A/N: Did I say two more chapters last time? I may have been mistaken, as I didn't get nearly as far in this one as I'd hoped to. So, at least one more and possibly an epilogue. Only the muse knows at this point and she's undecided. I know I'm beginning to sound like a broken record, but your continuing feedback and comments mean the world to me and are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
These Scars We Wear - 25
"Gods, I'd forgotten how bloody big it is."
"As did I," Sansa says.
He shifts his eyes from the sight ahead of them over to her. They've hung back from their escort and allowed them all to pass, and now they are the only ones still at the cairn marking the crossroad leading to Winterfell. It sits less than a league ahead of them, almost lost in the white, rising up out of the earth like one of the mountains farther north, as if it has always been there and always will.
The weather has favored them up until now, making the journey from Moat Cailin to here a short one, less than a fortnight. But now the snow is falling in fat and heavy flakes and the wind bites at their exposed faces.
"Are you ready, bird, or do you mean for us to set up camp here?"
"If you could just give me another minute."
She turns to him and there is a strange expression on her face. It is not a sad, not precisely. Not anxious either, nor excited. Resolute, he decides, and thoughtful.
"Do you want me to go on ahead?" he asks, thinking she might want a minute to herself but she quickly declines. "What is it, then?"
"I find myself a bit frightened. Isn't that odd?"
"No. You were a child when you left, Sansa, and it's a woman coming back. You'll find your way – you must give it time."
"I don't think I looked back once, the day I left. I was so anxious to be away. I had so many dreams, then."
"And now you're returning with different ones. That's the way it should be."
"If it is not…" she hesitates. "If things don't seem well…"
"Say go and we'll go. How many times must I tell you?"
"Only every time I ask," she responds, giving him a muted smile.
He chuckles and teases her. "Then I'll be the bloody bird, chirping away. Wouldn't that be something?"
She doesn't take the offered jest. Instead she holds his eye as her face settles into a serious one. "I could not do this without you. I love you, Sandor, with all my heart."
He wonders for a moment why she's chosen now to reaffirm her feelings for him. They don't talk about what they mean to each other or what this should be like for them. As with so much else it has simply happened and is yet another thread in the tapestry of what they have created between them. In the end, he accepts her words as the precious gift he knows them to be.
Grinning at her, he retorts, "And here I thought you were smarter than that." Leaning across and slapping her gelding on the flank, digging his heels into Stranger at the same time, he lets out a raspy hoot and shouts, "Let's go, before my stones freeze off!"
They are soon galloping through the snow, their mounts neck and neck, laughing like children. As they come up on their escort and to the edge of Winter Town, slowly being restored from the ashes, there is a moment when the setting sun filters through her hair as it streams back from her face, setting it afire. Her color is high, her stature regal, and he believes that he has never seen anything more beautiful than Sansa.
My Lady of Winterfell, he thinks with swelling pride. No need to worry, for they shall all love you. How could they not?
…
His reception once inside the castle walls is much as he had thought it would be, and quite the opposite of the one Sansa receives. But he is inured to the lingering stares and the furtive glances, and the things he hears whispered are no worse than any he's heard before. There are several tense moments when he sees hands moving for steel as they make their way toward the Great Hall, and he meets each apprehensive study with a calm gaze of his own, stilling those hands through eyes that hold no threat. He rides beside Sansa and is accompanied by Howland Reed and his men, for whom he has gained a certain fondness. Crannogmen they may be, but they have proven themselves fierce in their loyalty and have accepted him without question. And the woman beside him, hailed with enthusiastic welcome, grants him all the permission he needs to be here, amongst these northmen of hers.
Still, he remains alert and keeps his face impassive as he dismounts and steps to her horse, lifting her from the saddle and to the muddy ground outside the massive hall. For now he is nothing more than her sworn shield, at her side for her protection. The massive double doors of the Great Hall swing open and a huge, shaggy bear of a man steps out, draped in leather and fur and sporting an impressive array of weapons on his person. He moves toward the girl and dips his head.
"Lady Sansa, we've been expecting you. I am Jon Umber but I'm called Greatjon, if it please you. I fought alongside your father and your brother too - may the gods grant them both peaceful rest - and was honored to do so. House Umber swears its allegiance to House Stark, my lady, now and always. Welcome home."
