Author's Notes: Apologies for the unnecessary delay that was all my fault… I sent this chapter to my wonderful beta Wildskysheri almost two weeks ago, and she promptly replied - but I missed the attachment in her reply and thus wasted precious time before discovering the returned chapter had been there all along – d'oh! Anyway, here we go... Also, I realise that this chapter may seem a bit controversial, especially for anyone who interprets Sansa's decisions and actions as weaknesses instead of what they truly are; pragmatic actions of a person who is supremely confident of herself. I could do the same without skipping a beat, if that would get me what I need to get. Yet I understand that not all may feel the same – but this is what I wrote…
Summary: Once when Sandor had been a brash youth, newly grown in size, strength and skill, he had been able to beat any man in Casterly Rock in a fight bar his brother, whom he had refused to go against in a mock battle. He had been proud about the one thing he had over the others – until one day the Lannisters had had visitors from Storm's End. Among them had been an old soldier, unremarkable looking and of average size. When he had taken Sandor on in practice and beaten him soundly in any way imaginable over and over again, Sandor finally had had to swallow the bitter pill of defeat. Only once though - it hadn't happened again since then. Until now.
Sandor
Sandor drew a ragged breath, gulping down big mouthfuls of air while heaving heavy timber alongside the builders. His arms quivered with tension but he didn't let go, his whole being focussed on getting the obstinate tree trunk to do his bidding. A few more forceful pushes, a few more tugs straining every man's arms and shoulders to the point of breaking – and the roof beam of the new hall fell into place with a shattering thump.
He took a step back and crouched down, resting his hands on his thighs and catching his breath. Even for one as strong as him it had been a gruelling exercise. Yet physical activity soothed him and he welcomed the pain. It was like an old friend – the protestations of his tired muscles and the exhaustion at the end of the day helped him to sink into a dreamless sleep. That, and a flagon or two of wine. Sandor was careful about not drinking too much; he was leaving for a long journey soon and lapsing into his old habits wouldn't be wise.
The unfinished hall belonged to one of the settlements Sansa had ordered to be built around Winterfell to replace the ones razed by the Ironborn. She had promised that Winterfell would help in the effort and had sent men to various sites to assist in the rebuilding.
Not Sandor though - that had been his own doing. He had wanted to get away from Winterfell and the hollowness he had carried around in his chest ever since the night he had broken the little bird - and something of himself too. Ruined his new life in the North just as surely as he had fucked up his old one in the South.
This particular morning he had followed a small group leaving on a mission to this scrap of a village, one of the closest to the keep. Its leader had welcomed an able-bodied man gladly into their midst and hadn't asked too many questions, which was just fine by Sandor. He recognised most of the party bar a few new faces, beardless young boys.
The workmen settled down quietly around the hollow hall, each to wherever they found a vacant spot. Sandor sat on the ground and rested his sore back against a freshly cut wooden wall still smelling of forest. The boys he had noticed earlier settled down near him and threw curious glances in his direction. Women shuffled around carrying baskets of food and offering them to the men. Sandor accepted a piece of dried beef but refused the hot broth doled out in simple clay pots.
He chewed the piece of stringy meat without any real appetite, swirling it around and around in his mouth, hardly tasting it. It had been like that for five days now, nothing rousing his appetite or interest. Nonetheless Sandor forced himself to swallow the sinewy meat – he needed his strength.
The first day after that night he had suffered the familiar headache from too much wine, having gone to the kitchens in the small hours of the morning to fetch it. He recognised that he was resorting to his past routine of drinking to quell his pain. He had wanted to be better than that, but after pacing in his room cursing and clenching his fists for hours he had finally admitted defeat and sought solace from the only source that had provided it before – however bitter and short-lived.
He hadn't seen Sansa that day and after questioning her maids in the evening he had been informed that Lady Sansa had been taken ill and was resting. That had been enough to send him into another swell of impotent rage mixed with worry, and drowning his frustrations in wine again had been a real temptation – but he had abstained. Yes, it was likely his fault that Sansa was suffering. Yes, he probably should have gone to her and admitted that he had been a bloody fool and a mongrel. But he didn't.
Instead Sandor had forced himself to lay in his bed, stiff as a plank. He had stared into the darkness thinking nothing, letting all thought seep away. "Fuck!" he had said out loud. Then louder. "FUCK IT!" Then he had tried to fall asleep but had of course failed miserably. Only when the pale light of pre-dawn had crept into his room had he finally succumbed to a fitful slumber.
Later that morning Sansa had showed up in the hall as usual, pale but calm. Sandor had shrunk in her presence and although part of him had wanted to go to her, another part had wanted to turn away. She certainly hadn't thrown even one glance in his way, and as soon as he had been able, Sandor strode out of the hall and to the stables. Stranger had welcomed him with cocked ears and a soft snort and the simplicity of the bond between a man and a horse with no complications or conflicts had had a calming effect on his restless mind. He had ridden out of the gates towards the north to lose himself in the forest and hills and had stayed away until the late evening.
And so it had been ever since. It didn't matter to him where he went. There were many places he could go to; a camp for the new soldiers in need of a lesson; building sites in need of manpower, keeps and strongholds with messages and supplies to be delivered. He didn't care what the task was as long as it got him away. At first people looked at him oddly, but as he had always been allowed more latitude than most men-at-arms due to his special standing as Lady Sansa's man, his requests were taken seriously and he could choose his tasks.
