Warning for Sandor's dirty thoughts ;)

CHAPTER 23

SANDOR

It was good to be on the road again, feeling the fresh air on his face, the scent of the woods, and Stranger between his legs. It was good to be marching to a fight, something he had always looked forward to, and the singular camaraderie that usually grew between the men in the days before battle. It was good that the men were oblivious to his past, and not once mentioned the Hound. It felt good, or so Sandor told himself every day. Yet the brutal truth was that deep inside him, it felt all wrong. At night, when the camp was silent and he finally lay to rest, a heavy homesickness menaced to consume him. The feeling was new to him, as were many others he had experienced during the last months. Everything he had experienced with her felt fresh and new, as if his previous life was simply a passing of blurred days, and he hadn't been truly alive until she had awoken him.

She was now in everything; in each one of his memories, impregnating his senses, collapsing his mind until he thought he couldn't ride one more mile away from her. He was aware that leading the party was the right choice and the best way he had to serve her, but the thought didn't ease him. Sandor missed her so much that knowing that he wouldn't see her for a long time, maybe never again, hurt almost in a physical way. Not that he feared death; he had been close to it so many times that it was simply like an old friend. However, recalling how she was found the day he left Castle Black without any explanation made him feel even worse.

This travel was so different from theirs; not only because of the big number of men that accompanied him and their goal, but because they had changed irrevocably; the man who was traveling south again wasn't the same that arrived at the Wall. He wasn't sure he knew who was better, although something in the way Sansa looked at him had already told him.

Every night, sleeping on the hard ground under the northern stars, he closed his eyes, caressed the seams of the wound she had sewn on his side so long ago and went over their time together over and over. If he tried hard, he could almost feel her again, lying under him or between his arms, or even feel her smooth skin under his wrecked lips. He had lost count of how many times, out of sight from the rest of the company and cock in hand, he had released himself while imagining new ways to make her moan. Sandor wondered about what kind of things she would like him to do to her. As a proper lady, she probably wouldn't tell him, so he'd have to find out by himself, testing her body inch by inch, until he learned every single one of those hidden places that would make her sigh from pleasure and squirm between his hands. And once he'd discovered them, he'd stroke, kiss and lick each one of them until he'd hear her scream his name again. He knew women had that little spot at the apex of their thighs where their pleasure was, and knew of men who enjoyed tasting women down there. Though he hadn't done such a thing before – he hadn't cared enough for any of the maids or whores he had fucked before to be concerned with their pleasure – his mouth watered at the thought of burying his face between Sansa's legs and licking that sweet spot his fingers already well knew. I bet that little pink cunt tastes luscious, as does the rest of you...

Sometimes he also fantasized with the things he'd like her to do him, and imagined her delicate fingers stroking his cock at night. With his hand over hers, the first time he'd have to teach her how he liked it to be done - slowly first, then faster and harder - and she'd feel how he grew bigger and hard as a stone; so much that her hand couldn't cover it entirely and she'd had to use the other one too, until he couldn't stand anymore and he'd come over her hands… Other times, the image of her between his legs licking his manhood disturbed and aroused him to no end; would she do that for him if he asked her to? He chuckled at the idea; even if she did it, he doubted that she could hold a cock like his with those pretty little lips of hers. He had also heard of whores who did it while they let you eat their cunts at the same time, though he had never tried it. Would you like that, little bird, to give us pleasure at the same time with our mouths; while I grab your perfect arse? How many times had he come in his breeches like a green boy while thinking of that?

But of most of the times, after finding his release, he thought of the real woman who was waiting for him. Sandor was certain she'd be worried sick for the men she had sent to battle, especially for him. However, Elder Brother had always said that he wasn't an easy man to kill, and he had no wish to visit the Seven Hells until he knew that she was finally safe. He couldn't bear the idea of her fleeing to Essos if they didn't make it. The Sansa he knew would die of sadness and longing so far from that keep she called home and the few people she could trust. There was no other option but to make her plan work and win the war. He didn't give a shit about the North or their men, neither for the wildings or the Boltons; only for her. His aim in life was her and only her; a perfectly good reason to live. And if her wish were to claim Winterfell, he'd fight to the last breath to get it. After all, that's all he had to offer her.

