Fanfiction only. I own no part of Game of Thrones.

Lord Stark

"How many women have you laid with?"

Sandor scowled down at her, but she lifted her brow expectantly. She'd seen him give that scowl to countless men, and normally they would quail under his sneer and flee before him. Sansa had the best of him now, and most of his glares had lost their potency.

Seeing that she'd not relent, Sandor turned his eyes down the empty corridor and shrugged irritably. They continued in silence. When alone, Sansa had taken to gripping his bicep, a much more intimate touch than the expected courtly gesture of simply taking his arm. She squeezed his arm and laid her head against it, and he sighed irritably but laced the fingers of his free hand with hers.

"Why would you ask that, little bird?"

Sansa shrugged. "Curiosity, I suppose. I wondered how many women I had shared your heart with."

Sandor stopped abruptly in the hall and turned to face her. Taking her hands in his, he replied flatly, "None." Sansa lifted a brow skeptically. Sandor threw glances up the hall to ensure they were unobserved, and he huffed uncomfortably. His voice was a low growl. "Whores, more than I can count. As many as Lannister coin can buy." Sansa felt heat crawl up her neck, and her stomach twisted in embarrassment. She looked down at their clasped hands. Roughly, he continued, "There's no joy in fucking a whore. You try not to look at her, because she's too disgusted to look at your face and she's terrified you'll beat her bloody. There's no pleasure in it when she sniffles and her hand trembles when she takes your money. You try not to notice that she's relieved that it's over. In the end, you leave feeling blacker than before and filthy to the core."

Sandor placed a rough finger gently beneath her chin and tipped her face to meet his. "Never before has a woman invited me to her bed willingly or called out my name in desire. No one has ever anticipated my presence with pleasure, nor held me to them when we've finished. I've never slept in another woman's arms, and never before has it been difficult to leave a woman's bed." He lowered his face and kissed her softly. He turned her back down the hall, tossing a glance over his shoulder.

"Thank you, Sandor."

Sandor glanced down at Sansa and once again laced his fingers into hers. "A Hound will die for you, but he'll never lie."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"Do you want to be the Warden of the North?"

Sandor lifted his arm from where it draped across his face to glare at Sansa. He snorted in derision before dropping it back against his eyes. "No."

Sansa sat up and laid a hand across his belly. She traced the silvered lines of scars long healed. "You wouldn't want to take me to wife?"

Slowly, Sandor's heavy arm drew away from his face and scowled thoughtfully at her. She'd begun to relearn the meanings of his various scowls.

"I never said that." Warily, Sandor propped himself on his elbows and glared intently at Sansa. "What have you got turning in your pretty head, little bird? The King of the North wouldn't give you to me, not even if I spilled out every drop of northern blood to get to you."

Sansa smiled gently at her sworn shield. She pushed his thick, tousled hair back from his face and laid her hand against his scarred cheek. In the depths of his eyes, she saw his hopeless longing for her plain and that it tore through him every time they discussed her marriage. Sandor laid his enormous hand over hers, pressing her precious touch against his ruined face, savoring it for as long as it would last.

Softly, ruefully, Sandor continued, "He won't wait much longer for you to choose. He needs alliances with dozens of families to secure the North." Clearly dreading the answer, he flicked his eyes up at Sansa. "Have you decided, then?"

Sansa leaned close to Sandor, intending to kiss him, but he jerked his face stubbornly away. Sansa sighed, resting her hand on his breast. "I've chosen. I'm going to tell Jon today."

The muscles of Sandor's jaw clenched, and from behind his teeth, he rumbled, "And what of me?"

Sansa turned his face and was unsurprised to see rage and resentment kindling in his eyes. "You are my sworn shield. Until the Stranger takes one of us, I'll keep you beside me so long as you will consent to stand with me."

"And what of your new fucking husband?"

Sansa held his long face in her hands. His cheeks were blazing coals, stoked by anger and humiliation. They singed her palms as she stroked the tips of her thumbs over his high cheekbones.

"I made the mistake of letting you leave me once, and I regretted it almost every day after. You'd have cherished me when every other man only wanted to ravish me or break me for my title." She laughed bitterly. "As though being the Warden of the North is such a prize!"

