Sandor feels closer to Sansa now than ever before. Where once she sensed his presence only in the godswood, now she can feel him beside her everywhere, a constant comfort accompanying her wherever she goes. She is unable to distinguish where he ends and she begins, making her formerly all-consuming grief somewhat more endurable. As she sows in the sunlight filled window seat of her solar, she ponders over her past and wonders what the future will hold.
Oftentimes she wonders if she is losing her mind, if she will one day no longer remember who she is. Tyrion used to say wondering whether you were losing your mind was a sure sign of sanity. Mayhaps she will end up like her Aunt Lysa, obsessed with her first love, unwilling or unable to move forward until one day her behavior yields tragic consequences.
Petyr had been fostered with the Tullys and she and her mother had grown up with him. Baelish was her aunt's first and only love, his low rank in his youth placing him far below the station of his host. It was no secret his first choice was her mother; Sansa is sure he would have never married her aunt if not for her being Lady Regent of the Vale. She often wonders whether or not there had ever been any hints in his behavior that might have warned her aunt of his true nature. After hearing his chilling last words to her aunt, she is not so sure that protecting her was his only motive for throwing her mother's sister out of the moon door.
He had been manipulative, only using her aunt Lysa to gain his position as Lord Protector of the Vale...did her aunt know his true nature and want him anyway? Surely her mother would have noticed it. "Nothing gets past Catelyn Stark" had been a favorite saying of her father. Had her mother ever tried to warn her of his duplicity? Is that why her aunt had been so distant with her sister and her extended family? Unfortunately Sansa knows this along with so many of her questions will forever go unanswered.
She hopes she would not have ended up in the same position as her aunt, so desperate and lovesick she would take Sandor by any means possible, no matter how he treated her. In King's Landing Sandor was not always kind or pleasant and she did not delude herself to his negative qualities. If anything, he managed draw her attention to them with annoying and fear inspiring regularity.
Many times he frightened her, pinching her chin painfully as he forced her to look at him. He growled at her and always seemed to appear at the most inopportune times. Unlike her aunt however, she was not ignorant of her beloved's true nature, especially not after one particularly memorable evening.
On the serpentine steps in the Red Keep, she remembers the way he looked at her, his gray eyes rimmed in red from wine and gleaming with rage. Feeling like he was peering deep into her soul, she initially tried to turn away from him. He forced her chin up to meet his eyes and there she discovered she was able to see into his heart as well. There was no maliciousness; his burning fury subsided until only intense pain and loneliness filled his dark gray eyes as he looked at her. No longer afraid of him but for him, something moved her to reach out to him, offering comfort by placing her hand on his shoulder gently.
Barking out his cruel laugh, he quickly turned away but Sansa nevertheless had seen the keen expression in his eyes soften as she spoke. His entire demeanor changed and in that split second his hardened mask fell away, allowing Sansa to see the man Sandor Clegane and no longer the Hound. Once she glimpsed into his heart she could not be made to fear him ever again. Neither his scarred face nor the even more deeply scarred man who wore it frightened her after that day. Butchering everyone in his path, he had come to her rescue the day of the riots. He had replaced her lost clasp with a beautiful jeweled bird, though he never admitted it was he that left it in her room she treasured it from that day forward.
Only his erratic intoxicated behavior frightened her. He often mistook her reaction as her fearing his scars, angering him further, which is what happened the night of the battle. In her room illuminated by the glow of the wildfire, Sandor had been more drunk than she had ever seen him as he held her down on the bed, covered in blood and sweat. When she remained frozen in fear of his drunkenness and gore-splattered appearance he held a knife to her throat, forcing her to sing for him the only way he knew how, with the threat of violence.
He was not the only one to act rashly out of desperation and terror. Sansa found it difficult to hold his actions against him in light of her own past behavior. The manner in which she handled the situation between her father and Joffrey had been a bitter lesson in how a bad decision can change the course of your life forever. Blinded by her love for the beautiful golden prince, she unwittingly betrayed her father to the Queen. Having convinced her own father to confess his supposed crimes, she believed Joffrey would be merciful toward him for her sake. She herself had stood by, implicitly trusting Joffrey would save her father out of his love for her, until the unthinkable happened.
