Chapter Text
Sansa’s eye twitched despite taking her 38th calming breath that day. This entire affair had been one of the most taxing experiences she’d had in her life. Her mother’s absolute jubilation that one of her daughters was finally getting married had wounded her in places only Jon could comprehend. The sympathetic looks constantly thrown her way from those who assumed she must be devastated that her younger sister was getting married before her were cumbersome and unwelcome. Arya was only two years younger than her for Seven’s sake!
Their mother’s overbearing wedding planning and insistence that Sansa be Arya’s maid of honor had been rage inducing to both parties, who had only mildly veiled hatred for each other in the ways of sisterly bonds. The subsequent lashing out from Arya since this whole thing started had been equally angering to Sansa. But, she was as always, ladylike to a fault. And murdering your mother and younger sister was unquestionably unladylike.
Which led Sansa to her current predicament. Her mother, being not-murdered, had no qualms about using Sansa as a wedding errand slave. Which is why Sansa was shivering in the snow waiting for Arya’s guests to arrive.
Sansa had to admit that it was genius on Arya’s part to insist on a winter wedding. The cold would keep the guest count down and the ceremony in the Godswood short. If Sansa was being honest, she was surprised there was going to be a ceremony at all. She’d never pegged her younger sister as the marrying type and always assumed that if she did decide to marry she would elope.
Unfortunately for Arya, she was marrying the ever considerate and ever stubborn Gendry. In Gendry’s mind, Arya was a proper lady that deserved to be married in her ancestral home surrounded by family. One calculated slip of the tongue to Catelyn and Eddard Stark about their engagement and here they all were, delivering a personal nightmare to Arya.
She broke from her thoughts as a large black car crunched its way through the snow and up to the entrance to Winterfell. The ancient wooden doors to the estate were permanently ajar and the opening had long since been outfitted with an electric gate. Sansa pressed the button to open the gate and walked toward the car as it approached her. The vehicle came to a halt and the first face Sansa saw was a familiar one.
Syrio Forel sprang from the front passenger seat and Sansa immediately recognized him as Arya’s fencing teacher from when she was in school. She’d been forced into attending too many fencing tournaments to ever forget him. His eyes lit up when he saw her and he walked up to her in that dancing type swagger he possessed. He planted a kiss on either cheek which Sansa returned, “Maestro Forel, it’s such a pleasure to see you again. I hope your journey from Braavos wasn’t too arduous.”
Syrio hopped from one foot to the next, “I am stiff from the long flight to be sure, but that will be remedied soon enough. The vastness of Winterfell is good for sparring, no?”
“I don’t presume to know the first thing about sparring, but if Winterfell is anything it is large. Please, feel free to go inside and warm up in the foyer while I greet the others.”
Sansa smiled as Syrio’s form disappeared into the warmth of Winterfell’s living quarters and turned herself toward the car once more. Two older men had emerged from the back, one with light hair worn in a bun at the top and the other a fellow redhead with an eyepatch. The latter was pulling someone out of the very back of the car. With one last pull, a chubby boy plopped down into the snow and a waif-like blonde boy immediately followed.
It’s the one with the top knot who notices her first. Sansa plasters on her most welcoming smile, “Hello, my name is Sansa Stark. Welcome to Winterfell.”
Top knot stops in his tracks and gives her an exaggerated bow, “My lady, the Red Priest Thoros of Myr at your service.”
Sansa tittered nervously, “You’re a priest?”
Thoros took her hand in his and placed his lips on it, “A priest yes, whether I’m a good one or not is up to interpretation.” He winked at her, “Never could give up my wine or my women.”
Sansa let out a soft “oh,” before going back to smiling because she had no clue how to respond to this man.
She was saved by the taller man with the missing eye. “Ignore him, it’s what I do.”
“Ignoring? Is that what we’re calling your memory lapses now?”
The redhead shook his head and extended his arm to Sansa, “Beric Dondarrion.”
Sansa took his hand to shake, “Forgive me, I’m Sansa. Arya’s older sister.”
The two men looked at each other and then back at her. “Are you sure about that?” Thoros asked.
