SANSA
She had thought that her observation of the newcomers to Winterfell would go unnoticed, and so she was unprepared for the penetrating look given to her by Sandor Clegane when he caught her watching him. He had come at the rear of the procession, long after Daenerys Targaryen had followed Jon in, long after the wagon bearing Lord Varys and Tyrion and the horseback riders who served the queen. The Hound no longer served anyone, and so he could ride where he pleased which was apparently so far back that he nearly did not make it inside before they closed the gates for the evening.
When she stood upon the hoarding to watch Ghost introduce himself to the Hound, she was met with curiosity in the wolf's apparent interest in the man. From what she knew of direwolves, they did not make contact with strangers but preferred to observe newcomers from afar and familiarize themselves at their own pace. She knew for certain that leaping upon people and sniffing with absorbed interest at their face was not normal direwolf behavior and certainly not normal behavior for Ghost.
The Hound stood his ground—which she expected from him—and did not look the least bit frightened in the aftermath as he had words with Arya that Sansa could not hear with. She had never seen the two of them interact before, but she knew of the time Arya spent in his company, the lengths to which the Hound had gone to defend her. The way Arya spoke of him suggested that she held some deep-rooted respect for him, but none that she would openly admit and a man as closed off as the Hound certainly did not show any affection or admiration for her now.
"What a collection of us here at the end of the world, fighting the dead together," said the careful silky tone of Lord Petyr Baelish beside her. "Many old friends have fled the place where we all met to reunite at the Northern stronghold. Lord Varys, Tyrion Lannister, and the Hound. Did you suspect that one day you might see them all again in one place, all pledged to a queen you do not know?"
"I do not think any of us could have predicted this outcome, but then again, none of us could have known eight years ago that we would be preparing to battle an army of corpses. White Walkers and wights were the creatures that lived only in the stories told to us by wet nurses and septas. I would not have thought to be home if you had told me I would be here eight years ago when my father promised me to Joffrey Baratheon. I thought I would be queen with a child of my own, living happily with a golden-haired king. And I stand here now in the company of savages from across the sea, castrated men, wildlings, and dragons."
"You trust the wildlings," said Littlefinger pointedly.
"Because they fought for Jon and for me, so yes, I do."
"You trust Lady Brienne."
"Completely."
"Do you trust The Hound?" asked Littlefinger, allowing his gaze to fall upon the Hound who was now watching Arya leave him to his own devices.
"As much as I ever did," Sansa affirmed.
"That is something I would advise against, my lady. The wildlings fought for you recently. Lady Brienne proved herself to you recently. It has been many years since you and Sandor Clegane last laid eyes upon each other and during that time he kidnapped and tried to ransom your sister."
As skilled a liar as Littlefinger was, since confessing to wanting to sit the Iron Throne with her at his side, his transparent attempts to conceal even the tiniest inkling of jealousy were vividly obvious to her.
"Sandor Clegane also knew that he would be fighting to the death to defend my sister against Lady Brienne and yet he did so anyway. Lady Brienne and Podrick both claimed how Arya was reluctant to go with them, not from fear of them, but dedication to her protector, for he had proven himself to her and earned her trust. And he killed her friend long ago so despite the bad blood that existed between them there, she still trusted him. I do not know what sort of man he is now, but if he would selflessly allow himself to come to harm for her as he did for me during the King's Landing riot, I would trust him this very moment if we were set upon by the dead."
"But he had a chance to take you, willing or not, from the Lannisters, and he didn't. He left you to the lions," Littlefinger reminded her.
"Perhaps, but he did not hand me over to the lion's allies."
And then he saw her, choking on his wineskin as he met her gaze. It was the same look he had last given her when he fled her room, left her behind when she would not willingly go. He did not force her as so many men after him had. That was the man she knew and trusted, the man Arya trusted and if he could have gained Arya's trust, he was worthy in the sight of gods and men. She saw that look of a wounded man, longing after something he had never known in the form of goodness and kindness.
But perhaps he was not quite the same as he had been when they had last shared words. He was harsh and ill-tempered as ever, now with a penchant for speaking out of turn in the presence of lords, ladies, and queens. He said things he would not have dared say while Joffrey sat the throne with Cersei whispering in his ear.
If she had been expecting a soft, quiet private reunion with him, she was sorely mistaken, for he seemed even less whole than when he had left her. Someone, something had changed him for the worse and made him regret any kindness he had ever shown. Here was a man ready, expecting to die instead of a man determined to live just to spite the world that tried to rid itself of him at every turn.
