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Published:
2021-02-21
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2021-03-22
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3,621
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2/2
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Old scars, new scars

Summary:

Having a soulmate is a rare occurrence, when it happens your scars start appearing on your soulmate, and theirs on you. In the South, they are viewed as gifted by the Seven, but in the North, soulmates are thought to be cursed, and they are often killed. Sansa is hidden away in Winterfell by her parents, and Sandor is too afraid of meating his soulmate, knowing how horribly he scarred them. What happens when he travels to Winterfell as Joffrey's guard?

Notes:

I needed more Sansan soulmate au, so I wrote one. Hope you enjoyed it, please comment if you did!

Chapter 1

Chapter Text


 They say the ones with soulmates are touched by the Seven upon birth. Their skin will show every scar their intended gets, and in return, their scars show up on their soulmate’s skin. A rare gift, one that must be honored. The gifted must do everything to find their mate, to honor the bond because that’s the only way they will be truly happy.

 They whisper about it. A curse, from the Old Gods, scars that mar their bodies, marking them as carriers of bad luck. If they ever find their other half they bring destruction to anyone and anything near them, so it’s better to get rid of them, as soon as the scars start to appear.

 When Lord Stark’s eldest daughter is born the midwife screams upon seeing her face and almost drops the baby. The screaming has Lord Stark barging into the room, carefully taking the baby from her. His face drops when he sees the reason for the screaming: the baby’s face is marred with burn marks, and there are scars in other places, too.
“She is cursed, a bad omen.”
Catherine cries when she sees her, but still, holds the baby close to her chest. Lord Stark lifts the midwife from the ground and growls.
“No one can know about this, do you hear me, woman? No one.”
They raise the girl in secret hidden within Winterfell's tall walls. Only the most trusted servants are allowed to contact her, and they have to swear on their life not to reveal her secret. Lord and Lady Stark are dread themselves every day that some religious lunatic will find out about Sansa and try to kill her, as such an act isn’t uncommon in the North. So they hid her, kept her a secret, and she grew and got prettier, even with the scars all across her body. She loved to hear the Southern tales about soulmates, lovers destined to meet one day and she tried to believe that version of the story over the scars being a horrible curse.
 Sandor knows his soulmate hates him. Who wouldn’t? He gave them a life with the ugliest fucking scars possible. So he tries not to think about it too often. It’s not hard, most of the time. He is busy enough hiding from Father or Gregor, and later on fighting and killing, and when he gained a name doing that, protecting that little blonde fucker. But from time to time he is still reminded of her existence, by a scraped knee, or pinpricks on his hand. She must live a very sheltered life, for she is rarely injured. He gets enough scars for the both of them, and with every new one, he is reminded just how much she must despise him.

 Sandor hates the cold, the long rides, and the snow, but he hates the fire most, lit at night to keep them warm. He sleeps as far away from it as possible, even if that means shivering all night long. They are traveling to Winterfell, for whatever reason and he had to come along to look after Joffrey, make sure he doesn’t do anything too stupid or too cruel. That’s his job, so he does it without a word, even if he hates it.

They arrive at Winterfell with big splendor, with banners and flags, in their best clothes and with clean curried horses all lined up. Lord Stark is awaiting them in the court, his children all lined up and when they ride in, a murmur spreads between them, which is quickly ended by one firm look by their father. Sandor has the odd feeling that they are all staring at him, even Lord Stark, which is, of course, stupid. They must be looking at Joffrey, who rides beside him. Lord Stark turns his gaze away soon, greeting the king. Sandor isn’t even listening to the courtesies, all he wants to do is unsaddle Stranger, find a bowl of hot food and have a decent sleep.

He isn’t even finished with unsaddling his horse when a small girl turns up at the barns, looking for him. She is wearing boys' clothes, but Sandor still recognizes her as Lord Stark’s daughter. She stands in front of him, staring at him.
“You are the Hound, aren’t you?”
“Aye, girl. What do you want?”
“You should go to the Godswoods. It’s that way.”
“And why the fuck should I go there?”
“There is someone I think you should see.”
Fuck. Did the little blonde cunt get into trouble again? He quickens his steps and hurries to the wood. It was full of old, majestic trees that for some reason creep him out. There is a giant white tree with red leaves in the middle of it, and a young girl is kneeling in front of the tree. No, not a young girl, but a woman, although still young, he notices, as he gets closer. Her hair is as red as the leaves on the tree, and her pure beauty stuns the tough Hound. She stands up and bows her head, still not noticing Sandor. Then she turns around, and he can see the other side of her face. Everything stops.

