Burned Men, Direwolves and Dragons
Traveling the icy trails through the back country, Sandor contemplates the life he and Sansa have built together since arriving at the cabin. They have managed to endure the biting cold, scarce game, sudden blizzards and rocky terrain with little difficulty, for life north of the Wall sufficiently prepared them for this challenging environment.
Living among the mountain clans, however, has proven difficult at best for the couple. From what they have seen, their fearsome reputation is no mere exaggeration. Sandor knows the clans are the most important element in making the Vale an ideal place to keep Sansa safe, for the fierce mountain tribes offer a strong deterrent to anyone venturing into the region.
The Burned Men tribe violently countered their presence, challenging them at every turn after their arrival. The chief allowed it, for though he had given Sandor the cabin himself, tribal customs required him to prove the strength to which his scarred face only hinted.
A sennight after their arrival, a small group ambushed Sandor on his way back from the Eyrie. In the particularly brutal fight that ensued, he killed four clansmen and one spearwife. Afterward he found himself on trial before the red hand of the Burned Men, Timmett One Eye. Since returning to the Vale after Blackwater, no clansmen inspires as much dread as Timmett, who served Tyrion long ago. Despite the red hand's awestricken reaction to his scars, Sandor felt certain the young leader's decision would go against him-until the Little bird arrived.
Riding into the tribe on Stranger's back as regal as a queen, Sansa astonished Sandor, Timmett and the clan alike. Promptly she requested an audience to plead the case for the life of her husband with the chieftain. Though clearly taken by her beauty, the fierce young man watched her warily as she spoke, until Sansa reminded him that before he was the red hand, he was in the service of Tyrion Lannister.
"You are Sansa, the daughter of Winterfell that the half man took to wife, kissed by fire. Your brother was the Young Wolf, king in the north who the Boltons killed."
"Yes, you speak truly, Chief Timmett," she said. "I am honored to meet you. Tyrion Lannister, to whom I was once wed, spoke often of your loyal service and bravery."
"Did he now?"
"Yes, he spoke of your courage at the battle of the Green Fork and told how you kept up the charge even after your horse was killed. I appreciate the loyal service you gave Tyrion and because of your loyalty to him, I am confident you will make sure that Sandor and I are left in peace."
Grinning, Timmett motioned for her to approach him. "Sansa, wife of Sandor Clegane, tell us: if you put so much worth in my service to your former husband, why did you leave the half man?"
The fearsome chieftain studied Sansa with his good eye, leaning in close to her as he awaited an answer. To Timmett's visible surprise, Sansa did not flinch at the huge warrior but merely stared him straight in the face. "I ask you, Chief Timmett: how can a wolf stay among the lions when forced into the marriage? If that was the only objection I may have relented in time. However, I have only loved Sandor Clegane since we first met. Tyrion loved my handmaiden, Shae. I believe you met her, as she once was one of his camp followers."
Smirking, the chieftain nodded and Sansa's cheeks colored as the men around him laughed contemptuously. Sandor was livid that the men seemed to enjoy his little bird's apparent embarrassment. To his surprise, Timmett apparently sharing his fury and shouted loudly, "She is Winterfell's daughter and speaks with respect. I, Timmett, asked her to speak, and you will listen to her."
Setting her shoulders, Sansa continued, undeterred by their behavior. "Thank you for patiently hearing me, Timmett, son of Timmett. This is most unseemly to relate. Since you and your men are apparently well acquainted with Tyrion, I am sure it comes as no surprise that he was, in fact, living with her in the way of husband and wife before we were wedded."
"Humph, the half man threw you over for his whore, is that the way of it?"
"It was not his fault, I assure you. The Lannisters did not take either of our feelings into consideration when forcing the marriage. He regretted it just as much as I did, so much so in fact that we were never married in truth. When the septon in the Vale learned of his conduct, our marriage was annulled. Once we were both free to do as we wished, we parted ways. After a respectable amount of time I allowed Sandor Clegane to court my hand."
Timmett nodded gravely. "He has protected me and kept me safe. You see how fierce he is in battle and thus he won my hand. Your men challenged Sandor to prove his bravery according to your customs. I must say such was proven to me long before now. Chief Timmett, I hope you will agree he has most amply demonstrated it this day. His scars do not show the half the fearlessness of my husband, I promise you."
After several rather tense moments, Timmett declared Sandor free of guilt and commanded that the couple left in peace, much to the bewilderment of the clan.
