"Father, why?" Sansa all but shrieked. She'd never known and couldn't imagine another Warden of the North. She'd always known Robb would inherit the title one day but one day was far in the future, years and years from now, not pending the end of her brother's current travels.

"Lord Stark, are you certain you want to do this?" Sandor asked, his brow furrowed, his voice just short of being incredulous.

"Mother, he's hit his head. Call for Maester Luwin. He can't mean it."

"Sansa, I do mean it. Please don't think I'm entering into this lightly. I've thought of little else since the war, since Robert asked me to serve as Hand, since Brandon died. It's been a thought, a wish, in the back of mind for many, many years." He spread his hands wide. "This was never meant for me. I've never thought of myself as a natural leader and, as recent events illustrate, I've no skill for political intrigue. No taste for it, either. I'm doing what I think is best for my family, for Winterfell, for the north, and for myself. I believe the time will never be better to make this transition. If there should be another war, Robb will inspire his men better than I ever could. I will advise him as long as I'm of use and he'll benefit from Clegane's experience as well. I hope this peace will last, truly, but, if it doesn't, I'm not the man to helm the north."

Sansa was so shocked that her jaw began to tremble and tears pricked the backs of her eyes. "Mother?"

Catelyn had been standing with pursed lips and clasped hands. "I know you're surprised. I was, too, when your father initially proposed this idea to me. In truth, I was not in favor of it but then I received a raven from Riverrun and I changed my mind. Your grandfather Tully's health has started to decline. It's my wish to be with him when he passes. No, no, don't get upset. It's not expected imminently but it's unlikely his mind will improve."

Sansa could only nod.

Sandor asked, "When will you leave?"

"After Robb has returned and you wed," Ned answered.

"And then you'll come back, after . . .?" Sansa asked.

"Yes," Catelyn said, going to her and taking her hands.

Sansa took a few deep breaths. She would not be deprived of her parents' support immediately. That soothed her. The idea of she, Sandor, Robb, and Lyanna managing Winterfell on their own felt like children playing at come-into-my-castle. It was too much, too soon but, if she was overwhelmed, she could only guess at what Robb must be feeling. A glance at Sandor told her he was wary but not alarmed and that bolstered her as well.

"We wouldn't just leave you," Catelyn assured her with a smile and a squeeze of her hands.

After she and Sandor left the solar, Sandor put an arm around her shoulder. "You're worried," he said in a low voice.

"You're not?"

"With you here to protect me?" he smiled down at her. "No, I'm not worried."

Sansa laughed in spite of herself.

Ned declared his intention to abdicate first to the household and then to the larger population at Winterfell. Sansa could see they were as shocked as she'd been, and rumors began to circulate as to her father's health, but even these eventually hushed as the Warden of the North remained as hale and hardy as he'd ever been. Once the surprise of her father's declaration passed, life returned to its normal busy pace. Sansa completed the gown Arya would wear to the wedding. Final adjustments were made to her own gown. Catelyn finished the bridal cloak. Robb still had not returned so, having exhausted other wedding details, Sansa began leisurely work on curtains, bedding, and other household fare. She and Sandor had selected rooms in one of the towers and Sansa had given Rikard specific instructions as to furniture placement. Weather and availability would determine the final arrangements for the food as well as the flowers. Sandor continued to sabotage his dance lessons by kissing and otherwise distracting Sansa but favored her with a soft look of appreciation when he heard the musical arrangement of "My Knight" that she had devised for their first dance. They had each japed that Robb's presence was not necessary for them to say their vows but Sansa desired his company as her brother and Sandor insisted upon it as his future lord. There was nothing to do but wait and work.