Scars cover the right side of her face, and the burn marks he always found so disgusting on himself don’t take away from her beauty. They just stare at each other for a long moment, and Sandor waits for her to scream at him, blame him for her misfortune, or simply run away, but instead, she smiles at him and extends her hand.
“You came for me.”

Chapter 2

Notes:

i intended this to be finished after the first chapter, with an open ending so you can decide to stop reading here. But since many of you asked for it, here is another chapter, enjoy! Comments are appreciated!

Chapter Text

When Sandor finds his way back to his room after parting from Sansa he feels like he is drunk or like he is dreaming. Not only did he meet his soulmate, no, but she is also the most gorgeous girl he had ever seen, even making the scars he hated so much appear beautiful. And she is sweet, too, like Dornish wine, never once blaming Sandor for her twisted faith. A little bird, chirping and smiling at him, him the scarred dog, he still can’t believe it. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve this, but he will praise whatever god made this happen every day from now on.

When he calms a bit down he starts thinking: what now? He met her, and she is perfect, but she isn’t safe here. She is locked up, like a bird in a golden cage, in constant danger of being found out. He has heard the stories of what happened to soulmates in the North, being lynched or stoned by religious fanatics, their bodies displayed on the trees. He has seen one, too, while riding this way, a girl hanging from a branch, a parchment hanging from her neck that read: cursed with marks. He can’t let sweet, innocent Sansa get the same fate. He has to do something, take her away to the South, protect her. But he can’t just kidnap her, after all, she is still the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North. They would be found within a week, and he would be hanged. As he walked around in his room, an idea came to him. He had to ask for her father’s permission. After all, he had seen him arrive, there was no mistaking who he was. If he refuses his help, there was still kidnapping, or maybe he could ask him to let him stay here, to be her bodyguard.

He adjusts his shirt and heads out of his room. He has no idea where to go, so he asks a maid where Lord Stark’s room is, for some bullshit reason. There are two guards in front of his door, which he should have expected. He can see one of them flinch when he stops in front of them.

“I have to speak to Lord Stark.”
“He is busy.”
“Tell him it’s important. It’s about his daughter,” He adds.
One of them sneers at him.
“What on Earth do you have to do with Lady Arya?”

He almost corrects him, but then he shuts his mouth, remembering what Sansa has told him about her existence being a secret even in front of some of the servants. He tries to think about something to say when a voice calls out from the room.

“Let him in!”

The guards stand by as he enters the room, and finds himself face-to-face with the famous Eddard Stark. He looks Sandor up and down, then with a wave of his hand he sends the servants out. It’s only the two of them now.

“You are Sandor Cleagene. The Hound.”

It’s not a question but he still feels compelled to answer.

“Yes, my Lord.”
“So you know.”
“I have seen her, my Lord. I know now.”
“What are your intentions with my daughter, Sandor Cleagene?”
“I want to protect her.”

The words roll off his tongue without thinking, and only when he said it does he realize how true they are. The moment he laid eyes on Sansa everything that mattered before, every aim, every wish boiled down to this: to protect her. And this realization doesn’t even bother him. Lord Stark looks him in the eyes, searching for lies, but when he finds none he gestures for him to sit down. He pours a cup full of wine and slides it across the table. Seeing Sandor’s hesitation he smiles.

“Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned. We are not in Kingslanding, here we kill face-to-face, with swords.”

Sandor gulps into it, it is a rich red wine.

“I don’t know how much Sansa has told you, or how much you know about how the marked are treated here.”
“I have heard tales.” More like horror stories.

He decides to take the opportunity and tell him about his plan.

“She is not safe here, she will never be. Let me take her away, let me protect her. Please.”

Lord Stark rubs his chin. Suddenly he seems very tired.

“You don’t think I know that she isn’t safe? Do you know what I did to keep her a secret, to protect her? And now you just want to take her away? Why do you think you are worthy of her?”

