Chapter Text
Seven buggering hells – why did they have to head north? Couldn't the little fucker of a prince get a fiancé somewhere in the south? And couldn't King Robert just send a raven and order his vassal Lord Eddard Stark to come to Kings Landing to take up the job as his Hand? But no, no. The fornicating drunkard of a king intended to pay his respects to the Stark family. Which meant that the whole royal family with their entourage had to travel to Winterfell. Fucking brilliant. Of course, as a soldier he was accustomed to the hardships of traveling, but he preferred to travel with his comrades-in-arms – not with all these arrogant fops, pretending to be shining knights in armor, plus various overstrung ladies and their correspondingly nervous servants.
And there it was coming into view – a cold, big, bleak castle in a cold, blank, bleak stretch of land. The inhabitants of this region would presumably share these attributes. Why on earth the buoyant King Robert had befriended the austere Warden of the North was a mystery to him, but ever since Robert's Rebellion against the Mad King there had been mutual trust and a link between the two of them, and, of course, everybody knew about the tragic episode with Lyanna Stark. Still, that couldn't explain everything. But, being Sandor Clegane, the infamous as well as loyal Lannister “Hound”, it was not his to answer these questions. He had to follow and to obey.
When they entered the inner courtyard of the castle Sandor tapped Stranger's shoulder in a gruff, but friendly way. His bold, bad-tempered destrier had been a reliable companion all the way up to this castle, so Stranger had really earned himself an extra portion of sweet hay.
While he was dismounting he heard the happy, bellowing voice of fat King Robert. He was obviously greeting the Stark family, who had already been waiting in the courtyard. Sandor allowed himself a short look at their hosts.
Right. There was Lord Stark, and no mistake, easy to discern. The typical face of a Northman. The good-looking woman next to Eddard Stark held herself very upright, a smile tucked to her face that didn't reach her eyes. Well, this had to be the wife. Of Tully descent, he remembered. Next came a teenage lad, the eldest son, and there were also two younger male pups. And finally two daughters. One was a sweet, innocent-looking younger copy of her mother. At that moment, the girl started to beam at Prince Joffrey – and the little shit seemed willing to play the gallant part for once. Poor little thing, she would be so disappointed when she found out to what a sadistic brat she would be betrothed. Well, such was life – one letdown after the other. The last Stark daughter looked more like her father – and more like a ferocious little boy at that. There was also Theon Greyjoy to be recognized, an arrogant young man, if anybody had asked Sandor for his opinion. Somewhere, there also had to be a bastard son of Ned Stark, but he was kept hidden.
Well, Sandor's duty was more or less done for today. He had to see to his horse and to check on the security in the wing of the castle where the guests should be accommodated. Otherwise, he would sit at the lower end of the dinner table and get himself decently pissed.
It turned out that Queen Cersei was as foul-tempered as King Robert was overjoyed at the arrival in Winterfell, which didn't exactly surprise the Hound. As a consequence, the queen sent him on various tedious errands, so that Sandor's mood was even more morose than usual. He really would have liked to grind somebody's kisser. The only good thing was that he didn't have to sleep in the barracks; as a sworn shield he had been allocated a guest room. Sandor wondered if he would be able to make good usage of the bed by hiring a nice little whore to warm it. He had not had a woman for ages and he felt like unloading his shot. Chances were poor, however, with so many better-looking gentlemen who had come from the south to charm the wenches here. Couldn't be helped. After all, he still had two big, strong hands.
In the large festive hall of Winterfell, Sandor received many shocked, terrified and condescending looks and whispers behind upheld hands. The same like always – and still he was enraged. Why couldn't these little fuckers just ignore the horrible scars on the left side of his face? But no, they had to stare at the leathery, puckered skin, the deep, ugly ridges, the little piece of bone shining through the thin surface, his half-burned mouth, the hole where his auricle should have been, the parts where there normally would have been black hair, so that he needed to comb the remaining strands to this side.
Behind him, a woman retched. Grrrrrr. The corner of his mouth started to twitch. Better he got some wine at once. Hopefully, they had sour Dornish one. The sooner he got pissed, the better.
Three hours later, towards midnight, he stepped into the courtyard, swaying. Somewhere, there was the nervous howl of a wolf. Suddenly, he heard a voice from the shadows that he recognized well enough, even if he was as drunk as a skunk. “Hound! I hope you had a nice evening at the Stark table. And I have prepared a reward for you to make it even nicer, a sweet bone to relish.” Laughter. “You see, I found you a willing slut from the kitchen. One of the sort who likes to play little games. Pretending to be a noble, panicking maid, who is devoured by a roughshod monster from beyond the Wall. They've got strange tastes here, I tell you. Anyway, I promised the wench a good monster and tied her hands and feet to the bedposts so as to prepare her for the scene – she probably won't even need any payment, if you play your role well. Have fun!”
With his slurred voice, Sandor managed to rasp a “thank you”, but the speaker had already vanished. So, Sandor staggered to his room. It was dark. All the better – he didn't like to watch a disgusted harlot while he was fucking her.