Sansa felt awkward again, but luckily the remaining two guests chose that moment to join them. Sansa peeked in between Thoros and Beric and cheerfully greeted them. The chubby boy introduced himself as Hot Pie and the smaller one was Lommy. Sansa looked the group over and if she hadn’t known Arya her entire life, she would be baffled at the questionable names, questionable ages, and questionable sanity of the men that stood before her. But it was Arya, and she would leave their judgment to their mother.
Sansa saw their driver exiting from the car but her brow scrunched in confusion because he was getting out... From the back ? Beric followed her line of sight and rolled his eyes, “Oh that. The driver veered off the road a bit because of the ice and of course Clegane had to go nuclear and take over the driving.”
As Beric finished explaining Sansa heard the driver’s side door violently open and slam shut as the trunk popped open. She heard the heavy crunch of footsteps in the snow and peered around the group to see the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
Now, most knew Sansa to be a proper, pious, little lady but she was just as red-blooded as any woman. She had seen men and admired them, seen parts of men, and admired them too. But how could any of that compare to what she was seeing now? Tall and girthy legs stuck out from the trunk crowned by the most perfectly sculpted posterior she had ever gazed upon. Who knew that men could possess something so wondrous? Not Sansa, not until this moment.
The owner of these amazing legs emerged from the trunk with three bags in each hand. He was deliciously tall and Sansa was treated to the back of his head which was covered in soft-looking wavy black hair tied in a bun at the nape of his neck. A very large thick neck that would be perfect to snuggle against.
Then he turned around and it was bad. Painful looking burn scars marred the left side of his face and he looked at her with a hateful expression. Though she blanched inwardly, Sansa schooled her expression, looked into his pretty but angry eyes, and gave him what she hoped was a welcoming smile. Although Catelyn’s teachings had not prepared Sansa for drunken priests and people named after pastries, they did teach her how to act with decorum around those with physical peculiarities. She had been polite when faced with Tyrion Lannister’s split open nose pre-rhinoplasty, Jaime Lannister’s stump, and Shireen Baratheon’s greyscale scars. This Clegane man would be no different.
He stomped purposefully toward them, giving no hint of strain from the almost certainly heavy luggage he was carrying. “Welcome to Winterfell, I am-”
“That the entrance?” he asked her in a brusk tone, jutting his chin towards the double doors behind her.
“Yes,” Sansa answered in a small confused voice as he hiked past her without another word.
She looked to the others with her mouth agape. Beric shrugged, “That was Sandor.”
Thoros nodded, “And before you ask, nothing’s got his goat. He’s a rude one all of the time.”
Sansa closed her mouth before settling her lips in a devious smile, “I see. As this is your first time in Winterfell and your luggage has been so kindly taken care of, would you four like a small tour of Winterfell before I show you to your rooms?”
Beric and Thoros smirked at each other and Hot Pie and Lommy seemed genuinely excited at her offer. They were all shortly packed into a large golf cart that was used to get around the estate, equipped with a fabric cover to keep out the cold. Thoros sat next to her, Lommy and Beric in the next row, and Hot Pie in the back.
Sansa circled the entire estate, taking them past the first keep, the broken tower, the greenhouse, the Godswood, and the armory before stopping in front of the great keep where they had started.
They arrived in the foyer with scarlet hued noses and cheeks and were met with a not so jolly giant. Sandor had his arms crossed and his face was drawn in a deep scowl. “Where the fuck have you cunts been?”
Sansa couldn’t help but flinch at Sandor’s course language. She’d been treated to many a curse word from being Arya’s sister but the only people who she’d known to speak with such vulgarity had been Joffrey and Ramsay. Two people she cared not to remember. She composed herself, biting back harsh memories. “I just finished giving them a tour of Winterfell. I assumed you wouldn’t want to come since you were in such a rush to get indoors.”
Sandor narrowed his eyes and glared at her. Sansa could feel herself curling inwards and felt regret over her tit for tat behavior. Ramsay had done so much damage to her physically and he was of average size, what could someone as big as Sandor do? She’s like to think Arya’s friends wouldn’t be dangerous but Arya herself was known to be violent when angered. Fourteen years old Sansa who had spent the better part of a year with a chunk of her hair pulled out could attest to that.
