The Hound Returns from the Dead

Sinking to his knees, Sandor hands Edric to Arya and then pushes her out of the way, not ungently. Pressing hard on the material covering her wound, he then gathers Sansa in his arms. "Wife, stay with me, you hear? The babes need you. I need you."

"Sandor," Sansa whispers softly. "Don't let them get the babes-"

Her voice is weak, Arya notes, and the color has all but drained from her face. "Don't try to talk, Sis."

"No one is taking our children, you hear?" He snarls out, his voice choked with tears. "No one. I'll kill the Stranger himself." More softly, Sandor rasps close to her ear. "Don't leave me."

The wild, fearsome look in Sandor's eyes is familiar to Arya; she has seen it before, and knows the man is primed and ready to kill anyone who dares come near his little bird. His face is twisted into the same black, cold expression he wore when he heard Sansa was married to the Imp in the inn, just moments before the fight with Gregor's men. Arya knows better than to approach him.

"Clegane," Jon awkwardly rests his hand on Sandor's shoulder. "She'll be-"

Sandor turns sharply, jerking away from him. "Get your fucking hands off of me!" His eyes are feral, unfocused, his face pale save for his scarring. Drawing his sword, Sandor steps forward while tucking Sansa against him tightly.

"Jon, no-" Arya steps between her brother and Sandor. "Leave him be." Jon steps back and draws Longclaw warily.

"Hound-Sandor-wait!" Arya boldly block his path and holds Edric in front of him. "It is your family, Jon and Arya and Edric, your son-not the enemy! Don't fight us; let us help Sansa. Think of your children and your wife, damn it, and put down that sword this minute!"

Blinking several times, Sandor clenches his jaw and sheathes the sword. "Arya, she won't make it back to Winterfell on horseback-she's lost too much blood."

"She will, Sandor. She lost a sight more in childbed, I'll wager. Bring her to me. I can ride like the wind!" Throwing her leg over Craven, Arya pats the space in front of her.

A deep shadow falls over the wood just then, causing Jon and Arya to raise their eyes to the heavens above. "It is Viserion."

Upon seeing Jon, Viserion lets out a long peculiar cry, one usually reserved for his siblings and Dany. Gendry is on his back, wearing armor and sword drawn; carefully he maneuvers the animal lower.

A whirl of wind suddenly surrounds them, stirring up leaves and dust as he sets Viserion down in a nearby clearing. Turning, Arya runs toward them. "Gendry! How did you know we needed you?"

"When the queen said you were driven to meet Sansa I feared it meant the old gods were calling to you-mayhap your brother Bran." He explains. "I couldn't shake it, and then Rickon returned with Shireen saying she had a dream about Sansa. I couldn't stand to stay there then." Mindless to her brother's awe stricken stare, Arya throws her arms around him and kisses the young man soundly. "Thank the old gods you've come!"

"What happened here? Who are all these men?" Gendry pulls away, his eyes suddenly following Arya's toward Sandor, who is clutching Sansa to his chest determinedly. "Oh gods, no! Is she-"

"No, no, love, Sansa lives. An arrow caught her just below the collar. She's losing blood-too much for horseback-" Arya hastily wipes her eyes. "Take her, Gendry.

"Go, save her if you can." Jon waves his hand. "We'll follow on horseback with the wagon."

Gendry nods and pats the dragon on the neck, the beast shaking his head in response. "Clegane, come on then. Get the babes. I can carry you both. Winterfell is not far."

Sandor frowns as he glances between the dragon and his wife. "Take her, boy," he rasps, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'll get the babes and join you."

When Gendry returns with Sansa, Sandor and the babies on Viserion's back, Rickon, Shireen and Danaerys are waiting for them in the courtyard. "Goodbrother, I knew Sansa was hurt!" Rickon twisted his hands. "I felt it! It hurt awfully." Shireen protectively places her hands around his shoulder.

Her eyes instantly filling with tears, the queen leans forward to examine Sansa's lifeless body. "Is she-"

Sandor shakes his head. "The bastard of Bolton lives; some of his men ambushed us just as the wolf girl and her brother arrived."

"Sandor, please, hand me your children. I will care for them myself. Rickon insisted something was wrong with Sansa, Gendry, so I had Maester Tarly and Elder brother ready their supplies. They are waiting for you in the quarters set up for the Cleganes."

Sighing, Sandor nods curtly and unstraps the babies from their swaddling against his massive chest.