There was the slender outline of a body on the bed, hands and legs spread apart and tied to the bedposts, just like he had been promised. The woman had even been gagged to make the scene realistic. The wench was wiggling to and fro like mad, and she uttered some whimpering sounds. Sandor had never been interested in a mummer's show while having sex and his drunken state didn't allow any creative remarks. So he rasped: “I didn't expect to have a whore tonight. How come you wanted an ugly monster like me?” “Mmmmm...mmmmmm!” “Yeah, we can talk it through later. First, let's see, if you are already wet for me.”
And without further ado he pushed up the hem of the skirt and ripped the woman's smallclothes away. “Really well-prepared for your role, I see. Even snatched a lady's silken pants away for the game, hope you didn't steal them. And I can only warn you – don't even think of stealing my money, or I will bite off your head. Understood?” Another frantic “mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm”. “Fine, then let's start.”
Sandor raised his hand and pushed his long, calloused index finger into the woman's cunt. After half a second, he noticed that the woman winced as if she was feeling pain. Actually, she was completely dry and tight and... for a moment, there had been some kind of resistance. In his befuddled state, Sandor finally managed to become suspicious. A maid? Who was there in his bed!? Outside, various wolves were now howling like mad.
The Hound jumped to his feet and fumbled around the wall where he suspected a torch. Out he went to the torches in the corridor and came back with a bright flame one instant later. He held it over the bed. And went white as milk, whispering: “Oh FUCKfuckfuckfuckfuck... What the hell are YOU doing here?”
With shaking hands, Sandor cut the bonds loose that had tied the person on his bed. Next, he tore the gag from the mouth. There was a bloodstain on the linen and on the Hound's finger. The girl sat up, shrinking against the head of the bed, crying. It was Lady Sansa, Lord Stark's eldest daughter.
All Sandor managed to stammer was: “I... I didn't know... I was told...” Then he squatted on the floor and stared at the girl that had been meant to marry Prince Joffrey. His grey eyes were big as saucers, and the shock sobered him up considerably. He knew he had fucked up everything. He had disgraced Lady Sansa and due to that, his life would end soon.
Suddenly, there were hasty steps in the corridor. “Where is she, Greywind? Show me! Show me!” someone called. Then, there was a whining sound right outside, and claws seemed to be scratching on the wood of the door. “Greywind! To me! At my foot!” the voice called. And then the door crashed open, revealing Sansa and Sandor on the one side and Robb Stark and a direwolf on the other. The wolf snarled and bared his fangs. The young man took in the scene, paralyzed for a heartbeat, realizing what must have happened and not wanting to know. He whispered: “SANSA! What did he do to you? What did this monster do?” Then he rushed to his sister's side, hugged her for a moment and rocked her like a mother would rock her baby. The young lady still wasn't able to make a sound, let alone utter a word.
Sandor didn't move. For once, there was still the direwolf in the doorframe, and even if it had been different he would not have cared to run away. He could only wait for the explosion to come. And then it happened. Robb Stark let go of his sister, spun around and bellowed: “YOU MONSTER! I SWEAR TO YOU: YOUR HEAD WILL BE PUT ON A SPEAR ABOVE WINTERFELL!” Next, a fist crushed into Sandor's face and all the lights went out.
When Sandor regained his conscience his first though was: “Whoa, now that's what I call a hangover.” He gave a little moan and held his head in his hands. After a few moments, he noticed the dampness around him. He looked up and found himself in a cell with a burning torch. And then it all came back to him, like a flood, and he drowned in shame and guilt. “I've raped that girl. Taken her maidenhood away. Now, I've really reached my brother's level.”
A little later, he heard steps outside. Heavy steps. A key screamed in a rusty lock. Lord Eddard Stark came into the cell. His eyes were like stone... or no, not quite so, because stone couldn't be sad, and a definite grave sadness clung to the Warden of the North.
“Sandor Clegane?” he said with a flat voice. The Hound looked up at him from his patch of stinking straw, then heaved himself up into a standing position. From a physical point of view he was now taller than the lord, but this held no truth. “What do you say?” Ned Stark inquired.
Sandor looked at the torch, because he didn't find it in him to make eye contact, and rasped: “Will you cut off my head, or will you hang me before beheading me?”
“First of all, I want to know what happened.”
Bile rose in Sandor's throat. Normally, he would have snarled an insulting answer, but this was different, and he picked his words carefully: “I... deflowered your daughter... with... my hand.” At that moment, he noticed that somebody must have washed his finger while he had been passed out.
Lord Stark gritted his teeth. “On whose order did you do that? Or was it just an ordinary rape for you?” Sandor froze and shook his head.
“I did not know what I was actually doing. I was deluded. The only thing I can say is that seemingly somebody from the Lannister family was against the marriage between your daughter and Prince Joffrey.”
“I had figured out as much. So... in which way were you deluded and by whom?”
Again, Sandor shook his head: “What does it matter? I can't undo what I've done and if it had not been this particular person from the Lannister family, who told me about... a whore in my bed... it would have been another Lannister in a different situation, but with the same outcome. They all detest your family.”
The knuckles of Lord Stark's fists were white. In his flat voice that tried to hold back a melee of emotions he said: “Sansa has told me that you mistook her for somebody else. What would you have done, if you had known who she was?”
