As much as he enjoyed lounging in bed with Sansa, when morning came, Sandor figured it was time he got up and see about the goings on of the keep. Pulling back the heavy woolen curtains, Sandor watched as the sunlight illuminated golden bands across the greatbear pelts lining the granite floor. The morning was bright and crisp and yet no longer chilled him to the bone, and having spent the better part of his youth in the sweaty, dirty streets of King's Landing, Sandor appreciated the colder northern climate. The chirping of the snow shrikes and robins called to him; Sansa however, still remained asleep, and so Sandor tried to move about quietly as he bathed and dressed for the day.
Sandor decided to go the stables and mull over his conversation with Sansa as he worked. She had listened attentively when he told her about Elia, nodding and squeezing his hands to convey her sympathy rather than relying on words alone. Sandor felt somewhat better, and was secretly pleased when he saw a flash of jealousy in her eyes as he described the Dornish girl's beauty.
"Would you like to try to find her, Sandor? No doubt it would ease your mind to speak to Elia of this after carrying it with you for so long," Sansa offered quietly while keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the finger tracing his knuckles with care. "We could send a raven to Myrcella and Trystane, or perhaps Varys' little birds or Arya could be of use in this regard. I am certain we could find her. What say you?"
Sandor huffed quietly. "Silly little bird," he tisked, not ungently, the man blunting his harshness in his voice by planting a kiss on her forehead. "It would be on a fool's errand that I would be sending them. The woman is at least ten years my elder, lass; if she somehow managed to survive the war and the winter, she would be very old by now and not like to remember me."
"That may very well be true, but what could it hurt to try just the same?" Sansa took his hands into her own. "As a woman, I can say with a certainty that if she is indeed alive, she has not forgotten the little boy you once were. It would make her happy to see you as you are now; say you will consider it."
Sniffing heavily, Sandor finally shook his head and tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. "Leave it alone, Sansa. No contacting the Martells behind my back, either. Swear it." He pinched her chin lightly to drive home his point.
"As it pleases you," Sansa replied softly, caressing his face as she spoke. It did not escape his notice that she turned away without promising to do as he wished.
"I mean it, wife."
"I only ask that you will think on it for a bit rather than decide in haste." Sansa lightly ran her nails through his beard, then trailed them down to his well-defined stomach. Fuck, he was helpless to deny her when she did that, yet Sandor had no desire to stop her; he would allow her this, and enjoy himself in the process.
"Aye, lass; I will think on it," he heard himself say. All at once the room felt too small for Sandor, and so he quickly tied his tunic and made ready to leave.
"Are you going out to the stables?" Sansa nonchalantly asked, though Sandor knew full well the shift in his mood did not escape her notice.
"I am." He buckled his belt, refusing to look at her. "Time I made a showing so those lazy stable boys keep up with the animals."
Sansa tenderly cupped his cheek and kissed him soundly. "Place this in his stall for me," she handed him a prayer wheel featuring apples and oats interwoven with hay. "It will make him happy."
Not long after they arrived North, Sandor decided to put Stranger out to pasture, and the old man sired more than his share of progeny before he succumbed to age and infirmity. For man moons he had been content to keep to his stall. Maester Tarly provided Sandor with plenty of blankets and droughts for his aches, and when the time came, to peacefully send him into the afterlife. Sandor could not bear to order the death of his old mount and so Sansa took the initiative for him.
Afterward she commanded his stall be kept for him just as it had when he was alive. Also, she insisted Stranger be buried beside Lady and had a stone statue erected in his honor there. Once a week, his devoted wife offered prayers at Stranger's gravesite, just as she did that of her beloved direwolf, and often left treats for each animal. "They will find them in the afterlife, Sandor, and they will each know we have not forgotten them. Hopefully they will choose to reunite with us there."
The stables of Winterfell seemed empty without the trumpeting and kicking of Stranger, and it was with a heavy heart that he went inside. Though Sansa's beliefs seemed foolish to him, Sandor also found her devotion to his former mount quite moving, and so he obliged her without comment.
After he saw to the chores, placed the prayer wheel in Stranger's stall and bawled out a few stable boys for good measure, he decided he would go into Wintertown,. He needed to exercise his new warhorse Sansa had given him for his nameday, for the animal pranced and trumpeted, desperately needing to stretch his legs after a day spent in the stall. Black as night and as violent as he namesake, the animal's behavior left little doubt that Warrior was Stranger's blood for true. The stallion kicked and bit at anyone deemed too close for comfort, and it was all the man could do not to laugh outright whenever he took him out. Only Sansa had managed to charm the beast, just as she had his sire.