Quickly Danaerys takes them from his arms, balancing Catya and Edric on each hip. "Show Sandor the way." Shireen tears the shawl from her shoulders and bundles the children close to the queen. When the men pause to stare at her, Dany barks, "Go men, take her at once-run!"

"Irri, make my room ready for the babes. I want fresh milk, warm furs, cloths for diapers, blankets, towels, fresh clothes and hot water for bathing."

"Yes, Khaleesi!" Irri sprints away, her gleaming black braid waving behind her.

"Hodor, get Clegane something to eat and bring it to their quarters."

"Hodor." The gentle giant ambles off quickly toward the kitchens.

"I will find Lady Sansa some clean clothes, my lady." Shireen dips her head and hurries off.

When Gendry and Dany are the only two left in the courtyard, the queen turns to him. "You sensed Arya was in danger; that is why you left so quickly. Is there someone you wish to tell me?"

"Forgive us, your Grace; we wed before the Heart tree in the sight of the old gods when we were camping out in the Wolfswood. "

"You what?!"

"We didn't plan it, and there was no disrespect meant to you or the prince. Arya wanted to wait to tell you after her sister returned."

"Why did you not tell me?" Danaerys' purple eyes glitter angrily. Catya wriggles in her arms.

"Arya and I did not want a large wedded feast. We-"

Howling angrily, Catya fists Dany's hair and pulls hard; Edric soon raises his voice as well. "The children need my attention, Gendry. We will discuss this later. Make ready the stables for Jon and Arya's return."

Time passes in a blur for Sandor as Elder brother and Maester Tarly examine Sansa's wound. Mother, save her if you can. I cannot lose her. I don't know how to live without her. His prayers sting bitterly on his tongue and yet Sandor persists, no knowing what else to do. He was in the same position after he was burned, and the knowledge claws his eyed, Sandor sits quietly and cradles Sansa in his arms.

Elder brother gathers the surgical instruments as Sam administers milk of the poppy under her tongue. "The tip is not poisonous," Sam sighs in relief. "It did not react to the serums."

Letting out a deep breath of relief, Sandor thanks the gods silently, though his prayers change as the minutes pass. His prayers of thanks to the Mother soon give way to entreating the Warrior to grant him revenge on the bastard of Bolton and to lead him to everyone who was involved in the attack. Rage courses through his veins at an unprecedented level, blackening his mood and tightening his chest. He wants to rant and curse, rage and pound his fists into the ground; but Sandor knows he must maintain a measure of calm if he is to help Sansa and so he draws a deep breath and strokes her hair.

Once she is asleep, Elder brother and Sam carefully examine the arrow. "It is lodged into the bone, shattering it. We needs get the weapon out and set it while Sansa rests, Sandor."

He failed her once, and he will not tolerate her suffering; just seeing the little bird in pain sends a subsequent ache through his wounded heart. "No."

"Please, Sandor, let us do our work." Elder brother makes the sign of the Seven over Sansa, then turns and does the same for Sandor. "The gods will help her."

"I meant to say that I will help remove it. Tarly here isn't strong enough, and I won't tolerate you men causing her more pain than can be helped."

With another word, Sandor washes his hands and sets to work, the two men together carefully dislodging the arrow while Samwell restrains her. Writhing beneath the young maester, Sansa feebly calls to him, the sound of her voice opening the corresponding hurt in Sandor's heart afresh.

"Easy lass," Sandor mutters soothingly. "I'll get this out as quick as I can." With that he wrenches hard, freeing the arrow from her collarbone. Too weak to scream, Sansa quietly faints away. "Forgive me wife; the worst is over."

"Lucky the bone caught it." Elder brother deftly cleans and stitches the wound. Sandor rushes to her side, whispering softly into her ear. "Tis better for her to be thus, lad. I'll give her a pinch of yellow horse so she won't remember the pain."

"Aye," Sandor dries his hands. "Good idea, that. Many thanks to you both. Go now, the both of you. I'll watch over her."

"Give her plenty of milk of the poppy today and tomorrow," Sam hands Sandor several pouches of herbs. "Also, give her arnica root tea for the swelling every two hours, just a sip or two will do. I am having a large supply of water from the hot springs brought up here. It doesn't smell good but it will prevent infection so give her as much as she will drink."

Sandor nods, his eyes never leaving his wife. He meant to protect her, see her home safely. He failed; the least he can do is help her heal.

"I'll have the butcher kill a calf for Sansa. Hot Pie can make bone marrow soup and fix up the liver for her; that will give her strength."

