His wife packed his bedroll with a coy little smile, a smile that he wanted to kiss, a smile that he wanted to fuck.
His blood started to pump, causing him to wince. Four times wasn't enough, he thought, as he tightened the cinch on his horse's saddle. A thousand times wouldn't have been enough, not when I'll be gone for three bloody fortnights.
"What are you smiling about, little bird?"
"Oh, it's nothing." Sansa lifted her eyes away from the saddle bag, biting her lip once she met his gaze.
Unable to resist her allure, he walked around Stranger, grabbed Sansa's hips, and tossed her over his shoulder. Sansa screamed in playful protest, hitting his back with as much force as the snowflakes alighting on his face.
"Tell me, girl, or I'll carry you with me to the Wall."
"Well then, I'm never telling!" she giggled.
He spanked her arse, paying no mind to the many others in the courtyard. "You'll tell me now. I'm your lord husband, remember? Isn't that what you were calling me last night?"
"Sandor! Be quiet!"
"What, little bird? With how loud you were, they already heard you."
Sansa squirmed in his hold, giggling all the while. "You're awful!"
"I thought I was so good," he said, making his voice high-pitched to mimic her own, "oh so good."
"Stop, stop, stop," she urged him in hushed tones.
"You weren't saying that last night either, little bird. You—"
Their amusement was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat.
"I've come to say farewell to my sister."
He turned around with his hand still resting on Sansa's arse and observed the bastard of Winterfell, tight-mouthed and humourless as ever. The yard became quiet, Sandor realized. It was no secret the disdain he and Jon Snow felt for one another. How am I supposed to travel with this brooding bastard for two months? He cursed under his breath as he set Sansa down onto her feet. This will be worse than traveling with Gareth bloody Umber.
To no surprise, Jon took her arm and led her into the stables before speaking with her. As Sandor surveyed the yard, he spied the she-wolf beside the forge saying her own farewells to the young blacksmith. For whatever reason, Jon agreed to let the bastard from King's Landing come along with them to the Wall, along with some boisterous wildling and his steward. She had her hands on her hips as she spoke to him, she even looked mad. Sandor snorted. Good. Smack him with your Needle while you're at it. Then the bastard wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss.
A feeling washed over him, equal parts bewildered and furious. Acting out of some newfound paternal instinct, Sandor's hand went for his dagger, until he saw the she-wolf wrap her arms around the boy's neck and savor his kiss. Sandor dropped his hand and looked away.
She's not a little girl any longer, he told himself. She's the same age Sansa was when I first met her. That only made him feel worse. His mind betrayed him, conjuring up images of the child he saw in the flames and imagining her as a woman grown. In four-and-ten years, Sandor could be watching his own daughter take a lord's affections in that very same yard.
Incensed, Sandor turned around and caught the bastard's hands traveling down her back — too far down.
He had let it go on long enough. "Arya," Sandor called out in his sternest voice. The name sounded strange leaving his mouth. "Get over here."
The boy pulled away from her lips with urgency, but all she did was look over at him with a frown. Sandor beckoned her over to which she muttered something to the bastard before shuffling her way towards him.
Arya crossed her arms and huffed. "What do you want?"
I wanted that bastard to take his hands off you, he thought, but said instead, "Go bid your brother farewell."
"I already did!"
"Bid me farewell, then."
She rolled her eyes. "Try not to die...again."
Sandor would have clouted her on the head for that, but decided that it could wait until he returned. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders in a half hug, meeting no resistance from the she-wolf, and said, "If the dwarf tries anything with my wife, kill him for me."
"I will," she said, not in her usual tone, but as soft as a girl of three-and-ten. Until she brusquely added, "Now let me go."
He chuckled as he released her. "You better learn to respect me, girl. That bastard of yours is coming with me. Gendry, is it? Might be I tie him to a tree beyond the Wall to distract the Others while we search for this bloody horn."
Arya kicked him in the shin. "That's not funny, you ugly shit!"
"I didn't say it to be funny!" He tapped the side of her head. "Learn some bloody manners!"
Sansa joined them just then, no longer giggling, nor smiling. In silence, she took his hand in hers and intertwined their fingers. Her face was still, but once Jon Snow said, "Open the gates!", Sansa broke into a sob.
The sight sent a dagger through his heart. Sandor pulled her into a tight embrace and kissed the top of her head. "I'll come back, do you hear me? I saw us, little bird. All three of us." He placed his hand on her belly. There was no swell yet, but if what he saw in the flames was true… No, not if. It is true. He refused to believe otherwise. "I'm coming back."
She nodded against his chest, but his reassurances did nothing to quell her sobs.
Sandor was on the verge of crying himself, though he knew that would comfort her either. At a loss, he lifted up her chin and said, "I swear it, Sansa."
