Chapter Text
Same soup as yesterday, and the day before that. Sansa thought to herself, as a young girl poured a few spoons in the bowl and handed it back to her. She could not remember her name. Weasel, perhaps. Another one of Arya’s friends, of course, as not even the horrific incidents after Father’s death were enough to keep her sister’s friendly nature in check.
Sansa sat down at one of the logs acting as improvised benches and began stirring the thin contents in the bowl. She knew they could not afford to be picky when the Others crushed every crop between their freezing grasp, but the food was still not pleasant. The sentiment seemed to be shared, however, as other people winced as they took their spoons into their mouths. Sansa shrugged off her distaste and copied the others.
As she reached the end of yet another meal, Sansa sat the bowl down at her lap. Very little sound was made other than swallowing and slurping. Even with the Dragon Queen’s much welcome trio of fiery reinforcements, the Others still chipped away at their numbers and forced retreat after retreat. Sansa did not like this. The weaker ones had perished in the earlier stages of the conflict, leaving only the strongest, fastest and most prudent ones alive, but they were not immortal. She feared that a miscalculation from the strategists or a blunder in the battle or even a sense of pride could take away their most skilled warriors in the blink of an eye, and just as silently.
A shiver went through Sansa’s spine. Just focus on digesting the soup., she told herself. But it proved harder to do so with a turning stomach. Anxiously, Sansa looked around, in hopes to find a comforting presence. Preferably one much taller, much stronger, much rougher around the edges, but comforting all the same. She did found him, as she always seemed to. The Hound stood a few feet away from her and the rest of the dinners, restless, his hand resting at the hilt of his sword and his gaze unfocused. One of the consequences of months spent under a guard dog’s watchful eye was recognizing his patterns, and she could discern his annoyance.
Intrigued, Sansa left the bowl in the snow beneath her and walked towards him. The Hound noticed her movements and seemed to relax a little.
–Here comes the little bird. –Sandor rasped, staring at her face intensively. –Why aren’t you chirping along with the rest?
–I came here to see you.
Sansa detected a hint of surprise in his watchful grey eyes, but it quickly vanished. Perhaps he’s still not used to others in the camp seeking his company.That made her sad.
–And? What do you see? –he asked, his gaze never breaking away from her. If Sansa were still as young as she was when Father took her to King’s Landing, it would’ve frightened her.
–I see you’re upset.
Sandor sighed, but said nothing. Instead, he turned his eyes away from her and started looking around for intruders, just like Sansa used to do when she wanted to tell Jeyne Poole a secret.
She stared at his gaunt face, waiting for him to say something. The Hound was ever as huge and intimidating and unapproachable as he was when King Robert’s entourage arrived in Winterfell, yet Sansa could not fear his visage, not even the scarred side. Even before the temporary retreat to the Quiet Isles taught him how to manage and direct his anger better, she was never at its receiving end. He was harsh and mean to her back in King’s Landing, and sometimes these behaviors repeated themselves, but there was a predictability about them that comforted her. It was always to teach her something, to open her eyes to truth. He keeps me safe, in his own weird way., she thought.
–Some idiot carrying a torch tripped over and burned a couple of tents. –he said after a while of tense silence.
Sansa understood. Wherever fire burned strong, Sandor preferred to stay away. At every battle the Dragon Queen sent out her dragons, he always requested to fight at another perimeter or stayed as far away from them as possible. Their flames were welcome additions to a war against enemies who thrived in the cold and melted in the heat, but a dog hurt by its scorching power was compelled to avoid it. She did not blame him in that regard.
Perhaps his tent was caught in the fire too., she thought. It was a predicament, for sure. Sansa did not grasp the workings of a battlefield, but she knew letting one of their best fighters sleep in the cruel snow blowing in his face would only lead to disaster. They needed every help possible. At the same time, she could not bear to see Sandor hurt. After every fight, she would spy inside the makeshift nurseries to see if he had been severely injured, and would breathe a sigh of relief every time he stood up, fresh and new. Where did this worry come from and how she let it develop, she could not say.
–Come to my tent. –Sansa offered.
Sandor stared at her, his eyes widening in shock. Sansa herself did not know where this boldness came from. The last time they shared a room, the oppressive air of Blackwater and wildfire weighed heavily on their interactions. The Hound held a knife to her throat and his lips to her own, and in return she held her palm to his face. He was bloody and miserable and cruel and afraid. Why is this going to be any different now? She could not say, but she felt it in her heart.
–Spare me your pity, little bird. –he scoffed.
–It’s not about pity, Sandor. –she replied angrily at his stubbornness.
If he was surprised by her words before, then he was doubly so now. Was this the first time I called him by his name? He had spent so much time in the figure of the dog to oppose the figure of the knight that he forgot to cultivate the figure of the man. Sansa was determined to help him live, as Sandor helped her survive in King’s Landing. She touched his muscular arm and gave him a sweet look.
–You don’t know what you’re asking for.
–I didn’t ask anything. I’m offering to help you.
