A/N: All the self-indulgent stuff comes at the end this time. Or should I say The End? I'll catch up with you down there.

These Scars We Wear - 26

Two months pass in the blink of an eye, a whirlwind of activity that leaves him little chance to reflect on any of it. The restoration of Winterfell continues, the increasing severity of winter's return pushing master carpenters and stonemasons to begin assigning shifts of workers to labor day and night, and Sandor soon becomes used to falling asleep to the sound of hammering and orders being shouted across the courtyard. He accompanies Sansa and the Greatjon on their daily circuit within the castle walls, overseeing the progress of the work before beginning his own labors. He and Umber have forged a wary but peaceable alliance and his infrequent, thoughtful suggestions are no longer looked upon with disdain, but given careful consideration.

Despite Sansa's uneasiness at the prospect, he joins groups of bannermen and house guards on several forays into the Wolfswood, flushing out and eliminating outlaw bands of Boltons and Freys and the occasional Ironborn. His first day back in full plate and mail is a heady one, and the wide arc of his sword sending sprays of blood before and behind it is exhilarating. But each sortie that follows dampens the initial satisfaction, as he returns blood-spattered and solemn to face Sansa. It dawns on him after one such incursion, as he lies with his head cradled on her breast and being held instead of holding, that the man who had taken such joy in killing no longer exists. It is a task now, a chore that must be seen to; and though his skills remain intact, his enthusiasm for it is but a memory.

So he is learning to find joy in other things. There are the stolen moments with the girl, swift and furtive, pulling her into darkened passageways and feasting at her mouth, his hands desperate to discover anew the landscape of teat and hip, of waist and slender thigh. He sneaks into her chamber as often as he can of an evening, but exhaustion precludes desire most nights, and he is asleep before the thought of going to her completes itself.

Every morning finds him in the training yard outside the armory, the youngest Stark his shadow. Their lessons begin to draw boys of Rickon's age and then the older ones, until he has a sizable group he oversees. Before long several of the men gather round as well, and soon enough after lessons end, blows and bruises are exchanged between him and whichever amongst them is feeling bravest that day. He defeats them all with blunted sword and bloodied fists but shows no outward satisfaction at his victories, and eventually he begins to see respect writ on their faces. And that is a far sweeter thing to him than besting them at combat.

He is discovering contentment in the camaraderie he finds among the men here, a thing he never sought out or desired in King's Landing. These men are different than their southron counterparts, loud and boisterous, often rude, and fiercely tenacious in their opinions and beliefs. They have no use for titles or sacred vows, instead judging a man by his deeds and the substance of his character. He has several times found himself confronted by those demanding explanation for acts he committed while serving the Lannisters; he denies none that are true. An accounting of his time on Quiet Isle is offered not as excuse, but as catalyst for who he has become.

He learns of the old gods and their ways from Sansa and Howland Reed both, and yet still more from the wildling woman named Osha. Soon he finds himself carving a few minutes from each day to visit the godswood, standing silently before the weirwood there and trying his best to listen. He asks for much the same as he did at the sapling in the Neck, only now it is forever for which he pleads, instead of an ephemeral amount of time, as his dreams grow larger in proportion to his deepening love for Sansa.

Eddard Stark is finally laid to rest in his family's crypt. Sandor attends at Sansa's request and consoles her after the others have gone; wiping away her tears and whispering words of comfort he had found himself incapable of just a few short months ago. He knows her better now, and what she needs to hear.

Just yesterday saw the arrival of a small group of night's watchmen, led by their Lord Commander and there at the behest of a raven sent when he and Sansa had first arrived. Jon Snow is a solemn young man, with features that reflect the severity of the life he has chosen, his weary eyes more befitting a man twice his years. Sandor takes to him immediately and without question and, oddly enough, Snow seems to do the same. Not long after the reunion with what remains of his family, Jon meets with Sansa, Howland Reed, Maege Mormont and the Greatjon behind closed doors, a gathering that lasts many hours and finds Sansa emerging wan and grim-faced.

Bran Stark will not be returning to Winterfell, she tells him later, not soon or likely ever. He remains beyond the Wall, his future tied irrevocably to the great war Jon warns is soon upon them. And there is more, besides. A document and will, written by Robb Stark, duly signed and witnessed, granting Jon legitimacy, naming him a Stark for true and heir to Winterfell. But Jon will not forsake his vows to the Night's Watch, Sansa relates, and another set of papers will be drawn up, passing all to his remaining kin.

Sandor goes looking for her this morning after, having dismissed his warriors-in-the making and managing to pry Rickon from his side long enough to shove him into the maester's chamber for more lessons. He finds her in the godswood, as he thought he might.

"My lady," he greets her formally, though there is a teasing edge to his voice.

She begins to play along, responding with a tiny smile. "My lord. I hope this day finds you well."

