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Chapter Text

The blade felt cold and sharp against the skin of her throat with every word that left her mouth.

The last words of “Gentle Mother, Font of Mercy” had left her lips, and some instinct made her lift her hand to cup his cheek with her fingers.

The room was dark, and only weak green light came in from between the window’s shutters. Sansa could only see a dark outline of his face, but she felt something wet on his cheek; a wetness that wasn’t blood.

“Little bird,” he said, and the softness in his voice somehow moved her.

He had waited for Sansa in her room. He was drunker and angrier than Sansa had ever seen him before. He had scared her at first, but then, he had told her he would leave soon and could take her with him.

She had hesitated at first and told him that Stannis wouldn’t hurt her. He had pulled her close and told her that Stannis was just as much a killer as the Lannisters, or even her own brother.
After that, he had demanded a song before pushing her down on her bed, pressing his blade against her throat.

Somehow, Sansa had managed to remember the Mother’s Hymn, despite her fear of the Hound slicing her throat.

Sansa felt his breath against her face as he came closer, thinking he meant to kiss her.

She closed her eyes, waiting for the kiss, when she suddenly felt his weight shifting as he left her body, taking the blade from her throat with him.

She heard him sheathe his dagger, and then she sat up.

He slowly walked over to the door, and Sansa’s heart nearly burst out of her chest.

What if he was right? What if Stannis wouldn’t release her back to her family? Or what if Ilyn Payne found and killed her before Stannis’s soldiers could even take the city?
What if Stannis’s soldiers did take the city? Would they break her door down only to rape and kill her before she even had the chance to explain who she was?

The Hound had never lied to her, after all. He had always been honest with her, as well. He was also the only one who actually came after her during the Bread Riots; ultimately saving her from being raped and murdered by the angry mob a few weeks ago. So, if he told her that Stannis isn’t any different from the Lannisters, then he is probably right.

Sansa heard him unbolt her door.

“Wait,” she cried. He stopped his movements but did not turn to face her; he only waited.

She quickly got off her bed and walked over towards him. As he slowly turned around, his grey eyes fixed on her.

His eyes don’t hold their usual rage, Sansa thought. There only appears to be… sadness?

“Will… will you hurt me?” she shyly asked. Her throat felt dry and her head hot due to all the wine the Queen had insisted she drink all night.

“No, little bird; I won’t hurt you. No one will hurt you again, or I will fucking kill them,” he rasped. Sansa felt as if he truly meant his words, even in his drunken state.

“I will go with you,” she said.

“Then come, little bird; we don’t have much time,” he rasped.

“Wait, I need a few things,” Sansa declared as she swiftly moved to her cedar chest.

She put on another pair of stockings and her riding boots. They were already getting a little small for her still-growing body, but they were the only boots she had. She also took an additional shift, smallclothes, and several strips of linen cloth Shae had given her for use during her moonblood, that was still upon her.

The Hound watched from the door, his patience seemingly wearing thin with every second that passed.

“Got everything?” he asked.
Sansa held her clothing in one hand before quickly grabbing the little doll her father had gifted her from atop her dressing table.

“The little bird still plays with dolls?” he asked, teasingly.

“It was the last gift I was given by my father,” Sansa told him, though he didn’t say anything further.

Sansa grabbed her cloak, and they quickly left her room.

He suddenly stopped at the corner of the next corridor, leading Sansa to nearly collide into him.

He quickly turned around and rasped, “Stay close to me,” causing Sansa to nod in response.

“If I say ‘stop,’ you stop. If I say ‘run,’ you run; understood?” Sansa nodded once again.

“Time to fly, little bird. Keep your hood up until we are out of the city.”

Sansa followed him in silence and didn’t question his decision to stop at the kitchen, where he got several wineskins.

They luckily didn’t meet anyone, but Sansa feared their luck would run out at any moment.
As they crossed the courtyard towards the stables, Sansa saw the heads of several servants that Cersei ordered Ser Ilyn Payne to behead earlier, all because they were said to be stealing.

The sounds of the battle carried over the castle walls.

The stables were empty, apart from a lone horse Sansa assumed belonged to the Hound.

Sansa looked uneasy at the huge black beast, but she was surprised to see how the Hound stroked his horse’s flank.

“Now we can leave, Stranger,” the Hound quietly whispered to his horse, loud enough that Sansa could clearly hear it. Did he really only wait for me to leave with him? Sansa thought, the thought strangely warming her heart.

“Give me your stuff, girl,” he rasped. Sansa blushed as she handed him her extra shift and smallclothes to store in one of his saddlebags. “Be careful around him; else you might lose a finger,” he rasped as he led his horse out of the stable.

Sansa followed him out and watched as he mounted his giant beast. He then extended his hand to her, yet she hesitated in taking it.

This was her last chance to turn around. She could stay here and be at the mercy of either the Lannisters or Stannis Baratheon, should he be this battle’s victor.

However, she took the Hound’s outstretched hand, surprised at the warmth of it, and he effortlessly lifted her up to sit in front of him.

“Time to go.” He had his arm around her midsection as he spurred his horse into a fast gallop, swiftly riding right out of the Red Keep.

Sansa’s head spun during the entire ride through the city. Everything simply flew by, and nobody spared them a second look.

I really did it, Sansa thought. She fled with the Hound, and Joffrey would probably want to hunt them down.

The thought scared her as she glanced back at the city after passing through the city gates.
Only the flames of the Blackwater Bay lit up the moonless night sky.

Sansa had no idea where they were riding, though she didn’t dare ask the Hound. She simply held onto his arm that was still around her middle as they rode into the darkness of the woods. He sometimes took sips from his wineskin, even occasionally offering Sansa some as well; though she always declined.

The Hound had stopped his horse at some point as a war horn could faintly be heard in the distance. Sansa asked him what it was, and he said that it was probably Lord Tywin coming to save the city.

Sansa was dead tired, and her head ached from all of the wine she consumed earlier. At some point, she had somehow managed to fall asleep against his chest, only waking once he gently shook her shoulder.

“Girl, wake up,” he rasped, and Sansa immediately opened her eyes.

The first light could be seen above the crowns of the trees. They were still deep within the forest.

“We’ll make camp,” he rasped after getting off his horse and finishing one of his wineskins. “You should sleep.”

He spread his horse blanket out on the ground before building a fire.

