His hands shook. He wondered if he ought to dress in something finer, but by the time it crossed his mind, he was too close to her bedchamber to turn back. What is she thinking? What's the Kingslayer thinking? His heart pounded. He wondered at the odds of this being some monstrous jape, but it didn't seem like Jaime Kingslayer to waste time humiliating him. And yet, surely they were more like to kick a dog than feed it from the table?
King's Landing had been a torment. She was the stupid reason he stayed; if he took the keep that had once been his brother's, he'd have to leave court. At least here, he could see her, even if his little bird was in a glass case and far out of the reach of his grubby fingers. He kept his distance and his silence and his eyes on her, even when it meant watching her flirt with the courtiers. The Tyrell boy's suit had nearly killed him, for Sandor had been sure it would be successful: a true lord for his true lady.
He leapt at any shift that gave him a chance of bumping into her, and when he watched her out of the corner of his eye he could almost fancy that she was glancing at him, even though he knew it was only instinct: she only looked because some part of her sensed his illicit gaze, like a rabbit senses a wolf. When he escorted her to her chamber, she always clutched his arm and walked close, and although she did that with the rest of the men on the Queensguard, with the others it wasn't every time. It sickened him how much satisfaction he derived from that.
She was courteous as ever, and he could see that she'd grown bolder with everyone but him. He'd given her plenty of reason to fear him, after all. He was stricken to think of the way he'd behaved in his cups back when they both belonged to Joffrey. He'd sealed her unease forever the night he left, holding a knife to her throat and stealing a song from her: a girl barely flowered. Just a few moons past she'd seen him gut three rapers on the Kingsroad, close enough for their blood to spatter her pretty dress and prettier face. She helped him tend to his wounds without a word, until she departed for her bedroll with a "thank you" and a kiss on his burnt cheek. It warmed him just to think of that, although afterwards she stayed well away from him.
Maybe he'd died by the Trident after all; maybe this was some private hell designed just for him. Even if the girl wanted him, which she couldn't, he'd believed he would never be able to have her anyway: she was too highborn. Until this. It's only a political match... but 'straight away', thought Sandor. He replayed the Kingslayer's words in his mind; his heart leapt every time. She doesn't fear me enough to turn down Winterfell. She'll be my wife, and I'll be the one to give her children: a son to rule the North and maybe even one for my father's tiny keep.
"You're not needed," he told the guard by her door brusquely. He knocked, wondering if she'd have a maid with her. Since the Grey Death swept the city, skilled servants like handmaids were in short supply, and the minor nobles at court often shared staff now.
Footsteps approached. He felt like a boy on the morning of his name-day, overcome with excitement for a longed-for gift - yet at the same time gnawed by anxiety that he was about to be disappointed. Maybe she'd never had a choice in the first place, and she'd been hoping he would refuse for her, or some other contrivance to make him feel a fool. Then he swallowed, at once eager for a glimpse of the girl he was supposed to wed and apprehensive about what he could say.
A flicker of surprise crossed the girl's face when she saw him. All Sandor could see was creamy skin and auburn curls, and eyes the same liquid blue as lakes in summer. Somehow, she's mine. Speech deserted him for a moment, replaced by a score of feeble openings. They said I'm to marry you, was rejected instantly.
"Ser Jaime sent a message," he said abruptly.
He thrust the parchment at her. He resisted the urge to take to his heels, cursing Jaime Lannister for making him watch this moment. Sansa thanked him and weighed the note in her hand without opening it.
"Please, come in," she said. Over the years, he'd roared at her never to call him 'ser' or 'my lord'; when she spoke to him, he could see how studiously she avoided appending any title to her words. He was touched that she bothered, because sounding so impolite clearly made her uneasy.
Her little apartment was empty; Sandor realised with a jolt that it meant they'd be alone together.
"I was taking tea," she said timidly. "Would you like to join me?"