"On my feet and breathing. Couldn't be better. And you?" She starts to answer but then shakes her head instead, attempting another smile and doing poor work of it. His brow furrows as he gets a good look at her. "What is it, bird?"

"It seems my … my brother is rather unconventional in his thinking these days. We spoke earlier this morning and he believes it best that I not serve as regent to Rickon."

"No?" Sandor is surprised. This is not something he thought to be in question. "Why is that?"

She chuffs quietly. "Because he wants me to sit Winterfell's high seat." As Sandor takes this in, she goes on. "He says as eldest it is mine by rights, if I choose it. It is not unheard of for a woman to sit as head of her House. It is common in Dorne, and occurs even here in the North. Lady Mormont reigns over Bear Island, and her daughter will follow after her death."

"Lady Sansa of Winterfell," he murmurs. "Warden of the North."

"I haven't the least idea what I'd be doing; you know that, don't you?" The face she gives him is tight with fear and a healthy dollop of vexation. He knows that look well, though he has never seen it in this context.

"You do have some experience with this sort of thing."

"Do you mean in the Eyrie, while Petyr's hostage?" she rejoins. "Yes, but only with the running of the household itself, and that task cannot compare to this."

Sandor shrugs. "Might be bigger, but the needs are the same. Food, shelter, protection. Someone smart enough to make the right decisions. You've been doing that since we've been here."

"Only because I have had wise council."

"As does every leader. No man - or woman, for that matter - worth their bloody salt has done it alone. You know that."

"But I have no knowledge of the defense of lands and strongholds, or of the tactics of war and the ways of battle. I cannot lead soldiers."

"You have the Greatjon for that. And me, for what it's worth. Put together, we'd make a decent strategist."

"What if Rickon objects?"

He snorts in response. "The boy is barely eight years old. He cares about nothing but frogs and sword-play. Can't even hold the same bloody thought in his head for more than a minute or two. That age, they give you trouble, you swat them on the arse and send them on their way."

"My father's bannermen would never stand for seeing a woman on Winterfell's throne."

"Have you been struck blind, girl? Who do you think these men are who've been working night and day, the ones lining up to spend a few precious moments filling those pretty ears of yours with pledge and promise - the same ones who seek your advice and council? These are the men you're certain won't support you?"

"What you foretold may come to pass," she warns. "I will likely have suitors sniffing at my claim like hungry dogs to a bone."

He can't help but chuckle. "Let them sniff; they'll smell nothing on you but me." He tries to take her in his arms but she steps away, glaring at him.

"You want me to do this," she accuses.

"Sansa …" He takes in the angry, frightened look on her face and wonders when she will realize how strong and capable she truly is. It is not simply because she is a Stark, or high-born, though the blood running through her veins accounts for some of it. But the rest is uniquely hers, a facet of her character he has always seen, but that she has not even begun to plumb. "Little bird," he tells her gently, "this is what you were born to do."

Her eyes move over his face, probing, questioning. When she finally speaks, her query catches him off-guard, for it is nothing he expects.

"For what were you born, then?"

A long time ago his answer would have been automatic and thoughtless. But he is not that man anymore, and he finds himself searching for the proper words and haltingly saying them as they come.

"To serve, if I'm able. Fight, when I must." He runs the back of one finger along her cold cheek. "Love, as best I can."

"If I do this," she says, "if I accept Jon's proposal, it means forever. I cannot simply change my mind and leave Rickon here with only guardians to raise him. He is my blood and deserves to grow up amongst his family, what little is left of it. If I do this, it will be my life. Our life, Sandor."

"Tell me, little bird. What do you want … most of all? If you could have anything, what would it be?"

"The only thing I have wanted since I watched my father die. My home, my family." Her eyes glisten but she blinks hard and forces the tears away. "People who love me not for my name, but simply because I am worthy of being loved."

He does not say a word, only lifts his hands from his side and holds them open, glancing around at the place where they stand, here in the heart of Winterfell. Looking back at her, he knows she understands the gesture; his unspoken request that she look round and see she already has her heart's desire. It is not the small stone cottage he had written of in his letters, tucked in close to the woods and private - his dream that she had taken on for herself. But she is old enough now to know that dreams are malleable things and are shaped by circumstance as much as desire.

Sansa reaches up and cups his cheek. "Tell me true, Sandor, what do you want?"

He circles her wrist in his fingers and turns his face to kiss the palm of her hand. "Do you know, little bird," he tells her, "that only two other people have ever asked that of me? My sister and the old man. And now you."

"Then you have been thrice blessed."

"More than that," he admits quietly. "Every day, Sansa, every day."

