Chapter Text
Chapter 1: An Uncomfortable Distance
Sandor was not a man given to liking the world around him, certainly he was not given to loving it. He was a soldier first and foremost, and good hardened soldiers were not supposed to like their work -- certainly they were not given to loving it. Good soldiers were supposed to hate it. In fact they should despise their craft above everything, for it was this hate that fueled campaigns and built dynasties. It was this apathy toward fellow man born from hate that commanders, like Sandor, harnessed to win battles for their liege lords. It was the nearly universal acceptance that war was hell that drove men to end conflicts quickly. For the promise of going home brought with it an even sweeter taste when faced with the realities of living in a war camp.
Home was warm. Home was safe. Home was a reward.
Home didn’t smell like a bloody overripe horse stall.
Winterfell had been the closest thing the Hound had ever had to a home. As a result he was intent on reclaiming it, and everything within its walls. After all these lonely years he finally knew what security tasted like. Understood what it meant to love somebody and even be loved in return. That was why it should have been of little surprise to anyone at this juncture, that Sandor Clegane despised war camps even more than war itself. For if you were sitting in a war camp you weren't on the field fighting, and if you weren't fighting -- you weren’t advancing. If you weren’t advancing -- you were in no way closer to going home. That had never mattered much to him before, but she had changed him -- she had made him a better man, and in so doing, made him vulnerable at the same time.
Running his cold aching fingers through his mess of dark hair, Sandor sat back in his chair. Sansa Stark was a woman after his own heart, a woman who knew exactly what she was doing to him. Winter was coming. The nights were growing longer. The cold bit and nipped at the fingers and toes of his men. Combine this with the nature of war camps, which bred illness and demoralization, and what you had were putrid cesspools ripe for mutiny or complete abandonment of the cause. Sansa knew that without a doubt, for it fueled her drive just as much as it did his own. To stay here -- encamped within earshot of Winterfell -- would be the kiss of death for his side of this war, and for Sandor.
A sly grin reluctantly cracked Sandor’s lips, he would have employed the same tactic if he were in her place, warm and comfortable in a castle. Sansa was intelligent and far more gifted in the art of war than any highborn cunt of a man he had ever met. Be that as it may she was also young and impatient, Sandor knew she would wither slip up or give up. When she did, he would capitalize on it. Theirs was a waiting game, a war of attrition between two evenly matched foes. It would be her inexperience that caught her in the end -- he knew his she-wolf too well now to believe otherwise. Sandor guided his dirt stained fingers through his beard in thought.
Already she had sorely underestimated his will to continue. The Hound had a grip on the castle so tight, that he threatened to squeeze blood from its stone walls. His northern foes had to be running low on food, for nothing had come in or out of Winterfell for the months he had been knocking at its doors. He knew that would make things difficult, force her hand in the same way Sansa was trying to force his. He grinned, curious as to who would prevail. Sandor was the picture of calm confidence, approaching this war as he did any other -- with the goal of winning it. It was not out of some misplaced pride over besting a woman, or even to prove to his men he was a capable commander that he stubbornly sat there in the muck and shit outside her family home. He was continuing with this nonsense, allowing it to drag out as long as it had, because he could not bare to be apart from her. Because to lose this war would be political suicide for both of them -- of that Sandor had little doubt.
So many elements were in play, Sansa couldn’t even imagine the complexity. He had tried to tell her, tried to reason with her before he was forced to flee the castle*. Despite his best efforts she would have nothing of it. Sansa had spent so much time rising from the ashes of Winterfell, she had had no contact with the greater Westerosi political world. There was a naivete to her actions that had been cute at first, admirable even, but now threatened to upset his already tenuous status with the Lannisters. So for Sandor to capitulate was not simply to lose, it was to turn his back on his woman and child. To leave them to the will of the Lannisters or any other highborn hyenas looking to have a piece -- and he could not allow it. He was not so cold as to sit by and watch his family be torn to shreds.
Not now, not ever.
Pensive, Sandor looked in the direction of where he knew Winterfell to be from inside his tent and felt a longing. It was an uncomfortable distance to be so close, yet so far away. Victory was within reach, if he could only reason with her. There was a danger in taking the castle by force, but he knew Sansa’s pride would prevent her from listening to reason, from coming down to his humble quarters to parley. That reluctance was forcing his hand, making him end this recklessly.
