Notes: Million thanks to my wonderful beta Wildsky once more, for her unfailing help!
Summary: The comprehension that any feelings between them were probably one-sided made her alternatively sad and angry, disappointed and defiant. As their little party traversed little-known paths across the Neck and further to the North she brooded on it. Sandor probably never truly cared about me. Didn't he say as much? That it all had been just a good fuck to him?
Sansa
Sansa observed the tall, dark man who attended to his horse across the clearing. Stranger stood still, his usually fierce temper calmed by the low voice of his master. Saddle, saddle bags, bedrolls – all of these Sandor secured on the horse's back with steady, purposeful movements. His profile revealed a hooked nose, high cheekbones and narrowed eyes as he concentrated on the task, his long hair over his face obscuring his scars. For Sansa there was something odd in that picture; this was not the man she had grown accustomed to - not without his disfigurement. As a matter of fact, she realised that she preferred him with his scars. They were such a defining feature of who he was, a sign of his past and what had shaped him as a man, that she couldn't even imagine how it could be any other way.
Sansa had woken up that morning sated and well rested. The tension of the previous day had hung heavily on her and it having been lifted made her joyous. That…and the undeniable pleasures she had again experienced in his arms. Unhurried, satisfying, exciting. She still couldn't believe her own reactions or how wanton she had become. Why had her mother - or even Queen Cersei when she had still pretended to care about her - never told her about this part of being a woman?
She sat next to the cooled fire pit and waited for the start of the day's journey. She had cleaned their eating utensils earlier and packed them into the bags Sandor was loading, and with nothing to do Sansa continued to examine the man who had so thoroughly changed her life. She noticed other things too. His armour, once clean and well-oiled, was now rusty and dented, many of its fastenings broken. His clothes had seen better days, being torn in many places and worn threadbare in others. That was to be expected, he having no squire to look after his mail nor stores of the Red Keep to keep him clothed. What he carried on his person and his bags was probably all he owned in the whole wide world.
The thought made her sad. She had left King's Landing with hardly anything, but she had been well provided for in the Vale and even after leaving all that behind she could be sure that she would find at least a good set of clothes waiting for her in Winterfell. More than that, she would find a home, lands of her birth with fields and forests and rivers. Sandor – he had nothing.
While she was still trying to get her head around it Sandor called her; it was time to move on.
Sansa could not be sure whether her decision to go through the woods had been truly only about safety and cautiousness, or whether in truth she had simply wanted to extend the duration of their journey. After the first night it didn't really matter. In the evenings there was no question about what was going to happen; it was as natural for them to embrace and love each other over and over again as it was to share a meal and drink. Sansa learned more about being a woman than she had thought possible, and much more about men. Sandor was unexpectedly patient and indulging, something she could never have imagined from his rough ways. Even his curses – for fuck's sake! and Gods, woman! - muttered against the valley between her breasts, sounded more like endearments than profanities. Sansa liked to hear him call her a woman rather than a girl. She certainly felt like one.
The closeness they shared during the nights carried over to the day, and once again Sandor Clegane surprised her. For a man who had so long seemed to hate everything and everyone, once the barriers between them had been broken, he proved witty and humorous in a dry, sardonic way. Even more, he kept on touching her. Not only lustily, but at every opportunity he brushed her shoulder to get her attention, rested his jaw on the top of her head or let his hand rest on her thigh when they rode. At first Sansa was conscious and somewhat awkward about it, but soon she relaxed and found the idea of returning the gestures oddly liberating. The notion of being able to pat the ferocious Hound; brush his hair aside when it fell tickling on her face, straighten his collar in the morning when he was dressing and unreservedly lean on him when they rode, was wildly exciting.
"Take away your tunic," she told him the second evening. He glanced at her, a twisted smile slowly forming on his face.
"Can't wait, eh?" he murmured, slowly pulling the cords.
"I mean to mend that tear in your collar," Sansa replied, feigning that she misunderstood his meaning. And that's exactly what she did. A noble maiden never travelled without her sewing kit and for once she blessed her adherence to the ways of her upbringing. Her stitches were neat and tidy and the torn piece of cloth was soon patched up. She tossed the tunic back to Sandor, who watched her sharply.