“I'm no fan of useless “what-ifs”. The only thing I can say is that, aye, I have killed many people in my life, but no, I have never raped anyone – not before your daughter, that is. But that does hardly matter, does it? And you wouldn't believe me anyway.”
“Do you know the consequences for Sansa?”
“By now, the king will have forsaken the betrothal, if I'm not a complete oaf. In the future? She might marry someone else, though not as highborn. Or if there was no-one left with an acceptable reputation she might take the veil and become a septa. About her... internal sufferings I cannot make a guess.”
“Do you know that King Robert has asked me to become his Hand?”
“I knew he wanted you for the task. But if you go to Kings Landing I give you less than a year to survive.”
For the first time during their interrogation Lord Stark seemed to be genuinely surprised: “Why do you think so?”
Sandor shrugged. “You're an honourable man, or so they say. This means that your ways are limited to what you deem morally acceptable. And that again will be a lethal disadvantage for you, because nobody cares about morals in Kings Landing, your enemies first and last. Look at how they used me to disgrace your daughter.”
“Then why do you pretend to be so honest?”
“People usually don't ask me questions like you do, so honesty isn't much of a topic. They only listen to the song of my sword.”
Lord Stark remained silent for a moment. Then he sighed as if the whole world had been placed on his shoulders.
“Well. Now, we have basically three choices of what to do with you. First: We could execute you, as you have already guessed. My son Robb is a staunch supporter of that alternative.”
Sandor kept his mouth shut. He had not even dreamed of the Starks discussing options.
“Second: We send you to the Night's Watch where you would end your life in service to the Realm.” This surprised Sandor. It was a punishment as well as a kind of mercy. Not bad, if he was granted such a possibility.
“Third: You could take full charge of what has happened to my daughter. You said yourself that she is – though highborn – not a decent match any longer. Who would ask for her hand now? Ramsay Bolton perhaps. A widower. Do you know that he starved his first wife and made her eat her own fingers? No? In this case I wonder if it is not even better to give Sansa to you.”
Sandor gaped and probably took on an owlish look for the first time in his life. Then he spluttered: “Have I understood you correctly? You are not really considering to marry me to your daughter, are you? Me, the second son of a minor house, and an abomination at that? And... she is still more than half a child. I mean... she has not even had her moon blood, has she?”
At that, Lord Stark hissed: “You deflowered her before she could flower! And be sure that I don't like the prospect of having you as my son-in-law. I wouldn't ponder that matter at all, if this situation was only a tiny little different. As you pointed out clearly enough, I will be surrounded by enemies in Kings Landing. If anything should befall me I'll need good fortifications for my family – and everybody knows that you are one of the fiercest and most capable fighters in Westeros. And in case of a war you also know quite a bit about tactics. Truth be told: if I had a free will I would want to execute you – the question is if I can afford to cast a warrior like you aside. Of course, you wouldn't be allowed to consummate the marriage as long as Sansa is a child.”
That shut Sandor up for a moment. Then, he ventured forth: “Shouldn't your daughter have a say in this affair?”
Now, it was Eddard Stark's turn to look owlish: “She is just a girl and extremely afflicted after what has happened to her. What's more, she doesn't know anything about politics. How could I let her make a decision like that?”
“You could ask her. How could I possibly wed her, if she couldn't bear me to live in her surroundings or to share a name with me?”
Lord Stark shot his prisoner a piercing glance and didn't say anything else. Then he turned on his heels and left Sandor alone.
Sandor had basically felt miserable throughout his life, but now, it took on a new quality. The idea of him, the despicable monster, being married to his victim wasn't appealing at all. Lord Stark had to be daft to think about this option.
Time oozed by. At some point, he was given drink and food, or the bucket with his excrements was taken away. A stay in a cell was never a pleasant experience, but in contrast to Kings Landing his living conditions were luxurious. For example, there had been no torturing so far.
After two or three days, Sandor heard two people approaching his room. First, the door creaked as usual, then it opened to reveal Lord Stark... and little Lady Sansa. The Hound asked himself if he was hallucinating. But no. The girl hesitated. Then, she stepped into the room, her eyes cast down. Her father said: “I'm right in front of the door. If I hear so much as a whimper from her, you're a dead man, Clegane.”
The cell door closed.
Sandor could feel a horrible thud-thud-thud in his chest and his blood was whooshing in his ears. What the fuck was going on here?
“Ser Clegane?” the girl started with a papery voice. She was still very pale, but then again, she seemed to have a cream-white skin anyway.
Sandor breathed in, because he had to bite back a snarl. With utmost self-control he said calmly: “I'm no ser.”
This caused the young lady to look at him for the first time. He noticed she had very blue eyes. So he used the moment to ask her: “Why are you here, Lady Sansa?” He tried to be gentle, but he knew well enough that his voice always sounded like steel on stone – if not worse.
The girl flinched, looked at her feet and then back up to him. After a while she stepped a little closer. It was clear that she was afraid of him: of his looks as well as of what he had done to her. Sandor felt like the worst of all sinners in Westeros, and rightfully so, he told himself.
Then the girl peeped up: “Would you ever do anything like this again?”
Were the Starks all mental? Why for fuck's sake did they ask HIM of all questions that had something to do with “what-ifs” and with trust?
