A little introduction from the author:
This fic is going to be based on both the books and the show, mostly just because the books haven't progressed to the point of the show. All of Sandor and Sansa's previous interactions will be based on the books, however I'm going with the show on Sansa's experience with Ramsay, just because it is crucial to her character currently in the show. Sansa's ruminations and thoughts from her time in the Vale are obviously book related, however we are pretending that instead of potentially marrying Harry the Heir as we left Sansa (Alayne) off in the books, it will be Ramsay instead, and that's how we'll join her storyline back up with the show. Also, her age is how I imagine it to be in the show now somewhere in her late teens.
As for Sandor, I am going with the books partially in his description, but since I can't remove Rory's image from the last season of GOT from my head, he will not have lanky black hair. Lol, a little point, but I do love Rory's representation of him. Also I absolutely hated that the show had Sandor and Brienne fighting, leaving him at death's door, so I'm going with the book version for that. However, since in the show they've obviously met before, we'll just pretend he met her and Arya wouldn't go with her and blah blah WITHOUT the bit about Brienne fighting him.
As always, thank you SO much for reading, favoriting, reviewing, etc. I love to hear your thoughts and look forward to another fun writing experience with my favorite couple! Without further ado, here is chapter 1.
Chapter 1
Expectancy
-Sandor-
Winterfell.
Six long years had passed since he'd last seen the castle's granite towers rising out of the snow-white plains of the Northern moors. Sandor Clegane's stormy gray eyes squinted through gusts of snow to behold the distant fortress, noting how the aged stone contrasted strangely with the fresh timber of the newly rebuilt portions of the ancient stronghold. If the histories told it true, Winterfell was nearly as old as winter itself, and it seemed absurd to believe that mere fire could even come close to extinguishing the magnificence and solemn grandeur of the great seat of the Starks. Truly, excepting the fresh color of the new construction, one could scarcely distinguish that the castle had been so recently set to the torch.
Sandor silently mocked those who'd proclaimed Winterfell's demise, those who'd lamented the fall of the castle after the bloody Kraken's son, craven that he was, set it aflame. Fire consumes, yet what it cannot destroy, it only makes stronger and harder—was he not himself living proof of this? Half of his face was given over to the grotesque scarring which only fire can leave upon a man's flesh, and though the flame had left him permanently disfigured, he was certainly one of the strongest and hardest men in all of Westeros. No, just as it would take much more than fire or a burning fever to kill him, it would take much, much more than a blaze to bring Winterfell to ruin. For that matter, it seemed it would take more than a pack of Lions to bring the Starks themselves to their end, as more of their supposed dead seemed to be reappearing in Westeros at each new report, stronger than ever.
Sandor's breath billowed around the frost-crusted whiskers on his jaw, adding its haze to the swirling white atmosphere of this frozen afternoon while he ironically pondered the nature of fire. The saddle creaked beneath his weight as he shifted in his seat, cursing under his breath and mentally steeling himself for the final leg of this buggering journey North.
Six long years ago he'd made the same ride—from the capital rather than White Harbor—yet the only thing that seemed to have not changed since then was his ugly face. He'd been a different man then, serving a different purpose, and a different king. How different a man he was now was still a thought that gave Sandor pause. Though he was still coarse and crude as he'd always been, and he had no qualms dealing justice with his own hands when it was needed, he couldn't help admitting to himself that he no longer relished killing quite as he used to. His time spent with Septon Ray and his followers, healing from his life-threatening wounds and feeling a semblance of peace for the first time in his life had left him craving a simpler way of life. Though recent events had brought violence once again into his life, the bloody talons of revenge taking hold of him once more and forcing a weapon into his hands, he still held a small hope that after the impending battle for the dawn was fought and won, he could truly be left at peace. Mayhaps I'll become a farmer. I'm too bloody old for this shit.
Sandor grunted his discomfort as he fixed his gaze upon the distant prospect, noting that even the landscape seemed less welcoming now, the cold deeper and more penetrating; it was true winter. His entire world had changed so drastically since he'd last seen Winterfell that it was now hardly recognizable. And the dragon which passed overhead in the next moment, filling the horizon with its leathery black wings and bone-chilling shriek only served to punctuate his thoughts—every fucking thing about the world in which he lived had changed during those six long years.