Snowflakes landed on her lashes as she blinked away tears. "You and Jon," she sniffled, "be kind to one another. Please."
Gods, she's so bloody innocent.
"I won't swing at him," Sandor promised, with a slight smile, "not first."
That made her giggle. It was the only sound that could mend the wound in his heart. But Sandor knew that once he rode out the gates that wound would open right back up. He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, tasting the salt of her tears and the sweetness that always came with kissing Sansa Stark. The kiss endured, and then it deepened. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, he sucked on her bottom lip, and he might have laid her onto the snow and fucked her in the middle of the yard had the bastard not called out, "Clegane!"
"This bloody bastard," he grumbled under his breath. "I'll…" He trailed off once he met Sansa's pleading eyes. "I'll be kind."
As kind as he is to me.
Her face dimpled into a sad smile, as she brushed his scars with her thumb. "Three fortnights," she whispered.
He kissed her once more. "Or sooner."
It took every ounce of will power he had to unwrap his arms and mount his horse. Sansa scratched Stranger behind the ear and said, "Ride well and true."
A thought suddenly occurred to him. Sandor reached into his saddle bag and pulled out his helm.
"Take it."
Sansa looked at it, bewildered, and shook her head. "What if you need it?"
"If we do run into the Others, a helm won't make any difference. Take it, little bird."
She cradled it in her arms, as gently as if it were a babe. "I love you," she said, crying.
The wound ripped open, and that hole in his heart would be left to bleed and rot for three fortnights straight. "I love you, little bird." Sandor gestured towards her belly. "And her, too."
With that, he rode off, urging his horse into a trot towards the grim-faced bastard who awaited him at the gates. While exiting, Sandor looked over his shoulder once more and memorized the sight. The entire yard was full of shades of white and grey and black and brown, but then there was that single brilliant shade of red. Sansa exuded more than just beauty, she exuded everything good in the world. And he was leaving it. In the last glimpse he had of her, Sansa was clutching his helm to her breast, leaning against her sister, and sobbing underneath the drifting snow.
He suppressed his own tears and galloped towards the Kingsroad.
The weather favored them that morning, but Sandor did not expect that to last long, not when they were headed towards the source of the storms that froze over half of Westeros. The men were silent for the most part, aside from the wildling who couldn't refrain from sharing a lewd jape every so often. The hours dragged on and on; three fortnights without Sansa felt as daunting as another three years.
Dusk fell, but they pressed on. The only one whinging about stopping was the blacksmith. If he survives this journey to and from the Wall, it'll be a bloody miracle. Sandor started to wonder if that had been the reason Snow had brought him along. A cunning way to have the boy killed for kissing his little sister.
Two hours after dusk, they did stop, though it had not been willingly. If the horses did not rest, it would only be another hour before one broke a leg. And the man who lost his horse in the land of always-bloody-winter was like to die right along with it.
There was wind and snow, but it wouldn't be enough to prevent them from lighting a fire. Perhaps for the first time since he was a boy, Sandor was eager to be near a fire, not for warmth, but to try his luck and read the flames again. He'd always loathe fire, that would never change, but if he could see the little bird in the flames, if he could see their daughter, he could find it within himself to hate it a little less.
While the steward, wildling, and blacksmith went to gather firewood, he and Jon fed and watered the horses. Occasionally they would glare at one another, but neither said a thing. 'Be kind to one another', he remembered Sansa's words. It had not yet been a day and the wound inside his chest was festering. Gods, my little bird…three bloody fortnights.
As Sandor made to remove his horse's saddle to brush out his coat, he discovered that there was something tucked inside his bedroll — a white slip of fabric sticking out just slightly. When he pulled it out, a hearty chuckle escaped him.
The little bird's smallclothes. He caressed the silken fabric in his hand. That's what she was smiling about.
He held the silk to his nose and drew in a deep breath. Just as soon as he was exhaling, groaning as his lungs emptied, his cock was primed, conditioned to fuck upon the singular scent of Sansa lingering inside his nose. Fuck. The wound in his chest felt all but rotten. He considered mounting his horse and riding back to Winterfell just to swipe his nose up and down her cunt. Sansa had slipped her smallclothes into his bedroll as a gift, but a bittersweet gift it was. The smell of her made him want to bury himself inside her. The smell of her made him want to curse the gods and cry.
"Put them away before the others see."
Sandor opened his eyes. Standing a pace away was Jon Snow, frowning, much like the she-wolf did when she would be thinking of ways to kill him. He was as quiet as that albino wolf of his when he moved, but he wasn't the slightest bit as threatening. And to Sandor's gratification, the bastard had sent the northern beast ahead of them to scour for any possible threat along the Kingsroad.