Sandor could only answer: “I certainly don't intend to do so – but neither did I some days past. If you want to be sure – execute me.”
The girl flinched again. She managed to say with some effort: “The family of your liege lord betrayed you. King Robert and his family have already left and wait for my father to travel after them. You're no part of their schemes any longer.”
It was so strange. Why was this girl willing to face him at all? And if she was, why didn't she yell out her frustrations or horrors? Why didn't she reproach him with what he had done to her? There was no sense in her mild behaviour, so the Hound didn't answer to what she had said. Slowly but surely he was becoming quite sure that he would opt for the Night's Watch, if only he were given the choice.
“Would you like to marry me?” Lady Sansa suddenly asked and Sandor shuddered inwardly. She was like a little bird, parroting the phrases her father had told her, or so he thought.
“Only if you can look me straight in the eyes without fear and if you can at least give me the tiniest of kisses. Otherwise, there is no joint basis for us, don't you think?”
He cursed himself to be the worst bad-ass in Westeros – but this would shut her up, her and this idiocy. Strangely enough, the girl was still standing there and looking in his direction. She took a step. And then another. Finally, she was standing right in front of him. She wrinkled her nose, which was no wonder, because he was smelly enough after some days in custody. Still, she didn't shy away from him and looked up.
Well, Lady Sansa's scent was definitely very sweet in contrast to his, her auburn hair fell down in soft, shining curls and her eyes were even bluer than they had looked from afar. She was still extremely afraid, but at the same time she dared to look him in his eyes, something that few people ever did or cared to do. Next, the young lady steeled herself for his other request.
Sandor stood stock still. Fuck, you won't do it, will you!? He had demanded too much of her, and he knew it well. Lady Sansa slowly rose on her toes, ever so hesitant. Nobody had ever kissed Sandor, at least not as far as he could remember, so he was spellbound and still couldn't believe the girl was about to oblige. “Fuck me sideways, I'm breaking her further by making such an indecent demand”, he told himself, but couldn't refrain from his words.
And then her lips made contact to his and his brain went blank. It was a very short moment of unbelievably soft, warm sweetness. Nothing had prepared him for this sensation. In an instant he was on his knees, his heart like a mad smith's hammer in his chest.
Sansa was still looking at him and asked again, this time in nothing more than a whisper: “Would you like to marry me?”
Sandor's tongue didn't want to cooperate properly, just as if he was drunk.
Then he rasped: “Yes, if you want to marry me. And if you can ever forgive me.”
All of a sudden, in spite of fearing him, Sansa looked positively relieved, which was incredible, given the circumstances.
At least until she murmured: “Then I'm not a heap of... tainted shit. I can have children. And I don't have to marry Ramsay Bolton.”
Sandor felt as if someone had walked over his grave.
Then, it all happened very quickly and quietly. Sandor was released from the cell, given a proper bath and clean clothes as well as a cloak with his sigil, and then he was led to Lord Stark's study. There, he was presented with a contract. Right. No consummation of the marriage before Sansa's flowering and no claims to Winterfell or the position as the Warden of the North. As if he had ever had any intentions.
Having signed the paper they made for the Godswood. The wedding would be performed according to the rites of the Old Gods. The Hound couldn't care less since he kept no gods whatsoever, and the absence of a fussing septon was perhaps a good thing.
Sansa was already waiting. She had donned a blue dress, which underlined her delicate stature and the prettiness of her red hair. Her eyes were big and blue again, her mouth set. Around her, there were only Lord Eddard Stark, exhibiting an air of steely composure, her mother Catelyn, who was weeping angry and desperate tears, Robb Stark, who was throwing daggers at him with his eyes, and a young man with dark hair and and icy vibes emanating from him. Ah, so this was Jon Snow, the bastard son. Under the Heart Tree, there were three direwolves, including the one Sandor knew as Greywind. What a bad jape of a wedding!
Sansa and Sandor knelt down and exchanged their vows without the embellishments one might have expected at a normal wedding amongst nobles. Sansa's voice was distant, but she didn't stop once. On the surface it looked as if she was suffering less than her weeping mother. Sandor couldn't figure out his bride at all while he was putting his cloak around her shoulders. She just seemed to be parroting sentences like a little bird and mirroring the behaviour she was expected to display by others. Probably because she simply wasn't the brightest horse in the stable, who knew.
And then it was done. No false kiss, Sandor did not want to make this farce any worse. The little party headed back for the castle. Nobody talked. There would be no feast, of course. Just normal supper. In the hall Sandor asked: “Where are we supposed to sit at the table now?” At first, he didn't get an answer, but then Lord Stark pointed with his finger. Now, it became clear that Sandor had married up while Sansa had married down, for they were positioned below the seat where Rickon, the youngest Stark, was supposed to sit. Still, this was not too bad, if you ignored the fact of being abhorred by the people around you.
Bride and bridegroom nibbled on their food without any enthusiasm, and so did everybody else. Even wild little Rickon had adapted to the brooding atmosphere and was pouting at everything. Talk only arose when Arya addressed Jon Snow, seated next to a Black Crow named Benjen Stark, further down at the table.
The lively girl wanted to know: “So... when do you leave for the Wall?”
“In two days”, the bastard answered sullenly.