Sobering, she continued, "Not a single one of them have a scrap of decency or honor. None of them have the strength to resist what is beating at our door."

Sandor sneered, "And your new husband does?"

Sansa took one of his scarred hands in her own, and stroked gently across his knuckles. She watched the course of her fingers as they plummed the valleys between the bones. "My new husband will rule the North with a hand like iron. He will dispense justice quickly, fairly, and honorably. He will stand strong through the harshest winter, and he won't shy away from the killing that must be done to secure the North." Sandor's lip curled with doubt, disgust. His breath came fast, and Sansa knew he was struggling to press down his anger. She looked back up into his eyes. "He can have every grain of ice from the Neck to the Wall, and as long as I draw breath, I will belong to Sandor Clegane alone."

Although his mouth softened marginally, Sandor spat, "And who is this new paragon?"

Sansa tried again to kiss him, and again he turned away his face. She pressed her kiss and her love against the ridge of muscle that bulged in his neck. "Get dressed and you will find out. I've already told my intended that I will have him, and I need to speak to Jon before he realizes what I've done."

Sandor's head snapped back, and his eyes burned with the betrayal. "And you didn't tell me? Is he coming here?"

Sansa pressed her lips together. "He arrived weeks ago."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Sandor held the door to Jon's quarters open for her when the King of the North had grunted his greeting. Through the open door, she could see her brother's unruly curls spilling over the back of a deep chair pulled before the fire. Sansa captured Sandor's hand and held it fast, hidden in the folds of her skirt, though he refused meet her eye. His fingers tremored almost imperceptibly, and she could feel that he was wound so tightly, he was bound to snap at the slightest provocation.

"You will see. All will be well. Trust me."

He lowered his lips to her ear, but at the last moment, he shook his head and murmured, "If you say so, my Lady."

Sansa waited for Sandor to close the door before charging around Jon's chair. "I've been waiting to know for certain, and I've decided."

Jon looked up blearily from beneath his heavy black brows in surprise. He lifted his head wearily from the hand that had propped it up, and Sansa suspected he had wiled away the entire night brooding into the flames of his hearth. He was crumpled into his chair still in his black Night's Watch furs, and he'd not even removed his boots. His eyes were smudged with exhaustion.

Jon rallied, taking a deep breath and pulling himself up straighter into his chair. "You've chosen? I hope to the Seven that it's one of the southrons, because we need the arms and supplies to feed the—"

Sansa interrupted flatly, "You don't need my cunt or my title to secure the north."

Jon's eyes flew wide at his fair sister's crude language. "The Hound's tongue is wearing off on you. It's unbecoming."

Sansa narrowed her eyes. She braced her hands on the arms of his chair and brought her face low into Jon's. "Did you hear what I said?"

Warily, Jon growled, "I heard you."

Sansa stood before the hearth and nodded curtly. "When our bannermen see the White Walkers, they will believe, and they will come. I'll not risk marrying some petty lord who will send his troops north and take me south. I'm the last Stark in Winterfell, and at Winterfell I will stay."

Jon sat bolt upright in his chair. "Now hold on! I'm a—"

"Bastard Stark." John's eyes smoldered and his lips creased into a crag of stone. "In my heart, you are my brother true, but there will always be men who question your authority. Not because of your blood, but because of your birth. I'm Eddard Stark's oldest living child, and there must always be a Stark in Winterfell." Sansa grimaced sympathetically. "A legitimate Stark."

Jon's face crumpled in anger and frustration. "So you've decided to not take a husband?"

Sansa cocked her head. "I've chosen a husband that will be more than willing to remain in the North and defend Winterfell against the onslaught that is coming. We will remain here, and we will be joint Warden and Wardeness of the North."

Jon sighed in relief. "At least it's a bannerman. Who?"

"Sandor Clegane."

Jon shot out of his chair. "Absolutely not! Out of the question! He's obviously devoted to you, but Catelyn Stark would join the White Walkers before she'd rest easy in her grave knowing that you were wasted on the Hound!"