He rode out early in the morning, returning late at night, avoiding meal times in the Great Hall and satisfying his hunger with what he could glean from the kitchens. The head cook, a large woman called Betha, had taken pity on him for reasons unbeknown to Sandor. She was as wide as she was tall and ran her domain with an iron fist, enduring no nonsense from anyone, not even from the notorious Clegane. Yet she let him in and gave him a loaf of bread and cheese, or leftovers from a stew and a tankard of ale when he appeared at the back door. He received them with a grunt but she didn't seem to mind, only shaking her head and tut-tutting as she watched him wolf the food down.
As deep in thought as he was, Sandor couldn't help noticing the looks the boys gave to him. There were three of them; all young and fresh-faced, dark of hair and eye. He ignored them for a while but eventually the bravest of them inched closer as if wanting to address him.
"The hells are you looking at!?" he finally demanded, annoyed at the intrusion. The boy flinched but to his credit didn't shy away.
"Ye the Hound, ser? The famous one hisself?"
Sandor spat on the ground and stared down at the boy.
"Not anymore. Clegane is the name, to you lot."
The boy beamed and looked back at his companions.
"I tol' ye so, lads! 'Tis him!" The others nodded and looked suitably impressed. Sandor glared at them under his brow, hoping that after the confirmation they would leave him alone. Incidents like that happened every now and then, his reputation and unmistakable appearance being a combination to incite the curiosity of some brave souls.
"Might be we live up far, far 'way, ye we like heard 'bout the famous Hound!" the boy exclaimed, proud to have made the connection.
"Not far enough, wherever that is. What brings you here?" Sandor grunted, wondering what brought the youngsters, clearly from some remote settlement, to the hurly-burly of the North's seat of power.
"From the Last Heart, and came 'ere courting, yesser, courting for m'lady!"
"Our young master Harren came to court the fair Lady Sansa," added the second boy, a bit older than his companions and with somewhat finer manners.
"Harren Umber?" spat Sandor.
"Aye, the young master. Doesn't have a wife and came to try his luck with the fair lady."
"Your master is on a fool's errand then. The lady is taken, married to the Imp - doesn't he know that?"
"Nay for long', all folk knows that! An' our master be a fine groom for any lady," the first boy hollered.
"The whole North talks about her being soon free to marry another. Our lord is of old blood and as good as and better than anyone else in the North," the second boy added with a proud smile and a grin, unshaken in his belief of the value of his master.
"We'll be Winterfell men soon, I says. An' serve our lady an' our master side by side with th' Hound."
Sandor chewed his meat, grimacing at this reminder of the very reasons that had forced his hand. All folk knows that. Indeed, even more hopefuls had started to line up for Sansa's hand. Just a matter of time.
He stood up briskly, ignoring both the curious boys and his aching muscles, wanting to get away from the discussion that had become too glum for his liking and wandered outside to find something to hit, smash or punch.
Sandor stayed around for a while longer but the rest of the work consisted of laying down the roof slats, best left to real builders. The same restlessness that had driven him for the past days burned in him still so he decided to leave. He resolved to ride via Winterfell and seek out some other undertaking for the rest of the day. Anything. Bloody hells, he was ready to go and collect damned firewood if that was the only excuse he could make to get away from Sansa's presence.
He knew himself to be a craven. A despicable one, the lowliest kind. Nevertheless, he had always been a pragmatic man and picked his battles carefully when he had had the luxury of doing so. In this one he knew that his course of action had been prudent, dictated by logic and common sense. The talk of their lady's imminent marriage had clearly spread from the council hall to the camps and households all around the North, and the pressure was growing. Sandor saw how people rejoiced about the possibility of the blood of the wolf continuing after all had seemed to be lost. House Stark had ruled the North from time immemorial and the future without them had been an upsetting prospect for all. He saw it, he heard it, and every time he witnessed it he became more convinced that no matter how unpleasant his decision had been, it had been the correct one.
Stranger's gait was steady and his pace slow, leaving Sandor time to ponder about his future. The sooner he took his leave the better – a few more days and he simply had to swallow his misgivings and seek an audience with Sansa. He had no doubts about Sansa paying him what he was owed – she was not small-minded like that. What then? He scrutinised the landscape; pine forests with scant undergrowth as far as the eye could reach, rugged and majestic scenery which had started to appeal to him more than he had initially thought. The utility and simplicity of nature in the North resonated with his soul and made him feel oddly at home. He preferred it just as he favoured practical home-spun attire more than elaborate silks and fineries. Yet now he had to leave this all behind for the unknown across the sea.
Sandor had thought it over in his head many times; first a ride to White Harbor, then a ship to Gulltown and from there across the sea. Or if he was in luck, directly from White Harbor to Braavos. That would be as good a place as any to start searching for employment. He could hardly be selective in his quest; he only knew how to kill and protect, so he would either join a group of sellswords or become a guard or a protector for some fat merchant. Do his job, earn his wage, go on living his life one day at a time until the day he was killed in action or a sickness claimed him. A whore every now and then, a drink or two more often. Suddenly Sandor saw his days lined up in front of him in an endless row, one bleaker than the other. The emptiness in his soul felt suffocating and he ran his hand across his face and let his shoulders slump. If he was doing the right thing, why the fuck did everything about it feel so wrong?