All of a sudden, Lady Catelyn commented, her face turned towards her husband: “The Seven know, I could never accept HIM, but I would gladly keep him if THAT abomination over there had not been given our sweet daughter. How could you, Ned?”
The Lord of Winterfell froze, ground his teeth and answered between clenched jaws: “I will not discuss it again, woman! The decision has been made, and it will be accepted.”
That put an end to it though Lady Catelyn looked as if she had more to say.
Now, the mood was really at its low point, and then, Sansa voiced: “May I retreat, please? I... I feel unwell.” Lord Stark rose and was at her side in an instant. He put his hand on her forehead in an affectionate manner and said: “Yes, of course you may, girl. Would you like to have Lady in your room tonight? Since the king is gone we won't lock her up in the Godswood any longer.”
On hearing that, Rickon demanded for Shaggydog, his own direwolf, Arya asked for Nymeria and Bran, the second youngest son, for Summer.
Lady Catelyn threw her hands in the air, but Eddard Stark said: “Yes, you may. If we had not locked them up, all of this wouldn't have happened.”
Sandor, being insecure about how to react, stood up and offered his arm: “Then I will lead you to your room, milady, and on our way we will get your wolf.”
Lord Stark snorted angrily, but didn't interject.
Sansa clasped Sandor's arm gingerly and off they went. The Hound knew that they would have adjacent, but separate rooms, which he clearly welcomed. Silently, they went to the Godswood, opened the gates, and Sansa whistled. At once, a huge yellow-furred flash flew at the girl, yipping happily. It was then that Sandor heard Sansa laugh for the first time. What an incredibly sweet sound! Well, most likely he himself would never be granted with it, but it was good to know that there was at least a tiny measure of happiness left in her.
After some giddy moments between the girl and her pet animal, Sansa became serious again and said to Lady: “Now look who has come to get to know you. This is... my... husband. You see... my mate. We are... pack now.”
The wolf stopped short and cocked her head, visibly confused, as if she doubted her mistress's piece of information and wanted to ask: “What, him?”
Grandson of a knighted kennelmaster that he was, Sandor went on one knee and rasped soothingly: “Hello Lady! What a beautiful animal you are! All soft fur and such a loyal friend. Did I hear your voice some nights ago? You wanted to help Sansa and you couldn't, because you were locked up? I see. Oh, but I wish you had been free – whatever it would have meant for me.”
The big animal crept closer and Sandor held out his hand. Either it would be bitten or licked now, at least from what he knew about dogs. Lady sniffed at his big hand. Then, she looked up at Sansa and whined a little, undecided. So the girl repeated: “He is pack now. Like Maester Luwin. Or Nan. Just... erm... a little closer. Mate.”
Lady sniffed again – and then she licked Sandor's hand, came closer and allowed him to ruffle her fur a little bit. Sandor smiled involuntarily and did not even remember when he had smiled last.
“Must have been quite a few months”, he thought to himself.
After that, they walked back to the castle and to their rooms and they were both a little less tense than before. At their doors, he wished her a good night in his gentlest rumbling tone and entered his own room. So, what now? He ached for a decent flagon of Dornish red, but at the same time, he did not want to drink himself into a stupor; he just had to keep in mind what his last booze had led up to. So he threw himself on the bed and looked at the ceiling, hopeless about his dire new way of life.
Somehow, Eddard Stark's words crept back to him: “You could take full charge of what has happened to my daughter... I'll need good fortifications for my family... you are one of the fiercest and most capable fighters in Westeros... the question is if I can afford to cast a warrior like you aside.”
Sandor felt bitter. Yes. This is what he was. A sword. Just a fucking sword. The Warrior come to life, if you believed some babbling superstitious fools. But there was one thing he could and would do: He would take care of Sansa. Sansa Clegane. It was the least he owed her. He could never hope to make her happy, but he would cause her as little further pain as possible and keep her safe. It took him some hours, but then, the Hound drifted off in an uneasy sleep.
The next morning, Sandor awoke at an early hour, as he was wont to do from his time as a soldier and a sworn shield. Next door, everything was still quiet. So he had a piss in the privy, washed himself hastily with cold water from a bowl, put on new clothes and went down.
Servants were already bustling around; after all, it was the day when Lord Stark wanted to depart for Kings Landing, and a lot of things had to be packed. In the hall, the Warden of the North was already breaking his fast.
Sandor bowed as was his duty to his superior and then spoke: “May I ask you a favour, Lord Stark?”
The Master of Winterfell blinked and retorted: “WHAT?”
Sandor cleared his throat and said: “I still have got some private belongings in Kings Landing. And a little money. It would be generous, if you could send these things north.”
“Ah, yes”, Lord Eddard grumbled, “it shall be done.”
A pause.
“Clegane.”
“Yes?”
“When I'm gone you will take good care of her. Of her and the others, if necessary. If you don't I will chase and rip you to pieces, even if it meant I had to rise from an early grave, mark my words.”
“I have never made a vow before, lest to be known for an oathbreaker. I hate vows. And yet, I made one when I married your daughter yesterday. I was already deadly serious about it then. No need to remind me.”
“Good for you.”
