Sandor
From dawn until dusk the Shieldfort echoed with the sounds of activity. The crows appeared in no hurry to return to their own keeps, and Sandor had to admit that their experience and numbers were invaluable in speeding along the necessary repairs to the walls. The problem was housing everyone – while there had been no fresh snowfall since their arrival, the nights were still bitter and the drifts that had piled up in the long years of the keep's desertion meant that sleeping large numbers in tents was impossible. Sansa had insisted that the dregs of humanity who had washed up against their walls be brought into their shelter, and though some had been useful in starting the repairs to the stables, many were too weak or too young to work, and served no more purpose than draining their meagre supplies, the vast body of which had been brought with them from Winterfell and were nigh on depleted. She would not hear of sending them away, however.
"We are not like your southron lords," she'd said, voice becoming so cold he truly saw, for the first time, why her ancestors had been called the Kings of Winter. "When winter comes, the pack survives while the lone wolf perishes. Starks will starve along with their smallfolk if there's a need for it, and when the spring comes we are stronger together because of it."
"And what if there's no one left strong enough to plant the new crop when the snows finally lift?" he'd replied, and not reminded her that she was a Stark no longer, thinking he knew what her thoughts would be on that matter.
Still, he'd spoken the truth when he'd told her he intended to leave the governance up to her. She had been born and raised to the running of a castle, dealing with the smallfolk; he had been born and raised to the sword. He had never been in the business of questioning orders, why break the habit of a lifetime? Except when it came to her. I started questioning orders when it came to her.
Sandor snorted softly to himself, wondering if his father would have counselled him to master his wife, as he had done Gregor. Well, all that had gotten both father and son was a set of dead wives and Sandor felt, as he crossed the bailey in the pale spring sunshine, that if nothing else he could at least do better than that.
And so the smallfolk stayed, their numbers increasing almost daily as new faces appeared. Sansa and that maid of hers were seeing to everyone's accommodation, but they were now at the point of sleeping some on the floor of the hall. It was a precarious situation, the risk of disease high – Sandor had spent enough time in close quarters in war camps to know how easily sickness could spread when men were living one atop the other – but the crannogmen would be leaving tomorrow to return to Winterfell, which would ease the situation, and another week of weather like this should see some of the lowlands free of snow. It would be enough to allow him to get out and inspect the croft buildings, and begin moving people on. Sandor was very much looking forward to that day. The Quiet Isle had taught him that he placed much less value in the reality of solitude than he had always supposed, but neither did he enjoy the constant press of bodies, the noise and smell – the number of times a day he could be reminded how terrible his face was.
Nearing the stables, Sandor was drawn irresistibly by the sound of Sansa's laughter. He had heard it more in the days since their arrival here than in all the time he had known her before. Part of him couldn't help the burning resentment every time he heard it, knowing it was not for him, but another part of him simply enjoyed the sound for what it was.
Entering the stables, Sandor looked down the long length of the stalls until he saw a flash of auburn hair. As he came closer, he heard women's voices, one he recognised as belonging to the Webb woman, and another he did not know. Sandor had heard it said that women needed the company of other women just as men needed the company of other men. Sandor had at one time prided himself on never much needing anyone's company beyond a flagon of wine and a whore to warm his bed, but it had become clear to him, as he'd spent more time with her, that the old maxim was very true of Sansa. Still, her willingness to spend time with women so far beneath her had not yet lost the power to surprise him. He thought the little lady he had first met in Winterfell all those years ago would not have been so free with her associations. But then, much had changed since then. She would not have thought to marry him, back then, either.
Knowing that his presence would halt the flow of the conversation, Sandor turned to go once more and leave the women to their chatter. Then he caught what Sansa was saying, and stepped back into the shadows to listen. Her tone had taken on a melodious quality, and it was clear that she was telling a story. That in itself was not surprising; it was the words themselves that caused his incredulity to rise.