Sansa felt the need to make water and blushed at the thought that he might hear what she was going to do. She went into the trees but made sure that she didn’t wander too far off.

Sansa lifted her skirts, pulled down her smallclothes, and sighed in relief at finally being able to empty her full bladder after hours of riding.

She cleaned herself with a cloth and saw the bloody stains in the early morning light.
Her moonblood cloth was completely soaked with blood, considering she hadn’t been able to change it since before the battle began.

Gods, Sansa thought, and blushed. I am going to have to ask him to make the occasional stop during riding. And I will have to actually explain why… and to the Hound, no less!

Sansa isn’t sure how he will react to that area of a woman’s needs.

She replaced the cloth in her smallclothes and returned to him, finding him sitting near the fire, drinking his wine.

Sansa sat down next to him, and he immediately handed her a piece of bread.

“Eat, then try to sleep,” he simply said. Sansa silently took the bread, not saying anything.

She ate the bread in silence and laid down on the blanket, her cloak tightly wrapped around her. She was so exhausted that she quickly fell asleep.

Nearly a week had passed since they managed to flee. They hadn’t met a single soul, and neither had anyone been sent after them yet, either.

Sansa had thought it strange not seeing anyone at first, but Clegane had assured her that the smallfolk were either hiding or had fled the lands themselves, considering they were now in a warzone.

Sansa had stopped calling him Hound, seeing as he was no longer Joffrey’s dog.

Her moonblood had finally ended, and Sansa was glad for it. She felt heat rise up her neck at the remembrance of her first time having to ask Clegane to make a short stop, and having to explain why.

After that, he had, thankfully, always asked her if she needed an occasional break.

Since the wine had run out on the second day of their journey, he began behaving strangely.

She had tried to speak to him… if only to make the silence less heavy, the miles less endless, but he always just told her that there was no need to talk.

Sansa had no idea why he was behaving that way. He didn’t even mock her for her chirping when she hadn’t been able to start a fire a few days ago.

He was simply brooding in silence the entire day, sometimes muttering under his breath about how he would kill for a wineskin.

Perhaps he regretted taking her. Perhaps every mile reminded him of the mistake he thought he’d made. After all, she was probably a burden to him, and he could travel much faster without her.

Sansa sat on the horse blanket while Clegane was skinning a hare he had snared for dinner.

“Can I help you?” Sansa asked kindly, like a lady should; though Clegane simply ignored her. “I would like to help you,” Sansa said again, but his only answer was a snort.

Somehow though, that was the final straw.

“What is your damn problem?!” Sansa cursed angrily at him, getting to her feet. “I am being nothing but kind, and I want to help you!”

Clegane’s grey eyes snapped up from the bloody hare and focused on her.

Gods, Sansa thought, I just yelled at him! Her heart was nearly bursting from her ribcage. His eyes seemed to pierce directly into her soul.

“The little bird wants to help her captor,” he mockingly said. His roaring laughter caused birds to fly out of the trees and into the sky in panic.

“Captor?” Sansa asked. “You are not my captor.”

Is he thinking he is my captor? Sansa thought, frowning.

“The little bird chirps everything she hears,” he growled. “Aye, your captor. Don’t even try to lie about wanting to be here, in the middle of nowhere, instead of back in your warm chamber, where a servant brings you your dinner.”

“Is that what you think?” Sansa asked. “That you abducted me?”

His silence, topped with how he averted his eyes to the ground as if he were ashamed, was answer enough.

Sansa slowly walked over to where he was sitting, as if she were approaching a wounded wild animal.

She hesitantly placed her hand on his shoulder, and his head snapped up, letting Sansa see the shame and vulnerability in his eyes.

“What do you remember from the night we fled?” Sansa asked in a whisper.

“Not much,” he rasped. “I only remember that I was in your room… you sang to me… and I held a knife to your throat. Not much after that… you must certainly hate me.”

He looked at the ground again.

Was he really thinking that? Sansa thought. No wonder he wouldn’t talk to me. He can’t bear the thought of me hating him.

Sansa gulped and carefully squeezed his shoulder.

“S… Sandor,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “please look at me.” It felt strange to call him by his real name. She had never done so before, as it wasn’t what a lady was supposed to do.

He slowly lifted his eyes to hers.

“I don’t hate you, and I am not scared of you. I know what made you flee from the battlefield and come to my rooms, and it’s alright, Sandor. You didn’t force me to do anything. You gave me an opportunity. An opportunity that I took, because I know that you will never hurt me. I came with you, Sandor, because I wanted to come with you.”

“Really?” he asked, and Sansa chuckled.

“I thought you could smell a lie. Take a good whiff; you will only smell the truth.”

“Little bi… Sansa… I am sorry; for the last couple of days, I…” he started, but Sansa interrupted him.

“I know, and it’s alright. But from now on, you won’t brood in silence when I try to talk to you,” she said, lightly laughing as he chuckled along with her.

She sat back down on the blanket as Sandor finished preparing the hare, putting it over the fire.

Sansa watched as the fat dripped down into the fire and eyed Sandor over the flames from time to time.

There was one question she asked herself ever since the day he had yelled at Joffrey that it was “enough” while Trant was beating her—the day he had given her his cloak to cover up her humiliation.

“Why do you care for me?” she asked over the flames and sizzling sounds of burning fat.

He never lifted his eyes off their dinner as he answered. “I just don’t like seeing you hurt, little bird,” he said quietly, as if admitting it cost him something.

Chapter Text

They had travelled for nearly two months now, and would probably soon reach Riverrun.
Sansa grew more and more excited at the thought of finally seeing her mother and brother again. It had felt like a lifetime.

Maybe Arya would be there too. After all, Arya had escaped… if anyone was able to return to their family on their own, it was her little sister.
Gods, she had been so awful to her. Sansa would beg her forgiveness a hundred times over, for everything, should she see Arya in Riverrun.

The evening was approaching quickly, and Sandor told her they would make camp for the night.
After Sansa made it clear to Sandor that she had come with him of her own free will, things had been going better with each passing day.

At first, he had been reserved during their conversations, but over the last few weeks, they had begun to speak freely about everything beneath the sun.

Sansa told him of Winterfell, the North, and her childhood growing up, while Sandor spoke about his own childhood, growing up at Clegane’s Keep.

Sandor had even talked to her about his mother and a sister whom he barely even remembered.
Sansa had been surprised to hear that he had a sister. But when he told her that he suspected Gregor of having murdered her, Sansa understood that the memory was still painful for him.

