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gotahaveimagines · 5 years

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i’m not afraid anymore; sandor clegane

summary: five time sandor wants to tell her he loves her and the one time he does or in which sandor thinks he’s unworthy

wc: 7.2k

warnings: lots of cuss words, mentions of abuse, vague sex

an: he isn’t dead so fuck off but this was so much work and I love him

The first time Sandor Clegane wants to tell her he loves her is the beginning of the escape from King’s Landing.

The eldest of the Stark girls, she was a lady and a wolf wrapped in a silk smooth dress. Soft and warm but a fighter all the same. She had brought nothing with her except the clothes on her back and a small satchel. Of what? He doesn’t know nor does he care to ask. Of the Stark’s he had tried to save, only she agreed to come with him. Agreed in a haste, seeing the city burning from her window she knew this was her only chance to escape the Lannister’s. Once she had thrown the satchel across her shoulders he had scooped her up like she weigh nothing and carried her through the halls of the Red Keep.

Fear still clings to him like it had when he had asked her to leave with him, the fear of what he had just seen. Of all the fire and all the death and how it enveloped people–both fire and death–all consuming. He hates it, the way it so easily coils inside him and will not allow him to rest. All he sees is flames, even when they’re out of the city. Even when the smell of burning houses and burning bodies has long since forgotten.

His skin begins to prickle and a sickening coldness rushes over his entire body. It racks him clean of any comfort his mind had tried to give him. The comforting words he had been repeating for the last hour, we’re out of the burning city, not alone had been lost in the cold of, burning–fire–death. The only heat he feels is radiating from the young woman who sits in front of him. It does little to comfort her, although he knows it should. He doesn’t realize it but he’s in a cold sweat again. His large hands are trembling, but only slightly. Then his breathing starts to become a little more erratic than he’d like it to be. He tries to control it; to calm his aching soul. He doesn’t want her to know he’s afraid. The Hound doesn’t get scared.

Of course, he is extremely unlucky and she sees it and feels it. Just like the rest of his life, he couldn’t be anything but unlucky. His labored breathing pushes her forward and then brings her back close to him. Eyes noticing the way his hands tremble on the reigns of the horse they’re on. His heart is pounding; she can feel it through his clothes and armor. Even the way he attempts to calm his breathing is all to obvious to the young woman sitting in front of him. They both know it, she isn’t as oblivious as the Lannister’s were led to believe. In her heart it makes sense to ask him if he’s okay. To comfort the man who had protected and saved her younger sister and even herself on multiple occasions. To begin paying him back for his kindness. However, her mind knows better. Sandor Clegane is a good man deep down but he has unresolved problems that she doesn’t want to bring out.

Instead, she places one of her small hands over his and rubs her thumb in circles against his rough knuckles.

Nothing stops. Not Stranger, not her, not the clockwork murder his mind makes of his life, not the burning miles behind them. The moon is still shining and the stars are still twinkling with stories to tell. The sun will still come up and all the animals on the long road creak and grumble and croak. But for him, everything stops in an instance. His whole body goes stiff under her soothing touch and a deep uncontrollable feeling erupts in his chest. It’s so similar to pain he thinks he might be dying for a moment.

He closes his eyes and allows himself to forget everything for a moment. He allows her touch to calm him. Really, it’s something he just realized he wanted. She’s just something he realized he wanted. Since the first small interaction to now, he knows that she’s everything to him. Always will be. For a few more minutes he relishes in the soft strokes of her thumb against his trembling hand.

Then everything comes crashing back in shock waves. Everything he’s done, everything that happened to him, everything that happened to her, everything they’re going to go through, his rank, and he quickly moves his free hand and snatches her wrist, “what in the seven hells are you doing.”

She pauses and flinches away from his rough touch. With that he lets her wrist go and she doesn’t attempt to touch him again. Still, the simple touch she had placed on his hand had set something ablaze in his soul. It was something he had been repressing for the months that he had known the Stark girl. With all her lingering looks that weren’t disgust and her pressed lip, eyes shutting, grins she would always pass his way whenever she passed him–before her father, of course.