He leans back in his chair, staring right into Sandor’s eyes. After a while, Sandor averts his eyes. He knows he is not worthy, he knows it well. He is just a dog, only good for doing orders and killing. But still…

“Please, just let me protect her. If not by taking her away, then here. As her bodyguard, as her servant, anything.”

He hasn't begged since he was a child, had learned by then it was always useless, but still, he does.
Lord Stark seems surprised by this.

“I have heard a lot about you today, Clegane. I had my men ask every soldier, every Kingsmen and servent who might know you. I think you are not a bad man, but not an honorable man, either. You enjoy killing, and you fulfill orders without questioning them. You don’t fear the gods.”

Sandor lowers his head because all of it was true.

“What would you say if I offered you my daughter’s hand?”

His head snaps up. Did he hear it right? And what should he say? He didn’t think about marriage until now, he knew he wasn’t worthy of that. He always suspected that if he ever married it would be to some commoner, or a third daughter of a poor house, not Eddard Stark’s daughter. But if he married her, he could protect her, he could be always there for her.

“I would thank you my Lord, and if your daughter thought the same way I would say yes.”

Again, there is the surprise in his eyes, but he just goes on.

“You are not a man I would consider for her. Not my first choice, not my hundredth choice. But I’m not the one to decide this time, the gods have already done that. The old ones or the new, I don’t know, but they marked you two for each other, and who am I to question their decision?”

He lowers his voice, standing up.

“But if you ever hurt her, may the gods punish me, I’ll kill you.”
“I won’t. I swear to you.”
“Good. I’ll speak to the king tomorrow. You shall not meet with her until things are decided.”

 

When he enters the room Lord Stark and the King are in the middle of an argument.

“I can’t believe you are serious about this, Ned. Marrying your eldest to a nobody!”
“They are soulmates, Robert. I thought out of all the people you would understand.”

King Robert falls silent. Sandor has heard rumors that he and Lyanna Stark were soulmates, that that’s why he started the war.

“Let it be then. It seems like the gods have decided, however strange their decisions are.”

He only seems to notice Sandor now.

“Come closer, Cleagene.”

He kneels in front of the king.

“Your Majesty.”
“Stand up. It seems the gods favor you Cleagene. And I can’t say no to an old friend. So hereby I release you from your post.”
“Majesty?”
“Let me finish. I release you from your post and I name you the Lord of Cleagene’s Keep, and I also bestow you the land of Cornfield near it, since Lord Swyft died without an heir and his lands escheated to the crown. I wanted to name your brother a Kingsguard anyway, so you would have inherited Cleagene’s Keep, this just speeds up the process.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Esteem that girl, Cleagene.”
“I will.”
“We shall have the betrothal feast tonight, and the wedding a week from now.” Adds Lord Stark.

 

The feast is glamorous, and Sandor keeps straightening his doublet. He is wearing his best one, but still, he feels out of place among the Lords and Ladies. He is a Lord, too, now, he reminds himself, and he shouldn’t care anyway. He is here for Sansa and she doesn’t seem to care, because her smile is blinding as Lord Stark leads her in front of him. She is even more beautiful than when they met if that’s even possible, wearing a deep green gown and her hair is in complex braids.

“My daughter, Sansa,” He says since this is their official introduction.

She courtesies and Sandor takes her hand, incredibly gently, as it might break any moment, and he leads her to the table. She keeps smiling at him during the dinner like this betrothal is everything a girl could dream of (she is just being nice, he reminds himself) and sneaking feather-light touches on his hands, his arm, even his scarred face. Sandor makes sure not to be deep in his cups, after all, he needs to be sober and aware, make sure she is safe among all these people. When the music starts to play she looks at him hopefully, but he shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, Little Bird, but I can’t dance for the life of me.”

He doesn’t know when he started calling her Little Bird, after all that chirping, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Her smile falters for a second, and Sandor wishes from all his heart he would have paid attention to those dancing lessons as a young boy, but then she grabs him by the arm and leads him out of the room.

“Then you can take a walk with me.”

The hallways are much more quiet and dark, only lit by a few torches. Sansa clings to his arm as they walk, and Sandor feels like he has to ask her the question that has been bothering him all day long.

“Little Bird, did your father asked you about this marriage? Whether you wanted it or not?”

She looks up at him, her vivid blue eyes starring into his.