It felt strange at first to talk to him so openly about everything.
After all, a lady was only supposed to look pretty and talk about ladylike things, considering how her opinion wouldn’t be valued when it came to more serious topics of conversation.
Sandor, though, showed a genuine interest in what she had to say and actually seemed to value her opinion.

There hadn’t been a single moment during their journey when Sansa hadn’t felt completely safe with him.
His very presence made her feel safe, even in the darkest of nights, right there in the middle of the woods.

They had just finished dinner and were sitting near the campfire for a while before going to sleep.
“How far away are we from Riverrun?” Sansa asked.

Sandor added another piece of wood to the fire.
“Less than two weeks, I should think. Soon, you’ll be back with your family… and free of me,” he said, and Sansa heard a sort of bitterness in his voice towards the end.

“Why would I want to be rid of you, Sandor? You are my friend; I don’t want you gone!”

“So, we are friends now, are we?” he asked, smirking.

“Of course, we are, Sandor! But if you already have plans to leave after reaching Riverrun, I won’t have you stay just for me,” Sansa said.

“I don’t have any plans after bringing you to your family, little bird; after all, there is probably a bounty out on my ugly head anyway.”

“So, will you stay?” Sansa asked in a voice laced with hope.

“And what would I do in Riverrun, little bird, should your kingly brother, by some miracle, decide against taking off my ugly, scarred head as soon as he sees me?”

“You can be my sworn shield,” Sansa told him, smiling.

Sandor was silent for a moment.
“And what makes you so sure they will actually allow that?”

“My mother and my brother love me; they will listen to me. And once they have me safely back with them, they will happily reward you with anything you want! So, if you should ask them to become my sworn shield, they will allow it; I just know it! Especially after I tell them how you saved me so many times.”

“I sure hope you are right, little bird,” he said. Sansa felt a rush of relief at his words.

“I just know it, Sandor, I feel it. With you as my protector, nothing bad can ever happen to me, ever again!”

Chapter Text

The night was heavy with mist and woodsmoke. A pale moon hung behind the clouds, veiled and uncertain, while the dying campfire threw soft orange light across the hollow where they had made their rest.
Arya sat alone beside it, a half-charred branch in her hand, idly tracing lines through the ash. The crackling embers hissed as the moisture bled from them, the scent of damp earth mingling with smoke.

Sandor slept a few paces away, wrapped in his blanket. His sword lay beside him, the hilt close to his scarred hand. He never truly slept deeply; Arya could tell by the way his fingers twitched whenever the night grew too quiet.

Sansa lay a few feet from him, wrapped in her own blanket. Even in the dim light, Arya could see how her sister’s face tightened in sleep… brows drawn, lips parted, as though whispering to ghosts. Her hand rested against Sandor’s large palm.

It had been like this since the Red Wedding.

Sansa barely spoke of it, but Arya saw from the way her sister carried herself that there was far more than her words could tell: the trembling in her hands, the shallow breaths, the sudden jerks awake, her eyes wide with some horror only she could see.

Arya had seen enough death to know that some wounds didn’t bleed.

She had offered to take the first watch so Sansa might rest, and so Sandor could keep his silence undisturbed. But hours had passed, and she found no peace in the quiet — only the shifting of trees and the faint rustle of small creatures moving through the underbrush.

Then came the sound… a sharp gasp, almost a cry.

Arya turned. Sansa’s shoulders shook beneath the blanket. For a heartbeat, she lay still, then slowly sat up, her breath quick and shallow. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, before finding Arya through the dim firelight.

Neither spoke.

Sansa rubbed her face with trembling fingers, brushing away the remnants of sleep… or tears. Her hair had fallen loose from its braid.

“Did I wake you?” Arya asked at last, her voice no louder than the crackle of the embers.

Sansa shook her head, though it was clear she hadn’t been truly awake to begin with. She drew her cloak tighter, as though the cold might hide her.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she murmured. Her voice was hoarse, roughened by the night air. “Every time I close my eyes…” She stopped herself and pressed her lips together.

Arya didn’t ask what she saw. She didn’t need to.

Sansa rose slowly, unsteady for a moment, then crossed the few steps to where Arya sat. She sank down beside her, knees drawn up, eyes fixed on the fire. The glow painted faint color into her face, but her skin still looked too pale.

For a long while they said nothing. Arya added a new piece of wood to the fire. The fire’s whisper filled the space between them, and the forest breathed around them, endless and dark.

Arya stole a glance at her sister. The faint tremor in her shoulders, the way her hands twisted in her lap… she looked as if the world itself weighed upon her.

Sansa’s voice came at last, quiet and raw. “Sometimes I think I’ll never sleep without seeing all of it again.”

Arya stared into the flames. “Mother and Robb?”

Sansa nodded, eyes bright in the firelight. “Everything… and there’s always so much blood.”

Her breath shuddered out of her. “No matter how hard I try, every night the memories come back.”

Arya wanted to tell her she understood… that she too had seen the faces of the dead in her sleep… but the words stuck. She had never been good at gentleness.

So instead, she said, “You’re safe now.”

The wind shifted, carrying a faint sound from far beyond the trees… a low, drawn-out howl. Then another, fainter, answering it.

Both sisters went still.

“Wolves,” Arya murmured.

Sansa’s eyes lifted toward the darkness beyond the fire. “They sound close.”

“Closer than last night,” Arya said. “There’s a pack moving south. You can tell by the way the echoes change.”

Sansa shivered and drew her cloak tighter. “Do they frighten you?”

Arya shook her head. “No. Not anymore.”

A pause. Then Sansa asked, almost in a whisper, “Do you still think of yours?”

Arya hesitated. “Of Nymeria?”

Sansa nodded.

Arya’s fingers tightened around the stick in her hand until it snapped. “I don’t just think of her,” she said finally. “Sometimes I dream of her… real dreams, not just remembering.”

Sansa’s gaze turned toward her, uncertain. “What are they like?”

Arya’s voice softened. “It’s like… I’m her. I can feel her legs running, the ground beneath her paws, the wind through her fur. I see through her eyes… everything sharp and wild and alive. There are fields sometimes, or rivers. A pack around her, always moving, always hunting.”

Sansa listened, transfixed. “And she knows you?”

Arya nodded. “I think so. It’s… it’s like I am her, not just dreaming. It’s hard to explain.”

