A/N: I decided to post the final two chapters in one go. I had no idea what kind of Christmas song Sandor would like or want to hear, so I went with something he might've remembered fondly from his childhood
All rights belong to George R.R. Martin
2.
He snorted. A sound that tugged Sansa back to a time she'd rather leave behind her forever.
"Still a little bird, are you?" he said, his eyes glittering, crossing his arms. "Well, what have you on offer?"
Margaery had also inherited a fine-tuned sense of situation assessment from her infamous grandmother, and cut in at the right moment to give Sandor a run-through of their repertoire. He kept his eyes on Sansa all the same.
"…and lastly, we deliver a great version of-"
"I'll have that song," he said suddenly.
"You will?" Sansa blurted out. She was sure he would've laughed them away.
"I'm serious, little bird. 'Santa Claus is coming to town', you said. Go on. Sing."
Her friends eyed her for a reaction. She once again pulled herself together, and clapped her hands a bit too enthusiastic. "Alright then." She gestured to Margaery and Randa, starting to intone the first words of the lyrics.
"You better watch out, You better not cry
You better not pout, I'm telling you why
Santa Claus is coming to town, Santa Claus is coming to town,
Santa Claus is coming to town
He's making a list, Checking it twice;
Gonna find out who's naughty or nice.
Santa Claus is coming to town, Santa Claus is coming to town,
Santa Claus is coming to town"
"Coming to town." They ended, Sansa on a whisper. He had closed his eyes during their upbeat chanting. In the dramatic electrical light his burns seemingly looked twice as worse as she remembered. When they fell completely silent, he opened his eyes again.
Sansa felt the urge to say something. Margaery beat her to it. "That was the song," said she, and held up the silky bag.
He laughed, his rasping voice like metal-on-stone. "You don't beat around the bush, do you, girl? Let me get some cash to soothe your consciences." Margaery's smile didn't move a muscle at his jeer. He turned away from the door.
"Wait!" Randa called. "Could we maybe get something to drink, too? We're all parched. We won't be long." She understood intrinsically that Sandor would not be mollified by a puppy look, not hers anyway.
"Sure. Come in." He made a vague welcoming gesture, waving a large hand.
Margaery was the first to follow, then Myranda, then Sansa. Sandor locked the door behind her. She wanted to turn around and ask him - everything. She didn't.
They entered an interior just as unassuming as the outside had been. A modest hall with a few cloth hangers, a low cupboard on which her friends had dumped gloves and hats, an opened door from which she spied a small living room with a mangy yellow sofa and a TV. At their noise, something moved on the sofa and Sansa realized it was a dog, lifting its head. A little whine escaped the animal, but he made no move to leave his berth.
Sansa made her way further to the back of the hall, where the kitchen was. The wallpaper looked like something from the '50's, and there was a small red table with matching chairs, that would've looked in place at the local Dornish restaurant, which occupied a big chunk of the available space. Her friends stacked the money pouch and canteen unceremoniously on its gleaming surface. They had to huddle somewhat together because of the unambitious scale of the room. Sandor clumsily navigated through them to the counter, touching her arm lightly.
"I only have water, and coffee. No alcohol." Sandor Clegane said curtly, crossing his arms again and leaning back. He wore plain blue jeans and a light blue shirt. His long dark hair hid the burned side of his face. His features were just as she remembered, though lines had appeared on his forehead – on the good side - , and his eyes seemed a bit more deep-set than she could recall. He still looked like the same Hound, yet at the same time his manifestation had morphed into something altogether different. How did that happen? Her curiosity only grew. Where once an almost perpetual scowl had been etched, his face now exhibited an unfamiliar relaxation. The stormy grey hue of his eyes did not mirror a boundless anger anymore. His posture had lost most of its eternal hostility, and radiated only mild annoyance. And she was sure the twitch of the corner of his mouth belied a smile, not a growl.
Randa made a face as if she had something to say about the limited range of choice in beverage, but kept quiet, just as Margaery, who had seated herself on one of the chairs. It hit Sansa then that they were waiting for her to speak up.
"Coffee is okay for us, right?" she said quickly. Her friends voiced their agreement. The atmosphere in the kitchen was a bit tense, the kind that almost occurs naturally when strangers, or semi-strangers, are brought together.
"Good." He turned, and fumbled with a coffee maker. She could see shoulder muscles flex beneath the shirt. Still as impressive as ever. She positioned herself beside Margaery, leaning against the wall, while Randa had commandeered the remaining chair. They were throwing curious looks her way and his, and continued with their uncharacteristic quietness. She would have a lot of explaining to do, when all this was over.
Soon enough the aroma of fresh coffee wafted through the kitchen. Sandor Clegane handled it methodically, opened a cabinet and grabbed four mugs, pouring out the hot dark liquid, offering one to them in turns, and settled back in his former position with a steaming cup of his own. No one asked for sugar or milk. In the quiet, she could hear the even rhythm of his breathing.
They all held their warm mugs in between clammy hands – three of them, at least. The rest of their visit was handled with short sentences and purposive body language. That was how Sansa found herself on the porch again, brimming with questions unanswered.
"We forgot the money and the canteen on the table," Margaery noted as they refitted gloves and hats.
"I'll go get them," Sansa said hastily. "Just a moment."