“Of course he did. He said you asked him to.”
“Aye, I did. And what did you say?”
“I said yes, naturally. You are my soulmate.”
“Little Bird, you are still young and naïve. There many men who would die to marry you. I’m not one of those fancy knights from the songs. I’m good at killing and I’m good at fulfilling orders, that’s why the king keeps me around. I can’t speak with nice words, I swear when I’m angry and I tell the truth even if it’s unwanted. I know nothing about courtesies and what a woman like you would want. I’m giving you a choice now, Sansa. You can still say no, I’ll call off the marriage, say it’s my fault. All I’m asking you to let me stay to protect you.”

She puts her hand on the scarred side of his face, which makes him stop talking immediately.

“Sandor. I didn’t say yes, because I think you are the perfect knight, but because you are my soulmate, someone I have been waiting for my entire life. And yes, might not be perfect, but neither am I. We just have to be imperfect together, if that’s what you want, too.”
“Of course I want this, any man would be mad not to want you.”
“Good. Then we are on the same page. Let’s go back before they notice that we sneaked off.”

 

They spend the next week getting to know each other, and each day Sandor wonders more and more how did he deserve this. She shoves him her wedding gown, handling it as carefully as if it is a baby.
“I have been working on it for years, adding more and more details. It has been waiting for this day, too.”

One day he is heading to Sansa’s quarter, with a bird feather in his hand that he found on the ground. He is getting sentimental, he thinks, and feels a bit ashamed for it, but who cares if it made Sansa happy. That is when he feels the pain in his neck and sees red scratches on his hand. He dropps everything immediately, grabbing his sword and rushing to her room. He barely has time to register the dead guards on the ground by the door, as he breaks into the room. There is a masked figure with a choke rope in hand, strangeling Sansa. Her face is already a bluish color, but she is still struggling. Sandor stabs him from the back and pushes him off his bride. Sansa is gasping for air and trembling as he pulls her into a hug, screaming for guards and a maester. Soon they rush in, paling from the sight, and Sansa is taken to the Maester. He refuses to leave her side and she clings onto him like her life depends on it. Luckily, she has no serious injuries, just an angry red mark on her neck that they now share. Lord Stark is not happy.

“I should have known, “ He says. “The betrothal feast attracted too much attention. We have to bring the wedding forward, and you need to leave as soon as possible.”
Sandor feels guilty for bringing all this trouble upon Sansa, and he can’t wait for the moment they are free from the North’s cold grip.

They marry in the godswood because the Starks follow the old gods, and Sandor doesn’t care which god blesses their marriage. He waits by the hearttree as Lord Stark escorts Sansa to him. She is astonishingly beautiful, in her white gown and her wedding cloak. She stands by his side and slips her hand into his, as the ceremony starts. When they get to the part:

“Do you, Sansa of House Stark, take this man, Sandor from House Clegane?”
Suddenly he becomes very unsure if this whole thing is a good idea if he is even worthy of her (of course you aren’t, what are you thinking? His mind supplies) but then she squeezes his hand and says:
“I take this man.”

When he lifts her up and carries her into the castle he knows she is truly his, as much as he is hers, and he feels happier than ever.

 

He is still a bit tense during the feast, but Sansa’s hand stays on his knees, calming him. He even tries dancing for her sake, although it’s more like awkwardly pacing around, but she seems happy, so he doesn’t mind making a fool out of himself. When they are already halfway into the night, Arya goes up to her sister and whispers something into her ear. Sansa nods, she smiles at Sandor then follows Arya out of the room.

“Where are they going?” He turns to Robb, who is sitting next to him.
“Probably to your room, to avoid the bedding. You should stay here for a while, so it’s not suspicious that both of you disappeared, then go after her, if you want your clothes to stay in one piece.”

He lingers around for a while, anxiously sipping his wine. What was he going to do now? Hells, he hasn’t even kissed his Little Bird, nevermind bedding. He decides that that wasn’t in order yet, he would leave her alone. Maybe someday…but not now. He doesn’t want to hurt her in any way, not even by accident. After a while, he pulls himself together and heads towards their room. He openes the door quietly and peeks inside. Sansa is lying on the bed, in her white nightdress, deep asleep. The excitement of the day must have worn her off. Sandor smiles, and gently drapes a blanket over her, sitting next to his wife on the bed, guarding her dreams all night long.