Sandor nearly laughed out loud, but this was her world and he would abide by her rules. He eyed the spindly chairs by her breakfast-table wondering how many chairs he could break in a day, and sat down gingerly. The girl conjured a second glass from somewhere and set it in front of him. There was a vogue for herbal teas at court: bland cocktails of boiled weeds and grass that were purported to be calming and healthful, though he'd stuck to his ale and strongwine. He could see dried flowers stewing in the little bird's glass teapot.
She folded herself into the chair opposite, taking care not to trap her skirts underneath her. As she placed the sealed note carefully on the table between them, she met his eyes but said nothing. Warily, he watched her pour. It felt strange to be treated as an equal instead of a guard. She raised her glass to her lips and Sandor hastened to mirror her, his big hand engulfing the delicate little cup. The stuff tasted faintly bitter, like a weak maester's remedy.
"Can you tell me what Ser Jaime has written?" she asked softly as she rested back in her chair. She nodded towards the note.
Sandor hesitated. "Couldn't say, little bird," he said gruffly. "He didn't let me read it."
The girl flashed him a pained smile. "The Lord Regent is a busy man, but only one of his concerns of state involves me." She sighed. "Now he's sent you to deliver his message. Perhaps he didn't tell you exactly what he wrote, but this is a matter I believed to involve you, too." A light seemed to come into her eyes, even as her voice dropped to barely more than a whisper. "Does it?"
It hinged on this. She wanted the answer from his lips, not Ser Jaime's hand. He could change his mind here, tell Jaime he took it back. With either answer he could make an utter fool of himself; with the wrong word he could watch her face fall. Only one option gave him a chance of happiness.
"Yes, little bird," he said hoarsely. "It involves me. But only if that's what you want."
Another smile, warmer this time. "Then I suppose we're betrothed now," she said.
"I suppose we are," he said. He leaned back himself until the chair gave an alarming creak.
It was starting to hit him now. Drinking tea with Sansa Stark, just talking. This was not the life he'd imagined for himself. He'd never dared. He wanted this more than anything, but he felt compelled to make a concession to gallantry.
"I can tell him no, if you want. He'll find you some lord or a handsome knight;" he fairly spat those words despite himself. "This plan can't have been your idea, little bird."
"No, it wasn't my plan," she admitted. Then she stunned him, placing a hand over his. "But it was my wish. For longer than I can say."
Organising a wedding proved much easier than Jaime feared. The union of Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane was not to be a grand state affair, so it was held in one of the small septries at the Red Keep. The feast was to be as simple and robust as befit the court in winter, with some two score guests in attendance. The greatest delay came from the tailors, who needed a few day's notice to procure their materials.
Jaime sat at the front with Queen Myrcella. Sansa Stark was led to the altar by King Trystane, resplendent in his sandsilks in the colours of House Martell. The lady herself was a vision in white satin. The simplicity of the gown only seemed to set off her vivid features, and a silver circlet enamelled with white flowers made her look even more like some queen of winter. An industrious servant had found the maiden's cloak she wore when she wed Tyrion. By law, a Lannister cloak might have been more appropriate, but under the circumstances the Stark colours seemed far more fitting.
That Sansa Stark would look radiant on her wedding day was hardly a shock, but it was to Jaime's amazement that the Hound appeared every inch the proud bridegroom. He looked surprisingly comfortable in his finery, standing straight and tall in a black velvet doublet slashed with yellow. Clegane truly was a massive man, closer to seven feet than to six and heavily muscled. From one extreme to another: between the Hound and my brother, she could make two normal-sized husbands. With difficulty, Jaime pictured Sansa's wedding to Tyrion. He'd heard about all of that unseemly business with the cloaks. Sandor Clegane would have no problem reaching her shoulders: he towered over his slender bride, though she was a tall woman herself.
