SANSA
She could see the exact moment he pieced it all together. The light in his eyes grew dark, hardened, and went blank until he no longer could see her. He knew now who had liberated her from King's Landing, who had brought her home, who had willingly and knowingly handed her over to the Boltons. She saw the truth dawning on his face and almost immediately it was replaced with a shadow and a promise to kill.
"Sandor, no—"
He was running, his legs too long for her to catch him, his purpose set, but she ran after him all the same. She called out to him to stop, but she might as well have shouted at the wall for all the good it did. For a man of his size, he could certainly move quickly when he wanted to and Sansa had a time of it trying to keep up with him when her skirts slowed her down at every turn. Hoping that she would be able to enlist help before the Hound found his target, she saw him burst into the main courtyard, cast a wild look around, and make a beeline for the stretch of wall between the guest house and the armory where the archery targets stood.
Littlefinger was at his post, practicing as he did every day, only this time he had an audience consisting of Ser Jorah, Theon Greyjoy, and Ser Bronn, the latter of whom seemed to be critiquing him. They all saw the Hound coming and they could not have been mistaken in the rage they found in his vengeful march, but none of them took a step back because none of them expected him to lash out at his true target.
Sansa called out a warning, but it came too late and perhaps that was intended. Perhaps a tiny, infinitesimal part of her wanted to see what would happen. She should have been disgusted with herself, but she wasn't. She was only decent enough to give Littlefinger a chance to see what was coming for him.
The Hound's hand descended over Littlefinger's face and threw him bodily into the hitching post. Crying out as his back collided with the solid wood, Littlefinger tried to make a run for it, but the Hound caught him by the wrist, spun him around, and broke his nose with one well-placed punch. If he had wanted to, he could have killed Littlefinger with that one strike but he intended to make the other man suffer greatly.
"No, Clegane!" shouted Ser Jorah, trying to force himself between the Hound and Littlefinger.
"Get out of my fucking way," snarled the Hound as his fist found Littlefinger's gut and the latter doubled up, winded.
The courtyard's occupants stopped to watch the scene unfold, but not a one came to intervene. Perhaps because they, too, felt that the Hound was justified in striking Littlefinger but more than likely they were too terrified to step in the way, and rightly so.
Ser Jorah called for help as the Hound's hands found Littlefinger's throat. Ser Bronn grabbed a handful of the Hound's tunic and strained to pull him away from Littlefinger. From out of the throng came Beric Dondarrion and Tormund Giantsbane, rushing into the fray and each securing a hold on the Hound. With two men on each arm, the Hound was still doing an admirable job of attempting to throttle Littlefinger whose fingers scrabbled uselessly at the enormous hands around his throat.
"Clegane, let him go," pleaded Ser Jorah. "He's not worth dying for and if you kill him, they'll execute you. Let him go, man!"
"Fuck off," the Hound growled as a capillary burst in his forehead.
"Alright, you big fuck," said Ser Bronn and let go of the Hound only to leap onto his shoulders, securing his own arms around the Hound's neck to force a chokehold on him.
Breaking from the stupor that had held him at bay, Theon also came to Littlefinger's rescue, working his hands underneath the Hound's to create a barrier between Littlefinger's throat and the Hound's fingers.
Sansa hitched up her skirts and ran, clearing a path to the skirmish with her presence alone and when she reached them, she ducked under the Hound's arms, blocking Littlefinger from his sight as she set her hands upon the Hound's breast.
"Enough, Sandor!"
"I'll say when he's fucking had enough."
He couldn't see her. His bloodlust was too strong and nothing mattered, not even the woman for whom his fury raged on.
Littlefinger was turning blue, his eyes bulging as he tried to kick the Hound in the groin.
"Clegane, this isn't the time. Release him!" shouted Beric Dondarrion.
"He can't hear any of us, just get him off," said Tormund, leaning full on backwards to try and throw the Hound off balance.
"Clegane, look at me," begged Ser Jorah as he tugged on the Hound's wrist. "He can't hurt her anymore but if you kill him right here and now, you'll never have the chance to protect her again. Do not allow your anger to make decisions that you cannot undo."
The Hound's fingers gradually slackened around Littlefinger's throat and one hand snatched out, closing around a fistful of Ser Jorah's tunic but Ser Jorah did not move, holding out a steady and cautionary hand to the Hound. "Steady, man. It's only me." Ser Jorah's free hand pushed Littlefinger–who was now a rich shade of purple–behind him while still refusing to break eye contact with the Hound. "Steady."
Littlefinger gave a shuddering gasp and collapsed on his knees, nearly kissing the mud as he held his hands to his throat to ensure it was still there.