No more words were exchanged while the two of them were eating. Afterwards, Sandor headed for the armoury and prepared himself for some military practise in the training yard. The place was empty, so he went for some straw-filled dummies with his sword and hacked at them with the ordinary Hound's ferocity. A few soldiers passed by, but they retreated to the practise hall rather than joining him outside. They had obviously heard of his atrocities and didn't accept him. Little fuckers, shitting themselves with fear. He could tear them all to shreds in the blink of an eye. Even his lady wife had more courage than them. At least, she dared to face him.
Sansa. Sandor stopped, panting. He was doing this for her and he would endure all animosities for her. When he looked around, he saw Lady on the other side of the fence that was encircling the training yard. She was sitting there calmly, her tongue lolling out of her mouth.
“Oi! Who's there?” he lured her to him. “Come here, Lady, come! Tell me, where's you mistress?”
The direwolf came closer, this time willingly, and let herself be patted by the big man that seemingly was now connected to the family. She even made some small happy yipping sounds when Sandor ruffled her fur like he had done the evening before.
One moment later, this was accompanied by another wolfish noise. A big, much darker animal appeared at the corner of the building with the armoury and sprinted to his fellow.
“And who is this?” Sandor wanted to know. “What a big, strong animal you are! When you're grown up you'll be a true master of the wild here.”
The male wolf approached Sandor without hesitation and pushed his snout right into the Hound's private parts so that he landed on his bottom.
“Ouch! You're a really ferocious one. Please leave my balls intact, even if I don't mean to use them for a while! I wonder who your master is. Rickon or Arya?”
Sandor got his answer at once, for little Rickon came spinning around the corner and crowed merrily: “Gotcha, Shaggy! Next time, you have to look for me!”
Rickon arrived at the fence, stopped, looked at Sandor's mutilated face without flinching, furrowed his brow and said: “I know you. You're that man, Clegane. They call you “the Hound”. You hurt Sansa, and now you're married.”
Sandor was still slumped on the ground and grumbled: “Aye, that sums it up quite nicely. You're a clever one.”
Rickon beamed at him, then scratched his head and inquired: “No, I'm not clever. I don't understand. I mean – why do you hurt my sister, everybody is soooo angry with you – and you and her get married? That's weird.”
Sandor sniggered darkly and answered: “And I still think you're clever. Do you remember Prince Tommen, King Robert's youngest son? He's older than you and wouldn't be intelligent enough to think about these things. And your question really isn't stupid, you see. I'm a grown man and even I don't know the answer. I didn't mean to hurt her and I think I married your sister so that she won't be hurt again. I'm a good warrior and can protect her, you know.”
Now, Rickon looked positively mesmerized. “Oooooh, yes, I see. Can you show me how to hold a sword? I want to become a warrior, too!”
Sandor chuckled again and rumbled: “Then go and get yourself a wooden sword.”
“Yeaaaah!” Rickon shouted, made three running strides, then came to an abrupt halt and giggled: “Oh, and you're right. This Prince Tommen was really daft. Always wanted to see if we had some kittens. How boring! Wolves are so much better!”
He couldn't help it – Sandor had to bark with glee and thought: “Looks as if you've made your first friend amongst the Starks.”
Two minutes later, Rickon was back, dragging a wooden sword after him that was quite big and heavy for him, but that didn't seem to discourage him. The wolves were watching intently.
Sandor used the moment and asked the little boy: “Have you already seen Sansa today?”
“No.”
“Then... what do you think about her? Is she getting better after... having been hurt?”
“Yeah, I think so. She was worse when Prince Joffrey said these nasty things to her. She was weeping like mad. I'm happy that YOU married her and not him. Yesterday, she was... don't know... calm. Not really happy, but okay.”
Sandor stiffened.
“Nasty things? What nasty things?”
“Don't know. Wasn't there when it happened. Ask her. There she's coming.”
The Hound spun on his heels to see his young bride from a distance, walking right in their direction. At the same time he remembered the words she had said during their meeting in the cell: “Then I'm not a heap of... tainted shit. I can have children. And I don't have to marry Ramsay Bolton.” At least the first sentence sounded just like stupid Joffrey when he was able to harry someone, and probably he had also said something about the rest. Cursed little bugger. If only he could he would strangle him slowly until he was turning blue and not feel sorry in the least.
“RICKON!” Sansa shouted. “Rickon, the septa is looking for you, and Old Nan and and mother, too. You must have a bath! Father is leaving today, and you must be clean for the farewell.”
The little boy panicked and hid behind Sandor, but there was no escape, of course. When Sansa arrived she only hesitated for a moment, blushed, then grabbed around her husband and got hold of her brother.
The latter one wasn't amused and wailed: “No! No! No bath! I will eat my plate today. You can lock me up in the study with Maester Luwin. But PLEASE no bath!”
At that point, Sandor interfered: “Rickon, listen. A good warrior isn't afraid of anything. Not even of a bath. He can endure any hardship.”
The boy looked at him, tears and snot already streaming down his face, and hiccuped: “Will you have a bath, too?”
“Why, yes, of course! I've been practising for a while and I'm sweaty and smelly like the fur of a damp wolf. So I have to be very brave and face the bathtub now.”
