Chapter Text
"He's come again, my lady."
"Again?" Why can't he just leave well enough alone?
"Yes...again." Brienne's mouth twitched, and Sansa wondered if it was from amusement...or concern. "Perhaps you should simply agree to see him, this time."
Sansa sighed. "You know that I want nothing to do with him. I know how charming he is, and I know that he was at one point working with Littlefinger. I would never be able to marry Harrold Hardyng, and it's time he got that through his head."
"Perhaps he's not so very bad..."
"Oh, Brienne, You're consistently seeing the best in people who don't deserve as much from you. Or from anyone." Brienne opened her mouth to reply, but Sansa shook her head. "You don't need to say it. I must marry - I know that I must - and I know that there are few men in Westeros who are fit to wed the Lady of Winterfell. I've heard it all a thousand thousand times. But despite his handsome appearance and his title and his money, I could never bring myself to take the cloak of Harrold Hardyng."
"Still...perhaps you should at least see him...he has been quite patient, even waiting in Wintertown to meet with you after you denied him guest right in Winterfell."
Sansa leaned back and eyed Brienne with consternation. "I liked you better when you were quieter and not so sure of yourself. This new Brienne is Ser Jaime's doing; don't think I don't know that."
"If you won't wed Lord Hardyng, perhaps you should respond to the Martells? King Doran is offering you a choice between Quentyn and Trystane, and we hear wonderful things of both - "
"Quentyn is a kind, intelligent man, but he does not wish to wed me any more than I want to wed him. He still spends most of his time hiding in his rooms, thinking on dragons. And Trystane was promised to Myrcella Lannister..." Sansa felt tears well in her eyes, and she turned her head away so that Brienne would not see. Joffrey's and Cersei's deaths had felt like small triumphs to her, but the losses of Myrcella and Trystane had cut her to the core. They had been sweet children...they had deserved so much better than the hands they'd been dealt.
"My lady, I hope it is not Prince Quentyn's scarring that - "
"Scarring? You think that I would deny a man's offer for something so silly as a few burn scars?" Sansa realized that she sounded a bit shrill, and she forced herself to take a deep breath before continuing. "Prince Quentyn belongs in Dorne, as I belong in Winterfell. And Rickon...Rickon needs a man with a firm hand. Quentyn is too quiet, too sad. Trystane would be happy to sit behind a cyvasse board for the rest of his life. And don't bring up Willas Tyrell, either," Sansa snapped as soon as Brienne opened her mouth again. "He has been forced to handle enough broken things in his life...he is worthy of a lady far superior to myself."
She knew that Brienne didn't deserve...well, any of this. But the truth of the matter was that Sansa had been betrothed to Joffrey for far too long after she'd realized what he was...and then she'd been passed off on Tyrion despite the fact that she'd not wanted him, either. Then came Littlefinger and his insistence that she wed Harrold Hardyng, though she'd known - of course - that Littlefinger really wanted her for himself. She was tired of people pushing and pulling her one way or another, and she was no longer even sure that she wanted to be married...but of course, whether or not she even had a choice in the matter was another issue entirely.
"Sansa! Who's the man outside in the yard?"
Sansa found herself pressing her fingertips against her temples; she closed her eyes and forced herself to take a deep breath. "No one of import, Rickon," she sighed. She knew that she should chastise him for being so loud, blunt, and forward, but she just didn't have it in herself to do so right now. She already wondered - far too often - whether her youngest brother would ever be mature enough to rule Winterfell. He was fierce, and smart, and he loved her...she knew all of these things...but he was also untrained, unlearned, and in constant fear that she would leave him as everyone else had once done...which caused him to lash out. Often.
Far too often.
The only person who could keep Rickon Stark in check was, to Sansa's dismay, Sandor Clegane. She thought of him now, as she always did when Rickon seemed about to cause trouble...though she would rather that he didn't cross her mind quite so often. After all, he'd made it extremely clear how he felt about her - or rather, how he didn't feel. He'd been silent and sullen when he'd arrived in the Vale to whisk her away, and had seemed more than grateful for the company and the distractions provided by Brienne and Jaime when they had shown up just as she and Sandor had crossed into the Riverlands. All of this had taken place years ago, of course...yet her relationship with Sandor Clegane was still to this day fraught with tension and frustration.