The Septon recited the vows, with the Hound and Lady Stark accepting them in turn. King Trystane, still playing the part meant for the bride's father, unfastened her maiden's cloak and stood aside. He was a clever, comely boy of middling height, but next to the Hound, the lord of Seven Kingdoms looked like a callow squire. The only times Jaime had seen him this confident were with a sword in his hand.
Sandor Clegane carried a folded cloak of yellow silk, which he shook out gently to reveal the three dogs of his house. This was meant to be a tender moment in love matches; Jaime saw poor Sansa tremble when the Hound's arms encircled her, though her happy smile never faltered. With his cloak wrapped around the lady's shoulders, he bent deeply to fasten the clasp. It was the work of a moment, but to Jaime's utter astonishment, the Hound turned his head as he drew back, brushing a kiss against his bride's cheek. The girl lowered her head, blushing shyly. Over the queen's head, Jaime shot a look at Lady Tyene, but she was as placid and dispassionate as ever. Jaime supposed she wasn't well enough acquainted with the Hound to find this shocking, so he kept his consternation to himself.
"With this kiss I pledge my love, and claim you for my lord and husband," Sansa intoned, her voice ringing out clearly. The pretty flush was still in her cheeks.
"With this kiss, I pledge my love," said the Hound, his rough, rasping voice softer than Jaime had ever heard it, "and take you for my lady and wife."
Suddenly, Jaime felt queerly like an intruder. At some imperceptible signal from the septon, they moved closer. A perfunctory peck was all that was needed, and then everyone could get on with the feasting and dancing. Instead, the Hound rested his hands on her waist as he bent down once again, and Sansa rose on tiptoe to cup his cheek, grotesquely scarred as it was. Black and auburn hair mingled on their cheeks like smoke and fire. The kiss was completely chaste, as befit the occasion, but went on rather longer than was entirely necessary.
It's some sort of sorcery, thought Jaime. There's something about altars and cloaks and vows and candles; it turns them into mummers, if only for an hour or so. He remembered how Cersei had smiled when she married Robert, when earlier that morning she'd been screaming her devotion to Jaime instead.
Sure enough, the couple smiled idiotically at one another as the septon pronounced them wed. "Gods," Lady Nym murmured to her sister, "can you imagine what the children will look like?" Unbidden, the image of giant Sansas with the Clegane colouring popped into Jaime's head. Black hair and grey eyes. They'd almost pass for Starks.
Sansa had to take care not to spill any food on the white satin of her dress. She wanted to keep it for her first banquet at Winterfell, though it would need some alterations to make the bodice less obviously bridal. She liked the cut of it; the skirt reminded her of snowdrops. She liked the circlet too, but would not dare wear one in the North. She knew the price of treason, and in any case, queenship had long since lost its allure. She, like the Lord Regent, suspected that the lords of the North would want to crown her and try again to break with the Iron Throne. Robb had been a leader and a commander; Sansa could only be a figurehead, a battle-cry. She was finished with the game of thrones. She'd been used by greater lords than Robett Glover, and she'd had her fill of puppet strings.
Except for this farce. This one had played entirely in her favour.
She'd known for some time that it was the Hound she wanted. She was older now, a woman flowered and widowed, and with hindsight could see what had escaped her as a girl in King's Landing: that there was something more than twisted gallantry behind the Hound's dealings with her. She'd never forget the moment she recognised him in his habit on the Quiet Isle, nor the shock a second later as she realised just what he meant to her. It was instinct that led her to his austere acolyte's cell that evening, when she begged him to join them on the road. It was always instinct with him. He'd come to King's Landing on the promise of a pardon, and she'd hoped he might have come for her too. Finally he was back in her world and this time she could return his feelings, but it seemed he'd put them behind him, along with his bloodied white cloak. She'd even kissed him once when they were on the road, but he'd been so cold and gruff that she thought it displeased him.