"It is a pleasure to see you again, Lord Umber," Sansa murmurs. "I remember you and your sons sharing our table at many a harvest feast. Your loyalty to my family is beyond reproach. I thank you for all you have done here to help in rebuilding my home." She pauses and then lifts an open hand adding, "I have the honor of introducing to you my sworn shield, Sandor Clegane. If not for him, I would not be standing here today. He is to be granted unrestricted access to Winterfell and all its surrounds, and his orders are to be followed as if they were mine own."
She stops, waiting, and takes measure of the man before them. Sandor does the same, though his mind is busy trying to untangle the rationale behind her blunt declaration. Umber works his mouth as he glances between them, seemingly caught somewhere between shock and amusement - and more than a little displeasure too, Sandor thinks, though in no way directed at the girl.
"As it pleases my lady," he manages to growl.
Sandor concentrates hard on a spot to the side of the man's head. But this time when a hand is offered him he takes it, trying not to flinch as his knuckles are ground together in the old man's grip. Both appraise the other with warrior's eyes and the Greatjon finally releases him and turns to Sansa.
"Please, come inside. The boy is within and anxious to see his sister."
He goes on ahead of them and Sandor leans in and whispers, "What are you up to, little bird?"
She ignores him. Instead, with deliberate precision, she strokes down his back and threads her arm through his. He barely suppresses a shocked snort of laughter at her audacity. This open show of affection will likely speak louder than anything else she might say. A small hush falls over the men of the castle who've gathered round them, but Sansa seems to take no notice and steps lightly with him into the Great Hall as the murmuring starts up behind them.
That is how it goes for the next few hours. At times he feels as if he's fighting a battle. But this is like none he's faced before and his weapons are not the steel he is so comfortable with but words instead, carefully chosen not to incite, anger, or offend. The last thing he wants is to have to cross blades on his first day here. Uncomfortable as he is, he stays at her side as he should, and she continues to be open in her affection toward him, though he takes great pains not to respond. Soon enough a few of the many frowns begin to soften. But Sandor does not deceive himself into believing it an acceptance – that will take far longer – but it is something of a beginning. The one thing apparent to him is that Sansa is loved and respected simply by virtue of being Ned Stark's daughter. He does not have that sort of advantage and never will. But if those gathered see she is content with him, there is a chance that one day they might be as well.
Face after face appears before him, each with a name, a pledge to House Stark, and a story, but he only recalls a few. There is Maege Mormont, who serves as one of Rickon's guardians, and a Glover whose name he can't remember; Tallharts, Flints, and Liddles. He meets Hallis Mollen, captain of the house guard, and several of the men under his command. They all greet Sansa kindly, some more somber than other, and cast level, appraising eyes at him. He lets himself be looked at and tries not to jerk every time Sansa threads her fingers through his or leans against him.
Trays of meat are eventually brought out and laid at table, along with casks of ale and wine, and loaves of bread still steaming from the ovens. The appearance of food seems to signal a change from formal to less so, and he is finally able to relax a bit. There is nothing ceremonial about this meal at all, most filling plates or trenches and sitting where they please amongst the several groups spread out in the drafty hall. A fiddler takes a corner nearest a hearth and begins playing. Voices pitched high and low, raucous and serious, fill the hall with a cacophony that soon has Sandor seeking a quieter place closer to the main doors. Sansa is still seated at the high table, head bent and engrossed in conversation with the Mormont woman. He judges he can be at her side within seconds, decides that's not close enough, and then shakes his head at his foolishness. She is home, and he knows her to be safe.
He folds onto a bench, leaving a good deal of room between himself and the youngest of the Starks, who's contentedly gnawing on a rib almost as big as he is. His legs swing back and forth, not yet long enough that his feet touch the floor. He is more Tully than Stark, judging by his look. And more wildling, Sandor thinks, than not. Eventually the boy takes notice of him and swipes an arm across his mouth as he chews.
"What happened to your face?" he asks. Credit is due the lad: Rickon looks him straight on.
"Dragon," Sandor tells him, watching as his eyes go wide and he swallows hard.
"For true?"
"Aye, when I was just about your age."
"Was it Balerion?"
