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Snow covered the face of the earth through the window and, although his eyes had already been accustomed to the inhospitable vision, it continued to astonish him. He had been raised in a southron castle and had spent a majority of his days duped by the hot sting of King’s Landing. Now the snow blanketed everything, his bones hardly able to bare the dampness and cold that seeped beneath his skin, numbing each and every part of his body. That strange sensation, previously unknown and repudiated, now caused a scorching burn in his chest and the heat that it emitted was enough to survive and endure the cold.
He had arrived at Winterfell with a small company from King’s Landing, after the truce with Queen Cersei and his recent involvement in the fight against the common enemy of the Seven Kingdoms. He had seen it, this enemy that cannot be killed. And everything that was important before—what little it was—no longer mattered. That enemy had managed to make the Hound fear something more than fire.
“Not a single fucking northerner is going to bring me wine? Do I have to go look for it in the damn cellar?” he barked.
He was sitting in one of Winterfell’s halls where the guards had told him to wait until the audience that he had demanded with Lady Stark. The wait felt too long and, despite being sheltered by those ancient walls, he was still cold.
“About time,” the servant placed a flagon of hot, thick wine on the table. “Fucking northerners.”
He downed the flagon in one gulp, but the cold didn’t seem to want to go away.
“Lady Stark is waiting to receive you,” Brienne of Tarth appeared in the Great Hall. Her disdainful presence continued to be as disdainful as ever: svelte, strong, graceful, with her shining armor, the sheathed Lannister sword and sword belt tightly fastened at her waist. This woman managed to command the respect that no one before could have instilled in Sandor. “Follow me.”
“Is Arya with her?” The Hound asked as he followed Brienne closely.
“Arya has accompanied her brother to the Godswood. She will return in a few hours. Lady Stark is waiting to receive you in a private audience,” her voice maintained the firmness that characterized it, austerity and the same constant tone. “But, if you will permit me to ask…how do you know Lady Sansa?”
“I was the dog of the king she was supposed to marry when she was no more than a child,” he responded when the woman stopped by a wooden gate. “Is it in here?” Brienne nodded. “You can go, I want to enter alone.”
The woman let out a mocking smile and opened the gate, giving way to Sandor, who reluctantly entered the room, cursing that woman who imposed so much respect and who, with a sneer, silenced his vehemence. And for a moment, he forgot why he was entering that room, forgetting who was behind that gate and with whom he was about to meet face to face.
“Little bird…” he whispered when he saw her.
There she was, standing by the regent’s table. Wrapped in that thin, slender black hair cloak, taller than the last time. Her eyes fixed on him, her hands clenched under her chest and her lips pursed solemnly. Clegane’s whisper was not loud enough for her to hear it, but she could read his lips and guess his words. “Little bird, little bird, little bird,” the Hound repeated over and over in his head, like a sigh, a longing for a breeze from the past, so swift and gentle it slipped through his fingers.
“You’ve grown.”
“You are in the presence of Lady Stark, behave accordingly,” Brienne bellowed.
“You may go, Brienne. Thank you,” Sansa mused, hiding that burning in her chest, that nervousness that she drowned by tightening her hands against her dress. The past called at her door and entered with insolence. The face of the man she had previously feared had appeared in her dreams during the darkest nights, chasing away the fears she suffered during the day. A familiar face, half of which was hidden behind a mat of dark hair, bleak and withered, sad and raging. His eyes seemed more tired than ever, yet a blinding light emanated from them.
“But, my lady…” replied Brienne.
“You may go.”
Resigned, the woman left the room, glancing slyly at Sandor one last time before shutting the gate behind her.
The room fell into an absolute silence. Neither was able to utter a word, submerged in the memories that arose in their minds, a succession of random images that transported them to a hazy past. They wrapped themselves in a gloomy fog of memories too painful to talk about yet too important to forget.
“Hello, little bird. Although you don’t seem like a scared little bird. You’re Lady Stark, the Lady of Winterfell.”
Sansa remembered his face for many years, but she had forgotten his voice, so sullen and rough as a bark. She tried to relax, assuage her nerves, and control her thoughts.
She sat.
“You may sit, Clegane.”
He did as she said.
“I never thought I would see you like this,” said Sandor.
“In the place where I always should have been?”
“So powerful.”
That took her breath away for a few seconds.
