A Soldier's Homecoming
Sandor spurs Stranger's flank as he races through Winterfell's gates, the man barely bothering to slow down for the guard. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees that his hurried pace has alarmed the guardsmen on the watchtowers, but Sandor cannot be bothered with them now; he must find his little bird at once.
Swinging out of the saddle, he hastily enters the castle. As Sandor stalks through the corridors of the castle, a deep pulsing seizes his thigh, a reminder of the worst of his old wounds, the one that brought him to the Quiet Isle in the first place. "Sansa! Sansa!" He bellows out as he looks from room to room, his rasping voice echoing through the great halls. "Where are you, woman?"
Hissing in pain, Sandor stops his frantic search to rub his old injury. Before he left, Elder brother advised Sandor to take his ease on the trip home but not for the first time, his words fell on deaf ears. So desperate was the man to return to his family that Sandor ignored him, ignored the pain in his side and the dull ache of the old wound in his thigh, instead pressing Stranger on as hard as he dared push the old warhorse.
It is as though his wife and children call to him, their shades pressing him ever onward toward home. Sandor began to worry something had happened to them, and the closer to Winterfell he got, the worse his feelings became. He recalled his words spoken to Arya long ago: "You're almost there and you're afraid you won't make it. The closer you get, the worse the fear gets." At the time he had been both annoyed and amused, seeing his surly travelling companion anxiously glancing toward the Twins, but the wolf girl had the right of it after all. What if it was the same for him with Sansa and the babes?
Cursing his foolishness, Sandor wondered if Arya and Jon felt a similar anticipation, for they rode hard and fast to keep up with him. His mental state, anxious and occupied as it was by the thought of reuniting with Sansa and the pups, left Sandor sullen, taciturn and in no mood to talk as they travelled. Mercifully his goodsister and brother left him to his thoughts. A sennight later, the mighty granite walls of the castle came into view, the massive structure bringing a measure of relief as well as a flurry of nerves into his stomach, which now nearly overwhelm Sandor as he searches for his wife.
"My lord, she isn't in the castle," Podrick hurries to his side. "You are wounded. Let me fetch Maester Tarly for you and find Lady Sansa-I'll send her directly. The queen-"
"What's Tarly doing here?" Sandor demands, turning to face him. "Is Sansa ill? One of my babes? Speak up man!"
"No, Ser, the queen sent for him when Elder brother left; he's only here as a precaution." Podrick anxiously looks him over. "You're pale, Ser. Shall I send for him? You are in pain-"
"No, no, there's a good lad," Sandor growls through gritted teeth, struggling to regain his composure and deciding for once to let the title slide. "Enough with Tarly-where's my little bird?"
"I imagine Lady Sansa in the godswood, my lord; that is where she and the babes have spent their days since you left…" Podrick's words fade into the background as Sandor hurries outside, the man not even bothering to wait for him to finish. "Has my Lady Brienne returned?" The young man calls after him.
"Aye, she's well and on her way." Sandor shouts behind him. "She's got a few tales to tell you."
The young man seems relieved at his words; it is the least he can offer him. The pain in Sandor's thigh demands he slow his pace, and so he spends the time walking toward the godswood in deep contemplation. It is a habit he developed on the Quiet Isle, using the hours he worked digging graves to meditate. It had gentled the rage inside of him, and Sandor continued the practice whenever he found the opportunity in an effort to tame his darker nature.
Mayhap her prayers explain the changes that have taken place within me. Save him if you can and gentle the rage inside him. Sandor recalls her prayer the night of the battle, and admittedly, since then his little bird has brought about changes within him in every conceivable way. Since his marriage and the birth of his children, Sandor has transformed even more so than when he was on the Quiet Isle; in fact now, it seems, he is a completely different man, bearing little resemblance to the man Sansa prayed for in the Red Keep.