There was no other choice that made sense as far as he could tell. Retaking the castle was the only option she had left him. Sandor was on a knife’s edge at the thought, a caged dog cornered and ready to strike. Though sure of his decision, he knew he was being unusually reckless, hoping the tension in the camp and the desperation that proliferated there would force him to think of a plan to get out of this -- to win back what he so desperately needed to -- before it was too late. Sandor had always worked well under pressure, was creative in the worst and most difficult times. But there was something different about this moment, something that inextricably blocked him. Though he was loath to admit it, he was incomplete without Sansa by his side -- fearful she might not survive if he attacked the castle -- and equally fearful that if he didn’t act soon their time to negotiate with the Lannisters would pass. It was this thought that had begun to fan the flames of desperation in this normally composed commander.
Over five months had passed since they had met each other on the battlefield, since he had promised to take back the stronghold. So Sandor could only assume that their child had been born with little issue, otherwise the ravens would have flown a long time ago. It was unsurprising to him that Sansa had not sent word of the child’s birth, not even a rat came out of the castle without being captured, interrogated, killed or tortured. The Hound was many things, but he was not merciful. Suspicions about the child had been confirmed only recently when a northern scout made the poor misstep of being captured just before the reaching the walls of Winterfell. The sorry son of a bitch had the poor luck to have caught Sandor on a bad day, so he made sure the young man felt the same way he did. Sandor broke every non-essential bone in his body, even after his captive had agreed to talk. It felt good to let his anger out, to see the fear in the man’s eyes. There was no denying that Sandor enjoyed the power that complete physical domination gave him. He was a killer by nature, born and bred much like his grandfather had bred his hunting dogs to be the most sought after in the realm. The scout’s torture had uncovered a few interesting bits of information, along with the confirmation that the Lady of Winterfell had given birth as southern forces had bombarded the castle in the early days of the war. It seemed that, at the most hectic and intense moments of the battle, Sansa had been laboring in her own right. The child was healthy and strong, but the man did not know if it was a boy or a girl. Only that the babe existed. Sandor killed the scout soon after that, only because he had begged Sandor to. A small mercy in return for the information he had received. That had been four days ago, two days after a raven from the north had dogged his archers and made it to the castle.
Snorting, Sandor took a mouthful of wine then pounded his fist on the wooden desk of his tent in frustration. Knowledge of the babe had only fed his desire to end this whole thing as quickly as possible -- which put him outside of his comfort zone, forced him to take risks he would not normally. Sandor had learned over the years that war was not about how many battles you won, but how you learned from from the ones you lost. The more information you could discern from our opponent, the more likely you were to recognize and win the right battles. So many of Sandor’s contemporaries went out of their way to win every battle at all costs, but not Sandor -- unlike in life in war he was patient.
But this war was different.
Strategic thinking was something he had learned from his liege lord, Tywin Lannister. There was no dispute about the man’s prowess on the battlefield. Lord Tywin would go down in the history of Westeros as being one of the most tactical and strategic military man to ever grace its lands. Sandor had grown much under his tutelage. While the Imp drank himself into an early grave and Ser Jamie was too busy looking at himself in the mirror and chasing after his sister to go on long campaigns -- Sandor had been learning in their stead. Ofcourse there had been more to it than that, with the Lannisters nothing was as it seemed. They had always exercised and enjoyed a certain amount of control over the Cleganes. Gregor had pleased them greatly -- his ability to rape, pillage and cause general destruction ensured that the lower lords stayed true and loyal Lannister bannermen. Sandor on the other hand, had always been unruly. He had despised this eternal game and would have prefered he become a kennel master or a mercenary -- anything but the dependent pet of the Lannisters. Lord Tywin had noticed Sandor’s potential as a commander early on, and had also come up with a way to remedy his subversion -- keeping a tight leash on his beloved and most prized dog.
‘Elenore.’ Sandor looked over at the letter that had arrived by rider earlier that day. Sansa wasn’t the only one getting mail these days. While he wasn’t sure, nor did he want to speculate too much on what the contents of the raven had been, he did know what his letter was about.
It angered him.
Sandor filled his pewter chalice with wine and drank deep. Elenore was his younger sister. His mother had brought her to the world in old age, for she was younger than Sansa by four years. She was his collar and leash, instrument through which the Lannisters kept Sandor loyal to their cause. He’d never told Sansa about her, what had been the point as long as he was following orders? Every evil thing he had ever done had been on the order of Lord Tywin had been with the understanding that, if he didn’t follow through, his sister would be ‘mistreated’. Sandor was a hard man by nature -- a soldier by design -- it was not difficult or morally reprehensible to be the tip of the Lannister spear. As a matter of fact it had won him renown for one reason or another across Westeros. But he did the bidding of his liege lord only because of his sister, otherwise the loyal Hound would have run off a long time ago. Forged his own way in life on his own terms.
