Authors Notes: Well, this is it! The end!

I have been writing this story for a full year now (1st chapter posted 21 December 2012), and what a wonderful experience it has been! This was only my third story ever, after 2 shorter practice runs, and I have learned soooo much in the process. Most of it is thanks to my wonderful and patient beta Wildsky, who lent her infinite wisdom to poor language-crippled me (=English not my own language) and alternatively encouraged me and when I needed it, or rapped me over the knuckles when I did something stupid…

Did I achieve what I wanted? Did I fulfil my vision of the Arthurian love triangle that for some reason has haunted me for longer than I care to remember? I hope I have; brought on a story of love between three people based on feelings, emotions, respect, friendship and longing…

And would I have been able to do it without your support, dear readers? No! The backlash I was wary of never materialised (after all, I was stretching the limits of AU quite a bit…), and I am so in awe and grateful for your comments and hits and kudos that I can't even express it properly… This is my baby, the one story I truly wanted to write, and every indication that somebody else appreciated it too is so sweet to me…

*hugs to you all*

Summary: "I am ready to go. Jaime?" Sansa lifted her hand and Jaime took it, smiling. She turned to Sandor and extended her other hand towards him. "Sandor?"

Sandor took her hand and squeezed it tightly, and together they walked to the door.

Jaime

The Lion was tired.

He knew that the morning was already well advanced, but the warmth of his bed, the comfort of snuggling under the covers and the scent of his lover still filling his nostrils was too tempting.

Jaime didn't have to open his eyes to know that Meryn had already left, as was his habit. Whenever he stayed with Jaime, he made sure to leave before the dawn, weaving his way through the hidden corridors and secret passageways of Winterfell to his quarters. Since he had been elevated to the post of Master Armourer of Winterfell, he had been given good rooms in the new addition to the First Keep, built to accommodate the increased number of inhabitants.

It had taken a long time for the two of them to resume their relationship. First Jaime had been consumed by his son and Sansa, and Meryn too had been absorbed in his work, determined to make his mark in the new land. More than a year had elapsed since Meryn's arrival when they had finally started to find pleasure in each other's company; first sharing views about the armament of the North, followed by sharing stories, eventually resulting in sharing a bed. Yes, it had been a slow journey, and unhurried. Their friendship had grown slowly, gradually overtaking the memories of their first few heated encounters.

Besides, Jaime had been reluctant to break the sanctity of his relationship with Sansa and Sandor. Oh yes, he knew very well that he was always going to be relegated to the second position in Sansa's eyes, and that he was not really a true competitor for Sandor's love – yet he valued the beauty and strength of their mutual connection. It had taken a long discussion with Sansa, where he had confessed his conflicted feelings about Meryn and Sansa had encouraged him to follow his heart, to give Jaime the courage and liberty to pursue the opportunity. Not that it would have been easy even after that. Meryn had been taken aback by Jaime's confession of how things stood between him, his lady wife and her sworn shield. Only after the smith had had time to digest it all had he returned to Jaime with a confession of his own; how he still wanted Jaime, as much as that first time they had met.

Since then their liaison had developed into something deeper, yet stayed hidden from prying eyes. Over the years they had had their ups and downs, but after any low point their paths had inevitably intertwined again, finally reaching a comfortable equilibrium that sustained them still.

Jaime yawned and stretched himself. No matter how much he wanted to sleep in, the day ahead was going to be big and he had to get up. After all, how many times would his daughter get betrothed to the prince of the realm?

After getting dressed Jaime knocked on Sansa's door. Hearing her call he stepped across the threshold only to be greeted by the lovely sight of Sansa sitting by her dresser, combing her long hair in smooth strokes. Seeing Jaime she smiled. Although they had been married for more than two decades, Jaime still thought her one of the most beautiful women he had ever laid eyes on. 'Almost' only because Jaime genuinely thought that his youngest daughter was, if possible, even fairer than her mother. Not that he would ever be so discourteous as to voice that opinion out loud.

"Good morning, Jaime. Have you slept well?"

"Always, my dear. You?" Jaime kissed Sansa's fingers, arrested for a moment.

"I'd be lying if I said that my sleep was peaceful. I will be much more relaxed after today is over."

Jaime reached for the hairbrush in her hand and started to run it through her auburn curls in sweeping strokes. Sansa closed her eyes and leaned back.

