Chapter Text
Sansa had a lot of time to think, while her brother and the queen of dragons made their way to and from King’s Landing. She never slept a night through, her rest always broken by nightmares that left her unwilling to sleep again until exhaustion claimed her just before the sun rose.
She kept Winterfell running as though she were born to do it, which after all, she had been. They were prepared for Winter beyond what should have been possible, though it would likely still not be enough.
Before he even became King in the North Jon had promised that Sansa would never again be forced to marry. Sansa had long since become accustomed to ruling as Lady of Winterfell, needing no man making decisions alongside her, overseeing the day to day needs of the people and the town while Jon focused on larger concerns like the threat from beyond the Wall.
But now Jon was a Targaryen. And he had bent the knee.
Daenerys was a hard ruler. Not without empathy, but Sansa had no doubt the queen would bargain her away for strategic alliance or political stability, should the realm have need. Jon would be overruled, and Sansa would find herself again a gamepiece strategically placed in a stranger’s bed, a sacrifice for the greater good.
But there must always be a Stark in the North. Bran would not have children, and Arya seemed unlikely to do so. Jon’s children would be Dragons. The fate of the Stark name seemed to lie with Sansa.
As the ravens announced each step bringing the returning party closer to Winterfell, Sansa formed a plan. No one could marry off a married woman. She would take a husband of her own choosing before one was forced upon her.
And only one man would do.
He saw her, standing with the little wolf above the gates, watching their weary return. But for the flaming banner of hair snapping in the wind he’d not have recognized her, this woman of steel wrapped in furs and harshness. Her gaze pinned him briefly, before they passed underneath and out of sight.
His mouth went dry at the thought of facing her again, different as they both were, fucked as their last parting had been. Him blind drunk over her meek terror, both of them beneath a sky blazing emerald with wildfire.
Fortunately, the Lady of the keep had little reason to speak with any of the weathered travelers dragging themselves to a meal and a bed.
Or so he thought, pushing away from the dregs of his dinner with a mind toward finding his own place to sleep.
“Clegane,” a voice cut through his thoughts like the wind, quiet dignity over steel.
She came around from behind him, much less elaborately dressed than she had ever been as an almost-princess in the Red Keep but infinitely more regal. Dark velvet and trailing furs wrapped her near in shadow, but for the auburn hair loose around her shoulders, echoing the torches along the walls.
Sansa steeled herself against the weakness in her knees as he unfolded to his full height, unnerved to be so close to him again, both of them half-strangers with an intimate past. His thunderous frown almost overruled her resolve.
“Would you walk with me?” She bit her tongue on the Ser that wanted to follow, knowing how he felt about her “Sers” and “my lords” and wanting just for once to start a conversation with him without raising his hackles.
He paused, uncomfortable in an unfamiliar place, looking around to see who watched them. “Is that seemly, Lady Stark?” No longer a “little bird,” not here, not to him.
She laughed, but the sound had a brittle edge, aimed at which of them he could not tell. “I decide what is seemly here, Clegane.”
Her addressing him thus was odd to his ears, but he wouldn’t ask her to call him “Hound”, and “Sandor” was too familiar.
He made no further comment, but gestured for her to lead them where she would.
He flinched in surprise when she took his arm, but did not pull away.
She had walked with him so many times, but never in these halls, never like this. Never when she was not always afraid. Never when he was not trying to intimidate her out of her idealism. In boiled leather and furs his gait was as silent as hers, and she missed the familiar clink of full plate armor rallied to protect her. She hadn’t realized how comforting she found that sound, but only when she was with him.
She led him out to the godswood, well away from prying eyes and ears, for her own pride as much as anything else, should he refuse.
In a curve of trees, sheltered from the worst of the wind, she faced him straight on, deciding that a direct and truthful approach suited them both, they two who had had their fill of court intrigue and pretty falseness.
What came out instead was, “Did you mean it?”
“What?” he barked in surprise, the sound more harsh than he intended against the hush of snow around them.
She ducked her head, but instantly raised it to meet his eyes again, Tully blue overlaid with iron.
“That night. You said you would take me away, and kill anyone who would hurt me.”
He felt like an insect pinned under her gaze, unable to turn away or even blink, despite the intensity of his instant shame at the memory. “Wasn’t in my right mind,” he ground out. “I should never’ve--”
She made gesture of impatience, cutting him off. “But did you mean it ?”
He exhaled slowly, laid bare before her, with only the truth to give. “Yes, little bird.”
She closed her eyes, not before he saw tears gather there. But none fell, and her voice was steady when she said, “I should have gone with you.”
She looked away across the sea of trees around them, and continued, “men did hurt me, worse than Joffrey could dream.” Her voice was as placid as though discussing the weather. “I could never forget I’d had a different choice.”
The smile that came after hurt him to see on her face, cold and triumphant. “You won’t need to kill anyone, though. It’s been seen to.”
The girl in King’s Landing, the one he’d protected and despised -- despised because she was the mirror of a boy who’d believed in Knights until one set him on fire -- she was as gone as if she’d never been, iced over and forged like steel into the woman before him, a total stranger with the face of someone he used to know.
But then she twisted a lock of hair around her finger, instantly young and uncertain again, the little bird he’d never let himself forget. “I want to ask you something.” She paused. “A favor.”
“What could the Lady of Winterfell possibly want from me?” There was almost no bite in his tone, just honest bafflement.
“I would ask you to marry me.” It was a neutral request with a hopeful lilt at the end.
He was dumbstruck. He finally managed, “You can’t be serious,” and suddenly angry, he added, “Don’t fuck with me, girl, I’m too tired for this.”
He tried to turn away, but she grabbed his hand. “Listen,” she implored, implacable rock against the storm of his fury. “I have never been more serious.”
He didn’t respond, but he didn’t leave, so she took that as a sign to continue. “After... Ramsay , Jon promised I would never have to marry again.”
She swallowed. “But Jon has bent the knee, and no longer has the authority to uphold that promise.”
She held his gaze even though it hurt her, the pain and rage in it. “If I am to marry again, it will only be to a man I trust, who will never hurt me.”
His rebuttal was automatic. “Surely there is someone else--”
Sansa was resolute. “The only man outside my blood who ever defended me, protected me, saved me from disaster, and told me the truth though it was ugly to my ears and I resented him for it.”
“You can’t honestly want to be married to this ,” he said, gesturing angrily at his scars.
She didn’t flinch from his anger. “My father never wanted for me a beautiful man, but one who was brave, gentle, and strong. I’ve met too many men far uglier than your mere scars.”
More softly, she continued, “If we marry, you’ll see you're not the only one with scars.”
His stubbornness wouldn’t give in, though he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. “I’m not of rank enough for you. A minor House sworn to an enemy, besides.”
She had a will to match. “I’m not marrying any man’s House, or rank, or holdings. And I’ll not have anyone who wants me for mine.”
He would not be a husband only in name. “I’ve pride enough not to spend my life as your guard dog, Lady. You’ve got a sworn shield for that.”
She wanted all of him, and for him to know it. “I’m offering a true marriage. I only ask that any children bear the name Stark.”
He laughed at that. “The world won’t miss more of the name Clegane, for sure.”
A long moment of silence stretched between them, before she finally asked, “Will you refuse me?”
His answer was a long time in coming. “No, little bird,” he said, head bowed over the hand she still held. “I could never.”