For a while neither spoke. The fire snapped softly between them.

Sansa’s lips trembled as she whispered, “At least you know your wolf still lives.”

Arya felt a wave of sadness hit her. Looking back, she had to admit that she had a part in causing the death of Sansa’s wolf.

Arya turned to her. “You still dream of Lady?”

“Yes,” Sansa said, her eyes glistening. “But never clear like you just described. She’s always like she was when Father had to kill her.”

Arya reached out, hesitant, and brushed her sister’s sleeve. “I’m sorry about your wolf.”

“Me too,” Sansa whispered. “Who knows what would have gone differently if Father hadn’t had to put her down…”

A silent sob escaped her mouth.

“It’s all my fault… if I had only spoken up and told King Robert what really happened with the butcher’s boy and Joffrey… just so stupid, just to please Joffrey and Cersei…”

“Nothing is your fault,” Arya said. “Robert was already ready to put the whole mess aside, but I started to hit you… gave Cersei the reason to demand Lady’s death.”

A silence fell again, but it wasn’t as heavy as before. The distant howls came once more, softer this time, like a memory carried on the wind.

Sansa’s hand found Arya’s. Her grip was weak, but she held on tightly. “If Nymeria still lives,” she said, voice breaking, “then maybe we’re not as lost as we think.”

Arya squeezed back. “She’s out there. I can feel it. And maybe someday I’ll see her again.”

Sansa nodded, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, glinting in the firelight. “Then we are never truly alone, are we?”

“No,” Arya said. “Never.”

The fire dwindled to embers, the woods breathing quietly around them. Behind them, Sandor shifted but didn’t wake. The sky had begun to pale at the edges, the first touch of dawn washing silver over the branches.

Arya looked at her sister… the tired face, the faint tremble in her lips, the lingering fear that refused to leave… and felt something tighten in her chest. Not anger, not sorrow, but something close to resolve.

She would keep watch for both of them.

When the last ember flickered out, the sisters still sat together, fingers entwined, listening to the wolves’ song fade into the dawn.

And though the world was broken and the road ahead uncertain, for that one fleeting hour before sunrise, the Stark sisters, the little wolf and the lady, were whole again.

Chapter Text

Sandor stared at the cottage ceiling, listening to the sea beyond the shutters and to the even hush of the little bird’s breath against his chest. He didn’t dare to move, for fear of shaking her loose from whatever gentle dream had finally found her.

Sansa slept more calmly than she had in the weeks before. She needed the rest after all she had been through.

They had fallen asleep at once, emptied of words and strength; some hours later, he woke to the hush and could not return to it. And now he was trapped between the soft bed beneath him and the little bird peacefully sleeping pressed against him.

He was left alone with his thoughts and memories of the evening.

Part of him was still trying to process what had taken place only a few hours earlier, and yet it felt like a dream he feared he would wake from.

He took a deep breath, sensing the old smoke and ash from the banked fireplace, the salty breeze coming through the shutters, and the sweet scent of Sansa’s hair, reminding him that this was indeed not a dream.

When she had sung for him yesterday, it had felt like the times when his mother had sung for him and his little sister. Emotions he had buried deep since his childhood had been destroyed by his brother’s deeds had broken free. He had not even noticed the tears running down his face until the little bird had leaned forward and brushed her lips against his.

Sandor had never thought much of kissing. Not that he did not like it, but there had been few he’d ever cared to kiss, and fewer still who had cared to kiss him. He had once paid extra coin to kiss one of the whores, but after he noticed how she always turned her head away, he had never bothered to try again.

But Sansa had kissed him. Willingly, by her own choice, and he had been taken aback by the whole experience, so when she asked for another kiss, Sandor did not hesitate to feel her lips against his again.

Sandor still could not believe what had taken place afterwards…

She loved him…

Completely overwhelmed by this, he had asked “what,” like an idiot… at least he had told her the truth… that he felt the same. He could not point to the first time he had felt this strange feeling toward her, but it must have happened during their journey to Riverrun.

She loved him…

He had been so overwhelmed by this revelation that he hadn’t been able to fully register when she asked him to share the bed with her.

He cursed himself inwardly for seeming uncertain at this declaration, causing the little bird to doubt he wanted her now that Wendel Frey had taken her innocence… speaking about not being a pure maiden any longer or being tainted…

How could Sansa ever be tainted? She was still as pure as the first snow in the morning in his eyes.

Luckily, he had been able to put her thoughts to rest with another kiss and the truthful words he spoke about this matter.

Everything that had happened afterward was still like a blurry dream in his memory… Sansa, how she slipped out of her nightgown, revealing herself to him for the first time… how Sandor had not been able to stop himself from admiring her body, feeling desire burn in his veins, yet always hearing a voice in the back of his head that he needed to take things slowly and let her make the first steps, ensuring that she was in control.

He had been with many women before in his life, nearly all of them willing only at the sound of his coin in their pockets, but with Sansa… he felt like a green boy again, exploring her and caressing her body, watching for her smallest reactions to understand whether she wanted him to continue or to stop.

When he had finally reached her, he had been overwhelmed by the scent of her arousal clinging to the auburn curls crowning her mound, and he felt slightly ashamed that he had lost himself in his lust to taste her like a hungry hound.

Then Sansa had sung her second song that night, and Sandor was taken aback by how beautiful she looked while she rode out the waves of pleasure. The look of innocence and wonder at what was happening to her at the same time made Sandor’s heart swell with desire to give her more of it.

Sandor was pulled from his thoughts by a small movement as Sansa shifted even closer to him, rubbing her cheek against his chest before she returned to her usual calm breathing pattern.

The skin of her cheek felt soft against his, and he recalled how much he had feared hurting her. Sansa had not told him everything about her wedding night with Wendel, but what she had told him had been enough for him to that her first night had been nothing like the one she’d been taught to hope for.

How hurt she had sounded when she mentioned she would rather have given it to him made that painfully obvious to him.

Sandor had decided that, while he could not go back in time to give her that moment, he would try to make up for it when he entered her, by making it as intimate as possible, asking her to look at him. He also wanted to make sure she truly wanted it.

He did not want to be like his brother, bringing women into submission by the intimidating size and strength of his body.

He had watched her closely as he slowly entered her, feeling her body accept him, and he saw love, compassion, and, most importantly, trust in her eyes.