Oh, he'd stayed with her - that, she couldn't deny. But she simply couldn't forget that when she'd finally confronted him about the Battle of the Blackwater - confronted him about finding him in her bed, about how he'd held a knife to her throat, forced her to sing for him, kissed her - he'd merely laughed at her in that rough way that he had. But then, not just his usual barking laugh - Sandor Clegane had seemed to not be able to stop laughing. Sansa had quickly gathered that he was highly amused about the idea of having kissed her, and by the old gods and the new, she'd never been so embarrassed in her entire life. She'd argued with him for a moment, thinking that perhaps, as drunk as he'd been, he had merely forgotten about kissing her - or that he simply hadn't remembered doing so in the first place - but then he'd brushed her off and given up being adamant, and in doing so he'd somehow proven to her that he was telling the truth.
Things had been, if anything, even worse since then. Though Sandor had sworn himself to her in the Vale, and done so again upon reaching Winterfell...though he'd taken Rickon under his wing and been an amazing help with that wild young boy...though he'd fought for her, killed for her, guarded her...though he'd been a quiet yet reliable addition to Sansa's life...
I should have sent him away. Months ago. Years ago.
The thing was, Sansa knew why she didn't want to marry any of the proper suitors that were presented to her - for so long, she'd dreamt of Sandor, and somehow those dreams hadn't just stopped, not even when she was with him, not even when she understood that he'd never kissed her, not even when he'd not expressed any interest in her as more than a charge to be taken care of.
Deep down, she wanted him and only him, and it seemed that nothing could possibly change that.
* * * * * * *
He'd been schooling Rickon on swordwork in the yard when the handsome lord arrived and asked after Sansa. Sandor had seen him several times in recent days, and though he'd been amused to find out that she wouldn't allow the young man to stay at Winterfell, he had to admit that the lordling's persistence was worrisome.
"HA!" Rickon suddenly crowed. He'd caught Sandor off guard and given his teacher a good hard whack with his practice sword. Sandor grimaced; the boy had caught him on his bad thigh. He glared at his student for a moment before jerking his chin in the direction of the clearly uncomfortable guest.
"Who's that?" Sandor growled. Rickon glanced at the lordling and shrugged.
"Someone come for my sister, thinkin' to take her away from home," the boy stated. He sounded almost resigned to the idea of losing Sansa, and for once Sandor felt the need to reassure another person - surely Sansa would not leave Winterfell, which meant that she would not leave Rickon, and surely someone should tell the boy as much. I probably only want to tell him this because I need to reassure myself of the same thing.
"Your sister's not gonna fly away anywhere. This is her home, and she means to stay here."
Hope shone clearly in Rickon's eyes as he looked up at Sandor. "Well I wanna find out who he is," the boy said decisively. Before Sandor could even attempt to stop him - not that I want to, he admitted to himself - Rickon had dropped his practice sword and trotted away, presumably to Sansa's solar, which was where she could usually be found at this time of day. Sandor gathered up the young wolf-boy's sword and carried it to the makeshift armory, depositing it - and his own practice sword - against the wall there before following Rickon's path, wondering if anyone would realize that he did so with the express intent of being near Lady Sansa Stark, rather than to merely do his job of curbing Rickon Stark's sometimes problematic behavior.
Sandor wasn't even sure how he'd become the youngest Stark's nursemaid in the first place, though he harkened back to how awful Rickon had been when that onion arse had first returned the boy to Winterfell...and how pleased Sansa had been when Rickon actually responded to Sandor's firm but caring attitude toward him.
She was surprised as well, Sandor reminded himself, forcing himself to recall the ensuing conversation.
"Clegane," she'd called him when he entered her solar. She'd asked to see Sandor after witnessing him tricking Rickon out of a terrible fit with a practice sword and the promise of lessons.
"M'lady," he'd mumbled. Though Sandor still thought of her as little bird from time to time, he'd not called her that once since finding her in the Vale. "What would you have of me?"
Sansa had looked at him thoughtfully. "You were...helpful, today. With Rickon." She hadn't tried to hide her surprise.
"Aye. And what of it?" Sandor had growled, annoyed that she would be so shocked that he could handle a mere child.
"Well, if you think you could be so helpful on a more...regular basis...I hoped perhaps you would spend time with my brother. Teach him to fight. Perhaps you're not the best person to show him how to curb his anger, but he responded better to you than he has to anyone else since his return, and at this point I'm willing to take what I can get." Sansa had pursed her lips as if inviting him to argue with her, but at that moment Sandor had decided he didn't have that sort of fight in him. What, did you think she'd shower you with gratitude, with gifts, or...perhaps even kisses? More fool, you. You owed her that rescue, and she owes you nothing in return. Not after what you put her through in King's Landing.
And so Sandor had taken Rickon under his wing. This meant less time standing around watching over Sansa...but perhaps that was, after all, for the best.
