Warnings/Rating: Current chapter is rated M for mention of past violence and dark themes.
Pairing: Adult!Sansa/Sandor
Disclaimer: All this belongs to GRRM and Jeanne-Marie LePrince de Beaumont. Am just playing with the characters/theme. I promise to return them safe and sound when I'm done.
Beta Reader: A huge thank you goes to onborrowedwings for your advice and your help, ensuring this tale more than a piece of tripe. I owe you so much!

As her handmaiden made the last adjustments to her hair, Sansa nervously smoothed the skirts of her wedding gown, feeling both excited and nervous for what was to come. Noting her reflection in the large looking glass she could not help but smile at the sight. The dress she wore had been made for her as a gift by her handmaiden and the smallfolk under her protection. Though simple in its design, it was elegant and beautiful to behold; the young maiden felt every bit like a queen from legend. Finely crafted it complimented her figure, while its dark green shade brought out the fire in her Tully red hair. As her handmaiden placed the grey and white cloak of house Stark around her shoulders, Sansa's thoughts drifted to the past, to all that had had transpired since that fateful long night when the storm had brought her home.

It had been several weeks since Lord Joffrey Baratheon and his men had laid siege on Clegane Keep yet she could still remember her beloved Hound's bloodied and lifeless body lying in the snow as if it were yesterday, just as she could still recall the pungent stench of the funeral pyres made after the battle had been won. It had been Sansa's first order to Sandor's men upon her return to the keep. Despite her overwhelming fear for her beloved's life, she had kept her wits about her. Recalling the legends Lady Clegane had left for her descendants, Sansa had ensured the survivors did not have to face wights, as well as Joffrey's remaining men. Days later she learned much to her immense relief that most of those who fell that night had been young Lord Baratheon's soldiers, only a handful of fighters who served Sandor had fallen to the sword. Their deaths were mourned and honoured by all who lived there, though very few who served in Clegane Keep were related by blood they were as close as any family.

With Arya and the old maester's guidance, Sansa had mended the worst of Sandor's wounds. For days she had sat by his bed side singing what little songs she could recall, while uttering prayers to the gods, both the old and the new, to spare his life. Even after Sandor awoke two days later, he was far from well. Though his wounds were healing, his body had been badly weakened by what he had endured; soon he fell ill with a chill. In fear and sorrow, she watched helplessly as a fever threatened to consume him. The old maester did all he could to heal him but no amount of medicines or cold cloths could break the fire that was burning him from the inside out. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he cried out for his little bird, sometimes even calling her by name; other times he pleaded for his grandfather, begging him to help, to save him. During those terrible moments there was little else that Sansa could do but pray. Holding his hand tightly, she would kiss his fevered brow, and softly sing to him as silent tears spilled down her cheeks.

R'hllor owes this one much; his life will be spared, in return for the many lives the man has already offered to the red god, Arya's strange companion had said when, at her sister's insistence, Sansa sought him out for help. Sandor's health had been growing steadily worse; to the point when even she could not deny that her beloved Hound would not likely survive. Jaqen, as Arya called him, was a strange sort of man, a killer who held secrets Sansa suspected was as old and deadly as the gods themselves. Speaking only in riddles, he promised to save Sandor's life. Uncertain whether he could be trusted, Sansa spoke to her little sister before permitting the red god's rewardto be given. Within hours, Sandor's fever broke and he was well on his way to a full recovery. Overjoyed that his life had been spared, the young maiden showered his face with gentle kisses, as she professed her love for him. With a shy smile and trembling fingers, he caressed her cheek and spoke plain all that weighed on his heart.

When Sansa sought to thank the man who had saved her beloved's life, she discovered that strange foreigner with the red and white hair had long since departed; disappearing into the shadows as though he were never there. Not even Arya could say what had become of him.

Despite Sandor's swift recovery from his illness, she knew he would never fully recover from the wounds inflicted upon him. For all of his skills and wisdom, even the maester could not restore his body to what it had once been. He would forever carry the scars of that fateful night; be it the burns on his arm, or the limp in his walk. It in no way diminished Sansa's love for him.

