, we were rather worried about you."

"Where's Cersei and Kevan Lannister?" Sandor asked rudely, interrupting the old woman's false concerns, before Sansa could even come up with an answer.

"The King's mother," Lady Olenna said, turning to him with a look of displeasure, "has withdrawn to her chambers, overcome with grief."

Sandor almost snorted. Yes, of course. Overcome with grief. That just about sounded like the Cersei he knew.

"And Ser Kevan rests in his chambers, recuperating from an unfortunate injury he sustained during the search for King Joffrey's killer."

In the windows seat, Margery twitched slightly.

"My grandson has given me to understand that we have you to thank for ridding the kingdom of the dangerous and unscrupulous killer who is responsible for the murder of our beloved king."

A shudder went through Sandor as he understood in a flash what they had stumbled into.

Crafty and cunning, the Tyrells had outsmarted even Littlefinger and staged a coup d'etat against the Lannisters that effectively gave them control over the Gold Cloaks, the city and the king – a young boy now effectively without family. They had sequestered the both remaining adults away under somewhat credible pretexts and Sandor would take a bet that Jaime Lannister would have a hard time returning to King's Landing should he try, what with the whole Highgarden army stationed beyond the city's walls.

While having hatched that plan with Baelish's help, they had found an even smarter way to rid themselves of their erstwhile ally – who they probably assumed rightly would have become a nuisance later on – without breaking their word to Baelish and with a minimum amount of spilled blood.

And most of the spilling had been done by him.

If it wasn't so vexing to realize how he had been used, he'd laugh out loud.

'Growing Strong', indeed.

"So you knew Sandor would go after me, whatever it took?" Sansa asked, apparently having come to the same conclusion and non-too happy about it either.

"Cersei had given some vague clues when in her cups and we had counted on the fact that no dog lets go of its bone without a fight," Lady Olenna said. Her self-satisfied smile turned warmer when she added. "Your appearance at court today only cemented our belief in that regard."

Sandor was sure he could hear how Sansa ground her teeth.

Of course he'd known they were taking a risk to appear in public like that. Hells, surely even Sansa had known. But there had been this thrill, this giddy desire to show everyone, to shout their happiness from the rooftops. The almost childish wish to stick their tongues out at everyone and prove to them they were not pawns to play with but made their own decisions. Only to become pawns once again.

If he would learn one thing from all this, it was that people like Sansa and him weren't meant to meddle in the dealings of those hungry for power. They might be able to see the lies around them, but they could not lie themselves. It wasn't their game and it wasn't their purpose. He had of yet no clear idea what it would be, but he was sure whatever it was, it wouldn't be here in this city.

Despite seeing their own failings in this affair, he was as livid as Sansa was, not only about being used this way, not only about the demeaning way he was addressed – something he'd been impervious to before – but about the reckless risk they had taken with Sansa's life and health by using her as bait.

"How was that supposed to work out with me tied up by Kettleblack, under your grandson's watchful eye?" he asked, for now trying to not let his fury show.

"I was about to free you when I noticed that you had already gone," Loras explained, "I am rather curious how you managed. I imagine Kettleblack would have been more thorough in binding you."

Another shudder went through Sandor at the thought that it would have been way too late by the time Loras would have deigned to come set him free. Surely they had waited until Joffrey was well and truly dead before thinking of releasing him. His sword hand started to itch and the compulsion to just express his ire verbally was almost too much to resist.

Not about to give away Betsy's part in all this, Sandor sneered.

"Never a good idea to underestimate me," he growled.

Loras averted his eyes under his baleful stare.

"I know," the whelp said, "I...," he gulped and turned a rather sickly shade of green, "I saw".

Lady Olenna impatiently waved her hand.

"Enough of that," she said. "We've more important things to discuss."

As if exactly that had been his clue, Willas Tyrell stepped through a side door.

Sansa's hand turned cold in his grip, while his rage slowly simmered up to the boiling point, his vision growing red around the edges. If they meant to take Sansa away from him, they'd learn to their regret how much damage he could do, even without a sword.

He barely noticed the gentle squeeze Sansa gave his hand, but turned to her when finally he realized she was seeking his attention.

In her deadly white face, her eyes shone like glittering sapphires, determined and brave. He gave her a small nod, signalling her he would let her fight this particular battle.

For now.

"You intimated the possibility of being pregnant before, as my son reported to me," Lady Olenna continued. "You should be sure now, so, Lady Sansa, are you pregnant?"

Not taking his eyes off her, Sandor saw a secretive smile play around Sansa's lips. A smile so telling the bottom fell out of his stomach.

"It is too soon to tell, my lady," Sansa said.

