Chapter Text
Invocation
There is no godswood in the castle. It was built far too late and too far south. She had grown used to the solitude the sacred place of the old gods had once afforded her, but in this place she is free of the clamor of court life that she had sought refuge from. And neither is she alone. Even when her maids and her husband are gone from her, there is still the child that sleeps in her cradle upstairs. Smiling, she touches her fingers to her gown, where another babe will soon grow. Today is the Feast of the Warrior, the celebration of bold deeds, honors, and feats of strength. She lights a candle before the altar for him, reciting familiar prayers. She kneels and begins to sing:
The Warrior stands before the foe,
protecting us where e'er we go.
With sword and shield and spear and bow,
he guards the little children.
She smiles to herself, knowing that one year ago, she was little Sansa Stark, the last of the wolves, and now she is someone altogether different…
The Feast of the Warrior
No cushions were lined up before the altar, and the stone beneath her knees was cold and rough. She shifted to alleviate some of the discomfort, feeling the skirt of her gown snag. It was once one of her finest, but it had seen too many months of wear. She should have been ashamed to be seen in it; once she would have been. What mattered then meant little too her now. Fine fabrics and elaborate braids could not fill the hole in her heart left by the deaths of her father, her brothers, her mother, her sister. She was alone as she had never been before. Sansa Stark, the last of the wolves.
She had long since stopped asking the gods why. Her prayers had been met with nothing but silence, and she was sure now that there were no gods, only men, and she had far less faith in them than she ever had in the Seven. She had been beaten, betrayed, and abandoned in her cold tower room. A shade of the girl she had been at Winterfell, she felt as though she would soon begin to fade away.
Sansa looked down at her clasped hands, expecting the flesh to flake away with even the gentlest breeze. Her head felt light, even as her vision began to darken. She could feel herself falling, but could do nothing to stop it. She prepared for the pain of striking the ground, but it never came.
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She woke in her bed, thinking perhaps that she dreamed she was in the Sept, pretending to pray to the Warrior upon his feast day. The door to her chambers opened with a crash, and she expected to see a maid, but instead she saw the towering form of Sandor Clegane, the Hound. He carried a large wooden bowl from which steam was rising.
“You’re awake,” he said, his voice a deep rumble that used to frighten her.
“What happened?” she managed to ask, though her mouth was dry.
“You fainted,” said Clegane. “Nearly fell right onto the flagstones in the sept. Lucky I caught you when I did.”
“Thank you,” Sansa said. “I didn’t know you went to the sept.”
He snorted. “I don’t, save for when I’m looking for you. What the bloody hell were you doing, girl? The sun wasn't even up.”
“I wanted to be alone,” she replied, sitting up. She was still wearing her shabby gown.
“You weren’t alone enough up here?” Clegane demanded, striding over to her bedside. He held out the bowl. “Eat.”
Sansa was not hungry. She never was anymore, not properly. Clegane had threatened more than once to force food “down her pretty gullet” if she didn’t do it herself. She had grown used to him watching her as she took her meals, waiting to make sure each bite of bread and forkful of meat was gone from her plate. It was the way one watched a child, to make sure she ate the peas as well as the beef.
“The Warrior stands before the foe,” she recited, a smile touching her lips, “protecting us where e'er we go.”
Clegane’s frown deepened, but before he could snap at her, Sansa stuffed a spoonful of stew into her mouth. Clegane scoffed, but his expression softened somewhat.
“I fainted,” Sansa said after she had swallowed. The stew was good, rich and thick.
“You have no strength if you don’t eat,” Clegane said.
Sansa held up her spoon defensively. “I am.”
“Not enough,” he grumbled.
“Enough for a bird,” she replied.
“But not for a wolf.” He went to the window. The sun had risen by then and there was quite a bit of noise coming from the yards below. They were familiar sounds: the ring of steel, the clatter of plate armor, the splintering of wooden lances. They heralded the start of the tourney King Joffrey had ordered fought for the Feast of the Warrior.
“Will you ride today?” Sansa asked between bites of stew.
“Kingsguard always ride,” he replied.
“For the king.”
Clegane said nothing, continuing to look out the window. Sansa finished her stew in silence and then slid out of bed. She showed Clegane the empty bowl.
“I feel better,” she said. “Thank you.”
“I’ll call the maid,” he said, letting Sansa’s thanks fall flat. “You’re expected at the proving grounds.”
Sansa sighed, already exhausted from the idea of dressing and sitting near the king who had ordered her father beheaded.
“I’ll come back for you,” said Clegane as he went out.
He was replaced by the rotund maid with the voice like a cat’s yowl. She helped Sansa out of her clothes, but fell into despair as she looked through the equally worn dresses in the wardrobe.
Sansa pointed to a gown of deep green velvet, its sleeves slashed with yellow. “That one will do. No one will be looking at me after all.”
The maid made a few worried noises, but then dropped the gown over Sansa’s head. She laced it and then bid her sit so that she could braid Sansa’s hair.
Sansa shook her head. “I want it down.”