"Now your breeches."
Sandor stood up slowly and didn't bother to turn away but dropped them down right in front of her. "Smallclothes too?" he grinned.
"You can hold on to them," she replied, averting her gaze from the sight of his arousal, a result of him standing in front of her almost naked. Despite Sandor's smirk, common sense and cool air dictated that he soon wrapped himself in a blanket and sat down next to the fire. Sansa felt his gaze on her as she cut two pieces from the inside of the waist – how thin he has become – and stitched them onto the knees, just under the nearly transparent section of the thinned fabric. The end result was more than satisfactory, she judged, proud of her ability to do something useful.
"You don't have to do that. You are not my servant, you're my lady," grunted Sandor, continuing to stare at her as if he had never seen anything so interesting as a woman sewing.
"I know. I don't do this because I have to, I do this because I want to." Sansa lifted the clothing to her mouth and snapped the thread with her teeth.
"Can't say a woman has ever mended my clothes, at least since…" He didn't finish his sentence and Sansa wondered what he had meant to say. Since his mother had done it? Or maybe his sister? Sansa knew both of them were dead but she wasn't sure about the details or how old Sandor had been when that had happened. She wanted to ask but somehow their newly found intimacy was still too fragile to be disturbed with probing questions that might push him back into his shell.
"Futile in any case," Sandor continued, moving the discussion away from the topic. "Once we reach Winterfell and I get my coin, I can buy new clothes."
"We are still a long way from Winterfell and you will be better off in sound clothing. You have defended me, found food to fill my stomach and helped me to make this long journey, so this is the least I can do for you." In truth Sansa found something deeply satisfying in being able to do this; look after the man who looked after her. The domesticity of the situation felt comforting.
Yet despite the new, pleasing routines of their travel, she couldn't forget her mission. They discussed their progress regularly, but even though Sandor still gave her good advice, a new element had crept into those talks. He stiffened and became distant whenever her plans in Winterfell were mentioned and Sansa wondered what that could mean.
Sansa knew it was going to be over soon. She wasn't stupid or a naïve little girl anymore. Even if theirs had been true love – and how could it have been, when they had nothing in common and Sandor was nothing like the man she could dream of one day marrying? – a noble lady and an enemy deserter could never be. No, they were not living in a song or a tale and such things did not happen. Besides, she couldn't risk losing the respect of her bannermen and lord of the North and that was sure to happen if she was found consorting with the enemy's dog.
Sometimes Sansa wondered what she truly felt about him, or he about her. Yes, she trusted him explicitly and had done so already for a while, ever since he had returned to her in the mountains. The Hound might be uncouth and undiplomatic, but he always spoke the truth. She also felt safe with him, and comfortable. The new level of intimacy in their relationship had woken her senses and was both exciting and deeply satisfying in a way Sansa had never experienced, and she revelled in it.
There were times when she was lying sated in his arms and felt brave enough to raise the topic, but Sandor had none of it. Where do we go from here? What does this really mean? she wanted to ask, but before she could even voice her thoughts they were met with a distraction. Usually a pleasurable one and she allowed herself to be side-tracked, and so her questions were soon forgotten, only to return the next day. Then she lost her nerve thinking about the scrutiny of his hard grey eyes and so she ended up keeping her thoughts to herself.
The last night before entering the swamps of the Neck was bittersweet and intense, Sansa clutching tightly at Sandor arms and riding her pleasure until she couldn't bear it any longer and cried out his name into the night. Sandor followed her soon after, cursing and calling her woman once again, but rather than withdrawing he collapsed on top of her, almost suffocating her in the process. She didn't mind but welcomed his bulk, a manifestation of how real the moment was, an opportunity for her to imprint his presence forever into her mind.
Sandor hadn't pulled away and she felt his manhood slowly softening inside her and there was something particularly touching in the sensation. She wriggled and tried to hold onto him but then he moved and was gone. Sansa sighed and felt hollow and forlorn.
"Sandor," she whispered after a while when he still lay quiet, now on his back, only his hip touching hers.