Or at least that's what he told himself, especially when he couldn't sleep at night for thinking of her. Especially when, on days like today, he followed Rickon when the boy went to find Sansa, to voice some new complaint or ask some new impertinent question. Especially when he found himself jealous of the close proximity to Sansa that both Brienne of Tarth and Jaime fucking Lannister enjoyed.
Seven hells. Several times a day he told himself that the less he saw of Sansa, the better off he was...and yet he apparently didn't believe this enough to walk away, for he certainly could have done so by now. Several times over.
And yet he was still here. Still sworn to her. Still practicing at swords with her brother. Still scoffing at Brienne's general disgust in regards to him, and at Ser Jaime Lannister's constant and terrible japes. True, at first thought Sandor had not a clue as to where he could or would go, should he leave Winterfell...but then he'd never tried to leave. Or even thought about trying. And he knew that the little bird would never give him reason to truly desire to do so...not like the Lannisters had. Sansa was simply too good, and he was too much a fool for her...despite the fact that he could never hope to be more than another of her minions.
* * * * * * *
"What's import?"
Sansa gazed sadly at her brother. Rickon definitely needed more schooling and less sword practice, but Sandor certainly wouldn't be a proper teacher, and Sansa doubted that Rickon would obey Maester Sam. Kind and intelligent the chubby young man might be, but able to teach a wild young thing like Rickon? Decidedly not.
"It means that who he is doesn't matter," Sansa clarified. Rickon seemed to chew on this for a moment, but finally his face brightened.
"Does that mean I can tell him to go away? I am Lord of Winterfell, after all."
"I wish you could tell him to go away, Rickon. But as the Starks in Winterfell, we do - unfortunately - need to be polite."
Rickon curled his lip and seemed about to retort, but just then Sandor came blustering in. Sansa noted that her little brother quickly bit his tongue, which could only be thanks to Sandor's presence. Why must he make himself so useful? It was nearly impossible to bear, at times. Gods, you've had these thoughts before, and far too many times at that. Stop. Just stop.
"Sorry, m'lady. He ran off almost at first sight of your...visitor." Despite the apologetic words, Sandor's tone sounded as insolent as usual. Sansa pursed her lips and glared at him.
"I suppose you've given up on teaching him any sort of discipline, then?" she retorted. Sandor raised an eyebrow at her words, the burnt corner of his lips twitching in annoyance.
"I'm no nursemaid, my lady. You of all people know that."
Sansa closed her eyes for a moment, wishing that Sandor wouldn't say such things, things that brought her back to a time and place that she wished would stay buried and forgotten in her past. He does have a knack for being unkind at the absolute worst of times. "Of course," she finally stated, her tone as flat and unfeeling as she could possibly make it. "How could I forget." On a whim, then, Sansa turned to Brienne. "Tell Lord Hardyng that I will meet with him on the morrow. Also, send a note to Queen Daenerys, asking if she has any proper Lords in mind who are looking to wed a Lady of some means. I think you're right; it's past time that I found myself a husband."
Brienne was clearly shocked at this sudden turn of events, but Sansa merely gave her a curt nod to show that she meant what she was saying just now. Rickon's voice rose in a general outcry, but Sansa ignored her brother, though her heart broke when she glanced at him and saw the betrayal written plainly across his face. "Clegane, take my brother back outside and see that he finishes his lessons with you. When you are done, he's to meet with Maester Sam. It's past time he started learning to be a proper lordling."
For a moment she wondered if Sandor would refuse; she could practically feel the anger emanating from him as he leveled his seething gaze on her. But Sansa abstained from meeting his eyes; finally, Sandor gave a frustrated grunt and placed one large hand across Rickon's upper back, guiding the boy from the room. This job proved easier than Sansa would have expected; Rickon appeared to be so surprised at his sister's sudden firmness that he could do nothing but obey her orders. And perhaps that's all he's needed, all this time.
"My lady," Brienne said softly, as soon as Sandor and RIckon had stepped out of the solar and wouldn't be able to hear any further conversation. "Are you certain about this course of action? I feel that I must ask, before I tell Lord Hardyng that he is...welcome...to return tomorrow and have an audience with you. And...pardons, my lady, but a letter to the Queen?"
"Yes, Brienne," Sansa replied impatiently. "If I say that I will meet with Lord Hardyng tomorrow, I will do so. And if I ask you to send a letter to the Queen, you will do so. Understood?" Again she was being unnecessarily short with one of her most beloved and loyal friends, but at the moment Sansa didn't care to chastise herself over that. She'd had enough of feeling terrible on this particular day...and she had a feeling that the coming days, weeks, and months were going to be far more difficult, now that she'd finally resolved herself to wed some lord - and to forget about Sandor Clegane.