Sansa saw the Hound's hands fall away and come to a rest at his sides and she took one, grasping tightly enough to make her hand go numb but she dared not let go. If she could keep hold of one hand, that was one weapon he could not use if he suddenly decided he would rather die if it meant taking Littlefinger with him.
Rounding on her, the Hound's eyes still burned. He was far from satisfied, but for now, he would not finish what he had started.
Through a painfully wheezy voice that sounded like it was coming through a long and rusted tube, Littlefinger gasped out to Ser Jorah, "Thank you."
Ser Jorah looked to Littlefinger in a manner that suggested disappointment with himself. Sansa had assumed that he and Littlefinger were at least amicable with one another lately and Littlefinger certainly thought he had gained a friend at the very least. However, the hard, disapproving, almost hostile look that only a Northerner could perfect that Ser Jorah regarded Littlefinger with now said quite plainly that he was not feeling the least bit friendly.
"I didn't do it for you," the knight said coldly and Littlefinger blanched as if he had been struck across the face.
"Take Lord Baelish to the maester," Sansa instructed Ser Bronn and Theon. "And have him sent to my chambers afterward."
Cupping both hands over his nose, Littlefinger refused Theon's help and instead followed closely behind Bronn, leaking a trail of blood as he went. Once he had gone, Sansa spoke in an undertone to Ser Jorah to avoid sharing the next order with the rest of the courtyard's occupancy. "Can I rely on you to see Sandor safely back to the barracks and to keep an eye on him?"
"With all due respect, my lady, he may still be seeing red and holing him up in the barracks will do nothing to calm that storm. What he needs is a distraction."
"He needs the two've you to not talk about him like he isn't standing right in fucking front of you," growled the Hound.
"Since you can hear me so clearly, follow me," said Ser Jorah. "We're going to oversee the trenches."
"That's not my work detail."
"It is now."
Ser Jorah moved the Hound along with much pushing and the Hound went, albeit with a lacework of strong words and colorful insults.
"Perhaps we had best follow, as a precaution," suggested Beric Dondarrion and he and Tormund marched out the east gate, berating onlookers for staring and the gathered crowd moderately began to break apart and return to their duties.
Flushed from the encounter, chastising herself for not being more careful with how she had broken the news to the Hound, Sansa decided she had best return to her chambers since that was where Littlefinger would go once Maester Wolkan had set his nose. It did not sit well with her to do nothing following such a violent outburst from the Hound when she felt that she ought to have taken a more drastic action in the aftermath than to send him off with Ser Jorah but the truth of the matter was that she did not know how to help when she was part of the problem.
The Hound had almost committed murder on her behalf but it was not like it had been in the backstreets of King's Landing where he had come to her rescue and cut down her would-be rapists. No, instead he had gone after Littlefinger, making a very public scene out of a very private matter. She would be expected to be peacekeeper, to reprimand the Hound for his actions and to address what it was that had sent him after Littlefinger. She would have to defend the man who had betrayed her and discipline the man who vouched for her.
Or she could do neither of those things and earn some very unfavorable whisperings about her behind her back. The matter would have to be settled one way or another, but she could not see to it now when it was so crucial to keep Littlefinger in a favorable light among the other lords or Winterfell would lose the support of the Vale.
Even as a victim, Littlefinger had all the odds in his favor.
"Lady Sansa, a quick word, if I may," called a voice behind her and Sansa found herself just outside her chambers with her hand extended to open her door when Daenerys approached her from the other side of the corridor.
"Your Grace," Sansa acknowledged. "What may I do for you?"
"I was informed of what happened in the courtyard just minutes ago. I have been made aware that during the incident, your man lost complete control and could have strangled Ser Jorah."
Sansa did not answer straight away, for she wasn't entirely sure she was hearing Daenerys correctly. The Hound had impulsively acted in defense of Sansa's honor, Littlefinger had been throttled to the brink of death, Sansa was now in a state of having her rape put on display for the whole castle to know, and yet it was Ser Jorah Daenerys was concerned for?
"He could have, but he did not," said Sansa after a moment. "Control came back to him once he had a hold of Ser Jorah and I do not believe he would have harmed him."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because when my words couldn't reach him, Ser Jorah's did. I saw the fight leak out of him, saw the recognition in eyes when Ser Jorah spoke to him. I believe that Sandor respects Ser Jorah to a degree that he respects no other man and this belief is supported in the fact that last night after I had heard of the attack on Sandor, I went to look for him and found him being consoled by Ser Jorah. The Sandor Clegane I know does not let other men close to him to the degree that he allowed Ser Jorah to be and so I would wager that Sandor recognized Ser Jorah's attempts to be the peacemaker and he knew not to harm him once Ser Jorah intervened."