Is this truly the last time? Will you miss me when we are not together? Did this mean anything to you? Once more all the questions she wanted to ask but didn't dare. "Sandor, I need to ask you…"
"Go to sleep, girl. We will reach the swamplands tomorrow and it may be a long, hard day." Sandor cut her off and pulled their furs higher on top of them. His tone was curt and his manner brusque but he pulled her against his chest just the same and timidly Sansa acquiesced.
The next morning was no better. Many times she had the words on the tip of her tongue but there they stayed, thick and heavy, refusing to come out. Will you go back to wenches now? Will you ever look back at this time and me? Was this just a way to pass time for you?
"This is it then, my lady. You had better try to keep your grubby little hands off me from now on. We can't let loyal Stark bannermen see their precious Stark princess be groped by – or grope – some lowly dog, can we?"
"I'll try," was all Sansa could say while being distracted by his strong fingers caressing her ankle and calf. The familiar tingle ran down her spine but she had to ignore it. It is over, she repeated the silent mantra in her head, staring down at her tightly clenched hands.
"Aye, we had some good times. You were the best fuck I have ever had, don't mind saying that. Though I'd like to think you also had something in return. But it's all over now. Thank you kindly for the memories and all that."
Sansa's head shot up. How can he say such things?! Yet just before Sandor turned aside to mount the horse she caught his expression, and the storm clouds covering it made her swallow the rebuke she might have otherwise expressed.
It was almost as if they had returned to the day after the inn, so gloomy and heavy was the air between them. Sansa scanned the forest for signs of people and as they rode on, saw the landscape changing from dry forests of sparse, tall pines and spruces spanned by rocky meadows to wetlands scattered with stunted trees and bushes with moss and lichen hanging off them. A few times she forgot the new order and leaned against Sandor, always to be sharply pushed away. She tried to balance on a horse leaving at least a hand-width between their bodies, but it was hard and soon her back and neck were aching from the strain.
When they were eventually accosted by the crannogmen it felt like a relief in her troubled state of mind. As they were being guided towards the mysterious floating castle of House Reed, Sansa was escorted at the head of their small procession, the Reed bannermen following and Sandor trailing at the back with Stranger. Sansa glanced at him and saw his face schooled to an expressionless countenance she remembered from King's Landing. His eyes met hers and she could almost hear him growl 'This is how it is and how it will be from now on'. She turned to look ahead but her heart was heavy.
The joy of being among her own people invigorated Sansa. These men, women and children; they all looked to her as someone special, someone worthy of respect and affection even though they didn't even know her. She basked in the veneration afforded to her simply due to her blood and the love they had felt towards her father.
She remembered Howland Reed from the few visits he had made to Winterfell many years ago. Nonetheless, even if she had never laid eyes on him she would have felt an immediate bond of friendship towards the man who had been one of Lord Eddard's closest friends.
At the end of the private audience, in which Sandor had participated at her insistence, their host called for a servant to show Sandor to his lodgings. When they had left Howland sat opposite Sansa and took her small hands into his, the gesture feeling familiar and friendly instead of unsettling as it might have, had it been any other man. She looked at him, smiling.
"Lady Sansa, I see you trust the Hound more than many might say he deserves." His voice was low and pleasant and his eyes gleamed in the firelight.
"I do, I do trust him. With my life and more," Sansa sighed, pleased that he had raised the topic. She knew Howland was only expressing what everyone thought and that she had to be prepared to answer those questions; some voiced, some left unsaid, but still present.
"Do you mind me asking why?" There was no challenge in his voice, only the genuine curiosity of a man who had seen much in his life and had stopped asking irrelevant questions a long time ago.
"Because…because he doesn't lie. He is the only man I know who is honest and truthful, even if it means that he is saying unpleasant things. He taught me that life is not a song and that sweet lies and empty words are just that, lies and emptiness." Sansa wondered how she could convince this gentle man that there was something good and honest in the man everyone despised and feared.
"So he is honest. What else?"
"He has promised to help me even though he doesn't have to. He was on his way to offer his services to another, to become a sellsword, perhaps."