Even after the fever had lifted, Sansa visited as often as she could. Still too weak to journey to the small library, his bedchambers became their new found sanctuary. Soon their evenings were spent in long conversations with Sansa seated by his bedside, and Arya seated across the room watching on. Though her sister and her beloved often bickered amongst themselves, it was only in jest. Sandor had saved Arya's life from the warrior of R'hllor that Lord Joffrey had hired; his arm now bore the burns inflicted by the man's fiery blade. Arya, in turn, had fought fiercely by his side, helping him defend his people from the young Lord. Though they would never admit it to it, Sansa knew there was a grudging respect shared between them.

Their moments alone, already rare, grew even more so as many, much to Sandor's embarrassment and annoyance, sought to help to ensure their lordship's quick recovery. While the old maester as well as her handmaiden continued to act as her chaperone it did not stop them from stealing kisses as often as they could. Nor was it an uncommon sight for the old maester to arrive late at night to check on Sandor only to find Sansa asleep, still seated in her chair, her head resting against his chest, and his arm loosely wrapped around her shoulders. Arya remained nearby softly snoring in her own chair across the room.

Since recovering from his fever, Sandor had taken great liberties, much to the maester and Sansa's annoyance, to break from his bed rest. It was not long before her Hound was seen carefully limping about the keep, or lingering about the practice yard hoping to train when he thought he could get away with it. A more stubborn and determined man, Sansa had never known. Yet despite her frustrations, she loved him all the more for it.

As the days passed a variety of guests began to arrive to Clegane keep. Sansa's ravens had reached their destinations and soon supplies as well as help were arriving on a daily basis. Ironically, it was Ser Jaime Lannister, along with Lady Brienne who were the first to come to their aid. Believing them there only to collect her little sister, Sansa was entirely surprised by the vast amount of supplies and food they had brought for the smallfolk. Neither spoke much on the matter when the reason was inquired; Lady Brienne admitted that much of the supplies were from Casterly Rock, politely stating that Ser Jaime should be thanked, rather than her. Ser Jaime spoke even less, his words leaving much to interpretation.

'A Lannister always pays his debts, one way or another.'

Sansa could not say whether it was spoken as a jape or as a sincere apology. For the wry smirk he wore did not quite reach the strange weight in his eyes. She suspected that she would never know for certain just what he had meant.

This morning, Sansa had found Sandor alone in the garden of ice-roses. Walking through the battle torn garden, she noted the small shrubs that had once been thick and blooming bushes a few short months prior. Several weeks ago there had been nothing but burned branches and black ash; now tiny branches filled with little green leaf buds reached towards the sunny sky. The sight gave her hope that soon everything would be as it once had been.

It had not been the budding plants that truly captured her attention. Clad in his finest armour, Sandor wore a cloak that bore the sigil of his house; the very one that she had sewn for him as he recovered from the fever and his wounds. Her soon-to-be Lord Husband had never looked more fearsome, or more handsome, as he did in the morning light. Hours later, she could still recall the warmth that filled her stomach upon feeling Sandor's grey eyes watching her intently. Joining his side, Sansa had cupped his face with her hands as she rose to the balls of her feet to kiss him full on the mouth. Wrapping his arms around her petite form, the giant man had eagerly returned her kiss with a throaty growl of approval. With such moments of privacy a precious rarity neither was about to let it go to waste; despite the fact that night would mark the end of such formalities.

'The wolf-girl is a buggering fool if she thinks to make Gendry into a warrior. The boy can't deal a proper strike if his life depended on it. Gods, even you wield a weapon better than him,' Sandor had rasped in greeting once their kiss drew to an end.

Sansa had giggled as she rested her head against his chest. 'The poor man is a blacksmith not a warrior, my love! His gift is to create weapons of war, not wield them,' she chastised with a hint of amusement. It was then that she heard the clash of blades in the distance, and caught sight of two silhouettes sparring in the training yard that overlooked the gardens. Had the growing shrubs been the grown blooming rose bushes they once were, they would never have witnessed Arya knocking Gendry's blade from his hand. Neither would they have witnessed Gendry making off with her sister's helmet moments later; the petite warrior hard on his heels. With her cheek resting against his chest, she felt the rumble of Sandor's throaty chuckle. The sound brought a smile to her lips. His laugh was harsh, almost guttural, reminding her of dogs snarling in a pit, but it never ceased to warm her heart.