Consumed with those sullen thoughts, Sandor entered through the North Gate and made his way to the stables. Might as well give Stranger a good scrubbing before seeking his next assignment. Before getting that far, however, he noticed unusual activities in the main yard; small groups of people gathered together and speaking animatedly. At first he didn't pay too much mind to it, but after reaching the stables and seeing stablehands likewise having abandoned their posts and talking to each other in raised voices and with waved hands, his curiosity got the better of him.
"The fuck is up? What's all the fuss about?" he addressed one of the boys who happened to stand closest to where he dismounted Stranger.
The boy looked up, nervously. "We don't know for sure, ser. It is just that Lady Sansa…"
Sandor's stomach dropped before he could finish his sentence. What in seven hells?!
"Lady Sansa what?! Speak up or I swear I squeeze it out of you!" In his impatience he threw Stranger's reins over the fence railing so carelessly that they bounced back and fell on the ground. Ignoring that he stepped closer to the group and the boys shifted uneasily on their feet.
"We…we are not really sure, Master Clegane. People say that she has lost her mind, that's all we know. I swear."
Despite a tight knot in his stomach, Sandor realised that he couldn't get much more out of the youngsters, all staring at him with widened eyes and the wary looks of frightened animals. Fuck! He turned around and started towards the kitchens at a brisk pace. The head cook knew everything that was happening around the keep; Sandor had witnessed her gossiping with the maids, servants and soldiers alike while he had sat in a quiet corner of the kitchen gulping down her generous helpings. She would know what was going on.
With every step the cold ring around his chest got tighter so that soon all he could do was force his lungs to take in the air. Had Sansa gone and done something utterly foolish? Had she… he refused the thought, increasing his stride to a light run.
As he had guessed, a small crowd had gathered outside the kitchen door, Betha's imposing presence notable in the middle of it. Sandor pushed through the throng paying no heed to those he shoved aside.
"What about Lady Sansa? The stable boys talked about her - what the fuck is going on?!" His hard eyes honed in on the fat woman, demanding an answer and demanding it now. Betha looked back at him, her round eyes thoughtfully assessing his distress.
"Clegane. So you didn't know either?"
"Didn't know what, woman? Spit out what the hells is going on or I swear I'll beat it out of you with the flat of my sword! From all of you! Is there something amiss with Sansa?" Sandor knew his face was a horrific sight with his lips bared back revealing his teeth and twisting his scars into a frightening sneer. He scowled at the crowd and then Betha, wanting to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she told him what he needed to know. With difficulty he restrained himself, knowing that probably wouldn't help his cause.
"Lady Sansa is fine and on her way to Wintertown." The woman studied him from the top of his head to his boots, not the least bit intimidated. It would have irked Sandor had he had time for such thoughts. Hearing the word 'fine' settled him slightly though - enough for him to continue his questioning in a marginally less menacing manner.
"And what the bloody hells is so unusual in that? Who is she going with?"
"She started just with her maid but now there is apparently quite a crowd following her."
Again Sandor fingers twitched to throttle her fleshy throat for giving him answers that made no sense – Sansa going to Wintertown with her maid was nothing out of the ordinary. Certainly not enough to make people gawk and fuss about it as they seemed to do.
"And?" His voice was low and the threat in it so obvious and imminent that even Betha finally seemed to conclude that she had better deal with him squarely.
"It is not the matter of where she is going or with whom, but how. She is crawling there on her hands and feet. Like a babe."
If Sandor had been on the edge before, hearing this had the same effect as a hammer falling on his head.
"The fuck?" he croaked.
"Not likely to be out of her mind though, no matter what some folk say. Those who have spoken with her say she is in her senses. Very much so, even. Threatened anyone who tries to stop her with the dark cells." The crowd laughed at that, not a malevolent laugh at Sansa's expense but one of appreciation of their beloved lady's determination.
Sandor was frozen on the spot trying to process what he had just heard. Why would Sansa be doing such a thing? Then his own words from the other night came to him. It wouldn't help if you crawled all the way from Winterfell to Wintertown, that wouldn't made any difference. Or mayhap it would, mayhap I would reconsider after that.
He felt his head spinning. It can't be. It had bloody better not.
"Are you telling me she is being allowed to continue with that madness?" he demanded, not addressing anyone in the crowd specifically but looking around at each and every one. Some met his eyes, some looked away, shuffling uncertainly on their feet.
"You heard it, she seems determined to do it and doesn't let anyone stand in her way." Betha crossed her arms across her ample bosom and challenged Sandor with her words. "If you think you'll have better luck than her lords, go for it. I'd pay good coin to see that but alas I had better stay here and make sure there is hot food waiting for her when she returns." Betha turned and addressed the onlookers.
"All you louts, back to your duties! The keep doesn't run itself and what our lady does is her business. Move!"
The maids and servants scurried back indoors, muttering amongst themselves as they went, and soldiers wandered to wherever they had been before the excitement of the news had dragged them away. Soon only Sandor and Betha stayed on their respective footing.