Even before Sandor had officially been named the Starks' martial tutor, he began an assessment of their skills. Rickon's resentment from Sandor's previous setting-down of him in the yard made him churlish but Sandor refused to rise to any of Rickon's bait and eventually the boy came to trust what the seasoned non-ser was telling him. At that point, Rickon's anger melted away and he began to absorb, at an unbelievable rate, the lessons Sandor was trying to impart to him. In fact, Rickon flung himself into the training with a vigor that surprised his eldest sister. Once Rickon understood the point of various moves, meaning he appreciated the damage they'd inflict, he was able to execute them well, if wildly. His judgment of when to act and when to refrain proved harder to hone.

"You need to learn to listen, boy."

"Father said you're to train me to be in charge. I don't need to listen. Others will listen to me."

"Robb will be in charge. How do you think men will react if he can't even command his own brother?"

"I won't always be with Robb. I'll have men of my own."

"No one needs self-control more than a leader."

"Rickon -" Sansa interjected.

"Talking won't help, little bird. He's going to have to see for himself."

Arya could barely contain her enthusiasm for training and then her irritation when Sandor stated that she lacked control.

"Control?" she spat. "I'm as still as a serpent!"

"Forget that water dancing nonsense."

"It's not nonsense." She took a swipe at his thigh that was instantly deflected. "You just don't like it because it looks nice."

"And you like it because it does?" He cast a long glance over her tousled hair, smudged face, and rumpled clothes.

"I like it because it uses the mind and not just brute force."

"Brute force is a sign of desperation. Remember? I told you that when we began using the daggers -"

"I remember -"

"And, anyway, I wasn't saying you lack control of your sword."

Arya's lip twisted into a look of conciliation.

"I was saying you lack control of yourself."

Arya's jaw dropped open. "I do not!"

"You think you know best. There's a difference between confidence and tyranny."

"What you call tyranny I call caring about my pack."

"Your pack! Your pack. There's more to a pack than just the leader. You'd make a fine alpha until you were challenged and then you'd get angry and strike out on your own and what would happen to your pack then?"

"What would you know about it, being a lone wolf all those years?"

"You're the wolf. I'm a dog." He retrieved his shield and held it out in front of him. "See those three? They didn't take down a lioness by bickering with each other."

Arya looked like she was about to argue but, to Sansa's relief, she asked, "They're three specific dogs? Whose?"

"My grandfather's. Tytos Lannister was attacked by a lioness. My grandfather was his kennelmaster and his dogs saved his lord's life but not their own. My grandfather himself lost a leg but gained a keep and a name. I thought you'd have heard this by now."

"Sansa doesn't tell me any of the good stuff."

Sandor huffed. "She's a proper lady."

"Except she's marrying you," Arya smirked.

"She has more wits than most."

"Some might say it's a lack of control."

"Arya!" Sansa chided.

"I'm just suggesting it's a family trait, and one he apparently values when it works to his advantage."

"Family trait," Sandor repeated, not listening.

Sansa crossed over to her sister and hissed under her breath, "Arya, you apologize to Sandor right now!"

Arya wrinkled her nose but turned and said, "You know you're part of my pack now, right? You have been for a long time."

Sansa saw the look that flashed across Sandor's face but all he said was, "You've given me an idea, wolf girl."

The next day, Sandor called both Arya and Rickon to the yard. "Today you're going to train together."

He handed Rickon a map he'd made.

"Why does he get the map?" Arya complained.

"Because he's in charge today. Your sister Sansa has been captured -"

"She's right there," Arya grumbled, arms crossed.

"I'm the only source of intelligence you have and I say she's been captured," Sandor barked, scowling at them, a dare in his eyes.

There being no further interruption, Sandor went on. "Your mission is to retrieve her. Her location is marked on the map. Bring me back the white sash that's tied to a tree there in two hours' time."

"What supplies do we have?" Rickon asked.

Sandor nodded in approval. "Very good." He listed the provisions at their disposal and where they could find more.

"And there are enemies in the area, I suppose," Arya said.

"Would your allies capture your sister?" Sandor retorted, pointing out the locations and approximate numbers of foe-men.

Rickon and Arya asked a few more questions and then headed out, squabbling over who was going to hold the map and where they should head first.