He was absolutely right too; she did not know him now, nor had she ever and even though she wanted to now, he would not let her. So when the dead came for them, he would die without ever allowing Sansa to breach his walls. To an extent, she felt a twinge of jealousy and indignation that Arya was able to reach a hidden part of him when she had hated him for years for what he did to her friend, the butcher's boy and yet the Hound would not allow Sansa even a glimpse of that same hidden part when Sansa had never hated him…
Not really.
Had she? Had she ever wished ill upon the Hound for the things he did because Joffrey commanded? She had resented the Hound for stopping her when she attempted to push Joffrey from the balcony, but she understood why he had stopped her. She had feared him when she thought she saw some sort of lust behind his eyes that evening he had cornered her in the corridor and demanded a song from her. But hate? Had she ever gone so far as to wish ill upon the man for his actions? No, she had only hated his inaction when Joffrey had her beaten and stripped half-naked before the Iron Throne. The one time he had done absolutely nothing.
It had taken Tyrion's interference to force his hand. When Sansa had looked to the Hound, pleading with her sobs as she clutched what remained of her gown to her breast, he had looked away with disgust upon his face. She knew better than to believe that he was disgusted by her weakness, but by Joffrey's obvious amusement at the situation. Still, he had not called the beating and humiliation to a halt. He had not done anything until Tyrion had placed himself well and properly between Sansa and Joffrey.
It occurred to Sansa after that the Hound might have feared for his own life in defying Joffrey just to save her dignity, but Joffrey would have had to order the entirety of the Kingsguard to arrest or execute the Hound to punish him for such an act and a cowardly boy king would not risk all the men who protected him just to teach a dog its place. So when the Hound left Joffrey to the rest of the Kingsguard and came back for her when the mob fell upon the royal procession, she had believed him to be more. When he offered to take her from King's Landing and bring her home despite the risks to both of their lives, he had proved himself to be more.
But he wasn't, not if all he could do was grudgingly face death as if he tired of living for the sole purpose of existing. Maybe once long ago he had secretly and silently asked Sansa to see him as a better man in his subtle actions on her behalf but his scorning of her attempts to do that very thing now were what deterred her from trying again.
She let him be, did not call for him again, and did not care to let her gaze linger on him when she would see him pass the courtyard or shovel stew into his mouth at the back of the Great Hall during supper. If he wanted to pass on into the next life as miserable and lonely as he had been throughout the entirety of this one, that was his decision and their days were too short for Sansa to spend any more of it on him.
Only, that plan drastically backfired on her with the arrival of the lions come once again into the home of wolves.
Unlike with the arrival of Daenerys, there was no great gathering in the courtyard to welcome Cersei and her army. Instead, those who had attended the war council parlay in King's Landing some months ago now gathered along with a small handful of others, dismissing squires and milkmaids alike until only the dozen or so of them stood awaiting the royal carriage. At the forefront was Ser Jaime Lannister and his golden hand alongside Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, the latter of whom Sansa had quite forgotten about until this moment. Also riding with the Kingslayer was a man dressed in black much like Ser Bronn but with bulbous eyes that suggested madness or brilliance and what looked like a silvery-black sea creature stitched into his garb. Then came the escort, the Queensguard led by a man on foot twice the size of any other, a man Sansa had last seen hacking away at convicted criminals at the outer bailey of the Red Keep. Three men rode on each side of the carriage and dismounted as it came to a halt just past the gate.
There was a collective holding of one's breath from Sansa and all in attendance who stood on her side: Jon, Daenerys, Tyrion, Brienne, Ser Jorah, Ser Davos, Lord Varys, the Unsullied commander, Grey Worm, Daenerys's handmaiden Missandei, and at the back where he hoped not to be seen but was glaringly visible anyway was the Hound. In addition to them were also Arya, Bran, and Littlefinger. Sansa felt pride for them all as they watched stoic- faced as Cersei climbed down out of the carriage, flanked by a frail little man in a maester's garb but without a maester's chain. Instead he wore the Hand's pin.
The giant man, Ser Jaime, and the man dressed in black fell in at her side as she strode forward, hands clasped gracefully in front of her. Though Daenerys and Jon stood at the center of the gathering, Cersei had eyes only for Sansa and on Sansa's right, she felt rather than heard Brienne tighten her hold on her sword at Cersei's approach.
