The Devil Within
For three days the maester administers the milk of the poppy, the substance lulling Sansa into a deep, restful sleep and sparing her the agony of recuperation. Sandor, ever vigilant, refuses to allow anyone to tend her other than himself and Elder brother. When he finishes caring for Sansa, Sandor alternates between draining his flask, praying for his wife's health, and planning the most savage way possible to exact his revenge on the Boltons. The Hound has returned to him for certain: brutal, vengeful and feral.
It is both frightening and liberating after so many years of suppressing his anger, to give it free reign once more. Feeding off anger and drowning his regret with wine, the man often wonders if he had remained as he was, if he might have been better prepared to protect her.
It is folly, he knows, for Sandor did no better in King's Landing. He stood by and let the Kingsguard beat her, and he didn't force her to leave with him, either. Time spent on the Quiet Isle silenced most of his inner demons, but not all; only Sansa's love had accomplished that. Sandor's dreams then consisted of Sansa and a future life with their family, but now only sickeningly satisfying visions of revenge assault Sandor's fitful sleep, bringing the rage and hatred once reserved for Gregor to the fore once again.
During his waking hours, Sandor's mind replays his memories of King's Landing, and when he first saw his beloved little bird at Winterfell. He failed her then just as he failed to protect her from the Bolton's arrow. She deserves better than him, Sandor knows, and despite her trust he is not the man she thinks he is. It will mean the death of her to stay with him and yet a part of him knows that in spite of everything, Sansa would never leave him.
It would be up to him to protect her, if not from others, then from himself. Sandor means to leave her once she is well for the sake of her safety and that of his children, but in his heart he realizes he is incapable of such a thing; it would be unbearable knowing that he caused her pain.
Life without her would be a fate worse than anything he has ever known; in fact, he is not certain he could survive without her, for Sansa's love saved him in many ways. But now, a far deeper fear haunts him: when she awakens, his beloved wife will no longer recognize the man he has become, and once she realizes he is the Hound, she very well may choose to send him away.
Sandor's melancholy has been played out for the entire castle to witness, but he doesn't give a fuck. Even the queen has put off leaving, and he knows it is at least in part because of his behavior. Anger and self loathing return to him in full force, fueling his drinking and robbing him of sleep. Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan have tried talking to him, but he pays them no mind. What would two old bloody knights know if his suffering?
Only Sansa, Arya and Elder brother know the truth about his nature. The holy man so far has said very little, and merely offers droughts to alleviate his misery with a few words of comfort. Sandor dutifully drains the vials but nothing works as well as Dornish sour. Drunken exhaustion stings his eyes and grips his head in its vice but even in this state, Sandor cannot bring himself to leave Sansa's side, not even to check on Catya and Edric.
Once Elder brother leaves for the day, Sandor does not allowed anyone to enter their bed chamber. He prefers the darkness, the quiet solitude of just him and Sansa. No one has interfered with his daily routine, that is, no one but Arya.
While the rest of the castle bustles about with its daily activities, only Arya seems to recognize the descent Sandor is spiraling toward. After all, she was there the last time Sandor was in such a way. Determined he would not leave her to the same fate as her sister, he stole her away under the pretense of ransom, after his battle with Beric Dondarrion. From what little he can remember of the trip afterward, it is something he is certain the young woman would rather forget.
She had been angry too, then, and reminded him so much of his younger self that Sandor had been a bit worried about her. Arya had been in her own dark place after first losing her father and then her mother and brothers, but this time she was different. Then, he only need growl at her and she would retreat to the blankets, scowling and silently plotting ways to kill him. Now, however, Arya is the only person in Winterfell that Sandor has been unable to scare off.
She sits in the corner now with Nymeria at her feet, wordlessly watching him sponge off her sister. Ignoring her, he goes about his tasks in silence. After Sandor finishes, the man collapses beside Sansa on the bed, tentatively curling his body around her own.
"Watch me all you want, wolf bitch; you know what I'm about. You'll not change my mind, either, so spare me your Stark notions of duty and honor." He leans forward and spits at her feet before curling back into Sansa.
Ignoring him, Arya folds her arms. "Is she better today?"
"Sansa is warm but no longer feverish." Gently he pulls her against his chest. "She'll be fine." Sighing contentedly, the little bird nestles back into him, the innocent movement welling up a lump of emotion in Sandor's throat.
"Good. When will the maester awaken her?"
Sandor does not respond, only pulls Sansa closer still. Though he knows it is irrational, he cannot shake the fear that someone, something, will yet try to take her from him. Each day Sansa sleeps is one more day Sandor has to try to get his shit together so as not to disappoint her further still.
"Tomorrow."
"I do know you, Hound. I know you cannot leave her and the children, though your instinct is to run away like a dog with its tail tucked between his legs."
"Fuck off. What do you know of it?"
"I know you mean to leave to get justice for my sister. I wasn't going to try to change your mind about that, either." Arya says softly. "Why would you even think that? When did I ever try to keep you from killing?"
"Not justice-bugger that. Revenge."