"By what terms do you mean Ser Jorah intervened?"
"He stepped between Sandor and Lord Baelish. I am led to believe that Ser Jorah has earned Lord Baelish's respect as well, which is also a rare thing to find in the likes of a man like Littlefinger who does not have friends so much as accomplices."
"I was unaware of this," said Daenerys more to herself than to Sansa.
"I would not fault Ser Jorah for his affiliation with Lord Baelish. Your knight is a good man, one who tries to find redeeming qualities in all. Sadly, he could not have known that the man he chose to befriend and defend has no redeeming qualities."
Daenerys considered Sansa and dawning appeared on her face without Sansa having to say another word. She, more than anyone, would understand the dilemma Sansa was now in, whether she should forgive or condemn. However, being queen meant that consequences for a wrong decision were much more severe and so Sansa was at least not envious of Daenerys in that regard.
Sansa had heard it from Tyrion how Ser Jorah had redeemed himself to Daenerys in a way that Littlefinger never could and it saddened her that some men were too far gone down the path of indecency to ever earn redemption. It also weighed heavy on her heart that Ser Jorah had to discover Littlefinger's treachery the hard way, just as Sansa had. Some men were too pure of heart to constantly be let down by the evils of this world.
"I assume that Sandor Clegane's actions in the courtyard were a result of very recently discovering the truth in how you came to be at Winterfell?" asked Daenerys delicately. "Though I do not condone unchecked violence as an answer to what could diplomatically be taken care of, I approve of his unwavering loyalty. I believe his heart was in the right place, but I do not think he has ever had the need to strike out so unexpectedly before."
"I didn't know that he didn't know," said Sansa regretfully. "Otherwise I would have told him sooner instead of having him find out so abruptly. Although, if I had told him before he and Lord Baelish accompanied Ser Jorah to the Last Hearth, the outcome of that mission might have ended very differently. Now I just have to ensure that they steer clear of one another until I can decide how best to deal with the situation."
"If you tell Sandor Clegane to leave Lord Baelish be, he will. He respects your judgment far more than the man who dismissed it. I wish you good luck, as I know these decisions are never easy. If there is anything I can do to help, you will ask me, won't you? I may not know these men as you do, but I have known men like them and I only wish I had another woman's counsel when I had to pass sentence."
Sansa was grateful for another woman's advice and not just any woman, but a woman who had been in a nearly identical situation to the one Sansa was in now. Daenerys was not standing on false courtesies because it was expected of her or because she was hoping to earn Sansa's favor in return for a service at a later date. This was the queen Jon had seen and the one he had bent the knee to, the queen who showed her true humanity during those unguarded moments.
Though it was far too little detail to truly know what sort of woman Daenerys was, Sansa thought for the first time that the Dragon Queen might be exactly the sort of ruler the Seven Kingdoms had been lacking for far too long. Unlike every other ruler in recent memory, though, she would have to earn the right, just as she had to earn loyalty when she quite clearly expected it because of her birth and her house name. She was the first would-be monarch who would have to work for the throne, but if she truly desired it for the right reasons, fate might just show her kindness.
If only they all could live to see her reign…
"I would be glad of your assistance, Your Grace," said Sansa, and then quietly let herself into her room to wait for Littlefinger.
She paced the room in preparation for what she knew she must say once he came to her. Her attempts to distract herself by pouring herself a goblet of water or watching the Unsullied refortify the number of dragonglass-tipped stakes in the trenches did nothing to ease the feeling of dread in her gut. She knew that this conversation was a long-time coming but she had not expected to have it with a severely battered Littlefinger. And as for the burning question she would have to ask him, she shuddered to think what sort of mess she would have to clean up if she was correct in her suspicions. She had made a promise to the Hound either way, but if Littlefinger confirmed what she dreaded, there very well could be two bodies to burn before sundown.
When she heard the knock upon her door, she pressed her backside to the front of her desk, hands clasped behind her as she beckoned, "Come in."
Littlefinger let himself in looking somehow worse now that the maester had set his broken nose. The skin around his eyes was swollen and there were heavy purple and black bruises at the inner corners. His eyes were bloodshot, giving him the impression of being unfocused and slightly drunk. The dressing across the bridge of his nose did nothing for his appearance. If anything, his injuries seemed to make him look more dangerous and a touch unsettling, perhaps bordering on a state of madness.
"Did Maester Wolkan give you something for the pain?" Sansa asked.
