While being treated at the sept, a young Lannister soldier relayed that the Young Wolf's sister wed the Imp and then later escaped the Red Keep not long after her pregnancy was announced. His words struck Sandor like a sharp blow to the chest, spiraling the man into a despondency the likes of which he had not experienced since he first heard the news at the inn with Arya.
The elicited reaction was not because Sandor did not already know about Sansa's marriage, but rather because his first thought was of her child, the beautiful red headed girl in his dreams, the one he had hoped was their child. Perhaps Tyrion got her pregnant, not him. The possibility that it was Sansa's baby with the Imp who haunted his dreams brought a fresh wave of fury over the man.
The Stranger only knows what that little pervert put her through; I should have killed him years ago. Sickened, Sandor inwardly raged at his inaction. He remembered Sansa as he last saw her: ivory cheeks flushed radiantly, perfect rosebud mouth swollen from kissing, a long finger twisting the auburn curls seductively tousled around her shoulders while she shyly watched him dress.
Sandor was weak for her, weaker than he had ever been. After he angrily turned away from her, Sansa's beautiful Tully blue eyes glistened with tears; nothing had ever wounded him as deeply as her forlorn expression that night. He had left everything that was good and pure in his life behind when he left her, and Sandor could not bear to imagine the indignities she had suffered since then.
"Are the so-called benevolent gods punishing me for leaving her?" Sandor bitterly asked Elder brother after he confided the content of his dreams. "Because if they are, they are doing a bloody good job of it." Angrily he faced the holy man. "Sansa was devoted; I never saw any highborn as devoted as her. She prayed all the time. I often mocked her for it but still she would go to the godswood, foolish girl. If this is their idea of justice, then they can all go to the-"
"No, Sandor, they are not punishing her to further your suffering. They saved you. If they meant to punish you, the Stranger would have kept you in the Seven Hells." Elder brother placed a large hand on Sandor's shoulder and squeezed gently. "Instead he released you. I know it is painful to hear but ever since you arrived, I have felt the gods did so for a reason. They have a plan for you…"
Staggered into silence, Sandor brooded angrily. Long ago he had cast his childhood faith aside and had given no thought of the gods at all before he found himself on the Quiet Isle. Pointing to his scarring, his mouth curled into a wicked grin as Sandor leaned toward the Elder Brother. "You mean the same gods who allowed this now have come up with a plan for me? Too little too late, that."
"Sandor, the same gods allowed you to live have made a plan for you," he folded his hands into his draped sleeves. "And the more I think on it, the more I see their hands at work in the matter. Have you considered the possibility that perhaps this child is a part of the gods' plan for you and Sansa?"
"No." He most certainly had not considered that, nor would he. The gods had fucked him over enough times that Sandor wasn't even sure he wanted to be part of their plan, even if it was for Sansa.
"You think they have planned for me to get involved even though it is possible the babe belongs to another?" Sandor couldn't even bring himself to say Tyrion's name. "What do they want from me? Better they had left me dead and been done with it."
"Sandor, whether or not it is your child is not the issue. This is about their plans for you and Lady Sansa."
Enraged, Sandor's entire body began to shake. "There is no 'me and Lady Sansa'." He spat out furiously. "You best tread lightly, holy man, if you know what's good for you."
Gravely the Elder brother stepped closer, his soft expression challenging Sandor's wrathful gaze. "Anger cannot mask fear, Sandor. You are afraid of failure, we both know that. You must prepare yourself." The holy brother stepped away then, waiting for the man's reply. Gently the Elder brother allowed Sandor time to think on his words and then probed: "If Lady Sansa is, in fact, carrying her husband's baby and not your own, would you feel so very differently about her?"
Rage boiled hot through Sandor's blood such as he had not experienced since the night of the battle. "No, damn it to Seven Hells!" He shouted, drawing the attention of several of the brothers nearby.
After checking himself, Sandor quietly conceded: "Hells no, it wouldn't matter. The babe, it would still be…hers. I would keep them both safe." Taking his frustrations out on a nearby table, he then kicked the wreckage out of the way and stormed out of the room.