Since then, he and the Little bird have been left to their own devices by the clans. After trading with a few clansmen from various tribes, Sandor has sought their company in hopes of learning the goings on north of the Wall. This past week he heard all of Westeros is teeming with sightings of the queen, now on the move traveling north with her fearsome dragons.
Turning off the trail leading toward their home, Sandor cannot help but smile at the prospect of seeing his wife after a week spent apart. He would never have left her if it had not been for the most recent addition to their home. A fortnight past, her sister's beastly direwolf showed up at the cabin and Sansa laughed and cried at the sight of the animal, hugging and welcoming her as though she was Arya herself. With the immense creature now a constant companion to his wife, Sandor feels it is safe enough leaving her tp search for food.
Despite the grave circumstances surrounding them, with Sansa by his side Sandor feels content for perhaps the first time in his life. Being with her has been a dream for the man, who is learning what it is to love and be loved in return for the first time in his life. In Sansa he has found affection, absolution, fulfillment and peace. At times Sandor can hardly accept this superlative new reality she has brought to his life.
Living with Elder brother on the Quiet Isle taught him to control his anger and to pray and believe in something greater than himself. But it is not religion, nor the gods that gives his life purpose: it is and forever will be Sansa alone who accomplishes that. Sandor knows he will do whatever it takes to see her happy and eventually restored to her ancestral home.
In her newfound sense of peace, Sansa grows even more beautiful and the man who once prided himself on caring for no one now finds himself growing more deeply in love with her. Sandor cannot help but feel proud of his treasured little bird, for every day she demonstrates the strength and resilience he saw within her in King's Landing, the qualities that drew him from the moment he first laid eyes on her.
Like a true creature of the north, his beloved wife is more relaxed and happy than he has ever seen her in their tiny snow-bound dwelling. Every day she bustles about, trying to make the sparse cabin into a comfortable home. He longs to return to her and the comfortable place she has made for them.
Occasionally Sandor brings home conveniences bartered from the clansmen for her: a tea kettle, lavender soaps, and a tub large enough for two, a rain barrel and water pump. Sansa is always excited and thanks him warmly, generously embracing and kissing him as though he brought her a precious jewel.
Smiling to himself, Sandor remembers the first time he teased her about it. Sansa responded by solemnly leading him over to their bed. "You have given me far more than you know, my husband. You are all I need to be happy," she whispered, placing her hand over his heart as she kissed him.
Today it has been eight moons since he came north for her. Sandor spent the past few years of his life regretting he did not love her and keep her safe in King's Landing but no longer; every day he vows anew he will do all he can to keep her safe and happy. When he left for the hunt, Sandor was determined to find a suitable gift for Sansa marking the occasion.
So far, nothing he came across had been what he had in mind for her until yesterday he found the perfect gift: at the junction leading back to the cabin, he discovered a small weirwood tree inexplicably sprouting out of the rocky slope on the Giant's Lance. When Sandor spotted the young sapling flourishing in the rocky terrain, he was amazed to see the living embodiment of the north thriving so far from home and out of its element in the Vale.
A fitting representation of the little bird, he thought to himself, and then and there Sandor knew he had to bring it back to Sansa. The clansmen all said he was crazy, that it was folly, that he'd have to climb out over a steep ledge to reach it. Cursing them all, Sandor did just that. It took him half a day to dig it up, all the while the men jeered him. But Sandor paid them no mind. The promise of his beloved wife's happiness upon seeing the mystical symbol of the north was all the motivation he needed to persevere in his endeavor.
One of the clan elders carefully packed the roots in soft damp soil tied in burlap and prayed a blessing over the tree, saying the weirwood must have especially strong medicine to survive the rocky soil in the Vale. Sandor thought the demonstration was bloody ridiculous, but sure enough, the little sapling survived the week-long trek back to the cabin.
He no more than stables Stranger when his beautiful little bird greets him by running out into the snow in her stocking feet, leaping into his arms and covering his face and neck with kisses, much to his delight. Once inside, Sansa surprises him with new clothes she has made for him. Spread out on their bed are fur lined leather gloves, a great bear skin cloak, woolen tunics and enough smallclothes to last a lifetime.
"What's all this, lass?" Sandor asks gruffly, though secretly he is thrilled. No one has ever done such a thing for him and the labor of love each item represents nearly overwhelms him.
"Grouse all you want; I see that twinkle in your eye," Sansa laughs, tweaking his chin. "I made these for you because I love you. My beloved husband must have the best his little bird has to offer," she beams up at him before pointing out the detailed dogs she embroidered around the hem of his tunics and on the back of his cloak. "It has been eight moons since you returned to me. I want to take care of you the best way I know how, just as you take care of me."