Cersei did not wear the loose, flowing silk gowns of King's Landing, nor was her golden hair nearly as long as it had last been. It only reached her shoulders now, shoulders that looked small and hunched underneath black and silver armored plating as if she expected to be fired upon with arrows at any moment. A black and emerald crown adorned her brow, an expression of seniority in a place where only her own people recognized her as queen.
Less than five feet stood between the two parties when Cersei pulled up short and had her Hand speak first in a quivering tone that was not born out of fear, but past wounds.
"Her Grace, Queen Cersei of the House Lannister, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, has made good on her promise to assist in the fight against the armies of the dead. Her soldiers will camp outside the walls and aid in battle preparations. She requires more sufficient boarding for her Queensguard and members of her small council as well as her brother, Ser Jaime Lannister."
"She will find all accommodations prepared accordingly," said Jon. "We understand the unease and the distrust between our parties, given recent and past events, but the only enemy we have now is the one about to break through the Wall. Your queen has the east wing of the castle set aside for her private use, though she has free reign of the castle. She is not a prisoner here, but a guest, and a welcome one. We only ask that past grudges and grievances be set aside if it concerns present company."
"Her Grace will not be on speaking terms with traitors to her family," said the Hand. "She has no words to trade with Sansa Bolton, Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord Varys, or the one they call the Hound."
"Yes, Stark, actually," Sansa corrected, bristling at the impudence and pettiness of the woman before her. "My marriage to your queen's brother, Lord Tyrion, was never annulled and so my forced marriage into the Bolton family was not legally binding in any sense."
"Your marriage to Tyrion Lannister was also not consummated, and also not legally binding," said the Hand quickly.
He's a clever one, thought Sansa warily.
"Which would not make me a Lannister, but a Stark, unwed," she replied.
"If my sister refuses to be on speaking terms with Sansa Stark for being a traitor to House Lannister, then she would also not be on speaking terms with me, yet she and I were the ones who came to the agreement that she would bring her armies into the North," said Tyrion in Sansa's defense and she had to smile to herself. A half man, but made of more valor and wisdom than any man twice his size.
"Sansa Stark still stands accused in the South of conspiring to murder the late King Joffrey, gods rest his soul—"
"And yet I murdered my own father," said Tyrion loudly, talking over the Hand. "I am guilty of patricide, though my sister knows I had no part in her son's murder."
"Indeed," said Littlefinger. "That was the work of Lady Olenna Tyrell who poured the poison into the king's cup."
"With some help, no doubt," interjected Ser Jaime. "She had allies in helping her kill the king. And Lady Sansa's untimely exit from the capital along with her escape into the North and unity with the Boltons puts you right in the middle of the conspiracy, Lord Baelish."
"Past grievances," said Jon, somewhat irritably. "Joffrey Baratheon is dead. Olenna Tyrell is dead, as is Ellaria Sand and Tywin Lannister. Allies and family on both sides, but we do not have time or resources to continue arguing about those long dead. They are not the ones who have to fight the army of wights; we are, and if we cannot set aside our differences here, it will be a clash of three armies on the battlefield and for every man killed, another wight adds to the dead's army."
"Her Grace understands this and will not be withdrawing from the fight, but she still has no words to exchange with—"
"I have never known Cersei Lannister to hold back from speaking her piece," said Sansa despite Jon's warning look. "She has the evidence and admittance from Lady Olenna's own mouth that Joffrey was poisoned by her hand, yet she will continue to blame me for her son's death until the day she dies. She will blame Lord Varys for serving a better queen and a better cause. She will blame Lord Baelish for abandoning a mad and sadistic king. And she will blame Sandor Clegane for doing the same when the fault lies with her for creating the monster that Joffrey became. She will hold that against all of us even when the wights are pounding on her door to slit her throat."
"Sansa," said Jon sharply.
"Sandor Clegane never betrayed her family," continued Sansa as she ignored Jon. "No vows were spoken and thus, no vows were broken and I watched Joffrey Baratheon die from poisoned wine, not from the abandonment of his bodyguard. Not all the men in the world could have saved him once the poison reached his throat. And Joffrey fled the Blackwater in accompaniment of his Kingsguard long before Stannis Baratheon breached the walls, which was no fault of Sandor Clegane's."
"Do you vouch for him, then?" asked the Hand.
"I do. He has been pardoned by Queen Daenerys, whom the North recognizes as Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. He fights for the living now."