The approaching footfalls of a mount matching pace with his courser drew his attention from the skies, and before he could make out the rider through the haze of swirling snow, Brienne's crisp voice edged through the silence that usually surrounded Sandor Clegane.
"Are you nervous to see her again, Clegane?" The huge woman didn't distinguish which 'her' she was referring to, yet there'd only been one lady whom she'd recently been interjecting into her conversations with him.
Sandor snorted and resituated the reins in his leather gloves, trying to compensate for the loss of feeling in his extremities and pulling his cloak tighter against the relentless Northern winds.
"Not nervous," he grunted. Brienne's attempts to befriend him since the parley in the capital made him somewhat uncomfortable, friendly banter having never been his strong suit. Apparently their mutual experience with the Stark bitch had given Brienne a sort of common ground with him which she used to justify her constant barrages into his sullen, solitary existence. He wished she'd bugger off.
"You'll be very proud of her, I think," Brienne continued, either oblivious or uncaring of the cold reception given her by the hulking, scarred man riding beside her. "Impressive is, I think, the best word to describe Arya."
The proud grin which spread across her face did little to improve her masculine features, instead drawing attention to the freckles on her cheeks and her broad nose, both chapped and pink from the prolonged exposure to the elements.
Sandor scowled. "Aye, it's impressive she's still alive, I'll give her that."He turned his head and spat in the opposite direction.
"Dancing," he snorted again and allowed a mocking grin onto his countenance, the scarred half of his face twisting unnaturally as he did. The girl must have improved her skills if she'd made it to Essos and back alive, and a tiny shade of something that could be called pride passed through his chest. It was short-lived, however, and quickly extinguished in favor of his familiar cynicism as he remembered his name on her little kill-list, and how she'd left him to die of fever.
"The wolf-bitch's dancing doesn't interest me half as much as getting off this fucking horse and thawing my frozen arse. The only thing I care about within the walls of that castle is the hot water they've piped through them."
He rasped the last sentence with finality and kicked his horse to a trot, leaving the annoyance of conversation behind him. He'd already been forced to endure a ship's voyage from the capital to White Harbor and then the entire road to Winterfell with far more socialization than he cared for. In the final hour of their journey he wanted no company but the familiar pessimism of his own bitter thoughts.
The cold which penetrated through every piece of clothing he wore did little to keep his mind off the gnawing sense of dread in his stomach at having to face one of the demons that had haunted him for years. Brienne had been right, though she'd fixated on the wrong Stark girl. If he was honest with himself, which he took great pride in supposing he was, there was no skirting the truth that he was nervous to see her again. He'd have to face her after what he'd done to her the night the Blackwater burned.
Sandor's jaw worked soundlessly as he tossed the unpleasant thought around in his mind for perhaps the hundredth time. He would have to stand before her and see the disgust and anger in her eyes as she judged him for his behavior toward her. Every step he drew nearer the castle only brought him closer to facing a shame that he now felt more acutely than ever. To complicate matters, though no one knew what had happened that night save the two of them—as far as he believed, at least—Sandor couldn't help but wonder what would become of him if Sansa Stark decided to divulge his behavior from that night to her bastard brother.
He chewed the inside of his lip as he almost subconsciously slowed the pace of his mount, more willing to face the piercing cold than her piercing blue eyes. Sandor had come to know many regrets in his life during the past years, though he seldom dwelt on them, but pinning a young girl to her bed, knife to her throat, while covered in blood and bile, and forcing her to sing for her life was one of his greatest. She hadn't deserved that, yet he'd done it anyway, wasted dog that he was. If Sansa demanded his life be forfeit for what he'd done to her, well it wasn't more than he deserved. Hadn't he always maintained that if the gods were just, he'd surely not be alive?
Despite his misgivings the sound corner of his mind that spoke in logic and reason, devoid of the complications of emotion, told him that it was highly unlikely that Jon would execute a seasoned fighter in the current state of affairs. The world was going to shit just now, with death marching on the Wall, and Jon had bigger concerns than a rogue soldier who'd once frightened his sister with empty threats. Jon himself had alluded recently to the great misfortune that Sansa had faced with her most recent marriage, and Sandor's drunken behavior to her hardly seemed to hold a candle next to whatever she'd endured from the latest prick. He hadn't truly hurt her that night, he reasoned, though he winced inwardly at his own mental justification. After all, sometimes the worst kind of scars were not made by the wounds of the flesh.