"And so he pledged his services to you instead?"
"Yes, even though I couldn't guarantee him his reward. If Winterfell was overtaken by the Boltons I may never be able to pay him. Stannis being there I trust that he is as honourable as they say and…" Sansa realised that it made Sandor sound like he was doing what he did only for money. Maybe he was? She sat up straighter. Even if he was, there was nothing wrong with it if he served her honourably for a fair wage.
"You think he did it only because of the coin?"
"No!" Sansa stammered. She realised she didn't fully know Sandor's mind and why he did what he did. There had to be more into it. Had to.
"I had a dog once," Howland said, tapping his fingers against each other after releasing his hold on Sansa. Sansa tilted her head, wondering about the sudden change of topic.
"Found it in one of the campaigns of my youth, after we had relieved the siege of Storm's End and were cleansing the countryside of the remaining rebels. We came across a substantial manor house that had been deserted with only the old and weak left behind."
Sansa didn't understand where the story was going but listened intently just the same.
"There was a dog, a huge mongrel, kept on a short leash and snapping its jaws at everyone who tried to come near. The servants told us that it had belonged to a cruel master who had mistreated it, trained it to attack humans and had routinely kicked and cursed it. My men told me we should shoot an arrow into its heart as it was too vicious and too ferocious to be of any use to anyone."
Understanding started to dawn on Sansa. Howland looked at her and there was sadness in his smile.
"It was a huge thing with jaws of death and more scars than any dog I have seen before or since. I probably should have listened to the advice but I thought I knew better. Those big hunting dogs can be valuable and useful in the North and I wanted one for myself. So I didn't let anyone touch it but tried to make it accept me. I muzzled it – three men it required – and took it with me when we left the manor. I kept it by my side at all times, fed him by my own hand, talked to it for hours at a time and tried to connect with it. I gave it a name, I gave it dignity – Hunter, I called him."
Sansa held her breath. She knew this story had nothing to do with Sandor and yet she wanted to hear that it had had a happy ending.
"What happened?"
"The first time I let him out of its muzzle he tried to bite my thumb off. The first time I let him run free he disappeared for three days, only coming back all covered in blood, ear torn and stinking like the back of a stable."
Howland rose and walked to the fireplace to throw more wood into its mouth. Then he turned and faced Sansa, a mischievous smile on his face.
"Then I brought him here to Greywater Watch and he stayed with me and slept in my chamber and hunted my game and served me faithfully until the day he died of old age. That is the place where he used to sleep, always by my feet when I spent time in this room at the end of the day." He pointed at a deerskin covering the floor next to a big chair.
Sansa's relief was palpable and she let out a breath she hadn't realised she had been holding.
"So he could be retrained? Your men had been wrong all along?"
"Hard to say," Howland said simply. "It took a lot of effort on my part. Was it worth it? Might be I had been better off killing him and getting myself another one, easier to train."
"But no other dog would have been as loyal to you, or so important."
Howland sighed. "Maybe so. We had a connection for sure. But you see why I told you this story? Sandor Clegane is not a dog, though he is often referred as such. He has been treated cruelly by his previous masters and he is just as ready to snap people's heads off as my Hunter was. Yet he too may become an important part of your household – if you have patience with him."
"I do," whispered Sansa, moved to tears by the story of a poor mistreated hound. She could almost imagine him lying there on his masters' feet, a big furry head resting on his huge paws, tongue lolling out.
Howland returned to the couch and looked at Sansa, this time sharper. He clearly wanted to say something and Sansa had an inkling of what it could be. She was not wrong.
"He is not a dog but a man. And men have different needs. Did he ever… behave inappropriately towards you? Try to take advantage of your situation?" He looked almost sheepish. "I am sorry to ask you something so private but it will be in the mind of many. I thought maybe you could confide in me if any such thing happened. Maybe I can give you some advice, or maybe my wife could help you if a woman's help is needed."
Sansa felt her cheeks reddening. No, she couldn't tell the truth even to such a trusted friend as Lord Howland. What was the truth anyway? At least this; he had not taken advantage of her.