"It will be all fine. Sansie is a strong girl, like her mother. Rhaego will treat her well and give her anything she wants. It is clear that she has already wrapped him firmly around her little finger."

"I know that – but why do they have to live so far away? She is my oldest daughter and to lose her to King's Landing…" Sansa didn't finish her sentence. They had all made their peace with the past, so it was not the thought of the capital that worried Sansa, Jaime knew. She was simply a mother loath to lose her daughter.

Jaime kissed her on the back of the head and tried to comfort her to the best of his ability. Sansa agreed with his assertions that everything was as it was supposed to be - all children must leave their home at some stage - and after a while she seemed ready to face the day. Jaime apologised to her but he too had to leave for the engagement he had agreed to on a previous day.

Jaime appreciatively eyed the small party that was ready to ride out of Winterfell for a spell of fresh air and activity after days of being cooped up indoors to meet and greet the noble guests who had arrived for the betrothal celebrations.

His eldest son, Eddor, was struggling to keep his temperamental mount in check, one of Stranger's bloodline. Eddor was tall, well-built and blond, and it hadn't been long after his birth when they had concluded that he was indeed Jaime's true son. Not only his colouring, but sometimes when he was grumpy after not getting something he wanted his sneer reminded Jaime of Joffrey. When that happened, he felt a cold squeeze around his heart, but that always subsided as Eddor was nothing like Joffrey had been in character or behaviour. He was like his father; easy-going, always quick to see the fun or irony in any situation and not shy to share it with the others. Yet he was also good-hearted and caring.

His second son Robbe, only two years younger than Eddor, was as dark as his brother was fair. That he was Sandor's was clear – but luckily only to the three of them. Everyone else thought that he took after Lord Eddard and his brothers Brandon and Benjen, all known to be tall and dark. He was like his real father in temperament as well, being prone to brooding and consideration and slow to make friends at first. Still, when he took someone into his confidence, he was the most faithful and steadfast friend anyone could have.

Sometimes Jaime felt a twinge of conscience at the way the boys knew him as their father and lavished him with the love of loyal sons. What consoled him was that they loved Sandor as well, having been part of their lives from birth; always there by the side of their mother and their father, a trusted friend and companion. Jaime was well aware that when either Eddor or Robbe had something on their mind they felt they couldn't share with their father - a misdeed done or a question too embarrassing to ask - they went to Sandor. Jaime couldn't be jealous of that. He had so much and most of that had been undeserved, he was well aware.

As the customs of nobility dictated, both boys had been fostered out to another noble family for a few years to learn new skills and how to conduct themselves in society. Eddor had gone to Casterly Rock, Robbe to Riverrun. As Rickon's eldest son was to become the future Lord Stark, Eddor's future lay elsewhere. Tyrion having no children of his own, Eddor was to follow him as the ruler of Casterly Rock when the time was ripe. Robbe hadn't yet decided what he wanted to do, but he was likely to stay in the north. A true Northman, he was often called, and it amused Jaime to think what people would say knowing that his northern features were in truth from a Westerman.

"The beast proving to be too much for you to handle?" Jaime heard a voice full of mirth directed at Eddor. "I swear, I still have nightmares of his grandsire, the black monster!" Lord Rickon had joined them as well, keen to get away from musty halls and solars and the unexciting work of governing the North.

"Nothing I can't handle," muttered Eddor through a clenched jaw, stubbornness painted on his face. Sandor had not been wrong about the value of the bloodline; Stranger's descendants were the most sought after battle horses in Westeros and only the best knights rode them. Rickon was happy to ride one of the more docile Northern horses, but Jaime and his sons refused to accept any horse but a Clegane, as they were called.

Rickon had taken up his position as Lord Stark more than ten years ago and proven to be a competent, if sometimes temperamental, overlord. When he had married one of the Mormont girls Sansa had been ready to step down from the role of the Lady of the Keep, but young Laera had been like many other Mormont women and preferred the outdoors over more traditional womanly duties. They had achieved a friendly agreement that saw Sansa staying on as the Lady of Winterfell, Laera being known as the Young Lady. The arrangement had worked so well that things had stayed that way, Laera's time now being taken by looking after her growing brood of children instead of hunting and riding. Despite Osha still staying with the family, watching over her little lordlings and ladies with the same ferocity as she had looked after Rickon all those years ago, the new generation of Starks was every bit as lively and spirited as the previous had been and there was enough work for everyone.