Sansa is the only person ever to express such love and devotion for him, and her simple declaration leaves Sandor too moved to speak. So, instead of trying to put his emotions into words, he scoops her up in his arms and makes love to her the rest of the afternoon to show his gratitude.
"At last, all of my pricked fingers during my septa's sewing lessons have paid off," Sansa whispers with a smile, wrapping them in furs and cuddling close to him afterward.
When he awakens later that evening, Sansa is sitting on the hearth finishing up her cup on moon tea. When she turns around to throw the leaves into the fire he notices she has been crying. Immediately Sandor goes to her, settling her onto his lap.
"Tell me what troubles you, wife," he rasps softly, resting his chin on her hair.
"Nothing, my love," she answers sadly, forcing her mouth into a smile. "I am fine."
Tipping her chin up to him so she meets his gaze, Sandor then tenderly caresses her cheek. "No chirping, my little snow bird. What has brought tears to your lovely eyes this evening?"
"I am not troubled, dearest. It is that I am yearning to start our family. I long for the day I will no longer need this wretched tea," she whispers bitterly, scowling at the cup in her hands. "Sandor, I want our children, our family," she chokes out, finally giving way to her emotions and sobbing into his arms.
"So do I wife, more than you know," he murmurs low, pulling her to his chest and burying his face into her hair. "Our time is coming, love. It won't be long before we are back at Winterfell with a castle full of our pups."
With a sad smile, Sansa eventually nods, glancing around the cabin. "I want to bring our children here someday, Sandor. I want our sons and daughters to know this place. I want them to know how we loved and planned for them long before they were born."
"Aye, we'll bring them, love," he agrees, grinning at her sentimentality. "Come, look what I brought you."
Drying her eyes, Sansa yields to him, allowing him to wrap her in furs and carry her outside.
"Stay here, woman, and close your eyes," he growls menacingly as he seats her on a stump. His wife recognizes the mischievous tone in his voice and laughs even as she complies, eager to see what he is about.
When Sansa opens her eyes, there before her stands the young weirwood sapling, its unmistakable scarlet leaves radiant in the light of the cabin. "Oh, Sandor! Oh, my love, wherever did you find this?" Sansa whispers, raising her hand to tenderly touch its white limbs.
"On the north face of the Giant's Lance. You and this weirwood have a lot in common, lass. Creatures of the north, both of you, and managing to flourish even though you're out of your element here in the Vale."
Deeply moved, it is Sansa's turn to find herself at a loss for words by her husband's loving display of devotion. "It is the most beautiful gift I've ever been given," she whispers as she takes him into her arms and kisses him soundly. "I cannot believe you managed to free it of its soil without damaging the roots."
"Bloody near broke my neck trying to dig it up, too. One of the holy men said a prayer over it so it would survive the trip back. Thought we'd plant it here, maybe carve a face into it for prayers if you like. Then one day we'll return with our family, and we'll show our pups the tree and tell them we prayed for them here," he casually shrugs, all the while looking very pleased with himself.
"It is a most touching and beautiful idea, husband. Come, I must thank you properly for your gift, as you thanked me earlier," she softly replies, leading him inside with a naughty glimmer in her eye.
The dense smoke rising from the sulfur pits nearly obscures Castle Black from view, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch grimly thinks as he anxiously awaits the queen's arrival. She'll be lucky to even see us down here. In the past two days the ever-present comet has turned blood red, its flaming tail nearly obscuring the blue sky overhead. The awesome display heralds the arrival of the Mother of Dragons and yet makes the men and Jon alike nervous.
"How will we know when the queen is close?" Samwell asks, nervously searching the sky for signs.
"Look up, maester-that bloody comet tells you she's close," Ser Jaremy remarks darkly. "Those White Walkers must know it, too. They fought harder than ever the last few weeks. Do you realize last night is the tenth consecutive night they have nearly overrun the castle?"
"You would ask that of me, the man who orders his dead brothers burned every night? That smoke is filled with the ashes of what we have lost," Jon growls angrily, gesturing toward the smoldering column behind them. "Don't ever question what I comprehend about the war against the White Walkers again." Lack of sleep, constant fear and the heavy burden of leadership weighs heavily on the young man, whose only consolation is the knowledge that his sisters and brothers are safe.