Her hand suddenly became his anchor, the only thing keeping him from having his knees give way under the sudden wave of emotional upheaval. Now of all times, he suddenly understood why it had felt different when he had taken her after his absence. He knew she had used something to prevent getting pregnant before, had felt the spongy thing that barred the way to her womb. She had not used it after he came back. It's only been three days since then, but as he looked at her, at the unearthly radiance surrounding her, he knew without a doubt.

The red haze inside him vanished, replaced by a fierce determination, a protectiveness that knew no obstacles and no fear, because right now, the stakes had been raised even more. If he had wondered about a purpose before, he had found it now.

"Using the same tried and true trick as before, Lady Sansa?" the old woman asked, the corners of her mouth twitching.

"It's not a trick, it's the truth, which may be a complicated concept for you," Sansa gave back, raising her chin a little. "And I can further assure you, my lady, that I will not meekly accept any other man as my husband than the one standing next to me. I will not be forced into a marriage against my inclination, whether I am already pregnant or not."

Lady Olenna opened her mouth, but was cut off when her eldest grandson spoke, softly and with a sad smile on his face.

"I'll not be the one forcing you, my lady," he said. "I might be a cripple, but I have my pride, too. I won't take a lady to wife whose heart so clearly lies elsewhere."

Ignoring the sour look shot at him from his grandmother, Willas bowed to Sansa and left, the uneven thumping of his cane and his laborious gait for a while the only sound in the room.

"Lord Clegane," Mace Tyrell addressed himself to Sandor after he was done gaping at the door through which his heir had made his exit, "Are you aware of the fact that marriage to Sansa Stark will make you ruler of Winterfell through your son?"

Again, Sandor took a look over at Sansa, who smiled at him encouragingly.

A battle fought with words, as he had thought and his woman trusted him to wield them just as efficiently as he did his sword. He could only hope he deserved her trust.

"Marriage to Sansa Stark," he began, striving to keep his voice calm and steady, "will first and foremost make me a very blessed and happy man."

Both Lady Alerie and Lady Olenna rolled their eyes, but Lady Leonette gave him a smile that was as delighted as it was genuine.

"And my son...," he trailed off and cleared his throat from whatever was suddenly blocking it. "My son will be loyal to his sovereign... as will be his father."

His announcement was greeted with a resounding silence. He stole a glance at Sansa who beamed at him, a smile so bright he couldn't help but smile back.

"I guess it's settled then," Ser Garland finally broke the silence. "Lord Clegane will not be member of the newly formed Kingsguard for King Tommen and is free to marry Lady Sansa and return to his holdings."

Mace Tyrell drew himself up straight, nodded and said, "Very well, you may leave."

His mother looked sourly as if there was much more she might have wanted to say, but Sandor didn't need to be told twice.

He tugged at Sansa's hand, but Sansa stood her ground, her eyes on Margery, who finally turned her head as if she had felt Sansa's gaze.

"I can understand wanting to take revenge for wrong done to you," Sansa said calmly and clearly and not without compassion. "But the healing of your soul cannot come from a dead man, but only ever from someone who is still living. Baelish's death did not free me and neither did Joffrey's," she continued and then put her hand over her heart, "in here, I already had been free when they died."

One thing Sandor would remember even long years after this had happened, were the tears that rolled down the young queen's cheeks when Sansa was done talking.

…

The sun was setting as they rode through the streets of King's Landing, not talking and not needing to, just quietly enjoying the fact that they didn't need to hide, that it didn't matter anymore who saw them together.

Sansa snuggled a bit closer into his warmth and smilingly remembered a similar situation when she had woken up like this, wondering where he would take her.

She knew her destination now and was almost giddy with joy at returning home with him, celebrating their newfound freedom and the vast future that lay open before them like a rolling landscape of sunshine, green hills and joyful laughter.

…

On returning home, to both their dismay, they found the house in chaos.

Betsy and Eric were both busy packing what looked like every moveable object in the house.

"We're almost done, my lady," Betsy reported proudly. "Eric hired a wagon with a team of two horses and one horse for you to ride. We can be on our way at first morning light, if that's your wish. I left a couple of things back here in case you have to come back to the city again sometime."

Sansa shuddered at the thought that this would be necessary sometime in the future, but gave Betsy an approving nod for her foresight, while still battling her disappointment that the evening would progress quite differently from how she had hoped it would.

Naturally, she couldn't fault Betsy. In hindsight, it had been a brilliant idea to already pack up to be ready to go. They had meant to be on their way tomorrow, but had both not paid any mind to how to move their household and what to take with them.

Betsy and Eric were a blessing for them in more ways than one.

"The bed?" she asked, praying Betsy hadn't gotten around to that yet.