"Some say it's a promise she made to the old gods, an offering of some sort for gods for helping her to return back to her home. Who knows? Sometimes things between people and gods are private and not for others to know. She was always heedful of them, although before it was mostly her lady mother's Seven. Yet mayhap she is returning to the faith of her father."
Betha's voice was softer now that she addressed only Sandor. Sandor stared at the ground in front of his feet, hardly registering her words.
"…to her?"
He raised his head – the questioning tone and expectant look on the cook's face suggested she had just asked a question, but for the hells he couldn't recall what it was.
"Uh?"
"Are you going to go to her before she completely spoils those pretty hands and knees? Might be she listens to you better than others. You brought her back after all, and she seems to respect you a good deal more than she does some of the other lords." Betha's expression was soft, confidential even.
Sandor rubbed his jaw pensively, wondering dully if he would have any influence on Sansa considering the situation. Yet if she was doing this because of what he had uttered so thoughtlessly…mayhap?
"You can be bloody sure I will. She can try to threaten me with dark cells!" he growled and moved away with no further ado, stomping back the same way he had come.
It didn't take long for him to find Sansa after urging Stranger into a frenzied gallop; the crowd completely blocked the path between the keep and the village. Sandor cleaved through it, not caring about those who had to scramble away from the war horse's deadly hooves.
It was true. In the short time it had taken him to ride like seven devils on her trail he had clung to a hope that there had been a misunderstanding. Yet it was not to be - no such luck.
Sansa was indeed on all fours, putting one hand in front of another, her long legs bent under her hunched body. Her head was down, focussed on the immediate terrain in front and under her, wisps of auburn locks having escaped from the long braid on her back and trailing almost all the way to the ground.
Her maid Lysandra was walking right beside her, adjusting her own step to that of her mistress, with lords Umber and Karstark on her other side. Lysandra was the oldest of the three who catered to Sansa's needs and the most sensible as far as Sandor could tell. Somehow it made him feel a bit better to notice how she hovered protectively over Sansa and scanned the crowd's behaviour.
Sandor stopped Stanger but before he dismounted he spotted a handful of men-at-arms walking a bit further away, looking at the lords for their orders and keeping the onlookers at bay. Beside them the crowd consisted mainly of Wintertown villagers and folk from Winterfell. The mighty lords of the North were clearly out of their element, not knowing what to do, glancing nervously at each other, at Sansa and the crowd, but following on foot nonetheless.
As Sandor stepped down and made his way towards Sansa the mob parted in front of him without him needing to ask. Greatjon caught sight of him and curtly nodded his head.
"Good that you are here. Do you know what this is about? Can you perchance make her stop?"
Sansa seemed to have heard that as her voice rose loud and clear, standing out from the otherwise quiet hush.
"Whoever it is, I will not stop. How many times must I make my wishes known? Any man or woman who tries to move me by force will be thrown into Winterfell's cells, as surely as I am a Stark and my blood is that of the wolf!"
"Lady Sansa." Sandor muttered, not knowing what else to say within earshot of so many people.
Sansa stopped, raised her head and leaned back to sit on her haunches. Her face was flustered but her eyes flashed as she regarded the man in front of her. For a long time she said nothing.
"Clegane." Her demeanour didn't give anything away, bar the determination so obvious from her words and her tone of voice. "That applies to you too."
"My lady, I gather this exercise is some sort of pilgrimage or penance for your gods. Surely they have been assured of your intentions by now," Sandor murmured under his breath. There was a good deal more he wanted to say, but the presence of others didn't permit him to speak his mind.
Sansa looked at him long and hard. This was the first time they met face to face since that night, and Sandor flinched seeing through her eyes what a coward he had been.
"What I do is a matter for my judgment alone. None must interfere, as otherwise my efforts will be wasted."
Her voice was not angry although Sandor had expected it to be so. If anything, it resonated with sadness.
"Whatever promises have been made, they have been fulfilled by now for sure. You have shown your strength and commitment and can put aside this toil." It frustrated Sandor no end that he couldn't talk to her straight but had to resort to euphemisms and hidden meanings. If she indeed was doing this because of the few poorly chosen words he had lashed out in the heat of the moment, where did it leave him? He had said his piece, not in a million years thinking that she would actually do such a thing.
Sansa wiped her muddy hands on her thighs and shrugged her shoulders. She had leather gloves and under her woollen skirt, the hem of which was tucked under her waist, she was wearing leather breeches. At least she had had some sense in making her preparations, Sandor had to admit.
"It is not up to you to relieve me of this task. I must finish it and only then I can consider my part of the bargain to have been fulfilled. After that it is a matter for the other party to fulfil theirs."
"Gods, you mean?" Sandor couldn't help the tinge of sarcasm creeping into his voice.
Sansa looked at him again, craning her neck in doing so.
"The one who demanded this of me."
Lysandra had followed their interaction and, gathering that her mistress was not to be dissuaded from her folly even by the man who held her lady's trust more than any other, pushed forward.
"My lady, would you care for a drink?" She proffered a skin towards her and Sansa acquiesced, gulping down a few mouthfuls of the liquid. She returned the vessel back to the woman with hushed thanks, stretched her back and sighing out loud, settled back to her task. One stride, then another and another. It was slow and tedious, but she made progress.