When he could take it no longer, Sandor stepped out and into a pool of dusty light slanting down from a high window. On seeing him the women giggled nervously and darted fearful little glances at his face, and Sansa, who was kneeling in the hay with her back to him, stopped her outrageous tale and turned to see what the matter was, a smile on her face.
"Husband," she greeted warmly – an affectation he was certain was for the sake of her audience.
"Wife," he returned, "a word."
Sansa rose, wishing polite farewells to her crude companions, touching the cheek of Ruby Webb's girl with the same affection he had seen her show Rickon.
She followed him wordlessly out of the stables and across the bailey to the steps that led to the ramparts of the curtain wall – one of the few places they were like to gain a little privacy. Once there she wrapped her cloak more tightly around her against the wind. Sandor paced back and forth in front of her, somehow unable to find the words to speak his mind.
"A word, you said, my lord," she reminded him. "Preferably before frostbite sets in."
Sandor turned on her, irritated that she would try to tease him now.
"Why do you make up stories for them?" he rasped. "This isn't a song, and you aren't a child anymore. I thought you had more sense." Sansa looked at him as though she might have wanted to sigh.
"I didn't make it up," she replied. "I was telling them of the time you rescued me from the mob in King's Landing."
"Then you were-"
"No!" Sansa interrupted, eyes flashing angrily. "Do not tell me I shouldn't have done it! If we are to rule here our smallfolk need to trust us and believe us to be good and just. They need to believe us heroic just as much as they do not need to know that I sacrificed my cousin's life to save my own; just as they do not need to know that you stood by and watched as they beat me."
Sandor stopped, rooted to the spot. They stared at each other for a moment that seemed to sag under the weight of their long association. Then Sansa lowered her eyes and shook her head as though trying to clear it.
"That is nobody's business but our own," she said quietly, before brushing past him to descend the steps.
Sandor remained where he was, glowering at the horizon, and that was why he spotted the wildlings earlier than they might have anticipated.
"Willem!" he bellowed as he ran down the steps. "Get everyone inside and then bar the gate."
His voice seemed to carry across the entire keep, and there was a queer moment of silence as everyone stopped their work to listen.
"Anyone who can fight, get to the guard room," he shouted, "everyone else to the keep. The wildlings are attacking."
The bailey exploded with noise and voices raised in panic, but Sandor had little time to deal with the confusion right now. Across the way he saw Sansa imposing a modicum of order as the smallfolk crowded through the kitchen doors at the base of the keep, and he continued round to the small guard room where they had been keeping their armour and weapons in the absence of an armoury.
Some of the boys Sandor had brought with him from Winterfell were already there and Robyn, the one he had come to think of as his squire, stood ready with his plate and chainmail. There was no time for expressions of pride. Sandor barked orders as he hastened to armour himself, and was a little taken aback, once finished, at how numerous they were – his ten boys and as many crannogmen, an abundance of black brothers but some smallfolk, too. More than he had swords for, in truth, but numbers alone would serve for the situation at hand.
"I counted ten on horseback," he told them, "and another twenty on foot behind. They've bows, but only bronze swords and precious few at that. If you're armoured, you're on a horse with me. I want ten men on the walls in case they try to climb. Everyone else at the gate."
In the end, the skirmish was won more easily than even he had anticipated. Perhaps they had not expected the Shieldfort to be protected, or perhaps they were merely opportunists who had hoped to catch them unawares. Either way, most had run, and of the remainder he had taken four men down himself. Some of his unblooded boys were now blooded, but none of his people had been killed and the only injuries were relatively minor.
My people, he thought with a snort as Robyn helped him out of his armour and took it away for cleaning. But they were his people now, and he had protected them for another day. Paltry as the victory had been, there was a sense of satisfaction as he re-buckled his sword belt around his breeches and returned to the keep.
He spotted Sansa as soon as he entered the hall, the room still crowded with anxious faces. She nodded at him when she saw him, but did not rise from where she appeared to be stitching the slice Allarick had taken to his arm.