“What do you want?” asked Sansa, trying to regain her composure. “You have demanded an audience with me. You want something.”
“I wanted to see you.” He held his gaze. “I arrived before your brother and heard that you are Regent of the North now…”
“I was while Jon was away, not anymore. He is the true King in the North.”
“And before him was your other brother, the Young Wolf…” Sandor remembered Joffrey, how he used to speak of Robb and the things he promised to do to Sansa, the insults, the humiliations. He would thrust his sword between Joffrey’s eyes if he could. “Kings fall and die like flies. This war will never end.”
“It will end. Justice will come for all, just like it came for Joffrey, Ramsey, and Baelish.”
“What happened to bloody Littlefinger? I thought he was still alive, the bastard…”
“He was tried for his crimes and punished accordingly,” said Sansa, bragging with her words and her renewed spirit. “But I don’t want to speak of him, I don’t want to speak of any of them. I don’t want them to leave the place where they should remain. Remembering them revives their memory.”
“What do you want to speak of, my lady?”
“You demanded the audience, not me.”
“You don’t want to ask me anything?”
A long silence occurred before Sansa responded.
“I thought you were dead,” Sansa maintained fixed eyes on the man in front of her, trying not to show weakness.
“Brienne of fucking Tarth almost did kill me, and your sister, too,” he replied. “But it seems the gods have decided I have something left to do in this world.”
“And what are you doing here? What are you doing in Winterfell?”
“I followed Beric Dondarrion beyond the Wall with your brother Snow and other men. Then we went to King’s Landing to see Cersei and now I’m here, before you. It’s the only thing that matters to me now.”
“What do you want from me, Sandor?” The young woman insisted once again.
Her insistence was the most offensive to him.
“I’ll go if I’m a bother,” he stood brusquely. “I wouldn’t want to pester the Lady of Winterfell,” his voice dripped with sarcasm. “I can understand how valuable your time is now.”
Sandor turned around when Sansa didn’t react. He walked towards the door and clutched the cold knob in his hands.
“Don’t go.”
Sansa stood up and went towards him. They both stood facing each other, standing in the middle of the room. The light from the candelabras was the only thing that illuminated the gloomy place, the ancient stone of the wall shining to the rhythm of the flickering candles. The cold threatened the outside, but not there, not in that room nor between those two bodies, face to face, looking at each other with the intensity of a thousand seas.
“Don’t go,” Sansa said. “Don’t leave again.”
“Don’t leave again?”
“During the Battle of the Blackwater…Do you remember? You took off and left me alone at the mercy of the Lannisters who did whatever they wanted with me. They married me to the Imp. Did you know? I had to survive on my own, without the help of a single person.”
“I remember the Battle of the Blackwater perfectly. Do you remember? I told you to come north with me, I gave you the opportunity to escape from that damn city and you didn’t want to.” Clegane neared the young Stark’s face, calculating the distance that existed between them. Despite being only inches from her face, Sandor knew then that he would never be able to bridge the space that existed between them. “I remember how scared you looked at me when I passed by your side. I remember your frightened eyes the night of the Blackwater beneath that green sky. You were so afraid that you closed them to avoid looking at me. Did you think that if you didn’t see me I would disappear?”
“I closed them because I didn’t want to see you leave.”
Sandor curved an attempt at a smile, just a trace.
“You’re still a little bird,” he said. “Beneath all those dark furs covering your shoulders, you’re still a scared little bird. Are you still afraid of the killers or have you learned your lesson?”
“Now I understand what you were talking about,” said Sansa. “The joy of killing your enemies, taking their lives and watching them die in front of your eyes. Now I recognize the truth in your words. I’ve changed a lot, ser.”
“I’m no ser.”
“Now you are,” Sansa stood up reinvigorated, stronger than ever. “I offer you the opportunity to serve me and my house. I offer you the opportunity to be by my side,” she felt very sure of her words, “and defend me as necessary.”
“You already have Brienne of Tarth for that.”
“I would never doubt her loyalty or the sureness of her sword, but she is not you, “ said the young Stark. “I want you by my side, Sandor Clegane, now and always.”
It was she who took a step forward, breaking all distance between them, ending that uncomfortable expanse which Sandor found so impossible to destroy. It was Sansa who put an end to everything that had been separating them for so long.
“I never thanked you for everything you did for me, never thanked you beyond the vanity of my words,” said the young Stark. “Sandor, your memory kept me alive for many years. That kiss…”
“What kiss?”