"Careful, milord," the boy nervously warned as he handed Sandor the reigns. "He's in a particular black temper this morn."
Sandor chuckled to himself as he easily mounted the animal, who, also like his sire, was as gentle as an old gelding with his master. "Might be I am, too. He knows it, which is why he leaves me be. Others around here would do well to follow his lead."
The boy turned away nervously before getting back to his chores, his behavior earning a sharp chuckle from the man. Out of the corner of his eye, Sandor spotted a small girl nervously peeking out from behind a bale of hay.
"That one over there your sister?" Sandor nodded her way.
"No milord; I've not seen her around the stables before."
For reasons unknown to him, ever since he and Sansa returned to Winterfell, many of the children of the servants often took to slithering about and spying on him as he worked. It both equally amused and annoyed Sandor; but there was no harm in it and a gruff word was usually all that was needed to send them scurrying back to their family abode. Sighing heavily, Sandor tried to ignore her as he reigned in Warrior.
This child, though, seemed different-familiar even, to Sandor. A wild mess of auburn curls spilled down her back, dwarfing her small frame with its volume and weight. Deep twinkling blue eyes bashfully gazed at him from behind a deeply furrowed red brow while she twisted the strings of her apron, anxiously waiting for him to address her. Sandor could not place who it was the child reminded him of, so he stared at her long and hard without speaking. Instead of running away, she smiled at him while looking him straight in the face and levelling meeting his gaze, something precious few people did.
"How do, milord?"
"Well thank you." Fuck, he had to see what she wanted. As Sandor got down from his horse, he waved her closer and it was then that the man recognized her as the oldest daughter of an ailing smallfolk woman Sansa had tended a sennight before.
"Beg pardons, milord." The mite whispered shyly as she drew circles in the dirt with her toe. "I wish to speak to ye, if it pleases ye."
The lass favored his daughter Catya at the same age to such an extent that Sandor felt compelled to address her, but it was not Catya that the child brought to mind when he knelt down and stared into her clear blue eyes. When Sandor waved at her to draw closer still, she happily moved toward him of her own accord, the child seemingly fearless in the face of her lord's scarred countenance.
"A word, please, milord?"
The burned side of Sandor's mouth twitched into a grin. "A word then, lass. Come here now and tell me straight. I needs exercise my horse and it's too cold for you to be out here without a coat."
"I ain't got one. Anyhow, I came to see you, milord, if you please." She hurriedly explained. "I knew I'd have to come right early if I wanted to catch you in between chores." Leaning closer, she whispered conspiratorially. "Me Ma don't know I'm here."
"Oh?" He was most certain the mother did not know she was there, for neither he nor Sansa would ever let such a young child near the horses unattended. "Did she tell you not to come here?"
Shaking her head, she held her fingers to her lips to indicate she wanted his silence, and Sandor choked down the laugh in his throat. Gesturing to an old book about knights Sansa had given him as a jest, the child then added, "You know your letters?"
"Aye," Sandor nodded, glancing down at the article in question, the man having entirely forgotten he was still carrying it in his pouch. "My sister taught me."
"Mine can't talk yet. I'm the oldest. I'd like to teach the youngers how to know their letters."
The child wasn't exactly highborn but not entirely smallfolk, either; Sandor could tell by the way she spoke and carried herself. Glancing about, he looked for her parents once again. She certainly didn't come here solely to make conversation with him.
"What are you called, lass?"
"Mavelle; it means 'bird'."
The girl's words strummed a memory for Sandor, one he could not fully recollect and yet it brought with it a thick knot that settled into his throat as he opened his mouth to speak. "Tell me now, Mavelle, what business do you have with me?" He coughed out. "Is this about my lady wife? Speak up, tell me truly and make haste."
Undaunted by his gruff manner, the young girl nodded shyly. "I went up to them moors at the dawn's first light and picked you a bouquet of the nicest wildflowers for her. Do you like wildflowers, ser?"
"Not usually, but from you, might be I would," Sandor rasped softly, wishing he could make his voice gentler so as not to frighten her. She had taken a big risk approaching him, the brave girl, and once more, her words recalled more details of his childhood memory, one of the few pleasant ones he had. "I remember you now; your Mother was ill and my lady wife took care of her."