The two ride in silence until the dawn breaks and the birds begin to sing their songs of morning love. He can feel her body demanding sleep, the way her shoulder fall and then jerk back up into his chest. They’re far enough from King’s Landing that they should be fine for a short rest he decides.

He brings Stranger off a little into the woods and to a stop and gets off of the horse. Then his hands are on her hips, bringing her down as well. Her tired eyes looks up at him as he places you on the group. There is this moment, where they both lock eyes. She can see everything he hates about himself and he can see all of the trauma that she has been through in the last few months.

He has no need to tell her why they’ve stopped. She is sluggish but finds herself a spot on the ground and quickly drifts off into a fitful slumber. He watches her as she sleep and allows her to sleep until the sun is high in the sky. Then he wakes her and nothing about it is gentle; just a somewhat harsh shake of her shoulder. His own tired eyes will have to wait to rest until nightfall again.

He watches her stretch her tired limbs and comb through her hair to lay flat on her head once more. She is still nothing more than tired eyes and a woeful expression. The same one that had clung to her face like wet clothes on a body does. The one she had worn since her father’s execution. Once she finishes he grabs her and places her on Stranger without a word. They don’t have time for it but he allows her to adjust and get as comfortable as she can before he climbs on top of the horse. Today will be one of many long days to come.

They ride for an hour, the sun is hot and they’re both drenched in sweat but they don’t speak. He feels that feeling from the day before, it’s yet to leave his chest. It’s tugging at his mind and leaves him with thoughts of something from a song he once heard.

They ride long and in silence and the sun is already going down and she’s starving and thirty but she has no room to be bored or to complain at this time because boredom was a luxury neither of them could afford. Complaining would do no good, especially to the man who had most likely saved her life from the teeth of the lion. Only fear and awkward tension were permitted to remain.

So they ride and ride and ride. The sun continues to lower into the sky. Simmering a deep orange like that of a wildfire. Her tongue itches from thirst and the want to speak. However, she doesn’t feel as if she has anything to say that’s worth the possibility of his anger. He won’t hurt her, she knows that, but he will yell and cuss and she tries to think of what to say so he will be kinder when she finally does talk to him.

He doesn’t speak, he has no need. He can only think about how he feels and how he has felt. He wonders where it changed. Somewhere from their first encounter in Winterfell to now, he is almost certain he’s fallen in love. In love with something he can’t have. Something to regal and golden and kind. A title to her name and wealth to back it, but he is just a scarred dog with nothing to offer. So, he doesn’t speak because he doesn’t want his feelings to gain urgency over his mind. He’s glad for the silence.

She gains the courage to finally speak to him and does so. After sitting in silence as Stranger walked on for what seemed like years she had decided to ask him something.

“Sandor,” she pauses in uncertainty. The sky is breaking into a beautiful mosaic of purples and oranges. When his name, which feels so foreign on her tongue from the usual Hound as everyone referred to him, passes her lips he tenses harshly. Body going rigid and his breathing has stopped. His throat and mouth are dry and he has to suppress the urge to make a noise. He stares straight into the countryside and it stares back.

Her voice is sweet to his ear and he nearly collapses at the sound of his name. His name. He hasn’t heard anyone call him by his name since he was young and afraid. But she has and it feels good. It’s almost the same as when she had placed her gentle and soft hand on his. It’s comforting.

“Sandor, why did you save me?”

They both seem to wait for the answer. He knows why, deep down. He knows why he came to her, much more demanding than he was of Sansa. Fuck, he thinks, he knows it.

“Don’t fucking ask stupid questions, girl.” It’s simple enough and she mulls it over as if she knows he’s hiding something from her.

She cranes her neck and the low rays of the almost-gone sunset catch her eyes and she gives him a soft smile. “It’s okay, to be a good person you know. It’s also okay to be lonely.” Her voice was firm and certain and held so much authority for a young woman. But all women of high birth tended to have a sort of edge in their voice. However, none of them like a Stark bitch. Each of them held a different kind of authority over everyone, even the Lannister’s. He almost smiled at her.

