Sansa had surprised Sandor by presenting him hand sewn tunics of dark brown and black, in hopes that his spirits could be lifted some. As of recent, he was able to walk between the two beds placed at opposite sides of the room, but not without difficulty. His leg would throb with each painful step. Sandor never complained outwardly however, knowing that each step would bring him closer to recovery.
"Why are you doing all of this, little bird?" Sandor asked, inspecting Sansa's fine needlework. He couldn't recall the last time anyone had made him anything.
"It's my duty, my lord, is it not?" Sansa said simply, picking up two new pairs of breeches to show him.
Hearing that, something seemed to flare up inside Sandor.
"Your duty?" he barked at her. "Is that what you think your duty is?"
"Is taking care of you when you cannot do it yourself not my duty my lord?" she asked, genuinely confused as to why he was upset with what she said. She timidly placed the pair of breeches down on his bedside table, staying out of his arm's reach.
Duty, my lord. He hated hearing those things from her. They were words weighted with hypocrisy. Sansa felt as if she was transported back to Maegor's Holdfast in King's Landing, where Sandor chastised her for her girlish beliefs.
Maybe he was edged on by his own frustrations from being immobile for so long, or the fact that he hadn't stuck his steel in someone in well over a fortnight.
"Your duty to me is to show me your sweet little cunt, or have you forgotten?" he replied brusquely.
Hearing that sent Sansa's emotions aflame. "You gave me to a Frey, have you forgotten that? I am your wife, and you were going to give me away another lord because you didn't want me," she shot back, her hands balling into fists.
"I thought it was the right thing!" he yelled back at her. "You never asked for this to happen!"
"Of course I didn't! I don't have a choice but to deal with it, and to deal with you." Before he could reply she continued: "I have been trying my best to be a good wife to you; I took care of your wounds, fed you, dressed you and bathed you-"
"And what was that little bathing charade then, hmm?" he questioned her.
"You needed a bath, and you know that."
"And what about liking what you saw, hmm? Or was that one of your pretty little lies?"
Sansa's mouth dropped open, and she promptly closed it.
"Nothing to say to that, little bird? You touch me all over and say pretty things to me and then what?"
"I was bathing you, nothing more," she said grimly.
"So you didn't enjoy the feel of a real man under those little fingers of yours? Or were you thinking about your beloved Knight of Flowers the whole-"
"I don't want you. Not like that." Sansa knew what he was alluding to. She was no longer a naive little girl.
"What?" he rasped.
"I don't want you."
Not in the way that you want me, her words seemed to say. The affirmation hurt him more than he thought it would.
"Just because you don't want me doesn't mean I won't have you. That's your duty,little bird, not to sew me tunics and sing me songs. I'll have a song from you little bird."
"Why must you say such awful things?" she choked, holding back the tears, refusing to cry because of him, and left the room.
She had done so much for him and knew she didn't deserve to be treated this way. She had been kind, and all but loving towards him, during his recovery. Her kindness was always followed by woe, though, so from that moment onward she vowed to herself to never waste her kindness again.
A silent brother brought him his dinner that night, and he ate in silence, his blood still boiling from his squabble with Sansa from before. Sansa did not come back to the room that night, and he supposed she asked the Elder Brother to sleep in separate quarters. If he could walk, he would have tried to find her. To fight some more or to reconcile, he was not sure.
She had not come to him the next day either, and Sandor Clegane wondered how much longer she'd persist. Breakfast and dinner were brought to him by a silent brother yet again, and with annoyance, he ate his meals alone.
There was not much he could do alone in his room other than practice walking, which was also limited. He started to regret fighting with the girl as he prefered her company over his own. Sandor Clegane was a man who always kept himself busy, and after a day and a night of solitude, his thoughts started to catch up with him, and then his demons.
The room was quiet, and not much could be heard other than the periodic shuffling of the silent brothers' feet outside his closed door. After he noticed the silence, the thoughts began to come. First he thought of how he mistreated her, and what he'd say to her if and when she decided to visit him again. He was truly at her mercy.
He thought of how terrible of a husband he was to her. And that he was her husband, and he had a duty to her as well. After the Battle of Blackwater when Joffrey summoned him and Sansa to court, and commanded them to marry, he felt as if he was dreaming, that he'd wake up half dead before the Mud Gate. He lusted over the Northern girl far before their wedding day. She was unreachable; the bastard king's betrothed, the Maiden made flesh. In his dreams he dreamed of her kiss, her lips soft and sweet, and on their wedding day everything also seemed unreal, and dreamlike. The more time they spent together, the more their marriage seemed to solidify.
She'll never marry another, unless I kick the bucket of course, he thought to himself.