Sansa looked down at the ground and shoved her trembling hands into the pockets of her coat. She decided to focus on the least intimidating of the group which was the round face of Hot Pie, “I must convey my sister’s apologies for not greeting you herself, Arya is with our mother finalizing the centerpieces for the reception at the moment.”
Sandor barked out a grating laugh next to her, “What I wouldn’t pay to see the wolf bitch doing that!”
Although she was still frightened of the large man and her relationship with Arya was tenuous at best, she was still her sister and Sansa felt the need to stand up for her. She mustered up what courage she had and glared at the offending man, “If you would please not address my sister in such a manner, it would be much appreciated.”
Her tone was stern and she sounded entirely too much like her mother, but it was all Sansa could manage. Sandor merely looked at her with his good eyebrow raised before he spread his mouth into a wide grin like he was intentionally trying to make his burns as horrifying as possible to intimidate her. “What are you going to about it? Chirp your scripted little courtesies at me until I go insane? Think you’d have better luck shutting me up by just telling me what you think. If a genuine thought came spewing out of that empty head of yours I just might drop dead.”
Sansa felt like she’d been punched in the gut. Memories of Joffrey and his mocking tirades flooded into her mind. Maybe it was because she’d been hiding in the North with her family since Ramsay, she’d forgotten that a lot of people didn’t like her and thought she was annoying. Tears wet her eyes and she blinked them away as furiously as possible. Her breath came in short snaps as if her body was begging for a full-blown hyperventilating snot ridden breakdown. But she would not give in.
Sansa had to remind herself of all the times Joffrey had screamed and berated her right before social gatherings. If she had been able to keep it together then she could do it now. Plus, these were Arya’s friends. The last thing she needed was Arya getting mad at her because she made a scene in front of them. She heard Thoros tell Sandor to stop being such an ass but it almost sounded far away or like she was hearing it underwater. Sansa looked clasped her hands together and looked out the ground, “I’ll show you to your rooms.”
She hated how small and weak her voice sounded as she showed them to Winterfell’s guest chambers and bid them to choose the room most suited to them. Sansa then ran away in the most composed manner she could. She headed towards the kitchen, is that not where one always ended up when emotionally compromised?
On her way there she passed one of the housekeepers and nearly told her to move Sandor to one of the rooms with an oversized bed. Winterfell regularly plays host to the Umbers and Lord Royce, so the Starks were no strangers in providing comforts for the vertically gifted. But something inside Sansa stopped herself. Something that was sick of people treating her so badly.
Sansa wasn’t an entirely unaware being. Maturity had given her the insight that she could be bratty, selfish, and horribly naive. She cringed at most of the actions of herself when she was a child. If she had done something of the like to Sandor she could maybe understand his behavior, but he’d been unpleasant to her before she even had a chance to speak! And if he wanted to act like that then he could sleep with his cold feet hanging off the edge of the bed.
She finally made her way to the kitchen and promptly pulled out a carton of lemon bar gelato and a single spoon. It wasn’t until metal hit sweet lemony confection that her tears fell and her soft sobs were quieted with spoonfuls of the frozen dessert.
It was all too much. Sansa had spent nearly a year with Jon up at the Wall recovering after Ramsay. Everyone and everything had been scary after that but the Free Folk could be as kind as they were harsh. They hadn’t understood her at all but it was the first time in years no one had spoken down to her and made her feel like nothing.
Perhaps she had made a mistake in leaving. She had come back home due to her parent’s pleas but life was empty for her here. Trust did not come easily to her anymore.
Trust was your “best friend” getting engaged to your abusive ex-fiance because she wanted a title. Trust meant your creepy uncle Petyr offered you a place to stay, only to get inappropriate with you. Trust meant you fell for another boy’s charms only to find out he’d fathered two children during your relationship. Trust meant you believed your new boyfriend when he said he wouldn’t hit you if you were good.
Suffice it to say, something about Sansa just screamed to people that they could walk all over her. Sandor was one of many who hated Sansa for some indiscernible reason.