She smiled broadly and moved closer still. "T'is good of you to remember, milord. And I'll not forget the way your lady took care of me Mother, treatin' her like she was her own kin, you best believe that! She's much better now and soon will get along fine without me. I'll work real hard for you and your lady as soon as you needs me-that is, if you'll have me; I swear it on the old gods."
"When you're old enough, aye, I'll find a place for you in my household." Sandor agreed, his throat inexplicably tightening further. "But when you're older, lass. Don't go appealing to my wife now, either; she'll agree with me. You needs stay with your father and mother a while yet."
"Yes, milord. I'll look eager for the day you say I can serve ye."
Sandor has always despised lords, and never sought out titles for himself; yet Rickon had given him lordship just the same after the Battle for the Dawn. The thought of such a delicate child wanting to serve him, a lowly dog, pained him deeply. Hastily changing the subject, Sandor asked, "Has my lady taught you to read in the classes in Wintertown? Or did your mother?"
"No, ser, me Ma didn't teach me. I can't go to school until the little ones are walking good, so I only know a few letters from the highborn childer who help me."
Sandor sighed heavily; the lass deserved a better life than the one she was journeying toward: a life of hardship, of pain and hard labor seldom rewarded in the service of her betters.
Shaken from his thoughts by Warrior's nickering, Sandor offered, "I'll give the flowers to her for you, if you like. Sure you wouldn't rather do it yourself, lass?"
When Mavelle wavered between wanting to go with him and keeping her place, Sandor knelt down in front of her. "I'll take you to her and we'll see to it that you learn your letters besides, maybe find someone to help your Mother with the little ones-what say you to that?"
Eagerly, the young girl nodded; and in her excitement, she leaned in and touched the burned side of his face while placing a feather light kiss on the other, her tiny fingers grasping the short hairs of his beard as she did so. "Oh, yes ser, thank ye kindly! I'd very much like both!"
Though her actions delighted him, Sandor inadvertently shuddered under her innocent touch, for it brought the full remembrance of another young redheaded maiden, the first to cup his face and kiss him: her name was Adaryn, and the memory of her suddenly overwhelmed his senses with a sea of emotion. Gently Sandor put his arms around her small shoulders as he thought back to his childhood.
Despite the village's collective fear of Gregor, one and all came to offer condolences after his mother and sister died in rapid and suspicious succession. Gentle and kind, Elinor had made it her goal to make up for the mistreatment the common people received at the hands of Gregor and been a favorite among young and old alike. His father stood by his side, wooden, unmoving, while Gregor did not even bother to attend. It had been better that way but exhausting just the same to receive their people; despite this, Sandor wanted to honor Elinor's training, and so he dutifully helped his father accept words of comfort, prayers and gifts of food meant to lessen the bitterness of grief and sudden loss.
All day they stood in the main hall, as was the customary grieving ceremony in the Westerlands. The septons approached first with grandiose words, pompous airs while the sickening scent of incense billowed from their robes as they moved about the crowd. Then came those of higher standing, followed by those with lesser means, and finally, the servants and poorest among them were allowed to approach.
It was monotonous for a boy just past his twelfth nameday, but determined to honor the courtesies Elinor instilled in him, Sandor meekly submitted to the rite. Dumbly he responded to the many wishes of "Seven blessing on you and yours," and "May the Seven bless and keep you" with "Many thanks" and "And to you" just as Elinor had taught him, just as he had heard her say so many times before she died, no, before Gregormurdered her.
The process soon became trialsome for Sandor, even beyond the struggle of maintaining courtesy despite his crushing grief, for most everyone shied away from his appearance, choosing instead to look away or all but ignore him. He knew he looked hideous; Gregor never missed an opportunity to point it out, but much to his chagrin, Sandor noticed that on this day, his scars looked even worse than usual. In his anguish, he had wept inconsolably, and the combination of the constant salty wetness on his tear soaked cheeks and the twisting of his features caused his facial scarring to crack open and bleed anew while the exposed portion of burned ear also began oozing profusely.
Without his sister and mother, Sandor had no one to tend his scarring, provide ointments or treat the places he could not see in the mirror, and so soon his disfigurement became infected, and thus looked and felt far worse than before. Sandor remembered wishing he could disappear, that he could change his face in the way of the Braavosi Faceless Men as he stood there in front the gathered crowd.
The septons were worst of all, for they knew the truth behind his scarring and yet judiciously made the sign of the Seven over Gregor's empty place beside his father just the same. The men then carefully avoided looking at him while waving burning incense in front of his face and muttering their empty prayers to the Mother. The fear he felt at having smoke so close to his face paired with the emptiness of their words brought the simmering rage Sandor had spent the day choking down to a full boil.
