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“Do you remember Ser Loras?”
Fire cracking in the east wall of the room no longer frightens Sandor, not as much at least. Its warmth dries the remaining droplets of water from their bath from earlier that evening. The two are enjoying the coziness of Sansa’s bedchambers, on her bedding that is much too large for two. Sandor sits between his queen’s thighs, right where he’s meant to be.
“The sword swallower?” Sandor asks with a tired sigh. He has spent most of his day training Northern children, as green as summer grass, how to wield a sword, then to fight.
“He was not!” His little bird chirps in an angry squeak that quickly changes into a breathless chuckle.
Sansa doesn’t see his exasperation but can feel it. Her punch to his arm is a summer breeze’s kiss.
“My words are true.” He mutters, almost lulled to sleep from the motions of the comb running through his fine hairs, “what of him?”
Their silence is interrupted by the howling wind. Winter has truly come. A fact a Southerner like Sandor has yet to fathom. In the comfort of Sansa’s bedchambers, they are no longer the Queen in The North and her royal guard. This room, which once belonged to the late lord and lady of Winterfell, acts as their safe haven where they are allowed to be two battered souls licking at their healing wounds.
“I lent him my brooch once,” Sansa mutters as she continues brushing his hair, “It was of a weirdwood leaf, pretty thing it was. I thought it was a gesture of romance, when asked me for it. I found myself questioning its whereabouts.”
Sandor snorts, “Probably gifted it to his Swordsman.”
“Sandor!” Her laughter tickles his ears but in a way grass does to his feet. It is a welcomed sensation.
“Little bird, you’re a lone flower in a desert of white snow,” never in his life does Sandor speak with softness, until he met Sansa, “Your wolf sister, loathsome as she is of the happenings of the southern royals, knows it.”
A heartbeat, “Who was it?” Sansa asks as she replaces the wooden bristles of the comb with her dainty fingers.
“One of King Robert’s brothers.”
The gasp Sandor heard is immediately followed by, “Stannis?!”
Sandor laughs. A sound that emerges from the depths of his belly, booming like the thunders of a summer storm, long like the nights of winter, carried with joy like the pollen the air once held.
“Renly.” Sandor corrects, not aware of the pink staining Sansa’s cheeks but her embarrassment is cast aside, seconds later, as she joins him.
As their laugh dies down, supple thighs wrap around him, snug and secure. His chest is caged by thin arms that he can easily break through if he wishes. A chin rests on his broad shoulder, warm breath fans his cheek.
It’s rare to have a peaceful moment, Sandor thinks.
All his life he has lived in rage; heartbroken at his brother for pushing him into the arms of fire, branding him for life, angry at his father for protecting his brother when he was the one in need of protection, frustrated by people who only see him as some grotesque monster, all those feelings marring his white heart until it blackened. Color only returned to it, sporadically, in a droplet or two, when a humming bird perched on his shoulder one trip up north years and years ago.
“Sandor,” he lets out a grunt of acknowledgement, his tired eyes heavy with sleep, “How did you get your scar?”
Many moons ago, Sansa would have never asked him such a question, wouldn’t have even thought of it, most likely. If she were to even dare to, the question would’ve come in a stuttering mess with shifty eyes. But she is no longer a frightened pup. She is a wolf, standing tall and proud as head of the pack, claws and canines at the ready for anyone stupid enough to threaten them. The pack will fight, and survive. No more lone wolves dying.
His eyelids lower, imagining the fire in the darkness, but not sleep, to contemplate. Sandor has spoken this tale to one other person. Trust life to find it humoring that that other person is his little bird’s sister.
Should Sandor retell the day to Sansa? Is he ready to hear pitying remarks though they come from a good place? Does he want to be coddled like a whimpering child?
“I was playing with one of my brother’s toys,” the words flow smaller than a whisper but in the quietness of their bedchambers, they are louder than a lion’s roar, “he thought I was stealing them.”
Although it has been years, Sandor still can’t find the heart in him to call his brother by his birth name, not since that day. If he closes his eyes, let the void swallow him whole, he can still smell the burning of his own flesh.
Though he knows Sansa’s honeyed words of, Sandor, I’m so sorry, that must have been horrible, are as sweet as the lemon cake she enjoys, Sandor doesn’t hear them. It has taken him a long time to learn, and accept, that he is a man more than his burns. Perhaps not as honest as the late Lord Stark nor is he as chivalrous as Brienne of Fucking Tarth, but a formidable man still. He doesn’t need pitying words to remind him that.
“The pain was bad,” Sandor continues. Dainty little arms tighten around him, as if the act brings him comfort. It does. “The smell was worse.”
Sandor doesn’t tell Sansa how, after his burns healed, leaving his skin raised and pink, he spent days scrubbing himself raw. No matter how many times he cleans himself, rubs the rag on his skin until it is red and angry, he could still smell burning fletch. It was so bad that he would wind up losing his appetite. On occasion, he would empty what little was in his stomach from the putrid stench.
“But the worst thing was it was my brother who did it.” Sandor doesn’t weep, hasn’t since the incident. His heart cries for him instead.
“And my father who protected him,” Sandor pauses, though he does not know why. Maybe in his tired mind, for once in his life, he is trying to understand why his father did what he did. A soft kiss, like a flower petal, to his unmarred cheek encourages him to continue, “told everyone my bedding caught fire.”
Petite fingers cup his bearded chin before pulling it sideways where dark brown meets blue. With the bravery of a wolf, Sansa presses his lips to his, soft on chapped, in a soft and tender kiss.
Sandor melts beneath her, not dissimilar to how steel melts at the smithy, ready to be forged into a fine sword for a fighter to wield. But Sandor is no fighter in the hands of Sansa Stark, rather, a wounded hound, being tended to by his master.
In the years that have passed, Sandor has learned that fire can be use to comfort, to heal. But only when it's in the shape of his little bird.