He would find a way to make amends for it, if for no other reason than to give rest to his own sense of shame. He had half-heartedly resolved to do so years ago, if fate had ever brought them together again. If she'd ever escaped the claws of the Lions and the Mockingbird, and if he'd ever found himself in the service of the great lords and kings of Westeros again.
And here it seemed that fate had done just that, he mused, as the walls of Winterfell loomed larger before his approach, seeming to mirror the growing sense of dread in his stomach as he must soon face her again and swallow his pride to make amends for that night. He could only hope that she'd believe and accept his sincerity, calling to mind the words he'd spoken to her in what seemed now like another lifetime:
"A dog will die for you, but never lie to you."
-Sansa-
Jon had finally returned. He'd been gone for months, leaving the massive job of Northern rule to her, inexperienced and anxious though she was. She'd planned and strategized, had counseled and directed, had judged and executed, yet though her bannermen looked to her for leadership, she sometimes felt as if they were foolish to put their trust in her. Despite her hardened exterior, the protective armor she'd built little by little after each of the betrayals and heartbreaks that her short life had inflicted upon her, there was still so much uncertainty and weakness that Sansa saw in herself. She'd done her best to portray strength and the fortitude that Northerners would expect from their leader, yet she couldn't help breathing a sigh of relief now that Jon was returning to take the weight of rule from her shoulders, and the faintest hint of a smile crept to her pink, wind-bitten cheeks as she observed the oncoming army from the battlements.
The masses of men and beasts approaching her castle stretched as far as the driving snow would allow her to see on this wintry afternoon, and the fact that they were all there to help defend Winterfell against the horrors marching on the Wall filled her with a sense of hope she'd not felt in a very long time.
Arya stood at her right hand, her dark hair drawn back in the style of their father, hands clasped behind her back with an expression on her face that was impossible to read. Another smile tugged at the corner of Sansa's mouth as she beheld her younger sister, dressed for warfare with a blade on each hip rather than as would befit a great lady. But Sansa had long been used to this from her sister, and it was not what prompted the gentle, almost teasing expression to settle on her face.
"Are you excited to see him again, Arya?" Sansa posed, glancing down at her younger sister briefly before returning her gaze to the scene before them, searching absently for their brother within the ranks of the approaching army.
Arya raised a brow, but did not otherwise move. "Excited," she mused, as if trying to settle on whether the word was right or not. "I can't remember the last time I felt excited about anything, Sansa." Arya's dark little eyes met hers momentarily and there was almost a sadness written in the solemnity there.
Sansa pushed the melancholy away; the Stark's lives were full of it, but now was not the time to dwell on unhappy thoughts.
"But you're his favorite sister," Sansa teased, eyes rolling good-naturedly as she drawled out the word, bumping shoulders with her sibling playfully.
Arya allowed a smile then, a true, genuine Arya smile that reached her eyes and made them look almost as they had before she'd become no one.
"That's not saying much, Sansa, considering you were my only competition, and I believe you would have preferred Hodor as a brother than Jon when we were children."
Sansa smiled too at the playful reminder of how unfairly she'd treated their bastard brother once.
"All right, I suppose I walked right into that one." She chuckled lightly before continuing, "but I know Jon is going to be very happy to s—"
Both of the young women and the guards accompanying them jolted visibly before doubling over, shouting startled curses as a deafening roar split the air above them, followed almost immediately by the heart-stopping visual of a full grown, flesh and blood dragon sweeping over their heads.
"Mother have mercy!" Sansa uttered, her knuckles white and desperately clutching Arya's arm beside her as she crouched and instinctively covered her head. Her stomach was roiling from the shock, and she gasped for breath, feeling winded and ill.
Conversely, Arya, after the initial surprise, was springing back to her full height, stretching out over the battlements, and craning her neck to see where the beast had disappeared.
"By the gods!" she breathed, a rapt and awestruck face turning back to Sansa as she took both her sister's shoulders within her grasp. "It's huge!"