And with the others gone, it was only him and one miserable bastard.
Sandor lowered the silk and rolled back his shoulders. "I think I'll hold onto them a bit longer."
"I said put them away."
"You don't give me orders. I'm a lord now, you said it yourself."
Jon's face was still as stone. "You may be a lord, but I will not allow you to disrespect my sister."
Sandor gave a grim chuckle. "These are my wife's, bastard." He held up the silk in his fist. "And my wife gave them to me. If I want to hold them, if I want to lick them and rub them on my cock, I will. Now bugger off."
There was a moment's hesitation, a few passing seconds, and then Jon's fist came swinging. Despite the bastard's lean build, the punch that landed on Sandor's chin had enough vigor in it to knock him over an inch. Sandor laughed darkly and then threw a fist back, lamping him square in the jaw. The bastard stumbled back, but quickly regained balance and lunged forward to deliver a second strike. Sandor caught the fist in his hand and shoved back with enough force to cause Jon to fall into the snow. As lithe as he was lean, Jon stood up and made to swing again, until the wildling ran up and tackled him onto the ground.
"If you wanted a fight, crow, you should have asked me!" Tormund howled with laughter.
"You don't deserve my sister!" Jon shouted from the ground.
"No?" Sandor spat blood into the snow. "Why did you let me wed her, then, bastard?"
Jon did not answer, but there was no need; Sandor knew what it was. Honor. I won the duel, so I won her hand. He choked back a laugh, until he remembered Sansa's words. 'Be kind to one another'. Guilt crept up on him then, and the ulcerating wound deepened.
Fuck.
Afterward, once the campfire had been built, he stared into flames for nigh on two hours, begging in silence. Show me Sansa. Show me our daughter. Show me bloody anything. But aside from the wicked orange flames that swayed and dimmed with every breath of icy wind, Sandor saw not a thing.
The bastard sat across from him beside the steward, peering at the flames, too. Sandor wondered if he ever had a vision; it seemed possible. After all, they were both given another chance at life by the same god. Dondarrion had only been a lord before dying. It wasn't until he was brought back from death did he have visions much like Thoros.
Will it eventually be that way for us? Or will we need to worship the buggering Lord of Light?
Considering how often Sandor mocked and cursed the gods, he did not think the fire lord was like to grant him visions very often, if ever again. Whether Jon could see anything or not, he could not say. All Sandor knew was that the opportunity to ask him about it had died during their scuffle.
The following morning, both of their faces were bruised, though Jon had the worst of it.
'Be kind to one another'. It was all he could think about last night — Sansa and her words. The pain inside his chest was unbearable, burning like rampant fire. What was I supposed to do, let the bastard hit me? Give him a quick clout on the head like I do Arya? Jon's temper was proving to be fiercer than even the she-wolf's. It's that Stark blood, they all have it. I may love ruffling the little bird's feathers, but I'd be wise not to slight her brother again, else we may return to Winterfell one bastard short.
The second night showed no progress.
While sitting beside the campfire during an ebbing snow storm, chewing on salt beef hard enough to break a tooth, the wildling said, "Crow, when's the last time you used your member?"
Jon only brooded at the flames.
"Not since Ygritte?"
Only then did the bastard's eyes look away, regarding the wildling with a scowl colder than the northern wind. "Tormund, enough."
That was intriguing. Whoever Ygritte was, the bastard was staunchly defensive of her. So defensive, that the wildling said no more to him after that, allowing Jon to resume his languishing.
"What o' you?" the free folk man asked the whinging bastard. "You been hammering something besides steel inside that forge, lad?"
Sandor looked at the boy and narrowed his eyes, awaiting his answer.
"N-No," Gendry stuttered. He looked first at Jon and then at Sandor and then at Jon again. "I swear it, Lord Commander."
Jon nodded, but it was evident that his mind was elsewhere. That is, until the wildling turned to Sandor and said, "I know I don't need to ask you if you been using your member."
Sandor took a sip from his waterskin, then muttered, "I'm sure you heard me use it plenty."
While the wilding erupted into a hoot of laughter, Jon jumped up from his seat beside the fire and came at him again, that time with his foot instead of his fist. By the end of the second brawl, they were both bleeding from their noses, and Jon's left eye was swollen shut.
'Be kind to one another.' Sandor laughed to himself that night while the others slept, and then he cried.
After that, the two were never within speaking distance, let alone punching distance. Four days had passed, and not one word had been said between the two of them. While the steward kept Jon company, the jovial wildling insisted on being Sandor's shadow. It did not matter how curt he was to the man who called himself Tormund Giantsbane, the wildling continued to ask him all sorts of questions, about his scars, about southern women, about Sansa. Sandor answered each with the same answer, "Bugger off." But it did not matter. His surly attitude only seemed to encourage Tormund.