He wasn’t lonely nor was he a good person. But that’s what she had come up with and he accepts it because the words I love you are burning in his throat with a furious demand. Because she looked at him and not past him and not just at his scar. She did not tremble or shake. She stood her ground like the wolf she is.

He swallows the words and rolls his eyes at her. Cussing under his breath he nudges Stranger to slow down. It’s getting dark and he knows they’ll have to stop again soon because he’s gotta piss and feed the wolf girl.

The second time he wants to tell her he loves her is when sell-swords, bought by the Lannister’s, make an attempt on their lives.

It was an easy fight. The sell-swords, in Sandor’s opinion, were shit when it comes to fighting. One of them knicked his cheek with their sword but that’s as good as it got. Nothing worth getting too worked up over. The whole fight was over in less than five minutes. The young wolf was only slightly frightened and easily calmed when he finally cut down the last of the men. Lady [y/n] Stark hadn’t hidden away while Sandor killed each man. Instead she stood back and watched, an almost haunted look about her. Wide eyes were the only indicator that she had any fear coursing through her small frame. Other than that she was blank and near-ghostly; she came to stand by Sandor as he wipes then resheathes his sword. Her hand comes and grabs his despite the blood and grim, the words thank you pass her lips but he can barely hear it. He nods slightly.

Neither of them pull their hands away from each other. It’s a comfort they both need and Sandor has slightly become more comfortable with the soft touches she tends to place on his hands. It’s the farthest she has taken and it’s the farthest she probably will. Still, with every touch his heart is in his throat and he feels the ruined part of his face twitch because he wants to smile. Instead he swallows and pops his ear and squeezes her hand enough that she feels a bit of a tingle. His blood is still rushing and his body aches from fighting, like it always does, and he’s almost dizzy but she won’t let him rest or calm down. Her hand, an anchor into what could be, makes his heart continue to race.

They look at the three bodies for a moment and then she turns to him. Her gaze is heavy and makes the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up. As the past month and a half that they’ve been traveling together went on, he’s discovered that she has a certain power over him. Nothing like anyone has ever had before. Not his father, his brother, or Joffrey. This power doesn’t derive from gain and torture. It has nothing to do with making him feel worthless and only useful as a dog–which she never calls him–he realizes. This is a sort of power he is almost okay with her having. A simple look from her makes his skin crawl and his heart pound and he almost gets a tremble in his voice when he addresses her. This is love.

“You’re bleeding.” It’s only a little bit, it hasn’t even dribbled down his face or anything but she seems much more worried about what probably amounts to nothing more than a scratch then when the sell-swords had snuck up on them. “Sit down, I’ll clean it off.”

He finally pushes her away with a scoff. “It’s just a scratch, girl. Nothing to do for it.”

Her eyes narrowing and her mouth becomes a thin line and he knows that look. There is no hurt there, she knows better than to be hurt by what he does or says. It’s the same look she gives him when he says something she finds particularly annoying. He’s in for it now and they both know it.

The wolf in front of him glares hard and serious, practically showing off her fangs, “sit down, Clegane. Or I will make you.”

That does make him laugh. A belly laugh at that. It rumbles from deep in his chest and vibrates the whole way out. Narrow eyes are staring into him and if looks could kill, he’d be gutted and flayed.

“You think,” he tried between laughter, “that you can make me sit.”

Oh, she can. She can kick him right in that bad leg of his and watch him tumble. She knows the spot to kick him, she knows she can do it. He’ll hit his knees fast and hard and all at once. He’ll cave in like a pile of rocks from a stone building that was old and dilapidated. Sandor knows this too. He knows she could drop him to the ground right now if she wants but she won’t. It’ll hurt worse than the little scratch which really did throb. Then she’d have to beg for his forgiveness with those pretty little tears because the burning pain would shoot up into his hip and side and he’d probably cry. Which he would hate to do in front of her because he isn’t weak. But the look is harsh and he bends to her will because she does have that power over him.