Sansa smiled placidly at her brother and folded her hands patiently at her waist, waiting for him to take a breath. When he did, she calmly commented, "I think, my liege, you will find that I am unsuitable to be married to anyone else."

"What?" Jon's eyes fell on Sansa's hands at her waist. Misinterpreting, Jon's tone softened, and he grimaced sympathetically. "If this is about Ramsay—"

"I'm well recovered from Ramsay's abuse. I doubt anyone else would have me, once they realized I'd lay a Clegane pup in their cradle." Sansa spread her hands across her belly, and though the wool still laid flat across her body, her meaning was clear.

"You can't be . . ."

"Six weeks have passed since my last moonblood. Never before has it been late."

Jon ran his hands through his hair, and the raven curls stood on end. "We could delay until after—"

Sansa followed him as he crossed the room in agitation. "After my child is born? When my new husband took me away, do you think I'd leave my sworn shield behind? If you marry me away to anyone else, I'll ensure any child of my body will be Clegane's."

Jon whirled and glared at her. "Then you're no better than Cercei Lannister!"

"I was abandoned in King's Landing long enough. I learned, and I learned well, or I'd not have survived. The difference is—"

"There's no difference! Your father'd die of shame to know you became that cur's whore!"

"The difference is-"

"I'd never have believed—"

They were cut off when the door to Jon's chambers crashed open, and Sandor barged in, great sword in his hand and his eyes blazing. He took a single glance at Jon towering over Sansa, nearly nose to nose, and growled, "You'd do well to stand down, my Leige, or I swear to the Seven I'll cut you into so many pieces the dogs in the kennel won't find them all."

Warily, Jon shuffled back from Sansa, eyeing Sandor's blade. Sandor held out his hand expectantly, and Sansa took it. He pressed her behind him as he edged into the room, positioning himself between Sansa and her brother.

"This is your idea, no doubt. I'd have expected nothing less from a dog that crawled out of the Lannister kennels!"

Sandor drew himself up to his full height. Into his shoulder, he asked Sansa quietly, "What's he on about?"

"Jon doesn't like my choice of husband."

Surprised, Sandor's heavy brows shot up, and he growled quietly, "I doubt I'll like your choice much either, but you damn sure didn't ask my leave."

"You didn't tell him? He doesn't know?" Jon gaped in honest stupor between his sister and her shield.

"It's not for me to approve or disapprove of Lady Sansa's choice. My place is to go where I'm bidden and accept her decision. I don't have to marry the fucker. What difference should it make to me?"

Jon leaned back against a table and took up a flagon of wine. He frowned into his goblet as he poured. "He's a brute and a drunk from what I hear. No family or lands to speak of."

Sandor grunted angrily. "Is that the problem? You're worried you won't get enough out of her?" Jon opened his mouth to retort, but Sandor plunged on, "First your father sold her to be the wife of the Lannister bastard, and he'd have beaten and raped her until her blood ran down the walls of the Red Keep if Lord Tyrion and I hadn't been there to stop him. Then the Lannisters gave her to the imp. When the seven hells broke loose, fucking Baelish tried to take her for himself before selling her to Ramsay fucking Bolton," Clegane's voice trembled as he roared, "who beat her and cut her and raped her until she couldn't stand! And where were you, you worthless cunt? Pissing off the edge of the world at the Wall!" Sandor lowered his sword and slapped the goblet of wine out of Jon's hand. He towered over Jon. "Who the fuck are you to question who Lady Sansa marries? You're not her father. You're just her bastard fucking brother!" Finally coming to his senses, Sandor retreated a step from the King of the North, panting, and concluded resentfully, "My liege."

"Where were you, when Lady Sansa was being so foully mistreated?"

Sandor roared, "Trying to keep Lady Arya from getting skewered by any fucker that happened by and realized she wasn't what she appeared to be!"

Jon's eyes glittered dangerously black. He regarded Clegane coldly. "You'd give your life for my sister, wouldn't you?"

"I'm her sworn sword. I'd follow her to the brink of the seventh hell and take her back from the Stranger himself."

"Would you protect her even from her husband?"

Sandor nodded his head curtly, seething. He lowered his eyes that Jon would be unable to see how the question caused jealousy to twist in his gut. "Even if it cost me my own head."