“Then I'll try to be brave, too. I only hope that Old Nan won't scrub my back too heavily. Will Sansa scrub your back? She's gentler.”
Sandor had certainly never been a blushing one, but suddenly, he felt his neck and good cheek take on another colour.
Sansa wasn't faring any better, so he intervened hastily: “No that's not necessary. I'm a grown man and I've got longer arms, which is why I can use a brush myself. See?” He held out his arms to demonstrate his point. Rickon took a good look at him, furrowed his brow again and stated: “Yeah, you've got longer arms – but you've got a longer back, too.”
This left Sandor dumbfounded.
“What a clever rascal”, he had to admit to himself. Suddenly, there was a subdued giggle. Sansa had turned deep scarlet now, but even she couldn't deny her little brother's presence of mind. So she stated: “That may be true, but you're the one who will be putting up more resistance, so I'm taking YOU with me now. And if you're a good boy during the bath... my lord husband will train you again tomorrow.”
Sandor nodded gratefully, although he corrected vehemently: “I'm no lord!”, and off they went, the wolves following them in their wake.
The farewell of Lord Eddard Stark turned out to be very emotional, of course. Lots of hugging, kissing and good advice. Lady Catelyn looked especially gloomy. These days weren't easy for her and probably she was also beset by some dark premonitions. The girls were weeping, even feral Arya, while Rickon didn't really understand what was going on, and the other boys – including Theon Greyjoy – pretended to be stoic men. Robb and his father clapped each other on the shoulder. The lad promised he would take good care of the castle. Jon Snow's farewell had a double meaning since he was about to take his leave for the Wall the following day and it was surprisingly intense. At least Sandor thought so, because in the south bastards didn't receive much attention, let alone fatherly love. Actually, the lad was treated more affectionately than he himself had been by his own father.
Sandor was towering in the second row and didn't take an active role. The Warden of the North had told him everything there was to know, and that was it. Sansa was upset, but the Starks were consoling each other, which was good, because he absolutely didn't have a clue about how to soothe a highborn girl aged twelve, even if she had wanted any comfort from him.
After Lord Eddard's entourage had trotted out of the castle everyone's mood was low. Since the Hound didn't want to attract any more attention than necessary he harnessed and saddled Stranger and left for a tour around the castle. The huge stable boy named Hodor, who even matched him in size, was mentally retarded and could only say his name, but he was friendly enough and had taken good care of his usually foul-tempered courser so that it turned out to be an easy ride.
When Sandor came back some hours later he encountered a far less agreeable Robb Stark.
The young wolf snarled: “Where have you been, Dog? Spying for the Lannisters? Why don't you take that big, black horse of yours, leave for the Wall and get yourself properly killed by a wildling so that Sansa can marry a fitting lord?”
Anger flared up in Sandor like a searing flame, but he controlled himself the way he had done all those years in service as the Lannisters' sworn shield.
He answered: “I'm no spy, believe it or not, young wolf. And I'm here and I'll stay here, because your father had different plans for me.”
“Do you take me for a simpleton?” Robb hissed and their conversation would have inevitably turned even more spiteful, if Sansa had not shown up in that very instant.
“Robb! Leave him be! You know what father told you”, she pleaded, and only then the deputy lord seemed to relent.
So Sandor bowed to her stiffly and grumbled: “Thank you, milady. I'm back at my room now, if anybody wants to know.”
And then he strutted away.
The following days continued to be complicated, even more so after Jon Snow's departure. Not one single soldier wanted to train with the Hound. At least, there were the Stark children and their wolves. Somehow, Sandor started to really appreciate them.
Rickon came to the training yard whenever he could escape his septa or his nursemaid. Soon, he was accompanied by Arya and her direwolf Nymeria. The girl wasn't as forgiving as her little brother and often shot him dark glances, but she also wanted to learn how to wield a sword, and that softened her up after a while. The next ones to attend the fighting lessons were Bran and his pet Summer. The boy had a good eye and he was lithe at the same time, so Sandor decided that a bow and daggers or stilettos were the best weapons for him.
Lady was often present, too, though Sansa remained in the house.
Once, Arya confided in him: “She does all these lady things. Don't ask me why, I simply can't stand stitching and sewing, but she's delighted about it.”
“Ah. Okay. Erm... I've got a question. Has she changed a lot after... we got to know each other?” “After you disgraced her, you mean?”
Arya retorted bluntly and mercilessly.
“Well... yes.”
“She's not as air-headed as she used to be. For me, she's easier to handle now, but somehow, she's... remote, too, if you get what I mean. She's not easy to read any longer.”
Sandor understood exactly. He and Sansa didn't have much contact and talked even less. Perhaps he should have done something about it, but he wouldn't have known how.
After his talk with Arya Sandor noticed that he had changed, too. In Kings Landing, he had been more ruthless. And ever since the catastrophe with Sansa he had been incapable of drinking alcohol... and of having an erection. It was so strange – he felt dead and guilty, but at the same time more alive than ever before in his life. Normally, he would have never brooded on it, but during his sober waking hours in bed he often thought that Sansa's chaste little kiss had something to do with it, too. Well, it was all a horrible mess, that much was clear.