She could tell Sandor was still uncomfortable at the prospect, but he seemed slightly more open to it. The thrill of the small victory made Sansa grab his arm and tug him in direction of her own tent. If there was any comfort to be had amidst the harsh living conditions is that her bed was one of the fluffiest of the entire camp, a courtesy from her beloved brother Bran to help her feel more at ease with all the traveling.
Some curious eyes stared at the two while Sansa led Sandor between tents and people, a more comfortable silence in between them. The Maid of Tarth and the Kingslayer, who were discussing something in whispers, had looks of concern and amusement, respectively. Her cousin Jon Snow stared at the pair with an indecipherable smile and elbowed Arya to get her attention away from a muscular blacksmith she was chatting with. When the two arrived in front of her tent, she stared at his face again. He’s even tenser than before., she noted.
Sansa pushed the fabric away as she led them both inside her tent. She only had a bed, a tub and a bucket to bathe and a chest to keep her clothes. A lot of what she had in the Vale was lost after she escaped it, and her previous chest in King’s Landing went up in flames, including the stained cloak Sandor gifted her before leaving. One time before leaving with Petyr Baelish, she removed it from the bottom of the chest and held it in her hands. She could not say why she was compelled to do so, as it was not pleasant to look at and rough on her palms, but she held it all the same, for it seemed to calm her.
She felt Sandor stop walking as soon as he was inside. Sansa turned at him to look deep into his eyes. He looked tense and uncertain, not meeting her gaze, as if there was something holding him back from being fully there with her. She found this odd. Back in King’s Landing, he would’ve made some remark about a pretty girl like her hounding a man like him back to her chambers, but now he looked subdued, almost afraid. There’s something he’s not telling me. At that moment, the thought was more disturbing than being encountered with a man while unmarried.
Sandor sighed and returned to stare at her, his grey eyes narrowed.
–What’s your plan, little bird?
The word plan caught her off guard. She looked around her room. What was her plan after all? There were no spare beds, as the resources were counted and recounted before being distributed between each camp member. Sansa wasn’t going to offer him the cold floor, nor was she willing to take it for herself. The most convenient alternative would be to share a bed, but Sandor would never accept such a thing. She bit her lip and looked downwards, embarrassment painting her cheeks red.
–I… I didn’t think it through. –she managed to muster back. She took a deep breath and stared up at him. –You should sleep in a bed, that’s all.
Sandor chuckled at her.
–And I suppose you’re offering me to share yours.
Sansa nodded. She noticed the sarcastic smile on his face dropping when she did that. The people that would be willing to offer up a considerable amount of space for the spacious, quiet figure of Sandor Clegane to sleep at their side was very small, and there was no guarantee he would accept anyone offers, including her own. She could only hope to prove herself wrong.
Sandor studied her face throughly, perhaps looking for sign of untruth. Sansa did get better at lying to people over the years, with no small help from Sandor himself, yet she always preferred to turn to honesty whenever she can. A dog’s honest bark is better than a mockingbird’s deceiving song., she thought.
–Do you have another place you’d rather sleep in? –she asked before she could control herself.
What a stupid question., she admonished herself. Of course he would rather sleep in his own bed, where he could be alone and content.
–No, little bird. Here is perfect.
It was Sandor’s time to surprise her with words, it seemed. Sansa was caught off guard with his flattery, and at the same time was relieved by it. The thought of another person getting ahead of her and making this proposition was too much to bear. She nodded and sat on the bed, not sure where to proceed from that point on. He had the same look about him.
The two stared at each other for a moment, never initiating any conversation. Sandor was much more active on the night of the Blackwater, the alcohol and wildfire and fear bringing out his words and actions. This time, he looked to be holding back, and Sansa could not take it a moment longer. She stood up again and walked towards him until they were in front of each other and closer than before.
For the second time that night, Sansa could not pinpoint what caused her to be so upfront. His presence was the only common denominator, so it must’ve been that. It made some sense. In King’s Landing, she would speak to him in a manner she would never dare to use against the likes of Ser Meryn Trant. The other members of the Kingsguard would slap her at any sign of insult to their honorable Joffrey, but the king never sent out his scariest, strongest dog to harm her. Maybe that’s why she learned not to fear him. Maybe that’s what got her to understand him.
Repeating a motion she was already used to, Sansa stood on her tiptoes to cup Sandor’s cheek. The bed in King’s Landing previously helped with the height difference, but not now. His eyes widened with shock at first, but slowly closed as he relaxed, leaning into her hand. Some instinct made her lean in closer, touching her forehead to his chin. Whatever unspoken feelings there were between them, she was determined to understand there and now, no matter how harsh the rejection or how sweet the embrace.
Sansa close their distance with a kiss, feeling the roughness of his lips in contact her own. Their first one was wrapped in wildfire and wine and blood, so it only made sense to have a sober one in the harshest winter she’d ever known. When she parted, Sandor was unmoved. She braced herself for what might come next. A vicious mockery, another kiss, an uncomfortable silence, something of that caliber.
She was not expecting tears.