In this moment, he realized that this was what he had always wanted deep down.

Someone to trust him… to accept him… to love him.

Now he truly understood how much more sharing a bed with a woman could be: not just satisfying needs, but building a deep connection. Yet, Sandor could not deny that, when they had both finished and were trying to catch their breath, he had never felt so spent and satisfied before.

When he had held Sansa in his arms afterward, he had for the first time in his life dared to feed the spark of hope that this could be the start of a new life for him. One where he might actually have a family of his own.

This spark had been lit even more when Sansa had mentioned that she imagined their children running around in the halls of Winterfell someday.

Sandor, against all his beliefs, had made a quiet oath to the gods, that he would never let go of Sansa and would do everything in his power to make sure she stayed safe and was happy for the rest of her life.

He smiled into the darkness of the room at the thought of spending the rest of his life with Sansa. The tips of his fingers gently ghosted over the skin of her arm, and he heard himself whisper, “My little bird.”

And to his surprise he felt a soft kiss against his skin and a tiny, sleep-drunken whisper.

“Yours.”

Chapter Text

The refectory on the Quiet Isle was small and square, its stone walls warm with candlelight. Long boards made a single table down the center; clay bowls waited in a neat procession beside thick-crusted loaves. When Sansa, Sandor, and Arya entered, the hush of the place folded around them like a cloak… the kind of silence that belonged to work well done and hunger honestly earned.

Elder Brother rose from his bench with a smile that eased the room even further. “You honor us by sharing our meal,” he said. “Though we say that heavy hearted by the news that you will take the road at first light.” He gestured them to places near him. No one stared; no one weighed her name. It was only welcome, plain and undressed.

They ate the fare the island offered: lentils stewed with onion and thyme, a strip of sea-salted fish, rough bread that crackled softly when torn, and water so cold it woke the teeth. Sansa found that she liked the bluntness of it all. There was no trick to this food, nothing for a cook to hide. It nourished because that was its purpose. She broke a piece of bread and passed it to Arya; on Sansa’s other side, Sandor split a crust in his great hands and, almost shyly, laid the larger half on Sansa’s plate before taking a smaller bit for himself. It was such a small act she might have missed it in a louder hall. Here it shone like a coin on a clean table.

“Bread is our prayer most nights,” Elder Brother said as bowls travelled from hand to hand. “It begins as separate grains, then is ground, gathered, given heat and time, and becomes something whole. We are not so different.” He glanced toward the three of them as if the words had been braided for them in particular. “We come broken; we rise together.”

Sansa folded her hands in her lap for a moment, letting the warmth of the bowl seek into her limbs. At her left, Arya ate as she always did when food was honest and hot, sharp-eyed and swift. At her right, Sandor kept his shoulders politely squared to the table, as if wary of taking up more air than his share. He listened to the scrape of spoons and the murmur of water at the sills, but when Sansa looked up, she found his attention returning to her without the startlement of a man caught staring. It felt like standing near a hearth and not fearing the flame.

When the bowls had been cleared and a second round of bread set out, Elder Brother rose once more. He rested both palms lightly on the table and spoke in a voice that seemed made for rooms like this.

“Most of us did not come to this isle by plan,” he said, a smile moving at the corners of his eyes. “We washed up here… some by ship, some by grief, some by the long tide of their own undoing. But all of us found that stillness can be a kind of harbor. Not to anchor forever; only to mend.” He inclined his head to Sansa, then Arya, then Sandor. “There are meetings that turn a life. Sometimes they last an hour; sometimes they last a year. Do not be troubled if you cannot yet tell which this is. Take what the moment gives… You will find your way back if ever you need to. You are welcome here.” A murmur like a breeze moved through the brothers, assent and prayer in one.

Sansa stood before she quite knew she meant to. “On behalf of us all,” she said, and her voice steadied as she went, “thank you… for shelter, for care freely given, for a quiet we had forgotten we could keep. If there is anything we might do to show our gratitude before we depart, we would be glad.” She glanced to Arya and Sandor, and found both the fierce little nod she expected and the grave tilt of a scarred chin she cherished.

Arya’s mouth curved. “She can sing,” she said, the words tossed into the candlelight like a stone into a clear pool. “Like in the great hall at Winterfell.” Her eyes softened around the word Winterfell in a way that made Sansa’s heart tighten and loosen all at once.

Elder Brother’s smile broadened. “We do not often hear music beyond gulls and tide,” he said. “Will you lend us a song, Lady Sansa? The work of the day sits differently on the shoulders when the evening ends with a voice.”

“If you wish it,” she said, and the brothers made room with their attention… no scraping of benches, no theatrical hush, only the quiet opening that welcome makes.

She stood where the table’s end met the southern wall and folded her hands. The song came of its own accord. It was old and northern and walked at a mortal pace, like a traveller who knows the road and the weather both. She closed her eyes and let it find her mouth.

North wind, carry me over the furrows,
over the fields of my father’s name;
snow takes the road and leaves it cleaner,
home is the hearth that remembers my flame.

Bread from a single handful risen,
water and salt and the patient hand;
gather the broken, mend them gently,
set them down safe on an older land.

Wolf of the winter, walk beside me,
shadow and shield in the northern pine;
when I am lost, sing low and find me,
teach me the path that was always mine.

O, let the crane call over the marshes,
let the sea answer in silver foam;
I am the ash and I am the ember,
I am the child who is coming home…

Sansa opened her eyes on the last line and saw heads bowed not in sorrow but in something quieter… a consideration, a recollection, a settling.

No one clapped. It would have been wrong to make noise where the song had left a stillness. Elder Brother pressed his palm to the table again, as if to bless the grain. “Bread feeds the body,” he said, “and song feeds the soul. We thank you for both tonight.” Some brothers nodded and several of the brothers bowed their heads to Sansa as if she had brought them something more than a tune.

The silence after her song held for a long moment, deep and unbroken. Then came the small sounds of breath and movement… the shift of benches, the sigh of the candles drawing low. The meal, such as it was, had ended. The brothers began to rise one by one, their brown robes brushing softly against the stone floor.

Elder Brother stood last. He inclined his head first to Sansa, then to Arya, and finally to Sandor. “You have shared our table and our quiet,” he said, his voice low but clear. “The morrow will bring you back to the shore, and the road will take you where it must. One of our brothers will guide you to the mainland when the tide is low enough for safe crossing.”