"No. This one was called Gregor."
"Gregor? That's a stupid name for a dragon."
Sandor laughs. "Yes, it is, isn't it? But it doesn't matter - he's dead now, just like the other one. Done for by a viper."
"A snake can't kill a dragon."
"This one did."
Rickon considers that for a while and then asks, "Do you belong to my sister?"
Sandor leans back and gives him a long look. "Aye, lad," he finally says, "I suppose I do."
"Good," the boy declares, hopping off the bench. "Will you teach me how to swing a sword? They say I'm not old enough yet, but I already know how to use a dagger, Osha taught me. I wouldn't even care if it wasn't a real sword, to start."
Sandor scrubs at his beard, hiding a smile. "I'll speak to your sister later, see what she thinks. But you'll have to listen to me and do exactly as I say. No bloody games while we're training and no back-talk neither; the learning of arms is a serious matter, boy."
"I'll listen, I promise!" The lad is almost vibrating with excitement, bouncing from one foot to the other. "I have to tell Osha!" He spins and takes off for the other side of the hall, leaving Sandor grinning openly for a brief moment before rearranging his face into something more befitting a noble woman's sworn shield.
…
"I want there to be no doubt!" she persists.
They are standing in the private chambers that were her lady mother's and now are hers. Sansa's arms are folded across her chest and she glares up at him with stubborn intent.
He hitches the bags he's come to fetch higher on his shoulder. "I think you've made it bloody damn clear, bird. If they haven't figured out I'm more than your shield, then they've got no eyes in their heads. Why rub their noses in it too?"
"You do not want to share my bed?"
"Seven hells, Sansa, of course I do! You think it's been easy for me, sleeping with bloody crannogmen every night instead of next to you? But this is not about what I want, or even what you want – hard as that may be to accept. You already have the respect of these men; I don't. It's something I needs earn and I cannot do that by starting out this way. Too many down there already want me dead."
"None of them would dare try. They know you as my shield."
"They also know me as a traitor and a craven; the Lannister dog who deserted during battle and abandoned his position as Kingsguard. And need I remind you of Saltpans?"
"That is not the man you are."
"You know that; they do not. They'll be watching me every bloody minute, looking for cause to mistrust me. Is that what you want? I must give them reason to forget all they've heard – most of which is true, by the way – and convince them I'm not their liege lady's pet, nor her despoiler. Complain all you want, little bird, but I'll not change my mind. My chamber is just down the hall; that's where I'll be sleeping."
"For the time being," she insists.
"For the time being," he agrees, hoping to placate her. "And when that change comes, it will be for me to decide, not you. Do you understand?"
"You are speaking to me like I'm a child," she pouts.
"You're bloody behaving like one! Next thing, you'll be stomping your foot."
She opens her mouth to protest and he narrows his eyes at her in silent warning. He is tired - they both are - and no good can come of arguing. They share a long, combative look before her features start to soften with surrender and she steps closer, laying a hand on his chest. "I miss you, Sandor."
He covers it with his own. "I'm right here, little bird."
"That is not what I meant."
He chuckles quietly, drops the bags from his shoulder, and gathers her in his arms. He can feel the tension seeping out of both of them within the embrace and soon she nuzzles closer and rises up on her toes to nip at his throat with sharp little teeth. A different, sweeter, sort of tension begins to build between them and he thoughtlessly tightens his grip on her.
"Sansa," he warns.
She hums a reply and slips her hand under his jerkin, smoothing it over the curve of his arse before grabbing hold.
"Stop it," he growls, but even to his ears it sounds a futile command.
"Stay," she whispers close to his ear. "Just for a time. I want you inside me; it's been too long."
He chides himself for his weakness - that he can be so thoroughly undone by her words. But it is a heady thing to be desired in such a way, and by the only woman he has ever longed for. So he twists to head to look over his shoulder, making certain the lock on the door has been thrown, and then scoops her up in his arms and tosses her onto the bed. He muffles her laughter with his mouth and pulls in her breath to make it his own.
And so it is with love that this first day of their new life comes to its sweet end. Later, as he creeps from her room, boots in hand, and down the hallway to his dark and empty chamber, he thinks that perhaps both their prayers have been answered.
…