Unobtrusively Elder brother followed him to the woodpile, where Sandor began fiercely chopping logs, sending large shards of wood in every direction in his furor. Ripping off his robes, he worked furiously, his body quickly becoming lathered in sweat as he grunted out his exertions.
"Leave me alone holy man-no more talk!" Sandor snarled out when he spotted Elder brother approaching before sinking his axe deep into an exceptionally large piece of oak.
"You love her, Sandor; you mustn't fight it." Elder brother stated simply, a small smile curling onto his mouth. "There's no shame in it, for love too is a gift from the gods."
Furious, Sandor tried to sputter his reply but his words would not come. Finally, after shattering the oak burl, he admitted: "I don't-you don't know what you're talking about."
"You are a man who appreciates honest and bluntness, Sandor, so hear me out: I believe you love the Lady Sansa Stark, plain and simple. That is where your torment lies-an unfulfilled love, and a promise left unfulfilled." Elder brother watched Sandor carefully as he spoke. "You must make peace with it."
Never had Sandor admitted his feelings for Sansa to Elder brother; in truth, the man revealed very little of his true feelings even to himself. His memories of the little bird were his and his alone and he would not sully them by speaking them aloud.
"How in bloody hells did you come to that conclusion?" Sandor finally challenged, staring into the holy man's eyes with a fury from which most men would shrink. Elder brother did not.
Struggling to calm his mind, Sandor slumped down on a log. The holy man's words brought a flurry of butterflies to his stomach, sending a strange weakness throughout his body.
"She's a highborn, not meant for the likes of me, anyway, so what does it matter?" Covering his face with his hands, Sandor turned away bitterly.
"It matters not to the heart whether a woman is highborn, smallfolk, or a sporting woman, Sandor-the heart wants what it wants. And it makes youno matter whether or not the babe Lady Sansa carries is yours."
When Sandor tried to huff out a weak protest, the Elder brother persisted. "I can see the truth in your eyes, Sandor, and there is no denying it. In fact, it is as good an admission of love as any." With that the Elder brother handed him a towel and then walked away chuckling to himself.
Slumping down into the soft dirt, Sandor huffed as he rubbed his face, furious that Elder brother read him as easily as if he were a page out of The Seven-Pointed Star. How could the man believe that Sandor Clegane, the former Hound, to be in love Sansa Stark? Impossible. Love was for fools, he had always believed. After he simmered down, Sandor admitted to himself that he wasn't even sure he knew how to love, or would even recognize the buggering feeling should it come along.
In contemplation Sandor sat there for how long he did not know, until Septon Meribald sat down beside him, the movement jerking Sandor from his thoughts. "Whatever the trouble is, my son, you must pray on it. Even if you don't believe in the gods, pray. Mark my words, you'll feel better."
The man had been kind to him, cared for his wounds, and so Sandor tried to hold his tongue around him. "Aye, I will at that."
"Good. And by the way, we received a raven that Lord Baelish and his daughter and grandchild will be arriving within a sennight. I would like you to see their rooms are readied."
"As you wish." Sandor answered curtly before he rose to his feet and made for the septry, leaving the septon staring after him wonderingly.
"My lady, think of your dignity." The old septa at her feet quietly admonished as she bathed Sansa's sweat soaked brow. Even in the middle of labor, the absurdity of the woman's words stung bitterly. All her life, she had been taught that a true lady endures childbed with forbearance, propriety, and most of all, silence, but Sansa couldn't be bothered with any of that, nor was she in the mood to abide the old woman's scolding. In all her life, Sansa had never been in a less dignified position than she was then, panting and bearing down with two maesters in between her knees staring intently at her most secret of places while waiting for the first signs of the child. She wasn't about to take a lecture during the midst of all that.
A bitter laugh rose from Sansa's throat at the woman's word, startling her caregivers. "And just what do you virginal septas know of childbed that you should lecture me?" She hissed out angrily before another contraction wracked her body. "Do not presume to tell me how to behave!" Though her voice quivered, she was angrier than she could ever recall being, save for the day Joffrey took her to see her father's head. "And don't you dare tell me about the gods! If the gods meant for women to bear their children with dignity, they would have never made it so bloody and painful!"