He paused, hands folded before him, and his gaze softened. “Rest well tonight.”

With that, he turned and left through the small archway at the end of the hall. The remaining brothers followed in silence until only the faint echo of sandals on stone remained.

Sansa looked down at the empty table… the crumbs, the half-eaten crusts, the still-glimmering oil lamps… and felt an odd fullness that had nothing to do with food. The air itself seemed to hum with the last notes of her song.

Across from her, Arya traced idle circles in the grain of the wood, her eyes far away. Beside her, Sandor reached for the small loaf that had been set aside earlier and wrapped it carefully in a scrap of cloth, his hands deliberate, almost reverent.

Neither spoke, and neither did she. Words would have sounded too heavy now, too loud for what the evening had left behind.

For a while they sat like that, letting the quiet close around them. Then Sansa rose, and the others followed. Together they stepped out into the cool night air, the hall falling silent behind them, its candles burning low as if guarding the peace they had borrowed for a little while.

Chapter Text

They had crossed the Trident a few hours ago. It had been difficult through the autumn floods, but they had managed.

Since the harbors of Saltpan and Maidenpool were completely destroyed, traveling North by ship hadn’t been an option for Sandor, Jon, and Maege.

Sandor had feared that the Ruby Ford might not be passable any longer, but luckily, they had made it.

Unfortunately though, the weather had gotten worse since they had crossed the river, and heavy dark clouds now engulfed the sky.

“There’s a storm coming,” Jon said, looking towards the sky.

“Aye, we need to find some shelter,” Maege added.

“I might have an idea where we can stay,” Sandor said and led Stranger off of the Kingsroad as Jon and Maege followed him.

“Where are we going?” Jon asked.

“There is a farm close by. We might can find shelter there, and maybe even a warm meal,” Sandor explained.

“When have you been here before?” Maege asked him, curious.

“Sansa, Arya, and I ran into the farmer. He offered us shelter and food for the night, after Sansa told him that I fought for the Starks and Tullys,” Sandor explained. “He was kind to us; even helped Sansa so that the Red Wedding wouldn’t have any… lasting effects… for her.”

Maege nodded understanding.

The little farm came into sight and some chickens were scurrying away from the newcomers. It hadn’t changed at all, and when Sandor saw smoke coming out from the chimney, he sighed in relief.

The door opened and the farmer came out to check out who was approaching. He looked very surprised once he spotted Sandor.

“You? I thought that I would never see you again,” the farmer said as Sandor came over and shook his hand.

“Likewise,” Sandor said as he looked at his companions. “Can we, maybe, take advantage of your hospitality, once more? We still have a long ride ahead of us.”

“Of course, absolutely! Sally’s already making dinner,” he said. “Who are your companions?”

“Friend, this is Lady Maege Mormont of the Bear Island, and this is Jon Stark, the brother of the girls that were with me the last time I was here.”

“Welcome to our home,” he said as he led the group into his humble abode.

“Sally, we have guests.”

The farmer’s daughter looked surprised. “Oh, you’re back,” she said, stirring the stew.

“How are the Stark girls?” the farmer asked as he gestured for them to sit down at the table.

“They are fine; we are actually on our way back to them. We just came from the war and I hope to return before my wife gives birth,” Sandor said.

“Oh, you have married; good for you,” the farmer said as he filled their bowls.

“Lord Sandor is married to Princess Sansa,” Maege said.

The Farmer nodded and Sally’s smile lit up.

“See, Sally, I told you he would be good to her. I knew that the Princess wouldn’t have chosen him if he wasn’t a good man.”

“He is most worthy of Princess Sansa,” Maege said.

While they ate, Sandor and the others told Sally and the farmer, who introduced himself as Roland, what had happened since he had left the farm—how the North was back under Stark rule and how the Dragon Queen was ruling the South.

“Still planning to go to your brother, now that the war is over?” Sandor asked Roland.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I should do it, now that winter has come. Plus, I haven’t the coin to buy or rent any lands.”

“Where in the North does he live?” Maege asked.

“Near Karhold.”

“How convenient,” Sandor said, chuckling. “The husband of the Lady of Karhold sits right there, next to you.”

“I don’t see any problems with giving you a piece of land,” Jon said. “You helped my sisters when they needed help. It’s only fair, I feel, if I return that favor.”

“Thank you, m’lord,” Roland said, grateful.

“You’re quite welcome. Do you know how you will get to the North?” Jon asked.

“No idea. Maybe if I sell the farm and cattle, I will have enough to buy ship passage for me and Sally; once Saltpans harbor is restored, that is.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sandor said. “I have some gold. Take it as a ‘thank you’ from my wife, for your help, when she most needed it.”

Roland seemed to be overwhelmed by the unfolding events.

“By the Gods, thank you m’lord,” he said. “Sally, it seems we are going North, after all!”

Maege got a wineskin from her saddlebag and asked Roland for enough cups for the group. “Let’s drink to that,” she cheered.

They all raised their cups. “To two new Northern citizens,” Sandor exclaimed, and they all cheered in agreement.

Chapter Text

Winter was raging with all its might these last few weeks as guests from all areas of the North, and Westeros, arrived.

Although the weather made travel difficult, everyone who was invited came to Winterfell to witness the wedding of the King in the North and his Baratheon bride.

A few months ago, after they had returned from Meera Reeds wedding in Greywater Watch, Bran asked Shireen if she would honor him by becoming his Lady Wife and Queen.

Sansa still remembered how prettily Shireen blushed when Bran had asked for her hand as they were all sitting in Bran’s solar, that evening.

Shireen’s eyes sparkled with pure happiness when Bran had taken her hand and spoken the words.

Of course, Shireen had happily answered Sansa’s brother—that she wanted nothing more than to become his beloved Wife; promising to be, not only a good Wife, but to also a good Queen for him, as well.

Shireen probably would have married Bran right there in the solar, that very moment, had she been able. However, Bran wanted to wait until his sixteenth nameday passed, making him a man fully grown by the Law of the Land.

It was only three months until Bran’s nameday, anyway, so it wasn’t too much of a delay. Besides, it would give guests the time needed to make the long, arduous journey to Winterfell, as well.

The ravens left with invitations for all of the Lords of the North and the Stormlands, the very next day, alongside ones for the Tullys, and for Queen Daenerys, and Queen Asha, as well.

Everyone answered that they would be attending. After all, a Royal Wedding wouldn’t be a very common occurrence in the near future.