For the first time Sandor paid attention to their surroundings, noticing a small clearing on the left and a large boulder almost protruding onto the path. He had ridden this route dozens of times and estimated them to be about halfway to Wintertown. Considering the slow pace he figured that it was to be at least another hour before the journey was done. He swallowed hard and glanced at Sansa, then at his horse who had remained a few steps behind him as a well-trained war-mount is supposed to do. His fingers twitched and he spat on the ground, swaying undecidedly on the spot. He wanted to lean down and grab Sansa by the waist, lift her up onto Stranger's back and gallop back to the keep – even if it meant taking her against her will, kicking and screaming if it came to that. Fuck!
The crowd moved forward following their lady, leaving a respectable gap around Sandor but passing him by nonetheless. The lords had taken up their positions in the front row, the men-at-arms on the flanks, and soon Sandor found himself standing alone in the middle of the path. Stranger moved closer and nuzzled his shoulder as if to ask him 'what next'.
He had rarely felt as powerless as he did now. There was absolutely nothing he could do to save Sansa from the gruelling task against her will - and even less to get rid of his own guilt. He didn't doubt the sincerity of Sansa's threats. The cells of Winterfell were mostly empty but a few haggard souls were dragged there from time to time for their crimes, and the keep still had a jail master on its books. Not that the thought of being thrown there bothered him - he couldn't have cared less. No, it was the knowledge that if he took her away he would once more act contrary to Sansa's specific wishes, no matter how nonsensical they were. He had insulted her enough already. Too bloody much.
Sandor took a deep breath that made his whole body shudder and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. His anger and frustration returned, aimed at what or whom, he didn't know or care. Once again he had succeeded in hurting the one person he wanted to protect, this time even physically, and the bitterness of it was a sour brew to swallow. For a long time he stood there not knowing what to do or where to go until a gentle nudge from Stranger woke him from his numbness. Fuck, I have to try. Try harder.
A quick march saw him catching up with the crowd and again he pushed through the villagers until he was next to Sansa. This time she didn't stop although she must have sensed his presence from the silence that fell around them and from the hushed whispers of Hound and Clegane.
"You mob, stay back!" Sandor barked at the people who were more than willing to move away from the wild-faced warrior. "You too," he growled, addressing Lords Umber and Karstark. They glared at him but apparently concluding that if anyone was able to persuade their lady to give up her undignified task, it was more likely to be her dog than them. Slowing their stride they, too, fell behind.
Lysandra was the only one not fazed by Sandor's actions and stubbornly remained by her lady's side, but even she shrank when Sandor's glare fell on her. A subtle nod from Sansa, who by now had looked up to see the commotion, released her from her duty and with what looked like an expression of extreme relief she fell back. That left only Sansa and Sandor at the front of the procession.
During all this Sansa had not slowed her pace, advancing slowly but surely on the well-worn path. Her movements were measured and steady; first lifting up one hand and leg on the opposite sides, stretching them forward and landing on the ground at a same time, followed by the same motion on the other side. Hand-knee, hand-knee, hand-knee. She carried her body and head low and Sandor's experienced eye appreciated the economy of her gait. No useless flailing or energy wasting lifting of her head. Only every ten paces or so she raised her eyes to quickly assert that her direction was still true, otherwise keeping them on the ground.
Despite the modicum of privacy they had been afforded by Sandor's actions - albeit still in front of the eyes of many - Sandor suddenly was at loss of what to do next. Just moments before he had frothed over things he wanted to say to Sansa, and now that he had a chance his mind was completely blank.
For a while they continued in silence, Sandor's eyes glued to Sansa's every movement as if he could lighten her load by simply willing it. Hand-knee, hand-knee, hand-knee. He saw her furrowed brow and how she flinched, however slightly, every time when she placed her left knee on the ground. It left him exasperated and the ghosts of the old wound on his thigh throbbed. She is doing this for you, you fucking idiot! You don't deserve this, nor her. Never did.
"What the fuck is this really about, little bird?" he finally grunted, hoping against hope that she was indeed fulfilling a promise made to gods; maybe repentance for her childish action of telling Cersei about her father's plans. Although it seemed like a lifetime ago, Sandor knew that she still blamed herself for her father's fate. It didn't matter that he had told her over and over again that there was no way that Lannister bitch would have left the righteous Lord Eddard in peace, with or without her involvement.
"Why do you ask? You know it better than anyone." Sansa's constrained tone didn't betray anything about how she felt.
"If this is about what I said the other night – gods, woman, you know they were just thoughtless words! I didn't mean any of it, surely you realised that."
"You mean you lied to me? You told me something that wasn't true, made me a promise you had no intention of keeping?"
Sandor felt cornered and hissed. "Bloody hells! Since when have you taken my curses seriously?! You are not a silly girl anymore. If you ever were," he muttered almost as an afterthought.
Sansa just trudged forward, ignoring him. She didn't notice a sharp-edged stone that was hidden under the otherwise smooth surface, worn fine under the frequent traffic between the two places. When it pierced through her glove she couldn't restrain an involuntarily yelp. Sandor stepped up in readiness but even the fiercest fighter could do nothing to pebbles and stones.