"Something he could spare, yes," said Littlefinger with a stab at bravado despite the hoarse quality to his already raspy voice. "It looks worse than it feels, which is saying quite a lot considering that the Hound could have shoved the bone in my nose up into my skull if he had had a mind to."
"He found out how I came to be in the Boltons' possession," said Sansa without preamble. She watched him closely to gauge his reaction but of all things, he decided to jest with her.
"Now, who would have given him that bright idea?"
"I'm surprised he didn't find out sooner. He's been out for blood since he discovered what Ramsay did to me and has had no one to take out his frustrations on. Not like you who could barely look me in the eye when I told you what price I paid for your deal with the Boltons. Sandor reacted the way my brother did, the way a true friend would, the way someone who loves me ought to." Sansa felt her voice rising as she had not allowed it to the last time she and Littlefinger had discussed this subject. "He was beside himself with rage and the only thing that mattered once he knew was to bring pain and suffering to the people who hurt me. He could have killed you and he would have but I prevented that. I came to your rescue with my own body, putting myself in harm's way to protect you as you never did for me. Do you not see the irony in that?"
"My memory may not serve me well since I was having the life choked out of me, but I seem to recall that Ser Jorah stepped in the way as well," said Littlefinger rather crisply. At the look on her face, however, he backtracked. "I do see the irony, but I have not had another chance to do the same for you since you allowed me back into your service. If you would like me to find someone who would be willing to make an attempt on your life so that I may then come to your rescue, do let me know."
"Don't do that," Sansa snapped. "Don't pretend that you would lay down your life for me. You only offered before because you knew I wouldn't have Brienne kill you but you wanted your offer to be sincere. You have followed me about this castle, trying to seek a private audience with me to offer up your services, hoping I might concede. Well, I tell you now, this will be our last private conversation. After I have spoken my piece, I wash my hands permanently of you and everything that reminds me of you. You will not ever presume to be so familiar with me again."
"And yet you would let a man you hardly know sleep in your room just feet away from your bed," he countered brusquely.
Of course he knew about that. If not from his own spies, from someone else who had witnessed the attack in the barracks. Sansa did not care much which people found out that she had had a man in her room overnight but the manner in which Littlefinger had thrown that fact back at her, full of spite and disapproval, it sparked the rage she had allowed to fester for too long.
"This is the last time I will tell you this; you will stay away from me. You will not follow Sandor Clegane or have him followed, nor will you do the same for me. You will leave both of us be and trust me when I say that I will know if you do not do as I command. I am not yours to protect."
"Neither are you his," Littlefinger retorted.
"He never betrayed me and never hurt me."
"But he did. He was not gentle with you in his handling of you during your time served as Joffrey's political prisoner. A brute remains a brute, do not believe that one can be tamed by the gentle touch of a woman he fancies. But I have never raised a hand to you."
It was almost laughable how easily the lies came to him now that Sansa could see them, knew how to look for them. Half-truths, lies disguised as alternative points of view, just treachery and deception.
"No, you only had someone else do it for you. And I would bear the bruises on my arm from Sandor Clegane a hundred times over, every day for the rest of my life rather than have lived through what Ramsay did to me. That is something that would never have happened if you hadn't sold me to them."
"It is something I can never take back and something I regret more than anything. My actions were wrong, foolish, and hurtful, but I never meant such harm to come to you. I would never allow it to happen to you again—"
"Because I will never be so stupid as to allow myself to be placed under your protection again. You did know that such harm would come to me because you knew what Ramsay was and what he liked to do to those under his control. You knew what would happen to me and you allowed it to happen all the same. That is not devotion; that is manipulation, disloyalty, betrayal."
"I pray for the day you will come to forgive me. I have done everything within my power to help you and protect you with or without your wanting of it. I am yours to command, now and always."
Sansa stepped in closer to him, still slightly on edge from the awful way his face was now contorted. This look was more suited for the man he truly was rather than the one he pretended to be. The blood and bruising were trophies won by the Hound, small payment for the many lives Littlefinger's schemes had claimed. What the Hound had done to him would never, ever be enough to break even with what Littlefinger had done to the people of Westeros.
Drawing herself up to her full height, Sansa asked, "Do you believe that you have been punished enough for what you did to me, and for the sake of your immediate future, I would hope your answer is no."
"You exiled me and then asked that I help you when you had every reason to have Lady Brienne execute me. I committed myself to serving at your side as your consultant and teacher. I willingly accompanied Lord Umber to collect the survivors at Last Hearth to prove my loyalty to you. I have tried to earn your forgiveness through my actions. I have not yet been judged for my crimes, though I have suffered in the memory of what was done to you—"
"You have no memory of what was done to me," said Sansa almost with a laugh. How like him to claim Sansa's hurt as his own, as if his sufferings were equal to hers, as if he had endured what she had. "You were not there. I do understand that with an audience such as Lady Brienne, it was difficult for you to speak your mind but now that it is just the two of us, I want you to say it. I want you to tell me exactly what Ramsay did to me as a result of your scheming."
