Summary: Yet he can still manage, and if he is slower than before in anything he does, what of it? As long as Sansa stays by his side – and he knows that she will – what if his body gradually gives up on him? Sansa, who has started to gain matronly curves on her body and whose hair has turned greyer and lost some of its shine, but whose smile can still bring tears into his eyes.
Sandor
Fira eventually marries. For a long time neither Sandor nor Sansa could have guessed whether her heart would take him to further North, to the arms of her childhood friend Tarmur Bylle, or to the South, to the side of her more recent friend Aegor Martell. It seemed that for quite a while Fira herself didn't know which way she would go, but in the end it is to the South she travels in her wedding procession.
Aegor was so impressed with her after their meeting in King's Landing, that when it became a time to consider Fira's betrothal he insisted to be allowed to visit the Far-North. He spent there several moons, trying to win the beautiful daughter of House Clegane as his own. The trip was obviously worth his while as in the end Fira agreed. Although Sandor was initially worried that she simply gave in to the persistent suitor, she assured her father that it was truly love that she felt. With Tarmur it had always been more friendship, but the way Aegor made her feel… From her blushing Sandor saw it wiser not to continue the discussion, glad to be saved by Sansa who arrived to the scene of their father-daughter talk just in time.
With sadness they see their daughter on her way after the first wedding in Queenscrown, the second wedding planned to be celebrated in King's Landing with the whole court of nobles in attendance. Her parents are invited, of course, but both Sansa and Sandor have seen enough of King's Landing and don't feel a desire to go there again, even for their daughter's sake. She has her own life to live now and as is the way of the world, she has to leave her parents behind.
Besides, they have another wedding to celebrate soon, Norr having asked and received the hand of a young maid from House Cerwyn. Sandor can't resist a jape at young girl's expense in their wedding feast about her foolish relative, who once thought he could sneak his way into Sansa's good graces, but Sansa shushes him and he lets the matter be. The girl looks nice enough, not having any airs or graces and genuinely smiling to her new husband, who only grins stupidly back at her. Sandor sighs on his seat when he sees that. Why in hells are young lovers always so damned stupid? Then he remembers his own struggles, and although they were driven by his self-loathing and bitter rage, they were certainly not any smarter, he grudgingly has to admit to himself.
And still years fly by, as softly and quickly as feathers of an owl brush over one's head in the middle of the night deep in the forest.
There are days when Sandor doesn't feel like getting up. The many wounds and hurts his body has endured during his hard life are starting to remind him of their existence. Especially on cold days his limbs crack and creak and stiffness in them refuses to go away until he has thoroughly warmed his muscles. He knows he is not as quick as he used to be, nor as strong. The first time one of the young soldiers defeats him in the training yard despite him giving to the fight all he had, Sandor has to finally acknowledge that his prime is behind him. His only consolation is that nobody noticed and only thought him to pretend defeat as he often did, in order to reward a particularly good fighter with the honour of beating the Hound himself.
After that day he gives up practising with soldiers, preferring to keep himself in condition by training with a few trusted old companions.
One morning when he is feeling particularly miserable he turns in their bed and looks at Sansa. She is sleeping peacefully, her hair cascading against the pillow. He notices a few strands of grey among the auburn that he has always so loved. She has also more lines on her face, wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but he knows that they follow the lines of her laugh, and the lines that form when she narrows her eyes in concentration when she attends to her many duties around the keep. Her shape is plumper, her hips and bosom heavier, and she is still the most breathtakingly beautiful woman he has ever seen.
He is conscious of his own deterioration; grey and white that have spread from a few strands on his temple and his moustache to practically cover his whole head and beard. Even hair on his chest is mostly grey and sometimes Sansa teases him how it reminds her of a wolf pelt and how fitting it is for her to be comforted by that sight in their bed. The lines on his face – he doesn't ever bother to think about them, so insignificant they are against the general ruin of his scars. Yet he couldn't care rats arse about his looks, but that his body, so honed and powerful and so capable of always doing whatever he asked it to do, is starting to fail him, makes him clench his fists in mute anger.
Then Sansa shifts and turns towards him, still halfway between sleep and wakefulness. Her fingers trace as if on their own accord along his chest, but from the way they purposefully travel lower he realises that she is not nearly as much asleep as she makes out to be.