Huffing, the older woman stepped away while shaking her head and muttering prayers to the Mother. A younger septa moved to mop her brow just as her body convulsed sharply once more; Sansa screamed out as loud as her voice would allow, loud enough that her wailing echoed eerily throughout the marble walls of the Gates of the Moon.
"Come on my lady, you're almost through." The young woman rubbed her shoulders encouraging. With one final push, the young woman's cries were soon joined by the howling of her newborn child.
"Well done! You brought forth a beautiful, healthy girl, my lady." The maester proclaimed while carefully wrapping the squirming bundle and placing it in her arms. "Now rest. You have lost quite a bit of blood during your exertions."
Tearfully Sansa smiled down at her daughter, a babe with skin as white as snow, fiery red curls and eyes as deep and stormy gray as those of her father just as she dreamed. "I gave him a song and my maidenhead, and he left me with a bloody cloak and you, my precious girl," she whispered to Catya.
Yes, Sandor had given Sansa a most precious reminder of him, a part of him that she would treasure always. This child will never pass for Tyrion's, she thought with airs both triumphantly and fearful, for this detail would no doubt complicate matters with Petyr further still.
"Oh my lady she's so lovely, as lovely as her mother!" The younger septa declared excitedly, her enthusiasm at once earing her a frown from the maesters and older septa. "Have you a name for the babe yet?"
"Yes, I do." Sansa murmured while cooing at her daughter. "Her name is Catya."
"How lovely!" The young septa clasped her hands together.
"Very good, my lady," the maester presses his quill onto the birth announcement. "A daughter, Catya Stone, born to Alayne Stone on the third day of the tenth moon, 300 AC."
Suddenly a plot formed in Sansa's head, one that would ensure her and Catya's survival until they reached the Quiet Isle. "Her last name will not be recorded as Catya Stone," the young woman replied firmly, her eyes narrowing at the man. "Catya's last name is Clegane. Catya Clegane."
"Clegane?" The maester and septas repeated in unison. "Did I hear you correctly? The babe's father is the Hound, Sandor Clegane?"
"Yes," Sansa nodded serenely. "Catya is Sandor Clegane of House Clegane's daughter and I want her recorded as such." She waved her finger for the maester to continue his writing. "And my name is Sansa Stark, not Alayne Stone. I wish you to correct that as well."
"My lady, you must not say such things." the older septa cautioned her. "You have lost a lot of blood, your mind is weakened-"
"My mind is not weakened." Sansa determinedly replied. "Do as I say."
"But my lady, Lord Baelish will not like this-" the maester began.
"I am the lady of the Eyrie, am I not?" Sansa arched her brow.
"Well, yes, certainly, but-"
"And you have been aware of my true identity for some time, is it not so?"
"Yes, but we are sworn to secrecy." The younger septa disclosed weakly. "Lord Baelish will not approve of you revealing yourself in this manner."
"Of that I have no doubt." Sansa agreed.
"We could put down Lord Tyrion's name, if you wish to reveal yourself it might go better for you-"
"It would go no easier, I assure you, for Lord Tyrion is accused of regicide and Sandor Clegane of desertion."
The maester started to speak, but Sansa raised her hand. "Let us speak plainly: Catya is not my lord husband's daughter. We never consummated our marriage, as Lord Baelish is very well aware. This child is Sandor Clegane's daughter."
"But my lady, are you certain you wish to reveal yourself in this manner?" He prompted her. "The consequences could be most severe."
Shakily Sansa nodded. "I am well aware of that. You are in service to House Royce, and thus sworn to House Arryn and you will not be held accountable for obeying me. Do as your lady commands or I will have you sent to the Sky cells myself, if you are lucky; elsewise I will inform the Hound of your treachery."
"The Hound-here in the Vale? Do you expect to see him soon?" The maesters exchanged a fearful glance.
"I do." Sansa lied coolly.
"But my lady, we heard he turned craven the during the Blackwater battle."
Lost in thought, Sansa did not immediately answer. She knew full well of the reports of the Hound's behavior that night, as well as of his raping and pillaging in the Saltpans. She also knew them to be lies, but the others did not know such and she meant to use their ignorance to her advantage.