His words send an involuntary shiver through Arya, the sight giving Sandor a smug sense of satisfaction.
"Answer me," she persists. "When did I stop you from killing?"
"The hog farmer." He answers after some deliberation, his mind hazy with wine and lack of sleep.
"Alright," Arya laughs, "I'll give you that one but only because he was a harmless old man."
"Why are you here, then, if not to change my mind? What the fuck do you want, anyway?" Sandor snarls at her. "I'm not interested in jawing about the past so take your bloody beast and be gone."
Raising her brow at him, Arya sits down at the foot of the bed. "I want to know when you were planning on getting your lazy arse out of this bed." She nudges his foot. "You're crazier than people are saying if you think I'm going to leave you in here this way with my sister."
"Bugger that. Bugger you. I'll do whatever I want with my wife, understand?"
"Hound, you smell like shit. Your children need you. My sister needs you well-not like this."
"Aye," he mutters quietly. He hasn't seen the pups in a few days and the realization sends a fresh wave of guilt over the man. Sandor leans over for the wineskin but Arya snatches it away.
"We've got Boltons to kill. If you don't get yourself together I'll do it without you."
She never was afraid of me, bloody wench. Snorting, Sandor sits up and regards her. She is armed to the teeth with both Needle and Wolf's Blood strapped to her waist.
"I see you've got your Wilding war paint on," Sandor smirks, taking in the ancient symbols painted on her arms and neck. "A lot of bloody good that will do. Don't you and the Boltons worship the same gods?"
Arya shrugs. "Mayhap. They are also the gods of your wife and children, Hound. They led you to her, and they brought Gendry to us as well. You know that, for all the shit you talk about them."
"Those bloody bastards from the Dreadfort better rally all the deities they can find, you best believe, because the Stranger himself is coming for them. I will have my revenge in fire and blood just like the fucking Targaryens and I won't need any bloody dragons to do it, either."
A soft knock on the door startles him. "Who the fuck is it now?" Sandor growls low, rubbing his eyes.
"Osha, m'lord."
Sighing, he sinks back into the pillows. "Well don't just stand out there; come inside; everyone else does."
Osha's thick laughter echoes through the door before she enters, nodding knowingly at Arya as she does so. Sandor likes the woman, for she is the only woman besides Sansa and Arya who will look him straight in the face. She is open and honest and expects no less from others.
Osha was once a spearwife, Arya told him, and a ferocious one at her shaggy hair, she doesn't look the least bit threatening, especially when balancing Catya and Edric on each hip. "M'lord, the bairns just et and bathed off, so I thought they'd want to see their Pa," Osha thoughtfully enters the bedchamber, her eyes falling on Sansa's sleeping form nestled in the furs.
"Aye, good on you, woman. Come to me, Catya pup," Sandor nuzzles into the nape of his daughter's neck, taking comfort in having the little one in his arms. Eagerly she holds out her arms to him and squeals in delight when he pulls her close.
She is the sweetest thing he has ever held, his little Catya. In her he sees the innocence Sansa once had. Over the years, Sandor heard it said that men always love their sons more but he doesn't believe a word of it. Bugger that, he thinks as he runs his finger over her silky cheek. Catya in particular brings out gentleness that Sandor never knew he possessed. Her huge gray eyes sparkle as she stares at him, just the way Sansa's do.
Arya has taken Edric, who babbles happily in her arms and wriggles excitedly at the sight of his father. "Give Edric to me," Sandor lifts the boy into his arms, who snuggles down contentedly against his chest. Edric's soft blue eyes hold the innocence Sandor lost when he was burned, and it is so beautiful that at times Sandor finds it almost painful to look upon. Beholding his children nestled in his arms, Sandor cannot imagine choosing to love one above the other, let alone willingly leaving them out of some buggering misplaced sense of protection.
They are blood of his blood, the best of him and Sansa together, made flesh and given life by the gods. It is a powerful feeling, to be unconditionally loved and accepted by his children. Edric and Catya are the only two people Sandor will never shield himself from; and holding them now fills the man with a renewed determination.
"Lady Sansa can't feed 'em proper with that potion in her blood," Osha shifts nervously on her feet, knowing that Sandor does not want anyone nursing the children but Sansa. "But she'll pass it in the milk and so can't."
It is all he can do not to snap at the woman, though Sandor knows she is right. Besides, he hasn't been taking care of them anyway, so the blame lies with him. "Is there enough women nursing in Winterfell to feed them?"
"Aye, always Wilding females around here bringing forth babes."
"Bring the healthiest and sturdiest of them to nurse the babes. See that they are given extra rations. I'll pay them for nursing them as well."
Osha grins up at him, "As you wish, m'lord. What about Lady Sansa? She won't like it none."
"Leave her to me," Sandor waves his hand at her. "After every meal, bring the pups back when they've had their fill, will you?"
"Of course," Osha pauses, her shrewd eyes surveying him. "Hard as you are, I never seen a man as involved with his young as you, Sandor Clegane."
"They are as much mine as Sansa's."