Sansa nodded and struggled to keep her composure, reminding herself quickly that there were two of those beasts and mentally steeling herself lest another appearance catch her off guard. Her heart was still racing, the adrenaline coursing through her body from the supernatural experience, yet she willed herself to be calm.
"Let's"—she cleared her throat sharply, "let's go greet Jon and the dragon queen in the courtyard, Arya." She was relieved to have a valid excuse to immediately retreat from their open and exposed position atop the castle walls, and Sansa turned about quickly, silently hoping that no one had noticed the tremor in her voice.
Arya fairly bounded down the steps as she took the lead—if she'd not been certain of her excitement before, the dragon's appearance had undoubtedly piqued it—and Sansa had to struggle to keep up.
"Hallyn," she called over her shoulder to the captain of her household guards, while taking care to grip the handrail tightly as she descended the rough steps, "see that Bran is escorted to the courtyard to greet our King and his noble guest."
"At once, my lady." Sansa heard the commander passing the order along, yet her attention was already fully devoted to the thrill of seeing her brother again, meeting the long-awaited Daenerys Targaryen and—she swallowed in apprehension—seeing her dragons.
"Open the gates!"
The cry rose from within the courtyard, and was repeated several more times as it made its way up to the hands manning the winch. Sansa's heart pounded in her chest as she stood up to her full height, chin high and poised, while releasing a steady stream of breath from between pursed lips in an attempt to calm her nerves. Arya stood directly to her right and Bran in his wheeled chair was beyond her.
The brother in black, Samwell Tarly, who had come to Winterfell from the Citadel along with the wildling woman and her babe, was positioned behind Bran's chair, having wheeled it out himself. He seemed nervous, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold, yet Sansa quickly reminded herself that Sam always seemed nervous and therefore it was not particularly unusual. The man of the Night's Watch spent a great deal of time with Bran which secretly relieved Sansa—it was difficult to relate to the person that Bran had become in his absence from Winterfell and conversing with him now was both awkward and uncomfortable, yet she was loathe to leave him alone. Sam provided company which seemed to be both acceptable and welcome to both, a great relief to Sansa, and she had been very pleased that he'd chosen to stay on.
The gates were now fully opened to their guests and the procession of riders began streaming inside the walls of her castle, banners and chins held high.
Sansa spotted her family's own direwolf, gray on a field of white, bouncing alongside the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Ice and fire, she mused, before her eyes fell upon Jon and she beamed at him, filled with relief at his return home.
The three remaining Starks of Winterfell, as custom dictated, stood solemnly to greet their bastard brother, proclaimed King in the North by his own men, as well as the new object of his alliance, Daenerys Targaryen. The formality of the ceremony brought Sansa's mind back to another time long ago when her family had gathered in the courtyard to greet a different king as he entered their home.
I was such a child then, she mused as her eyes fell upon the golden white hair of the woman who must be the dragon queen, riding on a silver mare next to Jon. I'd only had eyes for my prince. Sansa observed Jon while he dismounted and then turned about to lend a hand to the Queen as she slid gracefully from her saddle. I was a stupid, silly girl when I stood here the last time, greeting a king.
Her eyes moved to rest on a large and imposing figure trotting into the yard, spurring further recollections of that time long past. I remember how frightened I was of the Hound, then.
Sansa almost smiled to herself before the man's gaze turned about suddenly to rest on her, causing her heart to fly up into her throat as she realized with a ragged gasp that it was truly the Hound! A wave of gooseflesh passed over her skin and Sansa clutched her skirts with both hands in an attempt to ground herself.
Gods, no that's impossible!
He was meeting her gaze boldly, cloak pulled tight against the cold, his beard much longer than it had been when last she saw him, yet there was no other man in Westeros who could be mistaken for the Hound.
Arya said he was dead! Everyone…everyone said he was dead!
Sansa felt as if her head was spinning, but a familiar voice pulled her back to the present and she blinked quickly, breaking the dreamlike trance she'd found herself in. Jon was approaching her on foot, the Queen just a step behind him. She fought to regain her ease, pushing the unsettling reappearance of the Hound to the back of her mind as she donned an appropriate expression with which to greet their new ally and represent Northern leadership.
Propriety dictated that the Queen be introduced before any other greetings, though Sansa saw Jon's eyes graze over his two lost siblings with ill-concealed emotion.