When he hauls his body on top of hers and feels the familiar stirring of his cock he can't help smiling. No matter if his joints give him pain, he can still do this.
Life is good.
The feast arranged to celebrate the new Lord of Clegane's Burrow and the new Warden of the Far-North is bigger than any seen in the North since the said lord's wedding ten year past. The guests come from as far North as Hardhome and as far South as White Harbor. The change of guard is danced over three evenings and at the end of it Sandor curses loudly that had he known what a bunch of ravenous locusts was going to descend into his halls to eat and drink it as empty as a simpletons skull, he would have held on to his lordship until the day he died.
The new Lord, Norr Clegane, only laughs at him and for a moment Sandor is irritated by how nobody seems to be afraid of him anymore. He longingly thinks back at times when all he had to do was to scowl and squires pissed their breeches. Then he sighs and looks at his family sitting comfortably all around him and decides that this is better, after all.
He decided to invest the lordship to Norr now rather than wait for his own death, knowing his son to be a good lord, better than himself. Or mayhap he was a better lord for the times when he started, times that were tough and bleak. Hard work and brute force were required to build the keep and the village out of packed earth, and for forging together two groups of people who had hated each other since the time immemorial. He couldn't have done it without Sansa; he had no disillusions about that fact. Yet times have changed and now it is time for Norr to take up the reins and use his book knowledge and his skills in diplomacy to further improve the lot of their people. New industries and new customs are sweeping the realm and Norr can make sure that the Far-North and its folk benefit from them.
His eyes sweep past Santina, deep in discussion with her good uncle Gendry. She has blossomed to a beautiful woman, but she is not like other girls of her age who only think of how to attract an eye of a handsome warrior or a knight. Knight! Sandor spits in the cup on the floor and is glad that the institution of knighthood has never been as much valued in these lands as it has in the rest of Westeros.
Santina is an unusual girl, that much everybody admits. She still dresses up as a boy whenever she can get away with it, despite her budding woman's body making it more difficult as eyes of men start to pay too much attention to her long legs and pert behind in breeches. She has practiced with men-at-arms all his life, but besides that part of her character, she has also taken to the old ways of the healers and wise-women of the North. She has already learned many forgotten wisdoms in her stays in movable camps many wildlings still live in, and with her learning in the keep under the tutelage of their patient maester, has started to write them down.
It is not only for the benefit of Norr and the folk in Far-North that Sandor decided to retire from his lordship. His body has lately been taken over by a strange fatigue, and that, combined with the pain from his old wounds, made it simply too hard for him to continue. He had to give up training some years past and he can see and feel how his once muscular body gradually starts to lose its bulk.
Instead of physical pursuits he spends time attending to his other interests. His faithful companion Stranger, having been dead for many years and buried in a quiet corner of the Godswood, left behind a legacy; a bloodline of the finest horses ever seen in the North. Over the years Sandor buys, steals and borrows the finest mares and stallions to breed with Stranger's offspring. Gradually his efforts are rewarded and he sees to his satisfaction the development of a perfect combination of his old mount's strength and endurance and patient nature and hardy countenance of heavily built Northern steeds. His horses become famous all across Westeros but only reluctantly he agrees to send a few of them to the South, to many lords who want nothing more than to own one of the renowned Clegane's horses.
His enjoyment of his own labours is limited to admiring colts and mares in the stables and stroking their smooth muzzles, his aching joints denying him even the simple pleasure of riding out with the early morning sun as he used to. That frustrates him beyond measure, but patience hard won over the years forces him to reluctantly accept his situation. Overall he can still manage, and if he is slower than before in anything he does, what of it? As long as Sansa stays by his side – and he knows that she will – what if his body gradually gives up on him? Sansa, who has started to gain matronly curves on her body and whose hair has turned greyer and lost some of its shine, but whose smile can still bring tears into his eyes. Bloody old fool! Sandor curses silently, but can't turn his eyes away from his wife who is brushing her hair in their chamber, where they have retired for one more early evening.
She seems to sense his eyes on her as she turns and smiles at him and the emotion the sight of her evokes in him – the sight of the beautiful maiden who against all odds chose to spend her life with him, the scarred dog with a scarred soul – chokes him once again.