'Gods be good, Arya is never going to be ready in time for the ceremony,' she had murmured in dismay as she looked back to him. Sandor gave her a gentle squeeze as if in reassurance, before leaning in to steal another kiss. With a hand running through her hair, he buried his face in the crook of her neck and breathed deeply. Sansa giggled as he lightly nipped her throat before kissing his scarred cheek in reply.

'Don't worry about the brat. Your father will make sure she's presentable. If not, Lady Brienne and Ser fuckwit will deal with her,' he had rasped as his fingers drifted from her hair to caress her cheek. Slipping her small hand over his large fingers, she met his gaze as a loving smile played on her lips. In his eyes, she had seen that he was as excited and as nervous as she felt. Today would mark the end of many things, and the beginning of so much more.

It was the sound of someone knocking at her chambers that drew Sansa back to the present. She could hear her father's voice politely speaking to her handmaiden and knew the time had come to depart for the godswood. Lady, ever dignified, remained by her side patiently watching and waiting. Beyond her chambers, Sansa could hear Nymeria, much like Arya impatiently pacing the old hallways; ready to leave on a moments notice.

With a loving smile, Eddard Stark approached, drawing Sansa into a tight embrace. 'You look lovely,' he said as he drew back. 'If only your mother could see you now, she would be so proud,' he added in wistful tones; his smile turning a little sad. Instinctively, Sansa's fingers slipped to the obsidian spearhead necklace she wore as she thought of her brothers and her mother. She could not help but wish they were with her too.

Her lord father had initially come to help the smallfolk, and to see his daughters once more. Her brother, Robb, remained in Winterfell watching over his newly pregnant wife, and the smallfolk he served. Though Sansa suspected Sandor would speak to her father of the future, she never expected that he would properly ask for Lord Stark's permission to have his eldest daughter's hand in marriage. The gesture spoke volumes to Sansa, and she knew, to her father as well.

'I believe the septon is waiting for us in the godswood,' Lord Eddard gently prompted as he offered his arm. Slipping her hand through the crook of his arm, she gave her father a gentle smile as they departed together. Behind them came Arya clad in her best breeches and a grey and white doublet, their direwolves, Nymeria and Lady, and Sansa's handmaiden.

Beneath a great heart tree, the young maiden married her beloved Hound with the blessing of an old septon. In the ceremony, Sansa sought to honour both the old gods and the new for bringing them together. With the exchange of cloaks and vows, Sandor drew her into a passionate kiss causing the vast crowd of people to cheer loudly, and clap in joy. For the scarred warrior and his beautiful bride were well loved by the smallfolk they served. Even Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne had stayed back to participate in the simple, yet joyous event.

Hand in hand, Sansa and her Lord Husband departed for the old Keep where a great feast and a hearty celebration awaited them. Food and wine flowed freely, while bards strummed their lyres and sang songs of old to the smallfolk and nobles alike who drank, danced, and heartily sang along. That night a new song was also sung, a tune that would soon become as renowned as the ballads of old. It was a tale that spoke of a northern beauty, who won the heart of a courageous beast, and how together they had saved his people from a terrible fate.

Blissfully unaware of the songs sung in their honour, the newly wed lovers spent the remainder of the night sharing a song of another sort. Though the winter had been filled with many trials, and the hope of spring had been but a distant dream; together, they found a strength and sanctuary within each other that steadily grew into a love so deep that nothing could put it asunder. With the promise of a fruitful summer, and a lifetime of happiness together, the two lovers drifted off into blissful dreams, wrapped in each other's arms. As beyond the stone walls of their chambers, the birds sang their cheerful songs while the spring sun rose and warmed the land.

Author's Note #1: Because I've yet to finish the novels and the wiki is being frustratingly evasive on the matter, I've taken the liberty to follow medieval history customs instead. During the 13-14th century 'green'(blue and red as well) apparently was considered a common colour worn by brides.
Author's Note#2: I want to give a huge shout out and a massive thank you to all of you for taking the time to read this tale from start to its finish. Also for your kind words and constant encouragement, you really know how to make a newbie feel welcome! 3

Another special thank you for my betareader onborrowedwings for sticking it out with me from beginning to end despite the madness of RL and having to put up with all my constant errors and plotholes! I'd be utterly lost without you girl!