Her maid gave her a wink and a saucy smile.

"I figured there'd be enough time to pack the good featherbed and mattresses tomorrow."

Sansa tried to sigh her relief not too loudly.

"However," Betsy went on, "I've ordered a few comfortable blankets and pelts for the bed so there will be something to sleep on in case you come back. I talked to the woman who kept the house before, she agreed to do so again."

"Very well done," Sandor said next to her. "But I have another favour to ask of you two… in a minute."

Eric and Betsy looked at Sandor expectantly, just as Sansa did.

With all the grace of a mighty tree falling to the earth, Sandor sank down on one knee in front of her and hesitantly took her hand.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Betsy stifle a gasp and putting her hand over her mouth.

"Sansa Stark," Sandor began. "Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife… right now? There is a sept not three streets from here. Betsy and Eric can be our witnesses. I do not want to risk giving the Tyrells time to change their minds. Besides…," he squeezed her hand and looked at her as if willing her to understand what he wasn't saying, "I can't imagine being without you, Sansa. Ever. Please, say yes."

She smiled at him, tears blurring her sight.

"Yes," she said, "Yes, of course. It cannot be soon enough."

He clambered to his feet at this and crushed her into a tight embrace, his mouth slanting over hers in a breath-taking kiss, right there in front of their soon-to-be witnesses.

Yes, her soul jubilated as she melted into his embrace. Yes to becoming his wife, yes to be the mother of his children. Yes to passionate lovemaking and spending as many waking – and sleeping – moments with each other as was possible. Yes to his possessiveness and his gentle way of treating her, yes to slate-grey eyes so full of emotions he would not always give words to, but which were apparent in all his actions. Yes to his strength and his fierceness. Yes to being lord and lady of Clegane Keep, to ruling the estate together as wisely and just as she had learned from her parents. Yes to face and overcome hardships and strife and yes to growing old together.

Yes to becoming Sansa Clegane.

…

The septon was a bit disgruntled at having to perform a wedding so late in the evening, but went about it mostly dignified if a bit hurriedly. Not that they had any objections.

The impatient clearing of his throat interrupted the kiss Sandor gave her after they had been declared husband and wife, and he all but tapped his foot when Betsy and Eric enthusiastically congratulated them on their nuptials.

They were about to leave, Sansa with a heavy cloak of yellow and black around her shoulder that Sandor had produced from somewhere much to her astonishment, when Eric spoke up.

"My lord, my lady," he said, kneading his cap in his hand as always when he was nervous, "If you do not mind, Betsy and I would like to… do as you just did."

Sansa was sure both her and Sandor wore identically expression of floored surprise, but it was Sandor who recovered first with a hearty laugh.

"Here we are, so occupied with ourselves, we didn't even notice!"

He gave Eric a hearty slap on the back, a wide smile to Betsy and a demanding stare to the septon who had been trying to slink away unnoticed.

"Looks like you'll have to do a second wedding tonight."

The septon sighed but wisely decided to resign himself to his fate.

To his credit, he held the ceremony just as he had done for Sansa and Sandor, not shortening it as was usual for lowborn folk.

Eric wrapped a cloak around Betsy's shoulders that looked as if it had been made for her in the first place, which seemed incredibly practical, seeing as the one Sandor had given her – while beautifully made – was way too long for Sansa to wear.

…

Sandor had insisted on them having a late dinner at some nice inn he knew and they dined together, making it a very unusual but nonetheless joyous wedding feast that didn't lack in laughter and good entertainment. A few travelling musicians unpacked their instruments around midnight and played some catchy tunes and after a few glasses of wine, even Sandor could be prevailed upon to take her to the dance floor.

When they agreed it was time to end the evening, seeing as they still planned on leaving early the next morning, Sandor approached Eric and put a heavy looking purse into his hand.

"We owe the two of you more than I can ever repay," he said earnestly. "I'll pay for a room upstairs for you for your wedding night and this is something you can use to start a new life together… if you wish. But Sansa and I… we would be more than glad to have both of you on our side for long years to come."

Tears stood in Betsy's eyes – just as they did in Sansa's – as they thanked them for their present, expressing in no uncertain terms that they would never have thought of parting company with them.

…

The house lay eerily dark and quiet as they stepped into it.

No clatter from pots and pans coming from the kitchen, no merrily crackling fire in the sitting room's hearth.

They did their best not to stumble over all the bundles and crates littering the sitting room, but came to a stop almost simultaneously at the bottom of the stairs.

"I'll like to wash first," Sansa said, hoping he would understand. "I need to get… a few things off my skin."