In the midst of her sugar fueled mental collapse, Sansa failed to hear the shuffling of feet before their owners materialized before her. In front of her soggy, blotchy, gelato smeared face stood Lommy and Hot Pie. “I-”
Lommy waved her off, “We get it. The Hound’s super scary isn’t he? Why do you think we holed up in the back of the car far away from him?”
“Hound?”
“That’s what the called ‘im back when he was working for the Canisters,” Hot Pie offered as he began rummaging through the kitchen.
“You mean Lannisters?” Sansa supplied.
Lommy sat across from her, “Yep, they called him that because he and his brother were so loyal to them. Then when he left and began fighting the name stuck. People say he’s more ferocious without them. Like a dog without a master.”
“Where do you keep your flour?”
Sansa turned to Hot Pie, “Over there. You know if you need anything made you can go down to the service kitchen, we have a full-time chef that can make you anything you’d like.”
Hot Pie shook his head, “No thanks, I’m an apprentice at a bakery and a pretty good cook if I do say so myself. Might go down there to observe ‘im or ‘er but I’m crazy hungry right now. Traveling does build up an appetite. Any requests Sansa?”
“Do you know how to make lemon cakes?”
Hot Pie pulled out his phone, “No, but someone on the internet probably does. Thanks for the map by the way.”
Sansa had wet a paper towel and was dabbing away at what was surely her ruined makeup, “I’m glad you found it, I must have forgotten to mention it while I was showing you the rooms.”
Sansa omitted the fact that she had not mentioned it on purpose because the last thing she needed was Sandor making a comment about how she must have a ton of free time on her hands to have printed a map of the castle and the itinerary for the next few days. She had also bound them into cute little booklets that were placed on the guest’s bedside tables.
Lommy had one in his hand, which was green and resting on the island counter. “Don’t worry, I’ve not got the plague or anything. I work at a factory dyeing fabric.”
Sansa’s ears perked up and she thought of her studio in her wing of the family quarters. “Oh, I-”
“I knew you lot would be where the food’s at!”
Sansa was interrupted by Arya’s booming voice and she looked to see her sister enter the kitchen with their mother behind her, casting a disapproving glare at her younger daughter’s loudness. Gendry brought up the rear looking utterly exhausted.
Arya greeted both Lommy and Hot Pie with a punch to the arm and a side hug. Sansa introduced her mother to them because the gods know Arya wasn’t going to do it. Catelyn reminded Arya to let her guests know that they ate in an hour and then flitted away to check on the chef and the table decor for tonight.
The four reunited friends were chatting at each other with excitement and Sansa had quickly turned into the fifth wheel, so she slipped out. She wandered around Winterfell for a while as she knew tonight’s dinner was casual so she would not be required to dress up.
Her walk took her to the Godswood. As a child, she had idolized her mother and steered more towards the Faith of the Seven, but the Godswood had provided her only comfort when she was alone in King’s Landing, alone in the Vale, and alone at the Dreadfort.
She heard the gate open and a black Jeep drove through the entrance. It slowed when the headlights shone on her and the passenger side window rolled down. Jon’s face peered through the other side, “Want a ride up?”
Sansa smiled and hurriedly opened the car door. Once she was inside she gave Jon as best of a hug as she could with the divide between their seats, “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Jon nodded and studied her face, “I am too, have you been crying? Your eyes are red and you’re sniffling.”
“It’s been a long day. It’s no matter, how are you?”
“I’m fine.”
Sansa put her hands on the small vents spewing hot air and eyed him, “Maybe I should come up for a visit.”
“You were already there for the funeral Sans. I’m okay.”
“If you say so.”
Jon had been in a relationship with a Free Folk girl. Her name was Ygritte and she was tough, funny, and caring in her own special way. Sansa was the only one who had known her or knew about her at all. They’d only been dating for a short while when she died in a climbing accident, but she was Jon’s first girlfriend and Sansa knew he had loved her fiercely. In his grief, Jon hadn’t wanted to explain the entire situation to 15 different people so he elected to say nothing and grieve on his own.