It’s the first time she’s ever touched his face. It’s not the scarred part but she gets so close that he holds his breath. Her nimble fingers take a soft cloth from her satchel and she soaks it in the wine they have and cleanses the cut. It’s a kindest he has never experienced so he leans into her touch the slightest bit.

Sandor Clegane doesn’t know–no–is certain that she doesn’t love him back. Not the beautiful and wonderful [y/n]. Not with her soft smiles and perfect skin and beautiful face that looked like an early morning sunrise. She wouldn’t because she was perfectly gorgeous and supple and probably dreamt of knights and princes and lords coming to court her with sweet words and sweeter wines. To whisper loving nothings in her ear and play with her hair. Adorn her with presents to win over her heart.

He knew he could never do that. He wasn’t a man to fill a woman’s head with nonsense just to wed and bed them. He didn’t have the money to give her gifts beyond a meal here and an inn room there. All he had was a horse and a will to keep her out of harms way.

Now though, she was tending to a little cut on his face that had the slightest bit of welled up blood. Her thumb rubbed it smoothly, as if to erase it, and he closed his eyes now. As long as he had her touch, that’s how long he would enjoy it. Before she, who wasn’t his but still is, was ripped away from him and into a far off little castle to produce a fuck ton of brats.

He has a silly little idea at that moment. It’s so fucking stupid and he knows he sounds like a damned cunt but he wonders if maybe she’ll have him as her sworn sword and shield. That maybe she would trust him enough and care for him enough that when she married she’d whisper it into her cunt husbands ear and he’d think it was his idea and have him. Tell him that she really does need the protection and the Hound had always protected her.

However, that’s stupid and he focuses on right now. Because that’s all he was going to get. On soft fingers stroking the good side of his face. On her close proximity. On her free hand which has now taken its place clutching on his hand. On her knees that are brushing against his side.

Overwhelmed by the willing closeness, he wants to say he loves her. It’s a stinging feeling this time. The burn has dissipated for a feeling of sorrowful stinging. The one woman he loves is the one woman he can’t have. So, the words dance on his tongue and choke him as he swallows and for a second he wants to cry but he doesn’t. Instead he pushes her away and tells her to pack up camp, they need to move again.

The third time he wants to tell her he loves her is when she soothes him from his own terrors.

They’ve been traveling all over Westero for the past three months. Nowhere is safe for either of them because the enemy lurks at every corner. He’s thought of going to Essos and taking her with him but for that he’d need money and they we’re currently out of that.

He had spent the last little bit on food and breeches for her because they were becoming too recognized. He also had cut her hair this morning. The slightly oversized clothes hid her body well and she suddenly reminded him of her youngest sister. There was no Sansa here, only dark hair and serious eyes. This is the most Stark she has ever looked. A great contrast to the dresses and needle-point and eloquent pulled up hair she had done been.

That night she had started a fire because it was cooling down the closer North they went. Maybe that was it, the warmth of the flames. The way they seemed to creep up on his back as he slept.

He dreamt terrible things of fire and himself and her. The consuming, burning, awfulness of his skin. He could still feel the way the coals and flames licked his skin and burnt him so. Gregor’s hand pressing him hard into them despite his body flailing. Despite the blood curdling screams that his erupted from his lips. There’s another moment where he’s tied cloth around his throat and dragging him and he can’t scream now, only claw at the material and his throat. Then she was there and he was going to do the same to her and she was begging and pleading in that way she did when her father was going to be executed. All tears and body quaking sobs. Then the fire takes her.

He wakes, gasping. He can’t catch his breath and his whole body seems to convulse. For a moment he feels like he can’t move and everything is still. All he can hear is the crackling of the fire behind him and it terrifies him. His brain doesn’t process anything, he isn’t sure where is he or why he’s cold and hot. Maybe he’s dead. But right now he can only focus on the mind bending fear. Tears are beginning to form in his eyes and he clutches at his throat with uncontrolled vigor and then pulling at his shirt because he can’t breath. Gregor’s laughter is still ringing in his ears.