The last two members of their party were less known to Jaime; the betrothed of his beloved daughter, High Queen Daenerys's son Rhaego, and young Selwas, only four and ten years old, the eldest son of the Warrior Maid Brienne of Tarth. Lady Tarth, as she was now known.

Brienne had in due course returned to the land of her birth and followed Lord Selwyn as the overlord of the Sapphire Isle. Before that, faithful to her previous form, she had succeeded in tracking down Bran Stark beyond the Wall. While acknowledging his love for his old home and delighted to hear the news – although most of it he seemed to be already aware of – Bran had declined to return. He had claimed that his life was in the Far North, as a powerful greenseer, and that was what Sansa, Arya and Rickon had to accept.

Varmur had followed his woman to the South and for a long time Brienne's people had not known which scandalised them more; their manly and warrior-like new ruler or the uncouth and strange man she consorted with. The rumours flew high and wide about whether the two of them were even truly married, but since nobody had the guts to ask it outright, and the bearded wildling settled with Brienne in the large rooms Evenstar himself had shared with his lady wife, everyone just assumed that it must be the case. Children followed; two sons and two daughters. In the frequent correspondence between the two households Brienne often expressed her astonishment at how both of her daughters seemed to be more enamoured with songs and poems and beautiful dresses than arms or horses, which made Jaime snicker. Yet her sons were as keen to become knights as their mother had been, at least.

Brienne had sent her eldest to Jaime in the name of long and enduring friendship between the two of them. The boy had arrived only a few weeks ago and was still overwhelmed and wary about the busy life in the keep. He was a good sort, Jaime could see straight away, and he was looking forward to the years ahead with the boy under his wing.

For now, he was getting impatient. "Come on men, let's move on or our long-awaited ride in the woods will diminish to a walk around the yard if we want to be back in time for the festivities," he urged his fellows.

"What's the hurry, Ser Jaime?" Rhaego drawled with his southern accent.

"I know you don't want to leave your bride-to-be's side, but I'd rather see some distance between the two of you. At least until you are properly betrothed."

"What, don't you trust my honour?" Rhaego didn't seem offended despite his words.

Jaime smirked at him. "My prince, I have absolutely no doubts regarding your honour. What I am more worried about is my daughter's impatience and determination."

Rickon laughed at that, as Sansie's stubbornness was well known throughout the castle. "We had better ease your mind then, Lion. Show us the way!"

Jaime rode in front and without waiting for the others cantered towards the gate. 'Lion' was how people had started to address him more and more, the 'Kingslayer' moniker having been relegated to ancient history and forgotten by all but Sandor, who still used the term when they were alone. His tone was always mocking and amused, and Jaime liked to think it was a term of endearment – or as close as Sandor was ever likely to get.

The ride had been invigorating and the sight of the prosperous countryside had satisfied Jaime. After their exertions the small party had sweated it out in the baths before each had retired to their rooms to get ready for the big night.

Jaime dressed in his finest, the proud scarlet and gold of Lannister prevalent in his attire. After many years of wanting to downplay his Lannister blood, the good name Tyrion had brought to their house as the most able Hand of Queen and King for as long as anyone could remember had encouraged Jaime to be proud of his origins. Especially tonight, when his daughter was to be betrothed to the royal house, he wanted to look as splendid as he could.

When he was finally ready there was only one thing to do. He knocked on Sansa's door and entered to see his wife adjusting Lady Catelyn's gold and silver circlet on her head. She was garbed in Stark colours in a luxurious dress of floating silks and heavy brocade; pure white and different shades of grey with black highlights. As dull as it may have sounded, against her vibrant hair the impact was anything but dull. Yes, Jaime was proud to walk to the feast by her side.

"Ready? No tears, no regrets?" Jaime moved swiftly next to her and turned her around by her shoulders to better admire the sight she presented.

Sandor was already in the room, he too having taken unusual care with his appearance in his brand new black tunic, black leather breeches and a tight black leather jacket with three yellow dogs sewn onto its breast. The tight cut of the coat accentuated his broad shoulders and Jaime glanced at him appreciatively.

