Disclaimer: I don't own "Game of Thrones." Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: Missing scene during 1x09 at Ned Stark's beheading. This was languishing in my drafts for fifty years so I decided to dust it off and post it.

Warnings: missing scene, seer!au, drama, angst, could be considered pre-relationship, allusions to later sansan.

(False) Ellipsism

The small folk always thought it queer that a seer hadn't been born to House Stark for many years. Leaving a prophesy long foretold to molder in the dust of ancient scrolls and words etched into thinning stone. An arcane legacy that'd had a hand in legitimatizing the Stark's wardship over the North in more ways than one - long before the last winter and King Robert's war.

For more generations than their names were remembered, his line had boasted a living augur. It was as entrenched in legend as it was in truth. But for more than a hundred years, there had been no one to take on the mantle.

He'd never given much thought as to why.

He was a warrior.

Not a thinker.

Not in that way, at least.

And while he kept to the Old Gods, he believed in what he could see. In what laughed, lied and bled. He respected the lineage of his fathers. And learned their history just as diligently. But to the question of why his house had been stripped of the sight? Well, he spared it little mind.

The Gods, however, had different plans.

Cat had chattered happily when the second turn of the moon waned, and her blood did not come. She was with child again. It had been a welcome thing, with even the servants going about with an added lightness in their steps. Catching onto the happy mood as his wife pulled Rob into her lap. Remarking how good it would be if the Gods blessed them with another son. Asking the boy with mock-seriousness if he'd like a brother to play with as the maids made themselves scarce – giving them privacy.

Rob had merely grinned up at her gummily. Stuffing his fingers into his mouth as she tickled his sides and made him squeal. Talking to him as if the babe could understand. Determined to have him utter his first words when they were both in the room.
He'd smiled, thanking the Gods for granting him such a life. Keenly aware of how lucky he was as Cat smiled at him with open warmth, before getting distracted again. Giving him leave to look in the direction of the Godswood as a chill, new breeze kissed his face. Suddenly taken by a sense of knowing so strong he'd stalled. He hadn't been able to put it to words when Cat had looked up. He'd made some excuse and swept from the room. Having mind to saddle his horse and ride until the queer feeling left him.

But it didn't.

And he never made any sense of it.

Not even when his second child was on the cusp of womanhood.

Instead, he'd found himself in the Godswood, hours later with the same mantra beating like a heartbeat between his ears. Unable to escape from the strangeness of it as the words pounded true and unchanging in his bones.

Not a son.

A daughter.

Months later, he held her with a raptness he'd not felt in all his years. Even the day Rob had come into the world paled somehow. Unable to shake the bond that had taken shape that morning in their rooms when he'd known - somehow - that the Gods would give them a girl.

Sansa.

"I have a son, you have a daughter... We'll join our houses..."

He'd balked.

It had been instinctive.

The love of a father, yes.

But there had been something else.

It wasn't right.

He'd seen it in his mind's eye in a too-fast flicker.

Sansa wasn't meant for-

He buried the feeling.

An act he would come to regret more than any in his life.

Even more than not telling his wife the truth about Jon.

Or dying before he could tell Jon the same truth.

It was an ill thing to pass with so many regrets.

At Kings Landing, his dreams were of the North.

But instead of being soothing and familiar, he found them frenetic and unsettled.

Remembering things he hadn't realized he'd forgotten as he jerked awake – mired in salt-sweat. Still seeing the dying echoes of the day Catelyn Tully had come to Winterfell with her father. Swallowing the bile of a queer, jealous possession that'd been at odds with the love he had for his brother. Breath catching painfully in his throat as she'd stepped out of the carriage in a billow of blue-cream skirts.

His.

Something in him had screamed it when his mother nudged Brandon to greet her. Forcing him to bow and repeat the usual courtesies in a bored tone as she'd looked up at Brandon adoringly. Not even seeing him behind the tall line of his brother's back. She had been promised to him since the cradle and yet-

He'd just known.

It had taken returning to King's Landing to realize he'd buried those feelings deep after his brother's death. Hating himself for its heavy cost. He'd gotten his wish because his brother died. He'd taken Brandon's place - wedding her while she was still mourning the man who should have been her husband. Leaving him unable to shake the thought that somehow- in some way- he'd made it happen.

He'd felt it, after all.

"Father..."

"What is it, my girl?" he questioned, momentarily distracted from his duties as Hand to remember he was also a father. Looking up to see Sansa hovering in the doorway with a steaming cup in her hands.

'Gods hang this cesspool,' he cursed internally. Bidding her forward and accepting her offering of raisin-bark tea. Wishing nothing more than to spirit them all back to Winterfell and forget any of this had ever happened.