That, Sansa understood. She had done the same with her struggles. The inevitable drama between her parents and the Baratheons, Lannisters, Boltons, and her aunt Lysa kept her from saying anything to them. And she never figured out the right way to tell her mother and father she’d been left a bloody pulp by her significant other not once but twice.
That was why she had called Jon. They’d never been close but Jon was smart, safe, and him being a police officer didn’t hurt. He never asked her what happened, just took her to the hospital and blackmailed the Lannisters and Boltons with the evidence of her injuries. She still had the files hidden in her room, though they were both dead.
“I’m assuming by your location I am not late for dinner.”
“Nope.”
Jon scratched his beard, “That’s… Fortunate .”
Sansa laughed as they came to a stop. Surprising no one, Arya was waiting outside and launched herself at Jon the moment she saw him. She frowned when she saw Sansa exit the vehicle. The rest of their brothers and their father emerged to greet Jon. Catelyn merely came out to give Jon an icy nod of acknowledgment and announce that it was time for dinner.
They all filed into the formal dining room which was fairly large but nothing compared to the great hall, where the wedding reception would take place. Sansa noticed that her mother had already wrangled Arya’s friends together and seated them.
Arya placed herself next to Sandor with Gendry flanking her left. Then to everyone’s horror, she greeted Sandor as “fuckface” to which he replied with the now familiar “wolf bitch.”
Sansa couldn’t help but feel foolish knowing that it was just a foul-mouthed nickname she had gotten so upset about, but it still gave him no excuse for treating her that way. Sansa sat herself in between Jon and Rickon, far away from Sandor.
People were engrossed in their own conversations for the majority of the dinner. Their father had hit it off with Beric and Thoros and their mother doted over Bran. Arya, Syrio, and Sandor argued about the best way to kill a man the whole night, and she and Jon listened to Rickon complain about his school the whole time.
“Arya ran away for an entire year and they didn’t send her away! I make one little mistake and they ship me off to an island where they used to eat children.”
Sansa looked at her younger brother, “I wouldn’t call stealing dad’s car and car surfing and ghost riding with your friends a small mistake.”
“And I think they were cannibals in general, they didn’t single out the children.”
Sansa gave Jon a disapproving look which he returned with a sheepish grin. Rickon let out a long groan beside them, “Dessert, finally.”
The last course was a non-threatening cheesecake, a safe choice for her mother to have served to a group of strangers. And sitting next to it on the plate was a gorgeous looking lemon cake. Her mother had turned to the baker in question, “Now… Hot Pie, I’m told by the chef you baked these lemon cakes and they are quite delicious.”
Hot Pie’s face flushed at Catelyn’s compliment while Arya fixed on Sansa with an accusatory glare. “You made my friend bake you lemon cakes?”
Sansa could feel her face start to burn in embarrassment as everyone turned to look at her. “No, he was baking and asked if I would like anything in particular.” She did not mention that he had been trying to cheer her up after finding her a sopping mess in the kitchen.
Arya huffed, “No one else like lemon cakes.”
Sansa bit her tongue which was about to question the validity of that statement and start an argument with her sister. She could feel Jon shift in his seat next to her, “Arya there’s another dessert.”
Arya glared at Jon, “Since when do you stick up for her? She spent our entire childhood reminding everyone you weren’t actually our brother but she runs to you after her boyfriend dumps her and suddenly you two are chummy?”
At the mention of Ramsay, she started to tremble and hyperventilate. She had to stifle her laughter at Arya’s description of the end of that relationship. Dumped. If one could call three broken ribs and severe bruising over two-thirds of her body getting “dumped.”
Then she was merely mad. Mad that no one knew, mad it was too hard to talk about. Sansa stood up, “If you’ll excuse me.”
She exited without a word and went outside to catch her breath. She sat with her arms curled around her knees, without a jacket, crying for the second time that day. She didn’t know how long she’d been there when she felt the warmth of a jacket that was just worn hit her shoulders. Assuming it was one of her brothers or her father she didn’t immediately look up. When she did, it was to see Sandor Clegane’s tall figure retreat back inside. Beside her was a plate with a creamy puddle from an absent cheesecake, a spoon, and an intact lemon cake.