"No tears, not anymore. Only the smile of a happy mother who sees her daughter becoming engaged to her loved one," Sansa said, taking a few tentative dance steps in Jaime's arms.

"That is much better. I was starting to be afraid that you would call the whole thing off, run away to the woods with Sansie and cause eternal enmity between the houses of Targaryen and Stark," Jaime japed, still admiring his lovely wife.

"If that is what you suspected, you are barking up the wrong tree. I might be the one to steal her away. The night is still young," Sandor grumbled from his seat.

"You? Cause a scandal? The Black Dog stealing away with the bride to be? You know people would say it was only because you couldn't have her mother," Jaime sneered at Sandor, who ignored him.

"Nobody is stealing anyone tonight. Just give me a moment and we can go," Sansa shushed them.

Jaime continued his bantering with Sandor while Sansa returned to her dresser and reached for the brooch in the motif of a diminutive bird sitting on a perch, its tail jutting upwards, with yellow stones as its eyes.

"I am ready to go. Jaime?" Sansa lifted her hand and Jaime took it, smiling. "Sandor?" She gave her other hand to Sandor and together they walked to the door.

Sansa

When Sansa saw the Hound riding towards them, she had been surprised – at first. The sight of his cold grey eyes, the sneer on his scarred face and the threat of violence he exuded had scared her almost as much as when she had first laid eyes on him. This time something was different though. Suddenly she could discern the man behind the mask, the care with which he treated her, the gentleness of his touch… The next thing she knew she was squirming in his arms, against his bare chest, arching her back in search of that one burning moment, that one feeling of bliss she knew this large man could give her…

Sansa woke up with a start. For a moment she was confused, then she glanced sideways and was comforted with the sight of Sandor sleeping peacefully by her side. His eyes closed, his mouth slightly ajar, the sound of his steady breathing resonated in the quiet early morning.

Sansa inhaled deeply, still shaken by her dream. Why had it come to her now? Why had the Hound of the past chosen this very night to appear, having lain quiet for such a long time? She looked at Sandor again, admiring the way his beard had acquired a few silver threads, the same as the hair on his temples. Sansa turned and not being able to get back to sleep, stared at her lover and companion for a long time, following the shape of his face, his hooked nose, his scars. She didn't want to wake him but couldn't resist the temptation of touching his face softly with her fingers.

Sandor stirred, swatted her hand, still half asleep, and then woke up. Sansa never ceased to be amazed by how he could be deep in slumber one moment and fully awake and alert the next.

"Little bird?" His voice was hoarse and the words hardly louder than a whisper.

"Shhh, just sleep. I woke up from a strange dream but it is all fine now. You are here."

"Of course I am here. I will always be here." Sandor yawned.

That much was true. For the last several years Sandor had slept practically every night in Sansa's rooms, his comings and goings made easier by the small door he, Jaime and Meryn had inexpertly built between Sansa's rooms and those appointed to Sandor on the other side. Their love had grown deeper and stronger, the passion of their early years further strengthened by the bond that years together can forge between two people. Without thinking Sansa touched the old scar on her breast, that in a form of a heart. It had healed and the red lines blended with the skin surrounding it, and yet it was still clearly visible. So too was the symbol on Sandor, its shape further highlighted by the bare lines of his otherwise hairy chest.

Sandor was much too awake to go back to sleep and, grumbling, he got up and dressed and told Sansa to stay and rest before disappearing behind the heavy wall-hanging under which the little door was hidden.

Sansa dozed for a while longer before getting up and settling down to brush her hair. Jaime's visit was a pleasant distraction, but after he had gone Sansa got ready to see her daughters.

As she approached Sansie's room she could hear argumentative voices all the way down the corridor.

"You can't take it, it is mine!" Sansie's voice was agitated and Catly responded in the same vein, complaining how she never had anything as beautiful as Sansie and now that she was of age she needed to have pretty things.

Sansa sighed and stepped in. Her two daughters were sometimes more of a handful than her sons, and every now and then she wondered if she and Arya had been as bad when they had been young.

"Girls, girls, what is the matter now? Sansie, you will be the focus of tonight's celebrations, surely you can give your necklace to Catly for one night?"