Then there are loving hands pulling him to sit up. They help him take off the shirt that’s choking him and they meet his back and rub it like he is so delicate and fragile. Like he might break.

“Hey,” she’s close, “Sandor, you’re okay. You’re safe.” The voice that he still can’t focus on let’s him know this over and over again.

Softly, “it was just a dream, I promise.”

Eventually his mind and eyes begin to focus and recognize his surrounding and the girl who is wiping the tears from his eyes. He feels like he’s just died and he’s already tired again but he can’t sleep. He won’t sleep. He does wrap his arms around her because she is his anchor now. Completely and fully.

The girl wolf is sweet and he realizes now that she’s accepted him. Like wolves have before, accepting broken things into their packs and made them something stronger. He isn’t stronger yet though, instead he’s got handfuls of her shirt and is crying. Which he thinks is so fucking weak. He tells himself to stop being a little cunt but he doesn’t–can’t.

Her hands that he loves so much continue to rub his back. She asks him softly, “what was it? My mother always told me that it would make you feel better if you talked about it. You can tell me.”

With that he pushes her away. Disgust sets in for himself. Her eyes show worry that he misplaces as pity that he doesn’t want. He scoffs, “don’t look at me like that. Don’t look at me and feign care. I know you fucking don’t so fuck off.”

She swallows hard and he watches her throat jump with it. “I’m sorry if I was out of line with my asking.”

This is the moment where he wants to grab her again and kiss her and just tell her it all. Everything that happened. All that he went through and wishes that he didn’t. He’d tell her of his sister and his brother and their father. He’d tell her of what it was like to be the boy King’s dog. Then he’d tell her he loves her and make love to her. Right here, close to a burning fire and in front of all the gods, Old and New. It wouldn’t be fucking, no. It be his soul pouring into hers because she’s all he wants now.

But he doesn’t. He can’t bring himself to tell her anything because she, although kindhearted and gentle, is also a noble wolf who would have to look down on him for it. She would have to break his heart in her own delicate way.

Instead he looks at her deeply and grabs his shirt and pulls it back on. Then he turns and lays in the night. After what seems like a lifetime, he feels a softer heat radiating and she’s lying close to him. Barely missing his own body with hers. He snapped at her and she still was willing to stay close.

The fourth time he wants to tell her he loves her is when she finally touches the scarred part of his face.

Arya, the little bitch, is sitting off somewhere and sulking despite how elated she had been about seeing her eldest sister again. The young girl had practically thrown herself at [y/n]. A sliver of jealousy slinked through his body because he wishes, still, that he could envelope her like that. All twisted limbs and excited smiles.

Now Arya is mad though. Mostly because Sandor had more or less kidnapped her. But [y/n] promises she’ll get over it eventually but Sandor informs her that she can stay mad all she wants. Her anger does not affect him. Then he goes off to plan his next move because it will take some planning.

Little do either of them know that he’s decided to take them to their aunt Lysa Arryn. It’s safest there, the Knights of The Vale are galient and strong and will protect anyone related to her. Of course, he plans to inform them that he’s only doing it for the money. Not for them, not for their protection. Just the money. If they knew otherwise they–[y/n]–may attempt to persuade him in just taking the younger girl.

He’s aware that she won’t leave his side. They’re friends, he thinks, and she is very loyal to those she considers family. Especially since her family is… dwindling so. She won’t leave him willingly and that’s a problem he can’t face.

After too long of sitting in silence he looks over at [y/n]. He’s nervous but he knows he can’t be. So, he’s brash and cruel, “I’m taking you to your Aunt Lysa. I plan to sell you and your little bitch sister to her.”

There is a stinging silence. Her eyes go wide the way only they do. Lips are forming a thin line and she looks up at him. He flinches because the look she gives isn’t the look he expects. He wants anger and screaming and words like traitor. Instead he gets tired eyes that are misty. Gods, she already knew. Two girls were harder to protect and care for than just one.

