Back! Better than ever! Still very in love with this couple. Read new stuff, up on Ao3!
Sansa was just starting to relax and enjoy herself in the evening, thinking about finding somewhere to sit and rest her feet, when she turned around and ran smack into what was an immovable wall of muscle. She stumbled back, already spluttering her apologies, when the wall growled and a hand shot out to her waist, keeping her upright.
“Girl,” The voice was a deep rumble and Sansa, breathless, looked up into grey eyes. “Easy.”
“I am so sorry sir.” She apologized quickly, righting herself. “I wasn’t paying attention, it was all my fault, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I am so sor—”
“Quit chirping.” He grumbled and she fell silent instantly. After a moment, he seemed to remember himself and his hand dropped from her waist. Sansa took a deep breath and tried to gather her senses. This could only be one man.
Sandor Clegane, the boys hockey assistant coach. Sansa knew a little about him, from the few hockey boys she’d befriended. He had played out west for a couple years, and he’d won a Stanley Cup. He was a massive defenseman, the last of the enforcers. The most distinctive thing about him was the scars that covered one side of his face. She’d seen him a few times in passing, conditioning with the boys or at functions like these.
“Sorry.” She said again, before she could help herself. His grey gaze, intense and angry, flicked down to her and his frown tightened. She broke eye contact with him, least he think she was staring at his scars. She went to step around him, before spotting the one person she was actively trying hard to avoid and hissed out her breath, darting back behind Clegane.
Jon had to shout down who Sandor thought was maybe a Karstark. He watched as Yves Crewen bellowed until he was red in the face about the insults Starks threw at them on one night. Arya laid her dagger on the table when a lord came too close, shouting about loyalty and honor. Jon, Dany, Sansa, and even Brienne had to deal with, in turn, the accusations, the anger, and the betrayals.
It took hours and Sandor was impatient and tired. He wanted his bed, and he wanted Sansa in it. He wanted peace, but he stayed her at her side, as her intended, unhappily seeing this through. A few times Sansa’s hand squeezed his knee, an unspoken thank you for his being there. And finally, after what seemed like endless insults and more challenges to duels then he’d ever heard in his life, it was sorted.
The north would have Jon Snow—he grinned to think about their reactions when they heard his true parentage—as their king and Dany as their queen through the war. If they lived, Jon informed them they could argue it then. Phrased that way, most of the men quietly agreed to see how it played out. Still, it was deep into the night when the hall finally emptied of men and left them.
“Seven fucking hells.” Sansa swore, resting her head in her hands tiredly and Jon turned to look at her in astonishment while Arya smiled and Sandor chuckled. “I thought they would never, ever, shut up.”
“I take back my approval.” Jon muttered, staring at Sansa. “He’s clearly had a bad influence on polite, courteous Sansa.”
“It’s as much his as everyone else’s.” Sansa remarked, yawning and rising. Dany looked mildly dismayed at the breach of protocol and that made Sandor smile even more. “I’m off to bed. I get married tomorrow, and I intend to sleep in. Jon, don’t wake me. Think you can run things for a morning?”