The maid settled for brushing it. It had grown longer and thicker, falling to her waist in russet waves.
The maid left her after that, and Sansa was once again alone in her bedchamber. She was accustomed to waiting. She was rarely sent for any longer. To fill the hours, she had been embroidering a length of silk. It sat in a basket beside the only chair in the room. Reaching down, she picked it up and looked it over. The stitches were delicate and precise, just as Septa Mordane had taught her, and depicted the snarling face of a direwolf. She had once hoped to have it adorn a bodice, but she knew now that she never could.
Anger and sorrow roiled in her belly as she traced the wolf’s muzzle. It was a meaningless sigil now; there was nothing left of House Stark. Ripping the silk from the wooden frame, she went to the hearth and held it out to the flames. Before she could drop it, though, there was a knock at the door. A moment later, Sandor Clegane strode across the threshold.
He was in full plate armor, his longsword at his waist. The white cloak of the Kingsguard hung over his shoulders. As he set eyes on Sansa, her arm still extended toward the fire, his brows knit.
“What are you doing, girl?”
Sansa, unsure of how to explain, said nothing.
Clegane strode over to her and grasped the end of the silk. Sansa relinquished it without protest.
“You’ve been at this for a month,” he said. “Why burn it?”
She looked up at him, confused. He had noticed her work? “I…it’s not suitable,” she said. “I could never wear it.”
“Then don’t,” Clegane growled. “Keep it for yourself.”
Sansa shook her head. “Why? My family is gone.”
“You live still.”
“But the Stark name will not,” she said. “Even if I bear sons someday, their name will be that of my husband. The Starks are dead.”
Clegane grunted, unable to contradict her. He looked down at the embroidery, his calloused thumb rasping against the silk. “It’s a waste to burn it.”
“I can do another,” Sansa said. “Something…different. I have time enough.”
“Fine,” he said, holding the silk out to her. “Do what you want.”
She took it, touching the embroidery as he had. “It looks like a lady’s favor for her chosen knight,” she said, half to herself. She almost laughed. It was so foolish. She would once have blushed prettily as she gave just such a token to a man she thought handsome and gallant, but now she could never imagine it. To have a champion in a tourney meant almost nothing to her any longer. It was just another pretty lie she had believed as a girl.
“Give it to me,” Clegane rasped, holding out his hand.
“What?” asked Sansa.
“You want someone to ride for you,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
“I didn’t mean that…not exactly,” she said. “I don’t need—”
He frowned down at her. “Just give it to me, little bird.”
She handed it back to him. Folding it twice, he tucked it into his gauntlet.
“Let’s go get this over with,” he said.
She nodded and followed him out of her room.
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He delivered her to the dais on which the king and his household were seated to watch the joust. Where she once would have been at Joffrey’s side, she now kept as far from him as she could. As she settled herself at the far end of the dais, she could not help but recall the last time she had been at the tourney grounds. She had been both overwhelmed and enchanted with the colors and sounds of combat. The glinting armor and the splitting of lances had been exhilarating. Her father and Arya had been with her then.
As she looked out over the field now, though, everything was muted. She saw the truth of the tourney: the battered armor, the piles of horse shit, the shaking hands of the men who lost their bouts. There was no romance, no allure, only weary men and green boys who played at warfare.
The first few bouts did little to catch her eye. She did not gasp when one man was unhorsed, his arm breaking beneath him as he fell. His fine red cloak was besmirched with filth as he was helped to his feet and led from the field by his squires. He had been felled by Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard. The royal household had cheered as he saluted the king. Sansa applauded out of obligation rather than admiration.
However, when the next white cloak appeared on the field, she gave him her full attention. Sandor Clegane was astride his massive black charger, Stranger. He wore his hound helm, but no gorget to protect his throat from the breaking lances. That was bold, almost careless. Had Sansa asked him why he left it off, she was certain he would give a dismissive answer, saying that it rubbed at his neck or kept him from lowering his gaze properly during the charge. He had made it clear to her more than once that he wasn’t afraid of injury.
“What difference is another scar going to make?” he said to her once, sneering. “You think it’s going to ruin my pretty face?”
His opponent in the joust was a smallish man atop a leggy bay mare. His armor was older, but well kept. It was likely he had fought in many tourneys before this one. He would be capable despite his size. He spurred his horse on first, but Clegane was not far behind him.
Stranger’s long strides ate up the ground, sending dirt flying up behind him. Sansa pressed her lips together, holding her breath as she waited for wood to meet steel. They struck at nearly the same time, destroying both lances. Slowing their horses at opposite ends of the field, they tossed the broken weapons aside and took up new ones.
The second time, Clegane was the first to charge. The other knight paid for it. The tip of his lance glanced off of Clegane’s shoulder, remaining whole. Clegane’s, though, hit him hard in the chest. With only one ride left, Sandor had the advantage. The small knight prepared himself well, but was bested once again. Raising his lance to Clegane, he accepted defeat.
The same went for Clegane’s next opponents as well. He outrode them all, earning him cheers from both the royal household and the commons alike. Sansa remained in her seat, but she smiled and clapped with each victory.