They’re close to each other. Bodies just skirting around touching each other. Then it happens. Her hand comes up and cups the scarred part of his face. He really does flinch away then. Bewildered as to why she was touching that side of this face. She never did and he never wanted her to. However, she was rubbing her thumb along scarred flesh where a pretty face may have been.

He’s almost overwhelmed enough to cry but he hasn’t cried since that dream and he’ll be damned if he does it again. But this feeling is something he didn’t know he actually craved. The acceptance of him, all of him. She isn’t repulsed either. Only sad, or maybe different. More melancholy than anything.

It really isn’t a monumental moment. Nothing like the songs of knights of fair maidens and love. There are no sun bursts and healing. Not really. Only acceptance of what he’s said. But also a little bit of who he is. It’s very real and very dejected. He doesn’t lean into her touch and she doesn’t explore his scars more than where she has placed her hand. Neither of them cry. It’s simple and painful and human.

And he loves her. But he can’t tell her still because he has just dropped this onto her and told her to carry it. She can’t carry those words too. Wouldn’t be right, he thinks. Unrequited; he knows she’d still try to break his heart gently and stay with him anyway.

“I won’t leave you. You’re my family. More than her.” It’s true but it’s not at the same time. Family, in most cases, doesn’t think about what it feel like to kiss each other. Or what it would feel like to take each other and mark them as their own.

He breathes out but doesn’t pull away, “you have to.”

She shakes her head and now there are a few stray tears, “no. We’ll just take Arya. Let Arya be safe with our aunt and then I’ll go with you. Where ever you want. We can go to Essos or past the wall or anywhere you want. But you can’t leave me, you’re all I truly have.”

Hearing her beg like that is not what he wants although it feels good. She has family that still lives. Two sisters, at least. Nevertheless it’s hard to tell her no. Even worse to accept that he’s done it. There isn’t anything he can do though. He absolutely refuses to separate the two. Wolves die if they aren’t together and keeping her would just be selfish. Especially since she is a lady and keeping her and leaving her sister would create a scandal she’d surely be beyond cross and embarrassed to hear about.

So, he leans in finally. The ruined corner of his mouth moves and he kisses her hard. It’s all love. It almost eases the urge to tell her he loves her. She trembles slightly. “You need to be with your family. I’m not your family.”

The fifth time is right before her and Arya leave him.

He’s dying and the three of them know it. Everything is blurry, a cascade of lines and colors that are erupting with voices and cries. His body is failing and all he wants is death. Although he knows he’ll burn in hell for all the death he has dealt, he wants to die. And quickly.

Mostly because he can’t take her strangled breathing. The way she is clutching onto his blood soaked face. He can barely make her out but she’s cheerless and glazed. Her hands are still soft as she wipes his face. Her tears mix with his blood and that it as close as they’ll ever be again.

Queer noises are getting caught on her cage of teeth before passing her lips. “Please, Sandor. Please.”

She isn’t begging him. She’s begging the gods but there are no Godswood around to see her and they are not going to bless a killer with life either way. They both know this but it doesn’t stop her from her persistence. Her pleas to unseeing gods is almost cruel.

This will be his last chance, he realizes all to suddenly. It takes his breath away and he chokes slightly. Sandor hears her sobs becoming worse and also realizes that this is a terrible moment to tell her. Even if she wants to reject him, it will still sting her of what was lost that she hadn’t known. He is doing her a favor. He will die here as a dog that served her and loved her.

Dog. The word lingers in the back of his head. He was always a dog. Every person he had ever met had treated him like shit. Had abused him and been cruel to him. They all told him he was nothing more than a dog until he believed it himself. And he will die a dog too. At least he is her dog and not the dog of someone like the Lannister’s. At least he’s the dog of someone who cares and is mourning him. No one else would have.