Sandor had also wondered many times if despite Sansa's determination to retake her family's castle she could really be happy living there again. She found strength in the memory of those stones, a sense that within those walls she might feel safe. However the Winterfell in which she grew up had died long ago. If what the northerners said was true, Bolton's bastard had burnt it and its people were scattered and slain. Sandor had seen other castles after a battle before and knew what happened in those cases; although Roose Bolton and his followers had now settled there, there would be no farmland around, the stables would house only warhorses, kennels would be emptied, the forge turned off and only soldiers and warriors frozen cold would fill their halls and chambers. Worst of all, she'd be alone. Sansa Stark, the last of her kin, walking on her own among the walls of her childhood- surrounded by ghosts. She had told him once that she wanted him to be with her, so she could call Winterfell home again. By then, Sandor hadn't fully understood those words, but maybe now he was finally hinting some of its true meaning. She feared to feel alone again, even inside Winterfell's walls, because if so, what would be left for her but an endless emptiness in her heart? She couldn't fly again, it would have to be her place because there wouldn't be any others.

Sandor wished there'd still be hope for her to be happy. He wanted to get to know the other Sansa, a confident woman who lived without either fear or need to run. How would she be if she really had a home in which to feel comfortable and protected? What things would she do? How would she dress? What would she like to eat if she had the choice? He knew that she preferred wine to beer, but knew little more of any of her true tastes. Sandor wanted to learn everything about the woman beneath the facade of courtesy and wanted her to become the woman she was always meant to be. He had already glimpsed some of this during their private moments together; in the way she looked at him when in bed, when he hugged her, or in that genuine smile he was aware she kept just for him.

However, those thoughts were left for the loneliness of the night. Daytime was for marching, for preparing the strategy for the assault of the Dreadfort. Two of the northerners that accompanied them already knew the keep. The Blackwood man said it was a strong fortress, with high thick walls and triangular merlons that looked like sharp stone teeth. Even if it was weakly garrisoned, it was difficult to take it by attack, the Ryswell confirmed after telling the story of how the King in the North Harron Stark had to siege the fortress for two years before it yielded. There were also the disturbing stories that spoke of the room below the castle were Lord Bolton hung the skin of his enemies. The wildings didn't seem intimidated by any of it. Tormund listened by the fire when they sat to talk about the coming battle and laughed at most of the men's worries.

"We have climbed the Wall and survived living death, boys! What makes you think we couldn't climb one of those stone walls you talk about? Ha! Leave that to us!"

Sandor hoped that, despite his mockery, the man was right because he feared that this was their only chance.

That night, he left their usual meeting around the campfire to take his last wineskin. They were only a day ride from the Bolton's keep, and he wanted to drink until the last drop before the fight began. While rummaging through Stranger's saddlebags, he touched something smooth and silky that he hadn't found before. Frowning, he pulled it out and inspected it carefully as it lay in his palm. It was one of Sansa's bows, the silver grey one she had worn in her braid the day she faced the northern lords at the council. He waved his hand, letting the silken fabric slide between his fingers in its entirety. It was then he saw carefully embroidered letters on the bow. "Come back to me," it read. Sandor rubbed his fingers over the careful embroidery, knowing what it meant. It was a token, something for the knight to remind him of his lady. Still believing in songs, little bird? he chuckled, as he imagined her carefully sewing the words in her room. She knew him well; he probably would have scoffed at her if she had told him about it, so she had hidden it among his belongings. He was well aware of how important that small gesture was for her and felt oddly proud that she had chosen him and no one else to wear it. Sandor wrapped the long bow on his left wrist, took the wineskin and went back with his companions. They were laughing at one of Tormund's coarse jokes and he didn't feel in the mood to join them, so he just leaned against a nearby tree and took a long pull of his wineskin. After having swallowed half the liquor, he closed his eyes. The feeling of the soft ribbon against his skin reminded him inevitably of her own skin against his, and the distance that kept them apart hurt again for the thousandth time. This is a bloody mistake that leads us nowhere… People like me don't deserve a happy life, so why in the seven hells did you choose me girl? But he knew he had also chosen her and that the bond they shared was already as unbreakable as the piece of cloth he wore now on his wrist.

"Come on Clegane! Stop thinking of m'lady and share that fucking wine with us!" Tormund's mocking voice took him abruptly out of his thoughts and his hand went instinctively to his sword's pommel, "Easy man! I'm just joking!"

Sandor tossed him the wineskin and the wilding gave it a gulp before wiping his lips with the back of his hand. "Umm tastes good! Stop looking at me that way man; did you think I hadn't noticed how you look at her? Ha, I don't blame you, the girl is a beauty. And what hair! If you were living beyond the Wall you would have to kidnap her to make her yours hahaha!"

"Bugger you!" Sandor snarled annoyed.