As he demanded she sing, fear rendered her speechless. Wracking her brain, she had been unable to recall the words to Florian and Jonquil. Remembering the story Petyr had told her at the Hand's tourney, she suddenly realized he was afraid of the fire on the battlefield and sought her out, hoping she would once again offer him a measure of comfort. Lying in his arms that night, she recognized his terrifying behavior as the desperate cry of a man so damaged he didn't even know how to ask her for help. Mustering her courage, she gave him the Mother's Hymn instead, tentatively touching his cheek while she softly sang to him.
All of the tension left his body as the wetness of his tears covered her fingers and hands. She comforted him in the only way she knew and he somehow managed to comfort her as well. Embraced in Sandor's strong arms she felt safer at that moment then she had the entire time spent in King's Landing. Many times she tried to understand this feeling but she could never say why he made her feel safe, especially holding a knife to her throat. She often wonders if she will ever find the answer as to why she did not choose to go with him rather than remain a prisoner of the lions.
Something about the way he looked at her, a soft almost tender expression transformed his face, bringing on a flood of new emotions in Sansa's heart. She will never forget the way his warm muscular body pressed against her own made her heart race and her cheeks redden. They stayed frozen in the moment, for how long Sansa could not say. He had whispered his pet name for her like a prayer then disappeared suddenly breaking the spell cast over them, leaving her with only his filthy Kingsguard cloak and his memory.
Little did she know it would be the last time she would ever see him alive. She wonders what it would have been like to befriend and love him without the guise of the Hound threatening to appear any given moment. She regrets not telling him that she understood his need for comfort that night, that she knew he was afraid and he only reacted out of the terror of the wildfire...that she has forgiven him and she hopes he would have forgiven her too for not telling him of her feelings.
There was so much she had wanted to say to him that night and so much more that would remain forever unspoken between them. She is sorry she did not do more to ease his fear. Did he realize that she cared for him too? If they acknowledged their true feelings, would they have found a way to be happy together in spite of the mountainous obstacles facing them? Sansa would like to think so, though sadly she realizes she can only guess the outcome now that Sandor is gone.
A loud rap comes from her solar door; she slowly rises and smooths her skirts before answering. It is Petyr, naturally-none of the servants or handmaidens had bothered her since the night she slapped him two weeks ago. "Yes, Father, what is it?" she asks softly, glancing around outside her door. Two women she has never met stand nervously behind Petyr, their arms loaded down with bolts of material.
Petyr eyes her a moment, then steps inside. "Your betrothed Harrold Hardyng is reported a days ride from here and the brothers from the Quiet Isle should follow in two days hence." Wearing her mask of indifference, Sansa nods once to acknowledge his words. "What does he want from me?" she silently fumes, still watching and waiting for his next move.
"The wedding must take place as soon as possible, so today you must be fitted for your wedding gown," Petyr says, gesturing to the two women outside. Laying out ivory and dove gray silks, brocades and tulle on her bed and chairs, the women wait for Baelish's reply. "No, no, no," he waves away the ivory material. Reaching for the heaviest baroque brocade in the palest shimmering silver, he announces, "This is the one. Let her choose any design she wants from my approved selection," he instructs the women, who quickly begin rifling through the sample gowns.
"How generous, Father," she replies automatically, forcing a smile to her lips. "Think nothing of it my love," he whispers into her ear, then kissing her right below the lobe, drawing curious glances from the seamstresses. Sansa gulps hard and tremulously turns away from him and back to the gowns lying before her. By late afternoon the women have cut and fitted the pattern, promising to return on the morrow. Remaining in her room, she watches Petyr fill their hands with coin before sending them away in his personal chaise.
Not long after the dressmakers leave, another garishly decorated chaise arrives in front of the Eyrie, full of questionably dressed young women of various descriptions. "The evening entertainment no doubt; whores in the Eyrie, Aunt Lysa must be turning over in her grave," Sansa frowns. Eying one woman in particular, she notices the woman has red hair in a shade that closely matches her original hue. The sight of Petyr heatedly kissing her causes Sansa to heave in disgust, knowing full well the debauchery the whore will endure as her substitute with Petyr tonight.
Unable to tolerate food, she stays in her room during dinner, in spite of the arrival of Harrold's envoys. The maids bring her broth and wine to settle her stomach. "Pre-wedding jitters," she hears Baelish say, before the men laugh and clink their glasses together, the whores laughing as though it is their place to celebrate her wedding in her aunt's home to begin with.