It feels good to have someone mourn over you. But he wishes his death meant nothing to her. That it wouldn’t affect who she was as a person. Sandor too prays; that she doesn’t really mourn long. That she gets over it quickly and realizes what a fool she had been to cry over him like that. He isn’t sure who he’s praying to because he doesn’t really care for any of the gods, Old and New. But he prays anyway because maybe, at least one of them, will see the kind girl and feel pity for her and bless her with numbness.

Arya comes stumbling up and breaks him from his prayer and her crying. Her little hands go through his pockets and takes the money out of them but he can’t say he’s mad. It makes her burst and it’s the first time she’s ever screamed at her sister and he’s certain it will be the last time as well.

“Arya what are you doing!” It’s a cry more than anything but it’s stern. Arya all but flinches at her beloved sisters protest.

“It isn’t like he needs it where he’s going! Wouldn’t you rather me take it now instead of when he’s dead!” Her shrill voice crashing into his ears and his mind starts to split.

It worsens when Arya continues her assault, “he’s your hound. Not mine.”

Then it happens. Her hands are removed from his face and he already misses them. He wants them back. Instead of begging though, he watches as the older Stark stalks to Arya and snatches her up. They stare at each other for what feels like a lifetime. But everything feels that way when you’re dying.

Suddenly, her voice passes her lips and it’s harsh and serious and the younger girl really does flinch, “don’t ever call him that again.”

Fear instills in both of them as she finally shows how much of a wolf she truly is. Coming to her sister like a wolf who needed to frighten a too bold younger wolf. Her knuckles are turning white as she narrows her eyes at the girl, waiting for her response. The look on her face is dark and twisted and Arya snatches away quickly. Knowing not what her sisters wrath may be but knowing she really had crossed a line.

Arya scurries away towards a rock and watches everything take place. [y/n] comes back and kisses the scarred side of his face. Her eyes are sorrowful and full of unsaid things. Conversations she wishes they could have had. But the kiss is for something else completely. Acknowledging that she won’t watch him die because that would be too much. Her lips linger too long and one of his hands come to awkwardly clutch at her side for the anchor he needs and to feel her one last time before she goes on with her life and he dies.

Gods, he wants to cry, please let her do good.

He won’t admit it to her but he’s afraid to die. Mostly, he’s afraid to lose her.

Arya notices this all and takes it in but doesn’t say anything. Won’t say anything. But she herself feels somewhat jealous that her sister could care for someone enough to snap her fangs at her.

“I’m sorry.” Is the last thing she says to him as she leaves him. Grimacing and crying as she does it. It’s all cold now, he’s cold. Dying and cold and soon to be alone. He lets her go, the feeling of her burning his hand, because he knows she can’t watch him die like this. That would be too awful for both of them. But he still says cruel things he doesn’t mean and begs for them to end his life quickly. He hopes she knows he doesn’t mean those things.

Both Stark girls disappear quicker than either had come into his life. The Eldest hand is on her sisters shoulder, keeping her close and sort of comforting her for what she had done mere minutes ago. Her knuckles are white are snow now, she won’t let go. Not of her, not of anyone else. Not willing to lose another person today.

Sandor watches them and cries and when they’re gone far enough away he says it to himself so she won’t have to hear it. “I love you, Lady [y/n] Stark.”

The first time Sandor Clegane tells her that he loves her is when they finally reunite in Winterfell.

It’s like life had given him a second chance when he he came to Winterfell because there she was. Standing beside both her sisters, strong as ever. Perfect as ever. When he catches her eye too, she barely smiles but it’s there. Soft eyes and soft skin and memories from years ago but she hadn’t changed at all.

When he dismounts from his horse she is the first person to come to him. Yet, she has changed. She is much more subdued than she once was. Or maybe it’s the years that have passed. Her hands go to reach for him but she stops herself and nods instead. “Ser–“

He scoffs, “you know better, girl.”

The two stare at each other for a long moment before she does fling herself into his arms. Squeezing him and taking hand fulls of his shirt like he had once done so long before. “I thought you were dead.”