"No. He never did anything that made me uncomfortable." That is the truth. The memories of their entangled bodies, the sight of his proud manhood and the feel of his fingers and mouth on her woman's place made Sansa squirm on her seat but she convinced herself that she was not lying. None of that had made her feel uncomfortable – quite the opposite.
Howland held her gaze for a while longer and then sighed, apparently relieved. Sansa felt only slightly embarrassed and genuinely touched by his concern. She rose to her feet and kissed the weatherworn cheek of the old man.
"Thank you, my lord, for your concern. You are a true friend, just as my father always said."
Being back on the road felt so different. It was different. The men escorting her were affable and courteous and every step they took was bringing her closer to home. Yet Sansa missed the informality of her journey with Sandor and often glanced back to where he rode; stern-faced and solemn, the mask having fallen back in its place to hide his emotions. Sometimes Sansa saw an interesting tree or a rocky formation or heard unusual animal noises in the woods, and often she turned to Sandor to tell him, to ask him - but all she could see around her were the polite faces of her new escorts and she quietly swallowed her words.
She exchanged a few sentences with Sandor on their breaks about mundane things concerning their travel. She saw him sitting around the fire with their companions and whether it was Sansa's clearly expressed trust in him, Howland Reed's quiet words to his men or Sandor's own subdued behaviour, the men didn't shy away from him but jovially exchanged stories with him after evening meals. Sansa noticed that Sandor didn't talk much but didn't turn away either. It was only she who was expected to retire to her tent and spend her nights all alone.
The first few nights in Greywater Watch had been like heaven to her after their long and arduous travels; a hot bath every evening, a soft bed, clean linen to lie on. She had revelled in the luxury and slept well, so well that she had hardly had time to rue Sandor's absence from her side. However, by the third evening she found herself tossing and turning and being miserable and it had taken a while for her to realise that it was his strong arms, his broad chest, his gravelly voice and his touch she missed. The realisation had led her down the path of imagining that he still shared her bed, and recalling sensations as exciting and pleasurable as they had once been scandalous.
By now any notion of her behaviour with him being shameful or untoward had deserted Sansa and she had accepted it for what it was; lust and desire – and an affection she had a hard time putting into words. Not that she needed to, as whom could she have told about her feelings anyway? So conflicted, delicate and unclear as they were.
The comprehension that any feelings between them were probably one-sided made her alternatively sad and angry, disappointed and defiant. As their little party traversed little-known paths across the Neck and further to the North she brooded on it. Sandor probably never truly cared about me. Didn't he say as much? That it all had been just a good fuck to him?
Yet she couldn't forget how all alone Sandor was and how little he had in this world. The lonely life of a sellsword, that of a man without country or kin or affiliation. No, she could not bear sending him away to that harsh existence. So Sansa had offered him a place in her service and had dared to touch his arm while doing that. That touch had sent a jolt through her body and she had blushed and muttered something inconsequential - and in the end Sandor had left her standing there feeling foolish.
Sansa also remembered Howland Reed's story about the dog. Vicious and ferocious. Didn't trust men. Again she told herself not to take it too seriously. Sandor Clegane was a man. She couldn't help wondering though how even during the short weeks they had spent together something in him seemed to have changed. Or maybe it had been there all along, only to be revealed to her because of the circumstances and intimacy? Quiet gentleness, surprising sensitivity, patience. There was so much more in this hated and despised man, and Sansa swore that she would try to help him any way she could. Whether that would lead to the connection that had grown between Howland and his dog – it didn't matter. Howland had kept the dog because he had wanted a hunting dog. Sansa wanted to keep Sandor for his own sake, for his own good. And maybe just a bit for her own good as well – he was a good soldier and she was bound to need those if she wanted to reclaim her place in the North.
So Sansa bit her lip, squared her shoulders and accepted her duty as so many women before her; to be alone, to be without a companion, to let go of her foolish longings and inappropriate desires. The presence of others helped; it was easier to play her role that way.
To be alone with Sandor again was something she hadn't prepared for. For a moment Sansa wished the crannogmen had not left or that they would have taken Sandor with them. That was foolish, she knew, but the strain of keeping up the façade was draining her.