The next conflict arose when Robb found out what the children were doing in the training yard – and with whom. During supper he rose from the table and snarled: “Clegane! You will keep your dirty hands off my brothers and sisters. You won't teach them how to fight any longer, understood?” Before Sandor could react, Arya cried: “But it's good if you know how to defend yourself. Please, don't forbid it!”
Lady Catelyn tut-tutted: “No, Arya, Robb is right, especially with regard to you. You are a girl and you have to become a lady – and not a brigand.”
Sansa had not participated in the discussion, but suddenly, she said: “Let her be trained. If I had known how to defend myself I would not have been caught that night. Perhaps I would have been less like a perfect lady, but I would not have been disgraced.”
There was utter silence at the table. They didn't discuss the topic any further, and when the children turned up at the training yard again the next day, Robb accepted it grudgingly, but wordlessly.
Another week went by. Then, a raven arrived with a message.
“Dark wings, dark words”, it was said. And it turned out to be true. Lady Catelyn learned that her father, Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun, had fallen seriously ill and that he wouldn't survive the next few months.
This gave Lady Catelyn ample reason to plan a trip to her old home in the Riverlands. Without her lord husband she didn't feel well in Winterfell anyway.
When she announced her upcoming voyage Lady Sansa asked: “Could I come along with you? I barely remember grandfather, and I would like to see him, too, before he passes away.”
Arya, sensing an adventure, peeped in: “Oh yes, me too, me too! And Sandor could protect us on our way. He knows the route.”
At first, Lady Catelyn was unwilling, but then she gave in and the Hound thought: “She thinks that it's better, if I'm not in Winterfell any longer. Very well, I certainly won't complain.”
He only felt sorry to leave the little boys behind. Especially for Rickon it would be hard, but it couldn't be helped.
Only a few days later, another entourage made its way out of the castle gates. Traveling was slow as usual, but it was a fine – though cold – day and Stranger was eager to bridge a good distance. In the evening, camp was made. To his utmost surprise Sandor found out that he was meant to share a tent with Sansa.
“After all, you're married and we simply don't have enough space to keep you separate. But I warn you: Keep your dirty hands off her!” Lady Catelyn pointed out with as much venom in her voice as she could muster.
After nightfall, he crept into their tent. Sansa was already there, waiting in her nightshift – and seemingly afraid of what was to come.
So Sandor just took off his armour, threw himself on their cot, which was markedly better than the usual soldiers' sleeping bags on the floor, and rumbled: “Just go to sleep, little wife, I have no lecherous intentions. Good night!”
He himself was sound asleep at once.
When he awoke the next morning, he had a warm and extremely comfortable feeling. It was peaceful and sweet like nothing he had ever experienced. Only then did he notice a body against his own. He opened his eyes and couldn't believe what he saw: in her sleep Sansa had nestled herself flush against his chest and had even thrown an arm around his waist. Her scent engulfed him and her auburn locks were soft on his skin where his shirt opened at the neck.
Sandor's heart started to gallop. Fuck the Seven! What should he do without waking and shocking her? She was clinging to him in such a way that he could not simply disentangle himself.
At last, he gave up and whispered: “Sansa! Good morning, little wife. Wake up!” She reacted, uttered a relaxed, humming “mmmmmmmmmm”, moved a little so that her mouth and her breathing suddenly touched his skin where her hair had been before – and slumbered happily on.
Sandor swallowed hard. His wife's closeness was simply too wonderful for him. Of course, he didn't mean to sleep with her (and his cock was still mercifully limp), but he a was like a starving man. Only that he wasn't in need of food, but in need of tender touches.
“You must be having a damned good time down there, sweetheart”, he thought to her.
Then, he tried again, this time a little louder: “Sansa! Come on, wake up!”
At last, he seemed to have some effect: The girl winced, suddenly opened her eyes wide and sat bolt upright.
“What is it?” she breathed, afraid and confused as if she had made some mistake without knowing what it was.
“Calm down, calm down, nothing's amiss, lass”, he grumbled irritatedly. Of course, it wasn't to be expected that Sansa would stay relaxed around him once she was awake, but it still irked and even hurt him more than he would ever have admitted.
“Oh”, she puffed slightly and, on remembering her courtesies, she added as an afterthought: “Good morning, my lord husband.”
For Sandor, this was the last straw.
He saw red and snarled: “I'm not a lord – how often do I have to tell you?”
Sansa ducked. Tears welled up in her eyes. “I'm sorry! I didn't mean to upset you”, she wept.
Sandor, still cross with her, answered: “I know you didn't mean to. If you had meant to I would have already dealt with you differently. Just remember I'm no lord, will you?”
The girl sniffed and dried her tears. Outside the tent the camp slowly started to bustle with life. There was the neighing of horses, footsteps and the clank and rustle of metal and other materials.
The Hound donned his armour, which wasn't so easy, considering the manifold buckles and clasps.
“Should... should I help you?” he heard Sansa from behind his back.
Knowing that he had already given her too bitter a taste of his hellish temper for the day he responded: “If necessary I can manage without any help. Only if you don't mind...?”
It took Sansa a moment to decide, but finally, she stepped up to him and started to assist in fastening the armour. They were both treating each other as carefully as a raw egg now. Sandor wondered if it would always be like that between them.