"There is a remedy that the Wildings use," Sam offers slowly, "You mix the blood of the calf with flour and drop it by the spoonful into boiling broth; it strengthens the patient right away after blood loss."

"I know how to make it, m'lord," Osha assures Sandor. "Me Ma taught me. It's blood dumplin's; good for the mother after child bearin' or after a heavy moon cycle. It also sees us through when game is short."

Sandor remains silent, stroking the hair matted at Sansa's brow. Her face is as white as the pillowcase, making the red of her hair stand in stark contrast to her complexion. His beloved little bird almost died less than a day's ride from Winterfell. The men who plotted such treachery will pay in the worst way imaginable.

Elder brother speaks softly as if reading his thoughts. "The Hound is dead. Sandor Clegane is at peace. Your wife has brought that to you, Sandor."

Dark and dangerous, the Hound was no longer dead, of that Sandor is certain. The Hound awakened as soon as the frightened cries of his wife and children reached his ears, unleashing a primal rage within the man. Sandor brutally slayed every man that dared cross his path with a singular ferocity that frightened even himself before the release of bloodshed coursed through his blood. His mouth curls into a wicked grin but still Sandor refuses to speak, the man contentedly stroking Sansa's silken hair through his fingers.

I will kill them all for you, little bird. You and the pups. I swear on every one of the fucking gods, old and new. I'll burn their bodies and alight the Dreadfort with dragonfire. If I have to burn in the Seven hells for it, I'll do so gladly and bugger the gods. Wordlessly Sandor then takes out his fighting knife, caked in the blood of Frey men, slices open his hand and presses lightly against her wound. I will have my revenge for you, little bird. Beneath his touch Sansa whimpers lightly in her places a soft kiss on her mouth before his eyes trail down to the front of her sleeping gown; it is now soaked with milk, the sight shaking him from his dark reverie.

"Sandor, Sandor," Elder brother's voice echoes somewhere in the distance. Snapping his head, Sandor glares at the man. "Will you allow us to try this Wilding remedy on Sansa?" Elder brother gently inquires, the man watching Sandor closely as he does so.

"Do whatever needs to be done. Bring it all; I'll see that she eats it." Sandor answers flatly, wishing they would just leave them be. He longs for solitude, to be alone in the darkness and become one with it, to let it flow through him as it did after Gregor burned his face and killed his sister and mother. Sandor's rage will fuel his revenge once more, and no gods, old or new, will be able to save the remaining Freys now.

The pups. Blinking, his mind instantly shifts to a softer place, the place Sandor had been living in until his eyes saw Sansa lying in a heap in Arya's arms, her blood staining the snow beneath her. "Where are the babes?"

"The queen's tryin' to do for them babes herself. Boiled cow's milk, aye, but they don't take to it none, either. Their squallin' is all over the castle."

Sansa will be angry when she hears that. "My wife is ready to nurse; you can bring them to her. I'll hold them." Sandor gestures to her; though she is covered by a sheet, Elder brother and Samwell both understand at once.

"I'll bring them direct, and a fresh gown as well," Osha smiles. "Gilly has lots. "Then I'll see to the dumplins, m'lord."

"A good woman you are," Sandor forces a taut smile. "And clean and sharpen my weapons will you?"

Grinning, Osha nods. "Aye for certain I will."

"Save that bloody cloth for me," Sandor gestures to Elder brother. "I want all of it, damn you."

Confused, the man casts a quizzical look at him.

"I mean to wear my wife's favor on my sword when I slaughter those buggering Frey cowards." Sandor spits on the floor as though the very word fouls his tongue. "I'll bring her their heads for this, believe that."

Sandor watches Elder brother visibly shiver at his words, but he could not give a single fuck; the time for the Seven's way is over. Now is the time for the Hound.

"Sandor, are you certain you wish to travel down this road? Let us pray-"

"Your way is yours, holy man, and mine is mine," Sandor snarls out, baring his teeth. The words are forced from his throat. Swallowing hard, he continues, his voice low and menacing. "Any man who gets in between me and the ones who did this will taste my steel."

Nervously Samwell glances at Elder brother, who merely nods, a deep frown furrowing his brow. "Then come to me before you leave for the Dreadfort and I will say the Warrior's blessing over you, Sandor Clegane. Vengeance is a place you can visit, my son, but you cannot live there. Your wife and children love and need you. Do not let the Hound consume you." With that the holy man leaves Sandor alone with his thoughts and Sansa.