"Two hours!" Sandor called after them.

When they were clear of the yard, Sansa asked, "Do you think they'll do it?"

Sandor shrugged. "They might if they work together." He blew out a breath. "They both need to learn to follow direction. Rickon might learn how hard it is to lead if the she-wolf doesn't desert him."

"Arya wouldn't desert our brother."

Sandor harrumphed. "She has to learn to be a foot soldier, too, not just the leader."

Sansa didn't argue.

"Most men don't want to be in charge once they get a taste of it," Sandor went on. "Not those two. Their confidence would put Cersei Lannister to shame."

Sansa smiled ruefully. "You have a considerable task ahead of you. I hope their stubbornness doesn't wear you down."

Sandor seemed surprised. "I'm glad for the work, little bird. I could not be worthy of you with nothing to do."

Sansa wanted to disagree but she knew he was right, though Sandor would not be Sandor with nothing to do. Idleness didn't suit him. "I could not admire you as I do if you felt differently," she said, surprising herself. There was so much hard work to be done. It was not what the storybooks had promised happiness would look like but Sansa felt she had a worthy purpose. Knowing Sandor believed the same and that they shared a common goal made their bond feel even stronger and Sansa was all the more satisfied for it.

An hour and a half later, Arya and Rickon returned, Arya waiving the white sash in Sandor's face. "And you thought we couldn't do it!"

"I knew you could."

"Oh yeah? How?" Arya eyed him. "And don't say because you taught us."

"Pack instinct."

Bran could not hide his skepticism when Sandor insisted Bran return to riding on his own. Sansa's brow furrowed in worry as well as she stroked Stranger's mane but she remained silent. Bran's horse crunched on an apple Sansa had given her.

"A commander needs to be independent," Sandor insisted. "Cling to Hodor or someone else and an enemy will have two targets. And being you're a Stark, you'll try to save your companion before yourself. No, you need to learn to ride alone."

"But if I fall off the horse -"

"It's the only way."

"Yes, but what if -"

"We'll come up with something." Sandor sat on the ground opposite Bran and slowly sliced the air here and there with his sword.

"What are you doing? Bran asked.

"Figuring out balance and reach."

"They won't matter much if I'm trampled by a horse."

"You won't be trampled if you can keep the horses away from you. They won't run into a moving blade."

Bran pressed his lips together and looked away.

"Let me see you do it," Sandor suggested.

Bran raised the sword he'd been given and made some halfhearted swings.

"Hmm," Sandor murmured.

"Hmm what?"

"We need to strengthen your back and arm muscles. You'll need to be able to hold your sword above your shoulder more often than most, especially if you end up on the ground. Lay on your stomach."

"No."

Sandor dropped his eyes to the dirt with a meaningful look.

"It's filthy out here!"

"Not as filthy as a battlefield."

Bran frowned but pushed himself forward and then turned to look at Sandor, displeasure on every feature.

"Now push your body up with your arms."

Bran did.

"Now do it forty-nine more times."

"What?" Bran flopped onto the ground, incredulous and annoyed. "No, I'm -"

"You're not going to do it? Fine. Then get on your horse and ride away."

Bran's eyes rose to the stirrups dangling from his mount.

"They're far away, aren't they?" Sandor observed conversationally.

Bran glared at him. "I would look ridiculous trying to pull myself up. Men won't follow a commander who can't even mount his own horse."

"You'll look more ridiculous just laying there waiting for someone to help you."

"Maisy's not so high," Bran said, looking at his apple-eating horse.

"No, but she's not a warhorse, which your father has agreed to buy for you."

Bran's eyes lit up. "He has?"

"Yes. The three of us will choose one together, and it will undoubtedly be taller than Maisy so you'll have a higher climb."

"How will I get up there?

"Netting," Sansa said suddenly, the thought not fully formed in her mind.

"Netting?" asked Sandor.