"Congratulations on your victory, my lord," she said as he approached. She was not smiling, but her eyes were alight nonetheless. "I have instructed cook to prepare a feast in celebration, if it please you."
This morning, he might have brushed aside her words as mere courtesy, but after her outburst on the curtain wall, he thought he understood them now for what they were – shrewd appreciation for human nature.
"You do me great honour," he said, and saw her slight nod of approval. He had not been worried for her, exactly, but it was still a relief to see Sansa whole and unharmed. Coming from the battle as he had, Sandor was sweaty and blood-spattered. He should leave and clean himself up.
"You sew men almost as prettily as you used to sew handkerchiefs," he remarked, watching her tie off one last, neat stitch in Allarick's arm.
"Yes, I learnt from the sisters of the septry I stayed at, before my return to Winterfell. There were plenty of people on whom to practise, I can assure you."
He watched as Allarick grinned a little dazedly at her and realised with a shock that the youth was the same age as Sansa – he seemed younger somehow. "You can practise on me any time you like, Lady Sansa."
"That's Lady Clegane to you, boy," Sandor said, cuffing him.
"Yes m'lord, sorry."
Sansa looked away quickly, hiding a smile. "You can go, Allarick, but try not to get the wound wet for a week or so." Turning to Sandor, she said, "Come, you look in need of a bath. I'll have one sent up while the hall is made ready."
Very efficient, my little bird, he thought as he relaxed back in the copper tub by a roaring fire. He thought it again upon descending once more, to find the hall alive with music conjured from who-knew-where. People were crowded in on the trestle tables, the roar of voices near drowning out the musicians, and even the top table on the dais had been set double-sided. A cheer went up as he entered and, at a look from Sansa, Sandor grabbed his goblet and reluctantly stood, raising it to the hall in general before seating himself as quickly as possible.
"Well done," Sansa whispered to him, and Sandor could not escape the sensation that she was having a jest at his expense.
The fare barely qualified for the term 'feast' – with little enough warning to bake sufficient numbers of trenchers, their food came to them in shallow pewter bowls. The stew itself was passable but somewhat in need of fresh meat. There were no fish courses, no desert, but the stew seemed bottomless and many ate until their bellies were bulging, revelling in so much hot food. Sandor wondered what impact this would have on their stores, but that was Sansa's concern, not his. Besides, it would not be long before he could try a hunt, and maybe they'd be lucky and find some game this early in the season.
The lack of ale was equally noticeable, watered down even more than usual to make it go further, but the music was sufficient to maintain good spirits, and at least this way they wouldn't lose half a day's work to the men's hangovers.
"There's Lord Manderly's wine, if you would like it," Sansa offered. High table only, Sandor surmised. The little bird's cheeks were glowing pink, her eyes bright. Sandor shook his head. He did not want to consider what actions he may take under the influence of a sour Dornish red, and he did not have a pleasant history when it came to taking things that weren't his to have.
He half expected Sansa to dance, as she had done at their wedding, but besides there being so little room, the next time he glanced over at her she was swaying in her seat, eyes half-lidded and unfocussed.
"You're drunk," he said, amused despite himself.
"I think so," she said happily. She leaned back in her chair, resting her head on the seatback so that her throat was exposed. "I like it here. Do you like it here? I'm glad we came."
Sandor wondered if he would be made sorry for asking, but in the end couldn't seem to stop himself. "You don't have any regrets?"
Still leaning on the seatback, Sansa rolled her head towards him, her eyebrows drawn into a delicate frown. "No," she said, and Sandor felt an almost sick squeezing in his chest. Her eyes fluttered closed then, and Sandor stood and wrapped a hand around her arm.
"Come," he said, "time for bed."
"As my lord commands," Sansa nodded, her head looking too heavy for her slender neck. She tried and failed to stand, clattering her cutlery as she tried to catch herself before looking up at him beseechingly. "My legs seem unwilling to co-operate."