Sansie moped but gave in, pushing the object of their argument across the table, where Catly snapped it up and eagerly put it around her neck. She was five-and-ten and had only recently started to enjoy pretty things, having spent most of her childhood in breeches and with tousled hair. Recently she had blossomed into an extremely beautiful young lady with deep blue eyes and dark blonde hair, which she shared with her sister.

Despite the colour of their hair, Sansa could never be sure who their father was. Neither of them looked like Jaime, nor did they look like Sandor. To her and Jaime's surprise, Sandor had told them that what little he remembered of his mother, one of his most striking memories was her blonde hair. If that was the case, the girls could be of his blood as well.

It had bothered Sansa for a while, the uncertainty, especially since with the boys it had been so easy. Over the years she had gotten used to it and it didn't trouble her anymore. Nor did it seem to perturb Jaime or Sandor, who both fell in love with their little girls from the moment they had been born.

Catly departed victorious, leaving Sansa with her eldest daughter. Sansie had been Sansa's special little girl ever since she had been born after two boys, and the bond they had created during those early years was strong still. That she should lose her little girl who would now be across the realm… Sansa braced herself, knowing that this was not the time to give in to her sorrow; this was the time to share her daughter's happiness.

Sansie's choice had fallen in an unexpected quarter, on a member of the royal family. Against all expectations Queen Daenerys had given birth to a baby boy who was a true Tyrell from the looks of him; a young Knight of Flowers he was, but with purple eyes. Even if others thought it had been only a matter of time, Sansa knew better.

A few years earlier Sansa and her family had spent an extended period of time in King's Landing visiting Young Queen Arya, King Aegon and their growing family. Three sons they had, all strong and stout and every bit as wilful and rebellious as Arya had been when young. To Sansa's delight Gendry, who had been legitimised a long time ago and proudly wore the name of Baratheon, had stayed at Arya's side, and an easy friendship seemed to have formed between him and Aegon.

During that visit Daenerys had confided to Sansa how she had given up all hope when her husband Willas had suggested that surely a curse placed upon her by a witch could be also lifted by a witch. Emboldened by that, Daenerys hadn't wasted any time before leaping on her dragon and traveling to Lhazar, chasing after a powerful maegi who could lift the curse Mirri Maz Duur had cast. It had taken a long time but she had found one, and then it had taken a high price, but in the end she had reached her goal. After returning to Westeros it had been less than a year before Rhaego had been born.

Sansa had been happy for Daenerys, although she had borne a private grief in her heart at that time; a babe who had been born too early and had died in her arms before having drawn his first breath in this world. Something had died inside Sansa that day and the sorrow had never truly left her. Sandor and Jaime had been her rocks, supporting her through the time of turmoil, but part of the grief had been too private for even them to truly understand. Yet Sansa knew herself to have been lucky to have borne and raised five children past the dangerous babyhood and toddler years.

On that same visit Rhaego had met and fallen in love with Sansie, who had returned his feelings. However, both Sansa and Jaime had declined all suggestions of betrothal or marriage, privately supported by Sandor, claiming that they were both too young at the age of five-and-ten to know their hearts. After much protesting and moping the young couple had acquiesced to their decision, but Sansie had succeeded in extracting a promise from her parents that if they still felt the same in three years' time, they would be allowed to marry.

Now that three years was up, and both Rhaego and Sansie were as much in love as before.

"My love, you will be a woman wedded soon. I find it hard to believe that just yesterday you were a little girl who ran into my room when you had a bad dream," Sansa murmured as she wrapped her arms around her daughter's narrow waist.

"I know! I can hardly wait!" Sansie exclaimed happily, before she caught onto her mother's subdued state of mind. She squeezed Sansa tightly. "When I am, I hope our marriage will be as happy and enduring as your and Papa's."

Sansa smiled warmly at her. "Yes, I have been blessed. Not only with love but also with friendship. I hope you will enjoy them both as well."

"Oh Mama, you mean Uncle Sandor? He is someone special indeed. Yet I will hardly need a sworn shield in the Red Keep. Also, finding someone like him…I simply can't believe it would be possible."

Sansa held her smile in check. Naturally Sansie believed she meant love with Jaime and friendship with Sandor. Of course she was not going to fix that misunderstanding.

