A/N: This chapter's a bit shorter than the others. I wanted to get some of the exposition out of the way in this one.
Once again, some of the dialog in the flashback was borrowed from the TV show.
Disclaimer: Nothing of the show, books, or characters is mine.
It had been several days since the riot. While the cut at her eyebrow was all but invisible now, the bruise one of her attackers had left on her cheek was still noticeable, even with the makeup Shae applied to her face that morning. It bothered her the way people glanced at it and quickly looked away. It made her feel ashamed. Joffrey was always insistent that his King's Guard never mark her face when they beat her. He wanted her to be his doll, pretty and silent. She always struggled to be just that, knowing that the more she pleased her king, the fewer beatings she might receive. She prayed he would not order her to come to court before the bruise had enough time to fade.
She was walking down one of the long hallways of the Red Keep, alone for once, having returned from the godswood where she spent the better part of the afternoon praying. She saw the Hound coming from the opposite way and caught herself averting her eyes from his burnt face. Hadn't she just been complaining to herself of people looking away from a mere bruise on her cheek? How much worse must it be for the Hound, living with such careless cruelty his entire life?
He was just passing her when she screwed up her courage and said, "I beg pardon, ser..."
The Hound paused and turned his head to face her, a look of mild surprise in his eyes over her voluntarily speaking to him.
"I never thanked you for saving me," Sansa continued, forcing herself to look straight at him, "It was very brave."
"Brave?" he scoffed, "A dog doesn't need courage to chase away rats."
His response hurt her more than she would have expected. He could have at least appreciated the effort it took for her to talk to him without cringing in fear. "Does it give you joy to scare people?" she asked bluntly. A small part of her was shocked by her daring.
"No," Sandor replied without hesitation, "it gives me joy to kill people." He smirked at her reaction. "Spare me. Do you think Lord Stark of Winterfell never killed a man?"
"It was his duty, he never liked it!"
"Is that what he told you?" He leaned towards her to emphasize his next words, "He lied. Killing's the sweetest thing there is."
Sansa fought to hold back the tears she felt stinging her eyes. "Why are you always so hateful?"
The Hound regarded her coldly. "You'll be grateful for the hateful things I do when you're queen, and I'm the only thing standing between you and your 'beloved' king."
Sansa couldn't take anymore. She turned and abruptly walked away from him. She felt the Hound's gaze follow her, but did not know of the regret that sparked in his eyes.
Sandor was not accustomed to feeling guilt. He thought he'd purged himself of that emotion long ago, but that damned Stark girl kept dredging it up in him. Most times it happened when he had to stand by and watch as his "brothers" of the King's Guard meted out yet another of that little shit Joffrey's "punishments." But this time it was his own actions that brought it on, and somehow that made it worse. He couldn't justify it this time by telling himself he had no choice. So the guilt lingered.
By the next morning he'd had enough. He made his way to the girl's chamber, thinking she would be awake by now and readying herself to face the day. He had no idea what the hell he would say to her. He couldn't remember the last time he apologized for anything. But something told him this damned remorse wouldn't let go of him until he at least tried to make some kind of half-arsed amends to the girl.
As he neared he saw the door was wide open. One of the castle's numerous handmaids came trotting out, followed seconds later by that foreign woman who'd been attending the Stark girl these past weeks and sneaking off to the dwarf's quarters in the night. The foreign woman looked like she was actually chasing the other handmaid, and Sandor noticed an eating knife clutched in her hand. What the seven hells was all that about?
Puzzled, Sandor entered the girl's chamber without bothering to knock since the door was still open. The clanking of his armor caused the girl to gasp and spin around to face him. She was standing beside her bed, still clad in her shift, her hair a messy tangle escaping its simple plait. Had she only just woken? She must have overslept. The bed covers were in a pile at the foot of the bed, like she'd flung them off in haste before leaping to her feet. It was then that Sandor glimpsed something that froze him for an instant. A patch of color on the fine linen sheets.
Sandor looked at the Stark girl's distraught face, then stepped past her to stand beside the bed and gaze down at the damning blot of crimson. He saw the tears where the girl had apparently tried to rip away the part that was stained. A foolish action no doubt brought on by sheer panic. Not that he blamed the girl. Her life was about to get so much worse now.
"Please," the girl implored him, "I beg you, ser. Don't tell the queen."
Sandor inwardly cursed himself even as he answered in a low voice, "I'm no ser, Little Bird. I'm only a well trained dog."
From the corner of his eye he saw understanding come to her. The girl's bottom dropped onto the cedar chest at the foot of the bed and she sobbed helplessly. That was how the foreign handmaid found them when she came running back into the room. Sandor merely glanced at the startled woman, then glared down at the ruined sheets again, wishing he were somewhere else. Anywhere else.
