The Protector: Part 21
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Imagine encountering the Hound again after the Battle of Winterfell.
If your limp had been obvious before the Battle of Winterfell, it was even more pronounced now. The maestre had given you a cane to lean on following the wound you had taken in the crypts. He had tried to insist that you rest but you refused. There was work to be done and celebrations to be held. You had survived and now it was time to live. Many lives had been lost but the battle had been won. The Night King was dead, slain by Arya in the Godswood. Now only Cersei remained left to conquer. You may not have trusted the Dragon Queen, but your hatred for Cersei outweighed your misgivings. Cersei had ordered the murder of your house. You would see her pay for her crimes.
But now was not the time for hate. That would come later. Now was the time for getting drunk and remembering how lucky you had been to not burn on the pyres outside the walls.
Spotting a familiar face among the crowded tables, you limped over, injured leg stiff and weak beneath you. Your Stark cloak hung around your shoulders, clean and warm and smelling faintly of lemon beneath the smoky, ale-thick air. You sat heavily, glad to take your weight off your wound. "Didn't think I'd see your ugly mug again, Clegane," you acknowledged. You had heard he was back in Winterfell with Beric's crew but this was the first you had actually seen him around the castle.
He glowered at you over his drink, eyes flicking across the fresh scars on your face. "You're one to talk, cripple," he grumbled. So he hadn't missed the struggle in your step.
"For now, maybe," you waved to a serving girl to fill your flagon, giving her an appreciative nod as she moved off again. For a few minutes, the two of you drank in relative silence beneath the yelling of the hall.
"Heard you killed the king," Sandor acknowledged.
Your lips tightened, "I wish I had."
He laughed at that, a harsh, bitter bark of a noise, "You and half of the Seven Kingdoms. At least you got the credit."
Your scowl deepened. You stared hard into your cup, focusing on the dregs of ale within. You hadn't gotten credit. You had taken the blame, and your house had been destroyed for it. What justice was there in that?
Sandor continued, ignoring your silence. "They sing songs about you, you know. Lady Sansa's Direwolf. The Wolf of Winterfell. They tend to skip the part where you were a Lannister lapdog."
You drank deep from your cup, "I seem to remember you being a Lannister dog too, Clegane."
He let out a grunt, purposefully ignoring you had spoken. It seemed he didn't care whether you talked or didn't. "Never worked for that Littlefinger bastard."
"He's dead now."
"Heard that too."
Another stretch of silence followed before once more Sandor broke it as another serving girl filled your cup. "Half the smallfolk think you're blessed. Other half think you're cursed," his eyes were on the girl. She blushed and scurried away. You watched her go before letting your gaze seek out Sansa instead.
"What do you think?"
"I think you'd follow that girl to the ends of the earth, blessing or curse be damned."
Your response was automatic even as you recalled the kiss in the chaos, reigning your eyes back to your cup. "I promised her mother-"
"Bullshit. Her mother's dead. You're in love with her. Everyone with half an eye can see the way you look at her like she's the bloody moon and stars."
You flushed and scowled harder, embarrassed. "I just want to keep her safe," you muttered at last, acutely aware of how your leg twinged with pain in time to your heartbeat. Your gaze drifted to where Sansa sat on the dias with her brothers and the Dragon Queen. Her eyes met yours, a ghost of a smile on her lips. You looked away.
"You're mad to try," Sandor commented bluntly.
"Someone has to."
The Hound regarded you, a frown pulling on his scars. He seemed to be sizing you up. At last, he shook his head. "You know I offered to take her with me when I left."
You blinked. "What do you mean?"
"During the Battle of the Blackwater. She was alone in her room. I offered to take her away from King's Landing."
"Why?"
"Doesn't matter. What matters is she stayed for you. Stupid girl refused to leave you behind."
This was the first you had heard of it. You remembered the battle. You and Sansa had gotten separated for a time while the Bay burned and Stannis's men tried to storm the city. You hadn't realized she'd had a chance to escape but hadn't taken it. How might her life have gone differently if she had? How differently might your life have gone?
"What's your point?" you asked at last, "Why tell me this?"
"Because you're both stupid. You're fools to do the things you'd do for one another. If she’d come with me, she could’ve gone home. None of the shit that happened would have happened. No Littlefinger. No Ramsay. None of it."
Your scowl tightened, your tone turning defensive to cover your guilt. "Just because you're bitter doesn't mean we all have to be."
“Says the cripple,” Sandor mocked, baring his teeth in a nasty grin. “You’d do anything to keep her safe.”
You lifted your chin. “I would.”
The Hound let out a snort. “You’re a fucking fool.”
“I’ve made it this far.” You nodded your chin towards the dias. “And so has she. We help each other. We’re stronger together.” You levelled him with a hard stare, “Better a fool with her than alone and bitter like you.”
Sandor grunted, though there was a faint hint of a grin curling his lips, this one lacking its usual cruelty. “Maybe you’ve got some guts after all, cripple. Try not to let them get you killed.” He jerked his chin towards Sansa. “She’d never forgive you.”
A smile of your own stole over your face, “I know.”
Gif Credit: Sandor