All their children had grown up spending equal amounts of time with Sandor as with their parents, and had started to call him 'uncle' of their own accord. Eddor had first named him thus and the others had followed suit. Sandor's scary visage had never deterred them because they had been accustomed to it from an early age, and to Sansa's and Jaime's surprise Sandor had turned out to be surprisingly good with children. His matter-of-fact approach and refusal to indulge in even innocent little untruths or make allowances for them because they were children were well received by them, who often complained that Uncle Sandor was the only one who took them seriously and didn't treat them as children.

"Maybe not, things are so peaceful in Westeros now that a princess in the capital should feel quite safe. Besides, there are no men like him so you may be right." Sansa made light of the topic and turned to examine the clothes laid out on Sansie's bed. Daenerys had sent a marvellous dress as a gift to her future good-daughter, together with the jewellery to go with it. Mindful of Sansie's mother's house, the High Queen had chosen soft colours of snow-white, pale-grey and charcoal-grey, with the addition of a red and golden belt as a gesture towards her father's house. Sansa looked at the composition and suddenly felt sad that both of Sansie's fathers were not represented in her attire tonight.

Then she saw something peeking from under the skirt and a closer look told her that it was a yellow underskirt, of the new type that was slightly stiffened with a mixture of plant extract. She lifted the hem of the top dress to see more and noticed that it was made of fine silk and had a black waistband and laces for tying it.

"Where did you get this?"

Sansie glanced in the direction of Sansa's gaze and blushed. "Uncle Sandor gave it to me. Do you mind? It was very sweet of him, I am sure he doesn't usually get involved with womanly things."

"Of course I don't mind – and you are right, it must have taken a special effort from him to get this." Sansa was touched – both by Sandor giving such a gift, and by Sansie accepting and wearing it on her long-awaited evening.

She stayed for a while longer but when the maid came to help the star of the night to get ready, Sansa kissed her daughter one more time and retreated to her rooms to start her own preparations, once again feeling a lump in her throat. Suddenly she longed for her cousin to be there; her cousin who was now as dear to her as her siblings were. Jon was still the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, but with the threat of wildlings and the Others having subsided a long time ago, he spent most of his time in diplomatic pursuits aimed at settling wildlings into Westeros society. Hundreds of years of enmity between two groups of people were not easily overturned but he was making good headway in his efforts. Jon spent a lot of time in Winterfell and he and Sansa had grown close, yet just at this time he was in King's Landing on one more political mission and would attend Sansie's wedding there.

Hardly had she dressed when she heard Sandor's knock on the main door of her chamber. His appearance took Sansa's breath away; it had been a long time since he had bothered to don such finery. After many years of preferring Stark grey or simple dun brown Sandor had at last started to wear Clegane colours with pride. Enough time had passed for the crimes of his brother to be forgotten by most, and his own reputation had been changed by his many years of loyal service in the North. The dogs of his sigil had led to a new moniker for him, which he didn't seem to mind. 'Black Dog' he was named in the North. Black Dog, Red Wolf and Golden Lion, the three of them were sometimes called, without malice but with pride.

Sansa hurried across the room and kissed him fully on the mouth. Only slightly taken aback by her sudden passion, Sandor recovered soon enough to kiss her back. Only when he tasted tears on his lips did he stop, confused.

"Little bird? What is it?"

"Oh nothing! Just an old foolish woman tearing up over her little nestling leaving the coop, nothing else. I know I will still have four left, but every single one of them is so precious to me…" she replied, relieved to be able to share her feelings with Sandor, as always. She pressed against him and smelled his unmistakable scent, combined with a whiff of new leather and a hint of the stables.

"You are never old and never foolish, don't ever think like that," he admonished her but held her tighter still, soothing her with his gentle touch.

"Better now?" he asked after a while and Sansa nodded her head, genuinely feeling recovered from her sombre mood. He always did that for her, his very presence easing her concerns, whatever they were about.

One more kiss and she turned to get her mother's cherished circlet from its wooden box. By the time Jaime entered the room she was already fully composed and had actually started to look forward to the evening of festivities. Jaime's japes lightened her mood even more, and after grabbing her favourite charm, the little bird Sandor had given her many years ago, she was ready.

"I am ready to go. Jaime?" Sansa lifted her hand and Jaime took it, smiling. She turned to Sandor and extended her other hand towards him. "Sandor?"

Sandor clasped her hand in his big palm and together they walked to the door.