"And Lord Varys?"
"Has been vouched for by myself and Lord Tyrion," said Daenerys quickly. Lord Varys had the decency to look humbled and gave Daenerys a deep and graceful bow.
"And Lord Baelish?"
Sansa paused. Littlefinger had saved himself from the noose by coming to her aid in the Battle of the Bastards. He had sold her to the Boltons and given her an army in return. She had not forgiven him, but she could not hand him over to the Lannisters, and so she would have to lie, for the Knights of the Vale would return home if their lord was taken captive or cast out.
"Lord Baelish is an ally to House Stark," said Sansa, choosing her words carefully. "Without him, we would all be standing out in the cold while the Bolton stubbornly and selfishly held the castle against us, thinking they could withstand winter and the dead themselves."
"I am sure those of us who survive the war will sing songs of his greatness," said the Hand, giving Sansa a sly look that told her quite clearly he did not believe her.
"You must be tired," said Jon, seizing his chance to end the dispute. "The war council will convene tomorrow to discuss further battle plans but in the meantime, your men may use the moors to camp. Our armies are already at work digging the trenches and would appreciate assistance. And I will have my men escort you to the east wing."
Jon called forth four Stark soldiers who pointed the way for Cersei and her party to follow. The giant who followed two paces behind her stopped before them as his blood-red eyes found the Hound in the back.
"Ser Gregor, attend me," said Cersei, speaking at last.
Ser Gregor, the Mountain, the man felled by Oberyn Martell's poisoned blade and reborn under a maester's dark sorcery. Even as the mindless being he was now, the Mountain remembered his little brother and how much he hated him. All at once, Sansa felt the need to assign a guard to the Hound in an act of defense she did not understand.
Then the man in black passed in front of her, shooting her a wink and flicking his tongue out at her. Behind him, Ser Bronn gave a respectful bow of his head, which took her by surprise. When he had served Tyrion, Ser Bronn had been pleasant and kind to her, but she only believed he had done so because he had been paid well to do so. Now, he served Cersei and yet he had acknowledged her as befitting of her status.
"Are you alright, my lady?" asked Brienne once they had gone.
"Irked, perhaps, but otherwise unscathed," Sansa assured her.
"My lady," said Tyrion, cutting Jon off before the latter could reprimand her for upsetting Cersei. "I commend you on your quick wit and clever tongue. I am sure Cersei did not expect you to be the formidable opponent you are now, to see how much you have grown, but I would caution you against pressing her further. I would not put it past my sister to scheme while she is a guest in your house. She has dangerous allies with her this time, those who would willingly comply to hurt you: her Hand, Qyburn, the Mountain, Euron Greyjoy—"
"The one with the large eyes and unguarded tongue," Sansa observed.
"Yes, and they are loyal to her. They would kill you during the battle or before and make it look like an accident."
"Anything that happens to Lady Sansa from now until after the battle will be considered an act of attempted murder on Cersei's part," said Littlefinger To Sansa, he added. "She would not dare touch you or Queen Daenerys, or anyone held dear to either of you or she would find swift justice brought upon her."
"I'm afraid, Lord Baelish, that with the Mountain at her side, she does not fear that swift justice," observed Lord Varys and it was no surprise to Sansa that he had been eavesdropping. "The Mountain is no longer a man, but something between the dead and the living, impervious to harm and a slave to her will."
"Not entirely," said Brienne. "He stopped long enough to look at the Hound."
Yes, the Mountain had stopped long enough to look at the Hound and Sansa feared for the man's safety now as well as her own. Littlefinger and Lord Varys were too clever and too skilled at evading harm to be high priorities on Cersei's list of traitors to her family. Sansa and the Hound would be far easier targets.
"I want extra guards with my sister whenever she leaves her chambers," said Jon.
"That will make it difficult to do much of anything if I am to be hoarded from place to place," said Sansa. "I will choose my own protection and Lady Brienne is more than sufficient."
"I am not saying that she is not," said Jon respectfully. "But she and Sandor Clegane entered combat together and she took a vicious beating even though she was the victor. Against the Mountain, I do not like her chances."
"I'll guard Sansa," offered Arya. "Cersei never so much as looked at me. I doubt she remembers my face and even if she did, I have others. With the help of Lord Varys and Lord Baelish, any plot she has to hurt Sansa will be heard and countered."
