The Strength of Her // SansaxSandor (On Hiatus)

Chapter 10

10. The Wife

"Fucker talks too much."

Sansa followed Sandor's glare back to Littlefinger, the lord whispering to a young boy now, probably some orphaned child he promised coin to in exchange for his eyes and ears. It crossed her mind more than once on how people like Littlefinger and Varys and Cersei were able to obtain poor souls to spy on them all across the world. Sansa wondered too if it were possible to get her own.

"A bit," Sansa said.

"Where's your big woman now? Isn't she supposed to keep distance between you and him?"

Sansa knew there was no love between Sandor and Littlefinger but couldn't help but question why he cared about Littlefinger's constant presence. "Clearly failing in her job. She prefers for most to keep their distance as well." She eyed him.

It wasn't true technically speaking, but she assumed it would be if Brienne came to notice how often Sansa and Sandor seemed to be in each other's company. She was a skeptical knight.

"You pop up just as much as Littlefinger. Only he doesn't drink as much."

The smell of sour wine and leather enveloped Sansa with every step that Sandor took toward her. She should be used to the smell. It was one of the constant elements of the Hound that carried over to Sandor Clegane of the Brotherhood. But the fragrance was different now. It was an odor before, heavy and sticky with overabundance and drowning. Now, it was subtle as though the liquid was only on his tongue instead of flowing fiercely through his veins. It was inviting rather than repelling.

"Maybe he should start. I imagine you have more to say on the topic of Lord Baelish? Everyone else does." Her last words escaped her mouth slightly more bitter than she anticipated.

Sandor relented to comment on the drinking statement, but he didn't say anything else either. This wasn't his normal silence. That was hard and sharp. He clearly wished to say something but finding a way to express whatever he wanted was stalling him.

"He shouldn't be here."

"One could argue he isn't the only one."

The never-knight probably thought she was talking about him, but Sandor was one of the few strangers that Sansa didn't mind in Winterfell—next to Brienne and Pod. It was everyone else not born in Winterfell that she wanted to leave. And when they did, the gates to Winterfell were going to close for a long time.

"He holds power over the Vale. No matter our feelings about the man, he's necessary to Jon's fight. Winterfell's fight. Besides, I want him here where I can see him."

"Stupid fucking plan."

"So everyone keeps reminding me."

Sandor arched a brow for a brief moment, risking a glance at the girl for less than a brief moment. She let him. He was one of many who felt the need to stare recently, to try and figure her out.

Littlefinger finished his hushed discussion with the young boy, glancing at Sansa once more before turning away. He ignored Sandor's presence completely. It was too much for anyone to assume that he'd fair Sandor with better courtesies now that both turned their backs on the Baratheon-Lannister family. The two's manner's toward each other had only soured in the north. Littlefinger disappeared within moments. He left behind a cautious faced child in his wake.

"I know who Littlefinger is, what he's done, what he wants."

"You might, but do they? Can't imagine how long he'd last if they did."

She rolled over her memories of Littlefinger, trying to remember how much she told of his involvement and to who she told them to. "Jon knows what he needs to."