Arya and Osha exchange smiles. "Aye, tis true but most think it's woman's work."
"Any man who won't care for his own is a bloody fool." Sandor mutters, reluctantly handing Catya and Edric over to her.
After Osha leaves, he turns back to Arya, who is smirking at him in a decidedly self-satisfied manner.
"Did you have Osha bring them?"
"Yes," Arya tosses his tunic to him. "So?"
"Why?" Sandor glares at her.
"It's what Sansa would do to get your thick head back on straight," she throws him a towel. "Come. I've had a bath drawn for you. I'll watch over her while you clean up."
"Had enough of the stench, wolf girl?" He climbs out of bed, heedless that he is only wearing his smallcothes. "Then get the fuck out of here."
Arya laughs. "You stink worse than when we were travelling together. What do you suppose Sansa will say when she gets a whiff?"
"You didn't exactly smell like winter peaches then, either," Sandor snorts at her. "Though that beast of yours stinks worse still; bloody hells."
"Oh, is that so? You didn't seem to notice her on the Quiet Isle, Hound, for all your talk of her distinctive odor."
Sandor turns sharply toward her, the sudden movement sending a searing pain to his temple. "What in bloody hells does that mean?"
"I scented you in the tidal flats of the Quiet Isle as Nymeria in a wolf dream."
Stunned, Sandor slumps down on the bed and rubs his head, trying to clear his thoughts. "We saw huge paw prints in the sand but-"
"That was us," Arya nods nervously, tracing her foot on the granite flooring. "Why do you think you never saw any Lannister or Baratheon deserters when you were there? Just dumb luck? Didn't you think it odd no sellsword came looking for you?"
Sandor shrugs; he had thought it strange, especially since word that he was raping and pillaging the Saltpans had spread all over the South. Now it made sense.
"Nymeria ate well in those days."
Sandor could not help but laugh at her admission, and Arya joined him. "The only reason Lady Brienne made it was because I could tell she cared about finding Sansa. She's a good sort."
"Then why not leave it to the wench to find your sister?"
Arya leans in close. "For Jaime Lannister? Fat chance. I knew you would go to Sansa, Hound. No one tracks the way you do, and you could not bear to stay away from her. I knew if I found you, you would lead me to her."
"How could you know any such thing?" Sandor's eyes bore into her own.
"You wouldn't be able to live with yourself," Arya unflinchingly stares into his eyes. "I remember your dying words on the Trident; and from you that's as close to an admission of love as anything. That's why I couldn't kill you."
Enraged, Sandor lurches toward her and wraps his hand around her throat. "You'll not tell her about that, you hear?"
Laughing ruefully, Arya places her hand on his wrist and presses down hard on a spot just above the bone that instantly brings Sandor to his knees. "Same old Hound, huh? Well I'm not the same girl. Don't do that again or I'll break your arm, goodbrother or no."
Jerking away, Sandor shakes his head and rubs his wrist angrily. "You'd better not tell Sansa, if you know what's best for you."
"I'll tell her if I like. She should know how deeply you regretted leaving her!" Arya's eyes fill with tears, the tender display surprising the man. "If you had talked this out with her, you wouldn't be in the position you're in now, all drunk and feeling sorry for yourself."
"What do you know of it, wolf bitch?" Snorting, Sandor starts to turn away but Arya grips him firmly.
"Sansa never blamed you for leaving her in King's Landing, you know! She used to think of you for comfort. Gods, do you know how many times she awakened me and Jon in the middle of the night crying out for you? She always saw you as the man who tried to protect her and taught her to look out for herself."
Swallowing hard, Sandor suddenly shrinks away from her, her words stinging sharper than any blow.
"How is it possible you are married and neither of you have brought this up?"
"We have, some," Sandor mutters while staring at his feet. "I know about the Vale and Littlefucker-not that it's any of your bloody business!"
Arya throws down the remaining wine flasks, shattering them on the floor and then jabs her finger in his chest, startling him. "It is my business when you are busy drowning yourself in Dornish sour while my niece and nephew are cared for by others! It will be my business when my sister awakens and asks me what the hell happened to you while she was healing!"
Sighing, Sandor says nothing, only rubs his hands over his face. Love for his beloved little bird mixed with shame overwhelms the man. Sansa's love has saved him from himself many a time and given him a small measure of willpower. It seems it may do so yet again, if only to live long enough to avenge her. Slowly he nods in assent.
Satisfied, Arya continues, "Gods knows why, but Sansa loves you, so get up and be the man she fell for! Be a father to your children and stop the pity party-stop all of this nonsense at once!"
"I hear you, stop that bloody shouting before I wring your scrawny neck," Sandor eases himself out of bed.
"Well, it's about time," Arya heads for the door. "We leave in a sennight."
Rising to his feet, Sandor nods and goes into the bathing room without a word. He'll clean up his ways, aye, but he'll not give up the Hound until every surviving Frey and Bolton tastes his steel. If he has to spend eternity in the Seven hells for his sins, at least Sandor will meet his fate secure in the knowledge that his family is safe.