He wraps his arms around her small frame and enjoys this because it’s all he’s thought about. All he cared to think about. She danced in his dreams and haunted his every thought during the day. She kept him sane through everything and allowed himself to love her even if he didn’t know her fate after she had walked away from him that day.

“I want you to know, I’m not afraid anymore.” She says this as if she’d ever been afraid of anything in her entire life. A wolf? Afraid? That was not true. Nor did he know what she even meant by that statement.

He smile and closes his eyes, “I think I’m getting there.”

They don’t talk again until after the battle. She is a busy woman, often assisting Sansa and Bran with whatever secrets they wish for the world not to know and the ones they wished for them too. He thinks he can remember her talking to Varys in King’s Landing. Seeing them both whisper during court, but he isn’t sure. That was so long ago for both of them. But, she’s a good older sister and the three adore her, it would seem. Jon does too, but his adoration is kept under wraps completely.

But after the battle is over there is a celebration, as if there aren’t more battles to come. She comes to him between the cheering and the singing and the drinking. Her eyes meet his in the way they once did and her lips turn up, “Sandor, I need to speak to you alone. Please.”

He follows behind her like the loyal dog he is until they’ve come to a more secluded part of the castle. Her dress skims the floor and the noise is very familiar to him and makes him feel somewhat at a loss. Because here she is, long hair and dresses. Surrounded by family and loved ones. The lady she was before the had met. The lady and wolf she had always been.

He glances around the hall suspiciously. This was where the Stark’s rooms were. They both come to a thick oak door and she opens it and gestures for him to come in. He obeys. He tries not to acknowledge that this is her room and that he has dreamt of coming into this room and making her his. He tries not to think about who else had probably come in this room with her. The door shuts behind him and then she’s speaking.

“I’ve missed you. I’ve thought about you everyday that’s passed. You haunt me, a dream I never woke up from.” It’s like an I love you but also not at all. She definitely cares. He can tell, and his ‘death’ has changed her. “I have hoped you would come back to me, as childish as that sounds. I now hope you will never leave.” She was also so much more a woman now. But he can tell where this is going. She needs a shield and he’s good for the job.

“I’m here, though.” They both stare at each other and then she’s on her tiptoes, pressing her mouth onto his. He doesn’t expect it in the slightest despite the fact it’s all he’s ever wished for. Then down his throat, sucking and kissing it. Making purple little circles that pattern his skin and claim him. He reacts immediately to this, a hushed moan passes his lips and then he catches her face and kisses her.

She is going to regret this.

They are pulling off clothes hastily. Some go this way, some go that way. They are still kissing. Lips, tongue, sucking, biting. They are sucking their souls out of each other and giving them away.

She doesn’t really want you.

He practically tears her dress off of her and her small clothes. Then she’s pulling his shirt and breeches off too.

They look at each other. Skin and scars. He suddenly feels very exposed, unlike he had ever felt before but he’s still bold. He still wants her.

She just missed you.

He picks her up and lays her on the bed. His rough hands go over her soft skin and he watches how it reacts to him. How she reacts to him. He swallows hard and closes his eyes because this is probably just another dream of his. And he will wake up alone and dejected again. Just like he had so many times before. She wouldn’t want him. That was just a fantasy that would never be satisfied. But if this is a dream, he’ll cherish it too.

“Sandor.” Her voice pulls him out of his thoughts and back to reality. She is caressing the scarred part of his face. Her hair falls all around her body and she looks like a goddess that had fallen from the heavens. “I love you. Always have.”

They mesh together well. The bed shakes and the room’s temperature increases. She whimpers for him and he feels confident that she isn’t lying to him about loving him. She is telling her truth and that’s the only truth that matters to him. It’s the only truth that’s ever mattered to him and that’s the only truth that ever will.

He becomes overwhelmed with her, all of her. He continues with their love making but a few tears roll down his face. “I love you too.” He moans, “I’m never leaving you again, so long as you’ll have me.”

She smiles and then closes her eyes and he kisses her neck.

He will never leave her.

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