Chapter Text
Sandor Clegane stood in his Lord’s solar and struggled to keep his composure. At least the Broken Wolf had decided to have this conversation in private instead of in the great hall.
“Does she know?” he asked. Lord Brandon Stark shook his head.
“I wanted to talk to you about it first, to get your consent.”
“Will you be asking for her consent then?”
“I need heirs for the North. Rickon is young yet and I...” Bran looked down at his wasted legs and Sandor felt a surge of sympathy, but he knew better than to let it show on his face.
“There must be someone else.”
“She is ruined Clegane.”
“She is untouched. She has sworn it and for my part I have sworn I never touched her.”
“And I believe you both but the rest of Westeros does not. They believe she was wife to Lord Tyrion, and whore first to Lord Baelish and then to you.”
“But none of it is true!”
“I do not doubt your word Clegane or that of my sister but the rest of Westeros...” Bran made a helpless gesture. “She is ruined in their eyes. The offers made for her are an insult to her and our family; and I need her to marry. At least if she marries you she will be able to stay here at Winterfell. Will you do as I ask?”
“Yes Lord Stark. I will do as you ask.”
When he left Lord Stark’s solar Arya was waiting for him. She leant against the stone wall beside the door, her sword on her hip. Not needle, but the small broadsword he’d had Winterfell’s armourer make for her so she could practice in the yard with him.
She fell into step beside him as he strode away from the solar.
“Where are we going?” she asked
“I’m going to get some wine from the kitchens. I don’t much care where you’re going.”
Arya laughed. “You don’t need wine Clegane. You need a fight,” she said resting her hand on the hilt of her sword.
“Not today wolf-girl.”
“You’re vile when you’re drunk Clegane and you don’t want to be drunk when Sansa seeks you out which she will as soon as Bran has spoken to her.”
“You know?”
“Of course I know.” He should have known better than to ask. Arya could have rivaled Varys as a master of whisperers. In the two years since she had returned to Winterfell she had proven adept at ferreting out every secret in the castle.
“Have you told your sister?”
“No.”
“You should have told her; told me.”
“It’s what you’ve always wanted; you should be happy.”
“It’s not how I wanted it though; is it?” he said and she could see the pain in his eyes when he looked at her.
“She always was stupid,” Arya said before she could stop herself.
“Don’t say that about your sister. She’s your blood.”
They had reached the corridor which would take them to the kitchens and Arya saw him hesitate. “Let’s go to the yard.”
“You don’t want to fight me today Wolf-girl. I might hurt you.”
“No you won’t,” Arya said with confidence, “you would never hurt me.”