Sandor

Sandor's leg hurt again. The older he got, the worse it became, affected by cold winds and the storms often raging in the North. Still, he had learned to live it, even at the worst of times reminding himself how bloody grateful he should be about the old wound, as it was what had saved his life in more ways than one.

Besides, whenever it woke him up in the middle of the night, he liked to turn over in the bed and watch Sansa as she slept. There were nights when he felt he needed to pinch himself to know that it was true; that he had truly shared his life and bed with his little bird for all these years.

That morning he got up early after Sansa had inadvertently woken him. He knew how sentimental Sansa was about the day and wanted to give her space on the last day when her daughter was still her little girl and not a prince's betrothed. Our daughter.

Sandor was proud of all their older children; Eddor, Robbe, Sansie and Catly, and although he knew for sure that Robbe was from his seed, as were possibly one or even both of the girls, he loved all of them the same. Yet their fifth child, the boy who was Jaime's as surely as Eddor, was even dearer to Sandor than the others, no matter how much he tried to hide it and deny it even from himself.

And so it was that his steps took him to Tyon's room that morning.

"Uncle Sandor!" the little voice exclaimed in delight when he entered. The boy ran to him from behind the small desk where he had been sitting and copying some scrolls the maester of the keep had given him. His little legs didn't quite follow the pace of his enthusiasm and for a moment Sandor was afraid that he would fall on his face, but before he was able to reach him, the boy had regained his balance. That was how he was; despite being born a dwarf, he never allowed that to affect him or slow him down. That was only one of the reasons why Sandor loved him so fiercely.

"Tyon, my boy! What would you like to do today? The whole keep is like an ant's nest stoked with a stick, with all the fuss about your sister's betrothal. This is not a place for real men, don't you think?" Sandor lifted the little boy into his arms and despite his mature age of full ten years he squealed in delight. There was nothing Tyon loved more than to ride on Sandor's shoulders, being able to see far and have everyone's faces turned up when they wanted to talk to him.

"Let's go and see the horses! You promised me that I get to choose one of the new colts for myself and start to train him when he is ready." Tyon loved reading and writing, a trait he might have inherited from his uncle Tyrion, as he had his condition, but he also loved the outdoors and animals.

Sandor placed him on the floor. "Why not? It is about time we start thinking about a real horse for you instead of those children's mounts. Might I suggest to you though that you get a mare or a gelding – a stallion might be just a bit too temperamental?" Tyon's mouth turned into a pout but he tried his best to hide it. Sandor was sorry to squash his wish for a stallion, but he was comforted by the knowledge that Tyon knew that Sandor didn't suggest that only because he was a dwarf. No, all Sandor's recommendations were based on common sense and he never gave in to pity or softness only because of the boy's size. That's probably why Tyon responded to him with love and dedication.

When the boy was born, Jaime especially had taken it badly, blaming his seed for carrying on the affliction that would cause pain and suffering for his son. Sansa hadn't tolerated his self-pity for long though, rebuking him and reminding him about how Tyrion had turned out; from a despised second son to the second mightiest man in the realm.

Tyon had grown up loved and cherished as no little boy ever had. Sansa adored her little boy, her youngest, when her other children were already approaching the age where they didn't need their mother much anymore. Jaime loved him resolutely and protectively and Sandor… he just loved the babe. He, if anyone, knew how it was to grow up detested or overlooked because of a physical deformity, and he was determined that none of that would ever happen to Tyon.

As the boy grew up, the castle folk got used to the sight of the big warrior being followed by the little boy, the warrior patiently adjusting his stride so that the boy could keep up with him.

They went to the stables that morning to see the latest crop of Stranger's bloodline. Sandor's faithful companion had died many years ago but his spirit still lived on, and with an expert eye Sandor examined all the foals, one by one, to pick the best one for Tyon.

Eventually Tyon's tutor came looking for the boy – a day of celebrations or not, he had to have at least some lessons if he meant to become a man of letters, as was his wish. Sandor gave the boy a strong squeeze on the shoulder and followed him with his gaze as he waddled across the yard.