When, at last, the final bout was about to begin, Sandor and Stranger stood at one end of the field and Balon Swann at the other. Both raised their lances to the king before the charge. Joffrey stood and bid them ride.
Their lances broke at the same time in the first charge, the resounding crack making Sansa wince. She wondered if Clegane’s ribs would be bruised after a day of taking such hits. In the second round, Swann had the upper hand and broke his lance hard. Sandor recovered in the third ride, though, nearly unseating Ser Balon. By the fifth ride, they were tied in lances broken once again.
As they had charged, Sansa had moved to the edge of her seat, her hands clasped tight in her lap. She knew that winning a tourney mattered little to Clegane, but some part of her wondered if he was riding hard because he thought it mattered to her. When it began, it hadn’t, but as she watched Clegane fell one man after another, she began to feel the ghost of the thrill she had had at the Hand’s Tourney so many years ago. She wanted him—her unexpected champion—to win.
As the sixth charge began, she watched, wide-eyed and feeling her heart jump. When Sandor’s lance collided with Swann’s breastplate, Ser Balon was whipped back against his horse’s rump. The startled beast kicked up its back legs, throwing Swann to the ground.
Cheers erupted from the onlookers. Sansa herself shot to her feet, a wide grin on her face. Clegane dropped the butt of his broken lance and trotted Stranger up to the center of the dais, where Joffrey was standing, looking smug.
“Well done, Dog,” he said when Clegane removed his helm. “I didn’t know you still had it in you.”
Sandor said nothing, simply inclined his head.
“As the victor,” said Joffrey, “you’ll have the honor of sitting at my side at table tonight. And with you, you’ll bring the Queen of Love and Beauty.” He gestured to one of the lesser lords that stood near him. The man presented him with a coronet of yellow roses. “Take it, Dog, and name her.”
Margaery Tyrell, the king’s betrothed, raised her chin and smiled, preparing to be chosen. It was to be expected, after all. Taking the crown, Clegane eyed her for a moment, but then reined Stranger away and trotted down to the end of the dais. He stopped before Sansa.
“Come here, girl,” he said, gruff, “and take this.”
She could hear the murmurs from the others on the dais, but she disregarded them as she went to the railing. Sandor tapped Stranger’s side with his heel so that the horse sidestepped closer to her. She leaned toward him and he set the crown gently onto her head. As he moved his hands away, she saw a bit of gray silk at the edge of his gauntlet. She smiled at him as she drew back. To her surprise, the good side of his mouth turned up in return.
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The heat of the banquet hall was stifling as Sansa sat at table. She was picking at her suckling pig, keeping her eyes cast down. As Queen of Love and Beauty, she was seated at the tourney champion’s right hand. Sandor Clegane, who had exchanged his armor for a plain black tunic belted at the waist, had been quiet throughout the meal. He had eaten nearly all that was on his plate, but his wine had barely been touched.
Joffrey, however, had already had more than his share and was loudly recounting a tale of his prowess in the mounted hunt. Sansa doubted even half of it was true.
“When the hounds caught up with the beast,” he said, “they slowed it just enough for my spear.”
“It was very well done, too, dearest,” said Margaery, patting his arm. She was smiling, Sansa saw, but her eyes were hard and disapproving.
“Speaking of hounds,” Joffrey said, wine spilling from his cup as he turned to Sandor. “Isn’t it fitting these two dogs kept company today? My Hound and his wolf bitch.”
Sansa kept her face impassive, albeit barely. Though the crown of roses on her head was light, she felt as if it was made of lead. She had once had a girlish dream of being named Queen of Love and Beauty, but there was little joy in it just then. She wondered once again what had possessed Sandor Clegane to slight the future queen in favor of her.
“What a pair they make, don’t you think?” Joffrey said to Margaery.
“Indeed,” she replied. “They look very…distinctive together.”
Joffrey roared with laughter. “Distinctive? I’d wager a thousand gold dragons you’d never see a more laughable match.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Clegane’s hand curl into a fist. She could all but feel the tension of fury kept in check. Reaching out, she laid a hand on his forearm and gave a gentle squeeze. He looked down at her fingers and then up to her face. She blinked at him, willing him to stay calm. He swallowed heavily, but she felt the muscles of his arm relax.
“Dogs and wolves,” Joffrey said, rubbing at his chin. “The kennel master says that the best hunting hounds have a little wolf left in their blood, but most of the wildness has to be bred out before they’re worth anything.” He narrowed his eyes, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “This wolf here is the last of her kind, and I’d say just a little too wild. How better to temper that than to breed it out?”
Sansa felt her stomach drop out, dread snaking down her spine.
“Mix her blood with a common dog’s and maybe they’ll whelp something worthy,” said Joffrey, swaying as he got to his feet. “Dog, you’ve won a tourney today and should have the champion’s purse, but I think I can offer something better: a pretty wolf to take to your bed.”
“My dear,” said Margaery, reaching for his hand, “I don’t think this—”
He shook her off, proclaiming, “A fortnight hence, Dog, you’ll wed her.”