She was silent for a moment. Clearly deep in thought as she settled into the chair opposite his desk. She'd been largely withdrawn since the tournament. Still, Sansa's smile was easy and sweet when she met his gaze. Lessening the ache in his shoulders as he set his paperwork aside and took her in. Shocked, not for the first time, to see she was nearly a woman grown. It didn't seem like long ago that she'd been barely taller than his knee. Struggling to climb his shins, just like her older brother.

It was his daughters that gave him the most joy.

Men always spoke of their sons.

But he'd learned that the strongest hearts were found in women.

And for that reason, he guarded his girls jealously.

Knowing well how precious they were.

"It's nothing...well, I suppose it is..." she trailed off, content to find her way as he listened intently. Sipping his tea as the scent calmed him. "I was just surprised, at the tournament today. I couldn't help but think… for a man who does his best of be disagreeable and cross, with no love of titles and knighthoods, he was more equal to the title of a true knight than anyone on the field today..."

It took him a moment to realize what she meant. She wasn't talking about the Tyrell boy, but of the Hound. Sandor Clegane. The brutal, angry boy who'd grown into a man in the years since Robert's Rebellion.

From the mouths of children, came the such thoughts?

Gods.

The Knight of Flowers had charmed her with his favor and courtesies, that much was clear, but it had been Sandor Clegane she'd asked about when her septa had begged leave to pray. Wanting to know what he knew of him as he stared at his eldest daughter and wondered where all the years had fled to.

It had troubled him, her interest in the Hound, but he hadn't time to contemplate why until the day his execution dawned and quite suddenly- there wasn't a secret in the world that was closed to him.

It wouldn't be until then, when the roar of the crowd turned deafening and the heat of the sun made his skin yearn for the snows of home, that he realized his daughter hadn't been wrong.

He could hear Sansa screaming as the glint of the headman's ax blinded his vision. Searing like a second sun after his days in the dark. The crowd jeered – goading the ones standing silent. The boy-king was talking- saying something- tone haughty, delighted and seeped in sickness. But all he could hear was his daughter's voice. Memorizing it as his tongue grew thick and dry in his mouth. Throat so parched he didn't dare try and swallow.

It seemed a bad omen that the last he would hear of it was the sound of her crying.

Still, he would not yield.

He would go to his fathers before him with his honor intact.

But what of his children?

His house?

The Kingdom?

He canted his head, watching as the Hound's fist tightened around his sword-belt. Making the leather creak as Sansa's pleads pierced the still air. Wondering what it meant when the man's ruined face tugged to a grimace. Steely composure falling – if only for a moment – before his expression returned to the impassive mask. Looking much like a man who'd seen unfavorable odds, but had considered risking them anyway.

Why?

He didn't understand.

Gods help him, but-

Then, as if he'd been waiting on this moment all his life, the world simply opened to him.

For the first time, he saw true with the seer-sight of his linage. Blinding him to the crowds and the tears as he watched Robb hack at a tree – rage and grief sending him into his mother's arms. Comforting each other as the echoes of King's Landing reached a far-flung battlefield. He watched Arya fade – secreted away from the capital with her hair spiked short like the boy she so often played at being. He saw Robert's bastard with her. Staring at each other with an uncertain future alive in their eyes. He saw Bran and Rickon's images flicker like silhouettes on the water, distant and unclear. He saw the wildling woman and Hodor with them. Dragging a sled piled with furs. Fleeing Winterfell as it burned.

The bite of the stones under his knees drew blood as Sansa's pleads reached him again.

He considered it a blessing that he could no longer see it. Eyes blind as the Old Gods forced him to focus on a future that existed without time or place. Knowing it was beyond him. That he would be long dead by the time any of it would come to pass. And that whatever trials his family had to face, it would be without him from this moment forward.

But it was not all pain and sorrow.

There was still hope.

Still goodness to be found even in the most unlikely of places.

The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

He saw a wolf and a hound circling each other in a dance that spanned into years. At first it was merely raised hackles and growls. Cautious stances and animal eyes. But soon enough, their language when they looked at each other changed. Turning tentative and questioning until the she-wolf nipped playfully at the scarred mutt's hide. Bounding around it in a wide circle. Ignoring the way the hound snarled and snapped – showing it's teeth despite never once grazing the bitch's skin.

He saw a winter rose wilt, then grow all the stronger from the droop of its own rot. Delicate and beautiful, but with sharp thorns waiting to prick undeserving hands. And still, the hound stayed near. Curled into the long grass as the seasons changed and the mutt finally rose to stand beside it. Protective and almost tame.

He exhaled as the wind from the headsman's ax shunted through the swing. Unable to help the small sigh of relief that escaped him. Knowing somehow, that Sansa would be alright. That the hound would keep her safe. And that someday, she would return to the north, where she belonged.

"Get her a dog, she'll be much happier."

Yes, perhaps she would after all.

A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – This story is now complete.

Reference:

- Ellipsism: sadness that you'll never be able to know how history will turn out.