Though Sandor, with the help of Elder brother, had indeed buried the Hound, he was also determined that it would never be said that the Hound had shied away from the fight; indeed, it had been quite the opposite,for he ran into the fray with the Boltons heedless of his own safety, so eager he was to exact his fury on the enemy. Nevertheless, the battle for the Dreadfort left him unlike any previous mêlée; somehow, rather than experiencing battle fatigue, Sandor felt settled, calm even, as though he had fulfilled some unspoken duty the gods had assigned him.
The deaths of Sansa's enemies lifted a great strain from him, and along with it, the final vestiges of Sandor's former persona. For most of his life, the Hound had been a deeply ingrained armor, an impenetrable coat of mail that was as much a part of Sandor as his burns: now, however, he finds the facade an uncomfortable burden almost too heavy to bear. One night on the road, Sandor had spoken to Elder brother about it. "The ferocity with which you fought the Boltons was fueled, not by hatred for your brother or bitterness over past wrongs, but by the gods-given instinct to protect your family," the holy man explained, "and by love. It is a new experience for you, Sandor. I told you once that the Hound is dead, and that Sandor Clegane is at peace. You must embrace this blessing from the gods."
Despite his devotion to prayer since his tenure on the Quiet Isle, doubt continued to be his constant companion during his conversations with the gods; but now Sandor could not deny that it is they who have brought about such a drastic change within him. It was love that kept him going, fueled his fighting when younger men fell by his side, pushed him ever harder toward Winterfell, back to his wife and children. He could no more deny the truth of the matter than he could deny Catya and Edric, for the truth of Elder brother's words had spoken to his soul.
It had begun with Sansa in the Red Keep, where she had moved his troubled soul, awakened a sense of duty within him, to keep her safe and educate her on the ways of the world. Like many men before him, he had to hit bottom before he could accept help. Elder brother, a man who once had been very much like him, had given him the guidance he needed, too. The irony is not lost on him, even as he contemplates his transformation. And fittingly, the completion of his transformation came about by Sansa as well; if not for her love, he would have never reached the place in which he now finds himself. Sandor only wishes that she could find a similar peace of mind as well, for being at Winterfell did not seem to have the reaction he expected from her.
"Hate is as good as anything to keep a person going, better than most." He once told Arya, the very person who, by sparing his life, had given him a second chance to love. Sandor cannot deny the folly of those words; in fact, as he recalls them, he barely recognizes the man who spoke them. If Sandor could have told his younger self what he had since learned, he is confident that the Hound would have spit in his face and called him a bloody halfwit. Snorting derisively, Sandor finally reaches the edge of the godswood, his eyes desperately scanning the forest for a glimpse of Sansa's bright hair.
Despite the changes that have taken place within Sandor Clegane, the fierce reputation of the Hound at once synonymous with hate and brutality, is still alive and well and inspiring fear in Westeros once again since the destruction of the Dreadfort. Young and old stared in awe or disappeared into their meager dwellings as they passed through. Fearing retribution for siding with Roose Bolton in the past, the smallfolk respectfully begged the Lady of Winterfell for mercy, and pleaded that she not unleash her fearsome relation upon them. "Buggering fools; if I wanted you dead I would have killed you long ago." Sandor had spat at him one day in frustration as Stranger trotted past, the man unable to resist the old desire to give those who were frightened of his appearance a real reason for fear.
Where once Sandor would have enjoyed their fear, even encouraged it and allowed it to fuel his rage; now there is no satisfaction in their reactions to his face, in their darting glances and pale pallor as he regarded them; now there had only been grim resignation left in it's place. When he rode to the Dreadfort, Sandor meant his former persona to become a symbol of his protective nature and devotion toward his family and a fearsome warning to any who would threaten them; Elder brother has assured him that it would be viewed as such in time, and for that he was grateful, for the fear of the people had proven to be a heavy burden he no longer wanted to bear.
What upset him most was that it was not merely the smallfolk who were made anxious by him. Sandor has long recognized fear when he sees it, and he saw it not only in the peasants but in the sideways glances of the northmen as well as in the mixture of fear and admiration with which the Wildings regard him. None of them even so much as used his given name. After experiencing unconditional love from Sansa and the babes, the response of the people startled, depressed and enraged him, and Sandor wanted nothing more than to distance himself from their fear and to return to the loving regard of his wife and children. Swallowing hard, Sandor chokes down his anger at the sight of the red leaves of the Heart tree.