With a stab of indignation that all these men and women who could efficiently protect themselves as well as her and yet Sansa could not defend herself, Sansa thought that perhaps it was time to ask Arya for private waterdancing lessons.
Her allies dispersed until only herself, Brienne, Littlefinger, and the Hound remained. Ignoring Littlefinger, Sansa strode through the mud to where the Hound was digging his dagger distractedly into the wall, watching the doors through which his brother had gone.
As Sansa stood before him, she saw a faint memory fade from his eyes. He had been a child once again, squirming and shrieking as his brother held his face to the fire. Every time he returned to his brother's presence, that memory haunted him and hurt him. For a moment, he had been a boy and returned to his body to find that he was a very large man with a knife in hand.
Sansa should have kept her distance, but he would not harm her.
"Will you walk with me in the godswood?" she asked him when she could see that he had completely returned to himself.
"Are you going to force more gratitude on me?"
"Not at all."
With a brief nod, he beckoned her to lead the way.
"Lady Sansa, if I might have a word with you—" began Littlefinger, but Sansa waved him off, knowing she would have to listen to whatever that word might be later.
The Hound followed her to the godswood gate and once again she had Brienne wait without, though this time Brienne did so without complaint. Apparently her sworn shield also felt that the Hound was trustworthy. He would not walk beside her, only behind as she led him to the weirwood tree at the heart of the godswood where they would not be overheard, not that she had sensitive information to divulge, but in a place where both Lord Varys and Littlefinger were present, there was no such thing as privacy.
She stopped before the weirwood tree, knelt, and whispered a quick prayer during which the Hound made a point of clearing his throat.
"Still pray to the gods, do you?"
"Only the old gods. The Seven never seemed to hear me. Do you?"
"I've spent the better part of the last year listening to Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr preach about their Lord of Light and I have fucking had enough of all the gods in general, so no, I don't pray. Is that why you asked me to walk with you?"
"No, I asked you here because I know that reunion in the courtyard unsettled you. I did not know your brother would be with Cersei and that it will make the days ahead difficult for you—"
"Don't see why it would. The fucker didn't have much of a mind before they did whatever they did to him, but now he's got even less of one, so he goes where he's told and it'll be by Cersei's side when the battle comes. And that's not where I'll be."
But I will be, thought Sansa desolately. I will be wherever the women and children, infirmed and elderly are sent. If we all die, my last company will be Cersei and the Mountain and she will have him kill me well before the wights come and none will be able to stop her.
"Even with the army of the dead on our doorstep, she does not care to focus her attentions on the battle to come. She is a committed woman, dedicated to hurting those who she feel has wronged her. She brought her entire army to the North, not to help us, but to have reason for having all of her enemies in one place, to deal with us accordingly."
"She's welcome to try if she thinks she can, but she can't," said the Hound indifferently. "She can't touch you or your scheming lords and her men will be too busy fighting the dead to do it for her. If she wants you dead, she'll have to do it herself."
"I knew she would call for her own justice, which was why I publically pardoned you," said Sansa since she would rather not think about having to battle Cersei with her own two hands. "I claimed you for the North instead of as an independent man who serves none and now she cannot touch you either."
"Not that she ever could. If she wants me dead after all this time, she's still the dumb bitch she ever was while her cunt son was on the throne," said the Hound without interest. "But I don't need your pardon, girl. Her price has been on my head since the day I left King's Landing and I still have my head without your help. Your fucking pardon hasn't done me any favors but shown Cersei that I'm of some apparent value to you and that put a giant fucking target on my back. You still have no idea the consequences of your actions—"
"You are an ungrateful brute," said Sansa bitingly. "And you enjoy mocking people for their kindness all these years later as you ever did, but you will not do so to me, do you understand? I will not be told by you or any other man that I do not know the ways of the world or that my kindness is a mask for stupidity. I will not hear it, Sandor Clegane. I am not the stupid child you knew, nor am I helpless and only made of gentle words."
"Aren't you?" he challenged. "The same little bird with a sharper tune to sing and less revealing clothes to wear."
Sansa struck him which left her hand stinging far more than it likely did his face, but his scalding look told her that she had shocked him with her actions.
"Don't you dare, not when you haven't the slightest idea what happened to make me this way, not when you don't know…you know nothing. You know nothing, so do not stand there and accuse me of being a weak simpleton. If you cannot accept my kindness as an extension of my friendship when I do not hand that out lightly, then you may see yourself out, but know that this is the last time. If you turn away from me now, I will not let you back in. I have no more time or room to waste on those who would go to the grave in ungrateful loneliness."