A beat, a slow blink, a deep swallow. He was stalling for time. "Sansa, I already-"
"No, you didn't. You attempted to speak the bare minimum because it made you uncomfortable to say what you really knew. Imagine telling the woman who suffered that you feel uncomfortable talking about how she suffered. You owned many brothels in King's Landing, surely you had some customers who took their liberties too far with the girls who worked for you? Surely you understand what the concept of rape is? I will hear you say it, Lord Baelish."
Littlefinger gave her a look that she had never seen directed at her before: disgust. Not for what was done to her, not because it was done to her, but because she wanted him to repeat it. That look alone confirmed what her heart knew that even now, he felt no true remorse for what he had done.
"I figured as much," she said with a shake of her head. "When you have been taken against your will, slammed down onto your hands and knees, forcibly entered time and again without preparation until you bled, been beaten and tortured, and told that you had better enjoy what was being done to you, then you may earn my forgiveness. But you still haven't."
"I have tried," he said earnestly, jumping at the escape she had just given him. "The things I have done since then have been only to prove myself to you."
"They were done to earn my forgiveness, yes, but only because that is closure that you feel that you need for yourself. You are still trying to take from me but this is one gift you shall not receive. You have not been punished as is befitting your crimes. Everything you have done since you made the mistake of crossing me for the last time was done in the hope that I would somehow forget what your actions cost me. You sold me to the Boltons to achieve your own ends, do you deny it?"
He had the decency to not delay this time as he answered, "No."
"Then you accept my judgment, whatever it may be?"
"I do."
"Then I sentence you, for your crimes against me before and your crimes against me after I warned you of what fate would befall you if you ever betrayed me again."
Now looking nonplussed, Littlefinger stuttered, "Again? But I haven't–"
"You attempted to have Sandor Clegane murdered, do you deny it?"
"Sansa, I know you believe that you care for him—"
"Do you deny it?" she repeated fiercely.
"If you would only hear me out-"
"I warned you to not lay a finger on him. I warned you of the consequences if you attempted to intervene in my personal life when I made it clear that I would have no further affiliation with you but you are as jealous of a man as you are insincere and you could not stand the thought of me choosing another man over you, so you hired a man to burn Sandor Clegane because you knew that I have taken kindly to him. You devised the worst possible death for him because you knew it would be the death he feared most. Do you deny it?"
"I deny it," said Littlefinger sharply. "I have no great love for Sandor Clegane but I do not repay a debt with betrayal. He saved my life at Last Hearth more than once and he did it even with the animosity between us. He did it despite telling me to my face that he hated me. I know he would keep you safe at all costs and I know he desires you so I would be a fool to orchestrate the murder of a man who would die for you just because I was jealous. He is more capable of physically protecting you than I am and if my priority is your safety, how would I benefit from having him disposed of? I did not pay any man, woman, or child to murder him."
Sansa had expected him to initially deny any involvement in a plot to have the Hound murdered, but Littlefinger was putting up much more of a front in denial of any part in that plot than she thought he would. He did not even deny his part in arranging Sansa's marriage to Ramsay as much as he was denying having the Hound marked.
"I don't believe you. Who else would have knowledge of how best to do away with him? Someone who knows Sandor's history paid that man to kill him. I know his history because you told me. You, me, my sister, Tyrion, Lord Varys. Only one of those people has any reason to harm him."
"Cersei knows," said Littlefinger meaningfully. "Sandor Clegane was her sworn shield before Joffrey's and you can be sure that Tywin Lannister would not allow a man to be so close to his daughter unless he knew every detail about him."
"And what reason would Cersei have for wanting to kill him now?"
"Your brother Bran hasn't told you yet? During that disagreement the other day over the matter of Ser Bronn, Clegane threatened Cersei and was rather vocal about the fact that she could not get to you if she had to pass through him first. She will not allow that to pass. I would stake my life on the fact that she paid that man to kill Clegane to remove him as an obstacle between her and your death. And before you say it, let me counter the argument I see coming. I have nothing to gain in setting you against Cersei because you are already enemies. You know her as well as I and you know that she is not above orchestrating something like this. Clegane is the most devoted of all your protectors and the one who presents the most challenging opponent for Ser Gregor, so Cersei decided to do away with your Hound to clear her path to her."
