Author's note This was written for lfvrclara as part of got_exchange latest exchange. Her request was for a happy Sansan tale that was set in the 1900's. Uncertain what period she sought I decided to roll with the era of WW1. Normally I avoid modern tales like the plague (cause I suck at them) but upon hearing a certain song on the radio I couldn't resist trying my hand at it…
Disclaimer: All this belongs to GRRM up to and including some quotes that were used directly from the novels (because of the scene its written in).
Beta Readers: As always a huge thank you to the lovely Weshallflyaway for helping me make this work! Your help and wisdom is always greatly appreciated.
Sansa Stark was a war hero's daughter, nobly born, and a highly coveted Coloratura contralto singer. Newspapers claimed her voice was as sweet as angels; her beauty so exquisite that even Venus, the goddess of love, could not compare.
No one knew that inside she was only a little bird, trapped in the midst of angel faced devils.
Sandor Clegane was the second born son of a blue collar worker, a broken man whose face was so horrible a mere glimpse was said to make grown women faint. His superiors said that he was a soldier so savage and brutal, the mere mention of The Hound's name drove fear into the hearts of brave men on both sides of the Great War. Soldiers who fought alongside him claimed he had been touched by the devil himself. It was believed his heart was black as coal, and cold as ice.
No one cared that he was really only a broken war hound in the midst of hungry lions.
Sansa came into his life one stormy night when hopelessness had all but threatened to consume the Hound. On the centre stage of a once opulent theatre turned tattered pub, the petite red-head stood, clad in an elegant yet simple gown of blue. With a smile that could melt ice, she sang to the war weary soldiers a song so sweet that even the terrifying Hound could not resist.
With a belly full of cheap red wine and a heart heavy with dreams long discarded, the scarred soldier closed his grey eyes; succumbing for the very first time to a moment of perfect beauty. After that night, he was never quite the same again.
On the battlefields the Hound fought, and killed, and bled, just like every other soldier in the Great War. Yet killing, once the sweetest thing there was to him, no longer brought him the peace he sought. Only the night brought him any ease. In rest, he was no longer a broken hound, but man made whole, and she was his little bird. In dreams he held her near, as she sang him songs so sweet it broke his heart only to mend it again.
Childhood ideals and aspirations, once forgotten, slowly began to resurface in his memories. Disgusted by past weakness, the Hound took solace in his rage and found the strength to fight on in the war that seemed without end.
Bloodlust gave him strength; it could not heal what had been broken so long ago.
Sansa Stark first met Sandor Clegane, drunk and broken, one rainy night in the streets of Germany. It was the Hound that had found her first. The very same soldiers he had fought alongside in the battlefields a few short days ago were now attacking and beating the young songstress. The little bird, ever strong, did not cry out though tears stained her porcelain cheeks. Openly mocking her pained silence while watching on, was none other than Prince Joffrey Baratheon; her famous fiancé.
His fellow soldiers called themselves men, but the Hound knew them only to be gnats. By night's end blood was shed, one man's life was lost, and the prince's engagement to Sansa Stark ended. The little bird was finally set free.
'You are my brave hero, like a knight of old,' Sansa softly chirped through lips cracked and bloodied.
'You are a stupid little bird if you believe that,' he barked back.
Silenced, she softly wept, her warm tears washing away the splatters of dried blood that stained his throat. Wrapping her frail body in the blue-grey jacket of his uniform, the Hound carried the singer back to the safety of her small flat; a gilded cage in a wealthier part of the city.
Sansa Stark was light as a feather in his arms, a true damsel in distress; Sandor was no knight in shining armour.
'Please, good sir, do grant me the pleasure of your name,' she sweetly chirped, when he brought her back to her flat.
'Foolish girl. I'm just a dog for true; a hound of war,' he rasped.
'No, you are wrong,' she gently replied. 'You are no dog, you are a man. The noblest one I know.'
Startled by the sincerity of her blue eyes, he spoke his name like a confession. With a gentle kiss against his marred cheek, she whispered her name and spoke a word of gratitude.
As Sandor departed into the night her sweet scent lingered on his coat, filling his nostrils with the faint smell of wildflowers and the promise of sweet impossibilities.
Days passed to months and the Great War continued. The Hound knew all was lost, yet he fought on; ever the loyal dog to the hand that fed him.
In the trenches filled with blood, mud, and the dead, the small beige envelope presented to him stood out like fresh snow in the summer. It was the first personal letter he had ever received in his life.
Breaking the seal, he was greeted with the familiar yet faint scent that could only belong to the petite red headed songstress. Certain it was meant for another, the Hound nearly tossed the letter into the bloodied mud. He knew better than to assume it was meant for him. Then something caught his grey eyes.
With fingers shaking and breath stilled, he silently reads his name written in the elegant script of a woman who was clearly well-bred. Suddenly, he was the Hound no longer, but that little boy who used to dream of heroes, knights, and hope.
The letter was filled with gratitude and an unwritten promise he did not dare acknowledge. The little bird spoke not of songs, but of her siblings, her work and the hope that her brave knight was safe; that one day he would return to her.