Sansa was never very close to her half-brother. They played together when she was very young, but ever since she learned what the word "bastard" meant, she kept herself aloof from him. But now, seeing him after so many years, she realized how foolish she'd been to shun him. What did it matter that they did not share the same mother? He was her brother, probably the last living sibling she had.
"Jon!" She ran to him and threw her arms around her neck while her children looked on in dismay. "Gods be good, how did you find us?"
Jon hesitantly returned her embrace, surprised by her uncharacteristic show of affection towards him. "One of my brothers in the Watch saw a man resembling the Hound in Ironoak," he explained, "I came to see for myself if it was truly him, and to find out what happened to you."
"He was gonna use his sword on Papa!" Catelyn declared. As soon as they were near the cottage, she'd squirmed in her father's arms until he put her down. She now stood beside him, clutching his hand.
Sansa drew back in surprise. Only then did she notice her daughter's condition. "What happened?" she exclaimed, hurrying over to the girl's side.
"I fell," the girl answered matter-of-factly, as if she hadn't been in tears a short time ago.
"Fell? From the tree?" Sansa asked, horrified.
Sandor tried to reassure her, "Maester Tolbert already took care of her. She's alright, Little Bird."
"I bumped my head," Catelyn added. She almost sounded like she was bragging the fact.
Sansa briefly covered her face with her hand, unwittingly smearing a little of the mud she'd been daubing on the cottage walls across her brow. "How many times have I told you not to climb that tree?"
"I wouldn't-a fell at all if he hadn't come at Papa with his sword," Cat pointed an accusing finger at Jon.
Sansa looked to her half-brother for an explanation. Under her questioning stare, he seemed a bit abashed. "You know what the Hound's reputation was like," he began, "I had no way of knowing..."
"That he married me?" Sansa asked angrily, "That we had a family together?"
Jon blinked. "You're married?"
"Of course we are!"
"Why don't we all go inside?" Sandor asked in a level voice. Some of the neighbors were not-so-subtly eavesdropping.
"Can we play wif the doggie?" Morden's piping voice drew everyone's attention to the boys. Ghost was sitting placidly while Morden and his older brother clambered over him like a pair of monkeys.
"He won't hurt them," Jon assured her.
Sansa smiled wistfully. "I know. I had a direwolf as well, remember?"
"Yes. I'm sorry."
They let the two boys remain outside with Ghost while the rest went into the cottage. Sansa was carrying Zander on her hip. The baby peered over her shoulder and Jon. Jon smiled. "What's this one's name?"
"Zander," Sansa said, "The other two outside are Eddard and Morden. Eddard's the older one."
"Eddard after our father," Jon mused, "Zander apparently after his father. Catelyn after your mother. But who is Morden named for?"
"My septa." Sansa set Zander down on the rug before the hearth with his toys. The baby immediately started playing, oblivious to the rest of the world.
Jon frowned. "Your septa?"
"Septa Mordane. Remember her?" Sansa uttered a quiet laugh, "When Morden was born, he didn't cry so much as huff and scowl at everything, as if the world had failed his expectations. It was the exact same look Septa Mordane had whenever someone behaved improperly. Especially Arya."
Jon chuckled. Yes, he remembered the older woman now. He recalled her as unfailingly polite the few times she spoke directly to him.
They all seated themselves, Sandor in his big chair, Sansa and Jon in two regular sized ones. Catelyn chose to curl up on her father's lap. While the girl was tempted to join her brothers outside and play with the direwolf, her curiosity was too strong to resist. It seemed she might finally get some answers as to her parents' mysterious past.
"Mum, why does he call you Sansa an' Papa Sandor? Everyone else always calls you Dyanne and Sturm."
Sansa glanced at her husband in an unspoken question. He gave a faint nod of agreement.
"Those were our names before we came to Oldtree," Sansa explained, "My name was Sansa Stark, and your father's was Sandor Clegane."
"Stark?" Catelyn perked at the name, "Like Robb Stark, the King in the North?"
It was Sandor who answered, "Aye, Little Cat. Your mother is Robb's sister."
Catelyn gaped. "Mum's a princess?"
The adults laughed, then Sansa said, "I suppose some would say that. But before Robb was declared King, he was Lord of Winterfell, like our father before him."
"And now that Robb is gone and Queen Daenerys rules the Seven Kingdoms," Jon added, "our brother Bran is now Lord of Winterfell."
"Bran's alive?" Sansa blurted, "How? I'd heard that Theon Greyjoy killed him and Rickon when he took Winterfell."