Even though Lord Varys had all but told Sansa and the Hound that Cersei was his most likely suspect, Sansa had been so certain that Littlefinger was the mastermind. Now, she was not so sure. It would be just like Cersei to do such a thing, knowing that Littlefinger would be blamed in an attempt to cause discord amongst Sansa and her allies. Having the Hound disposed of would also ensure that Ser Gregor had no distractions when it came time for battle. The Hound's death would unbar many pathways for Cersei.
And Littlefinger was more clever than that. If he had wanted to hurt the Hound, he would have known that Sansa would immediately point the finger of blame to him because he was the only one who would stand to gain anything. Sansa could not say how Littlefinger repaid debts since she did not know of anyone who had willingly saved the man's life, but something told her that he saw the Hound as someone who could stand between him and death and having the Hound killed would not benefit him in the upcoming battle.
Still, Sansa also had reason to believe that Littlefinger was not as dismissive of the incident in the courtyard as he pretended to be. He had already been made sport of when Sansa had Ser Jorah and Ser Bronn publicly spar with him but to be nearly killed in the same setting was an entirely different manner.
"But he broke your nose," said Sansa. "He humiliated you and though you may not act like a prideful man, no misdeed against you goes unpunished. You drew your arrow on Ser Bronn for making a fool of you when I ordered you to duel. Sandor attacked you without my leave, disfigured your face, attempted to strangle you, and I refuse to believe that you would allow him to do so without planning retribution."
"He had every right to do as he did," said Littlefinger in the same tone he had used when he had once told her, "Then I will die," if she had commanded it. It was a tone that was so different from his hushed, silky words and it suited him far better, for it sounded certain and bold. For him to use it now, he must have truly believed that he deserved what the Hound had done to him.
"Did he?" Sansa challenged, inviting Littlefinger to confess further.
"Yes, he did. I have not yet had to make restitution for what I did to you. I provided you with an army to take back Winterfell, but I did so without atonement. I have served as your advisor, taught you archery, and gone to rescue your bannermen, but I have done all without a mark on me. What Sandor Clegane did to me was justified because he was enacting the Lady of Winterfell's justice. I accept what he did to me, knowing it can in no way equal what was done to you because of my actions. I know you have no reason to believe me, but know this: if I thought it would help my case in admitting it, I would. But I did not order for any harm to come to him and I will deny my participation from now until the end."
"You're right," said Sansa and she watched his breath catch in his throat for a moment before she continued, "I have no reason to believe you, so I don't. You are capable of everything I accused you of and you have been proven guilty of most of those accusations. Even if you did not order the attack on Sandor Clegane, you are still charged with crimes against me, my house, and my people. Shall I tell you your fate now or before the court in a proper trial?"
"I would just as soon hear it now," said Littlefinger in defeat.
"You told me that day that you would give me anything within your power to give, do you remember?"
"I could not forget."
"You offered to die if I commanded it. I command it now. You will fight, Lord Baelish. How and with which weapon is your choice, but you will not be in the crypts with the women, children, infirmed, and elderly. Come the battle, you will take your place among the soldiers and fight, not cower and allow others to die for you. You will be a man for once in your life, and you will die."
"Not so much a noble sacrifice as an order of execution," Littlefinger observed.
"We are all going to die, it is only a matter of how soon and I would prefer you die sooner than the rest of us. And while the rest of us are choosing to die because we know we must, you would not do so willingly, so you must be ordered. I sentence you to die. And if by some miracle you are still alive when this is all over, you will go into exile. You will not step foot in the North again or you will hang. In the meantime, I expect you to continue your service to House Stark in providing us with the Knights of the Vale. You will begin serving your sentence with no reward for your actions in ensuring that we continue to have your support."
This was her last order to him. Once before she thought he had washed her hands of him but had come almost groveling to where he awaited with the Knights of the Vale, calling upon their services as was her right as Lady of Winterfell. There had always been a slight chance before she took him up on his offer that she might never see him again but then there had been only a war between those who wronged her family and the one family member she thought she had left. Now, she knew that closing the door on him meant forever. Though she had sentenced him to exile on the slim chance he did survive, she did not believe he would. If he did, she knew that she would not. One or both of them would be dead, but both of them would not survive. So this was farewell, as she did not intend to waste breath, thought, or action on him one second longer.
"Do you accept my judgment, Lord Baelish?"
It looked like it was costing him the last of his dignity to do it, but Littlefinger bowed at the neck, staring forlornly at the floor as he managed to spit out the words, "As you command, my lady."
"Now, get out."
He did not linger, nor did he attempt one last plea of his innocence. He did not try to seize the last word or leave her with some riddle to ponder over. With that new awful and disturbing look of scrutiny, he left her.