"Would you swear fealty to me as your liege lord?"

Suspiciously, Sandor glanced back at Sansa. She stood calmly beside the hearth, her hands folded again at her waist. She nodded her approval, and he answered, "Aye, whatever she bids me do, I'll do."

Jon braced his hands on the table before him and glared down into its fine grain. "May Catelyn Stark forgive me, but Lady Sansa Stark bids that you remain here at Winterfell and serve beside her as the Warden of the North. She says she will marry only you. As her liege and her brother, I can't say that she has my blessing, but I will grant her request."

The tip of Clegane's blade dipped and nearly slipped from his hand in his shock. "What?" He looked to Sansa for confirmation. When she nodded, he asked, "Why would you give me Lady Sansa? I'm no lord; I'm not even a fucking knight! I've got neither the bloodline to deserve it and no men to pledge to your banner." He glanced angrily at Sansa. "I'm no fucking use to either of you!"

Sansa took Sandor's hand, and he glared at her miserably. "You were the first man to place his cloak on my shoulders, protecting my honor even when the King of Westeros would not. You gave me your cloak again, even when I was too much the fool to accept it. Yours will be the only cloak I will accept now."

Jon ground his molars together audibly as he watched them. "You've decades of military experience and you're one of the few men I'd dare not cross swords with. Your lousy temperament aside, you're absolutely devoted to Lady Sansa, and apparently, she's equally devoted to you." Jon glanced angrily at his sister. "Besides, I'm told that the heir of House Stark will be a Clegane, regardless of who I marry Sansa off to. It may as well be you. Apparently, the only way to guarantee Stark honor is to hand our house over to the care of a Clegane."

Jon smirked with satisfaction when he saw Clegane mouth wordlessly, gaping between the two Starks. He tapped his fingers on the table thoughtfully. "I can't do anything about your blood or banner, but there must always be a Stark in Winterfell." Sandor lowered his brows suspiciously. Jon continued, "Since you have neither lands nor men nor coin to offer as bride price, I have one condition if you are to marry Lady Sansa."

Sandor's growl was low. "What condition?"

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"It's hard, isn't it? Watching him leave?"

Sandor grunted his agreement. He wasn't used to watching an army leave without him. It rankled. "I've no idea how to be a lord, little lone Warden of the North. The only thing I've ever been any good at is the killing. I'd gladly trade my position for his."

Jon had passed out of sight hours ago, and the wagons were only specks in the horizon. "It wasn't easy for him either. He had to choose between his new brother's blade guarding his back and your experience safeguarding Winterfell." Sansa looked up into her husband's brooding eyes. "He can get a hundred strong blades. He trusts you to maintain order amongst his bannermen and to train the next wave of reinforcements. The survival of Westeros depends upon our success here." The sky was darkening and it tasted of snow. "Besides, no one is more qualified to defending Winterfell against a Lannister attack, should Cersei betray her word." Sandor grunted, leaving no doubt that he believed that that was precisely what she planned. Sansa squeezed his fingers on the balcony railing. "He left you here because you are the only man qualified to be the Warden of the North."

Sandor looked intently at his wife. "You really believe that?"

"I do." Sansa raised her chin in greeting as Arya rode into the courtyard, fleeing the gathering dusk. Her color was high and her hair whipped around her face like a pennant. She looked deeply pleased.

"Is that why you wanted me?"

"No. I wanted you for yourself, but that doesn't make the rest of it any less true. Come, Arya has yet to give her allegiance to the new Warden of the North."

Arya was hurtling the steps two at a time, breathless. Sandor watched the crown of tangled brown hair advance with trepidation. "She's more likely to give me a knife in the belly."

Sansa grinned. "Probably, but it wouldn't be your first. She holds you in higher regard than you realize. She did strike you off her kill list." Sandor hmph'ed genially. Arya reached their balcony and smiled broadly upon seeing Sansa and Sandor, their clasped hands barely visible beneath the cuff of Sansa's furs. Sansa returned her sister's smile and murmured into Sandor's ear, "Jon's her favorite brother but you're a close second. I think she'll be quick to accept that there's a new Lord Stark in Winterfell."