"I'll not be forgiving if you're sick on me," he warned, before lifting her bodily and making for the staircase to their rooms. "A bit undignified to drink so much, wouldn't you say, my lady?"
"Said the raven to the crow," she replied, slumping against him and he had to laugh at that because it was true, and because it was the second time today she'd shown him her claws. It was... refreshing.
Reaching the top of the stairs he took her to their bedchamber and laid her carefully on the bed. He unfastened her boots and then watched for a moment, wondering if she would undress herself, before reaching down to shake her shoulder.
"Sansa, get under the covers at the least."
"Hmm?" was all she said, but she did move, in the end, and lay wrapped up on her side looking at him with sleepy eyes.
"Will you stay?" she asked.
He meant to say no, but the queer reluctance to be parted from her expanded in his chest, and he said, "Aye, alright," and sank down on the bearskin rug by the headboard, leaning his back against the wall.
"I'm sorry for my words, earlier," she said after a moment. "I know you only ever tried to protect me. I will never forget the lie you told on Joffrey's nameday to save me from a beating."
Sandor glanced at her – he had forgotten that particular incident. She looked sincere enough, but clearly some bitterness remained if she could still get so angry with him. Well deserved, isn't it, dog? She had the right of it the first time. He should apologise, but somehow he knew, as he had always known, that words would not be sufficient to truly win her forgiveness. Well, perhaps he had started on that road when he agreed to marry her, but today he had taken the first step. Usually, after killing, he felt the kind of restlessness that could only be satisfied with strong wine and a good fuck, but tonight, sitting on the floor beside his little bird safe in her bed, he felt an unfamiliar sense of contentment.
"Sandor?"
He did not know what to say. Speaking of it seemed too hard. Instead, his mind latched onto the other thing she had made mention of, before the attack.
"What you said about your cousin earlier – what did you mean by it?"
Sansa blinked several times in rapid succession before rolling on to her back. "It's something of a long story."
"Everything is with you, little bird. Tell me anyway."
"Are you certain you wish to hear it? It does not cast me in a favourable light."
Sandor laughed, low in his throat. "Think who you're talking to."
For the length of several heartbeats she made no sound, then she sighed heavily, and spoke. "Petyr married my Aunt Lysa to get her titles, and once he'd pushed her to her death, it meant he was the sole guardian of my cousin Robert, the heir to the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn. Robert was always a sickly boy, but with his mother out of the way Petyr planned to hasten his death – how, I am unsure, but I always assumed it was with some poison or other. He meant to marry me to Harold Hardyng, Robert's heir, and unite the power of the North and the Vale all under his control, but he needed me to marry Harry before Robert's death, while he still maintained his power, and he could not do that until Tyrion had been killed. So I hid from him how quickly Robert was failing. I knew that if he died before my wedding, Petyr would be vulnerable, and more focussed on protecting himself and his interests than chasing after me. I let Robert die to save myself, my little Sweetrobin..."
She trailed off and they sat in silence once more before Sansa shifted back onto her side and, reaching out, took Sandor's hand in her own.
"Do you know what the worst part is?" she asked, interlacing their fingers.
"That you're not as sorry as you should be," Sandor said without hesitation, and Sansa squeezed his hand hard before whispering,
"Yes."
"War is hard, little bird, especially for those who are powerless. You survived it with stains on your soul, maybe, but the important thing is that you did survive it."
"Sharp steel and strong arms," she murmured. "You told me that."
The burned side of Sandor's mouth twitched. That night on the battlements of the Red Keep seemed almost another lifetime, now. He stared at his hand joined with his wife's small hand. "And now you have mine."
"Sandor?" she asked, voice slurring from alcohol and tiredness. "Will you kiss me?"
Rising to his feet, Sandor leaned over the bed and kissed Sansa gently on the temple. "Now sleep," he said, and left the room, and did not return until she was breathing deep and even.