Though incensed they would deign to tell Sansa what had happened that night, she kept her voice even, the young mother ever mindful of the delicate nature of the precious babe staring up at her intently.
"You were not there; however, I was," she said finally, "and I can tell you that Sandor Clegane most certainly did not turn craven during the battle, nor was it the fighting that he feared. It was the fire, and only the fire. He was burned badly as a child and the memory returned to him. He left because he could no longer bear the wildfire."
"A common affliction often accompanies terrible trauma." The maester allowed. "And certainly not one bourn of cowardice."
She caressed Catya's velvety cheek as she spoke. "Such a precious baby you are." Sansa cooed at Catya, and briefly wondered, should she ever see him again, what Sandor would think of his beautiful daughter.
The door to her bedchamber swung open then, admitting her lord father. "A girl, I see," Baelish murmured while leaning in, his each word spoken as a reproof. "More is the pity."
"Yes, I suppose you would consider her gender a pity, but not I," She looked up at Petyr. "She is beautiful and perfect and all mine. Catya, meet Petyr Baelish."
He reached to touch Catya's chin, and instinctively Sansa moved her daughter out of his reach. Smirking, his eyes narrowed sharply as he studied the infant. "Well, daughter, now we wait for the maester's tongues to wag."
"You deliberately revealed my identity to them." Sansa wasn't surprised he would press his advantage.
"I did. And should the Lannisters try anything, we'll see what they have to say about this."
"If the Lannisters think this child belongs to them, they will kill you to get to her," Sansa answered matter-of-factly.
Though she just been born, Catya was already bringing out the direwolf in her, for her desire to protect her daughter weighed heavily on her. Determinedly she forced down her negative thoughts so as not to upset her child. "No matter, I already revealed myself to the maesters."
Chuckling low, Petyr glared at the baby. "Red hair, grey eyes…the Lannisters are not like to believe this child is theirs." He examined Catya while the septa readied her. "I don't recall anyone in your family having eyes this color, and certainly none of the Lannisters do."
He had the right of it, for while Arya and Ned had grey eyes, theirs held a smoky hue while Sandor's steel colored eyes were lighter and very clear, like the clouds of the north. "Nonsense. My father, sister and my brother Jon all have, or I should say had, grey eyes."
Petyr stroked his beard and watched her. Sansa held her bluff and nuzzled her daughter while holding out her finger for the baby to grab. She wished he would leave so she could nurse; she was most uncomfortable, for her breasts, now heavy with milk, ached painfully.
Sensing Sansa's agitation, the babe began to fuss and nuzzle her, bringing the septa hurrying to the bedside. "She's hungry, my lady."
"Of course. Let's get you your supper, my love," she cooed at Catya. When the septa moved to take her, Sansa kindly stilled her hand. "Thank you, but please, I want to feed her myself."
"A lady has a wet nurse for such things," Baelish remarked, disgusted. "It is beneath you to engage in such base behavior, daughter-bastard born though you are."
"This may come as a surprise to one such as you, but the gods gifted all women, lady and bastard born alike with this anatomy in order to nourish our young, not for the entertainment of men."
Behind her Sansa heard the maester's ill suppressed laughter, to which Petyr responded by merely smirking and stroking his beard.
"My mother was the greatest lady I have ever known, and she nursed all of us," Sansa said simply. "And I'm no lady, I'm your bastard, Father, for you have made me such."
Petyr's jaw clenched at her words. "So we're back to that. You are not as smart as you imagine, Sansa," he hissed. "If you nurse that child, your teats will stretch so far out of shape I'll never be able to make a suitable match for you."
All the better, Sansa thought to herself. Ignoring him, she turned to the septa: "I just need help learning how to do it properly. Will you teach me?"
"You never watched your mother?" Petyr's green eyes studied her intently. "A pity."
"My lady mother never nursed my sister and brothers in front of the rest of the family," Sansa pointedly answered with a shake of her head. "A tradition I plan on continuing."
Just then Mya knocked softly on the door. "May I come in?"
