Author's Notes: And now for something completely different… A while back I requested in Tumblr for writing prompts consisting of a theme, an object and character(s), and this is the second one I am doing (I know, I am slow…). This was submitted by writerloverpsycho-pomp as "Confessions, grandfather clock, Sandor/Sansa and Arya".
I had lots of problems with this, I admit straight out, the biggest being that grandfather clocks (also called longcase clocks) to me seemed a bit too advanced to fit well with canon era, being developed in later part of the 1700th century. So the story had to be set in a different era. I am not particularly keen to write different settings, as to me the beauty and majesty of ASOIAF and all its relationships are irrevocably bound to the world of GRRM, and once removed from them, lose much of their potency (but that's just me). Yet alas, this was a challenge I had to face. Also, I found it hard to fit Arya into the story once I started writing, so she is here only as a mention.
The setting of this fic is loosely Restoration Era England, some time in 1670's or so. The Starks used to be a noble family in Northern England, Sandor a personal guard for the young prince in the capital. Since the revolutionary events of the Civil War Sansa found herself under the dubious care of Petyr Baelish, whereas Sandor ended up in a community of free-thinkers consisting largely of people with Levellers and Diggers leanings (political movements that emphasised popular sovereignty, equality before the law and religious tolerance, Diggers also supporting common ownership and agrarian socialism). I have taken some liberties with names, for example replacing Vale with Norwich and Winterfell with Carlisle. Please do not judge me harshly for my historical and geographical mistakes – as this was supposed to be just a short prompt fill only, I haven't dwelled too much in research but picked things up from what I knew before and done some (probably) superficial searches only… Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa for all the mistakes in that regard!
Time has passed, both Sandor and Sansa are much older. Sandor is set to his ways – and then one day a familiar face shows up in his doorstep...
I- "Quiet now, boy."
Sandor touched the smooth surface with his fingertips, let them travel down the exposed grain admiring the way the shapes undulated and weaved their way in the wood. He could feel every nick and roughness clearly – he had lost callouses from years of holding a sword and musket already a long time ago, and his hands were now his most sensitive tool of the trade.
They were large and gnarled still; those of a man who works with them every day. Prominent veins formed the web against the backdrop of browned skin dotted with sunspots.
Old man's hands.
He huffed and got back to work, finishing the already scraped surface into an even finer sheen. Swoosh – swoosh – swoosh the pumice stone sang against the wood. There was a rhythm to it and he found himself in tune with it, with his body and soul.
It was the same rhythm and flow of peace he had finally found in his life, and his heart sang to its tune.
A low growl from the floor alerted him and Sandor lifted his head.
"Quiet now, boy."
The huge black dog sprawled down on his stomach went silent but revealed its teeth and a murmur below human hearing vibrated its chest, making Sandor glance out of the window.
He froze.
There, on the worn path leading to his little hut, walked a woman; tall and proud, carefully coiffed clusters of auburn curls framing her face and cascading down the front of her pale blue silk dress. The face whose features were achingly familiar although it had been a long, long time since he had last laid his eyes on it.
It was her.
Sansa Stark.
II – "It IS you!"
The blue eyes he remembered from the past turned to him and widened. For a moment she said nothing, then a breathless exclamation.
"It IS you!"
There was no way she could see his scars, but apparently she didn't need the testimony of them to ascertain the truth.
Or what she though was the truth.
"No. I am not the one you may think I am," Sandor growled and tugged at the wide brim of his hat in vain to hide himself better but even doing that knowing it was useless.
"What…what do you mean? You are the Hound, Sandor Clegane, formerly the personal guard of the prince – surely I can't be mistaken!"
"You are mistaken. The Hound is no more."
Sandor spoke gruffly and kept the door open just enough for the exchange to occur and to prevent Lilburne getting out. She didn't seem to care about his reservations though, but without waiting for an invitation pushed herself through the frame - and bar shoving her back bodily Sandor didn't see any other option but to let her in.
Sansa Stark entered the room, took a step back at noticing the huge dog sniffing at her skirts, but Lilburne was apparently satisfied that this particular visitor was accepted by his master and moved docilely aside when she moved.
Her gaze took it all in; sturdy work benches, tools hanging from the wall in a neat order, half-finished wooden cases, rough planks waiting for their turn to be shaped, clock mechanisms and pendulums strewn around on a high table. Sandor stared at her, looking so out of place in the middle of the workroom; like a porcelain doll among the rough wood and cold metal.