“The one you never gave me,” Sansa placed her hand on the Hound’s face, brushed back the hair that hid his scars and examined them with determination, grazing her soft fingers over them. Its sweetness made Sandor’s legs sway, his bones warming suddenly, abandoning the cold that had previously frozen his flesh. “For years I thought of that kiss as if it really happened, imagining what would have happened to me if I had gone with you when you suggested it. Everything would be different now.”
Sandor closed his eyes and settled his face under the touch of Sansa’s hand. He felt her fingers on that scar that no one had ever touched, that no one had ever caressed as she was doing now. He thought that this dead part of his skin was incapable of feeling a touch so soft and subtle and yet Sansa, with only the touch of her fingers, weakened his entire body. If in that moment he would’ve had to wield a sword, it would have fallen from his hands like a child.
“You’re still a scared little bird, girl.” Sandor withdrew, giving a step back, cowed by that strange sensation. He moved away from Sansa, losing contact with her fingers. “Don’t waste time with someone like me. Brienne of Tarth will protect you better than anyone, I’m sure.”
“I am no longer a child, Clegane.”
“You haven’t been for a long time, Lady Stark. But in my eyes you’ll always be a scared little bird that wants to fly too high and doesn’t realize that its wings are not strong enough.”
“Now they are, ser.”
“I’m no ser.”
“You are to me.”
Sansa’s hand slid tenderly up Sandor’s chest. Even covered with furs and layers upon layers of clothing he could feel the heat that her hand radiated from where it was settled.
“Little bird,” the man repeated. “By my side you will never achieve what you long for so much.”
“How do you know what I long for?”
“I see it in your eyes, little bird,” Sandor skipped all conventions, forgetting the formalities, no longer having time for that. His hand went to the girl’s waist and drew her towards him. “You crave something that I cannot give you, as much as I would like to.”
“Sandor Clegane, I want you by my side.”
And Sansa closed the space that separated them.
For years, the girl imagined this moment as if it had already happened. That night, during the Battle of the Blackwater, when that man appeared in her chambers amongst the shadows and promised to protect her. That man who appeared in all her nightmares, driving away her fears with the stroke of a sword, that man whom she believed to have kissed, that man with a burned face hidden between tangled hair who was now letting Sansa kiss him. His lips were warm, soft and supple. Sandor didn’t move and she simply let herself be carried away by the urge to relive a memory that had only been the fruit of her imagination. Protected by the need to feel what she believed she was unable to feel, this desire was now born from the pit of her stomach and enveloped her entire body.
Sandor pushed her away.
“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, and I don’t want you to think you have to thank me for anything.
“No.”
“Little bird, I don’t want your pity.”
“That’s not what I’m offering you.”
“What are you offering me, then? What could a lady like you offer a dog like me? A killer, a soulless dog who wishes for death more than anything else...”
“What about me? Do you want me?”
“Sansa…” Sandor’s hand was still tight around the girl’s waist, anxious not to lose that warm contact from her. Her hand, however, now rested on her skirts, having deliberately removed it from the man’s chest after the kiss. “Sansa…” Sandor looked her up and down, his sorrowful eyes running over her body cloaked in black cloth. “I thought I was afraid of nothing but fire until I saw you for the first time. ‘Kissed by fire’, an appropriate reincarnation of what I fear most. Sansa, I want you so much that it scares me.”
Sansa kissed him again in an uncontrollable impulse to satiate her agony for that man, that man that clinged to her with his robust hands, worn and dirty. Nothing had ever seemed so warm before, nothing had burned as his hands burned around her waist, strong and secure, hanging on to her as if his life depended on it. Sansa feared she would faint while Sandor took the reins of that kiss, wet and insatiable. The man increased the force of his movements with each lash of his tongue inside her mouth. Sansa had never kissed someone with the enthusiasm with which she now kissed the Hound. Sansa had never experienced a kiss truly real and, as they increased the pace and desire, her world seemed to shrink around that moment, to those two warring mouths, two mouths merging in a voracious kiss.
It was getting out of hand.