Within the three months leading up to the wedding, late Lady Catelyn Stark’s old Sept had been completely reconstructed, seeing as how Shireen worshipped the Seven, in her heart; despite her mother and father having converted to followers of R’Hllor, the Red God.

Sansa thought it sweet that Bran would do that for Shireen; just as their father had originally built the Sept for their mother, in the first place.

When Sansa had first stepped into the small Sept with its colored windows and figures of the Seven, it had reminded her of two things: one, she remembered how she would often visit the Sept with her Lady Mother, and how she had loved all the colored stained-glass windows, carved stone figures, and numerous candles. And two, she became sad, and bitter, once the unpleasant memories of her own wedding in the Sept at the Twins came back to the forefront of her mind.

None of the Seven Gods had helped her that day. None of them had prevented what had happened to her, nor her family, that night. Not a single one of them had protected her from her first husband, Wendel Frey.

After her initial visit to Winterfell’s Sept, a stroll in the Godswood, with Sandor and Serena, made the dark memories disappear, once again.

While Sansa didn’t know if the Old Gods actually heard her prayers, she was convinced that, at the very least, her father watched over her through them.

As the guests arrived from the Stormlands, the Lords were finally able to swear their fealty to their Lady Paramount.

While none of the Lords openly opposed the wedding, it was clear as day that they weren’t completely happy about Shireen’s marrying a Northman, either.

They had probably all hoped that the last daughter of House Baratheon would marry one of their sons, just so they would become the new Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Storm’s End, rather than a cripple, who became King in the North.

Nobody dared say anything openly, though, considering how the Northmen were already in love with their future Queen.

Today, one day after Bran’s sixteenth nameday, the wedding was to be held.

First, there would be a small ceremony in Winterfell’s Sept, in the Light of the Seven, immediately followed by one at the Weirwood, in the Godswood, afterward.

During the last couple of weeks, Shireen had become more and more excited, and nervous, about her wedding, while she and Sansa sat sewing her wedding gown and Maiden’s Cloak.

Lord Manderly had sent delicate Myrish lace and fine white silks as a wedding gift, so Sansa included them in the creation of Shireen’s gown.

Sansa had also made a new tunic for Bran to wear, letting everyone see that he was the King.

Sandor stood next to her in the small Sept, with Serena on his arm. Sansa had made their daughter a little gown out of soft white wool with a direwolf embroidered in yellow and black silk thread on the bodice.

Arya stood to the left of her, the swell of her belly now clearly visible beneath the gown she was wearing. Only a few moons, more, and Arya would become a mother, herself.

Alys stood next to Jon, each one holding one of their son’s in their arms.

Queen Daenerys stood with her Hand, Lord Tyrion, in the first row, right next to Queen Asha.

The murmuring between Lords and Ladies stopped once the doors of the Sept opened and Shireen entered in her beautiful white silk gown.

She held onto Gendry’s arm as she walked down the aisle to where Bran was already awaiting her in his wheelchair.

Bran was smiling widely at his bride, a bronze crown resting atop his head. Sansa’s little brother had tried so hard to grow a beard lately, much to Sansa’s, and Arya’s, amusement; though, Shireen seemed to like it.

“You may now Cloak the bride, and bring her under your protection,” the Septon began. Shireen turned her back towards Bran, allowing him to unfasten her Maiden’s Cloak displaying the Crowned Black Stag on a Yellow Field of House Baratheon.

Bran then replaced it with his Bride’s Cloak of a fierce Direwolf embroidered on a lush white velvet cloak.

Shireen turned back around and the Septon tied their hands together with a silken ribbon.

“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls; binding them as one, for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words.”

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am his and he is mine, from this day until the end of my days,” Shireen said. While Bran said his own vows, Sansa remembered how she had spoken the very same words, so many years ago.

After they had spoken their vows, Shireen leaned forward and Bran gently kissed her lips.

Sansa was the first person to cheer after their lips parted, with the crowd following her lead.

After the ceremony in the Sept was over, they all convened to the Godswood to witness Bran and Shireen speaking their oaths, once again, in front of the Weirwood.

After the ceremony in the Godswood had concluded, the feast began. Everyone merrily celebrated the new marriage of the King in the North to his Queen, the Lady Paramount of the Stormlands and Storm’s End, until the early morning hours.

The entire evening, guests were delighted by the attendance of the North’s two little prince’s and princess, until they were taken to bed by their nurses.

Serena squealed happily as she sat in Queen Daenerys’s lap while she and Sansa discussed all of the progress being made in the South.

After Serena had been taken to bed, though, Sansa took advantage of the rare opportunity to finally dance with Sandor, once again, since the last wedding at Castle Cerwyn.

As Bran and Shireen left the feast together, Sansa could see that everyone was happy for their King to finally have his beloved Queen.

Sansa hoped that their father saw them and knew that each of his children had finally found the right person to share their life with.

Chapter Text

Nearly two years had passed since Bran and Shireen’s wedding. Winter still hadn’t lost any of its harshness, but the people of the North were at least used to it by now.

Sansa sat alone in her solar. Having just finished feeding Elynore, the little girl was now peacefully sleeping in her cushioned basket, safely tucked into her warm blankets.

Sansa added another log to the fire and sat down on the cushioned couch, enjoying her occasional alone time.

Serena was with Sandor for the time being, and sometimes, father and daughter went riding together. Serena always seemed to squeal with delight anytime she was placed on Stranger’s tall back.

It was interesting to see how Stranger was still intent at biting any hand or finger that wasn’t Sandor’s or Sansa’s, even after all of these years. Although, he never once angrily stomped a hoof, nor even annoyingly snorted/, for that matter, at either of the two newest wolf pups of House Stark.

Sansa picked up her needlework, hoping she might be able to finish her embroidery while her youngest daughter slept peacefully next to her.

Shortly after Sansa began adding her first few stitches, though, someone knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Sansa called. Shireen entered the room before she closed the door as quietly as possible once she saw Elynore sleeping in her basket.

“May I stay for a while?” she asked. “Bran is in the Godswood with Hodor.”

“Of course,” Sansa said as she offered Shireen the seat next to her. “How are you?” she asked, kindly.

“I am fine,” she answered, but Sansa heard a hint of sadness in her voice.

She eyed her and saw that Shireen was gazing at Elynore sleeping while heavy tears began welling up in her eyes.