He opens his arms and this time she steps into them and lets herself be enfolded. "I'll tell you what I want," he murmurs against her hair. "I want to be a better man than I was before. For you, for Rickon. For the old gods and the new. For this place, your home. For Winterfell and all it stands for. I know the gift I've been given; I will not squander it."

She grasps him tightly for a time and then releases him, and he reluctantly lets her go. He can feel her resolve, and sees it reflected on her face. She gazes up at him with magnificent cerulean eyes that deeply pierce him to his soul, seeing him for who he is, and his heart swells in his chest. He wonders if he will ever grow used to her looking at him with such trust and affection. He hopes not.

"There is only one thing I would ask of you before I do this," she says. "And I would have it done before Jon leaves us."

As she tells him what it is he cannot help but laugh, and he quickly agrees. Only then does he pick her up off her feet and spin her round, until they are both dizzy with it. And then they go to find Jon.

…

They speak their vows before the heart tree with her brothers, Howland Reed, and Maege Mormont as witness. A light snow falls silently around them as they join hands and turn to each other. There is no septon, no set words they must say, and no pact other than the truth of their commitment, each to the other. They stand before the old gods, who have no use for ceremony, and speak their hearts.

It is over in a few short minutes and they stay behind as the others make their way back to the Great Hall. They face the weirwood, its eyes weeping blood-red, frozen tears. She shivers beside him and he takes her arm, pulling her in front of him and wrapping them both warmly in the thick fur of his cloak.

"Wife," he says, testing how the word feels in his mouth.

"Husband," she responds.

She tips her head back to peer up at him and they trade a grin.

"When shall we share the news with the rest?" she asks.

"Makes no matter to me. Whenever you're ready."

"Better to do it soon and have it done. Tonight then, at the evening meal. I do not want to spend another night without you in my bed."

"Whatever my lady wants, that she shall have," he responds, getting back another smile.

"Do you suppose they will expect a proper bedding to be had?"

"Not if they know what's bloody good for them. I'll kill the man who dares try to make you naked. I'll be the only one doing that."

She giggles and then goes quiet and he watches, mesmerized, as snowflakes settle in her hair and turn to tiny, sparkling jewels as they melt. He cannot remember a time he has felt this content, this whole. He is not foolish enough to forget there are many and more hardships still to be faced. Nor can he ignore the coming war Jon has spoken of and that it may well signal an end to them all. But he knows they will survive what they can and wear their scars gladly, with pride instead of shame, with gratitude and not anger.

"I'm remembering something my father told me," she relates after a time. "He said he would find a match worthy of me; someone who was strong and gentle and brave."

Sandor snorts. "Not even the great Lord Eddard Stark could be right all the time."

Her laughter rings out like a bell, bright and sweet as a summer's day. He lifts his head and watches as a single red finch, startled by the noise, takes flight from where it has been perched in the weirwood high above their heads, and disappears into the steel gray sky. And for just an instant he is back on the muddy bank of the Trident, delirious with fever and dying, wanting only to hold to her for just a moment more.

"Aye," he rasps. "There you go. Fly, little bird." Sansa turns in his arms, a look of confusion on her face. But Sandor says nothing, for it is nothing that can be explained. He releases her and offers his hand. As she takes it, their fingers threading together, he turns them toward the path leading out of the godswood.

"Come along, then, wife, there's work to be done."

…

A/N: This is where I get to bather on, so I beg your indulgence while I express a few thoughts and many thanks. Did I answer all the questions I raised with this story or tie up all the loose ends? Not even close. But then it was never my intention to do that, and that wasn't why this story was begun. I don't know what will happen to these two now, no more than any of you do. But I've left them in a place of strength, and love makes all of us more courageous. I think they'll be just fine. Maybe someday I'll check back in with them and the muse might feel compelled to tell us a bit more of their story. In the meantime, let your imaginations run wild; that would serve as the greatest compliment I could receive.

Long bear hugs and sloppy kisses to all my readers on LJ, tumblr, ff dot net and AO3. Your continuing comments, support, and feedback have not only gained me greater skill at this whole writing thing, but also new and treasured friendships, and a larger appreciation for the remarkable series that brought us all together. Thanks also to my fellow Sandor Clegane aficionados for helping to feed my need for all things Hound-ish. I would be remiss if I didn't give a tip of the hat to the leader of the Brotherhood of Pain (an obscure nickname from a different era), Mr. George R.R. Martin. Without him … well, you know.

The muse in particular would like to thank the musical talents of Jake Smith, Mumford & Sons, Ray LaMontagne, Noah Gundersen, Stevie Nicks, Van Morrison, David Gray, and The Fray's Be Still for the ear candy that inspired and drove this piece of fiction. If forced to pick a single song as theme to this piece, I'd have to go with Mumford & Sons After the Storm. Thanks also to all the artists in all the various mediums who've fed the eyes too. Your contributions are what make this world a more beautiful place.

Until next time …