Their mouths were fighting a battle that seemed to have no end and that neither of them wanted to find. A battle without a winner, two fronts facing each other, yearning for more and more, fighting with all the forces at their disposal and refusing to find an end. They didn’t want to stop, they couldn’t, even if they wanted to. Sandor’s hands were no longer still and clinging to Sansa’s waist. Now they moved hungrily across her body, from here to there looking for more closeness, looking for more contact with the body of that girl who seemed to mold herself beneath the touch of his hands. Sansa’s body moved in harmonious circles against the Hound’s body, letting herself get carried away by that satisfying friction, trying to satisfy her desire, the desire that man so desperately awakened in her. And when Sandor felt that he was losing control and that he was about to put her over the table, bite off her dress and make her his right there, he stopped. He stopped on the spot and left a span of prudent distance between them.
“What’s wrong?” Sansa’s lips were swollen and much more red than usual. Just looking at her, Sandor felt a desperate urge to pounce on her, return to what they were doing and see how far that kiss would take them. “Are you okay?”
The Hound’s face seemed shadowed, as if he had just seen a blaze of fire burn before his eyes. He was scared. Sansa could feel it and cautiously approached him.
“No.”
Sandor stopped her and distanced himself again.
“Why?”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t hurt me.” Sansa seemed to understand what was happening to him. “Are you afraid of losing control? Is that what happened?” She paused and approached him cautiously, not wanting him to deliberately move away from her again. “I’m not scared of you or what you can do to me.”
“You don’t understand,” he said. “I’m not good.”
“They have done things to me that you couldn’t imagine.”
“Trust me, I could,” Sandor lowered his eyes. “But I don’t even want to think about it.”
“And I know that you never would do that to me.”
“No.”
“Then I have nothing to fear.”
“Little bird…”
“Kiss me.”
And Sandor, terribly aroused by her gaze and moved by her words, did what she so eagerly demanded. He kissed her with the most absolute desperation and the truest devotion. He wrapped one hand around the nape of her neck and gently pushed her back to open her mouth wider. With the other hand, he encircled her waist and pulled her against his body. She allowed him to do so and clung tightly to his neck, beginning to move rhythmically against his body.
His feet moved on their own and, Sansa being the one that encouraged him to follow, they reached the regent’s table. Sansa’s body collided with the oak table as their mouths trailed against each other. Sandor took her by the waist and lifted her up on the table. She spread her legs and he adjusted his body in the space Sansa made for him. Their bodies seemed to fit together almost perfectly, as if they had been created so that the space between her legs was just the right size for Sandor’s body. He, too out of himself to believe this was happening, let himself be carried away by what Sansa ordered. The girl, with an assurance and conviction that startled Sandor, began to raise the skirt of her dress that reached down to her feet. Sitting at the regent’s table, it was much easier to lift the heavy dress and all its layers, exposing her milky-white legs, thin and slender, full of youth and life. Sandor, still surprised by everything, stood very still looking at those very long legs of an almost transparent white, smooth and made to be admired. Sansa gazed at him with a look full of desire, taking the man’s hands and placing them on her thighs, giving him a permission that he didn’t need in order to touch her.
And in that moment, a noise was heard on the other side of the door. Sansa and Clegane froze. He moved away from her and Sansa, with a jump, stood up beside him and pulled her dress down, straightened her hair, and grazed Sandor’s hand one last time.
“Lady Stark, we have sighted His Majesty Snow’s company arriving from the east,” said the voice on the other side of the door. It was Brienne.
“Very well.”
“My lady,” insisted Brienne.
“Anything else?”
“Yes, my lady,” she said. “I think there is something you should see.”
Sansa was surprised to hear that and looked at Sandor, who seemed much more calm.
“She means the dragons.”
“Dragons,” Sansa seemed terribly alarmed.
“Yes, my lady,” Brienne was still on the other side of the door, listening carefully. “Your brother comes with Daenerys Targaryen, her army of Unsullied, Dothrakis, and her dragons. You should come as soon as possible, Lady Stark.”
“Let’s go.”
Sansa took Sandor’s hand and led him to the door, opened it with total conviction, and stepped out into the hall, meeting Brienne at the door.
“How long have you been here?” Sansa asked. Her hand still locked with Sandor’s, who was right behind her. She looked at Brienne very seriously as her eyes traveled from Sansa’s face to her hand enlaced with Clegane’s.
“I have just arrived, my lady.”
“Good,” she said seriously. “Now take me to the lookout tower, I want to see these dragons.”
Sandor’s hand remained entwined with Sansa’s for the rest of the evening and long after that. Their hands were linked for the rest of their time together.