Just as Sandor reached his limit, the very last family approached. Ragged and thin, it was apparent they nevertheless had cleaned up to the best of their ability and put on their neatest garments before journeying to Clegane Keep. The father, a thin man whose face reminded Sandor of a ferret the neighbor boy kept as a pet, spoke in soft tones close to his own sire's ear, his words going unheard by Sandor. When the children shrunk away at his appearance, Sandor malevolently stared them down for a bit, then decided that since the absence of their mother suggested their own recent loss, he would oblige them by turning away.
As Sandor slinked behind a tree in the outer courtyard, a small girl reached out and touched his hand. "Hi," she shyly smiled at him. "I'm named Adaryn. It means 'bird' in the Old tongue. What's yours?"
He didn't know of which old tongue she spoke, but Sandor refrained from asking, merely wishing she would go away. He stared at her right in the eyes, waiting for her to run away as the others had. But she only continued to smile at him brightly, the tiny creature seemingly nonplussed by his scarred face.
"Don't you have a name? It's not nice not to tell your name when others do."
"Sandor Clegane," he rasped out quietly, moving away from her. "You ought to hold your tongue and don't let my brother hear you. Don't you know you're in my father's keep?"
"Aye, that I do," Adaryn shrugged as she fumbled behind her. "I brought you these." She placed a small bunch of flowers in his hands. "They's winter roses."
There was not a rose among her offering, but Sandor liked the way she looked straight at him and spoke what she thought, and so he let that minor detail pass.
"You like flowers?" She queried when his silence became too much for her.
"From you, I guess I do," Sandor sneered at her, the young man equally intrigued and puzzled by her wild red hair, direct gaze and straightforward behavior not often seen among his people. "Why'd you bring these for me? I'm no woman."
"You'll be missin' your Ma, that's why," Adaryn's mouth turned down sadly as she spoke. "Like I been missin' mine for a year on now. Flowers help."
That caught his attention. "Your mother's dead too?"
"Aye," she nodded. "It hurts awful even for a big boy, though I reckon not your elder kin."
Staring toward the keep, Sandor gave a short nod of agreement before answering, when suddenly he felt her tiny hand cupping his cheek. "Big boys got tears in 'em, same as us little ones. Didn't you have 'em when you burned?"
"Yes," he nodded. "My brother…he did it." Sandor had no idea why he let such a thing slip out, and he regretted it the moment the words left his mouth. "If you ever tell anyone, I'll kill you." He halfheartedly growled at her.
Adaryn's eyes widened slightly but the girl moved closer still. "It's worse than I figured. You'll be needing this, too, mark my words," she urged his head down and lightly placed a small kiss just below his burned ear. "My greatma gives 'em to me; they seem to help with the hardest of it."
Moved to tears, Sandor could not feel her fingers beneath the leathery flesh, but he had felt her warmth. The genuine concern in her young eyes moved him far more than any words the septons offered that day. More importantly, she was the first person to touch his scarred face, to treat him as a person and not a disfigured abomination the gods mysteriously spared from death.
Though simple, the gesture had a profound effect on Sandor for the rest of his life. In that singular moment, Sandor realized that Gregor's horrific cruelty wouldn't control the way everyone looked at him and Adaryn's small act of kindness planted a seed of hope in him: perhaps someday, someone would see past his scars. Perhaps that someone would likewise be a woman, one who would even grow to care for him.
Sandor Clegane never forgot the tender, simple gesture which so altered him that a similar touch, given to him by Sansa the night the Blackwater battle, was enough to recall the man he wanted to be as a boy, the man Sansa saw when she looked at him-not the Lannister dog that he was, not the drunken killer covered in blood who was holding a knife to her throat and demanding a song-but a deeply flawed, desperately lonely man who was starved for human affection.
When Sandor stared into Sansa's fathomless blue eyes that night, he saw the boy he had once been; the scarred, frightened boy who had yet to kill whatever tenderness was left in his heart, the boy that longed for the gentle touch of a woman, for understanding, for compassion. Sansa's tremulous prayer resurrected the glimmer of hope Adaryn brought into Sandor's heart that day, the long buried wish that he would find someone who cared for him. For a moment in that room alight with wildfire, Sandor wondered if perhaps Sansa Stark would be that person after all.