Sansa saw him almost every day in the capital, but he drew back every time she reached out to him. She didn't know what her advances could achieve; she didn't quite know what she wanted from him. Some glimmer of his former feelings and boldness would have made her feel less foolish, but instead he'd been shy, even awkward. It was only wise to create a distance between them, given their circumstances, but with Sandor... It was his honesty she valued most. Would it hurt more to know he truly did not care for her, or to learn that he'd finally lied to her with his feigned indifference?
She'd heard all the songs about star-crossed lovers, but none of them told her how much it hurt.
Ser Jaime's bargain was better than she had hoped for: the right to refuse his suggestions, and Winterfell if there was one to her liking. The Hound had been her first hope, of course, but she'd thought it was a foolish one when there were like to be plenty of noble younger sons vying for her hand.
Maybe she should have taken more time to think about it, but she'd dreamt of the Hound for so long... Under the table, he took her hand and Sansa put aside her doubts. There were handsomer men, better-spoken, higher-born, nearer her own age, and yet she thought Sandor was the finest man she could think of. Sandor had always protected her, and that was far more important than any of the accomplishments she'd been taught to think mattered. She hoped he'd be gentle with her tonight, and trusted him to try. She was still a maiden, even after marrying Tyrion and her time in the Vale. She'd become intimate with Mya Stone and Randa Royce, whose earthy anecdotes had taught her what to expect; Petyr had taught her more about the lusts of men than she cared to remember.
She'd never seen Sandor quite as merry as tonight. He was engaged in some banter with Ser Jaime, but Sansa only caught the end of it.
"That business with the cloak was enough to put a man off his meat. You're going soft, Clegane."
"I'm as surprised as you," Sandor grinned, and Ser Jaime raised an eyebrow.
Sandor had carried on with his Queensguard duties in the weeks since they were betrothed, but he'd come to see her most evenings. Sansa did not allow him to dismiss the maid or her guard; he'd never kissed her until their wedding, never touched her except for her hand, and their farewells were as tender as they were awkward. He spent most of the time either making faces at her tea or making disparaging comments about the courtiers, both of which made her laugh despite herself. His unselfconscious rudeness was strangely endearing to her, and now that the ice was broken, she found the Hound who came back from the Quiet Isle an easier man to get along with than the angry man-at-arms she'd once known. The strength was still there, but the rage was gone - at least until they found subjects he disliked.
It seemed strange to Sansa: for so long it had seemed that the difference in their births would always keep her and Sandor apart, but instead it had been the factor that brought them together. Sansa knew she was too valuable for the Lannisters to give to another house, as Ser Willas' ill-fated suit had proven. Sandor could never be a threat to them, but if she'd married Ser Willas, their children would have been heirs to Highgarden and Winterfell. Though the Lord Regent only just stopped short of apologising for his interference, Sansa wasn't in the least bit disappointed when the Tyrells stopped calling. Those same Tyrells, who bore the same promises of pleasure barges and puppies, had once framed her for their murder of King Joffrey. They would have seen her lose her head. They could keep their barge.
Calls of "Bed them!" began to ring out and Sandor grinned at her, adjusting the dog-shaped clasp on his cloak. As Sansa smiled back at her husband, she decided she would have the puppies after all.
Epilogue
After the wedding, the preparations began for Lady Stark's return to the North: it would not do for the lord and lady of Winterfell to arrive like paupers. Yet somehow, there was always some minor business that needed attending to before they were quite ready to leave King's Landing: some artisan who needed contracting before they went north, some attendant would resign their service and leave a vacant post; a delayed dress, some plate at the armourer's, a horse would need replacing.
The couple grew anxious to be on their way. But the weeks crept by and the days grew shorter, and after some time a rumour arose that Lady Stark had fallen with child. Queen Myrcella forbade her to travel until after her confinement, to the distress of the lady's bannermen back in the North.
And so they were in King's Landing, not Winterfell, when the Long Night closed in and sank the North under forty feet of snow, the drifts haunted by White Walkers and the walking dead.
But some of the refugees told tales of dragons.