"Lady Stark," Jon began, meeting Sansa's eyes with a tenderness that spoke of his relief in being home once more. "May I present to you Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, and rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms." His hand gestured in the direction of the young and beautiful woman by his side and Sansa immediately sank to one knee, followed in her movements by the entire castle.
"Your grace," Sansa murmured, her head bowing briefly before raising her gaze to meet the violet eyes of her new liege. "You are very welcome here."
All of the questions and hesitations which her lords bannermen had presented to her in the last months in regards to this alliance went racing through Sansa's mind as she resumed her standing position and clasped her hands in front of her. It would not do to dwell on these concerns now, lest the woman sense some mistrust from her, and Sansa forced the concerns from her mind.
"Winterfell is at your disposal. We are most honored to host you in the North."
The dragon queen smiled and drew a step toward her, surprising Sansa by taking her hands in her own.
"Lady Stark, your brother has told me much of your unfailing strength and invaluable leadership for his people." She squeezed Sansa's hand, "Your people, and now also my people. You have my gratitude for securing our welcome in the North."
Sansa tried her best to conceal how taken aback she felt by the openness she found in Daenerys' manner. It was so unlike the subtleties of the nobles and the people at court in King's Landing that, despite herself, she found herself immediately drawn to the young queen. Sansa dismissed Daenerys' praise courteously, and when in the next moment she'd caught Jon's eye, she could see the pleasure written there at the friendliness of their exchange. He smiled almost imperceptibly before turning his attention to Arya.
"Your Grace, this is the Lady Arya—," his introduction was interrupted by the small arms which were thrown around his neck violently, her dark head buried in the crook of his neck. Jon recovered quickly from the sudden reaction, his forehead wrinkling with emotion as his arms engulfed his younger sister in a fierce embrace. Never one to show much respect for custom, Arya wasn't about to wait for long and proper introductions—she hadn't seen Jon since he'd left for the Wall so long ago and beholding him before her in truth, real and alive, after everything they'd both lived through was simply too much to bear.
Sansa felt the tears pearling in the corners of her eyes at witnessing the reunion, touched to her core at Arya's shameless and uncharacteristic display of emotion. Her sister, for the first time in as long as Sansa could remember, was crying.
Arya's lithe, tanned fingers, usually employed in deftly clenching the hilt of a blade, were now clinging to the fur of Jon's cloak as tenaciously as a child would cling to its father, her small body shaking in his arms. He was murmuring something into her ear as he stroked her back gently, both completely lost to the world around them and uncaring of the hundreds of eyes upon them.
Sansa glanced briefly at the Queen, curious as to how she would react to the impropriety of her siblings' ill-timed embrace. The young woman, rather than appearing affronted or annoyed, looked to be truly affected by the candid reunion, her eyes softening as they rested on Jon. Sansa thought there was a shade of affection in them, though she couldn't be sure.
After several long moments of embrace, Arya used Jon's cloak discreetly to wipe the tears from her eyes before suddenly drawing back from him all at once, the expression on her face instantly reverted to its usual solemnity. As if the lapse had never occurred, Arya turned slightly to the Queen and inclined her head. "Your grace." A small, forced smile settled on her flushed cheeks.
Daenerys nodded her head delicately in return, and moved to the final Stark presented to her. She didn't wait for Jon this time, a knowing smile spreading across her face as she addressed the young man seated in the wheeled chair. "And you must be Bran."
As Jon made introductions and reunited with his youngest living brother, Sansa chanced another glance toward the Hound. He'd dismounted by now, and was standing off to one side, near Brienne and Pod and—Sansa gasped in surprise once more—Lord Varys and Tyrion! By the Seven, how have they all come to be here at once? Together? The group of unlikely companions were now approaching and Sansa quickly averted her eyes, pretending to not have noticed.
Daenerys had returned to stand before Sansa, extending her arm out as the others joined the party.
"Lady Stark, I believe you are already acquainted with my Hand, Lord Tyrion."
A myriad of emotions tore through Sansa as the small man who'd once been her husband waddled toward her, taking her hand and drawing it to his lips. Though not repulsed by him—he'd always been kind to her after all—Sansa was far from being at ease in his presence and her courtesies felt more forced than ever.