The Hound's face bore the outline of her hand, a ruddy red mark on the burned side. Now they were on even ground. He had grabbed her once in the corridors of King's Landing, pinching hard enough to leave enormous finger-sized bruises on her and for no good reason other than to shake some sense into her, to demand that she not lie to him. And she had left a mark on him, one delivered with intent to scold him, reprimand him for being so foul-tempered and cruel.
He lifted his hand and she thought fleetingly that he meant to grab her throat. She flinched away from him, feeling her eyes brim with tears at this unwilling expression of weakness.
"You think I'm going to hit you back, girl?" he asked in a tone she could almost mistake for being wounded, as if he was abhorred by the very idea that he could do such a thing to her. "The only Kingsguard to never raise a hand against you and you think now I finally would?"
"I do not know if you would. I don't know you," Sansa reminded him. He scowled at her to have his own words turned against him, but he had made it quite clear that the man who he had been at one time was not the man he was now and that she should not presume to think that she had ever known him. He had never done more than give her a hard shake, but he had turned lawless which often made a man forget to pull his hand short when it came to striking a woman.
"I'm not the sort of whoreson that goes around hitting little girls…or women," said the Hound.
"Arya would come to a different conclusion with you on that," said Sansa boldly.
"She tried to stab me. She earned that."
"After you goaded her into it."
"Do you want me to hit you?"
What sort of question was that? Of course she did not want him to hit her, only for him to admit that he was prone to striking out, the same as any other, and therefore, she had cause to fear him. She had been far too used to the hand of a Kingsguard across her face, then Ramsay's hand to replace them. She was not used to a man of the Hound's reputation being gentle with her.
"I have come to expect that sort of behavior from men," she told him.
The Hound pointed at her collar, his fingertip just inches from her skin.
"He was the one who made you this way," he said, and she knew he was pointing at the scars she tried so hard to conceal, the ugly white lines of Ramsay's fingernails raking down the side of her neck as he violated her.
She raised a hand to cover them but the Hound stopped her, pushing it away and holding it at her side.
"You let them see it. Let them look at it. If you hide it, you're telling them that you're ashamed of it and afraid of it. What they can say about you can't hurt you anymore than the scars did when you got them. Let them fucking look."
Then his hands were at her collar, fingertips touching the tips of the scars as they peeked out from underneath the cloth to gauge their depth and their severity. He would know how much they hurt, how they had been delivered, how old they were. He was a man of scars and little else.
"The bastard meant for it to be painful, but not lethal," he observed as he pulled down her collar ever so slightly, but when she said nothing, he prompted, "Tell me I'm wrong."
"He meant for everything to be painful. He enjoyed it that way," said Sansa plainly.
"That's not something you should ever be ashamed of. You survived that and I'm guessing he didn't. Don't hide from your victory, little bird."
"I do not hide from it. I display my victory proudly. This castle bears my house sigil because I refused to allow the flayed man to hang one more second from its walls."
She saw recognition come to him and realized with a dull pang that he did not know. As a lawless man traveling the countryside in the dead of winter with no company but that of the Brotherhood, he would not have heard word of her marriage to Ramsay Bolton, nor her escape and eventual victory against the Bolton army and her reclaiming of the castle. She thought that he had only avoided calling Ramsay by name for her sake, but until this moment, he had not known that it was Ramsay himself who had left the scars upon her and within her. He had been there with Arya when the Boltons betrayed the Starks at the Twins and instead of turning her over to Walder Frey, he had taken her from the massacre, saved her from a worse fate. He knew the treachery and torture the Boltons were infamous for. But he must have not been paying attention when Cersei's Hand called Sansa a Bolton, for all of this was news to him, and devastating news at that.
"How did a Bolton get to you?" he asked after a time.
"By an unfortunate series of events that I would rather not discuss. But the Boltons are dead, their house ended, and I am still here. I had my victory and I do not hide my scars out of fear of what others might say. I hide them so I am not reminded daily of what was done to me. The less of Ramsay Bolton's work I see, the less I remember—and I do not want to remember."
He could understand that, surely. The Hound would know better than anyone how he would trade almost anything to forget the pain, the sensation of being hurt and being unable to do anything to stop it.
The Hound let his hands fall away from her and she realized only then that she had been holding her breath.