"Can't you see what nonsense this is? You will never last the whole way! Look at you, your gloves are already failing you, and I can't even imagine what state your pretty knees will be in at the end of this!" Sandor knew that he was being unreasonable but couldn't help himself. If he could rouse her spirit and get her angry enough to interrupt her mission, that would be good enough for him.
Once more he received only cold silence as a response. Hand-knee, hand-knee, hand-knee. Finally Sansa spoke, not averting her eyes from the dirt.
"This is all I have. You come to me in the darkness of night and tell me that you are leaving, giving me no chance to talk it over with you. You allow me no influence whatsoever over a decision that affects both of us. Who was it who always told me that I deserve more than being held as a pawn without a say in my own life? I thought it was you but here you are, doing the very same thing to me. How can you!?" Her voice broke for a second but from anger rather than sorrow.
Sandor had no response to that, nothing but the burning guilt in his innards. What Sansa said was absolutely true – he had made his decision on his own and made her face it as a foregone conclusion. Suddenly he recognised that in that he had been as bad as Joffrey, Cersei or fucking Littlefinger.
"You gave me no chance to have input on your decision. Worse - afterwards you just left and stayed away, like the craven people sometimes called you. You told me you didn't care about what people think, but I imagined I was worth more than that to you."
Hand-knee, hand-knee, hand-knee. Sandor had assumed he was to be the one to do the chastising but instead ended up on the receiving end instead. Even worse, he had no defence whatsoever from the harsh truth Sansa laid out.
He scowled at the few eager followers who had crept too close and hastily they retreated back again. For good measure, and to gather some time, Sandor turned around with a hand on the hilt of his sword and scanned the crowd menacingly. Immediately it retreated like a flock of sheep when faced with a bad-tempered sheepdog.
"So this is my last recourse. You said you will reconsider your decision if I crawl from Winterfell to Wintertown and that's what I am doing. Nothing more and nothing less. I expect you to keep your end of the bargain after I have kept mine." Sansa's words were absurdly matter-of-fact, like she was speaking of a routine arrangement undertaken between the lady of the keep and her retainer.
Once when Sandor had been a brash youth, newly grown in size, strength and skill, he had been able to beat any man in Casterly Rock in a fight bar his brother, whom he had refused to go against in a mock battle. He had been proud about the one thing he had over the others – until one day the Lannisters had had visitors from Storm's End. Among them had been an old soldier, unremarkable looking and of average size. When he had taken Sandor on in practice and beaten him soundly in any way imaginable over and over again, Sandor finally had had to swallow the bitter pill of defeat. Only once though - it hadn't happened again since then. Until now.
Sandor was not stupid and he knew when he had been overpowered. Nor was he too proud to admit it - he was hardly in a position to be. So accepting this reality he took a few long steps and turned to face Sansa, kneeling in front of her so that she was forced to stop lest she collide with him. She raised her head and without waiting for her next words Sandor took hold of her shoulders – as gently as he could but still forcing her to sit back.
"You have won, little bird. Fair and square, you took me at my word and I am true to them. I will reconsider my decision, and you will have your say and I will listen to you."
Sansa sat back on her haunches but her body still leaned forward, both hands resting against the ground. She studied Sandor's face but instead of the relief he had expected her features were impassive. From the corner of his eyes, Sandor saw that the crowd had stopped. A hushed silence fell over the scene, only birdsong from the distance filling the air with chirruping sounds.
"You can stop this now before you sustain more damage to yourself. You are not used to this, you don't know it yet but your body will protest against the way you are abusing it now. I know it and I want to save you from further pain. Let me take you back to the keep." He spoke in undertones and didn't care if it sounded like he was pleading. He was.
Sansa's face was streaked with sweat and dirt and for a brief moment she was again the girl Sandor had travelled with on the road; the girl who wasn't sure of her place in the world and who only clung to her need to get to the North and see if she would find it there. Wary but hopeful. Proud but kind. Young of body but mind as old as a crone who has seen a whole lifetime. Yet she was not that girl anymore; she was the Lady of Winterfell, head of House Stark, the symbol for her people, and in front of all that Sandor's gaze wavered and he bowed his head.
"It gladdens me to hear this. Still, my task is not done and I have to finish it." The blank tone of her voice was devoid of any emotion. Sandor snapped his head up, surprised.
"There is no need to finish this! I yielded, didn't you hear? You got what you wanted!"
"You set me a task and I accepted it. Do you take me for a spoiled child who stomps her foot on the ground until she gets what she wants and then stops? Do you think I will respect myself if I am so easily persuaded? Do you think my people will respect me if they see a few words from you make me abandon my quest?"
Sansa dropped down again, shaking Sandor's hands off her shoulders and pushed forward, turning slightly sideways to get past him. Seeing that the men-at-arms who had stayed on the sidelines stepped forward, swords half-way lifted from their scabbards. They looked apprehensive, warily eyeing Sandor, but it was clear that whatever their misgivings were about facing a warrior of Sandor's stature in open conflict, they were determined to do their lady's bidding.
"My lady?" one of them croaked, removing his eyes momentarily from Sandor to look at Sansa.
"No need. I am not stopping her." Sandor stood up and stepped aside, lifting his arms in the air in an age-old gesture of surrender. Relief was visible in the faces of the men and they retreated back to their places, tension visibly being lifted off them.