"And the way she looks at you," the man smacked his lips and continued oblivious to him, "I'm sure you have noticed too. You're a lucky man. I'd love to know what her lord brother thinks of it, ha! I like the boy, but he's proud and I don't think he likes you much, hahaha!"

"Shut up, wildling, you're drunk!"

"Oh yes, and I expect to be even drunker before the night ends!" he mocked. However he got oddly serious, "The northern boys say we're only a day ride from that castle. Clegane, my men are eager to fight but I don't want to lead them to a certain death if once we are there there's no chance of winning."

Sandor shared the wilding's worries too, "Tomorrow some of us will take the lead and study the ground before we attack. We must learn more about their defenses and especially about its garrison. And then we'll need to prepare a plan. If we play our cards smart, we may have a chance."

Tormund nodded and drank again, "Aye, I hope you're right, I wouldn't mind being the lord of my own southern castle hahaha!"

Sandor couldn't help but laugh with him at the image of those fierce men ruling a proper castle. Though I bet no northern lord will allow that to happen.

Later that night, when he finally lay to rest, he brushed the bow over his wrist and his mind flew to her once again. The little bird thought of him as the knight of her dreams, and although in his past life he would have make fun of it, somehow, despite himself, he took pleasure in the feeling. Perhaps that was the irony of his fate, to become her true knight without being one and to get her home back without a real army.

I swear I won't die without seeing you again Sansa Stark. I swear it…

On the morrow, Tormund, Blackwood, Norrey, and himself rode as planned next to the vicinity of the Dreadfort leaving the rest of the men at the camp. Hidden by the dense vegetation that covered a hill next to the castle, they kept a close watch on the keep for several hours. It was indeed an impressive fortress, surrounded by tall thick stone walls and massive towers. There were a few soldiers on the battlements, however, and after a few hours little movement was seen in the castle.

"The northerners were right; Lord Bolton has taken with him most of his forces to secure Winterfell, leaving his own keep poorly garrisoned. Maybe we have a chance after all," Sandor said, "Now it's time to prove that you are able to climb those walls, wilding".

"Ha! Consider it done Clegane. This is child's play compared to what we have done before!"

"Alright. Now our main purpose is that your people scare them by attacking the castle so they send ravens to Winterfell asking for help. No crow should be shot, nor will we attack the rookery. That may do it, maybe it isn't even necessary to take the keep."

"We'll take it, Clegane. This bloody castle is going to be my prize", Tormund added before turning to ride back to camp.

That same night, under the cover of darkness, fifteen fully armed men ran silently to the Dreadfort walls. Using strange tools on hands and feet, Sandor and the rest of their little army held their breath as they watched the wildings slowly climb what mere moments before seemed impenetrable walls. They were all hidden close to the fortress, waiting for a signal to make the next move. The first signs didn't take long. Soon after the first men had made to the top of the wall, the unmistakable sound of clashing steel reached them. Screams and fighting could be clearly heard from where they were and they even saw some smoke over its towers. The men tightly gripped their swords, axes and spears, eager to join their companions. Sandor knew the feelings before a battle well- the excitement, the sweaty palms, the heart drumming, the ears thundering; he felt them too. After a few minutes of uncertainty followed by a heavy sound of chains, the big main gate slowly opened.

"Well done boys!" Tormund muttered to himself. He turned his wrist and shook his axe from side to side. "AAAARRRGGGGGG!" the man yelled as he threw himself in a furious ride towards the gate followed by his hundred men.

The wilding's screams echoed in the night as they ran into the castle and joined the fight. Stranger snorted, squirming nervously between his legs and Sandor had to pull his bridles to keep him quiet. Hold on friend, now comes our turn.

"Look, there!" Cerwyn said pointing to the sky, "If my sight isn't betraying me, I'd bet that these are three beautiful black ravens!"

Sandor clenched and opened his right fist several times, then drew his sword, "Bloody Tormund did it; let us have some fun too!"

He kicked Stranger; the animal knew what was expected of him and broke into a fast gallop toward the keep, followed closely by the five northerners who had waited with him so they didn't raise suspicions among Bolton's garrison. Sandor felt his blood running faster, the world blurring around him as he rode. The weight of the sword felt good in his hand and he felt strangely full of life and strength. That was what he had been doing all his life, and damn the gods, but he was good at it. After crossing the gates, he focused on the courtyard in front of him. It was plagued with men fighting, corpses, screams and the fire whose smoke they had seen from outside. A soldier with a flayed man embodied on his front run towards him waving a sword. Sandor lifted his own. The blade cut mail, leather, flesh and bone all the same…