Sansa put down her needlework and pulled her brother’s wife into an embrace, just as the first sob escaped her.

“Shh, Shireen,” Sansa tried to comfort her. “Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”

Shireen only sobbed harder.

“I am so useless Sansa,” she sobbed. “Bran and I have been married for nearly two years, now, and not once have I shown any signs of being with child.”

So that’s what all this is about, Sansa thought. She continued to rub comforting circles over Shireen’s back.

“Everyone has been able to have a child, but me! You, Arya, Alys… even your friend Jeyne,” she said between sobs. “Even my mother was able to bear at least one daughter; but I can’t even do that!”

Sansa hugged her tighter.

“I can’t give Bran the heir the North deserves. Soon people will start to hate me.”

“Who will start to hate you? Everyone loves you, Shireen” Sansa assured her.

“The North!” she sobbed against Sansa’s shoulder. “Soon they will start to ask themselves if their King shouldn’t have a Northern wife, instead. One that would be able to do her duty to the North.”

“Shireen,” Sansa said, warmly. “No one in the North will think any less of you, much less actually hate you, just because you don’t have a child yet. Sometimes, it can take a while to have children. And even if you and Bran never have any children, you can rest assure that Bran will not ever stop loving you! Nor will the North stop loving you, either! Everyone sees how happy the King is with his Queen by his side, and you are a great Queen, Shireen. You are kind. You are gentle. You are what the North needs during this harsh winter.”

“You can’t know that, Sansa. What worth is a Queen who can’t do her duty?”

Sansa loosened her embrace a little and wiped away the tears from Shireen’s cheeks as she looked back at her with red puffy eyes.

“Shireen, please listen, as I want you to hear this coming from someone who has heard of her ‘duty’ in life—and quite often, mind you. There is so much more to the ‘duty’ of a Queen than just producing heirs,” Sansa explained to her. “There have been other Kings and Queens in the North who never had any children, for various reasons; yet no one loved them any less than our people love you, now.”

“You are just saying that to make me feel better,” Shireen said and cast her eyes to the ground.

“Shireen, look at me,” Sansa said, warmly, and Shireen’s puffy eyes looked up at her.

“I am not just saying this to soothe you. During House Stark’s entire eight-thousand year existence, there have been many Kings and Queens who died without ever having any children. History will not remember you as the Queen unable to birth an heir, Shireen. You will be known and remembered for your kind and gentle heart,” Sansa said, feeling as if she may have finally gotten through to her.

“You are still young, too. You and Bran still have many years to try becoming parents. You two make each other happy, and that is far more important than birthing a dozen heirs within a few short years!”

Shireen chuckled at that and dried her tear stained cheeks with her sleeve.

“Yes, Bran does make me so very happy.”

“Then you should be happy, and not sad, about something you have absolutely no influence over,” Sansa said, kindly and reassuringly.

“You are right, Sansa; it’s just… I always imagined that I would become mother. I never wasted a single thought that this wouldn’t be a possibility for me.”

“I know, but Serena and Elynore love their Aunt Shireen, anyway; with, or without, any nieces or nephews.”

Elynore had woken up by now, and Sansa carefully picked her up out of her basket and placed her in Shireen’s arms. Her little girl immediately got comfortable before falling back asleep again, safe and snug in her Aunt Shireen’s loving embrace.

“See?” Sansa said, and Shireen smiled widely.

“Yes,” Shireen answered in an emotionally thick voice.

“I love all of my nieces and nephews,” she said before kissing Elynore’s soft black hair.

Chapter Text

Sandor had just finished his daily sparring session with Lyra Mormont and was now on the way to his and Sansa’s chambers when Serena ran towards him.

“Papa!” his daughter exclaimed laughingly, her auburn hair flying freely as she ran towards him.

“Tiny bird,” Sandor replied as he squatted down right before Serena flung herself into his strong arms. “What are you doing?” Sandor asked, kissing her cheek, before he stood tall once again while holding Serena securely in his arms.

“Mama, said that Aunt Arya comes to visit us soon with Uncle Gendry, Ned and Robert,” his daughter said happily, rubbing her cheek against his scars. “She might even bring Nymeria along, too!”

Sandor knew how much Serena loved her Aunt’s huge direwolf.

“I know, Serena,” Sandor said. “The raven arrived just this morning. Where is your mother?”

“She is with Elynore in Aunt Shireen’s solar,” Serena said. “Mama showed me how to embroider and I made something for Aunt Arya as a present for when she arrives.”

“You did? Do you want to show me?” he warmly asked, as he entered his and Sansa’s chamber.

Serena pulled a handkerchief from out of the sleeve of her grey and yellow gown Sansa had made for her.

As she held it out to him in her small hand, he took it carefully.

Serena’s stitches were a little crooked, but Sandor could clearly see what his daughter tried to embroider.

He could clearly see that Serena stitched her Aunt Arya with Nymeria by her side. A little auburn haired girl riding Nymeria’s back was very obviously supposed to be her.

“Your Aunt will be very happy with your gift, darling,” he rasped as he traced the stitches. “You are just as talented as your mother.”

“Thank you,” she said and blushed just as prettily as her mother always does at the compliment. “I am working on something for you, too, but it isn’t finished yet.”

“Then you might want to go and finish it, tiny bird. I need to go wash up and change into fresher clothes, first, due to my time sparing, else your mother will kick me out of our chamber tonight.”

“Alright, Papa,” Serena said and kissed his cheek before she happily left the room and headed back to her mother, little sister, and Aunt Shireen.

Sandor chuckled to himself as he removed his tunic and washed off any sweat from his earlier sparring.

He had just put on a new, clean tunic when Sansa came in, holding Elynore.

“Hello, my love,” she said and gave him a kiss.

“Hello, little bird,” he said, before kissing the crown of Elynore’s head.

“Serena just headed back to you,” he said.

“I know; Shireen is going to keep an eye on her for a few moments. I wanted to come greet my husband,” she said and kissed him again.

“Has Serena shown you the handkerchief she made for Arya?” Sansa asked.

“Aye. She has your talent,” he said.

“And your stubbornness when she didn’t know how to create a certain pattern of stitches,” Sansa said laughingly while slightly rocking Elynore on her arm.

“Aye, she is half you and half me, that’s for sure,” Sandor said.

“Indeed, my love, indeed. And who knows what the future might hold for her… and for us?”