"Chain or leather netting. You could attach it at multiple points, which would spread its weight, and Bran could pull up on it with both hands. We'd just need to figure out a way to release it so he could reach it. It would be very much like bustling a gown."

Sandor smiled at her, pride in his eyes.

Bran took to the challenge. He and Sandor devised a saddle, drawing from the one Tyrion Lannister had designed for himself, and sought advice from Ned and master-of-horse, Hullen. Mikken and Gendry were consulted on how a net capable of holding Bran's weight could be constructed and attached.

That part of his martial education, Bran enjoyed. Sansa knew he was infinitely less pleased when Sandor hung a length of knotted rope from a tree and made Bran climb it several times each day. His displeasure grew when Sandor took the knots out.

Despite the unspoken truth that Sandor would always protect Sansa, she was pleased and proud that he took her training as seriously as he did the others' (though she, too, hated the rope climb). His first order of business was to improve her horsewomanship. Her hips and thighs ached after long hours in and out of the saddle. Sandor would signal her mare to suddenly dart forward, or stop, or turn so quickly Sansa was almost thrown to the ground. They rode at break-neck speeds through open fields and woods alike. Sometimes Sandor would have Stranger crowd Sansa's horse so she could practice maintaining control and avoid having her reins seized.

One day, Sandor asked her to climb atop Stranger.

"Oh, no, I couldn't!" she insisted.

"You may need to commandeer someone else's horse to get away or get help," Sandor said reasonably. "They won't all be docile mares, either."

When they trained, Sandor always had her mount and dismount on her own and Sansa stared at Stranger with an apprehension she hadn't felt in a long, long time. The black courser threw his head but otherwise remained still. Stranger's attitude toward Sansa had grown to be marginally warmer than tolerance but taking charge and riding him was a far cry from brushing his mane and feeding him apples with Sandor nearby. Sansa hoisted herself up with an unladylike grunt and felt like she'd mounted a tower. She was quite insecure without Sandor in front of or behind her to keep her steady. She felt ready to slip out of the saddle at any moment and the ground was so far away.

"Go on, then," Sandor said and Sansa had barely hugged her knees in when Stranger began to advance. Her instinct was to throw her arms around the courser's thick neck and hold on for dear life but, as soon as she leaned forward, Stranger streaked ahead. Sansa panicked and it took every ounce of her will to summon her training as she was bumped and bounced and jostled, the terrain blurring around her. "Whoa!" she cried, more out of beseechment than command. Regardless, the warhorse slowed down, his large eye seeming to challenge her as he threw her a glance. Sansa caught her breath and then led Stranger through a series of drills. He followed her commands but she never lost the feeling that it was condescension on his part rather than mastery on hers.

Soon Stranger was just one of dozens of horses that Sansa rode. She still preferred pretty palfreys with a dainty trot but her appreciation for muscular destriers and lightning-quick coursers was growing. Sometimes she'd allow herself to imagine what it must be like to be Sandor, so tall and strong, clad in fine armor with his fearsome dog's-head helm, his heavy sword on his hip. Atop a courser like Stranger, how could one feel anything but invincible? To have an animal like him lend you his strength and speed . . . Sansa understood the appeal. Battle wasn't for her, she knew, but there was definitely a headiness that came from wielding that kind of power.

When they weren't on horseback, Sandor and Sansa spent considerable time practicing with her dagger, identifying edible plants, making crude shelters out of branches, and, just twice, trapping, skinning, and cooking a rabbit and a pheasant. Sansa did not relish that task but recognized the necessity behind it.

"You've done very well," Sandor told her quietly one night as they were gazing into the darkness from the ramparts. Bran, Arya, and Rickon were also on the wall, each paired with a sentry. They'd spent the afternoon unsuccessfully negotiating terms, Sansa and Rickon versus Bran and Arya, and Sansa's siblings were heartily sick of each other. Sansa had tried to coax them back into friendship but Sandor said to just let them be and came up with this exercise to give them space and let them focus on something else.

Sansa flushed. "It's not very ladylike, any of this."