‘Or merged my forces with Sansa’s long before all this mess.’ Sandor was a man of few regrets, but now he found himself between two worlds. One which urged him to do the Lannister’s bidding, and one which urged him to follow his heart. For a man not given to a bright pallet of emotions, it was painful to navigate this new found world.
Having been appointed Governor of the North had been the perfect solution, he was keeping the Lannisters happy whilst chasing his own personal desires. Sansa’s rebellion, subsequent reclamation of the castle and their child would now change the tentative balance of power Sandor had always tried hard to keep in his favor.
‘It would have been easier if she had just been a bloody farm girl.’ Sandor lamented, drinking yet another full gulp of wine.
As it now stood both Sandor and Sansa had made a grave error, taken a misstep in Westerosi culture and expectations. The repercussions of which meant that they were teetering on the edge of political suicide. Sansa wasn’t for a man like him, she was bred for kings not lowly lords who followed commands like a well trained hound. Their affair and the child that came from it would throw everything into chaos, and Sandor didn’t know if he would be able to save it. He had pained over this greatly the last months, felt solutions slipping from his grasp as the time wore on. Though Sandor enjoyed impunity under Tywin Lannister for his military successes, his loss of Winterfell and well documented love of a traitor had already eroded his clout in this circle. The boy King had not been able to touch him so long as Sandor had kept winning lands in the boy’s name, now Sandor wasn’t so sure where he stood. This was why he had to act quickly, move to take the castle and take Sansa as his bride. In that there might be a way to save both her life and his -- and that of his sister.
Sandor looked at the letter again. He didn’t have to open it to know what it said, the words were seared into his mind.
‘Dearest Sandor,
I hope this letter reaches you in your far away location in the North. Lord Tywin has told me many things over the last weeks and I am troubled. I urge you not to forget your promise to him and to me. So fight hard, fight strong and I hope to hear of your victory soon.
Love,
Elenore’
She was young and did not understand how her words hurt him, had been sheltered to how her guardianship shackled him. It had been years since they had seen one another, but he knew these were not really her sentiments -- though they came neatly spelled out in her script. They were spoon fed to her, a way to motivate him to do something other than sit in this war camp like a heart broken beast. If Sandor had to be honest with himself, he was nearing his wit’s end, ready to try anything to save the things dearest to him. This letter had been the final straw, the thing that had pushed him over the edge.
Sandor’s tent flap opened and one of his lieutenants stepped in, turning the Hound’s attention from his misery. “My Lord, a troupe of wondering acrobats have entered camp asking permission to perform for us this evening.”
That sort of thing wasn’t uncommon, often times they brought whores with them as well -- sort of a full service entertainment type of arrangement. Sandor, however, could not shake the feeling that Sansa was behind it. His host had sat there for several months and nothing like this had come up before.The timing was too perfect, the change in movement around the castle telling him that the raven had brought quite some news.
‘But of what?’ Sandor stroked his beard a moment and considered his options. His men would have to remain vigilant, ensure that they would not be attacked by the northern forces from outside.
‘And what of from within?’ Sandor leaned back, still eyeing his lieutenant. ‘If she’s trying to tell me something, what would it be?’ It was a gut instinct and nothing more, this feeling that Sansa might go to great lengths to contact him. It had been what he wanted after all, to keep such a tight hold on her castle that she would be forced to come to him. The suspicion lingered, hung heavy in the air like the smell of rotting fish as Sandor mulled over his decision. ‘Perhaps my patience has finally paid off.’
“Search their carriages carefully, but allow them to perform. It will increase our moral. And make sure we still have our lookouts -- the enemy could attack at any time.” Sandor ordered.
“As you wish.” Bowed Sandor’s lieutenant. “Will you join then this evening Lord Commander?” The young man who stood in front of him almost looked scared to ask, but clearly felt obligated to do so.
Sandor barked out a laugh, “No. I don’t have time for that shit.”
At this his lieutenant bowed and left the tent. Sandor hoped he wasn’t imagining things that weren't there. He needed to believe in his heart of hearts that there was a bit of sanity left in his exhausted cold body. What he needed now, was a bit of fresh air.