"My dear Sansa," the dwarf said, squeezing her hand lightly, "it pleases me greatly to see you returned to your home and family."
His characteristic sincerity was there, and nothing in his look seemed to reveal any resentment he might have harbored toward her for disappearing so completely after Joffrey's murder. Sansa gave him a gratifying smile, as smooth as ice which revealed none of her true feelings. She inclined her head next to Lord Varys as Daenerys presented him, and other members of her court, though Sansa was finding it increasingly difficult to focus on introductions as she became acutely aware of the Hound slowly approaching her.
Before she could even begin to predict how their reunion would play out, Arya exploded beside her. "Seven hells! You're still alive?" Her sister advanced until she was standing just before Sandor Clegane, looking—despite all of her weapons and warrior's garb—like a child next to the giant of a man.
The Hound snorted down at her, a cynical grin twisting his features.
"Aye, I'm alive, and no thanks to you, she-wolf, but I'm a tough bugger to kill."
Though he was as harsh and coarse as ever, Sansa thought there was no real resentment in his tone. She'd seen the Hound consumed with rage on many occasions, seething hatred, and none of those all too familiar signs were noticeable in his demeanor or voice as he spoke to Arya now. If Sansa didn't know better, she could almost believe there was an underlying affection, if that was even possible for a man like the Hound.
Arya stared at Clegane silently for several long moments, her face betraying no sign of what she might have felt about seeing him again after believing him to be dead for years. Then she cracked a half-smile and drew her hands behind her back.
"You and me both, it seems."
Something that might have been closure seemed to pass between them in the silence that followed and Sansa found herself suddenly curious to know more of what they had endured in their long months together in the Riverlands.
After a moment, Arya's eyes flicked sideways to Sansa, a wicked glint appearing in them, much like when they'd been children and Arya was planning some new mischief.
"I believe you remember my pretty sister, Lady Sansa?" Arya extended an arm toward her innocently, and Sansa felt all the mortification and ire at being placed in such an awkward position roll over her.
I'm going to kill her, Sansa thought, though she hadn't the time to process her frustration fully, for the Hound turned his attention to her now after throwing a deathly glare at Arya.
"Aye, I remember the little bird," he rasped her nickname just as he always had, voice rough and raw like steel grinding on stone as he took a step toward her, inclining his head respectfully. "Lady Stark," he ground his teeth as he looked down at her, and for a flash Sansa thought that he seemed ill at ease, which was something she'd almost never seen in Sandor Clegane in the capital. "The bird who finally flew home."
Sansa couldn't remember the last time she'd felt such an array of confusing emotions. She was furious at Arya, disconcerted by the Hound, and frustrated with herself for being so weak to even be affected by a man so utterly unconnected to her. She resolved to allow no hint of her inner turmoil to be observed by her companions and, drawing up to her full height she held her chin parallel to the ground and voided her expression.
"Clegane," she acknowledged, hardly deigning to tilt her head in greeting. Her resolution to be cool toward him was made that much easier as the memory of the last time she'd seen his face washed over her. Flashing gray eyes lighting almost green in the unearthly glow of wildfire. A knife to her throat. His weight pinning her to the bed. Real, visceral fear. This man had been harsh and cruel and terrifying.
But there were tears, you remember.
Sansa pushed that detail from her mind, determined to remain unmoved. She was no longer a scared girl trapped in the South. She was in her home, a great ruler in the North, and she would make sure he regretted how he'd behaved toward her then. She was not his to frighten and terrorize anymore.
"I may have been a little bird the last time I saw you, however, much has changed since then. I know not under what circumstance you came to ride with my brother and his men, but as he's welcomed you I have no choice but to do the same until I've spoken with him."
Satisfaction rushed over Sansa, accompanied much to her annoyance by a small twinge of guilt, when his countenance changed slightly. An uncharacteristic nervousness crept in behind his normally unwavering steel gray eyes.
Good.
"You will excuse me, Ser," she intentionally threw in the title, knowing exactly how it would make him feel. "I have much to discuss with my brother and the Queen." She lifted her brows as a gesture of departure and turned abruptly from him, though not missing the opportunity to glare her displeasure at her younger sister.
After all of these years, still SUCH a pain.
Let me know how you feel about this return to writing Sansan fiction, your reviews are much appreciated! So excited to be back writing!