Her words, though innocent, immediately reminded him of his wretched brother, Gregor Clegane. Since the beginning of the war, newspapers back home had been portraying him as the heroic knight. Propaganda pieces made him out to be some great champion, whose ferocious skills and great feats in battle would save the Austro-Hungary Empire. The papers called him The Mountain that Moves while soldiers referred to him simply as Ser. Sandor knew first-hand the truth behind the façade and it infuriated him. Knights in shining armour only existed in the minds of foolish women who believed that chivalry was something more than a clever attempt to get up their skirts.
Shredding the offensive parchment to rid him of the association, the Hound tossed it into the mud before storming back to his position on the front in disgust.
A cheap bottle, or two, of red sour wine (that cost his ration of smokes) later, Sandor was on his knees, rummaging through the mud and rain, with lighter in hand. Fresh water poured down on him, as salt water spilled from his eyes. By morning he had collected all the tattered, muddy pieces of the torn letter.
Another ration of cigarettes, and many hours later, the little bird's letter though entirely ruined was intact once more. It was the first gift he had received since he was a boy.
Sandor did not make the same mistake again.
He received two more letters before the machine gun he was manning is shelled; setting the sleeve of his jacket on fire, while shrapnel firmly lodges itself in his leg. The nurses found the letters hidden in the breast pocket of his uniform. Her sweet words had become his song, in them he found the strength to survive. Through those very same letters, the famous singer learned of his fate.
Sandor awoke to the sweet sound of Sansa's voice and the warmth of her tears against his brow. The shrapnel wound on his leg had grown severely infected and was nearly the death of him. With the little bird by his side, the broken Hound made his recovery; his leg never fully healed.
The war was over for him now. In a month it was over for the world entire.
'Tell me your story,' said she as her fingers of silk reached to touch his cheeks.
'Promise me a song, little bird, and I will tell you anything you like,' he demanded. A promise made, was a promise kept. So he told the tale of a little boy whose hope, like his face, had been sacrificed to a hearth fire at the hands of his cruel brother.
The little bird spoke not a word as water threatened to spill from her eyes of azure. Just when the weight of dark memories threatened to consume him, Sansa wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders and held him near.
For the second time in his life, Sandor experienced perfect beauty. Nothing was the same between them ever again.
'Life is not always a sweet song,' Sansa sang one winter morning. 'Stay with me, and together we will write our own happy ending.'
With blue eyes filled with love, and a beautiful smile that lit up his world, the beautiful songstress took his hands into her own. Filled with cautious hope, Sandor gently kissed her full lips, fearing at any moment the dream would end and she would pull away. To his immense joy, she readily returned his affection.
Her lips tasted of lemon cakes, and sweet promises fulfilled. Her passionate kisses were laden with the innocence of one untouched; it both thrilled and humbled him.
On an icy winter morning, in the warmth of Sansa's loving embrace, Sandor was made whole.
Half a world away, outside of an old monastery in the woods just beyond a quaint town, a war Hound stood, both proud and anxious, awaiting his beautiful bride, as all around him snow lazily fell from skies of grey. Surrounded by family and friends, the little bird was presented to him; her arm linked through her father's own. She was as graceful and lovely as a queen from fairy tale legend. Not even angels or Venus herself could compare to the ethereal elegance of his beloved Sansa.
With a sad yet proud smile, the old General removed his daughter's cloak of snow white, permitting Sandor to carefully drape a cloak of autumn gold across her shoulders; a tradition as old as time. Her fingers of porcelain gently caressed his marred cheek, as her smile stole his breath away. She whispered three little words, and Sandor's world nearly came undone. He never imagined that he would ever earn the love of a woman; much less her. With shy smiles exchanged, they shared a passionate kiss filled with promises of so much more to come, as the Elder Brother announced they are husband and wife.
The world whispers of another world war on the horizon, but in this sacred place, a newlywed hound and his beautiful little bride know only peace.
Sansa Clegane was a war hero's daughter, nobly born and a highly coveted Coloratura contralto singer. Newspapers claimed her voice was as sweet as angels; her beauty so exquisite that even Venus, the goddess of love, could not compare.
To the Hound, Sansa was everything they claimed her to be, and so much more. She was his beloved wife, the mother of his children, the little bird who stole his heart, and made him whole again.
Sandor Clegane was the second son of a blue collar worker; a family man whose face, though marred, made his wife and their children smile at the sight of it. No one could dispute that he was a man who loved his family with a ferociously loyalty that rivalled none. While legends of the Hound would live in the memories of many a man, Sandor was a soldier no longer. Once known for his vicious nature, he now earned a peaceful living working the land, and at a carpenter's table. Though gruff in nature it was said behind his bark, was a good soul. His tenderness was a secret only Sansa and their children knew.
While the world descended into the chaos of the Second World War; Sandor and Sansa's own remained peaceful and untouched by its darkness. Bound by love, they remained in each other's arms, as their children grew, and had children of their own.
Though their lives had its trials as it was oft to do, the once feared Hound and his beautiful little bird lived, loved and knew joy, till the end of their days.
Their happy ending would be remembered for generations to come; a song sung so sweet, of a lone Hound who found peace in the arms of a little bird, and a home in the midst of wolves.