In the early morning hours before Sandor left, Sansa warned him it would be thus with the people. "There was a terrible man wearing your former helm that terrorized them until Lady Brienne killed him, Sandor; you must be patient with them." Sandor had merely laughed off her warning. "I'm not in the habit of caring what people think of me, little bird." He had laughed harshly, but it turned out to be a lie.
Smiling at his words, Sansa had given him a new helm, obsidian black and polished to a high sheen, and some of the best work Gendry had ever done. It was styled to look more like a wolf than a dog, with its ears laid back and its jaws pulled into a taut snarl. On closer inspection, he noticed a little bird carved on the back with the three dogs of House Clegane.
"You are of the north as much as I am, my love, and our pack is both wolf and dog, Stark and Clegane. I wanted you to ride into battle with a helm that reflected this. Your strength lies in the past, and in our future," Sansa explained. "I had Elder Brother say a blessing over it; in this way I will always be with you when you wear it."
Speechless, he merely grinned and ran his fingers over the detail. Sandor had offered her thanks in the only way he knew how, by taking her once more, slow and deep before he made his preparations. She smiled and waved to him as his made his way to the courtyard, with the babes babbling happily as she helped them wave, too. The memory of it hurries his steps as the large white trunk of the Heart tree finally come into view.
Much to his surprise, Sandor has come to depend on Sansa's smiles, her loving touches and the way her eyes twinkle with a special sort of happiness that makes him forget the Hound altogether. He delights in the way she excitedly announces his arrival to the babes; he revels in the delighted squeals of his children when he takes them into his arms. To his great astonishment, Sandor has realized the impossible has happened: he has grown accustomed to loving his family and being loved in return, so much so that he has discovered he cannot live without it.
It makes Sandor feel both weak and yet strong in a way he has never known. Abruptly his contemplations come to a halt at the sight of his wife. Sansa is at the Heart tree kneeling in prayer, just as he knew she would, her bright hair gleaming burnished copper in the afternoon sun. She is the Maiden made flesh in Sandor's mind, his goddess, the woman he will gladly worship for the rest of his days; and if that is sacrilege, Sandor cannot bring himself to care. For a moment he is taken aback by her beauty, and so Sandor stands watching while his beloved wife prays to her are so many things he wishes to say to his little bird, but in the moment, all he can do is stare in awe.
Instinctively Sansa raises her eyes to him, a broad smile lighting up her lovely face as she rises and runs into his waiting arms. "Husband!" She cries out as he lifts her into his arms and Sandor thinks her voice is the sweetest sound he will ever hear. "Oh, I've missed you so."
Inhaling her sweet scent brings a warm sense of contentment over the man. "Did you now?" Sandor murmurs into the crown on her hair. After the many cold nights he dreamt of holding her, Sandor finds it hard to believe his beloved wife is in his arms at last, and he is loathe to turn loose of her.
"Yes, terribly so." Sansa smiles into his chest and burrows closer, seemingly unbothered by his desperate embrace. "You must not leave us again; I cannot bear it."
Tilting her face up to his, Sandor hoarsely whispers, "Say my name, lass; I want to hear your sweet voice say my name."
"Sandor, my love, I have missed you," Sansa blushes, all the while holding his gaze as she speaks. "And so have the twins. We cannot bear to be without you."
Satisfied, Sandor sighs deeply and blinks back the tears threatening his eyes. "Aye, nor I from you. How are the wee ones?" He settles her on her feet once more, his voice catching with emotion at the mention of their children.
"Healthy and happy and growing like weeds." Sansa blushes further as she leads him deeper into the godswood by the hand. "Come with me, my love."
"What are you about, Sansa?" Sandor gruffly asks. "Let's go into the castle-"
"We will, we will," she giggles mischievously. "But first, I wish to have you all to myself for a bit. Come, we are going to the hot springs."
Uncertain what has gotten into his shy little bird, Sandor follows her.