"You're a lady. There's no doubting that."

"Even with leaves in my hair and dirt under my nails?"

"Especially then."

Sansa gave him a dubious look.

"You don't believe me?"

"I believe you like me to look pretty. Much more of this and you'll mistake me for Harry."

"True ladies," Sandor informed her, "do more than look pretty."

"They gut animals and dig latrine pits?"

Sandor laughed. "They -"

"They recite pretty words like their septas taught them?"

"Yes, but -"

"But that makes them empty-headed chirping birds. I recall well that you scorn such pleasantries." Sansa smiled sweetly at him.

"Damn your memory, girl," Sandor said, still laughing. He leaned down to kiss the top of her head and inhaled the scent of her hair.

"I suppose true ladies smell sweet like flowers?"

He wrapped his arms around her and drew her in so her cheek rested on his chest. "True ladies are like flowers, yes." His voice rumbled in his chest. "They can be delicate and smell nice but it's the ones with the tougher stems who endure and stand tall to reach the sunlight. Those are the ones you admire, the ones you pick for your own. It's the ones who bend and wilt that get trampled in the muck." He leaned back and raised her chin with his fingers. "You stand on your own. Like I do."

Ned was pleased with Sandor's efforts. "It seems things are going well. What is your assessment so far?"

"Rickon needs to work on his control and following orders," Sandor reported.

Ned nodded. "I can't claim to be surprised."

"His sword-work is improving. He's quick and has a good eye."

"And more focus, thanks to you. What of Arya?"

Sandor grinned. "Lady Arya could probably kill the lot of us if she wanted to. She works hard but she won't compromise. The girl will put up with a team only as long as everyone agrees with her."

Ned sighed. "Bran?"

"He has a good mind for strategy. He's eager for that warhorse, Lord Stark."

Ned chuckled. "Yes, he's mentioned." Then Sansa's father looked at her.

"And Sansa? Deadlier than ever, I imagine."

"We've been focusing on defense and survival skills. You won't find a better negotiator, either."

"Just ask her mother."

Sansa smiled. "I believe I get it from my father, if current events are any indication."

Ned laughed. "I pity anyone sent to resist you, Sansa. To try would be a waste of good horseshoes."

"Don't pity them, Lord Stark," Sandor interjected. "They'll enjoy every minute of giving in to her."

Sansa blushed but felt a deep contentment settle within her. Her father rarely teased her, or anyone, but he seemed more relaxed of late. She watched him as he talked with Sandor. Sandor explained his ideas for strengthening the weaknesses he'd identified and Ned commented favorably on his plans, offering his help where it seemed useful. They were not equals but a trust and camaraderie had grown between the two men and it gratified Sansa to see it.

Sandor continued to spend time with Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon individually, but he also insisted that the Stark siblings train together. Squabbles were common, particularly in the face of the intentionally inconsistent or incomplete information Sandor provided. Much as she loved her brothers and sister, reaching a compromise and devising a plan was far more difficult than Sansa had ever anticipated. Just when they were nearly accustomed to how the others thought, Sandor sent them into the woods. He had some of the men-at-arms skulk around to see if the Starks could spot an enemy and react well in the moment. The men-at-arms were eventually allowed to ambush them if they could, which was terrifying despite the familiarity of the faces emerging from the trees. This, while frowned upon by Lady Stark, was instructive, too. The Starks knew these men, of course, but talking with them as colleagues, hearing their insights and experiences, and working together made them feel like a cohesive unit rather than leaders by birth and followers by destiny. Sansa knew her siblings enjoyed those times with the men as much as she did. She could feel a shift in their perspectives all around. She suspected it was a new kind of respect.

Sandor devised various training scenarios while Sansa sewed by the fire in the family's solar at night, her feet tucked under Sandor's thigh, Song and Luck on the hearth rug. Maester Chayle was called upon more than he was accustomed to find books on war craft and histories of long-forgotten battles that might serve as examples. Sandor focused on the terrain, plants, weather, and enemies found in the north but read up on Wildlings and the Others as well. He'd also proposed to Ned an encryption sequence that would be exclusive to the Stark family for private communications. He kept an ever-growing list of topics he felt he should cover.