"I once had a little bird who never would have been able to look me in the face when saying that. She turned into something different, didn't she?"
Was he asking her or telling her?
"She did, but not by choice. A wounded wolf does what it can to survive until the pack returns. And the pack is strong now. Strong and growing larger."
It was an invitation to him, a gesture that surprised her when moments ago she had been ready to scream at him after delivering her slap. He seemed apologetic enough, even if he did not say the words. His acknowledgment that she was not a helpless little girl was the reassurance she needed to see that she could chip away at the layers of distrust he had built up.
She left him there to his own devices, hearing nothing but the whispering of her cloak over the light snow.
Littlefinger and Brienne both awaited her as she emerged from the godswood and Littlefinger fell into step with her, spouting out the beginnings of a rehearsed speech.
"I would advise against being caught alone with the Hound in the future—"
"I was not caught alone with him. I knowingly and willingly asked him to follow me and he did not touch me, not that he ever would," lied Sansa. It mattered not and was of no concern to anyone that the Hound had put his hands on her in the most delicate way possible. She had expected another hard shake, perhaps not as bruising as last time, but just as strong. Instead she received a gentle, almost fearful caress and pride in his voice on her behalf. Pride that she had bested the man who had hurt her as the Hound was yet unable to do to the man who had hurt him. Pride that she was more wolf now than little bird.
Still his little bird, he had said. His little bird, as if he had some ownership over her, as if she belonged to him.
"As your counselor and consultant, Lady Sansa—"
"As Lord of the Vale in command of the armies I need, your place is here only to be the gathering point of a great portion of those armies. I do not seek counsel from you, Lord Baelish, especially not on a man I have told you once before I trust with my life. When I say to you that I will hear no more of your unease and distrust of him, I will hear no more. What I say to him is not your concern and if I had felt the need for protection against him, I would have asked Brienne to come inside. She trusts him, and her trust is not easily won."
"I do not wish to see you hurt again, my lady," said Littlefinger.
"You never did," snapped Sansa. "You fled before you could see me hurt, but I have developed tougher skin to break since then and I will not be hurt by any man again, least of all Sandor Clegane."
"I do not mean physically, my lady. My concern is always for your well-being, but it is not for your physical safety I speak of just now."
The other safety he spoke of dealt in what Sansa did not have to give. She could not give another man her love, not after Ramsay, but she did not seek to offer such a thing to the Hound. She offered friendship, the chance to belong to the people he had worked so hard—wittingly or not—to save. She had claimed him for the North and even if he would not accept it, he was now a Northman and would die a Northman if the battle took him. Her actions had set in motion a friendship that should have been formed long ago and the misgivings Littlefinger had were nothing but jealous whisperings.
"That is the last of it, Lord Baelish. Do not breach the subject again."
She knew he would have one last word: advice, a warning, something to second-guess herself, but she was not prepared for what he had to say, for she had not cared to notice the signs.
"You say that you are not in danger of what I may fear, but even if you are heavily set against such a thing happening, you cannot prevent it from coming into being. You have not noticed how he has strategically pushed you away just enough so that he may watch you from a distance. He knows you are a woman now and he knows that you sympathize with the broken, the unwanted, a category that he falls into. He knows how to play on your sympathies to get what he wants because he is a man, and not the first man to want you. I know you know this, for this was not the first time he has looked at you in such a way."
"In what way?" asked Sansa, not understanding how Littlefinger could already have known what happened in the godswood.
"The way he is looking at you now."
Sansa turned her head quickly enough to give herself a crick in her neck to see the Hound standing on the threshold to the godswood, watching her with—with longing behind his eyes. She knew that look well, having seen it on the faces of many men at court, but it did not have the meanness of those many men. It was a sorrowful longing, one of acceptance in seeing something he wanted and knew he could not have. Not at all the same look as Littlefinger's, a man who had not yet had her but desperately wanted her. Not like Ramsay who could never get his fill of hurting her. No, the Hound knew long ago that she was unobtainable and therefore, he had not done anything to tempt himself.
She did not think that this sudden interest from Sandor Clegane was something she would have to deal with and was at a loss in how to deal with it. Her goal had only been to make a friend in him, not pity his affection for her.
In one thing, however, Littlefinger was absolutely right, and that was that the Hound knew his gruffness would push her away, as would his gentle touch bring her back. Sandor Clegane was a player in this game, the same as all of them.