The day had been so eventful, in both good and bad ways, she couldn't believe it had been only one. Still, the thought of going to bed with Sandor the first time as a married couple while Baelish's touch still lingered on her skin was abhorrent to her.

She felt more than she saw how he nodded.

"So do I," he said, reminding her that he, too, might have done and experienced things today he'd rather wash off himself.

They lighted a fire in the kitchen and warmed a generous amount of water Sandor brought from the well.

Then, unhurriedly and with great care, they undressed each other, piece by piece peeling away blood-smeared pieces of armour, torn clothing and sweat soaked undergarments until they were both bare in the flickering orange light of the hearth's fire. They had lighted no candles and the half-darkness together with the quiet of the night around them gave the impression they were the only two people left in the world, cradled in a shell of warm intimacy, a timeless moment that belonged only to them.

Sandor gently took her arm and lifted her wrist to his mouth, kissing the marks Baelish's ropes had left on her skin and then took a cloth, dipped in in water and drew it over her arm, making a caress out of this mundane action.

She held his eyes as he washed her. They appeared completely lightless and dark in this light, only lighted now and again by the reflection of fire. But his gaze on her was as much as a caress as the movements of the cloth on her body and at least as cleansing.

He dipped the cloth again into the warmed water before he ran it around and over her breasts, the fabric of the soft cloth weirdly abrasive on her erect nipples, sending a shiver of pleasure down her spine.

Before he could move his ministrations below her waist, she took the cloth from him.

"Your turn," she said, her voice low with simmering desire.

At first, he stood unmoving as she ran the wet cloth over his hands, arms and the wide expanse of his shoulders and obediently turned as she bade him to. When she washed his chest, he dipped his head and put a hand over the small of her back, drawing her to him until her breasts touched his wet skin.

She couldn't help the quiet moan escaping her, momentarily forgetting her purpose entirely when he ghosted the most delicious of small kisses around the shell of her ear and down her neck.

Proof of his desire lay hot and hard against her belly, insistent and urgent, provoking in herself much the same urgency and readiness. But his kisses remained light and unhurried and he let her out of his arms without complaint as she turned to dip the cloth once more into the clear warm water.

He drew a hissing breath through clenched teeth when she ran the cloth over his cock and then his balls.

"Careful," he murmured breathlessly against her neck, "I've other plans for tonight."

She sank to her knees in front of him, ostensibly with the purpose of tending to his legs and feet, but couldn't resist placing a few open mouthed kisses on his erection.

"What plans?" she whispered, breathless with anticipation.

He groaned loudly and then knelt down, too, taking the cloth out of her hands and drawing her into a scorching kiss.

"I mean to make my wife enjoy her wedding night like no woman before her," he said between kisses, his words laced with both determination and a hint of insecurity. "I mean to give us both a memory we won't forget."

Then he ran the cloth of her thighs, first outside then along the sensitive skin on the inside. Then he suddenly pressed it against the place between her legs, eliciting a loud moan at the sensation.

His mouth, open and hot on the skin on her neck, wandered to her ear where he gently took her earlobe between his teeth and then whispered in her ear.

"I mean to make you scream my name so loudly they'll hear it all the way up to Maegor's," he whispered and together with what his hand was doing down there, the words alone were almost her undoing.

…

As it happened, she did scream his name when he very thoroughly washed her woman's place and then again after he had chivalrously carried her upstairs and fell on her like a starving man on a plate of food.

She said his name an innumerable amount of times in the years to come. Moaned and screamed it in the throes of passion, said it with joyful happiness when she told him how much she loved him, a feeling only ever growing stronger over the years, and with glowing pride every time a new family member announced its arrival.

His name was said it with slight irritation when he vexed her with one thing or another. He kept teasing her about cursing his name when in incredible pain while giving birth to his children, but that she could never remember.

She said his name in awe as she pointed to the sky where dragons flew overhead, heralding a visit from their new queen who turned out surprisingly lenient with Sandor. They were only expected to swear allegiance to her and then allowed to continue living as they had, which was more than the Tyrells could say about themselves.

His name was a shout when she ran looking for him as she held a message in her hand that told her that her youngest brother had been found alive. A message that was followed by a year-long stay at Winterfell, where they helped Rickon to be established as the Stark in Winterfell, carefully watched over and advised by Tyrion Lannister of all people, who had returned from Essos with Queen Daenerys.

…

As the Stranger led him away from her, Sandor's name was a choked, tear-saturated whisper.

It was the last word on her lips as she followed him five years later, rasped in a voice brittle with old age, but full of hope. She smiled into the sunshine, content with a life well-lived, the laughter of her great-grandchildren playing in the yard the last sound she heard as she closed her eyes for the final time.

THE END