"Yes, please do," Sansa called out weakly, not waiting for Petyr's reply. Between the exertions of bearing Catya and the stress of Petyr's presence, Sansa's had trouble making her mouth form words. He head was beginning to swim and so she laid back against the pillow. "Now, if you will please excuse me, Father, I wish to feed my daughter."
"Your services will not be required once we leave the Vale, Mya." Baelish casually commented as she walked past.
The young woman gaped but said nothing in reply.
Their departure came sooner than Sansa expected. Despite the warnings of the Royce maesters, Lord Baelish insisted their travels continue after a sennight. Bleary eyed, Sansa allowed Petyr to help her into the wagon. Beside their caravan, the maesters and septas tittered their disapproval.
"You are a slow learner, Sansa," he mocked in her ear. "As was your father." Before she replied, Petyr called out. "Ser Marwyn Belmore, execute these men and women on the charge of treason."
Stunned, the man stammered: "The maesters and septas? My lord-"
"You heard my command. They falsely reported my daughter as Sansa Stark in hopes of drawing the Lannisters here, ostensibly to unseat me as Lord Protector of the Vale."
With a wave of the hand, the maesters and septas were overtaken by the guards. Sniffing, Baelish snapped the reins without so much as a glance. As they traveled away, Sansa could hear their screams resounding through the mountain pass. Squeezing her eyes closed, she willed herself not to hear them while praying that the Seven would hear their pleadings for mercy. It was not to be; before long, all fell silent once again. It seemed to Sansa that no matter what she did, people were continuously dying around her. Would she never find a safe place for her child? Bitterly Sansa grieved for the fallen, for her daughter, for Sandor and for herself.
As punishment for her behavior, Petyr took control of Catya's provisions after making it clear to Sansa that if she expected to have her daughter delivered alive to the Quiet Isle, she had better mind herself, and mind herself she did. He ordered her tent kept her tent chilled as a warning, should she decide to try another scheme, of what he would do to her daughter.
Devoting all her of her energy to keeping her daughter warm, the young woman soon fell ill. Upon reaching the Saltpans, Sansa burned with fever, leading Petyr to reluctantly send word ahead to the septry that his party would be arriving with a sick woman.
Upon arrival at the Quiet Isle, Sansa was so weak that Lothar Brune had to carry her to the septry. Septon Meribald and Elder brother immediately went to work, treating Sansa with bitter herbal remedies and mustard plasters that burned Sansa's nose.
Fading in and out of conscious, she weakly grabbed the Elder brother's sleeve and whispered: "My baby-please, help her."
"Never you mind, my lady," Septon Meribald smiled down at her. His face looked as though she were peering at him through a frost covered window. "We've already bathed and bundled your little one, safe and sound. She's fast asleep now."
"Don't let him take her from me-"
"What happened to the lady-?" Elder McCann inquired of Petyr as the other brothers tended her, all the while watching Sansa worriedly.
"Alayne is her name. My dear daughter went into labor in the Vale," Sansa heard Baelish answer, the affected tone of his voice infuriating her. She strained to protest, but her voice was so weak no one heard her.
"Shhh easy, there." Septon Meribald murmured softly while examining her belly as Baelish continued. "My lord, it was far too soon for her to travel after childbed. You should have been mindful of such. She has lost a lot of blood."
"She was fine after the child was brought forth, and though we were assured it was safe for her to travel, it seems that we were misled." Petyr stroked his beard. "The maesters of House Royce will be punished accordingly."
"She has pleurisy." Elder brother moved her to her side and pressed his ear to her back. "But thank the Mother, she has plenty of milk. The child can still nurse."
Septon Meribald let out a relieved sigh.
"I am certain you men can attend both without my interference." Petyr sighed and made for the door. "I'm to see a couple about adopting the child tomorrow, so if you will excuse me, I will take my leave."
Sansa would die before she allowed that to happen. Mustering all of her strength, she tried to scream out her objections and fight against the men, but no sound came from her mouth. Weary from her feeble attempts, Sansa turned to an exceptionally large brother who appeared by her side and reached out to him. As his large calloused hand enveloped her own, Sansa's world faded into blackness.