It was difficult to fathom Sandor's thoughts, as usual. He waited until their companions had ridden away, then moved around setting up their small camp. He was clean, his worn armour polished and oiled and he had even tidied his hair and beard, a sight that made Sansa wonder who had done it for him. The servants in Lord Reed's halls? Or the women near the soldiers' barracks she had once glimpsed; as inevitable in a keep occupied with young men as mice near the kitchens. Had he asked for more services than that? Back in Kings' Landing, Sansa had heard whispers about whoring of the members of the Kingsguard, and how everyone knew how little the vows they took mattered. Sandor hadn't even taken any vows, and he was a virile man and experienced with women - even she could see that. How else could he have learned to do the things he had done to her? Sansa had to look away when strange feelings of resentment started to build inside her.
Despite her antipathy towards the unknown person who had touched Sandor when she couldn't, Sansa's eyes were drawn to his every movement when he brushed his horse. When Stranger's skin rippled under his hands Sansa imagined herself in the horse's place and shivered. When Sandor stroked Stranger's mane and spoke soothing words to him, Sansa longed to feel his touch in her hair, on her body.
To find some distraction she decided to organise the contents of her saddle bags. A shawl, a top, a skirt, a few pairs of smallclothes – those she quickly pushed under the other garments after noticing that Sandor was throwing sideway looks in her direction. Trying to ignore him she went back to her task. A comb with shattered teeth – she might as well throw it away now that she had been given a good brush made of boar bristles. Three handkerchiefs, one torn, which she likewise put aside. A bag of moon tea.
Sansa took a deep breath. Since arriving in Greywater Watch she hadn't taken it, and she wouldn't have any use for it now. She couldn't imagine accepting any other man into her bed even though she knew it could be a possibility. Hadn't she even thought of it when she had first given in to the temptation, that night at the inn? She should throw it away lest someone saw it in her possession and started spreading rumours, a servant in Winterfell perhaps. I have to keep my reputation intact.
But what if Sandor… Sansa lifted her head and saw his sharp eyes taking in the scene. He didn't smile or acknowledge her and that hurt the most. Had it been before Greywater Watch, he might have thrown a sarcastic jape, laughed at her tidiness – he might have let the brush drop and come to her, taking her into his arms and muttering about putting the tea in good use. He might have bent her so far back it almost hurt and covered her mouth with his rough lips…
Blood rushing to her face, Sansa moved the tea bag into the first pile. I can always throw it away later.
Her meagre task was soon done and she found herself jittery again despite her best efforts to stay still. Sandor had likewise finished with Stranger and laid himself on the ground, his hands crossed behind his head, eyes closed. Was he going to take a nap? Probably better that way, no need to endure the suffocating tension any longer. Sansa sighed and shifted, hoping that she too could relax as quickly and thoroughly as he seemed to be able to. It was something men learned in their campaigns, her mother had told her once when she had queried why her father had dozed off with ease in the middle of a family picnic. Something to do with taking the opportunity to rest as they could never know when they had move on, march or fight.
Sansa stared at the tall man lying on the ground and envied him for his rest. Nevertheless, it was seemingly not as peaceful as he made it appear; every now and then he opened his eyes and looked at her; every time Sansa turned her head away but always a fraction of a second too late.
Seven maidens! Sansa wanted to scream. He had had his fun with her, he had told her it was over, he had kept his distance. So why didn't he stop looking at her now?!
She couldn't stay still any longer and got to her feet. Hearing the noise, Sandor lifted his head and stared at her but said nothing. Climbing first onto her knees, then fully upright, Sansa started to walk towards him. She had no idea what she was going to do but she needed to do something.
Sandor's eyes narrowed as she approached but he didn't drop his gaze. Without breaking eye contact he too lifted onto his elbows, then onto his feet. He soon towered over her, as always, and Sansa was now close enough that she had to bend her neck to look up at him. What she saw in his eyes was familiar to her; a storm brewing, a struggle, sullen mutiny as he fought with himself.
Sansa took a step closer.