His tears had flown freely then, mixing with the blood and the mud that caked his face, but, like Adaryn, his appearance did not repulse Sansa either. In fact, despite his fearsome, gore stained visage and boorish behavior, she offered him kindness, cupped his cheek, ran her fingers gently through the rivulets of his scarring and sang for him. The little bird reached out, not only to his disfigured countenance, but his equally scarred soul, and she could not have given him a more valuable gift.
Sandor had struggled to tell Sansa what it had meant to him, to have her pray for him and touch his face, but in his drunken stupor his words failed him. All he could manage was to offer to take her from King's Landing, and seeing that he had only succeeded in frightening her, Sandor took his leave and left her with only his bloody cloak as a remembrance of the Hound.
Just then, Mavelle shivered in his arms, rousing Sandor from his reverie. A light snow had begun to fall, soaking the thin rough spun material of her gown. As he gazed at the young girl, Sandor pulled his cloak off and wrapped her up in it, offering her a smile as did so. It pleased him to see that she eagerly mirrored his expression, the child contentedly humming to herself as she settled the enormous garment around her thin frame. Suddenly he could see she realized the grave error she had committed by embracing her liege lord, and fearful both that she offended him and of the untold repercussions to follow, the child abruptly recoiled in tears.
"Beg pardons, milord, please don't be angry!" Mavelle wrung her hands, anxiously backing away from him. "I'm wont to remember my place, and me Pa wears me out over it."
Enraged, Sandor knew she had good reason to be skittish just then, for he had seen the Lannisters flog children for far less than an embrace, and it stood to reason the smallfolk would do likewise.
"Bugger that, lass. I'm not angry with you. You mustn't fear me," Sandor growled low, taking her into his arms once more. "Only a bloody coward strikes a child. I have brought forth six children and a grandbabe besides; not once have I raised my hand to any one of them and neither has my lady. I'll see to that father of yours, you best believe."
Wide-eyed, Mavelle gazed at him, unsure as to how she should proceed or if he was expecting an answer.
"Has he beaten or punished you for such in the past?" Sandor prodded gently.
"Yes. T'is only that he fears that what happened to me Ma when the former masters was here could fall upon me too." Came her whispered confession. "It's too bad to put to words."
The Boltons. It had been twenty five years since Daenerys and the remaining Starks laid waste to House Bolton and yet still the smallfolk still spoke the dreaded name in hushed whispers, as if such utterances would raise their house from the Seven hells. The old familiar rage shimmered through his blood as he regarded the child's frightened demeanor, and reaching out, Sandor stilled her wringing hands. Her mother must have been naught twelve years old at the time, of that Sandor was certain, the same age Sansa had been when Joffrey began tormenting her. It was the same age Adaryn had been when Gregor, newly knighted by none other than Prince Rhaegar Targaryen himself, slit her throat with his jeweled blade because she refused to curtsey to him.
"You burnt your own kin! Only the Seven knowd why the prince knighted you! Monsters, the both of you!" Sandor heard her shout just before Gregor's blade came across her neck. "You'll burn in the Seven hells for this!" It took Sandor's father as well as the two blacksmith's in retainer at Clegane Keep to restrain him from killing Gregor that day, after which Sandor left home, never to return.
Adaryn had been bold, fearless even, just as Mavelle was, but Sandor knew the folly of it in the world they lived in. It sent burning bile into Sandor's throat, but just as he so often did with Sansa, he schooled his face into a passive expression. "Come now, dry your face. We're off to see my lady and she will scold me for scaring you when she sees your tears."
Wide eyed, she stared at him but went about rubbing her dirty sleeve over her cheeks as Sandor nested Mavelle into the crook of his arm and carried her to Sansa. "I'm not scared of you."
"I can see that, lass." Sandor would also see to it that this child would have her chance where Adaryn did not. His efforts at teaching maidens the dangers of life had admittedly mixed results, and so Sandor decided he would leave her education to Sansa.
"Will your lady teach me letters?" Mavelle asked hopefully as they drew near the family rooms.
"Aye she will, and she'll see to it you get all the proper schooling you need, you and yours. You have my word, child. No more tears now; I hear my lady within."
Happily the child wriggled in his arms until Sansa, smiling knowingly at her husband, eagerly ushered her inside. "You and your soft spot for little red haired girls," She whispered against his mouth as she greeted him.
"Bugger that, little bird." Sandor growled for good measure as both his wife and the girl to burst into hearty laughter. He was halfway to Wintertown when the smile curling his lips finally faded.