Despite trying to give an appearance of stoicism when it came to Sansie's betrothal, Sandor was more affected by it than he was ready to admit. He had always thought that he would have a better chance to be close to their sons than to their daughters, but to his surprise, when the girls had become older, they took him as their confidante. It was to Sandor they ran when they had torn their dresses while climbing at the back of the stable – or rather, Catly did as Sansie had never done such an unladylike thing. Sansie came to him when she had been taunted by thoughtless girls about her long face and angular features, and Sandor had been the one to comfort her about how looks didn't matter and it was what was inside a person that counted. If he wasn't the one to know it for true, who would? He had been there when Sansie had met Rhaego and fallen in love, hardly believing that the handsome prince could return her feelings, only for Sandor to give her his most smug "I told you so".

The return to King's Landing had been hard for Sandor. The memories assaulting him had been raw and painful, and he had needed all the patience and forbearance had had acquired in his life after leaving the place to get over them. Almost as if anticipating that he would divert to the Quiet Isle on the way, the rest of the procession had continued straight down the Kingsroad.

The Elder Brother had still been there; old and wizened, retired from active duty but still helping his fellow brothers with his wise words. Winterfell and the Quiet Isle had had correspondence over the years and both Sandor and the Elder Brother knew what each other had been up to during the intervening years. Nonetheless, it had been good to meet face to face, and for the first time Sandor had been able to truly thank the man for what he had done for him. Sandor owed him everything, he told the old man who lay feeble on his bed, just skin and bones but his eyes warm and full of wisdom still.

That he considered Sandor as one of the best gifts he had ever received, his transformation being his greatest joy, had come as a surprise to Sandor. He had cursed and spoken in vulgar words as if to remind him that he was still not fully house-trained and soft, but the old man had seen through his blustering and had only smiled his quiet and affable smile.

Sighing, Sandor returned to his rooms. Without any official announcements or grand titles his position in Winterfell had grown to the level where he was universally considered as the third most important man in the keep, right after Lord Rickon and Ser Jaime. When he gave a command people obeyed it, and it had taken him a long time to get used to the idea that they did it not out of fear but out of genuine respect. Not that he suffered fools any better than he had done before, and it was clear to all that unless his orders were followed there would be hell to pay. A bit of fear never did anyone any harm, he reasoned.

Along with his increasing clout he had started to feel pride in his house and sigil again. He was pleased to be the dog, the feared and respected Black Dog of Winterfell. And Black Dog he was going to be on the night when his daughter, born of love between him and Sansa and Jaime, was to be given away. That he had to stay in the background didn't diminish his determination. Bloody hells, even from there he was going to make clear to all the southern visitors that the bride was under his special protection and if anyone entertained any thoughts of treating the young lady with anything but utmost courtesy, they would answer to him!

Fully clad in black and yellow, he glanced around the room. His thumb hooked in his belt, secured by a clasp bearing the face of a snarling hound that Meryn had made for him, he walked out of his room determined to do this thing properly; to go to Sansa through the main door instead of using his usual secret passageway.

When Sansa invited him in he had to stop for a moment, admiring the sight she offered. She was still the most beautiful woman in Westeros in his eyes. Sansa's tears and need for consolation didn't surprise him though. He swore that at the end of the evening he would give her all the support he could, take her into his arms and tell her all the things she needed to hear.

When Jaime walked into the room Sandor sneered at the sight. The Lion had not changed over the years, and neither had their friendship. The tension simmering between them, so keenly felt in the early years in Winterfell, had given way to familiarity and easiness. Bloody hells, he might have even sometimes blurted out softer words, speaking of feelings shared only between the three of them. Luckily Jaime had never thrown those back in his face or reminded him about them. Yet the man still also had the uncanny ability to raise Sandor's hackles – like this night.

"Bloody hells, Jaime. Who is supposed to be the focus of the attention tonight, the bride to be or you? You have enough gold and glitter in that outfit to outshine the sun itself, should it still be up when the festivities start." Sandor pretended to be shielding his eyes from Jaime's offending garb.

"Nonsense. You are just jealous as you look like an executioner in your blacks. Live a little, man!" Jaime mocked him.

"Shush, both of you," Sansa chided them. She fumbled in her jewellery box and to Sandor's delight took the little bird he had given her after Catly's birth and clasped it on the front of her dress.

"I am ready to go. Jaime?" Sansa lifted her hand and Jaime took it, smiling. She turned to Sandor and extended her other hand towards him. "Sandor?" vulnerability

Sandor took her hand and squeezed it tightly, and together they walked to the door.

-The End-