The next morning Harrold approaches the Eyrie with fanfare befitting the future Lord of the Vale. Bannermen waving the sigil flags of House Hardyng ride ahead of the young knight, harolding his arrival. Sansa could hardly be less interested in the whole affair and longs for the peace of the godswood. Handsome and full of bravado, he is all polite conversation and well-timed compliments. Harrold and his men gawk at her unabashedly, barely bothering to hide their leering stares as she descends the stairs. Sansa feels degraded and humiliated, knowing her father and brother would have executed any man who dared look at her in such a way. Sandor would have disemboweled them right on the entryway floor.
Once seated, Baelish and the young lord negotiate for her hand openly in front of his soldiers. Speaking as though she is invisible, Sansa listens to them discussing the terms of her marriage as though she is a horse at auction. She soon gives up paying attention and stares out the sun room window facing the godswood, drowning out the noise of the men as she daydreams of Sandor.
Her dressmakers call her for a fitting. As she reaches her room, a wave of intense pain seizes her stomach. "Dearie it is only nerves, nothing to fret about," the women say as they help her into her gown. Perhaps her moonblood is upon her, she thinks to herself, though she doesn't recall ever feeling this way before. After lying down for a few minutes, the feeling passes and the women resume their work.
After an hour she comes rejoins the men. Petyr and Harrold have reached an agreement, a bit too easily in Sansa's view. She has seen him negotiate more aggresively over a new piece of furniture and her curiosity is roused by the apparent ease of the transaction. An elegant lunch is served at noon and the wine and conversation flows easily between her supposed father and future husband. Suspicious of his motives and watching Petyr's behavior with dread, she determines she will play along until she discovers his real intentions for the young man.
Harrold flirts, flatters and showers her with gifts, his mock devotion to her on full display for all to see. Nodding and offering the barest of civility, Sansa wonders if there is an honest bone in his entire body or if it is even worth worrying about Petyr's actual plans for him. As the day wears on, Sansa excuses herself to make wedding preparations. Harrold rises as she turnes to leave, whispering into her ear that he looks forward to a preview of their wedding night. Ignoring him, she leaves without even acknowledging she heard his suggestive remark. Long before evening, Harrold and his men are properly drunk and thoroughly enjoying the whores Baelish has on hand, much to Sansa' relief.
The gown the women have made is gorgeous, opulent and entirely too low cut for Sansa's taste. After her fittings, she chooses a veil in sheer iridescent silver tulle with seed pearls along the hem. Staring at herself in her wedding clothes, Sansa no longer recognizes the painfully thin brunette peering expressionlessly back from the mirror. "I should be marrying Sandor, not that drunken fool downstairs," she bitterly fights back the hot tears already spilling down her gaunt cheeks. "Don't you like it milady? It will be ever so much lovelier when it is finished," the plump seamstress frets at her skirts.
"Oh, no dear ladies, it is the most beautiful dress I have ever owned," Sansa says and she means it. If only she were marrying Sandor...he is the only person that would make her happy. The women smile and titter comforting words, "All brides are nervous, dearie. The wedding night won't be so bad, don't worry your pretty head over it," their voices fade into the background as a sharp wrenching pain in her gut sends her to the floor.
The ladies help her over to the bed and pour her a glass of water. "Are you...already with child my lady?" the thinner gray headed dressmaker asks quietly. "Tis no matter to us lass but it would explain these spells for certain," the plump lady chimes in. "No no, I am not-but thank you for your concern. Maybe this is enough for today. Thank you both so much for coming," Sansa says as they quickly undress her. As soon as the women are out of sight, Sansa throws on her warmest blue woolen dress and cloak before quickly making her way out the back door toward the godswood.
Standing amongst the weirwood trees, Sansa watches fat snowflakes lazily drift down to the godswood floor. It is so peaceful and quiet, so pure and beautiful-and so unlike her home in the Eyrie. Closing her eyes, she sticks out her tongue, hoping to catch a snowflake. She used to do this with her brothers and sister. Laughing to herself, she savors the crisp taste as it melts on her tongue. It tastes like Winterfell. Sansa wonders if anyplace will ever feel like home again.
Laying down Sandor's cloak, she sits next to his memorial and writes his name in the fresh snow with her finger. "I love you Sandor...I have always loved you," she says out loud, her soft voice breaking the stillness of the forest.
"I know Little Bird, I know," a deep voice answers, its rasping tone like steel scraping against stone, shattering the peace of the godswood. Whirling around, Sansa sees a large brown hooded figure step out from behind the Heart tree. "Sandor?" she gasps, before her world fades into a hazy white fog.