On the sixth night, when the Winterfell bastard and the wildling ambled around to gather wood and kindling for a fire, he approached the steward and said, "Who's Ygritte?"
The man named Edd scratched the back of his neck. "I don't think the Lord Commander would want me to speak of her." Sandor reached into his bag and tossed him a chunk of stale bread. Upon inspecting it, the steward said, "She was a wildling."
There it is. Was.
"A wildling lover, eh?" So much for honor, he thought with dry amusement. "How did she die?"
"She attacked Castle Black. Well, not just her. I wish it had only been her. She came with a band of wildlings and was shot by an arrow, not sure whose. The Lord Commander held her in his arms as she was dying, even burned her himself afterwards." Edd took a bite of the bread, furrowing his brow as he chewed. With a full mouth, he added, "That's all you're getting out of me, unless you brought some ale with you."
Sandor leaned against his horse and stared out at the dark horizon. A feeling came over him. It was the same one he felt when Beric had expressed to him how joyless his existence was after dying so many times. As he watched Jon and Tormund loom out of the darkness, he thought, Was the bastard always so sullen before this wildling girl? Most northmen were hot-tempered, Sandor quickly learned, but he did not doubt the bastard's temper worsened after losing his wildling lover.
What would I be like if Sansa…
A wave of pain washed over him. Sandor shuddered at the thought.
All night he was left wondering, all night the guilt ate him alive. 'Be kind to one another.' Sandor caressed the silken smallclothes in his hand, as he did every night. Pondering was futile; he knew what he needed to do. Amends needed to be made, for Sansa's sake. So the next morning, one grueling week after leaving Winterfell, he mounted his horse and fell in beside his good brother.
"Leave us," Sandor ordered the steward.
The dour man looked at Jon. "Lord Commander—"
"It's alright, Edd," Jon Snow interrupted. "Ride along with the others."
Once the steward turned his horse around, Sandor begrudgingly started by saying, "If you told me the only way I could keep Sansa safe from the Others is to stay beyond the Wall and guard this buggering horn for the rest of my life, I would."
"As you should," said Jon, keeping his gaze aimed north.
"I died for her dueling Gareth Umber, and I'd die for her again." When there was no response, Sandor decided to go all in. "If Sansa died in my arms, I'd be more miserable than you."
The bastard looked away from the Kingsroad, wearing a scowl. "You're walking on thin ice, Clegane."
"You think I don't deserve your sister, is that it?" Sandor asked once he had his attention. "Did you think I didn't know that? You won't like hearing this, Snow, but there hasn't been one time that I fucked her where I didn't lay there afterward and think, Why me? I don't deserve her, not even a little, but if you think I'd ever hurt or disrespect her, if you think I'd ever treat her like Joffrey or Littlefinger or Gareth fucking Umber, you're bloody mad!"
The words were said far too viciously; Sandor expected to see a Valyrian steel edge come swinging at his throat. But instead, Jon regarded him in silence. As they rode along, Sandor could scarcely hear the three men behind them muttering to one another, until the wind carried away their words. Just when he thought the bastard would never speak, Jon said, "The woman who died in my arms, her name was Ygritte...kissed by fire."
"Kissed by fire?" Sandor snorted. "You could say I'm kissed by fire."
Rather than become volatile, Jon only sighed. "Her hair was bright red, so the wildlings said that she was kissed by fire. The free folk consider red hair lucky beyond the Wall. She was unconventionally beautiful, unconventional in every way, and I fell in love with her. I laid with her and broke my vows, and then I watched her die. I felt her body go limp in my arms." He paused and dropped his head, as if reliving that moment, before adding, "Being stabbed to death by my own men hurt less. And then I watched Sansa experience the same pain. When she sat beside you in the yard, I listened to her lie to herself, much like I did when I held Ygritte. It's all you can do in that moment — lie, for yourself, as much as for the one you love. The moment was similar in many ways, more than I care to admit. When I pulled her away from you and gave the order to remove your corpse, do you know what she said to me?" The bastard's voice quivered. "She said, 'You can't burn him. He hates fire'."
Sandor felt his throat tighten and quickly looked ahead, as speechless as he was breathless.
A tense minute passed. "I'm haunted by those words. Much like I'm haunted by another's."
"The woman you heard," Sandor began, his voice heavy with emotion, "it wasn't the one you lost."
"No, when the red priestess gave me the kiss of life, I heard the voice of a woman I did not know. The words unsettled me then, but once I heard what Sansa said…"
Although Sandor thought he would be better off not knowing, he asked the question, nonetheless. "What did this woman say to you?"
For the first time in days, Jon Snow looked at him without disdain, even a bit fearfully, and said, "Fire and blood."