"What are you doing here?" He knew it to sound rude but he didn't have time for courtesies.
She turned back on him and pierced him with her gaze.
"I had to see if it was you. I…I saw a magnificent black horse in the stables and it reminded me of the beast you rode. I admired it and mentioned that only once have I seen a horse of such fine stature, and one of the stablehands told me it its sire was as handsome." She sounded breathless and spoke fast, as if she wanted to convince him of the validity of her presence there. "He also told me that the said sire had arrived with the man who is now the woodcarver and clockmaker and still lives here; a large imposing man with a burned face. And I knew."
There was a difference in her behaviour from what he remembered; she was more confident, more self-assured, even though at that very moment she was visibly flustered. Sansa Stark of old would have never spoken to him so directly, nor studied his face so frankly.
She was not a girl anymore, for sure.
III – "I…I had to come."
"What are you doing here, in this place? I thought you escaped to the continent after all that went down after the king was beheaded."
"I am here with my son; he is sick and I heard about a skilful physician and healer who resides in this community and I came to seek his help…"
The rest of her speech was lost on Sandor who latched onto two words, 'my son'. Then he snorted. Of course the little bird had a family of her own, whatever had befallen on her. Women like her always did.
He interrupted her with a scoff. "Is he a dwarf as his father? Nobody can cure that, not even good Doctor Elder." He couldn't help his tone, the memory of hearing about her marriage to that vile little creature flashing in his mind.
Sansa bit her lip and looked down at the floor as if considering what to say next. When she spoke her voice was so low he could hardly hear her.
"It is an ailment of lungs. He is still just a boy and physicians in the borderlands don't know how to help him."
"Let me ask anew; what are you doing here, at my door?"
She looked up as if interrupted from her own train of thoughts.
"I… I had to come."
Like that explained anything.
"What do you want from me?"
Her lips quivered. It must be as Sandor had supposed; she had reacted without a thought, had wanted to fulfil her curiosity like women were wont to do, without thinking of the consequences.
"You can leave now. The man you were seeking doesn't exist anymore. Now you know better and can go back to your husband and son and forget you ever saw me."
Oddly, he found it difficult to say those words when there were so many others he needed to say instead.
"No!" The intensity of her exclamation surprised him and from the looks of it, herself as well. Lilburne raised his head but detecting no further commotion rested it on his big paws once again.
Sansa gathered herself quickly though. "Only my son and I are here, staying for a few days at the Quiet Isle Inn nearby."
Sandor opened his mouth to tell her how it was not really his concern where she and her family were, but she cut him out.
"I have to go now, I am expected at the luncheon. I…" She glanced at the back of the room where a simple table and chair and a cupboard on the wall hinted at it being more than just a workshop, and then through a half-opened door leading to another chamber furnished with a large bed. "This is where you work and also live, is it not?"
The answer was too obvious so Sandor stayed silent. What would she do with that information anyway? She had had her curiosity sated, what else was there?
After a while, probably having concluded that an answer was not forthcoming, Sansa turned to leave and almost ran out of the room. She was gone before Sandor could think of what to say.
Maybe there was nothing more he could have said anyway.
IV – "Fucking Imp!"
She arrived again the next evening, just before twilight.
Sandor was eating his meal: brown bread, hearty vegetable soup with scraps of meat; simple and filling, just like everything in his life for the last many years.
She sat down opposite him but they didn't speak - somehow it seemed right. She observed him though; every spoonful, every gulp of ale, every bite of bread. After he had finished, Sandor returned the favour and studied Sansa Stark as openly as she had studied him, not caring a whit about propriety. She had changed so much – and yet so little.
Her features had matured and despite her years she was still beautiful. Age had not dulled the vibrant colour of her hair; the promise of the pretty girl he had known had been truly fulfilled. She carried herself well and despite the plain dress she wore this time, her tone and bearing suggested that she was used to command others. Aye, a member of nobility for sure, not only by her birth but also by her present circumstances.
Suddenly Sandor recalled hearing that the Lannister dwarf had sided with the new king - just idle talk around the common hall to which he usually paid little or no attention, but which now took on a completely new meaning.
"Fucking Imp!" he muttered under his breath, unable to hold back.
Startled, Sansa met Sandor's eyes and something that had laid silent for a long time twitched in his chest. Longing, a dream of having…
He wanted.