"I never knew you were such a scholar," Sansa teased him one night.

"I never knew I'd have so much to protect," he rumbled, putting aside his book and leaning back, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"Surely you believed you'd get married one day and have a family."

"My chances of that were small," he said with a smile as he plucked up her hand and kissed it, "since I wouldn't settle for less than the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms."

"It's a shame you're so handy with a sword," Sansa said, smiling back at him. "You would have made a fine poet with such sweet words."

Sandor stretched. "I'll have some sweet words for your brother if he doesn't come back soon. I should just steal you away already."

"If you do, make sure you steal my gown, too."

"Bugger that. All you'll need is my cloak."

Sansa warmed at the thought. "It will be the finest thing I've ever worn."

Robb, Lyanna, and their retinue eventually returned, dust-covered but glowing. Rickon had spotted them first, even before the sentries; an achievement that he crowed about long and loud to his siblings and that earned him a silver stag from Sandor.

They bubbled over with greetings and exclamations and, for Sansa and Sandor, apologies for the length of their travels. They were swept into the keep and freshened up and the family gathered in the solar, eating and laughing and talking over each other.

"How's the mood in the capital, Robb?" Ned asked once general news had been exchanged.

"King Stannis is proving very popular with the smallfolk. He hears and decides matters himself. He's fair and consistent. Some of the lords are wary. Flattery gets them nowhere and King Stannis has a long memory. He's a very different man than his brother King Robert was."

"Let us hope he remembers the service your father did for him," Catelyn said.

"He was not initially pleased with your abdication, Father . . ." Robb's face grew red.

"But Robb charmed him," Lyanna said, grinning.

"I did no more than my duty," Robb said, still flushed. "He's accepted me as Warden of the North."

Ned nodded. "Good. We can discuss that further tomorrow. What else did you learn?"

Sansa was impressed with how much Robb knew. Grain stores, road conditions, the temperaments of various houses, fleet conditions, recently enacted laws. He'd absorbed all of it in addition to some gossip. At first Sansa attended with only half an ear, for she had no intention of ever diving into the muddy waters of politics again, but then she remembered Sandor's mandate to listen to all she could and her attention was piqued when Robb mentioned Lord Baelish.

"Apparently he didn't care for King Stannis's scrutiny," Robb laughed. "He's either gone to seek work at the Iron Bank or left to ingratiate himself with the Targaryan girl. No one's sure. The only thing that seemed certain was the pleasure of his absence."

Good riddance, Sansa thought.

"But enough of that," Robb declared, standing. "I brought something home." He crossed to a sideboard and produced a jug of wine. "Arbor gold! Enough to celebrate with!"

Robb poured glasses for everyone. When all were served, he remained standing and addressed his family. "When I left, I promised Sansa I wouldn't be long. Then Father entrusted me with . . ." He gestured helplessly and everyone laughed. "With so much. We are fortunate to have so much. Father and Mother have told me a little of what has been going on since Lyanna and I left and I can scarcely believe it. I am proud of our family and what we can do for the people of the north. Sansa, Clegane, you've been more patient than I could have been in your place. I thank you for waiting so Lyanna and I could celebrate with you and, more importantly, for sharing in the responsibility that Father and Mother have somehow managed on their own all this time." He raised his glass. "To Mother and Father."

"To family, duty, and honor," Catelyn said.

"To our pack," said Arya.

"To wolves!" yelled Rickon.

"To strength," said Bran.

"To home," added Lyanna.

"To the future," said Ned.

"To love," said Sansa, unable to stop smiling.

"To Sansa," Sandor rumbled.

"And Sandor," Robb put in, "to Sansa and Sandor . . . it's been a long time coming."