She didn't let you die, she came back for you.
She tended to your wounds, sang to you, bathed you, made you new tunics and breeches and you repay her by being the vile dog you've always been.
Sandor Clegane wanted to be good to her, but had no idea how. He lived his whole life filled with hate and rage, and always thrust that upon others. Meanwhile, Sansa Stark was born privileged, raised with complete and utter tenderness and compassion from her parents and siblings.
She's lost all, and you've done nothing to help her deal with it.
He knew what he'd say to her if she decided to see him again.
Another two days passed, and Sansa still refused to visit him. Sandor tried asking the silent brothers about her each time they brought him his meal. His only response was a shake of the head or a shrug. Bloody good for nothing silent brothers, what good is it to be silent anyways? Sandor cursed.
On the second night, the Elder Brother visited him.
"You look well," he said, sitting on the stool next to his bedside. Sandor snorted. "I've heard you've been practicing walking," the Elder Brother added.
"Aye," Sandor replied, knowing that the Elder Brother did not come to him to make small talk. "How is she?" he asked him.
"Your lady wife? She is quite fine. She's been keeping herself busy with all sorts of tasks."
"Has she said anything…about me?" Sandor asked, trying to hide his own desperation.
"Only that you upset her," he stopped to look Sandor square in the eyes. "She said she did not want to talk about it."
There was a pause, filled by Sandor's felt guilt, which was amplified by the way the Elder Brother looked at him.
"Can you tell her that I'd like to see her? It's been three bloody days since I've last seen her."
"I can see if that can be arranged," he said, and left Sandor to alone to reflect upon his actions.
She came to him on the third morning.
"Sansa," he said upon her entry. Her lips were taught, and her brows were furrowed. She stood by his bedside while Sandor lifted himself up out of bed, swinging his legs over the edge of the bedside.
"Elder Brother said you wanted to see me?" she asked flatly.
"Aye, I did. How could you leave me alone like this for three bloody days, do you have any idea how-" he started. Sansa turned on her heel to leave. "Where are you going?"
"I did not come here for you to reprimand me. I want to hear your apology," Sansa said angrily, her hand on the door.
Sandor sighed. He was defeated.
"I'm sorry."
She exhaled slowly, folding her arms across her bust.
Sandor tapped the space next to him on the bed, motioning her to come sit, and with much skepticism, she did.
"I treated you poorly, little bird. There's no excuse for it."
Sansa nodded.
"You deserve so much more than what I can give you. I'm not a good man."
"That's not true, you just choose not to be a good one."
He cocked his head towards her, looking into the eyes he sorely missed. Her eyes were a dark, turbulent blue, like the blackwater during a storm, but in them Sandor found forgiveness. And in his light grey, Sansa saw a pervading guilt, and longing.
"You have kept me safe and have been true to your word. It is your roughness that I dislike."
"I can't change who I am, Sansa. I've always been like this-"
She shook her head. "You've been made into that, Sandor. You can be kinder and gentler if you only let yourself be so."
He looked away from her, ashamed by the truth of her words. He felt exposed, as if he went into a battle without his armour and sword.
"Maybe. But I need your help to-" he paused, "show me how."
She squeezed his hand and smiled slightly, nodding to his confession. They sat like that for a while, silently acknowledging their truce.
Gods, I've missed her, Sandor thought to himself as he took in Sansa's appearance. The light from the small window above his bed let in a beam that hit her hair in just the right way that made it shine brilliantly, like sunshine.
"What have you been busying your time with?" he asked her, in an attempt to be more thoughtful. He had always hated small talk, but he knew he needed to try for her sake.
"Elder Brother has set me to work helping repair old tapestries and mending clothes for the silent brothers, along with some cleaning and cooking. He won't accept any silver or gold; rather, he has put me to work. He says that the Seven have no need for gold."
"That man is a strange one."
"I have used some of your money to buy cloth though…"
"That's fine girl, as long as you're not buying expensive silks for yourself."
She smiled slightly. "Stranger misses you. I've been tending to him the best I can," she told him. Sandor frowned at the mention of his prized war-horse.
"Have you been brushing him down?"
"The best I can."
He sighed in relief
"The stables are not far from our room. Tomorrow, if you are feeling up to it, would you like to go see him?"
"Aye, I would."
She smiled again, and Sandor noted how he had never seen anything so sweet. He'd do his best to never upset the little bird again.
Notes:
I present to you: Sandor Clegane, the biggest jerk in the universe. You thought there was going to be more fluff after that lovely bathing scene? Well you just got your hopes shot down GRRM style.
Sansa is/has always been/and always will be the fucking boss.