Ghost suddenly sits up, searching the sky and baring his teeth. Suddenly the thunderous beating of wings envelopes the men, the ensuing gust of wind swirling snow and dirt around the assembled members of the Night's Watch. When the dust clears, Jon raises his eyes to find himself face to face with an enormous black and red dragon. The creature cautiously moves closer, all the while watching him with a superior intelligence that Jon finds both fascinating and unnerving.
"Hold fast, Drogon," a soft, feminine voice says, and Jon notices the small, beautiful silver-haired young woman gently tugging at the reins on the beast's back. She is but a few years older than Sansa, Jon notes.
"Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, it is an honor to welcome you on your first visit to Castle Black." Jon signals the men, who kneel at his command.
A slight smile appears on the young queen's face as she peers down at him, pulling a luxuriant white lion skin cloak closer to her small form. Drogon dances sideways trying to move closer while still reined by his mistress. "That is very kind, Lord Commander Snow, it is a pleasure to meet you at last," Daenerys nods formally at him before eying her mount warily. "I understood Stannis Baratheon would also be present. Is he here?"
"Regretfully no, your Grace," Jon says tersely, his tone of annoyance noticed by the queen. "He is in council with his red priestess now and requested I give you his respects."
"He is with the red priestess-is she not the one who conjured a wraith to kill his brother?"
"Yes, your Grace, the very same."
"I have heard of her," Daenerys says flatly, rubbing Drogon's neck. "I shall attend to them later. I would like to introduce to you my beloved Drogon," she smiles, patting the beast on the flank.
Jon cautiously steps forward, nodding at the animal. Curiously, the beast slowly inches his way closer, his glowing red eyes fixed on the young commander. Soon he begins emanating a high-pitched chirping noise. The dragon's unusual behavior alarms Ghost, who responds by positioning himself between the fearsome creature and his master, all the while raising his fur, dipping his head and baring his teeth.
"Drogon, hold fast, I say," the queen says firmly, gently tugging the reigns once more.
Once the beast stops, she pats his neck and speaks softly to him, feeding him a large hunk of cooked meat. "Drogon, lower," she commands when he finishes, and at the sound of her words the dragon rolls on its side, allowing her to gracefully dismount the massive beast. Once freed of her, Drogon cautiously begins creeping closer to Jon once more, his behavior clearly puzzling the young queen.
"Lord Commander Snow, are you frightened of Drogon?" She asks, motioning for him to stand.
"Your Grace, a man with even the slightest sense would be respectfully apprehensive of your dragons," Jon says with a smile, rising to his feet. "He is both beautiful and fearsome to behold."
Frowning slightly, she nods, holding out her hand to him so he will approach. "Yes, he is, isn't he? Still, his behavior is most unusual. Generally he ignores others in my presence, unless he feels they are a threat. If such were the case, we would be in a very different situation now."
Drogon continues his chirping while nuzzling Daenerys' hand. "Perhaps he is merely excited by the new surroundings. I usually command him in High Valyrian and only recently starting using the Common tongue in preparation for coming here. Maybe he is a bit confused as well."
"Indeed or perhaps it is because it is the first time he has seen a direwolf," Jon offers, watching as Ghost hesitantly sniffs the huge beast.
Daenerys notices the direwolf's bravery as well and gives a small laugh, "Yes, perhaps that is the true reason after all. How fitting it is for our sigils to meet on the same day as us, Lord Commander Snow."
Suddenly the thundering of dragon wings surrounds them, sending snow and debris into the air once more.
Jon steps back while surveying the two dragons carefully. The first animal is deep leafy green in color, flecked with bronze and ridden by an older man with white hair. The other dragon is creamy white with golden scales and ridden by a muscular built young man with dark hair. Both beasts are smaller than Drogon and less cautious as well.
"Viserion, Rhaegal, hold fast," Daenerys calls out as the two ferocious beasts set down before the men. "Low," Daenerys commands, and obediently both dragons prostrate themselves in a similar fashion, allowing their respective riders to dismount.
"Lord Commander Snow, allow me to introduce Ser Barristan the Bold, riding my brave Viserion," she smiles, gesturing to the older man standing beside the green dragon. "And here is Gendry Waters, riding my fearless Rhaegal. He is also of House Baratheon, sharing a similar life situation as yourself."
Ser Barristan Selmy and a surviving Baratheon arrive with the queen? How is this possible? King Robert's bastards where all hunted down by Joffrey-or where they? And where is Tyrion Lannister? Jon's mind swims with questions at hearing the two names and Daenerys, seeming to read his thoughts, laughs outright. "Please, make yourselves acquainted."
"Ser Barristan, the pleasure is all mine, my lord. My father spoke of you as a man of honor and dignity," Jon manages, offering his hand to the older man.