Their last parting had left her trembling after having essentially banished her mentor, her protector, and her constant companion but now she felt nothing. She ought to have done this long ago but she had nurtured a slim hope that he would redeem himself and since he hadn't, she admitted a slight disappointment.
Her breaking with Littlefinger was only half the battle, though. The matter of disciplining the Hound and revealing what she suspected was still at hand and she was looking forward to neither. Deciding that she had best find him rather than have him storm his way up through the keep to find her,
She found him much quicker than she expected or wanted to, for he was trudging in from overseeing the trenches as she was walking out. He was sopping wet from a heavy downpour of sleet that now made the ground treacherous to walk on, pockmarking the snow so that mud and snow mixed into an uneven sludge. He caught her as she collided unexpectedly with him and Sansa picked up the musty scent of mildew from clothes that had been left out in the elements for too long.
"Trenches are soaked," he said almost monotonously. "If the Night King comes tonight, we're fucked. None of that mess will so much as catch a spark if this blasted rain doesn't let up and that's even with all the kindling we have set aside for when the time comes."
Somehow, this frightened her less than the news she had to deliver to him and it must have shown on her face, for the Hound cut short his grumblings with one hard look at her.
"Someone die?"
"What? No, no it's just–"
"Just you not wanting to tell me what you came to tell me," he said shrewdly and she hated that he could read her so easily when half the time she had to spend hours if not days analyzing his words to make sense of his actions. It couldn't have anything to do with the fact that she allowed herself to be read by him and he was still putting up defenses against her.
"Will you walk with me?" she asked him pointedly and he glanced at the various soldiers and common folk veering around them. Nodding, he followed her, not that she was leading him anywhere in particular. She simply walked until she found the first empty room or corridor and as it happened to be a corridor with no curves and only a lone disused broom cupboard off to one side, it was ideal.
Fixing him with a stern expression, she started with, "I want your word that despite whatever I am about to tell you, you will leave Littlefinger alone. You will not attempt to harm him or engage him in conversation. You will accept that I have dealt with all matters accordingly and my judgment should be satisfactory."
"That's one hell've a promise you're asking for. I'm not inclined to give it."
"You will or I have nothing more to say to you."
The Hound snorted, but there was no humor to be had. On the contrary, he looked quite capable of violence at the moment. "You, of all people, have the gall to stand there and tell me not to hurt 'im? After what he did to you?"
"It's because I am his victim that I alone have final say over what happens to him. That should be enough for you, but if you cannot give me your word–"
"You have it," the Hound snarled impatiently through his teeth. "Now, tell me what I just agreed to and if it was worth it."
"Littlefinger will be on the walls during the battle, the second to last line of defense if the dead make it past the outside obstacles. I sentenced him to die in battle and exiled him on the off chance that he survives. I spoke to him privately, denounced him, and he has accepted his fate. I stated his crimes to him, accused him of what I knew him to be guilty of, and he admitted his guilt to all but one charge. I accused him of sending that man to kill you last night, but he denied it. There was nothing to be gained in lying to me because I had already made up my mind on what I planned to do with him, so I am inclined to believe he was telling the truth and if he did not pay the man to do the deed, the one who did is still at large."
The Hound did not take the news as she expected him to but rather looked put out. "You made me promise to not hurt 'im because he didn't try to kill me?"
"No, I made you promise as a precaution because of what you already did to him. I have made my peace with my decision and I needed you to respect that but I also owed you the truth, as promised, even though I was wrong in my accusations. It would seem Lord Varys had a better lay of the land in that regard than I did. Littlefinger did tell me that you threatened Cersei, taunted her that she couldn't touch me as long as she had to get through you first, so she would seem the likely culprit here."
"I thought we agreed that would be too obvious, even for her?" said the Hound, ignoring the mention of his chivalry.
"Well, if it isn't her, we have no other leads on who it might be. Any evidence we have is just speculation but she and Littlefinger are the only ones in this castle who would have any reason to make an attempt on your life. Perhaps she was relying on it seeming too obvious for it to be her."
Shrugging more out of frustration than indifference, the Hound said, "Fuck it. I'll be back in my own bed tonight and we'll see who comes to kill me this time. I'll do my best not to kill them outright before I get information from them," he added bitterly.
"I don't appreciate you joking about such a thing. Why give the killer a second chance at you? If you return to the barracks tonight, you are putting yourself at unnecessary risk–"
"Never done that before, have I? I'll be going back where I belong tonight, girl, and don't think you can offer me a place on your floor again to entice me. Might as well have been sleeping on a brick wall all night."