Sansa hugged her brother and, with his arm around her shoulder, Robb said, "And now, as Warden of the North, I have to know . . . when's the wedding?"

There were cheers, toasts, and laughter long into the night.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind. All of the plans that had been delayed were now moved forward with speed. A frenetic energy zinged through Winterfell. Ravens were dispatched, silver was polished, and floors were swept. Merchants began to crowd Wintertown as guests descended upon Winterfell. The keep, the yard, the great hall, every single corner seemed to overflow with friends.

Almost before Sansa knew it, it was the night before her wedding. Sandor, followed by many a wink and a ribald comment upon leaving the hall, walked her to her room.

"No climbing out the window now," he said.

"Don't be silly. It's far too high. I trust you'll still be here come morning," Sansa teased, arching a brow.

He nodded toward her door. "I'll stay right here if it pleases you."

Sansa laughed. "It would, as you know, but I would not have you suffer the gossip that would follow."

Sandor snorted. He gave her a chaste kiss. "Until tomorrow, Lady Sansa."

"Good night, my lord."

Sansa was too excited to sleep. She wandered around her room. It was the last night it would be her room. Moonlight streamed in the window and, despite its beauty, Sansa wished it would give way to the sun already. Every time she thought about being really, truly, finally wed, her heart gave a little patter. She was to be a bride. Evidence of it was everywhere. The jewelry she would wear glittered on her dressing table. Her gown was hanging nearby with her shoes placed neatly below. She ran her thumb over the fine embroidery on her train and looked out at the silvered night. The view was the same as it always was and Sansa saw it with the same eyes she always had but she was different, and she grinned because she was on the cusp of a life more wonderful than she'd believed possible.

Despite feeling wide awake, Sansa went back to bed. She had not wish to look haggard on her wedding day. She closed her eyes and said a prayer to the Seven and the old gods, thanking them for Sandor and her family and harmony between the two. She must have fallen asleep because, the next thing she knew, her maid was rapping lightly at her door. Finally! Sansa sprang out of bed, eager to start the day. Our day! She bathed and dressed simply to go to the great hall to break her fast. The smell of roasting meat was already wafting through the air. Servants were bustling to and fro. Tables that had been pushed to the side of the room were piled with flowers. The hall was sparsely populated, and mainly by women, who exclaimed over Sansa as she approached the front of the room. Sandor, Sansa knew, was out hunting with her father, brothers, Willard, Gendry, Mikken, Ser Rodrik, and some of the other men. "The only thing they're hunting for is the bottom of their tankards," her mother said but Sansa didn't care. Sandor would be there in the godswood, waiting for her. She knew it with the same certainty that she knew they would be happy together. Sansa was toasted with sweet wine but she was too excited to eat or drink much and, at any rate, was approached over and over by various people wanting to wish her well. A cheer went up when she rose to dress. "Best wishes, Lady Sansa!" "Much happiness to you!" "Seven bless you and Lord Clegane!" Swept along on a current of goodwill, Sansa fairly sailed to her room.

The ceremony would take place at midday, per Sansa's wish that no darkness fall on her or Sandor as they wed. Sandor had had no objection. "The sooner, the better," he'd said. As the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, Sansa's anticipation grew. Her blood was thrumming through her veins. She sat as still as she could manage while her maid arranged her hair. In the hall, she heard maids giggling as they went to prepare her and Sandor's rooms for the bedding. Sansa was in her gown before she knew it and someone was handing her the flowers she'd chosen to carry.

The maids drifted out to ensure all was ready in the great hall. As Catelyn tried to bring Arya into some kind of order, Sansa again looked out the window. Everywhere there was activity and it was all for her and Sandor. The keep was full and the excitement was palpable. People were standing in groups talking and laughing. Musicians were carrying their instruments inside. Garland was strung on everything that stood still. From the godswood, a cry went up. A chorus of direwolf calls rang clear through the morning air. They resonated within Sansa. Somehow she knew just where they'd be, deep in the cover but surrounding the heart tree where she and Sandor would make their vows.