"Jon, you do your father proud by preserving the Stark tradition of service in the Night's Watch," Ser Barristan bows before shaking his hand in return.
At the sound of Ser Barristan and Jon's voices, Viserion begins the same unusual chirping noise, submissively rolling onto his side. Cautiously Jon approaches him with an outstretched hand, and the dragon responds by nuzzling into him affectionately, his behavior both pleasing and stunning the young queen.
Pausing for a moment, Jon then turns to the young man, bowing low. "Gendry Waters, it is an honor to meet you. I look forward to making your acquaintance."
"Thank you Lord Commander Snow. Please, refer to me as Gendry," he says, heartily returning Jon's handshake. "I have rarely seen the dragons take to anyone as they have you, Lord Commander." Rhaegal chirps noisily as he surrounds the men, wrapping them both close in a circular embrace with his tail.
The queen smiles approvingly as she observes the interaction between men and dragons. "I am most pleased to see my dragons so taken with you. It does much to garner my trust. No doubt the unexpected arrival of these men puzzles you, Lord Commander Snow and rightly so; but rest assured all will be explained in due time. For now, I wish to survey the sites in which you have previously engaged the Others."
"Thank you, your Grace, you honor me with the offer of explanation. I would be glad to escort you to the latest battle site, which happens to be just on the other side of the castle wall. Men, raise the Gate."
"That is not necessary for us, Lord Commander," Daenerys replies. "Drogon, low," she commands, the dragon once more responds by rolling onto his side. "Won't you join us? It is much faster this way," the queen beckons with a smile. Though hesitant, Jon does not dare refuse her and guardedly climbs behind her on Drogon's back.
As the pair walk through Castle Black's battle-scarred courtyard, Jon points out areas of interest to the young queen, who gravely takes in the destruction surrounding her. "You must burn all your people who die at the hands of the Others?" She asks, and Jon senses a twinge of sadness in her voice.
"Yes, your Grace, it is an unfortunate necessity to prevent them from returning as wights. Even the animals must be burned."
"I see," she says softly, staring into the smoldering sulfur pit. "It is a terrible thing, to burn one's dead. It may surprise you to learn I also have done such. I burned my husband in a large pyre befitting the mighty khal he once was. It is from his fire our dragons were born. Drogon is named after him."
Jon nods, not sure how to respond to such a personal admission from the Queen on the Iron throne.
Turning to face him, Daenerys gazes into his eyes. "You are Jon Snow, bastard of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, former Warden of the north, is that correct?"
"Yes, that is correct, your Grace."
"And pray, who was your mother?"
"My mother died when I was very young. Forgive me but I do not remember ever hearing her given name, your Grace."
Frowning, the queen nods, narrowing her eyes at him. "And no one ever hinted as to who she might be or where your father met her?"
"I am afraid not. No one ever spoke of her."
"I see." Daenerys pauses. "You know, I once heard long ago that my brother Rhaegar was quite smitten with your aunt. Do you have any memory of her?"
Stunned, Jon stops dead in his tracks. "You speak of my aunt Lyanna, my father's sister. No, regretfully she passed into the afterlife before I was born."
Daenerys smiles and nods. "As did my brother Rhaegar, at the hands of Gendry's father. Have you not heard the story of the two of them, Jon Snow?"
"Y-yes I heard it as a bedtime story from one of our caregivers, who long since has passed into the afterlife. I wasn't sure if it was true," Jon stammers, unwilling to tell the queen all Old Nan said to him. "Should you desire to see Winterfell, I would be glad to escort you to her crypt. There is a statue bearing my aunt Lyanna's likeness marking her tomb."
"I would like that very much. Well, at least you can rest assured knowing there is some truth to your caregiver's tale, for I remember hearing as much from my brother Viserys."
"You are most kind for telling me, your Grace."
Noticing Jon's worried expression, Daenerys hesitantly pats his arm. "I am sure one day we will both learn the truth about each of our respective families' pasts. Are you quite alright?"
Jon nods absently, still overwhelmed by her words. "Oh, I beg pardon, your Grace, I seem to have forgotten myself. I have not slept a night through in two weeks."
"Indeed. Forgive me but I am also quite tired. What say we both rest now? I will meet you in your solar in two hours."
"Yes, your Grace. I will have my men escort you as well as Ser Barristan and Ser Gendry to your respective quarters," Jon says, bowing low before her.
"I shall see you then," the queen replies, silently wondering to herself what is so familiar about the young Lord Commander as she makes her way to her rooms.