Sansa continued on and admitting his defeat – total and utter – Sandor snapped back to action. There must be something he could do without incurring Sansa's displeasure.
"You there!" he shouted at the three young men leading horses at the back of the procession. "Ride to Wintertown and get some brooms and bring them here. Hurry!" The men blinked, looked at the soldiers whose horses they were holding, but before waiting to get approval the fastest was already on horseback. A few seconds later all of them were racing forward.
"You lot, don't just gawk there! Walk ahead and pick the stones away from the path!" It was a testament to Sandor's standing that without hesitation the people surged forward and started to sweep the path with their hands and feet, crouching over the surface and picking up pebbles and throwing them onto the roadside. The path turned swiftly to a hive of activity and Sandor and the soldiers had to start controlling the crowd so they would in their eagerness allow Sansa's progress to continue uninterrupted.
Sandor saw a big man in the crowd, whose broad shoulders and sooty face suggested he might be a smith, and asked if he had by any chance a smith's sturdy gloves on him. As it turned out he had, hanging from his belt, but when they were offered to Sansa they turned out to be much too large for her dainty hands. With regret Sandor returned them to the man, but after the exchange another villager came forward with another pair of leather gloves. They also were too large, but not so much, and after tying them tight from the wrists they at least stayed in Sansa's hands without offering too much hindrance. Sansa smiled at him then, a subtle smile that hardly reached the corners of her mouth, but it was there, the first time she showed any reaction at all and Sandor was grateful for that.
Soon the men with the brooms returned and after that there was no lack of volunteers sweeping the path – some men even brawled over who had the honour.
And so it was that Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, head of House Stark, completed the journey that was to remain in the folklore of the North for time immemorial, surrounded by an ever expanding crowd and flanked by her soldiers and two of her lords - and her dog. For years afterwards those who were present were heard boasting about it and sharing stories about how brave their lady had been, how determined and how committed.
Sandor walked on Sansa's right side, Lysandra on her left, until they arrived at their destination. He respected Sansa's wishes and didn't intervene further, only ensuring her smooth progress as much as possible. An exchange with Lysandra revealed to him that what came after had also been considered; a carriage was waiting for Sansa in Wintertown ready to whisk her back to the keep, where the maids had been instructed to draw a hot bath in her rooms and be ready with ointments and herbal remedies to nurse the inevitable welts and scrapes. A nourishing hot meal was to be sent to her as soon as she was done with the bath. Sandor grunted his approval at all this. It was clear that Sansa had put some thought into this. When had she started planning? If he hadn't been such a coward and had stayed in the keep these last few days, would she have told him about it?
These and many more questions weighed heavily on Sandor's mind but there was nothing he could do to get the answers. Not now. Maybe later. There was going to be an encounter between them and it was bound to be difficult. He released his breath, hissing silently while thinking about it. What could he say? Nothing had changed, there was nothing that would be able to turn the situation around. Yet he owed it to Sansa to go through the facts and the reality of the circumstances. He didn't cherish the prospect or the upcoming discussion but he had to face it like a man.
Being honest, Sandor had to admit that his biggest fear was that he wouldn't be able stand his ground but would acquiesce to stay and suffer. Nonetheless - he squared his shoulders as if readying to face an invisible foe – if that was to be, if that would make Sansa happy, he would do just that. Didn't matter what he wanted. If she was absolutely sure and couldn't be persuaded by reason, that would be it then.
"We are here; look, the first houses of Wintertown. Isn't this enough?"
Indeed, the first signs of the settlement greeted them. Sansa glanced up but didn't slow down. Her progress had become slower and slower as they progressed and it was obvious that muscles in her legs and arms were hurting and her knees were mightily sore. Every now and then she stopped to stretch her back and roll her shoulders. A few times Lysandra had massaged them and Sandor's fingers had itched to push her aside and take care of Sansa himself, but he had refrained and only waited patiently until she was ready to continue.
"In the middle of the village, when I reach the well. Then I will stop."
Sandor was tempted to argue the matter and point out to her that technically being at the outskirts of Wintertown could be construed to be in Wintertown. However, guessing the futility of such effort he held his tongue and followed Sansa with no further argument.
Finally – finally – the procession reached the old well. The brick-lined structure had become the centre of the village's activities and Sandor could see why Sansa had set her goal there. The last few strides, the last few steps, and Sansa reached the wooden platform built around it. Sandor scrutinised her intently and saw how her features relaxed and the deep furrow between her eyebrows smoothed. Did he just imagine it or did a coy smile flash on her face?
Sansa climbed up, not to her feet but to sit on the edge of the platform. Lysandra offered her a drink and she accepted it and drank deeply, wiping her mouth with her sleeve after finishing. The crowd had stopped in front of her, having grown even bigger after they had entered the village; mostly children and old folk who hadn't been able to join it on the road. They looked at Sansa expectedly and despite some hushed conversations, stayed mostly silent.
For a terrified fleeting moment Sandor wondered if Sansa was going to reveal to all and sundry the real reason for her undertaking. From what he had overheard, people firmly believed it to be one of two things; a promise made to the old gods to thank them for her safe return, or an act meant to honour her dead kin. He knew that the old gods were not routinely appeased with acts or offerings, the ancient religion being simple and mostly private. No magnificent cathedrals or even modest village temples were built in the North – Godswoods were enough and there was no need to raise statues or light candles or do any of the damned things other religions required. Sandor had found that much to his liking – better than the endless droning to the Seven he had endured at the Quiet Isle. True, he had made his peace with the Southern gods and gained a new appreciation of the solace religion could give to some people, but he had never personally been as affected as the rest of the brethren.