And then she saw Sandor. He raised a hand in greeting to some folks who called out to him but strode purposefully into the keep. Sansa was suddenly taken with the notion of seeing him and hurried for the door.

"Sansa, where are you going?" her mother called. "Your father will be here soon!"

"I'll just be a moment!" Sansa called back, her heart racing. She wanted to see Sandor, to be near him, to capture a moment alone with him before having to share him with so many.

Catelyn and Arya caught up with her. Sansa had hoped to head Sandor off but he now knew the family's quarters as well she did and she soon realized that he'd taken an unexpected route and was walking down the hall behind her. The soft thumping of his scabbard against his hip seemed in time with the beating of her heart. Prickles scurried down her back and she turned toward him, walking faster, forcing Arya and her mother to lengthen their strides as well. Her blood practically fizzed and she leaned forward slightly. Sansa longed to shake off her companions and sprint to him but decorum held as tight a grip on her as her gown. She forced herself to walk more slowly and to resume proper posture.

"Slow down before I trip on your train!" her sister complained.

Sansa laughed. She'd been laughing for days. She watched as Sandor approached, unable to stop a broad smile from spreading over her face.

"I'd like a word with Lady Clegane," he said.

"She's not your wife yet," Arya said as Catelyn sighed.

"Near enough. Now go. Please, my lady," he added to Sansa's mother.

"We'll wait for you in the gallery," Catelyn said. Her goodson would ever ruffle her, Sansa knew, but they respected each other well enough.

"What is it?" Sansa asked, flushed with joy. Sandor looked so handsome in his yellow cloak that she couldn't stop herself from reaching out and placing a hand on his chest, the bracelet he'd given her long ago jingling merrily on her wrist. Knowing his cloak was soon to be draped around her own shoulders made her shiver in anticipation.

He raked a hand through his hair. "Half of Westeros is out there."

"Yes. We invited them."

"Bloody gawkers." He shook his head but then seemed to realize Sansa was standing before him in her wedding finery. He really looked at her then. Pleasure twinkled in his eyes. "Run away with me, Sansa. We could be halfway to White Harbor before we're missed."

"Not likely with all the 'bloody gawkers' out there."

"They all want to see you," Sandor smirked, "but I wanted to see you first." He took her hand and kissed it. "No one could deserve a bride so beautiful."

Sansa flushed. "Or a husband so fine."

"No one's envying you today, little bird. The jealousy is all mine to endure. There's more than one squire out there who should thank his gods that I've got better things to do today than shut their worthless mouths."

"Is that what you came to tell me?" Sansa teased. "That our guests are here and the household is restless?"

"No." Sandor stood a little taller. "I came to collect my Seven Kisses."

"Seven Kisses?"

"It's Western tradition."

Sansa laughed. "It is not!"

"It is. Seven Kisses for the Seven, though a wife is in her husband's debt until he has all the kisses he wants," he said with a confirming nod.

"And what a man sows on his name day he reaps all year long?"

Sandor laughed. "The Seven Kisses are an old tradition. A kiss for the Father brings harmony to the home, a kiss for the Mother brings children, the Maiden brings love, the Crone wisdom, the Smith employment, the Warrior conviction and vigor, and the Stranger a long life."

"I've never heard of this tradition."

"You'd never heard of Sevenmas at one point, either."

Sansa looked up at him through her eyelashes. Her heart swelled in her chest. "And what happens after I give you these seven kisses?"

Sandor leaned down and brushed his lips across hers. In a husky voice, he said, "You give me seven more."

"And then?" Sansa breathed, her knees soft, her fingers curled into the folds of his cloak.

"Seven more after that." He kissed her long and slow, drawing her close, his clean, masculine scent intoxicating her.

"And then?"

Sandor looked at her through hooded eyes. His broad chest rose and fell. He breathed his answer into her mouth. "Seven more."