Jon told her of Theon's trickery, killing two orphan boys and passing their mutilated bodies off as the Stark lads. And later, when Winterfell was sacked by the traitorous Boltons, Bran and Rickon escaped with Hodor and the Wildling woman Osha. "Telling you what all happened to them would take more than one night," Jon said, "And I think your girl here would rather have us answer more of her questions." He quirked an eyebrow at Cat.
But Sansa had one more question of her own. "Is Arya...?"
Jon nodded. "She lives as well. Had quite a few adventures herself before she finally reunited with our brothers. They are all together rebuilding Winterfell as we speak."
A few tears escaped Sansa's eyes, hastily brushed away. For years she thought her family was all but wiped out, and now she found out most of them were still alive. It was like a gift from the gods. She wanted to ask more about them, but Jon was right, Catelyn deserved to know her family's history.
Jon and Sansa spent the next few hours telling Cat their stories. Sandor would occasionally speak up to add some bit of information his wife overlooked, but for the most part remained silent throughout the exchange. Sansa and Jon paused in their tales a few times: when it was late enough to bring the boys inside, when Sansa fixed a quick supper, and finally when the younger children were all put to bed. Catelyn was allowed to stay up well past her normal bedtime so that she could hear everything the adults had to tell her. And there was so much to tell her. It astounded her to hear everything her parents had been through, what Jon and the relatives she'd never met had been through. It rivaled Maester Tolbert's stories.
There were some things that were kept deliberately vague. Sansa didn't go into detail on the abuses she suffered under Joffrey's sadistic commands, saying only that she was mistreated during her stay at the Red Keep. Sandor said even less. He mentioned his older brother Gregor, the Mountain that Rides, and said he was a cruel man, but did not go into specifics. He certainly wasn't ready to tell her how Gregor stuffed his face into the hot coals over a mere toy.
Then Jon asked a question that would have staggered Sandor had he not already been seated: "Did you know about Gregor's death?"
"The Mountain is dead?" Sansa gasped.
Her half-brother nodded. "It happened almost a year after you escaped from King's Landing. Clegane got into a duel with a man who liked to dip his blade in poison. He killed his opponent, but not before he was nicked by that blade. I heard the wound was little more than a scratch, but it was enough for the poison to taint his blood. People said it took him days to die."
Sandor was mute. For years he'd fantasized about killing Gregor. He expected to feel elated by his brother's death, or at the very least cheated by the fact that someone else got to him first. But other than shock, he honestly did not know what he felt.
Catelyn let out a big yawn. Sandor smiled, "Past time for you to get to bed, Little Cat." The fact that she didn't argue proved him right. Sandor got to his feet with his daughter in his arms. Sansa came to kiss the girl while Jon wished her a goodnight. Sandor carried her up the ladder to the loft where her brothers already slept. He helped her remove her shoes and tucked her in. "Safe dreams, Little Cat," he said, and kissed her forehead.
"G'night, Papa," she murmured sleepily. Her eyes drifted shut.
Sandor climbed back down to where his wife and Jon Snow were still talking.
"My men are probably wondering if I've been ambushed by angry woodsmen," Jon chuckled, "I'd better send them word. I don't suppose this village has an inn where we could stay?"
Sansa shook her head. "I'm sure the maester would be happy to put your men up for the night. As for you, you're more than welcome to sleep here."
"Thank you." Jon left to speak with his brothers.
Sansa turned to her husband, a brilliant smile on her face. "Can you believe it? Bran and Rickon and Arya alive! Jon said he'll send a raven telling them about me. We could go visit them in Winterfell! Can you imagine?" she gushed, "Our children in my childhood home, playing in the godswood where my father used to sit and think?" She noticed then that Sandor didn't seem to share her excitement. His face remained expressionless, yet his eyes looked almost sad. Sansa's smile faded. "What's wrong?"
He struggled to put into words the sense of dread that came over him the longer she spent in her half-brother's presence, reconnecting with her former life with such joyous enthusiasm. It planted a seed of worry in him. That maybe her life with him was nothing more than an interlude, and now she was about to reclaim her birthright as a Stark of Winterfell. Sandor could see no place for himself in that life. Their children, yes - Sandor always felt they were more Stark than Clegane - but not for him.
Sandor knew he could not tell her this, though. It would only make her feel guilty, as if she'd done or said something to make him believe this. He tried to muster a convincing smile for her instead. "Nothing, Little Bird. I'm happy for you."
Sansa didn't quite look convinced, but then Jon returned and she was distracted by the need to find bedding for him.
Later, lying beside his wife in their bed, Sandor gazed up through the darkness towards the ceiling, too troubled to sleep.