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Gods, she is so beautiful.  He stood before her in Winterfell’s great hall. He knew what he must look like, not only dirty and unshaven, but scarred. Just a bristly old cur. And the North doesn’t need him. The war is over. Sansa can pay him back for every course word in King’s Landing, for all the times he just stood there and watched her misery. He deserved it.

None of this showed on his face of course. He might not be the Hound any longer, but he was still Sandor-fucking-Clegane. He stood tall, his menacing presence daring any of the gnat guards to come near him, his eyes focused somewhere to the right of Sansa’s head while he told them what he knew of the battle in King’s Landing.

Sansa listened then stood, glancing around the room. “Sandor Clegane is welcome in the North. He is a hero of the Battle of Winterfell where he saved my sister’s life, which in turn saved us all.” She paused and spoke more quietly, directly to him. “Will you join my table tonight, Se-…Clegane?” The corner of her mouth turned up slightly.

He had meant to refuse but instead heard himself grunt, “Aye.” Then he gave Lady Stark a brusque nod and strode out, not waiting to be dismissed.

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The high table was as miserable as he had imagined. He was seated far from Sansa, and the pompous lords around him insisted on speaking to him. One even went so far as slapping him on the shoulder, and Sandor bit back the urge to stab the man with his dinner knife. But the ale was plentiful, and once his companions learned to leave him be he could eat, drink, and steal glances down the table to where Sansa sat. She was not a little bird any longer, no more than he was the Hound, unless maybe a raven in her severe black dress? Buy no, the raven was her strange brother, not Sansa. She was a red she-wolf. Engaged, sure of herself, strong. He nodded to himself in approval and took another drink.

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Sansa tried to focus on the conversation around her, something about breeding horses, but her eyes were drawn constantly down the table to where Clegane sat, a silent brooding presence working single-mindedly on his dinner. He had changed, was nothing near to soft, but maybe less…. hateful, somehow? Physically he was older, but still tall and straight, and even now she could see the way his muscles moved beneath his jerkin as he ate. She turned quickly away, hoping no one had seen her looking.

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Sandor drained his cup and sat back. People were starting to leave the hall and he supposed he should go as well. He stood and turned to find the Lady of Winterfell.

She beckoned a servant for her cloak as she said, “Walk with me, Clegane?” Then started away without waiting for his answer. They went down halls and up winding stairs, not speaking, and emerged at last on the battlements. It was a clear, cold night, and thankfully calm. The banners hung limply above them. Sansa went and looked out over the walls. He could see her shoulders relax as she breathed the crisp air, for a moment away from all those who relied on her. He came up beside her and waited. When she finally spoke, he could see it was Sansa, not the Lady Stark. “I’m glad you’ve come.”

“Are you then? Huh. Don’t really know why I did. Nowhere else to go I reckon.”

She scoffed, but mildly. “Really? Haven’t you your own Keep in the west?”

He tensed, ready with some surly reply, but she turned to him, looking directly up at him for the first time, and her blue eyes were so compelling they cut off whatever he intended to say.

“Please Clegane, I would speak plainly with you. You always gave me that much before.”

He nodded. “Aye.” He looked away a moment and she saw his fists clench. She waited patiently until he spoke.

“If it’s the truth you want then I’ll tell you.” He looked up, brown eyes wary but determined, holding a flicker of. . .hope? in their depths. “I came because of you, Lady. You and your sister. I hoped I could find a place in your service, but I see you don’t need me here. You are the bloody Lady of Winterfell now. Bastards are falling all over themselves to be near you.”

She reached out and touched one fist gently. “Call me Sansa.” She took a deep breath, taking her hand away. “I do need you. I trust you. Everything went so horribly wrong after you left. I was so alone. I couldn’t trust anyone, especially not those cowards who claimed to want to help me. I was just a girl, but they used me, hurt me.”

What could he say? He had heard some of her story, and he wished those cunts were alive so he could kill them again.

Her eyes welled with unshed tears, but she brushed them away impatiently and clasped his arm. “You never hurt me. You had the chance, but you were honest  and . . . and gentle. Now I am alone again, my family won’t stay. I know it.” She hesitated, “Sandor. I’m a woman now, not a girl. I am safe. I am home, but still …broken.” Her voice trailed off and her face turned slightly away.

He didn’t know where the courage came from, but he reached out a finger and gently brought her chin around. He said all he could think to say. The simple truth. “You are so strong.”

They stood for a moment, blue eyes meeting brown. He dropped his hand, and she came up on her toes and kissed him. A gentle touch on the corner of his mouth.

“So are you.”

He snorted briefly. “Ha. Strong arms maybe.”

“I mean it. You kept your humanity. Through everything.” She tentatively touched the burn scars on his cheek.

He shrugged irritably. “None of that matters. I should have done more for you. But…” and his rough voice softened. “I never forgot you. If I survived, you are the reason. When your sister left me for dead my thoughts were for you. I went to find the wight and save Westeros for you. I killed my brother because you weren’t safe while he lived. Sansa, you saved me.”

She looked up at him, eyes dark and fathomless. “Then we saved each other. Sandor, I missed you. I longed for you. You are necessary to me. Will you stay? Not as a sworn sword, but to be with me?”

“Aye. I will.” He felt her tremble at the words. ”Sansa, you are necessary to me as the air I breathe, and you will never be alone again.”