When he watched Sansa scanning the crowd, recognising that she was expected to address them, Sandor was consoled by his trust in Sansa; she would do the sensible thing and keep her reasons to herself.
"Dear people of Wintertown, Winterfell and the North. I thank you for the help and support you gave me on my journey. I understand that many of you wonder why I did what I did, and I wish I could disclose it to you. Nonetheless, some matters are so private that they can't be shared, even with those one trusts and respects and loves. All I can say is that this was about a promise – a promise that was important to me." Her voice was clear and loud although Sandor could hear the strain in it, a slight vibration and the way her sentences ended at a lower note. She glanced at Sandor when she spoke the words about promise, but so fleetingly that he registered it only because he was paying such keen attention to her.
The crowd cheered at her speech and calls for "Good lady Sansa!", "Blood of the wolf!", "To the old gods!" were shouted. Sansa raised her arms and their slight shaking told Sandor's expert eye that she was on the brink of collapsing. Fuck this!
Sandor stepped up to her and whistled Stranger as he did. His horse had followed him obediently at the edge of the crowd, away from people and other horses, but hearing his call immediately trotted to him.
"You have done enough, even you must admit that your task is done properly and fairly. Now I'll take you home. Don't even think about calling soldiers to stop me – I don't fancy killing or maiming your own men, but I'll do it if I have to," he rasped and grabbed Sansa by the waist. Too surprised – and possibly too tired – to resist, she didn't fight but allowed Sandor to lift her onto Stranger's back. Lysandra let out a surprised squeak but before anyone else had time to react Sandor mounted, positioning Sansa sideways in front of him.
"I'll take her back, it'll be quicker than the cart," he shouted at nobody in particular while turning his horse around on the spot, guiding him with his knees. Seconds later they had pushed through the crowd which readily parted in front of them.
Having reached an open space, Sandor urged Stranger to a steady gait. Sansa hadn't said a word but he felt how she gradually relaxed and leaned closer to him. It might have been more for securing her seating in the saddle than for anything else but he was grateful for it nonetheless. Things were not easy between them; too much had happened since the night when he had fucked it all up, so Sandor tried not to read anything into the way Sansa wrapped her arm around his waist and rested her head against his chest.
"There'll be a hot bath waiting for you. And food. And ointments and other such things. But you already knew that, of course, having organised it all." Sandor knew he was blabbering but he wanted to break through to her somehow. Strange that – normally he had no difficulties with silence, but now the quiet between them was filled with undercurrents of unresolved tension and it ate at his nerves.
Sandor allowed his fingers to feel her round shoulder, pressing lightly and stroking it almost imperceptibly. It felt almost as if he had never done that before, never touched her, never shared her bed, never been intimate with her... He pressed his face against the crown of Sansa's head taking in her scent. If she noticed or minded she didn't indicate it – she still hadn't said a word to him
When the walls of Winterfell came in sight Sandor reluctantly loosened his hold. Before reaching the gate he pushed a thick strand of hair away from Sansa's ear and muttered into it, "I am a man of my word and I will meet with you whenever you want. Just say the word." Uncertainty crept into his heart. Maybe she didn't want him in her rooms anymore? After the last time…
"If you would rather that we meet somewhere else, I understand," he continued, trying to act as if it didn't matter to him where they met.
His doubts didn't make any sense to him; if she had gone through all this because she wanted him to reconsider his decision to leave, surely that meant that she wanted him to stay? Despite that her calm and confidence unnerved Sandor. When he had said those terrible words he had jeered at her for crawling in front of a man; told her that she should never abase herself for a dog. Well, she had done it and he was the one who had been humiliated, not her. Sansa was stronger than he was, Sandor could see it now, and he wondered whether she too had realised it and had decided that she was better off without him after all.
"Tomorrow night." At first he was unsure if he had heard it right; just two words, scarcely more than a sigh.
"Did you say tomorrow night? You'll be too sore, I'll wager. Tired and sore. Believe me, I know what sudden exercise does to an unaccustomed body, little bird." Sandor wondered if he was still allowed to use her pet name. Was he being too familiar? Would Lady Sansa Stark scoff at him for such behaviour?
"I'll rest plenty tonight. I don't have any other plans to keep me busy and there is a lot I need to tell you." Sansa's voice was tired and achingly familiar to Sandor – this was how she had sometimes sounded when he had pushed her relentlessly ahead on their journey. When he peeked down his suspicions were confirmed by Sansa's heavy eyelids and yawning. A swell of protectiveness welled in his chest, a desire to hold and carry her, remove all obstacles from her way as he had helped to remove the stones that threatened to hurt her soft hands. Without realising it Sandor curled his arm tighter around her and pressed her closer.
"If you say so. I'll be there tomorrow evening after the lights go down – and I will not leave the keep during the day." One more brush with his lips on her tresses so faintly that she wouldn't notice and Sandor straightened his stance.
Tomorrow, little bird.