"I offered you a proper bed to begin with," Sansa reminded him.
"Aye, and you knew I'd turn it down."
"Sandor, please, do not return to the barracks tonight just to spite me."
"Is that what you think I'm doing? Not because maybe I don't want to hear the men whispering and pointing at me for avoiding the place like some whelp too afraid to let go of mother's skirts?"
"The men saw you escape burning to death and nothing more. Sandor, I ask you as a favor to me, to please not return to the barracks. I have nothing I can offer you in terms of safety apart from my room but since that is all I have to give, I would ask that you accept it."
"That's a right puzzlement, that is. You'd send me off to deal with wights and winter but now you're hot and bothered about me sleeping in a room that isn't yours." His tone was accusatory, inviting her to be honest but her honesty had only ever earned her scorn from him. "Hells, if you've got something to tell me, you'd best tell me now. It's not like we've got a lot of time for you to be thinking about it for days on end. Tell me what you need to."
"You would only rebuke me. What I have to say is something akin to what you have admonished me for in the past."
This was what it always came down to; him not wanting to be recognized for being decent and her trying to make him accept her gratitude and her friendship. He had lived so many years of cruelty and dismissal that there was no hope to ever breach that defensive wall he had built specifically to keep people away. But Sansa had seen small cracks appear in that wall, large enough to let one or two people slip through and she flattered herself that she was one of them, the other possibly being Ser Jorah. If the Hound was now inviting her to be forthright, asking for her to say all those pretty words he had reprimanded her for a lifetime ago, what held her back?
Tyrion's words came to her, speaking as one half of a battle within herself. "We often come to the realization of many things once it no longer matters or it is too late to do anything about it. I would hope that you have the courage to say what you want to to whomever needs to hear something from you. Let it be what you want…let your last days be yours entirely. "
Were these last days not hers to do with what she wanted? Did she not deserve some thing in this life to turn out as she had hoped? To any gods that existed, she had been a faithful servant in her prayers. To the realms of men, she had tried to be just in the small amount of time that she had held the power to enact that justice. To her family, she had cast aside her childish ways, asked their forgiveness, and supported them to make up for her stupidity and selfishness. This, surely, had to be the one thing she could do for herself. This had to be the one thing she was given as her own, to cherish and take with her into the seven heavens or seven hells or whatever came after death.
Steeling herself, she craned her neck back to look the Hound in the eye and was emboldened to find his gaze soft and patient.
"Sandor, what you did to Littlefinger should not have had to be done by you. He should have been punished for what he did to me a long time ago, but his good standing with the Lords of the Vale was what kept those men here to fight for our cause and so I allowed his misdeeds to go unpunished. But I shouldn't have. I allowed what he did to me to fester until I no longer felt capable of holding him accountable for it. It was wrong of me to not bring justice to myself, but even now, I still need him to ensure the Lords of the Vale do not abandon us. When every single soldier is precious, we cannot afford to lose a single one, and so that is why I could not allow you to kill him as I know you wanted to."
"If he's still alive after all of this, I will kill him, and that's a fuckin' promise, girl."
Sansa felt her face breaking into a gratuitous grin. "I know, and that is why I came to tell you that despite how things must be for the time being, I am happy and grateful for what you did. I understand what drove you to that point and what's more, I am appreciative of it. Only my brother ever showed such anger at what was done to me because it pained him to know what I had been through, knowing that he could not have prevented it. But he did avenge me, as you did–because he loves me."
She knew before she spoke that the Hound would never, ever admit such a thing to her, but she needed him to hear the words from her own lips. She needed him to know that she still recognized his actions for what they were and that she was eternally grateful.
"I know you think you need to spill blood for me, but you don't have to anymore. You have done more for me than you can ever know, and your actions have allowed me to relieve myself of the burden of letting Littlefinger's fate hate in the balance. I was able to finally say what needed to be said because you made it imperative that I do so. Now that I've dismissed the man who was the cause for so much of my pain, I have a sense of peace that I didn't dare hope to achieve. And for that, I sincerely thank you."
Sansa could not bring herself to be so forthright in the question she longed to ask, but for once she was glad to have someone who could so easily read her that she need only look at him to tell him the rest of what she needed to. Still, she felt a blush creeping up her neck to burst in her cheeks at the thought of what she was about to do. She lifted her chin so he could see her face clearly and asked him what no one else had ever dared to.
The Hound read her once, then again to be doubly sure he had not misinterpreted her gaze. He considered her in jarring surprise and then scoffed. "If you have to ask, you don't want it badly enough—"
She stood on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his jaw, just barely grazing the outer corner of his own lips.